Almost two weeks ago, I made the stunning realization that I now have more years behind me than I have ahead of me. You know, unless I actually meet my goal of living to be 134. Don’t ask where I came up with that random number. I kind of just pulled it out of my ass one day and ran with it.
That statement, though, should clue you in to the fact that I have no clue how goals are supposed to work. Shouldn’t they be attainable? Is 134 attainable? Maybe I should get more seriously back into yoga. I’m sure that’s the one thing that has the best potential of getting me there. Maybe I’ll lay off the caffeine, too. Eventually. One day. Maybe.
The looming Five-Oh has prompted me to think about some other goals that are, quite possibly, attainable or, maybe they’re as ludicrous as expecting to live to 134.
Maintain my current level of sanity and/or attain a higher level of sanity. Bottom line: don’t get any worse, Dissy, mmmmkay?
Continue making my house my home.
Get rid of my remaining fucks. I want to be one of those “no fucks to give” people. Not in an obnoxious asshole way, but in a way that has me going out and tasting ALL that life has to offer. Unless it’s ebola. I’d rather not experience that.
Get back into a regular exercise routine. I have no words for how much I miss working out and feeling strong.
I want to learn how to cook one awesome dish (above and beyond all the other awesome shit I make).
I want to tell one person who dearly deserves it to fuck right off. (I don’t know who that is yet, so I didn’t say that with anyone in particular in mind).
Get back into a regular spiritual practice.
I think that about covers it for now. I don’t want to overwhelm myself with too much. After all, I’m almost a senior citizen.
So, back when I saw them dominating my newsfeed, I bought one of those chair cushions that looks like, for lack of a better description, a figure 8. One butt cheek goes into each “hole,” and this is supposed to help with posture and sciatic pain.
I should sue. I never got a rounder butt from this item.
While it didn’t help with the aches and pains I’m having, I did really like the cushion. It was suprisingly comfortable, and it helped me avoid having a sweaty ass from sitting in my vinyl office chair.
Fast forward to January 23, 2020. I came home, and a certain puppy dog had absolutely destroyed this chair cushion. And I don’t mean that she chewed it up and ripped the fabric. Nope. I mean she completely shredded it. It seriously looked like it snowed in my kitchen and dining room. No… not a simple snow. This was of blizzard proportions.
I swept up what was in the direct walking path last night. I had come home from work dog-ass tired (where the fuck did that expression come from? Why are dogs’ asses tired?), and I simply didn’t feel like dealing with the rest. I figured I’d get the vacuum cleaner after it in the morning.
So, this morning, I got out my handy-dandy Shark Rotator (best vacuum cleaner on the planet. they should pay me for advertisting them), and I sucked up the remainder of the mess.
Mine is better because it’s purple.
A couple things about this mess: 1. As I sucked the foamy bits up off the floor, more grew back in their place. It was like fucking Hydra. Cut one head off, and two grow back in its place. Except, in this case, it was 75 and not 2. 2. This foam was very static-y. As I buzzed along the floor with the vacuum, what didn’t go up the hose flew up into the air and stuck to EVERYTHING. The walls, the vacuum cleaner, the outside of the garbage can, me, the dog, my black appliances, and the neighbors’ houses. For added fun, any time I would empty the container on the vacuum, half of it would fly up out of the garbage bag and cling to my face, hair, clothes, and dignity.
Eventually, I found the magic amulet that stopped the regeneration, and I was able to get the bulk of it up. There are still bits and pieces of it here and there that mock me. “catch us if you can, bitch!” I seriously think this is going to be like glitter, herpes, or that visitor that never seems to want to go home.
I hope my little fart factory had fun making that mess. Momma has learned that no object is sacred when it comes to a doggie who has grown bored and has destroyed all the other toys she has. I can’t even be mad at her.
et tu, Daisy-Lou
I picture her having a joyous time creating her own private little snow globe, if only for a little while. I’d like to think she is happy that mommy got to enjoy it, too.
Have I ever mentioned that I’m an office supply junkie? I love going to the home office section at whichever store I’m in (even the stores you wouldn’t think would have these sections, (like larger gas stations) but they do) and checking out what they have.
I’m especially fond of notebooks, journals, and pens. I have enough of these items to equip a classroom for a semester. In fact, if I get any worse with this, I may find myself eligible for an episode of Hoarders.
The highlight of every year, for me, is buying a new planner for the next year. My friend, Melissa, was happy she had found a 5 year planner. I’m glad she’s excited about it, but I’m not sure I could do a 5 year planner. That would mean I’d miss out on my annual rituals. This year, I picked out an awesome one. It had a pocket for sticking papers in, and it had sufficient space for all my notes, and my dog promptly ate it.
Daisy-Lou
I was going to holler at her, but she looked so shameless sitting there smiling that beautiful pit-bull smile amongst the scraps of paper strewn about my kitchen floor that I just laughed. Then I lost my momentum. This was shockingly similar to my parenting style.
Turkey Lurkey and me circa 1991
I got a new planner today, and it’s almost as nice as the first one. Pickin’s are getting slim since we’re more than halfway through January. Really, the only thing missing is the pocket.
Another weird thing about it is that it starts in July 2019. What the shit is this all about? I am not a fan. I just noticed, too, that this one ends in June of 2020. Who the hell does planners this way???? I think I’m going to have to return this.
While I sit here stewing in my righteous indignation, I realize I had a planner like this before. It was from the college bookstore way back when I was in college. I suppose it was useful then, and I suppose primarily students may be buying planners from Walgreen’s, but damn.
Half the year is gone on this bad boy. You’d think it would have been discounted or even on clearance, but no. I think it’s safe to declare that I’ve been robbed!
I’ll probably end up hitting up Office Max for a new planner. I try to avoid them because Office Max, for me, is like the shoe store is for other women. Who knows what I will walk out of there with?
I guess we will have fun finding out. I hope I don’t forget any appointments or plans in the mean time. If I do, it’s totally on Walgreen’s.
At this point in my life, I think I just have to accept that I am an angry person currently. It’s doing no one any good for me to hide this from the world.
I try to stuff it all down because, really, what can I do about many of the things that are generating the anger? Nothing really. Some things I’m not able to do anything about, and I’m simply not willing to do anything about other things.
Because of that, I think, so then why is this feeling here? Hey, self, you need to put this away since you can’t/won’t do anything about it. It’s not going to process on its own, so what’s the point in letting it linger?
The thing is… Just when I convince myself that anger is okay and that it’s all part of the process, I catch wind of someone else’s misfortune. It’s always 100 times worse than my own, so I feel stupid for feeling the way I do. I feel like the snooty chick who is all salty because she broke a nail.
Truth is? I’m tired of this life I’m living. Not in an “I wanna die” kind of way, but in the way that means something huge needs to change inside of me. I don’t know exactly what needs to change just yet, but it’s there. It’s waiting.
I have to figure out what I need to do in order to reveal it. I’m so tired of looking within and coming up with a big, fat “I don’t know.”
A lot of things, I feel like they’re too late for me because of my age. I don’t feel like I’ll ever bond with anyone on any kind of level that I’d need to in order to find a fulfilling sex life. I’m nearly menopausal, so there are the hormone issues making that unlikely along with the emotional problems I am experiencing. I’ve never been that gal who fucks just for the sake of fucking. Ever. I tried to be her, and it didn’t work. End of story.
On and on the list can go. Too old, too tired, to much “I don’t give a shit anymore.”
But, hey, I do have the best dog in the world, so there’s that.
Yesterday, I was telling one of my co-workers about my fascination with true crime and one of the stories I was reading about yesterday during work (the Sodder children disappearance). Our conversation went a little something like this:
Him: “you’re fascinated with true crime and murder mysteries?” Me: “yep.” Him: “so you know what to do with bodies?” Me: “Well, not really. I mean, we know about these cases, which means the bodies have likely been found, so it stands to reason…” Him: “so you know what not to do?” Me: “Okay, yeah, we could put it that way.” Him: “now I’m a little afraid of you.”
I always love it when a dude either really is or pretends to be slightly frightened by me. I’m not sure why, but I think it’s adorable. I think maybe it’s because they actually get it in a way that most just don’t.
What do they get? you ask…
They get that they aren’t in any kind of competition with me. They know who they are and they don’t need to posture to make themselves out to be tougher than some woman. For me, those kind of men are few and far between, and it’s always a pleasure to meet them. Even when it’s just some dude I work with.
And so it’s New Year’s Eve. I decided to work tonight and shake up my cosmic energy a smidge. I feel like working some overtime sets a good tone for the coming year. It’ll certainly chunk away at some debt, and that’s never a bad thing. At midnight, I’ll be driving home to my Daisy-Lou. I really do love that dog.
I’m trying to be okay with all of this. Most of it is just dealing with change. I’m classically not good with change. But, hey, I have an Insta-Pot at home full of pork and sauerkraut that I do not have to share, and tomorrow, I will be drinking good vodka drinks (if I remember to stop and buy ice cream) and painting walls with one of my besties.
We are going to slam dunk that in the happy basket and run with it. Life is good.
You have brains in your head and feet in your shoes. You can steer yourself any direction you choose. You’re on your own and you know what you know. And you are the one who’ll decide where to go, Dr. Seuss
There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed. Ernest Hemingway
Hmmm… I wonder if I’m ready to bleed.
People talk so much about finding or knowing their “truth.” I’m still trying to figure out what that means.
For me, everything is so subjective; everything changes from day to day and sometimes from minute to minute. How can there be a “truth”?
Truth, to me, indicates yes or no/black or white or some other absolute. I have made a practice of trying hard to not engage in absolutes.
Feeling this way makes me feel like part of me is lacking, somehow. Because I haven’t discovered my “truth,” there’s some part of fulfillment/discovery/enlightenment that I’m missing out on.
Yes. A lot of times, I don’t even know who in the hell I actually am. Wanna know the freaky thing? Nine out of ten times, I’m perfectly okay with that. That leaves a lot of doors open for me, and it has given me many opportunities and put me in contact with a lot of great people.
Truth, though? I’ll let you know if I ever find some deep, meaningful truth buried with my soul. It would surprise me, though. I love the shades of grey out there.
I was really hoping this would be the month you would decide that you’ve visited me enough over the course of the last 35 years. I mean, you were 3 days late, and there was absolutely nothing else that could have been going on. What gives? Why are you still showing up?
Really. I’ve had enough of you. I don’t like how you interfere with my life, how you mess with my moods, and how much money you’ve cost me over the years. Money in monthly supplies, ruined clothes, and in medications to dull the effects of your arrival. All of it. I’m done. I’m ready for you to go away for good.
Can you be bribed? Do I have anything you’d like to have? I’m sure there has to be something.
Yes, I’m one of those annoying assholes who does an end of the year “taking stock” kind of post most years. Hell, I may even set resolutions for the new year. Can you believe that actually bothers some people? Like it’s any skin off your nose what I choose to do with my little corner of the interwebs. haha.
Let me move on before I get any more snarky.
The themes of today’s post are (in no particular order): upheaval, heartbreak, unemployment, remodeling, moving, and travel.
In April, a 7 year relationship ended. I reeled for a long time afterwards. If I can offer some advice:
If you have to move out of a home you shared with a significant other, make the move ASAP. I physically left right away, but it took me a long time to get my belongings out of the house. Truth be told, I have stuff left to get, still. And my cat. My cat is still there. Leaving things linger for any amount of time only delays healing.
If you have any self-preservation instincts whatsoever, do NOT sleep with your ex. Nine out of ten times, this is not a sign of them wanting to work things out with you, and you will only end up feeling bad about yourself. 99.9% of the time, you are not that one time that will get a different outcome. This is just a BAD IDEA.
I quit a job that I loved, that paid well, and where I worked with people I love. Why did I leave? Because it was killing my soul. I’m still trying to figure out how this reconciles, me loving the job while having my soul killed. I think it was the process. I enjoyed the process, but when it got down to how specific people were affected, that was the part I couldn’t handle. I knew something was up when I had to open an FMLA case for anxiety. So… I left. In doing that, I gave up a LOT. In doing that, I am hoping I have saved my sanity. I do know that my job is not the reason I’ve sat around for hours crying without being able to stop. But I miss those people every day. Every day I have to come to a place that is devoid of joy and spirit.
I moved to Cleveland. I’ve always wanted to live in a major city, ideally, Cleveland. I’m helping friends renovate their rental house in exchange for a place to live. We’ve built a whole new bathroom and kitchen. Trust and believe we have a lot more to do, but we will get there.
Kitchen, as viewed from the dining room.
I adopted a dog. A silver/blue Pit Bull I named Daisy-Lou. She is completely awesome.
I got a new job. I don’t make enough money. I do, however, have awesome benefits. Oh, and I don’t have to feel like my soul is being pulled out through my nostrils when I’m doing this job.
I took a lot of mini-vacations this summer. I spent quite a bit of time on Lake Erie. Water always calms me. When I got my passport in preparation for taking a long vacation in Iceland, I was so excited that I just had to break it in. I went to Canada for a few days with a friend of mine. While we were there, we did the zip-line excursion near the falls. It was pretty damn cool. The best part was talking my friend into doing it. She’s the last person I ever thought I’d see dangling from a line over a canyon or whatever they call it. Mad props to my HLM, Mary.
I went to Iceland for roughly 2 weeks. It was amazing, and I didn’t want to come back. I already told you about snorkeling along the Silfra Rift in another blog, so let me share a snapshot of me on an Icelandic horse (they get offended if you call them “ponies”).
His name is Garpur, and he is amazeballs.
and here we are.
Goals for 2020:
Do more of what makes me feel good and less of what makes me feel bad. This applies literally and figuratively.
Launch the podcast that Barb and I keep talking about.
This summer, I was fortunate enough to be able to travel to Iceland with some friends. This would be the first time I was ever off the North American continent. Hell, it’s almost the only time I’ve been outside of the USA. I have been to Canada a few times, but only to Niagara Falls, and that almost doesn’t count.
My favorite thing about Iceland was … well … everything. I was always an Earth Science/Geology buff in school, and Iceland is a live-action science class.
Prior to our trip, we were searching out adventures, and one of our friends found an excursion where we could actually snorkel along the divergent boundaries of the North American and Eurasian tectonic plates. When I heard about that, I knew I had to do it.
You know, even though I’d never snorkeled before and can barely stay afloat.
Seriously… I prefer a pool where there’s an edge nearby. I can save myself, but if something happens to you? You’re out of luck. I probably had no business even trying, but why would I let that stop me?
North America on the left, Europe on the right… or vice versa. They really should put up signs. Anyhow, this is the Silfra Rift in Pingvellir National Park
Look at that? Who wouldn’t want to see THAT?
After 2 or 3 days in Iceland, it was finally time for us to go snorkeling. I went with two of our travelling companions, Danny and Cindy, who both had been snorkeling before. They had initially planned on diving in wet suits, but it was a super chilly day (I mean, come on, it was Iceland…), so they decided to do the dry suit like me.
After about sixteen years* of being fitted for suits, snorkels, goggles, flippers, and being instructed on the logistics of our journey, we walked over to where they have you get in the water.
Terrified is not even an adequate word to describe what I was feeling. I am, however, too lazy to google a more acceptable word, so we will stick with terrified. I was terrified.
What if I fell down into the rift and got shot out of a volcanic eruption on the other side of the island, or even the other side of the world?
I know they said I wouldn’t, but what if I accidentally lose the group and end up out to sea with narwhals and shit like that? Oh, wait, it was in a lake. Never mind. But still…
Doing my best to front that all was hunky-dory, I walked down the metal staircase into the coldest water I had ever encountered.
JFC this water is fucking COLD!! But this is me learning the damn thing.
I mean, it is glacial run-off, after all. What did I expect?
A couple things struck me right out of the gate:
Holy shit this water is super clear. (Clear to a degree that was almost disorienting)
I am seeing something that is, to me, one of the wonders of the world.
I have no fucking clue what I’m doing
I am going to die.
Honestly? I had a rough time with it, at first. In fact, I tried to tell the guide that I wanted to stop. He was so patient. I mean, I’d probably have bitch-slapped me, but he really was there for me and patiently helped, and when I finally got the hang of it, with the Silfra Rift in the background, turned around and gave me two thumbs up. Not one… TWO, dammit.
It will take some doing to top that view.
It was amazingly beautiful down there. Tangible evidence of all the things you learn about in Earth Science class about how our Earth is formed. My only wish is that I had a little more scuba experience prior to going. Then Silfra could have had 100% of my attention and not just 75% while I tried to remember how to breathe.
This is me touching a thing. A thing that is steaming, very warm, and very well could erupt.
Iceland is, by far, the best place I have ever been on my very short list of the adventures I have taken. I think it will remain this way even as I accumulate more stories and experiences.
It was very hard to get me to return to the States. They had to tie me up and throw me in a suitcase. Customs raised an eyebrow, but they didn’t want any illegals hanging around Iceland, so they let me on through. That’s a joke, but I’d totally have stayed if the circumstances were right.
What I will not do during this tale is blather on for sixteen paragraphs about how I came up with a recipe after dancing naked under the stars and having a bat shit on me (that has happened. Not naked, mind you, but the bat part has), which inspired me to blend a concoction that some will dub “better than sex” and make you wonder where they’re getting laid.
Nope. It’s not that good. In fact, it’s fairly awful.
Christmas of 1981 was a tough one for my family. 8 days before, my father had died, suddenly, of a heart attack. Needless to say, nobody was feeling particularly joyous. My mom, however, was a beast. She plowed through and made sure her eleven and sixteen-year-old daughters had Christmas. Tree, gifts, and all.
How she managed that, I’ll never know, but kudos upon kudos to her.
For dinner, we kept it low key. A few days before, my mom invited my Uncle Bill over to eat with us. He asked if it was okay to bring his “lady friend,” Marian, with him.
“sure,” my mom said.
“Do you want us to bring anything?” Uncle Bill asked.
The question seemed harmless enough. Uncle Bill had been a life-long bachelor up until that point, so the extent of him “bringing something” was usually tantamount to candy bars for the kids.
“If you want,” my mom said.
“Marian makes a great green bean casserole,” Uncle Bill said. “I’ll have her make that.”
I had spent a good portion of the days leading up to Christmas wondering exactly what “green bean casserole” was. We never ate things like that, so, prior to Uncle Bill mentioning it to my mom, I had never heard of such a thing. I didn’t even have enough information to imagine what it might be like, but the picture in my head was nowhere near what arrived at my house on Christmas 1981.
Some kids anxiously await Santa. That year? I anxiously awaited green bean casserole.
Finally, Christmas day arrived and, before we knew it, dinnertime was upon us. Uncle Bill and his “lady friend” had arrived about 15 minutes earlier, and she was carrying a white oval-shaped Corning Ware casserole dish with a glass lid on it. Still quite without a clue, I looked at it warily and wondered.
My mom ended up setting dinner out buffet-style. I’d love to say I waited patiently and let my mom, sister, uncle, and the lady who would become Aunt Marian go first, but I raced into the kitchen and made sure I was first in line. I had to know.
I loaded up on ham and potato salad (I should point out that my mom makes the best potato salad in the visible universe). Usually, that was all I’d want to eat, but I made a special trip to the other side of the table to see what was under the lid of that Corning Ware casserole dish.
I lifted off the lid, dipped the serving spoon into the dish, and came up with some soggy, dripping mess that, to me, didn’t smell quite right. How I had any clue what it “should” smell like is beyond me, but that smell was not congruent with the images that had played out in my head all week. I put the spoon back down and put the lid back on the dish.
“take some of that,” my mom whispered in my ear. She had been standing behind me and watched my unceremonious rejection of … whatever that was.
This is NOT what it looked like.
“I don’t want any,” I whispered back.
“be nice. Take some of that. Now.”
There I was. On the hook.
I probably served myself the smallest serving that has ever been served to anyone ever from anywhere, but I obeyed.
All it really tasted like was a bean (I still had yet to develop any kind of fondness for beans) with some kind of flavor on it I couldn’t quite figure out. I looked over at my mom and watched her take a bite as well.
“How is it?” Uncle Bill asked.
“Oh, it’s good,” my mom said. I don’t know what the hell she was eating, but I know my answer would have been very different.
“Good… good. Marian was worried. When she started making it, she realized she had run out of mushroom soup. I told her to just use what she had.” Uncle Bill said.
“Oh? What did you end up using?” my mom asked Marian.
“Chicken noodle.” The little old woman replied.
From then on, any time either Uncle Bill or Aunt Marian asked if they could bring anything to family gatherings, they were told to bring things like paper plates, napkins, pop… things you really couldn’t fuck up.
As for me? It would be another 17 years before I tasted a proper green bean casserole. Still not a fan.
Solid Gold Shit 