You guy(s)! I'm in business: Etsy Shop That is all. :)
How Motorcycling Gave Me Lady-Balls
Wow, that title sounds a lot grosser than originally intended, now that I'm re-reading it... but hey. I committed. I'm just gonna roll with it. So, I don't want to give too much away at this juncture, as it wouldn't be prudent (haha! The 80s! I'm old). What I will say is that big changes are coming for me in 2015. And here you thought 2014 was a big year; well, I'm here to tell you that 2015 is going to be positively EPIC.
The other day I was mentioning some of these exciting changes to my lovely father, who pointed out that he was rather incredulous, given the issues with confidence I've had throughout my life. You know, some days I'm a little incredulous too. These past few years have been fraught with many changes, some awful, most positive. Sometimes the best thing you can do for yourself is to break down entirely in order to build back up into something stronger, something more vibrant, more centered, more vital.
Back in 2011, my world exploded. It was a necessary step for me, but not without collateral damage, and certainly not without temporarily leaving me feeling like a quivering mass of nothing at all from time to time. Prior to that, I'd been plodding along through a fairly ordinary life, mostly unsatisfied but feeling so deeply entrenched that my apathy tended to outpace the dissatisfaction. In my life up to that point, I'd always had a pointed sense of having the ability to be more - but not even sure what that meant, and certainly with no clue how to go about making it happen. Even had I had an inkling of the what or the how, I had none of the requisite deep-rooted belief that I was capable, or even deserving, of reaching whatever it was I felt was my true potential.
At the end of 2011, I took a weekend MSF class at the local DMV. I had every expectation that I would likely crash and burst into flames, but I'd wanted to try my hand at motorcycling for many years (and, as was so often the case, was told "No, can't, not allowed")(seriously, I used to accept that as a valid reason not to do all the things) and was determined to at least make my best effort and see what happened.
Well, I didn't burst into flames. Like several others in the class, I took a couple of tumbles on the beat-up little 125cc, but as it turned out, that's kind of the point of the class: get that shit out on the course, get help, figure out what you're doing, and THEN take it to the road. Kinda smart, huh? In the end, I passed with not only flying colors, but an invitation to come back and teach once I had a couple years of experience under my belt. Voila! I had a valid motorcycle endorsement on my license.
And a crippling fear of taking my old KZ440 out on the road. Thankfully, I now have someone by my side who gives me gentle (and maybe sometimes not-so-gentle) nudges when I need them. My very patient boyfriend took me to a large local neighborhood, where I spent hours negotiating the wide roads, stop signs, and turns, until finally I felt comfortable enough to ride my own bike home. I'm not sure if that was a turning point for me, but man, did it feel good. Like I was a real grown-up person! Doing a grown-up thing!
It's amazing how something like learning how to control a motorcycle can give you skills to handle life a little better. I'm proud to be a woman on a bike, with all the good and bad that comes with it. When I learn hard into a turn, not able to tell where I end and where metal begins, g-forces playing delight with my senses, I don't feel invincible (the day I feel that, I'll hang up my keys for good), but glory in knowing that I made this perfect moment happen, this one-ness with something so freeing, an ability I've honed through time, mistakes, happy coincidences, and one very unhappy accident. I can't even tell you when it happened, but I can tell you that the things that used to cripple me with fear don't bother me so much any more, and when they do, I know that I'm perfectly well-equipped to tackle them in spite of it. This coming year, I'll be doing for me. And while that's terrifying on so many levels, it's not crippling. It's invigorating, a source of focus, and reason to celebrate.
Don't ever let anyone tell you there's no reason to be afraid. My friends, there are myriad reasons to be afraid. What makes the difference is not letting that fear control you, and loving you enough to surround yourself with the people who will encourage you to push through the fear. I, for one, refuse to let me be the one standing in the way of being more me. I kinda like me these days.
Kinda Failing at Life
We all have those days, you know? The ones where we wake up on the wrong side of the bed for one reason or another. Mine are usually precipitated by a bad dream, which I fully realize I should not allow to ruin my day, but it sure does seem to put a damper on things. Yesterday was one of those days. I honestly don't even remember the dream itself; it had something to do with my ex, and my old life. The last few years have been fraught with upheaval and drama of one sort of another, and to be fair, I brought all of that on myself. As mentioned in previous posts, I married very young to the first boy who paid me any mind. To his credit, when we met I was a teenage girl with an addictive personality who could use a little direction, and... he enjoys directing. Fast-forward a few years, and I found myself in my early 30s, with a lot more common sense and a yearning to be my own person, unfettered by the passive-aggressive bindings of a control freak. Unfortunately, by that point I'd had two children with aforementioned freak and been bullied into buying a house nowhere near where I wanted to live.
Nowadays I'm happier than I've ever been. I live in a beautiful home five minutes from my family with the love of my life (a story for another post, oi vey), am searching for - and hopefully slowly finding - a direction in my career, and finally feel fully supported, loved, and encouraged. The thing is... there's this little niggling voice at the back of my mind telling me I fucked it all up.
I look around me at my family, friends, and work colleagues, and contrary to what the media tells me, I see nuclear families living their lives together. While I could never imagine going back to my old life, I continue to mourn every day for screwing up the one chance I had to give my children two parents who love each other, and live in one household together. I left when my youngest was just on the verge of turning two; I had such precious little time to "enjoy" the American Dream, such as it was.
Most days, parenting feels like little more than logistics; on the weeks I have the kids, I have to drive them 40 miles south to school, then 40 miles back up to work, then back down to pick them up after work, then back up to get home, lather, rinse, repeat. Then you add in all of the various activities for which their father signs them up, so some days we don't actually get home until almost 9pm. I'm exhausted. I'm sure the kids are exhausted, and I'm left feeling more than a little guilty that I made the choice to move our lives so far north. I still wonder if it was the right decision, but ultimately, if I'm being honest with myself, there really was no right decision under the circumstances.
I yearn to sit on the couch at the end of the day with the man I love, and look at the little human our love built, and be able to look at each other and say, "We did it! We got through another day of this together." But alas... it's just me, floundering about attempting to be a mother as best I can. I don't get to be part of "mother and father" anymore; I gave that up over three years ago, for better or worse. I don't think I realized it at the time, the magnitude of what I was leaving behind. Looking back, I wouldn't change a thing, but that doesn't make it any easier when I'm crushed under the knowledge that that notion, that dream, has fallen to nothing more than ashes in the breeze. And no matter how well you muddle through it, the reality of co-parenting isn't much more than attempts not to colossally disappoint that don't always come to fruition.
Ah! As if on cue, a text from the ex regarding tonight's endless cheerleading practice. Perhaps the universe is telling me to stop wallowing, so I'll climb up out of my self-contempt hole and join humanity for a while. Stretchy shorts wait for no man (or six-year-old girl).
You Shouldn't Procreate.
While the title doesn't apply to everyone, it applies to plenty of jackasses, and certainly the one who wrote this article: http://elitedaily.com/life/the-most-brutally-honest-reasons-you-should-never-have-kids/ I was the younger of two kids (technically the middle child of three, but my little sister unfortunately passed away when she was one, so it was just my brother and me growing up). Honestly, I actively disliked little kids for most of my youth. That seems pretty screwed up given that I was just a kid myself, but I guess because I didn't have any experience around them, I just couldn't relate. For most of my teenage years, I truly thought I wouldn't have children of my own; then I met a guy, grew up a little, got married, and the rest is history. But I can certainly understand the inclination to live one's life unfettered, and I've never been one to wonder at my friends who chose to enjoy the world child-free.
But seriously... read the article above. What pure, unadulterated, selfish, utter horseshit (at some point I'll feel comfortable speaking my mind, I promise).
I'll just go ahead and address each of the writer's "points" in order.
1. You'll most likely screw them up: Guess what? We're humans, and therefore are all varying levels of screwed up. That's inevitable. Parents are going to lose patience at some point, miss a soccer game now and then, and accidentally elbow their kids in the face. Hell, I turned my back for one second and my six-month-old rolled off my bed onto the corner of the nightstand. I cried for hours; once the initial shock wore off, he happily hung out and played in the emergency room until it was his turn to get glued shut. And trust me, the gash over his eyebrow is the least of his problems at this point.
2. You will go broke: Okay, I can't really argue with this one. Unless you're independently wealthy, kids sap pretty much all of your resources, tangible and intangible. It's a choice you have to make; if you're not willing to put out money for daycare, food, clothing, summer camps, activities, and the like, you should probably rethink the whole kid thing.
3. Your life will never be yours again: I know folks like this. Their lives revolve around their children. Look, I love my kids to the moon and back, but one of the best things I can do for them is preserve the other relationships in my life and take enough time for myself that I'm re-charged on a regular basis. It makes me a better parent for them. Not everyone feels that way, and lots of people are perfectly okay with living their lives for their progeny, but I'm here to tell you: it doesn't have to be that way.
4. They will resent you: Um, WTF? I don't know if this chick has some major daddy issues or what. Here's how I see it: at 2 years old, you throw tantrums because your mom won't let you pull the cat's tail repeatedly. When you're a sullen teenager, NO ONE is more out of touch than your parents; they just don't get you, man. They obviously never went through your struggles. Then, something magical happens when you reach adulthood (at least, it did for me; your mileage may vary): my parents suddenly became so damn smart! Of all the things I feel for my parents, resentment is not even in the ballpark. Mainly it's gratitude and unconditional love. I hope my kids feel the same way about me that I feel about my parents.
5. Your relationships will deteriorate: see #3. Relationships deteriorate because you allow them to, not because you have children.
6. You can't be spontaneous: I can't 100% argue with this one, depending on your particular circumstances. Since I co-parent with my ex-husband, I have my kiddos half the time. That makes it an awful lot easier for me to pick up and go somewhere for the weekend on a whim, or run to a midnight movie if I feel so inclined. And no, I couldn't quit my job and move to London tomorrow, but honestly, I wouldn't do something like that if I didn't have kids because THAT SHIT REQUIRES PLANNING. I'm also lucky that I have parents five minutes up the road who are often willing to put up with babysitting duties, but for folks who don't have that, there are these magical people called actual human babysitters. You can call them up, and they come over, and you throw a few bucks at them, and THEY WILL WATCH YOUR CHILDREN FOR YOU SO YOU CAN GO DO STUFF.
7. You have to love them even when they're assholes: True enough, but how many other assholes are currently in your life whom you're forced to love? I mean, you don't stop loving your bitchy sister because she stole your cutest top and spilled guacamole on it, do you? Okay, maybe you do, but probably not forever. I have moments where my kids drive me absolutely bonkers, but loving them is never an issue.
8. You'll still be paying your student loans when you have to start paying for theirs: Uh, not necessarily. If you're paying off your own student loans, is it so awful to expect that your kids pay off theirs as well? There is no law stating that you have to fund your children's college education. Granted, I was exceptionally fortunate in that my parents planned accordingly and were willing and able to pay for my bachelor's degree, and I hope to be able to do the same for mine, but I don't see the problem with them being responsible for what I and financial aid can't cover.
9. They could disappoint you in big ways: Seriously? This is a reason not to have children? IS THIS REALLY A THING? In the illustrious words of Wesley from The Princess Bride: "Life is pain, Highness. Anyone who tells you differently is selling something." Disappointment is a fact of life. I disappoint myself on a regular basis. How on earth could I expect my kids never to do so? Again, what with the being human and imperfect and all that.
10. You have to relive high school: I just. I can't. I don't even. What?
11. They ruin your body: We all know the moms. The ones who gave up. The ones wearing pleated high-waisted jeans or gathered sweat pants with XXL Disney sweatshirts. Those moms probably weren't all that hot to begin with. I realize how shitty and awful that sounds, but the fact is, chances are way better that you'll have a decent body after you have kids if you cared about it before you got pregnant. And to be fair, I've seen plenty of shit shows WITHOUT kids, so I'm not sure what their excuse is. As far as one's vagina... do your kegels, ladies, and not only will you have a way easier delivery, your vagina will bounce back like a coin off of Joe Manganiello's beautiful ass.
12. You have no more free time: See #6.
13. You will always be financially responsible: See #2.
14. None of your friends without kids will ever want to hang out with you: If your friends ditch you because you created little humans, then they're assholes. Better you find out now than deal with their continued assholery. I love my friends without children; they're always up for going out for a drink when I need some adult time. Admittedly, it can be tough when you've got a newborn, but once you're pretty sure the baby won't spontaneously combust, it's really nice to have folks over for a late-night cocktail after baby's bedtime.
15. You can't smoke weed or get drunk: Because this is a public forum I should say that I DO NOT EVER SMOKE WEED EVER BECAUSE IT IS ILLEGAL. But if I did... I'd do it when my kids are elsewhere. As far as drinking goes, I should probably be more embarrassed than I am to admit that my kiddos have totally seen me tipsy. No, I don't get drunk to the point of vomiting and I would absolutely never, ever, EVER drive them (or just myself, for that matter) anywhere after drinking. Considering that getting vomit-y drunk isn't all that fun, I can live with that.
16. You're gonna be that person in the minivan: Guess what? I'm gonna drop some knowledge on y'all right now... if you don't want to drive a minivan.... don't buy a minivan. No one says that if you decide to have children, you have to have them in a number that necessitates no less than three rows of seating. I have never owned a minivan. I don't like minivans. I like fast, fun cars. I drive a Speed3 because it's fun as hell, and my kids fit beautifully in the backseat and giggle while I whip around corners (did I mention my car being fun?). I drove Nathaniel around in a Mustang GT until Kathryn's birth was imminent. That's not to say that minivans aren't kind of awesome in their own way, and I'm not above borrowing one now and then for hauling stuff, but they're not my cup of tea, so I don't own one. It's kinda simple.
17. Personal space doesn't exist: Now this one really gets on my nerves. I once worked with a woman who complained that, every single night, her daughter would climb into bed between her and her husband. You know why that happened? Because she let it. I've always been a big proponent of personal space when it comes to my urchins. I moved them from bassinet to their own cribs in their own rooms within a few weeks after bringing them home; I simply can't sleep when I'm bolting awake at every sigh and gurgle they make in the night. And no one wants me to be exhausted. I'm not nice when I'm exhausted. Personal space is all about the boundaries you set when children are small. You want to be alone in the bathroom? Don't allow that to be a place where they can bother you. It's pretty easy to say "Mommy is in the bathroom right now, we will talk when I come out." In my experience, kids learn fairly quickly what's their space and what's not. Likewise, my kids are not allowed to enter my bedroom unless they knock first, even if the door is wide open. When it's time to tidy up the house, they are to clean up their own messes and put their stuff where it belongs. This isn't rocket science, people. If you're the parent, you set the rules.
Obviously, the author of the article doesn't want to have kids. And that's perfectly okay. What's NOT okay is writing a piece of un-researched tripe championing her opinion. Having children has been the most difficult, wonderful, rewarding, frustrating thing I've ever done. To me, it's also the most important thing I've ever done. It's not for everyone, and I will never judge someone for making the decision that having kids is not for them; I'd just like the same courtesy for making the decision to have them.
HARUMPH, I say.
A Super-Depressing Installment.
Literally. Robin Williams, you guys. Robin Williams committed suicide yesterday. Depression hits close to home for me in ways I will discuss shortly, but it seems as of late that it's been touching me more inappropriately than usual. Like, verging on Michael Jackson inappropriate, and it's not okay.
In the last year, the best friend of my boss's high school-aged son hanged himself in his room. As I understand it, there were zero warning signs. Then, a brilliant, beloved family member took his life via a cocktail of medications. There were myriad warning signs, but interventions, doctors, therapists, and drugs couldn't come up with the right combination to make him feel any better; in the end, I suspect he didn't WANT to feel any better. The fact that he had struggled for so long made it no less difficult for those of us he left behind. Within the last few weeks, a friend of my boyfriend's took his life, leaving behind a teenage daughter and a host of friends and family crying out in grief and disbelief.
Depression has always struck me as the red-headed stepchild of the medical profession. The thing is, there is no set list of symptoms, because those symptoms often contradict themselves from one person to the next. The social stigma surrounding depression, which, incredibly, affects an estimated 20 million people in the United States alone, often deters sufferers from reaching out for help.
I am one of the twenty million.
Thankfully, I'm also one of the one-third of that huge number who sought help, but only after a major breakdown, and hundreds of pills swallowed down with great gulps of water and hysterical tears, landed me in inpatient therapy (an experience for which I am thoroughly and wholly grateful). Ultimately, I never wanted to die. I made a phone call that I knew would guarantee me help. Help arrived in the form of an ambulance ride, stomach pump, and activated charcoal, followed by a weeklong stay in what I affectionately refer to as "The Bin." It was a terrifying experience for my family, and words can't express how much I regret choosing that particular method to cry out. Because that's what it was for me: I needed someone to finally acknowledge my pain, my struggle, my sadness.
For me, depression has been a constant battle with myself, coupled with symptoms I can't understand or assuage. Most folks think of depression as an overwhelming sadness, which it certainly can be, but sprinkled in there are often anger, anxiety, and irritability. And, I mean... I don't even like moving my Siamese cat off the couch when she's in a shitty mood, what with the claws and the hissing (she's such a bitch, you just have no idea). What are the chances most people want to deal with family or friends who are grumpy all the time?
I'm happy to report that I seem to have found a medication, support system, and activities that all help to alleviate my depression and anxiety (seriously, exercise is the shit for making anyone feel better about themselves, even if it's officially Struggle City to lace up those sneakers sometimes); with that said, I have days where I can't seem to stop crying and wallowing in the past, and on those days just getting out of bed can seem an insurmountable task. But often, taking that step and forcing myself to live amongst humanity and go about my everyday tasks can help. Some days it doesn't. Some days, I'm sad and I want to eat all the things; others, I'm sad and I don't have any appetite. You see what I mean? NO RHYME OR REASON. Stupid brain and chemical imbalances.
No matter what my mood, I thank God every. single. day. for what I've been given: a second chance at life. The most wonderful, supportive boyfriend and parents existing on the planet. My beautiful children. People who care, and people who worry. They save me every day, all over again. And my heart breaks for every person who's lost his or her battle, and who saw death as the singular solution. While we cannot choose not to be depressed, we can choose how we approach dealing with it.
Robin, the world celebrates your life as we mourn your death, and your pain. I pray that you are finally at peace, but you know... we could've put up with your brilliance and joy a little while longer.
About Time: A Fab'lous Movie Review
Look, I never said I would actually be good at blogging. Or, you know, post punctually (alliteration FTW). To be fair, I've been pretty busy with the new job, and I'm not terribly eager to look like I'm doing something so obviously non-work-related when partners in the firm stroll by. But, you guy(s). I watched the most unexpectedly enjoyable movie over the weekend. I'd warn you about spoilers, but let's be honest, one person who will actually read this watched the damn thing with me, and the other person (hi, Daddy!) would fall asleep before the end anyway so this is actually going to be doing him a big favor.
The movie, as you may have divined from the title of this post, is About Time, starring Domhnall Gleason and Rachel McAdams. You already know this is a win, because I had to look at the first dude's name like five times just in order to spell it correctly, and Rachel's dimples practically render any actual acting ability completely unnecessary.
I DVRd this one after seeing it pop up on the guide, since I vaguely remembered seeing a preview for it looking cute when it came out in 2013. First of all, I had no idea it involved Bill Nighy. I've never actually seen an un-enjoyable movie featuring Mr. Nighy, and this one did not disappoint. He played Domhnall's (can I just call him Dom? I'm SO sick of having to look up this name, and let's be honest, you just KNOW he goes by Dom anyway) adorably kooky dad, who shares with Dom - who, for the record, might be a ginger but is kind of cute in an awkward, British kinda way - that all of the men in their family have an ability to time travel. They can only travel into the past, and only to times that have actually happened to them personally.
On a side note, I would find this IMMENSELY helpful. I'd travel right on back to age 8 before I consumed approximately 1800 cheese balls and changed my vacation that year into the "Summer of Fat."
Our buddy Dom, rather than using his newfound power for evil, uses it to assist him in coaxing the lovely Rachel into going out with him, and they eventually fall in love. Along the way they have a couple of babies, and oh my goodness, the delivery scenes. Okay, look, with the clear understanding that all of my eggs are dying by the second, and my pitiful womb cries out in the throes of imminent death and the misery of emptiness.... I cried all of the tears. Just all of them.
THEN... then Bill Nighy gets sick, and oh my God, more tears. So many tears. There really wasn't any major climax to the movie, honestly; at least, not what I expected. I thought for sure Rach was going to find out about Dom's ability and it would somehow drive a wedge between them, or Dom's obviously mentally ill sister would end up dead (it was touch and go there for a while, oi vey), but the climax was imminently sweeter and heartbreaking than that. Essentially he has to finally say goodbye to his dad forever; without going into too much detail, going back to see his father before his death was going to change his youngest child each time. AND SO MANY TEARS.
Seriously, this was the sweetest movie I've seen in a long time. It was sad, it was beautiful, it was heartbreaking, it was uplifting, and in the end, what Dom figures out is that he needs to live each day as if it were the only time he could live it (ie. just like the rest of us schmucks), and it enables him to see the beauty in all the normally mundane details of life.
This movie broke me a bit, and changed me for a little while afterwards. I didn't have the heart to delete it off of my DVR yet; it might require at least one more watching.
I'm Still Alive, I Swear.
I mean, alive-ish, in an undead zombie kinda way. Subjective humanity FTW! Blllrrrggggghhhhhh Just kiddin', y'alls. The Apocalypse is not, in fact, nigh. It turns out that when you have a real job, it's a little more difficult to make time for blogging. Tradeoffs, right?
So that's my biggest news of the hour: I overcame my nonexistent interviewing skills, and landed a new job! With benefits and everything! That means that, unfortunately, I can no longer spend my days watching Netflix on my laptop and leaving at 3:30 in the afternoon, but I do get actual healthcare and a whole hour for lunch. I also don't have to spend an hour commuting each way (except for the weeks I have my kiddos, but so far it's been worth it).
You know what I've learned? Working with happy people instead of Negative Nancies has an overwhelmingly positive response in terms of my general demeanor and happiness. I used to spend my days attempting to block out the sounds of whining and crying, sometimes yelling, for absolutely no discernible reason. These days I get to sit in a beautiful 15th floor office and talk about mini-hedgehogs wearing bow ties while waiting for Bagel and Donut Day to roll around again.
And believe me, I know that there are going to be days where things are nuts, but I'm okay with that. I can deal with being busy; in fact, I rather enjoy fighting deadlines (much like I enjoy weeding - I'm weird like that). What I can't abide is coworkers complaining without doing anything to change the situation, and dragging my mood right down into the abyss.
With that said, I'm still not one hundred percent sure how long I'll be happy in this specific position; the firm for which I'm working is wonderful, but only time will tell how much room for advancement exists here. I'm still looking into options for continued schooling in the hopes that a Master's degree will get me a little further up that corporate ladder, but for now, I'm a pretty darn happy camper. And ultimately, I think the continuing search for growth is an important one, and necessary for fulfilling each of us as human beings. I'm not sure I ever *want* to be completely satisfied.
Here's to the journey, folks. I hope yours is filled with enough peaks and valleys to make the roller coaster an exciting one.
Liz's Rules for Driving
You guys. You all suck at driving. I mean, I'm sure that on an individual level, there are some people out there who actually do possess some sort of situational awareness, and manage to make logic-based decisions while operating a motor vehicle, but on the whole.... you suck. To be fair, I will say that on the whole, we suck. There, does that make you feel better? While I can't profess to be any sort of expert, this is my blog, dammit, and since everyone is a fantastic driver in his or her own mind, I am officially declaring myself to be qualified to give you all advice. Here is a handy-dandy list to help you improve your basic driving skills and get from point A to point B less like a complete and utter asshole.
1. If you elected to purchase a Prius, please, for the love of all that is holy, just stay home. 2. If you're being passed on the right, chances are good that you're an asshole. 3. If you're in the left lane, and you're not passing anyone, you're an asshole. 4. If you're in the left lane, and you're not passing anyone, and there is a huge line of cars piled up behind you, you are officially the Antichrist. 5. Stop speeding up when people try to pass you. No one is trying to hurt your feelings, or tell you you have a tiny penis (unless you're driving a Hummer, in which case: I'm so sorry about the size of your penis). It's okay for someone to want to go faster than you feel is appropriate. 6. Use your turn signals. Yes, even if you're just changing lanes. I can't tell you how many almost-catastrophes I've witnessed when two douchebags have attempted to merge into the same spot sans turn signal. 7. Did I mention to get the hell out of the left lane? I might have. Regardless... seriously. Get out of the left lane. 8. Use your mirrors. They're there for a reason. If you're driving down the road with one or both of your side mirrors folded back, I'm going to assume (and likely rightly so) that you need a special helmet just to go about normal daily tasks. 9. A special hint for you giant pickup truck drivers: your four-wheel-drive does not make you invincible. Stop scaring the shit out of everyone else by driving 85mph in a blizzard. The only upside to that is that I'll have the pleasure of snickering at you when I drive by later to see you getting pulled out of a ditch by a larger truck. p.s. it's still a shame about the size of your penis. 10. Look around you. When you pull up to a red light, you should know exactly who has right of way at that moment, and who's about to have right of way. Plan accordingly. When you're coming up on a car looking to pull out in front of you, watch its wheels and be prepared for it to pull out, whether or not they have right of way or the time to pull out in front of you. Not only do humans make mistakes, but our wacky brains play tricks on us sometimes, and the driver may honestly not even register that you're there. 11. Let it go. Dude cuts you off on the highway? Take a deep breath, and let it go. Colossal jerkwad makes a right turn from the left turn lane? Let it go. Anyone who drives that way consistently will be taught a lesson in time; if it was a one-off, that person likely already knows he or she was a bonehead and feels bad enough. In my years of driving, you know what I've learned? You are never going to convince someone that they're wrong when they don't already know it, and chances are you're just going to escalate your own stress. Let. It. Go.
I'm sure there are myriad others to be added as this is by no means a comprehensive list; what little lessons have you learned along the way that you think should be passed along? Feel free to comment (and I don't mean you, spammer trying to sell fake Coach purses)(unless they're really cute and super-cheap fake Coach purses, in which case, I'll be in touch). It's springtime, and everyone is losing their minds with the joy of driving with windows down and the winds of freedom blowing in through the sun roof, so stay safe, my friends.
Creepy Antiquated Traditions
In the past few months, I've been to several funerals, which in and of itself is pretty darn depressing. I generally try to avoid any sort of funeral involving a viewing, but my grandfather passed away recently and I couldn't exactly skip his service for my own selfish reasons, but... you know, viewings creep me the hell out. I can only imagine that perhaps it gives folks some semblance of closure to see the shell of their loved one laying in a casket, but it makes my skin crawl. Perhaps it's a practice that's been perpetuated out of tradition. But then, I don't really understand the point of a grave site either. My sister died when I was 3 years old. She was only a year old, and had been plagued with medical issues since her birth. We didn't speak about it a whole lot growing up, but since I had kids I've had a few conversations with my parents about the gut-wrenching experience of losing a child. The one thing my mom has mentioned several times is that, when she looked at Amelia in her crib, she just knew that that was no longer Amelia; she saw the body as a shell of the child she knew, a child who had gone elsewhere. She and my dad felt no need to buy a casket for this shell, or place it on display for others to see. They quietly had her cremated, and had a service in her memory.
With that said, I don't begrudge anyone their need to participate in such things. I imagine it gives many people comfort to be able to visit a grave site; I know people who visit their relatives' graves every week without fail. I like to think that it's because of some internal need rather than out of some sense of duty to the dead. As I understand it, my grandfather actually wanted to be cremated, and expressed that to several people while he was alive. My grandmother chose to buy a casket and lay him out for all to see; it offered her some sort of comfort, I suppose, but seeing his body, shrunken, covered in cake makeup, was more disturbing to me than I can express. The only benefit I can ever find in the practice is to the funeral homes selling products and services for thousands upon thousands of dollars.
I would like to state now, on this public forum (which a total of two people may actually read): DO NOT BURY ME IN THE GROUND. Have a memorial service in my honor to include the Durufle Requiem. Donate my organs, donate my body to science, burn me to a crisp and keep me in an urn on your mantel, or, even better yet.... turn me into a gemstone (can you believe they can actually do that now??? SCIENCE FTW!). Heck, if you want some real entertainment, go the whole Viking funeral route: put me in a fabulous boat, set me afloat, and send flaming arrows at me until I 'splode. Let my body be useful after what makes me human has disappeared into the ether, but please don't confuse my shell with me.
Secret(s) of a Happy Marriage
My dear readers (er, reader), today is the day I'm going to drop some wisdom on you. And yes, of course it will be hot. I drop all things like they are hot, as is the appropriate manner. What qualifies me to tell you whether your relationship will stand the test of time? Well, um... Uh. Nothing, really, other than living 34 years and gaining some experience, good and bad. I'm also a people watcher. I find human interaction fascinating. I've seen how my parents have been happily married for over 40 years, and my brother and sister-in-law happily married for almost 14. You know what I learned from them? You have to find the person who is right for you, and a relationship that works for you. No one else has to understand how you work together, but you two sure as hell have to understand it. I got married young by most standards; engaged at 18, married at 21 (I know, I know). I was "that weird married chick" through the latter part of my college career. Before I got hitched, my favorite aunt pulled me aside, and gently encouraged me to consider whether I had any doubts - any at all - and that no one would be angry if I felt it should all be called off. Being young and stupid, I brushed her off and continued my headlong race down the aisle to the person I figured was the only guy who would ever actually want to tether himself to me for all eternity. I got so caught up in the dresses, flowers, and sparkly diamond rings that the person to whom I was going to be married became secondary. With all that in mind, I'd like to point out that I was married for ten years. A whole decade! I think that's pretty impressive considering my youthful ignorance going in.
These days, I'm absolutely positive that I've found the person with whom I was meant to spend my life. And that, my friends, is the first secret; one that my wonderful aunt shared with me, and which I disregarded those many years ago. It sounds cliched, but when you know, you know. If you have to ask yourself if you're with the right person... you're not.
The second secret is one I have found to be paramount, and both overlooked and often negated in our society as a whole: relationships aren't hard work. At least, the right one isn't. I recently attended a wedding during which the officiant mentioned that relationships aren't 50/50; you each have to put in 100%, and that way when one of you isn't able to give it that much on any given day, there is still a full effort being given. I call bullshit. Do you hear me, interwebs? Bull. Shite. Put in 100% at your job. Put in 100% at parenting your offspring. Guess how much effort I put into my relationship? A big fat goose egg.
Being with my partner is easy. I hate leaving him in the morning, and I love seeing him again in the evenings. I cherish our time together. Doing kind things for each other becomes almost an afterthought; we do them because it pleases us to please each other, and they a part of everyday life. Smiling is easy, laughing is easy, loving is easy. Effortless.
It may sound callous, but if you're putting work into your relationship to try to keep it afloat... just stop. You're not with the right person for you, or perhaps you're not the right person for a relationship just yet. And if it's the latter, that's okay, too. Waiting for that person with whom life is easy, with whom you can just be, is worth every agonizing second. When you find him or her, you will find that you're a better version of you, more yourself than you've ever allowed yourself to be. And that person will love every bit of you, every idiosyncrasy, everything that makes you uniquely you. Don't be afraid to let go, and know that greater hopes are always pending. <3
Finding the Quiet
I'm not sure if those of you with penises are aware, but those of us with vaginas go through a really tough time around adolescence. Look, I get that we all do, regardless of gender, but girls really have it rough. Assuming a relatively normal upbringing, we all start out pretty darn carefree, with little to no concern for how what we do is perceived by other people. We all lose that to some degree throughout our lives, but girls seem to leave entire identities behind once they reach the age of 12. I know I did; it hit me worse than most. There came a point where I felt like I'd lost everything. I began to be so concerned with how I was perceived by other people that I lost most of what I loved about myself, and saw only my considerable flaws. I wasn't thin enough or pretty enough, and because I lost all physical self-esteem, I allowed my positive attributes to wane and slip away. I was too self-conscious to participate in sports, scared to voice my opinion in class (or anywhere else, for that matter), becoming an introvert out of necessity when I'd always been the type of kid to strike up a conversation with anyone, about anything at all.
I've spent the last 20 years trying to claw back out of the hole into which I fell so deeply sometime in middle school. It doesn't help much that I've always been a sensitive, empathetic soul. I glean emotions from those around me, collecting attributes I find attractive like a mockingbird with some shiny thing. In some ways it's served me well: I've always been the one to see all sides of an argument, and taking care to ensure that I don't inexplicably offend someone has always been of paramount importance. In many ways, however, it's worked much to my detriment. I'm never quite sure what parts of myself are truly mine, and which are those I put on like a cloak. I find myself anxious in social situations, always afraid if I'm saying the wrong thing, often saying nothing at all to avoid embarrassment. For years I avoided trying anything new, even activities I so desperately wanted to try and enjoy.
It took my struggle to get out of a decade-long unhappy marriage to show me that, sometimes, it's okay to let go of those fears of how you're going to be perceived. Being entirely selfish from time to time can be the best thing you can do for yourself, and even for those around you. Finding my voice has allowed me to say no, and to say yes. Each new interest into which I delve, even if it proves ultimately unsuccessful, spurs me to try the next exciting thing. I've rediscovered my love of writing, horseback-riding, and devouring books I never allowed myself the time to read. Along the way, I've found new loves in motorcycling and, of all things, karaoke (this from the woman who shudders with terror having to sing solos for her church gig). It helps that I also found someone who encourages me to step outside myself, to push myself and each other outside of our comfort zones.
I never thought I'd say it, no matter how many times I'd been told, but you know what? My 30s are good. I feel like I'm learning myself all over again, finding the pieces of who I was so long ago and lost so spectacularly along the way. My advice to you? Stop caring for a while. Find the quiet. What you find of yourself there might be wonderful jewels you forgot you ever loved.
Divorce Sucks (aka Bitches Be Crazy)
I recognize that there are probably few people in this world who would dispute that divorce sucks. I always knew that it was not exactly an ideal situation; I like to think that everyone who gets married is doing so with the intention of remaining in a happy marriage for the rest of their lives. I know I did. I married young, and quite honestly, going into it, I knew it wasn't right, but I was hoping for the best (I'll get into some of those details in a later post). We all hear horror stories about messy divorces, and I couldn't understand how two people who loved each other at one time end up despising each other, and attempting to make each other's lives as miserable as possible. I've also had friends whose divorces were easy and amicable, but unfortunately those seem to be few and far between. My own divorce was extremely difficult at the beginning, for many reasons. Looking back, I can certainly lay blame on both of us for that. Nowadays we get along like gangbusters, and I continue to maintain that we make way better friends than spouses. Heck, I just had a conversation with my ex because he was concerned that our daughter likes his new girlfriend too much, and he was worried that that would upset me. Yup, you read that right. At the end of the day, I'm really proud of us for getting to the place where we are now. It took a lot of patience and work on both our parts.
Unfortunately, I hear way more horror stories than stories about amicable divorces. A lot of states actually seem to perpetuate and further this animosity, and make it so much easier for women to make their ex-husbands' lives miserable. Look, I realize that there are plenty of male shitheads out there as well. But we all know the old adages about a woman scorned...I maintain the simple theory that BITCHES BE CRAZY. Legit crazy.
I live in Delaware. And no, that's not a town in Pennsylvania, we are an actual state. While it's not exactly the most exciting place in the world, I have to give props where props are due, because the First State is surprisingly fair when it comes to divorce and custody. You wanna get divorced? Cool, split half your stuff and call it a day. We don't care why you wanna get divorced. Your ex could've cheated on you with a gay circus midget, and that doesn't amount to a hill of beans. Oh, you've got kids? As long as one (or both) of you isn't bat-shit crazy, you split time half and half. Kids usually like to see their dads too; some might even say it's kind of important to their development.
Now, you take Pennsylvania. Gold-diggers, this is important: get married in Pennsylvania. Make sure you get knocked up, like, a lot. The more the better. Then when you're not so happy with your baby daddy (or is that one word? Babydaddy?), file for divorce. Go ahead and tell that judge whatever you can think up in your pretty little head, because they will eat up every word like fried ice cream and give you whatever your heart desires. My boyfriend is currently going through a horrific divorce. He filed 2 1/2 years ago, and has thus far spent, oh, $20k and some change in lawyer fees, and that hasn't even touched the divorce yet. Let me repeat: for the price of a decent brand-new car, HE HAS YET TO ACTUALLY DEAL WITH THE DIVORCE. He has fought tooth and nail for his kids, and gets to see one of them, twice a month, for something like 7 hours at a time. It's sickening, and I couldn't figure out for the longest time why he's gotten the short end of the stick every time he rolls into family court... then I talked to some other folks who are in the process of getting divorced in PA. Turns out that's pretty much par for the course.
And as much as all of this sucks, it's especially embarrassing for me as a woman. I'm not exactly a feminist; in my heart of hearts, I secretly hate the women's libbers who decided women should go out and work alongside their men. Tar and feather me if you like, but I'd WAY rather be home cleaning my house and raising beautiful babies than sitting in front of a computer screen all day.
Be that as it may, I've always worked. Even when I was in college, I worked 20-30 hours a week, and lived on my own. I've worked full-time while raising both of my kiddos. It's hard, it's frustrating, but in a lot of ways it's incredibly rewarding. And when I filed for divorce, I was going to be damned if I'd ask for alimony or child support when I can get along just fine on my own. If that makes no sense to you, stick with me here. As my kids grow up, they'll know that I worked my ass off to provide for them. I'm the only one in charge of how my children see me, and I'm damn proud to set an example to them that I don't need to sit home and wait for a check from someone else to pay for our home or food. It's bad enough that I'm lumped in with a gender that can't seem to parallel park, now I have to be associated with people who'd rather mooch off someone else than take any responsibility for their lives or the betterment thereof. Worse than that, I'm mortified - and infuriated - when I hear about women who actively discourage their kids from spending time with their other parent.
Let me tell you ladies a little secret. This one might be a shocker, but stay with me, here... if your children's father wants to be in their lives, THAT'S A GOOD THING. Kids need their parents. Given the number of deadbeat dads out there, thank your lucky stars that you're not stuck with one of those assholes. And seriously, as a single mom I can attest that it's kind of nice to have a break from time to time. You want a girls' night? Well, guess what? You have a built-in babysitter in your former other half. You get some cocktails and bitch session time with your girlfriends, he gets time with his progeny, the kids get time with their dad. It's a win-win here, my friends.
Preachy isn't usually my thing (hahahaha, I can't even type that with a straight face), but you're no mother if you're not putting your children's needs before your own, particularly when they're going through a divorce. Because it's not just you and your former partner going through it. Divorce is a family affair. If you're one of those mothers who uses her children as a tool to get what she wants, for shame. For SHAME. Children are not a means to an end. And for God's sake, find some self-respect; for better or worse, your kids look up to you as a role model because they just don't know any better. Make sure that you'd be proud of what they see, and how they choose to emulate your actions.
Okay, rant ended for now. Until the next time I'm stuck behind a Prius.
Disliking Kids Can Make You a Better Parent. No, Really.
I don't like kids. I never have. Yes, I know, I have two of them, but believe me. I don't like kids. Growing up, I honestly never thought I'd procreate. Even when I was young, I disliked children; maybe I hung out with my parents and their friends too much, but I just never related to human beings younger than me. I had no idea what to do with them. The rare occasions that I babysat were a complete nightmare. I remember babysitting for a couple that my parents knew (they volunteered me for the job without asking me, and waited until the last minute to announce that I was going over to almost-strangers' house to babysit a couple of rugrats I'd never actually met before), and I left the one kid sitting in the family room screaming for the entire evening, and spent most of my time attempting to refrain from punching his older sister, which was particularly difficult once she matter-of-factly announced that my hair was ugly. For what it's worth, I didn't harm a hair on her ratty little head.
As I got older, I'd watch the carnage left by toddlers as they were left to wander around restaurants and steal food off of other patrons' plates - one of the many instances in which I feel it's perfectly acceptable to re-institute punishments made popular in the Middle Ages - and plug my ears and grimace whenever one of the little germ factories was having a temper tantrum in a public place.
Then I got married, and my biological clock started ticking LIKE THIS (to quote a bodysuit-clad Marisa Tomei), and out popped two offspring of my own. And before you start freaking out and calling Child Social Services, I love them a lot. I have moments when I want to wring their necks, but as any parent can tell you, raising kids is a beautiful, indescribable experience in myriad ways. What I realized is that I don't dislike ALL kids. I just dislike other people's kids. I suspect that, for the most part, children weren't on my radar growing up unless they were misbehaving, which led me to believe that all kids are awful. And to be fair, ALL kids misbehave; it's what they do. They test boundaries because they have to.
Pssssst, guess what? You can help shape your children into something not-so-awful. Those boundaries they're testing? You should probably set some. Whether or not they know it, they want boundaries. They need them. If your kid is being a little bastard, and disrupting everyone around him or her, DO SOMETHING ABOUT IT, for God's sake. Because I guarantee it's not just me fantasizing about finding the nearest clock tower and taking some cathartic revenge to give my nerves some peace.
I make sure my kids know how to not be awful so that I'm not "that parent." So really, thank you, "those parents." Thank you for teaching me how NOT to raise my kiddos. Gratitude also goes to my mom; without her example, I would never be able to communicate a diatribe with one raised eyebrow. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go wash Play-Dough out of the cat's fur.
I Want My Award, Dammit
Admittedly, I'm one of the most wishy-washy people you're ever going to encounter. Blame it on my being a Pisces if you like (I generally do), but I've always been the type of person to really listen to all sides of an argument, and most of the time, I can see at least some merit to each side. While it makes me incredibly flexible and understanding, it's also really difficult to me to take a hard stance on much of anything (with the exception of Prius drivers; perhaps I'll plan a rant on those dregs of humanity in the near future). So feel free to read on, with the caveat that I don't really have answers to anything. At all. So, I posted a photo of my 8-year-old on Facebook the other day, mainly to prove the point that, hell yes, I make adorable children. It happened to be a photo I snapped at his last soccer game of the winter season, which culminated in the kids receiving medals for their participation.
To clarify: they received awards for showing up for most of the games, and not killing each other or otherwise causing too much mayhem. At least, I think that's what the medals were for, because they certainly weren't for winning anything. Frankly, as both an individual who despised and actively eschewed organized, team-oriented sports growing up, and the mother of a very athletic boy who plays something or other during each season, I didn't think too much about it. Since my kids are younger, that's just been the way of the world since I got involved in sports in any way just in the last few years. I also know that this sort of "everybody wins" mentality spills over into non-sports life as well, but I imagine it's the arena in which we see the most examples of it. Anyway, as I said, I didn't give it too much thought until one of my friends commented on the post, asking: "How do we feel about the whole 'Everyone deserves a medal! Everyone's a winner!' cultural shift?"
I try to keep my kids as well-rounded as possible, but I let them be kids. Unfortunately, being a kid involves a lot of heartbreak. I mean, little Stephanie is going to steal your Barbie doll and snap her head off from time to time. That shithead Timmy from down the block is going to throw your favorite Care Bear in the mud. And you know what? Your team isn't always going to kick more goals than the rival team. Have a hissy fit, throw stuff, cry, do what you're going to do, but bad shit's gonna happen. That's just life.
My son has been in sports for the last four or so years now, and he has yet to play in a game that's officially scored. Because he's intensely competitive - that's just how he's made - he usually keeps score in his head, and regardless of whether he gets a silly medal at the end, he knows exactly who's won, who's lost, and why. Not all kids are like that.
Since we've made the shift further and further into a politically-correct world, parents are finding more and more ways to take issue with how their kids are handled in various types of situations. While I don't think it's been a conscious decision, I do think that there's an expectation that when your child is part of an organization, whether it's a sports team or a club or any sort of organization in which lots of kids are coming together to do one activity or another, that the people running that activity are supposed to parent your kid for you. I taught horseback-riding lessons for a while to help me pay the rent in college. It was a great gig in many ways that didn't last long, and you know why? Dealing with parents is God-awful. Seriously. And for better or worse, the most obnoxious parents are the squeaky wheels who get stuff changed.
I'm an observer. I've always loved people-watching; I find it fascinating, and nothing makes me happier than sitting with a cup of coffee in a cross-section of humanity watching folks interact. When you've got a sporty kid, that means that a lot of time is spent watching how kids interact with each other, with their parents, with other adults. I see a lot of kids who expect the world to be handed to them. Whether or not that's due to a societal shift that hands out awards for participation, I truly don't know. I do know that my job as a parent is to balance the scales as much as I can, and prepare my darling urchins for life to the best of my ability. I don't rely on sports organizations or clubs to parent my kids. If they want to hand out a medal for showing up, that's cool. My kids know that when they get home, they're not getting an allowance unless they do some chores, and no one is throwing them a party for getting a C on their report card.
Ultimately, I can't control how my kids are rewarded outside my house. Do I necessarily agree with every kid being winner, winner, chicken dinner? Nah, not really, but you know what? I parent my children. I'm happy to show them how wonderful life can be, and prepare them for how shitty it can be. It's all I can do, right?
1001 Reasons Why Interviews Suck
Okay, so perhaps the title is slightly misleading; not because there aren't at least 1001 reasons why interviews suck, but because I don't feel like spending the time to enumerate each and every one of them. I've been with my current company for some time now. It's just not a great fit for me anymore; while I won't bore you with the reasons why, it's no big secret that I'm not a happy camper on a whole lot of levels (not even a secret to my employer). One of the more enjoyable qualities I've found in growing older is that I feel like I can be more honest with my boss when I'm unhappy about something. Considering how much I got tread on growing up, I consider it a good thing. I may have reached a point at which our CEO actually actively dislikes me, but hey... I'm disliked with integrity. The fact remains that, you know what? I'm a rock star at my job. I feel confident in saying that. I also feel confident, if more than a little bitchy and condescending, in saying that a lot of the people with whom I deal on a daily basis are downright incompetent. I mean, to the point at which I wonder how on earth these people function in any sort of employable position, let alone with titles like "controller" and "business analyst." So I figure, how hard can it really be to find a new job, right? Oi.
I have determined that job searching is the worst activity in human history, purely in terms of personal misery. There is nothing more soul- or confidence-crushing than sending out a panload of resumes to get MAYBE one or two responses (except maybe finding out that your ex married a supermodel and had oodles of gorgeous children, but I digress). Then there's the ups and downs of the interview itself. I go through several stages throughout this process:
1. elation - they called me! This is gonna be awesome! Look how short my commute will be! I wonder how much more I'll get paid! Ooh, health benefits and actual vacation time! Potlucks with more than 2 people involved! 2. self-doubt/Eeyore - oh God, I'm such a terrible interviewee, I'm not likable at all, all of the other candidates are going to be so much more qualified. 3. research mode - here is the time during which I scour the company's website, finding anything that could potentially be mentioned in an interview. Obviously I'll be asked about such minutiae as the company's stock value as of year end, 1933. 4. NERVES - this is the time during which whenever I think about the interview, I feel the need to hurl. I always try to schedule an interview in the shortest time possible so as to minimize barfy feelings. 5. calm - what will be will be, right? If it's meant to be, it'll happen! That way, if I screw up completely, it's not MY fault. It's the universe's fault. 6. interview - all barf, all the time.
I know it's not like that for everyone - and believe me, I wish I was one of those cool cucumbers for whom interviews are just a walk in the park. Frankly, I'd likely have landed a new job by now if I could think more calmly on my feet, but that quality didn't get coded in my DNA. I blame my grandmother entirely.
My New Year's Resolution this year? Approach each new opportunity with the utmost honesty. Because so far, looking back at the last few months, I've been telling folks what I think they want to hear. Guess where that's gotten me? You get three guesses, and the first two don't count. I like to think of each interview as a learning experience, and it is, to a certain degree, but I've left several thinking, "Why on earth did I say that?" And this might seem strange, but I also want to get up and leave in the middle of one interview this year. I've had some horrible experiences, experiences that left me absolutely unwavering in the knowledge that this job would just never be a good fit, and yet I'd sit there and finish the interview. Case in point: I had a phone interview with the manager at a place that, on paper, seemed perfect. In my research, I found the company to be stable, with great pay, benefits, and reputation, and the position itself right in line with all my strengths. The manager seemed sweet and knowledgeable, and I had a positive feeling going in to meet with my potential new co-workers. And you know what? I sat down with the first interviewer, and within the first 30 seconds I knew it wasn't going to work. She was miserable, and in a three-person office, that ain't gonna cut it. Do you know what one of her interview questions was? Go ahead, guess. No, I'll tell you, because you'd never think this one up on your own: "Why don't people like you?" Now THAT was the moment. That was the moment at which I should have thanked her for her time and left with dignity. Attempting to stammer out a shocked response to that one was not even worth the lung power.
Whatever this year brings me, I'm going to be ready for it. If I have to make my own opportunities, then so be it, but in the meantime, I'll be answering all queries with honesty and directness. Interview me at your own peril, my friends. But, um... seriously. Interview me. I'm getting better at it, I swear.
First Order of Business
Some of you might be wondering what Liz does when she's sad. I'm going to share my secret with you. My secret is.... goat videos. Seriously. Just try to watch this without busting into uncontrollable giggles. I dare you. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PpccpglnNf0
Also, I should point out that YouTube knows me frighteningly well. The videos they recommend always involve motorcycles, goats, horses, or popping disgusting skin protuberances. You know... sometimes I'd be okay with technology NOT becoming sentient. I remember watching Terminator and thinking to my young self, "Oh heavens! Wouldn't that be awful? Thank goodness that'll never happen." And here we are. With websites telling me all the things I love before I even remember what it was I felt like watching. That's a hop, skip, and flea-sized jump right to a Will Smith movie where robots are killing us for the greater good of humanity. This is not okay. I'm going to go watch a disgusting popping video to take my mind off of it.
Here I am, world....
Just writing that title got an awful hand-waving bible-thumpy-type tune stuck in my head, so let's move in. While I'm here at work two hours earlier than I technically needed to be, I figured, why not finally write something on this page? However you may have found your way here, welcome! As it stands now, this blog won't have much of a theme other than spewing forth whatever might be currently percolating in my head at any given moment. What that means is, well... shit might get weird. But while shit might be weird, it will be weird in the most grammatically correct, correctly-spelled ways possible!
So welcome to my head. Feel free to stay a while. You know, once there's stuff for which you might actually want to stay.