Me On Ice Skates

Awkward, wobbly, disaster prone.

Umm, truth? I just typed the subject of this post with no thought whatsoever to its relation to its actual content, thus the results may be spars, picture-centric and at times, just like all my other posts, heavy on the WTF.

To start us off I will relate the sliver of a memory I have about "Me On Ice Skates" because I committed already for reasons that elude us all.

Scene: Teenager, impossibly thin, horribly self-conscious and possessing the knowledge that my coordination on the dance floor (I can seriously bust a move, people) would in no way save me from a bruised tailbone and the prodigious amount nervous sweat I would invariably produce leading up to said injury.

It was a church youth group outing meant to be a fun way to spend Friday night instead of drinking wine coolers and taking bong rips. I was remarkably straight and narrow at the time and really thought it could be great night. We piled into the 15 passenger van and off we went, probably singing Jesus songs for all I know. That time was important to me in many ways, but it is also a huge blur as many horrendous events fell among the "JESUS IS LORD I THINK I AM CALLED TO SEMINARY" time. It served its purpose and I survived, huzzah.

We got to the rink, it was cold, etc, but I got on the ice without major incident. I wasn't completely stupid, so I immediately clung with a drug addicts like grasp to the outer railing, knowing it was the only thing keeping me from dying a horrible, heroin-free death. Wait, what?

(shhhh, I know those are roller skates.)

The thing is, the boy I was pretty hung up on (IT ALL BECOMES CLEAR, I KNOW) was attending that night and he was one of those modelesque, graceful figures that was familiar with gliding on shoes with knives attached to the bottom of them. My only previous experience ice skating was when I was like 4 in Canada and the moment I let go of my parent's hand (or they gently set me free thinking I was ready to balance on two legs... HA) I slammed onto the ice and cried for the next six hours or so about my broken butt, so I had good reason to be TERRIFIED, but...

That lanky so-and-so lured me out away from my safety bar and OH MY GOD I WASN'T DEAD, THIS MUST SPEAK TO THE POWER OF OUR LOVE RIGHT? I sort of kicked with one leg and progress all of 3 inches on the ice. I felt invincible, which if you haven't discovered on this blog means catastrophe is right around the corner. I pushed again and again, but only with my right leg for some reason, so I sort of veered further and further center of the rink where HOLY SHIT THESE PEOPLE ARE MOVING FAST I am pretty sure this is amazing or terrible.

It was terrible. Some young hockey-loving 10 year old bashed into me, knocked me down and left me there. The love of my life was busy skating like an angel in an attempt to be inspirational to me, but was really just self absorbed awesomeness (it was neat to see him, even from my prone position on the ice). I turned onto my side and realized I had no idea how to get up. Like none. And I hurt.

And then someone skating backwards and not able to see me caught their blade in my fucking lower shin and proceeded to skate over my legs.

I have no idea how I got off the ice that night, but I sure as shit am never going back on. THE END.

PICTURES!! NOT RELATED TO ICE INJURIES!

Awwww, fuck yeah we are back to happy!! Let's party and shotgun Boone's Farm!!!!

Serious British Cat is Seriously British and says, "No, only the driest of gin martinis will do for these celebrations."

In my dreams, this is what I look like.

In real life, this is my chosen profession.

Angry Man Noises & A. Nonny Mouse (AMN vs ANM)

Right now, outside my apartment window a group of youthful male individuals (please note I cannot/will not call them men) are making guttural noises that frighten/annoy me (we are talking Cro-Magnon at best) and are rattling fences as they plod along. So that's cool. I can tell you all want to be their friends and maybe their lovers... You can't fool me.

Ugh.

In other news, I am going underground. Kind of. The blogspot address is the same, long mouthful it has always been and I intend/hope to keep it so, but it is time to be a bit more reticent about my actual identity. Because there was that time when I only had one email and it was the same one I use for my cuss-heavy blog as I did my resumes. OHMYGODIFYOULECTUREMEIMIGHTCRY/PUKE so let's not go to that realm of "new mystery author of this here blog" thinks so much about so many things it is kind of intense, but not the self-identifying blog issue, okay? I am lucky to be figuring it out now, as opposed to losing my job because I yammered away with explatives and flippant discussions of what might be termed as serious (as plenty of individuals have before me). Hi, Learning Curve! I usually like to be high up on you, but in this area I was sort of ditzy. Do you forgive me and believe in my dedication otherwise? You do!? AWESOME.

My freak-out about this whole thing has lead me to the following:

• No more identifying pictures. Of course outside of my little greeting photo I haven't posted anything that was too recognizable, but safety first. No more face shots (a face that can sooo Work It sometimes. So we are all gonna miss that, but we will move on).
• The contact email has changed. It is now wardofthestateofmind@gmail.com. If you search my old email, NADA related to wardofthestateofmind should appear and now I have a blog specific email. Why I didn't do this earlier, I am not sure.
• Comments: Seeing as pretty much those of you that actually comment, know me and my lovely name/history/appearance I would request that you keep in mind my desire for anominity (A. Nonny Mouse). Leave out my name, picture links, etc. Not that much along these lines has even happened, but I am in safe-rather-than-sorry mode.
• If I am missing something obvious, would you be so kind as to loop me in? I plan on remaining as candid and off the cuff as I always have been, but in the interest of preparing for my future in an adult way I would like to not make a total public ass of myself. With lots and lots of help from you, I might be able to accomplish this.

Okay so, I am super tired. Whoa.

Oh, by the way, I turned 29 yesterday and it was lovely. The Gorgeous German bought me necklaces, DVDS (all ones I had mentioned I really wanted to see in passing over the last few months), WWII memorobilia, and a dictionary that when on its back stands almost a foot tall from the late 50's. SWOON. (Oh, and then just earlier today I got a gift in the mail from my parents from China along with a hand-drawn card!!) We met with the few friends that could actually make it out on a Wednesday evening and went home early. I was happy and am grateful. Also, facebook made me feel all twitterpated, because so many people left notes and messages. Yeah, FB prompts you about bdays, but I, the new and improved secret blogger, really felt loved and happy.

FUCK YEAH, 29.

Postscript: I want a dress like this, but cotton and dyed this way.

Now you know.

Baking Blueberry Scones Is A Full Contact Sport

1. New blog design: I need your feedback. Should I stick with the redesign?

Pros: a) looks like spilled wine/artsy watercolor, two things I am very familiar with, b) layout provides wider posting space so pictures and video fit better, c) I was wanting a bit of a change.

Cons: a) I can't seem to get a picture in the header that fits/can be centered nicely, b) umm, it's an awful lot of pinkish hues, c) change, though perhaps desired, is haaarrd.

I'm not sold either way, but I am going to give it a couple-of-posts test run (which could last a few months with my serious lack of posting lately) and see how I feel. My guess is I will feel too lazy to change it up too much and leave it more or less, as is. But, if you have a strong feeling either way, I want to know!!

2. The kitchen tried to kill me, specifically the oven: Two weeks ago I had the distinct pleasure of prepping for a day trip to the beach. Yes, that mini-vacation that I have been whining about needing for my sanity for like, ever, was in fact to happen. I was PUMPED and decided that I would bake some scones for the Saturday morning car ride out to the ocean. Yum, right? Well yes, they were tasty as heck, but I practically had to give up my left arm in the process. Everything was going groovy during the mixing/kneading/shaping phases. The counter, the floor and most of my upper torso and face were finely coated with flour and smeared with blueberries so all was as it should be. I popped the suckers in the oven and left them there for about 8 minutes before checking on them. Here is where things went a titch haywire. I opened the oven and reached in with a toothpick to test if they had been baked through yet and as I reached my arm in the oven door decided it was time to seal itself back up. My tender (and extremely pale even after all of summer) forearm of course was smack dab in the oven door's path and I got caught. I screeched like a damn banshee, jerked my arm out, cursed at the oven, and did a little dance reminiscent of the pee-pee dance, but while delicately holding my left forearm with my right hand. However, there was no one to see my sad dance for pity so I stuck my arm under cold water until I couldn't feel it anymore.

For those of you that are concerned about the real issue here, the scones turned out fine. My arm? Not so much. Two red line across my upper forearm formed immediately and initially (and rather tricksterly) looked like they might not be so hideous after all. But that is because it took a full day for the blisters to appear and then rupture as angry, hurty blisters so love to do.

I guess this could all be okay, if it didn't make me look like a cutter/burner at freaking almost 29 years old, and I didn't already have SIB in my past, and the sight of these burns didn't trigger huge feelings of guilt and make me think OMG, everyone is judging me, no one will believe me, I feel 16 again, this sucks. So to cover it up and relieve some of my ridiculous fears I went around with this massive band-aid that I put on everyday, which was still pretty fucking lame, but if there is one thing I can count on it is the white-washing of the band-aid world which is all sorts of fuck-up, but damn if it don't match my skin tone remarkably well. Of course no one seemed to notice AT ALL, even though I went around furtively tugging at my 3/4 length shirts and sweating because even partially long sleeves during a mild Sacramento summer remain ill-advised.

And just to top this all off: After four days of ultra-adhering band-aids, I had to struggle to pull the damn thing off (we are talking grunting and yanking for a good three minutes), taking with it a layer of, up until that point, TOTALLY UNHARMED SKIN. Little sticky bits remained in some places that I could not remove with soap, exfoliating scrub, pumice stone, toothpaste (don't ask) or peanut-butter (really don't ask) and thus I acquired blueish/purple fuzz patches that looked bruisey from only the slightest distance. Essentially I looked like a cutter with leprosy all because of some goddamn blueberry scones.

But the beach was awesome.

Let's Touch Some Shit

I don't even know, and yet I do. It is one of those days.

Happy Piffle Post

For no real reason at all other than my cat is curled up on my desk with me after playing fetch for 15 minutes, the weather is nice, my family and friends are awesome, I love love, and the plant I thought I had killed is sprouting new growth all over the damn place I give you happy random pictures:

You may be penned in a dank soviet era-looking zoo, but on the plus side you do have a cello soloist that plays Bach and Vivaldi every Thursday and Sunday. (I found this picture with absolutely no explanation so I am just going to go with my story.)

FINALLY. And I will take 500 stickers for my trapper-keeper, walls and body (don't ask), thank you.

Oh heavens, rainbows are wonderful. And Judy Garland knew very well the wish to find a place of comfort and grace when she sang this song. But we all do at times, I suppose. And this is such a pretty poster from Music Philosophy. Many more song lyrics to look at and order if you like.

Baby duck butt in shimmery water should be self-explanatory.

Istoleyourprozac hopes you are feeling like sticking your tuckus in the air and head under water this weekend. I know that is my plan.

I'm A Poop Hero (You Can Be One Too)!!

As so often is the case, the answer to the question hanging in your head after reading something odd and vaguely concerning on this this site (such as the title of this entry) is YES. Yes, this will be a post about my bowel movements. Hey, fecal matter is furiously funny (and alliteration often annoying), so resign yourself to the fact that although I am not a mommy-blogger who can regale you with hilarious antidotes about the funny-runny that just won't stay in little shmoopy's diaper, etc I still think I have the right to talk poop. I mean if you can laugh about Dooce's Shit Storm entries, than I deserve a little leeway. If you think it is only funny when it is about babies, then that is just ageism, man and I can't hang with that kind of discrimination.

Thus I present, Poop, A Story of Success.

It was a Sunday late afternoon. I was just putzing around my apartment, likely putting off all work that a responsible adult would be engaging in. It was Sacramento summer heat so I was doing my putzing in underwear and a t-shirt. I was relaxed, well fed and unknowingly preparing for one of the best poops of my life.

If you have read here before, you are aware that my GI track is perpetually plagued by stress, bad food reactions, etc. You know, the Generation Y "something really serious is wrong with me, because my stomach is not perfect at all times, and IT'S PROBABLY CANCER you guys" complaint du jour. (However, Celiac Disease is no joke for those contemporaries of mine that have it, so you are exempt from this judgement.) I'm not pretending that I don't lean more towards the "small bad thing= DISASTER" end of the nervous/calm spectrum. I know this is true, but just as I freak at the sign of gastrointestinal broo-ha-ha, I also can celebrate the success. Oh Yes I Can (thank you Obama, for believing in me).

Okay, so back to my useless story. I was changing the music on my stereo, taking out the Tom Petty CD that had been in frequent rotation and putting in Raphael Saadiq (seriously, check him out. Of Tony Toni Tone!, but his solo stuff blows my ever lovin' mind. Think early Marvin Gaye, but with more current RnB sensibilities.) to dance around to in said underwear. I have it on good authority that pretty much everyone like to dance around in their underwear, in a manner they do in no other setting. A little booty-wiggle into the first song and I was all I need to poop, I think. No more than five notes later and it became I definitely am about to go take an awesome crap. In fact I can tell right now that this will be a superwoman kind of poop. And then out loud to my empty apartment, "I AM GOING TO GO BE A POOP HERO RIGHT NOW."

And I did. Oh did I.

Details are not necessary (you're welcome) as the act was not the main point. No, rather it was the satisfaction that beamed from my face afterwards. You have had them, I know you have. Shits that make you want to pat your own back and record what you ate and then eat that every day for the rest of your life if that means you take craps of that caliber more often. I know it isn't a common topic of discussion, but it is a feeling that can unite us. Bring peace to the earth, be a poop hero.

Hmm, so maybe the slogan and supporting argument needs work, but you get the idea. It is as simple as this: Right before you go to the bathroom announce to your cat (or internally if your family is really not into this idea) "I AM GOING TO GO BE A POOP HERO" and then go forth and shit bricks of awesome. Afterwards I advise standing in front of the mirror with you hands on your hips and your chin up. Power exudes from every pore, fire light flicks in your eyes, but it is a benevolent strength you possess. The world for a brief moment make sense and you see through time and that gravity is an illusion and all the strings wiggling as the basis of everything makes sense. It is quite the sensation, people.

Should I get some shirts printed up? "I'M A POOP HERO" on the front and "You can be one too!!! Just ask me how!" on the back. The movement will gain momentum for sure this way.

Heh. Movement.

The JOB OF MY DREAMS Is Not Invited To My Super Awesome Party Of Rad

That'll teach it. You don't pass me by without consequences!!

Umm, unless it isn't clear (or you haven't already heard from me on Facebook/by phone) I didn't get the job. I will not be the director of anything besides my own misery and spite, let alone communications and special projects. Which, when you think about it a Directorship of Spite sounds pretty bad-ass, however it mostly involves me struggling to get up in the morning and not drink gin straight from the bottle while hurling mental insults at the sun and the people on the street walking to THEIR JOBS, and all around being a crazy bitch. I may be good at it, but the benefits are shit.

Note: I am not waking up and drinking so just relax. I did enough of that in college to last a lifetime.

Also, there is no super awesome party of rad planned so don't get your panties in a bunch when you don't get an invite with ladybugs and flowers printed on it. It was just to make the JOB OF MY DREAMS jealous.

And the answer is yes to both of your questions; I have now really anthropomorphized a job that I didn't get and it will always be referred to in all-caps.

Welp, I think that is the extent of this blurb. It's 4pm and I need a shower before I go sing some acoustic songs this evening including this gem:

Bathing Suits

Hmm, so this entry needs to start with a disclaimer/warning. It is going to be a bit emotional, but more so it may have trigger elements if you have/do self-harm. I don't say that to sound dramatic, I say it because there is a community of women and men that struggle with this issue and require a heads-up when the subject pops up online. If we are not in the right head-space to deal with some heavy-duty shit, a warning gives us the option to skip over it. SO, now you know.

Bathing Suits. As a woman, they are innately stressful. You find one that finally covers your ass nicely, but not too modestly and the tops are itty-bitty and not in a fun, sexy way. You finally find something that fits like a glove but it happens to only come in neon green that reflects putridly on your pale, pale skin and clashes with your red, red hair. Okay, MY pale, pale skin and MY red, red hair. Point it, bikinis, tankinis, and suits are a mean beast to tame all on their own let alone approach when you have marks you want to cover up.

Last summer I didn't really spend any time in a just a suit. I layered shorts over the bottoms or stayed wrapped up somehow. In fact, the same went for the year prior and prior to that, etc. Not because I felt fat (although, let's be real, I had my terrified moments of "wait how much skin that jiggles am I thinking of showing?!" here and there) but because I had welts, red marks, jagged edges. I cut in the same places and over the same scars for a few years. I couldn't show the scars because, they weren't just scars. They were scars layered with new cuts. New and sad and painful.

There was no question what I would do when summer came those years. I would wear shorts. Or pants. And not get in the pool, not get in the river... Hold back more than I wanted because some one might see and the chlorine might burn too much.

This year I am hurt free, except for the memory suggested by old scars. Little and not so little white lines lightening across my hip and thigh. Some raised like a melted marshmallow smooshed out the edge of a smore by the campfire when I pull my legs in, some indented like a river bed gone dry when I stretch my legs out on my towel in the sun.

So what do I do about these lines? Will people notice? If they do, will they comment, ask, change how they interact with me? Worst of all, will they pity me? I can't stand that.

I don't have the answer about how I should deal with it really. So far I have only been in a bathing suit around people I trust and they didn't even seem to notice so perhaps there is nothing to worry about. Maybe I am the only one who sees the ridges of pain on my skin and maybe that is a blessing. The other week I asked the Boyfriend if it looked bad and obvious as we got ready for sunbathing and pool time at a friends house. He said you could hardly see them unless you were as close as only he should be getting to my upper thighs and even then, they were good friends and it was okay and you are beautiful. If he hadn't been there to say those nice things I would have gone in my high-cut black swimsuit anyway, but it helped to have it told to me before I stepped outside into the balmy summer air.

Truth? I love my scars. I touch them sometimes, running my finger-pads along their length to remember what I went through to do such things to my soul's carrier, to my temple. As a reminder to not do it again, but also as a homage to those old pains, struggles, hatreds, longings, worries, fucked-up moments. I can't ignore them and I don't want anyone who cares for me to pretend they don't exist either. You don't have to mention them if they flash in the sun this summer, but just know they are there for a reason and although I never, ever want to go back I am proud that they are a sign of how I made it through.

Yes, I am that pale. Suck it.

It's The Tii-ime Of The See-eas-son For Hai-ting

1. Blarg, it is warm around here. I have touched on how the heat affects my outlook (and output) before and am realizing I will probably do this every summer as long as I keep up this blog and live in Sacramento. The heat is pretty much my main enemy. It is seemingly out to thwart me at all turns and thus I must avenge it through my undying and public hatred. As a result of this hatred of the heat I also hate everything else that I see, taste, touch and am aware of in any way because the temperature is making everything lame. Those fragrant flowers blooming next to the scorching sidewalk? I hate them and their heady, droop-in-the-summer-afternoon stench. My windows which so pleasantly let in the spring breeze and and flickering sun spots through the branches of the trees a few months ago? Now they act as a fucking magnifying glass or some shit, letting the sun bore holes through my body and soul with laser precision. I am freaking swiss cheese over here. I sweatily flop around at night, intermittently getting a few moments of sleep here and there only to discover that dreams when you are overheated are inherently creepy/stressful and make absolutely no sense (even more so than my regularly broadcasted WTF dreams). Proof positive that the temperature is boiling my brain. You can't argue with science, folks.

So, what else is happening besides me feeling as though the sun's rays are oppressing me like Omar al-Bashir does the Sudanese. What, too much? WELL YOU ALL KNOW I AM PRONE TO EXAGGERATION AND AM GRUMPY AS ALL GET-OUT so just deal with it.

2. I mentioned some time ago that I was applying for THE JOB OF MY DREAMS and that I had inside operatives working in my favor on this here blog, however, that position passed me by. Dropped my ass. Left me for dead. The organization didn't even call me back to say they had moved on. Hell, that job treated me like a cheap hooker. Gave me the briefest of attention when it suited and then tossed me aside with not even a thank you tip. BUT I AM A HOOKER WITH A HEART OF GOLD and this is not how this movie is supposed to end... /sniff sniff

Turns out the universe wants to maybe provide for me in other ways. The job I am interviewing for now puts "THE JOB OF MY DREAMS" to shame. I am not sure how to discuss this new opportunity and my gut says to leave all details out besides the small note that I really, really want this job and would so rock at doing it. And that I made it to the second round of interviews. (!!!!!)

I have been unemployed for 6 months, people. Working my ass off for free for most of that time and praying it pays off. I am not too strong with the "I deserve this good thing because of my various forms of energy dedicated/suffering/etc" statements, but dude, I deserve this job for more reasons I care to count.

NO PRESSURE COSMOS.

3. So this boyfriend of mine is pretty much crazy awesome and not only did he buy me flowers and wine for simply completing the first interview, but he has let me borrow his Season 1 and 2 box set of "Moonlighting" starring Cybill Shepherd and Bruce Willis. So this is what love feels like... I had no idea.

4. Anyone want to come up with ideas for me to blog about? Like questions I should answer that would likely lead to me revealing some embarrassing story about my past or topics you are just dying to have my opinion on? I feel I am struggling to stay in "blogging mode", but I really do want to keep this thing fun and frequent(er). You can comment or email me with ideas. Or Facebook me. Or Twitter me.

Clearly, I need more ways to stay in contact with you all.

Ms. Fat Booty And Other Ruminations

It's been awhile so I am getting numerical on your ass. And mine:

1. I never had what one would call a big butt. It will never be said by Mos Def about me "ass so big you can see it from the front" (which in his song "Ms. Fat Booty" is very much a compliment). It will likely never be said by anyone. I am okay with this. However, for most of my teen and early college years I such a small tush, that its lack of "ba-dow!" was commented on occasionally (I swear, there is no such thing as a girl just being in her body comfortably). I am pretty sure no one actually thought is was anything but part of the range you get in a high school of 1600 and then a university of 3000, but I was aware. My tookus was small. Too small. The Grinch's heart size if you had asked me then.

And then I discovered beer.

It was the best of times, it was the, etc. Much beer was consumed (in particular my senior year of college) and suddenly my jeans never, ever felt loose in the caboose. Beer is the reason that I have been told I have "a happy handful", that I should "swing that thang, girl" and that my "booty could make a grown man cry". Beer is the reason for the season, as far as I am concerned January through December regardless of it's hoppy effect on my ass, but I am finally, FINALLY embracing this part of my body. Yes, it is about 6 years after its arrival, but HEY IT'S HARD OUT THERE FOR US LADIES what with practically perfect starlets and the media and snarky high-schoolers.

So even on days like today when I stick my tongue out at the scale because the number is not quite the one I want to see, I pat my hindquarters affectionately and whisper, "It's okay. I'd rather you be here than not. Also, I love beer too much."

2. Where have I been for the past month?

(Source)

I don't know entirely, but clearly not here. Internship, music, romance, friends, and food cover the basics. Tarot card readings, peanut-butter obsession, de-furring my work clothes of cat hair, trying different deodorants, walking with purpose somedays and with an aimless wonder others, getting blisters on my feet, cooking dinners with my partner, playing cowbell and ukulele, learning as much as possible about the California State Legislative process and Communications in a short period of time... Okay, look a bunch of stuff. Whatever. Point is, I am happily posting this blurb and maybe, just maybe another one soon. CRAZY, I KNOW.

I missed you.

3. Can we talk about food obsessions for a moment? I don't care, we are going to. My cravings have always been intense affairs that last anywhere from one meal to years upon years. Currently I am under the sway of oysters and/or muscles, garlic (like burning your mouth, people the next day know what you had for dinner last night strength), granola, peanut-butter, olives, and bok choy (oh god, just say "bok choy" a couple of times. Don't you love it and want to eat it now too!?!? Isn't my emphatic excitement about bok choy just a little too much!?! Isn't it starting to creep you out?!! WHOOOOOOO!!) something fierce lately. In fact, the last three items were my dinner tonight. Farmer's Market baby bok choy (with garlic, duh), half of a large can of black olives and two spoonfuls of peanut-butter. Not mixed together, but it did occur to me to try that. It is a kind of satiated that I know won't last as I will crave another fix soon, but damn if it don't feel goooood right now.

4. Quotes from people I have encountered while walking around downtown Sacto:

• Homeless Dude #1: (getting all up in Homeless Dude #2's face) DON'T TELL ME THE SHIT YOU DIDN'T DO!

A group of homeless people were grilling some food in an alcove of a church courtyard and apparently SHIT WENT DOWN and HD#1 wasn't having it. Perhaps the meat was not ready according to him, but HD#2 decided it was time to eat? Whatever it was, the quote has stuck in my head for well over a month now. I can't wait to use it.

• Stateworker(?): (on mobile phone) ... She be trifling too damn much. She ain't no thang. You know what? She's small time. I ain't no small time bitch so I ain't gonna play, but she better watch her ass. Oooh yes, she better WATCH.

It is possible that I was terrified of this woman along with completely impressed. I am pretty certain she would cut a bitch and not give it a second thought.

5. Pictures for the laughing:

This kid is feeling it. "And I need you nooow tonight, and I need you mooore than ever!"

That which has been seen cannot be unseen.

Platypus Keytar. Hmmm yes, it all makes sense now and I can die happy.

I Super Mean To Post More Often. Really.

I just don't. And then when I start feeling that an especially long time between post has occurred and yet I have nothing to say (or more likely don't seem to have the energy to type it, because, seriously when do I not have SOMETHING to say? Yeah, pretty much never. Opinions, I got 'em.) I reach into my folder labeled "Pictures To Use" and voila, a post!

It is time for a visit to the ocean. I haven't been on a beach, looking at the pacific waves, sand all up in my bits, sunglasses tanlines being established in ALMOST TWO YEARS. Umm, I live in California, people. There is something super wrong with this. There are like 15 things super wrong with this, actually. Luckily, I am working to remedy this dire situation in the near future. Flying a kite, snacks and beer, maybe even wearing a bathing suit are all in the works. The moment my feet hit that sand I am bolting for the water, I don't care how cold it is. GET ME SOME SALT WATER WAVES BEFORE I HOLD A DAYCARE OR SOME SHIT HOSTAGE, because I am losing my mind just a smidge.

The Truth, it speaks it.

Click to make this larger and be prepared to laugh. How various stimulants and depressants will affect you in different situations. Having lived briefly in a house during college in which walking into a room full of people tripping on mushrooms, etc was perfectly normal I found this chart to be hilariously accurate. But I have no personal experience AT ALL WITH ANY OF THIS NO REALLY.

For all I know this could be a painting of one of my favorite places from my teenage years, Los Carneros Park in Goleta. It looks exactly like my memories do and I have many, many memories of this place. I used to walk/run/bike/sit in this park at least three times a week for a couple of years. It had trails, lots of uncontrolled vegetation, and this lovely little lake in the middle. I assume it is mostly the same these days, but can't be sure, so I will let this perfect painting remind me in soft tones. I don't miss the existential/spiritual/personal challenges that I spent so much time contemplating in that place, but the sanctuary it provided a 15 year old girl on pristine blue sky days does make for a little wistfulness.

More Truth. And a Truth I am about to confirm by popping open a cold beer and taking a hot bath. It sounds odd until you try it, but trust and believe that a chilled bottle of a light beer in a steamy room, bubbles up to your nose is pretty freaking awesome. Cheers to that!

The Night My Apartment Burnt Down (But Really Didn't So Don't Freak Out).

I haven't talked much about my current state of mental health on this blog for a while, but it is still something I think about often. I lost my really intense diagnosis some time ago after a great deal of personal work, healing time, and minor emotional epiphanies that finally added up. Also dropping the doctor who seemed to believe if the low dose pills weren't working, that we should probably up the dose or add this other prescription to the regimen instead of discussing diet changes or homeopathic remedies was a pretty good move too. Nearing a year and a half of being pharmaceutical-free is pretty awesome.

So. Current status.

Pretty damn good most days. Like, really good. Maybe even, is this how normal, usually positive people experience and feel life, because they are totally on to something! Of course then I quiz myself about what is going on in my life and wonder if feeling positive in the face of unemployment and divorce is really such a great sign of mental stability...

But not to worry (or maybe to worry lots!), I still have these blistering moments of anxiety and depression so abysmal and ridiculous that I get this urge to reach up and pat my own head while saying, "whoa there, Nellie. You are gonna be just fine if you could just start breathing slower." (We have already established that I often times split into two characters when sort of losing my shit. One is sweaty, panicky, GI-track issues girl with the million-words-of-worry-per-minute-thoughts and the other is this sensible, knows I'll make it through, somewhat amused by the flurry of nervous activity the other is putting on display character. These two parts of me talk to one another. HEY I COULD SAY I TALK DIRECTLY TO JESUS AND HE TALKS BACK OR SOME SHIT, so just roll with it.)

(This is my favorite kind of Jesus. The kind that calms nervous velociraptors. This picture has nothing to do with this post really, but you aren't going to complain because it is Jesus holding a fucking dinosaur and you know how rad it is of me to have shared it.)

The longer I am not employed the more frequent these little bouts of hysteria occur. We are coming up on FOUR MONTHS OF UNEMPLOYMENT PEOPLE. I mean, I have this amazing internship that I love, love, love, but love ain't paying my damn bills. It does allow me to feel productive most of the time, but I still experience this distinct sense of FAILURE AND SUCKITUDE at being an adult.

Anxiety by definition is: Unjustified fears or concerns that are likely to meet other fears you may have and then they all start mating in rabbit-like fashion and pretty soon you have rabbits falling off all the available surfaces in your brain and did you guys know they smell funny when they get packed in tight, and how am I going to feed them all, OMG I AM GOING TO COMMIT BUNNY GENOCIDE IF I DON'T KEEP WORRYING/FEEDING THEM, SOMEONE HELP ME STOP THIS SIMILE/METAPHOR DISASTER. Well, that is my definition at least.

Okay, so I started this post like five paragraphs ago with the intention of telling a story about this totally out of hand anxiety response I had to a very minor situation that I now can laugh about. Worked out really well, huh? Whatever. Today was total shit and I just needed to vent about having a sort of loose, shaky structural feeling about myself. Like I might just collapse into a vibrating puddle of emo when I get a really kind, loving message from someone and don't feel worthy, and don't know why I don't feel worthy, and I thought I was over these internal and irrational chantings of "no one will really love you if they could see you as you really are which right now is in faded yoga pants, popping amoxicillin and pain killers for that wisdom tooth you need to get pulled but haven't, peanutbutter smeared on your cheek and a general outlook of doom and misery."

Phew.

Finally here is the story (though I doubt if I need to illustrate further that I am neurotic at this point):

I woke up the other night to the smell I realized (after nearly hyperventilating from huffing the air rapidly) was like something burning. I sat up and pointed my nose in every direction. I got out of bed and wandered around. Was a burner on? Can radiators break and suddenly turn waaay up and explode (even though I know they are water based and probably don't make smokey smells)? Not shockingly this spiraled into "SHIT WE ARE GOING TO DIE IN A FIRE IF I DON'T FIGURE THIS OUT RIGHT NOW" and "HOW AM I GOING TO GET MY GRANDMA'S HOPE CHEST DOWN THE STAIRS IF THEY ARE BURNING?!?!!" I woke the gorgeous german that was staying the night (yes, he stays the night sometimes family; don't freak out on me) and asked if he smelled it too. Yes, he did, and it smelled a bit like a cigarette he thought. I believe he turned over and had the audacity to go back to sleep not realizing that we really needed to plan our emergency exit strategy OR WE WILL DIE A FIRERY DEATH, WHY DON'T I HAVE ONE OF THOSE ROPE LADDERS LIKE IN THE ADVERTISEMENTS, FINE I WILL DO EVERYTHING. I stayed up another 45 minutes sniffing the air (which pretty much didn't smell like burning for 40 of those minutes, but I stayed vigilant) and organizing how I would corral my cat, grab my most important things, and swiftly get us all to safety only to watch the rest of what I have burn to the ground.

Um, so we didn't die and my apartment is still intact, if you are wondering. Turns out I have a new neighbor that smokes directly below my place. I am in the process of submitting a courtesy request that he knock it the fuck off so I don't have to fear for my life and wonder if I have told the people I care about that I love them enough.

This post is sooo done now.

Hipster Freakout

Sometimes I just embrace that I have these vaguely hipster tendencies here and there. For example, I do like the scarf with t-shirt/thin jacket/no-it-is-not-cold-out-but-I-am-too-cool-to-care look. Never mind how idiotic and obviously contrarian it appears, I dig it.

Also related:

• I have a weakness for girls who pull off messy, butch haircuts.
• I get a kick out of introducing music to a group of friends that is 1) amazing music and then, yes 2) unknown to them until that point.
• I do own vinyl and yet no record player anymore.
• I understand how one can have good taste in wine and beer all while being on unemployment.
• I have a friend who collects grandma shoes and rocks them for all the comfort and radness they are worth (a lot, according to her).

And then there is this song which is my current anthem.

Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros pretty much rocks my face off

with hipster happiness and I suggest if you have any qualms about how

asshat-ish hipsters can be, that you put them aside and revel in this

goodness.

Then we can return to mostly hating on those pretentious pricks as per usual.