Stop the Cutting

I’ve been walking around in this cloud of Irritation. If you get in my face, most likely I’ll cut you first and ask questions later but probably never feel bad about it. And you can’t do anything to fix it so stop asking me. Seriously – stop asking me.

If you are the bagger at the supermarket, don’t ask me if I want paper or plastic. You choose for me. Go ahead! Make a decision based on your carbon-based instincts! Do I look like a paper or a plastic-type person? PICK ONE! But if you are wrong, I will cut you.

If I’m at the book store looking for a specific book, doing pretty well on my own, and you come up to ME and ask ME if I need any help but then point me in the direction of someone else after I go to the trouble of explaining what I’m looking for, I will cut you. Why did you ask me in the first place? Why make me explain myself twice? Just leave me alone.

When I’m on my way out the door and I’m a little nervous for my outing and you come up to give me a hug, don’t tell me that you think the towel from my shower must be a little sour. I won’t cut you, since you are my husband, [this part has been removed at the request of my husband.] I’ll show you sour.

When you see me at the store and I look like my head it mostly detached from my body and you witness me actually bumping into the shelves because walking down the large open part of the isles has become too difficult, how about you come over and tell me that the buttons on the front of my shirt are undone too far? How about letting me know that my breasts are having a little show of their own and everyone has a front row ticket? Because if you don’t, and I notice it on the drive home, I’m going to turn that car around and come back and cut you.

Ornery much? I don’t even want to be in the same room with me.

I'm So Mad, I'm Laughing

I suck. I laugh at inconvenient times. Like when my husband is getting mad at me. But not strangers. Apparently, I only laugh when someone that I love and care about is getting angry at me and strangers? They can bugger off. I’ll return their looks and yells one for one and then somehow end up on top, walking away victoriously confident that I was just on the winning side of some serious hiney-spanking. This is, of course, if I can’t avoid the altercation all together. Which, I would seriously prefer since I promote LOVE, people, not hate.

But Joe and I have been going through our Stuff. Everyone has their Stuff and the past few months, it’s been our turn to empty out the closets and clean under the beds and ask serious questions like ‘When did I buy this shoe? I hate purple and anything made out of pleather.’ or ‘Are you sure you have to bring that up every time we talk about Frank Zappa?’ and ‘Why the hell do you always laugh when I’m getting mad at you?’ The answers are, respectively, 1. Never, I made that up for this illustration 2. YES and 3. I have no idea. None.

Can we just talk about appropriate responses for a minute?

Sad = Empathetic
Happy = Pleased
Excited = Excited
Angry = Giggling Listening and responding with ‘What I hear you saying is…..quickly followed by mind blowing make-up sex.

When someone is pouring out their innermost feelings about how they feel about you, your relationship and the future – not the best time to laugh. I have tried not to laugh, which has the same effect as when my parents asked me to say the prayer for dinner when I was eight. I started giggling and could not stop until I was sent out of the room. At which time, my parents would call ‘You can come back in now.’ and I would sit down at the table and immediately start to giggle again. And then I got grounded for two months.

I hate this even more than I hate that I have two really thick, black hairs that grow out of the bottom of my chin that require persistent plucking. I hate watching his eyes go from angry-at-me to hurt because I would SO prefer the angry-at-me.

I have found no plan to fix this. I would like to have a plan on the ready so this angry/laughing/me-bursting-into-tears-of-regret cycle can end.

Hey There, Y'all

I got an email from China (a woman, not the place) who asked me to write about what a bad day felt like to me. She didn’t think that my bad days could be anywhere near as bad as hers because she feels so bad that she “just can’t think or feel or she might die.” I wrote back that it wasn’t a contest of any kind but if she wanted, in a few weeks, I would write about what a bad day felt like to me.

I have a bad day one or two times a month. This is what they feel like to me. I also have lots and lots of Good Days and I’ll be writing about that next week sometime. Everything I tell someone that writes me an email regarding how I get through a bad day is exactly how I do it. I’m not just making stuff up. I actually do the things that I say work, because they work for me. Of course, that doesn’t mean they will work for you. Everyone is different.

I could have not shared this with all of you. But wouldn’t that be hypocritical? To be the one always giving advice on how to work through big issues and get to a good place emotionally? To pretend that I’m always fine and never feeling depressed? Because I do. Sometimes, and this is for everyone on the planet, you have a bad day and you feel like shit. Now, maybe you don’t get as dark as I do. And I don’t even get as dark as I used to. But you probably know what I’m talking about.

Thanks for all the well-wishes and encouragement. I am so thankful to have so many readers that care about me. I sure wish that I had prefaced the entry with a little “Hey There, Y’all” so you would have known and I promise to do that in the future.

Bad Days

I wake up in the morning and before I even open my eyes, there it is. That weight laced with desperation. That sinking feeling that tells me nothing is ever going to get better and I might as well just give up now. Give up at what, I’m not really sure. Not that it matters.

I contemplate actually opening my eyes. But what is the point of that? Why would I want to see things better? Smarter just to lay here and try my best not to listen. And definitely not see, think. Anything. Maybe I can go back to sleep. It’s only 5:15am. Plenty of time to sink back in.

My brain does not cooperate. My own worst enemy. Why? Trying to not think ends up worse than thinking. Pushing away the thoughts that at first sneak around behind and then try to cover my head, soon begin simply jabbing at my gut and my thighs. Prodding sharply. I give in and acknowledge them. And then they cover me up.

Nothing will ever get any better. In fact, it’s already getting worse. It doesn’t matter what I could ever try to do. Ever. All the projects I get excited about and then plan. All the projects that I hope will somehow make a difference in someone’s life. They amount to nothing. Nothing. And no one cares. And why should they? I mean, really? Who am I to try and do anything, anyway? I’m just one more person in the world that thinks farther than they can actually reach. But realizes it too late to save themselves the public embarrassment.

I’m beginning to suffocate. If I don’t open my eyes, I’ll die.

What do I think I’m doing with my life? I should go back to school. I should want to go back to school. I should go get a regular job where I drive to an office and see normal people that do work-type things and drink coffee. I should want to want a regular job. I should make sure I have health care. I should have an IRA and heavy savings accounts. I should take vacations twice a year for 3.5 days each and be happy that I have an office to go back to. I should stop trying to make something out of nothing and give it up already. I’m not really a business owner. I’m not really a project director or designer or good at talking with clients or anything to do with what I am supposed to do. My work is crap. Total crap. No one wants to see it. No one likes it. I could never be one of the people that are talked about later as someone that contributed to something great or amazing or worthwhile because everything I do is so mediocre and inconsequential. Trying to create another place for people to get together online. Who the fuck cares? The code is crap. The design is crap. It won’t ever get done. If it does get done, it will suck and no one will want to be a part of it anyway. I’m not painting anymore but if I did, no one would buy them. And if I tried to paint again, I wouldn’t be able to. I think I’ve lost whatever talent I had before.

If I don’t get out of bed, I will never get out again.

I have spots on my arm that haven’t healed in over 6 months. I think I scratch them when I’m sleeping or nervous. I don’t know why they don’t heal. What is wrong with me? People notice them and I can see in their eyes how ugly I am. Hideous and weird. And fat. So, so fat. And my writing sucks. I write a blog that is just like a million other ones. And I write things that are of no importance to anyone. And the people that do write me, I can’t even answer. At least, not all of them. So many that I can’t even write back. So many people that need help and want someone to hear them and tell them that they are OK. And they are OK. I just don’t have the time to tell them that. I’m such a failure. I should be writing them all back so they know. But who do I think I am writing anyone? What could I possibly have to say that would make a difference? I don’t really know anything. I have no good advice. I don’t know ANYTHING. I only know what I’ve gone through and half the time, it makes no sense to me. We’re never going to have enough money. Rent will be due and we’ll be late. Projects are due and we are late. The electricity will get turned off if we don’t make it by 5pm. Can’t pay the bills. Can’t pay the bills. Can’t pay the bills. Can’t breathe.

In the shower I try to wash it all away. But I could scrub for hours and it wouldn’t work. Hours. There is just too much. Somehow, I’m supposed to go downstairs and begin my day and do stuff. Stuff that doesn’t matter and that I suck at.

Rationalizing the Night Away

I feel like my right arm is missing and I’ve almost convinced myself that I need a new camera. I chose this one first, but the 5K+ price tag gave me the giggles since there is no way THAT would ever happen. (But, 16.7 megapixels?? Dude!)

I found this comparison between the new Rebel and the Nikon D70. I think I’m leaning slightly towards the Rebel. Anyone use either one and have feedback on pros and cons?

In order to justify a new camera as a need, which it totally, completely almost is, I’d have to have a photoshoot to go to. Doesn’t anyone need me to come shoot photos of something? Anyone? Bueller?

NOOOOOOOoooooooooo! My Camera is Sick!

I shoot with a Sony F717. I’ve loved it solid for 3 years and recommended it to many people based on my experience. Today, it shoots like crap. Overnight it sucks? Whaaa? Suddenly, there is a white fog being applied to every single shot I take no matter what mode I’m in except video. When I look in the view-finder prior to taking the shot, it looks great. Once I take the image, it has a white, foggy film applied. I’ve reset the camera 3 times, taken out the battery, recharged the battery, tried it on every setting, tried it while plugged in.


Last week:

Image at 100%

Zoomed in to 500%

This morning:

Image at 100%

Image at 50%

Image at 100%

Image at 500%

Has anyone see this before? Know a way to fix it? I found this link where 2 guys are describing what sounds like the same fogging issue but it looks to me like this is happening when it’s saving, not when it’s just in the viewfinder.

I'm On Vacation, Right?

I’m totally on vacation. This is the first vacation I’ve had in a long, loooooong time where I don’t have to think about work at all. Except I do. I can’t help it. My brain is always leaving the present situation of vegging and relaxation and fun and dogs and darling little girls and good friends to ‘I wonder if we are going to meet that deadline?’ and ‘What if so-and-so doesn’t get that done in time?’ and ‘Did I remember to tell him that we need to check in on that?’ and ‘It’s totally NOT going to get done if I don’t remind them to do that part!’ And then my heart starts to race and I feel the beginning of an anxiety attack. I have to talk myself back down from the ledge and enforce The Vacation Rules. Which, I’m probably breaking by even writing about it right now, but baby steps, ok?

When did I turn into this work-a-holic? I don’t have to commute anymore because we work at home and so theoretically, my day should be shorter than the 13 hours it used to be, but I actually think it’s longer. No, I know it’s longer. I’ve forgotten how to just spend a day any way I want. The concept of ‘free time’ means nothing to me now because any free time I have isn’t free. It’s wasted unless I’m doing something for the business. And there is always more work. There is always more work than I have time for. So how could there be Free Time?

This self-imposed break on work is really difficult for me. I want to call people and check in on something about every 4 seconds. I’m listening to someone speaking, here in real life, right in front of me, and my mind starts to wander back over to work. Sometimes it’s REALLY hard to stay in the present. And the present right now is – I’m On Vacation. I have to learn to trust those around me to do what they say they will do and accomplish the tasks they agree to do whether I’m reminding them or not. Because if it keeps going on like it has been, I’m going to die from a heart attack. Or strangulation by people I work with. One or the other.

Further Proof I'm not Crazy

Remember the spider leg in the shower? This morning I woke up in a start because I felt a stirring on my arm. And lo and behold there was a spider near my shoulder. A mere breath away from my ear where it could have burrowed and laid babies in a white wispy sack nestled near my eardrum. I would have been able to hear all 500 of those babies stirring and waking and looking forward to pillaging my brain. And spelling words like WITH NEW RADIANT ACTION and PIG. After I bolted upright, I swept him off my arm and onto the carpet in one deft motion which, frankly, I can’t believe I pulled off a mere .12 seconds after I was dreaming about chucking logs from one pile to the next with Carrot Top in the Adirondack mountains and singing ‘Dinah woncha blow? Dinah woncha blow? Dinah woncha blow your horororn?’. (?)

When he hit the carpet, the spider and I stared at each other. It was a Matrix moment, as I reached over his head to the nightstand to deftly grab the magazine. My plan? Smash the crap out of him using the rolled up pages of The New Yorker. It was touch-n-go for an agonizing few moments as he attempted to wrangle the magazine away from me but in the end, articles about fashion and upcoming events in New York won out. He was dead. I was panting. And the mangled New Yorker was never to be read again.

And then I peed on him. Isn’t that what everyone does? You scoop their bodies up with a tissue, throw them in the toilet and then realize you have to go pee? You don’t want to waste a flush. I think it might be a left over ritual from when we were cavemen and had to pummel our enemies with clubs. I’m sure we peed on them when we were done.

I Don't Want One

I keep thinking I see spiders. Large spiders. With many legs. Tall legs. They turn out to be fuzz balls or pieces of tape left over from a birthday banner 6 months ago or I realize that I’m not a redhead and wake up. Although the one 4 inch long leg that was in the shower, all alone and obviously missing his 23 other sibling legs, that was totally real (verified by a real person not in my dream) freaks me out and somewhere in the house there is a large, hairy arachnid walking slightly off center and pulling to the left.

It may be time to look into medication.

In the grocery store checkout, I become aware that my club card is in my other purse or at home in the drawer. I’m the type of person that never gives them my real phone number because I’m paranoid that way, so there is no way to just type in my number. I decide to try Joe’s number. When that doesn’t work, I try random other people’s numbers that are in my phone. Obviously, they are all too smart to use their real phone numbers as well since none of them work. Meanwhile, the four people in line behind me begin to get restless.
Continue reading

Tell Me Something…..

Why is it that talking about your own personal religious beliefs in a public fashion is scarier than talking about, oh I don’t know, your bodily functions or your yearly income?

I’m trying to do a religious study which involves people sharing what religion they belong to and practice, what they believe and how they feel about it. Ideally, they get their family to send in the information as well so we can compare how everyone feels about things. Or not. And it can all be done anonymously. But you would think that I was asking them to strip down naked and run a few laps in front of everyone at the office. Well, maybe I am in a way. But I really had no idea that it would be so hard for people to be a part of it.

My interest is finding out what it is that people believe in and why and what happens when part of the family believes something different.

Anyone interested in taking part?
(crickets chirping…….)


I’m never going to be the Stable Parent. First of all, there is no way to compete with my ex. He is stability personified when it comes to All Thing Stable. Second of all, he is the King because he’s making the list of the things that you are supposed to do or be to be called Stable so of course, he has more (all) of those listed attributes and I have maybe 2 which are a) be a human being and b) be alive.

When he knew me, when we were married, I was vacillating between Super Mormon Mom and complete wreck so it’s understandable to some degree that he has a hard time seeing me as something else, someone New & Improved, Edition 7.7. And it’s not that I care what he thinks about me but I totally care how his perceptions create his resistance to me being as much a mom as I can be to our kids. The way he speaks about me to his family, to his wife, where the kids can hear; casually disdainful of me. Every time he says something unflattering about me where the kids can hear they are faced with a decision about how to digest that information. They can’t really agree with him, because they don’t feel the same way, but they can’t really disagree with him either because then they would feel dumb. So they don’t know how to feel. They love both of us and don’t want to hurt either one of us. How sucky that they have to worry about it at all.

I don’t subscribe to his list. I don’t think that working 20-hour days year after year is the only answer to creating a home. It works for him. Awesome. For him. But I can create a life that is just as viable for my children and not have to have the same income. I can talk openly with them about how they and I are feeling and not pretend to be stoic if I don’t feel it organically. I don’t believe it’s healthier to make sure that the kids are in activities 24/7 all year round. It’s fine if they want to. But I don’t want to make them join every sport or convince them that they want to. Some of the kids might like to try having some down time or join a different kind of class besides the ones he thinks are cool. Because no matter what he thinks, those kids want to impress him and so they choose to join the things where he’s going to think they are the coolest. I think it should be the other way around – let them pick what they want and then think they are the coolest for doing what they love. And I don’t believe in making them go to a church that they don’t embrace purely because that is how it’s done or ‘what is right’. I want them to pick for themselves what spiritual avenue they will take and find what speaks to their souls. Continue reading

Things I Have No Patience For

The lid on the hair gel that takes extra-human strength to pop open. Or the door jam. Or a pair of pliers. None of these things works on a regular basis to open the gel, so all may or may not be employed daily.

Tweezers that no longer work well because they have been opening hair gel lids. When I squeeze your two ends together, meet up and tweeze already.

Coffee filters that stick together before I’ve had my coffee. See the never ending circle of sad there?

Sweaty exercise equipment at the gym. Sweat that has dripped out of another’s pores. I don’t want to touch it. Please?


Cell phones with no speaker.

No matching socks. All I want is a pair of matching socks. Where oh where have you gone, matches? My feet long for you.

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