Everything is fuckupable (Or Dating with Anxiety: Part 3)

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I used to have some pretty naive and idealistic views about love. I can admit this.

Not sure where they came from, because I didn’t really see any examples of these ideals growing up except maybe in Hallmark movies. Most of the relationships I witnessed in person were filled with arguments and frustrations and a lot of strife intermixed with some joy and minimal romance.

And yet, I held onto the belief that my ‘one’ would one day show up and see past my awkwardness and horrific fashion sense and see the beauty underneath. He’d be perfect for me. And he’d love me as if I were the most precious thing he’d ever seen. His fire for me would never go out. We’d be kind and gentle and oh-so-perfect for each other. Always. Effortlessly.

I also, for a short, but very painful time, believed that if it was right … if it was love, real deep magic love … that you couldn’t fuck it up. The love would be too powerful and would overcome all obstacles, no matter how many mistakes you made.

What. Tha. Fuck. Whyyyy did I think this?

Ahhh yes, now I remember where these ridiculous beliefs came from. The church. True love waits. When God writes your love story. Blech.

Oh, how woefully, wonderfully wrong I was.

I mean, seriously. How naively hopeful and blissfully ignorant could I have been about love?

Of course you can fuck it up. Everything — every SINGLE thing — is fuckupable. And that includes love.

But that’s honestly a good thing.

Continue reading “Everything is fuckupable (Or Dating with Anxiety: Part 3)”

A playlist for 2019

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I don’t wanna brag, but I have epically bad taste in music.

Well, maybe not quite that terrible. But … close.

Honestly, some of what I love is downright awful. But I’m alright with that. The thing is music moves me. Inspires me. Punches me in the gut when I need to be emotional and kicks me in the ass when I need some motivation. Add to that I LOVE to sing, so yeah, I’m a music lover with shitty taste in music.

Why do I think that? Well, I do have some music aficionado friends and anytime they post a list of their all-time favorite bands, about half of them I have to google. The other half I’ve heard of but just never took the time to listen to.

There are no Smiths on my iTunes playlist, no Cure, no Strokes, only one Stones song …. but there is an embarrassing amount of Taylor Swift and Britney Spears.

And I’ll confess this right here, right now – I know only a handful of Beatles songs.

Now music appreciation is subjective, but the truth is I don’t get into bands that way.  Well, with the exception of the Dave Matthews Band and YES, I can hear you groaning with disgust from here (I’m groaning a little myself). But it’s not entirely my fault – I was raised southern baptist in a small town in East Texas so for the longest time the only music I listened to was gospel or country. And when I started listening to (gasp) ‘secular’ music, it was mostly what I could listen to on the radio.

I choose my music based on gut feelings. I get into a particular song in a particular moment and it will move me and then that’s that. I love the band and I don’t care if it’s shameful or childish or auto-tuned or universally considered the worst song (or band) in the world. If it moves me, makes me wanna dance, makes me wanna cry or leaves me thinking about my life in a new way, I love it and will belt it out proudly.

2018 was a good but tough year in some ways. There was a lot of growth mixed with a lot of joy and some considerable pain. Ash and I recently dedicated our year 2019 to the word ‘Fuck’. It’s our mantra, our anthem, our battle cry and quite frankly, a big part of our belief system. Instead of resolutions, we set our intention for this year – the year of ‘fuck this’ and ‘fuck that’.

In addition, I recently decided I want to set a playlist for 2019. Something I will add to as I run across songs that seem to fit. Basically, I want a set of songs that move me, inspire me, make me wanna dance or sing or shout. Songs that fit ME and songs that help me set a clear vision for what I want this year. You know, kinda like your workout playlist … only with slightly fewer rap songs or AC/DC.

The music to motivate me – creatively, physically, emotionally – when I’m not feeling very motivated at all.

So here’s my work-in-progress, very brief 2019 playlist, in no particular order.

Continue reading “A playlist for 2019”

Wonder Woman loves food

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The other morning, when I walked into work, I felt like a superhero.

Not in the saving the world kind of way, but in the I’m-so-powerful-and-a-goddess kind of way.

In the mother of dragons, creator of worlds, working-at-my-dream-job-I-got-this-shit kind of way.

As I made my way toward the elevators, my superhero theme song ‘Blood in the Cut’ playing in my earbuds, I surveyed the lobby of the beautiful building I work in … and I had this feeling of, damn, I created this.

No, not the building or the lobby, but I created this very life I am living. I manifested every detail.

I wanted to live and work in Dallas and now I am here, working smack dab in the center of downtown. I wanted a solid, long-term career in graphic design and I have it. I wanted a boss who would allow me to be me, late start time and all, and I’m so grateful to have just that … while working at a place I once dreamed of working.

I manifested this.

I am Wonder Woman.

Or, rather, my modern-day version of her. But … like… instead of saving the universe and fighting world wars, I sing karaoke and travel the world and work in a downtown office with a view.

Ok … maybe not the same. But … close. Very close.

Seriously … the first dream I achieved was becoming a full time graphic artist. I wasn’t sure it was possible since I didn’t have a degree, but it was. I believe the universe helped out in this BIG time, but still, I had a dream and I manifested it. I hoped it was possible, I sought it out and I made it happen.

Since then, I’ve continued to manifest things. Moving to Dallas, living in a beautiful loft in downtown (that I couldn’t even afford when I put the deposit down on it), traveling the world solo and with friends, working in the city with a window view. All of this and more.

I felt so powerful that day when I recognized that I was right where I had always wanted to be. Look at me, I’m a freaking superhero. I’m a woman in full, creating my destiny, manifesting the impossible.

A woman totally in charge of my life, creator of worlds, vanquisher of foe–– wait. Wait

What’s that I smell, with my powerful, god-like senses, wafting up from the basement food court?

Is it … CINNABON?

Mother of dragons, it IS.

You see, every superhero has a weakness. A downfall. Their kryptonite.

Mine is food.

Continue reading “Wonder Woman loves food”

Faking it

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I heard my upstairs neighbor faking it recently.

Well, not my upstairs neighbor exactly, but the girl he brought home.

How could I hear? Well I live on the bottom floor of a old four-plex in east Dallas. The walls are thin. But this was the only the first time in nearly a year that I’ve heard the raucous cries of a woman having sex. And I’m fairly sure the gentleman above has taken home quite a few lady friends.

How do I know she was faking? Well to be fair, I suppose I don’t know for sure. But as a woman who’s faked before (um, haven’t we all?), I feel quite sure she was faking something … maybe not the orgasm, but certainly how excited she was. Let’s just say the vocals were quite animated … like cartoon-level animated.

Why all the hullabaloo?

Maybe she’s a girl hoping that with her vocal acrobatics that she could convince the man she’s with that she’s this enthusiastic during sex, always, and therefore he should keep seeing her? Maybe she’s trying to convince herself of how good the sex is? Hell, maybe the sex really IS cartoon-voice-animated good? If so, lucky girl.

Or maybe she learned to over-exaggerate during sex a long time ago and now it’s so ingrained her that it’s just an auto response?

Whatever her reason, I (and my three glasses of wine) had a grand ole time listening.

And it got me to thinking … how much are we willing to ‘fake’ in life in order to get what we think we want? Especially with regards to relationships and dating but also our personal lives in general?

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LATE: a story about alcohol, adulting and a happy ending

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My god, I am too old for this shit…, I thought as I stared at my red, splotchy face in the bathroom mirror.

It was then that I noticed one of my fake eyelashes from the night before had made it’s way to the center of my forehead and was now stuck.

Perfect.

I was still in my fancy black dress and sweater too. Apparently I had come home after a night of dancing and drinking, scarfed down two lean cuisine meals and then promptly passed out fully clothed on top of my comforter. With all the lights in the house still on.

I was hurting. I was sleep-deprived. I was going to be late for work.

I’m 36. I’m too old for this shit.

Or … am I?

This is the question I ask myself often. I’ve been warring with this idea of what version of an adult I should be at this age for quite some time now. I’m 36, I’ve been married and divorced. I don’t have any kids. I don’t own a house. I’m single. And I enjoy vodka. A lot.

I’ve written about it before, but my timid life as a child in the church was further compounded by an 8-year relationship where I never felt free to grow or discover who I was. After I ended my marriage, my previously sheltered life changed dramatically. I moved to Dallas and started making friends. I found karaoke and dancing and all the bars. And I have loved it.

These last 5 years have been complete freedom and fun. So fun. But also … quite exhausting. Physically and emotionally.

I thought I would’ve been out of this ‘phase’ by now. I figured I would eventually tire of it. Actually, if I’m being completely transparent and honest …  I naively assumed I would’ve met someone by now. I figured on one of these happy nights out I’d see him, across the bar, twinkle in his eye and he’d come over, kiss me and change my life forever. And then my lifestyle would naturally shift to complement his. I figured we’d ‘grow up’ together.

Ugh, I know … how upsettingly old-fashioned of me to wait on a fictitious significant other to inspire change in my life. I’m an independent woman who prides myself on being this way. But still, I’m pretty sure that’s what I’ve been waiting on. The next chapter, the beginning of my future … signified by the person I hope to build a life with.

The happy ending.

Continue reading “LATE: a story about alcohol, adulting and a happy ending”

The fuck is your life: Thoughts on death

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The other day, death stopped by.

My life wasn’t in danger, neither was the life anyone I know really well and love dearly. It was more like a chat … like one might have over afternoon tea. Only it wasn’t much of a conversation, more like a statement said in passing … and then me reeling to process it.

I was warming up my lunch in the break room of my beautiful downtown office, staring out the 9th floor-to-ceiling windows, and all of a sudden I felt heavy .. weary.

Death brushed by my shoulder. He whispered in my ear.

“One day you will die.” 

And then he was gone.

What a dick, right?

I just stood there, staring out the window at the building workers on the roof of the building next to mine. They were close to the edge and not much separated them from the vast expanse below, just a flimsy little rope fence. It would be so easy to fall.

Those words hit me and I realized that one day this will all be gone, these buildings, these streets, these men … and I won’t be here. I won’t see what the world becomes. And all of a sudden I was overwhelmed with the weight (or lack thereof) of my own existence.

As I stared at the workers, I thought about that morning and how some asshole had cut me off and I was so angry I flipped him off. I thought about how stressful my job can be at times. I thought about the men I have loved, so greatly, only to have my heart wrecked. I thought about drunken nights with my best friend and laughing so hard my face and stomach ache. I thought about how annoyed I get when my phone rings, no matter who it is that’s calling. I thought about how lonely I’ve been these last few years. I thought about how all of my friendships are important, yes, but sometimes I wonder how close we really are (well, with the exception of Ash). And then, I thought about my life … and it’s impermanence … and I wondered … does my life mean anything?

What is my life?

I thought about all of this, the good and the bad. And then I thought … I have no idea what happens to us when we die. I have faith, but I don’t know what it’s like to die. I don’t know what’s on the other side. Maybe there’s nothing at all. This life is colorful. Is death the opposite of that? Is death … just darkness?

“One day you will die.”

This is something we know, every day. We know we will die one day, even if we don’t think about that often. We know in the back of our minds that this life is temporary and impermanent. We know we will die and yet … and yet … do I ever take the time to really think on it? No. Because thinking about death is heavy. Painful. Difficult. Thinking about death can be paralyzing. That day it was.

Continue reading “The fuck is your life: Thoughts on death”

Clean up your mess

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I have been single for 5 years now. And I haven’t lived with someone in nearly 4 years.

When I first moved out of the house I shared with my ex, I was ecstatic at the idea of living by myself. Having complete say over what kind of decor to purchase, how the house was kept up, etc etc.

At first, it was amazing. I kept my apartment fairly immaculate. I painted giant canvases for my walls with Ash. I sought out color coordinated pillows and decorations. I cleaned every weekend. I found interesting local art to hang. I made my home a place I wanted to be and hoped others would want to be as well.

However, after years of being single, my standards began to decline and I now believe I have become TOO comfortable with living on my own.

How?

Well, I let the dishes pile up. I sometimes let the housework slide a week or two before I really clean (ok .. maybe three weeks). I honestly don’t remember the last time I did the floors (omg wait … have I even done the floors ONCE?).

I live as if no one might see my home … ever. I am NOT the house maker woman with an immaculately clean home that smells of fresh baked cookies, complete with pinterest-worthy decor. That shit stopped once my dogs began to destroy my adorable color coordinated pillows.

My art hangs on the wall off centered and eclectic. Nothing matches. I have some glade air fresheners but I doubt it masks the rampant dog scent that well. When I lost my belongings last year, I settled for some hand-me-down furniture which included a worn-out teal green fabric lazyboy and an old futon. Seriously.

My home does not look like it belongs to a successful mid-30s female with aspirations of being a wife. I have lived basically like a lonely bachelor. Messy and unkempt and I have been ok with that. Until now.

I recently started dating again.

Continue reading “Clean up your mess”