Thanksbirthing (or: Why You Shouldn't Let Your Step-Mum Name Holidays)

I spent Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday stuck at home, in bed, with a horrible cold and fever and all that nonsense. I managed to go through 2+ boxes of tissue. I killed so much DayQuil/NyQuil that I'm certain they'll see a 25% rise in profits this quarter based on my consumption, alone (hahahaha, consumption! That's totally a pun right? Because "the consumption" used to refer to some horrible illness? Yes?)....

I may or may not currently be addled by all the cold medications and lack of sleep my brain has been forced to deal with. So, you know, there's my disclaimer in regards to this post.

Yesterday was Thanksgiving. It isn't really a huge holiday when it comes to my family. My father's birthday is late November, so we usually just meet up for dinner at some point during the last two weeks of the month. That's pretty much our celebration of Thanksgiving and (mostly) Daddy's birthday.

Because my family is fairly small (it consists of my dad and step-monster, my two younger siblings [Mar and Bug], Dad's parents, and the step-monster's folks) things are pretty flexible during Thanksgiving/Dad's birthday (or, as my stepmum lovingly dubbed it, "Thanksbirthing"... though I think that sounds totally gross).

Since I spent the past few days dying of consumption (or just a cold... you never can tell) and don't want to pass that on to the troops, I'm going to try to gather the family unit at my place this weekend for a Thanksbirthing (ew) dinner.

Last night, I went ahead and wrote a list of things I'm thankful for. Things I'm Thankful For lists are all the rage this time of year, and I need to at least keep up with the trends. Plus, I was drinking a bit and felt it was the perfect time to write a post (and by "write a post" I mean "write half of a post before falling asleep").

Because not everyone may be interested in my sentimental, heartfelt, not-at-all-funny-or-entertaining list, I've stuck it below. I hope that visiting relatives wasn't too brutal for anyone, and that your Thanksgiving Recovery goes well.

Oh Bebe. Your kids are so crazy.

I had the strangest childhood.

After my parents divorced (when I was 2 or 3 years old) I went to live with my dad. My biological mother floated around from place to place for several years, after which she found herself living with her next husband (in what became a long line of fiancées / husbands/ etc.), as well as their two children (my brother is 4ish years my junior, and my sister is 5ish years younger than I am). 

Bio-mum and (ex)step-dad finally ended in a crappy apartment in the northeast suburbs of Atlanta (from what I can remember). Some of my earliest memories revolve around that apartment. 

I remember being around 7, and celebrating Christmas at the apartment. I can see the stuffed leopard I got so clearly in my minds' eye. 

I remember my little sister learning how to walk. She fell in the living room and chipped off more than half of one of her front baby teeth. She was missing half her front tooth until it finally fell out when her adult teeth started to come in. 

I remember my brother waking me up in the middle of the night because he couldn't sleep. We snuck into the living room and I put our VHS copy of Aladdin on the tv. I think it was during the big parade scene (after Genie makes Aladdin into a prince) that our mother woke up and came out to yell at us while dragging us back to bed. (Funny side note about Aladdin: It was my brothers favorite movie when he was 4 or 5. Because of a quote in the movie, any time anyone asked him to, "Say the magic word," instead of replying with, "Thank you," he'd always say, "Genie, I wish for you to make me a prince!" It was fucking adorable.)

One other thing I can vaguely recall about that apartment was the fact that across the hall lived two fabulous gay men. They were my first experience with a gay couple, I suppose. They were sweet as could be, and would keep an eye on us heathen children every once in a while, whenever our mother had to work and my stepfather was too drunk to responsibly supervise any living thing. 

It's funny how the simplest things can hold such sentimental value.

I still have the cheap, silly little gift they once gave me when I was around 6 or 7 (shit... like 20 years ago...). It was a wire stick-figure couple, sitting on a park bench. It sat on a stand, and had a counter-weight on top, so that you could just rock it back one time and it would keep itself swinging for a good long while. 

One of the guys brought it over to me, and his boyfriend got super excited and came to sit with us. Went on to explain to me that it used to represent the two of them sitting together. They said I should keep it always, because one day it would be me and my sweetheart rocking on the bench. I can specifically recall one of them using the phrase "you and your sweetheart" in a southern accent that would almost put Scarlett O'Hara to shame. 

One time, we were left with these men across the hall for a good couple hours. I'm pretty sure my sister was taking a nap. I don't recall if my brother was up wandering the apartment, or sleeping as well. But as the eldest, I didn't always have to take naps, and certainly couldn't be bothered to keep up with the schedules of Those Who Must Nap. 

I don't know if they did this because it was the only animated movie they had, or if they figured there's no cartoon that a 6ish-year-old wouldn't love, but that afternoon they introduced me to Bebe's Kids.

For those of you who have never seen this movie, it's on Netflix streaming as I write this blog (in fact, this evening I decided to revisit the film after 20ish years, which was what prompted me to post). 

The interesting thing about showing a movie like Bebe's Kids to an impressionable 6 year old is that she's going to absorb it. If she's raised in a household that promotes the idea that all people deserve to be empathized with and treated like human beings (regardless of skin color, or country of origin, or native language, or differing culture) then she won't understand why her white, Atlanta-native ass is told to be quiet anytime she tries to reference a quote from that silly cartoon she watched that one time.

Needless to say, my 6ish-year-old brain was baffled as to why certain things were SO hysterical when spoken by these cartoon characters, but god forbid I ask anyone why they're funny, or reference anything from the movie in passing. I didn't understand why things worked that way. Sometimes I still don't. The world is such a weird place. 

Well, with that being said, I'm going to go to sleep. It's bed time (the earth-shattering snores that are coming from the unconscious Great Dane laying next to me is the best indicator). But before I go, I'll leave you with a taste of the 1992 classic, Bebe's Kids. 

"She so fine she makes me wanna get a job... with benefits!"

"If you don't tell me where your brother is I'm gonna beat the black off you, and you're gonna look whiter than Michael Jackson!"

"If you tried to phone hell from here, it'd be a local call." (It's sad that no one born after 1990ish would get this joke, because who the hell pays different rates for local vs long-distance anymore?)

And finally, the yo momma jokes. Because who doesn't love the shit out of some yo momma jokes?

Until next time,

-Slagathor 

Bourbon sucks at hide and seek.

It's funny how quickly circumstances can consume everything around you. They can completely blur the path you've been trying to carve out for yourself, so much so that you end up wondering if that's really where you wanted to be, or if it's just random fog. Circumstances can cause you to neglect the person you've strived to become for so long that you end up devolving into some flawed version of yourself that you swore you'd never be. They can distract you to such an extent that sometimes, on rare occasions, you can't even find your whiskey after coming back inside from a 5 minute, impromptu smoke break.

And where the fuck is my whiskey, anyway?

...

Despite the perpetual stress, the anxiety, and even the AWOL beverage, I feel that there is solace in the constant whirlwind. You can find anchors, even if they're short-lived. Whether you find yourself momentarily grounded by friends, silly conversation, odd but wildly entertaining situations, or just by snuggling your obnoxious, loud-ass, snoring douche bag of a dog, you can always manage to find your core (some people call it "inner peace", but I think it's just the root of who you are).

I could go into a detailed pity party about my current job bullshit. I could whine about my personal relationships and their shortcomings. I could spend days lamenting over my insecurities that constantly tell me my life is beyond reparation...(too lazy, too unattractive, too young, too stubborn, too comfortable with cursing like a fucking sailor, too sensitive, too emotionally flippant, too undereducated, too... well... anything) to accomplish my personal goals (both old and new). But fuck that.

I can do anything I like. Not regardless of my shortcomings. Not in spite of them. But because of them. They comprise the person I am. I'll admit this, despite how smug my father will be if he reads it, but struggle builds character, damn it.  And while some things I'd like to do may take eons more time, patience, effort, exhaustion, and perseverance than I'm willing to offer (or even capable of offering, at this point in my life), I can still, one day, accomplish any goal I put forth. As can most. The hardest part is accepting that I can actually do whatever I want, and committing to it enough to make it a reality. Does that make sense? Maybe?

You know, they say a positive attitude can do wonders. At 26 years old (almost 27... christ...) I'm starting to tentatively agree with "them". I mean, shit, I just found my fucking whiskey (and I'm way more excited and proud of my ability to find beverages that I put down mere minutes ago than I should be.... Be excited with/for me, damn it). And what better symbol of hope and positivity is there?

Goodnight, and all the best.
-L

This has nothing to do with the bassist for the Red Hot Chili Peppers

That's right. I'm talking about fleas.

Up until June of this year, I was living alone in a duplex in Candler Park. Well, not really alone. Lucy was always around, and I had foster dogs and foster cats in and out of the place. There was also my terribly angry, sassy, tailless cat named Rabbit (who was eventually adopted by an old lady down the street, and would only occasionally wander back to my place in order to gloat about how much better her new mum was. Rabs was just a bitch like that).

I was there for four years. In those four years, I never had any issues with fleas. Despite all the animals coming in and out of the house, despite not always being able to afford Frontline for all of them, and despite the backyard being this huge, overgrown mess that was undoubtedly chock full of all kinds of horrible bugs, fleas were never an issue.

Maybe the flea gods are punishing me for having managed to avoid the little pests for so long. I can just see them, sitting on their animal fur thrones, with little flea crowns, discussing the fact that some silly girl in Atlanta managed to evade them for too long. Clearly they need to set an example and teach people that you can't just have furbabies and plan to not have fleas.

"Feel the wrath of the flea king!" 

The frustrating thing is that Lucy, Jizanthapus, and LouieCatKitty are all current on their flea meds. Lucy rarely has any issue with fleas, anyway, because Great Danes don't really have a coat conducive to a flea's extravagant lifestyle. The kittens are indoor cats, and still get their flea meds on the regular.

The Game Plan

Once it was discovered that there were fleas (for the record, it isn't like you walk into the house and have little bugs jumping everywhere. My roommate saw a bite, and checked the kittens where she saw a few of the bastards scurrying around. She also saw one on her arm later that day) the roommates and I coated the house in diatomaceous earth, ran a ton of laundry, washed the furbabies, and vacuumed everything. We thought that would be the end of the problem.

But the flea gods were not finished punishing me for having avoided them for so long. About a week went by, and it was discovered that there were still hoppy little bloodsuckers, ignoring all of our efforts to wipe them out and just living their stupid, annoying lives like nothing had happened.

So, again, we sprinkled the house with diatomaceous earth. We vacuumed. I bought some Death to Fleas spray, which we used on the upholstery and carpets. I also got some serious flea shampoo, and gave the animals another bath (this time with more scrubbing).

Washing the Kittens

It was actually pretty hysterical bathing the kittens. Louie meowed a lot, but eventually realized that he wasn't going to escape the tub and resigned himself to sulking, and occasionally making half-hearted attempts to climb out of the water. Once he was toweled off and set down, he noticed that the end of his tail looked like a string. He then spent 25 minutes spinning in circles in the bathroom, chasing the wet, floppy end of his tail. I thought he was going to make himself sick (but I still laughed when he spun his face right into the wall, gave the wall a dirty look, and then continued with his spinning).

Jizanthapus, on the other hand, was determined to outwit this evil bath thing. He flailed all of his legs out, trying to grab the edge of the tub. He picked up the towel that was placed in the bottom of the tub several times (my step-mum informed me that doing that is supposed to make the cat more comfortable. Something about them not being able to get purchase on the bottom of the tub freaks them out). Each time he flung it around, getting sudsy water everywhere until he eventually dropped it back into the tub and continued his weird, spastic, I Hate Baths dance.

By the time I was finished washing him, the bathtub was filled to the brim with bubbles. In fact, he was so good at agitating the water that if our washing machine ever breaks down, tossing the kitten in with my clothes, some water, and some detergent would be a good alternative until it's repaired.

I got Jizanthapus out of his bath while Louie continued spinning around the bathroom. I wrapped him up in a towel like a baby, and tried to calm him down. I could tell that he really enjoyed being wrapped in a warm towel, because he would occasionally forget about plotting to kill me in my sleep and actually purr. The sound of his own contented purring would snap him back to reality, though. So he'd immediately stop purring, and just glare at me with the most vexed, enraged expression he could muster.

I finally set Jizanthapus down, and left him to help Louie catch his tail.

The Aftermath

When Lucy gets out of a bath, she kind of loses her mind for a bit. She tears through the house, stopping suddenly before bolting into another room. For some reason, I feel like she's trying to outrun the feeling of being wet. She hates water. She refuses to step foot in any lake or pool. She will absolutely not go outside if it's raining. In the tub she just stands there, head down, wondering what she did to be forced to go through such an ordeal, but she makes sure to let everyone know she's positively despondent about the whole thing.

So after bathing the kittens and leaving them in the bathroom, I come back into my bedroom to see Lucy running laps around the room, tilted to the side like a racer taking a turn in a motorcycle grand prix. This went on for a while, and I worked around it, spraying things and gathering laundry, and all that good stuff. By the time I was finished, Lucy was passed out in the floor. I went into the bathroom to check on the kittens, and put on their new flea collars.

Louie was laying in the floor, occasionally spinning 180 degrees in an attempt to catch his tail. He was purring and generally enjoying himself. Then I see Jizanthapus. He was sitting on the rug in the floor, licking his tail. The rest of him had dried off, but his usually fluffy tail was still pretty wet. He made eye contact with me, moved his tail so he was laying on it, and glowered at me from across the room.

Moving Forward

The kittens are going to live in my bathroom for a week or so, so we can see whether or not we need to hire an exterminator (and also so Jizanthapus doesn't try to slit my throat in my sleep). Lucy is being kept either in my bedroom or in the backyard. And that's that. Hopefully we managed to catch the issue before it became a big issue, and won't need to deal with any of this anymore.

-L

3 Libras

I'm up rather late for me, because my joints are fucking killing me tonight. While this isn't a new thing, it is something that doesn't fuck up my sleep schedule on a regular basis.

Oh, yeah. By the way, I have lupus.

A couple years ago, I was diagnosed after being hospitalized a few times for spontaneous kidney infections (it seems lupus loves to try to fuck with your organs, especially your kidneys). Autoimmune disorders are far more likely when the person has someone in their immediate family that also has an autoimmune disorder (my grandmother). The majority of people with lupus (actually, 90% of people that have been diagnosed) are women. Most of them develop symptoms of the illness between the ages of 15 to 44. Between that, my ANA test, my rare but noticeable butterfly rash (a reddening across the nose and cheeks, in the shape of a butterfly), my joint pain, my occasional fatigue, and my numerous, hospitalizing kidney infections that seemed to come out of nowhere, I was diagnosed. 

It's interesting to watch people react to my explaining to them that I have an autoimmune disease. Some people are overly sympathetic. Some people come off as really uncomfortable about the whole thing. Some people decide to quote Dr. House and tell me it's never lupus (which makes me want to give them the worst of all of my symptoms, if only for an hour, so they'll never say something so terribly insensitive to anyone with any disorder ever again). Some people read me well, realize that it's just something I live with and am okay with, and smile and continue whatever conversation we were having that led us to that topic (those people are my favorites). 

I rarely talk about being in pain, or feeling fucking exhausted, or being frustrated because I can't paint or play guitar due to my joints trying to kill me, or my worries about encountering anyone with any kind of communicable sickness (that I will inevitably get, and be stuck with for weeks), or my embarrassment that forces me to hide out in my house when my face gets that ridiculous butterfly rash and I really don't feel up for explaining to people why it looks like I'm blistery and perpetually blushing. 

I loathe feeling like people feel sorry for me. And what I hate even more is coming off as a weak, pity-seeking woman. 

Don't get me wrong. I'm sure there are very few people in this world that truly enjoy being viewed as weak people. But my aversion to being viewed that way is huge. 

So there you have it. My forced inability to sleep gave me time to write something down. Thank christ that it's only my hips and elbows that are acting up tonight. Otherwise I wouldn't be able to type worth a damn. 

<3 span="">

-L

We can sit on the carpet. We can sit on the table. We can sit on the moon.

I've been sick this week, which is no fun at all. Today, though, I'm finally starting to feel better. I can't help but feel like I've traded the coughing, the sore throat, the mucky lungs, and the runny nose for a fuzzy mind (because cold meds make my train of thought all wonky) but I suppose it's worth it for the time being.

I have a very busy weekend coming up (my days off are Sunday and Monday), so that's all for now. Here, have some music:

Turning the table

After my quasi-recent breakup, I compiled a list of things (some tangible, some emotional) that I wanted to take with me from the whole experience.

One of those things was my newfound love of listening to old records. God damn, did I love that record player Ex had.

So, after many failed ebay attempts to get something that 1) was inexpensive; 2) that fit my aesthetic tastes; and 3) was at least a quality record player, I found one. Today, on my day off, I drove down to Fayetteville and picked the baby up.

I got to the shop that had her listed, and chatted with one of the owners there. He refurbishes jukeboxes and all that, and gave my record player the green light for everyday use. He also informed me that I was "quite the looker", and mentioned that he had a stack of records in the office that he had yet to put out in the store. He said I ought to go through them (this stack was piled, waist high, on the floor), and told me to go ahead and grab anything I wanted. I tried to be polite, but he insisted, saying that I was such a sweet girl, and I had already driven so far to pick up the record player, so it was the least that he could do.

I obliged, and managed to walk away with a decent stack of music, as well as a lovely late 50s RCA New Orthophonic 6-HF-5 record player.

She sounds great, and looks even better, and I can't wait to add to my collection of dated, crackly, nostalgia-inducing music. Speaking of adding to the collection, I think Ex is stopping by tomorrow to drop off a record that he's decided I ought to have. It was his grandmothers, but it was also my favorite (oh, Cole Porter, how I fucking love you). It's a sweet gesture, and I'm thrilled to have more Cole Porter in my life.

However, I'm even more thrilled to have something to cross off the list of "things I need in order to continue moving forward like a badass". So, you know, there's that. 

Sweet summer rain

This week, I have been up and down, thrilled and heartbroken, excited and depressed, back and forth and back and forth (and I swear if you tell me I've been feeling this way because it's that time of the month, I'll slit your fucking throat... in a nice, totally non-hormonal way).  

Going through so many extremes is really quite exhausting. However, my constant... my anchor... has been the rain. Thank god for the rain. I love it. It brings a quiet white noise to the background (and, at work, it falls on the tarps we have and tries so hard to mimic the sound of rain on a tin roof). It brings cool wind, and hides that invasive douche bag of a sun. And standing outside, face raised toward the clouds and feeling that rain somehow manages to cut through the craziness. Lately, life has been about finding my calm. Rain helps so very much with that.

Despite feeling like an emotional bungee cord, my weekend has actually been quite lovely. I went to a party on Friday that was only a half-mile away from my house. I got to meet the neighbors (and their rooster, Abraham, which was hysterical). I managed to fall off of a motorbike, though that isn't saying much because I'm really good at falling in general (and don't worry, we weren't on the street or anything. I was coerced into sitting on it for a picture that may or may not surface one day, and then things happened, and I ended up on the ground laughing my ass off. I walked away with nothing more than a little scrape on my elbow). I also got to sit on an amazing front porch in the wee hours of the morning, which is one of my favorite things lately. I met an adorable pitbull pup that I wanted to snuggle all fucking night. And the people there were all pretty stellar. It was fun.

Last night I had a date type thing. There was fun, entertaining, intelligent company, some stellar scotch (which I was skeptical about at first.... After only really being familiar with Speysides, it was interesting to try out some good, aged Islays), and a beautiful view from a balcony in Atlantic Station. As much fun as I had, however, I'm still a bit unsure as to how comfortable I am with "dating". I feel like I've broken through a lot of personal barriers lately (which is a good thing, absolutely), but I still fear putting myself in a situation that has the potential to cause me as much turmoil as my last romantic endeavor. I think, for now, I'm going to try to take things fairly slow, and give myself a bit more time before falling into anything that even resembles a relationship.

With all the changes going on in my life, I figured I should go ahead and add my own, fun change to the mix. So I dyed my hair.

When I'm forced into change (especially the kind of change I don't agree with, or think is rash or silly, or that has the potential to be emotionally devastating) I find that choosing something about me (and yes, it's usually my hair) and then changing it leaves me with the sense that I have at least some semblance of control over my life. I know it's an illusion, but that awareness doesn't lessen the positivity I get from it. Plus, red is smokin' hot.

And, with all of that, I'm going to go to bed. I wasn't feeling great today, and I'm wondering if it isn't just some weird combination of cramps and sleep deprivation. Regardless, sleep will solve all my problems. Or, rather, that's what I'm currently telling myself.

Here's the new hair, by the way. Red is always so much fun.

It's so damn long. And yes, I grew it myself. 

 

Have a bonus cat, too. That's Jizanthapus, being a dick, undoubtedly. 

Goodnight, lovies.

Clearly everything can be justified as long as you quote Whitman.

Something happened tonight that really took me by surprise.

I found myself chatting with an old friend (as in, a friend I've known for several years... not a friend that is old.... I like to think he'd appreciate the clarification). The fact that we were talking wasn't what took me by surprise, however. It was the conversation, itself.

I've felt SO MUCH, at the positive and negative ends of the spectrum, as of late. A relationship ended, which hurt like a son of a bitch. I learned a fuckton about who I am, which was enlightening and exciting and new. I had my trust betrayed, which was painful both because, well, trust was betrayed, but also because I should have seen that shit coming. I was shown that there is so much more in the world (in terms of people I can enjoy and learn from and connect with) than I initially thought, which is even still an exhilarating feeling, despite not really enjoying the root of that lesson.

After feeling so much, and so quickly and out of my control, I was left exhausted. My emotions have been really empty or really negative. My motivation for most things has waned quite a bit. My enthusiasm for interpersonal connection (whether platonic or romantic or whatever) has been lacking. That last one says a lot, too, because I thrive on listening to people and learning about people and figuring out what makes them tick, and where their motivations lie, and how they work, and finding the differences in their train of thought compared to mine.

So tonight I was chatting with this old friend of mine. Our conversation strayed into my recent developments. After a few minutes, I realized something. None of the bullshit, or hurt, or betrayal I've felt in the past few days has anything to do with me. It wasn't caused by my shortcomings. It's quite the opposite, in fact. I may be far too aware of my faults, and the negative traits of my personality, and I'm insecure about a ton aspects of myself. Regardless of all of that, there's nothing I could have done differently, or better, to prevent what led to the crap I'm dealing with right now.

Something else that I realized during this conversation is that I am really, truly loved. Maybe not always in the "holy shit let's get married and live together forever and have babies" kind of love. But who am I to be such a shit when it comes to how other people love me? The fact that I am desirable, and that I am loved by so many people in so many ways makes me incredibly lucky.

And the fact that my current emotional point of contention took his share of that love away shouldn't cause such a dent in my well-being.

I am so glad that my friend decided to reach out tonight (even if it was originally to discuss River Song's place in the Doctor Who universe). I am really thankful that I have people (that's right, it's plural, even) in my life that can show me that I'm loved so easily.

I can only hope that my friends know that they're all just as loved.

And I just keep coming back to my calm.

Goodnight, lovies. 

I'm probably drunk. But I know what I'm talking about. Probably.

A completely selfish, wildly boring update....

I'm 26 (and a half). I feel like I'm so far from being a bona fide adult. I still have so much to learn, and express, and experience. I've never been married, or had children, or found the strength to follow through with school to the point of getting my PhD in psychology and helping people via my favorite talent.

I shy away from commitment, usually. I do that because it's so much easier to not feel accountable to other people. I do it because it makes my shortcomings feel like they're anticipated (meaning they're much less of a letdown), so I don't feel as guilty about them when they happen (whether they're due to me being late, or because I don't like answering my phone, or because I often get distracted and don't know how to explain to people how that happens).

The majority of my experience has shown me that being committed to something (be it my relationship with my mother, with various friends, or with occasional lovers) causes hurt. Committing to another person in any way often ends up leaving nothing but pain and hardship and a hole mimicking their shape when they leave, in addition to this static that I feel in my head right now.

Something I've discovered recently, however, is that the static is nothing more than growing pains. I will always be me. I will always have myself to love, and commit to, and take into consideration. The growing pains hurt like a fucking banshee, but when all is said and done, and time has passed, I will be so much better because of these people and the hurt that has been caused through knowing them. I will be a more rounded, aware, comfortable person because of the feelings I have endured and the growth I have been forced into, with thanks to all these situations.

I think that fear is something that holds people back so terribly much (myself included). Fear of the unknown, fear of being hurt or abandoned, fear of fucking something up and not being able to fix it, fear of being unable to handle that mental static that comes with the hurt....

But that fear shouldn't serve as a completely negative thing in a person's life. That fear can be channeled into something so much better and productive and positive. That fear can become motivation. Whether it motivates you to be a better person to yourself, or to pursue something you were too afraid to before, or just find the kindness in you and express that to the people around you. That fear spins itself into the most beautiful gold, and can offer so much when it comes to how you experience life. It's a beautiful fear, full of risk and anxiety and lessons to be learned and hope and self-discovery.

So why do we spend so much time pretending that something so wonderfully difficult, so incredibly challenging in every way that we need at the time, doesn't exist?

I think that the hardest lesson to learn is acceptance. Acceptance in regards to who you are, who you want to be, the fact that you have no control over how anyone outside of you behaves or thinks.... Acceptance that you are who you are, and all you can do is be good to people, and try to be trusting, and (above all) be faithful to yourself. Because when it comes down to it, you're the only person you have known and will know for your entire life.

Be good to one another, lovies. And always look for the opportunity to be happy, despite (or even because of) the inevitable static.

<3 p="">-L

Learning experiences aren't always fun.

Over the past few weeks, I managed to meet a man, fall madly in love with him, and have my heart broken. Talk about a mini-drama.

I'm not one to date, simply because it's messy and complicated and more often than not at least one person in the relationship ends up feeling the way I'm feeling now. But, for the first time in my life, I allowed myself to fall head-first into a relationship. And I got hurt. And I'm glad that I did it.

This experience has allowed me to learn so much about who I am and what I want. I've managed to see myself through the eyes of other people, and I really like the person I'm growing into (and they like that person, too, which is a great feeling). I felt attractive and desired and loved, and what's so much more is that I felt completely worthy of those things (which is a somewhat new level of acceptance for me).

I've discovered that no one can make me happy. But people can add to my happiness in abundance. The trick is to have that happiness in the first place.

I've learned that I don't have to be scared of who I am at the core of my being. I have always worried that, deep down, I was this tangle of anxiety and depression and insecurity. But I managed, in a moment of introspection, to find that core of me and it's just... calm. Peaceful, even. It's accepting and still. And knowing that gives me so much comfort.

Yes, I am hurting. Yes, I feel a bit betrayed. I feel naive. I feel silly for putting so much hope into something so quickly. But I'm also really glad that I experienced this flash in the pan love. I feel like I overcame my fears and relationship-cynicism, and have found something in me that I never even knew was there.

And now I'm going to do something I should have done more of as a child, and listen to my darling, brilliant stepmother (who sent me the following email):

"I'm sorry about the breakup. People do stupid stuff in relationships all the time, like dating someone when they are still attached to someone else. At least it came out fairly early on, not that that's much consolation. But I'm hoping that you won't let this situation rule your weekend. Really, why should it? What will moping get you? Have a great time with your friends at your party tonight and then get your ass over here for dinner on Sunday. We are your family. We love you. And there will be salmon."

Show me the way to go home....

I totally had a not so little drink about a few minutes, as well as an hour ago, and it's gone straight to my head.

I've spent the past three days moving. I went from my shithole of a duplex (where I was living alone, if you don't count my giant dog) to a glorious house that's about 6 miles away.

I'm so cliche that this is it. I officially fucking hate moving.

First of all, how do houses (or apartments, or whatever) manage to get so full without your knowing? I feel like my apartment spent the four years I was there finding random shit, and pulling it into closets, nooks, crannies, and cupboards. Once I started actually inspecting the contents of the ENTIRE APARTMENT much closer than usual, I realized that there was just no other explanation.

I imagine it went something like this:
I leave for work, or some other random, out-of-the-apartment activity.

Living Room: "HAHAHA!!! Now she's gone! I can do whatever I want!!! Where is that stack of 15 Vanity Fair magazines her parents saved for her? They'll look great hidden behind the coats in the front closet."

Bedroom: "SAVE SOME FOR ME! I have a closet too, you know. And I can only tangle so many hangers on the floor of it until I need to add some other dynamic to the whole scene."

Kitchen: "You guys think you're cool? I managed to bust the bulb in my fridge, and shove the bag of bell peppers to the far back, bottom shelf! Not only that, but I've been encouraging the fridge to make horrible, barky sounds in the middle of the night, just to add insult to injury!"

Living Room: "Dude, come on. I have an entire SOFA here to shove shit under."

Bedroom: "Yeah?! Well, she keeps all her clothes here! I have t-shirts that she hasn't even SEEN for over TWO YEARS!"

Bathroom: "I managed to roll a couple Q-tips off of the sink."

Living Room, Kitchen, and Bedroom: "Oh, SHUT UP Bathroom! You're such a pill! Go spread some toothpaste on the mirror, you loser."

After four years of that shit, it's no wonder that I had so much miscellaneous crap in all corners of the place.

I'm so over moving.

Ch-ch-ch-changes

There are currently three furbabies residing in my small, one bedroom duplex. Lucy is, of course, bored and mildly annoyed by the fact that we now have two kittens. I'm thrilled, though. They're adorable.

I promised my sister, Mara, that I would get her a kitten for her birthday. I know, that's kind of a dick move to promise something like that without first talking with the parental units. But c'est la vie. Plus, I like to think that if Mara were the older sibling, she'd get me a kitten for my birthday. Right? My logic was basically, "If I don't ask my parents if I can get my sister a kitten, they can't say no! Brilliant!"

Upon meeting the potential new kitten, I realized that the only thing better than one kitten is two kittens. So I scooped them up and brought them home. I'm currently calling them Louis-Cat and Jizanthapus. The names are from a bit done by Louis C.K. about a kid he knows, and it's very funny and all, but it's also really fun to say "Jizanthapus".

Seeing as Mara is going to be in NYC for a while, I'm thinking I'll bring the kittens over sometime after she gets back, so she can pick one. I hope it works out. And if it doesn't, that's okay, too. Jizanthapus and Louie-Cat can just stay with me, and continue harassing Lucy. 

Jizanthapus is asleep on Lucy, and LouieCat is on the giraffe blanket. 

In other news, I'll be moving soon. I'm very excited about it, actually. Ida, T-Rev, Izzy and I are all getting a house together. It's going to be lovely to have people around. Lucy is excited, too, I'm sure. And Izzy keeps telling people that she's getting two kitties and a puppy (Louie-Cat, Jizanthapus, and Lucy) at the new house.

To be quite honest, though, I'm probably most excited to have a washer and dryer. And a dishwasher. And more square footage than I know what to do with. And my best friend like 1 door over. And cheaper rent. 

Yeah, I'm pretty much excited by all of it. 

Ta-ta!

Upcoming blogs from Slagathor include:

-Packing My Apartment is Like Packing Up a TARDIS

-My Ankle is Killing Me, so Why Don't U-Haul It

and

-Which Smoke Detector at the New House is Dying

It's like you're always stuck in 2nd gear; when it hasn't been your day, your week, your month, or even your year...

I've never felt more grateful for the people that have stuck around in my life.
Thank you, lovies.
<3 p="">-LLM

Sonofabitch.....

The past week has been really, really shitty. And the only thing that makes it worse is that every shitty thing that's happened to me has been preventable.

My tag is expired (happy birthday to me, right?). But the couple hundred dollars I planned on spending to renew my tag was desperately needed by a friend of mine, so he could make his car payment before the damn thing was repossessed. So I helped out, knowing full and well what I was setting myself up for. He's going to pay me back (and then some, hopefully) this Friday. But in the meantime I (of COURSE) got a ticket for my expired tag. Now, said friend has also offered to pay this ticket for me, because he knew that my loaning him that money meant I had to deal with another few weeks of expired registration.

.... Christ, I should start budgeting more.

Then, a couple days ago, a headlight burnt out. My folks noticed it Sunday, and mentioned it to me. They used the phrase "ticketable offense", which, in hindsight, seems like some sort of bad luck, cop omen.

I spent Monday running errands but didn't get a chance to get a new bulb. On my way home from doing laundry Monday night, a douchebag cop pulls me over, less than a mile from my house. He and I have a bit of an argument... ("I JUST got a ticket for my expired tag, and I'm less than a mile from my house. You seriously want to write me a ticket over ONE burnt out headlight? SERIOUSLY?!") but the fucker did what cops these days do, and wrote a chickenshit ticket.

What really, REALLY irritates me about that is that there are a ton of people that will drive around with their brights on when a headlight is out, to avoid getting a ticket. And guess what is more dangerous than someone driving with only their running lights and one headlight? Hm, probably a car WITH ITS HIGH BEAMS ON WHEN OTHERS ARE TRYING TO USE THE FUCKING ROAD. C'est la vie... assholes.

Then, this morning, I came out to my car only to find that someone had jimmied the door open last night. Why, you ask, would someone do such a thing? Well, they decided to steal my vacuum. Yup. My Dyson was in the back seat after I let someone borrow it. I left it in the car overnight, and it was just gone. Thing is, I LOVE (or LOVED, I guess) my vacuum. I saved up several years ago to buy that thing. It was a $500 vacuum, but I got it for $350 through a deal at my dad's office (where he is no longer working, so I can't just do that to replace it). And as cliche as it may be for me, a woman, to admit... I LOVE vacuuming! It makes such a huge difference to get rid of all the schmutz on the carpet. And having a Great Dane and a spastic cattle dog mix means there's often plenty of schmutz to go around.

I hope when the theives clean out the canister, they choke to death on the dog hair and dust. Fucking bastards.

All I can say is that I will be so glad when this shit is behind me. It seems my self-inflicted bad luck usually lasts a week or so, and then I spend the next week drinking heavily  pouting  recuperating, and then everything is back to normal. Thank god I have such wonderful people in my life, too. I would be even more of a mess if it wasn't for the seemingly magical abilities my friends have, when it comes to calming me down and fixing everything for me.

And let this be a lesson to you all. Don't take your vacuum for granted.

<3 p="">-L

Ring ring... "Hel.. hellooo?" Ring ring.... "Helll....hellloooo???"

I found it really, really sweet earlier this week when I got several different requests to update this blog, from several different people. That being said, this entry is going to be more of an update to my life (as opposed to… well… anything entertaining). 

My life as of late has been, well, busy. 

For those of you not in the know, I work for a club in Midtown. Despite it not paying what I would like (or what comparable positions in big companies would pay) the perks are nice. My schedule is flexible as hell. I can wear pajamas in if I feel so inclined. I bring my 130 lbs great dane in on occasion, and she barks at everyone, and good fun is had all around. 

I assist the owners of the company with everything, and that seems to allow me some kind of weird authority. I'm not all about being "the boss", or anything. But it's nice to have people come to me when they need help with something, or aren't sure about how to approach one of the owners with a request, or issues, etc. 

The owners have also recently given me a lot of the human resource duties. It seems they want to transition all of said duties to me, and to be honest, I'm stoked about it. I love human resources. And I'm good at it, damn it. 

At least there are three awesome basset hounds at work.
(Callie, reflecting)

My only issue with being given the human resources department is that it has caused a rift between a friend of mine and me. She and I met at work, and became friends outside of work. When the transition started, it was noted by the owners and management that she seemed more and more hostile toward me. My guess is that she felt her authority was being taken from her, and given to me, along with the HR responsibilities (though she vehemently denied that when I asked her about it). The whole thing resulted in her screaming at me in front of one of the owners, and the management, because my "vibe changed" during an important meeting (while my vibe was changing, though, I was just sending a text to someone, letting them know that we sent another employee home). It was uncalled for, and out of the blue, and after almost 2 weeks I still haven't received anything even resembling an apology. 

At least there are three awesome basset hounds at work.
(Mimi - top // Gideon - bottom)

So that's a bit stressful, for a few reasons. Reason 1 being that I thought we were good friends. But you don't treat your friends like that. And shit, everyone makes mistakes. But if you do treat your friends like that you at least make a half-assed attempt at apologizing, right?! Reason 2 being the fact that (in my opinion) the owners are a bit cautious when dealing with this person, and I never know if they've alerted her to changes or not, so I have to be careful when speaking to her (for example: She was excluded from a meeting last week, and told said meeting was cancelled. It wasn't. Luckily, I found out about this before interacting with her, so I said nothing about said meeting and managed to avoid the ridiculousness of it all). Reason 3 being the fact that we still work for the same company, and I really just prefer not to be around her at this point. Christ knows when she'll lose her shit again. And while it was entirely her (made up) issue, it was still hurtful and wildly embarrassing to have a peer scream at me (for no reason) in front of one of the owners of the company and our management. It was fucking ridiculous. 

So that's what I've been dealing with lately. Work bullshit. 

Aside from work bullshit, things have been not too bad. I'm still in my duplex in Candler Park. It's been okay, I suppose. Though my fridge has taken to yelling randomly. It makes these bellowing, bark-y sounds. It reminds me of the barks that the raptors made at one another in Jurassic Park. I'd love to have it fixed, but my landlord is basically the real life version of Herman Munster's character in Pet Semetery, so I've just gotten in the habit of flipping the breaker when it happens and hoping the fridge will shut the fuck up. 

She Reg-na-ROCKS! She rocks, my Regan Reg-na-ROCKS!

Oh, the things I tolerate to have a great backyard and a great dane (and a foster dog, who is fucking adorable). Have I mentioned my foster dog here yet? She's a cattle dog mix. She has a black eyepatch, like a pirate, and she's ridiculous. Her name is Regan, and I pulled her from McDonough animal control the day she was to be euthanatized (with the help of a friend of mine who wasn't forced to be at work that day, when I got the email notification as to Regan's status). Her ears stick straight up except for the very ends, and I adore her. She's infatuated with her stuffed armadillo dog toy, and her squeaky angry bird. She's so clever that she will put the angry bird in your seat, like a whoopee cushion, when she thinks you're going to sit down, just so you'll throw it for her. Then she brings it right back, squeaking all the way. She's a great little dog. 

Anyway, that's my update, for now. Feel free to let me know you're reading. I had no idea how many people really came to this site, and it seems like people have just come out of the woodwork in the past month, sending emails, texts, even FB messages, asking for updates. 

Hopefully my next update will be in less than a week, and FAR more hysterical. 

Love to you!!!

-L