Thursday, December 31, 2009

Requisite End-of-the-Year/New Year Blog Post

Back when I was but a young blogger on myspace, I LIVED for the end of the year, and waited with baited breath to compose my always-epic end-of-the year blog. I would recap the happenings of my year in as vague a way as possible to protect the innocent (or the guilty...or my pride...or because being vague in myspace blogs was cool a few years ago), and then spout some hopeful schtick about the upcoming year, all the while avoiding the word "resolution", because making resolutions was like, so uncool.

Now, as a (sort-of) grown-up, I find myself drawn to stick with the tradition, but I also find myself having to bend over backwards to find the time to write it. So, here I am, at work, where I should be working, writing my New Year's Eve blog. I hope you enjoy it, because if I get fired, you may have to buy it.

Year in review:
- I have to be totally honest. I don't remember January - April. I got married in May, you see, and that was the divisor of my year. Everything leading up to May 9, 2009 was merely planning for May 9, 2009. There is, however, one notable exception...

- Valerie's bachelorette party, where I got drunker than a skunk in a distillery. I'm not saying I had alcohol poisoning, but I am saying that a trip to the ER the next day probably wouldn't have been the worst idea ever. I wasn't merely hungover after that night, I was ill. For days and days. Couldn't eat without puking. Couldn't walk without dizziness and puking. I never knew I was capable of puking that much. I think I puked at least once on TUESDAY. The party was Saturday night. Needless to say, that night ruined drunkenness for me entirely. Now, every time I get to the point just past buzzed, I get PTSD-style flashbacks and freak my shit out, drink a gallon of water and go to sleep IMMEDIATELY, if not sooner. It's kind of bullshit.

- I got married May 9. It was the most awesome, flawless, perfect, wonderful day in the history of my life. Usually, I am a walking, talking, living, breathing example of Murphy's Law in action, so this was a HUGE win. It was ominous cloudy all day, but those clouds made it nice and cool, where early May in Texas would normally already be hot and sticky. It began to rain as we drove away from the chapel. THAT was amazing.

- Went to New Orleans on our honeymoon, which was pretty much the funnest vacation EVER. We got drunk in the street, locals bought us booze, we had ridiculous amounts of sex, and rode/ate on a boat. It doesn't get much better than that.

- We had a car wreck two days before our wedding, totaling our old car. But that brought us Howard, our faithful new sidekick. He is the Kitt to my NightRider. I love that car.

- Beau got laid off. Twice. Which led to several months of poorness mid-year and, well, now.

- I got a new job that is badass. Just the sort of badass position I have long desired.

- I was finally actually diagnosed with ADHD and started seeing a therapist, which is one of the best things I have ever done for myself, easily.

- We moved into a new place that is badass. It is old and huge and awesome. Now all it needs is furniture.

That just about sums it up. As for next year, I have been thinking about what I want for myself. I haven't come up with a whole lot, and I am not going to save this blog for later, so you only get what I have so far. Suck it up and deal.

What I Want For Myself in 2010:
- I've done a lot of getting to know myself this past year, so I definitely want to keep that up.

- In that process, I really want to evaluate what my values are, and how I can most appropriately live those out. Nobody likes a hypocrite.

- I want to get what I want out of life. I want to not do what I SHOULD more than what I really want (as long as what I want is reasonable and legal, of course).

- I want to not have to worry about money as much. Thus, save.

So there you go. That's my story. I am going to go do something very important (get lunch). You enjoy your New Year, and don't pull a me, OK? Take it easy on the booze, and by that I mean don't drink enough to kill yourself, K?

Monday, December 7, 2009

How The Grinch Stole Christmas: Family version

As I may have mentioned before, I live in a bit of a wacky situation. My husband and I, our 2 cats, and my Grandmother, all live under the same roof. I am not sure how my cats feel about it, but as of right now, I am pretty sure that I am the only one in my home with any sort of Christmas cheer.

Saturday, my church held its annual Hanging of the Greens service. It is my hands down favorite church experience of the year. Everyone gets together, sings Christmas carols, and watches fun skits. Who wouldn't love that? Well, I'll tell you who. My husband. I had almost forgotten about it when I checked my Facebook to see that our minister had updated his status with a general "excited about the Hanging of the Greens tonight..." post. I smacked myself for having forgotten, and then called Mr. The Kuh, who was out getting dinner. I told him, "I totally forgot that the Hanging of the Greens is tonight, so when you get back, we're really going to have to hustle, because it starts at 6:30. He said OK. He got back; we ate; I told him I was going to get showered. He said OK. I got out of the shower and dressed, and went into the living room to tell him that he needed to go get ready. So, he got up and got in the shower. When he came out, I was standing at the mirror doing my make-up, and he said, "So, I guess you want me to go with you?"

Let's review. When we talked while he was gone getting food, I specifically said "WE" would have to hustle, to which he replied, "OK". Then, I told him he needed to go get in the shower, and he went, without confusion. He would not have done wither of those things without question if he did not think I wanted him to go with me. Furthermore, I thought, the fact that he said OK so quickly indicates to me that HE remembered, and was hoping I wouldn't. He was willing to let me miss my one of my favorite Christmas festivities just because he didn't want to go. What a douche! I thought all this in the split second before I responded with a pissy and sarcastic, "*humph* No, I guess not."

"You know I don't like this stuff!" he says.

After a short argument and a lot of whining on his part, he ended up going, but it was ruined all the same. All I could think the whole time was how deeply I was torturing him by forcing him to go.

Then, yesterday, it came time to do the Christmas decorating. While we were putting up the tree, he bitched and whined and moaned the whole damn time. After we actually got the damn thing put together, he said he was going to go take a shower. He was gone for at least one full hour. It takes my husband approximately 10 minutes to shower. I went in the bedroom to find him tinkering with his computer, "fixing it", he said. By the time he was done "fixing his computer", I was pretty much done decorating, and he went to sleep, without the slightest offer to help me clean up.

I am pretty sure that one of the bullet points on my list of reasons to get married was "so I will never have to be alone during the holidays." But when my husband refuses to participate in holiday activities without being a massive jerk, that is just as good as being alone. And I was sure as hell alone as I placed the star atop the tree last night. And that is big fat not OK.
Tuesday, November 17, 2009


I was recently diagnosed with ADHD. Well..sort of. I have suspected since I was a teenager that I had ADD (minus the H), but back then (cause it was OH SO LONG AGO) (Not really) it was a disorder for pre-pubescent, hyperactive boys, and I was none of those things. So, finally, with decent health insurance under my belt, I took my butt to a therapist and told her my woes. She agreed that my symptoms were very ADHD-like, and sent me to an actual psychiatrist to get a more firm diagnosis and meds. This guy (who I love, even though the way I am about to describe him may make him seem incompetent) basically listened to my spiel, asked me some family history questions, and prescribed me some meth. That's right ADHD peeps, if you are on ADHD meds, you are basically doing small doses of meth every day to jump start your brain. Let that sink in.

Anyhoo, this all happened this past summer. Since that initial visit, where I was prescribed Vyvanse (basically Adderall, just time-released), I was only switched to something else one time. I started having insomnia, so to be on the safe side, he put me on the milder, non-time-release Ritalin, which was definitely milder, but did nothing for me at all. Now, I am back to Vyvanse, which I have to say, I have a love-hate relationship with.

Things I love about Vyvanse:
- I can focus like a motherfucker.
- I get to make snarky comments about my own mental condition. For example, (though this was Ritalin and not Vyvanse, the same concept applies) "Ritalin and Dr. Pepper. God bless America."

Things I dislike about Vyvanse:
- I can't remember the last time I had a Vyvanse day where I actually felt hungry. I guess I get little "kinda-hungry" moments, but for the most part, my stomach feels like an empty pit in which I have no desire to put anything. Typically, when I get that "kinda" feeling, I eat, and feel full after the first few bites, but continue to eat until I get bored with it. Which doesn't take long. I am FOCUSED! I have shit to do!

- I can't remember the last time the inside of my mouth felt normal. Vyvanse gives you wicked dry mouth, so I am constantly thirsty. Or I feel thirsty, anyway. That, combined with the bitter taste that my sleeping pill leaves in my mouth, makes for bad news, because when I drink water to help alleviate the dryness, I taste the bitterness, and it makes my water taste like ass. Dr. Pepper works, but that, as you know, is a vicious cycle, because the caffeine eventually just makes the dryness worse. Round and round and round we go.

- I missed almost three periods between this summer and a few weeks ago, and though the doctor said he has never heard of meds causing that, I blame them 110%.

- Sometimes, in the morning, I can't seem to shut up, which I am sure drives my coworkers absolutely bonkers.

Anyway. There is my random musings on being a Medicated American; a MA, if you will. Now, if you'll excuse me, I think I'll go throw out the rest of the soup I got bored with eating, and smoke a cigarette. Cigarettes and Vyvanse. God bless America.
Monday, November 16, 2009

I Am Loved

*I started this blog weeks ago. I haven't had the strength to finish it until now.*

A movie I once watched had a wonderful quote that I think of often. It said something to the effect of, "That's all life is, really, just a string of big days, with a bunch of meaningless ones in between." Or something like that. One of those big days got me here, to this place where I have found a cause for which to devote myself, because this day was one of the worst days of my life.

I was a sophomore in high school, and it was a Monday like any other. I got up. I took the bus to school. I arrived and went to the corner where I hung out with my "new" friends. My old ones hung out by the hangar (yes, my high school had an airplane hangar), and I always felt slightly guilty when I passed it by in the mornings in favor of newer faces and newer personalities and attitudes. I hadn't been there long when I saw a few of my old friends approaching from outside. I was happy to see them, happy that they had decided to take time out of their morning to come see me, even if it shamed me a bit to know that this meant they cared more about me than I did about them.

When they walked in, however, I could see immediately from their swollen eyes that they were not there for a pleasure visit. I knew there was bad news. My best friend from middle school was not with them. It was her sister and someone else (I can't remember who), and I initially thought something had happened to her. I asked if something had happened to her. They said no, but my relief was very short lived. I can't remember them dawdling or beating around the bush. I remember them telling me point blank that our friend, Robert, had shot himself over the weekend. He had gone out into a field (I can't remember whether it was Friday or Saturday night) and shot himself in the head. He was alive, just barely, in the hospital.

I remember that the world turned itself over. It literally felt like that, physically. I don't know how else to describe it except that every thing felt completely upside down. My friends were standing in front of me, and they reached out for me, but I couldn't move toward them. I could only move backwards. I just wanted to get away. I backed further and further, with my hands clasped over my mouth, my eyes welling with tears, silent gasps and sobs escaping my lips. I backed until I could back no further. I was backed into a corner, and I slid, sobbing, down those godawful floor to ceiling windows, until I was in a heap on the floor. Somehow, they got me up. Somehow I made my way back over to where they all were, numb and quiet. Somehow, a bell rang, and we slowly made our way to classes. The world, albeit upside down, continued to turn, and I still had to be in Horticulture.

My Horticulture teacher was my favorite teacher, and he pulled us one by one into his office to give us our progress reports. He gave me mine, and I promptly burst into tears. He started to comfort me, to tell me that it was just one bad grade, that I could make it up. I shook my head, and told him the news I had heard that morning. I remember that he hugged me. He probably wasn't supposed to, but I was so thankful, am still so thankful, for that hug.

The week passed at a slow crawl. I couldn't be anywhere. I skipped most of my classes. I couldn't bear to sit still long enough to think about him. The only way that I could survive was to keep moving, and to tell myself that somehow, he would be OK. I know, in retrospect, how completely irrational that was. People don't just recover, unscathed, from gunshot wounds to the head. But I had myself completely convinced that he was going to be a-OK; that he'd wake up from his coma anytime now, and be terribly sorry that he had worried us all so much. My Pollyanna-esque attitude was impossible for one of my friends to deal with. My coping mechanism was optimism. Hers was anger. And she was sure as hell angry at my optimism, and didn't mind informing me that all we were doing was waiting around for him to die.

One morning late in the week, my Horticulture teacher called me into his office. He told me that Robert had died the night before. They were going to announce it, he said, over the PA, but he didn't want me to hear it that way. He hugged me while I cried, again, and again I was, and remain, thankful. He wrote me a pass to the counselor's office, where I thought I would be united with my friends. Instead, I was ushered into a large room with a large table and two counselors who informed me that I couldn't go to the same counseling group my friends had been in all week. It would interrupt their progress, or something. I said nothing to them, choosing to silently cry, and give them nothing, since they would give me nothing. One of them proceeded to tell me that "you can talk to me, you know. We're not just here to make schedules and help with college applications." I resented her (and still resent her) for using my grief as an avenue for expressing TO ME, a grieving teenager, her frustration with her job. They left me alone in the room. The principal made the announcement over the PA system. I listened and cried all alone. Another friend of mine, and ex-girlfriend of Robert's, came in later with the two evil counselors, and she asked me what happened, as if she didn't know. It was so strange. It was as if she had forgotten the last few days had happened. All she could say, over and over, was, "He used to be my boyfriend. He used to be my boyfriend."

That day, I went to my classes, only because I had been to the counselor's office and someone knew I was at school. Skipping was too risky. I heard the terrible things other kids said about my friend. "Why is it always crazy white kids that do stuff like this?" "Well, at least he only killed himself instead of shooting up the school."

In the days that passed between Robert's death and his funeral, I thought about him constantly. I thought about the days the year before, when he was the first person I would see in the mornings. He was always the first one at school, and I was always the 2nd. I would walk in and find him sitting cross-legged in front of the stairs in his jean jacket, with his big black duffel bag. He would smile at me, and I would sit next to him, and we would get to talk for a while until the next person showed up. I thought about how I never treasured those moments enough.

I thought about the time our friend had her birthday party at the roller skating rink. I remembered us all being out on the rink, everyone joining hands in one long, fast, spinning line. I remembered him being at the end and reaching out for me. To this day, when I think of him, this is how I remember him...skating, smiling, and reaching out to me.

I thought about the last time I saw him, as I was leaving school the Friday before it happened. I remembered how I thought at the time he looked sad. What if I had stopped? What if I had asked what was wrong? What if I had stopped for 2 seconds caring if I missed my bus or if my friends were leaving me and took an interest? Maybe things would have been different. I know now they would not have been. At 16, I was not equipped to give the kind of help that would have prevented Robert from taking his own life. I am not now, at 27. I know that self-blame is common in those who survive victims of suicide. I know, but knowing doesn't stop the wondering.

My friend, Querida, and I went to the funeral together. I remember that it was far away. Her mother drove us, and we held hands all the way there. The funeral home was packed when we got there, and she and I stood against a side wall for the whole service. All I remember about it was that the music seemed wrong. He would have hated it. At the end, we all walked down the center aisle to look at him, and there he lay, in his jean jacket. There was a button pinned to it that said, "I Am Loved." I didn't even remember that until right this very moment. It is an almost overwhelming memory.

"I Am Loved".

I don't know if Robert knew he was loved. But he must have felt alone. He was depressed, and he had no outlet for that. Depression wasn't something we knew about to any serious degree. To us, depression was how we felt after a boyfriend broke up with us, not a serious condition needing medical treatment. If we did know that, we certainly didn't know that it was OK, that we could talk about it. That we could ask for help. That we could get better.

What if he had known? What if all of us had known?

The cause I mentioned in the beginning is To Write Love On Her Arms. To Write Love on Her Arms is a non-profit movement dedicated to presenting hope and finding help for people struggling with depression, addiction, self-injury and suicide. TWLOHA exists to encourage, inform, inspire and also to invest directly into treatment and recovery.

Here is the vision. I thought about condensing, since this post is already so long, but I can't. It needs to be read as a whole.

The vision is that we actually believe these things…

You were created to love and be loved. You were meant to live life in relationship with other people, to know and be known. You need to know that your story is important and that you're part of a bigger story. You need to know that your life matters.

We live in a difficult world, a broken world. My friend Byron is very smart - he says that life is hard for most people most of the time. We believe that everyone can relate to pain, that all of us live with questions, and all of us get stuck in moments. You need to know that you're not alone in the places you feel stuck.

We all wake to the human condition. We wake to mystery and beauty but also to tragedy and loss. Millions of people live with problems of pain. Millions of homes are filled with questions – moments and seasons and cycles that come as thieves and aim to stay. We know that pain is very real. It is our privilege to suggest that hope is real, and that help is real.

You need to know that rescue is possible, that freedom is possible, that God is still in the business of redemption. We're seeing it happen. We're seeing lives change as people get the help they need. People sitting across from a counselor for the first time. People stepping into treatment. In desperate moments, people calling a suicide hotline. We know that the first step to recovery is the hardest to take. We want to say here that it's worth it, that your life is worth fighting for, that it's possible to change.

Beyond treatment, we believe that community is essential, that people need other people, that we were never meant to do life alone.

The vision is that community and hope and help would replace secrets and silence.

The vision is people putting down guns and blades and bottles.

The vision is that we can reduce the suicide rate in America and around the world.

The vision is that we would learn what it means to love our friends, and that we would love ourselves enough to get the help we need.

The vision is better endings. The vision is the restoration of broken families and broken relationships. The vision is people finding life, finding freedom, finding love. The vision is graduation, a Super Bowl, a wedding, a child, a sunrise. The vision is people becoming incredible parents, people breaking cycles, making change.

The vision is the possibility that your best days are ahead.

The vision is the possibility that we're more loved than we'll ever know.

The vision is hope, and hope is real.

You are not alone, and this is not the end of your story.

If you want to help, become a fan of TWLOHA on Facebook, friend on myspace, follow on Twitter, and/or just visit the website at One of the best ways to help is to buy a t-shirt. They get a LOT of their funding from t-shirt sales. You get a rad t-shirt, and you do a good deed.

Thank you for reading my purge 10 years in the making. Tell someone you love them today.

Thursday, November 5, 2009

On a more serious note: LOVE

I have always wanted a tattoo, in theory. I'm not the kind of person that could get a tattoo of a butterfly on my ankle just because, though. It has to have meaning for me. I have never been able to wrap my brain around having something like that on my body. Forever. There has never been anything that I connected with in a way that I could make that kind of commitment. So, I had all but given up on wanting a tattoo. Until yesterday, when the right thing came to me in a flash of brilliance.

There is this wonderful organization called "To Write Love On Her Arms". My BFF Steph told me about it quite a long time ago, but for some reason, it never sunk in what they were about, and I pushed them to the back of my mind, and hadn't thought about it again until yesterday. I saw in my Facebook feed that someone was attending "To Write Love On Her Arms Day". So, I checked out their event page, and fan page, and website, and promptly and deeply fell in love with this movement.

To Write Love On Her Arms exists to raise awareness on the issues of depression, suicide, addiction and self-injury, and to raise actual funding to get people struggling with these problems real help. It exists to promote the truth that each person is important, our lives matter, and we are loved. Seriously, check out the website (linked above) and/or their Facebook page. If you're not moved, you are made of stone. For real.

Anyway, this got me thinking about that 4 letter word, LOVE, and how big a part of my life it is. All the ways in which I desire to live, all the things that I believe in, are directly related to the giving, spreading, accepting of love. Suddenly, LOVE was all I could see.

One of my favorite songs, "I'm Yours" by Jason Mraz: "Look into your heart and you'll find love, love, love..."

The opening line of my church's (Unitarian Universalist) affirmation is, "LOVE is the doctrine of our church..."

I am an unapologetic gay marriage rights advocate. A group I am a part of? "Standing On The Side Of Love".

So, it only seems appropriate that I get a tattoo of the word "love", I thought. It didn't feel like a desire anymore, but a necessity. A statement that I need to make, an outward embodiment of all I am. As I thought more and more about it, the idea fleshed itself out even more. I will get two tattoos of the word love, one on each wrist. They will be in my own handwriting. On the left arm, the word will face me, as a reminder for myself, to love myself, to live in a way that promotes and embodies love. On the right arm, the arm and hand with which I give, the word will face out to the world, because all I do and all I give is out of love.

That may have all sounded a you, because it did to me. But there it is. Will post pics when I get it done.
Wednesday, November 4, 2009

Vanity Post - My First Upper Lip Wax and Skinny Jeans

I have been on this "I care what I look like" kick lately. I don't know what it is. Maybe it's the psychotherapy.* Anyway, I got my hair did by a real professional for real money. I have been actually buying clothes for fashion, before the old ones are ragged and I have to. Vanity has been my friend lately, friends. And to that end, I have the following thoughts...

My First Upper Lip Wax

So, Beau and I went to see "Cirque Du Freak: The Vampire's Assistant". Cute movie. Anyway, by the time the movie was over, my bladder was bursting at the seams, so I had to stop at the bathroom on the way out. When I looked in the mirror, I was horrified to see There appeared to be a shadow on my upper lip. Surely, it was not the dreaded female 'stache. I've never had one before. I mean, there is hair up there, but it is white. Nay; it is translucent. But now, there was definite visibility. I wiped at it a bit and it seemed to sort of fade, so I talked myself into believing that it was just my imagination fueled by the fact that I had just watched a movie with a bearded lady in it.

Then, on Halloween, I went to the bathroom and saw the same thing, only this time, it was worse in two ways:

1) It was darker and more pronounced
2) I was otherwise looking FABULOUS. I felt like Taylor Swift at the VMA's. Completely crestfallen.

I looked closer. It didn't seem that the hairs themselves were darker, but thicker, and that my makeup was getting all gunked up in there and making me look like a 70's porn star. I decided then and there that when I went to get my eyebrows waxed next time, as they were long overdue for that anyway, I would get my upper lip done.

It was scary. When I walked in, the guy asked me what I needed, and I told him that I needed an eyebrow wax, and then in an embarrassed whisper, "and I need my upper lip as well." He didn't seem shocked at my embarrassment, which is a good thing. However, when the lady took me to that dreaded back room, I felt a strong need to talk about this, because it was very traumatic for me. Of course, she barely spoke enough English to tell me to lay down and understand facial parts. Eyebrow. Lip. Anything other than that, she was out. So, I just had to deal with it and save the talking for my therapist.

It hurt. And my lip still feels weird and has little red bumps on it. And now I have to do this forever, because when it grows back, it really will be a 'stache.

Skinny Jeans and Me

One sign of my age is that I am far more resistant to changes in the fashion world than I was as a teenager and an young 20-something. I remember a time when my friends and I mused that there was NO WAY that flared jeans would go out of style, and we couldn't imagine a world where those ugly, tight legged jeans were in. Alas, such a world is now the one in which we live.

In an uncharacteristic leap of faith, I bought a pair of leggings. They were part of an outfit: long sweater, leggings, ankle boots. It's the ankle boots that are the problem. Cute ankle boots are like crack cocaine. Now that I have a pair, I want more. Now, I am presented with a new dilemma. You can't see the cuteness of the boots under my out-of-style flared jeans. So, it appears that I am going to have to get a pair of the dreaded skinny jeans.

As a girl of some, shall we say, heft, I have always been under the impression that I could not wear anything with the word "skinny" in the title. But I wear the leggings, and I rock them. And what are skinny jeans but denim leggings? And as long as the top is of a good length, I won't have the Peg Bundy effect.

So, tomorrow I go in search of skinny jeans. I'll let you know how it goes.

*Can I just say that I am uncomfortable with that word? It sounds like "therapy for psychos".
Thursday, October 15, 2009

Halloween: The Sluttiest Time of the Year!

I remember Halloween as a kid. We got to take our little butts down to the Eckerd and buy the plastic sheath costume of our choice. Something like this...

I spend much of my teenage years under a wacko church rock (more on that another time), so I was in my twenties when I did a big double take and realized what Halloween becomes as an adult. All-Out-Slut-Fest.

I think I was 22 when I dressed up for Halloween for the first time since I was like, 15. When my best friend and I went to our local Party City (A STEP UP FROM ECKERD, MIND YOU!), I was taken aback to say the least. When, people, WHEN, did Halloween become an excuse for women to dress as skankily as humanly possible? Here are some classics, skankified.

Slutty Ghostbuster

Slutty Dorothy (as a Wizard of Oz fan, I find this particularly offensive)

Slutty Lil' Bo Peep (Would you show this to your children?)

Then you have your fairies. I guess you can put wings on any piece of lingerie and call it a costume.

My personal favorite, however, are those complete WTF costumes, where you are left asking others, "What is she supposed to be exactly, other than a slut?"

I won't say that I am a true Halloween purist, in that I think that a Halloween costume should always be "scary". I do think that you should at least put a little imagination into it for goodness sakes. You don't have to make it, or piece it together from thrift store, 'cause Lord Jeebus knows my lazy ass won't do that. Just...have some dignity. GOD.

On that note, here is MY costume...

And there will be a pants situation, because that lil' skirt is just not how I roll. The end.
Thursday, September 24, 2009

Random thoughts - On moving

So, I am supposed to be packing right now. I went outside to have a smoke and my efforts were derailed. I came back in and decided, "Maybe I'd rather watch something on Hulu than listen to music." So, I picked up my computer to go to Hulu. I still have not made it to Hulu. Hulu just reminded me of an entry in my all-time favorite blog,, in which Meghan McBlogger points out that "My So-Called Life" in on Hulu. Then, I remembered that I haven't been in the office so I haven't read 2b1b in a few days. So, I read today's entry, and yesterday's, and several other entries that were linked in them, and here I am.

So, here are some random thoughts on moving...

- Why do I have more shot glasses than regular glasses?
- Why is Time Warner Cable such an ASSHOLE? And why won't I switch cable companies? Oh, right, because AT&T and Verizon are just as big assholes, and anything involving a dish I am totally out on. My favorite thunderstorm activity is watching TV, and those things tend to go out in thunderstorms. So.
- What is with my cats' obsession with boxes and laying on top of all the shit I just neatly packed into them?
- Why can't I maintain a cute haircut? (OK, so not related to packing or moving, but such is my brain)
- What am I going to be for Halloween?
- And the big heavy one...Why am I sad about leaving this place?

I hate my apartment. It's tiny. It's in a shitty area, next door to a nightclub, and bordering a LOT of sketchy neighbors. Upon leaving, however, I can't help but think about the broken-hearted woman that moved in, and the happy one moving out.

When I came here, I was in the middle of my "dating year". Most of my life was spent single. A few before the dating year were spent with a guy that wouldn't go as far as call me his girlfriend, but would call me one of his best friends who he had a slightly romantic connection with, as in we had sex whenever we were around each other. When that FINALLY ended (yeah, it was an ordeal, but that is another story for another day), I embarked on what has come to be known, in retrospect, as The Kuh's Dating Year. I dated a few guys I met on dating site. I made out with an old friend several times. I had a one night (ok, weekend) stand. I reprised the sexual relationship with Friends-with-benefits guy. It was a renaissance of sorts for me. In spite of all the "fun" I was having, I was miserable as hell.

I don't know what changed me from miserable to relatively happy in the three years I have been here. I am sure that stumbling, by accident, onto the best boyfriend/fiance/husband ever had a little to do with it. But I look back now on the pickles I found myself in back in the day, and find myself thinking, "What the fuck was wrong with me?"

Ah...I know. In the many solitary hours that I have spent here (and in the many more spent with the guy that lives here, too, the one I am married to), I found, in the cracks and under the floorboards, and hiding in corners, a little bit of self worth. That happened here. And that is why, when I pull away in the moving van, headed for greener pastures, I will probably shed a tear or two.

OK...back to packing. And no Hulu. It'll just distract me.
Wednesday, August 26, 2009

In love

Do you believe in love at first sight? I do. Well, NOW I do. I didn't used to, but after falling in love at first sight with a duplex almost one week ago, I am a believer.

Husband and I have had a strong desire to move out of the hell-hole in which we live for quite some time now. This desire was accompanied by a complex plan. We knew that we were D.O.N.E. done with apartment living, but we are not in any way ready to buy a house. For one thing, we have credit that rivals the good 'ol USA on the BAD scale. For another, we aren't 100% sure that Texas will be our final choice of where to live. So, that brought us to the conclusion that we want to rent a house.

'Round these parts, the dollar tends to go further in the (*shudder*) suburbs, so we picked one out that was only minimally pretentious and in a decent proximity to our loved ones, even if it was far from both our jobs. The only problem left is the fact that we share a car. So, buying Husband a car would be the first step in our moving process. See what I mean? Complex.

I was on my way home from an appointment with my therapist last week when I spotted the cutest little duplex EVER on a street not too far from our current hole. We kind of live on the edge of a very nice, slightly trendy (but not obnoxious) neighborhood. This place is actually IN the very nice, slightly trendy (but not obnoxious) neighborhood. In my mind, this meant that there was no way we could afford it. So, I did the natural thing. I called.

Why would I call a place that I knew damn well I wouldn't be able to afford? To assuage my curiosity and prove myself right, of course. Me? Narcissistic? Noooo!

I actually got a call back the next day from the realtor, which was a shock in and of itself. I thought she would be able to hear poorness in my voice, and thus would ignore me. When she told me what the rent was, I just about fainted. Not because it was too expensive, but because it was TOO PERFECT! She mentioned a craigslist ad, which I went to look at as soon as I hung up from making my appointment to go have a look at the place with Husband and Grandma (who will be moving in with us). My love only grew. After seeing it, I am fully and completely, hopelessly in love with this duplex.

It is an old house, built in the 1930's; brick with Spanish tile roofing. It is HUGE, over 1700 square feet. Two bedrooms, each with it's own door to the outside (a big deal for Grandma's privacy). Two adorable vintage tiled bathrooms in funky colors. A study (WOOT! An office for The Kuh!). Washer and dryer connections. Security system. Fireplace. All hardwood floors. Spacious front porch. Lots of windows. Ample storage space. There is even a little nook in the front room that would serve as a perfect place for the cats. The list just goes on and on.

We put in our applications on Friday, and are still waiting to hear back. The owners are on vacation, and there are other applicants besides us. I hate competition. I feel like I am on The Bachelor, or More To Love, or one of those other shitty reality dating shows. Picture me in my interview..."I think I am really and truly in love with Duplex. I know it's crazy, because we have only had that one one-on-one date, but I know he is the one. I will just DIE if Duplex sends me home tonight at elimination."

I'm just praying all the while, and hoping to hear the magic words..."The Kuh," (insert sigh of relief) "Will you accept this key?"
Tuesday, August 18, 2009

Silver Fox

Last night, as I do almost every night, I was watching NCIS on USA. When it was over, I got up and went to the table to try and get some work done. I always leave the TV on in the background, just to have some noise, so I didn't change the channel. Apparently, on Tuesday nights, NCIS is followed by none other than WWE RAW. I still didn't change the channel. Don't judge me. There is no show on TV I would like to watch LESS than RAW, so I knew leaving it on would guarantee my getting something done.

As I combed my e-mail and tweetdeck, something on the screen caught my attention. They introduced the host, who was none other than Freddie Prinze, Jr.

Freddie Prinze Jr. was the Zac Efron of my generation. He only did, like, 4 movies that were widely known; "She's All That", "I Know What You Did Last Summer", and that great, classic sequel, "I STILL Know What You Did Last Summer", and "Scooby Doo". He also made a few other gems that were lesser known, and remain guilty pleasures for me to this day; "Down To You", and "Head Over Heels". Regardless, he made every teenage girl's heart beat a bit faster, mine included. I still get a just a little bit wistful when I hear his name, so I couldn't help but look up. What I saw...was...just...disturbing. He enters the stage at about 1:25...

Wait...what was that I saw? Yes, people. Gray hair.

Don't get me wrong, folks. I have nothing against Freddie or gray hair. I dig gray on a man. But try and think about how this makes ME feel. Imagine how all these little teenyboppers are going to feel one day when they turn on their TV/computer that is just projected into the air and find Zac Efron hosting Intergalactic Space Alien Wrestling with GRAY HAIR. Will they think that Zac is a wrinkly old man? No. Will they feel like wrinkly old women? Yes.

Come on, Freddie. It's always been about the ladies for you, man. Cut us a break. Give us a few more years to feel good about ourselves before you go totally Harrison Ford on us. Pick up a box of Just For Men. Don't do it for yourself, Silver Fox; you don't need it. Do it for me.
Thursday, August 13, 2009

When I Grow Up...

It occurred to me the other day, that there are little kids in the world right now who are dreaming about what they'll be when they grow up. And some of them are surely dreaming about becoming something that didn't exist when I was a kid. Blogger.

As far as I knew, the internet didn't even exist when I was old enough to fathom that I would "grow up", and neither did the "weblog", which would later become the "blog". When I was a kid, the closest thing that we had to what is now known as a blogger, was a writer. And that was what I wanted to be.

For fun, I bought composition books and filled them with stories about my friends and me, and I changed their names from things like Lisa and Erica to Linda and Monica. I never finished them. I always just wrote a page or two and gave up or started a new story that had wormed its way into my brain. Sometimes, I'd notice things that happened around me or on TV, and I'd write just a sentence or two. This went on for years and years, until I grew up just a little and came to believe that it was a silly pipedream to want to be a writer. After all, writing was hard work. I'd have to finish something someday, which was something I couldn't even fathom, and then I'd have to deal with the elusive concept of "getting published". Again, since this was all pre-internet, I had no clue at all what that entailed.

When the internet finally really showed up on the scene, I was in high school. It had recently become commonplace to have an e-mail address, and it wasn't until college that I discovered this "blog" thing. It was still relatively new in 2003 or so, when I was a sophomore in college. I started my first blog right here on Blogger, with absolutely no concept of how to really use it. I thought it was pretty much just a journal that anyone who finds it could read. I wrote and published, under the assumption that no one would actually find it. And no one did. It never occurred to me that I might actually need to have the thing that was drilled into my brain over and over in all my English classes. Purpose.

Just now, right now as I wrote this, I realized something important. I have been blogging since I was a kid, when I wrote those neverending stories in my notebooks. I've been microblogging, too. When Twitter was just a gleam in the eye of it's creators, I tweeted in the margins of my algebra notes. I always thought of inability to finish a damn thing I started as a hindrance, but now, in this new world of social media and self publishing where the blog is king, this may actually be a GOOD thing. What is a blog, really, except a neverending story? And I may have just found my purpose.

I'll tell it.

I meant for this entry, the cornerstone for all I will write here, to be much more funny and clever, but I guess when I get on the subject of hopes and dreams, especially my own, I get a little heavy, to say the least. I promise I am much more entertaining than this. I see some of the funniest nonsense every day that could bring on giggle attacks. I have kind of a wacky, wonderful life full of characters that the world will enjoy getting to know. I owe it to myself to tell you about it. If you enjoy reading it, great. If not, I guess that is your prerogative.

Stephen King defines a writer in very simple terms. In "On Writing", he says that if you write, you are a writer. So, I guess that makes me a writer. So, dear reader, would you like to take a walk with me?

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