I WASN’T TIRED, YOU GUYS.

This? This hasn’t happened in two years. I’ve gotten a day or two of decent sleep where my body just basically says, oh fuck this shit and essentially shuts down for 24 hours. But I’ve gotten almost an entire week’s worth of solid sleep. I don’t expect this to last, but good hell am I enjoying it while I can.

Sleep has not made me any less of a nutjob, however. Apparently that aspect is here to stay. I like to blame my terrible memory, my moodswings, the weather, my uncombed hair, basically anything I can on the fact that I rarely sleep. But now that I have had all the sleeps, I don’t think I can excuse away the fact that when I found out my darling friend was getting her appendix out my first thought was, “I MUST SING HER SOFT KITTY!” So, I did. (Surgery is a kind of sick. It totally applies.) And part way through leaving what can only be described as the most angelic version of Soft Kitty ever the cat came out looking all, “Wait, who’s sick. Why are we singing Soft Kitty?” Not to be confused with this face (which I’m belatedly realizing you can’t actually see):

Which is his NO I DO NOT WANT A BATH ZOMG WHY ARE WE IN HEREEEEEE LET ME DOWN OMG NO BATHS! face.

And that is my Dude take a breath face.

And now, the third week of January, as seen from my phone.

Someone I love. He’s 13 in this photo. We met when he was 6 weeks old. Oof.

So, please enjoy the following disjointed post (with photo deluge, bonus!)

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The past two years have not been easy on my (already tenuous) self-confidence. Trying to convince myself (or others) that I’m good at something has never been my strong suit. Even when I am good at it. And lately? Ooof. But today I found myself explaining that writing, well I’m good at that. I can do that. It certainly helps that I love do it, but I was pleasantly surprised when none of the negative self-doubt came trotting along behind. I even reminded my brain that this particular writing would be out of my comfort zone. Something new. Something different. But still, nothing. Just a solid feeling of I can do it. And damn, if that didn’t feel good.

* * *

A very wise lady described depression as scuba diving with a 2,000lb weight strapped to your back. And oh sister is she right. Because if you were to go scuba diving with a 2,000lb weight strapped to your back, you’d probably forget to breathe. You’d be concentrating so hard on not sinking to the bottom of the ocean that you’d forget that even though you’ve got a tank of air right there in your mouth, all you have to do is inhale. You’d forget to inhale and you certainly can’t kick your way to the top if you don’t have a lung full of air. Depression is like that. You get so focused on not falling, on not sinking that you forget that you’ve got this wonderful group of people all just standing by waiting to help. All you have to do is let them.

* * *

I’ve always admired those who completed a 365 photo project, but just the thought of leaving behind a slew of unfinished projects was enough to make me not start. And I’m not saying I started one for 2012, but I am saying that I downloaded an app called Project 365 and I do have my phone with me all the time.

I also signed up to participate in FatMumSlim’s January PhotoADay project. I take a lot of photos with my camera. But if you look at my photo album it’s mostly cat, cat, knitting, food, food, food, ME!, food, knitting, cat, cat, cat, cat, cat, ME! Well, you get the idea. I figured with these prompts hopefully I could take a few more meaningful photos throughout the year. You know, ones with people in them.  You know people, they stand on two legs and aren’t covered in fur. Well, most of them anyway.

So, I present to you, the prompts and the results for the first two weeks of January.

Week one:

A Christmas gift from her.

Inexplicably it was sunny, blue skies and almost 50 degrees. In January.

Itty bittys made by my favorite people.

Week two:

I don’t sleep much, so sadly seeing 5am before falling asleep has become routine.

All the female cousins got a little gold box with our name engraved one year from my aunt.

Clockwise: book, wallet, Boris Loved Natasha clutch, chapstick, deodorant, camera, Clean perfume, pen, sharpie, mascara, Fresh brown sugar, card case, lip gloss, notebook, glasses, advil, ipod.

Anyone else doing the #janphotoaday challenge?

I’m struggling right now more than I ever have. And after fighting this disease since I was sixteen you’d think I’d be good at it. That I’d have my defenses in place and ready to fight. But I don’t. I feel untenable. I feel like if anyone were to look too closely or too deeply I would shatter. I feel like I’ve already shattered from trying to keep myself together and one strong breeze will knock me down.

I’m trying very hard to remember that depression is a lying bastard, that I will come out of this on the other side. Hopefully stronger, definitely battleworn but maybe even a little better.

I don’t believe a word of that, but I’m trying very hard to fake it until I do.

When I finally looked at the actual recipe I realized she’d added way too many steps. Rice crispy treats should not have that many steps. So, armed with The Lazy I did it my own way. Parenthetical aside: I’m super good at this in all areas of life. Like, I’m okay at creating my own thing, but what I really excel at is taking your crappy idea and changing it and making it awesome. End parenthetical aside.

Full disclosure: I add a teaspoon of vanilla to my rice crispy treats, but that’s not an extra step that’s just good common sense. Also, delicious. I also put my rice crispy treats in bread pans because why have lots of tiny treats when you can have like, four giant ass ones?

So, after melting the butter and the marshmallows and putting in the vanilla I added two packets (roughly 6 tablespoons) of Swiss Miss with marshmallows. I know, right? I’ll let that sink in for a minute.

.

.

.

Basking in my awesomeness yet? Good. Mix that in then add your rice crispies and bam!

Now, these were a little light on the hot chocolate taste, so I would probably add another packet or two next time (and there will be a next time) I make them. Also, they make my mouth tingle a little after I eat one, but that’s probably just because according to the box the hot chocolate expired in November. Of 2009. But hey! Waste not want not. Also, beggars can’t be choosers. The early bird gets the worm. Reach for the moon and you’ll land among the stars.

What was I talking about? Or right, hot chocolate rice crispy treats. Despite the mouth tingles, they’re still super tasty. Evidenced by the fact that this is all that’s left.

*Also, despite my efforts (and despite the html saying otherwise) wordpress is refusing to re-size my photos to anything that isn’t GIANT. Bygones.

**Found a work around, but if anyone knows of an actual fix to get WordPress to resize photos linked from a url? I will love you and hug you and squeeze you and call you George.

These days I feel like every time I sit down to write I could end it with, And then I found five dollars. My brain is foggy and I lose the point halfway through. I wrote for 30 days straight and only 20% of it feels like me. I don’t know how to cut through the fog. Behind the fog are all my points, my funny, my intentions, my me.

I keep trying to cut through the fog, but it doesn’t seem to be working. I want my me back.

Movember has come to a close. Well done to everyone that raised money. Now please, for the love of all that is holy and cold and sparkles in the sun shave that damn pedostache off your face. Yes you.

NaBloPoMo is no more. Well, until next November. Congrats to everyone that made the past 30 days a little bit more interesting.

I didn’t know what to expect from this whole thing, but I knew that I do better when I’m not in it alone. So I dragged Chris in with me. I made a deal with her that if we both finished we’d treat ourselves to sushi. Guess who has a sushi date in her near future? I posted a lot of shit no one, myself included, really cares about. I wrote about a couple of things I didn’t think I would. I read a lot. I didn’t comment nearly as often as I should have. I still have things on my list that I didn’t even touch.

I still worry about the omg lady no one cares! of it all, but in the end I’m always happier when I’m writing. Even if it is just about my love affair with a steam mop and how my cat likes to hide my shoes. (Seriously dude, knock it the hell off.)

I won’t ever be an every day blogger, but I hope to be more than a every three months blogger.

I started off trying to find my voice (no not the tv show with Adam Levine, but if Adam and his inked abs wanted to show up to help? I would not turn him away. Because I’m a giver.) I don’t think I’m there yet, but I am slightly closer and that’s got to count for something, right?

I am from the ranch house with blue shutters, the big oak tree in the backyard and catching fireflies in the warm summer nights.

I am from the honeysuckle bushes and hummingbirds on trips to visit my grandma.

I am from a clan of nappers and tahdeeg stealers, from bedtime stories in English and Farsi, from Southern Baptists and Muslims (lapsed, the both of them.)

I am from people pleasers and stubborn blood.

From How Much Is That Doggie In the Window and Hush Little Baby Don’t Say a Word.

I am from finding your own way. Finding hope.

I’m from Buckyeyes, Hoosiers and Persians, from lemon bars and Shirin Polo.

From the first time I said fuck under the Magnolia tree, from road trips to Ohio, and the day our dog found us.

I am from photos in the cedar chest in sticky spiral bound albums. From early morning swim practices and late night swim meets. From learning that not everyone had a family member from Iran. From parents who loved me better than anyone else could have.

I am from doing things the hard way, but being all the better for it in the end.

This little meme went around awhile ago, and I am nothing if not a sheep. If you haven’t done it, come back and link me, would ya?

But now, here I am in the middle of holiday season, looking at old photos going, Hey, I have the same shirt as that fat chi- oh hell. It’s a funny thing, looking at photos of yourself and being surprised by what you see. Because, I mean, I live with it every day. I should know what I look like. But in my head I feel like this.

So, it comes as a surprise, still.

So, today I did pulled out my shoes and did this.

Now I can’t breathe and my heart is going, WHAT THE HELL WOMAN, ENOUGH! and if you’ll excuse me I need to go find my lungs and pretend that I didn’t just post a picture of myself in a bikini on the internet.

It won’t change fix things right away, but it’s a start.

An extremely talented friend of mine is the one designing the building that every Super Bowl volunteer will go through and she needed a few extra hands painting. It’s an abandoned chapel right next to Lucas Oil that in it’s most recent uses was a halfway house and a correctional facility and will be demolished after the Super Bowl.

So first, I found the murder room. Like you do.

Then there was painting (paint by numbers style because I have zero artistic talent) next to the murder room.

Then I was left to my own devices and solidified the fact that I have absolutely no artistic ability, not even in my little pinky. And especially not holding a paint brush.

Surprisingly I managed to walk away mostly unscathed.

As for all you Super Bowl volunteers? No one’s allowed to mock the paint job, ya hear?

Please stop hiding my shoes.

No one thinks you’re funny, sir.

But, there was this mop I wanted. So at 11:45 I looked online at Target and thought about buying it. It was nearly half off! And shipped free! But if I was going to buy it I wanted in my hot little hands right now. Patience is not my strong suit. It’s more like that wrinkled, poorly fitting, out of style suit that still has shoulder pads and is 18 sizes too small but you still keep in the back of your closet because what if you need it? What if you lose all the weight and 9 inch shoulder pads come back in style and you have the world’s most important interview? WHAT THEN?

I decided since I have to go right by a super Target on my way home I would run in and run out. I pulled an inch into the parking lot, saw people were still standing outside at 12:30 and turned right back around.

I stopped at the other Target by my house and no line. Huzzah! I grab my mop, I see that the line wraps around the perimeter of the store…TWICE. I go home. I get online. SURPRISE! This item is only available in stores.

I yell, I curse, I find a gift card I had forgotten about. I go back. No line! No wait! Turns out what I had in my hands the first time around wasn’t even the right one. I grab the correct mop, two Christmas gifts and I go home.

And mop my kitchen floor at 3:30 am.

Now, if you’ll excuse me I have to mop all the things.

May your stomachs be full, your family fighting be minimal and your designated digestion zone (DDZ) be cozy.

Happy Thanksgiving, y’all.

And then there are the people who show up, unannounced, unexpected and fit into your life like they were always there. They may not have been there when your first boyfriend hurt you, or you learned to drive, or that bitch in homeroom said your hair was poufy and you wanted to smack her smug little face but instead you got a hall pass and cried in the bathroom because OMG what if she was right? What if you were walking around all these years with poufy hair and didn’t know it. They weren’t there for it, but it feels like they were. Like they should have been there.

I cannot accurately explain how much it means to me to have people in my life who get me. To be able to just walk into a room and sit down and not need to say anything. To just be.

I am extraordinarily lucky to be surrounded by a group of diverse, smart, funny, caring, thoughtful friends. Some I’ve known longer than I haven’t, some only a few years, some the Internet brought me. All of them, they calm me. I am an over-thinker, an over-analyzer, a worrier. I get caught up in my own head and my mind spins and spins and spins. But in the presence of my friends I get to just be.

But it bears repeating.

Before you judge. Before you snap, yell, snark, shame, belittle or embiggen remember that we all have pain. We all shoulder it in different ways. And we all deserve a little grace.

The Cave – Mumford and Sons

I hear, you just have to have faith,  a lot and I always correct it in my head. You may have faith, but I have hope. Faith, to me, is tied to God, to religion. I have no desire whatsoever to talk about religion on this blog, so for simplicity’s sake I’ll just say that I don’t have religion. Not the organized kind, anyway. And when I hear the word faith I think of stained glass windows, and preachers at pulpits and a host of other things all revolving around the big man upstairs, however you may view him (or her.) You put your faith in something. You have faith in God to fix, help, heal. Faith comes with the backing of God, of religion to stand behind you when you’re weak.

I have hope. Hope is trickier, from where I’m standing. Hope is more nebulous and uncertain. It relies on no one and nothing but yourself. For you to continue carrying that hope, even when it’s easier to set it down. There are times when I wish that I had faith, the grass being greener and all that.

But what I have is hope and I’m going to do my damnedest to hold on to it.

If I get the apartment clean, then I’ll keep it that way. Forever.

If I join the gym, then I’ll start working out again and reclaim a body I barely recognize.

If I lose weight then I can buy those boots I want.

If I write more on the blog then maybe I can start getting some paid writing gigs.

If the apartment is clean then I will organize all my paperwork.

If I get that sweater then my boobs will look fantastic.

If I see Breaking Dawn then I will go see it again. (Autowolves, roll out!)

If I can find a job then I can stop worrying about money every minute of every day.

Some of them are frivolous, some of them more heavy, but all of them boil down to one essential thing.

If I do/get/find/make/buy this, then I will be happy.

I have to work hard to be happy and these days it feels like I’m working too hard, for too little. I feel like I’m treading water. Logically I know this is the depression talking. Logically, I know I’m in it right now, and have been for awhile. Knowing it doesn’t make it any easier.

But maybe, if I write about this, then it will get a little easier.

There are very few things in life that I love more than showering with good water pressure; believe you me I take advantage of it while it’s there. So, basically what I am saying is if you’re going to see me, the next two weeks would be the ideal time because I will be extremely clean. I’ve already showered twice in the last 12 hours, is what I’m saying.

And now for gratuitous cat pictures!

Happy Caturday!

Happy Friday y’all!

I may be slightly excited.

And just in case that doesn’t adequately portray my enthusiasm:

We start with blatant happiness, move onto shock and awe, we then reserve judgement, and finally hey check out this tendon in my neck, ain’t it cool?

Thankfully, the ladies I will be going with share my enthusiasm.

I’ll leave you with a quote from Sarah, which will explain why we are friends.

I’m like a vampire who doesn’t sparkle in the sunlight….*mumbles* so not even a cool one.

Exactly, friend. Exactly.

I have 600 square feet with little to no closet space/storage so that even when one thing is out of place it makes it look like the entire place has been hit by storm of tiny, furiously fast hedgehogs and then my head explodes. It’s impossible to feel relaxed in a messy house. Organization is essential. Unfortunately I’m not so great at it for myself. You, I could come in and organize the shit out of your life. Me? *FLAIL*

And it appears that I have a few quirks (shock! awe! amazement!) when it comes to cleaning. For example, I cannot tackle any of the bags of random items that need to be dealt with until the entire apartminium is spotless. Then and only then can I begin to organize those bags or take things out of closets to deal with. I also cannot shower if my living space is not clean. There is something so abhorrent about the idea of showering and then stepping out into a messy house. Please no thank you.

Generally when I start cleaning I go around the apartment and throwing things into the room in which they belong. The key to this is not actually putting anything away. Because you’ll get stuck in one room. Once everything is in its rightful room two or three days later I go room by room and put everything away. Then after all the rooms are put away THEN I can vacuum and dust but not before. NEVER BEFORE.

Also, I’ve decided since the entire apartminium is hardwood or tile and every floor cleaner I’ve tried leaves a sticky residue I need a Shark Mop which, shockingly, does not play the Jaws theme while you clean. Missed opportunity if you ask me.

The plan was to have the apartminium spotless in August? Well, let’ see, it’s November 16th so I’m right on track to LOSE MY DAMN MIND.

So, who wants to help save my sanity? I’ll pay you in Twilight references and kitty snuggles.

Last night I left the blinds and windows open as the storm rolled in. I sat knitting and watching the Breaking Dawn live stream doing awesome, non lame things and watching the storm through my windows until the wind started blowing the rain in. I’m fairly certain my blood pressure goes down when I get that first whiff of storm in the air. A good summer storm puts me in a zen like state faster than any yoga class can. Some people can smell snow in the air. I can smell storm.

I have dreams of owning a house with a deep, wrap around porch that just begs for me to sit and watch a storm roll through.

Needless to say my scare tactics are yielding less than stellar results. But I can’t exactly call up my landlord and be like, Look, so there’s this mouse in my walls. No, no I’ve never seen it. I don’t have x-ray vision. Yeah, he only comes around between 2am and 7am. I’ve tried banging on the walls, but that doesn’t seem to work. What do you suggest?

This can’t go on much longer though. Every time I get even close to sleeping that little fucker skitterscritches into my walls just mocking my inablility to sleep knowing he’s just on the otherside of the wall waiting for me to fall asleep so he can eat my brains.

Or something.

*I may be an almost 30 year old crazy, knitting, cat lady, but I did not go out and buy myself a Pillow Pet. It was a gift from my Godson.

This weekend I had dinner with my very favorite people. We gorged ourselves on Mexican food and good conversation.

This weekend I swapped out my square tv for a rectangular one. See also: it’s amazing what you’ll find mostly unused in your parent’s basement.

This weekend I did not figure out how to program my uverse remote to work with the new rectangular tv. (Woe.)

This weekend I stained my fingers red digging out pomegranate seeds. (Nomz.)

This weekend I watched my godson run himself ragged at one of those bouncy places. (Games! Bounce! Bumper cars! Trampoline! RunRunRun!)

This weekend I forgot to make time to write, but I did it anyway.

That was my weekend. How was yours?

These days, it doesn’t matter how tired I am, or how long I set the sleep timer for. Sleep evades me. Over the counter sleep aides don’t work. I can’t afford sweet, sweet Ambien and Melatonin worked for approximately two days. I am insomnia’s bitch. The few measly hours I do get a night are interrupted by noisy, intrusive mice, and throbbing joints and my body’s inability to just. fucking. sleep. So that when I do finally get up, I’m not rested. I’m irritated and sluggish and only half functioning.

I miss sleep. A lot.

So if you see me out? Kindly overlook the bags under my eyes and point me at the nearest Tempurpedic, would you?

For someone who claims not to know how to knit, she sure had a lot of  supp,lies to lend me.

I’m just fully embracing the crazy, knitting cat lady cliche at this point.

I’ve said goodby to my youth.

I may even knit him a sweater.

Scarves for everyone!

*Turns out I was so in the groove of writing and posting I forgot it was mandatory to do every day. Oops.