Today is one of those days where everything is sitting just under the surface. All my anxiety, depression, every fault and failure, they’ve all merged into this teeming, throbbing mass around my heart, just waiting to explode. It takes all of my effort on days like this to not let it detonate. To carry on like I’m not about to shatter into thousands of tiny pieces. I can feel it crawling just under my skin, humming with need and want and manic energy. Everything is urgent and panicked and even breathing comes harder. I feel radioactive.

I don’t have days like this very often, maybe twice a year. I can point to the trigger this time. Usually it’s something small. A million small somethings adding up to tip me over. This time it was like a land mine. Like tripping over a live wire, I know exactly what’s gotten me to this point. I could feel the force of the blast, blowing all of my hard work and the carefully constructed pieces of my sanity to hell. I know that two hours of sleep last night because I couldn’t shut my brain off, because I could feel everything converging and mingling and melding, are exacerbating everything.

But knowing why and how and even when doesn’t help. It doesn’t help when all of your emotions are sitting like exposed nerves waiting for the slightest of breezes to set them off.

I know that I just have to contain it for today. I just have to make it through the day and eventually all the anxiety and depression, all my missteps and faults will release each other. They’ll dissipate and go to their separate corners. I’ll be able to put the pieces of me back where they belong and shore them up so the next land mine does a little less damage.

Fangirl Down

Internets, I have to be honest. I feel like hot garbage. Which is putting it mildly. Somewhere around 3am Sunday morning my stomach decided to rebel. And without going into gory details, let’s just say my toilet and I got very acquainted for approximately 16 hours. Thank the Flying Spaghetti Monster I remembered that I had Sea Bands that I’d gotten from BlogHer. They worked in 30 seconds. BLESS. What they didn’t cure was the fact that I’m achy, and tired, and still fevery, and walking makes me feel like my heart is going to beat out of my chest. Blergh.

But! They did make me feel well enough to experience the greatest thirty seconds of television in the past ten years.

I may have immediately reverted back to my 16 year old self. I don’t know if the shaking was a result of 16 hours of horking, or 16 years of fangirling, but LAWD WAS IT GLORIOUS.

Imma need a minute.

Good things, people, good things are happening. And the synchronized man dancing to late 90’s pop-music is just the tip of the coordinating, yet slightly disparate outfit mountain. September 2nd I will be seeing Mumford and effing Sons. Live. In person. YOU GUYS.

In October I’ll be heading to the Outer Banks in North Carolina for the Click Retreat. And one of my favorite bloggers in the entire ‘verse will be there. Also, her, you know, who I don’t hate. heh

In November, I’m roadtripping to Charleston for Y’all Fest, where not only some of my favorite people from the Internets will be there, but my favorite young adult authors. Dear Rainbow Rowell, I apologize in advance for the intense fangirling that will happen.

December I’m seeing JT. Also live. Also in person. You guys. I’m trying not to wish the days away, but I’m pretty stoked. It’s been awhile since I had so much to look forward to.

In honor of my birthday (oh hai, the 28th is my birthday) leave a comment and tell me what you’re looking forward to. And also, maybe, how to make this demon flu go away.

**If things look a little wonky/new/weird around here it’s b/c I accidentally changed my wordpress theme & I can’t remember what the old one was called. I’m working on it.

Not Here

I’m not here a lot, which is nothing new, but it’s starting to weigh heavier on me lately. I want to be here, and I have things to say, but the problem is those things. Because lately all I have to say revolves around working too much and being too lonely. And there’s only so many times you can say oh woe is me, I’m the loneliest, poorest girl in the world before people start rolling their eyes. And even I’m tired of thinking it.

My meds are working and the chemicals in my brain are at the appropriate levels, but that doesn’t change the fact that I’m working six days a week & just barely paying my bills. It doesn’t change the fact that while most of my friends are talking about if their families are complete and not having anymore babies, mine hasn’t even started. I’m still painfully single with a rather loud biological clock ticking at me (o hai cliche, nice to meet you. It should be noted that I’m not necessarily looking to trick some dude into marrying me and knocking me up post haste, but more that the option just isn’t even there if I wanted it.)

So every time I sit down to write about something else, about my trip to BlogHer, or the cat’s surgery, or the fact that I just inhaled a good pound of freeze dried apples, or zomg the State Fair! I can’t get past the big purple elephant. (I’ve named him Lars.) And every time I try and look around him, Lars will flap his ears or twitch his tail, nudge me with his trunk and once again it’s all I can see.

I’m working on being okay with it. On trying to change it and being okay with it until then. But for now, excuse me if I can’t see past Lars.

Inappropriate Feelings Towards Paper And A Giveaway

I’m a bit of a journal hoarder from way back. There’s just something about a brand new journal that’s full of possibilities. Do you have a favorite texture? I do: a page that’s been written on. Running my fingers over the indentations, the permanent marks of my stories, my secrets is blissful. Stationary in general is kind of a turn on. The pen aisle at a Staples or Office Depot? Heaven. I’m not saying I’m a sure thing if after dinner you take me to an office supply store instead of a movie, but I’m not not saying it either. In fact, one of my favorite moments with Casey took place in a stationary store while I was caressing holding a journal. Putting pen to prettily bound paper will forever be one of my favorite activities.


Enter Minted, who upped the ante on my love of bound paper. They’ve got a little bit of everything from wedding invitations, and Father’s Day cards, to business cards. But what’s currently making my heart beat a little faster are their custom journals. Dude, you guys. I DIE. If I want a journal with my cat’s face on it? They can do that. Making good on my threat to immortalize all my godson’s funny sayings into a book that will follow him around until he’s 80? Done. The possibilities, they are endless.

Minted Giveaway

So, here comes the fun part: I’m giving away $50 to Minted. I KNOW, RIGHT? All you have to do is leave a comment telling me what you’d buy from Minted. Are you a journal hoarder like me? Are you a lined paper, graph paper, or blank paper person? Or are you more of a card person? Maybe you need new business cards or need party decorations (you guys, they totally have that too). Whatever it is, I’m dying to know. No, seriously. I want to know. You have until next Sunday, June 9th to enter.

Super fun disclaimer: I was gifted with a Minted credit, but was not compensated in any other way. All opinions and inappropriate feelings towards bound paper are my own.

What You Don’t Know

What you don’t know is that being single means you’re no one’s number one priority. That means you will be passed over for family night, baseball practice, and dance recitals. Your needs and feelings will be set aside in favor of husbands and wives and girlfriends and boyfriends and little people with large demands. What you don’t know is how isolating that is.

What you don’t know is that sitting down to dinner with your family, being invited to family night, and dance recitals, and baseball practice only amplifies the loneliness. It only highlights what I don’t have. What I’m missing out on. What I don’t have the option to have.

What you don’t know is that when you tell me how hard marriage is, how unrewarding parenting can be, how, “it’s not all it’s cracked up to be,” that I’m lucky to not have to answer to anyone that it makes me hate you just a little bit. You don’t know that you’re undermining my feelings. That by saying those things you’re saying I don’t have the right to feel the way I feel.

What you don’t know is that I love coming to family night, and baseball practice, and dance recitals. You should be putting your family first.

But what you don’t know is that no amount of friendship and companionship and family can make me part of a pair, a unit. It won’t move me up on the priority list. It can’t erase my loneliness.


Today I said goodbye. I said goodbye to the man who called me Reenie, who told me I was “Soooooooo purty,” every time he saw me. He was a tough man; a navy man, a stern father; he didn’t express his feelings well (we have that in common) but to me he was always just Grandpa.

Sunday I said goodbye. I held his hand and kissed his cheek and told him I loved him. And even though he didn’t have the breath to voice it, I knew exactly what he would’ve sounded like when he mouthed, “I love you,” back.

Today I heard the tinny sound of Taps, the words, “On behalf of the President of the United States of America….for his service in the Navy…” as we placed him next to his wife and the daughter we lost too soon, the son and grandson we lost last year.

Sunday I learned that not only did I get my penchant for writing, and photography, and swimming, and my stubbornness from him, but that we shared a favorite cookie: lemon sandwich cookies.

Today I learned that no matter how prepared you think you are, no matter how long and full of a life someone leads, it’s still really fucking hard to say goodbye.

Goodbye Grandpa. I love you.

Your Reenie.

The Cat Who Cried Cancer

The past couple of weeks have been a wee bit stressful where George Weasley is concerned.

He’s had a small cyst on his stomach since I rescued him. The vet declared it non-worrisome as long as it doesn’t grow or irritate him.

It grew. And I convinced myself it hadn’t grown, because you know how as soon as the doctor’s all, “unless it grows,” and suddenly you doubt everything you’ve ever known about whatever it is that’s not supposed to be growing? Was it dime-sized or nickle-sized? Was it blue or black? Is up really up? Is my name really my name? You know, totally normal behavior.

Eventually we got to the, yeah okay that’s definitely way bigger than it should be stage and I took him into the vet. Who was all, “Yeah, he’s anemic, and he’s lost another pound, and remember his kidney disease and his heart murmur and are you trying to kill this cat?” That last bit may have just been in my head. So, she took him off to get a biopsy of the cyst to find out what was going on and brought my cat back looking like this:

Apparently the cyst burst, or part of it, while they did the biopsy (this is…normal cyst behavior?) and so one of the techs fashioned this shirt out of a giant tube of gauze to keep him from messing with it until it healed.

By this point George was pretty over being at the vet. He’d had a thermometer stuck where no thermometer should go, his ears cleaned with an unnaturally large q-tip, his belly poked and prodded while I was chastised about a: thinking his nipple was another cyst, and b: how many mats he has. Look lady, dude is fairly tame. He lets me dress him up, he let you put that ridiculous shirt on him, he even lets me trim his nails without much fuss. But the brush comes out and he is not having it. So, he was all, “Fuck this shit,” and went and hid in his carrier at my feet while I felt like the worst cat mother of all time.

And then the biopsy results came back as abnormal cells. And not just abnormal cells, oh no no, not my cat, different kinds of abnormal cells, because OF COURSE. And she went on to explain that abnormal cells mean cancer, and different kinds is very worrisome, and we should send the biopsy off to the lab to see if it’s spread or it’s just localized, and blahblahblah cancercakes. And that’s when I sat in a vet’s office telling myself that I would not cry because my cat has cancer.

Now, mind you, before the biopsy and the fur-shirt of ill repute, I was all, “Can’t we just take the sucker out and never ever ever tell me my cat has cancer omg?” To which she replied, “Well yes, BUT remember about his kidney disease, and his heart disease, and his low weight, and his anemia? Yeah, that basically makes him the worst candidate ever for general anesthesia.”

And then I got to ask about what are the next steps, and if it has spread, and the hell is kitty chemo, and holy shitsnacks did you just say, “make him comfortable,” to me, because it sounds like you just told me my cat is going to die and omg this is so much worse than Westley.

So, $300 later (*WEEPS THE WEEPING OF THE POOR*) I took my fur-shirt wearing cat home and we spent a week waiting for results while I contemplated how exactly I was going to pay for kitty chemo, and no putting him down wasn’t an option, and how much do you get for donating plasma again, and I’ve probably got some pretty decent eggs just floating around in my bits not being used, surely that’ll pull in some cash, and unhooking his teeth from the fur-shirt of ill repute and omg seriously, how are you stuck AGAIN, and then putting a sweater over the shirt because it’s harder to get your teeth stuck in, and just watching him breathe at night to make sure he’s still alive, and OMG THIS IS SO MUCH WORSE THAN WESTLEY.

It was a long week, is what I’m saying.

And then we (I) found out that it’s a cystic basal cell tumor and they’re usually fairly benign and we’ll just have to watch it to see if it grows and continues to ulcerate (I have no idea what that means. Continues to explode?) and if it does then he’ll need it removed. But, you know, not before the kidney disease, heart disease, anemia, and low weight are all under control, blahblahblah cancerlesscakes. And part of me was all, “BUT YOU SAID CANCER!” and the other part was all, “SHUT UP OMG WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU.”

So, he’s getting two cans of wet, stupid-expensive, special, vet-only cat food a day (he somewhere along the way vetoed the dry, stupid-expensive, vet-only cat food) to help with the low weight, kidney disease, and in my super profushenal opinion the anemia. The heart disease (murmur) I’m not super worried about. Also, it’s $525 JUST TO LOOK AT THE DAMN THING.

And now I’m looking into how much it’ll cost to get him groomed so it’s done right, he has a good experience, and we don’t kill each other, and then I’ll force him into a daily brushing routine because yes! I know! The mats! The first place I called said they started at $120 and if it takes longer than 30 minutes the price goes up from there. STARTS AT ONE HUNDRED AND TWENTY REAL-LIFE ACTUAL DOLLARS. I will be laughing for days, lady. FOR DAYS. So, if you know of any reasonably priced long-haired cat groomers in Indy, hit me up.

In sum: yay! no cancer!