I Seem to You to Seek a New Disaster Every Day

Be kind to me, or treat me mean; I'll make the most of it, I'm an extraordinary machine.

This Fiona Apple lyric has been on loop in my mind for the last few months, particularly since I saw her in concert in St. Louis in July.

I'm constantly reminding myself of how resilient I am, of how much I have bounced back from. I really am an extraordinary machine, I have the ability to choose how I let things affect me, of how I react to them. And I've done a pretty stellar job of dealing with things lately.

I am finally able to talk about the things that have happened in a matter-of-fact way. I've accepted that I played a role in the events of my past. I'm ok with this because of how much I learned and where it has gotten me. I think I know more about myself than most 28 year old women ever will, because I've allowed myself to take a time out and get it together.

There are things that I know, without a doubt, about myself that took me a while to come to terms with but I have. I respect these truths, even try to nurture them and grow them into things that will shape my future in positive ways. At this point in my life, I only want to surround myself with people who can respect these things because above all, I have decided that life is too short to spend time with people who make you fucking miserable.

Thankfully, I have an amazing family who, for the most part and to the best of their ability, supports the choices I've made in my past and seem to understand and support the things I want for my future. How many girls can really say they have really considered their choices in life- not what we are "supposed" to want or do, but what they really want? I hope it's more than I think it may be, but I don't think many of us take the time to consider our options.

No matter what I'm dealing with or how down I am, I can always know that I have never stopped nurturing the relationship I have with myself and trying to find what makes me happy regardless of how uncomfortable it may be or how abnormal it may seem to others. And that's what makes me the amazing, crazy mess that I am.

My Life in Retail Hell

Some days, the only thing that gets me through a retail workday, when all I want is to sit on my ass at a desk at a normal job, is the knowledge that sitting for more than 11 hours a day increases risk of death by 40%. Sure, that 40% is negated by the fact that applying makeup and catering to entitled women with horrible attitudes, but whatever. I try to remind myself that ultimately, the joke is on them; cosmetics can only do so much for your awful skin, age spots, and fat ass.

While I'm on the subject of your ugly outside, let's talk about your ugly inside. That fit you just threw in front of your teenage daughter because I wouldn't make an exception to recycle policy for you? No ma'am, I cannot accept five used containers instead of six and still give you a free lipstick. Unfortunately, the reason you get a free lipstick, is because you returned six containers, and today you only brought five. Yes, I understand that you're in here all the time; yes, I know that you're a frequent customer (I hear you say you're a "good" customer, but I really have to beg to differ with you here. My definition of a good customer does not include you treating me like I'm stupid), but you won't be able to take advantage of the recycling program today. You are welcome to purchase the lipstick you picked out, or might I suggest that on one of your frequent visits you go ahead and bring six empties with you? I know you will be here again soon, probably tomorrow (unfortunately, so unfortunately, for me), so maybe that's the best option? In closing, I'd like to remind you that children loooveeee to imitate their parents, and I can't wait until you get to be on the receiving end of one of your daughter's tantrums (she learned it from you!).

And while I am on the subject of free lipstick, let me make one thing clear: When you ask me what color the free lipstick in the Gift With Purchase is, my answer will (every single time) be "free." You will laugh because you think I'm joking, and you will probably laugh a little harder when you see my completely serious expression, but ha, ha, ha lady, I'm not trying to be funny. Seriously, it doesn't matter if you don't like the color; It's a fucking free gift. And not to mention all the other free goodies you're getting with the gift- free mascara, free eyeshadow, free moisturizer, free eye cream all in a free fucking bag. Oh, what's that? You don't like the color? You want me to swap it out for another color? ha ha ha ha ha. Good luck with that. I'm walking away now, before I get myself in trouble.

In all seriousness, I do have a lot of fun at work. Sometimes, when I get an attractive customer, I get to make people even more beautiful, which always makes me feel good. And I get to look in the mirror for a big part of my workday. And, like I said before, my risk of death from sitting too often is lower, so... there's that, at least.

On Moving On

I am desperately trying to move to... anywhere.

I started out entertaining the idea of moving back to Chicago almost immediately after I came back to Ohio at the beginning of 2011, but I knew that I needed to close a few doors and just learn to be for a bit.

Well just being is pretty much all I've done for the last 18 months and I am ready to start doing something. Seriously, I am going to fucking lose it if it doesn't happen soon.

So I started with the idea of moving to Minneapolis, a fabulous city with lots of lakes and a pretty cool, laid back attitude. I feel in love with MPLS when I went there for work a few summers ago, and it sort of felt right. Then I started looking at Chicago again; somehow, it always comes back to Chicago. But then, what about Dallas? My best friend is moving there next week, so how bad can it be? No, it's not unreasonable at all to consider it, regardless of how much I don't like Dallas, or the heat, or pretty much all Texans outside of Austin! Wait... But what about Minneapolis? Chicago? San Francisco, Boston, Seattle?!

My head is going to explode. So I decided to just apply to any opportunity that might seem right for me and let things fall into place. It is taking every ounce of energy for me to not spaz out about this. Too many options make me crazy (crazier).

On Strangers In My Bed

I'm searching through my hard drive in a desperate attempt to locate the file that contains an entire year's worth of writing. And when I say I'm desperate, I mean frantic. A few months ago my computer fucked up and my dad had to restore my drives. It was looking like I didn't lose anything but now? I am not so sure. And I'm sort of panicked.

I did, however, find a few gems hidden in random folders. Things I never published because, at the time, I was worried about hurting or offending someone. This may be one of my favorite bits that I've come across so far. In advance, I am going to say... sorry Mom.

I wake up groggy, grouchy and with a splitting headache. I have no idea what time it is or what happened last night. A classic hangover, but something I never experienced until recently. I guess what they say about getting older is true. I roll over, pull back the covers and am just about to attempt to crawl to the kitchen for ibuprofen (oh miracle worker!) when I realize I’m not alone. There is a beautiful, passed out boy in my bed. Suddenly, I’m concerned; I don’t have a concept of the time, but now I’m beginning to think that maybe I’m confused about the year, too. There hasn’t been a strange boy in my bed in 6 years. Shit.

It’s Easter Sunday and I’m supposed to be at my grandmother’s house for lunch. I guess it’s a good thing my family is laid back, because I’m a train wreck. Stranger boy rolls over and opens his eyes. Hello, awkward. I look at him and give him a half-smile, climbing out of bed to get dressed and get him the fuck out of my apartment. Strange ass is one thing, strange ass that slept over is a whole ‘nother problem in my book. If I wanted to share my bed, I’d still be in a relationship. But I didn’t, and I hadn’t been in a relationship in 4 months.

“Do you want some water?” I say, throwing on a tank top and cropped jeans. I toss him a bottle of water and his shorts… please, please take the hint, dude. I don’t want to get mean.

God, I wish I knew what this beautiful specimen of undergraduate ass’s name is. But I don’t, and I’m honestly only concerned because I’d like to say “Whatever-your-name-is, please get the fuck out.” Don’t get me wrong, I’m going to still use those exact words, but it somehow seems much less rude when the person’s name is involved. And I’m also slightly worried that this one isn’t a college student. What if he is a local? Oh god, that’s the last fucking thing I need right now.

Four months ago, I moved back to my hometown. I wish I could say that I had a better reason than “I quit my job, moved back to Columbus for my abusive ex-fiance, realized shortly after I moved home that I didn’t actually like him, and ended up living with my parents again.” But I don’t, and here I am. I truly, seriously thought I would never live in this town again. At least I only lived with my parents for a month before moving into my own place, a cute apartment close to the private college located here’s campus. And, apparently, easy access to hot college soccer players… at least, I’m assuming he’s a soccer player. Or at least hoping he is a college soccer player. Seriously, what the fuck have I gotten myself into this time?

Looking back now, I realize what an appropriate kick-off this weekend was to my newly single life. Because my life now? Is what it was previous to nearly making a huge mistake (six years is was more excusable than a lifetime). I love the perspective I've found since moving back to Ohio. So many doors have been closed and new ones are opening up, despite my best efforts at self-sabotage.


I'm also completely ready to take on a new city this time. Get ready, motherfuckers. I won't accept any repeats of a few of the things that happened to Mitch in her time dating in the city... but I guess those are stories best saved for posts made while I am high as a kite on ambien.

The Rules of Internet Dating, Part One

Get a fucking grip. Seriously, you are probably not going to meet The One immediately. Or maybe ever. Fuck, who even made up the rule that there would be one person for everyone? Maybe, there are several people who are meant to come into your life, for a period of time, and make you happy.

And maybe that period of time is just an evening, or a month. Maybe it's a year, or twenty. Who knows? Why are we forcing things? Why narrow your world view so much? I don't fucking understand it.

Anyway, the fact that your whole profile goes on and on (and fucking on) about how you're looking for The One, or someone to take care of, or spoil, or whatever, is 1) pathetic and 2) a huge turn off to any girl actually worth meeting.

Think about it. You say you want a girl to spend your time with, and maybe marry (big mistake, btw) and raise a family with (don't even get me started), and that's fine. If that's what you have decided you want, then ok, I guess I get it. To each his own. But really, what guy wants to fucking take care of their wife for the rest of their life? I mean ultimately, don't you want an independent girl who can go out with her friends while you stay home and look at porn or go over to your buddy's house and do whatever it is you do? Because I sure as shit don't want to date, let alone marry, someone who only has me to give them a reason to be, and I can't say I've met a lot of men who want that, either. Maybe you're inexperienced, and you think you want it? But I guarantee you, as soon as you experience it for, like, an hour... you will change your mind.

Let's just get real here, before I vomit all over my computer at your cheesy, codependent, grossly romantic, unrealistic view of things. State what you're looking for, but please man up and understand that sometimes, it's just not going to happen. We may exchange a few messages; maybe we'll meet, maybe we won't. When I don't return your message after a few days, it's probably because I'm not interested, but it might be because I'm fucking busy.

And ultimately, if you're looking for the kind of girl that I described above (the one whose moon and sun revolve around you so much that it's suffocating), you will be glad that we stopped communicating. And if you're looking for the kind of girl that I am (one who doesn't put too much stock in brief exchanges, and won't be offended if you never text me again... because I'm BUSY, and I have a life), then you'll understand and probably appreciate when it takes me a minute to respond.

But p.s.? If I stop responding... or don't return your initial message? Don't try again, because I'm not fucking interested. And please don't send me a message asking me why I'm not responding, or what it is about you that I didn't like, because you won't like the answer. What don't I like about you? Chances are, the answer is YOU.

Dear St. Anthony:

I lost my grandma a few weeks ago.
I lost my friend Travis, my favorite ginger (other than myself, obviously), and one of the most genuine people I've ever known.
I survived several breakups: The first was with what I thought was my dream job; the second, my fiance; and finally, with one of my best friends.

I lost my home, my credit score, and (temporarily) my sanity.

But here I am. All of this loss has lead me seek (actively and sometimes desperately) myself. And finally, I'm here; I'm awake.

Maybe loss gives you a reason to step back and reassess the people, situations, things in your life. All this trauma, all of the things I gave up and had taken away, they provided me with something I may not have otherwise gotten: Opportunity.

Sometimes, maybe things have to get worse before they can get better. In November, I admitted myself into a partial hospitalization for depression & anxiety. I was desperate- even my dreams were anxiety-provoking. Most days, I was paralyzed by fear, and some days it was impossible to leave my bed, let alone my house. I had no idea that what I was getting myself into was going to lead to another major event: I was diagnosed with Bulimia.

It's interesting to me that one could go 27 years with an eating disorder and never, ever even consider that what I was dealing with was, in fact, an eating disorder. But after 6 months of intensive treatment, the thing that I've learned above all else is this: When you're sick, you don't always know that you're sick.

It took me months- in fact, until very, very recently- to accept that I do have an eating disorder. For me, it's not about insecurities, or being as thin as possible; it's about being numb and having control over something. Anything.

It's easy to believe that that uneasy feeling in your stomach that makes you feel like you're going to vomit, and so you don't eat for fear of actually vomiting is a symptom of anxiety. And it's easy to blame binge-eating on depression. Over-exercising? Blame anxiety. Blame, blame, write it off, and jump straight into the downward spiral that is ED. Hello, rebound relationship.

So loss? Sucks ass. And I'm not sure that I will ever stop fighting the part of me that wants to avoid feeling anything like the plague, but it's gotten better. I actually cried at my grandma's funeral. And again, and again, and again. In fact, I might cry now- and I'm ok with it. Because I? don't want to use my body as a punching bag for my emotions anymore.

In all this loss, I've found myself (maybe with a little help from good ole St. Anthony... I did go to mass recently, for the first time in years). At least, for now.

And I'm writing again. On paper, in Word documents, on this blog... Every single time I have sat down to write, or thought about writing, in the last few months, the words don't flow. But they're back, and so am I.





P.S., that picture? Is my amazing Grandmother outside the apartment building she grew up in in Manhattan. She's fabulous, I know.

On Wearing Red Lipstick on a Date

I want to write about something I saw on Twitter yesterday that kind of pissed me off.

One of my favorite makeup brands (ok, to be honest, it's the brand that I work for) wrote about what kind of makeup you should wear on a first date- what guys like girls to wear. In particular, most men don't like red lipstick.

Wait, what? What the fuck? Why the fuck am I supposed to care if a guy I just met doesn't like my red lipstick? Shouldn't I be able to wear something that is kind of my "thing" and not have to worry that someone isn't going to like me for it? Why are we encouraging the idea that girls and women need men to like them to feel beautiful, confident, trendy, bold, classic, whatever?!

I wear red lipstick almost every day. And if I don't? It's only because my lips are so chapped they're bleeding, or I'm getting ready to hit the gym. Actually, there have been times that I've worn my lipstick to the gym because I just don't give a fuck. And you shouldn't, either.

Because I wear bold colors on my lips so often, why am I supposed to change that for a first date? If a potential mate doesn't think I'm beautiful, or smart or funny (which I am all three, by the way), he can pretty much go fuck himself. I'm serious. I try to be honest from the get-go about who I am, what I want, and what my style is; because it's all part of me. Am I supposed to wait until the third date to reveal this? What is the acceptable time-frame for making someone like me and then pulling my red lipstick out of my purse, and they will still think I'm awesome?

I still laugh because I was having a conversation with a friend one time, and when I mentioned my lipstick, she said "I guess I just think that red lipstick is less kissable." To which I replied "maybe... but it is certainly more fuckable."

So cheers to being yourself, wearing your red lipstick or your hair in a braid, or whatever it is you do that makes you you. And here's a big fuck you to anyone who can't appreciate it.

Ciaooooooo for now!