My heart weeps a little every time someone tells me they've never seen Wayne's World.
Perhaps even more so when they act like Wayne's World 2 isn't worth a viewing. It is so worth a viewing. It is worth viewing after viewing during spring break of your sixth grade year in school, when you were maybe too young to be exposed to such humor but most of the inappropriate jokes went over your head anyway and so you just enjoyed the heck out of the PG moments in the film, both films, back to back to back.
"Wayne Stock!"
"Dot the...lowercase j's..."
"Who's the old lady?!" "That's my old lady."
It is SO worth a watch (multiple watches), my readers, my friends.
Whenever someone tells me they aren't familiar with WW, I just console myself with the fact that we're -- oh so sadly -- kind of past the generation of time in which WW was required viewing. It isn't easy, but it gives me some small semblance of some itty bitty peace of mind.
[Lets out a deep breath of resignation.]
Ugh. So the Wayne's World thing is hard. Certainly, legitimately difficult in its own right.
But I have been horrified.
HORRIFIED.
by something else I have heard lately from the people around me in this life I lead.
I have heard, MORE TIMES THAN I SHOULD, some very hurtful.
HURTFUL!
words.
And those are these:
Sigh. It hurts me even to type it, I need to ramp up before I do.
OK. I'm ready. No I'm not ready. But off with the Band-Aid!
"Who's Bonnie Raitt?" people have ACTUALLY, LITERALLY, said to me.
WHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAATTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTT?????????
What's worse: MORE THAN ONE person has said this to me!!!
No. No no no no no no no. This is unacceptable, America!
You must know who Bonnie Raitt is!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Ugh. It just bothers me so much, friends.
Now. As soon as I sing the opening bar of "Let's give 'em somethin' to talk about," people get it right away.
"Ohhh. Yeah. Of course."
Not good enough. Not good enough for me, America.
It's time we bring Bonnie back as a household name. Let's make America good again, America.
Too far?
Too close to home, with the crazy election happenings we're seeing unravel before our horrified eyes?
Did I just get political again?
Reeling it in. Reset.
OK. So anyway.
I'm not usually one for tough love, but y'all need to get your act together and learn who Bonnie Raitt is. You need to know what she looks like (red hair, awesome trademark silver streak). You need to know what her songs are -- you can't just know the one hit. You need to know "Nick of Time." You need to know "Cry on my Shoulder." You need to understand that my dad introduced me to her lesser known, oh so fine tunes, and that it was a beautiful moment in my musical molding as a youth.
And you need to understand that she is a legend.
And that I am going to see her at the Greek this summer.
And when I tell you that I am going to see her at the Greek this summer, you reply with what, America?
Not: "Who's Bonnie Raitt?"
No no.
You respond with this: "Jealous!" "Awesome!" "Where do I buy a ticket for my very own?!"
Signed, with tough love,
Me
Wednesday, March 9, 2016
Thursday, March 3, 2016
Why being mentally well made me feel like a hypocrite
I've been calling my parents, in times of trouble, for as long as I can remember.
I can still envision the phone I once used to dial them from a childhood sleepover. The number keys were oversized, and each a different shade of grey, the 3 a little darker than the 2, and the pound key the darkest. Their ombré hues were lit by the moon, coming in through the kitchen windows after midnight.
Homesick and staring at the ceiling of my girlfriend's bedroom, I finally crept from my sleeping bag and called home, hoping my parents would file into the minivan and cruise the quiet suburban streets to rescue me from my missing them.
451-8703.
They were a little jostled, but not angry. They talked to me for a few minutes, and by the time I hung up I felt braver, more calm. I got the dose of Family I needed, enough to finally fall asleep and make it 'til morning to see once again the people who made a daily, trusted appearance in my life.
***
When I dialed home this weekend, Dad's voice slipped instantly into concern, moments after he answered and heard my tears over the line.
"What?" he asked gently, and I wondered for a moment if I heard fear in his voice. Fear that we had taken a trip back to the Bad Old Days, the days when I called every few weeks, laden with debilitating sobs and very little hope for my long term future, let alone the next five minutes.
I had just finished crying to Alex, and after running in to the drugstore to pick up my anti-depressant medication, a new round of sadness came over me and I suddenly, instinctively, needed only my Mommy and Daddy.
In a Rite Aid parking lot, I found myself unable to stop worrying about those in my life who are struggling to find mental, spiritual, and emotional peace. With a wave of utter grief, I realized what it must have felt like for my parents to support me all those years, to watch me wrestle to keep my sanity.
It was, is, almost too much to bear. So I did what I'd done a hundred times before. I flipped through my contacts, selected "Home," and punched Send.
***
The quick story of my life goes like this: content, somewhat anxious, hyper childhood. Happy middle school years (I know, I'm weird). Out-of-place high school years. Elation in college, until senior year, when anxiety came back to visit. Isolation and depression following graduation. Escalating anxiety, therapy, meds, able to sleep and eat again. Then a lot of UP! and down. Weaning off meds, getting back on them. Seasons of therapy and seasons of no therapy. Then almost to the brink of no return, a phone call to a psychiatrist, new meds -- AWESOME meds, then (pretty much) happy, happy, happy.
Read about my full journey here if you want the longer version, but I'm not going to get into many details of my past because I want to focus now on where I sit today, which is a place I've never been before.
In the last several months, I've watched multiple people in my life struggle with their mental health. In some cases, I've been very close to the action -- or, rather, inaction, as depression is generally more of a sluggish state and is not usually quick to disappear.
After service this weekend at church, I thanked our pastor for preaching on mental health. I had him introduce me to our new mental wellness intern (Hallelujah! that such a thing exists); I told him I'm happy to help in any way I can to serve our community.
I dropped off my prescription, grabbed groceries, ate a giant salad, went for a walk. Happy, happy, happy.
Or so I thought.
In the morning I had celebrated that my church community is discussing mental health, openly and fervently. We hired an intern, for crying out loud.
By late afternoon, when I drove to pick up my meds, the unmet needs of my friends had started to weigh on me so heavily that I had crumpled 20 tissues on my passenger seat and was still reaching for more.
Instead of getting the usual relief from my tears, each salty trickle down my cheek brought with it a new layer of feeling -- guilt, selfishness, anger, helplessness. And then I thought about my parents. I thought about how they must have felt all those things during all the years that I fought to feel happy again. How they must have watched in fear, impatience, sadness, hopelessness, wondering if I would ever bounce back to that hyper, happy girl they once knew -- particularly in the moments when, too depressed to function or too tired to care, I wasn't putting up a fight for myself.
***
I have felt for quite some time that my role in this life is to write. To be honest about my past struggles, to share how I reached my mental health victories, and to encourage people to talk, talk, talk about their own messy stuff -- because if we remain in silence, we're all set up for failure.
In addition to being a writer, I feel like my other calling in this life is to be a pushy-yet-gentle mental health advocate. I work by day at a mental health center, I am vocal about the fact that I pop two pills every day which basically saved my life, and I show up to therapy even when I don't feel like hashing things out. Because like a workout at the gym, a regular talking through of things keeps me, plain and simple: healthy.
Beyond this, I mainly just make myself an approachable person, and wait for people to approach. I am the friend who is here to listen, who won't be freaked out by crazy thoughts you share with me, and who will offer to go to therapy with you for added support.
Living as this uber-supportive friend was going fine and dandy, until I found myself caring about people who weren't taking my prescribed steps toward mental health. In some cases, I felt the friend was so sensitive or volatile that I was afraid to even speak up and suggest something such as therapy. And boy has this sent me in a tailspin of feeling.
As I looked out at the Rite Aid parking lot, each new emotion piled on top of the last. I choked on some tears and told Alex, "This is almost as hard as being depressed myself."
I am seeing some true colors in myself that I didn't know existed, and I don't like them. The chartreuse crayons have pulled themselves out of the box and I'm looking at them, thinking, "Can these really be me?"
I don't consider myself to be a control freak at all. But I have had my eyes opened, as I've ached for people in my life to go to therapy and consider medication, to what it feels like to want to control someone else's life.
Before, I felt like some benevolent guru, in a flowing linen outfit, hands calmly folded, an open spirit waiting for a broken one to come crumple in my lap, at which point I would stroke the hair of that broken spirit, listen, offer tea, and privately, victoriously, pump my fist in the air once they'd announce to me they were headed to get additional, professional help.
I have been like Oprah, handing out advice and trail maps to her studio audience, not being asked, just sharing my mental wealth with the masses.
"You get a therapy appointment! And you get a therapy appointment!" I yell, full of good selflessness.
"And guess what, Audience? Your insurance is gonna pay for itttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttt!"
My friends cheer for me, their linen-clad mental health hero.
***
Except that instead of enthusiastically accepting my suggestions, people close to me have passed over them, like less-than-attractive garments at a store.
As I have watched people in my life feel worse and worse, every day passing without a call made to a professional helper, I have begun to feel less benevolent and more...nasty.
I have felt annoyance, wondering why these people won't help themselves. I have felt impatience, waiting for them to see the light of what (I think) needs to change in their lives to make them feel better.
I have felt relief, in the moments that they open honestly to me, releasing a frustration or a hurt from inside themselves and choosing to share it with me, letting some air out of their over-inflated tires. And then I have felt desperation, when they have another spell and I worry that each new spell will be worse than the last. In my worst worrisome moments, I wonder if one of the spells will be one that breaks them.
And I have been hurt, to the point of sobbing in my car, wondering when, and if, my friends will ever start acting like themselves again.
I have become self-righteous in my mental wellness, which is one of the strangest and perhaps most sick things I've ever had to admit.
I have been introduced to a Me who feels less compassion than I once did, for people struggling with depression, sadness, anxiety. I brood primarily in selfishness, wondering why THEY don't see why I am right, and do what I -- benevolently, gently -- suggest already.
I hate this Me, and look at her with horror.
When I was in the throes of my own emotional ups and downs, when I was without a map, when I felt like I was making every last healthy decision to no blasted avail, what made me feel THE worst were the moments in which I could feel those around me, those who loved me, being mad at me. I couldn't understand how anyone could be so heartless to see me in such a miserable state, and instead of just picking me up off the floor one more time, they threw up their hands instead. I was the depressed one, and you can't be callous with someone who's depressed. We're too fragile. Too exposed. Too everything.
My extreme emotional instability was unfair enough, and to have the people closest to me react with tough love was the most unfair thing of all. It's what made me hesitate to dial the phone, and I so desperately needed people who I could call.
***
In high school, I went to a church event with middle schoolers from our congregation, as a chaperone (I know, yikes. Someone once put me in charge).
There was a workshop that weekend about prayer. This very funny guy, who was acting as our emcee for the event, led the workshop, and while he peppered his presentation with jokes, he mellowed as he talked about conversing with God.
The one thing I remember from his talk is this: you can pray with your hands open. They don't have to be clasped, or holding the hand of another (though I love the holding hands while praying thing). You can just rest them on your thighs, Mr. Emcee said, upturned, like shallow dishes you might drop jewelry into.
I am usually a clasper, and when saying the Lord's Prayer with my family or praying with Abby in our living room, I am a hand holder. But every once in a while I drop my hands and leave them open, letting still air touch my palms.
Our emcee is not the only one who sees the value of openness. I read in Isabel Gillies fantastic book, A Year and Six Seconds, that she sometimes lies on the floor on her back. The position guarantees vulnerability, she explains.
Loosen your grip, writes Anne Lamott.
As I let my hands fall open during our congregational prayer this past Sunday, and as I listened to Rustin's sermon, it occurred to me once more that I've been operating with fists lately, and not open hands. I have the treatments that worked so well for me -- therapy, meds -- bubbling around so actively in my brain; I don't seem to have any room left for grace.
I've discovered that I detest watching people I love grapple with pain. I've also discovered that I can be impatient, waiting for their struggle to end, and focused only on the solution that I want to see.
I've learned that I have embodied a behavior that, when once exercised toward me, threatened to crush me, while I was in one of the most delicate states I've ever known.
This has not been an easy fact to recognize.
***
I suppose there is some good news in all of this.
Even though I've deemed myself a selfish, self-righteous person in reaction to my friends' pain, in the midst of this I have not lost sight of the fact that I am not the ultimate solution to their problems. I still understand that a therapist can help in ways that I can't. That an "unbiased third party" (as my brother so famously once describe a counselor's role to me) can listen and offer advice in a way that doesn't have all my Bailey-ness in the way. I sure hope my friends need me, but I don't want to be the only thing they need.
I recognize that God can help. That faith communities can help. That walks, and water, and pets and funny movies and pizza and singing and being silly can help. That time, blessed time, can do so much, God willing, to turn things around.
Alex and my parents have reminded me that I can't fix people. I can't make them engage in self-help activities if they don't want to, even if I think they're beyond due for some.
In the meantime, there are some things I know I can do.
I can continue to advocate for mental health services at large. I can keep writing, and talking, and listening. I can always be ready, in my hypothetical linen (it wrinkles, so I don't have a lot of it in my closet).
I can keep taking care of myself, so that I can remain in a place to listen, to love. I can recognize when I'm being less than compassionate, and talk it out with my therapist and others.
And I can keep my hands open. I can pray for all of us, because we all need help.
And since God gave me two hands -- ai'nt that quaint? -- I can use one to pray, openly, and the other can maybe quit clenching and instead get up and help. Instead of using my hand to simply point one to another helper, I can use it to be a helper. Pour a cup of tea, clean up messes, buy a plane ticket to come visit, pick up the bill.
And I can use my free hand to call my friends who need some listening love. Always remembering those moonlit, ombré numbers that once connected me to people who listened and loved me.
I can still envision the phone I once used to dial them from a childhood sleepover. The number keys were oversized, and each a different shade of grey, the 3 a little darker than the 2, and the pound key the darkest. Their ombré hues were lit by the moon, coming in through the kitchen windows after midnight.
Homesick and staring at the ceiling of my girlfriend's bedroom, I finally crept from my sleeping bag and called home, hoping my parents would file into the minivan and cruise the quiet suburban streets to rescue me from my missing them.
451-8703.
They were a little jostled, but not angry. They talked to me for a few minutes, and by the time I hung up I felt braver, more calm. I got the dose of Family I needed, enough to finally fall asleep and make it 'til morning to see once again the people who made a daily, trusted appearance in my life.
***
When I dialed home this weekend, Dad's voice slipped instantly into concern, moments after he answered and heard my tears over the line.
"What?" he asked gently, and I wondered for a moment if I heard fear in his voice. Fear that we had taken a trip back to the Bad Old Days, the days when I called every few weeks, laden with debilitating sobs and very little hope for my long term future, let alone the next five minutes.
I had just finished crying to Alex, and after running in to the drugstore to pick up my anti-depressant medication, a new round of sadness came over me and I suddenly, instinctively, needed only my Mommy and Daddy.
In a Rite Aid parking lot, I found myself unable to stop worrying about those in my life who are struggling to find mental, spiritual, and emotional peace. With a wave of utter grief, I realized what it must have felt like for my parents to support me all those years, to watch me wrestle to keep my sanity.
It was, is, almost too much to bear. So I did what I'd done a hundred times before. I flipped through my contacts, selected "Home," and punched Send.
***
The quick story of my life goes like this: content, somewhat anxious, hyper childhood. Happy middle school years (I know, I'm weird). Out-of-place high school years. Elation in college, until senior year, when anxiety came back to visit. Isolation and depression following graduation. Escalating anxiety, therapy, meds, able to sleep and eat again. Then a lot of UP! and down. Weaning off meds, getting back on them. Seasons of therapy and seasons of no therapy. Then almost to the brink of no return, a phone call to a psychiatrist, new meds -- AWESOME meds, then (pretty much) happy, happy, happy.
Read about my full journey here if you want the longer version, but I'm not going to get into many details of my past because I want to focus now on where I sit today, which is a place I've never been before.
In the last several months, I've watched multiple people in my life struggle with their mental health. In some cases, I've been very close to the action -- or, rather, inaction, as depression is generally more of a sluggish state and is not usually quick to disappear.
After service this weekend at church, I thanked our pastor for preaching on mental health. I had him introduce me to our new mental wellness intern (Hallelujah! that such a thing exists); I told him I'm happy to help in any way I can to serve our community.
I dropped off my prescription, grabbed groceries, ate a giant salad, went for a walk. Happy, happy, happy.
Or so I thought.
In the morning I had celebrated that my church community is discussing mental health, openly and fervently. We hired an intern, for crying out loud.
By late afternoon, when I drove to pick up my meds, the unmet needs of my friends had started to weigh on me so heavily that I had crumpled 20 tissues on my passenger seat and was still reaching for more.
Instead of getting the usual relief from my tears, each salty trickle down my cheek brought with it a new layer of feeling -- guilt, selfishness, anger, helplessness. And then I thought about my parents. I thought about how they must have felt all those things during all the years that I fought to feel happy again. How they must have watched in fear, impatience, sadness, hopelessness, wondering if I would ever bounce back to that hyper, happy girl they once knew -- particularly in the moments when, too depressed to function or too tired to care, I wasn't putting up a fight for myself.
***
I have felt for quite some time that my role in this life is to write. To be honest about my past struggles, to share how I reached my mental health victories, and to encourage people to talk, talk, talk about their own messy stuff -- because if we remain in silence, we're all set up for failure.
In addition to being a writer, I feel like my other calling in this life is to be a pushy-yet-gentle mental health advocate. I work by day at a mental health center, I am vocal about the fact that I pop two pills every day which basically saved my life, and I show up to therapy even when I don't feel like hashing things out. Because like a workout at the gym, a regular talking through of things keeps me, plain and simple: healthy.
Beyond this, I mainly just make myself an approachable person, and wait for people to approach. I am the friend who is here to listen, who won't be freaked out by crazy thoughts you share with me, and who will offer to go to therapy with you for added support.
Living as this uber-supportive friend was going fine and dandy, until I found myself caring about people who weren't taking my prescribed steps toward mental health. In some cases, I felt the friend was so sensitive or volatile that I was afraid to even speak up and suggest something such as therapy. And boy has this sent me in a tailspin of feeling.
As I looked out at the Rite Aid parking lot, each new emotion piled on top of the last. I choked on some tears and told Alex, "This is almost as hard as being depressed myself."
I am seeing some true colors in myself that I didn't know existed, and I don't like them. The chartreuse crayons have pulled themselves out of the box and I'm looking at them, thinking, "Can these really be me?"
I don't consider myself to be a control freak at all. But I have had my eyes opened, as I've ached for people in my life to go to therapy and consider medication, to what it feels like to want to control someone else's life.
Before, I felt like some benevolent guru, in a flowing linen outfit, hands calmly folded, an open spirit waiting for a broken one to come crumple in my lap, at which point I would stroke the hair of that broken spirit, listen, offer tea, and privately, victoriously, pump my fist in the air once they'd announce to me they were headed to get additional, professional help.
I have been like Oprah, handing out advice and trail maps to her studio audience, not being asked, just sharing my mental wealth with the masses.
"You get a therapy appointment! And you get a therapy appointment!" I yell, full of good selflessness.
"And guess what, Audience? Your insurance is gonna pay for itttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttt!"
My friends cheer for me, their linen-clad mental health hero.
***
Except that instead of enthusiastically accepting my suggestions, people close to me have passed over them, like less-than-attractive garments at a store.
As I have watched people in my life feel worse and worse, every day passing without a call made to a professional helper, I have begun to feel less benevolent and more...nasty.
I have felt annoyance, wondering why these people won't help themselves. I have felt impatience, waiting for them to see the light of what (I think) needs to change in their lives to make them feel better.
I have felt relief, in the moments that they open honestly to me, releasing a frustration or a hurt from inside themselves and choosing to share it with me, letting some air out of their over-inflated tires. And then I have felt desperation, when they have another spell and I worry that each new spell will be worse than the last. In my worst worrisome moments, I wonder if one of the spells will be one that breaks them.
And I have been hurt, to the point of sobbing in my car, wondering when, and if, my friends will ever start acting like themselves again.
I have become self-righteous in my mental wellness, which is one of the strangest and perhaps most sick things I've ever had to admit.
I have been introduced to a Me who feels less compassion than I once did, for people struggling with depression, sadness, anxiety. I brood primarily in selfishness, wondering why THEY don't see why I am right, and do what I -- benevolently, gently -- suggest already.
I hate this Me, and look at her with horror.
When I was in the throes of my own emotional ups and downs, when I was without a map, when I felt like I was making every last healthy decision to no blasted avail, what made me feel THE worst were the moments in which I could feel those around me, those who loved me, being mad at me. I couldn't understand how anyone could be so heartless to see me in such a miserable state, and instead of just picking me up off the floor one more time, they threw up their hands instead. I was the depressed one, and you can't be callous with someone who's depressed. We're too fragile. Too exposed. Too everything.
My extreme emotional instability was unfair enough, and to have the people closest to me react with tough love was the most unfair thing of all. It's what made me hesitate to dial the phone, and I so desperately needed people who I could call.
***
In high school, I went to a church event with middle schoolers from our congregation, as a chaperone (I know, yikes. Someone once put me in charge).
There was a workshop that weekend about prayer. This very funny guy, who was acting as our emcee for the event, led the workshop, and while he peppered his presentation with jokes, he mellowed as he talked about conversing with God.
The one thing I remember from his talk is this: you can pray with your hands open. They don't have to be clasped, or holding the hand of another (though I love the holding hands while praying thing). You can just rest them on your thighs, Mr. Emcee said, upturned, like shallow dishes you might drop jewelry into.
I am usually a clasper, and when saying the Lord's Prayer with my family or praying with Abby in our living room, I am a hand holder. But every once in a while I drop my hands and leave them open, letting still air touch my palms.
Our emcee is not the only one who sees the value of openness. I read in Isabel Gillies fantastic book, A Year and Six Seconds, that she sometimes lies on the floor on her back. The position guarantees vulnerability, she explains.
Loosen your grip, writes Anne Lamott.
As I let my hands fall open during our congregational prayer this past Sunday, and as I listened to Rustin's sermon, it occurred to me once more that I've been operating with fists lately, and not open hands. I have the treatments that worked so well for me -- therapy, meds -- bubbling around so actively in my brain; I don't seem to have any room left for grace.
I've discovered that I detest watching people I love grapple with pain. I've also discovered that I can be impatient, waiting for their struggle to end, and focused only on the solution that I want to see.
I've learned that I have embodied a behavior that, when once exercised toward me, threatened to crush me, while I was in one of the most delicate states I've ever known.
This has not been an easy fact to recognize.
***
I suppose there is some good news in all of this.
Even though I've deemed myself a selfish, self-righteous person in reaction to my friends' pain, in the midst of this I have not lost sight of the fact that I am not the ultimate solution to their problems. I still understand that a therapist can help in ways that I can't. That an "unbiased third party" (as my brother so famously once describe a counselor's role to me) can listen and offer advice in a way that doesn't have all my Bailey-ness in the way. I sure hope my friends need me, but I don't want to be the only thing they need.
I recognize that God can help. That faith communities can help. That walks, and water, and pets and funny movies and pizza and singing and being silly can help. That time, blessed time, can do so much, God willing, to turn things around.
Alex and my parents have reminded me that I can't fix people. I can't make them engage in self-help activities if they don't want to, even if I think they're beyond due for some.
In the meantime, there are some things I know I can do.
I can continue to advocate for mental health services at large. I can keep writing, and talking, and listening. I can always be ready, in my hypothetical linen (it wrinkles, so I don't have a lot of it in my closet).
I can keep taking care of myself, so that I can remain in a place to listen, to love. I can recognize when I'm being less than compassionate, and talk it out with my therapist and others.
And I can keep my hands open. I can pray for all of us, because we all need help.
And since God gave me two hands -- ai'nt that quaint? -- I can use one to pray, openly, and the other can maybe quit clenching and instead get up and help. Instead of using my hand to simply point one to another helper, I can use it to be a helper. Pour a cup of tea, clean up messes, buy a plane ticket to come visit, pick up the bill.
And I can use my free hand to call my friends who need some listening love. Always remembering those moonlit, ombré numbers that once connected me to people who listened and loved me.
Friday, February 26, 2016
Some pre-weekend thoughts
I'm afraid that Donald Trump might become president.
I rarely/never get political on this blog, but I just thought I'd share that the thought of him in the Oval Office freaks me out.
Anyway. On to non-political items.
***
My boyfriend asked me if I'd be willing to go to Death Valley with him this weekend to spend a day among the wildflowers.
I said yes, of course, because I am one for romance and what is more romantic than being among the wildflowers (cue Tom Petty) with the one you love?
***
There was a chick at karaoke last night who was singing Whitney and she was gooooooooooooooooooooooooooooood.
"It's not fair," Alex said.
I was only a tinge jealous but mostly just watching her in her pink dress, thinking, "She better be pursuing this as a career." Because if she's not I'll need to have words with her.
Her name is Lauren. Remember that when she's famous. You read it here first, folks! Breaking news on the Daily Bailey!
***
I hope I don't sound like a drunk, but I am loving the community at our local bar.
We go there to shoot pool and sing karaoke, and this is the first and only time in my life in which I have walked into an establishment and feel like I have a roomful of friends and soon-to-be friends surrounding me.
I have found my Cheers. In Los Angeles, where no one is supposed to know your name, unless you're Brad Pitt, in which case everyone -- but no one, really -- knows you.
When I leave for the night, Jason, the karaoke DJ (apparently the official title for such a position is "KJ") gives me a hug. I work with his mom.
I met Tony and Joey last night, after they put their quarters on the pool table and suggested we play doubles. In no time at all, they were giving me pointers for my shots, teaching me physics tricks, and we all whooped together as I sank tricky shots under their tutelage.
I know James hardly at all, but he's got a great voice and a friendly face and I just know if I were to camp out at karaoke by myself some night, we could chat easily throughout the evening.
I chopped my hair off last night, and these bar friends of mine -- several of whom I've known for less than a month -- had all sorts of excitement and compliments to share with me.
Even though some of the boys wanted my digits, they have since ushered Alex into their nest, cheering him on as he finishes rocking out yet another Weird Al song at the mic.
I love -- and I do not say this in jest -- this community.
Community in LA. Eureka. And it took me less than four years in town to find it.
***
We stuffed, sealed, labeled, and stamped about 1300 envelopes at the office today. I enjoyed the mindless, manual labor on a Friday morning, chatting and laughing with my gal pal coworkers.
"I'm gonna pee," Carrie said through her laughter, as our conversational reverie escalated to the point of extreme giggles.
I get antsy on Fridays, generally happy to be at work but raring to get to 5:00, so I love when I can be helpful and productive but not feel like I'm going to tear my hair out with some other project I've been working on since Monday and can't stand to look at anymore.
It's the little things, my friends. Count your blessings. It will keep your chin above water and your spirit out of the muck the Real World throws at you.
***
Let's see, what is Bailey reading these days?
Currently lying in my bed with me and Max at night is: No One Could Have Guessed the Weather. I found it, of all places, at the 99 Cent store. It was praised on the front cover by Isabel Gillies (who wrote A Year and Six Seconds which was absolutely fantastic), who compared it to The Girls' Guide to Hunting and Fishing, which I read in college and ate up like a big ol' bite of pizza washed down with beer. Yummy, literary beer.
Mmmmmmmm. LOVE great femme writers. They make me happy to be a woman, and a writer, so I can say I am a part of their tribe.
Anyway. I'm only like 20 pages into Weather, but I have high hopes!
Did I mention I'm in love with Marisa de los Santos? I have two of her books cracked currently.
She's. So. GOOD!
Never mind that I'm not finishing a single one of these hundred thousand books I have cracked. Meh. C'est la vie des livres.
That's all for now! Off to get my massage! Ahhhhhhhhh.
I rarely/never get political on this blog, but I just thought I'd share that the thought of him in the Oval Office freaks me out.
Anyway. On to non-political items.
***
My boyfriend asked me if I'd be willing to go to Death Valley with him this weekend to spend a day among the wildflowers.
I said yes, of course, because I am one for romance and what is more romantic than being among the wildflowers (cue Tom Petty) with the one you love?
***
There was a chick at karaoke last night who was singing Whitney and she was gooooooooooooooooooooooooooooood.
"It's not fair," Alex said.
I was only a tinge jealous but mostly just watching her in her pink dress, thinking, "She better be pursuing this as a career." Because if she's not I'll need to have words with her.
Her name is Lauren. Remember that when she's famous. You read it here first, folks! Breaking news on the Daily Bailey!
***
I hope I don't sound like a drunk, but I am loving the community at our local bar.
We go there to shoot pool and sing karaoke, and this is the first and only time in my life in which I have walked into an establishment and feel like I have a roomful of friends and soon-to-be friends surrounding me.
I have found my Cheers. In Los Angeles, where no one is supposed to know your name, unless you're Brad Pitt, in which case everyone -- but no one, really -- knows you.
When I leave for the night, Jason, the karaoke DJ (apparently the official title for such a position is "KJ") gives me a hug. I work with his mom.
I met Tony and Joey last night, after they put their quarters on the pool table and suggested we play doubles. In no time at all, they were giving me pointers for my shots, teaching me physics tricks, and we all whooped together as I sank tricky shots under their tutelage.
I know James hardly at all, but he's got a great voice and a friendly face and I just know if I were to camp out at karaoke by myself some night, we could chat easily throughout the evening.
I chopped my hair off last night, and these bar friends of mine -- several of whom I've known for less than a month -- had all sorts of excitement and compliments to share with me.
Even though some of the boys wanted my digits, they have since ushered Alex into their nest, cheering him on as he finishes rocking out yet another Weird Al song at the mic.
I love -- and I do not say this in jest -- this community.
Community in LA. Eureka. And it took me less than four years in town to find it.
***
We stuffed, sealed, labeled, and stamped about 1300 envelopes at the office today. I enjoyed the mindless, manual labor on a Friday morning, chatting and laughing with my gal pal coworkers.
"I'm gonna pee," Carrie said through her laughter, as our conversational reverie escalated to the point of extreme giggles.
I get antsy on Fridays, generally happy to be at work but raring to get to 5:00, so I love when I can be helpful and productive but not feel like I'm going to tear my hair out with some other project I've been working on since Monday and can't stand to look at anymore.
It's the little things, my friends. Count your blessings. It will keep your chin above water and your spirit out of the muck the Real World throws at you.
***
Let's see, what is Bailey reading these days?
Currently lying in my bed with me and Max at night is: No One Could Have Guessed the Weather. I found it, of all places, at the 99 Cent store. It was praised on the front cover by Isabel Gillies (who wrote A Year and Six Seconds which was absolutely fantastic), who compared it to The Girls' Guide to Hunting and Fishing, which I read in college and ate up like a big ol' bite of pizza washed down with beer. Yummy, literary beer.
Mmmmmmmm. LOVE great femme writers. They make me happy to be a woman, and a writer, so I can say I am a part of their tribe.
Anyway. I'm only like 20 pages into Weather, but I have high hopes!
Did I mention I'm in love with Marisa de los Santos? I have two of her books cracked currently.
She's. So. GOOD!
Never mind that I'm not finishing a single one of these hundred thousand books I have cracked. Meh. C'est la vie des livres.
That's all for now! Off to get my massage! Ahhhhhhhhh.
Friday, February 19, 2016
Friday
I stopped by Foster's Donuts this morning.
Either the woman working misheard me or really likes me, because I requested two sprinkle donuts but when I got to work I discovered three rings of confection in my white paper bag.
Score. Sugary, cakey score.
I've eaten one, not sure when I'll consume the other two. Perhaps I will bring them to the
THIRD ANNUAL GAL PAL GETAWAY
with
GAL PAL LAURA
for breakfast consumption tomorrow morning.
Who knows when we'll eat them? The world is our oyster. Or donut, as it were.
***
I went to Alex's improv show last night. I was very impressed by everyone's quick wit, and I never cease to be impressed by Alex's talent.
They did a mock poetry reading, and A pretended to be a painfully shy child and he was just so precious it was all I could do not to squeal from the front row.
SIGH.
So precious. And he's mine. Yay.
***
Do you ever stop and think about how much our lives can change from week to week?
Par example, last week I spent every night at Alex's place, affixing new bandages to his recent bicycle accident wounds.
This week I've hardly thought about that. But for a week that was my life. This life just changes, swiftly and steadily.
Hmm. Just thought I'd share that little musing.
***
It's also interesting to me that I can be so wrapped up in a book, and then suddenly stop reading it for a bit and not miss it. I'm reading Marisa de los Santos' "Belong to Me" right now, and it's ridiculously good.
I was tearing through it, but then I just got busy and I haven't touched it too much recently.
I mean, I absolutely look forward to getting back to it, but I'm not actively missing it.
But I feel a twinge of guilt that I'm not driving through it, as though the match of passion has burned out on a crush and I'm wondering why the bottom of my feelings have dropped out. (Except my crush for Marisa de los Santos is still there and I love her work). Is that weird?
I feel similar guilt regarding clothes in my closet that I don't wear very often. I feel as if I'm not giving them adequate attention. Does this stem from my place as a forgotten middle child? Something to explore in therapy...
Who's with me? Inanimate object guilt? Anyone?
I'm sure if my brother Patrick is reading this he's thinking, "Bailey, you're overthinking this." Can't argue with him, but I plan to continue overthinking, thank you very much.
In other Patrick news, he is headed to Africa tomorrow, which will make me and him the only two Brewers to have traveled to the motherland. Holla. Passport club!
***
My new favorite game at karaoke is to have the DJ pick a song for me. I've told him that basically anything poppy from the 90s is a safe bet. So far he's called me on to the stage to sing Alanis' "You Oughta Know" and Third Eye Blind's "Semi-Charmed Kind of Life."
The latter makes me think of my seventh grade boyfriend, because he loved that song and I remember vividly him jumping up and down at one of our school dances to the "Doo doo doo"s.
He's gay now.
***
A bientot! Happy Gal Pal Weekend! Thanks for reading!
Xoxo
Either the woman working misheard me or really likes me, because I requested two sprinkle donuts but when I got to work I discovered three rings of confection in my white paper bag.
Score. Sugary, cakey score.
I've eaten one, not sure when I'll consume the other two. Perhaps I will bring them to the
THIRD ANNUAL GAL PAL GETAWAY
with
GAL PAL LAURA
for breakfast consumption tomorrow morning.
Who knows when we'll eat them? The world is our oyster. Or donut, as it were.
***
I went to Alex's improv show last night. I was very impressed by everyone's quick wit, and I never cease to be impressed by Alex's talent.
They did a mock poetry reading, and A pretended to be a painfully shy child and he was just so precious it was all I could do not to squeal from the front row.
SIGH.
So precious. And he's mine. Yay.
***
Do you ever stop and think about how much our lives can change from week to week?
Par example, last week I spent every night at Alex's place, affixing new bandages to his recent bicycle accident wounds.
This week I've hardly thought about that. But for a week that was my life. This life just changes, swiftly and steadily.
Hmm. Just thought I'd share that little musing.
***
It's also interesting to me that I can be so wrapped up in a book, and then suddenly stop reading it for a bit and not miss it. I'm reading Marisa de los Santos' "Belong to Me" right now, and it's ridiculously good.
I was tearing through it, but then I just got busy and I haven't touched it too much recently.
I mean, I absolutely look forward to getting back to it, but I'm not actively missing it.
But I feel a twinge of guilt that I'm not driving through it, as though the match of passion has burned out on a crush and I'm wondering why the bottom of my feelings have dropped out. (Except my crush for Marisa de los Santos is still there and I love her work). Is that weird?
I feel similar guilt regarding clothes in my closet that I don't wear very often. I feel as if I'm not giving them adequate attention. Does this stem from my place as a forgotten middle child? Something to explore in therapy...
Who's with me? Inanimate object guilt? Anyone?
I'm sure if my brother Patrick is reading this he's thinking, "Bailey, you're overthinking this." Can't argue with him, but I plan to continue overthinking, thank you very much.
In other Patrick news, he is headed to Africa tomorrow, which will make me and him the only two Brewers to have traveled to the motherland. Holla. Passport club!
***
My new favorite game at karaoke is to have the DJ pick a song for me. I've told him that basically anything poppy from the 90s is a safe bet. So far he's called me on to the stage to sing Alanis' "You Oughta Know" and Third Eye Blind's "Semi-Charmed Kind of Life."
The latter makes me think of my seventh grade boyfriend, because he loved that song and I remember vividly him jumping up and down at one of our school dances to the "Doo doo doo"s.
He's gay now.
***
A bientot! Happy Gal Pal Weekend! Thanks for reading!
Xoxo
Thursday, February 18, 2016
Dad says I need to write
I talked to my Dad yesterday, as I munched on tuna salad (like, a salad with tuna on top -- not a sandwich with tuna salad in between the bread).
He said our friends Rick and Maureen (also my former landlords extraordinaire) want to know how my book is coming.
Ummmm[gurgly eschewing-the-question noises]mmmmmmmmm, I said.
[Laughter], Dad said.
Daddy Dearest then requested that I get some writing in "before you forget how to do it."
Admittedly, I have started -- and abandoned -- several blog posts in the last couple of weeks.
The book hasn't been touched since last year, I'm pretty sure.
But since FATHER asked specifically, I will write SOMETHING here and then post it and you're welcome.
The good news is I have been very active in 2016, so I have plenty of material to draw from. So let's begin with a smattering of thoughts and musings, shall we?
Onward.
#1. I am becoming one with karaoke.
I would say I'm obsessed. I would say I'm falling in love. But as I dissect it more closely, I'd have to say that karaoke is just becoming a part of me.
(Normally), when one first begins singing karaoke, the number one emotion tied to the action is fear. Also maybe some elation, excitement, fun. But certainly some nervousness in there as well.
Well, I'm at the point where I just get up there and do it, the way I would sit down to stitch some X's into perforated fabric, or snuggle my kitten's face, or drink a beer. It's just easy peasy. It's fun, don't get me wrong, but I'm no longer like, "Eeeeeeek" when they call my name to take the stage. I'm just like, "Circle of Life in the key of E, yo."
I'm also getting to know some new pals at our favorite local bar, which is making karaoke way more fun than it already naturally is.
#2. Billiards is also becoming a part of my natural self/life.
Adding to our favorite local bar's charm -- in addition to the great patrons and karaoke two nights a week -- is the fact that it has a pool table, and games are a whopping 50 cents.
I am beginning to love pool so much that I gladly dip into my precious quarters-for-laundry collection to play several times a week.
I have some off moments, to be sure, but...to be honest...I'm getting a little better at the game. And that's fun.
#3. I'm getting pretty organized.
My car and bedroom, while not pristine, are currently not atrocious.
One of my besties, Laura, is coming to stay with us tonight, and I am not cringing with self consciousness at the fact that she might walk into a horrendous mess this evening (just a number of days ago I would have been clamoring to keep her away from my horribly messy room).
I did some laundry last night. I'm getting better at using my evenings and weekends and spare time to do at least small things in the effort of becoming more clean/organized/calm/Namaste.
#4. Several books are being cracked these days.
To New Year date, I believe three books have been completed. (I didn't read 16, like my friend Jill). But I have books, books, books everywhere, in various states of being read. On the shelves, in my purse, in my car, in my bed.
Books about the Titanic, post-World War II, pregnancy (it's a novel, not a Bailey-reading-for-personal-info book), menopause (see previous parenthetical, except replace "novel" with "memoir"), cessation of smoking (this is a kid's book, I promise; again, not for self help), a castle that comes to life, the hospitality industry...
On and on.
Oh how I love to read. I want to write a blog post about my lifelong love affair with words, but for some reason am not quite up to pull the trigger on that one.
Books. Read. Yum.
#5. My refrigerator magnet collection is getting a wee bit out of control.
Or it's on point, depending on how you see things.
In the last couple of months, I have collected new magnetic booty from:
The Sonoran Desert
Yosemite
Catalina Island
Ensenada, Mexico
Kansas City, MO
The Carnival Imagination cruise ship
Somewhere along Highway 99
This weekend I plan to pick one up from Santa Barbara.
Let's just say the wheels of my suitcase have been getting some exercise of late.
#6. I get to hang with my friend Laura, which is rad.
Before Valentine's I went on a cruise with Lola, her BF, my BF, and her parents. This past Monday we hung out at the beach with Abs during Laura's layover. And this weekend we're headed to a beach getaway.
This is our third annual gal pal vacation we'll be taking together, and to put it only lightly I LOVE this tradition. It is things like this that make me love being a (without kids) adult. Planning vacations with friends and making them happen. This might sound over the top, but in a way it is a dream come true for me. I spent a lot of my adolescence feeling like I was on the outside looking in on other people's living of normal life/events/happiness, and I feel like, now at 30, I am grabbing life by the horns and making things happen and oh if it doesn't feel GREAT.
#7. My nephew is hilarious.
I Skyped with him this weekend, and he made me laugh, more than once.
All right, Kiddoes, I did it! I wrote something. Never mind that it's a listy blog post, I got my fingers doing keyboard aerobics and that is something.
Some. Thing.
Be back soon, with some better writing, hopefully.
Love,
Me
He said our friends Rick and Maureen (also my former landlords extraordinaire) want to know how my book is coming.
Ummmm[gurgly eschewing-the-question noises]mmmmmmmmm, I said.
[Laughter], Dad said.
Daddy Dearest then requested that I get some writing in "before you forget how to do it."
Admittedly, I have started -- and abandoned -- several blog posts in the last couple of weeks.
The book hasn't been touched since last year, I'm pretty sure.
But since FATHER asked specifically, I will write SOMETHING here and then post it and you're welcome.
The good news is I have been very active in 2016, so I have plenty of material to draw from. So let's begin with a smattering of thoughts and musings, shall we?
Onward.
#1. I am becoming one with karaoke.
I would say I'm obsessed. I would say I'm falling in love. But as I dissect it more closely, I'd have to say that karaoke is just becoming a part of me.
(Normally), when one first begins singing karaoke, the number one emotion tied to the action is fear. Also maybe some elation, excitement, fun. But certainly some nervousness in there as well.
Well, I'm at the point where I just get up there and do it, the way I would sit down to stitch some X's into perforated fabric, or snuggle my kitten's face, or drink a beer. It's just easy peasy. It's fun, don't get me wrong, but I'm no longer like, "Eeeeeeek" when they call my name to take the stage. I'm just like, "Circle of Life in the key of E, yo."
I'm also getting to know some new pals at our favorite local bar, which is making karaoke way more fun than it already naturally is.
#2. Billiards is also becoming a part of my natural self/life.
Adding to our favorite local bar's charm -- in addition to the great patrons and karaoke two nights a week -- is the fact that it has a pool table, and games are a whopping 50 cents.
I am beginning to love pool so much that I gladly dip into my precious quarters-for-laundry collection to play several times a week.
I have some off moments, to be sure, but...to be honest...I'm getting a little better at the game. And that's fun.
#3. I'm getting pretty organized.
My car and bedroom, while not pristine, are currently not atrocious.
One of my besties, Laura, is coming to stay with us tonight, and I am not cringing with self consciousness at the fact that she might walk into a horrendous mess this evening (just a number of days ago I would have been clamoring to keep her away from my horribly messy room).
I did some laundry last night. I'm getting better at using my evenings and weekends and spare time to do at least small things in the effort of becoming more clean/organized/calm/Namaste.
#4. Several books are being cracked these days.
To New Year date, I believe three books have been completed. (I didn't read 16, like my friend Jill). But I have books, books, books everywhere, in various states of being read. On the shelves, in my purse, in my car, in my bed.
Books about the Titanic, post-World War II, pregnancy (it's a novel, not a Bailey-reading-for-personal-info book), menopause (see previous parenthetical, except replace "novel" with "memoir"), cessation of smoking (this is a kid's book, I promise; again, not for self help), a castle that comes to life, the hospitality industry...
On and on.
Oh how I love to read. I want to write a blog post about my lifelong love affair with words, but for some reason am not quite up to pull the trigger on that one.
Books. Read. Yum.
#5. My refrigerator magnet collection is getting a wee bit out of control.
Or it's on point, depending on how you see things.
In the last couple of months, I have collected new magnetic booty from:
The Sonoran Desert
Yosemite
Catalina Island
Ensenada, Mexico
Kansas City, MO
The Carnival Imagination cruise ship
Somewhere along Highway 99
This weekend I plan to pick one up from Santa Barbara.
Let's just say the wheels of my suitcase have been getting some exercise of late.
#6. I get to hang with my friend Laura, which is rad.
Before Valentine's I went on a cruise with Lola, her BF, my BF, and her parents. This past Monday we hung out at the beach with Abs during Laura's layover. And this weekend we're headed to a beach getaway.
This is our third annual gal pal vacation we'll be taking together, and to put it only lightly I LOVE this tradition. It is things like this that make me love being a (without kids) adult. Planning vacations with friends and making them happen. This might sound over the top, but in a way it is a dream come true for me. I spent a lot of my adolescence feeling like I was on the outside looking in on other people's living of normal life/events/happiness, and I feel like, now at 30, I am grabbing life by the horns and making things happen and oh if it doesn't feel GREAT.
A snap from Gal Pal Trip #1
#7. My nephew is hilarious.
I Skyped with him this weekend, and he made me laugh, more than once.
All right, Kiddoes, I did it! I wrote something. Never mind that it's a listy blog post, I got my fingers doing keyboard aerobics and that is something.
Some. Thing.
Be back soon, with some better writing, hopefully.
Love,
Me
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