I've been trying to get back into the swing of blogging by participating in Nablopomo this year (National Blog Posting Month) but seven days in, I've just failed miserably. I didn't post on Saturday because I simply ran out of things to say and I didn't post yesterday because I stayed up all night trying to figure out how, exactly, I broke the old feed to my wordpress site. 

Right now, there are a few thousand people who think I stopped blogging in May. I know, I know, lucky devils. Most people who have this feed probably think I stopped blogging, too, when in fact I haven't...I've just been doing it other places.

Like Babble, where there is a new post up today. 

And I think feeds are a dying art, anyway. I mean, you can't even share posts in the new Google Reader anymore and that function was the single best idea Google ever had, aside from self-diagnosing and that whole Total World Domination thing. So I guess I shouldn't care that my old feed dun broked; it's just that not being able to fix things frustrates me TO GAH*.

So I guess I'll just leave the subscribing to the Book of Faces and G+, which Oh! Opened up to brands yesterday! After they made me use my real name (ish) on the internet! Assholes! Which doesn't really matter since my big brother has made it his life's mission to show ever single person we've ever been related to my blog via the magic of Facebook. Facebook truly is the wasteland where all secrets go to die.

Either way, my new G+ page is right here. And here's a picture of what happens to my boobs around here when I'm not paying attention. Because shut up.


If you don't read Jett Superior or follow her on the twitters, you are missing out on both brilliance and free English lessons.



I have this friend who has something like 600 cousins, and not in the 'OH-EM-GEE he has like sixty-eleven hundred cousins, squee!' way, either. He actually has 600ish cousiny-relations who all live within a reasonable proximity to one another, but more significantly, they all know each other. They know which ones are lawyers and which ones are accountants and who is in construction and how many are pregnant and they never want for anything.

My friend has 600+ people who would, at a moment's notice, lend him their expertise, their support and their good lobster pot. There is a difference between expecting others to do things for you and simply knowing there are those out there who will, and I believe that difference is called Having a Village. 

I do not have 600 cousins. I have one living biological cousin and I haven't seen her since her sister died in 1996. I guarantee you I won't ever see her again, either. I have three, maybe four (I'm not entirely sure) step-cousins, but I don't know so much as their full names. I don't even know the full names of any of my grandparents save my father's father. 

What I do have is one big brother and the most amazingly magical motley assortment of people who I've picked up along the way, people I can turn to when I need it - no matter what it happens to be. I know which ones understand me when I'm breaking, and I know which ones are willing to play mom or sister, and I know which ones to call upon on a Thursday night when I'm trying to write the most important document of my life thus far. I know they will answer, and I know they will charge for the guns with me if I ask it of them.

It's not ever going to be the same as having a bona fide family; I'll always feel like I'm imposing, like I'm not showing enough gratitude, like I'm not giving enough back. I'll forever wonder why my Six Hundred doesn't ride back the way my parents, my church and every person I ever tried to love did, but it isn't mine to reason why, I guess.

It is mine to charge forward, wildy. It is mine to do and die. There is a difference between living up to someone else's expectations and simply wanting to become the person everyone who loves you believes you can be, and I believe that difference is called Being Part of a Village.

With ::knuckles of respect:: to Lord Tennyson for, like, all of it.


"A, E, I, O, U and sometimes Y!" she sang to me, pointing to the little sticky foam letters which will peel most, if not all, of the stain off the table when we finally get around to removing them. "Did you know Y can be a bowel, mom?"

Um, yes I do, actually?

"Oh, I mean vvvvvowel. It starts withhh a VEEE. Vowel."

Oh just knock it off with the growing, kid. 

One day they realize that if you're happy, and you know it, you aren't actually supposed to clap your feet, or that it isn't Chris-chris time, and the next day they're at school getting girlfriends or worrying that their period is going to start soon and you just sit there looking at them like, "How is it possible that you are able to eat food on your own again?" 

And then you take your daughter out to play after she's given you a grammar lesson and you both see it at the same time. A monarch fluflubee, flying just above and in front of her, and you stop to watch because there will never be anything more fantastic than a fluflubee. At that moment the wind picks up and the fluflubee is tossed around through the air, hurdled to earth and broken against the black concrete. 

Your daughter runs over, bends down, and picks up the creature. She's afraid at first, and so is it, but she is gentle and it is in need and you don't even notice when she she perfectly enunciates the desperation behind momma, the butterfly's wing is broken and the prayer inside of can we fix it, momma? because no matter what she says or how she says it, she is always going to be your baby and you are always going to be spellbound by her wide eyes and huge heart.


I am afraid of spiders. I am afraid of tight spaces and heights, afraid of the cold, afraid of dying and afraid of not being good enough.

I am so terrified of rejection that I will put off and procrastinate and excuse my way out of every opportunity I am given, because in my head, opportunity is only a chance to show everyone how much you can't do. 

Because of that awesome little personality quirk, I currently have very organized kitchen cabinets and sparkly grout and an inbox that looks like the Library of Congress is archiving it. My dogs have been double-bathed and the leaky faucet in the kitchen has been tinkered with and half of the holes my insane beagle has chewed in the fence have been patched and I've helped the kids start to build a skate ramp with the leftover wood and none of that is going to get me a new job, so today I forced myself to sit down and write out my résumé.

I wrote a résumé today. 

I've never done that before. Ever.

Five years ago I was a waitress. A good waitress. A really great fucking waitress. Every year before that, since I was 17, I was a waitress. You can write a résumé when you are a career waitress, but that's kind of like showing up at a punk show in a sweater vest and penny loafers. 

I was very proud of the fact that I waited tables, because it is extremely difficult work that requires high levels of mental agility, physical stamina, excellent service skills and a tolerance for alcohol high enough to make a pirate blush.

But mostly, there was no fear in it. I can wait tables in my sleep. It's easy for me, and I knew that so long as I kept up on my French Reds, I'd never, ever fail at it. I aimed just high enough to respect myself in the morning and plenty low enough to never worry about rejection.

I had no idea that I could, or would ever, write, let alone write marcom. The most I'd ever written were witty sandwich-boards that paired sexy adjectives with sultry wines and smoky jazz for Friday night happy hour crowds. Even though that's *totally* marketing, you don't get to call it that in the restaurant call that opening sidework. It does you absolutely no good, it just makes five minutes of your 10 hour shift a little more interesting.

But it turns out that I can write, and rather enjoy marketing/online advertising, and now I have to find out if I'm *actually* any good enough at either to get another job doing one or the other or some amalgamation of both. Now it is time to put myself on a piece of paper in 10-point Times New Roman and ask people to tell me I am good enough for them. 

I would rather re-caulk every shower in the house than lay myself bare on résumé paper.

But I did it anyway. I spent all day dissecting what it is I do, what it is I hope to do, and what exactly it is I am so afraid of. Today, I did one thing that scares me. Today, I wrote a résumé. Tomorrow, I am going to see where it takes me.

I am afraid of spiders. I am afraid of tight spaces and heights, afraid of the cold, afraid of dying and afraid of not living up to my own potential.


I love this picture because of everything it isn't.

It isn't anywhere close to the best picture I've taken.

It's blurry

                  It's grainy

          The colors are all off

                           Oh my god, the sneakers.

But when I look at this, all I can see is the sound of laughter in the air, the feel of cold on my skin. I see, with crystal clarity, one gloriously perfect moment that flew past you both so fast it bent and blurred the world in its wake.

In that fleeting moment, I see you. I see you joyous, and I wish you 39 more years of it.