You don’t like me and that’s okay

I have lived my life as a pleaser.


It was a long time in the process of growing up before anyone in my surrounding circle of acquaintances was mature enough to admit to anyone else, “I just don't like you.”


And the first time it happened, I was appalled. Hurt. What the hell? I'm amazing! Why would anyone consciously not like me and want to be my friend?


Modesty has never been a great skill of mine.


Over the years as I've grown into my crotchety middle age, it hasn't really gotten easier.


I've realized, though, that it happens.


You meet someone, and immediately you know how you feel about them…at least a little. Sometimes that initial impression is wrong, of course, but often it's correct. It's lasting. You can try and change it, reason it away, but sometimes your guts just don't like someone else's guts.


Other times the dislike is a result of action. Poor judgment on one side, the other. Both.


It turns out the same.


Sometimes auras just don't jive. The way you see the hallway may not match my perception at all, and my perception may make you angry just because it exists.

But I'm me. I refuse to apologize for being who I am. If I wrong you I admit it and apologies are certain…but I cannot feel bad about who I am as a person for the rest of my life just because of mistakes that I've made.


It doesn't mean I'm not worth your time. It doesn't mean you aren't great or that I'm not absolutely spectacular.


Sometimes you just don't like me. And that's okay.


Embracing the kook within

Historically I have never been what you would call a joiner.

It's all too much, man. Too much work.

It's why I don't have friends. It's why I find my own things and bury myself in them. Hell, it's why this blog has not died a raging fiery inferno death – because I do it whenever I please and big middle finger when I don't.

But my husband, he's a joiner. He gets all up IN all kinds of shit. And he does it because he's good at it. I support that. How could I not? It makes him happy. Happy him, happy me.

So in a grand gesture of solidarity and total outside-my-comfort-zone-ness, I am donning my brand spanking new JustUsGeeks tshirt, hauling around my weight in purple bluish memefont flyers, and going to a comic & toy convention.

Yeah, that's right. You heard it here first.


But you know what's crazy? I'm excited. Like, stupid excited.

So by the time you read this, Josh and The Guv and I (Catch that? Did you? Yeah, I said my name and his name but not Lucy's name. More on that later.) will be tooling off toward Kentucky. Or, well, Friday morning. So whenever you read this in relation to Friday morning. Because I think I'm going ahead and publishing this tonight.


See it? It's already happening. DARING.

Wish me luck!

Where I admit my horticultural shortcomings

A few posts back I talked about things I inherited from my Dad.
One of the things I did not inherit in any way from my Dad is his ability to grow things. My father could grow baby bars of gold, if he were so inclined. Every year he has a bumper crop of squash or tomatoes or beans or whatever. It is something he is VERY good at doing.

Me, not so much. The only thing (plant wise) I’ve ever been able to keep alive was one of those little fishbowl ecosystem things where a beta fish lives in this tiny bowl and its poop makes a plant grow or something similar. I kept that thing alive for at least a year. Something happened though and the fish died, and I didn’t notice until it was this ghastly murky nightmare of fish skeleton and rotted roots.

I couldn’t ever even grow sprouts in a styrofoam cup in kindergarten.

In college, my roommate got me a TweetyBird chiapet and…well, that was a disaster.

I guess what I’m saying is that I am in no danger of growing any marijuana any time soon.

For some reason a couple of months ago I took stock of my life and apparently decided I needed to grow things. Dan’s grandfather passed away recently, and I rescued a pot or two of businesslike – looking bulbs from his backyard, thinking I would do his memory proud by finally being able to succeed in helping to grow life. It was very poetic – his life would go on in the form of those bulbs, and I would gently nudge them to luxuriant and lusty full life.

It hasn’t really turned out that way.

Only one of the bulbs seemed to sprout – and while it sprouted fully and quickly and seems as healthy as any plant could ever be, there is a slight issue.

I’m pretty sure it’s a weed.

Although, at this point, I don’t really give a shit. Life gives you lemons, you make lemonade, correct? Well, life has given me a weed, and I fully intend to nurture and groom and MiracleGro that weed until one of us dies.

I’m growing something. Anything. Horticulture is not my style – I will simply pretend it’s a rosebush.