Tag Archives: life

Seventy times seven – for my husband

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Tomorrow is our anniversary.

Seven years ago, we cut out of Ava’s second birthday, we drove the silver Expedition to Selmer, and we got married.

I was nervous and I wasn’t. Looking back, I wish I’d worn something at least a little bit pretty as opposed to jeans and a potato sack of a blouse.

We arrived, we did our paperwork, and then a woman used her husband’s book (prayer book? Book of civil ceremonies? What exactly was it?) and we said our vows in an empty courtroom. I remember she got all choked up and I couldn’t help but wonder why. Was she overwhelmed by how sweet we were? How I didn’t have an engagement ring because we were broker than broke – but we had sweet engraved silver bands? I wonder where those are now. I wonder if, seven years later, that lady still works at the Selmer courthouse. I wonder if she teared up at every eloping couple she saw – and I know she saw a bunch.

Not much changed after that. We lived in the same apartment as before. We didn’t go on some big honeymoon getaway. But I was a wife. You were a husband. And somehow that changed everything.

It’s so easy to lose sight of what we had such a grip on that day.

So easy to say that we weren’t thinking of much besides how we wanted to join a church and they wouldn’t let us while we were living in sin.

Looking back from where we both stand now, the fact that church was a very real issue in our union is….kind of absurd.

But what was real then is no less real now. I love you. I love you even when I don’t like you. I love you enough to say that I’ve spent seven years being yours – and while I may have done a lot of things differently, while I may have taken different steps along the way, my best friend is eternally bound to me in one way or another.

I will never be sorry that you became my future. I will always be yours.

I love that we have grown over the years. Together, apart, together again. So many things have happened. Seizures and surgeries, jobs and houses. Failures and successes.

We’ve had so many roads to travel. You’re the best company I could have asked for.

We make mistakes and we take each other for granted. We do everything wrong.

But we’ll make it. We’ll be okay. We’ll be better than okay because that’s what we do.

Thank you for the past seven years. For our little girl. For being mine. For being what I always know is there.

I love you.

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The rest of away

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It’s taken me a bit to somewhat process this past weekend.
(Side note, I’m watching Teen Mom 2 and this is the second one of these dumbass girls I’ve watched act like an invalid after her boob job. What the actual hell is the matter with me, watching this nonsense?)
Anyway, we spent the weekend at my first comic convention. I was prepared and not prepared – I mean, I’ve watched the documentaries and the sitcoms and read articles, nerds are weird. I know this.
But it was a good opportunity for the podcast, so I went. With Prozac. Prepared to network and schmooze.
While there’s lots to tell you about the weekend in general (like hello awesome food!, and being in the same room as Billy Dee Williams’ pee, and the time I thought I might see a man die and I acted anything but admirably), right now I want to focus on the actual event.
How it was stinky. Crowded. Germy. Confusing. And absolutely spectacular.

We had preordered our tickets (which was my first time ever to use Passbook on my phone, and I totally felt like the Jetsons with my virtual roboticket), so there wasn’t much of a wait to strap on some armbands and stand in line with pretty much every variety of person on the planet.

Seriously, this was as good as people watching gets. Costumes and pajama pants, stilettos and flip flops, and absolutely everything else imaginable. Spandex. Sequins. Feathers. Rubber. Metal. Cardboard. Want to wear some ears and a tail? Awesome. Top hat? Help yourself. Flippers with no other hint of a costume? Have some nachos.

And yeah, they stunk. Some of them did. Some of them smelled fantastic – particularly these two chicks who I’m fairly absolutely concretely certain were prostitutes. But they were all so… connected. It was such a community of all these people who mostly didn’t know each other. There was trust in so many iterations – from the toddler in his Iron Man outfit who won a sword fight with a Stormtrooper to the mom of two in her steampunk corset and bustle who didn’t give a shit what you thought about her cellulite. It was freeing just to be there, to be able to take in the attitude of acceptance.

And also…the talent. It was a grab bag of you-pick-it eeney meanie miney holy balls. I have never been in tossing distance of so much ability in my life. It was amazing and humbling and completely exciting. I still don’t really have the right words.

I am not and never have been what anyone would call a cool person. I’m not with it or hip or anything the kids like these days. And in theory, neither were these people, right?

I mean, according to the movies and high school and anything I ever learned from band camp, these are the punch lines, right? The nerds, the geeks, the people who don’t fit in.

Except these people were amazing. They were real and colorful and…themselves.

That’s it. That’s what it was.

There was no apology in any of this past weekend. No one was sorry for being whoever it was they wanted to be. It was open and obnoxious, and the most authentic experience I’ve ever had.

I met some amazing people. Made some connections I will treasure. Hopefully some of the people I met will take a turn to post here sometime soon, and I’m excited about that.

For now though, I’m still sorting through everything I learned this weekend. About myself, about my world. About comic books and zombies. About how lucky I am to realize that just because there’s no one like me doesn’t mean there’s anything to change about me.

***all photos used with permission, courtesy of Keith Reed, whom I found on the Twitters.

 

Embracing the kook within

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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!

And lo, in the year of our lord 2013

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I thought about this post all weekend, but I failed to come up with anything particularly spectacular.

Last month my sister had a baby.

This is nothing new, I mean I have a niece and nephew already – and not to sound too crass, but I mean, my kids are the shit so my nieces and nephews can't be too far from.

My sister recently(ish) remarried. A nice, normal guy who loves the piss out of her and is nice to people besides her, which is sometimes a rarity. He's a good egg. And when I found out they were having a baby I could not have been happier – for her, for him. For me because babies.

Children are spectacular, we all know. But having a child with someone you love with all your being and who loves you right back? That's…not even something words can touch.

I wanted that for her. And so when news of little Parker came along I knew what she was in for and I couldn't wait.

The weekend after her son was born, we went to visit.

He was everything I wanted him to be.
He was tiny, he was sweet.
He had her fingers and feet and his daddy's mouth.
He snuggled in my niece's arms like he already knew where he belonged.
He was – he is – perfect.

So for now I'll spare you the tales of my empty uterus and how SURELY I might have another little boy and holy crap he'd be so amazing and cuddly and little and ohmahgahbabies.

No, for now we can just say that my sister's family is complete. And that there is a little bundle of squiggly baby sized love who knew just where he needed to be, and he will probably never know how much joy he brought with him into the world.

 

 

 

 

ProcrASStination.

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Basically, people, I feel like I’ve been sleepwalking through the past month.

 

Really.

 

Even yesterday, when I had plenty of work to do at, you know, actual work – I stayed home with a whiny toddler and firepee thanks to being female and having, apparently, a short urethra. *bows to the TMI audience*

So I could have done schoolwork, right? The geneaology paper that is due today. Or the research paper that is due tomorrow. Both are still barebones and need work.

Instead, though, I spent the day watching Big Love on demand, flushing out my system with echinacea and vitamin C, thinking about the past and the future and how to best go about making pumpkin muffins.

So what did I accomplish? I lessened my infection, I think. I pondered what my hair would look like a la Ginnifer Goodwin in Season Three. I made the muffins. I vacuumed the floor. I did work a bit on the papers.

 

I can’t say I made much eternal progress in anything yesterday. Except the muffins. They were amazing.

 

 

Being legitimate

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Someone had to know I would broach this. It was inevitable.

 

In an interview aired this past Sunday, Todd Akin, a Republican candidate for Senate in the great state of Missouri, made this statement when asked about his feelings on abortions resulting from rape circumstances.

“First of all, from what I understand from doctors, [pregnancy from rape] is really rare. If it’s a legitimate rape, the female body has ways to try to shut that whole thing down.”

He really said that. Really and truly.

 

Now, let me start by saying, as a woman – he has no right to an opinion. Really. I don’t get all up in his scrote and he’s never carried a baby, so we should just agree to keep our politics out of each others’ crotches.

And secondly, as a rape victim – fuck you, Mr. Akin.

Legitimate rape?

What are the other kinds? Illegitimate? Imagined? Maybe she didn’t say no loudly enough? Maybe she was “asking” for it?

I realize that people are falsely accused of rape. I know that happens, and it is a sad thing to know that someone would abuse such a delicate area for whatever reason.

But the majority of rapes (60-68%, according to a quick Googling) go unreported, and do you know why? Because of douchebags like Todd Akin. Because the first thing asked of anyone claiming rape is not, “What can I do?” not “How can I help?” it’s…..”Well, what happened?”

Because its not enough to be taken advantage of. It’s not enough to be violated. It’s not enough to matter so little that you don’t even get a choice in what happens to you.

You have to justify. You have to prove what you’ve claimed. It’s no wonder that women and men in staggering amounts just choose to opt out. Why prolong things and expose yourself to embarrassment…criticism…shame?

It happened to me. And just because it wasn’t a stranger in a dark alley doesn’t mean it wasn’t real. It doesn’t mean I deserved it. It doesn’t mean I hurt any less. It doesn’t make it any less legitimate.

 

So while Mr. Akin sits in Missouri with whatever opinions he wants to have about situations he will never face, I will try with all my might to let everyone know that things like this are not okay. It’s not okay to trivialize someone else’s hurt. It’s not okay to make blanket statements when you don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.

Help a little more, talk a little less. I think that’d do some good for everybody.

 

All God’s creatures – except the ones we smash

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I am a helper. I see someone in need, I want to help them out.
Even if I don’t like them.
Even if they don’t like me.

It may be some sort of complex, but if I have it in me to assist someone in any way, I want to do that.

Just to read what I have said thus far sounds kind of braggy. I swear I don’t mean it that way. Lots of times I’ve not thought before I offered to help someone and it’s turned out terribly. Like, “Sure you can borrow my refrigerator/rocking chair/video camera, I don’t mind at all!”

Except then it takes effort to make the swap or the donation. Pickup and delivery and interacting with human beings who aren’t accustomed to my baby-powdered hair and yoga pants (baby powder is what I put in my hair when I don’t have time to wash/rinse it, and often always I go overboard. So if you ever see me with a white powdery scalp it means I tried to give a shit and it just didn’t work out). And then I resent myself and the other person for the whole time.

So over the years I have learned not to be quite so generous when I offer help, unless fully prepared to do what needs to be done.

Last week, my coworker Mandy needed some help.

Mandy is one of the coolest bitches in the world and we have a blast working together. We’re a lot alike and we do pretty well. So of course when Mandy needed help I wanted to help her.

Here is the situation:

Mandy doesn’t like bugs. I don’t either, for that matter, but I can usually handle the smashing and otherwise dispelling of undesirable creatures. So when Mandy came in after lunch one afternoon talking about the terrible bug that was in her car at that very moment, I thought why not help her out. How bad can it be?

Turns out, pretty bad.

I shit you not. This creature inside the car was half horsefly, half dragonfly, half bee, half possessed little girl from The Exorcist.

Seriously, it had her eyes.

I see this thing and suddenly all my resolve drains away. I was armed with an orange flyswatter and nothing else, and jesushellmoses I was pretty sure this Jumanji bee creature would take one look at my wimpy ass arm and attach itself for dear life just because it could.

Not to be swayed, though, I proceeded to poke and swat at the increasingly-angered insect. I’m not sure what my plan was exactly, just to rake him out of the window so he could get away, maybe to get lucky and get a well-timed strike in? Not likely.

So there we were, two shrieking women in the middle of the sidewalk, me inexplicably jabbing in the car door with a flyswatter while Mandy coached from the other side of the windshield – “There it is! He’s over here! He’s mad Emily, oh he’s mad.”

Of course a passerby was going to take pity on us. A passerby who was covered in tattoos (he even had one of those spiderweb elbow things) and weighed at the most 100 pounds soaking wet stopped to see what our problem was. He then handed me his presumably new license plate, took the flyswatter, and killed the skulldemon hell bug.

For real. Just like that. Bip, bop, dead.

He then took his license plate, acknowledged our thanks, and went on about his way – which turned out to be three cars down where he proceeded to slimjim his way into a vehicle we could only presume was his.

He got the benefit of the doubt.

Things I would have known if I had had a brother

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Growing up, I always hated being the youngest. I was very put upon and woebegone and no one understood me. My mother had been the oldest. My dad had been an only child. So I was forced to live the life of a young Mississippi girl who NO ONE UNDERSTOOD (as if anyone could have understood me otherwise).

Above anything else, I always used to want a brother. A big brother. Sometimes I would pretend Stephanie was my big brother because she was so tall, but then she’d do something stupid like be a cheerleader or wear a bra and the illusion was shattered.

I realize now that part of my fascination with the opposite sex (read: boy craziness) stemmed from not really knowing much about boys, having never been around them all that much. I mean, I was around them at church – but let’s face it, church boys are somehow not as alluring.

Therefore, I present you with things I probably would have known ahead of getting married, had I but had a brother:

Boys are gross. Farts and balls and dingleberries gross.

The end.

Perhaps I should thank my mother for allowing boys to be alluring for at least a little while.

Update on the crazy

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It’s been a while since I really said anything about the cogs and wheels in my brain case.

Stuff has changed. How’s that for vague?

Mostly things are better. I have found calm where there was…less than none.

I don’t really know how. That should totally be something I could just spill out, right? It should be a logical progression. Breathing techniques. Colors and crystals, meditation and sex. Positive affirmations.

Maybe it’s all of that. Maybe it’s none of it.

Medicine has been adjusted. That could be part of it. I’m around people more these days.

School is starting back soon, and if I told you how excited I am about that you’d probably think my crazy is just relocating itself.

So I guess what I’m trying to say is that things are better. I honestly worked on the way I perceive things and the levels of importance I place on different aspects of life…and I think it has actually worked.

I don’t go to therapy anymore. I was terrible at going to therapy anyway, as evidenced by the fact that my therapist changed jobs and I missed the appointment where she intended

to tell me. I could still go, sure. I could have a new therapist, one who knows about me from notes and files. I could even be okay with that – but things have flipped around so that where there once was too much time, now there is not enough. Also I kind of ran out of things to say.
The remarkable thing is that I know I’m not “fixed”…but I’m okay with that. Glad for it, even. I have grown comfortable with the fact that I will always be a little sadder/more sensitive/weirder than most people, but I’ve decided I like that about myself. It’s okay with me. Besides…isn’t that why I have a blog? Free therapy?

Reasons it doesn’t matter if no one ever reads this

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This blog is a big deal to me. It always has been.

Only for the past year or so, though, have I attempted to care if it were a big deal to other people too.

It’s something about me I’m not fond of – this apparent need to be liked. I never thought I had that very much. I’ve found myself censoring more, saying less. Trying to appeal…and for what?

The pull of my blog has always been that it is mine. That when everything was reduced down to work and play and manifesting your dream, that I had something I had done for myself. Just for the pure craft. Except I wasn’t. I was writing hoping to be popular, hoping for someone to notice me.

There were all sorts of levels of bullshit surrounding that revelation. I was ashamed. I was embarrassed. I was not surprised.

Earlier this week, I found a document that brought me to sobering reality. The-Writers-Manifesto (that’s a pdf link, and if you download it you need to tell him how great he is). After reading it, I wanted to slap myself and write books at the same time.

So with much pain and heartbreak, I’ve come to the realization that it’s okay if no one reads what I write.

Why?

I’m not writing for anyone else.

I will have a record – a concrete one – of days, months, years. However meager it may seem, I am shaping my legacy on my own terms.

I can be honest. I don’t have to be afraid of offending anyone, because I’m not depending on them to read what I say. In itself, this is amazingly freeing.

Whether I move on with my ideas or simply do this and nothing else, it’s okay with me.

And by being myself, whatever happens, this piece of me exists. No one can pay for that.