Blog

Posted on

Palm Desert, Duckies

pd2_7

Yesterday, Susan and I went to go get our toes done. Susan was very excited to pair me up with David. The Famed David was supposedly a very great pedicurist and I was looking forward to his expertise.

I think my feet may have turned David into a different form of himself and instead of the wonderful, careful and great conversationalist he was rumored to be, he stared at me the entire time with a sort of unnerving stare. Like this. His staring was making me quite uncomfortable and I texted Susan, who was sitting in the chair next to me, that I thought he wanted to have my babies. Or maybe eat my liver with Fava beans.

David was good at whipping my feet in to shape. Yes, he tried to upsell me with the waxing and the eyebrow shaping and all the other annoying things they say to make you feel inferior until you cave in and agree to empty your wallet while you’re sitting in the chair, all of which I refused. But, he was good with my feet. I normally have issues with dryness on my heels and most of the time, the pedicurist will feel my heels and look slightly shocked at the sheer mass of dryness. David, however, looked unfazed. He oiled them and massaged them and told them a naptime story and then began using the rough paddle on them. And then suddenly, it was as if he was a pianist virtuoso, preparing to play the part near the end leading to the crescendo, and he raised his hiney in the air with a flourish, pushed back on the little seat he had been sitting on with the back of his legs, and bent completely over my feet, his legs solidly apart and sturdy as he gripped my feet with both hands and gave them all the attention a person has to offer. His hair shook wildly and his lab coat vibrated with determination. The dead skin went flying and I tried not to get grossed out. After all, David didn’t seem to care. He was determined to get things down to a normal level. And he did, too.

Oh, David. If only you weren’t an odd-staring-kind-of-person and I weren’t more-than-happily married and not in need of and slightly scared of your cop-a-feel-chair that massaged my butt for 10 minutes. Because my heels have never been so soft.

Posted on

Flawed But Authentic, The Site

What we have here is a case of moving a tag line over to its own site and helping it become what it was meant to be.

I’ve enjoyed the community feeling of Real Mental these past few months and I bought the domain name for FBA a while back with the intention of replicating that safe and supportive feeling. The best part is that I get to work with another great group of writers including Jessica, Kelly, Angela, Kyran and Suebob.

FBA will be updated daily with all kinds of inspiring, hopeful and otherwise wonderful tidbits to keep you going throughout the day. We’ll be having spotlights, contests and prizes. You’ll want to be there.

Posted on

Tshirts?

Did you want a Tshirt? I’m taking a headcount. I need to know if you want a long-sleeved white shirt or black shirt or tank top and the size. And would you want it to say Flawed But Authentic or You Read Me Like A Blog?

This is all preliminary, mind you. No actual orders or money is exchanging hands at this time. But if you COULD get one, WOULD you is kind of the question.

Posted on

You Read Me Like A Blog

You might notice a new tagline in the November header. That is because this header is the last one to carry the Flawed But Authentic tagline. I guess this month my header is kind of sharing them both.

In a few days I’ll be announcing a new project. (I know, right? You can’t even believe it.)

See you then.
xo

Posted on

Dating In Your Thirties

Joe and I don’t go on many dates. I mean the kind where you have a destination, like the opera, and you spend time primping yourself and curling your hair and wear lipstick. Our dates usually consist of jumping in the car and spending time getting ready by taking a shower, if we feel like getting really crazy.

This is fine. I’m not one for exerting all that energy too often to look a certain way. I prefer my jeans and a sweatshirt while we drive around and talk. Sometimes we stop and get a coffee. Sometimes we don’t. This is not to say that I don’t enjoy a nice dinner out with friends or something, because I do. Just not every week.

This short recipe for our dates is one of my favorite parts of our week. So much time is already taken with day jobs and freelance work. With mundane things like grocery shopping and the post office. And trying to plan some elaborate date for Friday night was just not happening. So somewhere along the line, we instituted The Drive.

“Wanna go for a drive?” Joe will ask. I’ll smile and say, “Sure.” And we grab the keys and go. And for the next hour, all the things that we haven’t found time to talk about for the last few days will come tumbling out, possibly out of order, but the jumbled nature doesn’t matter. We talk. And we talk a lot while we hold hands and listen to jazz on the radio in the dark.

Last night, as we drove around all the parts of our town and never reached any burned or charred fields or scarred skeletons of where a home used to stand, I felt so incredibly lucky. So fortunate. My heart aches for all those families that have found themselves homeless and who are hoping for the best case scenario to be that they had good insurance that will actually cover the fire damage, although so many things were lost that can never be replaced. I hope along with them. And I was thankful that we had a car and a bed at home. And that the air was clear and we could roll down the windows and not choke on scorched wind while we drove around and counted neon signs that were broken and missing letters.

By the time we’re done talking, the road will bring us home and scoot us into the driveway. We’ll kiss and grab the trash and head into the house. Dating in your thirties might not be the same as dating in your twenties. There is definitely less hairspray. But I like it.

Posted on

Always Me

I feel the need to rove. To travel. To roam the planet. I’ve had these feelings before and I’m sure I’ll get them again. Over and over again. It’s an itch under my skin that I just can’t get to because my fingernails are too short or my arms aren’t long enough to reach.

I want to go to Paris. Or down the street. Back to see my parents or my sister. I want to go to the beach and the movies and walk the rows at Target.

Remember when you used to drive down the freeway with the radio turned up and your favorite song playing and you’d look out the window and see miles of glittery dark and twisted tape? Someone had thrown it out the window – what was maybe their favorite tape or maybe their most unfavorite – and the wind had blown it into one very long glittery streamer. And you saw it out of the corner of your eye and wondered for a fleeting moment what tape it was. Country? Pop? Chicago 17? But the Patsy Cline playing in your car was so much better than anything out there on the ground that you let it go and went back to munching on sunflower seeds and drinking Dr. Pepper and singing along at the top of your lungs even though you aren’t that great of a singer.

If I go to Target and wander the rows I’ll end up spending money. I don’t want to do that. If I get a plane ticket I’ll spend money and I don’t want to do that. If I drive up the coast I’ll need gas and a place to stay and that costs money and I don’t want to do that.

The video interviews had much more to do with this than anything else I think. Now, after realizing I won’t be doing them, I can see that. Yes, I sincerely wanted to document a part of history and maybe I still will, but, the getting out and away and going somewhere and doing something…..that isn’t here where I am…..that is the thing that I crave.

I take myself everywhere with me, wherever I go. It doesn’t matter how far I ‘get away.’ And I do know that. But I also know that it takes a few days for me to catch up with me and in the meantime? I feel productive and worthwhile. I feel like a real person, whatever that is. And I’m happy.

When I come home, it’s all hot chocolate or a glass of wine on the front stoop and a happy hug to see me. It’s catching up on the news and sifting through the mail and feeling comfortable in my own skin wearing my comfy jeans and a sweatshirt with paint on it. And it all feels so great. The promise of what new projects might happen, as they loom on the horizon.

A few days later it hits me – I’m just me. And I’m home. And I’m always going to be me and things are never going to change. And living in that world of absolutes is what home turns into and I fight it and try not to obsess about it until it becomes so tight, this second skin, so tight. And I just want out. Someplace to go. Some people to see and talk to. Away from me. Before the darkness swallows me up again.

Posted on

In No Particular Order

>We have friends coming this weekend. Yippee!
>I hope everyone knows how much I love my kids and my last entry was not supposed to mean otherwise.
>My ex did mention he was looking for work to me before my son mentioned it. It was the ‘far away’ part and the ‘back where I used to live’ part that got to me.
>Need some design work done? Ask me.
>I vote the weekend starts tonight.
>The word ‘autumnal’ makes me very happy. I say it over and over like a mantra.
>The Crazy is ebbing and flowing.
>I feel confined in a box. A smaller box than I used to be in. The highs are less high and the lows are less low. I dream about feeling the highs. I suppose some part of me misses it.
>I also dream about chain smoking and self-harming and eating disorders. So far not much of that has made it to the daytime hours.
>I’m sleeping better and longer than I have in years.
>I’m waking up at 7am every morning. Sleeping in is a thing of the past.
>I’m thinking mostly in lists and the rest of the time in ‘writing conversation’ style in my head. Pretty much all the time. Like right now.
>I would like to invite you over for a cup of coffee and crochet. I promise to talk in complete sentences. Mostly.
>If you are one of the people that couldn’t find me after I redesigned my homepage: sorry and I added a link now. Future employers will just have to be won over by my brilliant smile and critique me on my writing style more than content.