Holiday Detente

I have to admit that I am not chock full of holiday spirit yet. Mainly I'm prepping for the epic bouts of road rage that will be consuming me after Tuesday as my commute increases exponentially. This was definitely not what I had in mind for an early Christmas present.

I'm also sick and tired of hearing about some nonexistent war on Christmas. No one has declared war on Christmas. When people say Happy Holidays, they're not telling you to stuff your hand in a meat grinder; they're telling you that they wish you happiness. When did that become a bad thing? Yes, I personally celebrate Christmas. Even though more often than not I'm at a Unitarian Universalist service or spending time with extended family and canines, I still pray and I still return to the holiday traditions I was reared with, although fortunately not the continued consumption of my mother's inedible Tuna Tree that she served one hellish Christmas eve.

But I don't get upset if other people don't celebrate Christmas. I certainly don't get upset if they're not celebrating it because it's not a part of their faith or even if they just don't like Christmas. I can't understand how you would not like Christmas--the amount of crap you get to eat and drink PLUS really cheesy movies PLUS I actually like some of the music PLUS I usually get to see family and friends I haven't seen in a long time PLUS I get to ride in a Honda with Santa (played by my brother), driven by a clown (my sister), and crammed into the back with fellow elves (niece and nephew and friend). However, just because I can't understand why you wouldn't love Christmas doesn't mean I don't support someone's decision to believe or not believe what they choose.

That's what this country was founded on - not the idea that we all had to believe the same things, like the same things, do the same things. That would be craptastically boring. And authoritarian. You can have strong faith, express that faith, and still be respectful of others' rights to live their lives in accordance with their beliefs. It is only the weak who need to bring someone else down, to attack someone else to make themselves feel stronger, more justified, more righteous.

As part of the freelance ghost writing I've been doing I've been learning a lot about the presidents for this historical humor project. I learned last night that John Quincy Adams (himself a devout Unitarian minister) refused to be sworn in as president using a Bible. Not because he didn't believe or because he thought the Bible was wrong. He didn't use it because this country had been recently founded (he was only our 6th President) and he very well understood the importance of religious freedom in the U.S. He chose to be sworn in using a copy of the U.S. Constitution. To remind himself of audacious goals this country had, "to form a more perfect union, establish Justice, insure domestic Tranquility, provide for the common defence, promote the general Welfare, and secure the Blessings of Liberty to ourselves and our Posterity."

So throughout this wonderful time of year, I'll keep in mind the real "reason for the season." Not to exclude others, become angry when they don't think or talk like me, and not to judge how other people live their lives. Jesus said "Love one another as I have loved you." I missed the part where that meant fly off into a spittle-spraying rage if someone doesn't say Merry Christmas.

For those of you who are still reading and haven't given up in disgust at my lack of holiday cheer, do not fear. All the decorations are coming out today - including the 2 foot tall doll of Bing Crosby, dressed as Santa, holding a pipe and  microphone, and crooning his little plastic heart out. And yes my nativity scene too. Because today I will kick off the Christmas season with one of the people responsible for the awesomesauce Bing doll as we watch crappy Christmas movies to our hearts' content (see Hapless Holidays for more of my obsession with shmaltzy holiday flicks), drink Fall Classic Cocktails (mmmmmmmm) and snuggle with Charlie.

Seeing the (Cocktail) Glass as Half-Full This Thanksgiving

As we draw near the consumption of massive amounts of food, oversharing of personal problems, imbibing copious bevvies, and festival of emotional scars that is known as Thanksgiving, I'm thankful for having my email hacked.

Don't get me wrong, it was a massive pain in the butt and really what I didn't need at the end of an 11 hr workday on Friday before being doomed to work all day on Saturday, but having my email hacked actually turned out to be one of those "It's a Wonderful Life" moments. Now before you think I've enjoyed way too much bourbon this evening, hear me out.

Let me set the scene. It is important to know that I have been having a massive self pity party and freakout over employment issues. With an imminent hellish commute looming over my head and what appears to be my complete inability to get anyone to actually consider me for employment that I think I would enjoy, I've been very woe-is-me-ish, not sleeping, anxiety ridden, and generally being a big whiny baby. And of course, eating my feelings and having my waistline and circumference of my ass pay the price. Then two things happened at the end of last week that reminded me of some of the many things I have to be thankful for: the retirement party for the best boss I've ever had and my email was hacked.

First, the retirement. Although I still find it difficult that he actually retired, my former boss actually ended what has been a spectacularly dedicated career. I'm really a bit of a dork about this man and drove myself to the brink of insanity and exhaustion to try to be worthy of his respect and trust. And this is despite the fact that he is the only man I've worked for or with who actually made me cry in his presence. I've never wanted to be "that girl" but somehow my lacrimal glands are tied to my emotions of anger and massive embarrassment. Thus, when he had me working like 11 days in a row and wanted me to try to call a meeting of people way more important than me the day before  Thanksgiving to tell them that he was throwing out everything they had written and doing the damn project himself and I meekly said that this would be next to impossible and probably not the best course of action, and he let loose, I got all weepy. Then, massively embarrassed, I turned bright red. That's the other "charming" thing I do - blush hideously red for prolonged amounts of time for what appear to be no reason whatsoever.

But that was one incident and the fact that I not only survived it but I'd like to think I managed to  make him never think twice about hiring me, makes me so happy that I was able to work for him not just once but twice. He taught me more than any other boss, mentor, or colleague and always took time to ask about my family and remember details of little stuff that you'd think someone that busy wouldn't have time for--all of these things make me very devoted to him. So when he retired, to see him recognized, to chat with him and his family again, and to get to see so many wonderful old colleagues and friends, this was a very moving experience. People I hadn't seen in ages were all in one room, gathered to honor the same man and take time out of busy days to recognize what he's given to his job and to his country. Plus there was free wine.

And that brings me to the hacking. So yeah, Friday totally sucked. I worked forever and it was doing stuff I didn't want to do, all with the knowledge I'd be back there again on Saturday and all for a job that is going to force me back into a commute that I sworn to give up. Then I find out my email had been hacked. Moment of truth, yes I had clicked on the link when I got an email from a friend that looked slightly suspicious but advertised itself as a news article on where to find the best jobs. I thought this was one of those moments where I'd read this article and suddenly figure out what I was going to do for the rest of my life. Or at least the next year or so.

I'm one of those people who never cleans out her closets, never throws away old theater programs or tickets from events, and certainly never cleans out her email contact list. Which means that when I clicked on that email and my email was hacked, a few hundred people --some of whom I hadn't spoken to in years and some of whom I never wanted to speak to again--all got the same fakeass article from "me." It was massively humiliating as when I looked at my contact list I did in fact find several insane men I dated (like the guy that I think was satanic and talked about poop, DJ 3-Way, and the cutest boy with the weirdest name - see Deal With the Devil, A Brief Period of Normalcy with a Side of Squeamishness, and They Don't Make Phone Booths Anymore for more details).

The thing is that it actually ended up being kinda cool. I talked to people I hadn't talked to in ages - like my first real boss (as in post-college first grown-up job) who moved south after retirement a few years ago. He always bought the best birthday cakes, laughed hysterically at those annoying hamster toys that danced when you squeezed their foot, and was just generally a really, really good guy. My college advisor also got in touch; she is the one who gave me the medieval helmet/incense burner that I still have and who inspired me to think about the lives and needs of peoples far beyond America's borders. Old colleagues and teammates who've moved far and wide and still call me by silly nicknames. Plus, the nicest guy who I dated ages ago--the one who gave me an Easter basket on our 2nd date and let me massacre his transmission trying to teach me to drive stick.

I highly recommend the experience. I mean, yeah of course it freaks me out and I'm still a little worried about my accounts and stuff, but it made me realize how rich my life has actually been. How many lives I've been blessed to be a part of, to share in their stories and have them share in mine.

It can be so easy to get wrapped up in our problems, to only see all the things we "have" to do, and wish that our lives were different. If this were an Olympic sport I'd have at least a silver medal. However, there are times where we get these little windows into our lives. Where we can see how all of the decisions and moments--good and not so good--how those make us who we are. Where we can step back and remember all the people who've wandered into and out of our lives--whether by choice or by fate--and be truly thankful for each and every one of them.

As you gather with family, friends, or however you choose to spend this Day of Thanks, please know that you are among the blessings that I count. Those of you who I get to see frequently, those I haven't seen in years, and those precious, precious ones who I won't see again my journey has come to an end--it is for you that I give thanks. Happy Thanksgiving to my dear, sweet friends and family. Even as we drive each other crazy, let's always bee grateful that at least we have company on the ride.

Now let's put on our eating pants and get down to business.

Are We There Yet?!?

If you're like me, you are unable to watch anything on TV other than old episodes of Alias (yes, I still have a crush on Michael Vartan) or Queer Eye for the Straight Guy (yes, I not-so-secretly hope that they will reunite, make over my wardrobe, house, and life and become my new best friends) because you are avoiding seeing ads and smear campaigns from political super PACs and are just fed up with the whole election. I mean seriously, we've had eleventy billion Republican primary debates, presidential and VP debates, town halls, and stump speeches galore, and now these ads.

The majority of the ads seem designed by people who believe that Americans are too wrapped up in their own lives to actually read about what a candidate stands for, the legislation and positions for which the candidate has advocated, or what a proposition actually says. These ads prey upon people's worst fears, promising doom and gloom if the opposition wins, and hoping that those same people won't do the slightest bit of research to see that the bulk of these ads are complete crap. Even the background music is cheesily ominous while the soundbites and slogans make it appear that the people disagreeing with the ads and positions aren't actual people at all. Instead, anyone who thinks differently is to be mocked and dismissed as ignorant.

I dearly hope they are wrong and that people actually take the time to read about all the various candidates and ballot measures before they head to the polls.

But here's the thing, the fact that I can even write about being fed up with the election makes me disappointed in myself. For how can I be fed up with democracy? Sure, it's messy and it doesn't always work out like I think it should but men and women fought and died for me to have the right  to sit here in my living room, ignoring robo-calls, whining about TV ads and complaining about lines at the polls. I need to remind myself that it wasn't that long ago that tenacious and driven women were imprisoned, disowned by their families, degraded and denigrated, and physically assaulted all to earn this right to vote that so many of us--myself included--take for granted.

So although I really want the people who have the same positions I do to be the ones that show up in larger numbers tomorrow, I really just want everyone who is able to vote to get off their butts and do so. Vote for the places where people aren't allowed to vote at all --whether it's because they have no electricity at their polling stations or they live in a country where their rights are ignored or repressed by their own governments. Vote because you can.

Voting is a right that comes with responsibilities. There are the responsibilities to educate yourself about the issues at hand and make the decision for yourself rather than letting someone make that decision for you. But what is less expressed is the responsibility to recognize that your fellow citizens have the right to vote as they choose and that their choices don't make them inherently bad people; they just have different preferences and priorities. They have as much right to their voice and their decision as you do. America is a richer nation because of the fact that we can express different opinions and believe different things. And although I may disagree vehemently with the political decisions of my neighbors, friends, or family, I would defend with my last breath their right to believe what they want and express that at the polls.

I was reminded of the dangers of demonizing people with different political convictions at service yesterday. The minister talked for a while about democracy, about the choices that were laid out before us, and about the need to respect our fellow citizens and not label them as "the other side." She quoted Alice Walker, saying "if you want to show your love for America, love Americans... Love us. We are the Flag."

She reminded us of the principles that we hold dear: the worth and dignity of every person; equality, justice, and compassion; accepting one another and encouraging each other in spiritual growth; freely and responsibly searching for truth and meaning in this life; the right of conscience and democratic processes; peace, liberty, and justice for our neighbors and beyond; and respect for the interdependence of this world.

I will do my best to remember these things as I watch the returns come in tomorrow night, biting my nails and probably sipping some very fine American bourbon whilst I tweet the night away and become alternately entertained or incensed by what I see on this fascinating thing called the Internet. I will be glad that it is finally over and so profoundly grateful that I was able to go into that booth and make my choices.

Now is Most Definitely the Time to PANIC

I'm thinking of suing all local and national "news" organizations. I've long been appalled by the litigious nature of our society but I fear I need to get on board because I have developed Persistent Anxiety News Induced Condition (P.A.N.I.C.). This is a new disease that I made up but I think I can make a strong case for my worsening state of hysteria being totally the fault of our 24/7 news cycle.

It wasn't bad enough that we've been in the midst of breathless and idiot "news" reporting on the Presidential campaign for the past 11 gazillion months (or so it feels). That alone had me wanting to alternately vomit or punch people in the face. Now, those of us on the East Coast have been subjected to nonstop coverage of the impending hurricane/frankenstorm/most-catastrophic-weather-event-of-our-time since about Thursday night.

First for the Presidential campaign coverage. I don't help myself in this at all as I am semi-addicted to the debates but seriously, when did all news organizations based in this country--possibly with the exception of The Atlantic and NPR--when did they all lose their minds? Gone are the days of actual thoughtful, intelligent reporting in favor of sound bites, mudslinging, and obnoxiously biased opinion pieces instead of actually covering anything of substance. When did sound bites become more important than actual ideas, policy, or action? What's even more disturbing is that sound bites are becoming shorter and shorter. I can't tell which came first: our ridiculously short attention spans or "news" agencies acting as if people can't pay attention to something that takes more than 9 seconds to explain.

The best thing I can think of to explain this phenomenon was the recent, aptly phrased but mistaken close caption of a journalist bemoaning the horrors of the "24/7 noose cycle;" I had the good fortune to view this a few weeks ago at the gym and almost fell off the elliptical in bouts of hysterical laughter. Noose cycle in that actual reporters who want to do something other than hype nonsense hang themselves out to dry and noose cycle in that the lack of truthful, well thought out reporting leaves us high and dry when we actually try to understand what is happening in our world.

Why the relative absence of real journalists is especially dangerous now is the overabundance of insanely biased, untruthful, and nauseating political ads that we can all thank Citizens United v. FEC for being especially heinous of late. A person could get whiplash from the whimsy of the sadistic TV ad programmer who decides to put the panicked ads for a candidate/issue back-to-back with even more panicked ads against a candidate/issue. If it weren't for sites like Project Smart Vote, voters would be left wandering the morass of lies and half-truths bogging down our political processes and be prone to choosing via the tried and true eeny-meeny-miney-mo method.

This news reporting has me heartily annoyed and eschewing most TV viewing but what has really put me over the top and pushed me over the edge is the coverage of Hurricane Sandy. I would already be totally nervous about this storm without the apocalyptic reporting on it as 1) I am a highly anxious individual, 2) the structural integrity of my roof is questionable, and 3) I spent the last major hurricane bailing out my sump pump for 8 hours whilst wearing an air cast and a headlamp (see This Boot Ain't Made for Running for the harrowing tale of how I spent Hurricane Irene).

Combine those three things with the way that local and national news has been covering Sandy and you'll see why I'm suffering from a serious case of P.A.N.I.C. and should immediately sue all news organizations and use the funds to build a hurricane proof house with multiple backup sump pumps and a roof to stand the test of time. Symptoms of P.A.N.I.C. include but are not limited to:

• holding actual conversations with your sump pump begging it to keep working
• running from floor to floor of your house to check to see if roof leaking or basement flooding
• increasing bourbon consumption to make it through an entire news program
• trying to reason with your dog about the length of the storm and the necessity of his pooping
• contemplating teaching your dog to use a toilet
• staring nervously outside of your window with an increasing sense of doom
• hiding the remote controls so that you are not tempted to give into continuous news reporting on the storm
• thinking about building a house-sized tarp and/or ark
• planning on leaving all material objects behind, taking dog, and moving to place free of weather related drama (although you have no idea where that may be as where there's not hurricanes, there are tornadoes, earthquakes, blizzards, etc.)

Now that I've gotten this rant out, I better go check on my sump pump and roof and heat up some food before I lose all power for the next 80 days and have to defend my store of granola and bottled water with my trusty Red Rider. As my better angels tell me to Keep Calm and Carry On, I wish you all safety, strength, dry socks, a faithful and flatulent-free furry friend to cuddle with, and a well-stocked bar.

Senior Dropouts

My mom just pulled my dad out of day care. That is a sentence I never thought I'd write but it's true. Not because I didn't think she'd yank him out at some point but more just because it's totally weird to be talking matter-of-factly about my dad being in day care.

It was only two days a week but for those two days we knew that he was not falling asleep in his recliner. We knew that he did multiple types of activities and was fed both breakfast and lunch. We don't really know if he liked it because the damn Alzheimer's makes those types of conversations impossible as he says everything is great no matter what you're talking about but can never give any details about what happened that day. But it was two days of non-sedentary action and interaction with other people.

The bus would pick him up in the morning and bring him back in the afternoon. I always wondered about that, about what that bus ride was like. When my mom would walk him down the driveway to meet the bus in the morning, a lot of times he would try to help her onto the bus too and would get a little confused when she didn't join him. She said it was really difficult to do and too difficult to get him up in the mornings and that it took too much out of her to keep this up. Sigh.

But up until this week, I imagined that this bus full of "active seniors" turned into some type of field trip where the seniors started acting like kids on a school bus. The troublemakers would be at the back of the bus, sticking gum under the seats and using curse words. I can't see my dad as a troublemaker at all but I can see him and his seatmate playing one of those stupid car games that are great on road trip. You know, like the license plate one or I Spy. Maybe my dad would check out some of the ladies; he has always been a boob man and I can easily see him trying to cop a feel or at least joking with his friend about the rack on the "girl" a few seats in front of them. I see the bus driver and their helper playing the role of chaperon and tortured school bus driver who keep yelling at those damn kids to shut up and sit down!

Or if it didn't get that raucous, I could easily see it turning into a singalong. My dad still loves to sing and really hams it up in more dramatic moments in a song. Anyway, so they'd get there and then I'm not sure exactly what happens. I know that once they had a luau and my dad had to wear a Hawaiian shirt. I bet on other days they did some sort of chair exercises and maybe a craft. Like summer camp for adults. And I liked the idea that him and his sister weren't too far apart, even though I knew they didn't combine the residents with the day care folks. I can just see them though at their luau, joking and probably eventually trying to get people to join them in a verse or two of "Harvest Moon."

I really don't think the problem with day care was that it was too much for my mom to get him out the door, although I can certainly see that played a part as when he is determined to sleep it is very difficult to get him to agree to do anything besides napping. But I think the main problem is that she can't be away from him. It might seem sweet but its always seemed a bit too extreme for me. I guess because I've always been single but it just seems like way too much togetherness. My ideal husband/boyfriend would live in the house next to me or even better, we would have a hugeass house and live in separate wings so we could have sufficient alone time.

Also, my mom has never been a "joiner" and when my dad retired 23 years ago, I think she became convinced that they should never ever be apart. Dad, on the other hand, used to be a "joiner." He joined the choir, a wood carving class, a cake decorating class, a group that prepared food for the homeless, tried his hand at writing children's book, and plenty of other things. She was less than thrilled at all these activities he did without her but she didn't want to join in. After a while, he dropped pretty much everything except the wood carving.

I know that when my mom is apart from my dad she worries about him and the fact that he can't really tell us about anything he did at day care when he gets back makes her think it's not worth it. I'm trying not to judge her decision too harshly as there's nothing I can really do to convince her otherwise and honestly I can't imagine what she's going through because although this hurts me too, I don't spend every moment with him.

Sometimes she drives me up the wall, with her weekly to monthly proclamations that she is moving to Montana, or telling people that we turned off her water and made her go down to the river with a bucket, or locking me out, or calling me at work with an emergency that turns out to be that they are almost out of hominy. But the truth is, I love that little nut. So I'm going to tamp down the "tough love" part of me that wants to march right over there and tell her to put on her big girl pants and let him spend time away from her. Instead, I'll take a breath, eat some Cinnamon Life cereal (along with Cap'n Crunch, it is my go to dinner when life seems chock full of suck), and plan a vigorous session of chair exercises when I spend Monday with the 'rents.

This is all far heavier than I normally like to post but it's what's in me tonight. Just be glad I didn't get into the fact that my parents still have a book called "Sex in the Great Outdoors" that for some reason persistently ends up displayed rather prominently in their living room. I guess it's not for nothing that there's six of us kids. Gah! Ok, now I want to poke my eyes out which is a sign that I need to call it a night.

There May Be Hope After All...At Least in Terms of Me Not Becoming Toothless in the Next Year

Admit it, you've had a hard time sleeping at nights because you're now worried about me grinding my teeth into nubs because of a thankless, demanding, bureaucratic job. Or at least you might have been mildly concerned about my dental health and stress levels if you read my post, Work Bites. Well, worry no more, my friends. Although my job is undoubtedly contributing to me aging before my time and sinking my health down the drain, my boss is admirably trying to reverse the ill effects of work on my teeth. What did I find on my desk today...

That's right, after she makes me an inspiring award for Best Dental Hygiene Ever, she gets me a life, or at least teeth saving device to save my remaining and dulled teeth.

This is not the only thing she has done to help improve my health and retain what little of my sanity is left. When I was sick, she actually made and brought me an enormous buttload of chicken and rice soup. It could have fed a family of four and it kept me well-stocked throughout a long and hideous cold/Mongolian deathflu. I don't think I've ever had a boss this kind. I consistently find that the people I get to work with and my immediate supervisors are the best thing about my job and one of the reasons when I keep going back in there despite the fact that my higher leadership often has me wondering if this isn't really a job, but a psychological experiment to see how much humans can take before they crack.

Alright, that is all. I need to get back to my gluttonous viewing of the debate. With the advent of Twitter and the presence of bourbon in my house, the debates are far too entertaining. Godspeed, good viewing, and don't forget to floss.

The Write Stuff

I have this gnawing feeling in my stomach that my book is complete crap. This feeling is likely responsible for my procrastination in actually finishing the thing; well, that along with my basic slothful nature. I've got more than 71,000 words and when I open it up to finish and just get 'er done, I think of something else I need to do. Like dusting. Or Words With Friends. Or working late and coming home with a lowered IQ and eyes that would rather be plucked out of my skull than look at a computer screen for another second.

The thing is, I've been writing all my life. I've never really worried about whether it was good or bad, whether or not I could actually make any money at this and support myself and my dog's growing sweet potato treat habit. When I was looking through some of my stuff for old pictures a while ago, I found some of my incredibly strange writing from grade school. Sweet Mother of Pearl, I was a weird kid!

Some of the poetry is totally nuts - there's a lot in there about sea monkeys, angry ducks, the school band sounding like cats being run over by psychotic lawnmowers, and a tirade against school pictures. There's short stories about other planets with currency based on music, a Wild West where Paul McCartney stops in for a guest appearance, and a slew of bumper stickers about barnyard animals. And this was long before I discovered alcohol! By the time I got to high school, there was no stopping me. I made up songs (again about sea monkeys, don't ask me why I was seemingly obsessed), wrote bizarre and what I thought to be hilarious skits for every Year Day, and    stories in Spanish about my love of Paul McCartney and fear of quicksand (which is why I learned to say, "Ayudame! He caido en la arena movedizza!)

I miss my weirdness. Don't get me wrong, I'm still a weirdo at heart. But I'm more wary of letting my freak flag fly. I'm ground down by being a cog in the overwhelming bureaucratic machine and it has sapped my creativity, courage, and my weirdness. In the dark places I often dare not tread, I'm afraid that whatever bizarre creative spark I had is gone. That everything I'm writing has already been written. That I'll not be able to pull together enough strength to actually finish this book and that even if I do, and I pour my heart and soul into it, and then people won't like it.

There are people out there who go about their lives seeming to pay nary a thought to others' opinions. They do what they do for themselves and if someone else doesn't like it, well to quote my irascible mother, they can sh*t in their hats and pull it over their ears (I'm not sure when she started saying this or why, but there was a 6 months period when I'm pretty sure she leveled that threat at everyone who crossed her path. I've tried to convince her that this is not a legitimate saying or popular expression but she will not be deterred).

Sadly I'm not one of those people. I've found a few of the things I've written freelance posted to my client's site and I can't stop myself from looking to see what people thought of it and wincing if they didn't dig it. I try not to look at the amount of site visits, followers, or comments I get on this blog but I never really succeed. As soon as I post something I go to see if anyone reads it, likes it, comments, etc. When one of my dating stories got accepted by the site, My Very Worst Date, I was horrified when some people didn't like the story or thought I was "uptight" when I didn't want to continue to date a guy who said I should euthanize my dog so I can go out more (see Anger Management for more on that doozy of a date).

This is the problem when you write about your own life. If someone doesn't like what you're writing or thinks that it's complete crap, it kinda seems like they think you're crap too. It's tough to put yourself out there. The excitement that I first had when I started my book began to wane when I started doubting myself. When I tried to reign in my thoughts and tame them so they'd be more acceptable or something. I need to get back to that dorky weirdo who ate far too many cheetos and thought up fantastic and wild ideas without stopping to think, what if no one likes it. The one who didn't think that because it didn't matter if no one else liked it or people thought she was weird. She knew she was weird and loved every minute of it.

Taking a page from a friend who has decided that this will be the Year of Awesome and she will be better with what a yoga teacher refers to as "tough self-love," I will try to embrace my weirdness, revel in it, and let go more than hold back. I'll try to let it inspire me to be brave enough to finish this book and see what happens next. And in the meantime I'll laugh my ass off re-reading the crazy crap that once effortlessly flowed from my pen.