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What? Kokomo Isn’t A Real Island?

Right now, I’m in the mountains.

Or at least on my way to them.

Not the craggy, hassleback peaks of the Alps or the snow-capped and rugged expanse of the Rockies, but the rolling, layered, ripples of the Appalachians.

Specifically, the Blue Ridge.

Unlike the jaggedly exuberant and youthful Himalayas (they’re still growing, you know), the Appalachians are ancient. Worn. Wrinkled remnants of a continental collision between masses of land that no longer exist. Like so many humans, they shrink with age and their beauty takes on the understated glow of wisdom.

In the summer they’re covered in blankets of green and blue, but in fall? Their famed and fiery warm hues are nationally — and perhaps internationally — renowned.

I can’t wait to see it.

And neither should you.

But right now, you can’t. So in the meantime, take a gander at these juxtaposing images from my 30th birthday celebration in the Florida Keys last week. (My little sister, Kelly, is the beauty with the long blond hair. My bff, Alaina, is the beauty with the short blond hair. I know. I like to surround myself with beautiful people.):

It’s hard to believe. One week I’m riding around a string of tropical islands on a motorized scooter with my new homosexual sugar daddy, and the next I’m facing autumn’s cool mountain beauty, nestled snugly in the warmth of crackling fires, spicy red wine, and a well-known embrace.

Life, when I travel, is difficult to grasp.

And that’s just the way I like it.

Where We Stayed:

Island: Key West
Hotel: Sheraton Suites
Recommendation: I’m not going to lie. I was initially disappointed when my sister Kelly, best friend Alaina and I waited until the last-minute to book a room for a Friday night in Key West because it seemed like all of the great B&B’s near Duval Street (the island’s “main drag”) as well as some of the larger beach hotels were completely booked. But Kelly pulled through with a 2 room suite at the Sharaton. For just shy of $300 for the night (after taxes, fees, and all of that extra hotel jazz), it was an excellent place to stay. The lobby (complete with complimentary virgin mojitos) was chic and welcoming, as was the staff. The outdoor bar was great, and the ‘tender made sure my non-virgin mojitos were very tourist friendly. The room was stunning with 2 queen beds, a pull-out couch, and an exemplary bathroom (granite counters and a tile shower surround). I’ll admit I was baffled by the fact that the hallway outside of our room had the ocean view, but really. Our main purpose for the space was to sleep. And I can guarantee that we probably slept much better there than outside of the crowded bars of Duval. Of course, it was a bit of a drive (5-10 minutes) to get to town, but we had a car and some locals with a free parking space, so it wasn’t too cumbersome. Also, the hotel offers a free shuttle and the phone numbers for cabbies if you don’t care to drive.

Have you ever seen so much cabinetry in a hotel room?

Also. If you can drive from Miami to the keys, do it.

 

Driving across a dotted chain of islands, over a series of bridges and out into the Caribbean ocean is an experience best tried first-hand.

And the thing is, you never know what gems you’ll unearth along the way.

Travel Tip #232: Dress Maybe Not to Impress, But At Least to Get Free Upgrades.

Look.

Until a few years ago, I had pretty much been one of those I’m-going-to-dress-as-comfortably-as-possible-because-I’m-never-going-to-see-any-of-these-strangers-ever-again kinds of people when I was traveling.

It was just… easier.

I’m pretty sure it’s my mother’s fault (love blaming the parents) because I can trace it back to my family’s trip to Disney World when I was 8 years old. My little sister and I had never been on a plane, and for my mother, it was a rare treat. She was so excited that she ran out and bought all 4 of us those zippered nylon track suits in posh color schemes of the late ’80’s — my dad in blue, mom and sister in matching pink, and me, ever the coolest tween (so not), had the best one in all black with splashes of the hottest fuchsia.

At least, that’s the way I remember it.

(Not us. But it could’ve been. source)

We represented the epitome of stereotypical American tourists as we swish-swished down the airport corridors.

I’m pretty sure we wore visors.

And while at the time we honestly thought we were trendy as hell, the truth is that we were dressing purely for comfort. “And the jackets unzip!” my mom explained that morning as she tucked my long-sleeved turtleneck into the pinched elastic waistband of my swishy pants. “So you can easily take it off if you get too warm on the plane.”

Had I been at all in tune with my surroundings that day, the only warmth I would’ve experienced was that of embarrassment as we swish-swished past the besuitted occupants of business class and tucked ourselves safely into coach. Instead, I occupied myself by creating masterpiece drawings in my sketchpad of the wonders I saw outside the airplane window: a network of rectangles depicting farmlands on one page; some puffy clouds — aka. “The Kingdom of the Care Bears” on another page; and a genius blank page in between representing the time we actually flew through the clouds.

Hey. This was pre-camera and my first taste of travel enthusiasm. I worked with what I had.

The thing is, I’ve never been a proponent of doing something solely for the benefit of others.

I mean, hey. If you like that 6-gauge septum ring, then you wear it with all of the pride of the bull that you apparently think you are.

But when traveling? I’ve just learned over the past few years that dressing up, even just a tad, has several more significantly positive aspects than that of well-dressed strangers not wondering if you smell as wrinkly as you look.

For example. I was headed to the middle-of-nowhere North Carolina last Wednesday morning to drop my dogs off at their kennel before driving over an hour in the opposite direction to get to the airport in time to catch my flight to Florida. I’d taken Justin’s car since my beloved Chevy Tracker’s back right tire seemed a little flat and I didn’t think I had time to fill it before I left. So of course, as seems to be the general law when you make a decision that’s supposed to make your life easier, one of Justin’s tires blew when I was 45 minutes away from my house. And when I say “blew,” I mean exploded.

So there I was, on the side of the road with 2 mutts strapped into my back seat, cursing myself for never bothering to learn how to change a tire. It didn’t take long though, as I stood there making phone calls, for a friendly military officer to stop and change it for me.

Now.

I’d like to think he would’ve stopped regardless of what I was wearing, but let’s face it — my airport-ready sweater dress, tall boots, and leather jacket probably didn’t hurt.

And I don’t think it’s just because I’m a woman. I think a well-dressed man looking helpless on the side of the road is more likely to find assistance than someone looking bedraggled. It’s just human nature. Accurate or not, general scruffiness, ball caps, and saggy jeans conjure images of serial killers.

And people don’t tend to stop for serial killers.

Also, I think better dressed people are more likely to get assistance from airport employees. Think about it: They have one of the most under-appreciated jobs in the universe. They show up to work wearing pressed suits, uncomfortable shoes, immaculate hair, and they have to take orders from tourists all day. Have you ever had to work for someone who knew less about the job than you? Now imagine that person showed up to work every day wearing sweat pants and a fanny pack. Would you resent him more, or less?

Point made.

Finally — and this is really the kicker — it turns out that “uncomfortable” dress clothes can actually be more comfortable than “comfy” clothes.

Think about it: Well-worn jeans can be the best if you’re working around your house or your yard or off running errands. They’re industrial, don’t wrinkle, and can wear coffee spills like they’re in style. But for travel? No way. After a couple of hours on that plane, you notice them squeezing in places they never used to squeeze — pinching in places they never used to pinch. You find yourself tucking belly folds of skin back under the waistband and urging them to stay there. And they ride up. They ride up like they’re in some epic race to see which leg can crawl up your butt the fastest, except for when you squeeze yourself into that miniscule airplane restroom. Then? Then you couldn’t pull them up if your life depended on it.

Jeans are no good for travel.

Think dresses. Long or short, depending on the season, in soft wools, light cottons, and other breathable fabrics. If you’re a man, think slacks. Again, soft. Breathable. What’s not comfortable about that?

Think layers. The more you wear, the less you pack. Airplanes can get chilly, so bring that cardigan or jacket on board.

Think comfortable shoes, but not tennis shoes. Unless you wear tennis shoes on a regular basis, don’t even pack ’em. Get yourself a nice pair of flats or boots with chunky heels — something you can wear rushing through terminals if need-be, but will also look nice with that sun dress or those khakis you packed and plan to wear later.

The greatest thing about looking good is feeling good. When I got off the plane in Florida, I was ready to grab some dinner with my sister without stopping to freshen up.

My sister. (Okay. Admittedly, at the Taco Beach Shack in Hollywood, Florida, dressing “up” means putting on a shirt. But whatever.)

And while my pasty northern skin will always give away the fact that I’m no beach local, the dress made me feel good.

Katie Domestiphobia

It also allowed me the room to eat this:

Hey.

Never could’ve happened if I’d been wearing jeans.

 

“Missed” Doesn’t Really Begin To Describe It.

I’d like to think that, aside from the occasional electric dog fence malfunction or memory card stuck in a CD drive debacle, I can mostly handle things around the abode while Justin is deployed.

That is, apparently, up until about 2 weeks prior to his return.

That, my friends, is when normally functioning cogs in this massive network of machinery operating our 1,600 square foot ranch home decide to methodically malfunction, one by one, and end up resembling nothing more than a smoking pile of dead robotic waste by the time he sets foot in the U.S.

Normal people would think this would be great timing.

Normal people would think, Hey — perfect! The modem crapped out and the electric fence blew a fuse and that tire decided to explode just in time for the Man to come home and fix them.

Because tires and modems and electrical thingamajiggers are Man jobs.

But me?

I’m not normal people.

And the timing couldn’t be more horrific.

See, this makes it seem like I couldn’t hold down the Fort. That while he was off in some foreign land doing whatever it is that he does over there, I wasn’t Man enough to hold it together. I couldn’t keep my eye on the prize. I couldn’t grease the wheels and tune the gears and keep everything functioning. I managed for just most of the time, but that was probably a fluke because it all went to shit mere days before his return.

And that, to be perfectly honest, feels like crap.

So instead of being all, Oh hi! So glad you’re home! Here’s a beer! Put your feet up while the chicken bakes and I’ll turn on the fireplace while you pick something to watch on Netflix, I had to be all, Oh hi! So glad you’re home! I’d give you a beer but it all went to skunk when the blown fuse broke the electric fence and stopped the fridge. You can’t watch Netflix because the internet’s down, but feel free to read a book while I run to the store to buy some chicken for that meal you like because I actually thought you were coming home tomorrow — not today — and don’t turn on the fireplace because the propane guy was supposed to come this morning but I had to cancel on account of picking you up because — again — I thought you were coming tomorrow and apparently I suck at everything.

Which actually turned out to be okay because really, there’s only one thing a guy who’s been deployed for 4 months wants, and it ain’t chicken.

And that is probably the strangest thing about a military homecoming. Everyone — and I mean everyone — knows when you’re having sex. And then they call you. Seriously. This happened more than once. And if you pick up the phone, they say, WHY are you picking up the phone?!

Then I say, Oh, didn’t you know? I’m a multitasker. That’s right. A little to the left. So what’s up? I haven’t talked to you since yesterday. Oooh. That’s it.

And then they hang up.

Okay, I made up that last part. But really, I say, He’s been home for 5 hours! Do you REALLY think we’re still having sex? It’s been 4 months. FOUR MONTHS. This ain’t 50 Shades of Grey. Real people need real recovery time. And if you thought we were still having sex, then why are you calling me? Perv.

And then they hang up.

Okay, I don’t say that last part, either.

Really, I just tell them he’s out picking up our takeout pad Thai, and then I listen to the judgmental gasps before I have a chance to explain just why I didn’t buy the damn chicken have a home cooked meal ready for his return and that he’s been craving Thai food for months anyway and you know what? I’m not sure why I picked up the phone, either!

And then they hang up.

Not really.

But the thing is, no one really knows what goes on in a relationship besides the two people who are in it. We might think we have ideas on how others function based on stories they’ve told or semi-candid moments we’ve witnessed, but really.

This is us we’re talking about.

All I know is:

  • The weirdest feeling in the world is getting nervous to see someone you’ve lived with for 9 years.
  • We like Thai food from the little place in the strip mall in Spring Lake, and he hasn’t been able to eat it for 4 months.
  • I’m terrible with computer stuff and electrical stuff and anything involving preparation whatsoever and honestly, if everything had been perfect upon his arrival, he probably would’ve thought I’d been cheating on him.
  • Fires are overrated when you finally get to experience the touch of another person again.
  • Four months. It’s a long time. A long time of worry. A long time without touch. A long time without sex. A long time to get used to a place without the other person in it. To form new habits. To become set in our ways.

And so.

No one else really knows.

No one, except us, knows how much time we should be spending together. How much time we should be spending apart. Or whether or not it’s acceptable that one of us — let’s just say it’s not me — has somehow developed the idea that it’s okay to now pee with the door open.

(it’s not.)

Anyway.

It’s just us.

We’ll figure it out.

And that’s the way I like it.

Here’s a little video I made of his homecoming. It’s called, “Justin’s Homecoming,” or also known as, “You’re Home! Will You Please Weed the Patio?”

Enjoy:

(This was my first foray into internet video making. Yes. Next time I will turn the camera horizontal. Thank you.) :)

30 Before 30. Except After.

So I meant to do this whole 30 Before 30 bucket list thing you know… before I actually turned 30.

I did.

But not really.

I knew that I never would, because I am an accomplished procrastinator and as such, I’m very well aware that some of these things that I plan for myself will, in fact, never actually happen.

But to avoid the inevitable crash that comes with the realization that I didn’t actually achieve a goal that I set for myself (hell — I didn’t even achieve the goal of listing my goals), I’m going to list some of the things I actually DID do before I turned 30. I feel like this is a much more effective way to feel good about myself, and hey. Life’s too short to not feel good about myself. And also, it’s difficult to see where you might be going if you don’t first analyze — or at least glimpse at — where you’ve been.

1. I have been to 9 countries. (This is not NEARLY enough, mind you, but considering I’m fortunate enough to supplement overseas travel with quite a bit throughout the continental U.S., I feel pretty happy about this.)

2. Went skydiving in Hawaii.

Skydive Hawaii

3. Went scuba diving in St. Lucia.

4. When I was 16, I got my belly button pierced. Then? Big deal. Now? Cliché. And I know that now that I’m 30 I should probably take that sucker out, but by this point it feels like an old friend. I’ve had it almost as long as I haven’t had it. It knows my deepest secrets. We’ve been everywhere together. Sometimes, we like to drink wine and listen to the Gin Blossoms and reminisce about less complicated times. Like when belly button piercings were cool.

5. At 18, I got a tattoo. It has since also turned into a huge cliché, and though I’d like to get another tattoo one day, I figure I will have to first decide what I want and then wait at least 10 years to make sure it doesn’t turn into a cliché. Because by now I’m like — the Queen of Cliché Body Modifications.

Hawaii Beach
Photo by: Leah B Photography

6. I quit college when I was 20 due to family complications. Quitting college was one of the most difficult things I’ve ever done.

7. I finished college when I was 25. The kids in my freshman English course kept asking me to buy them beer. Instead, I told them I’d edit their English papers and probably made more than one cry with my extensive use of red ink, but all of their grades improved drastically.

8. I’ve had at least 17 (taxable) jobs (that I can count), effectively making me a Jack of (almost) All Trades. So THERE, stupid college career counselor.

9. I put 5,500 miles on The Tracker during a self-financed month-long road trip through the western U.S. when I was 20.

10. In high school I had a 4.2 GPA. Because it’s cool to be a nerd.

11. At my first college, I was convinced to join a sorority. The one I chose (and subsequently chose me) had just gotten reinstated after being kicked off campus for excessive partying. Those girls changed my perspective on sororities. They still change my perspective on many things today.

12. When I was 20, I learned that my parents were actually real people. It was terrifying.

13. I traveled to Europe for the first time when I was 23. I haven’t forgotten the feel of cobblestone streets, the taste of tarte flambé, or what it means to be a foreigner.

14. I once survived a vicious wiener dog attack.

15. I’ve only gotten one speeding ticket. Ever. For going 19 over the limit. While driving on a military installation. In a government vehicle. (Hey. Go big, or go home.)

16. I’ve gotten my writing and photography published on Apartment Therapy.

17. I had a beer with D.B. Sweeney. I think he was mad I didn’t ask him to say, “toe pick.”

18. I made hot sauce for 2 months in Costa Rica. And rappelled waterfalls. You know, the usual.

IMG_4236

19. I’ve eaten authentic paella from a nondescript restaurant house on Ibiza.

20. A real artist — Valerio Gentile — has drawn my eyes on a balcony in Malaga.

21. I’ve sunbathed topless on the beaches of Formentera. It was pretty much the best feeling in the world.

22. I’ve conquered my fear of cooking.

23. I have been a (semi) consistent blogger for over 2 years. It seems so small, but it has encouraged me to try new things and meet new people and has given me the courage to consciously decide to stop sleepwalking through life.

24. I’ve designed, constructed, and hung a kick-ass industrial closet organizer out of plumbing fixtures and never finished telling you how to make it.

Plumbing Pipe Closet Organizer Domestiphobia

25. Across states and continents, I’ve managed to build and maintain some of the best friendships a woman could ask for.

26. I’ve effectively come to grips with the fact that sometimes, in order to avoid sounding awkward and uptight, I have to end a sentence with a preposition.

27. From childhood we’re taught to not talk to strangers. Ignoring that advice is the best thing I’ve learned. It’s how I learned the story of the most generous waiter in the world. It’s how I gained the confidence to try and chase my dreams. It’s how I learned the phrase, Reason, Season, Lifetime and its significance in my life. It’s how I turned a chance meeting on an airplane into an informal job interview and potential offer with a prestigious technology firm. These things happen. You just have to converse.

28. I survived a 3-hour formal job interview with a spider bite on my ass.

29. It took me 30 years, but I’ve finally found my sense of direction.

30. I’ve managed to land myself a pretty incredible guy. I’m still not quite sure how that happened. He comes home this week.

So. All-in-all, I feel pretty good. I may not be able to fix my electric fence. I may not be able to get my wireless internet working again. I will likely never learn how to dougie.

But.

Life, so far, has been a trip.

And I think I’ll stay on this train for as long as they’ll let me.

It’s Just Another Countdown.

So there’s a chance I’m not taking this whole about-to-turn-30 thing as well as I’d thought.

Capone

Soon, my forehead will look like this.

I used to be all, Oh, 30? That’s no big deal. I’ve always been mature for my age, so it’ll finally feel like the number has caught up with the personality. Seriously. No big deal. Now, 40 — that’s my scary age. Not that any age is all that scary since really, we should all BE so lucky to celebrate every new birthday. Amiright? Right. So. Turning 30 isn’t a big deal. Just another day. And when you think about it, I haven’t changed that much. I still fit into some of my high school clothes. Okay, so my actual body parts are a tad saggier than they used to be, but the fit? It’s still there. -ish. Like, if I hold my breath and lie down on the bed and suck everything in to the vortex of my core and pretend that my hips aren’t screaming, “WHY AREN’T YOU PREGNANT?! WE ARE SO READY TO SUPPORT THIS WOMB! LOOK AT US! WE’RE SUPPLE AND WIDE AND OH-SO-PREPARED TO BEAR! ALL THAT’S MISSING IS THE BABY! WHY DO YOU INSIST ON BEING SUCH A FREAK???”

So really. I haven’t changed much at all.

Except for last night.

Last night, it seemed like the reality of my situation hit me all at once.

My “situation” being that I’m 3 days from 30, I don’t have a job, my husband’s in Afghanistan, and I don’t even have — or necessarily even want — any babies to at least distract myself from all of the above.

The truth is, I don’t know what the hell I’m doing.

But I do know a couple of things that I didn’t know last year. Or when I quit my “real” job 2 years ago:

1) I want to be a writer. Simple. That’s what I want to do.

2) The biggest thing holding me back is myself. There are a lot of genuine fears that accompany striking off on one’s own, and I’m pretty sure I’ve run the gamut: What if I don’t make it? What if people make fun of me? What if I can’t handle the pressure? What if it’s not as great as I thought it would be? What if my family and friends don’t believe in me? What if they do?

And that’s it, really. The biggest fear of all is success.

Then I might actually have to do this thing.

And so last night, after a day spent researching and reading and watching how-to videos and generally focusing on everything but the actual doing of a thing, it hit me all at once.

I’m pretty much 30.

And I’m not where I thought I would be.

….

panic?

…

And then, I got over it again.

Because maybe I just need to be a “grown up” before growing up. Maybe this new stage — this new decade — is what I need to make me stop feeling like it’s okay to procrastinate because I think I have all the time in the world and instead, I will finally grasp the fact that the time is now.

Right now.

To make the next move. To take the next step. To stop blaming my partner or my friends or society from holding me back.

So it all begins.

But not exactly right now because first, I have to get on a plane.

Because I can’t very well welcome 30 sitting by myself on a sofa watching Sex and the City.

(Which is exactly what I did last night.)

You know me.

I have to move.

Where?

Here’s a hint:

(This photo was taken around Thanksgiving last year and is the best recent-ish photo I have of my brother and me. I mean, I don’t know about you, but my best photos are the ones where I’m covering half of my face. Just sayin’. Where were we? Have you been reading that long? Bonus points to the first person who gets it right.)

Bye, North Carolina. Bye 29. It’s been good. Really.

But I think 30 might be even better.

And Two For Tea…

As much as I’d like to be, I’m not really a tea drinker.

I enjoy thinking of myself as misplaced Euro trash, but more of the waify, carefree, wine and cigarettes with lunch variety than the humorless, pearl-wearing, yellow-stained teeth variety.

More this:

Less this:

Of course, we’re talking strictly in stereotypes.

And I don’t smoke.

And I look nothing like Penelope Cruz.

Because it’s a cruel, cruel world.

Anyway.

My point is that despite all of the wonderful things I hear about tea, I much prefer getting my nighttime antioxidants from fermented grapes over sticks and leaves, and coffee is too ingrained into my mornings for me to wake up to anything else, and for those reasons I will probably never be a true convert.

However.

When I was in San Antonio a couple of months ago, my friend Stacy took me to a tea room that almost changed my mind.

Almost.

See, I’ve always maintained that when you visit a new city, it’s wise to make yourself friendly with a local.  Stacy and I go back to our cubicle days on Fort Bragg, but we kept in touch after I ran off to make hot sauce in Costa Rica and she ran away with her husband back to Texas.

In a city like San Antonio, it’s easy to get lured in by its magical River Walk filled with overpriced restaurants, twinkling lights, touristy shops filled with trinkets to take home, and plenty of beautiful spots to sit and contemplate how many drunk spring breakers have peed off the boardwalk into the murky depths of the waterway. But with a local, you might be more inclined to visit the city’s rusty edge or the King William Historic District, where resides a squat maze of rooms that comprise Madhatters Tea House & Café.

Beamed ceilings, crooked rooms, mismatched chairs and local art define the quirky decor, and one look around made instant my decision to ignore the long line at the counter and treat it as a true sign that this was the place to have lunch.

The line traveled quickly, leaving us just enough time to peruse the extensive menu.

Of course, since this was a tea room, we decided to embrace our girly girl selves and ordered the Tea for Two, complete with crustless sandwiches, scones, and little mini desserts with fancy French names.

After ordering at the counter, we selected our tea cups and I was reminded for a second of what it’s like to just play. To make tea cup selection a big, stinkin’ deal. To forget for a minute about mortgages and Homeowners’ Associations and quitting my job and just have a tea party because dammit, sometimes you just want to lift a delicate cup from an intricate saucer, stick your pinky in the air, and curse your decision to leave the house without your wide-brimmed hat.

I don’t remember what kind of tea we drank, but it was delicious, served hot and steeping at our table in its own funky pot.

And excuse me? Crustless sandwiches? I always thought that was wasteful as a kid and so never requested my bread sans crust, but whoa. I was missing out. There’s something about thick, fluffy bread unimpeded by stiff crust, and tell me — will people start looking at me funny if, at almost-30-years-old, I start cutting the crust from my sandwiches?

If so, I’ll just tell them my teeth are rotting because I’m getting so old.

Meager as it looks, it was actually a pretty filling amount of food. And the trick, my friends, is to eat slowly. Savor the flavor. Sip warm tea. Enjoy conversation with long lost friends and pretend, just for an hour, that life’s as simple as we want it to be.

It wasn’t wine and cigarettes, but the effect, I think, was the same.

Madhatters on Urbanspoon

What Started As A Lazy Post Actually Gave Me Insight Into My Own Complicated Mind. Huh.

So it turns out this whole going-into-business-for-yourself thing is a lot of work.

A whole lot of work.

And so is quitting a job where your employers don’t actually want to fully admit to themselves that you’re quitting so they give you all of your usual tasks plus someone to train plus a bunch of other things they want you to finish “before you leave” because they don’t really want to admit to themselves how awful work will be now that you’re not going to be there.

Appreciation’s a bitch sometimes.

Especially when it comes too late.

So I think it’s important for me to take a few minutes this morning to share with you — by way of appreciation — some of the blogs that I’ve been reading for years. I don’t connect to other bloggers enough, and also, I’m just too tired to come up with something especially coherent today. Also. I think it’s important to note that these bloggers are not regular readers of my blog. (At least, as far as I know.) That is intentional because I have a huge fear of making anyone feel bad or left out. Also, what I really want to share this morning are tidbits from people I’ve been reading for literally years. Not only could it expose you to some interesting reads, but it will give you a little further insight into this chaotic brain of mine.

Ready?

Nicole Is Better: A Life Less Bullshit

Recent Post I Enjoyed: The Ultimate Productivity Tool, A Formula for Happiness, and the Best Question You Could Ever Ask Yourself
Why I like her: She’s a few years younger than me, and a much more successful blogger, but I see a lot of myself in Nicole. She’s honest. Often brutally so. Her voice comes out better in writing than it does in person. (Not that she sounds bad in person. She doesn’t. She’s just… more confident in her writing.) She cusses like a sailor. The biggest difference between us is that Nicole knows how to set goals for herself and — get this — actually accomplish them. This is why I read her. To learn how to follow through with my crazy ideas. Also, she doesn’t drink. And she runs. And if there are 2 things I know will (likely) never happen in my life, they are, in this order: 1) I will stop drinking wine, and 2) I will start running. But good for her, you know?

Nothing But Bonfires

Recent Post I Enjoyed: Our Bathroom: Before and After
Why I like her: Basically, and I know this is going to make me sound a little stalker-ish, Holly is Part 1 of everything I want to be in the world. She’s classy, a prolific writer, works for the best company ever, has impeccable design sense, lives in San Francisco, and has a charming British accent. Her vacation photos are out of this world, and her relationship with her family (parents and siblings) seems to be what I would want for my family if I ever decided to have children. I’m sure her life isn’t perfect and is filled with conflicts and stresses just like everyone else, but still. This woman has it together. I’m pretty sure I’m on the right track because we both have scruffy, adorable husbands.

My Beautiful Adventures

Recent Post I Enjoyed: A Synchronistic Moment & A Friendly Reminder
Why I like her: Okay, I admit it. I’ve been reading Andi’s blog for less than a year. But I had to include her, because she’s probably Part 2 of everything I want to be in the world. She lives her life on her terms. She’s a travel writer. She heals people as a Chinese Medicine Doctor. (Not that I necessarily want to be a Chinese Medicine Doctor, but that does seem pretty cool.) She’s a travel writer. And basically, yes. Her life seems full of beautiful adventures. Plus, her travel photography is incredible. And she’s a travel writer. Oh, and to top it all off, she’s basically the nicest human on the planet. So. In short, there are worse people to whom to aspire.

Blunt Delivery

Recent Post I Enjoyed: Here’s How I Feel About Your Bucket List
Why I Like Her: Okay, I cheated on this one, too. The above is not a recent post. It’s actually from a year ago. While I have been reading Britteny’s blog for years, she has recently decided to neglect it in order to live her dream as a professional photographer. Whatever. I keep hoping she comes back (which she does every few months or so), because her blog is a very special blend of sardonic writing, creative photography, and a touch of thoughtful. She’s quirky and funny and very, very real. I can’t get enough. Do you hear me, Blunty? Come back! COME BACK!

This Battered Suitcase

Recent Post I Enjoyed: When Travelling Sucks (She’s Canadian. Hence the spelling. Silly Canadians.)
Why I like her: Basically, Brenna travels. All of the time. Her posts are like poetry, though sometimes she mixes in some practical advice as well. Her photos are addictive. I’m pretty sure I’ve read her entire blog, which officially makes me an internet stalker. Though really, she should consider herself lucky to have me since I’m pretty much the coolest stalker ever. You’re welcome, Brenna. You’re welcome.

Hmmm. I think I’m noticing a trend. All of these women have a knack for writing and/or photography. Most of them love to travel. All of them are all driven. Most are self-employed. Basically, if I had a chance to sit down and have a conversation with 5 people I’ve never before met, it would be these women. They’re inspiring. Creative. And they give me hope.

I honestly didn’t realize that until I completed the list.

Huh.

 

The Only Bullshitter I Can Bullshit is Apparently MySelf.

Well, it’s another Last of the Mondays for me.

I can’t believe it’s been over 2 years since I last quit my job to venture out into the world of self-employment.

It’s embarrassing to admit now, but I had high hopes. I had high, high hopes that all I needed to do was book a 2-month trip to Costa Rica, be my lovely, endearing self, and somehow — hopefully through this blog — the opportunity to become a travel writer would present itself.

Yeah, notsomuch.

What I learned the hard way is that self-employment — chasing the dream — takes actual work.

Who knew?

In fact, it’s so easy to sensationalize the idea of working for one’s self because of a single, obvious factor: YOU HAVE NO BOSS.

Turns out, though, that’s not true.

Not even a little.

Of course, YOU are your own boss.

And that’s fantastic, right?

Well, unfortunately, disciplining yourself is a hell of a lot harder than getting an earful from The Man, because all you really want to do is take pity on yourself and be patient and understanding and all of those things you got mad at your boss for not being when you were having a rough day. But then, your Self learns. It learns that you’re a crappy boss and a crappier disciplinarian and soon every day turns into a rough day, and before you know it, you’re unshowered Self is crashing your sofa at 2:00 in the afternoon eating Häagen-Dazs from the carton and singing along to My Fair Lady and, aside from feeling sorry for herself because she’s a big fat failure of a Self-starter, she’s really having a grand old time.

So this time, I’m prepared.

I’m prepared to be a badass boss because I’ve learned that the Self-deprecation that comes with mediocrity is so not worth an afternoon of ice cream and Audrey Hepburn.

Also.

There are the other bosses. The other bosses are the people who, as an independent contractor, will be hiring me to work for them. With the other bosses will come a whole new slew of demands and expectations, and the only choice for me will be to meet them, head-on, because if I don’t, the only person who can take the blame is ME.

And I’m tired of letting people down.

Most of all, me.

So.

This time, I’m doing myself a favor, packing a duffel bag full of all of the bullshit I fed myself 2 years ago, and sending it into space with the power of a hundred thousand helium balloons.

(You’ve heard there’s a helium shortage, right? Yeah. That was me.)

This is my last Monday. And hopefully, my last of my last Mondays. This is my last week of earning a paycheck just because I show up.

The last time I pack my lunch in tupperware.

The last time I roll my eyes at a request from my boss because my new boss, I hear, is unriddled by bullshit and in no mood to play.

This is life, after all, and we can coast on through making excuses for getting caught in the momentum of mediocrity, or we can really try.

The only thing ever really holding us back is the paralyzing fear of failure. That thing that makes us start and quit and start and quit again.

But. I’ve finally realized.

I would rather fail — I would rather fail so inconsolably and publicly hard — than continue to be the girl who just quits all the time. The girl who’s addicted to the bottom of the ladder. The girl who says soon — mañana — I will do what I know I was born to do.

Because. With 2 years of tomorrows behind me, I’m no closer to reaching my goals. Failure, at this point, would be a relief next to not even trying. The limbo I’ve been living. The bullshit that’s made me metaphorically fat and lazy and full of excuses.

I don’t want to be that person.

So.

I stop today.

It is, after all, the Last of the Last of the Mondays.

I Love French Films Because they Sound Soothing and Seductive and they Validate My Wine Consumption.

Lately, I’ve been watching quite a few foreign films.

Ugh. I know.

It’s not like I’m trying to become one of those people — one of those people who only watches them so I can make obscure references during intellectual conversations at my literary club. Honest.

I’d seen some of the obvious ones from the past — Amelie (French, and an absolute favorite), Lola Rennt (German, aka. “Run Lola Run”), and Das Boot (German, interesting counterpart to the American “U-571” and told from the “enemy” point of view). But my experience didn’t venture far beyond those which I was forced to watch in school (the German ones) or by close friends (the French).

In fact, I pretty much thought that Hollywood was the center of the movie universe and that other countries didn’t really bother making films worth watching because why, pray tell, would an actor bother to act anywhere else?

But then I accidentally streamed a French film on Netflix.

See, I have this terrible weakness for horrible romantic comedies — especially when my husband’s deployed because I don’t have to explain my reasoning (umm… because I have ovaries instead of testicles?) for wanting to watch them. The online Netflix streaming is set up so that it analyzes shows and movies you’ve already watched and then makes suggestions of films it “thinks” you might like based off of those. The hilarious fact is that before Justin left it was all sci-fi and crime dramas and geek shows, but I’ve successfully managed to (mostly) transition it to rom-coms and whiny indie flicks. He will be SO pleased. Also, I think I might be completely confounding Netflix’s computer brain algorithm thingies because it’ll suggest movies like “Runaway Bride” (which I didn’t like) alongside shows like “Sons of Anarchy” (which I probably would kind of like), and so just when it thinks it has me all figured out, I’m all, HA, Netflix! I’ve foiled you again!

And you know you’re kind of lonely when you spend your free time trying to confuse inanimate objects.

Anyway.

I was in the mood for a good old-fashioned rom-com, and Netflix suggested this one called Heartbreaker. The title was in English. The description was in English. I didn’t look at the actors’ names, so there were no obvious signs pointing to the fact that this was actually a subtitled French film. In fact, it didn’t even actually occur to me that I was reading subtitles until a good 10 minutes in, and by then I was already hooked.

The most interesting part about watching it was realizing the subtle differences in humor and beauty. The leading actress, to me, seemed a little homely and a lot emaciated with her Madonna-esque gap tooth and bony frame, and I didn’t find the leading actor, with his hairy, bumbling scruff attractive in the slightest.

That is, until I continued watching. I became genuinely interested in their characters, and realized that it worked. These cultural differences were only surficial — the heart and the humor was still there, and now, in retrospect, I know I wouldn’t have cast them any differently. It was lighthearted, funny, and a new twist on the typical “opposites attract” story. It was kind of like the Will Smith movie “Hitch,” only instead of bringing couples together, Alex’s job was to break people up by seducing women and making them realize they deserved more than the douchebags they were currently dating. Not a bad gig, huh?

My mom says she hates watching foreign films because while she’s reading the subtitles, she feels like she’s missing out on some of the visual effects of the movie.

Well of course. But really. It’s just a little reading. My grandmother goes every day — every day — without her sense of smell and therefore, without her sense of taste. But that doesn’t stop her from eating, does it? And that doesn’t stop her from cooking delicious food. Just like deafness, I’d imagine, wouldn’t stop someone who’s hearing impaired from enjoying a good movie.

So. If you haven’t before and want to give a foreign flick a chance, go for it. Start with Amelie and learn the story of the traveling gnome.

If you want something deeper but still funny, try Patrik 1.5, a Dutch film about a gay couple struggling to adopt a child. They think they’re getting a 1 1/2-year-old, but instead end up with a 15-year-old homophobic, troubled teen. It’s funny and touching and heartbreaking and embraces stereotypes while slapping them down and shows that maybe — just maybe — a nontraditional family isn’t as scary as we might think.

If you want a little more epic, watch Bride Flight, another Dutch flick that takes place just after World War II. It’s forbidden love. It’s unrequited romance. It’s impossible choices and frustratingly lovable characters and the most adorable leading actor in the history of ever.

And if you want sad. If you want oh, so incredibly Holocaust sad but without the in-your-face death camp stuff of Schindler’s List, watch Sarah’s Key. But. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

These movies might change you.

They might change your perception of other cultures and how they perceive humor. How they perceive sadness. How they perceive beauty and action and romance.

They might make you realize that we’re not all so different, out there in the world.

And a foreign language, while scary when you’re lost in a train station and can’t find the bathroom, can also sound soothing, interesting, and a little bit seductive when experienced from the safety of your living room sofa.

 

An Open Letter to the Spouses of Deployed Active Duty Military:

This morning feels fresh.

I stepped outside, coffee in hand, and stretched. The thick coating of stiffness dried to a dust and then cracked, with my stretch, to crumble and fall to my rotting deck boards. It left only the dull ache of fresh, tender muscle from yesterday’s strain.

This feels good, I thought. I feel good.

And I smiled to greet the day.

But last night?

Last night I felt melancholy and oh so alone. And that’s the thing about a deployment — your feelings all packed into a lotto spinner of chance, and you never know what you’re working with until the pretty girl in the sparkling dress pulls your number for the day.

Or even the hour.

So I think I’m going to share what I wrote last night, not because I seek attention or am particularly proud of my state of mind at the time, but just in case. In case anyone reads it who needed to read it. And if you don’t, bear with me. Tomorrow we’ll be back to our regularly scheduled program.

To the spouses of deployed active duty military:

I know you.

I know you, and I know your particular brand of loneliness.

Though you’re surrounded by hundreds of family, friends and acquaintances in good faith, thousands of uniforms in camaraderie, and millions of citizens in patriotism, the loneliness.

It’s palatable.

Everyone expects you to always be strong.

After all, you chose this. Not just the job or the distance or the time, but the danger. The inability to communicate. The words, chosen carefully, so he feels needed and missed but not too needed or missed, because then he feels helpless, and basically you hold the coiled nerve ball of your partner’s raw emotions in the palm of your hand and all it takes is a tight squeeze here — a wrong pinch there — and the entire thing unravels.

Your family and friends — those unaffiliated with the military or the Life, say nothing. They rarely acknowledge the fact that he’s gone. Especially if they don’t live nearby, it’s easy. It’s easy to pretend like it’s not happening at all or that he’ll be back “any day” or that this time — a quarter of a year, a third, even 12 months or more of your life will “go quick” and they think that those words — the wishing of a life passing quickly — are comfort.

Just know.

It’s not because they don’t love you. It’s not because they don’t care. They do. But this unknowing — the sheer unrelatability — is vast and confusing. They’re worried if they try to relate — if they comfort too much, they take away your ability to be strong. It’s hard. It’s hard to be a friend to someone who chooses this life.

Who brings it on herself.

The others — the other spouses, both men and women who know what it’s like don’t ask because they know.

They know if they ask, it might make you crumble.

They know that if you need it, you’ll ask for help.

And let me tell you this.

No one will be quicker to give it.

So ask.

If you need help, ask. If you need a hug, ask. If you need to cry or say bad things or punch the wall, those people will be there.

Just don’t punch the wall. That’s stupid.

And stupid, you’re not.

Because you’re doing this, aren’t you? All on your own? Alone and surrounded, all at the same time. And it’s not so bad, this self sufficiency. This time to think.

And imagine — they call you dependent.

Like telling a rock that it’s soft or an ocean it’s weak.

Almost as dumb as punching a wall.

Almost.

So go. Keep living. Keep the wheels greased and the cogs spinning and find joy every day because, after all, that’s kind of the point. Your freedom to go on living.

It’s okay to miss. It’s okay to feel sad. It’s okay to sometimes feel angry and mean. But it’s okay to feel good, too. Feeling good is not forgetting. Feeling good is not less sacrifice. Feeling good is a choice, and it’s something everyone wants for you.

Eventually, this will pass. Not any more quickly or slowly than normal time, but one way or another, it will pass.

I’m thinking about you, and I know.

I know.