Fake It Till I Make It.

*Backstory: Last summer my sister introduced me to a friend of her then fiance now husband's.  We'll call him BOB.  BOB is also my brother in law's sister's brother in law.  We hung out while my sister was at work, watching cars go by and discovered we had a mutual distaste for "In Loving Memory of the Foolish Teenager Who Drove into the Tree while Drunk/High & Maimed His Best Friend" stickers.

Fast Forward to my sister's wedding.  I was the ONLY SINGLE FEMALE under the age of 40 except one of the nannies who had canceled her own wedding less than a month earlier after she caught her fiance cheating on her, with his secretary.  Tired from:

• the scrutiny
• sleeping on the floor in the cabin
• fighting with the other bridesmaid
• fighting with the bride
• wearing what is possibly the worst fitting dress ever

I proceeded to get drunk and flirt with BOB.  I dubbed BOB my unoffical date.  Long story short we ended up at the after party together and there the rumors started.  I've seen BOB once since the wedding.  He's a wonderful person, but lives far away and neither of us is smitten.*

BOB may or may not be at the same place at the same time as I am this weekend and my sister wanted to warn me, as she likes to make a big deal about my single status.

This is the script for the fake text I may or may not accidently send to my sister:

Hey BOB, it's Katie. Just a heads up, I was told we may run into each other @ B&J's this weekend.  I realize now you were a gentleman about turning down my attempts to get into your pants.  I will do my best not to throw myself at you if we should meet again in front of friends and family. Be warned however, if I should find myself alone with you, I may not be able to fight the temptation you present.  Best Wishes for the New Year, Katie.

Or I may explain the situation to BOB and ask him to forward the text to my sister with a "WHAT THE HELL?" attached. He's that great of a guy.

Bah HumBug.

Confession: My "Holiday Cheer" meter is at 0-5%.

Chalk it up to working a lot of hours (I'm grateful for a job, I'm grateful the hours fly by, I'm grateful I can be proud of the work I've done at the end of the night (or beginning of the morning, depending how you look @ it). It's just a LOT of hours).

Chalk a bigger portion up to having been paid to be festive in the past. Having to decorate & host & play nice with visitors & volunteers? Having to stretch a budget & be family to elder residents who don't have people willing to visit? It's draining.  I have great admiration for those who can tolerate it cheerfully.

The greatest portion has to do with not having a place of my own.  The apartment my first Christmas away from home was decorated to the hilt.  My roommate and I made sure of it, and it was sparkly & cozy, with touches from home & decorations of all our own. The next year was a little less enthusiastic, as she was spending time with her boyfriend next door.  The tree still went up, & with the help of my boyfriend's 4 year old daughter, it was decorated the weekend before Christmas.  The same tree went up the next year, around Thanksgiving, in a smaller, more crowded apartment, this time with the help of a 5 yr & a less than enthusiastic boyfriend complaining about the space it took up.  The 4th Christmas away from home the tree stayed in the closet, as my roommate at the time didn't really celebrate & I was busy decorating at work.  The only sign of the holiday in the house was 2 red ribbons on the front porch.  The 5th year I gave away my tree & flew home to see my family.

This year?  This year I'll help with holidays tasks at my mothers request, bake goodies for friends & co-workers, go to a couple of Christmas parties, and search out the right gifts for people on my list.  But I don't have enthusiasm for the season.  Come December 26th nothing will be different. I'll have some more material possessions to keep track of and have spent time with more hours spent with family members who have a hard time not telling me what I should be doing with my life & hassling me about not dating or living with my parents, but nothing will be different.

All I want for Christmas is change?

Oh Boy.

I'm job hunting, again. A very common theme here.  Unlike before I don't need a new job, I want a different job.  You would think with a resume that lists nearly everything under the sun it wouldn't be a problem finding something different, but that is the exact problem. I want something DIFFERENT.  Not different as in that is a job you never imagined existed, or you have never met anyone who has done that, but a job different from what I've done in the past.

I want a job where I go to work, have my own workspace, start with the same task every morning, proceed through my to-do list, produce tangible results, smile at people, offer assistance, gain feedback and get paid.  I would like to work from morning to late afternoon. I would like a regular lunch break, a desk free of clutter, a chair with a back, adjusted to an ergonomically correct height, and baskets and cabinets where things are put away neatly at the end of every day.

As I work at my current j.o.b. I think about potential employers. In the past I've taken jobs and found out within a month that my employers are not the most, shall we say, savory people.  Oh, they looked good on paper, the pay and incentives may have been attractive, but the unspecified details that arose didn't just raise tardy red flags, they sent up emergency flares in to my mind's sky.  Unfortunately at that point I had commited to the positions physically (relocated) or contractually or because I was without a fallback plan.

I need standards.  Working in or near my hometown will give me the benefit of knowing someone that knows the potential employer's reputation.  My pops, he can't walk down the street, into a church or restaurant, without running into an aquaintance.  My extended family is enormous (though I don't mention relations because not all are viewed favorably) and their opinions can provide some insight (i.e. if so and so likes it, avoid it like the plague).  The friends I maintained since high school? They have a large group of successful friends. Network! I must.

As I go about my day I make mental lists, take notes, consider my options. I'll need a new resume. Something that presents me and what I have to offer better.  I make mental lists of adjectives to incorporate.
Meticulous. Dedicated. Creative. Efficient. Organized.

Then I get home, look at the space where I live and realize that I need my attractive attributes to carry over into my personal life.  I know what I stumble over every day: failing to be asleep by my assigned times (8 am for me is midnight after a FULL day for most of the rest of the world - but here I am blogging); running on the days I'm scheduled to; eating balanced meals at regular intervals. I've tackled this issue, I'm working with solutions to overcome the major stumbling blocks.

Next up is the need for physical organization. I've always surrounded myself with controlled chaos.  I'm capable of ignoring 95% of the distractions around me to be able to focus on the task at hand.  But I'm drawn to, crave and revel in cleanliness, simplicity, order and functional design. I've got a knack for looking at a room and rearranging it for better functional use.  I can prioritize the needs and analyze the potential of a space for real solutions. I can identify what is missing and what is superfluous and sell the stong points of my changes.

What do I love? I should, at this point, move forward in a direction I love. What do I love?

I'm a Princess!

There, I said it. Here is the proof:

I have things to say...

I'm just preoccupied. The to do list is pulling at me. I feel guilty if I'm not working on something. TV? I feel bad about myself for watching it. Books? Take to much time. Time with friends? There must be something I'm neglecting in order to have fun.

Where does this guilt come from. It's the same feeling I felt when I was job hunting or in school procrastinating on homework. It feels like I could be doing a better job at living life. Fail. I fail.

I went to the B&G Club yesterday to see about volunteering. I'm hesitant. A commitment. I don't feel ready to make any kind of commitment. Should I? Good people volunteer. If I don't am I a bad person?

I'm ready to admit defeat. I cried today because I slept through my alarm & missed a hair appointment. My sister was okay with it, just worried. I haven't done that in weeks (months?).

I'm starting to look for a new job, where I might get paid enough to get myself out of this hole I'm in. Day job means no more substitute teaching. Can I suffer through the nights in order to keep doing that? Is it worth it?  I could keep a couple nights part time until things are square, but at what cost to my dreams.

What do I dream about any more?

I don't know.

A Love Song

I'm single.  Probably for good reason. I don't like words like quirky, unique, odd duck, weird, etc. They are all just labels, like marching to the beat of a different drummer is another cliche.  I've dated, had a fair share of relationships, but approaching 29 in less than a month, I'm single.  It's as though the pressure is on.

 I've got 2 options as I see it.  I can throw myself at the first man who will take me, or I can live my life. Tough choice, right?

Don't let this attitude of mine lead you to believe I have no notion of what I want hope for in a perfect happy relationship.  From past experience I know it takes compromise.  I know it takes enthusiasm (ever been with someone who stopped being excited about being with you? Mega bummer, right?)  I know everything doesn't have to be match-y match-y.  Similar interests are good, so is having your own gig.  Trust, trust is important, right? Respect too. 

I think deep down, way deep in me there is an ideal I hold.  I think I don't dwell on that ideal for a reason; if I focused on the ideal I would be so focused on a POTENTIAL'S flaws I wouldn't appreciate the fantastic attributes they might hold. Whoa there, I'm not saying I (or anyone) should overlook the MAJOR flaws, like throwing objects in anger & thinking your actions are a justifiable way to manage anger.  (Really?  Getting rid of your breakable objects doesn't solve that issue.) 

I could list a thousand things I'm hoping for and never accurately describe my dream guy.  Or I could just say I'm still looking for the man who complements me, and I him.  Keep it simple, right?  Yeah, that's what I thought.

Once In A Blue Moon -K.Bosch

(photo of unfinished version - finished piece belongs to

Raise Your Glass Winebar in Roseburg, OR)

My Head, It's Still Attached, Right?

I had an amazing weekend.  I don't think I did a single thing I intended to. Friday night I didn't go out after work, but I really wanted to. I received a voicemail that my friends had seen *and stalked mildly* the man I have a major crush on, so I hustled to be able to meet them only to realize I received the message two hours after they sent it.  I then apologized for calling them at 1 AM. What?
Saturday things turned around after the cats decided the litter box was a good place for turf wars, to be followed up by knocking down shelving over the work desk. Good times.
I cleaned up the first mess & walked away from the second. It was too much. I closed the door so the offending critters couldn't walk through the glass & left. For seven hours.
Yeah, I had to clean the mess up when I came home, but right then, I had the choice to walk away so I didn't continue to over-react to what turned out to be a mild catastrophe, not the major disaster I thought it was.  Future parenting strategy? I think so.
Dear World, I got to play disc golf for the first time in a year, on a beautiful course that's only going to get better with time.  Followed by dinner and a trip to the beach.  Did I mention Round Barn Brewery Summer Wheat was on tap at dinner? Are you catching on to the fact all of this together was enough to erase the poop & hurricane at home? 
Sunday ended up equally fantastic with church, a nice noon meal with my parents (I was able to treat them for once!) and more disc golf and beach time.
It's been difficult to move back.  There's so much I want to do, so many things I want to accomplish, even more I want to experience. My friends from high school, they've moved on, made more friends, friends they're kind enough to share.  It's uncomfortable because I'm the 3rd (or 5th, or 7th, or good grief, the 9th) wheel.  I have to suck it up. I told my friend Steven Joseph I wasn't going to appear in any more group photos until I had a date equally or more attractive than myself.  Not hard.  The equal or more part.  If you follow me on twitter you know I can't get a decent date to save my life.
Moving on. This weekend. It was fantastic.  Pops said I had needed it.  I did.  It helped. Because today I got out of bed & got shit done.  All day.  Baked muffins, vacuumed after Hell's Cousins, delivered muffins, picked up supplies, got a new necklace, and earrings, and was able to replace my aviators, and get some grocery shopping done.  After lunch (I know, right?) I worked on my photogram kits, and sat down to write for an hour. Now, off to work. Tomorrow morning, after work, I'll run. 
I maybe could have done this all over the weekend, but it would have been a struggle. I needed to be recharged, to let go, to relax.  Today, I was (am?) my super-self.  Tomorrow, I could possibly do it again.
No, I wasn't able to get out out more than a couple words when I saw that gorgeous man, I didn't remember everything on my list, and I ran out of some supplies, but so what?  Tomorrow, I get to try again.

You Hate Me

It's okay, sometimes I hate myself too. Usually it's right about the time I open my mouth. OOOOOOOOOoooo. I hate opening my mouth. It's my fear of the awkward silence that provokes me to tell myself "just one sentence won't hurt."  Then I need to follow up with an explanatory sentence so you understand what I'm trying to say.

No really, tell me anything. Tell me how you believe your life sucks, how you were, what you want to do, what you wish was different, how you want to be different.
I can't help it, I'm going to say:

Really? Why do you say that?
What changed?
Why don't you? What's holding you back?
I think you can make it happen.  What steps do you need to take to achieve that?
Well what do you think your qualities are? Use those to highlight yourself.

Then we end up chatting for 45 minutes.  I listen.  I'm your own personal F*R*I*C*K*E*N cheerleader.  Because I can't help but love you.  Really.  Because deep down, life is so good.  It can be.  Because happiness is a choice.  Even if that choice is taking a pill to be able to see the good and let go of the not good.  Life is a choice to wake up everyday and brew your cup of coffee and stride confidently into the world knowing your fly is zipped. 

Me?  I wake up everyday with a plan.  Some days I put that plan into action. Other days I shelve it or scrap it completely.  That's my prerogative.  At least once a week I love to run around without pants on.  Sounds delightful doesn't it?  Today, in 4 hours, I'm going to wake up, clean my studio, make myself pretty, go hit on the shopkeeper, then go to the library and borrow Walden, head to the beach with thermos of wine, and turn my back on the rest of the world.  Or I won't. 

I have to make the choice everyday to enjoy life.  Or else I would waste my energy on being miserable.  That's a party no one wants to go to.  So I can't help it when you dangle that worm of misery in front of me.  I bite.  Because deep down in my heart I want to reach out to you, hoping you'll catch on to my little secret.

Life is so good.

I'm a huge sports fan, can you tell?

When I think about pro basketball I think about the millions of people who pay money to watch these incredible athletes. Would these people complain if an extra $5 or $10 was tacked on to their ticket prices to go directly to schools?


Think about it, some pro basketball players earn enough to support a small school district.

Think about all the teachers you know, searching for jobs, or paying for school supplies out of their own paychecks.

Think about how some of these pro basketball players only "shot in life" was to become a pro basketball player because their socio-economic status placed them in a school with a high student to teacher ratio, with outdated books, if there was books at all.

Think about all their classmates who didn't make it.

Think about what that extra $5 or $10 tacked on the price of a ticket could do if it went to a struggling school district.

Oh, My MOD!

Almost every night since I've started working on Life List #5 and #13 and #14 by default I've texted messaged my sister for motivation.

Tell me how good your run felt tonight.

It was amazing the drop in temps really helped. 

I'm craving a cheeseburger.

A ff cb isn't worth it. 

Tell me it's worth it. (the running, not the cheeseburger)

While you're doing it, think about your muscles, how they are changing.  Think about the clothes you want to wear.

That last bit of advice through me for a loop. I wear what I want now, right?
Oh but I don't. I realized it when I saw the nearly ever present link on Facebook to ModCloth. Seriously? Motivation. Hello.

I'm not ready.

So I'm not as confident about approaching the object of my interest as I thought I was. It's personal. It's okay. I was driving today, or yesterday, and I realized the only standards I could think of were he shouldn't do drugs or hit me. Wow. I have more, I remember my co-worker & I built a large list of standards. Two white boards full of standards. See?

and

 

In case you can't see, I'll spell it out for you, as best I can. These are deal breakers, unless otherwise noted as a "must have":

1. Owns a cowboy hat.
2. Wears a hat during meals.
3. Grammer similar to the cast of "Axeman" or "American Loggers" or any similar show. *Deadliest Catch excluded.
4. A lisp.
5. Resemblance to a star of a sci-fi flick. I'm told this character "Jabba the Hut" isn't attractive.
6. Back Hair.
7. Kisses men.
8. Wears overalls.
9. Facial or below the belt piercings.
10. Owns a confederate flag.
11. LARPGer
12. Owns/wears anything from "Ed Hardy" or screen printed with an eagle/Native American theme/wilderness/bears/wolves.
13. Considers self to be a country/western musician or has the potential to "make it big"
14. Has hair longer than mine, wears a ponytail or braids.
15. Texts with "LOL" frequently.
16. Thinks it's his God given right to procreate, a lot, because he has a superior lineage.
17. Thinks the LDS church might be on to something.
18. Doesn't believe evolution is possible, asks to see the live dinosaurs in museums.
19. Has more tattoos & piercings than IQ points.
20. He needs to understand that Vanilla Ice is a Douche & Queen will forever rock, and be able to name the lead singer of Queen
21. Has a mullet.
22. FuManchu. Nuff said.
23. Can't spend his weekends in the bed of a pick-up hanging out with teenagers at Holland State Park.
24. Must know the difference between their/there/they're. (They're walking their dogs over there.)

 

So obviously, my standards aren't always high, reasonable, or non-negotiable. Sometimes it's just good to remind myself I have them.

 

I am

worth it.
ready for adventure.
resilient.
eventually going to build up the nerve to see if he is free for a drink or a coffee some evening.
going to be okay if he says no.

Go Back, then Return

It's 2003 and I'm going to walk across a stage at the Breslin Center on the campus of Michigan State University in a few months. I'm scared shitless. My closest friend walks with me for hours, in the dark and lets me talk. I make up stories about what life would be, if I could go back in time 4 years and start college all over again:

I would be a Studio Art major. A real possibility

I would be anorexic. Bulimic is more likely. Because I forget to eat on a regular schedule. It's something I still struggle with. Binge eat/work/sleep/drink/exercise, they are all part of my life, unfortunately. I'm still trying to grow up.

I'd be a slut. A far fetched possibility.

I would have been broke all the time, spending money on art supplies and beer. True. I think I dodged some bigger bullets like pot and prescription pain killers and who knows what by being an uptight Lyman Briggs student.

I would be in a sorority. Not likely. I would still probably move into a co-op house, probably my sophomore year instead of my senior year.

It helped. I don't know why, and I never really expected it to mean anything. I proceeded to go through the graduation ceremony, work and live at home that summer, then finished my classwork that fall with an internship in Montana. 

From there I substitute taught, worked for the Vermont Youth Conservation Corps, substitute taught some more, took a job zoo keeping in Oregon, went through a bit of purgatory with that, took a job that had me working in Colorado, and eventually was back in Oregon, working and taking studio art classes at the local community college.

2009 had me living in a one room cabin working at a construction camp.  I was painting and wandering and had good friends near me, my heart was resting. It had been battered and confused in the past 6 years. I didn't know I was resting at the time, but looking back, I'm thankful for the friends who were supportive through that phase.

Here's the part where I return to now.

I had a bit of clarity today.  I'm never going to be an 18 year old studio art major. In 1999 I would have been overwhelmed and quit.  Or in 2003 I would have become a pretentious bitch who thought she knew it all and would have not tried for much beyond monetary success. I think I needed to travel an unorthodox path to reach this point, where I'm finally finding clarity, where I'm starting to realize what I want to devote my life to.  And right now, this is what I think:

 I'm not the only one who doesn't fit the mold.  There are others who can learn from my experience.  I don't need to focus on sharing what I did and learned.  I should and can focus on encouraging others to cut their own path.  I can facilitate and encourage others to make their own way. 

This doesn't mean the fuse to my rocket was a dud, and I'm done with everything but making others dreams come true.  Today I am an artist.  I know how to do things.  I do things my own way because in many cases I don't know any other way.  I can show people how I do things. Then turn them loose to do their own thing.  Whatever they want to do and however they want to do it.

There are a variety of ways I can do this. The first is I'm going to keep creating what I feel compelled to.  I'm going to take it the extra step, and document as many projects from start to completion as possible, a completely unnecessary and narcissistic step, with the hope someone is inspired to try it themselves. I'm going to post this on my Tumblr page.

The second way I'm thinking about is with the Boys & Girls Club.  This week, I'm going to see what kind of connection & role I can have there.

Third is by spotlighting other artists, dead and alive, who create work I admire.  Once again on my Tumblr page.

I have an inkling what the fourth step should be, but I'm not there in my head yet, and I'm making more of a commitment just by writing this than I'm comfortable with.

The funny thing is, when I left Oregon, I needed to tell people I was leaving for a reason. So I told them I had a long term goal of opening my own studio where people, young people specifically, could have an opportunity to be artists, without taking the usual path.  People for who the typical or privileged opportunities were not afforded them. People like me.  It's funny, because I'm taking steps towards this goal 5 years sooner than I thought I would be.

The Pits

Am I allowed to have a crush at this age? On a younger man? Simply because he's cute and I like what he does for a living? It's more difficult than if he worked at a coffeeshop, or the smae place I do, because don't have a reason to bump into him everyday, or even once a week. Oh I'm a goofball, and he's adorable. He graduated with my sister, 4 years after I did. Ouch.

The Most Interesting Man in the World

I am "the friend." Admit it, you have one, a friend of the opposite sex that you swear there is nothing wrong with, you don't know why they're single, but they're not right for you.  The friend you turn to with problems, the date for functions you don't want to show up at alone.  The date for weekend nights you don't want the pressure of maintaining an image for a potential love interest. I am that "friend."

Over the past weeks I've had two male friends making regular withdrawals from the "friend" bank.  The friend bank is where I listen, give feedback, or *gag* advice.  About relationships. Which is totally absurd, because I'm not in a relationship. I have a horrible track record with relationships. My past relationships have been terrible. One sided or abusive or hopeless. In return I occasionally get a "date" out of it, or an ear when I go bat-shit crazy and ask for advice.

So this is my advice:
Be the most interesting (wo)man in the world.
Drink good beer.
Learn about wines.
Buy a lottery ticket, scheme about how you would spend the winnings, and work towards acheiving that without the lottery winnings.
Quit fretting & dwelling on what you can't have, or what might go wrong.
Focus on enjoying life. 
Enjoy your time in the relationship, or on creating new ones.
Go on a road trip.
Develop a skill. Learn to prepare 7 fabulous meals.
Learn to cook 7 easy meals.
Learn to dance well.
Create something.
Go back to school.
Do something that makes you a better person.
Focus on strengthening your faith/personal beliefs.
Visit museums and art galleries. Read books. 
Do anything that will take your mind off of what you cannot control. 
Quit being a prick/bitch.
Volunteer.
Call your parents.
Plan a day with your siblings.
Go to the gym or the pool.
Become proficient at yoga or pilates or a martial art.
Take a class.
Go hiking.
Create a personal guide of the 'best of" so you never sit around asking "what should we do?"
Try new things. Like sushi.
Become the kind of person your partner wants to be with.
Become the kind of person people want to be around.

That is my advice. Because I don't revel in your misery. I want you to be happy. Misery may love company, but this company doesn't love misery.

Confession:

I'm narcissistic to the core. I care about what I want to be doing, not about answering your phone call where you tell me I'm a good friend, and ask how I'm doing then interrupt to tell me how your relationship is going and rehash all the emotional turmoil you create for yourself (which is all bogus). 

Here's how it is. Believe it or not, my time is valuable.  I know I appear to be a laid back unreliable bum incapable of watching after small children or turning off the coffee pot but *shh* that is just an act so I don't have to take on responsibilities I don't give a shit about. 

I do care about you, and your well being. If you have an honest to goodness problem, holla. I will sit on the phone with you and listen for hours regardless of the time of day.  I will not offer advice or feed you a cliche. I will rephrase what you have told me, will offer feedback when asked, but advice comes only upon specific request.

I will walk miles beside you.  I will listen.

But after the 50th phone call where you babble the same inane shit that you create, when I know you're going to call you cousin or the next friend when we hang up, I draw the line. At this point I only answer the phone if it's been a month since your last call and your facebook posts don't show evidence of psychosis.

Because (this is where I give unwanted feedback) YOU'RE NOT DEALING WITH THE ISSUE. Real or a manifestation of a heart without an center of gravity, talking about the issue is not going to solve the issue. Unless you plan to take action and man up, or better yet, woman up, and deal with it, you're wasting my time. 

I've got shit to do.  I have a life list that is growing by the week, and I have projects that want my time, my attention. Those 8 hours a day I spend earning a paycheck? I'm brainstorming.  I have a world to conquer, a universe to create, potential to exploit.

So, if you need an ear, I'm here. But respect me enough to not waste my fucking time.

Now what?

Confession:

I've fallen off the wagon. Off my own personal wagon. Last December I heard the voice of God, clear as day, in my head. I was at church, a church I didn't want to go to, with a friend I no longer trust, the day before I was to fly out to visit family for a month, the first time I would be with family for the holidays since 2005.
"It's time."
It's time to move home.
I broke down. Crying. In the middle of a congregation that wasn't my church family.
I spent the next month job hunting in the state with the worst economy, highest unemployment rate, but, in what I beleive is the region with the most potential. I went to interviews, some encouraging, some disheartening.
I returned to Oregon, and moved all my stuff from where it had been stored, and from the friend's house where I had been staying, back to Joe. I would be staying there with the hope of finding a job in Michigan by April first. By the time I finished unpacking I had a phone interview with a company I had applied with online a day or so before I came back. A week later I called back to follow up, and told them I'd be willing to work anything, even hours pieced together from different jobs here and there. I could be in Holland by Febuary 1st to fill out the paperwork.
And I was.
I left a bunch of my belongings, giving most of it away. I packed what I could, said goodbye, got a $$ transfer to pay for gas, and Jenna and I hopped in the car and headed east.

Without a map.
I drove 3 days, 2225 miles, and arrived around midnight Sunday January 31.

So now I'm working that job, 6 days a week, plus substitute teaching, and trying to start a legitimate career as an artist.

For a month after I got home, I had trouble getting out of bed each day. Life was supposed to be better after I got home. I did things that should have been wonderful, steps towards what I wanted my life to be like. But it didn't help.

Then I realized I wasn't serving the Lord with my daily activities. So I had to make the decision to try harder.

And I am. I'm trying harder. I'm attempting to do "art" everyday, whether it's working on a painting, using my pinhole camera, etching the favors for my sister's wedding, or working creating stuff to get into a shop somewhere, so one day that elusive 'first sale' can happen.

I'm church shopping. Whole other story.

But I don't feel the connection I had when I was driving, that feeling like I was following God's will for my life.

What am I supposed to do now?

Continue this way for how long? What should I be doing to make it better?

The traditional measures of success aren't important to me. Owning a house? Don't care to. Nicer car? Nah. Bigger bank account? Maybe. Husband and kids? Would be nice, but there's no "how to" for achieving this.

So now what?

Sit. Listen. Wait. Be patient. I never expected to hear His Voice so clearly. But if it happened once, it can happen again. Right?

*The image at the beginning is from PostSecret.com on 5.16.10.

What it is like to run (as me)

Okay, I use the term "run" loosely. I try. Give me credit.

Here is the recipe.

Take 2 large latex balloons (or condoms, I hear they can hold 10 gallons of fluid, as if that was necessary, ever). Pour in 4-6 cups of quick set jello. Tie off, removing any air inside. Before the jello sets, attach it to the waist band of your undies near the tag in back. Heft the bulk of the balloons over each should past your ear, stretching out the balloon material, so the majority of the mass is centered over your own nipples. Stand there, and wait for the jello to set up. If you can stand in a walk in cooler, like the beer cooler at the convenience store, it will set faster.

Yes, the latex stretched over your shoulders will start to dig in and cause pain. That's the point of this activity. So you will experience and understand. Once the jello is firm(ish) stuff all 8-12 cups of semi-solid material into a sports bra that bruises the flesh under the band because it is so tight. The point is that your "girls" don't slip out under the band. Now put on 2 more painfully tight sportsbras. You may feel that the jello is crushing your ribs, compressing your lungs, about to crawl up and smother your face. This is normal. Now attempt to run in this condition.

So it has been since I was 11 or 12. Except I didn't wear 3 when I was 12 and they were too big to be effective at holding everything as tightly as they should, so in essence pointless, so I quit sports! Dumb thing to do, now I'm chubby.

I can't beleive I just...

spent 3 hours reading another woman's blog. About her life. This is not the first time it has happened. Not this particular blog, but Internet, I love to read. There are very few books I will walk away from, and a blog, that is updated, it is like a book that never ends, and comes in very short chapters. I get sucked into the ones that are honest. That talk about ordinary life, baking pie, drinking cheap booze.


It's April, almost 3 months exactly since my last real post. When I moved back into Joe's, after spending a month with my parents, after moving out and starting to cut ties with a person I had thought of as my closest friend, who I learned, had even bigger demons than me, who wasn't/isn't ready for change, and who I did not love enough to stick around and help.

That sounds selfish, and it is, but I have my reasons. 1 It was not a romantic relationship. I made no commitment to her. I still pray for her, but she is not my responsibility.

2 She was tearing me down to build herself up. She was critical of everything I did, everything I said, my happiness, my friends (who were terrified of her, justifiably so), the men I dated, to the point I looked into herbal diet supplements to alter the mindset she drove me into.

3 I can write this 5 months later. In December, the day before I left for the holidays, I went to church with her, for her. (Long story, ask, I'll tell, until then, shelved). During the praise section of the service God told me it was time to move home. I heard his voice, I knew it was Him, and I started weeping. At the end of the service she inquired, and I told her. Her indigent response was "Are you sure, have you prayed about it?" It may seem a logical question, but in my head she was saying "No no no, that's not how it works, first you have to pray this many nights, read these chapters, no smoking, no impure thoughts, torment yourself this many hours with self doubt, and then, if you do all those things just right, He'll give you a sign" because that is how she practiced her religion. There is a lot more background that goes into this, but in the end, it was the nail on the coffin. I was moving home, as soon as I found a job in the crappy Michigan economy, I was gone.

That is not where I thought this post would go, but it's out, and it feels better, and I don't want to talk about it again. Which starts another tangent. I don't like to dwell. Sometimes it feels good to verbally hash out what is happening in my head, or treat it to tumble dry in the appliance that is my brain, but once I'm done, once I've had my say, I'm done. That's why I don't like to talk about my extremely long resume of short lived jobs. I did them. I learned from them. I enjoyed parts of all of them, and there is a reason I'm not doing them anymore. End of story. But people want to know. Then I tell try to skirt around the scandels and near death experiences and heartbreaks. Because people want juicy details. I don't have those details. Because they aren't important to me.