The Care and Feeding of an Introvert

I had a fairly epic meltdown yesterday.

Not only was it epic, but it was entirely unexpected.  I mean, the usual triggers were all there: too much socializing, too little sleep, too many commitments.  I'd been on the go on Friday non-stop from 6am til after 11pm.  It was a long weekend with Kaylee, who likes waking up around 6 am. We stayed out late Monday at a movie.  I battled Walmart on the day before a holiday and baked 4 desserts in the span from Monday evening til Tuesday morning.

But I didn't feel stressed out.  I didn't feel like crying.  I just felt, well, exhausted.  And the exhaustion covered almost every other sign that I was on the verge of losing my Vulcan-like cool.

So, when Mark asked me what I wanted for dinner (how dare he, am I right?), I may have exploded.

Okay.  I did.  I exploded.  I lost my cool.  I completely melted down and sobbed for about five minutes.  It was embarrassing and frustrating and I hated every damn second of it.

And now all I can do is think about the many and various ways that scenario could have easily been avoided.

You see, in my exhaustion and determination to Do All the Things and Bake All the Things, I forgot something very important.

I'm an introvert.

Quite simply, I can't do all the things.  Not all the time.  (I can still try to bake all the things, though.  Try and stop me.)

I know I talk about being an introvert a lot.  I admit it.  But it's important to me and how I function.

Being an introvert isn't just an reason to stay home or leave early.  It's not a convenient or handy excuse.   In fact, most of the time it makes me feel guilty.  I don't always want to stay home.  I don't always want to relax.  Sometimes I do want to do all the things and go to all the places and see all my friends.

But I can't.

Being an introvert is who I am.  And, if I ignore who I am for too long, if I keep pretending to be someone else (someone who can be blithely be a social butterfly), and if I don't remember the proper care and feeding of an introvert, there are consequences.

What is the proper care and feeing of an introvert?

Well.  I'm glad you asked, since I clearly need my own reminder.

Before we begin, please remember this: being an introvert does not make me anti-social.  I love my friends and my family and enjoy spending time with them.  To an extent.  And then I need a break.

What To Do With Your Introvert: A Manual

1. Give her space.  Introverts, more than extroverts, have a precious personal bubble that only certain people are allowed inside. (Note: Most pets are welcome inside the bubble at all times.)  Space is not just physical.  Space is needed in conversations, in emotions, and in new experiences.  All these things take careful consideration for an introvert, and answers to serious (or not-so-serious) questions often need to be worded just right in an introvert's head before being spoken aloud.  New situations need easing into.  Don't rush an introvert if at all possible.

2. Give her alone time.  If you see your introvert curled up with a book, or eating by herself, don't worry.  She's not bored.  She's not upset.  She's recharging.  This is very important for an introvert, especially after a long period of socializing.  (Most introverts bring a book along with them to help maintain proper battery strength throughout the day.)  She'd probably like some coffee, if you do feel the need to contribute.

3. Give her a book.  Suggest a movie.  Start a Netflix marathon.  Basically, give her an escape and a mental break.  A lot goes on inside an introvert's head.  All the time.  Constantly.  The average introvert is almost always playing and replaying past situations, present dilemmas, and future scenarios.  She is remembering song lyrics and movie quotes.  She's making up stories.  She's agonizing over a mistake she made ten years ago.  She's analyzing the next day's schedule.  She's worried someone's mad at her.  Books are a refuge, a focusing point.  They shut out the excess noise.  So do movies and TV shows.  If you're lucky, your introvert will snuggle on the couch with you, or at least share her popcorn.  (Bonus points if you suggest she goes to a bookstore, takes a bath, or both.)

4. Make her food.  Bring her a snack.  Order a pizza.  Pour her a glass of wine, or beer, or drink of choice.  Or just let her loose in the kitchen, since cooking is one of the best therapeutic activities there is. (Maybe offer to help clean up, if the coast seems clear).  Really, just do this for anyone.  Everyone likes food.  Food is awesome.

5. Don't issue last-minute invites.  While this is not a hard and fast rule (see #6), as even introverts can behave spontaneously, it is a very handy guideline.  You are more likely to lure your introvert from the safety of her den if you plan ahead and give her time to mentally prepare for leaving said den.  Introverts, in general, like to know what to expect from day to day.  Last-minute invites tend to trigger the warning bells.  Note: planning ahead doesn't guarantee the presence of your introvert.  Sometimes, it's best to stay home in spite of the best-laid plans.  It happens.

6. Don't stop inviting her to things (even if it is last-minute).  Introverts want to know that they're welcome to join in an activity, even if they decide not to.  Introverts know that they live in an extroverted world and often feel guilty for not attending parties/group events, or for leaving said events early.  Continued invites keep introverts from feeling unwanted and encourage your introvert to step outside her bubble (just a bit), but don't be discouraged if she stays home instead.  Remember: your introvert still loves you, even if she didn't go to a concert with you, of if she only stayed for an hour at your party.

7. Text her.  Introverts have an innate dislike for phone calls (and are often known for not answering).  Most introverts prefer texting for day-to-day casual conversation, as it allows for fully-formulated thoughts at convenient intervals.  Through reading what an introvert has to say (be it text, e-mails, Facebook comments, or blogs), you may come to realize that introverts are actually as funny, sarcastic, and ridiculous as any extrovert.  They simply need the correct medium and comfort level to communicate effectively.

8. Accept her.  Note: more important than any other step.  Introverts need to be accepted.  They have grown up in an extroverted world and have often tried to "pass" for extroverts in order to succeed at school, in business, or in relationships.  There is no greater relief for an introvert than to be loved (like Bridget Jones) just as she is.  Putting up a false front is far more exhausting than any crowded party or loud concert, and most introverts are willing to risk a little emotional exhaustion for those people who truly accept who she is.

The Morning Owl

I've never liked mornings.

In fact, my parents continue, to this day, to tell me (and everyone else) that they had to wake me up on Christmas morning to open my presents.  When we went to Disneyworld, I was entirely unimpressed with the fact that Mickey was calling me to wake up in the morning and just wanted to go back to sleep.  I am basically a lifelong expert at hitting the snooze button and of knowing exactly how long it takes to get ready so I can fly out the door at the last minute.  Up until a few years ago, I could easily sleep for 12 solid hours, then take a nap later.

That's changed recently.

Well, not all of it.  I still love sleeping, but I've also grown accustomed to the face of pre-dawn.

This is all the fault of my husband.  Or, at least, of his job.  Mark wakes up at the ungodly hour of 4:30 every weekday, since he has to be at work by the equally ungodly hour of 6.  For the past few years we've been together, I had a pretty solid routine going.  His alarm would go off, we'd snuggle for a minute or two, and then I'd roll over and go back to sleep until my own alarm went off 2 hours later.  Then I would groggily drag myself out of bed (after hitting snooze a few times, naturally) and get ready for work.  I was the quintessential permanently exhausted pigeon.

Shortly before we moved, however, I made a decision.  I was tired all the time, and tired of being tired all the time.  And I had finally figured out that, by going back to sleep for two hours after Mark left, I was waking up directly in the middle of my sleep cycle and effectively making myself miserably exhausted.

So... I started waking up when Mark did.  And actually stayed up, in spite of the fact that the sun itself wasn't even up yet.  Mark now brings me coffee before he leaves for work (unless I have the day off and he thinks I should sleep in), and then I get up and get ready for the day.

It's nice, really.  I usually have about 3 and a half hours before I need to leave for work, including quality time spent lying in bed looking at Facebook.

So I get to take my time.  I get to be alone, and quiet.  The sun comes up.  The birds chirp outside the window (now that I have birds to listen to instead of traffic).  I drink my coffee, and reheat it, and drink some more.  Sometimes I make dinner for that night, or I bake.  I cross-stitch, or knit, or crochet, or read.  I do laundry.  I've even taken a nap.

It's not exactly ideal, obviously, but it strangely works.  I'm (usually) less exhausted than I used to be.  I fall asleep faster at night and sleep better.  Plus, I have that precious time to myself in the morning to introvert and to do whatever I want.  And I actually do enjoy it.

This hearkens back to last week's blog about my actively working on being happier.  After all, I've been reading for years about the benefits of waking up early.  Successful people wake up earlier.  Happy people wake up earlier.  Morning people are the unacknowledged gods among us mere mortal night owls. Blah blah blah.

And I tried to get up earlier.  I did.  I tried the suggested and oh-so-sneaky method of setting your alarm five minutes earlier every day.  This didn't work at all, because I already knew full well exactly how long I could sleep in without being late.  My body wasn't about to be fooled that easily, and so I only succeeded in hitting the snooze button more.

As it turns out, the cold-turkey method works best for me.   And I honestly don't know why I'm surprised by that.  I've never been a girl to do something gradually.  I'm either all-in or all-out.

So now?  I wake up really fucking early four or five days out of the week.

And, believe it or not (and for God's sake, don't tell my parents), I think it does make me happier.

While I may be a natural-born night owl, I have to admit that the stupid early bird might actually be onto something.

Or maybe he just drinks a hell of a lot of coffee.  

Happy and You Know It

I like to think that I'm a happy person these days.

Why shouldn't I be?  I have a good job, a wonderful husband, a sweet stepkid, a house of my own, still-married parents, and an amazing circle of friends.  I have money in the bank and all my basic needs are met.  Sure, I go through my sometimes-monthly moodiness and have moments of melancholy (and always adore alliteration), not to mention recent wedding-and-house-buying stress, but for the most part I would say that I'm definitely happy.  At the very least I'm content, and I think that's pretty awesome as well.

It's not that I expect to be happy all the time.  That would actually be boring, not to mention unrealistic.  And obviously, even though I have every reason to be thrilled with life, I'm not always.  It happens.

But I do very much enjoy my happiness.

And, quite frankly, I think I could improve on it.

Mainly, I struggle with the fact that I often let myself get overly upset by the little things.  More specifically, I let myself get overly upset by the little things that I can't control: by the guy who doesn't have his turn signal on but turns anyway, by the client who misses a question that I asked, or by someone not acting exactly how I think they should act.

Coincidentally (or not), I recently read The Happiness Project, by Gretchen Rubin, a stunt book (do something slightly crazy for a year and then write about it in a very clever manner) in which Gretchen spends a year trying every means possible to be happier and more invested in her own (already very pleasant) life.

I recognize that this kind of book is not for everyone.  But I find that I'm actually a sucker for the stunt genre.  I adored The Year of Living Biblically, The Know-It-All, and (of course) Julie and Julia, the book/movie that forever changed my attitude about cooking.  I'm unashamed of my love for the year-long-commitment genre of books.  Maybe it's because I do my own yearly commitment to reading at least 50 books.  Maybe it's because I've always subscribed to the mantra of "you can do anything for a year."  Maybe I just like the fact that I'm not the only person who writes excessively about their daily life, and the fact that some people actually become famous by doing so.

Whatever the case, I completely loved The Happiness Project.  Gretchen dealt with a lot of the same issues I have (or have had).  She's a bit of a control freak.  She's messy.  She's a slight hoarder.  She judges herself for the things she enjoys, and struggles with an innate sense of "I can totally make do without this necessary item."

In her book, Gretchen works her way through 12 months of happiness improvement, focusing each month on a different aspect of her life (kids, friends, husband, work, creativity, money, etc).

While I certainly don't intend to undertake a similar project right now, I do feel like I can improve my own happiness in baby steps, mostly by chilling the fuck out and recognizing that I do not have to (and, quite frankly, should not be allowed to) run the whole world.

So far, it's (kindof) working.

I'm trying very hard not to immediately rant when someone doesn't answer my entire e-mail.  I'm trying not to swan dive into automatic road rage (curse words and middle fingers blazing) when other drivers fail to follow common sense road rules.  I'm trying not to think that I know best about what other people should be doing.  Just because I'm multi-tasking doesn't mean everyone else needs to be.

I'm trying, ultimately, to cut other people some slack.

Is venting fun?  Is feeling superior to the idiotic drivers on the road enjoyable?  Hell yes.  Why else would we do it?  But what I'm wondering is if it is actually worthwhile.  I'm starting to think that, instead of innocently blowing off steam, I'm more likely blowing things out of proportion and giving myself a reason to be upset.  Negativity breeds more negativity, at least for me.  Once I start looking for the bad, I can always find more.  And more.

I'd rather focus on the good.  I'd rather focus on and remember Kaylee's joy of waking up and looking for Easter eggs and of opening her Easter basket rather than fixating on her stubbornness the night before.

Life isn't always going to be good.  There are going to be times when I'm going to be sad, or anxious, or sick, or heart-broken, or any number of negative emotions.  I'm going to be criticized, or be frustrated, or furious.  But while I'm happy, and while I can be happy, I don't see the point in blatantly spoiling it for myself for no good reason.

Definitely a happy day.

I can't tell you I'm going to stop being snarky and sarcastic.  Because I'm not.  And if you consider that to be a character flaw or negative trait, then so be it.  But I consider it to be an inherent part of my personality, and I actually do find happiness in a perfectly-crafted snarky comment, particularly when it makes other people laugh.  My favorite relationships (both fictional and my own) are based on the snarky, witty repartee of two people generally giving each other a hard time.

So, I'm not going to turn into Little Miss Sunshine, but I am going to try to stop bitching quite so much about things that don't really matter in the grand scheme.

And I don't care what Yoda says, because "try" is truly the operative word here.

And Many More?

I have no idea how it happened, but I turned 32 this past weekend.

I'm not going to say I'm old, but I am going to say that I turned 21 eleven years ago, and that seems... impossible.

I mean, look at that kid.  She's a baby.  She has no idea what the hell is in store for her.  I have to fight the desire to shake her, quite frankly.

But, a lot (and I mean a lot) of time has passed since then.  I got married, got divorced, and am about to get married again (because I'm apparently a very, very serial monogamist).

Eleven years is a long time, and now?

I'm 32.

It's not ancient, but it's by no means young.  And I'm fine with that.  I like my age, I like myself, and I like my life.  I like what I've accomplished, particularly over the past few years.

And I (still) like my birthday.

Last year was probably one of my favorite birthdays ever.  I had a fabulous, low-key party and spent my entire birthday day with Mark.

This year?  Things were a little different.

For starters, my family met Mark's family for the first time for a birthday lunch.  It... well, let's just say it did not quite go as planned, and leave it at that.  That lovely experience was followed up by seeing Trolls with Mark, Kaylee, and my parents.  (Cute movie, bit too long.)

Then I went home to get ready for the Prohibition Party, a long-standing event that my friends Jessica and Chris throw every year.  This year it happened to fall on my birthday, so Jessica got me a cake.

And by cake, I mean the best cake ever.

Seriously.

Being the birthday girl, I decided to wear something a bit fancier than my usual costume of a slip and a see-through lace dress.  So I crossed my fingers and slipped into my great-grandma's wedding dress.  And it actually fit... kindof... if you ignore the fact that it doesn't fasten up on the side.  At all.

Not one to give up so easy, I pinned together one of my furs into a makeshift sleeve, pinned that to the dress, threw on some pearls, grabbed my champagne, and managed to socialize for almost four hours.

Sunday was birthday brunch, followed by a well-earned food coma and Kaylee wanting to come over and give me my birthday card, followed by the official start of packing up the apartment I've lived in for seven years. 

And then on Monday Mark had the day off for our now-traditional birthday adventures.

Which... also didn't quite work out the way we planned, as the Contemporary Art Museum was closed.  So?  We walked around IKEA (which is basically some strange form of modern art itself), had lunch at Crown Candy Kitchen, and later had buffet.

It obviously wasn't the most remarkable of birthday adventures, but I'm not complaining.  We're both under a lot of stress right now with preparing for both a move and a wedding, so a low-key and unremarkable day was probably more along the lines of what we needed.  And all I really wanted to do was spend the day together (and get a BLT at Crown Candy Kitchen), so mission: accomplished.

32 definitely was not a bad birthday, in spite of all the reasons it could very well have been.  I got to dress up, have amazing cake, and go home whenever I was ready.  I got to spend a day with the love of my life.  I got brunch and so many lovely and thoughtful presents from my lovely and thoughtful friends.

I'm a little older, a little wiser (I hope), and about to embark on one hell of a life adventure with a guy who makes me feel like it's always my birthday.

I could do worse.

Introvert Level: Expert (Halloween Edition)

Exciting things have been happening.

Namely that I actually got to go to a party.  On a Saturday night.

And, even more exciting, that I actually went to the party, instead of sitting at home in a onesie and dog slippers.

But I was really, really excited about my Halloween costume.

I don't think it's any surprise that I like dressing up, or that I welcome any excuse to wear a costume.  If there's one cheesy thing I really love, it's a theme.  And for this party, there was the added challenge of keeping the costume under $20 to qualify for the costume contest.

With that in mind, Mark and I descended on area Goodwills and craft stores.

I wanted to be Ariel, from The Little Mermaid.  But not the mermaid version, or the blue-bowed speechless girl being squired about by the clueless Prince Eric.  I wanted to be Ariel fresh out of the sea and clothed only in a sail and some rope.

That was easy enough.  The first Goodwill we went to had rope for 99 cents and a white sheet for 2 dollars.  So far, so good.  I also wanted to have a starfish clip for my hair, so with money to spare we hit up Michaels and got a starfish ($4 with a 40% off coupon) and hair clips, and I made my own clip.

And so some curls, makeup, and creative sheet-draping later, and I was ready to be part of your world.

You want thing-a-ma-bobs? I've got twenty.

I suppose we could have stopped there.  But I wanted a definite cue that I was Ariel and not some Greek goddess carrying around a dinglehopper fork for some strange reason.  I wanted a stuffed Sebastian.

The problem was I couldn't find one.  There was a little plastic toy at Toys R Us, but I wasn't sold.

Then Mark suggested that we make one.

So we did.

One pillowcase, a printed picture of Sebastian (looking properly horrified), some paint, and a borrowed sewing machine later, I had a Sebastian pillow.  I seriously love it so much.  Plus, it's the first thing I've ever sewed.  So that's pretty great.

And I made these oyster cookies.  (And brought Barefoot wine, because well, did I mention I love a theme?)

But honestly? The best part of my costume was that I stayed "in character" and didn't talk the whole night (in spite of my friend Sandi being determined to get me drunk enough to just start talking).  I still hung out and participated in conversation.  There was lots of gesturing, pointing, nodding, and meaningful glances (and my designated translator, Sam).  But no talking.  I got to spend time with my friends but avoid small talk.  I didn't have to contribute verbally to a conversation.  I could just hang out, drift from group to group, drink, and be comfortably myself.  It was entirely awesome.

And I actually think it helped me not feel so wiped out by socializing.  Even I stayed out til almost 2 am, which is extremely rare, I didn't feel crashed out and emotionally drained the next day.

There's another party this Saturday (two weekend parties in a row, who even am I?), and I'm definitely dressing up as Ariel again.  I'm fairly certain it's my favorite costume ever since I dressed up as a Dalmatian when I was a kid.

Not surprisingly, another costume where I wouldn't have to talk.

Not to say I haven't had a lot to choose from...

But as a redheaded introvert who grew up on Disney movies, I'm not sure I can beat this year's Halloween costume.

You might point out the irony that Ariel sings about how she wants to be "where the people are," and say that that's a bit out-of-character for me.  But not always.  I do want to be around my friends and the people I love.  It's just sometimes easier to stay home with my dog and my books.

But every now and then, when the stars align and the timing is right, you might just be able to find me where the people are, walking around on those... what's that word again?

Oh yeah.  Feet.

Current Status: Overly Dramatic Will Ferrell

Today was not a good day.

Lack of sleep doesn't help.  It makes me more anxious, more certain that I've done something wrong, that I'm not good enough, that there is something inherently wrong with me.  It makes me reconsider every possible dark scenario, reinterpret every conversation, relive every mistake.  It at times makes me want to lash out, cry, or scream until I can somehow flush out the dark pit of emotions that's turning over and over on itself in my stomach, making pointless knots out of other pointless knots.  Or it makes me want to curl up in bed and cry myself to sleep.

It could go either way.  But given my current state of exhaustion, the latter might be the best option.

Honestly, I don't often feel this way anymore, so I haven't built up many coping mechanisms to deal with it when I do.  And when I used to feel this way, I would drink.  Or write confessional poetry.  And that wasn't exactly the best idea ever (the drinking or the poetry, for that matter).  So instead, I now feel a strange mix of adrift and sad and frustrated and am not sure what to do with any of it.

I guess that my new coping mechanism is writing about it in a distinctly non-confessional-poetry way.  But I don't particularly feel like dwelling anymore on how I feel.  I'm too tired, too entrenched in the sadness right now, whether it's even remotely justified or not.  On the other hand, it's all that's on my mind right now.

So.  I appear to be at an impasse. Gandalf is standing in the middle of the road, authoritatively slamming down his staff.  Can't go that way.  Can't go back.

Quite frankly, I miss last week, when I blogged about how on top of things I felt.  (Hell, I miss yesterday, when I only felt slightly neurotic and restless.)  Today is pretty much the opposite.  And I know that's life, and I know that's just the natural ebb and flow of days and emotions and various stupid bullshit.  I know that.  It doesn't make it suck any less.

I definitely think blogging makes me a little more aware of my mental and emotional states than previously, even if it makes me feel a little manic sometimes when comparing one week to the next.  It at least gives me a weekly check-in on what's been going on in my life, for good or ill. The last time I had similar anxiety compounded with sleep-deprivation was a little over a year ago, so that's not too terrible.

Moreover, it makes me at least attempt to confront my overwrought emotions and figure out what the hell is going on and what I can or can't do about it.  Because if I just say that today was shitty, that's not a very interesting blog.

So. Today isn't a good day.  So what?  The world hasn't stopped because I feel bad, or because I barely slept, or because I might start crying if you look at me the wrong way.  It just continues on, like every other day.

What can I do about it?  Besides getting over myself?  Not much.  Get some sleep.  Communicate better.  Post this stupid blog about my stupid feelings, even though I'd rather not admit how emotional I can be.  Ask people to send me pictures of cute dogs.  Look at pictures of cute dogs.  Knit.  Read.  The usual things that settle my mind and emotions.

Oh yeah, and try again tomorrow.

If the Shoe Fits

I feel remarkably on top of things this week.  This is possibly because my shoes match my travel tumbler today and it's giving me an unjustifiably inflated sense of having my shit together.  Nothing quite makes me feel so organized as a completely matched outfit, and that probably says something about my priorities.

It's not just that my outfit is completely on point.  I've also been fairly successful at meal planning (and, more importantly, meal making) the past few weeks, I've finished several long-overdue projects, I bought a daily planner, and Mark and I are coming so very close to making the perfect pizza.  I've had some much-needed days with nothing to do (which makes a world of difference) and Mark and I have had a few nights where we actually work on our own creative projects (which never ever happens).

The sense that I have it together is probably nothing more than a beautiful illusion created by the soft baby blue shade of my shoes (and tumbler), but hey, I'll take it.  It's nice to feel calm, albeit briefly, in the midst of busy season, the need to plan a wedding, and all the daily responsibilities of life.  If I can achieve that with a little outfit coordination and attempting to make sense of my life with an organizer, then so be it.  Judge me if you will.

To be fair, this is a far cry from how I felt last week, when I finally succumbed to the meltdown that I had been fighting for a few weeks.  But, I suppose that's just balance.  One week I'm a hot mess sobbing in bed for no reason and the next I'm content just to be color-coordinated.

More than that, I'm content to be in my relationship, in my job, and in my life.  Is it perfect?  No.  None of it is.  After all, I'm not perfect either.  But I'm happy.

I see so much negativity on Facebook and in the world at large that I'm starting to think that being actually happy is a rarity.  I'm not talking about being constantly, obnoxiously bubbly.  I'm not that either.  (Remember the sobbing for no reason that I mentioned earlier?  Remember my entirely dark blog posts about my abusive ex-husband?)  And besides, it would be insane.  So as much as I really, really hate crying and melting down for stupid reasons, it's necessary to balance me out so that I can also be really ridiculously happy for equally stupid reasons.

I just finished reading (well, listening to) Furiously Happy, by Jenny Lawson, and she talks a lot about this.  She suffers from a lot of mental illnesses, including debilitating depression, but she still manages to do her best to enjoy the hell out of her life.  She's hilarious and sad and honest and truly ridiculous, and I loved listening to her narrate her own book.  She knows the value of celebrating the little victories in life, like leaving the house when you'd rather just stay home, and also of staying home in bed when that's really the best possible decision to make.

I like celebrating the little things that make me happy.  And I like not judging other people for the little things that make them happy.  We're all just trying to get through this life, why make it harder?

And so I am unashamed of the things I like, no matter how silly you might thing they are.  I'm not ashamed that I love the city of St. Louis.  I'm not ashamed that I'm ridiculously in love with my fiancé.  I'm not ashamed that I often stay home with my dog and my cross stitching rather than going out.

And today?  I'm not ashamed of how pleased I am to be so color coordinated.  

Not one bit.

On the Road... Again?

I've never traveled quite so much as I have in the past two and a half years, not even back when I went to college in Chicago or when I had in-laws in a different state.

At first, it was all about traveling for fun.  (You know, not just to visit people.)  

There was my girls-only trip to House on the Rock/Wisconsin Dells, followed by a week-long cruise with my parents, and several trips to Alexis' dad's house  out in Carthage for Passover and summer pool fun.  Then there was my Mexico trip this past January.

Lately, however, I haven't been traveling as much for fun.  More for... Fish Eye Fun.

I've been to Kansas City, Chicago, and now to Lake of the Ozarks and Springfield, MO for the past two weekends.  (The greatest hits of the Midwest, as it were.)

I even drug Mark along with me the past two weekends.  Poor guy.  

It wasn't all work and no play, at least.  We managed to stop in at Lambert's Cafe (Home of the Throwed Rolls) on Sunday morning, since Mark had never been there, and made our first trip to Uranus Fudge Factory on the way home.  Honestly, I was pretty disappointed in Uranus.  (Pun so very definitely intended.)  For a place that's a self-titled "fudge factory," both Ozarkland and Meramac Caverns both have a wider selection of fudge. But at least I can say I've officially been to Uranus.

And now?  Now I'm back to traveling for fun, at least for a little bit.  Mark and I have our first official "vacation" together this weekend and are headed to Chicago for a long weekend.  

The thought of going out of town again after two weekends on the road has actually been more than a little daunting.  It's not that I don't want to go.  But we are both, after all, very much homebodies who like our alone time and like working on our own projects.  When we originally planned this trip, my out-of-town jobs weren't scheduled, so it didn't seem like such an ordeal back then.

I'm not used to being on the road so much, away from my own place so much.  And there's really nothing like a hotel room to make you realize how much you really, really like your own stuff.  As nice as it is to spread out on a cushy king-sized bed, I love my own bed.  I love the new mattress we bought.  I love my pillow and our smart lights that help me wake up and go to sleep.  And as great as water pressure can be in a hotel, I love my own towels, my Doctor Who shower curtain, my bathmats, and my mirror covered with notes that Mark and I write each other.

I'm obviously not used to traveling as much as I have been.  I still can hardly believe all the places I've gone in the past few years after how little I traveled through most of my twenties.  Hell, I'm barely used to being as busy as I am in St. Louis, much less the rest of the world.  It seems like not so long ago when I would spend almost every night sitting at home by myself, watching movies, reading, and drinking too much.  Now I feel like Mark and I are coming and going constantly, and I find myself almost missing my lonely nights of nothing better to do than sit at home.

Don't get me wrong, there's no way I'm trading my current freedom just for some quality time with my messy apartment, but I still think that Dorothy said it best when she said, "There's no place like home."

However, as nice as my stuff is and as many projects as Mark and I might like to work on right now, our train tickets have been bought and we leave bright and early on Friday! After spending over 16 hours in the work van the past two weekends, I'm so very glad we're not driving.  Instead, we have at least 10 hours round trip to relax, read, and hang out.

And so, after a momentary freakout, we're both back to looking forward to the trip.  I want to show Mark the places I used to frequent.  I want him to meet my friends I haven't seen in years.  I want to be shameless tourists for a bit.  

And I really, really want to eat Giordano's pizza.

The Over-stimulated Introvert

They say God is omnipotent, which means that he knows everything about everything.  Between my job as project manager and my overbooked social calendar, I'm starting to feel the same way.  But instead of making me more godlike, it's just making me annoyed.

I may be all-knowing, but it's stressing me out.  I have too many tabs open in my brain, and it's particularly hard to focus today.  The fact that Animaniacs songs are running on repeat in my head isn't exactly helping.

Basically, I'm overstimulated, which is bad news for an introvert like me.  Things are too loud, too distracting.  I feel the need to unplug everything and sit in a dark room until I can close a few tabs.  Don't call me.  Don't text me.  Someone take Facebook off my phone.  Or just take my phone.  Give me a book and some wine and lock me in for a few hours.

Current mood.

So I don't want to blog, because I can't focus.  Or, I want to blog, but I can't focus long enough to blog about anything particular.  Which tab to pick?  There's so many.  Too many.  And why don't I think about this other thing?  Or that?  Hey, the phone just rang.  There's an e-mail.  Oh, I need to do this.  And that.  And finish that first thing.  Do I need to call my mom tonight?  What should dinner be?  Did I leave the coffeemaker plugged in?

I definitely don't need overly-catchy cartoon show songs playing in a loop.  I'd like to close that tab, but it's like a bad pop-up.  I'll keep trying, but I can't guarantee success without a complete reboot.

I don't need to worry the things I have no control over.  There are lots of those.  At least ten different tabs worth.  All the things I can't change, or at least can't affect at the moment.  Bookmark those and come back at a later date.

I don't need to worry about disappointing people when I can't hang out.  I can't do it all, as hard as I try or want to, and this past weekend is a great example of why trying to do everything and see everyone is a generally bad idea.  I felt like I barely had time to enjoy whatever I was doing because I was worrying about when I needed to leave for my next event.  And after a non-stop weekend of work, hanging out, working out, and making dinner for my parents (my mom fell and has a double fracture in her ankle), I feel like I blew a fuse somewhere.  Some routine maintenance needs to be done, but unfortunately I haven't had much time to turn everything off and turn it back on again.

It's getting bad enough that Mark and I are both ridiculously pleased with the fact that we have absolutely no plans this week.  We're currently trying our best to save money and eat at home as much as possible anyway, but the alone time is as much a bonus as anything else.  He apologized for not coming home and doing chores, and I'm like, "Please.  I barely did laundry over the weekend.  Let's sit here and watch Netflix for two hours."

Maybe by this upcoming weekend I'll be operating at factory settings again.

Until then, please bear with me.

Let's Taco 'Bout It

When in doubt, tacos fix everything.

At least, that seems to be the case this week, so I'm just going to assuming this is a multi-platform solution.

It hasn't been the greatest week, again.  Thunder's trial adoption did not go well, to say the least, so I picked him up on Sunday.  He was pleased.  I was annoyed, as pictured below:

Furthermore, last week's funk carried over into this week, leaving me somewhat of a depressed mess by the time Monday came around.

I slept a lot over the weekend.  I mostly failed at accomplishing much of anything besides baking challah for the first time.

I started taxes on Saturday.  I encountered problems with said taxes.

I finished taxes on Monday afternoon, which is when I realized that I made 10 grand less in 2015 than I did in 2014.  Which is understandable, as I was mostly unemployed for part of the year.  But it reminded me again, and so very acutely, that I'm more than getting by on a significantly smaller amount of money than at any time while I was married and allegedly had money problems.  (Well, I did have at least one actual money problem, but it was the problem I married.)

It still completely baffles and infuriates me how it's possible that I have more money now on one, smaller, salary than I did for years on two similar and larger salaries.  In January alone I spent several thousand dollars on new stuff, a car repair, and basically a new winter wardrobe.  And I went on an out-of-the-country vacation.  And I still can afford things and pay my bills.  I could never have done that while I was married.  Never.  Maybe the car repair.

Maybe.

There just... was never any money.  And I still don't get it.  I just don't.  I don't know where it went.

And, really, I never will know.  And I need to get over that.  Obviously not today.  But maybe one day.

(Honestly, I wasn't going to dwell on this, but there are apparently two things that are certain in my life: divorce and taxes.)

Regardless, those thoughts did not help the mini-depression, and the mini-depression did not help the thoughts, and so I was not in a great state when Mark got home.

Unfortunately, neither of us really knows how to deal with me when I'm feeling sad and sorry for myself.  This isn't surprising.  I don't know what I want; how is anyone else supposed to know?  I want to be alone but don't want to be left alone.  I want to be held but don't want to be pitied and therefore act stand-offish.  I want to wallow and I want to snap out of it.  I don't want to talk about it, because I'm not even sure what there is to talk about, so I bottle everything up until I pass the breaking point.

It's ridiculous and probably why I used to drink to deal with it, because I don't have any better ideas on what to do.

In lieu of alcohol, Mark resorted to holding me until I finally cried, and then buying me tacos.

Because what else is there to do when your girlfriend is depressed for no apparent reason?

Well, it worked.  We went to Taco Circus.  We ate tacos.  We came home and watched Today's Special on Netflix (a great little film that I highly recommend) and snuggled on the couch.

And so I have arrived at the brilliant conclusion that tacos fix everything (which I have already suspected before now).

Okay.  Obviously, it's not just the tacos (though really, they're amazing tacos, so their contribution should not be overlooked).  It's spending quality time with the person I love.  It's physical touch.  It's being alone together.  It's being forced to break down and be vulnerable and cry even though I hate it. 

Basically, he followed the steps of "How to Care for a Sad Person" without realizing it (minus rolling me up like sushi).

Thankfully, I've been better the past two days (though we had Mexican again last night, just in case).

However, now Thunder seems to have caught whatever weird vibes have been going around.  Or he's just mad that I tried to get rid of him.  Or that he hasn't gotten any tacos.

Can't say I blame him.  Because if you haven't been to Taco Circus, like Thunder, you probably should go.  It's the best little hole-in-the-wall street taco place I've been to in the area.  We keep meaning to try the burrito (which is allegedly enormous), but keep getting stuck on the Tour de Taco (we substitute one ground beef taco for a second pork), because it's perfect to split.  They've got a whole fridge full of sauces, including a Burnie Sanders sauce, and pretty addicting queso.

So there it is.  Taxes, depression, tips on dealing with sad people, and a taco shop review, all in one blog.  Even I didn't see that coming.

Bad Attitude, No Waiting?

It might be time to spring clean my attitude.

(Not to mention my apartment.)

I've been in a mostly-self-induced funk for what feels like a week.  Part of it is being tired and busy and having too-little down time.  Part of it is Mark is also in a understandable funk over the loss of his family dog, and since we're apparently psychically linked, it's tough to be in a good mood when he isn't.  Part of it is being a Benedryl zombie for part of the week.  Part of it is I'm stressing about Thunder getting (hopefully) adopted this weekend.  Part of it is... I don't know what.  General malaise?  Not enough introverting? A pathetic lapse in my yoga practice?  Not eating well? Not getting a selfie with my favorite Jack Sparrow impersonator at Comic Con this year?

It all adds up. (Particularly that last one.)

"Blah" accurately describes the way I feel right now.

So.  Cleaning is needed.  There are cobwebs hanging around, keeping the light from getting in.  All the things I should be excited about seem duller than they should be.  And it sucks.  Because there's a lot of really exciting things going on, or potentially going to be going on.  There's been a lot of good news and big decisions and things to look forward to.

There's so much more than this drab week.

The very thought that Thunder has gotten far enough along in the adoption process to be going on a trial adoption this weekend should be nothing less than amazing.  This is the dog I've had for over a year.  The dog who I often wondered would ever get to the point of being adoptable.  The dog who truly earned the nickname "fuzzy asshole." The dog who has become so much better of a dog than I thought possible.  The dog who always insists on being my co-pilot.  The dog who I'll miss in spite of myself.

And, even though I tragically didn't get a selfie with my favorite Jack Sparrow impersonator, I did get to return to Comic Con as the Girl Wonder (and work with Mark, who is better than any Jack Sparrow, real or otherwise).  We got to spend 4 hours Sunday wrangling nerds (my favorite people) into the Fish Eye Fun White Screen booth, and then wander around the convention and gaze upon Daredevil and Foggy from afar.

Another really awesome thing that I should be pretty damn excited about?  I've officially been the Fish Eye Fun project manager for a whole year, as of yesterday!  (I knew I wasn't done celebrating anniversaries.)  It actually seems hard to believe that I've been doing this for so long.  I guess time flies when you're ridiculously busy and generally like what you do.

So yes.  This week kindof blows.  But it happens.  It's not the end of the world.

Besides, with any luck, by the time next week I'll be living in a temporarily dog-free apartment for the first time in over a year.  Weird.

Maybe then I actually will get some cleaning done.

Not Quite Raindrops on Roses

So.  Last week was a rough blog, huh?

Let's talk about something cheerier, shall we?

... Except I've been struggling the past two days with being entirely too grumpy for anyone's good.  It's a shame, really, because I'm coming off of at least one really excellent week of being more social than normal and having very few negative experiences at all.  Even coming home last night to a meal cooked by my boyfriend wasn't enough to drag me out of my mood.

But, all things in moderation and all that.  The most perfectly wonderful Monday off with Mark is balanced by a not-so-great Tuesday.  And that's the way it goes.  As I've said before, not every day is fantastic.  And that's ok.  I just have to remind myself of that.

And I can remind myself of all the things that do make me happy lately.  So I will.

1. Everything about this new dress.

2. Day date adventures.  Mark and I went to Meramec Caverns on Monday and ended up with a private tour.  And a pound of fudge.  Along the way, we ate a giant burrito, got free sopapillas, did some antique shopping and rescued a midcentury lamp that someone woefully decided to paint.  And we also ate at The Shaved Duck.  Which was, quite simply, incredible and perfect.  Like the rest of the day.

3. Finishing a book, which I just did (Egg and Spoon, by Gregory Maguire).  And re-reading a favorite book, which I'm beginning to do (The Time Traveler's Wife, by Audrey Niffenegger). Or just looking at books.  I'm not that picky.

4. Being with someone who I'm so completely comfortable with, who lets me pout on the couch next to him, who encourages me in everything I do, and who writes the best love letters. 

5.  My friends, both old and new and everything in between.  

6. Margaritas.  Tacos.  Alright, food and drinks in general. Let's be honest here.

7. Having freshly red hair.

8. Routines. I'm an introvert, remember?  I like knowing what to expect.  This is not to say that I don't enjoy spontaneous adventures and spur-of-the-moment decisions, because that's not true.  But there's a definite reassurance for me in having several daily routines.  This is particularly reinforced by having a dog that also thrives on routine and knowing what to expect and a boyfriend who enjoys ending our evenings with a seldom-altered shared routine of getting ready for bed. 

9. My paperback book perfume.  Mark gave it to me a while ago when I was having a terrible day.  I've never before had a perfume that I really loved.  I'm highly sensitive to smells and never used to wear perfume, but this stuff is wonderful.  It's subtle and slightly sweet and I love wearing it and smelling faintly of great literature.

10. Puns and alliteration and nerdy jokes.

11. Comments on my blog or my Facebook blog posts.  I'm entirely shameless that way.  So please continue to cheer me up by telling me something that makes you happy.  

I'm feeling a bit better already.

Look at Me, Adulting!

I saw someone once state on Facebook that if you used the phrase "adulting" to describe your life then you weren't really an adult.

This is very possibly true.

Because really? I'm not sure I am an adult.  It's highly likely I'm only pretending, which seems to be the underlying implication of the word "adulting."  You're not really an adult; you're just faking it till you make it (or don't make it, as the case may be).  You changed a lightbulb.  You made dinner instead of eating chocolate.  You got up, walked the dog, and went to work instead of calling in sick.  

I'm not sure I'm fooling anyone with the whole adulting thing.  Without even counting my large failures at previous life decisions, there are several other signs that I might not be a "real adult."  For example, I've started wearing an Eeyore onesie around the house on more of my days off than I care to admit.  I bought a Doctor Who shower curtain.  I have coloring books.  I still consider my birthday to be a holiday.  I take way too many selfies.  I think pigtails are an acceptable hair style.  And I'm practically a teenager when it currently comes to being in love.

On the other hand, I've been paying all my own bills for a year and a half.  I signed up for health insurance (finally).  I worked events last Friday and Saturday, even though I had a cold, because, well, I had to.  We had six events Friday and seven on Saturday.  If I stayed home with Kleenex shoved up my nose watching Netflix, there would have been no one else to work.  (By the way: sincere apologies to anyone who got my germs along with their photos.  I tried to stay sanitized.)

To be honest, I feel more like an adult than I have in years, Eeyore onesie and all.  I'm adulting all over the place.  I'm adulting so much that I don't have time to do much else.  Which is fine.  It keeps me busy.  It keeps me out of trouble.  It keeps the bills paid.

And the weird thing is that still I'm enjoying my life more than ever before.  Being an adult shouldn't be so great, based on the bad rap it got when I was younger.  There are responsibilities and bills and broken appliances and divorce and too-little-sleep and a distinct lack of naps.  I drink less.  I'm fully accountable to another person for probably the first time ever, and I have no one to blame if I fail except myself.  And I'm stressed and tired and usually just want to stay home and introvert with my boyfriend.

But.  I wouldn't change much of anything.  

And maybe pretending to be an adult is the best way to do it.  It keeps you from being too serious, or from taking yourself too seriously.  It lets you wear pigtails and Eeyore onesies while taking selfies and coloring in coloring books.

And if that means I'm not a "real adult"?  Then fine.  I'm not.  But I'm getting pretty damned good at pretending.

I'm a Mean One...

Oh, Lord.  I missed a week.

I'm comforting myself with the knowledge that it was Thanksgiving week and I've been running around like a chicken with my head cut off.  And you didn't really need me to post a "things I'm thankful for" blog, did you?  I'm pretty sure most of my blogs already spill over with that a bit too much sometimes.  So let's go for the opposite: things I hate about Christmas!

I have a long-standing history of being a bit of a Scrooge. Possibly slightly Grinchy.  I mean, I've never set out to actually ruin Christmas, but I have been known to say "Bah, humbug!" and grumble about putting up a Christmas tree.

It's not Christmas itself.  I don't mind Christmas, especially when it's actually the week of Christmas.  It's the ever-expanding season of Christmas.  It's the fact that Christmas decorations are on sale before Halloween.  It's the fact that syrupy-sweet, overly vibratto-ed, drippingly sentimental Christmas music blasts inescapably from every store, restaurant, and radio station from the beginning of November on.

And it's the fact that I'm an introvert (this is getting to be a common theme, isn't it?).  Which combines poorly with the fact that everyone wants to get together all the time (mainly my parents).  And it's also the fact that we have over 40 Fish Eye Fun events in December.

Don't get me wrong: that's AMAZING and is absolutely not the problem.  I'm so beyond excited that we're busy and popular and even forced to turn away business because we're booked up solid for at least four days this month!

The problem is that some people (take a guess) don't seem to get that I'm busy and socially a bit overwhelmed, and that I probably don't want to come over every week from now until Christmas.  I may or may not have had a meltdown before Thanksgiving over all the social obligations that were suddenly presented to me, and may or may not have decided on my plan for surviving the holidays.  I call it "Drinking Through December." What could possibly go wrong?  (I've also decided that I get a gold star for every day in December that I don't stress cry.)

To be fair, this is the first year I can use the "I'm really busy" excuse as part of why I'm a Scrooge.  Before this year, Christmas was much easier in that aspect.  It was the dead-season at my old job.  I had at least a week and a half off of work most years.  But, I still grew to dread it.

Unintentionally or not, I felt overwhelming pressure from my ex to "compete" at Christmas presents.  If I didn't get his as many or as big or as expensive of presents as he got me, or if his Christmas stocking wasn't as full as mine was, I heard about it.  There would be hints about how much what he got me cost.  Or casual remarks asking if there would be more for him under the tree by Christmas.

Right now? My biggest problem is keeping my presents a secret from Mark until Christmas actually gets here.  We both have a terrible habit of buying each other things and just giving them to each other all year long.  So by the time the holidays/birthdays/etc roll around, we tend to realize that we've already given each other everything we thought the other person would like.  Whoops.

If I'm being honest (and apparently that's what I do now), I have to admit that I might be getting a bit less Scrooge-y in the past two years.  I still hate all the things I complained about above.  And I'm still panicked about getting everything done in time.  My ongoing mantra is that I'll have time in January (which is probably a lie, sure, but it's my current lifeline to sanity, so just let me have my delusions.)

But the intensity of my dislike seems to be abating with time (so long as it's actually the month of December).  Mark and I were running errands this week at stores where, of course, Christmas music was playing, and I didn't grumble and bitch about it.  I might even admit that I danced a little too it, but let's not get crazy.  And I want to go to the Garden Glow (though I contend that the Garden Glow is more of a winter festival than specifically Christmas - again, give me my delusions).

Also?  I have a confession: I kindof want to put up a tree and am a little disappointed that I really don't have space for one.  But don't tell anyone that, ok?

This Is Just To Say

This is just to say that... I have had absolutely no time to blog this week.  It's worse than normal.  Work is busier than ever. I went out to the Randy Dandies show Saturday, had a wedding show Sunday, had dinner at my parents' Monday, ran errands Tuesday, and had the Vendors Choice Wedding Awards last night.

So that left Wednesday night, in which I collapsed on the couch with Mark, a book, and Gotham, our latest Netflix binge show. And that's been all of my down time until tonight.

Half of me doesn't even know how it got to be Friday.  The other half knows that I'm going to feel this way until December.

That feeling is a little overwhelming, when all I want to do lately is stay home.  It's cold, it's dark, and I miss introverting.  I haven't had as much recharge time lately, and it might be starting to get to me.  On the other hand, it's not like I don't want to spend time doing the things I am doing.  I want to work.  I want to see my friends.  I want to be a good daughter who spends time with her parents.  And I want to go out to awards dinners and pretend to be Elsa.

Or wear a green dress with a green screen.  Whatever.

It's hard. It's only just getting into the season of socialization. Thanksgiving is next week. Christmas is all-too-soon after. And there's my parents' birthdays. Friends' birthdays. A million holiday parties Fish Eye Fun is booked at. 

I feel desperately behind in most things currently. Cleaning. Reading. Writing. Hanging out. A friend has taken to calling me "the mythical unicorn" because I'm notoriously absent from most events lately. 

Mostly, it can't be helped. I have to prioritize somewhere, and my job and my boyfriend are both at the top of the list. I just have to fit everything else in as best I can. 

And count the days till January and my much-needed vacation. 

PSA: On Being An Introvert

It's no secret that I'm an introvert.

What has been surprising to myself and my boyfriend is how social I often am.  I have a larger group of friends than ever before, am fairly involved in the St. Louis pole dance and burlesque scene, and participate as often as possible in the various parties and gatherings that take place on a regular basis.  I'm a member of Ladybrunch, a book club, and have a standing arrangement of weekend nachos and brunch with Alexis, when my schedule permits.  Plus, I'm usually wrangling party goers at the craziness that is wedding receptions on weekends.

Just writing about it kindof exhausts me.

And that is precisely how I know that, in spite of my busy social calendar, I'm still most definitely an introvert.

I love my friends.  I love that they want me to be included in plans and parties.  I love going out to eat with them, going shopping with them, and hanging out with them, even if this chart accurately depicts the way I feel about most parties.

I still love you all.  Really.

And it's not that I don't enjoy parties.  Or hanging out with people.  Or going out even though I could easily stay home with my dog and read a book.  Or knit.  Or cross-stitch.  (Because I'm an old lady, obviously.)

It just tires me out.  And afterwards, I need to recharge.

And lately?  I don't have a lot of recharging time.  It's busy season at Fish Eye Fun, and I won't be slowing down until mid-November.  And working weddings (and other events) takes a lot out of me.  I have to be "on" and fun and friendly and excited and social.  And that's not quite my usual setting, so it's sometimes exhausting.  And then I try to keep up with my regular social life, and my family, as well as spending most weeknights with my boyfriend (who, being fairly introverted himself, understands and shares my occasional burnout).  It adds up.

But maintaining my friendships obviously means a lot to me, because I keep making plans and showing up at parties and going on trips, even when the thought of going somewhere (particularly when there are a lot of people or I'm out of my comfort zone) can make me a little anxious.

So this is certainly not to say that I don't want you all to invite me or include me or ask if I want to go to dinner or drinks.  Because I do want to.

But if I do turn down your invitation, or ghost out of a party early, or just need to be alone for a little bit on a trip, know that it's not you.  I'm probably just introverting, and will return to regularly scheduled hanging out as soon as I can.

In unrelated news, it's apparently National Dog Day.  So here's a picture of Thunder, who has gotten much better at being a dog lately.