Where Do We Go From Here

I'm struggling a lot lately with what I want this blog to be.  When I began it, almost two (two?!) years ago, its purpose was mainly to make sure I was writing weekly and to help me work through a whole world of issues and anger and frustration following my terrible first marriage and subsequent divorce.  It was a place for me to be open and honest about what had happened, to talk about the many and various changes in my life, and to talk about the things that still infuriated me.  I wanted to help others by sharing my story, but I also wanted to help myself.

I don't have those problems anymore.

I mean, I do still get angry.  But it's not like before.  I've moved on as much as I think I'm able to.  I'll probably always be a little bit pissed off over what happened, but I think that's the way it should be.

But I got married again (almost three months ago).  We bought a house.  I'm a stepmother.  I'm (still) ridiculously in love with this man that I've known for fourteen years. I have great friends who (I hope) still love me even though I'm not around very much these days.  I have a wonderful job and am, generally, having a fantastic time.  I'm busy and tired and very much in need of introverting most of the time, but I can't think of very much I'd change.

So that leaves me at a bit of a loss as to what to blog about weekly, now that wedding stress has ended.  General happiness and/or being an introvert isn't that exciting, really.  I don't have a current life goal to keep tabs on (though I probably should).  I have Instagram and Facebook for my daily selfies (and general photo-and-meme sharing).  I don't travel (much).

So what do I do?

I read.

I collect vintage and novelty clothing/accessories (and take selfies).

I knit or crochet or cross-stitch.

I bake and cook (when I can).

I step-parent.

I'm a wannabe 60s housewife.

I'm super nerdy, introverted, and not shy about any of it.

And I know there are blogs about (literally) all of these things.  But it seems impossible to narrow this random little blog into one defined category.  It also seems impractical to blog about everything I enjoy or do.

So I'm at a bit of an impasse.  I don't want to stop blogging, even though each week finds me less and less inspired as to what to write about.  Two years might be the longest amount of time I've managed to actively maintain a blog, after all.  I don't want to break my streak now!  But something needs to change.  I just don't know what.

What would you like to see more of from me?  Less of?  What are you interested in reading about?  What topics and formats do you find most appealing?  I'm clearly at a loss here, so I'm very open to ideas and feedback as to how to keep this blog going and at least fairly interesting.

P.S. Please don't say less selfies.

The Angry Vintage Girl (Again)

I've gotten spoiled.  I really have.

Because I know that terrible male behavior exists.

I've experienced it, after all.

But I haven't experienced it much lately.

I blame my amazing group of friends (which includes countless awesome and feminist men).

I blame my introverted nature (which has led me into more and more fully being a homebody).

I blame my husband (who I actually love enough to want to spend my time with, therefore not being out on my own as much).

I blame my job and being a stepmom and our new life as homeowners (which means that we always have something to do and I don't go out as much).

Because it's all combined to make me a little oblivious to the world outside the pleasant and safe bubble I so often live in.

And I admit it, I can be a little oblivious all on my own.  Mark usually has to tell me that I've just been checked out, because I'm so often lost in my own little world.

So you know the situation has to be pretty drastic when I notice male attention directed towards me.

It can be the drunk guy at a wedding who told me I "didn't have to break his heart" when I turned him down for a dance (because, well, I was working the damn wedding, not to mention that I wouldn't want to dance with him anyway).

It can be the slightly too aggressive "compliment" from a stranger.

Or it can be walking through Walmart last Saturday night.

You guys.  It was bad.  I could actually feel the looks.  My skin crawled with them.  I could literally see the male gaze blatantly following me as I walked by.  And I did my best to ignore the guys who kept trying to catch my eye and talk to me when all I wanted to do was to be left alone to do my god damn shopping and get the hell back home.

It was more than annoying.  It was infuriating, so much so that I practically exploded when I got home and Mark asked me what was wrong.  (Kaylee told me I should have gone to Aldi, and the kid probably isn't wrong.)

I love dressing the way I do.  I love wearing vintage clothes.  I love wearing heels.  I love having bright red hair and looking different than most people.

But God, if I don't sometimes wish that I wanted to blend in.

No.  That's not true.

I don't want to blend in.

What I want, what I wish, is that all men could be like my friends, or like my husband.  I wish that all men could pay a compliment without a complementary leer.  I wish I didn't feel like I needed a male escort just to walk through a store without being harassed.  I wish that I didn't feel the need to carry around a TigerLady defense tool just in case I get followed to my car one day, or worse.  I wish that I didn't feel like the way I dress invites the wrong kind of attention.

Because the way I dress is nobody's business but my own.  If I want to wear heels through Walmart, that shouldn't mean that I should expect and accept the intruding stares.  If I want to wear a dress most days, then so what?

I don't know what the solution is, besides playing the long game of hoping that future generations of men will be better, will want to be better.

Because guys.  This is pathetic.

I know it's possible.  I've seen whole communities filled with men who can both enjoy and respect women.  I know that better is possible.

But I also know that worse is out there.

I'm holding out hope for better.  It's the only thing I know how to do.

A Uniquely Portable Magic

I know I said I was officially an Illinois resident two weeks ago... but now it's really, really official.

I unpacked my books.

(As Mark's dad said, "I guess that means she's staying, huh?"  And, well, yes.  It does.)

It was about time, right?  We moved my books over with the first load of boxes (okay, my 20+ boxes of books were the first load of boxes) back in February.

I've been without my books since February, guys.  I don't know how I did it.

Actually, that's a lie.  I know exactly how I did it.  I bought more books, obviously.

And I got a library card.  That helped.  If, by helped, you mean that I brought home a gigantic pile of books that I can't possiby read in three weeks.

But, over this past week, I methodically unpacked my books, put them back in order (alphabetical by author's last name, as God intended) and loaded up my bookshelves.

There are truly few things I find as purely and thoroughly satisfying as organizing my books.  I know, I'm a freak.  

I don't care.

Mark called it a "ceremony," and I suppose it is, a finely honed process that I've practiced throughout the years, with every move, with every life change (and with every major book purchase).  Book by book, shelf by shelf, until everything is just right.

Books are, quite possibly, my one true love.  They've been around longer than any of my other friends, certainly longer than any of my romantic relationships.  They've been a source of comfort, of escape, and of familiarity.  I bring books with me everywhere.  I carted them back and forth to college (well, not all of them, but more than I could possibly need).  I moved them to our campus apartment at seminary.  I moved them to the old apartment in South City (and then moved them within that apartment after my ex left).

I bring them along on vacation.  I always have at least one in my purse.  I've cried with them, laughed with them, and fallen asleep with them.  I horde them and loan them out and always, always want more of them.  I pick up books like abandoned pennies on the sidewalk, tucking them away for a rainy day.

There's a great Stephen King quote that says "books are a uniquely portable magic," and I very much believe it.  They have great power, as I said, to comfort and relax me.  When I had my back surgery at age ten, I constantly asked my parents to read to me, to take me away from the hospital bed and the IVs and the sterile cacophony of the hospital itself.  Together, we worked our way through the Chronicles of Narnia, and I drifted in and out of that make-believe world on a trippy ride of morphine-fueled imagination.

Not much has changed, minus the morphine.  I still rely on books, only now I don't need them to escape.

Now? My books feel like... well, like home.  

And, even better, they make our house feel that much more like home for me.  We're still struggling to move into a place that has still not been entirely moved out of (and, honestly, it's starting to stress me out), so every little bit helps.  Seeing my books, in my bookshelves, lined up along the wall?

That helps quite a bit.

Come On and Feel the Illinoise

It's completely official: I'm once again an Illinoisian.  An Illinioisan?  An Illinosan?

(Fun fact: all of those terms are technically correct, though I think my preference is Illinoisian, for the sheer fact that there are a ridiculous number of I's involved.)

To be fair, my citizenship transfer was mostly official a few weeks ago, when I got my new driver's license.  But now it's really really official, since my car is now an Illinoisian as well.

All this after a very unfortunate incident on Tuesday involving my getting pulled over in East St Louis, discovering my Missouri plates were actually expired, getting a ticket, and the police officer then driving off while still in possession of my drivers license and insurance card.

Yeah.  It was a great day.

... Not really.

So.  Yesterday I left early, went to the DMV, and got new Illinois license plates (for the low low cost of $200 plus that pesky expired plates ticket).  I even put them on my car myself.

I admit, it was a weird feeling.  After all, it's been ten years since I had Illinois plates.  The drivers license was one thing, but the license plates seem somehow more official.  I don't know if it's because I had to physically remove the very old and very battered plates and replace them with ones so new they practically sparkle.  The whole car looks different and unfamiliar with them on.

For years, I called myself an Illinois ex-pat.  Even though I was born in Germany, Illinois had always been my home.  I grew up in Collinsville (notable only for the World's Largest Catsup Bottle and a remarkable absence of anything interesting to do besides hang out at Denny's).  I went to college in Chicago.

I didn't grow up with dreams of leaving home for the great unknown.  I'm a solidly Midwestern girl.  I like the slower pace.  I like the smaller towns.  I like that traffic isn't a complete nightmare (at least... not all the time?).

Even though I've been all over the country, I've never once wanted to move outside of the Midwest.  I don't even want to move outside the St Louis area, which is, thus far, as far as I've wandered from home.

A lot of people seem to have a lot of disdain for St. Louis.  I've never understood that.  It's a great town, not too big and not too small, filled with tons of things to do.  It's not quite bustling, but certainly not pokey.  There are a multitude of different neighborhoods, ethnic food galore, and we even have an IKEA now (like anything else matters?).  There's a free zoo, free museums, festivals, great parks, an awesome baseball team, and highways that are continually under construction (and often all at the same time!).

Okay, maybe that last one isn't exactly a plus, but it is strangely endearing all the same.

It's all so very Midwestern-y, isn't it?  There's gooey butter cake and toasted ravioli (which I actually despise).  There's the World's Largest Catsup Bottle.  There's farmland and county fairs and random French names that no one pronounces correctly.  You can have every single season all in the same week.

It is, in a word, home.  For all it's quirks and annoyances (Why are there no left turns on Gravois?  Why are Illinois drivers so terrible?  When will Kingshighway reopen?), I've never wanted to be anywhere else for very long.

They say home is where the heart is, and if I'm being honest, mine has always been here.  It is most definitely here now, as the main reason why I moved back across the river to join the other Illinoisians in our ridiculously corrupt and broke state.

And so the ex-pat has come home.  It wasn't a long way to travel, even though it took me 10 years to get here.

Not surprised?  Neither am I.

After all, there's no place like home.

The Pretty Vintage Nerd

I've been a nerd for most of my life.

I'm not sure if I could have helped it if I tried.  I grew up watching Star Trek and Star Wars with my dad (an equal-opportunity nerd, like myself).  We watched X-Files.  I read the Star Wars books that my dad owned and dragged home countless more from the library.  I had a Star Wars birthday party when Episode I came out.  I also wore a Padawan braid for part of that same year as well.  (I know, I know, it's positively shocking that I was single for so long.)  I wrote fanfiction.

Honestly, I think I was part of the last generation of kids where being a nerd wasn't cool.  And really, even if it had been cool, I probably still wouldn't have qualified.  Because... well, you read that last paragraph, right?

Along with being an introvert, being a fairly obsessive and fangirlish nerd is part of my very being.  It's practically in my blood.  When I like something, I really, really like it.  I write about it.  I watch it repeatedly.  I collect items from it.  I learn trivia about it.  

And I really like Star Wars.  I love everything about it, with the notable exceptions of Jake Lloyd, Hayden Christiansen, Jar Jar Binks, and most of George Lucas' poor decisions.  I love the lore of it.  I love the improbability of it.  I love the music and the characters (see above exceptions).  I love the books.  I love the (up-to-now) strictly maintained canon.  I love the pure nerdiness of it, and of all my fellow Star Wars nerds.  I love that rare fellowship when you recognize a fellow (probably equally awkward) nerd out in the wild.

I do appreciate that that being a nerd is "cool" now.  I'm not jealous of all the young nerds out there who essentially get a free pass to skip the uncool label.  I love that it's perfectly acceptable for us all to come out, blinking, into the sun (for short, well-sunscreened, periods of time) and to shyly complement each other's badges of nerd-dom.  It doesn't actually make me cool, by any means, but it's nice to have the nerdy company.

And lately, I've been more in touch with my nerdy roots.  I read a Star Wars book for the first time since high school.  And I haven't been content with merely buying geeky T-shirts for my equally geeky husband.  Instead, I've been incorporating my nerdiness into my vintage style.

As it turns out, "nerd" and "vintage" are not mutually exclusive.  And why should they be?  After all, many sub- and counter-cultures tend to find each other and band together for warmth.  As I've learned, dressing vintage is a way of expressing myself.  Expressing what I love with what what I wear is really just the next step.

My pin/jewelry obsession is to blame thank, really.  It's such a subtle, stylish way to declare to the world that yes, I am a huge geek because yes, that is an AT-AT necklace.  Thanks for noticing.

  

I also have a few nerdy T-shirts of my own when I really can't resist.

It's not just Star Wars, of course.  It's Harry Potter and Firefly and Doctor Who and Game of Thrones and Pirate of the Caribbean, and... I could go on, but I think you get the point.

The point is: it's a whole new world for nerds now.  We're popular.  We're cool.  We're stylish.  We're even (gasp!) attractive.  We're fetishized and idolized.

There are burlesque shows specifically catered to geeks. There are dresses covered in the TARDIS, or in Daleks.   There are conventions all over the country, for every imaginable fandom.

Yes, we geeks and nerds are still awkward as hell and can bore you in no time with obscure facts and fan theories, but gosh darn it, we can look good while we do it.

It's safe to say that I've grown up quite a bit from being the teenage girl skulking through the hallways with a Padawan braid.  I'm the slightly-self-proclaimed Pretty Vintage Girl, after all, and hopefully will be for the foreseeable future.

But fandoms were my first love, and you never forget your first love.

And because of that love I know I will always be a nerd, be it pretty, vintage, or otherwise.

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.

What's in a Name?

The great debate has been raging: whatever will Ashley do about her last name?

People have asked.  People have told me that they changed my last name in their phones without asking.  People even made out wedding checks to Mark and Ashley Wood, which added an extra step when we deposited them in the bank.  My mom thought I forgot to write "Wood" when I signed the church register this past weekend.  Even my e-mails from Michaels have, over the past few months, gone from "Ashley Jones" to "Ashley Wood" to "Mark Wood" to "Mark Jones" out of either sheer flailing and confused desperation or some strange way of letting me temporarily try out all my available options.

The fact is that I haven't changed it yet.  I couldn't even do so until after we closed on the house (which happened Monday morning, making us officially, terrifyingly, homeowners).

And honestly?  I'm torn.

I changed my name without question the last time around (I don't think my ex would have allowed me to keep my maiden name anyway), and very much regretted it when we eventually divorced and I had to go through the entire process of changing it back to my maiden name (with his "permission," because apparently we still all live in the dark ages of chauvinism where even an ex-husband can continue to dictate a woman's choices).  I changed my driver's license, I changed the name on the car title, I changed my passport, and I changed nearly every single damn thing that had my name on it.  Bank account, apartment lease, e-mails, Facebook account, etc, etc, etc.

It's definitely not that I forsee having to change it back a second time, but the fact remains that I essentially fought to get my maiden name back two years ago when it would have just been easier to keep my married name (as much as I hated it).  Changing it to my new married name feels, strangely, like a betrayal of all that work.  Plus, I like being a Jones.  It took me years to appreciate my incredibly common name, and now I find I'm rather attached to it (and not just literally).

On the other hand, I very much want the acknowledgement that I married the love of my life.  I want to share that extra bit of life that comes from sharing a name.  I want to be a Wood.  It would make most things much easier to simply change my name.  I wouldn't have to be annoyed with the people who assumed I changed my name and address things to "Ashley Wood."  We wouldn't have to explain that yes, we are married even though my last name is different.  Signing cards, etc, would be that much quicker.

But... I still don't want to get rid of Jones.

This would probably be easier if I didn't hate the concept of hyphenated names (for me personally; I don't care what other people choose to do with their names).  Then I could have my name and change it too.

I also wish it didn't matter.  I wish that I didn't feel like keeping my name or changing my name were both somehow a political and/or social statement, in spite of the decision being neither of those things for me.  I wish neither were the "expected" option.  I don't know if that would make my current decision easier, but I might feel less guilty about whatever choice I make.

This also might be the very definition of a first-world problem.

In slightly related news, being referred to as Mark's "wife" remains an incredibly jarring experience.  As does calling him my husband.  It was hard enough getting used to "boyfriend/girlfriend," then "fiance'," but "wife"?  So weird.  It makes me feel instantly old (says the girl who spends most of her free time knitting and crocheting and goes to bed around 9) and very formal.

Names are so strange.  They are deeply personal.  They define, they separate, and they group together.  We attach so much meaning to titles and names and change both according to life changes, how we want to be perceived, and, sometimes, at whim.  I don't know why "wife" sounds so strange to me now, almost ten years after I became a wife for the first time, but it does.  Honestly, it's probably related to the feeling that changing my maiden name again would be a weird betrayal of the work I did to stop being a wife.

In spite of these strange hangups, I love being married.  I love looking at pictures from our wedding day.  I love seeing a ring on Mark's finger, and looking at my own ring.

It's just the words, and the names, that I have a problem with.

It's not even a problem in a bad way.  It's more a problem in that I have to figure out what the words, what the name, means.

What's in a name?  Everything, and nothing, all at once.  In the grand scheme of things, does it matter if I change my name or keep it?  No.  But right now it seems like a bigger decision than buying a house.  In a way, I worked harder for my name and "title" than I did for a house.

What does your name mean to you?  What about your title?

Is the hangup just with me?  This is entirely possible.  But as someone who worked hard to become who I am and to define myself (as well as someone who continually turns over the meaning and intent of words), the threat of any change gives me pause.

The reality is that changing my name, or being a wife, do not change who I essentially am as a person.  They don't change my past.  They don't change my personality.  They don't make me any less of an introvert, or any more of a morning person.  If anything, they add to who I am, never subtracting.  I'm a wife.  I'm a stepmother.  I'm a homeowner.  I'm a project manager.  I'm The Pretty Vintage Girl.  I'm either Jones or Wood or whatever I choose to be.

I'm still me.

The Long Haul

For this blog, I would just like you to picture me flailing around.

Actually, no.  Don't.  Because I'm getting pretty bored with blogging about my stress levels and the many and various things I have to be stressed about.  Which should seem contradictory, but really?  It's getting dull quickly.

Instead, can we talk about the fact that I'm now officially a "commuter"?  I haven't had to actually commute in nearly ten years, and even that was only for a few short months before I moved to St. Louis with my ex.  After that, I had a 15 minute drive on bad days.  Then it became a 10 minute drive.  Then it became a 6 minute drive, and I thought I had officially won at life.

Now?  It's a half hour each way if the rush hour traffic isn't too bad, if I cut into the bridge traffic as late as possible, if the weather is good, and if no one got in an accident.

Honestly?  As much as I don't want to move back to my old apartment, I do very much miss my six minute drive.

The question is: why do you people do this every day?  How do you do this every day?  I'm barely a month into my new commuting life and I'm kindof tired of it.  Or at least tired of how much gas it takes up.  And how late I get home.  And brake lights.

On the other hand, I'm burning through audiobooks at a much higher speed (an hour a workday, minimum), so I'm looking forward to seeing the boost that gives to my yearly book count.  So it's not all bad.

Really, it's actually not the worst thing ever.  People tend to act like Illinois is a foreign country when it comes to commuting.  Without rush hour traffic, I can make it from St Louis to home in twenty minutes.  I couldn't get to the airport in that time.  Honestly, people, I'm driving over the river, not canoeing.  My commute could be much worse.  It could be an hour each way.  It could involve a canoe.

But instead, I get to listen to books.  Or to music.  Or to nothing.  I get at least a half hour of downtime where I literally can't do anything but drive (or sit in traffic, as the case may be).

The worst part, as in much of life, is the other people.  The other drivers, to be accurate.

It's possible I'm biased from years of torture experience, but St. Louis and Illinois drivers are honestly some of the worst in existence.  Whether it's the inability to understand the simple concept of a turn signal, or that fact that merging is nothing more than a glorified game of chicken, or that traffic will be quite literally backed up for miles merely because someone got pulled over for speeding, or the fact that stop signs often seem to be all but invisible to most people... driving in the St Louis metro area can be challenging at best, and a sometimes-full-contact sport at worst.

But, it's home.  I'd rather live here than anywhere else, and if having our own house means I have to live on the Illinois side of the river and drive a little farther to go to work, then so be it.  Overall, it's worth the tradeoff.  (Or, at least, it will be once the place is actually ours.)

If nothing else, this experience has at least more adequately prepared me for an inevitable Mad-Max-style post-apocalyptic existence.  Lord knows I'd never make it if I stuck with my six-minutes-through-side-roads commute that I had for the past seven years.

Until then, I will ride eternal, shiny and chrome.  (Or, perhaps, shiny and ginger.)

There's No Place Like Home

Yesterday, I left the apartment I've lived in since 2009.

I moved there with my ex-husband after he was asked to leave the seminary when they decided that he wasn't fit to be a pastor (and when he apparently hadn't been paying any of our bills).  It was a refuge, an "us-against-the-world" kindof place.  It was the happiest I'd been in the two years since I'd gotten married.

Obviously, that didn't last long.  Us-against-the-world situations rarely do.

I thought I had fallen back in love in that apartment, but it was just an illusion.  Eventually, I fell completely out of love and lost track of who I was in the process.  I lived, or I existed, in a mostly alcohol-induced numbness, surrounded by books and foster dogs, until I fell in love with my soulmate.

That apartment has seen a lot.  It's seen pole parties with my half-naked friends.  It's seen dinner parties.  It's seen me coming home drunk on multiple occasions (or just getting drunk in the living room by myself).  It's seen a divorce-aversary party.  It's seen fights and tears and many rather unmentionable things.  It's been the home to 13 dogs.  I've snuck out of the house (and snuck into it).

I have memories in every single room.  There were love notes on my bathroom mirror and there was dog hair in every nook and cranny.  My ex grabbed me by my hair and pinned me to the wall in the dining room and there was a hole in the bedroom where he punched it.  I spent afternoons reading in my office.  I wrote stories and heart-broken poems there.  Mark and I danced in the kitchen.  We spent hours entwined together talking on the couch.  We kissed at the front door for ages rather than say goodnight.

I grew up there, in a way.  I stopped being an immature and naive little girl who was hiding from the world and became a woman, a divorcee, and, ultimately more honestly myself.

It was my first real apartment, and hopefully my last.  It was home, even during those long months of my separation when I tried to avoid it as best I could.  It held my entire life (and after packing everything up, or throwing it away, I can tell you that that is no small statement).

And yesterday, it was empty and practically sparkling from about two weeks of deep cleaning and painting, with the amazing help of so many of our friends.  I've cleaned things I never cleaned before (and never want to clean again).   I never want to look at mini-blinds again.

Was I sad to leave it?

I'm not sure I have time or energy to be sad about moving.  There's too much else to do.  We're getting married in literally one month and we've barely done anything towards that because we were so focused on the move.

It's the end of an era, that's for sure.  But it's mostly an era I'm glad to be done with.  I'm thrilled that we're going to be living in a place where my ex has never set foot, a place that can be exclusively ours.  And as much as I hate and am stressed out by change, it's well past time to move on.

I'm fairly confident that I will be worth it.

Also?  I'd better get my damn deposit back.

Situation Normal...

It was the best of times; it was the worst of times.

Wait, that's been done already?  Alright, let's try again...

These are the times that try men's souls.

That's already taken too?

Damn.

How about plain old "this sucks"?  Does that work?

Obviously I'd like to simply fill today's blog with cliched, overused, and occasionally fatalistic quotes so that I don't actually have to add on to my current To Do list (which is daunting at best, impossible at worst) and actually write a blog.

Did I mention we're still moving?  Did I mention that we're moving into a house that's still mostly full?  Did I mention we need to be completely out of our current place (with it cleaned and fixed for inspection) by the 28th?

Did I mention we have yet to send out wedding invitations?

Did I mention I'm in almost constant freak-out mode and that the sight of a calendar sends me into a panic?

I did?

Huh.

And yes, I know we'll get through it.  I know the end result will be worth the stress and the tears and the work and frustration.  I know that.  I do.  That doesn't change the fact that right now?  It sucks.  It sucks and it's hard and I want it to be over so I can get to the good part, the part where it's all worth it, the part where my life isn't crammed into boxes and shoved into a room, the part where we're not eating fast food nearly ever day in between transferring boxes from place to place.

If you don't see either of us until April, this is why.  We don't have time.  We don't have energy.  We have a house to buy, a wedding to arrange, an apartment to clean, and an ex to frame for any damage.

We're swamped.

Where Did You Get That?

I don't feel like blogging about anything of importance today.

I don't want to talk about politics.

I don't want to talk about the stress of buying a house from a family member (which is considerable).

I don't even want to talk about the few wedding decisions we have actually managed to make lately.

I'm a little stressed out, a lot tired, and fighting off varying levels of anxiety day by day.

So.  Where does that leave us?

Well, last week I talked a lot about selfies, and self-confidence, and how I haven't repeated an outfit in now-nearly three months.

And that leads nicely into a question that I get a lot: where do I get my clothes?

Well.

The answer is, really, all over the place.  I have an unhealthy love of ModCloth, first of all.  But I also shop a lot at Target.  And pick up the occasional piece at WalMart.  I sometimes order a few things online.  I frequent vintage stores, estate sales, yard sales, and have plenty of clothes that I've owned since college (and even high school).  People give me clothing.  I have, at this point, a quite literal clothing horde that I've accumulated over the years.

Clockwise from top:
button-up shirt from college, sweater from Target, vintage store dress, ModCloth dress, mini-dress someone gave me.

However, the vast majority of my clothing comes from one place: Goodwill. (Thrift stores in general.)  Mark likes to tell me that I have a $10,000 dollar wardrobe for less than 1/3 the price, and he's probably right.

I love Goodwill.  I love the possibilities.  I love the fact that you might walk away with nothing, or with a whole new wardrobe for sixty bucks.  I love that I got a brand new $70 skirt there this past weekend for $3.50.  $3.50!  I love the fact that there are so many buried treasures just waiting to be found hiding between hangers of 80s dresses (which, admittedly, could be a treasure to someone who is not me).  I love how freaking cheap it is.  I love the fact that it always turns into a weird internal rationalization and debate about what is and is not "worth it."  I love that I turned down a pair of green heels this weekend because they were $8.

(Like, whoa.  Let's have some self-control there, missy.  $8 heels?  Not on my watch.  ... these $6 ones are cool, though.)

Goodwill is so very worth the effort, I believe.  True, you have to be ready to spend time flipping your way through hundreds of hangers.  And you have to be willing to try practically everything on (or at least 6 items at a time).

Note: it helps to have a significant other who sits outside the changing room and gives you the thumbs up nearly every time you open the door.

It also helps to know what you're ideally looking for.  By this point, I know what I like.  I know what generally looks good on me.  I'm also drawn to certain colors, patterns, fabrics, and styles, so it's easy to quickly recognize something I'd potentially like as I'm skimming through the aisles.  Polka dots?  Absolutely.  Bright orange?  No.  Pink Ladies jacket?  Hell yes.  90s floral? ... Not on your life.

There's never any harm in trying something on.  (Well, unless it's too small.  We've all been there.  No one wants to be the girl struggling alone in a dressing room to get out of a dress she had no business trying on in the first place.)  Sizing aside, Goodwill is the absolute perfect place to take a risk.  Nowhere else do you have the sheer variety of styles to experiment with.  Why not take advantage of it?  No one has to ever know that you tried on that bright green mini-skirt, unless of course it looks amazing on you.

For example: I would not normally have tried this dress on.  No regrets!

So yes.  I obviously enjoy and support Goodwill, since they're definitely not paying me for this blog post (though they probably should).

And to answer a frequent follow-up question: yes, I would love to go shopping with you.  You just can't let me buy anything.

... unless I really love it.

Adulting Through the Holidays

I didn't blog last week, mainly because I was covered in flour and immersed in baking for about 6 hours in advance of Thanksgiving.  I took off from work early, went to the store, then went home and made two pumpkin pies, a German chocolate and coconut cream pie, and a Twinkie bundt cake.

Mark and I delighted in our freedom to stay up late, then promptly realized we're old and exhausted and went to bed around 10.

On Thanksgiving itself, we loaded up the various desserts in my car and then went our separate ways. I went to my parents' and Mark went to go pick up his daughter from her grandparents'.

This year, just to mix it up, I had invited my friend/co-worker/sisterwife Casey and her family to join my family's annual Thanksgiving gathering.  (And, in spite of my warnings, they actually showed up!)  It's already not exactly an exclusively family event.  If it were, there would usually only be about 4-5 of us total.  Instead, there are usually around 10-12, since Jake and his family have apparently become extended family over the past few years.  So, the more the merrier, right?

This addition was notable for being the first time that small children have been in my parents' new house since they moved in over five years ago.  Ever.  We kept the kids mostly contained in my mom's sunroom and entertained them with games and balloons and prop hats (see above).

After dinner, Mark and Kaylee showed up, and then the madness truly began.  My parents haven't even seen me interact with children in I don't know how long (we somehow haven't ever managed to coordinate our lives and schedules well enough to hang out with them and Kaylee together before), and suddenly I'm playing with three children aged 5 and under.  I'm surprised one of them didn't fall over in a faint.

After Casey took her crew home, Kaylee decided that she and I were going to play (of course), and that evolved into playing hide-and-seek all over my parents's house until I proved my hide-and-seek expertise and hid in the bathtub behind the shower curtain until she gave up and recruited Mark to help find me.

All in all, it was probably the most eventful Thanksgiving ever, and definitely the loudest, and my first holiday actively being a stepmom-in-training.  But?  I enjoyed it.

Thanksgiving, as we've all been told, is supposed to be that special time of year where you think about all that you're thankful for.  This year, I didn't really have to think about it, because I was literally surrounded by it.

While I may be entirely too grumpy sometimes about my overly-full schedule and my lack of sleep and free time, I'm still honestly still happier than I've been in a long time.

I might complain and bitch more than I should, but it's all sound and fury, signifying nothing.  I have wonderful friends who want to spend time with me no matter how many times I don't go to their parties, an eternally supportive family (in spite of how crazy they drive me sometimes), and the best fiance´ (and future stepdaughter) I could ask for.  I'm never ever at a lack for food or clothes (or pins), I have my own divided plate for holidays, and I've learned that I'm actually not terrible with children and am pretty much an expert at taking selfies.

I'm not the person I used to be, I don't have the life I used to have, and all of that is more than fine.  To quote a book I just read this past month, life is so good.

And for that? I'm very, very thankful.

Pin Game Strong

So, if you know me at all, you know that I most definitely have a new obsession: pins.

It's only a minor problem.

Really.

I definitely don't have to limit myself to buying a few pins every other week.  Nope.

I certainly don't have friends come up to me and ask to see what pin I'm wearing that day.  Nor do I plan my outfit around what pin I haven't worn yet.  I definitely don't take selfies everyday to show off said outfits.  I don't have a wish list of pins that could easily run me over $400.  I didn't ask my mom to dig up all the Disney trading pins that she has.

...

Okay.  None of that is true.  I admit it.

But I can't help it.  I'm completely and totally obsessed.  I don't know when I've been quite so in love with accessories since I first started dressing vintage.  But honestly, I adore this new and adorable way of further expressing myself and my style.  It's like a little finishing touch on top of all my other costume jewelry accessories.

Obviously, it's upped my style game a bit too, prompting me to get my other accessories a bit more organized so I can put together outfits without burrowing through various piles looking for a pair of earrings.

It's definitely a motivation I need now that winter is coming.  Winter in all its dreariness can lead to me wearing leggings, T-shirts, and cardigans every day instead of the bother of somehow combining warm and stylish.  My wardrobe is primarily made up of summer dresses, skirts, rompers, and sleeveless tops, after all.  I'm not a sweater girl, I admit.  I'm not one for big bulky knits, I hate most turtlenecks, and I generally dislike long sleeves that I can't immediately push up over my elbows.

This makes dressing for winter in the Midwest a bit problematic.  I've made an effort the past year to try to bulk up my winter wardrobe a bit to help out, but it doesn't change the fact that I am primarily a girl who dresses for spring and summer.

I'm hoping the fact that my pin game is strong (and getting stronger) will help in this respect.  If all else fails, then at least my accessories will be cute.

A girl's gotta have priorities, right?

Challenge Accepted... Kindof

So, back at the end of September, Mark found out about Drawlloween, a 31-day Halloween-themed drawing challenge that takes place during October.

Since I happen to think he's a good artist who just happens to be terribly out-of-practice (sounds like someone else I know), I encouraged him to go for it and said that I would do the same challenge, but with writing.

(Please keep in mind that the last time I did writing challenge was 6 years ago when I was still at least slightly in the habit of writing, and Mark hasn't done any regular art in probably as long or longer.)

So.  What could go wrong?

Well, I think it went exactly like you might expect.

We started out with good intentions.  Then the weekend would come and throw everything off completely (Mark would be with his daughter, I would be working).  Then we'd attempt to catch back up during the next week.  Rinse and repeat.  Several times.

Spoiler alert: we both ended up behind, one of us more than the other (hint: me).

But along the way, I actually really enjoyed it, regardless of how much I complained that I didn't know what I was going to write.  I liked sitting around with the love of my life, making art.  I liked the challenge of it, of being forced to be creative again, and I liked watching him be creative.  The other night, when we were making our last desperate attempt to finish, I told him that I liked watching him draw.

Mark: I'd say the same for you, but... it's really just not the same.  With you, it's lots of unintelligible scribbling... furious crossing out... writing really small off to the side, then pausing while you chew on your pen and stare off into the distance.

Me: ... That's an incredibly accurate description of me writing.

So no.  Writing isn't exactly a glamorous thing.  But I admit, it felt good to be writing regularly again.  And creatively.  To try to come up with a story or a poem in response to an often-very-visual prompt.  I did research to try to spark ideas.  Mostly, I tried to be unconventional.  I made an effort for whatever I was writing to not be quite what you would expect, or for there to be a "reveal" towards the end.  For the most part, I think I was successful.  Obviously, some days were less so.  But the important thing was I was writing.

I definitely fell off the bandwagon towards the end.  Between getting ready for Halloween, a busy work schedule, and other obligations, I got very behind.  I actually only completed up to Day 27.  But that's twenty-seven pieces of writing I didn't have before October.  That's twenty-seven works of effort and struggle and editing.  There are a few I really love, a few I hate, and most that I was fairly satisfied with.  Some I worked on all day, some came together in almost one shot, and others I threw together during my idle hour at work.  Which is, I suppose, what art and writing is all about.  Doing what you can, when you can, with what you have.

I'm pretty sure Mark is even harder on himself than I am.  Which is impressive.  But honestly, I loved seeing him create his art.  They were very rarely just a drawing that correlated to the prompt.  They were usually detailed enough to actually tell a story.  He had returning characters, mainly the Steampunk Ghostbusters, and I got to watch him experiment with different mediums and materials.

He might not be thrilled with his work, but the fact that he did most of them in just an hour or two is amazing to me, and I usually loved what he did.  And I really loved walking by the corner that houses his drawing table and seeing all his art taped up.  I'm lucky to be able to draw a proper stick figure, much less armed and dangerous blind mice.

If you're so inclined, you can find my writing (in reverse order) over at my A.C. Jones Facebook page (that's my pen name), and Mark's drawings are here!

I love that he is creating art again.  And I love that I proved to myself that I can do the same.  Just maybe not for 31 days in a row.

It's good to know one's limits.  As well as one's potential.

I tend to forget the latter all too frequently.

The Procrastination Game: A Step-By-Step Guide

What do you do when you don't want to blog (or preferred activity of avoidance)?

Step 1: Complain about it.  Be sure to mention the fact that you can't even write about all the things you would potentially write about (if you wanted to), such as your super-secret Halloween costume projecting/thrifting adventures.

Step 2: Check Facebook, in case someone posted a cool meme.

Step 3: List the reasons you probably shouldn't even bother.  Example: I'm really busy.  I don't feel good.  No one reads this blog anymore anyway.

Step 4: Recruit others to support your decision.  Be sure to point out all the aforementioned reasons to them so that they can clearly agree with your obviously rational thought process and reasoning.  Try to get this in writing if at all possible.  You'll need the supporting documentation to make your case properly.

Step 5: Revel in your moral high ground.  Feels good.

Step 6: Ignore the nagging guilt.  Check Facebook again.  Maybe try a few Snapchat filters.

My current favorite.

Step 7: Reassure yourself that you're doing the right thing.  Remind yourself that you are very busy and important, not to mention the fact that you've already been writing every day in October.  One missed blog is no big deal.

Step 8: Remember those excuses!

Step 9: Fuck it.  Write the damn blog (or do the damn thing).

Real talk: I don't feel good today.  I didn't get enough sleep last night and my stomach has been bothering me for a few days.  So yeah.  I don't want to write this.  I still have to write for my daily challenge today, I'm getting my hair done, and I'm working on my Halloween costume for Saturday.  Not to mention all the other projects I'm in the middle of, keeping up on life, working, and maintaining various relationships with friends and family.

But my excuses really aren't that great, regardless of how readily Mark agreed with me.  He's tired and not feeling well either, so our judgement isn't exactly the best.

Mainly, I need to remind myself that I'm not writing this blog for the popularity (or lack thereof).  I'm not writing it because it's fun and exciting and easy.  I'm writing it to be writing, to process what goes on in my life, and for the off chance that I have something to say that means something to someone who happens to read it.  I'm writing for the same reason that I'm (trying) to write every day for an October writing challenge: because I'm a writer, and because it's what I should be doing, even on the days when it's the last thing I want to do.

Especially on those days.

Oh, and I almost forgot.

Step 10: Post the blog.

Tis The Season, Sort-of

I'm not going to lie, I've been super boring this week.

It's been, oh, what's the word?

That's right.  Awesome.

It's been awesome.

The main excitement (besides driving to DuQuoin for work and discovering where all the Trump signs are being posted) was going to the St Louis Renaissance Faire (I refuse to call it a festival) for the third time this year.

To be fair, it was only the second time this season.  The first trip was during preview weekend last spring.

This past weekend, though, we did Ren Faire big.  We got parasols, corndogs, and a Hanging Sky Chair.

And now I know what I'm doing for the rest of fall/winter.

No, really.  I'm set for fall.  I have new dog slippers (complete with bows and tails).  I have more books than I know what to do with (and the ever-present desire for more).  I have knitting/cross-stitch projects galore.  I have daily writing to do, at least through the end of October.  And I have a new-found love of my bread machine, so there will be no shortage of carbs to fatten myself up with while I lounge around in my hanging chair.

Oh, and I have a shark onesie.

I'm not sure I've ever been more ready for fall.  Other girls might have their Uggs and their PSLs, but I have other loves that rear their cozy heads around this time of year.  I have leggings and crock pot recipes and soup and the smell of bread baking.  I have scarves that I knit, a snuggly dog, and a fiancé who lets me leech off his body warmth without much complaining.

I know, I know, the temperamental St. Louis weather has been bouncing around between the 50s to the 80s, but never you mind.  Fall is coming.  The leaves are starting to turn, Halloween decorations abound, and there's a nip in the air that has me beginning to shy away from my beloved summer dresses.

Honestly, I'm not sure why I'm so into the thought of fall this year.  It's a bit out of character for me.  While I always enjoy the cooler temperatures, fall is in actuality merely the herald to the oncoming and disgusting slog of winter.  My wardrobe is mainly fixated around a world that is perpetually 80 degrees, so declining temperatures leave me scrambling for cute outfits to wear, and most of my shoes are non-functional for getting around in the snow.

Maybe it's the fact that I'm waist-deep in the busy season at work with no end in sight.  The introvert in me (okay, the introvert that I am almost completely comprised of) longs to go into full-hibernation mode, to set up camp in that sky chair with coffee and books and only move to get another piece of bread or snuggle my loves.

That's obviously not possible, but it doesn't change the fact that it's what I want right now.  I want to be home, cooking and reading and eating and wondering why we ever go out to eat.  I want to knit and snuggle and work on my writing while Mark works on his art.  I want to ignore the craziness of the world around me and focus on what makes me happy.

So if I'm a little too excited about fall, please excuse me. It's just the introvert in me, looking for any and all excuses to stay inside.

Morning Coffee in Stars Hollow

I grew up with Rory Gilmore.

Not literally, of course.  She is, obviously, a fictional character and all I could do was watch Gilmore Girls on television, not live it.  But, in a way, I felt like she was a possible classmate and might have been a friend if I was very lucky indeed.  We were just about the same age and went through high school and college together, as far as timelines were concerned.  She may have lived in quirky and idyllic Stars Hallow while I lived in less-than-exciting Collinsville, IL, but she was still, as they say, my spirit animal.  We were both studious, mostly-unpopular bookworms who always brought along a back-up book and who were completely devastated by a bad grade.  I modeled my own 16th birthday party on hers, complete with pink boas.

Of course, she had far better hair than I ever have managed to have, her boyfriends were all remarkably attractive (if all generally rather terrible ideas... like many of mine), and she seemed to subsist on a diet entirely comprised of coffee and junk food, all while maintaining a perfect figure and flawless skin.

Some people blame their unrealistic life expectations on Disney princesses.  I rather think I can chalk mine up to Rory Gilmore.

I watched the show religiously all through its seven seasons, have re-watched it twice since, and am ridiculously excited about the mini-series coming up later this year! (Though, if Luke and Lorelei don't get married, it might be over.)

All this is just leading up to explaining why exactly I spent an hour and a half this morning standing in line for a free cup of coffee.

The short answer?  Because it had a Luke's Diner sleeve around it, that's why.

The long answer? Let's back up a moment.

Today is the 16th anniversary of the show's premiere (ohmyGodI'msoold), and so Netflix sponsored around 200 coffee shops around the country to turn into pop-up Luke's Diners for the day.  Clearly, I had to go.

And clearly, I had to be a complete nerd about it.

Guys, I cosplayed Rory Gilmore.

I dug out my old "Reading is Sexy" shirt, which she wore in a college episode, and my Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath, which she is also seen reading in an episode, and I headed out the door to meet Jake (appropriately dressed in flannel and a backwards hat, a la Luke).

I also was unknowingly headed out to meet half of St. Louis.  That's a slight exaggeration, but only slight.  The line to get in to Luke's Diner/Shameless Grounds was half a block long.

I had expected a bit of a crowd.  Gilmore Girls had a large following, after all, particularly among my age group.  But the announcement of the pop-ups had only gone out yesterday, and surely most people would have jobs to go to on a Wednesday morning, wouldn't they?

Apparently not.

But, I had company, I had a book, and I was surrounded by other apparently just-as-rabid fans who were equally as willing to waste over an hour of their lives to get a few photo ops and a free coffee.

At last, we reached the counter and achieved our goal.  I appropriately geeked out, took selfies, got my coffee, and headed in to work.

Was it worth the wait?  Hard to say.  It's not like I couldn't get basically free coffee at home.  Or at work, for that matter (and in much less time).

But it was the experience.  That's the part that I couldn't get at home, or at work.  Like Mark told me, it was like standing in line to buy Harry Potter at midnight, or camping out for a midnight showing of the new Star Wars movie (all things that I've done).  It was all about the experience, about being there, not necessarily about the end result.  It's about being surrounded by like-minded weirdos who get excited about the same nerdy things you do.  It's about reliving the days when I'd sit down with my mom, or my roommate, to watch a new episode of Gilmore Girls.  It's about taking time to do something just because, and to indulge in the silly and pointless side of life that says, "why not?" instead of "why?"

It's about getting the chance to be in Stars Hollow, even if just for a cup of coffee.

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.