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 Pretty Vintage Girl Anniversary Blog

I've hit two milestones in blog-dom, all in the same week!

First: last week's engagement blog was the most well-and-widely read to date, topping out at just shy of 420 views!  I am, quite frankly, a little flabbergasted.  And pretty convinced it will be hard to ever reach similar numbers.  It's not every day I get engaged, after all.  (So far, just twice, and I hope to keep it that way.)

Second: I've been blogging for a year! July 10th marked my one-year blog-iversary.  That baby of a blog was written as I was coming off celebrating a year since my ex-husband moved out and as I was still decidedly new at working full-time for Fish Eye Fun.  It was short and hesitant and I obviously had no idea what I was doing.  It was the literary equivalent of me sticking a toe in the water to see how cold it was.  I had no idea what this blog would be.

And really, I still don't.

Because I don't think I ever would have dreamed that I would write about what I have in this past year.  My original vision for my blog was something much more frivolous and superficial because I didn't think I could possibly talk about the truth.  Talking about shopping and clothes and books would be much easier, and surely more accessible.  After all, who would want to hear about my life week after week?  I'm not that exciting.  I'm a divorced introvert who still carries far too much baggage for her own liking.  I work all the time and spend the rest of the time with my boyfriend.  What's readable about that?

I never thought I'd be able to keep up with blogging every week (well, almost every week).  I definitely didn't think my boyfriend (fiancé, whatever) would be going around passing out my blog address to everyone on his route!  I didn't think people I knew in passing would comment or reach out to me after something I wrote.

So.  One year later.

What's changed?

Obviously, I'm engaged.

And obviously I've been gainfully employed for over a year.

But also, it's been two years since my ex moved out.

I've destroyed my wedding dress.

I got a new furnace, bought a washer and dryer, bought a mattress, and fixed my car.

I went to Mexico.

I turned 31.

I've been spending my free weekends playing step-mommy. And enjoying it more than I ever thought I would, to be honest.

I've eaten a lot of nachos.  I've read not-enough books.  I've gained new friends and lost some who were apparently never really friends to begin with.  I've traveled back and forth across the Midwest, both for work and for fun.  I've gone to a few shows, and tried to be as social as I can.  I've been unapologetic about my life and what I want to do or not do.

A lot happens in a year.  I'm not the person I was a year ago, in many ways.  I'm snarkier, happier, friendlier, and more honestly... me.  I'm less willing to put up with bullshit.  I like the person I am, and I like where this year has led.

Where things are going from here?  I have absolutely no idea.

As I said, I'm still not entirely certain where this blog is going.  I rarely know what I'm going to blog about from one week to the next, much less what I'll be talking about in another year.

As for me?  There are obviously a lot of changes on the horizon.  Right now I'm still getting used to this sharp, shiny ring on my finger and we're not even remotely discussing an actual date.  I have absolutely no idea what the next year will hold, but I know that I'm definitely looking forward to whatever it is!

I'll be sure to write about it, naturally.  And you're welcome to read along, if you like!

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.

Hazards of Love

As it turns out, love isn't always all it's cracked up to be.

Wait a minute.  Are you reading the right blog?  Me? Saying love isn't always amazing and wonderful and hearts and rainbows and puppy dogs?  What?

That's right, ladies and gentlemen.  I said it.  Why?  Because I've realized that there are unforeseen consequences to not being single.  Sure, it's wonderful to have someone around to spend time with, to share your day with, blah, blah blah.  But sometimes?  Sometimes, it's fairly inconvenient, for entirely unexpected reasons.

This past Sunday was a kindof a Bring Your Boyfriend to Work Day.  The wedding I worked had an onsite scrapbook, which requires an additional assistant.  Mark had worked with me on New Year's Eve for another wedding with a scrapbook, so I brought him along again and thought nothing of it.

Some background first. In the almost two years I've worked for Fish Eye Fun, I've become very accustomed to loading into venues and being offered help of one kind or another.  Furthermore, I fully realize that this help is usually offered because I'm a girl.  Valets offer to help me load or unload my car, or to push the cart, or to even take the cart from me entirely.  I usually decline the offer, since I have a particular order for loading and unloading my car, and am stubborn enough that I'm used to doing things myself.

While I've blogged before about the bad things that have happened or been said to me because I'm a woman, there are a lot of upsides to my gender.  These offers of help are one benefit, in spite of how many times I say, "No, thanks."  I appreciate that someone is more likely to hold the door for me or try to help, even if it's just because I'm a girl.  I really do.  Being nice and helpful is something I will almost always appreciate, regardless of the reason.  And rarely have I appreciated past so-called chivalry more so than this last weekend.

I was loading into a venue that I've loaded into several times before, always with absolutely no issue.  I've always been met at the entrance, accompanied to where I'm setting up, and escorted back at the end of the night.  I even told Mark that this was one of my favorite places to load into.

Well.

That night, nothing much went right in general (outside of having a fantastic picture night).  I wasn't helpfully accompanied to where I needed to go, and I definitely wasn't escorted back out at the end of the night like usual.  Which lead to several increasingly ridiculous elevator issues and just being frustrated in general.

I didn't understand.  What had happened?  Where was my usual lovely experience?  Where were the usually helpful people?  I told Mark I just didn't know why everything was so different, and he gave me a look and stated the obvious reason: I had a man with me.

And he was right.

I had brought my boyfriend, essentially bringing along my own help in the eyes of everyone else.  Men don't usually offer to help women who already have a man with them.  Even though I recognize that I get offers of help because I'm a girl, I never stopped to consider what would happen if and when I wasn't just a girl by myself.

Well, now I know.

It wasn't malicious treatment by any means.  I'm sure it wasn't even a conscious decision.  I don't need to complain to a manager, and, honestly, I can't really say I'm that shocked.  To a girl who prefers doing it all herself if possible, it's just all the more reason to continue doing it all myself and not to fall into the ease of being a damsel in distress.

So it's not like I'll never bring my boyfriend along to an event ever again.  But at least next time I'll know what to expect.  (Or, as the case may be, what not to expect.)

If these are the consequences of not being single, well... I guess I can handle it if I have to.

My Kind of Town?

This past weekend, Alexis and I took a truly whirlwind trip to Chicago.  The reason?  Fish Eye Fun, of course!  I had a wedding to work and dragged Alexis along to keep me company on the 5 hour drive.

Now, it's been possibly five years since the last time I was in Chicago.  If there's been a more recent trip, I can't remember it.  Five years with no Giordano's.  No Gene and Jude's.  No Portillo's.  No Sub-T's.  And even though Mark and I will be going for a whole weekend in July, I wanted to take advantage of my brief time there and get some food.  I was, needless to say, excited about the prospect.

We drove up Saturday morning, leaving time to spare for dinner.  I decided that we should go to Mickey's Gyros, so that I could hit up one of my favorite Chicago food places.  It would be perfect.  We'd have at least an hour to get food.

Or so we thought.

We were cruising along down Harlem when disaster struck.  Well, maybe not disaster.  Maybe more like a train.  And it didn't strike anything.  Instead, it just... stopped.  We stuck around for 20 minutes before I decided to try to find a way around it.  Because surely that wouldn't be so hard.

Right?

...

Right?

Alas, we were wrong once again.  We headed off to try to find an underpass or overpass or any kind of pass at all.  What we found was the front of the train, stopped a few hundred feet before a road.

A road!  It was right there, tantalizingly close.  I could almost smell the gyros.  There were just a few cars between us and a straight shot to dinner.

And then?  Then the train started to move.

And we started screaming profanities.

(Honestly, I wish there was video of this.  Never underestimate the fury of two hungry girls who have been in a car for five hours straight and suddenly had their chance for delicious, hot food run over by a goddamned train.)

By the time we found an actual underpass, we were so far away from where we needed to be that we gave up and just headed towards the venue.  Through Chicago traffic.  So.  Much.  Chicago.  Traffic.

At this point, I'm not just hungry.  I'm full out hangry.  I hate that train.  I hate all the people in all the traffic.  I hate the person trying to merge in front of me even though the merge lane ended a good while back.  At this point, I hate Chicago.

As I said, it's been five years since I was in Chicago.  I really had nothing but fond memories of the city.  I loved the skyline, the food, the sights, the people, the food...

Not anymore.  At that moment, I was regretting the fact that I already had tickets bought for our July Chicago trip.  Why would I want to come back to this god-forsaken place with no food and toll roads and too many trains and ridiculous traffic?  This whole experience was surely some kind of sign, like Mufasa whispering to Simba, "Go away never come back."  Chicago had it out for me.

Or I was just really hungry.

One of those.

Anyway.  We got to the venue, unloaded, set up, and Alexis went to find food before I strangled a bridesmaid or something.  We were in such a ritzy neighborhood that the McDonald's didn't even have a drive-through.  I know this because that's what we ate for our big Chicago dinner.  McDonald's.

It wasn't what I had in mind, but it was food and it kept me from murder.

And, overall, it was a great Fish Eye Fun event, in spite of all the reasons it might not have been.  Any wedding where I manage to get the bride and all the bridesmaids in one place for pictures can be considered a success.  For this wedding?  Nine bridesmaids.  And I got them all.

Bam.

And, at the end of the night?  A food truck came to the venue and I got myself a Chicago-style hot dog.

So all was not lost.

We stayed the night with Anne and Jeff and in the morning they graciously made us brunch.  And Anne let me steal some of her books.  Add to this the fact that she let us in her house at 1 in the morning the night before and it's obvious that she's a wonderful human being and a great friend to boot.

In the end, was it a bad trip?  No.  It wasn't the best, naturally, but anything that ends with a homemade brunch and mimosas can't be all bad.  And, thanks to Chubby Wieners (yes, that's the name of the food truck), I got to eat Chicago food after all.

I guess I'll go back for another attempt in July.  I mean, I already bought the train tickets after all.

Do You Love Me?

Popularity in the social media age is a strange thing.  At least, it's strange to me.

Last night I had a Fish Eye Fun bride-to-be follow me on Instagram.  This is actually a first for me (at least that I've noticed).  My followers are mostly people I know as friends or at the very least people in the St. Louis wedding industry.

Does this make me popular?  I don't know.

I've been writing this blog for almost a year now.  I have over 40 posts, with almost 3000 views overall.  One post has over 200 views, which absolutely amazes me.  People (not just my boyfriend and best friends) are actually reading this, for better or for worse.  They don't just scroll by on their way through their Facebook feed.  

That's incredible to me.  Does it mean I'm somehow popular, that I have a social media "presence"?

And speaking of Facebook, there's the ubiquitous "likes" that my endless posts and selfies and shared memes receive.

Does that make me popular?  Do people like me?  Do they?  

Do you?

I'm all-too-guilty of reading into what it means when certain people "like" what I post on Facebook, by who likes my blog, by who comments about what.  Do we all do this?  Probably, at least to an extent.

Overall, though, I'm not great at self-promotion.  I never have been.  I don't want to seem needy or pushy or, worst of all, desperate.  I don't have thousands of Facebook friends.  In fact, I generally don't make friend requests and don't accept requests from anyone I don't actually know.  I don't have many strangers who know who I am (though that is changing, thanks to my job at Fish Eye Fun).  I'm not famous by a long shot.

I don't think I know how to be popular, really.  I still wonder at how many people genuinely want me to hang out with them.  Hell, I'm still in shock that my own boyfriend hasn't gotten sick of me yet.

So, the question is, am I writing this blog to be popular?  Do I post on Facebook to be popular, to get that little boost to my self-esteem?

I like to think not.  I can't lie and say that I'm not pleased every time someone likes my blog.  And I certainly can't say that I'm not vain.  But I don't write specifically for those likes, for the comments, or even for the blog views.  I write because I need to write, because I need the practice, because I need the weekly deadline, and because it helps.

It helps me, and I hope it helps others.

Fame and fortune and a weekly paid column wouldn't hurt, and I certainly wouldn't turn them down (hint, hint), but they're not what I'm doing this for.

I'm doing this for myself.  (And because Mark insists that I do it.)

I'm doing this because I think it's important to be honest about my life on the off-chance that someone needs to hear it.  When I was married, I didn't know anything narcissists, about gaslighting, or about emotional manipulation.  I didn't know that he had the ability to lie so smoothly that I questioned my own memories.  I didn't know that I didn't deserve to be treated like a servant, that I didn't deserve to be blamed for everything that was wrong with his life. 

I didn't know.

Now I do.  And I don't want to keep it a shameful secret anymore.  I want to talk about it, whether it makes me popular or unpopular, as the case may be.

So... do you love me now?

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.

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.

The Missing Minute Hand, and Other Little Things

My boyfriend told me today that life is what happens in the minutia.

He's right.  He usually is. (He'll disagree with me on that one, but don't listen to him.)

Life has many big moments, of course.  There is birth and death, marriage and divorce, hirings and firings.  There are magnificent highs and horrifying lows.

But, honestly, I've always been more fond of the little things.  I've talked before about the little things in relationships and how important they are.  But the little things aren't just reserved for love and friendship.  They're everywhere.

And even though I sometimes get hung up on the big moments, on the milestones and exciting news, I've actually always been a girl with an eye for details.  I notice things.  I notice people.  And I have way too many accessories for my own good.  I should know, I just reorganized half of them.

So it's fitting that this week has been almost exclusively about little things, about the seemingly unimportant things.

It's been about tearing up at the groom's speech at the Valentine's Day wedding I worked.  He was adorable and gushing and kept telling his bride that he would never take her for granted, which hit me harder than I expected.  I hope that his promise means that he will appreciate the minutia of married life and will take time to do the small, not-at-all unimportant things that end up meaning so much in the days and years to come.

It's been about trying to improve the little things.  Now that I've got overall happiness, working appliances, a healthy love and social life, it's time to fill in the details.  I don't just mean going to the gym and to pole class, but trying to get my life organized.  Trying to be functional both at home and at the office, and to make both a little more aesthetically pleasing.  All of which lead to an impromptu IKEA trip on Tuesday to buy a few little things to get started on making my work space more me, or to start "classing up the place," as Ben said.  (Naturally, and in the spirit of being the resident vintage girl at Fish Eye Fun, I'm going for as 1960s Mad Men as possible with my office space.)

This week has also been about buying a pocket calendar to keep track of the days I write.  Another little thing.  Mark has his own to keep track of the days he works on projects, and I fully admit that I stole the idea from him.  So far, I think it's helped me.  For one thing, I love a challenge.  For another, the thought of all the things we both want to do and accomplish is overwhelming if I don't do something to make it less daunting.

I keep saying that I want to "get back to writing," which is as overwhelmingly vague as it gets.  It's terrifying, really, to think about writing a book, or even a short story, or (sometimes) even a poem.  Or making a work of art, or a work bench.  None of this is going to happen in a day.  It's far better, far more digestible, to think about the individual pieces.  Write something.  Anything.  Even if I hate it and throw it away the next day.  Or even if it's this blog.  It's better than nothing.  It's the little things, again.  It's nailing on one board, writing one paragraph, drawing one rough sketch.  It's the only way progress can ever be made, and I forget that all too often amongst all the big tumultuous things that have happened recently.

Finally, this week has been about the minute hand on my living room clock repeatedly falling off.  That really doesn't mean a damn thing except that it needs to be fixed, but it does tie in nicely to the theme of the week.  I suppose I could make some poetic comparison about that missing minute hand being subtle reminder to pay attention to the minute things, but Lord, that's going a bit far, don't you think?

New Year, New... Everything?

So, 2016 started out great.  I worked a gorgeous New Year's Eve wedding at the History Museum, kissed the love of my life at midnight for the second year in a row, and had a really lovely and lazy first two days of the year.  I actually had the thought driving around on Sunday that it had been a wonderful two days.  I joined a gym (more on that later), I relaxed, I had dinner with my parents.  I read and knit and watched Netflix.

Clearly, I jinxed myself.  Because then January 3rd came. And everything fell apart.  Literally.

It was Sunday night, and Mark and I were sitting on the couch watching Netflix after dinner when he asks why it's so cold in the apartment.  Not-so-surprising answer?  Because the furnace isn't working.  It kicks on but the gas never lights.  So we break out all the space heaters and blankets for the night.

We also discovered that my upstairs neighbors' tub is leaking, both into my bathroom and into the basement.

On top of that, here's some more backstory: my dishwasher crapped out a while ago, possibly thanks to a minor mouse problem.  This hasn't really bothered me, because I hand wash most dishes unless I've done a full day of baking.  But the rental company scheduled the new dishwasher to be put in on Monday.  "First thing in the morning." Ha. Ha. Ha.

So on Monday morning I call and tell the constantly-beleaguered maintenance request woman that a) I have no heat and b) the upstairs neighbors' tub is leaking.  Then I put on my Eeyore onesie and sit by one of the space heaters to wait for my new dishwasher to arrive.

And I wait.

And wait.

And then I get annoyed with waiting, because it is now noon, three hours after a repairman was supposed to be here.  I've gotten no calls about him arriving.  So I get dressed and leave to start running the errands I need to do.

And as soon as I get to my first stop, the repairman calls to say he's on the way with my dishwasher.

Of course.

Long story short, Monday version: this guy spends four hours trying unsuccessfully to fix the furnace, does not install dishwasher, does not look at leak.

Long story short, Tuesday version: repairman returns, "fixes" furnace, installs dishwasher and leaves a note saying it doesn't work and someone will be back tomorrow, does not look at leak. Furnace works until 5:30, when it stops working again.

(In the meantime on Monday, my dryer breaks.  Unfortunately, that's all on me.  Mark attempts to fix it but is, thus far, unsuccessful.)

Moving forward to this morning.

I call the rental company again to tell them the furnace is still broken and that I'm now on my third day of no heat. They finally do the smart thing and arrange for an actual furnace repairman to come out (which won't, of course, happen until tomorrow morning).  Meanwhile, a second repairman comes to look at the dishwasher and informs me that it does work, but the first repairman just didn't know how to turn it on.

I'm just... done.  I'm done.  I'm ready for my vacation this weekend.  I'm ready to not worry about what all is broken in my apartment and when it will all be fixed and when I need to buy a new dryer.  I'm ready to be somewhere warm for a few days.

Those short first blissful two days of 2016 seem like a long time ago, as everything has gone downhill from there.  I'm trying to be my usual positive self, but right now I'm just frustrated.  I'm frustrated with my rental company, with the apparently incompetent repairmen they send out, and with appliances in general.

(We actually got to the point last night of wondering what I'd done to deserve this.  And then we stopped wondering that, because the list would be appallingly long.)

In other, un-appliance-related news, Mark is convinced that it's my New Year's resolution to get in shape.

Except he's wrong.  Really.  Totally.  It has nothing to do with being a New Year's resolution. He doesn't believe me, and I guess I can't blame him, seeing as how it all started right around New Year's.  I joined a gym on January 2nd.  I started doing yoga.  I went back to pole class for the first time in ages last night.

The evidence is pretty damning, really.  I admit it.

But it wasn't a New Year's resolution.  It's just me being finally fed up with feeling fat and out-of-shape and missing the way I used to feel and look, and missing being able to do cool things like flip upside down on a pole.  And after the craziness of December, I actually have time to do things like go to the gym, go to pole class, and do yoga.

Plus, I'm 30 (almost 31), and my ex-husband told me a few years ago that I was past my prime.  And I really, really love proving him wrong as much as humanly possible.

So yes.  It's the beginning of January and I'm starting to exercise.  Judge me if you will.  But if all goes well, I'll totally be able to kick your ass in a few months.  If I don't freeze to death from a broken furnace first.

So there.

December Status Update

December is officially half over.  And how am I doing, you ask?

Well.

I joked with Mark back in November that I could give myself gold stars for all the days in December when I didn't cry. Luckily I didn't follow through on this, because I would have fewer gold stars than I would like.  Between holiday stress, too-litle sleep, and my continuing efforts to deal with past emotional damage, there have been more tears this month than intended.

Operation: Drinking through December, on the other hand, is going much better.  I should probably have decided to give myself gold stars for that instead.  I would have way more stars.  Hindsight, right?

I actually have accomplished a decent amount, though not nearly as much as intended.  I successfully acquired/finished birthday present for both of my parents, who have the nerve to both have birthdays in December.  I crossed Missouri two times in as many days this past weekend for a Fish Eye Fun job in Kansas City.  (On that same trip, I spent my very first night ever alone in a hotel.) I only have four books left to read to hit my goal of 50 books, and I'm halfway through both a book and an audiobook. I managed to get my new passport in time to go to Mexico at the beginning of January.  I've attended a few family events and even socialized with several friends, including making it to the Garden Glow at the Missouri Botanical Gardens.

On the other hand, I still have several presents to acquire/finish in about a week.  There's one more big weekend of holiday parties to get through, and then the night of 7 New Year's Eve parties.  I haven't done nearly the writing I should have for my Project: Sketchbook.  And I have four books to finish reading in 15 days (notice how that one made the good and bad list?).

I think I need another drink.

I'm not sure if it's just the hectic pace of the past few months, but I'm having a harder time getting into the "holiday spirit."  I know I talked a lot previously about how I'm traditionally more of a Scrooge, but I do generally get a bit more into the Christmas spirit midway through December.  To be fair, I suppose it's not that I'm dreading Christmas itself.  I'm dreading everything that needs to be done.  I don't have the hours.  I don't have the budget.  I don't have the expedited shipping option.  Like the Grinch, I want to keep Christmas from coming.  But at least only until I can find a few more gifts.

I know that Christmas isn't about the gifts.  I know this, even though one of my stronger love languages is gifts and I love finding or making the perfect present for someone.  I know my parents don't even want me to spend money on them.  I know my boyfriend doesn't want me to buy him too much.  I know that I don't want him to buy me too much.  I know my friends will still love me if I don't get their presents done by the 25th (sorry, guys).

So yes. I know Christmas isn't about the gifts.

I know Christmas isn't about the gifts.

I think.

So what is it about?

Is it about winning decorating contests, or getting plastered at company holiday parties, or looking at Christmas lights?  Is it about ugly sweaters?  Holiday cards?  Elves on shelves?  Whether or not Die Hard is a Christmas movie? (It is, by the way.)  Endless renditions of "Santa Baby"? Whether or not Love, Actually is a terrible movie? (Debatable, but I love it anyway.)

It's a hard question.

For someone who's struggled with her faith and with Christians in general the past two years, I can't say that Christmas is strictly about religious faith for me right now.  Not that it ever was, really.  I'm a girl whose parents let her believe in Santa Claus for an embarrassingly long time, so obviously Christmas was never explicitly religious in my family.  I will go to church at some point with my parents, and I do still love hymns and still have the Christmas story in John memorized.  I've been a Lutheran for a long time and there is still a special meaning in Christmas that is spiritual for me, about keeping all these things and pondering them in my heart.

But I think these days that The Muppets best sum up my feelings about Christmas spirit.  "Wherever you find love, it feels like Christmas."  Maybe that's a bit touchy-feely, everyone hold hands-y, but it covers a lot of bases for a lot of people: Christian, Jewish, agnostic, and otherwise.  And, at the very least, it takes away from the commercialization of Christmas.

So, for me, Christmas is about spending time with the people I love.  It's about making them happy and being grateful for a truly wonderful 2015 and for all the family, friends, and blessings I have in life.  It's about feeling love, be it romantic, platonic, spiritual, or otherwise.  It's about traditions.  It's about cookies and pies and hams.  Or it's about latkes and Chinese food and a Die Hard marathon.  It's about figuring out how to do two Christmases in one day because there are that many people that want you around for the holidays.  It's about having a Charlie Brown Christmas tree on your console.  Or it's about having a Christmas tree in every room.  It's about whatever you want it to be.

The Grinch figured it out.  I guess I can too.

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. 

Of Halloween and Hannibal

In a pleasant contrast from last week's blog about everything going wrong, this past week has actually been fairly pleasant.  I had a lovely Halloween working the fabulous costume wedding of Tina and Luc, where I got to introduce Fish Eye Fun to a room full of my friends, all people who love having their picture taken (except for Alexis).

 Plus, the bride and groom were an amazing Morticia and Gomez Addams.

It was lovely to get to combine my work with my play.  It's happened on a small scale before, with having Sandi and Alexis help me at events when needed.  But to turn my friends loose in a room with candy, alcohol, costumes, and Fish Eye Fun?  It was pretty epic.  I had a line most of the night, but still was able to hang out and enjoy the reception.  And be in my own share of pictures.

Meanwhile, I wore what is possibly my favorite costume to date, and definitely the most comfortable in years: Where's Waldo.  I now pretty much want to dress like Waldo all the time.  It might make up for the fact that, apparently, Waldo was an incredibly popular costume choice this year.  There was another Waldo at the wedding I was at, a friend of mine posted a picture of her and her husband dressed like Carmen Sandiego and Waldo, and they were apparently out en masse at a bar that Jake went to.  Hmph.  And I thought I was being original.

In other news, Mark and I went on our first "road trip" on Monday.  It's his week off, and I don't technically work Mondays, so we decided it was time to get out of town for the day.  For lack of any other ideas, we drove to Hannibal, where I was told to stand in front of some signs.

Somehow, we managed to not do a single "historic" thing while we were there, in spite of being in, well, Historic Hannibal.  We didn't go in any museums.  We didn't tour the historic mansion.  The closest we got was going on the hour-long riverboat cruise, which was probably our favorite part of the trip (outside of the food).

As Mark said when we drove into town, "We can do whatever we want.  It's our day."  And that turned out to be entirely the case.  We ended up not feeling like going in the museums, and so we didn't.  Instead, we just wandered around, had lunch at the Mark Twain Brewery, shopped in antique malls, and went in the less-than-impressive Train Museum.  Then we drove home and stopped for dinner at our absolute favorite Mexican restaurant, Espino's.

While we were both a little underwhelmed by what Hannibal had to offer and uncertain how to feel about the fact that we managed to avoid nearly every single museum in the place, we still had to admit that we had a good day.  The weather was perfect, we got away from our usual St. Louis haunts, splurged a little on eating out, and hardly ever stopped talking to each other.  So I, personally, consider it to be a successful day trip.

It's still slightly amazing that, after knowing someone for twelve years, I haven't run out of things to tell him.  And he hasn't run out of things to tell me.  Most days, we hardly ever shut up to each other.  There are, of course, mornings and nights where we are both working on our own thing, or lying together on the couch reading, but I don't think I've ever had someone know me so well and talk with me so much as Mark does.  And it is talking with me, not at me.  It's a small word, but a world of difference.  He listens to me.  He acknowledges my opinion, even if his differs.  We appreciate and value each other's input.  For someone who is usually only chatty at parties after a few drinks and never before shared so many of my honest thoughts and opinions, I still find that aspect of our relationship surprising and entirely enjoyable.  Much like most of my life.

And, as I type, my boyfriend is building me a bookshelf.  Relationship goals?  Accomplished.

Another Anniversary, You Say?

I know I already blogged this week, but this is something of note.

It's officially been one year since my last day at my former job.  (It was actually supposed to be the 31st, but I think they were all sick of my sulking silently around the office, and told me I could go home a day early.)

I don't really remember what I did that day.  A good guess would be: cry. (I'm sensing a theme with my blog posts about crying, aren't you?)  Later that night, according to Timehop, I went to my friend Erin's house and drank while she carved pumpkins with Roland and his daughter.

Obviously, the end of my job was not my decision.  Nor was it expected.  In fact, I had been explicitly told that I would not be losing my job.  And I had believed them.  But.  Things happen.  Apparently.

It wasn't the best of times.  I felt betrayed and hurt and worthless.  I had just finalized my divorce, which while being something I wanted, didn't exactly make me feel like a successful adult.  I had sent my ex thousands of dollars (and sent credit card companies thousands more) that I had borrowed from my parents.  I was living essentially on my own, solely responsible for all my bills for the first time in my entire life.  So to now be (mostly) unemployed and uncertain how I was ever going to be a successful adult?  Not great.

My mom immediately told me I'd have to move back in with them.  Like there was no doubt in her mind.  It was bad enough I got divorced (during which they also repeatedly tried to convince me to move back in), but now that I'd lost my job?  That settled it.  I should start packing my bags.

But.  I'm stubborn.  As usual.  I didn't want to move in with them.  I didn't want to leave my apartment (at least, not till I decided I was ready to).  I didn't want to lose the freedom that I'd worked so hard to gain.

So, somehow, I made it work.  I still had Fish Eye Fun jobs on the weekend.  I had the buffer of money in my bank account I'd been slowly building since getting a separate account.

And I made it through the next six months until I started working as the office manager for Fish Eye Fun, I job I'd wanted since I knew it was a possibility.

I love it.  Combined with the weekend photography jobs, I've never worked harder or longer hours in my life, but have never enjoyed a job so much, or believed so fully in what I was doing.

Plus, it's ridiculously fun.

And I get to eat free food.

And tell people what to do.

 So.  Did losing my job a year ago suck?  Unbelievably.  But I wouldn't go back to it for the world.

On that note, another happy anniversary to me.  And many more to come.

One Year Later, Again

I think you all can tell that I'm big into anniversaries lately.  For me, they've become milestones of a sort, markers on the road of how far I've come the past year and a half.  I assume I'll eventually stop caring quite so much about these dates, but until then, bear with me.  Because this past Saturday, I hit another one.

One year of being divorced.

That's a big, really exciting one.

That's a year of me being really and legally free from my financial black hole of a crazy ex.

Honestly?  I thought it would be harder.  I thought I would struggle to pay bills on my own, with only one paycheck.  I thought I would have to give up and ask for help.  I thought I would fail at being an adult.

These fears were something I vividly remember talking to my friend Katie about before I actually decided I did want to get divorced.  I spent a great deal of time adding up my projected living expenses and comparing them to what my projected paycheck would be.  After all, I'd never really lived on my own.  I'd never had to do this.  The closest I came was going away to college, but I didn't have bills.  I didn't have rent or utilities or much in the way of groceries.  And then I got married, and he took over the checkbook.  I deposited my paycheck in our joint account, and he took the bills off to work to (allegedly) pay them.  I had my "allowance" of what I could spend on going out and buying things for myself.  I don't think I need to detail how this was all a terrible idea, and how I'm never going to not have my own separate bank account again, no matter who I do or do not marry.  Sometimes, you live and learn.

Strangely enough, I've actually been a fairly successful adult, in spite of being mostly-unemployed for almost six months.  I am, quite frankly, impressed with myself.  I think that's allowed.

In some ways, it seems like the year has flown by.  I don't know where most weeks have gone.  I don't know how it got to be October.

But in other ways, I feel like it's been ages since I got divorced.  It feels like something long-ago that happened to someone else.  All the unbelievable, stranger-than-fiction things that happened seem like something I read in a book, not actual events that happened to me.

So, how did I celebrate my one year divorce-aversary?

By working my 13th day in a row, of course.

Sandi helped.

I may be celebrating my year of divorce, but that doesn't stop the rest of the world from getting married.  Nor should it.  In spite of being jaded and cynical as I might be, I truly like working weddings.  I remember a few months ago sitting at my desk, reading an e-mail from a bride-to-be, and being suddenly struck and amazed by the fact that some brides (most brides, really) are genuinely excited about getting married.  That their wedding day is one of the best days of their life.  That was suddenly amazing to me.  And depressing, all at the same time.  That's the way I should have felt about getting married, after all.  That's the way anyone should feel about it.

Instead, I feel that way about my divorce.

Last year, I celebrated in an entirely different manner.  I didn't find out about my finalized divorce until a week later, poetically, the day before I performed on stage for the 7th Annual Michelle Mynx Pole Dance Extravaganza.

Some of you may not know that I have been taking acrobatic pole dance classes for the past six years.  It was a decision I made after going to my first burlesque show years ago and seeing Michelle perform.  I knew immediately that it was something I wanted to do, even though I had never before seen anything like it.  It was a decision I didn't tell a lot of people.  For one, I worked for the church. Morality clause and all that.

For another, it was not a decision my ex-husband approved of.  At all.

The fact that I wanted to pole dance was a source of contention for most of my marriage.  We fought about what I could and couldn't wear, who I could and couldn't perform with, where and when I could and couldn't perform.  We fought about the fact that I bought shoes to perform and practice in.  We fought about the fact that I wanted to buy my own pole (with my afore-mentioned allowance).  I was only "allowed" to perform once-a-year at the yearly extravaganza/student showcase.  I wasn't "allowed" to take any costume piece off, even so much as a glove.  None of this was not open for discussion.  It had to be that way, because the fact that I pole danced in public, usually wearing more than most swimsuits, was somehow shameful.  I was told that if I ever took anything off on stage, he would drag me off of it.  It was a joke, but I knew that it really wasn't a joke at all.

But I persisted.  It was one of the few things I thought worth fighting about.  I am and always have been stubborn when I want to be.  I even won a few battles every now and then.  I performed when I could, took classes when I could afford it, fell off the pole during a performance and got back up and finished (after doing a cartwheel and landing on my knees in jazz hands).  And, along the way, I found a group of the best friends I could ever have asked for.  I've found self-confidence and support and love.  And even a few muscles.

From my first, and favorite, pole performance.

It was worth the fighting for what I gained, and I don't for a second regret deciding to start pole dancing.

I'm not saying I'm a great performer.  Far from it.  But I do it because I love to.  The pole community is a wonderful place where everyone is accepted and supported, where you can be any shape or size or gender.  You can be sexy or cute or funny, or all three at the same time, and no one cares.

It was really only fitting that I found out that I was officially divorced the day before last year's Extravaganza.  I had actually backed out of performing after going through the stress of my separation, divorce, and job loss.  But I performed a thrown-together routine at a Pole Kisses show a few weeks prior to the Extravaganza, and Michelle looked at me and said, "Why don't you just do that number?"

And so I did.

One of the things that I remember most about last year's show was standing in the wings, waiting to go on, and the host announcing that my divorce had just been finalized.  The cheer that went up (from some strangers, yes, but mostly from friends) was deafening.

And so, appropriately, I danced my way into my first days of being a divorcee.

I won't be dancing this year, regrettably.  It's my first year in six years that I'm not performing at the Extravaganza.  The reality of it was I don't have time.  And I hate it, but I know it was the right decision.  But it's still where I'll be Friday night, cheering on my friends and fellow pole dancers.

And you should be too.