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.

My Best Friend's Wedding

I have a confession.  Maybe more of a disclaimer.

I've never actually seen My Best Friend's Wedding.

I started to watch it ages ago.  I was at some sleepover, possibly for Girl Scouts, and I can just vaguely remember the opening sequence.  But that's it.  I don't remember who gets the guy or who gets married or doesn't get married or anything.  My strongest memory from the night is dancing around with the other girls there and being told that I "spin too much" when I dance.  (Well, years later, my nickname in pole dance class was The Spin Queen, so take that, bitches.)

Obviously, this post is not going to be about that movie.  Or about spinning.

It is, however, kindof about pole dancing.

Or at least it's about one of my best friends, who I would never have known if it weren't for pole dancing.

I've known Jessica for around seven years now.  I've been friends with her and Sandi since I impulsively decided to take a pole dancing class after seeing Michelle Mynx perform at a burlesque show (which I also went to rather impulsively).  You can read more about pole dancing in this previous post.

We've traveled together, partied together, performed together, and supported each other like friends are supposed to do.

And, last Friday, Jessica got married.

I'm not going to lie, it was the best wedding I've ever been to.

This is not to say that all the other weddings I've been to have sucked.  They haven't.  But this one managed to surpass them all, in spite of the two reception venue changes and all the regularly scheduled wedding stress.

What made it so great?  Well, it wasn't just because I got to hear one of my poems actually read aloud to an actual audience (even though that was truly incredible and I didn't once tackle the officiant to read it myself).  And it wasn't just because I got to go on a tour of The Fox Theatre and be a complete theatre geek and fangirl about being allowed both onstage and backstage. 

And it wasn't just because the bride wore black and a lesbian burlesque performer married them in the lobby of The Fox (though that probably helped some).

Gorgeous photo courtesy of Carrie Meyer at Insomniac Studios.

It wasn't even because she had two photobooths at her reception (or that I ran one).

Instead, it might be because I've rarely seen two people so well-suited to each other.

And it might be because I'm finally coming more fully around again to the idea of love and marriage, particularly of love and marriage between two best friends.  And that's exactly what Chris and Jessica are.  They are best friends as well as lovers.  They cosplay together.  They're crazy cat people together.  They enjoy each other's company, while fully realizing that neither one of them is perfect.  They are geeks and nerds of the highest and most excellent level.  And they have the creepiest bathroom I've ever been in.

(And they let me come over and watch Game of Thrones.)

I may be cynical and judgmental about many things, but I can't be about Chris and Jessica.  They are one of the most genuine couples I know, and I'm so very glad that I got to be a part of their amazing day.

And that I got to be able to make a zombie wedding cross-stitch.  You know, priorities.

 

To be honest, it's been a long time since I've been able to actually enjoy other people's weddings.  Back when I was unhappily married, I always felt a strange sense of loss when my friends would get married.  I think I subconsciously knew that they were about to experience something I never had, and I was jealous of how happy they looked.  I didn't know how to be a part of that, even though, in theory, we were all part of the same "club."

But Friday?  Friday was different.  I'm not the cynical, unhappy person I once was.  Or, at the very least, not as cynical.  I'm not jealous anymore, not looking for anything missing.  It's a nice feeling, really, to be more fully part of someone else's happiness instead of envious of it.

Mark and I have decided that there's little point in anyone else ever getting married after Chris and Jessica.  There's no real way to top it, in my opinion.  Mark has declared that he's not even bothering to wear a suit for our wedding, just a T-shirt with a tux printed on the front.  (I think we all know that's not actually happening, but I can understand his sentiments.)

So, our wedding won't be like Chris and Jessica's.  And that's fine.  Because it's not a contest for me anymore.  And for that I'm so incredibly grateful.

When Pizza Isn't Enough: Making a Love that Lasts

I love pizza.  (Okay, most food.  Practically all food.  Whatever.)  But pizza is up there.  I like it in nearly all its many and various forms.  I'll even tolerate Imo's if I'm in the right mood for really shitty pizza.  And yes, I know those are fighting words for some people.  I make no apologies.

Mark and I have practically made a study in local pizzas over the past few years, both together and separately.  We haven't hit every pizza joint in town, but we've done some damage.  We've bounced around here and there, been obsessed with some places, and been disappointed one too many times by others.  We've tried to find good bad pizza.  We've eaten pizza out of desperation.  We've compromised on toppings.  We've both made our own pizzas, experimenting with crust and sauces and toppings.  I've deemed him the resident pizza expert, due to his past work experience at Pizza Hut.

I've even eaten pizza while drinking champagne with my divorce-maids after wrecking my wedding dress.

Last week, Mark made what is (for now) my new favorite pizza: sausage and cashew.  It's certainly not a combination I would have come up with on my own, but as soon as he told me about it I was intrigued.

And now it's love.

Like most love, it was unexpected.  I can't guarantee it will last, but it definitely seems to be something to build on.

Now obviously, pizza isn't love.  If you love me, you might make me pizza or bring me pizza, but pizza can't be the entire basis for a relationship.

... or can it?

Probably not.

So if pizza isn't enough, what is?

What makes for a strong relationship?  What sets apart that one pizza, er, person from all the others?

And what right do I have to talk about relationships, anyway?  There are plenty of jokes to be made about the divorced woman or man sitting around and giving marital advice.  After all, I'm divorced, which automatically means I failed at being married.  Right?  What would I know about a good relationship?

Well, I don't profess to be an expert, but I at least know what a good relationship isn't.  I know the warning signs.  I know the regret.  I know the unhappiness that comes from staying in something that is, at its very core, so incredibly wrong.  I know that I should have listened to the little voice inside me that kept whispering that I should cut my losses and run before it cost me ten thousand dollars and seven years of of my life.  I know what it's like to struggle almost daily to have a good relationship, to do everything in my power to not fail at being married.

But what about what it takes to have a good relationship is?  How do you build a love that will last longer than my first marriage, or at least longer than a good pizza?

There's so much that goes into it, and much of it subject to personal taste.  For me, a good relationship is being with a man who cares enough about me to consider my needs and to try to make our lives better, who believes in me, and who I believe in.  It's knowing that he has a good heart (in spite of what he sometimes thinks about himself).  It's the fact that everything in my life is better with him than without him.  It's the fact that I want to build a life and a home with him instead of trying to find my fulfillment outside of the relationship.

Mainly, I think it comes down to trust.  No, not crust.  Trust.  You have to trust that person.  And not just trust that they won't cheat or lie or steal (though those are all very important as well), but trust them with your whole self, with your secrets and desires and hopes.  You have to let someone else know you like no one else ever has.  The past three years have been a whole new experience in what intimacy really means.  It's not just sex.  It's emotional, it's mental, it's the whole vulnerable package.

It's a terrifying risk, the ultimate trust fall.  Because if they drop you, what then?

That's simple enough.  You pick yourself up and try again.  Or don't.  Be your own perfect relationship.  Order a delivery pizza and eat it all by yourself.

If there's one thing being divorced does make me an authority on, it's the fact that the end of a relationship is not the end of the world.

We all deserve good relationships, good sex, and good pizza.  While it doesn't hurt to have some bad every now and then, it shouldn't ever be something we settle for because we're hoping it will get better with time.  The good is out there.

Go out and try a little of everything until you find just the right one.

A Rather Risqué Requiem

So, I'm getting pretty tired of blogging about my own drama lately.  (Who knew that was even possible?)  And so, this week?  I'll blog about someone else's drama.

Besides, it's officially the end of an era.  This past weekend, The Randy Dandies had their last show.  Ever.  And if that's not more important than my personal life, then I'm not sure what is.

If you don't know who The Randy Dandies are, you're unfortunately not going to be able to find out now.  But let me explain.

In short, they were my favorite burlesque troupe ever.

In slightly less short, they were a comedy burlesque group that focused on sketch comedy, rabid pop culture references, and returning characters.  In seven years, they ran the nerd gamut from comic books to science fiction, unemployment, summer camp, museums, Game of Thrones, Into the Woods, heist movies, and so much more.  Hell, they even had a Prairie Home Companion parody show.

I've had the honor of being at many of their shows, and (more lately) at helping out.  I've sold merchandise, I've been a prop, and I've always loved dressing up for the theme of the show.  When I've gotten burned out on burlesque, I never quite got burned out on them.

From last year's camp show.
Photo by Insomniac Studios.

They were made up of... well, a bunch of nerds, really.  If you didn't guess that by the above description of themes, I can't help you any further.

They were made up of nerds, of people who wouldn't quite fit into the stereotypical profile of "classic burlesque performers," of actors who never once took their clothes off, and of my friends.  They had the after parties that legends are made from.  They made obscure nerd references that half the audience never got.  They told terrible jokes, and laughed at them too.  They sang dirty songs while playing ukelele.  They had a cello-playing Chewbacca as a guest performer.  They were a wonderful hot mess whose mics often didn't work, but they kept going anyway, because that's what you do in live theatre.

Above all, I think their greatest gift was the ability to not take themselves too seriously, to roll with the punches, and, finally, to know when it was time to call it quits.  Seven years is a hell of a good run, and I'm very glad I was there for the not-so-bitter end.  The final curtain call may have been bittersweet, but I know that it's not truly the end for any of these performers.  Even if they never take off their clothing on stage again, I'm more than confident that they all have something up their sleeves (or lack thereof).

And I can't wait to see what that is.

Defining Myself

What defines us?

That's been a pretty big topic of conversation recently, at least around St. Louis, following a truly terrible St Louis Business Journal article/photo shoot supposedly celebrating local successful businesswomen by asking them what pair of shoes "best described them."

Overlooking the obvious sexist overtones of asking a group of highly successful women to describe themselves with a pair of shoes, I'm actually more offended by the fact that anyone could be asked to describe themselves with something so superficial as an item of clothing.  "Please sum up your success, interests, beliefs, and personality by showing us something you wear sometimes so we can adequately judge you."

Now, to be fair, I love shoes.  I have a lot of them.  I have flats, kitten heels, stilettos, platforms, and sneakers in all colors and styles.  They currently are spilling out of the closest I (unsuccessfully) try to keep them organized in.  But I would never say I'm defined by or described by my shoes.  Or by my equally overflowing wardrobe.

I realize this may sound a bit hypocritical, as I do call myself The Pretty Vintage Girl.  If that's not describing myself by my look, then I'm not sure what is.  But my look isn't what defines me, or even what "best describes" me.  It's a description, sure, but not, I hope, the be all and end all of my personality.  I would like to think that my clothes and my shoes only just scratch the surface of who I am.

My look is actually very much a uniform.  It's what I wear to feel confident, comfortable, and yes, most like myself.  I have an affinity towards modern looks across the board, after all, not just in clothing.  I'm drawn to the music, the furniture, the art, and of course, the fashion.

My clothes and my shoes might very well be an expression of who I am.  But that's not what describes me.  And it's certainly not what defines me.

So what does?

People are constantly defined by countless things, most of which are as superficial as a pair of shoes: our past, our jobs, our friends, our lovers.  We're defined by where we grew up, what high school we went to, or what socio-economic group we are a part of.  We're defined by our illnesses, by our accomplishments, and by our failures and regrets.  We're defined by our roles as parents, as children, as married or as single.  We're defined by our expectations for ourselves, or by someone else's expectations of us.  We're defined by how much we weigh, or what music we like, who we're attracted to, or what we believe in.

We let ourselves be defined by so much that it's hard to know what it is that actually defines us.  Who are we, beneath all the layers of judgement constantly heaped upon us?  Are we what others say we are?  Are we the names we have been called?  Do we fit in the cookie-cutter shapes (or shoes) that society tries to shoves us into?

Are we even allowed to define ourselves?

I say yes.

And I have to believe it's true.  I have to believe that I am the only one who can truly define who I am.

After all, haven't I been blogging for a year now about who I am?  I've been slowly reclaiming my voice and my self over the past two years.  I've been fighting back against what I thought defined me, and against those who tried to define me.  There's no pair of shoes on earth that can describe that process.

On Monday I took part in a photo shoot as part of a response to the St. Louis Business Journal shoot.  The project is called Undefined, it involved over 30 local women, and it had nothing at all to do with shoes.  We were welcome to bring a tool of our trade (or to remain undefined by either shoes or tools).  I brought a laptop as a nod to this little blog.  Because if there is a way I define myself, it's through my words.  I've always expressed myself best through writing, and never more so than since I started this blog.

The photo shoot wrapped up yesterday, and I can't wait to see the results.  But I love a group of women took the initiative and opportunity to show other women defining themselves by whatever means they chose.  I love that there are people out there who get it, who get that we aren't defined by our clothes or by our circumstances.

We define ourselves, in the end.  We have to, because there are countless people out there who will be only too glad to do it for us.

And that shoe definitely won't fit.

It's My Life... I Thought

I've been operating under the impression that I am an adult.

There is even actual evidence to support this.

For example, I've paid all my own bills for the past two years.  I've held a job for seven years, and am on the second year of my current job.  I work during the week and on weekends.  I go to work even when I don't feel like it.  I'm a stepmom-in-training, and am generally trusted to be left on my own without supervision (except possibly in a bookstore.)

Plus, I've only killed two houseplants in the last year.

So I'm having a hard time understanding why some people feel the need to so often question my decisions.

Granted, I have in the past made some rather epically terrible decisions.  I fully admit this, and have done so often.  But, to recap: I'm a thirty-one-year-old who is regularly entrusted with thousands of dollars of photography equipment, not to mention my fiance's car.  My marriage was nine years ago, and I've been divorced for two of those years.  I haven't even had a perm in over ten years.  You can't say that my track record hasn't been slowly improving, and I honestly like to think that I generally know what's best for me.

Really, if I don't know what's best for me by now, I'm not sure who does.

And yet.

And yet I still find it difficult to make a decision without dissension from the peanut gallery, or without someone questioning why I'm doing something that I enjoy or believe in.

Will I ever just be happy with one dog and stop fostering?  What do I do with Thunder when I work such long hours?  Why do I want to live there?  Or there?  Why can't I drop everything and do this or that or the other thing?  Why?

Okay.

Maybe, just maybe, I'm a little... overly sensitive to this topic.  Maybe I no longer exactly tolerate the subtle judgements and nudging attempts to get me to go along with what someone else wants me to do.  Maybe this is because I decided that, after seven years of that treatment, I was done with it.  And maybe, I've gotten fond of making my own life choices.

To his great credit, Mark does not at all tell me what to do.  (Or, if he does, he's so good at it that I don't even notice, to which I would actually be impressed.)  He knows by now that I'm going to do what I want to do, and it's best just to trust me if he wants to stay in a relationship with me.

And it's not that I'm not willing to have a conversation about my choices.  I'd love to tell you about why I foster dogs instead of adopting one.  I'd love to tell you that I do all I can to make sure Thunder is as happy and well-adjusted as possible.  Genuine curiosity and conversation is more than welcome.  And if you don't agree, that's fine.  You don't have to.  It's not your life.  But telling me what I should be doing is really not the best idea and generally doesn't garner the best results.

I could also be a little more sensitive lately because I'm more than socialized out.  My calendar is far too full for my tastes, so the additional stress of feeling judged and pressured pushes me a bit into the bitchy realm.

In the end, I just want to live and want everyone else to let me live.  I like to think I show everyone else this same courtesy.

By all means, if I'm making another catastrophic mistake along the lines of my first marriage (or dyeing my hair platinum blonde), please do speak up.  But as for the little things that don't affect anyone besides me and my little family... please don't.  We'll all get along much better that way.