My Inner Voice is Dumb

This past Monday I had coffee with a friend I haven’t seen since I was married.  In fact, the last time I saw her was when we were hanging out with my ex-husband.  Since I haven’t been married to him for almost four years now, that’s kindof saying something.

I didn’t really know what to expect.  I wasn’t sure if we would talk about my ex, or if we even should.  What, exactly, was the protocol here?  Were we supposed to pretend he didn’t exist, or directly acknowledge the elephant in the room and invite it to join us for coffee?  

I haven’t done the rather awkward “first conversation” in a while.  In about four years.

So I felt that familiar resurgence of shame and guilt, and thereby resorted to my familiar throwaway line of “I’m a terrible person.” I said it often four years ago, and several times in the years since when discussing my divorce.  After all, I’d rather be the one to say it than to hear the same words from a friend.  Self-flagellation is a strange form of self-defense.  It hurts less to berate ourselves.  We’re used to the negative attitude.  We hear similar phrases all the time from our inner destructive demons, so often that we come to expect nothing less from ourselves.

“You’re a terrible person.”

“You’re not a good artist.”

“You suck at writing.”

“You’re bad in bed.”

“You’re boring.”

“Your laugh is dumb.”

“Why can’t you do anything right?”

“Why are you like this?"

“No one really likes you.”

 

I don’t know about you, but I’ve heard these things countless times.  And all of these horribly mean things came from only one person: myself.  

Well, from those dumb inner demons, at least.

No one has ever told me actually told me any of those things.  (Actually, my ex-husband had a few colorful variations on that first one, but that comes with the territory.)

And my friend, when I used my preferred emotional self-defense tactic for the second time, exclaimed: “Stop saying that!”

She’s right.  I should stop saying it.  I should stop saying all of those terrible things to myself.  

You should stop saying them too.  I hear you out there telling others how you’re not enough, how you’re less than you should be.  I see the self-deprecating Facebook posts.  And I want to channel my friend’s exclamation and scream “Stop saying that!”

Words have incredible power, no matter what the old rhyme says, and they have even more power when the words originate from inside ourselves. Others may have the ability to wear our self-worth down over time, though we do at least usually start out with a sense of indignation when someone else tries to put us down.  But when our own inner voice tells us that we suck?  We tend to roll over in submission and agree with no argument whatsoever.  Yes, Dumb Inner Demon, you’re right, I AM a terrible person.  I AM fat.  I AM ugly.  I SHOULD stop doing something I love, because I’m no good at it.

And I have just one thing to say: to you, to myself, to my Dumb Inner Demon.

STOP. 

SAYING. 

THAT.

Can you even imagine the freedom you would feel if you could mute that horrible inner voice, if you could just enjoy your life, your hobbies, your own body?  

This is not to say that critique and improvement should be dismissed.  But they shouldn’t be all-important, or all-consuming.  None of us are perfect, all of us are learning and changing and constantly making mistakes.  Be compassionate towards each other.

But, above all, be compassionate to yourself.  Stop being your own worst critic and start being your own cheerleader.

I’m not a terrible person.  I’m a person, who made (and continually makes) mistakes.

I’m not a terrible person.  It’s physically hard to type that and not hit the “delete” key until it all goes away again.  I’m so used to saying it, as a joke, as an excuse, as self-defense.

I’m not a terrible person.

Neither are you.  Make sure you tell yourself that. 

World Enough and... Wait, Scratch That

Quite frankly, I think it's time to do the Time Warp again.  (Quite frankly.  Get it?  Get it?)

Anyway.

I’m currently struggling with the near-constant feeling of not having enough time.  Does anyone else have this problem?  For example:

• I don’t have enough time to spend in bed in the morning.
• I don’t have time to work out in the morning (or the evening).
• I don’t have enough time to sew in the morning before work.
• I don’t have enough time at work (it’s slower right now, so this one isn’t as bad as usual).
• I don’t have enough time to go home and make dinner.
• I don’t have enough time with my husband.
• I don’t have enough time to work on all the projects I’m working on, or want to work on.
• I don’t have enough time to clean our house.
• I don’t have enough time to hang out with my friends.
• I don’t have enough time to write, or blog, or read.
• I don’t have enough time in the evening before it’s time for bed.
• I don’t have enough time to sleep.

I can’t guarantee that this is all necessarily true.  But I can guarantee that it’s exactly how I feel.  And I can say for a fact that I’ve begun to feel a sudden wave of dread anytime someone asks me for more of my time.  (It's an Introvert Thing.)

• My mom wants me to come over and go through old photos or (Insert Family Activity Here).  Dread.
• My friends plan an outing or event. Dread (followed by wanting to go, followed by dread, followed by wanting to go, followed by...).
• I get scheduled for an event at work.  Dread.
• Mark asks if I have ideas for dinner.  Dread (followed by an irrational desire for Mexican food).
• *I* want to go to a show, or a movie, or to an event, or on a trip. Dread.

It’s getting a little out of hand.  And it doesn’t help that I recently started sewing, acquired a huge collection of patterns and fabric, and now want to do nothing but stay home and make myself a brand new wardrobe.

But even putting my newest hobby aside, the dread and feeling of never having any time still hovers ominously over me.  I’ve taken to watching the hours spin recklessly by at night, or on the weekends, counting down until it’s time to go to bed, or time to go to work.  Where did the time go, I think?  I just got home.  We just finished eating.  We just cleaned up dishes.  How can it be so late?  Why can’t I have more time?

Not coincidentally, I think, I’ve also been feeling more anxious lately.  I irrationally think something bad is going to happen.  I’m having trouble going to sleep because my mind suddenly starts up a litany of worries against the backdrop of whatever song is currently stuck in my head (unfortunately, it's usually "Everything is Awful" by the Decemberists).  And I’ve been waking in the middle of the night for no reason, then convincing myself that the reason I woke up is that I heard something.

Basically, I’m getting to be a bit of a mess.  And, because of all the above-mentioned bullshit, I’m not enjoying my life as much as I’m accustomed to.  Which is pretty much everything I’m against.

Since my separation and divorce from my first husband, I’ve pretty much pledged to enjoy my life and not wallow in self-pity.  And being stressed out and anxious and always upset that I don’t have more time is a bit wallow-y and really isn’t very enjoyable.  Believe me.

But what to do about it?

I can’t take a week, or a month, or half a year off work to try to “catch up.”  Besides, I don’t actually think catching up is humanly possible.  Even if I miraculously finished all the things on my To Do list, there will always be something else to do.  Hell, even if I achieve my dream of one day becoming a stay at home dog mom (which would also require us getting a dog), there would never be a lack of things to do.  And there would never be more hours available to do those things.  If I had but world enough and time for all the things I want to do, let's face it... I'd just find more things I'd want to do.  (This is also why I don't understand people who get bored when they retire.)

Also?  I can't go back in time.  If I could, then Current Me could go and wake up Past Me so that she would be a more productive member of society and Current Me would then feel better about her life.  There is just the very minor problem that I have thus far not been able to time travel.  At least, not until I find a Doctor or a DeLorean.

So that seems to point to the fact that the actual problem is, well... me.  Or, at the very least, my mindset is the problem.  For starters, it’s incredibly negative.  

I don’t like being negative.  

I am, however, remarkably good at being negative.  It’s not the best combination.

And really, being negative about my own life is the opposite of productive.  By constantly feeling that sense of “never enough,” by bemoaning what I feel I don’t have, I’m creating a self-fulfilling prophecy of discontentment and frustration.  I’m shooting myself in the foot, setting myself up for failure, etc, etc, etc.  

I do have enough time.  I have the same amount of time everyone has.  But maybe, just maaaaybe, I don’t always make the best use of it.  I do, I admit, have a significant number of bad habits I’ve fallen into lately.

• I look at my phone too much.
• I stay in bed too long.
• I waste time instead of being creative and productive.
• I focus on what I’m not getting done instead of all the things I have actually gotten accomplished.
• I make excuses

And, finally...

• I have an overall negative attitude that’s honestly getting annoying to myself.

So Ashley, I tell myself.  Cut it out.  Bring back that girl who’s happy and positive and kick out this negative bitch who complains all the time.  Who needs her?

Right? 

There’s only one problem (and here’s your spoiler alert, so watch out): they’re both the same girl.

That being the case, it’s probably best I settle for a compromise: a happy bitch who complains only occasionally.  I think that’s a reasonable goal, don’t you?  She sounds like most of my friends.

In the meantime, I’m trying to figure out how to better manage my time (and mindset).  All suggestions welcome.  

(Complaints and bitching are also welcome, because really, no one likes someone who’s too damn happy all the damn time.  See above comment about most of my friends.)

The Great Emoji Birthday Party

About a month ago, I threw my very first children’s birthday party for my stepdaughter! We kindof had a party last year, in that we invited over our families at the very last minute, I cooked dinner, and her grandmother brought over a cake.  We were still moving into our new house (well, we still are moving into our new house, but it’s a bit more presentable now) and had already pulled off the world’s most inexpensive wedding.  I hadn’t had time to devote to planning an actual party.  

But I vowed that this year would be different.  

(And it was.)

I grew up as a child who always, always had a themed birthday party.  (I still have themed birthday parties, and they’re awesome, shut up.)  So I’m a firm believer that kids should have parties, and they should have themes.  Really, I just love themes.  (I blame the birthday parties.)

Kaylee has been on a slight emoji kick for the past year or so (she's pretty much claimed one half of my Femme de Bloom emoji collar clips), so I’d been working toward the idea of making her party emoji themed.  Hell, I like emojis too. (The heart eyes emoji is my spirit animal.)  The Emoji Movie was actually even than I expected.  So I started a board on my mostly-dead Pinterest dedicated to party ideas and kept my eyes peeled for emoji gifts/decorations/etc.

Then, of course, the weeks leading up to her birthday weekend coincided with my busiest weeks at work (thanks, wedding season), so I ended up not having quite as much time as I intended to go completely overboard on the themed decorations/presents/food.  

So... I only went slightly overboard. 

I picked up a bunch of emoji plates/napkins/gift bags itmes from Walmart (where I also possibly went a little overboard on gifts, but nevermind that).  I also made this cute emoji pillow from a free pattern on Ravelry, and finished it just in time for the big day! It's now joined forces with the growing legion of stuffed animals and handmade pillows on her bed.

In properly keeping with the theme, I limited the snacks to food that there are emojis for.  I don’t think anyone actually noticed this, but it pleased my internal control freak and that’s all that really matters here.  Therefore, we had pizza, chocolate chip cookies made by the birthday girl and Mark, watermelon, grapes, and strawberries.

I also made (with Kaylee's help) an emoji cake and poop emoji cupcakes!  She helped frost the face and put the eyes on the cupcakes.  She gave me a high five and declared that I had “nailed it” which pretty impressive coming from a “Nailed It!” connoisseur.

For the cake, I used this yellow cake recipe, with a basic buttercream frosting.  I scooped out two tiny bits of frosting to color for the eyes and mouth, and colored the rest as bright of a yellow as I could manage.

Pro-tip: lightly draw on the outline of the shapes you're going for before piping on the icing.  It definitely helps minimize error (unless you have a newly-seven-year-old helping you, in which case Godspeed).

For the poop emoji cupcakes, I used my go-to chocolate cake recipe that’s on the back of the Hershey's Cocoa canister.  It’s my absolute favorite, as it’s super easy and always tastes moist and delicious.  I also used this chocolate buttercream frosting, and K stuck on some edible eyeballs.  To quote my mother-in-law, “I thought they were really cute until I realized what they were.”)

In addition, I took her to Party City and let her pick out her own balloons, so I’ll just be waiting over here for my Stepmom of the Year award.

Ultimately, if you can’t be spoiled on your birthday, when can you be?

Winter Survival Mode: Activated

It's winter (obviously).

In my (not at all) humble opinion, the best thing to do in the winter is stay home.  There's so much to do there!  There are books to be read.  There is food to be eaten.  There are television shows to be binged (we're currently re-watching Doctor Who).  There are projects to be knit (or crocheted, or cross-stitched).  There's a husband to snuggle.  And there's a lot of cleaning and organizing to do, when I can find the time and energy between all that reading and eating and snuggling.

Winter is not exactly my favorite time of year.  I prefer warm springs and mild summers, when I can wear cute little sundresses and short skirts and heels as often as I want and not, well, freeze.  I prefer when it doesn't look like midnight at five o'clock.

But, I live in the Midwest with no intentions of leaving, so I get to continue to experience the full breadth of all four seasons, including this incredibly cold winter.

My survival tactics have changed a bit over the years.  Winter Ashley used to look a lot different than she does now, and she was a lot less happy in the winters.  I didn't wear a lot of bright colors.  Instead. I wore a lot of leggings, T-shirts, and cardigans, which is a pretty far cry from my winter style these days.

The problem was that I've never been a huge fan of sweaters, since they tend to make me feel a bit stifled.  Really, I don't like bulky long-sleeved tops in general, which is unfortunately the Merriam-Webster definition for "sweater."

Now? There are remarkably more sweaters (since I've learned to be properly picky when shopping so that I will actually wear a sweater), more tights, more boots, more knee-high socks, and more layers.  There's a lot of colors.  And hats.

I love hats.

And while I proclaimed the virtues of staying home during the winter, I also recognize that isn't always feasible.  You might have a party to go to.  You might have to trek to the store for vital necessities (eggs, bread, and milk for French toast).  Your boss might unreasonably insist that he's not going to pay you to stay at home and knit. (How unfair!)  You might actually want to go outside in the cold and... enjoy yourself.

In that case, it's important to have the perfect winter coat (or two... or twenty).  If I have to cover up my outfit, it's going to be with a great - and preferably coordinating - coat.  I have a slight vintage coat addiction, so I have a wide variety to choose from, but the key things to remember are comfort, warmth, and, yes style.  Do you like how you look in your coat?  Great!  That's one step towards making winter less awful.

I need to dig out this coat.  It's my favorite.

Winter isn't exactly the worst thing in the world, I suppose.  It has it's magical moments, like the first snow.  And the first snowman.  It has my birthday.  It has Christmas and hot chocolate and comfort food and sneaking your cold feet under your husband's legs.  There's ice skating (especially if you're more graceful than me), and fireplaces, and layers upon layers of warm blankets to burrow under.

Winter weather also provides an introvert with endless excuses to stay inside and catch up on her reading.

Winter may be long, but it's not interminable.  Or unsurvivable.  You just have to know how.  And it's different for everyone.

For me, surviving winter is about continuing to dress like myself, continuing to wear color, and not letting myself stay inside too long.  It's about finding the little things that are still enjoyable, even in the bleak midwinter.  It's about not letting the cold and damp stop me from my regular lifestyle.

It's also about how much I'm looking forward to going home and watching Doctor Who.

#Obsessed

In my post earlier this week, I mentioned that I was making a few changes to the way I blog.  One change is that I'm going to be posting twice a week (generally Tuesdays and Fridays).  The second change is that I'm going to post on more specific and regular monthly topics.

My second post of the month is going to be an easy one: things I'm obsessed with.

First off, I'm obsessed with my new phone.  I've been clinging to my iPhone 5s for nearly 4 years because I didn't want to deal with the cost of a new smartphone.  That phone and I went through a lot together.  It was my first big "commitment" with Mark.  It went for a swim a couple of times.  I dropped it (a lot).  I even replaced the battery recently just to try to keep it workable.

The final straw came late last week when I discovered that the camera lens was cracked (probably from me dropping it). 

So, on Saturday, we ventured to Best Buy to see what I could replace it with.  I'd pretty much decided that I was done with iPhones, and was debating between a Pixel 2 and a Galaxy s8, based on a lot of trusted recommendations.  Honestly, my main qualifications were: nothing too big, plenty of storage space, a decent price, and (most importantly) a good camera.

As it happened, there was an amazing deal on the Pixel 2, so we both decided to take the plunge.

And?  I love it, even with the learning curve that comes from being a long-term Apple user.  It didn't come pre-loaded with a bunch of apps I have no interest in.  It's not overly complicated.  It's not too big.  Mainly, though, I love the camera.  It's something I used a lot, even on my crappy ancient iPhone.  So I wanted something really good, and honestly?  I'm not about to apologize for it.

I'm also obsessed with this cardigan (from Target), which makes me 150% extra when I wear it.

On a completely different note, I'm also obsessed with my new Erstwilder pins.  Mark's parents got them for me for Christmas and they are absolutely perfect.  Mark told them I'd like Spiffy the Sausage Dog (which I absolutely do), but his mom thought I'd like the whale as well, since she'd seen me "wear stuff with whales on it." (Wesley Whale is now sold out as well.)

My very first pin/brooch purchase (a little over a year ago) was from Erstwilder, and I continue to grab the occasional must-have brooch from their continuing releases.  They have some of the cutest high-quality resin brooches around, and I never fail to want at least three (or four... or five) when they announce a new collection.  They're always quirky and delightfully kitschy (in all the right ways).  Obviously, I'm a bit of an addict, and am fairly pleased with myself for having several sold-out or discontinued styles.

The final thing that I'm currently obsessed with is my absolute favorite pair of boots ever.

Ever.

I bought these on an impulse (and on sale) at Target last season.  I tried them on, looked at Mark, and doubtfully asked, "Do you think I'll actually wear these?"  They weren't quite my style, really.  They weren't heels.  They weren't "vintage."  They weren't that girly.  But, I liked them.  I just wasn't sure I liked them, and wasn't sure how well they would work with my outfits.

Spoiler alert: I wear them all the time.  They are ridiculously comfortable and surprisingly versatile.  I pair them with both pants and cute skirts, effectively lengthening skirt season well into this ridiculously cold winter.  I wore them all through the fall and winter last year and constantly bemoaned the fact that I didn't have them in black.  (Ask Mark how many times he heard me whine that I wished I had black boots.  It was a lot.)

Never fear, this story has a happy ending!  We'll fast forward to the beginning of this fall, when I was walking through Target and spotted them: The Boots, in black.  I bought them instantly.  (And I'm wearing them today.  No regrets.)

New Year, New Blog: or, I'm Not Dead Yet!

So.... I bet you thought this blog was dead, didn't you?

I totally fooled you, didn't I?

Didn't I?

Actually... you were partly right.  It was mostly dead.  In hibernation.  A respite, if you will.  Otherwise known as wedding season.  And Thanksgiving.  And Christmas.  And...

I haven't just been working, but it would take several blogs worth to catch up on everything that's gone on since July.  Assuming I've just been working is easier.  Because if it wasn't work that I got actually paid for, it's been work on my own personal projects, on maintaining friendships across state lines, and (more recently) on our house and on myself.

It's also just been a hell of a year.  In a good way.  In 2017 I...

• Turned 32.
• Moved.
• Bought a house.
• Had an amazing bachelorette party.
• Got married to the love of my life.
• Officially became a stepmom.
• Went on a mini-honeymoon to House on the Rock/Wisconsin Dells.
• Read 55 books (my yearly goal is 50).
• Won judges choice in a poetry contest.
• Made a lot of fun projects.
• Watched the solar eclipse.
• Went to Chicago for my friend's baby shower.
• Dressed up for Halloween every single day of October.
• Went to three Christmases in one day.
• Got a brand new fancy smartphone.
• Stayed home on NYE and did absolutely nothing.

It was a truly wonderful year, one of my best yet in spite of the obvious stresses of so many major life changes in such a short time frame (especially since I basically planned our wedding in about a month!).

But now it's 2018.  I have absolutely no idea what is in store, but I hope to actually blog about it this time.

So, in case you'd forgotten, my name is Ashley and I (occasionally) write this blog.  I love clothes, pins, books, food, dogs, being an introvert, and lots and lots of nerdy things.

Over the next few weeks, I'm hoping to change the way I blog here, including more frequent blogs on a wider variety of topics than my week-to-week life.

In the meantime, you can always follow me on Instagram (username redhead_vintage_girl), where I share my almost-daily outfit post, along with photos of my crafts, food, and life in general.

It's 2018, guys.  It's a whole new year, with countless possibilities and adventures.  I'm looking forward to settling more and more into a daily routine, into our home, and into my still-newfound happiness.

What are you looking forward to?

Jeepers Creepers, or How to Compliment a Woman in 5 Easy Steps

In my not-so-meteoric rise to Instagram "fame," I've started getting more and more direct messages from complete strangers (emphasis on the strange), which are, quite possibly, the bane of my Instagram existence.  If it weren't for my desire to be a public part of the vintage/pin community on Instagram, I'd probably shut my account down to a very, very private setting (like my Facebook is).

Because, come on.  Just because I post a lot of selfies does not mean that I'm looking for attention.

Shocking, I know.

It also does not mean I'm interested in sexting.  Or hooking up.

And yet.  A guy literally sent me a picture of two people having sex.

Another guy trolled through months and months of my photos, then sent me several messages in a row until I responded thusly:

Note: these are NOT men that I know in any way, shape, or form.

I also continue to get... vaguely inappropriate attention from the lower end of the male population.  Men who, I'm sure, think that they're being incredibly complimentary and yet have absolutely no idea how to compliment a woman (at least not in a way that doesn't make her skin crawl).  Men who don't know when to stop talking.  Men who don't know how to make eye contact.

Does this behavior sound familiar?  If so, I'm here for you.

It is, surprisingly, not that hard to compliment a woman.  Women manage to do it all the time.  We gush over hair and necklaces and dresses (particularly dresses with pockets).  We praise eyelashes and eyeliner.  We high five over hilarious jokes and accomplishments.  We rave about each other's talents.

All those things?  Hugely complimentary.

And I get it.  It's way easier for women to compliment other women.  There's some weird non-existent boundary that possibly comes from having tons of sleepovers and sharing clothes and makeup and secrets.  So we can tell another woman that she's sexy af without it being weird.

Sarah's Scribbles only speaks the truth, obviously.

And I get that it's not fair for you men.  But that's just the way it is.

That doesn't mean you should never compliment a woman.  But, by the unfair nature of the game, there are many, many things you should not do (and a few things you should).

(Please note: this is not a guide to how to get a girl to go out with you.  I just Googled "how to compliment a girl" for the hell of it and the results were... really, really horrifying.  So, I'm going to state this again: if you are reading this to find out how to get into a woman's pants?  You've come to the wrong place.  Or the right one, actually.  This is a guide on how not to be a creeper, after all, and you sound like you might just fit the qualifications.)

How To Compliment A Woman (in 5 Easy Steps)

1.  Don't. Tell. Her. To. Smile.  End of story.  Don't do it.  No exceptions.  No excuses.  (Okay, there's a few exceptions, like if you're doing her makeup or taking professional photos.  But that's it.  Really.)  Women do not need to smile for you.  Resting Bitch Face is real.

2.  If you don't have something nice to say, don't say nothing at all.  Let's face it, men.  Usually, you don't need to say anything.  You don't need to catcall, or whistle, or anything.  Because that woman walking by?  She's busy.  She's leading her own life.  She's grocery shopping, or spending time with her family, or listening to a Star Wars audiobook.  She's not looking for your phone number, or for casual sex in the parking lot of a Walmart.  She's not waiting for the love of her life to wolf whistle her from a passing car.  I hate to break this to you, but it's the truth.

3.  Learn to take a hint.  If she doesn't seem interested, she's probably not interested.  And that's okay.  Let her read her book in the bar.  Don't pester a random stranger on Instagram for a response.  Is she walking away quickly?  Don't follow.  Did she refuse your offer of a drink?  Stop offering.  Did she not dance with you at a wedding because she's actually working at said wedding?  Try asking someone else to dance.  I'm sure there's someone else out there somewhere who is actually interested.

4.  Be genuine.  Basically, don't try so hard, guys.  Don't think you need to go for the gold in the Compliment Olympics.  You don't.  Sure, that perfectly crafted, clever-yet-not-cheesy pickup line can get a girl's attention, maybe garner a laugh, maybe even lead to a long and happy marriage, but the best compliments I've ever received from friends and strangers alike are the ones that are genuine and in-the-moment.  Sincerity wins the day, folks.  Sincerity also generally will keep you from lame lines like, "have you ever fallen in love with someone just by looking at their pictures?"  Sincerity might also (hopefully) keep you from telling a woman how how great her tits look in the dress she's wearing.  (Pro tip: just compliment the dress.  We'll know what you mean.)  Do you like the way she snorts when she laughs really hard?  Tell her.  Do you admire her excellent taste in whiskey?  Tell her.  Do you think it's awesome that she's reading a book by your favorite author?  Tell her.  Because you know what? Compliments are not restricted to sex appeal.  And you can compliment someone without an ulterior motive.  Because compliments (genuine, uncreepy, appropriate compliments) are awesome.

5.  Finally, guys, be a gentleman.  Basically, this is an excellent rule for any encounter with a stranger.  If you wouldn't want your mom knowing what you said/did/sent to someone you don't even know, then maybe, just maybe, reconsider it.  Dick pics?  Do I need to say it?  As a rule of thumb, we probably don't want those springing up (pun so totally intended) on our phones if we're not actively in a relationship with you.  I'm glad you're so proud of it, but a picture of your genitals is not exactly the way to my heart (or any other part of my body you might be interested in).  Dick pics do not equal a compliment.  I'm sorry.  You don't always have to be a gentleman, but it's a very good place to start.

In conclusion, I leave you with adult Wednesday Addams' video about catcallers, because, really, she says it all.

Build Me Up Buttercup

Hey, you.

Yes, you.

I need to tell you something, and I need you to listen.  More than that, I need you to believe me.

We might be close.  We might not be.  But it doesn't change what I have to say, which is this: You are worthwhile.  You are amazing.  You are awesome.  You deserve the world and everything in it.  You deserve happiness and love and support and true friendships and true partnerships.  Not for anything you've said or done, but because you're you.  You're a person.  You have your own incredible, unique thoughts and emotions and feelings and desires and talents.  You're unlike anyone else on this earth, and you can't even begin to appreciate how remarkable that is.

What you don't deserve is someone, anyone, who makes you feel less than that.

This is a subject close to my heart, as I wasted years of my life with a man (and I use that term loosely) who made me feel less than.  Less than what, you ask?  Less that good enough.  Less than respected.  Less than attractive.  Less than loved.  Less than amazing.  Just... less.  There were terms and limits on when I deserved to be treated well (usually reserved to when he wanted something from me), and usually I didn't measure up.  My needs and desires were less than his, and always would be.

But, every now and then he would throw me a bone to keep me trailing along behind him.  He would take me out for a nice dinner.  He would buy me something.  He would allow me to perform at a pole show.  It wasn't much, but it was enough at the time.  It shouldn't have been, but it was.

Why? Because I didn't think there was better out there.  Because I had barely dated anyone else.  Because I didn't think it was that bad.  Because I felt guilty for wanting to leave.

I didn't know what I deserved.  I didn't have the self-esteem to know what I deserved.  I didn't have people telling me what I deserved, because they didn't know I what needed to hear until it was almost too late.

If this is the case for you, then I have one thing to say to you: fuck that shit.  You deserve so much more.  You deserve more than you think you do.

You deserve rainbows and unicorns and pizza and the fluffiest puppy/kitten of your preference.  You deserve someone who thinks they're lucky as hell to have you in their life, and tells you so.  It doesn't matter if that person is a friend, a family member, or a romantic partner.  And it doesn't matter if sometimes you fight over stupid shit, or get on each other's nerves, or disagree about politics or religion or what the hell to have for dinner.  What matters is that they are there for you, and want to be there for you.  What matters is how they treat you, because actions 100% always speak louder than words.

We live in an era of burgeoning girl power.  We have Wonder Woman.  We have Ruth Bader Ginsberg.  We have strong, capable women literally all around us.  We are strong, capable women.  And yet, we find ourselves in situations where we continually compromise our awesomeness for someone who sees no problem with that compromise being made.  We stay with men (or women) who are small, selfish people, who pull us down so that they feel better about themselves, who keep us safe and controlled behind the walls of what we can or can't do.  And we have not grown up with the self-esteem required to know when enough is enough.  Or we've somehow lost that self-esteem along the way.

I was lucky.  I found my self-esteem through the world of pole dancing and through the friends that I made through the pole and burlesque world.  I found a relationship with a man who didn't treat me like a second-class citizen, like a servant, like less than.  But even if I hadn't have found that man, I would still be better off alone than with someone like my ex.

That's the important part.  You are awesome all on your own.  All by yourself.  You don't need someone else to make you awesome.  You don't need to be thinner to be awesome.  You don't need to be richer to be awesome.  You're awesome just by showing up in your own awesome, imperfect skin.  Bam.  Awesome.

Now, read that last paragraph again.  It's important.

We forget that.  I know I do.  It's easy to, even without someone else constantly dragging us down.  There's that little voice inside that whispers our mistakes, our doubts, our fears.  That voice tells us that it's all true: we are less than.  We aren't talented.  We aren't successful.  We aren't worth it.  We aren't awesome.

That voice is wrong.  Dead wrong.  But it can be loud.  And it is persistent as hell if we don't constantly work to keep it gagged, to drown it out with our own amazingness, with our own self-confidence, and with a chorus of friends who are there to shut that bastard down when we lose the ability to do so ourselves.

I promise this: if you come to me, for whatever reason, I will always tell you how awesome you are.  I will tell that voice inside you to shut the hell up, and I will tell you exactly what you deserve.  Because I've been there.  I've been lost and convinced I was less than. I don't want anyone else to get stuck in that same space.

I'm pretty awesome (even on the days I don't feel like it).

And so are you.

The Care and Feeding of an Introvert

I had a fairly epic meltdown yesterday.

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

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

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

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

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

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

I'm an introvert.

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

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

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

But I can't.

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

What is the proper care and feeing of an introvert?

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

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

What To Do With Your Introvert: A Manual

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

Powerful Places

I feel like I've been on the go constantly.  So much so that I was literally in the middle of blogging about being busy last week when I had to leave to go somewhere, and never even finished the blog!

We just got back on Sunday from our "honeymoon," which was really just a whirlwind weekend away to Wisconsin Dells and House on the Rock.  A "mini-moon," if you will.  (Which also either sounds like something entirely inappropriate, or a slightly momentous lunar event.)

I've wanted to take Mark there ever since I went with Jessica, Sandi, and Kim several years ago.  I thought it was the most magical place I'd ever been to, and still generally speak of it in a wistful, awed tone of voice.

Plus, we're watching American Gods (omg it's so good) right now, so it only seemed fitting to go (even if they didn't actually get to House on the Rock this season).  We also wanted to go somewhere we haven't been together, and somewhere we didn't know anyone.  Wisconsin fit the bill pretty well.

The thing about us is that was really suck at vacations.

We do.  We actually kindof dread going.  We're overbooked introverts, after all.  We pounce on things like "free time" and "staying home."  So the idea of taking that precious free time, getting in a car, and paying to stay somewhere that's not home?  It's not the most appealing, to be honest.

But, we pry ourselves away from our couch and our comfort zone anyway.  Because, well, adventure is out there, right?

In American Gods, Thursday explains to Shadow that tourist traps are "places of power."  They draw people in, without reason or explanation.  And that's exactly what House on the Rock is.  It's unexplainable, indefinable. My mom has asked me for years what House on the Rock is, and I still don't have a good answer for her. 

It's somewhere between a waking dream and a nightmare.  It's a hallucination.  It's a curated obsession.  It makes absolutely no sense whatsoever. 

And, best of all, it doesn't try to.  There's nothing else in the world like it.  And that's why people go.  That's why we went.  It's why I've been twice, and why I would go again.

It was, in spite of our general trepidation about vacations, a very good trip.  We stayed in a kitschy motel in the Wisconsin Dells complete with a hot tub (and a shower that was probably from the 70s).  We ate at touristy places and did touristy things like take pictures and buy cheese and souvenirs and take an "old-timey" photo.

We spent the whole weekend alone together (which was a huge step up from my first honeymoon that we basically spent with friends) and did exactly as we pleased.

And we returned exhausted and with plans to go back in the future, Kaylee in tow.

Maybe vacations aren't so bad, particularly if you're with the right person.

Just don't expect us to go on another one anytime soon.

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.

No Way Out

It's our two-month anniversary today, or, as Mark says, "Day 61 of the hostage situation."

People have asked me how married life is, and, really?

Honestly?

It's great.

I mean, come on.  I've got a mostly-willing hostage!  What could be wrong with that?

But, in all honesty, I love being married to my best friend.  I love it even on the days where everything feels off, or we have fights, or I cry, or everything goes wrong.  Married life is still, overall, really really great.  But our relationship and our life together was already great before we were married, so that helps.

Little known, shocking fact: marriage doesn't fix a relationship.  I should know.  It didn't fix my first relationship.

And, another shocking fact?  Marriage is work.  Really fucking hard work.  It's not all breakfasts in bed and making out in the kitchen and dinner on the table when you get home from work.

And it's even not the same as dating, even if you were already mostly living together.

Marriage requires daily maintenance.  It requires talking (which I'm not always very good at), and trust, and more vulnerability than you knew was possible.  It means someone is almost always there, for the bad days when you hate the world and everything in it, along with the good days.  You have to consider them, and you want to consider them (even when they tell you not to).

Marriage means you're going to get your feelings hurt, and you're going to find out that you unknowingly hurt theirs.

It means there is someone to willingly do the dishes for you, and someone you willingly rotate laundry for.

For me, it means waking up to coffee.  It means a partner-in-crime.  It means playing just one more game of Minion Trouble (or Chutes and Ladders, or Sorry) with Kaylee so that he can have a few minutes of down time.  It means he gives Kaylee a bath so that I can have a few minutes of down time.  It means someone who knows me better than anyone else possibly could.

It means planning a last-minute birthday party for Kaylee, joint-cleaning the whole house, and cooking dinner for 9 people.

It means eating Fazoli's and Imos on a fairly regular basis, even though I hate both.

It means we go see the new Pirates of the Caribbean movie, because I have an endless love for Johnny Depp.

So.

Two months into our marriage. (Plus fourteen years total of knowing each other.)  At this point of my first marriage, I'm pretty sure I already knew it was not going to be a good one.  He'd already "stopped trying" (key words for failure if there ever were any).  We were both depressed.  I couldn't see a way out, even though I desperately wanted to find one.

I don't want a way out this time.  I want a way to make it last forever.

And I'm doing my best to make sure that it does.

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.