"Bitch, bitch, bitch." -My grandfather, in response to whining.

Jesus H. Tap-Dancing Christ.

I'll let that image sink in for a minute.

Everything has to just explode all at once, doesn't it? I've been stressed about money (despite being a card-carrying member of that club for quite a while), and stressed about, well, everything else. And then it all collapsed.

I realized I was close to an emotional meltdown on Saturday, and immediately called a dear friend and invited myself over for the weekend. She was all about it, so Lucy and I loaded up the car and made the 2+ hour drive away from Atlanta. I was welcomed with bourbon, open arms, and the most comfortable guest room ever. I spent Sunday just lazing about, being fed amazing food, and generally enjoying myself. Then Monday came.

Okay, side note. The boyfriend and I have had a rough time of it for the past month or so. There was some petty, bullshit arguing that finally crescendoed into us taking a week of "space" (it was made very clear that this wasn't a break, it was "space"... I'm assuming he made that point because his roommate watches Friends all the time, and his mind was all, "Don't let this turn into Ross and Rachel's 'WE WERE ON A BREAK,' fiasco."). After the week of time to think (which, honestly, only seemed to really happen on my end) we started spending some time together again. But it seems he just couldn't pull himself out of the mental fog he was experiencing. He's currently preparing for three upcoming art shows, he's trying to buy a house (that was going to be for us and our dogs, but that flatlined faster than Sean Bean in, well, anything movie/television show he's ever been in), he's dealing with the end of the quarter at the school where he teaches, and he's just generally exhausted and couldn't hold it together.

So he came down Monday (another side note: that dear friend of mine that had me over for the weekend also happens to be his mum. Most people feel that makes things complicated and weird, but she and I have our own weird relationship, and we'll be close no matter what's going on between me and her son). And, well, we hung out for a while, and finally sat down in the living room to talk. He expressed that his mind just wasn't in the relationship anymore. I expressed that I loved the man that he was before all of this nonsense, but that he's been so fucking frustrating and distant lately and it was making me miserable. I had solutions to this problem, but he only had emotions about it ( ... I thought it was supposed to be the other way around, in terms of genders, but c'est la vie). And that was it. I said goodbye to the family, his mum told me that Lucy and I could come down anytime I needed to get away from the city, and I went home.

I have mixed feelings about the whole thing, but I suppose that happens. We were both pretty miserable. His misery was internal, and he couldn't talk to me or open up to me, or anything. My misery was based on his general unhappiness, so maybe this is a good thing for me. I still love him to death, but I'm not going to sit around and mourn this. Who knows, maybe one day we'll be in a place that will allow things to work out. And if not, at least we had fun while it lasted.

So I settled in, Lucy in tow, for the long drive home. I was so stoked to see that there were a few new podcasts for me to listen to, just so I could be entertained while driving home instead of just crying my eyes out and yelling the lyrics to old songs of heartbreak on the Queen/Heart Pandora station. I was almost to my exit, two hours later, when there was an odd thump and my car made the flat tire sound. I know that sound well, too, but that's another story for another day.

I pulled over, half a mile from my exit, and put the hazards on. Lucy was leaning her Great Dane neck as far out the window as she was able, as if she was begging the cars that blew past, only a foot from her face, for a ride home. Because clearly her mother was incapable of making it home without A BAJILLION unnecessary stops to check for flat tires... or just one, but still.

I felt around all four tires, and couldn't feel any nails or anything. So we sat there for five minutes, and I then checked to see if all the tires were holding air. They were. Because it was so late, and I was so tired, and we were SO close to home, I threw my hands in the air and said, "Fuck it."

So we drove the 8ish miles home, slowly, with the tires making their weird sounds. At the house, the tires were still all holding air, so I got Lucy inside, put on my favorite PJs, grabbed the bourbon and my favorite ice cream from the freezer, and fell asleep watching shitty movies on my computer.

This morning I went out to the car, and all the tires are still holding air. But one of them, the ONLY ONE that isn't either bald or patched, by the way, happens to have all the rubber pulled back, away from the weird metal tire mesh. Sonofabitch.

So I put on the donut, in the most irritated fashion anyone could possibly ever change a tire. And then I got to work, and sent out an email to my folks, with my latest life-highlights. Or lowlights. Or whatever.

Daddy and Bec (who is lovingly referred to as the step-monster... seriously, I think she's signed my birthday cards with that title) quickly decided to be awesome, and help me out. Bec tracked down the tires I needed, and made an appointment for me (at 7am, which makes it only slightly less awesome, but I do have to get to work after the fact so I suppose it's still just as awesome, just with a side of, "shit, I have to get up when?!"), so I can take my car in in the morning. Daddy is going to meet me at the tire place, and they're actually buying me new tires. I think it's some kind of a, "wow, your life has really been shit lately, let us make it less crappy by being great parents" thing. Regardless, I'm grateful as hell. I feel like I've been drowning over the past month, and maybe now that things are changing, they'll change for the better.

When discussing getting breakfast tomorrow, my dad went on to say, "I should be there around 7:30 and I'll treat you to a donut, or we could do business with the Jesus freak fag haters at Chik-fil-a." I have to say, I laughed. It's okay to buy food from homophobic zealots as long as people know you're only there for the chicken.

So love to all. I hope you're doing well. And if not, I hope you have people around you that can help.
-L

P.S. In looking for a photo of my favorite ice cream, I found THIS. I felt it was appropriate.

  

Happy what day? TL;DR

TWO sentimental posts, back to back?! I must be going through a fucking difficult time. Or PMSing. It's hard to tell, what with the vagina and all.

I fucking hate mothers' day.

I was raised by a single father, for the most part. I do have an amazing step-mum, that I still (at 25 years old) have a somewhat difficult time getting along with. I also have an incredible grandmother, who spent so very much time and energy (along with Gramps) trying to raise me in a healthy manner.

But as for a mother, mine has always been wildly frustrating and horribly disappointing.

She tends to wear a pink veil of cheerful judgement. As a kid, I would be promised weekend visits, only to find myself waiting on the stairs by the front door, my Care Bears suitcase packed, for far too long. Time spent with her made me either feel like I was "in the know', and super important and special, or feel like a failure, or a monster, or an idiotic child. Either one, consistently, would have been preferable to feeling an odd, heartbreaking combination of both.

There were good times, on occasion. Don't get me wrong. I recall staying up late, watching her work out in full leotard to Richard Simmons' Sweatin' to the Oldies. I would try to to follow along, and we would end up tripping over one another, laughing our asses off.

She married one man, after my incredible, amazing father, and they lived in a shitty apartment outside of Atlanta. When I would visit her (as well as my brother, Kyle, and sister, Allie... both of whom she had with that particular husband) she and her husband would occasionally have work. They would leave us with a darling gay couple that lived across the hall. They would put on a VHS of Bebe's Kids, and chit chat about their lives to me, while Kyle and Allie wandered their apartment. They gave me a little, stainless steel sculpture of two stick figures sitting on a bench. It was weighted, so when you pushed it on the frame the stick figures would rock back and forth. They told me that one day it would be me and my beau, and I should look at it and always remember that that person was out there, waiting for me. I was maybe 7, and I still recall them saying those words to me anytime I look at it.

She married one man (one of several, I mean) who lived in a neighborhood that backed up to a HUGE horse farm. The horses had acres and acres and ACRES of land. The step-brother (though I don't think he was a legit step-brother... it always seemed complicated, and I never asked about it) and I would sneak through the hole in the fence, skirt around the pond/lake thing, and wander into the pasture to play with the horses. The horses would break out of the pasture, sometimes, and I remember waking up and looking out the window into the front yard to see beautiful beasts grazing there. Once, my sister Michelle and I went wandering in that field and got lost. We spent hours and hours to find our way home, and everyone was furious that we had been gone for so long.

Michelle and I got to know one another in that horrific household. She was the girl my mother had at 16, gave up for adoption, and then tracked down. Michelle was maybe 17 while living with our mother, and I was 11ish. I remember meeting Michelle, too. I was in the truck with my mother, who had just picked me up from Daddy's. She said, "You know how you always wanted an older brother or sister? Well, you have one. Her name is Michelle. We're going to see her right now." I was terrified. At her house, I recall there being those ridiculous goldfish with huge, wonky eyes, that seem to swim upside down. While our mother was chatting with Michelle's adoptive parents (who were really her father's parents) I went upstairs to her room. She made me feel comfortable, and gave me a stuffed leopard that roared when you pushed its chest. I still have that damn thing, too. It sits on my bed, along with other sentimental stuffedies that I've collected over the years.

I remember my mother moving in with another of her husbands. He had two boys, barely younger than me, and she had custody of Kyle and Allie. The four "children" would be kicked out of the house in the summer, and I would be left inside because I was the oldest. At night, she and I would stay up late, watching the lineup of Seinfeld, Friends, News Radio, and I love Lucy. Kyle or Al or both would eventually wander in, and all of us would lay around on the shitty fold out couch I had to sleep on, watching those classic sitcoms. During the days that the kids were allowed inside, we would have Super Mario tournaments. And when I, as the eldest, would be bored with that, I would walk across the street to Uncle Felton's house. In his backyard was a HUGE rock, and also the sweetest brindle boxer mix in the world. His name was Turner. He was chained to a giant tree 24/7, and I felt bad for him. So I would go sit on that giant rock, and just talk at him, and pet him, and love him. He eventually was killed during a thunderstorm, when lightning hit the tree he was chained to. I suppose there are worse ways for a chained dog to die, but I still mourn for poor, sweet Turner sometimes.

Being raised with two parents that are complete, polar opposites was really difficult for me. It was probably even more difficult for Daddy, and my step-mum Bec, and Grandpa and Gram (my dad's parents). They had to deal with me feeling unwanted by one of the two people on the planet that are supposed to want me no matter what. They had to deal with me hating them because they "weren't my mother", and then growing to love them because they weren't my mother. They had to deal with the emotional backlash caused from all of the abuse, and torment, and bullshit I experienced because of her and her horrible taste in men and her inability to think about things beyond the men she was fucking. I'm sorry, I mean "men she was buying drugs from"... no... "men she was living off of"... Hm. Well, anyway....

Despite what seems like a total pity party, I do have something positive to say. I want to thank the women in my life that have shown me that women don't have to be evil, vindictive, selfish bitches. For the record, there have been far too many women I have encountered that have tried to prove that all women are so horrific. But my step-mum, Bec; and my grandmother, Lorraine; and my Auntie, Beverly; and my boyfriend's DARLING mum, Caryn; and my best friend and sister, Ida; have all shown me that women can be gracious, and can be kind, and can be mothers without losing their sense of self.

I love you, ladies. Thank you for giving me everything in the world that I needed. And happy mothers' day.

<3

P.S. I also want to say happy mothers' day to Daddy. You played the role of two parents for far longer than any man should be asked to. I'm grateful for it. You raised a good kid (at least, I like to think so), and provided me with a stellar moral compass... you. Thank you. I love you.

-L

Brainsssss....

No, I have not become a zombie. But my mind has been working on overdrive for the past week or so, so were I to ever encounter a zombie, I'm fairly certain that it would tell me I had the tastiest, most well-exercised brain ever. Or it would say something like, "Uuunnngggggnnnn."

**Okay, that's the only amusing thing I'm going to say in this post. So, you know, if that's why you're reading then you ought to stop while you're ahead. <3 **

I've been doing some serious looking inward over the past several days. My attitude needed an overhaul, and I really needed to find a way to jolt myself out of the depression and insecurity I've been sinking under.

I tend to be the kind of person that, if confronted with a bad situation, will turn off my emotions, handle whatever it is that needs handling, and then deal with how I felt about it after the fact. Thing is, when there are a thousand things going on around me that all need immediate attention or action, I get overwhelmed and retreat. Then I get depressed and feel like a failure for not being able to do what needs to be done. And then I get more upset, and it turns into this horrific downward spiral. Eventually something gives, and I pause, look around me, and see that there aren't as many things to handle as I originally thought. I then pull myself up by those cliche bootstraps (despite the fact that I wouldn't recognize a bootstrap if it bit me in the ass). And then, slowly but surely, I get my shit together.

This happens to me maybe once a year. But it's exhausting. This year, though, is the first time I've had a significant other around that has had to deal with the process. I was forced to see what was happening through someone else's eyes. Let me tell you, it looks almost as shitty from the outside as it does from the inside. So I've spent some time trying to figure out how to overcome this retarded nonsense. I'm stronger than this crap, and I know that. The hard part is forcing myself to remember it in the midst of the chaos. And the self-doubt. And the frustration. It's basically like a whirly-dervish pity party.

I've been taking stock of my life, doing some problem solving, and trying to set little goals for the upcoming few months. I'm doing things for me, instead of avoiding things because of anxiety about other people. I'm doing a lot of reading on how to be a generally positive person. I'm telling my anxiety and racing mind to calm the fuck down and stop driving me crazy. And I'm starting to finally feel better. I don't ever want to be that scared, withdrawn, sad, mean, confused person again. Fortunately for me, I have the ability to be anything I want.

Well, except a zombie. Not that I want to be a zombie at the moment, or anything. But if I did, I wouldn't really be able to make that happen. I'd have to wait for the zombie apocalypse for that one. But I'm sure, eventually, even that will make the list of Things I Can Be if I Want (if One of Those Things was a Zombie).

P.S. I felt really dumb about not knowing what a bootstrap looks like. I mean, come on, there are so many different kinds of boot, and a lot of them have something strap-like on them, somewhere. Anyway, I asked The Great and Powerful Internet to please share with me what a bonafide bootstrap might look like. And, as per usual, The Great and Powerful Internet shared with me its wisdom. BOOTSTRAP.

Real (pain in the ass) Estate

For the past few months, the boyfriend and I have been looking at houses. His lease is up in August, and he doesn't want to rent anymore. Me moving into whatever house is picked will happen eventually, so I've been very active in this search. Plus, he's not a big fan of paperwork, or talking on the phone (both of which happen a lot when trying to buy a house). So I've basically been the point man for the whole thing.

It's been extremely irritating. We found a house that we both adored (which is a rare thing, since I'd much rather get a run down "fixer-upper" in the city, and he'd prefer something a bit nicer, out in the suburbs.... I shudder to think....), and we went back and forth with the bank that owned it until agreeing upon a price and closing costs and all that. Then we dropped $300 on an inspection. An old colleague of mine does home inspections around Atlanta, so he came in and did a stellar job. But, unfortunately, we found some issues. There was leakage around the fireplace. There were drainage issues. The previous owner (who did all the renovations himself) had basically poured concrete around the entire house, so it was impossible to see what kind of shape the foundation was in. The gas stove was leaking a bit. Blah blah blah.

And then the bank backed out. They didn't want to make any of the repairs needed, and they walked away like douchebags, after jerking us around for about a month.

So we went back to the drawing board, and started looking all over again. And looking. And looking. Every time we come across something even remotely promising, it's either in a shit area, or it turns out it needs far more work than we could deal with, or it ends up going under contract as our agent is writing up an offer.

What the hell, Atlanta? Where are all the fabulous, cheap houses that are close enough to midtown to keep me from feeling disconnected? Where are all the great "fixer-uppers" in EAV? Where are all the damn properties?

Talk about trying your patience. 

A day in the life

And now, an exact account of what I experience when the guy that lives in the other apartment in my duplex comes home.

Neighbor, yelling to his morbidly obese bulldog: "CHARLIE!!! Oh, CharlieCharlieCharlieCharlieCHARLIE!"

Charlie: Says nothing, because she's a fucking DOG.

Neighbor (to the tune of When the Saints go Marching in) "She shakes her butt!!! She shakes her butt!! She shakes her butt, because she's CHAR-REL-LEEEE!!!! SHE SHAKES HER BUTT!!!! SHE SHAKES HER BUTT!!!!" [The song continues for at least another chorus, at full volume.]

Charlie: Still says nothing, because she is STILL a dog.

And then he takes his poor, lumbering dog out into the FRONT yard, where she almost always takes a giant dog crap. And he leaves that huge dog poop in the front yard, because it's oh so lovely to smell baking dog shit when walking up to my front door every day. Oh, and also because the almost ACRE of backyard is far too small for such a fat bulldog. Clearly. Good thing my 120 lbs GREAT DANE is so svelte, or she'd have to shit in the front yard, too. And there's only so much space in the shared front yard for dog poops.

He then goes inside and turns on Folk/Stoner hits of the 70s and 80s. His stereo must go to 11, because you can hear it throughout the entire house (which includes the half that my apartment is situated in). 

Between poorly written, rambling songs, I catch the sound of him yelling his dog's name over and over. Sometimes, when I walk by the bathroom (I feel the walls have to be exceptionally thin between the bathrooms, for some reason) I can hear him half yelling, and half singing off key to whatever retarded song is on.

Let me just go on to say that I don't find it odd that he talks to his dog. I talk to my dog, too. I'll tell Lucy hi when I get home, or call her dumb when she refuses to come inside and I'm forced to find shoes and wander into the huge backyard and make threatening gestures at her. But I don't go around chanting her name like she just threw the game-winning touchdown during overtime against the Oakland Raiders (yes, I'm a Broncos fan, suck it). 

I guess I should be glad that that's really all I have to deal with. I could live in an apartment building, and be completely surrounded by loud, obnoxious neighbors and their smelly dog poop. And despite the loud, inconsiderate neighbor and his poor taste in music, or the hippies that smoke pot and have drum circles that last way later than I would like because I have to get up for work in the morning, and the chickens that live next door and seem to hold chicken council meetings at 6am on Sunday mornings, it could always be worse. 

Cheers to bad neighbors, and a lack of neighbors that are even worse than the ones you already have. 

<3

-L

Well, fancy seeing you here.

I've been not writing as of late, and it's come to my attention that it isn't a good thing. Even if I'm worried that my blathering on about nonsensical, everyday life is dull to readers/followers/whatever, it's still somewhat therapeutic for me to do it anyway. Plus, getting over the fact that I'm the only one entertained by my ramblings helps me to be less insecure and self-conscious, so there's that, too.

Everything has changed, but it seems it's for the better. I only have a year of school left for my BA, and then a bajillion years until I have my PhD, so so I figured the smart thing to do would be to stop taking classes altogether and just work. Actually, that wasn't my first choice. But the whole "winning the lottery so I can stay in school and not be forced to get a full-time job" thing didn't really pan out. However, I really enjoy my new-ish job, and I love the people I'm surrounded by every day, so I suppose I'll have to find a way to finish school during non-school hours once I'm ready to move forward in that process.

Speaking of the new job, it's stellar. I get to do graphic design that's far too advanced for me (and pull that shit off, if I may say so myself), I get to wear yoga pants and tank tops if I so desire, I don't have to get there until 10ish every morning, and I'm surrounded by liberal, creative, like-minded people 95% of the time. I can see myself becoming an integral part of this business in the next year, and just never leaving (well, by "never leaving" I mean "staying for at least another 10+ years, until starting my own practice").

Other than that, life has been fairly steady. The boyfriend is great. Wait, have I mentioned the boyfriend? Has it been so long since I've written anything that no one knows of The Boyfriend? Well, we met and started dating in August. We had an instant spark, we're totally in love, blah blah fairy tale ramblings blah. Of course, the relationship has its occasional rocky moments, but those just tell me that it's a real relationship. People that are out to use you or take advantage of you rarely allow for disagreements. So, you know, mild occasional bickering is a good thing. It proves that you aren't being courted by a scam artist that has mistaken you for the daughter of a business mogul or heiress to a laundromat fortune, or something.

Anyway, that's where things are now. And things are good.

P.S. I'm taking bets on how long I manage to keep this thing updated regularly.

Drunk Lindsey. Ready..... GO.

Here's a video of me talking about why Halloween is the ultimate supreme holiday. I also talk a bit of trash about the other holidays, but, you know, until they try being as badass as Halloween they'll get no drunken compliments from me.
Enjoy.
-L

Why isn't it called a platinum lining?

Insomnia can be a huge pain in the ass. Whether it's brought about because of overwhelming worries, or because of nightmares, or because of your obnoxious dogs barking at invisible, late-night pedestrian trolls, insomnia is widely viewed as an all-around bitch.

It's a funny thing, though. As irksome, as frustrating, and as terribly dull as late nights spent by your lonesome can be, I do (every so often) find my evenings spent awake to be somewhat refreshing. Clearly I don't mean refreshing in the "well-rested" sense, but more so in the "I've spent this forced consciousness being at least a little bit productive, which has to be far more productive than laying in bed drooling on myself and having occasional, nonsensical mumble-conversations with my own subconscious brain" refreshing. Which is pleasant, I suppose.

Now, don't be fooled. There are times in which you'd love nothing more than to use your insomnia to be the teensiest bit productive, but you're not quite able. For example, I have this insatiable desire to start working on a concept I recently came up with. I want to sketch with graphite and felt tips and charcoal and colors, and maybe even paint. I want to put these ideas onto paper. And, in a strange but positive turn of events, I'm here, awake and in my house, with not a shred of an obligation on my schedule.

And then... oh, how the gods must laugh maniacally... and then my fucking wrist decides to act like a douche. I occasionally have joint troubles, by the way. But the most ridiculous time for me to have issues with my right wrist is, of course, the exact time I have sudden inspiration to try my hand (har, har) at sketching again, and fleshing out a new concept, and creating motivated ART.

So I'm sitting here, staring at my miscellaneous art supplies as they taunt me, wearing a wrist brace that makes me feel retarded, and slowly tapping each key on my macbook, one at a time, using only my left index finger.

Insomnia fucking blows.

At least SOMEONE in this house is getting some sleep.

Few things are worse than a gummy eraser covered in hair

Actually, that's not true. A gummy eraser that's covered in hair and also has rogue bits of tobacco in it would be much worse. Is much worse. Believe me. I know.


- - - - - - - - - 


I've been thinking a lot about life, lately. Not really in the existential, "why do we exist in the universe" way, though. I never really had the time for all of that lofty nonsense. Nor the energy, or even the patience for it, honestly.

No, I've been thinking about life in terms of what it means to have it, what people choose to do with theirs, if anyone under the age of 50 is actually aware that it has an expiration date, and why I feel as though mine is pulling that bullshit where it seems to go so much faster, the less there is, like sand in a (... shit. What the fuck are those called? Sand clocks? Curvy desert watches? The things that tell you when everyone has to stop in Scattergories?).... I'm sure it'll come to me eventually....

But yes. Those are my current dilemmas surrounding the vague as hell concept of "life" (also, I can't possibly express how nice it is to type the word "hell" and not have to delete and then retype it at least three times before I'm able to keep it from becoming "he'll,").

You know, I spend so much time worrying about grades, or money, or the fact that I've been procrastinating on getting my car's alignment taken care of, that I-

HOURGLASS. It's hourglass. That's the word. That's what I was trying to come up with. Haha, fucking "sand clock".

.... As I was saying, I spend so much time stressed to the nines about pointless(ish) bullshit that I end up taking far too many things for granted. But my awareness of that doesn't change the fact that every time I get into my car, I pause to consider if I'm able to take her to the shop that day, decide that I'm far too busy and will do it tomorrow, and then have a brief but well-deserved guilt party because of it. Yes, I know that I have somewhere to live, am getting a college education, have amazing friends and family and a reliable car and a gas stove so I can make s'mores from my kitchen. My life is somewhat stellar, usually. So why is it that I can be both grateful and super stoked about all of those wonderful things, but still have mild moments of panic and frustration because an extra (and quite unexpected) bill or two showed up at my door and my bank account was quite precariously balanced already?

I mean, shit, there are so many people (it's tragic, there are so many people that I know personally) that are in crisis mode, or at least have their foot in the door of a meltdown. I feel for all of them, and am glad to help or offer support in any way that I'm able. Unfortunately, my unconditional offer of support for the people that are important to me won't keep me from worrying about Honda pulling a little to the left, or from feeling like a total dick immediately after my guilt party.
Love, love, love.
-L

"...board certified physician, addiction medicine specialist."

Side note (can you have a side note before actually saying anything?): I've been listening to a lot of old Loveline lately. It's so wonderfully nostalgic and entertaining.

Anyway...

Not to be all Jerry Seinfeld-esque or anything, but what's the deal with girls in their early 20s? I may only be 24 years old (Christ, 25 in January...), but I know how to be polite in social situations. Even if I'm forced to interact with someone that I have an immediate distaste for, I can smile, and converse, and exist without coming off like Ms. Trunchbull giving a toast at a wedding. 

My manners, while not horrible, are far from impeccable, too. That's why I just end up staring, mouth half-open, when I find myself privy to people behaving like the middle school morons that teased me once upon a time about wearing glasses, or having an odd sense of humor, or having love affairs with puppets as a child. 

I'll never understand why 75% of the females I meet that are in my age group try to treat me like shit. At least I can usually find some guys to stand around with during these quasi-forced situations. They make me so much more comfortable by just drinking heavily and occasionally mumbling in my general direction.

Bitches be trippin'.