Musings & Ramblings

For the love of boobs (and butts, and all the sexy bits)…

Turns out Tuesday was National Lingerie Day. Which I learned because a bra company wanted to sell me all the lacy things and my on-line shopping proclivities render me defenseless to the gods and goddesses of retail spam email.

Leaving the obvious absurdity of National Lingerie Day even being a thing (and my resulting disappointment in the humanity behind it), let’s discuss. Personally, I have a love-hate relationship with lingerie. Some argue it’s a frivolous waste of money in an ever-growing field of consumerism designed to simultaneously objectify women and take their money. I could launch into a sociological analysis on both sides of that argument, but who the fuck wants to read that? About such an important holiday no less! I argue that the right lingerie can make a woman feel powerful AF. It has nothing to do with anyone else seeing it, it’s all about the confidence feeling sexy instills. When a woman looks at herself in the mirror and thinks, “oh HELL yes” her whole day changes. She sits up straighter, walks with intention, and exudes a certain boldness.

This, of course, can translate into the bedroom (or kitchen, or laundry room, I don’t judge), but that’s a secondary bonus – one that I’ve found men to be completely clueless about (in my oh so vast experience). I’ve heard everything from “I don’t see the point to lingerie because it just comes off” (read: I’m never stepping foot in a Victoria’s Secret and I’m scared of complex underthings) to “if you wear a matching bra and panties on a date you expect to get laid” (um, no. See above, idiot). Men, the reality is, if lingerie makes your woman feel good about herself, it will end well for you. If she feels objectified or like she’s wasting her time/money on you, stop being a douchecanoe. Rant = over.

I love the invincible, sexy feeling that comes with great lingerie, but the hate side of my aforementioned love-hate relationship usually results in my donning pieces reminiscent of your grandmother’s girdle rather than Kate Upton’s panty drawer. My volatile love affair with pretty, lacy, frilly underthings comes not from a belief that The Man is trying to stick it to my wallet and my boobs, but from a much shallower place – the cute shit doesn’t come in my size.

HA! Cute, but NOPE!

I’m genetically blessed with big knockers and small ribs, not to mention the ample party ass to go with them. I know, all you card carrying Itty-Bitty-Titty-Committee members are forming a lynch mob as I type, but I’m telling you sisters, the grass isn’t always greener. That cute little bralette and thong set you picked up at Target on a whim for your weekend away? Yeah, no. If I want to bust out (pun totally intended) something sassy to surprise the lucky bastard that gets to see *this* in all of its glory I either have to A. research, plan, and order in advance to find the proper mix of “sex appeal” and “gravity defying science” or B. wear something I already have that’s a smidge (or 3) too small and stand perfectly still while hunching my left shoulder slightly to compensate for that boob being the “big sister”. Back spasms are sexy.

As I’ve gotten older (and admittedly earned more discretionary income – this shit is expensive), I’ve also learned that few things are more valuable than a proper bra fitting (yes ladies, you’re probably wearing the wrong size), investing in good pieces in that proper size, and knowing that if you exude confidence from the inside out, there’s nothing sexier. So ladies, go on with your bad selves and celebrate National Lingerie Day all year long by rocking whatever makes YOU feel strong. Leave the gilded wings to the genetic anomalies who get paid to walk the runway.

Entertaining side note: Of course, in addition to thinking “fuck lingerie”, I immediately googled “NLD” (as those of us in the know are referring to it) and as far as I can tell it’s existed since, get this, 2015. Which probably explains why it hasn’t made it on to mass-marketed calendars yet. My next logical move was to click on the Images option of the google search, momentarily forgetting that 1. I was at work and 2. The likelihood of NSFW images was pretty much a guarantee. So I waited until I got home to select a few special examples just for you. You’re welcome.  Also, at the risk of being accused of being a complete sexist, this is one of the best things I found on the interwebs while “researching” this post.  Confidence comes in all shapes, sizes, and genders.  You do you!

Where do I meet this man? Someone get me his number!

These look WAY more comfortable than most women’s underthings!

1. why? 2. are those spiders on her tits? 3. how do they stay put? So. Many. Questions.



Musings & Ramblings

Sometimes your tribe finds you

Today would be my 8th wedding anniversary had my divorce not become final in May after a long, amicable, yet emotional separation.  It was both sad and liberating to realize that I didn’t even remember until the Faceyspace reminded me.  I woke up to a text from my best friend asking how I was “holding up today” and wasn’t sure what she meant – particularly given that she’s the one going through some turmoil right now.  I responded generically with thinly veiled confusion (we share a brain, she can’t be fooled) then opened fb to a photographic reminder of that sunny SoCal afternoon and her meaning was clear.

(c) i heart as photography


I had a fleeting pang of sadness, but if I’m being completely honest, for once I didn’t feel a whole lot of anything at all.  Not specific emotions at least.  There are still several hours left in the day in which it could hit me upside the head, but I’m choosing instead to believe I’ve reached that point of repair where the glue has set and the cracks are sealed.  I can still have those moments of sadness or loneliness or regret, but mostly I happily accept it as a chapter meant to be lived and closed. There’s no denying it was lived well – with the massive host of spectacular (and not so) memories to go along with it.

What strikes me as most ironic about today however is my evening yoga date with my newly-married friend S.  Four or five years ago (who can remember?) she was one of a small circle of women who sat on the floor of our then-gym after a circus class (stay with me here, we can talk about circus later) and let me cry tears that desperately needed spill.  They let me lament the vast difference between my hopes and my reality without judgment or suggestion.  To my recollection, they didn’t try to drag my ex-husband down or cast him in a negative light because they instinctively knew that wasn’t what I needed in the moment. Instead, they lifted me – telling me I deserved understanding, appreciation, and gratitude – not just on my anniversary but every day.  They wanted to see me happy and had no intention of imposing their definitions of happy onto mine.

These were women I’d only known a short time – less time than I’d been married in fact – but they knew.  They knew that making me feel worthy and strong and loved in that situation would go the distance rather than defaming the person causing me pain in the moment.  Because the hurt and actions (or lack thereof in this case) would fade into the ether that is my craptastic memory, but judgment or doubt would stick.  I had enough of my own judgment and doubt.  What I needed and received that night without realizing at the time, was support for me as an individual who knew what she needed but didn’t know how to ask for it in a productive manner.  A manner that would be received by the man who, admittedly, always wanted to make me happy, but also didn’t know how because our emotional needs were as different as our communication styles.  Half a decade later I’m still working on that, but I credit those incredible women who barely knew me for stopping my hasty exit, sitting me down and letting me cry it out in their company rather than allowing me to go home and cry it out alone.  They just knew, and to this day I don’t know what I’d do without them.  So here’s to a different sort of anniversary; that of friendship, having each other’s backs, and all the wishes and dreams we can create.

Write a wish & let it fly.

Musings & Ramblings

That was 40…

How the hell is it September 1st?  Seriously.  Can someone please explain this to me? Because evidently I’ve lost all grasp of how time works.  The birthday month of gluttony (yes, I get the whole month. You can have one too – I won’t judge) is a 3.9 weeks in the past – the final celebration concluding with a long overdue dinner with my parents in early August. I accomplished only a fraction of the items on the “before I turn 40” to-do list (let’s be honest, no one finds this surprising), but the ones I did manage were pretty amazing.  Some of the undone will be a good hold over for the 41st year and a few were just too ridiculous out of the gate. The stories will unfold, but I’m still basking in gratitude and reeling from the birthday vacation that so drastically exceeded my expectations I’m still coming down from the high. I was reminded over and again in so many ways that I’m the luckiest girl alive, that I have made and kept incredible people in my life from every chapter, and that laughing at myself does indeed keep me young (except for the peeing on myself a little bit part, but we don’t need to talk about that).  Just a smattering of the happenings from July that made me happy to be facing the next decade:

I held a gigantic sparkler and didn’t go blind, catch fire, or die (though I can’t say I didn’t make some horrible “holy shitsnacks” faces – see #4).


I watched dragonflies hump on my leg and sat still solely to allow a butterfly the opportunity to explore the terrain of my shoulder before flying off to the next destination.

I took 1001 photos and laughed until I couldn’t breathe. I reminisced with friends from almost every chapter in my life & told each and every one of them I loved them. I ate and drank and slept and soaked up the sun with the gluttony of a woman condemned.  And kissed a dead moose wearing a party hat while wearing a custom made “40” antler beanie of my very own.  Bet you didn’t do that on your birthday.

IMG_1628 2

I rode a unicorn named Steve and a giant duck named Jake on the clear waters of Sebago Lake and donned a kangaroo onesie while singing The Sound of Music’s “So Long, Farewell” on a staircase with a unicorn Pegasus, a frog, two sloths, and a flying squirrel, and fell asleep next to my favorite giraffe (and no, there were no drugs involved).



                                Seriously, this happened.


                                                  So did this.

I channeled the innocent spirit of the girls who camped there decades before, doing cartwheels and handstands, climbing on rocks, and singing songs. Granted, I may have been more inebriated than campers in the 40s, but I guarantee we had at least as much fun.  We did not, however, attempt to stand on horses.  Because standing on horses is dangerous.  Idiots.

Sunningdale Horses

     Evidently you had to be a bad-ass horse back balancer to go to Camp Sunningdale back in the day.

I confessed my thoughts for the future to my silly, beautiful, caring tribe and was met with positivity and encouragement even though they reek of midlife crisis and the uncertainty of the road less traveled.


Left.                                                                                      (photo cred: NBN)

I didn’t check my email for an entire week or wake up in a cold sweat wondering if something got done or slipped between the cracks. Miraculously (and somewhat disappointingly), the world went on spinning back in California without me. I saw the sunset and sunrise on the opposite ends of the same lake and enjoyed the quiet moments for myself rather than telling the faceyspace about them.


Mostly, I celebrated the passage of time & rang in the next decade surrounded by people I love in a place that is nothing short of magical. I cannot imagine a better induction to the next chapter.


(photo cred: JVW)

My 40th year may have had ups and downs that felt unmanageable in many ways. There were days I physically could not get out of bed, a hospital visit, stresses and fears and angst, and too many tears to count. But in every case there was a silver lining: Some of those tears were the result of uncontrollable fits of laughter. The stress and angst led to a decision to look fear in the eye. The days in bed and the hospital visit taught me to listen to my body more and tell it to fuck off less. Lessons that will hopefully lead to a life lived with more intention, appreciation and positivity.

Here’s to seeing what the next decade (ok, 9 years, 10.5 months) holds in store.  Personally, I’m hoping for more tutus.



Musings & Ramblings

Sometime it’s not us. Really. It’s them.

I was talking to a girlfriend recently who is knee deep in the strangely delicious yet sometimes sticky quagmire that is dating in our mid [ahem, late, in some cases] thirties.  She’s in that place that can go from giddy, innocent teenager to jaded, self-deflating 20s angst faster than a pop princess costume change.  I assured her that while I am perfectly qualified to give soul-affirming, flawless advice on matters of the heart, I also make things up and refuse to follow my own advice as well as the soul-affirming, flawless advice of pretty much anyone who is still willing to offer me any.

This is the extent of the advice I gave. Because life-coaching is my forte  [no.  it’s not.  even a little.]:

  1. Remember that You. Are. Awesome. [that should be # 1.  Always.]
  2. Don’t call the boy today. And maybe not tomorrow.  Not because you shouldn’t do whatever you want and fuck the games or the “rules”, but because doing so will make YOU feel like crap because you didn’t want to but you did anyway and now you just feel clingy and icky and weird.
  3. If you do call the boy tomorrow, do it because you want to, not because he hasn’t called you and you want to make sure he still likes you and still thinks you smell good and god forbid he’s stopped remembering the way you [insert something cute you do here, I can’t think of anything anyway and because it would sound like I was hitting on you and noticing things that friends usually wouldn’t].
  4. Remember that whatever his reason is for seeming a little more distant than he was in weeks 1-3, it probably has precisely nothing to do with you. He’s got a job and family and who knows, maybe an infected hangnail and he’s thinking about whether or not you’ll still like him if he has to have his pinky amputated because, well, that would be weird given our access to modern medical care.  Or maybe he’s just a boy and a human and he’s retreating to his corner for a minute because he’s overwhelmed by how much he likes you and doesn’t want to freak you the fuck out by being all “let’s spend all of our free time going for walks on the beach and feeding each other dim sum and pretending we only like each other a little bit just so we don’t freak each other out”.
  5. Remember he likes you. He’s sweet and attentive and gives you butterflies when you’re together.
  6. Remember that if #5 changes, for either one of you, for any reason, refer to #1.

This particular friend is crazy smart, talented, beautiful, and funny.   She knows all of these things and would have said the exact same thing to me if the tables were turned (probably with less run-on sentences).  We aren’t teenagers anymore (thank-fucking-god).  We’re not angsty 20-somethings (though I’d kill for my angsty 23 year old tits again).  We have battle scars and hearts that have been broken and glued back together with wine and laughter and love.  We’ve learned, sometimes by falling down the stairs head first with a vodka tonic in hand, that life is bumpy.  And that when you get up and dust yourself off at the bottom of the stairs (and silently congratulate yourself for not spilling your drink); you’ve learned something and are probably better for the tumble.  We’ve also realized that, as women [warning: gross gender specific generalization ahead] we are often willing to make things the fault of something we have done, said, not done or not said before considering that it might not actually have fuckall to do with us – and we usually don’t even realize we’ve done it til one of our friends whacks us in the head with a trout.  Metaphorically speaking (unless your friends are assholes).

But here’s the thing about dating that no decade of experience can drill into your thick, usually logical head; being smitten gives you amnesia.  Every. Single. Time.  It is so easy to forget how awesome we are when we find another human we like and want THEM to know how awesome we are.  The trick is just staying awesome.  Not awesome with a side of censorship.  Not awesome in high heels when you normally wear Chuck Taylors and will probably break an ankle, but damn your ass looks great.  Not awesome at the risk of not being you.  The boy that gives you butterflies might also confuse the shit out of you.  They do that.  But then, we do the same thing to them.  If that boy is your boy, the phase where your self-esteem and awesomeness get squashed by your overthinking stupid girl brain will be short and you can get on with the good parts.  Like dessert (wink, wink, nudge, nudge).

be yourself

Musings & Ramblings

Getting to the other side…

Lately I’ve felt that I’m at a crossroad, but haven’t been able to put a finger on what’s changed. I woke up last weekend in an entirely different mental space, with more energy and desire to create and experience than I’ve had in as long as I can remember.  Absolutely nothing of consequence had happened to which I could attribute the shift. Then I happened across this article on loving without fear and realized that I’ve been incapable of being present – in love, in friendships, in new experiences – because my heart was planted firmly in the past and utterly terrified of coming into the present. Until that moment I’d never stopped to consider how the fear of reliving the past could shroud the future.

It’s like there’s a crack in the sidewalk. You know it has the capability to open up and swallow you whole, you just don’t know when or how. You test it. Challenge it. And every time you get close you burn your toes, so you retreat into the shadows. Just far enough to feel safe, but still well aware of the risk. Then one day the fault line opens and the earth shifts under your feet. The steam burns and your whole body – soul and all – hurts in way you never thought possible. Pain and tears and confusion and anger pulse through you until you’re sure the next stage must be spontaneous combustion. But ever so gradually the physical and emotional despair subside, leaving a crust like a newly-formed scar. It itches and you want to pick at it. But the part of your brain that has learned this lesson before knows if you pick absentmindedly you’ll go too far and too fast and the wound will reopen and bleed. At the same time, if the gash isn’t allowed to breathe, to get through its natural healing process, it will heal all wrong and the scar tissue may never fade. That constant reminder causes fear – of falling, of loving, of letting another person see your scars. But all of that vulnerability is beautiful and exciting and fun for the same reason it’s absolutely fucking terrifying.

fear and love
My unconscious reaction to feeling anything deeply has always been to cover it with a thick blanket of humor or alcohol or self-deprecation (or some combo of the three) in hopes that it will mute my emotion and disguise anything resembling passion to those around me, lest it make them uncomfortable or make me look foolish. Perhaps it’s my Irish heritage or a learned behavior based on years of interpreting (often incorrectly) others’ opinions. Whatever the source, I’ve come to realize that it is and always has been about fear. In the wake of my last chapter, that fear became profound. I couldn’t fathom the idea of getting close to the crack in the sidewalk. The mere thought of the steam sent me rushing to the wings. I spent the greater part of 2 years in a cocoon of safety, holding anything and anyone who could touch the soft bits of my heart at arms length without even realizing why. In doing that I undoubtedly missed opportunities, chased them away with blatant insecurity, and took people who love me unconditionally for granted.

Everyone heals differently, but there is always a moment when you find yourself on the other side of a chasm you thought you’d never traverse. There’s still steam. There’s still imminent danger of turning around or falling back into the hole that wants nothing more than to swallow you up, dress you in sweat pants and feed you Ben & Jerry’s. But you’re smart. You can move forward on a path that keeps you close enough to remember the steam but not so close it inhibits forward motion. And with a little luck, some friendly reminders, and conscious effort you can make peace with the fear. It may have shaped the past, but it doesn’t get to control the future.  Be genuine. Be kind. Most of all don’t be afraid to show your heart even if it gets a little beat up in the process. The people who are meant to hold it will be gentle with it.


Musings & Ramblings

Not another Mother’s Day post…

This is not another Mother’s Day post. Which should probably go without saying as it’s no longer technically Mother’s Day, but I’ve never shied away from pointing out the obvious.  I wanted to write a Mother’s Day post yesterday.  I sat with my ideas, which were brilliant and witty in my head, for a while.  I typed, erased, typed again – but my words either landed on the cringe-worthy side of glib or the “I’m not a shrink but I play one on TV” side of analytical.  Worst of all they didn’t sound like me and failed to convey my complicated feelings about a day that used to be as simple as construction paper, finger paints, and flowers (usually dandelions unceremoniously yanked from the yard and presented with the care and grace of a 4-year old).

So rather than write, I did what any emotionally conflicted grown woman would do – tackled home improvement.  My shower door has been broken for a week and I’ve been tripping over the todo1complicated-looking (read:  has more than 2 moving parts) window covering contraption sitting on my bedroom floor since February.  An emotionally convoluted Sunday evening seemed like as good a time as any to wrestle with plate-glass and power tools (says the woman with a scar on her face from an uncooperative Ikea drawer incident and almost built herself into an outdoor couch thing).  I won’t even get into the time my bff & I decided that midnight was prime time to replace a toilet seat and 2 bottles of wine was the perfect prep for the task (helpful hint: toilet seats are much easier to remove than install, particularly when you see two of them).

I’ll spare you the details and expletives that accompanied these seemingly simple (to people who don’t regularly find ways to hurt themselves while sitting still) endeavors.  But an hour later I’d successfully used a hack-saw, interpreted the vague, wordless instructions accompanying the window coverings, and operated a drill without drawing blood.  I even re-hung my shower door, which would have been an elementary task but for right angles and the evolutionary limitation of only having two arms.  After some wedging, wrangling, and praying that a large sheet glass is designed to “give” just a enough for me to get thestupidfuckingtinyscrewdriverintheredamnit I was pretty convinced I’m (very) distantly related to Bob Vila.  To the best of my knowledge, 12 hours later the damn door is still hanging!  Which means I can shower this morning – YOU’RE WELCOME, people with whom I work.  This was all for you.

The point of all of this (other than to brag about my obvious skills) is to say thanks Mom…for showing me that there’s no reason women can’t be just as handy as men (or handier…sorry Dad), and for never letting on that “go outside and ride your bike” was really mom code for “go play in traffic”.  Happy Not Actually Mother’s Day But Every Day Is Mother’s Day.  Otherwise known as Monday.

As seen in an ice cream shop overrun by screaming children and panicked fathers on Mother's Day 2016,

As seen in an ice cream shop overrun by screaming children and panicked fathers on Mother’s Day 2016.



Musings & Ramblings

The weekend my brain lost

This weekend did not go as planned.  I had one of those amazing “adult” weekends planned.  No, not that kind of adult.  The rare kind that involves having precisely no plans – other than a long over-due gargantuan to-do list.  But none of those pesky social obligations to hinder my determination.  I had lists, I had a plan, in my mind, I was going to get. shit. done.   My mind is pretty pushy about being in charge and my body is generally ok just going along for the ride.  Which is unfortunate because my mind can rarely get its shit together.  If there was a physical manifestation of the way my mind works, it would probably look something like Elaine dancing on Seinfeld.  But I was ready.


I went to bed Friday night with the lingering remnants of a cold I’ve been fighting all week and woke up Saturday morning with a chainmail blanket draped squarely over my soul.  I wasn’t sick, per se, but I could barely move.  I dragged my determined ass out of bed to feed the dog (lest I be eaten alive in my compromised state), and immediately fell back into bed, promising myself just a little more rest…then I’d conquer the world one errand at a time.  I woke up 4 hours later with a splitting headache and clear evidence that something alien had died in my mouth.  Either that or I’d taken a decade worth of quaaludes and lived to tell the tale.  At that moment it really could have been anything.  While I was slowly coming to grips with the fact that I was not, in fact, going to be hyper productive, I was not coming to grips with wtf was going on.  I texted a friend who responded with, “Oh yeah, been there.  Your body is pissed.  Hydrate, try to have some food and caffeine to get rid of the headache and go back to bed for as long as you need. Then text me and let me know you’re alive.” I’m not sure I could have argued with her if I wanted to, so I went back to sleep, waking another 4 hours later to feed my dog (again. My subconscious has priorities and survival skills).

Even my 95 lb creature, who would normally be bouncing around the room like a Jack Russell on a sugar high the second I showed signs of life seemed to understand.  And the sweet soul that he is, he slept by my side all day and all night, not once waking me even when his dinner was 45 minutes delayed due to my comatose state.

Watchful Beastie

Today was moderately better.  I slept more than any adult should on a given day, but also managed a shower, some reading, and a walk with my most deserving guardian beastie.  Hopefully by tomorrow morning my body will be willing to cede it’s martial law-like grip on my existence and allow me to go to work and function like the somewhat productive human I am capable of being. Thankfully it’s Monday morning (after some pretty important sportsball games, so I’m told), so most people won’t notice if I’m a bit more off than normal.

The moral of this PSA-style post is to listen to your body before it up and stages a coups because when it does, you will lose.  My errands are not run, my bills are not paid, my office is not organized, and a trench is not dug across my back yard (I told you it was an ambitious list).  But I started a new book, got some obviously much needed rest, and had some quality time with my fur ball.  The world probably won’t stop spinning and your pets probably won’t eat you while you sleep (though I’m not an expert in the field of gravitational forces or pet behavior, so I make no guarantees).  And you might even feel better for it.

Happy Sunday night, friends.  Get some rest. Or else.

Musings & Ramblings


One post a week?  I mean, how difficult is that?  Who the f*ck decides to start something a month and a half before Christmas anyway (much less publicly commit to said activity)?  I’ll tell you who – the same kind of person who doesn’t make New Year resolutions because she’s learned not to set herself up for soul-crushing (and only slightly hyperbolic) failure.  Also, that would involve doing something within the parameters of a deadline and not talking about myself in the third person, so…yeah.

Hell, haven’t even written the follow-up post to my 40 things to do before 40.  For those of you keeping track, my birthday was in JULY.  There were so many good additions to the list, though, that I have to put it out there.  So, now that I have 6ish months instead of 12 to bang them out AND a longer list, why not just throw the rest of it out there.  I obviously have an outstanding record for follow-thru.

Here’s the thing…I have hilarious friends, so I knew when I invited them over for brunch and plied them with alcohol they’d have fantastic, if not absurd, ideas for me.  And I was right:

Birthday list  

First, I’m not entirely sure what “handglding” is, but I’m willing to give it a shot.  Sounds moderately less risky than it’s more commonly known cousin, hang gliding.  Maybe.  Honestly I’ll probably just get drunk and record my hand catching the wind from a speeding vehicle (as a passenger, of course).  Points for creative interpretation.

There’s so much awesome on this list I’m not sure where to go from there.  The fact that my friends 1. know there is a porn version of Alice in Wonderland, and 2. thought to put it on this list is the reason I both love them and am terrified of them.   I’m thinking there might have to be a theme viewing party.  Preferably on an outdoor movie screen in my backyard just to make my neighbors wonder what the fuck kinda stuff I’m into.   Depending on the amount of alcohol consumed, that could transition pseudo-smoothly into me “camping alone”.  In my backyard.  I have a loose definition of “camping” which includes “passing out somewhere not covered with a roof”.  My list, my rules.

Kudos to the opportunistic friend who added the seemingly pure suggestion of altruism to my year by including “join a non-profit board”.  Except it’s self-serving as fuck because she’s ON several non-profit boards and is currently actively recruiting new blood.  But it’s on the list…so…well played, Bruno.  In response to that, I added taking her to Lips to my own list.  Win-win.

Without a doubt, my favorite item on this stellar list is “incorporate more festive llamas” because, well, of course.  Now that I have llamas on the brain, I see them fucking everywhere.  I started taking photos of my encounter with llama-themed festiveness and it got overwhelming.  I walked past a Paper Source store holiday window last month that just happen to include a whole bunch of 3-D paper llamas festively adorned in holiday attire.  Evidently llamas are the new…whatever the old cute animal was.  (Side note, I’m not allowed to go into Paper Source anymore.  Also, explaining to retail employees that you have a birthday challenge list that involves festive llamas and their window display is absolutely perfect for said challenge and wouldn’t it be awesome if they’d help me by letting me climb into the window display while one of them takes a photo for my blog might not have been met with the kind of enthusiasm and holiday spirit one might think.)  Thankfully the rest of the world continues to embrace llama-rama, so I have a bounty of options to festively incorporate these majestic creatures in my life (feel free to visit the skippingwithscissors Instagram page to see a smattering of the llama love I’ve encountered in the last several months).

There is so much more to this list, but I can’t even get into it right now; I made a resolution to go to bed at a reasonable hour on school nights.

Happy 2016 loves!
May it be just the right combination of stupendous and absurd!


Musings & Ramblings

That Time I Had Writer’s Block…

funny-writers-blockAnd by “time” I mean the last several months. And the 15 years before that. Give or take. Right around the time I decided to start Skipping with Scissors (which was a solid year before I got around to launching it) – because I was finally coming out of my cocoon of introspective, self-indulgent writing funk and observing the hilarity in the universe around me – I sent a few samples to some friends whose opinion I trust.

The responses varied:

Best friend:

BF:     You’re an asshole.
Me:     So I’ve been told, but what did you think of the post? Focus on ME.
BF:     Don’t send me shit like that when I’m in meetings, it’s tough to explain to the VP of marketing why coffee is    dripping from my nose.
Me:    Whatever. Tell them you did too much coke in the 80s.
BF:     I’m only 39.
Me:    Bonus points for hanging out with Drew Barrymore as a kid.
BF:     The post was good. But this conversation is better.
Me:    Thanks. Now go back to your den of iniquity. Don’t put ecstasy in your  vag. Just trust me on that…
BF:     Too late.


Lazy friend:

LF:     You know I don’t read. But I’m willing to bet it’s at least as funny as watching you try to justify doing headstands in the middle of the lawn after 4 margaritas.
Me:    That didn’t happen.
LF:     Didn’t it?


Writer friend:

WF:     You should be writing. You should totally be writing about your life right now.  Because if you downplay the sadness, loss, and grief, as well as the real potential  for murder/suicide, the whole situation is pretty amusing.
Me:      It really pretty fucking funny, isn’t it.
WF:     Yep. Plus, you run into things a lot and that’s never not funny.


While I am learning to find inspiration everywhere, that last conversation was the one that pushed me to launch SwS, and has kept me looking for the humor in the absurdity that surrounds us everyday.  If nothing else, the universe is incredibly generous with such gifts.

But here’s the thing…I have this little problem with not wanting to post a piece until it’s “perfect” or makes a point or has been written and re-written to death and is the best version of anything I can imagine. That shit takes time and energy and creativity that I don’t often find in high doses (vaginal or otherwise), therefore I don’t write or publish – or give myself the chance to write with the intent to publish. And that sorta defeats the point of this whole bloggy blog.

So, I am making a pact with myself (and the interwebs) to publish at least one blog post a week for the rest of 2015. That’s only 7 posts (let’s not even talk about how that happened). They might be about anything from the dead plants in my yard to that time (ahem, Wednesday) I yelled SCROTUM really loudly in front of my boss all for the sake of winning a game. If I can make the time to write something – anything – during the busiest time of the year and find the courage to put it out there for you, dear friends and random readers, to comment upon and critique, I can hopefully find the momentum to keep going. Fair warning, some of these posts might be utter shit. But it will be my shit…my shit that I’m sharing with you. ‘Tis the season of giving after all.







Musings & Ramblings

Because, fall.

It’s October.  5th.  Fucking October.  When did that thing old people used to say about time flying as you get older actually start happening?  I guess when I got to the age that I used to call people old. Karma’s a bitch.

Fall is by far my favorite season – mostly because it’s also decorative gourd season, motherfuckers. I mean, really. What would fall be without decorative gourds?  Especially in Southern California where this particular “fall” has been replaced with “summer on the surface of the sun”.  How else would I know I’m supposed to want to pick apples and consume pumpkin spiced everything if it wasn’t for decorative pumpkins trucked in from somewhere colder than here and Starbucks.

pumpkin spice everything

Flipping the month on my calendar just drove home how absurd my to-do lists are. On said list (which I re-write on a regular basis just to keep it pretty) has been some version of “write f/u birthday post and Labor day post” since, well, Labor Day. Evidently just because I write it down doesn’t mean the gremlins that dirty my dishes and disrespectfully toss clothes all over my bedroom are going to do it for me. Assholes. Global warming is probably their fault too.

Though many years removed from my last turn in academia, it seems my psyche will always be firmly rooted in the school calendar as opposed to the…um…calendar-calendar (that one that goes from New Years hangovers back to the celebration you swore you’d never revisit last year). Not sure why, but my urge to resolve, reinvent, and reinterpret has always appeared in fall rather than winter.  Somewhere around mid-August I thought about resolving to be more organized and realistic with my to-do lists and commit to writing more often. Unfortunately my brain is no more organized than my to-do list, so without Mother Nature stepping in to trigger that seasonal awakening, I’m mentally stuck in the lazy dog days of summer. I’m not even mentally organized enough to have a point to this post. Clearly I need a pumpkin spice latte. And an apple pie.  And to meet this guy.

this guy