Seriously Bad Date

Sometimes it appears that I’m not a very nice person. To me, I mean. Like I’ll listen to what’s going through my head and I’ll experience this thing where I’ll chastise myself as though I were one of my kids.

Take today’s date, for example. I paid a fortune for this matchmaking service. To anyone who might be considering this: DON’T do it! I have no idea what the fuck those people are thinking, but they are NOT working diligently on helping me find the man of my dreams.

I’m supposed to meet this guy at the cafe in the art museum. I’m trying to have a good attitude, but I’ve had a lot of train wreck dates. I get to the restaurant a few minutes early. I sit outside because it’s a beautiful day. Neither of us have ever seen a picture of the other (I know, I’m an idiot, but I already paid for it). So I text:

I’m outside in front. Blue/green dress

He returns text:

Pls come in. I’m sitting by window.

Two entire sides of the restaurant are completely window, but I’ll let it slide. I walk inside and quickly scan the tables by the windows. I see a man stand up and wave. This is where my inner language starts up:

Evil me: “Oh, fuck! Shit! What the fuck, how can his stomach hang down that far? And why the fuck would you tuck in your shirt and wear a BELT if this were your body?”

Decent me: “Jesus! Don’t be so mean! He’s probably a nice guy.”

Evil me: “Well, what the fuck? This is NOT fair! I TOLD them after the last guy I want someone who at least fucking takes minimal care of himself!”

Decent me: “You’re right. Just eat and get out.”

Whatever. Maybe I’m just not very nice. But seriously, during the 90 minutes of lunch, I learned that this guy must have a fortune somewhere because he doesn’t work and actually spends “almost every waking hour” with attorneys who work with him on legal action against his ex wife. He’s done this for four years. At this time they’re fighting a protection order she seems to have filed against him. Oh, and here’s the best part – she is a nurse who works with Alzheimer’s patients. This man appears to be the fucking Antichrist. A real live Asshole. I no longer feel bad about my horrified reaction to his ugly-ass body.

Oh, and his four adult kids have moved out of state because they apparently “can’t handle” all the legal crap. Go figure.

I never should have pissed off the Matchmaker girl. She’s obviously out to get me now.

But, seriously, she’s an idiot. The first guy she set me up with started CRYING at Outback Steakhouse because his 18 year old daughter RAN AWAY because he required her to be home by 8:00 p.m. on weeknights.

Where do these people COME FROM?

And, more importantly, what about ME made the idiot matchmaker girl think this would be OK?

Single life is looking better and better every day.

Missing Prison

Sometimes I really miss prison.  I know most people who spend any time in prison hate it, but for the most part, I really loved it.  I don’t know what it was.  Maybe I’m addicted to adrenaline.

I need to make clear the fact that I was never an inmate.  I’m too much of a chicken to do much of anything wrong.  In fact, after working in a prison for four years, I’d do anything I could to stay out of that side of the prison business.  Working there was enough excitement for me.  I’ll pass on getting raped with one of those dildos made out of melted Jolly Ranchers, thank you very much.  I worked at the men’s prison, but I did hear about that particular issue over on the female side of the corrections business and decided then and there to never commit any prison-level crimes.    

Before I went to work in prison, I worked at a small university.  It was a quiet, cozy little job.  I had just moved into a bigger office that I had been allowed to furnish and decorate myself.  I loved that office.  It was significantly nicer than any room in my home.  I had a set of leather chairs with a side table near the front of the room.  The table had a little panic button underneath so I could call security if a student went all apeshit in my office.  A nice rug set the boundary for the seating area – a simple Asian design on a burgundy background, if I remember correctly.  I had one of those air purifiers between the seating area and my desk that was supposed to filter bacteria and viruses out of the air.  Who knows whether those really do anything, but it was nice to think that no one would be inhaling any germs on my watch. 

I had this little mini desk behind my big desk and on it I had all types of video equipment to transfer videotape to DVD along with software to splice hunks of video and sound.  I didn’t really do any of that for my job, which is a good thing because I never figured out how to use the equipment.  My boss bought that stuff for me during one of those ‘end-of-the-fiscal-year money spending frenzies’.  If you’ve never been on the spending end of one of those, I highly recommend it. 

Anyway, the university was a good gig.  I was able to leave on time every day.  The campus was beautiful.  I could do stuff like ride to meetings on the handlebars of my boss’s bicycle and go to art shows during my lunch break where they served free shrimp cocktails and those little strawberries that were dipped in chocolate and decorated to look like tiny mice.

I applied for the prison job on a whim.  My coworkers and my boss couldn’t figure out what the hell I was thinking.  But when I sent an inquiry to the division head at the prison, he came to my university office to meet with me.  And I thought, well why not check it out?  I’d never been to a prison, and it would at the very least make a good story at the next art show/mini strawberry mice luncheon.

My first red flag was that there was no job interview.  There was an assumption from the beginning that if I wanted the job I could have it.  Even though it paid 20k more than the university job.  Leaving the university seemed like such a stupid thing to do that I went out to the prison three times to visit before I took the position.  Prison was like the polar opposite of the university.  It was dangerous and ugly.  Because no one wanted to work there, they were often forced to hire people who wouldn’t make it through a Wal-Mart interview.  They hired professionals that had never been licensed and a few that had their licenses revoked or suspended for ethical violations.  People screamed at each other during staff meetings. 

It’s taken me a long time to figure out why I loved prison so much.  I mean it was weird.  I was screamed at, threatened, lied to, and lied about. And that was just some of the staff. 

The inmates were an entirely different challenge.  They all wanted something.  They wanted to be moved or they wanted someone else to be moved or they wanted to get into some class that would get them out a few weeks early.  They made liquor in their toilets and swallowed razor blades and attempted to use bread bags as condoms and shampoo as sexual lubricants (which by report is extremely painful).  I saw way more naked men than anyone ever wants to see – and don’t forget – those toilets are right out in the middle of everything.   There was one guy who pretty much masturbated constantly.  The guy would masturbate while he was eating his lunch without so much as a pause when he went to the beanhole to get his food tray.

The thing about seeing and experiencing the highly abnormal is that you get close to your colleagues.  You develop a weird sense of humor that no one else could possibly get.  It sinks in somewhere around the second year.  You learn you have to filter before you talk when you’re around non-prison folk. 

There was this guy in a lock down unit who refused to come out of his cell.  Wouldn’t come out to exercise and wouldn’t come out to shower.  Ever.  He didn’t ask for anything either.  Just ate his food, returned the tray when it was asked for, and sat on his cot.  A veteran staff member described him to me one morning because I was going to cover for her the following day.  “He’s like a plant,” she concluded.  “You just have to make sure he has water and food.”  Which is incredibly sad but for some reason I found it hysterically funny.  Diet Coke shot out of my nose and then I stopped laughing because it hurts considerably when Diet Coke squirts out of your nose.  Which made her laugh hysterically.  Which made me start laughing hysterically all over again. 

This kind of thing happened almost every day.

My boss told me once about being at a party and telling the story of helping a mentally challenged inmate select and write a Mother’s Day card.  Which wouldn’t be funny except she found out later that he had killed his mother, which is why he was in prison in the first place. 

know!  I’m not supposed to think that’s funny.  The people at the party certainly didn’t think it was funny.  My boss said there was dead silence and uncomfortable stares.  But then my boss and I decided that was funny because those people just didn’t get it and then the two of us laughed hysterically about the lame people at that party.   

One particular incident stands out in my head as the day when I realized I was no longer the same person I had been the day I left the university.  I was watching surveillance video of an inmate who had hung himself.  It was a pretty long video because a lot of people have to get called when someone hangs himself.  I was watching the video to ensure that everyone had done their duties properly.  There this guy hung from the ceiling, naked.  His face with a grotesque expression most likely never displayed in life.  The staff members on the video were walking around his handing body as casually as if it were a plant or a hammock chair hanging there in the middle of the cell.  Taking inventory of the cell and recording every detail.  And I was sitting at my desk, my office chair in full recline with my feet on the desk.  Taking notes while I ate trail mix, absentmindedly picking through it to get to the M&Ms and the yogurt chips. 

I don’t know what drew my attention to the absurdity of the situation. But I remember kind of ‘waking up’ and realizing how callous and disrespectful it was to sit picking the M&Ms out of trail mix while watching the corpse of a miserable human being hang from the ceiling of a prison cell. I can still put myself, mentally, in that chair and remember how it felt to be that callous.  To be honest, I’m grateful to have developed the ability to laugh at the guy who was like a plant or the kid who bought the Mother’s Day card for the mother he had killed.  I couldn’t have done my job if I hadn’t.  But it still scares me just a little bit.

When I remember my days in prison, I think of my colleagues who lived through the unthinkable with me and how they always understood my responses, regardless of whether my reaction of the day was to laugh hysterically or to go to my office, close the door, and cry.  You get close to people when you catch a glimpse of Hell with them.  

Sometimes I think I was lucky to leave the setting before I lost my ability to feel compassion or empathy.  But right or wrong, I still miss prison.  


Today when I was cleaning Joey’s bathroom, I cleaned the toilet, flushed it, then went to rinse off the brush thing when I noticed the toilet was overflowing. So I turned off the water, used the plunger to correct the problem, and then finished cleaning the bathroom.

“So what?” you might say. “That happens to people all the time.”

Well, it has only happened to me a few times.

You see, for the first . . . well . . . 46 years of my life, it went something like this: I discovered the toilet was overflowing, then ran out of the bathroom, closed the door behind me, and used another bathroom until an Individual Who Could Handle Toilet Issues (my mom for the first 18 years, then my husband for the next 28) came home. Then I would report the problem to the Individual and promptly leave the area so I couldn’t be asked to touch anything that had touched water that had actually been in the toilet.

In my defense, I don’t remember this ever happening during the first 18 years of my life and am just assuming it must have based on my behavior the following 28 years.

I do know that I didn’t ever clean a toilet during the first 18 years of my life. And I know this because of an incident that happened about two weeks after high school graduation.

I graduated from high school on a Friday. The following Sunday I used a one way ticket I had bought with my own money to fly halfway across the country to live with my then-boyfriend (who was indeed an Individual Who Could Handle Toilets but was not yet an Individual Who Cleaned Anything).

Anyway, Zach and I got an itty bitty one bedroom apartment. He got a job doing landscaping and I got a job waiting tables (note: I suck as a waitress). Things were generally good.

One evening, however, I came home from work and when I went in the bathroom, I made a mental note, “Ew. The toilet looks a little nasty.” Then a few days later, I was like, “What the Hell? The toilet is nasty.” Then it was probably the next day when I realized the toilet had reached an Unacceptable level of nastiness.

And all of a sudden, it hit me. Like a full front kick to the solar plexus.

There was no one who was going to clean the toilet. I was going to have to do it.

It was a sad, sad day. Seriously. I sat on the bathroom floor (which was also nasty, by the way) and I cried. I cried and cried and cried. All this time I had assumed I was Somebody Special but I was really nothing but a regular person who was going to have to go to a store and buy a toilet bowl brush and whatever one used to clean toilets and probably some floor cleaning stuff too and I was going to have to clean the bathroom.

All that to explain that I’ve been really far removed from having to deal with the toilet most of my life. Though I am kind of a neat freak and did become accustomed to cleaning my own toilet eventually.

I was still married and in graduate school when I went with my class to Mexico to study Multicultural Counseling. For purposes of this story, you only have to know that our entire class filled a “hotel” in a small village. I was lucky. I had a real roof. One of my friends had a thatched roof and had 42 ticks stuck on her person the first morning.

But I was unlucky because after like a day, the toilet in our room wouldn’t flush. Ever assertive, I went to the front desk to report the issue. The woman at the front desk actually attempted to hand me a plunger! I was like, “Uh, no. I don’t plunge.” She wouldn’t budge, though, and was really a bitch about it.

I was in my late 30’s at the time but my classmates/roommates were all mid to late 20’s. So we sealed off the bathroom in our room and spent the next few days using the bathroom in the room next door. By the time our class checked out at the end of the week, there was only one toilet working in the whole hotel. We just kept all moving down the line using the ones that still worked.

I know there’s a whole lesson there about spoiled Americans, but this is a toilet story so I won’t go into it now.

It was probably about ten years after the Mexico incident when Zach and I were separated and I had filed for divorce. I had been living in my rat hole apartment for about a month, when my Worst Toilet Nightmare was realized.

The toilet in my apartment backed up. It was Friday night. I called the Emergency Maintenance number. The guy said he would come but he didn’t.


So I called Zach. “Zach! The toilet’s is clogged!”

Bless his heart. He understood that this was a real emergency for me. “You can do this. I know you can. You’ve done much harder things than this.”

I know what you’re thinking. Sometimes I think it too. But that’s another essay.

So my soon to be ex-husband stayed on the phone with me and talked me through my first toilet plunging. The next time was a little easier. And now I don’t even run and get Joey to stay with me while I’m plunging. I just do it.

Growing up Joey

Twice this week, Joey has taken out the garbage without being asked.  I realize this has happened a few times before this week.  Like, I mean, maybe two or three times over the past six years or so.  But in the past, it’s always been a strategic move for him.  A poorly veiled attempt to prove that he’s responsible enough to have sex with his girlfriend or buy a gun.  (God, how I wish I was kidding.)  This week it appeared that he may have taken out the garbage because he noticed it was full.  He didn’t put in a new bag or anything, but still.

Before I go any further, I must say that if you’re one of those people who post on Facebook pictures of you with your teenagers laughing together while you clean the garage as a family, or if your teenager doesn’t mind being seen with you in public, you will not understand what I’m writing.  In fact, I don’t even want you to continue reading.  Really.  Click on something else or go sing Kumbaya with your neighbors or something.  You sicken me. 

But for you Real People out there, I think you will agree that this may be some kind of beginning of a Turning Point.  I’ve seen it before with my older son.  It was different with Michael, but then again my two boys are completely different people with little in common.

Further evidence of this Turning Point is that Joey’s room is no longer as gross as it once was.  OK.  I admit that I think sometimes his girlfriend cleans it.  And I also admit I removed a glass from his room earlier today that did contain about an inch of solid mass that was once milk.  And the sheets on the bed have not been changed since that last time I changed them myself (despite his protest), which was at least two months ago.  However, I have noticed that clean clothes and dirty clothes are now kept in separate piles and there are several areas on the floor where the carpet has been visible for well over a week.

I realize that Joey and I are in some sort of dysfunctional vortex of ambiguity with respect to the quest toward his maturity.  I desperately want Joey to begin taking responsibility for himself.  Get and keep a job.  Manage his money.  Quit asking ME for money.  Read a book, for God’s sake.  But, despite my constant requests that he take responsibility for himself, I realize that there is a big part of me that wants him to stay right where he is.  When he did have a job (for six days about six weeks ago), I missed him terribly.  I made sure I was home during that 15 minute period between school and work so I could make him a sandwich and hand him his freshly laundered uniform I’d made sure to retrieve from his bedroom floor at 4:00 a.m. before I went to work.

I KNOW!  I know my job is to get him to a point where he no longer needs me.  I know that my taking responsibility for washing his uniform is ultimately not in his best interest.  I know.  I know.  I KNOW!  But I keep remembering when he was little and I rocked him for hours singing song after song after song because I never did get tired of feeling his little body pressed up to mine so close that I could feel each breath.  And he never tired of me singing to him.  Or when he was two and we were camping and he used to sit up in his bunk and look at me from across the camper as I lay in my bunk.  And when I smiled at him he would wave to me.  And I would wave back.  And we would both smile at each other before we went to sleep. 

And poor Joey!  It’s hard to imagine what he’s going through right now.  His desire to be seen as an adult is obvious.  He goes to doctor’s appointments without me.  When I called our family doctor to consult about a prescription after Joey had seen him for bronchitis, Joey was furious that our doctor had discussed this with me.  Joey will drive anywhere in the city and will manage just about any business without asking his ‘mommy’ to speak for him.

But something in him is fighting this whole move toward adulthood.  When I catch him in one of his rare vulnerable moments, he’ll admit that he doesn’t want to grow up.  “I want to live with you ‘till I’m 30,” he’ll admit.  He procrastinates on any task that will set him on the road to adulthood.  He’s one of the smartest people I know but he’s failed three classes in his two years of high school.  He continually gives me barely feasible reasons not to apply for jobs.

Sometimes I wonder if he worries about leaving me, as I seem to be perpetually single.  Last night I asked him if he was going to be home for dinner.  “No.  I’m sorry,” he said.   Joey doesn’t like to be alone and doesn’t really understand that I actually love being alone.  Although I’ve told him a gazillion times that I’m responsible for my happiness and he’s responsible for his, he still somehow slipped that ‘I’m sorry,’ in there.  Why would he be sorry?  Another little chunk of data in the cog that is Joey’s growing up.

As for me.  I’ll keep doing my best at doing my job.  I’ll push him out of the nest.  I won’t keep him from taking responsibility for his actions, though it will forever and always be the most difficult aspect of my life.  I will fight against my own selfish desires and I will somehow find the strength to make his supply of money so scarce that it will drive him to employment, even though a big part of me would like to continue to slip him twenty dollar bills and Chili’s gift cards.  And in a few years, regardless of his level of readiness, I will push him out of this nest that is our home.

And he will fly.

Payback is Indeed a Bitch

Tonight, for the first time ever, I ate take out in my 16-year old son’s car.  We had a few errands yet to run, but he decided he needed to stop by our house to get something.  While he was inside, I finished my sandwich and then, just when I was opening the door to toss the trash into the bin outside the garage, I was inspired.  I shut the car door and shoved my slimy take out trash in the pocket of the passenger side door. 

It was a beautiful, even poetic, move.

An hour earlier, when we left to run errands, he had even pointed out how clean he has kept my old car since I handed it down to him three weeks ago.  Indeed, it was clean.  And I shoved my slimy trash in the exact same clean door pocket where he had shoved his own slimy trash so very many times before.  Despite my thousands of requests that he not leave his trash in my car.

I can’t wait ’till he finds it. It’s like waiting for Christmas morning!

It will be even better when he gets his own house.  I’m planning to get one of his expensive water bottles from his kitchen – a stainless steel one if I can find one.  Then I’ll fill it with milk, screw the lid on, and then stash it in his guest room closet, behind and under a bunch of stuff so he’ll have to find it by smell months later.  Then I’ll find his good hand tools and throw a couple of them out in the back of the yard.  Help him clear the table after dinner and slip a few forks in the trash. 

This is very exciting.  The opportunities for payback are just beginning and they are endless!!


The Least Favorite Thing I Ever Learned in Kindergarten

I was in my late 20’s when my oldest son was in kindergarten.  I worked as a receptionist in a medical library, but I was able to go in three hours late every Wednesday so I could volunteer in Michael’s classroom.  I never was a fan of being around little kids, but I’m crazy about my own kids, so it was alright.  Back then if you volunteered at school they let you work in your own kid’s classroom.  Nowadays, most schools won’t let you volunteer in your own kid’s classroom.  And really, what would be the point?

That whole volunteer experience stands out for me because of one particular Wednesday morning.  I guess I learned something about the world I hadn’t known up to that point.  Something I really wish wasn’t true, though I can’t say I wish I didn’t know it.  I never was one to stick my head in the sand.

I can’t remember the task I had been given that particular morning.  A lot of the volunteers just spent their time making copies or some crap, but Mrs. Walsh was cool because she always let me work with the kids.  That morning I was supposed to get a small group of kids together and do some kind of lesson with them.  Typical kindergarten work.  I grabbed the first four kids that had finished the previous task and got them seated at the little table.  I didn’t notice anything unusual.  Mostly I was focusing on the fact that I was trying to sit in one of those itty bitty wooden chairs that make you feel as though you are Alice in Wonderland and you’ve just had a bite of the cake that makes you grow too big for the room you are in. 

Four kindergarteners, fitting perfectly into their own itty bitty chairs, sat across the table from me.  Three were looking at me expectantly, waiting for whatever task I was going to set upon them.  The other kid briefly glanced at her classmates, and then spoke.

She was a kid I’d noticed before.  I’d been volunteering just long enough that I knew some of the kids and didn’t know the other ones.  Looking back, I’m not sure why she’d caught my eye but she had.  That day she caught me so completely off guard that I will never, ever forget her. 

“Why do I have to be in this group?  I don’t want to be in this group.  My daddy says I shouldn’t have to be in this school with these black kids and I shouldn’t have to be in this group with them!”

Only she used the ‘N’ word.

If this were to happen now, over 20 years later, it wouldn’t have such an impact on me.  Which is actually quite sad.  But I’ve run this five minute segment of my life over and over in my head, trying to figure out why her words hurt me so badly.  I’ve come to the conclusion that right up to that morning, I was living on the unspoken, and even unrealized assumption that as I got older, as my son got older, all of the old, mean, hateful people would die off and we’d be left with a world of open minded, kind people who tried to understand each other’s differences rather than instantly judging anyone who is in any way different from themselves.

It’s hard to believe I was ever that naïve.   

Maybe my response was due to the shock of seeing such intense and innocent hatred in such a little girl.  Or the instant realization that ignorance could be passed on from generation to generation without question or examination.  But I think it was the fact that the three boys I had chosen for the group, the three black boys, I realized now, all had their heads down.  As if they had heard it all before, expected it even, and somehow felt shame.  It would have been oh, so much easier for me if they had been angry. 

Whatever the reason, I felt the back of my throat constrict and my face grew hot and my heart beat faster, and I knew there was absolutely nothing I could do to prevent myself from crying. 

I’ve always prided myself in being a take-charge kind of person.  Life throws things at me and I automatically prioritize and respond.  In the years since that day I’ve done everything from teaching anger management in a men’s prison to earning a second degree black belt in mixed martial arts.  I do not cry when faced with difficult situations.   At least not until I’m at home.    

But the 28 year old me hadn’t yet encountered anything quite that ugly, I guess.  All I could think at the time was that I could not cry.  And all I knew for sure was that I was going to. 

I didn’t want to cry there in front of the kids.  I didn’t want to cry at all.  I couldn’t stay where I was.  I couldn’t leave the room because I could hear teachers marching their little rows of children past the door.  I ended up making a last ditch effort to maintain some thread of dignity by crossing the room to where Michael’s teacher sat at her desk.  She looked up at me, such a look of concern on her face that despite my desperate attempt to keep it from happening, my eyes instantly and completely filled and one tear fell onto my bright blue blouse, a dark wet spot leaving indisputable evidence of my failure as a kindergarten classroom volunteer. 

I knew that if I were to open my mouth, I would start sobbing and if I were to blink, my eyelids would act like little squeegees and tears would fall freely.  I did not want to make more of a distraction in the classroom than I felt I already had.  And I desperately did not want my son to witness this horrible display of ugliness and incompetence. 

That poor teacher had to have been completely confused.  There had been no screams.  No child was lying injured on the floor.  I’m sure it was completely unprecedented to have an adult volunteer standing in front of her desk, close to bawling as though she were one of the kids who had been uninvited to her best friend’s birthday party.  But Mrs. Walsh only showed concern.  “What’s wrong?”  She waited a minute, patiently.  “Mrs. Elliot?”

And I said, almost whispered, “Melissa,” and I pointed to the table where I’d left the kids.  All four of them were completely still, staring over at the scene I was trying so hard to avoid but nonetheless had created with my very uncharacteristic lack of control over my emotions in the presence of my own, and other, children. 

In retrospect, I realize that Michael’s teacher must have been dealing with this child’s racist attitudes all year because her sudden anger seemed so out of character.  In an instant, she was across the room, grabbing that little girl by the arm and dragging her out the classroom before I was able to grab a tissue off the desk and try to do some damage control with what was surely a mascara nightmare. 

And the last thing I heard before the door shut behind them was, “. . .and now you’ve upset Mrs. Elliot!”

I felt like a moron.

I don’t remember anything else about that day.  I don’t remember finishing my work with the kids.  I don’t know what I said to the boys when I went back to the table.  I don’t know whether I said anything to the class about the teacher leaving.  I don’t remember talking to anyone at work about what happened and I don’t remember talking with Michael about the incident when I picked him up that afternoon.  Surely I did. 

Usually the kind of knowledge that has changed my whole way of thinking about the world comes gradually; a vast collection of very minute bits of information building up over a period of years until a certainty is unavoidable.  But every once in awhile, it comes almost instantly, like it did that day in Mrs. Walsh’s kindergarten class.      

Mrs. Walsh, a young woman herself, died of cancer the following year, when Michael was in first grade.  I wonder sometimes if she knew she was sick or even dying that Wednesday morning.  I wonder what kind of relationship developed between her and Melissa during that year.  Whether she was able to reach Melissa on some level.  Or whether Melissa is somewhere now teaching her own child the same things she surely learned from her parents.  Teaching her daughter the least favorite thing I ever learned in kindergarten.

Navigating the Blog World

One of my big things I decided to do this year is to write something each and every week. You know, so I can be like David Sedaris. Except that I still have to work full time and clean my own house. And I’m not a guy. And I’m single. And some other stuff, but you get the picture.

The first two weeks of the year I posted my stuff on my notes page on Facebook. This weekend, I decided I needed a blog if I wanted to do this thing right. I’d never once read a blog or really knew exactly what one was or what it involved, but it seemed to be the next step. Besides, I have this bizarre personality flaw that keeps me from doing anything on a small scale. It’s helpful sometimes, but most of the time it’s just exhausting.

Like now with this blog stuff. I mean, seriously? Dashboards and widgets and domain names? WTF? I didn’t know I’d have to pick THEMES and shit. And read a bunch of crap to figure out how to actually post stuff.

But it’s all good. I’ll figure it out. I always do. Seriously. I’m not kidding.