Your intentions do not excuse your insults.

Sometimes it doesn't matter what you meant.  Sometimes a person needs to take responsibility for the how they sound.  That being said, stop putting down my job.  Would you criticize a mother for posting updates and funny anecdotes regarding her children?  What about the person who works at a coffee shop even though (or because) they hold some kind of artistic degree and can't make a financial living through their craft? Is that person wrong for writing about their daily life and events?  Are we only aloud to publicly share what is deemed the most impressive aspects of our lives?  Many people do that, and it's become socially acceptable to build a persona online that may or may not be accurately reflective of the life we live or the amount of success we've attained.  Should portraying ourselves in a way that leans in the opposite direction be frowned upon because it seems ridiculous to waste a platform which allows us to maintain the persona that better fits our personal criteria for success?  Don't we want to make others jealous of our achievements?  Don't we want to convince ourselves that we're happy and satisfied with our current place in life by logging into Facebook every day and seeing that carefully sought out image we painstakingly chose to represent our worth to everyone we've ever known?  It's a fantastic opportunity to bury how much we hate ourselves.  And by hate ourselves, I actually mean how hard we are on ourselves.

There's something to be said for getting by and surviving.  Paying your bills and having enough left over to let loose over a six pack and laugh at the things that will otherwise make us cry.  It's hard for me to accept that this in itself doesn't fall under the criteria of success.  I feel incredibly successful because at this point in time, however brief, I'm capable of comfortably supporting myself.  But apparently I'm falling way below the status quo, which states that I should not only be financially comfortable, but be living the "dreams" other people hold me responsible for fulfilling.  The dreams they hold onto because if achieved they will be proven right and they'll receive extra brownie points for believing in me the whole time.  Or, better yet, offer up unsolicited advice and a self-proclaimed sacrifice of time and resources in order to carve their name into your deemed success like a wealthy beneficiary on the side of a building.  Apparently, I should be ashamed of my lack of achievement and would be wise to accept advice and guidance from the people who know me best.  And by know me best I mean remember me as a cute, outgoing child with good tonal pitch back in 1988.  

Following someone's Facebook persona, and I say persona and not profile because they are not mutually exclusive, does not mean you have any working knowledge of their life or intentions.  You only know what they present, which should only be taken at face value.  I choose what I put out there based on what I want the world to see.  This is a piece of who I am and I'm offering it up on the internet.  This is not the whole me.  This is me between 1:30-2:00 on this particular Tuesday afternoon.  If you choose to color between the lines with dramatic facts and assumptions, that has nothing to do with me.  You have a right to do so.  I do it because there's no way not to do it.  But that's between me and your persona, not you and me.

As mentioned, I lean to the other extreme in my online persona.  Behind the scenes I'm shaping, fixing, and rebuilding.  I'm spending time, money, and a whole lot of effort and personal reflection to be the kind of person I would want to be friends with.  I don't post about those things because they're private.  Maybe not private for someone else, but private for me.  I don't want to record every step I take and achievements reached because it sets up others for false expectations.  I like using the trials and tribulations associated with living a relatively grounded life, complete with the sublime and the ridiculous, as a no-fail source of laughter.  I have to laugh at everything.  If I don't laugh at everything I might as well kill myself.  There's so much untapped humor in the world, and if we give ourselves permission to examine life's events from a less-than-serious perspective, suddenly life is worth living. Even when it's not.

I have to work to make a living.  Duh.  But apparently not a "duh" for everyone.  I'm sorry if by my holding a stable day job which just happens to involve contact with fecal matter undercuts my life's successes.  On the contrary, my poop-handling sheds light on what I am most proud of.  At this time, because of my JOB, I can afford voice lessons.  I can also afford therapy, without which I'd be faced with pushing an emotional boulder uphill while simultaneously refining my musicality and vocal range.  It is because of my JOB that I can afford to take classes and continue my evolutionary artistic journey.  I come in skin to skin contact with poop in order to clear the path for my artistic self.  I believe, more than anything, this attests to my enthusiasm for life and everything I love.  If you had a different dream for me, I'm sorry I let you down.  If you think I need help, you're probably right, but if you're convinced I specifically need your personal brand of help, I suggest examining why your desire to help pushes you to the edge of insult.  Advice should be an offering rather than a demand, especially when the advice is unsolicited.  If you find yourself attempting to shame someone into taking your advice, you could be missing the point.

I'm doing just fine and I'm proud to be a hard worker.  Somehow, if these were my kids I was caring for and not someone else's, I doubt I would come off as so desperate for an intervention by those who would gain so much more from my "success" than I would.

Sunday ramblings

I have nothing to write about, which is why I feel it's important that I write something.  I go back and read past entries and I fight the urge to edit and tweak.  I don't like a lot of my entries because they serve as a reflection of self characteristics that I'm not proud of.  I want to leave my posts up as is because I have to be brave enough to be judged and criticized.  I'm coming around to the realization that I'll have to face my demons soon, both mentally and potentially socially, and it's time to make a change.  This is not the moment the change will begin as I've already taken steps to begin the process of rebuilding.  I'm working hard to clear out the junk and allow myself to embody the person I would want to be friends with.

There are certain truths I accept with a certain amount of irony and ownership, which for me is important in order to keep from taking myself too seriously.  I'm more abrasive than I realize or intend to be.  I'm okay with that.  I don't think it's always the ideal way to interact, but it's me and as long as I know it and keep it in check it's a part of me worth preserving.  I like this personality quirk because it is so very much me, and I like that part of me.

I've been taking voice lessons for a couple of months now and it's the best decision I've made.  I've found an amazing teacher who I swear lives inside my head.  She knows exactly what to say and how to say it to help me let go and get the most out of my singing.  The time and energy I'm putting toward improving my singing has opened the gate for me to put everything back in perspective and make sense out of my life.  I want to live life openly and honestly.  I don't want to be scared of anything.

I invested in new headshots.  I've renewed subscriptions to Backstage and other audition sites.  I'm looking at take writing and standup comedy classes.  I'm ready to dance again.  I want to go back to school.  I found a therapist to meet with once a week.  I want to give myself a chance.  I don't have a plan, but it feels good to want something.  It feels good to have come home.

I'm not a good actor.

Recently something was brought to my attention that rattled me while at the same time providing an ironic sense of clarity.  After my split from Adam, the most insulting and hurtful thing I had heard said about our relationship was (in regards to our wedding), "They looked so in love.  They must be really good actors."  My first reaction to this statement was Wow, that's really low, followed by a flash of mental fuck-you's.  This comes up now because recently two people in my family with whom I'm close and know me well said something similar, with almost no tone of ignorance.  I quickly, but nicely, said "We weren't acting.  We had a lot of love.  I fought harder for that relationship than I've ever fought for anything in my life."  I loved him so much, and I fought tooth and nail to make it to our wedding day.  I made excuses, I lied to everyone around me, I withheld information that would damage his character.  I went to counseling up until the last minute.  In more than one counseling session I was bombarded with the notion that we weren't going to make it because there was no way we could.  Too much damage had been done for us to move forward in a permanent way and blossom into a happy and healthy marriage.  There's something incredibly poignant about standing on an elevated train platform in the middle of February during one of the worst winter storms I experienced during my time in Chicago, tears rolling down my face and standing rigid in the unbearable wind, and feeling so devastatingly lost and angry that the combination of wind and snow stinging my face felt good.  I remember thinking at that moment, this is one of the lowest points in my life.  I also remember thinking there's no way we can stay together.  Four months out from my wedding and I'm standing in the cold grappling with the knowledge that we will not make it.  I gritted my teeth on that platform and swallowed the nagging possibility of calling it quits.  I'm not a quitter and I wasn't ready to give up.

I'll never work that hard again simply because I can't.  If I could work that hard and still manage to fail then there's no point in working that hard.  I still have the ability to love and to give myself to people in friendship and companionship, but I'll never again feel the instinct to go down fighting.  I gave him my self and I trusted his judgement and opinions.  I loved him with everything I had.  I loved him more than I loved myself.  If there was one thing present at that wedding, it was love.  Unconditional, fighting, sacrificial love, I believe on both of our parts.  I'm not a good actress.  I could never physically get up in front of a room of people and put on that kind of show.  I can't speak for him.

The fact that people who know me well, who aren't prone to ignorant comments made me realize that the previously uttered statement hadn't been heartless babble, but rather that's the only way people could fill in the gaps and make sense of what happened.  I'm putting it out there now for anyone who's will to read my ramblings:

I was not acting.  I loved him very much.  Eventually I snapped and obliterated our relationship.  I felt a neurological shift and I destroyed our future together.  I caused pain and poisoned friendships.

I feel no remorse for him.  Toward others I hurt in the process, I regret the confusion and pain I caused.  Toward him, I feel nothing.  He lied.  He continues to lie.  He is a fraud and a liar, and I feel nothing for him.

I'm not a good actor.  That's all I really wanted to say.

There's a vital organ on your counter. Put it back in the fridge.

HHEEEEYY... ho.  Why, yes, I'm attempting to do this AGAIN!  Believe it or not I actually write entries that I don't post because I hate them.  Or better yet I don't have the energy or attention span to extrapolate on my sudden, ill-timed motivated topic.  I'm pretty sure the main issue is the lack of theme pertaining to this blog.  But to attach a theme would destroy the meaning of my having a blog because (alert: metaphor ahead) I DON'T HAVE A THEME TO MY LIFE.  No, really.  Most people have one, some, or all of the following:

1. A marriage.  Yeah, I had that.  Silly me for thinking I could get by pretending to be normal.  Silly Anna, normalcy is for everyone but you.

2. Kids.  This is complicated because I don't have my own kids, and as much as my pelvic region is screaming for fertilization, I look at my life and become a abundantly aware that absolutely everything about my life that makes me happy would be completely and utterly destroyed by fruitfully multiplying.  And quite honestly, the most catastrophic thing I could do to the world (Earth Day reference) is to spare human kind additional Anna's running amok.  Sure, it would prove to be entertaining and provide a healthy cloud of confusion to replace our ever thinning ozone layer, but I'm somewhat of a nut job and we are currently saddled with our fair share of clowns.

Why is this social norm complicated?  Because I don't have kids, but I DO have kids.  I have the kids that come in and out of my life, leaving a trail of joy, sadness, longing, and income.

Why my job is easier than parenting:  At the end of the day I return to my self-centered reality complete with bed, DVR, and managing my time alternating between crossword puzzles and Cooking Dash.  And Jeopardy on my phone.  I spend long bouts of the evening revving myself up for a trip to the bathroom or to the kitchen to feed my hole.  All perfectly understandable having spent my day with toddlers (my most common age group because God hates me) who serve as compact, precarious time bombs.  One wrong move and my eardrums become useless.  It serves as a fun game; how quickly can I complete the current task before the unpredictable specimen implodes.

I go home to my life which better resembles my mid 20's than my actual mid 20's.  It's actually way better.  For one thing I'm smarter and have less tolerance for disingenuous people.  My ability to spot bullshit is far better than my gaydar, which has only improved slightly since high school.  So basically I went from a D- to a solid C.  I would deserve an F if I had married or engaged in a long-term relationship with I.T. Closet, but I managed to sustain relationships with guys, who despite all appearances, bore no attraction to men.  Many have pointed out that my ex husband is gay.  He's not.  In fact, he's a pig.  A big flaming pig.  Basically all the femininity with a heaping scoop of simple-minded ego.  I know how to pick 'em.  I do, however, know how to pick my friends, and they are who I go home to after a long work day.  I don't just mean my house, though my roommates very much fulfill the definition of family, but the homes of close friends on the way home; making a quick trip to Ross, cooking dinner, or drinking wine on a patio.  The idea of being unfulfilled due to lack of children is more of a suggested source of anxiety than a personal affliction.  As I write this my uterus is punching me in the mouth.

Why my job is more difficult than parenting: Because I'm never the first choice.  This sounds self-centered, and it would be if it were generally applicable, but it's more of a series of abrupt reminders, like getting poked with a sharp pin.  I love these children (not all of them, come on now, of course I have my favorites.  I'm aloud because I'm not a parent. *adding to previous paragraph*) with every fiber of my being.  In a couple very special instances, I love them so much it physically hurts.  I love them in a way I never knew possible, and I can love them in this way appropriately as their caregiver without infringing on the bonds between parent and child.  In these few unique scenarios the parents are very much aware of my devotion and embrace it as genuinely as it's put forth.  I think this is what makes me a good at my job.  I didn't have to study or read books, I simply found a source to focus my love and happiness that feels unsuitable to exude in any other context.  I love them so much my eyes are welling up just thinking about it, but they are not mine, which means they leave my life as swiftly as they entered.  I allow my heart to sit out on the counter because it allows me to give the best of myself to one small faction of my life, but it gets left out overnight and lingers as a haunted dried up remnant of its former self.  This is no one's fault.  It's the job, and the heartbreak is the manifestation of the importance and relevancy of what I do.  As a result I have a purpose, but my heart is feeling stretched out and gradually weakening in resiliency.

The idea of having my own child serves as a temporary emotional bandage while navigating the pain of  my maternal emptiness.  Making my own parenting decisions, being the most wanted and most influential.  Sometimes you want something so bad and you don't know why.  There are pictures I can't look at because I can't handle the separation.  There are songs I can't sing and books I can't read.  I can, but it leaves a dull ache in my chest and a coagulated mix of regret, loneliness, and anxiety.  It's not something I talk about because I will cry, and I fucking hate crying in front of people.  I'm an ugly crier and typically leaves me with a migraine.

I'm astutely aware of the things I have that other don't.  I'm aware of the things others have that I don't.  I know some of the reasons why, for which some I'm grateful and others I'm angry.  The anger feels like a cop-out emotion, but it exists all the same.  I don't treat it with the same amount of validity and rather more like a symptom than a tool for self improvement.  It's there when I need it, like a spare tire, but it's not reliable for a road trip.  Anger doesn't carry you to your final destination.  It will typically leave you stranded at the side of the road screaming at dead possums.


In case you're wondering, I'm very aware that my posts start in one place and end up scattered in million pieces all over my neurological junkyard.  I've tried to curb this habit, which admittedly prevents my posting on a regular basis.  Apparently I can't fit into any box.  I'm too squirmy.


I'm half-assed proof reading this installment of typed pontifications (one of my favorite words), so feel free to correct any and all errors.  If you attempt to give me an English lesson, know that I'm aware of my MLA ignorance and don't give a fuck as I believe I have a firm grasp on contractions, which settles nicely with my C Average.  Also, my uterus will punch you in the mouth.

Dead Bird

Today I posted a Facebook status expressing my opinion regarding the widespread criticism directed at CNN for trivializing the crime committed by the ass clowns in Ohio who are now on their way to Juvie.  I felt the criticism was an overreaction, which I know is not the most popular opinion, but it happens to be mine.  A couple of close friends (from high school whom I love!!!  we were definitely friends in high school.  if you don't get this joke that's okay because you're clearly not still living in Spring of 2012) did not agree with my sentiment and a discussion was had.  I wasn't able to participate in said discussion in real time because I was blowing bubbles and eating snack.  Upon arriving home this evening I found myself caught up in making a late appearance to the party and attempting to clarify my position.  It's just my opinion.  I have a blog, so I thought I'd kill two birds with one stone.  Without further ado, I present to you: Dead Bird.

Note to self; don't post controversial Facebook status updates when you have no idea when children will begin waking up in preparation for an afternoon of INSANITY.  That's right, I said children.  There are two and they're the same age, and they're mastering the art of walking and MASS DESTRUCTION.  Second mistake; believing in any universe at any time I could attempt to clarify my points, let alone defend my position while pushing one child on a swing while the other is using a bright pink Fisher Price slide to test the laws of gravity.  My ability to mentally multitask between weighing the ethics of sympathizing with rapists under the age of 18 with the anthropological phenomenon that is modern technology and the increasing ease with which people, specifically young people left behind by Darwin like the children of Neverland, self incriminate and the unsettling power of the Media to sway public opinion and create additional controversy in an effort to boost ratings, while simultaneously reflecting on how far we've come in the engineered development of bubble blowing, encouraging the expression of love through gentleness rather than inadvertently smacking or strangling a beloved peer which then leads to a confusing and unpredicted reaction to a primal, well-meant intention, cataloguing creative ways to articulate to toddlers why we go down the slide, not up (it's not the "right" way, it's the "safe" way), and weighing the pros and cons of disposable verses reusable diapers and questioning how committed I am to saving the planet in comparison to my underwhelming desire to have more than absolutely necessary contact with fecal matter indicative of children who really like fruit, is impressive if I do say so myself.  So forgive me if I came off as flip and pro-rape earlier today.

Again, I did not see the news coverage, I read an article which included a transcript of the controversial comments and sentiments made by CNN anchors.  I don't feel sorry for these boys.  I think their sentence is well deserved and this brand of zero-tolerance needs to become the status quo.  Rape has never been taken seriously enough and while these boys are being appropriately punished, the sad fact is this girl will continue to be wrongfully victimized by the inevitable backlash from rapist sympathizers in her small town.  It's not fair that she's been violated in such a cruel and humiliating fashion and will without a doubt find herself dodging ignorant comments and the stigma of being "the girl who was raped in Steubenville".

Now... *climbing up on my soapbox*;  The verdict has been reached and the boys are going to jail.  Their lives are permanently altered in a negative and very public way, and the invoked punishment barely scratches the surface of vindicating the victim and her family.  However, I don't think it's out of line to report the emotional reactions of the perpetrators and lament the unyielding stupidity and highly inflated sense of self-importance and fabricated expectation of immunity, fed by the unnecessary adoration of concussed minors wearing spandex and protective head gear as they haphazardly plow into each other while they grunt in their own developed language.  Yeah, dudes, it sucks that your life is ruined.  That's what happens when you RAPE SOMEONE.  While it's deserved, they emotionally reacted, and what I find interesting and powerful is the contrast between boys desecrating a young woman in an effort to prove their manhood and dominance over women and the whole town, and then (the same) boys vulnerably weeping in a courtroom because their finally being held accountable in a very serious and permanent way.  i.e. Real men don't rape women, and if they do they will be punished, and you can cry about it all you want but it doesn't change the severity of the consequences.  The message is if you rape someone, you too can and hopefully will find yourself in a courtroom crying like a little bitch because you're the opposite of a man; you're a coward desperate to prove and maintain a sense of superiority.  Everything you have has been taken away because you thought you had the right to violate a human being, and further believed you had the right, or even the impulse, to laugh and brag about it.  And now you can publicly cry in the face of your abundant idiocy.  I don't see this as lamenting their ruined lives, but rather lamenting (I've been in mourning for a while and I haven't seen my reflection in a good long time) the stupidity fueling sexism and the heightened importance of football culture, as well as the overwhelming evidence of reversed evolution because Darwinian theory is no match for the increasing world population and modern technology (and Media).

All this being said, I'm disturbed by the suggestion that I don't qualify as a feminist because I don't see a place for extraneous outrage.  I often feel as though the most staunch and zealous Feminists experience a compulsion to have one last yell.  CNN's coverage was inappropriate and questionable in taste and motive, and I think drawing attention to the counter-productive message sent by their misguided empathy is very much worth discussion.  I don't, however, feel it necessary to light up the torches and KILL THE BEAST.  I can't relate to the outrage, but I think CNN should re-evaluate their approach to covering a story of this emotional magnitude.  I don't think my alliance with the Feminist Movement should be in question because I'm not pissed off.  Disturbed, sure, but not pissed off.  My angry eyes are tired from driving in LA.

Writer's block results in verbal diarrhea.

Hey, remember that time I was starting a blog?  You thought I forgot or tossed it by the wayside along with the rest of my New Year's resolutions?  You are WRONG!  I have attempted no less than 4 times to write a new post.  Every time I get sick of myself, which doesn't bode well for the popularity of my online persona, which is pretty dead on in sync with my in-person persona.  I think it translates better in person.  Or, horror of horrors, it doesn't and the vast majority of people hate me.  Just know, regardless, I don't force anything.  My pontifications are genuine and if they're not shared with cyber land my next drinking buddy victim will be forced to serve as the receptical.  The difference for said victim is most of the time they won't get up and walk away because they don't want to be mean, but they may not be interested in Anna's current installment of AND FURTHER MORE.......  Think of this forum as a favor to those individuals who are brave enough to withstand a loyal friendship with my abrasive self.  By the way, I was informed recently that I'm abrasive.  When I sought a second, third, and fourth opinion, I was met with a sudden change of topic.  That's alright, maybe I'm abrasive, or maybe you're just a pansy.  JUST KIDDING!!!  But honestly, of COURSE I'm abrasive.  I'm a 5'1" female who has often been treated as anything but.  Grown men screaming in my face in the work place.... yes, this has happened more than once, being terrorized by the evil and much larger boys who lived in my neighborhood who would partake in such thrilling activities as kicking me in the crotch, my mother encouraging me as a child to punch people who could easily kill me and make it look like an accident in less than five minutes....... yes, I suppose I'm abrasive.  Have you met my mother?  Better yet, have you met my sister?  I didn't know at the time but apparently a handful of high school friends were afraid of my mom because she yelled all the time.  I thought she was just talking.  Is loud talking considered yelling?  Hence my inability to assess the appropriate volume of my voice.  As for my sister.... the previously mentioned bullies took my bike and taunted me by riding it around in circles and refusing to give it back.  I went home crying and the next thing I knew my sister had left and come back with my bike and refused to tell us what she did to get it back.  No one ever stole my bike again.  In fact, that may have been when the majority of the bullying stopped.  She's now been a child protective services social worker for well over a decade.  My point?  I. am. a. princess.

I spent most of my teen years and early life striving to be as badass as my female role models, so I'm now regarded as having a foul mouth and have proven to be easily capable of making people cry.  I've never punched anyone.... does that count for anything?  Besides the fact that I almost have more than once?  Anyway, apparently I'm abrasive so I won't be going back to the theatre I was working at last summer.  The one where I had a calm, rational conversation with my misogynistic boss with anger management issues and a heart of gold (I'm not joking, I actually think he's a really cool guy) explaining that he didn't need to talk to me like I was a piece of shit under his shoe (no, I didn't really say that).  I told him I liked him and respected him and that I thought he was really good at this job, all of which I meant.  Thus, I am abrasive.  To be fair there were plenty of moments over the summer where I could be easily labeled as such, but last I checked I was working in a theatre.  "Was it something I said?" should be engraved on my tombstone.

I don't have a theme for my blog (which is probably my number one problem), but as my URL would suggest and as mentioned previously, I'm an over-sharer. The best part is most of the time I'm not aware that I'm over-sharing.  i.e. I thought everyone talks openly about these things.  Nope!  Oops.  I was always that kid who would stop being invited over because I knew too much and considered it my duty to spread my discoveries to my fellow youth.  I served as an innocence vacuum (kind of like the Angel of Death, parents would put blood on the door and I was no longer invited over for play dates) which is probably why I ended up predominantly hanging out at the neighborhood drug house (the house no one else was allowed to go near), which was my favorite place to be because there were always new people "stopping by".  Every day we met new ladies often with their own children in tow, with whom we would play, while they took the opportunity to "relieve some tension" and were almost always very nice to us, probably because we kept their kids entertained while they conducted business as usual.  One time we were choreographing a dance to Paula Abdul's "Opposites Attract" while a paraplegic boy watched a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles animated movie on loop while his mother was "unavailable".  He was a sweet kid and I felt bad for him because he couldn't walk and I thought it'd be boring to have to watch the same movie over and over again in a stranger's house.  I hope he liked our dancing.  Besides all these sources of entertainment, I really liked going to their house because I could drink as much Coke as I wanted.  Isn't interesting how kids filter incoming stimuli?

Before condemning my parents' for their lack of concern as to my whereabouts, I will swoop to their defense as the years I spent hanging out at the Prostitution School for Girls taught me that it was okay to like certain aspects of people without necessarily agreeing with their choices, and more importantly that I wasn't better than my friend because I had a big, clean house with two parents.  It also taught me that my parents trusted me and knew I would tell them if anything bad happened.  The dad was a really nice person and my parents really liked him.  Yes, he was a single dad raising two daughters in a house that somehow slipped under the radar of Child Protective Services with a roommate who looking back had NO business being left alone with a gaggle of little girls (again, he was the nicest person and nothing inappropriate ever happened), but it didn't take away from the fact that this dad, for all his faults, loved his girls and did the best he knew how to take care of them, which was obvious due to their docile and loving demeanors.  The heart of a person is not always completely in sync with their perceived environment, i.e. don't misjudge the good in people because they're different or unconventional.  Nothing bad ever happened to me at that house.  This girl was my best friend and it would have really sucked if I hadn't been allowed to play at her house.  Though I still think it's hilarious that while hanging out on the other OTHER side of the tracks was no big deal, I was not allowed to own a Big Wheel (because I wouldn't hear cars coming) or walk to the grocery store by myself.  Ok, fine, I'll just go look at porn magazine's at my friend's house.  The arbitrary nature of set rules in the McKie house was lost on me, but provides me plenty of present-day entertainment upon evaluation.

In conclusion, my gauge for appropriateness is about as accurate as the compass application I downloaded for my phone.  I rarely understand the big deal behind words, turns of phrase, or risque subject matter.  This is why (this is going to appear to be a cheap shot, but I really and truly am using this instance as an example to highlight my point) when my ex husband called me a cunt on our honeymoon, I didn't put as much stake into the word as I suppose I should have.  To me, it was just a word.  I didn't know it was any worse than calling someone a bitch, which isn't nice either, but I didn't know it had infamous societal stigma.  I didn't know it was generally regarded as the worst thing you could call a woman.  To me it was just one more instance of Adam being Adam.  It actually continues to be further down the list in my mind of the worst things he said to me.  Words are just words, but maintain weight and significance through the intended use and context.  Inappropriate subjects, in line with things that happen to many or all of us and "just aren't talked about", fly completely over my head.

When I wrote my diatribe last summer upon receiving Adam's settlement check with "For a divorce" written in the memo line, I knew taking a picture and ranting on Facebook might seem shocking and embarrassing to other people, but for me personally it wasn't an overshare.  It's what happened.  Nothing I said was a lie, and the check was there in my hand.  This was my reality and I didn't understand why I shouldn't be allowed to talk about it.  More so, Facebook is a passive activity.  You don't have to read what I write.  You don't even have to leave the room like you would in person, you simply keep scrolling or hide my feed.  Why should I have to keep my experiences a secret?  Everyone who has timidly inquired about my divorce has received a candid and painfully honest explanation.  I have nothing to hide.  This is what happened, this is where I went wrong and this is where I learned my lesson.  Why is that shameful?  Why is anything I say or do perceived as shameful?  Secrecy is not a life test we should have to pass.  Bottling up our feelings and opinions should not be the end goal.  You're not a hero for keeping quiet.  I kept quiet and it blew up in my face.  Sometimes telling the truth can also blow up in your face, but since we can rarely un- know something I manage to get some semblance of my point across, for whatever it's worth.

Bloggy blog blog

Blog, blog, blog......

I like blogging.  My lack of blogging over the past week has been due to the dire need to accomplish more pressing tasks (yes, THIS is what happens every time I start a blog).  But I enjoy blogging, therefore I'm going to make time to blog.  New Years Resolution for the win.

One task I've been spending a lot of time on this week is scanning a sea of family pictures, though if you're my friend on FB this is not news as random baby pictures and my parents' mugs from the 1960's keep popping up on my feed.  The catalyst for said project has been due to the passing of my Great Aunt Eleanor.  She passed away Christmas Eve, and the month prior my parents flew down to the Inland Empire to sort through her things and assure her all matters were being handled.  I hadn't seen her in years, but I always liked her and she was a good woman.

We said goodbye to her in the typical McKie fashion.... just the right amount of respect mixed in with our own brand of humorous flair.  I'm not sure if other families can compose a list of hilarious quotes uttered at a funeral, but few would be shocked to know the McKies' got it covered.  Between my threatening to leave when I suspected my dad was about to break into a series of viola jokes (you heard me, and yes, this all happened in front of the Rabbi and the Mortuary Director), attempting to "check in" to the cemetery on Facebook (this was before the service and right before I went in with my dad to identify my Aunt's body), as well as introducing Sara and myself to the Rabbi as Statler and Waldorf (you can't take us anywhere), my dad boisterously interjecting that a relative referred to during the service "was a redhead", all tied up with my mom asking me if I knew the words to the song the Rabbi was singing ("The Way We Were") as the casket was being lowered into the ground, to which I replied "No, I really dislike Barbra Streisand", upon which my sister's attempt to maintain what was left to be salvaged of the respect and class we had just barely witheld through the service was put to the ultimate test as she laughed silently with tears rolling down her face while we simultaneously held my mom as she cried, saying goodbye to an Aunt who was more emotionally defined as her older sister.  Though my description makes us sound like horrible people, I'd like to think we made it easier on my mom by saying goodbye to Aunt Eleanor in the way we know how, and while she pretends to be embarrassed by our antics, even in times of sorrow we know she loves our unpredictable behavior.  We get the Susi Smirk (TM).  Of course my dad's ill-timed joke in the car on the way home about how Aunt Eleanor wouldn't be "living" at the cemetery managed to cross that line only my dad can get away with crossing.

In all seriousness, we loved our Aunt Eleanor.  She was the youngest of 4, my grandmother being the oldest.  She was kind and generous, even to an extent I wasn't aware of until her passing.  She gave great hugs and would always be ready to greet us with Costco muffins and Gameboys.  She was very close with my mom and a very important member of our family.  She was very weak when I went to see her in the nursing home, but I could tell she was happy to see me and would squeeze my hand in succession to communicate the sentiment.  I sat with her for a while, holding her hand and staring into her thin, barely recognizable face.  After being with her for a few minutes and had adjusted to her present state, to me she still looked very much like her.  I realized it's an honor to spend time with someone at the end of their life.  Her allowing me to spend those precious moments with her at the end of her journey felt like a gift.  A Les Mis lyric came to me (not a rare occurrence); "To love another person is to see the face of God.", because in that moment those words made sense.  I don't really believe in God, but if there is some semblance of a higher power I'm certain I saw it in her face.

So here I am with Aunt Eleanor's family pictures, which tell the story of her life and celebrate the people she loved.  I'm slowly but surely creating a digital archive which I will then back up several times over.  I don't want to be the asshole who lost the family pictures.

Day 2; this is going well

Hey, look at me blogging again.  Now this is what I call commitment.

It's easy to post another blog so soon since I didn't work today.  I happen to be one of the lucky ones who actually loves going to work.  There are of course days when my desire to stay in bed or my brain is exploding with a list of due-today tasks when I'd rather not go to work, but I'm always happy when I arrive and often look forward to it.

I didn't sleep at all last night.  This is the first time in a very long time this occurrence has plagued me, but the familiar anxiety came rushing back as if it were once again a frequent issue.  I've had trouble sleeping since I was a kid.  I've always had a lot of anxiety surrounding the topic of sleep, since there was a notable period of time during which I didn't understand what happens to one's body while sleeping.  I remember laying awake at night going back as far as I can remember, blinking with purpose and trying desperately to do what everyone else seemed to do so easily.  I was always the only one awake (except of course when I was a baby and would scream through the night, proving my dad obviously did something very wrong in a past life), and for hours I would stare at the ceiling failing to understand why I seemed to be the only person who didn't know how to sleep.  For awhile I was afraid to go to sleep because I didn't understand how I could close my eyes and wake up after hours had passed with no recollection of any events in between.  I was afraid I was dying and then coming back to life.  I was scared that one morning I wouldn't wake up.

This anxiety carried on into my adulthood.  Not because I currently think I die and come back to life over the course of the night, but rather because I never knew when a bout of insomnia would strike.  Without fail I would blame myself for my inability to sleep.  I drank too much caffeine that day.  I didn't turn off the TV when I should have.  I tried to turn off the TV, but I wasn't tired yet and laid there bored out of my mind for a good long while and eventually caved and turned it back on.  Then I'd berate myself for giving in to TV watching.  Then as every minute ticked by I would fret over what this would mean for the upcoming day.  Would I be able to function?  Was my day going to be completely ruined?  Was I going to manage to make it through the day at all since I always had more commitments lined up for me than most adults had three times over?  What could I have done to prevent this?  What did I do wrong?  Why can't I sleep like everyone else?  The minutes would tick by and with every passing digital number these thoughts would snowball and I'd find myself immobilized, frustrated, and hating myself.  The worst part was knowing that even though I hadn't managed to so much as doze off throughout the night, it was entirely likely, in spite of my immeasurable exhaustion, that I would probably be staring at the clock through another lonely, quiet night by myself.

Then one day a miracle happened.  I was diagnosed with OCD.  I'm not being facetious, this diagnosis is arguably the best thing that's ever happened to me.  When you're diagnosed with OCD your Fairy Goddoctor appears and writes you prescriptions for magic pills.  Before you start calling in the local Prescription-Drug Addict Anonymous chapter, I'll assure you that the medicine I've been taking for over a year now has changed my life so much for the better I can't describe the relief with enough specificity to make it worth attempting to explain.  I know many people can relate to the epiphany that comes with discovering, as a wise friend eloquently articulated, that you haven't been "playing with a full deck", at ANY point in your life.  There's a great relief in realizing that you have been doing the best you can with what you had, and that it's not the status quo to feel like a slave to rituals, obsess over gruesome images and terrifying scenarios, have to count while staring at evidence in order to fully accept that a task has been completed, to be completely paralyzed by fear when faced with the necessary task of confronting an uncomfortable, awkward, or volatile situation because you're afraid if challenged you'll fall apart and burst into tears because you can't handle rejection.  OCD is not an uncommon disorder, and I'm willing to bet at least a few of you reading this want to jump through your computer monitor and shake me yelling "Yes! Yes!  My WHOLE LIFE I've felt this way and experienced the same or very similar thoughts and felt controlled by actions I've felt forced to perform without any sense of reason or logic!"  At least that's what I was screaming in my head throughout my research which eventually led to my seeking medical help.  In spite of the depths of my research and accumulating knowledge on the subject of anxiety disorders, I still continue to be amazed that I was able to function from day to day.  I never want to work that hard again.

The magic pills entered into my world at an eerily appropriate time.  I was cognitively aware that I had hit rock bottom, but unlike many people who find themselves drowning in depression, I don't hide under the covers with the shades drawn and leave my phone unanswered.  I do just the opposite by grasping frantically for a connection to anything I can, as if I'm drowning and floundering to keep from sinking to the bottom.  I go into hyperactive overdrive, tirelessly searching for an escape route in the form of a life challenge and redefined purpose with an untiring determination to prove I'm not what I'm afraid I'll become.  My career, identity, and pubic acceptance hang by a thread and I need to fix it before anyone finds out it's all about to come crashing down.  If my life was the Berlin Wall I'd be running around frantically with a bottle of superglue believing wholeheartedly that I can put the pieces back to together before the wall is entirely dismantled, and all the while people are squeezing through the cracks, finally getting an impressionable glimpse of what life's been like on the other side.

I take Zoloft for my OCD paired with Trazodone as a sleep aide.  The Trazodone has, in addition to providing me predictable and consistent sleep for the first time in my life, obliterated a prominent source of worry and dread I've spent my life trying to conquer.  All is well and good in Anna's Happy Land of controversial, mind-altering, societal-numbing pill consumption.  So why couldn't I sleep last night?  I was out of pills.

For once I could not  unabashedly point my accusatory finger at Rite Aid, but goddamn I wanted to.  The responsibility for the missing refill objectively lies on me, but the persistent domino effect of careless, inattentive, unprofessional customer service for which I 've created a mental voodoo doll which I stab relentlessly with an oversized butcher knife had a lot to do with the mixup.

I knew as soon as I was unable to locate any spare or leftover pills there was a very good chance I wouldn't be sleeping before morning.  I gave it my best try, but sleep aides, even when taken under the most legitimate and controlled of circumstances, are habit forming.  You have to wean yourself off, as in "I don't have to do anything tomorrow, so tonight would be a good night to risk a sleepless night in hopes that I'll be able to fall asleep on my own the following evening".  But when I suddenly don't have any pills at 2am and have to work at 9:30 the next morning I find myself in the familiar panic I've been fortunate to be free of for over a year.

I've spent most of the day frustrated with myself, going over and over in my head all the ways this situation could have been prevented.  I knew I should have double checked my purchase over the course of the days which I meticulously allowed to steer clear of any further issue with the pharmacy from hell.  I often don't know if the nagging voice insisting on the completion of neurotic tasks is a product of my OCD (even at a daily dose of 200mg I still struggle, but not in any way close to where I was prior to treatment), or if it's my gut preemptively signaling a potential problem.  I'd like to proclaim that I will now take control and let it go by halting the cycle of recurring thoughts and what-if's, but the truth is I will continue to weave in and out of recounting recent events until I have slept and tomorrow returns to my version of normal.

Hey, look at me.  I'm starting a blog.  For what... the 4th time?  I'm committed this time.  It's one of my resolutions for the coming year.

I do not think I'm very important.  Nothing I have to say is more important or interesting than what you have to say.  I just happen to enjoy writing, and I don't see the point in writing if it goes unread.  I'm putting my business out there.  Anna "TMI" McKie at your service.

Reservations about blogging:

1. Current and present employers.  The internet is a sea of reasons not to hire me, or better yet perceived reasons not to hire me.  I want very much to be a badass and proclaim that any potential employer who reads my blog and decides I'm an unfit pick is an employer I care not to work for.  This is obviously a load of shit since even in a good economy I don't want to rattle the cage and risk much needed income.  Now is when I proclaim that we are servants to cultural censorship and we should be free to express ourselves in a public forum.  This is also bullshit.  It's not about my right to do anything, it's knowing from experience and common fucking sense that people have opinions, many which differ from mine, including but not limited to the following:

*I swear too much.

*I fail to present myself as a lady, which is not meant to sound tongue and cheek.  I often prefer to be treated as a lady, but don't expect as much when I fail to act like one.  Treating me like a lady is the accepted default.  Once I open my mouth I know all bets are off.

*It's unsightly to share one's dirty laundry.  This falls under the you-don't-have-to-read-what-I-write tab.  I don't say this to be rude or to give myself permission to verbally vomit all over the internet, but I think it's important that we individually decide our level of comfort with what and how much we share about ourselves.  I find more often than not the more I share the easier it is for me to connect with others.  I've also found that people who share personal stories with me are granting me the opportunity to step outside myself and assess my own experiences.  When I share my personal stories and life events I'm comforted to discover that I'm not the only one who feels what I feel or has experienced what I experienced.  It helps me feel less alone and it makes me feel good.

My family tends to not overshare.  We overshare with each other, but not publicly.  I have exceedingly liberal parents and they support my endeavors, but I'm acutely aware of the fact that I occasionally publicly share what they consider to be private.  This will always make me feel subconscious and a little defensive, but it's important to me to find the right balance that allows me to openly share while not driving my parents to an early grave.  My plan is to speak with as much class as possible through a forest of F bombs.

2012 was a unique year.  The unexpected life changes 2012 had in store were abrupt, disorienting, and surreal to say the least.  I believe it's a story worth telling.  I'm sure many would disagree, and that's okay.  Some would consider it an overshare, and that's okay, too.  I respectfully invite you to not read my blog, because I have a lot to say and you might not like it.  It may cause you to gossip or say unflattering things about me.  You may think I'm a liar or that I'm spinning my stories in order to present myself in a more flattering light.  I'll tell you, one of my most striking discoveries in the past year is how liberating it is to own my mistakes and my faults.  I'm not perfect and never claimed to be.  I do the best I can from day to day, and I can say with little hesitation that I am a good person and I have enough empathy to fill a sinkhole.  I've struggled with guilt and personal labels.  I can assure you that nothing I write is a lie.  My writing is biased because it's me writing about my experiences as I experienced them, but I am not a liar.  The facts are intense enough without my embellishment.  My goal is not to demonize anyone.  I just want to tell my story.  

I don't believe in changing names.  I have no intention of changing anyone's name.  That doesn't mean I'll use surnames and social security numbers, but I'm not interested in preserving anyone's reputation.  Most of you know who I'm talking about anyway.

Please feel free to leave me comments and begin discussions with me or each other.  I promise to avoid being combative and I hope you in return will respect me and my position.

I've told many people over the past year that I was going to write this blog in an effort to hold myself accountable for following through.  I'm committed to keeping this promise to myself.