Tiny Indignities: Brought to You by Frankenboob

First, thank you. To everyone who has been so damn supportive and kind (and patient!) please know I appreciate it all.

Second, I'm ok. My awesome surgeon (who was VERY excited and happy in the pre-op room...something that I considered weird until I realized I WANT a surgeon who's passionate about his job) got it all. Both Francis and his sidekick have clear margins, which means the cancer hasn't spread outside the bits he cut out. My lymph node was also clear, which is a huge deal. Early detection, people. I'm a lucky girl.

Things are healing, I'm down to very occasional ice packs and ibuprofen, and I still can't do a hell of a lot (which makes me look at my kickboxing/MMA uniform bag AND, oddly enough, the remaining leaves in the back yard, with great sadness). I still don't know for certain about chemo. I don't see anyone for radiation until next Tuesday, so I don't exactly know when that'll start, but I suspect not until all my stitches are dissolved.

Tomorrow is my 2 week surgical follow up, although technically yesterday was the actual 2 week mark. Tomorrow is also my Oncology consult, because one of the door prizes for cancer is getting your very own specialty doc for pretty much forever.

I'm going through the intake paperwork for the Oncologist and am struck by the frank end-of-life preference questions.  Is it important to me to be able to feed myself. Is it important to me that my doctor tell me when I'll die. Is it important for me to not be a burden on my family/loved ones. Yeah. Morbid, I know, but here's the deal: Cancer is a disease that just progressively strips a person's dignity away, little bites at a time. I have a few (since the MRI boob-box debacle):

1. For a few hours on surgery day I was a radioactive superhero. Or at least Frankenboob was. Maybe not a superhero...could be the Hulk.Anyway.  I'm not as well read on gamma rays vs radioactive isotopes or whatever the hell was in those two little alien tracking devices the inserted into my breast that morning. All I know is after each one the nurse had to run a Geiger counter or something over me,which screamed (not me, the instrument) in the appropriate places. So I'm lying on a hospital bed in a darkened room with one boob just hanging out in the air for the doctor, nurse, and ultrasound tech (after he's stuck a needle in there twice...yep, I watched on the ultrasound machine) and the nurse had to wave a screaming wand over it. I mean, what better way to start my day?
2. After pre-op excitement (including yet another nurse who can't find my veins, resulting in multiple sticks and a delay in letting my peeps into the pre-op room to hang until I went to the OR), a 10 year old anesthesiologist stopped by. Doogie Howser is alive and administering Propofol and Fentanyl, you guys, and clearly I'm old. But hey, I got to walk in my breezy backless surgery gown and hot purple socks to the OR! 
3. Sorry kids, I didn't do or say anything weird in recovery that I know of. And the nurse isn't telling. She did say I have pretty eyes. I think. I was busy being proud I didn't have any pee-my-pants accidents in surgery (yes I'm certain: I had underwear on through surgery and they were still there when I got out). 
4. It took me three days (probably until the Propofol was mostly worn off) to realize SOMEONE had to hold me up in and wrap the mile long ace bandage around my boobs. I'm sure that was SUPER fun. I wonder if they dropped me...my feet hung off the table in the operating room, and that table isn't very wide.
5. I can't wear deodorant until the stitches in my armpit have fully dissolved and the steri strips fall off and the doctor says it's ok. 
1. Related: I have discovered that I am not a hippie. I would like my razor and deodorant back immediately, please. (Good Goddess, please for the sake of all our noses...give me back my deodorant.)
6. Hydrocodone prescriptions (that's Vicodin, if you aren't up on your opioid addiction literature) come with a stool softener. I'm suddenly 8,000 years old. 
7. Hydrocodone prescriptions apparently also come with a warning letter from the pharmacy. It arrived, detailing the "dangers of opioids" TWO WEEKS after I was done with the prescription. Helpful. 
8. Side effects of future treatments will be...well, they should be less awful than chemo, but less fun than getting a cavity drilled. 

We'll see after tomorrow...because maybe the biggest indignity is not knowing. Everything happens in increments, so there's an overall grieving process of what life was going to be like BC (before cancer) vs what it will be like AC (after cancer), PLUS a series of small stabs of worry every time a new test is run "just to confirm". My recent history with "just to confirm nothing's wrong" tests hasn't been great. 

I've filled out the Oncology form. I'm ready for tomorrow's appointments...dear MN: please go for the 1" snowfall tonight, not the 78" option, ok? I don't want to leave at 6am for my 9:30am appointment...and I need my surgeon to say I can deodorize again. 

Also, since I included boobs AND drugs in this post, HI NSA! 

An Unexpected Unpleasant Side Quest

So, it's easier to just put this into a blog post than repeat things over and over for peeps who don't know yet. I haven't been around much the past few weeks for writing or anything else (other than horror movies and related distractions) because I'm in the middle of a thing.

It turns out, finding out I have breast cancer is a cognitive pause in brain function, followed by a weird hotdish of panic, practicality, research, and learning how to just not know what the fuck is going on.

Get your mammograms, peeps. This is not how I expected to spend my favorite season.

Facts as of today:

• I have "Invasive Ductal Carcinoma" which is the most common (80% of all breast cancers, according to the Komen website) form. It's very small, very early, and wouldn't have been found without going to a routine mammogram. 
• I've done a couple of tests and have a couple more coming up, but overall the treatment right now is a lumpectomy scheduled for early November, and most likely a round of radiation after. 
• Final determination for treatment will be decided by the pathology results after surgery, so chemo/hormone therapy could still happen, but as of today not likely. 
• I am expected to recover fully - this is non-aggressive (Grade 1) and I've never heard "you're young" so often from anyone since I turned 40, but apparently my age and the size/grade make a HUGE difference. 

This is a shitty path to take, but right now it's just another series of things I have to fit into my schedule. That's not to say it's no big deal: the past couple of weeks have been full of terror, but today is good.

Today I have a plan.
And I'm convinced by my medical team it'll be ok.
And I need a good name for the tumah (it IS a tumah, and if you haven't seen Kindergarten Cop you're probably too young to read any of this post) so I can say I'm kicking its specific cancerous ass.

Fucked Up Things I've Discovered (so far):

1. I am WAY TOO TALL for the stupid half-gown shirt things used at the breast center. Sigh. I am not a midriff-baring-shirt person...wtaf. 
2. Everything after the radiologist says "we see something, you need a biopsy asap, how's next Tuesday" sounds like the Peanuts adults mumbling. 
3. Breast biopsy needles look like an ear piercing gun's meaner older sibling, and sound equally as obnoxious. 
4. Breast biopsy procedures look suspiciously like a Xenomorph's second mouth taking super fast tiny Alien bites on the ultrasound machine. WELL OF COURSE I WATCHED IT...do you know me?
5. Breast MRIs are significantly more undignified than anything I've done outside a gyno office. Yes, I'm certain my indignity has only just begun, but you know...that was a new one for me. You sort of kneel/lie face down on an unholy offspring of a massage table and udder-milking setup, with all upper body weight on the sternum and ribcage between/under the boobs, because they have to hang into boxes for the scans. There is no full breath to be had (just re-reading that sentence made me take a HUGE breath in), and the 1/2-milker-box thing takes up any extra space in the MRI tube.So there is NO room to adjust. Related: I really need to lose some weight. Also related: SURPRISE I'm not claustrophobic.  
6. Turns out I can be in a seriously uncomfortable position without moving for 20 minutes out of sheer stubborn refusal to have to do this bullshit again (if you move during the longest scan, 9 minutes, they reschedule you for another day). 
7. I am capable of meditating while my ribs bruise.
8. Spa music and noise cancelling headphones don't get rid of the MRI noise. 
9. No amount of music can distract from feeling a troupe of fairies frantically dancing on my back during the final scan. Fucking weird. 
10. MRI dye doesn't give you superpowers. I'm sorely disappointed. 

And now, I'm off to snuggle one of my favorite babies AND have dinner and watch horror movies with some of my favorite family.

Today is good. 

God Jul. It's ok to take a break.

It's two days until the winter solstice (well, in the Northern hemisphere, anyway), and five days to Christmas Eve. Various cable channels are all about Christmas movies. Main streets in my city are lit with non-denominational decorations - white and multi-colored lights on various trees, big bright snowflakes hanging from streetlamps, evergreens in the public areas hold stars and winking bits of color.

Parking lots in shopping areas stay crowded until late. The frenzy of holiday grocery and gift shopping creates an anxious energy and a noticeable lack of "seasonal good will". Company, school, and extended family holiday doings take extra time out of schedules, increasing the frenetic pace right along with the feelings evoked (whether they be fun, obligation-stress, amusement, energizing excitement, love, or pure painful enduring).

Some folk utterly adore this time of year for exactly that frenetic pace, for seeing friends and family they haven't seen in a year, for the grand panoply of holiday shopping. Some folk feel the weight of all the social shenanigans, schedulus-interruptus, and the deepening darkness like a bone-crushing slab of obligation. And then, there are all the people along the spectrum between the two. 

Socially, "light" during the Solstice manifests with all the gift shopping, fancy dinners, exchanges of treats, decorating trees, lighting candles, and all the work/family parties that give a framework of community. Companionship. A way to battle the weight of the dark. It's the dark season, after all, and no matter which religion (if any) you claim as yours the theme of this week of the year is consistently a need for light.

It's ok to take a break from all the craziness if you need it. Use that lovely concept of hygge: relax just a little and think or read a book or watch a movie or just REST. Sleep extra to fend off the viruses all those adorable germ-carrying children carry around with them. Drink a little tea on the non-party days to counter all those awesome drinks. Spend some time sweating physically (outside, at the gym, with your romantic partner...whatever works) to burn off the excellent treats. Finding a little balance, saying no when you need to, is all ok. Really. Relaxing a little gives you an opportunity to catch your breath and stay healthy in all the ways.

The weeks around the longest night give us a pause in regularly scheduled days between the end of one year and the beginning of the next. Whether you enjoy or loathe this season for the solitude, for family gatherings, for parties and glitz, for gift giving and receiving, for the spectacle: it's a good time to consider what really matters to you and to your life. And what's been bothering you: those things you've pushed off for the superfun season's sake.

Shadows are so scary, aren't they? Creatures live there, in the dim corners of the room untouched by the Christmas Tree lights. Loneliness lurks there, among the deep quiet after the sun goes down. Seasonal depression reaches out from under the bed or the unlit closet. So much of the activity this time of year is attempting to drive the shadows away, but we learn over and over in our lives that facing those fears is the way to kill them. Eleanor Roosevelt said we should do one thing every day that scares us...and change of any kind is uncomfortable. I use this time of year for evaluating my shadows: which ones could be let go? Which ones should be embraced as a healthy part of me, or needs some help to heal and remove? What clutter can I clear? 

Thinking about what to push out and what to pull into your universe when the light returns after the 21st gives you time to toss out the garbage in your head and move forward, because starting on December 22nd the light will come back. The annual pause in time will give way to all the potential of the next year.

Isn't that what the whole New Year Resolution thing is all about?

Adventures in Depression Pissed Off-Ed-Ness

Ah depressive angry insomnia, hello. It's been a long time. You're unwelcome, but since you're here...I'd like to take this midnight opportunity to rant, if I may.

 In the past couple of weeks I've NOT punched at least three people delivering the same flippant message under various guises: the perky cheerleader type, the concerned counselor type, the self-help blunt type. Do you know I've gotten to the point in these episodes that I don't bother explaining why that's not helpful? I actually just nod or say ok and change the subject, because I suppose I presume it's both a discomfort and a lack of experiential reference on their part.

Have you ever gone swimming in the deep end of the pool? Out in the middle of a lake? A couple miles off shore in the ocean? Ever find yourself suddenly exhausted and floundering, over your head?

Imagine that sensation in the pit of your stomach, your arms aching, legs so tired you can barely keep your chin out of the water, head tipped back to get as much air as possible in case a wave shoots water up your nose.

Now, imagine doing that in the dark.
In the sea.
In a raging storm.

The wind is blowing water into your eyes, howling around you. Waves tower over you, and you can't get your bearings between the crushing rounds shoving your head under. You've swallowed so much icy saltwater you gag every time the water smashes your face, and you feel nauseated even as you try to keep your head tilted to the sky for as much air as you can gulp between hits. You have NO IDEA which direction shore might be, and you're too tired to actually swim there anyway. Something huge just bumped into your legs under the surface. Is it flotsam in the storm, or a shark? Do you try to swim in some direction and hope you find anything to hold onto, or do you tread water and wait for the storm to pass? Or do you let yourself sink into the seductively quiet underside of the waves and whatever's circling beneath?

Now, imagine someone floats by on a raft and says "come on dude, just change your attitude and you'll be fine" or "you just have to put energy in" or "can't you just feel better?"...

Yeah. I want to punch them.

I mean, obviously I want to be this way, right? I already KNOW it's inconvenient and worrisome to those who love me, unfun in pretty much every way for however long it lasts, and uncomfortable for those who don't know what to say. Of course I choose to do this on occasion. It must be for the attention...you know, the same attention I refuse to accept and generally push away to protect those I really don't want to infect with a pirate's Black Spot of being a troublesome burden.

The truth is, it's a cycle I have to just ride out, and the severity isn't usually so bad (a good night's sleep and I'm often fine). Exhaustion and stress make it exponentially worse, and when it's really awful it's very similar to the panic of being too far from shore and too tired to swim back in (uh, yes, that happened to me once, and let me tell you the panic that hits when you suddenly realize the clear water is actually about 60 feet deep and there are fucking SHARKS in the ocean is goddamned terrifying).

Annoyingly (mostly for those who love me), my own hang-ups prevent my acceptance of a lot of help (which I absolutely recognize is a douchey thing of me to do to people, but there you go).

Hell, the single thing I really need when at the lowest, the most terrible and dark drowning stage, is the one thing I can't and won't accept from anyone because holy shit that's a level of vulnerable I now avoid like the plague. Yes, I'm my own catch-22.

Recognizing it isn't the same as just changing my fucking mind about being IN it. Sometimes, the storm just has to be endured. If you're lucky, someone offers to be a sandbar or driftwood or even a rock: a place to rest for a little while.

If not, you tread water and hope the thing in there with you is a whale, not a shark.

Perhaps I Require Priority Adjustment

Someone found my blog by searching for the following:

im the creeper your the peeper

I have bones. Let the picking begin.

1) There's a goddamn apostrophe in "I'm"
2) When did we stop capitalizing??
3) Sigh. Punctuation. I just...yeah. Punctuation.
4) Seriously, there's a meme on social media at least twice a day pointing out correct usage of your/you're.
5) ewwwwww. Just...really? Eww.

I suppose it's a sad state of affairs in my brainpan that I'm more offended by the shitty grammar than by someone finding my blog using that particular phrase. Maybe I'm too picky. Wait, this was someone looking for creeping peeping: nope, not picky enough.

As I'm neither a creeper nor a peeper (as far as I'm aware), I'm not sure what this person/alien/troglodyte was searching for, exactly. I'm guessing the results were somewhat disappointing, and I suppose that could be sufficient punishment.

In other news, I do have a couple of longer posts from/about Star Wars Celebration and such in progress, but honestly I'm mid-packing for a cross-country move next week and my computer is getting disassembled tomorrow. Luckily, my computer is not Number 5 (if you get that reference, congratulations you're both old and nerdy...and you're my kind of people). It's likely I'll be off the blog for a week or two.

Also, tomorrow we venture into the exciting world of doggie downers...because Thor is already crying at me nonstop as we pack and good GOD he may end up a rug if he does it all the way to Minnesota.

I may well be bald and raving mad by next weekend. Should be fun!

Dear Minnesota: Buh-Bye Then!

Juice boxes for adults. I'd like a case, please. 

• So, man gets hit by drunk fuck assmonkey and nearly croaks. 
• Man recovers, decides life's way too short to continue doing what he's been doing (just getting by) and wants to follow his passions. 
• Man also sick as fuck about the frozen tundra's endless miserable winter. 
• Man finds the only goddamned school for said passions is in a state both he and his wife swore they'd never live in. 
• Man gets into said school. 
• Fool woman finds a job in the same town. 
• Job INSISTS on moving 6 weeks earlier than planned, before the funds for said move are actually available, before any place to live has been secured, before any renter has been found for the Tundra house. 
• Woman is now bald and sitting on the floor crying incoherently*. 
• SEND ADULT JUICE BOXES! STAT!
• Lesson 1: ALWAYS say your favorite place on earth is the one place you'll never move to, because apparently Texas is more powerful than "we're never moving there." 
• Lesson 2: I'm NEVER living in Ireland. I'm NEVER living in Ireland. I'm NEVER living in Ireland. I'm NEVER living in Ireland...

*I'm not actually losing my mind all the way...just part of the way. I have some hair left. 

Also, the moving company estimators were probably horrified at the number of random sex toys piled up in my office (I shut down the Party Gals business to move and am getting rid of a bunch of stuff). 

Apparently one foolishly mentioned (in an unpleasant way) that we sure do have a lot of weapons in our house. This was after he disparaged the dogs. That company will not be getting our business. Asshole. I suppose it's fair that Renaissance Festival weirdos like us with a large collection of swords could be seen as scary. I prefer to think of us as appropriately weird. So there. 

I'm Done SHOULDing All Over Myself

Screw resolutions.

I've spent my entire life hearing "should" and some variation of "ought to (generally it's "otta").

You should lose weight. You should eat better. You should write more. You should pay more attention. You should be sexier. You should be more professional. You shouldn't act so crazy. You should be more fun. You shouldn't hide. You shouldn't be an introvert. You should move to the city for a better job. You should buy this. You should be more open. You should trust "me" (from various people, both romantic and not, both betrayers and not).

Worse than that...I've been SHOULDING all over myself for years. I'm sick of it.

I should lose weight. I should get in shape. I should be prettier. I should wear makeup. I shouldn't sleep in. I shouldn't game/watch all-day-bad-horror-movie-marathons. I need to save more money, I need to spend more time doing "X". I should eat my vegetables, I should be vegan. I should eat meat. I should clean my house (ARGH!). I should do laundry (sigh). I should feed my dogs (ok, that one's necessary and the boys are quite vocal if I'm more than 10 minutes after feeding time, so no real danger of missing it).

SHOULDING is messy. And stupid...and it doesn't actually do the psyche any good.

When I'm SHOULD on (by myself or others), I'm given an obligation. I'm imposed upon. I'm not choosing. SHOULDING is the act of imposing values or actions instead of CHOOSING those values or actions. I'm done shoulding on myself, and I'm done allowing others to should all over me (because seriously, that's gross).

That doesn't mean I don't do many of the SHOULDs anyway: I actually enjoy a lot of them. I feel calmer when my house isn't a disaster. I feel better and have more energy when I work out regularly (particularly when I do something I think is fun). My brainpan has needs to express via writing and calm via meditation. I (GASP) LIKE vegetables. 

The freedom and responsibility of choice is far more fun, exciting, and fulfilling. Therefore, I have no resolutions, because resolutions are just SHOULDs in devious disguise.

I choose to work, because I generally like getting a paycheck, I like the environment, and I'm pretty decent at the work itself.

I choose to spend time with friends, family, my husband because I LOVE them all and (even when I'm lazy and cranky) I'd rather be with them than anywhere else.

I choose to eat better and work out because I FEEL better when I do so, and in doing so I improve my physical appearance, my creativity, and my psyche.

I choose to do yoga and meditate, for the obvious (and a few less obvious) benefits.

I choose to write more, because working at it is rewarding and I want to nurture that talent toward my ultimate goals of how I want my life to work. My first book is about half done...and I greatly anticipate the accomplishment (and ROCKING celebration) I'm going to have

I choose to do household chores more often because I sneeze less and feel less anxious when my house isn't a disaster.

I choose to stop SHOULDING and change my mindset to embracing opportunities and choice, even when the choice is the unpopular one.

My gut isn't broken: I choose to listen.

It's Not You. And I'm Not Breaking Up. This is not a funny post. Feel free to ignore it.

I am a cyclical depression hermit. (Do not confuse that with a  Cycling hermit, because truly I loathe bikes, unicycles, pretty much all pedaling-type exercise with the fire of a thousand suns).

Yesterday in a discussion with Husband about the depression I've been fighting off and on for a while now, he said something that hit home.

"There are people who WANT to be your friend, who want to get to know the real you, who WANT to connect. YOU shut them out and push them away."

He's likely quite right: when I'm in a down cycle I avoid all the people. I don't trust easily. I don't call. I don't write. Hell I barely leave the house, which the dogs love but likely isn't good for me on multiple levels.

I've written about this before, but I suppose I haven't explicitly said that in the past year some really shitty things have happened both to me and around me that sucked up so much of our time and energy that I've been more prone to depressions simply from lack of any sort of reserves. Therefore, I've withdrawn from everyone.

It's not you. It's me. I know, that phrase sucks...but I'm not breaking up.

I debate and debate about how explicit I should be or want to be in this blog (and elsewhere), because 1) it's goddamn fucking HARD to expose things and 2) who the fuck wants to read this depressing shit? 

But in the interest of friends and potential friends not feeling ignored or slighted, here it is: 99% of the time I feel utterly worthless and completely unloveable. There are both internal and external factors that contribute to my personal form of emotional wreck-ness and this post IS NOT, I REPEAT: IS NOT any sort of plea for sympathy, empathy, or help. It really isn't. I'm working on things. I'm trying to get my act together. Sometimes I have a burst of energy and say "fuck off" to those lying bastard inner demons, and I can be who I want to be. That's happened less often the past few years, and you should know I'm working like mad on changing it.

This post is to reassure those of you who might be in the category Husband voiced, because I DO want to hang. I DO want relationships. I just don't have the wherewithal or oomph to do the work required, because I've been trying hard to get my own shit back in order.  While Husband insists certain peeps we know really want to have a better/deeper friendship with me if I give them a chance, I've also had some recent (ie past few years) spectacularly damaging betrayals by "friends." Most recently, one who made every effort to get to know those hidden psychological bits of me, only to cause damage when I proved to be...hmm...insufficiently "fixed," and the friendship ended. Too much work, that's me.

I have to consciously fight some pretty dark core beliefs about friendship and relationships and myself that have NOTHING to do with your efforts or the quality of our relationship. I am working on learning to open up again. I apparently have the progress of a goddamned sloth in this area, and for that I really do apologize. It sucks for me, too. Truly and sincerely, it's NOT YOU. And when I finally come out of this and act like the normal, semi-confident, funny smartass I used to be, hopefully some of you will still be there. If not, I get it dude, and I cast no blame: acquaintance status is ok with me too.

I am unamusing. You can skip this post.

I think I lost a close friend last week. Not in a sock drawer or to circus. Not to any nefarious creature or mob hit: just lost him. Stubbornness may have been involved.

And temper. I'm sure you're shocked and astounded that my temper would successfully push someone away. I am decidedly not shocked. Nor astounded. But I'm sad.

The loss aches. The list of people who truly know almost everything about me isn't long. The people with whom I feel comfortable being "me" without any pretense or mask...well, I can count that list on my fingers. I've been feeling not-enough for some time now, like I'm a fixer-upper with attic bats and cobwebs who could be a great best friend/love/wife/coworker if I could just be a little...better.

If I could be less of a "girl" and never let my emotions get the best of me. (God that is so unbelievably sexist and idiotic. As though men aren't just as irrationally emotional...hiding it and suppressing it doesn't mean feelings aren't there. Belittling and dismissing women for their emotional connection is just...ridiculous.)

If I could always be the rational one and stay in control. If I could keep myself separated enough to never get hurt again.

And the danger of that is to feel nothing. And in feeling nothing, you begin to care less and less about how those around you feel. And loneliness becomes all-encompassing, and your relationships suffer or fall apart.  And depression weasels in, ready to pull you into the pit.

I've been thinking obsessing some about this for days, mostly because I don't do cut-off-all-communication very well. Finally I finished the argument in an email that will never be sent, because it had to come out somewhere. Sigh. It took a while to put the twisted, convoluted mess of anger, regret and sadness into conscious thought.

I've felt...easy to walk away from, easy to disregard...for a while.

And then a most excellent blogger I follow (This Is How The Apocalypse Starts) posted a link to THIS (another fabulous blogger I now follow). I read it. I re-read it. I cried that unstoppable sobbing, gut-wrenching, snot-producing unpretty cry that leaves you exhausted but emotionally clean afterward. And then I read it again, and shared it everywhere I could.

Because I'm a little broken. I have bouts of depression that leave me watching tearjerker movies and balling for no reason. I randomly giggle until I actually wheeze, unable to breathe. I can be a responsible mid-30's person in one moment, an enchanted 5 year old the next, and a dirty-minded 14 year old the next. I'm overweight and too-often lazy. I'm terrible at saying "no" when it comes to money, energy and time. I have long patience on most things that drive people nuts and absolutely no fuse at ALL between happy and utterly incensed if you push certain triggers. I feel AND I think on a spectrum that varies, and I won't apologize for it. My emotions are an integrated part of my psychological makeup. I live with them day in and day out. They color my dreams. They flare and fade a thousand times a day, and most of the time I don't act upon them.

If that makes me "not enough" well, that's really not my problem, because perfection isn't my goal. Putting on the "right" face to interact with people who are supposed to be close to me isn't my goal.

Authenticity, in all its messy/joyful/miserable/awful/ecstatic glory: that's my goal.

Well, I Suppose I Asked For It.

Someone found my blog today by searching for this: "how do I put a demon back to hell"

I think I won, but I'm a little worried what the prize would be in this situation. So I'm going back to regularly scheduled silliness. Like THIS (for which I'm unable to find anyone to credit, so if it's you let me know and I'll edit): which is now the background on my laptop.

Because it makes me giggle every damned time I see it.

Yes. Even now while I'm writing this entry.

So I went back to work this week after a lazy, utterly wasted, GLORIOUS month off watching Kevin McKidd on Grey's Anatomy.  It was a four week escape: sleeping, reading, movies, and hiding from the disgusting cold with the dogs. I'm pretty sure I made up for the two months of no-sleep-hospital-stress-extravaganza last fall.

Anyway. I'm back to work now, and my first day went as follows. It's not a typical boring first day (because honestly, why would I want to relive that shit if it was?).

1. Sleep a total of three hours because even though I WORKED THERE FOR SIX MONTHS and it wasn't a "real" first day, apparently my subconscious is a stupid anxiety ball bitch who needs to make me spend the first day of every new endeavor sleep deprived and nauseous.
2. Leave early enough to stop for gas, coffee, and a bank deposit before 8am.
3. Bitch about the injustice that the Wells Fargo drive-through window doesn't open at 7am (the one by my house does, goddammit!).
4. Park a full 20 minutes early. Note, this is nearly an hour earlier than I would NORMALLY go to this job (again, I'd been there six months before getting hired on full time, schedules are flexible at the company, and most people I work with discover quickly that I'm not worth talking to prior to 8:30am anyway).
5. Fuck around on Facebook, Twitter and email in my car. Because waiting in the lobby for 20 minutes is just dumb.
6. Wait in the lobby for 20 minutes anyway because traffic was bad that day.
7. Say hello to multiple co-workers who don't understand why the hell I'm not just going up to my desk (no security badge).
8. Boss arrives, we go up to the new team area (they moved to another floor on my last day).
9. I have no laptop/phone/etc. Boss follows up with IT while I'm in HR doing obligatory passport/ID paperwork and I9 stuff.
10. Return from HR at 9:20.
11. SENT HOME FOR THE REST OF THE DAY because IT won't have a laptop for me until Tuesday, and I'm fired there's nothing I can do without it.
12. Go car shopping with husband. Buy a new (to me) truck. Because what else should a grown woman do on her first day of a new job but go home after an hour and buy a new(ish) car, right?

FYI: I got a laptop Wednesday, which really just means I get to surf the interwebz until I have a project. But I actually love this company and this team and I'm looking forward to working there.

Until I win the powerball.

Or, learn to put a demon back to hell. Apparently that's a needed skillset.

Home Again. Jiggy.

Husband was released from prison the hospital yesterday: 2 months to the date since the drunk asshole in a borrowed SUV with SHITTY INSURANCE plowed into the motorcycle...yeah, I'm not bitter at all. But he's home, he's allowed to start working with crutches, and he managed it nearly three weeks earlier than we'd originally thought.

AND he's home for our 9th anniversary, which is (of course) Halloween.

My sister EVER so kindly bought him a hideous lovely brass bell, the kind you see on a dry cleaner's counter. To be helpful, I'm sure. So he can get my attention (intubation is HELL on vocal cords...he's been significantly lower-volumed since the accident) if I'm upstairs and he's in the living room.

Because she hates me. And wants revenge for my snarky comments about my nephew's night-owl tendencies being karma for HER having days and nights mixed up as a baby. I was four...I remember. "But she's helpful," you may say... well...I would agree except for the evil glee in her eye. I suppose that could be the glassy Han-won't-let-me-sleep effect, but I doubt it. Evil glee all the way.

Unfortunately, the bell was lost.

MORE unfortunately...that fucking thing is lost SOMEWHERE IN MY TRUCK.

That's right...the goddamn "help me now" bell randomly dings from the dog-fur-filled-recesses of my truck, and I can't find it.

On the bright side, neither can Husband.

Mwahahahaha.

I am not Yoda, NaNoWriMo

I've spent the past two months in an all-encompassing fog of anxiety, depression, worry, and exhaustion. That's not any sort of plea for sympathy...it's my excuse for crappy and intermittent posting. I simply have very little to write about outside of dealing with the accident and aftermath, and instead of inflicting that upon ANYONE in cyberspace, I've avoided my blog (except in the case of obnoxious dog posts, which are occasionally necessary in my world).

Yup. I'm an avoider. Nope, I'm pretty sure "avoider" isn't a word.

Indeed, spellcheck agrees.

It took me six weeks to gather enough nerve to sit in front of my keyboard and just let my fingers go. I'm not sure if that makes sense...

I learned in my high school creative writing class to turn OFF my critical mind and let whatever lurks behind the wall to bypass my editor and just come out on paper. If you're a writer at heart and haven't read Natalie Goldberg's Writing Down the Bones or Wild Mind it's really time you do. (Thank you, Mr. Benson, for those lessons.) The key is to keep your hand moving and just write down whatever comes out. Keeping you hand moving (pen to paper or fingers to keyboard) without re-reading purges what hides in your soul.

Last week I finally sat down in front of a blank word document, closed my eyes, and typed. Thirty minutes and six pages later I discovered I was crying uncontrollably, but I didn't stop writing.

I'm still not ready to put anything down in an actual journal (after all, anything typed can be deleted, or even printed and burned if necessary), but at least I'm writing again. And I'm slowly opening that box-o-mess I've kept locked up tight in my chest since August. 

Which brings me to the impending November writing exercise: National Novel Writing Month. I've never successfully completed the challenge. I have two weeks to get my characters and plot ready: I don't know if I'll have time to finish 50,000 words in 30 days this year with Husband coming home from the rehab unit sometime soon, but I'm sure as hell going to try.

I know, I know. Do, or do not. There is no try.

I'm not Yoda, people. And while I haven't gotten nearly enough lately, I DO enjoy sleeping.

Also, it has come to my attention that my current contract position is ending in 2.5 months. Not that I expect to write and sell a book in that time and replace my job...but it IS fairly motivating. Plus...what the hell else am I going to do while Hubby games/naps all afternoon when he gets home? Work?

Bah.

If it's NOT "The Count of Monte Cristo" I have no freaking idea.

"We love what we love. Reason does not enter into it... Anyone can love 'because.' That's as easy as putting a penny in your pocket. But to love something 'despite.' To know the flaws and love them too. That is rare and pure and perfect." -Patrick Rothfuss, The Wise Man's Fear


You should probably ignore this post. To be honest, I'm not certain I'm going to publish this post.

I don't recall which classic story ended in the perpetrator getting walled into a room forever. I thought it was The Count of Monte Cristo, but I'm likely incorrect. I just have a vivid mental image of him screaming through the tiny remaining open space as the final brick slides into place.  

That's where I am right now. Only I'm bricking myself into my own prison.  

Amidst all the horrific stress and terror of the past month, I've been desperately pushing down/aside/away other things that have cracked my foundations and left me on precarious footing. I locked it all away for a time, ignoring everything for weeks under the wave of fear and worry associated with the accident. Now that Husband is doing significantly better and I no longer wonder if he'll live, I'm getting to the point that if I DON'T let something out that last brick will slide into place. And I'll be trapped in self-imposed isolation.

Ultimately, the main drama will be resolved somehow or another, and it doesn't really matter what it was (because it will eventually be dealt with). What matters for this post is this: I'm a person with many acquaintances and very few real friends (by friends I don't mean people who consider me their friend: I mean people I'm willing to trust and lean on when I need them).

I don't trust easily or well, and I don't let many past those outer periphery "I know you and generally like you some" edges. When I discover someone isn't actually trustworthy in my moral code, fair or not, I purposefully withdraw from everyone. I bury everything deep under a pasted-on a positive attitude and keep going on the outside.

On the inside I'm slapped by shock, followed by incendiary overwhelming anger, followed by humiliation and despair...who hold red-hot pokers in their evil little hands and beat me as long as I let them. Those devious bastards insert and foster dark thoughts and invite anger back to the party, particularly when I'm alone at 3am.

And now I'm sorely tempted not to trust anyone again. I'm caught between "you never should've anyway" and "if you don't open up now and again you'll be alone."

I'm aware of the over-dramatic nature of my anxiety, pain and depression. I'm even aware that my moral code is harsher than most and likely an unfair standard, particularly in certain situations. I find this to be somewhat of a failing in my character, that opening up isn't often worth the risk to my heart. It's a part of me that's been under construction for quite some time as I try to keep myself from alienating people in general and be more...positive...about humans.

Husband keeps telling me how proud he is of me for dealing with everything that's going on and keeping it together, but all of that is an utter sham. I'm not and don't deserve any sort of praise here. I'm a brick or two away from being completely walled-in and emotionally frozen. I'm not suicidal. I'm just broken. I don't know what to do about it.

I put the quote about love at the top of this post to remind myself what I want to work toward: loving despite and including flaws. Even when I'm talking about my own.

Hospital Universe

Husband is entering day 12 in the intensive care unit, and I'm futzing around at work this morning until my 1pm conference call is finished so I can go work from his room.

A hospital is a really strange alternate universe where time moves strangely and you're in a weird microcosm of "we're all worried together." I celebrated when a family whose son FINALLY moved to the rehab center after 27 days in the ICU. I cried when the parents of the French foreign exchange student hit by a car the same day Husband was in his accident found out she didn't make it. I commiserated with another wife of a motorcycle accident victim, when she said bikes are out of their family for good (and privately sighed, knowing the stubborn nature of my husband will likely overrule any attempt I make at banning motorcycles).

The ICU is an excessively depressing place and I can't sit in the waiting room anymore, but I've found amusement in a few things during this stint in the hospital.

• Yesterday I watched Lifetime (television for women, duh) for a couple of hours. I'd finished my book and didn't want to sit there in the non-silence of beeping machines and nurses/PCAs/docs/etc coming in and out to poke and prod my unconscious husband. So I figured if he's dreaming I'd give him the most fucked up dreams possible by watching his most hated channel. Because I'm evil. I was told if he wakes up with a sudden desire to learn to knit, I'm in big trouble.
• Nurses are remarkably fascinated and cheered up by the most disgusting things. I overhear a lot of it sitting quietly in the chair by Husband's bed.
• Being around nurses for the past 12 days has ME cheering about gross things. Sigh. This morning I told Chewy he was SUCH A GOOD BOY...for pooping.
• I got the evil eye, and I mean SERIOUS evil eye, from an older man in the waiting room on Friday. NO IDEA what the hell I'd done to get the death-stare, until he walked past me later with (presumably) family members. The woman walking 3 steps behind him was completely swathed head-to-toe in veils, including one across her face so only her eyes showed, and they were cast down.
• Being perverse and irritated, I stared right back when we passed in the hall and he had the I-just-ate-a-lemon face directed at me for the second time that day. Apparently my jeans and t-shirt didn't meet his approval. Petty? Oh probably. But it amused the hell out of me to not back down the way he expected I would.
• The day nurse spilled an entire tray of breakfast on me last week (this would've been the day before husband was put back on the ventilator and was trying to eat real food, like pudding. And cream-of-chicken soup. Ish). It's sort of gratifying to know I'm not the totally ungraceful person in the room once in a while.
• ICU psychosis is a real thing dude. Real thing. That, or there are some SERIOUSLY interesting side effects to the drugs. I'm keeping a list of the fucked-up stuff I overhear in there, particularly when the walls are moving or the ceiling is falling...

I met The Bloggess! And nearly made a mess in CVS. These are not related.

On my 35th birthday (which was Friday) I met Jenny Lawson. (I also received a beautiful necklace and various forms of most excellent sappiness from my husband, but those are mine and I'm not sharing).

I stood in line for the book signing after hearing her read a chapter of her book, Let's Pretend This Never Happened. If you haven't picked it up yet GO BUY IT NOW. You'll laugh your ass off. She was funny and charming and I (according to my husband) was awkward and looked fairly constipated when I met her. Of course I did...the bruised tailbone I received a few months ago when I fell down my stairs felt like someone was stabbing me in the butt after two hours in a metal folding chair AND I had just enough people in front of me in line to give myself major anxiety about just saying hello to the woman. I'm sure my face was pinched and whatever I said was ridiculous. Sigh.

(Ok I'll be honest: I remember every word exchanged and exactly what I was thinking at the time, because I couldn't get a fucking NORMAL sentence out of my mouth or sound like a friendly person and the internal me just kept screaming "JUST BE NICE YOU DUMBASS!!")

I DID manage to give her a bottle of wine (Mad Housewife, because it always makes me laugh) and get a picture without falling down. Hopefully I didn't terrify her, because it was decidedly a high point to my birthday.

Of course, if meeting Jenny was one of the high points, there must be a counterpoint. Indeed...let me tell you how I almost shit my pants last night. Because I can't just get drunk on my birthday weekend and get hungover like everyone else...OH NO. I get my body's overactive rebel-forces going all Swat Team instead. Because that's how I roll, apparently.

Yesterday evening my sister, her partner (significant other and baby daddy sound stupid when I write them out), my aunt and her family all went to dinner at Cheesecake Factory. We chatted and ate tasty food and cheesecake without any major mishaps.

Only when everyone left my guts were...complainey. Yes, that's the best term for it. So I went back in, but the women's bathroom was full of teenage stripper wannabees in platform six inch spike heels. Watching them dance back and forth on those silly shoes waiting impatiently to pee would've been hilarious, except there were six of them and only three stalls. And at this point my guts were SIGNIFICANTLY MORE COMPLAINEY. Did you know there's NO WAY to cross your legs as a last resort in that situation? There isn't. I tried. Also, I imagined the chorus of "EWW" if I actually got a chance to get into a stall, and I gave up.

Hoping I could at least get into my car and sit (which might help) I hobbled all the way across the large parking lot, cursing my IDIOCY for just parking and not valet-ing the entire way. I'm sure I looked like I had a broken leg. I sat in the mustang, because of COURSE this only happens when I'm in the nice car, and begged God to let me NOT poop my pants in the middle of the Southdale parking lot. Sigh.

Once I could move again (a good five minutes passed of a sweat-and-curse inducing battle for bowel control) I started the car and left the parking lot. As fast as that sports car can go...and she can indeed go FAST. Until I'm stuck behind a blue-haired old lady who insists on creeping through the intersection (there were NO GODDAMN CARS COMING you idiot...MOVE YOUR ASS!!), screaming at her. My windows were up, thank you, and it was dark, so I'm fairly certain she didnt' see me wishing for her immediate smiting.

I made it two blocks to a CVS, chanting "just another minute, be an adult and control yourself!" under my breath the whole way. Then I tried desperately to hobble nonchalantly into the pharmacy (BLESSEDLY EMPTY).

Those fucking pharmacies are HUGE and the restrooms are not labeled anywhere. I think when I finally found the women's room I would've just given up if it'd been occupied. It wasn't. Thank the gods for small miracles.

Of course, as I washed my hands I realized there are cameras everywhere in these stores, and undoubtedly I'm on tape frantically searching for the bathroom and duck-walking in there. Determined to look like I Meant to stop at CVS, I thought "well I'll just pick up some water like I was thirsty."

Yeah right. Like that'll fool ANYONE.

So I grabbed some feminine hygiene products also, because why else would a woman my age stop at a pharmacy at 10pm on a Saturday night?

Of COURSE the cashier was a boy. Sigh. And of COURSE he started a discussion with me about how funny it is when women send their husbands in for tampons. We laughed at the oddities of pharmacy cashiering (my first actual job was doing just that) and how weird it is when someone buys a box of condoms and a box of enemas. Because if I'm going to be embarrassed about something, I like to take it ALL the way. He totally knew I was only there to poop.

All plans today have been cancelled in favor of staying home and taking Imodium. And cheesecake. Oddly enough, the chapter Jenny read on Friday was the one about...ahem...foolishly taking too many laxatives. It's hilariously gross and even better when she read it out loud (now I have to re-read the book so I have her voice narrating in my head...because I'm like that). Today I'm pretty fucking sure that particular choice in readings was some sort of warning from the universe of my own impending doom.

Still. Awesome.

Cake: Above Hair Doodies, Below Sex on the Birthday Scale

So my birthday is coming up soon, hence the title. This is not a plea for birthday shenanigans, presents, or anything else. It's just a silly post (well, most of them are).

Normally, I get all anxious and depressed around my birthday and obsess about all the things I haven't done yet. For example: I foolishly thought I'd have a whole series of books under my belt (written, not read, duh) by the time I turned 35, but now that day is fast approaching (ACK it's this fucking WEEK) and I'm still in the middle of book 1 with the outline for two other series waiting impatiently on my desk.  Not two other books: two other series of books. My brain is getting blocked up, people.

The characters for those series' appear regularly in dreams, knock politely during meetings at work, move furniture in my head while I'm making dinner, and scream in my ear while I choreograph for dance class. Sigh. They're insistent and relentless, and I think I'm finally ready to set aside book 1 for a while in favor of giving them some attention. It's a big decision I've been agonizing over for a few months: feels quite like I'm abandoning my first kid in favor of another. I really like the general idea for my first series, but I'm 30k words in and, well, to be brutally honest I'm boring MYSELF...therefore something is fatally wrong. It's not violent enough, too violent, not sexy enough, not complicated enough, too complicated...I've been trying to figure out what the issues are so I can fix them and move on, but after two years of work I don't think there's any fix right now. I think it's time to say buh-bye for a while and focus on something else.
Like the other four couples banging around in my head trying desperately to get out on paper.

And clearly I've not yet had enough coffee, since I'm rambling on about writing when this is SUPPOSED to be a birthday post. Fail on my part: sorry.

Every year I'm required by my family (parents, sisters, husband) make a list of shit I haven't bought for myself already so they can get presents I actually want. The list is generally books (because I'm a fucking addict and NEVER buy all the books I really want), movies/tv shows, and random other fun shit.

Since I was about twelve, all birthday/Christmas lists have included three inexpensive staples that I can always use and offer a cheap alternative to the hardcovers on my list: candles, bath stuff, and hair doodies.

Yes. Hair doodies. I'm a writer and former English major who makes up words. My husband gave me shit about that word for nearly a full day via text, because he's a buttface who enjoys my mentalness. I told him he doesn't have to buy me any: they're a go-to-inexpensive-girly gift: the equivalent of stocking stuffers for me. *shrug* And on the scale of importance for birthday celebrations, they're not terribly high. I mean, my title is pretty clear about my priorities, right?

This year, however, all celebrations may be trumped by one massively exciting event. I get to meet The Bloggess ON MY BIRTHDAY. That's right, one of my all time favorite writers will be in my town on my bday. This is a pretty fucking banner happening (actually more than when I met Mercedes Lackey at Convergence a few years ago) and I'm so fucking excited I'm getting anxious today...it's Tuesday.

She's here on Friday.

I'm hoping turning 35 will give me just enough adult-ness to NOT make a total fangirl ass of myself. I will NOT bring her wine (even though I want to) or squeak or do anything too monumentally stupid. I will NOT bring her wine (even though I want to) or squeak or do anything too monumentally stupid...see where I'm going with this?

Yeah yeah...I know. Me + "adult behavior" = fail. I'm gonna give it my damndest though...because I'd prefer NOT to freak her out.

Thus I Learn Blogging Lessons From the Interwebz

I can tell my writing the past few posts has been shitty. To those who actually read the entire posts in question, I apologize for that.

Sometimes I have silly, irrational hopes that someday more than 25 people will actually look at my blog in a day. I know that should that ever happen I'll get snarky trolling comments, I mean this is a public forum and all. Honestly I'm sort of looking forward to them (usually they're funny as hell). I expect people not to get me or what I wrote on a particular day, and I expect nastiness because many people are meaner on the webz than they are in real life (ah, anonymity, you lovely sheltering bitch).

Today I hit a fabulously awful anxiety-and-insecurity wall about writing anywhere except my own damn diary which even my husband doesn't read. See, I didn't expect snarkiness to come from people I know personally, and I really didn't expect said snark to be so utterly out of touch with what I'd posted. Maybe if I'd written better, clearer posts things wouldn't have been missed or taken so totally out of context.

The worst part is reviewing what I'd originally written (because obviously I had something bad in there, right?) and realizing that even after proofreading and letting a post sit for a day or two before a final read-through I STILL might not have been clear enough. I thought it was.

Unpreparedness isn't an excuse, I know, but it still hit me. Yeah, I know: toughen up whiny bitch. I'm a fucking fool for letting a couple of things picked apart out of context bother me. I know it. I still cry a disappointed tear or three when I get a rejection from a magazine and stuff too, so this isn't terribly unusual. Hell, I cried when I got a good review of a story I'd written (much to my husband's amused bafflement). The question is: was it bad writing, or bad reading? I don't know, but I'm working on improving the writing because I have no control over whether someone fully reads something I wrote, or whether they get it.

In the meantime I'll let you know a secret or three about me:

1) I'm not terribly funny. If you want a funny blog go read The Bloggess or Hyperbole And A Half. Sometimes weird shit happens to me, and I find some of it hilarious so I post it. I guarantee it won't be funny to everyone. 

2) I'm not doing this blog for money (look Mom, no ads!) or publicity or even notoriety. Know what? I'm not a goddamn expert on writing, blog or otherwise. If I was I'd likely be writing for a living, not as what should be a fun hobby.

3) This blog is not about you unless I specifically mention your name in print (which I'd never do anyway since then you could probably sue me for the nonexistent profits of this shit I'm posting, or something...I'm not a lawyer). It's my blog, these are my thoughts, my mentalness, my anxiety, my writing: by default 99.99% of the posts are likely to be about me. Is that selfish and narcissistic (and likely boring as hell)? Yupper! Do you have to read it? NOPE! Should you take anything I say here seriously? Probably not.

4) Bonus tidbit: I'm not appropriate: I swear, I talk about sex, I have very little patience for stupid and mean.

I'm not as thick-skinned as I'd like to be. Yet.

I fought the Con and the Con won

Fourth of July weekend in Minnesota doesn't generally involve BBQs, beach, or patriotic shenanigans for the hubs and me: for the past decade or so we've spent every 4th at CONvergence, the best, craziest, most fucked up, weirdest gathering of people I usually see all year. It's fabulous and mental, even more so than Renaissance Festival. And by the end of both events I'm peopled-out for about ten months.

 

The past few years I haven't had much of a good time (parties were boring, panels weren't interesting to me personally, couldn't justify the cost of hotel and a badge), so I went badgeless and staked out a table at the hotel bar (where we don't need no stinkin badges!). Acting as a spider queen (or a hooker, I guess) letting all the peeps I want to see come to ME between parties worked perfectly for my anxiety AND my lazy nature. Win!

From 7pm to 3am I drew them into my snarky web, had a wide variety of fucked up conversations, and people-watched.

• Had dinner with a fabulously loud group of totally normal-looking people at TGIFridays. 90% of the other patrons were in various states of costume disarray, so for once we all looked totally normal. The Friday's staff were...unimpressed..in general. Neat!
• Saw various versions of ...unfortunate...choices of costuming. Con is one of the few places everyone is generally accepted regardless of size, and I love that about it. However, a badly fitting costume that squishes and bulges where it shouldn't flatters NO ONE, and this particular Poison Ivy looked more like bulbous Poison Oak. Sigh. If she'd gotten a green leotard ONE SIZE bigger it would've been a really cool Ivy on a curvy chick. Costume fail, Ivy. Costume fail.
• A friend of mine had Darth Vader in the crack of her ass. No really! (she'd converted a t-shirt to a skirt, and conveniently DV was in the middle, happily bouncing from cheek to crack to cheek as she walked).
• I pointed out that the same friend sat on Vader's face every time she sat down. Husband wondered if that's why Vader has a breathing problem.
• Various Tardi (that's right, Doctor Who-ers: I'm declaring multiple Tardisses are "Tardi") and Daleks ran the gamut from FUCKING AWESOME to "Why is that girl wearing a tin foil unicorn horn on her head. Wait, that's a Dalek? WHAT?"
• Got in a near-argument about classism and minorities. Argumentor pissed me off by saying all arts (music, writing, art, etc) should be free and we should go back to the Patron concept. As a writer, fuck you, artists deserve to be paid for their effort. As a historian, no, you uneducated twit, poor people indeed did NOT have it better in Ancient Greece or Rome. Don't believe me? I pointed out that she can't sell herself into a ludus to pay off her student loans through Gladiatorial games these days, nor can her boss whip her for calling in sick one day. All in all, not cool: Con is for serious arguments about Star Trek, which Doctor was the best, whether Xena is still relevant (Callisto was there, so Xena IS still relevant!!), and which party has the best booze. 
• SAVED from a lingering cranky mood from serious argumentative people when I noticed the giant Pac Man and Ghost were both wearing kilts. Because why not?
• Arthur, King of the Britons and his knights (complete with coconut-clapping and skipping) randomly trotted their way around the Con, followed closely by the armless Black Knight.
• If you don't understand this reference, stop reading this blog IMMEDIATELY and go watch Monty Python and the Holy Grail. Then explain to me which rock you've been sleeping under for the past 30+ years. Seriously.
• Played Cards Against Humanity with Caprica 6, Zelda, and a few other fantabulous people. If you've never played, DO IT, but only if you're amused by offensive things. I am, because I'm inappropriate. Examples of the "answer" cards I received: Assless Chaps, Glen Beck attacked by crab spiders, which swarm out of his eyes, Twinkies, tentacle porn. The game is terribly wonderful and it's likely I'm going to hell for being so damn entertained. We'll have a game table there, too, I'm sure.
• Sighting of Jayne Cobb hats, various versions of Hoban Wash, way too many Hunger Games characters, a plethora of men in Heroine drag (the theme was Women of Sci-Fi, therefore I saw far more hairy-chested Leias than brain bleach could possibly scrub away).
• Possibly the cap on the evening: our friend Robert in red boxers wearing...a pink, fur lined "boat" around his body held on by suspenders. That's right, Robert came to Con as THE LITTLE MAN IN THE BOAT.

For the first time since my first date with my husband, I was out until 5am, had a fabulous time, and didn't quietly get crabby from the crowds. I call that a win, and I owe my fun to my most excellent friend who were willing to hang out off and on all night and my husband, who often has to pry me out of the house with a crowbar. My hiatus from Con is likely over...I had enough fun to justify pre-registering AND getting a hotel room for next year after three or four skipped Cons. Your wily seductions win, Convergence. See you next summer.