The Money Dance

December 6
Money:  Where did you spend your money this year?  Did you save it instead?  What, if anything, would you like to do with your finances this year?

It makes me uncomfortable to talk about money. I very rarely discuss financial matters with anyone,  even my closest friends and family.

Money was always a thing when I was growing up.  My father always looked at things from a financial perspective. We took family road trips because air fair costs an arm and a leg.  I wasn't permitted to stay home sick from school because do you have any idea how much Catholic school costs? And didn't I understand money doesn't grow on trees? ?

I hated it.  And I always promised myself that I wouldn't live like that.

I sometimes joke that I spend my disposable income on sweaters and wine.

But that's not really a joke.

I have just always chosen to spend the money, buy the things I want, give freely,  have adventures as opportunities arise.

This year my money paid for art I love and pedicures with people I love and shopping trips and wine club and Run or Dye and meals with friends and a weekend getaway with sorority sisters in Charleston, SC.

I definitely should save more, and I've set some very specific financial goals for myself for next year... but no money regrets. I'm happy to live with my money instead of counting it.

Giving Up

December 5
Letting go: For next year, I’m letting go of…

I ended a friendship this past year. The reason why seems silly when I explain. It boils down to the fact that a once close friend prioritized her wants over my needs.

A year or two ago I would have excused this,  even sought forgiveness where an apology was warranted.

Now I feel skepticism.  Skepticism and a little rage.

So I'm letting go of all of that.

No more silliness and drama and pettiness.

I'm only leaving room in my life for positive, supportive people.

And I'm going to let go of the guilt.
The guilt about the car accident, I mean.

I've been lying for months, telling people its gone.
It isnt.
Most days it is an albatross around my neck: seen by no one, felt by me alone.

But this year I'm going to do it.
I'm going to forgive myself. 

I hope.

20/20

December 4 Do Over: Hindsight is the one thing we never benefit from in the present.  Is there one moment you wish that you could do-over?

"Are you going to have an intervention for your sister?" my cousin asked.
"NO!" was the definite answer.

I have two little sisters. Did you know?

I talk about one of them, TheFish, all the time.

The other is a more sensitive subject... She's our baby. She went to live with my dad when my parents split fir the last time.

I saw her over the summer for the first time in nearly five years.

Now is the part where I'm supposed to say that I wish I could have a "do over" for that day.
I'm not sure that's entirely true.

The last time I had seen her, five years ago, was the day of my brother's memorial service.  This year I saw her on the day of my grandmother's memorial service.

My regrets aren't about my sister. Maybe they should be.  Maybe I am a terrible person. I don't know.

She's a stranger.  Taller than I remember.  Her voice sounds foreign,  her features unfamiliar.
We awkwardly avoided each other for a day and a half. Then I complimented her shoes. We made uncomfortable small talk for a few scant minutes until our aunt interrupted.

Truth: I didn't feel a connection.

I don't miss her. That probably makes me a terrible person.

Maybe it is because I was mourning my gramma so intensely; because I was dreading TheFish leaving to return to the great rainy North later that afternoon.

That day, the day of my gramma's memorial, is hardly more clear than that of BabyBrother five years before.  I know that I dont regret anything though.  I held my tongue when appropriate.  I told anecdotes about Gramma that she would appreciate. I supported my mother in her grief.

I do have regrets though...
Most of all, I regret not calling Gramma more when she was healthy. I wish I could do-over all of the calls I didn't return right away, the emails I forgot to respond to,  the calls I didnt make, the visits I didn't plan.

I meant to write about Gramma and how much I love her; how she always told me that I was her favorite; the way she treated my small troubles seriously; how she always fed us dessert for dinner.

And all of that is trye.

But I  didn't know how much I needed to acknowledge the strange collision of my grief over Gramma and the lack of emotion over my littlest sister.

Someday

December 3: Coulda woulda shoulda: What didn’t you do this year because you were too scared, afraid, unsure?  Are you going to do it next year?  Or maybe you don’t want to anymore?

I've always had a pie-in-the-sky someday-when kind of plan.

In high school, I planned to move to Spain and never come back. I'd spend my days wandering cobblestone streets, taking siestas, drinking albariño and teaching English to bored teenagers in Barcelona or Sevilla. I'd run with the bulls in the summer and spend my vacations making pilgrimages to Lourdes and Fatima and Vatican City.

I still dream about moving, reinventing myself. The destination has changed more than once. It always ultimately includes me leaving this tiny town, the one I once thought was forever in my rearview, and forging a new path for myself.

Someday I will live in that city. Someday I will further my education. Someday I will switch careers. Someday I will see that wonder/ swim in that body of water/ wander through those streets/ take that opportunity. Someday.

So why not just do it? I'm unmarried, still fairly young. Now should be the time to take a leap.
Here's the thing... I'm not much of a leaper. I'm scared. Indecisive.

And, every now and then, I look around and I think about how much I love this town, how hard I've worked, how my career is just beginning, how I am so lucky to have so many people who love me.

It isn't enough.
I'm not unhappy, just... unfulfilled.

One of those stupid, quasi inspirational pins recently caught my eye on Pinterest. It has a stupid yellow-saturated picture of a tree in the background and it says "Someday is not a day of the week." As stupid as it is, I needed that little reminder in that moment.

Did I leap this year? No. Will I next year? Maybe.

But I'm going to turn some of those dreams into realistic plans... plans that will probably still include albariño.

No more Somedays.

Ay, mija!

December 2: Gorgeous | When did you feel beautiful this year?  Why?

SusieQ calls herself my work mom.

She's very short, but she wears those ultra supportive athletic shoes with three inches of sole that are popular amongts the 60+ set, so you almost don't notice. She has the most amazing laugh, it is loud and girlish and infectious. She's is always perfectly coiffed: not a hair out of place, penciled in eyebrows, lip liner. Oh and the jewelry! Bangles, rings, necklace, diamond earrings. 

She has a big Hispanic family: six sons, five grandsons. Two daughters-in-law that she doesn't care for much.

Man, she sure loves me, though. She's always full of smiles and compliments. "Ay, mija, you look so pretty today!" She hugs me and touches my hair and scolds me when I threaten to cut it. She tells me how smart and pretty I am.

It was overwhelming, at first. My family has never been particularly demonstrative or complementary. I'm suspicious of positive feedback; compliments are backhanded or come with big old strings attached.

I didn't know how to react to so much positive attention. I've never had someone be so excited about me before. I thought she was crazy.

But over the last year or so I've grown to love her. And somewhere along the way I even started to believe her a little.

I feel... empowered.  I am able to look myself in the mirror and see the beauty in the girl looking back at me, instead of the flaws.

Quiet

I've decided to give Project Reverb a try again this year. I've missed writing, and I think this might be a good way to get back into the habit.

December 1: At the start | Where did you start 2014?  Give us some background on this year.

I spent New Year's Eve home alone on my couch. I made mac n cheese and went to bed at 9:30pm.

It wasn't as sad as it sounds.

I had spent the bulk of the previous three months living out of a suitcase at my best friend's house. I was relieved to be home, grateful for the solitude.

The previous September,  I had totalled my car. While driving my friend and her daughter to the airport. For a Hawaiian vacation.
Needless to say, they missed their flight.

My friend was hurt. One minute we were joking about pineapples and the next minute she was in a crying hospital bed and I was suddenly responsible for a five year old.
I've never wanted my mom more in my life than I did that day.

When we got home, her mother immediately began talking lawyers and lawsuits.

I knew the only way through was together. So we both slept on couches in her living room until she was cleared to climb the stairs to her bedroom. I watched hours of Food Network with her when she was in too much pain to sleep. I fetched and carried and plumped pillows. I became a familiar face at her daughter's day care and dance studio. I did everything I could think of to help.

Not because of the guilt. Because I love her and her daughter and because you don't abandon family.

Make no mistake, there is guilt. So much guilt. The kind of guilt that comes to you so orangically after nine years of Catholic school. The guilt cannot be fought with reason or tears. Perhaps it will go away with time, but for now it endures.

By New Year's Eve it was beginning to look as though the worst might be over, there might be no more surgeries, she might be cleared to work again soon. And so I had gone home to snuggle my dog and sleep in my own bed.

This all turned out to be wishful thinking, of course.

But I got that one glorious day to relax, to not be strong or put on a happy face... to feel something besides soul sucking guilt.

So my beginning was quiet, but that was exactly what I needed.

Shut Up

For years I have been promising myself that I will learn to shut up. You see, I have this horrible, pathological need to confess everything. I hold on to things for as long as I can and then they come spilling out in a chaotic rush of emotion and crazy. It's like a verbal manifestation of an ugly cry. Not cute. Or remotely sane.

I've recently realized that I don't want to shut up. Why shouldn't I speak my mind? What am I so afraid of?

Today I finally verbalized something that I've been thinking for years and something else that has been rattling around in my head for a couple of months. And you know what? I feel better. So. No more keeping my feelings inside. No more fear. No more emotional hoarding.

I feel invincible. That's the secret I've been carrying around for years. After all of what happened in Arkansas and all of the shit with my father and all of the hours, days, weeks, months I spent wanting, trying, willing myself to die, I survived. And then my brother died. Right when everything was turning around for him. So, now, there is no way I can die. I've taken just enough psych classes to know that this mentality is a reaction to my grief. But I believe that God, the universe, whatever couldn't be so cruel as to have forced me to live for no reason. He couldn't be so cruel as to take two of my mother's children, two of my sister's siblings.
And now that I've verbalize this, I want to shout it out for the world to hear. I am alive! I feel celebratory about this for the first time ever. Celebratory and... defiant? I'm going to take this life that has been thrust upon me and live it. No more hiding, no more giving in, no more shutting up, no more fear.

New Beginnings

I spend so much time inside of my head focusing on all of the things that I'm not and all of the things I fear that I will never be... Independent. Strong. Happy.
And why can't I be? Why is it so hard for  me to be happy with myself? Why do I spend so much time seeking validation and reassurances from people who will never give them? Why do I tolerate being treated as second best?
Do I actually think I'm second best? Sometimes. Yes.

How do I move past these issues that I should have gotten over years ago? Why can't I just love myself? Why can't I just be a better person?

So. I'm not one for resolutions, but this year I'm making one. I resolve to focus on me. I need to get well again. I need to figure out how to be stable and healthy and look myself in the eye. I need to stop letting my past dictate my future. So 2013 will be the year of mental health and emotional healing.
I'm going to put my head down and just do work.

Disconnect

I have come to realize that I am not good at being alone. There is too much noise in my head for me to be one of those independent people who do everything by themselves.

I used to tell myself that I was in constant contact with SkinnyB because she needed it. Now my text messages and my call log tell a different story. I am always in touch with someone. I used to complain about all of the work calls I received, especially because they invariably came when I was in the midst of a celebration or a social event or a Skype call to TheFish. I used to talk of changing my number or turning off my phone at the end of the work day. Now that the calls have lessened, I almost miss them. I never changed my number; I cannot bring myself to turn off my phone for longer than an hour.

I wonder if this is just part of being a twentysomething in the new millennium. Have my age, Facebook, Android phone, Twitter, etc ruined my ability to be alone?
Or is my inability to disconnect for even a few hours indicative of something else? Am I too needy? Have all the years of pushing people away turned me into a lonely creature who craves human contact, no matter how limited or impersonal?

Maybe I'm overthinking this. The people I call most are the people I care about most. The people who call me care about me. Maybe it is just that simple.

I love and I am loved, what else could really matter?

The Kindness of Strangers

As I was driving to work on Easter Sunday, a warning light came on my dashboard. 

It looked like (!) and it scared the shit out of me. 

I had all of those crazy spinning thoughts that I get; I considered not going into work; I was convinced my engine was going to blow up. I white-knuckled it all the way to work. In the parking lot I flipped through the  previously- untouched owner's manual in my glove box, but I couldn't find an explanation. I ended up Googling it. 

Tire pressure. I felt like a complete asshole for freaking out.

And then I realized that I had no earthly idea how to put air into my tires. And then I felt like an asshole again. 

This was the kind of thing my father would have once done for me. Or, after that, my brother. The nearby tire store was closed for the holiday. None of my guy friends who would've helped with this were at work. 

I ended up telling the story of freaking out about the light that morning to my co-workers and sheepishly admitted that I had no idea what to do. They laughed at me and said "You grew up fighting and you can't even put air in your tires?". Brawling with my brother doesn't equal life-skills. A mean right hook doesn't make a girl into a tomboy.  

After work one of my female co-workers followed me to the gas station and very patiently taught me to put air in my tires. She was so sweet about it, teasing and helpful, but it made me feel so useless.  

My former boss used to say "They don't even know how much they don't know" or something to that effect.

I hate feeling like that. 

I hate that I don't have life-skills. I hate that I have no idea where to start in acquiring them. I hate that every time I feel like I'm starting to get it together something slaps me down again. 

Staring at the Clock on the Wall

What began as an impromptu overnight trip south quickly went awry. He was irritated about work and criticized me for smelling faintly of cigarette smoke.. I was flushed and wild-eyed from an afternoon of wine tasting and too many Americanos. Traffic was awful. The restaurant had accidentally cancelled our reservation. The hotel clerk called me "Mrs" when we checked into our room.

All of a sudden it was late; we were two hours from home; I was in way over my head. 

I believe that you learn a lot about people from the way they handle unexpected annoyances. He doesn't handle them well. 

We managed to have a good time despite all of the hiccups. I'm always amazed when this happens. I'm not very good at hiding my displeasure. 

That night I lay awake long after he'd fallen asleep. I wanted to turn on the light. I wanted to write. I longed for my laptop, which I'd left behind in my living room. Instead, I lay there and I thought it all out, I wrote in my head. I tapped out fragmented thoughts and half-decisions on my phone. Only one thing seemed concrete.

This isn't how it was supposed to be.

The next day we were supposed to stay and explore, shop, eat, go wine tasting.  I asked him to take me home. We left early and made good time. Traffic was headed the other direction, mostly.

I spent the day with friends. I semi-crashed BestFriend's backyard brunch with her crazy family. Then I drove downtown for a late lunch and shopping with TheTransplant. 

He came over tonight, after all Easter festivities are long finished. Even though I work at 4 o'clock. He said he was determined to "make it up to me", even though I'm not upset. There is nothing to make up.

But, yet again, he sleeps while I write.

That's a line from a Jewel song, you know. Like right now, he sleeps while I write. I sort of detest Jewel's whole whiny-90's thing, but that line has always stuck in my head for some reason.

Of Ham and Hatred

 When I was growing up my parents always selected holidays as the time to do something incredibly fucked up to each other other. My 21st birthday was no exception.
As a result, I've always been very bah-humbug about all holiday celebrations.
You'd think I'd be super excited about having no plans for Easter this year.

By now we all know that I'm a contrary bitch.

Easter has always been the only exception to my holiday hatred. I love Easter. Absolutely love it. I have no idea why.
My parents separated for the first time on Easter Sunday when I was twelve. It was one of the most traumatic events I'd experienced to date. I remember crying bitterly into my plate of Easter ham in Crazytown that evening. I haven't been able to eat ham since.
Regardless, I love Easter. Every single part of it. Even the gross commercialized parts... except Peeps. No one likes Peeps.

This year I'll be spending Easter alone, and I'm sort of beside myself about it. I'll go to an early mass, and I have to work in the morning, which is fine, but then nothing. I don't have plans for Easter dinner.  My mother has chosen to spend the holiday out of town with her boyfriend. TheFish is, of course, still away at school.
Its weird, and very fitting in a sad-girl kind of way, that I will be alone with my dog on the one holiday that I actually enjoy.

Maybe this is a good thing. Maybe it is past time for me to figure out how to be outside of my family and my obligations.

Besides, if I'm alone no one can judge me for drinking too much wine.

Tantalus

I have been feeling like I'm running in place lately. As though all of the things I have been actively striving for (sanity, happiness, stability, independence, success) aren't getting any closer to fruition.

Small slights sting more than they ever have before. Every unreturned phone call and harsh word cuts deep- even though I knowingly surround myself with blunt and brutal people. I know with one hundred percent conviction that I am being ridiculous, but that doesn't stop the wounded feelings.

Lovegood once told me that I'm a pushover. The part that she doesn't understand is that I can't always tell if I'm overreacting or if my hurt and anger is justified. I'm afraid of letting my crazy out, so I pick my battles very carefully. Maybe too carefully.
This is, perhaps, where I get myself into trouble. I have a hard time trusting people, so when I do let someone into my life I expect that they will appreciate how difficult it was for me to do so. I expect that they will respect and understand that I can't always vocalize my needs. I expect that they will understand that when I say something isn't a big deal it almost always is, and that when I'm dramatic about something it is almost always trivial. I know that it is ridiculous to expect people to know this. I know that I hold people to higher standards than they are capable of meeting. I know it is crazy to do this- to set my relationships up for failure. I know that I can't expect people to follow the strict life rules that I set for myself. I am incapable of explaining this without sounding like a self-righteous asshole. This is why I cycle through friends with such regularity, it is why my relationships don't have staying-power. I am easy to disappoint.

I wonder why I do this. Maybe it is easier, safer to just be disappointed. If someone disappoints me, I don't have to try anymore, right? Maybe. I'm not sure anymore. Its something to think about it.

Lately, I have been actively making an effort to get better, to be better.. I have been making an effort to verbalize my feelings (with the exception of last week). I have said no. I have done things for myself because it was what I wanted or needed. I have spent time alone, rather than spending time lonely. I am actively trying to be independent and healthy and let go. I am making an effort to forgive and understand and be reasonable.

This is where the running in place comes in- all of this effort seems wasted. I don't feel any more healthy or stable or independent. Everything still feels messy, like I'm barely hanging on... like I've been barely hanging on for awhile.

No More Balloons

Thursday was Justin's 24th birthday. I had spent the last few weeks with a growing anxiety. I had mentally circled the day in red ages ago. 


In years past, my mother has assembled some sort of hoopla to celebrate Justin. Two years ago we went out to the spot where we scattered his ashes and released balloons, then she cooked all of his favorite foods and we exchanged gifts. Last year my mother and I released balloons at the park where my brother played Little League. We followed that with dinner at his favorite restaurant and a dessert that was a childhood tradition. 


This year: nothing. No balloons. No birthday cake. Nothing.


No one even said a word about Justin. My sister had an appointment to get her hair thinned at 3:30 that afternoon.  BestFriend called me; she didn't remember that it was Justin's birthday. I couldn't force out the words to remind her.


I couldn't bring myself to say anything to anyone. In the days leading up to the 29th I hadn't mentioned it either. I wasn't sure how to approach it with my family; I didn't want to inflict it on my friends. I know that my friends would have been supportive. When I mentioned the significance of the date after the fact in that casual-but-not-really-casual way that I bring up tough things my friends were lovely and supportive and insisted that I should've told them. It wasn't that I didn't want to, exactly. I felt incapable of forming the words. And I didn't want to shine a light on my pain, or invite people to pity me. I didn't want to be viewed as seeking attention or sympathy. 


To be completely honest, I expected people to remember. Not my friends, but his friends, my family, all of the people who inserted themselves into my grief   when he died.


The worst part isn't that no one reached out to me. The sad, dark part of me always expects that. The worst part is that I feel as if everyone forgot Justin. All of the people who were his friends, who promised to love him forever are gone. It hasn't even been three years and he's already been forgotten. My grandmother didn't even call. 


By early afternoon, I couldn't take it anymore. I got into TheEgg and just drove. I ended up at the same sand dunes where we scattered Justin's ashes. I go there every so often to visit him. Not as much as I should. I sat there, wrapped in a beach towel and staring into the sea, until the wind dried all of my tears and my feet were numb. 


Days later, this is still bothering me. I feel so alone. How could they have all forgotten so soon?

Novacaine

I am experiencing a period of sensitivity.

This happens to me sometimes. I become temporarily unable to see the humor in things. Off hand comments sting; insults and petty digs pierce my soul. My whole self feels raw, as if there is a sucking wound in my chest. My skin is tender.

It is not unlike the way that depression feels, but it is not wholely like it either.

It is during these times that I am most erratic. I will have an out of character soul-baring conversation with a coworker only to follow it with a days-long self-imposed exile. I am more still and silent than usual. I hold everything I see and hear close to me to be examined later. I dwell and I obsess about absolutely everything. I search for meaning and significance where there is none to be found.

Do I know this is happening? Yes. Do I know it is absurd? Absolutely. Can I stop it? Not a chance.

I fear that its a return of my crazy. That all of the sadness is coming back. I fear that I can't ever escape it. I don't want to wake up at 45 and still be in therapy trying to come to terms with age 19, my father, my sister. Justin. It has to end. I deserve an end. So I keep still and silent. If I don't react too quickly it can't get out.
And so I find myself sitting up in bed tapping this out on my phone. (My laptop would, of course, choose this time when I most need to blog to misbehave.) Taptaptap tap taptap. Dwell. Dwell. Dwell.

I'm dwelling on a comment made by one of the kids who works for me. It was mostly off-hand, but it hit disturbingly close to home. It mirrored something BestFriend commented (scolded) about last week; something TheTransplant mentioned weeks ago; my own secret fears. BestFriend is almost always right, but she's especially always right when I most want her to be wrong. I really want her to be wrong about this.

I know I'm being silly and stupid. I know I should shake it off. I know that I shouldn't care. I wish I knew how to be less insecure, more confident.

I should practice what I preach: What Other People Think Of You Is None Of Your Business.

But I'm weak and insecure and I have this gaping wound in my chest and it won't stop.
So until the melatonin I took kicks in, I'll be here tapping and dwelling. Taptaptap

Ah Ha

I think it has become clear that reverb-ing is not my best thing. But for me participating in the challenge was about jump-starting my writing again. I never realize how much I need my blog until I've neglected it horribly. By the time I realized it this time I was stuck. I tried to write, but I just found myself staring at that damned blinking cursor. There are ten or so saved drafts on my blog dashboard- all of the unfinished reverbs. Some of them are simply the prompt. Others are unfinished drafts: half thoughts, fragmented stories.  This hidden wasteland is probably just as telling of my year as any whole published post. Rereading the reverb posts makes me sort of ashamed. I wonder when I lost my voice. When did my words switch from chatty to stilted? Has my life always been so empty?

Anyway, in realizing that my blog has become cluttered with these half-formed posts, one jumped out at me. It struck me in a way that it hadn't before. Perhaps I will drag them out and finish them at some point this year. Perhaps I wasn't able to write them yet because I didn't need them yet. Who knows?


Reverb11
Prompt for December 24: Ah Ha: What deep thought struck you this year? How did it change you? 

I rolled over sloooowly. It hurt to move and for a moment I was disoriented, unaware of my surroundings. I reluctantly opened my eyes and the room came into focus. 
Brown bed sheets, white wall. Loose change, Bic lighter, digital alarm clock, lotion, and a man's watch on the nightstand. Earrings, necklace, bra, underwear, cocktail dress, I was fully dressed in my party clothes from the previous night. Spartan furniture, large TV. Silver heels (mine), discarded jeans on the floor- belt still threaded through the loops (not mine). More walls, they're extreme whiteness marred only by scantily clad girls, "The Official Rules of Beruit", and Bob Marley. 
I was alone. At Lames's. In his bedroom, to be exact. The night before we'd gone to his company Christmas party. The party was a two drink affair, but it was not a two drink night.
This realization was a relief, if for no other reason but that it meant nothing inappropriate had happened. I was safe. 


A week or so later, over cocktails and appetizers, I related to BestFriend a story of my night of over-indulgence after the Christmas party. It led to how laughably cliche Lames's room was; how every single guy I knew when I was 19, 20, 21 had virtually the exact same room.

"So, anyway, I realized..." I started to say.
"You need to stop hanging out with 21 year old boys?" she finished for me, eyebrow arched. That was not what I was going to say, but I was so startled by her words that the rest of my thought was lost forever.

I was already embarrassed about over-indulging that night. I hadn't drank so heavily (or been so hungover) in an incredibly long time, maybe years. But aside from the heavy alcohol consumption, it had been a tame night. No crazy antics, no inappropriate naked business, no law breaking. I was a polite guest. I didn't make a spectacle of myself.
Her judgement hurt. 
I think it hurt most that she was right. 

Not about my friendship with Lames, of course, but about the scope of my life. There's nothing wrong with drinking or sometimes drinking a little too much. But being 25 and making a habit of drinking to excess with a handful of barely-legals would be pathetic. It is passed time for me to get it together for good. I need to stop trying to be 21 again. I can't go back. I can't fix it. No matter how much I want to, or how much I joke about it, I can't be young forever. 

I had already realized that I need to let go of my father-issues, but I hadn't realized that I needed to let go of this too. I didn't realize that sometimes I'm still just trying to be popular, drinking to be popular. 
I'd forgotten how I self-destruct.I'd forgotten that I'm my own worst enemy.

So I'm going to grow up and I'm going to shut up. 

Be flexible

Reverb11
Prompt for December 20: Be flexible: Sometimes life does not go according to plan. Tell us about a time where you had to be flexible and change your plans. How have you made changing your plans work to your advantage? 

In October, I went back to Fayetteville. 

The night I was scheduled to fly home a terrible thunder storm rolled into Northwest Arkansas. The plane was grounded and what should have been an easy boarding process became an endless, hours-long wait. 

Sometime between eating a dubious-looking airport sandwich and re-wrapping my sprained ankle, I became unwillingly engaged in conversation with the three ladies sitting across from me. 
I do not usually talk to strangers in airports. I am a book-open-ipod-in kind of traveler. Really, give me some classic Southern rock, a novel, a Canada Dry and I'm good to go.
These ladies were in town for the War Eagle Craft Fair (who knew?). As it turned out, they were from Lompoc. Lompoc is a small town about an hour south of mine most notable for being home to an Indian casino, a prison and an Air Force Base. After some gentle interrogation on the part of the apparent ringleader, it was discovered that I knew one of their sons in a friend-of-a-friend way. (Ok, truth, he sold my ex boyfriend car stereo equipment and I still had his card in my wallet because I'm a crazy pack rat.) I soon tired of the interrogation and excused myself to limp toward the cafe in search of an Americano and an electrical outlet. 

My flight eventually boarded around the time I should have been landing in California. After spending some time on the tarmac and additional time issuing dire warnings that we may be rerouted to an airport in the desert, we were finally wheels up. 

After five hours and the bulk of Uncharted TerriTORI later, we landed at LAX. Due to my sprained ankle and the fact that my ass had been asleep since we were jostled about over The Rockies, I was unable to bolt out of the plane like I usually would. When I finally struggled out of the plane, the Lompoc ladies were waiting for me. 

The ringleader related a long story- the gist of which was that they were stranded. At LAX at 2 am. I somehow found myself agreeing to carrying the three ladies and all of their luggage north with me in my tiny tiny car. 
I blame the time changes and the fact that I'd been up for nearly 24 hours.

Forty-five minutes later, the ladies, their ten bags and I were squashed into TheEgg and headed north. The Matriarch suggested that we drive through Malibu. She neglected to inform me that this would add significant time to our trip. The ladies in the backseat promptly fell asleep and snored nearly all the way up PCH. The Matriarch stayed awake the whole time. She alternated between asking me extremely personal questions and telling me every minute detail of her diet and medical health. By the time we reached Ventura, I wasn't sure if I wanted her to keep talking to help me stay alert or go to sleep so I could have some peace. 

After creeping through the low-laying fog on the coast I finally delivered the ladies to their respective doorsteps. I found myself with an empty car and a package of wax-paper wrapped apple turnovers finally homeward bound. I did my best to follow The Matriarch's driving directions, but between the fog and the winding roads I found myself lost on the dirt roads that run between the strawberry fields. An hour later, I finally found familiar territory and then the highway- a good twenty miles off track. 

I crawled into my bed as the sun was coming up, exhausted but no worse for the wear.

Those ladies were nutty, but they were probably the only reason that I made it home safely that night. And the apple turnovers were delicious. 

Challenges

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Prompt for December 19: Challenges: What did you wrestle with in 2011? What did you learn? What challenges do you see in 2012?




I work for a man who reminds me of my father. 
By now we all know that I have ... issues... with my father. I have actively excluded him from every event in my life for the past four years. He doesn't even have my cell phone number.
To say that having a boss who resembles him presents a challenge would be an understatement.


I struggle to communicate, to cooperate. Sometimes I fail epically. I continue to struggle on, though. Not all of the conflict I've had with my boss is my fault. He makes mistakes, too. He is impatient and defensive; perhaps I remind him of someone too. Ultimately, it doesn't matter. This is my issue. It is not my boss's fault that he reminds me of my father. 
Not all of their shared traits are negative. 


At the end of the day, issues aside, I love my job. And so I struggle onward.

Self compassion

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Prompt for December 18: Self compassion: Were you gentle with yourself in 2011? Tell us about how you were compassionate towards yourself in 2011. Or maybe you want to be more compassionate in 2012. How will you be kind to yourself?


In January, I declared that 2011 would be the year of love and self-indulgence.


Outwardly, I failed miserably. I didn't splurge wildly or over-indulge myself in anyway. I didn't throw caution to the wind or take chances. I spent much of the year stressed about work- under rested and over caffeinated. I ended several friendships and set serious boundaries in others.


I think that last part- the friendship ending- was the most compassionate thing I've done for myself in a very long time. I've come to realize that self- indulgence and self-compassion don't have to be about giving yourself a free pass or being wildly frivolous. It can just be about saying no. It can mean taking time for myself; refusing to feel guilty; raising my standards; choosing not to give it my all.


So maybe I failed on a large scale, but I won so many smaller battles. In 2012 I can only hope for more of the same. I hope to continue to set boundaries and reasonable expectations for myself. I hope to take time out for my sanity, and to learn to place blame where it is warranted. 
I suppose a little bit of coddling and frivolity are in order too.

Make

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Prompt for December 17: Make: What did you make this year that you're proud of? Was it a success or did it flop and you learned something about how to make it better next time? Do you have any special handmade projects planned for next year? 

One of my earliest memories is of weaving baskets with my mother. 
 As a child I thought that everyone's mother sewed them elaborate First Eucharist dresses of tulle and taffeta or historically accurate Laura Ingalls outfits (complete with a sunbonnet!). I didn't understand that other parents bough things like playdough and Christmas ornaments.
My mother passed these skills on to me. I made my first queen-sized quilt in the fifth grade. In high school I sewed a red satin flapper costume for a Roaring 20's themed dance. I made my own bridesmaid dress for my favorite cousin's hippie wedding. I cooked dinner for my siblings and I every night after my mother went back to work when I was 13. As I grew older I realized that not everyone has this same skill set, it blew my mind when friends couldn't sew on a button or hem their own pants. 
I realize now that this skill set, these "domestic arts" are important, something to be proud of even. There was a time when I was made to feel that these skills, "women's work", wasn't useful or valuable. For a few years I stopped sewing and baking and "making" in general. 
This year, I decided to change that. I started making again. And I did. I let my creative juices flow.

This is the creation of which I'm most proud:

Obviously, I did not make LittleMiss. I did, however, make the super awesome tutu she is wearing. The materials for the tutu cost me about $17, and the construction time was about an hour to an hour and a half. It wasn't difficult or inconvenient to make-I made it sitting on the floor in front of a Say Yes to the Dress marathon. The biggest challenge was probably choosing the colors of tulle. But it wasn't about the money or the time. It was about creating a birthday present for Little Miss. She was super excited about her birthday present and insisted on donning it immediately. 
Seriously, isn't she the cutest thing?... I'm at that creepy stage in my twenties in which I covet other people's children but don't actually want any of my own.