Guess I only write sad animal things in here now. Anyway, hi!

I’m having a "feel all the emotions" week and it’s making it hard to concentrate on or accomplish much of anything. Which...fine. Sometimes this is just how life is. But it sucks.

Last year at this time, almost exactly to the day, we found out that Mara had cancer. Specifically, anal sac adenocarcinoma or, as we maturely called it, "butt cancer." She had a mass on her anal sac (heh) and one of her lymph nodes. I won't bore you with all the fears and tears and options we ran through at that time, but we decided to start with surgery to remove the masses. She came through it great! There were some follow up steps, including an experimental (but free!) vaccine and oral chemo which, did you know that was a thing? Crazy. We were hesitant, but it had no negative effects on her, really, and was keeping the cancer from spreading. For a time, anyway.

She had a follow up appointment last week, and they found a mass on another lymph node. It hadn't been there a month ago when they did an ultrasound, so they took a sample. We found out yesterday that the mass is cancerous. Because of fucking course it is. I don't think either of us were surprised. When they told us there was another mass that had appeared that quickly, what else was it going to be?

I'm mostly OK. Mostly. It fucking sucks, but I've been mostly holding it together, if only because we still don't know what all the options are yet.

I just keep doing this thing where I'm, like, poking my feelings? To, I don’t know, see how much it hurts to think about Mara not being here this time next year, or when we move into a new place, or, fuck, not being here at all FULL STOP?

I don’t know why I keep doing that. It turns out it hurts a fucking lot, is what it does. And it makes me cry every time, and my eyeballs feel like they’re going to dry up and fall out of my head already so I really don’t want to cry anymore.

Meanwhile, Max is acting weird and apparently has arthritis and then he started eating dirt obsessively (wtf?) and we don’t know why. He gets to go back to the vet on Monday, so I’m hoping they can figure something out. I don’t know. I know this is normal (I mean, not the dirt-eating thing but, like, dogs having issues). He’s getting older, of course he’s going to have medical issues. But why does it have to be happening when we got such terrible news about Mara?

Life is supremely unfair, and I know that, but I don’t know why the universe feels the need to show me evidence of this all at the same time. It's rude.

At the same time, I know that we are very lucky. We’re lucky to have at least some funds, though they are not unlimited, to help our dogs with these issues. We’re lucky to have back up plans for moving and upcoming travel, should we need them. We’re lucky to have one another, so we can lean on each other when we’re having I AM NOT OK moments. I know all of this.

I also know we’ve been really lucky to have the last year with Mara, something I’ve thought and reminded myself of often since this time last year. We didn’t know if she’d make it through the surgery she had. And she did! And she has been acting normal (well, normal for her) ever since. We’ve been really lucky to have that time. The cancer she was diagnosed with is an aggressive one. We were lucky to have that time to enjoy her and, yes, even to take our time saying goodbye to her. Pet owners don’t always get that.

Still. It fucking sucks ass, is what it does. And no amount of luck with change that.

I wish I could rewrite the ending on this one

I have most Mondays off, so on nice days, I go hiking at one of the many parks in the area. Last Monday, I spent most of the morning and early afternoon hiking and, on the way home, tired and muddy, I drove through Lincoln Park, a small residential park with a few trees and a pond. As I drove by the pond, I noticed a woman in the middle of the road. In front of her was a duck, struggling to drag itself out of the street.

I pulled over and got out of my car, and at that point, the duck, a mallard, had managed to get himself into the grass. He seemed comfortable enough, though wasn't moving to walk or fly away, despite his wariness of the humans standing around him. A man who'd also been driving by told the woman and I that he had called animal control. He drove away and the woman, who had a car full of kids, soon followed him, thanking me as she left. 

“I guess this is my problem now,” I thought, and went back to my car. After texting some friends and Joe, I came to the conclusion that I’d wait for animal control but try to find another option in the meantime. I called Brukner Nature Center, which does wildlife rehab, and the woman I spoke to told me that, if I was able to capture the duck, I could bring it to them. Knowing what animal control would do should I leave the duck there, I decided to at least try to capture him. How hard could it be to capture an injured duck? 

SPOILER ALERT, it turns out it’s super hard! 

Joe left work early (which is ridiculous and also why I love him) and stopped to get a box and some towels. We tried to capture the duck once he got there, but it FREAKED OUT and also all the other pond ducks and geese came over to see what we were doing and swarmed around us like a bunch of duck-zombies, hungry for brains bread, and in the midst of all the confusion, our duck got into the water. 

So. At that point, we could have given up. But instead we went to Meijer and bought a net. 

We rushed back to the pond and saw the duck, which we (stupidly) named Lincoln, sitting on the little plank-ramp that the ducks use to climb out of the water. He wasn’t able to climb all the way out, so he was just sitting at the end. And unfortunately, every time we got near him with the net, he swam away to the middle of the pond where we couldn’t get to him. 

We decided to leave for the night, since it was getting dark, and try again in the morning. We tried for an hour the next morning, but were still unsuccessful. I came to visit Lincoln during lunch and again after work, each time feeling more and more useless. When I visited him that night, I was at first hopeful that he had gotten out of the water, as all of the ducks were huddled together in the grass next to the pond. But as I walked the path, I soon found him, still in the water, on the complete opposite end of the pond. He was still swimming away every time I got near him, but not quite as quickly. And he was all alone. 

I went home and cried to Joe, but we decided that, at that point, we should probably just let it go. He didn’t want to be caught. I’d spoken with someone from the parks department earlier that day, who told me that it’s extremely difficult to catch a duck that doesn’t want to be caught, but that they would try to catch him the following day. It made me feel a bit better, but I still felt like I’d failed in some way. If only we’d been able to get him before he got back in the water. If only. 

The next day, I went to work as usual, hoping that the parks department would have better luck than I did. Joe texted me around lunchtime, saying he wanted to try one more time to catch Lincoln. It turned out that my kind-hearted husband, also feeling badly about the duck, had gone by to see whether the parks department had been there. They hadn’t, and Lincoln was still in the water. He wasn’t swimming away as he had been the day before, so Joe thought maybe we could catch him this time. 

All of our duck-catching gear (which at that point consisted of two towels, a box, work gloves, a net, some bread, and a dog crate) was still in the back of my car (because you never know when you might need to catch a duck), so we were all set. We got to Lincoln Park and formulated a plan. I was cautiously optimistic but trying to tamp it down, as my optimism had gotten us nowhere so far. 

On our first attempt, Lincoln swam away again. He slowly made his way to the other side of the pond. I decided to stay on one side while Joe walked to where we thought Lincoln was headed. He crept up to the edge of the pond, slowly dipped the net in front of Lincoln, and Lincoln swam right into it. Joe scooped him out of the pond, easy as anything, and made his way toward me. 

Guys, I wish I could adequately describe the jubilation I felt as I watched Joe walk toward me, Lincoln safely in the net. I dropped the bread I was holding and sprinted to the car to get the crate ready. Joe deposited Lincoln into the crate and we made our way to Brukner, hoping that we’d gotten him in time. 

Brukner is about a 40 minute drive from where we live, and we spent the entire trip alternating between excited chattering and sitting in happy silence. Every now and then I’d break the silence with, “REMEMBER THAT TIME YOU CAUGHT A DUCK?” and we’d start laughing hysterically. 

(We also later realized that there was a guy fishing in the pond the entire time we were trying to catch Lincoln, someone who watched us scoop him into a net, put him in a dog crate, and then quickly drive away. I hope we gave him a fun story to tell on Thanksgiving.) 

Once we arrived at Brukner, we were able to transfer Lincoln into their care easily. I filled out a form, they gave us a patient card so we could call and check on him, and we were done. We both went back to work, feeling happy that we’d tried our best to help. 

I wish I could say that this story has a happy ending. 

Brukner was closed on Thursday and Friday, and when we called on Saturday, they told us that Lincoln had died. They did everything they could, even taking him to an outside vet, but, after all that, his injuries had just been too extensive. 

I wish I had something deep to say here. But I don't. It just sucks. 

Even now, a few days later, I still find myself tearing up about that duck. I spent five days fixated on him, thinking about how to catch him or what was happening to him at Brukner. Our giddy happiness at having caught him turned into an impressive display of grief (we cried a lot and then impulse-bought a brass duck statue that we found at a vintage-y store) for an animal we’d known less than a week. 

If I’m honest, lately I’ve been feeling frustrated about the many terrible things happening in the world, things that I cannot change, or situations that have no easy fix. And here was a situation in which I could actually do something. There was a hurt animal in front of me. I knew exactly how to help. Someone else gave me the knowledge, I had all the tools. And I still failed. 

I keep wondering how my week would have gone had I driven home a different way. Or if I had just ignored the situation and driven by instead. I probably would have worried about the duck for a bit, then placated myself with thoughts that someone else probably dealt with it. Maybe that’s how the people I met last Monday are feeling. Several people happened upon Lincoln while I was waiting for Joe to get there with supplies, and each one seemed supremely relieved when they realized I’d taken ownership over this sad little duck. I'm a bit jealous of them, really. They can at least tell themselves that the duck was probably fine, since someone was there helping. I wish I could have done more.

Still, as disappointed as I am, I just keep reminding myself that there are ways to help. 

Brukner Nature Center, and other organizations like it, can always use donations, whether the donations are monetary or items like animal food or blankets. If you’re able to give, they’ll put these items to good use, helping animals like Lincoln, or educating children and adults in the community on how to safely interact with wildlife, both healthy and injured.  

I know that, because of organizations like Brukner, many other animals are successfully rehabilitated. I’m so thankful that a place like this exists in our community and that, when faced with this situation, I had an expert (other than Google) to talk to. I wish there had been a better outcome for Lincoln, but we happily made a donation so that the experts at Brukner can continue helping animals like him. It doesn’t feel like much, not really. But sometimes it has to be enough. 

this contains spoilers for: The Good Wife, Downton Abbey, Breaking Bad, Game of Thrones and other shows that are so old I've decided they don't need spoiler warnings

I haven’t posted in almost two months and, of course, the thing that brings me back is TV feels. Last night’s episode of The Good Wife ripped out my heart and threw it on the ground and stomped on it with cleats and then scooped it up and threw it into a blender. THINGS ARE NOT OK.

Do any of you even watch that show? I hesitated at first, because it’s on CBS and it seemed like a total mom show (and maybe it is, because most of the moms I know watch it), but it’s actually really, really good. I KNOW. It shouldn’t be that surprising, really. It’s filled to the brim with talent: Julianna Margulies, Christine Baranski, Nathan Lane, Alan Cumming, and, until last night, Josh Charles.

Because last night The Good Wife lost its damn fool mind and killed off Will Gardner.

I have two major problems with this (well, three, if you count the fact that I don’t get to see Josh Charles on my TV every week):

1. The Good Wife is not Grey’s Anatomy. Killing off your male lead? OK, I guess, if you absolutely must, but in a courtroom shooting? Really? 

2. No more Willicia. A major driving force of the show was the will-they-won’t-they thing between Alicia and Will (and whether or not she’d ever leave her dumb husband for him). So. Guess that’s over, unless Will comes back as a walker.

Earlier this week, my friend, Nancy, who keeps tabs on these things, brought to my attention that Josh Charles hadn’t yet signed his contract for next season. We briefly considered the idea that they might kill him off, but dismissed it for the above reasons. Because why would they do that? I’ve seen articles calling this a brave move and, yeah, I guess it is, but was it smart? I’m sure the show will continue to be well-written and well-acted. It will probably bring out some really fantastic acting from the other leads. But I can’t imagine I’ll enjoy it the way I used to. I told Nancy that I would stop watching the show if they killed Will. I still have that inclination, but am also curious to see how the rest of the season plays out. So I’ll watch, but I doubt my heart will be in it (except for the part of my heart that is HORRIBLY BROKEN BEYOND ALL REPAIR).

I don’t remember being this upset about a character’s death since I don’t know when. Which is a total lie, because I REMEMBER THEM ALL. And here they are, in order of feels:

Sybil, childbirth (Downton Abbey)

I was spoiled for this and it was still hard to watch. The show killing off the most likeable of the sisters was shocking enough but was especially nutso when you consider what happened later that season, which leads me to...

Honorable mention: Matthew Crawley, car accident. I was also spoiled for this but, even as I watched, was hoping I'd read it wrong? I read an article last night that compared Will’s death’s to the move they made with Matthew on Downton Abbey and couldn’t help but think, “oh, fantastic, that’s when I lost all interest in the show.”

Billy, brain tumor (Ally McBeal) 

I know, right? What? Ally McBeal? I don't remember a whole lot about this, other than it was really sudden and shocking because this was before the internet spoiled everything.

Melissa Scully, gunshot wound (The X-Files)

This was mostly sad because it made Scully cry a lot and Scully crying is the saddest thing ever.

Honorable Mention(s): Mulder, buried alive in the desert. And Mulder, gunshot wound to the head. And Mulder, alien...stuff.

Hank, shot in the desert (Breaking Bad)

I'M STILL UPSET ABOUT THIS.

The Red Wedding, EVERYBODY STAB NOW (Game of Thrones)

No, I HAVEN’T read the books, thanks for asking, and yes, I reacted exactly like these people did:

Boone, airplane crash, but not THAT airplane crash (Lost)

I wasn't all that attached to Boone, but this was the first main character death and the moment we learned this show wasn't playing around re: killing off favorites.

Honorable Mention: Sun/Jin, drownded (WHY BOTH WHYYY)

Honorable Mention #2: Charlie, also drownded (NO SERIOUSLY WHYYYYY)


Lucy Knight, stabbed (ER)

ER was one of the first shows I really, really loved, and so Lucy’s death was the first time I realized a show could break my heart.

Joyce Summers, Joss Whedon (Buffy the Vampire Slayer)

This one was just mean. Just...I hate you, Joss Whedon.

Honorable mention: Anya, killed as an afterthought, RIP.

Mrs. Landingham, car accident (The West Wing)

I don’t want to talk about this anymore.


Anyway, RIP Will Gardner.

At least Dan is still alive.

DOWNTON ABBEY!!! SPOILERS!!! BEWARE!!!

I watched the finale of Downton Abbey the other night and I think I need a safe place to talk about my feelings. Because, you see, I have a lot of feelings re: the last five minutes and also the season in general.

First of all, if you haven't watched the season and don't want to be spoiled, please quit reading. ESPECIALLY if you haven't yet watched the Christmas special, which was the one that aired this past Sunday in the US, since we celebrate Christmas two months after our friends across the pond. So, yeah, spoilers ahead and I think I'm being generous even giving a warning because, by now, it's aired all over the place so if you haven't watched it, that's your problem. That is my spoiler policy! But I'm being nice because I was horribly spoiled for two giant Downton events (after they aired in the UK) because I haven't figured out yet how not to get spoiled for things on Tumblr. 

ANYWAY. So don't cry to me in a moment if you've already read this far and you still get spoiled. Because I'm about to spoil everything. EVERYTHING. And I'm not hiding anything in garbly text or "click to read more" links so just get over it. I'm sorry I'm being so cranky about this but spoilers make me cranky, OK? I SAID SORRY. Let's move on, right, and talk about...

...

...

(there's still time to back out)

...

...

Poor dead Sybil. That one hurt. I mean, I was spoiled for it (spoiler offense #1, TUMBLR) and it was still horrifying to watch, like, to the point where, while watching it unfold, at one point I was like, "maybe I read wrong...she had the baby and now she looks OK and they're all happy and what a cute family!" and then NOPE I WAS JUST LULLED INTO A FALSE SENSE OF SECURITY because then she died and we had to watch it and it was horrible and that baby is a murderer.

It's no revelation to say that babies are bad omens on this show, at least this season. It's all over the internet. But damn, if I were any of the other women on the show and I got pregnant, I would be TERRIFIED. I mean, I'd be terrified IN GENERAL if I found out I was pregnant, but on Downton it's way worse. So far, a baby has killed a reputation (Ethel), a mother (Sybil), and ALL OUR FUTURE HOPES FOR HAPPINESS BECAUSE MARY'S DAMN BABY KILLED MATTHEW.

That's right, MATTHEW IS DEAD. DEEAAAAAAADDDDDDD! WHY GOD WHY?!?

I knew it was coming, so I put off watching the finale for as long as possible. Joe kept asking me if I wanted to watch Downton Abbey and I was all, "IF I WATCH IT, MATTHEW WILL BE DEAD SO NO THANK YOU," and then Joe would just back away slowly. Then I watched it and it was terrible because they spent so much time talking about how Matthew was so great and he was everyone's savior and he was the only one who thought Mary was a nice person and he saved Downton from Lord Grantham's stupidity and was so excited about his stupid adorable baby and NOW HE'S DEAD. I mean, I understand that they really had very little choice but to kill him off, since Dan Stevens decided to leave the show (though I still think a situation where he'd always just left the room or was away on business or was locked in the W.C. would have been fun), but I hate that it ended that way. Mostly I'm just worried about the baby because can you imagine Mary being your mother? Yeesh.

I will say that I'm so way more into Edith now than I ever was before, like, I felt really bad when she was left at the altar (LITERALLY) but I'm loving that she's suddenly all CAREER WOMAN, in spite of her father's protesting. If they continue her Peggy Olsoning, and if she stays away from her editor with the crazy wife locked away in the asylum (Faux-chester), she might become my favorite character, aside from Professor McGonagall, of course, and maybe zombie Matthew, if Dan Stevens decides to ever return. It could totally work, zombie love interests being all the rage virus these days. Or just in that one book/movie, anyway. Never mind.

I will tryyyyyyy to fix you

You know how sometimes you wake up and you're just in a shitty mood for no reason? I mean, sure you do. Everyone experiences this every now and then. Or maybe you don't, weirdo, I don't know your life. But for those of us non-robots who do, occasionally, wake up on the wrong side of the bed (that's the left side, right?), how do you combat that? Do you try at all?

I do so love getting a good wallow on. I like to make an occasion of it. (See: WORST. DAY. EVER. Week.) But there are days that I don't WANT to wallow. I want to be happy because who wants to walk around in a constant state of bitchface? (OK, in all honestly, that is sort of fun sometimes BUT WE'RE NOT TALKING ABOUT THAT RIGHT NOW.) Anyway. On the days I don't want to devote an entire week to having WORST. DAYS. EVER., I just choose to be happy.

Yeah. That's right. I tell my brain to stop fucking around and start releasing some goddamn endorphins or whatever it is brains spew all over your body so you don't feel like cold-cocking a baby. I don't know, I'm not a brain scientist.

Whatever. Guess how often this works? NOT OFTEN is the answer. You can't just boss your brain, you guys! Your brain is smarter than you! It will not bow down to your iron will, especially if your iron will is like mine, all, "aww, gee, brain, please be happy?" and less like, "KNEEL BEFORE ZOD, FILTHY BRAIN."

So what do you do if your brain won't listen to you? Do you give in, shut your office door, lie on the floor, and listen to Coldplay all day? NO. NEVER EVER DO THAT, YOU GUYS, THAT IS A TERRIBLE IDEA.

Here's what I'd recommend instead of listening to sad bastard FM:

1. Don't go to work. 

(DISCLAIMER: don't play hooky, because you might get fired.)

Take a personal day? If you can? Or you could try to time your shitty days so they only show up on the weekend, but how often does THAT happen? Anyway, my reasoning here is that if you're already in a shitty mood, going to work isn't going to help anything.

2. Put on pajamas. 

Shower first, though! The last thing you want when you're having a shitty day is to wander past a mirror and catch a glimpse of your greasy-haired, pasty-faced self. Another option, I guess, is to cover all of your mirrors with sheets or towels or something but that seems like a lot of tedious work for someone who is already irritated.

3. Make some peanut butter toast. 

Let that shit melt before you eat it, OK? Are you some kind of animal?

4. Open the windows for some fresh air. 

But not if it's 104 (or -4) degrees outside ARE YOU CRAZY?  

5. Pick a favorite TV show to watch. All day. 

Not, like, Buffy or Friday Night Lights. You're trying to make your brain happy, not make it cry forever. Might I suggest comedy? Community, Parks and Rec, The Office (seasons 1-5, anyway), Arrested Development, etc. 

6. Have a pet. 

I mean, don't go out and just buy one (THAT IS IRRESPONSIBLE) but if you have a dog or a cat who will curl up on your lap as you watch your favorite TV shows, that'll go a long way in the happy department. If you don't have a pet, maybe go outside and see if you can coax a squirrel into your house.

7. Take a walk. 

Yeah, I know you have your pajamas on. Who cares?

8. Eat some vegetables, maybe? 

I know, I know! You don't like vegetables! But they'll make you feel awesome and, I mean, stop being such a baby, YOU ARE AN ADULT EAT SOME DAMN BROCCOLI. Or asparagus. It makes your pee smell funny, which is hilarious.

9. Watch the following video DUH WHY DO I KEEP HAVING TO TELL YOU THIS:



There. I fixed your shitty mood. GIVE ME A HUNDRED DOLLARS.

oh the weather outside is weather

Do you ever think about what a miracle it is that you're you? I don't mean to get all college freshman on you. There will be no, "what does it all mean?" nonsense or anything like that. But do you ever just sit and breathe and think about all of the little things that have to happen in order for you to be sitting there breathing? And that, quicker than anything, The Universe can just be like POOF YOU'RE DEAD, just because one of those little things maybe stopped happening?

I found a picture of my Grandma in my purse the other day. I forgot it was in there, slipped into a tiny pocket, but when I found it, I remembered putting it there. Joe and I were almost done packing, getting ready to move out of the condo Grandma had lived in before she went to the nursing home, when I found a tiny picture of her, hidden away in the basket we kept extra keys in. I didn't know where to put it, everything we owned was in boxes, and I didn't want to lose it or for it to get damaged, so I slipped it into the safest pocket in my purse, tucked away to be found later.

My parents and aunts and uncles are selling Grandma's condo now, of course. There's no one else to live in it. Joe and I were only staying there until we found a permanent place to live. The condo's been painted and they've installed new carpet and cleaned everything from top to bottom. I've avoided going to see it. I'm sure it looks very nice, but I'd rather remember it as Grandma's. Joe and I didn't really change much more than the artwork when we moved in (it being only a temporary arrangement), aside from adding a few pieces of our own furniture, and even though we lived there for over a year, it never felt like anything other than Grandma's. Like we were squatters and at any moment, Grandma was going to come home and ask what the hell we were doing in her house. Only she would have never done that. She'd have been glad to have the company, would have sat on the sofa next to me, maybe stolen the TV remote to turn on the Hallmark channel.

My mom sent me the condo listing today, which makes the fact that it's going to be gone all the more real. I'm surprised at how much it's bothering me. I was so ready to move out when we bought our house but liked knowing that the condo was still there, still looking just like it did when Grandma left, except for, you know, empty. And now it's for sale and it WILL sell, probably quite quickly, and it feels like the last tangible connection to Grandma will soon be gone. I didn't know it would make me this sad. Grief is so weird.

Dude, I am so depressing. I'm sorry. Let's talk about something else. Like the weather. It was freezing just last week, but it's supposed to be 60 tomorrow. This winter has been crazy confusing. I can't keep track of what month it is. I go outside and it feels like April, but the calendar tells me it's only January. Not that I'm complaining, it's just that my brain can only handle so much confusion. This weather might be the thing that sends me over the edge. Who knew that's all it would take?

:(

My parents had a dog, Rusty, when I was born and we were total BFFs. I was about 10, I think, when we had to get Rusty put to sleep. My dad vowed never again would we get another dog. Not only was my dad the one who had to take Rusty to the vet the last time, but before he left, I gave him some pictures I'd drawn of Rusty playing in Dog Heaven to put in Rusty's casket in case he got lonely. OMG CAN YOU IMAGINE. I'm surprised my dad was able to take Rusty at all, but he did, and as he drove away, my mom, sister, and I stood at the window, waving goodbye and crying.

We eventually did get another dog. Not, in case you were wondering, when I brought home a "Let Jennie Get A Dog" petition that I'd had my entire class sign, but when I was in high school. My aunt's lab had puppies, like a million of them, and we somehow convinced my dad to let us take home a teensy chocolate one. We named her Ripley because, as my dad would tell people, "believe it or not, we got another dog."

You can maybe see where this is going. Probably. I don't know. This morning my mom called and said it was time to put Ripley to sleep. I'd been expecting it but still wasn't ready for it, you know? Ripley's health had been declining for the last year and a half and lately she'd stopped eating and was having trouble even walking to get outside.

So this morning, I wandered around the condo a bit, probably freaking Max the hell out with all of my crying, and went over to my parents' to say goodbye to Ripley before we took her to the vet. The vet was...well, it was as terrible as I'd imagined, if not moreso, but we all stayed in the room with her when it happened. And it was awful, just awful, and I felt like I couldn't catch my breath through my tears, but I'm glad I was there with her.

I'd planned on driving separately on the way to the vet, but it felt right, my sister, Ripley, and I piled into the backseat of my parents' car, the bulk of Ripley in my lap, taking our last trip together. And as I buried my face in the scruff of her neck, I thought of that night, almost 13 years ago, when we took her home for the first time, how she'd crawled into my lap in the same exact way.

And then I cried and cried and cried THE END except not really because I CAN'T. STOP. CRYING.

Excuse me, I need to go cuddle Max.

Why are things so heavy in the future? Is there a problem with the earth's gravitational pull?

Prompt: Moment. Pick one moment during which you felt most alive this year. Describe it in vivid detail (texture, smells, voices, noises, colors).

Two things happened this year that made me feel alive, two things that are opposite sides of the same coin, really. I got married in September, a day full of happiness and fun and love, and then my grandma died in October and there were days of sadness and family and, you guessed it, love again.

When I think about both events, spending time with friends in the days before the wedding, the rehearsal dinner, the day itself, and a month later, the last time I saw Grandma, the visitation, the funeral, the days of confusion, I tend to focus on specific moments, the most important flashing through my mind in quick succession.

My grandma couldn't come to the wedding, but she was present that day. The pastor surprised us all by taking a moment to remember her during the ceremony, and I concentrated on blinking away the tears that quickly formed in my eyes. I sat next to my great-aunt, my Grandma's twin sister, after the ceremony and she held my hand, told me how the pastor's words had touched her, and we sat for a quiet moment together.

The wedding ceremony itself was a blur. My feet hurt, my arm was tired from holding the bouquet, and my cheeks already ached from smiling and laughing. We were so happy, walking out into the church foyer after the ceremony, holding hands, hugging friends and family, taking a giddy ride to the reception.

The reception was...I don't even know. There was Twister and dancing and there were fake mustaches EVERYWHERE, there were cupcakes and soft pretzels, and a bottle of wine and Hogwarts being passed around on the dance floor. I danced with my family and old friends and new friends and did I mention Hogwarts? I walked arm in arm to the bar (naturally) with my dad to get a drink, grinned at my parents dancing with their best friends, delighted in seeing my sister dance with mine. If the wedding ceremony was a blur, the reception was even hazier, a crazy whirligig of fun, if you will (™ Xander Harris), a funhouse ride swirling us about in an uncontrollable dance, finally spitting us back out at my parents' house for more celebration.

There was a moment, though, at my parents' house, that my dad and his brother and sister and I stood in a huddle in the kitchen, arms around shoulders, friends and family eddying around us. I don't remember who said it or how it was said, but someone made reference to how much fun Grandma would have had and how much she'd been missed that day, and we stood there, all bittersweet smiles and aching hearts, until we were swept away by the general merriment of the night. We didn't know she would be gone in a month. How could we?

The days of her visitation and funeral passed in a similar blur, but with more tears. My eyes were swollen from a week of crying and still my body had more tears, my high-heeled feet hurt, my heart hurt, and all I wanted to do was hide. But, as always seems to happen, those times when you want to run and hide are exactly the times you can't, and so I went to the visitation, made small talk with almost-strangers and kept my eye on my family, gravitating to whoever might need me most. I went to the funeral, jumped up to read when it was my turn, and spent the rest of it with my eyes forward, tears streaming down my face, holding Joe's hand, my other arm around my sister's shoulders.

It was a sunny autumn day, brisk but not cold, as we gathered around the graveside to say our final goodbyes. I tried not to stumble in my heels. I smiled at my sister, put a rose on other family plots, hugged a crying cousin as we walked away from Grandma one last time. I felt too alive that day and all too human.

We went to my parents' house after both the wedding reception and the funeral, my entire family gathered, joyous to be together, missing those not there, and all of us grinning and crying and laughing, just grateful to be alive and loving each other.

one more sad

Last week was a weird one, I must say. I worked Monday and Tuesday and had the rest of the week off. My company does a lot of things wrong but they do bereavement leave right. Not sure what to make of that.

I went to volunteering on Tuesday night, something I was more than a little worried about, as it is a group for grieving children. I worried about bursting into tears as soon as I walked in, but it was actually the perfect place for me to be. Which in hindsight is a big, fat DUH but my foresight is absolute shit.

I saw my family almost every day last week, which was good, but also cried a lot, which was not so fun, actually. I held it together for most of the viewing, even though I had to go hide in the kitchen (under pretense of water-getting) a few times, and I held it together not at all on Friday at the funeral. I did manage to read this:

The thing about having a grandma is that you think she’ll always be there, because she’s always been there. From the moment you’re born, she’s with you, cheering you on and letting you stay up too late and pretending not to notice when you swipe a peppermint from the candy jar when your parents aren’t looking. She’s just as proud of you for graduating as she is that you didn’t fall down while walking across the stage. So when your grandma dies, you feel it instantly. That person who used to let you win at board games and who totally believed you when you said you were going to grow up to be Mary Poppins is gone.

The hardest thing about losing someone you love is the realization that you’ll never see them again. That all of the memories you have of that person are it, there will never be more. You realize how very little time we actually get and you wish, desperately, for more.

We must remember that the memories we have of Grandma are ours forever. We might feel like we’re losing them or that we don’t have enough of them, but the memories we have of her are like puzzle pieces and each person in this family holds different pieces of the puzzle. Late night card games and camping trips, watching Disney movies over and over and sleepovers on New Years Eve, walking up to Lincoln Park and feeding ducks at the pond, chocolate martinis and Happy Birthday Jesus cakes. We all hold these memories and when we tell stories about Grandma, we’re putting the puzzle pieces together. We’re a family of storytellers, a family that can’t get together without telling stories of times past, and as long as we can share our memories of Grandma, she’ll always be with us.

But only because the eulogies were first and especially only because I ran up to the mic before anyone else got a chance to make me cry. After I sat back down, though, all bets were off. TEARS. EVERYWHERE. But I suppose that's what funerals are for, really, so...whatever.

I feel very whatever lately. Very blah. Very other words for depressed. Things are getting back to normal, I suppose. We watched Chuck last night and walked Max and laughed about stupid things and I read my book and went to sleep and had crazy, crazy dreams.

Which I expected, as I have been having some wicked crazy dreams lately. I've dreamt of zombies at least four out of the past seven nights. The other night, I dreamt that I was in that movie Skyline. Have you seen the preview? It looks pretty run of the mill alien-movie until the last shot, which is of lots and lots of screaming people being pulled into spaceships by a beam of light. Freaked my shit out, that did. Anyway, some other people and I were running from this light, obviously, and we took shelter in a house. Someone realized that the light couldn't pull up people with dyed hair (what?) so we all dyed our hair. Mine was dark, dark black, like Evil!Willow black. We went outside to test it but mine didn't work, the light still came and I started getting pulled away and that's when Robert Downey, Jr. flew over in his Iron Man suit (minus the helmet) and saved me, which was pretty awesome because Robert Downey, Jr. is totally on my list, only I woke up before I could dream-cheat on Joe. Oh well, maybe next time.

(I love you, Joe!)

Anyway. I don't know what all the zombie/alien dreams say about my psyche right now and I don't want to know, thank you very much, I just wish they'd stop.

I am, however, totally OK with the Robert Downey, Jr. dreams. HINT HINT, UNIVERSE.

I need your good thoughts. Also, your money.

We lived next door to my dad's mom until right before I started third grade, when we moved into a bigger house across town. While we lived next door (which was a street away from where Joe grew up, btw), she used to baby-sit me after school. At some point, I don't remember when because I'm old now and those memories are fuzzy, my Granny moved in. Granny was not blood-related to any of us, but had raised my Grandpa and so she was family. I think that's how family works.

Granny died a few years after we moved, and my grandma moved into the condo that Joe and I are now renting. Life hasn't been very fair to Grandma, and yeah, yeah, I know life's not fair but that's not going to stop me from being pissed off about it. Her husband, my grandfather, died before I was born. He was only 46. When I was in college, she was diagnosed with breast cancer. She beat that and was diagnosed with diabetes. And a few years ago, doctors found a cyst that was pushing on her brain, causing confusion and other physical problems.

I remember being relieved when I found out that it was a cyst and not a tumor. But now I think, "fuck that cyst," because it has been nothing but a pain in the ass (brain?) ever since it turned up. It's required two of the same surgery, a shunt, and a temporary-turned-permanent stay in a variety of nursing homes. And the surgeries? They seemed to work at the time but she's been in a spiraling state of confusion ever since. She became paranoid and was sometimes mean. Sometimes funny mean, like when she threatened to punch my dad in the gonads, but other times mean mean. Mostly she was just confused. She sometimes thought she was back in her childhood home. She thought she had more than one room at the nursing home and always insisted that we take her to it.

She did have moments of complete lucidity, where she was all there, all Grandma again, and she'd make a joke or tell a story from when my dad was a kid. My sister and I visited once, and I spent the majority of the visit pushing Grandma's wheelchair up and down the hallways of the nursing home because she insisted that we go to her "other" room and no amount of me telling her that there WAS no other room was going to dissuade her. We spent a good hour exploring the halls and we never found it, of course, but when we got back to Grandma's room, she looked me square in the eye, all there, and said, "You're a good kid." I laughed it off, as I do whenever anything gets too serious, and made a comment about how I hadn't been a kid in a very long time. Then we talked about the new Where the Wild Things movie.

That's the last time I remember seeing the Grandma I grew up with. Since then, she's only gotten worse. She was recently moved to a home that specializes in Alzheimer's and dementia patients. I won't go into details, but she's been a handful, to put it mildly, and this was primarily the reason she couldn't come to the wedding.

Last weekend it reached epically bad proportions, as her doctors try to find a balance in her medication. They need to keep her calm without over-medicating her. I haven't seen her yet in the new home but I imagine it's not good, as my parents have forbidden me or any of the other grandkids to go see her without one of our parents. She's not eating. My parents couldn't wake her up when they visited last, she was so over-medicated. So. It's bad. I feel stupid and naive for thinking it would ever get better.

This coming Saturday, I'm walking in the Making Strides Against Breast Cancer 5K Walk in honor of both my Grandma and Aunt Kathy, both breast cancer survivors. I've done a pretty piss-poor job raising money, so if you can find it in your hearts (and wallets) to make a donation, I'll be your best friend. Or say really nice things about you on the internets. Or write a post about anything you want. Hopefully not one as sad face as this one, though, I had to take a lot of DON'TYOUCRYRIGHTNOW breaks.

find a happy place FIND A HAPPY PLACE

My teacher in fifth grade was named Mrs. Wolfe. It was Mrs. Castrejon the year before who nurtured my love of writing, but it was Mrs. Wolfe who nurtured my love of storytelling. I loved Mrs. Wolfe, idolized her, really, and to this day she remains one of my favorite teachers. I think of her every now and then, usually when I read a book that makes me cry, and I realize that sounds INSANE but hold your horses, I'll explain.

Every day, after lunch and recess, Mrs. Wolfe would pull out an old stool and place it smack dab in the front of our desks. She'd then pull out a book and read to us. I don't remember how long she used to read, sometimes it seemed longer than others, but I always wanted it to last longer, especially if we were in the middle of a good book. At the time, I couldn't understand how some people could just STOP reading in the middle of a book. I couldn't think of much else when I was reading a good book and so would race to finish it so my brain could rest. Not much has changed since then.

I always knew we were in for it if Mrs. Wolfe put a box of tissues near her. She'd cry through the sad parts, even though she'd read most of these books to all of her many classes in years past. And I'd sit in my chair, struggling not to cry with her, because what if no one else was crying OMG SRSLY. This is why I still read books I think might make me cry in the privacy of my own home, which is why when I read the end of The Dealthy Hallows, I found myself alone in bed, working my way through a box of tissues and putting the book down every few minutes because I COULDN'T SEE THE WORDS THROUGH MY TEARS. But I digress.

I don't remember the names of all the books she read over the course of the year, but I do remember the saddest moment in all of those books. For the life of me, I cannot remember the name of the book, and for once, Google was of absolutely no help. But I have faith that one of you might have read the same book as a kid and, who knows, maybe it stuck in your mind as well.

WARNING: this is like the saddest thing ever. What I'm saying is, Heather Anne, you might not want to read this.

OK. So. There's this boy, I think he's 12, and he wants to join a big dog sledding race in Alaska. I think he needs to win money or something to keep the family home or farm or igloo or whatever. So he joins this sledding race with his trusty pet dog who is the best and smartest and bravest dog ever and all the other people in the race are these grown ass men with their grown ass sledding dogs and they all make fun of the little boy because they are all big meanie poopheads.

The race is really hard and the boy and his dog have many adventures and problems but they make it to the end of the race. It's them against this other guy who wins like ALL the races and the boy and his dog are in the lead! They're going to win! AND THEN THE DOG FUCKING DIES RIGHT BEFORE THE FINISH LINE.

It is the MEANEST! STORY! EVER! you guys. What the shit is that? So of course, in class, we're all crying because THE DOG DIED and stories where the dog dies are the saddest stories of all. But it gets worse. The man who was about to come in second to the boy and the dog before THE DOG DIED, the man who wins all the races all the time, stops his sled, picks up the dead dog and carries him over the finish line and then I DROWN IN MY OWN TEARS.

I hope I didn't just traumatize you. I think I traumatized myself all over again. Anyway, does anyone know what that book was? Because I want to write a mean letter to the author.

an era is defined as a significant period of time!

It is my long held belief that any life event, big or small, can be related back to Friends. So a few months ago, when Heidi and I decided that we'd both be moving in with BOOOOYYYYS once our lease was up, of course I thought of Monica and Rachel. The parallels are obvious. Monica is a nutso control freak and Rachel is fun and will let you borrow her clothes. I will let you all draw your own conclusions as to who is who.

Heidi and I have lived together for four years now, which blows my mind because the time? Flew by. I know it sounds cliche, but it's true. When we were in college, and it came time for everyone to leave FOREVER, we found it too hard to acknowledge that we were all moving so far away from each other. We reveled in denial and, instead of saying anyone was leaving for good, we simply said they were going to the grocery. They'd totally be right back. It didn't always work and usually ended in tears, but we tried, you know?

So, once again, it's time for Heidi and I to go to the grocery. I'm moving out this Friday.This Friday! It's so soon. I can't really think about it without getting teary which is a problem if I'm, you know, at work. I've lived with quite a few roommates and Heidi is HANDS DOWN the best one I've ever had. Way better than the one I had freshman year, who smelled like an ashtray and used to lock me out so she could have sex with her boyfriend. Heidi will let you borrow her clothes, no questions asked. She'll happily eat cheesecake and cupcakes for dinner with you, and is always ready to watch The Office over a glass of wine. She'll even go with you to meet a stranger from the internet so you don't get axe murdered. And. And! She'll almost always be smiling, no matter how shitty her day was. She has a much better attitude than yours truly and that is a true story.

This is quickly turning into a sapfest, and we can't have that, no we can't, so instead I bring you Heidi and Jennie's Greatest Hits:

On not getting rabies

On (bravely) killing bugs

On books being true (always)

On laughter, the best medicine

On pain

On hot guys, and wasting time

On difficult choices

On roadtrips

On buttsex and Full House

On sickness

On poo

On getting accidentally drunk

On geography

On cooking

On not setting the apartment on fire

On (sister) doin' it for themselves

On engagements

On marriage and Nanomonkeys

On being different, so awfully different

On bags of semen



:-(, you guys, just :-(

I'll be up in the gym just WORKIN' ON MY FITNESS*

I had been doing really well with the whole working out thing, until Monday because I started to feel like poo because my mom gave me her germs, which is sweet and all, but really I wish she'd kept them all for herself. Because that's the kind of daughter I am, I will make that kind of sacrifice. Anyway, before the sickness, I was alternating between running and stuff in the fitness room and doing Jillian's 30 Day Shred.

I managed to move on to Level 2 of the Shred, even though most of the time it made me want to die, but I started to get really bored. I was tired of watching Jillian flirt with Natalie and fawn over Anita's abs. I didn't want to listen to her tell me about how she was making big promises, and that's why she was torturing me, or that she wanted me to feel like I was gonna die (the hell, Jillian?) because I was BORED. I was getting so bored that, since I had the DVD memorized, I was doing it without the aid of the DVD while I watched something else. And I was still bored! Also, tired.

So I bought a couple of her other videos. They're both about 50 minutes long (counting warm up and cool down) and so I figured they might be easier than the Shred. The Shred is only 25 minutes long, so I thought the intensity would be more spread out in the longer videos. This is similar to my theory that tinier animals and people are meaner than bigger animals and people because the evil is more concentrated. (See: little yappy dogs VS. big sweet dogs.) Never mind that I came up with this theory as I was explaining to my friend how scientists had cloned an elephant, but like a collie-sized elephant, and it was really cute but also really mean and would try to poke people with its tiny tusks and it wasn't until I was halfway through my explanation and she was staring at me like I had three heads that I remembered that I had read about this IN A WORK OF FICTION, not on the news. But I still think my theory makes total sense.

Anyway. I did one of the videos last night and now I'm afraid to do the other one. My new heart rate monitor watch said I burned 700 calories, which I really doubt is true but you know? I have never sweat so much in my life and today my entire body feels like I spent the night throwing myself down the stairs over and over so maybe it was accurate. There were moments when I actually cried out, "THAT'S NOT POSSIBLE, JILLIAN!" She for realsies tried to kill me. Toward the end, she was all, "now we're going to do mat work" and I was like, "yay, lying on the floor!" but that was the worst part of the whole workout! You guys, SHE IS EVIL. It's because she's so tiny, see, THEORY VALIDATED.

*yeah, I just quoted Fergie SUCK IT

woke up today, to everything gray

I am in A Mood but I'm working really hard to get out of it. I always get really cranky on Mondays because I'm upset that the weekend is over, even though it happens EVERY WEEK, so you'd think I'd be used to it by now. You'd be wrong, though. As it is, I'm struggling not to punch my coworkers in the face just because they have the AUDACITY to speak to me. I keep thinking, "snap out of it, Crankypants," every time I get all snarky with someone in my head, and really, it's the thought that counts SO BACK OFF.

It makes it even harder (heh) to get back to work when the weekend was such a good one. We visited Lampl and Jon on Friday, since they are soon leaving us for sunny Florida, and although the night started off innocently with margaritas and burritos at Chipotle, it soon moved to buying random beer at the grocery (WARNING: do not buy beer just because it has Bigfoot on it and you think it'll be funny because it tastes like . . . well, Sasquatch ass) and ended with a lot of screeching into the microphone during Rock Band and a late night run though Taco Bell. I knew things were not going to end well when it was my turn to sing and I realized I was seeing two sets of lyrics, and so I had to squint to make out the words to Any Way You Want It. I mean, luckily, I know most of those words ANYWAY (you want it) so crisis averted. I ended up singing it twice, for some reason, and I'm still not sure how that happened.

Needless to say, I did nothing productive on Saturday and ended up lying around in my pajamas for most of the day lamenting the fact that OH, I AM NOW SO OLD. I look forward to celebrating getting even older next weekend with the Reds and giant beers. So I will be spending much of next Sunday in my pajamas being completely unproductive, is what I'm saying.

Me fail English? That's unpossible!

Firstlies, take this quiz. I missed the first question (DAMMIT) but got the rest right. Thank you, Kat, for sharing this quiz and ALSO for telling me to wear red today for good luck. So far, so good. My red shoes are squeaky, though. What's that about? We have to wear these work badges around our necks on lanyards (much like the freshman leashes we wore our keys on in college . . . what?) and I also have this token on mine that bangs into my badge every time I take a step. So when I walk it's like, "smack smack smack" unless I hold onto my badge so the badge and token stop banging each other FOR FIVE SECONDS OH MY GOD. Anyway, today I'm squeaking when I walk and my badge and token are banging and it's all very loud. My point is, I can't sneak up on anyone at work, which is unfortunate. I'm very good at sneaking. And then jumping out! And scaring! Ask Joe. This one time I think I almost made him pee his pants a little because I jumped out from the dark and went "AHHHHH!" It was like that time Derek Zoolander went into the coal mine. You know? YOU know.

Now it is time to completely change subjects. Heidi's family had a memorial service for her grandpa yesterday, and I spent the majority of it pinching myself to take my mind off of crying. Someone once told me that if you're about to cry and you pinch the fleshy part of your hand between your thumb and forefinger, it will make you stop. I don't really know if it works but I kept doing it yesterday. Of course, then I wanted to cry because I was pinching myself, but whatever. Give Heidi all your hugs! Now!

Good news, everyone! Tam's grandpa is on the mend. That doesn't mean you can stop thinking good thoughts. Oh no. Think MORE good thoughts. They're working.

Also, happy birthday to three-hole-punch Steve. Congratulations, my friend. Today you are a man. (I don't know)

I feel like I did a lot this weekend. I think because both Friday and Saturday nights I was out PAST TWO IN THE A.M. Amazing, yes? It's like I remembered I'm not 80 and also that bars stay open that late. Even more amazing is that I was not drunk at ANY of these bars and I didn't fall down at all. That is both amazing and unprecedented. We saw some bands Friday night (and met Sad Captain) and on Saturday, while we were waiting for Heidi and her coworkers to finish their bowling tournament (you heard me), we sat in a dark corner of a busy bar, drinking Miller Lites, listening to a not-terrible rock band, eating cheese con queso, watching two men and a woman play grabass with each other in front of the dartboard, and trying to figure out how to turn on the flash on my camera phone. That last one was an EPIC FAIL but the rest worked out quite nicely. Last night, my parents fed me dinner and my mom gave me a billion pieces of kitchenware. I spent a great deal of last night reorganizing the kitchen to make room for the new dishes. This means I now have a lot of stuff to either put in storage or give to Goodwill. I'm leaning toward giving it all to Goodwill. Except for the fish plate. Lampl would kill me if I got rid of the fish plate. Do you like how I'm being all enigmatic about the fish plate? No? OK.

In other news, this week on The Collective, we're supposed to write about embarrassment and failure. I'm having a hard time narrowing down which embarrassing story to tell. Sigh.

This is more random than usual. I'm sorry. Wait. No. I'm not sorry at all.

WARNING: there is disturbing hooha talk ahead. I mean it. Turn away now.

Thank you all for the kind words yesterday. I knew I could count on you guys.

Now, it's time to talk about the gyno. I know, how excited are you? So. I went to the gyno this morning, because what better way to start the week than by letting someone you don't know very well shove a cold piece of metal into your hooha and poke around with giant Q-tips. BECAUSE THAT'S WHAT THEY DO. I think sometimes men wonder why women complain about going to the gyno and HERE IS WHY.

First, you walk in and they weigh you. I'm really OK with this. The part I have a problem with is that they then measure you and SOMEHOW I've shrunk a quarter of an inch from last time I was in. Or I was wearing thicker socks last time. Or I was standing up straighter. I don't know. But I do know that 26 is probably too young to start shrinking.

Then they take you to an exam room, where they point out the lovely frock you'll be wearing. The nurse is all, "make sure the gown is open in the back and put this white sheet over your lap." The white sheet is for privacy while the doctor gropes you. You'll see.

So you change into this gown, making sure to leave the opening in the back, and cover your business with the white sheet. You wait and wait and wait and, if you're like me, you're just getting to a good part in your book when the doctor walks in and is all, "How's life? How often do you do it? Have you ever been pregnant? When was the first day of your last cycle?" It's like an exam you haven't studied for PLUS ALSO an interrogation. There are even hot lights shining on you. Sure, they're shining on your lady parts, but whatever.

After some chit-chat, the doctor tells you to lie back and put your arms over your head so she can feel you up and make sure your boobs aren't bad-lumpy. And then she yells at your for not giving yourself monthly breast exams. My doctor also likes small talk, but instead of talking about the weather, she'll talk about how her kids go to Catholic school and one day they came home and said they'd had a discussion about abortion in religion class. And you just smile and nod and try to pretend she's not kneading your boob like a bunch of dough.

Now comes the big show. The stirrups come out and she's all, "scoot down here . . . a bit more . . . that's it . . . relax your knees," and it's very uncomfortable, except you're kind of distracted because SHE'S STILL TALKING ABOUT ABORTION. And then, with some gentle words ("oh boy, this part is never fun") she violates you with a piece of metal. Good times. Now is when she switches subjects a bit and starts talking about how she really liked that Mike Huckabee and you bite your tongue because you are in a VERY. COMPRIMISING. POSITION. and she could do you permanent damage. Eventually, she finishes and you think it's all over, but then she feels your ovaries or uterus or whatever. From the inside. Yeah. I've heard some gynos poke you in the butthole or something, but mine doesn't do that. If she did, I'd poke HER in the butthole and see how she likes people messing around down there.

See? I told you not to read this. That'll learn you.

If I advance any higher in this company, then this would be my career. And well, if this were my career I'd have to throw myself in front of a train.

I often worry that I'm not a good enough person. I think I'm a good person, despite all the cursing and the talk about punching babies. After all, it's mostly all talk. I'd never punch a baby in the face, unless I traveled back in time somehow and punched Baby Hitler in the face, but he's totally asking for it. No, I don't worry that I'm not a good person, I worry that I'm not a good ENOUGH person. I worry that I'm not living up to my full potential, and that, even though I volunteer a couple days a month, I feel like I could be doing more for people.

I got kind of bummed this morning. It's becoming more and more obvious that, once we've converted all of our software and our company is officially taken over by the new one, my job will be all but obsolete. The thought of not having this job anymore doesn't really depress me, the thought of having NO job depresses me. This job is not as challenging as I thought it'd be when I started, or maybe I've gone as far as I can here, so the whole losing-my-job thing would be a good thing. Except, that not-having-any-money thing would kind of suck. And finding a new job has been a lot harder than I thought it would be. I mean, HELLO, why do they not recognize that I have super awesome skills (not just mean internet-surfing skills) and ALSO I would entertain them with funny stories and sarcastic comments on a daily basis, MUCH like a class clown. Or court jester. One of those.

A lot of the times, I think about doing something and then come up with a long list of reason why NOT to do it. I would like to stop this. The next time someone says they're having a James Bond movie night and I have a math test the next day (wtf?) I'm going to say, "Fuck the math, I'll be there." And the next time I see a job and think, "That sounds awesome, but I'm not sure I'm qualified," I'm going to say, "Fuck the qualifications, I'm applying anyway."

If they call me for an interview, though, I'm going to try not to say fuck in front of them.

fake it til you make it

I had to take a math test this morning. And then I got a flu shot. BEST. DAY. EVER. There was also an aptitude test (not attitude, unfortunately) and that part was fine. "What letter comes next in this sequence?" they asked. "Q!" I shouted. The test administrator asked me not to shout during the testing process. Then during the math portion, he asked me to stop crying and throwing things.

I was in all the smart math classes in school, but I never really understood what I was doing. I have a good memory so I'd memorize how all the homework problems were done, and then I'd skate through the tests with my sweet memorization skills. But I had no idea WHY you multiplied the square root of your butt by X. It's sort of like when you teach a little kid to swear. Sure, they can pronounce the words correctly but they don't know what they're doing. And unless you show them how, they'll never know how to combine those swear words for maximum hilarity (see: poohead buttshits).

Last night, I missed watching James Bond (in Blu Ray, which is apparently better than HD, but I wouldn't know, wah wah) because I needed to go over the test math problems they'd provided. These are the text messages I sent as I tried to work the problems:

I can't do math and I'm getting frustrated! (this was to Joe, who edits math textbooks, and who came over to help me when I threatened to cry)

I HAVE TO TAKE A MATH TEST TOMORROW AND I CAN'T REMEMBER ALGEBRA.

Math is a fuckstick.

And as I sat there with my head in my hands, trying to set the fake test on fire with my eyes, I was reminded of all those weeknights my dad would sit with me and help me with my math homework. I'd get frustrated then, too. I get frustrated with anything I can't do perfectly right away THEREFORE I get frustrated a lot. Here is how most of those evenings would go:

Me: UUUGGHHHH! THIS IS STUPID.
Dad: What's wrong?
Me: I can't do this problem!
Dad: Let me show you how to do it.
Me: I don't need help!
Dad: Jennie . . .
Me: Fine.
Dad: See, you do this and this and blah blah blah the answer is 6.
Me: I don't get it AND I'M NEVER GOING TO USE THIS.
Dad: Yes, you will.
Me: Math sucks.
Dad: I know.
Me: Waaaaaaaaaah.
Dad: Try this one.
Me: OK.
Dad: There, see, you did it.

And then I'd try another one and start crying when I couldn't figure it out. I felt confident that I'd never, ever need algebra again and I would yell and yell about that instead of actually doing the problem, while my dad would explain that YES, YES I WOULD NEED ALGEBRA STOP BEING SUCH A WHINY BRAT. It turns out we were both right (about the math part, only my dad was right about the whiny brat part). I haven't really needed math since college. Until now, when I needed it this morning AND IT WASN'T THERE. Plus, they wouldn't let me use a calculator. What kind of fucked up shit is that?

Bell out of order, please knock

Apparently Tamara did not like my last post. In fact, I believe she might have suggested that it was the worst post ever. And, yeah, it was short and not thought out at all, but at least I wasn't listing things I carry in my purse, right? Right. In any case, Tamara is bored at work, and since she was kind enough to blog for me today over at The Collective, the least I can do is babble to the Internets for a while.

It probably won't surprise you to hear that I was sort of a weird kid. A weird kid who grew up into a genuinely weird woman (or, as my mom calls me, "a unique mind").

My mom also likes to remind me that, when I was little, I had a Southern accent that no one would explain. I grew up in southwest Ohio and, while it is a bit close to Kentucky, it's not close enough for Southern twang to seep in. I don't remember how or when I lost it, but I wish I still had it. I love accents of all kinds, but the Southern accent is the friendliest of them all.

Like most kids, I liked to play "pretend" during recess, but instead of playing House or School, I liked to imitate Babs from Tiny Toons or pretend I was Peter Pan (the girl version, of course) and climb to the top of the jungle gym and jump off. I never ended up flying, though. I tried a lot of different things in my attempt to fly. I stood on one end of a teeter-totter and had my friend push down on the other end. My thought was that, if he pushed down hard enough, I've propel through the air and soar into the clouds. What happened was, I fell backwards off of the teeter totter and hit my head on the ground. It was sort of exactly like what happened when I tried to run down the Slip 'n Slide. I used to try flying off of swings, too. You know, you'd swing as high as you could and then jump when you reached the highest heights, but I always crashed back down to Earth. My most unsuccessful attempts at flying usually involved an umbrella. I thought that since Mary Poppins could take off from the ground and fly with an umbrella, I could do it, too. But since I was an amateur, I jumped off of stuff while holding an open umbrella, so I'd at least already be in the air. It never worked and I was always disappointed. Even now, I can't believe movies would lie to me like that. I mean, I cannot tell you how many times I tried clicking my heels three times, but it never took me home. I tried it just this morning and it still didn't work. Hasn't stopped me from trying, though.

You know, on the old mariners maps, the cartographers would designate uncharted territory by writing "here be monsters."

We watched the most depressing movie ever last night. Not as depressing as Gone, Baby, Gone, but still depressing. Maybe depressing is the wrong word. It was more like . . . I don't know, one of those movies that makes me lose all faith in humanity. Sort of like . . . Gone, Baby, Gone. Hmm. Maybe depressing IS the right word.

Anyway, the movie was Cassandra's Dream and it made me lose more faith in humanity than even Match Point did. Thanks, Woody Allen! Oh, and just as a warning, HERE BE SPOILERS:

So. There are these two brothers, right? Ewan McGregor and Colin Farrell. Ewan McGregor is a man-whore who wants to be all rich so he pretends he's all rich in an attempt to get into this Kate Beckinsale-y woman's knickers. Colin Farrell is a drunk who is addicted to gambling and in one night loses 90 THOUSAND POUNDS. Yeah. That's right. They have a mysterious Uncle Howard who is loaded and they decide to ask him for lots and lots of money. Which is totally cool with Howard, but he wants a little something in return this time. Nothing big. He just wants them to kill this guy who is going to testify that he is a rotten, rotten bastard. Easy, right? So, I'm thinking, "Hey, they probably won't kill that guy . . . they're not very smart, but they seem like nice boys." I should have known better. I didn't think that one dude was going to kill Scarlett Johansson either, but he totally did. People are bastards.

Anyway, so they definitely kill that guy. And Colin Farrell starts going a little crazy because I guess murdering someone isn't something you just forget about. He starts drinking and taking pills and talking about going to the police, causing Ewan to freak out more than a little. It was at this point that I looked at Joe and said, "Ewan's going to kill his brother, isn't he?" AND THEN HE TOTALLY STARTS PLANNING TO KILL HIS BROTHER. I don't like it when Ewan McGregor is a rat bastard. He ultimately stops himself from carrying out his MUUUUUUURDER plan, but then they get in a fight and both die anyway. THE END HA HA HAPPY FUN TIMES