samantha who?

I decided on Saturday, after eating french fries for lunch and chinese food for dinner, that I needed to stop being such a glutton and introduce some healthy habits into my life. So, off to the farmer’s market I went. One bag of bruised apples, one bag of carrots, and eight bunches of greenery later I made my first glass of raw juice. It was awesome, I had the energy of Jack LaLanne. I went for a run (and by run I mean I jogged down the block until I couldn’t breathe, and then walked the remainder of the way), hit up yoga class, and was generally feeling like an all around champion. I settled into bed last night with my hot cup of fresh-squeezed lemon and honey and celebrated my new-found healthy self. 

And then I woke up. At 4 am. With the most horrendous post-nasal drip/sore throat, chilled body, and balloon head. I didn’t understand. “I’m treating you like the temple you are!” I silently cursed to myself. I barely got out of bed this morning, my voice sounding like it had been replaced by a fog horn. 

I’m fucking mad. I treat my body like a punching bag for 6 months, stressing it out to no end, eating the world out of sugar and carbs, and it reacts with … health? Give it some raw kale and carrot juice and some fresh air and it reacts like a hungover Punxsutawney Phil whose just seen his shadow, the light of day, AND a makeup-less Faith Hill. AH!

I didn’t drink my juice today. I’m treating my body like I do any other problem, with punishing passive aggressiveness.

Does there ever come a time when you stop secretly despising the environment you live in and make the decision to leave? I have spent the entire winter obsessing over the humidity levels in my room, deluding myself into believing that if I maintain a level of 40% my skin will stop flaking off. It’s not true. You feel supple until you step outside the moisture barrier and your skin quickly contracts back to its tight, angry state, and you proceed, with great bitterness, to bite off another piece of dry lip skin. Or is that just me? Fuck. I hate the thought of leaving, but I can’t dislike the place I’m living for 75% of the year. Why do I have to love so many people who live in this cursed city? Ugh! Need a change, need a change.

Disappear, For A Little While?

I told my husband today I wanted to make like Frodo and Bilbo and make for the undying lands of the elves. I also told him I need a therapist, but I don’t have any time to make an appointment. Something needs to change in my life.

A Christmas Miracle?

A family friend just asked if my mom was allergic to nuts and my dad responded with “only to mine!” They have now resorted to snuggling on the couch and I don’t know what’s more disturbing, the fact that my dad just talked about his nuts, or that my mom got closer to him after he did.

And this is only after two bottles of wine.

Happy Holidays!

It’s Christmas, All Over, Again.

I used to love the lead up to Christmas. I loved crowded shopping malls, holiday tunes, decorations, parties, searching for the perfect stocking stuffer. My joy has been progressively decreasing—plummeting might be a more fitting word—in the years of late. I’m convinced my stress has caused me to have a continuous mild heart attack for the last week. That, or I have a pistachio shell lodged in my gallbladder. I wrapped presents so quickly today that a blind three-year-old using a hot glue gun could have done a nicer job. I had an anxiety attack in Sephora over the addition of sparkle to an otherwise lovely eyeshadow palette which caused me to speed walk out of the mall so quickly that people were apologizing for fear of being tackled. I’ve yelled at my husband so many times in the last three days that my mother told me I need to treat him better. Then I yelled at her to stay out of my damn business. I was so desperate for relief that I asked my dad if I could open a bottle of his wine. He pointed at each one, told me how much they cost, and said no. I yelled at my husband to please go buy me a bottle. He hasn’t returned.

This year I decided that living with my parents wasn’t awesome enough, so we elected to take a family trip. On Friday, we will pack up and go stay in the mountains for a week. Normally, I would look forward to spending a relaxing time with my kin. But when it involves packing up ski gear, clothing, presents, food, booze, and assorted necessities, I wonder what the fuck I’ve signed up for. Today my dad reminded me to start collecting the spices we need to bring with us in order to properly season the Christmas dinner. All I could picture in my head was my mom screaming, “THE ROSEMARY, YOU FORGOT THE DAMN ROSEMARY!!” as we speed down the highway. I must look on the bright side, however, for the days I get to spend with my family will inevitably be more calming than 14 minutes with my husband’s. Maybe my dad will share his wine with me and I’ll be just the right amount of drunk when I see them.

Happy Holidays!

I only ever feel like writing at night

My new bedtime ritual involves mindlessly flicking through Facebook profiles. If you’re my friend (and there’s only like 150 of you, so no one is safe), odds are good I’ve creeped through every photograph, every ridiculous status update, and every moderately funny link posted on your page. And not because I particularly care. I also read about how Herman Cain is a philandering warthog. If that makes you feel better?

Anyways, my sleeplessness can be attributed to a couple of things. Firstly, I have been drinking entirely too much. Of everything. Besides drain cleaner. Although last Saturday night is quite fuzzy, so I’m not ruling anything out. Seriously though, alcohol in excess is nasty shit, and I’m definitely convinced that it’s negatively affecting my sleep states. Secondly, I’ve started watching Breaking Bad. Which is not advisable before doing, well, anything. Unless it involves acting like a serious badness. Like when you break into your sister’s room and steal her rockets to grind up and snort.

Regardless, after trying to fall asleep for a couple of hours I feel this compulsion to get up and write. Sometimes I do, sometimes I don’t. But I haven’t posted on this blog for a long while, and some of you (my mom) have been asking why. And although I would attribute it to my dad telling me to “stop swearing so profusely” when I write—seriously, why write if you can’t swear?—I think it’s something else entirely. I don’t think what I have to say is all that interesting, or valuable, or remotely entertaining. When people ask me what I want to do when I grow up, I tell them I want to move to Normandy, France and be David Sedaris. I want to write funny things about my silly little existence. I want to say things other people won’t say about how shitty and insane and perverted and hilarious life can be. But I don’t want to stroke my own ego forever. Writing about youself is awesome. It’s easy and cathartic. But is it relevant? So that, friends (mom), is my struggle. A silly struggle, but a struggle nontheless. In the meantime, if you want to read an awesome blog that chronicles a wickedly funny chick (my friend!), visit www.briennewalsh.tumblr.com

The End of An Era

Tomorrow I officially exit my first quarter century of life. When I asked myself what 26 will bring, I cynically, and appropriately replied, “all 25 brought me was a few fresh cellulite dimples, so it’s definitely downhill from here.” Pity party concluded, I’ve now determined that getting out of the first 25, relatively unscathed, is a massive fucking accomplishment. I remember when my brain processed life in the following manner:

Boys.
Parties.
Boys.
Parents. Evil.
Break. All. Rules.
Bring. Along. Boys.
Party.

*brain splatters on wall*

Repeat sequence.

So it’s no underestimation when I say that life is immeasurably easier once your mind starts functioning without the boggling influence of hormones and illegal substances. I literally cannot think of a time where being me has felt more normal. I can remember feeling so horrifically misplaced sometimes, like I was walking around wearing an invisibility cloak, waiting for someone to yank it off and say, hey, get in here, join us in life. But I didn’t. I would dip my toe in the proverbial pool, never daring to dive in. But finally, I’m in there. All splish-splashing around.

So tonight, I bid farewell to my first 25. You were like a pair of butt-boosting Spanx: a massively uncomfortable aid that, in hindsight, might be the dumbest invention of all time, but its mere existence garners some good laughs.

That potentially makes no sense, but my prof today told me you need to do something for 10,000 hours to become a superstar at it, and since this writing this is all I have going for me, well, you get it.

Happy post 25 to me!

A blessing is uncovered

I feel like there’s a few things my friends and family could have warned me about as I approach my marriage (and wedding), namely, how epically daunting it can feel. Aside from the fussing over seemingly endless unimportant, but somehow incredibly important, things, to a barage of necessitated family time, it’s enough to make a girl hide under the covers and weep. Which has happened. More than once. I think the hardest part is how sharply into focus your closest relationships are brought. With so many people fluttering around you at a time when emotions are running so high, you find yourself peering into a mirror and really identifying with some truthful (and occasionally ugly) sides of yourself. But amidst all of the planning, fretting, and mild meltdowns, I’ve discovered something very profound and amazing: I couldn’t be happier. Amongst my awesome displays of grumbling and “I can’t deal with this anymore”-s, I find myself feeling so lucky, and so loved. And for once I feel like there’s a very special reason behind putting on the spectacle that becomes a wedding. It’s the time you allocate for everyone you love. How people give so much of themselves to make everything go smoothly, how families put aside differences to celebrate a new beginning, how old friends carve out the time to offer support and guidance. So now, finally, I feel less cynical about this experience, and understand that this time in my life—especially this last month—is a gift. For when all is said and done, it’s the moments spent with those you love that sustain.

Listening to the wind makes me restless. And not because my neighbour’s unhinged gate is squeaking consistently every 18 seconds. It’s as if the wind unhinges the dusty trunk in my brain, the place where I store unresolved facets of my life. They remained untouched, like a neatly swept pile of leaves, until the wind’s gale descends. I remember as a child when the summer storms would roll in and my mother would call from work, instructing myself or my sister to take down her hanging planters. I would rush out—terrified that the wind would have already taken one—and place each one down, securely against the stucco siding. I would watch nervously from the oversized windows in our sunroom as the rain began to pelt and the wind exhaled in full force, glad I was able to prevent the baskets from being tossed across the backyard. Only now it’s my memories, dreams, and regrets that run the risk of being tossed helplessly around the inside of my head. Like dried leaves swirling in a momentary funnel cloud, they spin. Around and around. Until the wind finally settles and they can be swept up once again, returned to the trunk.