Rolling into Winter like...

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Just like Jane Austen said, “It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a woman who feels confident in her decision to stay in New England for another year, immediately questions that choice after having to stand in line, starting at 5:30am, in 30 degree weather, for 2 1/2 hours in order to get Winter tires put on her car”. I’m typing this from the tire store, by the way, and I can’t feel my toes or my left hand. I feel like an ice zombie and am in desperate need of coffee, like the kind of coffee craving that makes me feel like a Cathy comic. BUT, my early morning waiting meant that I was 6th in line for the first come first serve service when they opened. And that means I’ll be able to leave in a few hours, instead of being turned away like the 30 people who came in later than me and were told that they hadn’t gotten there early enough. I believe this is what the children are calling #ADULTING.

Someone told me recently that every season in Vermont makes you forget that any others exist. I’ve found this to be true. When the first green buds and flowers bloomed in Spring, it felt like I had been catapulted into an entirely different dimension. One where happiness and joy existed. Which was great. And then Summer came, and the snow tires were taken off, and all the Subaru’s in the state were required by law to attach kayaks to their roof-racks. And the air smelled like flowers and buzzed with bumblebees. And that transitioned into the Fall. And like clockwork, the leaves changed and one morning you woke up and every single hillside, in every single direction, became covered in leaves that looked to be licked by flames. And driving through the mountain passes, while the leaves rained down like embers, was enough to make you believe in a God. And then…..and then the leaves all say goodbye, and the branches are bare and everything turns to brown. And the skies turn darker. And more gray. And the wind nips at you and the heaters are turned on and you know there’s a change coming. And then, when you’re not expecting it, snow. And had this been your first year here, you would’ve been excited. You would have seen those giant, fluffy flakes, as magic sent directly from the heavens to help you realize that this place is full of wonder and beauty. You would feel like that IF this was your first season in Vermont. It is NOT your first season in Vermont. Nope. Instead you see those flakes as what they really are, an indicator that your lazy-ass has waited too long to get your tires switched over. Because that is a real thing no one tells you that you have to do when you live in New England.

Yes, on top of having to purchase actual winter clothes - not jackets or shoes you can “get by with” wearing. Like, your ass goes to LL Bean and Patagonia and gets shearling-lined nonslip snow boots. And orange vests that will protect you from hunters mistaking you for a Moose while you wander around the Vermont wilderness. And gloves. And jackets. And warm pajamas. No, on top of all that and the heating oil you must get before the weather turns and the prices skyrocket and your pipes freeze, and the de-icing spray and backup washer fluid for your car. On top of all of that, you also must have two sets of tires. A set for the 3 months of good weather and a set for the rest of the year. You have to have your “Normal” tires and then your “Winters”. And in my case, because I learned the hard way, winter tires with studs. Last year, I purchased non-studdded tires and after the first big snow, skidded down my hill and then had to abandon my car at the bottom and walk up my steep ass hill in the deep snow like I was in the fucking Donner party (only I couldn’t turn cannibal because I didnt know any humans last year). So, yeah, I learned that one must, if they want to survive the snow and cold, get tires with studs and get said tires switched over BEFORE the first snow.

So here I am - two hours waiting outside in 30 degree weather in the dark and now round the corner to my first hour sitting inside and waiting for the tires to be switched over. There are strangers bonding over their love of their dogs - speaking in hushed reverence over the pups of their past who changed their lives. And salty Vermont men who I KNOW were cold as fuck outside but pretended not to be, who are now sitting right by the heating vents and pounding the free hot coffee. And instead of fighting what’s about to come - the snow and the cold and the dark and the nights alone - I’m going to go into it with clear eyes. And though I’ll inevitably eat shit while shoveling my driveway and spew curses into the Vermont wind, and end up crying when I see how much it costs when my heating tank has to be refilled, and I’ll probably get a little weepy when I’m spending another holiday alone, at least, AT LEAST, I know whats coming. I know that while it’ll look like a fucking Hallmark snow globe, it’ll also be hard and you’ll feel ungrateful for not appreciating the beauty. And the nights will be long. And you’ll question a lot of things. But I also know, the fucking spring comes. The brown goes away and the flowers bloom. And I've got a secret weapon. Because I’m rolling into the winter with not only studded, way too expensive tires, but also a support system. A system that this year consists of more than just my dogs and Trader Joes wine. Yep, this year I’ve got actual acquaintances and some friends and coworkers and people on the street that say hello to me when I pass by. I’ve got people that depend on me at work. I’ve got friends who ask me around for drinks and chipmunks that need me to feed them. I am determined not to be Jack Nicholson and Vermont will not be my Overlook Hotel this year. I mean, not for the duration for the Winter at least.

This year I’m coming prepared.

Tonight on the Hallmark Channel: "One Year in Vermont"

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Tonight on the Hallmark Channel: A spooky tale to kick off the Fall season!

 After a whole year living in Vermont, our plucky heroine Morgan, finds herself wrapped in a snuggly cable knit sweater, apple picking in an idyllic New England orchard. The crisp autumn air nipping at her skin. Everything smelling of cider donuts. Is that "Moonlight in Vermont" being chirped by the birds in the trees? Damn right. Its ADORABLE. Its Vermont. But after a misstep on the apple ladder, she tumbles backward, hitting the grass and knocking herself clean-out. While unconscious, she's visited by three ghosts - the ghosts of her past, present and future self.

The first super spooky ghost to visit her is a hideous amalgam of all the Hollywood Producers she's worked for in the past - the Ghost of Morgan Past. Picture Bill Murray in "Scrooged" crossed with Jabba the Hutt, then mixed in a caldron filled with herpes meds and discarded drafts of long forgotten Paul Walker (RIP) franchises. Morgan awakes in the orchard to find the hobgoblin producer ghost standing over her, barking that the coffee has TOO LITTLE SWEETENER and he doesn't have all fucking day so she better wake the fuck up now If she wants to even THINK about taking a fucking trip back in time. He's very cranky. So, the producer ghost snaps his ghost fingers and all of a sudden they're in a swirling void, where past scenes from her life whiz before her eyes. Each tableau is a former boss screaming at her. Belittling her. Reminding her that she's too stupid to be promoted. She's too uptight. She's too ugly and fat to accompany her boss to events or even be seen in person. Faster and faster they whiz past! One tableau shows the time a boss threw a party for every single member of the cast and crew and Morgan wasn't invited. Despite the fact they were shooting in another country. She wasn't invited but she did have to come over and deliver bags of limes in the middle of the party because they were all taking tequila shots and she was too incompetent to have read the future and realized this would be happening. But still, she delivered the bags and the when she entered the party, director of the movie stopped the everything and asked why she wasn't staying. Crickets chirped. Time stood still. And then her boss said she didn't need to be there....so she left back to her solo Air BNB a few blocks away. She gets to field angry texts and emails all night and then goes over in the morning to “pre clean” his place before the actual cleaners arrive, because her job was an actual nightmare. And Morgan, watching herself from afar, feels the shame and embarrassment burn her cheeks, all over again. How fun! Then she has to relive the time that a bro-exec slipped up, in front of all the male coworkers,  and said the reason she was hired was because she wasn't attractive and therefore "safe" to be around. And at the time Morgan shrugged it off. Because everything was and is awful! And its not just bosses, oh no! She gets to see all of her shitty, snotty, former coworkers becoming executives and producers and selling bullshit scripts and buying insane Spanish revival houses up in the hills and going on fucking weekend trips to the Amalfi Coast, while she continued to toil in the same role year after year after year - schlepping Valentino suits and Nespresso makers (complete with frothing device) and spare bifocals and hand cream and you name it in her nerdy ass, 80lb backpack - just waiting for her time to come. For all those years to pay off.  But the scenes keep coming, baby.  She's back in Europe, with zero sleep, getting destroyed by a man who dresses like a Sassy Grandma, because she couldn't control the weather like some sort of busted Greek God. She's back watching herself get dumped on the side of the road in Upstate New York, in a snow drift, because her boss had “tired of her company”. Having to walk, without a coat, to a train platform a half a mile away which caused a severe asthma attack in the process. It was there, with mascara streaming down her face, freezing and wheezing on a train platform, two hours away from the city, that she briefly considered throwing herself on the tracks because she was too broke to pay for the ambulance a panicked coworker was begging to call for her over the phone. To add to the fun, she also gets to see the same boss ditch her at a party in Connecticut, literally peeling out in front of her, forcing her to figure out another way back to the city after having to take care of his evil mother for hours. And even better, the Ghost shows her the time, with SURPRISE the same boss, that she found a medical sample cup of bodily fluids in her desk on her very first day at the company. Thats not a joke - that really fucking happened! Oh boy, she gets to feel every fucking second of every fucking time she was made to feel less-than, and missed out on life. She gets to hear her last boss screaming at her because she had the nerve to not answer the phone at 10pm on Christmas Eve - the same day she buried her grandfather. And that same person yelled at her again after her Grandmother died a few months later and she dared to try get a flight to make it to visit her deathbed (reader: she died while Morgan was in flight). And Morgan sees all the dates she never had, and the vacations she never took, and the hours and hours and hours and hours she spent becoming a withered shell of herself for NOTHING, just like sad sack Charlie Fuckin’ Bucket. There was never a payoff or a promotion or a silver-lining. Nah, it was just self flagellation with no eternal payoff. And though Morgan knows it, seeing it again laid out so clearly, breaks her heart all over again. But instead of being sad, she gets angry. Like, REAL angry. Angela Bassett torching a car angry. But the person she’s angry at isn’t the asshole who never flushed his toilets and made her engage with his actual shit on a daily basis. Nope - she’s angry at herself and her own culpability.  Angry that she let these fucking shitty men push her around and dishonor her for YEARS. And angry that she didn’t quit after the first one. Nope, she just kept fucking at it, man - over and over again. Letting these men plant the seed of her being unworthy. And letting that seed cultivate and take root for so long that it became imbedded in her DNA and grows out of her like vines - twisted around every vein in her body. So Morgan screams and screams and screams into the visions of her past. With every scene and every injustice she screams louder. Until, with a knowing laugh, the Ghost snaps his bony asshole fingers, and she's back into the apple orchard. 

When Morgan awakes the second time, the Ghost of Morgan's Present is hovering above her! The second ghost is a warm and friendly one. A ghost who looks vaguely like the sensible actor Michael Gross. Only in Vermont, folks. LOL. Anywho, said ghost is dressed in head to toe LL Bean and carrying a reusable bag filled with root veggies and a lovely understated seasonal bouquet purchased from the local farmers market. Present Ghost politely asks if Morgan would like to see some scenes from her current life and also lets her know that there are apple cider donuts inside the bag and she really should help herself because they're delicious and a New England staple. Morgan of course says yes, because how can you say no to a really polite New England Ghost? So she piles into the Ghost's Subaru (because even otherworldly spirits in Vermont drive fucking Subarus) and they cruise out of the orchard and into a fog that becomes the four Seasons. The first season, Fall, when Morgan first decided to move. She sees herself in Brooklyn watching  "BABY BOOM" and witnesses the light bulb flash inside her sleep deprived head, the exact moment she realized she wanted to live that sweet, sweet Nancy Meyers life. Then blammo!!! There’s Morgan buying a Jeep and driving to Vermont. The trees are teeming with apples and bees are buzzing and its all golden sunsets and romantic vistas. Theres her little house and little backyard and her little garden where she planted flowers and squash. She sees the time that she got her fat sweaty legs stuck in her Hunter Boots after an afternoon of weeding and planting pansies when she first moved. After realizing she was well and good stuck in those boots, after crying and thrashing around, she resorted to sitting outside for hours, nursing a beer and listening to country music. She was eventually able to wedge the suctioned rubber off her dumpy legs, but even now looking back, it doesn’t seem like such a terrible way to spend an afternoon. There are her best friends visiting and getting to explore the sugar shacks and meeting the handsome bartenders and watching 50 Shades of Grey together and cackling into the wee hours of the morning. And she sees herself venturing into the green mountains to discover all the strange little villages and horse farms and magical hideaways that this state has to offer. Then she sees the personal trainer she got after an ill-fated crush. The daily drives to Burlington for an hour and a half of torture with a man who belittled her strength and progress but who also, unfortunately, pushed her into paying for an additional SIX THOUSAND DOLLARS WORTH of personal training sessions. He said it was because she needed 5 days a week for half a year to make any dent in her garbage body, and then, surprise, stopped returning her texts and calls because he needed that exact amount to make rent.Cool. Cool. Cool. Haven’t worked through that codependency issue yet, thats for sure. There's also the time she accidentally sprayed revolutionary war tombstones with mud because she got her car stuck in the muck at a cemetery and ended up doing donuts trying to get out of the sludge. And then she sees the Fall turn to Winter and the snow fall and the $1,000 spent on snow tires. And another $1,000 spent on heating oil. And that crush? Turns out it wasn't real and the training? Not working, even though she FEELS better. And she watches Winter Morgan wake up daily with childlike wonder at the magical snowy wilderness outside her window. Deer hooves dot the snow and little red berries on the trees. Sometimes its so sweet and so precious that it makes her have an anxiety attack. Because she doesnt feel like she deserves that beauty or belongs in a place so pure. She sees the stacks and stacks of self help books that have slowly piled up on her bedside table over the months as she reads through them at night when she can’t sleep. And the batches of chicken soup she perfects. And late night frantic drives to the vet in the snow because her dog is having seizures again. And the time Linus ate an entire roast chicken, bones and all, and his x-ray looked like his stomach was a Voodoo burial ground because it was all chicken bones, and he almost died. So she spent three nights with him, crying and cradled to her chest re-watching Pollyanna, and if she’s being honest, Hayley Mills saved his life. And then there was her birthday. She went on a snowy hike into the woods and felt refreshed and renewed and alive. But then, as night crept in, the loneliness did too. And after walking around the little town for 30 min, she went back to her house defeated and figured staying in, again, was less of a bummer than sitting by herself and attempting to celebrate her birthday solo. Then there was the trying to drag a too-big Christmas tree from her car, through the snow, and into her house, only to find that there was some sort of rodent making a home in its branches. That was immediately followed by the subsequent screaming into the snowy void - cursing everything and everyone in that state and her life into a flaming abyss. If we’re being honest, there are A LOT of those scenes during the winter. Like, a LOT. Then there is Christmas Day, when she sliced her finger open on a broken French Press and got snowed in and had to spend the entire day alone, albeit in some of the prettiest snow showers she's ever seen. There are the defiant days where she hiked in the subzero temps and slipped down icy hillsides. Trying to prove to the Universe that she’s a scrappy independent woman and EVERYTHING IS FINE. JUST FINE! Ugh, then there’s the trip to LA to see her friends, and, if she's being honest, to meet that crush. And even though she is well aware that this will #NOTENDWELL for her, she goes anyway. Because she’s trying to face her demons. And to conquer those fears of being unworthy and unloveable and unappealing. And she wildly misses her friends in LA and being a part of the industry, even though it broke her. Because, her friends are amazing. And the industry is all she’s ever know. So, she goes. And she spends too much money and too much time there and it throws her for a loop. And the crush? She meets him and he’s lovely and kind and he’s definitely not interested. But she pats herself on the back, because she still fucking made the trip. Sure it was the equivalent of Bruce Willis going to make sure the bomb blew up the asteroid, because everyone knew it wasn’t going to end well, but she still fucking had to give it a shot. Even if she knew she wasn’t going to come back. And you know, thats something to be proud of, if you think about it. Facing that sort of rejection head-on in your late 30s is far worse and more painful than when you’re a kid. It’s like getting chicken pox - it sucks when you’re little, but that shit will kill ya as an adult. And then there's her getting back to Vermont, in the middle of the bomb cyclone, having gotten a too intense does of friendship and sunshine and she feels actually terrible and off and the misery is starting to take root. So she goes to Maine, as one does. She inadvertently rents a too romantic cabin for herself and her dogs and is equal parts mortified and cozy and if she’s being truthful, wants to get sucked into a void because she’s sick of being alone. Then, there was the depression that creeped into her bones and made itself at home without asking permission and overstayed its welcome. And there’s the produce stand where the creepy guy made her want to never go online again. And the job offers that never panned out. And the shoveling the driveway. And anxiety. And sadness. And the fucking old boss who made headlines and subsequent lawyers and trips to New York to give statements. And the comments from people who don’t know me about my supposed culpability and remorse. So much snow and cold and another $1,000 for MORE heating oil. And reaching the fucking end of the rope. And thinking what the fuck was the point of this? Why be so lonely and stuck with your thoughts and faults all day. And having to dissect them for hours on end, day after day after day. Its sickening. So we see her act out. Just months and months and months of being alone and just stuck with herself and her thoughts in her adorable house in an adorable town in the adorable snow. Only she didn’t feel adorable at all. She felt like the fucking Grinch crashing the Whooville roast beast party. And much like her past jobs, she was expecting some sort of payoff for doing the "hard thing". Only thats not how life works for her. It aint that easy. And the payoffs will never feel like a payoff. And so, even though it was Spring elsewhere, she was still trapped in the brown nothingness of her never-ending Winter. But eventually, the sky gets a little bluer, and the ground thaws out, and she gets to see herself starting a new job. And little by little, like the trees outside, secret bits of life start budding inside of her. And slowly but surely, she came back to life. She’s made some friends. And she gets recognized at the farmers market. And the fellas at the record store will chat with her. And she’s shared inside jokes with the guys at the bar next door. And she went to watch the local minor league baseball games, complete with a mangey mascot and cheap beer. And she laughed a little bit more. And let herself be honest about her fears. And people got to know her as Morgan and not “the assistant to…..”. And she suddenly didn’t feel quite so alone. And she didn’t dread pulling into her adorable driveway, up the adorable hill, in her adorable neighborhood, during an adorable sunset. Because going home meant she’d had a full day. Filled with people and experiences and it wasn’t just her against the word anymore. And as they passed the scene of the chipmunks in her yard and the warm summer air whispering in the green leaves above them, Morgan watches a version of her current self feel something she hasn’t felt in quite a while - a sense of calm and happiness. And with that, the Subaru pulls back into the orchard, and the kindly ghost leaves her under the tree, by the ladder, but not before thanking her for her company and making sure she got her cider donuts.

And when she awakes for the third time, she’s alone. There’s no ghost of the future sitting there. There’s nothing. Nobody. No natty dressed Ghost or painful scenes from her past. No idyllic vista or hell scene from her past. There's just a blankness. A void. Not good. Not evil. Just...nothing An empty canvas. But there are no paints or markers or pencils for her to map out a plan. So she sits and tries to concentrate as hard as she can about how she wants her future to shake out. She knows shes on the dark side of 35, and so she thinks and thinks and thinks, and tries to channel Oprah or use "The Secret" or pray to Dark Gods who could harness black magic to do her bidding - but even that creates nothing. No matter how hard she tries, she can't figure out her future. She has no idea what this year, let alone the rest of her life, will hold. She’s physically unable to imagine what her life is going to become. The career path she though she had is now nonexistent. There are no romantic prospects on her horizon and her luck in general doesn't seem suited to some dramatic change. But, even with all that incredible uncertainly, the total lack of direction and purpose in her life, she feels.....ok? At peace with her decisions? In some sort of middle ground emotional purgatory? Whatever it is, she knows that this is where she’s supposed to be right now. Even if where she is, doesn’t really make a lot of sense to her. The future is the future - there’s nothing you can do to stop the progression of time. Like Sands Through The Hourglass/etc. We’re always hurtling towards the unknown. Sometimes you just have to content to be where you are. And at the very, very least, she tried to make a change in her life. And hey, thats something, right?

And then, we’re back to moments after she fell off the ladder. And there’s Morgan, splayed beneath the apple tree, legs akimbo. And she awakes, puts her body back together, and sheepishly limps away, with a basket full of bruised apples. On her way to the car, a weird feeling passes through her. At first she thinks it might be some sort of nerve damage from the fall, but then she realizes, no, its something else. Its this feeling of her past and current selves pointing her towards the horizon - so she glances out at the Green Mountains and sees the leaves changing in every direction. Fall is on its way again. And there's a sort of hope and loveliness in the changing of seasons and passing of time. And she somehow knows, deep in her soul, that she'll be fine. Everything will be fine.

Because everything is always fine in a Hallmark Movie.

Tonight 9pm ET/ 7pm CT.

The Chipmunk Adventure

Me and my beloved rodent sons. 

Me and my beloved rodent sons. 

Surprise, surprise - my computer broke (again)! Thats three in less than a year if you're counting. I'd like to say its because I have terrible luck and my life has been in retrograde since 1979, but the reality is, I'm a monster and tend to throw shit around when I'm stressed. Just really chuck shit around and let the glass shards and microprocessors fall where they may. Lest you forget the 1st computer I broke back in the Fall, you know, the one that shattered after I got so excited that my magic infused candle went out and I couldn't wait to dig out the super charged crystals that I launched it off my lap and into the wall? Yeah. So thats how I am normally. This time though, this time it was a much, much lamer situation. This time, I was trying to be a responsible adult and decided to finally install that stupid Apple software update (instead of hitting "remind me tomorrow" for all eternity). And instead of installing an update, I heard a pop and my computer went to black, never to awake again. Which was, obviously, an incredible bummer. Not only is my laptop my lifeline for work, I also lost months and months of my horrible writing. All of the stupid stories I've been working on - the stories about goats who think they're unicorns and brawny mountain men who fuck lonely ladies back to life. Gone. The first chapters of my own story about being here in Vermont. Gone. Maybe its the universe giving me a do-over. Allowing me to maybe not force flaming piles of garbage out into the ether. Or maybe its just terrible luck, Who knows? What I do know is that I had to send my laptop out to Apple (because Vermont doesn't have a fucking Mac store) and spent 4 weeks sans computer. Which was lame as hell. What is there to do with your downtime when you can write The Nanny meets Frasier erotic fanfic? Well, I read. I slept. I should've cleaned. But the main thing I did, because I'm a grade-A freak, was to befriend the chipmunks that live underneath my front porch, like a super lame, less innocent Snow White. I'm Snow White if she went on a bender and she took these chipmunks in with her in a sort of Leaving Los Vegas sitch, but without the sex. I'm not that much of a freak.

I love my chunky son.

I love my chunky son.

Have you seen chipmunks up close and personal? THEY. ARE. ADORABLE. We didn't grow up with Chipmunks in East Texas (that I ever saw, at least). But these suckers are wonderful. Truly. They squeak and skittle, and are in general adorable to be around. Truly. And when I realized I had a little posse of Chipmunks living under my front porch, there was no doubt in my mind that I was going to make these critters my feral children. I needed a project and nothing seemed better than befriending kindly lil rodent and making their wellbeing my number one priority. Because I am nothing if not weird and obsessed with critters. After watching the chipmunks for a few days and leaving them snacks in the morning and afternoon, they started trusting me. They would be waiting for me in before I left for work - waiting for their breakfast. And again in the evening, knowing I understood a chipmunks needs for an afternoon snack attack, so I'd leave a few more treats. After a bit, they stopped darting away if I accidentally made a sudden move. I like to think this is because they realized we're kindred spirits, but I think it also might because I've made them pudgy. Pudgy little critters who can't make a break for it. Which, admittedly aint good if a cat or something went after them. Such is life. But the upside is that after four weeks, I've got some new buddies. Big cheeked, squeaky buddies who keep me company while I sit outside and listen to the birds and tend to my okra patch. And honestly, after a month of watching and interacting with those little scamps, I now understand why Dave enlisted them to be his sons and start a rock band. I still think its weird he made them wear turtleneck dresses - it seems hot as fuck. And I mean, I think the Chipmunks would've been a better Folk Act, but again, thats just my opinion, man. Dave can do whatever he wants. He's the dad to rodent sons and who am I to judge? 

So, I finally got my computer back from APPLE the other day- I would recommend folks not install the new software update if at all possible, lest you meet the same fate. But, I suppose all is "normal" again. What will the future hold for me and my feral sons?  I'm already worried about the winter and It's only August. Will I need to make them little turtleneck dresses like Alvin Simon and Theodore wore? Do Chipmunks hibernate? Do they don little winter coats and venture out in to the snowy wilderness - all chunked up from my seed treats- and feel snowflakes on their little whiskers while they get into winter adventures? I have no idea. More than likely they'll be too chubby to outrun the fisher cats and I'll find little chipmunk legs and parts strewn across my yard, plunging me into mourning. Only time will tell. But for now, I'm enjoying my reign as the Busted-Ass Snow White of Montpelier. 

 

 

 

Maple Creemee Fever Dreams

After I gave my notice at my last job, I spent the train-ride back to the city daydreaming about what adventures were to come. What life could be like once I cut out the toxicity and never-ending work days and lack of sleep and stress and constant bitterness. The world was my oyster and I had a sea of endless possibilities in front of me! As the Metro-North train slugged along through White Plains (the private airport where I spent endless hours prepping jets and cleaning jets and stocking jets with bullshit food requests for bullshit people) and Mt. Kisco (where I once sat on the side of the tracks sobbing after an agent told me I didn't have the right "look" to be at events), my mind wandered in the most glorious way. The best kinds of daydreams are the kinds that are rooted in a bit of reality. Sure its a whole lot of fun to imagine running off into the woods with Tom Hardy, only having our bodies to keep us entertained and warm, during the long, long Winter. But thats a pipe dream. Like, I was actually making changes. I was daydreaming about shit that I just knew could happen. And those imaginings were fantastic. I imagined traveling to Newfoundland and immersing myself in nature photography and eating at the restaurant Bourdain raved about. I would wear a white cable knit sweater and drink wine and feel the misty, wild air on my eyelashes. I would breathe deeply and feel the calm wash through my body like a stream. I imagined a light filled art studio. One that had green plants in every nook and cranny. My record player quietly playing Van Morrison while I wrote and painted with my dogs snuggled at my feet. And when I got tired, I'd curl-up in a window seat and take a nap draped in the warmth of afternoon sunbeams. And I imagined having the time to be at a cafe, where, out of the corner of my eye I spot a handsome man, reading the NY Post and we share a laugh over how awful the puns are but how we can't stop reading it. And how rituals like getting the paper and a really good cup of coffee on Saturday mornings are some of the most wonderful things in life. And before you know it, we're in love. And not bullshit love, the kind that I've been really aching for all my life. The kind where you talk about things that matter. The big things. The state of the world. And your doubts and fears. But also about your hopes and wishes and all the things that make your heart beat. And you learn about that person and their flaws and you cherish them for it all. And then it finally makes sense. You're not alone anymore. And trudging ahead through the world doesn't seem so daunting or sad. I imagined so many lovey things...What I didn't imagine was a year later being up to my fucking elbows in unpasteurized maple creemee mix for the fourth day in a row, trying to unclog a valve that got jammed up from the damn syrup separating, while a man at the to-go window has his pet Pygmy Goat using its hoof to ring the bell for service. Folks, sometimes life really is beyond your wildest dreams...or nightmares.

You can't make this shit up, baby.*Also Creemee's are Vermont's version of Soft Serve*

You can't make this shit up, baby.

*Also Creemee's are Vermont's version of Soft Serve*

Not too long ago, desperate for something to do, I took a temporary gig doing some consulting for a local business. They were looking to streamline and rebrand and monetize their image. While I have NO background in this kind of work, I'm oddly suited for it. I think maybe its because I'm into logistics and I've had to step back and access situations in every aspect of my past jobs. Everything I did required me to size up a script or a meeting or a coffee shop or specific seat on a plane so I could figure out what worked best for my boss and try and access any potential issues I could see arising.  So, I've tried to put that skillset to use here. Helping where I can. Sizing it all up and trying to make things flow better. Put process in place. Not at all what I've worked towards for my career, but I'll be damned if I'm not feeling kinda...happy? It's not forever - but for the moment,  I'm enjoying the process and feel a sense of ease when talks are marked off the "to-do" list. These are strange feelings. Not ones I'm used to associating with work, at least. I'm not jet-setting or hobnobbing with celebrities. I'm not working at 1am to create an itinerary for a last minute trip to Somalia which will inevitably get cancelled the second I jump through 1,000 hoops in order to make it happen. And all of my former tasks with my former bosses tended to fill me with two emotions: Rage and bitterness. All joking aside, those really are the only things I associate with work. Because I never got praised - and more than that, anything I did. Be it good, great, mediocre or awful was met with the exact same experience: my bosses/coworkers and agents screaming at me. Even when I did pull off the impossible, which was weekly by the way, because I'm a fucking rock-star, the bosses acted like it was their cosmic destiny to pick apart my every move and remind me of what a worthless, stupid piece of shit I truly was, despite it all. And let me tell you, even when you're a sassy Texas girl who doesn't tolerate shit, you get that sort of feedback day in and day out, and it makes you loathe every second of every task that is presented to you. Even when you're working on projects you enjoy and want to see put out into the universe, having a person, or in my case, a team of people constantly telling you how "less-than" you are, really puts a damper on being a part of those things. So, you bottle up your anger and you bury all down and you resent every task you're given, but you still execute it to 150% because you're a fucking masochistic monster. And before you know it, you've thrown it all away and you're in Vermont perfecting a batch of maple flavored soft serve and gently explaining that the pet goat is welcome to have some delish soft serve outside, but only service animals are allowed within. 

There's something weird about working a job where you're happy - aside from the newness of that feeling, there's also this crazy thing that happens because you're happy at work, that feeling starts to bleed over into your daily life. Which is fucking wild. Did you know its possible to enjoy your days??? What a concept! It's like you start seeing things all around you that you didn't notice before. Like those guys who are frequent your local watering hole - the old men you thought didnt know who you were? They do. And they say hi and ask how you're doing and laugh when they see you scampering around with free cremees for the puppies on the porch. And you get to know them, too!  And those bartenders? The ones you thought looked through you like you were invisible? They know your name AND your preferred drink. And they're really nice, actually. The record store dudes know you, too. And they love that you pick up weird country albums from their reject bin. They'll just give you that Glen Campbell LP! And before you know it, you're sorta kinda, maybe, starting to become a part of the community. And you get invited to drinks and dinners and actually have someone to invite to a concert. And you're able to be yourself. And not just the "assistant to". And your conversations aren't about the bullshit logistics surrounding Cannes travel or the poor quality of the dailies which will cause your boss to meltdown. No, you're getting to talk about things that aren't situational or shitty. And one night, you find yourself walking up a quiet hill with a glass of wine, talking to a lobbyist about the beauty of Vermont, while the sun begins to set and the sky looks like cotton candy against the Green Mountains. And just when you think, meh - LA still sounds pretty good, hundreds, and I mean HUNDREDS,  of lightning bugs begin to dot the horizon and create a magical fairyland for you. JUST YOU!! And for the first time, you think - maybe this is how contentment happens? One lightning bug and maple creemee at a time.

Somethings Gotta Give

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A year ago today, Memorial Day, I went to upstate NY to my boss' weekend house so I could turn in my notice. He seemed relived. I was relived. And everything ended on good terms -  mainly because I think were both very, very happy not to see each others faces again for a long, long time - and I spent the train ride back to the city with a weight lifted from my shoulders. I felt like Jerry Maguire passing out my manifesto. GOOD THINGS WERE COMING! I worked a few days after that getting everything in order for my replacement, who is still there an seems to be doing a kick-ass job. Better than me, I'm guessing. He's apparently not a goblin, like I, and I'm doubting they've made him stay behind to clean instead of going to events. And he's able to handle the stress in ways I couldn't. So good for him. Good for both of them. Good for everyone. Yay.

After I left, I did what I thought I was supposed to do in order to get my shit back on track. I went back home to Texas for a few weeks. I helped pack-up my grandparents house, one of the most stable, comfortable places in my life, and got it ready to be sold. My Great Aunt spent time teaching me how to make the family recipe for chicken and dumplings. I drove out into the pasture to take pictures of the cows and fed the farm donkeys milk-bone treats. I sat on the back porch during thunderstorms and drove around the backroads of my youth, listening to Garth Brooks. I hung out with my childhood friends and their kids. I gardened. I scanned in old family photos and made sure every single recipe my grandmother had written down was scanned in, too. Ensuring that her handwriting and ice box cake would live on with the rest of us. Then I went back to NY. I shook things up. I dyed my hair white. I turned down job offers that were for more of the same - high net worth individuals who wanted me on call 24-7. Oodles of money. Absolutely no personal life. Rinse. Lather. Repeat. So, I did the other thing I thought you were supposed to do when you needed to regroup and recharge, thanks to a life reading novels and growing up on movies where the women had to retreat before they could expand their horizons. So, I watched "Baby Boom", drove to Vermont and rented a house. I did all the "right" things you're supposed to do when getting your life back on track. I paid a stupid amount of money for trainer and worked out Monday - Friday, every day, every week for months. I forced myself to try and sleep, even when it never came. I took melatonin. Drank stress tinctures. I bought an insomnia workbook. I remixed rain sounds like I was fucking Calvin Harris in order to try and lull myself into slumber. I didn't give up. I wrote and wrote and wrote. I started this stupid website even though nobody reads it. I made myself go to the cafe and the pub and start up conversations with the locals in the hopes I'd make some friends. And when it didn't happen day after day, I kept going back. I didn't let my inward embarrassment show on the outside. I reminded myself I'm an interesting woman and this is just how it is when you're in a new place. I read so many books about self growth, self love and self care. I read about codependency and loving your flaws and reaching for the stars and living in the moment. I read Ram Daas and the Dali Llama and the Bible and Carl Sagan and Jane Austen and childhood favorite thats I had hoped would wake up my soul and childlike wonder. I put myself out there. I joined tinder and went on so many dates. They were all only first dates, by the way. None of the men every reached out or called me again. I kept my chin up and kept going. The doctor who took one look at me and stopped talking (we had met for a meal so I struggled through an hour of him not engaging). The young law student who made fun of my age. The divorcee who said I wasn't his type but he'd love to try and get me some friends (never heard from him again). The farmer who lied about his height, but was super rad and I actually thought could be fun to hang with and then he disappeared off the face of the earth. But, despite that I kept on. Thinking I just needed to really try. I randomly met someone from the West Coast online and became fast friends over the phone. I developed a stupid crush that I knew would amount to nothing once he saw me in person, yet I went for that, too! How did that end? If you guessed: NOT GREAT AT ALL!! BINGO! We have a winner. And the cumulative effect of all of that let me know it really was me not them. I was the common denominator. But even with that, I pushed onward - like a doomed Pioneer. Sure, I knew I'd probably end up dead in a river after my wagon overturned. Or scalped. Or with diphtheria, dying under a pecan tree while the rest of my family rides to the Oregon territory, leaving me to succumb to my sickness alone with nothing but the coyotes lonely howl to keep me company. But I really felt like all of THIS *gestures to the empty husk of my life* was some sort of signal from the Universe. Like a Legends of the Hidden Temple situation. If I could just answer Olmac's riddle and make it through the obstacle course, well this Purple Monkey was on her way to the good life, baby! And I did it, or I thought I did. I worked hard and tried to keep my head up. And instead, I found myself being collateral damage when a former boss got, rightfully, dragged through the press for truly heinous behavior. I had to get lawyers and wade through legal fees and inappropriate comments from people claiming I was complicit in his narrative. I tried to get back to LA, only to have every job lead dry up. I got a job here working for a lurker doing manual labor. Then I took another job for another large personality that is slowly draining what energy I have left. My trainer basically owes me $2,000 worth of more training but has gone MIA, because I'm pretty sure he doesn't like me. And that dude I had a crush on, well he's lovely but my dumb ass bought a shutter stock membership to do graphic design for him and I didn't realize I was locked into a year. So I'm still paying on that. A monthly reminder of my overall stupidity. And yet,  I keep plugging ahead. Why? I HAVE NO IDEA. What is the point of any of this? What am I even moving toward?  I've found myself recently throwing my hands up and screaming Nancy Meyer's movie titles into the heavens, "SOMETHINGS GOTTA GIVE, UNIVERSE!!!!!". 

And yet, my life isn't really a Nancy Meyers movie. No matter how much I will it to be. And my story apparently isn't something that gets wrapped up neatly at the end. Imagine if Reese Witherspoon's character in THE WILD just had to keep hiking and doing introspection that lead to nowhere and only dredged up more self loathing. Imagine if Julia Robert's character just kept eating and praying but never found love due to carb-loaded weight gain and mild dementia from praying so much. There's no closure in my story. There's no true happy ending. Or maybe this all takes more than a year to correct. Maybe it's going to take a long long time to get back in the green after such a long time living in a deficit. Or maybe it's all a payoff. Maybe I'll never lose this stress weight or feel comfortable in my skin, but I'll have a really incredible left hook to show for it all. Maybe I'll never get my sleep back on track, but I'll be able to get through my days without pouring over every misstep and career mistake I've ever made. Maybe I'll never make any friends, but I'll find a contentment in being alone and will embrace the weirdness that comes with it.  Maybe the point of me writing this down isn't for it to somehow sell and be made into a hysterical dark comedy, or for people to find enjoyment from all of this nonsense. Maybe its for me and me alone to chart my journey. To try and find any signs of life coming back inside my soul. To track the seasons. To realize that sometimes you can do everything "right" and it doesn't fucking matter. For whatever reason, your path isn't one of rainbows and puppydog tails. You're not going to have a defined turning point or ending. Jake Ryan isn't going to show up and give you back your undies. You're not going to meet a handsome vet that makes you rethink leaving Vermont and selling your applesauce company. You're just you. And "YOU" isn't a leading lady. Or a box office movie. Maybe you're just supposed to live your life like a Bonnie Raitt song BEFORE she finds love and everything turns around. Maybe you're a cautionary tale. 

I think Tom Cochrane is an underrated genius - because, if we're being honest, Life truly is a highway. Only in my life, its the highway from SPEED, and every day is like trying to jump that giant chunk thats missing. And despite it all, despite the fact the odds to whatever epiphany I'm looking for seemed stacked against me, I'm going to keep revving up that busses engine, not letting it drop under 55, and gunning it across the giant chasm. Odds are, I'll probably crash and burn. Again. Or, I'll make it across, and for a fleeting second I'll think - maybe THIS is the moment it all changes. But like Sisyphus, I'll have to jump and jump and jump again. But, what can ya do? Welcome to my life.

 

I hope Brad Paisley gets Lyme disease

I don't think Brad Paisley is a bad guy, like in a true sense of "evil",  but I will say I think he should be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law for this song about sensually checking a lover for a tick infestation!!! AH FUCK NO. It's like skeleton Jerry Garcia crooned - every silver lining has a touch of gray. In this case - Spring is the silver lining to the Winter that provided the icing to the shit-cake that has been the last year or so of my life. I've been craving Spring and the green and renewal with every inch of my body. So I was obviously overjoyed when, after Monday's snowstorm, we took the express elevator straight into full-blown Spring, baby!  Sure the trees haven't bloomed yet, but I can see buds on them! I swear! We are SO. CLOSE. to everything being lovely again. Which is beyond fantastic. But you know what comes with that loveliness? The "touch of gray" if you will? Its the fact that along with flowers and apples and bumblebees and crisp brooks and swimming holes and creemes and all the fucking Anne of Green Gables Quaint Summer Fun™ you can conjure up here in New England, there will always be unwelcome guests crashing your plans. And those guests are fucking TICKS!!!!!! TIIIIIIIIIIICKS!

You know how Indiana Jones hated snakes? That was his thing - he was hot and hated snakes. And no matter what he did, those fucking snakes somehow found him, right? Thats me and ticks. I hate ticks so much. To be fair, I hate all parasites and creatures that wants to embed any part of themselves inside of you and extract some sort of life-force. Its RUDE on top of being unsanitary. And I've hated Ticks since I was little - when, after a  glorious day riding ponies on the prairies of East Texas, I got home to find that hideous ticks had decided to crawl into unmentionable areas on my body and burrow their heads in my young flesh as they leeched off my blood. I was disgusted and traumatized and if I could've self-immolated right then and there, I would've. I don't give a fuck how old you are - 5, 10, 20, 800 - If you find a tick buried in your flesh, having access to assisted suicide is the only appropriate response. And after that experience, I decided that, next to Raven Symone, my archenemies would be ticks. And due to that,  I've spent a fair amount of my energy and resources trying to avoid them for the rest of my Godforsaken life. And, I have to admit, I've done a pretty good job. But it's not that there haven't been some hairy situations, thats for sure.

For example: After college, I moved back to Texas. Which was really, really stupid. Ticks not withstanding. See,  I had avoided going home as much as possible while in Oregon, and then in a moment of weakness, brought about by having no clue what to do with my life, I got homesick and  moving back to NE Texas seemed like a good plan. It was a bad plan. Anyway, needless to say, it was a weird time in my life. Made weirder by the fact I was casually dating a guy who later went on to be the interim mayor of my hometown Just call me Jackie O. Anyway, dating back home was tough because there weren't and aren't a ton of options, so you have to improvise and work with what ya got. And in this case, the dude decided to embrace that redneck aesthetic by surprising me with a romantic date...Dove hunting. As one does. Pro tip: Don't do that. Don't throw someone in your jeep and drive them to the middle of nowhere with rifles jangling in the backseats, all while you refuse to tell them where you're taking them. Even the bravest of souls begins to wonder which one of her friends Keith Morrison will interview first for her inevitable Dateline special (Amy it'll be you).  Anyway, we get to the land, and it is just acres and acres of waist-high brush and grass. It's a fucking Tick haven. I start to panic. I haven't even had time to wrap my head around the idea of blowing a symbol of peace and love out of the sky with an assault rifle, ya know? Thats literally the least of my worries. At this point, I can't even imagine getting out of the Jeep. Because any drop down from the jeep means I'm gonna find ticks buried under my bra strap and bikini zone and I can't do that again.  And I'm trying to be cool and not whine, but it is fucking hard, man. I start sweating and want to cry, but because I'm good on my toes, I immediately come up with a plan, which is thus:  I needed to get to the hatchback portion of the Jeep to access the cans of Off! I knew were back there next to the bullets. The issue, the middle section of the Jeep Cherokee was inaccessible to crawl through - thanks to tons of rifles and ice chests full of beer. Because, Texas. And since opening the door and walking the short distance through the waist-light grass to the back was too risky (Lyme), I did what anyone would do - I opened the window, crawled up and out, grabbing ahold of the ski racks on the roof, dragged myself along the side of the Jeep, not letting my legs graze the grass, like I was on a Hillbilly episode of American Gladiators, and then flung myself into the open hatch. ONTO RIFLES! It's legitimately the most athletic I've ever been and I I left like a stunt double in GI JANE! Once I was in the back hatch, I was able to spray myself with TWO FULL CANS of Off! Then I still had to get out near the pond so we could slaughter innocent birds. The best way to accomplish avoiding as many ticks as possible, was to run, full force through the weeds, using a method that could best be described as "RIVER DANCE meets HITLER'S GOOSESTEP". Basically, it was a series of quick leaps through the weeds, swinging my arms for momentum, and high kicking my way to safety (the pond where my date slaughtered birds). Did I look insane? YUUUP. Did the dude stop calling after that? YUUUP. But you know what? Jokes on him - I got nary a tick on me! And there was an added bonus from using that much OFF!, too, it pretty much seeped into my skin and kept me mosquito bite free for months! Score!

Once I was in LA, I pretty much forgot about ticks and directed all of my hatred towards Raven Symone. Which is healthy and normal. .Sure, I had to keep an eye out for sharks in the ocean, and rattlesnakes while hiking, and I was always a little concerned about being crushed to death in the Beverly Center parking garage during an earthquake, but fuck, at least I didn't have to worry about ticks!! I really didn't think about them again until I moved to the East Coast. My last boss had a house in upstate NY which required me to travel up and handle his meetings at that property. The estate was truly gorgeous. It was also truly in tick fucking country. We would have to traverse from the barn where the "help" worked to the pool house where the meetings were, and between those locations was a 10 min walk though T I C K H E A V E N. But, the upside was that we had a suped-up golf cart, because you don't want the normals interacting with the famous, and said cart could burn rubber over those tick colonies and leave our extremities free from unwelcome attachments! RAD! But then I came to Vermont. And Vermont is basically a state that''s population is 80% ticks and 20% people who look like Michael Gross. Ticks are everywhere in Vermont and they are fucking mean. Ticks here know they're operating with slim pickings - everyone they're attacking has diabetes blood from all the maple syrup and at least 60% are up to their eyeballs in homemade opioids. And the ticks, the ticks are not happy about that, so they're coming after anything and everything here en force. Humans? Toast. Deer? Fuck em. Moose? Who care.  The Ticks in Vermont are out to destroy lives.

Last Summer, after bleaching my hair white (the sign of a mentally unstable woman in her 30s needing to MAKE *CLAP* A * CLAP* CHANGE *BABY*), I came up to Vermont to make some bad decisions - specifically entering into a life of isolation and celibacy. Which again, kids, don't follow my lead and uproot your life due to watching Nancy Meyers movies. Learn from my mistakes. Anyway, I came up to Montpelier to look at some houses, and in the process, I was put in touch with my best friends extended family, who happened to live a few villages over. So before heading back to Brooklyn, I drove over to the town to meet my friends cousin. The cousin, by the way, is an incredible woman - well traveled, interesting and beyond hospitable. When I met up with her she said she had heard that I liked to photograph old barns and lonely places, so we, obviously, drove straight to the local cemetery.For the record, I was stupidly wearing loose cropped pants and sandals, and like a giant dummy had forgotten to douse myself with highly toxic bug spray before embarking on this adventure. I thought we'd be having a cup of Joe and instead I was reenacting some Little House on the Prairie nonsense. I just wasn't thinking. So, as we started traipsing through these revolutionary war era cemeteries - where the Green Mountain Boys are buried and friends of Ethan Allan (hero, not the mid-range furniture company) were interned, I started to sweat. Hard. I was walking through GRASS. IN THE SUMMER. WHERE TICKS ARE KNOWN TO FREQUENT. Panic was setting in, but I figured, it wasn't super high grass. They mow a lot,  and I'm sure the ticks are more interested in the cattle or deer in the area more than little ol me! I mean, I haven't done anything to wrong the ticks!! When the tour of rural Vermont made it to a pond and then a field, I really started to worry and all I could think about was the Kathleen Hanna documentary about her battle with Lyme disease. That truly seemed awful, and like, she at least had the hot Beastie Boy to be her nursemaid. Me? I've got two garbage dogs. I don't want Lyme!!!! But I kept it together. Even as the panic welled up inside me, I kept it chill and very normal. Because, if there's anything I've learned in my 38 years, its to just push down worry and fear. Push it so deep down that it becomes part of your DNA. You'll never, ever stop obsessing over your worries. But on the outside? You're cool as a cucumber, baby! So, when it was suggested that we tour a barn that an old hermit owned, I was on the outside like, "Sure!" and on the inside it was fucking Hiroshima. 

The Hermit's barn tour took, and I shit you not, hours. First let me say, his barn was amazing. It was from the 1700s and he was restoring it by either finding replacement parts of the era, or making them in the exact way they would've then. It was painstaking and amazing and also very, very, very boring. The dude was super cranky and kept asking questions assuming I was a dummy. Bummer for him, I was raised in the country and I love fucking pioneer shit, so I was ready for his nonsense. Every question he asked - "What is this?" - Me: "Is that a rudimentary cooling system"....was answered with a quiet and angry..."YES". Because I'm a fucking genius. Every correct answer unlocked another chamber and level of this barn. It was like an incredibly lame version of Super Mario Bros 3. Instead of fighting King Koopa, I was able to see the attic space and the replica cross ties. Cool. Anywho. This tour lasted forever, but I was game...on the exterior. On the inside? Well, I was wearing gladiator sandals. And this barn was a Tetanus Farm. Every step was fraught with old rusty nails and toxic things. The Haunta Virus lurked everywhere! That sickness is what you get from mouse poop, btw. It kills ya dead! I was a nervous wreck and this tour was never-ending! When we finally reached the end, I let out an incredible exhale. I felt like I hadn't just dodged a bullet, I bobbed and weaved on the beaches of Normandy, motherfucker! I was a golden GOD to come out of this unscathed. I proudly did my Lord the dance goose step towards the Subaru , ready to escape, when they decided I should get a tour of the PASTURE! THROUGH TALL GRASS. I couldn't say no. This woman was my ride. The cranky hermit was oddly proud I answered his troll riddles correctly. I had to go. And I thought maybe I was overreacting. They wouldn't let me embark on a suicide mission after all that, would they? And about 10 steps into the mile walk, they said - "Oh, be careful, sweetie. There are so many ticks out here. They'll go on the bottom of your feet and between your toes!"....

I wanted to puke. I wanted to cry. I wanted to self-immolate. Instead, I begrudgingly walked along. I was stoic. I was angry. I was rigid with worry. I was a Pilgrim. And even I surprised myself with my outward reserve when the man plucked a deer tick of my sleeve. I wanted to die. Instead, I walked, very quickly, ahead and made it to the car. I don't remember the ride back to pick up my car from the little town because I was game planning. I had a can of Deep Woods Off! in my car - the shit thats basically DEET. And my plan was this, to douse myself in this bullshit. I figured, If the ticks hadn't attached yet, I had time to poison them off. To scare them into retreating into the night. When I said goodbye to the cousin, I threw myself out of the car, and took off towards my can of Deep Woods Off! like Steve Fucking Prefontaine. I made it to the car, slid-in, and, for some reason decided to spray the entire can on myself inside the car. With the windows rolled up. I wasn't thinking - I was reacting from fear - and thats how I made a crucial mistake. I bent over to spray my feet and basically ended up inhaling an entire can of Deep Woods Off! After it ricocheted off my body and the toxic mist overtook my rental car. I panicked but tried to convince myself that people have been inhaling DEET for years. The asthma attack that followed my inhalation did nothing to squelch my nerves, but I chalked it up to me having gimp lungs. It wasn't until I pulled over next to a Sugar Shack to puke that I worried I might've inhaled something I shouldn't. My ears started to ring. I couldn't stop coughing. I had a headache and, the puking. I made it back to my bed and breakfast, stripped, placed my tick clothes in a garbage bag that I knotted and took a scalding shower. I plucked a tick off the bottom of my foot and screamed the scream of a woman who has been beaten by her enemies (and possibly has brain damage from Off!). I decided to walk up to the restaurant around the corner after my shower, and while dry heaving for a portion of the walk, I realized what needed to be done. I relied on years worth of training and protocol. I turned to the one person I knew could help me in my time of need. I turned to my savior and forever boo...I turned to:

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My Poison Control Daddy, Mr. Yuk!

As a child of the 80s, I was inundated with PSA's. McGruff the Crime Dog, Louie the Lightning Bug, Smokie - all of these sexy daddies told me to be safe and careful. You better play it safe around power lines. Take bite out of crime. I was potentially responsible for any and all forrest fires. I listened and I heard. But only one Daddy, Mr Yuk, really drove it home. Drove it home so much that some 35 years later, I knew that after puking up OFF! smog on the side of Main Street in Montpellier, I knew I needed to call the Poison Control Center. So, I, a sad woman who just toured a Hermits barn because she was leaving a terrible career in film, stood outside of a gemstone store in downtown Montpelier on a Friday night and frantically called Mr Yuk. The answering center calmly took my call, asked what I had ingested (Deep Woods Off!), how much (a solid large can) and how I was feeling (on another planet. A planet run by Ticks) and then told me that this happens quite a bit. Apparently I'm not the only one freebasing Off1. And the best way to get through it was just to ride that DEET-INSIPIRED FOG! He said I'd be hacking and sneezing for a solid day, but the head fog and nausea would end in a few hours. And as expected, it did. But what was worse than the deet vomit was knowing I was more scared of finding a swoll-ass tick embedded in my bikini zone rather than potential poisoning. Such is life I guess? I slept off that nightmare and made it back to Brooklyn and forgot about the experience. 

That is until today. When, after my bosses dog came to visit, I found a giant ass tick crawling, suuuuuuuuper casual like, on my jeans. Reader, I jumped up and launched my laptop across the room and screamed, "IS THAT A FUCKING TICK". It was a tick and the boss calmly grabbed it off my leg like it was nothing. Like I wouldn't be throwing everything I was wearing at that moment into a funeral pyre the second I got home. Like I wasn't subjecting myself to SILKWOOD showers from here on out - hoping to scald off any unwelcome ticks. She acted like this was NORMAL and I'm sorry. Ticks behaving badly will NEVER be normal. But here I am, on the cusp of Spring and going on hikes. It doesn't matter how much OFF! I have, these dickfuck Ticks will find me, just as the snakes found Indy. Theres nothing I can do other than spray myself down, have Mr Yuck on speed-dial and pray that some amazing Vermonter with better, more appealing blood is always next to me so that the Ticks choose them over me. Thats my game plan. May God have mercy on my soul.

 

 

Embracing That Puritan Aesthetic, Baby

What a bunch of grumps

What a bunch of grumps

The past 48 hours really have been....something? They've been something. Yesterday, Monday, I awoke at 2am and immediately sensed something was off. Was the house on fire? An intruder? A gas leak? A demon hellbent on stealing my soul while I slept? No. No my friends, It was far, far worse. 

IT. 

WAS.

SNOWING.

 

AGAIN!!!!

And not just flurries, there was a solid 2+ inches of wet fucking snow out there. Look, we talking in February? Sure, dawg. March? Yep, it's still Winter, baby. Early April even? I'll give it a pass. But it was less than a day from being MAY!! We finally had a streak of weather in the 40s that made everyone think we had turned the corner. The weather wasn't supposed to get past freezing again and I know this because I check the forecast multiple times a day like a freak. I blame this on growing up in Tornado Alley and needing to be aware, because I was a very, very anxious child. Shocking right?  I'm serious though, you really could feel an unspoken hope amongst all of us here, that these rain showers and more moderate temperatures would help usher in the flowers and leaves and green and eventual lightning bugs and apples and wholesome loveliness that is Vermont. I mean, I had just planted some goddamn pansies!!! And then, ya know, I already have sleep issues, and I look out my window and theres this fucking snow, SNOW!!! Just falling and glowing in the night, mocking us and waiting for everyone to awake and scream at the sky. It was such an incredible bummer.  

And look, knew it would be warm enough to make the snow melt later in the day. This wasn't the kind of storm to linger - we'd be back to the thaw almost immediately. And I knew I could make it down my hill in the slippery slush because I had a weird feeling that I shouldn't switch to my Summer Tires just yet (and maybe, just maybe that wasn't a feeling as much as it was me being too lazy to drag those tires up from the basement solo - but whatever). But none of that mattered. I felt pranked. I knew this was just a surface level fuck you, but it didn't matter. Seeing that beautiful downy snow clinging to the, still bare, trees just put me in a m o o d. 

And so my grumpy ass drove to work at the crack of dawn, grumbling and groaning all the way.  I was managing an event later in the day and I just couldn't seem to get in a groove. All the dumpster Dunken Donuts coffee, which normally warms my heart and charges though my veins like liquid gold, didn't do shit. I was tired and cranky and everything was sludgy and gross outside! And I wanted to cry. So, I decided it was probably time to pop home to let the dogs out and regroup before I had to get back to prep for the event. Already in a terrible mood from the snow, I trudged back home and find that Linus, my littlest dog, had somehow scaled a table in order to access the trash can I hid from them, and got into a fucking whole rotisserie chicken.  And he ate it all - not just the chicken. Nope. He ate the skeleton too - which was roughly the same size as him. Not good. Mildly terrifying. Very gross. 

Originally, I thought both dogs had partaken in this horrible nightmare, but after seeing Linus' engorged stomach and the subsequent x-rays, its pretty obvious he ate the entire fucking thing. Which is, like, really bad. Not good. Dangerous. His stomach basically looks like an abandoned Voodoo ritual site. Just tons of chicken bones and bad omens. Thankfully, he made it through the night. It was touch and go for a while and I was very scared and very sad. I slept sporadically on the couch with him on my chest because he didn't feel good enough to move. And I couldn't even bring myself to think about what could happen. So I did what I used to do as a kid when I was sick - I made him watch Pollyanna with me. As one does. And I cried and cuddled and tried to use every good vibe in the world to make him feel better. And I think it worked. 

So this morning, after we made it though the night, and his energy perked up, and I wasn't crying nonstop begging God to let the chicken bones pass. And he started acting more of himself (an asshole), I should've been in a better mood. I should've been walking on sunshine! Tap dancing on a goddamn could while the Vet told me to just keep an eye on him AND that  I could actually give him food tonight. That should've been the switch that flipped me back into a better mood. Hell, it's going to be 78 degrees tomorrow. SEVENTY FUCKING EIGHT DEGREES. Thats a normal person temperature. Thats the temp for places that have Bank of Americas and Targets and human interaction. Add to that, the dog is probably going to make it!!! And less importantly, my pansies survived the snow! Everything is turning around...but I'm still. Fucking. Grumpy. Not just grumpy, but anxious, too. Today, a day that should've been a good day - a feeling of relief - instead it feels like the morning after you got drunk at an office party. You call your friends and they assure you that you did nothing to be embarrassed about. That no one is talking about your behavior But you still feel vaguely...suspicious. Off. Anxious. Like if you let your guard down, someone is going to tell you something awful that you did and your whole world will collapse.  Thats what this Winter has made me feel constantly...which in turn, makes me feel a connection to the Puritan and Pilgrims and the other grumps of New England. 

I have to say, I've always found the level of grumpiness and glum that surrounded the Puritan's daily life to be  delicious. It takes a lot to travel across the scary ocean, in a rickety ass boat, losing friends and family along the way, only to land in the New World and fill it to the brim with crankiness and Native American genocide. That takes a special kind of innate, horribly grouchy dedication to commit to disliking everything about the place you chose as a safe haven and new land. And I applaud that, truly. Maybe its because I come from Texans who had to live during the dust bowl. They lived in a miserable place, in miserable heat, and even once things took a turn, and fortunes changed, and life became Donna Reed's wet dream, they continued being fucking miserable. I'm specifically talking about my great-grandmother. A woman who could find the negative in any and everything. A woman who would remind you, an anxious child, that you could drown in an inch of water. That airplanes were prone to crash. Cancer will sneak up on you and kill you and everyone you love. That the Devil is going to snatch your soul and take you to the deepest darkest depths of Hell. So, maybe, its because I've got pure grouch flowing through my veins as well, that I can appreciate the Negative Nellie, overall bummer summer vibe ,that those uptight Puritans emitted. What I never understood though, was WHY they were so grouchy.

See, I get why my family was grouchy. Have you been to Texas in the Summer? Cool. Now imagine that like, 20% more humid, and sans any sort of air conditioning. Then add in a fuck ton of dust and chiggers and ticks and snakes and horseflies biting your head and picking cotton until your fingers bleed. And now imagine tornadoes and hail storms and flash floods. Those conditions are miserable and make you a miserable human being who will be ornery and mean until the day they die. It's just nature. The Puritans though, I mean, it *seems* like they should've been dancing (or very stoically standing) in the streets in celebration! They fled persecution! They made it across the Atlantic without dying! New England had a lot of game and fish and places to settle! Sure their clothing seemed itchy and a bit drab and they weren't too keen on women or sexuality, but I mean...wasn't this their promised land? It's not like they sailed to the New World and settled in fucking Oklahoma, ya know? I mean...New England is gorgeous. And has natural resources aplenty. And the Summers aren't too hot and the Falls are incredible and the Winters  are....

AH FUCK.

I think I just figured out my thesis statement on why every book/play/film set in New England is a fucking bummer. THE WINTER TURNED THEM ALL INTO FUCKING ASSHOLE GRUMPS. I can't prove this, but I feel in the deepest, more intense parts of my soul, that had these Pilgrims and Puritans encountered a Winter that lasted from December - March, they would've been fucking chipper little weirdos. They would've been the town from "Footloose" AFTER Kevin Bacon danced into their heart and souls and taught them to love life again. Instead, they had Winters from November until May and that made them GRUMPY! MISERABLE. WANTING TO INFLICT THEIR PAIN ON OTHERS. Honestly, they probably hated and wanted to punish Witches because they though the Witches had a hand in the weather!! So I guess what I'm saying is, I get it, man. I have also turned into a cranky, withered crone - a crone that has to sit and monitor her dog as he attempts to pass a catacomb-sized logjam of chicken bones in his guts. A crone that is having a hard time finding the joy in anything other than the green of the Earth and the coming Spring. A crone that hated boxing outdoors because she was convinced the tree holding the TRX band  would break and shatter all around her...because thats what cranky motherfuckers do...worry/complain/frown. 

Tomorrow is going to be 78 degrees - a temperature that I never appreciated when I lived in Texas or LA or Atlanta or even in NYC.  And yet here I am, so excited about the chance to potentially sweat and get the 6,000th sunburn in my cursed and wretched life. And Spring truly has arrived, even if we've gotten some snow. And the leaves haven't budded yet. And the flowers haven't bloomed. But much like the morning after a rough night, the world isn't going to suddenly go sideways. Things happen as they happen and even if there's a hiccup in the weather, the sun will rise and set and the leaves will come and then change and eventually fall, because such is the circle of life. And one can either embrace that and be zen and appreciate it all, OR...or, one can embrace the lineage of our forefathers. Those brave, cranky men and women, who lived here begrudgingly, and fought tooth and nail to make sure that generations to come remembered how miserable they were day in and day out. I choose them. I chose the cranks. And the grumps. And those who will worry about when the other shoe will drop. But I'll also plant flowers and lettuce and snuggle my dog and thank the heavens he's ok - because I'm a well rounded lady to enjoys being able to both appreciate life's blessings AND simultaneously live as an incredibly cantankerous Swamp Goblin.

Creepin' and Peepin'

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To say that I haven't been writing due to the never-ending New England Winter and the crippling depression that has come along with it, wouldn't exactly be the truth. Sure, it played a large part. I mean you can't type when you're rolled up in multiple comforters on the couch like the world's saddest fucking burrito as you rewatch all seasons of Vanderpump Rules, can you? Nope! Thats just part of the reason. The other reason involves awkward interactions that made me rul uncomfortable with sharing anything online while also living in a very small state. Who would've thunk that putting personal information out for public consumption could turn into a weird and unnerving situation? I know right?! I think we need to look into this whole technology thing - seems like its kinda risky! Hahahah. We're all doomed.

Anywhoodle, a while back I took a very, very part time, very short-lived job at a very Vermont establishment. It was very. And I haven't written about it until now because it was not the greatest situation. See, I had been back from LA a bit and figured it was the perfect time to get out there and engage with some flesh and blood Vermonters. And, more importantly, to stop having hour long conversations regarding the plot points on Vanderpump Rules with my dogs (seriously though, what does Ariana see in fucking Tom Sandoval?). It would be just enough of a salary to pay for occasional coffees and all the tanks of gas I plow through due to my wilderness rambles. And even better, since it was so part time, it would afford me the opportunity to continue to box and hike. Score! Plus the location seemed ideal. The position was working the counter at one of those little stores you see in "Baby Boom" or any of the 5,000 Hallmark Channel movies set in small town Vermont. A locally sourced shanty filled to the brim with jars of home-packed maple syrup, organic, misshapen root vegetables, Vermont cheeses and meat that came from animals with fucking backstories. ADORABLE! QUAINT! PERFECTION! But, like everything in my life, there was a catch. 

First off, I knew about this farmstead because it was on the way to one of my favorite hikes. And it specifically caught my eye because they keep some sheep, goats and an Alpaca in a little pin next to the store  - and I'm a sucker for any type of petting zoo. Not even kidding, I almost flipped my car over in Georgia because I saw an exit saying "GOATS GOATS GOATS" and couldn't stop myself from careening across two lanes to make it.  So, when I saw this farmstead's ad and that they were hiring, I was like, fuck yeah - this PERFECT. This is me selling Country Baby Applesauce. This is the most Vermont thing I could do! It seemed like the kind of perfectly mindless job that would be an easy way to dip my toe back into the workforce. Bagging rhubarb sounded like actual heaven in comparison to my last position. So when I went in for the interview and the manager told me he had googled me - it wasn't surprising. Going from working on movie sets to stocking locally foraged mushrooms isn't really a natural progression, so obviously there would be questions. So I humored him and told him I was here to take a breather and get back to nature and all that bullshit I tell myself. He said I wasn't like the normal candidates they have (organic farmers on the off season and strangely beefy middle aged hippie women who can like, chop wood and make a yurt out of locally sourced yarns) but that didn't stop him from hiring me on the spot. He seemed fine, if a little nerdy, but no red flags at that point. Well, except that he definitely struck me as someone who has abnormally soft and delicate hands. I know I shouldn't fault someone for having hands that look delicate, but I find them unnerving and the hands of a serial killer. Looking back, that was a tell for sure. Delicate hands are the hands of a creep. You can quote me on that.

So the plan was, I would go in for a few days and train one on one with the manger before I started on my own. Shit started to get weird on day one of training, three minutes into the whole thing. And you know why? Because the manager mentioned, multiple times in an hour about all the things he learned when he googled my name. Then he shifted from googling my name to discussing, in depth, this here blog. This went on way too long and he started giggling and saying, "Am I being creepy? Tell me if I'm being creepy. haha. Thats creepy, right?"...Reader, it was creepy. If you have to ask if you're being creepy, deep down, In the darkest depths of your weirdo soul, you know you're being creepy, and thats why you're fucking saying it! When I'm on a date and think to myself over and over, "oh god am I being weird?" I AM IN FACT BEING WEIRD. I KNOW I'M BEING WEIRD.  But this motherfucker just kept bringing shit up. Every training shift seemed to be  another excuse for him to discuss my life and to point out he knew ALL about me. And then, on day two, he decided to up the ante by telling me how he liked to print off back credit card receipts from patrons so that you could find out the persons name and .... you guessed it, GOOGLE THEM! On one hand, it was nice to know to know he spread his very inappropriate googling around to not just me, but unsuspecting shoppers as well. But on the other,  nah, it was just super uncomfortable. Then he laughed and said, "I probably shouldn't have told you that....haha". Sigh. You're seeing a pattern, right? On the third day of training,  after mentioning my blog again - specifically, asking when my birthday was because I referenced my age in one post, he said he "knew I had Spotify because I had posted a playlist on the blog" and If I wanted to hook up a speaker I could, so I'd be able to play said playlist. Which seems nice in theory, until I took him up on that and he critiqued the mellow music I picked (War on Drugs) because he normally listened to talk radio. Because there's nothing people love more when looking for overpriced arugula, than fucking Vermont Public Radio's hot take on hunting zoning regulations playing at a monotone whisper in the background. He also told me he wasn't used to speaking to one person for an extended period of time because he and his wife do not speak much. Which, just, sure. The fact he was normally a mute in a relationship that seems to resemble a New England rendition of the Piano was just A LOT to process when I'm trying to cull rotten micro greens, ya know?  And then the reason I stopped updating the blog all together for a month was because he would say over and over again, "I can't wait to see what you write about us" and I would say, "hahahaha". Because I vowed not to satisfy his fucking curiosity. And my response? That was always my answer, by the way. A nervous "hahah" while I adverted eye contact. It's my go-to "holy shit I want to vaporize because this is weird" move.And then there was the incident at the very end of my training, when I was straightening up a display of holistic bullshit creams on a barrel, and he SNAPPED AT ME like I had done something unforgivable. I remember looking around thinking I had broken something. Nope.  He told me that re-merchandising REALLY pissed him off. Like, he didn't seem to give a shit about much other than googling, but apparently, straightening creams that had been thrown willy nilly onto a fucking rustic barrel was too much to handle. It was at that moment I was able to pinpoint the vibe I got from him. I knew his fucking type. He's the self-professed "nice" guy, lacking machismo, fancies himself artsy, and who gets SUPER aggressive if you challenge him or call him out on any of his behavior.  And that freaked me out. But it didn't freak me out as much as the last night of my "training".  That night, after closing the store, we went into the office so she could show me how to reconcile everything into the computer database. At this point I just wanted to fucking wanted to wrap everything up so we could lock and leave. Instead, he's dragging this out and goes to the shared work computer, takes his sweet ass time sitting down, and says this:  "I'm so slow at closing. Most nights I just mess around on the computer for a while and *mimics typing on the keyboard* GOOGLES WHAT MORGAN IS UP TO" and then he sealed it with his patented giggle. I'm pretty sure I hissed in response. But instead of saying, "this isn't a good fit for me" - which it wasn't, and I knew it from day one, I did something super petty. I went home and vented on twitter by posting a comment about his creepy behavior. 

And let me just back up here and say, the issue isn't that he looked at my shit online repeatedly, it was that he TOLD ME about it! That's online lurking 101, my man. You do NOT tell people you've gone down their proverbial rabbit-hole! You do it, gossip with your friends about it and pray that you never drunkenly slip up and tell them! Jesus Christ. Like, how is that not obvious? I've spent my entire life lurking on people - people I've had crushes on, people I've been jealous of, people I can't stand. I creep and peep 24/7 but I don't fucking tell them. I don't put the burden of my weirdness on them! Thats just common sense.

Anyway, you won't be surprised to find that It only took a few days after posting that tweet before my spider senses started tingling and telling me something was OFF. And on a whim, I checked the tracker on this site and noticed a pattern of views that consisted of multiple times a day from both his home town and the store. And not just that, he would go to the site and then from there follow the links to my Instagram and, you guessed it, twitter. I locked all social media except this site, but it was too late. On my next shift at the stand, luckily I didn't have to see him, and I checked the browser history on the shared computer and it sent a chill down my spine. He was checking my blog, Instagram and twitter. A LOT. From home and work. And it felt dirty. I realize this probably seems like not that big of a deal - because people get harassed in MUCH worse ways online all the time. Daily. However, for me, I don't normally get the stranger danger vibe. I don't worry about people breaking in or raping me. I travel solo. Hike solo. Do stupid things when I'm solo. But I'm not normally fearful. I mean, I AM fearful, but not about realistic things. Demon possessions/nuclear armageddon/accidentally overdosing on supplements? Fuck yeah I worry about that shit! But real issues - things that should be worrisome aren't on my radar. At least not normally. But there was something about this guy and his behavior that just rubbed me in a really bad way. And I felt very, very, very weirded out by this man. And for the first time, I realized that I live in a state all alone and I don't have a support system here. I don't have friends and I don't have an emergency contact. And this dude knows that. And he knows my address. And my schedule. And that I box in his neighborhood. And it made me feel incredibly vulnerable. Maybe had the actual job been fun or fulfilling, I could've overlooked all of his shit. But the reality was, I hated being alone all day. Because aside from the hour of overlap when I worked with him, I was alone. And its the dead season and the stupid speakers didnt work  - so it was just me for hours spraying the produce and dropping boxes of frozen goat meat on my feet. Even the fact that the petting zoo would be opening back up soon couldn't sway me in to staying....mainly because the manger told me that those adorable animals were killed at the end of the season each year. And one of those goat fillets I dropped on my fucking pinky toe? Yeah, one of those probably belonged to the goat I fed oats to  in the Fall. RIP, Critters. And quickly, what was an adorable Vermont farmstead turned into a maple syrup infused nightmare. One evening a group of attractive skiers came in - they looked like an updated version of the Yuppies in Baby Boom - and I realized as I was helping them that  I wanted to be on their side of the counter and not mine. I was not meant for that world. 

When I went in for my next shift, the manager, as expected, was ready to talk about my online posting. Specially he wanted to address the "elephant in the room" (which was my tweet calling him creepy). I thanked him for bringing it up, apologized for being petty, but then explained that his behavior was uncomfortable and that putting the onus on me to tell him when he had crossed the line into "creepy" wasn't appropriate. He did NOT take this well. Because, as I assumed, he's a self-professed "Good Guy" and that means, he couldn't possibly do anything that crossed a line. In fact, as he told me, he was doing me a favor reading this blog, since nobody was, and doing me a bigger favor making small talk with me because I was "obviously very lonely". Deep breath. Reader. Here's the thing about me. I don't like much about myself, but one thing I do love, is that when someone goes at me like that, I don't back down. I square my shoulders. Speak calmly. And fucking eviscerate them. And this soft-handed, creepy motherfucker was told that his behavior, especially as a male and a manger was not ok. I then handed the keys over so I could leave. But he literally whined because he had a ceramics class that night and needed me to close. And because I've learned nothing, and am still codependent, I closed. But I didn't go back. So I guess that's a small win? I'm a mess. 

So it's been a bit, and I've moved on and decided it was time to start posting about more than weather again. And I'm sure he'll lurk on my blog like he's done in the past. And when he reads this he'll be angry because he doesn't get why his behavior was inappropriate. And he probably feels like I'm dragging him for a non-issue. And he'll be mad at himself for seeing this and how it makes him feel inside. Because he knows, somewhere on the inside that he's a creep.  And that's how he's gonna learn a very important lesson about online creeping - when you stalk someone's sites long enough, you'll eventually see something that reminds you why you shouldn't be there. I've been there. You've been there. We've all been there. Now he's gonna be there. In the immortal words of Joe Public, you've got ta live and learn.

I AM A ROCK. I AM AN ISLAND.

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Long periods of isolation do weird things to people. And so does Winter. Add those together, and if you're like me, already leaning-in pretty hard on the weird-side, well lets just say, Tom Hanks talking to a volleyball in Castaway has got nothing on me up here in Vermont. It takes less time than you think to start having in depth conversations with your dogs. We chat about everything - the weather, politics, my thoughts on the new season of Queer Eye. While these conversations seem to be one sided, I like to think that both Linus and Winnie have many thoughts to share and would gladly do so, if they had a grasp on the human language. Not only does isolation make you weird, It's also really unnerving to see how easy it is to somehow exist as an island unto oneself. To not have more than transactional conversations with human beings for almost 9 months and somehow still be standing. I would NOT recommend that, by the way. At all.

As I've started to emerge from this, my first New England Winter, I've found myself thinking a lot about my own personal heartiness. And what I've found is that there are varying different kinds of hearty. There's being physically able to handle the seemingly never ending cold and snow and then there's mental heartiness. Not to toot my own horn, but I really did start off strong. Maybe too strong, if I'm being honest. Instead of easing myself into Narnia via, like, a slow moving sled, I basically catapulted my Wardrobe, Evil Knievel style, into the heart of the White Witches lair and screamed into the snowy nothing, "COME AND GET ME, MOTHERFUCKER"! I relished the feeling of catching snowflakes on my eyelashes. I made hot chocolate and learned how to embrace being cozy. I drank whiskey and listened to hand-me-down Van Morrison albums while watching the snow fall and icicles form. And much to my friends dismay, I hiked. I hiked in snow. I hiked in ice. I hiked in subzero temperatures. I felt like if I stopped hiking, if I admitted that even I, the Ice Queen of Central Vermont, had limits, then somehow it would be a chink in my armor. And the cold could creep in and freeze me solid. And the thing is, I wasn't wrong. I went to LA for a visit over New Years and when I came back, the cold found its way inside of me and it froze all of me solid. It froze my heart and my head and my creativity and all my cares. I didn't want to hike anymore. I cursed the Gods every time I shoveled. I puffed on my inhaler and slipped in an ice patch and jammed my thumb. Gone was the girl who would've laughed as she fell into a snow drift. Instead she had been replaced by a cranky woman who felt like she was trapped in a Hallmark fever-dream. I learned the limits of my physical heartiness. The mental heartiness, well that was harder to pinpoint when everything went to shit. 

See, the problem is, I've been isolated before. I've lived in a place where I didn't know a soul. I've also been in jobs that, for at least the last three years, meant I had no social life. I didn't go out on dates. I didn't go to the movies. Sure I interacted with people at work and in my neighborhood, but it was still a very solitary existence. And it's sadly pretty easy to live in that sort of groove. It takes a while before the sadness and loneliness starts to creep in and make itself at home. It's like those bamboo plants that were all the rage in the 90s - the ones they sold at the Nature Company? They had warnings about how insidious the seemingly cute mini Bamboo trees were and to be very aware if you transplanted it to a garden or yard, you'd soon be living in a Panda's paradise. Yeah, the solitude is like those bamboo plants. One day you're living your life like a fucking Island in the Stream - content to hermit. Content to go about your routine unhindered. You're just doing you, ya know? And the next thing you know, you're fucking living in a goddamn Bamboo prision! You didn't notice until it was too late and now you're trapped. Yeah. Thats been my Winter. The LA trip, which seemed like a good idea, and it was good in the sense it was so nice to see my friends, actually awoke something inside of me that I didn't know I needed: Human interaction. I realize most people know, pretty fucking early, that human interaction is an important part of life. Like, its I guess...obvious? But not me. No sir. I thought that I could uproot myself and take a mental breather and that somehow, either I wouldn't notice that I was alone, or that it wouldn't matter? I guess I assumed that because, ya know, this isn't my first rodeo. And that was a stupid, STUPID assumption. When I moved to Atlanta, not only did I move on very short notice, I also knew ZERO people there. None. And because of the nature of my role, I also didn't end up making any friends at work until the very, very tail end of my time there. And even that was, as it turns out, a pity friendship. I guess word of my long drives and rambles to goat farms all over the Deep South got around. So that was almost two solid years where the only social interactions I had were w/ the folks who owned random petting zoos all over the greater Atlanta area. And the thing is, I think I have selective memory. Because its like I spaced on what I was like after going back to LA. Because when I went back after Atlanta, I was mentally FUCKED UP. I was like NELL. I had no idea how to interact with humans. To say that the isolation did not sit well with me and I was very, very depressed would be an understatement. And then a bit later I moved again, on very short notice, to NYC! And while I knew many people in NY, it ain't like I got to see them! No way, baby. My jobs in the city didn't leave any time to do anything more than stress drink while connecting conference calls and screaming into the void nightly. It was awful. So when all is said and done, its not that I've spent the last 9 months alone, I've really spent the better part of 5 years alone. And that my friends, FUCKS. YOUR. SHIT. UP. Not being able to engage in normal human behavior (i.e.  non-rage filled brunches/hanging out/getting laid/maybe even hiking with ANOTHER LIVING ORGANISM) is awful. And I will fully admit that I allowed myself to move here, knowing full well that there was the potential for another Atlanta, and thought somehow that this time would be different. Because I'm nothing if not an optimist! And because I came from such a stressful and bad few years in NY, I really felt this would be the only way to have a mental and physical palate cleanser from that Hell.  And it has been to a degree. I needed a time out. I needed to regroup. I needed to quiet my mind and lean the hard lessons. But the reality is, living life like Simon and Garfunkel song isn't good for you. It makes you hard. It makes you cranky. It makes you sad. There's a reason why hermits are portrayed as grizzled and crotchety. They've been alone with their thoughts for too long. Imagine you had to stare at yourself in the mirror for 24 hours straight. By the end of that you'd feel crazy, you'd be in a terrible mood, and you'd hate yourself. Thats what being alone for too long does to you. It's too much introspection. Its a magnifying glass on all of your worst traits. And there's no one there to give you a pep talk. To say, "yeah, BUT what about ....". Nope. You just have to keep looking in that mirror. And that by itself is hard enough, but add to that a seemingly never-ending Winter, and CONGRATULATIONS!!! You just learned that you're a hot mess and any semblance of mental heartiness was all a ruse!!! The hikes and the photography and the drawing - all of that helped distract you - but the reality was, you weren't doing well to begin with and the pile and piles of snow just helped you to realize that. Was it the hotel that made Jack Torrance go crazy? Nah. I mean, I'm sure the ghost bartender, elevators full of blood and rotting tub vagina didn't HELP,  but he was awful before. All that hotel did was give him a place to go nuts. Vermont is my Outlook Hotel. But, lest you think I'm about to become an axe murderer, I'm fine. Besides, I fucked my rotator cuff up boxing, so its not like I could even swing an axe. But whatever. What I'm saying is, Spring is coming. And just when you're used to looking out into a sea of white, one day you notice a patch of brown grass peeking through. And slowly but surely, everything begins to melt. And while you feel at one with the drab brown. The barren trees. Green sprouts up despite it all. Just when the animals needed it the most. And I'm seeing some sprouting in my own life too.

I'm not exaggerating when I say this past month has been a Jack Torrance typing nonsense and on the verge of a mental break kinda situation. I've been grumpy and downtrodden and over it all. I literally didn't think I could take another form rejection letter for job prospects in LA. Or see another photo of my friends hanging out without me. Or another inch of snow. Just when I had fucking HAD IT with life, I did something wild. I stopped fighting. I stopped wishing to be someplace else. Stopped making myself sick wondering if I'd be dating that guy if I was in the same city. Stopped cursing the sky every time a flake of snow fell. Stopped looking in the mirror and wishing a different face was looking back. I just stopped. I let myself just be. There's a weird sense of relief and comfort when you stop trying to fight everything. I've submitted. Winter won. And that's ok because its the truth. And in submitting, I've given into my reality. And that reality is that I live in small town Vermont. And I have stories that need to be written. And experiences to have while I'm here, for how ever long that will be. And in that spirit, when the only other option was to throw myself into the Winooski river and pray that the eels devoured me quickly, I decided to randomly email my resume over to a local business. And wouldn't you know it, I started to thaw out. I'm consulting for a small local business and getting to work with feisty, independent, creative women and I'm really enjoying the whole process. I'm enjoying having a schedule. Having a purpose. I'm enjoying talking to someone other than my dogs. And, maybe the Universe is telling me to fucking take a moment to process everything. To actually live in the moment and not wait until everything is perfect. To come out of hibernation and look around a bit before moving onto the next thing. Or maybe the Universe is just saying to update my resume. I don't know - but before I know it, the grass will be green and the daffodils blooming and at some point, who knows when, I'll be back in LA and missing any kind of weather. Until then, I'll admit my defeat against New England and will try and enjoy the thaw and the coming Spring.

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It was inevitable: I'm having my Baby Boom Breakdown™ moment

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We've had our second Nor'Easter in two weeks and the forecast is calling for below zero temps over the next few days. Do you know what that means, other than it being unbearably cold? That means I have to buy more heating oil. I bought 900 dollars worth in January and now I have to buy 900 more. Because thats how much fucking HEATING OIL COSTS ON THE EAST COAST. WHAT THE FUCK, MAN! That's insanity. Like, thats $1,800 in 3.5 months just to keep the water warm and pipes from bursting. And then after I took a shower this morning, a very quick one to save warm water because I'm paranoid about my heating, I found that there was a ceiling leak downstairs under the bathroom. Which is just fucking great. Because if there's anything I've learned, its that I have some sort of curse on me regarding plumbing. I don't know what I've done to piss off a witch so badly that they would specifically curse water flow in my houses, but it must've been something really special. It's all just too much. I could cry. In fact I have. 

I cry all the time these days. I cry when I have to shovel the driveway. I cry when I check the weather report. I cry when I trip down the stairs, which happens at least once a week. I cry while watching the movie Babe in the middle of the night when I can't sleep. The lack of sleep makes me cry even harder. Two nights ago during the strongest part of the storm, I had such bad anxiety I ended up not being able to fall asleep until 5am. I've given up caffeine, so that late night lack of sleep was pure anxiety driven. Why? A million things. But in this specific case, it was because the snow plows hadn't gone through yet, and I was so scared that my dog would have another seizure and would need to go to the ER. The only catch is that the only 24 hour vet in Vermont is 45 min away near Burlington. That's bad enough in decent weather - but add in white-out conditions in the middle of the night and its not even doable. So I just sat there watching her every wiggle and move, terrified she was going to be sick and I couldn't do anything to help her. She didn't have one, thank God, but that didn't stop me from worrying. I worked myself up so badly that I had an asthma attack on top of it all for good measure. Go big or go home, ya know?. 

And then add to all that me needing to get back out into the workforce. Aside from ya know, a salary, I also am desperate to be around people. I had high hopes of being back West by now, but life doesn't always go the way you anticipate. In this case, I feel like everything's falling apart around me. And yes, I know I'll figure it out. I'll get it all taken care of and Spring is around the corner and the birds will sing and I'll eventually find my groove. But until then, man? I am proud to say, it took me 8 months, but I've finally FINALLY reached the "Breakdown in the snow over a tapped-out well" scene from Baby Boom. I am OVER this shit. I'm over the delicate, beautiful, soul-sucking never-ending SNOW! I'm over bleeding money on snow tires and gas and heating oil and asthma inhalers and therapy and vet visits and orange vests to keep me from getting shot by deranged hunters! I'm over being isolated and only having my dogs for company! I'm sick of long distance friendships! I'm over Vermont tinder! I'm over boxing as my only outlet! I'm over treading water and not being able to see the forrest through the trees! I'm over pretending to like maple flavoring in every single fucking thing they serve in this adorable hell-hole! I. AM. FUCKING. OVER. IT!!!!!!!!

I am *this* fucking close to throwing myself into a snowbank and letting the Gods do with me what they will. Ugh. But, lets be real, it's too cold outside to even venture out long enough to find a suitable snowbank to throw myself into, so I'm stuck here. And here, at the moment, is miserable. And there doesn't seem to be a handsome vet around  - one that will fuck me back to life and also help me acclimate to this maple syrup fever dream - but what can you do? You cry and stress and scream and then one day, you'll look back and laugh...maybe not laugh, laugh. Maybe more of an awkward, strained "haaaaaaaa". The kind where your eyes glaze over and you're flashing back and want to puke but you put on a brave face. Probably more of that.  Maybe. I dunno. I'll cross that bridge if I ever get there.  

Tonight on the Hallmark Channel

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Tonight on the Hallmark Channel: Janet Torrance, a big city writer who escaped to quiet Vermont in order to finish her latest novel, becomes snowbound after the second Nor'Easter in less than a week hits her idyllic little Vermont cottage. With only her thoughts and a DVD of "Romancing The Stone" to keep her company, shit goes off the rails fast. But in a real quaint way. Will she accuse her sculptures of having the shining? Will she join an imaginary bartender in her creepy basement for a nightcap? Will she say, "fuck it", throw her shovel down the hill and launch herself face-first into a snowbank so that the elements can take her to Valhalla? You'll have to tune in and see!

Parental Guidance Suggested

10pm ET/9pm CT

Stress Art for the Modern Woman

Sure, I could play it cool and say these past few months haven't sent me into an anxiety tail-spin. That taking a break from work and life did the trick and my sleep is back on track and its all rose petals and rainbows. I *could* say that, but that would be a big ol' fuckin lie. While this was all needed and good, its also isolating and terrifying and makes one feel like they're going stir crazy! I'd also like to pretend that I handle stress and anxiety in a cool way - like a Parisian artist, chain smoking outside a cafe while reading Proust. Julie Delpy in 'Before Sunset', if you will. But, nah, girl, I'm a mess. There are no berets and long drags over wine. Instead, I basically break out children's markers, blast Jon Secada and scribble poorly drawn renderings of comforting pop-culture characters.  It's been my go-to stress reliever and creative outlet since 2005. I started doing these while at my first industry job. I was stuck in the office for odd hours while they shot in Greece, so I had a lot of downtime. It just progressed from there - the most stressed I got, the more I drew and, eventually, sculptured. And because, I have terrible luck and am not great at self promotion, I find that now a ton of other people do similar art AND get loads of attention and make a buck off this shit. But not me! No sir! Nope! I guess this bad art is just mine and mine alone, which is probably worse? What can you do. Life. 

"Why would a reviewer make the point of saying someone's not a genius? Do you especially think I'm not a genius? . . . You didn't even have to think about it, did you?"

"Why would a reviewer make the point of saying someone's not a genius? Do you especially think I'm not a genius? . . . You didn't even have to think about it, did you?"

Grandma Saracen cheering on Matt Saracen, QB1. 

Grandma Saracen cheering on Matt Saracen, QB1. 

Coach and Tami Taylor: Couple Goals, Y'all! 

Coach and Tami Taylor: Couple Goals, Y'all! 

Riggins: TEXAS FOREVER

Riggins: TEXAS FOREVER

Be the Crying Laura Dern you want to see in the World!

Be the Crying Laura Dern you want to see in the World!

Welp.

Current Aesthetic 

Current Aesthetic 

I couldn't figure out why I've been so grumpy about the weather lately - I don't feel like I've ever suffered from seasonal depression. In fact, gloom and inclement weather tend to give me strength. I'm honestly at my happiest when its chilly, wet and miserable. And for the most part, I've loved having a true winter for the first time. I've braved the elements and hiked in negative temps (admittedly not smart)! I've traipsed across snowy fields to chase after my favorite horses! Y'all, I've really gone all in on this Winter thing. I love it! It's magical! And Vermont in the snow is truly gorgeous. But you wanna know what isn't gorgeous? Vermont as it's thawing out. And over the past few weeks, we've been really thawing. And that means that all the delicate snow has slowly melted, revealing the dead, muddy ground beneath. Sure we had one day where it hit 73. But you know what that did? It just made everything disgusting. Mud bogged. Soggy. Bland. And its so incredibly ugly. It's just a bad look. Brown on brown on brown on brown with patches of sad, dirty snow. I'm fucking over it and ready for Spring. I'm ready for green. Tulips. Crocuses. Daffodils. Baby animals. Easter eggs. The smell of fresh grass...

INSTEAD

My view this morning. What a motherfucker.

My view this morning. What a motherfucker.

We had another fucking Nor'easter come through! While it wasn't as bad as they expected, it's still supposed to leave us with a decent covering on snow. And you know what that means? Even though I hate that brown. I hate those mud bogs. The thaw is the first step in getting to the green. You have to tolerate the ugliness for a bit to get to the lovely. And this snow, while it is gorgeous and magical and all the things that inspire people to write poetry and make hot cocoa, is going to to have to eventually melt. It's a setback on the path to Spring. So we're going to have to go through that gross thaw again. We were *almost* there, man. We had gotten through the worst of it and those fresh blooms felt right around the corner. And thats incredibly frustrating! And if I'm being honest, I think I'm finding this season in my life, in general, to be pretty frustrating. I think I'm going through my own personal "thaw". The ugly part, the gross part, where all the nastiness gets exposed. And you know deep down that seeing your weaknesses and faults and bad patterns is something that has to happen to move forward. You know that. But it still sucks. Because you want Spring in your own life. You want things that are fresh and hopeful and lovely and sweet. And right now, that's just not how its meant to be. I've been trying to get back to LA and that hasn't panned out the way I expected - not that it won't happen, but its not going to happen RIGHT. NOW. So, you wait for the thaw. And you have to reconcile yourself with the brown. And the mud. And the messiness. And eventually, even though it feels like it will never happen, you'll start seeing little sprouts of green pop up. Leaves will appear on the trees. The grass will grow again. The air will smell sweet from all of the fresh blooms. And you forget how much you hated the thaw. Because you'll appreciate the beauty so much. 

But until then, I'm gonna go outside and scream hexes to the Weather Gods while shoveling my driveway, like a real classy lady.

Tonight on the Hallmark Channel

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Tonight on the Hallmark Channel, a big city transplant, who moved to rural Vermont in search of a simpler life, learns the meaning of Spring Fever, after contracting a rare and potentially fatal infection from home-brewed Maple Syrup. As luck would have it, the local widowed doctor gets his truck stuck in the snow outside of the city girl's adorable house. He discovers her inside and suffering from the "sugar sweats". He nurses her back to health, despite her protestations the she doesn't need any help or anyone. After a few days, she comes to and realizes the handsome doctor saved her life. True love ensues and she dedicates her life to maple syrup safety. 

Tonight 10pm ET/ 9pm CT 

Tonight on the Hallmark Channel

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Tonight on the Hallmark Channel, a big-city lawyer must leave the hustle and bustle behind after her grandparents leave her their beloved horse farm. Things get off to a rocky start, because, and this is wild, the lady lawyer HATES horses. See, when she was a little girl, a horse bucked her off and she's been fearful ever since! Crazy, right? The lady lawyer realizes she can't manage the farm herself, and decides, despite her grandparents wishes, she's going to sell the farm. But as a luck would have it, she bumps into a childhood friend and former ranch-hand at the farm. They lost touch after the lady lawyer realized she wanted to spend all of her time in the city and that farm work was beneath her. Little did she know, Colt left the farm not too long after to "make something of himself". But after losing touch with the lady lawyer and trying his hand in the city, he realized that, no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't resist the sirens song of the farm. Colt, hearing that she's going to sell the farm, offers to help her get it ready for auction. In the process, the lady lawyer not only saves the horse that bucked her as a child from a flash flood and realizes how much she loves horses, she also falls for Colt. Just before the auction begins, Colt says he wants to be her partner in the farm and life. 

Tonight 10pm ET/ 9pm CT

"People let me tell ya 'bout my beeeeest friend"

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Six years ago today, I was commiserating with my friend Megan over my recent break-up. It had happened on Valentines Day and, while a long time coming and definitely for the best, it still stung. Megan jokingly said I should get a dog, and we both laughed and finished our avocado toast and overpriced slow drip coffees. But, as fate would have it, as we exited the restaurant, a dog rescue had set up shop on the sidewalk outside. Apparently a hoarder in the South Bay had gotten busted, so these pathetic little pooches were trying to find a good home. And it was there, in a sea of chihuahuas, that I saw Linus. He was wearing a bandana and I immediately knew he was supposed to be in my life. I adopted him on the spot.

At first, he had separation anxiety - which is I guess what happens when you're used to being  surrounded by hundreds of dogs at any given time. But, after some TLC and a good doggy daycare, he realized I was coming back and stopped crying. The upside to the hoarding thing is that Linus LOVES everyone. Dogs. Cats. Rabbits. Humans. Doesn't matter, he loves them and wants to snuggle with them. Because thats Linus' greatest passion - snuggling. A few months after I got him, I had to relocate to Atlanta for a new job. Linus found the most amazing doggy daycare (Barking Hound Village West in case you're in Atlanta and need a good spot) and we settled into a routine. During the week, he would snuggle and be the ringleader at doggy daycare and on the weekends we'd explore together. We're drive up to the Blue Ridge Mountains. We'd drive to middle of nowhere, peanut farms. Peach orchards. Farmers Markets. Tennessee. Alabama. North Carolina. It was me, Linus and the open road. He's wonderful in the car and he likes nothing better than to look out the window while the pastures and hillsides and cities roll past. Atlanta took a toll on me, I was quite isolated due to the nature of my job, and I think I can honestly say, Linus kept me as sane as possible during those years. I don't think I'd be functional if it hadn't been for his companionship. 

After moving back to LA, Linus expanded his dog frienships. He became best buds with Tito and Olive and Dexter and Watson and Penny Lane and Nibbler. He went to my friends beach house and we all played the game, "is Linus dead or sunbathing?". 

RIP?

RIP?

And then Winnie came into our lives. Winnie was a rescue that needed a home and I begrudgingly took her in after I saw how much Linus cared for her. She hadn't known any sort of affection or companionship and Linus, on the first night, forced her into snuggling and hasn't looked back since. Now they're partners in crime. When we moved to New York from LA, they settled into Brooklyn life. Linus loved all the smells of the city (urine, rotting chicken, subway steam - he has a refined nasal palate). The pups favorite things to do was to sit on the front stoop of our building, judging the passersby, and sitting in the window of my 3rd story apartment, judging the passersby. I called them neighborhood watch, because, much like my great grandmother, they liked spying on the neighborhood happenings. Basically Linus was the old lady from 227 mixed with the sass of Jackee Harry.  And now we're here in Vermont. Linus lives for the backyard. During the summer and fall, he'd explore the garden and then find a nice sunny patch of grass to take a snooze. The boy lives for his snoozes. Once the snow came, I thought he'd hate it - but nope! The deep snow just means more chances for adventure. He'll make little tunnels and explore forgotten corners of the yard, like he's Shackelton and this is his Arctic! While Winnie stays inside, Linus is by my side as I shovel and curse the gods for not providing me with an electric snow thrower. He's so easy going, he settles in anywhere. He was a beach bum in Cali - chasing seagulls and swimming in the ocean. He went to the Grand Canyon and looked down on all that majesty. He's been to Texas. He's been to the Deep South. Linus strutted on the Upper East Side of New York like he was Chuck Bass. He's hiked in the Green Mountains and he's snuggled with me in a cabin in Maine.

He's seven now and been with me for six years. And while these have, hands down, been some of the worst years of my life, they've been made so much better and my heart is so much fuller for having Linus by my side. He's the handsomest boy and the dapperest gentleman. I'm praying for many more years of adventures and snuggles, though I know I'm the luckiest person in the world for having even six years with this little monster. He's not just a good boy, he's the best boy. So cheers to Linus and all the adventures and new places we'll explore together. 

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*Fiona Apple Voice* Shadowboxer, Baby.

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I know I've written about boxing before, but cut me some fucking slack, man - its not like I have a ton going on here in Vermont. It's basically boxing, ill advised hiking, exploring, bad art, reading romance novels and talking myself out of self-cutting bangs in the bathroom every night due to boredom. Which, by the way, is a real problem. Right after I quit my last job, I bleached my hair white. Like, Khalessi white. It was intense and awesome and I will not be doing that again. In Atlanta after quitting my job, I took kitchen shears to my hair and lobbed off about four inches. It wasn't Brittney Spears-level, but it was enough for people to ask if I needed to up my meds. What I'm saying is, that in and of itself, is a full time job. It's not much of life, but the employment opportunities here, much like the dating, are capital G R I M.  Anywhoodle, thats my life, baby. And, despite my best efforts, the closest friend I have here is the nameless dude wearing a Gronk jersey at the local Duncan Donuts drive-thru. He serves me a large coffee daily and never remembers me or my order. I'd like to think he has one of those "50 First Date" head injuries, but I'm pretty sure I'm just one of the crowd. So let me have this. Let me have my boxing lessons. And what lessons they are!

I'm at the point in my boxing training that we're trying to up my skill-level. I've been boxing for a year and a half and have been hitting five days a week for the last seven months.  I've done it long enough that my coaches are now working on "finesse".  When I'm sparring against my coaches, I'm great. I'm quick on my feet and hit hard and scare them a little. I can be a bit intense and I do NOT give up.  I'm also decent on the heavy bags and water bags and even the speed-bag , but I struggle with the tower. The tower is something that was new to me until coming to my current gym - it looks like a contraption that Coach Taylor would make the offense of the Dillion Panthers train with during two-a-days. Sadly, there's no Tim Riggins to work the tower with me - its just me against me, throwing punches at numbered pads.  

The "Towers" at my boxing gym.

The "Towers" at my boxing gym.

So the whole point of the towers are to work on combos - to hone your skills and to become more precise. I find it incredibly tricky, which is insane, because its a stationary numbered pad system and I have no issue with remembering the combos. At all. What happens to me is that I have a hard time finding the right stance, and then my hits don't land the way I want them to feel. Because you can feel when you land a good hit and when you don't. I occasionally whiff the pad. I've hit so hard my glove has ricocheted back into my face and I've hit myself. My jab oddly turns up instead of down. I start doing all this weird shit that I don't do any other time. Its weird. And my coach, who isn't the type of person who fills you up with inspirational quotes or motivational speeches, turned to me the other day and just casually said over his shoulder,  "You suck at anticipating your own punches. You get in your own way".

Y'all. Y'ALL.

My jaw fell open and I just stared at him. I've spent years in therapy trying to get that breakthrough, and instead it comes from a dude who really doesn't enjoy training me all that much, despite my financial contributions to his place. And I get said break through while Marky Mark and The Funky Bunch's "Good Vibrations" is blasting on the PA system. It's so dumb and so simple and so true.

I've always known I was my own worst enemy. Doubling down when I should just cash in my chips. Refusing to give up, even when I hate someone or something. I'm stubborn and a hard worker and its caused me to become bitter in my old age. And then this gangly motherfucker points out the obvious...Of course I'm my own worst enemy. We're all our own worst enemies. What the issue is that I don't dodge my own hits - even the ones I see coming. Instead of understanding my weaknesses and being prepared to have to work on behavior patterns or talk myself out of certain choices, I act blindsided. I act confused. HOW CAN I BE CONFUSED WHEN I'M THE ONE THROWING THE PUNCH? And yet. AND YET. Here we are. We're all just out here living our lives and needing to dodge our own punches. Some are successful and some, like me, get in our own way. We whiff the pads. We lose our footing. We second guess ourselves. And in turn, we end up punching ourselves in the fucking face. 

Look, like anything, realization doesn't equal immediate, or even any sort of, change. As witnessed by me realizing that I'm codependent and financially helping out the trainer who doesn't dig me. Or keeping in contact with exes who are emotional fuckwits and deserve to figure shit out without my help. I'm everything Kenny Rogers says NOT to do in The Gambler. But I have that thing, that thing, that makes me crave helping others. But now that I *know* my patterns, while I don't always stop myself, I am AWARE of what I'm doing. And the shame and bitterness I have due to my own actions, is enough that it makes me at least think. And then when you think, you're less likely to be totally reactionary. And hopefully, eventually, you'll start changing behavior patterns. And thats what I'm praying happens with this - realizing that I'm punching myself in the fucking face should be enough to get me to change my ways. But it won't, at least not overnight, so I have to punch myself a few more times, maybe harder than I need, to shake me out of my rut. 

Until then, I'm going to keep training and punching and working on finessing my style. And I'm going to shadowbox. Because its the worst. Truly shadowboxing is mortifying and awful and it makes you want to cry. You have to stand in front of a mirror, and in my case with light weights, punch at yourself. I hate mirrors. I, to be honest, don't really like myself right now. The past few years have a taken a toll on not just my personality but also my body that is hard for me to really talk about. Needless to say, I look like a different person. And when I stare into the mirror, what I see staring back, is not something I love. I truly hate my reflection. And thats what comes from years of bitterness and lack of a life, and having people tell you you're less than constantly, and even though you're smart and sassy and don't take shit, it starts to take its toll. So you gain weight and lose hair and don't sleep. And eventually you move to Vermont to get your shit together. But you still hate that reflection because it reminds you of EVERYTHING that lead you to THIS point. And with shadowboxing, you can't fake it. Trust me, I've tried. I've tried not looking at myself and doing a weird thing where I stare to the right of my reflection. Aside from not being helpful, at all, its also really unnerving and creepy. Don't do that. Trust me. You look like a blind person and you're not and it just raises a lot of questions at the gym. What you have to do, is fucking look directly at your reflection and aim punches at yourself. And you have to do it over and over and over and over again. And then you practice slipping away from punches your reflection is throwing at you. Its a long and boring process and it requires you spending a lot of time critiquing yourself. Something I'm really having a hard time with these days. But fuck it, this is what you have to do in order to, not only get more skilled in your combos, but to also be better at anticipating the hits coming towards you. What a fucking adventure, man. 

So if anything's come from my time here in Vermont, and I'm hoping a few things have, its that I've figured out all the things I do wrong. The bad patterns. The dumb, reactionary decisions. And while, thats not the sort of thing that leads to "Eat Pray Love" romance or adventures, I think, or hope, it's the type of shit that will, eventually lead me to not working for shitty people. Or dating shitty people. Or saying yes when every fiber of my being is screaming no. Or doing things for others in the hopes that, somehow they change their DNA, and want to do the same back for me. That one day, all this staring at myself and trying to dodge my own punches will, hopefully, lead me to believing in my own self worth and demanding that life give me what I fucking deserve. And one day, I'll realize, out of the blue, that I don't hate the person staring back at me anymore. Isn't that a happy thought.