March 8,2023

Every time I pack for a trip (which, since C19, has been rare) I feel like I’m packing for someone else. Minimal everything. It all matches and blends, of course, because it has to. Jewelry is refined, one pair of sunglasses will do, and I’m planning to carry a handbag that I would ruin in 3 minutes in my home life.

 

Who is this woman who goes on my vacations and why doesn’t she live in my house on the regular? I would have three-quarters of my closet and dresser emptied. I would be rid of the thousand things that kind of fit, especially if I stand just so, and I wouldn’t have a collection of vintage dresses that may have fit me before I got hips and boobs… *may*.  I wouldn't have shelves and shelves of, as Ariel so aptly called them, "thingamabobs and whatzits".  I would have, like, four books that were beautifully bound and contained all the wisdom and entertainment in the world.

 

The woman who lives in my house is no Marie Kondo (or at least the Marie Kondo prior to the kids thing, and I don’t even have kids to blame!). I have many things and do those things “spark joy”? I mean… the woman who lives here is rarely a “joy sparked” human. I’m of German, Scottish, Irish, and French descent and I’ve been an adult human in the “good” ol’ USA for over 20 years… joy isn’t part of my daily vocabulary, especially when it comes to things. 

 

But the woman who lives here is a bit of a creative hobbyist so, having a collection of vintage dresses that don’t fit might come in handy one day for that one thing that I might do. And I guess that’s really what this is all about. Time.

 

The woman I’m sending on vacation exists only in the now. There’s no purpose to having things that one day might be used because on vacation there is only the immediate future. 

 

So while I’m gone living my minimalist life of very few things, I’ll be acquiring pictures, and memories, realizations, and new ideas. And when I get home and inspiration strikes I’ll have, here, everything I need to create something celebrating all the intangibles I collected along the way.

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February 17, 2023

Ten years ago today I married the most magnificent human I know. He is my person and I am his, and I’m forever grateful that we found one another and made it work despite myriad obstacles. 

 

Fucking hell, our wedding was so fun. People told me they had a great time, though to be fair, what else are you gonna tell the bride?  But the real gift of the wedding was how much fun WE had, and that was all down to our incredible friends and family. They made every moment so special, warm, loving, hilarious, and magical. I have only the fondest memories of every second of that long weekend.

 

Folks traveled from all over the country and made their way to the tiny town of Crystal River, Florida for the express purpose of making us feel special. And holy shit did it work. There were some logistical hiccups, as there are with any event, and while I knew of them, it was nothing I spent a minute worrying about because everyone stepped up and got things done. Raising children is not the only thing that takes a village.

 

Every body who was there was a gift (aside from one, a friend’s ex-wife and she can continue to suck it forever) but *aside from her* everyone holds a special place in my heart. And all who celebrated, and continue to love us from afar – the cards, texts, calls, gifts, pics, posts, memories –  I never stop feeling like the luckiest girl in the world. Not just because I married the love of my life but because of all the miraculous love received in my life

 

Thank you to everyone who loves me and lets me in to love you back.

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February 13, 2023

I finished the first draft of my first solo script project. It’s kind of a big deal and it also means nothing. At the moment it means that I’m writing this blog post in order to avoid working on the edits I so desperately need to do. Procrastination is my middle name. That would actually be an amazing middle name. Especially if the parents just bail on picking a first name altogether. STICK THE LANDING, you know?

 

As the incomparable Phoebe Waller-Bridge said, 

“You may not write well every day, but you can always edit a bad page. You can’t edit a blank page.”

 

And on that note, I have a hell of a lot of bad pages to edit.

 

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February 1, 2023

Today marks the end of 30 days of no social media. I feel slightly refreshed and I feel slightly out of touch. I don’t know what anyone has found worth posting about for the entire month of January. 

 

Surely,  if it was something amazing I would have found out some other way but… would I? There have been a few phone calls, and certainly texting gets the job done in the most concise way, but how tenuous are our relationships when “the socials” is all we have to connect us?

 

Is that better? Is it worse? I don’t know. Are we all maxed out on trying to stay connected when, in reality, most of us are barely connected at all?  In the past month has anyone noticed that I haven’t posted – was I missed? When my IG “friends” take a break from posting, do I notice? Have they been missed by me? Do I even take a minute to notice?

 

I made the greatest of efforts toward the last half of 2022 to “like” every single post that scrolled up my IG feed from a friend, or artist, or someone I know to be working alone in the barren wasteland of social media. I mean, it’s literally the absolute least I can do, right? Click the little heart and let them know that I appreciate that they are trying to share something with me. Me? No, of course not *just me*.  Obviously, when we post, we’re trying to share with as many people as will look. 

 

And how wild is that? In real life that’s like I exited a building and just started shouting “Hello!” at every single person walking by, hoping that someone would say “Hi!” back. And the weird part is, if real life were social media, then a ton of my friends, acquaintances, ex-coworkers, and peers would just walk right by and not say a single word. 

 

Last year, I tried to say “Hi!” back as much as possible. And you know what, making sure I clicked that little heart on every post I could, actually made me appreciate the images and the people behind them even more. I didn’t *actually love* every single image that appeared in front of me but I *actually loved* having the opportunity to say hi to everyone who said hello to me.

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January 23, 2023

If I meet god, or like, the being who knows all the answers (Alexa?) I have one question: “What does it mean when people tell me I’m getting in my own way?” 

 

I don’t know, from the highest powers, if there’s a real answer for that. I’ve been hearing it for years, across numerous ventures and I simply don’t know what it means. Is it just a thing people who think they are helping you say when they have nothing else to say? Or is there a magical subset of people who can, in fact, when “you’re the problem, it’s you”? And honestly, with nothing else to go on, what am I supposed to do with this wisdom? 

 

It brings me back to that old rumor that Oprah had someone on staff who would slap bread out of her hand so she couldn’t eat it. But when someone tells me I’m getting in my own way I have to wonder, am I the Oprah? Am I the bread? Am I the slapper? Or am I all three? The holy-trinity of picking up, throwing-down, and simply being. I guess I have more questions for god-alexa than I initially thought.

 

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January 17, 2023

The DMV should consider selling T-shirts that say "I survived the DMV” across the chest and then on the back “Or did I?”

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January 4, 2023

I don't know what to tell you -- I just *love* a checklist. If you're saying to yourself, is she German? Is she a Virgo? I MEAN, DUH, OBVIOUSLY.

 

My dad, Dave, used to amble through life, head held high, with his short-sleeved-button-down-front-pocketed shirt stocked with pens (safely ensconced in a company-branded plastic pocket protector) and a little flip notebook just waiting for him to interrogate the accused... or at least remember to pick up the 2% and a box of Wheat Thins on the way from work.  He's home more now, with a bit less wandering and, once retired, basically set all his work shirts on fire but he's still always got a notebook standing by, waiting for, you know, the beginning, middle, more middle, even more middle, or end of a list.

 

Now, unlike my father, who has beautiful, commanding script, I have my mother's chicken-scratch handwriting that is somewhere between print and cursive (with no rhyme or reason to it). It's messy but legible. But you know what I'm great at? TINY BOXES. Because I've made about a million of them to go next to each listed item. Dave is a scratch-through guy -- which is a shame because, as I said, he has truly lovely writing. I, though, I need a box to check, otherwise nothing is truly complete. 

 

So, anyway, I had "[  ] blog post" on my checklist and now I can go make my little check mark, have a glass of wine, and start a list for tomorrow.

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