Coupla Thoughts (Episode 3: I’m Tired)

Coupla Thoughts (Episode 3: I’m Tired)

I realized that I hadn’t done a post this week. I wanted to do something so here we are, I guess.

-I. Am. Tired.

-I hurt my ankle again somehow and I’m sitting here with it propped up with ice and that whole deal. My warranty ended on my 30th birthday and it’s been legit downhill from there.

-I had a job interview yesterday. I’d kinda, really like very much to have that job. I’ll tell you about it after I get it.

-I need to stop eating my feelings. Because fat.

-Not as fat as…let me stop there.

-Aside from all the stuff happening in the news and my ankle being stupid this hasn’t been a bad week.

-I need to do a better job practicing self-care because every time I log into social media or read another story I tear up.

-Did I mention I was tired?

-Guess what? I still don’t like small talk. That probably makes me horrible. *sips water*


-That wasn’t a thought. This isn’t one either.

-I want a puppy. A corgi. Currently engaged in a battle with my mom over whether the new dog will be a Corgi or a Labradoodle. She’s team no corgi because shedding. I’m team corgi because stumpy legs.

-Yeah. I still live with my mother. Not explaining that shit anymore either. Argue your Auntie.

-I’m using my Tumblr account again. I’d like to follow you if you have one. I’m sarcasmandcandy there also as well.

-My 8 year old nephew just got up and gave me a hug. He’s real.

Okay that’s me. What’s going on in your world? Tell me something good. I need it.

Not Looking For a Hero

Not Looking For a Hero

I shared a blog post on Facebook yesterday. It reminded me of something I’ve been meaning to say for a minute now. This isn’t going to be particularly fun but I need to say it so I can stop trying to explain myself. I hope this doesn’t get too rambly. You have my apologies if it does.

I went off to college in 2000. I was depressed then but it didn’t really strike me how bad off I was until I realized one day while lying in my dorm room that I had been mentally preparing a note to my mother apologizing for my future actions. Something clicked and I went to my advisor’s office where I couldn’t even explain between sobs why I had to leave the campus as soon as possible. He called my mom and I was home before the end of the week. I’d like to think that after one visit to a therapist and a few weeks in my “norm” that the oppressive cloud of depression lifted and all was good. Instead I learned to mask really well. I got a job, brought a car, spent every weekend out. I lived to be contrary to just about every thought that said “girl just sit down and get through this”.  Sitting still meant dealing with the fact that I wasn’t okay. At some point the pain that I was holding inside began to manifest as outside pain and I was eventually diagnosed with Fibromyalgia. I became conscious of my depression and I had to deal with it. I did in time but I know that it’s still a thing that can sneak up on me again so I’m hyper-aware of it.

Here’s where I have a problem: unless you know me personally; meaning you have had several conversations with me or you are a mental health professional YOU CANNOT TELL ME WHEN I’M DEPRESSED.  My best friend knew before I did. I don’t know what she identified first but she knew. The rest of y’all don’t get to decide that I’m depressed because I’m a homebody. In fact, let’s stop the false equivalency that homebody=depression. It’s irritating and I’m tired of explaining it to people who want to be the first to say that I am depressed in hopes that their broken clock is right this time. I don’t need you to swoop in and save me from myself. If I decide I’d rather spend the night with a book or netflix and a glass of wine I assure you I’m okay.

Most of you didn’t know that I actually had a problem with depression until I told you. You probably just thought I was boring which is fine. Boring is also a thing that I’ve come to terms with. I’m just trying to live and I don’t need anyone trying to fix me. I’m not broken. Just let me have my glass of Syrah and the first two seasons of Hannibal. If it’s the one or two times during the year I want to go do something decidedly unboring I’ll let you know. My mental health though, that’s gonna be my business (unless of course I want to share with you).

Got it?





My thirty day social media break is over. I just thought to myself that now that I have my beloved Instagram and Twitter back I’d probably forget I have a blog again.  You know…life or whatever. AND because it’s my birthday I think I’m supposed to get all deep and introspective about the new year of life and blah blah blah.

Spoiler…I don’t have that for you.

Instead I’m just going to try make a better effort to be social media break me. I’m only putting Instagram back on my phone because pictures (y’all cute, hey bews).  I’m going to keep blogging at least once a week. You have my permission to call me on it if I don’t. I’m just going keep writing. That’s like Matthew McConaughey’s just keep living, only writery.

Alright, alright alright.

You Are Appreciated.

You Are Appreciated.

My dad probably never thought that the universe would toss him three daughters. A house full of girls. Pink, dresses, skirts, Barbie and nobody ever asked for a racetrack for Christmas. I’m sure putting together Barbie’s Townhouse and carefully arranging those New Kids on the Block dolls under the tree earns him a place in Heaven. Nintendo and Sega had to be the only thing that kept him even a little sane. We chose girl scouts, choir, and the most girly instrument in band kingdom, the flute.  None of us had much interest in sports growing up so he had literally no one to pass his love of basketball.  That poor guy is in an estrogen storm it’s really no surprise that he only answers his phone 35% of the time. Also not surprising that one of his favorite pastimes when we were kids was tying the sleeves and feet of our pajamas and then having a beer while we were incapacitated and screamed for our mom to rescue us.

Having a dad who, depending upon who you ask, lost the son/daughter lottery three times it’s hard to find moments when you know he’s really proud. However, I think I’ve figured out what might actually be a proud moment for my dad. Not the day the grandkids were born (although there are finally some boys). Not the day any of us graduated from anything. Not the time we stopped calling him asking dumb questions about a sound our cars were making. Nope none of those. Those moments are far too pedestrian. Everyone has those moments. I’m convinced the proudest day of my dad’s life (with the exception of the day of my birth) was October 6, 2014.

Why? This happened.



Yes, that is my dad and his three daughters at a football game. Yes I know he doesn’t look thrilled. He doesn’t look thrilled in any pictures that I own. We took this picture with just the three of us and he got all ‘how you gonna take a picture without me so this happened.

Like I said we had no interest in sports but we all had interest in boys who had interest in sports.  By the transitive property or whatever we all learned and grew to love football. My dad has been a Seattle sports fan (are we here for the Sounders or nah) for as long as I can remember so we jumped on his bandwagon. I should mention at this point this was during the Hasselbeck, Whitehurst, That guy whose name is also a brand of applesauce I cannot remember, years. If you follow the Seahawks you know that this is when losing was a habit and other Seahawk fans outside Seattle was like seeing a leprechaun riding a unicorn. I assume we eventually proved ourselves to be real 12s because he bought us jerseys and I guess we leveled up when he got us tickets for the Seahawks at Washington game. It was amazing having the opportunity to share our first professional game with our dad. It had to make all the tea parties and My Little Ponies worth it for that moment where one of us weren’t ready to fling ourselves into traffic.

Do most guys with three daughters luck up and get this opportunity?

Probably not. Other dads may get one or two but all three? Nah. That’s special. He’s special and loved more than he’ll ever know. Thanks for weathering the estrogen storm.

Love you, Daddy.

P.S. Which game are we going to this season? May I suggest Maryland?

P.P.S. GO HAWKS! You had to know that was coming.