30 Days of Blogging, Day 14: You Could Lose Your Mind

The summer before fifth grade. I was very proud of this shirt. Rad dude. Rad.

I think I can attribute the majority of trouble I got myself into as a child to the bad influence of Nick at Nite. Shows like Leave it to Beaver, I Love Lucy, and The Little Rascals--riddled with rascally characters getting into all kinds of shenanigans. If you were going to take life advice from any Nick at Nite show, The Patty Duke Show was not one of them.

I changed schools twice in the fifth grade--the first time was at the start of the year when my mother decided the bullying situation at my current school was untenable, and the second was when we moved towns.

Second grade through fourth grade at Centennial Elementary in Littleton was at best a waking nightmare. My walks to and from school was like playing Super Mario Brothers--you never knew was was lurking around the corner wanting to throw things at your face. Things weren't any better in the school either. The kids were pretty bold when it came to their bullying, even going so far as attacking me in class--in front of the teacher. With little change and repercussion from the principal my mother pulled me out of Centennial at the end of fourth grade.

Peabody Elementary was full of promise. The staff and my teacher knew the situation I was coming from, and they were warm and welcoming. The kids didn't really pick on me so much as they ignored me.

One day a pair of girls in my class took me aside and said they wanted to talk to me. The reason that nobody really wanted to talk to me was because my clothes weren't really cool. Up until that point it never really occurred to me that clothes were supposed to be cool--I just wore what my mother bought me: jeans, corduroys, my Simpsons t-shirt, overalls--stuff kids wear. One of the girls offered to bring in clothes for me the next day, just so I could experience what wearing cool clothes would be like.

The next day she brought me a pair of black stirrup stretch pants, push-down tube socks, a cream colored turtle neck and a beautiful green long baggy sweater. They were the nicest clothes I'd ever put on. I went to the bathroom before our first recess to change. I stepped on to the playground and was met with all-around approval from the girls who dressed me up.

"See! This is how you should dress!" She was so proud of herself.

They invited me to participate in a swing race with them. We played together again after lunch.

For a day I felt like I belonged. Why only a day? Well, I brought myself down this time, with my big imagination and my big mouth.

As we sat together on the jungle gym I had an idea. How can I make my stock go up? Make up a fantastic, improbable lie, obviously!

I told the kids I wasn't going to be in class the next day because I had a doctor appointment, but my cousin is visiting and she was going to be allowed to sit in class for me. Oh and by the way, my cousin is from England! Oh, and she's British! Also,she's--wait for it--my twin!

Any of this sound familiar? That's because it's the plot to The Patty Duke Show. 

In summary, my genius plan was to show up at school the next day posing as my own English twin cousin. Sounds pretty cool, right? The kids clearly didn't watch nearly as much Nick at Nite as I did because they seemed to believe me, they even started telling other kids in the class. It occurred to me at the end of the day as I packed up my bag that my plot had many holes in it. If I was going to pull this off, I was going to have to tell my teacher.

I was the last to leave class and she was already at her desk grading papers.

Mrs. Fleming, was sweet but no-nonsense, with a darling pixie cut and she always wore red lipstick--I even still think of her when I wear red lipstick. I approached her at her desk and she looked up at me over her reading glasses.

I stumbled through my story--her stare was killing my confidence--but I walked away assuring myself that she believed me.

As I climbed into the car with my mom I became overcome with guilt. I told a pretty big lie. The absurdity of the lie didn't occur to me, just the fact that I lied. I was still doing time in my evening prayers asking for forgiveness for stealing a lip-gloss, I should be adding lying to my list of sins.

As I buckled myself in I told my mother, "I think I did something bad."

"What did you do?" She asked. Her voice sound strained--like I was about to drop a pretty big bomb.

I felt that I needed to diffuse what could potentially be a huge problem for me. If I acted like it's not that big a deal, then she would definitely find her chill.

"Well, it's not that big a deal. I told the kids in my class that I have an English twin cousin and that she's coming to school for me tomorrow. I told Mrs. Fleming too...but it's not that big of a deal! It's silly!"

The look on her face was not at all filled with amusement the way I hoped it would be. Her mouth was just stuck in a pursed "O" shape.

"Summer Jean, this is a very big deal. That's a huge lie, and it's not funny."

Yes it is, I thought to myself.

"Yes it is!", I said--out loud. Stupid.

"You are going to turn around and go back in there and tell your teacher the truth."

It wasn't rational, but I couldn't believe she wasn't on my side. I couldn't believe she was going to make me actually face my lie so boldly. I could feel my cheeks get hot and I began to cry.

"You can't make me go back in there!" If I cried maybe she'll take pity.

"We're not leaving until you go back in there and tell your teacher the truth." She put the van in park and turned off the engine.

I sat, slack-jawed, for what felt like minutes. I felt numb. I felt stupid. The absurdity of the lie was starting to wash over me. What a genuinely stupid lie.

I climbed out of the mini-van and started what felt like a death march towards the school. I could have done the honorable thing and just fess up. I could have done that. I didn't do that.

As I slowly paced down the polished school linoleum I kicked my brain into gear. Fessing up to lies is the worst. Why should I fess up to a lie when I could just come up with another lie? I can get through this relatively unscathed if I can come up with a really good cover for myself.

Mrs. Fleming was still sitting at her desk grading papers. I approached her desk and she peered up at me over her reading glasses once more.

"Yes, Summer?" Clearly I was encroaching on her time.

"Um, Mrs. Fleming? I just wanted to let you know--" Light-bulb."--that my cousin won't be able to make it tomorrow. She never made it out here. She's sick. She has pneumonia. She actually got sick on the plane. They had to turn it around and take her back to England. I don't know if she's going to make it. A-a-a-a-ny-way...she won't be here tomorrow. I'll be here though! My doctor appointment was canceled. See you tomorrow?"

I don't know what I expected. "Oh sure, no problem! Hope your cousin makes it! See you tomorrow!" Her face registered as utterly un-amused.

She just sighed. "Fine Summer. Good night."

I said good night and left her with her papers. Half of me thought she bought it. The other half knew she didn't, but it didn't matter. I had made myself look like an idiot at my new school--it was over before it could even begin.

The fun wasn't over. My mother demanded to know if I told her the truth, and in the spirit of maintaining an honest relationship with her, I told her that I lied again. She was aghast. She couldn't believe that I had lied again. We went home and I spent the rest of the night alone in my room.

The next day at school I spouted the same lie to the kids. Whether or not they bought it didn't matter. I was relegated to the same obscurity from which I came--not because I couldn't come up with an English twin cousin, but because my clothes looked poor.

Six months later we moved to Castle Rock. My parents were tired of renting in a bad neighborhood, and Castle Rock had better schools.

I wish I could say I learned my lesson. A couple days before I started school at Rock Ridge Elementary I sneak-watched Dirty Dancing. I was obsessed with the dancing in it and practiced in my bedroom wearing my mother's leotard.

On my second day of class I found out the two most popular girls took dance lessons. I boasted to them that I taught lessons, specializing in the dancing from Dirty Dancing. 

Lindsey, the most popular of the two, sneered through her braced teeth. "Our parents would never let us watch that, and I don't need lessons from you." I noted her response and quietly went about my business, once again relegating myself to friendless obscurity.

As I walked home from school that day I noticed another girl from my class walking the same path home as me. I asked if I could walk with her. She said yes, but this doesn't mean we're friends. She also pointed out that my cowboy boots looked ridiculous. They were my dad's boots and I loved them, even if they were too big for me.

That night my mother came into my room to say good night to me. I'll never forget that night, because the room was dark but still bright from the light of a full moon.

She asked me if I wanted to pray. I began to cry.

She wiped the tears from my cheeks. "Why are you crying baby?"

I felt bereft. "I just feel like I'm never going to have a friend. I'm never going to fit in. I don't know how to make friends."

She took my hands and told me to pray about it. I looked at the full moon and squeezed my eyes tight.

"Dear God, I don't have any friends. Please let me make a friend tomorrow."

My mother kissed me good night. I fell asleep crying that night, faithless in my prayer.

The next day as I sat alone on the playground a girl came up and started talking to me. Her name was Shiloy. I told her where I was from, where I lived in the neighborhood. She actually seemed interested in me. After school she walked me to the rain run-off tunnel that I walked through to get to my house. She said we should sit together at lunch the next day.

As I walked through the tunnel I heard the sparrows flapping around, building their spring nests. I smiled as I saw my house walking out of the dark tunnel. I ran the rest of the way home and breathlessly hugged my mother.

To be honest, 25 years later I still struggle with making friends and I still struggle with relating to people. I've stopped telling lies, and I always try to be myself. There's a gap that I struggle crossing--that gap that prevents me from connecting. Maybe it's fear, Maybe I'm a little bit broken.

That day though, I didn't feel broken. I didn't need a fantastic lie. I didn't need Patty Duke or Dirty Dancing.

As I hugged my mother, I looked up at her through tears in my eyes and said, "Jesus answered my prayer. I made a friend today."

30 Days of Blogging, Day 12: Roster Fosters Imposter

Ever heard of "Impostor's Syndrome"? Basically it means that no matter how much you are meant to be where you are, you just don't feel like you fit. It comes with an unrelenting dread that someday you will be exposed for what you are--a fraud.

Step 1: Assimilate. Step 2: Try not to appear so damn shifty-eyed.

I think you would hard-pressed not to find someone who, at some point in their life, has felt this way. For me, I feel it constantly. With my friends, my job, my hobbies--this never-ending feeling in my gut that someone is going to catch on and see what I really am. Now I think it's safe to say it comes from deep-seeded lack of self-confidence and a loss of proper positive enforcement in my formative years, but we're not talking about that right now. 

There's a difference between feeling like you don't belong and then actually not belonging--being an actual fraud. 

In my junior year of high school I started to really notice that I had feelings of--shall we say--a lesbionic nature. While on the surface I did have crushes on boys my age (who subsequently came out of the closet), I harbored deep sapphic feelings for my poetry teacher...and my creative writing teacher...and my Sci-Fi and Fantasy teacher...did I have a thing for English teachers?

Ooo, yeah girl...I'll iambic your pentameter...

I, as many kids my age in the 90's who lived in small conservative towns--or anywhere for that matter--struggled with these feelings. Having been raised a good Christian girl these feelings were a very bad sign. 

I would lay in my bed and pray to God to lay me down to sleep and to forgive me for that one time I stole a lipgloss, I would also pray that God would take it away--please, please, please, take these feelings away. 

Don't make me like them.

Don't make me struggle with this.

Don't let my family hate me. 

When the day came in my study hall our teacher passed around a sign-up form with extra-curricular groups to join, I spotted among the foreign language clubs what I hoped would be a promising beacon: Staying Straight.

My inner dialogue was the following, "Staying Straight? Amazing! They can help me with these feelings. They can help me, you know--stay straight! Sign me up!" Check the box, sign here, and promptly forget about it. 

Weeks later I was sitting in class and one of the office aids came in and dropped one of the dreaded pink slips with my teacher.--the pink slip that was usually a call to go to the principal's office for a "chat". If you ever eyeballed that kid and felt a sense of doom, you probably did something naughty. 

As for me, I felt that sense of doom because I ditched constantly, so it was no surprise when the teacher called my name. 

For me there should have been a box marked Indefinitely.

As I started my march to the principals office I noticed it wasn't an actual principal's pass, but a pass to see the school resource police officer in the student counseling center. That sense of dread was replaced with a sense of "Oh fuck, I'm dead." 

As I walked in the small conference room I saw him sitting at the table next to the school nurse and other kids I recognized from around school. Everyone in the room was warm and inviting--I assume it's what it feels like to walk into your own intervention.

I sat down next to a very pretty girl who was a year ahead of me. If you asked me to define which high school clique everyone fell into, I would say it was a diverse representation of my school--jock, preppy, skater, theatre nerd (me), uhh...nice kid, weird kids, fat kid, skinny kid, even kids with chicken pox--I'm really struggling to remember my school cabals.

The nurse--who we'll call Ms. J to protect the innocent--started by having us go around and introduce ourselves. She was lovely and warm, and clearly talented with created safe spaces.

She was creating a safe space because she made it clear that this was a group for kids in our school to talk about struggling with staying off of drugs and alchohol--staying straight. As in: on the straight and narrow. Clean. Off drugs.

Full disclosure, at the time the only addiction I struggled with was my Phantom of the Opera and Titanic soundtracks.

I don't really remember if I said anything other than my name in that meeting. I just listened. The kids talked about their struggles with actual drug and alcohol abuse, and wanting to stay clean. They shared deeply vulnerable stories about their personal lives and home lives. 

Ms. J told me that I had an open invitation every week to come back and talk, if I wanted to. As I left the meeting I resolved that I would never return, that this group isn't for me. 

Here's the thing:

I kept going back. 

You will never judge me as harshly as I judge myself.

Mostly, I would listen. I never really shared anything about myself. What I got out of sitting with these kids was a feeling of belonging and safety--nobody judged anyone. We were all capable of making mistakes and coming back from them. 

I never told any of my friends about this group--it was too precious to me. The secrets told and the lives they belonged to were just meant for that room and the people in it only. That is until...

The school resource police officer offered the group a chance to come talk to middle-schoolers at health day about our personal experiences with drug and alcohol abuse. Did I have to say yes? No. Should I have gone? Absolutely not. 

As I stood with my peers in front of kids marginally younger than me, it occurred to me that we would all be required to share some kind of personal story. I guess you could say this was the start of storytelling for me, with the only exception being that it was completely made up.

I told a bald-faced lie. I said that I struggled with alcohol abuse and I would steal alcohol from my parents and blame it on my brother.

The truth? Up until that point the only alcohol I'd ever had was communion wine and sips of my mother's white zinfandel. My parents really didn't keep alcohol in the house much at all--they just weren't big drinkers. One time Ms. J gave me a ride home after school and she insisted on coming in and meeting my mother. They sat and chatted and my inner monologue was praying to God that she didn't casually ask my mom about my alcoholism and that my mom didn't actually ask her how we're associated.

I continued to tell that story throughout the day, each time adding more details and drama, to be honest with some altruistic intent--hoping that maybe it would have an affect on someone. The kids who told their stories were wonderful and brave, and honestly had more of an affect on me than I've ever been able to express to them.

We were invited to do this again the following year. I stopped when I started seeing familiar faces, and to be honest the middle school resource police officer was kind of a creep--he was a little too interested in the specific details of the link between using and sexual promiscuity, and I don't know why he was so interested in hearing about the sex lives of teenagers. 

Alright OfficerMcCreepafeel, that's enough of THAT.

Everyone eventually all graduated and moved on--well I didn't graduate, I just dropped out and took my GED. Close enough. Don't ditch class, kids.

Years later I ran into the pretty girl when I was working at the music store. She looked the same--radiant and kind. We caught up and eventually she asked me how I was doing with my addiction. I confessed that I drink with my friends. She seemed relieved when I told her because she told me she had started using again--but she had it under control. 

In that moment I wished I had told her that we should get together and talk some time, or offered to go to a meeting with her--or even offered some kind of truth--that I didn't actually struggle with alcoholism and I just drank at parties on occasions with my friends, and that I was worried for her and that I was there for her if she needed it. 

Instead I shrugged and told her not to feel bad. We laughed it off. She told me not to tell Ms. J. I gave her my number to call me some time. I never heard from her. I wish I hadn't let her walk away.

I know the obvious moral of this story is: don't fucking lie. I regret not being honest with why I was there to begin with. I regret telling tall tales. 

I don't know if I regret going back.

Oh, and I definitely did not stay straight.

30 Days of Blogging, Day 11: Ink

Planning my next tattoo has been more excruciating than the actual ink-dipped needles piercing my skin. I've had a lot of ideas: an Oscar Wilde quote, a pug, a drawing of my favorite children's story--Ferdinand the Bull--but my next one will probably be this on my wrist:

I have a passion for not ending sentences.

I love to hear tattoo stories--what they mean to the individual, their history, the silly or sad story connected to them.

Tattoo #1

Did you know it's super hard to take a picture of the back of your own shoulder?

I did not wake up on the day I got my first tattoo with that plan in mind. I had recently turned 18 and I was going to go to Six Flags-Denver with  my recently graduated friends--they graduated, I did not. If my friends judged me for having to stay in high school for my second senior year I'll never know, but we were young, fun, and free--like a Better Than Ezra song. 

We packed in Jackie's car and headed north to Denver, but Megan declared we were taking a detour on the way to Six Flags--she was gonna get a tattoo. 

As we crowded around her in Bound by Design on Colfax I felt something stir in my prissy Christian insides. 

I'm gonna get a tattoo too.

DELICIOUS ALLITERATION

Since I was a theatre nerd I decided to get the comedy-tragedy persona masks. As I flipped through the book of tattoos my prissy Christian insides churned since a lot of the mask pictures were devilish, terrifying clowns. The tattoo artist grew impatient with my indecisiveness and pointed at the mask necklace that was hanging around my neck and recommended I go to the Kinkos down the block and photocopy it. As Sabbeth and I walked down the street a strange man followed us and catcalled as he threw coins at us--a white suburban girl's first catcall--lucky me!

The tattoo hurt. Of course it hurt. I gripped Sabbeth's hand. It cost $90, most of my first paycheck from King Soopers.

I hid my tattoo for months, until the guilt pushed me into telling my mother. She was disappointed in me. I thought it was a dumb thing to be disappointed in. 

Tattoo #2

 Starting to wonder if I should get my back checked for suspicious moles...

I was 19 and I wanted a cross tattoo. To be honest I was a little tired of my mother telling me that good Christian girls don't get tattoos, my body is a temple, blah, blah, blah. This was basically me getting back at my mother to show her that good Christian girls can have good Christian tattoos.

My friend Nate from the record store I worked at decided to go together to Bound By Design in the morning before we went to Lilith Fair--probably the most 90's thing I've ever done. I'm pretty sure I even wore daisy hair-clips and denim overalls with red Keds. 

Nate got his first tattoo--a tribal sun--and I got my second, courtesy of Big Mike. We sat on the lawn at Fiddler's Green with our and enjoyed the sweet feminist sounds of The Indigo Girls, Sheryl Crow, and Sarah McLaughlin. 

This is the only tattoo I have that I really don't like; not because of the cross, but because it's ugly, and I really wasn't sincere when I got it. 

Never get a revenge tattoo.

Tattoo #3

You guys would tell me if you saw anything suspicious, right? Guys?

I got this one for my 22nd birthday. I was really into peace signs and daisies. I probably still am. 

This was the last tattoo I got at Bound By Design, also by Big Mike. I went by myself, after work, still in my suit. I felt pretty square sitting around the facially pierced artists in my trousers and pearls. 

Shortly after I got this tattoo I lost my virginity.

The two events are unrelated.

Tattoo #4

I'm definitely going to be better about wearing sunscreen...

My partner and I had been planning getting some kind of matching tattoo together. We agreed they should have something to do with music and included a rainbow--'cuz we're gay.

I searched and searched. I never knew there were so could be so many variances of a treble clef. We agreed on similar designs--mine would be more spiky and edgy and on my other shoulder, hers more a tribute to her love of classical music and on the small of her back.

We crowded into a small room with our friend Jen at Laughing Buddha on Capitol Hill in Seattle. While the significance of sharing something so permanent and personal with my partner didn't escape me, I also loved that I got to be there to experience another person close to me getting their first tattoo.

Seven years after we split up, I catch it out of the corner of my eye on occasion. It remains an untainted, fond memory. 

Tattoo #5

Finally! An area of my body that isn't riddled with freckles.

On a holiday weekend with my girlfriend (who was constantly telling me not to call her girlfriend), we got drunk and decided we wanted to get tattoos. 

I wanted something to signify my pride in an 'S' pattern. She liked my design and got an extra star to denote the colors of the chakras.

We went to Lucky Devil on Capitol Hill and got our matching tattoos.

Shortly after I broke up with her; not because we got matching tattoos, but because she was a mean alcoholic. She said horrible things to me about my body. She criticized me a lot, in general. 

Due to my lack of backbone I continued to see her on and off for the next year--I even worked at her business part-time--until she showed up at my apartment in the middle of the night completely wasted and demanded I have sex with her. I told her no, more than once. She got angry and punched my wall. I told her I never wanted to see her again. 

Shortly after in a text conversation she was surprised that I was so angry. When I told her she had a drinking problem her response was "You have a drinking problem!"

I don't have a drinking problem

This is what I thought about for a long time every time I would look at these stars. I kind of hated her for stealing the joy from a rainbow of stars. It takes a lot of work to instill new significance to something that was robbed of happy memories.

Enjoy this piglet palette cleanser. Don't think of the shitty person. Look at the piglet.

I'll write about the significance of the semi-colon tattoo when I get it. In the meantime, hit me in the comments and tell me your tattoo story.

30 Days of Blogging, Day 7: Eat This Blog

It's been a hard day in the world. I don't have a lot to write, and I'm not feeling particularly prolific today, so this is going to be a short and fluffy post. Hit me in the comments. You'll win a participation metal.

To preface this post, you'll need to watch the video at this link to completion (and for the love of God someone teach me how to embed a video from Twitter to Blogger).

Don't forget to speak loudly so I can hear you. I'll pay you in hard candies.

I'll wait.

All good?

Don't tell me we're good if we're not good.

Did you watch it?

Okay, I trust you.

Here we go:

DON'T. TOUCH. MY. FOOD.

Unless you have received a clear invitation from me to delicately taste a petit sampling of my delicious dish which I have agonized and second-guessed to unhealthy extremes since the waiter whisked away with my order--do not touch my food.

Unless you and I have entered into a verbal contract that we are meant to be sharing this dish--do not touch my food.

Unless I have had to flee due to tend to some kind of medical emergency or matter of national security and I didn't have the forethought to have my food packaged up to go--do not touch my food.

Do you think Liz would share her Mac and Cheetos?

What, am I some kind of greedy food monster? A selfish-Sally who never learned the concept of sharing? Maybe a little--but mostly it's due to a bizarre neurosis when it comes to my eating habits.

Now I'd place bets that there are a lot of folks who have odd little eating habits. In order to make this a safe space to share, I will share with you some of mine:

1) Did I mention I struggle with sharing?

2) I make a plan for how I will consume my food before I eat it. For example, if I have, say, a piece of chicken, mashed potatoes, and peas on my plate, there is a predetermined order in how this is going to go down. Scoop of potatoes, each bite gently pressed into the peas then enjoyed. Chicken, while delicious, is given attention last since it is not a delicious starch. The order is always: vegetables, starch, protein.

Look at this work of art, waiting to be consumed from right to left--the way God intended.

3) I eat one thing at a time. With the exception of dipping potatoes into peas, I enjoy one thing at a time, carving a path to the item I've decided to save for last. It was once pointed out to me by a close friend that this is freaking odd. I still struggle with that concept. Why not take your time and enjoy each component of your plate without cross-contaminating? This, I was told, was not normal eating behavior, and that the correct way to eat is to graze throughout the plate; a bite of this, a couple bites of that. That stressed me out; however, due to my epic admonishment I began to develop a bit of of a shame complex when eating in front of other people. Eating with friends requires a constant inner monologue that usually goes as follows--don't eat one thing at a time...okay you took a bite of this, take a break--don't go back to soon!!!--okay go to the chicken--you're doing a good job--do I look stressed out?--oh God, they know--I'm a freak!

Is it paranoia or narcissism? Why can't it be both?

4) I struggle with guilt every time I eat. I'm in a constant state of self-judging. As a person who has struggled with both my weight and bullying, I am always in a state of fear that people are judging me, even when I'm hungry. There's always a fear that if someone sees what I'm eating that they will observe and judge not only what I eat, but how I eat. Don't eat too fast--you'll look like a pig and they'll see you and then they'll know you're an actual pig--don't eat too much--don't order too rich food--be sure to leave something on your plate so you don't look greedy.

Time to move and change my name. Again.

My relationship with food is steeped in neurosis and in a constant state of evolving.

I'm figuring it out.

Your turn. What's your thing? Hit me in the comments.

30 Days of Blogging, Day 2: Mac and Cheetos and the Spiral of Shame

There must be a million reviews of Burger King's newest contribution to garbage food fusion cuisine, but none of those reviews will be as deeply steeped in shame as this one.

Where were you when I was pulling into the drive-thru?

Did you know that no matter what time you leave on a Friday before 4th of July weekend your drive home will be inexplicably long? Like, "I should consider stopping for sustenance" long? Just as I had this thought I was rolling by a Burger King.

This is where the shame spiral begins.

I was just going to get a soda.

Maybe a soda and some fries.

Maybe a soda, some fries, and a Junior Whopper.

Maybe a soda, scratch the fries, onion rings instead, and a Whopper with cheese and bacon, and...do they have milkshakes?

Maybe a chocolate milkshake, onion rings, a double Whopper with cheese and bacon and...OHMYGOD MAC AND CHEETOS?!?!

No caption needed. 

Scratch the milkshake, onion rings and Whopper: shit's about to get real here. 

I ordered one order of the Mac and Cheetos, which comes with 5 pieces. And a soda. And a Whopper, for a palette cleanser. 

I noticed a slight embarrassed tone as I said, "Mac and Cheetos"; as if when ordering them requires a certain amount of remorse or you won't get your food. 

I asked the gal at the window if she'd tried them. She nodded and half-shrugged with a look on her face that said, "They made me try it, and I'm not supposed to say it's terrible, but I also hate lying, so this is all I'm able to muster up without losing my job."

It was a drive-by Meh-ing

I couldn't wait to get home to try one, so I the pulled the box out as soon as I pulled way. 

I love that it comes in it's own little purse. You don't want it to touch anything like clothes, fabric, or skin.

It's not a product slogan, it's a warning.

At first glance, they look like the puffy variety of Cheetos, which took me back to many hazy-roomed nights in my early twenties waxing poetic of how much more delicious the puffy Cheetos are because of how good they feel with cotton mouth. Yes, that's a conversation I had. 

At second glance, they started to remind of the nuggets I scoop after Popeye every morning. I tried not to dwell on their cat-poop similarities too long, because I really wanted to try this crap.

Does it matter that product development at Burger King is run by cats?

They smell nothing like Cheetos, and more like Goldfish Crackers or Cheez-Its. When I bit into it, it was a bit stale, like it had been sitting under a heat lamp for quite some time. The mac and cheese on the inside was like (and probably actually was) Kraft Mac and Cheese.

Is this what I look like on the inside now?

Pretty salty, Kind of creamy. Kind of crunchy. Savory. Might be really good with beer--oh man. Oh no.

I wasn't supposed to like them. I was supposed to try them to be ironic in the incorrect sense of the word. They weren't supposed to be crunchy, creamy, salty little fried nuggets of pasta that I want all the time. 

Further down the shame spiral I go. 

Shut. Up.

Overall, they're fine. They're a shameful, yummy embarrassing to order and eat in public treat and it's a good thing there's only one Burger King in the Seattle metropolitan area. 

I'd go further into the pitfalls of eating fast food while I'm struggling with depression and trying to eat food that's better for my body, but why be a bummer about something that's, let's be honest, is kind of whimsical and delightful?

This bitch...

30 Days of Blogging: Blog 1

How odd is it that I feel so old-fashioned writing in a blog? Is blogging still a thing? Do people still read blogs that aren't owned by a tech enterprise or The Huffington Post?

The first blogger

No matter! This is my challenge. For 30 days straight I will write in this blog. It may be nonsense. It may be droll with splashes of acerbic whit, because that's totes my style. It may be a story, or it may just be complaining about the lady at work who drives me insane.

Why the challenge?

I started this blog a couple of years back with the intent to write in it every day about my weight-loss journey. Then it evolved into a place for me to save my stories that I've been writing for storytelling shows. Then it just became a place for my stories for storytelling shows to be stored in draft form that I never could drum up the energy to edit and publish. Then I just stopped writing altogether.

That's pretty much what it looked like...

There's always reasons for not writing. The last year has been filled with a lot of challenges. Job changes to living changes, never feeling safe and secure.  Letting go of familial relationships and friendships that were toxic.

Some folks when faced with trouble in relationships and life are so strong. They fight! They are resolute in that they will not be defeated. I, on the other hand, lay down the flag of surrender pretty fast. I'd be a terrible soldier.

Beetle Bailey is my squad captain

My apartment could tell a story without speaking, and the title of that story would be "Depression: What the Piles of Garbage in This Apartment are a Sign Of". Depression is the Sisyphean boulder that I've been rolling up a hill for the majority of my life. For a long time I'll do really well. Daily functions aren't a challenge. I can do things like shower, take out the garbage, cook a healthy meal, spend time with friends, go to shows.

Gradually, as depression sets in I begin to make little allowances. Ordering out for dinner every night. Canceling plans with friends. Skipping shows. Showering maybe every third day. Not taking out the garbage until it becomes difficult to step over. Eventually becoming a full-fledged shut in and having a daily conversation as to whether life is worth living because I am an unlovable pile of garbage.

Lincoln had depression, but at least he had someone to take out the garbage.

So that was my spring, how was yours? Nobody ever said depression was fun. I'm working on it. That's why I'm blogging from the stone ages. Nobody may read this, but getting back into the routine of living may remind me of why it's good to be alive.