5/7/2023

It's May 7th. My blood pressure is 160/99 in my left arm and 162/99 in my right arm. This is OK for me. I'm not anxious about that number. I'm not proud of that number. I guess I'm nothing about that number.

120/80. That's always my goal. Maybe I'll get there...

Joe was out of town this weekend, so I used these three days as a sort of mental reset. After therapy on Thursday, I was feeling energized to make some little changes. Do some things differently. Maybe wrangle that anxiety a bit better. So I had a cheeseburger and fries for dinner on Friday.

How the fuck does that make things better? Because ever since I got out of the hospital, my relationship with food has shifted. I've been so fucking terrified of eating, well, anything. On the one hand, it's really prompted me to start cooking again, which is definitely better for my stupid heart. I have more energy, I'm eating fewer salty snacks (AND sweets), and overall it just feels good to make better food choices. But it also means that I perseverate on food like a motherfucker. Like, it's all I can think about. And I'm kind of terrified of doing the wrong thing, of eating the wrong thing. As if one shitty Tam's cheeseburger is going to trigger a goddamn heart attack. I don't like feeling that way, so I decided to confront it. 

And ya know what? It was fine. 

Tam's has got pretty mediocre burgers overall, but their fries are goddamn manna from heaven. I ate about half of both and it was fine. I didn't feel guilty for indulging, mostly because it didn't actually feel indulgent. And I didn't feel anxious for eating the wrong thing because cheeseburgers aren't inherently wrong, right? And I sure as fuck didn't feel satisfied because, again, mediocre cheeseburger. I just felt OK. 

I did a whole bunch of other stuff this weekend - painting and drawing, a scrub at the jjimjalbang, some quality time with friends outside, solid meal prep - all stuff that felt good for my brain AND my heart.

Today I'm OK. And that feels like a win.

5/4/2023

It's May 4th, 2023. My blood pressure is 150/101 in my left arm, 150/92 in my right arm. This is low for me, so I feel proud. And I fucking hate that I feel that way.

I've been out of the hospital for 44 days. 

My therapist suggested journaling to deal with all this new health-related anxiety, so here we are. Do I need another blog? Should I write this shit in an actual journal, like normal fucking people? Should I just change the blog name to something peppy like, "Mindy Gets Healthy: A Fat Girl's Journey to Kale-Love"? I don't know. 

I guess I just need to start.

Honestly, I kind of had no idea what a fucking anxious person I truly am. Like, I worry about EVERYTHING ALL THE TIME. My mind is a frantic hamster on a wheel and calming it seems difficult on good days and fucking impossible on bad days. It's weird, ya know? Like, I think people who maybe don't know me and just stumbled upon this blog would probably peg me as weird and neurotic INSTANTLY. But when I tell my loved ones how anxious I feel on the reg, sooooo many of them have told me that I hide it well. Do I? I don't know. I don't feel like I do, but maybe? Ugh. It's frustrating. 

Yesterday I saw one of those "If I'm murdered, don't lie about me" memes. You know how Dateline always starts with some little quip about the murdered woman (because it's always a fucking woman, of COURSE)? How her smile "lit up a room" and how "everybody loved her"? I posted one of those on my socials and another woman read it out loud to the office and then everyone just piled on about how fun and funny and silly I am and how they like my laugh and my smile and it was fucking uncomfortable and weird and I immediately shut that shit down. Like, no reveling in the praise, just embarrassment that these people even notice me. Is that normal? Do other people feel like that? (I think they do.)

Anyway, I'm generally usually horrified by the thought that people notice me at all, so I suppose I make it a point to sell a very specific version of myself so that on the off chance that they DO notice me (or, god forbid, think about me) I have some control over what they think or feel. 

DAMN. 

Writing that down makes me sound like a fucking controlling psycho. Cool, cool, everything's cool.

COVID Blues?

Some days I think my depression might swallow me whole, like a giant whale. I'm just adrift on a cold, dark ocean, when all of the sudden, my depression whale just scoops me up and gobbles me whole. Everything is terrible right now and I am alone and there's no end in sight. I'm stuck in a horrible loop. I can see it and yet I don't know how to get out of it. At least the inside of the whale is warm? I don't know.

COVID Blues

Le sigh.

Depression is a funny thing. Some days I can manage to get out of bed, shower, put on make-up and things are kind of okay. Like, I'm functional. I can interact with other adults, I can do my job relatively well, and I can feed myself. These may seem like simple tasks, but when you're depressed, trust me, they are small victories, every single one. On days like these I believe I can make it through. I believe that maybe it's *not* depression, maybe I'm just lazy and stupid and I need to get over myself. Like, I don't have any kids, I'm still gainfully employed at a job I love and that pays me really well, I'm healthy, and I'm surrounded by people who love me. On days like these depression is easy to dismiss.

But then there are days like today. Days when just the idea of getting out of bed seems overwhelming. The thought of interacting with people in a meaningful way seems impossible. Like, could I talk to my friends? Yes. Would I be good company? I seriously doubt it. On days like these it's like I can't stop crying. My sadness and loneliness and general state of ennui just take hold and I can't seem to get past them. I'm like Sisyphus and my depression is Mount Everest. On days like these I forget to eat until it's like 9pm and I've got a raging headache and the only option is cereal but even that feels like too much damn effort. It's been a long time since I've felt this bad - years, really. But when it happens, I can never seem to get ahead of it. I guess we really are doomed to make the same mistakes over and over forever.

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It's frustrating, this weird depressive state. Like, do I have a viable reason to be depressed? In 2020, yeah, kind of. The world is fucking on fire. The single most important presidential election in modern times is just over a week away and our entire democracy is on the line; the possibility of serious political unrest on election night is real and fucking terrifying; we've been in a state of lockdown for nearly eight months due to a pandemic that our pathetic government refuses to control in any real way with no end in site; and to top it off, my relationship with the dude ended just about three weeks ago. A perfect recipe for depression and anxiety, right? And surprise! I'm not alone. Lots and lots of people are dealing with the same feelings I am right now. I mean, misery loves company, amiright?! 

Every day I see posts on Twitter and Instagram telling me that it's "Okay not to feel OK right now." And some days that does give me a bit of comfort - I'm not alone! Everyone's lives suck right now! Let's all cry and whine and flop around in bed and stare at the wall for three hours together! But then there are those days when social media tricks me into believing that I have friends who are A-OK. Those friends who seem like they've got their shit together and are powering through, pandemic and political unrest be damned. And I admire those friends, I really do. But goddamnit if they don't make me feel this tall, ya know? And don't even get me started with the people whose situations are far worse than my own. Holy fuck, have I got it easy, so what the fuck is wrong with me? Why can't I just get my shit together like every other goddamned adult and POWER THROUGH? The truth is, I don't know why I can't. I try, I really do. But right now I'm not doing so well. And that sends me into a shame spiral, which just kind of makes everything eleventy billion times worse. It's like for every day that I can get out of bed and maintain some semblance of normalcy, there are two or three days where I. Just. Can't. 

Le sigh, indeed.

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Addendum - shoulda just thrown up this link to Hyperbole and a Half because she fucking NAILS depression.

Cinco de Quarantino with my Boyfriend and his Ex-Girlfriend

My phone vibrates at 1:30 pm.

"I just turned the backyard into a waterpark," he texts.

It's Saturday and it's hot. We've been planning a backyard Cinco de Mayo party (for three!) for the past week, but for some reason I'm having a hard time pulling myself off the couch. I decide to nap for 30 minutes before heading over, but somehow an hour slips past. I call him around 3pm to let him know I'm on my way.

"Are you wearing something you can get wet?" he asks

"No, why? I'm wearing joggers and a tee shirt."

"Joggers?!" He pokes fun at my choice of Saturday attire. "Put on some shorts and come over."

Ugh. Why is this so hard today?

I pack up the tortillas and queso and picadillo I secured from HomeState earlier that morning, change into shorts and a tank top, slip on my mask, and head over to my boyfriend's house. To party with him and his ex-girlfriend.

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Will left for his first-ever European tour on September 19th. We'd know each other for five weeks. At first I missed him terribly. Somehow, in the space of five weeks, I'd gotten very used to including him in my plans. We texted or called each other every day. His absence felt like a large hole.

"Hit the stage in about 20. Starting to get hype. I'm actually a little nervous this time." he texted.

Nearly two weeks had passed since he'd left and I'd slipped back into my single lady life again. Will and I continued to text or call each other every day and it felt like things were moving along nicely. In the back of my mind, though, I was still apprehensive about meeting him in Berlin. We'd really only known each other for such a short time. Would he think I was crazy? Would he turn me down, say no, or ghost me? Or worse yet, what if I never asked and then told him my plan after the fact and he loved it?! How much would I regret not shooting my shot? Is this what it means to be vulnerable?

Fuck it. I decided to do it.

_________________________________________________________________________________


I knock on the gate and Will lets me in. He's right, the backyard is a veritable waterpark! He's filled up a plastic kiddie pool and fashioned a sort of mister from a sprayer attached to a mic stand. It's fantastic.

We both head inside and unpack all the fixings for our Cinco de Quarantino. He kisses me and pours two margaritas he picked up from Lola's on Fourth earlier that morning. Grace is attempting to tidy up somewhere. And that's something I've learned about Will and about Grace during this lockdown. Will is a pretty tidy dude - clean nails, clean hair, clean car. But Grace is another level. She's CONSTANTLY cleaning something, whether it's a dish you just used or some random bungee cords in the backyard or the dog hair. It never seems to end. She reminds me of my mom and I try not to let it bother me.

We survey the spread - picadillo and queso and pickled onions and flank steak and flour tortillas and soooo many margaritas. How the hell are we gonna finish this all? We grab our margs and head back out to grill. He throws the steak on the grill and I relax in the Adirondack chair. The mic stand mister feels good on my thighs and the marg feels good on my lips. My mood is improving by the minute.

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The European tour was off to an amazing start. Will made it to Poland and we managed to talk every day. He couldn't believe how hype the crowds were and every day he regaled me with stories of killer food and weird sleeping arrangements. I was so excited for him!

Then one afternoon after work, I decided to pul the trigger.

"Hey, so, I know you've got a few days off in Berlin. And I'm gonna be in Portugal. Would it be weird to fly over to spend a few days with you? You can absolutely say no, I'd totally understand." I blurted out my request. Shoot your shot, right?

And then I waited.


...


"YES. Do it." he responded emphatically.

OMGOMGOMGOMGOMG. Was I really gonna fly to Berlin to spend 48 hours with a dude I'd known for less than two months?!

_________________________________________________________________________________


Will finishes up the flank steak and I finish my margarita. My thighs and shoulders and nose are getting crispy. It's time to party.

The three of us head in to set the table. Will mixes the picadillo and queso, then warms the tortillas on the stove.

"Do you flip 'em with a spatula or your bare hands?" he quizzes me.

"Bare hands, OBVIOUSLY," I roll my eyes at him. He likes to do this, to quiz me on random cooking shit. He always seems to forget I spent the majority of my 20s working in restaurants.

"Ooh, this salsa is goood." He dips another chip into my homemade salsa.

"Yeah, that's Jamie's recipe," I reply.

"Who's Jamie?" Grace asks.

And that's when I realize things are shifting for Will and Grace, and for Will and me. Jamie is totally unknown to Grace. Jamie is a part of Will's life that Grace does not know. Jamie is a memory that belongs to Will and me. It is ours alone.

We finish dinner. It is superb. Grace spends the rest of the afternoon upstairs.

Escapism, One Mini Roadtrip at a Time

My phone rings at 11pm.

"Are you ready? I'm out back," he says.

I slide into his black XTerra and we head to the PCH. For the last few nights we've been heading south into Orange County in search of bioluminescence, the kind that makes the waves glow blue. The marine layer is thick tonight, so our chances of seeing anything are low, but we go anyway, because cabin fever is real.

He holds my hand while he drives. We spent the whole day apart, me reading in the park, him watching 70's film noir at home. The quarantine is getting to both of us, but for very different reasons, and it's nice to reconnect tonight.

We stop at Sunset Beach first. The fog makes everything eery and spooky and we hold hands and poke each others butts as we walk across the beach. It's nice to breath in the ocean air, to hear the waves crash. But there's nothing to see here tonight.

"Let's keep going down to Newport," he says.

We roll through Huntington Beach. It's eerily quiet, like a ghost town. All the street parking and the parking lots along the PCH are blocked off. It's Saturday night at 11:30 at there's not a soul out, except for the gaggle of police officers in front of the Havianna's store. This is the third time we've seen police since we left Long Beach - they must be bored.

We stop at a second beach somewhere between Huntington and Newport. It's in a neighborhood, probably on the Balboa Peninsula, but I'm not paying attention. After years of driving alone, it's nice to be the passenger. We hop out. The marine layer is just as thick and swampy here.

"Do you remember that short story, the Stephen King one?" I ask.

"The Mist! Yeah!" he exclaims. We make jokes about the kinds of creatures this mist contains. Probably prepubescent assholes just looking to jack off on the windshield, we agree. This is why I love him, because his sense of humor is my sense of humor.

"Do you want to come over?" he asks.

We don't see any bioluminescence tonight, but the drive was a success in other ways.


_________________________________________________________________________________


The roommate-cum-ex-girlfriend bomb did little to deter us. We met on August 17th and by Labor Day we'd spent more days together than apart.

"I can't believe you're gonna be gone the whole weekend," he texted. "Two weeks and you got me sprung :)"

I couldn't believe it either. I'm usually quite aloof, but he was different. It was scary and exciting and I was terrified of fucking it up. Still am, if I'm being totally honest.

We both knew it would come to an end, though, because just as we were getting to know one another, Will was furiously trying to finish an album for release in February, plus get ready for his first-ever European tour. Our time was limited and we acted like it. Before we knew it, September 19th would be here, and this dating whirlwind would come to a screeching halt for five weeks.

The next five weeks were magical, though, - all hilariously fun dates and sex and talking. We both marveled at how fast things were moving and how out of character that was for both of us. I think we were both trying to convince the other that we were not, in fact, stalkers; that we were both incredibly reasonable people who happened to meet on Tinder and were surprised by the perfectly fantastic person we'd found.


_________________________________________________________________________________


We finally make it home around 12:30. Both of us are tired, but only one of us is burnt to a crisp.

"You're half-baked," he jokes. Indeed I am. The entire backside of my body is an angry red and I'm finding it difficult to sit down.

"I can't believe you didn't put on any sunscreen. You have to put on sunscreen, Mindy, it's not good for you," he admonishes me. He's right and it's annoyingly endearing.

We both head to bed. His room is stuffy, so he leans over and turns on the air-conditioner. We can both feel the heat radiating off my thighs, in the most non-sexual way possible.

All the sun is making me sleepy, but I missed him today. We have very quiet sex and before we fall asleep, he whispers, "Remember that time you met me in Berlin?" I smile. It is good.


_________________________________________________________________________________


"I just want you to know that if anything happens on tour, it's okay. Like, you don't have to tell me, we can just move on."

We were having dumplings at Din Tai Fung the night before he left for tour. Things had been going so well, and I was dreading this conversation. I knew this was the first time he'd been single on tour in a LONG time and I didn't want him to feel any pressure, since things were so new. But I also knew I wanted to keep dating him when he got back to the States. I figured I'd play my cards right and just advocate for a Don't Ask, Don't Tell situation. I was surprised by his response.

"Oh, that's definitely not my style. And I want to keep dating you, too," he assured me

So I suppose it was settled.

But in the back of my mind an idea had begun to percolate, one my good friend Lindsay had suggested. What if, in an epically romantic gesture, you MET HIM ON TOUR IN EUROPE?!

I could never...

Sunday Night Watch Parties with My Boyfriend and His Ex-girlfriend

My phone rings at 7pm.

"Hey, we just finished dropping the dog off at the dog walker's house. He's gonna keep the dog for a few days until the ASPCA opens on Wednesday. I need a drink. What are you up to?" Will calls an hour after our Killing Eve watch party was supposed to start. I'm a little annoyed, mostly because I hate when plans change unexpectedly. This is something I'm working on.

"Just doing a bit of writing," I say. I'm not sure how he'll respond if I confess what I'm really up to. Best to sit on this little endeavor for a minute.

"Come over when you're finished," he says.

_________________________________________________________________________________

Forty five minutes later I change out of my sweats (but keep on my favorite shirt - a soft black tee that says BUTT STUFF across the chest), brush my hair, slide on my mask and head over to Will's. I knock on the back gate and let myself in. Grace meets me at the back door. She's on the phone, but unlocks the screen door and welcomes me in with a smile. Will meets us there. He kisses and hugs me and asks about my day. We make drinks in the kitchen while Grace finishes her phone call.

"Goddamn that was stressful. I'm glad we got rid of the dog for a few days. Grace and I were getting really snippy with each other. Like, she was getting pissed that I didn't post about the dog on social media early enough for people to see it," Will says. "But I kind of wanted to keep him," he confesses.

"Oh, I KNOW you wanted to keep him. You fall in love too easily," I joke with him. He smiles. It's true, he's a sucker.

"Yeah, but he would be mine. Like, when Grace moves out, we'd share the other dogs, but I'd keep him for myself," he explains. It's the first time he's mentioned Grace moving since lockdown.

_________________________________________________________________________________


Two months ago, when I met Grace at the bar in Long Beach, we had a plan in place. At the time Will was on a six-week North American tour and Grace was still at the house caring for the dogs. It only made sense for her to move when he returned from tour and April first was the date we had all been counting down to.

At this point Grace and I had only shaken hands once. Will was on the West Coast leg of the tour and the bands were coming through Los Angeles. In an epic stroke of genius (or a drunken, misguided attempt at appeasement), Will thought it best to just "tear the band-aid off" and introduce us at a crowded bar in Long Beach on a Sunday night.

Except the bar wasn't crowded. The only people there that night was our crew, and to say it was awkward is perhaps the understatement of the year. Some of us got very drunk and some of us got very emotional and *some* of us made fools of ourselves. But it got done. The band-aid was off. Now I just had to make it to April first and the third wheel in our relationship would be no more.

Or so I thought.

_________________________________________________________________________________

Will and I settle in on the couch together. I bury my cold feet under his legs because he likes my cold feet.

"Hey, Grace, are you watching this with us tonight?" Will yells toward the back of the house.

"What? Oh yeah, just a second." Grace finishes her phone call and settles into her chair.

While Will searches Sling for AMC, Grace and I chat about how shitty it was that they killed Kenny on the last episode. He was so cute and funny, what a bummer.

"Shit. For some reason it's not letting me access the show. Do you guys wanna watch a movie, or 90 Day Fiance?" he asks.

We both choose 90 Day Fiance, maybe because we're both masochists who also like to laugh loudly at strangers. Grace has a laugh that is open-mouthed and loud and often reminds me of myself. Sometimes it is alarming how similar we are to one another.

_________________________________________________________________________________

It's the beginning of week two of our lockdown and we're getting into a groove. Will's tour was cut short and he had to cancel the last six dates. He ended the tour with a ridiculously under-attended show in Manhattan before flying home on March 14th. We've spent a lot of time together since he got back, mostly just catching up for the last few weeks he was gone. Over dinner one night he brought up Grace's move.

"So, I don't think Grace is going to be able to be out by April first. I told her I'd help her out financially, but that huge account she was working on for Coachella just got canceled and she might just be living off savings for awhile," he said.

I knew this was coming.

Since September Grace had been doing freelance graphic design work. Things were going really well. But then this goddamn pandemic had to go and ruin everything. And since my boyfriend is not an epic asshole, we carry on.

_________________________________________________________________________________

I'm Sheltering in Place with My Boyfriend and His Ex-Girlfriend

My phone rings at 10am.

"Hey. Come over, I made breakfast. Also, Grace* found a dog."

"What? What kind of dog?" I ask.

"Looks like a German Shepherd. He's smart. Just followed Grace home on her walk this morning."

"Ok. I'll be over in a few," I say, and hang up.

I brush my hair and teeth, slip on jeans, a tee-shirt, and flip flops, and don my mask for the three block walk over to the house where my boyfriend lives. With his ex-girlfriend.

______________________________________________________________________________


I knock on the fence door. Grace opens it for me while she holds onto this foreign doggo.

"Good morning! Watch out, he's a bolter!" she warns as I slip past her and the dog.

Will* meets me on the back step, motioning me to come in and eat. I step inside the house and slip off my shoes. Will kisses me, slaps me on the ass, and says, "Good morning!" He offers me an orange juice. He prepares my plate of eggs, sausage, and toast. We chat about the dog. When we're finished, we head back outside so Grace can eat breakfast and we can watch the dog.

This is normal, this eating in shifts. Sometimes Grace eats before we do, sometimes she joins us and the three of us settle down at the table together, like a weird, slightly uncomfortable throuple. Today, she eats last.

________________________________________________________________________________


"Are we still on for tonight?" I ask.

Tonight is the second episode of season three of Killing Eve, a show we all fell in love with during the first two weeks of this shelter-in-place order, when bingeing shows felt fun and novel.

"Yeah. Is it on at 6?" He confirms. A plan is made.

Grace finishes her breakfast and joins us outside. We all play with the dog. We all make guesses as to what kind of owner would give up such an expensive, well-mannered dog (he's a Belgian Malinois, probably no more than a year old, and lovable as fuck). We all throw out names, just in case Will and Grace decide to keep the dog. Will likes "Ronnie", as a sly nod to the Corona virus. Grace suggests "Kevin", and I'm totally on board with that, but not like in a "agree with the ex so she'll like me" way, more like "I'm an asshole who loves human names for animals" way.

I finish my coffee and get ready to head home for a few hours of work and Zoom catch-ups. Will takes the dog and skateboard and accompanies me to my place. We kiss on the street and he heads home for the afternoon, where he will deal with the ASPCA, the foreign dog, and lunch with his ex-girlfriend.

_________________________________________________________________________________


I first met Grace nearly two months ago, at a bar in Long Beach. My boyfriend and I had been dating for about six months. I knew about Grace, in fact *had* known about Grace since my sixth date with Will. Typically that sixth date would have been a few weeks in, but we moved fast. I had known him for a week and we had already spent a ridiculous amount of time together. As far as I knew, Will had a roommate who was kind enough to care for his dogs when he went on tour. What a score, I thought. And then, during a dinner date at the park overlooking the Queen Mary, he confessed that his roommate was not, in fact, just a roommate, but his ex-girlfriend.

"But we split up in January," he assured me. It was August.

"If you want to be done with me, I totally understand," he said. "But I want you to know we're over. If there is a red flag, it's not that I live with my ex-girlfriend, but that I wasn't honest about it from the beginning," he said.

I was stunned. He looked at me expectantly. I sat on a rock overlooking the marina and thought, "I could just push him in and be done with it." And then I sighed. He seemed like a good dude. He didn't seem like an asshole. Was I really going to write him off because real estate in Southern California was fucking cutthroat?

And so we decided to tentatively give this whole thing a try. And hilarity (and tears and frustration and a whole lotta grace) ensued.

Parts Unknown

I'm gonna go ahead and preface this post with these three very important words: I'm fine, mom.

_________________________________________________________________________________

This morning I woke up to the news that Anthony Bourdain had passed. Suicide. I literally screamed in bed. And then I burst into tears. I cried in the shower. I cried through the blow drying and the dressing and the (half-assed) makeup-ing.

My 8 o'clock session was going swimmingly until I burst into tears, AGAIN.

I managed to make it through the workday relatively tear-free, but then the waterworks flowed again whilst I sat alone at the laundromat, watching two weeks' worth of clothes toss and turn and churn.

Just to be clear, I didn't actually know Anthony Bourdain. What the fuck is wrong with me?


________________________________________________________________________________


It's nearly 10pm and I think I've maybe gotten a handle on why this celebrity death has kinda sorta rocked me.

Reader, if you've been a ride or die, you know I, too, have battled some fucking demons. Shit has been tough for me (mostly because I'm neurotic and moody and aloof as fuck), and there have been a handful of times when my brain almost fooled me into thinking life was maybe, possibly just too fucking painful. But then someone saved me. And I think that's why I'm over here bawling my fucking eyes out, feeling all the feels. See, life is pretty good for me right now. I'm doing the things I want to do and building the life I so desperately needed. I'm fine. But there were so many time when I wasn't fine, so many times when frustration and shame and debilitating anxiety threatened to take over.

Like that winter in Korea. You know the one. I was fucking miserable. Life felt empty and weird and all my friends at home were moving on without me. I was nearing thirty, directionless, flying solo, and questioning why the fuck I ever thought it was a good idea to move BACK to the other side of the world. But someone reached out to me and gave me a home. Jamie was the dude who cooked for me, watched Jersey Shore with me, and let me cry in his bed when I just fucking hated everything. He was gentle with my mind and heart, for I think he knew I was maybe a little fragile. His friendship is what got me through that winter and let me come out the other side. His friendship is what allowed me to laugh off all the absurdity of my life in Korea and to embrace the people around me, many of whom I still count among my closest and dearest friends (I'm looking at you, Casey the Human).

Jamie literally saved me from myself.

Or like the fall of 2006. I was kinda sorta newly graduated, definitely newly single, and living alone for the first time. At the time I don't remember feeling lonely or lost, but in hindsight all the signs were there. Things came to a head when I got caught drunkenly fucking a pirate on the bathroom floor at a Halloween party. We were both so hammered, we never skipped a beat. I don't even know how we ended up back at his house, but I do know that his car was outside. I woke up feeling disgusted and embarrassed and ashamed beyond belief. Twelve years later I am able to laugh at the ridiculousness of it all (sorta), but at the time, it was a symptom of a much larger problem. Anxiety and self-loathing are two of my greatest hits and I think that fall was marked by a great deal of both. But someone reached out to me and acknowledged that I was maybe standing on a ledge, if only figuratively. After two days of calling in sick and dodging phone calls, my mom hauled her ass over and climbed into bed with me. She is the reason I went to the doctor that day and finally admitted that I was having a hard time keeping it all together. She was the reason I filled that first prescription and why I kept filling that prescription and why a year later I was able to stop filling that prescription.

My mom literally saved me from myself.

Or like those entire two years after I came home from Korea. No need to rehash how fucking miserable I felt upon returning to a life that was no longer familiar and no longer mine. Reader, I struggled. Every. Damn. Day. But someone reached out with such gusto and conviction that I couldn't do anything *but* surrender to her friendship. I don't know if Erica knew it at the time, but I was in desperate need of a kick in the ass. What she gave me was so much more. She made me believe that I could do the thing, if I just took small bites and didn't look too closely at the big picture. She made me believe that I was smart enough, that I was deserving enough, and that it didn't matter if I sometimes didn't know what I was doing. Every day I still struggle with the battle between perfection and good enough (ask my supervisor how long it takes me to write an eval...), but because of Erica's mad cheerleading skills, I think I'm able to navigate that battle just a little bit better.

Erica literally saved me from myself.

There have been others throughout the years who have reached out to me to let me know they see me (lots, actually). And I think that's why Bourdain's death hit me so hard today. Those people who reached out to me in my shittiest, darkest times are literally the reason I get to sit here today. I'm saddened that Bourdain chose to take this path; I imagine he, too, had loved ones reach out to him. But sometimes it's not enough. Sometimes YOU'RE not enough.

I don't know how else to wrap this up. It seems so fucked up to say I understand that feeling, to say I get his choice. So I guess today I'm thankful my loved ones reached out. Today I'm thankful I'M enough.

ISO Wealthy Manhattan Beach Beardo. Must Love Dogs.

All the rich single men in LA live in Manhattan Beach. Or so the fingerprint tech in Torrance tells me.

Let me back up a bit. For the past year I've been telling literally anyone and everyone that my post-grad plans included moving to sunny SoCal. Lemme tell you, EVERYONE had Thoughts. Usually this was met with some measure of flippant disdain among Idahoans with Opinions. My response was a polite nod, but man it gets tiring hearing asshole Idahoans spout off about what kind of assholes live in the Golden State.

About a month before I left I had to get some fingerprints done at the Idaho State police. The fingerprint tech was a super gregarious lady full of Opinions. She inquired about the nature of my fingerprint needs and where they'd be sent. I told her I'd taken my dream job in LA and was looking forward to all the sunny days ahead.

"Are you from here or there?" she asked.

"Oh, here," I responded.

"Well, I'm from California. San Diego. Get ready for some of the rudest people you've ever met."

Reader, she really said that to me. OUT LOUD. Well, I've certainly met ONE rude Californian, I thought to myself... She went on to add that Californians were the worst drivers. I drew the line there, friends. In 2017 I started taking road rage seriously and called 911 twice to report Ragey Middle-Aged White Men with Tiny Dicks Threatening Me from Stupid Diesel Trucks. California doesn't have a monopoly on rude, shitty drivers, I told her.

Oh, they're probably from California, she informed me. Welp. It's a special kind of Californian who chooses to move to Idaho, and I think we allllll know what I'm talking about...

ANYWAY. When I finally arrived in sunny SoCal I found it to be chock full of sunny, kind, helpful people and one of them was the fingerprint tech at WellnessMart in Torrance.

This dude was so nice, y'all. When my employer neglected to add my name to the fingerprint list (meaning they'd foot the bill), he happily overrode the system and printed me for free. He inquired about the nature of my new job, congratulated me on the move, and welcomed me to California.

Where are you staying, he asked. LONG BEACH! Long Beach is great! The people are nice and chill and unpretentious, he said. Then he pulled out an iPad and proceeded to give me directions home. Don't take the freeway, he said. Take this drive through Palos Verdes, he said. It's full of scenic overlooks, short trails, and the neighborhood is beautiful, he said.

Then: I noticed you weren't wearing a wedding ring, he said. Usually this kind of thing would totally creep me out - like, why do you care, dude? Also, time and place. But then he dropped this nugget: I heard that Manhattan Beach has the highest per capita income among men in LA county, so if you're looking that'd be a good place to start, he said.

Reader, I died! It was such an LA piece of advice, how could I be mad?! Also, nice to know the Wellnessmart dude was looking out for my best interest - he just wanted me to live my best life in Cali, and that so obviously included a rich dude from Manhattan Beach.

Now I wanna know, how many of those flush Manhattan Beach dudes have beards? A question for another (sunny) day.

With so much drama in the L-B-C It's kind of AWESOME bein' Mindy P-A-G silent E

Hey nerds! I'm back!

Yesterday I was having a lovely brunch with my friend Erica. We were playing catch-up and I was regaling her with stories of my new hometown when she interrupted and exclaimed, "That's your thing! Start blogging again about all the cool people you meet in California!"

And you know what? I'M GONNA.

But first, do you guys wanna hear how I got to sunny SoCal? It's a long and winding road, but then again, so is every damn road I travel...

About eight years ago my friend Casey (she of the Casey with Laser Eyes fame) got a list from her dad. See, he was trying to convince her to come home from SoKo to pursue a grad degree in pharmacology, so he sent her a list of the top ten professional jobs with the best outlook/job satisfaction/pay/blah blah blah. Casey had no interest in being a pharmacist (that undergrad in French definitely prepared her for it, amiright?!), but she did find a few professional avenues that piqued her interest. One of them was speech language pathology, which, as luck would have it, also piqued MY interest.

Fast forward a year, to 2011. I was preparing to come back to the States in the midst of the worst recession since the Great Depression. My job outlook was shitty, but I just couldn't yet wrap my head around grad school. The cost alone was mind boggling (not to mention the idea of going back to school after the age of 30...), so I came home and took a safe job with the Boise School District. And for those of you who've slogged through this blog you know I was miserable. That first year home was rough, but grad school was always in the back of my mind.

Fast forward another year, to 2012. I had fallen into a rhythm - work, home, bar, occasional (bad) sex, wash, rinse, repeat. Life was fine (not good), but I was still miserable. I was unwilling and unable to accept that this is what my life would look like. I was unprepared to spend the bulk of adulthood settling for mediocrity, but I felt stuck. I knew something had to change, but change requires momentum and I had zero. Lucky for me Erica (yes, that same Erica) knew just how to push me. "Let's study for the GED together!" she exclaimed. I begrudgingly accepted her offer for a GED study buddy, and so began my long, strange trip to grad school (and a beautiful friendship!)

Fast forward another year, to 2013. Life was marginally less awful and I was legit preparing to head back to school! Oh, and Erica got accepted to USC. She moved in the early summer and I made it a point to visit ASAP. And thus began my love affair with LA...

Lots of shit happened in the intervening five years. I started and finished a pre-pro year of school, applied to and was NOT accepted to any grad programs the first time around (this was frustrating and demoralizing and hella fucking expensive), and then finally, in 2015, I was accepted! No one needs a grad school play-by-play, but suffice it to say I hated every minute. The one thing I always looked forward to during those 2+ years were my annual trips to LA. The more I visited and explored, the more the city felt like a place I could actually live. I fell in love with the art and culture and food and people, and yes, the traffic.

And so, somewhere around 2016, I started telling people that my professional goals included living and working in Southern California. The first step to making a dream come true is to say it out loud to other people, so I figured this was one simple way I could manifest my dream. Also, it required very little effort on my part, so basically, it was perfect.

Fast forward one more year, to 2017. Graduation came and went. I chose to extend my program through the fall so I had ample time to finish up my portfolio, prepare for orals, and finish my externship. I cleared each hurdle with minimal effort and before I knew it, December was looming. So on a whim, while kicking back PBRs at my favorite college bar ON A MONDAY, I posted my resume and CV on Indeed. Within an hour I had more than ten hits.

Shit was happening. Fast.

Within a day I had five interviews set up for the following week, the week of December 18th. I did minimal research into most of the organizations (I'm nothing if not lazy), and one organization stood out to me. They were a nonprofit clinic based in Torrance, with offices in Long Beach and Inglewood, who serviced low SES clients in the South Bay. Everything about this organization was attractive to me - it was basically my dream job. And it just so happened they were my first interview on Monday morning, December 18th. KISMET!

The interview went well - we talked for nearly two hours, and at the end they inquired about traveling for a second interview. I was giddy! But I also knew not to get my hopes up - what were the chances that all the puzzle pieces would fall into place and THIS would be my new job? Slim to none, I reminded myself. And so I tried to go about my day.

And then they called me at the tail end of the business day. Reader, I almost died.

Mindy, you have excellent experience.
Mindy, you have heart and energy and skills.
Mindy, we think you would be an excellent match.
Mindy, we don't need a second interview.
Mindy, we want to offer you the job.
Mindy, when can you start?

Dudes. You all know I had a *really* hard time keeping it together over the course of that phone call, right?! My whole body was tense, my knees were weak, and I was legit holding back tears. What were the chances that all the puzzle pieces would fall into place and THIS would be my new job?! Pretty fucking high, apparently. And so, by the end of that week, I had negotiated pay, a sign-on bonus, and a start date of February 1.

Shit was happening. Fast.

In just four short weeks I had to quit my dumb pizza job, find a place to live, pack my shit, say good bye to friends and family, and move the fuck to Long Beach. And so I did just that.

I've been here a week and I'm already in love, y'all.

And that's the story of how I made it to SoCal. Next time: did you guys know that Manhattan Beach has the highest per capita income among men in LA County?!

Really Real America

I love LA so much. Real live people live here. Every time I visit I feel like I'm getting a glimpse at "the REAL America." I know, I know, but stay with me here.

See, after living the past six years in Idaho, a place decidedly short on diversity, coming to LA and seeing actual diversity all around me is so beautiful. Boise likes to tout itself as a diverse city, but the vast majority of that diversity comes in the form of refugees. The refugee population absolutely adds to the culturally diverse footprint of Boise; however, I don't think it really helps actual Boiseans (or Idahoans) appreciate true diversity. Let me explain.

See, in Idaho, when you see someone who looks different from you, you get to put them in this "refugee" box, which never actually allows you to view them as Americans. This is problematic. When the only diversity you see is in the form of refugees, you get to remove yourself from the conversation - OTHER PEOPLE are diverse, whiteness is the norm. But when your community is truly diverse, whiteness becomes a PART of that diversity, not some starting point from which to judge all others. That's what perpetuates this stupid fucking idea that "Americans" are white. It's also what allows us to assume that anyone who deviates from white is foreign. Now that's not to say that I think refugee resettlement should stop in Boise or in Idaho, quite the contrary. In order for us to reach that true melting pot ideal, my community absolutely needs more people who look different from me. But it doesn't end there.

Boise (and especially Idaho ) also needs a whole bunch of people who believe different shit, too. Living in a place where the local and state government offices are dominated by white Mormon dudes is what perpetuates the  "American = White" idea. It also perpetuates that paternalistic, white savior bullshit. And that's the part that's got my panties in a twist this morning.

The election of Donald Fucking Drumpf has finally shed some light on the shitty voting habits of the so-called "Christians." For decades those "Christians" have touted themselves as the champions of families, the constitution, and most importantly, of Americans, all under the guise of caring compassion. Those "Christians" have systematically chipped away at health care, education, voting rights, women's rights, infrastructure, and immigration in the name of Christ. Those "Christians" have slammed America's door to the world's most destitute and needy at a time when the world needs us most. You want to talk about fake? Ask those "Christians." I have a feeling they know a lot more about what it means to be fake than any Angeleno.

So fuck that shit. I think I prefer the fake tans, tits, and brilliantly white teeth of LA. At least their fake shit looks good.

Mindy is a Social Weirdo, Part 3,841

Whew, y'all. So much has happened since Christmas, where do I start?

Let's see. Still not talking to racist grandparents, but I'm kinda ok with that for now. Still not talking to brother, but again, kinda ok with that one too. Graduation is a week away. DEFINITELY ok with that one. Hmm, feels like I'm forgetting something...

Ah yes, Shon Harris, the Middle-Aged Married Mormon Cliche. Welp. I wrote a whole blog post about what a scumbag he is and how he misled me for five, YES FIVE, months. How he claimed to be a champion of equality, a level-headed progressive in touch with his "feminine side," a single dude who respected and admired strong, smart women. A dude who wanted to be with me. The reality? He's just another Middle-Aged Married Mormon cliche looking for a side piece on the internet. SAD!

But that dude doesn't deserve an entire blog post, especially not after I spoke with his lovely wife...

Anyway, what I really want to talk about is a topic that keeps biting me in the ass over and over - this idea that I am somehow a social, outgoing person who enjoys spending copious amounts of time in the presence of others. Seems this shit won't stop following me around and honestly, I kinda don't know what to do about it.

See, two days ago a woman I know from Twitter and have met *very* briefly in real life tagged me in a post which suggested I might be a person in Boise to follow. On the one hand I'm flattered that she tagged me - SHE LIKES ME! It's always nice to be liked! But on the other hand, oh dear god, now she's exposed me to a whole bunch of people I don't know and who live in my city and fuck my city is very small and I might actually have to see them in real life or what if I run in to them at the bar and they recognize me and... You see where this is going.

For the past two days I have been terrorized. My Twitter mentions went up like 400%. I have had something like 1,000 notifications. The thread convos have touched on inane things like drinking, what to do for fun in Boise, and shit! my kid broke his thumb, etc. Totally normal topics that normal people talk about with other normal people in their normal lives. So what's my fucking problem? I don't know, but it's certainly not new.

At age five I was fucking terrified to start kindergarten. I remember clinging to my mom so tightly, hoping that if I just cried hard enough she'd take me home and the whole business could be over. I made one friend that year, Melissa Palmer, and I stuck to her like white on rice.

At age 12 I was fucking terrified to start junior high. How the hell was I supposed to navigate all those new social situations with people I didn't know while also trying to remember my class schedule and locker combo and teachers' names, and and and?? That year I made friends with a girl named Tiffany Watkins. She was entirely too cool for me and I spent every day of our friendship wondering why she even liked me.

At age 16 I was terrified to start my first job, even though half of my sophomore class applied for and was hired to work with me. It's not like I didn't already know everyone, it's just that this was a new setting to navigate and that filled me with so much anxiety I almost skipped orientation. That first year a girl named Stephanie McCallum forced me to be her friend. She was tall and beautiful and listened to a lot of shitty rap music. We were polar opposites, but she was witty and we had a similar sense of humor. She was my best friend throughout high school (and then some).

At age 19 I was fucking terrified to start college. I holed up in my dorm room for the first two weeks until Lisa Fucking O'Rourke knocked on my door and dragged me to a showing of The Wizard of Oz + Dark Side of the Moon (speaking of cliches). That year I managed to make friends with my suite-mates, but I never quite got the hang of making friends in my classes. It was a rough year, both emotionally and academically.

Somehow I managed to make it through college without making one single friend in any of my classes. Sure, I have friends I made while I was in college, but most of them were friendships forced on me by circumstance. That's not to say I don't love those friendships (Dawn, Vivi, Anji, Melissa!), but it would be wrong to say I *made* those friends. Mostly they were friends of friends who inexplicably picked me; I almost never picked them.

At age 28 I was terrified to move halfway across the world and start a new job in Korea. For three weeks I worked in an office where almost no one remembered my name because I almost never spoke to anyone other than my students. All that changed when I fell down the stairs and broke my face wide open. Nothing leaves a mark on your coworkers quite like a bloodied, wailing woman in the stairwell. When I came home from the hospital that night, Aura and Justin, Tim and Erica and Amanda were waiting to take me out drinking. That first year I made actual, real friends. Men and women with whom I laughed and cried and bitched. I think it might have been the first time I was part of a group of friends. Admittedly, I always felt like I was dancing on the periphery and I almost NEVER initiated, but we were all so close that it *almost* didn't matter. They were my friends and I was theirs.

I have so many more stories of me standing on the sidelines at parties or family dinners or work meetings feeling anxious and weird. I have skipped weddings and going away parties and birthday celebrations because I just couldn't find it in myself to socialize. I even toyed with the idea of skipping my own cohort graduation fiesta next weekend because the thought of mingling with a whole bunch of strangers makes me want to vomit. I have to attend four weddings this summer. This also kind of makes me want to vomit. One of them is tomorrow and I stocked up on Tylenol PM just so I can get some sleep tonight. I don't know why I'm like this. I don't know why people make me feel anxious and weird. But they do.

But that's not the whole story. Feeling anxious and weird around people is not really the problem.

THE PROBLEM is that for some reason, people (ALL the people) put me into the "fun, outgoing" category. That category comes with expectations - not just that you will attend all the social things, but that you actually *like* it. It always comes as a shock to acquaintances, especially classmates and new dudes I might be dating, that I do not, in fact, like doing this shit. Pat was especially caught off guard. He assumed because I was fun and outgoing one-on-one with him, that I had enough leftover in my reserves for others. Stephanie also made this mistake, as have many of my other girlfriends (although, to their credit, they usually come around much easier than the dudes and the ones who GET IT really GET IT). Scumbag Shon even told me, "People are your jam, Mindy." I literally fell off the bed laughing at this comment. It was just so off-base. People are decidedly *not* my jam. I think my Twitter friend may have also assumed I was a "the more, the merrier" type when she tagged me in that thread.

(Which, side note, was kind of a wake-up call for me, too. Seems I'm just as antisocial on the internets as I am in real life. Yay!)

So where do people get this idea that I might want to spend any of my free time socializing in large groups? And to be clear here, it's not just strangers. I don't really like to do *any* socializing with a group of more than, say, five people I know really well.

I like people. I like spending time with people. I like to laugh and joke and learn what makes people tick. I like thoughtful conversation and dirty conversation and trivial conversation. I like learning about others. And this is where the mismatch happens. I like all of these things and actually, I'm fairly good at it. (The socializing one-on-one, that is.) That's where others get this idea that I'm outgoing and social - that PEOPLE ARE MY JAM! They assume that because I do it well one-on-one, that surely those skills translate. BUT THEY DO NOT. When I'm forced to get to know someone quickly, or in a group, or surrounded by people I don't know it presents a huge problem for me. I clam up, I don't know what to say or who to say it to, and eventually I end up playing with the dog or the kid because they are known quantities.

(Which, again, side note, I am soooo sick of those memes about finding the dog at the party. That shit is real for some of us. Jesus.)

So what's a girl to do?

Figure out how to untag myself from that goddamn Twitter thread is step one.

The Most Wonderful Time of the Year.

Christmas 2016, or The One with The Racist Grandparents and The Addict Brother

The last time I saw my brother at Christmas it was 2012. We unwrapped presents with dad and posed for pics in funny hats. His second son was born three months later.

Christmas 2013: my brother on the run, but a family of parents and step-parents, kids and grandkids united. A day tinged by sadness, but manageable.

Christmas 2014: my brother on the run again, presumably holed-up in a shack yakked out on meth. Again, parents and step-parents united. Brother was arrested two months later after a standoff with police. I found out via Facebook whilst on vacation.

Christmas 2015: my brother in jail, Cottonwood actually, getting clean. Parents and step-parents united, along with sis-in-law, her new husband and kids. One big happy family. My brother would be released two months later, only to fall off the wagon, steal a car, and alienate us all within a week. He returned to prison to serve a 7 month term.

Christmas 2016: my brother was released December 14, just in time for the holidays! He is not welcome at our dad's, he is not allowed to see his children, so our Christmas was fractured. He attended NA after dinner.

I have grown used to pretending I'm an only child, so a day with my dad, stepmom, and grandparents could have been lovely. And then grandpa had to go and start talking about the ni**ers. And the sand ni**ers. And his admiration of the KKK.

I hit my limit with Christmas this year, you guys.

I try really really hard to make happiness between Halloween and New Years. I cook, I bake, I craft. I listen to Christmas music and watch Christmas movies and craft Christmas cocktails. I donate money and gifts to those in need. I spend quality time with the people I love. I TRY.

But is it so wrong that I just want to spend this day alone, avoiding humanity, hoping the day passes without incident so that I can forget it for another 364?

February 9, 2016

UPDATE. I also hate being *potentially* homeless.

February 8, 2016

I hate everything about today. I hate coming home to an eerily empty house. I hate finding mom's cell phone absentmindedly left behind. I hate scrolling through text after text begging my brother to come home, to man up, to stay clean for the kids. I hate that burdensome feeling of guilt when I think it would be easier if he were dead. I hate that I think that. I hate even more that it's true. I hate hurting for my parents, people so good they were willing to believe this time would be different. I hate the "what if" game and the "what the fuck is he thinking?" game and the "how could he play me?" game. I hate that he is a sinker, not a swimmer. I hate that his son shares this trait. I hate talking to his ex-wife because she is trying so valiantly to move on. I hate watching my mother question EVERY. FUCKING. ACT. OF. LOVE. she offered. I hate knowing that my brother has robbed my dad of a son, a companion, a friend. I hate that locks and garage door codes had to be changed, that guns had to be retrieved. I hate that Facebook facilitates friendship and drug deals. I hate the cumbersome nature of the criminal justice system. I hate that in a fucking cruel twist of fate what has torn our family apart has also brought us together.

I hate meth.

I hate always waiting for the other shoe to drop.

I hate being right.

All the Single Girls are Lesbians

I don't really have time for pleasantries y'all, so let's just dive right in.

I. AM. SALTY.

Why? So many reasons, but this one thang in particular is stuck in my craw - has been since the beginning of summer. Two months ago I went on a camping trip to celebrate a friend's 30th birthday. I like camping - food's good, day drinking is one of my favorite activities, and peeing in the great outdoors is one of life's forgotten pleasures. But I had no idea what was in store for me.

It started with the car ride. I carpooled with an old friend, he of the married type. Seeing as how he was unattached for the weekend, he graciously took our two hour sojourn as the ideal opportunity to tell me ALL ABOUT the cracks in his marriage. No worries. We've known one another over a decade and I am a good friend. Lending a sympathetic ear is definitely in my wheelhouse, so I listened. And listened. And listened. Clearly homeboy needed to talk some shit out. By the time we reached camp, we both were ready for some beers. All was well.

Until Homeboy Number Two showed up. Let's call him The Wrench. The Wrench was shirtless, with shaggy hair inexplicably topped by a trucker cap - early aughts camping chic. And The Wrench was singularly focused on me. As soon as I cracked a beer and found a comfortable spot around the campfire, The Wrench sidled up to me.

"I remember you," he said pointedly.

I smiled politely, but apparently my look of confusion was clear. "You don't remember me? I'm hurt!" he exclaimed.

You guys, I panicked just a little. I have been single for a minute. And in the lull between worthy suitors I have slept with some dudes. Was The Wrench a drunken hookup?! A mistaken makeout?! A Tinder Roulette sexting slimeball?! FUUUUUUCCKKKK.

And then, BINGO! He was none of the above, thankfully, but some rando friend of a friend who crashed a drunken toga pool party I'd thrown for myself in 2009. (Yes, I am very good at being childless and single, don't be too jealous.)

I've helpfully circled The Wrench. Also, how cute was I?!

The Wrench was harmless. Or so I thought. For the next 10 hours I fended off his advances. He drunkenly crooned at me during campfire sing-along; he offered a massage when I jammed my finger at the swimming hole; and in a particularly egregious act of bravery, he reached out and tweaked my nipple whilst mid-conversation. Can't say he wasn't committed to the cause.

Thankfully Homeboy Number Three caught the nipple tweak and attempted a rescue of sorts. Let's call him The Hot One. I have known The Hot One for 10+ years. The Hot One had a girlfriend for many of those years. I was living abroad for some of those other years. But now The Hot One and I are living in the same city, unattached for the first time, and all I wanted was a good old-fashioned fireside makeout sesh. I was a damsel in distress, it was the least he could do. Unfortunately, The Hot One had something else in mind entirely. As soon as he swooped in and rescued me from the nipple-tweaking toga 'tard, he spilled his guts. And I do mean SPILLED. The Hot One proceeded to tell me some really heavy shit from his childhood that, frankly, I probably won't ever repeat, both because it was so fucked up, but also because I would never want to embarrass this dude. See, I *DO* have a heart.

Needless to say, The Hot One killed my vibe, and any buzz that was left over from eight hours of day drinking. Seeing as how I was apparently surrounded by emotional retards, I found a spot by the fire and attempted to tune out the noise.

Enter Homeboy Number Four.

Again, I have known Homeboy Number Four for a minute, probably close to 10 years. We've never been close, but in group social situations we always find something to chat about. Homeboy Number Four is harmless, so let's call him Dad. Dad showed up at camp fairly late in the day, as his car broke down on the drive and he hitched a ride with some other campers. Sometime late in the evening, after much drinking and smoking, Dad told me he left his tent in his car. I was already sharing a rather large tent with my carpool friend, so I offered him a spot in our tent - no harm, no foul. The night wore on, and everyone was pleasantly drunk and/or stoned. Around midnight I retired to my tent. Just as I was drifting off, I heard Dad unzip the door and throw in his sleeping bag.

"You awake?" he asked.

I mumbled something, probably about the possible wicked hangover that surely awaited me. He carried on quietly, and just as I was on the edge of sleep, I heard him roll over, sigh deeply, and ask, "Mindy, why don't you have a boyfriend?"

OH. MY. FUCKING. GOD.

He went on, "You're so cute and smart. I mean, like intellectual. You're strong and smart and why don't you ever have a boyfriend?"

I just laid there.

He went on, "You remind me a lot of my ex-girlfriend. She was strong and smart like you. You're just really intellectual." He said that word, INTELLECTUAL, like a dozen times.

I let this shit go on for a minute, hoping he'd get the hint, but he just kept rambling. I finally snapped.

"I don' know dude, why don't you tell me?! You're a guy. Why don't I have a boyfriend? It's probably because I am emotionally unavailable and overly critical. Or maybe it's because I'm not helpless and needy. Guys seem to really like needy girls. Needy girls always have boyfriends!"

Not my finest moment.

He soldiered on, "Some people have thought that maybe you're a lesbian."

You guys, I just laughed. And laughed and laughed and laughed. I didn't even know how to respond to such idiocy. Maybe it's because I'm soooo intellectual. At this point I was mentally and emotionally exhausted, plus the spins had set in. I rolled over and attempted to sleep. I don't know how long I was asleep or what time it was when I heard my name.

"Mindy! Mindy, is this your tent?!" The Wrench was drunkenly circling my tent, calling out my name. "It's cold out here. Can I come sleep with you?"

Are you fucking kidding me?! This guy just did not give up. I unzipped my tent, told him there was no room at the inn, and tossed him my car keys. "It's the blue Hyundai. Sleep there!" I shouted.

I slept fitfully the rest of the night, getting up just once to puke up a belly full of PBRs and half a bag of Nacho Cheese Doritos. By morning, I was feeling horrible and ready to never see any of these dudes again. My carpool friend and I quickly broke down camp, downed a cup of coffee each, and headed home.

And here I am, two months later, still salty about L'Affair. First, why did all four of these dudes see fit to use me as an emotional dumping ground? Admittedly I was the only single woman at camp, but is that really all dudes need? If I had come attached to some guy NONE of them would have been this emotionally inappropriate, guaranteed.

Second, just because I don't announce every hookup/date/relationship via social media doesn't mean they aren't happening. Remember when I said Homeboy Number Four and I have known each other nearly a decade BUT WE AREN'T CLOSE? Apparently he thinks he knows all there is to know about me and if he isn't privy to my personal relationships then they must not exist.

Third, and this is the big one, why the fuck did he make the jump to lesbian? Is it because I cut all my hair off? Is it because I use social media platforms to proclaim my support for women's rights? Is it because I wear really cool Vans?

See? Cool, right?!

No. It's none of those. I could continue doing all of those things, so long as I had a boyfriend to call my own. It really truly is my lack of boyfriend that made him question my sexual preference. And that's the point that's stuck in my craw, not only because it's so shallow, but because it represents a cruel double standard. See, Homeboys One, Three, Four and I have a mutual friend, we'll call him The Boss. The Boss has been single as long as I've known him, something like 12 years. In that time he's had hookups and dates and flings, but nothing long term or meaningful (that I know of). Does that mean he's gay? Absolutely not. It might mean a whole host of *other* things, but to think he's gay simply because he does not have a girlfriend is ludicrous - SO NO ONE THINKS THIS. Literally no one questions The Boss's sexuality, even though he's been single FOR-EV-ER.

And that's why I'm salty.

Side note: I ran into The Hot One a couple weeks ago at the bar. He told me he and my carpool friend had had a bet going.

"Oh?" I questioned.

"Yeah. But we were both betting you'd sleep with [The Wrench]."

Guys are such idiots.

Thankfulness!

Holy hell how did two full weeks pass me by? Seems every year this Thanksgiving post gets less and less timely. Oh well, blame it on the universe. See, the current state of the world finds me struggling to conjure up feelings of joy and peace and, well, THANKFULNESS.

But even in this time of tumult I suppose there are a few things for which to be thankful, so let's get this bitch started.

Of course I'm thankful for my family. They are my rock. They are my support system, my cheerleading section, and sometimes my ATM. I really don't know where I'd be without them and I'm so thankful for their love, humor, and support.

I'm thankful for a car that works, and job that pays, a house that's warm, and a body that rarely fails me. This year (oh hell, ALL YEARS) found me reflecting on all the adult mile posts I have yet to reach -- marriage, house, kids -- you know, all that stuff we're *supposed* to want at 34? Taking inventory of all the things you don't have really has a deleterious effect on one's psyche. Like, "What the fuck was I doing in my twenties?!" kinda shit. But I'm slow. I take the long route, almost exclusively. If life's a journey, then I'm on the goddamn Mississippi Riverboat, meandering through muddy waters unsure of what the end will hold, but not entirely unhappy with the the twists and turns. This year was really a reminder to re-evaluate what I WANT, not what I'm supposed to want. And you know, there's a certain amount of freedom that comes with nonconformity, so I'm thankful for that.

In that same vein, I'm thankful for my freedom. I don't mean the so-called American variety of freedom, but specifically the kind that comes when you're unencumbered  - by children, by spouses, by finances. That freedom allowed me to fly across the world to visit my favorite Soko friendo, Jamie, for two fantastic weeks. That freedom allowed me to sip Vietnamese yogurt coffee, snorkel in the crystal blue pacific, and bitch and moan about shitty wifi whilst trekking through sweaty Vietnam on a 24 hour bus ride. Oh yeah, and that little trip to NYC. That's some shit to be thankful for, y'all.

I'm thankful for for my girlfriends. You guys, I have the BEST girlfriends. Collectively, they are the smartest, smarmiest, silliest, hardest-working, most loyal group of women any girl could ask for. My SLP girls are resilient (AMIRIGHT?!). My craft night ladies are often my oasis in a sea of weekly bullshit. And my Soko girls? Those women just GET me. They know the struggle is real and I'm so thankful I get to be their friend. And let's be honest, any woman willing to make dick jokes for 36 hours is a friend of mine.

So yeah, I'm thankful for some big stuff. But I'm also thankful some trivial shit, too. The devil's in the details, and sometimes it's the little things that make me laugh, or cry, or both.

This blogpost has been brought to you by Spotify's Throwback Thursday playlist, and I'm thankful for that, both because I love early aughts rap AND I was reminded this gem exists:

*Wasn't that some misogynistic fun?!

I'm thankful that I (mostly) learn from my mistakes.

I'm thankful for red lipstick, because even in my most disheveled state, a swipe fools everyone into thinking I put in some effort.

I'm thankful that I've still got it. As an educated, self-assured, adult woman I know I'm not supposed to hang my self-worth on what men think of me, but goddamnit that one hook-up did more for my self-esteem than any of that Stuart Smalley bullshit ever could.

I'm thankful for 63 degrees in mid-December.

I'm thankful for Dawson Taylor and The Flying M, without which I might never get any studying done.

I'm thankful for my two beautiful nephews. They are light and love and laughter.

I'm thankful for brunch and informative podcasts and Trader Joe's insanely cheap face serum. I'm thankful for John Oliver and Jessica Williams and Lena Dunham. I'm thankful Roxane Gay exists, and writes, and speaks out for women and minorities, AND gives me a free pass to date terrible men. I'm thankful that a retreat into nature, REAL nature, is just a quick road trip away.

I'm thankful to have surrounded myself with thoughtful, educated, empathetic people who show integrity, because goddamnit the world is seriously fucked up. Sometimes it's nice to know you're not the only one. I'm thankful for that.

xoxo

Cool Girl

Relevant:

"Men always say that as the defining compliment, don’t they? She’s a cool girl. Being the Cool Girl means I am a hot, brilliant, funny woman who adores football, poker, dirty jokes, and burping, who plays video games, drinks cheap beer, loves threesomes and anal sex, and jams hot dogs and hamburgers into her mouth like she’s hosting the world’s biggest culinary gang bang while somehow maintaining a size 2, because Cool Girls are above all hot. Hot and understanding. Cool Girls never get angry; they only smile in a chagrined, loving manner and let their men do whatever they want. Go ahead, shit on me, I don’t mind, I’m the Cool Girl.

"Men actually think this girl exists. Maybe they’re fooled because so many women are willing to pretend to be this girl. For a long time Cool Girl offended me. I used to see men – friends, coworkers, strangers – giddy over these awful pretender women, and I’d want to sit these men down and calmly say: You are not dating a woman, you are dating a woman who has watched too many movies written by socially awkward men who’d like to believe that this kind of woman exists and might kiss them. I’d want to grab the poor guy by his lapels or messenger bag and say: The bitch doesn’t really love chili dogs that much – no one loves chili dogs that much! And the Cool Girls are even more pathetic: They’re not even pretending to be the woman they want to be, they’re pretending to be the woman a man wants them to be. Oh, and if you’re not a Cool Girl, I beg you not to believe that your man doesn’t want the Cool Girl. It may be a slightly different version – maybe he’s a vegetarian, so Cool Girl loves seitan and is great with dogs; or maybe he’s a hipster artist, so Cool Girl is a tattooed, bespectacled nerd who loves comics. There are variations to the window dressing, but believe me, he wants Cool Girl, who is basically the girl who likes every fucking thing he likes and doesn’t ever complain. (How do you know you’re not Cool Girl? Because he says things like: “I like strong women.” If he says that to you, he will at some point fuck someone else. Because “I like strong women” is code for “I hate strong women.”)" - Gillian Fucking Flynn

Halloween Hook-Up

Dipping my toe into the wonderful world of online sex stories. Guess which one is mine!

http://nymag.com/thecut/2014/10/14-weird-costumed-halloween-hookup-stories.html