My mind has gone in a million different directions the past two months.

Actually, scratch that. My mind has toggled between two opposite directions the past several months, maybe years.

Which path? I cry. Which path which path which path.

I don’t want to regret it, I wail.

I want to love it, I say.

I have this idea for how my life should go. And this year—well, it’s been a hard year. I don’t say that like I’ve had much outside stress. There are many people in this world, in this country, in my own circles, who have had much harder years. I’m just saying, for me, it’s been a hard year.

This year I didn’t laugh enough. I didn’t get outside enough. I didn’t hug enough. I hate those feelings because it’s like I’m not enough. My life isn’t enough.

So instead of focusing on the realities of my situation or, you know, doing anything about it, I went into daydream land. I’m very good at daydream land. In daydream land, I can give you a beautiful interview after I’ve just won an Oscar. It’s very humble and giggly and full of phrases like “why yes, I did happen to get engaged on the same day I was nominated!” (I know.)

I like to daydream. I don’t want to stop daydreaming either. Daydreaming can be magical and creative and immensely helpful to writing.

But I don’t want daydreams dictating my life. I feel like I’ve buried myself under layers of okays and fines and talk laters. I’ve covered myself with interviews on Conan and sappy acceptance speeches (for awards and proposals) and Pinterest boards (the secret kind).

Maybe this is too painfully honest. Maybe this seems pathetic. Maybe it really is.

For once in my life, I’m okay with being pathetic if it means looking it reality right in the face. I don’t want to be lost in daydream land anymore. I want to be grounded in reality, but still be able to daydream. I think that’s called being happy.

The thing that I’m realizing though is that this kind of happiness has very little to do with where I am or what I’m doing or any external factor. Those things are important. I’m not denying that I actually want success as I define it for myself: writing full-time, performing, getting married to a good guy, becoming a mom, showering my ageing parents in love, laughing until I pee my pants at game night with my siblings. I want those things so badly my chest physically hurts when I think about them.

But here, in this moment? I can choose success too. I can choose to be happy and to laugh and to face my dirty room and weird thing smelling up my fridge and facial hair and unsolved problems and still say that I like myself.

I can choose to coax my sensitive heart out from under the covers. It likes to sleep in these days. I made it that way. I let it believe it wasn’t cool enough or smart enough or famous enough or pretty enough or just enough. I let it believe it was stupid and ugly and unimportant.

But I choose to be gentle to it now. I will protect it from well-meaning harsh words and not-so-well-meaning ones. I choose to tell it to have fun, stay awake awhile, love on people, and love on me.

Tell me your thoughts, little heart, I say. I will still love you no matter what, you know?

Funny, I find that the most precious phrase in the world, but I never say it to myself. Today I do. I’ll still love you, I whisper.

Home or here? Home or here? I ask it. I’ll still love you.

My little heart opens its scratchy throat; it hasn’t been used in a while.

Home, it whispers. Home, please.

Okay, I say. I still love you.

Giggles Abound

I’m in a giggly mood.

I get in those, especially when tired. In my masters program, I had to step out of the room more than once to get the giggles under control.

Today I’m giggling at myself over two things.


Last night I was lying in bed in complete silence, willing myself to stay in one spot. I’ve been having trouble falling asleep lately, so my strategy was to lay still with my eyes closed. (It’s a brilliant strategy.) My mind was wandering, as it often does, and I was thinking about Regis Philbin. (Yes.)

In particular, I was thinking of this episode of Regis and Kelly when during their early casual conversation Regis mentioned that one of his strategies to stay fit is to ask for a box with the meal when dining out. Before he would eat any of it, he’d put half of the meal in the box for later. I was thinking about this last night and becoming enraged.

Okay, Regis, maybe the reason you can eat only half of your meal is because you’re a miniature-sized person?

Do I want to take health tips from the Daniel Radcliffe’s of the world? No. No, I do not!

You don’t know about my body, Regis. How dare you try to tell my how I should eat on those special nights when I go to a restaurant!

This is when I started giggling. Regis Philbin. Regis Philbin has been retired from Live! for almost five years. This was a comment he made once, and I’m guessing it was close to ten years ago.

Yesterday wasn’t a great day. It was a little low. I had a headache. I hadn’t slept well the past few nights.

But just when I thought that this is the new normal, this sort of low, sour, frustrated mood, I get mad over Regis Philbin.

And then alone in the dark, I shake and laugh until I’m crying because life has returned. Laughter is back, and I have Regis Philbin to thank for that.

Two (because I promised two giggly things):

The Property Brothers are appearing at Bookfest this year. (I went two years ago, and it was incredible.) Jill mentioned the Property Brothers the other day when she was watching House Hunters, and I was the epitome of class when I didn’t say a word about them. This time, in our group text with Katie, she mentioned they’d be coming to Bookfest. I went on a rampage that was a very truncated version of this:

I hate Property Brothers. I’m not sure why. They rub me the wrong way. They’re like the HGTV version of the Kardashians without the intriguing family dynamics.

I don’t like that they’re so schmoozy.

I don’t like that one has a beard in an effort to distinguish himself. You’re not fooling us. We know you’re twins, and we still can’t tell you apart, okay?

I don’t like that they’ve written a book because it seems like a money grab. They’re sooooo into fame.

I don’t like that one of them is in a made-for-TV Christmas movie. Can’t I have anything that’s my own?!

I hate that they go over budget every time!! Like, these are supposed to be experts in their field. They usher in the trusting buyer. It’ll be great, they say. We’ll fix it up for this price, they say. Buy it, they say.

And then…

“There’s unexpected mold.” “Uh, these pipes just won’t work anymore.” “You know what, all the wood in your house needs to be replaced. Let’s just go ahead and burn this place to the ground and start over.”

Hate these guys.

Then I realized how ridiculous this hatred is. I really dislike them because they go over budget on a TV show?? Really??

Cue the giggles. Cue the life-giving power of laughter.

I figuratively put my feelings about the Property Brothers in a bubble and watched it float away.

Just kidding. I still irrationally dislike them, but at least I’m able to laugh about it, right?

March Madness


March Madness. I know the term well. You don’t grow up in a basketball state with the NCAA headquarters 15 miles from your house and not know about March Madness.

I remember going on a roadtrip during Spring break when I was probably ten. IU had made the final four. It was game day, and we pulled over for gas. A stranger looked down the line of six family members wearing red IU-gear, and said, “I guess you guys are from Indiana, huh?” Later that day, my dad checked us into a hotel several hours before planned, so he (we) could watch the game.

The point is, I can get into March Madness.

However, I usually don’t get into the bar scene or the strangers scene, and I especially don’t get into a combination of the two.

But last Friday, I found myself doing just that.

I heard about the event the day before on Facebook. It was a viewing party for the IU-NC game at a bar in Santa Monica. I didn’t think much of it, but the next morning, I had a random thought: I should check out that bar. I almost laughed at myself. I don’t go to bars even with my friends. I don’t do late nights very often either. That means I’m definitely not one for late nights at bars with strangers. I said I’d go, but I had every intention of changing my mind.

But then I didn’t.

I kept thinking something would turn me around. I’d “accidentally” leave late, and then just decide it wasn’t worth it. I wouldn’t be able to find parking. Parking would be too expensive. None of these things happened. (Parking was a dollar.) (A single dollar!)

I made it into the bar, tugging on my IU sweatshirt. And then I smiled because I saw red and white peppered around the bar. Friends!

I made my way to the “fan” section, and on the way a stranger gave me a high five. Ah, bars.

Now, the whole day, I had this crazy thought—don’t tell me you’ve never had this—where I was fairly certain I’d find my soulmate that night. After all, I was going to an IU game. I’d probably meet someone who went to school the same time I did. What are the chances?! We’d kind of hit it off:

“Did you take that awful abnormal psych class?”

“Yes, it killed my GPA!”

“Mine, too!”

“Marry me?”


In reality, I sat with two very happy couples and a woman in her fifties.

In reality, I still loved it.

I ate cheese sticks and yelled at the TV and made small talk and yelled at the TV more. (It wasn’t a very good game.)

I said bye to my new “friends.” (I didn’t even Facebook friend them after.) And I drove away.

Then I took inventory. Did I just have a good time at a bar with strangers? Yes. Really? Yes, I did.

I don’t know where to take this story at this point.

I think I’d just like to document that I can still surprise myself. I like that.

Maybe going to a bar isn’t that big for you. I don’t think it was that big for me really. I don’t have a sudden interest to hang out in bars or do a bunch of meet-up groups.

But on my way home, I was just struck by how strange it was that I had just spent an evening like that and enjoyed myself. Surprising. I like surprises.

I couldn’t help but feel that even though my team had lost, I could still be a winner.

(That was all sorts of mozzarella cheesy.)

Writing Blackouts

My foot

Last night I went looking through the documents on my computer. To be perfectly honest, I was looking for something I could pass as a blog post. I’m trying to blog more, and apparently I thought the best way to do that was to find something already written. Har har har har

I have a collection of essays on my computer. They’re just for me, and I usually don’t reread them because they’re of an embarrassing nature. They’re letters I’ll never send or angry thoughts or bad songs, and they’re always passionate. That’s the thing about these essays: they’re little collections of those rare late nights when I decided to get up and write for thirty minutes instead of turning on TV.

So I was looking through these documents to see if there was something I could edit and post on my blog to pass as a fresh new thought, and instead, I found something very interesting. In the recesses of my computer, I discovered a very early, incomplete draft of a novel. Here’s the kicker: I have almost no memory of writing it.

I remember having the idea, though I can’t recall what the actual idea was other than a mid to high fantasy, but I remember the moment of the idea. And now, like magic, on my computer, last saved in December 2014, is a file containing 20,000 words I can’t remember writing.

This isn’t the first time I’ve had selective memory when it comes to writing. Once, I finished a screenplay to great relief. I was talking over the end of act two with Jill, and I told her that a very important character died.

“How’d he die?” Jill asked.

I looked at her—I had JUST finished this screenplay—and I… couldn’t remember. I paused for a moment, thinking my brain needed to process the question, but the moment passed AND I STILL COULDN’T REMEMBER. “I think it was his heart?”

She was flabbergasted. I was flabbergasted. “Flabbergasted” is an underutilized word IMO.

How could I not remember how one of the main characters died?! I was the one who killed him! I had just written it! And on top of that, he was my favorite character in this story, but I had no memory of his death.

There’s a chance that this is evidence of some sort of psychological disorder. To add evidence to that case, I also sometimes refer to myself as “we.” (I’m a little worried about that.)

But there’s a chance that this is just how my brain works. When I was in college, my creative writing professor said that you write first drafts with the child in your head, locking everyone else out. It’s only in the editing stages that you let a parent come in. Well, I’m not sure he meant it quite so literally as not remembering anything you write, but it could be that I’m less something in the DSM-5 and more something like what he was talking about.

So, I decided to read this incomplete novel, and GUESS WHAT?! I found a bit of an answer to this whole blackout thing. I take you to a scene where the main character is in art class:

“It was my haven, a place where I was free to make a fool of myself. Well, without anyone but myself to pass judgment, but I usually locked myself out of my head anyway and just did. Just was. Just made.”

There you go. I honestly can’t believe this was in there. If that’s not magic, I don’t what is.

Maybe this is a weird way to approach writing: not letting myself comment on it, not even letting myself hold onto any of it. But that’s when writing’s good. When it’s just doing, just is, just making. I want more of that stuff. That’s the good stuff.

And as a special inclusion. Here are some of my favorite passages from Hatch: An Incomplete Fantasy Epic:

“I could hear him in my room, but I couldn’t convince my eyes to open. This is what happens when you spend your entire winter break playing in any of the leftover snow with the neighbor’s kids, the ones that are at least four years too young to be considered any sort of lasting friends. No, instead, someday I’ll be the person who first used a cuss word or made a dirty joke. What a reputation. “

What does that even mean?? I’m so confused, Hilary. Like, really, what do we mean?

“There are some mothers who are quite good at gently waking up their children (or so I hear), and there are teenagers who actually wake up much like a cartoon version of optimism, smiling before fully opening their eyes, and sometimes not needing another person to be involved with the whole process (or so I hear). I am not that kind of teenager, and my mother is not that kind of mother.”

This is a total lesson in writing yourself. Why did I try to write someone so far away from me? I’m a morning person. In high school, I woke myself up 3 hours before school started so I could watch yesterday’s Young and the Restless alone. The only time I remember my mom going in my room during that time was when I forgot to set my clock back and was taking a bath at 3 am, and she was worried. Now, which is more interesting: the grump teenager who won’t wake up (and I know nothing about) or the 4:00 am bath taker?

“Elmer’s glue Mohawk”


“Some schools have football or swimming or basketball. We have show choir. (We also have basketball; this is still Indiana.)”


“I think Mr. Harrington had a couple of inches on him, but this boy looked like he could pull the skin right off of a face or something really gross like that. “

Brilliant literature.

“Overreact much? Nothing. It’s just. I guess I sort of had this feeling that someone was watching me earlier. I know. Dumb. I’ve already decided it was just some hold-over paranoia from watching The Truman Show last week. I guess you could say I got Carrey-ed away.”

Holy cow. I’m packing my bags and giving up writing.

Rom Com Thoughts: The Wedding Date

Hello! This is where I’ll be putting a collection of thoughts on rom coms: the good, the bad, and the Ephron. I don’t even know if it will make sense or if anyone will care, so it sounds like a good idea, right? Okay, then.

Debra Messing looks so good in powdered blue. (Update: There’s powdered blue in every scene. Seriously, look at her apartment.)

the wedding date apartment

Why is Debra Messing—or the hairdresser—fighting this hair texture, huh? Free the curls!

Confession: I really wanted a matching luggage set because of this movie.

the wedding date luggage

Does anyone else always associate Dermot with My Best Friend’s Wedding? Like, he is that character, which is so sad because that means things didn’t work out with Kim, and he became a prostitute instead.

the wedding date

Amy Adams is blonde! Amy Adams is brilliant! Honestly, she has the performance of this film. She does it broadly, but it’s all so genuine. Favorite Amy line: “Did Kat tell you she dumped you because of your funky breath?”

the wedding date amy adams

Here’s where the movie goes awry. Jeffrey? That man? That’s the one you can’t get over? They have no chemistry, and by “they” I mean Jeffrey and me.

Debra Messing is so darn funny.

It just hit me that this is the male version of Pretty Woman, but in this version the male prostitute is smooth and rich and writing being interviewed in national newspapers instead of using a safety pins to hold up his pleather boots. That’s an essay.

England has the cutest cars.

My favorite part of this movie:


It took me almost an hour to make that GIF, and it’s awful.


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I’m not a prude, but Woody grosses me out. And he only has two lines. That’s acting.


I know this is like a B- rom com, but man, I do enjoy this dance scene. (Maybe because it’s our one moment of emotional development between the main characters?)

the wedding date dance

So Dermot’s character studied Comparative Literature at Brown University, and now he’s a prostitute. Is this movie a commentary on the realities of student debt and getting a job with a liberal arts degree?

Dinner party scene! Finally, we get to see the family in action. Why does this only come in once and an hour into the movie? Aside from the sister drama, we never really get to the bottom of why Kat feels so negative about her family. What’s that about? I don’t even know her parents, but who cares because it’s time for more MICHAEL BUBLÉ!

I want to live in this town.

the wedding date town

Here’s where this movie goes awfully, awfully wrong for me. The big “get together” scene is totally blown. First of all, you have two minor characters running after each other (the sister’s fiancé and the ex-fiancé). I don’t care about them. At all. We haven’t even spent time with them! Second, Debra’s “movie dad” quotes the same article Dermot’s character quoted to her; it comes off as very coincidental. This is the one moment a rom com should earn, and this one doesn’t. Dad: “Here, let me bring up this line when mentioned before *winks to audience.” Lastly, what does Dermot say when he finally gets to his girl?

“I realized I’d rather fight with you than make love with anyone else.”

Umm what? Did you guys even fight? If we rewind the tape I think we’ll see that about two lines were exchanged and then they separated. Also, he’s a prostitute, right? Basically he said, “I’d rather you yell at me for two minutes than work, i.e. have sex with a stranger for money.” Wow. Romance. There’s no “I wanted it to be you so badly” or “I’m just a girl standing in front of a boy” or “I was looking up.” Nope. No. No. The movie is ruined because of one line.

But then it ends in a wedding, so I find myself being okay with it again. Almost.

Amy ends up with the best guy in this movie. You know Ed is never going to hurt her even though she cheated. It doesn’t seem fair. (Inner voice: Life isn’t fair.)

Is Dermot out of a job?

A Belated Star Wars Post

I had almost forgotten I was seeing a Star Wars movie. Somewhere between picking my soda flavor (Cherry Vanilla Diet Dr. Pepper) and tearing my ticket, I blacked out. But when those two words burst on screen accompanied by musical splendor, I jumped and laughed out loud. My brother laughed too. We were giddy because we were watching a Star Wars film. It was really happening.

And for two hours I was far, far away, wrapped up in a galaxy that still feels right at home. I loved almost every moment. (You know the exact moment that I didn’t love.)

After the film was over I was so anxious to text my friends; there were so many details to discuss – so many questions to sort out. Who is the heck is Rey? How long did it take Mark Hamill to memorize his lines?

I mean, let’s talk casting. Adam Driver as Kylo Ren? Hello, my confusing friend. Adam Driver just has a nice face. I don’t mean that he’s good looking–though I’m oddly attracted. I just mean he looks like a nice person. When we watch this nice face do awful things; it makes the entire movie interesting. This is supposed to be the face for hipsters everywhere! Surely, he really is handing over his lightsaber. Let it go, Ben. Ben! Let it GO! BEN NO BEN I HATE YOU WHYYYYY.

(Also, let’s talk about how Han and Leia named him Ben. I’d like to believe there were a lot of family moments where they all sat around and told little Ben about Obi Wan. And if that wasn’t the case, maybe it should have been. I don’t want to blame Leia and Han for Ben’s choices, but what wasn’t this boy getting at home?)

One of my friends didn’t feel the same about Kylo Ren. He made a good point though: Kylo Ren was introduced as someone with whom the Force was extremely strong. However, as we saw the movie progress, it seemed like Kylo was much more akin to a youngling than Ben Kenobi.

Kylo Ren’s abilities crumble before him; any guy who can stop a laser without looking should be able to emerge from a lightsaber battle with a complete novice–looking at you, Finn–unscathed. Just saying. Also, his lightsaber was totally homemade. (I want to see that DIY blog post.) I understood my friend’s point about Kylo, and I had a similar problem–not with Kylo Ren, but with Rey.

Rey. What a badass, right? I mean, wow. I’d love to see Rey and Furiosa team up at some point—not sure how to make that crossover happen outside of my personal fanfiction. (Working title: “Three Arms Kick Ass”)

The problem I had with Rey is that she knew absolutely nothing about the Force, and yet, she was pretty darn good at using it the last 45 minutes. So… a day after finding out the Force is real, she’s able to use Jedi mind tricks?

True story: it took me a year to find the switch on my vacuum that made the suction go from the hose to the bottom of the vacuum. I used it FOR AN ENTIRE YEAR thinking it was an awful machine. So I guess I found it a little unbelievable that Rey could pick all of this up so quickly. It wasn’t my understanding that we could all tap into the Force whenever we felt like it without training. Rey had no training, but could yield the power of the force; Kylo Ren had loads of training, and he still couldn’t overcome a complete novice.

And then it hit me: This is a classic case of knowledge versus understanding. Ohhh Star Wars, you philosophical dog, you. (Why aren’t there dogs in space?)

Kylo Ren has all the knowledge of the force he needs, and yet, he doesn’t get it. He looks for answers from the broken mask of his grandfather, not the Force. Rey is leagues below Kylo in terms of training and knowledge, and yet, she understands the Force. Did you see her with her eyes calmly closed in that final lightsaber battle? If that’s not understanding I don’t know the exact coordinates of Jakku!

So why does Rey get it while Ben’s so lost? Rey’s been living on her junkyard planet for entire life, right? So what did she have to have? Hope.

Rey lives off of hope; she gets hope because she’s had to tap into it every day just to keep on going. Kylo Ren does everything in his power to shut hope out. I don’t think it’s about talent or amount of Force in their veins. Kylo Ren and Rey probably have the same amount of midichlorians, but Rey leans into hope and that makes her understand the light side of the Force.

So even if you’re like me and horribly depressed about a certain part of The Force Awakens, have “a new hope.” (I had to.) Understand/feel/have faith in the Force, even if you don’t know it. Yoda’s voice: For a path to the Jedi this makes.

Sister Discovers Brother Drinks Starbucks

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MALIBU — Calling it one of the biggest deceptions in family history, twenty-four-year-old Agatha Hilsbottom was stunned to find that the culprit for the six Starbucks coffee cups tossed behind the passenger seat of her car was her very own older brother. Hilsbottom discovered the empty cups one week after her brother completed his stay with her in California. “I knew they weren’t mine,” said Hilsbottom, adding that she always saves her cups for the next morning when she brews coffee at home. “I pretend I’m drinking Starbucks, but it’s really just my generic brand.” It was only after hours of reasoning that Hilsbottom discovered the only individuals who had been in her car in the past month were her brother and her Labrador retriever. “The dog seemed unlikely,” she said. Hilsbottom claims that the cups must have come from her brother, a man she says didn’t used to drink coffee from Starbucks. “I should have known something was off when he ordered a ‘grande’ at Coffee Bean.” We were unable to reach Agatha’s brother for comment at this time. Hilsbottom did confirm that she plans to clean the old cups from her car to use for pretend purposes.


Image via

Writing Me

I’ve been thinking lately. (This could be a bad sign.)

I’ve been thinking lately about writing. (Definitely a bad sign.)

And I’ve been thinking about my voice in writing. Wondering if I’ve found it, wondering if I’ve been looking for it the right way, and wondering if I’m telling the right stories about the right people in the right places.

I used to have this thought –and sometimes I still do—that I’d be an incredible writer once something either really great or really terrible or really unusual happened to me. I’ll be an incredible writer when I stumble on a new math theorem, and unlike most mathematicians, I’m hilarious and discovered a theorem at an incredibly young age. (This idea persisted for my sophomore year of high school when I thought being a mathematician was the best way to go about being a writer.) (Really.) Or I’ll be a great writer when everyone I know dies in a single plane crash, and it’s up to me to preserve the legacy of literally everyone I’ve ever met. Or I’ll be a great writer when my circumstances magically change to be a person on the fringe of society, some sort of misheard, misunderstood sub-group of the population that is desperate for an inspirational voice, and I’ll begrudgingly take on the role. They need me.

But I’ve been thinking lately that these scenarios might not be the best way to go about writing.

I’ve been thinking that even though I will never make (discover?) a math theorem or have a news-worthy tragedy happen or be anything other than a white, Christian, Midwesterner—even with all of that “boring” stuff—my story might just be worthy of telling.

My voice—this one I have right now at 24 that doesn’t know what in the hell it’s talking about—it might just have something to add to this world.

And this voice feels new and old at the same time. So much of my writing is an imitation of what other writers are doing. Heck, even this post was inspired but this kickass article. So much of my writing is trying to write the way I wish I thought and spoke instead of the way I do. It’s the poor Jonathon Safran Foer version of me. It’s the Rainbow Rowell version of me. (I like that version an awful lot.) So much of my writing is missing the version of me that’s just me.

I think I could be successful with these other versions. My writing would probably be cuter and funnier and have less Walmart involved.


But the writing wouldn’t be me. It wouldn’t expand what we’re doing here, in this life business. What if I take a chance and say my voice is good enough?

I mean, maybe it’s not. Ha. I could fail terribly with my voice. My stories could be just as uninteresting as I fear they are.

But even if that’s the case, my voice, my life, my little view of the world, it deserves a shot. I get to be me and put me’s with me stories all over my writing because it’s mine. (Have I used “me” enough? No?)

I want to tell stories about youngest children growing up in Indiana and hating college and loving family and eating food and having jiggly bodies and laughing hysterically and crying over the stupid things. Because if I’m writing, what in the world am I doing not writing about the stupid things? I want to write only about the stupid things and imperfect people and little corners of my points of view.

In elementary school, I didn’t speak. Just for the first four years or so. But in the fourth grade, I remember getting actual friends for the first time in my life, and they would often repeat: “Hilary, I had no idea you were like this.” “This” often meant loud, funny, strong, or smart.

I feel like the same thing is happening with my writing, with my voice. All my life, I’ve seen it as this quiet, little thing that sort of got sad when I didn’t use it. I’ve underestimated it as something that needed an external push—most likely in the form of mass tragedy—to blossom, but maybe I have no idea it’s like “this”: it’s just as smart, quirky, weird, funny, dumb, pretty, average, crazy, and worthy of love as I am. I’ve been thinking about that lately.

What’s Good:

FullSizeRenderThis selfie. I really like it. Probably more than I should.

My parents visited and left spearmint toothpaste in my cabinet. I would never buy this for myself, and I think it tastes like root beer. I keep meaning to look up whether spearmint is in root beer.

They also left root beer in my fridge.

My desk space is gorgeous. I have a place to put my computer and notebook, and I have a real desk chair.

I have fabric and a pattern to make a chair cover for that chair. Stay tuned for riveting DIY piece that shows my craft capabilities. I may start a crafting blog. Title option: I’m Not a Stay-at-Home Mom, But You Wouldn’t Know It From This Blog: It’s Just That Good.

Should “from” be capitalized in that blog title? It’s too long, isn’t it? It is.

Is it also slightly offensive? Like only stay-at-home moms can be crafty? And like stay-at-home moms have to be crafty?

Scrap the title, okay. I’m over it.

I got ten hours of sleep last night. Lord, I lift your name on high

I’m starting to think my dog actually likes me.

My nails are currently a very pretty length. All of them. At the same time. Lord, I love to sing your praises…

My car headlights are working. All of them. At the same time. You came from Heaven to earth…

My toenails have somehow looked mostly decent for oh a month or so as I just repaint the big toe with the same color. I’m currently out of nail polish remover and keep forgetting to replace it.

Have my toenails stopped growing? Am I mad about that?

Does anyone wonder if vampires or other immortal beings grow hair and/or toenails? Don’t our noses grow our entire lives. Does that apply here? Should we be skeptical of the large-nosed people?

Scrap the nose comments. They feel offensive, too.

Last point about vampires. Edward and menstrual cycles. Do we all wonder? Stephenie Meyer, you had an opportunity to address period stigma and you missed it. #Regrets

Jill introduced me to a Pizookie. Life will never be the same.

I have not purchased a container of ice cream in two months because I just haven’t craved it. Who am I?

I’ve eaten ice cream in this time period. I’m not a saint.

I’m hosting these movie screenings for church, and I had four people attend last week’s. This is up from the previous party of one. They really like me.

I was very upset the other day when I realized I had no t-shirts from high school. Old t-shirts are the best thing in the world. That thin, soft cotton that’s practically ready to shred under your fingertips is the stuff dreams are made of. Last month, a duffel bag appeared in my old closet, and t-shirts overfloweth. Mooresville High School Girls Soccer 2007, here we go.

I swam last week and liked it too. Also, there was a guy who was obviously quite good–you could tell by his abs and obvious height advantage–and even though he was doing an hour of continuous, marathon swimming, I felt good about sprinting and beating him on my single laps.

A very elderly woman walked by me today, and we own the same dress.

I’m watching the rest of Velvet. It’s time. Alberto y Ana para siempre.

I had two salads today without realizing it. Veggie Express!

“Veggie Express” needs to be a catch phrase for healthy decisions. It sounds awfully convenient, happy, and like you’re putting things in motion.

I’m awake again. Truly awake. I feel like life has been muddled the past couple months. I’ve been in a half-sleeping state. In the morning, I don’t know what’s happening for the day, and not in a really cool, mysterious adventure sort of way. But it’s more like I’m super unorganized and chaotic and stressed and sleep deprived, so instead of trying to be present, I just go into this semi-stupor where I don’t have to feel so much. But not today. Today I was awake, and I don’t want to go back to sleep.

I discovered Prize Candle. My first ring is not expensive and does not fit me, but I’m learning to enjoy the Prize Candle process and it’s not their fault they don’t know my ring size. Don’t be surprised if I start selling them.

Why doesn’t every product come with a prize? We’d all buy more. Have you bought your Prize Candle yet? How about now?

I beat a personal record of mine. I’ve worn this “monthly” pair of contacts for 5 months, and I’m still going strong. Thank you. Thank you.

I’m blogging again. I feel good about this.

Working from Home

Working from home is comfortable.

There are days when I crawl out from behind my computer at 4pm and take inventory. I’m going on 50 hours in the same holey shirt and shorts. I have a permanent layer of gunk across my front teeth, and my hair is so greasy I can put it in a ponytail without a rubber band. I’ve worn my fuzzy socks all day. The good news is I’m already dressed for bed.

There are days when I work from my bed. I sit against the wall with my feet tucked under my dog and my blanket, and I quickly bring food back to the mattress so I spend as little amount of time on my feet as possible. I switch positions every two hours to prevent bedsores.

I sit on the floor, on the couch, in my chair, slouched and typing. I stand straight at my bookcase and type. Wherever I want to work, I work.

I haven’t worn makeup in weeks. I don’t mind this.

And I hardly ever wear a bra.

Working from home can be depressing.

I hardly ever wear a bra.

Sometime on the third day of the no bra I realize that not wearing a bra has somehow been the gateway to not showering and eating exclusively hot pockets.

I don’t talk to people, except for my mom. I call my mom more than I should. My mom has her own people to call, but I call exclusively her. I’m not sure why I don’t call my dad or my siblings. My mom probably finds me more charming than other people do, and let’s face it, no one’s here to find me charming. So I call and I tell her about my day: any neighbor run-ins and what I ate and what movie I just watched. (She loves me.)

Mostly, working from home is depressing when I’m depressed.

Working from home is never as depressing as working in a cubicle.

I don’t cry daily in my cubicle. I don’t take copious notes on how angry I am that everyone seems to only want to talk about the weather. It’s California! There’s only one kind of weather!

“Did you see that cloud yesterday? That was scary!” Excuse me while I go adjust my computer chair five times and sob until my tears fill my empty filing cabinets.

Working from home is dynamic.

I can work from anywhere. On days I want to be around people, I stake my claim at one of the independent coffee shops in Malibu: Starbucks, Starbucks, or Starbucks. I’ve yet to try this new place. I think it’s called Starbucks. It’s supposed to be super gourmet.

I work from Pepperdine’s library some days. I even put my work up on their dry-erase board because it makes me feel very important.

I dance while I work. I really do. I dance quite often I’m realizing. I’m not good at dancing. My body moves too quickly and awkwardly, and let’s get real, I mostly dance with my hands. But I feel dance. Does that make sense? It’s something I can explore on my lunch break at home.

Working from home is the best way to work.

Seriously. I hated working for the corporate world. I hated the drive. I hated the small talk. I hated working next to the same people every day and never actually getting to know them. I hated eating lunch with the same people who never laughed at my jokes. I hated feeling that people were watching me, stifling me. I hated watching my cubicle plant slowly die in a grey box without any sunlight. I hated knowing that my heart wasn’t far behind: slowly dying in this place.

I love not slowly dying. I mean, I suppose we’re all dying, but I feel more like I’m living at home. I love dressing for work and not dressing for work, and I love that I have that choice. I love my healthy interactions with co-workers. I love that I get to work with the sun shining on my feet. I love that I get to work from my desk, my bed, and my floor all in the same day. I love that I get to talk to myself and laugh at myself. That’s what’s so wonderful about it. I get to be myself at home.

Working from home is spending the whole day as myself.

It’s typing on the floor in a favorite t-shirt, leaning against an unmade bed and laughing because I look cross-eyed.

Photo on 7-21-15 at 5.55 PM #3

Photo on 7-21-15 at 5.55 PM #2