How I Became Convinced that my Eardrum had Burst and I Would Never Hear Out of my Left Ear Again

So, over Christmas vacation I somehow acquired dual ear infections. I mean, how does that even happen? How do you even get an ear infection as an adult? Let alone TWO ear infections?

I didn't even know I had them until I got on the plane to go home for the Peterson's, where we spent Christmas. Halfway through both flights (yes, I had to suffer through this TWICE), this incredible stabbing pain seared my eardrum. The first time was bad enough, but the second time was too much. I just cried. 

I couldn't help it. I just curled up into my jacket and started bawling. There was this fourteen year old boy flying by himself next to me, who had absolutely no idea what to do. Poor kid. It was honestly one of the most excruciating things I have ever felt. And I am no stranger to pain. I have fibro and chronic migraines. But ooooooooooooooooooh.

And that's how I became convinced that my eardrum had burst and I would never hear out of my left ear again. 

But no. It's just infected. And- surprise!- the right one is infected, too. So now I'm on antibiotics and weird ear drops and am slowly dying.

Remembering the Words Doesn't Matter: Christmas I

So I was binge watching Buzzfeed videos tonight, trying not to fall asleep until an appropriate hour (I was crashing hard at 6:30 and knew I needed to entertain myself with something. So obviously,to the internet! YouTube in particular. And Buzzfeed tends to be a pit of quicksand: once you get in, it slowly drags you into its infinite stash of videos and articles and Pinterest boards of totally random, silly, sometimes serious, but always relavent everyday topics). 

Anyways. So I'm watching this video of people trying to remember the lyrics of Christmas songs, and the first one they do is the iconic song "All I Want for Christmas is You" by Mariah Carey. 

But here's the thing: the words to that song don't matter one bit. Who cares about he words? I mean, everyone knows the jist of it, but that's not the point. The point is, that every time you hear that song, you automatically get one of three visuals:

1. You envision yourself shopping in some crowded mall or department store blasting Christmas cheer at you

2. You see a montage of other people shopping and/or wrapping presents with dramatic Christmas cheer in some old Christmas movie, or

3. You envision Mariah Carey lip synching the song on a float in the Macy's thanksgiving day parade in some ridiculous fur outfit.

That's what Christmas is all about. Associating random things like certain songs and cookies and ornaments and traditions with memories and people you love and emotions.

So with that, enjoy your December. Don't let it rush by. Take the time to do all the little things, because that's how make big memories and big bond and big relationships. It's important to slow down and just take it in, and make sure to make time for things you actually want to do (it's so easy to get busy and forget to do the things we were looking forward to). This is a time to enjoy the little things, do little things for others, and make sure little ones make good memories.

I Dig Freeways, Just Not in the Rain

So, Californians are known as fast drivers, who are pro at driving on the freeway. Because, basically, if you want to go anywhere farther than the mailbox, it's more practical to use the freeway. Freeways are basic surface streets for us.

But today I discovered the REAL reason why everyone is pro at driving in California: we never have to drive in anything but perfect (if somewhat hot) weather. Cause today it started raining buckets while I was on the freeway, and suddenly no one knew what to do. Everyone lost all ability to function. 

Now, I learned how to drive in the rain (meaning, I had my first drivers ed session during the entire 3 hours of rain we got in 2006), so I've always considered myself a bit more abled when it came to driving in imclimate weather than the average Californian (which is nothing but BS, but whatever). But this afternoon, even I was disoriented during this sudden micro-burst on the freeway. Suddenly I had anxiety over switching lanes, like whether or not I would be able to switch into the right lane before my exit came up, because suddenly the freeway was no longer a community where we all watch and anticipate the needs of others and work to together to all get to where we're going, but suddenly it's a free-for-all, and dang it, no one's going to let me over!! Is this what everyone else feels on the freeway? No wonder everyone else hates them. That's so stressful. It's like any other aspect of life: you can't just look out for yourself, because nobody is ever going to get anywhere. If you want to progress, or simply make things easier in yourselves, you gotta be looking out for each other, too.

I don't know how to figure the rain into that metaphor, though. Rain just makes things complicated. And wet.

(But yay! One thing Californians love is their rain. ESPECIALLY right now, cause we're going through one terrible drought. One of the worst droughts in our history, if I remember correctly. So bad that even with this predicted Godzilla El Niño, even if we got the max amount of rain, it wouldn't get us out of the drought. That's pretty pathetic, when you think about all the dangerous flash floods and houses crumbling in mud slides and cars floating away... But mostly I think about how the last time the streets were flooded, I was a teenager and apparently Stephanie's friends took their boogie boards and went skim boarding down the streets and towed each other behind cars trying to water ski, and it reminds me that fun can be had even in the oddest of situations.)

Well This Sucks

Well, my Halloween was going to be lame enough when all I was doing was staying home and watching Netflix. Then Netflix crashed.

My life is nothing more than a sad, cautionary tale to be told to teenagers with introvert tendencies.

In Which I Recall Snorting Random Food Products For Fun, But They Weren't Fun To My Sinuses

So, I just watched a YouTube video about how to make yourself sneeze, in which they snorted a mixture of ground black pepper, cayen pepper, and red pepper flakes. They definitely sneezed, but I'm not sure they still possess sinus cavities.

So, of course this reminds of the snorting experiments I've done in the past. I know I've mentioned some of these in the past, but they're too good not to tell again. Especially the last one. Well, at least to me.

Seeing as I've never done drugs, these were very.... creative... experiences. I was twelve, okay? One does not make smart decisions when twelve. Especially when you're at a slumber party. We'd been hanging out at a park down the street from the house we were staying at, pumped because it was Friday, and it was a birthday sleepover, which made it a thousand times more exciting. The first few hours of a sleepover are always the best. Then some one pulled a packet of Kool-aid out of their pocket and I don't know if someone was dared, or did it to be funny (probably Stephanie, because she enjoyed snorting weird things. More in a minute) but somehow we decided to snort it. 

But this wasn't just any kool-aid. No, this was lemonade Kool-aid powder. I laughed and snorted it, too. After approximately four seconds deceptive calm, the burning kicked it. I could have shot fire out of my nose and set the world on fire. It stung like I'd snorted a hive of those massive Chinese hornets into my sinus cavity instead a pinch of powdered drink mix. Can you say migraine?

A few years later, and Stephanie and I have become besties. We establish a tradition of going to the pool every Christmas Eve eve, because, you know, Southern California. And what do we randomly discover? If you inhale water through your nose, it goes straight down your throat. YOU CAN DRINK THROUGH YOUR NOSE. And that, my friends, was the coolest thing we'd learned in a long time. (Like I said, we lived in Southern California. We had to educate ourselves--anatomy included-- because the government sure as heck wasn't going to do it.)

But the best of the best came when we were seventeen. Stephanie, myself, and our friend David were eating at a pizza parlor, having a grand old time when Stephanie decides to snort one of those Parmesan cheese packets. (Frankly, I'm surprised she didn't go for the red pepper flakes instead. Wait, no, I'm not. Because the more random the item, the more likely it was to go up Stephanie's nose.) 

The cheese-snorting induces the most violent sneeze attack I've ever witness. I mean, Stephanie is the kind of person who sneezes like eight times in a row anyways. I'd always count them when we were younger, cheering her on and annoying her so bad. One time I also said, "Come on, big money! Big money!" I'm pretty sure that was the last time I commented on her sneezes.

Anyway, she sneezed a record amount of times, practically convulsing, blowing chunks of phglemy cheese out of her mouth all over us and the table, and I hadn't laughed that hard in ages. I'm sure they considered kicking us out, we were so out of control. She kept sneezing cheese all night, and we just giggled ourselves silly.

So, moral of the story: you don't need anything as dramatic as burning spices to make yourself sneeze. Parmasen cheese works wonders, there's no burn, and according to Stephanie, at least your nose smells nice for a while.

In Which We Enjoy the Blood Moon

Scene: Three Empeys standing in their driveway, watching the Blood Moon. They watch quietly, making small remarks here and there.

Three minutes in:

Holly: You know, this would probably be more exciting if I was wearing my contacts.

Lori: You can't see?

Holly: No, I can, it's just not very sharp. These glasses are just really weak.

Quiet contemplation, in awe. A conversation begins about how primitive cultures would have seen these kinds of events.

Lori: Can you imagine how many sacrifices-- like, human sacrifices-- have been made to Blood Moons?

Holly: Gosh, Mom. Way to ruin it.

A few more minutes go by. The small sliver of moon gets smaller and they wait for it to disappear.

Holly: You know, on Doctor Who, they recently found out the moon was an egg. [briefly explains episode. Realizes it sounds really, really nerdy out loud and shuts up. But it was a really good episode]

A discussion of tides ensues for a few minutes. Then:

Derek: "Can you imagine-- all of a sudden, BOOM!!! It explodes. Every little boys dream!"

You know, we may not be the most intellectual family, but the things we discuss sure are entertaining.

In Which I Exterminate a Mouse and am Traumatized

So, I had a run-in with a mouse the other day.

See, my parents were gone for almost two weeks up helping Steph and her family while Leah had surgery and recovered in the hospital. (Did I mention Leah yet? Leah is my new, sweet niece! Stephanie and Greg's third kid. Baby Peterson #3. So I'm an Auntie^3! That's cubed, right? Sweet! She's super cute and apparently very cuddly and sweet-natured despite having bad jaundice and having to have major intestinal surgery while only a month old. I get to meet her during Halloween, when I go up for a visit to the Peterson household. I can't waaaaaaaiiiiittttt!!)

Anyway. So I've got the house to myself and I'm loving it. (Being an adult child at home is hard, y'all. In case you wondered.) So late one night I go to the kitchen for a snack, and out of the corner of my eye I see movement. Mouse movement, to be specific. There is a mouse on my countertop. 

Two thought immediately go through my brain:

1. How incredibly appropriate is it that I JUST watched Ratatouille on TV yesterday?! I mean, what are the chances?!

2. I'm going to have to kill this thing, and that is the last thing I want to do.

The mouse and i lock eyes for a moment, both of us drowning in dread. I slowly take out my phone to snap a picture, and the mouse darts across the counter and jumps down behind the stove. I then send the following text message to my parents:

AQAAHHHHHHH!!!!!!! THERE IS A MOUSE. A MOUSE. IN THE KITCHEN. IT JUST RAN BY ME ON THE COUNTER, THEN SAT DOWN NEXT TO THE KNIVES WHERE WE STARED AT EACH OTHER FOR A FEW MINUTES BUT WHEN I TRIED TO TAKE A PICTURE OF HI, HE DOVE BEHIND THE STOVE. THERE IS A MOUSE BEHIND THE STOVE AND I HAVE NO CLUE WHAT TO DO.

To which my Dad instantly called me, using soothing tones because there was nothing to be afraid of. Well, duh. Of course there was nothing to be AFRAID of. I wasn't afraid of a mouse. I was panicking. I was in panic mode because I knew I was going to have to man-up and kill it. And I didn't want to. 

So Dad made arrangements with my dear Uncle Kevin to bring over some traps the next night-- some glue traps so "I wouldn't have to hear the snap of a regular one in the middle of the night." So we set them up, and two days later, there he is. I actually heard him first. He was in the trap underneath a cabinet, where I wasn't expecting him, so I just heard a desperate squeak squeak squeak to herald his presence. And there he was. Trapped lying on his side in the glue trap, desperately trying to free himself. I could see his muscles straining so hard as he tried to move.

Now, I had resigned myself to killing this mouse. I knew that it wasn't sanitary for him to live in our house, much less the kitchen. Ratatouille's remarkable timing be darned. That house had to go.

But when I saw him struggling like that, when I heard him squeaking, I realized this was the least humane thing I had ever done. I had to fix it. I had to free him. I took the trap outside, ran to our rose bushes, and tried to brush him off the trap with a broom. But it didn't work. The mouse was getting more frantic, and so was I. Diseases also be darned, I took hold of the mouse and proceeded to pull the thing off the trap.

But, dear goodness, those things are nothing like the various adhesive crafting products I've used. The substance coating the trap, the mouse, and now me was nuclear-strength military grade sludge for holding space crafts together. Billions of years from now, when all life and civilazition is long gone, that stuff will be utterly unchanged, chilling with the cockroaches. Somehow, I manage to get him free, although I was convinced I was going to rip his paw off at one point. But then I finally have to acknowledge the fact that he could never survive. He was coated in the stuff. I hadn't even gotten on the ground yet, and he was already coated in mulch. It didn't matter if he wasn't stuck to the trap, he would take the trap with him. He'd stick to the ground. To a bush. To himself.

I couldn't let him go.

So I stuck him back on the trap.

Do you realize how traumatizing this was? Do you? I think his nose got stuck in the glue that time, and I was glad. Now he would probably suffocate instead of the long grueling death of starvation, or frying in my trash can.

I fled to our trash bin outside, trying not to let it sink in what was happening, but most failing. I tried to fling the trap with the suffocating mouse into the can, but it was glued to my hand. He was literally suffocating at my hands. 

It took half a Costco bottle of Canolla oil, nearly as much Dawn dish soap, and 10 minutes of scrubbing my hands with a dish scrubber to get the stuff off. The glue may be gone, but I can never regain my peace of mind.

Glue traps are the most evil contraptions we have invented. (In regards to pest control.) getting rid of unwelcome visitors is never fun. Removing opossums, skunks, bunnies, and yes, the stray mouse or two, doesn't always mean having to kill them. In fact, you should always try other ways first before resorting to killing them. Especially if they're outside, and just being a nuisance instead of a real health and safety hazard. But when the situation arises that you gotta kill that mouse USE THE SNAP TRAP. Yes it's loud. Yes it's scary. Yes it's disgusting and awful and violent. But it's over in a second. That mouse doesn't suffer. It's over before it realizes what's going down. But glue traps are the most awful things you could ever inflict upon an animal. It's like trapping them in their own tar pits and just letting them starve or whatever to death. How incredibly cruel. Yes, it's just a mouse. But if someone was exterminating ME, I'd hope they would have the decency to finish the job and not make me suffer.

Just saying.

Closet World Update: Closet World Part IIII

(It's been at least a month since I last ranted about the Closet World commercial. So I've pretty much gotten over it, right?

Then I'm sitting watching the news with my Dad, and, of course, the Closet World commercial comes on. And immediately, Dad says, "Hey, can you dance like this robot guy?"

And I sigh.

"Where is it? Did they get rid of it?"

"No, it's just at the end," I reply sadly. "Mom hates that thing."

And internally I laugh at the way each one of us, individually, have brought up the fact that this commercial is awful. The creepiness of the dancing animation is unanimous.

And I also give a rueful chuckle that neither my mother or father had read any of these on-going rants and updates I've released into the internet. 

Conclusion: eat poo, Closet World.)

In Which I Rant About Doctor Visits and My Inability to Process Pain

So, it's no secret that I go to a lot of doctors appointments. I see half a dozen specialist for my half a dozen issues, so doctors offices have become almost a home away from home. Okay, not really. But I've got the routines down pat. I know to come prepared with my medications list/changes in medication, I know that the nurse will always be surprised at my high pulse and am prepared to explain it, I've learned how to be an advocate for myself. (But most importantly, I've learned to always prepare small talk to make the situation less awkward. Complimenting the nurse on her nails always goes over well.)

But there's one thing that I hate about doctors visits, especially when it's for an urgent issue. I don't know how to rate pain. When the doctor presses on the malfunctioning body parts and says "Does this hurt?" I'm always extremely confused. 

Listen, lady, I have a disease where my nerves are constantly malfunctioning and sending signals of great pain to my brain for no reason. I can't process pain. My nerves are not something to be counted on to do their job, you see? So when you jab at my stomach, yeah, I feel it. It's uncomfortable. I might even go so far as to say it's tender. But does it hurt? Who knows?

I have a chronic pain disease. Which means I hurt all the time. Which means I've gotten really used to it. Which means, in addition to having haywire nerves, I have a high tolerance for pain. So my scale of "pain" is a whole lot different than the average persons. 

(Like there was this one time that I was at the doctors for something completely boring and benign, and I just so happened to mention that my throat was feeling sore the other day, and it turns out I had really bad strep throat. My doctor actually asked me if I'd been swallowing lit cigarettes, it looked so bad. And he was serious. I just don't understand pain.)

Today's experience: 

Dr. "Does this hurt?"

Me: "Ummmmmmm, kinda."

Dr. "And here?"

Me: Contemplating pause: "not really. I mean, it's kinda sore."

Dr. "Here?"

Me: "yeah, I think so."

Dr. "Show me where it hurts."

Me: "Well, I feel it just feels sore right here, and on the side, and that side, and right here-- no, up a little, yeah, there. And down a little."

Dr. Exasperated: " that's everywhere."

Me: "Well. Yeah."

So then she said what all doctors end up saying in the end: "Well, since you're not jumping off the table when I touch it, it's probably not anything serious."

And then I'm sent away with a list of over-the-counter drugs and shooed away with assurance that I'll be fine. But it's not fine. 

So when I have a distrust of Primary Care physicians, I think it's pretty accurate.

In Which I Contemplate that Bodies are Beautiful, So We Don't Need Tattoos

So, I was thinking about how I would explain to someone why I don't support getting tattoos, and it led me to remember some phrase I read on a "Mom-aesthetic" Facebook post (you know the ones I mean... Random quotes, usually some joke about getting older, With the weird clip art and some cheesy font that middle-aged and older women pass around).

Anyways:

"Why don't I have tattoos? Would you put a bumper sticker on a Ferrari?"

And I think, well, that's pretty rude to all the people who DO have tattoos. What are you saying, that they aren't Ferraris, but you are? Or that they're idiots for putting the bumper stickers on their less-than car selves? Either way, it's no good.

And I don't think it makes all that much sense, anyways. Because while there are a lot of terrible tattoos out there, bad enough to be equalifized as a bumper sticker, there are a lot of really gorgeous ones, too. Incredible works of art. 

So, instead of the bumper sticker on a Ferrari analogy, I'd suggest something more like: "would you ask Picasso to paint on the side of your car?" No, because that's ridiculous. Those are two things-priceless paintings and vehicles of transportation- that have nothing to do with each other. Just like bodies and tattoos. Bodies are already works of art themselves. You don't need to add to them with permanent ink to make them beautiful, or interesting, or different. If you have a great love of art, sweet. Support artists! Just leave the ink on paper, not skin, where you can give it the proper admiration it deserves. That way, both the art AND your body get their time to shine without having to compete with each other.

In Which I Get Backup On Closet World Hate: Closet World Part III

**Note: this is the third post in a sequence about a particular commercial spreading filth and hatred throughout the San Diego county. In order for this to make complete sense, scroll down four posts to the first note, then scroll up to the next immediate entry for part two. Then it's just one jump up back to this one. Or be the little rebel you know you are and read them backward. You little rebel, you.

So, Mom and I were watching TV today, and guess what commercial came on? Mmmm-hmmm, you know it. Closet World. 

Now, it's been a few weeks since the jingle fiasco, so I didn't immediately start imploding. But then MOM starts freaking and is like, "Oh my gosh, I HATE the dancing robot guy they have in their commercials! See! There it is! It's so creepy! I hate him"

And suddenly I'm imploding for a completely different reason, and I'm trying to explain that I've 

Literally just blogged about how much I hate this commercial, but it seems like I'm trying to upstage her hate, like I'm trying to one-up-her in the dramatics (which, let's be honest, I am the most dramatic one in this entire family, if only by unintended exaggeration alone), so I just shut up and mourn lost Closet World jingle innocence.

Also, way to show that you never read my blog, Mom. Not that it's worth checking all that often because I tend to not update, but maybe once a month or so would update you on my current rants and obsessions. And settle the score, proving that Closet World commercial hatred was totally mine first. I hated it before it was cool. I'm the hipster, here. 

(PS, Mom: This is dramatic sarcasm and self-deprication used for comedic purposes, not a passive-aggressive lash-out. I don't want your feelings to be hurt. Cause every time I mention you in a post, you seem like I hurt your feelings, which is not my intention. Like when I mention the time when I was dying of food poising from Subway and you slept through it and you were upset because you felt like it showed you in a negative light, that was not my intention. I was just trying to give details that made the story even more interesting and dramatic. I thought the whole thing was funny, actually. So, yeah.)

What was my point here? Oh yeah, Closet World. The important thing to note here is: I'm not crazy. Someone else hates Closet World commercials, too. The jingle is wretched, and now that Mom mentioned it, the dancing robot guy (what is he supposed to be, anyways? He's like a disproportionate silver Michelin man) is awful too. You haven't got anything right. You may make totally sweet closet, who knows, but since I'm judging you completely on your commercial, I've concluded that you are complete rubbish. 

So, put that in your juice box and suck it, Closet World.

In Which I Try to Riddle Out the Connection Between LDS Members and the Dentistry Profession

Question: why are there so many LDS dentists? I'm pretty certain that every dentist I've ever been to has been LDS, including my orthodontist and the guy who took out my wisdom teeth. My Sunday school teacher as a early teenager was a dentist. The bishop of our old Temecula ward's counterpart ward (and good family friend) is both my mom and dad's dentist (but randomly not mine... But don't worry, my dentist is LDS, too. He's in my ward, actually. I worked with his wife in Young Women's). My mom worked for him for a while, because, that's right, she was a dental hygentist back in the day... The day before they wore gloves. My dental hygentist as a teenager was in the stake YW's presidency, so it was always super nerve racking to see her (the dentist was a member, of course). I had a friend growing up who wanted to be a dentist, but then he left the church and ended up going into the Air Force and posts pictures on Facebook of him and his buddings surrounding bongs and beer.

Not that I have anything against ex-members who join the Air Force and enjoy taking pictures of them and their friends relaxing with beer and bongs. Their just not LDS dentists. Which is the point I'm trying to make. 

....... 

Well. That was a mood wrecker. 

I suppose I'm off to go ponder some more just what makes cleaning crusty crap off other people's teeth so appealing to members of the LDS church. Or anyone, for that matter. It's just gross, you know? 

(And, you know, going to the dentist is one of the things that is like a serious bummer in life, like on a scale of mild dislike to the ninth circle of The Inferno's hell, it's pretty close to jamming with Dante for a lot of people. So just how enjoyable can it be for the dentist? I mean, unless the dude is some secret super villain, I can't imagine it being all rainbows and butterflies. But what do I know. I'm just the girl who hates toothpaste with the fiery passion of a thousand suns.)

Follow Up On Yesterday's Closet World Post

What the heck!

After singing Closet World's jingle all last night, and again this morning when I woke up, I finally froze it out when something else caught in my brain. I can't even remember what it was now.

But just now, as I'm calming reading my book, it emerges... "1-800-4800, Closet World!"

Where did it even come from? I was reading. My brain was thoroughly occupied. I was nourishing it! How could it betray me like this? I've overdone the italics now, but I needed to emphasize my point. Plus they're fancy.

Gosh darn it, Closet World. This whole thing would a thousand times less frustrating if I actually knew the phone number. But I refuse to learn it! I will never give in to your marketing schemes, Closet World! Never!! You won't take me alive!!

In Which I Discuss Why Annoying Ads Suck

I have the jingle for Closet World stuck in my head. Which really sucks because the words to it is the phone number, and we all know I can't remember a sequence of numbers to save my life... So I just mumble random numbers each time.

I take back my not-being-able-to-remember-any-number-sequence statement. My seventh grade P.E. Locker combination, which I shared with my best friend Stephanie Lovett, was 35-21-11. Because I usually sang about what I was doing at the moment back then, I inevitably came up with a tune for 35-21-11, and sang it every time I opened it. Granted, so did everyone else around us in the locker room, but it was forever solidified into my brain!

Back to Closet World. See, this is the thing I have about marketing. I get that companies go to extreme lengths to make (hopefully) catchy, or weird/annoying ads, because you remember them. And if you remember them, then you're thinking about their company, and they win. But that's the thing, marketing people: if you have an incredibly annoying commercial or ad, I will remember it. And I will deliberately remember NOT to buy your product, just because your marketing is so terrible. So, there's that.

And those are my pressing thoughts for tonight. 

I Don't Find This Entertaining

So, I was going through a list of prompts I have written for blog posts to write, and one simply states, "Nothing ignites my fight or flight reflex more than musical chairs." Nothing else. No hints to a story I wanted to tell, or some experience in which I discovered this fact, just that "nothing ignites my fight or flight reflex more than musical chairs."

But, really, does that need explaining? Do you really need an anecdote here? I'm pretty sure musical chairs ignites some sort of primal instinct in everyone. There is no way to take a game of musical chairs lightly: every game is a game to the death. Even bowing out early in the game to avoid the slaughter is like giving natural selection a helping hand.

I am a woman of the 21st century, I have the capacity for higher intelligence and live in a world full of technology and education and thought: I SHOULD NOT BE SUBJECTED TO SUCH OUTRAGEOUS, INTELLECTUALLY DEMEANING ACTIVITIES. At least not without considering the ramifications of such intense anxiety on my psyche. Or, you know, taking a Xanax. 

In Which I Realize My Art Of Professional Placement, And Am Proud

So, my cousin is getting married and my mom is happily helping along with reception decor and planning and such, which means not only is it all over the house, but Mom often pulls me in when she's making something for my opinion/help.

Just now, for example, she was decorating a "G" with shells and such (it's a beachy-themed wedding), and after coating it with a layer of tiny beige shells pieces, she asked me to come take a look. Several questions thus ensued, "should I outline it with this? Or this? Or these beads?" "Should I fill it in or sort of scatter things?" "Big shells or little?" and many more that had my imagination spinning and not grasping anything. After three minutes of complete bafflement, Mom started placing shells, and I simply began rearranging them, flicking off ones too small or two dark, picked a few small beads from her bowls and placed them just so. And, voila! Under ten minutes we'd figured it out.

And that, my friends, was the very first time I understood my own talent. Because I had started out feeling like nothing was going to make that thing pretty (not that it was ugly, I just had no optimism in the materials around), and then being able to do my thing, and see the results, I understood that there is something to this "having an eye for art, for placement." It's the first time that I saw something I had made (or, well, mostly me), and understand that it really isn't something Mom or anybody can make. Because that's what I've thought all this time-- that ANYBODY could be doing what I do, making the frames, (because, hello, it's just glueing things down on a frame) just nobody DOES because they have more important things to do in their real lives with real jobs. That if people just tried it, they'd produce the exact same things I do. 

And maybe, on some level, that's true. There are surely some people out there who are artistic and creative and could make some awesome frames. But maybe a lot of people WOULDNT. Their quality or look or whatever wouldn't be the same, because, apparently, "they don't have an eye for ________." Placement. Color. Art. 

But I do.

Huh.

The Process Of Picking A Name For My Etsy Store

So, I've recently overcome some of the defining hurdles with Etsy that have been holding me back from selling my frames and stuff, which is rad. I still have a ton of work to do, and I'm petrified of the whole process because of my perfectionism, but I'm really, really trying to get this going.

So, sweet, right?

Wrong.

My progress has screeched to a stop as I've encountered, once again, the horrid process of coming up with a name for my Etsy shop.

Dun-dun-DUNNN!!!

I've said it before, and I'll say it a million more times: I cannot title things to save my life. I'm surprised my essays for school never got docked for having such overly-pathetic titles. The documents saved on my computer are all labeled "uh" and "argh" and "jfjjdjcnfkslsjdj" because my brain literally goes blank when it comes to titles. I wrote my journal as a Word document as a teenager, and I called it "fruit loops," because that's what I happened to be eating as I wrote the first entry. (I aimed to subsequently name the next volumes of my personal journal after other cereals, like Frosted Flakes: Holly's Journal Volume II, but I have yet to continue writing a continuous journal, so there goes that idea).

So, how in the world am I supposed to name something as large and important as my Etsy shop? (Side note: will you judge me if I start referring to my website as a shoppe? Because I totally want to be   A pretentious wannabe bloke who adds extra letters to things).

I've literally lost hours of sleep over this. So many hours. You see, it can't just be any old name. It has to tell what my product is: picture frames, preferably something jewelry or seashell themed. It has to be creative, because Etsy is known to be creative. (Like, I once saw a shop-- shoppe?-- that was all hand-knit things, called "Too Legit To Knit" which I thought was BOMB... this is a reference to cult classic movie Hot Rod, if you didn't know, FYI, and it's absolutely PERFECT) And it has to be something I'm not embarrassed to say out loud. Like, I thought I had one figured out like 2 years ago, and I told my aunt and grandma, and they were both totally underwhelmed and I got totally insecure and embarrassed... Embarrassed enough to wipe whatever that name was right out of my head, like it never existed. So it has to pass the Grandma test. Not that she has to like it, but I can't feel foolish saying it to her.

So, I thought I'd share my wins and (mostly) losses in the never-ending, bane-of-my-existence, process of naming my Etsy shop.

A few months ago, as I was under the influence of antibiotics that made me drowsy, I came up with a list of names. Here are some of the winners I discovered a few days later on my phone:

Sassy Shells and Fancy Frames

Special Snowflake Products

Jazzy Junk and Stuff

... And my personal favorite: Pimpin Picture Frames

Now. Though I laughed at those, and was confused at others that I didn't bother to put on here, I knew I did have one winner-ish: Sassy Shells and Fancy Frames. Meaning: it said what my product was, it had alliteration (score!), and the true selling point, my mom liked it. So, for a few months, that's what I had unofficially officially named my shop. 

But guess what happened when I went to officially name my shop on Etsy last week? IT'S TOO LONG. I CANT USE IT. 

*mutters mild bad words under breath*

Okay. This is okay. I can work around this, right?

WRONG.

I try simply "Fancy Frames". Not all of my frames have shells anyway, so who really cares, right? Nice and simple. 

NOPE. The name "Fancy Frames" belongs to someone else.

DRAT.

Okay. Alright. Well, not ALL my products are frames. I've blinged out, like, 3 sea shells before, and they were AWESOME. And, really, I do use a lot of shells in my frames. So I try. "Sassy Shells".

NOPE. Someone else has claims to Sassy Shells. (Really? I'd like to see your sassy shells. I doubt the amount of sass they possess has nothing on my evacuated sea-created husks. Mmmm-hmm, grrrrrrl.)

What the Fletcher Jones am I supposed to do now?

Technically, I've been rooting for "Jazzy Junk and Stuff" since the beginning. However, I don't think it'll do good for company or customer morale to refer to expensive, hand-crafted products as "junk." 

"Pimpin' Picture Frames" comes in a real close second in my book as well, but it doesn't pass the grandma test. Well, actually. That's up in air. It's about 50-50 that she'd either think it was funny or not get it. But my Aunt probably wouldn't. I'm most concerned about the Ellie test, however. I can't have her going around telling her primary teachers about her favorite aunt's rad website if the word "pimpin'"s in it. I think it'd be adorable, but Steph probably would object.

So. Once again I am nameless. So, dear friends, family, readers, I'm out of ideas, and I'm totally turning it over to you. I beg, I plead, I implore, please come up with an excellent name for my Etsy shop. I'm so totally over this process.

Please, help a girl out. If I have to go something utterly lame and generic like "Holly's frames," I think all my creative juices will evaporate and die and my hopes and dreams shall be no more. Please, y'all, do it.

Things I Love

My family.
Ellie and Cameron, my niece and nephew.
Also: Peterson baby #3, who is still a bun in the oven, sex currently unknown.
Books. Or: really well told stories.
Donuts.
Makeup. Which I wear for no one but myself, simply because I like it.
My cat. All cats.
Cat videos on the internet. The adorableness is neverending.
Anything and everything by my favorite author, Maggie Stiefvater.
Dr. Who! I'm only a million years late to get on the bandwagon...
Girl Scout Cookies.        
The Google Chrome swear filter I found last night. Tumblr is much safer now.
Making other people happy.
The Avengers! Loki and Thor and Captain America and Tony Stark.
Pretty shoes you can actually walk in.
Target.
Daisies.
Wedding planning on Pinterest.
The sound of rain.
Bursting bookshelves.
The journal I keep of random thoughts I have. And I mean random. I mean, with the strange things I talk about here, think of the random stuff that's in there... It's awesome.

In Which I Suffer Injections and the Humiliation of Being Rejected by a Homeless Man

This week has been pretty full of shots and needles, and I'm pretty done. 29 shots of Botox into my head and shoulders on Monday, then 8 steroid shots in my back and a blood draw today. Not that I'm complaining, I'm so glad that I have these medicines and therapies availble to me--they really do help me feel better!!

But, you know? Ouch. That was all quite painful. 

Also, I tried to give a pan-handling homeless man my Happy Meal today, but he didn't want it. That was odd, depressing, and slightly humiliating all at the same time. Like, "oh, okay. I'll just be over here, eating my white trash food. The stuff that apparently is so awful homeless people would rather starve than eat it." I mean, what the heck kind of food snob was he? It was a Happy Meal! I wasn't throwing around Quarter Pounders with cheese and other artery-cloggers on a bun. There are apple slices in there!

Anyways.

So now I'm going to jump into bed early with a box of highly caloric Girl Scout cookies and watch Dr. Who.

Yeah, that's right. I'm following up a Happy Meal with Tag-A-Longs. What now, old man? WHAT NOW?!

Birds Invading My House

So, that's twice now a bird has flown into my house and gotten itself stuck. 

So am I secretly a Disney princess? Or are there just really dumb birds occupying my neighborhood?

Thoughts on the Fictional Bipolar Character Theodore Finch and his Resulting Actions

So. I have deep thoughts to share. Because of book, which, hey, is one of the main purposes of books: to make you think and talk about the things you think about. So here I go. Saying the things I think because of this book.

This book:

All the Bright Places

by Jennifer Niven

The Publisher says:
"The Fault in Our Stars meets Eleanor and Park in this exhilarating and heart-wrenching love story about a girl who learns to live from a boy who intends to die.
Soon to be a major motion picture starring Elle Fanning!---(WHAT?! THIS WILL MAKE AN AWFUL, HORRIBLE MOVIE, THIS IS NOT A GOOD IDEA, PEOPLE, YOU SHOULD REALLY RETHINK THIS)
 
Theodore Finch is fascinated by death, and he constantly thinks of ways he might kill himself. But each time, something good, no matter how small, stops him.
 
Violet Markey lives for the future, counting the days until graduation, when she can escape her Indiana town and her aching grief in the wake of her sister’s recent death."

(Basically, Finch and Violet become friends and do a school project together where they have to explore their state and they go to all these random, awesome places in Indiana and learn how to live and are happy and fall in love and it's good.)

My Thoughts:
Well. This book. This book, this book, this book.

This one really got me. Meaning it both really shocked and upset me, and it also got the real essence of my life, my mind, my past experiences with mental health issues.

Typically, I say that those with mental health issues shouldn't read books about characters struggling with mental health issues. It just screws you up. Even if you're doing perfect in your life, the struggle of the characters really brings you back to low times and it can be really emotional and simply tough to go through. But, you know, I saw the cover, and I thought it would be more about getting over grief and learning to live and happiness and sunshine, and, well ALL THE BRIGHT PLACES in life.

But no. No, no. Finch is bipolar. He has manic depression. And I was mystified and so full of awe at how the author was able to perfectly portray the feeling of OTHERNESS and restlessness that comes with being bipolar. It was like seeing my teenage self come to life on the pages, the risk taking, and the searching for and obsessing over mysterious concepts that don't quite make sense, the feeling that there is some OTHERNESS to you. That you have to run, you have to go, you have to DO SOMETHING. Regular existence is simply not enough. You have to search for more. 

I desperately want to know if Jennifer Niven has manic depression herself, because it was so spot on. I was completely enthralled by the accuracy, and it was pretty scary. I mean, I was Finch as a teenager. Only I was Finch on the inside, and was secretive, and I hid it a lot better. But I eventually got help. And I'm NOT Finch anymore. I still have depression and anxiety and all the normal issues of life, but I don't have that crazy OTHERNESS driving me anymore. And I haven't thought in a while just how horrible it was to be ruled by it, and how grateful I am now that I'm okay, that I can go through a day and feel satisfied with my existence. That the restlessness is gone.

Sorry, I'm rambling. But I want you to know how affected I was by Finch and his character.

And then he committed suicide.

I broke.

Because that could have been me. I was Finch, and I had that choice of stick it out or end it myself, and I CHOSE TO KEEP GOING. 

But Finch didn't. And it really shocked me. I suppose I really had faith in him and thought he was going to tough it out. I thought his "attempts" were the OTHERNESS wanting to do things no one else does, be on the edge, feel the feeling of ALMOST. Because that's how the book opened-- Finch was on the bell tower, and I was convinced that he wasn't actually going to do it (he meets Violet then, and helps her through a panic attack). But then again, I guess I'm an awful judge of other's suicidal choices. I don't know, it's just a sort of emotional electrocution when a character that you've identified with, a character you've decided represents the teenage you KILLS HIMSELF.

So as I finished the book last night, I used up a box of tissues as I reflected. I guess I was so upset because I was remembering how awful it was. Because Jennifer Niven was able to describe what I felt to a T, which means that other people feel the same way-- that not only I experience this. Because nobody should have to go through this. If you can't trust your mind, the world is the loneliest place. Because this happens, in real life. Because people do feel like there is no other option but to end it all, and they do. Because people get left behind, wondering what they could have done. Because they COULD have done more. Because of the stigma mental health has. Because people don't want to be labeled. Because there ARE things and people out there that COULD help, but they aren't taken advantage of. Because we don't have ENOUGH resources to help teens and (and adults) with depression and mental health issues and people suffer because of it. Because people are killing themselves, and that's just not right.

So. The book was good. It was a good description of what it's like to be bipolar. The plot was alright. The characters were decent. The emotional level was intense. But the ending helped pull things together emotionally (so I was able to pull myself together and stop bawling into the side of my cat). But it brings up a real life question: there are kids out there who are thinking about killing themselves. Who are you to them? Are you a peer egging them on? Are you a teacher not paying any attention? Are you a family member refusing to see the signs? Or are you a friend who tries to do something? Are you someone who sees the signs? If so, don't just wait to see if it gets better. You may not have any time left to wait. Say something. Show them how much you love them. Show them how important they are to the world. Just be there for them. Ask them questions, let them talk. You just may save a life.

Now Accepting Alternate Methods of Payment

"Hi, Ma'am, would you like to buy some Girl Scout cookies?"

"Would I?! YES. Give me 2 Thin Mints, and a Tag-A-Longs, ooh, and a box of coconut ones. How much is that?"

"Only two years of tuition at a private out-of-state college!"

"Whoa. That sure went up."

"We're also accepting blood contracts for the eternal servitude of souls this year, too."

"Nah, I can't, I already sold my soul to Nutella. How about my firstborn? Would you take that?"

"Yeah, that should work. We'll give you 10 boxes."

"Sweet!! Best deal ever!!"

In Which I Am Frustrated Because I Can't Remember Why My Dream Was Awesome

Have you ever had a really good dream? One of those really good dreams that you realize is a really good dream while you're still dreaming? So, while half asleep, you tell yourself to go over and over the dream so you can remember it when you wake up? 

Of course, then you wake up, and you're like "... What the heck?" Because not only is it completely bizarre, but you don't remember 95% of it, despite the remembering-exercises you did in your semi-conscious state.

Yeah. Had that happen last night/this morning. It's one of those moments when you really start to question your own sanity. Because even when you DO remember, you realize just how WEIRD your dreams are, and it's slightly disturbing that you found them amazing and delightful on some unconscious level. You know? 

I don't know. Maybe if I remember more from last night I wouldn't be so cynical. But I don't remember. I remember images, and can see clips of my dream, but I have no idea what the plot was. No, that's not true. I think I remember what the plot was, I just don't remember why I was so obsessed with it. Why I wanted to remember so I could write it down when I woke up. 

Sigh.

I used to have very vivid dreams. I remember blogging about them in, like, the eighth grade. They were so random and looooong, and I'd remember a ton of it in the morning, so I'd tell my friends before school so we could all have a laugh at my crazy mind. I still remember some of them quite vividly. I remember my first nightmare vividly, too. Okay, it obviously wasn't my FIRST nightmare, but my first registered nightmare in my recollection. I remember my sister helping me go back to sleep after a nightmare when I was probably 6, when she told me that she took the scary thing in the nightmare and made it funny. Like if you have a nightmare about alligators, you change your dream until the alligator becomes your friend or is doing a funny dance. I like that memory.

New Year's Resoloutions

Nobody ever really follows through with their New Year's Resolutions. I mean, if they did, the world would become a progressively better place every year if we did. Or we'd all be skinny, at the very least.

I never really make resolutions. I think of things. Like, hey, I should totally try and do more of such and such. Or be more mindful of this and that. Never exercise. I learned that one early.

I love seeing other people's random resolutions on the internet. Like, one I've seen a TON of is "wear more black." Wow, really? You can make resolutions like that? But, seriously, why black? I guess the idea seems chic, but the implementation usually more drab and slightly goth. I mean, if anything, I'd resolve to wear more color. Then again, I'm pasty and black and I do not get along.

I also like "be nice to myself." What does that even mean? I mean, props on the super ambiguousness so at the end of the year basically anything can count, but seriously? My version of being nice to myself would be indulging in cake for every meal and letting myself not feel guilty, or perhaps splurging on a whole new wardrobe I did not need but wanted. "Hey, Holly, why did you rob that bank and spend all the money on books and chocolate milk?" Oh, you know, I was being nice to myself.

But my most favorite resolution of all is the one I've adopted for this year: drink more water. I love that this is an acceptable status. I feel like I'm getting away with something awesome! I mean, it's basicAlly saying, "Drink more of the one liquid substance on earth essential to living." It's like resolving to breathe more air. Hey, do you think I can use that for next year? 

This tops the charts though: