The Great Grey Beast February

The sun may be shining and my wife may be wearing shorts (when isn't she?), but it's still winter in the Midwest. Clive Barker describes this ugly month as a great grey beast in The Thief of Always, and I've never heard a more apt description. 

Billie and Binx agree.

Last night, after I finished whining about a persistent, yellow-glowstar-snot cold that I've been trying haplessly to overcome, Kelsey observed that this is the time of year in which there's nothing to look forward to. The good holidays are in the rear-view mirror, our work schedules have come unsynchronized, and the cheery colors of spring look so far away.

In the past, I've had a lot of trouble with this part of winter, and I either overcompensate for my misery or let the great grey beast swallow me like it did Harvey Swick. My timehop app informs me that last year, I was in full overcompensation mode. Around this time, I published Necessaries and was taking it to workshops and a book signing and had started a GoFundMe to raise money for a booth at Pride. On top of that, Kelsey and I were planning our wedding. The future was radiant.

As for this year? There are definitely some beacons of hope on our calendar, including a much-anticipated wedding for some good friends of ours. Heck, as I've been drafting this post, I received an email notifying me that my bridesmaid (bridesmatron?) dress is ready for pick-up, and I'm pretty jazzed about that. I also have some painting commissions that will be fun to complete. Check out this one, the first I'd done in about a year:

It was a Christmas gift for the aforementioned betrothed, actually. They have such marvelous furbabies.

But the weight of the winter is still pressing down on this household. I've been more stressed and anxious than usual, fretting over bills and deadlines and a financial planning course that often makes me feel like an ignoramus. On top of that, there's the whole thing with our president ushering in the apocalypse and whatever. I worry about not doing enough, not saying enough, but when I see the horrors unfold, my heartrate spikes and I have to take a timeout to re-collar my rampant anxiety.

Historically, I've used writing to calm my nerves, and I've been doing that non-stop in any free moment since last summer, but in a very strange way. After publishing Necessaries, I got a bit anxious about the future of my writing. I have one project that I really love that isn't working the way I want it to, and another that I've thoroughly plotted but haven't made much creative headway with. I decided to set those projects gently to the side and write something completely different to get back in the groove. Something to experiment with some character-types I'll be using in another story. Something low-pressure, high-reward. Something quite ridiculous.

It was supposed to be small. It is now about the length of Necessaries. 

I accidentally wrote a free three-part novel under a pseudonym that, for reasons you'll quickly understand, can never be published. And, since it's out there, I thought I may as well share it with you, in case it helps you to withstand February as it's done for me.

But I'm neurotic and self-conscious, so if you want to know why I'm being a secretive weirdo about this side-project that has devoured my creative resources for half a year, you'll have to search for the answer yourself. I've hidden an Easter egg on my website. Well, I didn't do a great job of hiding it, but it's here somewhere. It will take you to my accidental novel.

Why did I do this? I don't know. I think I needed something that didn't have the same weight riding on it as my usual writing does (not that there's actually that much pressure there). I got addicted to getting feedback for this story, and I think that's why I've let it turn Audrey II on me. So many people are enjoying this story, and if I can bring a little sunshine to their lives during these batty times, that's worth something! 

Anyway, my real books haven't been neglected, and I'm coming up with a schedule for myself in which I can balance my various projects, hobbies, and studies. Whatever I do, I want it to make people happy, and make me happy, too.

Take that, February.

Bad at ________

Yes, that is our basement. Yes, the water is up to Kelsey's ankle.

Every so often, I write a "Bad at ______" post in which I talk about how ill-equipped I am for basic real-world struggles, because I think it's funny how bad I am at being a human. The thing is, lots of people are bad at being human, because the concept of being a good human is based on a perfect vision of humanity. A good human pays the bills on time, eats balanced meals, has healthy spending habits, doesn't cry over things like "the puppies are such good girls and are too perfect and pure for this world," etc. 

Nobody hits all the "good human" marks all the time. If you know someone who does, then they're an android, and it's your civic responsibility to turn them over to the authorities before they can achieve their sinister goals.

An English teacher I had in high school loaned me a life motto that I didn't understand at the time but have come to embrace so completely that the words have likely embedded themselves in my DNA and will be passed to my offspring whenever Kelsey and I have the money, emotional stability, and tolerance for human feces required for child-rearing. (That English teacher would NOT have approved of the previous sentence.) The motto is:

Fake it 'til you make it.

The best part about that mantra is that everybody uses it. We're all a bunch of fakers, doing some human things right ("I paid the gas bill this month despite it increasing by almost $100 from last month!") but doing other human things wrong ("I had a panic attack because an adult was mildly disappointed in me and so I made a giant plate of nachos for myself to soothe my nerves!"). Sometimes we hit somewhere right in-between ("Our basement flooded and instead of falling face-down in the water and waiting for the devil to take my soul I dealt with a plumber, didn't cry in front of him, and then drank a celebratory Manhattan instead of checking on the damage to the basement right away!"). 

We're all playing the same game. We're pretending to be grownups, and in the process, we are grownups. We'll never be the perfect human. But we'll be pretty much good humans, who pretty much go to the dentist sometimes, and pretty much know how to file our taxes. It's OK to be bad at stuff. 

This post has been brought to you by: "I need to justify why I stink at adulthood," "Please laugh at me; it's how I determine my self-worth," and Doc Hudson, the Actual Best.

Happy New Fear

Holy wow, I'm just now recovering from my wild NYE celebration! Man, you should have been there. The music was bangin', the drinks had flecks of actual gold leaf, and at midnight, Catwoman-era Halle Berry descended from the heavens and kissed me.

Just kidding. Here's a picture of what actually went down:

Not pictured: Kelsey's favorite CAH card, "tasteful sideboob"

That's not even wine in our glasses, guys. It's grape juice. Straight up "Communion at a Methodist church" grape juice.

Anyway, brushing aside that weird thing I said about Halle Berry (and how middle school me kept a novelization of the 2004 Catwoman film in my locker at all times so I could stare at Halle Berry in a catsuit on the cover between classes while fiercely repressing my homosexuality), happy 2017!

At least, I hope it's a happy 2017. Let's face it. If we ask a Magic 8 Ball if 2017 will be better than 2016, I guarantee it will answer: "OUTLOOK NOT SO GOOD," followed by condescending laughter. There is a lot to be afraid of this year. Take it from a professional worrier.

But I'm still holding out hope. Out of the pessimism of 2016, many new and impassioned voices are rising. I see movements of love on my Facebook feed, and hear people asking, "What can I do to help?". In our last days before the regime- uh, I mean, before the inauguration, that kind of desire to protect and support each other is vital. 

With that in mind, I truly wish you a happy 2017. May it come with endless love, safety, and progress. And maybe, just maybe, a little bit of tasteful sideboob. 

It's the Stress-Stressiest Time of the Year

This photo of me dressed (at my insistence) as the Mouse King and wielding a rolled-up paper sword because I was forbidden from having actual toy weapons still accurately describes how stressed-out the holidays make me.

The wedding happened. It was a thing. I am a married woman. I'm a married woman who went on a honeymoon to Williamsburg, VA with her wife. Ain't that something? Maybe I'll actually write about that someday. 

#Fresh2Death on the James River

I expected to feel different, but honestly, nothing has changed. Which is a good thing! Kelsey and I are very happy! The biggest differences have been the tripling of my health insurance premiums and the fact that I can introduce Kelsey to people as my wife now. Not that I've had much opportunity for that. And also not that I've felt socially comfortable enough to do that in every circumstance. 

Consider this situation: I met up Kelsey at Panera Bread, where she works, so we could grab a discounted bite to eat and then run some errands together. While we were sitting at a table, debating what to get, one of her coworkers approached and started chatting her up. Then the coworker noticed me.

"This your friend?" she asked.

"This is my wife, Abi," Kelsey replied.

We could see the gears clinking and grinding in her head. "You're girls. Boys marry girls and girls marry boys."

"Or whoever," Kelsey said, the edge of irritation in her voice apparently lost on the woman.

The conversation then progressed fairly normally, which is lucky. The coworker was friendly, and I think maybe a bit lower-functioning, and probably hadn't had much exposure to actual gay people. Maybe the encounter has broadened something for her. Or maybe she thinks we were joking. Whatever the case, I don't think she intended any animosity or judgment. 

But that conversation could have gone so differently. I think of the night Kelsey proposed to me, and the man who went out of his way to tell us, "THAT AIN'T RIGHT" as we enjoyed a romantic carriage ride. I think of the times when I debate on how to bring up Kelsey to strangers. Like when I had an electrician come to check out some funky wiring, and I was trying to describe something Kelsey had experienced to him. If I were a guy, it would be easy for me to just say, "My girlfriend heard a pop, and the light went out." But as a girl, talking to a stranger, am I jeopardizing my repairs by admitting I'm in a lesbian relationship? Am I jeopardizing my own safety?

Most of the time, no. Most, but not all. One poisoned piece of candy in a bowl of safe candy. 

Wowzers. We have veered offtrack here. Do you see what the holidays do to me? In case you doubt my neuroticism, here are some sources of recent stress:

• The aforementioned tripling of my premiums.
• Within a week of coming home from Virginia, both puppies became sick. And while a rational person might have waited the illness out, we made the mistake of doing online research and convincing ourselves Billie and Binx were on their deathbeds. $300 and a few ground turkey and rice meals later, and they're suddenly the picture of health.
• I have about 90 million thank you notes to write, which is a wonderful problem to have, but I'm worried that my pencil-taped-to-a-squirrel's-tail handwriting will make people doubt my sincerity. 
• I'm starting a program to get my Certified Financial Planner designation, despite having 0 collegiate financial background and a deep fear that I'm intellectually inadequate and am wasting oodles of time and money.
• I might be making a website for a small business owner?
• Because my wallet is suffering a $300 vet bill deficit and I have 0 time, many Christmas gifts will be homemade, but with desperate swiftness. I'm already realizing I've bitten off more than I can chew.
• I'm increasingly concerned about the league of cartoon supervillains that our president elect is inviting into our government, and am barely able to stop myself from brawling with every well-meaning but oblivious friend on Facebook about it.
• Roomie Cade woke up to discover our cat, Jasper, chasing an actual, non-cartoon mouse through her room the other day. Cade threw a box at it for a while, but that approach failed for some reason. Jasper politely followed her prey around for a while, but wasn't cat enough to exterminate it. The mouse ran over Kelsey's foot, which was an exciting start to her day, and she cornered it in the linen closet. But the thing Houdinied it out of there and into another closet, where I tried to do the humane thing and trap it in a box to throw into the freezing cold so it could die slowly and alone, as nature intended. But I missed and crushed the mouse with the side of the box, traumatizing everyone in the room except for Jasper, who had completely forgotten about it and was blissfully taking a dump. Also Aphrodite/Tad Cooper the bearded dragon, because (s)he has little to no regard for the lives of others. We then chucked the corpse into the trees and sang: "We'll meet again, don't know where, don't know when..."

Whoa. What did I tell ya? Absolutely scatterbrained. 'Tis the season!

The list could go on, but I can see it spiraling out of control. The holidays are great, but I need a holiday from the holidays! It's time to find some stress-relief activities and try to enjoy the snow while it lasts. May your days be cheery, bright, and painless as we close out 2016! I'm rooting for you!

Sorry Not Sorry

Way back when, I went on this class trip to a spaceflight simulator. I was assigned to Mission Control and was on a team with two other kids overseeing life support. We sat at these clunky computers with an unwieldy rollerball mouse and clicked through a giant manual of everything that can go wrong regarding life support, which is apparently a lot. 

My poorly-received art project about the collapse of childhood dreams.

The way the simulation worked was that a random series of errors would occur, and those of us in "Houston" would have to find a solution in our manuals and notify the astronauts. At some point, the astronauts said they were experiencing static electricity, and it was our time to shine. My little crew and I dug through this giant manual, looking for anything related to static electricity. This was a minor inconvenience, right? There had to be an easy fix.

But we weren't having much luck. Every comparable situation in the manual didn't quite line up in one way or another, and our time was ticking down.

"We need an answer, Life Support," said the director.

We gaped at each other. There wasn't a solution. We had to pick the closest match, something to mitigate the situation while a better answer could be found. My teammates were afraid to pick. 

So I was the one who sent the communication to the astronauts to diffuse the electricity into special bars in the cabin of the spacecraft that had been placed there for that purpose.

I picked wrong. The astronauts did as they'd been told, but the problem persisted, and the director stopped the simulation.

"What happened, Life Support?"

Again, my teammates didn't want to come under fire. We were pretty sure we were being graded on this, and we were the only unit to screw up so badly that the mission had to be effectively aborted. 

I knew I had to be the one to do it. My reasoning was selfish. I thought I could demonstrate that I was calmly and confidently taking responsibility for a mistake, and that I would get good marks for being so noble and honest and for taking the hit while my friends cowered.

I stood, and all of Mission Control stared at me. I explained that there was no perfect match for the situation, so we'd chosen the next best thing. I apologized for the error and asked what we should have done instead.

The director was not impressed. Though he didn't tell me what the right answer was, he made it clear that we'd chosen incorrectly. "Don't say you're sorry. Had this been a real mission, you would have killed them."

I had been so ready for a pat on the back for owning up to a mistake in front of so many people. And I was so sure we had done the right thing. We'd problem-solved and come up with something to treat the symptoms of an issue while we searched for a solution. 

I'd been wrong. I'd ruined the mission. I'd hypothetically killed a group of people because I couldn't read a manual properly. My "humility" hadn't mattered. Everyone on the trip saw me as the one who murdered the mission, even my Life Support teammates, who got to sit safely on the sidelines. 

And I wasn't supposed to say "sorry"? That seemed like the perfect time to apologize! 

Then again, I've always had a problem with apologies. 

Has this ever happened to you? You casually apologize for something minor, and the next thing you know, everyone's up in arms and acting like you just kicked a puppy? And then, obviously, you have to apologize again, and they get even more frustrated with you, and you seriously contemplate jumping out the window to avoid all this new and unexpected shame?

That's where I live. I'm constantly at that auto-defenestration shame threshold. 

I, like many women, am a chronic apologizer. It's a sucky-but-true fact that women learn at an early age that they must apologize for everything. For their bodies, for their needs, for taking up space, for speaking, for not being good at things, for being too good at things, etc. Pair that with persistent self-hatred, a desperate need to be considered "good enough," and the baseline anxiety level of a chihuahua stuck in an electric fence, and you get me.

I apologize for a number of reasons. Here are some common ones:

• I'm sorry I screwed up such-and-such-work-related-task, especially since that particular task could have been handled by a 1998 original-release Furby.
• I'm sorry I pooped in the bathroom before you were going to take a shower.
• I'm sorry such-and-such-bad-thing happened to you (in addition to the pooping before you showered thing).
• I'm sorry for staring blankly at you while you explained something simple that I subsequently failed to comprehend because I was A) inexplicably tired, B) thinking about a stupid story, or C) just straight-up wasn't paying attention for no freaking reason.
• I'm sorry that I can't remember if I've met such-and-such-person that you're asking me about, especially since when I see them I won't be able to recognize them anyway because I'm just face-blind enough to be a social nuisance, and they're going to think I'm rude if we have met because they'll think I'm a forgetful and rude person, which is not true, because I'm actually forgetful, rude, and have a slightly dysfunctional fusiform gyrus.

These are all situations in which I have inconvenienced another human being, which is my very-special talent in life. And yet, I hate inconveniencing people. I don't even like it when someone at a store offers to help. I don't care if I will die in the next 5 minutes if I don't find the stationary aisle at Staples, I will not ask an employee for help. My last words will be a breathy apology to whoever finds my prone body by the clearance printers. Yes, I recognize dealing with a corpse is more inconvenient than having to show someone where to find note cards, but at least I won't be alive to be ashamed of myself.

Because it all comes down to shame. I'm ashamed of almost everything about myself. I'm deeply aware of my many, many shortcomings, which is a problem because I very badly want to be the best at everything ever. So I sometimes apologize for not understanding something quickly enough, or for asking questions, or for not knowing an important name, or forgetting to do something, no matter how minor. 

After all, I killed a bunch of imaginary astronauts over something I thought was minor at the time.

Apologizing is how I convey to people my self-awareness and my conscientiousness. Like, "Hello, I'm aware that I've failed to measure up in some way, and I feel bad that my failure has inconvenienced you, and I'm going to do better." 

I've been told not to apologize so frequently, else people think I'm insecure or incompetent. Which I'm not. Or, not entirely. But I'm often in situations in which I don't have the right answer, or I'm stepping on someone's toes, or I'm otherwise blundering around, and I feel like I must express an apology, or come off as rude and unaware of my mistakes.

Here's the thing. I don't understand why apologizing gets equated with a lack of confidence. Can't confident people make mistakes? And shouldn't they say "sorry" when they do? Because that's what nice human beings do when they mess up? That's what you do when you're a smart person who happened to do something wrong? Like misunderstanding a fake Life Support manual?

It's true that I sometimes apologize when I shouldn't. Or worse, I apologize when I don't really mean it. However, I'm sticking to my Life Support guns. I think there are times when an apology is important, and it shouldn't convey self-doubt. It communicates that you're human and capable of error and that you're aware of it. You have to be aware of your shortcomings in order to make progress.

But you shouldn't expect accolades, either.

Anyway, this entire entry has been an experiment in bitterness after being called out for apologizing too much. I'm not sorry for my sorries. Not all of them. I think they're important. If people think they betray a lack of confidence, then I'll have to demonstrate confidence in other ways. 

Though perhaps I will think harder about what I mean when I say, "I'm sorry."