Unconditional love

I love my husband, even when I wake up freezing every night because he’s a cover hog. I love the little sacrifices he makes for me every day, just to make me happy. Like sleeping with the fluffy pillows because he knows I like the flat ones.
Or being the one to turn all the lights off every night because I love to get the best spot in the middle of the bed before him.

I love that he comes home to the laundry done for him, even though he says he’s going to do it because I’m a little old fashion and I want his clothes to look presentable, and quite frankly, I don’t think he was ever taught to separate whites and colors.

I love how he simply tolerates all my nonsense selfies and the neediness of my ridiculous animals.

I love how much he encourages me to be more creative in the kitchen. One of my bigger struggles of wifery is that I totally suck at cooking. I mean, I’ll add a vegetable to scrambled eggs, but he will add ALL the vegetables in the fridge to his. I think it’s crazy, but that’s why I love him so much. I’m a measuring cup of a girl while he does whatever the hell he wants.

I love that even though I’m almost 30, he understands that I’m from Georgia and snow melts my adultness, so he takes me out to play in it like a toddler.


I guess I’m in the loving spirit today, and for the right reason. My family has put together a wedding reception for us this afternoon. A party to celebrate our love, what better way to spend a Saturday?!

I’m a little nervous though because in all the time I’ve known Phil, he’s always had a man bun atop his handsome head, and he’s just left to get his hair cut. I have no idea what to expect. We shall see!

Happy Saturday beautiful people!

Glorified toddlers

Like most people, I’ve had a complicated relationship with my parents. Fiercely loving them, but at the same time holding onto old resentments and hurt. I recently read a study that suggested children’s behavior styles at age three are linked to their adult personality traits. A stunning realization that our parents are just children themselves! Sure, they’re grown-ups, as in they’ve gotten taller and older. But who’s to say they ever really got a chance to grow, emotionally, past their childhood and the things that imprinted on their souls? We think just because our parents had authority over us, it means they are somehow immune to the tribulations of life that can create lasting flaws and fears. Logically, we know that is not true. We can objectively look at adults all around us and know and accept that they each have flaws and no one has all the answers. And yet our own parents are held to a different standard.  You should know better, we say, subconsciously speaking to our fallible parents. You, who held the reins of my young spirit, should have known what to do, and because you didn’t, I am going to hold you responsible for all the pain in my life. But why should this be true? Someday I’m going to be a parent and I seriously doubt all of my shortcomings will vanish because of it. I won’t suddenly become a genius of a human just because I birthed one.

If we were to roll back the tape of our parent’s childhoods we would see that they too were once just vulnerable creatures. We would see all the ways they had been hurt and disappointed. And maybe they still are, but they’ve covered it up with more “adult-like” characteristics. And in this realization, we see a glimpse of our parents’ humanity, because we’re all the same..solidified at the tender age of three, yet asked to continue growing taller and older and wiser. When, at our core, we may still be small and young and unsure. We don’t have all the answers, yet when we have children they expect us to. So we do our best. At times getting it right and at times falling far shorter than we would have hoped.

Entertaining this idea that we’re all glorified toddlers, walking around in grown-up suits, allows me to bring more gentleness and compassion around my relationship with my parents.

My adorable parents

Unintentional torture

For the past month I’ve had to check my coolant levels and add the desired amount of coolant anytime I drove my car.  Drive a whole 8 miles to work, and every ounce of coolant I had added left a trail down the highway to seduce stray animals into the street with its bitter-sweet smell. I’m sorry to those stray animals I set up to be murdered. If you were cuter though, you’d have a home.  Or if you would learn from previous cousins whom you watched become roadkill, you’d know not to follow every sweet smell.  Think smarter, wildlife.

Okay, I’m getting off topic.

So, earlier this week Phil taught me how to change my car’s oil, replace a broken connector for my coolant hoses, and fall in love with the smell of car maintenance. All I can think is that I’m sticking it to the automotive shops because I don’t have to pay them for labor or over-priced parts! Woohoo! I might have left the oil-scented hoodie I was wearing hidden in the corner of the dining room so I could smell that smell every time I walked into the kitchen.

Phil working on my car.

Not only did he teach me how to work on my own car, but he took me to the busiest parking lot nearest our home to learn to drive a manual transmission. His beloved Saab, the poor old lady that has more of his heart than I will ever have.  I think I did okay for my first time driving a stick, in circles, only stalling every other time I tried to get it into gear. I can’t wait to practice again, but I think Phil can because out of the corner of my eye, every time I made the gears grind, I saw him wince like I wasn’t just a stray animal murderer..but a car engine torturer also.

He might only be teaching me these things so he knows I can take care of myself when he decides he’s had enough of my insanity and files for divorce, but if that’s the case, I love him more for thinking of me and my future.



The devil on my shoulder

I quote my mother, in a text message to me, “I really think you need to see a doctor and take a mild prescription for anxiety.”

This pretty much sums up my mother’s faith in my abilities to handle, well, my life. I’ve always been one to go off the beaten path. All my lessons were learned the hard way, all my bridges burned, most doors I closed myself without checking for windows. So I can see why my parents worry, I’ve given them plenty of reasons. But this sentence my mother wrote hit me like a ton of bricks. At first I was angry, I tossed the phone away and went about my night. But I haven’t been able to shake that voice in the back of my head..why does she feel I am so anxious? Am I portraying myself as an anxious women? Can she hear my voice cracking via text message? (Evil witch powers, maybe?)

So after days of thinking and journaling about it, I’ve come to terms that I am indeed a very anxious person. This is not new to ME, but I thought for sure I wasn’t portraying myself this way to others. I thought I always came off confident, strong, and capable. I was certain that people whom don’t know all my inner struggles couldn’t possibly think I was so anxious that I needed medication for it. So how did I get this way? What has happened throughout my life to lead me down a path of anxiety?

I think being raised in such a small town played a big role. Our family, although not always a big, happy one, always required our best foot put forward. To outsiders, to the other mom’s at softball practice, to the church we were raised in, our family appeared to be one damn good bundle of perfect love. I always felt that this was really important to my parents. I was raised into the perfect little people-pleaser. Not that my parents intentionally instilled this into me, because they’ve always pushed me to do what makes me happy, unless it’s something they don’t approve of, which is a lot of things, because they’re southern conservatism tends to unravel any rationalization you can dream of.  So from a young age, the pressure to please was imminent. I don’t have the radar that most people have that tells them they are being used and abused and it’s time to move forward. My whole life has been set around making those around me happy. And although I’m fully aware that this is my biggest downfall, it’s ingrained in me. It’s borderline insanity..doing the same things over and over but expecting a different outcome. I repeatedly set myself up for failure, for fear of failing those whose opinion of me does not matter.

There are moments in time when everyone has some form of anxiety. For those who go through stressful times and have no one to comfort you, I am so sorry, but for those of you who go through stressful times and have someone try to tell you how to handle yourself during those times, I am SO SO sorry. Anxiety in itself is a powerful tool that can make or break someone, for me, it is fuel. For me, anxiety is the handsome devil on my shoulder, of whom I keep a little too close, but I learn so much about myself through. My level of anxiety is what makes me a valuable employee, a devoted wife, a loyal friend. My anxiety makes me a better cook, reader, and writer. My anxiety makes me stronger. My anxiety forces me to analyze my situation, which helps me become more honest with myself. My anxiety has saved my ass more than once in bad situations. So for someone to tell me I should bury it down deep, get rid of it, stop worrying about it, I take it personal. My anxiety has never crippled me. My anxiety is a part of me. A part that I will never be ashamed of or try to vacate from my mind.

I could argue all day that I’m predestined to anxiety through the genes of my over-anxious mother. I could argue that my parents didn’t do a good enough job teaching me to not give a shit what other people think. I could write a freaking book of excuses to defend myself from confronting my true personality. But in the end, it’s always been up to me to step up, to grow some metaphorical balls and stop worrying about pleasing anyone but myself. While I continue to work on that, I will continue to respect this side of me and learn from each lesson it teaches.


Neurotically dysfunctional

You know how my previous post was about how emotionally unstable I am, and how hard it is for me to carry on a conversation that normal people would be able to talk right though without issue? Yeah, I proved myself right big time last night.

Conversation with Phil post 2 BIG glasses of wine:

Me: Randomly, out of nowhere, “We will never own a husky in this house. But I met a cool Malamute today and I’d be okay with a Malamute, just never a husky, they are the worst.”

Phil: “Why are husky’s the worst?”

Me: “They just suck, they’re the worst dogs, I never want one. We will never have one.”

Phil: “I’ve met a smart husky before, they’re not that bad. Why do you think they’re the worst?”

Me: ” They’re so difficult to train, you couldn’t raise a husky like you raised Bear.” (His beloved collie he corrupted at a young age into thinking he was a human instead of a dog which led to Bear being the biggest pussy of a dog I’ve ever met.)

Phil: “Any dog I raise will be perfect and sweet and my best friend.”

Me: “I’m just saying, husky’s can’t be raised like children, you can’t raise them like you did Bear. They have to be raised like dogs, with intensive training.”

Phil: “Why are you doubting my abilities to train a dog? I could say a lot about your dogs..”

Me: “Because I know you. I know how you view dogs. Husky’s aren’t kids, they’re too unstable a breed, we will just never own one.”

Phil: (whose now angry that I doubt his abilities to train dogs) “Okay fine, whatever.”

Me: “No, it’s not whatever! I made a statement, you asked my opinion, I told you MY opinion, you’re not allowed to criticize it. It’s my opinion, which you asked for.”

By this point my brain knows I’m in too deep. I’ve reach the point of no return and my blood is boiling for me to shout, run away, or break down crying. For no other reason than my words were deemed offensive and because I’m such an emotional basket case, I couldn’t piece the right words together to portray what I was trying to portray in the first place. I honestly don’t know how I got to be this bad with verbalizing my feelings. Im not exaggerating when I tell you I have NEVER been able to voice my opinion and the words come out right, like at all. If we only had conversations via post-it notes, I would be perceived as one of the most intelligent women of my time. I would argue my case so strongly and impressively worded that people would feel inferior in my presence. Instead I look, and feel, like a total basket-case.

If asked to prove my case on why your dog or cat needs vaccinations or heartworm prevention, I will school your ass with complete confidence. I will not hesitate to explain why your 14 year old cat needs blood-work done yearly and why a canned food diet is so important for felines and kidneys. I have no issue talking about the government, previous presidents, why Trump did this and that. But when it comes to cracking into my emotions, I am left with nothing but self-doubt and a shitty vocabulary.

I don’t think I’ll honestly ever get my life together. I try and try time after time to get better, but there is no quick fix for emotional communication. I am that broken. If you are reading this and you are aware of a fix for my issue, I’d be glad to pay you for passing it along to me. Granted, I can only pay in the form of a 8 year old collie named Bear.







I don’t even know how to win anymore

Winning a softball game when I was 12 was easy. Winning an argument with my brother over who got to ride shotgun to dinner was even easier. Winning a game of Monster Mini Golf on a first date, got that in the bag. Winning an argument with my husband when my emotions are flaring, never stand a chance.

My one and only argument for never winning an argument is always,  “I’m too emotional. I can’t express my side of things clearly because I’m too emotionally unstable, my brain is broken, I’m too worried about your side of things.” I tried my best to explain how important of a personality trait this was to Phil before he married such a nutcase. But he insisted on doing it anyways. Now his stress levels are on him, and his grey hairs I will no longer take credit for.

A basic understanding of a mind like my own is highly beneficial when pursing an intimate relationship. My mind is that of a magical creature. I have quite a few quirks, traits, and unique characteristics that need to be understood to increase the survival chances of any relationship.

Most of the time I am deeply misunderstood. It takes a lot of time to get to know me before I comfortably unravel and my true, magnificent spirit receives the opportunity to shine. I deeply feel for Phil for being in love with me. Love with me is always super intense. I am energetically sensitive, picking up on any and everything that happens around me. Regardless of whether emotions have been outwardly expressed, I tend to experience other’s emotions as deeply as I feel my own. It is IMPOSSIBLE to hide true feelings when romantically involved with me, because 9 times out of 10, I’ve likely already figured them out long before the person feeling them has. Most call it a gift, or a blessing, I refer to it as a pain in my ass.

But if there’s one thing I’m amazing at, it is dealing with a brutally raw and honest relationship. Although I can be quite the delicate creature, my strength in relationships is found where honesty, trust, and loyalty come before anything else. I love to love and I love to be loved. My true self wants to give and receive love in abundance, but after many years of bad relationships and broken spirits, I’ve had to work to feel safe and secure enough to allow the love to flow. Phil has been put through the ringer since day one. He knows first hand how hard it is to uncaged my heart.

One of the most tragic parts about my character is that all too often my love is cast out in all the wrong places. I feel the pain and sorrow of everyone and everything around me. Phil see’s a horrible driver not using there blinker and braking too often, I see a distracted mother of a sick baby girl, or a father who just lost his job of 10 years. I want to heal and fix the world. I want to make all things better for everyone involved. It is an amazingly powerful way of life, and it’s the exact energy that this world needs, but it is a deeply painful way to exist. Not everyone is able to view the world this way, and because of that, I constantly tend to a broken heart, a heart that bleeds endlessly for cruelty, injustice, selfishness, and inequalities.

It has taken many years to understand this about myself. To know that when I feel hurt, I need love and support the most. To know that when I feel depressed, I need interaction and positive energy to pull me out of it. I used to cower, feel ashamed, lock myself away, not let anyone in. I would build barriers and put up walls with those closest to me. I would feel unworthy of love and intimacy. I would find it very difficult to forget deep wounds or continue a relationship once foundations were rocked. And once my self-esteem would hit rock bottom, my energy reserves depleted, I would be left with little faith in myself or mankind. Being sensitive to energy, my worst-case scenarios are confrontations or aggressive situations. I easily lose my self-control once I’ve been absorbed in a negative or toxic energy. Fight or flight, I will go as far away as possible.

My smart, sensitive, and extremely capable husband has had to learn a whole new method of communication for our relationship to be successful. Communication through intuition, energy awareness, deep connection, and a level of understanding without the need for verbalization. He has helped me achieve a love that is grounded, free spirited, fulfilling, and empowering.

A life worth living for me is giving and receiving unconditional love, being fully alive in the moment, connecting deep within the core of our primal being, and reigniting all the superpowers that are inherent within us.




Formula For Sleep

For as long as I can remember, I have always been the biggest fan of sleep. Middle school slumber party..I was the one snoring before midnight. High school all-nighters in preparation for the big exam..I was convinced sleep was more beneficial for the brain than studying. College hook-ups..I never made it past wearing something seductive before I was long gone to dream land and woke alone. I was always so good at sleeping, then I hit the mid twenties where stress, anxiety, and depression tossed my well practiced sleeping habits out the window.

Last year, I discovered the magic of an all natural supplement that when taking one, I can float through my day with a smile on my face and not a anxious thought in my head. When taking two, I can sleep through a tornado, 10 barking dogs, the smoke detector, and hangry Evelyn the cat. Not only can I sleep through the night, I can sleep for 2 hours, 6 hours, or 8 hours, and wake up refreshed and ready for the day. No prolong grogginess or stuffy head. These guys became my best friend.

The only con: They smell awful. Like if you have a sensitive pallet, good luck swallowing them. I open the bottle and can smell them an hour later when I walk back into the bathroom.

— They are in no way addictive. Although I have an addictive personality, I almost always prefer frozen chocolate pie. —

Formula 303. You have saved me, with all your valerian root extract and magnesium, I shall love you, and your price on Amazon, for as long as I shall need a chill pill.



Human Litter Box

I love Saturday mornings. Those rainy, chilly, Saturday mornings that make you feel good about being lazy, not leaving your pj’s, going to Starbucks with sleep in your eyes and dried saliva on your cheek. Those are my favorite. Phil leaves for work and I leave the bed unmade, my hair unbrushed, and the door wide open to hear the rain.

Roughly a half hour after Phil departed this past Saturday, I noticed that the water was shut off. (Due to maintenance, not a lack of bill-paying). This observation was made one giant poop in the toilet too late though. I called Phil in a panic screaming “we’ve got a poop toilet!! Poop toilet!! It’s like i’m living in a human litter box, I can’t flush it!” He rarely takes me seriously, so this time it was no different. He offered his best condolences for my situation, trying his hardest to keep from laughing in my ear, and while I was still panicking on the other end of the phone, he tells all his co-workers how I made a poop toilet.

I have never truly felt ashamed or embarrassed of the things I’ve done or said with an audience. I’ve always had a good spirit when my mother would tell my most embarrassing moments to the new boyfriends I would bring home. I’ve always been able to laugh it off and count it as a win in my story book of a life. But most of those situations were done within a group of people of whom I know to some extent. Phil’s co-workers I do not know. I do know that they know me way more than I would like them to. Phil has a button much similar to his mother’s that, when it is pushed, his tell-all-minus-a-filter launches into action. His co-workers probably know my deepest secrets, my cycle dates, the last time I exercised, and my most common failures as a wife. I highly doubt these people find me a reasonably well-rounded women with ambitions greater than making a successful spaghetti dinner.

So spun the uncertainty of my role as a women, my brain convincing myself these people would be judging my poop toilet incident.

As confident as I like to portray myself, I deal with a ton of self-doubt on a daily basis. My self-doubt evaporates a little when I can find humor in the many fails I bring upon myself. If I can laugh about it, then it can’t be that bad of a failure. And then there’s the moments when I just don’t feel like laughing, I feel like accepting my failures and burying myself in self-doubt under my blanket fort with my tears and a box of cheez-its. For years I’ve always felt ashamed of those moments, writing of them in my journal with the intention of never having to air my emotional instability to a human face. But times have changed, my emotional instability is still very much unstable, but my perception is now grateful for such moments, because all those little moments teach me to let go, that I don’t have to be in control of every minute of every day.

Sometimes life just sucks, it’s a grueling reminder that must be dealt with and thrown out. Like the tiny cat turds my sweet Evelyn leaves in her litter box for me to displace at my leisure, I too will remove my failures and self-doubt at my pace, dealt with how ever my fort-building self deems necessary.

I now pronounce you husband and wife

Wednesday, October 25th, 2017…I woke up to the man I would soon call my husband. We spent the morning of our wedding day sipping ice coffees from Starbucks and scarfing down Hardee’s biscuits. I told you, we are so romantic. I went to get my nails done at a new salon, where they gave me a discount for being adorable, or they felt sorry for me due to my faded t-shirt, dirty shoes, and unwashed hair, either way a win for me, and hurried home to get dressed in my wedding attire. With shirts unwashed and jeans too tight, I laced up my converse and hit the door with my man..to go pick up his mother and drive her to our wedding. Good thing we didn’t plan a honeymoon or she just might have accompanied us. Yay for new, life-invasive family members, as if my own mother doesn’t do a good enough job, now I have two. I’m screwed.

While waiting for our names to be called, one of my favorite people in the entire world made her surprise appearance. I guess moms are good for some things. I couldn’t have been any happier.

Beautiful Keri Conkel, my wedding surprise.

So there we stood, hand in hand, taking orders from the creepiest judge in the state of Georgia, whose name I should remember in case he in fact does keep children chained in his basement. Phil and I were dumbfounded at his awkward intensity. Before we began, he asked us how they performed the ceremonies in the county we were from, we were both like, “this is our first wedding, we’ve never done it before, how should we know?”.

Just look at Phil’s face..he thinks this judge is insane.
I’m literally laughing at the judge.


I believe he would have taken offense to my pointing at laughing if he did have any social skills, but he proceeded to demand us to “stare loving into each others eyes”. I think Phil might have taken it a little too serious, because his stare was burning holes through the back of my head. At one point, I thought I could smell my hair burning. But I love him for always trying his best, especially if it involves making me happy. We said our vows and “I do’s”, and it became the single most happiest moment of my life.

We left the courthouse, our married selves, went home to tell each other’s dog’s that they now had to obey us because I am your new mommy and Phil is your new daddy, and went to our favorite mexican restaurant, El Zarape. Yes, our favorite joint sounds very similar to a mexican gang bang. And I was asleep by 9:30.

Best wedding ever.



Vital Shit Storm

When I was a little girl, I had the ultimate picture of my life as an adult. I’d envision meeting my prince charming one night at a book reading in college. We’d fall in love over the most romantic of evenings. He would without a doubt impress and love my parents, and they would treasure him as the best fit for there princess. He would spend weeks planning the most romantic proposal with the biggest and brightest diamond ring money could buy. I would be swept away, head over heels, on the reg. We would have all of our friends and family attend the most extravagant and romantic wedding to celebrate our love. He would seduce me with nightly back massages while reciting the best of John Keat’s poetry. I would be given complete freedom to chase my dreams of becoming a New York Time’s bestselling author. I would spend my days writing on the daybed of our sunroom, creating literature unlike anyone before my time. We would have a house big enough to occupy whatever animals I would bring home, and my perfect husband would not think twice about the amount of shoes I’d have along every inch of our walk-in closets.

I’ll toast myself for the creativity I had as that little girl, because today, at 26, and 48 hours away from saying “I do”, I find myself working 12 hour shifts as a vet tech getting shit and pissed on by overreacting animals whose owners yell and insult me for mildly suggesting they need a flea preventative. I did find my prince charming, but he in no way, shape, or form has ever or will ever lure me to bed while reciting any form of literature. Because he doesn’t know how to read. Just kidding, he does, he just despises it. Which is funny, because I’m a total dork. You wont catch me without a book in my hand, purse, or ten in the trunk of my car in case the apocalypse happens while I’m on a coffee run. Needless to say, I did not meet Phil at a book reading in college. We met at a shitty little veterinary clinic and bonded over milking pregnant dogs, our lazy co-workers, and how much we despised the owner of said clinic. Because he was a total power-trip ass.

Phil “milking” this disturbed momma boxer.
We work hard. Clearly.

Our first date was in the living room of his apartment where we awkwardly smoked pot and watched nothing but our reflections in the tv screen. I knew then I would love this guy for a long time. And he knew he would marry me the night I punched him in the jaw with all my might because he said something insulting and I have anger issues. He proposed to me so casually that I don’t think it truly counts as a legit proposal. And I love him for it. My ring is small, simple, and perfect.

Mug quote, “Does this ring make me look engaged?”

The glamorous wedding my 10 year old self pictured will actually be very very tiny, at a courthouse, while we wear jeans, matching t-shirts, and red converse. I ordered his shoes a size too big, and his wedding band two sizes too big. Which I just realized I cannot return or exchange because I got it engraved. #fineprint. I bought a dress, and don’t want to wear it because taking it to the dry cleaners to get steamed seems like a waste of my time. So everything we planned has fallen apart and we couldn’t be happier. We’ll say our vows, smile for a few pictures taken on the best of everyone’s smart phones, and go home to our 1000 square foot, one bedroom apartment with our three dogs and a cat. My dream of writing has not been forgotten, it just doesn’t take place anywhere but our tiny apartment balcony, or the living room floor with the minor distraction of our four-legged friends.

My life undoubtedly does not match what I envisioned as a little girl, but boy is it the perfect life for me. I love every aspect of our daily struggles, and I treasure each moment we’re blessed enough to call our own.