Decidedly Not Dead

I have started this post about 20 times in my mind.  The original effort keeps coming off as snarky, shitty even – and worse yet, I managed to once again get real comfy with doing what I do best:  Belittle myself and all the trappings that come with that.  Make light of my accomplishments.  Poo-poo my struggles.  Minimize my insecurities and my vulnerability.

To which I say, Fuck that.

And I can probably only write this from a place of honesty right now because a little podcast that is now absolutely ginormous and epic has saved my life and thousands of other lives.  This post may or may not turn out to be about that.

Shit’s hard, y’all.

My husband and I packed up and moved across the country. That was not easy. Being new, in a new job, in a new city, in a new state, Is not easy.  If anything, being new is definitely one thing:  It is vulnerable. I have had to get over saying “I don’t know how this works here”, I have had to get over being in the wrong lane 1000 times, And I have definitely had to get over not having enough room for all my shit.  If anything, I need less shit.  I want to go explore my new city, but I am so fucking tired.  It is literally all I can do to drag myself off the couch to eat something.  Which is another thing. As tired as I am, I still have had plenty of energy to gain 10 pounds.  No, we have not eaten healthy anything since we’ve been here, but time is of the essence and sleep is a hot commodity.  Cooking anything, healthy or not, has not been a priority.

None of my friends are here.

But I knew all this before we started.  I knew what I was up against.  I guess I just thought I wasn’t too old to do this, or if I was, I wouldn’t feel it.  Trust me, I feel every bit my age lately.  And It’s not like I regret the decision to move.  I don’t.  I know it was the right move to make.  I’m really glad that we did it.  I know that it will get easier in time.  That being somewhere 100% new doesn’t get comfortable overnight.  I know that I will have time to explore and do all the kinds of things that I used to, and not be so tired all the time.  But right now, I can’t see the light at the end of this particular tunnel.  Yesterday I woke up at 4:45 AM (my new wake-up time, SUPER NOT AWESOME) with a giant sleep wrinkle in my face, and it did not go away until 1 PM.  Everybody said DRINK MORE WATER!  Newsflash, I’ve been drinking lots of water.  The problem is I am almost 50 years old.  My skin just doesn’t do what it used to do.  It’s OK, I’ll get used to that too.

I’ve cried a lot.  Sometimes it’s a release.  Sometimes it’s because I’m sad.  Sometimes it’s because I’m frustrated.  I know I need to find someone to talk to – I was used to going to therapy every other week and add Find a Therapist to the list of Shit I Need to Do.  So many things are not the same.  All the old things were so…familiar.  Comfortable.  Easy.

And despite all of this, I am happy.  I do love it here.  It’s going to be great.  I’m just impatient, and I want it to be great right the fuck now. I know it’s going to take more time then I’m giving it.  So when I feel this way, I just have to slow down and think about all the great things. It’s beautiful here.  The ocean is right the fuck there.  I see it everyday when I’m driving to work.  I can walk outside at lunch and barely break a sweat.  There are a million things to do.  The food is fantastic.  I have not had a bad taco since I got here, and I have had many tacos in a month.  But I am tired.  And my perfectionism Is really trying to take over.  I won’t let it.  Things are not perfect.  They are not going to be perfect.  My need to show you something different – in writing, in what I say, or on social media – the need is strong, but keeping it real seems more important.  I’ll show you a tree.  I’ll show you the beach.  Occasionally you’ll see Tired Old Me.  And that is who I really am right now.

And oh, how’s this?  WE MOVED ACROSS THE FUCKING COUNTRY.  We sold half our shit, sold 2 vehicles, packed up the rest of our shit, packed up 2 cats, drove across the motherfucking desert, lived without most of our belongings for 12 days, started new jobs, got drivers’ licenses, insurance, an apartment, HOLY SHIT WE DID ALL THAT!!!  I have to remember, this was a Big.  Fucking.  Deal.  Don’t play it off like “oh yeah well people do it all the time blah-dee-blah you’re not special.”  True, I am not special, and also true, people do it all the time.  AND YET STILL.  It’s a huge accomplishment that we did it.  Or even thought of doing it.  CELEBRATE, and FUCKING HOORAY.

I think sometimes my penchant for needless worry makes it hard for me to want to do anything outside of stay home and try to make the apartment look neat and clean, or do other things that really aren’t adding anything to my personal enjoyment.  So, circling back to that little podcast that grew into a monolith:  Every Murderino knows exactly what I’m talking about.  Karen and Georgia have made it possible for me to just do the damn thing, and not think about it.   WHO CARES IF IT’S NOT PERFECT.  IT IS PERFECT BECAUSE IT’S NOT PERFECT.  I was trying to live by this philosophy already, but then they came along and made it OK for everybody to do it. I’m just so grateful that they talk to their listeners about mental health the way they do, And make it OK for us to feel whatever we’re feeling, whenever were feeling it.  No one can dictate that.  I wanna tell you that this life that I have moved to is Instant Awesome. It is less than that at this time.  And it might not be awesome for a while.  Right now, I’m just trying to roll with the punches, get some sleep, drink some water, not go crazy.

And make it home.






Please Be Perceptive Regarding My Utter Disdain For You

Holy shit.

Did you really just ask me the same question twice, even with me answering it already?  Did you?

It’s not like it’s been a day and you forgot this info.  That I would forgive.  But when I tell you one thing and then you ask me the SAME THING LITERALLY 30 SECONDS LATER, I am fucking done.


So I kind of woke up on the wrong side of everything today, and while this isn’t your fault exclusively, you are now making it your problem.  Reading, as they say, is fundamental.  At least admit you didn’t just read what I wrote.  Admit it.  Before I figure out where you’re at and drive an ice pick through your ear.

I know I can’t live in an idyllic paradise with fountains of scotch and hills made of cheesecake, but fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.

I promise to use less words next time.

I.  Promise.


The One in the Dark Office in the Corner Who Loathes Your Mere Existence

Win An Evening with Me

I’ve been saving this story for y’all.  Merry Giving of the Thanks!  Enjoy your foul.

Now that I’ve retired from roller derby (a subject to be tackled later with a box of wine, a stack of kleenex and less jokes than usual at my dispense), I’m left with a fairly large amount of time on my hands.  Time, mind you, that has been used so far to a) watch the movie “Pitch Perfect” four times in a row, and b) cook food.  Cooking food equals dishes, pots, and pans.  All these items must be cleaned after usage.

Which leads to about the best, most exciting evening ever.  You too could share an evening like this.  With me.  Step into my glamorous life for five minutes (or less).  That’s about how long it might take you to read this, and almost as long as it took for this particular enchanted evening I’m about to relate to you, dear readers, to unfold.

It was a Thursday evening, and there wasn’t a thing that was remarkable about this magical Thursday, except that I was left to my own devices for dinner and entertainment.  The “entertainment” I chose was to finish up some work, which is hardly amusing.  After setting up my laptop in my cozy little place in the kitchen, I decided to procrastinate a little longer on the festivities that awaited me and do the washing up resulting from my lonely dinner  (which was probably some form of chicken and/or pasta, because I’m inventive like that.)

So I am doing the dishes, and I have let my adorable and lovable terrier, Mister William Wallace, out in the backyard to do whatever it is he does out there.  I look out the screen door, and lo and behold, it appears as if he is, at this particular moment, doing something that he should not be doing, as he is chewing mightily upon something.  THERE IS NOTHING TO EAT OUTSIDE, Dog.  What is it you have???  My curiosity is now piqued.  I dry off my hands and go to put shoes (well, Crocs, which are totes not shoes) on my unshod feet.  I need shoes because whatever it is might be gross.  I leave the sink area…OH WAIT.  Now might be a really good time to draw you a picture of my kitchen.  You know how I likes to draw.


As you can see, my kitchen looks relatively harmless.  What about now?  Do you see any potential “issues”?

Note:  Cord.
Note: Cord.

So on the way to put on my shoes, these things happen in this order:

1)  Trip over laptop cord.

2)  Laptop and 30-lb wood cutting board crash to the tile floor.

3)  I fall in to the corner of the METAL TABLE that, not shown in the picture, houses all of our liquor.

4)  Ribs subsequently feel giant rush of pain.

5)  3 bottles of alcohol careen to tile floor.

6)  A lid pops off of the bottle of kirsch that I’ve used exactly one time, immediately filling the room with the scent of alcoholic fruit.

7)  None of the bottles actually break.

8)  I lay on floor for about 30 seconds in amazement at the entire progression of events.

I grab the roll of paper towels, look out the door, see the dog is still furiously chomping away, and get back to soaking up alcohol.  Throw paper towels away.  NOW GO OUTSIDE.

IT IS A TOAD.   A GIANT FUCKING TOAD THAT IS ONLY PARTIALLY DEAD.  Because this whole time (which has really only been about 90 seconds) he hasn’t been chewing it, per se.  He’s been playing with it.  With his grody dog mouth.

Which, you might think, is not a big deal.  Except this dog has eaten toads before.  And it has made him violently ill.  SO NOW:

1)  Yell at dog

2)  Observe flopping toad

3)  Turn on hose

4) Proceed to try to get dog to swallow water from hose, but really just end up hosing down dog’s face

5)  Observe sad, wet dog

So NOW, I grab said Sad Wet Dog, dry him off, and take him inside and deposit him gently into the bathtub.  Because if he’s going to vomit up some toad slime, experience tells me that this is the only place where it is acceptable.  All over every rug in the house has already happened before.  At this juncture, I’ve phoned my good friend and animal lover Daisy, because a) she needs desperately to hear about what just ensued and b) she can tell me if my dog might die and what I can do to prevent that from happening.

How the conversation really goes:


HER:  Um, maybe you should exaggerate more.


HER:  …


HER:  Is he vomiting?  Are your ribs broken?  Then maybe we should get past this part right here where I have to tell you to be a little less dramatic.


HER:  You are a winner at life.  I mean this literally.  Don’t forget to go kill the toad in the kindest way possible.

ME:  I WILL (hangs up and leaves Toad to die in yard alone)

Meanwhile, the dog is exhibiting zero signs of illness.  He’s mostly confused, because he’s in the bathtub which he hates, he’s wet, which he hates, and evidently has now realized that he misses Toad.  Because it’s his new mouf-buddy.

I check outside.  Toad has ceased to flop.  Which is good, because despite Daisy’s plea to humanely end this toad’s life,  I AM NOT IN ANY WAY PUTTING MY HANDS NEAR A TOAD.  Toad, if not dead, will be forced to die cruelly and slowly because of my irrational fear.  Of toads and toad-related items.


Dog did not die.  Dog was fine.  Toad did die.  Sorry, Toad.  I suffered a righteous bruise on my ribs for about 2 weeks.


Thus ends the dog frog blog.

P.S.  The laptop miraculously survived.


Foat Wuth I Luv You but GOTTAMN

Dudes.  I am here on business.  “But you live in Dallas, Stoney.  Why is it such a big deal to be in Fort Worth?”


FIrst, the roads are colossally fucked, so why drive to Dallas only to sleep for less than 4 hours?  Stupid.

It is 12:04am on what is technically a FrIday morning.  I have spent my entire day in a 55-degree room.  I ate lunch at 1pm.  I AM STARVING.  After arriving at my hotel that rhymes with something like “Sheridan” I am not only confronted with the bar having last call at 11:45, but more importantly and discovered after the fact, ALL THINGS IN TOWN STOP DELIVERY AT MIDNIGHT.

areeeeeeee you kidddddddding meeeeeeeee


I am very hungry and tired and cold.  God bless the lobby, from which I extruded a turkey wrap after calling every pizza joint in town.


NEVER AGAIN, FORT WORTH!!!  I will bring snax next time.





Monday: Decidedly Worse than Sunday

This was originally titled Monday:  Please Choke on a Dick, but I figured that would only yield terrible (or AMAZING) search results for all of you.

My husband, when I’m sad or sullen, calls me Sunday Shawn.  This derives from anticipating Monday.  It starts usually about 3pm on Sunday.  It is not necessarily always the case – yesterday was a good Sunday.  So, Monday, I guess I should have been more sad-timez than I was, because you sure have shown me.  Already.  Asshole.

I woke up in a great mood, which is completely uncommon.  I don’t understand, Monday.  Why must you fuck with me?  It started so well.  Then, as I was happily eating my 1/2 sandwich for breakfast and packing away my cantaloupe for a snack, I feel a tickling in my nose.  Oh, what is that?  A bloody nose.  Awesome.  I wish I could blame all the blow I did last night (because that’s how Sunday nights roll in my hizzy), but no.  There is no reason.  Not a one.  As soon as I finish dealing with that, I leave for work and attempt to get in my car to go, but first I must dodge a swarm of wasps and promptly get hit in the face with our errant yet timely sprinkler.  Clean, clean, sprinkler water.  Delicious.

Then I walk into work after somehow making it without getting run over by a cement truck, and am immediately called into a sky-is-falling meeting.  Upon returning to my desk, an infuriating quarterly newsletter appears in my inbox that is Full of Misused Capitalizations, Punctuation Errors and Ridiculous Statements.  It will take all the willpower I have to not spend the rest of the morning DISSECTING AND RIPPING APART this pathetic excuse for a newsletter.  Breathe.  Not my job.  Calm down, English degree.

It is 10:35am, Monday.  Please show some mercy.  I’m eating cantaloupe, for Christ’s sake.  ISN’T THAT ENOUGH DO-GOODING FOR THE DAY?

Evidently not.  My friend just told me that she got in really late from a business thing in Vegas, got 2 hours of sleep, and her car wouldn’t start.  Clearly, both our karmas suck.


Happy Anniversary, Nameless Faceless Killer!

It’s 7:05 am.  My husband has just told me that for some inexplicable reason, our garage door is open.  Not wide open, but like, person-crawling-in-size open, 3 feet off the ground.

I bolt out of my Hunger Games-reading stupor and say quietly, “what the fuck,” because this is exactly the way I need to be woken up on a Monday.   Unfortunately, said husband is leaving for work.  We both stand in the garage as if to say, SHOW YOURSELF MOTHERFUCKER!!!  But alas, no one does.  Husband moves to leave.  “You’ll be ok,” he says winningly.  “I put your .38 by your desk.”  Somehow this is supposed to comfort me, and I guess it does a little, while I walk through the house turning on every light.  This will be a non-showering day.  Awesome.

Husband leaves.  I proceed to do some dishes while my trusty Lady Smith sits beside me on the counter.  I look out the front door when finished only to find that THE GARAGE DOOR IS NOW ALL THE WAY UP, WIDE OPEN.

There are only 2 possible reasons for this:

1) There may be someone in the neighborhood who has a  garage door opener that is somehow on the same frequency (but this never really happens, does it)



Neither of these thoughts are comforting.

Did I mention that I have a broken leg?  And that I have just quit smoking in the last week?  I am the slowest and angriest person you have ever met.  No matter.  I proceed outside with phone and gun in hand, sort of trying to conceal it as there is a little old man walking his dog and I really don’t want to alarm him by looking insane. I stare into the garage like it holds some ancient mystery.  Like the Ark of the Covenant is deep inside it.  I am really just looking for evidence that someone has been up in here trying to steal our…our what?  Our priceless bags of Salvation Army clothes?  Our double-sink granite vanity that we will never install that weighs literally 500 pounds?  Our two completely hideous Christmas trees?  No sir, there is nothing in here for you.  Trust me.  While I’m standing outside the garage in my pajama pants holding a gun, I attempt to close the door by just reaching my hand inside and pushing the button.  The door will not close completely though – when I press the button, it will get to the ground and then bounce back up like something is blocking its path.  I decide to enter the dark and frightening chasm that is our garage.  I close the door with the button again, this time holding the door down as it hits the ground.  Mission accomplished, door fucking closed, may I go on with my Monday now?  I HAVE NOT HAD COFFEE YET.

I text my husband to tell him the door was wide open.  He phones immediately and I ask him if there is a way to secure the door.  There is.  I do it.  He says:

“There are only two reasons this would happen.”

Yes, I am well aware.  Happy anniversary, baby.  

Well, if it’s reason number two, the killer/sink-and-Christmas-tree thief  is gone now, and if not, he might as well come on inside.  I’m a bundle of joy in the morning.  And it’s a Monday.  You just hit the jackpot, buddy.

I Wish I Had a Dime for Every Dick on a Plane

I have recently started traveling quite a bit for work.  I can firmly say I’m in the pro-Southwest Airlines camp, even when the attendants float crazy bombs of jokes that go out into the atmosphere like a suffocating cloud of death.  I have a list of observations about my experiences on relatively short flights.  I would like to take this time to share them.

1)  I want more drink coupons, but more than that, I want a longer time to be able to enjoy them.  Southwest, on some flights, has started taking your drink order before take-off.  THIS IS A TOTAL BONUS.  The less time I have to wait for you to bring me 8 coffee & Bailey’s all at once, the better.

2)  I don’t need a great many frills – but why is the peanut/pretzel offer even an offer?  You need to just give me two of everything the minute I walk on the plane, because clearly, the choices I just made at the airport newsstand will not get me through your 40-minute flight. And in reality, all I did was buy my derby wife a $10 fedora.  Give over the snacks, lady or dude.  I cannot wait until I hit the ground in, like, 20 minutes.

3)  I appreciate people my age.  They now all work for Southwest.  It’s a little creepy, but I’m glad that if this job ever falls through, my fat ass can waddle through the aisles and offer you fine assholes some peanuts and drinks.  I’m guessing the air marshals may not find my jokes amusing, and I’m fairly certain they would have to put me through some sort of “WE’RE SOUTHWEST AND WE PROMISE YOU WILL NOT DIE” training.

4)  I enjoy the fact that I am of the Southwest Elite, and I will always board the plane before you, allowing me to procure the seat by the window directly over the engine.  If we go, I want to go first.  At all times.  For everything.  Even dying.

Let’s now discuss some experiences I’ve had with passengers.  Because unlike Southwest, the clientele sucks balls.

1)  Hey lady, I’m really sorry I now know your first and last name and your phone number.  Why do I know it?  Because you’ve shouted it at the top of your lungs into your phone, for clearly you are a Very Important Person.  I understand that Jared cannot do things by himself in the office while you are on a plane, and I am absolutely giddy at the prospect of your catered event going completely fucktastic because you are trying to Control All Things from your mobile phone.  Also, you write in a notebook like a child.  If it’s pink and frilly, you do not look professional.  Just sayin.  Personal style be damned.

2)  Wow, excuse me, King Douchebag.  Can you see that my row of seats is in front of your row of seats?  That means I get to exit the plane before you.  But hey, you are a guy, and we all know women don’t really work and if there are women in front of you on a plane it’s because they are going on a superfun girls’ trip.  By all means, cut in front of me.  The importance with which you guffaw at your business partner is nauseating, so I’d rather you had just go.  I can wait.

3)  This flight is taking place at 4:45pm.  Are you seriously just ordering water?  Does not compute.  You do not belong on my row.

4)  Get off plane.  Walk through terminal.  Perhaps go to the restroom.  PERHAPS TRY TO AVOID STANDING AIMLESSLY IN THE MIDDLE OF EVERYONE’S PATH.

There are small, simple things everyone can do to make flying better, faster, and overall more awesome.  Southwest has done many of these things.  Unfortunately, Southwest offers some people more courtesy than they deserve.

On second thought, I hope this job never falls through.  No one looks good falling out of a plane, whether it’s me in my fancy blue flight attendant shirt or the loud-talking misogynist I’m taking with me.

Workplace Restroom Etiquette: You’re Doin’ It Wrong

Hey there, lady with whom I work.  You are thoroughly disgusting.  Just sayin’.

It’s not your incessant humming while in the stall next to me.  It’s not the endless fountain of noises that come out of your body.  It’s not the fact that you want to strike up a conversation between straining.

It’s not any of that.

It’s actually ALL of it combined, because these nuggets of joy take place on a daily basis.  How do I possibly go about finding a time when you are not in the restroom?  Apparently it is impossible, as you are always there.  I am not one to criticize the situation goin’ on in your bowels, as Lord knows I have my own set of issues – but I do not advertise them loudly whilst attempting to take care of business.  I wish you would kindly return the courtesy.

But no.  That’s too much to ask, evidently.  What you fail to comprehend is the simple fact that what I am asking is not completely unattainable for you.

1) Walk in the restroom.
2) Shut the fuck up.
3) Do your thing quietly and respect the flush.
4) Wash your hands, please.
5) Get the fuck out.

It’s that easy.

And yet, here you are today, barreling toward the restroom door WITH AN OPEN GRANOLA BAR in your hand.  You are chewing.  Which leads me to believe that you are taking it with y…oh, I’m just giving the fuck up.

Today is the Day I Might Kill the Receptionist

…was I so angry this morning upon walking in to see her horribly vapid face that I forgot the Sweet n’ Low in my coffee?  And why the fuck is my boss not responding to my “Spicy Hot V8 Emergency” email request?  Unbelievable.

Look, I usually don’t act quite this indignant.  I assure you, however, THIS LADY IS INSANE.  She is a shrill ridiculous harpy that somehow fills me with venom at the sound of her voice.  She squeals out of joy or pain or if she makes a whoopsie.  She is unable to give people directions, even though she has worked here for 11 years.  She confuses “Bryan” with “Brandon” and refuses to actually look at a directory in order to pronounce names correctly.  These drawbacks, in my opinion, make her a terrible receptionist.
I took a picture with her in it at a company function one year.  She was furious and told me to delete the picture, which I did.  She has not spoken to me for 2 years. She has had open screaming matches with her adult children IN THE LOBBY.  These children that she is apparently so fond of receive a phone call from her every morning upon her arrival at her desk, whereupon she asks them if they are going to have a wonderful day.  I can only imagine what goes on in the poor grown child’s head: “Sure Mom, my day has started out miraculously just because you’ve called.”  I was getting coffee one morning when I overheard her tell one of the kids, “Don’t let anyone take your joy.”  Whatever that means, I am pretty certain she is the #1 source of joy drainage in their lives.

So, Dear Lord, Dear Baby Jesus in the Sky that Makes the Magic Happen and Makes Food Grow and is Somehow Watching Over Everything We Do, please avert your sweet Baby Jesus Eyes while I more than likely throttle this woman directly on top of the granite reception area in our lobby and beat her senseless with either the handset or her time/date stamp.  When I am done, I will puncture her neck a la Godfather III with her glasses, and cover her in Styrofoam coffee cups.

Sorry for the ultraviolence, Oh Holy Ghost and Baby J, but it’s been a long morning, I need more coffee and my contacts are making me want to throw up.  So really, Hosanna, in all your forms, I beg for your all-forgiving mercy.

Bitch, don’t you page me one more time.