Chaos In A Bottle

Ever have one of those days when you knew you needed to write but no words were applying for the position?

Yeah. That’s been me for – I lost count.

It would probably be easier if I had an actual exciting life, but that’s not a thing that I have. I LIKE my life, but I don’t know that anyone else finds the fact that in one week I got my dryer, dishwasher, AND stand mixer fixed as outstanding as I did. (Seriously, though, it’s so cool. It was like Christmas except it was March and I didn’t have to buy presents for anyone else, which kind of made it even better. Don’t judge me.)

I got my political ya-yas out writing a thing for unclesamsmisguidedchildren.com – you can read it if you want – and now I’m just staring at my own neglected blog going “but…but…yeah, I got nothing.” Which isn’t really true, because I do stuff ALL DAY LONG, but I don’t know that it’s interesting to anyone but me, and it doesn’t have to be, but I dunno that anyone is going to read about my stand mixer revival or the ghetto clothesline week I spent while the part for my dryer was on order, hanging clothes on my front porch and all over my dining room. I hung my underwear inside, I’m not a complete degenerate. Ain’t nobody wanna see that.

And yes, I know that only Faulkner can make a run-on sentence work. Fight me.

Oh! I got back in the gym. Yeah, I wasn’t really excited about it either, especially when I started trying to walk the day after leg day. I’m pretty sure someone lowered the toilet six inches, too. But, I do have to admit that I feel better about being me when I’m at least doing something there. It’s not pretty, and there’s still more of me than I’d like there to be, but I’m working on it. Now that it’s warming up and I can get back out hiking with the dog (I call it hiking, really it’s just walking, but it’s at the nature park so I call it hiking and you can’t stop me), I’ll feel even better. And Archer won’t be trying to eat my house. He’s 7 now, you’d think he’d slow down. I don’t even think he sleeps.

So, hopefully, I’ll be doing a few things this spring and summer – redecorating youngest’s room, painting the living room and redoing the floor – that might at least make for some pretty pictures, if not interesting stories of the epic fails I’m pretty sure are gonna happen. This is me, after all. In the meantime, here are a few links to some things I’ve enjoyed lately, and maybe you will, too.  Or not.  Embrace the possibilities.

My article at Unclesamesmisguidedchildren.com. Yes, it’s a shameless plug. No, I do not care.

My youngest’s Instagram, where she puts photography and YouTube, where she posts both original music and covers

My eldest’s Fitness and and Owl Pinterest boards, because – owls. Duh. And fitness.

Final thoughts:  If you’ve hacked me off, chances are you’ve already made your way into my novel.  Sorry not sorry.

I know you’ve heard it.  The “new year, new me” stuff that everyone starts spouting come January 1st. You know what? I’m not going to do that, because, really? I’m not at all interested in being a new me. I’ve worked really hard to get the me I have now – why would I want to chuck that all out the window and start over again?? Seems like throwing effort after foolishness, if you ask me.

I ain’t about that life.

Does that mean there aren’t some things I want to change, or do better? Heck no! But I don’t think it’s because I want a new me – it’s because I like the road I’m on, and want to continue to go down it. I hope that makes sense. If it doesn’t, well, I don’t know what to tell ya.

This year, I intend to continue writing. Writing, and writing, and writing, and I’m not shying away from things that might be “offensive” to some.  Truth is truth, and while I can do my best to speak it in love, and I do, I won’t water it down because someone doesn’t want to hear it.

I intend to continue being a gym rat. If you haven’t been in touch with me this past year, you might have just spit your drink all over your screen.  Have your laugh, wipe off your monitor, but it’s true. I don’t miss workouts. I get CRANKY if I think I might. I lift heavy. I sweat. Who am I??

I intend to keep decluttering my home and my life. The past few months have seen me tossing the debris, physical and emotional,  that comes with holding on too much and looking backwards, not forwards. I ain’t about THAT life any more, either, and it feels pretty darn good. I want more of it.

So – for me, the “new year, new me” isn’t something I’m even remotely interested in chasing. I think I’ll just keep on being the me I’ve been becoming for 46 years.  I kind of like her.

Same me, and I’m ok with that.

The lovely Carrie Hope Fletcher recently wrote a letter to her younger self, and I thought to myself, “Self, you should do that”. Now that someone has been taking it upon themselves to be sure I understand just how insignificant I am, I’ve decided that it’s no longer a good idea, it’s a necessity.  Partly because I’m obstinate to the core, and if you tell me I’m homely and self-absorbed, I’ll do my best to flaunt both of those things in your face as loudly as possible, but also because maybe there’s a person out there who might need to pick up some of the things I’m gonna be putting down. Who knows? Like I keep saying, it’s my blog, and I’ll write what I want.

Dear 20-year-old Amber,

Well.  I’m writing us from 26 years down the road, and there’s good news and bad news. Isn’t that always the way? Which do you want first, the good or the bad?

Ok, here goes.

We’re still, shall we say, eccentric, still finding beauty in odd places and being bored by the things that interest 90% of the rest of the population. The thought of the zombie apocalypse still makes us kind of giggly, and we have even less of a “brain to mouth” filter than we had at 20.  Our hair got curly, which is kind of cool, but now living with it is less about styling and more about not angering the beast, so take that as you will.  Still have breasts that are way bigger than we’d like, still Irish pale, still not tall, not thin, not striking.

Thing is, you’ve been through some tough stuff recently, and you’re feeling pretty beaten up by the world. I want you to know that you’re  – that WE’RE – going to be ok. As a matter of fact, we’re going to be more than ok.

By the time you’re me,  we’re going to have some things going on in our lives that are really pretty cool.

We’re going to have not one, but TWO incredible daughters. Smart, beautiful, talented, and even more important than all that, caring and strong young women that will make us proud every single day. Oh, they’ll drive us nuts at times, but our parents say that’s just because there’s justice in the world.

And we wonder where the snark came from.

Anyway.

We’re gonna have people in our lives that love us for all our weirdness and not only do they love us, they GET us, and isn’t that freaking amazing??

We’ll reach 46 never having done the “walk of shame”, and be pretty proud of the fact – not because we didn’t have the opportunity for one night stands, but because we valued ourselves more than to just give it away for a night. We were worth more, and we waited until someone was worthy of all that we are. Don’t forget it.

I know you’re feeling pretty unexceptional right now, and pretty battered, but the road you’re gonna walk is gonna be full of as much beauty as it is ugliness, and here’s where that tendency to see the beautiful in the odd and weird is going to serve us well, because when others around us are going to be at a loss to find anything good in what’s going on around them, WE’RE gonna be able to do just that.

We’re going to – get this – WRITE THINGS DOWN AND GET PAID TO DO IT. Seriously!! Oh, you’re going to take your share of crappy retail and secretarial jobs along the way, but you’ll find that, eventually, you hold actual money in your hand that people gave you in exchange for your words!  We’re not wealthy, but we’re actually doing what we love, and apparently we don’t suck at it. Who knew??

So, yeah. Things can get pretty unpleasant, and I’d be lying if I said that the next 26 years were going to be all skittles and sweet tea, but to be honest, I think we turn out ok, and it’s the mountains that we’re going to climb that give us the endurance to keep going. Room for improvement?  Yeah, but at least that gives us something to keep working for.

Keep your head high, Amber.

Love,

Me

Myself and my reasons NOT to listen to the opinions of anonymous mud-slingers.

It’s funny how posting about douchecanoes brings them out in droves, innit?

Apparently – and this is funny as heck to me, considering exactly where the jumpstart for my last post came from – someone thinks I’ve got my panties all in a twist because someone isn’t being communicative with ME.  That’s a lot of assumptions, not the least of which is that I actually wear panties in the first place. They accused me of all sorts of things, including chasing someone “out of my league” and being an “average, middle-aged woman”.

First things first – I’m chasing exactly no one. I’m off the market, and quite happy to be that way. Too bad you’re obviously so insecure in YOUR relationship that a blog post from that “average, middle-aged woman” discombobulated you to the point that you needed to make a nasty – anonymous – comment.

However, and this is a big one, it’s the fact that in someone’s mind “average middle-aged woman” was an insult.  I did a little research, ’cause I’m anal like that, and found out some things about that elusive beast, the AMAW.

The AMAW is educated beyond the high school level, more likely to have an advanced degree, and has had success in at least one career (not just a job, mind you) and often more. We’ve achieved a lot of things on our bucket lists, and are much more likely to be able to say “I’m doing exactly what I want to do with my life”.  We’ve had the incredible joy of not only becoming mothers but of seeing at least one of our children begin to step out into their own lives, though most of us have at least one child still at home.

We AMAWs are experienced in life in ways you younger girls (yep, girls) haven’t even begun to approach yet. We’ve learned how to do more with less, make things work when it looked like there was no way in Hades it was possible, had relationships thrive, had relationships fail, learned what our strengths really are, and learned that there were a whole hell of a lot more of those strengths than we thought possible when we were 30.  We’ve learned that it’s ok to fall apart, and that we don’t need anyone else to pick up the pieces. On the opposite side of that coin – we’ve also learned that sometimes the people in our lives NEED to pick up those pieces for us, and that letting them isn’t acknowledging weakness, it’s acknowledging love.  We don’t need a man to take care of us, but we’ve learned to revel in it when he wants to.

The AMAW knows what she wants sexually, knows her body and her desires, and knows what her lover wants and needs.  She’s less inhibited, more creative, and a LOT more experienced in the bedroom than a younger woman.  Unless the younger woman is a slut, and then, really, do you want to go there??

The AMAW is more confident, less drama prone, more creative, less flaky, and if we’ve traded in perfectly flat bellies for those with a gentle curve and some stretch marks, trust me when I say that when our lover’s eyes are rolled back in his head, he can’t see them.

I could go on, but I’ll end it with this, and I was reminded of this last comment by someone who has a way of cutting through the BS and saying truth straight out.  You know who you are, and I heart you with big fluffy hearts.

I am what you’ll become.  I’m your future.  You’ve got a long way to go, baby.  Better get cracking.

AMAW Out

EDIT: Wow, the amount of time someone is spending to both reinforce my “averageness” and make sure I understand my lowly place in society is amusing. So, cupcake, to reply, since once again it’s my  blog and I can…

I’ve never once claimed to be anything but “average-looking”.  I don’t base my worth on my looks.  It still to this day amazes me that my daughters are so beautiful when they are, in fact, half mine. Must get it from their father.

You’re the one assuming that I’m saying “men are the problem”. The friend who inspired the post is, in fact,  male; the douchecanoe in his world is decidedly female.

I also have never said that you can’t, or shouldn’t, refuse or end a friendship that is not enhancing your life. However, if you can’t be bothered to use your words and tell a person that…if you use passive aggressive techniques such as never being the one to make contact first but once you’re speaking to someone you continue to “string them along”, for lack of a better term…then I’m standing by my douchebag claim.  Too many people get off on knowing they’ve got “options”, and forget that those options are human.

I have to wonder, here…what, exactly, is so personal  about this to you, and it has to be personal, because the amount of time you’ve put into both attempting to hurt me and prove me wrong is not insignificant.  I’m assuredly not after anything you’ve got (and since I’m so average looking I wouldn’t be a threat anyway), so I wonder, why have the words of one insignificant blogger hit such a raw nerve?

I’m in a mood. Ok, so really, that’s not all that unusual, but suck it up and deal with it, buttercup.  You know where the back button is on your browser.  You’re probably only here because you were looking for Zombie Apocalypse Survival Tips, and I really only have a few of those. I might put them at the end of this post.  Or in the middle, so you have to actually read it to find them.  You should totally keep reading, ’cause those tips are the ish.

So, I was thinking, what exactly makes someone a good friend, and what makes them a douchecanoe? This train of thought made me sad, then angry, then disgusted with humanity in general and then the cravings set in and next thing I knew I was wondering Walmart at midnight looking for red wine and chocolate, so I figured I’d better just write it down or I’d end up drunk and/or fat(ter).  <Tip #1 – Never pass a chance to stockpile ammo, coffee, or toilet paper.  Hoard that stuff like gold.> I came up with these signs that, if you find they fit, you might, in fact, be a douchecanoe. Wow, that’s a lot of commas.  (Disclaimer: I know all of us do these things sometimes.  That makes you a human with a life. If, however, there’s a pattern there…yeah.)

• If you talk to someone a lot, but THEY’RE always the one starting the text convos or initiating the calls, you might be a douchecanoe.
• If it’s obvious that someone is upset, or sad, or depressed, or facing down a horde of hungry zombies, and you don’t at least try to offer comfort and/or ammo, you might be a douchecanoe.  Nobody is expecting you to solve all their problems, or at least sane people aren’t, but they’d like to know they aren’t fighting their battle alone.
• If you have told a friend a bunch of big ole lies, and then assume that EVERYONE ELSE IS A LIAR, TOO, and get all bent out of shape about those imaginary lies – you’re definitely a douchecanoe.  You don’t even get a might tacked onto this one. It’s one thing to have baggage, another one entirely to assume everyone else is as totally screwed up as you.
• <Tip #2 – Trip the more annoying members of your group.  The zombies will get them first, stopping to feed and both giving you time to get away and ridding you of a serious nuisance.>

So, what do you do if it turns out that you are, in fact, a whole canoe’s worth of douche?

Well, you could try NOT being a douchecanoe. You know, actually let people know that they’re important to you by making an effort now and then. Initiate a text conversation.  It won’t kill you. Surprise them with a phone call.  SHOW them that they mean something to you, if they do.  If they don’t, maybe it’d just be better to let them know that they mean about as much to you as one of those freebie newspapers that get thrown on your porch now and then, you know, the ones with the expired coupons and outdated movie listings. At least then they’ll learn what sort of person (and I use the term loosely) you really are and they’ll bestow their energy on someone who might actually deserve it. Unless they’re a douchecanoe, too, and in that case aren’t you made for each other,  life is too short to turn down a good friendship when it presents itself.

My Best Zombie Apocalypse Survival Tip:  Don’t be a douchecanoe. People are less likely to feed you to the undead hordes just to get rid of you then.  Just saying.

EDIT:  You might be an incredibly huge douchecanoe if you think this post was inspired by YOUR interactions with ME. It was inspired, in actuality, by something I’m watching a dear friend deal with (who isn’t, in fact, a douchecanoe). But if it makes you feel important, go right ahead and call me names in comments that I won’t post, ’cause it’s my blog and I can do whatever I want here.

Yeah, I know, this wasn’t supposed to end up being a political sort of blog, and it still mostly isn’t, but you know, if I can’t say what I want to say here, then I might as well just pack it up and head on home. Or head to the bedroom, since I’m already home on my sofa, because laptop and mobile computing and stuff.

See? Work at home! No pants required! Don’t I look excited?

I figure myself a pretty independent woman.  I have a college degree. I had a career as a teacher before I left to school my own children and do this nifty writing thing, which pays just as poorly but I can do at home in pajamas.  I can even do minor home repairs and I’m very, very good with a gun. I don’t call myself a feminist, but that’s an entirely other blog post that I’m not sure I can tackle without medication, but I’m quite capable of carrying on my life on my own.

Have I encountered sexism in the workplace?  You betcha.  Do I think there is a “War on Women” in this country?

Not just no, but H**L NO, pardon my language.

Oh, there’s a war on women happening in this world, all right, but folks, it ain’t here, and I’m about to drop a little knowledge on you that might sting a bit.

Having to buy your own tampons every month isn’t war.  Having to cover your entire body, including your eyes, before you dare venture into public, because you’re a woman, is war.

Having to pay for your own contraception isn’t war.  Being banned from any education at all because you’re a woman is war.

Getting whistled at by some guy on the street isn’t war.  It isn’t rape, either, by the way, so just shut up about that right now. Being sold into sexual slavery for the princely sum of $25 when you’re 9 years old is war.  That’s rape, too, in case you were unclear about it.

Women in Iraq, Afghanistan, Pakistan, even the UK are being maimed in acid attacks, gang raped, sometimes killed because they besmirched a family’s “honor” by GETTING raped or refusing to marry someone repugnant to them – THAT IS WAR ON WOMEN, FOLKS.  Having their clitoris removed, usually without anesthesia to top it off – THAT IS WAR ON WOMEN.  That is radical Islam’s plan for every female on the planet, and if that doesn’t fit your definition of a war on women, you need to fix yourself.

Call me crazy, but I’m just not bothered by having to pay for my own tampons, or my own birth control, and I have to admit it raises my spirits when I get whistled at on the street.  I can hear feminists having the vapors from here.  Attempt to wage a REAL war on women against me and mine? You’ll find out just exactly how good I am with that gun.

Don’t get crazy, now. Sit down, maybe stretch a bit. Warm up first.

Yeah, it’s been forever and a day since I’ve posted. I’d like to say all sort of really cool and exciting things happened, but in reality it was pretty much just life, and y’all know how that goes. And goes. And goes. Bri starting college, R. starting co-op for ASL, Bri DRIVING HER OWN CAR . . . excuse me, I need a drink before I can finish that thought.

Still writing. Yes, that book.  And another one, which is slowly taking precedence because, well, it just is, and because the men it concerns are total unrecognized heroes, and since it’s my brain I can slop it out however I want. Or not. Yes, it’s taking forever. I DON’T CARE, as long as I get it DONE. There’s research, y’all, and stuff, and actual things, and . . . So.

Summer came and went, Autumn came and went, Christmas came and went, New Year’s came and went, and I’m still here.  Still writing.  Still keeping on keeping on.  I’m surprisingly ok with that. I’m in a better place personally than I was this time last year, I believe, and as long as I can say that I’m happier with me and mine than I was before, I have to think things are going ok.

I’ve made some exceptional friends. EXCEPTIONAL friends. These people make my life better in so many ways I can’t even begin to list them out, and probably shouldn’t, because you might take things the wrong way, or go “hey, why aren’t I on there”, and if you say that you probably should be and my overloaded brain just forgot to include you, and I’m really sorry, but it’s my blog, so suck it up. It’s like you don’t even know me.

AND – there’s another project on the horizon, that I haven’t quite finished working out the details of yet, and it’s a joint issue with some amazingly hot, smart, sassy women and an amazingly amazing guy and I don’t know how I ended up in this particular company except that it was sort of my idea, except not totally, and when it rolls out you’ll see. I think you’ll like it. If you don’t, you might be a communist.

On Twitter, it’s #MilitaryMonday, so I did want to give a shout out to some of my very favorite folks who are currently serving, or have served, in defense of our country. On a day when we watched the official swearing in of a man determined to undermine our Constitutional freedoms, it seemed right to mention these people. I’m proud to call them friends, and humbled by their service.

Alex, Brian, Brough, Craig, David, Jeff, Keaton, Matt C., Matt P., Mekala P., Scott, Sean, Shawn C., Steve C., Steve H. – thank you.  From the bottom of my heart – thank you.

Yeah, I know, month or so gone by, blah de blah. Life, yanno??

Anyhoo.

I have lots to talk about, but only a little bit is interesting. I’m going to talk about THIS instead.

AT THE CAR WASH!!

Yes sir, ladies and gentlemen, a CAR AND DOG WASH. I was driving through Hampton Roads and I saw this. There was boggling in my mind, I’m not gonna lie. Did I need a convertible to do the dog wash? How did this work? I’m used to seeing weirdness around here, now – like Scooter Man, who rides his scooter wearing a WWI leather flight cap, goggles, leather jacket and NOTHING ELSE. But this?

I came home, and researched, and y’all, this is a THING. Apparently the latest thing to add to your self-serve car wash business. So, in the interests of dog and car owners everywhere, I had to try it. Don’t judge.

It totally rocked my socks! SERIOUSLY! Clean, easy to use, climate controlled, and I washed and dried Archer the Wonder Dog and Stormageddon, Dark Lady of All in less than 45 minutes, for less than $20!! Considering that Archer is a double-coated Aussie, I’d have been happy to do that for him alone, but I got them both done with oatmeal treatment shampoo (tearless, no less), conditioner, dryer and doggy cologne.

Archer is really, really not impressed. I, however, was.

Oh, yeah. We’ll be back. I might even wash my car.

I’m gonna warn y’all now, I’ve got strep throat and I’ve taken a LOT of meds, so I dunno how much sense this is gonna make. Not that it usually makes much sense any way, so, really, there’s no change.

As some of you know, we lost our old lady dog in January. The girls and I and Archer felt the loss a lot, and we decided that we needed to have another dog. Patrick did not decide this. We decided it for him, and he generously decided not to make too much of a fuss, because I know where he lives and he has to go to sleep sometime.

So, we looked around at the rescues, and found:

Stormie and The Girl Child

The dog, not the girl.  I’ve had the girl for almost 17 years.  She’s not available for adoption, unless you’re going to put her through college, then we might talk.

This is Stormageddon (points if you get the reference). She was found with her sisters in the woods, and was the only pup left at the rescue when we got there, and we took a chance on her even though she was quite shy (don’t ever do that, I’m a professional), and I’m so glad we did. She’s come all the way out of her shell, is sharp as a tack and just so much fun, even though she’s chewing through things she shouldn’t.

Archer isn’t sure what to think of her, but as long as she leaves his tennis ball alone, she can stay.

So, there’s the new family member, which has been fun, and the usual debris of life, which has been not so much fun but hasn’t been terrible.

The trip to the dentist to find out I’d cracked two fillings and now needed two crowns I could have done without, since my dental insurance doesn’t cover crowns, and they seem to be the most expensive things on the planet, right up there with gasoline and platinum.

There is a lot of interesting stuff coming up, though.  A dear friend is coming to town next month, and since she lives in California, and, well, I don’t, the chances to get to meet face to face are very, very few.  Because, you know, I’m not independently wealthy.  Or even dependently wealthy. I’m really looking forward to that, and I hope she doesn’t decide that I’m just too weird for face time. She’s a Southern girl, though, like me, so she doesn’t scare easily.

I’ve got a truckload of seeds for my garden, and I’m excited about that, even though I’ll probably kill them all before they germinate because my thumb is THAT black.  I manage to grow mold in the bathroom, and that’s about it.  I keep hoping, though, I keep hoping.  For the garden, not the mold.

I also got some knitting needles and managed to make a swatch that looked almost, but not quite, entirely unlike a scarf.  However, since I didn’t end up knitting my fingers into the weave, I’ll call it a win. I can crochet, I should be able to do this, dang it!

I still hate my neighbors. I take that back. I don’t know them enough to like or dislike them, but I surely do hate their behavior. One of these nights I’m just gonna snap, and I have a tendency to go to pieces so fast people get hit with shrapnel, and so I don’t know how that’s going to turn out. I figure I’ll end up turning the garden hose on them.  Maybe the pressure washer.

And – it just not occurred to me that the title of this post makes it seem like I’m smelly, and I’m not, but I was shopping for perfume earlier and was getting really down at all the kinds I can’t wear. I don’t do florals, I don’t want to smell like food, and I detest that sharp chemical smell that seems to be a mainstay in all couture fragrances. I do get a lot of things from Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab, which is delicious and decadent and all sorts of lovely “d” words. I’m just incapable of fragrance monogamy. Currently I love Anne Bonney, Hellcat and Sin. They’re all sweet and spicy and sensual. Go take a gander at BPAL and see what they have to offer.  It’s pretty impressive.

I’ve also been spending time on Twitter, partly because interesting people there will talk to me, and partly because I only have to come up with 140 characters at a time and even my brain can do that.  If you’re on Twitter, follow me there, and follow some of the folks there who make me smile, and laugh, and think:

@BarbFerrer, because she’s smart and funny and snarky and a heck of a writer.

@Omundson, because, well, HE’S smart and funny and snarky and a heck of an actor.

@Cincoflex, because she’s brilliant in so, so many ways.

@bridgettamanda because she’s a Girl Raised in the South and I adore her.

@TheBloggess because she’s The Bloggess!

So, I’ve actually managed to bore you to tears, and I’m going to take yet more meds and go to bed.  What? You expected something else? It’s like you don’t even know me.

Once upon a time, this fantastic, flawed, amazing woman named Jenny decided, on her blog, to coin the term “FURIOUSLY HAPPY”. Once upon a time, a not-so-fantastic, even more flawed, no-where-near amazing woman named Amber decided that being furiously happy was, in fact, an abso-freakin’-lutely brilliant idea, and decided to do just that.

The beginning of 2012 tried to dent that decision, like a zombie denting the head of its next victim (see, Bri, I did the zombie thing). A favorite uncle passed away. A beloved pet passed away. Furiously happy wavered on its legs, looking remarkably similar to a newborn giraffe.

However, even though it tilted and stumbled, furiously happy did NOT go quietly into that good night, and I’m writing this blog entry about it because, well, I’m still furiously happy!

So many things and people make me furiously happy, and the recent losses in my life made me decide that I needed to recognize at least some of those things and those people, because you never know when you won’t be able to tell them again. So, I’m telling the whole world (or at least the handful of it that reads this blog).

YOU MAKE ME FURIOUSLY HAPPY. All of you. For so many reasons. From my girlfriends like Bridgett and Mekala and Lisa and Jamie and Georgia and Helen and Kaye…to former students turned beloved friends like Sean…to fellow writers like Jenny and Barb and Gail (and Kaye again, because she’s that good)…to folks I’ve never met in person and who don’t really have a clue who I am, but who inspire me in some way like Tim and Chris and Cherie and Kat.

To the family that is the core of who I am and who I’m still trying to become.

Even to the furballs that share my life and cause no end of frustration and laughter.

So many of you.

I’ll still get angry, and frustrated, and I’ll still battle the lying SOB that is depression, but I will not let them WIN. I won’t give them houseroom in my life or foothold in my soul. I just won’t. If I do, I know you’ll stop me.

So, yeah, I’m still FURIOUSLY HAPPY, and I intend to stay that way, regardless of what life throws at me, because – well, because I deserve to be. We all do.

Yes, you, too.