If I could fix it, I would ;

Mental illness is real.  It’s not something you can just wish away.  It’s not something you can just decide to have a good attitude about.  It’s not something you can ignore.  Oh how I wish it was.

There are times when you’ve fallen asleep with no worries, and then you wake up from a nightmare, positive that someone is in your house. You leap out of bed in a panic and frantically check every lock, pacing and checking.

Some people have a significant other to calm them down.  I don’t have that person.

So I wake up screaming and then run around and check the locks, terrified that someone is already in the house.  Keep in mind that there’s nowhere in here to hide if you’re a human.  Doesn’t stop me from checking behind the shower curtain again before I go back to bed.

I don’t even know if I have someone I trust enough to call when it’s really bad.  If I’ve called you and sounded manic and crazy, it’s a precursor to something really not good, and I thank you for taking my call. There’s a good chance you actually saved my life.  I’ve tested out a few of you to see if you can be trusted to actually show up and save me.  I’m not criticizing because you all have your own lives, but so far, I’m not sure that I’m not alone in this.  Some of this is the depression telling me that you don’t care.  Some of this is evidence based.

“Hey elm, are you ever going to write about Cosmo again on your blog?  That was fun and this is depressing sometimes.”

I don’t even remember the last time I got an issue of Cosmo.  I do remember taking the last couple that showed up straight to the recycling after taking a couple of notes.  You know what’s depressing?  Having someone tell you that your depression is boring and they’d rather read about that guy you fucked in 2011.  Yes, the sex was amazing, yes I miss having him in my life. But he is my past.  I’m trying to move forward.  Anyway.

I have 9 tattoos.  One is a semicolon on my left wrist/forearm. As is true of most of my tattoos, this was done on a whim, and it means more to me than any of my other tattoos.  It means that my story isn’t over.  There’s more to come after the break.  Project Semicolon was created by a woman named Amy Bleuel.  She created it after her father committed suicide.  She suffered from her own mental illnesses.

Amy died on March 24th. She was a victim of suicide.  Yes, a victim.  Because while some people may say that she killed herself, I know that’s not true.  Her depression did it.  Her depression murdered her.  The voices lied to her too many times. I get this. I hope her death was peaceful, and my thoughts are with her family.

I wish I’d had one second with her before she left. So I could tell her how amazing she is. How she is loved. How she has done such a thing and brought so many of us together. How we will continue to fight in her memory.  I hope she knows, and I hope she is finally at peace and the voices never call to her again. Because if you take that step and you’re still tortured, then death is truly the worst thing.

But back to me (Because it is ALL ABOUT MEEEEEEEEEEE ON MY BLOG – okay that’s annoying even to me, but fuck it I’m leaving it in).

I have more friends than I ever would have imagined.  I love you all.  Really, I do.  It’s why I say “Love you” when I end every phone call.  It’s hard sometimes at work to condition myself to not say it. You never know when the last time will be, so you have to tell people you love them.

There are days when the razor is sharp and I’m ready to be done.  But you pull me back in.  There are days when I hope that I die in my sleep and don’t have to do the next day.

Today isn’t that day. Maybe tomorrow. But not today. Today I’m celebrating with my friends.  I’m celebrating the life that Amy lived. I’m planning the next tattoo, the next time I’m going to hang out with you.

I’ll tell you that I love you, and I do.


Oh Honey, but you could also do this!

As some of you know, I’m a long-standing member of a running forum. I joined in 2005, and I consider many people I’ve met from there to be some of my very best friends.  Some have been to my home, I’ve been to some of their homes, I’ve run races with them, I’ve gone to baseball games with them, one of them drove over a giant dead thing with my car on a road trip to Georgia (NO I WILL NOT EVER FORGET THAT), I’ve met and hugged your kids, I’ve been in a wedding, and I’ve been to two others.  Some of you I’ve never even met.  (Yeh, I changed it so I’m now talking to you. Yes, YOU. YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE.)  I’ve cried on shoulders, and I’ve had people cry on mine.  I’ve had someone talk me out of killing myself, and I’ve tried to help people when their lives felt hopeless.  I hope I helped, and y’all can always call me if you need me.  I’ll do what I can.  And if you’re one of the people who’ve helped me when I needed it, I hope you know how much I appreciate it and how much I love you.

I first joined the forum at the suggestion of my Dad back in 2005 or so. It was hilarious at times (“I love big cock,” I replied to a thread about saying something out of character (my nickname was Prudence), and my Dad replied “ELIZABETH.” Much hilarity ensued, and good times were had by all).  Over time, I decided to join the Women’s section of the forum, and hoo boy, women can have their moments.  Some women left the forum forever, but I’ve remained friends with so many of them as well. After we ran something like 200 miles together over the course of 2.5 days, we’ve had breakfast when you’ve visited the city I call home, we’ve eaten so much amazing food, never being the girls that ordered salads because we were on a diet (after all, one frozen pizza is one serving), we’ve had drinks and laughed our asses off, I’ve told you I swear to god I didn’t get you pregnant after keeping you out too late the night before the Chicago marathon drinking wine, we’ve sat at the bar the day before a marathon (this seems to be a theme – don’t hang out with me the night before a PR attempt) wondering how long that asshole is going to sell us this story about his boat, probably ruining your chance at a PR and the text messages after from your at the time DH led to me calling you HOLLERING about how I shaved nothing for you and holyshitthisisembarrassing but STILL HILARIOUS, and girl, you know who you are.  I spent a day with one of those women in NYC last summer, and it was a day I will never forget. It forged a friendship that will last for all time, as so many of these friendships will.  Just because I didn’t mention the moment we shared here doesn’t mean it doesn’t mean the fucking WORLD to me, especially you with the dirty books and the dirty blog.

And do NOT even get me started on that fucking chocolate croissant.  I have a brown belt, and I’ll slap you if you touch my kid’s hand. (Raise your hand if you STILL almost piss yourself laughing at that.  Okay, just me.  Whatevs.)  Celebrate with me, friends.

Anyway, so on this women’s forum, we bitch about stuff sometimes. Things that bother us. Work, friends, husbands, girlfriends, kids, whatever. And after years of getting advice, someone (I honestly forget who) said that sometimes you just need an “Oh, Honey.”  You don’t need advice, you don’t need a recommendation.  You just need someone to hold you close (or not even touch you at all), and say, “Oh, Honey.”  It’s worked WONDERS. It became a bit of a catch-phrase – if you don’t want advice?  Just tell us that you want an “Oh honey,” and girl, we are ON IT. We will “OH HONEY” your ass off.  Because we are nothing if we are not supportive.  God forbid you’re the person who our friend needs advice about because goddammit we have our pitchforks ready and sharp.

So when I’m telling all y’all what I’m doing with my house? I’m gonna start ending it with an “oh, honey,” because while I love your good intentions? I NEED TO GET THIS SHIT OUT MY GAHTDAMB HOUSE and your well-meaning suggestions are doing nothing other than sending me into a rage.  If you still give me a suggestion that I didn’t ask for?  I’m gonna show up on your porch and leave whatever it is on your porch to deal with it.

This doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate your advice. I do. But right now? This shit has to GO, and it’s going how I decide it’s going.  So unless I ask for your advice? OH HONEY my ass off and let’s go have drinks, okay?  Don’t be offended – I don’t have time to stroke your ego.


On another note, this doesn’t mean we won’t give advice if you ask for it.  Be prepared for that because you KNOW it is COMING.

These bags are scented.

I’m in the process of clearing out my house, and I bought garbage bags to make it easier.  All day, I’ve been like “God what the hell do I have in my drawers that smells like perfume?”

Turns out I bought scented garbage bags. I hate scented things, and I’m not even sure how I did this, but it makes it easier to get it out of the house. I apologize ahead of time to the people at the SA.

Anyway, let’s talk about books. What do we do with them? I have TONS of books. I’ve re-read many of them, but I think it’s time to let them go. Tomorrow, I’m going to put them in these scented garbage bags and take them to a local shelter or something. Otherwise, they’re going in the garbage. I’m sorry I’m doing it, but they’ve become too much stuff. It’s nothing against those authors (there are a lot of books I’m keeping) so much as it’s stuff that has to go. I have a tiny attention span lately when it’s not baseball, so I moved on.

I started on my dresser because I’m not taking those books anywhere today. Thong underwear I don’t think I ever wore (I’ve never really cared about panty lines – I wear underwear, so deal with it), mismatched socks (some of them go to this drawer to die, but WHERE DO THEY GO – seriously I wonder about this), socks I’ve never worn, pantyhose I used to wear. GONE. So I go on to the next drawer, full of sweaters I once loved and will never wear again because I’m getting rid of them.

And he grabs my arm and tells me to stop yelling. That nobody cares.  I’m fighting against him, but he’s pulling my skirt up and laughing.

“You know you want it bitch, shut up.”

I don’t want it, but I do what I can to fight before I give up and pray this is over soon.

“You know you want a piece of this.”

God no, and I’m fighting again because I asked for help but this isn’t help, this is a nightmare, and please just let it be over soon.


I look up, the room is still dark.

CHIRRRRRRP and something hits my arm.

It’s a milk ring.

It’s twenty plus years ago, and it’s like it was yesterday.

Operation Clear My House (aka Nevertheless . . .)

Operation Clear My House to help clear my mind has commenced. It’s long overdue, and I’m being ruthless about it. I’ve already recycled at least 10 big reusable grocery bags of stuff (lots of cans – see below about the kitchen) and two garbage bags of crap I don’t want and will not hold onto to take to the goodwill, a food pantry, or SA. Some of that was prepackaged food things I haven’t eaten in years. I didn’t bother checking dates. If I won’t eat it, it’s not going to a food pantry. I’ll make a donation to one tomorrow. They’d rather have money anyway.

I started tonight with the kitchen. We won’t talk about how old some of those bottles of dressing were. No more buying things just because they’re on sale. I love going to the grocery store, so I’ll go buy things at Devon market when I need them. Only cat food, soda, and things like tp will be stocked up on. There was no need for an eight year old can of chickpeas to be in my cabinet because I once loved making hummus. Lemon pepper that I remember buying in my first fucking apartment. I don’t even LIKE lemon pepper that much (as evidenced by the fact that it was basically full).

Tomorrow I’m tackling the bathroom. The linen pantry (that has TONS of half used bottles of things I’ll never use again), under the sink (bottles of nail polish from years ago, half used things of hair products, various barrettes and clips that are probably broken anyway), and all the crap on the counter. Sets of sheets that I haven’t used since I moved in here over 10 years ago? Those I will take to the SA, but they must be taken within a week or they go in the trash. A laundry hamper half full of clothes that I don’t like that much anyway and haven’t bothered to wash? Trash. All of it. Which reminds me I need to find my key for the dumpster. Prying the lid open to cram stuff in isn’t going to work tomorrow. It’s time to be ruthless.

I recycled the cans and jars from the cabinets (thank god for a garbage disposal in the sink), but the bathroom stuff is just getting tossed. I’m fucking diligent about recycling about 80% of the time, better than most people, I’d bet, so I cannot feel guilty about this. I have to take better care of myself, and it’s starting at home, goddammit.

I got my new tattoo on Thursday to commemorate all of the powerful women in this country and to remind myself that I cannot just fucking give up on my home and my life because it’s too hard to tackle. People that give up end up on Hoarders. I love that show, but I don’t want to be on it. I’m not going to lie, I couldn’t kill myself for any number of reasons, but a big one was knowing that people who love me would see my home in its current state. That’s not right, and I will change.

Yeesh, is this what confessing feels like? If so, I’m so glad I’m not catholic (not the only reason, but I digress).

I rarely, if ever, invite people into my home. If you’re a good friend you may have noticed this, or you may not. In my circle of friends, we go to places rather than meeting at each others’ homes. This has been a huge relief to me.

There is one person (not counting a few repairmen, and I apologized profusely the entire time they were here out of shame) who has been in my house in the last three years.  ONE. This isn’t right. I’m a wonderful cook (and a braggart apparently!), and I love to have people over. But I’ve been ashamed of my home, and it’s well past fucking time for that to change. Mind you, I keep the bathroom and kitchen clean amongst the clutter, but the clutter has to go.  The not dealing with this shit because it’s too hard? The being careful about taking pictures of my cats so you don’t see the stuff? It has to stop.

Now, I’m never going to have a home that looks all perfect where people apologize for the mess that you can’t even see. That’s just not my nature. But when I was thinking about hiring a person to help me with this, I realized that I have the power and the skills to do this, and it’s gotdamn past time for me to start. I have to start on this persisting.

So, I started tonight with the kitchen, which still needs some rearranging but looks better than it did by far. Tomorrow, the bathroom and hopefully part of the dining room. The bathroom needs to be done tomorrow (or should be done tomorrow – I need to be kind to myself), but the dining room can wait until Monday because tomorrow night the Grammy Awards are on, and you know I’m gonna be with my ass planted on the couch cheering my heart out for Chance (there will be a FB thing – I feel more strongly about this than any other award show ever – Chance is great. He’s probably saved my life, but that’s another blog). So I need to get on it early. Maybe I’ll leave the politics shows on after I watch CBS Sunday morning – that will motivate me. Make my life better = making me stronger = more will to fight.

Then the rest of the dining room and living room on Monday/Tuesday/Wednesday. I only say to Wednesday because I do have shows I like to watch on Tuesday. I still have to be a little bit me. My bedroom will be last because if I can’t get the rest of my home right, I have no reason for anyone but me to be in there.

I’m going to a concert on Friday (RUN THE JEWELS!!!!!!!!!!!!), and the friend I’m going with lives somewhere in the city that it would cost a lot for him to take a cab home after the show is over. At one point, I considered paying for his $50+ cab ride home so he wouldn’t sleep on my couch. This is stupid, and asking him to accept my home as a cluttered awful mess is also stupid. So I guess I have him to thank for finally kicking me in the ass. Or maybe it’s me, getting that ink on my arm and realizing that I can’t do it if i continue to give up.

I think all of the times I’ve sat with pills, a razor, a sharp knife, or even googled other ways to kill myself (and while I wish I was never in a place that awful and never am again), and I have to thank Mitch McConnell, Senior Senator from Kentucky. And Elizabeth Warren, Senior Senator from Massachusetts. She was warned. She was given an explanation.


Nevertheless, she persisted.

On the last day where I feel safe in this country

“Why don’t you feel safe, elm?”

I’m a cisgender (I identify as the gender I was born) white (SO MUCH PRIVILEGE) woman, so I’ve had a lot of things go my way. None of those things are sarcastic. I’m cisgender, I’m white, I’m a woman. I didn’t mention my sexual orientation. We might talk about that in a later post, but I’ll address it briefly here.  I’ve dated a woman. I would do it again.  I’ve mostly dated men.

But why don’t I feel safe?

Because I’m a woman who has had her pussy grabbed (fucked, really) against her will. Because I’m a woman who believes that every man and woman, no matter his/her/their sexual orientation, deserves to feel safe. Because I’m a woman who believes every transgender person, every person with a disability, every person of color, every person who practices a religion other than Christianity, every PERSON for that matter, deserves to feel safe in this country.

And we’ve elected a man who will be sworn in as the 45th President of our United States who makes me feel unsafe. There were a lot of things I didn’t like about Former President George W. Bush, but I didn’t even so much as think for a second that he’d plunge us into World War III or just get us nuked off the map.  To be honest, I’m hoping for nukes if it gets that bad. I don’t know what I’d do with Torii and Ty if the world gets that bad.  If it even gets close, you’ll find me in Michigan with my parents.  I love Chicago, but I’d rather not be alone if the world is ending.

For those of you who think I’m being melodramatic?  Try living in my head for a minute.  This is nothing. My anxiety has been on overdrive since the election, and I’m not going to lie, I’ve been scrambling around these couple of months just so I don’t kill myself. Depression and anxiety combined with our current political climate don’t make for good bedfellows. I’ve been watching videos of both Bush Presidents, Clinton, and praying. I don’t usually pray, but now?  ANYWAY.

As a woman who feels that while, yes, he is the person who won the electoral college, he clearly did not win the popular vote. And for those of you who have hoped that he is impeached or worse? Our next Vice President, Mike Pence, would be next in line, and he is not a good alternative. I’ll happily send you links to articles about why he isn’t a good choice, but I’m not going into that here.

For those of you that voted for him? I’ve told most of you how I feel about this, and I’m pretty much done with you. Show me that you don’t agree with him. Your words aren’t enough at this point. This has gone too far. Betsy “the Grizzly” DeVos was too far. You didn’t speak up against her. Speak up. Speak out.

It’s not just about how it affects you. It’s about how this affects all of us, and if you’re not fighting for all of us? Ain’t nobody got time for that.

I spent the last eight years being alternately thrilled and pissed off at outgoing President  Barack Obama. But I never felt unsafe. I do feel unsafe now.  This isn’t up for debate. I feel unsafe. There’s nothing you can say to change that unless we can work a whole lot of magic.

The electoral college is confusing enough

So Cosmo has been showing up, and I’ve kind of been writing about it, but I’ve also been writing about other stuff. Some of the posts you can see, some you can’t. I’ve also been thinking about whether I’m going to do Nanowrimo again this year (probably – I miss my Nano friends, and that’s a guaranteed way I’ll get to reconnect with them. I write a book noneya will ever read, I get to chat with my friends and release a lot of anxiety, win win, amirite?), and I’ve been really stressed out over politics.

So imagine my absolute DELIGHT when I get my newest issue of Cosmo, and there’s a lede that promises to save me (AND YOU!): “Sex Moves That Change Lives! Trust in the Erectoral College.”

Oh jumping jaysus on a pogo stick, NO. Do not bring anything politics into my bedroom. I mean seriously, Trump is “joking around” about grabbing pussies, some men are saying “NOT ALL MEN,” and I have had enough. But I look anyway because I’m a glutton for punishment, and so are you if you’re still here.

So, the electoral college. I could explain it to you, but you’d be better off with wikipedia or calling your 7th grade Social Studies teacher. Your 7th grade social studies teacher might even be a better sex reference than Cosmo. I’d stay away from Wikipedia though, if you’re looking for sex advice.  And maybe away from your 7th grade teacher. Mrs. Bunce was lovely, but I doubt she was in anyone’s school fantasies.

So let’s see what we have. It’s sex moves paired with certain kinds of dates. Interesting. “Switch up your post-date routine – or surprise someone new! – with these perfectly paired positions.” Not a terrible idea, but they start with mini-golf. Is mini-golf still a thing?  I’m also not a huge fan of “HEY PUT YOUR LEG HERE!” without any of my input, but here we go.

Oh jeez. “Squat over your putt-putt partner . . . ” I can’t even. It’s basically her on top of him, bracing herself so she doesn’t just sink down on top of him, but he can thrust to speed it up. Been there, done that, didn’t bother with the mini-golf. It’s fun, but it’s not winning huge votes in my “erectoral college.” Wait. “It’ll erase the memory of that creepy clown mouth.” WHAT THE HELL, COSMO.  Do you not know what’s up with clowns right now?  Negative points.

Dinner and a movie. Now, I love going out to dinner, and I love movies, but if I’m doing both, I’m probably going to sleep immediately upon getting home. I already sat through a food coma to watch a movie and you want me to do what now? And the picture for this one looks like she’s kinda in a food coma – lay on the bed, drop one leg over the side, start snoring, he stops because you aren’t consenting. It doesn’t say that, but this is clearly written by someone under 30. This article isn’t winning my vote.

“The 10-Pin Peen” Don’t call it a peen. Just don’t. But if you want to bowl a strike (my words, not theirs), stand against the wall with your ass out and have him penetrate while you keep your legs close together. They say it makes his “Lebowski” feel even bigger. I say this sounds complicated and involves maths to get the angles right. Generally not voting for this one, but bonus points for Lebowski.

The Gallery Glide.  I don’t even know what’s going on here, and I’m looking at a (cartoon) picture. Go to an art museum, and have him sit down. Wait, you should probably go home first. Then, straddle him with your legs behind you (what?), then slide up and down with your back arched. I have no idea. I’m trying to think of fun positions the guy I dated in law school and I tried, and some of them might have been like these, but we usually ended up laughing hysterically and falling asleep.  Maybe I was old even then. One point, I guess? My erectoral college is so lame.

Karaoke. Okay, so karaoke to me says drinking a fuckton of booze so you have enough confidence to belt out “Copacabana,” and then passing out when you get home. But this article tells me that you should get home and get in doggie style, lift a leg, and tilt your pelvis to hit all the right spots. If anyone is lifting their leg after karaoke, I’m expecting them to piss all over everything, and I want nothing to do with that. I remember a night where we’d gone out for all you can drink margaritas and tried something like this. He ended up with a sprained wrist, and his roommate (god he was an asshole) banned me from the apartment (I always wondered if he loved J more than I did). Sorry dude, I laugh hard when someone falls off the bed, and I might be vocal when I get off anyway because the floor works.

And now for “fancy drinks” when you end up in the “sensual speakeasy.” Uh, you lay facedown, with a pillow under your pelvis. He gets on top of your prone body and gets at it. This might be okay with some people. I’m not one of those people. Negative points.

Did you read this far? I’ll know if you did. Cosmo had one of their editors create a bunch of online dating profiles and go on dates. She reported back, and the article is actually interesting. I’ve been single for about 15 years (not without sex, sorry parents), and this is actually something I’m willing to do.

But I need your help to create my online dating profile. I will NOT be on tinder or wherever just to fuck – I can do that without an app. So next Tuesday (10/25/16), I’ll be creating dating profiles and asking for your advice.

So now I’m all in

It’s 2012, and I’ve seen the Tigers at two parks, and I have an idea.  The Tigers are going to be in Cleveland for my birthday, so I should go there.  At my last job, I used vaca time to go to Hawaii.  I can’t afford Hawaii, but I can afford Cleveland.  I book my flight, I buy my tickets (omg full price, I was so naive), and I go.  I sleep through the first few innings, but I get there, and I’m starting to think about why  I’m doing this. The Tigers win, they lose the next one, and I head home.

I’ve traveled all over the place to see people and do things, so why not travel to all the ball parks?  It’s an idea in the very back of my mind, but it’s there.

What do you know about baseball?

Admittedly?  Not much, but more than the guy asking.  I was at a bar, and I mentioned that I’d been in Cleveland and maybe I could see the Tigers play in all of the ballparks.

“It’s not possible because of the lack of interleague play.”

My brain started working as I told him that he was probably right.

“But what if you’re wrong? They’re doing more of it lately, right?”

“What if I can see the Tigers play in all the parks? I’ve got a couple already.”

And I waited for the 2013 schedule to come out because why not.

I have 13 parks to go. 12 after this weekend. Because interleague play.

I’m not patient.


Have you even met this person?

When I was a little girl, my parents and I would make occasional trips up to Traverse City to visit family.  My Grandma had a transistor radio, and while I spent most of my evening time in Traverse City sitting on the porch on Peninsula Drive counting the cars by color with my Great-Aunt Besse (I’m named after her), I remember crawling into bed with Dianne and listening to baseball.  I didn’t understand the game at all, but it was time with my grandma when it did happen. It didn’t happen often because she was married and her husband scared me.  I asked a lot of questions, and I wish I’d asked more because I’m pretty sure she knew more about baseball than she was telling.  I’m also pretty sure that once I was older she was probably drunk and trying to fall asleep.  She let me have the olives out of her martinis, and sometimes she scared me a little, but she loved baseball.  I wish I could go to a game with her.  We’d heckle the other team and talk about how they looked in their baseball pants.  My Grandma was that kind of woman.

Fast forward 29 years. I’m on the internets, meeting people.

“Have you even met this person?” I think that’s what my Mom said to me the first time I went to a new city for a running thing.

Nope. I hadn’t. It was 2006, and I was telling her how I was being picked up at the airport by someone I’d never met, to run a race and hang out with people I’d never met in person. Turned out I hooked up with someone (that I’d never met before that day – the sex was great, sorry Wendy), made a lot of friends, and started my travels around this country.

The person I hooked up with lived in Oakland, and I was 29 years old and idealistic, so I thought we’d have a real relationship.  Now that I’m older, I realize how silly that was, but I also thank him for taking me to my third ballpark to see the Tigers play.  I’d seen the Tigers in two parks at that point: US Cellular Field and Tigers Stadium.  I went out there to visit (or something, I mean come on), and he was all, “you like baseball, let’s go to a game.”  I wasn’t a fan then like I am now, but I said sure, let’s go. So we did, and I went to a game at O.Co. Park number three.

We lost that game, and some of the OCo fans were assholes, but my then boyfriend is a colorful person who takes no shit, so when they were razzing me, he shut it down quick. (tattoos and piercings everywhere were scary in 2006, I guess).  We won’t talk about the Tigers in 2006, okay?

Fast forward a few years after traveling just to see people (I had people at my house – which was a disaster – I’m a terrible host, and I admit it. I don’t like having people in my house. There. I said it), and my parents were like “who are you going to see now?”  Back then it was just going to hang out because I missed my friends.

And then all of a sudden I left a job and had some time on my hands.  Enter the Hot Stove. That time of the year when people talk about baseball but there are no games, and why the hell NOT pay attention to it?  So it’s February of 2012, and I’m paying real close attention and I get a new job.  My Mom is all, “Let’s go on vacation,” and probably to her dismay, I said, “SPRING TRAINING!!!!”  But she said okay and we did, and my love of baseball was reborn.

We didn’t know who a lot of those guys were, but we cheered for all of them.  We contemplated getting strawberry shortcake, we had hot dogs, I had beer, we ate barbecue, and I’m pretty sure my Mom learned how to love baseball. We stood in line to get Prince Fielder’s autograph (he’s a nice guy, and he’s huge. Also?  He’s incredibly polite.)  Yeah, we had a beach day (I sat in our chairs, she went for a long walk, and we didn’t kill each other, so the trip was a huge fucking success), but it was a baseball trip.

I started my new job in April of 2012, cognizant of the fact that I had to earn a living, but also newly aware that baseball was a new part of my life.  Once upon a time it had been traveling to see people to run races, now it was traveling to see my team play baseball.

As much as I’ve always loved what I do (I’m a workers’ comp attorney), I realize that I don’t love it enough to not use all my vacation time.  So I started planning.  I was just going to go see the Tigers that year and vaguely looked at the schedule.  Lots of games in Chicago, maybe I’ll go to two cities.  Sounds good.

I went to two games here in Chicago because it was warm (oh, and assume it’s US Cellular Field unless I say otherwise) in April, and I got hooked.  I went to the game with a friend from high school, and we rekindled a friendship.  Then I realized the Tigers were coming to Chicago in June to play at Wrigley.  My Dad was all in.  He can’t come to ST because tax season, so we planned to go to this game. We did. They lost. I went to the game the next day though .  Tigers won.




There is nothing wrong with you

It’s been ages since I’ve written one of these, so I’m a little rusty (kind of like my lady bits, amirite? Okay you don’t want to hear about my lack of a sex life, I get it).

But the October 2016 issue of Cosmo proclaims to have the sex secret for easy Os!!!!!!!!!  (their emphasis on exclamation points, not mine), so of course I’m curious.

This gal gets super horny when they start hooking up, but she can’t orgasm.  Cosmo calls it an “O,” I call it an orgasm.  I’m a fan of calling it like it is.  Their advice? Whisper in his ear what you like, guide his fingers where you want them but “even the most confident-seeming bros appreciate a little guidance if it’s what takes you to O-town.” (Ccsmo, October 2016).

Really? “Confident-seeming bros?” I just can’t even. Yes, I want to have sex with a man who has confidence, but what the actual fuck. How about we call him a man rather than a bro? Bro implies that he’s kind of a douche, and while you might want to have sex with that guy, most of the women I know run screaming if he’s a bro. Maybe I don’t know enough women.

This next bit is about pap smears – get them. Talk to your doctor. Don’t take advice from some random blog about your vagina.

And then a bit about female Viagra.

Here’s a fun, random story. I did random temp work back in the day, and one of the jobs I worked was sending out drug samples to doctors’ offices. Some random heart drug, but we were practically strip searched. It was Viagra. They knew even then that it wasn’t gonna be just a heart drug.

ANYWAY. What else can I do to increase my sex drive?

Turn 30. Hell, turn 40. I have no (other person) outlet for my sex drive, but gotdamn is my sex drive off the charts. I mean, I do have an outlet (masturbation is great), but no partner gets old after a while.

The article basically says to fantasize. Unless you’re lucky enough to have that person who wants to work with you to get you both to that O. I dated that guy once, and my god. Best sex of my life.

And until you find that guy? Cosmo has some good advice, y’all. (I KNOW.)

But first? Get down and familiar with your own lady bits. I mean, really, how can you expect him to get in there if you don’t already know what’s up?

I’ve been thinking – an explanation of sorts

I know, thinking is dangerous. But more than a few of you have asked how I can write about sex after what happened to me.  Well, you know what?  Once upon a time, I had sex after what happened to me.  It was a long time ago.  And I’ve had a fair amount of sex since then.  I’m almost 40.  If you believe I’ve been celibate this whole time, well, you don’t know me well, do you?  I mean, really, I’m almost 40, and if this blog is any indication? I’m a fan of getting down.  I was going to apologize to my parents here, but hell.  I’m almost 40.  I do what I want.

About a year after that happened- I met up with a woman (I call her a woman, but to this day, I think of her and myself as girls)  I knew from high school.  We started working together.  She introduced me to being a waitress – thanks to her, I have a history of almost nine years (off and on) in the business, and I don’t regret a single day of it.  I’ve lost touch with B, but my parents are still in touch with her, and I hope she sees this.  It literally made me a better person.  Restored my faith in people.  Met some guys that I may or may not have done the dirty with.  Made me a fuck ton of money too.  But just from waitressing.  She wasn’t that kind of girl. Neither was I.

Because of what happened to me, I didn’t trust anyone for a long time, but I tried my hardest to develop real relationships. Most of the time, it didn’t work, but I think I played it off pretty well.  I never got close to my sorority sisters, but I played the game really well.  I’m not friends with any of them now because I didn’t try or care after one of them called me a frigid bitch and a lot of them laughed, but I had mostly good experiences there.  I wish I could do college over again sometimes, but such is life.

I wish I could say sorry to a couple of guys who tried so hard to get close to me.  It was too soon, and I didn’t know how to tell them.  One guy in particular sticks in my brain.  Marcus was a lovely human being, a fantastic person, and a wonderful friend.  If times were different, he’d be number one on my phone to text.  But back then?  I pushed him away.  Probably for the right reasons, romantically, but I should have figured out a way to keep him close to me as a friend.    Instead, I shoved him away because I was 20 years old and didn’t know better.  I’m still pushing people away, and if you’re one who gets pushed away?  It’s not you.  It’s me.  Promise.  You’re probably fantastic.

But do you really have an active sex life with one person or just random flings?

Actual question, friends.  And feel free to ask questions.  I’ll tell you when you should mind your damn business.

I was engaged at one time in my life.  I know.  Who in their right mind would want to marry me? When I was in law school (Yes, I’m a lawyer, laugh it up!), I met a guy.  We dated, we fucked a lot, we broke up for a minute, but the sex, and then he got down on one knee in a hotel bathroom in Seattle (that city sucks, IMO. I showed up, so did thunderstorms and everyone was all OMG STORMS.  Shut the hell up.  One thundercrack is not a storm, you idiots), and for some stupid reason I said yes.  The love of your life isn’t proposing marriage in a hotel bathroom, fam, I’ll tell you that.  The guy who wants to have sex with you for a hot weekend and doesn’t want to let down his family does.  I was supposed to have a gorgeous sunset proposal (he told me this on the way back to the hotel after dinner with his ultra-conservative family who had presents and shit).

I got a “dude, get up, I have to wash my hands,” proposal.  And I mean, I told him to get up because I had to wash my hands because of course I had my period that weekend. (We’ll talk about having sex on your period another time.  For now?  Don’t rule it out.)  Some of it was me realizing he wasn’t serious.  Some of it realizing that I had to call my parents and act excited.  Days  before cellphones.  We worried about how much the call cost.

Anyway, the engagement didn’t last long, the sex took a break and then lasted until he moved (he was living in Chicago only for law school and had every intention of moving back to Seattle), and I swore when he was gone that I wasn’t ever going to be that stupid again. And I haven’t been.  Probably because I don’t let people get close.  However, I’ve had sex again.

That guy who loves the chick who sings the songs in the SPCA commercials.  The guy who loves summertime as much as I do.  The guy who accepts me for who I am and goes on to find his amazing wife (I won’t tell if you don’t – you didn’t know her then anyway!).  The guy who calls on a random Tuesday and doesn’t care if I’m not wearing any makeup and am having a breakdown but just wants to be there for me, and there’s not even a hint of sex.  The guy who asks why I don’t have the heating pads in the foot of the bed (they’re in the microwave).  The guy who . . .


How many are there?  Well, that’s none of your goddamn business.  But in the interest of public health, I’m even more careful about birth control than I am about sunscreen.

Oh, and to get back to Cosmo?  There’s a thing this month, and I’ve never had this issue, but here we go:  sometimes my guy slides out of me during sex: I’m gonna skip the advice on this one.  Google is your friend.

I love you guys.