Once upon a time, I was a blogger, and MySpace was my platform. I wrote every day, satirical pieces on mommy hood and societal expectations.  I had followers who validated my thoughts, interacted with me, challenged me. We were a community. Does anyone even remember a time before blogging was the disgusting advertising, influential marketing machine it is now. I was no expert on anything, and neither was anyone else. It was a gathering of regular people just trying to connect in some way. Stephanie was a young mother of 4, and it was her naiveté and blissful ignorance to most of the societal pressures placed on females that really drew me in.  Stephanie was someone that I oddly related to, and tried in so many ways to emulate, even though she was the complete opposite of who I truly was. It was through Stephanie that I found Courtney, so much more like me, slightly irreverent and sarcastic, super witty (humblebrag). I really loved these two sisters, and I loved their ginormous Mormon family that they shared with all of us. It was an emotionally devastating day when I logged in to read the daily posts and was instead updated with the news that Stephanie and her husband had been in a terrible plane crash. The crash resulted in burns over 80% of her body, the pilot was killed. The blogging community really came through in their support of her recovery in a beautiful way. The following months were filled with waiting for updates via Courtney’s blog, donating and sharing, quiet hopes for recovery and speculation as to what would come next for our "friend". Perhaps you are wondering what this story has to do with anything.

Stephanie’s accident was 8 years ago. Eight years ago I was 33, Emma was just 4 and Dan was not even 40 yet. That seems like a lifetime ago, and yet, it’s only been 8 years, not even close to a lifetime. Eight years ago, I was a blogger, I was a woman trying to balance work, family and personal needs. Full transparency, I was sad, all the time, I was so very very sad. Life just wasn’t turning out to be the way I planned it, not at all how I had imagined it would be. I did not like my job, I did not like being a mom, I really didn’t like my husband very much. I was stressed, and angry all the time. Mostly, I would look around and see that everyone else was so lucky, everyone else was prettier, smarter, more successful, better at being everything. EVERYONE.  It was Stephanie’s accident that really grabbed me by both shoulders and shook me, what the hell was I doing? I had to stop comparing myself to other people, trying to be more like them, especially people who I didn't even know outside of the Internet. I needed to be more like me. I had lost a little bit of me somewhere along the way trying to live up to everyone else’s expectations. I was done.

Except, I wasn’t done. Not even a little bit. I am still fighting the same fights. I didn’t truly have this realization until Stephanie posted today that it’s been EIGHT YEARS. I have literally wasted 8 years without action, without change. My life is by no means horrible, but I want to love my life and I want it to mean something. I want the life that values relationships, and nurtures souls, the life that teaches and learns, and leaves a legacy of humanity to humanity. I want to really know myself, and I want to really know you. I want today to matter, and I want to not look back on this day in 2024 and realize again that I am wasting life.

And that friends, is how one returns to the blogosphere, if that's even what's it's called any more. Shared accountability. You with me and me with you. Hi. 

Wednesdays are for otters. Why? Because otters like Wednesdays. Now, you might have been led to believe that Wednesdays are for camels, but you would be wrong, because screw camels. ALL HAIL THE OTTER!

Today is day 2 of 2015 and it feels a lot like 2014 which felt a lot like 2013, which let's face it, was a lot like 2012. Going through the motions of each day, trying to figure out what matters and what doesn't. In the end, what really does matter? It's very easy to come to the conclusion that nothing you do or say really matters. Are people's lives really changed because I existed? While I can caress my ego and go all "It's a Wonderful Life", the fact of the matter is, in the overall scheme of things, I don't matter.

And so, here we are, starting 2015, another notch on the old bedpost of time, and I am wondering, what can I do that will make it all worthwhile and to whom am I accountable? You? Me? The world at large? I think this will be a year of introspect and discovery, getting to the heart of what matters, to me at least, so that this time next year I can say I did something that mattered and that 2015 was unlike any other year before.

This is the time of year when people reflect upon the past year and prepare for the new. My hair had an amazing 2014 as you can see by the photos above. It went through a lot of changes, long, short, brown, blond, red, brown, trying to figure out who it was and what the people around it wanted. Always trying to please every one else. My hair tries to be everything to everyone and is quite unsure of itself, much like the head it sits upon.

This hair and the body it occupies will be 40 in 2015, it will celebrate a 13 year wedding anniversary and a child of 11's birthday, and I am okay with the fact that it will begin to change getting a little grayer, a little thinner. This hair is a large part of my identity, easily changed to satisfy my mood or my style. I have never had either for very long, a pattern that has been repeated since I was 12 and I first got my hands on some Sun--In. When all else fails, I always have great hair.

I might leave it alone in 2015, just kind of let it grow and take shape, become it's own, find it's identity, not trying too hard to be liked, or needed or wanted. I'll let you know how that works out.

I'm outtie until next year. Gonna enjoy some time off, some time with family, some time where I don't have to worry about the rest of y'all and what yer doin' and sayin' and feelin' and all that crap.

Love ya, mean it.

The primary reason I started this blog was to get away from the blog clutter that had taken over my life. I was tired of what blogging had become and I needed an opportunity to say what I needed to say without fear of retribution or the dreaded "anonymous" comment. I had forgotten how long it takes to build a readership when you aren't constantly promoting yourself and you just let things happen organically. It's a very new feeling to be here with only 2 or 3 readers who show up on a regular basis. I feel like I'm failing, like nobody is listening. And then it kind of hit me like a truck. I spent so long not saying the things that I wanted to say I forgot how to say anything at all. This is how my day goes. I write, I read, I edit, I delete. I am afraid. But afraid of what? Not being accepted? Not being liked? Offending someone? Well guess what. Today I am throwing my hands up in the air and saying "Fuck it!" I am not a major publication. I don't have to vet my facts. I am not required to see all sides. Sometimes it's just my side and I want to speak it. Sometimes, I really don't want to see your side. It is really exhausting to have to filter every little thing all the time for fear of.....what? Being a human who says things?

It's been a week since Thanksgiving, and I bet you are just dying to know all about mine.

Growing up, holidays like Thanksgiving, Christmas and Easter were full fledged family affairs. Someone hosted, everyone cooked and brought dishes pot luck style, everyone ate at a big table or two, conversated, laughed, ate some more. Kids ran around the front yard, back yard, upstairs downstairs, down the street, up the street. Dishes were done by all, naps were taken, movies watched. Those days were drama free and looked upon with great affection.

At some point though, people went all Martha Stewart and things got out of hand. Turkeys had to be perfectly glazed, and vegetables perfectly roasted. Cranberry sauce from a can was no longer acceptable. Tables contained cloth napkins folded into little turkey, craft tables and guided activities were set up for kids, and heaven forbid you ask your "guests" to assist with anything. It's exhausting and a chore. I don't like chores, not since, like, ever.

So that's why, for the last four years, we get Cracker Barrel for Turkey day and sit at home, in our PJ's, just the three of us. If you follow me on Instagram you might have seen the extras I cared to make because:

a. I like fresh cranberry sauce;
and b. nobody else in my house will touch the stuff.

What you didn't see was the big fat box that contained everything one needs for a happy day of anti-social isolation. Just the way I like it. I think Cracker Barrel should reconsider their marketing and call it Big Box of Eff All ya All, We're Staying Home in our PJ's. 

Any who, I hope you had a good holiday, Christmas is coming. Just a friendly reminder in case you were unawares.

p.s. The fresh cranberries I used to make the sauce were spoiled, except, I didn't know that. Thankfully, I am the only one in the house who ate them. I say thankfully because if 3 people were in the situation I found myself in we might have had to have the toxic waste clean up team to our house for the holiday. Carry on.