Adoption in the Media

For whatever reason, adoption has kind of been a taboo topic for decades upon decades upon decades. I don’t really understand it myself — adoption happens, it’s a thing, babies being placed in loving homes is basically the raddest ever. Let’s just talk about it, guys.

And let’s not pretend like babies are adopted for reasons only related to illegitimacy or youthful parenthood — children are adopted every day for every reason under the sun. And you can sit around thinking the birthparents are terrible people who made awful decisions, that they brought a child into the world without wanting it in the first place, but might I remind you that they did not get an abortion. So let’s not call names, shall we?

Teen pregnancy is even more taboo — like we don’t want to discuss the fact that teenagers have sex (and *gasps* KNOW about it, God help us all). And what a remarkably brave, mature decision to place a child for adoption in hopes for a better life for not only the child but themselves. It’s not selfish that they hope for better lives for themselves, either — I believe it’s commendable if they want to finish high school, go to college, find careers, fall in love, and have children when they are more ready for it. I’m not condoning teen pregnancy, but I think it’s time that we stopped looking down on them so much.

We’re humans. We make choices. Sometimes the choices are less good than others.

Aside from “Juno,” I haven’t noticed a ton of teen pregnancy and subsequent adoption in the media all that much (unless you turn to the Lifetime Network, and I know, I know, every few hours someone is placing a baby because she was 15 and pregnant, 16 and expecting, or pregnant at 17). So when “Mom,” one of my favorite sitcoms starring Anna Faris and Allison Janney (who, btw, are two of the most under-appreciated female comediennes out there today), decided to not only perpetuate the family theme of becoming pregnant at a fairly young age but then PLACE THE BABY FOR ADOPTION, I was pretty excited.

First off, I need to clear up a few things: a birthmother NEVER, under any circumstances, “gives” her baby up. So the verbage they continually use each episode is grating because it’s entirely wrong. A birthmother places her child with another loving family. They never give anything up.

But that aside, and I understand that’s mostly due to societal ignorance because it wasn’t till recently that people started addressing the whole placed v. gave up, they’re doing things pretty well. The daughter wants to place her child, the father was scared at first but SPOILER ALERT decided it was going to be the best option for everyone. And then we met the SPOILER ALERT IF YOU DIDN’T BELIEVE ME THE FIRST TIME future adoptive parents, who, you guys this is so huge, was comprised of a Caucasian male and an Asian female. Like, an interracial couple adopting a white baby.

THESE THINGS, THEY DON’T REALLY HAPPEN. And it made me really pleased. Like, oh my gosh, society is apparently ready for this. And no one’s freaking out that an Asian woman will have a Caucasian baby for the rest of her life because hey! It’s America! It’s 2014! We do stuff like that, and it’s awesome! (And don’t even get me started on the whole interracial couple thing — the first one I ever saw was between Eric Matthews and one of his girlfriends in “Boy Meets World,” and as a little Asian girl fully aware she’d marry a white man, that was rad.)

“Mom”: attacking all the potentially controversial topics in one fell swoop.

This only makes me crave more. Let’s recognize that society, it is changing, and for the most part it’s changing for the better. Because not that long ago, my birthmother would have been shunned in her society for having a child out of wedlock, and I wouldn’t have been able to legally marry my pasty-white husband, and not much longer ago than that, I wouldn’t have even been able to vote.

A Message to the Girls of the World

I’m thirty, which to some of you is painfully old (like your parents) and to some not too bad. But one thing is certain: I’ve experienced a lot of stuff in these thirty years, despite you thinking perhaps we old folk don’t get it (we do).

Being a grown up is both enjoyable and adversely terrible. Like, you can take naps, but it’s kind of frowned upon by some, and if you take one too late or too long, your body clock is thusly screwed up for the next month. And you have to pay for everything, which let me tell you is a mega bummer. Your mom isn’t around to clean the house, so unless you’re fine with living in squalor, you have to clean it. Every week. Dishes: the bane of our existence. Even with a dishwasher, trust me. They’re just always there no matter what.

PAP smears suck about as much as you assume they do. The key is never have sex and then you can get one every three years (I’m kind of kidding but also kind of not because seriously no one likes to go to the OB/GYN). Sometimes you just don’t want to wear a bra, in which case don’t. You’ll find that home becomes wherever the pants aren’t — they’re the first thing to come off, and I don’t say that in a crude, sexual manner. I mean it in an “Adults hate to wear pants” way.

Don’t let yourself go when you get married. I’m not sure if this is a myth or reality, but it seems to happen all the time (I started to let myself go on the honeymoon, which God bless my husband for sticking around this long). I don’t mean to stress about your weight or your hair or your makeup or your clothes, but trust me: you feel better about yourself and your day when you’re clean and are wearing real clothes rather than sweats. Leggings are real clothes, I kid you not. Invest in several pairs because they’re like sweats but not. If you find a guy who wants you to always have long hair, ditch him.

Image  courtesy of pinterest.com

Image courtesy of pinterest.com

I’ve put Husband through the ringer with all my many hairstyles, and there have definitely been some he hated. Guess what: he didn’t divorce me, and he still kissed me when he got home from work. We may have come to an agreement that such hairstyles won’t make an appearance again forever awhile, but in all reality, I wasn’t particularly crazy about them either (don’t tell him. He’ll get a big head.)

If you find a man who makes you forget yourself, tells you what to do, makes you feel lonely, hates the things you love to do, doesn’t support every single hobby you ever try out, even the lame ones everybody knows won’t work out — if he seems to only love you conditionally, if you can’t fart in front of him, if you’re worried about what he’ll think when you take off your makeup and slide in your night guard, HE. IS. NOT. THE. ONE. Look, I get it, you’re hardwired and built to have a companion all the days of your eternity, so you just wanna be with someone all the time and snuggle. I got married about six years later than I thought I might in high school (high school Mary was really eager and hopeful), and I’m glad I had to wait. It helped me weed out the idiots and hone in on exactly what I didn’t want, so when I met Husband, it was quick and painless.

Men can still be as awful as boys and teenagers, and there’s something inherently worse about that because they’re grown ups, so they should know better. Chances are, they were raised by their mothers to become gentlemen, and they just missed the mark. Heartbreak is inevitable.

Enjoy making out now because when you get married, it’s basically never going to happen.

If you want the cookie, eat the damn cookie. I went a stretch counting calories and measuring my food, and sure the end results were freakin awesome, but I was truly miserable the entire thing. Just remember: portion control. Eat what you want, just a little less of it as you get older. Because trust me when I say you’ll turn 23, and your metabolism rate will give up the ghost. Exercise in the way you want to — if you hate running, then seriously don’t run. I mean, really. Life is way too short to spend a portion of your day in the gym doing something that makes you unhappy (even if it’s making you chemically overjoyed. Endorphins aren’t all they’re cracked up to be.)

Image courtesy of pinterest.com

Image courtesy of pinterest.com

Money will get tight at some point in your life, unless you marry an heir/heiress who is just independently wealthy. Being forced to live budget-friendly will help you out for the rest of your life, even though it feels awful at the time, but DO NOT under any circumstances, buy store brand cheese. You can save money elsewhere — cheese is not the place to do it. Same goes for butter, unless, I suppose, you’re allergic to lactose. I’m so, so, so sorry. Cheese is what will get you through every single hard time, so splurge a little. Buy the Tillamook.

Even when you’re a grown up, you’ll be able to sense when people don’t like you. Don’t let this deter you — be nice, always, and surround yourself with people who think you’re as great as you think they are. Find others who laugh at all your jokes, like all your Facebook status updates, and go to all the movies your husband won’t (chick flicks, documentaries, based on true stories, dramas, Jane Austen, etc. If it doesn’t blow up, he’s not going to want any part of it.) Sometimes adults form mini cliques. It’s just a human thing.

Image courtesy of pinterest.com

Image courtesy of pinterest.com

This will become easier the older you get. I promise.

Despite what a lot of people say (and I assume they do this to snow themselves and everyone around them), sometimes people have pretty perfect lives. Their houses are big and clean, their cars are nice, their kids are well-behaved, their marriages are great. Don’t let anyone else’s life affect yours. It’s an attitude thing, you get me? If you want a happy life, be happy, and things will work themselves out. You might be thirty years old, living in a condo you’re renting that has mold along some of the windows and an upstairs neighbor who floods your laundry room and entryway. You might really suck at vacuuming and dusting, and you might drive modest cars because that’s what you can afford. Doesn’t mean your life is any less perfect than someone else’s. So applaud the frenemy who started her own blog, the one who got married at a big venue, the one whose husband makes $150k/year. We all need to stick together and help a sister out. It’s cool if their lives are different from yours. Different never means better or worse. Ever.

And remember:

Image courtesy of pinterest.com

Image courtesy of pinterest.com

Hell Week

Hell week: The week leading up the opening night of a theatrical performance. (source: urbandictionary.com)

I’ve been through several hell weeks as a performer. Hell week is aptly named because it’s, you know, hell. You’re opening in a week, your set is finally finished, you’re in costume, you’re obviously off book, you’re running the show and running the show and running the show and running the show, and it hasn’t even opened to the general public.

We complain about hell week, but we love it.

But I had a very special type of hell week beginning this Monday that was completely unrelated to performing, and I have not loved it, not one bit. It started early Monday morning, when I woke up with Husband (for whatever reason) and decided to watch a little TV. I heard what sounded like water rushing down the pipes, but I didn’t think much about it because often when the upstairs neighbor showers, we hear it. But it sounded pretty loud, and that perturbed me, especially after looking out the window and seeing nothing but sun and blue skies. I walked into the laundry room, where I heard the pitter patter of small water droplets hitting the dryer, creating a small pool of water on the linoleum. But it was louder than just that, and I turned with trepidation towards the closet housing our water heater and furnace.

It's raining all up in here.

It’s raining all up in here.

This picture doesn’t really do justice to the horror I was met with, but I can’t upload video. Suffice it to say … it sounded like I was in a rainforest. Except I was in my condo.

Obviously I ran upstairs and banged on the neighbor’s door and rang her bell ad nauseum, but she was gone, and I was left with a lake seeping out her door and building up in my own condo. Long story short, I called the landlord, I called the Husband, we had a party, and things are getting back to normal.

Good.

Good.

The thing about getting a flood fixed is that it’s about as inconvenient as the flood itself. Because they have to do things like rip up your carpet and remove the soaked padding and take off all the baseboards and vent covers and move your washer and dryer (and potentially dent it during the process) and drill holes in your wall and ceiling and then remove the drywall and place industrial-sized fans all over the entryway, hallway, and guest bath that will literally drive you crazy. The dehumidifier will make your house freakishly hot. The cat will be unhappy. And it’ll last a few days — it will. It’ll be Thursday, and they’ll just be starting on replacing your wall, and you’ll probably hate life.

My questions are: will they clean up the dust and mess all over everything? And will they fill the holes?

My questions are: will they clean up the dust and mess all over everything? And will they fill the holes?

So that happened.

And then on Tuesday morning around 1:00 am, Husband woke me up from my fantastically deep sleep (thank God for sleep aids) because sweet, old, deaf, blind kitty had a seizure. I’m not really equipped for things like that, just fyi, and my anxiety and depression kicked into full throttle. I’m pleased to report she’s doing better and hasn’t relapsed since, but that hasn’t really stopped me from being on edge, worried that something else might happen.

Kitten face. She has a kitten face, you guys.

Kitten face. She has a kitten face, you guys.

We knew when we adopted a 15+ year old cat that things could happen. But I was living in blissful fantasy, assuming she’d magically regain her vision and hearing and live another ten years, knowing all the while that we just love her to death.

Also, weight gain like I’m preparing to hibernate for the winter.

The Night I Needed “Galaxy Quest”

Guys, depression is so, so stupid. Let’s just get that out of the way right now. Why human people were built to be able to feel this sad for extended periods of time is kind of a joke, you feel physically unwell (chronic headaches that aren’t affected at all by pain reliever? Cool), and chances are you gain weight.

Which kind of bums you out more.

Although I will say my sleep aid is finally working, and I sleep like a boss these days — and during the nighttime, even, which is cool since there’s really no good TV at 3:30 am. So I mean, little glimmers of hope here and there. And when I’m feeling social and am around people doing stuff I like, I feel reasonably happy — makeup, singing, makeup, singing, it’s all just good stuff.

Days spent home alone, though? Caverns of further depression. The sleep aid worked a little better than anticipated last night, so when I woke up at 12:00 noon (precisely the time church ends), I was looking at an entire day at home, with Husband, Princess Fluffybutt, and our new old girl who basically sleeps all day long, interspersed with sneezing. Don’t get me wrong — I super love my family and spending time with them, but I usually need some sort of social interaction outside of the home to get me really going.

Post-gaming, Husband declared he wanted to watch “Galaxy Quest” during dinner (which I made out of real actual food that wasn’t pre-packaged or frozen — LIKE A REAL PERSON!), and that didn’t sound too bad because, after all, Alan Rickman. And, incidentally, it was kind of what I needed.

Image courtesy of tortagialla.com

Image courtesy of tortagialla.com

It’s not like I didn’t know the catchphrase of the movie, I just hadn’t been thinking about it a lot these days because mostly that would be weird. But when it came up the first time of the movie, it kind of struck a chord with me (I know, total nerd moment, bear with me). There are few things easier than surrendering to clinical depression — I think I can probably speak on behalf of most depression sufferers when I say that (although if I’m really wrong, please let me know). The bed seems softer and more welcoming, preparing food seems cumbersome, doing anything else seems nearly impossible. And it takes a lot to convince yourself to, like, function like a grown-up person.

This idea, giving up and never surrendering, while a little colloquial and corny simply because of its origin, is also meaningful and important. And I was briefly reminded, during this seriously fabulous movie (don’t even try to tell me you don’t love it because I’ll know you’re lying), that despite my desire to cancel life and stay in bed with my snuggly kitties till I became a candidate for TLC’s “My 600-lb Life,” I need to push on. It’ll be hard, and most of the time it might even suck, but in the end you might save an entire alien specie, make it on time to your Comic-Con event, and get a standing ovation.

And who doesn’t love a little standing ovation once in awhile?

Let’s Clear the Baby Powder-Scented Air

I think we’ve had a bit of a miscommunication, and I think part of it is my fault.

If you’re just joining the depressed party, I am not planning on having/adopting/fostering children in this lifetime. It’s a decision I made back in high school, and I was lucky enough to meet a man who was not hellbent on procreating and passing on the family name, so together we’ve agreed that cats (and maybe a dog) are the extent to which we will grow our family. Of course, Husband always reminds me to “never say never” because perhaps we will change our minds, and I suppose that’s true, although in the past eighteen years, I’ve remained pretty firm in my choice.

gif courtesy of christiananime.net

gif courtesy of christiananime.net

This isn’t a common choice for members of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints to make, and I daresay it can be pretty controversial in central Utah, where more than 10% of the entire population of Provo is under the age of ten (I’m not even kidding; it’s truly baffling how many babies there are). But it’s our choice, and we’ve made peace with it, and the reasons (which vary from medical — you know, I’m, like, depressed most of the time — to financial). And, for the most part, despite the occasional controversy, several people have come to terms with it, and they’re pretty respectful and accepting, which is pretty rad.

But then we run into the matter of “statements I make for humor’s sake,” and I think that’s kind of the rub.

When I say things like, “I’m kind of a kid hater,” I mean it generally in jest, much like when I say “I learned one thing in college, and that’s how much I hate people.” For the record, I hate only one person on this earth, and while I prefer to be pretty independent (despite my extroverted personality type that’s so social I can’t even do regular chores when I’m home alone), I’m not, like, a monster. I kind of like people a lot, you guys. And I think we can all be in agreement that strangers’ children who scream and hit and run around a restaurant while you’re on a date are not that awesome. Do any of us like these children? Probably not.

So let’s set the record straight. There is something beautifully sacred about motherhood, and it is the noblest, most admirable, selfless decision a good mother can make (keynote: good because the women who neglect and abuse their children are not, and may never be, noble, admirable, or selfless). My decision to not have children does not supersede that in any way — I don’t find it any less beautiful, nor do I think poorly of myself when I realize it’s not for me. I simply do not want to be a mother. That’s an okay thing.

Image courtesy of ldsprintables.com

Image courtesy of ldsprintables.com

So, yeah, bring your babies to lunch because you don’t want to pay for a babysitter. Ask me to hold them (I won’t bite, and although babies generally hate being held by me — it’s like they can smell fear like dogs or something — I don’t particularly mind it). I’ll even change a diaper because chances are I like you that much. Pull out your iPhone and show me fifteen videos of your child making indistinguishable sounds and then translate that for me into full-blown conversation. And then accept me when I’m awkward and don’t know what to say or do and get distracted and miss your child’s babble. Understand that I will never experience the indelible bond between child and parent, that I will never love someone else that much or in that way for the rest of my life. Don’t pity me. Keep having them because someone’s got to make up for what I’m not doing. Talk to me about natural birth and cloth diapers and strollers and baby slings because — surprise! — I’ve thought about all those things myself (it’s true — I know what I’d name my children [Michael Vincent and Ruby Kay, though that's obviously pretty moot], how and where I’d give birth, what I’d feed them, how I’d clothe and transport them, where I’d send them to preschool, and what I’d hope for them if they were to become teenagers).

Because when I say I don’t want children, that’s not a statement saying I don’t want them to exist.

Image courtesy of pinterest.com

Image courtesy of pinterest.com

I’m Back

I’ve been depressed lately — the clinical type — and that’s a low point that’s not funny. Plus I’ve  been busy makeuping and, um, sleeping because that’s what we depressed people do.

But things were starting to turn a corner, and I woke up this morning really feeling like today was going to be super rad. I only had two things on my schedule: a haircut, which was sorely needed and rehearsal 10 1/2 hours later, which meant hanging out with really funny, awesome people and singing songs.

I love singing songs.

That left oodles of time for me to drive around the area and buy stuff with Husband’s money, and that naturally got me pretty excited. I was going to be productive. I was going to buy things and do stuff that had been on my to-do list for ages but had been neglected because depression/sleep. And then I was going to come home and make yet another real, actual dinner with real, actual food for Husband and me, and we were going to play video games in our sweats, and then I was going to head off to rehearsal and he was going to snuggle with the cat, and going to bed, I’d think pleasantly upon the day, with a half smile on my face, like they do in the movies. I might have even chuckled to myself WHO EVEN KNOWS. There was a lot of promise.

I feel like the best way for me to illustrate how today went is through a series of selfies you’re welcome.

I got a great haircut this morning. This isn’t abnormal because my stylist is kind of a goddess, but in growing my hairs out, I’ve slowed down on the regularity of said haircuts and only visit her once every two months or so. I was growing out my bangs. But then I got cast in a show where I’m a child character, and we all agreed bangs would really make it better. So the bangs, they came back. And guys, they’re, like, super cute.

If you live in Utah, go to Shep Studio and visit my girl Siara.

If you live in Utah, go to Shep Studio and visit my girl Siara.

I wanted shorter bangs because I make my eyebrows look rad these days and didn’t want bangs to cover them up. Also, it’s inevitable that I’m going to get little kid bangs above my eyebrows for the show (I get into character, people) and didn’t want to shock people too much on April 1st when suddenly I looked ten. I felt great about this haircut. This was the kind of haircut you get and then plan out a full day of being in the public eye so everyone can enjoy it with you.

I might have a small problem with narcissism.

And then it was off to all the fun stores to buy all the fun props for my birthday party photobooth. Not to give it all away because at least one person who’ll be coming will probably read this blog post (incidentally, more strangers read my blog than friends/family — is that cool? Is it sad? Hmm), but WANDS AND A BOA. ALSO A COWBOY HAT AND PINWHEELS. I should have know, however, that the day was going to turn when I was going down the aisles and found artificial butter flavoring.

Artificial. Butter. Flavoring.

I don't ... think that's a good idea.

I don’t … think that’s a good idea.

Look, I get it. There are women in the world who desire pristine white frosted wedding cakes that are pure as the driven snow and are willing to DROP THEIR MORALS and let their bakers use clear, artificial butter flavoring for their buttercream. These women are grossly wrong. Grossly, grossly wrong. They should be smacked.

But I was buying photobooth backdrops and a birthday tiara for myself, and that felt like a little tiny blip. Insignificant — we’ve got nothing to worry about here, everyone, the day is going to be great despite making a rather upsetting discovery.

And since we’re talking birthdays, we might as well announce right now that mine is coming up in a mere five days (four if you are willing to agree with me that my being born on the 23rd in Korea = my actual birthday being the 22nd in America … Husband remains unconvinced, but he’s probably just jealous). And with that comes a lot of free food. No seriously — all the restaurants want to give you free food for your birthday whenever you want, and it’s fantastic. I pulled into the parking lot of my local Noodles & Company, pulled out the ole phone to bring up the coupon FOR A FREE NOODLE BOWL, NO BIGGIE, and was met instead with a bunch of messages from Gmail essentially saying “You literally have no emails from anyone with noodles in the name or about noodles or your birthday or free noodle bowls, give up on life now.” And trust me, I looked really, really hard. I searched all the terms. No dice.

I JUST WANTED SOME FREE NOODLES IS THAT TOO MUCH TO ASK.

I JUST WANTED SOME FREE NOODLES. IS THAT TOO MUCH TO ASK.

Yes, it was too much to ask, in fact, so I drove away, quite dejectedly, to go to the Walmart Pharmacy, at which I’d already had a fairly heinous experience in the past. Note to self: just because the pharmacy is close to your house doesn’t mean you should, like, use it. Go to another state if you have to, just avoid the Walmart Pharmacy like the friggin plague.

I stood in line. I stood in a line of only one other person and myself for a really long time. I posted two pictures to my business Instagram page. I texted a friend. I checked some notifications. And finally it was my turn. (Yay! It’s the little things! And I’m going to get my anti-depressant and take it and be happyyyyyyyyyy!) So the crabby man asked for my name, misspelled it once, and said, “You have to go to the drop-off desk. They have to talk to you.” Not sure why they needed to talk to me, I headed on over, where I stood in front of a woman on the telephone, looking at a computer screen, and not actually indicating that she was aware there were other human people around.

I waited for her to get off the phone.

I waited for her to talk to the pharmacist.

I waited for her to talk to the other pharm tech.

AND THEN VICTORY WAS MINE and I gave her my name, and she said, “Your medication was recalled. There was something wrong with the batch, so we’re not dispensing it. But we might get it in tomorrow? So … just call tomorrow morning?”

In case you’re wondering, anti-depressants/anti-anxiety medications are literally the worst to recall. We’ll risk it. Just give us our drugs.

Figures. First no noodles, now no meds.

Figures. First no noodles, now no meds.

But, like, they’d called me twice about my prescription being ready. No one said anything about a recall or not getting meds, and IF THEY HAD, I would have probably had the prescription transferred to the Rite Aid AT WHICH I’D USED THE RESTROOM A COUPLE HOURS PRIOR.

The drive home was a somber one. I can’t even remember if I listened to the radio because all I could really think was “No noodles, no meds.” over and over again because, you know, OCD.

I parked, I opened the trunk, I discovered the half gallon of milk I’d purchased (whose safety seal was perfectly intact, so how any of this went down I have no idea) had leaked in the bag all over and into the upholstery of my car. Which is rad because milk gone bad smells awesome. I ran to get it inside. I had a little incident with a couple bags and my keys and the cat ran outside (don’t worry, she does this thing where she runs immediately and then freezes like she has no clue what to do). Milk on the entryway floor. Milk on my favorite suede boots.

Dear God, Are You There? It's Me, Mary.

Are You There, God? It’s Me, Mary.

In case you’re curious, when I pulled up my email on the computer, I totally found this beauty within seconds.

Happy birthday indeed, Noodles and Company.

Happy birthday indeed, Noodles and Company.

And this is what lunch looked like instead.

The ratio of mayo to sandwich was pretty on point, though.

The ratio of mayo to sandwich was pretty on point, though.

Let’s See How 2014 is Going

Overall: Pretty well. I’ve already done makeup for three photoshoots and one wedding, plus hosted an event with a Mary Kay consultant. I was cast in “The 25th Annual Putnam County Spelling Bee” at a community theatre in the role of Marcy Park (which, duh because she’s Asian, and I’m one of I think four Asians in the entire theatre community of the state). I was also cast in a Night on Broadway cabaret-style show at another local community theatre, during which I will perform “Pulled” from The Addams Family musical in my friend’s wedding dress (long story). I substitute taught for a friend and the students, they liked me. Husband still loves me, Stella is still the fluffiest, sweetest, snuggliest kitty ever, and also she smells amazing. No seriously. She smells really, really good, which is a mystery to us since she consistently has cat food breath. I got a tooth fixed at the dentist recently, and he made it look like the other one next to it, and I think it’s the prettiest tooth I’ve ever had.

Day-to-day: Fair to middling. I suck at doing the dishes, keeping the different rooms of our condo organized, folding the laundry, sometimes DOING the laundry, cleaning the bathrooms, and dusting. I see a therapist for these things, which makes me feel really bad, which leads to more therapist seeing. Husband continues to deal. I find myself in the throes of insomnia yet again, only this time I don’t have any sort of sleep aid medication, and my night guard (which I’ve been eating away at since I first placed it in my mouth) hurts. I have acquired a fantastic case of tinnitus. I’m kind of getting fat due to not working out since 2011. I discovered tonight that I have forty-one lip colors, which makes me feel excited for about five seconds and then truly appalled for the remainder of my thinking about it. Which, you know, can be a long time depending on how obsessive I want to be about it. I watch a lot of “Law and Order: SVU” and even more “CSI: Miami.” Let’s not discuss it.

I mean … there have been some really rad parts that have looked like this:

Professional photos by Mallory Francks Photography, Instagram photo by Daisyhead by Mary

Professional photos by Mallory Francks Photography, Instagram photo by Daisyhead by Mary

but there have also been less rad parts that look like this … a lot:

Kitchen counter#smh

So … we’re working on things. We’re trying to be adults who are productive and responsible, all the while tapping into our creative side and doing all the artsy things possible. Right-brained. I’m really, really right-brained. There is the possibility that the left side of my brain doesn’t actually work in any way whatsoever.