I’ve Relapsed.


You heard it here first. I purchased cable.
Incidentally, the TV is on mute and Graeme is watching his favorite show via an Internet channel.

There’s nothing like paying for something you’re pretending to use. I feel so unclean.




Is it really November? I think I need a slower calendar.
I’ve been noticeably absent for the past several weeks, but with good reason.

I got hitched! Graeme and I tied the knot on September 26, at the Stillwell House. 13 months of planning, two dresses, and one bridezilla moment later I made it down the aisle!

I heard over and over from friends and family, to really enjoy the day, because it flies by so quickly. And it’s true.

However, I was able to enjoy every fleeting second of it. From the moment I woke up (not from an eye punch) to the moment I placed my weary made-up face and false goopy eyelashes on that soft pillow and fell asleep, I relished every moment.

We just received the photos this week, so once I have a moment to sort through all the double-chins (mine), half-closed eyes (mine) and awkward, off-camera glances (again, mine), I’ll be sure to post them to my flickr account.

So far, married life is grand and nothing has changed except for the amount of metal I carry on my finger 9 hours of the day.

And if you ask me when we’re having babies, please understand the nature of my response in advance. It’s just the look of pain I give each time an ovary cringes.

Tattoodle Loo


Unfortunately, I don’t have a cool prison story to accompany this memory. Not that I did for others either…

Anyway, I’ve always been too incredibly fickle to desecrate my body with primitive adornments of the ink variety. Not only fickle, but frugal. $50 goes a long way in the refrigerated cookie dough section of the supermarket.

My fear of permanent ink may have also stemmed from the idle threats my Dad would always dole out regarding tattoos and cigarettes. Yes, threatening to turn someone over their knee at the age of 22 works wonders.

So of course, what better way to honor my father’s memory than by inscribing his siggy forever on my wrist? Perf.

I had thought about this idea for months and decided it would be my birthday present to him.

My biggest fear was selecting a parlor and a permanent location on my body (nothing tantalizing!). Luckily, my co-worker is a plethora of knowledge in all things hip. She instructed me where and, well, where to get tattoo. May 1st, was a perfect day to get a tattoo (pay no attention to the three-month timeline behind the curtain…). This had nothing to do with attitude or planetary alignments, but everything to do with payday. As long as withdrawals and debits are aligned, my attitude is no issue.

Waiting was the hardest part. Sitting in the lounge, watching customers come and go, perusing previous masterpieces all made for higher than expected anticipation levels. Did that guy really just get an entire sleeve colored in? Yes. Does it look gross? Very.

It was finally my turn. I sit. I watch needles. I watch needles as they are dipped in ink. I watch needles as they are dipped in my skin.


I am now fully awake and completely aware my perusing hours are over.




The girl who perfects swirls on her cupcakes is getting a tattoo. Or should I say muthafuggin’ cupcakes? I’m officially on the road to being a monumental badass (it’s all relative. shuddup.).

I start planning my biker bar hopping escapades and how I’m going to break in my soon-to-be new leather jacket. Does my hair look best peroxide blond and windblown? Or perhaps completely shaved? Do I know how to re-build a carburetor? Who will accept my collect calls from prison?

Ten minutes later and the tat is done. Yes, I said tat. I’m cool now, remember? It looks amazing and makes me feel two inches close to complete again.

Cartharsis. In a tattoo parlor. Try it.

So I saddle up the hog (read: entry-level 4-cyclinder Jeep Patriot in Rudy Red (birthstone!)) and drive to the nearest pub (read: grocery store) and seek out my latest victim (read: chocolate chip cookie dough).

As I’ve found out, there’s always room for a little of everything.

Except in prison.

Sleeping with the Enemy.


There aren’t many worse ways to be woken up then to be cold-clocked in the eye from a dead sleep.

Except for this: cold-clocking yourself in the eye.

I can’t recount in detail the events leading up to this catastrophic event (since I was sleeping), but I do know the aftermath. Like a bad Stephen King storyline, my hands are apparently out to kill me. Jolted awake by a fist of fury, I was stunned to find I was the culprit.

I immediately checked my eye to assess the damage, only to notice the mark of the beast – a thumbnail gash. I managed to not only punch myself, but slice myself open as well (slice is an exaggeration, but hey, it’s my blog). Stumbling back to bed, I quickly ransacked my slumber ridden brain for ideas on how to avoid repeating this debacle. The hands must be stopped.

Over-estimating my ability to think with only half my synapses firing, I had the brilliant idea to sleep on my hands (yes, I graduated college).

I probably don’t need to tell you this was a bad idea. Not to mention uncomfortable. Hell bent on not letting my hands get the best of me, I sacrificed a good amount of sleep focusing on their demise.

The most painful part of this story  didn’t have anything to do with the swollen eye, punctured skin or numb hands, but everything to do with my dignity. Concealer can cover up a lot of things, but it can’t cover up whatthehelliswrongwithyoutrish?

Long, unnecessary story short – no, I didn’t walk into a door.

Down for the Count


It’s a rare instance when I feel sorry for myself. Typically, I relish a challenge and love feeling vindicated when I overcome any and all hurdles. But this year…this, crap storm of insanity, nearly did me in. 2009 is a year that deserves no place in my home or memory, but promises to haunt me with it’s legacy of heartbreak, grief and frustration.

2009 took my Aunt Eileen. The one person whom you would first turn to when your problems needed solving. She offered the best advice, tips and Eileen-isms when you needed it most. She was elegant, loving, funny and a great problem solver (and could whoop you a good one in Scrabble). After battling breast cancer for several years, it suddenly took a turn for the worst last May. She fought bravely and showed incredible amounts of courage when others would have faltered. We thought we all had time to say one last goodbye. We were wrong.

And the heartbreak was just starting.

Sunday mornings can begin with the best of intentions. Sleep in, eat a little breakfast, meet-up with Dad at the new dog park. When suddenly, Sunday’s intentions burst into flames and you’re brought to your knees distraught over a little tidbit of information the Sheriff divulges over the phone.

“Your father has passed away.”

These words echo.
Needless to say, the bottom dropped out and I was nearly catatonic for several weeks. If I didn’t have such a supportive, thoughtful group of friends and family, I’d probably still be surviving on saltines and vitamin water to this day. My “Momma” Holl flew out to keep me going, and Graeme stayed by me, propping me up and wiping away the copious amounts of mucous that seemed to accrue (really…someone should study this).

I’m not writing this for sympathy. I’m writing this because it needs to be said. In the same breath, however, I’ll never be able to successfully articulate every thought, feeling and emotion I’ve encountered. All I know is that I feel completely and utterly defeated.

But not down for the count.

This is when the best stories are created. I will rise from these ashes gallantly and swiftly, because that’s what I learned to do from two of the best people I’ve ever had the fortune of knowing: Eileen Adorno and John Winter.

Thanks for everyone’s patience during my absence from the Blogosphere. Grieving is hard, life is rough, and blogging is inconvenient. I plan to stick to it though (whether that’s good or bad remains to be seen).

I can obliterate zombie gremlins with the flick of my wrist and green pearlescent dice.


A few months ago, I finally gave into the dark-side and joined a guild upon the invitation of my friend, Larry. He read my post about D&D, and invited me to join his group. Let me just say – this ish is complex.


This is definitely a sub-culture I had a lot to learn about. But rather than become overwhelmed by tasks, I gave into my girly tendencies and elected to engage in arts and crafts.

I was so excited to paint my character, I researched painting techniques, shopped for colors, and tested brushes. She finally arrived and I spent several days painting two pewter inches of my Dragonbourne Sorceress. I deliberated color choices and the fashionable appeal of my character’s garments. I also discovered lilac and primrose are the perfect complement to blazing orange. Additionally, these colors help in defeating bosses.

I can prove it.

During this time, I probably should have been studying how to actually play the game, but I’ve never been one to turn down the opportunity to play with a feather collar. You might call me a dork and I might attempt to bludgeon you with my pasty, noodle-like arms. However, you have to admit – Tyrnea kicks a little posterior.

My bling distracts you as I engulf you with flames.

My bling distracts the enemy so I can engulf them in flames.

More Fairs!


This time, of the bridal variety.

I didn’t think I would enjoy these type of events, however, free cake can motivate me to do just about anything. I’m not a fan of pushy crowds or pushy salespeople, but red velvet cake with cream cheese frosting? Yes, please! And: No, I wasn’t at this cake booth earlier. Yes, please!

I have to say though, if it weren’t for Jenny (who should legally change her name to Fantabulous), I wouldn’t have nearly as much fun. Having someone who shares the same level of enthusiasm for my wedding day as I do, has been a great experience.

She carries my heavy bags filled with flyers and magazines, offers helpful advice coveted by random strangers, and zips my back fat into dresses without complaint. There should be a medal made for her display of valor (but I don’t know when the next medal fair swings into Tucson).

Thanks to her assistance I won a bartending gift set, $500 coupon for a photobooth, and a $500 dress. Woot. Woot. And WOOT! If my wedding day goes half as smoothly as the planning, Bridezilla’s reign will be kept at bay.

Thank you, Cake. Thank you, Free Dress. Thank you, Maid of Honor (i.e. Made/Maid of Kick-Assery).