September 6, 2022

I woke up this morning to a very sick puppy dog. She made a colossal mess in my beautiful townhouse with various doggie bodily fluids and I drove her to the emergency vet with eyes blurry from tears and said various doggie bodily fluids all over my new dress. I knew she was fine, or that she would be, but I felt a little stretched during that drive. “Stretched” is a word we often use at work when we are trying to tell someone NO in a very polite way. “Todd, I’d love to teach that class on proposal writing this month but I’m a bit stretched with client work right now. How does October sound?” This morning I was really feeling it – stretched. I woke up with a long to-do list in my head and got up extra early to make my way into the office before the noisy masses arrived to start the work week. 1) Kick ass. 2) Take names. 3) Take Brian to lunch to celebrate the ass-kicking and name-taking. Those were my plans. Of course, my plans changed in a hurry.

Yesterday I wrote an extremely charming listicle about how being single is awesome. Today, however, was a great example of how having a life partner would come in extremely handy from time to time. A partner might have been able to take the dog to the vet for me, or pick her up in the evening so I could get some work done, or simply be an emergency contact I could put down on the damn form to answer the phone for updates while I’m trapped in my phone-free vault at work. He might have helped me clean up the crime scene Maudie left behind in the house, or picked up some dinner to save me one more chore. He could have helped me hold Maudie’s mouth open while I shoved her antibiotic pill down her throat, or just sent me a text around mid-day that said “Hey girl, you’re doing great.”

Alas. Ryan Gosling is not my boyfriend and Maudie and I have to make things work. I think about my friends who are single moms or single dads to little human babies and want to ask them “HOW?” How are you doing this? My guess is that you are also feeling pretty stretched. And my friends who are not single moms or dads – they’re stretched too. All the moms, all the dads, my friends who are librarians, nurses, welders, accountants, bus drivers and teachers who are simultaneously operating as coaches, friends, dog parents, Bible study leaders, swimmers, dancers, Instagram sales-people, bakers, dress-makers, knitters, car guys, brunch-goers, and so on. You name it, we do it. We all have all this stuff going on that stretches us this way and that way. We have various levels of support and help, but we just use that as an excuse to keep stretching further and further.

I know it’s weird that I keep thinking about the Donner Party so much. It’s probably even weirder that I keep telling you about it. I listened to a podcast about that story the other day and haven’t been able to stop researching it. I’m scared to death of all the cannibalism, but those people were survivors (and most of said survivors were YOUNG WOMEN). The thing that’s so interesting about these pioneers and explorers from back in the day is that most of them came from pretty privileged backgrounds just based on the selection-bias. If you didn’t have enough money for a wagon, some oxen and supplies, then you just didn’t get to go on these journeys. So it’s not like the surviving members of the Donner Party catastrophe were a bunch of hardy soldiers who set out to rough it in nature for an adventure. They were little kids and young women who were being led to a new life in California by the patriarchs of their families, who almost certainly never did a day of hard labor in their lives before they were stranded in the mountains. Yet they ended up climbing mountains, building shelters, enduring long days in miserably cold conditions, and just figured out how to make it all work. They were stretched but they didn’t break.

Statisticians have looked at the survivors of the Donner Party and other similar predicaments and determined that the more people you have in your social network, the more likely you are to survive in these difficult circumstances. For example, all but one of the single men (without family on the trail) who were part of the Donner Party died in the Sierra Nevada. First hand accounts of some of these deaths mention things like “he gave up” rather than “he starved to death.” But the people who were traveling with their families were more likely to survive, especially mothers and children. There are tons of confounding variables at play here, but the idea that the people who survived were the ones who had other people to survive for (and vice versa) is kind of a nice one. Even for a spinster lady like me.

My point is that my morning of mild inconvenience with my sick dog is comparable to the plight of the Donner Party. The end. Be sure tip your waitresses on the way out.

JUST KIDDING. That’s ridiculous. I guess my point is that we are these incredible creatures that can do unthinkable things, especially when our survival instincts kick in – designed to stretch and bend and twist and change direction based on what life gives us. And when we aren’t feeling “stretched” enough by our own lives, we tend to take more things on. We risk being stretched a little further so that we can offer support to the people around us. And that beautiful little factoid about most humans is what helps us survive and thrive and do incredible things together.

I started this blog entry complaining about how I wanted Ryan Gosling to support me or be my boyfriend or something like that. That was the old Rebecca. The Rebecca from 20-minutes ago. Now I can look back on my day and realize that even though I felt pretty “stretched”, I definitely had some non-Ryan-Gosling people stretching themselves a little further in their day to relieve me. My boss took my client meeting for me today, and offered to Google Search carpet cleaners when I sent him a text that said “Steve. OMG, my house.” My mom called me to check on me and Maudie. My co-worker sent me a Teams message to tell me he hoped my pup would be okay and to thank me for being a “slide-making beast” this weekend. The vet tech was sweet to my Maudie girl and gave me a bottle of water. None of these things are extreme or grand gestures, but I’m surrounded by the kind of people who support me during my tiniest, most insignificant set-backs. I am confident that they would help me stay alive in the mountains. Or, you know, they would let me die of natural causes before snacking on my corpse. Which really means a lot.

September 5, 2022

I got a notification in my email the other day that reminded me that the flat fee I pay each year to own and operate this blog page was being removed from my bank account. I immediately felt some guilt because I haven’t written a post since April. I’ve been going down this rabbit hole of researching the Donner Party and one of the many things that shock me about the immigrants making their harrowing journey west was that they never stopped writing. Even when they were starving, freezing, trying to climb mountains in cumbersome, homemade snow shoes, going snow blind, etc. They still took time to write down their experiences. Now I can use my dainty, manicured index finger to select a book about them that I found on Audible.com and listen to their first-hand accounts of what I hope was the worst year of their life (because if not, woof) while I take a hot bath with a cupcake in my hand. Yet I can barely be bothered to sit down at my 1500 dollar MacBook and jot down a few lines. I guess I should give myself a bit of credit and remember that the Donner Party members had fewer evening distractions from work, whiny goldendoodles and reality television shows about polygamy.

Anyway…hi. I’m back. I started this blog just over a year ago because my boyfriend at the time told me I needed to get a hobby and make some friends. Which was man-code for “get a life” or “please for the love of God, find something to do besides bug me and ask me to be a better boyfriend.” So I started this blog because a new hobby is a much shorter order than new friends. This little landing strip of mine ended up being a nice place of refuge as I navigated some heartache that the aforementioned man thrust upon me and worked tirelessly to “get over it”. My therapist went through a period where she would pull up my own writing during our sessions to help me unpack it, and I was like “DAMN, how dare you read the writing that I published publicly on the internet (and sent you a link to) and hold me accountable for it! Now please take my money!” Just kidding – it was really helpful and constructive. She had a lot of things to say about the “My Life on the Clearance Rack” piece and made me read it out loud in her office. I remember being in tears throughout the entire recital. I re-read that one the other day and was overcome with relief that I’m not in that place right now. In fact, it’s been about a year since I wrote that one and I’m happy to say that *most* days don’t feel like that anymore.

Over the last year, there have been a lot of ups and downs. The bad dates, the good dates, the ghosting, the time I cried into a fancy pink cocktail because someone stood me up at a restaurant, the booty call texts, the lonely weekends, the time that guy called me a bitch because I put up a boundary and stuck to it, the time that guy brought me flowers on a first date and on the second and became a good friend to me, the time I trained for a half-marathon to fill the hours, the time a guy told me I was 15 lbs heavier in real life than in my profile pictures, and… well you get it. A lot of shit has happened. But overall – it hasn’t been *that bad*. Which we all KNEW would be the case. But one year ago today, I really thought things would never stop being “that bad”. But here’s the thing. Sometimes being single is AWESOME. And not because you get to date and have sex with randoms and chat with your girlfriends about your wacky dating experiences – because honestly that stuff is only fun on HBO. But here are some solid, practical reasons being single is the shit:

1. You can put tacky decor in your home and no one cares. I recently bought a giant pink Lovesac which clashes with everything I own and IDGAF.
2. You can eat what you want, when you want, and don’t have to tell a soul. Look, I’ve eaten a lot of hot wings and spicy pickles this year. Jalapeños are a food group for me. I haven’t spent one second of the last year fretting because I burned the asparagus – because guess what!? No one is coming over for dinner.
3. You learn how to do stuff on your own. Now before the totally called-for “Duh”, what I really mean here is that you learn what independence means. It’s not just a Destiny’s Child song about paying your own bills and buying your own jewelry (although, yeah you can do that too). It is the act of taking yourself to dinner, taking yourself to movies, going on hikes, planning trips and adventures – finding ways to treat yourself as good as (okay, way better than…) any partner ever has. It’s about figuring out how to be alone with yourself and enjoying it. If there’s anything I’ve learned this year is that I’m a hell of a good time and I really like hanging out with me.
4. If you want a big truck, you get a big truck. I have this joke that I tell at work that goes “Every time someone dumps me, I end up with a larger vehicle. So I have to be careful choosing my next relationship because I don’t think I can park an F-250.” But also, a huge perk of being single is that you get to make large (and small) financial decisions by yourself.
5. No cats. I don’t think I need to explain this one.
6. Pretty selfies/Thirst Traps without drama. I saw a meme the other day that said something like “You’ve been naked online for a whole year and you’re still single. Get dressed.” and felt personally attacked. But here’s the thing. I spent the first ~30 years of my life believing I was fat and ugly, an idea that was often reinforced by the men in my life. I’m just about over that mindset, and I’m going to post my pretty face and body while I can do so without making someone jealous/uncomfortable/sad.
7. Guilt-free naps. If I want to take a nap at 5:30 pm on a Tuesday, that’s totally cool. I have no husband or kids to feel affected by this, and my dog is more than happy to join me. Bonus points if we are in the Lovesac.
8. You can truly be “really into your career right now.” I know, I know. Men have said this to me and I just roll my eyes at them because we know it’s more likely that they are just not “into” me. Honestly though, I have been absolutely crushing my goals at work this year. I volunteer to do a lot of extra work because I don’t have many other obligations and enjoy the distraction. Surprisingly, managers like that! I also have this focus on my own growth and the growth of people around me that wasn’t there before. I catch myself saying things like “I’d like to challenge you on that…” or “May I offer a suggestion?” and then look around trying to figure out how Michelle Obama’s voice started coming out of my mouth.
9. Girls, Girls, Girls. Boy oh boy, I’m a great friend when I’m single. I am much better at maintaining my female friendships, and super open to making new lady friends. I joined two running clubs this year and have met some absolutely fantastics ladies (and gents) through that. I signed up to coach a Middle School girls running team and our practices start next week. I’m also just generally a better mom to my Maudie girl. Not that I’m *bad* at these things when I am attached – it’s just natural that some balls get dropped when you have new priorities.
10. The Queen sleeps like a king. I have an absurd King-sized bed that sits so far off the ground that I have to take a running jump to get on it. I bought it when my ex was still around, thinking it would be nice to have the extra space. I was right! Now that I’m single, I can sleep on whichever side of the bed I want, in the middle, sideways, diagonally, upstairs in the guest bed, on the floor, on the couch, in the Lovesac. The sleep possibilities are endless! I can get up to pee 5000 times a night and no one cares. I can fall asleep listening to gay men talk on podcasts about reality tv, and no one cares. I can flop around like a grizzly bear and snore and talk in my sleep and no one cares. No one cares!

I could go on, but you get it. I don’t think it’s any secret that I’ve been trying to find that single person on earth who fills my life with joy. I want to be loved and desired. I want to be a mom some day if my partner is into that. I want someone to notice when I come home late and miss me when I’m out of town. I’ve been on the apps and off the apps and back on the apps (currently off of them, btw). I’ve worn pretty dresses, cooked steak dinners, put little bows on bottles of Ale-8, all to show up for a date with ol’ what’s-his-name, full of hope and doubt. I’ve put in a lot of effort. But I’ve also been putting a lot of effort into me lately, and really trying to enjoy this time. It’s pretty likely that someone else will come along and it might really be the best thing ever – the gift from the universe that I’ve been waiting for. I am excited for that, but this time I have with myself feels like a gift as well. I know quite a few ladies who met really wonderful partners early in life and maybe sometimes look at my life with the kind of longing I feel when I look at them. I need to remember that and try to suck the marrow out of this season.

Thank you, as always for reading. Drop me a line and let me know what you think!

April 10, 2022

“Every man I date has a cat, and I don’t know what that says about me. Sometimes I think they don’t have a cat, and then I show up at their house and realize there’s a surprise cat. “

Most of my day-to-day conversations fluctuate between general nerd speak (“The principal component analysis function in our pipeline is throwing an error”) and sarcastic, goofy jokes and stories that I tell to anyone who will listen because I think I’m HILARIOUS. I have little bits that I do – maybe ‘catch phrases’ is a better way to describe them, but I’m always saying things that are a little bit silly trying to make other people (but mostly myself) laugh. Sometimes I’m reciting things that I stole from movies or tv. For instance, I like to tell my boss “I’m starting to hyperventilate and I’m not wearing a stretchy fabric” (a Gilmore Girls quote) whenever I’m having trouble getting data to query. I also think that the moment when Happy Gilmore screams “SUCK MY WHITE ASS, BALL” at a golf ball is one of the funniest moments in movie history, and I love to yell adapted versions of it in my every day life (“Suck my white ass, Pikachu!” during a round of Smash Bros, for instance). Sometimes I’m telling jokes that make me chuckle mostly because they make other people uncomfortable. When my free covid19 tests from the government came in the mail, I started asking my friends when they thought the suicide kits would ship out. Most of the time, I’m just poking fun at myself. I make fun of myself for being afraid of the “rich lady taxes” that I seem to owe every year. Last week I had the worst heartburn of my life and was walking around very conspicuously with a huge bottle of Alka Seltzer making comments about how “this is 32”. By the time Friday rolled around, my boss would ask me to do something and I’d say “But Steve, my heartburn…and these rich lady taxes…”

Most of the time, I’m just telling stories from my own life that I think are funny. Self-depreciation is a bad habit of mine, but I’ve found that if I can take every awful, painful experience and turn it into a funny story, then I have control over the way it makes me feel. I make fun of my dating life – and in turn, the people around me make fun of it too. I was telling my coworker about my Pikachu Halloween costume from last year and said “my boyfriend at the time dressed up as a Pokemon catcher” and without missing a beat, he said “and now we know why he dumped you.” Zing! I was so proud. This happened at the very same happy hour that I tried to explain to some new work friends why I’m trying to find a man who doesn’t have have a cat, which evolved into discussion of one guy’s pet turtle that he left with his parents when he moved to DC, and how he’s a deadbeat turtle dad who doesn’t pay turtle support. It is so disarming to me when people make fun of themselves, and will laugh at my expense as well. I probably need to unpack that in therapy, but here we are. That happy hour was one of the most joyful evenings I’ve had this year, and it was all because I laughed until my cheeks were sore, mostly at my own expense.

The last six months have been hard for me. It’s no secret that I got my heart broken last year and I’ve been in this seemingly never-ending grieving process. I have really good days and really bad days, but overall I’m doing okay. I’m focused on running a half marathon at the end of this month, and hopefully getting promoted at work over the next year or two. I have goals. I can sleep through the night now, sometimes without needing a podcast to drown out the silence when I’m falling asleep. I know, it sounds like I’m talking about a newborn baby – “She is sleeping through the night already!” But overall, I’m doing a lot better than the last time I wrote in this blog.

If you follow me on Facebook or Instagram, you know that I passed my ex-boyfriend while I was running last week. I took a little selfie and made a joke about how I hoped he got “a good long look at my ass”, and it’s true that I ran by him with my head held high. But I also cried in the shower. Later, I talked to my therapist about it with with a hint of panic in my voice as I tearfully described “I’m just worried that I’m never going to get over it.” She was really helpful and talked to me about the grieving process. She told me that grief is like a rubber ball inside of a box, and at the bottom of the box, there’s a panic button. When you lose someone or something, the ball is really big and as it bounces around the box, that panic button gets pressed all the time. So in November when I couldn’t make it through the day without crying and relied on podcasts or New Girl playing in the background to make me feel less alone, my grief ball was really big. Now that time has passed, my ball is much smaller, but it’s still in the box bouncing around, and sometimes that panic button still gets hit by my grief ball.

This was the first time I ever thought about grief that way, and I started thinking through the things I can do to make my grief ball smaller. I’ve been on a few dates, but my dating efforts have been really half-assed, so I decided I would “put myself out there a bit more” and maybe my grief ball would shrink. This is what led me to the terrible, horrible, no-good, very bad date I experienced last night. It was a dinner date in Arlington, and it was the shortest date I’ve ever been on. This poor guy could not carry a conversation to save his life, and would not smile or laugh at anything I said. And I think we established above that I’m HILARIOUS. It’s so hard to describe in words why this was such a bad experience – he didn’t insult me like the guy who told me I looked 15 lbs heavier than in my pictures, he didn’t insult my dog or lecture me on my water heater. It was just the type of awkward interaction that makes you want to crawl under the table. I was working so hard to carry the conversation. I fell back on a tried and true tension killer- “tell me about some of your bad dates” and got crickets. So I just started telling my own stories and found myself laughing and smiling at my own antics – which I think signaled to him that I was having a wonderful time. When the check finally came, I paid it (one of the only things the man verbalized to me was that he’s broke) and he asked me if I was having as much fun as he was. I gave him an honest answer “No, it was nice to meet you but I don’t think we should meet up again” and scurried as quickly as my new tan pumps would carry me to the sweet solitude of my 4Runner.

I felt terrible. It never feels good to tell someone you aren’t interested in them. But if you saw me after my date last night, you would never have known how terrible I felt, because as soon as I left the parking lot, I fell into a fit of uncontrollable laughter. I called my best friend and we laughed together for like ten minutes, and then I called my mom and dad and we all laughed some more. It is NOT a funny story, but the cumulative circumstances of my dating life paired with this poor Eeyore of a man tickled my funny bone so much that I had tears in my eyes from laughing. I was laughing over how awkward I felt and the relief I felt to be alone at the end of the night, and how for just a split second in time I felt so grateful to be going home to my empty house. I was laughing about how this guy with no money, no sense of humor, no plans for the future, with nothing interesting to say thought he had a chance at a second date with me. Then I was laughing because that’s the first time I’ve ever walked away from a date feeling like I was out of someone’s league or too good for them. I have to be honest, that feeling doesn’t suck. I haven’t laughed that hard in months, and I think my grief ball shrank some just from all of that laughter.

I know it sounds like I’m cackling at this poor guy’s expense. Okay, yes. I am. But he did get a free dinner out of the deal. I realized that the reason he missed the signal that I was having a terrible time on the date, was that I was doing the same thing I’ve been doing to survive the last few months – I was being silly and funny, and trying to use good humor to power my way through a difficult situation. I thought about it, and I really was smiling and laughing for almost the entire date, and it was simply because I was entertaining myself. None of that came from him, it was all internal. It sounds weird, but that’s…pretty freakin’ cool. It’s cool that I still managed to have fun enjoying my own company and that I was able to laugh about a situation that sucked and cost me 50 dollars plus gas.

Some day I’m going to meet someone who thinks I’m adorable and awesome and hilarious, and he’s going to make me laugh and smile. But until then I’ll try my best to think all those things about myself and continue making myself laugh uncontrollably.

March 9, 2022

This is what I typed into the Google search bar on a crisp fall day in 2020.  Immediately, the Google autocorrect feature assumed that I was asking the entire internet the existential question we have all asked ourselves at least once – can I be happy alone? Immediately, Google showed me suicide helplines I could call in case I was thinking about doing the unthinkable.  But in reality, the search was brought about by a video game.  You see, I wanted to play Super Mario Odyssey on my adorable Nintendo switch – the one with the neon pink and green controllers I was so proud of when I bought them.  Most peculiarly though, I did not want to play the game as the hero – our favorite short plumber, rescuer of pretty princesses in pink, bopper of Goombas and defeater of Bowser – Mario, himself.  I wanted to play as the sidekick in the game – the whimsical, spinning cap that Mario tosses to give him leverage over the enemy.  I would like to say that Cappy is to Mario as Robin is to Batman, but that may be giving the cute headpiece with eyeballs too much credit.  A more relevant analogy would be: Cappy is to Mario as the webs that come out of Spiderman’s hands are to Spiderman.  He’s a fashion accessory that doubles as an accessory to murder of Goombas, Piranha Plants, and bunnies alike.  He is what most gamers refer to as “Player 2”.  Very quickly after Google realized I was more silly than suicidal, all of the internet informed me of one simple fact:  There can’t be a Player 2 without a Player 1. 

Side note: Check out this cute video about Mario Odyssey from my favorite YouTube Duo - Girlfriend Reviews. 

I started playing video games during the worst year of my life (so far): 2019.  That year found me in an emotionally abusive fake-relationship with a cheating, alcoholic, narcissist who made me cry all the time.  But honestly, when I ignored all of the qualifiers in the previous sentence, we had a lot of fun. We drank, we went to hockey games, we drank, we went to the pool, we drank, and we played video games while we drank. During this time, I realized that the video game world – the world that had complicated the real-relationship I had been in previously – the filthy, lazy habit that I had always judged as a waste of time and money – was a shit ton of fun! I won’t bore you with the details of the end of my fake- relationship, but one positive thing I took away from that experience was a Nintendo Switch (and all the accessories! And an X-box! And a PS4! And all the accessories for those! Look, I don’t half-ass things). 

Enter 2020. Like the rest of you, my world practically stopped turning in March of 2020. I found myself single, living in a studio apartment, skinny as a rail in the throes of disordered eating (not to worry, therapy is a wonderful thing), and suddenly, unable to leave my apartment to even go to work. My office was in my bedroom, my bedroom was in my living room, my living room was in my kitchen, and my dog was in my face. 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. Most of my friends on social media that have families – husbands, wives, and children – suddenly found themselves trapped in their own homes with people they loved, like an overdose of the greatest drug. Children losing their freaking minds, unable to see their friends or burn enough energy, husbands and wives sharing office space and living without bro/girls nights or any escape from their adorable, sweet, nerve-wracking families. I get it, and I want you to know I sympathize. But I was trapped in another type of environment – I was alone, trapped in my own mind, inside of my small apartment with a dog that never speaks but still manages to sass me relentlessly. 

When I wasn’t writing python code for work or running – I played video games. 2020 was the year I finished my first video game in full. I played Fire Emblem: Three Houses from start to finish, and experienced the heartache that comes with finding a nice, blonde JRPG boyfriend named Dimitri, only for him to return in the second-half of the game as a blood-thirsty, vengeful madman with an eye-patch (I ended up marrying that guy in the game and I think the developers deserve an award for most realistic gameplay). My character in that game was a green-haired lady named Rory, who was a level 98 killing machine. I went on to catch all kinds of Pokemon, experienced the time-suck that is Animal Crossing, the cuteness that is Stardew Valley, relived my angsty teen years by playing the Sims 4 on Xbox, caught up with my good friend in the Navy while he taught me to play Halo all the way from 29 Palms in California, and celebrated like an idiot when I conquered a game that I am certain was created for 4-year-olds- Yoshi’s Crafted World. Oh, and I delighted over Shantae the Half-Genie Hero, who shakes her hips and turns into animals (and inspired me to try to dye my hair purple during the shut down).

Now, returning to my Mario Odyssey woes – why was I so hell-bent on playing as Cappy instead of hero Mario? The obvious answer is that it’s funny, because it’s a big hat with eyeballs that doubles as an assassin for a man in overalls.

Sometimes it’s just really nice to be Player 2. It’s nice to be a secondary character. Player 1 gets to call all the shots and be the star, while Player 2 is a helper. Player 2 can sip on a Corona, while Player 1 figures out how to beat the level. And most importantly, being Player 2 means you are by default, not playing alone (as my Google search taught us). You’re part of a team, but not the leader. When I think about it, 2020 was a really great year to want to be Player 2. I am definitely Player 1 in my life and my household – Maudie doesn’t pay her rent, and rarely chips in for groceries unless it’s hotdog night. I am the leader of my household, the caller of the shots, primary decorator, chef, trash remover, handyman, cleaning lady, bread-winner, appointment maker, dog walker and poop scooper. At work, it’s a similar story. I lead my team, I make the final calls, I am the technical expert, I control the client relationship. Being in charge is great. Leaders are empowered, have the ability to empower others, get to deliver good news and plan celebrations, get to watch their teams grow and improve. And being in charge at home means I always eat what I want, I’m surrounded by my favorite colors in my home, and I never have to answer to anyone else for financial decisions. It’s awesome. Being Player 1 can be awesome. 

Independence in general is awesome. I have to be honest though. Sometimes it would be nice to have a break. Petty conveniences aside- you know, coming home from a long day of work to have a meal ready for you, or to find that the dog has already been walked, or that the laundry has been folded – sometimes it would be really useful to have someone to help with the big decisions in life. I recently bought a house – and I am so proud of myself for going through that process all by myself and choosing my house, my offer, my furnishings – everything all by myself. There was also a lot of anxiety that came with that – not knowing if I should trust my own instincts, not having another stakeholder to offer up pros/cons/preferences. I know now that I’m living in my dream home and LOVE it, but at the time, I felt very lonely in the process. At the beginning of 2020 – as much as I joked about the situation and tried to make the best of my isolation, I really did experience a lot of fear. All of the what-if’s were hard to handle on my own. What if there is a recession and I lose my job? What if I get sick and can’t get help? What if someone in my family gets sick and I can’t be there? What if? Where is my Cappy to help me boop these Goombas?! Better yet – can I be Cappy and let Mario deal with this shit?!

I guess the big difference between my video game life and my real life is that I’m laughably bad at video games. When I finally gave up on being a Cappy sidekick to a computer-driven Mario in Mario Odyssey, I played the game as Mario. As much fun as that game is, I gave up within the first hour because I got frustrated with losing all of my coins. I’m just bad at it. I can never remember which buttons do what, I have a lack of hand-eye coordination. My only real asset is enthusiasm. I was so much better at being Player 2. The last few years of my non-video game life have been hard (I know they’ve been hard for you too, dear reader) but all the difficulties have allowed me to keep leveling up over and over again. As challenging as it is to be independent, and despite all the anxiety and self-doubt that comes with it, I have learned that I’m skilled enough to be Player 1. I’m Mario.

January 9, 2022

What does she look like? Thin. Pretty. Big tits. Your basic nightmare.

When I was in high school, I was having a sleepover with my best friend, Megan, and she introduced me to “When Harry Met Sally”. I remember feeling annoyed that we were watching a lame movie from the 80’s. Now it’s one of my all-time favorite movies and I think about Megan every time I watch it. The screenplay for that movie was written by Nora Ephron – an absolute comedic genius and perhaps one of the best writers of all time. You probably know her work. In addition to “When Harry Met Sally”, she wrote the screenplay for some of the films you are destined with watch begrudgingly with your significant other some time in February, including “You’ve Got Mail” and “Sleepless in Seattle”. She also wrote a few movies that don’t prominently feature the unique combination of Tom Hanks, Meg Ryan and Harry Connick Junior warbling in the background such as “Michael”, “Julie and Julia” and “Mixed Nuts”.

I’ve always been a fan of Ephron’s movies. I love telling my friend Jill that she’s at least as good looking as a mailbox, because that was Joe Fox’s (played by Tom Hanks) only expectation when he was about to meet his online paramour in person for the time in “You’ve Got Mail”. If she turns out to be as good looking as a mailbox, I’d be crazy not to turn my life upside down and marry her. I think about there being “too much pepper in my paprikash” every time I get my pepper shaker out of the spice cabinet. I love telling people that I don’t eat eggs because I was a “very willful child” just like Amy Adams’ character in “Julie and Julia”. If I’m quoting a movie, it’s probably something Nora Ephron wrote.

I guess that’s why it’s so surprising that it took me 31.9 years to get around to reading Ephron’s most famous novel, Heartburn but I think the universe put this book in my hands with perfect timing. I found it when I was killing time walking around the Barnes and Noble next to my favorite movie theatre waiting for the doors to open for the showing of “Encanto” I chose on a Wednesday night. If I’m out on a weeknight, chances are that I’m getting a fajita at Uncle Julio’s and catching a movie at Alamo Drafthouse by myself in Ashburn – but on this particular night, I made a pitstop at the bookstore and walked out with a masterpiece in my hand.

The protagonist of the book is 38-year-old Rachel. Rachel is 8 months pregnant, and in Chapter 1, she has just discovered that her husband Mark has been having an affair with a woman named Thelma. When she confronts her husband about his infidelity, she learns that Mark is in love with Thelma and is deciding to stay in the marriage only for the sake of their 1.5 kids. Rachel flees their home in Washington DC to stay with her father in New York City. Hilarity ensues as Rachel deals with the absolute devastation of her situation with Ephron’s brilliant, sardonic sense of humor. The book delves into Rachel’s experience with her therapist and group therapy, and Rachel revels in her chance to be interrogated by the police after her therapy group is robbed at gunpoint by a man who winked at her on the subway. That’s the thing about Rachel that I adore – she is the type of person who survives something harrowing and is excited about it because she gets to tell the story after.

I identify with Rachel in a lot of ways – we are both cynical, sarcastic, opinionated women, who love to write and cook potatoes. Seriously, there’s a whole chapter in this book about potatoes and it was an absolute delight. The thing about Rachel that reminds me so much of myself is her love for telling stories. She has the following exchange with her therapist, Vera:

“Vera said: “Why do you feel you have to turn everything into a story?”
So I told her why.
Because if I tell the story, I control the version.
Because if I tell the story, I can make you laugh, and I would rather have you laugh at me than feel sorry for me.
Because if I tell the story, it doesn’t hurt as much.
Because if I tell the story, I can get on with it.” 

I have read so many books by so many brilliant, insightful people, but nothing has captured me like those words before. I have often been accused of over-sharing things. Being too much of an open book. Just today, I had you all laughing and commenting on a bit of commentary from my date from last night on my Facebook page. Some people might look at that and wonder why I didn’t just keep it to myself. But I think this excerpt from Heartburn is the perfect explanation. No matter how hurtful, or upsetting, or excruciating an experience is for me – if I can sit down and write about it, if I can find the humor in it, if I can use it to make myself laugh or to make you laugh, then the memory loses some of the power it has to hurt me.

The truth is, last night I was pretty upset when that guy left. I was feeling guilty that I let him convince me to lock Maudie in a room. I was feeling disappointed that yet another potential partner was not going to pan out. I was feeling discouraged because I always find myself with men who talk down to me and try to make me feel dumb. I was feeling embarrassed for not having a recycling bin and the way the guy looked at me when he realized it. I was feeling really devastated because I still love Josh and I miss him so much sometimes I can barely breathe. I’m having a hard time moving on. If I focus on that – if I let all the confusing, conflicting, painful things swirl around unorganized in my head, I would never be ok. But I can sit down and write about it in a way that is funny and light, but also real at the same time. I can tell you about it in a way that doesn’t bum you out, but I can still get your support and companionship. I write it down and I have control of it and the way it makes me feel, even if just for a moment or two.

If you are looking for a book to start your new year, I can’t recommend Heartburn enough.

December 17, 2021

I’ve never actually seen an episode of Sex and the City, but I like to imagine that it’s about four independent, single women who live in New York City, go on dates, tell each other sassy stories over brunch, and cry themselves to sleep 3-4 nights per week. Let me know if I’m off track, and maybe I’ll log onto HBO and watch season 1.

Speaking of sassy, independent, single ladies – I had my first date this week. Well, my first date in about a year and a half. I got drinks after work with this guy named Tony. Tall, former marine, tattoos, good looking  –  just in case you were wondering if I have a type… Anyway, I showered after work, put on my nicest outfit with the dangly earrings that I think are so classy, made my hair as shiny as can be, and sprayed on some of my Country Chic perfume.  I put a red bow on a bottle of Ale8 to offer him as a souvenir from a date with a Kentucky girl, and told myself that he was meeting the absolute best version of me – physically, emotionally, mentally, financially and intellectually the best me. I had a perfectly fine date with this guy and he thought the Ale8 I brought was delightful and sweet.  The next day he texted me to politely tell me he wasn’t interested and something about just getting out of a 4-year relationship, emotional trauma, baggage, blah, blah, blah. I get it. The truth is, I was relieved to not have to do the rejecting, because I wasn’t really feeling him either. But when I got the text riddled with words like “friendship”, “sweet’, “smart” and all the other words of affirmation we throw at people we have no intention of ever seeing again when we don’t want to hurt their feelings, I felt that little sting. That sting that is so small and insignificant, it’s like a paper cut. It is short lived, barely even a blip on the radar, but noticeable nonetheless. 

I told him that friendship was of course fine, thanked him for the drink and offered him the information that it was my first date after a break up too – just trying to be empathetic. Then he started asking me how he was on the date – how he presented himself, whether I liked him – as if he was wanting some coaching for a future date with a lady who is not me. Some future lady who is desirable and worth impressing – unlike myself, the practice date. I realize that’s my own interpretation and creative spin on his intentions, but what can I say? I had a paper cut!  Asking me for advice or feedback felt like he was rubbing a little salt in my small wound, yet I gave him some answers and hyped him up and lied a little bit about how much I liked him and how charming he was.  He just seemed like he needed it. It seems like maybe this is a pattern of mine.  I’ll be sitting in the middle of some hurt or rejection that I feel, big or small, and I’ll be focused on making sure someone else feels ok – even when that someone is the one who made me hurt. 

It’s been a pattern in my relationships – I’ll get upset about something and mention it to my person, then see them get upset and defensive over my declaration.  Next thing I know, I’m apologizing to them, soothing their pain – when the entire conversation started with me being hurt about something. My own pain never gets resolved or even addressed because I forget to think about me, or operate based on fear that the fallout from the conversation will cause me to lose that person. In this case, my pain was so small and fleeting, but I ignored it and made sure this guy I’ve spent less than 2 hours with was feeling ok and confident for his next shot at love.  I really want to be more mindful of this going forward, because I think it really hinders my ability to communicate effectively. But also, I feel like hyping up my new “friend” was a good example of leading with kindness and empathy – two things I value very much. What I’m saying is that this whole dating while simultaneously guarding your heart and mitigating collateral damage to other humans and making value-based decisions on who you associate with and how you treat them – well it’s fucking tough.

In the grand scheme of things, this doesn’t matter. It’s kind of a bleak fact that dating in your 30’s is sort of like death from a thousand paper cuts. Each one is small and easy to recover from, but you just grow to expect the same tedious pain over and over. Every encounter ends with 1) He is not interested in you and tells you so, 2) You are not interested in him and you tell him so, 3) He is not interested in you and he ghosts you or 4)  you go on a second date. Rinse and repeat, and most iterations end in something that is a little bit painful. The only thing that makes it easier is hope that someday you’ll find a person who offers you the effortless kind of love that you know exists. I’ve never experienced that, but I think it’s probably worth a few paper cuts.

December 5, 2021

I’ve had a hard month. One of those months where life kicks you in the pants and reminds you that you are not entitled to anything – health, happiness, love – all of those things that define your life can change or disappear in a second. You stand there, breathless from the blow, looking around at the resources you have, trying to figure out the best path forward and fighting the urge to run backward toward the life you had yesterday. I recognize I experienced this all in true white-upper-middle-class lady fashion, and maybe my problems aren’t as big as others I have seen. But from the perspective of my cushy, warm life – the last month has been difficult for me. This morning, I felt really overwhelmed by a shocking thought that I had in the shower – I am grateful for this season of difficult.

Grateful feels like a strange word to use right now. It was a word that I focused on intently during some of my previous posts because I didn’t want despair to dominate my headspace. I did my best to be grateful, and expressed thanksgiving in droplets – like sweat dripping during an intense workout, painfully earned and coerced by a sequence of methodical movements. But right now, the grateful feeling I have is pulsing though me, as natural as blood in my veins. It’s filling me up and I’m sitting on my bed resting in absolute peace. I don’t know how long this feeling will last – I know that my tough moments of despair or worry or fear will return, maybe later today or tomorrow or the next day. But right now I am grateful.

I am grateful that the last month has allowed me to reconnect with dear friends. So many of my friends, near and far have rallied around me. My friend Katie is my Ghostbuster who I can call at any hour of the night, and she helps me chase away bad thoughts. My friend Shawna distracts me with stories about her horse and shitty boyfriends of her past. My friend Maggie sends me sweet texts and flowers, and tells me I’m a badass all the time. My sister just keeps telling me everything is going to be ok. My coworkers rallied around me when Maudie was sick, and kept me busy when I needed more to do and took things off of my plate when I was overwhelmed. My friend Kristin is my rock, and speaks difficult truth to me when I need to hear it.

I am grateful for my pseudo-family here in DC that has taken care of me. My friends Luke and Claire have welcomed me into their home and shared their whole family with me. Claire listens to me talk and vent while we run together, and Luke usually hands me an Ale8 and a baby when we return from our loop. They let me join in on family movie night and play with their sweet kids and I feel like I’m at home with my own family. They made me breakfast this morning. We were in a pandemic-friendship with virtually no contact, and all I had to do was reach out one time – and they turned into this tag team of super human support. I cannot thank them enough for this and I look forward to returning the special care and love to them in the future.

I’m grateful that I have things to look forward to. I have family coming to visit next weekend and a 5k race, and holiday parties with my wonderful coworkers this week. I get to go home for the holidays and love on my family, and see little kids experience the magic of Christmas. I have a healthy puppy again, and I have many good years of hikes and walks and licks to look forward to. I have a job that is so thrilling, challenging, exhilarating for me that I can’t wait to get to my office tomorrow to run the code I wrote on Friday. I have an entire life of possibilities stretching out in front of me and that’s pretty damn cool.

Most of all, I am grateful for this opportunity for resurgence. I am not as strong as I want to be – I have wasted a lot of tears and anguish in this season. I feel like I’ve been so slow to take steps toward moving forward, but I am confident that I will learn and grow from this, and I’ll march into the future a little stronger and wiser. I may not feel like “myself” all the time right away, but I’ll keep being me and constantly reminding myself that “me” is a great thing to be.

November 16, 2021

I ugly cried in my new car today. And I did last night too. In fact, I’ve gotten my tears all over my leather seats in my fancy new vehicle a few times already, and blew my nose into a jacket that I had in the backseat more than once too. Gross, I know. I’ll wash it. Today was different though. I was sitting at work, doing a good job getting ready for a big meeting I have on Friday. I had a couple of calls with my mentees, made small talk with the girls from the strategy team, and listened to my favorite podcast while I made powerpoint slides. I did this all while feeling like an empty shell of myself. I smiled on the zoom calls, chatted excitedly over email with my career coach about some awards we are both going to receive on Thursday during a ceremony. I marked things off my to-do list and handled my business. Then I took my empty shell body downstairs to the cafe to get my usual BLT, and I sat outside in the cold and let a few tears fall, safe from the eyes of others. Once I finished my sandwich and washed my face, without thought, logic or explanation, I walked to my car. I never do this – I never go home to walk Maudie at lunchtime, but my empty shell body took me to the car and that’s what I set out to do.

When I, the empty shell, walked into the house, I didn’t hear the pitter patter of Maudie’s little feet run toward the door, or her loud bark that gets her fussed at so frequently. Even when I yelled her name…silence. I made my way into the room where she stays during the day while I’m at work, thinking I might have left her baby gate open on accident and she was hiding under the bed upstairs. When I rounded the corner of the stairs, I saw her. She was limp like a ragdoll, with her eyes closed, in an awkward position on the stairs. My stomach sank and I thought for sure she was dead. I ran to her and quickly realized that she was still breathing, but no amount of shaking or shouting would wake her.

I grabbed her with one arm and my work phone and wallet with the other, and without any outward sign of fear, panic, or dramatics, I tossed my limp, little best friend into the passenger seat of my car. I fired off a few text messages to cancel an afternoon meeting and to explain my situation to my boss, and then drove her to the emergency vet. Once I got there, I handed her over to the errrr…nurse? Vet tech? What ever those nice people in scrubs are called who weigh animals and clip toenails before the vet arrives. I answered a few questions. Has she gotten into anything unusual recently? Errr, she ate some chapstick last night, but she’s done that 2.2 million times. Has she been eating and drinking? Umm, I think so but my head has been so far up my own ass, I’m not sure. Yes. Yes I definitely fed her twice yesterday. Has she been out in a new environment – hiking or swimming? No, I wanted to take her for a hike on Sunday but again – head up ass. This went on for a few minutes, then I was asked to wait in my car for an update (covid rule).

When I got into my car and turned on my heat and my fancy heated seats, I sat in the parking lot and realized that the 30-ish minutes of terror I had just experienced made me feel…better? Maybe better isn’t the word. Alive? Just for a minute, I marveled at how I had bumped up against a true emergency in my world on a day (in a long series of days) when I was feeling like an empty, hopeless, hollow shell of my real self and I snapped back into the Rebecca I know who handles her shit and takes care of the people, work, and Maudie dogs around her. And I gave myself a little credit for that. It was short-lived relief because I quickly remembered that my puppy was very sick, and now my only job was to sit and wait- a big, rotten cherry on top of the rejection and heartache I’ve been carrying around for a while now. I released a wave of emotion for some unknown period of time, blew my nose on that poor jacket one more time, and then forced myself to exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Big deep breaths, over and over until the tears stopped.

I’m in this place now – this place where all I can do is sit and wait. With Maudie, all I could do was sit in my car and wait to hear what the vet had to say. And that phone call came with some information – Maudie has an infection that made her brain swell up a little, she needs antibiotics and a stay in the hospital – and a directive to go and wait some more. So now I’m home, in my pajamas at 5pm in a big, empty house, with a disgusting vodka drink on the table in front of my laptop – waiting. Waiting on answers that I can’t find myself. Waiting on healing to occur. Waiting on either grief or relief. And the waiting applies to more than just my Maudie situation. The things that have caused me so much heartbreak over the last few weeks are completely out of my control. Agonizing over them and trying to find solutions is no more productive than crying in the car while the veterinarian ran tests on Maudie. I fought the good fight when there was one to be had – when there were things I could do to try to direct change, but now, all I can do is wait for answers or relief, or at least wait for healing.

Waiting is hard for someone like me. I’m a problem-solver. I’m a fixer. I don’t give up. I don’t think I’ve ever given up in my entire life. I finish the run even when my legs are screaming in pain. I struggled through my PhD long after I realized I wasn’t smart enough to be there. I finished the Whole30 diet because I had promised myself I would, long after others gave up. I don’t quit, and I always succeed. But life is messy, and it’s not always about succeeding or failing, and some things can’t be “worked out”. I can’t work out Maudie’s health. There’s no painful work I can put in or ritual to perform that will guarantee that I will still have my little best friend when I wake up tomorrow. There’s no work I can do to make my heartache and rejection go away. I can’t make a to-do list to make the healing happen faster and I can’t strategize ways to change my circumstances. They just are. So here I am. Waiting.

Thank you to all of my facebook friends and co-workers for kind words today. That puppy means more to me than I can ever express. I should have taken her hiking on Sunday.

November 14, 2021

One of my favorite questions to ask when I’m on dates with 30-something year old men is “so, what brings you to the clearance rack?” The question usually raises eyebrows, until I explain my silly notion that people dating in their 30’s or 40’s are all on the clearance rack. I like to imagine myself as a shirt or a pair of pants, surrounded by other articles of clothing that are all on this clearance rack in a store for various reasons. Some of us have been returned out of season. Some of us are uncommon sizes. Some of us are slightly damaged (or more than slightly). Some of us are ugly. Some of us had bad luck with our placement in the store and no one noticed us. But as all the other hip, cool articles of clothing get purchased and go home with their happy new owners, we sit on the clearance rack and hope that someone with a tight budget picks us up.

I know, I know. The analogy is pretty bleak, maybe even dark. And it isn’t perfect. Sometimes I think the clearance rack concept is wrong altogether, and I should instead be talking about a thrift store. But the main point is that for whatever reason, we all missed that boat that so many of our friends sailed away on in their 20’s – the ones who found the single person on earth who fills their heart with joy well before they were legally allowed to rent a car, and planned their white weddings, and lived happily ever after. Or maybe some of us didn’t miss that boat at all, and have since been “returned” with that super forgiving return policy that life offers, and simply skipped the “happily ever after” part. Some of us have had bad luck with relationships that start off well and end in tears. Some of us are bad at dating, or insecure about our looks and what we bring to a relationship. Some of us have some things to figure out about ourselves before we can commit to someone else. And some of us are jerks, who are on the clearance racks because we are just not nice people. The reasons vary, and when you find yourself shopping on the clearance rack, it’s pretty important to be mindful of that.

So here I am. I’ve been “returned” again. Someone picked me out at the store, tried me on, and took me home – and then later decided that I wasn’t a good fit and took me back to the store for a refund. I make light of things, but this is one of the hardest seasons of life I have ever experienced because I didn’t want to be returned. I was happy. I was in love – I am in love. I felt proud to be with this person, and wanted it to go on forever. This is the first break-up I’ve experienced where I’m having a hard time seeing the positive possibilities for the future. All I can see is a future that is being taken away from me. So as I sit here in this pile of fresh returns, dealing with this intense pain that comes to me in really big waves that are very close together, I have to take the time to figure out the reasons I am here. I have to figure out why I’m about to be placed back on that clearance rack with a new, red, mark-down sticker.

I guess I could dwell on the things I wish I could change. I wish I would have been low “maintenance” – less needy, less excited to spend all of my time with my person. I wish I had spent more time with friends in the last year. I wish I had not said the mean things I said at the end when I was so selfish in my pain. I wish I had not begged and begged and begged for a different outcome. I wish I had some happiness lever I could have pulled that would have made him as happy with me as I was with him. I wish I had posted on social media a little less, so that I wouldn’t be plagued almost daily with reminders of happy times that are now tainted in the Facebook memories that Zuckerberg thinks are so neat-o and helpful.

That list of what-if’s and I-wish-I-had’s could go on and on. But I guess there are some things I am glad I did. I’m glad I was vulnerable and opened myself up to love (and this eventual pain and torment) after my last painful experience with love. I am glad I was generous and kind in my relationship, and gave as much as I could. I look back at the type of partner I was this time, and I’m proud of it. I think I was the type of partner that I would like to have. I put in effort when I was exhausted from work and everything else. I planned surprises and showered my partner and his family with the kind of sweet love that I’ve been looking for. I am proud of that. I tried to make him feel appreciated and special because he was appreciated and special. As embarrassed as I am for begging at the end, I am still happy I demonstrated to him how much the relationship means to me and that I advocated for what I wanted. As messy and fucked-up as I feel right now, I know that growth has occurred over the course of these failed relationships, and that maybe I’m close to being the type of partner that I want to be. I’m proud of the partner he was too, because he was better, sweeter, kinder to me than any other man has been. I’m grateful for that. If he weren’t the most wonderful, smart, funny, engaging and challenging person I’ve ever known, maybe this would be easier.

It’s hard for me to put into words the agony I have been going through. I don’t really need to, because I think you’ve all been there before. I would give anything to make my circumstances different. I feel like I’m going back to the clearance rack kicking and screaming, daunted with the reality that eventually after some healing I’m going to have to sift through all these other damaged, heartbroken people to try to separate the lonely, unlucky ones from the ones who are mean and incapable of love. I’m dreading it. But this is what we do. We get hurt and then rise from the ashes and then go through hurt over and over again in hopes of finding someone who will let us be our authentic selves and love us for it anyway. If you’ve found that, I’m glad for you, and maybe you can send me a text or something to remind me that it really is worth all of this time at the clearance rack.

November 13, 2021

I put my Christmas tree up last weekend. Something about covid has compelled me to put it up early over the last couple of years. It’s only about 4 feet tall, and takes less than ten minutes to decorate with my puny collection of ornaments with two main themes: 1) Kentucky and 2) Harry Potter. I have my little Maudie ornament that my mom bought me and the Swiss Cake Roll ornament that Santa left in my stocking at my sister’s house last year, and a Mario ornament I bought at Target. And that’s about it. I hung Maudie’s stocking by the tv with little care, and plugged in my Spiced Apple Toddy wallflower plug-in from Bath and Body Works and TA-DA, it’s Christmas.

Now, the masses will tell me that I’m not giving Thanksgiving the due diligence it deserves, and that I’m running full speed toward the most commercially-driven holiday of the entire year. Honestly, if it were socially acceptable to celebrate Toyota-thon in any meaningful way, I’d be doing that. Since it’s not, I’ll go ahead and do Christmas. On Thanksgiving, I’ll wake up early in Kentucky and drive to Cowboys gas station to pick up two Ale-8s and two Courier Journals. Then I’ll delight my sister for hours with my wonderful sense of humor while she cooks Thanksgiving lunch and I look through the Black Friday ads. We’ll game plan our shopping trip – prioritizing our Angel children that we shop for every year. We’ll eat and eat and eat, then sleep it off until we wake up at early-o-clock to hit the road in my sister’s sleigh (ok, it’s a Yukon with heated seats). We’ll shop and marvel about how far we can make $200 go for each of our angels, get in our annual Black Friday argument, make up, and then head home. Holidays in America, baby.

I remember watching my aunts go through the Black Friday song and dance when I was a kid. Some subset of the family – usually Dad, Sam and I would make the drive to Bath County for Thanksgiving at Mamaw Jo’s (my dad’s mom) house. We would arrive early to see Mamaw and a couple of my aunts in the kitchen, and then slowly watch the masses arrive. My dad is one of ten siblings, so once you factor in all the wives, husbands, and kids (and kid’s spouses and kids), the crowd grows exponentially. People were always fussing over seats – you’d be warm and cozy in the chair near the wood stove, but make the mistake of moseying back to the kitchen for more mashed potatoes, and someone would jump in your spot. All of my uncles would be antagonizing the kids in the living room – one year, they called my cousin Hunter “Milton” instead of his real name for the entire day, just to watch him get spun up and frustrated. And at some point in the day, one of my aunts would come in with a stack of newspapers and pass them around, and there they would sit at the kitchen table with their ink pens, making their attack plans. As for me, you could usually find me in the corner drinking an Ale-8 (or 7). Thanksgiving is so quiet now – we only have two kids to antagonize (and let’s face it, it’s usually them antagonizing me instead of the other way around). But I like that my sister and I are keeping the tradition alive and gather around the table to cut out and mark the deals we want to go after.

I would give anything to go back and relive a Thanksgiving at my Mamaw Jo’s house. I can still smell it – the smell of the old house, the smell of the turkey, the smell of the wood stove. The holidays always make me think about my Mamaw. She’s been gone since 2008 – she died in early December. I remember going to her house to see my Papaw before her visitation and I looked in the freezer and saw that she already had her turkey for Christmas dinner. It’s such an odd detail to remember, but it just seems to be the perfect symbol for the woman she was – always thinking about other people, trying to make sure we are all taken care of. She was already getting ready for Christmas with her family, because it was so important to her – it was so important for us all to have a nice meal and be together, and she worked herself to death every year to make it happen. I’ve cooked Friends-giving dinner before for about 10 people, and I was so exhausted when the last guest left my apartment. I felt like I was shopping, cleaning, and cooking for days leading up to the event. I think about all she had to do to get ready for the Crouch masses, and even with the help she got from my aunts, I still don’t know how she did it. And every year she did this for Thanksgiving and Christmas.

I know that most moms do this – they go above and beyond for their families, especially during the holidays. I saw it in my own wonderful mom, and I see it now in my sister. In fact, my sister has a lot of my Mamaw Jo’s most wonderful traits. She’s always working her tail off to make things special for her kids – planning birthday parties, trying to make Christmas magical – just thinking about all the work she puts into moving the damn elf on the shelf every night for three weeks makes me want to take a long winter’s nap. She’s such a good mom – probably similar to the type of mom Mamaw Jo would have been if she had been born in this generation. I know things were different for her. Money was less abundant, there were more mouths to feed, times were harder. My dad once told me a story about a little wagon he and some of his brothers got to share for Christmas. But I can imagine that giving them that wagon really meant something to my Mamaw and Papaw and sometimes wonder if they had to move mountains to make things like that happen.

I wish I knew more about her and her life. I wish I had been old enough (or maybe just thoughtful enough) when she was alive to really sit down with her and hear her stories. I wish I knew more about her personality – beyond the loving, sacrificing mom and grandmother personality that I saw. Was she funny? Did she worry as much as I do? Did she like to read? Did she have a bucket list? Are these silly questions? Was she such a truly selfless and outwardly focused lady that these thoughts never entered her mind? Maybe so. I have so much respect for the version of her that I got to see. I often wonder if I’m like her at all. I know my life is a complete 180 from the one she lived. She got married young and started raising her family, and spent her life in rural Kentucky. But am I like her at all? I really strive to be. I try to give to the people around me and work hard for my loved ones. I don’t know that my efforts hold a candle to her (or my sister, or my mom and dad). I’m not a religious person, so I don’t really believe that she’s somewhere looking down on me while I walk this life. But I still catch myself wondering how she would feel if she were looking down. I wonder if she would be proud of me, or maybe even confused or disappointed in the relatively selfish lifestyle I’ve found myself in. I’ll never know the answer to this.

Anyway, I’m looking forward to loading up my car with clothes and a dog to head to Kentucky for the holidays in a couple of weeks. Let’s not forget, it’s my month of gratefulness. I’m grateful that I have too many wonderful holiday memories to fit into these paragraphs – including the equally impactful but unmentioned people on my mom’s side of the family. I’m grateful for the memories I have. I’m grateful for the memories that we will make this year. I’m grateful that I have the means and time off to go home for the holidays. I’m grateful for my puppy who keeps me from being lonely in this season in the meantime, and that we get to spend our first holiday season in our home. I’m grateful for the example that Mamaw Jo, my mom and sister set for me – the example of selflessness, and how strength looks different for different people. I’m grateful for me and for the fact that I try to live up to that example, no matter how many times I screw it up and fall short. I’m grateful. And even though my tree is up already, and the Christmas music is playing in my car, I’m not losing sight of Thanksgiving – after all, I have a lot to be thankful for.