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Kelly Clarkson: the girl who’s saving me with an anthem… again.

I owe Kelly Clarkson a glass of wine and a super girly version of a high five.

Let me explain. I have had a year that emotionally would kick Buddha’s ass. Moving across the country, the most significant break up of my life and a great deal of self consciousness, newfound self awareness and above all, self reflection. Tumultuous isn’t a big enough word to describe the upheaval and learning curve I’ve had to hang onto over the past 12 months, fantastic and cripplingly awful. And like many people do, I cling to the art in life to get me through. Yes there’s usually a bottle of wine in a clenched fist and a lot of swear words that goes along with this art… but mainly it’s music, films, good tv, shitty tv and natural beauty that bring me back down to earth with a frame of mind that allows me to see things as possible again… allow me to breathe without wheezing. Allow me to smile without having to think to myself, “just smile”.

And when you’re dealing with the craziness of life isn’t it ultimately the most frustrating thing when you can’t even enjoy that goofy comedy or intense moment with your favorite characters on your favorite show? Not being able to happily shout your favorite pop song because you’re wailing out your window instead of singing? I’ve been trying to use my fallbacks lately to get through: re-watching sexy action movies like The Bourne Identity or old Office episodes and even Friends reruns (only to make me miss the connection with my ex, friends from back home and making me swear that THIS week I’ll work on my abs EVERY DAY), following Dexter kill each of his new hits (though I end up in a rage wishing it was that easy to punish the people who made you or others feel like shit). I haven’t even gotten through 40 Year Old Virgin recently without a tear somewhere because aside from all the jerk-off jokes, she just GETS him and how rare is that??? And musically I can’t switch the radio station without getting an Adele song that makes me feel like if I don’t find a bathtub full of puppies to live in then I just won’t make it because life isn’t fair.

So with no where else to turn, it has again become Miss. Kelly Clarkson’s voice that is bringing me out of that sad black hole of “what the fuck.” Just in time, she has a new single again, and I’ll say that with pride. Just in time, it’s a song that admits to being hurt and human and at the same time taking the shit into your own hands and screaming out to yourself and the world that WHAT DOESN’T KILL YOU MAKES YOU STRONGER.  It’s a phrase we’ve all heard a million times, but when Kelly sings it, it makes sense. It comes from her gut. It’s raw, it’s real, it’s fighting.

She’s been there for me before. I’m friends with songwriters and I know that she didn’t put these together herself, but the difference is that no one could deliver the sentiment to me like she does. Walk Away, How I Feel, Behind these Hazel Eyes, What’s up Lonely, Since You’ve Been Gone, Low… the girl has felt pain, she hasn’t always had a fairytale life and even when we all thought she started one, you come to find out how hard she’s had to fight for her continual success. She’s been ridiculed, broken up with, called “fat” and “over” and worst of all, “replaced”.

But she’s still here. She’s still singing and I can’t thank her enough because as I try to move through some of the most challenging feelings I’ve ever been forced to experience, I need her voice. I need a song written by someone who knows what their doing and sung by Kelly. Because all other art aside, all criticism aside, you can’t deny that the girl can sing, and sing with heart that you can’t fake.

And you know what? I’m going to be fine. I’m going to be more than fine and so will all of us. And when I’m not able to say that? Damn Kelly, I’ve got you on repeat… so, thanks.



Tomboy becomes a girl… and kinda likes it

I never wanted to, but I MAY have become a girl.

I was always the kind of girl that hated bows and pink and jewelry. I wanted to be the one to beat up the boys and show them I was stronger than them and could pee wherever I wanted to also. I scoffed at girls who were afraid to get dirty and looked funny playing dodgeball, and I wanted to be Thomas Ian Nicholas’s character in “Rookie of the Year” so badly that I used to pitch socks into our dryer in the laundry room.

I’m not sure when it started to happen that I became a girly girl. I do know that it snuck up on me so fast that it was a blur between having my mom cut the bow off my first bra before I would let her buy it for me and when I started only wearing skirts and dresses and calling things “cute” a lot. I always had crushes on boys but I’m not sure when my behavior changed from trying to beat them up to flirting with my eyes, and I certainly don’t remember how I went from swearing I’d never wear makeup every day to applying smokey eyes on my roommates in college.

I do know, though, that I don’t dislike myself this way and I never disliked myself when I was a tomboy. I’m still me, just with more ruffles. I still love sports and running with the guys and for that matter, “Rookie of the Year”- I just have a newfound respect for high waisted skirts, and lingerie and floral arrangements and interior decorating. I don’t hate having a female’s figure anymore- and though I’m never completely comfortable with my body, I don’t hate having become a woman at this stage and I think that’s quite an improvement from crying when I realized I was going to have tits and ass and that there was no amount of soccer or foul language that could change it.

Growing up is something that none of us have the option to skip- it’s a necessary evil that I remember embracing at times (when I got a note from a cute boy that he wanted to hold my hand after class) and loathed at others (when the perfect girl in high school knew how to match her Steve Madden clogs with her corduroy jeans and baby doll t-shirt effortlessly while I was still only comfortable in sweatpants and Adidas shirts). I always felt like a collage while all the other girls were shiny photographs that didn’t need tape and scissors to look attractive.

But as it turns out, I can see now that we were all collages. No one knew how to “BE” anything perfectly. Some of them didn’t know how to embrace their sexuality, or their intelligence or their spirituality or even just own up to what they knew they wanted to be someday without questioning if it was worthy of everyone else’s approval. And so now, as I sit here in a flowery skirt wearing earrings and light (but effective) makeup on my face, I know that I’m still the same girl I always was- only now I’m open to trying everything, being everything and not afraid of what it means to be a girl like any other… knowing of course that I could still beat up a boy if I really wanted to.

Because I’m not ever going to be like anyone else- I’m completely unique as I am… I’m goofy and athletic and loud and sexy and smart and a million other things…and I don’t mind if there’s some tape peeking out here and there because as a collage I’m pretty damn interesting- ruffles and sneakers alike.



Food: Better than babies?

I am a “woman”.

Yes, this is a true statement. I put quotes around the word “woman” for a reason though. First of all, potty humor is still my fave. I hate thongs and pantyhose. I poke fun at girls who walk around with their handbags on their arms with a dangling wrist to keep it from sliding off. I still wish I could pee standing up and I can’t cook.  But the biggest reason why I think I’m still so afraid to call myself a “woman” without quotes is that I’m still not sure about the whole motherhood thing.

I love kids, and I’m really fantastic with them. I love making them laugh and I have a knack for helping a desperate parent get their kid to stop crying, and a smile full of tiny teeth and gaping holes where they haven’t come through yet melts my heart. I can even truly appreciate a pair of teeny tiny shoes, because come on- they don’t need shoes, that’s just silly! But I reeeeeeeally don’t know that I want a baby to put those shoes on, and for so many reasons:

Worldly reason:  We are already over-populated as is.

Financial reason: I’m broke and skip meals sometimes to save money. I hear babies don’t do well with that.

Energy reason: I take naps. Based off of my schedule. I hear a baby’s schedule could end up being different from mine.

Attention reason: I’m told you have to pay attention to that kid a lot more than things like laundry and plants.

Forever reason: That kid is yours for like, forever.

Now, all of those things could change and I could hit that mark when my instinct to pick up a child and not give it back will kick in. I’ll decide to either become a kidnapper by trade or just have my own baby. But in the meantime, I’ve found myself actually saying things out loud that I’m sure my Mom might not be super enthused about… mostly involving what “I love more than a mother loves a child”.  It’s a fantastic way to put real weight onto how much I love something, right?

For example:

"I love this cake more than a mother loves her newborn baby"

"This tastes as good as a sonogram must look"


"I bet this bowl of mac & cheese is what motherhood tastes like"

So most of these things I feel the need to explain my appreciation for have to do with food. And that’s because food is amazing. Now I don’t really cook it, but I do love savory and sweet and the textures and mind blowing flavors of it. I look forward to every morsel of food I put in my body and I calculate them quite closely. In fact, if I were one day able to pay attention to a child the way I do to my food intake? I might be a damn good Mom…

So maybe it’s fate that my favorite meal is adored by children everywhere, and for all I know, I’ll have a kid when I’m ready and we’ll sit at home and eat it together and laugh and be merry. But for now?  Well comparing my food to what I hear motherhood is all about is the best I can do.



Will this end in touching?

"Is this a date?"

How bad of a sign is it if you have to ask that question?

Is it that the guy pays for the girl? The guy opens and hold the door for the girl? Or maybe the guy picks the girl up at her place? Because all of those instances could just as easily be explained with: The guy knowing the girl is piss broke so he feels bad and picks up the tab, other people are walking out of the bar/restaurant as well so it’s only good manners to open the door and why take two cars when one will suffice? Maybe he’s just a generous, polite ,environmentalist who doesn’t want to put his tongue in your mouth. But maybe he’s a Matt Damon-y gentleman who could change it all…  So what is it that makes it abundantly clear that a date is a date, without having to ask?

Maybe by even having to ask that question means it’s not a successful date anyway if it is one, because you’d hope that there’d be mutual attraction making it quite clear that you both want to do more than open doors for each other. But sometimes when you’re just there enjoying someone’s company and in the midst of good conversation, it’s easy to get lost in the “getting to know you” stories, especially when you’re put at ease- which is a good thing, right? It’s nice to go slow with someone new sometimes also, to have it not all be only about the physical thing. Plus there’s not a whole lot of sexiness involved in the story of your parents’ divorce or where the scar on your chin came from, but if you’re really going to hit it off with someone… should there be? Or is is it ok to just be yourself, scars and all and not think about the sex until it presents itself?

And yes it’s true that 3 hour conversations with someone who gets your sense of humor and all that is fantastic, but will there be touching… The fine line between just taking in the pleasure of someone new in your life and taking in the smell of their hair and the way their mouth dips to the side when they talk is important. Maybe it shouldn’t mean that if there’s not overt touching or glancing or kiss at the end then you weren’t on a date, but it’s a slippery slope at first unless you’re both completely upfront about wanting to mash your faces together… So my question is, do you just come out and ask even if it could create an endless depth of awkward silence and explaining?

Honesty is always key, so maybe a simple, “So have you thought about kissing me or watching football with me? Because either one or both is totally cool on my end.”  And if it wasn’t a date? It may have changed his mind…



Nudie pics & the world that leaks them…


Oh, naked celebrities, I feel your pain and yet, well, DAMN at least you look good?

It’s interesting that in our society we feel we’re entitled to see every detail of anyone’s life just because they play make believe for a living. It doesn’t actually make any sense why we would think that, but the most normal response to hearing a celebrity complain about lack of privacy is, “well, it comes with the territory”. The average person thinks it comes with the territory because these celebs are beautiful and rich and play dress up and so they deserve to have to deal with a little suffering, right? Well that’s dumber than a beagle with a concussion.

Let’s think about it. These people are playing characters. Digging into human response and behavior to tell stories onscreen. And the cool thing about that job of course, is when it’s completed and millions of people want to go and see what you did, right? It certainly seems way cooler than fixing toilets or grooming a dog or re-organizing a file cabinet. Their job is kickass, and they’re usually at the very least a 7 out of 10 in the sexy ratio of hotness, so how that translates to the fascination with who actors really are when we’re not the character, I suppose I understand. Regardless- it should never mean that we deserve to know. We certainly do not deserve to see their most private moments, it’s kind of gross even to admit you want to see them… though we ALL have. Shit, they probably have too.

Iit’s very clear that this obsession with celebrity culture isn’t going away. It’s getting worse, because now it’s possible to hack into people’s phones and follow them to the corners of the earth to see every moment of their attempt to be alone. We all get celebrity crushes and have fantasies of the day when they realize they’re supposed to be in love with YOU and carry you off into a smoggy LA sunset. That’s the side WE like. But on their end, it’s getting harder and harder to be private, and taking steps to ensure your career will be taken seriously are every bit as important as creating your character. So, bringing the concussed beagle back into play… why do they keep taking naked pics of themselves?

Other than it being a free country, I have to ask that obvious question of the females who most recently have had their pictures leaked and here’s why- most of them have appeared partially if not mostly nude on screen. Recently, and often. So if you’ve got the highest quality footage of your ass in professional lighting, and millions of people already saw this because they went to see your film… why would you need to take a photo of it in your bathroom mirror anyway? And if the answer is that you just felt like it, which I get because I do it too- what’s the big deal really if everyone has already seen it the time it looked as flattering as any ass could ever look?

Yes, I realize the answer would be the principle of the whole thing, which I fully respect. And obviously, I’m on their side. But if we’re having this discussion over a beer and some wings, and I started the conversation with, “Let’s be honest…” I’m pretty sure at least some people would agree that though it’s not right, what are they really complaining about? Because guaranteed most plumbers, dog groomers and secretaries asses do NOT look like that, hence most people not caring to seek their ass pictures out.

So you know what? You’re all beautiful, so mazel tov ladies. Hope the FBI does catch these douchebags and you get to feel vindicated for your invasion of privacy. But put your camera phones away and go be hot for millions of dollars. Why? Because YOU can!



No, I’m not HER, but thanks!

I look a lot like Minnie Driver, and people seem to notice that.

I can see their recognition from a mile away. It’s an understated glance, usually followed by a double take, a pat on their friend’s arm and a lean in for the whisper of, “Doesn’t she look like…” at which point I try to cut them off and just say, “Minnie Driver?  Yeah, that’s who it is. No, I’m not her.”

Now that might sound like a dick move, but when you get those looks 4-5 times a day? It’s all you can do to not yell out “I KNOOOOOOOW! Stop telling me things I KNOW”. Imagine people staring at you and out of nowhere telling you 4-5 times a day that you have a nose. Try not being snarky after a few weeks, I dare ya. Because it’s an odd thing to look a lot like someone who is already famous, doing what I want to be doing. It’s the same question I have to answer and conversation I have daily with perfect strangers. About my face. How many questions should there really be about your face with people you don’t know?

While everyone who brings up the resemblance usually follows it up with “That’s a major compliment, you’re both beautiful”, it somehow still feels like her compliment that I’m riding the coat tails of. Like, are the men who find me attractive just all Minnie lovers and I’m just the most decent replica that they can actually get in a room with? And if so, should I care either way? It still means that I’m as enticing as a celebrity who is known for her beauty and talent, and not someone like Casey Anthony or something. Now that would be awful.

I’ve thought many times about how it’s going to be when I meet her. The things I would need to say, or would want to say at that moment- which I believe will happen either for work (fingers crossed) or during a random life encounter. And what do you say to a person who you look just like, and not just any person, but one who is known for their face, distinctly recognizable.

"Sorry, I kinda stole your face, but you’ve done WAY better with it, I mean, obviously…"


"So I look just like you, but I’m way younger! Not that you’re old, because you’re so not, I just mean that I won’t be going up for the same parts or anything with your face… not that I’d get them if you were up for them, because, yeah…"

or perhaps

"No need to go hunting at GoodWill! You’ve found me! Your face twin! On sale in the friend aisle! (wink)”

and as all of these attempts at friendship end badly, I’d finish in a British accent with,

"Oh Minnie, if you don’t love me, then I won’t call you!"

She’ll love me.

But honestly, I can’t help but feel like she’s stealing my thunder. I’ve earned my face just as much as she has. So how about this, if you meet me on the street and are shocked at the resemblance, instead of the standard response, try just saying,

"Wow! Minnie Driver looks just like you Meryl! She should play your sister…"

and you know what? I may just kiss you. And you would love me too.



Go ahead and feel it… at least for a moment

It’s OK to feel unhappy… at least just for a moment.

I know that sometimes we’re tested as people to see what we can handle and what we can’t- to help us become rounded out as strong adults. I know many people who are in that “testing phase” right now. But sometimes? I agree that it’d just be really nice to have an easy few days in a row. Sometimes, I want to get to appreciate how bad things feel. Because those feelings are real, they’re not put upon, it’s how our bodies and minds are reacting to an event- why would I try to feel bad? I’m not the kind who needs that cry for help to get attention, if things are shitty, I acknowledge them but bust my ass to get past it quickly. No one wants to be around someone who is wallowing, but the people who are willing to stick it out when you are, are keepers. Because the fact is, we ALL have super shitty days, sometimes weeks and months. For a million different reasons, and no one is immune to them, some just fake it far better than others… FAR better.

It’s hard to walk into a room hoping to have someone look at you, and realize that they’ve ducked out of that same room to make sure you’re not too close. It’s hard to realize that someone you thought might like you more than the average person they encounter, in fact is ready to not spend any more time with you at all. It’s impossible to hear that you’re sick and no one knows if they can make you better. It sucks. It’s devastating to lose someone who understood you and loved you because of all your imperfections and it’s even harder when you lose them suddenly. Or watch them suffer. It’s hard to hear that your income is now cut off. Or you didn’t get the opportunity you wanted. And on those days? Why would you force yourself to sit there and come up with reasons to be able to say, “Well, it’s bad but at least it’s not this”… to feel better? To focus on the fact that some people don’t have shoes? Sometimes, sure that can be healthy. Others? Just let yourself feel bad for a minute. Because when you don’t, that’s when you’ll really suffer.

Dealing with those things can make you question why you’ve made a million choices you can now only look back on and nit pick. Why you walked away from someone who loved you unconditionally, and why you said something so good to someone who didn’t appreciate it or you at all. But that’s asinine. There’s nothing you can do with any of that. What you CAN do, and what I’m learning to do, is to focus on letting yourself feel fully, embrace the sadness and loneliness and confusion. Allow it, because it’s happening whether you want it to or not. Be able to say, “Damn this situation is fucking me in the face and I hate it”. It takes a strong person to say that. Sometimes it might even make you laugh to say that, so only say that particular line if you’re in the mood to angry-laugh…

It’s when you’re exhausted from how emotional those moments are, when you’ve hit your limit of crying or staring into blank space or your voice is hoarse from screaming… That’s when you can step back and allow the cliche positive thinking to do its job. That’s the indication that enough is enough and you know what? Someone else does have it way worse. There are people with no legs or homes or cable. You’ll get past all your stuff, just put some effort in and you’ll figure it out. You’re going to have to.

But whatever you do, I recommend against a sad, pathetic Facebook post. Because then you probably deserve whatever it is that just happened… Seriously.



Why do we say that???

As a newly single person, I have way more time to question things like phrases and words and why they are what the are. It’s like when you’re writing something and the simplest word looks bizarre and wrong all of a sudden? That’s what’s been happening with language in general for me. Like why are bad words “bad”? I’ve never been able to understand that and now the confusion of it is getting a lot more attention.  And if there was just this one person who decided these things? THAT is the job I want.

For instance, why is it that we say we’re “going to the bathroom?” When I begin any kind of pee story, it inevitably begins with, “so I was going to the bathroom…” when in fact, that makes no sense unless my story is about what happened on the way to the bathroom. But it doesn’t, it’s about the act of peeing, which means that the phrase would need to be, “so I was bathrooming…” I mean, right? When I’m cooking, those very rare times that I’m cooking, I don’t say, “I was kitchening”. When I say I’m hanging out, I could just as easily and without sense say “I was living rooming”… but that just sounds stupid.

And why is “cunt” a bad word? Someone had to decide for it to be a bad thing, but it could have just been a descriptive word for the runt cat in a litter. Saying cunt could have been a sweet, adorable image for anyone to say freely when describing kittens who have to try harder than their brothers and sisters just to keep up. They have smaller ears and paws that look to big for their tiny bodies and their meow is barely audible. OR it could’ve meant a caught bunt. It could be a baseball term for those plays when a bunt is fielded really quickly and the guy is out at first. Instead it’s the nastiest way to describe a female’s most sacred place. Her happiest place. And in turn, it’s the ultimate insult to a woman, worse than telling her she’s fat, or at least about as bad as that is. It’s harsh and daring and isn’t used lightly, even by the people who use it, and when I use it I know I REALLY mean it. Even as an adjective, ie. “She was being SO cunty”, it gets the point across. I doubt there’s any latin root to it, so why?

Bitch is one I don’t get because it has a distinct alternate meaning, that again is animal related and quite nice when you think about it. What on earth is more nurturing than a female dog? A mother and giver of life to sweet, innocent, meant-only-to-give-love puppies? And yet, somehow some disgusting person decided to start using it as a way to describe a lady who is not only unlikeable but forcefully unpleasant to everyone around her. I call myself a bitch when I’m too snarky, I “act like a bitch” when I’m grumpy and short during an interaction, I’m “someone’s bitch” if I am a class below someone who I’m helping accomplish a task to their liking. All these awful things were meant to describe a puppy mommy…

So taking it into my own hands, I declare that from now on, “Jenga” is my “fuck”, “Rice cake” is my bitch and “tiara” is my “cunt”. Because I said so.



Rainbow Brite & The Care Bears can’t be wrong…

I want to touch this cloud.

I snapped this picture while on a flight from Los Angeles to St. Louis and it’s everything I want the texture of life to be. I want it to be my boyfriend and my best friend and my neighbor. I want to jump on it and roll in it and eat it and have sex on it and then watch a movie I’ve seen a million times in it.

I think it would feel squishy and plush, but strong enough to walk and bounce on like a trampoline runway. It’s clearly the place to slide and snuggle and curl up and read a good shitty tabloid on. I can picture taking a huge bite out of it and having it taste like those Snowcones that are freshly packed with ice that doesn’t look or feel like ice on your tongue, but has a healthy crunch when your teeth sink in. This cloud is like the Scarlett Johannsen of clouds. It’s the Paul Newman of the air. The Michael Jordan of floating. The macaroni & cheese of fluffiness.

I’ve decided that if I could be any part of nature I would be a cloud. I decided that just now. See, they’re imperfect and lumpy- and they’re curiously brilliant because of it. They have good and bad days and they’re always surrounded by other clouds- which they have something in common with, but can’t compare themselves directly to- there could never be an US Weekly of clouds with a “Who wore it better” column because fuck that, every cloud’s smooth edges and clumpy ones are completely distinct. They don’t get old, so there’s no need to get concerned with aging & beauty because every part of them floats… without any chance of slipping and falling.

I bet clouds have funky accents and really slow cadence but not slow enough to be annoying. They look like they’re always staying still, but they’re stealthy. Always moving, however slow and calculated. They run their own show, never passive aggressive. Few slams of lightning, rain or hail may pass through every once and a while just to keep it centered and appreciative. And if they feel like a day alone? No problem. A cloud just floats away… Another cloud is being an asshole? Screw it. Don’t bump into me, I’ll float over that lake and catch a quick ray of sunshine and poof! Make myself look like a hopping bunny.

Rainbow Brite loves clouds and so do all the Care Bears, and frankly? Those are some happy motherfuckers. Having your “head in the clouds” means you’re a dreamer, an optimist- somebody who thinks big and wants the best they can possibly imagine. They’re the topic of beautiful songs, and the center of photographs and paintings. They have names like Cumulus, Cirrus and Altostratus. They get just enough sun, has just enough nooks to cower into and an incredible view really no matter where it floats.

The only other thing I might want to be is a shooting star. But you know what? I bet their really cocky. A cloud? Only knows how to morph itself into a cock shape… innocently of course, because it could also be seen as the carrot that bunny was hopping towards…



Woe is Laundry

Why do I hate doing laundry so much?

It’s ridiculous, but I know I’m not alone when I say that I put off doing my laundry until I’m wearing cotton underwear that I’ve had since before Justin Timberlake left NSYNC and all I have to put on top of them is my “Lick my Tattoo” wife beater that is 3X too big and has some kind of bite marks all over it, paired with a long, flowy skirt that I never wash because unless I sit in a puddle it seems clean to me. Half trashy- half fancy: completely in need of other clean clothing options.

And it’s not like doing laundry is hard. I don’t even separate whites from colors. I literally throw all my dirty clothes and bedding into one machine, stuff it all in so I only have to pay $1.25, pour the detergent in without any kind of measurement and close the lid. And yet, I DREAD doing this. I dread knowing that I have to go back only 25 minutes later to put things in the dryer, because 25 minutes doesn’t allow me to get involved with anything else.  I have things I think about going to do, let’s say even to get some writing done- but by the time I get around the corner to sit down and get into my thoughts and then move past all the random thoughts that go in and out of my mind right before I decide what to focus on, it’s been 23 minutes and I have to get up and go back to the laundromat… and the moment is not only gone but of course it’ll turn out that so are some of my socks. Which I’ll never understand.

You’d think I could move past the slight annoyance of the time commitment (of really only a total of about an hour and a half mind you) to get to the glory of having all fresh clothes, bedding and towels… because that’s wonderful, right?  Knowing that not an ounce of previous water or filth will be transferred back onto my clean body after wiping down after a shower. Putting on a thong that I know for sure I didn’t wear a few days ago and throw back into my drawer by accident, because I just washed it. I even like being able to wear different things to sleep a few days in a row after doing laundry, like “well ALL of these t-shirts are clean now so I may as well just go through one a night. Let’s get crazy.” It’s my version of a rich person using a different bathroom each time they go in their giant mansion just because they have that many bathrooms.

And despite all these lovely aspects of having done my laundry, I hate the act. I hate that as I’m moving everything that’s wet and clean from the washer to the dryer that it’s only pairs of underwear that fall on the ground. Every. Single. Time. I always get super nervous that there won’t be enough driers for me to get all my stuff dry, or I’ll get stuck with a dryer that is busted and after I’ve had my stuff in there for an hour and come back, it’s still all wet and now smells like an old damp sheepdog with a scratching problem. I hate giving up quarters, even though I really only use them for laundry and meters. I hate getting rid of them because I always feel like, “But what if I need those? They’re the only coins I LIKE!”  And folding? Fuck me in the face. I won’t even get into how folding makes me want to just never even wear clothes- simply because of how obnoxious it is when the entire pile falls over just as I think to myself, “Eeeeh that height might be pushing it, but whatever…” and BAM! Like Humpty, only nothing smells like eggs… anymore. Unless I was folding in the laundromat in which case, I must start from Step 1 of the Laundry process now.

All this, and yet, I just got home from doing laundry today. Everything is finally put away, I have a gorgeous looking bed and a new towel for my shower later tonight, my choice of bright thongs to put on for social activities and even my kitchen dishcloth is going to make me happy when I inevitably spill something in the next 12 hours and have a stainless dishrag to soak up the mess. And I may have only come back with 7 out of the 8 socks I went with, but at least for the next week? Unless I put on everything I own and jump into a tank at SeaWorld, I’ve got options…