A while ago I read an article about the importance of calendaring. As an Office Manager, I am obviously about that life. “To do list by themselves are useless,” it said. As someone who has yet to cross off a single item on my summer bucket list I can attest to this (learning how to swim can wait another year right?).
However, I’m old school and always will be. While my Google calendar looks like the last moments of a losing game of Tetris, I will always refer back to my Daily Planner for confirmation. Yes, I still write things down with paper and pen *gasp*. Calendars are a gal with office OCD’s best friend, until you have to make an appointment to hang out with your actual best friend.
This is what happened to me a few weeks ago. It was inevitable, but it didn’t hurt any less. Now let me be very clear about what I am about to say. I understand that as you get older, people start having families of their own and you see them less. I understand that things change in general. I understand that the change doesn’t mean your friends care about you any less. I understand that everyone is busy. I understand that (most) everyone is doing their best. I understand that my friends shouldn’t have to slow down their life on my account. I understand that I should use this alone time to my advantage and focus on things that are important to me.
But my friendships are important to me.
One of my longest friendships and closest friends involves someone that I would barely see once in a relationship, so I get it. The difference is she was always like that. It’s different when you see someone on a weekly basis, and then have to wait in line to make an appointment. Sudden change isn’t a bad thing, but it is easier to notice. It’s neither wrong or right – it’s life. It’s also the norm. Doesn’t mean I can’t be bummed about it though.
I just miss the days of spontaneous happy hours and random “What are you doing, I’m coming over to do nothing”. Nowadays, if I’m having a bad day to the point of tears, I feel as if I have to check a calendar first before calling friends to vent. I’m not a needy friend, I’m just a girl who will always want to spend time with her friends.
Since making that appointment to see my best friend, we spontaneously had a beach day together. Maybe it was because her boyfriend had prior plans and she needed to kill time, or maybe she misses hanging out as much as I do. Either way, I’ll take it. Time well spent, no matter how long, unplanned or scheduled is … time well spent.
And who knows, maybe one day I will fall in love and want to spend every, waking moment with my boyfriend. Or maybe I’ll have a dream job that I happily devote all my time to. Until then, just know that I will never have to make time for my friends. I will always have time for my friends.
Depression never seems real until it’s too late. While more light is being shed on the subject partly due to high profile cases like Robin Williams, talking about it is still taboo. When I would tell my mom I was depressed she would always say, “You are not depressed. It’s just a phase”. Black lipstick and boys with tattoos are a phase. Unfortunately, depression is not. One could only be so lucky.
I feel there are many stigmas associated with depression. Thus, people don’t like to talk about it or feel stupid for doing so. I felt weak and unworthy, and like the feelings I felt were wrong or invalid. These are all causes of depression in itself. I know my mom meant well by saying what she did, but instead she made me feel ashamed. I looked around at my friends and other people in general knowing that they’ve went through hard times, yet never reacted to their pain and sadness the way I did and felt embarrassed.
I managed to overcome that bout thanks in part to this blog. It was my sanctuary and way for me to express my feelings without being ridiculed (at least not to my face). Unfortunately, not everyone has a place to vent, and when you have to keep everything inside it can eat away at you.
Thinking back to the lowest moments of my depression is haunting. I think about how alone, how small, how insignificant, how empty and how sad I felt and can’t even fathom how some people could fee worse. So much worse that the thought of being dead feels better. No one likes to talk about suicide, and I don’t blame them. It’s a hard concept to talk about, what more understand accept. But imagine if talking about it could prevent it? And for anyone experiencing it, please, please know that just because someone doesn’t talk to you about it, it doesn’t mean they don’t care.
Depression is such a dark, dark place. Those going through it don’t expect you to navigate it with them. They just need to feel like if they ever held out their hand in the dark, yours would be there to hold onto.
During your viewing me and the girls all went up to your coffin to talk shit with you one last time. There, I asked that you visit me without scaring me. I suggested throwing a Cornut at me or something of that nature. Harmless enough. That night in my moms room, around the same time I received the text that you were gone, I sat straight up from bed and smelled flowers. I don’t remember exactly what kind, but the kind you smell when you touch down in Hawaii and get lei’d. I looked around for any candle remnants, and waited just to make sure I wasn’t losing it. But the smell was still there, fragrant as ever. Then, just as fast as you took your last breathe, the smell disappeared.
I told myself it was late, and I was making things up. There was no smell, no sign from above, no flowers. Until Rachel reminded me that I asked you to give me a signal that wouldn’t scare me. Even in death, you knew just how to cheer me up. I walked to the front of the church before your funeral the next day, and took a deep breathe next to your coffin. Tuberose. Just like the night before.
Fast forward to yesterday, two years after your passing and I’m at your grave crying more than the year before. I’m spreading a bouquet of Gerber Daisies on your headstone, wishing your drink of choice wasn’t Anejo with a water back because I know we’ll be taking shots at dinner in your honor. I see Ferl keep one of her flowers, and I do the same. When I get home, I stick it in a water bottle. I call Nikko and cry my heart out to her. I call Evan and cry my eyes out to him. I hope that you’re OK and not just dead in a box. I ask that you let me know the latter isn’t true. I cry all night, and end up working from home the next day. Continue reading
Whenever a woman meets someone new, so do her friends.
When me and Thor first exchanged numbers, I’m pretty sure I texted my best friend before I ever texted him. I also brought her along to our first date (in spirit), making sure that she approved of my outfit beforehand. In between ordering drinks at the bar, I let her know that me and her just took shots and were having a good time. When the movie ended, I let her know that “we” were going to eat sushi. And when I was back home , I informed her that we kissed on the first date for the very first time. We both giggled at the thought.
I continued to share my adventures with Thor with my closest girlfriends after that. I’m sorry, it’s just what we fucking do: live vicariously through the rainbows and butterflies of others. But something we especially looked forward to during story time, were our sexcapades.
It took me four dates before I finally gave in to the D (which btw was extremely hard (pun intended) because I was extremely attracted to this man, and all our dates ended with us making out on his couch). Hence, the morning after the fifth date I got carpal tunnel from all the typing I did. In case you couldn’t tell by now, I have a vivid way of describing things. So from the way my clit clapped the first time me and Thor kissed, to the way it gave a standing ovation when I felt the size of his dick, my friends joined in on the round of applause too.
If only I could bring up old Meebo chat logs, then you would be able to relive the experience of cumming three times in one session with me as well.
Alas, all stories eventually come to an end. However, this usually happens under only two circumstances: 1) we stop having sex with them (or the sex is too lackluster to share) or 2) we fall in love with them. That’s when the sharing of dick pics cease, and tales of how one got fucked so hard it sent them into anabolic shock stop. Sharing is caring … until you actually start to care for the guy. Girlfriends may share clothes and food, and maybe even their car. But never the man they love.
Truth be told, I have a thing for
the ugly handsomes men who are a little rough around the edges. You know, the young Troy Aikmen types. The guys who look like they’ve been lost at sea for a week, homeless, or in one too many bar fights. Thus, it’s no surprise I have a slight affinity for scars.
A subtle shiner under the eye of a hockey player, a bruise from a bullet penetrating an officer’s kevlar vest, and stitches from misusing a table saw all have the potential to be dangerously sexy. By no means am I encouraging violence or insinuating that a man is only as tough as his scars, there’s just something to be said about the struggle that accompanied them.
I used to date a man who had a big nose. OK I dated several men with big noses but that’s besides the point. One day he picked me up to go to a Halloween party sporting a crooked nose instead of a costume. He explained that he got elbowed during basketball, and began to apologize for looking unsightly. Meanwhile I thought it looked kinda hot. I gently ran my finger along the bridge of his nose a few times that night, then let him fuck me into New Years. OK, I would’ve let him fuck me into New Years without the crooked nose, but that’s also besides the point.
Despite my weakness for scars, there’s still a line to be drawn. Not all injuries are glamorous, and not all scars are sexy.When does a scar simply become scary? Perhaps when they look a little something like this?
[OK, please excuse me while I digress but … WTF IS THAT SHIT? I mean, JUST LOOK AT IT! I know Lawler won the fight and is rocking this busted lip like it’s NY Fashion Week, but I can’t even take it seriously it looks so grotesque. While most of the emphasis was on Rory MacDonald’s injuries, I could not get past that ripped lip and I still can’t look at it without touching my own lip to make sure it’s still in tact.]
The word “attractive” is certainly up for interpretation, but where there is ambition there is always appeal. Many scars tell a story or courage and perseverance. They often stem from passion, and passion is always sexy to me. I’m just going to wait until those stitches heal up before showing you how much.