Artist At Work

"Hey, Maria, remember that one time you blogged on a regular basis?"

I owe everyone an apology for saying stuff like "Blogblogblargh" on Facebook without ever actually finishing the post that I was blogblogblarghing about. I will finish that particular post and I have accumulated even more topics and lists to share with you, but I needed a brief hiatus from blogging and social media in general in order to finish something incredibly special to me-- it has officially risen to the top of my list of Artwork That I Am Proud of and Will Actually Allow People To See.


Unfortunately, this inspiration came at a heavy price. I recently experienced a miscarriage and, at the burial, I had a strange urge to take a picture of the grave site. Of course, I don't actually need a picture of my child's grave-- I'll remember the sight of that tiny, blue box for the rest of my life. I just wanted a picture of my baby, like every parent does. 


As it turns out, the physical ordeal and the grief are only a small part of what makes miscarriage so tragic. In the midst of it, you begin to realize every little thing you've lost along with your baby. For me, I was able to let go of the future I had lost before I was able to find peace at the idea of never having a picture of my child.

That was very hard... harder than telling my family, harder than putting away the prenatal vitamins, harder than missing my friends' graduation, harder than postpartum depression, harder than being congratulated on my pregnancy by straggling co-workers who hadn't heard about the miscarriage yet.


It might sound like a strange thing to mourn, but what physical items are left behind by people who never made it out of the womb? My baby has no personal effects, no room to leave empty, no diplomas left hanging on the wall. When we lose someone, it takes a long time to see those items and feel something other than a deep, aching hole in our hearts, but they eventually become a reminder of what it was like when our loved one was still with us.

We create foundations, funds, awards, and scholarships to honor those people we lost because the thought of them being forgotten is worse than actually losing them. There is nothing left of my baby but a tiny grave on the far side of town. The children we miscarry are invisible. Out of everything I have gone through, nothing is more tragic than the idea of a stranger passing through my home without ever realizing that our family has been transformed, in love, by a life that was lost too soon.

So, I was faced with a challenge. For our healing, Mark and I wanted something in our home as a memorial to our baby. Our prospects were very limited-- we're still saving up for a proper grave marker, so anything elaborate and expensive was out of the question. We also don't want this memorial item to inspire sadness-- if I wanted to cry all over again, I'd write a blog post about it I'd go visit the grave itself. But, what does that look like? Inexpensive. Small. Inspiring happiness. Could legitimately be displayed in a public part of the home and become a talking point or could be moved to a private part of the home, if needed.

Well, friends, here it is! My labor of love:

These are seed beads, sewn into a painter's canvas. Lee is our baby's name and the vines are my artist trademark. There are smaller vines painted between the beads with acrylic paint and the entire piece is sealed with Mod Podge which will protect the thread from breakage and provide a glossy finish. It is matted with painted card stock and glued into a solid wood frame. I could not be happier with this piece-- the meditative process of making it is only half of the peace and joy I have experienced now that it is done.

Can this story get any better? Yes, it can! A few days ago, on my way home to Tuscaloosa, I had a pretty intense God moment. Out of no where, it occurred to me that this does not have to be the only piece of its kind. There might be other people who have been looking for something just like this-- a joyful but decorative memorial.

So, please consider this my official offer. I am now accepting requests for commission. My desire is specifically for families who have lost children or infants. This is the first piece I have done, so I may discover limitations along the way, but I am fully confident in my ability to do baby feet, blocks, balloons, full names, initials, dates, and basically anything else that can be broken down into a pixel-like diagram.

My last intention is to take advantage of the healing process. I do not mean for the proceeds from this crafty adventure to replace my income. Therefore, I only intend to charge for the cost of supplies, shipping, and a very small hourly rate, all of which can be adjusted and discussed.

I am so excited by this! I want to do more! If you are interested in commissioning a project like this and would like to discuss the details, potential costs, or anything else, please do not hesitate to e-mail me (littlebirdbeading@formyfriends.org) or send a Facebook message. YAY, PRETTINESS!

ART HAPPENED!!!

Miscarriage

***This is the story of my miscarriage. I have not included graphic details, but please be advised that this testimonial does include relevant information about the symptoms of miscarriage and the miscarriage itself.***

On May 5, 2012, I miscarried during the 9th week of pregnancy. Mark and I had already announced the happy news that our Easter baby would be born in time for Christmas, partly because we just couldn't contain our excitement and partly because we needed prayers. We had no specific fears-- I am young, healthy, and had no reason to be concerned about complications, but prayers are never a bad thing. Many women wait until they have reached their second trimester before announcing their pregnancy-- by then, their baby is out of the "danger zone," when the vast majority of miscarriages occur. We recognized that as a wise decision, but decided that it meant more for us to make the announcement immediately.

The reality shift was tangible. You could feel it in every conversation and every situation-- people knew that something amazing was happening. As the-greatest-youth-minister-of-all-time once said, it's like everyone knew that there was an extra guardian angel in the room, even though you couldn't see who the angel belonged to yet.

The thought of miscarriage never entered our wildest nightmares. It seemed inconceivable-- like even the cruel universe wouldn't think to play such a terrible joke on us. Mark and I-- the newlyweds, the "adults" of the friend group, the whoapro-lifepleasecalmdown couple, were parents! But, in late April, I began spotting. I let it go for a couple of days because that can happen early in pregnancy. After three days, I began to bleed in earnest. Even I, Maria It's-Just-A Flesh-Wound Harris, had to admit that it was time to go to the doctor.

We spent 6 hours in the emergency room the first night. I cried for an hour after my first routine trip to the lady doctor, when nothing was actually wrong. So, after 6 hours of being poked, prodded, probed, pricked, and otherwise felt up by 5 nurses, a doctor, an ultrasound technician, and a radiologist, I would have been a mess anyway. But, the rotten cherry on top of the horrible night was exactly what we were afraid of. The doctor came in and said, "The ultrasound is showing seven weeks of development and no heartbeat. It looks like the beginning of a miscarriage."

I'm not shy about the details of that night, especially when discussing it in person with female friends-- it's how I cope with the misery of what I went through physically. When I share it, it feels less terrible. When I joke about the karaoke mic that they call an ultrasound wand and how I say the inventor of the catheter should go straight to Hell, it makes it a little better. (I'm trying very, very hard not to actually mean that but... oops.)

I can't really talk about the grief that hung over us for the next two days. When we went back on day three, the miscarriage was confirmed. I was prescribed an intense painkiller and told to go home-- it was early enough in the pregnancy that a D&C would probably not be necessary. The bleeding got progressively heavier and it became clear that I couldn't risk leaving the house. I had been planning for weeks to go to Spring Hill's graduation-- nearly all of the friends I started college with would be walking, but I couldn't go. One by one, I called the three friends who would miss my presence in particular to explain why they would not see me the next morning. By now, I was beginning to wonder if this could get any worse.

I went into something similar to labor the next morning and delivered the placenta. Even with a heavy dose of  the doctor's painkillers, an additional dose of Tylenol, and a heating pad, I was in a lot of pain. (+1,000 respect points to women who choose drug-free delivery, by the way.) I don't know if I actually recovered the baby's remains, but it was the only thing I could ask of God-- nothing else mattered but giving the baby a fitting burial. I have great faith that He answered this one, sincere prayer.

The grief was intense. But, since the moment I knew that I was miscarrying, I began to fear the inevitable day that I would deliver my baby. I promised not to include graphic details, so you'll just have to have your own imagination-guided understanding of how miraculous it was to move on from that experience with peace and healing rather than more grief. The only explanation is that God was taking care of me.


More healing came when Mark and I decided to name the baby. Throughout the pregnancy, I was convinced that we were having a girl and he was convinced that we were having a boy. After I miscarried, our opinions switched-- Mark believed we had a daughter, I believed we had a son. Either way, we knew that a gender neutral name was the way to go. 


We both felt that Jordan and Taylor were not what we wanted. The exact moment I thought, "I've always loved the name Lee," Mark said, "What about the name Lee?" It was perfect. We briefly discussed the spelling and decided that Lee, although it is traditionally the masculine spelling, would also serve to honor Mark's grandmother, Tommie Leonore. 


Finding and naming Lee gave me the greatest peace I've ever experienced. But, our minds still lingered on the question of "why?" I had done everything by the book-- the only explanation that the doctors could offer was that the baby was unable to survive due to genetic issues, which is no one's fault. One night, Mark asked me, "What do you talk about when you talk to Lee?" I didn't really have an answer. It was less like talking, more like being. Neither of us was in an enviable position-- while I was dealing with the gory physical experience, Mark was in the middle of the final exams of his first year of law school. The next time you hear someone talk about how hard first year law school exams are, you have my permission to slap them on behalf of my husband.

Finally, we received the most healing experience of all. Mark, unable to properly grieve because of the incredible pressure of his lingering exams, asked me, "Why? Why did this happen?" and, for the first time, I heard a familiar, quiet whisper in my heart, but I felt this time that it wasn't God speaking to me. Lee said, "Don't ask why, Momma. That is not where you'll find your peace. There isn't an answer that will satisfy you because there is no good answer."

This wisdom saved us a lot of anguish. It was the catalyst that allowed us to move on-- there was nothing left to linger over. We had to accept that our future had unexpectedly changed. But, for once in my life, my heart was transformed by love rather than pain and that made it okay.

We got in contact with our pastor, who made a phone call to the Catholic representative at a funeral home. Praise God, without a hesitation, he offered to donate the casket. I was very worried about where the baby would be buried-- we are first generation Mobilians, so we don't have family buried in the city. Would the grave eventually be lost because siblings and extended family would forget that the baby was there? God bless the Catholic community in Mobile forever and ever-- there's a children's plot in the Catholic Cemetery. If that weren't perfect enough, a plot in the children's area was donated to us. We were able to give our baby a real funeral at no cost at all. It didn't even occur to us to pray for this. 


The funeral is also something I struggle to talk about. It's easier to just forget that and visit the grave instead. The final kicker in this story is that, when I got back to my job after a long sick leave, I began experiencing complications. I missed a lot of work and, even while I was there, I couldn't seem to force myself to do anything. We realized much later that I was experiencing postpartum depression but, no matter-- between time lost and one bad decision, I was let go. Most peoples' first reaction is to be horrified and a little pissed off that someone would fire a woman who just experienced a miscarriage and was bringing in the only income for a two-person family. And I'm pretty alright with letting people feel that way. Go right ahead. 


And that's basically it... my baby Lee is a part of our tiny family. I know that if we continue to treat Lee like a member of the family, rather than hide this terrible experience, our other children--God willing-- will grow up knowing that they have a sibling in Heaven. Out of the countless women who comforted (and horrified) me with stories of their multiple miscarriages, one woman explained that her children talk about their missing siblings and keep track of how old they are. They know which milestones their brothers and sister would be reaching this year, 16, 18, 21 years removed from the miscarriage. 


The news about a pregnancy spreads so quickly because that news is joyful. No one talks about miscarriage. Ask anyone who has lost their child after the pregnancy was announced-- you can't seem to get back to normal because, every few days, another acquaintance will congratulate you on your pregnancy and open up the wound again. But, if this has given someone a greater understanding of what miscarriage is like or given a voice to the millions of women who absolutely cannot believe that only 15% of pregnancies end in miscarriage, then I've done a good thing. Thank you for reading.

#@*$ The Curse Words, Man

Hello, my name is Maria, and I am a word prude.

I admit it. I really dislike harsh language. It's not because I'm too sensitive. It's because I can't go anywhere or say anything without over-analyzing the psychology of every situation. Imagine being trapped in my brain with a continuous APA-format scholarly article scrolling by at all times.

Really, it was hard enough to be in my head before I got my degree...

When a man leans out his car window, drops f-bombs in place of every possible part of speech, and road-rages all over some poor woman in a mini-van, I just can't let that go until I've figured out why he did it, why he felt it was justified, and what kind of effect it has on him and the woman on the receiving end. 

This post is not meant to persuade and it's certainly not meant to judge. I grew up during Alabama's Age of Mediocrity-- I learned lots and lots of curse words during the football seasons of my early childhood. Consequently, I thought, "GIT 'EM, GIT 'EM!" was among them.

Who knew?

So, I have absolutely no room to judge. I started cursing in the 6th grade and finally gave it up shortly before high school graduation. I wasted a lot of years and creative wit on hurtful verbal garbage. I've tried to live my adult life without it and, as a result, I've been able to recognize the ways in which my emotional and spiritual health is better without it. Here's what I've got:

1. Cursing perpetuates anger. 


We curse for humor. We curse as part of commonplace language. But, it seems that anger is what inspires people-who-don't-curse to curse and people-who-do-curse to curse more.

One of my deepest struggles is bitterness. If my anger were chili, it'd be some darn good stuff because I can stew all day long. I don't need any help sustaining my anger and, if I let it get the best of me, I can work myself into a bitter, sarcastic rage without using a single profanity. 

Cursing is like throwing another log onto a growing fire. It may feel good and it may very appropriately illustrate how we're feeling (and I'm always a fan of communicating emotions) but, in my experience, it's best to let the fire die. We may be 110% justified in our anger but, what does it do for us? Nothing. Anger is a reaction, not a response. We can't do anything good or constructive until we regain control of our emotions.

One of my favorite quotations is by Aristotle. He says, "Anyone can become angry – that is easy, but to be angry with the right person at the right time and for the right purpose and in the right way – that is not within everyone’s power and that is not easy."

Can you remember the last time you made a good decision while you were angry? I know I can't. Our words flow from our emotions, but our emotions are also affected by the words we use. In my experience, the very first step in defusing anger is by not indulging in anymore anger. Calling a friend "that ******* *****" is not going to calm me down and it's definitely not getting me on the right track to loving them like Jesus. Speaking of which...

2. Think about what you're saying. 


There is no such thing as a nice curse word. I mean, duh, that's the point, but even if it weren't referred to by small children as "the b-word," bitch is not a nice thing to call someone. Ever. I don't care if you're a fan of cursing or if you hate it, the meaning behind these words is foul.

The reason we call them "bad words" is because they have a bad connotation. Their meaning is inherently negative or crude. When we call a woman a bitch, we are not just reducing her to a label, we're reducing her to an extremely low and mean-spirited label. Of course, this same cruelty can be achieved without cursing, but I'll get to that in a minute.

You get what I mean. We've all heard the pro-cursing argument that words are just a few letters strung together and they don't really mean anything. Wrong-o. That's precisely why we shouldn't use them. Because they have meaning and their meaning is harsh, regardless of whether or not they're directed at someone.

Or the meaning is just gross. I've talked a lot about anger, so this is the reason I give for commonplace, "harmless" cursing. The modern meanings of ass, shit, and fuck are just not things we talk about freely, unless we're using curse words. We've been desensitized to what they stand for.

Say you aren't angry at all-- you knock something off the table and, as you lean down to get it, you casually say, "Shit." My classic stop-cursing challenge is this-- the next time you're tempted to say "shit," say "soupy diarrhea" instead and see how your friends react. Yeah, not so cool anymore, is it? Because you're talking about feces.

That's right. Gag. I am not sorry for what I have said here today.

3. It's the spirit that counts.

I mentioned before that we can be very hurtful without using curse words. You can make anything sound like a curse word as long as you say it with the right attitude. And that's how this ties into #1.

There's something very jarring about my name when people use it in anger. Maybe it's because three syllables pound out into a really satisfying phrase (Muh-ree-uh) or because the syllables are really harsh when you split them up (Muh-REE-uh or Muh-ree-UH), but I just do not like the sound of it when someone is mad at me. It feels like it's being profaned and used against me-- I don't want to be Maria anymore when you make Maria sound like "shitwit."

The word doesn't have to mean anything negative to make it negative. It's the spirit of what you're saying that counts. But, as this is a blog post about cursing, we are talking about words with negative meanings and they are commonly used with an attitude that is angry or sarcastic. When you combine a hateful attitude with a word that means something nasty, then say it out of anger, you've got one yucky linguistic parfait. And I'd just rather not take a bite, you know?




I've got to keep peace in my heart. When my words are peaceful and kind, I can be peaceful and kind. That just doesn't come naturally to me, believe it or not. I have to work at it and, for me, as a recovering anger-addict, I can't curse. If I do, it's because I feel absolutely wretched. But, does it do anything to help me? No. It just carves that anger a little deeper into my heart and solidifies it because I've confirmed it aloud.

So, there you have it. I have finally explained myself after years of being mocked and I've admitted that I'm both a word prude and a recovering anger-addict. I'd say this has been a productive blog post. To leave you with something to laugh at, here is the best swear-fest ever recorded. The three phrases my husband and I use most often are: (1.) I love you. (2.) We're out of napkins. (3.) "And! Tits."

It took me 20 minutes to find a clip that wasn't a techno remix or a ringtone.

AGE RAGE!

Recent events have forced my exciting list of topics out of order. I had debated for a while on how I should approach this. Reality TV-bikinis-suffering-cursing? Suffering-cursing-bikinis-marriage? Anxiety-procrastination-doubt-resignation-execution? But, now is not the time to talk about the 5 Steps of Writer's Block. I NEED TO TALK ABOUT DISCRIMINATION.

Been. There. Done. That.

Now, hold on there, hipsters. I smell what you're steppin' in-- what could I possibly have to say about stereotyping, assumptions, and general not-niceness that hasn't been said before by greater and more talented minds? There will be no letters from my Tuscaloosa jail. But, I believe that the last year of my life has provided me with a very unique perspective on the mind-bending issue of age in America.

From my experience, I can tell you that nothing will warrant a faster and more predictable response than anyone under the age of 40 implying that they are somehow no longer young, whether in perception or reality. It seems to be the last form of blasphemy that everyone in America can agree on-- it is the pinnacle of arrogance for a person with no lines on their face to complain of weariness in their soul. Only the old can be weathered. Only parents can have wisdom. Only the misfortunate can feel burdened.

But, maybe you've never encountered the "sit down and drink your beer" attitude that I'm so familiar with. I don't want to get ahead of myself and I certainly don't want to stereotype people-who-are-older-than-other-people as holding no stock in the opinions of those-people-who-are-younger-than-them. That would be counter-productive. So, I'll start with a universal experience.

There you are, just livin' life, doing some recreational Facebook stalking, and you come across a picture of someone who cannot possibly be old enough to have a Facebook... but, they don't just have a terms-and-conditions-legal profile. Their picture is from their high school graduation. They're, like, 10! They can't go to college!

Roll Tide.

As soon as you recover from that missed-a-step-and-fell-on-your-face sensation, you realize how this relates to you. You may have lost track of how much other people have grown, but you've always been perfectly aware of your own continuous evolution. And, until now, you were okay with it. But, in comparison to this kid who aged a decade overnight (the only rational explanation), you're very rudely forced to comprehend just how much time has passed. And, just like all of us, you say, "I'm so old!"

This is totally natural and, while "I'm so old" may not be the most linguistically accurate reaction, we all have those moments that just make us feel just a bitty-bit elderly in comparison. The ensuing reality realignment doesn't ease the discomfort. Dads-- you have to adjust your parental approach when your son finally becomes taller than you. Siblings-- you must acquire faith in God's mercy and protection when you realize that your little sister will soon be driving. Aunts and uncles-- you must learn that asking, "What grade are you in?" is no longer appropriate after you have attended your niece's wedding.

But, as normal as this experience is, there's always one. Ugh. There's always one person nearby who is older than you-- two months, two years, two decades older, doesn't matter!-- and they say, "Oh, no you're not!" and trump you with the experiential smack-down card. They tell you about how, one time, they fell asleep in a forest for 1,000 years and, when they woke up, Rome had fallen, the colonies had united, and someone had invented the Internet. So, you're not allowed to be shocked by the fact that some kid went to their senior prom. My internal reaction:

Hopefully, this silly anecdote served its purpose in priming your brain for the exceptionally commonplace ways in which the weight of age is hardwired into our pride. In daily conversation, we use it as a petty power trip. Even if no one has ever done this to you, you've seen it done. Most recently, I watched an adult engage in the one-up war with a small child. The little boy just wanted to brag a little, get some approval for climbing to the top of the monkey bars the fastest, and he was met with, "Well, when I was a young, superior human..."

Here's the point. Age has become associated with  power and simplicity. It is now a tool for putting people down and making assumptions based on our perceptions of how much a person can do, learn, and accomplish in X number of years. Like skin color, nationality, and religion, it has become another tool for stereotyping. It's a quantitative device that is used to ignore the qualitative worth of every person's unique and individual experience. 

Choose your caption-- "That was so profound," or "She makes no sense at all."

I'll say it differently. Numbers are concrete and measurable. We like that. It gives us a dependable and predictable logic to live by, so long as we don't stray too far into the advanced stuff-- all Hell breaks loose after Algebra II. And, the cool thing about numbers is that they retain their value even after we've done the Relativity Tango all over them.

Unfortunately, our expectations associated with age do not vary as much as our perceptions of how far $10 should stretch. We all pretty much agree that a 3-year-old should not be trusted to pour their own milk from a new gallon unless we're in the market for a funny YouTube video. But, what about the recent college graduates who are ready to take on the world with maturity, integrity, and a serious work-ethic and are being treated like children instead?

My reward for having enough sense not to Occupy anything...

Don't get me wrong-- I have a whole conga line of blog posts coming up on how we, as young adults, are continuously selling ourselves short. But, my most recent experience has transformed my passive cognitive dissonance over acting 30 and looking 16 (in spite of being 22) into an indignation that I just can't let go.

For the sake of brevity and prudence, I have to skip the details but I will say this-- saying "You're so young" in a work environment IS NEVER OKAY.


Of course, it was said to me with intended kindness, as a sort of consolation. It was meant as, "It's okay, you're so young." But, here's why it makes me steaming mad:

1. In a work environment, that is irrelevant. I was hired for my perceived qualifications and competence. If I perform in a way that meets those expectations 99% of the time, then I'm obviously winning the war against my crippling disability of youth. If I make a mistake that any new employee could make, even if it were a 60-year-old ex-housewife who had similar job-related inexperience and took up the position as her first outside-the-home job, then inexperience, not age, is not the issue.

2. Everyone has the right to have their shortcomings pointed out for what they are-- shortcomings. What if the workplace mistake is not something that is unique to new employees? What if it's a reoccurring issue that isn't resolved with a one-time oopsy? My shortcomings were labeled as a problem of my youth. I was told, in consolation, "You're so young." No. It's not because I'm young. It's because I'm disorganized or because I communicate poorly or because eating the printer paper is just not acceptable office behavior. Whatever it is, I have the right to be told that some relevant characteristic of my behavior is the problem. Any older employee would be given that same courtesy. Which leads me to the final, most infuriating point...

3. I can't do anything about my age. All I can do is wait. But, I deserve to be treated with respect now. Saying, "You're so young" as a consolation, an excuse, or a write-off is like saying, "It's okay, some people are just born stupid." I can't go home and age significantly enough to satisfy someone who has decided that my age is the final issue. If I'm doing something wrong that can be changed, tell me what it is.

ABSOLUTE VERBAL LETHARGY

I feel better now. As an after-the-fact disclaimer, I must say that there are definitely occasions in which age is a real limitation. And I do genuinely believe that inexperience is a legitimate reason not to hire someone, especially given the number of seasoned professionals who are pounding the pavement right now because of the state of our economy. But, I've nearly expended my store of rational thoughts! Time to wrap this up!

Trust the young people... we make mistakes. But, the last time I checked, so does everyone else. It may take some of us a few more years before we come around to the idea of college being over but, for others, it's time to go join the big We're All Just Winging It party. We are as competent, intelligent, mature, ethical, and responsible as you will allow us to be. Don't put us in the age cage.

That's all I've got! AGE RAGE: COMPLETE.

How It's Gonna Go

Well, here we are now. Blog post #1. It came to me like springtime to an Emperor penguin. Weeks and weeks of mental winter and, at last, the egg has hatched. I'm ready to begin.

You have given me so much grief, tiny brain penguin. 

I'm the kind of person who becomes preoccupied with the illusory importance of a "first" anything. I pretend that I'm not, in order to sustain the illusion that I'm a well-balanced person with a firm grasp on reality. The truth is, I'm a closet firstophobe. I fear that, if my first blog post is not perfectly witty and insightful, I will never receive friendly service at Starbucks again. People will cut me off in traffic because of my failure to weave a blanket of cozy, feel-good blogginess with my words. The entire populace of Facebook will scoff at me. Finally, the long-sought "dislike" button will be granted, just so everyone can thumbs-down my feeble attempts at an inaugural blog post.

If my first post stinks, what will become of me? I will have no choice but to abandon this endeavor. Can I condemn another domain name to the POW camp that is the bowels of the Internet? And I've snagged such an iconic one, too. A Living Cenacle. No, with a ballin' blog name like that, the first post must be magnificent. I can do this!

All sarcasm aside, it's not that bad, but it really is time to just write the stupid blog. A friend recently told me about her boyfriend's determination to select the perfect first-book for his Kindle. And I laughed! At a fellow member of Dumb Fears Anonymous! What a hypocrite I am. They don't mention that one in the Examination of Conscience pamphlets. She said, "He took a week to choose a book! I told him, you could have finished three books by now!" and I imagine my reaction looked a little like this: 

Only the first image in my blog is important. The second one can be Z'Efron, I don't care. 

So, after a few discarded drafts about how most blogs do nothing but inspire regret for not properly utilizing the rustic whimsy of mason jars and wild flowers in my wedding decorations, I've got it. This is how it's gonna go.

I'm going to write about the things that matter to me. The things that get stuck in my head and won't leave until I've subjected all of my loved ones to an exhaustive analysis of why it's good or bad.

This isn't a blog about wearing precious outfits. I have nothing to tell you about expertly mixing prints or the importance of owning nude pumps and Tiffany-blue skinny jeans. I dress like a Frumpy-McDumpy and my idea of a "wardrobe staple" is a cable-knit granny sweater in a delightful shade of gray. I won't even pretend to call it "ash"-- it's gray. 

This offer excludes bragadocious claims to being the Deal-Finding Queen.

The only appropriate reaction to $6 rain boots.

Maybe there will be some advice on using office supplies to solve your everyday problems (staple remover vs. reluctant key ring-- you won't be sorry). But for the most part, I'm going to write about my ideas, my insecurities, my struggles, and my discoveries. And maybe some artwork, if I'm feeling brave. I hope that you can connect with some of the things I have to say, or at least feel less alone in the things you're going through. Surely, we have something in common. (This message is brought to you by the Firstophobe Outreach Foundation.)

So good luck to you and good luck to me! My first meta blog post about blog posts is a success.

MOVING ON!

"BLOG BLARGHARD!"