Saturday Mornings

I’ve never been a morning person, not once in my life. I was always sleeping in and groaning and asking for five more minutes. I hated the energy of the morning and I hated the whole process of getting up and ready and positivity. I wrote about the ridiculousness of waking up with fervor.

But, I’ve got a secret. Saturday mornings are now my new favorites, and the earlier the better.

saturday

My internal clock is all sort of messed up from my work schedule, and it’s not novelty, but it still hurts. There are people all over the world who operate on strange schedules and don’t complain, but I’ve been sensitive lately, and more than I want to admit to. I’m so grateful to have this new job, but no matter what the seasons bring, rolling out of bed at 3 AM always means it is dark outside, and my body just about gives up trying to stay up past 9 PM these days. So I’m adjusting slowly, but there’s something still so off about it, no matter how many alarms I set or articles I read on REM cycles and adjustment techniques, it just seems so strange.

But Saturday mornings are my own, and selfishly so. No matter how far the week seems to have stretched me or how many unanswered text messages and emails I have ignored or not seen, those hours are perfect. I can’t sleep in like I used to, but even 8 AM feels like heaven. The sun spills in and it feels like a little bit of normalcy. I don’t have to be anywhere or anyone’s but my own and I can drown in leisurely reading or coffee sipped slowly instead of chugging it down in my car at a stoplight. I can be slow and old lady-ish and take my time. My anxiety of needing to see people and be the center of attention vanishes in alone time that is truly earned and a morning that doesn’t need to move fast. I’m forever an extrovert, and I firmly believe that a loud fun night with people can heal the soul, but the slowness and stillness is becoming as addictive in its own way.

Saturday morning when the sun just starts to creep in my windows is like a magic hour, and even though that sounds cheesy, I’ll take all the pixie dust I can find to believe in right now.

I can’t be your Friday night right now, but I can be your Saturday morning.  And in all the moments of doubt and nervousness that I still have about my life and where it will go, I can relax in those moments alone. All the feelings of missing best friends in other states who are just trying to figure this out too and a boy who moved across the country to chase a dream are soothed with some quiet time.

Yes, there is something to be said for fast-paced and keeping up with the hustle, but I urge you that sometimes there is something almost romantic about taking your time. It’s like taking yourself on a date and forgetting curfew while it’s still light outside.

I’m not trying to start a revolution (not yet, at least) but if I could offer one piece of advice to you, internet: if you can, wake up early on Saturdays, but wake up slow. Put on something comfy, sip on something delicious, talk to God or talk to your dog or talk to yourself, but just rest. Turn off your phone, close your computer and stop getting hung up on connecting. Be ridiculously good and gentle to yourself in those quiet hours, and I promise it’ll pay off.

And if all else fails, I made you a playlist to help.

Because if I can’t tell you to enjoy it, men and women with acoustic guitars and smooth voices should do the trick.

A Bittersweet Follow-Through

You can’t brace yourself for heartache.

You just can’t. You can’t will yourself to feel sad when something hasn’t happened yet. No matter how many Ryan Adams, Aretha Franklin, Damien Rice, and Feist records you spin, you can’t transport yourself to a lyrical place that doesn’t quite exist. You can get close, if you really try. You can almost pull the covers over your eyes and shut out all the light and pretend you’re overwhelmed, but it’s not worth it, because that little bit of light will peek in, and you’ll remember that there’s no reason to be upset yet. There’s no reason to worry and shut down in anticipation. There’s no reason to jump to conclusions, because, especially when you’re a type-A sentimental sap, the feelings will come.

One of the greatest people I’ve ever met is moving, and this should be nothing new to me. My dumbed-down advice to anyone in your twenties is: be prepared to move, in every way. You’ll leave college, you’ll move away from old trends and to new ones, you’ll watch friends pack up and go, you’ll say goodbye to your parents, goodbye to your family pets, and goodbye to towns you made your own. But you’ll also leave temporary jobs that didn’t fit, you’ll run from bad relationships as fast as you can because your baggage is light, you’ll float around with less responsibility, and you’ll find joy in moving as well, as you move closer towards becoming the person you want to be. It’s a lot to process, never feeling like you have roots, but there’s an exhilarating freedom at the same time.

Bittersweet- isn’t that always it? There’s a fear in watching your taillights drive away and not knowing when I’ll see them again, but there’s such a joy in knowing that you’re going after something you’ve worked almost 25 years for and that you truly care about. I want to be sad, but that’s too selfish for this, because you’re leaving on the best terms.

You told me almost a year ago that you were watching Arrested Development and I invited myself over. You told me 2 weeks later that you were planning to move away to Seattle to chase a dream, and I told you okay. You grew a mustache, I applied to a million jobs. You took all your past scars and turned them into well-crafted music, and my cynicism of relationships melted away. They say the truth will set you free but first it will piss you off, and Lord knows you learned me well enough to make me a better woman, even if sometimes it took bringing up the worst to get there. Now a few hundred cups of coffee (yours: always black, mine: dirty blonde), tambourine solos, late night walks, glasses of good whiskey, rambling phone calls, concerts (yours: sad/longing, mine: loud/obnoxious), celebrations, dances in the kitchen, cheese plates, midnight kisses, endless talks about the best recording gear and/or speakers, bad jokes, new friends, and nights of enduring my Beyoncé singalongs later – you’re following through, and I couldn’t be prouder.

So I won’t rush it. I won’t fall apart nor act overly tough- I’ll just let it be.

I couldn’t brace myself for you arriving, and I can’t brace myself for you leaving, but for now I can at least save the bitter and relish in the sweet.

Because unlike so many people who promise and never deliver, you actually did it, and what a thing it is.

Frank Sinatra Is Dangerous

I remember thumbing through old soul and crooner records in college while talking to one of my best friends about each new one we found and how nobody seemed to appreciate sentimental music anymore. We found Dean Martin and Ella Fitzgerald, and our favorite, Nat King Cole, and brought them home. A few hours and thousand discussions later, I wanted to flip the records and hear them again, but he said, simply, “I can’t listen to this kind of music that long or I start believing in it.”

Is it dangerous to believe?

The music they are playing in this coffee shop right now is dangerous. You know what I mean when I say dangerous, right? I mean the kind that makes you start to fall for it, the kind that makes you nostalgic for an era that you never even lived in, the kind that makes you close your eyes to soak it up, and the kind takes a string section and pins them right in your chest, until you’re a mess of harmonies and emotions and you think you might possibly be close to love, even if it’s with the person next to you on the bus or the drink in your hand.

I think as modern music fans, we’re all familiar with good metaphor now. Our popular music is so played out and sexualized that hardly a lyric hits home anymore or seems to shock. Very little is genuine or just openly sappy. It’s simply no longer cool to be in love. There’s still love songs being written, but they’re hardly as on-the-nose and swoon-worthy as Frank Sinatra was. There’s women coo-ing to men, but very few have the raw emotion of Etta James. You can hear feats of affection, but who has come close to “like a song of love that clings to me, how the thought of you does things to me, never before has someone been more unforgettable” in so long?

And so I turn to old music. I turn to music that sounds best in smoky jazz clubs or on a dark New York street, as words whispered between a couple walking under a streetlamp, and I start to let the lyrics ring true. This dangerous belief that love can knock me off my feet runs true in my veins. The notion that I could be so wrapped up that I end up singin’ in the rain or dancing all night without a care is true, and it’s dangerous.

But I keep believing, dangerous or not. Better or worse, I’m old-fashioned. I’m a romantic. I’m hopeful and I’m confident that there’s such a thing as an attraction that gives you fever, misty goodbyes and that just maybe, you’re nobody til somebody loves you. I’m to the point of dramatic that maybe there’s stormy weather when my man and I ain’t together, and the very thought of you makes me forget to do those little ordinary things that everyone ought to do. I’m hook, line, and sinker for this music, but I hardly seem to be rushing toward a cure.

And so what more could I leave you with than potentially the most potent one of all? “La Vie En Rose” literally translates into “life in pink” or the idea of living life wearing rose-colored glasses and only seeing the beautiful warm things of this world, and it sinks in. My best friend Carolyn gave me this song on a mix CD in middle school and it changed my life. I warn you to NOT listen to this if you’re not looking to be sentimental or not wanting to get that butterfly feeling in your stomach that makes you happy to be alive and capable of love, whether you’re in a relationship or not, because once you’re open to it, once you’re seeing the bright and sweet parts of your life and believe you can share them, well, you’ll never go back. You’ll approach situations with passion and fervor and feelings and most of all, be open to love and believe that yes, it does exist.

And that just may be the most powerfully dangerous lovely thing of all.

Underrated American Freedoms

I am a big fan of Christmas, but if you ask me what my favorite holiday is, I will have to go with 4th of July. It’s not just that I appreciate stars and stripes (because, take one look at my closet and you will see that I do), it’s that I feel like 4th Of July has no pressure to celebrate any certain way. Sure, there are some traditions that are almost universal, but there’s no set group of family or people that you have to spend the day with. The term “American” is so vast, that really, no matter your religious affiliation, family drama (or lack thereof), bank account status, or celebratory style, you can have a happy 4th of July. You can go out or you can watch fireworks from the couch. You can grill hot dogs, or you can get takeout. You can wear an Uncle Sam hat or you can throw on an old tee shirt.

In a way, 4th of July is a lazy holiday, and well, it’s fitting, because America is sometimes a little lazy. But hey, when it’s the middle of summer, what’s wrong with an easy, lazy celebration?

My personal 4th celebration this year was easy. Give me friends, fried pickles, beers, and fireworks, and I’m over the moon, but all this joy also got me thinking about a few underrated freedoms that I and those close to me get the chance to personally exercise in this great nation. For example, thanks to the USA, my friends and I can proudly have:

The freedom to wear leggings as pants

The freedom to get chicken nuggets as a side with your burger

The freedom to rock American themed nail art

The freedom to use whatever emoji you please

The freedom to fast forward through commercials with your DVR

The freedom to listen to the same Foxy Shazam song on repeat for a week straight

Historically, the freedom to throw tea into a harbor because I AM OVER PAYING TAXES

The freedom to spend way too much on fancy cheese at Whole Foods

The freedom to see Pixar movies in theaters and cry at their simple beauty, no matter how old you are

The freedom to daydream and read all day in bed

The freedom to write in whoever you want on the presidential ballot (even though it’s very rare that Beyonce and/or Miranda Lambert will win)

The freedom to dance in the aisle at the grocery store

The freedom to say “I love you” to anyone that strikes your fancy

The freedom to turn off your phone for a while and soak up life wholeheartedly

The freedom to take college classes or even major in ridiculously creative things like Writing, Pop Culture Studies, Television, Duct Tape Art, etc!

The freedom to get tattoos and be proud of the fact that you’ll be the ‘resident badass’ of the retirement home in 60 years

The freedom to change cities, friendships, relationships, and jobs, when you feel like one of them isn’t letting them be 100% of the person you need to be

The freedom to waste your afternoon on YouTube learning hair braiding tutorials

The freedom to wear bright neon socks with business-professional shoes (like a little secret that only you know!)

The freedom to NOT agree with everything someone tells you to believe and to express this in a healthy way, publicly, without fear

The freedom to have our needs like food allergies, dietary restrictions, skin sensitivities, etc, catered to by restaurants and stores! We can be picky!

The freedom to take other traditions from all cultures and put em all together in a red white and blue melting pot and call it AMERICAN.

So I hope this Fourth of July (or every single day of this year so far) that you listened to some Bruce Springsteen, rocked an American flag bandanna, lit things on fire, drank a beer, ate a burger, ooh’d and ahh’d at fireworks, or that you did none of the above, because ultimately, you had, and continue to have, that choice.

There are men, women, and children of all shapes, sizes, sexual orientations, races, creeds, and languages who have fought for and continue to fight for our right to  have that choice of celebration and furthermore, simply, fight for our existence as Americans, lazy and easy as it may be for some.

It’s a beautiful place we live in, and however you decide to celebrate this great land of ultimate self-expression is lovely and accepted.

So God Bless America, flaws and all. We may not have it together, but we can still be proud in the midst.

And no matter what, I can promise you I will personally fight forever for the right to have big hair, for all generations.

What underrated freedoms are you thankful for?

Kickstarter Campaigns I Would (Actually) Support

I have mixed feelings about Kickstarter.com. I think it’s great to be able to take fundraising global and to reward people who donate to make movies, albums, artwork, charity and inventions possible, but I also think it can breed laziness. Regardless, things I love have been accomplished via this medium (namely, the new Veronica Mars movie, which means the contiuation of my undying love for Logan Echolls!!!!) and so it’s only right that I’ve dreamed up a few of my own ideas that would inspire me to give money to accomplish a goal.


Kickstarter Campaigns I Would (Actually) Support


Bringing A Whataburger to Tennessee (because this just won’t cut it)


Bringing back the Pony Express (because handwritten mail is awesome and ponies are even more awesome)


An app that locates the closest person who needs a hug or who is down to give a hug at that moment


An app for an alarm clock that is actually just the voice of Ryan Gosling saying, “You’re brilliant and beautiful just the way you are, but your hair will look even better if you get up now and fix it before work” and that just gives out compliments when you try and press “Snooze”


Another iPhone video app to add to Vine & Instagram videos, because lord knows my generation needs something else to complain about on twitter


A Hoverboard (or at least a prototype)


Continuing the seasons of television cancelled too soon, or giving  Party Down a 3rd season, Firefly and Freaks and Geeks  2nd seasons and Pushing Daisies a 2nd-18th season(s).


The formation of a tv network that plays nothing but Disney Channel Original Movies from the early 2000s, 24/7


 While we’re on tv, some sort of memory eraser that deletes any memories I have of LOST from this entire earth and never mentions it in any casual conversations that leave people mad at me for years to come because I’m sorry, but, ARE YOU ACTUALLY SERIOUS WITH THE CORK IN THE ISLAND AND THE POLAR BEARS


An ATM machine that dispenses glitter and/or hummus


An initiative to revive the musical careers of Damien Rice, Outkast & Shania Twain, or at least encourage them all to release ANOTHER ALBUM because honestly I can be patient but you know you can’t just turn off genius and there is bound to be something for my ears between the three (technically 4) of them


A widget that adds onto Facebook that asks every single user, “REALLY?” before they decide to post another out-of-focus photo of their lunch


  
An in-depth tutorial of how to wear and pull off a crop top without feeling like I forgot half of my shirt and brain (this one doesn’t even have to take long to fund, seriously, I will just pay someone $10 if they can tell me this without using the phrase, “you better werk!”)


A waffle iron in the shape of Leslie Knope’s face


An Actual Hotel For Dogs, where the dogs run the hotel and they wear little bellman caps and carry your bags and don’t really care when you check in or out as long as they can cuddle and look at you lovingly with those sad eyes, oh and COMPLIMENTARY PUPPIES


Michael Bay’s Retirement Fund, where we pay him to NOT continue a cinematic career


An iPhone charger that runs on sarcasm


Glasses that sync to display the lyrics to whatever song is currently playing so that you can learn all the words


A magazine with a really smart sounding title like “Business Success And You” that looks like you’re reading to further your career and are impressive but is secretly filled with photos of adorable baby animals


A magical Utopia that holds all you could ever want  Just kidding, we already have the internet.


What would you kickstart?

I Believe In Leopard Print

I can’t pinpoint the exact moment that I first laid eyes on it, but when I did, my love for it took hold instantly. I couldn’t imagine life without it and I felt most comfortable when it was near me. I began to live in it, to feel better when it was around. Suddenly, I was an advocate for it and asked about it constantly. People started to associate me with it and my life became themed with it. It was present at important events, practically becoming the wallpaper to my room, and it appeared year after year in my surroundings. I was known for it, and even after living with it for quite some time, I was still falling in love with it and finding new ways to use it. I loved it then and I love it now, and after nearly 23 years together, I can’t imagine ever growing tired of it.


leopard party


I believe in leopard print.

I can’t confirm 100% that my life began with me being brought home from the hospital wrapped in a spotted blanket, but I can’t deny it, either. My mom, who was one of my fashion idols since I was a kid and still remains one of the most stylish women I know, was a fan and encouraged me to pick the clothing I liked, and I guess I was drawn to the animal side ingeniously. Hardly one to be subtle, from a young age I dressed in patterns and bright colors, but my signature was always cheetah and leopard print, in every way possible. Some people outgrow their childhood style, but I never have, and so the obsession continues in a maybe-embarassing-but-always-there way.


If you ask me what color I want something in, I will most assuredly say turquoise or yellow, but deep down I’m going to be wondering if there’s a way we can add a jungle cat print to it.


Am I persuaded into stores with leopard in their display windows? Always.


Do I spend far too much time at the leopard and cheetah cages at the zoo? Only sometimes.


When scoping out friends, I’m most certainly going to start up a conversation with the girl carrying the cheetah satchel.


Do I still want to be a member of Josie and The Pussycats for their outfits? Most certainly.


Is there a sale on something leopard printed? I’m most assuredly there.


Do I want to move into this house,
7283d422c9ebb45eae3a72c192ccdd86
drive this car,
5ad9117c58437cf0a4538990550cda0c
and rock this tattoo?
 leo


No comment.
(but yes, yes, and probably no, but I’m not ruling it out altogether.)


I have found that leopard is appropriate for every situation and for every item of clothing and beyond, and if leopard printed duct tape (which yes, exists) can’t fix it, then I truly believe nothing can.


Everyone has something that they feel their best in, and mine is leopard print.


Stylist Rachel Zoe has been quoted saying, “I think every woman should have leopard, but not every woman will wear leopard. You have to have courage to wear leopard.” Leopard is rebellious and yet safe to me. It’s comfortable and clashing at the same time, and can be both silly and serious, and for that, I doubt I’ll ever stop wearing it.


Life is too short to spend it in solids and blending in with the crowd, and if something small makes you happy, then you should cover your life in it, or, at the very least, buy it in every way possible.


Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some serious hunting to do.


And don’t worry, no real leopards were harmed in the writing of this blog post.


(Photo sources: me, 1, 2, 3).

How To Be Unhappy

Allow your past to define you. The mistakes you made and embarrassing situations you have been in should stay at the front of your mind. Remember how you’ve failed time and time before and harp on that every morning. Hold on to your worst fears and worst enemies and never let them go.

Never call anyone on the phone. Lock yourself away from hearing voices you miss. Think about how dumb your voice gets over the line and how it jumps octaves and sounds all squished. Don’t pick up calls and rarely return them.

Never do anything that makes you look stupid. Spend your time cultivating an appearance that doesn’t take a risk, and keep your options limited to only making choices that don’t offend anyone. Please people. Make this your life goal, no matter the cost. Don’t listen to music that’s not approved by everyone, don’t wear an outfit that has anything unusual. Stick to solids and boxy shapes. Give up on individuality.

Assume that everyone is talking about you behind your back and can’t stand you. Say that smiles from strangers are fake and question everyone’s motive. Refuse to believe that there are still good people left in the world and assume that every single person on this planet wants to take something away from you.

Don’t dance. Tell yourself you are uncoordinated. I don’t care how fun it looks- convince yourself that everyone will judge your moves and stare at your hips when they shake off-beat. You can maybe get away with tapping your feet once in a while, but I don’t advise it.

Strongly suggest that no one wants to spend time with you. Don’t text anyone to hang out first, because clearly if they wanted to, they would ask. Don’t reach out because that might make you needy, and what could be worse than that?

You have a choice on this, so pick one. Either “everything is my fault” or “nothing is my fault”. Repeat one until it becomes your personal mantra.

Forget about nature. Forget about anything bigger than you and your own life and your own brain. Do not gaze at mountains or swim in the ocean. Don’t cultivate anything that grows and don’t let yourself get swept up in a sunset.

Before the situation even begins, find everything negative about it. Make a pros and cons list, but always stack the cons. In fact, tear off the half that lists the pros and shred it. Believe any hope is wishful thinking.

Assume that showing emotions makes you weak and wage a war against being seen as weak. Never let yourself break down, ever.

Always be on. Always be entertaining people. Don’t rest or take a day for yourself. Be so in demand that you only operate for everyone else’s calendars.

You always need more stuff. Buy more clothing, get a better car, never be satisfied with what you own. Keep spending and spending as often as possible.

Don’t ask for help.

Don’t stop to pet a dog when you are walking. Don’t order dessert. Do not read the cards at Hallmark. Don’t let anyone kiss you under the stars.

Don’t try to create anything. Remind yourself that someone else has probably done it better than you already. Assume you have nothing new to offer. Doubt your creativity daily until you believe that you’re just “not a creative person”.

Assume that you have all the time in the world to improve your current situation. Stay in your deadbeat town or lame job or bad relationship because no one has handed you a new one yet. Distrust the unknown. Always assume that the next year of your life is going to be worse. Don’t make an effort.

Criticize your own appearance.

Never, I repeat, NEVER, be excited for anyone else. If someone else is successful, they are obviously the worst. If they make more money than you or are more attractive than you, hate them simply because of that fact. When your friends seem to be making the right choices and succeeding, allow jealousy to separate you. Don’t celebrate when someone else gets the job or gets engaged or takes a leap of faith. Never congratulate anyone.

Stop reading and writing and educating yourself. The less you know, the better. The less you know, the less you hurt for problems that are not your own. The less you know, the less you can be responsible for.

Anything you have not seen with your own eyes should not be taken as true. Never entertain the notion of God, unicorns, time travel, a woman president, or a soulmate.

Under no circumstances should you EVER recall memories of when you were a child and you dreamed so big. Don’t think about how you used to color outside the lines or sing at the top of your lungs in the bathtub or lay back in the grass in your backyard and make the cloud shapes into animals. Forget that you ever wore pretty dresses or and did cartwheels in the sun.

And most importantly, never commiserate with anyone else that is unhappy, because your time together might make you both just a little less miserable, and you don’t want to be another set of happy people, enjoying and encouraging, because the world has enough of those, don’t you think?

It’s Been A Year. I’m Still Here.

My hands itch.

My fingers are tingling to write down words, to type out something that matters. I want to prove myself but also feel comforted after expressing my thoughts. I want to be heard, I want to be clear, and oh, I want to be so clever.

But today, I don’t write.

Today every letter looks out of place and every phrase sounds cliched. My backspace key is practically on fire. It’s painstaking and I give up in the middle of every sentence.

Every idea seems old.

“It’s been done before.”

Someone else has written it and they have an award to show for it. Somewhere else there’s a clearer picture or a funnier joke or a more catchy melody.

Maybe I should just skip today. After all, I’ve said I would write more this month, but I’m not feeling it. And if I’m not feeling it, no one will care and it will just come out annoying and desperate and boring, and there’s enough of that on the internet and in real life already.

Am I a writer because I call myself one or because I actually write?

Am I only as strong as my most recent paragraph?

Why am I even writing this internal dialogue down?

Paranoia aside, sometimes creativity is like an ex-boyfriend that doesn’t call anymore, and then when he does, we practically get married in Vegas that night, but the next morning, I wake up alone, covered in glitter and only a few paragraphs to show for it.

Writing is weird and strange and uncomfortable. It’s waves of inspiration and self-criticism and trusting yourself to interpret things that sometimes require no words, and frankly, I’m no expert at it. Most days I’m mad at it, and most days I’m intimidated by it, but I keep coming back to it, and I guess that’s something in itself. I think half of your “dreams” are divine intervention and half are just being consistent and coming back to that same dream and working your ass off at it, and even then, failing and not meeting every expectation, but still coming back for more. Showing up every time you were supposed to give up and continuing to pursue it like it’s everything.

I bought LionHairedGirl.com a year ago, (officially today!) and I was so terrified that I’d end up a fake who never wrote anything and waste both my money and my ego on it.

But, for better or worse, I keep coming back.

There are very few circles where “I have a blog!” is the first thing out of my mouth. It’s equal parts exhilarating and embarrassing to think I have earned a very tiny bit of credibility in sharing my life and thoughts for the internet to read, but I continue to try my hand at running whatever this website you’re currently reading is and could become.

I don’t always know why I write or where I’m going, but I just wanted to say thank you to all of you for making this year as a ‘dot com’ so very meaningful. All of your encouragement towards my writing is the icing on a great wordsy cake, and I truly read every single comment and email, good or bad, with a happy heart that you read my words in the first place.

So, I’m here. Sticking around through “writer’s block” and “twentysomething syndrome” and too many puppy photos I almost put in every post, I’m still here, writing.*

*At least until Beyonce needs a stand-in, though. Then, I’m out.

Oh, and since you made it through this sappy and confusing post, here’s a song that knocked me over in the best way. I love words, and I love them even more when David Ramirez sings them:

I Will Never Write A Post About Crafting (Or, I Hate Waiting)

I learned long ago that “DIY” is not one of my strong suits.

My attention span is usually too short to craft, meaning that I leave projects half done, haphazardly put together and glue gun still plugged in, whenever something shiny passes by. I can’t focus on one thing because I find it easier to focus on 7 things, and so I’m half covered in glitter and full of great ideas, but never ending up with a final product and never thinking anything through to completion.

I would create more adorable home accents, but everytime I peruse my carefullly-curated Pinterest boards or favorite craft blogs, I end up seeing the finished products at Target and it’s so hard for me to not just buy them on site, thinking of all the time saved and frustation avoided, because when it comes to creating- though it pains me to admit – I’m not big on time spent. Call it a product of the internet generation coupled with my non-existent patience, but I absolutely hate waiting.

I mean, I HATE waiting.

I always smudge my nail polish because I move my hands too soon before it dries, I can never get my car all the way dry in the car wash because I’m ready to keep driving, and I have a compulsion to read books all in one sitting because I want to get to the next chapter and move the plot along.

I’ve been known to set out my clothes for a special event days earlier, as if preparing would speed up the calendar, and I have a long list of tactics and games to play while waiting in line, so that I don’t notice the time. I can tell you the roads to take that keep traffic moving, so that even if they end up taking more time to get to your destination in the long run, you never had to physically stop.

But, life is in a waiting period right now, and it’s driving me crazy. I’m not quite new in town but not quite a ‘local’, so I’m waiting for that transition. I’m still waiting on a job that aligns with my dreams a little more closely, or is at least full time. Plus, this whole bizarre stage is even more inviting, because everyone I know is here too. We’re all stuck in this waiting room of our twenties, falling between childhood and adulthood and waiting for the glue to dry. We’re not quite comfortable because we’re expecting the next thing and still looking for the big break.

Of course, there’s guarantee that the big deal will get signed or that we’ll become everything we dreamed, but what reason would there be to even get out of bed if we didn’t expect it? What motivation would there be if we weren’t hoping that something bigger was coming? Why would we ever try if we didn’t think there was even a .01% chance that the almost-meaningless tasks of our day would eventually lead to something even better?

So, what is there to do except swallow the bitter pill of not being settled and hang a few curtains and call this waiting room home? Because it’s going to be more ‘almosts’ and more rejection and more part-time and more waiting and waiting and waiting, but at the very least we can give it a good soundtrack and spruce up the place and write it down so that someday when we’re all on a big porch drinking the sweet tea of adulthood, we can remember that it came from sleepless nights and watching the clock and the comraderie that can only come from wishing and hoping and hustling and waiting and waiting and, yes, waiting.

As I get older (and hopefully wiser), I will try and craft, just for the heck of it. I will spray paint my bed frame gold and barely make a friendship bracelet and maybe stain a wooden table, but more than anything, I will go ahead and buy the confetti, because when this wait is finally over, I can promise you, cross my Texas heart, that I am going to throw the whole entire bag of it into the air.

It’s going to be a great day when.

It’s going to be a great day when you start your morning at the gas station, and a decent gentleman walks over, attempting to yell over your 444th play of Dan Croll’s “From Nowhere”, to alert you that you have a ‘small stick’ underneath your car, which, of course, added to the fact that you just replaced an alternator in the same car that sucked your 22 year old bank account somewhat dry and gave you 8 panic attacks, makes you somewhat nervous. However, it’s a “small stick”, right? I mean, how bad could that be? After all, April has already dealt you a pretty sucky hand of cards and there can’t possibly be any more dramatic events to take place, especially before 9 AM on a Monday, because that would just be cruel, right? I mean, seriously, whoever decided this month would bring such bizarre events and circumstances had to have been just putting together a mock script for the next season of GIRLS or at least really wanting to test the phrase, “laugh so you don’t cry”. And you don’t even remember running over a stick, except maybe that tree branch that fell during the storm the other night that you swerved out of the way to avoid, just like a defensive responsible woman of the open road. Besides, you like nature (sometimes) and it shouldn’t be intimidating and I’m sure you can toss that small stick and be on your way before your coffee in your cupholder gets cold, right?

Right?

Or- maybe April just wanted to teach you one more thing, and it’s to check your surroundings or always expect the unexpected or to laugh at everyday miracles or, I don’t know, maybe to look out for ENORMOUS STICKS UNDER YOUR RAV4.

But, I mean, hey, at least Ace has a new toy.

(*Also, you really earn points as a “go-getter” and “independent lady” with the guy selling newspapers at the gas station when you reach down at 8:45 AM in business casual dress to pull out half of a small tree from the undercarriage.)