On Loss and The Depths It Brings Me To

Mid-April to mid-May is an incredibly hard time of year for me. What was just the time between when I lost my father and his birthday now bookends the day I lost my grandmother. While she has been gone for almost a year, I have been able to be at peace with it. It still stings. There are days I cry or want to call her for advice but I got to see her a few weeks before she passed and at 85, I know she lived a full life filled with family and friends who adored her. She had a beautiful service that I am only a little salty about (because, I am an asshole and will find something to be salty over) that was well attended and allowed for some closure.

My dad was 56. A month and 4 days from 57 if we want to get technical (and I ALWAYS want to get technical). He died in a nursing rehabilitation center in Arizona in the very early morning following a night I ignored the nagging part of me that told me to call him. He died after making plans with his medical proxy to meet the next day so he could dictate a letter to me - Because he knew the end was near once the dialysis stopped working but didn't want to tell me. He was not a well man for the majority of my life. I saw him through back and eye operations, toe amputations, leg amputations, the first round of dialysis that he rebounded from and was able to cease treatment, and one hell of a case of diabetes that  he finally managed down to pills from multiple insulin shots a day. He was able to recognize his wrongs and how inappropriate his actions were with some. He was my Superman. 

We had THE talk - not about sex but the what are your wishes talk. He told me he was fine with going to a mass grave so I wouldn't be burdened with planning services. I protested and he agreed to cremation. In the 6 years since his passing, I have never received the remains. His medical proxy changed her last name, moved to a different state, and I have since not been able to find her. The lack of closure and guilt consumes me, especially at this time of year. I didn't want to put on a large funeral for him but I did want to bring him home to Hawai'i to rest. I know he wanted that and as his only child it is my job to fulfill that. It may not be my fault, but I have failed to do the most humane thing possible - I have not been able to help him rest at peace where he wanted to.

I spend an inordinate amount of time wondering what was going to be in that letter. I spend an inordinate amount of time wondering if or how either of them could have been proud of me when I feel like the subtitle to my life story is "34 Years of Failing." It leaves me wondering why I focus so hard on how I could have lived/could currently live to make others happy instead of myself. Would she have been happier or more proud if I had been a teacher? Would he have been happier or  more proud if I had opened a Hawaiian catering business like he wanted me to? Will I ever be able to feel like I made them proud? Other than because I have every awful and almost every good trait of a Leo, WHY DOES IT MATTER?

I daydream about opening a sweets shop: one with baked goods and homemade candy and ice cream. I daydream about writing. I daydream about a life where there isn't a gaping hole in my chest that only seems to grow larger every year as more loss and lost time accumulates. I daydream of a world where depression and anxiety don't paralyze me with fear  to the point  I don't know how to live for myself. And when those daydreams fade I drown in reality, sinking further and further away from who i could be. I fall deeper and deeper into a world of what ifs. I feel to far in to ever resurface as a whole human.

Hug those you love. Tell them you love them. Mourn them when they go. But don't fall to this depth. Remember to live for you. 

Over Commit and Under Deliver?

I feel like "Over Commit and Under Deliver" should be the subtitle of this thing.

I fell off the wagon of writing. I got in my head. I got stressed out. I got FURTHER in my head and all my old demons came out to play - the ones that yell I am not good enough (or really just not enough in general) and the quiet ones that whisper constantly that I am worthless/unlovable/terrible. The fall brought the first year of not having my grandmother alive for holidays or her birthday and winter brought back its usual darkness, shrouding me in the grayest depths but (luckily) not tipping into utter blackness.

The last month has brought a work promotion and a decrease in stress. It has brought a renewed hope and a desire to write. Most impressively, it has also brought a new revelation in myself.

I have written before about my struggles with body image, self esteem, and issues of that ilk. A little bit before Valentine's Day, I had a girls night with a few friends. We went into Salem and I warned them that they can't take a witch to Salem without getting dragged into shops. We ended up getting readings at a lovely shop called The Cauldron Black ( https://www.thecauldronblack.com/ ) with Justice the Wizard (who is incredible and also really friggin' attractive. He was amazing and I suggest booking him for a reading - I really want to go to him for a bone throwing reading. This witch approves). There was a trunk show going on and I bought a lovely baculum that the woman I bought it from harvested by hand. I bought it because the interview for this promotion was coming up and I felt like I needed a little #BDE to help me out. Since then, I am feeling better about myself, I am a bit more confident, and I have been receiving some THIRSTY texts from men. It has also empowered me in terms of the craft. #WinWin

Now, before closing this rambling mess that is literally....not good - but mildly informative as to why I just ghosted y'all - up I am sure some of you have questions. Namely about what the heck a baculum is and what this three letter hashtag is about. So, what is a baculum? Good question, friend. It is a mammalian penis bone. I promise you read that correctly. It has evolved out of humans but is still present in many creatures. Mine happens to have once been in a raccoon, who died naturally, and a woman that works with bones harvested. The dick bone sits at my desk on top of a bracelet my dad gave me. Knowing what a baculum is now, my assumption is you are unsure if you want to know what #BDE is. Big Dick Energy. That energy one sends out in the universe because they know what they are packing, physically or within. That energy that says, "Imma get that promotion over you and steal your girl while I am at it."

Will the baculum-fueled BDE, self acceptance and will to write continue? I don't know. And I am going to be smart enough to NOT commit to saying it will. But I am here. And I am ok. And sometimes, that is enough of a first step.

This is NOT a Drill! New Series Launching!

Hello, dear readers.

Gross.

That doesn’t sound the slightest bit natural.

What up, y’alllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll?

As we grow and become active participants in the world around us, with opinions and morals/a personal code, the things we love let us down once we are #woke (wondering what that means? It is social awareness kicking you in the ass to remind you or teach you why something just ain’t right). Nothing stays innocent forever. Not even nursery rhymes - take a look at This Little Piggy again. None of them were going grocery shopping at that market. Or fairy tales - read the OG version of The Little Mermaid. That shit is fucked up.

More than the precious memories of childhood being ruined when you find out that little piggy is having roast beef because they are fattening it up for sale or slaughter, I find the fall of those you idolize particularly heart breaking. It happens every day - and should - as we find out more and more what lurks beneath the facade people hide under. It isn’t just people we see fall from grace either as evident by more and more companies we praise or swear by slowly loose grip on the scandals and conditions they weave into silence begin unraveling. Exposing the terrors that surround us is more and more common but whistle blowing is still seen as taboo and victim blaming is still the hefty price many pay.

I can’t do much about it, whether from my computer or in a march, other then help people become #woke to what is happening around them.  Oh, Jesus. Is it then in this case? Or than? Google ws no help. Either way, welcome to a new series on the blog I like to call Sometimes Your Faves are Problematic or SYFAP (hahahahaha yes, I know it ends in fap. And if you are related to me by blood or marriage or are over the age of...50ish or under say...18 PLEASE DO NOT GOOGLE IT Kthanx I love you).

The first in the series?

You may love their 2 day shipping and Prime benefits but did you know Amazon is problematic AF?

Hair Crisis 2K18

Well, it has been a hell of a week guys.

It started with a hair crisis which I am still in the throws of. By Thursday, I was out of my mind and I had The Husband cut my ponytail off with shitty scissors. I am still trying to decide if I like it (seeing as it is THE SAME HAIRCUT just shorter) or if I want to buzz off the rest. What is italicized below is the original post I started for last Tuesday before deep diving into self-loathing.

I have to tell you, I was revved up to write a post about cosplay and how sad it is that in 2018 at a convention run by an international expo corporation we still need to have ENORMOUS signs explaining that cosplay is not consent and what that means. IN 2018. Something about how unfortunately real Jessica Rabbit's line "I'm not bad, I'm just drawn that way" is in the word of cosplay.

But that is not the post you are getting today.

Nope.

Something else managed to get to me more.

I will tackle the pissbaby fan boys and girls soon, my dears - don't you fret. But until then...

I am going into hair crisis.

I am sick of my hair. I don't know what to do with it and have had the same style for like...3 or 4 years. And while it is a dope cut, i am just...bored.

Given the length (shaved on both sides and the back with just like 1/3 of the top long - perfect for a manbun) I don’t have a lot of options.

Do I shave it all? Just GI Jane that shit at home?

Do I go for a pixie? I am useless when it comes to styling my hair so it can't be too involved.

Do I keep it pink?

Instead of being consumed by my brain going in a million directions and just letting depression seep in until I cry about how much I hate everything about me (sounds fun, right?) I took to the internet to google image search my options.

Because when isn't google helpful?

I looked at faces and faces of conventionally attractive men and women - perfect skin, perfect hair, faces small and angular...

Or, ya know, 100% not me.

Clearly, I just said Fuck It and cut off my pony as indicated at the beginning. But after a week of slipping into a depression funk (like for real - I cried in bed last night because I don’t think I am cute enough to go on a girls weekend with a friend. This brain is a rollercoaster.) I am annoyed at myself. Not because of the depressed state that I am in but because of the catalyst.

Hair.

Or rather, how much worth and self worth humans tie to it. As I sit here still debating if I should just embrace the clippers and go full on buzz I have to ask myself why. Why shave it all off? I keep saying that if I want to grow it out shaving if is smartest so it will grow out evenly but the reality is that I will let it grow for a bit only to get the itch to do something to it (cut, shave, dye, whatever) again. It isn’t uncommon for women in some kind of crisis to change their hair as a means of exerting control over some aspect of their life. The likelihood of growing it out past a long bob ever again seems like insanity to me. So much time and effort and product… I can’t get up on time to gel the gentleman’s regular I have now. So, self, what am I really skirting?

Long hair equals beauty.

It is all over the media we consume. Short hair is coded as tomboyish at best but more often as angry, man hating lesbian/villainous (Yo! Take a peek at Ursula. And, yes, I understand that there are “edgy” female with short hair but that is another topic). Princesses give way to teen dramas which in turn give way to rom-coms, almost all with perfectly perfect female characters - dainty, pretty, and slender with long flowing hair. It is seen as the “norm” so much that people are happy to tell you that you “men don’t like women with short hair” or “you would look prettier with long hair”, not to mention the SCORES of people that want to tell fat women they should never cut their hair short because they are fat and need to hide behind the long layers. I had one boyfriend tell me I wasn’t allowed to cut my hair because he preferred long hair and because I was too fat so it was necessary to make me look better. (I would love to send you my therapy bills someday, bruh.)

I am disappointed that after all this time, all these years of being #woke to the patriarchy, I am still fighting internalized sexism as if it was written in my dna. When I think of myself my go to characteristics are negative but vanity isn’t one of them - so why am I so hung up on the idea of how hair equates beauty?

Until I figure it out, or at least figure out what to do with my hair, I remain stuck here.

RIP Floppy Vengeance

Free Range MPA?

I woke up 2 hours before I technically hit 33. At 4 hours removed I could say that it feels like 32 but with a migraine and knee pain.

It got me thinking about all the ways I don't recognize myself. Yes, my upper arms wave when I do and my meaty forearm ends in cankle-like wrist before spitting out stubby hands with sausage fingers. Yes, I may have gained a chin. And, yes... I am still a mixture of appalled and sad when I see myself from the side in a mirror. I am still quick with a trivia answer as well as with sharp wit. Indulging in garbage pop music is still delightful. But fundamentally a few things have changed.

The Husband went out for a day with the nephews Monday. After picking me up from work we dropped his PIC off at his home and ended up at an intersection with a Farmer's Market. It took immense self control not to scream that we should go check it out. I am planning a trip to Portland with a friend and one of the things I am most hype about is going to a Farmer's Market. Not drinks. Not poutine made with french fries that have been fried to perfection in duck fat. Nope. The Farmer's Market. And not JUST the Farmer's Market, guys. My excitement over locally grown Maine produce and artisan shit has me wondering not which breweries to tour but how many reusable shopping bags to pack. I want to wander around Whole Foods and Common Crow or any other natural grocery store. The smell of small natural markets is the purest smell on Earth.

WHY AM I EXCITED ABOUT FREE RANGE MEAT AND LOCALLY GROWN PRODUCTS?

WHY AM I WEARING NATURAL DEODORANT?

WHY DO I SUDDENLY WANT TO THRIFT FOR DOZENS OF JARS?

But the horrors don’t end there.

I spend my free time watching vegan videos on YouTube. I watch videos on zero waste life styles. I signed a pledge to stop using single-use straws (which I think should still be made available for those who need them but like maybe we shift to the paper ones?). I question whether I should order coffee via mobile pick-up because it means I sacrifice bringing a reusable cup for convenience. When grocery shopping I lament buying soaps/detergents I could easily make at home and paper towels when I could use a washable option. If we have kids do I go the fabric diaper route? Or those rad ones that breakup in the toilet and are flush-able?

And don’t get me started on period products. The tax is enough to piss me off but all that waste?!?! Do I order washable pads? Do I switch to the cup?

The madness seems to be permanent. It grows every year. Is this adulting? No one warned me about this. No one told me I would slowly turn into a hippie. My go to when leaving or entering a room, letting a car go, being let through by another car, taking pictures, or apparently just existing is to throw up a peace sign. I think shaving is a stupid societal convention the patriarchy uses to make women feel less than. I can’t wash my hair daily if I want to keep the dye vibrant and it does not bother me at all. It is like as I age I go more rogue but the idea of it is almost comforting - as if aging gives me a free pass to live my crazy hippie dreams and everyone will just look at me and quietly say to each other “ahhh, she must be over 30” like it naturally explains my behavior.

I suppose it isn’t a bad place to be but it sure will take some time to get used to this me that wonders where on the North Shore I can buy shampoo and conditioner in mason jars I brought in, weighed empty, filled, weighed again, and bicker with the cashier before asking for the manager who I greet with a peace sign.

Dreams. The Goal Kind.

If you have followed this blog for sometime or gone through the past posts, you know this isn't my favorite time of year. And by time of year I mean quite specifically my birthday. It is a time that reminds me of spending time with my father in San Diego and the last time I felt really connected to that side of my family. This will also be the first birthday without my Grandmother who has never failed to call me to sing Happy Birthday to me. I spend this time scrutinizing every decision I have made and if in the last year I have done anything other than being a colossal waste of precious oxygen. 

My Womb Evacuation Day, or rather the day I was cut out so I didn't have a cucumber-shaped head, is a day I chose to fly under the radar. One that I pretend is a normal day to avoid as much fuss as possible. It is possibly the least Leo thing about me.

This year, we're hitting the big 33. And while I thought of some kind of Jesus/stations of the cross bar crawl (...sorry, Mom), I don't drink nor do I like anyone enough when they are drunk to do that. Instead, I am trying to embrace this renewed drive to write here. To capitalize on this motivation and do...something. 

I have mentioned briefly in the past, if not on here than to a few people IRL, that I want to start a literary magazine. I took a course in college where we spent a semester doing small writing projects before going through submissions for the school's literary magazine and to curate that issue. It was by far one of the best courses I took and it opened me up to the idea of publishing in general. Now without a degree, a job in publishing isn't really achievable. But you know what? That is ok because the more I think about it the more the concept grows.

Could it go from small, primitive (I think indie is too generous at this stage) pdf booklets to published in paper that is of the most spectacular quality and weight and finish - sorry guys, I REALLY like paper - and maybe even sold in bookstores?

Could it go from small and primitive to a huge online presence that evolves into a community like XO Jane, Bitch Media, or Bust?

Is it possible to create this from nothing? Is it possible for me to create this from nothing?

I don't know but for once I don't think it would hurt to try. 
And isn't that the miracle of aging? Getting to a point where you throw caution to the wind and embrace what could be so you aren't left with another what if?

Is 33 the time to leap?

Again...?!?!

What is up, my dudes?

This is my third time in a week with y'all and I know that may seem weird.
I am trying to give this a real, legitimate go. 

Will I screw it up? Uh..., Duh. Of course.
Will I try to blaze forward? Yup.

Will it be three posts a week, every week? Not on your life. But there is a schedule!

Tuesdays and Thursdays will be the days I post new content. Sunday will be reserved for bonus posts or when things crop up and I just can't keep this mouth of mine shut.

That being said, you can always find me and other on brand comments, retweets, reposts, and general me-ish stuff throughout the week on all of the blog's social media platforms! You can find me creeping the corners of the internet on:

Facebook: www.facebook.com/cupcakesandcrossbows 
Twitter:@cupcakesnxbows
Instagram: @cupcakesandcrossbows
YouTube: Maybe some day, guys but not yet!

<3