Bah

You know how much it sucks to be the only one of your friends who ever takes the initiative to reach out and plan something?  Or even the only one who checks in with other people?

It sucks.

A lot.

And it's lonely when you decide that it's just too much work to try and make people want to hang out with you.

Friends are stupid.

New Year's Resolutions

1) Travel More.

2) Sell kidney so able to travel more.

3) Move. Anywhere. Now? End of lease? CHANGE IS GOOD.

4) Maybe stay here.  It's safe and I have friends.

5) Stop being wishy washy about resolutions.

6) Go on one date.

7) Try not to judge date too harshly.

8) Eat cookies and drink wine when date is as bad as I assumed it would be.

9) Repeat 6-8. Probably a lot. Until I swear off dating again.

10) Positivity!

Should old acquaintance be forgot

And never brought to mind?

Should old acquaintance be forgot

And auld lang syne?

For auld lang syne, my dear

For auld lang syne

We'll take a cup of kindness yet

For auld lang syne, for auld lang syne

Eff that. And Eff Auld Lang Syne.

Humbug

I love the holidays.  Love them.  As soon as the holiday season starts, I'm hooked.  I decorate.  I plot Christmas gifts. I watch Hallmark and Lifetime holiday films ad nauseum. And I cry. A lot.

It doesn't take much.  A sad moment on a cheesy Joey Lawrence film that starts the sniffles.  A Christmas card.  A photo of kids seeing Santa. Kevin looking cute in his new candy cane bandana.

Nothing feels lonelier than the holidays. I get to spend time with my family and friends, but there's just something missing. Some joy that I'm not able to access.  I find joy in the little moments, but as soon as they pass the shadow appears to eclipse the joy.  Where's the hope, the peace and the joy when I'm back home with my Charlie Brown tree and my television screen?

I'm trying this year.  Trying not to feel lost and forgotten in the hubbub.  But it's very, very hard.  I don't really have anything right now. No improv.  No singing.  No nothing. Maybe that's why I'm doing St. Baldrick's.  To be a part of something. To do something. Anything.

My friends are all just...gone. I'll get a call if they need something. And part of me knows it's probably time to move on. New friends, new place to live. I give it another year before I'm ready. Also, I have a lease.

There's a next thing out there. A solution. I want to do more than this wallowing.  I want to stop feeling like I don't matter. I WANT TO STOP CRYING AT THE DROP OF A SANTA HAT.  I'm crying right now.

This may just be the two Cheryl's cookies talking. I'm gonna go for a bike ride or something. Anything.

"You're not REALLY shaving your head, right?"

Yes.  Yes, I am.

I've been known to do some weird things in my life. Maybe because I went to Europe when I was 18. Maybe cause I've always tried to get past fear, depression, or anxiety. That all changed when I read a post on my Up With People cast page. A Canadian friend posted that she's heard through the grapevine that another cast mate had found out very suddenly that her five year old daughter had a brain tumor.  It's hard to stay in touch with 170 of your closest friends from one of the most amazing years of your life, but I started paying attention. I watched every day for updates, and saw pictures of a beautiful, smiling little girl who was going through such a difficult time with such grace. I cried tears of joy on the day she finished treatment.

And I started thinking.

What can I do? What can I ever do to help someone so far away?

I do weird things for charity.  I created my own comedy show to benefit a cancer charity in Ft. Lauderdale. I jumped off a building for the same charity.  I had a member of the country club I work for come in and talk about an awesome event he participated in with the fire station where he worked.  The firemen shaved their heads. For kids. With cancer.

Sunday night I was sitting on my couch, pondering a next adventure. Would I jump off the building again? Would I plan another event? What could I do?

I made a quick decision and signed up before I could doubt myself.  I secretly have always wanted to experience the freedom of a shaved head. I kept eyes peeled in college for productions of Wit, as I love the show and thought I could be as badass as Emma Thompson with no hair. I registered. I posted on facebook. Added it to my website. And now, I'm blogging about it.

St. Baldricks donates 80% of all moneys raised to juvenile cancer research. 80%. Over 33 million dollars was donated last year alone. It is an amazing organization, and it deserves my support. And my bald head.

I'm nervous, but the support so far has been overwhelming. Yes, I am scared.  Yes, I'm nervous of how my bald head will look. I'm vain enough to worry that I will look like a bald chipmunk with giant, Disney-esque eyeballs and cheeks. But I know that it will be so worth it when I hold up a sign saying hello to Alex as I video my hair falling from my head to the whirring of an electric razor.

Living Single

This morning I woke to sunbeams shining on my face, caressing my cheek with their warmth as birds sang outside my window. I stretched luxuriously, grabbed Kevin's leash, headed down my new stairs and walked with my fuzzball for 40 minutes around a lake. There was a blue heron in flight as we turned the corner. Squirrels chattered at us as we passed. Neighbors said hello as we wandered. He pooped on our next door neighbors patio.  We arrived home, I got ready and arrived at work 10 minutes early. I made coffee for everyone. Then the day got weird, as our catering director got in a shouting match with a nasty member in the hallway outside my door. I gave her brownies. She also asked the mother of the bride at a wedding this past weekend if her daughter was pregnant.  She wasn't.  But I digress.

I'm not sure how, but my perspective has changed in the last few days.  The weekend was filled with stress, disappointment, and delight. Seeing my home come together...seeing Kevin get comfortable with an extra spring in his step from running up and down stairs...feeling my ass muscles hurting as I run up and down the stairs...it's wonderful.  I have cable. I have internet.  I have wireless. I have space.  I have the ability to sit around in my underpants.  I cooked the last two nights.  Not in the underpants. Grease spatter hurts.

I can't figure out how to turn this photo.

I've lived in apartments before.  But never one with this much character and space and potential. I have an office. A little nook where earlier I ordered Kevin's rabies tag while staring at Bruce Campbell's signature on an Army of Darkness poster I've owned since college.  It never seemed to fit. I never seemed to fit.

But I fit here, for now. I started paring down my life before this move, and I feel that the good times are about to start. I've gotten rid of the baggage. I bought new pillows today. PILLOWS. AND A WINE RACK. AND A BASKET. And I've never been more excited about a purchase. This place is me. The new me.  The happy me. The me that loves floral pillows that complement my poppy field poster hanging over my head. The me that loves wine.  And the me that is starting to love me, a little bit more every day.

Change?

I want to chop my hair off and go blonde. Maybe stick my tongue out a lot and use foam fingers in inappropriate ways.

I want to workout every minute of every day so I can be sleeker. Different. Like Jennifer Grey's nose.

I want to look at the world and not hate it. Not all the time. But a lot of the time.

I want to succeed. In anything. Anything at all.  Business. Without really trying.

I want to stop burying my life in taking care of the dog and live. With the dog, of course. He ain't going nowhere. But do I worry about him at the detriment of my own life?

I want change. They say it does you good.  I say it just slides out of the coin purse and pools in the bottom of your handbag.

I've been failing a lot the last week or two. Saying the wrong thing. Having people hold grudges for assumed slights when I can't even see where there was fault. I've been sleepless. So sleepless that up until my writing this at 1am, I've been staring at the blinking green light that indicates my cable box is still not working.  Over and over it blinks and over and over thoughts flit through my mind. I take drugs. They don't work til too late and then I'm sleepy in the morning. Viscious cycle.  Was sick. Lost Bailey. Tried to be strong for my family. To be there for them. But who's gonna be there for me?

Eh. Vomitous blog. Positive is that I'm gonna be too busy the next few days to even think about anything but surviving an ill prepared emcee gig and a writers conference. Who knows. Maybe selling PMS will be my success. Or maybe not throwing up from nerves tomorrow will be one.  Fingers crossed. Now to sleep. Here's hoping.

This is not a fun blog.

Sorry.  It's just not.  Go read The Oatmeal or 27bslash6 if you want fun.

Dogs are awesome. They love us, unconditionally.  I needed that about three years ago.

I had moved home after passing out alone in the living room/rent was raised.  I was a mess. Depressed. Thin. Full of self loathing and derision.  Why had I been so stupid?  How was I back at my parents house at 29? Why couldn't I do things right? Dumb, dumb, dumb. And slowly, I got better.

My parents were a gigantic help. I mean, they're rock stars.  Equal parts badass and comfort. But what got me through the worst of the worst was a little furball named Bailey.  Bailey loved me when I didn't love myself. I would find him laying next to my bed, looking up at me as I curled in a fetal position and cried. During bad weather, he would run into my room and shake while thunder rolled and I tried to calm him.  I would put him on my bed and try to soothe him.  I was there for him, and he would always be there for me.

My parents would go away and it would be Bailey and I rambling around the house. Up at 6am. Let him out. Feed him. Fall asleep on the couch for a little while, snoozing as I heard him plop beside me with a grunt. One such occasion saw the onslaught of tropical storm weather.  I cleared out the downstairs closet in case of a hurricane, cleared off the couch cushions and made a cozy bed for the two of us in view of the Weather Channel and that cleaned out closet.

He is a sheltie. He is beautiful. He is neurotic. He is sick.

I was on the phone with my mother yesterday. My very strong, very independent mother.  We were discussing a writer's conference we are going to together, and were discussing the need for doggy care for Kevin. I said, "Well, you're gonna need to get someone to watch Bailey."

There was a moment of silence on the other end of the phone. Then, "We have an appointment on Thursday. He hasn't been eating.  He's been throwing up what little he does eat.  He's skin and bones and I'm not going to let him suffer."

I've never been around when we've lost a pet. Our first dog, Gizmo, went to live on a farm. An actual farm, not the fictional one that parents create when a pet dies. Our first sheltie, Maggie, died while I was in Europe and it broke me. Our second sheltie, Shelby, died during a hurricane in a horrible way. My mom was there for both. I understood why she was hesitant to tell me. And I realized I'm stronger than I was then.  I know it's better for him to pass peacefully than in pain.  He helped me in my time of need, and I'm gonna be there for him in his. It's still hard. But it's the right thing to do.

I called my brother and sister last night to tell them the news.  Both expressed a desire to say goodbye.  I'm going to be there tonight to say goodbye, myself.  All of us are sad.  But we're gonna deal with it together.

I'm gonna hug my weird furbaby extra tight today and tomorrow. Ya'll wanna do the same? For me?