when my father found out what we did that night

Today I listened to Fleet Foxes and Iron & Wine, I wrote in my journal and I ate Velveeta for lunch. The only thing I did that was remotely productive was cram seven pounds of pork shoulder into our little crock pot. (Yesterday I thought, Oh I'll be thrifty and adultish and get meat delivered in bulk to save money/cook dinners ahead of time. Turns out I have no fucking idea how much fourteen pounds of pork shoulder actually is. Or twenty pounds of chicken, or nine pounds of ground beef. Also I keep on telling myself I should cut meat out entirely anyway, so not sure why I spent over a hundred dollars on an entire farm's worth of dead animals from Costco.) Anyway, these are the days I took to myself before I start my new job on Monday and have to go back to earning an income and otherwise engaging in the market. I had every intention of walking along the water in something billowy and romantic and having cups of coffee in trendy places, but all I've actually done with this short time off is regress to teenagerhood. 

I can't think of anything else to say because I'm mesmerized by the major pancake arm happening in the second picture. There was a time when that shit would have mortified me, but I didn't even notice it until just now. I guess the tiny wrinkles around my eyes are marks of wisdom, or indicators that I've run out of shits to give about things like fat upper arms. I've tried so many exercises (two and half, to be exact, and I already gave up because I don't care that much so don't bother suggesting any or you will go to jail for literally boring me to death) and I forgot where I was going with this sentence, to be perfectly honest. To be even more perfectly honest, I am supposed to be getting ready to leave the house right now. But the idea of dragging my chubby, chubby arms to St. Mark's is kind of grossing me out. However. I have a date. So. I suppose I'll paint some heart eyes on and get going.

I am sifting through resumes, trying to replace myself. On Pandora, Donovan starts singing "Catch the Wind" and I cry a little.

No one else is here so I'm going to turn it up and indulge myself a little longer.

and if you say hide, we'll hide

Spouting Violets is private right now, because I'm halfheartedly looking for a new job and realized that if you google my email address it eventually brings you here. If you just google my name, the only things that come up are pictures of a blonde girl who is not me and that dumb blog post I wrote twenty-nine years ago for that nonprofit that shall remain nameless. (Yep, still mad about the typos. Not mad enough to ask them, again, to take it down - but, still pretty bitter. Stiiiill stewing.) "Why would they google your email address, Lindsay?" Because that's what I do when we're interviewing at the place where I currently work - you'd be VERY surprised at the types of discussion boards Google turns up when you google the email address on some people's resumes. You'll sure feel a lot of feelings. I know I do.

So anyway, it's private right now, but it won't be forever. Only for a little while. I know this, but you don't yet. Secrets, and ship lights. We'll meet in the morning.

I don't have many words right now, anyway. I'm working on making writing a priority again, because it's an important part of how I make myself be a real human, but I'm feeling a bit burrow-y of late. December feels ten days shorter every time it comes around, and the things I have and want to do at the end of each year seem to keep multiplying. My birthday is on Thursday, and by the next week I hope to have made a few decisions and perhaps have an answer or two.

In the meantime - David Bowie, huh? I think it's weird that I spent the night before he died playing vintage arcade games in the village and then going uptown to listen to "Let's Dance" and its ilk under a glowing Rubiks cube. And I know I am not alone in that some of the first sexual feelings I can remember having were for Bowie in The Labyrinth. Don't lie, broads. Don't lie. (Him, and the cartoon wolf from the Three Little Pigs Silly Symphony. OH HEY.) 

(And Eric from The Little Mermaid but duh.) 

I have a carrier pigeon and a box of pencils. Well the pigeon isn't technically mine but my friend said I could borrow it whenever.

I feel like my brain is taking this week off from caring about stuff. I don't even feel that ever-present nervous feeling under my ribcage, the absence of which is actually making me a little nervous but besides that - totally fine. My sights are laser-focused on this weekend, which is Christmas Tree Weekend in Connecticut, and yes, t-shirts are available for sale. And anything else is just... like, when birds fly really fast into a window and fall down. I'm the window. And everything else is a bird. If you're a bird... I'm a window, this week.

thankful for (before november is over and everyone moves on to the feast of alvis)

- Mexi-Pilgrim fusion picnic dinners cooked for me by someone whose ancestral land was pillaged by my forefathers
- Wine and chocolate sauce

- Pajamas masquerading as work clothes

- Red lipstick, for tricking people into thinking that I have fucks to give

- Cloudy, cool days
- Dry shampoo

- My naturally athletic body

- Hopeful graffiti 

- Coffee

- Lazy date nights (aka, our favorite gyro place followed by the bar across the street from where we do laundry) (aka, best)

Thankful that if either one of us loses our job, the rent will still get paid. We will possibly starve to death, but at least we'll do it under a roof. Thankful that my mom is around for me to love and irritate. Thankful that I can afford the Christmas shopping I'm able to do. Thankful that Diego's nephews are of fun ages to pick out toys for. Thankful for health, for mine and for my family's (Arwen's especially) (100% not being sarcastic.) Thankful for coworkers who make bleak bearable. Thankful for how many times a day I have a reason to laugh.

Okay that's enough, blech. But I am honestly so thankful to be where I am and to have what I have for another holiday season. And to have who I have. Blog friends included. Let's swap addresses and do cards, yeah? Yeah.

I confess that the most adult I ever feel is when I get my eyebrows done on the way home from the gym. My nails are disgusting and my apartment is a mess and I haven't gotten a haircut since March and I'm terrible at taxes but for an hour once a week I am CRUSHING IT.

I confess that I went Christmas shopping on Black Friday even though I am against it on principle. (Wishy washy and half-baked, these principles are, but I stand by them nonetheless. Except that this confession is about me not standing by my principles. Mmm. It's just, standing makes me so tired.) I didn't do it on purpose; we were in Brooklyn saying goodbye to Diego's dad for a while, and Target happens to be on our way home. I thought buying presents for family might be a nice distraction, and I was right. Nothing is more distracting from anything than Target in Brooklyn on Black Friday. Nothing. Plus we got a big fat chunk of our shopping out of the way and came in way under budget, which feels great, so. Thanks for forcing people to work mandatory overtime for basically no pay, corporate America!

I confess that I feel real betrayal every time I look at shapewear in any store. How much happier would we all be if we just agreed to let our soft parts be soft!? Come on, people. Come. On.

I've been very seriously considering getting a handheld voice recorder. As of two seconds ago, I mean, when I sat down to write this and could physically feel the words leaking out of me and into the parts of the room I can't reach. My brain spends all day long making observations and pinning words to the observations it makes instead of doing whatever it's supposed to be doing, and if I could whisper those strung-together words into a tiny box that would remember them for me then maybe this stupid blog would have more content. And maybe I'd have journals filled with thoughts instead of lots of blank books laying around as reminders of how poorly managed my financial expenditures are. I understand that even the most basic of cell phones has this capability now, but I think I need it to feel old-timey. I think it will help with the process. The other thing I think will help with the process is to remember that it is a process, and that I don't necessarily have control over when it happens. What I do have control over is capturing it when it does happen. I'm so sorry, I lost myself at "whisper words into a tiny box." 

"In fact, it seems to me that most of the mistakes I make in personal relationships, most of the times in which I fail to be of help to other individuals, can be accounted for in terms of the fact that I have, for some defensive reason, behaved in one way at a surface level, while in reality my feelings run in a contrary direction." 

Carl Rogers, On Becoming a Person 

The universe is smart. Also it has night vision and IT SEES YOU. IT SEES WHAT YOU ARE DOING. And no matter how much you nod and smile and go along with things that don't actually feel good to you, that actually are slowly eating away at all your favorite inside parts, the universe knows the truth. I confess that I'm tired of feeling guilty and/or worried about faceless, made-up things and so have turned to women on the internet with soothing voices and elaborate background music to talk me through vibrational matching while I wash dishes. 

I've also started actually using the worksheet my friend gave me while they were getting their millionth degree in Making People Feel Better, the one about deconstructing anxious thoughts and negative self-talk. You know, the one that an actual smart person in real life suggested might be beneficial that I promptly shoved into a book and forgot about for months and months and months until a strange lady streaming footage of her face to the tune of Enigma reminded me of it? That one. Of course by "actually started using" I mean I dug it out and smoothed out most of the wrinkles and thought vaguely about using my boss's toner to make copies of it. And then congratulated myself for utilizing a source of stress as an instrument in managing stress. And then had a fantasy about the book deal I'll probably be offered pretty soon re: my thoughts on how life works.  

My Christmas tree cost $9.99 and I feel like I overpaid. I also feel smart and thrifty, because I decorated it with ribbons we had from the Mexico-Jamaica game in Philly this summer and the flowers I wore in my hair on Halloween. 

Another thing I feel really smart about is sneaking Chapstick into places where unsealed Chapstick isn't allowed. In fact, I'm considering becoming a professional Chapstick mule since I'm so good at it. If only this skill could be applied to something more lucrative. OH WELL.

I wasn't kidding about the handheld recorder, folks. Starting tomorrow I am a tiny box whisperer, and then maybe Sunday Confessions will be less rambly and nonsensical/not be the only posts I write ever. MAYBE.