where i see a lot of stars

I drink beer now. And Merlot. I don't know what's happening.

I actually do, but anyway...

I am assigning phases in life, familiar situations, to alcohol. Okay, you ready?

Sweet reds - flings.
A good, and true Moscato - one night stand or a serious 2 day stint of sexting with a (kind of) stranger. Merlot - A complicated relationship, complete with comfort and conflicting feelings.

Shot of tequila followed by sangrita - a seriously good masturbation.
PBR (or Hamm's) - maybe one kiss on the cheek, or can be subbed out for a fun night with friends.
Drambuie - sitting in the evening sun.

Whiskey and coke - Writing when you're lonely.
Mojito - Wearing a tank top that shows a little too much of your (hot) side boob.
Lemon Drop Martini - well, this one needs no explanation.

So, you see what I'm doing? I'm becoming an alcoholic. But, I don't care. Life is hard - and love is hard - and separating the darks from the lights is hard. Everything is sore, so I drink and become familiar with fake scenarios that give me comfort.

Is that so wrong?

Nothing Matters When We're Dancing

When I was seventeen, I was fighting for my life. And I was scrappy in typical 17-year-old ways. Making out with boys in the back of my car, in barns, at stop signs on desolate country roads, on couches, on beds, standing up, on their door steps, in clothes, out of clothes, at parties in fields and so on and so forth. I had about 4 or 5 guys in my rolodex and a boyfriend. I know - despicable. And mostly, I'm not proud.

Haven't you noticed that life is hard? I was learning that shit on the front lines, and quickly. I had one dad to die, one mom to move away, brothers who had to follow and the entire life my little brain knew vanished - fell in between the railroad tracks on it's way out of town. I was (mostly) alone in the world. So, I filled up on fake comfort, tongues and sweaty encounters. And who's to say I didn't enjoy it? Things were fucked up; I was pretty and without a curfew and had a badass Buick. I don't hate it that I learned life like this. Because I had a chance to.

Two 17 year old kids got killed in my hometown on Saturday. They tried to out-run a train.

They tried to out-run a mother fucking train. Kids, you guys, just kids who will never have a chance to find out that life (kind of) evens out as you get older. Grief is coiled in my stomach for their families and for their friends and for the train conductor and for the first responders and for the void my small town will suffer and for the mercilessness of this world. I'm sick. And I'm so sorry.

Sorry.. but also thankful.

only, I don't know how

I happen to be okay by myself. Which is shocking and unexpected news from someone who rates as a 99% extrovert on all the personality tests. (Let's be honest, I've only taken the Myers-Briggs: ENFJ, gentlemen.) But I'm okay alone. Let me clarify, though, to allow no room for error. I'm okay alone for a small amount of time. And by alone, I mean, surrounded by people. Because here I am on a Friday night, the husband is out of town and I tote my laptop to my favorite pizza place, order wine and listen to the hum of happy families eating. It's still alone, right? Just *not* alone. It's a seriously complicated paradox, but me? I'm okay with it.

It wasn't always so, as it is with every love story. In college I was not okay. The middle of my sophomore year I was a funeral march. Everything was devastating - I stayed in bed for hours and days and hours in a day and months more like, it was foreign to me. The soles of my feet were heavy with pain - why would I want to walk?

And here's the turn around: one night, locked in a study room in the upstairs of the library trying my little heart out to type a Philosophy paper, I called my Nena and cried and cried and cried about everything. I just kept sobbing "I'm so sad" over and over again. She waited until I took a breath (a gasp, a "MAN OVERBOARD" kind of thing) and she said calmly and seriously and full of the softness of a goddamned rose, she said: "pack your bags. I'm coming tonight."

That's the woman who helped build me.

That's the woman who had a major health scare this week - everything is fine, now. But Tuesday I was convinced that every breath I took, every red light I saw on my frantic drive down to her house was going to be forever stayed in my heart as a fucking curse.
Did I mention she's fine now?

She is. And I'm not sure I've ever been so thankful. Because here is the truth: my life is nothing without her joy. Because sharing a bottle of Merlot with her on the north porch in my hometown beats everything. Everything. She is mine and there is no simple way to say it. With her living, I live.

I know you understand.

for the life of me, i can not remember

"Remember who you wanted to be." What kind of guilt trip is that goddamned bumper sticker trying to evoke? Hey you, old Saturn, YOU remember who YOU wanted to be. Don't go around pointing your dirty fingers at me, in my face.

I know, I know...

It wasn't personal. But it sure seems like it could be these days.

I'm way off, guys. And sometimes it really is debilitating. But sometimes, it's okay.

It's a hard one. Tonight, I'll let it wash over me however it chooses - but mostly, I'm hoping for a baptism.

you may as well get what you want

I drove to the top of a parking garage tonight and stood on the roof of my car. It sounds insane, doesn't it? It is a desperate act of an unbalanced human. It has to be, right?

I haven't figured anything out.

If you're wondering, it was awesome. Just standing there taller than the mundane shit around me - people walking on the sidewalk not knowing that a looming petite girl was wavering right above their heads. Scurrying around, quickly, probably thinking about sweeping their floors or grocery lists or it probably really doesn't matter what they were thinking - I was just there. Existing in a solitary moment. Breathing and breathing. Wondering how I don't ever know what to do about how I feel.

Life is moving. And it makes me do a lot of standing still.

bring me a dream

This is my favorite time of the year - I know, I know, that's a very Shit Girls Say kind of thought, but it's true. It's refreshing, feels like the end to a long day deep breath. It's a sigh, a feeling of "finally", you know? Now, in a few weeks I'll be sad that summer is just a memory, but right now I feel very content - floating in water, resting, listening to wind.

It won't last. Nothing lasts, not with me anyway.

That's okay, though. I can live in this moment right now - the sea of foliage, the easiness of cooler weather on my skin - the capability of being free during the inbetweens. I can do it. And when the time comes that I'm not so relaxed, I can remember when I was.

When I was young, we had a big brick, built up grill in our back yard - I busted my skull on it once running away from a kid named Keith. That night was full of good, full of bad but wonderfully bloody and sweaty. Life is like that.

take my whole life, too

Boy, I was drunk during that last blog post. Did you even understand anything? Because, rereading it, doesn't make sense to me. I thought, "goddamn it, that girl is drunk." And it's true. I got drunk on Sunday night, too. That time I wasn't alone, which is a little bit better. I was surrounded by my hardware buddies who just couldn't stop buying me drinks. And you know how that goes? It's chapter 1 in my etiquette book, you never say no to a free drink UNLESS it has a roofie in it. Duh, you guys.

But today the sun is absurd (in a good way) and so is work (in the bad way) and life is back to normal. I get to have a sweet black kitten on my lap and a boy who likes to wake up next to me. It's difficult to stay disappointed with life when the fundamentals are bursting with goodness.

Also, you may have noticed that I've scaled back on writing real things - forgive me, okay? Soon. Not that you wait with baited breath and curse the universe and sob in the corner of your house because my posts have been shitty, but soon. Ok?

woke up with a strange tattoo

It's funny the things we do, you know, as humans. Money and work and companionship and feeling connected and combing our hair. Just the craziest stuff that's normal. But, let's face it, it's fucking crazy.

I don't know, you know? A few whiskeys and I'll type, erase, re-type, re-erase and re-re-type a blog post. Nothing seems to make sense, just that I'm tired. I work too much and feel insanely under appreciated and a tad bit lonely. Over worked and a little bit drunk, those two things probably go hand in hand. But I hate doing that shit alone in Indianapolis in a hotel bar. Anyway, I'm selling the shit out of moth balls and fly swatters this weekend. Twice a year, for 3 whole days at a time, I sell hardware or things that get sold in hardware stores. Weird, right? Let's face it though, selling is in my blood.

I'm ending this before it makes less sense than right now.

birds pass by to tell me that i'm not alone

My dad's name was Dayne. Dayne Thomas Anderson. He was a handsome man, funny and sincere. People wanted to be his friend - his authenticity was palpable from across the room. I'm not kidding. He had a good laugh, a barrel chest and teeny tiny heart tattoo on his left arm.

He was born in late December back in '63 (yep, like the song)and he wore socks to his calves. My feet look a lot like his did.

My mom divorced him for a few reasons, one of them: he had a drinking problem. A big one. And even though he was an amazing example of a true and genuine human, his faults destroyed his family on several occasions. It was devastating to hear them fight as a tiny girl from my bedroom and know the *exact* moment it turned physical because the fighting sounded differently. It was hurtful to know too much, like how extra-marital affairs were commonplace in my parents' marriage as an 8 year old. I knew the phone number to the police, by heart. I would hide and call them if things got too much for my little heart to handle. I couldn't participate in fundraisers; the money would be used for booze. These things, I'll never forget.

But along with those things, I know he loved me. I know he quit drinking for my brother and me - I know those things because he told me ALL THE FUCKING TIME. He apologized and I believed him. Strike that, I believe him. Alcoholism is a disease and because he was my dad and I was his daughter and because we are Andersons and because I know that life is a fuck fest most of the time, I forgive him. AND I believe him. I know he's sorry and I know that if he were alive, we'd be close.

People tell me I remind them of his best times. They tell me I have his smile and his social charisma. And I'm proud of that. I'm happy to be Dayne Anderson's daughter. I know now what I couldn't have understood then. And that is quite alright.

I know you've been hurting

The kitchen was quiet tonight - it was me (soggy hands) and tomato stained bowls. My breathing was steady; no explanation - just steady.

Some days that's a little miracle.

And outside, tiny little specks of water hit the window. Quietly.