"Cancer: This week’s going to feel a little choppy, a little stormy—like it has the potential to ruin you, like it has the potential to bring down everything you’ve ever believed in, every defense you’ve built for yourself. This sounds dark and crazy, maybe, but it’s okay. It’s okay to let yourself grow big and angry; it’s okay to storm and rage through the skies; it’s okay to sit inside at the window and watch the clouds blow over. This week is not about the power, it is not about destruction, it is about the way the air smells after a storm."
— Madame Clairevoyant for the Rumblr (via annaverity)
I don’t get into all that astrology nonsense but I very much like this.
(via annaverity)
Coworker: Don’t ever run a full marathon, because then you’ll become one of those people who talk about running all the time.
Me: You obviously don’t follow me on Twitter or Instagram.
Anytime I start acting like I’m different than other girls, just remind me of the dream I had last night where Ryan Gosling and I were engaged and I flaunted my huge diamond rock in an old frenemy’s face.
Is a half hour enough time to sober up so I can watch “Nashville?” Scratch that/reverse it. I think the question is: in a half hour am I still going to be drunk enough to watch “Nashville?”
2012 wasn’t the worst year I’ve ever had. No one cheated. No one divorced. I started the year off in snowy Chicago and am ending it in snowy Cincinnati. I had two jobs and lived in three different apartments. I shared lots of cheese plates and bottles of wine, ran lots of Ks and laughed a bunch with various kindred spirits.
I like to have a general theme going into each new year instead of resolutions, though I enjoy those, too. It’s just so nice to have a clean slate and start fresh. Like Miss Stacey always used to say to Anne Shirley, “tomorrow is always fresh with no mistakes in it.”
The theme of 2011 was “go big or go home” (I went big). In 2012 I think it was just “go home” (which I did, obv). I spent much of my recent holiday break rewatching LOST in its entirety (just so we’re clear on how sad that is, it’s upwards of 100 hours of television). One of LOST’s oft-repeated anthems is “whatever happened, happened.” Basically, let go and move on. I spend far too much time dwelling on the good ol’ days (and the bad ol’ days), so I’m going to try to make 2013 a year of looking forward.
Happy New Year, etc. I’m just glad that everyone else will be making resolutions to save money and eat less so I can go back to being a spendthrift without all those holiday jerks getting in the way.
Cheers, y’all.
I’ll be pretty stoked when the 30-days-of-Facebook-thankfulness are over and done with. Thirty days of public thankfulness sure does yield a lot of repetitive drivel. No more artfully crafted back-pats with overuse of the word “hubby?” Excellent. While November’s end brings that crap to a close, December’s beginning brings with it a new challenge— the inevitable deluge of posts about the Elf on the Shelf and his comings and goings. I can’t begin to tell you how dumb I think this is, but luckily I’m a crusty childless divorcee who’s in no danger of getting pressured to participate. As with most Things The Middle Class Likes, I assume that the little elf vignettes will be pimped out by parents on Facebook ad infinitum.
If I’m wrong, I will be the happiest scrooge in all of the internet.
I moved back to Cincinnati from Chicago on purpose, and I live here of my own free will. I love living here and only mildly enjoyed living there. Cincinnati is objectively a way shittier city, though, with much less to offer.
Chicago traffic is awful at all hours of the day and night. This makes sense, because there are a ton of people traveling to fun or businessy places, spending and making money. Cincinnati rush hour traffic is just as bad, and it is way more aggravating, because this city consists of bland Ohioans schlubbing around from one lame place to the next.
I write this with the affection of someone who is content with her city and also with the crankiness of someone who spent 1 hr driving 20 miles. Get it together, Cincinnati. A train from work ‘burbs to home ‘burbs would do wonders, as would getting over the obsession with suburbs in general.
