Down in a Hole

Last week, my spouse and I were perusing the photos in our yearbook from our senior year of high school. Back in the day, our classmates bestowed upon me the title of "Most Humorous", aka "Class Clown". Little did they all know, I was (and still am) harboring a dirty little secret: 

I've suffered from depression for a good three decades. 

My mom brushed it off as the typical angst and moodiness that one generally associates with the teenage years, "growing pains", if you will. I was able to distract myself with school, after school activities, and my part-time job to get through those years. I used humor to help myself cope (hence the earning of the "Most Humorous" title). But as I grew older, and as most of those coping mechanisms and distractions disappeared, the negative feelings and emotions only increased in intensity. 

Along with causing the requisite perpetual feelings of sadness, worthlessness, and anxiety that plague me every day, here is what depression has done to me over the years:

I beat myself up. Constantly. Normal people make mistakes, learn from them, and move on. I make a mistake, or do/say something dumb, and I might learn from it, but I also don't let myself forget it for days, weeks, months...even years. My spouse says I'm my harshest critic, and she's right. No one is harder on me than me. Nothing anyone says to me could ever be worse than the verbal lashings I give myself on a daily basis. I've read various articles regarding self-love that state: "You should talk to yourself as you would to a good friend. If you wouldn't say those things to a friend, why would you say those things to yourself?" I certainly wouldn't call my friends what I call myself. I'm pretty sure I wouldn't even say any of that to my enemies. I truly am my own worst enemy. 

My creativity is currently in a stagnant stasis. Some artists transform their pain and extreme emotions into amazing works of art and spectacular stories, but when I'm down, I can't muster a sentence, let alone the next great American novel. I do have bursts of inspiration from time to time, but those blips have been coming less and less frequently, which scares me a little, and frustrates me a lot. I'm not someone who writes just to prove I've written something. I need to feel it. I need to be inspired. I want my writing to be authentic and genuine, and I feel like a reader can tell when it isn't. That's why frequent readers of this blog (all three of you) have probably noticed that in the last few years, new posts have been sporadic at best.

And when it comes to my manuscript, well...it's finished. It's technically been finished for about eight years now. It's 301 pages of a paranormal vampire/witch romance which will likely never be published. I've come to the conclusion that even if I do shop it around and somehow get it published, I'll never be satisfied with it. I'll always look at it and think "I should've killed off this character. I should have deleted this chapter. I should have had my antagonist say this, or do that." I've succumbed to the fact that I'll never be confident with my work. Speaking of confidence... 

Depression has murdered the confidence I used to possess in social situations, and in life in general. Sure, I was never the pretty, popular gal, but at least I could hold a conversation with someone. I hate that I now second guess, overanalyze, and stress about every social interaction. I'm aware that this makes me come across as shy and awkward, so to save face, I generally stay quiet. As a result, people perceive me as stuck up and snobby, when honestly, I don't always know what to say. Or, worse than that, I know what to say, but I don't want to chance the possibility of sounding like a bumbling moron (I tend to stutter when I'm nervous, which isn't helpful). I touched upon my shyness in one of my first blog posts.  I've become somewhat antisocial, and avoidant of activities where the expectation is to interact with people (i.e. happy hours at work, parties, get togethers, etc. This was all pre-pandemic, of course.) It got to the point where I stopped reaching out to/messaging/texting/talking to anyone all together, unless it was absolutely necessary. I simply don't want to make it weird and/or make someone uncomfortable. Oddly enough, when people get to know me, I'm more relaxed, and friends have said I'm actually kind of fun to be around. It's the "getting to know me" part that's the issue. The big problem is that most conversations with people usually play out as follows: 

*Cool person talking to me about their life* 

My inner voice as they're talking: "This person is really interesting. But I'm not interesting at all. In fact, I'm kind of boring. What do I say next? They think I'm a dork. I know they think I'm a dork. Is my hair sticking up again? Why are they even wasting their time talking to a loser like me? Ah, crap, they look bored. Wait, what did they say about Star Wars? Shit, now they're going to think I don't pay attention. They're never going to want to speak to me again. I totally blew this. God, I'm such a disappointment. Damn it." 

Me, when it's my turn to talk, inwardly cringing in preparation for the impending rejection: "So, uh, you like Star Wars, then?" 

*facepalm* 

I don't want to be this person. I wish I could snap out of it, or suck it up and be happy, like people have advised me to do in the past. It's not that easy, folks. Once depression digs her claws into you, it's excruciatingly difficult to escape her grasp. She's kind of a bitch that way.

However, I do want to feel better, so I'm attempting to employ some self-help type of techniques. When I start to go into the abyss, I think of the things I am grateful to have in my life: I have an amazing, loving spouse, a house we've turned into our home, a great job, and an adorable cat who is in my lap whenever possible. (He's in my lap right now, making typing somewhat of an adventurous endeavor.) I exercise at least four to five times a week, which temporarily puts me into a better headspace, and has done wonders for me physically. I do my best to choose kindness, and I'm working on controlling my stress and anxiety, to quiet that critical inner voice, while being present and giving people the benefit of the doubt instead of instantly assuming that every social exchange will become a worst case scenario situation. I'm trying to reach out to people who I would like to get to know a little better, people who have good, positive energy. I can't say that the process is successful at the moment, but at least I'm putting myself out there, I guess. I'm also focusing on doing things that pique my interest, keep my mind occupied, or at the very least, make me smile. Baby steps. 

Why am I blogging about this? Well, this is my blog, so what better platform to utilize for such a personal subject? I wanted the people who sort of know me in real life to see why I am the way I am. I'm risking being perceived as whiny and weak, risking eliminating potential friends, and presumably turning people off with the not-so-sunny subject matter, but I'm sharing this little slice of my life anyway, because maybe there is someone out there struggling through the same thing. If you are a fellow victim of this illness, I won't tell you that "You are not alone", because that phrase is not only cliche, it's bullshit. I can't offer any hot tips or recommend a remedy for you. What I will say is that you aren't the only one going through it. Hang in there.

If you're not dealing with depression, good for you! Consider yourself lucky. My only advise to you would be to check in with someone who might be hurting. One cliche saying that does apply here is that "people might not remember what you say to them, but they will remember how you make them feel". They might not welcome your inquiry concerning their well being with open arms at that moment, but they'll appreciate it, more than they may let on. You won't regret it.

Since this post was pretty heavy, here's a picture of Sylvester's meet and greet with my new trumpet to help lighten the mood.

Thanks for reading!

Here We Are

A lot can happen in 25 years. 

On November 8, 1996, I started dating someone with whom I had been friends since grade school. I'll admit, I didn't think it would last. I was barely nineteen, fresh from graduating high school, and wasn't particularly thinking about the long term. Convinced that I would be dumped early on, I went into it hoping for the best and expecting the worst. At least it would be a good time, if nothing else.

To my amazement, I not only wasn't dumped, but I found myself falling madly in love..and the feeling was mutual! The realization of this led to what can only be described as a wicked, occasionally rickety roller coaster ride, full of ups and downs, highs and lows, twists and turns, and plenty of unknowns. We moved into a tiny apartment that was two hours away from our hometown. We started our lives together having low-paying retail jobs, and both ended up with stable office jobs. We nursed each other through various illnesses, surgeries, and hospital stays. We spent many years living in loud apartments, and eventually scraped up enough money to buy our much more peaceful home. We traveled as often as our budget would allow, and explored new places as a couple. Neither one of us wanted to have kids, so we adopted a cat, who remains to this day the love of our lives (even though he has stepped on my keyboard three times as I'm writing this). Despite my lifelong belief that I was not marriage material, we were married shortly after it was made legal to do so, even though our relationship was nearly 19 years old at that time.

In the past 25 years, we've changed, and watched each other change, into the people we are today. We genuinely grew up together. We experienced agony and ecstasy. We've been tried and tested in countless ways. Heck, we even made it through the constant togetherness of working from our shared home office during the height of a pandemic! And yet...here we are. The weirdest part of all of this for both of us is the fact that we're old enough to be celebrating such a milestone!

So, today, we sit in our living room on our couch, with our cat snugly wedged in between us, wondering what the next 25 years will bring. In 2046, I can only hope that we will be able to look in each other's eyes and whisper: "Here we are".

What Doesn't Kill You...

In my last post, I alluded briefly to my recent health scare. Here's my story:

I've always been pretty healthy. I do what I can to take care of myself; I don't smoke, work out at least four to five times a week, drink lots of water, and watch my diet. I was in decent shape; certainly I wasn't completely ripped, but I didn't shy away from showing off my guns when the opportunity would arise. (Yes, nerds can have guns, too!) I was diagnosed with high blood pressure about 10 years ago, but I cannot think of a member of my family, on either side, who doesn't or didn't have high blood pressure. DNA wasn't on my side on this one, and the inevitable happened. My HBP is under control, so no worries there. Other than that, I was lucky up to that point.

So, this past November, when I was on my last day of a Carribean cruise (my first cruise, by the way), I didn't think anything of it when my stomach started to ache. I remember writing it off as nerves. I was worried about getting to the airport on time, not to mention that once I got on the plane, I had a three hour flight from Miami to get back home. My stomach pain was annoying, but tolerable. It also wasn't nausea, it was more like someone was stabbing me in my midsection with a butter knife.

The day after was Laundry-palooza, like it always is after one returns from a vacation. My stomach was still funky, but this time, I chalked it up to being back on land, getting my land legs back, etc.

Monday was the turning point. It was 8:30 at night, and all of a sudden, that subtle, mild, occasionally stabbing pain became a Freddy Krueger-like slashing throughout my entire abdomen.

I needed to lay down, and I didn't get out of bed until the next morning. But I'm stubborn, and didn't go to the ER, despite my spouse's pleas to do so. (We'll call my spouse C, for privacy's sake.) Two days later, I noticed that, along with the increase in pain, my upper abdomen was extremely bloated. But still, no nausea, no vomiting, and I thought for sure that it would all go away on its own.

Thanksgiving was the next day. I did my best to hide my excruciating discomfort at our family dinner, even though most of my family could tell that something was up. The defining moment was when I felt extremely hot, like I was going to pass out. I went outside to get some air, without a jacket and wearing a t-shirt. If you're from the Midwest, or at least familiar with the region, you're aware that it isn't exactly balmy in late-November in Ohio. I sat on my grandparents' front porch, on an old, iron bench, in the crisp, 40 degree air, not feeling the chill that I (or anyone else) normally would. I barely ate anything, and at Thanksgiving dinner, for me, that's highly unusual. But again, despite my promise to my dad that day, I didn't head to the ER that evening.

I finally succumbed to C's persistence that Saturday morning, after my temperature reached over 103 degrees, my bowels stopped working, and, as C explained, "your color isn't right. It's almost, like, gray." I still had the naive mindset that I would be sent home with prescription-strength Tums, or the equivalent. But, once a CAT scan was done, I received news I never dreamed I would hear from the ER doctor:

"You have a perforated appendix with an abscess. You'll need surgery right away."

Excuse me?

My appendix? Really? Aren't I too old for that? Or too young? How is that possible? Shouldn't I have had the requisite pain on my right side, and the nausea and vomiting? And is "perforated" the same thing as "ruptured"?

Apparently, my perforated appendix had been slowly trickling bacteria into my abdomen, like a tire with a slow leak, for about a week. I guess I was fortunate it didn't explode like something from the movie Alien, or I'd probably be dead. But even with the gradual bacterial infiltration, if I would've waited just a day longer to come in, I might not be sitting on my couch typing this. I was hours away from being septic, at the very least. My infection was to the point that the head of surgery at the hospital couldn't remove my appendix at that moment; she didn't want to risk spreading the infection to the rest of my body, and the abscess was right where she would need to cut. As she put it: "I don't want to have to take part of your colon with it."

I didn't want that, either.

Instead, I received a minor surgery in which a drain was placed in the heart of my abscess. I did get a good look at what was aspirated from the abscess before the drain was put in; the large syringe full of white goo was terrifying to me, even in my half-sedated state.

I spent next five days in the ICU. I was pumped full of every antibiotic the hospital had to offer, around the clock. Some of the antibiotics made me violently ill (oh, there's the nausea and vomiting!). One of the most freak-worthy aspects of this was that for two solid days, my urine was the color of iced tea. That might be considered TMI, but let that sink in for a moment. I was that messed up.

C was amazing. C was there with me, by my side, for almost the entire five days. C left only briefly, after my Mom came to stay with me, and returned as soon as our cat, Sylvester, was dropped off at a boarding facility. Although the hospital was only a few minutes from our house, it was a lot for C to keep going home to feed him, and he was stressing and freaking out about being constantly alone.

Finally, I was sent home, feeling light years better than the week prior. However, the antibiotics that were prescribed to me as I was on my way out the door continued to make me sick, even at home. I also had to keep the drain in for another week. I appreciate and can't thank C enough for taking care of me, particularly with the cleaning and flushing of that drain twice a day, as it wasn't a picnic for either one of us. The drain was removed a week after I returned home. All in all, I was off work for three weeks, which was not as enjoyable as it sounds.

I went back to the surgeon for a follow up visit two weeks later. She said that since I had recovered so well, I had a choice: I could have my appendix removed, or I could wait. The chances of re-rupture, she stated, were only 15%. Those numbers, while seemingly small, were too big for me. Who knew where I would be, or what I would be doing, if it did rupture again?

"Get this thing out of me," I demanded.

In mid-January, my damaged appendix was removed laparoscopically, and I was off of work for another two weeks. The surgeon took pictures, which were wild, and kind of grotesque. While explaining what was going on in each picture, she pointed out the dark pink blob that had caused me so much grief, and said something truly alarming:

"Look at how inflamed it is," she remarked. "It wasn't a question of if it would rupture again, but when."

Yikes. I was, literally, a walking ticking time bomb.

So, six months later, I'm still recovering. I thought I would be back to eating normally and kickboxing in a few weeks. I received not only a reality check, but also a reminder that I'm not as young as I used to be. My digestion is still jacked, and I'm more bloated than I want to be. My energy was, and continues to be, sapped. I've only gained a little bit of weight, but since I've been too weak to keep strength training in my regimen, I've lost muscle. To say that I'm frustrated and impatient with my body's healing process is an understatement. It took me quite a few years to get my body to the point that it was pre-appendicitis, so to see my hard work disappear so damn quickly just sucks. Exercise is also what I generally use as a mainstay for my mental and spiritual balance, so since I haven't physically been able to do it as much, those aspects of my life have suffered, too. But, I've been walking five to six days a week, for at least 30 minutes, so as to rebuild my endurance. I've cleaned up my diet, and have been taking probiotics in an attempt to tidy up my gut. It's been a long, slow process, but I finally feel like there's hope. I'm getting there. Reflecting on the experience, I can say that I'm grateful to still be walking on this Earth. My journey continues.

I guess what I'm trying to say is this: When your body is trying to tell you something, listen to it. Even if you find out that the annoying pain is nothing more than an annoying pain, at least you'll know for sure. And if it's more than an annoying pain, you've hopefully saved yourself from a scary ordeal like mine. Just remember: no human is immortal, and when you think "it can't happen" to you, that's when it usually does.

Incidentally, Kelly Clarkson had a recent bout of appendicitis, too. Although hers did not rupture, I couldn't imagine doing all of the things she did while being in that amount of pain, as I could barely sit up half of the time. I enjoy her music and admired her before, but I have nothing but respect for her now.

Don't Call it a Comeback

Well, hello there!

It's been a minute since I've visited this place. Okay, six years is a little more than a minute. They say that life comes at you fast, and, well...that's not an inaccurate statement. A lot has changed in my life since my last post, including the subject of my last post. Sadly, the Fit is no more, but happily, it's because I traded in my silver bullet baby for a new, blue, HRV baby. I'm married, and we adopted a cat, our boy Sylvester, who is the love of our lives.

And then, there's the new job...

Writing became little more than a fleeting afterthought for me once I immersed myself in my new, stressful job. I don't know how it happened, but I gradually went from at least looking at my WIPs at least once a day, to once a week, maybe once a month and then...nothing. Between the overwhelming, crazy hours at work, and the frightening sense that my creativity was slowly leaking out of my brain, writing just ceased to happen. It was as if the raging waterfall of ideas and words in my head simply dried up. I didn't think about the book, or the blog, or social media, and kind of gave up on all of it. I didn't have the time, or the motivation. Looking back on it, it was kind of sad. I've always been a writer. Even though it's not my profession, it's certainly a passion, and has been ever since I was sitting in my room at age 8, writing stupid stories about things that apparently concern an eight-year-old. And even if no one reads anything I write, the satisfaction of putting my voice out there is enough for me. I'm not in it for the money. Never have been.

So, why now, you may ask? Why am I suddenly coming back to a world that I deserted, particularly when I am still working more hours and using a decent amount of my brain's capacity and power for my problem-solving, fast-paced, think-on-your-feet occupation?

A health scares is a funny thing. It can motivate you like nothing else. When you are face-to-face with the fact that you are mortal, that you will die someday, and that yes, as cliche as it sounds, life is short, well...it forces you to re-prioritize. I will blog about my ordeal another time, but suffice it to say that my near-death experience made me think. What haven't I done? What do I want to do? There are, of course, the bucket-list answers that vary from person to person, and I do have a few of those items that I will check off someday, mark my words (Italy, I'm on my way, eventually!). But the biggest one was my WIPs, the Word docs which became the recipients of my blood, sweat, and tears for nearly three years. Okay, there was no blood. But the tears were there, and so was the sweat; I'm in perpetual perspiration mode at any given time. So, one day, as I was recovering at home, I powered up my old laptop, found the Bloody Sunset WIPs (a complete book 1, a maybe halfway finished Book 2, and fragments of a possible book 3), started reading, and fell back in love with the little world that I created. I was so enamored that I decided to return to that little world, to those characters who were right there, waiting for me to tell them what to do.

So, I did. I still am. I'm writing again. To say that it's cathartic is a bit of a stretch, but it does feel good.

I will also be doing a mini-return to the social media scene, though not as heavily as before. But, I am on Twitter and Instagram (which is kind of new to me). Facebook--not so much. The blog will be utilized more as well. If you know me, you can expect to see posts about music (which is an enormous part of my life), random events that happen in life, and, because of the health scare, posts about wellness. Nothing preachy, mind you, but balance is something I'm trying desperately to achieve, so I'll probably say something about that. Oh, and the books. I'll keep you updated on those, too.

So, don't call it a comeback...I've been here for years.

Take Good Care Of My Baby

A few of you may know of my extreme infatuation with my car. I've had my Honda Fit for a little less than a year. This was taken on Christmas Day at my grandparents' house.

I've Been Away For Too Long

A few of you might be wondering about my recent absence from this blog, Facebook, Twitter, and all the other social media stuff. Aside from the fact that I can’t stand Facebook and am only on it because, for whatever reason, my Mom’s way into it, I’ve been what can only be described as uber-busy.

My last post was all about how I quit my job after nearly eleven years of being there. I immediately started a new job the following week, and my life hasn’t been the same since. As the 80s TV show theme song states, it’s a different world from where I come from. I went from working for a company with an office of twelve employees to working for a company with over 425 employees spread out over six locations in four states. I work at one of the two biggest offices. Talk about culture shock!

Since I haven’t had to worry about it for a long time, I forgot how stressful the experience of starting a new job really is. Nothing humbles you like being in an unfamiliar place with people you don’t know who have been working there a lot longer than you. I went from being a big fish in a little pond to being a minnow swimming upstream trying to get to the big pond. Even after a month of being there, I’m still the newbie, the rookie. I try to prove myself every single day. It’s a lot to get used to.

I’m breaking into a new field. This means I’m unfamiliar with the jargon, the processes, and pretty much everything else. Fortunately, I’m a fast learner. Unfortunately, my perfectionist self thinks I should already know everything. I tend to beat myself up when my boss comes to me with a mistake, even though she insists it’ll be okay and now I know what not to do. It’s less frustrating than it was the first week, when I was convinced I made the biggest mistake of my life by changing jobs. I even considered begging my old employer to get my job back.

I’m glad I didn’t.

Between having to learn new things every day and getting used to my surroundings and the people, my brain is exhausted. I come home and think of writing or blogging, but it doesn’t happen. The words aren't there. My routine for the last few weeks after I arrive home from work has been the following: I exercise, eat dinner, and veg out. I’ll admit it. Even on weekends, writing hasn’t been easy. I’m hoping that will change as I adapt to my new situation; I miss messing with my characters!

So, that’s where I’ve been for the last month. Despite the initial difficulties, I now enjoy my new profession. I think once I get into a groove, I’ll no longer be thrown off, and I’ll be writing a lot more. Stay tuned, folks!

Ch-Ch-Changes!

Two days ago, I quit my job.

Okay, technically, I quit my job about two weeks ago when my boss took my resignation letter from my trembling hand, but my last day at the office was this past Friday.

Some of you may be thinking, "So what, Lisa? People quit their jobs every day. Whoopty-doo. BFD." Well, to me, this is a BFD.

Lyrically Speaking

Whenever I listen to music, I not only have an appreciation for a great bass line, I also pay close attention to the lyrics. I absolutely love a song that tells a story or takes you on a journey. But some song lyrics are merely fun or just plain strange. So, I decided to share a few of my favorite random lyrics.

Keep in mind: These do not necessarily come from my all-time favorite songs.

1. Lita Ford: "Kiss Me Deadly" (1988)
"I went to a party last Saturday night, I didn't get laid, I got in a fight...Uh-huh. It ain't no big thing..."

This song is off of Lita's album titled Lita, which was her most successful solo album after The Runaways broke up. The above phrase begins the song. When this tune first hit the charts, I wasn't old enough to really grasp how cool that concept was. When I did go to parties, I found that I didn't get laid or get in a fight during any of them, much to my dismay. The closest I got was in fifth grade when my then "boyfriend" kissed me on the cheek during a dare. It didn't get anymore rowdy than that in my later years, folks. Apparently, I wasn't badass enough to party like Lita. Unfortunately, I don't know if I'm badass enough to do that today!

2. Edie Brickell and the New Bohemians: "What I Am" (1988)
"Philosophy is the top of a cereal box..."

In 1988, Edie Brickell and the New Bohemians album Shooting Rubberbands At The Stars peaked at number 4 on the hot 100 chart, mostly because of this song. Confession: I. Love. This. Song. I used to sing it all of the time, it was one of the first tunes I downloaded onto Napster (shhhh...) and even my Mom says whenever she hears this song she thinks of me. I think its quirky, alternative vibe drew me to it, and the lyrics were kind of deep (at the time, anyway). As for the above lyrics, I can understand religion being a smile on a dog or a light in the fog, and philosophy possibly being symbolized by a walk on the slippery rocks...but the top of a cereal box? Have you seen the top of a cereal box lately? Behold...

Hmmm. No quotes from Aristotle or Socrates, just the expiration date, the cereal name and brand, plugs for the "Labels For Education," and the all-important instructions to "lift tab to open". Maybe cereal boxes were different 25 years ago...

3. Richard Harris: MacArthur Park (1968)

"Someone left the cake out in the rain. I don't think could take it 'cause it took so long to bake it. And I'll never have that recipe again...oh no!!"

In 1968, this song hit #2 on the Billboard Hot 100 in the US. The tune was rumored to be about songwriter Jimmy Webb and his relationship with Linda Ronstadt's cousin, Susan. MacArthur Park, located in the Westlake neighborhood of Los Angeles, was where they often met for lunch and had good times together. Lyrically, it really is a romantic song...except for the lyrics above. I never understood why this guy got so worked up about the cake, and the recipe, and leaving it out in the rain. I mean, I really enjoy cake too, but wow. Dude, calm down. Don't panic. It's just a cake. I'm sure there's a bakery nearby...

4. Sisqo: "Thong Song" (2000)
"She had dumps like a truck, truck, truck..."

This ode to women who enjoy wearing thong underwear and bikinis (aka not me) was the second single off of Sisqo's debut album, Unleash The Dragon. It received four Grammy nominations. Yep, four. This song introduced me to the expression "dumps like a truck". I recently wondered what it meant, and how one could get "dumps like a truck". Would I have to hang with my 3-year-old cousin Samuel for inspiration? He has several dump trucks...that kid loves trucks. Must I take a dump as big as a truck? God, I hope not. Turns out, neither scenario is necessary -- "Dumps like a truck", for the two or three of us in the universe who didn't know, refers to a big ole' booty. This song is supposed to celebrate the thong, however, how is telling a woman she has dumps like a truck complimentary again?

Quite frankly, I could add about 20 more sets of random lyrics I find interesting, but since this is a blog and not a book, I'll stop now. I'm sure you have your own favorite quirky, fun, or just plain strange lyrics. It really makes you wonder what these folks are thinking...or what they're on!

Hit Me With Your Best Shot

Hi. I'm Lisa, and I like hockey.

When the Columbus Blue Jackets played their first game back in 2000, I was elated. We finally had an NHL team in Ohio...and in Columbus, to boot! While the team hasn't had a stellar performance...well, ever, watching a hockey game at Nationwide Arena is a cool experience. And if the Jackets happen to win, bonus!

But I'm not a Jackets fan. I'm a Leafs fan. Yes, you read that right.

So This Is The New Year

Howdy, folks! How is everyone doing? Even though 2013 is in its infancy, I hope it's treating you well. If you're like me, you're preparing to get back to the grind after some time off from work. I guess it was inevitable, right? Still...ouch.

Have you stuck to your resolutions? As I said last year, I don't do resolutions. I find them binding, constrictive, like being wrapped up in bandages, mummy-style. They're not really my thing. If you're into that type of stuff, good luck to you. Last year, I stated a few intentions, which seemed to work out well, but this year, I'm determined to make things happen. So, I'm going with goals. Here are a few of the things I want to achieve in 2013:

Party In The Hall Of Fame

Yesterday, the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame announced the inductees for the class of 2013. The lucky few this year are: Randy Newman, Rush, Heart, Public Enemy, Quincy Jones, Lou Adler, Albert King, and Donna Summer. The last two will be honored posthumously; King died in 1992, and Summer passed earlier this year.

When Black Friday Comes

Next week, those of us in the US will celebrate Thanksgiving. It's a time to spend with family, watch parades, football, and bad TV, and eat until we're stuffed like the bird we consumed. It's also the day before the biggest and craziest shopping day of the year, which is of course known as "Black Friday". You've seen these folks on TV, right? The ones pepper-spraying fellow shoppers just to further their chances at an XBox which is only twenty or thirty dollars cheaper than it normally sells for? How about the folks who pull hair and shove people just to have the opportunity to buy the "Whatever-We're-Doing-To-Elmo-This-Year" Doll? (By the way, those might be pretty darn cheap anyway, considering recent events.)

Hey Hey Isn't That Random?

Regular readers of this blog know that along with writing and music, I sometimes tend to blog about random stuff that pops into my head. I can also be shamelessly narcissistic; despite this, I really don't talk about myself that much. Why not change that, at least for a post or two?

So, without further ado, I give you: Seven Weird Random Facts About Me.

U Got The Look

I've been tagged again!

The lovely @ebelleful, aka Eliana Fonseca, tagged me in the "U Got The Look" game. (By the way, if you're a writer/author in need of a book cover, do check out the giveaway on her blog. Good stuff, people!)

So, "U Got The Look" is a writing prompt, another tagging event. Here's how it works: take your current manuscript, search for the word “look”, and post the surrounding paragraphs. Lastly, you tag 5 blogging authors who you think will be a good choice for the game.

Christine, Drive Me Out Of My Mind

Something awesome happened today!

A lot of you folks are aware of my lovely car and its issues. For those of you who aren't, please let me enlighten you.

Spice Up Your Life

Autumn. When this lovely season arrives, it brings colder temperatures with crisp winds, leaves colored in vivid red, orange, and yellow hues, and seasonal grub we all look forward to devouring. Caramel apples, candy corn in all its waxy glory...and pumpkin everything. Pumpkin pie, pumpkin rolls, pumpkin ice cream, pumpkin pie soda (!), and the now-coveted pumpkin spice lattes. However, the pumpkin craze might be going too far. The newest addition to the 'pumpkin flavored' family: pumpkin pie spice Pringles. Yep, you read that right. Those potato crisps in a can have gone sweet instead of savory. I'm adventurous when it comes to food, but even I don't know if I can handle those...and I ate a donut burger last year, folks.

So this got me thinking: What foods would be truly tragic if touched by the pumpkin spice fairy? Here's a list of a few of the foods which should never be pumpkin spiced! Some might be personal preference, but most are just common sense.

Sad Songs Say So Much

I was feeling a bit down today. It was just one of those days; those long, never-ending, monotonous days that I wished had a fast-forward button. In my funk, the wonderful H.P. Oliver (who's a heck of a guy, by the way), said that putting a song in his head chases the blues away. Music has been a friend of mine my entire life, so this makes perfect sense to me. However, I do everything bass ackwards, and instead of listening to happy tunes, I tend to sway toward songs that help me to let it all out of my system. So, I present to you: Songs That Make Me Bawl My Eyes Out. Read 'em and weep!

Stray From The Path

Birthdays. We all have them. Heck, it would be a real problem if we didn't, right? Mine happens to be tomorrow. While it's not a "big-0" birthday (you know, 20, 30, 40, etc.), it's what I consider to be a milestone in my life; a crossroads, if you will. I find myself questioning a lot of choices I've made in my life, reevaluating goals I haven't yet accomplished (but probably should have by now), and wondering where I'm supposed to go from here. I'm hoping this is common for people my age.

If I Was Your Vampire

Ah, vampires. Those bloodthirsty creatures of the night seem to be everywhere right now. Books, movies, TV shows...you can find a vampire almost anywhere! I personally have a bit of an obsession with the immortal beasts, so much so that my WIP, Bloody Sunset, contains several, including my main character.

Maybe it's just me, but have you noticed that every book, every movie, and every TV program has different 'vampire rules'? Some can walk around in the sun. Some of them eat garlic on a regular basis. And even more laugh in the face of a cross being held by some hapless victim. The inconsistencies baffle the mind.

The Girl At The Rock Show

Ah, rock concerts. The thrill of seeing and hearing a band you love play their music live, right in front of you (and likely thousands of other people). I do enjoy attending these events, though I don't get to do so as frequently as I used to. C and I went to a concert this past week, and we concluded that sometimes, people-watching can be just as entertaining as the bands on the stage. We also agreed that at most rock shows, there are different types of people who you will probably encounter at some point in the evening. If you haven't been to a concert in a while, or if you're getting ready to go to your very first one (damn kids), I present to you: A Rock Show Primer. This will familiarize you with a few of the various varieties of humans that you'll see at most concerts.