Notes from the Newly Single: Dating Again

So, apologies for not providing a detailed update to all of you, but in the short version, I'm going to say I'm back to being single. 

Holy wow. 

For the first time in three in a half years, I actually have to start thinking about what I want in a boyfriend or partner or whatever the term is now. I have to start thinking about what I'm looking for from square one again. It's weird. I was in love with Bill for so long, and he fit the mold almost exactly of everything I knew I wanted, and he also showed me a great deal of things I never thought were important to me, but I realized while being with him that they are. Things he did, or characteristics about him that I don't want to go on living without now that I know how awesome they are. I also learned a few things I always thought were important to me, really aren't as much at the end of the day. 

All that considered, you'd think I'd have the blue prints for my soulmate all mapped out in my mind, but I don't. I have to start from the ground up, start with the littlest things. What should they look like? I was instantly attracted to Bill, and haven't really had to look at any other man and decide if I was truly attracted to him enough to date him in a long time. What do I want them to do for fun? Is it a deal breaker if they hike a lot and I hate hiking? Is it a big deal if they don't like to go to the movies, or the only movies they watch have Vin Diesel in them? {read: stupid movies} How important is there religion to me? Would I date someone that was like really into his dog? You know those guys who are like "It's me and my dog, man, package deal!" and they almost act like their dog is their life partner and you're the mistress? Actually, I already know the answer to that. 

When you've been with someone you had all those little things in common with for so long, someone that got your sense of humor, understood your moods, liked the same shit you liked and took the time to pay attention to all the little details of things that made you happy, it's super unnerving to imagine going out and trying other people on for size. 

The ways in which they can disappoint you seem endless.

It feels like job hunting.

This one is a perfect role, but I hate the hours.

This one is right by my house but doesn't pay enough.

This one is great but doesn't provide benefits.

This one looked good until I met my future boss, or my potential co-workers.

This one doesn't even provide coffee in the breakroom.

I hate the idea of getting through the first 3 or 4 or 5 dates, only to realize that they shoot bunnies in their free time or don't hold the door open for me or blow their nose at the dinner table, and have to start all over at square one.

It sounds so exhausting.

But a little exciting at the same time.

First dates, first time holding hands, first kisses. All the little things you do have in common that you start off with. Like painting by numbers, and starting with the greens. The little place holders we put in to keep us feeling like we're right for each other, until the bigger moments can come along and hopefully slide into their place.

I guess it's when they don't that you have to start all over again, but still getting to know people is always kind of fun.

Delighting at the fact that you both love Charlotte's Web over dinner where you accidentally order the same thing, and you laugh and go "Oh we have so much in common"

It might be a fiery train wreck at the end, but at least the appetizers were good. 

Stuck

I am stuck somewhere between wanting to blog every thought and feeling I have, and not wanting to sound like an obsessive, depressive basket case.

I am also stuck somewhere between writing some of the best pieces I've written in months {depression makes me talented} and again, not wanting to sound like an obsessive, depressive basket case.

Sure I could say that I'm "writing it all for me", but when you know everyone in your life as well as everyone in the life of the person you're writing about reads what you're posting, it's hard not to feel like you're putting all your shit on blast, even if it isn't intended that way. 

It's hard not to feel like you're being that pathetic girl who is sending out passive aggressive please for a second chance, or trying to subtly make the guy who hurt her feel like an asshole by parading around how hurt she is.

Ugh. 

There's no good answer. 

And I fucking hate journaling.

And seriously, some of the shit I've been writing is really good.

Maybe I'll post it all later when everything isn't raw and fresh, and then it will be taken as well written creative writing pieces, and not sad eulogies for a dead relationship.

Or maybe I'll just care less about what anybody thinks after a little time.

Who knows. 

In the meantime, I may be publishing on another site here soon, if all goes well. 

I don't want to go into details yet because over sharing is bad luck in my life, but I promise if it all pans out I'll tell you everything. And yes, I'll still keep the blog, and I'll link up whenever I contribute to the other site.

I'm not leaving this blessed domain of free speech to live exclusively in the land of freelance.

I will always treasure a place where I can post what I want without someone editing my spelling and grammar or asking me not to say fuck so much.

Fuckers.

What Do You Want to Leave Behind?

Have you ever thought about your obituary?

This might sound morbid and weird, but....when do I not sound morbid and weird?

In my high school English class we were given the assignment of writing our own obituaries, as we'd want them to be, if we passed away. It could be as if you died tomorrow, or in 80 years.

Mine was sarcastic, and not serious at all.

I think I wrote that I died by being crushed by an elephant while dressed as a giant peanut.

My teacher wasn't amused.

Bill and I were talking the other night about all the places we want to go, and all the things we want to do, and what we hope our lives will be like in 5 or 10 years.

It made me think about that obituary I wrote.

I don't want to die dressed as peanut.

I really don't want to ever do anything dressed as a peanut....

So I rewrote mine.

"Sarah passed away over the weekend, passing peacefully in her sleep on a beach side Palapa in the Maldives. She was 112. Sarah led an adventurous life, having traveled to over 60 different states, islands and countries in her lifetime. Rarely seen without her camera, she leaves behind bookshelves full of photo albums for her two children, Lainie and Jackson, both grown with children and grandchildren of their own. In the 112 years she lived, she made every effort to make the most out of every second. And whether she was hiking through a jungle in Indonesia, or savoring espresso in a small cafe in Rome, or reading Dr. Seuss to her children, and eventually her grandchildren before bed, she approached every moment as if it were a great adventure. Sarah will be buried at sea, and following the services will be a very awesome party for all the people she loved, where no one is allowed to wear black, and everyone is required to have a shot of Patron and laugh about the good memories she left them with."

What do you want yours to say?

Monday Momisms: The Best Part of the Day

When you raise kids, the days can be long.

So long.

Like "I've been waiting for it to be bedtime since we woke up" long.

Sometimes it seems like it just won't end. 

Like if you hear Mommy one more time, you're going to snap. 

Like if you have to put another episode of Dora on Netflix for the kids, you're going to strangle her with her smug, self entitled asshole of a back pack.

"I'm the Map!" 

GOOD FOR YOU.  I'm the Mom, I do everything, but you don't hear me singing a whole fucking song about it, DO YOU?!

After a while you start to keep little hidden pieces of the day tucked away. They're special. They're favorite hours in the midst of all the monotony and exhaustion and questions and FOR THE LOVE OF GOD WHO PEED IN HERE?!

Like mornings.

I hate mornings, in general. The getting up early, the showering when you're still half asleep and accidentally got in before the water was hot, and all the little things that have to be done before you leave the house. But morning with kids are sweet. Jackson is always in a sweet and talkative mood, but still a little bit sleepy and slow moving. So as he's stumbling around the room trying to dress himself, he's also filling me in on his dreams, what he wants to do at daycare today, who his best friends are, how rocket ships work, what he wants for dinner, and what a good boy he's going to be at school. 

Lainie is quiet, and somber in the morning, like me. Quietly shuffling about the house, mumbling good morning and getting dressed. If she had big black sunglasses, she'd wear them and carry around a cup of steaming coffee if she was allowed to have caffeine. But, once we get in the car and start driving to school, I turn the radio on, and sing to her in the rear view mirror. She always smiles, and eventually starts singing along. The next thing you know all three of us are having a 7 a.m. dance party on the way to daycare, and nobody is in a grumpy early morning mood.

And bedtime.

This is a favorite for the obvious reason that the kids go to sleep and I get a break, but also because of everything that comes before that. The showers that produce sparkling clean little angels, the clean jammies that smell like laundry soap, bedtime stories with all three of us in my bed, cuddles and late night whispered conversations. And then that sweet moment where even if I am not in their room, even if I can't see them at all, I know they've fallen asleep because the house feels different. It's quiet in a way that it never is when they're awake, even if they aren't making noise. It's peaceful and calm, and I can tell their little bodies have settled down and their breathing slow and their heart beats steadied, and they're safe and sound in their beds.

Those are the best times of even the worst days.

Friday Diary: Holy Crap It's Back

Happy Friday everybody!

I felt like it was time to do a Friday Diary since we haven't done one in a while. 

I know you're all very excited.

Try not to urinate on yourselves.

...

This song has been on repeat for like, ever in my house. Lainie and I like to dance to it in the kitchen when we're cooking, and we kind of white boy rap it back and forth to each other.
It's fun.

...

Overheard:
Me: Come on Jackie baby, get in the car.
Jackson: I'm not a baby. I'm a grown up. I'm a motorcycle driver who builds rocket ships and airplanes and is a Power Ranger.
Me; You're pretty busy
Jackson: Yeah, that's why I drink so much milk and always get out of bed when you telled me not to.

...

Letters:
Dear Bill: You give perfect hugs and are the world's best scary movie buddy. You're awesome.
Dear Lainie: You never eat any of the dinners I make you anymore and the other day you told me you're too old to hold my hand at the grocery store. Stop it. Just stop it.
Dear Dad: No matter how old I get I will still love watching movies with you until 1 in the morning, even though I have work the next day and should be sleeping.
Dear Megan: I don't know if you still read this, but if you do, your birthday was yesterday. Happy birthday. I hope it was super awesome.

...

Made:

Black bean fritters, found here.

They were good. My kids seemed indifferent about them, but they ate them, and my dad loved them to death. He thought they were hamburgers with black beans in them though...

...

Pinterested:


...

Read:

15 Ways to Stay Married.
No, I am not married, nor do I plan to be in the near future, but still, this is some solid love advice in my opinion. My heart was nodding along with every word, and it's not the usual cheesy shit, like "Have sex, make date nights, don't stab each other blah blah blah" that's regurgitated in EVERY love advice article.

...

And now, some laughs from the land of internet.
Enjoy.


Well, that's it folks.
Happy Friday.
Don't do anything I wouldn't do this weekend.

Or, more importantly, don't do anything I would do.

The Day After: An explanation and a thank you

First of all, I wanted to say thank you to the readers who sent me private messages asking if I was ok, and telling me if I needed anything they were there {Hi Nana}, after yesterday's blog version of a temper tantrum.
Second, I wanted to say I'm fine.

Yesterday was a bad day.

In fact, it was the third bad day in what started off as a miserable week.

Fights, anxiety, emotional outburst and uncontrollable neediness made for a very DONE Sarah, who had a choice between screaming if everyone's face and running away to Cuba, or blogging out her rage.

You're welcome to everyone I did not scream at.

I'm sorry to those of you that I may have yelled at...a little...in a....cute way?

Anyway, everything is fine.

Sometimes I forget what a community blogging creates.

Even if your readers don't comment on every single post, when they sense that you're hurting or in trouble, they always come through with a kind word or an email, or a virtual hug.

It's awesome.

I think we all love blogging and love reading other's blogs because it reminds us that we all have bullshit in our lives, we all fuck up, and we all have small little moments that are sweet, and good, and no matter insignificant they might seem, we all feel more real when we see those small life moments lived out by the bloggers we read religiously.

We recognize ourselves in their words, we see our families in their pictures, and we know we're not the only weirdos who photograph our food, or plan out the next months worth of posts, or stay up all night blog surfing.

In short, y'all are awesome.

Group hug.

xoxo

Sarah

Untitled

This post will most likely be taken down.

Please disregard it.

But in the meantime, fuck this day.

Fuck this week.

Fuck this life, and my absolute inability to get any of it right.

Fuck emotions, THEY'RE BULLSHIT.

Fuck my complete lack of control over myself when it comes to expressing them, or keeping my mouth shut when I really just need to KEEP MY FUCKING MOUTH SHUT.

Fuck feelings, and tears, and fuck me for ruining shit.

JUST ABSOLUTELY RUINING SHIT

Also, fuck issues, and trauma, and anxiety triggers, and shitty childhoods, and bad parents, and screwed up pasts, fuck all of it.

I want to hide under my bed until this moment is years in the past and everything is better.

I want to get on a plane to anywhere and never fucking come back.

I want to go to sleep and sleep until I am better at being around people.

Or until it rains Oreos and antidepressents from the sky.

Whichever comes first.

SOMEBODY JUST FUCKING HUG ME.

and bring Oreos.



Lately

I was going to fascinate you all with a bunch of dazzling pictures of what we've been up to lately, but then I uploaded what's on my camera and realized it's all just pictures of our dinners....and then my dad asked me why I photograph my food...am I making a cook book or something?

NO.

But I might have a problem.

So I decided instead to just bore the shit out of you with my words instead of in pictures.

Lately, Bill and I got back together. Woah, I know. I promise though, I won't write a chapter of our love story for every single little change that occurs in our relationship. In fact I think writing that shit is bad luck at this point anyway.

So no more love story.

Just updates.

Lately, Jackson has been unruly as all fuck. We are officially in the Testing phase, I think and he is desperately trying to see how much shit he can get away with. The answer is zero.

FUCKING ZERO.

Lately, I'm pretty sure Lainie is in the puberty zone. Either that or she just hates me to death. Whichever one it is it's scary as hell and between her and Jackson it's been straight crazy cakes up in this bitch.

Lately, my Saturdays have been 100 percent consumed by kid shit from 7 am to 6 pm. Baseball, ballet, birthday parties, bad behavior and other things that start with B. I'm tired, and I'm busy, and if one more person at work says "you look really tired" I am going to round house kick them in the funny business.

Lately, I sunk to a new parenting low and put Jackson's bed in my room next to my bed. It was a last ditch effort to at least get him out of my bed if I couldn't get him out of my room altogether. So now one whole wall in my bedroom is just all bed.

I roll on it when no one is here.

It's actually kind of awesome.

So that's our lately stuffs.

I'm sorry about my sporadic as shit posting.

As you can tell I've been buried in children and covered in stress and very busy photographing every single thing I put in my pie hole.

Oh well if you're gonna twist my arm, I'll show you all my food pictures too.

I know, I just snuck that picture of Jackson in is baseball uniform in there like nothing happened.

I couldn't help myself, he's even better looking than food.

Specific

I wouldn't say there was any one specific moment that made me love you.

No, I wouldn't say that.

I would say that it was a thousand small and seemingly insignificant moments that made me love you, punctuated by times where my love for you felt big enough, immense enough, to get lost in forever.



My Weekend: Bliss

This was a really good weekend.

I don't have a bunch of pictures of exciting things we did, but I have some really good memories.

I had Friday off, and I actually used it productively.

Saturday was filled with baseball and ballet and homemade pizza. A scary movie, a shared bag of peanut m&m's and some very well made drinks. A game of truth or dare, and lots and lots of laughs.

Sunday was breakfast at Filiberto's {a hung over girls best friend}, a stroll around Home Depot {my favorite store} and an evening of movie watching with my dad.

I'm loved, I'm cared about, and I am more surrounded than ever by people I love and care about right back.

Honestly, what more could a girl ask for?

Suicide Prevention Week

You may not know it, but this week is suicide prevention week.

Suicide seems to have always been a weird and morbid constant in my life.

The majority of the people I've loved who have passed away, died at their own hand.

The most prevalent loss being my Uncle Mark, in 2001.

My uncle Mark was an artist in Chicago.

Relatively successful, a jewelry maker, a painter, a sculptor and occasionally for spare money, an amazing carpenter.

He was my dad's little brother, and the closest person in my dad's family to him.

When he died on November 29th, my whole world changed.

I woke up to a note in my bathroom from my dad saying he had to go to Chicago to take care of Mark, and he'd be back as soon as he could.

I had no idea Mark was dead.

My dad was gone for a month, and my sister moved in to help out.

We waited.

We talked to my dad.

We wondered what happened to Mark.

On Christmas morning my dad finally came home.

He told my sister and I that Mark had died, from hanging himself in his kitchen a month before.

And then my dad went to bed and didn't get back out for months.

When he did, he was never the same person.

A lot of people think when they kill themselves that their life is the only one they're ending.

It isn't.

Their death, and the feeling that everyone who loved them has that they died by choice, and what a terrible betrayal that is, changes everyone forever.

The guilt and the anger and the regret and the terrible aching loss....I see it all on my dad's face still to this day when Mark's name comes up.

And what we're all left with....the scraps and the keepsakes and the little insignificant things we hold onto to try to keep those lost people close...an old t-shirt, their jewelry, the motorcycle they used to ride that sits unused in my side yard, their leather jacket that hangs limp in the closet, pictures that we still look at to try to discern some kind of sign that of what he was going to do...all those things that we can't let go of, that still do not equal a life.

They do not add up to one single second with that person who's gone now.

They don't mean as much as one breath from their lungs, or one more glimpse of their face.

They're nothing, and they're painful, but it's all we end up with when someone we love more than they could ever have loved themselves, goes away.

Just remember you're worth it.

You're loved.

You're needed.

More than you think, and more than you'll ever know.

Depression lies, and there is still hope.

Even if all you can do right now is cling to the couch and weep, hold on.

Keep going.

Keep fighting.

And ask for help.

Because somebody out there loves you.

Even if you don't love yourself right now.

1-800-273-8255

National Suicide Prevention Hotline.

Call it, if you need it.

Please.

For me.

For Mark.

For my dad.

Letters to You

I woke up in the middle of the night because I was cold, and I woke you up too because I was really cold.

Shivering beside you in bed and the sheet on top of us was offering no protection from the near Icelandic temperatures we'd suddenly traveled to in our sleep.

Without being asked you got up, from a dead sleep, and turned the air off, found me a blanket, and then wrapped your very warm body around me, too.

Heat spread all over me, and you let me put my ice cold feet under your legs because they felt like a campfire compared to mine.

And even though I fell back to sleep quickly, before I did I remember mentally noting:

I loved you so very much in that moment.

It's always been the littlest gestures from you, that have warmed my little heart so.

The Friday Diary: The Labor Day Madness

Happy Friday everybody!

What a freakin week, yo.

I don't know about any of you, but Labor Day weekend kind of kicked my ass.

Maybe because it was the first three day weekend in a long time where I've gone out and done something almost every night.

Friday, my friend Kate and I went Dancing, as you all know:

Pre-3 Hour Dance Off

And in the middle of the 3 hour dance off:

Let this picture be a lesson to you: you will never get a good picture of yourself or anyone, in a dance club, whilst dancing in a cage, after several Washington Apples.

This has been a public service announcement by Sarah.

Saturday morning, Jackson had his first baseball practice {overload of cute} and he even hit the ball on the very first swing.

 That's my boy.

Saturday night, I had more Washington Apples, and while I didn't go dancing, I did forget to eat dinner and end up with a mild hang over the next day.

You're welcome, world, for not posting pictures of hung over Sarah.

And Sunday, I took the kids to see Brave [BEST MOVIE EVER], to the library in Scottsdale where MORE books were purchased.

I can't control myself in the presence of 1 dollar books, people.

And then after my friend from work met up with us, we let our kids white-trash it up in the fountains outside the library for a while, before dinner and wine at Grimaldi's.

All in all, a super packed weekend.

In fact, in comparison, this week has been pretty much completely void of any activity at all.

Except, this came:

And I totally finished it in one day.

And wept like a baby through most of it.

This shit is amazing. If you haven't read it yet, read it now.

DO IT.

Now, last but not least, let's bust out some letters, and some funny shit from the internet.

Letters:

Dear Dad: It's been an interesting month with you. I've learned a lot. Mainly, that as much as you drive me batshit crazy when you're around, I still miss you like crazy when you're not. Please don't move away again.

Dear Lainie: You keep checking books out from the library at your school, about different kinds of cats. You're absolutely killing me with how cute you are reading all these cat fact books. If this is your way of asking for a kitten for your birthday, it's probably working.

Dear Jackson: The last couple weeks with you have been so unbelievably challenging, I'm wondering who the hell you are and what you did with my son. It took 2 hours to get you to bed tonight. TWO HOURS. Please stop trying to kill your mother.

...

Funny Shit:

That shit made me cry from laughing.

Happy Friday.

Are You A Good Person?

What would you say defines you as a person?

Have you ever thought about that?

I mean really, how do you decide what kind of person you are?

Is it your age? The people you hang out with? Your job, your marital or parental status, your income, your taste in music, your past, your ambitions, your religion, or the mistakes you"ve made?

Or is it none of those things, but those are all small ways of describing you, not defining you?

I guess I'm wondering where the line is between descriptions and definitions.

If you've lied before, are you automatically a liar? Is that WHO YOU ARE in bold face type, a forever aspect of what makes you....you? Or is that just something you've done, or sometimes still do, but overall you're not a dishonest person?

If you've cheated, does that make you a cheater, forever after?

Where is the line between the mistakes you've made, and who you are?

I guess you might say it's your character, but what makes that up?

Again, would it be the choices you've made in the past, or the intentions you put behind your actions, even if they turn out horribly, horribly wrong?

If you always have the best intentions, but just fuck everything up despite those good intentions, are you still a good person? Do you still have solid character?

Maybe it's your level of self awareness, and what amount of energy you put into self improvement.

Maybe it's how honest and up front you are about being a flawed and imperfect human being.

Maybe it's your motivations, your priorities and your actions, and whether or not the bad things you've done were really mistakes, or things that you did because they made you happy, regardless of how they made others feel, and you just aren't sorry about it.

But that would imply, I suppose, that whether or not you're a good person in spite of your flaws is determined by what level of guilt you feel about the things you've done.

How sorry you are.

Or maybe there is no solid answer to this question, and we all just decide for ourselves what we're worth, and whether we are good or bad, and it doesn't matter because everyone you meet is going to make their own decisions about you too, and not one of them are the end all be all opinion on the matter.

Maybe you just do the best you can, and try to take care of the ones you love as much as possible, and hope that there is some kind of grace waiting for you when you fail miserably.

When you come up short. 

When your actions are not in accordance to your real feelings or priorities.

When the mistakes you've made seem unforgivable.

Maybe you do what you can to learn from them, to never make them again, and hope that any bridges you've burned can be repaired over time.

Because none of us are perfect, and all of us are flawed, but as long as you can put the feelings of the people you love before your own, at least as often as possible, you're still a good person.

Maybe there's hope for all of us, yet.

Letters to Jackson

Dear Jackson,

Sometimes I forget how young you are. Maybe because you're so big, or because you're so smart, or because you keep up so well most of the time with your big sister, I forget that you are just four years old. That you practically just came into my life.

I forget sometimes, and remembering always makes my heart ache.

Today when your little pillowy hand reached for mine as I walked into daycare, last night when you said "Mama, I need help", this morning when you were just waking up and your hair was sticking up in every direction and you wanted to stay in bed all day looking at your bunny book.

I remember.

And my heart hurts because I wonder if I've been too hard on you. Expecting you to behave like a child who is the age I sometimes mistake you for. My chest bursts because you still have the features of a baby. Your full cheeks and button nose, your tiny little tear-drop chin. And my heart falls because you won't be this little forever, and even though I'm right here, always watching you, I feel like I'm still missing it. I feel like the sweetness of this age is too much for me to soak in completely no matter how much I want to, and no matter what, it will be something I don't fully appreciate until it's over, and I am watching you move boxes into your first apartment, or bringing your first serious girlfriend to dinner, or reading the bunny book to your first baby.

I don't want you to be little forever, I won't go that far.

There is a lot that's wonderful about growing up.

So many firsts.

So many special friendships along the way that teach you everything.

First loves that become your most poignant memories as you age.

I just wish that I could stop time, here and there, and press those moments between the pages of a book so I can come back and live them again later.

Later, when you're growing up and growing away.

When you still let me call you my little boy, but we both know, you've become a man.



The Roaring 400

So something happened the other day that completely escaped my notice until now.

My last post was number 400.

400 Posts on this little blog here, over the last 3 years.

Holy wow, you guys.

Maybe it's not a big deal at all. Maybe it's just further evidence that I talk a lot and if there's no one around to talk to I'll still find a way to make sure everyone knows my opinion on everything.

But it feels big.

This little journal here has transitioned quite a bit from what it started as in 2009.

Initially, it was place for me to just write.

I've always been terrible at keeping journals.

I lose them, I forget about them, they end up discarded into piles of old books I never read anymore or shoved into shoe boxes at the back of my closet. So many empty pages left, all the entries months apart.

But I thought for some reason an online writing place would be better.

I could make it pretty, personalizing it with pictures and lay outs and all kinds of things. I would never lose it, and I could come back to it even if I'd forgotton about it for months, and it would never hold my absence against me.

At first no one read it.

I would get maybe 5 hits on a good day, and most of those I think were from me.

At some point, those numbers started climbing and people I'd never told about the blog started asking me about it. Saying they read it, they check it every day, when am I going to post again?

I had no idea that there would ever be a point where people would purposely take time out of there day to come hear me ramble and complain, rant and cry.

But for some reason, some people do.

And in a strange way, I'm grateful to those people.

I feel like you all know me, more intimately than I might have ever let you if this blog didn't exist.

There have been things I've posted here that I might not have said had we been face to face with each other.

Maybe it's for the same reason that it's easier to tell someone how you feel in a text or an email than in a phone call or over coffee.

You have time to put the words together just the right way, then you hit publish, walk away and forget about them.

You don't experience the same vulnerability of the listener's silence. Waiting to see how they'll respond, the pressure they must feel of needing to respond the right way.

I can tell you all my secrets and you can respond or not, and it's ok.

I guess in some fashion this blog is teaching me how to let people in.

And, this may surprise you, but that's actually hard for me.

I've always hidden in plain sight.

I've kept people at a distance by being the person who says things other people won't say, being wildly outgoing, overly social, and giving the impression that I'm not in the least bit shy.

But I am.

It's just that when people think you don't hold back they think you've let them in.

And then they don't pressure you, they don't dig for details, they don't ask you questions you don't want to answer or make you reveal things you don't want to show.

This blog is the place where I can be vulnerable, without being scared.

So, 400 posts later, I want to thank each and every one of you.

For listening to all my secrets, watching my life and my often fumbling attempt to live it, unfold.

For watching me fall and never once leaving hateful comments or sending me private messages that say "I told you so"

Of all the hundreds of hits I get in a day, not one of you has ever made me feel bad about the mistakes I've admitted to here, or said things like "Not for nothing, but, who the hell cares?"

And because I know there's even one person in the world who reads this, it gives me a reason to write.

Which I think, of all my sham talents and failed attempts at success, writing is the one thing I get right.

And all of you make me work at it.

Try harder at it.

Practice it, and over all just sit down and do it even when it hurts, because I know it will feel better when it's over.

I appreciate this blog, and I appreciate each person who reads it.

Thanks for being my silent best friends, and letting me tell you everything.

Because, we all need someone we can tell everything to, without being afraid, don't we?