I forgot I had a blog for awhile. I journaled like hell when I was going through my kidney donation. I think eventually I will share the entries online. But not right now. I need to process all of that, and it's hard when all of this other shit is going on. I'm not sure if the kidney donation was a nice distraction for the problems in my head or if it was a catalyst for big change. Either way, long story short, I am moving into my own apartment next month. Gren has his own place. I hate that I'm hurting him. I hate that I can't just be happy being stable. I hate that my decisions affect so many people. But I don't want to pretend things are okay if they're not. And change is always good. It just doesn't always feel like it...
Tuesday, January 20, 2015
Friday, January 3, 2014
Perry (the fear of losing it, personified)
I had the most fucked up dream last night. It was one of those where you wake up scared, so sure that it just followed you into reality. I'm not sure why I'm even sharing it this late at night, except maybe I think it will make me feel better to get it out. Warning: I am typing all of this out on my phone, so please ignore the mistakes. This will probably be a long one, especially to type out on a tiny flat surface.
Here goes...
I'm not sure when it started. But I know that at some point I am sitting on the toilet taking a piss when I notice he's there. Just standing in the doorway, looking at me while I pee. It's the shoes I notice first, those Timberland brown boots that rappers were wearing for a short bit but now are back to being work boots for blue collar white guys. They're clean, just like everything else he's wearing. White pants, not jeans, more like scrubs. Yeah, they're definitely scrubs. Along with the white scrub top he's got on. It's all loose, and the shirt is only halfway tucked in. The guy has gotta be well over six feet, and he's pretty thin. He's got reddish blond hair, and he can't keep still. Not in a methy way. More in a anxious and impatient way. I get it. He's fresh out of the mental ward. Whether he was let out by the doctors or if he escaped is unknown, but somehow I know his name is Perry. And he scares the living shit out of me.
I try to ignore Perry sometimes. He mostly just stands there twitching over me. He never speaks unless spoken to, which is fine because I hate his voice. It's twitchy just like him, like his vocal cords are wishing they had a million other things to do. When I ask who he is, he tells me that I created him. He's in my head. And now I really don't want to speak to him.
It's true. No one ever sees Perry. I have no doubt that he's in my head. Schizophrenia has happened before in my family, so why not me? I can lose it just as well as anyone else. I realize that he only shows up when I'm alone, which is really annoying. This is why he comes around so often when I am in the bathroom. With every glass of water I drink comes the dread of having to see those brown boots when I can't hold it anymore.
I tell my friends what is going on, and while they are very understanding, it's not easy to keep me company all the time. I try going to public restrooms, but I see those awful shoes under the stalls. I beg my friend, Jen, to just stand in the stall while I go, but the sight of those boots causes me to start screaming and crying so hysterically that she had to carry me out of the public restroom. What's worse is that I've pissed myself while freaking out.
This whole avoiding Perry is only making him more upset. He's angrier, but he doesn't speak. I just see it in his sunken eyes and his violent jerky hand motions. He's in the elevator. He's in the closet. Those fucking boots clomp around the hallways at night. And it's all in my head, and no matter what I do, he won't go away. And I know that no matter how loud I scream, he is not going to just go away.
It sounds so silly now that it's all written out. I mean, how scary can a guy named PERRY really be? It's just the fear of being crazy, I guess. Uncurable. Seriously fucked up.
On a related note, I am in our new house. I've spent almost every night here alone because Gren is working overnights at the hotel all this week. The obvious symbolism of this dream is definitely not lost on me. Don't worry, subconscious. I read you loud and clear.
Here goes...
I'm not sure when it started. But I know that at some point I am sitting on the toilet taking a piss when I notice he's there. Just standing in the doorway, looking at me while I pee. It's the shoes I notice first, those Timberland brown boots that rappers were wearing for a short bit but now are back to being work boots for blue collar white guys. They're clean, just like everything else he's wearing. White pants, not jeans, more like scrubs. Yeah, they're definitely scrubs. Along with the white scrub top he's got on. It's all loose, and the shirt is only halfway tucked in. The guy has gotta be well over six feet, and he's pretty thin. He's got reddish blond hair, and he can't keep still. Not in a methy way. More in a anxious and impatient way. I get it. He's fresh out of the mental ward. Whether he was let out by the doctors or if he escaped is unknown, but somehow I know his name is Perry. And he scares the living shit out of me.
I try to ignore Perry sometimes. He mostly just stands there twitching over me. He never speaks unless spoken to, which is fine because I hate his voice. It's twitchy just like him, like his vocal cords are wishing they had a million other things to do. When I ask who he is, he tells me that I created him. He's in my head. And now I really don't want to speak to him.
It's true. No one ever sees Perry. I have no doubt that he's in my head. Schizophrenia has happened before in my family, so why not me? I can lose it just as well as anyone else. I realize that he only shows up when I'm alone, which is really annoying. This is why he comes around so often when I am in the bathroom. With every glass of water I drink comes the dread of having to see those brown boots when I can't hold it anymore.
I tell my friends what is going on, and while they are very understanding, it's not easy to keep me company all the time. I try going to public restrooms, but I see those awful shoes under the stalls. I beg my friend, Jen, to just stand in the stall while I go, but the sight of those boots causes me to start screaming and crying so hysterically that she had to carry me out of the public restroom. What's worse is that I've pissed myself while freaking out.
This whole avoiding Perry is only making him more upset. He's angrier, but he doesn't speak. I just see it in his sunken eyes and his violent jerky hand motions. He's in the elevator. He's in the closet. Those fucking boots clomp around the hallways at night. And it's all in my head, and no matter what I do, he won't go away. And I know that no matter how loud I scream, he is not going to just go away.
It sounds so silly now that it's all written out. I mean, how scary can a guy named PERRY really be? It's just the fear of being crazy, I guess. Uncurable. Seriously fucked up.
On a related note, I am in our new house. I've spent almost every night here alone because Gren is working overnights at the hotel all this week. The obvious symbolism of this dream is definitely not lost on me. Don't worry, subconscious. I read you loud and clear.
Thursday, September 5, 2013
The Lovers, the Dreamers, and Me
Every now and then, I have these moments of sheer joy, clarity. A sense that I am perfect the way I am and completely fine. That I am on a good path in the universe, and that while I make a valuable impact on the world, it can go on just fine without me. In this tiny bit of time, I am not my body or even my mind or my emotions. I am one and the same with everyone and everything in time and space and even beyond. My reality is only as certain and solid as I make it, and my perception of the world can be altered with new knowledge and intuition. I am not the center of the world, and I can take solace in that, seeing as that world revolves around the sun, and the sun is just following suit of a black hole, and that black hole is one of thousands, millions, that could be connected by wormholes all across the vastness of space, which is pulling itself apart at rapid speeds. Nothing is the center of anything, and I am here for a few years to experience as much as I can. And I may not be a physicist or a doctor or a teacher, but I meet new people every day and have the ability to make them more confident with themselves. And while doctors are necessary for modern medicine, even they feel insignificant compared to, I dunno, the concept of dark matter. And for a split second, I get it. And I don't get it. And it's beautiful.
I've been having these moments more often lately. And sober, which is crazy, because honestly, this is shit that usually takes some psychadelic and mind-altering chemicals for me to achieve.
It could be that I have been more conscious of my thoughts and responses to situations. It could be that I've been meditating. I've been exercising on my terms, doing things that make me happy. It could be that I have been reading up on the multiverse and string theory, atstro- and quantum physics. I am putting pieces of my scientific brain with that creative and hippie part of my brain, and they are starting to line up surprisingly well. I am trying to take all of this with a grain of salt and trying to make sure to laugh at it. I think of all of this, and then I also remember that mental illness runs in my family, so this could also be a manic episode or the beginning stages of schizophrenia (which my great grandmother suffered from).
And in the end, are those two things really that far apart?
And as long as I'm being a happy, useful humanitarian... does it really matter?
I've been having these moments more often lately. And sober, which is crazy, because honestly, this is shit that usually takes some psychadelic and mind-altering chemicals for me to achieve.
It could be that I have been more conscious of my thoughts and responses to situations. It could be that I've been meditating. I've been exercising on my terms, doing things that make me happy. It could be that I have been reading up on the multiverse and string theory, atstro- and quantum physics. I am putting pieces of my scientific brain with that creative and hippie part of my brain, and they are starting to line up surprisingly well. I am trying to take all of this with a grain of salt and trying to make sure to laugh at it. I think of all of this, and then I also remember that mental illness runs in my family, so this could also be a manic episode or the beginning stages of schizophrenia (which my great grandmother suffered from).
And in the end, are those two things really that far apart?
And as long as I'm being a happy, useful humanitarian... does it really matter?
Sunday, July 14, 2013
We. Are. Art.
It's been an amazing week. Part of this is due to school. Have I mentioned that I love doing hair? Because I do.
It's also the week before San Diego Comic Con. It is the slowest week of the year, every year. I try not to get too excited over it, but once the scheduling goes up, its no use trying to play it cool. We leave the day after tomorrow, and while there is a lot to get done, I am so ready to pack up and leave for the ocean, the art, the friends, the new books, and the fangirl moments where I run into my idols dressed as a little boy with antlers.
Also, this week, I worked for the first time as a live model for a life drawing class. In other words, I posed onstage under a bright light while perfect strangers drew (or painted, or whatever) me. I was completely nude, and it was not only fun (I kind of assumed it would be), it was also the most liberating thing that I have ever done.
I've made it pretty obvious, especially in the past year or so, that I have a lot of body image issues. I have always looked up to the women who could bare it all for the sake of art, no matter what size. Actually, I respected the women more, the more they had to bare. The bigger the person, the older, the more scarred, the more they had that was conventionally unacceptable, the higher I held them in my mind. Yes, it is judging someone by the way they look. I'm not saying it's right. I'm not saying that the conventionally gorgeous women who modeled were not as brave or nervous or anything like that. But this is my blog, and I have to be honest, especially about the things I am wrong about and not proud of. Changing history to avoid blame is one of the most dangerous things on the planet. The Egyptians had it right. But then again, do we really know that?
I digress.
The idea of being naked in front of other people, it's the stuff recurring nightmares are made of. Granted, it is Arizona, and I am usually in my underwear the entire summer, but that is at home with my daughter and husband. They have gotten used to me sitting at the dinner table in nothing but my panties, and they know they are also welcome to follow suit. It's over 100 degrees outside. The doors and windows are closed. Home is safe. Being nude in front of strangers gave me the vulnerability to be judged by people I didn't trust, people I couldn't explain my scars to, people that could go home and call me chubby or an exhibitionist whore who gets off on the whole thing. Slut-shaming, not even, the PROSPECT of slut-shaming, in my own fucking head. How dare I assume.
As much as I love being naked, I don't know if I could have done it a year ago.
I came across the opportunity, originally, on facebook. I was offered a single-pose modeling job last winter, posing in costume for three hours at a local bar. They have a program called Anti-Art school that recruits interesting people, usually in costume, to model for them. Local artists show up, pay their fee, and they can sit, talk, sip cocktails, and do what they love. It was very hard to hold to a pose for three hours, even with the breaks. Everyone there was very supportive, and I learned a lot about my own body, particularly my back. Holy shit. But I liked being a part of art, since I can't draw or paint, and I consider myself a performance artist more than anything else, I felt like I was doing my part. I thought briefly about applying at different art schools for more modeling jobs, even the ones where I was nude, for extra money.
But I didn't. I got busy. I had a job. I worked a lot. I started school. I began my battle to love my body.
Then I quit my job. I held onto it for far too long, and life eventually pushed me out of the cafe. That week, I attended the Phoenix Comic Con (which was incredible, even with the insanity of cell phone service and fire alarms), where a Scottsdale art studio had a space set up for patrons to sit down and try their hand at drawing a live costumed model at the con. The woman in charge was so sweet, and while we talked, I mentioned that I had modeled before and that I would be interested in doing it again. She got my email address, and that was it.
Surprisingly, she emailed me. Most of the time, people don't follow through with promises at conventions. It's not their fault. Cons are hectic, and you meet hundreds of people and get more emails and phone numbers than you could possibly keep up with. Long story short, I was scheduled to show up at 4:00 this past Wednesday, prepared with a robe and my self-esteem. So I did. And once the timer started, I dropped the robe and started the two-minute gesture poses. And my belly, my legs, my small, low breasts, my nose, all of the things I had HATED about my body for so long, they were mine to twist, turn, contort, and control, all of the sake of helping out fellow artists. They weren't there to judge. They were there to do what they do. It could have been any person up there, and it just happened to be me. And once I started the twenty-minute poses, I got to peek at the art on my breaks. And it was beautiful. They all drew my belly rolls and my big thighs and my stern brow and big nose. They didn't ignore it or change it to make it smaller a la Photoshop. It was all there, staring back at me, on giant pads of paper held to wooden benches. All of these people had seen everything I had. And they made it art. I was now suddenly the person I had looked up to for years for baring herself to a room of strangers, both confident and selfless. I was not a goddess, nor was I a whore. I was a human being in a body, and that body was used to make something that I found beautiful.
When it was over, I got dressed, said goodbye to everyone I had met, and they told me I had done a great job holding my poses. And I appreciated it. And I will do it again. I sang the whole way home.
It's been a few days, and I still catch myself smiling and laughing at myself because I did get so nervous and make a big deal of it in my head. I also smile because of how it made me look at myself, and how I haven't felt that waver yet. I'm sure it will. But right now, this belly is still pretty artistic. And I will continue with my quest to love it and take care of it and respect it and keep it clean and healthy. Obviously, this is not the end of my journey; that would be a little too easy. I want other people to experience this.
And, no, I'm not telling you to go stand naked in front of strangers. It's not for everyone, I don't think. Some people are not comfortable being nude, and it's a common fear. For me, it worked. And I think the reason that it worked is because I have always found the human body and art of all kinds depicting the body something that I found amazing and wonderful. So my advice for you is this. Find something that YOU find amazing and wonderful. And be that. If you find lingerie photography beautiful, then find a trustworthy photographer, pull out your favorite stockings, and have a photo shoot. Do something that puts you, "flaws" and all, in the middle of something that you have always admired. Drop the fear, drop your proverbial robe, and get really uncomfortable for a few minutes. Hold as still as you can, feel the eyes on you, and take it all in. Count to 60 as many times as you can until you forget how much time has passed ,and get lost in your mind. Then look at the result, fall in love with it, and surprise yourself. Because I am beautiful. Maybe not to a lot of society, and maybe not to myself for the past thirty years, but I am. And we all are. Skinny women, fat women, chubby in-between women. And men. And everyone. We are all somebody to look up to. We are all art.
As I end this entry, I would just like to thank the people who I have found so inspiring so far in this body positive revolution. They have never met me in person, but they have done things for me that no one else has. If you follow milkyrobot, honorcurves, or tessmunster on instagram, you know that they are some of the most beautiful women (inside and outside), that are huge supporters of people of all sizes saying FUCK YOU to the beauty standard. They are also on Twitter, Facebook, and you can follow their blogs. I can't tell you how many times I would squeeze my belly in the mirror, feel bad, then get onto my phone to feel supported by other human beings that have struggled with the same feelings. I also want to thank all of my "real-life" friends, who are always there for me. And my husband, who loves me at any size. And my daughter who would, in a perfect world, never have to worry about being an ideal size or face or being called a bad name for her appearance. May she and her friends inspire other young girls to love themselves and start a revolution of their own.
Until next time, be respectful, be responsible, and take care of one another.
It's also the week before San Diego Comic Con. It is the slowest week of the year, every year. I try not to get too excited over it, but once the scheduling goes up, its no use trying to play it cool. We leave the day after tomorrow, and while there is a lot to get done, I am so ready to pack up and leave for the ocean, the art, the friends, the new books, and the fangirl moments where I run into my idols dressed as a little boy with antlers.
Also, this week, I worked for the first time as a live model for a life drawing class. In other words, I posed onstage under a bright light while perfect strangers drew (or painted, or whatever) me. I was completely nude, and it was not only fun (I kind of assumed it would be), it was also the most liberating thing that I have ever done.
I've made it pretty obvious, especially in the past year or so, that I have a lot of body image issues. I have always looked up to the women who could bare it all for the sake of art, no matter what size. Actually, I respected the women more, the more they had to bare. The bigger the person, the older, the more scarred, the more they had that was conventionally unacceptable, the higher I held them in my mind. Yes, it is judging someone by the way they look. I'm not saying it's right. I'm not saying that the conventionally gorgeous women who modeled were not as brave or nervous or anything like that. But this is my blog, and I have to be honest, especially about the things I am wrong about and not proud of. Changing history to avoid blame is one of the most dangerous things on the planet. The Egyptians had it right. But then again, do we really know that?
I digress.
The idea of being naked in front of other people, it's the stuff recurring nightmares are made of. Granted, it is Arizona, and I am usually in my underwear the entire summer, but that is at home with my daughter and husband. They have gotten used to me sitting at the dinner table in nothing but my panties, and they know they are also welcome to follow suit. It's over 100 degrees outside. The doors and windows are closed. Home is safe. Being nude in front of strangers gave me the vulnerability to be judged by people I didn't trust, people I couldn't explain my scars to, people that could go home and call me chubby or an exhibitionist whore who gets off on the whole thing. Slut-shaming, not even, the PROSPECT of slut-shaming, in my own fucking head. How dare I assume.
As much as I love being naked, I don't know if I could have done it a year ago.
I came across the opportunity, originally, on facebook. I was offered a single-pose modeling job last winter, posing in costume for three hours at a local bar. They have a program called Anti-Art school that recruits interesting people, usually in costume, to model for them. Local artists show up, pay their fee, and they can sit, talk, sip cocktails, and do what they love. It was very hard to hold to a pose for three hours, even with the breaks. Everyone there was very supportive, and I learned a lot about my own body, particularly my back. Holy shit. But I liked being a part of art, since I can't draw or paint, and I consider myself a performance artist more than anything else, I felt like I was doing my part. I thought briefly about applying at different art schools for more modeling jobs, even the ones where I was nude, for extra money.
But I didn't. I got busy. I had a job. I worked a lot. I started school. I began my battle to love my body.
Then I quit my job. I held onto it for far too long, and life eventually pushed me out of the cafe. That week, I attended the Phoenix Comic Con (which was incredible, even with the insanity of cell phone service and fire alarms), where a Scottsdale art studio had a space set up for patrons to sit down and try their hand at drawing a live costumed model at the con. The woman in charge was so sweet, and while we talked, I mentioned that I had modeled before and that I would be interested in doing it again. She got my email address, and that was it.
Surprisingly, she emailed me. Most of the time, people don't follow through with promises at conventions. It's not their fault. Cons are hectic, and you meet hundreds of people and get more emails and phone numbers than you could possibly keep up with. Long story short, I was scheduled to show up at 4:00 this past Wednesday, prepared with a robe and my self-esteem. So I did. And once the timer started, I dropped the robe and started the two-minute gesture poses. And my belly, my legs, my small, low breasts, my nose, all of the things I had HATED about my body for so long, they were mine to twist, turn, contort, and control, all of the sake of helping out fellow artists. They weren't there to judge. They were there to do what they do. It could have been any person up there, and it just happened to be me. And once I started the twenty-minute poses, I got to peek at the art on my breaks. And it was beautiful. They all drew my belly rolls and my big thighs and my stern brow and big nose. They didn't ignore it or change it to make it smaller a la Photoshop. It was all there, staring back at me, on giant pads of paper held to wooden benches. All of these people had seen everything I had. And they made it art. I was now suddenly the person I had looked up to for years for baring herself to a room of strangers, both confident and selfless. I was not a goddess, nor was I a whore. I was a human being in a body, and that body was used to make something that I found beautiful.
When it was over, I got dressed, said goodbye to everyone I had met, and they told me I had done a great job holding my poses. And I appreciated it. And I will do it again. I sang the whole way home.
It's been a few days, and I still catch myself smiling and laughing at myself because I did get so nervous and make a big deal of it in my head. I also smile because of how it made me look at myself, and how I haven't felt that waver yet. I'm sure it will. But right now, this belly is still pretty artistic. And I will continue with my quest to love it and take care of it and respect it and keep it clean and healthy. Obviously, this is not the end of my journey; that would be a little too easy. I want other people to experience this.
And, no, I'm not telling you to go stand naked in front of strangers. It's not for everyone, I don't think. Some people are not comfortable being nude, and it's a common fear. For me, it worked. And I think the reason that it worked is because I have always found the human body and art of all kinds depicting the body something that I found amazing and wonderful. So my advice for you is this. Find something that YOU find amazing and wonderful. And be that. If you find lingerie photography beautiful, then find a trustworthy photographer, pull out your favorite stockings, and have a photo shoot. Do something that puts you, "flaws" and all, in the middle of something that you have always admired. Drop the fear, drop your proverbial robe, and get really uncomfortable for a few minutes. Hold as still as you can, feel the eyes on you, and take it all in. Count to 60 as many times as you can until you forget how much time has passed ,and get lost in your mind. Then look at the result, fall in love with it, and surprise yourself. Because I am beautiful. Maybe not to a lot of society, and maybe not to myself for the past thirty years, but I am. And we all are. Skinny women, fat women, chubby in-between women. And men. And everyone. We are all somebody to look up to. We are all art.
As I end this entry, I would just like to thank the people who I have found so inspiring so far in this body positive revolution. They have never met me in person, but they have done things for me that no one else has. If you follow milkyrobot, honorcurves, or tessmunster on instagram, you know that they are some of the most beautiful women (inside and outside), that are huge supporters of people of all sizes saying FUCK YOU to the beauty standard. They are also on Twitter, Facebook, and you can follow their blogs. I can't tell you how many times I would squeeze my belly in the mirror, feel bad, then get onto my phone to feel supported by other human beings that have struggled with the same feelings. I also want to thank all of my "real-life" friends, who are always there for me. And my husband, who loves me at any size. And my daughter who would, in a perfect world, never have to worry about being an ideal size or face or being called a bad name for her appearance. May she and her friends inspire other young girls to love themselves and start a revolution of their own.
Until next time, be respectful, be responsible, and take care of one another.
Monday, July 8, 2013
Internet Findings
I need to keep this on hand every time I feel big.
John Mayer says my body is a wonderland.
Sunday, June 23, 2013
The Deepest Ink I Have
"The atoms of our bodies are traceable to stars that manufactured them in their cores and exploded these enriched ingredients across our galaxy, billions of years ago. For this reason, we are biologically connected to every other living thing in the world. We are chemically connected to all molecules on Earth. And we are atomically connected to all atoms in the universe. We are not figuratively, but literally stardust." - Neil DeGrasse Tyson
I got my hands tattoooooooooooooooed. Specifically, my knuckles.
Job killer.
They're huge.
I generally try not to make a huge deal out of my new tattoos, but these make me so happy. It's like they were always supposed to be there but they weren't. And now they are. They may battle the heart bombs on my neck for the title of "Sophie's Favorite Tattoo". I know.
They say STAR DUST, which is a sentiment shared by Neil DeGrasse Tyson, which is an extrapolation of a sentiment by Carl Sagan. Science has proven to us that all of the atoms in our body: the carbon, the nitrogen, all of it, can be traced to exploding stars billions of years ago. Light years away, the elements in our tiny yet narcissistic vessels were traveling through meteor showers and galaxies. Now they are us. Eventually, who knows where they will end up. It's amazing. It's humbling and empowering all at the same time.
It's why I'm so enamored by outer space. The whole idea of looking down onto our dysfunctional and dying planet, which is constantly in some state of terror and disaster and war and famine and greed and bigotry.... from up there, there is no line drawn from one area or one kind of person to another. Even the separation of the human species to other animals is lessened. We're all on this blue mass of rock together, and your money and your religion and your prejudices... they don't mean jack shit. I'm not sure if hate can be felt from space, but I'm sure that a sense of pure love and wonder and the understanding that we don't understand, it can be felt.
At the same time, we are all so small, but we are huge. We are made up of particles that have traveled from all over to form our bodies for our short lifespans. Our brains, which are barely able to grasp the most simple ideas regarding this giant black pond that we call our universe, are MADE UP from that same universe. We are quite literally the universe experiencing itself. It's not fate or destiny or god or any of those things that we create to make ourselves feel important and safe. It is what it is, and it's amazing! And it's just the tip of the iceburg. We have so much more to learn, about our bodies, about our planet, about our solar system, our galaxy, our universe, and possible other universes!
And now I can be reminded of that every time I look down at my hands.
To answer your question, yes, it hurt. Hell yes.
I would also like to promote my tattoo artist, Tony Klett. He is an amazing traditional artist and an allover badass human being with a great beard. He's currently at Urban Art Tattoo in Mesa on Country Club and University Dr. You can check out his work on Instagram: TEK9INE
Monday, June 17, 2013
Good or Bad, it's Necessary
I had a friend tell me once that "change is always good". I like to think it's good advice. Of course, I immediately run to the thought that nothing ALWAYS good. But, still, I would tend to agree that more often than not, change is a good thing... or better yet, change is necessary. It at least shakes things up and keeps you from getting bored. Besides, it's not the change that scares me, really. It's those transitional periods that are fucking terrifying.
I quit my job. I know, I only have six months of school left, but it was way overdue. The restaurant is going downhill at an exponential rate because of the new management. It didn't help that he hated me and most everyone else there. Probably because we are smarter than him. It doesn't take a lot. He finally came up with a reason to fire me, after a year of trying to pin me for shit I didn't do. So I wrote a two-page resignation and said adios to the place I'd made a living for four years. Crazy, right? He also managed to fire the manager who had been there the longest. He also put an end to any decent live music. We are guessing that the company is keeping him there to put the cafe out of its misery. It's a sad thing, because we all really used to like that job.
So I got a new job. It's another restaurant, which I was trying to avoid, but it works the easiest around school, and you can't beat the money. The place is in Tempe, and it hasn't opened yet. I'm supposed to start training this week, and the grand opening is scheduled for the end of June. I have met the chef who owns it, and to be honest, it seems like a really great place. Everyone knows what they're talking about AND they've worked in restaurants before. I know it seems like that would be a requirement for running this kind of business, but you'd be surprised. Looks hopeful so far.
School. School is fucking amazing. The school itself has its ups and downs, like anywhere, but doing hair and makeup and nails and waxing... it's my favorite thing in the world. Honestly, I will kick myself for the rest of my life for not doing this earlier. I adore it. It's the only thing that I can still wake up at six o'clock in the morning for and then want to stay late. We just did a hair show a couple of weeks ago, and I was very proud of what came out of it. I'm trying to build up my portfolio and meet as many people as I can so that by December I will have some sort of idea where I will work. Eventually I would like to do editorial work and possibly be a platform artist. It's a crazy idea, but those are my favorites.
Phoenix Comic Con was fun. Now we are planning our yearly vacation to San Diego in July. It's become a trip for collecting new things and meeting people we look up to for years, but now we also have friends that we only get to see during con season that we really look forward to hanging out with.
I quit biting my nails. I can't promise anything, but they are long enough now to make typing weird. I like it a lot. I hope it lasts.
As far as being body positive, it's a process. I am gaining weight because of the hormones I have to take, so that is an added challenge to this whole thing. I got rid of all of my clothes that "sometimes fit" because looking at them made me feel gross. I'm still going to zumba and yoga, and that feels good. I did break down and weigh myself at the gym one day, and I'm angry at myself for it. In the meantime, I am working on loving myself, feeling pretty, and I've signed on to do nude modeling for life drawing classes a few times a month. I'll try and remember to blog and let you know how that goes.
I'll try and remember to blog more about a lot of things.
I quit my job. I know, I only have six months of school left, but it was way overdue. The restaurant is going downhill at an exponential rate because of the new management. It didn't help that he hated me and most everyone else there. Probably because we are smarter than him. It doesn't take a lot. He finally came up with a reason to fire me, after a year of trying to pin me for shit I didn't do. So I wrote a two-page resignation and said adios to the place I'd made a living for four years. Crazy, right? He also managed to fire the manager who had been there the longest. He also put an end to any decent live music. We are guessing that the company is keeping him there to put the cafe out of its misery. It's a sad thing, because we all really used to like that job.
So I got a new job. It's another restaurant, which I was trying to avoid, but it works the easiest around school, and you can't beat the money. The place is in Tempe, and it hasn't opened yet. I'm supposed to start training this week, and the grand opening is scheduled for the end of June. I have met the chef who owns it, and to be honest, it seems like a really great place. Everyone knows what they're talking about AND they've worked in restaurants before. I know it seems like that would be a requirement for running this kind of business, but you'd be surprised. Looks hopeful so far.
School. School is fucking amazing. The school itself has its ups and downs, like anywhere, but doing hair and makeup and nails and waxing... it's my favorite thing in the world. Honestly, I will kick myself for the rest of my life for not doing this earlier. I adore it. It's the only thing that I can still wake up at six o'clock in the morning for and then want to stay late. We just did a hair show a couple of weeks ago, and I was very proud of what came out of it. I'm trying to build up my portfolio and meet as many people as I can so that by December I will have some sort of idea where I will work. Eventually I would like to do editorial work and possibly be a platform artist. It's a crazy idea, but those are my favorites.
Phoenix Comic Con was fun. Now we are planning our yearly vacation to San Diego in July. It's become a trip for collecting new things and meeting people we look up to for years, but now we also have friends that we only get to see during con season that we really look forward to hanging out with.
I quit biting my nails. I can't promise anything, but they are long enough now to make typing weird. I like it a lot. I hope it lasts.
As far as being body positive, it's a process. I am gaining weight because of the hormones I have to take, so that is an added challenge to this whole thing. I got rid of all of my clothes that "sometimes fit" because looking at them made me feel gross. I'm still going to zumba and yoga, and that feels good. I did break down and weigh myself at the gym one day, and I'm angry at myself for it. In the meantime, I am working on loving myself, feeling pretty, and I've signed on to do nude modeling for life drawing classes a few times a month. I'll try and remember to blog and let you know how that goes.
I'll try and remember to blog more about a lot of things.
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