When I Am an Old Woman...

I first read the anthology When I Am an Old Woman I Shall Wear Purple while living in Orange County, doing things I was raised not to do, but not really giving a shit since I felt that I had been listening to people tell me what to do long enough.

I came across the book at my favorite book store, Farenheit 451, which used to be on the coast in Laguna. There were funky seats and couches all over, a children's nook, a coffee counter, and a Baby Grand tucked behind the stacks near the window overlooking Coast Highway. Once I heard the most beautiful music coming from that piano and walked over to find a guy with piercings, tattoos, and a mohawk. 

when i am an old woman i shall wear purple - cover.jpg

Never judge a book... 

Back When I Am an Old Woman. I remember reading it for the first time thinking, "This is the kind of old lady I'm going to be!" But then I thought, "Well, I already wear purple, and I already act sort of like this lady wants to live." And I committed to be true to myself.

Then I fell into a bad crowd of people pleasers that talked about drapes and landscape issues and PTA bullshit and I thought, "Well... I guess I have to do this for a while." And I did. And it sucked as bad as I thought it might. Then I went to therapy to fix what was wrong with me only to find out that what was wrong with me was trying to not BE me.

So I fixed that.

But like any person who has struggled with any issue, I still have these moments when I relapse. I fall back into wanting to belong to a group of people that I think I should belong to but end up resenting most of them because they annoy the shit out of me. It's not them. It's me. Well, to be fair to myself, a lot of them ARE annoying, and if I told you what they talk about all fucking day you might agree. You might also wear purple.

At least on the inside. 

Today I kept reading the same Monday updates and conversations that I always read. The same inspirational quotes. The same not-so-humble brags. The same Best-Husband-Ever bullshit, and I wanted to respond, but although the responses were funny and witty, they were also mean and/or snarky, so I kept them to myself. 

And then the poem, "When I am an Old Woman" came to mind, but instead of wearing purple, I thought of a few other things I might do:

When I am an old woman, I will call bullshit on the people that say they would keep working even if they won the lottery. And I will tell them that their mom would much rather get flowers from them with all that money they are buying lottery tickets with, even if the first thing they always say they'll do (after paying bills) is to buy their mom a house. I will also slap the idiots that say "I'll pay off all my bills" if they won the lotto, because, DUMB ASS!!! Pay them off NOW and stop wasting your money on lottery tickets. 
When I am an old woman, I will call up everyone that gave me sunshiny advice just to see how it's all working out for them. In fact, I won't even wait that long. I'll just check their Facebook status in a few years and then say, "Sorry you just got hit upside the head with the realities of life, but hey... you can always start a gratitude journal!" 
When I am an old woman, I will sell a shit ton of "gratitude journals" to people that think they will positive-think away their poor choice in husbands and/or all the years that they should have let little Johnny figure shit out himself, but now he's sleeping on your couch and buying lottery tickets. 
When I am an old woman, I will comment on every not-so-humble brag and say, "Dude... no matter what you just bought yourself and where you just partied all weekend, you don't fool us. We still see through this update and right to your hollow soul." Or maybe, "This sounds like a desperate cry for attention. Is everything okay?"
When I am an old woman, I will comment on every disgusting, gross, discolored picture of half eaten food. I will ask that person why they thought it was a good idea to ruin all of our appetites with what they pass as a "great shot" of their #foodporn. If real porn was equal to the supposed #foodporn that's all over the internet, nobody would ever have sex ever again.

And just as I thought to myself when I was standing in that bookstore on Coast Highway, purchasing my copy of When I Am an Old Woman I Shall Wear Purple, I want to recommit to be true to myself. I wonder, why not start this mad behavior NOW????

Because I still struggle with fitting in. 

Fuck me running... 


The Trouble with Doors

Several years ago, I came across the perfect desk on Craigslist. It was Espresso colored, so not completely black, but not just dark brown, or God forbid, wood-like. It had a file drawer ready for hanging files, several shelves, a hutch with frosted glass doors, and a pull out tray for my keyboard tucked nicely under the desk. Not only that, but the typing/writing area of the desk extended out and curved so that I had enough room to breathe and to face my monitor at an angle, rather than directly towards a wall. 

And it had a door to hide my giant tower of a computer. 

Over the years, I've come to hate that door. At first, it seemed like a good idea. My big metallic monster was discretely resting behind the door, usable, but hidden. But then it became a problem. First, the tower started heating up in that confined little space. The fan would just buzz incessantly. BUZZ BUZZ BUZZZZZZ. The incessant buzzing was completely distracting and annoying. So I pulled the tower out, pulled the desk away from the wall, and cut the back of that area out. THERE! No more over heating!

Then it was the USB thing. There are a couple of items that I plug into the front facing part of the tower, forcing me to leave the door open or cracked a bit. The door had a little semi-circle at the top of the door, but it was really only big enough to allow a tiny speaker cord through. It sort of worked, but not really. The door was usually cracked open with cables pouring out, which was making my cable-hating self itch.

Then there was the issue of not hearing anything because the speakers on the tower were being muffled by the door from hell. The monitor I have for that Mac doesn't have speakers, so I had to leave wide open whenever I wanted to hear anything. The door was never really fully closed. It wasn't really functioning as a door, even though that's exactly what it was.

I've lived with this door not working for a couple of years now. I've learned to ignore the little annoyances in exchange for it sort of doing its job. I thought I could live with the situation, but I was always aware of how annoying it was. The feeling was buzzing around me like a little gnat flying around your head.


Today, I was organizing our work/learn center. I ran through all the same issues again and just like an insane person, I ran through all the solutions. I could plug in that USB hub to the back and just plug everything in on top. But then I remembered how messy that got, and the cables flopping all over the desk was really making me stabby. I could rubber band or zip tie all the cords. Again. Or maybe I could make the semi-circle cut out a little bigger. I started to dig through the tool box for the right bit to make that happen, when it finally hit me. 

Just remove the fucking door, Sugar!!!

And so I did. I got rid of the door.

Sometimes, the solution really is just that simple.

This is a POST!

Sometimes, I think I'm taking crazy pills.

Like when everyone starts using the wrong word for something and I start to wonder if all this time, I was the one that was wrong. But I know I'm not, yet when I go to correct people (for the one millionth time), I stop myself because A) it doesn't seem to be making a dent in the misuse of the word, and B) I have that tiny little voice of doubt telling me that I might be the one that's wrong.

So yesterday, after months of this nagging doubt, I asked a bunch of people that would be experts in the correct use of the word in question:


Blog, if you didn't already know, is short for Weblog. This entire thing that you see (header, sidebar, posts, footer, etc.) is a weblog, aka, BLOG. The individual stories or articles are called POSTS. For some reason, this is a difficult concept for so many newbies to grasp. Maybe it's because the word "blog" can also be used as a verb, as in, "I blogged about that," or "I'm blogging that." That's a perfectly acceptable use of the abbreviated word, blog.

But this... this thing that you are currently reading ON my blog is a POST! A collection of posts makes up a blog. If you tell me to come read your blog, I'm going to assume that you mean to read all the articles on your weblog/site. It makes me crazy when people say, "I wrote a blog about that," or "This is a blog about the time I interviewed that one star," because I know they are referring to a post.

And although I KNOW this, I still questioned myself because of the rampant misuse of the word. My expert friends, immersed in the terminology as professional bloggers, confirmed that I was correct in being freaking annoyed and further, they thought it might just be a "West Coast" thing.

They may be right.

The only times I hear anyone referring to posts as blogs have been here in California, or as the rest of the country refers to us, The Land of Fruits and Nuts. The biggest offenders are journalists on a radio station here on the West Coast that I listen to. They have been pushing their blog POSTS for the last several months. I was initially just annoyed that they talked about the same post for weeks because blogging is more active than that, so I mentioned it to a friend that works at the station and a few days later, I heard new promos for newer posts... which they still referred to as BLOGS. Now, weeks later, the spots are once again stale, and my ire has deepened to the inclusion of their referring to individual posts as blogs. "Come read my blog about..." "The blog took me months to write..." and on and on.

I want to SCREAM!!!

I don't know why this bothers me so much, but it does. So please, for the love all things big and small, and for my personal sanity, STOP MISUSING THE WORD BLOG! And you of the blogalicious sort that are in the know, for the love of Pete, correct any and all offenders before this gets completely out of control!

There... I feel much better...

This has a been a Public Service POST by the blogaliciously annoyed.