I don't remember when my brain finally put together the fact that Tuesdays are completely pointless, but my argument for removing Tuesday from the week began decades ago.

What value do Tuesdays actually bring to our lives?

If you ask me--nothing. Nothing at all. It is a garbage day, wasted by many.

Key Points:

• If you're one of the many folks who head to an office Monday through Friday (M-F'ers), you may experience a small sense of optimism on Mondays--a fresh start, if you will. Expectations are lower, especially in the earlier hours of a Monday. We're all giving each other a little more space to recover from the weekend.
• Wednesday is Hump Day! We can see the light at the end of the tunnel.
• Thursday is Friday Eve! You may still have work to do before you close out the week and head home, but you have plenty of time!
• Friday is Friday, People. Even if you're not an M-F'er, you probably benefit from the euphoria of those who do. Things are a little more relaxed on Fridays too--hello, it's casual day for most of us M-F'ers.
• Holidays rarely fall on a Tuesday.

Tuesday tends to be the day of the week where there are tons of meetings and no excuses. The pressure is ON. Any hope or optimism from Monday burned in a hot, stinky dumpster fire around 4:12 p.m. that afternoon. When you get home on Tuesday night, you probably have to make dinner because leftovers from the weekend are gone. There are probably chores from the weekend that need to be wrapped up or put away or finalized.

There is no rest for the M-F'ers on Tuesday.

I propose that Tuesday be eliminated from the week--it has lost any relevance that it may have had upon it's initiation.

Concerned about your birthday disappearing? What good was a birthday on a Tuesday anyway? It ain't easy to get M-F'ers out of the house on a Tuesday night, what with all that damned work to do.

I know you have questions--I don't have all the answers here, but I'll try.

"You're insane. Who hates a day of the week?"

Ummm, hello??? How many people have you heard of that hate Mondays...?
This person started a change.org petition just to change the name! BABY STEPS.

"Wait--if everyone hates Mondays so much, why wouldn't we get rid of Mondays instead of Tuesdays?"

Then, Tuesdays would just become Mondays and there wouldn't be much of a change. And, as I mentioned before for some people, Mondays offer a fresh start. Some of us need those.

"I'm on board, Heather, but how the hell do we do this?"

I'm glad you asked, imaginary blog reader!

I have no idea. I'm just bitchin' and wishin'.

I disappeared. It is especially disheartening considering my last post... In the last seven days, I have written thousands of words. I've journaled almost daily and I've put 5600 words into a Word document that may only be seen by me. But it's a start. It's something. I'm desperately holding on to the scant bit of momentum that I have and constantly reminding myself that this shit takes fucking work and there's no easy way around it. No one is going to suddenly appear at my door and give me a magical remote control that will stop time so I can write.

I fight the lazy girl that lives inside of me on a daily basis and when I can convince her to go away, the perfectionist rears her ugly head, saying, "I mean, you can try and all, but if it's not going to be perfect, then why bother?" The lazy girl hears that and shows up with cocktails and 45 episodes of my favorite television show on Netflix. 

And, back to the couch I go instead of writing and giving myself the chance. So, this hastily written, mostly pointless post is my way of giving the middle finger to those bitches.

When I saved the 5600+ words into a file, I started digging around to see what else I could find in my archives of secret words. I found the following poem that I wrote in February of 2015 while mourning the loss of someone I've never met. I'm not a poet, but every once in awhile, poetry comes out of me and onto the page. I didn't edit this--only chopped a few lines that messed with the flow. 

Find her and you find it all
Blues, Fridays, and bourbon highballs
Start it and you’ll find it all
Play out and she’ll come to you
It’s all coming into view
 
In the moonlight
Warmth and light
Touch it, Girl
Don’t be scared, Girl
Put your fingers on my heart, Girl
 
Strum, Boy
Find it, Boy
 
My heart lies behind
Them strings
Those stings
Tight and low
I can follow
 
Those fingers tell a tale
Using, abusing,
Strumming, and flipping
Finding their way
Got to getting

He came to rest on my shoulder on Monday, July 25th.

It's as if he has always been there.

I didn't plan for this to happen, but I've been almost protective of him since I got him. I haven't shown him to everyone, I haven't talked about him, I haven't shared his picture. He's like a little secret that's meant only for me and it almost seems wrong to let anyone else in on the secret. 

You see, Hank was born with a purpose. 

He exists because I needed a reminder to write and that if I don't, death won't wait for me to fulfill my dream. Death is coming for me. Perhaps not soon, but he's coming. I have consistently held my writing close to me and felt the most comfort in sharing it with strangers. As I think about why I have kept Hank covered, I liken it to the reason why I've kept my writing to myself. It's intensely personal and intimate and private. 

I got my first tattoo when I turned 18 and I was hooked before the needle even penetrated my flesh. I’ve wanted to start a sleeve for several years, but I wanted the “anchor” of the sleeve to be significant. I knew that I would look at it every day even before my eyes fully open and therefore that precious piece of skin would need to be considered with great care. It needed to have a purpose.

When one of my favorite artists evolved into a tattoo artist, I was ecstatic to discover that his talent with a brush, pen, pencil, and camera, extended to a tattoo machine. I realized that having the tattoo that everyone else has (see Pinterest) was the LAST thing I wanted. Something that I learned after getting to know JJ and his wife, Darlene, (and through personal experience) is that the best way to make bad art is to tell the artist exactly what to do and how to do it and control every aspect of the creative process so as to make something shitty that everyone in the entire world has already seen and shat all over. 

I asked JJ to create something that would remind me to write. I got so much more than I bargained for. You might know that my calling is to write, but laziness (as my late writing professor, Peter Christopher, would say “eating cookies”) has gotten in the way. Some days, when I don’t touch pen to paper, I am literally sick to my stomach at the egregious waste of time.

Initially, I sent him an email with a few small things I had in mind, then we had a conversation about the piece that lasted less than 4 minutes. 

I arrived in Mauldin, South Carolina right on time and walked into the shop. He presented me with the drawing and watched my face. The size of the skull was the first thing that I saw, but next, I saw the little bee, and then the crown of leaves, the heart, the inkwell that would eventually peek out from the sleeve of a t-shirt, and then the soft feathers of the quill. I admit that the skull looked ominous at first and I feared that it would be too big, too tough for me. A few minutes later, he laid the stencil over my arm and it looked enormous, too large for my too large arm. If I didn't have to hide it for work, I probably would have went for it, knowing full well that a larger tattoo is generally better than one that's just a hair too small. I asked him to take it down just a little bit and a few minutes later, he laid the paper over my arm and without hesitation, I said, "yes." He went back to the computer and printed out the stencil and placed it on my arm. "Yes."

I'm not ashamed to admit that I'm a bit of a masochist, so the pain didn't bother me, nor was it something I was afraid of--full disclosure: I was kinda looking forward to it. The pain serves a purpose and therefore it is easy to withstand. I was more concerned about passing out on him due to the fact that I hadn't eaten. He assured me that we would eat. My head took a few spins when I got settled in the chair and the vibration of the machine began to hum, but I settled in and relaxed, even threatening to fall asleep.

We ate mixed berry crumble pie and drank beer and it was the best lunch I've had in a long time. 

We discussed how the tattoo would look in its final state throughout the process and it was truly an experience. 

As he got closer to finishing and I began to dread the end of this amazing day, without looking up and as I gazed up at the ceiling, he said, "Thanks for letting me do this."

My head whipped around to him and I studied his eyelashes for a few moments before saying, "Thank YOU, JJ. This has been an incredible day."

He continued in silence and for that I was thankful because the lump rising in my throat would have forced me to choke on any words I would need to use to respond. Nothing I could say would convey how thankful I was at that moment anyway.

He told me things that only another creative person seeking their "spot" would understand. And, as I thought about what I know about his creative history, he didn't sit back and wait for it to happen. He didn't get some magical tattoo that would suddenly open up his place in the world--he tried different things, hoping to find the place where his creative heart could soar and he could share his art with people who could appreciate it.

A month later, Hank is serving his purpose of reminding me of my mortality and how little time I have left to make something of the life I have. It's not a magical tattoo in the sense that I'm suddenly a brilliant writer about to stumble upon hundreds of thousands of dollars, but it IS magical that I have a reminder of such an important day in my life that I carry on my skin, in my flesh. 

It's like he's always been there, sitting on my shoulder. I can't imagine my life without him and photos that show that bare arm bring me closer to the screen, thinking, "How did he just get here?"

I wrote this a week or so ago, probably just to get it out of my head, but re-reading it, even if it's not perfect, posting it as-is seems like the right thing to do. I will not overthink this one....for once.

​There's a time in your life when you realize that everything is just perfect. 

That the only people who are out to get you are faceless enemies that seem like a world away. You realize that they could literally be in your backyard, but nevertheless you feel safe and sound and at home.

You feel it for a split second and then it's gone as you reach, reach, reach to find it again like holding on to a dream as you drift between sleep and awake.

You chase the feeling like the perfect orgasm, you can feel it pressing to get out and fly free again. You know the moment that it escapes will provide you with an unspeakable elation, one that you can only verbalize as a whisper or a loud, gutteral, physical moan. But, you also know that it won't last. It will be fleeting. You'll mourn it when it escapes you, just a shred of a memory hanging on to the inner recesses of your brain. You hope it will happen again and again, but you can never be sure where or when it will happen again, leaving you maudlin in the space between.

People who are on drugs must get hooked because they only know the artificial, synthetic happiness of that high, rather than the organic, clear-headed high of knowing that you've got it all. I'm sad for them. It's like the mornings when you wake up feeling thin and content and confident before you wash it down the drain in the shower where you begin to plan out a hellish day in your mind. 

Jumping seems to have big results... I'm just not a person who jumps and I've always been afraid of big results. I've been afraid that I'll never reach that point again, afraid of the sacrifices that will be made, and the inevitable discomfort and depression that accompanies failure and rejection. The sad thing is with such low expectations, I don't know why I hesitate to jump.

Since I realized that my life is mine to form, to mold, to make something out of, I'm much less concerned about the feelings or needs of others--especially those who are slaving away to accomplish someone else's dreams. There's honor in that, but the greatest honor, the one that brings that orgasmic high is the one that you create by yourself, for yourself.

My Libertarian is showing. But I don't care. I hold strongly the belief that you are 100% responsible for your happiness or your unhappiness. You can't spend your life making other people happy and expect to feel happiness yourself. If you give it all away, what do you have? If you're thinking in monetary terms, you're thinking too simply and there's a chance no one will ever be able to convince you that you're missing the entire point.

Making other people happy and successful is what you do after you've secured your own mask. Get what I'm saying? Be a part of your own rescue and don't forget to rescue yourself before you attempt to rescue someone else. Sure, it's noble to give your life to someone else, but I feel like it's a waste. ​

Fair warning: I have never had "legit" posole in my life, so I don't know what it's supposed to taste like. That said, even if this isn't authentic, it's easy and delicious.

I got the recipe from Bon Appetit, but I made a few tweaks.

Chile Paste

• 2 dried ancho or pasilla chiles (you should be able to find these in any grocery store, but if not, most Hispanic grocery stores carry them)
• 1 garlic clove, coarsely chopped
• 2 tablespoons tomato paste (I'd recommend finding a tube of this!)

Soup and Assembly

• 2 tablespoons olive oil
• 1 medium onion, thinly sliced
• 2 15 oz. cans white hominy, drained and rinsed
• 8 cups turkey stock, low-sodium chicken broth, or vegetable broth
• 2 cups shredded, cooked turkey or chicken
• Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper
• Tortilla chips, sliced avocado, cilantro, and lime wedges for serving (ESSENTIAL!)

For the chile paste:
Remove seeds from chiles; toast in a small, dry skillet over medium-high heat, turning until browned and fragrant, about 4 minutes. {Side note: I was multi-tasking when I did this, so my chiles got blackened...don't be like me. If you burn them, you'll be picking the burnt bits out of your soup when you should be eating it.} Place toasted chiles in a medium bowl. Add 2 cups of hot water to the bowl; let sit until softened, about 5 minutes. Drain, reserving 1/2 cup of the liquid. Pulse chiles in a food processor or blender with reserved liquid, garlic, and tomato paste until smooth.

Soup and Assembly:
Heat olive oil in a large pot (6-quarts is perfect) over medium heat. Cook onion, stirring occasionally, until translucent, 6-8 minutes {Side note: I caramelized the onions for a little deeper flavor. This takes a little while longer, but it's worth it.}. Add your chile paste and cook, stirring until thick and darkened, about 4 minutes. Add hominy, stock or broth, meat, and season with salt and pepper. Simmer for 10-15 minutes. Serve with tortilla chips, avocado, cilantro, and lime wedges {Side note: don't skip these--they add a freshness to the soup that's so good and the avocado adds creaminess that's to die for.}.
---
I highly recommend making this a few hours (even a day) before you plan to eat it. Like many soups and stews, the longer the flavors have time to marry off the heat, the better. After I simmered it for 15 minutes, I turned off the heat, put the lid on the pot, and let it sit for an hour and a half. If it's too cool when you're ready to eat, let it reheat on low for a few minutes. 
---
My deepest apologies for the excessive side notes. If you know me, you know I'm detail-oriented, which is a nice way of saying that I talk entirely too much.

I'm petrified that I'm everything that I can't stand, but I just haven't bothered to look in the mirror to see it.

Am I as lazy as he seems?

Am I as bitchy and uncaring as she seems?

Do I cultivate drama instead of squashing it?

I think one of my most important New Year's Resolutions is to make sure I'm looking in the mirror and maintaining eye contact instead of quickly looking away so that I don't have to think about and face my faults.

The other resolutions are the same as they are every year.

• Create good habits that will make me a healthier, more productive person.
• Set goals and work toward achieving them. I see the potential of the future and it's eye-searingly bright.
• Save more money! Stash it in small bills somewhere other than my mattress.
• Become a Ton of Joy--not just for other people, but for myself. Joy breeds joy.

​As most of my writable thoughts come to me, this one came to me while I was doing something else. Whether it was more important than writing is debatable, but that's neither here nor there.

The cliche of "Confessions of an Unwed Mother" came to mind while I had the idea of writing some kind of memoir.

Somehow,  Un-mothered Wife doesn't have the same "ring". (pun intended)

I feel like we've heard plenty of confessions from unwed mothers and, well, they're just not that interesting anymore. No offense to those unwed mothers, but...I've heard the story more than once and...*yawn*

Aren't you curious what confessions a woman who has chosen not to have children has? Aren't you curious WHY? As an un-mothered wife, I consider the reasons fairly banal and not surprising...quite logical in fact. But, some people might not get it. 

Oddly, I find great satisfaction in the stunned look that I typically receive and I can almost hear what they're thinking. "Uhhh, how do I react? Is this a test? What do I say to her? What do we talk about now?"

My response to that is simple--"Duh, vodka."

It amuses me that once you have children, there is simply nothing better to talk about. Actually, I know people who don't have children who are stunned when I say that I'm not going to have children and they suddenly can't think of ANYTHING to talk about. Or, they say something incredibly weird, like, "Yeah, me too." More than likely, unless they're over the age of 35, they haven't thought about a life without having children.

It's just what you do when you're a woman. You get married, you build a homestead, and you have babies. Not necessarily in that order, but you get the drift.

But, what if...?

What if you've fallen madly in love with someone who can't have children?
What if you don't actually LIKE children? 
What if you like children, but you like giving them back to their parents and drinking more vodka?
What if you played out the "fairytale" in your head and kids just messed up the whole, traveling, sleeping, fancy car dream?

The glorious thing about being a "modern woman" is that you have a billion choices.

My advice is to follow your bliss. Do the thing(s) that make you feel good. Life is too short to spend it any other way.

The confession of THIS un-mothered wife?

I'll never tell.

But it probably has something to do with vodka.

Snarling cynicism
Surrounded by rings of smoke.
Martinis drunk in gulps,
Swallowed to push it down.
Wit, vodka, Camels, chocolate,
Movies, nail polish, sexts.
Free-falling expectations--
The death of my hope
Came slow and painful.
The cold made comfortable
By the warmth of familiarity.
Swimming in misery,
Arms crossed over my chest,
You found me.
Just another girl,
Just another boy.
Spark!
Lamplight and lust
​Evolved into love.

Friday, February 25, 2011

Dear Chickpea!
Oh! How I love thee,
Even more than a marathon of Always Sunny.

Breakfast, lunch, and dinner
You're always a winner.
Even for brinner!

I don't know what I would do
If for some reason I lost you.
I would most certainly boo-hoo.

Salt and cumin makes you delicious
Tomatoes and garlic make you nutritious.
Every meal with you is like Christmas!

We won't even talk about hummus
I could eat as much as a hippopotamus.
What rhymes with hippopotamus?

Even your name is cute!
You go with everything to boot.
You don't even make me poot.

Nom
Nom nom
Nom nom nom.

*Drool-worthy image stolen from http://dinnerwithjulie.com/2012/02/15/roasted-chickpeas-bacon-pecans/. Sorry Julie! 


To the Cub Scout and his mother who visited my door:

Thank you for your generous donation of used chewing gum to my sidewalk. I almost stepped in it as I walked out of the house this morning. It’s too bad that your mother didn’t see you dispose of it there, however, something tells me that you learned this habit from her. Unfortunately for all of the Cub Scouts in the entire world, you have single-handedly (mouthedly?) ensured that I will never donate my hard earned money to your organization because the moment I found that wad of sticky, green, saliva-covered gum is a moment I will associate with the Cub Scouts for the rest of my life.

I don’t really care if a child knows how to tie 597 types of knots, learns how to build a fire out of masking tape and shoelaces, or how many badges he’s earned. What concerns me is a lack of self-awareness, empathy, and humanity.

Start there, young man. Be a good friend and a steward of humanity.

Heather

And, one more thing that is just a pet peeve of mine….if you’ve come to my door to request a donation or sell me something, leave the gum at home.