Challenge Day Two: 20 Facts About Me

So we meet again for blog challenge day two and I'm to give you 20 facts about me. Here we go!

1. I'm only 5 foot 1 and 1/2 inches tall and my husband says the 1/2 makes me sound ridiculous so just say "Five foot two."

2. My favorite stone is a Moonstone, which people confuse with Mood Stone which is not the same thing at all.

3. I have freakishly small feet for a grown woman.

4. My favorite band is, and will always be, Hanson. And no I'm not even remotely ashamed.

5. I'm deathly, not-even-funny-to-joke-about afraid of snakes. All of them.

6. I'm a terrible swimmer, I almost drowned 5 times before age 12 and at age 22 I took swim lessons at the YMCA and still have water issues. I'm mostly comfortable dog paddling.

7. I bite my nails when I'm anxious, which happens a lot.

8. I love roller-coasters.

9. I'm not the best roller skater but I dream of being on a derby team because I think that would be so fun.

10. I'm a decent tennis player but I rarely play.

11. I'm the only redhead in my entire family on both sides. So I married a redhead and created my own.

12. I wanted to be a music writer when I started going to school and college crushed my dreams but still gave me a degree.

13. I hate chocolate and peanut butter together, but enjoy them very much separately.

14. I'm a coffee snob.

15. Besides the fact that there are no snakes there, I have no desire to see Hawaii in my lifetime.

16. I'm a highly-creative under-acheiver.

17. I haven't read most "classic" books that are staples of high school and coming of age literature and I don't intend to read them.

18. I hate olives and have tried all the varieties. 

19. I don't cook anything real at all. I'm not kidding. I can bake things a bit, I can make mac and cheese and sometimes Crock-pot things, but I can't cook anything edible. 

20. Music is healing for me in every way, it can completely change my day and is therapeutic and something I hold very dear.

So now you know a bit more about me! Feel free to post commentary and tell me about you!

One Month Blog Challenge: Introduction

Well hey there readers and fellow bloggers! To quote the great Austin Powers, "Allow myself to introduce...myself."

My name is Alison Chriss, formerly Alison Egan-Lodjic. I'm a mother of one fierce five year old girl, the wife to a tall, redheaded chef, a dog mom to Brodie Brewster, the seven year old fawn-colored pug, a wannabe writer, a full time executive assistant and newsletter editor for a financial news network based in St. Petersburg, Florida and a graduate of the University of Oregon with a bachelor of arts in Magazine Journalism.

I'm really short, but what I lack in size I make up for in loudness and sass. I'm also a lot for people to deal with and recently found out I'm an introvert and extrovert all at once. I'm kind of a mess but I kinda love that about myself.  Anyway, I found an every day blog post challenge and I'm taking it. Why? To bore you all. Well, more-so, to write and get back to myself and a little bit to see if I can get some readers to relate!

I feel like we live in a social media society where measurements of accomplishments and happiness are based on likes, emojis and activity on various apps. While I love the ability to check out wedding and baby photos, first day of school and vacation pictures, I think social media also preys on our anxieties and insecurities. As some of my friends and readers know, I was diagnosed with clinical depression and anxiety in my college years. I have gotten very mixed responses in my sharing of these issues and how they weigh on me as I am unable to take any medicines to aid them because of a family history of drug abuse.

Some friends have said, "Hey, look at you doing all the things to manage them, you're kicking ass!" This sparked meaningful, deep conversations about their inner struggles, their finding balance with or without medication, what worked for them and made my heart calm and at peace because I had bridged a personally insecure gap and found more common ground with someone. Some friends have urged me not to post about these things and feel my honesty about my depression and anxiety and their effects on my life could adversely come back to me later.

My intent with all my writing is this: If ONE reader, If one PERSON, reads my blog and RELATES, in ANY way, I've reached someone and therefore reached my goal. I'm admittedly a bad reader, considering I'm an aspiring writer. I don't read as much as I should, but when I read a post from a blog or book or article, or a silly meme or Facebook post, even an Instagram update that makes me feel less "in it," in this high-functioning world; when I relate to another human and have a humbling, peaceful moment, it makes up for all those anxieties that bombard my mind and soul.

During this challenge you might learn things about me that you don't like. You might as yourself, "Why am I reading this crap?" Maybe this whole challenge is a selfish thing for me after all, but it's nice to change it up and do some kind of new version of self care. If any of you are like me, you put yourself below last. You don't even slow down and eat dinner until the trash is out, or you forget to take even 15 minutes to yourself, because you're so wrapped up in everything else. This challenge will be for us all then. Maybe your challenge is just to read it from time to time.

So let me thank my readers in advance because you're taking the time to read after I took the time to write. Maybe I'll get it "write" this time!

Feedback is welcome and check back tomorrow. It's on!

The Struggling Post

The name for this post came so naturally, although coined from someone else, but now I look at it and laugh because the pun-intended side of me reads it like a sign post or tree post that is struggling. I just had to get that out there. Okay, now back to the real deal. Not sure the best beginning.

Social media is a mixed bag. It can help you stay connected or even reconnect, but for an anxious depressive like myself, it can produce a roller-coaster of results. The Rabbit-Hole effect can be intense. What I mean is, you may find yourself on a friend's page looking at cute kid pictures, to see a comment by a frenemy that leads you to their page, where you realize they are dating so and so, and that so and so got divorced or remarried or blah, blah, blah and after 30 minutes you wonder what you are doing with your life since your high school bully now has a yacht and you have late credit card bills! See? Anxiety + Social Media = WHAT!?

To quote Phoebe from Friends when referencing her thought process, "Yeah you don't want to get in here," pointing to her head. I've always referred to Facebook as a "time suck." You look at one thing and 4 clicks later you are reading an article about sloths or sweat shops in Malaysia, you look down and it's 30 minutes later than it was when you checked that one notification about a reaction to your status about a toddler meltdown.

I think I learned about the power of the post and the weight of my words within my first year in our brave new world. Up until I was 24, I was a full time Nanny. When we moved here I had to get my first job in the regular work force born out of, "I need to pay my bills and stuff." My first job at a medical apparel store taught me that much older women tend to hate much younger woman, even if they are the boss and you are just the employee. It also proved that my taking the initiative to be efficient added with my smart ass cynicism only resulted in more disdain.

I remember one frustrating day I kept making unnecessary mistakes and audibly to myself I said "Man, if it's not one thing it's another today." I was then confronted about talking back to my boss, who was a full room away when I said this and I wasn't even speaking to her. Eye roll, my big mouth.

I'm best defined as a "Sasshole," one of my new, favorite meme-generated words. Social media for the win. A "Sasshole," is just as it sounds, a sassy asshole, and my picture may even be next to this in the slang dictionary. I was raised watching and memorizing The Princess Bride, which is the epitome of wit and sarcasm in satire, romance, and comedy, not to mention one of the greatest movies of all time. I do think before I speak but sometimes my snark and spice escape me. I'm that person who learned early that you didn't need to know how to physically fight, you could do far more damage with your words.

Years ago after completing some 15 months in my first and only restaurant job, and working with my husband no less, I moved onto greener pastures by getting a job at a Massage Envy. The restaurant perks were discounted meals and being closed on Sundays. The Massage Envy perks were free massages when meeting your sales quota and actually being allowed to sit.

After my two weeks notice and completion of shifts, I wrote and posted on this blog, a diatribe about my boss. At this time, my blog was so fresh I was pretty sure that my husband, a few close friends, the woman I nanny-ed for and maybe 2 other people actually read anything I wrote that wasn't a music piece for Creative Loafing. I also assumed that anyone who read my stuff, knew my personality enough to understand my tone throughout the piece, and where I was coming from.

Long story short, I had it out with this boss many times because I was no nonsense and very straightforward and serious about a job being done correctly, and tips and hours being allotted fairly and he informed me that my attitude and work ethic had gotten me the reputation of "Bitch."

This was not about my performance on the job. This was about my personality. I encouraged the 16-year-olds to not obsess about condiments in their Pandora bracelets, maybe don't wear those to work, and rather focus on doing a good job so we can all pool a good tip haul. Side note: Pooled tips are crap. I also referred to a very close friend of mine in a picture in which she was hiking the Appalachian Trail as looking "haggard," which apparently was mean. How dare I say someone braving the wilderness looked like she was tired from living off the land!

Regardless, we had a major personality clash as my point of view for my work was not to make friends but to do my job and pay my bills. I needed to coexist on a shift but not braid anyone's hair and go shopping with these girls in my free time. No way.

So when I wrote this "Young Alison Bitter Diatribe," I didn't foresee the boss' wife's sister reading it  as some kind of scathing op-ed piece. This wasn't a time when you would Google the restaurant and my blog would come up to ruin their business. This was a vent session for me. We got called to their judgment table where I was then accused of being fake because I had helped babysit a few times and always sent thank you notes for any kindnesses or extra gifts, like a free meal, and I wrote something unfavorable about my boss being, for lack of a better work, a dick.

I'm an angry, frustrated crier. When I get infuriated my face gets lobster red and I just bawl because all of that emotion has nowhere to pour out of except my tear ducts. To me, being called out for being insensitive or finally living up to my "Bitch" labeling wasn't what made me mad. It was that anyone had a right to comment on my view of the events and why I wanted to share them. This was and is a live journal. You could read any of this and think whatever you would like of me, but did anyone ever stop and think, maybe it's not about you?

See with social media opinions are an epidemic. Although everyone is ALLOWED to have them. But much like what I've been reminded, not all of them need to be shared. And here is my argument on all of that. We live in a place where social media has amplified information access. You can find out who the 16th president was and also where your old friend from high school lives in the same few clicks.

People post about death, divorce, marriage, babies, accidents, new jobs, new homes, new hair cuts, new tattoos, EVERYTHING. What I'm wondering is why we single out a complaint, a rough patch, a bad day or a quick musing and get so defensive? I personally feel like when I read a struggling post, it makes me feel calm and more human. I enjoy complaints about the lines at Starbucks or someone cutting someone off on a busy road, as much as appreciate a post about an overdraft fee or a bounced paycheck, or buying two tickets to Paris! We are REAL HUMANS with emotions. Can we not share our feelings?

Maybe the problem is our audience. I have always said, "Know your audience." This has been big for me. I have always felt anxious when you're in a situation where a friend is complaining about let's say, the process of buying a brand new car, and you're car is falling apart and you can't afford the repairs or a new one. It's not that you can't be a sympathetic ear but that its rough for you to feel badly for them when you just had to beg your dad for money because you have $6.00 in your account for another 8 days.

Perhaps when my diatribe posted, the bosses thought it was more a commentary on how he ran his business, instead of how he treated me as a person and how I didn't want to continue to apologize for my personality. I am who I am, take it or leave it. And I have grown less and less apologetic.

Nearly a decade ago when I was diagnosed with depression and anxiety it was a hush hush thing. Now it is more mainstream and people are speaking out. This gives me comfort. Why? Because maybe in my posts complaining about a co-worker or bad day I was masking a panic attack or a bigger issue. Maybe when I post pictures of a therapeutic walk, it's not about parading a struggle of my mental battles but offering an idea on how to combat them. And what's so magical about the internet? You can positively affect someone random with something so simple!

It's a weird thing letting people in. It is something I struggle with daily. That vulnerability is intense. And on social media you let in anyone on your "friends" list and then almost globally open yourself up, especially if you spark a controversial view. After my group, couples and personal therapy and especially with having a fresh start, I stopped sugar coating things. That really happened for me with the restaurant job. When I spoke my mind and let my "freak flag fly," that was when I realized that I was angry because my job performance had nothing to do with my mental health stuff, but it did create personality clashes. I could get past those, but other people couldn't, apparently, but guess what? That's not MY problem.

After that I spent two years at Massage Envy making the best friends I could ask for, learning about massage and self caring like a boss. I had run-ins with certain people, but nothing real. It wasn't until entering motherhood that the social media storm of opinions took it's toll and I learned new coping mechanisms. I lost touch with writing for a long time while raising a baby. I got stuck in the rabbit holes and time suck to distract. But now I'm really working hard on myself and my family life and I'm not afraid to talk about it. And if you don't like it, CLICK AWAY. Unfollow, delete, block, look away, hide the post, "BYE FELICIA!"

The fact remains, LIFE IS HARD and I happen to like the struggling post. I need to feel human more often than not. So while it may make others uncomfortable, I say, "THIS IS NOT ABOUT YOU!" Or, maybe it is in a way, and that is why it is controversial and upsetting warranting the suggestion not to do such things.

All I can say is this, in a world where we have a picture of any "perfect moment" literally in the palm of our hands at any given second, and a post for all to see, I am more grateful for the struggling post, even if it's not from me. You can filter out and post about life as you see it through your own personal lens, but I for one, enjoy knowing that others are human too and that I am not alone. Because some of my loneliest moments have been in a room full of people. And I think very much that social media can have the same effect: you have the facade of support and "following" but one "wrong" post and out of the woods they come with the torches. I personally like to see the light of the flames and feel comfort from the warmth; the struggling post will stand strong!

Poetry in the Paint Blotch: An Engagement-iversary Post

The ceiling paint blotch in our bedroom.

This is the view above the side where I sleep in our king bed in our still new-ish house. This was a point of contention in our marriage for a hot minute, and the reasoning will keep you amused, but first, some back story. Nearly two years ago, after a car accident that broke both our daughter's legs, gave my husband some broken ribs, new shoulder issues, and new sore ankle spots, also leaving me with some bruising, and severe and still surprising PTSD, when all was said and done from the wreckage, my husband bought us a house.

I say he bought us a house not because society deems that husbands buy their family a house. I say that because he spent his medical leave from post accident surgery finding listings in our price and location range, vetoing the ones that I argued, "But the pictures!," and doing all of the logistics for paperwork that was way above my head and got us a house. He made sure I went to see any house that was a serious candidate. I say he bought us a house because he used most of his portion of the settlement from the accident to finally grab some security and a new place to call home, not to mention putting in all the grunt work. 

Now we need to take a turn back in time because much like our engagement and wedding planning, this house was a quick process and I couldn't handle too many choices or too much input from the peanut gallery.  I write this a few days before what marks 9 years to the day, March 17th, 2009 that my then-boyfriend-now-husband asked me to marry him. My Irish man asked this very very Irish lady to be his wife on Saint Patrick's Day.

We were living with my no-relation-but-still-deemed Aunt while I was finishing college, he was working two jobs, and we were saving to move across the country. It was a cold morning, I was slightly under the weather and indulging in my guilty pleasure TV show, "90210" while outlining and doing homework. He was in the office/hangout area where we starting boxing up all the things. Side note: we learned when packing the truck that it is not good to just fill large boxes with all the things when only one of us is large enough to lift it. 

When he was in the office area he said "Honey, come here, what's this box?" I was deep into Donna and David drama, and not into being bothered. My reaction, "What? What are you going on about?"

"This box!," he reiterates, "What is this one?" "I peel myself off of the floor sporting my sweat pants and a sweatshirt and drug myself into the next room while belting out an "Ugggghhhhhhh, what box there is nothing new in there!," only to walk into him on one knee with a ring box.

If memory serves I gasped and said, "What are you doing!?," as he asked me if I would marry him. I think we know what the answer was and at 11ish AM we dropped everything and went to the bar to celebrate. Can you believe we weren't the only ones there? Oh wait, it was St. Patrick's Day. 

In less than 90 days we planned a wedding the day after I walked at my graduation with a Bachelor's Degree, and the day after the wedding we started our drive across the country to start a new life. On June 14th, 2009 we had an epic wedding/goodbye Oregon reception/party and started life as a married couple. On our wedding night my car was broken into and among the packed things that were stolen was my laptop, makeup bag with all my new jewelry including the promise ring he bought me, my backpack with my hair dryer, retainer and random hair stuff, all of my husband's "nice" clothes from 5 years of collecting during dating, and some dignity. 

While trekking across the country, our Penske truck and trailer holding our car with one taped window from the break, wouldn't fit in most of our hotel parking lots so we frequently left the truck at Wal-Mart, got the car down and drove to wherever we were staying. I think you can see we have a very "off" kind of happening or luck or coincidence among us in a "well-that-didn't-go-quite-as-planned" way, but we bounce back pretty quickly and have had plenty of family love and support in the midst of life drama.

It is this happening of coincidence or "off-ness" that makes this photo so amazing. See, we started house hunting in late August, early September, less than 90 days after the accident. We put in one offer on one house, got it, closed two days before Halloween and moved in by Thanksgiving. Again, no patience or room for messing around. 

We got the crazy idea to paint some of the rooms before we moved in. I forever dreamed about an amazing girls room for my daughter and we'd been renters so long. For most of my own childhood I barely got to pick anything for my room besides posters and toys. My mom did everything. I never had a teenage room with wild colors so I went kind of nuts at the hardware store when allowed to make real decisions. We let the 3 year old pick her own, purple and green. The neon first picks didn't make it but she agreed when we rounded down the choices to some more calmer tones. I, cornily enough, picked a turquoise/teal, almost identical to our wedding color for the master bedroom. 

Of course one day into an accent wall the "paint and new house fun" wore off and it was like real work to do this stuff. When we got to our room, the walls slant up. It's really cool actually but impossible for me to even reach after climbing to the ladder. The tall husband needed to step in. This was a few days into painting and trip number four or five to Lowes. It wasn't until he reached up and bent the wrong way that the little blotch showed up. He instantly got mad. He got even more mad when he found the tool to avoid that happening on the following store trip.

When he made that blotch I laughed. Not in a mean way. I had paint all over some of my good clothes and favorite flip flops. I had made a mess all over with barely a care. I was enjoying having a space to call mine and it could look as it would because it was "ours." I think he wanted it to be nicer or cleaner looking, immediately scolding himself for making the mess. 

I said, "So what!?" He replied, "I know I just want it to look good." It was in this moment I had a rare, calm, cool, collected epiphany and made the remark, "Honey, what in our life is perfect or manicured or even looks right? Seriously? What about us says, 'Perfectly Painted Couple?' So why would our bedroom be any different?" He gave me a cutely annoyed look and we moved on and painted until we deemed it, as good as it would get. He knew I was right. 

We are closing in on two years in the house. I stare at that spot a lot. Not scrutinizing; just looking at it. He has threatened to paint over it but during my darkest moments in that house, it brings me a strange comfort. That silly little blotch reminds me that we are imperfect, I am imperfect and flawed but bold and full of stories. That little blotch helps me stay sane when I feel the world pushing insanity towards me. I've stared at it when he puts something on the TV I cannot stand. I've stared at it when I'm soothing a sick or crying toddler. I've stared at it in tears of frustration, depression , anxiety and all the "how-the-fuck-did-we-get-here?," moments. 

Maybe I like it because to me it is just another piece of our story. And even the days when life is looking bleak, I LOVE our story. Maybe some people can't say that. I have grown to love every bad part as much as the good because of what it has taught me and how it has formed me into the wife and mother I am currently. Maybe I like it because I left blotches too and it makes me feel less alone in my blotch-ness. 

So, on the eve of our Engagement-iversary, I post this story not as some cautionary tale or weird diatribe, but because after 9 years of being completely enmeshed with this man I can tell you the flaws and imperfections are the best, most humbling, and most human parts of this life. We have moments where we don't even like each other, we have days that are immeasurably hard, we have days that are Facebook-profile-picture-worthy with updates galore on the goodness, but that blotch is there because on that day, it just happened upon us in an off way and we rolled with it (pun intended) and always will. And I really hope that spot is there as long as we are.

White Elephant Mugging

It is that time of year again! Christmas! Christmas is hard! I hope it's not just me, but as time has passed, Christmas just gets more stressful and often less enjoyable. Don't get me wrong, having Christmas with my daughter makes up for all of that but I'm just being real. Christmas is intense. 

Before baby, Christmas was split into 5 different houses for all the different relatives and the only driving force behind it all was the food. Now that we have a life and home of our own, it's more driven by gift giving. It is literally my dream to only buy stuff for the kid one year, not a single other person, and then be rewarded with an open ended nap and Christmas movies. Every time I mention this, my husband thinks it's a trap, but the debt of the gift giving and the months of tears when the credit card statements roll in, I sure would love a year without that.

Many people have a hard time with Christmas because they have lost loved ones, and those have always been the ones I tend to hug the most and try to spoil in some way, shape or form. I miss the days of true giving and gifting. Occasionally I find someone who does this effortlessly. They will find you the perfect something, something you would never think of for yourself, and it just warms your heart that you were even thought of. These are the people who make me fall back in love with the season.

I had epic Christmases as a kid. Even when my world was upside down I always got amazing things and I can't remember a "bad Christmas." I was a late bloomer and collected toys well into my teen years. It wasn't until my life took on gypsy status that things got lost along the way. I kept everything and loved my toys to death. When I was 18, I was like Buddy the Elf. Making cookies, buying people perfect things, working extra shifts to get wonderful presents for all, and it was completely worth it.  But as adulthood became more intense, it lost some of its magic. The tree took longer to decorate than I remembered and it was exhausting finding the time. The list of whom to buy for got longer and longer and you didn't want to be the cheap one suggesting Secret Santa. Squeezing in family time was daunting, especially with added travel.

We had a couple good years with my Uncles before everyone had kids on their hips where we painted cookies and still got the coolest gifts on the planet, before things took a sharp turn. I had one Christmas where I was super pregnant, and while cool gifts ended up under the tree, all I wanted was a quiet day. We definitely had it, but that Christmas was so bittersweet. My daughter's 1st Christmas when she was 11 months old, it was actually cold and she slept for the longest stint we had ever experienced in her crib. I woke up panicked, not used to that much solid sleep time. We all had a good Christmas nap that day. 

We still haven't had a "bad Christmas." I few years ago my sister and brother-in-law came down and it was everything I wanted it to be and more. Family time, but at my house. I didn't have to travel. I had to kick back and hostess. That, I could handle. Last year we bought a house so that was exciting but we had some job change stuff that distracted me and my mom was living with us and she narrated the gift exchanges. That, I could not handle.

So now we have this year. Usually my spirits are up for this holiday as soon as Thanksgiving passes. I mean, Hanson even released a new Christmas album this year! But this year I felt sad. As someone with Depression and Anxiety, sure, the seasonal stuff can bring up a lot of emotions but I felt so blah. I had found amazing things as gifts for my husband and asked specifically for only projects on the house to be done, not to be bought things. He rolled his eyes but I just felt so uncomfortable having money spent on me. I'd let myself go on being the "controller of the fun" this year and we had racked up a bit of debt. Nothing scary, but I was upset that I hadn't been more tenacious and now with the holidays looming I just felt so heavy about it all.

I knew my husband would think it was a trap. I really would have preferred that neither of us received a single thing besides ornaments (a fun tradition) but then I found the perfect gift and just had to. See my husband's birthday is in December and always gets lumped in with Christmas. He hates this and every year it is my mission to undo the wounds of his childhood and make it epic. I did what I could this year and plotted a lot but it was scaled down a bit. The big Christmas present was my hope and dream to make his life exciting again! But I didn't want stuff. I'm over stuff.

I needed a new bra or two. My purse and wallet are shedding and falling apart so that would be okay. I was running low on makeup. But I wanted a functional garage and clean grout. I wanted an organized closet and scoured bathroom. I wanted mimosas and a nap. I wanted a yard I didn't hate and a reorganized kitchen. I wanted to feel some peace, you know, like in the songs.

This was a busy season for us. We had 5 parties booked, and only one would my husband be attending. There was no time for a Disney trip this year, each weekend from December 1st on was filled with fun. But I also had other duties. I tried to shop early with my mom and just hated it. The stores annoyed me and I knew my daughter would receive a million things from everyone else so I stuck with just a few things I thought she'd really love. I wouldn't say I was being a Grinch, I just lacked my usual cheer.

One party weekend in particular we had a going away party, a Christmas party with mostly adults and then our Church Party. The Church Party I was excited for but it was far away and involved a White Elephant Gift. I found a cute traveler tumbler and put it in a bag and called it good. There were far more people at this event than I'd anticipated and getting around with the little one was tough at times but I was surrounded by my favorite friends. The gift exchange was between about 60 people. I was exhausted just thinking about it.

Most of the gifts were generic: candle holders, candles, nail polish, decorative things. The old ladies went after Snow Men that held tea lights and calendars, planner books, towel sets, etc. I was number 54 out of 60 and had seriously low expectations. While my daughter was happily watching The Polar Express by the fire on the porch on the big screen, I was commenting with church friends how ridiculous it all was. We were joking about stealing a puzzle or a hot chocolate set, people were fighting over "hot ticket items" and I rolled my eyes. The number before me was called and it was an older member of our church whom I'd met and hugged and shook hands with too many times to not feel horribly I always forgot his name. He picked a bag with a Buddy the Elf mug with hot cocoa mix. 

"That is amazing and I need it!," I almost screamed. I told everyone it must be mine. That was my single, favorite Christmas movie and a coffee mug? I always needed more of those, no matter what my husband said! This was the first time this season I was excited. I thought, "See, this is why it is important for you to be social and do things you are hesitant about because cool things happen!" No one else seemed to care about the mug so I White Elephant "stole" it and was ecstatic.

I felt like I was in that Office Episode where the iPod was being fought over but I just wanted the tea pot like Dwight. I knew that was a real gift, haha! I laughed and those who knew me well, were laughing with me and a bit at me. I thought, "Okay, money well spent. I got something nice for someone and got back something of equal value! Score." And then the White Elephant mugging happened. He took it back.

I mean, I had it coming right? I stole it, he stole it back. But now it was frozen. You couldn't take it anymore. I sucked it up but damn, that was crappy! I went back to find another gift and ended up with a knock off M&M Dollar Tree Candy Cane. This made me happy because the whole sermon revolved around the ridiculousness of this candy cane and how much kids love it. I knew my daughter would love it but I ended up leaving exhausted and defeated for the long drive home. He didn't even know or care who Buddy the Elf was! Gosh!

There was a huge part of me throwing an internal tantrum and I couldn't figure out why. It was dumb right? It was a stupid mug. But then I realized that the mug was the epitome of my Christmas funk. My Grinch came out and all I could think was, "THE AUDACITY!" For a moment it wasn't just a mug, it was some kind of symbol of Christmas cheer! It was being excited about something silly and seemingly insignificant just because it reminded me of Christmas and the spirit of the holiday and the fact that I could recite most of that film by heart. The bratty preacher's kid came out in me as I rationalized, well, "God just didn't want me to have that mug. It wasn't meant to be."

I whined about the loss for two days and gave up. In this week I went Christmas shopping and had a completely meltdown about money. I got frustrated at the mall because nothing seemed quite right for shopping for people. I felt defeated and lonely at home because it was a really erratic week and we had a sick dog leaving messes everywhere and a new alarm system working against me. I was more and more down and out about this holiday until Saturday morning when my sister sent my daughter a Buddy the Elf talking ornament. Then we had the Christmas parade, which was mostly fun, and then another Christmas party I was hesitant about but pushed through. Saturday night I got the kid to bed and started doing all the random things, I painted a new table for her room that we needed for new toys arriving. I fixed a cabinet I'd been meaning to. I wrapped more gifts and cleaned up. I sorted parade candy and beads.I stayed up too late and kicked butt!

The next morning I was stressed. My husband was drumming in church and getting us all out of the house any kind of early is so overwhelming and difficult. We made it on time for once and I'd gotten my daughter set up in Sunday school when a close friend came up to me with a small gift. I didn't want to open it until Christmas but she insisted. It was a pair of pug socks with Santa hats. This gift was amazing for 3 reasons: 1. Our pug just turned 7 and in some senior moment ate a bunch of gross things from my bathroom trash and spent 3 days puking and pooping all over my home and mostly on my daughter's bed. 2. My mom always got me ridiculous socks and complained about how horrible my socks were, (well take that mom, I have cool socks now!). 3. It was small, thoughtful, relevant, and what the meaning of Christmas is supposed to be; a small little something that says, "Thought of you, Merry Christmas, you're not so bad!"

It was as I was feeling this sense of calm, this excitement that Christmas eve was a week away and things were stressful but we'd be okay that the older gentleman's wife handed me a plastic bag. "Did you want this?," she asked. "We won't use it, we don't need it and it seemed like you wanted it." It was the mug. The Buddy The Elf mug came back to me. The next morning I used that mug with my coffee and felt calm. 

I will not lie, my week has gotten mountains worse, but I am holding this dear to my heart as that "Thrill of Hope," my pastor keeps talking about. Life is hard, Christmas is hard but we just have to stay hopeful, because there are socks and mugs out there that will make you remember the whole point of what this season is about. And it's not about the gifts. It's about the thoughts and the moments. So have a Merry Christmas all, and remember that your one little thought can get someone out of their Christmas Funk. You can easily turn a Grinch into a Buddy the Elf with a little Christmas cheer!

Crock Pot Contentment

I was able to cook something in the crock pot that was edible and this is why that's a big deal.

I told you the blog was simmering as was my soup! Now to preface: I don't cook. When I say that, I don't mean it in some flippant way. I actually do not cook. I can make an epic sandwich and salad, true, but outside of anything that comes with 3-step instructions in a box, I have mastered very few dishes during my time on earth. I am the person that burns rice, and watches that Friends episode where Rachel talks about following the recipe, "If it says boil 2 cups of salt, you just boil 2 cups of salt!," and I'm too  afraid to ask if that is a real thing or funny because it is so not. 

I grew up with both parents until I was about 12. My dad was domestic. My mom was and is not. My mom shopped and made sure we appeared to rank in some kind of white collar status that she was raised to believe was of utmost importance. My dad was the guy up at 5AM on Thanksgiving making legendary pies. The only thing I ever recall my mother making was lasagna, and I think she literally just put it together but my dad did everything else. I rarely remember her even eating much, let alone cooking. But my dad was planning dinner over his bowl of Total cereal at 7AM, every morning.

My dad and I didn't have bonding activities where I learned things so much. Rather, I just got told what not to do or what I did wrong. We bonded over television shows and cynical humor. My mom was only nice when she bought me things, and then if I exhibited any shred of buyer's remorse, like "Maybe that sassy shirt was a bad idea for a Catholic school girl with no self-esteem," I became an "ungrateful little shit." Terms of endearment. 

When I was in therapy and dating my then-chef-boyfriend, whom is now my chef-husband, one of my depression group homework exercises was to try something new that would give me a sense of accomplishment. Bonus points if it included others. I wanted to make spaghetti sauce with real veggies and tomatoes and stuff. I did this with Eben's prep help and supervision, but had to follow the recipe and do the watching myself, and I was able to feed the house that evening. It came out well. 

Besides occasional peeks over my dad's shoulder, I had one slutty friend in high school show me how to make scrambled eggs when I was 17 so that was a big day. I need to name her, "slutty friend," because all other lessons were merely tales of her sexual triumphs at the ripe age of 16, random how-to's, as laid out by Cosmo, and then where to get thongs on sale if your mom wouldn't buy them for you. The scrambled egg lesson stuck, all other lessons would be for other blog entries or perhaps a conversation accompanied by alcohol.  

Other culinary lessons came from my middle sister. I spent a lot of time with her my first summer in Oregon, mostly because my dad didn't know what to do with me. She taught me how to make grilled cheese with my favorite Oregon cheese and my go-to for all shared mornings hence forth, French Toast. The french toast was fun because we always got epic bread to slather in the eggy mix. I remember my nephew thanking my sister for making it and my sister saying, "Nope, that was Aunt Ali." His response, "Nuh, uh, no way!," will forever be my cooking mantra and one of my favorite moments with him.

My grilled cheese triumph was immediately squashed when I offered to make my dad one in a, "See I learned things," way and he shamed me for the use of too much butter. "Nevermind," I shrugged as I channeled Eeyore in my response. Beyond that as soon as I found Eben it was like, why learn? I had someone who could always make it better. 

In her infinite wisdom, one of my favorite women and ex-employer, "Totally Tess," had warned me that one day I will want a real meal that I will be forced to create myself, and I will find all the shit in my pantry and have a recipe in hand. With a kid by my side I will be so desperate that I will make it. She told me one day it would happen. And damn, she was right!

This was NOT my first time with the crock pot. To be fair, all other experiences were not-so-awesome because my usual theory with cooking is, "It will all end up in the pan together anyway, what difference does the order make?" It was those little details that always made something less edible. That, and my basic and general misjudgment on the effects of heat. I butchered some chicken recently and now my friend will only pay for me to eat out, or cook for me himself. 

So, this recent crock pot exercise could have been some spasm of all things previously hindering my culinary explorations but I'd like to say it's just one big exercise in confidence during a depressive episode. After a row of miscommunication and frustration I decided to find an attainable, easy to understand, uncomplicated recipe that I couldn't really mess up and it happens to be soup season. Much like Jerry Seinfeld had noted in a few episodes of his iconic show, soup is just always good, but I often feel awkward ordering soup in Florida in July. Since it is widely accepted as soup season, I thought, why not. Chicken Noodle Soup, here we come!

I enlisted my 4 year old's help because, as Daddy's sous chef, she actually has a much better cooking understanding than myself, and loves to help with things like that. I followed most of the directions closely so as not to mess up any kind of balance and ruin everything. I got all the ingredients myself at the store and did all the prep in the order of the recipe. It came out edible, edible enough that even the 4 year old volunteered to eat her creation, "except not the onions, mom." She got an onion and celery pass. 

It wasn't that it was "so impressive that I made it," but that it wasn't as hard as I thought it would be. I come from a long line of people who can plan amazing things  and nothing ever comes of it. We fail to make those ideas realities. I like to say my half sisters and I are highly intelligent and creative underachievers. My dad likes to scoff because he paid for those under achievements. Mostly, for the soup, I was proud for following through on a plan that was a few days out in the making. Do they call that meal planning in adult life?

This triumph followed  a huge marital miscommunication about shelving. As a bit of a background, my dad built 3 houses in his lifetime, all of them still standing. I was that 7 year old girl who wanted a tool box and got one complete with real, actual tools. I learned how to use them properly and spent many days nailing wood scraps onto other wood scraps as my dad built a deck, a screened-in porch, a play house and a basket ball court for me over my 13 years as a Pastor's kid in Pennsylvania. Some of my  building visions came without me knowing the terminology, but just being able to pick out what I needed in the hardware store by finding it and forming ways to make the vision a reality. When Eben and I were dating I displayed this once and he was astounded that I knew my way around the hardware store. To this day, I love going to Lowe's and Home Depot as I feel like it is a haven of possibility and creativity. 

So, when I gathered a bunch of wire shelving pieces from my last job failure I knew you couldn't just grab a kit at Lowe's and manifest a Closet Maid ad. It would be a little homemade and rigged for necessity. It would require creativity. This is where my Eben and I just disconnected. I lack the vocabulary and have only the vision. And when it comes to ideas, I can Pinterest with the best of them and come out feeling strong so I thought I had planned it all. My understanding was clear. And when we started assembling, Eben was worried about stability. My idea was to reinforce later, for now the budget on the project was already more than I had planned to spend. He disagreed on timing and conveyed it was a no go with what we had on hand. 

Now, part of being the head-case that I am with depression, anxiety, PTSD and the #MeToo situation looming,  which I'm sure will make an epic blog when I can better understand my feelings on the incident, is that small things in the eyes of the normal folk can be huge things for me. So devoting an entire day to a project promoting productivity and order for my manic mind, only to find out it will not be done without more money and more stress than anticipated caused a pretty big mental collapse. It's honestly very tough to explain adequately. So, after a rough few days I pulled myself back up with plan B, one in which I would do solo.

I realized we had a saw --that had never been used-- scrap wood, and drywall screws. It didn't have to look pretty. It had to be functional. In a rare burst of Rosie The Riveter confidence, I started sawing with the hand saw to cut the pieces I needed to secure the shelving. The rest came together with up-cycled crib pieces, zip ties and nails. This was my house. I don't care about holes, I wanted a functional creation! So after I put Luna to bed, and still in my work clothes, I attacked all of these half-pinteresting ideas and made my vision a reality. By the end of that evening, that was when I decided to crock pot something because after my closet masterpiece, what could I NOT create? Let's be real. I was a frigging rock star!

I love how all of this was fueled by a huge mental breakdown. Perhaps I should lose my shit more often. Creativity awaits. I was even more validated in my closet success when my 4 year old said, "The shelf looks good mommy, let me show you!" She walked me back into my closet and said, "You did good mommy! I like it!" That was all the acceptance I needed really. And I carried that excitement the rest of the week and got her to go to the store to help me get all the soup stuff and told her I needed her to help me get it all ready. 

So the soup is a big deal. This is me, sifting through the mania, the broken pieces and the "unstable" moments to grow and get better. Life is so often very heavy, no matter how good you have it. And I spend so much time just praying for my perfect little girl to never end up a mess like her mommy that if I can redeem the bad mom moments by showing her that I can actually do many real things, that I can comfort, create and am capable than more than I even acknowledge myself, it can't all be that bad! And yes, Daddy will always make food better, but mommy also knows where all the best restaurants are in the area. 

Big deals are good for my anxiety-riddled soul. Small accomplishments can be very large wins. After my last blog installment, I was very humbled by those that reached out to me about their struggles with the same mental hurdles. It was such a comfort to feel less alone, and to know that some of the most "together" people I admire most had the  same "irrational" fears and ideas. And maybe this is part of my calling, just to open up about the crazy and embrace anyone who needs a hug and gets comfort from how much fun I can put into the dysfunctional. I am incredibly broken and flawed, but I might be the most amazing train-wreck you'll ever see at the station when you really get to know me. Soup's on! Who's coming by for dinner?

Eccedentesiast

This week I had a lot come up for me emotionally, mentally, and spiritually. Some people close to me urged me to not quit on this whole writing thing of mine. So I thought I'd put it out there and see what comes back; see what the universe sends me in return. This story comes in three parts. Get ready!

Part One: Owning my Diagnoses

A decade ago, after losing both grandparents within a year, after spending 3 months studying abroad, rekindling my ever broken relationship with my mother only to find out she had completely destroyed her life (yet again) and tried to take us all down with her, and almost disintegrated an important relationship with my then-boyfriend, now-husband, I entered therapy. 

While I was still in college, therapy was attainable. I entered private sessions, where I was diagnosed with clinical depression and anxiety. I did a depression support group and entered couples therapy as well. The first thing they did was offer me medication. To me, it seemed like my family knew how to medicate just fine. I think it was one thing we truly excelled at, but, due to addictive histories I said, "No, thank you, teach me how to manage this stuff." I found therapy helpful. And I made good friends in my depression support group. It's taken me almost a decade to really own that I have these issues though.

When I came out with my diagnoses, I asked those closest to me to let me know their level of comfort in terms of staying in my life during my battle. One of my inherited issues has always been distorted expectations and I needed to know who was in, and who was out. It was one very important person that shook off these things as just "being dramatic," or just acting out because I had a "fucked up childhood." It was those reactions that made me realize these mental illnesses and instabilities were heavily stigmatized. First, I found out most everyone just pops pills instead of finding other coping methods when I found anyone with this stuff in common with me. Eventually, I just stopped telling people.  I realized finding anyone who could really understand was almost impossible.

I feel like I managed myself really well with the tools I had until after Luna was born. Something about pregnancy actually evened out my hormones, and because motherhood was a challenge for me, I stepped up in ways I never thought possible. And this isn't just a postpartum depression thing, because that is very, very real. It was bigger than just that. However, over the past few years, things have been a little darker when my anxieties and depressive episodes flare. 

With social media and technology, wonderful things have happened including wider outreach and normalized conversations about the very things I have felt so alone with. I have also found some other disorders I may be wrestling with. One large positive for me is that with the media mainstreaming this information, I also feel the stigma much less. We have people like Carrie Fisher and Kristen Bell talking about all their struggles just reminding us, we're not alone, we're not abnormal, and getting help is always a good thing. 

Maybe it is life circumstance or maybe it is age but my coping mechanisms have changed drastically. I used to work out more, watch favorite movies, take a walk, call a friend, sneak a cigarette, paint a picture, binge clean or write, write, write. But with parenthood and marriage I rarely have time for myself. Everyone says you make time for what is important, and that how can you care for others when you don't care for yourself? But that's the thing about being an anxious depressive; you're in your head so much, carrying around all these worries and fears you are often too exhausted to muster much else. Before you know it, it's 9PM and you just curl up in front of Netflix and go to bed. 

To some this may seem sad, but mostly it's a reality I live with. It's a reality I'm really done feeling badly or shamed for and it's a reality that must be accepted in order to appreciate all that is Alison. I've opened up a lot the past few months and I've found that when I share this stuff, most people are like, "Well, okay, I'm here for ya," or even better they tell admit to me they wrestle with it too! 

Owning my diagnoses is uncomfortable and difficult but I'm not going back to being closeted about it because nothing good ever came from it. So now it's out in the open because the internet is forever!

Part Two: Trigger Warning

The Harvey Weinstein news after the Las Vegas shooting and just all of the general bad news in this nation and the world has weighed especially heavy on me.  I am someone who is triggered by a lot and it has been an emotional rollercoaster identifying these triggers that often sneak up on me. 

First, let me begin by admitting that my PTSD from the car accident is very real, very alive and can be very intense. Many of my triggers exist around that. New ones have also come up recently. As far as the Las Vegas shooting, I have some pretty strong feelings about guns and I'm an avid concertgoer so knowing that you can just show up at an event with friends and not know that you will walk back out is terrifying to me. It hurts my heart that anyone would go through that. Thinking of all of the trauma the victims and their families have experienced and will carry with them has left me feeling very upset about the mental healthcare, or lack there-of, available to us all. No matter what your experience, if you need help it should be readily available. No one has a right to judge how "big or small" anyone's experience has been. This nation needs help. 

Now we move into the Weinstein allegations, and if that's not how you spell his name I really don't care. I was raised in my most formative years by my father and my uncles. I have never been afraid of men. In fact I truly have a hard time relating to women. I also have always been outgoing and flirty. I've dealt with inappropriate and suggestive rumors about me and co-workers at prior jobs and I've had men say inappropriate things to me, cat-calling and so forth but I've always felt generally safe around men, although also extremely aware of the damage they can do. Earlier this year though, I had a very unfortunate and scary experience that I have been told constitutes as sexual assault.

It's not a story I'm fully ready to share. The baggage and issues surrounding it are very profound but I will say this, when the #metoo campaign came out all over Facebook, I had this odd reaction of both relief, and complete horror. Most of the women on my news feed posted it.  I felt less alone, but then mortified that we all have had this horrible experience to go through like some perverted rite of passage. And then I was triggered right back to that shameful feeling after the incident, and the shameful feeling after I had told the business owner about it, that somehow it was my fault and I had warranted the behavior. 

That idea that I had brought it on myself still plagues me almost as much as the incident itself. I just remember inadvertently dumping the whole scene on a guy friend and having him look at me with worry in his eyes saying, "This is not your fault, you didn't deserve it, you don't deserve it and it's against the law." And as much as I needed that, it made me sad that this seemingly obvious rationale was coming from a man but I was still afraid to talk to anyone else, especially a woman. 

So all of these emotional hurdles feel crippling to my anxious and depressed psyche. I internally tantrum that I'm due for a meltdown but just manage to keep on keeping on. Why am I writing this? Because writing is my thing. It always has been. And one day when I confront my demons about what happened to me I will help someone else feel less lonely and isolated by sharing it. And because in all of the mental mania, moments of clarity heighten my sanity, and writing this has been a comfort.

Part Three: Fleeting Faith

I can remember the exact moment my twelve-year-old self had her entire idea of faith shattered. It all surrounded my mother's addiction and treatment. This is another one of those subjects that has been burned into my mind of being stigmatized. That and "we don't talk about that," is a family motto. I only just started outing myself as an addict's daughter again recently, after a brief stint of telling everyone when I was 18 in an effort to make fun of myself so they couldn't make fun of me. This seemingly got me labeled as the, "Tragic Wild Card," in my teen years and I didn't wear that label so well. 

When I was 12 and lost my faith, I was surrounded by it at Catholic school and my dad's church so I just tried to adopt every method I could. I used to pray an hour every night that my mom would come home and that I was sorry for snapping at so and so and thanking God for everyone in my life, listed by name, even the people I didn't like, and please make me a better person, blah, blah, blah. Then my mom didn't come back for a long time. And my best friend's mother died in a horrible car accident, and faith was of no comfort to her and no one but me understood that no one could really understand what she was going through. Shortly after all this I found this brilliant movie, by one of my favorite directors, called "Dogma." Oh man that movie was perfect for me in my "angsty teen" years! I remember my big take from it was, "It wasn't important what you had faith in, no one had it down perfect, but it was important you HAD FAITH." 

By age 16, I had reconciled with my mother and retired from church. After a year with her and another devastation, I was physically packed up and dragged across the country to new life with Dad in Oregon. With my dad being a preacher and most people screwing me over repeatedly most of my faith just resided in my dad. Even with my worst mistakes, he helped me find a way out of it. Faith has just been a 20 year struggle for me. It comes and goes. 

I didn't even go back to church until I found this amazing boot camp program that was affordable, which led to a job offer, which led to a very strong invitation to church with the boss, and then I fell right back into the routine. We took a few month hiatus when we attended "The Church of Disney," as we called it, which was Disney World on Sundays just us three, but it wasn't until after the car accident that we found a church where we actually fit in. 

Eben still struggles with faith too, but my struggle is super personal and sometimes pretty impetuous. Throw in the anxiety, the depression, the state of the world, the PTSD, the sexual assault and the other facets of life and things seem pretty impossible, right? But that's when I remember why we have faith. All that bible stuff about with God all things are possible, and cast all your anxieties on him, and patience being a virtue are on the laundry list of reminders I have daily, that even when my faith feels like it's barely holding on under a fingernail, it's still there somewhere. And that gets me through the weeds more often than not. So when my faith is fleeting, I always find my way back.

To conclude what some may consider quite the diatribe I say this: to the people who encouraged me to write this out, you get major points. To the people who actually read it, you get points, air hugs and all the good vibes. This isn't something to be shocked or outraged about. This is not meant to incite a long list of commentary or condolences for shitty experiences. They are just a part of life. This is just me; pure, unadulterated, inconvenient, anxious, depressed, rattled, sarcastic, cynical, unapologetic ME.