Defiant Eyebrows

I cannot be the only person this has ever happened to. I cannot be the only one, who knows the depths of rage that this situation creates.

This situation, wherein I have one single FUCKING black eyebrow hair, dead ass in the middle of my eyebrows, that won’t be plucked, waxed, or otherwise removed.

Dead. Ass. In the middle.

Not only that, but the thing is darker than all my other eyebrow hairs! AND IT WON’T BE REMOVED. I’ve been battling this thing for two weeks now. I tried plucking, and all that did was break the hair, leaving a tiny black dot. Then I tried waxing with one of those wax strip kits. Nope. Then I tried an actual liquid wax kit. Nope. Then I tried plucking again with two different sets of tweezers. Nope.

So many “Nopes” that I now have a bump. a pissed off angry bump where, in my desperate attempts to remove this fiendish hair, I have instead just scraped and inflamed the skin.

Somebody please! Tell me how to free myself from the eternal unibrow hair!!!

Life Changes

I haven’t posted in a very long time. I guess you could say life has a way of diverting your attention from anything that isn’t necessary, needed, or integral to your own survival. A lot of things have changed this past year. Some good, some bad. None of it really matters because today I have one thing on my mind. One thing always on my mind, running in the background.

My dad has cancer. 

To be specific, my dad has metastatic prostate cancer. For those blessed with only a minimal knowledge of cancer and the terms that go along with it, metastatic means that it’s aggressive. 

That it’s already spread.

It’s in his lymph nodes.

Metastatic means his odds of it never coming back are nonexistent.

That the six fucking months it took his doctors to stop rescheduling his fucking appointments, and actually do the tests and schedule surgery, very well may have made the difference in him surviving this or not.

It means that from now until whenever his eternity ends, will be measured in three month increments. Because that’s how long he goes between blood work to tell if the cancer is resurfacing. 

I’m scared. I love my father. I’m not ready for him to go.

So far we are six months out from surgery. Two, three month increments, which have declared him to be “safe” for now. 

But we all know. And it’s always there, in the background. 

How long before cancer takes my dad away?

How many three month increments do we get? 

True Love

I described a human being today as “that guy. That guy that talked us and we talked back and there was talking.”

And he knew who I was talking about.

Your Words

A child’s handwriting is one of the most distinguishable things in this world. It’s used in signs and advertisements, it adorns the halls of elementary schools and daycares. The tell-tale squiggles of a kid’s first foray into the written world convey so much about what it means to be a child.

When you first begin writing, each letter, painstaking crafted, sprawls across the page loud and undeniable. Each letter, massive in its own right. And why shouldn’t it be? You worked hard to put that image there. You were proud of that letter. Slanted and unsturdy, a child’s writing jumps off the page at you, screaming for you to acknowledge its importance. And it is important. Every child knows their words mean something.

When you first begin writing, sentences scroll along the length of a paragraph. Your words flow right off the edges pages force into your world, defiant of being crammed in such tight quarters. And that’s ok.

But then something strange begins to happen. Year after year, your writing begins to shrink. Those bold, proud, letters beaten down to size, pushed together and subdued by formatting. Crushed into something small and neat, something acceptable to the world around you.

Something professional.

And each year those letters shrink, so does your sense of how important they once were.

Your letters.

It all starts with those letters.

People all start out filled with the knowledge that they’re worth something. That their words are important and their thoughts, no matter how simple, vital to this world. We start out demanding our parents, our teachers, respect our job choices.

I WILL be a fucking princess, damnit!

Or a ninja.

They’re cool too.

But then those letters start to shrink, and the idea of proclaiming yourself to be destined for great and amazing things begins to feel shameful. Embarrassing. And the next time someone asks you what you want to be when you grow up, you know better. You say something real. Something sensible.

I want to be a lawyer.

or a teacher.

Those fantastical desires become something you laugh at, years down the line. Just like those scribbles, flowing right off the page. How silly of you, being proud of such chicken scratch.

And for the unlucky ones, the world squeezes in even tighter.

A lawyer? But, your grades aren’t that good. You’ll never be able to pay for school.

How could you possibly teach when you have so much to learn?

And those sensible desires, once fantastic, shrink down even further. Become something attainable.

I want to make a living wage.

I want to survive.

And before you know it, your words, your sense of worth, your feeling of invincibility…

All shrunk down, neat and tidy. Something easy to look at and understand. Something everyone can read without any difficulty.

Your writing can open doors or have you dismissed at one glance. Just like your face, your body, your clothes. Everything you choose to turn whats outside into a reflection of what’s inside is skewed based on what other’s might think. What others might expect. You can’t dress too loud, too provocative. It’s unprofessional. No one will take you seriously.

And you need people to take you seriously. Because if they don’t? What’s attainable becomes what’s impossible. What you need becomes what you don’t have.

And what you wanted? Well, what you wanted never mattered anyways.

Never Google Parasitic Brain Worms

Most of the time, despite our best efforts, I am about 99% certain that the things that fly out of adult’s mouths and into children’s ears are scarring the shit out of their psyche.
Recently, I went outside with a boy I care for and his brother. The idea was to rip their tiny little faces away from all technological screens for a few minutes and instill a deep and persistent love of nature.

This is difficult enough to do, for a girl who hates all insects and has legit PTSD when faced with the distinct sound of buzzing flies, for legitimate and understandable reasons, without this sort of thing happening….

Me: hey, why don’t I get you both some shovels so we can dig in the garden?

boy: I don’t want to.

Me: Why? You love digging.

boy: I don’t want the parasites to get me.

side note: this kid is under 10 years old.

Me: …..the parasites?

boy: Yeah. I heard about them. they’re parasites.

Me: I’m sure there aren’t any parasites in your garden.

boy: NO! They’re WORMS. But they’re also parasites. And there’s all sorts of them in dirt.

Me: ….

boy: and these parasitic worms, they get into your BRAIN!

Me: Your brain?

boy: Yeah. They’re parasitic brain worms.

Me: Why would they want into your brain?

boy: I don’t know. To do parasite stuff.

 

Needless to say, we did not dig in the dirt that day. Seriously, what the hell kind of person tells a kid about parasitic brain worms? And while I was contemplating that exact question, which totally needs to be answered, guess what I did.

I Googled parasitic brain worms. Not only do they totally exist, and can be contracted through contaminated dirt and water,  eating poorly washed vegetables/fruits and under cooked pork, and freakin sex acts, but also.

Never Google parasitic brain worms.

The Dining Room is My Bitch

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What you’re looking at there is the terror that was our dining room when we moved in, four layers of wallpaper peeled away. Smudgy walls and beat up, filthy trim.

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Now, what you’re looking at, is me and my husband making that room our bitch. Fresh light fixtures, clean silver paint and white trim.

Hell yes.

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Hello, Adult Responsibilities. How nice of you to stalk me until I give in to your whims.

I don’t post as often as I used to, and for the few that follow this blog I do apologize. This has been a time of massive change. Change in relationships, jobs, lifestyles, and expectations. And I don’t believe we’ve met but….Hi, I’m Abby and I don’t do well with change. Nice to meet you.

On the downside, I’m slowly losing my mind. But not as slowly as I was before, so actually I’m losing my mind at a disconertingly fast rate. I have absolutely insane dreams on the nightly, I have an unknown mass in my ear, and I talk to my cats way too much.

On the upside…

I finally got the ball moving on a few things, so I’m actually starting to feel better. As anyone who has ever attempted to go to college while not backed by a cushy trust fund, paying for it is a pain in the ass. Previously, I was making my way through the trenches of debt by way of a scholarship. A scholarship which has run out, leaving me owing roughly $2,000 to good ol’ UofL.

For awhile the prospect of student loans and impending debt paralyzed me. I didn’t even know for sure how much I owed, or what my options were as far as paying it. I didn’t want to find out. I just fled. Afterall, it’s not like school is something I love going to for numerous hours out of my day. So I avoided, avoided, avoided. At least until the fear of future unemployment and failure gnawed at my gut enough to kickstart my ass.

So, I don’t owe $2,000. I owe $1,700 precisely and am paying this off through monthly instalments of $149.00. The fact that the payment is $149 instead of just an even $150 both amuses me and tortures the fuck outta my OCD. As soon as I’m paid off, I can re-enroll. As soon as I can enroll, I can find out my financial aid options.

It’s a start. It’s a start that has let a smidgeon of air back into my lungs.

I’ll take it.

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