Random & Ridiculous


Restoring to Factory Default Settings

Today I sold my last piece of furniture.

Last night I sold my bedroom set. Two weeks ago I sold my couch and a book shelf. Two weeks before that I sold 2 TVs, 2 bedside tables, a leather chair, a storage bench, 4 lamps, another bookshelf and this really cool alarm thing that simulates a sunrise so that you don’t have to wake up in the dark. Four weeks before that I had a temper tantrum themed yard sale and sold every spatula, picture frame, coffee cup, pillow, pair of shorts… everything every THING that I had. Two months before that I sold a bed frame. But that was because I had found out Romeo/David had slept with Erin Black in that bed, and I made him buy us a new one.

Maybe that counts as the same type “everything must go” tantrum.

Maybe it doesn’t.

But today the last piece of furniture- the last item I had that couldn’t just fit in the back of my Corolla, take two rights and go straight on ’till morning- walked out the front door for $225.

I’m not going to lie- I panicked a little bit.

Wait, no, if I’m not going to lie- I panicked a lot.

I’ve been counting down to this moment for 11 weeks. How could I get rid of everything? How could I unload the memories and recoup the cash and make it not my problem anymore? How could I find the freedom that I was SURE would come once it was all just out of my face? How could I untether myself from a 5 bedroom house worth of stuff that I had been collecting for the better part of the last decade with the belief that “well sooner than later I’ll be married, with a bigger house, and we’ll have kids, so I’ll need this Calphalon pan set/ Dyson vacuum/ suede sectional couch/ 52″ TV as an investment in my future.”

I had the house. I had the stuff. I even had the paper doll “husband” to match.

I also had panic attacks that I would never be enough to make him happy. I had medication induced nightmares and weeks without sleep and 4:00am debates with myself about which was worse. I had what can only be described as toddler level meltdowns because I could never cook the spinach the way he liked it which bothered me infinitely more than it bothered him. I had eerie, unfounded fits of anxiety that he had one foot out the door- those turned out to be right though.

I can only describe it as an out of body experience when you realize that you thought owning 800 thread count sheets could save you from the other shoe dropping. And it drops anyways as you sit in bed on these beautiful sheets and read the Facebook message that would send you down the rabbit hole and don’t know if you feel more betrayed by the lies the sheets told you or the lies the paper doll told you.

So here I am on the eve of my 32nd birthday.

Feeling the least excited about my birthday that I’ve felt since my parents bought themselves a new car for my 16th birthday. (No, they did not keep the old one for me. They traded it in. Showed up at my 16th birthday party in a new car… for themselves. All my friends started jumping up and down in excitement “for me.” Two days passed before I realized they weren’t playing a joke on me. If you ever wondered where all this deep seated dysfunction comes from, remember those are the people that raised me. Parenting Tip: You have roughly 6,570 days of raising your child. Buy a new car for yourself on literally any other day. Good talk.)

I digress.

Here I am on the eve of my 32nd birthday.

I launched my new professional organizing business today. It’s doing well so far. And I don’t know if it’ll be enough to put food on the table.

I should be getting final close out money from David this week. And it’s exactly enough to pay off the last of my remaining debt.

I accidentally died my hair dark lilac. And it should wash out before the end of the month and back closer to my natural color.

I own exactly 17 shirts, 8 dresses, 4 skirts, 8 pairs of pants, 11 pairs of shoes, and some makeup. Oh and a juicer that I just really love. And that’s literally it. And I don’t have a lease or a mortgage.

I have no less than 30 In Case of Emergency friends that I could and would call about a flat tire at 3:00am and know without a doubt they would be there. And every one of those people has their own In Case of Emergency that they would call before me.

I will see 1 of the 4 members of my family for a “Thanksgiving celebration” that we already promised will most likely be gumbo and wine. And I don’t have to see all of the other family members that I generally spend weeks working up anxiety about “how will the holidays go this time?”

I don’t have a partner that loves me and will wake me up to pancakes with a candle in it while singing happy birthday. And I don’t have a paper doll.

I don’t say all of this because I hope to throw a pity party en lieu of a birthday party. In fact, some of these things are pretty damn wonderful. (I’m looking at you Nordstrom credit card- don’t let the door hit ya’ where the good Lord split ya’!)

I say all of this because today when I watched that dresser pull away from the driveway and just hours later launched my website, I realized that like it or not, I have achieved a full factory reset. Two years ago- to the day- I started this blog and it was all about teaching, adventures and misadventures in love, dysfunctional family, and a halfhearted attempt at finding myself during a heartbreak.

And now…

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When My Worlds Collide 2

Once upon a time, I was in a sorority. The greatest nugget of wisdom I gleaned from my time in a sorority is to never smell a shot before you take it. The second greatest nugget of wisdom is that when you are introducing two people who have never met before, always share with them something they have in common. For example:

Katie, this is Ryan. Katie is from Florida, and Ryan, didn’t your brother just move to Florida?

Daniel, meet Lindsey. Did you know she also is played tennis in college?

Erin, this is Taylor. My boyfriend cheated on me with both of you. (Still a little bitter. Whatever.)

So here I am now, with my worlds colliding in a good way, trying to figure out how to best introduce the readers of Terrible Poker Face to Whitney Holt, and the friends of Whitney Holt to Terrible Poker Face:

Readers, this is friends. You both like to read raw, unfiltered, occasionally witty commentary about the adventures and misadventures of Whitney.

Friends, this is Terrible Poker Face and its readership. It’s just like the Facebook posts you’ve grown to know and love, except that until now it’s been anonymous so that I could embrace my DGAF nature and let it all hang out. 

For those of you who know me in real life (or in Facebook life), SURPRISE!!!! All those times you told me I should start a blog? Well… umm… I did…. I just didn’t tell you about it. Check out the Little Black Book if any part of you wonders why I might be tempted to not shout this from the rooftops.

When I started this two years ago, I thought my DGAF was as low as it got. Turns out, posting about your boyfriend‘s infidelity in a very public, very vulnerable, very “only God can judge me” sort of way, is actually an even lower level of fucks given, which rendered the entire idea of anonymity for this blog to be rather useless. It’s time I start shamelessly whoring myself out to the blogosphere so that someone, somewhere will decide that they will pay me monies to write full time, and I can just stop pretending that I was ever meant for consistent, real life, public consumption.

So for those of you that aren’t new to me but are new to Terrible Poker Face, make yourself at home. I suggest you pour yourself a glass of wine, go watch an episode of The Mindy Project, pour yourself another glass of wine, maybe let the dog out while you let it all sink in, and then only after you have your wine coat on, start exploring my backlog of posts. I’d like for you to think of it like a two drink minimum sort of situation up in here.

And for those of you that aren’t new to TPF but are new to Whitney Holt, I’d say I’d like to properly introduce myself, but you know probably more about the ridiculous and salacious and dark and twisty and intimate details of my life than 97% of my acquaintances. I guess the only thing that’s been missing is putting a name to the man behind the curtain.

For anyone wondering what you can expect moving forward, well, I process my life through writing. Always have, probably always will. Right now I’m still reeling pretty hard from this shit show of a breakup, so it’s a given that the emotional post mortem will make the greatest hits list. I’m also about to move cities (to where? great question), change jobs for the 5th time this year (to what? great question), and reenter the dating world (why? because I’m a hopeless romantic and apparent masochist great question), so I can promise you’ll get to be a part of that inevitable roller coaster as well.

But for right now, I’m going to binge some Netflix, cuddle with some wine and pretzels, and enjoy getting to sleep like a starfish alone in this bed.

… Good night, y’all.


What A Wicked Way to Treat the Girl That Loves You 1

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And now for the question answer portion of this presentation…

 

Why did I stay with Romeo/David so long?

“So long” was really just the last 3 months. Up until that point, I had no idea any of this was going on because I have this nasty habit of believing that people are mostly good. The reasons why I stayed are two-fold but simple:
1) I loved him with all my heart. I thought we were going to grow old together. I wanted to forgive him more than anything because at the time, it was all more than 10 months passed. Relationships are hard sometimes, and I needed to know that I gave everything I could before I walked away.
2) Gaslighting is unspeakably powerful. Once that trap has been set, the things you say to and about yourself are a hundred times worse than anything someone else can do to you. How are you supposed to get the courage to leave someone when your internal soundtrack reminds you constantly that you should be grateful for your abuser?

 

Why was I wearing a sweater in my photo?

Possibly the most valid question of all. It’s chilly at 5:00am when all you’ve have pumping through your veins is Monster, Marlboros, and righteous anger. You just need something cozy in those moments when your world falls apart.

 

How did I bust him?

If you have to ask because you’re trying to bust someone, you kind of already have your answer. I know that’s easier said than done when you’re dealing with someone that manipulative and duplicitous, so if you really want to know, we can sit down and talk. But let me say this… you don’t want to go down this rabbit hole unless you’re ready to leave. Like “go bag” in the closet, friends on standby, middle finger to the ashes kind of ready to go. If you make this your normal routine, you’ll slowly chip away at your sanity. If you’re not yet emotionally ready to walk away, don’t play your ace yet.

 

Have we talked since then?

He snuck out of the hotel that day like the spineless coward I know him to be, but we have talked some. Mostly logistically. I did however have to tell him to stop grasping so desperately for power about petty stuff (like threatening to file a police report because I need to return his cooler) because it was making me laugh so hard that I was afraid I might pee a little.

 

Can we report/message/contact David?

Please don’t. I don’t feel the need to report him to the Air Force because honestly I’m not trying to actually destroy his life- he’s pathetic, not evil. I LOVE all the supportive and empowering messages that I’m getting, so if you need to word vomit some hate about someone who has done you wrong and what a POS you think David or some other person was, just message me. I’ll be pumping my fist in the air right along side ya! More than anything I wanted him to finally have to face the web of lies that he had spun so intricately over the years and truthfully I hope at some point he finds peace on the other side of this. Probably after a lot of soul searching and hopefully professional help. I honestly doubt he will, but like I said… I have a nasty habit of believing in the good in people.

Oh but if you meet him in the wild and he tries to hit on you, I’ll hold his arms back while you kick him in the balls.

 

Why didn’t I clean my fingernail before I posted that picture

This is probably my biggest regret about this entire situation. Truth is I was supposed to have a mani/pedi last week but she cancelled. And when you’re throwing everything you own into your car at 4:00am and accidentally spilling a bottle of bleach on all your photos together and all his underwear soaked in the bathtub, sometimes it’s hard to maintain the otherwise glamorous grooming that would be expected of a lady.

Oh and also, don’t be the kind of woman that makes women hate other women. #youretheworstkthanxbai.

 

Where am I moving now?

I have barely been able to think more than 6 hours in the future for the last few days, so that’s a great question. I will be in San Antonio for a few more weeks at least so I can logistically wrap this up, but also so I can mourn the loss of what I thought my future life here would be. If I ran back home without taking some time first, it would make me feel like I was trying to just erase this entire chapter of my life, and despite the ugly parts, overall it was a really valuable chapter.

 

Is there anything you can do to help?

Not having to feel alone through this is the most help anyone could ever provide me. And I hope that in some small way others realize that you don’t have to suffer alone and think that you are supposed to be ashamed and take responsibility for someone else’s bad behavior. If someone makes you feel otherwise, tell them to piss off because you do not need to carry the weight of their own self-loathing.
But I do preach vulnerability and I did just break up with the guy who was also my landlord and boss, so if you’re really asking…

1. I plan on being nomadic for a little bit. Having so many people reach out with so much love has made me really want to invest as much time as I can in connecting with others who have their own stories to be told. I’ve had literally countless friends offering me guest rooms (which I appreciate and 100% will be taking you up on)- and thank you more than I can say for that. If you have a need for a house sitter in the coming months, my resume includes proficiency at house plant watering and amateur dog whispering skills, so you let me know when, and I’m there.

2. I’m currently owed somewhere between $12,000-$35,000 for my work that I did at the house flipping business that David and I ran together. If you have any legal advice on how common law/real estate law/whatever part of the law covers vengeful exboyfriends who might try to screw their exes out of the money they’re owed, I’d love to pick your brain for a little bit. I’ve also had a few people reach out concerned that this is libel and while every single comment I made is provable, I’m interested to know where the legal line is between libel and reporting unsavory facts that naturally lead to negative repercussions.

3. If you live in Texas and have been interested in investing in real estate, I’m more than happy to contract my services to help you get started. I had never even owned a home before I started, so trust me, anyone can do it. It’s not always like HGTV, but I really loved it and would love to be able to continue in that vein.

4. While I’m not currently looking to get back into teaching, I am broke until further notice. (See #2) If you need me to do any curriculum or teacher/student resource development remotely, I did that for 4 of my 6 years in the middle school ELA classroom and am pretty dang good at it if I do say so myself. I’ll send you a resume and references. (Insert Kristen Wiig’s “help me i’m poor” voice.)

 

…and last but certainly not least, it gets a little sappy…

 

To the women reaching out to tell me about their own relationships that were filled with cheating and other abuses: Seeing how strong and happy you are now is giving me so much hope and strength. Please don’t ever stop telling your own stories of loving fiercely, hurting deeply, and thriving on the other side. I really believe this openness and sisterhood changes the world.

To the men who are just as appalled as the rest of us: Thank you for being good. Not like good as in not sleeping around, but just truly good at your core and giving faith to those of us who have been literally or metaphorically kicked in the teeth by awful men. There are just as many terrible women as terrible men in this world, and I’ve hurt for your stories too. Thank you for sharing because I know it’s not always easy to open up about.

To those who feel like I’ve given you the voice that you didn’t have when you needed it: I am honored. We are all stronger and braver than we know. I don’t even know if I was brave so much as just incapable of living with the lies one second longer. Like I mentioned to a friend in the comments: women especially have to stop telling themselves that vulnerable anger isn’t a good color on them.

To those sending encouragement and reminding me to embrace the sadness that will inevitably follow: Thank you. Once this starts feeling like real life again, I’m sure it will hurt. Loving a narcissist doesn’t make your love any less real. There are nights of crying into a pint of queso ahead of me, but more that I have ever been confident of anything in my life, I know the darkest days of this are already behind me.


Tell ‘Em Boy Bye 4

Romeo, Romeo. Where for art thou, Romeo?

Oh, turns out Romeo was at a cheap hotel. Becky with the Good Hair was there, too. And I took “being honest is what I’m best at, even when it’s the worst” to a whole new level this week when the following post went viral on Facebook:

 

David Fink it’s so poetic that exactly two years ago today-#LaborDay 2014- was the day I realized I was in love with you!! 
We’d only been seeing each other 3 months, but from the first week you told me you wanted to be exclusive because you were leaving for pilot training, and I wanted nothing more than to be there for you every night for the long sobbing calls about the stress and sending you study snacks and little treats! 


There was just something about you that made me believe in you. Maybe it was how 6 weeks after we met you confessed through tears to me that you had been texting another girl and begged for one more chance. How can a girl pass up a love like that!  


Or maybe it was the unrelenting stink of the 3 other girls you were sleeping with for the first 4 months of our relationship. Including 2 coworkers! (Hi Lauren! Hi Taylor!) To be fair, I have since found out that 3/6 girls that you admitted to cheating on me with (is it still considered admitting if you lie your cute little fanny off until I pull up screenshots of undeniable proof? ) were also most likely victims of your endless one night stands full of false promises. Like sweet Veronica, the college student who you deleted your number from her phone while she was showering after all that rock star love making It must have been those baby blues and pilot bravado that just couldn’t keep the ladies off you!   ✈️


Now, there was that one teeeeeny tiiiiney time that after we had been exclusive for 7 months you had a full relationship with another girl, but who am I to hold that against you?? Christmas with another girl’s family and then inviting ME to New Years Eve with yours??? You’re just all about spreading that “holiday cheer!” (Spreading that “holiday Erin Black” just doesn’t have quite the same holiday ring to it. ) But the REAL festivities started 6 months later when you screwed her in our bed. Correction- my bed. The bed that I moved from Houston to San Antonio when you told me to pick out a ring and come start the rest of our lives together!  I quit my job, left everyone and everything I cared about to be with you. I’ve always been told I wasn’t good at sharing- beds and boyfriends included- must be my bad. No worries, babe!!!! 


You know- I’ve learned so much from you by running your house projects full time to help make you over $500k in equity. Like all those evil contractors you’re always saying I trust too easily. Thank GOD I have you to show me what trust is all about!!! Like for example 3 months ago when I found all of this out and you kept telling me how crazy I was and how I needed to work on my #trustissues, so I spent $1,000 in therapy this summer to deal with my issues. Where would I be without you baby?!?! ()


Maybe I WOULDN’T be sitting out front of a 3 star hotel waiting for you and Lucky #7 (or #8? #9?? I’ll have to consult my flow chart to keep them all straight) to come downstairs. Maybe you finally classed up and decided to do it in someone else’s bed, or maaaaybe it’s cause her husband wouldn’t appreciate it either.
Among all of the WONDERFUL lessons you’ve imparted on me over the years, I just can’t help but share some of your wisdom with the rest of our friends.


1. Being cheated on is insanely isolating. You scramble to cover for the #cheater when you most need to be able to be vulnerable and comforted with the people who stand by you. I refuse to sit alone in this cheating stigma, and I want others to know that if someone tries to #gaslight you for trying to fix your relationship, cut and run as fast as you can. If you decide to stay after infidelity, no judgment because this isn’t a one size fits all situation and some people will do whatever it takes to make the relationship better than ever, but keep a #UHaul on standby just in case. 


2. If you’re someone who LIVES for what your fellow #AirForce pilots, commanding officers, friends, family and Tinderellas think of you, you should really consider ACTUALLY being a good person instead of priding yourself at how many versions of “the truth” you can juggle at once. (Real talk- if you know David, I have personally heard him lie to you at least once this year. That includes everyone. Yes, you too.) 


3. Don’t cheat. Ever. But if you do, you should probably make sure she’s not smarter and meaner than you with 0.00000 fucks left to give.  


4. It’s not crazy when you’re right.

P.S. You always told me I never take enough pictures of us, so here’s one for the mantle!

#finishhim and like/share your little hearts out

 

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One Ply Colored Glasses

Rejected titles for this entry include:
 
  • Waiting on the Other Shoe
  • The Anxiety of Happiness
  • My “Interactions Savings Account” is in the red again.
Here’s what I love and hate about cognitive psychology: most of the time you’re not telling anybody anything that they don’t already know on some level. I personally revel in this type of “I KNEW IT” validation of how my mind works and it makes me feel slightly less responsible for the dark and twisty parts of myself, but some people have a more “Okay. Why does this matter to me again?” reaction. If you fall in the latter category, I mean this with 0% snark: I’m infinitely jealous of your simplicity.
When I was a teacher we were constantly being reminded of the 5:1 positivity ratio. It’s a pretty well regarded concept at this point, so I can’t narrow down who did all the research and data tracking to establish this principle (’cause trust- I give credit where it’s due when I can), but the gist says that in order to maintain a positive relationship, there must be five positive interactions to balance every one negative interaction. For example, if you have to tell a kid to stop tapping their pencil, you must smile, pat their back, tell them good job, etc. five times before the relationship is back in positive territory. From my experience and understanding, interactions can be front loaded as a sort of “Interactions Savings Account” to draw from when needed. Also from my experience and understanding, this isn’t a concept that is applied solely to teacher-student relationships- it’s all interactions in general. So if I go to the Starbucks down the street five times and have an awesome experience, but then for my sixth visit I go and my barista is rude and order is wrong, I might let it slide. But if I go the time after that and again have a terrible experience, I’m probably going to start looking for a new coffee shop.
This is my current struggle. Not in the classroom (Did I mention I quit teaching? Now that’s a story for another time…) but just with Life.
You see, being happy can be exhausting when you’re waiting for the other shoe to drop. And for as long as I’ve been aware, I’m always, always waiting for the other shoe to drop.
Being the word nerd that I am, a few years ago I looked up the history behind the expression “waiting for the other shoe to drop.” It originated in late 19th century New York City when tenement style living was becoming more common, and apartments were built with cookie cutter layouts resulting in bedrooms all stacked directly on top of each other. When the upstairs tenant would come home at night, the downstairs tenant would hear him lay down on the bed and kick off his shoes. It became so ingrained in the normalcy of the experience that when only one shoe would drop, it would heighten a sense of impatience and curiosity and anxiety in waiting to hear the sound of “the other shoe to drop.”
Now all this is being laid out not to prove to you how I deserve an A+ in “Using Google 101,” but to lay out the current struggle that I have to heal but so far have been keeping on hospice.
I mentioned in my last post that I’m not only alive and well, but also that despite the odds Romeo and I are somehow happier than ever in this crazy whirlwind resurrection. However, we are not without our struggles. He’s stubborn and completely neurotic about making the bed and will buy one ply toilet paper that dissolves on contact if put in charge of the grocery shopping. I’m a chronic worrier and neurotic about everything except making the bed and have been known to actually cry real tears if he brings home the aforementioned toilet paper. (In my defense, you know the stuff I’m talking about, and it’s the worst.) He needs days- even weeks- to process a fight or disagreement, and I want to air out all the dirty laundry right then and there, no matter what else is going on. He’s methodical, and I’m impulsive. We are both very strong willed. These aren’t all bad combinations because in a lot of ways, we have a little ying/yang balancing action going on, but from time to time, it gets ugly.
For example, another major difference between us is that leaves his phone at home to charge and will go run errands, but I get phantom limb syndrome if I so much as go upstairs to move the wash over and leave my phone downstairs. So when Friday night he went for boys night at a friend’s to grill out and have a few beers, I didn’t expect him to be home at any particular time but was secretly a little happy when he voluntarily said he would be home at 10:00. When he still wasn’t home at 10:20, I texted him just to see if everything was okay.
Then I called at 10:22 just in case he didn’t hear the text.
I texted again at 10:25 to tell him I was going to bed.
I tossed and turned until 10:47 by which point I was already convinced he had been in a car accident.
I texted “You know I worry…” at 10:48 and called again, ya know, just to make sure.
I Snapchatted a black screen “Are you alive?” and Facebook messaged “I know I’m being annoying but I’d rather be mad you’re ignoring me that convinced you’re dead” because both Snapchat and Facebook message have read receipts and I wanted to confirm whether he was seeing my messages or was in fact dead on the side of the road. (My fellow crazies out there already knew my rational. You’re my people. And I’m real sorry ’bout that.)
I tried to FaceTimed him at 10:57 in an attempt to catch his attention with a different ring in case he was able to gain conciousness in the mangled truck I imagined had flipped into a ditch.
At 10:58 I started mentally preparing to call the hospitals and jails.
I was in full blown panic when he called me at 11:00 on the dot. “Is everything okay? I was charging my phone and lost track of time.”
I know that everything about this was insane. Typing it out only reinforces my own understanding that it was fully and truly unhinged. I don’t know if it defends my actions or just adds as a proof point for the psychosis, but I actually was convinced he was dead. Sure I had reason to be mildly annoyed, but ultimately he was 100% in the right to be frustrated with me after he realized everything was actually fine on my end and that all problems lived only in my imagination.
This morphed into a fight where each of us indignantly insisted that we didn’t feel respected in the interaction, until he finally, exasperated and hurt, exclaimed “Why don’t you trust me?”
 
Shit.
Shit shit shit shit shit.
Dealing with long standing demons is the only thing worse than single ply toilet paper. (Actually, no. They’re equal. That toilet paper is pure evil.) It took me walking away from the conversation for a few minutes before I finally realized it wasn’t that I didn’t trust him; I didn’t trust Life. My 5:1 “Interaction Savings Account” is so stocked with damning childhood memories of my family; past love affairs that have soured at the worst possible moments; friends and acquaintances with cheating, abusive, lazy, pathetic addicts for boyfriends/fiancés/husbands/fathers; songs, books, articles, and movies full of emotional and physical destruction just reinforcing that every fear I’ve ever had can and will come true… How can happy every survive in a world like this?
Pause–> It’s important to note that yes, some things have gone to shit in my life, but this seeing life through One Ply Colored Glasses is a side effect of damage done mostly in my mind. My worst “interactions” are things that never even happened to me, but just what I’ve imagined could be true based on the darkest parts of my mind. When it comes to my neurosis, I’m Public Enemy No. 1. Play –>
Choking back tears, I told him:
Me: You don’t beat me. You don’t cheat on me. You take care of me and support me and love me, and you are wonderful. I don’t distrust you, I distrust Life. If the smallest thing happens- if one shoe drops- I’m crippled with anxiety waiting for the other shoe will drop too. For the longest time, if I didn’t hear back from a guy, I assumed he was over me, so most of the time I would kick the other shoe off myself just to finally end the purgatory of waiting to see what possible negative outcome would manifest. You and this life bring me so much joy, which only further underscores my fear that Life is going to take you away from me.
 
Romeo: I hate that you feel this way, and it helps to know what’s going on in your head, but don’t you understand that when I finally do see my phone and I see 17 missed attempts to contact me, I assume it’s an emergency.
 
Me: You don’t get it. In my mind it is an emergency. My reality has already shifted so that what I fear to be true feels so much more real than what actually, probably is true.
 
Romeo: I promise to try to be more considerate in the future, but babe… We can’t do this again and more importantly, you can’t live your life that way.
 

I hate when he’s so fucking right.

All the foot stomping and insisting that he should cater to my dark and twisty fears might work. He could just cave to my will and join me in the nightmare. But thankfully he won’t, and even more, thankfully he insists that I pull myself out, too.

So this is where I am now. Trying to rationalize and subdue the constant fears that a home invasion/ coyote attack/ tornado/ running trail rape/ car accident/ incurable diagnosis is going to completely upend my life. Even as I type this, the poetic irony in my mind suggests that I will press submit and turn around to be held hostage in a Starbucks terrorist attack. But deep breaths and trust (and probably less caffeine) are going to get me through this imaginary crisis. I hope. I’m going to go about my day and try to enjoy being happy instead of catering to the quiet, seething fears that “happy” can’t last. I hope.
At least I’m going to try. I hope.

A Tiny Keyboard Shaped Hole in my Heart

Rejected titles for this entry include:
  • But guuuuuyyyysssss…. It’s HARD to Write When You’re Happy
  • God Has a Weird Sense of Humor
  • Here Goes “Something…”
Hmmm, ah, <throat clearing, taptaptap, uncomfortable silent stare into an empty room> um…Is this thing on?
Before the tomato throwing or stage whispering “I’m over this, let’s see what’s new on Netflix” starts up, let me be the first to say, um… my bad?
I have a personality that tends to extremes. So when a little more than a year ago my heart was being ripped out through my throat by the love of my life, I decided to channel all the hurt, resentment, and rage and experiment with writing- something I’ve always wanted to do. I dove in head first and was cranking out a post a day because heartbreak is kerosene to creativity’s fire. And right when I started really finding my niche and my rhythm… Romeo and I got back together. <Cue the upswell of “My Heart Will Go On” and fireworks that spell out “#lovealwayswins” and teddy bears for everyone.>
Happily ever after and all that, right?
Well, in this case yes, actually. I mean I still don’t have singing birds dress me in the morning, and my prince farted on me “on accident” twice last night in bed, but overall, I am really, truly happy. We are in a great place. I am in a great place. This means that anything I’ve tried to write reads like a Christmas newsletter which is the literary equivalent of a fruitcake. (Christmas needs a makeover, y’all.) A general rule that I gave to my English kids for years: if you’re bored writing it, I’m going to be bored reading it.
Fast forward to today where my heart is happy and huge and full… minus a tiny keyboard shaped hole.
Last week Romeo and I went to witness two of our friends get married at midnight on Valentine’s Day. It’s a big tradition in our city and every year over 100 couples crowd onto the courthouse steps. I couldn’t help but tear up while looking out at all these couples that were celebrating their love (well about 90%, the other 10% looked like “I guess, fuck it, why not?”), and I got really emotional. And then the hopeless romanticism morphed into an oddly patriotic sense of pride at seeing couples of all gender identity, sexual orientation, and racial makeups. My little liberal heart was overflowing and the happy tears started rolling down my cheeks. I was grinning from ear to ear like a damn fool, and I think I tried to start a slow clap. I feel like it’s relevant to mention that I was around drink number seven at this point.
After the ceremony we went for more drinks (ONLY GOD CAN JUDGE ME) and our friend, Mark, who had just gotten married was telling us what was going on in his head while watching 300+ strangers watch him get married. “Looking back into the crowd I couldn’t help but laugh and think what a terrible poker face you have cause I could read every thought you were having… Wait like right now. Why do you all of a sudden look like you’re having a weird revelation? Are you okay? Dude, Romeo, don’t let her take that shot. I think she’s having a stroke.”
I mean… y’all. Y’all. YOU GUYS. THAT’S LIKE A SIGN, RIGHT???
Two days later I receive a text totally out of the blue from Renee that said, “Stop being a pussy and write something.”
I wanted to type back “Something” because dad jokes really don’t get enough love, but instead I left the house that morning praying for some sort of inspiration. “Dear God, give me something to write about. Please just put inspiration in my path so that I can write ‘something’.”
Not five minutes later, a guy pulled up next to me in the McDonald’s Whole Foods parking lot, dropped his pants, and started jerking off.
God has a weird sense of humor.
Until next time, my friends.

Terrible Poker Face 2.0 Plus a FREE Scavenger Hunt (God, I really hope you don’t think this is spam…)

This post comes with a bonus scavenger hunt question:
How many Julia Roberts references can I make in 800 words or less?

Ready. Set. GO.

 

Once upon a time there was a girl who knew only two things for certain:
1. Calling her an awful liar didn’t even begin to cover it because the reality was she didn’t see the point in lying and instead walked around like her life was an open blog.
2. If she didn’t start writing soon, she would implode because you can only tell the same stories to your friends so many times before they crowd fund a trip to Italy, India and Indonesia therapist for you.
Spoiler alert: that girl is me.

 

So here we are on the five month anniversary of Terrible Poker Face, and I have huge, FANTASTIC news for you… (more…)

WELCOME TO TPF 2.0!

I’m beyond excited to finally be up and running on my new and improved website! Thank you to Kelsey Spencer for creating the incredible header and logo. Kelsey does graphic design and illustration. Y’all, she is seriously so talented and she’s a fellow Texas girl so definitely check her out here.

Please be sure to test out your email address in the box to the left and make sure you are subscribed. If you follow me through wordpress, you will have to subscribe again in order to receive email updates from me. Migrating followers is tricky as shit, according to my Digital Manager. And by Digital Manager, I mean my internet-savvy friend whom I pay in my personal favorite form of currency, wine. Y’all didn’t honestly think I did all this on my own, did you? If you did, you clearly haven’t been paying attention.

We would love to hear your feedback on the new site so if you just want to tell us how obsessed you are with it (we are too) or point out an error or something that could be improved, you can comment on this post or go to the contact page and submit your feedback there.


And on Wednesdays We Roofie our Book Club. 3

Last night, I hosted my very first book club. We read “The Girl on The Train” by Paula Hawkins, and I printed out discussion guides with color coded questions. I made caprese salad and Brussels sprouts and this delicious pasta I found on Pinterest that I only slightly over seasoned, and we all had matching dishes and wine glasses. I had a cheese tray on this cool slate and labeled it with chalk: “Artisan White Cheddar” and “Cabernet Gouda.”

Seriously, y’all, this was grown up as shit. (more…)


SURPRISE! I’m not dead. 2

Rejected titles for this post include:

  • My Brain Called in Sick This Week
  • Nobody Uses Homophones Correctly All of the Times
  • Is This Real Life?

Y’all. Reality is by far stranger than fiction. Life is so crazy weird and good and just weird right now that I can’t even write about it yet. I need a few more wine nights with the girls to even be able to find the words for my current reality because I’m pretty sure if someone put a gun to my head to right write a normal post write today I would churn something out alarmingly akin to this. (more…)