{Trash}
In the last few weeks the elementary school in my neighborhood has strung strips of fabric, ribbon, and colored plastic bags through their chain-link fence in fantastic waves and loops, layer after layer, line after line. It’s just jenky bits of leftovers, but the effect is absolutely whimsical.
Next week’s assignment for Friday, June 1: Parents
52 Pics Photo Challenge:
I have started my own weekly photography assignment with photo-posts every Friday. For previous posts click here, or you can download the challenge here. If you are participating, upload your photos to our Flickr group, and/or leave a link in the comments!
Filed under: Uncategorized
You know the anticipation of vacation? The kind that gives you butterflies for days or weeks?
I have it.
In just a little while (remaining vague on purpose, but my (fake) guard dog and (fake) guard alligator are on HIGH ALERT!), J-Mo and I will be heading on Honeymoon 2.0. I cannot wait. The months and months of him being gone are over and soon it will be just he and I, hand in hand, wandering new streets, experiencing new food and places and people, having new adventures, and meeting up with old friends. Frankly, my brain has been mush for days due to the excitement.
I cannot wait!
What is your favorite thing to do in a new city? Or even an old favorite city? Are you the type who eats your way through? Do you walk around all the neighborhoods? Hit every museum? Do you try to go to all the big, touristy bits or do you try to find tucked away, secret spots? Do you like to go to some local entertainment? Do you make a plan? Do you wing it? Do you stock up on travel books? Or do you rely on websites? The recommendations of locals?
Do you remember this?
Not necessarily the part where J-Mo and I got married, but more specifically the enormous, fantabulous Geromino! Balloons that popped up everywhere in our photo shoot? My friend Jihan made them special for our big day in our wedding colors and not only did they provide some awesome photo ops, they made everyone who saw them smile and kept a gaggle of small children entertained for an hour.
Well, there’s this little company, Anthropologie, that has this little wedding site, BHLDN, that now sells Geronimo! Balloons. That’s right! I know famous people! (Also, I scooped Anthro! Yes, this gives me a twisted sense of hipster satisfaction that I can’t quite shake.)
**Photo by Stacy of Three Winks Studio
{Optimism}
Our Lady of the Rockies, a 90-foot tall statue sitting at 8,510 feet above sea level atop the Continental Divide and dedicated to women everywhere. She watches over Butte, Montana and at night she is lit up like a shining angel floating above the city, it’s enough to take your breath away after a long day of driving. Our Lady of the Rockies is the last landmark before winding up the canyon to J-Mo’s home. (Click to enlarge.)
This is one time where I really wish I had a better zoom, and that the twisting canyon had a better angled pull-0ut to safely take photos.
Related Post: Butte, America
Next week’s assignment for Friday, May 25: Trash
52 Pics Photo Challenge:
I have started my own weekly photography assignment with photo-posts every Friday. For previous posts click here, or you can download the challenge here. If you are participating, upload your photos to our Flickr group, and/or leave a link in the comments!
Once upon a time–six years ago–I dated someone who lived 735 miles away. I visited San Francisco often that year, usually hopping on a plane every other weekend for another adventure. I was fresh back into the dating scene after a tumultuous marriage and dragged-out divorce and an every-other-weekend boyfriend was perfect for me. We talked on the phone every night, sent emails and texts, and I was able to learn how to be myself again while exploring this new relationship in a very healthy-for-me-at-the-time way. The relationship ran it’s course, we had an amicable break-up and went our separate ways.
Fast forward to now.
Unbeknownst to the Internet At Large, for more than a year J-Mo and I have been in a long distance relationship. I live in Salt Lake City, he has been working in Middle Of Nowhere, Nevada. He works for a large civil engineering firm/general contractor that has projects like roads and pipelines and power lines in several western states. For a while he was only 250 miles away, a short(ish) 4-hour commute. But as the project he is working on has progressed, that commute has lengthened to 425 miles. Six-and-a-half hours. Each way. Since we started dating last February, with very few exceptions, I have only ever seen J-Mo on the weekend. He is managing this big project in Nevada that was originally scheduled to be complete in October. Last October. Then it was November. Then January. Then March. I should stress this delay is not faulty management on his part, it has everything to do with at least a dozen sub-contractors and environmental nazi’s with little regard to how their mistakes and delays can quickly cause delays on a massive scale and keep me husband-less 4-5 nights a week. Jerks.
This is something I felt really strongly I should not blog about, because the last thing I want to blab all over the internet is that I am home alone most evenings. Or even that my home is vacant most evenings as I am out with friends. I mean, even if I included a (fake) picture of my ferocious (fake) guard dog, or guard crocodile (also fake), it’s not wise to talk about such things.
I have tried really hard to be patient, flexible, understanding and to keep any complaints to myself with marginal success. That being said, these last few months have been particularly hard. The dragging on and on has taken a serious toll on both J-Mo and I. I know I have blurted out my woes to a few of you via email and gchat, and you have been remarkably sympathetic and kind. I didn’t think I would have this hard of a time adjusting. When I was finishing up my last semester at the University, I had a roommate and her fiancé and, literally, scores of single friends with whom to socialize. I found that I missed J-Mo, but could easily find a homework assignment or social distraction for a couple of nights until he came back into town. I am still trying to find where lies the appropriate line that distinguishes hanging out with my friends, and crashing a single’s only party. It’s one thing if it’s my girlfriends or my male BFF that I am hanging out with in the evening, but it’s another story entirely to regularly show up, alone, to single’s bash with several ex-boyfriends also in attendance, you know? I know a few married couple’s that I can always hang out with, but there is the awkward–usually only for me–bit about being the third wheel. It’s been a tricky transition, one for which I was entirely unprepared. Somewhere in-between the hustle to finish my last classes and exams, to relax and enjoy the Christmas holidays in Montana, and then turn around and plan a wedding I kind of forgot about the part the week after our ceremony where we would both go back to work. Me in Salt Lake, him in Nevada.
Oh.
Right.
Dammit.
I find myself scrambling/floundering to adjust to a lot more empty apartment than I had really prepared for and hours of free time I could hardly imagine as I struggled through studying for finals and managing wedding preparations.
It’s been really hard. On a regular basis the long-distance marriage thing feels like a hole in the heart, but sometimes it hurts so much it is, literally, difficult to breathe.
I can’t tell you how many times I have had to bite my tongue when I hear someone complain about their spouse working long hours. “Yes, but you still get to see him more than 2 or 3 nights a week.” When someone complains of a long commute and how it cuts into quality time with their partner or family, I have to quickly leave the room make an imaginary phone call. “Yes, but that commute is a daily one, not a weekly one.” Listening to someone complain about the three day business trip once a quarter makes me roll my eyes (usually only on the inside, thank goodness). “Three days? Are you kidding me? Try a week at a time, every week, for a year.” I am not proud of these thoughts, and I’m not writing them all down to try and somehow paint myself as a martyr or garner sympathy. I’m just being real and honest. The problem is that these acidic thoughts don’t make coping any easier and certainly don’t make me a better person. To my credit, I haven’t verbalized these thoughts, at least not to those who innocently and unwittingly incite them. Instead, I go home and cry, curled up in a suddenly too big and too cold bed by myself with my phone cradled to my ear.
He’s going the distance,
He’s going for speed
She’s all alone, all alone in her time of need.
The rest of the song may be inapplicable, but Cake has that part spot on the money.
The somewhat redeeming part of all of this is that I have had the opportunity (and–gold star for me–have taken advantage of it) to try a dozen different things to keep myself busy and my mind occupied. I have been going to lectures at the city library. I started my own photography challenge and signed up for a few photography classes at a local camera shop. I have renewed my efforts in the kitchen to include more homemade meals and less eating out. I have earmarked a couple of courses in the continuing education catalog to check out. I have been reading voraciously, and even started a book club. I have made a serious dent on some of the long-put-off projects that are waiting for me in little piles around our apartment. I have tried very, very hard not to decorate J-Mo’s “man cave.” It’s his space and he probably wouldn’t appreciate my taking it over to try my hand at another gallery wall or furniture arrangement. Or anything involving vinyl lettering. Or glitter. So far, his “cave” has remained as he leaves it every Sunday, although I can promise nothing for the long haul.
This week our long-distance marriage will end, which is not to say the marriage part will end, quite the contrary, in fact. This week the long-distance part of our long-distance marriage will finally be over. The project, or at least J-Mo’s role in it, is done. J-Mo is coming home.
In some ways I feel like that means the day-to-day part of our marriage is just beginning. We’ve been married for months, but I am suddenly nervous about living with him, you know, in the “7-days a week” kind of way, i.e. the “normal” way. I’m 87% ecstatic that he’ll be a one-residence kind of man, and that it will be our residence; simultaneously, I am 13% terrified that he won’t like living with me, that my much-needed puttering will annoy him, that my projects and piles will drive him crazy, that I’ll always burn the dinner and forget about the laundry and that, ultimately, he’d rather be in Middle of Nowhere, Nevada without electricity or running water. (I said I was terrified, not rational.) My concerns have been nagging a bit for several months, but with no end date in sight for so long it was easy to push them away as irrational. Or, at the very least, something to worry about when the time came.
The time is here. And I’m worrying.
Unfortunately, the well meaning assurance that it will all be okay has only made me feel like my concerns and worries are somehow invalid and unimportant and need not be fully addressed; that’s kind of the opposite sentiment a sympathetic friend is trying to convey.
Therapists and psychologists say that recognition of irrational behavior is the first step. But just because I can see the paradox doesn’t suddenly make me rational about the problem at hand. Tragically, when you, or he, reassuringly tell me that I’m making my way into CrazyTown and shouldn’t worry; that it’s not a big deal, people live with their husbands all the time and it works out; or that it will be just fine, I don’t feel better. (Technically, according to the U.S. Census bureau, it only works out 50% of the time, and that’s hardly a strong statistical argument to make me feel better.)
But, all that being said, the last few days of near-crippling worry will be met head on tonight by a bear hug from J-Mo. I predict that he will be able to kiss the worry right off in no time and in a few days I’ll shake my head and sigh at this spinning, scary place. Tonight J-Mo will be here, and he won’t be leaving again for quite a while. On Sunday J-Mo and I will spend the evening together instead of me stuffing my feelings into a pint of frozen yogurt while he drives back to Nevada. On Monday morning he will make the jaunty 1-hour commute to his company’s local office and—and this is the best part—on Monday night he will come home to me, eat dinner with me, and snuggle me to sleep. Rinse and repeat.
Halle-freaking-lujah!
Filed under: Proof that I'm a Nerd
As part of my job, a hundred different types of invoices and receipts come across my desk every week. Most of the time I simply double-check to ascertain they are within our company policies (no booze, no dancing girls, etc) and send them along for payment without another thought. Yesterday, however, I was struck by the figures for a business meal. A personal-sized pizza was $12.00–seems about right for a large city–and the accompanying soda was another $4.00. Four dollars! For Diet Coke! Four hundred cents for a bit of aspartame and caramel color dissolved in fizzy water!
A bit later while I was at lunch I ordered a cup of soup with my salad and was floored when I realized that the broccoli-cheese–touted as freshly made in-house each morning from organic products–was HALF the price of a soda. That means that a cocktail of FDA-approved sweetener and a cough syrup accident a super secret syrup recipe mixed into carbonated water (Diet Coke) costs twice as much as real food (organic soup). NERD WARNING! Ok, “costs” isn’t correct, the cost is completely different. (This is my Economics degree at work here, folks. Buckle up). The reason the price for soda is twice that of real food is because the demand for soda is much higher than the demand for homemade, organic, broccoli-cheese soup; the perceived value of a sugary pick-me-up is double that of soup, and the population’s willingness to fork over more money for soda than for broccoli-cheese is evidence of that depressing relationship. Michael Pollan is nodding his head in incredulous agreement right now. (Ha! As if Michael Pollan reads my blog.) (If you are Michael Pollan, or his people, please give me a wave and a shout “hello!” It’s been a crummy week and acknowledgement from you would really be a bright spot.) (Moving on, but not from overuse of parantheticals.)
As I huffed and puffed about the injustice of it all, it occurred to me that other establishments very well could be charging an arm and a big toe for soda too, especially when compared with the price of the real food, the stuff that is chopped, diced, minced and sauteed, meals that are created by trained chefs, brought to you by smiling servers and cleaned up by efficient bussers. I decided to do some investigation and put my spreadsheet skills to good use. These figures are for restaurants near my office.
Go ahead and click on that image if you’re interested in seeing the actual number figures more clearly.
If you aren’t interested in the actual figures, all you need to know is that, on average, the price of lunch is $8.81, the price of soda is $2.36 which is 19.88% of the meal. (Prices do not include tax or gratuity.)
After I recovered from my sticker shock, I did a little bit of research and a little bit of math and came up with the following information on the costs vs. price of soda and the profit margin (again, click to biggify):
If you don’t want to follow all that multiplying and dividing, a 20 oz. cup of soda costs a restaurant about 17 cents. They charge you $2.36 (see Table 1). They rake in a whopping 92.79% profit every single time you buy a restaurant soda. And if you get a refill it’s still more than 85% profit to the restaurant.
At $2.36 per soda, if you order three restaurant drinks per week that adds up to over $350 for the year! And if you’re ordering soda four times per week that’s almost $500 dollars. I can think of a lot of ways to spend $500 dollars. Like, a cruise (where you must pay extra for the soda as well). (See, there’s that pesky “supply” and “demand” and “willingness to pay” again.) (Damn Capitalists.) (#Sarcasm) (#IHeartCapitalists)
Rip Off (verb)
1) To steal, cheat or swindle (see: hijacking someone’s debit card number and running amok with it)
2) to charge an exorbitant or unfair rate (see: buying a soda in a restaurant)
3) to pull off by ripping (see: bandaids, brazilian waxes, accidents with acrylic nails)
So, there you have it, and now you know.
(Disclaimer: things I didn’t have the brain capacity to include in my math are the cost of rent, human capitol (wages, tips, etc), water, ice, electricity, soda machine investment/maintenance, cups/lids/straws or “free refills”. If you want to slog through someone who has done all that figuring, you can check it out here. This article also has a lot of interesting facts about pricing of soda in restaurants.)
Filed under: Things That Suck
Last night I planned for this–this being “Monday morning”–I picked out an outfit and shoes in advance, made sure I had a breakfast and lunch ready to go, clean towel for my shower, checked my alarms to make sure they were correct, and then went to bed at a reasonable hour.
I was on time to work, unstressed, and ready for a very busy day.
And then I checked my bank account to find $250 of fraudulent charges on my debit card over the weekend.
You may no recall this (I don’t expect you to commit my posts to memory), but a year ago a cyber-thug hijacked my bank account. That time I marched myself down to the bank and had it all sorted out in under an hour with some spending monies in my wallet until my new debit card arrived. In fact, I was so not worried about it, I went ahead and bought a gorgeous dress on my lunch break (the dress I ended up wearing for my wedding, by the way). Unfortunately, the branch that is less than a block from my office has since closed; I called the fraud line, have cancelled my debit card, reported the thievery, have been issued a reference number and should receive my new card in the mail in a few days…but I feel a lot less secure about the whole thing. Perhaps it’s because May now has a history of fraud on my bank account. Perhaps it’s because I wasn’t able to sit down with Tyler-the-Personal-Banker and have him reassure me to my face that he would take care of everything. I’m sure the call center employees have similar training, but the reassurance via a reference number is not the same as Tyler being able to read my face and address the concern he sees there.
Last time this happened I was freaked out for 5 minutes and then felt pretty great about the whole thing. Tyler at the bank had done his job and I watched him do his job. I felt that the bank would take care of me. This time around Tyler’s branch is locked with black paper in the windows and nothing but an ATM and a list of nearby locations (none of which are close enough to squeeze into my 20 minute break. I’m frustrated, and I feel violated, and while I’ve done everything I can to fix the situation, and the bank has done what they can to fix the situation, I still feel like I’m in somewhat of a free fall, and I hate that feeling.
Grrrr. Happy Monday, everyone.
{Yellow}
A tiny yellow daisy growing out of the sandstone in Southern Utah.
Next week’s assignment for Friday, May 18: Optimism
52 Pics Photo Challenge:
I have started my own weekly photography assignment with photo-posts every Friday. For previous posts click here, or you can download the challenge here. If you are participating, upload your photos to our Flickr group, and/or leave a link in the comments!
Filed under: Proof that I'm a Nerd
I’m about to splash a little nerd and a lot of geek all over your screen. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.
Several months ago I read The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay, which details the beginnings of the comic book industry, you know, in addition to a stellar plot and fascinating, layered characters. In the 1930’s and 40’s comic books full of super soldiers were wildly popular, their pages filled with graphic illustrations of dozens of now-forgotten heroes with sidekicks, villains, plots and schemes, and even a love interest or two. An impressive majority of the authors and illustrators of these books were young Jewish men, men who were faced with the daily reality that many of their family and friends were suffering—or missing—in Europe. The theory is that these young men could do very little to physically fight Hitler, the Nazi regime, or the Axis powers. Their homes were vacated and their communities were crushed; their families were scattered, parents and siblings missing, children killed or worse. Many never discovered the fate of their loved ones. In response many of these young men, restless in a relatively safe United States, created fantastical heroes who could fight indefinitely, leap buildings, wrench submarines out of the ocean, down planes, take out Hitler or a company of Japanese soldiers with a single punch, and week after week these heroes laid waste to the Japanese and Nazi armies. In the 1930’s, Superman, the ultimate super hero, was hatched from the mind of Jerry Siegel and Joe Shuster, a couple of young Jewish men in Ohio. Batman, Robin, Wonder Woman, The Green Lantern, Hawkman, Aquaman, Captain America, and Captain Marvel all were born during the Golden Age of Comic Books and their weekly adventures wreaked havoc on evil forces in Europe and the Pacific. At the close of World War II, war criminals were brought before tribunals at The Hague and in Japan, life began to return to normal (or rather, a new normal), the need for superheroes diminished. Publishers diversified their portfolios to include a wider range of plots, characters and stories including Westerns, Sci-Fi, crime, romance and horror comics. Many superheroes were cancelled and forgotten. During the “Silver Age of Comic Books,” primarily the 1950’s and 60’s, The Flash, The Fantastic Four, Iron Man and Spider-Man were introduced and ruled the comic-books scene, fighting the rise of communism, no surprise when you take a cursory glance at major historical events of the era. Cough cough, McCarthy, cough, Cold War. In the 1970’s a new set of characters were introduced, among them the X-Men, which is a completely different post for another day and will definitely include a mention of the one time I met Hugh Jackman and he touched my arm and called me a sweetheart. Yep. For real.
Hi, are you still with me? Have your eyes glazed over yet? Yes, I’ve just spent a paragraph detailing the history of superheroes in comic books and how it relates to world history. But that’s nothing to the geek-storm I’m about to unleash. (If you have an aversion to geek-storms, or if they give you rashes or hives, I suggest you skip to the paragraph after the picture.) In the last 10 or 15 years there have been dozens of comic book characters headlining their own movies and movie franchises[1]: Batman, Superman, Superman II, Swamp Thing, Superman III, Superman IV: The Quest for Peace, Batman, Batman Returns, Batman Forever, Batman & Robin, The Fantastic Four, Blade, X-Men, Blade II, Spider-Man, Daredevil, X2, Hulk, Spider-Man 2, Elektra, Catwoman, Fantastic Four, Batman Begins, X-Men: The Last Stand, Superman Returns, Spider-Man 3, Fantastic Four: Rise of the Silver Surfer, Iron Man, The Incredible Hulk, The Dark Knight, X-Men Origins: Wolverine, Watchmen, Iron Man 2, Thor, X-Men: First Class, Captain America: The First Avenger, Green Lantern, and finally The Avengers[2].
Why the sudden rise of superheroes on the silver screen? Is it because Hollywood cannot generate an original script to save their lives? Yes, probably. Is it because the CGI and other special effects make them so incredibly awesome? Yes, perhaps. Or is it because—as the major plot soliloquy in every one of these films details—the world is in desperate need of saving? Does Sammy L./Nick Fury have it right? Will these superheroes always return to earth because we desperately need them again? Perhaps we don’t need a Hulk to fight, single-fistedly, against an alien army of flying sea creatures plopping out of the sky spewing warriors that resemble molding Storm Troopers who mutated with Orcs. Perhaps we don’t need Captain America and his indestructible shield to bring us an old-fashioned sense of security, morality and virtue[3]. Perhaps we don’t need an other-worldly Nordic God to interfere with the weather and speak in Shakespeare-like prose. And perhaps we don’t need a cocky genius/billionaire/playboy/philanthropist to generate clean, sustainable energy and bring a sense of calm through sarcasm, wit, and snarky comments[4]. But, and I think the box office will back me up here, maybe we do. Ancient Mayan’s predicted the world would come to an end in 2012. Several televangelists have similar sentiment. Armageddon, as prophesied in the bible, not by Bruce Willis, seems to be inching closer every day with war, corruption, poverty, disease, and despair ravaging tens of millions. Maybe our world is in as much need of saving as it was 60 years ago. Maybe her citizens are just as desperate as our parents and grand-parents were for brave heroes willing to fight the bad guys and determined to keep at it until good and truth triumph, regardless of the inconvenience, of the stigma, of the personal sacrifice, or of the cost. Do we need to be reassured that in a world of uncertainty, fear, hate, political turmoil and societal upheaval that, in the end, everything will be okay?
Or maybe we just like to see the bad guys get a pounding by super-soldiers in really tight pants.
[1] The Dark Knight Rises, The Amazing Spider-Man, Iron Man 3, The Wolverine, Thor 2, Captain America 2 and Man of Steel are currently slated for release or are in development.
[2] Yes, I had to look all those up. No, I haven’t seen them all. My geek is minor to some of my other, equally awesome qualities, such as the awesomeness required not to include IMDB links to all of those titles. I’m Sorry/You’re Welcome.
[3] And physical fitness. I know you were thinking it too.
[4] Who am I kidding, Tony Stark would be a welcome distraction from the Kardashians.
You’ve been faced with problems that seem to have very simple solutions, right? And you’ve seen people faced with those same problems who somehow cannot comprehend the simple solution, right? Have you seen them struggle with something they are making much harder than it needs to be? Have you been that struggling person yourself? I know I have. The thing is there are some solutions that are so incredibly simple that it is irrational-bordering-on-insanity not to understand them and then utilize that understanding!
The concept of “good communication” in a relationship is one of those things.
Is it necessary?
Yes. Absolutely necessary.
Is it hard?
Usually, yes, it is kind of hard.
Do all versions of “good communication in a relationship” look exactly the same? Of course not. But it is essential that you figure out what form you need, and also–just as importantly–you figure out what your partner needs as well.
Good communication is not gossiping or passive-aggressive jabs or hints. Good communication requires honesty, vulnerability, directly approaching a topic or a person and simply stating what you want or need and asking for something to change. Written out like that it doesn’t seem like it should be that difficult, although for many of us (myself included) it isn’t something that comes naturally. Clear, open, non-passive-aggressive communication can be really hard.
Once upon a time I had a very strict rule that went something like this:
If someone says or does something that truly hurts my feelings or in any significant way upsets me, I have exactly seven days to bring the incident to light and come to a resolution. If I cannot do such a simple thing, after seven days I am no longer allowed to use that incident as ammunition, or refer to it as a grievance, and must let go immediately. I will not be one to hold grudges.
For quite some time the seven-day rule seemed to work just fine. After a few years it became the three-day rule, although these days I try to play by the 24-hour rule with varying levels of success. I will never be the kind of person who can resolve a big, emotional conflict on the spot. I just don’t have the emotional control to be rational and reasonable while I am hurting. I know this about myself and I refuse to indulge that ugly side of me–the temper-tantrum side who says things she doesn’t mean and then can’t take back. I refuse to give that version of me any more control than she already holds. That doesn’t mean I run away from a hairy conversation, it simply means that I give myself a little breathing room and time to calm down, and will then address the issue at hand. Lately I’ve learned to tell whomever it is I’m talking with when I will be ready to address it. It’s perfectly okay to say “Hey, I’m feeling really emotional about this, I’m going to take a walk and we’ll talk about it when I get back.” Or, “Um, I need to get my thoughts into some kind of order, can we talk about this tomorrow?” Or even “Wow, this is a lot for me, I’m gonna take 20 minutes and go have a double-fudge banana split with whipped cream and we’ll get back into this after that.” IT IS PERFECTLY OKAY TO SAY/REQUEST/DEMAND THAT! (Seriously, why don’t more people say that?) (Also, the banana split totally helps.)
Not long ago I spent a couple of very emotional days with a frightened friend. An old friend and a really amazing woman. The source of the emotional turbulence, and the fear, was from a complete and utter breakdown of communication in her relationship. I have been through the ringer in relationships, but her experience was eye-opening to me. I realized that it is possible to fall in love with someone and choose to spend your life with them and wake up, several years later, to a complete stranger. It is possible to not have the slightest idea of how to talk to your partner. I was shocked. Is this something that I take for granted? Have I ever taken it for granted? What if I am spiraling into a Non-Communication Hole and am completely unaware?
I decided that in my own relationships–romantic and otherwise–I needed to double my efforts to understand and be understood. Patience will be tested. Questions (thousands of questions) will be asked and asked again. Hearts will be bruised. Frustrations and tears will undoubtedly make a mess of my mascara. But dammit, I’m going to make sure I’m clear. I will only say things that I mean. I will ask the hard questions. I will not assume. I will not play a passive-aggressive game, hoping someone will be able to interpret it correctly. I will make sure that whoever is the second party in my conversations understands what I mean before letting a subject drop.
And when the conversation is settled on both sides, the subject will drop.
**Things are just fine with J-Mo and I, I’ve been thinking about this post for months and wanted to take a little break from the barrage of photos from the last two weeks.
