Lo and Behold

So, it happened.

After some modest clamor on my personal social media for there to be an accessible blog of my musings and mishaps, I have sat my carcass down in the corner of my room and done the damn thing. I’m going to take a second and congratulate myself for choosing a really lovely gray color for this room, which I never really enjoy consciously unless I’ve opened the curtains and blinds, and then stop right there before I start getting wound up over all the things I should do to this room to encourage the maintenance of this page (damn you, Better Homes).

You know, like paint over that dry wall patch I patched a couple months ago.

Anyway. Because there’s a prime example of how things tend to go with me.

I will make my disclaimers now, to which I will refer in future posts. Understand that I do this out of love- less so love for the general public and more so out of love for my mental stability, general sanity, and displeasure at being told what to do. Nevertheless, you can’t say I didn’t put it out there, which means you have to take accountability for the manner in which you choose to respond emotionally or otherwise to the things written herein.

  • This is not going to become a discussion board. I love America, and so I’m glad you have a right to your opinions and personal feelings. However, you made the decision to come here for my thoughts, which is what will remain posted. You are welcome to contact me privately with your ifs, ands, and buts to the things I write, and I will consider them- truly. But the second someone acts a fool with public commentary, I will not bat an eyelash at cleaning all that up, and I don’t care if that’s censorship.
  • I am not an official source of anything other than the guts of my own soul. Any information that I refer to will be sourced, for better or for worse. I hope that the things I write here will serve some use to the people who read them, but they are not intended to infer that I have any certifications, degrees, licenses, etc. Yet.
  • Don’t tell me what to do. But, really. Don’t. Not just because I can be obstinate and occasionally belligerent, but because I know enough about myself to know that I probably won’t do a thing with what you said until I come to it on my own. The caveat to this is when I literally ask what to do (don’t worry, I’ll make it clear that I’m actually asking). Generally speaking, for something to truly stick with me and cause change, it has to be something I have freedom to consider. Right or wrong, you’ve been warned. Always open to improvement and suggestions…but don’t tell me what to do.
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    But maybe I’ll think about it.

  • Sometimes I cuss. Okay, most times I cuss.  There will be posts that are very eloquent, introspective, and possibly mind-blowing. I have a lot of feels, and I tend to spend a good bit of time elaborating upon them. There will also be posts that are a free-flowing fountain of sarcasm, snark, and questionable language. If it bothers you, please read the paragraph immediately above the bulleted points, then the first and third bullets again.
  • I am actually scared to death about this. I do think this is probably a really good thing, and if it does nothing other than satisfy the requests of a small number of people who have believed in and encouraged me thus far, then it certainly has fulfilled a purpose. But that doesn’t mean the level of vulnerability that accompanies these things and the likelihood that someone’s gonna get knotted up over some content doesn’t make me get tense enough to get up, walk around the house, pace the pantry, vacuum all my carpeted areas, answer texts I’ve been ignoring, and consider my overall emotional health first. Aside from the fact that I need this to make me a million dollars, I really do hope it goes over well- whatever that means.

Moving on, I’ve had a few good giggles today, mostly at the expense of myself and conveniently to the advantage of this blog. They say you have to be able to laugh at yourself to survive this life, so I’ll take that as a win in the adulting department. I’m beginning to think my probability of survival directly correlates to the number of times I say, “Only me…” in a given day.

Here’s a short list of little, chuckle-worthy things that “Only Lydia,” mostly because I’m enjoying outlines today-

  • I terrified my children into cooperation by being the most graceful human being alive this morning. By that I mean busting up in their rooms at 6am with two tissues shoved up my nostrils, hair poorly pinned to the top of my head, hoarsely barking at them to roll their tiny rears out of bed before we’re late. Due to the flickering of light caused by their ceiling fans and the relative incoherence of what I was saying, it must have appeared as a truly magnificent mutation of The Walking Dead, a walrus, and an unfortunate beauty vlog. Damned if we weren’t on time this morning, though.
  • While working an account with a client over the phone, I missed several cues that this man was about to ask for personal contact information. This happens from time to time, and I usually catch on fast enough to head it off (who really thinks inviting a contact center employee over for supper based solely on her voice is going to work out anywhere other than in the movie Red?), but I was two Mucinex tablets and some detox tea into my day already. When sir then asked when he could expect to contact for a visit to Florida, I scoffed and said, “Never, if I can help it. I can’t stand the beach- definitely a mountain person.” In that two-second awkward silence, it all came roaring in for me. See- this is why I could never go to bars. Thank goodness for that man-mountain of a boyfriend I have.
  • To harass my oldest child, I often follow her through the house dancing poorly to whatever music I have on. I was doing so today when Charlie said, “Mom! Quit- it’s embarrassing.” Feeling like I might be on the cusp of that glorious moment when children are old enough to have concerns about social image impact by their parents, I taunted, “Only to you.” She then pointed to the repair man standing at the front door and quickly corrected, “And that guy.”
  • I tried twice to write this post and only just figured out that I can’t do it if I’m wearing real pants.

You’re welcome.

Seriously, though, I do often find myself at least making an attempt to laugh off my (many) misadventures. One of the most common questions I get asked by clients over the phone is, “How do you do it- work all day and raise three kids? I can’t imagine being a single parent, especially so young.” I always, always, always respond the same way.

Whiskey and a sense of humor.

Which brings me to the name of this blog.

I see so many memes about women and wine, but when things really get sideways, wine isn’t gonna cut it for me. Actually, it’s going to give me a headache from all the sugar and dry mouth for about two days. My drink of choice is whiskey (or whisky, I can’t decide which spelling makes me happier), and something about drinking a manly-man beverage helps me buck up. We’ll get into my ideas of gender roles and stereotyping at some point, but it never fails that the image of someone like Teddy Roosevelt with a rocks glass and glorious mustache stirs some sort of gumption that gets me by. I once had a male friend tell me to “wear my ovaries on the outside and handle it,” which was a really loving way of saying to quit hormonally weeping and manage my business.

You just have to know him.

But that speaks to me and to my personality. I am not at all advising to get lit on some Jack Daniels after a bad day (calm down, Mom), nor do I go straight for two cubes when overwhelmed (which is every other day some weeks). I simply use that preference and expression to say, in summary, that my approach to handling this life is often straight-forward and balls-out. I have lots of valid reasons to sit and simper over the difficulties in my life, and yet sipping from the pity cup just makes me feel worse after a while. There’s a fine line between acknowledging emotion/grieving/processing/etc. and living in a victim frame of mind. So if it’s really that bad, I will put my whiskey in my hot tea, have my moment, and do what needs to be done.

That being said, I also fully embrace my feminine roles. I am maternal to a fault, and I am also a proponent of the natural delicacies of women. Not “princess in a tower, get married, and reproduce.” More along the lines of the softness women possess and its usefulness within interpersonal interactions and societal structure. At a glance, it seems contradictory, and I know every commercial feminist in the room is probably ripping their shirt off and parading down the road over my Teddy Roosevelt paragraph. Again, I’ll expound upon gender stuff another time to clear that up. But the bobby pin part of this blog’s title comes from the image of a woman about to do work.

I may be going at the hardship of my current life like Wyatt Earp in Tombstone-

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I’m your Huckleberry.

But before I do, I’m going to take the time to pin my hair up out of my face. And maybe check my eyebrows.

Thus, Whiskey and Bobby Pins. So let’s do this thing, boys and girls.

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