How Do Grown-ups Make Friends?

Serious question: How do qrown-ups make friends? Captain Obvious would probably tell me not being such a raging bitch would be a good start. Okay, point taken. But then what?

As children, we made friends at school or in the neighborhood. Or at grandma’s house. Or at McDonald’s. We didn’t fucking care; we were kids! In college, we made friends in the dorms or commiserating over the greasy cafeteria pizza. Maybe we made fun of the douche canoes at the frat parties someone thought would be a good idea. Maybe we had some lame retail job and all went out and got shitfaced together afterward. I even remember dozens of faces from the bars in Wichita that I saw every week but couldn’t tell you one of their names. It didn’t matter.

When we entered the real workforce, we made friends there. I was introduced to my ex-husband by one of those people. Never mind that she turned out to be a scandalous whore who got an Airman Basic kicked out of the Air Force for adultery and her husband had to be recalled from Turkey to get her ass under control. I worked at larger companies in my twenties so it was easy to find people with common interests even when I got divorced. I had people to do things with in a strange city and really didn’t give it much thought.

But then I didn’t remarry. And I didn’t have kids. And I started working for smaller companies. And then I moved to the desert. Oh shit. Now what?

Don’t say church. I tried that in Kansas and felt like I was being pounced on and interrogated before I could even get inside the door.

Don’t say the dog park. Have you even been to a dog park lately? Those people are awful! Dog moms are just as bad as soccer moms. I hate dogs parks. My dogs hate dog parks.

Don’t say in the neighborhood. No. The last thing I want is someone ringing my doorbell unannounced and uninvited. I don’t like people knowing where I live. I especially don’t like people thinking they can just…come over.

The hair salon? The coffee shop? At yoga?

You know what? Forget it. I have dogs.

Mayflower Whac-a-Mole

I’ve had some dumb ideas in my life but this one is extra special. In case you’ve been busy living your life, you should just be aware that next year is the 400th anniversary of the Mayflower landing in Plymouth. Once I learned that three of my 11th great-grandfathers were passengers, I decided there must be a society for that.

Spoiler alert: There is, in fact, a society for that. The General Society of Mayflower Descendants exists (from what I can tell) to prevent legitimate descendants from joining their ultra-exclusive club. To say their documentation requirements are stringent is quite possibly the understatement of the year.

I thought I chose the easiest of the three lines to document for membership. I’m still not sure if that is correct but it seemed pretty straightforward at the time. I have found official records to support each generation but in some cases, they aren’t the right official records. I mean, I may have proven a connection to a [First and Last Name] but I haven’t proven that person is my [First and Last Name].

What makes this even more difficult is this particular line wasn’t full of Quakers. Those of you with Quaker ancestors know where I’m going with this. They documented EVERYTHING. I have tons of meeting records showing when my people finally got tired of the rule requiring them to marry within the church and decided to bounce. Quaker meeting records are amazing.

So I have established a committed relationship with VitalChek and they now know more about me than Amazon and Google combined. I’m getting pretty good at remembering which states began keeping official vital statistics records in which years. (You’re KILLING ME, New York.) When I got home from work yesterday, I was all excited that I received two more death certificates in the mail. Dear God, what is happening to me?

But here’s the problem: Every time I send them one certificate, they ask for two more. Every answer raises five more questions or life choices which must be documented. I don’t care how many times my 5th great-grandfather remarried after being widowed. But they care. Deeply. And they’re driving me to drink. Heavily. I don’t know why I can’t just send them my raw DNA data and let them figure it out.

I seriously don’t know if I will be able to have an active membership prior to September of 2020 but I’m going to Plymouth anyway. Mayflower II will be in port and I will spend all of the dollars to be part of that celebration. This is what getting old looks like.

Bad by Myself

I was scrolling through my Twitter timeline yesterday when I came across a BuzzFeed post soliciting stories about how people knew when they were ready to get divorced. My story will never top the scandalous replies they typically receive but I think that’s how it usually works. You will always hear dramatic stories about cheating, etc. but more often, marriages fail one tiny moment at a time.

My ex-husband and I owned a few acres in rural Idaho. We lived close enough to Boise to commute but far enough away to have horses and silence. My three mares were pretty young and two of them were batshit crazy. Miss Olympic Gold was the oldest and we were working on her manners under saddle. It wasn’t going well for anyone other than my chiropractor.

I took Olympic out for a short ride one Saturday afternoon while my ex was in the house with our two Rottweilers playing computer games…as usual. Olympic was being her usual stubborn self and I was working hard at being consistent but not angry. I was attempting to prove to her that my ideas were better than hers. She actually got the message and I was pretty proud of myself so we headed back to the house to end our ride on a positive note.

Our house was set pretty far back from the road, kind of in the middle of the property so the pasture wrapped around three sides of it with a long gravel driveway on the other side that went all the way back to the barn. The gravel had been mostly packed into the dirt so it was hard like concrete. Olympic was trotting up the driveway like a civilized horse until she randomly started bucking like a fucking lunatic.

I was using an Australian stock saddle with a deep seat and a high horn as a precautionary measure. Unfortunately, that just meant the horn slammed into my abdomen over and over while she kept bucking harder and harder. I was finally thrown over her head onto my head. Because I was wearing a helmet, the left side of my head bounced off the hard ground without cracking my skull. My left shoulder was also driven into the ground and I ended up with gravel embedded in the palm of my right hand.

I got up and limped with my horse to the round pen where I was able to remove her bridle and saddle. The thought of taking her to the corral to put her away without letting the other horses out was just too much for me to handle. Instead, I walked to the house to ask my ex to help me. I had apparently locked the door behind me so I knocked for him to let me inside while leaning against the house trying not to fall. He didn’t hear me knocking because he had the surround sound going while playing his computer game. So I made it to the office window and pounded on it until I saw his annoyed face scowling at me. I pointed toward the back door and waited.

When he opened the door, I was again leaning against the house to keep from falling and I told him I needed him to put Olympic away.

His exact words were, “You can’t do it?”


I said, “No. I can’t.”

So he and the dogs went out to deal with Olympic and I went into the master bathroom to wipe the blood off my face and dig gravel out of my hand. I noticed a giant mark on my abdomen in the shape of the saddle horn. When I became too dizzy and nauseated to continue, I took a washcloth soaked in cold water for my face and kicked back in a recliner with my eyes closed. It was not my first concussion by a long shot.

The dogs rushed back inside ahead of him and started whining at me. It was at that point my ex finally realized I had been hurt and wanted to help. I didn’t even open my eyes when I told him not to touch me.

It was at that point I realized I can do bad by my damn self.


Irascible. Put it on my tombstone.

Sometimes, it’s just never going to work. I’ve been testy this week. For whatever reason, that reminded me of a guy I used to date who once used the word “irascible” to describe me. Hello, Captain Obvious. But it seriously took him entirely too long to figure that out. He looked great on paper. In reality, he wasn’t all that interesting and he didn’t like my dogs. Fuck that guy.

Prior to him, I dated a guy who was just looking for a placeholder. He could take me out in public and I didn’t have any drama. You know what? Fuck that guy, too.

I don’t really have a point other than this is one of those weeks when I wish I had a heavy bag hanging in my living room. I wish my hearing wasn’t so finely tuned. Every sound is like sandpaper on my last nerve.

I suppose I could be a better person. But then people wouldn’t need four-syllable words to describe me.

Not Gonna Do It

How do people write when they don’t feel like it? I remember watching Carrie Bradshaw sit in front of her computer with the cursor blinking on a blank document and that feels like my entire life. Am I too sober?

I’m planning a trip to DC that requires a particular wardrobe so I’m stressing out over every detail. I’ve been mass-murdering yellow jackets that insist upon attaching themselves to my house. And my eyebrows are not growing out in an attractive manner. I’m not interesting and I’m not particularly creative. I can’t even talk myself into writing reviews on Influenster.

Zero inspiration. None.

I adore Yashar Ali. You guys know him, right? I follow Yashar on Twitter and Instagram and the man ALWAYS has something to say. I mean his food takes are fucking terrible but other than that, he’s an absolute gem. But how the hell does he always have something to say? I’m amazed by the prolific tweeters. I think I follow under 200 accounts on my main Twitter and I spend most of my time just absorbing everything. How do you even formulate an opinion on all of the shit that flies across your timeline? I’m having an A+ day if I can manage to retweet a few lost and found dogs in Tucson.

I have the same problem with Instagram. Being a thirsty bitch is a lot of fucking work. I don’t think I’m cut out for it. It’s like when I tell women to never chase a man. I think we should probably also never chase clicks and likes. It seems unhealthy. And yet, here we are.

So a clever and well-thought-out post isn’t happening today, friends.

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