I Am Anxiety's Bitch, Part I

Last month was one year since the Caveman stood blocking my way from the laundry room into the garage with his eyes level to mine and very firmly told me that I needed help, and not the kind of help that ends with my house being clean and me having nothing to do but get a blow-out and lay in the sun all weekend.

Nope.

He meant more along the lines of find-a-shrink-Darya-before-I-wring-your-skinny-assed-neck kinda help. And because the Caveman really does not ask very much of me, and Lord knows, he does not get much out of the booby-prize he won in the wife-lottery of life, and also because I am a scaredy-cat people-pleaser at heart, I found myself a therapist.

Dr. Headshrinker came highly and reliably recommended, and we got down to the business of getting me fixed--not like spayed, but more like I was broken, which to be perfectly honest with you I totally was, and to be even more honest with you, it pissed me off to no end. To be resentful for being targeted for therapy, because I hurt the longest and cried the loudest was a shitty way to start out on a reflective and therapeutic journey though, I imagine a whole lot of people start out in much the same manner, I dunno. Whatevs.

Three very separately distinct situations had occurred over the course of a year that had rendered me a hollow shell of myself. And while I may have been able to recover from each of the circumstances individually, collectively, they were out of my weight class--I went from shadowing boxing to hitting the heavy bag. Worse than that, I would perseverate and percolate and articulate on the subject of these three circumstances constantly. That is when my exit was blocked and I was pointed to the therapeutic alter.

I came to my first appointment with a spreadsheet of issues and lemmetellyou after the eleventh minute when the first ten minutes were taken up with HIPAA regulations, patient-doctor confidentiality and insurance crap, and THEN I was informed that I really only got 50 minutes of time on the couch for the 60 minutes I was billed, well, let's just say I talked really super duper fast from there on out. And I had a lot to get out. For the first six months, I do not believe I even sat back into the couch--I balanced on the edge of the cushion and I made Dr. Headshrinker hide the clock because I would see the time clicking by and my anxiety would go higher and I would talk faster and at some point he would say, "Darya, please take a breath."

To Dr. Headshrinker's credit, he let me lead our dance and this process worked perfectly well enough for me until the spreadsheet was completed, and I was actually kicking around the idea of cutting back to one day a week. I did not really have anything of major consequence remaining on my list. For the VERY first time, I was allowing the Doctor to do what he was trained to do hmmm, imagine that.

But in all honesty, I did not know that I had not been totally honest with him or myself about how fearful I was of everything or even how much actual anxiety I lived with and endured each and every day. I had written about my nights of sleeplessness and crisis, but even at that time, I thought it was just me being me. Mostly because growing up I had always been dismissed as a worry-wart and nervous and all manner of botheration; however, in hindsight, and I say this with the utmost seriousness, it really began to ramp up after 9/11, and the whole-shit-and-caboodle has most definitely been escalating. It was quite revelatory to be told that not everyone had these same feelings most minutes of every single day of their whole entire life.

Now, wait a minute. Lemmegetthisstraight. 

Not everyone has an actual tactical security maneuver when there is a knock at their front door? Not everyone jumps a mile when the phone rings and then stares and pleads for it to stop? Wait. Not everyone walks around with a hollow pit in their belly or a constant throb in their left temple or their heart beating out of their chest like there wasn't enough room in there for their heart and their worry and their pain AND all their love? And they do not do a dive across the room and on to the bed reminiscent of Dennis Rodman trying to keep a ball inbounds just to get to the remote so they do not have to hear Sara McLachlan sing "Angel" and see frightened and abused animals because goddammit that shit is not fit for human viewing? They do not think that they may die at any moment from sheer exhaustion, worry and fright? You mean they just walk around NOT afraid of or worried about anything all day every day?

Dr. Headshrinker, assured me that normal people do indeed go about their day not thinking that the shiz is about to go down.

Clearly, this was a completely and totally foreign thought to me.

xoxo Darya



PS - As an added bonus, I finally got my act together and made it easy for you to get to I Am Anxiety's Bitch, Part II. I know, I know, I'm a giver like that ; ) And your welcome.

This Day Memorializes A Lot

There are three or four days that come along during the year that completely throw me--I just do not have the presence of mind when I am in their throes to realize what is going on yeah, kinda like PMS. I get anxious and weepy and a migraine may or may not be involved and there is definitely tears oh yeah, mos def--tears.

At some point my attention gets drawn to the calendar and I realize that it is April and it was my first husband's birthday just a few days before or it is August and it would have been my 33rd wedding anniversary to Sgt. Airborne just that last week. And the ultimate of all my tizzies, my I-forgot-to-remember-what-everyone-was-telling-me-to-never-forget meltdown over last year's 9/11.

So, when I realized I had been feeling distressed, I automatically chalked it up to anxiety over my recent job change and the waiting game that comes with creating a new book of business. Then, I started to see the snarky little e-grams on Facebook telling me to have a Happy Memorial Day Weekend. Happy? And then my generally restless mood, went from zero to completely and acutely pissed-off in, like, no seconds flat.

Really? Is this what everyone thinks this holiday is for--that Memorial Day is about a BBQ and a beer and a third day off in a row and the Old Navy Item of the Week? If so, that pains me greatly, like down to the marrow of my bones. Because I know differently.

For those who do not know, I was an Army wife. Not for long in the grand scheme of time, but long enough to make a grand enough impression on me. Long enough that I find nothing less than absolute respect and gracious admiration for our veterans, as well as our active duty servicemen and women, to be highly offensive and completely indefensible. Oh, I do not want to debate the better president or who is in charge of congress or the house or the military budget or whatfuckingever. I am talking about sons and daughters and brothers and sisters and aunts and uncles and men and women just like you and me making the greatest sacrifice of all for the good of the many. For us; as in, the U.S.

Sgt. Airborne and I arrived at Ft. George G. Meade in Laurel, Maryland, on December 6, 1981, and Sgt. Airborne reported for duty to the 311th Military Intelligence Battalion, Company C, and went to work at NSA, the National Security Agency, as an Arabic-Egyptian linguist with a Libyan dialect a 98Golf for those who know or even care to know. Do your math people, this was 1981--Gaddafi, helloooo, McFly.

And from that first cold wet day in March 1982, when ground was broken for the Vietnam Veteran's Memorial, better known as The Wall, Sgt. Airborne and I went into Washington, D.C., with another married couple from Ft. Meade and our boys wore their uniforms. The boys did this on Memorial Day and Veteran's Day as we paid our respects, not only at The Wall, but at all of the memorials throughout Washington, D.C. Now, maybe because I am old enough to remember hearing the body counts on the 6 o'clock evening news and seeing some of the older neighborhood boys not come home from fighting in Vietnam or maybe just living near enough to be in Washington, D.C., at the time of the building of The Wall at a time when our husbands still served with soldiers who had served in Vietnam, I identify so closely with this particular memorial and it resides in a place so deeply rooted and special within my heart as to be a part of me.

I have just very recently renewed my friendship with that other boy from Ft. Meade that is a story for another day--out of deference to him and this "holiday", and also because I just cannot seem to write the right thing right now. But in our conversations, this California beach girl, pipe welder/steamfitter's wife and firefighter paramedic's mother is getting to know that young Army wife all over again, and I am thankful to that boy for a lot of things this Memorial Day. I am thankful for his service on my behalf and we have talked about that both in broad strokes and in fine detail. Mostly, I am grateful to this new man I am meeting again for the first time, and for him seeking me out and befriending me once again. And like the Caveman said, "Maybe he needs you as much as you need him, Darya." I pray that is true.

Selfishly, in my heart of hearts, I am just so very glad to have a friend who has known me since I was a 19-year-old newlywed fresh from unhooking the U-Haul trailer and in-processing where we both shared our first permanent party post. For now, just know that I have missed him immensely--more than even I could have believed or imagined. With him comes a little bit of my own tribe; a tribe that has known me longer than anyone but Sister; a tribe that I felt so proud to be a part of and never really properly mourned the loss of because I was so damn busy getting down to the business of surviving.

In honor of all that has come before and all that will go on, thank you, veterans and servicemen and women, thank you for your service and your sacrifice. You all mean the world to me, and especially, too, to that other boy from Ft. Meade.

So, as you can see, this Memorial Day memorializes a lot for me

xoxo Darya

Beast of Burden

Yeah, all your sickness

I can suck it up

Throw it all at me

I can shrug it off

There's one thing, baby

That I don't understand

You keep on telling me

I ain't your kind of man.

            --Rolling Stones, Beast of Burden

I hear this song in my ear buds almost daily clearly, I need to shake-up my Pandora playlist and all I can think of is the Caveman and when we started dating. See, the Caveman proposed to me on our very first date. 

Yep. 

I just wanted a meal and a drink and a night away from my two-year-old, and this knucklehead proposed marriage. Oh, it was not a get-down-on-one-knee-kinda proposal, but a proposal nonetheless. On our drive home from the restaurant, when I was fully lubed from his attention and touch and equally loaded from a couple of carafes of Avila's house margaritas, and while he drove up Pacific Coast Highway in a hot summer month, he said in an extraordinarily matter-of-fact manner, "I can see myself being married to you, and taking care of you and your son for the rest of my life." The fact that he did NOT look hard into my eyes or lean into me so I could feel his breath in my ear deeply underscored the gravitas of his words. He did not rely on gimmick; he let his words alone speak his heart's truth. How simple. How effective. How scary. 

I just stared out the window and pulled a long drag on my Marlboro Light 100 thinking how much I wished he would slow the car down enough so I could just jump the hell outta there I had a mental picture of a perfectly executed tuck-and-roll thereby protecting my precious and expensive teeth, as well as my ubiquitous Marlboros but, sadly, I was glued to the seat. I did not turn my head. I did not answer him. Boom. 

I just let it lay there. 

Later on in our relationship when I was fussing with staying or going or this-ing or that-ing because of my age or his earning potential or whatever I thought was so important that it should keep us apart because I have that wholly unique ability to confuse the problem with the issue when it is so perfectly clear to him. He simply told me, "You know what, Darya, do what you gotta do. I will always love and take care of you and your son. I will always be there for you--you are gonna have to chase me away with a stick." And he did not say it in a way that gave me that shotgun-in-the-back-of-my-head dread shiver as I went to the door nor were any Star 80-esque alarms going off and if you don't understand that reference, Google it, girl because it holds the key to what I came from and where my head was at. Because it was not a threat. 

It was a vow. 

Go ahead, Darya, throw it all at me, girl. I can take it. And he still can. I can shrug it off. And he still does. And I will still be standing right there by your side holding your hand. And he still is. It gives me chill bumps to even write all this out loud because as I grow older I realize how precious and gracious and tenacious the Caveman is naturally. His actions and his words still say these things to me--just like the other day when I was once again this-ing and that-ing over some stupid-ass nonsense that had me all worked up and ready to tell the whole wide world to shove it.

He is my beast of burden. 

And I am glad his back is broad 'cause the weight of my worry would prolly crush an average man to smithereens.

xoxo Darya

The Slobbification of America

I freely admit that I have never felt like one of the pretty girls--never ever.  And I really am not that smart nor have I ever had that much money.  So, maybe because I have never felt like or had any of those things, I work harder to be all of these things so none of that shows.

And because I work hard to appear "put together", I hear things like, "Oh, do you look this nice for everyone?" from Dr. Pain--obviously, Dr. Pain is my pain management physician; "Gosh, you look nice; are you always this dressed up?" from Dr. Headshrinker, which BT-dubs has to mean something because everything means something on his couch.  "You look pretty today, but you look pretty everyday!" from the girls and boys at work.  "You always smell so nice" and its Sunday morning at our neighborhood breakfast nook.

In the '90s, when the casual Friday phenomenon first took hold, people opined that they did their very best work when they were comfortable and wearing relaxed clothing. Unfortunately, exactly the opposite was true.  Studies showed that productivity went down and people did not treat each other as professionally when they were not wearing their "work uniform".  Basically, if you dress like you are going to a BBQ/swapmeet/potluck/garage sale, you will work/act like you are at a BBQ/swapmeet/potluck/garage sale.

And let's be honest, it wasn't until after the grunge movement of the very early 1990s when clothing options and stylings of the casual Friday mom-jeans transformed into the fully slobbified versions of the 2000s with just about every Ugg-boot footed gal sporting the de rigueur double-camisole top with or without the coordinated or even clean bra strap peeking out from underneath and the super skinny long slinky neck scarf and gauntlets with the uber low-slung pajama-pant bottom. And let's just call a spade a damn shovel: Everyone, quite frankly, started to smell like bong water or dirty hair or ass or dude or really I don't even want to think about what everyone started to smell like, but it was bad and not in a stay-cool-Slipknot-slang sic sorta way, either.

 Clearly, I do not believe in being part of the slobbification of America--never have; never will.

It may sound exhausting and prideful, but I think to myself, what should I let go?  My hair? Just throw a Hurley cap on over 3-day-old-dirty hair?  Don't put on a nice clean outfit everyday? Maybe I should just pull on some dirty ol' sweat pants and flip-flops?  Wear no make-up?  That is not good for anybody who has to look at me! And. I. Just. Cannot. Do. That.

Every single day I pick out an outfit, not an especially expensive nor trendy outfit, with a decent pair of shoes and make sure that my hair is "done" and carry one of the only two nice handbags I own because it comes down to mostly this:  I believe that by doing these things I say, "I respect and care about you as my coworkers and my doctors and my trainers and my dentist and hygienist and my hair stylists and my manicurists.  And because I care about you, I am going to get up every day and show you that you are worth it to me by showing up looking nice for you."

And please do not get the idea that I have the big pants for myself or that I am a snobbish designer-only-kinda-gal; I am equal opportunity all the way, baby--I am perfectly willing to pair my precious banged-up-worn-every-single-day Tiffany cuff with Target pleather with JCrew cashmere.

I truly believe that I serve the people around me and they deserve the best from me. To me, it demonstrates to you exactly what you mean to me.  This goes hand in hand with being on time and all the proper pleasantries and courtesies of a caring and decent society, as well as taking care of those I love and well, you get the idea.

So, yes, I guess you can call me prideful.  But I do it for you!

xoxo Darya

Becoming Catholic Darya

Warning:  This post is gonna get all kindsa Catholic-y up in here. I know the Catholic church has hurt a lot of people and I do not like nor condone any of it--not one little bit, please believe that.

Because it is Holy Week and Easter, I want to say this now.  Because when something is missing and you actually have the knowledge of what that something is, oh hell, yeah, for sure, you are so far ahead of the game.  

If you are into Easter, Happy Easter!  If not, please insert whatever you have ever had the deepest in-the-very-core-of-your-being hunger for and insert it wherever I write the word Catholic.
                                   ___________________________________________

I knew at a very early age--and I mean at a very early age, and I am embarrassed to say just how early because that will make me seem even less credible if that is even at all possible--I needed to be Catholic.

I just had to be Catholic.

Don't ask me how I knew; don't ask me why it had to be. And do not expect me to defend the Catholic Church because their shenanigans have been indefensible. Period.

My experience was and is about a faith that I have had my entire life, and a romance and a longing and a need--a deep, visceral in-the-core-of-my-being kinda need. It really is just that plain and simple.

I just had to be a Catholic.

At the age of twenty-eight as I was preparing to marry the second of my husbands, and after I had participated in two full years of instruction and I completed a "period of reflection, prayer, instruction discernment and formation" through the Rite of Christian Initiation of Adults, I became a Catholic and a huge balled-up knotted part of me that had been holding all it's air in my whole entire life took a big deep cleansing breath and began to stretch and relax. Ahhh, home at last.

But because of some odd details associated with my prior marriage, I was not permitted to participate in communion at my own nuptial mass upsetting but not deal-breaking as odd as that may seem; however, I remained in full support of the Caveman's faith and life-long dream of marrying in his church and in his parish. This was a need of his that just had to be fulfilled. I did not ask him to explain it. He did not ask me to convert. The priest nor the church did not ask me to convert. I longed to convert.

And in all honesty, I do not do a house divided well.  I had tried to do it in another marriage and it was difficult beyond belief for me and disastrous for the marriage. I believe, that for me, all of my marriage and family oars have to be in the water and rowing for the same shore in the same rhythm. That is what our faith with the church's guidance helps us to do.  It enabled us to provide an education and a community and all the milestones of childhood to our son. Something the Caveman had growing up and I did not.  It was one item that would be checked off of the list of things that I would do differently with my child.  It was just something I HAD to provide.

Now, after twelve years of parochial education and catechism, the Hero says he does not believe in God that is not fair for me to say, maybe it is just the church that he takes umbrage with, I dunno.  That is okay.  If he does not, it is my suspicion that he will become a believer the minute his own child falls from heaven.  You just cannot witness that miracle and not believe in something greater--bigger--more powerful. If not, well, God gave him that same big beautiful brain to decide that important business for himself as well. We provided the tools, what he decides to build with those tools are completely up to him and his beloved.

As for the Caveman, most of  his communing with God is done regular foot on the deck of a 10-0  Bruce Jones longboard from Bolsa Chica to Huntington Beach to San Onofre. While surfing, the Caveman practices the art of gratitude--gratitude at Earth's gifts of immense strength and power and the graces it provides. In the water, straddling that Bruce Jones longboard looking at Catalina Island and the beautiful girls and the incredible sun and the sky above and feeling the warmth and the spray and tasting the salt and being with his dear friends and feeling the water cover his head as he duck dives under the swells to get to the outside sets, he gives thanks for the beauty of it all. He tells me that when he comes out of the water he is a new man. I believe he is living the sacrament of baptism each time he gets stoked.

This is Darya being Catholic.

Happy Easter and peace be with you. Namaste. Shalom. Aloha. All my love. And MWAH!

xoxo Darya

Random Ramblings

Because this is April, and with April comes Spring Break and Easter and Palm Springs' White Parties, and also the two weekends of the Coachella Valley Music and Arts Festival, and because I am somewhat of a sheeple for whatever merchandising opportunity or inappropriately aged and themed concession that happens to pass by my grubby little fingers, I felt compelled to give you my Ode to Coachella even if I am too old for Coachella clever how I did that, huh.

I hear the girls this year have been inspired to braid tinsel into their hair, which made me laugh condescendingly under my breath as I did my 900th squat of the week to basically keep my ass from sliding down the back of my legs and on to the floor, because to me that just seems like it would look like grey hair. And I do some pretty high-flying acrobatics including Balayage and low-lights to keep my gray hair visibility down to a shout and a reasonable dollar amount. I know, I know, I take all the fun out of being young and ridiculous and carefree and I bring it all down to a harsh reality. Well, little girls welcome to your future. Ta da fuckingda. Do you think I was born this old and achy and sweaty and bitchy? Seriously. No, I was not. I was once a ray of goddamn sunshine in any man's life.

Speaking of harsh realities, and if you have been following my Facebook Newsfeed you saw that one of my two gray kitties, Josie, passed away very unexpectedly late Wednesday night from a "thrombo-embolytic event" basically, a blood clot. Evidently, cats, just like people, can suffer from heart disease. And she had starved a good part of her young life so that when she was finally able to have all the food she wanted that is exactly what she did. She ate herself right into obesity. We had to work very hard to get the weight off and to keep it off her. Unfortunately, the damage was done. And she sustained a blood clot that went to her forelimb and caused her a great amount of pain and if I live to be a hundred I will never get the sound of her cries out of my ears and it took her little kitty life from her right in front of my eyes.

As you can see, my poor little girl had a perpetually pissed off look to her. And in all honesty, she wasn't exactly the easiest of kittens to love, either. She was a three-pet kitty.  By this, I mean you got one, two, three pets to the top of her head and then she bit your finger or swiped away your hand or her tail started swishing or she walked away growling. It took a lot to love her. I always and I do mean ALWAYS had a deep scratch on my forearm or teeth marks on the little webbing between my thumb and index finger, but I didn't care. I really didn't. I knew where she came from and what she had been through, and I knew what it took for her to trust as much as she did and I was willing to take what I got. Sometimes, that is just me. Whether that is good or bad, I am willing to take people and pets and jobs and all manner of stuff as they are and take what they can give ::shrugging:: so be it. And that is all I am going to say about that because too many correlations and similarities can be drawn in my life to this part of my character, and right now my heart just swells up into my throat and my eyes just puddle up and they spill over and onto my face again.

As I write this paragraph, I am getting ready for the beginning of the work week. And, Tuesday, April 15th, will be my last day at this particular hospital. "My Blue Sweater Day" is done and I will begin to find a new sweater to fit me and I can guarangoddamntee you that the next blue sweater I wear is going to be a bespoke blue sweater--one that is tailor-made to just my specifications. One that fits exactly my needs and capabilities. I am not saying that I won't remain flexible because if I am to remain self-employed the main thing I will have to do is to remain flexible. I have learned a lot about what I can do and what I will do and what I should do to keep my self whole and happy and moving forward in this one life I got. I am super nervous for what will be coming my way and I am working hard to be sure that I have enough work to pay my bills and care for my marriage and my little family and my mother-in-law, as well as myself. That last part I have sometimes forgotten about. I ain't forgettin' about that part no more!

On a very happy note, this is the occasion of my mother-in-law's 86th birthday! It has been a very good day for our little family, and she has had more Facebook hits than just about anything else I have posted all year! We should all be so lucky to live so long and see so much and be so loved. I consider myself supremely lucky to have this opportunity to spend these years with this wonderful woman who gave life to the love of my own life!

Cheers! Salud! And many happy returns!

xoxo Darya

The Better Me Project, Part II

It is not so much that I can pinpoint exactly when "it" happened.  "It" was really more of a slippery slope and not so much of a running off the cliff with my legs spinning in mid-air a la Wile E. Coyote.

But I went over the edge nonetheless.  And on my way over the edge and right before I bailed-out, I ran my self-esteem and my motivation and my initiative and my finances, as well as my earning potential right off the road and into a ditch.

And from the outside looking in, everything looked awesome and in-control and totally like my shit was together.  Not surprising really because this is a skill that I have expertly honed to perfection--hair done; clothes impeccable not expensive or even especially trendy, but impeccable--big difference; face "on"; house clean; son sober; husband employed; mother-in-law NOT dead.

But the cracks were starting to widen and deepen and more sad eau de Darya would make a puddle on the vanity near where I sit with my feet in the sink to put my make-up on.  So, I had to go about setting my life straight.  I  just could not continue ricocheting my way through life like the little silver ball in a Pachinko machine because now I had my mother-in-law to take care of on a daily basis and a business to grow or at the very least make a decent living at and a marriage to keep fresh, exciting and new, which is no easy feat lemmetellyou.  Jesus, I am just lucky he is even willing to look at me twice after some of the shenanigans I have pulled or the spoiled demands I have made.

I decided that I couldn't be stuck in this same place for one more day.  Oh, hella no. So, as a promise to myself, I instituted The Better Me Project, Part I.  The Project is my promise to myself to become a more fully functioning grown-ass woman, which seems to be centered around me denying myself anything within my computer mouse's reach and the depth of my credit limit, which isn't really that deep so that really isn't that big a damn deal.  Trust me.

But there is more to it than that.

I am backing my life out of some of those ditches and treating myself honestly and with authenticity and more importantly with kindness. Because, I don't know about you, but I would never ever dare to speak or say out loud to someone else some of the crap I say to myself:  Stupid. Slow. Fat. Dumb. Lazy. Ugly. Bad skin and oh, God that hair. Stupid clothes. Too tall. Too old. Broke. Broken. Ungrateful. Egotistical. Selfish. Self-centered. Not thoughtful nor thankful enough. Disrespectful. Bad friend. Immature.  The list is long and boring and you get the idea.

There are a whole bunch of complicated rules:  Some that make sense to only me and some that people have already told me that they could/would never do, but because it appears that I have always had my shit together, it is of monumental importance that I get it back together and pronto, man.  At some point in your life, you gotta cowgirl up and you gotta pull the thumb out of your ass or the tit out of your mouth.

In addition to the previously mentioned no-shopping ban, The Better Me Project also includes:

• Paying my bills on time and in full.
• Saving 30% of my gross income as I am primarily self-employed through my own little company.
• Being shit, showered and shaved and here's the tricky part, people out the door by 9:00 am on all days that require me to be outside of the home for my work.
• Continue to work-out four to six times per week.
• Getting my diet back to basics including but not limited to a daily protein shake, Paleo diet rules, proper hydration and vitamins.

I am eyeballing Good Friday as my shopping ban end-date.  No special reason other than I really do not have the wardrobe chops to go through summer without making some purchases and let's be honest, if I haven't learned that lesson by then, I probably never will and there really is no hope whatsoever for me.  I can be a fast learner when so motivated; otherwise, I have yet another subset of  finely honed skills, which includes being a lazy slug of a crappy person. But deep in the center of my being I do not believe that that is what it will come down to. I believe that I have learned a lot and I did find the root of most if not all of the evil in my life and I have already put in place corrective measures, as well as a new course of action.

So, there's that.

More on that later, like, after Easter when I can feel a little less ridiculous about gloating. It seems only right to hold the gloating down to a shout during Lent.

::whispering:: Go me!

xoxo Darya

Even if Facebook did ruin (((absolutely everything))) with their new algorithm, you can follow me at the xoxo Darya fan page, and if you are interested in creeping on me and whatever cockamamie outfit I capture in my 90-year-old office bathroom mirror, you can join my Instagram  @xoxoxdarya  but please don't forget the extra "x"--it's a long story.