Well now I've gone and done it...

I went and let facebook people know I have an Etsy shop. I, like, invited people to come check it out.

What in the Hades is the matter with me?! Seriously!

But what's done is done and, theoretically, can't be undone. So, help me quit my day job! Go check out the facebook page: http://www.facebook.com/Samandsadydesigns. Tell your friends. Tell your co-workers. This is a mission, y'all. I like wandering around my house in my jammies too much to want to have to put on the corporate uniform anymore.

After you're done spreading the word for me, go to the Etsy shop http://www.etsy.com/shop/SamandSady and buy some stuff. With a little bit of luck, I'll have some new product up there (I just got back from New Orleans with fresh photos, so more art is necessary. For my soul, that is).

Happy New Year!

If you're Mayan, you're probably counting down the minutes to doomsday. Of course, I have my thoughts about the end of the world -- mainly, that they have the date wrong (it's really hard to peg the right date when the type of calendar we use has changed so much in the last few hundred years). Being an avid student of history really kills the whole "the world is going to end" buzz for me. It's kind of a bummer, really.

Though... part of me wishes that the world -- at least the materialistic, consumeristic, Jersey Shore worshiping part of it -- would come to end. I would love nothing more than a return to simplicity. Less TV and more talking. Fewer hours in front of an X-box and more time in front of campfires. My wishes are grandiose in their simplicity.

So, it's the beginning of the year -- traditionally when people make a whole bunch of resolutions. I always say I'm not going to make any resolutions (because I'm horrible at follow through), but then I do anyway. Usually right at the top of the list is "actually follow through on my resolutions", which I never do. Have I mentioned that follow through is not my strong suit? So I decided to change it up. This year, I'm going to focus on a theme. Yeah, I'm totally having a theme party kind of year.

My theme: fearlessness.

In case it wasn't obvious, I'm actually kind of neurotic. Usually about stuff that centers around anything having to do with being embarrassed or making mistakes. I'd say I was borderline phobic about making mistakes (it's the oldest child syndrome I'm rocking. Damn birth orders). So this year, I'm going to take more chances. I'm going to be bold and say "yes" more. I'm going to wear neon pink tutus and horizontal stripes (suffice it to say, this rubenesque girl doesn't do horizontal stripes). I'm going to be silly and foolish and truly enjoy life.

That isn't to say that I don't truly enjoy my life -- because I do. Oh, lords above! How I love my life! I love my trolls and The Boyfriend™ and our family. I love the life we've created and are creating. I love that The Boyfriend™ can talk me into staying in bed all day -- and The Trolls are totally down with it. I love my new green kitchen and I love cooking for my boys in it. I mean, there is just so much I love -- and am immensely grateful for -- and I want to get down and dirty and revel in it!

And not care if I'm acting a fool. As inspiration (and gentle kick in the ass) I am going to read, every day, Neil Gaiman's New Year post:

"My New Year Wish"

..."I hope that in this year to come, you make mistakes.

Because if you are making mistakes, then you are making new things, trying new things, learning, living, pushing yourself, changing yourself, changing your world. You're doing things you've never done before, and more importantly, you're Doing Something.

So that's my wish for you, and all of us, and my wish for myself. Make New Mistakes. Make glorious, amazing mistakes. Make mistakes nobody's ever made before. Don't freeze, don't stop, don't worry that it isn't good enough, or it isn't perfect, whatever it is: art, or love, or work or family or live.

Whatever it is you're scared of doing. Do it.

Make your mistakes, next year and forever."

Hear! Hear! Neil.

"Some people never go mad. What truly horrible lives they must lead" - Charles Bukowski

So a couple of weeks ago, I left The Boyfriend™'s house and didn't have a whole lot to do. I was Troll-less for the weekend, I had made no other significant plans and was really just... well, bored. I decided to mosey on down to Books-A-Million (which is the only passable bookstore around these parts, that doesn't require an hour long drive), where they were having a dollar sale on a bunch of books.

I love dollar sales on books! Dollar sales on books (and bacon) is God's way of saying He loves you.

Because I had actual time to browse (try shopping with two spirited boys sometime. It's an exercise in guerrilla warfare, I tell you!), I scanned the carts and grabbed a couple of books that I thought looked interesting.

Side note: I often judge books by their covers. Or, rather, the texture of their covers. I've had remarkable luck with books of a certain texture.

One of those books I grabbed was The Virgin's Knot. The author had a way of depicting the beauty of Turkey in such a way that I have added Going to Turkey to my life list. The other book I grabbed is called A Short History of a Small Place by T.R. Pearson.

Jesus, Buddha and Santa Claus! Is this book GOOD! Seriously, I want to write like this guy. I want to be able to convey mental illness in such a candid and humorous way -- because I'm going to need to know how, down the road, if my neuroses get any worse.

An excerpt:

"Daddy said the nature of Uncle Warren's employment probably afforded him the great leisure insanity requires and he imagined Uncle Warren had spent the better part of his life losing his mind. He never went violently or dangerously crazy, Daddy said, just noticeably so, but according to Daddy there was no reason to suppose that Uncle Warren would have ever been committed if not for the combination of his particular brand of madness with Great-grandmomma Lanier's affliction. They simply did not mix."


After reading that, I have also added "Finding a job that affords me the leisure insanity requires" to my life list.

On Honoring... Authenticity

Another theme I'll be running through this blog is "honoring." "On Honoring..." will be a series of entries about accepting, allowing and honoring something about myself -- and, hopefully, by honoring that something in me, I can give someone else the foundation to honor it within themselves. Honoring is something I'm learning how to do, mostly because I've find myself rather defective in a lot of ways.

But you know what? Defective is OK. Actually, strike that -- defective is fucking fantastic!

When we say no, or when we follow our dreams or true callings -- people might be disappointed in our choices. Allowing people their disappointment sets us free." (Attributed to Christine Kane, from Boho Girl's blog)


Living authentically has always been difficult for me -- mostly due to my innate fear of disappointing anyone. I mean, it could be a distant cousin, the stranger in the passing car, or the telemarketer on the phone -- I don't want to disappoint any one of them. Most especially though, I don't want to let my family down.


I'm rather phobic about it, actually.

My disappointment phobia is a fairly large hindrance to living my most authentic life, because living the way I want to will inevitably disappoint someone -- most likely my parents. I will undoubtedly make a choice for my life that someone else would not have made for me.

Woah. Wait. Let's pause here and take a look at that last sentence. It encapsulates my thought process rather nicely:

I. Will. Undoubtedly. Make. A. Choice. For. My. Life. That. Someone. Else. Would. Not. Have. Made. For. Me.

Anyone else see something wrong with that? Yeah, me too.

That very disturbing sentence really does explain why I am constantly afraid of trying... of succeeding... of failing... of taking a stand... taking what's mine... of being brave... of saying, "This is YOUR prejudice. I will NOT let it inhibit my life anymore!"

I will honor my authenticity -- and all that fabulous defects that go along with it. I declare:

I will try...
I may stumble and fall, but...
I will get back up.
I will succeed!

And while I'm at it, I'm changing the definition of defective, too!

With or without anyone's approval, MY life begins now!

The blog where I proceed to publicly humiliate myself

Why is your blog called Fearlessly Phobic?

This is a question I’ve heard quite a bit since I’ve gone more-or-less public with my blog.

I don’t know if it’s obvious to anyone not intimately familiar with the inner workings of my neuroses, but I am plagued by chronic fear of… well… everything.

OK, not everything, but it feels like everything and that’s what counts. I think.

My neuroses get even more complicated when you factor in my very contradictory nature. It makes keeping track of my various phobias about as uncomplicated as mapping the human genome. For instance…

I am terrified of public speaking… to small groups. Put me in front of 500 people, with a spotlight squarely on me, and I’m good to go. Just please don’t ask me to speak to a group of 20 people – especially not with a microphone. I think my fear of microphones is what made me develop such a loud speaking voice.

I am also terrified of talking on the phone – and am beyond relived that text is an acceptable form of communication. Text gives me a chance to form what I want to say, to delete and refine my words, so I can appear much more eloquent than I actually am. My fear of talking on the phone also has a great deal to do with my over-reliance on using hand gestures to fill in the gaps in my speech patterns (lost for a word? A flap of the hands and the gap is magically filled!), and you can’t see hand gestures over the phone.

I’m also pretty socially awkward. I tend to speak before thinking a lot, and often end up committing huge gaffes in an attempt to be funny. Most of my social goofs are committed on the phone, too. This does not help matters and contributes a great deal to my mild agoraphobia that only rears its ugly head in small settings like parties or other social gatherings. You could set me down smack dab in the middle of New York City and I’d be like a fish in water, completely comfortable. But in those small social settings, where I’m expected to hold a conversation, I suddenly forget that I do, in fact, know how to speak.

…This, of course, makes me come across as bitchy, a fact that I am all too aware of. In this case, knowing that I’m coming across as a bitch only makes the whole situation worse.

A late appearing phobia to my ever-expanding repertoire is a fear of flying. Miguelito is a pilot and has attempt to waylay my fear of flying by telling me all about the science that makes airplanes stay in the sky, so I can use the knowledge to talk myself off the ledge. But all of the science in the world cannot convince me that I will not somehow make the plane fall from the sky if I shift in my seat. No, really. Every time I jitter my leg, “suddenly” the plane hits a patch of turbulence.

I still fly quite a bit – at least four times a year – but the only way I can is with a little help from a friend I like to call Xanax (The Boyfriend™, I hope, is a better flier than me, because he’s going to have to calm me the fuck down on our trip home from Massachusetts. This should be an interesting benchmark in our relationship… “Remember that time, Honey, when you had to talk the flight attendant out of calling the air marshal to arrest me? No. The first time you had to do that. Y’know, after you meet my nutty family? Wasn’t that hilarious?!”)

Speaking of making planes fall from the sky, I am also incredibly superstitious. Logically (HA!) I know that my lucky penny has no real effect on my life, but that doesn’t stop me from lifting my feet when I cross train tracks, scream at crows or hold my breath past graveyards. I swear I’ve tried to give them up, but my life has a strange way of reinforcing my superstitious nature.

Oh, but wait! There’s MORE. Any situation that involves preparedness or being accountable, like parent-teacher conferences, training sessions for the staff at work or paying my bills in person (or over the phone), strikes a chord of fear in me that makes me rock back-and-forth while trying to go to my “happy place” (which, BTW, is a land that doesn’t have such things as parent-teacher conferences or paying bills).

Being touched also makes the list of things I’m afraid of. Mostly this is because being touched automatically makes me hyper-aware of all of my flaws. It’s one thing for me to know that I had to use an elastic hair tie to keep my pants “buttoned,” but I like to pretend that you see me as a sylph-like vixen who wears a size four. Never mind that the only size four I’ve ever fit into was a pair of shoes. And I was 12.

Like the list of things I’m allergic to, the list of miscellaneous things that freak me out is pretty random, too: goats, bugs (all of them – including butterflies), clowns, midgets and identical twins.

I can cite specific reasons for the goats, bugs and clowns, but I’ll be damned if I know why midgets and identical twins have made the list. Maybe I just like things in fives.

Now that I’ve bared my myriad issues to explain the title of my blog, I’m going to crawl under my covers and die now.