Undomestic Diva

Op Eleanor - Year 4

So yes, #OpEleanor is still a thing.

We're almost a week in to year 4 of challenging ourselves to do one thing every day that scares you throughout the month of November. It's amazing and terrible and lovely and worth it.

When I started OpEleanor, I had no idea other people would want to do it too. I didn't intend for it to be a group effort. But that instant community of people who stepped up to say "I'm tired of being scared too" are who kept me going when things got hard. When I didn't want to do it. When I hesitated. You're why I still keep at it.

So thank you to everyone who tried it too, who commented, who have continued to face November with an unexpected bravery - year after year. Keep going.

 

Sorry I've been MIA for 4 years

Um... so... hey. 

Weird that I finally figured out how to resurrect this little blog four years - almost to the day - since I last posted. But that's me: weird and awkward and well, welcome back, Megan.

And now I'm talking to myself. It's like nothing changed at all.

Except it did. In the last four years:

- I went from divorcing to divorced to remarried to my ex-husband. 
(I'll give you a minute to do the math.)

- I had another baby. Another? A new? She's amazing. 

- I've probably moved 4 or 5 times and you're welcome for not having to sit through those "god I hate moving" blog posts.

- And I really missed you guys.

So, hi. Let's all just pretend it's the 2009 "blogosphere" and we're all just here to read blog posts and leave comments while taking in our first cup of coffee every morning. Because that sounds perfect.

 

 

 

 

 

Skeletons in the closet

I only deep-clean when I'm angry. And I was angry. Rather than be spending time cleaning out a closet and re-organizing purses, wallets, clothes, shoes and every accessory I own by color, style and length I would have preferred to be seeking revenge. That kind of angry.

It's a damn good thing I chose the closet.

Or so I thought.

Inside that closet I didn't just come face to face with bad fashion choices and ill-fated purchases; I ended up confronting my past. Notes from a marital counseling session found in an old purse. God. My wedding ring which no longer fits. Fitting. The Hawaiian carving from our Maui trip that was supposed to bring us good luck. Right. An entire box of momentos from that trip. We were already having trouble. 

I was only trying to clean out the closet.

See? THIS is why I don't clean.

Perched up on one of the shelves sat my old jewelry box which, in reality, became more of a keepsake box, having never been one to wear jewelry, even my wedding ring. I got it down, curious what memories might lie in it. Definitely handmade macaroni bracelets and necklaces from the boys, that much I could count on. 

I wasn't prepared for what I saw.

The bracelet my Dad gave me at my eighth grade graduation. The purple bow I wore at Maddie's service. The visitor badges I saved from Big T's plastic surgery. The cigar my Dad and I were supposed to smoke together on his 50th birthday and never got around to it.

And then that tongue depressor my sister made me that night in the ER. Dated and everything.

I started crying. Hard. There, on the floor in my closet I cried out loud, for no one to hear, mascara burning my eyes, letting go of I don't know what.

Everything.

Something.

Anything.

All of it.

So much has been welling up in me the last few weeks and I've complained and joked and rationalized and refused to stop and feel any of it. My past has been haunting me more than usual and in more ways than one and in my typical keep-my-head-up-high demeanor, I've carried on with a la-la-la-I-can't-hear-you-life! attitude.

It catches up with you.

It caught up with me.

People ask why I'm doing this 30 day challenge Operation Eleanor. Some have even suggested I seem so 'fearless' they are curious what my fears could possibly be. The truth is? I'm afraid of everything. Everything. And it's exhausting. It's exhausting to be constantly afraid and it's exhausting to not live the life you want to live because you're too afraid.

It's time for me to get rid of the skeletons in my closet. Or at least face them. And it's harder than I could have ever imagined.

Operation Eleanor: Here. We. Go.

Are you ready? It's time to start our little big challenge! Operation Eleanor starts today.

If you're joining me on this adventure, you can already account for one of your 30 things: This. Doing this. Check today off on the calendar.

Be sure to link up below if you're participating and add your twitter handle in the comments. Use and follow the #OpEleanor hashtag on Twitter and Instagram too. 

Wishing you a very memorable November.

-Megan

Operation Eleanor: 30 Day Challenge

Clearly I'm not one to be motivating anyone else to take this trek if I'm in need of taking it myself, but Mark Twain is. I think. I don't actually know if he's inspiring to you but this quote was like oh-so-fitting so let's just roll with it, ok? Ok! *brisk hand clap*

A lot of people had questions about how the "Do one thing every day that scares you for 30 days" challenge [which we will call Operation Eleanor and hashtag #OpEleanor] works so I thought I'd elaborate.

Here's the thing: there are no rules, no wrong or right ways of doing it so, basically, it's up to you to take the idea and run with it in your own big way.

The things that 'scare' you don't have to be huge things. They can be small moments like saying something to someone you when you would have normally held your tongue. It could be trying a new food you've always crinkled your nose at. It could be having a conversation or introducing yourself to that person you always see at Starbucks every morning. But you can conquer your bigger fears if you're so inclined. Flying? Skydiving? Snowboarding? Whatever.

These 30 things can be moments you consider very much random and blog-worthy or extremely personal and private. They can be serious, gut-wrenching moments or completely silly and irreverent or even better: a mix of the two. Most importantly, they don't need to be planned out. I have no idea what 30 things I will attempt to face in the month of November. Some will require some thought, yes. Others will find me by chance.

I know the mere idea of a whopping *30* things has got a few people shying away from the challenge. Here's the thing: this is YOUR thing. So, while 30 things is the challenge, even if you only overcome one fear, you've made progress. That's one thing you wouldn't have done before so you win.

Whether you decide to blog about it is completely up to you. Maybe it will be too personal, maybe you don't blog, maybe you will want every one of those 30 things accounted for on this here internet... Your call. You can blog as you go or when the month ends. If you do decide to tweet, Instagram, whatever, hashtag your accomplishments with #OpEleanor. Someone asked me about one of those linky-dinky-doo widgets on this blog so I can link everyone who is doing the challenge together. Yeah, let me figure that out. I'd love that.

I'm going to keep a composition notebook for daily notes and I hope to take photos whenever relevant and possible. I plan on coming back to you in the beginning of December and telling you as much I can -- what I learned, what I did, what the experience taught me, whether I fell short of my goal, etc. and I'd love to hear what you're willing to share too.

For the next 30 days, "...throw off the bowlines. Sail away from the safe harbor" as Twain said. Or if Twain isn't your style, this one may suite you better:

For me, this is so very true.

Let's take life by the balls, shall we? Look out, November.

Already and just now

Some anniversaries aren't meant to be celebrated yet you remember that day so vividly you see it returning in rapid speed and spend it in slow motion, unable to escape the emotion of it.

Veterans of broken marriages promised me it would be a year - a full year - until my life regained any semblance of normalcy again but I shook off the idea, pledging to myself that I wouldn't allow it to take another year from me. No, I would be the exception to this rule. I would find a new normal quicker than that.

Yet here I am. Already and just now. Exactly one year later from that fog of a day I remember so clearly. And there is nothing normal about my life. Everything is new with a touch of old, bittersweet and unexpected. The highs are euphoric and the lows are devastating. It's an uncomfortable mix of trying to learn from my past and give hope to my future and the whiplash from looking back and going forward is exhausting. It's unsettling mix of lonely and liberating, facing fears I always hid from and finding courage I didn't know I had.

I can't tell you how I got here; from that day to this one. I don't know how I survived a year of spinning circles without falling over. Because the truth is, I've fallen down a lot more than I've stood on my own two feet.

Thank god for good friends who continue to help me back on my feet.

There is no futuristic road map or emotional GPS for this sort of journey - that much I've learned. And for someone who always needs to know who, how, what and when, this has been quite a trip. Who knows where this road will take me. All I know is I just have to keep going.

Candy Ass, The Blogger

Candy Ass thinks he's better at EVERYTHING than I am. I'll attest to his mad skillz as a fly fisherman (don't we all wish we could be like him!) and his handiness around the house (he can fix and make anything - except kitchen cabinets apparently!) but when it comes to blogging... that's my territory, bitch.

Oh, but Candy Ass believes that if he had a blog, not only would it be better than mine, it would also be more successful and more popular than mine. 

"What would you write about?"

"Oh, you know, my day."

"Like?"

"Woke up, took a shower, went to work, did some shit, came home, went to bed. The end." 

"Fucking brilliant! Why haven't you started your blog already??"

--- Two days later ---

"I know what my blog would be about."

"Oh yeah? What?"

"It'd be 'The Untold Stories of the Undomestic Diva.' Like that time you punched a palm tree and ended up with stitches in your hand and --"

"Oh HA HA... HA. It'd be a blog that mocked my blog?"

"I guess."

"You might just be onto something there. I think you should do it." (Knowing Candy Ass will never do it.)

"Nah, I don't want to steal all your readers."

"Is that a challenge?"

"No, I'm just saying..."

"I know what you're saying. Start that blog motherfucker and let the best man win."

---

Candy Ass says he doesn't have time to start a blog. He's too busy. I think he knows he's going to get virtually bitch-slapped via posts if he dares to step into the octagon of blogging with me. Because if he's going to throw low blows and tell my "untold stories" well then, buddy, I can go there too.

I think he should man up and make good on his threats. What do you think?

A happy ending (drum roll please......)

And?

Are you just dying to know what happened to Queen of Spain and I after we found ourselves on the dark back roads of nowhere, the same way horror movies start??

We did what any two youngish girls in a topless Jeep Wrangler (fine, SUBURBAN!) would do: We listened to the GPS guide us and re-route us back to the main road, past the scene of the accident. DUH.

Although, I must say, I was leery. I just got the GPS system and I'm not sure I trust it yet. So as we drove those horrifyingly scary three minutes of a detour, QoS and I did have that entire conversation and were both certain THIS WAS IT.

Lucky for you bitches, it wasn't.

Lucky for TWO of you bitches, there's something else you should know about Queen of Spain and I. We're super decisive. Like, soooo decisive that when it came to choosing a winner for the Choose Your Own Blog Post Ending contest, we... couldn't and decided to give out TWO $25 Amazon.com gift cards to...

(drum roll please...)

David K - based on merit (that was an AWESOME and FREAKY ending)  

and

Muskrat - because he had us making out (do I need to explain that?)

BUT! EVERYONE who participated in the contest gets a #suckit sticker from Queen of Spain.

(I feel like Oprah, giving away cars to everyone only it's stickers to put on your cars and they're not even my stickers, they're Erin's. But whatever. I'm popular!)

This is how horror movies start (A choose your own ending blog post)

It was just like any other modern day girlfriend get-together. Two hot young(ish) girls with perky breasts (fine - post-partum breasts in miracle bras) stopping in a tattoo shop for a spontaneous evening of inking that had been planned for months. Giggling over boys (men) who drove them crazy in bed (fine, their husbands), confessing sins and gossiping with wide eager-to-share eyes, loudly, over the zap-zap-zapppp of the needles permanently branding their skin. Loud rock music was blaring, the kind that made you wish for legalization and healthcare reform all at once, stacks of colorful art books that inspired bravery via tattoos sat in every available space and a girl in the corner was leaning over a stool, getting her lower ass cheek tattoo'd while she sucked suggestively on a Tootsie Pop. 

Giddy from hours of the good kind of pain that left us (so much for two youngish girls, huh?) permanently tied and creatively marked, we hopped in our topless Jeep Wrangler (fine, a family Suburban) and hit the nighttime highway for a night of continued debauchery and sin (or sleep - god, it was exhausting all that tattooing), the windows rolled down and the air conditioning turned up, Kanye West asking 'how do you stay faithful in a room full of ho's?' (or was it Elton John referring to some Yellow Brick Road? I can't remember) as Summer roared past us on the windy mountain roads. 

Suddenly, brake lights.

Sirens.

Flashing lights of blue and red and yellow.

Stretchers.

Medics.

Carefully and calculatedly we manuevered our topless Jeep Wrangler (fine, family Suburban) in a decidedly dangerous three-point-turn manuever, just missing falling to our imminent deaths via the steep cliff off the moutainside (or we pulled into a driveway and turned around) to turn back around and find another route out of this one-way-out town. 

In the darkness, I could see her eyes and she could see mine. We knew we were fucked. I mean, THIS is how horror movies start. We both knew this. 

I blurted out, "I'm wearing a tanktop. Girls in horror movies ALWAYS wear tanktops. I'm fucked."

QoS, her eyes fixed on the dark windy road to nowhere ahead of us, replies back, "Yeah? Well I took that quiz on Facebook. The one that asks 'What order would you die in a horror movie?' and I WAS THE FIRST ONE! I'm fucked." 

"I don't have cell service up here. That's why I couldn't tweet more during our tattoos. Fucking T-Mobile!"

"My iPhone battery is dead BECAUSE I tweeted during our tattoos. Fuuccck."    

"All we need now on these back lane roads in the middle of buttfuck nowhere is a flat fucking tire and the next thing you know is we'll be wandering by foot into someone's creepy-ass dark ranch asking for help and..."

And? What happened next? 

Be creative, choose your own blog post ending and write it in the comments section. Winner will be chosen by Queen of Spain and I and receive a $25 Amazon.com gift card AND #suckit stickers from Erin. Enter as many times as you want - each comment = one entry. Contest runs through Tuesday, August 25, 2009 ending at 9:00 PM Pacific Time.