In between one of my many drives from our house to the camp site where Chris last saw Vinny, roughly a forty five minute drive with no service whatsoever past the thirty minute mark, Kacie, my sweet friend who graciously offered to put her phone number on the missing posters, called me to announce just as I was about to drive out of service area, “Tay! Someone found Vinny! They’ve got him in their car.”

“What? What?” I couldn’t turn around fast enough. Our call was cutting in and out but I was desperate to keep her on the line, "Kacie! Did you say someone has Vinny?”

“Yes! They just called. It’s a girl and her mom. They sound super sweet.”

I can still feel the relief I felt in that moment. The way my I scrunched my face together and nodded my head, holding one large optimistic breath high in my chest until I released it and filled my car with an energy that literally made my cheeks feel tingly. Someone found my boy. I knew it would happen.

“I’m pulling over, where are they? I’ll go to them right now.” Vinny, Vinny, I’m coming to you. I’m coming buddy, I was repeating it in my head. Tears already flowing. Fucking Vinny.

“They said they’re near the campground listed, hold on I wrote down the cross streets.”

As Kacie recited two streets I’d driven by repeatedly in the last twenty four hours I knew their exact location. “I know where that is, I can be there in five!”

“Okay, let me call them back and tell them you’re headed their way.”

The moment I hung up with Kacie I tried to call Chris. But his phone went straight to voicemail because he was in the no service area still walking trails looking for Vinny, but I couldn’t help myself from trying. God, he was going to be so happy. This was finally over.

As soon as I saw Kacie’s name light up on my phone, I whipped around in my car once more so I could head back toward the camp area.

“I told them you’re on your way, but Tay—”

I was barely listening now, driving much faster than I should have because I greedily wanted to be there for the reunion. I wanted to see the moment these strangers opened their car door and my sweet little wiggly boy jumped out- whether into my arms or Chris’s, I didn’t care. I just wanted to be there for it. I could see us nuzzling Vinny’s head and scratching his ears, jokingly getting upset with him for making us worry so much. It was so real I could feel it.

And then I heard Kacie say, “Tay, they asked for a small reward. Like $60.”

“$60? Sure! That’s not a big deal. But I’ll pay more, because I was about to post on Facebook I’d pay $500. Should I offer that much? Because I feel bad that I was going to offer that so it feels like the right thing to do.”

“They wondered if you could send it on paypal?” This is when Kacie started to cut out because I was driving out of service.

The moment I heard the word “paypal” all of the buzzy energy that I’d just been engulfed in, turned stagnant and heavy. I had to roll down my energy in fear it might swallow me if I didn’t let some fresh air in. And once again, just like when I could feel the rush recalling the initial thought that Vinny had been found, I can still feel the crash of knowing it was scam. As I type this now, I have the urge to crack my neck and roll my head because my entire body has tensed.

Is this a trigger or just a memory? Maybe both. But it feels similar to the moment I asked a friend to help me hang a birthday banner at Chris’s 40th birthday celebration two weeks ago when my head suddenly felt heavy and my stomach dropped. Why is this making me sick, I wondered. What is this painful deja-vu? And then it came to me. I saw myself with this same friend, months earlier, helping hang a birthday banner at her daughter’s cookie-decorating birthday party.

“I think you need a type A friend to help hang this,” I joked as I looked over my sloppy decorating work. About twenty minutes later I’d get a text from Chris that Vinny had gone missing.

I hadn’t thought of any of those little interactions from that day, but apparently my body hadn’t forgotten them.

Once again, I turned my car back around so I could get better service and tell Kacie it was a scam. I also called my friend Aly and told her not to post the reward for $500 like I had asked her to do, I could already see it wouldn’t lead to good things. Kacie would go on to receive several calls like the one mentioned, with varying degrees of lies offered and amounts of money requested. What a sad, crumbling state of being someone must be in to feel the need to do such a thing.

I wanted to dwell, because boy do I love dwelling, but I knew there simply wasn’t time. Instead, I put on Vinny’s favorite manifesting frequency on Spotify (yes this is a real thing, yes I’ll share on insta so you can hear it if you’re interested) and I started the drive back to our house. Chris and I needed dry socks because ours were soaking from walking in the river and warmer clothes would be required for the evening.

A pack of wild turkeys stood in the road near a small town, if one can even call Willard, Washington a town, and made me wait for them to cross. I took it as a sign. I also seriously considered finding some of their shit and covering some of Vinny’s favorite items in it… the boy had his kinks.

*sorry for any errors or typos!

In January, I bought two holiday dog collars that were on sale from Anthropologie. Anthro described them as “mosaic inspired,” (whatever the hell that means?) I’d describe them as a joyful mix of red, green, and white, intertwined in a festive pattern. In short, they were ridiculous and beautiful and I just knew Gunny and Vinny were going to look quite dapper in them next December. But before I clicked purchase, I hesitated. The thought crept its way in, what if Gunny wasn’t around next Christmas? It was a thought that had been making itself more familiar over the winter, as Gunny’s cough and mobility seemed to worsen.

I imagined myself getting the collars out in the fall, only to sigh heavily with a knowing sadness because in this morbid daydream that I had voluntarily walked into, Gunny was no longer with us. Luckily, this was the moment I heard Brene Brown somewhere deep in my mind shout, stop dress rehearsing grief, Taylor! And I quickly snapped myself out of it, shaking my hands as if I were drying them and cracking my neck because that’s always been a comforting (and probably bad) tick that I love. Thank you, Brene, thank you.

I clicked purchase on the two boujie dog collars, my message to the Universe that Gunny would be around. There was never a moment when I worried that Vinny might not be.

Today, before our house cleaners arrive for their monthly cleaning visit, I am chaotically cleaning (hiding) things around our house like a maniac. There are so many random objects out that my girls have found in God only knows what places and now I must (quickly) find a new God-only-knows-what-place to hide them once again. I open the cabinet above the fridge downstairs to shove a book and notepad inside, only to have a small plastic shipping bag fall to the floor. I pick it up and don’t recognize what’s inside so I flippantly tear it open, as one does when they have no idea the emotional bomb they’re about to set off. Why would they? It’s just a bag of dog collars, two mosaic-inspired holiday dog collars, to be specific.

I hold them in my hands and take a deep breath, preparing myself for the time travel wave that grief is about to take me on. I know that I’m about to be stuck, unable to move or think about anything else, for at least a few minutes. Will it be ten minutes this time? Or twenty? Or longer? How long it will take today? I’m not sure, because just when I think I’ve got grief figured out, it changes on me. I know that I will see the January -version of myself, I’ll think about her as she bought these collars, about how she (I) worried about Gunny, but not about Vinny. And then I’ll have to remind myself, for the millionth time, that Vinny is dead. That he is not here, but he was in January, but not anymore. Just like that, he is gone. And here comes the loop. The loop where I’m caught between acceptance, sadness and disbelief. I know he is dead, but when I get stuck in these moments that have nothing to do with the thing that put me in a trance (like the collars) I have to walk myself through it, hold my hand even, like I am small child not sure which way to go. Often, I’ll just sit down wherever I am, and stare at nothing at all until is passes. Until I let it pass.

As a visual thinker, this is when I see myself stuck on a trail I used to know well, but now it’s become overgrown and impossible to get through and I don’t like this or understand it, so I keep trying anyway. I will claw through the bushes and thorns even though it will get me nowhere, because it’s the trail I know and I don’t want to form a new one. It’s too hard and I am too tired. But eventually, I snap out of it and know I have to turn around. I have to get up and go the other way, because it’s the only way.

I don’t know if this is a correct way to describe neuroplasticity, but it’s how I envision it. During the brutal first days after we lost Vinny I told my therapist the grief I was experiencing physically hurt, it agitated me in a way that woke me up in the night and made me want to crawl out of my skin suit. I’d experienced this when we lost Harlow too and the feeling was unbearable. She explained that this was common and not unexpected because the brain processes emotional loss using the same neural pathways as physical pain. Now my brain had to completely rewire itself to find new pathways, because all of the old ones— all of the trails that were so familiar and safe feeling, involved Vinny. And now that he was no longer here, new paths had to be formed, which was (is) quite literally painful for me.

I am not a therapist or neuro… expert?! I’m just a person who really loves my dogs. I don’t know if what I explained above makes sense, or if it is factually correct, but it’s how I’ve made sense of things lately. This is the first time I’ve written about Vinny and I plan to write a lot more about him and dig a little (ok a lot deeper) into this grief because writing is how I process and heal. And selfishly, I miss talking about that naughty little fucker. I miss him so much.

I miss seeing his full body wiggle at the door, I miss saying “oh hello my sweet little angel baby,” or “Vincent Carlito!” when he rolled in turkey poop (again.) I miss all of it. I look at the spots he chewed on our chairs and our bed and I can only hear my screeching and see his ears folded downward and it pains me how angry I was at him for such trivial things. I was so angry about so much dumb shit for a long time because I thought I’d have at least a decade to make it up to him. I just assumed he’d always be the one who got to wear the Christmas collar until it became ratty and old.

I may spend the next few posts writing about Vinny and what happened. It feels like a way to honor him, or maybe it’s just a way to help me grieve, I’m not sure. I just know I’m craving to write about him because it makes me feel a little closer to him, a little closer to forming the new paths I know I have to form. So let this be your heads up that the next few posts on here may be all about the little red dog I am missing so much.

1. I spent a lot of my teenage years with a shitty ass teenage attitude thinking, “if I expect the worst then I won’t be disappointed when it happens.” Mind you, “the worst” was probably all related to sports and school dances (like me never getting a date) because I had a very nice and privileged upbringing, yet still found a way to feel VERY bad for myself about everything.

   Let’s just say I wrote a lot of dark poetry and loved nothing more than to burn the edges of said poetry with a lighter to give it that dark and moody / Wanted in the Wild Wild West kinda vibe. Because I was a tortured teenage artist, OK? Ugh.

2. When I came across a copy of The Secret at age twenty, it blew my mind. That is so cliche and corny to admit. (Again, insert laughy emoji face) but it was the first time it registered with me that constantly thinking about what I didn’t want, or what others had that I did not (like boyfriends!) might not actually be putting out a good vibe for me…

3. I’ve read a lot of self help and power of positive thinking books (like a lot.) And I’ll be there first to tell you, there is nothing magic about those books. They don’t contain spells, or chants (ok, a lot actually do have chants but they call them “mantras”) or one simple thing you can do to change your life instantly. Bummer, I know. I read so many looking for that one quick fix. That said, I love the shit out of those books and will keep reading them, even knowing it’s a lot of the same info just presented differently, because it works for me. :)

The real “magic” for me is in the energy. As in the energy shift those books help provide for me, or help guide me to achieve. Does that make sense? Am I crazy? Are we all crazy? Does it matter??! Not really.

So let’s time travel back to my early Chicago days and part two of this post and maybe I’ll clear it up for you.

****

For the next part of our Lululemon training, we could choose any drink we wanted from the fancy Starbucks across the street (it was two stories!) and then we were going to be led through a visualization writing exercise. A FREE latte and writing time? This was the best first day of work ever! And I had survived through several first days in the past few years.

We all found seats in the upstairs Starbucks balcony ( balconies are always extra dreamy to me even when at a coffee chain and I’m not sure why) and were told to write out our “ideal day.”

“But this is a visualization practice, remember?” Lululemon Lady instructed us, “So I want you to get extremely detailed with this. Don’t just tell me what you do in your day, I want to know what you feel and smell before you even open your eyes. What does your bedding feel like against your skin? What does your home smell like? What does the floor feel like under your feet? And remember, this should be fun! So have at it.”

As someone who was just starting to dabble in the self help/Law of Attraction stuff, I understood where she was going with all this. I often wrote down my goals and dreams, but never in such a detailed way. But as someone who could easily get lost in the joy of make believe and fantasy, this assignment was right up my alley.

I saw myself waking up in… “fancy white sheets.” Not the weird fuzzy dark brown ones we had at the moment because they were the cheapest I could find at Tj Maxx and I thought the color wouldn’t show dog hair… And I woke up in a “ nice big bed.” A bed with two nightstands, one on each side! And I can casually get into my side without jumping from the end of the bed like I do now because our bed is so tightly squished into the corner of our tiny apartment. And the floor is beautiful wood. Not gross old stained carpet like we have now. Shit, don’t think about what I don’t want. Focus on the ideal day. Ok yes, we have a big mid century style wood bed from… Crate and Barrel! And we have Crate and Barrel furniture in our room! It’s beautiful and it matches and I have space to put my folded my t-shirts, and my underwear even has its own drawer.

I was really fired up now. My pen could barely keep up with my dreams as they poured out of me. At this time for Chris and I, most of our furniture was hand-me-downs from our parents that we also had in our college homes, cheap stuff from Tj Maxx, or Chicago dumpster alley finds. But every day on our walks, Harlow and I passed what I thought was the fanciest, most luxurious furniture store in all the land; Crate & Barrel! It took up an entire corner block at North and Clybourn, with expansive floor to ceiling windows, allowing peasants like Harlow and I to peer inside and dream what it must be like to live in a home that was decorated like their show windows. Owning (brand new) items from such an elite place surely meant that one had made it.

After I finished describing my dream bedroom and I how I felt in it, I floated out to our … “big open kitchen and living room.” I knew the kitchen had “good views and a fancy coffee maker,” but most importantly, I knew that in this ideal day I got to enjoy “slow mornings.” This is was what I truly cared about.

The rushed mornings I’d been experiencing at this point in my life— the running out the door to get Har to the park before I had to leave for work, hustling to the Fullerton Train stop to get to the West Loop by 7:45 a.m., then sprinting to a cubicle inside a depressing building, all of this sent my nervous system into a chaotic tailspin before 8:00 a.m. I knew a lot of people lived this way, but I also know that didn’t mean that I had to. Every single alarm bell inside of me was shouting ‘life is too short to be this miserable!’ It wasn’t as if I was dreaming of some crazy grandiose morning, just a calm, slow one.

From there I saw myself “working from home,” but wasn’t entirely sure what this meant in 2013 ish. I knew that I loved to write, create, do comedy, be with my dog all day… but how would this pay the bills? I wasn’t sure, so instead I focused on the feeling of doing all the things I loved. I felt energized, fulfilled, excited, optimistic. Certainly there was a way I could figure it out. So many other people had, why not me?

I was already starting to jot down a separate list, aside from my ideal day writing assignment, of possible ways to make money on my own terms, using the skills and passions that were more aligned with what I knew I should be doing with my time— with my life. My one precious and wild life!! Shit, I had to get going. Time was wasting!

Lululemon Lady announced that we should wrap up our writing exercise, so I promptly stood up and handed the pen back that she had borrowed me. I gushed to her that I loved the visualization exercise she taught us and that she did a wonderful job explaining it.

“That seriously just got me so excited and motivated!” My ADHD was in the driver seat now and there was nothing I could do about it. I had shifted into hyperfocus mode and there was no going back. “But I think I’m going to take off now.”

There was at least four more hours left in my first Lululemon shift, but I had just felt a glimpse of my ideal day, and selling athleisure wear wasn’t a part of it. Like not even a tiny part, so I had to leave, otherwise what was the point of that exercise!?

I don’t leave jobs at lunch anymore, but only because I stopped applying/taking jobs I knew from the start were not meant for me. From this day forward, I started writing down, “I am my own boss and always will be.” I wrote this five times a day, sometimes ten times, on bad days I filled pages with it just over and over, like a complete psycho. I wrote it until I believed it and until it actually came true. Then I started to dream a little bigger.

I have a literary agent! I chuckled the first time I wrote this, having no idea what a literary agent really did, or why I needed one. I just knew I wanted one. It took five years of writing in present tense that I had a literary agent (and a lot of rejection emails) until in 2021 I signed with one. She was the very first agent I reached out to several years previous, I even got a polite “not interested” email response from her. But in 2021, she reached out to me.

A few years after the “Lululemon ideal day,” I got an email from a “freelance photographer and producer,” we’ll call him Jack. I almost didn’t open the email because it seemed kind of fishy. Jack explained that his client was looking to “completely remodel and furnish” any room in a local Chicago resident’s home. He knew I had a blog and had just moved into a new condo with my husband and would I be interested in this project? And did he mention the client was Crate & Barrel?

Why yes, Jack, I was very interested. Could we even get two nightstands?!

I’m going to end it here because my girls will be home any second. The material items come and go, (except for the blue velvet C&B arm chairs, one will have to pry those beauties from my cold dead hands.) But what really sticks with me about the vision board stuff and thinking positive, are the big energy shifts. Like the slow mornings I get to have now. (Slow ish, because kids.) But you know what I mean.

I cherish and I mean CHERISH the fact that I get to have the relaxing slow mornings I used to dream about. I get to drink my coffee in my favorite spot on the couch, cuddle with my girls and our animals, hell I can ever just stare at a wall for twenty minutes if I want to. The point is, I get to really live in this part of the day I love so much rather than rushing through it in a crazed hurry to get to somewhere I never wanted to be in the first place. I don’t take it for granted how lucky I am and never plan to. Which brings me to my next post… want to read about the weird gratitude stuff I do? :)

As I’ve already said (and will continue to say) there’s no magic in the self help books I love to read. From what I understand, it has everything to do with an energy shift and the way we feel about ourselves and talk to ourselves. I still run very anxious WHY WHAT HAVE YOU HEARD?! So yes, I have to continue to do all these weird little exercises and rituals on nearly a daily basis, but I don’t mind, because I love the mood they put me in. And sometimes I write down some very specific shit in my dream journals just to see if the Universe is listening… oddly enough, most of the time it is.

*sorry for any typos, I’m trying harder to slow down and correct myself! But I still mess up.

sorry this is blurry, it’s from June 5, 2011!

Once upon a time, I was living in Chicago with Chris and our best friend, Harlow. Harlow was our young Vizsla pup and he simply did not approve of me crating him (or cubicling myself) for ten hours a day while I worked a boring ass corporate job we both knew I hated. Thus, he insisted I find a different way to make ends meet. It was the least I could do for him (us.)

When I saw that Lululemon was hiring, mind you this was 2012 ish, (peak Lulu era) I submitted an application immediately. It was rumored Lululemon helped employees pay for workout classes— dreamy classes like SoulCycle and pilates! Can you imagine?! I had never cycled and would soon find out I loathed cycling as it was not actually in my soul as promised, but for a brief moment, I was sure I’d enjoy bouncing up and down on a stationary bike in a dark room with loud music pulsing throughout. All the cool Chicago women did it.

And did I mention the employee discount? I owned one pair of charcoal grey capri pants from Lulu and one striped halter top, both gifts from my mom, both out of season and slightly odd fitting as they came from the sale rack but that did not matter. I had a few Lulu pieces and I wanted more! This was my way, I was sure of it.

Much to my surprise, I got an interview. In 2012, I was not getting a lot of call backs if you catch my drift. The only people consistently asking me to work for them was GreenPeace and I wasn’t quite ready to stop people on Michigan Avenue and ask for donations (but that would come, although for something different.)

For my Chicago girlies, the store I was interviewing for was the Gold Coast location, for my non-Chicago girlies, this translates to FANCY AS SHIT. The Gold Coast was not something I frequented at this time, (except to work one day at Tory Burch, but again, more on this one later) however I dreamed of shopping in such an area. It was where the rich celebs of Chicago hung out, or that’s what I heard. The closest I got was Nordstrom Rack a few blocks away.

For my interview, I was told to dress in leisure wear. Naturally, I wore my one Lululemon outfit I owned. If I got to a second interview, I’d have to get creative. I don’t remember much of the interview except that it was pretty boring and chilly inside the back room at the store, but I was sure I’d nailed it. (I can be very good at interviews. As long as the questions aren’t hard like the one interview I had with Zocdoc that still haunts me.) How was I supposed to know what ROI meant at age twenty four?! I was an English major!!

A few days later, I was told I got the job at Lululemon. (I always loved the thrill of a new job. Until I had to go to said job, then I was usually pretty bummed.) But this felt different. This felt like a chance to make friends! Granted one of the employees at the store named Hannah told me, “I like to drink a lot of water because I always think about what water does for plants. Does that make sense?” I’ve never forgotten this and the way I had zero fucking clue in that moment, and still today, how a normal person might respond to a question like that. So I just nodded and said, “I like your hoody.”

Before my first official day of work, I already began signing up for workout classes using the Lulu discount. Workout classes had never been in my budget before, but ever since Miley Cyrus talked about pilates, I had been dying to try it. I signed up for a drop-in class at a studio that was a few blocks from our apartment and rode my happy ass there the following morning on my Schwinn bike. The studio was small and beautiful, smelling of lavender and newly divorced wealthy women. I never really enjoyed group classes, but this was different. I got to lay on my little reformer board and talk to no one and keep totally to myself in my own space, and I loved every second of it. The class was challenging, but it didn’t require jumping, sweating, or shouting woo— three things I didn’t enjoy doing in public without first having a few drinks.

As soon as I got my first Lululemon paycheck, I was going to buy a class package. I was sure of it!

My first day of work was a group onboarding of sorts. I wore my same interview outfit, but planned to buy more options with my new discount, baby. The other hirees looked a lot like me— early to mid twenties, slightly confused, all foaming at the mouth for a Lululemon discount. We started by learning about the brand’s Goddess or something, they called her “Ocean.”

“We call all our female mannequins, Ocean. She embodies the brand, isn’t she beautiful?” Employee Hannah, or someone who looked nearly identical to Employee Hannah said to the group.

“I think she’s thirsty, maybe water helps her too,” I muttered to myself but I felt like Hannah could still hear me because I swear I sensed a glare.

“She represents a 32 year old professional working woman who prioritizes travel and a hour and half daily workout.”

Jesus and an hour and a half? Every day? What if Ocean is hungover? Or traveling? Or has to work at Lululemon? My normal “I’m not sure if I’m meant to be here” unease began to creep up. Focus on the cute pullovers, Taylor. Do you want a Lululemon pullover or not? I did, I so did. And I knew this was the best chance I had at getting one so I pushed my unease down for the time being.

Luckily for me, this was also the time we were told we got to walk across the street to Starbucks for “a fun visualization activity.” When I say was fucking stoked for this part, I mean I was FUCKING STOKED. Going to Starbucks in my twenties during my little breaks from my other shitty jobs was the only way I could keep my head above water. I’d scurry out the very second I was freed from my crate, hustle to the closet coffee shop I could find, and just start writing my little heart away until I was beckoned back by the man. These little reprieves were the only way I could get through my otherwise monotonous soul sucking corporate days. And now I got to do it on my first day of “training” at Lulu? Oh hells yes. Little did I know, the next thirty minutes would change the course of … everything? (Thanks again for the visualization activity, Lululemon, it clearly made an impact of me.)

And now I worry I’ve done it again— carried on and on because it has felt so good to just write for the fun and joy again without placing so much unnecessary pressure on myself. (Are there emojis on substack? Because I need the happy tears streaming emoji here.)

If you want to read part two, please come back. This is not click bait, or come-back-bait, it’s me losing track of time and now I have to go pick up my girls. (I’m losing track of time when I write again!!! Ahh, the joy is back! It’s back!)

Subscribe, share, like me, whatever. Until next time, we’re all gonna make it.

Tay

*again, sorry for any grammatical errors you see that I missed. I’m just letting the words flow for a bit because I’m indulging. :)

For legal reasons, I can’t say which production company it was that I was shooting a podcast pilot with, tentatively called We’re All Gonna Make It. But I can tell you that it was (is) a really really cool female driven company and any time I got the chance to talk to the people that had been appointed to work with me, or record some trial stuff, I loved every second of it. It reminded me of brainstorming sketch ideas with my Second City friends back in my Chicago days— a feeling I didn’t know I missed until I got a little taste of it again.

A Zoom invite was sent and for once in my life, I checked out the details of the call a day or two before it actually began and I noticed only one person was scheduled to be on with me, rather than a handful of people like every other time before. Naturally, my anxiety knew this couldn’t be good. But, there was nothing I could do about it but wait for the call. Ha ha jk. Like the crazy strung out asshole I am, I immediately texted my podcast contact, we’ll call her Anna, “Am I being fired? Or not hired? Bc I am super anxious right now with everything going on and I’m just not sure I can handle waiting two more days to know why it’s only you and I scheduled for the call.”

(I basically said something along those needy lines, more or less.)

Luckily, Anna texted back right away, God bless her, and asked if I wanted to speak sooner.

“Yes.” I responded the moment her words hit my screen. “Yes, I do.”

Long story short, my anxiety was right. AREN’T I ALWAYS, it growled, in a low, all knowing growl (the worst kind of growl, in my opinion.) See, this is why you must always listen to me and we must never leave the house, my precious girl, it whispered as it stroked my hair methodically, comforting me of course. (Yes, I’m still talking about my anxiety.)

So anyway, I wasn’t actually being fired (because I was only contracted to shoot a pilot) but I wasn’t being hired, either. What I had shot for/with them, simply didn’t hit.

“It just didn’t work, huh?” I said, very much agreeing with Anna. “I felt this way too, but I’m just not sure why.”

Truth be told, (the only way I always be telling it) since I’d watched the pilot of my proposed-podcast, I’d felt very unsettled about it, as well. Something was off about it. I’d had great co-hosts, fun prompts and topics, but something was missing and I could feel it. I just wasn’t sure what that was exactly. However as a listener, I was pretty sure there was nothing about it that would entice me to come back and listen again. Anxiety and dread were already setting in when I thought about filming more episodes. Little “setbacks” that I could normally hurdle over for projects I was truly excited about, nearly buried me in worry. Would I film episodes whilst on my book tour? (Simple answer: yes, people did it all the time.) But the questions in my head shouted back: HOW? WHERE? WHEN? HOW? IMPOSSIBLE! NO WAY! TOO MUCH.

In short, I was like totally happy the super cool podcast production company didn’t want me because I didn’t want them. OK? (I’m kidding, I was bummed. So bummed.) I knew my episodes weren’t great, but I also knew that was because of me, not them.

“That’s showbiz, baby,” I said to Anna, as we were about to hang up, “I knew the terms of all this and I didn’t make the cut. My number wasn’t called.”

I continued to make cliched Hollywood jokes, or what I assumed were cliched Hollywood jokes as someone who has never lived in or near Hollywood, before I offered her one more podcast idea… “what if …. what if it’s like a podcast where we talk to pet mediums? Because I’m about to call one to see if I can reach my dead dogs and maybe that could be fun? What do you think?”

I don’t remember what Anna responded exactly, but I know it was nice and probably included a sympathetic giggle, maybe even a head toss along with it. She’d “keep the line open”, or it least this is what I’ve always imagined she said. I liked Anna. I liked everyone I met from that company.

Shortly after I hung up and dramatically tossed all of my podcast notes in the trash, I took a call from a pet medium where I sobbed and hiccuped as a stranger on the other end told me stories about my dead dog and the final messages he had for me.

“He’d fulfilled his purpose,” the pet medium promised me, “it’s what dogs are sent to do and they all know this.”

She made it sound so simple, so matter of fact. God, it pissed me off. Even from death that little fucker was still pissing me off. Oh, Vincent Carlito. How I miss that naughty fucker. I miss him so much.

And now this has gotten windy, I’m sorry. It’s been a while since I’ve just written for the sake of writing and not for some deadline I was already late on and belittling myself about. If that last line isn’t me shouting, LOOK AT ME, I’M A REAL WRITER!, I’m not sure what is. *But not a real editor, apologies for any grammatical errors. I’ll get better about slowing down. Maybe!

So my almost-podcast, We’re All Gonna Make It, is not in fact, making it. But we are, my friends. We are still making it. Hells yes we are.

If you choose to come back (or open up my emails again) I hope to write more about making it… ie manifesting, baby! I have so many creepy manifesting journals (and a lot has come true! a lot has not…) But I get so into that shit, believe it or not. I don’t know how one could survive in this day and age without some woo woo and whimsy. I also want to chat about parenting, comedy, grief, writing, social media, the hellscape of politics, or perhaps just weird fiction, Idk. I’m a mixed bag. I plan nothing and share everything. :P

I’m going to leave you with a super basic parenting tip I recently heard (you probably already know it) but holy shit it’s so simple yet so perfect and I say it to Chris or think it to myself several times a day now. Ready for this mind blowing piece of advice? “Don’t make a happy baby happier.”

My girls are no longer babies, but it still applies. I can’t tell you how many times I have messed up a perfectly nice play session by trying to “enhance it” or “make it better,” when all I had to do was stay the hell out of it and let them be.

That’s it. Thanks for being here.

We’re all gonna make it,

Tay

(Is that closing line lame? or fun? never mind don’t answer that yet.)

As weird as this sounds, tax season is always the month I remember the twentyish year old version of me who found herself paying what minimal amount she (I) owed to the government on my already maxed credit card because I was unemployed and completely broke. I was so embarrassed of my situation, I recall sobbing as I clicked submit on my return. I think I was 25 or 26 and I vowed to never be in such a situation again. Whatever it took, I was going to find a way to make money on my own terms and be my own boss.

So as I was saying, I feel lucky I get to do it all (for the most part.) But I also don’t want to miss anything with my girls. I want to work a lot, but not work a lot, mom a lot, but not mom a lot. This makes sense, right?

Birdie goes to daycare, but Goldie is still home with me and I want to be with her. I feel terrible when I’m not with her. (More on this because yes I’m annoyed with this guilt, I loathe this guilt.) And yet, I also don’t want to be on my phone the entire time I’m with Goldie.

SO WHAT DOES ONE DO?

Well, we just hired a nanny who is incredible. PROBLEM SOLVED, right? Sure. Except as I sit here typing this and I hear Goldie in the kitchen, the pesky voice in my head who likes to drive me literally insane whispers, you should be with her… why aren’t you again? Time is so so limited when they’re little! Are you sure about this?

If I had a mom-friend tell me she feels guilty for time away from her kids I’d shake her say that’s crazy! You deserve and need time away, whatever it’s for— work, leisure, nails, naps, idk! Doesn’t matter. We all need time away. But often times I can’t even shake myself.

I hesitate to share on this specific topic because I think childcare is such a sensitive thing. I know how privileged I am that we have the choices we do. Childcare is expensive, some people desperately want it and can’t have it, some don’t want it but don’t have a choice because they require it. It seems to be a struggle every which way you look at it. And a struggle we’re often so judged for… and by “we’re” I mean moms.

Share

Before I over think this and don’t publish it (I’ve got about 5 other drafts that look exactly like this sitting in my little stack) I’m going to publish. Even just typing it out seems to ease some of the anxiety that settles into my stomach when I lock myself away in my office rather than hovering over Goldie…

Leaving you with no solution today, perhaps just solidarity if you also feel this way. I don’t mean to generalize (but I’m about to) but it drives me fucking insane that women seem to feel this guilt 100000 x more than men (if they do it all.) Like come on, isn’t this one place our hormones or feelings or whatever the hell is going on here could have taken it easy on us? THE ONE PLACE.

I digress.

I’m reading Hunt, Gather, Parent at the moment and the biggest thing I’ve taken away (and try to remind myself of when I’m having an annoying mom meltdown over NOTHING) is that we are such a small blip in time that have parented our children as only nuclear families. For hundreds of years before us, children were raised by entire villages. We all know the saying “it takes a village…” so I remind myself that when Goldie is with her nanny, or when Birdie is at daycare, the more people they are surrounded by and comfortable with the better.

Right? I hope so.

Subscribe now

Alas, I did not get up at when my alarm went off this morning. So here I am at 1:18 p.m. trying to write while I stare at Goldie’s monitor, hoping she naps for an hour longer.

I’ve tried to rename this substack (newsletter, post, email? tbh I don’t know what this is) doesn’t matter, I suppose. Whatever this is, I’ve tried to name it Come On, Kid. As in, Come On Kid, This Is Your Dream. Because on the mornings when I actually do get up at the magical hour to write, it’s usually because I hear the muses I’ve begged to come back whisper in my head, Come On Kid, This Is Your Dream. And I get up. However, sometimes if I’m extra sleepy and refuse to move and the muses are feeling sassy and like they really want to get something out they’ll follow it up with a more stern -seriously get your ass up, stop acting like this is physical labor we’re literally just telling you to get up so you can go play in your head and write little words on your computer like you *sometimes* love to do. Stop making such a fucking big deal out of everything. But I appreciate their kind words first.

I sometimes worry I’ve forgotten how to write because I took such a long break after publishing Birdie & Harlow. I also worry I’m just a little more cynical now because there was a time when I hoped Birdie & Harlow would be my way out of grinding on social media only to find out publishing a book is a deeper way in… Such is the case when you get a book deal in a social media world.

Speaking of, I want to use this space to ramble (clearly!) but also to be helpful if I can. Helpful in a way beyond LOOK AT HOW I CURL MY HAIR *there is nothing wrong with wanting to curl one’s hair* but for the sake of what I’m saying here I mean I’d like to help those stuck in a rut for writing, or those who want to know more about publishing, etc. (I don’t know what etc means here, I just added it so I had more than two things.)

I have to go now, but I’ll leave you with the plan I’ve written down for today about how to get words on the paper.

Just write something shitty.

Then correct it later and make it less shitty.

Finally, make it not at all shitty and very much enjoyable.

Subscribe now

I’m trying not to overthink this.

In honor of Mercury being in retrograde once again, I figured now would be a wonderful time to start something new.

1. Why am I sharing this?

Why do I (or we) share anything, really? Community? Support? Validation? I don’t know. All of the above, I suppose. The reason I’m doing this at this very second is because I want to start, correction I NEED to start writing again. Like total and complete free flow writing not “oh shit I have five chapters I need to turn into my editor in a month” writing. Thus, we are here. I’m hoping this will keep me on task somehow. Which, I guess is exactly why I started my blog (The Daily Tay) over a hundred years ago on blogspot.com. My favorite professor said writing every single day and as a wee little twenty-two year old I thought a blog would help keep me task… It’s almost like we’ve come full circe in a way.

2. What to expect.

A lot of grammatical errors. Well, not a lot. (Ok maybe a lot.) But I’m really using this to get my creative juices flowing (that phrase has always made me wince but I used it anyway) and so I don’t intend to edit much. If this bothers you, I completely understand but just know this substack might not be for you.

3. Be more specific, sell me on this!!

I’m also going to share the hippy dippy shit I buy into when I’m in the writing mode. Quotes I repeat on a daily basis, mantra stuff I write down in my dream journal. And more of business / publishing side of writing in case anyone is interesting in publishing.

4. This is already making me breathe easier, thank you.

I have been in a writing hole for roughly six weeks now and I finally took a breath that didn’t hurt. THANK YOU! Thank you to me and substack and anyone who clicked subscribe today.

I didn’t add this pic above and I also didn’t delete it. I’m too busy writing and breathing to care. I hope you don’t mind.

5. The end.

I’m going to try and send out a few of these a week because like I said, this is how I plan to keep myself on task. Again, if this bothers you jump ship now.

The quote I will leave you with is this, “the only way out is through.”

When I think of that quote I think of taking improv classes in Chicago at Second City in my twenties. I knew I wasn’t great at improv, but I had fun doing it and met some amazing people. Sign up for the class, start the substack, take the chance. It might pan out! It might not. Guess we’re all here to find out.

Subscribe now