My Mother told me to go ‘Decompose Myself’

I’m not lying, she actually told me that, and that wasn’t even the worst part of my day!

I came into work to find the Extended Day space flooded with children, apparently the space was being used for some science assembly. My headache kicked in during the chaotic hum as I sat and waited for my coworker, who showed up and appeared equally as enthused as I was (not even a little bit). By the time they place was cleared out and cleaned up, we only had 5 minutes to set up the tables and get snack ready before the kiddos show up.

Not 2 minutes after the bell rings and kids start showing up, a group of teachers come and begin setting up for Graduation on Monday (because graduating elementary school is oh so important….). They scootched us over in the space, taking away one of our tables in order to set up more chairs. My coworker was furious, stepping out to talk to our supervisor while I watched the kids *headdache intensifies* .

After a long struggle of trying not to flip off the condescending teachers who kept apologizing to us in a condescending “You’re beneath us, we do what we want” way, we moved the class to the library, whereupon we were instructed by an angry librarian that under no circumstances were we to touch the books as they were being inventoried (my god this is a long sentence….. Be prepared because this happens when I ramble a lot).

My coworker stepped out to deal with moving our stuff to the library while I dealt with angry whiney children who were bored. Once I fed the turkeys, I got a head count and settled down in a chair and held my head for dear life (headaches are really fun you guys…..).

My coworker had insisted that on Fridays they normally got out at 5:15, I had nodded with a stiff grin as I realized we were probably jinxed. We were, we left at 6:30.

After several minutes of screeching and hitting the steering wheel of my car (a surefire way to deal with frustrations of the workday), my headdache was gone and the worst of the day was over, I drove off into the sunset while thinking “HERE COMES THE WEEKEND!”

Oh yeah, you’re probably wondering about my mum telling me to go decompose. She called me on my way home from work and let me vent a bit about my long awful afternoon at work. She told me she loved me and to get home safe, “Enjoy your afternoon decomposing yourself!”

“… I’m sorry, did you just tell me to decompose myself?”

My mother was giggling on the other end, swearing she meant ‘decompressing’. I ‘suppose’ that could be what she meant, but I still think she hasn’t forgiven me for introducing myself as ‘The Dark Lord Chuckles the Silly Piggy’ at our church youth group when I was 14; so I wouldn’t put it past her to make a Freudian Slip… But at least we both got a good laugh out of it, “This is definitely going on my blog” I warned her. VOILA! Chuckles lives on!


Aquaman? More like AquaBLAND (I think I’m clever)

Okay let me start this off by explaining that I really don’t know anything about Aquaman other than his lack of fashion sense and stupid sounding power. I’ve never read any comics about him nor made any effort to learn about him because I JUST DON’T CARE.

My hatred for Aquaman is purely on principle at this point. It began with my stating to my friends, “When I get married, I’m all about having the groom and groomsmen being dressed as their super hero of choice under their tuxes, except Aquaman because he looks dumb.”

Of course my friends decided to be dicks and started insisting that they will force my groom to dress as Aquaman, thus beginning my salty hatred for the seaman (You can’t see it but I’m grinning and cackling at my own shitty puns. My anxiety is rolling her eyes at me and calling me a “loser”).

Fast forward to today, I still don’t like Aquaman but I’m curiously interested in the impending film because Jason Momoa is FIIIIIIIIINE (gimme some more Momoa I always say [“Jesus god please stop with the shitty puns!!!!!” my anxiety is groaning, “You’re not as funny as you think!”])

I’m chatting on IM with one of my best friends, Doc, who brings up Aquaman and of course my reaction was as follows:





Doc: this is your next blog post
I’m not entirely sure what the point of this post was other than to highlight the fact that I have a completely irrational hatred for Aquaman but I am all about Jason Momoa (seriously though, I stood 5 feet away from him at Emerald City Comic Con and I began hyperventilating in line, which was to meet Will Wheaton instead of Jason [because I’m unworthy of being in the presence of a man who could easily crush me using only his butt cheeks {definitely not the worst way to die, if I’m being totally honest}]) also that I have incredibly magical conversations with friends about things that will likely never happen.
Viva la Momoa butt!!!!!!

What is in a name?

“What is in a name? That which we call a troll. By any other name would also smell like feet?”

-Bastardized Shakespeare provided by yours truly

So I’m sure that at least 2 out of the 3 people who read this blog (those two people might very well be my parents…) are probably wondering what the hell a ‘Wandless Wanderer’ is. If you’re anything like me (doubtful) your first thought would be, “Harry Potter reject loses $50 souvenir wand from Florida vacation.” Well you and myself would be wrong in that assumption!

My father goes through phases of interest not unlike I do. He’s always finding new hobbies to explore and ways to create and learn. His most recent adventure in exploration has been diving into our familial history and growing out our vast family tree. Not a week would go by where I wouldn’t get at least 10 texts about the various crazy ancestors he’s dug up that I’m related to. Let me give you a quick list of the cool cats I’m related to (I’d include how I’m related to them but that would mean logging into and following the confusing lines of the family map and doing the math to figure out whether they’re first cousin, second, third, or last place in the race. I’m sure my father is grumbling as he reads this and thinking “I gave her all the information already! Why did we ever agree to trade the gypsies our moonshine for this stupid girl! Well she does draw pretty pictures…. And she does answer my texts to come refill my drinks….. Okay We’ll keep her for now.”):

Charlemagne (who isn’t related to him?)

Edgar Allen Poe (Thus quote the Raven “That girl is a nerd”)

Paris and Hector of Troy (Totally explains my affinity for crushing on guys who are already taken…..)

There are more but those are the ones that stand out in my mind when I’m having awkward small talk with people around ancestry (yes, awkward small talk about ancestry with me happens way more than you’d think…).

During one of my father’s many discoveries, we found an ancestor named Elspeth Wandless. I saw the name jump out at me and immediately thought, “I’M RELATED TO A WITCH!” Because any name out of the ordinary that includes the word “wand” obviously must mean witchcraft!

My dad gave me his usual small smile with an eyebrow raised before sighing, “I highly doubt it…” but I think he was just lying because he didn’t want me to find out he’d thrown out my Hogwarts acceptance letters (He better have at least recycled them…).

I talked to my cousin a few days later, who related to me that ‘Wandless’ was essentially a scottish term for “unfortunate” (AKA the wand represents a dick and something shitty happened and now you are left without a dick. You are dickless, but we’ll call it ‘wandless’ to make it sound more mystical and less crass).

Hammer on the nail for me to be related to someone with a last name that means unfortunately dickless, not to say that I desire to have a penis but I have suffered my misfortunes.

The name stuck with me, I added the ‘wanderer’ at the end given how much time I spend by myself wandering and wondering about my misfortunes.

Fuck it’s time for me to try and end this post eloquently again….. I really do suck at this, it’s giving me PTSD flashbacks to college writing essays and trying to find a smooth way to conclude.

This isn’t a fucking essay and I’m not being graded so I will end it in however way I choose; with a naughty word: tits *childish giggle*

Anxious Enough

I’m not enough of anything. Not funny enough, creative enough, tall enough, short enough, pretty enough, plain enough, really just not enough of anything.

I’m not stating it looking for sympathizers who read this and think, “Oh she doesn’t know her worth! She’s more than enough! In fact, she’s perfect, lets cast her in the next Star Wars as another mysterious female protagonist who’s later revealed to be Kylo Ren’s long lost twin (I know what you’re thinking ‘But that happened in the original trilogy!’ Well I figure Hollywood is so hard up for movie material Disney is recycling all their cartoons, so I KNOW they’ll recycle that plot twist at some point [please don’t make me kiss Kylo Ren before learning he’s my brother, it’s been nearly four decades and a lot of us are still uncomfortable with that Leia moment…]).”

I suppose I’m just shouting it out into the void with hopes that all the other people who aren’t enough know they’re not alone; I mean that’s one of the base human desires, right? And maybe have a salsa party if someone knows how to prepare really good pico de gallo (really I’m just here for the pico de gallo, to be perfectly honest…. someone suggested there might be some here…. That someone might have been me….)

I suppose I ought to dive into the definition of “enough” so I can better explain to the void why I am not, in fact, enough. When I googled “enough” (Because I’m far too lazy to get up to find my actual dictionary on the bookshelf) the first link that popped up was to a wikipedia page for the 2002 J-Lo film about an abused housewife who gets revenge against her dick-stained husband (totally amazing movie, BTW). Scrolling past the IMdB links, I found a dictionary site which defines the adjective as “Adequate for the want or need; sufficient for the purpose or to satisfy desire.”

I’m not creative enough for art. Don’t get me wrong, I love the work I create and produce (I realize now none of you know what I do so here’s the reader’s digest version: I’m currently working for a school district as a floater for a before/after school care program for 11 elementary schools while on the side I’m working on becoming an independent artist creating anything out of zentangle, water color, sketching, oil painting, quilling, photography, and the occasional knitted hat), but my ideas are never 100% creatively original. I am always searching for ideas and inspiration be it online through pinterest and google to visiting art galleries and museums in my travels. I learn/copy techniques to learn and be inspired and incorporate them into my own work and designs. It might sound ridiculous but I feel like I can’t take full credit because it wasn’t 100% creativity by me and only me. I feel like a fraud at times; I worry about the day an angry artist hunts me down and yells about the rose design they’d posted ‘How-to-draw” steps for that I used in my multi-award winning painting hanging in the Louvre (hey, dream big, right?).

Of course some of you think that scenario sounds highly improbable. Well it is, but try telling that to my anxiety (that bitch is way more creative than I can ever dream of being. I should let my anxiety do the creating while I do the selling… Nah, that bitch would insist on taking all the profit and credit and stop creating just to spite me…… Anxiety is a bitch, you guys. You know you’re fucked when your mental illness has more original creativity than you do…).

I’m not sure what my point of this whole post was, but I’m going to go with the flow of my random shouts into the void and discuss my anxiety. My anxiety…….. My anxiety is a bitch (as said above). I imagine my anxiety dressed up like a trashier and more worn down Jessica Rabbit who breathes noxious anxious smoke around me while telling me why I am not enough. My anxiety has been telling me I’m not enough since before I was ever conceived, the very idea of me was not enough for that bitch.

Starting a blog was out of the question for years; my anxiety cackled at the thought, “Oh hell no, you’re not enough to blog about, what the hell is there for you to write? You’re not funny enough, your life isn’t exciting enough, hell you weren’t even good enough for the college paper you joined and wrote two awful articles for before quitting (one of which was basically written by my roommate as it was just all her opinions I had asked for the night before the article was due). You are not enough to become a blogger, Joy.” She said with a puff of smoke and she sashays around me snootily.

The bitch was right, I could feel it. Even in that moment I was staring at the options page in the process of creating a blog on trying not to have a complete meltdown. The bitch laughed at me for the entire day as I avoided looking at the open tab, I couldn’t make up my mind on what kind of blog I was supposed to make! The options were so diverse and separated from one another, health and wellness was separate from fashion and lifestyle as well as Media and entertainment. I wanted to be all of them! I didn’t want to choose just one, I wasn’t good enough for any of them!

The bitch was peering behind my shoulder about to blow more anxious smoke when I muttered, “Fuck it!” and chose “writing”. That’s really all I want to do is write about anything and everything and nothing at all. Just a place where I can shout into the void. My anxiety was in shock, the bitch choked on her own anxious smoke while I smirked and began to think, “I’m definitely anxious enough.”

So let the writing commence! *Cue inspirational music*

Holy balls this isn’t going to be easy

Me screaming “THIS WAS NOT WHAT I EXPECTED” into the void would be a massive understatement and a complete waste of time. My anxiety is snorting in the corner at my wide-eyed ‘Holy shit what the fuck have I gotten into” expression that’s been glued to my face for the past 3 hours.

My god this site is more complicated than I had anticipated. I thought it would be one of those “write, post, done!” kind of things. But I was just reminded by an acquaintance that people aren’t just going to go read a boring site that’s plain with text. Dear hairy GOD trying to customize any site is like chewing off my nails and being forced to dunk them in lemon juice every 7 seconds, I HATE IT. I honestly don’t know what I’m doing, asking for help is NOT an option (my anxiety laughed at the suggestion, “Then people who know you will read it,” FUCK! I hadn’t thought about that….. [not that I’m ashamed by what I’m posting, I just can’t deal with people that I know reading about my anxiety, does that sound fucked up? {My anxiety says, “Yes, BTW using parentheses-within-parentheses is total overkill, and you just did it three times.” FUCK ME}]).

Right so after gritting my teeth through the painful process of making my blog look somewhat simple and elegant to look at (AKA I added background color), I realized that I can follow blogs! YAY MAKING VOID SHOUTING FRIENDS!

I gave up two minutes later because the only way to find other blogs to follow on wordpress is pretty much by already knowing their URLs……. I don’t know any blog URLs to follow and hadn’t the foggiest clue how to find any that I would like to follow (and I didn’t want to just follow random blogs for the sake of being a follower, I want to follow blogs that actually interest me).

My anxiety is draped across my armchair, blowing smoke rings in the air and humming, “This won’t work!” obnoxiously. I glared at the bitch and chose to block her out with some Charlie Puth as I bent over my keyboard and furiously worked through the settings of my blog to get the links to my twitter and instagram figured out. I took a break and went to get a glass of wine; I was mid-pour when I finally shut down my anxiety, “If I’m only doing this to gain followers and have people hang on every word I say, then I’m not doing this for the right reasons. I want to fucking write, so I’m just gonna fucking write.”

Welp…. Here we are know. I’ve caught up with my train of thought and now I’m typing this out while trying to figure out an eloquent way to end this post that makes me seem super enlightened and wise…… Hmmm….. All I got is a quote from my favorite Canadian author Stuart McLean, “There are sewers a plenty we have yet to dig!” Well there are words  a plenty I have yet to write, can’t build anything great without digging out the proper plumbing! That made sense, right? God I hope it did…. I shit I just fucked up my eloquent ending… Balls…