The Courageous Kids camp has been going on for 30 years here in the Eugene area, serving children affected by the death of a loved one. I learned about the organization through hospice and have been working with them for a while now, in support groups and also a day camp earlier this summer. It sounds like depressing stuff — grieving children! — and it can be sad and heavy at times, but mostly it is a wonderful chance to be in a unique role with kids. Not their mom or teacher, someone who can listen and support and joke and cat-herd and just kind of share part of their world that might be hard to access in regular life.

We had a variety of ages: littles, middles, and teens. The littles were often a mercurial bunch, buffeted by too-big feelings about everything and prone to foot-stomping and weepy meltdowns. I really cannot say enough about the endlessly patient folks who were their cabin counselors, gently ferrying these kids through the days and nights with the most creative suggestions and distractions while always, always listening.

As a parent, when you consider a job that involves working with kids I think it’s logical to assume that you can simply draw upon your own parenting experiences and skills. But the way these young cabin staff members could talk to kids, acknowledging their feelings while expertly pivoting them towards solutions — it was really something. Of course, these are not our own children, but I kept thinking how my own tendency might be to say something like “Hey knock that shit off!!” as opposed to, say, “I hear that you’re wanting to get to the next activity, but our friends are still playing, so I wonder if we could find something else fun to do for right now?”

I do think I fall short in the teacher-vibe department (my cabin-mate is a special ed teacher and the way she could use her voice and words with young kids was BEYOND impressive) but I can bring humor to the table, and that’s my own personal best way in with all the ages. Silly jokes with the younger kids and brainrot with the older ones, and the feeling like I am their ancient crumbling mummy-dust peer of sorts. I know that sounds very HOW DO YOU DO, FELLOW KIDS and it’s not NOT that, but is at least a well-meaning version of that.

A bunch of us were sitting at the art cabin one afternoon and one of the teen girls randomly told me, “You look like some nice old lady.” I burst out laughing and teased her for that and for a while afterwards when I would see her I would wave an imaginary cane and tell her she was such a sweet little girl and then sometimes I would cackle like a witch and she would double over giggling. “I was kidding,” she’d say. “What’s that??? I CAN’T HEAR YOU, DEARIE,” I’d respond, groping blindly in the air.

There was swimming and art-making and singing and chef-made kid-friendly meals and candletimes for remembering loved ones and sand tray activities and games, four long busy days and nights in a beautiful setting. Swallows drawing giant swooping curlicues in the air and feeding nested babies in the lodge rafters, the glittering Fall Creek reservoir nearby, the great rising swell of cricketsong in the evenings.

It feels like such an incredible honor to have been part of this camp, and I am particularly grateful to have had the chance to go back. Last year was a bit of a fever dream, and this time I felt like I had more to give. But whatever I was able to contribute, I was paid in dividends. I can’t begin to assign a value to the experience of being in such a caring community. I’ll be there every year they’ll have me, just some nice old lady soaking up the good parts of humanity.

That is perhaps her most unfortunate quality because while she is a wildly clever little thing she also has fat rough-chop lines of crushed Adderall where certain brain cells should be. Every now and then she will catch sight of herself in a mirror and oh my GOD, the insanity. WHO IS THAT OTHER DOG?!??! THE ONE THAT IS IDENTICAL TO ME AND MY SURROUNDINGS IN EVERY WAY THEY MUST DIE BY SONIC WEAPONRY

Her other embarrassing quirk is how she behaves when new people come to the house. Dylan, her biological sibling, is the exception, she is used to him and does not act like a stage-12 weirdo, but other people get the intense Mabel treatment which is to be barked at in a frenzy then smothered in way too much attention while simultaneously having their shit wrecked or stolen. My sweet friend Patrice had her prescription sunglasses filched from her purse and chewed before either of us even realized. Other people must endure Mabel obsessively crawling into their lap, nibbling them, and basically trying to wear them as a skinsuit while also barking every time they get up, so it’s all kind of A LOT with visitors.

She is a hot mess really but god I love this dog, and I love how she and Billy have evolved into such a hilarious odd couple. Their behavior is endlessly entertaining to observe, a mix of nonstop wrestling and play-fighting with some moments of peace/tolerance/affection and partnered mischief. (Their big combo move is for Billy to knock something off the counter and then Mabel takes off with it.)

Mabel has certainly changed the dynamic with Billy, and I do sometimes miss the quieter just-us phase I had with him. I do my best to make sure he still gets individual attention, which sometimes just means putting him above Mabel’s leapzone for pettins. He also sleeps with me at night while Mabel is nearby in her crate. I think he does enjoy having a constant source of play, and while Mabel tends to be the more enthusiastic/annoying participant in their shenanigans, Billy can definitely give as good as he gets. He can also be a deeply hilarious instigator, darting at Mabel and then skittering away sideways in Halloween mode, or exploding out from under the bed to crocodile-roll her.

These are two extremely smart, affectionate, and high-demand pets, and they truly fill my life. I have not had a moment of loneliness with them in my house, and while that includes being able to go to the bathroom without someone or someones right at my feet or moaning outside the door, I would not trade it for anything. Sure, my home is always a mess now with toys and fur and Folexed carpet stains and I can’t have knickknacks or good furniture or houseplants, it’s logistically overwhelming and expensive to leave town for even one night, my bank account is routinely drained by vet bills and pet food, I am officially the crazy divorced lady with a giant cat and a tiny yappy dog, every article of clothing and shoes I own has been dragged around the house and nibbled, every time someone goes by the house barking ensues and I live on a fairly busy street, I can’t stay out for long without feeling like I need to come home to them, I cannot eat a single bite of food without two starving maniacs swarming me, Billy has ransacked my jewelry drawer so many times I can only find a couple matching earrings any more, and every time I open a door to the outside or the garage I have to figure out how to get one aging human body through the opening while simultaneously stopping two small lightning-fast shitweasels from escaping, but SOMEHOW, the pros outweigh the cons.

They are such different animals and such a sensory delight in their own way. Billy is as soft as a cloud, a giant downy duckfuzz fluffapotomus whose belly fur I can bury my face in. Mabel is a bony sleek creature like a baby deer with the softest ears and face, and never happier than when she is right up against me in some way. They both smell like bread and sunny dusty attics and fritos and afternoon naps. Sometimes when I am very very lucky I get to cuddle them both at the same time and it is the best feeling. I love them so fiercely, I’m so happy they are such a big part of my life.

I can’t imagine wanting to share my home with anyone else.

I HAD THE BEST FOUR HOURS OF MY LIFE???

I have been on a paddleboard a few times before and had decided that while it looked very zen and cool, in reality the effort of keeping balance while standing was an all-consuming mid-to-extreme stressed-out vibe. However, if you just SIT on the dang thing, it is — as was sung in Aladdin during the magic carpet ride, on which, I will point out, they were sitting as opposed to trying to stand —a whole new world.

So I really enjoyed my time there that day and I rented one more time before deciding that I was going to take the plunge and buy my own. I bought one online based on a vague mix of vibes/price/reviews and then I scoured the comments for tips and also got an electric pump called a Hydro Hero.

(I did try inflating the board manually once just to see what that was like and I do not recommend it. By the time I was done I was EXHAUSTED, probably it’s a great workout but absolutely fuck that.)

This was about a month ago, and I have taken this board out on so many wonderful adventures! My friend Jodi introduced me to the Autzen canal, which is a local waterway that’s just a five-minute drive from my house. You park at the edge of a big mostly unused lot, get your gear set up next to the car, then hoof it through a little path to get on a narrow channel where you paddle upstream to a big opened-up pool next to Autzen stadium, and then you can go further to interesting neighborhoods with houses right next to the water. There’s all sorts of cool vegetation and extremely friendly ducks who come right up hoping for snacks, plus herons everywhere.

There’s Dexter lake where I got started, a very popular reservoir with lots of people and boats. About 30 minutes south is another reservoir called Dorena Lake that is less populated and more naturey-feeling, which I’ve been to twice now with the board. I also took myself to Clear Lake about 90 minutes up the McKenzie river, which was as advertised staggeringly clear and ice-cold and otherworldly shades of blue and teal.

I do practice standing now and then but for the most part I stay seated and it just feels very stable and comfortable. I can get deep pulls with the paddle that way and am able to maneuver pretty well, not as nimble as a kayak but enough to feel quite capable on the water.

And I think that’s the key word, capable. I feel like this paddleboard has unlocked a lot of deeply rewarding summer fun and also built myself up in some important ways. I mean, I know it is not in fact rocket science to be able to inflate and carry a thing but it feels like a Super Big Deal for me.

For most of my adult life I have relied on someone else to manage all the outdoorsy stuff I got to enjoy — the planning, the gear, the knowledge, nearly every aspect of the outing itself. I was literally a passenger, perched on the side of a raft or a ski lift. The cabin on the river with its little yellow kayaks and circling ospreys is no longer available to me. I had so many great times but not by my own accord and I was worried that I would lose so much of that.

And now I can go out on my own, my candy-apple-red Bronco easily carrying all the things I need. I deeply enjoy every bit of it — the satisfaction of my loud-ass pump transforming a pile of plastic into an actual magic carpet ride, the moment of pushing off into the water and being like goodbye land world, the fun and effort of the paddle, the peace of finding a spot to just lie flat on my back and feel the water and look up at the sky. The birds, the far-off boats, the bob and swell, the cold splashes and hot sunshine, it’s all so goddamned good.

I have all kinds of new muscles from this hobby. I can feel how it’s strengthened me from the inside out.

Sweet Ruby dog died on Monday. It was her time. She had lived a long, good life and thankfully passed in her sleep. I did feel the ache of a bigger loss with her passing, mourning the version of our family that loved her together. Loving her was like loving us. Another hard goodbye.

I am so grateful for the goodness of it all, though. The many years we did have with Ruby, all the fun times, all the silly nicknames and jokes. Even the hurt and finality of death brings a flood of memories. She is apart from us, she is a part of us.

I find myself thinking of my marriage in a similar way. The last bit of it doesn’t define the whole of it. No one thing does, it was a whole entire life and it lasted nearly half the time I’ve been alive. I’m thankful for the full spectrum. For all the love.

I think it’s the one thing that truly persists. The world can flip upside down, people and pets are lost, conditions and connections change. Love has a stubbornness to it. Even through endings.

Oh but there is another way to experience time that is QUITE discombobulating, and that is to receive a gorgeous graduation card of a near-adult-sized human who was just a tiny baby approximately seventeen minutes ago. Oh, wow… is the only response to that, as you feel the years stretch behind you in a baffling blur of whole entire lives you have lived that seem to have little to do with where you are now. Eras, so to speak.

“Everything is a learning experience, right?” I said recently to a friend. We were talking about dating, laughing a bit about my recent foibles out there on the apps (OMG, some stories for another time if I can figure out how to write about it), but we were talking about everything, too. We agree that even the things and people we deeply regret, the very worst moments and choices, are all teachers.

I can barely connect with the person I was when the grad card stunner was a wee little chubbins, when my own tall handsome man-shaped children were small and life was so different, and can I just say what an incredible blessing this blog has been throughout the years. I recently paid a very reasonable sum to re-instate my old Diaryland entries (my god I would have paid anything) and have been reading through some of them and what an experience that is. I’m so grateful I captured memories in those writings, many would be forever lost to the great forgetting that comes with age.

I have found career opportunities and community through this public personal writing, I’ve made the most amazing friendships, I have processed so much and received so much support and advice. And now to have access to those previous lives via my own words — invaluable. I have definitely made some missteps along the way in terms of oversharing, it has not been without its downsides, but what an overall gift. Thank you blogging, for existing and being a thing that intrigued me and motivated me, and thank you me for keeping at it.

We had five campers, all girls between the ages of 11 and 13, and I would love to describe them in great affectionate detail but of course I need to be extremely careful about their privacy so I won’t, but in general terms each of them was so unique from the other and I adored them all.

They were at such a delicate age of growing up — something about middle school girls makes me think of the milky stems at the bottom of a blade of grass. Those coltish legs. Grown-up features starting to emerge from the softness of childhood. Bracelets, fingernail polish, hairbands; I’m delighted by it all. I was a boy mom and I was also a middle school girl, there is both an exoticness and a familiarity to this sort of company.

Every morning we started off with a short group ceremony of sorts, sharing something about the people we have lost. I mostly talk about my grandparents and my uncle in this setting, long-ago deaths that aren’t as fresh and impactful as what these kids are dealing with. This is actually something I struggle with a bit, the fact that my experience with death is not like theirs. But no one ever gives me the feeling that this is less relatable or that I can’t understand. And I do think this work has led me to both access old grief that I am not sure I properly processed at the time, and the newer grief of family loss through divorce (which I don’t share about when we are talking about death because it is of course not the same, but I think about it often).

Afterwards we would spend a couple hours working on our books, or just making whatever art sounded appealing. There were two rooms to move between as we chose, and the rhythm usually settled into focused activity with lots of conversation happening between kids and volunteers. We talked about movies, TV shows, cartoons we all loved, favorite foods, school bullies, worst and best teachers, family adventures, all sorts of things. Sometimes one of the program leads would play music from their phone and at one point someone requested Justin Bieber’s “Baby” and every single kid sang along! I wished I knew it so I could sing too.

Then there was snack time and playing outside with a giant Connect Four game and oversized Jenga blocks and buckets of colored chalk and bracelet-making materials and a contraption with two big handles and a rope that could be dipped into bubble solution and used to produce the hugest bubbles I’ve ever seen, then it was lunch, and then the afternoon usually whipped right by and we ended it with a yoga teacher who came every day and we did gentle yoga outside under the trees.

The idea of a children’s grief camp sounds pretty depressing on the surface, doesn’t it? Or like it would just be so incredibly hard. The truth is that most of the time these gatherings, whether it’s a support group or day camp or the late summer overnight camp, are pretty special. You’ve got kids in this rarified environment that is not school or being at home, where they are with other kids who are going through the same thing they are, and while they are asked to be in touch with tough feelings there is so much play and care and support. Sometimes these are the times when they have the most focused attention and support, because of home situations.

Of course sometimes things ARE sad, and it’s often in a quietly devastating sort of way before things move right on, because that’s how kids work. I was talking to one girl who said she had forgotten how to ride her bike, and I made some light joke about how she probably hadn’t – isn’t that the one thing they say we never forget? And she said well my dad died on a bike. Ah, I said, I’m sorry, I understand that then. We just kept coloring and pretty soon we were laughing about Would You Rathers.

I liked everything about this week including the surprisingly peaceful, therapeutic process of making art. Was my art amazing? No. Did it matter, also no. I took an online workshop a while back and the artist who led it said something that stuck with me: “All mark making is healing.”

Yesterday I hauled out the few art supplies I have and sat myself down on the floor with some paper and told myself to just make stuff for the length of an album. I doodled, colored, painted a bit with an old makeup brush, continually shooed away the pets, and oh gosh, it felt good.

I hope I can keep that going. What a gift that would be to embrace from a week that already gave me so much.

When I got to the imaging center I was checked in by a very young man who was friendly but a little awkward/nervous-seeming and when he walked me in I briefly thought that it would be him doing the scanning and we would surely both perish of embarrassment. But no, I just had to wait in an interior area for a minute before a female tech came and got me.

I could swear the last time I had one there was a little curtain for changing and I wore some sort of open gown situation on my upper half, but this time there was a chair to put my stuff on and that was it! Just strip to the waist and stand by the machine. That certainly felt vulnerable but it did expedite the process because we got down to business right away.

If you haven’t had a mammogram the idea is to get your breast tissue allllll the way onto this flat surface and then a clear lid of sorts gets hand-cranked down until your boob takes on a shape you have never seen it in before. Think flapjack. Meanwhile you get micro-adjusted by the technician until your body is in the right position where it kind of feels like you’re in a weirdly intimate slow-dance with this giant machine and then you have to hold your breath briefly and it does its thing and then you do the other breast, and then the machine tilts carnival-ride-style into a new angle and you do it all over again.

The tech was efficient and easy to chat with and she said it was much more difficult when there’s not much to grab onto, and that her team had agreed that the right tool for the job would be a spatula, but “you know…a medical type of spatula. People feel weird enough without someone using a kitchen tool.”

Now I personally think it would be funny/delightful if imaging centers had a bunch of OXO Good Grips spatulas that were perhaps staff-decorated with festive ribbons and stickers and those were set aside for the A-cup crowd, but sadly I was not brought in as a medical device consultant. (Which is too bad because surely it is beyond past time for fresh ideas regarding cold metal speculums.)

The upside of having this appointment on a sunny Saturday afternoon was that very few people were around, which lent a peaceful feeling to the overall hospital environment and thankfully no one to observe me bumbling confusedly back and forth like Pulp Fiction John Travolta trying to find my goddamned car afterwards.

Well do not fear that I am not making the most of Oregon’s precious summer months for today I have a mammogram appointment! They have sent me approximately four thousand notifications about it and each time I have been semi-convinced that they have the date wrong because who has a mammogram on a Saturday? But upon checking it appears that the imaging center is open all weekend so that’s good news for everyone but the staff and the dignity of my boobs.

I do feel bad for those from the small titty committee because I’m sure the process is even more awkward when you don’t have much to work with but thankfully (?) I have bountiful non-taut funbags (fun not guaranteed) and probably they could yank all my business over and get the scans they need while I stood in the doorway and scrolled my phone. As I recall the only uncomfortable part is when the machine squishes you in a vise clamp and there’s a brief moment that’s similar to when you wonder if the blood pressure cuff is going to tighten forever until it amputates your arm, although of course there’s also the part where they’re like YOU DIDN’T WEAR DEODORANT DID YOU??? and also the part where your sad little pile of clothes sits there with the bra carefully hidden between layers as though someone was going to yank it out and parade it through the waiting room.

Age gracefully, people say, but there are so many non graceful aspects of it! How about all these skin tags, for one thing. Or the deal where I have to hold objects at arm’s length while scrunching my face like Gilbert Godfried or I can’t see jack shit. What about that time I had to poop in a box and mail it off to be evaluated??? I feel like every yearly checkup is now just a list of things I need to have tested to make sure my warranties aren’t running out yet, along with a reminder to get my shingles vaccine already.

And I know it’s convenient to blame the patriarchy for everything but don’t you have the feeling that if men needed mammograms there would be like booths in drugstores where you step inside fully clothed and boop, it’s done, and you get a lollipop afterwards.

I was so close to the stage and during the long procession I recognized several kids I hadn’t seen since elementary or middle school. In the midst of this coming of age moment, the shutter-flash of faces that jumped before my very eyes from soft baby cheeks to young adults. Everyone so grown now, so tall in their emerald gowns, bearing such tender fading traces of childhood.

As for the event itself, it felt like the perfect amount of pomp. A short intro from the principal, a couple of student performances and speeches, then right to commencement. In the video I captured of Dylan walking for his diploma the focus briefly blurs, an effect of the camera momentarily zeroing in on a closer object but in replay it seems like my own vision blinking back tears.

Oh, I didn’t cry that much. There was the welling up that happened during the processional as all the kids filed in, I’m not made of STONE. And when the caps went flying at the end (seems to me that a few beach balls also manifested out of thin air), there’s just something so pure and giddy about that moment. A full-bodied sense of relief and celebration and wild glee.

This was not a shared experience for me and that held some weight, to walk in there alone and sit by myself. But I did not feel like I thought I might: self-conscious, distracted. Instead I felt complete and content in my purpose. Distilled. Nothing mattered but this milestone and the fact that I was there to see it.

Hugging him afterwards, I could swear he was even taller. A whole-ass legal adult person, my god, and Riley was there too, my two littles-turned-bigs. I could remember talking about them graduating high school, back when it seemed an inconceivable, impossible distance from ever really happening.

And now Dylan is off to college in the fall. It’s all unfolding in the best kinds of ways — curiosity, motivation, independence — and that is the whammy of parenting, that the ideal outcomes are still going to crush your heart. Go off into the world is the goal, even as you wish they never, ever would.

Still, I’m so grateful for every bit of it. Everything hard, everything easy, everything that I wish I could re-savor and everything I wish I had done differently. It all led to here, to me bursting with bittersweet pride on graduation night, seeing with my own eyes that no matter what, I have two incredible kids who have forged their own individual bright paths.

Another ending, another beginning. A part of me, apart from me. How lucky I am to have had it all.

I am assuming that some of you know all too well about the world of online dating, and some of you are perhaps like I was: wildly curious, yet relieved to not have to experience it. Feeling a bit maybe like being on the last helicopters out of Vietnam, since the entire concept came around many years post-marriage.

I did go back and forth on whether to join the apps. I mean, I canNOT say I have heard good things. On the other hand, it seems to me that there are not a lot of ways to meet single people IRL, particularly for someone like myself who is not going to hang out at bars, go to social events of any kind, or wear a “Technically Available But Picky” t-shirt while out and about. And when was the last time you heard about a couple who actually met at the grocery store? Literally imagine finding a date in the frozen section at Trader Joe’s, that scenario surely must be reserved for someone far more willing to strike up a breezy conversation rather than cage-fighting for the cauliflower gnocchi.

Anyway, I did decide to give it a whirl, and it’s been … okay? Initially terrible, I will say that. I fired up a Bumble account some months back and was quite overwhelmed with the whole shebang. The entire idea of trying to make a decision about a person based on limited data. The swiping function, which feels kind of yuck, like rapid-fire online shopping for humans. And then the profiles, which start to fall into patterns after you’ve seen them in volume. So many poor-quality photos, so many dudes in mirrored sunglasses, SO MANY FISH WHAT IS WITH ALL THE FISH.

Also, everyone looks so goshdarn old. This is of course because I myself am old! I don’t know how else to say it, if you find yourself in the dating pool in your fifties, the pool is not filled with people who have all or even most of their hair.

I told my mom that I feel like the most sane way to approach the apps is to treat it as a sort of lighthearted anthropological experiment. I’m in a good position to do so, because I’m still learning about myself in this new stage of life, I’m generally happy to be alone, and I’m just casually keeping an eye out for interesting people to augment what I’ve already got going on. I am not in a position of desperation nor am I jaded by being single, this is all still new to me and I’m definitely not feeling as though I need to complete myself with a partner.

I have swiped away so many men (haha that was weirdly satisfying to type) based on things that may or may not be real dealbreakers. That’s the crazy thing, you have to make a decision with very little info, and sometimes I wonder about all the life paths not taken. Like could there have been a potentially amazing scenario with this person who I semi-flippantly chose not to pursue based on a bad-lighting photo or a clumsily written profile?

Of course, some folks are bristling with so many red flags it’s downright entertaining. A nontrivial number of profiles are vaguely or outright hostile, with “NO DRAMA!!” as their main selling point. That one just feels silly to me because how many people actually self-identify as dramatic? Plus, was the prior ‘drama’ really drama being foisted upon them or were they perhaps an active participant in said drama? There is a sort of Barbara Streisand effect happening here, is what I’m saying.

Lots of statements of “don’t try and change me!!!” which 1) leads me to assume there’s something intolerable about them and 2) again, a weird thing to come out of the gate saying. “I YAM WHAT I YAM” like okay big dawg you never flush, got it.

A startling amount of polyamorous people which you do you boo but no thanks to that, I can barely remember to get my trash to the curb on Monday evenings even with the task reminder notification much less juggle multiple romantic partners. I can’t get down with all the terms: ENM? “Nesting partner”? This is just sanctified cheating to me, I’m sure it’s deeper than that but why are we going into this with the assumption that it’s not going to be enough?

And plenty of profiles that just complain about online dating in general, which I guess I can sort of understand if you’ve been in the trenches for a long time but also what’s the point of presenting a sour attitude about it? At least make it funny, damn.

I am sure there are tropes with women’s profiles and I do understand the notion of gender being a concept and not to stereotype BUT gosh men truly seem to struggle when it comes to photos. There are several recurring themes:

– Staring expressionless into a bathroom mirror
– Sunglasses on, out of focus
– Participating in an outdoorsy/athletic event but it’s clearly from many years ago
– Multiple pics taken from below so it’s like they are glowering down at you
– No smile
– Scraggily Unabomber beard
– Gym mirror flex pic

And of course, the fish. So long and thanks for all the fish, a popular Douglas Adams book and also I assume what every woman says with relief when she shuts down her dating profile.

I myself chose several very recent pics, nothing glamorous or filtered or deceptively flattering. I included several animals so a couple of my own red flags are on display, yes I am a crazy cat/horse lady and yes I have a tiny dog that is going to frenziedly bark at you whenever you stand up. The rest will be revealed over time! Don’t worry I have PLENTY.

It is weird, putting myself out there for men to consider, no way around it. Marketing myself, albeit via self-deprecation and jokes. I’ve met a few interesting people and made one really good friend via the apps, so I can’t say it’s all bad out there. And if nothing else, the experience has been entertaining and made for some stories. There was the 20-year-old who liked me, someone come get their misguided infant child!! There was a guy who was very reticent to reveal his job as he considers himself a local celebrity of sorts and it turned out I’d never heard of his show. There was the profile that said “Just keep my Johnson wet and I’ll give you flowers” hahahahahaaaa wtf so gross and what kind of trade is that, how about you cram the johnson in a vase because like Miley said, I can buy myself flowers.

So that’s online dating so far: part research project, comedy show, and the occasional reminder that there are actual real humans out there fumbling around like I am. Brand new territory, rocky terrain, and yet I feel surprisingly lucky; among all the loss and pain in the last year there have been so many new experiences. Good, bad, fishy, and everything in between.