You haven't heard the last of me yet, Bitches!!!

Hey hey hey Funseekers.

Once again I reach into the (remote) bowels of the interweb in order to vent my overshared woes. It has been over a year since I have last posted anything, and I figure the latest developments in my life deem a renewal of the Smoking in my Pyjamas blog.

I loathe the idea of having to update what has been going on the past 'howeverlong', but I think it's necessary in order to provide some context. So let's just go the lazy route. Point form!

1. I am still with the same partner. We are still in love. I think we decided to create every possible relationship-challenging situation known to mankind, and against all odds are still in it to win it, so to speak.

2. Relationship challenging situations? We bought a business (he runs it, I get pretty cards that have the name "Co-Owner" on them.) Then we bought a house. Fuck marriage - co-owning a home is the new commitment. Especially in this day and age where unless you are blessed with an inheritance from generous and forward thinking loved ones, you are more likely to get run over by a rogue horse and carriage in the tourist district than own property.

3. I have a steady job! Well, wait. "Steady" is a flexible term that I like to use to describe a situation in which I get paid, I have benefits (BENEFITS. Suck THAT!), and if they want to fire me they are going to have to catch me doing something nefarious on camera. That said, I am currently being laterally repositioned in my agency, so steady does not equal stable or relaxed. That said, I work with kids who I have a lot of respect and love towards. So I am willing to wade through the proverbial gong show for them.

4. My dog is still alive. Well, she's "our" dog now. But she is still upright four-legged and fancy free. <-- I wrote that last statement without commas for creative effect. Just for the record, that was very difficult for me to do.

5. My Auntie is not still alive. I lost her in October 2012 and my heart to this day feels pretty empty in that place where she used to reside. In an ironic twist of fate, I got fired from a part-time job the same day she died because I took a month off to stay in her condo in another city to be with her while she was dying,  but returned home to return to said job before she died then missed her passing because I was too busy in my city being fired. That's not the ironic part. In the job interview for that job I was asked to define the hero in my life, and I chose her. Come to think of it, NONE of that meets the definition of irony. I guess I really just wanted to say two unrelated things - it's pretty fucking shitty that I got fired under the circumstances, and more importantly, she WAS my hero. Still is, really.

6. I'm 34, I'm sitting in my 3/4 renovated house in my totally finished office/library/spare bedroom, I have love, shelter, nourishment... Things are kinda pointing in the direction of progress! Which brings me to my update and raison de blog. <----- bastardization of the French language. You are welcome.

So why are we here? Well, some things never change. I still smoke, I still live with mental health challenges, and I still wear pyjamas. In fact, I recently purchased a fetching onesie with the word "GEEK" across the chest. But I have gone off all my meds.

Hear that? I am UNMEDICATED, people. Gather your children and small animals and seek shelter. Shit just got very real.

Okay, okay. That sounds a wee bit dramatic. But I have to say: I didn't know what to expect, but I did not expect this. For lack of a better word, I am feeling full-out cray-cray and not in a good way. To be fair, I am not living in a depressive episode. I am not having thoughts of suicide, and I am not self-harming. But if this is how the "normal" people live, I am having a pretty massive wake up call.

I'll write something I have generally steered away from. I am going to tell you what kinda pharmaceuticals we were dealing with. A historical interlude if you will. I began medication because I was so anxious I was hospitalized for stomach problems that wound up having no physical trace. I was agoraphobic. The grocery store felt like being stuck in an elevator for hours with 19 people and the bogeyman. Not safe. Medication helped me emerge from that, recover, maintain a job, find my wonderful man and maintain a relationship... you get it. Two months ago I was taking 35 mgs of Cipralex, and Ativan as needed. My version of "as needed" was every morning. Um, how else was I supposed to survive my work day?? <-- Sarcasm. Seriously, the concept of facing a day in public is panic-inducing enough for me to reach for a tranquilizer. Or was. Or is. Or was. But I digress.

Yes, I did this in a responsible manner. I stopped taking Ativan daily, and luckily suffered no withdrawal. It was a teeny dose. Then over two months I decreased my Cipralex, in a manner in which I would have no immediate side-effects as I would if I had stopped cold turkey. Ativan gone, check. Cipralex gone, check. Good, right?

WROOOOOOONG.

Maybe this is a good place to point out that I went on medication for a good reason. So what the hell was the reason to go off of it?? Well, I have a few. Honestly the main one is this. Just to see if I could. I'm not going to lie, I wanted to be able to say that I do not require SSRI's to manage my anxiety and (episodic) depression. It's kinda like a competition I entered where I'm competing against myself. Now I am starting to learn that in a competition of you versus you, someone wins and someone loses. (I know. That was so fucking deep. Right? I'm brilliant.)

March 1st was my first morning of zero pills, and this is how I feel. I feel.... every single emotion. Emotions up the ass. If I was a dinosaur I would be Emotionsaurus Rex. If emotions were an Olympic sport, I would be tearily clutching my gold medal. But here's the catch. Here is the fucking kicker. All the new and heightened emotions I am feeling are those of the negative variety. I could go into the whoooole debate about "good" emotions versus "bad" emotions and how really, all emotions are in us for a reason and are helpful to us. But I won't get into that debate, I'm just going to simplify for the sake of argument and say that in regards to functioning through a regular day of work, human interaction and partnership, there are some emotions that can be problematic. And those are the ones I am going to refer to as "negative". I will list them, with examples. Are you bored yet?

Point form!

Anger. Here's the deal. I haven't been calm and "Zen" so to speak. I'VE BEEN DRUGGED. I used to pride myself on "not making a big deal of the little stuff." Yeah, easy to do when you're half in the world and half in your own la-la land. A day after I went off my meds I had a hard time removing the garbage bag from the bin then tripped over the cord to the heater. I lost my shit! Full on adult tantrum. Lost my bananas. For the record, this experience gave me so much more insight into the experiences of the people around me who do have bouts of anger. Oh yeah... so THAT'S how that feels again. :-/

Embarrassment. DUDE. I am positive that while medicated I still felt embarrassed from time to time. But I am honestly fascinated by the recent emergence of this feeling. And it has emerged in spades. First of all, I now blush. You know blushing? When you are embarrassed or you are about to say something that is really hard and scary and/or difficult and you start to get warm? I am like a tomato-coloured radiator!!! The other day I was sitting in my Supervisor's office with a colleague and she stopped MID-conversation and asked me if I was having an allergic reaction. No lie. I was beet red from cleavage up. I stripped off my sweater and she dug in the recycling bin to give me paper so I could FAN myself. Why? Tough conversation. Mayday! I am now stripped of all disguise!!! I feel positively betrayed. Now not only do I have to feel all my feelings in my feelers.... but the whole world gets to know the precise moment it is happening. Fuck that.

Lastly, the big one. Shame. So... I have a lot of opinions about shame. Up until yesterday, I still maintained that ALL feelings and emotions are helpful and serve a purpose in us on a basic evolutionary level. A survival level if you will. Except shame. I had never found the purpose of shame and deemed it a creation not of evolution, but of society. One to keep us in our "place". But after careful thought after a long day and lots of feelings of shame, I wonder. Society didn't invent shame, Christians didn't invent shame. Shame comes entirely from within, and it is an unhealthy response to a healthy challenge.

No seriously, think about that for a minute. I have. Unhealthy response to healthy challenge.

In my work, my close work partner is a very strong woman with very strong opinions. And she's fucking rad because of it. And up until recently, when she calls me out on anything that could be deemed less than "good practice" I have rolled with it. Taken it in, processed the feedback, and shaken off any personal feelings that would get in the way of good youth work.

Yup, sure do miss those days.

I. Feel. Shame. It is oozing from my pores. If you look at me wrong, I feel shame. Question a professional decision I make? Shame. Hell, you could question my choice of toothpaste. At this point, all I would feel is SHAAAAAAME. It is my go-to response to anything that doesn't involve loving me up and wrapping me in a blanket of puppies. And this is the most significant and difficult to deal with feeling I have had since going off medication. Because it's big time heightened for me now, and I don't feel like I have the skills to deal with it. I didn't need skills, I had pills.

Ooh. I smell a bumper sticker. It's all rhyming and shit!

Okay, I feel as though I need to wrap this up, despite the many things I feel as though I could write about. Another day, yeah?

SUMMARY:

I told my husband, through tears, that medication saved my life. Not because I was going to die or kill myself without it, but because I HAD no life for a long time, because of the anxiety and depression. For the first time since I started experiencing anxiety as a young child, I felt relief and freedom. And I took it, and ran with it. And thrived. And yes, I did tell him that I am as defensive of medications for mental health as I am defensive of my best friends. They both helped me survive.

Now, maybe I don't need it. Maybe I am in a different situation than I was before. Maybe in the whole nature versus nurture debate, my nurture is healthy enough NOW to overcome the nature... the physical predisposition to mental health challenges. And maybe before it wasn't, and I needed a boost from the meds to nurture my nurture... so to speak.

But really, I'm just six days in. Who knows what the next six could look like. All I know is this. There will be a LOT of crying.

Thanks for reading.
xoxo-PS

Happy Shit Month.

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I didn’t promise this to be a cheerful post!

First of all, just on a random note. Why WHY is Microsoft Word programmed to double-space my documents immediately? Not in University any more, peeps. I like to write without gaping spaces in my sentences, arranged for potential red-marker comments willy-nilly. Every time I start a document, I have to manually program it to single space. Okay, that’s my rant.

My bestie asked me yesterday if I want to change the month of my birthday. Because mine is in the middle of October, and October officially blows.

This isn’t anything new. I had an immediate family member who used to lose his/her marbles in this month, causing me to play superhero (a role I took upon myself) and bail him/her out. For the record? Nobody can be superhero. There is no such thing, so don’t try. I did for a decade. Doesn’t change shit.

Last year my mother died on October 1^st. My bestie had several family members fall ill and pass in the same month, last year. Among all sorts of other traumatic experiences felt between her, I, and a lot of other close people. Not to mention the effect on my partner (read: support system), who also very much mourned the passing of his mother-in-law-to-be.

So is it an October curse? Or am I simply letting myself believe that so that I have reason for explanation for inexplicable events.

Here’s the thing. I am going to admit this, and it may come as a surprise. I have always hated October. Even as a child. How can this be? Birthday and Halloween all rolled into a month? To top it off, Thanksgiving? Also known as my favourite Aunt visiting and my family gorging on pumpkin pie and turkey – to this day my favourite meal? Sorry, that was a lot of statements ending in an up-tone question.

There has always been this sense of dread and sadness that has entered me, since childhood, in this particular changing of the seasons. All of my sad and bad memories happened at night. Night was not a happy time in my house. And for me, school was not a happy time in my childhood. And with the beginning of cold and flu season, I, the phobic child that I was, was not a happy camper.

So what to do? Call in sick until April? Hide under my duvet until the first sign of summer? Nay, my friends. This is not an option as an adult. It certainly wasn’t an option as a child, though trust me… I TRIED.

I think that maybe this is the year to change things. Mix it up again. Rekindle (or begin…) my love of all things chilly and dark. Up my physical exercise and vitamin C intake. Perhaps check out that tanning bed my bestie has raved about (save the comments on tanning beds. While I’m still consuming tobacco, caffeine, alcohol, nitrates and aspartame like they’re going out of style, I am not one to dis the five minutes of faux tanning).Maybe I’ll take up skiing! Okay, fuck that, I will never take up skiing – that is too cold, damp, and achille-sensitive for me… but you know what I mean.

Maybe, maybe maybe maybe maybe maybe…

Or perhaps I’ll just crawl under the duvet until the alarm rings at 6:30 Monday morning.

Finding no solutions,

Xo

PS

How NOT to Argue With Your Spouse: And other unhelpful tips.

I hate arguments. I am no good at arguing.

But wait a minute... who LIKES arguing, and who indeed is good at it? Hell, I have enough counselling and communication skills that one would think this is something I could potentially be good at. That being said, no one teaches you how to argue without emotion when it's completely emotional. Oh wait. That's probably a good thing, right? After all, the reason we argue is because something or someone has said or done something that has hurt us or caused us to feel badly about ourselves or our actions. Of course, someone can hit a nerve without even knowing it's a nerve. See? Now it's just getting complex!

I have gathered, over the years, some very unhelpful tips at arguing with someone you love. Please, I urge you to read and not follow them.

1. Do not raise your voice. You will only get noise complaints. See, raising one's voice can feel really good. Cathartic, even! But in the end it is jarring, unhelpful, and as mentioned above, you will recive noise complaints. And trust me, having to talk to your landlord about domestic arguments can be AWK-WARD.

2. For those of us riding the menses train, do not argue when you have PMS. I know, I know, the old "Aunt Flo cop-out." But srsly, peeps. It's time to move beyond the stigma and the defensiveness and just admit that for some of us, there are a few days where no one, not even your houseplant, can do anything right. It is not our fault. We are not weaklings because sometimes our hormones take over. It's chemicals! It's science! It's legit cause it's science! I have never once used PMS as an "excuse". Sometimes, it actually happens to be a reason.

3. Do not throw the adult tantrum. This is one I have recently learned. To be honest, I will do anything to avoid escallating an argument. So I will try and stay calm. But secretly, I've always wanted to try stomping out of the house and peeling out of the driveway without telling anyone where I'm going. So one day, I tried it! Let me tell you, wow, that doesn't work. It was so disappointing! It ends up making me feel like a child, it makes the argu-buddy even angrier, and it's pretty hard to pull off. i.e. - You make your grand exit then get to the car and realize you don't have keys and you have to go home and get them. It's the visual equivalent of a ten year old stomping out the door, running away from home and then promptly realizing that he or she has no tools to function, no money, no change of underwear or toothbrush, and that she kinda just wants to go back home where it's safe, warm, and where food is served. When you go back for the keys, the dramatic gesture is so spoiled that you really do just want to shuffle back inside and sulk on the couch.

4. Never. Ever. EVER. Argue via text message. This should be rule number one. Like, rule #1, Letter A, bold and underlined font. And we with cell phones ALL DO IT. The temptation is too great. I don't know about you, but to have the ability to "let it go" and decide to talk when we are next in each other's presence is like dangling a cigarette in front of my mouth when I'm two drinks in. The number of miscommunications I have had via text arguments is staggering. You'd think I would learn from this. Nope, neeeeeever do.

5. Understand that even though you may not be able to go to bed angry, others can. This is, for me, a bit like #4. The temptation to fix things (ahem. "fix things.") before the lights go down is painfully strong. I turn into a collie-type breed where I cannot settle until all my sheep are accounted for. Must. Talk. Things. To. Death. Unfortunately, if you're someone who likes to cool down first, this can be, err, problematic. Ideally there is compromise involved, but until then, all I can say is have a drink, take the dog for a walk, and write pointless non-advice in an underread blog.

See what I did there?

Next up on the PS Guide of Unhelpful Tips: How to talk your way into an anxiety attack... and maintain it for HOURS!

xo-PS

I Shit My Pants: And other tales of woe.

Hola Viewers.

Well, it's been a long time since my last post, my "welcome new year" post that contained a glimmer of hope that some years of crap are enigmas and followed by some years of a bit of crap, but not as much crap as the one before. I'm tempted just to sign off at that.

It's August! We have had our 3.5 weeks of summer weather and now begin the long journey to miserable West Coast weather. Mild, but bad mild. Not like "mild salsa" mild. I say that, because I enjoy mild salsa. Forgive me for appearing negative. I am.

Now, obvi, there have been many highlights to this year so far. I am still in my relationship, I was lucky enough to have a wonderful two week holiday, our dog is still well (knock on wood) and I have a roof over my head and food in my belly. My friend and I have been joking about "first world problems". In other words, if you have food, shelter, and love, any other problem is a first world problem. To a degree, this is a good outlook. For example... my bacon is too hot. I finished my book and can't decide on the next one. I have to go back up to my vacation cabin for another cocktail because I just finished my last one. Definite First World Problems (FWP's). But then there's that in-between shit. The shit that indeed happens alongside privilege, but feels like everything but.

It is becoming increasingly clear that my Smoking in my Pyjamas persona is long but gone. She is here, and consistently unwell. She drinks too much, smokes too much, has anxiety attacks, pops pills, and can't seem to maintain full time employment. But daggammit, that doesn't stop her from trying. I have managed to juggle three part-time/auxiliary/temporary jobs in the past little while. I won't go into detail, but I have been maintaining my ability to work in my designated field. It's just underpaid and not giving me enough hours to live in the lifestyle within I feel accustomed. You know, with food and shit. I jest - my partner is amazing about working consistently and filling in the financial gaps. But my yearning for the ability to work full time and consistently myself... it's not so much about the money. It's a bit more about pride. Oh wait, isn't that one of those seventh deadly thingies?

Okay, plug your ears and close your eyes, because it's been a long time since I've written so I'm going to produce a litany of shameful woe-is-me complaints. See you in the next paragraph. I'm stressed. I have terrible sexual dreams about parental figures. I don't know what job I'm going to have next week, and if it's the one I've applied for, there is a good chance I will fail in attempt to work the full time hours. My partner's family member is incredibly ill. I gained twenty-five pounds but shouldn't be bitching because I still maintain a "healthy" weight. I snapped my achilles in two (clinical term: rupture. My term: FUCK me up the fucking ASS this hurts) doing the only physical activity I have loved to do for the past 25 years. I'll never do that activity again. Physio is expensive. I have anxiety attacks every day, yet for some reason I am trying to lower my SSRI doseage, because apparently I have something to prove. My mother is still dead. I never talk to my sister any more, and she used to be my |person". You know, that person. Oh, and I shit my pants.

What's that? Yes, I shit my pants. Turns out that my guts like to do this new thing now, where when I get really nervous I on a few occasions haven't been able to make it to the (PUBLIC) bathroom in time.

My name is *****, and I shit my pants. Twice.

You haven't heard the last of me....

xo-PS

Farewell 2011, you Surly Bitch.

Sure, it's been a while. But only until I caught myself outside on the porch in my bathrobe, smoking, did I realize that this blog is far from over.

The major highlight of this year is that I found the love of my life. And at this very moment, he is beside me, curled up with my pup, on our couch. The second highlight of this year is that I survived. I am a proud, 2011 Survivor. Can you say the same?

It was a year of ups and downs. I am gainfully employed... kind of, yet still medicated to the gills. The mental health struggle continues. I am in a good relationship, in a new home which is shared with my spouse. I have a car, a job, a bank account, and a homemade chicken courdon bleu waiting for me in the oven. I do feel pretty blessed.

My mother died this year. And I witnessed a few family experiences that I would like to take back. Mistakes were made, lessons were learned. Yada yada yada. All in all, it's a time for new beginnings and forgiveness for the ass-hattery I'd like to call the gong show of my life. What does this New Year bring? Stay tuned. I'm sure it won't lack in drama and eventfullness, love and anger, or tears and diarrhea. That's right, I went there.

As my sister poignantly stated: "Happy 2012, Bitches." All I know is that this year, I'll be sure to strap on the emergency chute. You can never be too prepared.

xoxo
The Bathrobe Smoker. I feel I have at least upgraded.

It's been a long November so far. Oh wait... it's July.

I am going to do something I rarely do, and something I generally despise when others go on about it. I am going to complain about the weather.

Can I just get a "what the fuck IS this??" and a "one more day of this and I'm going to go to bed and not emerge until NEXT July"?

As some of you may not know, I live on the West Coast of British Columbia. The southern west coast. The mildest place in Canada. Closer to California than to Alberta, which is the next province over. For ten months out of the year, it is customary to experience rain, wind, fog, mist, hail, the occasional wet snow. Basically any kind of precipitation imaginable. And I suck it up. I suck it the fuck up, because I am lucky not to have to ever shovel snow, or plug in my car, or stick a jacket and shoes on my dog. And hey, it makes my skin look younger. So that being said, I endure ten months of grey, depressing, mild and wet weather so that in the other two months (July and August), I get some sunshine, some warmth, and some bathing suit/swimming weather. Don't get me wrong, it's rare to push over 30 degrees C. But I don't complain because I also don't have to use a mosquito net, air conditioning, and my city doesn't smell like rotting garbage.

Now, I am complaining.

I'm not sure if any of you knew this, but I'm prone to experiencing depression. (hehe) And like most others who experience bouts of depression, I'm very much affected by the weather. Grey days make me blue, and if I'm already blue, they make me want to lie in bed and never come out. A hot sunny day is like an injection of prozac. Or speed, depending on how hot and sunny. It's like the fog in my head lifts, and I'm filled with a little bit of... I don't know... joy! Love for my surroundings. Energy!

So far all we've had this summer is rain, and temperatures equalling early spring and late fall. And I am so done. I am (not for the first time) imagining what my mood would be like if I lived somewhere far south, where it's the polar opposite. Ten months of sun, the occasional two months of grey. I wonder. How much would it change me? What if I could actualy go off meds? What if that is the key to this whole puzzle?

I consider moving to California. Or Arizona (yes, cold winters, but STILL). I want to get the hell out of here.

Sigh.

So now that my rant is complete, I will say what any good West Coaster would say at this particular moment, and I will suck it up and continue with my day.

"At least I don't have to water the gardens."

OH WAIT. I'm currently employed to water my friend's garden twice a week, so I'm now also out of a job. So much for that little gem of optimism.

Sitting in front of my space heater on July 14th,
PS

Your passport photo makes you look like a serial killer.

Heehee! Heehee!

If you finished reading the latest Thomas King novel, you'd get the reference. For the record - a pleasure to read. Beyond expectations.

I started another book but was liking it so much that I've put a bookmark in it to save it for my vacation. I'm at that point where I will only read mediocre fiction until I am lying on a beach, slathered in politically-incorrect tanning oil, and wearing an embarassingly large pair of sunglasses and a shockingly small bikini.

So. Passport photos.

I feel as though I need to rewind. I have decided that from the beginning, this is a blog about me and only me, I do not share other people's stories. I make the odd reference, but privacy is sacred. Not mine - mine is non-existent in this forum. But other people's privacy... well, I try and respect that. Boring, I know.

Last night, I had a fight. I had a fight like no other I have had before. I fought with a friend. Can anyone else here relate when I say that I've never *really* duked it out with anyone other than a boyfriend (read: romantic partner)? I thought it would be different, but the absence of sex doesn't really change the fact that it is scary, heartbreaking, awful on SO many levels, and absoultely debilitating. This story does actually have a happy ending, by the way.

We worked it out, and I truly feel that said friend and I are stronger for it. And unlike most of my romantic relationships, present excluded, I actually feel like we worked it out without me turtling. A nice term for apologizing over and over and taking back everything I said, pretending I didn't mean it, and trying to please please please. Obviously I said things I didn't mean and apologized for them, but what it came down to was that it was a really liberating day for me. Awful in every way, but liberating. Why is it that there has to be the good with the bad? Why can't there just be the good? Ah well. Symmetry, I guess.

Long story short, I feel so open and honest and real with this person. I thought I was before, but I never realized I wasn't 100% until yesterday. I was only working at about 95% honesty. Anyways. It was a learning experience that we went through together.

Last night I cried. I cried like I haven't cried in a long, long, time. My boyfriend has made mention before at my inability (strong word, mine not his) to cry. But I'm on some pretty strong meds that work really well at suppressing feelings of anxiety. Unfortunately, strong feelings such as sadness, though they exist, are harder to bring to the surface level. But when I cry, I CRY. Something I never really experienced before the past two years. I used to cry often, but for small periods of time. Last night I sobbed until my body could no longer produce liquid. And though it was under awful circumstances, I'm not going to lie, it was overdue.

The idea that a pill changes my being like that scares me. Sure, it changes my levels of anxiety and depression and because that's good, I don't doubt its effectiveness. But when it comes to things like feeling severe sadness and not being able to express it... that's when the effects of a single pill really becomes clear. And a little startling.

Wait, I was going to try to make this story more interesting and funny. Yes. Passport photos.

After my night of emotional release, I woke up this morning feeling drained, sick, but motivated. I took everything on my to-do list that I have been avoiding for stupid reasons, and I went and DID them. One of those things was renewing my passport before it expires and I'm left with going through some shit-show to get a new one.

In my enthusiasm to be productive, I ran out of the house, toothbrush going as I threw on my shoes, without looking in a mirror. Or showering. Or putting on deodorant. And trust me, after the night sweats I have, that is a serious exclusion. I shopped, I photocopied, I gassed the car, I went in to get my passport photo taken and then realized, hmm. This is a photo to last five years. And there is no mirror in this store.

I thought that the only passport photo caveat was to not smile. Turns out you must also remove your necklace, and tuck your limp, greasy, sweaty, unmaintained, three-days before a dye-job hair BEHIND your ears. Oh, and not smile. And then they show you the photo. Oh, the photo.

My first comment was: "Yup. I look like a serial killer, must be a proper pasport photo. Looks good to me." My second comment was: "Maybe I should have re-thought the grey Fruit of the Loom tank top, which doesn't really make the serial killer thing less prominent."

I don't know what, if any, point there is to this story. But if I am to take anything from it, it will be...

1) If you are incapable of crying and only do so once every two months, just stay home the next day. For the love of god, take your sluggy eyelids and go back to bed.

2) There is always time to apply deodorant. A rule I believe is universal beyond this story, after years of waitressing.

3) If you need to have your passport photo taken, for the love of all that is good in this world: run a comb through your hair, wear a shirt that cost you more than $1.50, cover your tattoos (it will pay off in the long run) and LOOK IN A MIRROR.

Signing off as someone who has resigned herself to the next five years of being strip searched at the border...

PS