You Searched For: hiding

To missing friends. The ones lost. The ones in hiding.

Tonight I miss people.  I miss friends who I’ve lost.  I miss friends who still exist, but are too terrified of life to say hello.  I understand it.  I miss me too when I go missing.  But I’m still here – deep down- under the shell that protects me when life gets too rough.  I’m still here when my head tries to tell me I’m nothing.  I’m still here under it all.  And you’re here too.

You’re here even if you think no one would know if you were gone.  You’re here in the hearts of people you would never suspect you had impacted.  You’re here in memory and in reality and in the echo of every person you ever touched and taught.  You are magnified in ways you never knew.

Many years ago Victor took me to a tropical island.  It was a dark time for me and a reminder that you don’t get to pick the times when parts of you go missing.  It rained more than it didn’t.  My anxiety and depression magnified.  I got sick and I ended up in the hospital in another country.   When I think back to those days I have dark memories with a few bright spots.  I remember standing in the pouring rain, looking out into the horizon.  I took a picture because I knew I wasn’t me enough to appreciate it at the time.

I found that picture again tonight.


It’s beautiful.  And dark.  And if you look through the rain you’ll see that it’s amazing.  You just have to have the right eyes.

You have to learn to see what’s hidden beneath.

You have to remember that we are so much more than our broken minds sometimes recognize.

I see you.  I remember you.  You echo in me.  I miss you.  But you are not missing.  You are here.

Hiding in the bathroom

Time for the weekly wrap-up.  It’s…kind of depressing.  Mostly because I’ve been really sick, had a rheumatiod arthritis flare-up and of course that triggered a series of small anxiety attacks.  In other words, I seldom left the house and I wrote a lot of bad, angsty poetry that will never see the light of day. You’re welcome.

    This week on my sex column (which is satirical and relatively safe for work if your boss isn’t a total douche canoe):

    This week on the internets:

    • I was asked to contribute to a book about bathrooms since I’m known for spending half my life hiding from people there and it was easy enough because I have 500,000 pictures of me in bathrooms (see above) and then when I got my copy of the book I saw that I was like 10 pages away from a self-portrait of Amanda Fucking Palmer.  Which is kind of kick-ass and totally makes up for the fact that I’m not actually making anything from this book and that I had to actually buy my own copy.  I’m not really sure if I should be proud of this whole situation or not.

    This week on Good Mom/Bad Mom on the Houston Chronicle:

    This week on shit-I-didn’t-write-but-wish-I-did-because-it’s-kind-of-awesome:

    It’s the little things, y’all.

    I was in the bathroom at the movies when someone let out the longest and loudest public fart I’ve ever heard in my life, and everyone went quiet for a second in that way where you couldn’t tell if they were more impressed or concerned and then a small child who sounded maybe three excitedly squealed, “OH MY GOODNESS MAMA. SOMEONE TOOTED SO LOUD!” in the same tone you’d use if you’d just seen Santa Claus and then she laughed so gleefully and her mom was like, “Samantha, don’t laugh” but you could tell that the mom was trying not to laugh too because this kids belly-laugh giggles were unstoppable and contagious and suddenly all of the women in their stalls started laughing and for the first time in my life I felt bad that it wasn’t me that farted, because I have never before witnessed a fart that gave so many such joy.


    And on an entirely different subject…

    Shit I made in my shop (Named “EIGHT POUNDS OF UNCUT COCAINE” so that your credit card bill will be more interesting.):


    This week’s wrap-up is brought to you HotHouse Intimates, a company that curates monthly subscription boxes filled with adult products for all experience levels.  Bonus: The site is designed with a mainstream audience in mind so you don’t have to worry about hiding your phone when viewing it, and it makes a fabulous Valentine’s Day gift.  Bloggess followers get 30% off their first box with discount code: BLOGGESSBOX, which I’m not sure is a euphemism but probably is.  Check them out here.

    I’m sure I’ll find this funny eventually.

    If you’ve been following here you know we had an upstairs sink overflow which flooded through my office ceiling and then our washing machine broke the same day and flooded the laundry room and kitchen and I’ve been living with severe anxiety disorder in a house of workmen and plastic tarps and industrial blowers, but today all the plastic was removed (except for the bit that covered the hole they had to cut in my ceiling) and the world seemed almost normal for a moment – until the insurance adjuster and contractor showed up to talk about construction and ripping up the warped floors -which they probably can’t match because they’re 40 years old- and I may have felt a bit sorry for myself because having strangers in my house is like living in a bucket of razors but I told myself that this was very little for normal people and I soldiered on and felt very proud of myself for not hiding in a closet.  And then they left and 10 minutes later I heard this terrible tapping noise and I realized THAT WATER WAS POURING INTO MY OFFICE AGAIN.  So I screamed for Victor who did not hear me because he’s on a conference call and is used to blocking me out as I found that someone (either the contractor, the adjustor or the cat they accidentally let in) had turned the same flooded sink on AGAIN and it was pouring all over the bathroom.

    So now I’m legit crying and the water mitigation people have to come back in today and start over and Victor and I have decided that we’re going to rip out the offending sinks altogether and replace them with ones that have an overflow (WHO MAKES SINKS WITHOUT OVERFLOW HOLES?) but the ones that came with the house are fancy ass custom-made ones so basically I’m going to destroy the most beautiful sinks I’ve ever seen and pay thousands of dollars out-of-pocket to do it (not including the thousands of dollars for my deductible for the floor damage) and I’m feeling very sorry for myself and also very bad about feeling sorry for myself since this is such a small problem compared to…I don’t know…the plague, I guess.

    The good thing is that several people told me that flooding always happens in threes so we’re done now.  Right?

    Please say I’m right.

    Also, please don’t let me get the plague.

    Please tell me it’s going to be okay.  I know it is.  I just need to hear it.

    PS. As this was happening I was literally publishing these shirts in my shop.  Not sure if this is irony or just punishment.

    PPS.  I made Victor get up on a ladder and pull down the tarp on my ceiling so that the water could escape but he didn’t want to because he was afraid we’d do more damage but I insisted and I was like, WHAT COULD POSSIBLY GO WRONG? and then when he untaped it a torrent of water hit him right in the face and soaked his business suit and I’m going to just go hide in the closet now.


    Hi. I still exist, y’all.

    If you don’t use Facebook just ignore this.  It’s just an FYI I wish I’d known before.

    I’ve had a couple of people recently ask me why I don’t blog anymore and that seemed weird because I’ve never stopped blogging but they insisted that they hadn’t seen anything from me on Facebook in forever and Victor also said he never sees my posts on Facebook saying that I have a new blog post out and I assumed they were just crazy but I thought I’d do an experiment just to see if Facebook was hiding my posts with links to my blog.

    I posted two posts at the same time asking people to “like” if they saw it in their feeds.  They were identical except one also had a link to my blog.  Within four minutes the post without the link had 5 times more likes than the one with the link and Facebook was like, “This post is doing better than 95% of the other posts on your page so you should pay us to get it out to more people” and that seems ironic since it was a post showing that Facebook was kinda being a dick, but whatever.

    Final numbers 2 days later:

    Post with a link in it ~ 4.4k likes.  (Facebook says 26k people reached)

    Post without a link in it ~ 12k likes.  (Facebook says 57k people reached.)

    Lovely people who understand Facebook more than I do explained it’s an algorithm issue because Facebook doesn’t want to show stuff that has links because it makes you leave Facebook, but that you can get around it a bit by instead putting the link in the first comment of the post, so I tried that and asked people to “like” if they saw it and it got 9.4k likes (66k people reached).   That seems pretty definitive.  I decided to share this with you in case you’re having the same issues, although probably by the time I write this Facebook will also find a way to hide any posts that links in the comments too or just erase me from existence.  Hard to tell.


    Hello. Dog here.

    Victor told me to look at the drive-thru window of our local burger joint and I didn’t get why until I suddenly saw it and then I couldn’t stop laughing.


    And Victor was like, “Wait, what?” and I explained that that’s how dogs would order hamburgers because they don’t know the real words for them and Victor was like, “But why are they hiding under the bed?” and I explained that the best place to hide food is under the bed because your angry owner can’t reach you while you’re desperately scarfing it down and also because if you want animal crackers in the middle of the night you can just reach under the mattress and not disturb anyone and then Victor was like, “Wait, is that why I keep finding cookies under the bed?  WE’RE GOING TO GET ANTS” and I sort of see his point but also ants would never live under our bed because they’d be continually disturbed by our pets guiltily lurking under there with all of the burgers they’ve stolen off our plates.


    I think this is how you get cursed.

    Did you read yesterday’s post about lawn gerbils?  If not, go read that and then come back.  We’ll wait.

    Okay, so I’m pretty sure someone is fucking with me but Victor and Hailey are both out of town and no one else here has thumbs (except Ferris Mewler who was born with too many fingers but only uses them to turn on sinks and walk away like an asshole).

    So, I got a live trap yesterday and baited it with peanut butter to catch whatever it was I saw and the trap has gone off twice and some of the peanut butter is gone but there’s nothing in the trap so I was like, my lawn gerbils are also ghosts, obviously.  But then people on twitter were like, “The rat probably got out because rats can squeeze through crazy tiny holes and here’s your new phobia” so I went online to order another trap but I reset the old one because why not, but then I just went to check it and it was still open and unsprung BUT THERE WAS SOMETHING IN IT.  Not an alive something.

    A small, shiny star.  Inside the trap.

    And I wanted to get it out because why is it even there and how did someone put it there without setting off the trap but also I didn’t want to touch it because what if the rats left it and wiped hantavirus all over it to pay me back for trying to evict them?  So I went to look for gloves but all I could find were opera gloves from an old halloween costume, so I’m basically dressed up super fancy to put my hand in a rat trap that has now possibly been hacked to catch me.  And it’s some sort of plastic, shiny star (with a hole in back like it should be on a bracelet) and I got one single, unfocused photo of it before it slipped out of my fingers and dropped into the succulent bushes that the rats were hiding in.  So I’m using a stick to try to move the plants to find the star and the whole time I’m thinking, “What if this was their plan all along?  What if they drag me down to their lair and this is where all the missing people and socks go?” but I couldn’t find the star or the ghost rats and it’s really hot so I gave up.

    So now I’m wondering if it was the lawn gerbils paying me for the free peanut butter?  Or is it fairies?  And if so, is that a threat?  And since I just threw it in the bushes rather than keeping it have I insulted them again?  Or was it a message from the rats like, “Gold star for effort, idiot.  Except, you suck at this so here’s a silver star instead.”  Can rats be sarcastic?

    I don’t even have an ending for this.  I’m so confused.

    I realize this is an awful photo but in my defense, it’s hard to take a good picture when you’re wearing slippery opera gloves and holding the bait that fairies might be using to curse you.




    Stuff and junk

    So yesterday I was sort of in hiding because I either had the flu or I was depressed and I couldn’t tell which and I was hoping for the flu because that usually leaves quicker but then I woke up feeling shitty again this morning and I realized my head was broken so I called my friend and I was like, “I’m broken.  Will you come to my house and watch Drunk History with me so it’s almost like I’m leaving the house but not really?” and she was like, “Hells yeah.  We’re all broken. That shit’s making the rounds, my friend” but then when she came in I sort of saw my house for the first time with new eyes and I was like, “Hey.  So.  I just realized my Christmas tree is still up.  So, that’s happening” and because she’s nonjudgmental she was like, “You should keep that shit up all year.  It’s a lovely night-light” and I was like, “Maybe it’s a Valentine’s Day Tree.  And my valentine is Santa Claus.  Because he’s pretty much the only one on the tree the cats haven’t knocked down.”  And then we watched TV and laughed and the house animals sat in our laps and I felt human again.  So here is to friends who are better than prozac.  Also, she makes bad-ass bags.  And she was in that chapter of my book about how I lost those dead cat koozies in my house.  You know her.

    PS.  I’m not drunk.  I’m just not correcting my run-on sentences.

    PPS.  I just heard that the paperback copy of Furiously Happy is #4 on the Indie Bestseller List.  Y’ALL.  That is nuts.  People who bought Furiously Happy + people who support independent bookstores = the Venn diagram of people I want to lick on the face.

    PPPS.  Speaking of which, I just got 300 pounds of posters that I carried into my house and signed for Independent Bookstore Day and they are LUSCIOUS.  Like, thick, heavy paper that you’d print diplomas on.  If you get one and you have pet allergies you should maybe shake it out a bit because I had help.


    PPPPS.  If you’re struggling right now too just put on the tv and pretend I’m there with you on the couch.  Because I am.  We all are.

    PPPPPS.  Spellcheck just told me that “nonjudgmental” is not a word and it was like “Did you mean to say ‘JUDGEMENTAL’? and no, I didn’t because that’s the opposite of what mean and, by the way, THAT’S NOT EVEN HOW YOU SPELL ‘JUDGMENTAL’, SPELLCHECK.  THIS IS WHY NO ONE LIKES YOU.


    it’s in the damn dictionary, spellcheck.  Stop judging me.

    Is there supposed to be an extra "e" in there? I don't even know anymore.

    Is there supposed to be an extra “e” in there? I don’t even know how to spell anymore.

    PPPPPPS.  It also says “koozies” isn’t a real world.  I trust nothing.

    This week is hard, y’all.

    Hey.  This week is full of angst and anxiety for a lot of us but I just want to tell you what I want to hear myself: It’s going to be okay.  Whether you are protesting in the street or hiding in bed or trying to be positive or you’re confused or scared or angry…it’s going to be okay.

    We’re going to be okay.  It might take work but work is being done.  In small ways and large ways and quiet ways you may never know about.

    This week is full of scary shit and much smarter people than me have written more eloquently about it so instead I’m just going to share a few silly things that I think are pertinent.

    First, know that it’s okay to not be okay:


    People love you and want to offer comfort.  Sometimes we’re just really, really bad at it.


    But the thought is there, even if it’s scary to reach out.


    Know that even when it’s overwhelming you aren’t alone.


    You are loved.


    And bunnies still exist.


    And cats.


    And cake.


    We’re going to be okay.


    Get in here.


    And if you still feel scared, watch this:


    Keep breathing.

    Possibly the weirdest thing I ever got in the mail and that’s really saying something

    Yesterday I picked up my mail from my post office box and it was mainly books and bills and sweet letters and strange, lovely gifts but there was one box that sort of stood out because it was enormous and inside was a single piece of paper with the words “KNOCK KNOCK MOTHERFUCKER” written out of torn magazine letters like a ransom note:


    And under it was an enormous sloth.  Or maybe a sasquatch.  Or a slothsquatch, which I’m not sure exists but totally should.

    "Please play with me. Or euthanize me."


    He had long poles coming out of his hands and his legs were long enough to wear as a scarf (not that you’d want to) and he looked at me with such longing.  “Pick me up,” he seemed to say. Or maybe “Put me out of my misery.”  It’s hard to tell.



    And I realized that it was a very old, highly used, full-body puppet.  The kind where you strap yourself to its feet so it walks when you walk and of course I put it on immediately and I was like, “VICTOR, DID YOU GET ME AN ANNIVERSARY SLOTH MONKEY?  BECAUSE YOU TOTALLY NAILED IT” but he didn’t respond so I yelled “IT SMELLS WEIRD THOUGH.  IS IT SUPPOSED TO SMELL LIKE A LIVE SLOTH?  OR A DEAD ONE?”  And then he said something from his office that I later found out something about being on a conference call but I couldn’t hear him because he was yell-whispering and my ears were too full of excitement so I was like, “I DON’T KNOW WHAT YOU’RE SAYING. I CAN’T COME TO YOU BECAUSE I’M STRAPPED TO THIS SLOTH AND HIS FEET ARE ALL SLIPPERY.  ALSO, THE CATS FUCKING HATE THIS GUY.”  Because they did and they were hiding under the couch and I was like, “I CAN’T TELL IF THIS A SLOTH OR A SASQUATCH?  DID YOU BUY ME A USED ‘SQUATCH TO WEAR?” and he was walked out of his office and was like, “JESUS CHRIST I AM ON A CONFERENCE CALL SO COULD YOU PLEASE-” and then he stopped talking because he noticed I was wearing a sloth (or maybe a chimpanzee?) and I paused for a second to judge if he was mad that I’d opened my gift too early, but the stunned look on his face told me that he hadn’t bought the slothsquatch at all so I tried to dance some of the awkwardness out of the moment by making Mr. Noodles sing the Copacabana song.  (I named the sloth/monkey Mr. Noodles because his appendages are so noodly.  Also, spellcheck is telling me that “noodly” isn’t a word because apparently spellcheck has never seen this noodly motherfucker.)



    Mr. Noodles is made of awesome.  And possibly some horror and whimsy.  And maybe some dead cats or skinned muppets.  Hard to tell.  He speaks in a high-pitched, kinda nasally  british accent and when I dance with him it’s like if Weekend at Bernie’s replaced the dead guy with an anorexic sasquatch.



    Then I spent most of the day posing Mr. Noodles in all the rooms of the house or jumping out of the bushes at the neighborhood kids so they could have a sasquatch sighting and then Victor got on a plane and left Texas.  But he was already planning on leaving for work so it’s not like he was fleeing.  Probably.



    I still don’t know who sent it to me but I think it was my friend, Neurotic Owl.  The return address is “BASEMENT UNDER THE OPERA”.  I have a weird life.  And a slothsquatch named Mr. Noodles.  I feel like I’m winning at life today.

    UPDATED: Video, as requested…CLICK HERE.