...I Heard Y'all Been Lookin' For Me?

Oh hi. Hello. It’s been quite a fucking while, don’t you think?

I would say let’s catch up but…we all know what it is. We’ve survived a global pandemic (by just about the skin of our teeth), and here we are on the other side - the intelligent among us vaccinated and ready to conquer whatever the rest of this year and the next have to offer. Huzzah!

When last we met, I was in damage control mode of sorts, and I am happy to report that things have not changed very much in the last couple years. The me that wrote that post in February of 2020 certainly could not have pictured the trajectory of her life and where we are now, but that’s all beside the point. You’re here to talk shop…and maybe to spend some money, too. Which is super cool, and super appreciated.

I’ve decided to cut my ties with third party platforms and sell for myself - which is terrifying. I really think people only know about my stuff because I waste money on Etsy marketing and make use of the platform they already have, but I happen to be at a place in my life where I think the risk is worth it, and I am jumping before I check to make sure that there’s a net. I will most likely regret that, but…a girl has to try, right?

So I hope you’ll come back for more and keep up with me as I tweak this page here and there, put a little more work into it, and show off what I have to offer. I would love to hear from more of you, either on Instagram or just send me a message, leave a comment, let me know I’m not totally screaming into the ether, yeah?

Loving you fuckers always, especially on the hard days,

XOXO Rachface

The Way Back is Long…But the Snacks Have Been Great

How I Lost My Job, My Shit, My Sense of Self, and Almost my Mind…But Still Not the Baby Weight

I am depressed.

Sorry, let me say it a little louder for the people in the cheap seats.
I AM DEPRESSED.

I get out of bed every day. I manage to shower a few times a week (even if I only wash my hair like twice). I go to work. I take my son to school. I laugh at your jokes. I show up. I take my son to jiu jitsu. I create in the cracks of some days. I participate in all the things I am expected to. I keep appointments, I keep notes, I pay bills, I fulfill obligations.

That does not change the fact that I am depressed.
I may not be at my lowest.
I may not look like I am experiencing depression.
I may tell you I am living the dream.
I may smile half heartedly.
I may encourage your child if they are new to Bobby’s class.
I may encourage you.
I may remind people to be kind.
I may remind people to support one another.

None of that changes the fact that I have felt like I am drowning for months.
None of that changes the fact that some days it literally has felt like I am standing in the middle of a crowded room screaming at the top of my lungs, and no one hears me.

Surely, you can’t be serious, you’re thinking. Surely, people have noticed. Surely, people have stepped in. Surely, there has been some sort of change. Surely, someone would have intervened by now.

If you have never heard of what is commonly called the “bystander effect”, I can give you a moment to google it now. I can wait another few minutes. I’ll still be here while you take a step away and open another tab. I promise, I’m not going anywhere. If I’m still here all these months later, no one is getting rid of me that easy, friend.

Back with me? Makes a little sense, doesn’t it?
It can be applied to a lot of things. But this one…this goes deeper than the assumption that someone else will do something. But we’ll get into that.

A while back, I posted a comedic piece on my birthday. I promised you this one there. I promised to explain why my thirty first year on Earth wasn’t my best. I promised to tell you the truth. My part of it, anyway. So that’s what you’re here for. That’s what this is. And I’ll be real with you. It isn’t pretty. It’s funny in ways you wouldn’t expect it to be, but you are not going to come out of it the way you went into it. I am not going to pull any punches. I am going to keep it really real, as per usual. And if you’re not into that, well, this is your chance to get the fuck out of dodge and go look at some funny memes to drag yourself out of the darkness I tried to send you into. I won’t take it personally, I promise.

Happy trails to you, my friend.

If you’re still with me, buckle up, buckle down, and grab a beverage.

Part Number the First: How I Lost My Job

I have been employed steadily in many different jobs since I was basically twelve years old. I have babysat, I have worked at McDonald’s, I have waited tables, I have tended bars, I have made coffee, I have blown up balloons, I have made pizzas, I have sold books. I have done so many things that even I sometimes lose track. One thing I had never done before this year?

I had one hundred percent honestly never been fired from a job.

That changed this year.
I was not ready for it. I was not expecting it. I showed up to work my shift, and I was blindsided.
I sat in my car for a while afterwards, and I cried. I didn’t have any savings. I wasn’t paying my bills adequately as it was. I had just stopped working my second job because I was trying to focus a little bit on my business and see where it could take me. My boss there had already hired two wonderfully nice girls to replace me, and I couldn’t very well take back leaving and screw other people over. You may not believe this, but that’s not who I am.

I sat in my car, and I cried. I didn’t know who to call, I didn’t know what to do but cry.

I felt nothing but sorry for myself.
When I got home, I cried some more. Then the sky opened up and it was like Mother Nature wanted to have a good cry with me. It poured, and I sat on my porch and I drank some wine and I cried. I cried and I cried, and I felt sorry for myself, and it went this way for a little while. Then I got angry, then I got busy trying to find a job. I had nothing to fall back on, I was embarrassed, and I couldn’t think of anything but “god damn I need to pay my bills”. The asshole that fired me had promised if I needed help finding something that he would be sure to give me a good reference, because his “hands were tied” and it had been the decision of the owners. Cool.

SPOILER ALERT: HE DIDN’T.
He cost me two jobs with a bad reference.

To be perfectly clear…I am no longer bitter about that, cause he got fired from there recently anyway. I always knew karma was a bigger bitch than me.

So I kept going on interviews and I kept feeling sorry for myself, and then I interviewed at an old manager’s new place and he hired me on the spot. He reminded me of my worth, and I will always appreciate that leg up. It is definitely about who you know in the world, folks. Just a reminder.

Here’s the kicker though. Before I could start my new job, my car died. The universe was coming at me from all different angles, trying to fuck me sideways, backwards, and upside down, and daring me to keep getting back up.

The universe didn’t know who the fuck she was messing with.
She pushed me down nine times. I got up twelve.

Long story short, I worked that job for a while. Money is a bitch, single parenthood is hard af, and student loans are the devil, so I ended up needing a second job. For a while I worked both at the restaurant and overnights at an incredibly large online retailer, until it became impossible, and I had to make the best decision for myself, which was to hang up my apron for good and choose the steady paycheck. I’ve lived to regret that choice in a lot of ways, but that’s a horse of an entirely different color.

The takeaway here is this: I didn’t tell people these things. The minute most of this happened, I shot my walls back up. It is my instinct to keep people out. This comes from years and years of needing to as a way to survive. So no one knew. I was struggling behind the scenes of my life, but I was pretending I wasn’t.

THESE WERE THE FIRST CRACKS.

Part Le Deux: The Story of My Second Nervous Breakdown, and how I Absolutely Lost my Shit Behind the Scenes

We’re going to dial it back here for a minute.
This is the part where we address that ugly word that I brought up right away.

DEPRESSION.
You have an idea of what it looks like. To most people, it may look like someone who can’t get up out of bed. Who can’t eat. Who can’t participate in life. Who just…won’t allow themselves to be happy. You have an idea that it is a choice. You may even think that the way in which you become depressed looks even remotely similar for everyone.

But I’m here to tell you…YOU ARE WRONG.

Depression is different for everyone.
For me, depression didn’t mean I lost a bunch of weight. In fact, depression has led me to be the heaviest I have been in years. Depression has led me to poor food choices, to disregard of my own health. Depression has led me to forget my self care routines.

For me, depression has meant crying in the shower, because I refuse to let my son see what is going on inside of me. For me, depression has meant having to turn off the parts of my brain I don’t like. For me, depression has meant withdrawing from people without them noticing. Forgetting to answer. Forgetting to acknowledge them. Depression has meant a whole lot of things, but they are not all what you expect.

Because, throughout my depression, I have still managed kindnesses for others.
I have still fulfilled obligations.
I have managed drop off and pick up five days a week, even delirious after twelve hour shifts.
I have managed to work full time and then some, some weeks working fifty plus hours.
I have kept the laundry maintained.
I have never forgotten trash day, or what day the washing machine needs its cleaning cycle run.
I have kept creating and maintaining deadlines.
I have had conversations.
I have heard my friends vent.
I have counseled people through rough times in their own lives.

I have done all of this while waiting for someone to take notice of what I have been doing to myself.

And until I really admitted it to myself, I could not vocalize it to anyone else. But that’s not even the sad part of this story.

Because, you see, I asked for help.

DRINK THAT IN.

I actually can tell you about how many times I asked people for help. I asked for help with the mundane things, I asked for a leg up. I asked for a share of my work. I asked for a babysitter. I asked for a coffee date. I asked for an ear. I asked for a shoulder. I asked for a hug.

I stood in front of people in my life and I PHYSICALLY FUCKING SAID IT OUT LOUD.
I told people when they asked how I was the truth.
I told them I felt like I was drowning.
I told them I felt overwhelmed.
I told them I felt sad.
I told them I was having trouble with the changes in my life.
I told them I needed a day off.
I told them I needed space.

…half the time, they changed the subject.

But. Let’s be absolutely fucking clear about one thing here:
I am not telling you this because I want your pity. Nor do I need your help now.
I do not need to be lifted.

I am telling you this because at my most vulnerable, no one knew how to help me.
Even when I explained what they could do and vocalized what I needed, it was uncomfortable. So they ignored it. Things got ugly and things made them feel bad because the fix wasn’t easy, so they ignored my words, they ignored my questions. They ignored me. They ignored me, and came with half-hearted apologies months later when I admitted to social media that I was depressed, even if I was pretending that I wasn’t.

And this, this is the part where I tell all those people they can go directly the fuck to hell.
They can one hundred percent fuck entirely off.

If you are one of them and you happen to be reading this, I do absolutely mean you. I may hide it well, but resentment runs deep in this Capricorn heart. With the help of some incredible people and my own wherewithal, I pulled myself out of my lowest low, and I made it through the worst of that storm, but I can not suffer and tolerate any longer people who will watch another human being struggle, listen to them beg for relief, and then complain about petty problems and change the subject.

So to all of you rotten, fake friends, I SAY BYE FELICIA AND HAVE A NICE DAY.

Now, you may be thinking, but didn’t you start this post off telling us you were depressed??!

I sure the fuck did.
Here’s the truth folks: depression never just disappears.
The pervasive problems that landed me where I am still exist, and there are some new ones popping up every single day. I am a better version of myself every day, but I sometimes still feel low. I sometimes cry in the shower, or in my car. I tell people I am “living the dream” because “I have horrible anxiety today and it feels like the world is crushing me from every angle, and I just want to cry” doesn’t read so well, and it makes shit awkward. I overeat some days, and I am kind to my body on others. I still don’t have the motivation to work out, but I am taking less naps. I am creating more, and I am learning more, and I am working more. I am working my hardest, but there are just some corners of my sadness that can not be rectified on my own.

Some of them I have discussed openly here, some of them I haven’t.
I live every single day with traumas I have to heal from because I never tackled them fearlessly or honestly. I live with resentment for the father of my child daily, as I try to make ends meet and save money to make things like McDonald’s Monday and dollar store treats happen. I feel pathetic almost constantly, but I am letting myself feel things again. I am not shutting off the feelings for fear they will crush me.

I am here, and I am fighting the good fight.
I am here, and I am not fucking going anywhere.

….you didn’t actually think I would be that easy to get rid of, did you?

Part In Triplicate: The Part Where I (Finally) Wrap this Up

If you’re still reading this, you’re probably wondering when the fuck I will shut up.
Don’t worry, because we’re almost there. You’re almost free. I just have a couple maybe semi useful things to say in conclusion and in thanks.

While the universe has been testing me this past year, I have learned a lot both about life, and about myself. I have learned what I can handle. I have learned my shortcomings. I have learned who my friends truly are. I have learned who I can count on. I have learned what gratitude truly is, and I have learned how to let myself be human without thinking it makes me fragile. I owe a lot of these things to my own fortitude, but there are just as many that I owe to a small select few individuals. None of them did it for the pomp and circumstance, so I will just say simply: thank you.

Thank you for the phone calls.
Thank you for checking on me.
Thank you for the long conversations via text.
Thank you for your belief in me.
Thank you for remembering important events.
Thank you for listening.
Thank you for bringing me back to myself.

I owe you my life.

I have also learned a lot about my potential. And while it may be almost March (CRAZY, because it felt like January was 570 years long), you better believe I have big plans for the rest of this year and beyond.

Don’t blink.
You might miss it.

Over and out,
Love and poison kisses,

Rachface
XO

31 Reasons I Will Be Turning 31 Again this New Year’s Eve (it absolutely works that way, thanks)

OH HI. IT’S ME.

I bet you thought I had dropped off the face of the earth. Went the way of most business babes. Decided this life wasn’t for me (very nearly), gave up (almost), and just let this keep being a recurring charge on my bank statement. About that last one, I bite my thumb at you cause…clearly you’re not a single parent. Ain’t nothing coming out of this bitch’s bank account that I don’t use or know about, thank you VERY much.

But nope.
I’m here. I’m alive.
SO FUCKING MUCH has transpired over the last seven months, and is still transpiring, so I will give you the cliff notes version of a catch up in my new year’s post. This one? This has a specific intent. And I’m determined to stay on tangent.

So here goes.

December 31 is my birthday.
They call the age where you turn the number of your actual birthdate your “golden year”. Your “golden birthday”. So 31 was my golden year. But that fucker was NOT golden. So in true Rachel fashion…I am taking it back. Instead of 32 this year, I have decided that 2020 will be my “do-over”. My golden year that actually has any hint of gold. Why, you may ask? (Or not - I don’t really wait for people to ask, and if you’re not curious, feel free to go about your business and click on elsewhere.)

Here are 31 reasons I get to decide to take back my golden year. With extremely - and I mean EXTREMELY (for me, anyway) - brief explanations.

1. because I said so, damn you.

I mean…I think this is self-explanatory but. Yeah. What she said.

2. Because misery should not be a part of any year, let alone your golden year on this planet.

Everyone should be happy. I know that sounds like it’s easier said than done, but like…we all deserve a little fucking happiness. I mean, damn.

3. Because getting older is terrifying AF.

Let’s not beat around that bush. It fucking is.

4. Because I didn’t get to genuinely enjoy this year.

That sounds like a watered down version of number 2 but I swear it’s not. I want to enjoy every part of my year. I mean every part of it. Starting with my actual birthday.

5. Because your thirties are supposed to be the best time of your life, according to some people.

So why should I start out the best decade of my life with a shitty ass year.

6. Because Baskin Robbins.

They have 31 flavors for a reason, y’all.

7. Because I am the captain of my destiny.

And I am still working on convincing myself of this fact, so I am going to start small, and take back this year for myself.

8. Because if I feel empowered, I will BE empowered.

It’s like the secret in that sense. Put into the universe what you want to come to fruition, and all that jazz. I have to figure that that same logic can resonate, even a little bit, here.

9. Because I am not ready to be 32.

Yup. I said that.

10. Because 31 is a sexier number.

I mean, this is just cold hard facts though, isn’t it?

11. Because I waited for my golden birthday since I found out what the term meant…and I forgot 31 was my golden year till shit went south this summer.

If you need more explanation on that one, I have three words for you: Hooked. On. Phonics.

12. Because I don’t like who I was at 31.

This is sad, but true. And I want to change that fact.

13. Because every year of me deserves its due.

I spent much of this year in a depression, and that’s no way to spend a life. I refuse to let another year go half-lived. ESPECIALLY that golden year. Fuckkkk that.

14. Because I am hoping Jedi mind tricking time will become my new superpower or something.

I really want superpowers, but like…who doesn’t?

15. Because this year passed too quickly.

I need more time. Don’t we all? But this is about me.

16. Because I am desperately hoping that it will make time freeze, and my son will not have to grow up.

Although…I will say it will be nice to not have to pay that preschool bill every month come September, LET ME TELL YOU. Amirite parents?!

17. Because I am a Capricorn.

And realistically, I should be able to do all things that I put my mind to. Or so they say.

18. Because this year went too fast.

And then there’s that. This goes along with the enjoyment, but like. Let’s be fair. 2019 went really quick and I want to really enjoy life, so I’m gonna use 2020 as when I do that. Hopefully time will stop marching.

19. Because I want to think ahead.

I keep telling myself I will be ready for the next season creatively this time around, but it only seems to creep up on me again every year. And it’s very very annoying. So like, I want to get my shit together.

20. Because 31 is 13 backwards.

And we all know 13 is a beacon for creepy people everywhere.

21. Because 31 should have been lucky?

If 13 is unlucky, shouldn’t it go the other way with 31? Do things work that way? Asking for myself. Not a friend. At least I’m honest.

22. Because I’m feeling 31.

It seemed fitting to use this reasoning for this number. COME AT ME BRUH.

23. Because I am not where I thought 31 would take me.

AND I AM GOING TO GET THERE. I JUST NEED 2 YEARS TO DO IT. Damn, Daniel.

24. Because I am tired of being older than my best friend.

Seems silly, but I love the bitch and she turns 31 in March, lol. (Ironically also on the 31st.)

25. Because I have already tricked my son into saying I’m 21.

And 31 isn’t too far off soooooo. LAWYERED.

26. Because my little brother turns 30 this year.

So this year is already surreal. We might as well make it even a little bit unrealistic.

27. Because I am eternally youthful.

This is actually super true. I get carded for stuff still that I am shocked by. Like buying DVDs. It’s very weird that people don’t just assume I’m over 18? I don’t know. Maybe people are just that dumb? I’ll take it either way.

28. Because I like to control things.

I mean, who really likes being out of control, though?

29. Because my father doesn’t know how old I am anyway.

It’s true. Ask him. He’s got no fucking clue.

30. Again, because I said so.

Yup.

which brings us to the ultimate reason.

31. Because…why the hell not?

At the end of the day, who does it hurt that I say I’m 31 instead of 32 though? Nobody. It is the definition of a “victimless crime”. Super harmless. I’m only cheating a little this year. Get back to me in ten years when I’m saying I’m 31 still. Because…chances are good.

If you got this far, thanks.
If you got this far, merry everything, happy always.
If you got this far, let’s make 2020 the best one yet.

Have yourself a happy little holiday season, and I’ll catch you on the flip side. But…this time for real.

And once more in 2019, with feeling, RACHFACE OUT.

(This is where I drop the mic and walk away in my future Netflix comedy special that will never happen because I am not funny. Like, at all.)

kthanksloveyoumeanitbye.
XOXO

Rachel

I’ll Love You Forever, But Sometimes I May Not Like You - OR Confessions of a Single Toddler Mom, Chapter 2

Oh hey y’all! Bet you thought you had seen the last of my crazy ass. But nawwwww. Here I am, live and in living black and white, back to share more of my life and insanity and what passes for wisdom with you! 

Without further ado, I’m going to jump right in to the meat of this post, which is: 

Mamas: it is okay to think that your child is a straight up asshole. Because chances are, they are sometimes. 

Now that we’ve gotten that out of the way, I will (kind of) attempt to explain myself. Not entirely, because unless you are paying my bills this month (which, feel free), I don’t owe anyone any explanation, because I am an adult and I am the parent and because god damnit, I just don’t. BUUUUUUUUUUT, I do owe you one, for the purposes of this post. 

There is a SHIT TON of guilt that comes with being a mom these days. Especially when you’re a working mom. You’re either with your kid too much or not enough. Your work takes you away from them, or playing superheroes and drowning spiders takes you away from your work. There is no healthy middle ground, there is no in between. Some aspect of your life is going to suffer, and usually we choose our own self worth and beat ourselves up over not doing enough, and not being enough, when in reality? If we had like four more hours in any day of the week, we would feel like the goddesses that we seriously fucking are, and have been, since the moment we decided to bring another little human being onto this Earth. Truth.  

Especially at this time of year, and in this day and age, that guilt sometimes is aggrandized by our friends who maybe haven’t had a child, are struggling to have a child, or who maybe just think we complain too much - because after all, we get a whole day of the calendar year dedicated to celebrating us so...shouldn’t that be enough? 

To anyone who has ever had that thought I say: loud and clear, a very VERY emphatic FUCKKKKKK YOUUUUUU. 

Because no.  
No, it is not enough.
Did we make the choice to become mothers? Usually. (I’m not getting into the pressure of that whole situation, that’s a horse of a different color.)
Are we so so very lucky that these little humans call us Mommy or Mama or something of the sort? Fuck yeah!
 

But here’s the truth:
Sometimes they fucking suck. Sometimes, they suck our energy, and they suck our souls, and sometimes we really do end up locking ourselves in the bathroom and having a real good cry on the other side of that door for about ninety-three seconds, then splashing cold water on our faces and acting like it’s all okay. 

These. Are. Facts. 

Are they attractive? Are they comfortable? No. Maybe not. Some people make them into humorous situations to hide the truly difficult dynamic of being a parent (I.e. the “have kids they said, it’ll be fun they said” kind of comment). To mask how overwhelmed they are. Some people drink. Some people work out too much. Everybody is their own unique coping animal. But no matter how you twist it, they’re miniature despots, and it can be so so fucking difficult some days to look at them, because you maybe peed a little because you’ve been holding it in at the playground, and you can feel it running down your leg silently as you also feel the judgey looks from the Lululemon moms at the playground because your kid decided he was going to launch himself off the top rung of the ladder on the jungle gym (not that I know from personal experience or anything...) when you asked him for the fortieth time to please come with you because you have to leave.  

And you know what? 
I am SO SO FUCKING TIRED. I am tired of us apologizing for feeling that way about our kids just because we are lucky enough to have them.

Something my mother told me my entire life was: “I love you all the time, but right now? I don’t like you very much.” On separate occasions recently, my almost-four-year-old has inspired myself and my brother to say this to him, and it really made me think about how true and appropriate it really was. I hear all the time about how all moms do is complain, when we chose this. How we should be grateful, how we should shut up and just be parents. But we all parent our own ways. Some people choose to let nannies raise their children in favor of chasing their own dreams and interests. Some people stay at home and have a spouse who supports their family. To both of these people, I offer myself up for late term adoption.  

To the rest of you, I submit this statement...and you might want to sit down. It’s a little crazy. A little next level.  

Ya ready? 

WE DO NOT HAVE TO LIKE OUR CHILDREN ONE HUNDRED PERCENT OF THE TIME. 

We don’t even like ourselves a hundred percent of the time! Who are we even trying to kid here?! 

What needs to change, though, is the innate guilt that comes with admitting how true the above statement is for all of us, both moms and dads alike.  

It doesn’t make us bad people.
It doesn’t make us bad parents.
It just makes us humans.  

Now. 

At one time or another we - as parents - have read to our children that “I Love You Forever” book, with the creepy mom and the song, and the feels and the tears it dissolves me into just about every fucking time I read it. My mom read it to me as a kid, and gave me a copy while I was pregnant. It’s like a mom rite of passage or something.  

But that “I’ll like you for always” line? That bit is what trips me up. That bit is what I cant get behind. Because, ladies, IT. IS. A. LIE.  

If you know the story behind the book’s inception, it maybe makes sense, considering it IS, after all, about a stillborn child. And look, I’m not downplaying the tragedy any mother of any kind of child has experienced, but I can only speak from my own experience. That’s just the way it is and will always be. And if you don’t like that, feel free to exit out stage left, have a glorious fucking day. 

Because even though my kid is kind, and smart, and curious, and funny, and polite, and helpful, and friendly, and so loving...he’s also (almost) four. 

So that means that sometimes?
  Sometimes, my kid is an asshole.

But...guess what?
 He’s my asshole. And I wipe his, so I get to feel that way about him. Whether you like it or not.  

That said,
I hope all you badass mamas have a fucking incredible Mother’s Day. I hope you get the greatest burnt pancakes and not quite cooked eggs in the world brought to you in your bed. I hope you get to pretend you’ll do all the things you want to do, but really you still end up doing the dishes, but you wouldn’t have it any other way. 

And most of all,
I hope this made you smile.
I hope you feel even a little better.
And on days when shit is rough, 
I hope you know you’ve got a friend in me.
 
Keep it creepy, y’all.
Yours, in motherhood and beyond, 

Rachface xo 

Today, I cried in front of the fridge OR Confessions of a Single Toddler Mom, Part 1

Oh hey.

I know y’all didn’t miss that little blurb at the top where I told you this would be a place for mom truths. Just like every other woman who’s had the pleasure of pushing out a tiny human, I am sure to remind most people of it often, because the reality is that my child is 97% of my life. (For those of you struggling with math, that leaves a measly 3% for myself, and I choose to spend it complaining, trying to appropriately caffeinate, binge watching true crime shows and stand-up comedy on Netflix - shout out to Ali Wong, who is the realest MVP - and folding tiny socks. Oh, and there’s a little painting and creating in there somewhere.)

Just like anything else about being an adult, what they don’t tell you when you decide to have a kid, no matter your situation, is that it is hard af, and our mothers basically deserve a Purple Heart for their sacrifice and their service. Seriously. Or whoever raised you, whether it be a wolf or a grandmother or a father. I really think that parents should make the millions reserved for professional athletes. Our job is like fifty thousand times harder.

So, here’s my reality. And yes, I did choose it. Don’t think I don’t know this. For one second. My reality looks like: I am a single mom. And when I say this, people have this idea of what that means because of the family dynamic of the world that we live in today, and that’s just...not my personal experience of single motherhood. I’m not a single mom in the “gets-child-support-splits-custody-baby-mama-drama-baby-daddy-ridiculousness” sense. I’m a single mom in the “doing-it-herself” sense. While, yes, I am certainly luckier than some in that I have the support of my mother, who watches my son while I work one of my jobs, it has its moments where it is extremely lonely and incredibly overwhelming. On top of working two jobs and trying to run a business to keep my bills paid, I have the huge responsibility of creating this little future human: I have to teach him, play with him, care for him, inspire him, and love him.

It sounds like something that should just be...second nature almost. The idea of having a  “maternal nature” is such that mothers experience a great deal of shame from a lot of sources for their humanity. “Mom-shaming” is a huge, HUGE unfortunate reality and, personally, I believe it has to fucking stop. Unless you are beating or severely neglecting your kids, you feel free to do you, honey. March to the beat of whatever drummer your family is going to. Be super organic, be super into fast food, be into pageants, be into this that or the other thing, just be a good human and raise a good human, and we good. While I may be sassy and snarky myself, anyone who knows me will tell you that I am like a human blow pop...once you get past that outer seemingly impenetrable layer, I am slightly squishy inside. I try to love people, but once I decide people are unloveable, I’m over it and the honesty comes out. As far as my son, I am doing my best to raise a kind human who loves everybody, and so far, all signs point to me being on the right track. That’s all I have come to expect from other moms, and all I think we can realistically be held responsible for. 

Oh, wait, also - vaccinate your kids.  #herdimmunitysaveslivesyall

That being said, some of my mom moments are unique to my experience. Where my friends may have a spouse or a co-parent to kind of help them shoulder certain burdens, I don’t have that luxury. When my son is particularly crazy, I have to be the bad guy and the good guy all at once. I have late nights and really early mornings. I work late at night and often have to get up in the middle of the night to take him to the bathroom.  I’m the one getting up every morning and doing homework and packing lunch and doing all the laundry and kissing the boo boos and laying down the law and all that shit that parenting entails.

And I won’t lie to you: it is sometimes incredibly fucking lonely.

My kid could be sickeningly sweet and some days I have just about had it. There are moments where, no matter how hard I try, I just want to run away. Moments where I wonder how it is possible to love someone so much but also want to punt them. Moments where I have actually used the words “I would literally sell you on the black market:” happen in the same hour as moments where I just look at him in wonder and go “wow. I made that.”

 While I have said before, and will tell anyone who cares to hear me how grateful I am that I have my mother and our “village”, so to speak, it is not the same as having a true partner in parenting this child. There is no one I can turn to in those moments of awe and know that we created this little person together and that he is a piece of the best of each of us - and, at times, the worst of each of us. When I feel like ripping my hair out and just need a minute, I can not ask his father to take over so I can excuse myself. Instead, I have found my own methods of coping in those moments…most of the time.

But today…today, I cried into the open refrigerator.
Today, I cried into the refrigerator because I felt an overwhelming sense of responsibility and just how heavy that is. Today, I cried while looking for creamer on the shelves because my son had been going non stop since getting up before my early alarm. Today, I cried into the fridge because I have to work both jobs, which means a thirteen hour plus day, and even though he’s at school for six of those hours, it’s a long day, and just thinking about it is exhausting. Today, I cried before nine in the morning because I didn’t know what else to do. Today, I cried.

And you know what?
Tomorrow, I might cry, too.

There’s nothing saying I will, and nothing saying I won’t. But I told myself when I started doing this whole blogging thing that I wanted to be a hundred percent up front with y’all. And this post might not appeal to my entire audience. Which is cool. It’s swell. It’s just fine. But maybe there’s a mom out there who needed to know she wasn’t the only one who feels like she’s just fucking drowning some days, no matter how infatuated she is with her kid, or how focused she is on their care and keeping.

So, this one is for you, mom.
Keep ya head up, boo.

Catch y’all on the flip side.
Yours in creepiness,

Rachface

#THISISNOTAFONT OR “Why my soul dies a little every time someone tells me I write so nicely”

“You move paint from side to side really accurately! Well done!” 

 ”Man, I love how you apply heat to chicken and splash it with sauce.”

”You slightly adjust words to go with a tune so efficiently, though, man!” 

 ...do you see the trend here?
if not, you are cordially invited to GTFO.

You wouldn’t say any of these things to a painter, or a chef, or a musician. (And if you would, see the above statement, because I literally do not want to know who you are and I do not have time for your shenanigans in my life or anyone else’s, thank you.) So why, PLEASE TELL ME WHY, do you keep saying things like “what font is this?” & “nice writing!” To my fellow letterers and I?! 

I mean, I know the answer to this but I’m going to tell you why and make it easy: because no one taught you any different.

But that’s (kind of) okay.
It won’t be okay anymore after you’ve read this post, but right now, I can let it slide. 

Sadly, though, it’s true. I’m not going to wax too philosophical about our society and the value it places on the arts because that’s another unfortunate reality, and I could probably write a whole book about it if I wanted to, but like, who really has the time for that anyway? Art, in general, is completely underrated, and lettering as an art is something that more people need to understand and celebrate. Cause...I don’t know if you know this guys, but what we do is HARD AF.  

Sure, there are a lot of people who make it look easy. 
Take Stefan Kunz, for example. He’s a fucking master, and his art is unbelievable. He makes it look effortless and super easygoing, when in fact, all his work is the end result of the same thing that being good at anything, in any field, requires.

Know what that is? 
Hard work, patience, persistence, and a whole lot of fucking practice.

I am SURE that he has put in hours and hours over the years of getting things just right, and as an artist STILL DOES THIS. No matter what level of game you got, practice is still a vital skill and an important part of being good at anything you have passion for. You think Nick Foles sits on his ass and shit like the Philly Special just happens?! Nah, son. (Side note: BDN, the city of Philadelphia loves you, and you’re amazing, and don’t leave us, cause Carson Wentz has made it clear that you’re our blessing kthanksnotbye.)

So since there’s this thing called #NATIONALHANDWRITINGDAY that is fast approaching (rumor has it it’s January 23rd, in case you wanted a random useless little factoid), I thought I would do some edifying for you about a few things. The first, I’ve already kind of explained. And that is that this shit doesn’t just happen. If you’ve read my bio then you know I spent years and years already obsessed with lettering, so I had a basis for it, but you can bet your ass as time has gone on, I’ve gotten better. Like anything, especially in the art field, it has taken time to develop my own individual style, to discover my favorite ways to do things, and, guess what? Here’s the thing no one will tell you (actually, that’s a lie, we are all pretty honest and transparent about this, but it sounds good and official so I’m leaving it in): I AM STILL LEARNING. EVERY DAY.

And that’s true of anything you want to be good at. There’s always something new to learn or experience. Always a new medium to explore, especially in the art world. I learn new tricks digitally every time I buy another damn procreate brush. I learn something new about watercolor almost constantly, because they are all so incredibly different, no matter how incredible or handmade or lovely they are.  

But the kicker, guys, is you can take that and apply it to any career field, really. As time marches on, things change and evolve, and you have to change with them. That’s why - great example here cause they are fucking superheroes - nurses are required to take continuing education credits and keep their license current. (My baby sister is a nurse, shout out to her for being one of the realest MVPs on the planet, nurses rock.) Ever had a TERRIBLE professor and realize that they became that way once they got tenure? Picking up what I’m putting down there? You gotta stay fresh. Stay educated. Stay hungry. Otherwise, you get lazy and boring, and someday, you’ll be speaking in a monotone a la Ben Stein, and no one will even want to be friends with you, let alone help you succeed. 

So, now that we’ve talked about that, I can mosey on down to my next point. 
Which is this: YOU SEE LETTERING LITERALLY EVERYWHERE.

You may or may not have a good grasp on this one,  

You know that pretty logo for a store or brand you like? There’s a letterer or graphic designer that studied different styles of it to make that happen. That cute little sign at Hobby Lobby (FEHHHHHH. FYI those mass produced signs are the reasons lots of people don’t wanna pay lettering artists what they’re worth, so shop small, seriously. And if that isn’t in your budget, don’t be a sheep anyway, cause when you say BAAAAA I say HUMBUG.) for your bathroom? Lettering. The graffiti you drive past on the freeway? LETTERING. Even the road signs. Carefully. Chosen. Lettering.

It’s all around you, so you might as well call it what it is. 
Now, for the most part, is it written by hand? Yes. So you can say that. But we still prefer to say things are “handlettered”.

Just cause we like pens and shit, and paintbrushes make us giddy, doesn’t mean we cant be bougie AF okurrrrrrr?! 

So, the next time you see a lettering video that soothes you, or a piece by an artist you really love, if your reaction is still “omg your handwriting is so pretty!” Or “what font is that?” 

Smack yourself. 

Then come re read this shit.
But until then, keep it creepy, y’all. 

Rachface, over and out.  

Oh. Hi. It me.

Finally, it’s here. Launch day.

Is it perfect? Nah. SO MUCH WORK still needs to be done here. So much needs to be added. So much needs to be tweaked. I have to learn so fucking much still. But I pulled the trigger anyway.

Wanna know why?

Cause you can NOT just jump in halfway. And I was tired of doing just that. I’ve officially been paying for this website for like seven months, and each month would come and go and I would abandon editing things because I get frustrated easily, and technology is annoying af. But guess what?

Technology isn’t going to stop frustrating me until I learn it and practice with it. Time is not going to stop for me just cause I want it to.

So I had to decide if I was all in or not, and you know what y’all?

I AM SO FUCKING ALL IN.
So is this site everything it’s going to be? Nah. I’m gonna keep working and working at it. But it’s a start. And that’s the first step.

Happy to have ya, bitches.
Take a look around.
Oh, and happy Monday.

Creepin’ it real as always.

Love,
Rachel