Mortified Times Two

You know how sometimes the "What is Your Most Embarrassing Moment?" question can come up in a conversation? Usually everyone talks about saying something stupid in front of a crowd, or passing a little wind in front of a crush. Well I've always had the same old stock answer beginning with, "This one time in Middle School Band." This surprisingly is not as cool as saying, “This One Time at Band Camp." I played flute throughout my middle school career, this makes me an ex-flautist or a flautist in recovery. Does anyone else think that "flautist" doesn't even sound like a real word? I had to google "flautist" just to verify that I didn’t just make that word up. Anyway, I was actually a pretty good flautist, but my nervousness always got in my way. I would get so nervous before tryouts that I was always tripping over my notes. My band director told me I was the most nervous student he ever had! My anxiety is why I dropped out of band after middle school never to be a flautist again.

The hardest part of telling this story is describing the band room. Our band room had graduated levels just like in the picture above. But our band room's levels were much taller. The first level was a foot off the ground, the second level was two feet off the ground, and the third level was three feet off the ground, and so on. One day we were practicing some song for regionals, and I was sitting on the last seat of the third level. Can you see where this is heading? Half-way through the song I must have shifted my seat some how, because I could feel the leg of my chair begin to tip over the edge. I'm sure all of this happened in a nano second, but in my mind it was like slow motion. For some reason (I guess I thought it would anchor me), I grabbed the music stand as I started to fall. So now not only was I falling, music was flying everyone, and I come down with a big, metal sounding clang.

The people who were sitting next to me immediately stopped playing and broke into fits of laughter. One by one every section in the band caught on to what was going on and they started laughing to. Even the band conductor who was trying to keep the band going eventually had to give up and was laughing. And I'm just lying on the floor in shock, trying to figure out how I'm going to pick my wounded pride up off the floor. That day all day everyone kept asking me about it, and I thought I was going to die of embarrassment. Me falling those three feet was the biggest thing that happened in band class until some boys were rough housing and broke a window by knocking a tuba through it.

That truly was my most embarrassing day until last Friday.

So recently I joined a gym, because I find it really easy to diet and exercise during the summer. This is because I'm not working a whole lot, and I lack the disposable income to eat lots of junk food. I lost 30 lbs last summer, and pretty much kept it off during the year  (other than about five pounds). So I'm hoping to lose 30 more lbs this summer.

In the mornings Adam and I carpool together because my gym and his office are only a few blocks apart. But Friday morning I was feeling particularly lazy. I figured I shouldn't have to walk to the gym since I was going to go work-out anyway. I mean come on I don't want to risk squeezing in any extra calorie burn, that would be ridiculous. So I had Adam drop me off at the gym before he went on to work. This one decision would set off a disastrous chain of events that I would later regret.

Flash forward 50 minutes later, I'm killing it on the treadmill, listening to the Glee Cast do Madonna on the iPod. I was thinking about the show The Biggest Loser, and how they do the sprints on the treadmill and then immediately stop by jumping to the edge (without stopping the belt). That always amazes me, because I would be terrified that I would miss the edge and fall on the treadmill. And the treadmill would take me back and I would hit the wall. Ouch. So as I was pondering this, I glance out the window, and I see a man running down the plaza stairs that lead to the gym. My thought pattern went like this- "Why is that man running down the stairs? Hey, that man is wearing the same shirt that my husband was wearing this morning. Wait, that man looks kinda like my husband. Oh wait, that is my husband!"

I'm neither an optimist nor a pessimist, I’m just a fatalist. I always think something really tragic is going to happen. Like pianos falling from the sky kind of tragic. To me, the glass is neither half empty nor half full. Nope, I think the glass got so tired of trying to decide what it was, that it jumped off the ledge of the Empire State Building. So I'm thinking Adam is coming to tell me someone died, the house is on fire, or Sarah choked on a bone, and I'm freaking out a little bit. So he enters the gym and is taking forever to find me (later he said it was all the mirrors). So I call out to him loudly, and he doesn't hear me. So now everyone is looking at the loud girl on the treadmill. Remember that, everyone is staring at me! I look behind me and am about to call out to him again, when I feel myself start to trip. And just like all those years ago in the band room, everything is moving in slow motion.

I'm holding on to the bars for dear life, as the treadmill is pulling me backwards. I fell down once and was miraculously able to pull myself up halfway. Later, Adam told me it looked like I was doing the possessed version of the white guy's dance the running man. But inevitably I went down, and the treadmill took me down and threw me off. I didn't want someone helping me up, so I hopped right back on the horse err treadmill. And now I feel like I am just going to die of embarrassment. Now Adam is standing next to me, and I can just tell by the look on his face that it was just as humiliating as I thought it was. And do you know why he was at the gym in the first place? He had to give me the car keys, because he had dropped me off, and we didn't think about how I would need the car keys to get home!

I had 10 minutes left on the treadmill before ending my work out, but I really just wanted to slink off and crawl into my gym locker. But I stuck it out, and it was the longest 10 minutes I've ever spent working out.

TimeLine: Years Zero through Two

I was inspired to chronicle the years of my life by one of my favorite bloggers Heather from Nothing But Bonfires. Her writing style is amazing, and I almost always envy everything she writes. I’ve always had this odd idea, that one day when I’m old and grey I will have my old blogs bound as journals for my children. Then they will really know what their parents were like before they become all parental and uncool. So I think this timeline idea is just a wonderful way to document a life. So in the next few months, I hope to get one up for every year of my life. 

Year Zero:
I entered the world on May 17th, 1986 at midnight in a hospital in St. Louis, Missouri. But at the time, my mother, father, and ten year old brother were living in Stanford, Illinois. They had recently moved there for job opportunities, so when my mother went into labor a week early, they drove over two hours to be with her doctor. But even though I came prematurely, I didn't want to enter the world, and my mother labor's stretched on for a day and a half, before I was delivered by Cesarean section. I would think I was an "accident" for years, because I once did the math between when my parents married and when I was born, and it didn't add up. But I got the courage to ask to my mother one day, and she told me she knew she was going to marry my father, so they decided to go ahead with the "baby making."

My paternal grandfather was a pilot and owned a plane. So when I'm two weeks old, he flies to Missouri to pick up my mother, me, and our poodle, Monique, to visit family in Texas. During the flight, they encountered a bad storm and the flight became extremely turbulent. My mother glances in the cock pit and my grandparents are pouring over maps, and she is sure we are going to crash. She makes her peace with our death, and braces for the worst. But they eventually touch down safely. When my mother glances at Monique, she notices her legs are cardboard straight, and she does not budge for hours.

By the time I turned 6 months, my mother leaves my father due to domestic violence, and we move back to small apartment in St.Louis. My father moves to his hometown in Texarkana, Texas. One night at dinner, my brother tells my mother he wants it to stay just the three of us forever.

Year One:
I am a happy baby, but I never sleep which is not easy on my mom. I am slow to walk and talk, although my mother feels I have the ability to do so, I just don't. Instead I stubbornly crawl on just my knees for months. My mother does not consider this odd, until my cousin Alicia babysits me one day, and comments that she has never seen anything like that before.

Every weekday morning, my mother drops me off at a professional babysitter's house before going to work. One morning I am fussy before she drops me off, which makes the birthmark on my forehead red and very noticeable. When I am calm, I have no birthmark at all. When my mother comes to pick me up, the babysitter voices concerns that I am being abused. My mother has to call my pediatrician to provide proof.

My mother's parents come to visit, and take me back to Texas to spend some time with my father. They work their way through the St.Louis Airport, and make it to the gate with plenty of time to spare. My grandfather promptly falls asleep (many stories told in our family have to do with my grandfather sleeping) and my grandmother is so preoccupied with me, that they don't notice their flight is boarding and they don't get aboard. My mother is baffled by how two adults can miss a flight that they were seated right in front of.

Year Two:
My mother buys a home in Spanish Lake, a suburb in St.Louis. The house is nice sized with three bedrooms and a huge basement. My brother makes the basement his room, but it takes months before he finds the courage to sleep down there at night. Years later after he is gone, I will make my room in the basement. But it only takes me three days before I am sleeping down there all night. The house is painted ugly shades of black and red, which we later paint yellow and blue.

I like to play with our dog Monique. But sometimes I am a little rough with her, grabbing tufts of hair and not letting go. One afternoon my mother returns from doing laundry in the basement to find that I have Monique in a death grip. Monique does not try to save herself. Instead she sits around waiting for my mother to save her. Monique hides from me for years after that incident.

Every fall weekend, my brother has to fill up a trashcan with leaves. Once he has a full trash can, he always picks me up and throws me in. He lets me jump in the leaves and I squeal with joy. This is a tradition we carry on for years. It is one of my favorite memories of my brother.

Take One Nun, Add a Pinch of Underage Gambling, Place in a Mixer, and Press Blend

The last two years that I lived in St.Louis before moving to Alabama, I attended a private Catholic school. I'm not Catholic, but the area I was living at in St. Louis had a pretty rough school district. For example, our elementary school's motto was” Be Fight Free!", and not "Education is Important." I really struggled at that school, so my mom put her Southern Baptist daughter into a safer environment.

I really enjoyed attending St. Aloysius. It was a really low key school, it had no heating or ac, so school was canceled if it got too hot or too cold. We had no playground, so we played in the parking lot, and if there was a funeral at the church we had nowhere to play. The classes were really small, and there was only 11 other people in my entire class. It was odd to be the only non-catholic in the entire school, but it really wasn't that big of a deal. My biggest memories from that time period involve dissecting owl pellets (gross), learning to diagram sentences, and a really awful mid-90s hair do.

You see I used to have stick straight blonde hair. You've seen pictures of my hair now, and I have more curls than a southern toddler beauty pageant contestant on the show Little Miss. Perfect. This is because in 3rd grade my mother decided stick straight wasn't good enough, and she gave me a perm. A perm that never, ever fell out. I'm not even kidding. It changed the texture of my hair. If all hairdressers gave perms as permanent as mine, they would go out of business. When it was first permed, it looked like a big curly mullet. And I hated it. It took years before I learned how my hair should be cut, and what it takes to look good. LOTS AND LOTS of FRIZZEASE.

The nuns that ran the school were really kind, but they seemed scary to me (but you know I'm scared of the wind). Those nuns were strict. We wore uniforms, could not wear nail polish, or so much as a hair scrunchy that wasn't in St. Al's colors. But I loved wearing a uniform. It made getting ready in the morning such a simple process. Now I have to do things like MAKE DECSIONS about my clothing, and that just seems so unnecessary. Plus if you know me, you know that picking out matching clothes has never been my forte.

I remember one particular fall season, asbestos was discovered in our school cafeteria and it needed to be renovated, so all the different grades were eating lunch in different classrooms around the school. Our fourth grade class just happened to be eating our lunches in the computer lab. We had been warned again and again that we were not to even think about touching the computers with our grubby little fingers. So we didn't, but the screen saver on the computers were of three hamsters racing. Each time the hamsters would race, a different hamster would win. We soon started betting on the hamsters racing in a CATHOLIC SCHOOL.

"If Green Wins You Have to Trade Me Your Oreos for my Carrot Sticks!" (See, I was a fat kid even then). " I See Your Pretzels and Raise you Two Chips!" Pretty soon we became addicted, and every day we were taking bets and whooping and hollering for every race. And I guess it was the whooping and hollering that attracted the attention of the nuns. The nuns just don't go in for the whooping and hollering. And the nuns were not so happy when they discovered what we were doing. They told us they were very disappointed in us, didn't we know that gambling was wrong? " And that this was something we needed to talk to the priest about at our next confession." (They used to take us to confession once a week as a class, we didn't have to confess anything, we just had the opportunity).

I think she was probably a little hard on us. I don't think we really even knew what gambling was. What did she want us to do break down an apologize and promise to join gambler's anonymous?!? Plus, does she know what I used to do when people would tell me they were "disappointed" in me? I would go home, open my closet, empty my toys from my toy box, close the closet door, and hide in there for hours (I did this all the time as a child).

You would think all of this would have taught my class some kind of lesson about the evilness of gambling. But I guess THEY were all already addicted and it was just too late. Because the next year they started playing poker at recess. But this time, I stayed in the corner and watched.

Black Holes and Revelations

The benefit of having over 8 years of your life documented on a old live journal, is that whenever you feel the need to relive your past you can. Every angst-filled, toe-cringing, my god-was-I-really-that-ridiculous moment is there in black and white (and the occasional pink sparkly text). So a few days ago, I combed through the archives looking for some old entry on a old vacation I took and stumbled across the entries following my break-up with my high school boyfriend. A year of heart break spilled over entry after entry. Part of it was slightly amusing, I mean the melodrama of it all! Part of it reminded me just how little perspective you really have as a teenage girl. But most of all, I just ached for my 18 year old self, because I remember exactly what if felt like to be the girl who once wrote, "I am positive I will never ever find anyone else to love again."

I can't tell you exactly what it was about him that made me want to be with him, but I can tell you he really made me laugh at a time in my life when I walking around with a fake smile everyday. At 14, everything was so incredibly hard. I was living in a house where I literally never spoke to my stepfather, my father was treating me horridly, and my anxiety and depression felt incredibly isolating. But once I met him, I felt less alone. Soon we were staying up every night talking till the sun rose, and on my bad days I would just call him and cry for hours without fearing judgment. And after I talked to him, I always felt better. We soon spoke of getting married in the future, and what we would name our kids (and I realize that was a little silly for our ages). And on the eve before Thanksgiving in 2002, I lost my virginity to him in my bedroom at my grandmother's house. Although I had always promised myself I would wait, we really loved each other and even after we broke up, I have never regretted it.

After we had dated 4 years, the dynamic of our relationship started to shift. I was not the same wounded girl that he had met years earlier. I was no longer depressed, no longer needy. He had always been my protector, my shoulder to cry on. He could no longer fill that role, and we started to lose who we were as a couple. Plus, he was in college, had new friends, and had less time to devote to me. At first, I really didn't mind, but as time went on, he really began neglecting me. Eventually I got tired of arguing with him, and just decided I would just take any time he was willing to give me. But once I realized I was just settling I knew it was time to move on.

So on a quiet, summer morning I broke up with him. I cried, he cried, but we both agreed it was for the best. And for the first few days I was fine, and then it hit me like a ton of bricks, and I changed my mind. But he was standing firm, and insisted we needed to not talk to each other for a while, to be able to move on. But that was hard for me. So I would promise him I wouldn't cry, if he would just call me, so he would call, and the minute I heard his voice, I would fall apart. I still had his email password, so I was obsessively reading his sent email, and he had told someone he was kind of "relieved" about the whole thing. I was devastated, but now I understand that was only male bravado.

For six months, I could not stop crying or spewing melancholy over my blog. And it probably took a year and a half before I had fully recovered. And I strongly believed I had missed my chance at lasting love, but ironies of ironies I had already met the man who would be my husband. And when Adam came into focus, he filled a niche that wasn't based on loneliness or neediness. Things just flowed so easily for us from day one. Pure and simple.

I know I get really schmoopy on here a lot when I talk about my husband. But I just love him so unabashedly. And sometimes in the really quiet moments, like when we are cuddling on the couch or just driving down the road, I feel so overwhelmed by how much I love this man. Adam has given me something I have never had my entire life-stability. And he has taught me what I never really believed, "Growing up in a broken family doesn't necessarily mean you won't have a good marriage.” I don't know what I did to deserve this kind of love, but I know how blessed I am.

A big part of me really wants to go back in time and tell my younger self that it will be ok. That her life will be so much different and brilliant than she could ever imagine But I know myself, and my younger self would never believe my older self.

About a month ago, I put together a little mini-video chronicling 2009. I did it so I would never forget what a wonderful adventure my life has turn out to be. The song is Crash Into Me by The Dave Matthews Band, and I apolgize for the picture at 3:10 (it was a big part of my year!)

This Ain't My Mother's Tree Trimming Party, Y'all

So last year Adam and I didn't have a Christmas tree. Adam convinced me that we didn't need one for two reasonable reasons. 1. We were flat broke and 2. We would be in Wisconsin on Christmas day. But I'm not in anyway a rational and reasonable person, so I decided that Adam was just being a Grinch. Adam's heart must have grown a half a size this year, because he said we could buy a tree. But on our budget it would have to be like the before picture of the Charlie Brown Christmas tree. Luckily, my mother, the reigning Queen of Christmas herself, offered to send us her old Christmas tree. She also sent along some of my childhood ornaments. I was so excited.

Before the tree even got here, I was thinking about how I wanted to decorate it. And I spent a good half hour roaming the Christmas ornament aisle at Big Lots, because I couldn't decide whether or not I wanted a blue/silver ornament theme or a gold/red ornament theme. There was a whole lot of putting the blue/silver ones in the buggy then putting them back, and going for the gold/red ones, and putting them back. You see I'm a waffling waffler, and I don't like having to make choices. I finally settled on the blue/silver ones and bought a tree topper and skirt.

Back in Alabama, putting up the Christmas tree was an all-day event. We would pop in Christmas movies, drink peppermint shakes, reminisce about our favorite ornaments, and get it done slowly. Adam and I put up the Christmas tree last Wednesday, after we both had really long days at work. While decorating the tree, Adam and I ate burritos from the microwave and watched I Didn't Know I was Pregnant and The Real World/ Road Rules Challenge. Disclaimer: I'm the one that watches those shows, Adam has much better taste in television shows.

(On a side note let us talk about I Didn't Know I was Pregnant for a minute. First of all, I don't know why I watch that show; it’s not like when the girl starts feeling pain I wonder, "OMG, what is wrong with her?" Second of all, the actresses that reenact the births are typically really pretty and smart looking girls, and then they show the actual person and they are almost always these hicky people from the South. WHY ARE THEY ALWAYS FROM THE SOUTH? Also, I love when they have the so called experts on the show to explain the things that happened. On one episode this woman has a baby in the toilet, and then the expert comes on to explain why a baby shouldn't be born in a toilet! I mean really, did that person get a medical degree so they could go on a cable show and do a public service announcement about having baby in toilets. There Mama must be so proud. By the way, that show scares me, and I can almost bet that the next time I feel a little bit of stomach pain, I'm going to be convinced I'm in labor. Because I am that paranoid. So expect a tweet from me soon, saying I’m having a baby, and then a follow up saying it was only gas.)

So about the tree trimming. We struggled with the lights, even though it’s a pre-lit tree, and put up all the ornaments I had as a child. We were really having a wonderful time. And I'm all about capturing snap shots of great moments in my mind, and I’m thinking this is the first time Adam and I are putting up a tree together! Oh how nice. And then Adam found an old photo album my mom had packed in the Christmas tree box, and it all went down hill from there. First of all, he saw a picture of me from middle school. This was before I finally figured out what to do with my wild curly hair. So it was always all over the place, and I hated it. After many years of therapy, I learned how to handle it and accept it as an adult. But when he saw the picture, he was laughing so hard he couldn't breathe. He said, "Which Designing Women character did you steal that hair style from?" In one foul swoop, he reopened all those middle school wounds all over again. He wanted me to scan it and email it to his family. No way Jose. Never ever going to happen.

All in all it really was a lovely evening. But when I told my mom we ate burritos, watched trashy television, and made fun of each others hair while putting up the tree, is it any wonder she didn't approve? :)

Here are some pictures of the tree and some favorite ornaments. Man it’s hard to take a good picture of a Christmas tree.



The angel blinks on and off, so I couldn't capture it.

Adam's little Packer Football Player. Go Cheeseheads!

I buy a new ornament every year.This year it is a goldie for Sarah.

I colored this when I was five years old. Makes me smile.

I make Adam sleep under the tree when he is a bad husband.

Sarah has been sleeping under the tree and knocking off ornaments. That poor tree's life is in peril every time she walks by.

Daddy Issues

After I got engaged I really started to think about what I wanted my wedding to be, and I decided I wanted my dad to be there. While for some this would be a no brainer, for me it was something I agonized over. To call my relationship with my father troubled, would be a gross understatement. My parents were married less than a year, and divorced by the time I was six months old. My father was physically and mentally abusive. I know all the horrid things he did to her, and I think my mother is one of the strongest & most amazing women I've ever known. At the time of the divorce, my father had no record of abusing children so he was given some custody rights, and I spent summers and holidays with him in Texas.

In some ways those summers were great. I lived like an only child in St.Louis, but in Texas I spent everyday with my cousins. But my father was hard to please, and I was always in trouble. It was nonstop yelling and insults from my father. One summer I went to Vacation Bible School, and on the last day the parents got to come and see what the children had been doing all week. I was so happy to have my dad there. But on the drive home I could tell he was angry at me. And when we finally got home, he pulled me into his bedroom and yelled at me for over an hour because he said I had not smiled enough that night. Another time I put on some make-up that belonged to an older cousin, and he called me a whore. I was never good enough, smart enough, or pretty enough. I don't remember him ever striking me, but sometimes I have intense dream where he does. And I don't really know what that means.

My family never treated me right either. Growing up I spent every Christmas eve with my mother, and every Christmas day with my father. But one holiday my father and his family had guilted me into staying the night with them instead. So I stayed the night, and when I awoke on Christmas day, my stocking was empty and I had no gifts. That is how I learned there was no Santa. Worse than that, I had to watch for hours as my cousins unwrapped all of their new items. I did it with a big smile on my face, but I don't think I ever felt as bad as I did that morning.

I feel like a lot of my anxiety issues can be attributed to my father. From my studies in psychology, I know women who experience high stress pregnancies are more likely to have anxious/ depressed children. My mother was definitely in a stressful situation throughout her pregnancy. Additionally, kids who grow up in unstable home environments are more likely to have issues. I still have deep self-esteem issues. I'm the type of person who blames myself for everything, and I will apologize to you if you step on my foot. When I fight with Adam, I will always say I'm sorry and claim that its 100% my fault. If I shared an accomplishment of mine with anyone, my father would call me conceited. So I sometimes get really upset when Adam tells his family about any of my accomplishments. I worry that they will think I'm full of myself. I don't know how to take a compliment, and I never feel like I deserve success.

When you are child, and a parent says terrible things about you, you think, "Wow, I must really be this terrible person." This is why I never mentioned anything to my mother until one particularly bad Thanksgiving when I was 12 years old. After that I cut my father and his family out of my life for a few years, not letting them back in until I was 17. I don't even remember why. Perhaps I just had a misguided notion of needing them in my life. They treated me worse than before after the falling out, but I tried to ignore it and solider on. My family had told me they were going to come to my high school graduation. They had attended all my older cousins' graduations, and showered them with gifts. My graduation just happened to fall on my 18th birthday. Not only did they not tell me they weren't coming, I never even got a phone call or a congratulatory card. I cried myself to sleep for a week.

So I wrote them a letter, and spilled 18 years of hurt onto the page, and severed ties yet again. They immediately ran out and bought me graduation gifts; they thought that would win me over. I never wanted any gifts; I just wanted to be acknowledged. However, during my senior year of college I learned that my father was very ill. He had lost a leg due to complications with diabetes, and he has been hospitalized several times to have fluid drained from his heart. I just started thinking how would I feel if he died, and the last words I said to him were out of anger? So last Christmas I just dropped by his house, and we patched things up. I was excited to have my father at my wedding, so he could give me away, and dance with me. And better yet, he is a professional photographer, so he can take my photos, and I can save money. He seemed genuinely excited about everything.

I'm not 100% sure why I really wanted my dad and his family at my wedding. I didn't necessarily think their presence would make it better. In fact, I thought it might be a little uncomfortable. But I think the truth of the matter is I did not want our friends or Adam's family to notice & ask about their absence. Because in a twisted way, I thought they might feel I wasn't good enough for their son, that I was damaged goods, and that I didn't deserve happiness just as my family feels. Because deep down that’s what I felt about myself then.

I had a bridal shower a month before the wedding, and no one from my dad's side showed and they never even gave an excuse. I figured it was because they didn't want to give me a gift. But I assumed they would come to my wedding. But no one from my dad's side (except him) came to my wedding, and my father gave me some flimsy excuse that luckily I didn't see through until later. Not only was it hurtful, but we had paid for 30 people who didn't come. Talk about a waste of money. However, the time spent with my father on my wedding day was amazing. He walked me down the aisle, we danced, and for the first time that I can remember he told me he loved me and that he was sorry. We left on such a great note, I thought things were great.

Its been four months since the wedding, and I haven’t gotten the pictures, and he wont respond to my contact (which I know he has received). I've even offered to pay for them. I'm pretty sure he has decided not to give them to me. I am heartbroken. I do have great pictures from my friends, but no professional shots. My father may have never given me anything, but for the first time I feel as if he has stolen something from me. I feel like an idiot for trusting him, and giving him this opportunity to hurt me. And now the people who want pictures have to know what happened, and I'm so embarrassed. Was everything he said that day a lie? I don't think so. I just don't get it. The worst thing is I find myself wondering what I did to make him mad. Is it because my mother walked me down the aisle too? Is it because I danced with my stepfather? Is it because Adam wasn't overly friendly towards him (he was cordial, but he can't stand him for what he did to me). Logically I know this is not my fault, but the little kid in me feels like it is.

I've spent a lot of time thinking these last few weeks and I've come to a decision. I'm no longer going to reach out to my family, and will not ask for the pictures again. I am not writing them off with some letter or e-mail, I'll just let it all fade away naturally. They know how to contact me, and if they want to spend time with me they can call me. I will never turn down an earnest request. But other than that, I'm not putting myself out there to just keep getting hurt. I know this will get easier with time, but for now it’s like there a gaping hole in my heart.

.

365 days ago (give or take):

I’m a 100% control freak. Not because I'm this raging witch that has to have everything my way, but because I'm affected by a case of the crazies, that makes me believe that all the dogs in the world will die if the dirty dishes stay in the sink for any extended length of time. And luckily Adam understands me enough to put up with this, because I don't really ask him to fix too many things for me, instead I just go behind him and do it myself. This is what I learned in therapy: my neurosis need not be anyone else's neurosis.

Adam and I have our first big fight, that was a stupid one.

He is My Firecracker

(The beach a half hour before the show)

I spent almost every summer of my childhood in Texas with my father, his parents, and a million cousins. And even though things were always terrible with my father & even my grandfather sometimes, I loved those summers. I lived like an only child in St. Louis during the school year, but during the summer I was a country girl with a million playmates. Move over Hannah Montana-I'm the one who had the best of both worlds. My cousins and I made up games, swam, fished in the pond, caught fireflies, went to the movies, and ate watermelon fresh off the vine from the family garden.

But fourth of July was always the best part of the summer. All the family would come over, and we would have a huge cookout. There was always an unlimited supply of sparklers, black cats, chasers, spinning panda bears, and we even put on our own professional firework show complete with a grand finale. Us kids would always promise each other we were going to stay up all night, but could never quite make it. We usually fell asleep outside on the trampoline. I can honestly say those are my best childhood memories.

When I finally stood up to my father, and put a stop to a lot of the wrong things that my family was doing to me, the abuse and the inappropriate behavior, I did not see them for a long time. But after a few years I made several tries to forge ahead with a healthier, more adult relationship with them. I gave forgiveness because I needed to in order to move on with my life. I saw them here and there, but it was always uncomfortable and strained. They would often do things on purpose to hurt me, and they never could forgive me for what they saw as a family betrayal. I invited them all to my wedding shower & wedding, but nobody came but my father. It was very hurtful. I'm sure they told everyone that I only wanted gifts from them, which is something they have said about me before. But I really just wanted them there. I forgive them, but I probably won't reach out to the them again.

So I usually find myself a little sad around the fourth of the July. It brings up all those great memories, and it hurts thinking about how much I have lost. But luckily this Fourth of July was fun enough, that I was able to not concentrate on my past. Adam and I took a nice walk down to the beach. It was a mile and a half away, but we enjoyed talking on the walk. We got there an hour before the show, so we were able to run around and freeze our feet off in the Pacific Ocean. The fantastic firework show took place over Long Beach harbor and the beautiful Queen Mary. We cuddled on the beach long after everyone had left before walking home. I think it is possible to make the 4th my favorite holiday again.

.

365 days ago (give or take):

It was called Fantasyland, and ironically it was located on Hwy. 69, just passed the exit to Eatonville (I'm not kidding, you just can't make this stuff up).

I really embarrass myself in front of a professor I had a die hard crush on. I love this story.

Humble Beginnings

Sunday and Monday were record high heat days here in Long Beach, California. This should have only been mildly uncomfortable because we have a pretty decent window air conditioning unit in the living room. But sometime last fall we lost the remote control to the AC, and for some stupid reason you can only operate the unit with the remote control. We looked everywhere, but that remote is nowhere. I can't come up with even ONE semi-logical explanation for this. We did order a new remote the other day, but it will take 4-6 weeks to get here! 4-6 weeks! In this age of Internet I shouldn't have to settle for anything less than instant gratification.

It has been so terribly hot that I felt like I was melting into a puddle of goo. The only thing I could do was sweat and complain about being hot. I called Adam several times on Monday just to tell him he was a bad person. He was a bad person for getting to sit around in an air-conditioned cubicle while I was at home dying (he is also a horrid person for putting food in the microwave without a plate, the creeps me out). Luckily everything is much cooler now and will be for the rest of the week. But it all reminded me of the summer that I stayed with Adam when we were first dating.

I had decided to stay with Adam the entire summer after my junior year of college. At this point in our relationship I was pretty sure he was the man I was going to marry, and I guess I just wanted to take him for a test drive. Adam lived in a tiny studio apartment hardly any bigger than a dorm room. It was really perfect for a bachelor, but not so perfect for a couple. We were constantly sitting around just staring at each other that is unless we were in the bathroom. Although I think if I had to stare at him in the bathroom, that would be a total DEAL BREAKER. I hate it when people even try to talk to me when I'm using a public restroom. I mean really is that the time for a heartfelt conversation?

The first weekend we spent together Adam and I ventured out to cold stone creamery. I was eating my ice cream and enjoying the day when Adam turned to me and said, "I just realized that you are going to be around all the time." He didn't say this with a smile on his face either. I immediately fell apart...in public. I mean obviously he didn't love me, he never wanted me there, and if he couldn't make it one week with me than how could he last for twelve? I was two seconds away from whipping out my emergency credit card and flying home. But Adam talked me down from that ledge. When I remind him of this incident he feels so terrible. I am a fan of emotional black-mail, so I bring it up often. And someday I will make sure our children know what a heathen their dad once was.

I was forewarned that Adam’s apartment didn't have air-conditioning, but I didn't think it would be a problem. I am from Alabama, and holy Hades Alabama is hot. I figured anyone complaining about it being hot elsewhere was just being a big pansy. Living in an upstairs apartment, that had no windows to open, put me in my place FAST. It was always hot, so much so that I couldn’t even take naps. I am an amazing napper. I love to nap; I can sleep 2-3 hours in the afternoon and still get to bed at a reasonable hour at night. Mmm....lovely sleep. I figured that was my cruel and unusual punishment for shacking up with my boyfriend.

When I was at home I had satellite TV and TIVO, but Adam only had basic cable. On top of that, half of the stations were in either Spanish or Vietnamese. I couldn’t watch The Real World-do you know how devastating that was for me? For some weird reason he did get the Oxygen network, so I watched two shows over and over-Snapped! and The Bad Girl's Club. I think I have successfully learned what to do or not to do if I ever wanted to murder my spouse.And is there really anything anyone can say about The Bad Girl’s Club? They are some crazy bitches. But what boggles my mind about the Oxygen network is that they describe themselves as a channel, "Dedicated to empowering women to do great things." How are the bad girls empowering women to do great things?!? And by showing Snapped! are they encouraging women to kill their husbands? I think they may have drifted a bit from their goal.

I figured if Adam and I didn't kill each other that summer, we could survive marriage. We did move into a bigger place that has windows for an air conditioner and we also have satellite TV. Because if I can't watch my shows or take my naps, I'm not very happy. And if I ain't happy, ain't nobody happy.

365 days ago (give or take):

When most girls were pushing the boys down and making them cry, she was pinning their posters on her walls. She got her first kiss at five on the school bus. After she kissed him, she promptly punched him in the gut, and told him it would hurt worse if he ever told anybody.

My niece Kayla is just as boy crazy as ever.

The Secret Life of Bees

Once I was stung by a bumble bee on the lip. I don't really remember the pain of that sting, but I do remember that my lip swelled to 5X its normal size, and it made me look like I was taking part in some underground, four year olds version of Fight Club. Yes, this was back in those carefree preschool days. That is if you define "carefree" as feeling like a total failure because your teacher tells you that you must have ants in your pants, because you never manage to fall asleep in those uncomfortable & cold cots at nap time. A feeling of failure that will only be repeated in kindergarten when no matter how hard you try, the simple act of learning to tie your shoes evades you.

That sting left me with a pretty big fear of bees. So to combat my fear my mother gave me a piece of advice, "If a bee is around you, just stand very still, because the bee just thinks you are a flower, and once he realizes you are not a flower he will fly away." She made me realize I didn't have to fear the bees; they were just innocent, confused little creatures. So life was great until the day I spent an entire hour at Spanish Lake Park sitting stock still on top of the jungle gym, with tears streaming down my face because a honeybee just wouldn't go away. My mom had to literally grab me and run, it was the only way I was coming down from there. I wasn't stung that day, but I've always held onto the belief that each bee has their own internal GPS system, and that they were all programmed to track me. And if I ran from the bee its GPS would just recalculate, just as my GPS does whenever I refuse to bend to her will.

So I went 18 years without a sting, but all that flew out the window two weeks ago. I always take Sarah out for her morning walk. Adam used to take her for her morning walk, and I would take her out in the evening. But it seems that all the crazies in the neighborhood come out at night, and the crazies like to hit on me, and it all made me very uneasy. That and Adam always plays video games on Saturday mornings, and it made him feel bad when I would roll out of bed at noon and remark, "You Haven't Walked the Dog YET?" I haven't asked Adam, but I know my husband pretty well, and I'm sure he was more concerned about his "gamer guilt" than me being scared of the crazies.

My grumpiness and laziness in the morning is legendary, and I would like nothing more than to just roll out of bed and take Sarah out in my pjs. But I don't know how the crazies would react . So I usually just pull a pair of pants out of the laundry and head out the door. This particular morning was no different. I had already leashed Sarah and she was really hyper because I had just yelled," You want to go Walkies?" I hate to admit that I routinely use the word "walkies". And when I say "walkies" her head explodes and she can't contain her excitement. Because she is going outside! Where she can eat chicken bones off the sidewalk! And sniff other dog's butts! And greet people who might not want to be greeted!"

I threw on my pants and sat down to tie my shoes, and all of a sudden my left butt check felt like it was on fire. I immediately ran to the mirror and saw a perfect red circle on my butt. I couldn't figure it out. At this point Sarah is whining and going crazy because we have yet to go outside, and I am totally confused and in pain. I walk into the living room, and I see something crawling on the floor. I think it’s a spider, and I'm sure I'm about to die, so I call Adam at work to tell him that I'm dying (He appreciated the heads up). But when I get a closer look I see that it is a bee, and the bee is now dying a slow & painful death on the hardwood floor. First I call Adam back and tell him I'm not dying. Then I run to the bathroom and get some insect spray, and in a rage I spray the s*** out of that thing. It finally died and I left it there on the floor for Adam to clean up when he got home, because I couldn't bring myself to touch it. This is what men are for, to kill and clean up the bugs.

But you may be wondering how a bee got into my pants INSIDE my home. You see Adam and I live in a tiny little cottage, and we are lucky enough to have our own washer and dryer. But the exhaust tube from the dryer isn't built in, so when we dry clothes we have to open up the window and hang the tube out of it. Folks this is what $1200 a month rent in Southern California will get you: a non built in dryer tube, a lopsided toilet, weird peach colored bedroom walls, no dishwasher, and a lawn the size of a postage stamp. And we absolutely love our home. One day we will have children, and they will inevitably throw temper tantrums over material things that they will believe they cannot be happy without. We will have to sit them down and tell them about the days when we first got married. When we had little money and not a lot of luxuries, but we laughed all the time and were perfectly happy. This will drive our kids bonkers I'm sure.

So I guess it is possible that while doing laundry a bee could fly in through the window. After a while, the bee began losing strength and it crawled into my track pants to die. And then I put on the pants and the bee mustered up enough strength to sting the heck out of my behind. Let me tell you that sting itched like crazy. There is nothing sexier than when you are constantly walking around scratching your butt. So now not only do I have a renewed bee phobia, but I also feel nervous when I'm slipping on my clothes every morning.

365 days ago (give or take):

I had lost my mother's love forever. I walked back to my bedroom, opened my closet door, emptied all the toys out of my toy box, shut the closet door, climbed in the box, and shut the lid.

I wrote this for my friend Jenny. She constantly asks me to tell her this story, for some reason she can't get enough of it. All I can say about this entry is God Bless my poor, long suffering mother.

The Men I Have Loved (or simply tolerated)

I'm getting married in 30 days, and the first thought I have when faced with that number is holy shit I'm never going to get everything done in time! I still have jewelry to buy, and tons of wedding cake to taste (don’t you pity me?). But it also makes me think of those pesky little things known as past relationships. And no trip down memory lane would be complete if I didn't tell you about my first love, Justin.

Justin was my best friend's cousin, and when I was 7 years old, I fell hard. From the moment he held my hand at the skating rink, while Gangsta's Paradise blasted from the speakers, I knew we would be together forever. Our favorite "date" was when we would swing side by side, while we did our own rendition of Aladdin's & Jazmin's, A Whole New World. Though I also remember being perpetually upset with him, because I could never get him to do Aladdin's solo, he would just start the song over again after I did Jazmin's part. That and he picked & ate his own boogers. We did have a little marriage ceremony though, I definitely didn't wear white, and I don't ever remember getting divorced. I hope it wasn't legally binding, cause I'm not ready to be a bigamist (I don't look good in orange and pin-strips make my butt look big).

My first real relationship was when I was 13, it was fix-ups of sorts by a friend. On our first date, he was to pick me up after an art class I was taking in the park. When Gary came to pick me up, we found ourselves smack dab in the middle of a Jehovah's witness convention. I have nothing against the Jehovah's witnesses but do you know how utterly impossible it is to find someone you've never met in a crowd so big? WITHOUT CELLPHONES.

We finally met up, and went back to his place to watch a movie. I can't say it was very romantic, because every time I got anywhere near him, his cat threatened to take my face off. I was pretty fond of my face, so I kept my distance. To say Gary was one fry short of a happy meal, was an understatement. I am by no means a grammar snob, but sometimes I really wanted to sit him down and explain the difference between "which" & "witch". But he was kinda cute, pretty good to me, and I was in love with telling people I had a boyfriend.

So we coasted a long pretty happily until the day Gary (who had never uttered any kind of racist remark in my presence) told me he would become a member of the Ku Klux Klan, not because he was racist, but because it was a deep rooted family tradition. Yes, my boyfriend the grand pooh bah of the KKK, lets just say that was a definite DEAL BREAKER. So I told him I was moving to Siberia, and never called him again. I swear that just seems something that could only happen to me.

In my freshmen year of high school, I began a four year long relationship with my first love, Pj. He was a nerd, in a completely charming way. (Not like that boy on the Pick Up Artist who said he once grabbed a boob than ran away. ROFL). His favorite hobbies were watching anime and playing video games, and he was always trying to lure me to the dark side. But I liked sleeping and watching really bad reality TV. And this was in the dark ages before DVR, when I was still a slave to things like a TV schedule. Pfft. So if I were to play video games, I might miss the Real World. And that was during the Las Vegas season, and I was dedicated to finding out who Trishelle was going to sleep with each week.

Pj was one of the most caring and understanding men I've ever met. High school was a very difficult time for me. I was grappling with severe anxiety & depression, and there were so many nights he stayed on the phone with me hour after hour, as I just sobbed. He was a big reason I finally got help, and why I'm here today happy & healthy. The irony of it all is that as I got better, we drifted apart. I changed so the dynamic of our relationship changed. And right before I left for college, things got really rocky, and he stopped making time for me.

In an effort to make him realize how much he needed me, I broke up with him. Yes I was playing a game, but it blew up in my face when he didn't want to get back together. I knew logically that it was for the best, but that didn’t make it any less devastating. A broken heart is pretty abstract until it happens to you. For a long time I wished I hadn't met Pj, and felt like maybe I shouldn’t have slept with him. But I don't regret any of those things anymore, and when he crosses my mind I always smile. He served a purpose in my life, and I am very grateful for that.

Pj was my last serious relationship before Adam. But there was the guy I took a day trip down to New Orleans with, who left me wandering around Bourbon Street alone (can't you just hear the world's tiniest violin playing my heart bleeds for you?). Next there was the guy who worked at IHOP, who was so cute I could barely find the words to order a short stack. And once I was sure a guy friend was about to ask me out, until one day he called me up to see if my friend was single. OUCH.

All these guys combined make me so grateful for what I have now.

365 days ago (give or take):

I'm thinking you want to trust me with your son, HELLO! Must I list all one million contrived reasons you shouldn't do this?

My thoughts on having children. I still don't know where I stand on that.

Fashion Statement

This beautiful little number is not a fashion statement of the avant garde variety (a term I only know because I watch more Project Runway than is physically healthy, and I wish I were Heidi Klum). Every single white mark on this shirt is a hole or some kind of tear. When Adam unwrapped this gift on Christmas, I was really confused. His family seemed like perfectly sane human beings to me-no rampant mental illnesses or dancing on tables. So where did this gift come from? It turns out this is a shirt Adam loved to wear in high school. One that he stubbornly refused to let his mom throw out. *Blinks, Blinks* I mean that thing, really? It was a great gag gift (as long as he doesn’t start wearing it).

I can picture Adam wearing this shirt because I know Adam (and his legendary stubbornness). People, I'm marrying a man who as a child when his mother told him he couldn't get up from the table until he ate an apple, he held out for hours, never ate the apple, and hasn't touched a piece of fruit since. I'm not even kidding. If Adam decided the sky was lime green, it would be easier to agree with him, than to get him to see otherwise. Oh my gosh, what am I getting myself into? Although he might say that same about me when it comes to my neurosis.

It’s not that I haven't had my own fashion mishaps. I’ve even discussed some in a past entry. I once had a t-shirt that got bleached stained that I absolutely loved. I wore it on a beach trip that I took with a friend & her mom. Nice, Classy people. My mother was absolutely horrified when she picked me up at her house in that ensemble. But I was even more horrified when I saw an old picture of me on face book of a different disaster. Not just because I don't look my best, but because of what I was wearing in public.

So it was obviously really late at night, because I was in my pajamas. I was getting ready for bed when I was lured out to Sonic by some friends who promised cheese sticks. (The first commandment of college is Thou shall not eat late night fast food by thyself.) I guess I decided that putting on real clothes would be too much effort. You know I wouldn’t ever want to risk burning any calories. I am wearing my blue flying squirrel pants. They are called this because I can pull on the sides, and they stretch out to a three feet wingspan, and then I think can fly. They are pulled over my pj shorts with the draw string poking out. Then I have on my black jacket, and there is no denying that it matches my pants. Don’t forget about the pink purse, that just adds something special.

I can picture myself in the future, embarrassing my children when I drop them off at school in a pink, floral muumuu and bunny slippers. Let just hope I get some sense of fashion before I go wedding dress shopping on Saturday.

Pimps & Hoes

In college my friends and I spent many evenings playing board games, and one of our favorite board games was Pimps & Hoes. Pimps & Hoes is a lot like monopoly. But instead of being a landlord, you are a pimp from HoTropolis. The jail becomes a free clinic, and instead of acquiring property you buy high, middle, and low-class hoes.

It really is a fun game, especially if you like your game night peppered with a little bit of sexual innuendo (and I mean really who doesn't?). I always preferred the low-class hoes to the high-class ones. I just figured that no one had the right to decide who was a high-class hoe and who wasn’t. So I always treated all my hoes equally. My favorite hoe was a chubby, low-class, scantily clad girl named Precious. Everyone knew I loved Precious, and it was understood that if I didn't get Precious my head would spin around and I would start spitting out pea soup.

I was thinking of this game tonight as I was taking Sarah out for an unexpected walk. We always take her out twice a day, either around the neighborhood or to the dog park. But she was extremely ancy tonight, so around 11 I decided to take her out one extra time. I was already dressed for bed, wearing a rather skimpy pair of pj shorts & matching tank top. I didn’t think of changing my clothes because I had forgotten how busy our neighborhood is at all hours. I do free boob it on occasion, but I'm actually a pretty modest person. So I felt slightly embarrassed, and was constantly tugging down my shorts, as Sarah and I walked back and fourth under the street lights at Ralph's.

I paused on the corner, right under the street light, as Sarah sniffed around the bushes looking for any disease inducing discarded rotten pickles she could find. Pickles I would have to wrestle her for, and afterwards she would spend the rest of the night giving me looks that said “You Have No Soul.” While I was standing on that corner, a cop drove by, and I noticed that he glanced more than a few times in my direction. And just for a minute, I knew exactly what it was like to be Precious, The Low-Class Hoe.

I Do Get To The Point....Eventually

As long as I can remember I've always been somewhat preoccupied with the fear of my house being broken into. This scares me even more than those evil, manipulative napkins. And I know people always say everything gets blame on the MOTHER, but I’d like to believe this fear actually is my mother's fault. This is because when I was a child we would often watch Unsolved Mysteries together before going to bed. I became convinced that the kidnappers, robbers, & murderers on the show were watching me as I watched the show, and were going to take their revenge on me as soon as I laid down. And it didn't help that the tree outside my window put a shadow on my wall that looked like a gigantic hand! I slept on the floor in my mother's room for many years, though she doesn't seem to have much recollection of any of this. Selective memory, I say.

Flash forward ten years, now I am an unemployed, adult who stays up until 4 AM every night err morning. I'm living in one of the busiest places in the United States, and I always hear a few noises every night that make my heart leap out of my chest & have me reaching for something to club the culprit with (high heel shoes, anyone). Honestly, I really have fewer reasons to worry about burglars now that I am living with a dog the size of a small pony, Sarah.
I know she doesn't look very intimidating in this picture that was snapped right after she had been groomed. And believe me when I picked her up last Saturday, I couldn't help but drive her crazy by singing, "I feel pretty, oh so pretty, I feel pretty, & witty, & bright.” (Which she told me was far less annoying than that day I kept telling her that I was so hungry, I could eat her whole in one bite). But the truth is Sarah would totally take someone's leg off if the situation called for it.
So far there has been nothing weird about my new neighborhood, other than the meat stealing man, that has validated any of my fears. That is until Saturday morning when I was lounging in the bedroom watching TV, and Adam was in the living room playing Grand Theft Auto IV. I heard glass shattering, and for a split second I thought maybe it was on Adam's game. And then I wondered if he had broken one of the glass panels on the front door, just like I accidentally did last week (whoops). The exact moment that I had gotten out the phrase, "Was that on the Game?" I saw a man running through our fenced in backyard...
Adam didn't believe me; he thought it was my overactive imagination. At that moment, I wanted to use my overactive imagination to shove my foot up his ass. I knew what I had seen. "But the gate is LOCKED," he said. But there was no denying that we both had heard the shattering glass. So he went outside to investigate, while I stayed inside freaking the eff out. Adam came in and gave me a look that said, "You Wont Believe What Happened," and "I'm About to Have to Admit That You Were Right and That Pains Me."
Apparently a man who was visiting a friend, who lives in the apartments behind our house, had a tiny bit of a screw loose. He got paranoid, jumped out the second story window, plunged 20 feet into our backyard, took off running, and then launched himself over our fence! We even had the massive amount of broken glass in our backyard to prove it.
My whole life I have been worried about burglars coming in the middle of the night. When what I really needed to be worried about was men jumping out of second story windows in the middle of the day.

Four Years We've Been Here

A few weeks before I started my freshmen year in college, my mom went to OpryMils Mall in Nashville and phoned home to say she was bringing me home a BIG surprise. Oprymils is a little slice of heaven for this small town Southern girl, whose town doesn't even have as much as a movie theater. I mean this mall has The Rain forest cafe, oodles of clothing stores, and don't forget the Hello Kitty store. Who can resist that cute little, um kitty?

So of course my mind raced with delicious possibilities: new clothes, new cds, or maybe just a good meal. But when my mom came home I was a little bewildered by the amount of excitement she was able to muster for a combined college dictionary & thesaurus. But even I have to admit that book was well-used throughout my college career.

Mississippi University for Women is the only college I applied to. I discovered MUW when I was leisurely skimming through a college catalog. It immediately peaked my interest because I thought it was an ALL WOMEN SCHOOL. I had just broken up with my boyfriend of four years. A boy I can honestly say I truly loved, although it was nothing like I'm experiencing now. A boy who was there with me through the hard times, the anxiety & depression. A boy who honestly saved my life. But when I got better, we no longer fit in each other's life. Our relationship changed because I had changed. Our love gradually started to slip away, until we were only together because we didn't know how to be apart. But finally one morning I got the courage to say, "This just isn't working anymore." And he agreed, I think part of me wanted him to fight for us. But he didn't, and I cried for months. I was positive I never wanted to date ever again. Yes, I know that was dramatic, but I was 17 and when you are 17 everything seems like the end of the world.

I had no preconceived notions or expectations about college. College was just something I always knew I was supposed to do after high school. I was more nervous than excited. And I worried about having to live with a roommate. My brother had moved out when I was five, so I had always lived like an only child. Plus, I am a bit of an control freak (a bit is the understatement of the century).

I could write a book about my college roommates. There was one girl who believed her boyfriend was cheating. So she set up an interrogation chair in the middle of the room, and a hidden video camera to try and catch him lying (I swear it was just like Jerry Springer). Then there was the girl who had lots of threesomes, kept illegal alcohol & drugs in the room, and liked locking me out at inopportune times.

But somewhere between the crazy roommates, all nighters, skipping classes, late night donut runs, and meeting the most amazing girls I've ever known, I figured out who I am. So what if I'm neurotic, a control freak, occasionally anti-social, and emotional. I'm also warm-hearted, steadfast, giving, a good listener, and sincere. I learned its OK to want to make others happy, as long as you don't forget that your happiness matters too. And that admitting you are feeling scared, lost, or unsure doesn't make you weak. And most importantly that there are really petty people in this world, but amazing people outnumber them by far.

When I graduated last May, I was so burnt out that I thought I would never want to step foot on campus ever again. But with my friends starting their fall semesters today, I have to admit there is a small part of me that is jealous. A new semester always meant a fresh start, buying new school supplies and making the soon to be broken resolutions to be more organized, attend all classes, and cut back on the partying. There are so many wonderful times ahead of me, I know that. But sometimes it’s tempting to live in the past, rather than finding the courage to step into the future.

In the Words of the Infamous Rachel Ray, "Yummo."

I'm not much of a chef or baker, although I'm really trying to learn, because I love cooking. Once I took a one hour, two day cooking class in college. It was a lot of fun, but it ended disastrously. Let's just say that the next day after class it was all over my college that I had nearly burned down the entire culinary arts building. The worst part was that when my chicken & dumplings did catch fire, I just stood there in shock, staring blankly, and not even attempting to put out the fire. I'm sure my name was used in future cooking classes as the example of WHAT NOT TO DO. I could just envision Smokey the Bear standing in the corner silently shaking his head at me in disdain.

I baked my first cake ever last weekend, and it was pretty good. The edges and top were a little crunchy, so we had to eat around those parts, but I felt that I still deserved an A for effort. And one afternoon when Adam was cutting himself a piece of cake and I walked in, and told him I wanted a slice too. He proceeded to pick up the cake and make me chase him all around the house for a good five minutes before relenting. So if the cake was worth all that trouble, it must have been pretty good. No one can say we don't have fun around here.

I also love all shows that have to do with food, like Top Chef, Food Network Star, Iron Chef, and my all time favorite Ace of Cakes. I live for Ace of Cakes, and Adam doesn't hate it which says a lot about the show since we do not share the same TV tastes. This is mainly because mine are of the low brow, awful, reality kind. I can't help myself people, it is just too bad not to watch. Or like I often tell Adam, "You are just a TV snob, don't you see that Tila Tequila turns dating into a form of art?" But I have to admit I was actually mad when Tila didn’t pick Danny in season one, but I don’t know how a girl with a chandelier made of dildos can really be considered a good catch.

Ace of Cakes is about this cake shop (I know what you are thinking, “Really Sherlock? A cake shop? With a name like “Ace of Cakes” I would have never guessed). And just as Archie Bunker would say to Edith, my reply to your sarcasm would be, “Stifle It!” The bakery is called Charm City Cakes, and they are located in Baltimore, Maryland. They are a group of crazy friends that specialize in making unusual cakes. They are so amazing, I would love to have them design a unique wedding cake for me, but they are too expensive. Plus I'm sure they wouldn't want to drive all the way down to Texas.

These are some of my all time favorites:

This cake actually is "Operational." I'm feeling a little bit "puny" tonight. Oh I'm cracking myself up over here. All I can say about this is SHOES!
I could eat sushi everyday for the rest of my life.

This cake was done for one of the Harry Potter Movie Premier parties. What a cool replica of Hogwarts. I have a confession to make though; I only picked this cake because I know most of you guys would love it. The truth is I’m not really a fan of Harry Potter (don’t hate me). I can appreciate it for what it is but it just not my style. The cookies are really why I love this one.
Avenue Q.
This was a favourite game as a child, and I think the attention to detail is amazing on this one.
Woof, Woof. I think I would rather have the cake than actually own the purse. Ok, maybe not.
Cute, Cute, Cute.

Life's Lessons

I was tagged by A Girl For All Status to pass this lovely story along. I never know who to tag, so as always pass this on if you want to and I will give you linky love. Which is exactly what Pajama Mom did, so be sure to check her out as well.

*** Start Here ***

Rules:
1. Simply copy the inspirational story and in the end write down the lesson you have learned out from this.
2. Put your own blog name and link. Pass or tag this to your friends to inspire them.
3. Start copy from “Begin Copy” until “End Copy” to your blog.

--- The Best Gift Ever ---

A young man was getting ready to graduate from college. For many months he had admired a beautiful sports car in a dealer's showroom and knowing his father could well afford it, he told him that was all he wanted. As Graduation Day approached, the young man awaited signs that his father had purchased the car.

Finally, on the morning of his graduation his father called him into his private study. His father told him how proud he was to have such a fine son, and told him how much he loved him. He handed his son a beautiful wrapped gift box. Curious, but somewhat disappointed, the young man opened the box and found a lovely, leather-bound Bible, with the young man's name embossed in gold. Angrily, he raised his voice to his father and said, "With all your money you give me a Bible?" And stormed out of the house, leaving the Bible.

Many years passed and the young man was very successful in business. He had a beautiful home and wonderful family, but realized his father was very old and thought perhaps he should go to him. He had not seen him since that graduation day. Before he could make arrangements, he received a telegram telling him his father had passed away, and willed all of his possessions to his son. He needed to come home immediately and take care of things. When he arrived at his father's house, sudden sadness and regret filled his heart.

He began to search through his father's important papers and saw the still new Bible, just as he had left it years ago. With tears, he opened the Bible and began to turn the pages. His father had carefully underlined a verse, Matt 7:11, "And if ye, being evil know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more shall your Heavenly father which is in heaven, give to those who ask Him?" As he read those words, a car key dropped from the back of the Bible. It had a tag with the dealer's name, the same dealer who had the sports car he had desired. On the tag was the date of his graduation, and the words... PAID IN FULL.

How many times do we miss God's blessing because they are not packaged as we expected? I trust you enjoyed this. Pass it on to others. Do not spoil what you have by desiring what you have not; but remember that what you now have was once among the things you only hoped for...

Lesson learned: Sometimes you might not get what you want, but you might just get what you NEED.

I Said Assburger Five Times in This Post

I really do not miss living the life of a student. Even though all that independence, those late night donut runs, and the freedom to never take off my pajamas was pretty alluring. But I don’t miss those nights I spent locked in my bathroom, so I wouldn't wake my roommate up, with the cell phone glued to my ear and crying to Adam. "I won't ever be able to finish this paper. And then I'm going to fail the paper, which will make me fail the class, and I will flunk out of college, and my mom will never talk to me again*!" I have a very end of the world style type of thinking if you couldn't’t tell.

But I do miss the girls I lived with, albeit we occasionally got on each other nerves. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, living in a dorm is like being at a sleepover you can never leave. Remember sleepovers as a child? You had fun, but the next day you are sleepy, cranky, and just want to go home and take a shower. On days like this, I sometimes thought about poking out their eyeballs with sporks while they slept (I kid, I kid). I truly loved those girls. Friends like my very special buddy Lark. I can’t believe I just called her my “special buddy.” That sounds like something a single mother who is bringing home her new boyfriend to meet her kids would say. And no Lark is not a made up name. Because her name is awesome enough without embellishment, and she really wouldn't care that I'm telling this story.

Lark likes to spend a lot of time alone. She is kind of like me in that respect. I love my social time, but after my social time, I need my alone time. So when she would retreat to her room to do her Larkish things, we would often tease her and say she was leaving us to watch her donkey porn. I really doubt she was actually watching donkey porn, but in our modern Internet age who really knows.

Lack actually is a chemistry major and does want to be a chemist, but she also loves to write on the side. She is a pretty good too, and she posts most of her work online. Lark had written this one particular story, and before posting it she had added a disclaimer stating that she had just wrote whatever came to mind, a very stream of consciousness type piece. And that it might not be her best work.

Soon afterwards some friends and I were sitting in the common room, when we heard Lark talking to herself rather loudly in her bedroom. Carrying on and on about something, presumably cussing out an imaginary friend. We ran into the room to make sure she hadn’t completely lost her marbles. And then she told us someone online had left her a comment about her story saying, "Your story is good for an ASSBURGER!" “How dare she call me an ASSBURGER?” she railed. “What does that even mean?” “An ASSBURGER my ASS.”

We were shocked! We didn’t know what an assburger was either, but we knew it was far from a compliment. So we asked to see this particular comment. Mainly so we could construct a voodoo doll of this woman and send some bad luck her way. But when I glanced at the comment it actually said,” This story is amazing, especially since I can tell you have Asperger's," I told Lark, "You read it wrong! I think Asperger's is a type of autism. Don’t you remember? It’s what Heather from America's Next Top Model had.” And I do realize how sad it is that most of my medical knowledge comes from watching reality TV or Scrubs (But could J.D. be any cuter?).

Once Lark had read about Asperger's, and was completely convinced that she had not been called an assburger. She turns to us and says, "You know what this means don't you? When it comes to writing, I shouldn't’t quit my day job*."

And just so you know, I still call Lark an assburger to this day.




*My Mother is really calm, sensible, and loving. I just overreact to everything.
**Lark was joking, she didn't quit writing.

Puppy Prozac and Other Musings

I may have just jumped off the deep end. Before I knew what I was saying, I had agreed to adopt my brother's 107 lb, hefty, golden retriever, Sarah Lee. Or as we like to call her Sara WEEEEEE! In a high pitch voice that makes everyone around you cringe. She is a beautiful girl, and one of the sweetest dogs I've ever met. Though she may be one of the laziest dogs I've ever met. She has a lot of extra poundage on her, but hey who am I to talk? I myself am pleasantly plump. Her tail is so long and strong that it should be registered on the homeland security list of weapons of mass destruction. I’ve seen her knock some things over with that tail numerous times. And the day I met her 8 years ago, I fell in love.

Adam and I were planning on getting a dog when I started my job at the end of the month. But a small dog, one that you can fit in your purse and carry everywhere you go. I kid, I kid, I would never pull a Paris Hilton. But a golden retriever was definitely not part of the picture. But life seems to be making its own plans lately.

You see, my brother is going through a pretty nasty divorce. This divorce has been heartbreaking for the whole family. They have been together for over 15 years now, since they were teenagers. And they have two beautiful children together. It’s a divorce that involves drugs, mental illness, and affairs. There is so much pain going around, that I can’t even begin to wrap my head around it all. My brother is moving with my nieces into a small apartment now, and they no longer have room for such a large dog. They don’t want to send Sarah to the pound, and it may sound silly but I feel like dogs are the innocent victims in all of this mess.

So as I'm talking to my mother, making the arrangements to fly Sarah out here, she tells me this hilarious story about her friend Kirsten and her dog. As a kind of warning for having a dog out here in California. Not too long ago, Kirsten was living in Los Angeles, with her new husband and their two dogs. One dog was her husbands from his single days, and the other was hers. In California they have numerous dog parks, some of which are leashed and some of which are unleashed.

So one day they had their dogs unleashed and they were strolling around the park, when her husband's dog went up to another dog and “scared” him. Now he didn't actually bite him, he just barked at him a little. The owner of the second dog insisted that they exchange numbers, and she then reported her to the doggie police (or whoever it is you call). So they had to go to doggie court, and the puppy was sentenced to therapy!

Doggie therapy?!? I've never heard of such a thing. I mean I’ve seen the Dog Whisperer from time to time, but that’s not really therapy. So anyway they took the puppy to therapy, and the therapist concluded the dog was acting out because of Kirsten. This was because SHE had moved into the house without explaining it to the dog, so she had DISRUPTED the dog's life. Basically she told them, that Kirsten was like the "evil" stepmother. She even prescribed the puppy Prozac. I said, "Good Grief! How did they get all this from a dog? Apparently the counselor spent an entire hour staring into the dog's eye. They of course got strapped with a huge bill, and everyone else got a good laugh.