Twitterpated

What a whirlwind of a week…

It started not so great still being sick and adding a ridiculously timed UTI. I reached a rather all-time low on the homework front. Yesterday I received an assignment back. Eight out of twenty-five. May as well have not turned it in at all! Oh well, I’ve got four weeks to redeem myself. Right?

That might be a little complicated.

Beside that my professors all scheduled my big papers the same week—seriously? Do they not collaborate?—I have something new occupying the majority of the space in my mind, much as I try to shove and fight it into its compartmentalized space in my head.

There’s this guy.

He’s not just any guy. He’s great. The story actually begins before this week. I have Creative Nonfiction (CNF) with him. For the last few weeks I’ve been fascinated by him. There are no words to explain why. It’s this crazy magnetic attraction, and an inexplicable I-really-need-to-get-to-know-you siren song. But he’s impossible to read. Like, I graduated in interpersonal communication, including an entire semester on non-verbal communication. This guy is a blind, deaf mute; well, he makes me feel like one.

I’m pretty ballsy. I’m not afraid to take the lead and just go for something, but I usually act on a cue that the interest might be reciprocated. So I was a chicken and didn’t go for it. My friend Bethany told me to just go for it, so I promised her if he didn’t do anything about it by the end of the semester I would ask him out (that way if he wasn’t interested I didn’t have to face him three days a week and feel like an idiot).

Two weeks ago there was a shift that, at the time, seemed nothing but a nuisance. I was sick. By the second week I was exhausted and decided to take sick days from school to get well (but I already wrote about that). I knew I missed something in CNF, so I just shot an email to my professor asking her what I needed to do. Then, through my mucus lined membranes an idea slowly burbled to the surface.

An in! I knew he was on Facebook from something he had said, so I found him, and requested he be my friend. In the “personal message” box I said something to the effect of, “This is me asking you to be my friend…and a shameless plea for help to know what we did in CNF.” He didn’t get the message until it was too late for me to get it about the homework, so he felt bad (oops!), but we became fb friends. I put little hints out there, but did not expect much.

Then came the email. In short, it was the cutest thing ever. And he asked me on a date. The best part was, he didn’t just ask me out, he had a plan. It was a good plan. It was a great date.

It took everything in my power not to get too excited. Beside that I was interested in him this was a first for me. I’ve never met someone in person, and had them think enough of me to ask me out on a date. Riding that high was enough, so the added attraction was shooting sparks into the tinder and I just couldn’t do that to myself if, for some cosmically unjust reason, things failed.

But they didn’t fail. Epic win.

Anybody who knows me knows I’m touch oriented. My friends and I great each other with a hug on a daily basis. But it’s not just friends, almost anybody I have a one-on-one conversation with I touch on the arm or hand or shoulder or knee during the course of our conversation. It’s called skin hunger. I crave touch. And if I’m interested? TOUCH! But with his stonewalling nonverbal, it was like hanging a big “DO NOT TOUCH” sign for me. If you know me, I broke the rules, and I touched. You would have thought I shocked him when I casually draped my hand across my leg and his while visiting with my roommate. I left it there for a minute or two longer before removing it.

I knew if I would’ve asked for a hug when he left he would’ve given me one because he was a gentleman (yeah, like opened all the doors and did everything right kind of gentleman), but I figured I’d already pushed him out of his comfort zone enough for one night.

As it turns out…he’s totally into me. Wanted to kiss me and everything. Yeah, the feeling’s mutual. Saw him, outside of class, three times in three days. And, let’s be honest, if I wasn’t out of town this weekend, we’d probably see each other today, too. I’m cooking dinner for him on Tuesday.

All the excitement and twitterpation does not come without some reservation. He has a history that caused some flashbacks in me I never anticipated. My kneejerk reaction was to run away. I just barely moved into a good space in my life after the last time. It took a year to put the pieces of my life back together. But reason prevailed. First, I have a history that could be scary, too. Second, I can’t make him pay for someone else’s mistakes. So with reckless abandon I have thrown caution to the wind and submitted myself completely to whatever this turns out to be.

I can’t wait.

The Suckyness of Sickness

Eleven days and counting. That's how long I've had this cold. ELEVEN DAYS. Quite frankly, it's about 7 too many. My false bravado lasted through day four, but with no weekend, midterms, and throwing caution to the wind for a stellar biography...my resolve crumbled.

I took two "personal health days" on Monday and Tuesday; of course I didn't actually rest all day. I ran the errands I had been putting off, I still had a quiz in Spanish, and of course I couldn't not show up at work. That said, I wasn't out of bed before 10 am either day, and one night was asleep before 10 pm.

The result...sicker than before and now behind in five classes.

However, there is karmic justice in the world. I cannot be well (which is clearly the ideal), but my professors are dumping assignments from their syllabi right and left. After a professor dropped an assignment in one class I muttered, "Thank you Lord Jesus" and a girl laughed at me. Little did she know it was a sincere, heart-felt, honest prayer of thanks.

I don't think I could handle one more late paper right now. You see, I have this masochistic trait for demanding excellence of myself. This does not include groveling, excusing, late work, make-up tests, or getting less than an A on anything. Therefore sickness + behind = a whole lot of bad angry. And coughing.

Oh the coughing. Today I coughed so hard I almost threw up. I also coughed so hard tears started streaming down my face, and my professor stopped class to make sure I was ok. I eventually had to excuse myself to go have a royal coughing fit in the bathroom (where I'm sure it sounded like I was retrieving last week's lunch from my lower intestine through my esophagus). Afterward I was exhausted, like they say people who have seizures get. I just wanted to go to sleep.

But no, instead I walked to the middle of campus to get lunch, walked back past where I had started to the end of campus to eat and go to class. Class let out early, which only meant I could make more of my staff meeting that I was missing, and then I show up to work to find I am doing the paperwork with a new client (a process that takes at least two hours).

But it's ok because it's almost over, and tomorrow I can take a nap. I hope.

An Open Letter to the "Polka Dots"

My roommates and I invent words. We have our own unique "register" (set of commonly used words  used by a specific group of people in an uncommon way). A few months ago we went to the Jack Johnson concert where we observed a common social phenomenon. One teenage boy. Three teenage girls. One blanket. Let the entertainment begin.

One girl was clearly more ambitious than the others. She was wearing a blue polka dotted shirt, thus we dubbed her the "polka dot." If the Pink Bible really existed this girl would have been a dedicated scriptorian. She used every tool in her arsenal, she laughed copiously, she laid the flirt on thick, and about every third second she would brush his forearm, or leave her hand lingering on his shoulder.

But she was not alone. One of her friends was willing to play, too. She was a little more mild, but was still putting the moves on. As the sun set the group settled onto the blanket, Polka Dot on the left of Solo Boy, Contender on his right, and two shunned friends on the end of the blanket. Then what happens? Oh, the Polka Dot makes a power play, wedging herself between the Contender and the boy forcing the Contender out of physical contact! Polka Dot owned the Contender.

We were literally clapping and cheering. Then came the twist. Polka Dot is trying to work it, Contender has thrown in the towel, and what does Solo Boy do? He starts talking to the only girl who has shown no interest whatsoever; the one on the far edge of the blanket.

Why? Because he's not interested in Polka Dot or the Contender, and Uninterested Girl is safe.

So Polka Dots, this is for you. LEAVE THE MEN ALONE!

There is something to be said about a woman who knows what she wants and goes after it (trust me, I'm that kind of woman), but there is something to be said for subtlety, finesse, and holding back at times. The thing to say is: DO IT. There is an art and a balance to be struck in pursuit.

Keep the image of the hunter in mind. If you are constantly charging through the forest looking for prey you're not going to find it because it is going to be hiding from you. You need to be out there, part of the action, but it's important to stop, listen, pay attention to what's happening, and adjust your course as necessary.

So Polka Dot, maybe it's time you start using some Camouflage.

The Rant on Hole-y Jeans

On Monday I was leaving campus and passed a fellow student who had just climbed out of a car. No big deal. That happens all the time. Then to my horror I realised that the nightmares of millions were coming true--he had come to school with no pants on! No, no wait. He was wearing pants, but the gargantuan gaping hole that encompassed his entire right thigh and knee misled me.

What is more disconcerting is that I could see his whole hairy thigh. This means one of two things: 1) He was wearing briefs, or 2) He was going commando. Do people seriously still wear briefs? Do they still make briefs? Perhaps I should write a letter...

At any rate, what is with these "jeans"? I realise we are in between seasons and it's hard to know whether to wear shorts or pants, but wearing half-short/half-pant just is not advisable. Not now. Not ever. Who knows, perhaps it was a Halloween costume test.

Just putting that out there.

Inspiration

There is something magical about Fall. People talk about Spring being full of possibilities and new beginnings. For me it's all about Fall. I feel like I can do anything when the season shifts, when you need a jacket in the morning and just before the sun sets, when the true colors of the trees shine through their green masks and they let the world know the brilliance they've been hiding all summer long.

I want to show my brilliance. I want to radiate like those crimsons and coffees and bronzes. Fall is my new beginning. There are so many possibilities and chances waiting to be taken. I've always said I want to get married in the fall because each year it feels like the perfect time to find love and just have it explode into life.

No love yet this year, but here's hoping.

The past few days I've felt incredibly grateful for what I have. Not that I'm not usually pretty optimistic about the opportunities I've been afforded in life, I'm incredibly blessed, but the last few days have thrown this into even sharper relief.

I work in a residential treatment facility for recovering drug addicts. It is my great privilege to work among such courageous individuals, and to take them to NA and AA meetings where they can share their stories and find greater inspiration, strength and hope. Over the past seven months I have come to love the 12 Step Program worked in those meetings. It's changed my life.

Saturday morning I sat next to a wonderful woman who simply said, "Life is too short. Life is too [effing] short to be worried about who is holding the remote control and who is right. I used to be really concerned with who is right, and I'm learning more and more that it's not me, and I'm learning to deal with that." Powerful? I think so.

Last night a client asked me to help her with her creative expression (when they create a visual and written work to represent their past, present, and hope for the future that they complete close to the end of their stay in treatment). She had written some really beautiful words in the attempt to create a poem. I could see the potential and power of what she was trying to convey, so I gave here a really difficult challenge. I asked her to put the poem into a form (one that I thought was hell the first time I encountered it). The Villanelle--see! It even sounds enigmatic. I'm really glad she accepted the challenge.

The best part was the look on her face. It gave me the this is why I do what I do feeling. To see her excitement, her desire to try something hard, something she'd never done before. That's money.

I've had that a few times lately. Another client has been struggling to find her Higher Power ever since she came into treatment. Anybody who knows anything about the 12 Steps knows you can't work them until you have a Higher Power. I could see defeat in her tears a few weeks ago when she expressed to me that she'd been trying to find a Higher Power so much without success that she didn't know what else to do. I did something kind of backwards. I gave her permission to quit finding a Higher Power and just do the assignments she had been given. The weight she felt lifted was visible. Four days ago she stuck her head around my door and said, "Hey, I may have found my Higher Power. No, I do have a Higher Power. This week it all just fell into place and everything fits and makes sense now. I just wanted you to know." My impending release of hormones may have something to do with it, but I was almost moved to tears.

That's money. This is why I do what I do. The job doesn't pay great, the hours aren't always wonderful. I hardly have a weekend. But I get to see people's lives literally change before my eyes. Who couldn't love that?

A Long Time Gone

It feels like I've lived three lifetimes since I posted last. Looking back my last post-date is shockingly close to today considering what I felt like I've been through.

School has started and the last two weeks I feel like I've been a wreck; not to mention running six quarts of oil in a four quart engine (no, I don't know anything about mechanics but I heard a mechanically savvy man say that once and it sounds like it fits, so there. Copped.).

I think the most brilliant part of my semester is going to be wrapped up in Creative Nonfiction. It is also the most time consuming and emotionally hammering. I spent four days last week crying cathartic tears as I wrote and worked through experiences in the recent and not-so recent past. I desperately wish--in a way--that I could quit all my other classes and focus solely on this. It would be like a workshop for what I desire to do with my life; sit and write day after day, interview friends about past experiences, talk to family about the unofficial "secrets" and explore my own understanding of experiences as they shaped my life.

Alas, four other classes (officially, five unofficially) vie for my time and daily allotments of time.

All in all things are going well. Roommate situation is not bad. School is getting better (only to get worse with three major papers coming up in short order, two tests in the last two days, and another coming up next week), and life feels a little more manageable.

Side Note: What is with all the bizarre theatre people in my classes this semester? I have at least two where they dominate the class make-up and I feel like I'm losing my mind. I know I've taken it to the bad place when I feel like I'm wasting time by not spending free time discussing the nuances of Shakespeare's words and Aristotle's theories as they relate to actors on the stage. WTF?

The D-Word

When I worked with Kindergartners they would say things like, "She just said the B word!" To be diplomatic I would ask them what "B word" that might be, at which point I'd get a wet, lingering whisper close to my ear with a cupped hand, "Shut up." Sometimes when I'm trying to remember something I'll say, "It starts with a V" only to realise approximately 47.2 seconds later that it, in fact, started with a J.

But this time I really mean the D-word. Perhaps not the D-words mothers of young children, or those who are once-again single are thinking. No, this is by far a more rewarding/grueling experience.

Disneyland.

To start, am I the only person in the world who positively abhors "It's A Small World" but rides it every trip just because her mother loves it? The puppets, and the singing, and the same song over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over (are you getting the picture yet?) again...I don't care how many languages it's in! The pitch never changes! The tune is the same! By the time we float out I'm growling through clenched teeth and doubled-up fists, "It's a world of laughter, a world of TEARS!"

However, to be fair, I still love Dumbo. It's one of my first Disneyland memories. Up and down, up and down, flying on Dumbo's back with a magic feather. And it's just that. Magic.

For the first time in many trips there were small children with us on our visit to the Happiest Place on Earth. For Christmas 2009 we were given this trip. All told there were 41 of us from my mother's side. It's the first family vacation I've been on with my older sister in seven years. She has three children ages 6, 4 (he turned four there--it was pure bliss), and 15 months. There is nothing quite like seeing Disneyland through a child's eyes. We sprung a whopping $38 a pop to have character dinner at Goofy's Kitchen (located at the Disney Resort--not even CLOSE to Disneyland). It was worth every cent. We met Goofy, Pluto, Cinderella, Aurora (Sleeping Beauty for those of you not in the know), Minnie, and Chip (from Chip and Dale of the Rescue Rangers, not to be confused with Chippendale's...). Even the toddler LOVED the characters. It was totally precious to watch him run up to Koda in California Adventure with his eyes open wide, arms spread, and huge smile on his face.

For as much as I was grumpanilla (yeah, go figure) the lines didn't seem that long. The weather was perfect. Everything just seemed to work out.

And during one of my five waits for Space Mountain I was pondering whether or not my nephew who turned four would remember any of this. But at the age of four I made my first trip to Disneyland. I remember Dumbo and I remember Space Mountain. I rode it with my mom (who hates roller coasters). I was wearing a mint green sweatsuit set with a white panel complete with Care Bears (we are talking old-school legit; this was 1989, after all) across the chest. I remember loving Space Mountain. I remember my mom pointing out how my shirt lit up under the black lights. And I remember meeting Mickey Mouse. Back then characters didn't have the scheduled stations like they do now, at least it doesn't seem like they did. Finding a character was a chance meeting. We looked for him all day to no avail. And then, like a commercial, as we were walking across the Sleeping Beauty Castle bridge back to the main square there he was, all in black. It was dark, and it was perfect. It was the only thing I had wanted from the whole trip, and I got it.

41 people. 4 generations. 864 miles. 8 vehicles. 8 days. Christmas 2009-Disneyland 2010. Countless adventures, priceless memories.

Just an Idea

My friend Loni has been harassing me since January to move out with her. I very consistently and plainly told her no.

She is very persistent.

I am a person of very strong will, and won't do anything I don't want to. Loni is now my roommate. That's right. 26 (almost) years later and I finally moved out of my parents' basement. Go me! And all it took was six months of much-needed pestering. As part of my graduation into independent-ish adulthood I decided to refinish my childhood dresser (that story and pictures to come). It was a really fun project!

Now all the boxes have been packed, unpacked, and I've settled in. New apartment here I come.

Random errant thought: I keep noticing the "Monetize" tab on here, and tonight--part out of boredom, part out of the scary future of having bills to pay--I checked it out. It doesn't sound too terribly shabby. Then I reread some of my older posts. I can't pimp my writing out like that. It just doesn't feel right.

That's all.

To All the Girls With "Pretty Faces"

I've been ruminating on this topic for some time. The title came to me a while ago (seems kind of like a riff on Cormac McCarthy's All the Pretty Horses because of the repetition with the ending sounds), but the words have taken a while to form. In fact, I'm not quite sure I've got them nailed down the way I want, but we'll work from here and see where it goes.

I think this idea really started to percolate when a lovely friend (known simply as "B", but we usually type it "b" because she's small in stature) was talking about some friend-of-a-something-someone-or-other who gets paid to publish a blog about the daily pains of being large-breasted. An inconsiderate male in b's life recommended she write one about being flat-chested. This isn't a post about boobs. Heaven knows I know plenty about that, but I decided to stick with something I know better and have known even longer.

This is a post about being fat.

We're not talking "I'd really like to lose three pounds" pseudo-fat. We're talking flabby-arms, lumpy-wrists, cankles, dimply-knees, back-fat-hanging-in-folds, multiple-rolls-on-the-belly, thighs-have-never-not-rubbed-together, I-didn't-even-know-I-had-collar-bones, my-facial-shape-might-be-something-else-under-these-mounds-of-round, I'm-afraid-to-cut-my-hair-short-because-it-shields-less-of-my-person, my-belly-button-is-a-cavern, I've-never-been-pregnant-and-am-covered-with-stretchmarks, the-fashion-world's-concept-of-XL-doesn't-even-begin-to-cover-one-of-my-butt-cheeks-let-alone-my-bust, I-don't-fit-in-the-airplane-seat, F-A-T fat.

I hope you're laughing. You should be. It's funny. Have you ever noticed how most comedians are fat, or not-attractive, usually both? The world expects fat people to fall into one of two polarized groups: fat and funny, or fat and bitter (of course there is the veiled fat-and-bitter-who-feigns-funny-to-make-people-happy-while-secretly-loathing-them, but we won't go there. The world's not ready to relinquish it's stereotypes). There is also the expectation that all fat people secretly feel like the contestants on The Biggest Loser who bawl about never being loved, kissed, etc.and that we all have a deep yearning to "be like everyone else."

Newsflash: The super-duper secret answer (for this fat girl) is I do and I don't. See, fat people can be complicated, too!

Sure, it would be nice to shop at any store I wanted and to know that the outfit will look the same on me as it does on the mannequin in the window. It would be nice not to have my love-handles ache for three days after a transcontinental flight because they were mashed under the armrests in the economy section of the plane. It would be lovely to dance and not feel like one hip-swish caused reverberating shock waves across the rest of my gelatinous sub-dermal-self.

But it's also very much a part of who I am. It's kind of how I identify myself. I've always been the biggest. It's nice not counting calories every meal. It's funny to see how surprised people are at my flexibility and agility (fat and active, there's a new one for ya!). And to be perfectly honest, I may not love every bit of who I am every minute of the day, but I know who and what I am. I know my body this way, and almost every day I love it. I love me. I don't care if I am like everyone else.

I do care if I'm healthy, and lately I've been trying harder to monitor what fuel I'm giving my body to ensure a long, active life. I don't resent people who are thin. I'm not a recluse who eats a tub of ice cream in a single sitting. Really, I'm not that much different from thinner people who have poor habits. My body simply doesn't process things the same way theirs do. Is it fair? Not really, but neither is life. It's also not fair that I don't study or work hard at school and still get A's when I know people who pour hours of their lives into mentally grueling study sessions only to barely pass.

I dislike all the politically-correct terms people use. "You're not fat, your healthy." "I'm sure you're not that overweight." Overweight. Does that mean my body has a prescribed weight? Is there someone out there who magically assigned a certain weight to every individual person? Is my magic weight 192.3 lbs? So if I drop to 175 are people going to become suddenly concerned about my being 20 lbs underweight? Chances are not so good. The people who love me get very defensive and prickly when I flatly tell them, "I am morbidly obese." In return I get, "You just carry it so well." and "But you still have such a pretty face." I'm sorry, since when did being fat affect my apparent facial beauty? Or since when was being pretty in the face a consolation prize? Is that one redeeming quality supposed to set the cosmos right and realign karmic balance in the universe?

Apparently.

I learned years ago that I could've been thin. I could've been born with thick, full hair. I could've been born with smaller feet. I could've been born with longer eyelashes. I could've been born shorter. I could've been born a faster runner. I could've been born nicer and not had to learn in a very painful way to not be cruel. But I wasn't. I was always fat. I have thin, fine hair. I have huge feet. I have stumpy eyelashes. I'm a certifiable giantess. I'm a freakishly slow runner. And I'm still working on not being cruel. So what does this all mean?

I am fat. I love me. And I have a pretty face to boot.

The FUN Has Arrived!

Ok, so once again it has been about a million years since I posted. Lame. I know. I do this a lot. You should be used to it by now. Or I should be more reliable. I'll go with the former and absolve myself of all guilt. Ah, I feel much better now.

So basically I've been crazy-busy with school and work. I forgot how much work school was. That or when I was in school before I didn't care like I do now. Hmm...probably the latter in this case. At any rate, it pretty much consumed my life for the month of June. I still have a monsterous paper due on Friday (which, for all intensive purposes, I have yet to begin), but then I'm home-free until August 23. Then it's going to be doomsday. See, I thought I was busy with one normal class, two online classes, and two jobs now. Come August 23 I'll have four English classes (curious aside: they are all taught by women), one Spanish class, and still have two jobs. Suicidal much? No. Not yet anyway.

Yet in all reality life is good right now. Like really ridiculously good. Honestly, if there was one thing in my life I would want to be working for me right now that currently isn't it would be getting to the gym (no, I don't date currently, but I think I should start going to the gym again before I try that so I won't feel like the fat funny friend that guys want to hang out with and not just be friends with). But we're not paying attention to that! Because so many other things are good.

It's almost kind of scary-crazy to me how bad off I was just a few short months ago. There are literally four months of my life that I don't remember. No, I wasn't intoxicated. I was depressed. Then one day it was like I woke up and saw myself in the mirror for the first time in those four months and I didn't even recognize myself. It wasn't like I had moped around and slept all day. I had a job that I went to everyday, picked up two other jobs along the way, and got ready every day. I just did it all on autopilot.

I vaguely recall realizing I liked music again. It was as though I had shut all of "me" into a tight little box and my body just kept going until I decided to come out. Seeing myself in the mirror was part of that awakening. Listening to music was another. But I think the thing that kicked down the door and said, "I ain't gonna do this anymore!" was going back to school. I've really enjoyed most of the jobs I've had since I graduated from college, but none of them ever caused me to feel like I was "going somewhere" or "doing something" with my life. I just existed.

Now there is the increased incentive that what I'm doing will make a difference--for me and for the world (you know, the world being the people I interact with, which might by like, 50 people. Or according to Facebook at least 355). I get some of that now working at the residential treatment facility for recovering drug addicts. Being here has really changed my life for the better, and hopefully I've had some kind of positive effect on some of them, too. So yeah. That's about it.

Oh, and three days ago there was a marching band marching down my street. Yes, I am that cool. That's all.

Musings and Ramblings

It's been ages. My excuse could be time. Or traveling to London to fulfill a life-long dream.

London was a dream come true. It was like living in a fantasy. Now all I want to do is go back, since I never wanted to leave in the first place. Everybody keeps asking about favorites. It's hard to pick since I just remember loving it all--except the part where I felt like a little kid again when I couldn't keep pace with my professor. That man speed walks, I swear. Well, if that's true, then so do all the Britons. People walk fast there. People walk with purpose. Leisurely strolls don't seem to exist, even in parks. That's where the "fitties" do their training.

I start back to school on Tuesday. I'm scared shitless. It's been three years. Is it possible to forget how to be in school? If so, I think I've done it. This week I've been writing essays for my study abroad classes. I swear it's taking me twice as long, and the writing isn't nearly as good. I can't imagine going back after a long break. It makes me appreciate people like my mom who went back with a family after 13 years of being out of classrooms, or my brother-in-law who is finally pursuing his dream of earning a bachelor's degree.

But with the beginning of my return to school comes the close of the regular school year. I will miss my beloved Kindergartners. Working with them has been life altering. I am amazed by them and the things of which they are capable. Yesterday I was at Walmart behind a mother with her two children, I'm guessing ages 2 and 3, a girl and boy, respectively. Of course their little minds are bombarded with the diabolical impulse items. As soon as the boy asked for a treat the girl went into full-out tantrum (as in laying underneath the shopping cart pounding the floor). I remember having a conversation with my sister about having kids throwing a tantrum in the store and passersby giving dirty sneers, or even worse saying, "Oh somebody must be having a bad day." Instead, I politely watched this stalwart mother stand her ground without making faces or sympathising with the children. She picked up the girl and seated her in the cart, and took the boy by hand. He looked back to see how interesting my purchases were. His cry was clearly false. And my only thought was, "Your mom must really love you because she said, 'No.'"

Working with recovering drug addicts I am convinced that the world could use a whole lot more "no." But not just the blatant no, but nurturing because-I-really-care, "no." Tonight I'm grateful for parents who not only supported me in all good things I wanted to do, but also told me no when I needed to hear it. A timely no leads to a world full of yes. I have a lot of yes right now because of their nos (even those I chose not to hear).

Be grateful if you had a mom who loved you enough to say no.

Tulips, Daffodils, and Miracles

The last few days, weeks really, have been cause for lots of reflection, continual prayer, and much gratitude. The weather has been less than temperate with several inches of snow, and winds at gale force just this week, but today I caught an all-too-brief glimpse of something resoundingly Spring. In a little plot near the mailbox at the front of a simple home was a brilliantly blooming flower patch. Rising up in mellow beauty were fully opened daffodils, a delicious butter and lemon color. Just in front of them a clump of scarlet tulips open to the sun, as if spreading arms out wide to welcome and embrace it's warming rays. And in that truncated glimpse, lasting perhaps less-than half a second, joy seeped into my limbs, infused my person, and nestled comfortably in the heart of my soul.

In my mind has been repeating this quote from President Thomas S. Monson, shared some two autumns ago. "Mortality is a period of testing, a time to prove ourselves worthy to return to the presence of our Heavenly Father. In order to be tested, we must sometimes face challenges and difficulties. At times there appears to be no light at the tunnels end--no dawn to break the night's darkness...If you find yourself in such a situation, I plead with you to turn to our Heavenly Father in faith. He will lift you and guide you. He will not always take your afflictions from you, but He will comfort and lead you with love through whatever storm you face."

I was not fully aware until just yesterday of all that has been transpiring with my immediate and extended family. Within the last two weeks we have undergone a series of remarkable things.

Miracle One: My great-grandma of 92 fell from her bed and for four days complained of pain until she was taken to the doctor where they found she had broken her neck. They call it the "hangman's break" because it was the break that killed those hanged. Doctors were shocked at her survival, and perplexed in knowing how to treat her. She was too old and frail to survive surgery, and there was no way to simply live with the break, so the result has been putting her in a halo. She's doing fine.

My 17-year-old cousin has been suffering from an unknown ailment since January and went in for surgery this past week. Her situation has not much improved, and is ongoing.

Miracle Two through Seven-thousand two-hundred thirty-six: Then on Tuesday at 2:30 am my aunt (only a year older than my mother) fell out of bed in cardiac arrest. Her husband called 911, and began chest compressions until emergency personnel arrived. A friend of mine is an EMT and was on call that night. She responded on the second bus, and told me the next day, "That was scary." Hearing that from someone who has seen lots of things like this before is humbling. Later she informed me, "That's the only call I've been on where someone coded and actually came back and lived." Drs. informed my uncle yesterday that survival only happens for 10% of people with this condition who have a similar type of episode.

Information trickled in through long hours of silence in sporadic bursts that didn't give much greater insight. MAJOR coronary event. Responding to painful stimuli. Fighting the respirator. Sedated. 

After a long night and life flight to a larger hospital 45 minutes away the diagnosis came back. Cardiomyopathy. Then more waiting. How long was she without oxygen? Will she have a memory? Will she come out of the sedation or slip into a coma? Images of Terri Schiavo flashed through my head. The next morning they decided to start weaning her out of sedation to see if she could breathe on her own. The first drip missed and she woke. She was able to speak and told her husband she loved him. Her memory comes and goes, but overall she's improving. Today they will implant an internal difibrilator, and she may be home as soon as Monday.

Miracle Seven-thousand two-hundred thirty-seven: Wednesday my 16-year-old cousin (brother to he 17-year-old) was driving to a scout event west of town in an area called Three Peaks. He was alone in a truck hauling equipment, following another truckload of boys. While driving he had the impression he was going to slide. Nobody is sure if he hit the brake, the gas, or over-corrected, but the truck rolled several times down an embankment until it landed upright. He was without a scratch, and the truck was still running. He could see the top of the embankment and thought if he gunned it he could make  it back up. He gave it the gas, but miraculously the truck stalled part-way up. It's a miracle because it was not the embankment he thought it was to get to the road. Disoriented by the roll of the truck he was heading straight for a drop off into an old mine. His Bishop came over and said, "You must be the most righteous boy in the ward." Police officers couldn't believe he survived the roll. The truck is totaled. He is a little sore, but otherwise unharmed.

Bless the soul of my grandmother. I've always thought she was special in a saintly kind of way. At eight months pregnant she dealt with the shocking death of her 36-year-old husband, and managed to take her four children to another town and start a new life. I cannot imagine what it must've been like for her to see her daughter in a hospital bed in a situation so closely paralleled to that of her husband. And yet she does not despair. She does not decry her lot and say, "Woe is me. God has forsaken this family." Instead, these are her words, "Aren't we blessed that they only happen one at a time! And everything keeps turning out good." I overheard my mother say, "At night when you pray it seems that all you can say is 'thank you' because of everything that has happened, and you almost feel like you can't ask for anything else because we have been so blessed."

In the midst of all these other dangerous, potentially life-threatening things comes perhaps the sweetest miracle of all. My dear, beautiful friend gave birth to her first child. Paul Edward. He is perfect. Nice chubby cheeks, lots of thick, dark hair, and healthy. 9 lbs 15 oz, 21 1/2 inches long.

At the end of every bitter Winter is a glorious Spring. And even when the late storms encroach on the budding season there are those early bright spots of lemon and scarlet that bring hope. Winter cannot last forever. Winter will not last forever. Spring. Spring will come, and it will be perfect.

Advice: Part II

Some new gems!

"Move your feet."

"Go get em!"

"The score doesn't tell the whole story."

And my new personal favorite...

"Push through the pain."

Dental Floss and Willing Against Nature

It's 5:32 am. I'm working a graveyard shift listening to the irregular snoring rhythms of those over whom I watch and am trying not to be jealous of their slumber. And, after having spent the last hour reading Kelle Hampton's blog I am feeling all kinds of inspired and inspirational...or at least satirical.

With that, I begin.

I've never really cared for our dogs, Roxy and Winston. They bark a lot. They've never properly house-trained. And they like to get into the garbage.

Roxy has the peculiar trait of pilfering my used dental floss. Not quite sure why, but that is her thing.

The other morning while getting ready I noticed a few strewn-about pieces of tissue and knew the pests had been running amok. I gathered the scattered rubbish, redisposed of it, and continued my morning routine.

Quickly I dressed for school, pulling my nylon knee-highs so I would not be bare-footed in my dress shoes. The day progressed with no real abnormalities. Then, as I was sitting in a staff meeting I crossed my right foot over my left knee, exposing part of my ankle and lower calf. I did a rapid assessment of what I had narrowly caught in my peripheral vision. What was that curious white line in the middle of my leg?

Dental floss. As soon as I recognised the culprit my powers of deduction when whirling into reasoning explanations of how the offending hitchhiker came to be located in such a place. The only thing I could figure was that I had stepped on it while getting ready and had worn it all day.

Perhaps the most curious thing of all was that it had been stowed quietly away for eight hours already, but once the unwelcomed tagalong was found out it became the bane of my existance. I developed a sudden and completely nonsensical itch in that very spot simply because the floss was there.

Cursed dog. Leave the dental floss where it belongs!

Also, another quirk in my albeit very random personality. I do this thing where I try to will nature into changing on my timetable. For instance, I am not a hater of winter. I rather like snow and what most term "bad" weather. Yet, lately, with the push of daffodils, the swelling of buds on trees, and general greening up of things in this rather greenless place, I've begun to look forward to spring.

But not a stormy tempestuous spring. A nice, delicate, gentle spring with gradually warming temperatures, the return of birds' songs, and just the faintest tinge of sharpness in the night's air. So, in order to state my direct opposition to a continued streak of cacaphonous weather I hung all of my heavy winter coats in the very far depths of my closet, signaling the end of my need of their heavy liners, hoods, and general protection.

For a day it all went rather smoothly. Then yesterday I awoke to three inches of snow, and tonight as I stepped out of a friend's house I was met with sideways hail and sleet. Well I don't care what you say, Mother Nature, I'm not pulling those heavy coats out, and you can't make me!

Advice

I think most people in this world, myself included, seek advice. Sometimes we find it in unexpected or even strange places.

I distinctly recall while serving as a missionary for my church being extremely distraught about something, and just praying in my heart to God, asking Him how I was supposed to continue. While driving down one of the narrow highways I saw the marquee of a smoke shop. The only word glaring from the middle of the sign with the flashing arrow was "BELIEVE," and in that moment, my soul was calmed.

However, there are some places where I do not think advice or words of encouragement are very appropriate. Allow me to share one such recent experience.

A while ago I received a sample pack of Playtex Sport tampons. They seemed to have a better feel, so I purchased a box the next time I needed some. One day, while doing my business during that specific time when such accouterments are requisite I noticed writing on the wrapper of the tampon. Being a curious person I picked it up and read, "Do your best!" I could not help but laugh. Some wrappers contained two sayings (don't worry, I didn't ruin the surprise and read them all in a single sitting, I allowed myself to receive these little nuggets one at a time). I was fortunate enough to have bestowed upon me, "Make your best good enough!" "Push harder next time!"

Really? Truly? Were these things printed on my tampon label? Now, in a different context these could be motivating--say in a sporting situation. As it was, my mind first jumped to the task at hand, applied the saying, and laughed so hard a little bit of pee came out.

So the next time you feel like you could use more encouragement and positive motivation in your life, just grab a box of Playtex Sport and let the building up begin.

Random Happenings

To explain my prolonged absence I could claim busyness. Afterall, in the last three weeks my parents put their house up for sale (some of you may wonder why that affects me, let it be known I am a slovenly leech who still resides in their basement, therefore, my house is up for sale as well), I found out I'M GOING TO LONDON!!! (only 15 days, but it's better than nothing, right?), and I started a third part-time job (love what I do, even though it's intense--I'm working in a residential treatment center for substance abuse).

However, I've learned from treatment language that this would be simple denial, and I need to own that I've just been putting off getting on here. I'm in a much better place now than I have been for a while, and it feels really good. The jobs are all good, and I'm enjoying keeping busy (no, I don't feel like there is extra money because it's all been usurped by the fulfillment of a life-long dream--LONDON!).

I'm not quite sure what the future will bring, but that's ok. Life's meant to be lived one day at a time. I'll do my best to plan, and figure out the rest as it happens.

As for something humorous--or perhaps disturbing--I was working in a Kindergarten classroom today with children who were writing about what a Leprechaun would do if the child found one. A little boy wrote, "he trikd me 38 tims." As I was mounting their writings on construction paper for display a boy sitting to my right began a monologue rather reminiscent of the one Syndrome in "The Incredibles" begins on--about ruling the world. It was also rather Pinky and the Brain-esque. So I asked him,

"Jim [name has been changed] how do you plan to rule the world?"

"I'm going to destroy someone?"

"Destroy someone?"

"Yes, destroy someone."

"Destroying is not good, people won't like you if you destroy someone."

"I only have to destroy one person, and he lives in space."

"Oh? Who lives in space, Jim?"

"God."

"You're going to destroy God?"

"Yes. I'm going to destroy God and then I'll rule the world."

I am a firm believer that every person is born with the Light of Christ and has intrinsic abilities to sense good from bad, right from wrong, and all that, but there is something seriously amiss with this child. It doesn't help that he has pale, pale skin, and flaming red hair (if I wanted to exaggerate I would also claim that he had yellow eyes, like the bully from "The Christmas Story.").

Mouthbreather's Anonymous

Bless the soul of my Father, he is not a bad man by any means. He does, however, possess the uncanny knack of describing people using their least attractive qualities. Even when he attempts to describe people in a flattering way it comes across as an insult.

One of his rather ingenious verbal inventions is referring to "stupid-looking" people as "mouthbreathers." The term is rather self-explanatory. For a simple visual cue sort back only so far as John Heder's unforgettable performance as Napoleon Dynamite. Nappy-D (as Jared Hess, creator of "Napoleon Dynamite" refers to the main character)  is a notorious mouthbreather.

Of late I have been afflicted with a rather severe headcold, which renders me incapable of inhaling or exhaling through my nasal passages. Thus I am left to breathe through the only remaining respiratory orifice--my mouth. Is it fair to claim that I feel less intelligent for having to respire through my mouth? Be it ridiculous it is, nevertheless, true. I cannot help but to feel more sluggish in thought, as though my synapses are layered in unforgiving mucus that deteriorates cognitive thought.

I join the intellectually indigent throng. A mouthbreather I am.

An Open Letter to the Hateful Secretary on the Third Floor

Dear Hateful Woman,

Following our less-than-pleasant exchange yesterday I chose to vent my feelings of frustration and hurt in an open letter that you will likely never read, but others will laugh in mockery of your lack of character as I expose your faults herein, and, pathetic creature that I am, this will make me feel better. So much so, in fact, that I will not seek retribution in the form of an official complaint filed against you.

I realise you were enjoying the high that comes from the slightly over-full feeling of lunch when you found me in your office waiting. I also realise you were not anticipating finding me there. The surprise is forgivable. The accusatory, impatient tone in which you asked if you were the one I was waiting for is not. Yes, Administrative Assistant. I traipsed from beyond the opposite end of campus, caught in a moving crowd, forced to listen to a hardly adolescent girl painfully vie for the attention of two equally immature boys, up to the third floor of your building just to meet with you. Perhaps it is a lack of understanding, but do people often make appointments with you? I didn't think so.

Startled by your insipid reception I stated my intentions to meet with the administrator whom you are to assist. Again, rather than offer a reasonable or kind explanation the haughty, "He's not here. He's gone to meetings for the rest of the afternoon." Was all I received. I'm sorry, did my presence offend you? Had I done something to warrant such penurious treatment? Perhaps I am bias, but to the best of my knowledge I had done nothing either socially or communicatively errant. I had come to an office where I was told I could meet with an administrator. I came during a time I was told he would be available. I came prepared with information so that the meeting could be productive. And yes, I had showered that very morning.

From what egregious flaw did I illicit your callousness? The best I can figure is you are a hateful person, bless your heart. If I may be so bold, I dare offer some advice. Your official title, I believe, is that of "Administrative Assistant." I have searched many job listings for that very position. They are filled with descriptors such as, "pleasant", "welcoming", "helpful", "positive." None, dear woman, are applicable to you. Not to mention the root for the latter part of your title, "assist." To be plain, pack up your surly attitude and start doing your damn job. Otherwise, heaven help you if you ever seek alternate employment. With the affability you offer a corrections facility wouldn't begin to contemplate your employ.

Very Sincerely and Whole-Heartedly,
Me