Ghosts of Christmases Past

I've never been good with change.

Christmas, for me, always stirs up so many memories of my childhood. Every year, for so many years, Christmas Eve was spent with my dad's side of the family at my grandparent's house. We'd have a big party with second and third generation cousins, aunts, and uncles during the day, and once they left, the immediate family would sit down to a wonderful dinner (honey-baked ham and rolls and my aunt's amazing hash brown casserole) before opening piles and piles and piles of presents. My grandpa would always dictate who went first, and every year, the present-opening order was youngest to oldest, which meant that I was first until I turned 3. Then Amber took over the coveted spot, pushing me into second place, where I remained until the year my grandpa died. When I close my eyes, I can still picture and feel moments of those Christmases. My mom would always dress my sister and me in those adorable yet uncomfortable as hell frilly Christmas dresses and tights that I couldn't wait to take off. Once the last member of the extended family left, I would usually make a beeline for the Christmas pajamas that my mom had inevitably packed, only to have to change again later so we could take a family picture in front of the tree. I remember the excitement and anticipation growing as the day wore on after sneaking peeks at the piles of presents just begging to be unwrapped. I remember down to every last detail how my grandparents decorated their living room each year; the manger scene next to the dining room table, which was filled to bursting with food, the Christmas tree in the corner, and the animatronic Santa and Mrs. Claus on the half-ledge by the front door. They would program their doorbell to play 'We Wish You A Merry Christmas', the fridge in the garage would be filled with soda and beer, and the kids would all congregate in the basement to challenge each other to games of ping-pong and pool while the women chatted in the living room and the men yelled at the football games on the big-screen TV in the family room. When I got tired, I would crawl under the coats on my grandparent's bed and doze off to the comforting sounds of laughter and happiness and family and love. To this day, those were some of the best naps I ever took.

After my grandpa passed away, everything began to change. I don't remember how many more Christmases we had at their house after that, but it wasn't many. Eventually, we moved my grandma and my aunt into assisted living, and though we continue many of the traditions to this day, and we still enjoy our time together, it's just never been quite the same. Every year, there are small changes to our celebration that, though minuscule in the grand scheme of things, always feel gargantuan to me. It's not always even a guarantee that we will have our celebration on Christmas Eve anymore, which leaves me looking for new traditions to fill that time.

When I think back to all those wonderful Christmas Eves at my grandparent's house as a child, they take on a sort of hazy, glowing quality; I can see it so clearly in my head, but when I try to feel it again, it's like trying to grasp onto air. My aunt works so hard to make everything wonderful, and she always succeeds. We always have fun together, and eat delicious food, and we are all so spoiled by the generosity of one another when it comes to gift-giving. But still, it will never be as it was, and I carry that tiny twinge of longing for Christmases past with me in my heart each and every year.

I've spent a lot of time reflecting on all of this today... not just Christmas Eves, but Christmas Days spent with my mom's side of the family - thirteen grandkids swinging from the rafters, six kids trying to calm them down, two grandparents doling out presents, and a partridge in a pear tree - and all the things that my mom, dad, sister and I used to do together leading up to all of those wonderful celebrations. Baking cookies with my mom, especially her secret sugar cookie recipe, which Amber and I still make every year. Making elaborate gingerbread houses to be demolished and devoured on New Years Eve. Spending the day putting up lights outside our house on Shagbark Court with my dad. Building snow forts in the front yard after the plows would come through, leaving mountains of snow for us to dig through, and warming up with hot chocolate afterwards. Visiting Santa at Mayfair Mall. My mom refusing to let us open any presents on Christmas morning until she had the video camera up and running. Unfortunately, a lot of these memories were overshadowed by the challenges we faced as a family in the later years, but I still have snippets of memories here and there, as clear as day; in particular, one involving my parent's old blue Dodge van, picking out a Christmas tree, and listening to Alvin and the Chipmunks Christmas cassette tape. And after reflecting, I've come to one very important conclusion:

I believe that the magic of Christmas is found in our childhood, and unless we are very, very careful, we lose it when we grow up... and the only way to find it again is to have children of your own, and share their magic with them.

I love Christmas... I love everything about it... but as each year passes, and so much changes, further distancing the Christmases of today from the Christmases of my childhood, and I'm challenged with finding the time to enjoy the season while also being a responsible adult, it gets more and more difficult to feel that magic. I've been lucky enough to still feel it at some point each year, but it always came in stops and starts, stuttering and then bursting open before disappearing as quickly as it came. This year was even more challenging than most, because the void left by my mom overshadowed every single potentially joyful moment I encountered. I tried; I tried so incredibly hard to enjoy every single aspect of the holiday season. I watched Christmas movies, and decorated my house; I baked cookies, I donated to charities, I shopped for Christmas presents; I walked Candy Cane Lane and went to Christmas parties and wore ridiculous things like reindeer antlers and a blinking Christmas light necklace; I spent time with friends and family, and I sang at not one, not two, but three Christmas masses, which I usually leave feeling rejuvenated and inspired; but and not once, not once, did I feel that spark.

I've never been good with change, and I'm dealing with one of the biggest changes that any human being will ever have to face; the death of someone they love, and the trial and error period that occurs after, when you're trying to figure out how to put the pieces of your life back together without them. I picked up my phone today to text my mom 'Merry Christmas', and when I realized what I was doing, it brought me to tears. My grandma wore my mom's perfume to church, and when I hugged her and smelled it, it felt like I'd been punched in the stomach. I watched today as each family took pictures in front of my aunt's Christmas tree, and wished more than anything I could take back all those Christmases when I'd been so irritated with my mom for wanting to take a million pictures of us together. I thought about how hard my mom always worked to make things nice for my sister and I... how she always wanted us to have the best of everything... and I thought about how I would trade every single gift I got this year for one last hug from her. And it brought me here, to this, and to you.

I am caught somewhere between the past and the future - still looking back, and still looking forward, but not quite ready to face today - and Christmas Day was no exception. The fact that I will never spend another Christmas with my mom is still something I am having trouble wrapping my head around, but there is certainly still joy to be found in the time spent with my family and friends. And I don't think I've lost the magic of Christmas; it may have gotten lost in the grieving process this year, but that doesn't mean it's going to stay away forever.

I've never been good with change, but change is a part of life. It's just a matter of reconciling who you were with who you are, and who you are with who you want to be. Christmas may never be as it was, but it is still full of magic, and I can't wait to have children and a family of my own to share the magic and build new traditions with, the way my mom did, and the way my dad and Nancy continue to do with my sister and me to this day. In the meantime, I'm determined to try again next year to find that spark on my own.

Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night!

There is good in the world.

It's been a tumultuous week for the human race. The unspeakable tragedy in CT, especially so close to Christmas, with children so young and innocent, has left a lot of us wondering where we, as a nation, are headed; where mistakes were made and how they can be corrected; how someone could commit such a horrific, heartbreaking crime; and, more than anything, why.

I'm not going to wax poetic on the events that occured at Sandy Hook Elementary School last Friday. In fact, I've been trying to avoid the news, both in print and on television, because the way that tragic events like these are glorified and heralded by the media makes me physically ill. It's so easy to get caught up in the hatred, the condemnation, the finger-pointing, as we search for answers. That's not to say that what happened to those poor children and teachers and the losses that their families and the community are dealing with right now should be belittled in any way, shape or form. But what if, instead of getting caught up in the negative, we simply came together as human beings and just... loved?

As of today, it's been three months since my mom died. It's also only seven days until Christmas. It's been a sad, frustrating holiday season for me, and what happened last Friday certainly did not help matters. But after praying for everyone involved, which I continue to do every day, I took a step back and realized that, despite the fact that bad things happen, there really is still so much good in the world. There is still so much to be thankful for. That realization doesn't ease the ache that's been lodged in my chest since the loss of my mom; it doesn't heal the hurt in the hearts of those families that lost children, friends, parents, relatives, teachers, and neighbors; and it certainly doesn't change the fact that we are all going to experience the devestating, humbling grief that results from the loss of a loved one at some point in our lives. But maybe, just maybe, if we learn to look at things a little differently, we can heal a little faster, and love a little easier, and know that, as the ones left behind, we have an obligation to those who have gone before us to be happy, and to learn to find beauty and the joy in the world around us once again.

I've spent a very long time struggling with gratefulness. It's something I have to force myself to focus on each and every day, especially now. My bills are piling up, and work is stressful, and I miss my mom, and a relationship that I had been fairly invested in came to an end, and it's so easy to get bogged down by bitterness and exasperation. But those bills that keep piling up? They're half of what they were at this time last year. Half! So all that scrimping and budgeting and saving over this past year has paid off. Work may be stressful, but I love my job, and I love the people that I work with, which is not something that many people are fortunate enough to be able to say. I may miss my mom, but at least I had a mom for 29 years, and I have lots of wonderful memories to look back on. And I may be sad that the relationship is over, but at least I know that I still have the ability to open myself up to love, no matter how many times my heart is bruised or broken. And every day I wake up is another chance to do something great, to be someone great, and to experience something I've never experienced before. What if, instead of dreading the day ahead, or worrying about the past, we all woke up every morning with gratefulness in our hearts?

There is beauty in the world, in the soft, muted song of a snowfall; in the rejuvenating radiance of a sunrise; in mountains and rivers and the promise of wide-open spaces.

And there is good in the world, in the smiles of strangers; in good deeds done without the expectation of retribution; in the small acts of kindness and love that we share with our loved ones each and every day.

You may just need to change your point of view to see it.

Movie Theaters and Inconsiderate Douchebags

 

I went to see Flight the other night with a friend of mine. The most I'd heard about the movie up until that point was that it made people never want to get on a plane again. I was anticipating some hybrid of Final Destination and Snakes on a Plane, so I most definitely was not impressed when I realized that the majority of the movie focused on a man's struggle with drug and alcohol abuse. Don't get me wrong, Denzel was fantastic, but 150 minutes of 'will he? won't he?' and watching a man basically destroy his life with substance abuse wasn't necessarily my idea of a good time.

 

However.

 

I probably would have enjoyed the movie a lot more if I hadn't been stuck in front of not one, but two sets of couples who felt it completely acceptable to talk in their normal speaking voices throughout the entire. freaking. movie.

 

Imagine this, if you will. My friend and I took our seats, ecstatic that we were able to nab seats behind the railing so we could put our feet up. Speaking of which, I'd like to interject a side note here: you just KNOW that even if the entire theater is empty save for you, if you sit in a row with seats in front of you and put your feet up, someone will walk in and absolutely have to have that seat that you're innocently resting your feet on. When you're sitting behind a railing, you can avoid this altogether, hence our excitement. Kelly had popcorn, I had my Ring Pops, and things were looking good.

 

The previews hadn't started yet, so we were chatting innocently about what we'd been up to and how excited we were for Christmas, when I started to notice that I could barely hear her over the guy sitting in the row behind us, just to the right, who was also talking to his wife/girlfriend/prostitute. (No judgment, but you just never know.) And as I started to hear more of their conversation than my own, I also happened to notice that the couple behind us and to my left were pretty damn loud as well. I turned around in a seemingly innocent manner and spent a moment looking at each of them while I very clearly and concisely used my eyes to communicate the following message:

 

"Talk all you want now, but once that movie starts, if I hear so much as a peep out of you, you're going to become reaaaaal good friends with my fists. The right one is lightning, and the left one is thunder, and it will storm ALL up in here."

A visual map of the seating arrangement, minus Kelly,
and where I am an angry man with short blonde hair and glasses.



The previews began, and both couples talked, loudly, through all of them, to the point where I understood each word of their conversation. Now, as you can imagine, this is no small feat, since the volume in movie theaters is usually cranked up to levels that are apt to make ears bleed and small children cry. Still, I let it slide, hoping that if I just let them have their moment, they would behave themselves once the actual movie started.

Boy, was I wrong.

The first part of the movie passed by with minimal issue, however, judging by their behavior through the rest of the movie, this may have been because the majority of the beginning involves a very loud plane crash, so I may just have not been able to hear them over all the ruckus happening on-screen. It wasn't until we got to the heart of the movie - the part that pulls you in and makes you really feel what the character is going through - that they decided to totally ruin the experience. While poor Denzel was up there struggling with his demons, drinking himself incoherent and trying to avoid life in prison, the peanut gallery was commenting on the scenery, (Couple #1: "All that farmland is so beautiful. I wonder what it'd be like to own a farm? I don't like animals enough for that, though. Ha ha ha.") and his clothes, (Couple #2: "Oh my gosh! I have that same shirt! That's, like, totally insane!") and the fact that they were out of popcorn (Couple #1: "Shit, we're out of popcorn. No, I'll go get it. No really, it's ok. Well maybe we shouldn't get any more. Do you want more? Are you still hungry? Ok. I'll go. No, it's ok. I'll go.)*

*Author's Note: I was thisclose to turning around, grabbing the bucket of popcorn, and screaming at the top of my lungs, "NEVERMIND. I'LL JUST FUCKING GET IT FOR YOU."

Arguably my favorite part came right before Denzel's trial. He'd been clean and sober for 8 days when they led him to a hotel room to relax and spend the night before meeting for breakfast in the morning. In what I'd consider a very smart move, his lawyer and friend had made sure to have all the little bottles of liquor removed from the mini-fridge. Unfortunately, they failed to notice that the previous occupants of the connecting room next door not only had left the connecting door unlocked, but had also left a window open so the door was swinging and banging and thereby alerting Denzel to its unlocked state. (So convenient, right?) And you can bet your sweet ass they hadn't emptied the booze from the mini-fridge next door. Denzel slowly opened the door to what could be called a booze-filled paradise, picked up a small bottle of vodka, and a good, solid two minutes of silent deliberation ensued. Well, it should have been silent deliberation. That's the way the writer and the director and the actor had filmed it. Unfortunately, this is what I heard.

"Oh no. No, no, no. He won't do it. He won't do it. He's not going to do it. He won't. No, he won't."
(Denzel puts the bottle down)
"Oh man, I told you he wouldn't do it. Didn't I tell you? I knew he wouldn't."
(Denzel returns and snatches the bottle back up and proceeds to get hammered)
"Oh fuck. He did it."

In fact, I'm fairly certain that I could more accurately quote their conversations than I could replay back to you anything that happened on-screen. However, I'm sure you're all going to be very proud of me, because I took a deep breath and let it slide, regardless of the fact that, to me, it's one of the most. infuriating. things. ever. I didn't even turn around to glare at either of them. Not once. But I mean, seriously. If you need to talk, that's fine. WHISPER. I have no problem with the occasional whisper. But to talk in your normal voice at normal volume when other people are trying to lose themselves in a cinematic masterpiece is just plain bad manners.

'Aint nobody got time for that.

I really think the Oatmeal is on to something with their illustrated depiction of how movie theaters should REALLY be laid out. I'm totally on-board.

Enjoy.

http://theoatmeal.com/comics/movie_theater_layout

 

Confessions of an Egotistical Drama Queen

I'm in a sharing mood today, so I've decided to tell you all some of my secrets; the things about me that make me both crazy and wonderful at the same time.... or so I've been told.

Ok fine, that's just what I tell myself. Potato, po-tah-to.

Let's begin, shall we?

Despite the fact that I'm 29 years old, I still run up the basement steps. Every single time. And while I run, I pray that some murderous creature of darkness won't be able to catch me before I get to the top. I actually got over this for a short period of time, and then I started watching American Horror Story. Totally worth it, though.

When I am eating M&M's, I must eat one of each color in a row, I can't eat more than one color at a time (but two of the same color at once is okay) and the last M&M's left must include one of each color. I have all kinds of ridiculous "rules" like this in regards to the way I eat my food.

The average amount of time that I snooze before actually getting out of bed each morning is 45 minutes to an hour. I am not a morning person.

I'm not a fan of pants. I rarely have them on when my roommate's not around.. and sometimes, I refuse to put them on even when she is. I feel the same way about bras.

My favorite color is red. No, pink. Well, sometimes green, and sometimes blue, and I really like black, too. But mostly red. Or pink.

I have 3 recurring dreams; one involves some fascimile of Hawaii, Orlando, and traveling on planes, and the other two involve alien creatures and the end of the world. If dreams really do come true, I hope it's only the former.

When I'm brushing my teeth, I leave the water running. Shame on me.

My left foot is longer than my right one, but my right eye is bigger than my left one.

I generally get through my workday on a series of bribes. "Ok Heather, if you finish this e-mail, you can get up and go to the bathroom." or "If you make it through this meeting, you can eat your afternoon snack." I like to think that I'm preparing myself to be a successful mother.

I don't iron anything. Ever. The way it comes out of the dryer is the way it's going to be worn. For this reason, I don't own any button-up shirts other than flannel, which I only wear when I'm having one of those "I want to give up on life" days, so I wouldn't bother ironing it anyway.

I. Can't. Stand. Clutter. It makes me honest-to-God angry, to the point where I'll pull out a garbage bag and start throwing shit away just to get rid of it. I usually regret this later when I can't find my iPhone charger/journal/favorite sweatshirt/dog.

I hate cats because my parents took me to see the musical 'Cats' when I was some insane age, like 3, and my interpretation of the show was that there was a crazed, murderous cat named McCavity on the loose killing everyone that he could get his paws on. I'll be damned if I bring one of those creatures into my house. It would be comparable to being a hot blonde in a horror movie and taking a shower. You're just asking for trouble.

I truly believe that the only way to drink chocolate milk is through a straw.

And to top off this incredibly egotistical blog post, I will answer some random questions that I found on the Google machine that I thought may be fun.

1. Have you ever made out in a movie theater?
       Yes. Yes I have. I'm sure this surprises no one.

2. What body part do you wash first?
       My face.

3. What's your favorite flavored Pringles?
       Dill Pickle.

4. Who is the last person you usually think about before you fall asleep?       
       I'll never tell, but for the record, I think about him first thing when I wake up, too.
                                       
5. If you had to choose to not ever wash your bed sheets again or not wash your bath towel ever again, which would you rather not wash?
        Probably my bath towel, but let me be clear and say that both options are disgusting.

6. Have you ever peeked in the opposite sexes locker room?
       Not the locker room; the bathroom. 2nd grade. I got in huge trouble. If you can't beat 'em...

7. What is the stupidest thing you've ever done at a bar?
      Deep-throated a banana in a bar full of men. It's just a party trick, damnit.

8. Have you ever called your love interest by an ex's name?
      Not to their face, but when talking about them to others, yes. Freudian slip!

9. What is the feature that people compliment you on the most?
       I'm always told I have a beautiful smile.

10. What is your favorite pickup line?
      Did you get those pants on sale? Because at my house, they'd be 100% off.

Ok, so I just want to throw this out there... if anyone has a story to share, or a topic they'd like me to sound off on, I'd be happy to take suggestions. Just leave a comment below, or over on the FB. Happy Friday, friends!

Melancholy.

i'm feeling a lot of things tonight. most of them can be summed up by this song. if it doesn't make you feel something... anything... than i am concerned for your soul. take a listen.

i'm workin' on a high hope 

and if it all works out,

you might just see me or hear from me in a while

i'm gonna make it 'cross this tightrope

and i'm coming for my prize

no more "i'll be waiting 'round" while life just passes by...

maybe when our hearts have realigned

maybe when we've both had some time

i'm gonna see you there

i'm gonna see you there

lay 

we can be natural

lay

cuz i've been living in the half life

not sure which way to turn

why must a man lose everything 

to find out what he wants

i'm gonna wait until it feels right

and when that time has come

wild horses won't keep me back from where you have gone

maybe when we're both old and wise

maybe when our hearts have had some time 

i'm gonna see you there

i'm gonna see you there

lay 

we can be natural, lay

after all we've seen, we can do anything, lay

where you heart is strong, where we can go on and on, lay

where your good times gone, where we are forever young, lay 

where your heart is strong, where we can go on and on, lay

lay

i wanna see you there. 

Adult Sleepovers

Alright. Since we're all friends here, I think it's time that I wax poetic on a subject that's been on my mind as of late. I was having a sleepover of the adult nature in an undetermined location with an undisclosed person either recently or not so recently and as I was lying there trying to fall asleep, I came the the following conclusion: I'm not a huge fan of sleeping with other people. (In the non-biblical sense, of course. I'm not crazy.) Here's the thing, though... I love to cuddle in bed. Absolutely love it. So, in my ideal world, after sex and/or cuddling, I would be able to beam myself into the comfort of my own bed to sleep, and then beam myself right back into my adult friend's/boyfriend's bed just in time for a morning sex/cuddle session.

I'm fairly certain that I will never be able to say this to someone.
 

Why? Well, first and foremost, I snore. I snore loudly. I have major sinus issues, and despite the fact that they're the culprit, and it's not something can be helped, it's still super embarrassing, especially when you first start dating someone. I mean, you spend all that time shaving, and waxing, and tweezing, putting on makeup and doing your hair and choosing just the right outfit, complete with matching undergarments if you know/hope you're going to get lucky that night (side note: when my bra and underwear match, it really makes me feel like I have my life together. I just needed to take a moment to say that) and then, after it's all said and done, there's that awkward moment when you're like... "Shit. I really want to stay, and I've worked this hard, and I can handle the smudged eyeliner and morning breath tomorrow, but will he still want to date me when I've kept him up with my freight train-like snoring all night?" When I do decide to brave the storm, most of the time, the guy is a gentleman; if I did end up keeping him awake, they never say anything about it. However, I have been called out on it before, and it always makes me feel like an asshole.

Guys, I am telling you, if your girl snores, DO NOT TELL HER. This is one of the very few instances when I am going to encourage you to lie. If she asks if she snores, either tell her she doesn't, or tell her she does but you think it's cute, and then buy some earplugs and shut the hell up about it.

Next up is the drooling. I don't really have a problem in this department, but I feel it's worth mentioning. Sure, sometimes I need to wipe off the side of my face a bit before I roll over to say 'Good Morning' (with the sheet pulled halfway up my face to contain my morning breath, of course) but I've never had to worry about leaving wet spots on pillows or anything like that. Thank God for small favors. And I don't really see the whole 'morning breath' thing as a reason to hate sleeping next to someone... it's inevitable, and can be easily remedied by an early morning trip to the bathroom and a quick once-over with a toothbrush or rinse with some mouthwash, so, morning breath, you're off the hook here.

The third reason I hate sleeping next to someone only applies to a few people. I have the bladder of a pregnant woman. Literally. I could abstain from water for 12 hours before bed, and I'd still have to get up to pee at least twice during the course of the night. I'm really not sure why this is embarrassing for me, but for some reason it is. It generally goes something like this:

Me: Shit. What time is it? Jesus H Christ, it's only been two hours since I went to sleep, and I peed right before I got into bed, and I haven't had any thing to drink since six hours ago so how the fuck do I already have to pee? Ok. Well. He's still snoring, so maybe I can just sneak to the bathroom without waking him up.

Him: *chooses that minute to stop snoring so I can't tell if he's still asleep or if he's awake*

Me: Damnit. Seriously? Ok. I'm just going to roll over and try to go back to sleep.

(Five minutes later)

Me: This is stupid. Who cares if I have to get up to pee seven times? Would I care if HE got up to pee seven times? No. I'd just roll over and go back to sleep. Why am I even thinking about this? Why is this even a big deal? Fuck. I really have to pee. I'll just wait until he starts snoring again.

Him: *still not moving or snoring*

Me: Alright, fuck it, I'm just going to get up.

Him: *stars snoring softly*

Me: Thank God. Ok, I'll just wait a few minutes until he's really asleep, and then go.

(Ten minutes later)

Me: Ok, here we go.

At this point, I slowly remove one leg from under the covers, then the other, then sit up quickly and pause, holding my breath and praying that he'll keep snoring. If he does, I tiptoe out of the room and into the bathroom where I breathe a sigh of relief and feel a ridiculous sense of accomplishment. If his snoring stops, I abandon all pretense, say 'Fuck it' and just go to the bathroom anyway, but without said sense of accomplishment. Afterwards, I blindly grope my way back to bed and settle back in with a contented smile on my face... and usually end up repeating the whole process again 2-3 hours later.

Stupid tiny bladder.

Fourth on the list is the touching. I hate to be touched when I sleep. I love to cuddle, but once I'm ready to head off to Dreamland, you need to roll over and get your damn hands/legs off me. I don't even let my dog sleep on my bed for this reason. I must be free to flail about and toss and turn in whatever manner I see fit, or I will suffer from a bout of claustrophobia that will render me completely unable to fall asleep. I also spend most nights alternately too hot or too cold and having your warm, sweaty body pressed up against me is not going to help matters. 

And last but definitely not least, the #1 reason I hate sleeping next to someone.....

Sleep farts.

 

Look. We all do it. Some more than others, maybe, but we are all guilty. I was introduced to sleep farting for the first time by the boyfriend I was living with about six years ago, but, being a lady, and knowing it was completely natural, I never brought it up to him. Plus, men love farting, so he probably would have just laughed and then dutch ovened me. Farting is natural, and fart jokes are hilarious, but farting and then bragging about or commenting on the smell or the volume or the length of either is just ridiculous. Regardless, if he farted in his sleep, I was pretty sure that I did, too, so I figured it was just one of those unspoken things. That is, until it came up during an argument one day. I don't even remember what we were arguing about, but his rebuttal to one of my smartass comments was this:

 

The Ex: (Yelling) "Yeah? Well, you fart in your sleep!"

Me: (Yelling) "Yeah, well, so do you!"

The Ex: (Yelling some more) "Gross, nasty farts!"

Me: (Quiet pause as my face turns bright red) Well. That's embarrassing.*

 

*Author's note: As you can tell, we had a very mature, adult relationship.

 

It was at this point that he realized he crossed the line and tried to assure me that he was just being a dick, but the damage had been done. Ever since that moment, I've been traumatized. Now, when I first start sleeping with a guy, I spend most of my nights awake so I don't have to risk doing anything embarrassing in my sleep. It takes a really long time for me to get comfortable enough to actually start to sleep/snore/sleep fart. And when I do, you should take it as a compliment. It just means that I really, really like you.

Matters of the Heart

There's a song that keeps running through my head today; a beautiful song called Human After All by the very talented Sierra Noble. There's one verse in particular that I can't stop thinking about.

If I'd know that it would end

I would have paid a little more attention

Memorized every look and touch

Every fragment of us

Remember, we said we were gonna live forever

And we would paint over the writing on the wall?

Chase that sunset till we're blind, then wake up to find

We are only human after all...

Isn't that how it goes? Pain is a part of life; people are going to hurt you, and disappoint you, and let you down, and the biggest challenge of all is trying not to let the past affect your future. Once you've had your heart broken, it takes a herculean effort to forget how difficult that was to bounce back from and remain open to the joy of a potentially new beginning. It's a daily challenge, after that new beginning, to enjoy the middle when you're constantly living in fear of the end... and I believe that, for whatever reason, it's even more difficult for me than most. Somewhere deep in the recesses of my conscious, no matter how my logical mind tries to point out how ridiculously ovedramatic it is, and how the actions of a few, even in succession, shouldn't create an expectation, is a whisper-scream that tugs at my heart and refuses to be stifled. "Everybody leaves," it says, "because you're not worth the fight."

I've mentioned before that grief, to me, feels like a bottomless chasm; one that, if not approached carefully, will absorb you completely. There have been days, in the past few months since my mom's death, where I've felt closer to the edge than usual, to the point where it's physically uncomfortable, but I've managed to turn myself around and keep going. Today, though... today, I feel like I've fallen in, and I don't know what to do, and I don't know where to turn, and the overwhelming hopelessness of it all cuts me to the core.

But this is not who I am.

I am the girl who will do anything to make you laugh. Who believes in happily ever after. Who has so much to offer the world, and so much love to give. I am brilliant, and fiercely loyal, and thoughtful, and I always strive to see the best in people, no matter who they are or where they came from. I would never purposefully do anything to hurt anyone, but I am human, and I make mistakes.  I believe in second, and third, and fourth chances. I am accident prone, but in a clumsy, endearing way. I love Broadway musicals and holidays and snow and severe weather and Jameson and oversized hooded sweatshirts and cuddling and I prefer rainy days to sunny. I am too sensitive, and I am easily hurt, but I am also quick to forgive. When I'm happy, I sing-speak. I get excited over silly things, like sparkles and vibrantly colored pens and Ring Pops and Disney movies and I believe, really believe, in true, unadulterated, can't-live-without-you love. I am also impatient, insecure, and imperfect, but damnit, that doesn't mean that I am not worth loving.

That doesn't mean that I am not worth the fight.

 Life is beautiful, but it's challenging. Love is, too. Nothing worth it is ever easy; you just have to know which battles are the right ones to fight, which is no simple task. I'm just tired of fighting one-sided. I'm tired of being the one to work harder, to step outside the box, to love without limits or geographical boundaries. I don't quit because it's too hard. I don't believe in "too hard". Call me a hopeless romantic, but if you care about someone, really care about them, you do your best to find a way to make it work. I wonder if I'm ever going to find the person who thinks that I'm worth a little bit of 'difficult'. After all, you have to at least try before you can fail.

I realize that I've been fighting the wrong battles, with different men who are all, deep down, exactly the same, over and over and over again. I realize that I'm going to make a lot of mistakes, and kiss a lot of frogs, and nurse a lot of broken hearts during the course of my lifetime. But sometimes, you need to take a step back and be sad, and hurt, and overwhelmed, and know that even as you make your way through that pint of Ben & Jerry's and half a box of tissues while watching The Notebook for the third time, you're going to be okay. The hurting sucks, but it's necessary to heal.

I have a date with my comfy pajamas, some ice cream, and my puppy tonight, because today, I am hurting. I just hope that means that the healing part is right around the corner.

Windshield Wipers, Black Ice & Imaginary Snowbanks

Driving in the rain at night is a terrifying experience for me. In general, I'm a pretty confident driver, and tackling rain/sleet/hail/snow during daylight hours is no problem. However, there's something about battling the elements at night that turns me into a 90 year old woman behind the wheel.

 

The first thing that freaks me out is the pavement; when it rains at night, the entire road turns into an ominous-looking black ice-like creature intent on total destruction. Even when it's 80 degrees, I fully expect that if I slam on my brakes, I'll go slip-sliding into a snowbank, so I always make sure to keep a cautious and completely respectable minimum of 100 feet to half a mile between the car in front of me and my trusty Milan.

 

The second thing that drives me insane is the 'rain-volume-to-wiper-blade-speed' ratio. I'm not sure if it's because my car isn't high-tech enough, or if it's just some cruel joke that Mother Nature likes to play, but I can never, ever, ever find a comfortable speed for my wiper blades. When it's monsooning, no matter how fast I try to urge them, they are still unable to hold back the flood; at that point, I usually end up squinting through the windshield, navigating based on colors and shapes (while muttering things to myself like "Shit, how many sides does an Stop sign have again?" and "Was that a 'Caution' sign or someone's yellow rain poncho? Jesus Christ, I'm going to die.") and praying I don't run over any small children. The opposite of this, of course, is that super-annoying drizzle that doesn't quite warrant your lowest wiper blade speed, resulting in that ear-shattering screeching as it scrapes across your windshield, because you know that the second you turn it off to save your eardrums, the water buildup will start. Wait... what's that you say? There's a manual control on the wiper blade that allows me to just wipe the windshield clean whenever I want? Yeah, I know all about that, and that just requires way too much energy.

 

Stop judging me with your eyes. I can feel it from here.

How many cars are in this picture? Yeah, I can't tell, either.

The final coup de grace in regards to driving in the rain is the headlights. Oh dear baby Jesus in heaven, those terrifying, god-forsaken headlights.

Let me explain.

The other night, I was craving a Ho Ho Mocha from Caribou Coffee (thank you, by the way, for refraining from commenting on how appropriate it is that I would crave a drink with 'Ho' in the title) so I ventured out excitedly to obtain one. When I left my apartment, it was dark out, due to the fact that the sun now sets at approximately noon, so I couldn't tell that the darkness was masking an ominous sky that was pregnant with rain. I made it all the way to the coffee shop unscathed, but when I emerged, victorious, drink in hand, it had begun to rain. And I was at a coffee shop on one of the busiest streets in the city. And to get home from said coffee shop... I had to turn left.

You see, Zoolander and I have one thing in common... we both suck at turning left. Turning left across a busy street is a challenge for me on a bright, sunshine-y day, but on a rainy night, it's pretty much game over. Still, I had to get home, and I didn't want to turn right and go half a mile out of my way just to make a U-turn, so I took a deep breath and slowly approached the left-hand turn lane, hoping that maybe, just maybe, I'd get lucky, and the swarms of Mayfair-going patrons would have chosen to take the night off to prepare for the upcoming Thanksgiving Holiday.

No such luck.

When I slowly turned my head to check out the oncoming traffic situation, I was immediately blinded by headlights. So, so many headlights. It was like a swarm of bright, angry orbs whizzing by at warp speed, coming at me from every direction. That's the problem at night; not only do you see the headlights on the cars, you also see the reflection of those headlights on the wet pavement. So as I try to figure out what's real and what's a reflection while also trying to gauge exactly how far away the car is and how fast those headlights are coming at me, at some point, my eyes begin to cross, and I lose the will to live. This generally takes about five seconds, at which point I will literally say, out loud, to myself, "Fuck this. I'm never getting out of this parking lot," or some fascimile thereof. And, I am stubborn as hell, so no matter how many cars are lining up behind me, I refuse to make any risky moves, and will wait for hours (read: minutes that feel like hours) until the road is clear and I feel that I can safely make the turn without accelerating too fast, hitting black ice and sliding into a non-existent snowbank. And that, my friends, is why I hate driving in the rain at night.

On a more serious note, since it's Thanksgiving tomorrow, I hope that everyone has a wonderful holiday. We really all do have so much to be thankful for; it's so easy to get caught up in the negative and overlook all of the blessings that we've been given. Tomorrow marks the beginning of my favorite time of year; I absolutely love the holidays, but, of course, this year, they'll be bittersweet. I'm actually dreading going to my Aunt's for dinner tomorrow night, which makes me very sad. I love my family and I can't wait to see them, but the absence of my mom will be hard to ignore, and brings tears to my eyes even as I type this. I will get through it, it's just so frustrating to me that my favorite time of year will be coupled with a lot of sadness this time around. Still, I'm continuing to put one foot in front of the other, and lean on my friends and family who have been so kind and supportive. I know that sense of loss will continue to slam me in the chest when I least expect it, but I'll get through it, and although I miss her every second of every day, I know she's up there looking out for me, skipping the holiday meal and heading straight for the dessert table. Love and miss you, Mom.

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!

Dead Mom Jokes & Halloween Pants

I dyed my hair dark, dark brown on Monday night. It looks pretty fucking amazing. I've always wanted to go brunette, I've just never had the guts to do it before. With all the crazy stuff going on in my life, I figured that my hair color was the least of my worries. It's a drastic change, and I love it - it kind of makes me feel like a different person. More vibrant. More unpredictable. More exciting. Like that girl who has been stuck for the past few months feeling sad and lost was kicked to the side, replaced by this new woman who grabs life by the balls and doesn't take shit from anyone. Who knew a hair color could do that? I want to call the company who makes this color and tell them they should change the name from 'Brown Bombshell' or 'Naked Tree Bark' or 'Brunette-tastic' or whatever the hell it's called to 'Grab Life By the Balls Brown'.

Yesterday, one of my co-workers, Sean, was making casual conversation with another co-worker about someone wearing pink flip-flops. As you all know, pink is my favorite color, so I was naturally very excited and wanted to find out who this person was, because they were clearly my soul-mate on every level. I mean, not only was their choice of footwear pink, it was also my favorite type; I practically live in flip-flops year-round, because my feet hate being confined, just like my soul. I jumped in to the conversation and asked who they were talking about, and Sean turned to me and said, 'Your mom does!'

Oh, Sean.

Sean, Sean, Sean.

I thought you knew me better than that.

I stood there for a split second that seemed to last for an eternity, fighting a very intense internal battle; every fiber of my being was screaming at me to grab that lobbed ball and spike it right back into his face, but there was still some tiny shred of human decency that was begging me not to. I bet you can guess which side won.

"MY MOM IS DEAD, SEAN!" I yelled, at a just-above-appropriate level for an office setting, and immediately started laughing my ass off. Crazy, I-can't-breathe, gasping for air laughter that was only exacerbated when I exited my cubicle and saw his face. I've never seen someone turn so red. He couldn't even look at me. I assured him numerous times that I was just fucking with him, just in case he couldn't already tell by the fact that I could barely speak because I was laughing so hard. I can't help repeating the story every chance I get to everyone who wasn't there to witness, and every time I repeat it, it gets even funnier. God. Part of me feels like a horrible person, but it's a small, small part. Mostly, I just want to pat myself on the back, because damnit, that was funny.



Comfiest. Pants. Ever.

Speaking of funny, I'm wearing these pants today. Before you judge, you should know that they are the softest, most comfortable pair of fleece pajama pants I've ever worn. So, while you're sitting there after a Halloween candy binge with the waistband of your stiff, unforgiving jeans digging into your stomach, I'll be sitting pretty in these babies, well on my way to nap-town. I am also showcasing to the world that I know how to have a good time while still being a mature adult - aka, not wearing a slutty nurse/maid/pirate costume to work. That would just be inappropriate. (But that will be happening later tonight. Get excited.)


Happy Halloween, everyone!

Sparkly Things and Swagger

I've realized recently that I spend half of my life acting like a 5 year-old woman-child. Below are some things that I've noticed in the past few weeks that have brought me to this conclusion:

• I was just in a freshly-cleaned elevator with stainless steel walls by myself, and I felt the need to put my fingerprints EVERYWHERE; so, that's what I did. The same applies to clean glass windows and doors
• I want to be a princess. No. Seriously. I really do. If I could wear a tiara to the office every day and not get hauled off to the nuthouse, I would totally do it. I'd also hire people in random places to curtsy and murmur "Your Majesty" as I walk by
• My favorite color is pink, and I am obsessed with things that sparkle
• I sing to myself, constantly, and most of the time, it's a song that I made up
• Naptime is my favorite time of day
• I actually own coloring books, and I like to color when I'm upset because it's theraputic
• I'm constantly running into things and/or falling down and injuring myself
• I secretly love rainbows, and hate that I can't put them up everywhere because they're a gay/lesbian symbol, and I'm not gay or a lesbian. Sad face :(
• I want to live at Walt Disney World
• I totally still wish on stars and believe in 'Happily Ever After'
• I have an obsession with Ring Pops. All I want to do is eat them, all day, every day, because they taste like a unicorn prancing excitedly on a rainbow, and they're also jewelry, and what the hell more could you want out of a candy?

I've also realized that I spend the other half of my life acting like an adolescent male, which is way more unnerving. Here's why:

• I use 'That's what she said' at every possible opportunity, even when it doesn't make sense
• I hate dressing up; I prefer to wear sweatpants and old t-shirts that I never wash because they would lose that broken-in feel
• I will always laugh hysterically at fart jokes; they will never get old
• If you say something to me about any subject under the sun, I will take it and turn it into a sexual innuendo...
• ...and on that note, I think about sex almost constantly
• I love to burp super loud. It's a disgusting habit that I usually curtail but I just. love. it.
• I pretend to hate Justin Bieber but I secretly want to be just like him because I think he's got swagger
• I like to wear my baseball hats slightly to the side and throw up gang signs because I'm clearly super gangster
• Every once in a while, I go through periods where I exist solely on a diet of fast food, Mountain Dew and beef jerky
• I hate sitting with my legs crossed or closed. Wide open with elbows on the knees, or leaned back in a chair with my arms crossed, that's how I roll

Disturbing? Perhaps. Awesome? You bet your sweet ass. And it must be so much fun for you guys, because you never know which side of me you're gonna get. Gotta keep you guys on your toes. Happy Monday, sunshines. :)

Cowboy Boot Glasses and Slutty Heels

This photo, courtesy of my dear friend Frank, perfectly sums up today thus far. A few other things I feel the need to share with you today are as follows:

I had Thai food for lunch and it was amazing.

It's going to storm tonight and I am tingly with anticipation.

I am going out to karaoke with my aunt and sister at 9 and it's going to be epic. I may even record some of it for you.

I bought two slutty pairs of heels and have been cat-called more today while trying them on than I usually am in a week. Granted, most of the suggestive comments came from my work boyfriend, who is obligated to make me feel beautiful, but still. It counts.

I have spent the majority of my day alternately drinking water out of a boot glass from Texas Roadhouse and making it dance around my desk with its twin. (Yes, I have not one, but two of them.) Both of these things make me ridiculously happy for some unknown reason.

I got stuck in an elevator and panicked for a moment before I realized that it was because I'd forgotten to press a button for a floor.

I really don't understand the color purple.

These are your random thoughts for the day. You're welcome.

My dog has his own theme song.

No joke. My dog has his own theme song. It's part of the reason I chose his name... because I love this movie, and because he likes to alternately prance around so everyone can witness his awesomeness and sit stoically with his paws crossed, judging you with his eyes like he's the G.D. emperor of Mesopotamia.

"What's his name? Kuzcoooooooooo!"

Since I've been a bit preoccupied this last month or so, Kuzco's nails were beginning to more closely resemble talons than nails, so I finally took him to get them trimmed yesterday. I should really learn how to do this myself, because they basically rob me blind for about 10 minutes of work, but hey, that's supply and demand, I guess. Plus, whenever I think about doing it myself, I envision a blood bath of epic proportions (see below). However, they also clean out his ears and brush his teeth and then use this cool grinding tool to grind his nails down so they don't scratch the shit out of the leather seats in my car, which is very much appreciated, so I usually just suck it up and take him in.

This is probably what would happen if I tried to trim Kuzco's nails in the car.

When I went back to pick him up after the nail trim/ear cleaning/tooth brushing, his tail was wagging so hard that he was vibrating, and he starting dodging back and forth when he saw me, jumping around and doing that weird wriggly thing that he does, as if I'd been gone for days instead of a mere ten minutes. Kuzco is, for the most part, a very smart and well-behaved dog, but when he gets excited, he seems to be unable to channel in to the intelligent part of his brain. So, when the groomer went to open the gate to let him out, he stayed on the other side, where it hinged, peeking through the gap in the door at me and clawing desperately in an attempt to get out, as if the flames of a thousand fires were after him. The girl kept trying to coax him to the other side of the gate, where I was standing, very easily accessible to him, but he refused to listen, instead continuing to panic because he couldn't exit through the one place that he had decided was the ONLY place you could exit. Being the asshole that I am, I started laughing hysterically, which was absolutely no help to neither the groomer nor my dog. After a good thirty seconds of this nonsense, I finally composed myself enough to reach over and guide him around the gate while the groomer looked at me like I was crazy. If she only knew. I thanked her, and we began our journey to the checkout lanes to surrender half my salary pay for the 'Pawdicure Plus' that had just been bestowed upon my beloved four-legged friend.

I should mention here that Kuzco in a pet store is pretty much a recipe for disaster. This is the dog who used to pee on humans to mark them; although he doesn't do that anymore, he can be fairly territorial, to the point where he has to wear a dog diaper sometimes when we go to houses where other dogs live. I'm actually kind of hoping he'll read this post and it will shame him into behaving in the future, but I doubt it. The part about it shaming him into behaving, I mean. I firmly believe that as soon as I leave the house, Kuzco dons a monacle and bow tie and reads Encyclopedia Britannica, so I have no doubt he knows how to access my computer and, therefore, reads my blog.

You should also note that the floors in the store are the dog equivalent of ice skating rinks; they couldn't get any type of traction on them if they tried. So, what normally ensues is a hilarious spectacle of him lifting his leg to pee every five seconds while I very calmly, firmly, and authoritatively say 'NO' and jerky his leash to emphasize my dominance. At that point, he usually attempts to run away from me defiantly and, instead of the open road and the feeling of the wind on his face that he's hoping for, he immediately loses his footing and goes skidding/crashing into the nearest display. This happens approximately 5-6 times each visit. If we're really lucky, there will be a gigantic dog in the store at the same time, which will send him into hysterics. He definitely has little dog syndrome. If you're smaller than him, or even the same size, you're cool, but if you're bigger than him, fuck you. He will intimidate you with fierce growling until you roll over in terror. I know a lot of men like that, too, but that's a whole 'nother story.

There were no big dogs this time, but there was a particularly attractive rack of dog-themed greeting cards that Kuzco felt the need to claim as his own, and since I didn't jerk the leash fast enough, he did just that. Luckily, the store employees didn't feel the need to make me pay for a urine-soaked birthday card, which was a good thing, because I'm not quite sure when I would have been able to use it. A few squirts of cleaning solution and a handful of paper towels later, we made it to the checkout. Kuzco continued to attempt to escape, slip-sliding all over the damn place while the kind saleswoman rang me up. As we were waiting for my debit card to clear, she asked if she could give him a treat. 

Me: That's really sweet; of course you can. Although I should warn you, he's kind of weirdly particular about his treats.

Saleswoman: (joyful, fake, Santa-like chuckle) Oh, that's no problem. Every dog loves these!!!! (<-- these exclamation points represent unnecessary enthusiasm)

Me: (joyful, fake Santa-like chuckle right back at her) I'm sure they do!!!! (<-- again with the unnecessary enthusiasm) Kuzco, come here and get a treat!

The woman knelt down to get his attention and held out a treat; Kuzco galloped over to her in a fit of excitement, and I thought for a moment, hey, he might actually eat it like a normal dog. Then I realized that she was holding out a Milkbone. Unfortunately, Kuzco refuses to eat any treat that isn't bite sized. Literally. The only way he will eat Milkbones is if I first break them up into manageable pieces for him. God forbid his highness actually chew something other than my favorite Nike sandals himself.

After sniffing the treat for a moment, he took it from her hand, held it gingerly in his mouth, and turned to look at me with an air of exasperated expectation. I could practically hear him saying, "Human, please break this up into smaller pieces so that I can enjoy it, post-haste." I gave him the evil eye in response. He glared right back at me defiantly, carefully placed the treat on the ground, and sat behind it expectantly. Asshole. The poor saleswoman watched this standoff obliviously, becoming more distraught by the second that my 'adorable dog' didn't want the treat that she had so generously offered to him.

Saleswoman: (lip quiver) Well, he just doesn't like them, I guess.... (sniffle)

Me: No, no, he loves it.. he just.. um.. loves it so much, that he wants to savor the moment, you know?

So I picked up the damn Milkbone off of the floor, broke it in half, and held it out to Kuzco, who gleefully snatched first one half, and then the other, out of my hand and scarfed it down, leaving my hand a mess of dog slobber and Milkbone crumbs.

He may have won this round, but I figure that's okay, because he's getting a bath tomorrow. We'll see who's laughing then.

An open letter to my mom.

Hey mom.

I miss you a lot right now. I did okay the first few weeks after you died, but since last week Friday, I've really been struggling. I don't know. It's weird. Even as I write this, I'm fighting the urge to just pick up the phone and call you. It's funny how there's still that lapse in logic... how many times I think, I should call/text mom and tell her...before I stop and remind myself that I can't anymore.

When I was down in Georgia last weekend, in the middle of a field on a beautiful 70 degree night listening to country music and watching the stars, all I could think about was the fact that I'd be flying home the next day, and wishing I could make plans with you and Tom. That we could get together and go to Maggiano's or The Cheesecake Factory and see a movie at Mayfair like we used to. Or even just go walk around the mall. I loved and hated shopping with you. I loved it because I loved seeing you out of the house and in your element... I definitely got my expensive taste from you. I hated it because you took forever to make it through each store. You'd always find all these things that you wanted to buy for me, or wanted me to buy, and I'd argue with you about neither of us having the money for any of it. Most of the time, you ended up buying things for me anyway. I know it was your way of taking care of me, since you so often couldn't due to your health.

It was nice to feel taken care of.

Last night I went to a movie; Alex Cross. It wasn't a movie I was particularly excited about seeing, but I always get to pick the movie when we go out (something you always gave me crap about, too) so I just kept my mouth shut. Just the night before, Becky's mom had said something to me the night before about how, now, I would be going through a year of 'firsts'... a year of first experiences without you around... and that really hit home when I walked into the Majestic. I hadn't previously thought about how closely tied my experiences at that movie theater were to you. How I spent that awful year living with the roommate from hell in Pewaukee, and how we spent so many weekends at that theater together as a result. As I sat and waited for my food, I thought about how every single time you drove there, you'd get lost and have to call me for directions... ten minutes after you were supposed to originally arrive. It used to make me so furious. Then you'd get there, and you'd usually want to get some ice cream, or a root beer float, but you always made sure to get something for me, too. I also had a headache, which made me think about the time we went to Phantom of the Opera when it showed live from London for its anniversary, and I felt awful, and you bought me seltzer water and gave me the right medicine I needed out of that little gold pill purse of yours to make me feel better. And then I started thinking back to when Dan and I broke up, and you were first diagnosed with breast cancer, and I was falling apart; how we went to that movie at Mayfair and I had a panic attack on the way out and you held me on that bench in the theater while I hyperventilated and cried and promised me that you'd help me find a way to get my life back under control. And you did. You did help me get my life back under control. But I still have a long way to go. I still need you to hug me and tell me it's going to be okay. I still need you to make it better.

There was a scene in the movie where the mom was killed, leaving her husband and two kids behind. After the funeral, the little girl was crying on the balcony, and her dad went out to try and comfort her. He said something about how her mom would always love her, and would always be with her. I felt like I was going to throw up; I left the theater, and I locked myself in the last bathroom stall, and I cried with my fist in my mouth so that no one could hear me. I cried so hard that my throat and my chest ached, and by the time I had pulled myself together, the movie was almost over. I didn't want to go back in, so I sat in the lobby and I watched the crowds of people coming and going, and mom, I hated them. I hated every single one of them. The mothers and daughters who didn't know how good they had it. The stupid teenagers, popping their gum and flirting and jostling each other and talking way too loudly in an attempt to be cool. The married couples, arm in arm. The younger couples, hand in hand, unable to keep their eyes off of each other. I hated each and every one of them because, in that moment, they all had something that I didn't, and they didn't even know just how much they should have been appreciating it. I wanted to yell and scream at all of them. And I also wanted someone, anyone, to kneel down and look at me, really look at me, and say, "I'm sorry that you're hurting, but it will be okay," the way that you used to do.

I'm so, so sad because I used to be one of those people that didn't take the time to appreciate what they had. I know things weren't always great with our family, or with us, but I look back at how angry I was all the time, at how frustrated I was when you'd try to talk to me about how to take care of myself and keep myself healthy, and it breaks my heart. I have to navigate that alone, now, and although I can still hear you in my head, and you've given me so much to work with, there's so much more I still have to learn. You promised me once that you wouldn't give up, that you wouldn't die, until I got to where I needed to be. But I'm not there yet. And you're not here. What if I never figure it out? What if I can't do it without you?

I hate that we never got to go on vacation together; that I never got to show you Disney World and that you never got to see Hawaii. When I looked at your phone the day before you died and saw that you'd been looking up trips to Hawaii right after we got the news that you didn't have much longer to live, it broke my heart. I hate that I have no urge to go to musicals anymore, because you and I had season tickets to the PAC for the past two years, and I'm scared that going there without you will be too hard. I hate that I haven't been able to set foot back in the church since your funeral, because I miss singing, but I don't know if I can face it yet. I hate nursing my first broken heart without you; not being able to call you in the middle of the night when I can't sleep, because this broken heart on top of your death is almost, almost, more than I can handle, and you're the only person who ever knew how to make it hurt just a little bit less. I hate that I didn't take that day off of work in August when you and Amber went to Noah's Ark, because work was too busy at the time. I wish I would have had that time with you. I hate that I didn't spend more time with you, period; things were difficult, and I know you know that, and I know you don't hold it against me. I'm trying not to regret, and I'm so happy for the good times we did have in the past few years, but that doesn't mean that I don't feel incredibly, achingly, deeply sad that we didn't get to have more of them.

I miss you. I miss you, and I feel lost, and I feel empty, and I feel like I'm going through the days completely blind, with no sense of purpose. I just.. go. I go through the motions and I smile and I get through the days but all I really want to do is crawl back into bed and sleep. I don't want to face anyone. I don't want to do anything. But I do it because it's expected. I'm just tired, mom. I'm so, so, so tired, and so sad, and I don't want to be tired and sad anymore.

More than anything, I'm hoping that maybe God will let you hug me in my dreams tonight, and that maybe, just maybe, it will give me the strength to get through another day.

I miss you, mom, and I love you.
Heather

Text messages with God and/or Jesus

Not long ago, my Facebook account was hacked, and a bunch of people texted me to let me know that I should change my password. One of the texters had a 971 area code; I didn't recognize the number, and when I tried to figure out who it was, shit just got weird.

(971): U miss me yet?

Me: I probably do but here's the funny thing... I don't know who this is.

(971): It's GOD. U have strayed from the flock my child.

Me: That's the understatement of the century.

That was on the 12th of September. I left it at that, because clearly, this person thought they were hilarious, and I'm all for some good-natured fun. Besides... what if it really WAS God? I mean, He is all-mighty, which means that He probably knows how to send text messages, right? I mean, He/She created the person, that created the person, that created the person (ad nauseum) that created them, so text messages have really been in the works since the beginning of time.

By the way, God, with that in mind, couldn't you have brought them into existance a bit sooner? Text messaging would have helped all those times as a kid that I got lost in department stores and had to page my parents over the loudspeaker. Now that I think about it, I got lost in stores an inordinate amount of times when I was a kid. I'm not really sure if it's because I was easily distracted by shiny things, or if it was because my parents were. Although, where else would I have gotten it from?

Anyway, back to my 'word up' from the Omnipotent. On the 16th of September, a Sunday, I heard from Him/Her again. (Who am I to judge whether or not God is male or female?)

(971): I didn't see u in church today my child

Me: Yeah I know, so sorry I didn't make it.

(One hour later)

Me: Ok, seriously who is this.

(971): You will know that I am the Lord. The body and the blood, the one the Hebrews call Jesus Christ.

Me: Seriously.

(971): Words quoted from George Washington, "I cannot tell a lie". I am He, the Chosen One.

Me: Ok. I'm not gonna press the issue. Sorry Jesus.

(971): No need to apologize, u will find ur faith.

It was at this point that I was like, HA. It's totally NOT God. I hadn't been texting JESUS a few days prior, I had been texting GOD. Although, now that I think about it, if it really was God, maybe He/She was just trying to throw me off so I didn't call CNN/60 Minutes and try to get them to buy my story. They'd never even consider it if the facts didn't check out. They'd be all like, "Umm... well, up here, the texter claims that they're God, and down here, they claim that they're Jesus, soooo... we're gonna have to take a pass. But we'd like to offer you a free trip to Alaska as a consolation prize! Just climb in this nice, padded van and they'll take you to the airport. And here's a free jacket for you. The sleeves tie in the back because it's extra cold, and we want to make sure you stay warm!" And if I would have texted Him/Her back and called Him/Her out on the inconsistency, I'm sure He/She wouldn't have wanted to correct me and make me feel like an asshole, because 'God loves', and all that jazz, so I would have been stuck right back at square one.

Or maybe Jesus's cell phone wasn't working (if that's the case, he probably has AT&T) and he borrowed his Dad's/Mom's phone to shoot a text to Gabriel about shooting pool or something that night, and when he was done, he noticed the texts to me and was all like, "Oh hey, Dad/Mom is fucking with the earth-dwellers again, I totally want in," and I was just the lucky recipient.

God totally has a sense of humor.

And how did He/She know that I wasn't in church? I always go to church. And by 'always' I mean 'at least once a month'. And by 'at least once a month', I mean, 'at least whenever I have to sing'. Look, I'm human, and I'm trying; I enjoy my church and the people who belong there, and I believe in God, but I just don't know where I stand on the whole organized religion thing, so sometimes, especially lately, I like to sleep instead of trying to make myself look presentable for God. I mean, that's just a LOT of pressure. Does He/She like it when I wear my hair straight, or curly? Up, or down? Should I wear silver or gold jewelery? If I don't wear underwear, will He/She think I'm a hussy? Honestly. It's enough to make me want to crawl back into bed right now.

I feel that I should also mention that since we, as Catholics, believe that the church is God's house, it's really weird to me that no one takes off their shoes when they enter. I mean, that's just poor manners.

I haven't heard from God/Jesus since, so I can only assume that my mom is up there helping them plan their next text bomb. Hey Mom, if you're listening, forget about the text pranks, and work on those winning lottery numbers instead, okay?

Body Paint, Booty Pop and Toaster Strudels

Have you ever noticed just how many random things that Walgreens sells? I mean, have you ever really stopped to look around and take it all in? Seriously. It's crazy. I went in there for shampoo and conditioner today and when I turned the corner towards the checkout, I saw this:

This item is available in-store only.

 

What. The. Fuck. When did Walgreens turn in to a porn store? Although I must say that, as a marketing professional, I was very impressed by the marketing on the box; the line 'sensuous body paint with supple brush for creative romance' really got me thinking about just what sort of 'creative romance' I could, well... create... but I digress. After putting the item in my basket placing the item back on the shelf, I remembered that I needed to pick up some black nail polish, so I headed back into Cosmetics, and on my way I ran into this little gem.

 

Booty Pop; The Panties that make your booty POP!

 

I mean, legit, I was tempted to buy them just to see if they really worked, because who wouldn't want their ass to look like that in jeans? But take a step back for a second and ask yourself... who is going to wake up one morning and go, "You know what? Imma go get me some of that Booty Pop. I bet Walgreens sells 'em." Well, when that day happens, that person can rest assured that Walgreens DOES, in fact, sell them... right next to the pastel-colored granny panties.

 

Also, for the record, I hate the word 'panties'. Every time I write that word, I physically cringe and die a little bit inside.

 

PANTIES.

 

Oh God. I just threw up in my mouth.

 

Anyway.

 

I really wanted to spend more time looking around and seeing what other treasures I could find, but then I remembered that I pretend to be a responsible adult with a job during the day, and I had to be back at the office for a one o'clock. So, $32 and two hours later, here we are. And since Carrie is yelling at me to post this blog entry to alleviate her boredom, this is where we're going to end. Enjoy your Grey's Anatomy and/or Ladies Nights tonight... it's raining, so I'll be curled up on the couch in fleece pajama pants and a snarky t-shirt, watching Prometheus and throwing furtive glances at the freezer. Let's all say a prayer that those toaster strudels make it through the night.

 



Tuesdays were created by Satan, and I ate 5 Ring Pops today

I think Mondays get a bad rap.

I mean, sure, we have to go back to work after having a blissful two days of acting like children and doing whatever the hell we want, (to some extent, anyways... which is why I believe that parties and weddings and showers and other obligatory events should be scheduled during the week, but let's save that for another blog post) but really, it's too early in the work week for some new shit to have hit the fan, and that gives us time to catch up on whatever we neglected on Friday in favor of socializing/playing Frogger/taking 3 hour lunch breaks. Besides, no one schedules meetings on Mondays, because we're all just trying to re-adjust to the blinding fluorescent lights and updating our countdowns to retirement.

But Tuesdays... Tuesdays are a different story. I think Tuesdays were created by Satan himself on a whim, because after all that down time on Friday and Monday, everyone comes into the office and goes, "Fuck. I actually need to get some shit done today." This leads to a sudden influx of meeting requests, which results in a rise in panic company-wide as we all wonder how we're going to get our work done while we're sitting in pointless meetings all day talking about all the work we have to get done. I hate Tuesdays. If I could erase one day from the week, it would be Tuesday. The photo below further illustrates how I really feel about this particular day:

Fuck you, Tuesday.

The rest of the week is cake, really. Wednesday is Hump Day, generally a fairly innocuous day of the week. Thursday is so close to Friday that it almost feels like a mini-Friday, and besides that, Thursday's are home to Grey's Anatomy and Ladies Nights galore. (Hello, drink specials, am I right?) And Friday, well, Friday speaks for itself. Saturday and Sunday are clearly a gift from Jesus. I know that Sunday is sometimes tinged with the dread of returning to work on Monday, but there's generally enough good TV on to distract you from the fact. Case in point: Homeland, Dexter, Once Upon A Time, Family Guy, Shameless, House of Lies, and of course, in the fall, football. I'm also kind of digging that new 666 Park Avenue show this year... but I digress. The point is, my DVR puts in some hard core overtime on Sundays.

This particular Wednesday wasn't as innocuous as usual. I woke up this morning, and I just couldn't do it. I couldn't. Literally. I turned on the shower and stood there for ten minutes having an internal argument with myself before shutting off the water and crawling back into bed. I haven't allowed myself one of these types of days since my mom died, so I tried not to feel too badly about it. I did work from home. I didn't shower or change out of my pajamas (shout out to Carrie for spending her lunch break with me and hugging me anyways. Love you Care Bear.) I did eat five Ring Pops (one for each finger on my left hand - I had to be fair; the right hand was jealous, but its time will come) over the course of the day, and the sustenance that I rotated in between said Ring Pops had little to no nutritional value. I didn't, however, break down and eat the entire box of Toaster Strudels that have been living in my freezer, taunting me with their deliciousness for the past few weeks, so I'm taking that as a sign that I'm still clinging to some semblance of sanity. Food is my crutch, and a tendency towards emotional eating is my cross to bear. I keep reminding myself that I'm not going to find my mom, or love, at the bottom of a box of Reese's Peanut Butter Puffs, but sometimes, I just have to test that theory to make sure.

If you buy me this, I will love you forever.

On the plus side, I put my sadness and frustration to good use today; I cleaned the house and cooked dinner for my sister, dad, and Nancy - Shrimp Scampi & broccoli, and yes, I am available for hire - and coerced them into helping me put up Halloween decorations. I am a freak for Halloween. It looks like Jack Skellington threw up in my house, and I love it. Maybe I'll post a picture... or maybe you should just come see for yourself. My door is always open, and I love to cook. Just make sure you give me enough notice... and in lieu of flowers, bring Ring Pops.