What I do to keep my mind off things.

I blog and I bead...

It's amazing how therapeutic this is, I highly recommend it.

But after two or three pieces and several trips to the bead store, your fiance may begin to wonder if you're spending money wisely.

So you tell him that you're giving them away as gifts for the holidays. Genius!

The above necklace is my favorite piece so far. I'm in necklace love.

Thoughts

*Note: This may not be the most entertaining blog I've ever written. In fact, my next few may not be entertaining at all. Lately, I'm just not in the mood to even think of a humorous topic.

How do you continue blogging after such a life changing event? What do you even begin to write about when the last thirty days of vivid memories are being pushed into the deepest, darkest corners of your brain in an attempt to maintain some sense of normalcy?

All of the Hospice papers I continue to get in the mail say that I should feel numb right now. And in a few months I will begin to feel the pain associated with loss that will not even begin to subside until after the fourth month. Finally, after two years I will be able to create a more normal life pattern that will sculpt the more normal years to come.

While I appreciate all the helpful paperwork, I'm sick of the time lines. During the weeks that my family took care of my mom, we were given numerous, inaccurate time lines that did nothing but mess with our minds. And now, when I want nothing but to be sad in my own way, I get mail that maps out how I should feel for the next few years of my life.

Should I be grateful, for now, that my brain has me in a temporary state of denial? Should I dread the next few months when reality starts to sink in? What if it takes three or four months instead of the allotted two for that reality to hit? Because I now have this calendar, I anticipate what "should" happen and will probably be just as screwed up as I was when things don't go as planned.

I understand that these time lines are estimates. The pamphlet is not an exact science but if you were in my state of mind, and the state of mind that I'm sure my siblings and family are in, you'd grapple for anything - anything that makes some sense out of your life, anything that creates some semblance of normalcy. Anything like a mapped out plan of your emotional life.

11/30/07 - Mom, rest in peace

What I will be reading at my mom's funeral tomorrow. Cross your fingers that I make it through.

***

My mom always said that she didn’t want her funeral to be a sad one. So we thought we could accomplish this with photos chock full of Farah Fawcet hair, plastic triangle earrings that complement bright green eye shadow, and an assortment of hair colors that she would want you to think came about naturally.

Her personality is reflected not only within the pictures displayed before you or the music that you hear but in the memories that she left. Each of you has a favorite memory of my mom that’s all your own and that no one else may know or even understand, whether it was the first time you heard her sing “Delta Dawn” on karaoke night or the time you saw her squeal like a school girl when she got to meet David Allen Coe.

My favorite memory isn’t just one memory, but an era. An entire era of our lives that, to me, seems defined by the way my mom, S and I would cruise around in her yellow Volkswagen Beetle, jamming to Madonna’s latest hit song, headed to Mickey-D’s to get Happy Meals. Or picking up a pack of string cheese from the grocery store and eating all of it on the car ride home. It was an era of just us girls. Mom always made S and me sit in the back seat where it was safer because the old Bug had no seatbelts. I insisted on sitting in the seat directly behind her because it meant that I was the closest person to her. I was my mom’s personal little shadow for the first 2/3rds of my life.

Each memory we have of her is a little piece of what she left for us. A remembers singing in the Christmas music program in grade school. Everyone watched her sing, smiling and silently cheering her on. But when she would look at mom she would see that mom was actually mouthing the words to make sure A wouldn’t forget them. Afterward, mom congratulated A for doing so well – all on her own.

The best memories are those that make you pause for a moment and say to yourself – wow that is so mom. A story that S mentioned earlier does just this. When S first started kindergarten, she had to walk two blocks from school to the baby-sitter’s house at the end of the day. Mom was worried that S might get lost, so she came up with one of her genius solutions: She used chalk to draw arrows on the sidewalk for S to follow. Mom marked the path so she could finish up at work without worrying. But in the end, she took off work anyway and followed S home, just to be sure.

Sometimes, what my mom found hilarious may not have been quite as humorous to us kids, like the day B was first allowed to get behind the wheel of a car. He was ready to back the car out of the driveway, and mom was riding shotgun – visibly nervous before the car was even started. B was so bad at backing out the car – jerking backward, hitting the breaks, jerking backward, hitting the breaks – that when he finally got the car to the side of the road, mom jumped out and said, “I can’t believe you’re that bad – I seriously thought I was going to die!” She laughed, everyone laughed. But B wasn’t laughing later when he wasn’t allowed behind the wheel for another two months.

Mom was there for everything. She would watch Z play Halo on the Xbox for hours just to spend some time with him. Sure, she would complain about the gratuitous violence or the sheer stupidity of the game but she would sit there and, at the very least, pretend to be interested in what Z liked so much.

The five of us were always our mom’s first priority. She did a fabulous job as our mother and as our friend. And as all of us celebrate her life that is one of the things we have to be happiest for. That’s what she would want. Not that we cry for what we don’t have, but that we smile and laugh as we go through the tremendous archive of memories she helped us make. They’ll never run out.

Hola

Hello to those who've been wondering where I've gone. I'm in the middle of a family emergency right now but will be back. Until then...

Adios.

Blogger's Block

It’s official. I haven’t blogged in 14 days and I have bloggers block. Thus the basis of this uber creative title. It’s not that I haven’t thought about what I could write about or that I’ve completely abandoned my Spotless Mind. Of course not. It’s because I’ve been so up and down these last weeks I thought I’d spare you my drama. (You, meaning the two people who actually read my blog and the random person who ran across my humble web-abode after Googling “poopy underroos.” Not joking here people. This crazy cat is either a mom looking for a remedy to clean her kids soiled drawers or… well, I won’t go there. It’s just too messed up.

Anyway, I thought, in lieu of said bloggers block I’d leave you with this.

Everyone can use a good monkey grin. It made me smile.

Don't Get Snarky With Me

Let me set the mood: It was homecoming season a few weeks ago. The school was crawling with teenage girls all looking to get up-dos, manicures, and pedicures before their big night. I was washing this girls greasy mane when:

“Are you Japanese?”

Her inquiry was out of the blue, yes, but I get these types of questions quite often. “No, I’m not Japanese.”

“Well, you look like you are,” she said with an audible snark in her tone.

So sorry to have disappointed you, my dear, I’ll try harder to please you the next time you ask such an uncouth question.

I went on to politely explain the smorgasbord of ethnicities that run through my veins but she got bored and called someone on her cell phone. What she didn’t realize is that I had control of the water temperature and, even worse for her, I controlled the direction of the water spray. I could have EASILY shot her in the face with a blast of icy, cold water.

Speechless

Did any of you hear about this?

Every school day every student and every teacher in every Illinois public school is legally required to take a moment out of their day to be... silent. That's it. Silent. No talking, no humming, no farting, no nothing. For this moment they can pray, they can reflect on their week, or they can sit silently with their thumbs up both nostrils just as long as their actions are not distracting to others and absolutely no sounds are made. It will allow the kids to “listen to the rustling of leaves, to listen to the chirping of a bird, to listen to the tip-tap of a kid walking.” Tip-tap? Seriously?

Another purpose for this mandatory moment of silence (MMoS); (My interpretation.) It is meant to deter students from the black whole that’s twisted our kids into the depressed, violent, and drugged up little children that they’ve seemingly become.

“Rep. Will Davis (D-Homewood), the bill’s chief sponsor, denied he was promoting school prayer but instead said a moment of silence possibly could avert tragedies like the recent school shooting in Cleveland, where a troubled 14-year-old shot two students and two teachers before killing himself. Just think if that student had an opportunity maybe to sit and reflect,” Davis said.” – Chicago Sun Times

Yes, Mr. Davis, what exactly would that child sit and reflect on? Maybe it would give him a moment to rethink his decision to shoot up his school and himself. Or maybe, just maybe it would give him a moment to think for the elleventy-billionth time how unhappy he is and how he feels like there is no other way to be heard. One moment out of one day will not deter someone that feels so beaten down by society, peers, family, or whatever it is that has a person contemplating such rash measures. It's simple algebra, one undefined variable (aka. MMoS) for every day of the school year will produce an undefined result.

Additionally, who says our children have become these no good tyrants who can't contain their evil behavior? The news? Phooey. Because, last I knew, people have had depression (diagnosed or not) since before the year 2007. People have been gunning down other people prior to the formation of the US of A, It should come as no surprise that children are depressed and, in turn, channel those feelings into violence and rash decisions that they’ve learned from their predecessors.

I have no problem with giving students the opportunity to pray for a moment or to reflect for a moment but don’t cover up a political strategy to put religion back into the public school system by blaming a disgruntled fraction of the student body. Or at least come up with a better cover. Few will accept the BS being offered. Personally, I would have been the student painting her fingernails with a pink highlighter in the back of the classroom until the MMoS was over.

All Dressed In White

A long, long time ago there was this boy and this girl. The boy and the girl went to the same school and lived in neighboring towns but knew nothing of each other. Then, one day in the middle of a scorching summer they were introduced. The boy had a shaggy mop of brown hair on his head and wore oversized shorts with an equally oversized t-shirt. The girl wore a tiny pair of jean shorts and green, baby doll top and finished the look off with perfectly groomed locks of black hair.

Ignoring the butterflies that filled their bellies, the boy and the girl went on out for their first night on the town together at the tender age of 17. The boy was a perfect gentleman; he picked the girl up to meet her intimidating and large family, he held open every door she went through, he told her how pretty she looked, and at the end he asked her for a second date. The only sounds that crossed the dinner table that night were the clanking of knives and forks and the occasional sounds of nervous laughter when their eyes would happen to meet. The girl knew not to become attached to this relationship; it couldn’t possibly last longer than two weeks.

Eight years later, the boy and the girl are still together. They went to college together, they moved in with each other, and have started a life together. Four days ago the boy asked the girl to be his wife and the girl said yes. One year from now, this girl and her Bridge Boy will live happily ever after as husband and wife.

School Buses, Betty Boop, Spinning Wheels, & a Coke

As I drive through my neighborhood in the morning all the little kiddies tra-la-la-la-la onto the big yellow school bus. The school bus that I inevitably get stuck behind as it stops at each…and…every…single…house…on the block. What ever happened to a good old-fashioned bus stop? You know, the kind at the end of the street that you walk to. Is this unheard of anymore?

The only year I ever had to take the bus was when I was in the first grade. We lived in Japan at the time so my sister S and I had to commute to an American school on the island. I remember stepping into the bus to find kids swinging like Kerri Strug from the parallel handlebars that spanned the center isle. Our poor, unfortunate school bus driver, who did not speak a lick of English, would get so angry when kids would pull the windows down past the safety line and stick their heads outside the bus. He would yell. We would laugh at the jibberish noises he made. We would eventually calm down long enough to draw butt cheeks on the fogged up windows before resuming our swing-half-turns on the high bar. Eventually the school rallied up some volunteer parents to sit on the bus with us during the morning and afternoon commutes. There weren’t, however, enough parents to ride with us every day. Poor school bus driver, he never knew from one day to the next if it was going to be a good day on the job or a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day. (If you got that reference, you’ve earned yourself some pie!)

I got a little off track with that story… my point; I made some absolutely fabulous friends at that bus stop. We would compare what our mom’s made us for lunch. I automatically envied those who got to eat a hot lunch that day while I carried around my Barbie and the Rocker’s lunch box with matching thermos. (Although, I mist admit, my mom made some pretty kick ass cold lunches.) I often traded my oatmeal cream pie for a baggie of apple slices. Cream filling is just not my thing.

These kids that get picked up at the end of their driveways are missing out on an amazing bus stop experience.

My morning commute continues down a major thoroughfare with nothing of interest to speak of until I turn off onto a route that very few know about. I keep this knowledge to myself in order to keep traffic to a minimum. From this point it’s actually a very picturesque drive. I make my way through a very hoity-toity neighborhood that has their very own clubhouse, golf course, and park. During morning drive times, the fuzz will hang out behind large gates and shrubbery in order to catch you going anything over the allotted 25 miles per hour. I’ve got them outwitted though. I know all of their hiding spots. Red Betty (I named my car after Betty Boop) and I are too smart for the likes of them! Ha ha!

Before I make my way into downtown Springfield, the last of the scenery is a park. It’s just like any old park; trails, swing sets, and dog poop. However, this park has one thing that not many others can lay claim to. About once a month there is a group of women that meet in an open area of the park to spin thread on their (a little fanfare, please) spinning wheels! Real life, honest-to-goodness, Sleeping Beauty, 16th birthday, spinning wheels! Is this a common hobby? I never thought of this as something many people do on their own time let alone an entire group of people in the same community who share this bizarre interest. Where do you even go to purchase a spinning wheel? When and how does one become interested in spinning thread on a wheel? This discovery was so mind-blowing to me the first time I caught a glimpse of their unusual get-together. I stared them down in passing until I realized I had switched lanes and was driving down the wrong side of the street. Sometimes, as I am on my way back to work from lunch I will see the small collection of spinning artisans and think to myself, "I would rather be playing on a spinning wheel than going back to work." What would I spin on that wheel? I can do it, how hard could it be?

As I make my way into downtown traffic gets thicker, the red lights get longer, and the homeless people run amuck. Springfield has major issues with the homeless population. Twice I’ve had run-ins with those in need but so far I’m 0 for 2. The first time, I was running an errand for work. I had to walk about two blocks down the street to drop off some proofs and right outside my office building there was a man. He asked me for anything I could offer. I had nothing on me other than the manila envelope containing the samples. I didn’t think sample pieces of a brochure would be of any use to him so I had to tell him that I had nothing to give. He and I walked in opposite directions and I was wracked with guilt. He probably thought I just didn’t want to give him anything. He probably thinks I’m a bitchy, rich person who is not willing to part with a solitary dime.

This directly leads into my second run-in with a woman who was over-heated, parched, and needed a phone number. Because of my last experience, I was more than willing to help. Bridge Man and I were downtown taking in the sights when she came up to us. She began talking about her car that had just run out of gas. Her kids were with the car and she needed the number for a local women’s shelter because she had to get away from her abusive man. I told her that I would buy her a drink from a nearby ice cream shop where we could also ask to use their phone book. She then proceeded to tell me that she wasn’t comfortable going into that shop and that we should follow her to a bar that was just around the corner. We followed. Bridge Man expressed his concerns. He didn’t think following a stranger to an unknown place was a good idea. We went inside the bar with her. She decided instead of water she wanted a coke. We walked outside where we were suddenly surrounded by people. They all knew her name and she started talking to a few of them. One of them came up to Bridge Man and me and asked if we had any money to give him. This is where I began to feel uncomfortable. The woman then asked if I had any money to give her so she could put some gas in her car. Bridge Man intervened. He said that we had no money and that we were leaving. He grabbed my arm and we were outta there.

Once again, I was unable to help. I know that the situation wasn’t the best but what if her kids were really somewhere with her abandoned car? What if her man really was abusive to her and her kids? I did nothing to help. Strike two.

...

Well, I just reread this entire post. Made changes. Then almost deleted the entire thing. I basically just rambled on for days and days, made no point, came to no conclusion. But after all that work and my nagging bloggers block, I couldn't get myself to hit delete. So, here is my conclusion. I think bus stops should be reinvented. I would like to learn to use a spinning wheel. And I don’t have good people skills with the homeless. I’m done.

I. Am. So. Excited.

I absolutly cannot wait!

I can't wait for the shoes, the style, the hair, the glamour, and big city life! My friends Carrie, Samantha, Charlotte, and Miranda are back, ladies and gentlemen and they're ready for action!

My Love

The love of my life is the great state of California. (Bridge Man, of course, is the human love of my life but that’s a separate blog.) From the moment my family moved out of Cali, I’ve longed to go back. That is where my extended family lives, where my memories are, and where my heart belongs.

When I’m talking about California, I don’t necessarily mean, the state itself. What I love about Cali is something that only I know. It’s something that only I’ve experienced. Yes, the weather is nice, the ocean is beautiful, and there is always something to do but these reasons reside at the bottom of my list.

When I was little I belonged to a group of three friends who did everything together, my sister S and my aunt D. My sister is about two and a half years older than me and my aunt is just under two years older than me so I was the baby who shadowed them all day long. I know for a fact that I annoyed them because I was too young to play with the big girls. Regularly they would lock me out of D’s room so I couldn’t play Barbies with them. I would run to my grandma with crocodile tears in my eyes and she would force them to play with me. I was persistent in this way until I was old enough to fit into their little gang.

Not many people were allowed in our clique. A girl named Megan lived down the street from my grandparent’s house and she always wanted to play with us. Megan was an only child and was allowed to do a lot more than we were. The four of us would play together but eventually we would get annoyed with Megan and not want to play with her anymore. We didn’t like that her mom let her do anything; she got to wear acrylic nails, she had a bunk bed in her bedroom, and she could do a front-walk-over better than we could. So what did we do? We created a club for the three of us called “The We Hate Megan Club.” We were totally serious about the club. D was the president, S the VP, and I was the secretary. We would hold meetings once a week to discuss — well, I can’t remember. Though, I’m sure it had something to do with how much we hated poor Megan. We would turn on an Alvin and the Chipmunks tape or a Dr. Demento tape and play in the backyard until the coast was clear.

After an afternoon of ripping the lemons from my grandma’s lemon tree and throwing them in neighboring yards, doing cartwheels on my grandpa’s perfectly preened yard, and riding our bikes around the circle drive, it was time to go inside. My grandma scheduled dinners out for each day of the week; Monday was meatloaf night, Tuesday was Mexican night, Wednesday was chili night, and so on. Friday was my favorite because it was fast food night and I always, always, always got a kids meal for the free toy that usually ended up broken or missing by the end of the night. We would play Super Mario Brothers on the Nintendo with my Uncle K. He would play until he got to the coolest levels in the game and then he would let us play until we killed off Mario and he’d have to start over again. When he got sick of that he would lie on his back and hold us up in the air with his feet until we became green in the face. He was one friggin’ great uncle.

When it was bedtime, we three amigas would crowd over the sink in the bathroom to see who could make the most foam in the sink with the toothpaste while brushing our teeth. D usually won that game. I would then beg and plead with my mom to let me sleep in my Aunt B’s room because she was older and cooler than me and would let me stay up late. B had a trundle bed and I would sleep on the pullout bed from underneath. We would stay up and talk for hours. I always felt so COOL when she would let me hang out with her.

Sometimes she would let me lay out with her. We would just lie there in out teeny-bikinis and fry in the sun. Once we were good and burnt, we would go inside to soothe our burns with vinegar soaked paper towels. It was so, SO stinky but felt so, SO soothing. No one but my family has heard of this sunburn remedy so I can probably predict your reaction. Give it a try before you judge. I promise, you’ll never go back to that green aloe goo.

I've been back to California several times since my family originally moved away and each time I've felt the same excitement that can only come with the memory of playing Marco Polo in a one-foot deep plastic pool in my grandparent's backyard.

A Van Down By The River

For the last two hours of class on Saturday we cosmo girls (and two guys who could probably pass for girls) were lucky enough to sit through the witty repartee of the motivational speaker, Doug Cox. Before the rodeo Santa Clause (no joke) showed up, the girls were thoroughly annoyed that this man would be infringing on the last two hours of an eight-hour makeover. I, on the other hand, was absolutely gleeful that I would get 120 wonderful minutes at the end of the day to sit in the back row and sleep. (65-hour workweeks have helped me to build a staggering amount of sleep debt. I takes it where I gets it, mmmm-k.)

Off the track:
About a year ago, I was waiting for my ride home after a long day of work and class outside the student center and fell asleep on public bench for what had to be about 40 minutes. I woke up to two guys pointing and snickering, most likely at the spot of drool on my chin. Mortifying, yes, but sadly enough it was not the first time.

Back on track:
Unfortunately, I was quickly ushered to a seat in the second row because I showed up late by two lousy minutes. The entire exhibition ended up being very involved. We were standing up, sitting down, hugging, holding hands, and singing “Kum By Ya.” (OK, OK, I made those last few things up.) Nevertheless, audience participation was a requirement and sleep was not an option.

Rodeo Santa talked about how to be successful in your life whether it‘s personally, financially, emotionally, physically, or spiritually. He guaranteed that if we followed his plan, we too would be successful. He did, after all, motivate Donald Trump to be the real estate mogul he is today.

To start off, he made us promise that we would be all ooey-gooey-lovey-dovey toward our selves.
Repeat after me:
I promise myself that I am beautiful. I promise that I will embrace my emotions and I will be an emotional person.

Right about now, I was kind of wishing Chris Farley would bounce into the room and give his rendition of Matt Foley, Motivational Speaker to break up all the unbearable mush.

Next he talked finances and we continued to make promises to ourselves:
Ahem. I promise to make my money work for me. I promise to buy only what I need. And I promise to buy things that accrue value.

The first two promises seem to make sense. The third, however, is not as easy as it may sound. Rodeo Santa used the example of cars, they do not become more valuable, therefore, do not purchase a car.

Do not purchase a car? Do not purchase a car!? Well, my apologies, but a majority of the population does not live in down town NYC and have public transportation available to them round the clock. AND, spending money on public transportation doesn’t do you any good financially either. If you have to take the bus twice a day and bus fare is $2 per trip, that’s $1,460 you could have applied to something else, like – I don’t know – a piece-o-crap car! A car that you would only have to buy once. Taking the bus year after year would be like buying the same $1,460 piece-o-crap every year.

(*Stepping off my soap box*)

More promises:
I promise to use my memories and not be used by them.

This one really resonated for me. My life made a one-eighty almost 3 years ago and I have, and still am letting the events leading up to this turn effect every aspect of my being. Maybe it’s because the ripples from these happenings are still very strong. I often find myself struggling to keep my head above water. I know it is cliché but easier said than done, Mr. Rodeo Santa, easier said than done.

The last promise we made to ourselves:
I promise to be a little better today than I was yesterday.

This is when Rodeo Santa (I don’t know why I keep calling him that, his name is Doug) broke out in a (surprisingly good) rendition of Martin Luther King’s most infamous speech, “I Have A Dream.” He would shout out, “I have a dream!” and the audience of wannabe stylists would repeat the words with enough zeal to mimic that of Dr. King himself. You’d better stand up ladies and gentlemen, because we’re gonna have church in here tonight! I have a dream!

We wrote out our dreams on a 3”x5” note card we creatively titled, “My Dreams.”
- to travel all over the world
- to open my own salon and be successful
- to give back
- to be a good person

We were told that if we hold on to our dream sheet we will be successful. No bones about it, Rodeo Santa promised us success. Let it be known, I still have my dream sheet.

Have I motivated you yet? Can you make these promises to yourself?

Dear Nephew,

In the beginning there was the diaper. There’s nothing like a clean diaper to free up some time in your day to sufficiently eat, sleep, and drool. But there comes a point when you want to rid yourself of the plastic, crinkly sponge on your bottom in lieu of some fancy-pants Underoos.

The idea of being a “big boy” permeates your brain and you find yourself randomly shouting “Poops, Mommy! I poops!” The room fills with excitement as family members cheer you on from the sidelines while you and mommy race toward the potty only to find out that you’ve already soiled your new Elmo Underoos. There are encouraging words from mommy, “It’s ok. You’ll get it next time, sweetie.”

After so many failed attempts, something changes in your head. “Why should I use the big boy potty when Mommy does such a fabulous job changing my dirty diapers for me?”

Unfortunately, mommy doesn’t get this concept. She insists on making you wear your big boy underwear and making you use the big boy potty. Who says you even want to be a big boy?

From then on, the words ‘big-boy,’ ‘potty,’ and ‘Underoos’ make you want to flush those screenprinted Elmo undies down that stinking toilet. Each time mommy makes you use the – the, uh, P-word - you throw a tantrum that supersedes the last. She can’t make you go if you arch your back to make it nearly impossible to pick you up or if you flail your arms and legs to make the most painful and precise contact or if you wail like James Brown in a bear trap. It works every time.

And so, my dear nephew, I write you this letter to simply say, more power to you. Stand your ground! Who needs the potty anyway?

Love,
Aunt Xteener

Blog By Numbers

1. The job hunt has begun in full force this last week. Big Boss Man made sure to reiterate in a particularly nerve-wracking meeting this week that she just can’t muster up the time for me, “If I’m spending my time with you, then my work is not getting done.” (This is where I begin banging my head against the wall and mumbling something about a stapler.) Anyway, I’ve updated my resume, references, and cover letter and the hunt is officially on!

2. Bridge Man and I are going to St. Louis this weekend for a trip to the zoo. I’m excited because it will be the first time I’ve ever been to a zoo, believe it or not. I’m also a little nervous because I tend to get a little PETA around caged animals. By the end of the weekend the Show Me State might be taken over by a literal zoo of newly freed animals.

3. My little brother (who just happens to be 6’4 and over 200lbs) has recently become a quasi celebrity in my little hometown. It’s a little surreal for me. The high school football season has commenced and suddenly everyone knows his name. Old men who’ve followed redbird football since 1776 will stop him at the local grocery store to tell him exactly how to perfect his screen pass. He’s only a freshman, people!


4. My mom finally got a new oncologist. Finally! I haven't taken the time to blog about this in the past because it will take me at least two full weeks and many mojitos to completely detail the saga. Maybe this will come in a future post or maybe I’ll give you bits and pieces here and there. We’ll see. Let’s just say, her first oncologist kept her well in the dark about her treatments and what was going on inside her body. Her new doc took the time to answer all of her questions and, so far, seems very helpful. This, I like.

5. I went to a wedding this last weekend and what do you know...

One of these things is just like everything else. The black and white flowery dresses must have been on sale that week.

I Know You Are But What Am I?

I went out with J last night since we haven't done anything, just us chicas in a while. We ran into some welcome, familiar faces in addition to the usual unwelcome and unfamiliar faces. I don't understand why guys think that just because a girl is out in a bar she wants to be picked up. What's the thought process here? "Wow, that girl is hot. I bet if I go over there and lay my best line on her she'll want me baaaaad!"

I digress. Although, I complain, a laughable pick-up line from a slimy chump would have been better than what actually happened.

Random Dude: (To J) Wow, you have great hair.
J: Thanks. What’s your name?

(This is where they make their introductions to each other, but I'll spare you that dialogue.)

RD: I love that color.
J: (Pointing at me) She colored it for me.
RD: (To me) Oh, what’s your name?

(This is where we make our introductions as if I hadn’t been standing there the entire time.)

RD: (To J) You look really great tonight.
J: Thanks.

(He walks away for a while. Then he decides to come back after a long time of contemplating his next move with J.)

RD: Wow, that’s a great shirt you’re wearing.
J: Uh, thanks.
RD: (He looks her up and down) You really look great tonight.

(He emphasizes his point with two classy thumbs up and continues…)

RD: (He then looks me up and down) You look… (He see-saws his hand in a so-so fashion and continues) … ehh.

Me: (Shocked and upset, but never one to miss a beat, I look him up and down and say…) You look, um… (Without completing my sentence I give him two hugely emphasized thumbs down and walk away.)

I know, I know, I lowered myself to his level, but he totally deserved it. (Na-nana-nana-na!)



But what sucks the most is that what this stranger said actually had an effect on me. I did cry, twice, once in the filthy bathroom of the bar and the second time after I got home and told Bridge Man what happened. The end result: all of my plaguing insecurities are hanging on a neon light right above my head to remind me that maybe my ghetto fabulous booty isn’t so fabulous, maybe my ebony hair is too dark for my face, and maybe, just maybe, all of those insecurities that I pass off as just that, are not figments of my imagination but honest-to-goodness facts that I’ve chosen to ignore.

Sleeping Tiger

Everyone has his or her childish moments, right? At some point, we’ve all felt the undying urge to spread a juicy piece of gossip like wildfire. We’ve all thrown a tantrum or two when a jerk cuts us off in traffic – our response: the appropriate finger and several choice words. Moments like this truly exemplify the caveman in us all.

Teenagers, of course, embody the essence of angry, ape-like fury. When they get mad, the shit hits the fan, the kitchen cabinets, and the coat tree from down the hall. They (I guess) have an excuse – they’re teenagers. They are going through one of the most trying times of life.

What about adults? What’s our excuse?

Last weekend I went out to a bar with a couple of friends but before we could even make it inside, two full-grown men were dueling it out on the sidewalk. One in particular kept swiping his thumb under his nose, plucking at his shirt (dirt-off-your-shoulder style), and gruffly yelling, “What!? You wanna fight!?” All the while, two of his cronies were holding onto him with a grip that suggested to the other fighter, “If we let go, he’s gunna to go ape on your ass!”

As I witnessed this display, I pictured (and maybe this directly correlates to the amount of time I spend watching the Discovery Channel) a big monkey pounding his hairy fists on his equally hairy chest, picking his nose, and grunting while his two smaller monkey friends dance around him, screeching at the other monkey fighter to back off.

Who knows what the fight was even about - but what a pathetic display of machismo, yes?

My point?

Well, I’ve had some angry, ape-like moments myself and they tend to occur right around the same times of the day – early, early morning or mid R.E.M. My college roommates learned quickly not to disturb my slumber. For example:

G: (Whispering) Xteener? Xteener?
Me: (Abruptly) Huh?
G: Can I use your computer?
Me: (Even more abruptly) Yes.
G: (Almost apologetically) I need your password to log on.
Me: (Wordlessly, I get up, stomp my way down the hall to my computer, slam the password onto the keyboard, and stomp my way back to bed.)

I can’t even imagine what G was thinking. I later apologized, wrote down my password for future use, and explained my irrational morning anger. She was, fortunately, very forgiving.

More recently…

Bridge Man: (Oh-so-sweetly) Babe, it’s time to get up.
Me: (Nothing. I heard what he said but chose not to respond.)
Bridge Man: Xteener, babe, time to get up.
Me: (Not very nicely) I KNOW! I’m getting up, jeeze!

Oh, if only you could know how badly I felt about this one. Bridge Man is the most mild-mannered person you’ll ever meet. He rarely gets angry or yells, so yelling at him is like punching a puppy in the nose. Awful. Of course he didn’t get upset with me but he did say that he hates when he has to wake me up. Absolutely dreads it.

Fabulous. I’m a jerk.

Hobby #1

I am an amateur photographer. This is what I have to show for it...


I call this one "Duck Butt"


This is just one of the 56 trillion pictures of the sky that I have taken. Right after a torrential downpour the sky was literally the color of fire and I was so drawn to it I just grabbed my camera and walked around taking pictures until the sky cleared.


I went to see Obama announce his candiacy for president and ended up watching the security for most of the time.


My friend J and I chilled in the grass with a bottle of Molti Bianchi. She wasn't aware I was taking this picture.


I took this picture while I was standing in the Pacific Ocean in So. Cal. This is where I belong and I can't wait to go back.


Bridge Man took this picture - it's a view from Hollywood Blvd. This one's my absolute favorite.

The Green Eyed Monster

I am a member of two online social networks where thousands flock to get a daily dose of creeping on the people they don’t really know. Before I was hip to the crazies out there, my profiles were open for everyone and their brother to see. Almost daily I would get a message or a friend invite from someone named Tiffany or Bunny who proudly parade pictures of themselves in negligees for all to see. I eventually wised up to this and made every online profile I’ve created as private as private can be. Now the only people who can creep on me are those that I choose. It’s amazing the relationships that have rekindled from these networks. I can now have daily conversations with people that I haven’t seen or heard from in years.

Lately, it seems like I’ve been catching up with a lot of people from high school. It’s like an online class reunion. This person now lives in Colorado. That person moved to California right after college. So-and-so works for a huge conglomerate in NYC. And what’s-his-face is moving to Texas in a few months. After hearing their stories I can’t help but be jealous. How did they manage to remove themselves from central Illinois?

I had a conversation with one of my closest friends, J, recently:

J: I have to go to St. Louis soon to check out everything with the Navy.
Me: So you’re really going to do the Navy thing?
J: I don’t know. I want to keep my options open.
Me: What are your other options?
J: I want to move to Colorado.
Me: You suck. I don’t even have the option of leaving this hole.
J: Yea, it’s nice.

It’s not that I don’t like life in Corn Country. My nuclear family lives here, I enjoy changes in the seasons (to an extent), my man (Bridge Man) and his family live here, and… well, that’s about it. Those are the reasons I’m staying.

More specifically:
- Bridge Man doesn’t want to move too far away from his family.
- My mom is not in the best of health and I want to be near her for anything that she needs.
- My nephew is only 2 years old and I don’t want to miss these vital, growing-up years. He needs to know his Aunt Xteener.

Yet, there are so many other reasons for me to leave. I could get a different, better, and a more rewarding job anywhere my heart desires. I want to experience different things and people and cultures. I want to have these experiences under my belt before I finally decide to settle down. I even have a mental list of all the places I want to live.

Yes, my reasons are selfish. I understand this. But what’s a girl to do?

No, really… what should I do?

Me, Myself, & I

- I drink at least six, 20oz bottles of water a day
- Therefore, I constantly have to pee
- I hate feet, no matter how clean or pretty they are, I hate them
- I have numerous irrational fears including: the dark, being alone, and feet
- I make a list for everything, rarely are these lists completed
- I am not a vegetarian, but I hardly ever eat meat or eggs
- My mom is my hero
- I have two sisters and two brothers
- I would like to have a dog, please
- I hate going to the doctor
- I get a headache every work day around 2:30
- I have sprained an ankle three times in my life, last week being one of them
- I didn’t get my license until I was 21 years-old, I didn’t own a car until 25
- My cell phone is permanently attached to me
- I have more hobbies than I can usually handle including: beading, sewing, painting, writing (songs, poems, articles, etc.), the guitar, hooping, and singing (just to name a few)
- I am more comfortable when covered with a blanket, whether I’m cold or not
- I can’t be by myself for longer than 30 minutes
- I am always running late
- I am a huge procrastinator, but do my best work at the last minute
- My hair looks different every month
- I have a flip-flop addiction and would wear them every day of the year, including the winter, if possible
- I have a chap stick addiction, I keep one in my purse, desk, night stand, bathroom, car, and silverware drawer
- I cry a lot
- I’ve been dating my man for eight years – we are high school sweethearts
- I’m a mild hypochondriac, and as of late, I have diagnosed myself with diabetes
- I say “I’m sorry” too much
- My favorite place in the world is Southern California
- I can out-burp a 300lb man with a beer

When in Springfield

I usually pride myself for being media savvy and not falling for marketing ploys and gimmicks. I am, as you know, in that biz myself. I’m schooled on the tricks of the trade. Well, ladies and gentlemen, I fell. I fell hard. I've been Simpsonized.

Where I am right now

Last December I graduated from college with major in Advertising and Integrated Marketing Communications and a double minor in Psychology and Sociology. I thought I had set myself for life. During the time it took for me to get my BA, something in the world of business changed. Now you need nothing less than a Masters degree to make any money in this life. In high school, it was pounded into our heads that we would never get a decent job without a degree and I believed them.

First I went to a community college and paid the tuition out of my own pocket. (I’m pretty proud of that.) As I got closer to finishing my Associates degree I began planning the rest of my educational career. I had everything set up. I was going to start at SIUC that fall. All of my classes transferred over with ease. I had all of my classes lined up. I knew where I was going to live. I had a list of everything I was going to need to take with me. I did not, however, have the means to pay for any of it. I applied for financial aid but was not eligible, not because my parents made too much money but because they didn’t make enough. Sounds backwards, huh? I won’t go into the whole “woe is me” drama of it all but let’s just say; make sure you file your taxes every year. I applied for every scholarship known to man. (Surprisingly, they don’t give engineering scholarships to communications majors. Go figure.) And I tried to apply for loans on my own but loan companies don’t want to give money to 22-year-old college students with no credit and making $5.15 per hour.

At the very last minute, in a moment of weakness, I asked for help from a family member, my aunt T who had recently completed college. I wanted to know if there was anything I was overlooking, if there was secret money somewhere that only post-grads knew about. I figured she had been through the rigmarole and might be able to help me out. And help she did. Ever so graciously, she co-signed on a loan for me and I went to school that year.

The next year, I was 23 and able to get a loan on my own. Having never gone through the process on my own, my aunt T was willing to help me whenever I miffed it up. The next (and last) year I was 24 and finally able to apply for financial aid with my own tax information. Every question and quibble I had, my Aunt T would get a call from me, and without missing a beat she always knew how to help. I finally graduated.

Right out of school, I got a job at an Advertising Agency with a big fancy title. It was like the freaking American Dream. The pay was mediocre, but I assumed that’s how it goes for most entry-level workers. After two months of working there, I was already unhappy in my position. My bosses promised big things from the very beginning and rarely came through. They would tell me that I was “in training” and not to worry because, before I knew it, I would be up to my ears in marketing plans, copywriting, and advertising campaigns.

Six months later, I am still filing paperwork, answering the phones, and refilling the same paperwork that the big wigs can’t seem to put away after they’re done. (Come on now, didn’t we all watch Sesame Street when we were growing up? Clean up your freaking toys when you’re done playing with them!!)

I have expressed my dissatisfaction:


Me: Big Boss Man, I am looking for new challenges and projects that will stretch my skills in my position.

BBM: I know that you’re bored but I’m just too busy to take the time to show you how to do the things I hired you to do. (I may have embellished a little.)


What ticks me right off is that I don’t need to be shown how to write copy for a commercial and I don’t need to be shown how to create a marketing plan. I just spent the last three years of my life (not including my time at the community college) preparing for this damn job in which I make less per year than the amount I'll have to pay back in student loans.

So, what’s my solution to this predicament? I’m back in school. Not to get my masters degree but for cosmetology. (My apologies for that ‘one-eighty’ I may have just pulled on you.) Yes, I have decided that, in the mere eight months I’ve been in the advertising industry, that “I just can’t do it cap’n! I just can’t do it!”

Who knows, I may stick with advertising if I can find another, more fulfilling position. But, for now I just can’t wait around for something amazing to happen to my career. I have to know that I’m working towards something because, right now, I can’t help but feel like I’m going to be reorganizing that damned filing cabinet until I’m 80.

My cat, Pepper...

... went into liver failure and had to be put to sleep last week.

I miss him so much.

What Your Family Doesn't Know...

Last weekend I went to my old college roommate's wedding, G. She married a guy, S, that lived two doors down from us in the dorms. It was an especially emotional event for me because I had known them both before they decided to get hitched. During the ceremony the reverend made mention of the beginning of their relationship and how it all began. He didn't go into specifics but, if you would, turn your gaze to the SIU alumni sitting third pew from the front:

We (the SIU alumni) sat politely in our church garb with smirks on our faces remembering that fateful night. There were no long walks along Campus Lake. S did not whisper sweet nothings in G's ear. They did not stare deeply into each other’s eyes and realize - at that very moment - that they were forever meant to be together.

The night started, for S, with an innocent game of poker and some smuggled Sparks with his buddies in the dorms. After S emptied his wallet and downed a few beers he headed off to bed. The poker game continued without him into the wee hours of the morning.

For G, her dear friend (me) took her to a house party where we met up with a couple of friends. It was the traditional 'girls night out.' We drank Boones Farm from plastic martini glasses, sang karaoke to whatever song was on the radio, graduated from Boones to vodka shots (you know, the six dollar kind), and danced on the furniture into the night.

After we were done "shakin' our g-thangs" we headed back to the dorms to happily find the poker party still in session. After joining in the festivities for a while, G wandered off to what we assumed was her own room. A while later she returned and slurred, "Wherzze S?" (That translates to "Where's S?" for those of you who don't speak fluent drunk.) Not thinking anything about it, we pointed her in the direction of S's room. She entered, tried to close the door, and failed. As the poker party simmered down we started to wonder what G and S were up to for so long and why they didn't come join the fiesta. We pushed open the ajar door and (I'm sure you can see where this is going) once our eyes adjusted to the dark and we saw the moving lump under the cover, the poker party of 10 year-old college students broke into squeals and giggles and hurriedly slammed the door.

And that, children, is the story of how G and S began their relationship. And as I sat in that pew, I wondered (as I'm sure my SIU counterparts were also wondering) what S & G's parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, 2nd cousins, nieces, and nephews thought had brought the lovebirds together. Did they innocently imagine the two took a moonlight stroll through the quads to the gymnasium? Or was it a quiet, candle lit dinner in the dining hall? I highly doubt any of them knew that a few bottles of Boones Farm and a 6-pack of Sparks would bring us all together to watch as S and G entered into the sanctity of marriage.

An now, ladies and gentlemen, I present to you, the lovely new couple, Mr. and Mrs. S.

A Spotless Mind At Work

* I have a test tonight and haven't studied an ounce.

* I almost ran over a bunny today and now it's all I can think about.

* I'm the 'Guest Book Lady' in a wedding this weekend (not even good enough to be a brides maid) and I spent how much on that dress??!!

* Now I have to buy shoes to match.

* Still thinking about that bunny. I saw him run off the road, so I know he's OK but I had to roll down the windows in my car so the wind could dry the freaked out tears from my eyes before I got to work.

* Do you think she'll let me wear flip flops to her wedding??? I have green ones!

* I wish I was outside. I need a tan.

* Little Bunny Foo-Foo hopping through the... intersection...

* Last night I went to Lowe's and purchased PVC piping, electrical tape, a dowel rod, and a hand saw. Anyone want to hula hoop??

Today I Choose Life - A Dedication

Kevyn Aucoin
Originally uploaded by Xteener

Today I choose life-

Every morning when I wake up I can choose joy, happiness, negativity, pain, To feel the freedom that comes from being able to continue to make mistakes and choices- today I choose to feel life, not to deny my humanity but embrace it. To embrace the fear of not knowing, of not having control over much of anything except my reaction to it and the control I have over my self and my actions. I let go of my sadness over past hurts to make room for today's journey. I've heard that life is a series of old doors closing and new doors opening, but its hell in the hallways. The fear of not knowing- were the next 30 days shown to me, would I want to go through the motions of reliving what I had been shown? Or would I want to prevent problems and change my own destiny? Well, I cannot tell the future but I can choose to direct my heart and soul towards good and loving acts- to say a silent prayer for the happiness of all- for the good to shine through. Just by thinking one positive thought I am redirecting my moment, my day, my life. Today I choose-

lol
Kevyn

This is a letter written by my favorite make-up artist Kevyn Aucoin written in April of 2002, less than a month before he passed away. His words, to me are like poetry and are endlessly inspiring. What inspires you??

Where, Oh Where, Has My Little Muse Gone?

Last night I spent my time on activities that epitomize the floating of my proverbial boat. If you don't know what I mean by this, take a moment to check out my profile.

Over my lunch hour I forwent the notion of foodstuff and nourishment and instead went to the bead store so eloquently named, The Beaded Pig. I spent my allotted hour sifting through oodles of gems, beads, charms, ornaments, crystals, chains, stones, tools, thread, glass, and other such fabulous trinkets. I was in 'pig' heaven as I exited the store with purchases in hand. My mind was all atwitter with inspiration. So much so, I barely made it through the rest of the daily grind.

Now, for my fellow virtuosos out there, you know as well as I that inspiration is fleeting. Once it's gone, it's gone. Forever. You must then move past that moment and wait ever-so patiently for the next. Well, if you haven't figured it out by now, my muse... my flash of inspiration... my motivation was gone. Before you roll your eyes, you have to understand, for me ideas come at the most inoppotune times. In a dream at 2 a.m. While I'm driving through a torrential rain storm. And once they come, I hold on to them with the grip of Andre the Giant.

After work, I sat in vain with my pieces, moving and shifting them from one spot to the next in hopes of regaining a sliver or remnant of my previous brainchild. Yet again, nothing. Desperately, I went out into the more commercial world of retail to hit up some craft stores. However, nothing is open in this town past dusk. I could see tumbleweeds for crying out loud! (Not really, I live in the midwest.) I did find a store with 10 more minutes before closing time and as a last ditch effort purchased a canvas and some paints. (Not even close to beading, I know.) With this medium, I had no trouble finding inspiration which resulted in a gloomy nude painting. It seems that the imaginative winds are a-changin for this wannabe artisan.

We'll have to wait to see what the future holds.

Free at last! Free at last! Thank God Almighty I'm... bored

For the last two days I've been sick. Wednesday I thought I would tough it out and go to work but didn't make it past noon. I called my boss to whine about not feeling well and she let me go home. The next day I felt equally as ill and called in sick to work for the entire day. Looking past the pile of snotty tissues and empty cough drop wrappers I felt a bolt of excitement as I knew that I was going to have all day to myself. No one to steal the remote when they're sick of watching the Project Runway marathon, no one to get dolled up for, no one to judge me for eating last nights cold pizza for breakfast in addition to my huge bowl of Frosted Flakes. I was free to do what I wanted.

The morning began with me getting up around 8:30. I grabbed my pink, fuzzy blanket out of the closet and crashed on the couch with the remote, a glass of OJ, a bowl of cereal, and some cold pizza from the previous night. I excitedly flipped through the stations and gleefully fell upon a marathon of the fashion sort. I then finished my healthy breakfast, got up to pee, sat back down on the couch, looked at the clock... a mere 30 minutes had passed. I was bored.

How could I be bored when I DREAM of these rare occasions? It had been months, no, years since I'd had this type of opportunity. Have I lost my couch potato abilities? Am I doomed to a life of stretching myself too thin and ENJOYING IT?? My thoughts drifted to who I could call, where I could go, and how I could pass the time.

Nothing. Everyone's at work. It's the end of the pay period (meaning, no cash). And Project Runway was the only thing enticing enough to occupy my time.

For those of you who made it through this post, congratulations, you have the attention span of a saint. For those of you who didn't, WAKE UP, I'm done rambling.

-Xteener-

First is the Worst

Since this is my first blog I'll try to fill you in on me but I can't promise anything good. Since no one wants to hear my life story, and I'm sure I'll fill you in here and there in future blogs, I'll begin with a story that explains a lot about me and who I am.

It was winter break in the middle of my 7th grade year and my genius grandparents got me a karaoke machine for Christmas. Along with the machine was a tape (yes, I said tape) that contained four songs, two of which I can remember: Achey Brakey Heart and I Will Always Love You. This tape got a good work-out as I would repeatedly rewind and re-sing each song all day long. I made sure the windows of my bedroom were always open just in case a musc mogul would happen by, hear my amazing warble, and want to sign me to a record deal right then and there.

These events eventually led to my own talk show. I would lock the door to my room (as I shared it with my sister) and I would set everything up Oprah style. I would take on the role of Miss Winfrey herself and would always, ALWAYS interview Whitney Houston (pre Bobby Brown). Once it was time for Whitney to sing (we were on a first name basis) I would switch roles and belt out I Will Always Love You until the audience cried out for an encore. Then I'd sing it again.

Hope you enjoyed my first blog. I'm out.

Later gater.