Spotless Mind

I want this

2011-04-17T23:36:00.003-05:00

I've been looking for a rocking chair for Baby Ziggy's room and this is the one I want...

Too bad it belongs to someone else. You think they'd be willing to share?

Horton Hears a... Who??

2011-04-10T19:28:00.014-05:00

Remember the book Horton Hears a Who by Dr. Seuss? The story of a friendly elephant who hears a tiny voice from a speck of dust and discovers an entire microscopic world. None of Horton's friends believe that he could have found a whole world within a speck of dust. They believe it impossible for such a tiny place to exist.

***

Science used to say the world was flat. Now it's round. Maybe next, we'll discover it is, in fact, square. We used to think the atom was the smallest thing until we cracked it open and a whole mess of crap came out. (Did anyone get that Friends reference?) A good scientist should leave open the possibility that their theory can be wrong. So what about a good religious leader? There are so many different systems of belief in this world, it seems closed minded to think that there can only be one correct religion.

My mama raised us to come to our own religious conclusions. And out of the five of her children she raised one child with devout Catholic beliefs, one atheist, one agnostic, one who cannot be defined, and one me.

Over the last 15 years or so I've run the gambit in regards to religion. In high school I went through a very religious phase. I went to church every Sunday, attended religious conferences, helped with vacation bible school and Sunday school. I must admit though, I never took communion. It felt fake to me. Now before I offend anyone, I want to clarify that it felt like I was faking religion not that the ritual itself felt fake. I always felt a little like an outsider in church because I wasn't raised in a church. Accepting communion would have felt like I was taking from someone else who had spent their whole life building their faith.

Through college I probably would have told you that I was a nonpracticing Christian. I believed in God when it was convenient for me. I prayed when I needed something but mostly I didn't pray. And then I came to the conclusion that I didn't want to have religion out of convenience. If I found myself talking to God, like something as simple as thanking God or something as personal as praying to God, it was more of a reflex than a belief. It felt phony. I didn't pray because I was a religious person, I prayed because that's simply what good Christian's are told to do.

If you asked me two years ago what my religious beliefs were I would have told you with no doubt, that I was an atheist. I can't remember coming to this conclusion. I didn't become an atheist overnight. For me, it took years. But the day I realized that I didn't believe in God was a sad one. It was as if someone had died. I mourned the loss of this higher power in whom I had believed for so long. I mourned the idea that I no longer had a security net. I could no longer say "God works in mysterious ways" when something bad happens. I could no longer fall back on the idea that there is a plan for all of us when things don't work out. I had no idea what would happen me when I die. It seemed cruel to say that death is the end and there is no afterlife. It was hard to accept that if I didn't believe in God I didn't believe in Heaven. It is, after all, a package deal. At this point I had to decide what I was going to believe in. The religious explanations for life's misery seemed like nothing but a band aid. Religion doesn't explain why good people die miserable deaths and why rapists live to be 100. I need more than "mysterious ways."

I don't want to be a cliche, but I will be the first to admit that a major factor in my complete conversion to atheism was the death of my mom. I was already moving towards atheism but her passing cemented the change for me. I couldn't understand why a merciful God would decide it was time for her to die. Almost immediately after I recognized myself as an atheist I began yet another transformation. I didn't believe in God but I couldn't fathom the idea that there is nothing after life. That this life is all we get and then we're gone. So maybe I needed that band aid to help me grieve the death of my mom. What's so wrong with that? Maybe there is a higher power that oversees our tiny little planet. But what shape does it take? Buddha, Allah, some kind of Deity, one God, multiple Gods, or no God at all. Who's to say?

So this is where my brain has landed on this spiritual plane. Total religious confusion. But I must say that I'm comfortable in this place. My scientific side needs evidence of a higher power but spiritual side is comforted with the idea that maybe one (or multiple) such being does exist. There are too many possibilities and too little evidence to dismiss any idea completely. Maybe we are a tiny speck of dust floating around the living room of some higher being.

She's Here!

2011-03-06T13:26:00.002-06:00

At this point Baby Ziggy is almost a month old. Since she has no circadian rhythm, mine gets put on the back burner and the days and nights all blend together. So the last month has been one long, interesting, wonderful day. More to come...

The thing is...

2011-02-14T13:32:00.003-06:00

So the plan was to write about my pregnancy; the good stuff and the bad. But the thing is, little Ziggy decided to show up two weeks early and I've since succumb to a one-track, baby filled mind. I've forgotten what life was like a mere five days ago.

Until I've got my brain back in order, here's a little something for you to "ohhh" and "ahhh" over.

What do you say after this long?

2011-01-06T23:23:00.008-06:00

The purpose of this writing is for me. It's supposed to be therapeutic. Whether or not I need therapy I don't know but it is nice to have some outlet. So why do I feel like I've betrayed my two regular readers? Do I really think they've been checking this site for updates? Really, after this long? Was what I wrote really that fulfilling, inspirational, funny, whatever, to have had such an impact that people would even come back and trust that I might, once again regularly to update? It would be mighty arrogant of me to think in this way. So why feel guilty when I can simply start fresh. I am a whole new Xteener. (Or the same old one, you'll never know.)

Seriously though, what do you say after this long? I thought about a survey. A generic, easy-out for my first blog post in over a year. It would cover what I did for the last year and update those of you who've come back or bring any newcomers up to speed. It seems more like a cop-out. I still feel a twinge of guilt so I probably owe more than a simple survey. At least that will make me feel better.

First of all, I'm pregnant. To be exact, 36 weeks and five days pregnant.

In October of 2009, Bridge Man and I decided we wanted to have a baby. It was that easy. By November we bought a house. Early December we got a dog. It was like a storybook. Somewhere in there we found out we were pregnant. And we all lived happily ever after. Except that on December 24th, around 11:30 at night something happened: The tele-nurse told me with little pity in her voice that there was no need to go to the hospital, my symptoms were textbook, we were having a miscarriage. The end.

I had a stack of little cards to give to family on Christmas morning to announce that a little Baby Bridge Man or Baby Xteener was due to be born the following August. Good thing we hadn't decided to give them out on Christmas Eve. So we celebrated the holiday with family while keeping our mouths shut. All the while my brain was screaming at them. They had no idea what I was going through. They couldn't have known. Still I couldn't help but be mad at every ounce of holiday cheer that came from that day. How could we be festive while this was happening to me. While it was happening to Bridge Man.

A miscarriage isn't short. It's not a one day thing. It goes on and on for weeks. All the while reminding you of what's happening.

No one was there to be sad with me. Not even Bridge Man could understand the loss I felt. After all, I was closest to the little zygote for it's fleeting, eight week life. How could people be so inconsiderate of my feelings? How could the people who had no idea what was happening be so inconsiderate? Then comes the guilt. I killed my baby. What could I have done differently? If only I hadn't had that glass of wine, if only I hadn't moved all those heavy boxes, if only I had known that I was pregnant earlier, I could have taken better care of that precious being who depended solely on me for life.

Side bar: The correct response to someone who opens up to you regarding their miscarriage is NOT that the baby had some chromosomal abnormality. That doesn't make it better. It's as if you're telling them their son or daughter was imperfect in some way and therefore, better off dead.

As with most things, I move on. This last Christmas Eve was a little bittersweet. It marked the anniversary of the day I lost my first baby. Days like these I can't help but think about how old he would have been, what she may have looked like, or what milestones he would be approaching. However, the day was celebrated with gifts for the new baby yet to come. Baby Ziggy will be here sometime this February. What a fantastic moment that will be. However, I will never forget the agony of a miscarriage and the loss of a child. Nor will I forget the excitement and anticipation that comes the first time I found out I was pregnant. Nothing beats a moment like that.

It's a bit unsettling to publish something so vulnerable for all to read. Maybe, since I've been gone so long no one will read this. In the end, it was therapeutic.

That Grinds My Gears

2009-09-03T13:01:00.003-05:00

I'm big on family. No, huge on family. I have two brothers and two sisters, a nephew, and a wonderful extended family of aunts and uncles and in-laws and grandparents and cousins. And don't forget the spirit on my shoulder who I call mom. I love to attend family functions. It feels as if I really try to make time to talk/see/visit my family. In college, I went home at least once a month to visit. Post college, I lived closer to home and went to visit as often as possible. Sometimes multiple weekends in a row. Maybe this is abnormal. Although, not once have I heard complaints that I'm coming around all too often. We always use the time to catch up, go shopping, or make a fancy meal.

So maybe I am being close-minded when I say that I can't understand those people who make a special effort to stay away from their perfectly nice family. I can understand not wanting to be around a not-so-nice family member... I have a few members of my brood in that same category. Who doesn't? When you're parents invite you to dinner and you make some lame excuse to get out of spending time with them, when a family member offers up a word of advice and you disregard it completely, when you talk badly about family to other people, when you can't pick up a phone once a month to give someone a call... these things I don't understand. What kind of person can give such blatant disregard for the people with whom you share a familial connection?

In the wise words of Peter Griffin, that really grinds my gears.

As I pretend I haven't been MIA

2009-08-31T19:24:00.011-05:00

Happy summer to you all. Oh wait, it's over. I know this because of the 65 degree weather we've been presented with the last week or so. Foolishly I wished for fall weather and now that it's here, I hope and hope each day that Mother Nature will take pity on me and throw a few 90's my way. Pretty please? Not that Bridge Man and I haven't taken full advantage of the summers glorious, gloriousness. We travel somewhere nearly every weekend. A few trips to Six Flags to enjoy some roller coaster mayhem. Yes, I'm almost thirty and still enjoy a good coaster thrashing. Although I can't take it as long as I could have ten years ago. By the end of the day I will require two Advil and my fluffy pillow, please and thank you.

In June we drove to the southern most point of Missouri to enjoy some time on the farm. Also known as Bridge Man's favorite past time. We spent four glorious days getting poison ivy and bug bites, lighting fireworks, and shooting guns. Good times. I really did enjoy the trip although I can't help but be bitter. My skin has taken a beating this summer. Sunburns, poison everything, bug bites, a few more sunburns, and a few more buggy bites. Before this summer I maybe got one or two bug bites a year and never had poison anything in my life. Did you know you can develop an allergy to poison ivy? Well you can. Over the last few months calamine lotion, Off!, and SPF 85 have been my best friends.

In July we flew to California to see some of the family. Also known as Xteener's favorite past time. That's always a fabulous trip. We are planning to take the in-laws out there next summer. It should be so fun! Big Ma, that's what we call my MIL, wants to do all the tourist-type things which I love. When we go out there I try to act like I'm a regular California girl. Been there, done that. I'm fooling no one, I haven't lived there in over a decade. Seeing the Hollywood sign still makes me squeal a little. If your cross your eyes and squint a little, you can see it. This was before I found the digital zoom on my camera.

And of course August means that I'm no longer a newlywed. Bridge Man and I celebrated our one year wedding anniversary with a weekend trip to our Alma mater. We visited all the sites that were so fabulous back then. They are still just as fabulous. For a dinky, little college town there is a lot to do. Wining, dining, and lounging. That's how we spent our college years. (Maybe the first weekend before classes started.)

As always with the end of summer, there is a bit of a let down. A "what's next" kind of attitude. If I slow down too much I become like a hibernating bear. You may not see me again until next spring. No worries, my pretty, Bridge Man and I have some things in the works. A possible relocation, new jobs, new house, new everything. We shall see.

Exclamations!

2009-05-08T19:26:00.004-05:00

Moon Beam is back from the middle of Nowhere, TX! She has been gone for months and months and months. Let the mayhem commence!

Don't we look like a duo of bad assy-ness? I think so.

Jaded

2009-05-03T22:35:00.005-05:00

I'm in a bit of a snarky mood. A cumulation of events has brought me to this place. I try not to get too personal when writing here but we all know how unsuccessful I've been with that. Who cares though, it's my blog. If I say something someone else doesn't like they can type up in that little tool bar doo-hickey and be gone in an Internet flash. But I would really appreciate if you stayed. You see, all the personal ramblings seem to help a little. Knowing that maybe one person read, and maybe even related to what I wrote helps me to cope.

Unfortunately, I haven't talked about this in the past so I have no choice but to fill you in on the arduous back story. My 20 year-old sister has been living with Bridge Man and me since December. She got herself into trouble living on her own and needed some help. We agreed to take her in but with some stipulations. No drugs, no alcohol, no boyfriends at the house. We did not want her bringing the drama of her past into our lives.

We talked to her about going to school and getting a good job. We talked about paying off her old debts. We talked to her about staying away from friends who might sway her back into old habits. We've done a lot of talking over these past five months. Instead of getting a good job and going to school she sleeps all day, goes to work for a few hours as a waitress, comes home to stay up and watch TV all night, only to start the cycle again in the morning. After a few weeks of this I get frustrated and talk to her again. She needs to get motivated, to DO something with her life. She gets motivated for a day or two and then falls back into old habits.

A few months into her stay with us we find her drug paraphernalia in our spare bedroom. I get mad. She cries and tells me that it's the only thing that helps her to get past all the bad things that have happened to her. I feel bad for her. One more chance.

She takes my clothes. She stole my makeup. She went through my filing cabinet to find stamps and paper to write to her boyfriend who is currently in jail. These things go on every week she is here. Whatever, she's a ignorant teenager who does ignorant stuff. A month or so goes by. A bottle of Vicodin that Bridge Man had after a surgical procedure comes up missing. She denies all allocations. Last week, I opened a bottle of wine and had a glass. This week the bottle is missing. She denies all allocations. A few days ago I pick her up from work and she is wearing my scarf. Straw, camel, broken back.

I flipped out. I screamed at her the entire 10 minute drive home. I flail my arms wildly and hit my fists into the steering wheel. (Side note: I should not have been driving at that moment.) I screamed so loudly that I was hoarse for the next two days.

I am at the end of my rope. Everything of value has been taken out of the spare bedroom where she sleeps and stuffed into our bedroom. Everything that cannot be taken out has been locked up, tied down, or hidden somewhere else. I organize things in the medicine cabinet in a way I can tell if someone has been in there.

I am living in a prison. My house has become a prison.

I grew up with drug addicts and alcoholics my whole life. I made the decision a long time ago to stay away from those substances because I didn't want to end up the way so many in my family have. My mom, my brothers, my sisters and myself were abused by addicts for so long. And now I have invited an addict into my house to take advantage of the fact that I am her sister. She knows that I won't kick her out. What would happen to her if I did kick her out? She would go back to the unhealthy life she was living. If anything bad was to happen to her because I kicked her out... I couldn't imagine the guilt.

Funny Dancing Tomato Kid

2009-04-17T22:59:00.003-05:00

Warning: You'll laugh, you'll cry, and you may pee a little.

After which I am unable to respond

2009-03-31T21:14:00.003-05:00

I have another good salon story for you. A random lady, we'll call her Crazy Hair McGee, has been randomly popping into the salon asking for a stylist named Chris. We do not have a stylist name Chris. Maybe this story will read a little better in script format...

***
[Enter Crazy Hair McGee, eyes blazing, hair a fright]

CRAZY HAIR MCGEE: [With intensity] I need to see Chris.

RECEPTIONIST: [Long Pause] Um, we don't have anyone here named Chris. Perhaps you are looking for our other location on the West side of town?

CRAZY HAIR MCGEE: Chris is at your other location? Well call her. Tell her to get over here!

RECEPTIONIST: I don't know that they have someone over there named Chris and if they do, she wouldn't be able to come to this location tonight. We can call over there-

CRAZY HAIR MCGEE: Chris has to do my hair tonight! Chris always does my hair.

RECEPTIONIST: I can call over there to set up an appointment for you.

CRAZY HAIR MCGEE: Chris is not here?
***

I will spare you the rest of this redundant conversation. It went on like this for another 10 minutes. In the end, we would find out that Chris is a stylist who worked at the salon over four years ago, which would explain Crazy Hair McGee's unkempt style.

The next week, during a particularly busy moment in the salon, Crazy Hair McGee calls and is put on hold while we assist others. She promptly hangs up and calls right back only to be put back on hold. It's a first come, first serve policy so she basically kept putting herself at the end of the line. She hangs up and calls back for a third time. This time I am the unfortunate receptionist to answer the phone. We are still busy and I ask if she is able to hold for a moment. She tells me no, she is not able to hold because she has been put on hold the before and had to hang up each time because she "got the diarrhea."

Bob help me.

A Cut Above... har har

2009-03-24T16:13:00.011-05:00

I start on the floor in exactly one week and one day. That means that I get to take real-life clients, do their hair all fancy-like, and make real-life money. What started as a random afternoon cutting my own hair with kitchen scissors, has turned into a dream come true. (I feel like little cartoon butterflys and hummingbirds should appear out of nowhere to start singing, "one day my prince will come!")

The sad part about it all is that my mentor through this whole thing is moving on to another job. She won't be there for me to freak-the-french-out on my first day. She was the one that told me that it's OK to mix this developer with this brand of color and that a 9.5-1 will turn a yellow, dingy blond into the most glorious shade of blond you've ever seen. I will miss her. I guess every bird has to leave the nest at some point. Let's hope I don't break my wings.

I've considered making this blog all about the random, crazy clients that sit in my chair but thought that might be inappropriate. Plus, I will probably need to vent about.... oh, something at some point. Maybe it'll be a mixture of both.

***

I went to the hair show about a week ago. (A bit delayed.) Remember last year? I'll try to keep my voice from reaching a higher than normal octive but, it was so fun! I did not get my hair cut this year but rather spent most of the day sitting through razor cutting classes, mens hair cutting, and spending time with fabulous people. Since I graduated I don't get to see them nearly enough.
This was such a random moment. I turned around to talk to K.B., grabbed my camera, and yelled, "Hey, everyone - SMILE!"
This one, of course was posed. I was just so glad to have all these faces in one photo. I wish I could put them in my pocket and keep them around at all time for fun-zees.

Blog Ideas; Discuss

2009-03-10T19:21:00.007-05:00

The longer I wait to post something, the harder it becomes to come up with an idea good enough to bring back my two loyal readers. I have ideas, no doubt, but whether or not they become anything is disputable. Writing something that encompasses my every thought from the last few weeks seems a daunting task so here is a listing of the blog ideas I had. Feel free to steal them, write about them, or ignore them completely.

- In a high school sociology class, we were instructed every week to write a one page paper on something, anything. The only rule was that it could not be about abortion. The subject has been done. Lately, I've been hearing a lot about abortion and it's sides. I have friends who are pro-life and friends who are pro-choice. Most of them choose not to bring it up at friendly gatherings, yet some do. I sit silently in my chair thinking that the subject shouldn't be so black and white. Pro-choice vs. pro-life, it's never that simple.

- I have had many inclinations to discuss the "new" house guest living with Bridge Man and me. I say "new" because she has been living with us since December. The knowledge is, however, new to you. I choose not to write about her here for two reasons. I don't like to talk about my family's personal stuff online... it's not my place. Second, I'm pretty sure you all would get sick of me posting about how irk-some it is each time she rifles through my closet. It's like high school all over again.

- I finished school. Yay! Next month I start taking clients at the salon I've been working at for the last year.

- My goal is to improve my attitude. Bridge Man and I have been talking about how negative we can get when things annoy/irritate us. We've been trying to come home and avoid conversation that begins with, "You wouldn't believe this person at work today." or "The most annoying thing happened today." Someone close to me wrote this about being a happier person. Sometimes I'll reread it to remind myself to be happier person. I (need) appreciate the reminder.

It feels good to get these things off my shoulders. Thanks for sticking with me.

2008 - A Story

2009-02-04T23:20:00.009-06:00

Note: This is a personal detailing of events that have continued from '07 into '09. I've gone back and forth with myself deciding whether or not to post such a private thing online for all to see. It is something that has consumed me for so long that is seems like a sham to write anything else. This may come down after a day or two, but for now it was therapeutic.

***

Give him another chance. It's the best situation for everyone.

Talk to him, tell him how you feel. He's willing to work with you.

The kids need to have their dad around, especially at this time in their life.

I gave in. After all, everyone was looking to me to come to some sort of decision. The last weeks had been full of decisions. Decisions that no one should have to make. Now, after saying the final good bye to my mom, I had to set the stage for the rest of my siblings life as dependents. Do I take them out of the schools they have been attending since kindergarten, move them an hour away, and make them live in my spare bedroom? Or do I relinquish control to the person who, for 18 years, was the bane of our family for so long?

After such a huge loss, I wanted to make the transition for my brothers as easy as possible. I felt it was best for them to stay in the same school with familiar faces. After all, in such a small town, everyone knows what happened. Everyone will be sensitive to their situation.

He is their father. Maybe he will change. People change.

I made the decision.

For a few months, he made an effort. At least it seemed that way. Little did we know that bills were not getting paid, the refrigerator was empty, and he was never home. My two teenage brothers were left to raise themselves. Fortunately my older sister was there to pick up some of the slack. Bridge Man and I would freeze meals to drop off at the house on the weekends we were able to drive up.

Any attempt to get him to step up was brushed aside. He was working on it.

Things kept on like this for months. Their health insurance lapsed. Rent went unpaid. My brother's suffered. My attempts to talk to him were futile. He would punish my brothers for telling me that there was nothing to eat or that there is no soap in the bathroom. He started to ignore my calls.

My older sister really stood up to the situation. On her small income, she bought food and other such necessities for the house.

Where was all his money going? After all, he was receiving my mom's social security checks and working a full-time job.

He took his girlfriend to Colorado for a week. A few weeks later, the land lord came to the house. Rent was five months behind. The electricity and phone were turned off.

He was reported to the Department of Child and Family Services several times. Nothing came to fruition because the boys are old enough to take care of themselves, I guess.

We talked to my brothers about what they wanted to do. They both wanted to stay in town and continue going to the same high school. They didn't want to move away. A few family friends agreed to take them in.

One day, we had a small change in luck. He had been investigated by the Department of Social Security. The money was taken away from him. They accepted my older sister as the new recipient. We thought everyone could continue to live in my mom's old house and my sister would take over the finances. He would no longer have control.

Nothing is ever that easy. We needed his permission to switch the phone/electricity/water bills into our name. The lease on the house isn't a real lease. It turns out he is good friends with the land lord. Thus the reason he hasn't been kicked out of the house. He promised the land lord that he was good for the rent.

He got rid of the family dogs. Simply gone.

He kicked my older sister out of the house. I guess he felt that she was gaining too much control. My 18 year-old brother moved out. My 16-year old brother is still there.

I talked to my 16 year-old brother tonight. Last week the water was turned off due to delinquent payment and there hasn't been soap in the bathroom for a week.

10 Randoms

2009-01-17T01:04:00.001-06:00

I stole this from a Facebook friend who stole it from another. I'm sure it wouldn't have been hard to come up with this on my own. You never know though, I could have been the inventor of "22 Random Things About Me." It's all in the number people.

Let's begin:

1. I hold my breath when I pee. This only becomes a problem when I haven't had bathroom access for a while and the length of time it takes to pee exceeds the length of time I am able to hold my breath. I have to stop, breathe, and only then can I continue.

2. I snooze my alarm for a minimum of 30 minutes before I am able to get out of bed. Bridge Man truly appreciates this one.

3. After moving back to the states from Japan people would ask how fluently I could speak the language. I would be honest and tell them I knew very little. But then I would be dishonest and tell them I knew how to say one curse word. I had my entire fourth grade class saying "mi-sho-sho" by the end of the year. I won't tell you what it meant but know that it is total gibberish.

4. I have the feet of Fred Flintstone. I've shared this with you in the past but thought I'd prove it to those disbelievers out there.

I also thought I'd prove to you that I'm not the only one who has these feet. Those with feet in the photo will love me for making this public because they don't seem to be as proud as I am.

5. I am a product whore. I own more lotions, potions, and products than a woman should. Most of them go unused or partially used but I absolutely cannot throw them out. I just might use them again, some day. I've been doing better with this addiction though. I've been forcing myself to use what I have before I buy more. This revelation came to me when I was organizing my products and realized that I have enough lipstick, lip gloss, chap stick, etc., etc. to fill a bucket and enough lotions and perfume-type things to fill a duffel bag. Don't judge.

6. I don't read as much as I used to back in the day. When my sister, Bear, and I were younger we used to race books to see who could finish the fastest. In the winter, when there was nothing else to do, I could sail through eight or nine Nancy Drew books in a day. I read the entire series "The Chronicles of Narnia" before it was trendy, sailed through "The Baby Sitter's Club," and had every Beverly Cleary book read before I was eight years old.

7. I like to sing show tunes while washing the dishes. In the shower I sing 80's pop songs. Each genre has its place on my chore list.

8. I like to make up names for cars that I own and ones in which I spend a lot of time. I drive a red Dodge Stratus RT, her name is Red Betty. Bridge Man used to drive a blue Dodge Dakota, she was Big Blue. Since he bought his Jeep, I've yet to come up with a good name. I mentioned Hi-ho Silver but it never stuck. Any suggestions?

9. I get bored with my hair very quickly. I can't understand how someone can live with one hair cut/color for years and years.

10. It's really hard to come up with all these random things about myself. The list I stole from my Facebook friend was originally "16 Random Things About Me." I made the appropriate adjustments.

Crap-tastic

2009-01-05T19:24:00.004-06:00

Bridge Man and I have always lived fairly modestly. I've held off buying those 200 dollar boots until I make it big as a stylist to the stars or Bridge Man designs the next Golden Gate Bridge and makes his first million. Be that as it may, we do have our extravagances. For my husband, it is the cable box on the television and for me, it's the Internet. Super-duper fancy, right? Back in the day when I lost my job to the beginning of this fantastic economic crisis, we had a conversation about cutting back expenses. As you can probably guess, my Bridge guy was willing to give up the Internet without the blink of an eyelash and I, the TV. Who needs 80 channels anyway? In the end, no conclusion was made and we kept both. After all, after about a month or so I found another job and all was not lost.

Our poor city is under a monopoly by this cable giant who goes by the name of *Comcrap. Long story short, in a period of about two months or so, we have had to contact said Internet/cable provider for a problem with the service. Each call becomes a 40-50 minute ordeal. First there is the automated voice, of whom I've become very familiar, then there is the hold message that insists how important my call is to them and pleads for me to wait a few more minutes, then, after 35+ minutes I am patched through to a customer service representative who is unfortunately unable to answer my question but can put me through to someone who can.

Then you wait.

And wait.

And wait.

And then, a second automated voice pipes up and states that an appointment has been made for you for the next business day between the hours of 8am and 4 pm.

This is all well and good except for the small fact that both Bridge Man and I have to work the next business day between the hours of 8am and 4pm.

For the last three weeks or so we have been suffering with patchy cable and a digital box that pops up on the screen with random letters and numbers at will. As for the Internet, it has been totally MIA. I've come to the end of my rope and would like to cancel both services. However, that means sitting on the phone for another 30-40 minutes to complete this simple task. You can see my predicament.

Thus the reason I sit here soaking in the free Wifi that Panera Bread so generously offers poor patrons such as myself. This is the first time I've been on the world wide web since Christmas. Oh, woe is me.For this reason, my dear reader, I cannot guarantee a quick return to this blog. I hope to be back within the week. Bridge Man and I are looking into getting a mobile access card.

P.S. While this is unfortunate, it couldn't have come at a better time. In two weeks I take my state board test to get my license as a cosmetologist. I can use this free time to study like a good little student. Wish me luck!

* This is the name I came up with for this company after the fourth time I sat on the phone, on hold for 35 minutes.

Nov. 30th

2008-11-29T22:27:00.010-06:00

Tomorrow is one of those can't-get-out-of-my head type days. It's like anticipating a holiday or anniversary but without the excitement. The anticipation is more about the unknown. I don't know if I'll be a sobbing mess or if I'll be able to plaster on a cheesy smile and sail through the day. Tomorrow marks the 365th day since my mom passed away. What makes this day verses any other different is beyond me. I continue to mourn her death no matter what day of the week. It seems almost morbid to mark tomorrow as an anniversary because the word is associated with positive things, a first date, a first kiss, a wedding. Unfortunately, the date brings with it words I haven't been able to get out of my mind for the last month, "At this time last year I was..." And for the last month that phrase ended with, counting respirations, administering morphine, dressing wounds and telling my sweet, sweet mother how much I love her for the last time.

This last month has been a roller coaster of emotions. At one minute I'm smiling and laughing with friends, the next minute I'm sitting silently in a blank daze, and the next I'm fighting to hold back tears that are taking over. Those closest to me were warned from the beginning and have been more than understanding. It seems impossible that I just made it through one year without someone who was, for so long, involved 100% in my life as I was in hers. It seems impossible that I am to continue for the next years without her. That any future children I have will not know how wonderful she was. Sure, I can tell stories but they will never know her voice, her touch, her personality.

People called her stubborn. I call it strong. She fought her disease for two years as a single mother of five children and one grandchild. She worked a job until the day she went into the hospital for her final surgery. And when the doctor called me that night to tell me she had two days to live, she fought for two weeks. Two weeks that allowed us to talk, laugh, cry, and be a family. Two weeks for her to make sure she had taken care of everything and that her children would be OK when she was gone. She did her job. We are OK.

Call to duty

2008-11-06T23:05:00.002-06:00

Hello friends.

As you know by now, I lost my best friend and mom to cancer last year. The last few months leading up to the one year mark have been very emotional for me. At this time last year, one of the things that helped me to get through this difficult time were the cards and good wishes that were sent my way.

This is where I ask a favor of you. A little boy, Evan Hoffman, I had the pleasure of meeting three years ago was diagnosed this last June with Rhabdomyosarcoma, a rare form of cancer of the soft tissue. He is currently battling this with 52 weeks of chemotherapy. As you might expect, he is unable to attend his 6th grade classes, go outside, or spend time with his friends and extended family.

Recently, Evan was given a map of the world and some push pins. For each card/message he receives he puts one pin on the map to represent the place from which the message came. The outpouring of responses have been phenomenal but it wouldn't hurt for him to get more. Please consider taking the time to write a note on the website for this wonderful little dude. He deserves all the support we can muster.

Thanks,
Xteener

Buggers

2008-11-05T23:46:00.004-06:00

While today was an all-in-all good day (Yay, OBAMA! & some other things that require far too much explanation, but good nonetheless) I would like to share with you a few things that drive me up the wall in a Trainspotting kind of way.

- Bad grammar* - let me give you an example of something I hear FAR too often.

"I seen that car drive through the red light." GAH! It pains me to even write those words down in that order. Since when are the words 'seen' and 'saw' interchangeable?

- Bad driving - From my first day in Springfield, I noticed one thing that most Springfieldians failed to learn in drivers ed. Turning into your own lane. It happens so much that most (99%) drivers will yield to those turning into the wrong lane as if it's common practice. Let me draw you a picture.

Oh how I love Photoshop. So, with this professionally, detailed picture I drew for you readers, you'll see what I mean. The black car is waiting patiently for the red car to turn into the far lane before the black car will even consider turning. This will take place as if there is nothing wrong. It would be far more efficient for each car to turn into their own lane, yes?

- More bad grammar - In the infamous words of Ross Geller (Season 4, The One With The Jellyfish), "Y-o-u'r-e means 'you are. Y-o-u-r means your!" The same goes for 'they're' and 'there.'

There, I've said my peace.

*Yes, I don't always have perfect grammar, in fact I'm sure there are a few typos throughout this post alone. I'm just saying.

Happy Election Day

2008-11-04T16:38:00.005-06:00

It all started two years ago. Temperatures were below freezing and yet Bridge Man and I trekked our way through thousands of people to see this:

I am proud to be able to tell my great great grandchildren that I was there the very first time Obama announced his candidacy for president. I WAS THERE! Yes, it took my toes over an hour to thaw from standing outside on that February day in Illinois, but it was oh, SO worth it.
And now we have come full circle, dudes and dudettes. It's election day, and guess what I did.

I got a hair cut! Oh, yeah, and I voted. How fabulous is that?

Go out and do your American duties people. Al the cool kids are doing it.

To Vet or Not to Vet

2008-10-24T23:14:00.002-05:00

I know, how crappy of me to stay away for so long and show back up out of the blue with nothing but a video. But.... come on, I'm trying. And how fun is a video all political and such. Enjoy.

Curiouser and Couriouser

2008-10-08T23:33:00.003-05:00

I must admit I've been sucked into the vortex that is this political campaign, the ever controversial "Race for the White House". Last night I passed up the option of school, you know, that thing that will hopefully make me a living one day, to watch the debate. I missed the first one because of school and couldn't bear the idea of missing all three. Was it worth it? Well, there was much to be desired but I'm glad I trudged through.

As I've stated before I wouldn't have the passion for politics if it weren't for Bridge Man. The boy is passionate about his politics. Check out this letter he e-mailed to senator McCain just this last week.

"John McCain: Your recent attacks toward Barack Obama claiming he "pals around with terrorist" are completely untrue and you know it. Over the last 2 years you have become a George W. Bush and Karl Rove style politician. You are spewing the same kind of garbage that was spewed about you by those two despicable people in the 2000 campaign. I used to have respect for you because you were one of the few politicians who actually treated those with whom you disagreed respectfully. If you weren't such a sellout you could have easily won this election. Because of your dishonorable and unpatriotic behavior reminiscent of Bush and Rove you have lost all of my respect and I find you to be not only a disgraceful senator but a disgraceful human being. Your choice of Sarah Palin is also disgraceful simply for the reason that it is well known your first choice was Joe Leiberman and because the "base" didn't approve of a democrat, God forbid, you went with a choice to please their irrationalizations instead of a choice that was based on the question "who is best for the country?". You have disgraced yourself and become someone other than the person for whom I once had respect. You will lose this election and our country will benefit greatly."

What can I say, when I'm not there to supervise his political intake, he gets mad and foams at the mouth.

I've been trying to think about each candidate with an open mind although sometimes I feel as if my opinion is already made. At our house, we spend a lot of time watching MSNBC, CNN, and on Sunday mornings, Meet the Press. And with my open mind, I can't help but feel that maybe, just maybe (dare I say it?) the news is biased. There are certain stations that are blatantly right wing and some that are blatantly left. And the idea that the news I watch does more than simply inform makes my eye twitch.

I know that I could simply choose to watch a different station but the fact is, no matter how curious I am, there are only a few programs I can stand to watch. So my question to you is, where do you get your news? Do you tend to watch/read news based on your preferred candidate? Maybe I should forgo news, stick to a simple list of the issues, and vote for the candidate I agree with most. Maybe that's the key.

Fabulous & Funny

2008-09-30T22:22:00.004-05:00

The fabulous...

Are you sick of hearing about the wedding yet? Well, I won't talk about it anymore but I have to share that some of the professional photos have been posted on the photogs blog. Just click on our names at the side to see more. The very first one of Bridge Man is my favorite. I could stare at that picture all day. Boy do I have one handsome husband.

And the funny...

Since I tend to stay about one second behind the curve, you may have already seen this viral video. After I watched it for the 24th time and laughed for the 24th time I had to share. It's so tragically funny, an ideal combination for perfect humor.

Math with Bridge Man

2008-09-24T20:51:00.006-05:00

It began as an ordinary trip to T@rget to pick up some toilet paper.

Think about how much money goes down the toilet. Literally down the toilet.

If this pack of TP costs 12 bucks and we buy one pack per month thats $144 per year.

Yeah, but how much do we spend in a lifetime?

OK, let's say you live to be 72. The first 20 years or so someone else was buying your toilet paper so we'll say you buy 50 years worth. That is... (thinking, thinking) $7,200 spent to wipe your butt over a lifetime.

Think how much money you would save if you would simply use your hand.

Props

2008-09-17T23:29:00.003-05:00

If you've been reading the ramblings I ever-so eloquently plop onto this site you may remember that I like to design/create my own jewelry. And if you know me personally you may have already received a one of a kind piece as a gift from me. My inspiration for this hobby started in a small, privately owned shop that I was introduced to by my new sister-in-law. She continues to inspire and wow me with her innovation and the beauty in the pieces she creates. While working on her second bachelors degree and working a steady job, she has managed to start a small, online business of her own called Metal Poesy to display and sell her beautiful work. Some of my favorite pieces include her Polaroid emulsions like this piece titled The Church.

Now that I've piqued your interest feel free to peruse her website and pass it along to someone you know who appreciates unique, one-of-a-kind jewelry.

I said what to who now?

2008-09-10T22:49:00.002-05:00

We've all seen Animal House, yes? If you haven't, please take this time to crawl out of your hole in the ground and visit your local video store. Warning, milk will shoot out your nose. Even if you're not drinking milk, it's inevitable. (Moving on...) A lot of us have had "those nights," you know, the ones we cannot remember no matter how hard we rack our brains. Exactly how many lemon drops did I consume? Who sent all of those text messages from my phone that read, "Im os drnk" or "I lobe u man."? (What is it in those alcoholic beverages that makes everyone so loving?) It has to be such an awful feeling to wake up in the morning and not remember the last 15 hours of your life.

I'm not much of a drinker. Two cocktails will make my face all red and I'm done for the night. The closest I've ever come to the stereotypical, drunken blackout was the morning after my friend's bachelorette party last summer. I woke up after a night of two amaretto stone sours (See, two drinks = my limit.) and felt movement from the other side of the bed. Considering that Bridge Man was in a bed three hours away from the one I woke up in, I panicked and tried to remember what I had done the night before. I could remember everything; we went to a minor league baseball game, headed to a friend's apartment for some gift giving and cake, then headed out to the local bars to consume my two drinks, and went to bed. In my panicked state I laid there for what seemed like hours. I was freaked out that I might roll over and see a stranger looking right at me. After reliving the night in my head I mustered up the courage to turn my head to see what random stranger lay in the bed next to me.

It was Moon Beam. The feeling of relief at that moment was so relieving, I was lucky to keep from peeing my pants.

...................................................................................................

Bridge Man (how do you like that segue?) is sleeping on the couch across the room right now. We have settled in this ritualistic way of going to bed every night. Bridge Man falls asleep after watching Seinfeld reruns and an always compelling hour of Countdown. I, on the other hand, spend the evening on the Internet returning emails and reading my ever growing blog roll before I flip the television to an episode of Scrubs and fall asleep. We're barely newlyweds, people. Yet we spend every night like an old married couple. My favorite is when the B-Man falls asleep in the same position in which he was watching TV. His head will slowly fall down, pop back up, and then he looses all control; his head will fall so quickly it wakes him from his slumber. He will look around confused and unsure of what took place. This goes on until about 3am, when he'll wake up and decide that it's probably time for us to finally go to bed.

Fast forward to the following morning. B-Man gets up before I do to get ready for work. I'll lay there is bed and try my hardest to remember how I got there in the first place. For those loyal readers out there you'll remember how insane I get when my sleep is disturbed. Sleep is a drug for me. Once I move into REM sleep there's no turning back and I black out. You can "wake" me, have full conversations, dance the meringue and I don't remember a wink. I slept through tornadoes that wiped down homes and buildings around me. (Seriously.) I slept through the earth quakes that shook the Midwest this last Spring. And I have to set two bloody alarm clocks each night to insure that I wake up for work each morning. I'm not exaggerating, people. Is this a survival method? Do my ancestors include bears and lady bugs? (Do you know that lady bugs hibernate? That's a fun little fact for you.)

As I reread my last few statements I realize that it's time for bed. Once I begin contemplating the existance of a cross between a bear and a lady bug my mind is offically shot for the day.

White Wedding; Part Deux

2008-08-25T00:35:00.014-05:00

Bridge Man and I are making a valiant effort unpacking everything. We loaded up my car on the way back from the honeymoon with decorations, gifts, luggage, and other such miscellaneous wedding items. For the last week or so, our living room was walk-able only by a path we had forged between the piles of crap we lazily put anywhere when unloading the car and before passing out after an 11 hour plane ride home from Hawaii. (That 11 hour time-frame doesn't include delays, eventual cancellations, layovers, and a three hour car trip. All of which I should get to later.)

Back to the good stuff. The ceremony was fabulous. Teej did a beautiful job as our officiant. One of my favorite parts of the wedding was that someone so close to me was such an integral part of such an important day for Bridge Man and me. I was so nervous to ask her if she'd be interested in the task all those months ago. What if she didn't feel comfortable with the idea but then feels obligated? When she said yes, I knew it was one decision for this wedding I would have no doubts.

The ceremony itself was so laid back, I couldn't believe how quickly it passed. The bridal party did a wonderful job. And I think they all looked so smart.

The guy's side included a long-time, mutual friend of both Bridge Man and me as the best man. I've known this guy since the fourth grade. We were science lab partners in the 6th grade. And to this day he is, other than B.M., one of the funniest people I know. Second in line is an old friend and golfing buddy for B.M. Next on the groom's side are both of my brothers, Ruckers and Maestro. Last in line is another of Bridge Man's friends from high school.

These are my girls. A line up of my best friends. My mom's sisters on the far left, my new sister-in-law in the middle, then Bear, and my maid-of-honor, Moon Beam, is on the far right. Don't they look lovely? I love these girls! (Oh, and the little guy in every picture with my sister, Bear, is my handome nephew, Wookis, who refused to leave his mother's side the entire time. Note the little thumb-sucker in the corner of this photo.

The flower girl, Bridge Man's cousin was so cute. Half of the way down the isle she ran out of petals, turned around to look at me and yelled, "I'm all out!" After a large sigh of exasperation she sharply turned around and ran toward her parents. This was my cue to proceed down the isle.

On my boquet hung a locket with a picture of my mom inside. She wanted to be the one to walk me down the isle when she found out that Bridge Man had proposed. Since no one in this galaxy could have replaced her, this was my way of keeping her close to me throughout the wedding.

It's a Nice Day for a White Wedding

2008-08-20T23:47:00.005-05:00

I've been meaning to tell you all about the wedding for the last few days but there is so much to share, the idea seems daunting and almost homework-like. An assignment that I've given to myself and have procrastinated to complete. And on the other side of the spectrum the professor side of me wants it completed, and quickly. So, after much adieu, I'll share the details of the festivities. Simply put, it turned out wonderfully.

The night before, also known as the rehearsal dinner, we spent just over an hour setting up the place before the bridal party began to show up. There was no wedding coordinator and the task of giving everyone their mark was left up to me. Something I hadn't hadn't considered until about two minutes before-hand. Maybe three minutes. Often I would turn to my aunt/Reverend just to make sure I had covered every detail. Between the two of us, the rehearsal went smoothly. We then caravan ed to a delicious Irish pub just a few blocks down the street to nibble on Bangers and Mash while enjoying Goose Island Honkers or a Smit'hwicks Irish Ale. The groom's men were happy to note that Bridge Man had picked out some sweet, sweet shades and their gift instead of something as traditional (and odd) as a flask or a money clip.

I woke up the next morning with nothing but nerves. Strangely enough, my nerves were not for the wedding at the end of the day but for my bride's maids hair. I wasn't confident that it would all get done in the limited time we had to work. I did two heads of hair myself before having my own done and I must say, it turned out well. Here is Moon Beam and her b-e-a-utiful do.

Not too bad, huh?
My hair also turned out so wonderfully! My friend K.B. who is a cosmo-in-training like I am was my hero and made my vision come true. I wanted something a little different. No veil and no crown. Instead I went with an Oriental Lilly and an ivory feather. Check it out.

Once I was completely ready I went with the photographer to meet up with my future husband. She was so insistent that neither of us saw the other before we got to our final meeting place that we avoided the glass elevators in case he was outside and took a maintenance stairwell only to find it locked at the bottom. It was hilarious! We trekked our way back upstairs and gave in to the call of the elevators. But not before she made absolutely sure Bridge Man was no where to be found. We made it, and boy was I grateful that it had worked out because that first moment Bridge Man walked in the room was breath-taking. He. Looked. So. Handsome. I can't wait to see the pictures of that moment because I'm sure I stood there with my mouth gaping wide open. Classy.

... to be continued...

6 Days

2008-08-03T17:48:00.012-05:00

After nine wonderful years of dating, I will be Mrs. Bridge Man in t-minus six days! And what better way to commemorate these past nine years than with a photo montage of each fabulous one?

This is the very first picture ever taken of me and the Bridge guy. The guy to the right with the ball cap is Bridge Man's golfing buddy and one of the groomsmen in our wedding.

This was a camping trip to the Lake of the Ozarks with some friends. At this point, camping was about the extent of what we could afford but they led to some good times and some hilarious memories.

After our first year at college, away from the parental units, Bridge Man and I loved going to all the gorgeous outdoor locations only available in Southern Illinois. This is what the locals called the "Spillway." It is a four tiered waterfall that we would climb and swim in the lake at the top.

We took a weekend trip to Chicago where we visited the Field Museum. When done at the museum we decided to find some food. Off in the distance I spotted Navy Pier and suggested that. It was a beautiful day and I wanted to walk along the lake front. This was not the best idea, it took over an hour for us to hoof it the entire distance. There was no way we wanted to walk back to our car so we found a boat that was headed back that direction. It was miserable but fun.

This picture was taken at a benefit held for my mom the year she was diagnosed with cancer. My Bridge Man was and has been a huge support system for me during this time.

My mom took this picture of us during a family day trip to Starved Rock State Park. She conveniently framed the picture to include the word "Lovers." I love this picture.

This was Bridge Man's first trip to California to meet my crazy, fabulous family. We ended up using this picture as our engagement photo.

This photo commemorates the summer of weddings. Bridge Man and I wore these same outfits to three out of the nine weddings we've attended in the last year, not including our own.

Give Peace A Chance

2008-07-24T21:53:00.003-05:00

I've been getting a bit wordy lately and I thought I'd share something I found on another blog that I read in lurkers-ville. I watched it and loved it and immediately thought of you. I thought you might like to hear the irony of something created over three decades ago that still pertains today. Peace.

Feel free to discucss. I love a good conversation.

Fun in a port-a-potty

2008-07-20T21:02:00.003-05:00

My nephew, Wookis, and brother, Ruckers, came to visit this last weekend. Bridge Man and I decided to take the boys to a local festival. Wookis is pretty much past the potty-training stage. For the most part, he knows when it's time to let someone know that he has to use the toilet but when he gets excited and doesn't want to miss a moment, he may forget to let someone know of his dilemma. Apparently, while at the festival the giant slide was much more important than the rumble in his tummy and while going down the slide on Ruckers' lap he lost control of his bowels. Fortunately for Ruckers, everything came out solid and the mess was contained only to Wookis and his Underoos.

I took it upon myself to clean up my nephew and his little mess but help was limited to the line-up of port-a-potties on one side of the festival grounds. These rectangular cesspools have three major design flaws; (1) they are not big enough for two people even if one of the two is under three feet tall, (2) there is no plumbing to speak of, the only liquid is the blue-green (and brown) mixture at the bottom of the hole, and (3) there is no air circulation. When the three-year old with a load of poo in his pants says "yucky" upon entering the plastic coffin, you know there's a problem. This, however is only the beginning of the fiasco that is cleaning up a poopy toddler in a port-a-potty. Not the most brilliant idea, I do admit.

There is a 1'x2' rectangle of space on either side of the hole that is the toilet. I decide to make Wookis stand on this spot while I clean him up to make the most of the limited available space. I need to remove his soiled shorts without him putting his clean little baby feet on the filthy surface but he has learned to take his shoes off while changing his clothes. His mama teaches him well. I pull one pant leg down, he takes his foot out of his shoe and out of the pant leg. I make him balance on one leg until I can get his shoe back on his foot. We repeat this process three more times until we get both articles of soiled clothing off.

To make matters worse, the two-sie was not as solid as I had hoped and left a brown trail down his chunky little leg. I reach for anything to clean him up only to find one-ply toilet paper that is almost as useful as using cotton candy to clean the soiled mess. This is about the time that I realize that the drawers that left a trail down Wookis' leg also left a trail on my left arm and hand. Wookis takes this moment of my horor to find the only clean thing in the port-a-potty; a hand sanitizer dispenser. He pushes the button, squeals with delight at his find and flings it into the two feet of stale, public toilet air. It was the cleanest moment of the whole ordeal.

By now, both Wookis and I have sweat dripping from our foreheads. He is standing, half dressed, leaning against me so he won't fall or touch anything. I am holding his bag full of toddler stuff and my purse in one hand as an attempt to keep everything as uncontaminated as possible. In the other hand I hold his poopy undies. My next genus idea is to dump the poo into the hole that Little Johnny considers a toilet and try to salvage the Spiderman underpants. Let's just say that each plop made a splash big enough to make contact. I quickly gave up on this idea and let the whole thing, undies, poop, and all fall into hole.

Hurriedly, I clean up my poor Wookis. I put on his fresh undies and shorts in the same remove shoe, enter leg, put on shoe fashion, times four. I soak both of us down with hand sanitizer and get out of that plastic toilet hell. He and I walk back across the festival grounds to meet back up with our party. All the while, thoughts of sanitized poo on my arm fill my mind. Sanitized poo is still poo, no? I am ready to go home and take a nice, long, hot shower.

The moral of this delightful story? I think I'll wait a while before having any children of my own. And when I finally do, we won't leave the house until there is no chance of an incident like this.

New Fangled Parenting Tactics

2008-07-20T20:21:00.007-05:00

One day at work last week this woman came in to get a manicure and a pedicure. Two full hours of service. She comes up to the front desk to check in while balancing a car seat holding a less-than-one-year-old little girl and clutching the hand of a little boy no older than ten. The other receptionists and I look at each other with questioning eyes. What does she expect to do with these two children while having her piggies polished?

She left them in the waiting room while she went back into the spa to pamper herself. Left them in the waiting room. For two full hours. All alone.

At this point, I'm kind of doubting her parenting skills. Not once, during the two hour stint does she come out to check on her infant daughter or her way-too-young-to-be-watching-an-infant-son. Not when he started wandering around the waiting room pocketing eight-dollar bottles of nail polish. Not when he found the computer hidden behind the plant for use by employees only and began banging on the keyboard in an impeccable Jerry Lee Lewis impersonation only to stop when the manager of the salon asked him politely to knock it off. Not when he started tipping his little sisters car seat almost completely upside down only to stop when I decided it wasn't a good idea to have an infant child hanging two feet from the air by the straps of her little seat. "Mom" didn't say anything when her little boy decided to start whistling a tune that turned out to be no tune at all. He simply whistled at will for twenty-five minutes only to stop when his sister began to scream and he couldn't get her to quiet down. The "mom" finally came out, annoyed because her pedicure was cut short, after letting her infant daughter screamed for, oh, 20 minutes or so. The icing on the cake? She wouldn't pick up her visibly unhappy baby daughter because she didn't want to smudge her freshly polished nails.

Now, I've never had any children of my own but does this seem inappropriate to anyone else? Maybe I'm not akin to this new form of parenting skills. New skills that include letting your children fend for themselves. Survival of the fittest. If that infant child cannot handle hanging upside down from her car seat then, sorry to say, but she won't make it in this dog-eat-dog world. Am I right? Is this now how we do this thing called parenting?

A Beautiful Thing: Part II

2008-07-08T15:59:00.003-05:00

That Sunday, the last day of our trip in California was the day we, as a family, were going to scatter my mom's ashes into the Pacific ocean. Where the five of us, her children, decided it was most appropriate. There were some upsets during the course of the day. Drama including people who are uncomfortable with their emotions, the emotion churned up when you mourn the passing of your sister/daughter. Looking back, their uncertainty was understandable but I'm glad that we all were there for the final moment.

Once on the boat, we played a collaboration of my mom's favorite music on a portable CD player. We cruised around the harbor for a while in the electronic duffy. The box of my her ashes sat next to me and Maestro. Conversation gradually ceased. I looked across the duffy at my aunt who was mouthing the words to a Wilson Phillips classic, "Hold On." Behind her dark glasses I could see her tears. To her left, my grandpa had his hat pulled down over his face, his eyes glazed but unwavering. The emotions of the moment became overwhelming and this group of hard-headed people broke down. There was not a dry eye on that boat.

When the sweet, sweet words of Tanya Tucker sang through the speakers of that boom-box, "Delta Dawn, what's that flower you have on? Could it be a faded rose from days gone by? And did I hear you say he was a-meeting you here today.? To take you to his mansion in the sky," we all sang with the chorus. It was a beautiful moment.

We stopped the boat under a bridge where we chose to scatter her ashes. We all took a handful of petals plucked from red carnations, her favorite flower, and tossed them into the water. Each of us took a moment to scatter some of her ashes into the water until there was a small amount remaining. My grandpa held onto the remaining ashes. I didn't know until later that day that he had saved them for my grandma who was unable to go out on the boat with us. They later scattered them in the back yard of their house. The home in which my mom was raised.

As we rode back to the boat dock we laughed and cried. We remembered. It was a beautiful day and I wouldn't change a single moment.

A Beautiful Thing

2008-07-01T00:42:00.010-05:00

As you know, we returned from a family trip to California last week. Everything went swimmingly considering the quantity of people per square footage. For the most part we all got along. And as for the few squabbles that took place, they were to be expected. I can only stand the sight of your smelly socks on my totally chic, totally bohemian purse for so long.

The first day we were there, we spent time catching up with everyone in between catching up on some overdue sleep. Flying with seven, inexperienced travelers takes a lot longer and a lot more effort than it was for just me and the fiancee last summer. But as I look back on our short, five-day stint in the O.C. I am so glad that, through all the chaos, it worked out. This trip was something that the seven of us have been looking forward to since the beginning of the year.

We spent the second day at The J.Paul Getty museum in L.A. If you are ever out that way, I highly recommend checking out this place. Although we only made it through one building, the three hour drive in rush hour traffic on the 405 was totally worth it. And the pièce de résistance; the garden maze/fountain. Absolutely stunning.

That evening we shared with family. My grandpa cooked burgers on the grill while the kiddies played on the grass and a few of us perused some of my grandma's old photo albums. I attempted to take pictures of the photos I wanted to have for myself such as my mom's senior picture from high school.

Keep in mind, this photo is pre-photoshop so I will have to work on editing out my reflection. But wasn't she beautiful?

Or there is the picture that my grandma refuses to take down from it's frame on the wall. The one that everyone points to and laughs, "Is that YOU?"

I'm not sure if it's the stripe of the bathing suit or the poorly placed ruffle, but there is something about this picture that screams, this baby is going to grow up to have thunder thighs and a ba-donk-a-donk to match. (I'm not looking for compliments, I've grown to like (read: accept) my thunder thighs.)

We spent the next day on the beach. The boys went surfing in the early morning and by the time the rest of us showed up they were sufficiently battered and bruised to spend the rest of the day lounging around. I loved the times we all sat around and simply talked. To me that was the point of the whole trip; to reconnect. For these moments, I was in my element. I would sit silently and listen to what everyone had to say. I loved that my younger siblings were so comfortable in an environment that I had grown to love so much as a child and that they knew so little of before the trip.

However, no matter what, the most meaningful part of the trip was that next day, Sunday. It couldn't have been a more meaningful day. (Did I mention that it was meaningful?) However, it's getting late and I need some sleep so I will continue this in a few days. At a time when I am not half asleep on my keyboard and will be able to give the story justice. Until then, nighty-night.

Babies on Parade

2008-06-25T20:52:00.011-05:00

The family and I went to California this last week to visit the place I will soon call home. Again. The whole trip had it's ups and downs but one major up was that I got to meet my new cousins. They were both born this last fall and I've been squirming in my seat since then to see their chubby cheeks and their tiny feets.

Also, my favorite nephew got to play with his cousin of the same age while we were out there. They were instantaneously BFFs. They liked to hold hands and share "Thomas Trains" and "moto-cycles."

Admittedly, I went a little shutter happy but there is no way these pictures didn't make you smile.

The best part of it all, these little ones loved their auntie/cousin Xteener from the get-go. Well, for the most part. The beautiful baby with the dark brown hair was a little harder to convince but by the end of the week I could come within three feet of her and she wouldn't cry. She even let me take one of these:

I love to laugh. Ha-ha-ha-ha!

2008-06-24T16:27:00.005-05:00

This Seinfeld clip makes me laugh every time. In fact, I just watched it four times and now have tears streaming down my face. Enjoy.

The Salon Nazi

2008-05-22T16:33:00.008-05:00

It's amazing how one phone call can ruin ones day. Something as quick as a five... ten... or even a twenty minute conversation out of the entire twenty-four hours that make up a day can effect how the rest of your day goes. Those minutes are a mere fraction of the day and yet what a difference they make. It's amazing how my willingness to take other people's crap dimenishes as the work week progresses. That perky work-voice that starts out the beginning of the week turns into a "Hi. Whatdoyouwant?" by the end of the week.

Normally I am able to put on my fake smile and pretend that no matter how asenine your request is, I am absolutly thrilled to do it for you. No matter how long you keep me on the phone because you're not quite sure when you can spare 15 minutes to get your eyebrows waxed while a line forms at my desk. Or when you call to make an appointment for your mother, daughter, sister, brother, and have no idea what time they could make it into the salon next week. And then I thank you, ever so nicely for wasting the last five minutes of my life.

Here are a few tips for making appointments at a salon or spa:

- Before having the receptionist book an appointment for you, make sure to inform her or him of all services you are looking to receive. Do you think that just because you can get in with your favorite stylist at 3pm tomorrow that everything else you want done will magically work around that time? No, it won't. In order to coordinate your appointments, your receptionist should know that you want a Brazillian in addition to your shampoo, blowdry, flat iron.

- Do not call into the salon and start the conversation off like this, "Hi, I would like to make an appointment." and then wait for your receptionist to respond because I can guarantee you that it will be, "For what?" Sure, I can make an appointment for you, let me just pick a service out of my magic hat over here. Wow, it's your lucky day, you get to come in next Thursday for microdermabrasion. Oh, you wanted a hair cut? I'm sorry, we make appointments based on what the magic hat says.

- DO NOT ask for your receptionist to leave a message for your sylist to call you to come in on their day off. How would you like it if your boss called to ask if you could come on into work on a regularly scheduled day off because Monday just won't work for her or him? You would be none too pleased.

- Do not tell your receptionist your life story while booking an appointment. She or he has five other phone lines flashing red and ten people waiting in line to pay. All they need to know is what you're booking the appointment for, what technician you want to see, and when you want to come in. NEXT!

- Finally, when your receptionist asks, "How can I help you?" do not reply, "I'm beyond help." and then laugh as if that joke has never before been used. Because it has, about fifty-thousand times a day. And it's not funny.

As long as you follow these guidelines, your trip to a salon or spa should be quite relaxing. You won't have to worry that the receptionist you just ticked off will be pouring your diet coke right over your brand new hair-do.

I lost my rose colored glasses for a bit

2008-05-19T23:23:00.007-05:00

Last week was an emotional one. You are all very lucky I didn't decide to post about every loop, twirl, twist, and flip. You may have ended up with a stomach ache and I probably don't have enough Tum*s to go around. The week began with Mother's Day, about which I thought I would write a what-I-loved-about-my-mom type post in her memory but every time the thought eeked its way into my consciousness, on came the water-works. I think I'll save that idea for next Mother's Day, or maybe Mother's Day 2015.

The next day was my birthday. The big two-six. During the days prior to this, my day of birth, friends asked what I wanted to do in celebration. My response consisted of a quick shoulder shrug and subject change, in one fluid motion. I was really quite good at it. When the day finally came to fruition, Bridge Man was out of town on a business trip and my friend, J, whom I dub Moon Beam was in St. Louis signing her life away. (We will get to that little gem in a bit.) So I spent the evening walking around Tar*get until a disembodied voice told me that the store would be closing in five minutes and I should make my final selections and head to the front of the store.

The next day, Tuesday, I went to work in my continued state of funk. The work day went on as usual; me and my uber fake, uber cheese smile and overly-perky attitude to appease the man. I fooled them all. (Insert evil laugh here.) When I returned home, Moon Beam stopped by to wish me a belated birthday and share her thrilling news. (Sense the sarcasm.) She had just signed up for the National Guard for six long years. I realize that Moon Beam is a big girl and can make her own decisions and as a good friend, I should support her and her endeavors but this news couldn't have come at a worse time. I don't know if you remember so let me give a quick recap: me = funk. Therefore I was anything but the good, supportive friend that I should have been. That evening after I found out that my little sister, Smash, had coincidentally also signed her life away that day, but to the Navy, I inappropriately said to Moon Beam that they would both be dead by next year. Judge all you want. I judge myself for that doozy of a statement. There is no excuse. Fortunately, M.B. seems to be very understanding of my attitude. She has experienced the wrath of my bad moods in the past and is being very understanding, no matter how undeserving I am.

The remainder of the week was fairly uneventful other than my continued funk-a-fied state, from which I've since moved on. We did take a quick trip North to visit the family this weekend. It ended up being just the thing I needed to turn my mood around. In an effort to keep from taking you, the reader, down in my funk here are some pictures of the hilariously, fun frisbee game I played with my sibs and Bridge Man this weekend.
This is Bridge Man in action.
My youngest brother doesn't like to have his picture taken, and his solution to the sister (me) with an over-zealous photo finger is to bend over. HA!

I told Bear to pretend like she was going to throw the frisbee since I wasn't fast enough to play the game and take action shots at the same time. It's realisic, no?
This last image was taken through the lense of my rose colored glasses. Those are my two brothers in the midst of our fabulous frisbee game. It's moments like these that remind me that I should quit feeling sorry for myself, put on my big girl panties, and remember to live.

Me Too

2008-05-07T22:27:00.008-05:00

I met my twin last night. She's a 54-year-old Jamaican woman with a thick, thick accent. She came into school last night to have her hair done and I happened to be her stylist. Was it fate? Eh, maybe. A coincidence? Quite possibly. Utter insanity? Yes, yes, ten-thousand times, yes. Yes, I realize I don't remotely resemble that of a 54-year-old Jamaican woman. But after talking to her for the three hours it took to color, wash, blow dry, and style her hair, we found that we have enough in common for it to be a little unbelievable.

Our conversation began like those of every stranger that sits in my chair. Is it still cold/raining/sunny outside? Did you just get off work? What do you do for a living? Normally, at that point something comes up to spark a conversation that hopefully lasts throughout the hair process. There's nothing like the awkwardness of not knowing what to say to someone with a head full of foils that have to process for another 30 minutes.

I asked her about her job and her response was polite but short. She works part-time as a teaching assistant. The conversation went on like this for a few minutes. Then something struck a chord and her guard lifted. Her family of two brothers still lives in Jamaica where she grew up. After working for two years as a flight attendant in her twenties she decided to move to the states to go to college and work in elementary education. This part of the conversation was all well and good. Fairly normal. Then she mentioned her mom.

Her mother passed over in November.

I responded with a generic, "I'm so sorry for your loss" response. At this point there isn't much else I can say without losing my composure.

She then went on to tell me about the difficulties she has experienced after such a loss. She had to drastically cut back her work schedule in order to maintain her sanity. Working with young children while grieving the loss of her loved one was simply too much.

The similarities between our stories were so remarkable that I broke down and told her about my mom. How she passed in November and how the situation affected my career status. I told her about my writing and how I use it as a venue to express my feelings about my loss and other things going on in my life.

She too is a writer, a poet. She recited one of her poems about her experience with loss that was published in several local publications. In the poem, palm trees from her home in Jamaica represented her spirit; while a palm tree stands tall and strong on a warm, sunny day, it will bend and break under the stress of something as destructive as the Mother Nature.

I too am being published. It's something I have shared with a select few people because I don't want to jinx it but I chose to share this news with the stranger in my chair. When I told her the authors name her eyes got wide.

Her brother had, just last week, mailed her one of said author's books.

Now, at this point in my life, the idea of fate is a blurry subject for me but our meeting was the closest thing to fate I've experienced. And while hair dye continued to stain her ever greying roots she excitedly proclaimed that our meeting was nothing short of destiny. It was meant to be. No matter how much I'd like to believe that we are more than a big ball of chaos and pollution plummeting through space until our inevitable doom, my faith in destiny/fate has dwindled to confusion. And this meeting did nothing more than increase my confusion.

Who's to say that she and I were destined to meet on that Tuesday night to talk for three hours about our similar life experiences or our shared passion for jewelry making, photography, and Project Runway? If anything, it could have been nothing more than a chance meeting of two genetically polar people on a similar life path.

At the end of the night, after she was properly primped, she left me with a hug and a scrap of paper containing her contact information. It is now up to me. Do I contact her? Was this meeting fate or simply that of two grieving souls desperately seeking solace from someone who can understand?

Pardon me while I gush

2008-05-01T15:44:00.006-05:00

I had the most amazing weekend. There was one tiny flaw but it rated a 0.5 on the flaw Richter scale. It was nothing really. So, I'll move on to share the shear amazing-ness of my weekend. I went to the Discover 2008 Hair Show in St. Louis. It's put on every year by State Beauty Supply, a national beauty supply company. The show consists of new hair products, tools, and techniques. There are platform artists that demonstrate the new products, tools, and techniques. And there are great sales on the products, tools, and- well, techniques in my case. But I'll get to that a little later. It's a cosmetologist heaven. And I took full advantage of everything available. I picked up professional products for one-third of the retail price! It. Was. Amazing. I scrounged for free samples all over the place. So much so, I won't have to buy shampoo and conditioner for over a year.

Now that I've officially bored you to tears talking about amazing sales on flat irons and shampoo... (They were amazing people, did I mention that?)

The best, most amazing, most fabulous part of my weekend was that I got to be a hair model for the Farouk Systems platform artists! (The parent company for CHI and BioSilk.) A fellow cosmo girl and I took a chance and got the opportunity to be on stage with Mickey and Bradley as the opening act. It was like a rock-n-roll concert. There were girls in tiny outfits dancing around on the stage with guitars while Mickey and Bradley danced around me, hacking away at my hair. A friend of mine captured the entire thing on her camera and I'm waiting (ever so patiently) for her to upload it so I can share it with you, my bloggie friends. Until then, watch the video I linked above to capture the full extent of what happened to my head. Oh the insanity!

For now, I hope you can be satisfied with a before and after picture.

That's me on the left, looking all blah with my blah hair and my friend K.B. on the right looking fabulous as always.

Check me out people! All, I can say is that this is probably one of the best hair cuts I've ever had. It's so easy to style and I love the way it looks! (Could I be any more smitten over my cut? YES, I COULD!) The video will be posted once I get my anxious little hands on it. Until then, be jealous. Be very jealous*.

And to those people who look at my new do and gasp, "But you're getting married in less than four months!" Please calm down for a sec. Am I not allowed to get married with short hair? Is this a new law I'm not familiar with? I don't think so. The minister isn't going to turn me away at the altar after measuring my hair with a yard stick and finding that my hair is just too short for me to be wed.

*I'm not normally like this, but I seriously cannot stop gushing!!

The Circle of Command

2008-04-22T23:59:00.006-05:00

Now pay attention.

I go to cosmetology school.

I work at a salon.

The two are owned by the same people.

This can get confusing. Especially when I tell stories about school, or work.

The same things happen at both places.

Hair cuts

Perm waves

Pedicures

Facials

The chain of command is especially confusing.

One of my instructors at school is a nail technician at work. This means she is my boss at work and kind of a boss-type at school. Not so confusing.

One of the lead receptionists at work is a junior student at school. I am not a lead receptionist at work but am a senior student at school. She tells me how it's done during the day, I tell her how it's done at night.

My boss at work was student with me at the cosmetology school. This made us equals until she became my boss. Now she is my boss at work and training to be an instructor at school. At work, she's in charge. At school, she's not allowed to tell me what to do. This is a little more confusing, no?

Another instructor at school is a frequent client at work. This means I get to serve her bottled water while she waits to get her hair colored during the day and then she critiques the placement of my perm rods at night.

Sometimes I work from 8am to 4pm and then go to school from 5pm to 9pm all in the same day. The roles have to change that quickly. On the most confusing of days I go from being a pee-on at one moment to the big man on campus the next. Fortunately I've gotten used to switching roles appropriately.

The whole thing kind of reminds me of the old folk song, I'm My Own Grandpa. See if you can figure this one out.

The Luckiest People

2008-04-17T23:47:00.010-05:00

I just wanted to announce it to the world that Bridge Man and I are undoubtedly the luckiest couple in the world. Before your gag reflex kicks in, please take a moment to let me explain. But before I explain, I'm going to take a quick detour.

The lottery.

What are the chances of winning the lottery or the Publishers Clearinghouse sweepstakes? How many people actually win these things? What would you do if you won mega millions? Would you turn to Ed McMahon and say no thanks, I'm not interested - My five-figure salary will suffice for now. Can I get you something to drink Mr. McMahon? Would you say that winners of these lotteries have defied the odds? I think you would. Well then, ladies and gentlemen, Bridge Man and I have defied these minuscule odds - five times! No, we haven't won the lottery. Ed McMahon hasn't shown up at our door with a really big check and some balloons. Not yet anyway. I may already be a winner after all.

Let me explain.

The moment Bridge Man and I got engaged our names and addresses were instantaneously sold to wedding vendors across the globe who immediately took it upon themselves to mail us every pamphlet/brochure/magazine/coupon they could stuff into our mailbox. And those who were really lucky somehow managed to get a hold of my cell phone number. One of my personal favorites from this really lucky lot, is A*merican Presti*ge. They like to call and tell me how I've been randomly selected as the winner of a four-day, five-night vacation to the location of my choice. All I have to do is attend a presentation that night about Tupperware and pay my own airfare. That's all!

The first time I got this call, I listened to the nice ladies mantra before I graciously declined. The second, third, and fourth time they called to tell me that I was picked out of millions as the winner of this fantastic vacation package getaway I was at work and unable to answer the phone. They would call three and four times in a day because the day you are selected to win you must go in to see the Tupperware presentation that night or you are disqualified to receive the amazing prize. So you'd think that I'd be disqualified after the second or third or even the fourth go-round.

Oh, no. In fact, my name was miraculously chosen out of millions for the fifth time as the winner of this dream vacation. Only this time I answered the phone. And as I sat there silently listening to the nice lady tell me about this great prize, I wonder if I should stop her before she gets too deep into her script or if I should be polite and listen even though I already know my answer. I decide to forgo manners if for no reason other than to make her job easier. I interrupted her to very nicely decline. Why should I make her go through the entire five minute monologue when I already know that it's a waste of her time? Anyway, like I said, I was polite and said no thanks. To which she abruptly said, OK, and hung up. (Which makes me so glad I gave it so much thought.)

So I ask you, is there anything luckier than being randomly selected to win a dream getaway FIVE TIMES? I think not. Bridge Man and I must be some of the luckiest people in the world.

Ten Fingers. Ten Toes.

2008-04-04T00:12:00.004-05:00

It was inevitable. Everyone in my family has them. I was genetically destined to inherit the short, stubby fingers and the wide, fat feet of those who came before me. It was a running joke in the family. ‘Flintstone feet’ we called them. And as a five year-old child, I can remember wishing that my hands would someday develop into long, graceful fingers with perfectly shaped nails. But it was my feet that bothered me the most. They were so wide that they could only fit comfortably in shoes made for little boys, one size too big. You see, what my tootsies make up for in width, they lack in length. This nixed any capability I had to wear the jelly sandals I so coveted as a child.

Throughout my adolescence, I never failed to point out my distaste for the feet that I have been doomed to lug around. I would wrap them up tightly with strips of material in order to make them skinnier, or at the very least, prevent them from getting wider. When my mom noticed this for the first time she questioned me about the odd footwear I had donned. When I told her of my intentions I remember seeing a flicker of sadness flash in her eyes before she informed me I should be glad to have all my fingers and toes and then she went about her business. I couldn’t understand why I had made her sad. Why would anyone want to walk around with feet like mine?

In the summer of 2007, I flew out to visit some relatives from my mom’s side of the family in California. I spent five wonderful days there and on the last night we had a small get-together to spend my last night there as a group, as a family. We all sat around in the backyard, barefoot, soaking up the warm, California evening talking, laughing, crying, and simply spending some long overdue time with each other. While the conversations flowed, I sat silently for a moment to look at the special people around me. I looked for similarities in our features. The one thing we all had in common was our feet. This was the first moment in my life that I had ever felt a sense of pride for my fat, wide appendages.

The following November, my mom was hospitalized when the cancer that had seized the last two years of her life, took a turn for the worst. On one particularly late night, I sat next to her hospital bed holding her hand. It was just the two of us. Her temperature was high so she was covered her in a light-weight blanket. Her feet were uncovered, exposing a fresh pedicure and a simple anklet. My mind wandered from her respirations per minute to her physical features. We had the same chin, the same nose, the same hands, the same feet. And while she appeared thin and frail, her feet still had that short, wide shape that notoriously runs in our family.

It didn’t occur to me at that moment but now that I look back and continue to seek out anything to provoke memories of her and her life – movie ticket stubs, journals, jewelry – I’ve realized that one of the best things my mom left behind are the her traits. I’ve come to love the fact that she and I have the same nose, chin, and hands. I love the fact that we have the same Flintstone feet. She gave them to me. And I am reminded every day that a little piece of her lives on with me.

One hundred and thirty-one days

2008-04-02T14:38:00.008-05:00

Last night Bridge Man and I finally booked our honeymoon. In exactly one hundred and thirty-one days, I will be basking in the sweet, sweet sights and sounds of Maui.

We'll be taking a bike tour on a volcano, tasting some native wine, and learning to surf. One hundred and thirty-one days and counting!

Monkey See...

2008-03-29T23:12:00.004-05:00

Have you seen this? I saw my first episode last night after catching bits of previews from last week that piqued my interest. Bridge Man and I sat in front of the TV and tapped away to see if his urge for nachos and my craving for jelly beans would go away with this acupuncture based technique.

First you tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap your left cheek bone.

Then you tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap your right collar bone.

Next you'll tappity-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap the side of your hand.

Then you tap-a-tap-a-tap-a-tap-a-tap-a-tap the back of your hands.

And without moving your head, continue tapping the back of your hand while looking left.

Look right.

Now roll your eyes in a counter-clockwise fashion.

Now the other direction, all the while tapping the back of your hand.

Now hum your favorite tune.

(Don't forget to keep tapping.)

Count to five.

Hum again.

And you're done. That's it. You've just saved yourself from inevitable guilt caused by the face-feeding that was about to commence. You (Read: I) crave jelly beans no more. (Or maybe I ate the entire bag. Whatever.)

This morning, Bridge Man came to me:

BM: While I was getting ready to make breakfast I grabbed for the frozen waffles and then thought to myself, do I really want to eat these? So I tapped my face, I tapped my hand, I rolled my eyes, and I hummed a little ditty. When I was done, I thought again, do I really want these waffles? Am I really hungry?

X: And?

BM: Yep, I still want waffles.

I've got a need.. a need for crafty type things

2008-03-25T23:06:00.003-05:00

As my long time readers know, I am a crafter. I am a beader. I am a sewer. I am a maker. I've painted a picture or two. (Although they never end up displayed and often never see the light of day.) I've written a song. (Note: one song.) I like for people to notice an original item and ask where it comes from so I can step up on my proud little high horse and say, "Oh, I made that."

Does that make me sound smug? If it does, then please know that I haven't been able to be smug in a long time. Too long. How long has it been since I crafted, you say? One month? Two? Tres? The real, honest to goodness answer is that I don't know how long it's been. Do you feel bad for me yet?

Don't feel too bad because I've been living vicariously through the fabulous crafters on Design*Sponge who create beautiful dog beds from old suitcases, doily bowls, or knitted cozies. Their DIY section is full of things that make me want to hop into Red Betty (That's the name we gave my car after a trip to Baker's Square, but that story is for another time), drive to my local craft friendly store, and go berserk with the oodles and oodles of crafty-type items that are available.

I reccommend that take a look-see with caution. You may develop an irresistable urge to break out the materials needed to get your craft on. And I cannot be held accountable for missed appointments, abandoned children, or lost jobs.

Twenty-Something; The Learning Years

2008-03-18T00:04:00.010-05:00

This is something that I've been hearing a lot about lately. Supposedly, when I turn 30 I will look back on the last decade of my life and say, "Hot dog! Glad that's over. Now I can move on to the living years of my life." I will have made all of my mistakes. I will have learned all there will be to learn. The time will have finally come to pass down my wisdom to the next generation and hope that they are able to learn in order to become successful thirty-somethings.

For those of you who don't know, I'm closer to thirty than I care to admit. Not close enough to panic quite yet, but close enough for me to pop a few Tum*s to ease the discomfort. (Just to clear the air: I do not believe that 30 is old. I'm talking mile-markers here people.) Sometimes I can't help but wonder if I've met my learning quota per my years as a twenty-something. Or if I've surpassed those in my age bracket and therefore qualify as an honorary thirty-something. (How fabulous would that be?)

I may be a twenty-something with some experiences under my belt, but a buffoon I am not. I am able to admit that I do not have knowledge beyond my years. (Well, I may have some knowledge.) But, generally speaking I'm right where I should be.

I think.

Who am I kidding. I have no idea. I could go back and forth on this all day long.

Case in point:
While a twenty-something, I have learned...

How much of a nincompoop I was in my teen years.
That while young and unattached (not including Bridge Man) and have the opportunity to reinvent myself. I am not defined by my degree or my career.
I'm not too young to have gray hair.

While a twenty-something, I have failed to learn...

That I don't have to know all of the answers right now. One mistake won't damage me for life.
How to politely dispose of all the negative people in my life.
How much of a nincompoop I really am.

Here's hoping that I am able to learn these things, and maybe put them to use so I can successfully graduate into my thirties without making a complete fool of myself. I still have a few good years as a twenty-something left.

What I Love About Spring; A Photo Tribute

2008-03-16T15:06:00.009-05:00

Yes, I understand that it's not technically spring yet. (Four days and counting!) But it's the little signs that indicate a warmer, happier time for all to enjoy.

Mumbo-jumbo

2008-03-15T00:51:00.003-05:00

So I know I've been slightly M.I.A. lately. There are no excuses. And I'll understand if you've moved on to a more entertaining and kept up blog. You see, for me there is this process. A process that includes inspiration, research, revision after revision, and finally a finished product. Unfortunately, there are times when I don't get to that final stage, that finshed product. There are times when my blogs, my words get nothing more than saved as a draft in some folder up on a shelf in internet land. There are various reasons for this. Maybe it's because what I wrote was too personal/contriversial/rediculous. Maybe I realize that I've rambled on for days about the Freudian explination for my absurd fear of feet and I understand that there is the possibility you may not care to know that mine resemble those of Fred Flintstone.

I'm trying to work on this. (The writing thing not the feet thing.)

My goal is to be a better writer. Less for professional reasons than the sheer fact that I enjoy the process. And I know that, in order to become a better writer I should be writing every day, through the night, and in my dreams. I should be writing simple paragraphs, letters, songs- a haiku if I so desire.

And so my dear readers, (all two of you), this is my solem oath to be a bettter blogger. To write more. To share every insignificant notion that pops into my head. (OK, maybe not every notion.) And if what I write is a bunch of mumbo-jumbo, that's OK. Because it's all just a part of the process.

You'll still come visit after I post the lyrics to the song I wrote in the 7th grade about the boy that I was, like, totally crushing on, right?

Conversations with Bridge Man

2008-03-09T13:50:00.002-05:00

BM: Tomorrow's Sunday. Do you know what that means?

X: Uhhhh... bacon?

BM: Bacon!

(pause)

BM: And Meet the Press!

What's in a name?

2008-03-02T23:25:00.007-06:00

I've been thinking a lot lately about last names and the importance they hold for some people. Traditionally, you are born, assigned a surname, and that is what you live with for the next few decades. That is, of course, until you are wed and take the name of your significant other or randomly decide to change it because you find the name "Banana Hammock" too hilarious to pass up.

My story is a little different. I can still remember that day when my mama taught me and Bear how to spell our new last name while we waited in the terminal for our flight to Okinawa. I was a mere four years old. I had no idea what was going on. For all I knew, people changed their names every couple of years or so for... security reasons or something like that.

It wasn't until we moved back to the states that I realized that this last name thing was going to be a problem. You see, while I had grown accustomed to my new last name, it was never legally changed. On on the first day of the fourth grade they called out my old name I raised my hand and mumbled, "here," and then, when no one would notice, I would head up to the teachers desk to ask her to refer to me by my new name. And every August, I continued this ritual all the way through my senior year of high school.

I knew that my new name wasn't legal. I simply had no desire to walk around sporting the old one. The whole dead-beat-dad thing, but I won't delve into that until we know each other a little better. When I was in junior high, people started to notice that I would, each year, change the last name that I was to go by and they started asking questions. And while I knew the real reason I would play dumb and blame the continued "mistake" on the faculty and staff of the school. Such an elaborate (moronic) facade.

Post high school, I let the whole thing go. College professors didn't get to know their students well enough, or care enough to remember the girl with two last names; one real and one fake. My friends and family still called me by my new name. But any real conversation/application/etc brought me out of my fantasy surname world. Eventually I caved and accepted my fate, the fate of the last name that I had been hiding from for years. I asked friends, family, and, yes, even Bridge Man to use my old last name. People thought it was strange at first but everyone is now used to it.

So after all of that, you'd think that I would jump at the opportunity to change my last name. But now, as this wedding comes closer I've started to rethink the whole deal. Don't get me wrong, I still despise where the name originates. But it is still my name. Yes, I buried it under the new name for so many years. But I always knew it was there. Yes, I hated it because of how much it segregated Bear and me from the family. No one in our family has our last name. But now, instead of it being a source of segregation, it brings me and Bear (and now my nephew) closer than ever. I can't help but feel that the moment I become Mrs. Bridge Man I will have lost that connection.

This fear, I'll admit, is ridiculous. A last name doesn't define who a person is. But, if that is true, why are there people who fight to keep their original surname? Why are there people who judge those who don't change their last name after marriage? If this isn't a big deal... then what's the big deal?

If Wishes were MacBooks

2008-02-20T13:14:00.006-06:00

This is not the first time that I've thought to myself, dang, I wish I had a MacBook so I could _________. Fill in that blank with whatever you want. There are so many useful functions that a Mac provides that my poor little Toshiba just can't muster. Sure, she does a good job. But there are those times I find myself moving the mouse to the top left side of the screen to close a window and sadly realize that I have a PC and therefore must move the mouse to the top right side of the window in order to close. Poor, unfortunate me.

My longing for a new MacBook has been induced by my attempt at a job hunt today. The entire process of seeking employment is an exhausting task.

Find company.

Research.

Write cover letter with enough panache to schmooze bigwigs at said company.

Proof read resume for eleventy-billionth time.

Send resume and cover letter.

Shampoo.

Rinse.

Repeat.

I have scoured newspapers, job search websites, Craigslist, etc. I’ve even considered freelance but then I think to myself, a freelance what? My writing background is in advertising. Advertising professors teach you grammar and writing techniques and then tell you to throw them out the window. They are no longer of any use. From what I understand, those rules come in handy when submitting a manuscript to a publisher or an article to an editor. Now, I’m not saying that I have no grasp on proper writing techniques. I do. What I’m saying is that I have no formal journalistic training. My training extends no further than what they taught in Advanced Comp during my senior year of high school. In the introductory paragraph, you tell your reader what you’re going to talk about. In the body paragraphs, you proceed to tell them. And in the conclusion, you remind your readers what you just told them. If I turned something like that into, say, the editor of the New York Times, I would be laughed all the way back to Illinois.

So what kind of job can I get with a degree in advertising?

No, I’m really asking. Any advice?

I’ve worked on accounts. I’ve done the ad rep thing. I’ve done PR. Everything short of becoming a sales person for an insurance company. No offense to those insurance sales people out there in internet land, it’s just not my cup of Lipton’s.

This is where everything comes full circle. There are no advertising jobs where I live. I’ve been saying this for months and months and months. And if I had a MacBook I could prove it. I went to the classified section of local newspaper’s website, clicked on the link to Advertising/Press Release jobs and what should I see…

“Sorry, we did not find results for that search.”

I wish I had a MacBook so I could use the screen capture function. I would put that screen captured picture up along with this post to give you a better, more visual idea of what I’ve been rambling on about.

V-Day

2008-02-14T12:01:00.012-06:00

Bridge Man and I are not exchanging gifts for Valentine's Day this year. Not that we ever put an extravagant amount of thought into the day in the past. Last year we exchanged cards and took a weekend trip to Chicago.

But this year is different. Why? Because we are sans one income and because we have a giant party that's coming up in August to pay for that is getting ridiculously expensive. So after I finish filling you in on our V-Day escapades I will head out into the freezing weather to buy a romantic card, take some time to add my own personal little note, and then head to class. That's right, class. Instead of sipping a glass of Molti Bianchi with my main squeeze on this, the day of love, I will likely be wrapping some purple (grey) hair into a flat-wrap perm or putting low-lites onto an over processed, over bleached 17 year-old head of hair. Good times.

Speaking of wedding stuff… (Per my brief mention above, you know that party in August.) The date is getting alarmingly close and there is still a frightening amount of work to be done.

I've picked out flowers:

Calla Lillies

Oriental Lillies

We've ordered the cake:

It will look similar to this. But because I personalized it and made it my own I don't have an exact photo of what it will look like. It will be square with simple black trim but there will only be three tiers and no weird calla lily topper. Instead, there will be the plum colored calla lillies on each tier. The topper is yet to be decided. (If at all.)

The tuxes have been picked out and ordered. I will be ordering my dress this weekend. (I thought about linking a picture of the dress but I decided that a girls got to have some secrets. Plus, Bridge Man will be reading this and I promised both moms that he wouldn't see the dress before the wedding.)

We're meeting with a potential photographer next week. Check out his website. I love the creative angles and shots in each photo. I really hope it works out with this photog, I fell in love with his work and have my hopes way, WAY up. (Fingers crossed.)

And the most exciting thing of all, we picked out the officiant. We decided to go the ordained minister route and have asked someone who is close to both Bridge Man and myself. I have known her since I was... (thinking way, way back)... since I was four years old. I was so nervous to ask her for such a huge favor. I didn't want her to feel obligated. But she said yes!

I think that's about all I have done for the wedding. I'm working on picking out a DJ and deciding upon important songs. I was thinking about non-traditional ceremony music but haven't made any concrete decisions yet.

Normally I am not one to freak out about things like this. And up until recently, I have been a very laid back bride. But when someone tells me that my wedding is in a mere six months and I haven't decided upon center pieces my heart starts to race and I get a little antsy. Hence the blog that lacks any semblance of flow or of a complete thought. So you will have to bear with me while I work this thing out.

I read the news today, oh boy.

2008-02-10T19:30:00.000-06:00

Since Bridge Man and I moved in together my news intake has greatly increased. Before that I couldn't tell you what the heck was going on in the world. It was not that I disliked the news. It was that it just did not take precedence over my obsessions with Friends and The Real World/Road Rules Challenge. I could tell you about the latest drama between Coral and Mike before I could begin to discuss the mounting issues with the war in Iraq.

As I bow my head in disgust I feel that I must remind you that this neglect of the news, nationally and globally, is all in the past. I now watch the news. So much so that there are some days when I want to beg Bridge Man to turn off the third showing of Meet the Press. There is only so much one woman can take. After all, there are only so many ways one can analyze the same issue.

Obama won the popular vote in State A but Clinton received the most delegates because the super delegates out voted the regular voters.

Clinton is projected to win the popular vote in State B. But you never know what those darned superdelegates are going to do.

This is what I don't get. Who the heck are these superdelegates and why does their vote count more than the votes of the citizens? I understand the idea of the superdelegate; they are current or former elected officeholders and party officials who get the opportunity to put in their thirty cents (You know, inflation) when the race becomes too close to determine a front runner for the party. In the event that Obama wins the popular vote in a state but inevitably loses due to overzealous superdelegates, where is the democracy in that? Why would we want political insiders making such decisions for us? Are they not the guys on the inside? You know the ones that have led this country down the frazzled path we are on.

I repeat: These superdelegates don't HAVE to vote. They vote ONLY in the event that a race is too close to call. So what are they doing finagling with the popular vote? It takes me back to that fateful night in November of 2000, you know the whole Florida thing. It's just too awful to discuss. I shudder at the thought.

I took a class in college, Social Issues. The main goal of the class was to discuss the construction and study of social problems, to understand how and why things are defined and treated as social problems, and to gain the ability to asses the claims made about social problems. This was, hands down, the most interesting class I took during my college career. It was everything people look for in a continuing education course; intellectucal discussions, polar view points, and new ideas that make you say: Ooohhh, I never thought of it like that. Anyway...

In my opinion, this whole superdelegate thing has become what my professor would have categorized as a social issue. People question who these superdelegates are and what their purpose may be. Unfortunately once they receive their highly political explanation they move on and are apathetic to give it a second thought. But no matter what asinine rationalization is given for this matter I NEVER think: Oh, that makes sense. I see what you're saying. The superdelegates are doing a good job. They are not abusing their power at all. Their vote should totally count for more than anyone elses.

And what does this whole thing do for the incentive to vote? I don't want to vote in a political election when there is the possibility that my ballot may not even be considered? Why waste my time? I'm not saying you shouldn't vote. Please do. But the point of an election is to be heard. These superdelegates are snuffing out the voice of the American citizens. It seems to me that this whole issue is just another misapplication of the Consitiution brought to you, America, by the people "we" placed in the White House.

Bad Computer

2008-02-06T20:28:00.000-06:00

My lap top threw a hissy fit. I have been busy lately and haven't been fulfilling my daily web quota so maybe she was upset with me. Maybe she missed me. I don't know for sure but last Sunday she decided that there was no way in crap that she was going to obey orders. And no matter how I pleaded, no matter how I begged, she continued to let me know just how mad I had made her.

I would hit up my blog roll, click on something, and walk away to wait for the page to load only to have a patronizing error message greet me upon my return. I defragmented, scanned for spy ware, scanned for viruses, deleted cookies and nothing. Nothing. She is one stubborn personal computer.

I was so frustrated with this act of deliberate disobedience that I turned her off for a day and sat her in the corner so she could think about her actions. The next day she was still mad at me so I gave in and called some tech savvy friends. It turns out that my innocent little PC was being framed by the wireless router who wanted nothing more than to be turned off for a mere ten second rest.

All is well in internet land again. And now I can blog (or not blog) as much as I want.

Torture

2008-02-01T00:32:00.000-06:00

I just ran across a blog devoted entirely to the story of a woman who passed away from breast cancer. I spent the last hour or two eating up every word that was written only to get through her stint in hospice and her eventual passing. Everything I read was so reminiscent of what my family went through with my mom that I spent the last hour (if not more) reading through tear veiled eyes. It has officially been two months and two days since my mom passed. I miss her more and more every day. I don't know why I torture myself with blogs such as the aforementioned. Last week I spent I don't know how many hours sitting on the floor in the middle of the self-help section at Barnes and Noble reading a book about why daughters need their mothers. I'm sure passers-by thought that the crazy crying girl needed much more than just the self-help section of a book store.

I'm headed out of state for a long weekend. This is my first vacation from all the little reminders and moments that break me down to a sobbing mess. Fingers crossed. Let's make this a good one.

Hoop

2008-01-31T11:17:00.000-06:00

I feel the need to hoop. But this winter weather is really keeping me down. I thought about clearing some space in the living room but if I take out the TV or Bridge Man's hand made book shelf I'll have some 'splainin to do. So I thought I'd share a hooping video with you guys thinking that it might inspire you to head to your local hardware store to pick up some PVC pipe and electrical tape. Enjoy.

Happy Life Day!!

2008-01-29T13:02:00.000-06:00

I know I haven't been around much lately. There has been so much on my mind. It's hard to write coherently. But tomorrow is my mom's birthday and I feel the need to say a little something. I feel the need to recognize the day for what it is, not a celebration of birth but a celebration of life. I've been dreading this day for a couple of weeks now and can't even pretend to forget it. The words are written on my calendar in bright blue, permanent ink followed by two happy exclamation points that patronize me every time I pass by. But in the spirit of celebrating life, I will continue to put this on my calendar. It will no longer read "Mom's Birthday!!" but "Mom's Life Day!!" (Can't forget those exclamation points.)

For every birthday at my house when I was a kid, my mom always made a cake of our choice. For Bear it was always German chocolate cake and for me it was usually something with little bits of candy and strawberry frosting. Always strawberry frosting. And the pièce de résistance - the writing on the top. Oh, it never said anything overly creative but the penmanship was impeccable! I can never figure out how the woman did it. Every letter was in perfect proportion to the next. Every 'I' had a perfect little dot and every 'T' a perfect little cross. If you've ever tried to write on a cake you know what I'm talking about. You squeeze the frosting out of a flimsy little bag with a tiny plastic tip. One wrong move and suddenly your 'p' becomes a 'D' and you have to figure out how to salvage "HapDy Birthday." Sure you could add a simple line to the bottom of the 'D' but it's just not the same.

So, in closing, I would like to wish you all a happy life day! And if, in celebration of life day, you decide to make a cake I suggest using the pre-made letters. It's much less trouble, trust me.

Cinderelly Ramblings

2008-01-16T22:54:00.000-06:00

In my family there are five of us chick-a-dees. Let me introduce you: I have referred to her as S in the past, but I find that solitary letters as names are hard to read and so I dub thee Bear. Bear is the oldest of the crew and can be described as boisterous and clumsy. Ironically those adjectives describe her precisely. She will tell you exactly what she’s thinking without a second thought and then she will fall down the stairs. Not joking.

Since I’m going in age order here the next sibling in line would be me. I won’t delve into a personal biography here seeing as you should already know about my neurosis from blogs past.

Next in line is the baby girl of the bunch. You may know her as A but I think that she too deserves a blog name: Smash. Most would say that Smash is the blond, Barbie-like version of me. She has the same fiery attitude and the same ability to cry at the drop of a pretty pink Treesje handbag.

Number four brings us to the first of the testosterone ridden members of this faction. His blog name is quite easy for me to come up with as no one ever calls him by his real name. You may know him as B, but from now on he shall be referred to as Bud. He’s the Einstein of the family. When he was in the 3rd grade he could recite every American president and vice president – in chronological order.

I know there are a lot of us but this I the last one, I promise.

He has been known as Z in previous posts but shall be now known as Maestro. This name is one that I gave him a long, long time ago. It is one that he has hated but that I have refused to let go of. Maestro it is. From the day he was born you could tell that he was going to be one mischievous little punk and that proved to be more than true. He has actually knocked his teeth back up into his gums, gotten his finger stuck in some type of metal device and had to have it sawed off (the device, not the finger), and has had a plethora of injuries from severe road rash to being knocked unconscious.

What’s the point to all of this? Well, not only is it to introduce you all to my crazy, wonderful siblings but also to bring you to my point; one of my favorite and least favorite childhood pastimes.

It was no secret in my family; we kids were of little use when it came to cleaning or picking up after ourselves. It was so well known that my grandma sent me a Valentine’s Day card and wrote on the inside: Happy Valentine’s Day Xteener. Do help your mama like you helped me when you were here. Then you might get off restriction. Wouldn’t that be nice? I don't even have to tell you how pathetic this is, but don't judge me people, I've since grown up.

There was no way my mom was going to let us off without chores of any kind. She would type up a monthly schedule of what chores were to be done each day and by whom. (Wash the dishes Cinderelly, clean the toilette Cinderelly.) And each Saturday was dubbed “extra-special-cleaning-day.” This meant that fan blades were dusted, knobs were sanitized, and floors were mopped. We were constantly cleaning. Strangely enough we kids never seemed to grasp the concept of picking up after ourselves, the place was always a mess, and the topic became a constant struggle within our household.

Here’s where all of my rambling comes together – sort of.

My mama was a clever woman. While all five of her messy children are polar opposites, there are two things that tie us together. Song and dance. My mom knew that if she wanted anything to get done she had to make it fun for us. She would put her Dolly Parton CD into the player and crank the volume. Not only was extra-special-cleaning-day productive but it was fun! (OK, I realize I sound like Monica Geller right now. Maybe you had to be there to experience the fun that is musical-cleaning.)

So in summary: chores, not my favorite. I’d rather do long division than fold laundry. Music and dance – I love! Combine the two, a tolerable and effective way to get me to do chore-type things.

I love that my family is so musical. We all inherited the music gene. This doesn’t mean that we all can sing like Pavarotti. Heck no. This just means that we have every lyric to every song ever made memorized and stored away for future use. During a regular-every-day conversation any one of us can pull out something that was said and make it into a song or find a song that has those exact (or similar) lyrics. Let me give you an example.

Bridge Man, I can’t get my car key out of the ignition.

Did you put it in park?

Oh. Ha ha. Makes sense. Thanks. You’re my hero.

And then I break into a rendition of “Wind Beneath My Wings” that rivals the vocal talents of Bette Midler herself. I'm just cool like that. I’m in a family/memories/reminiscing type mood. So what are your favorite and least favorite childhood memories? Does your family have any traits that are uniquely your own?

Teeny Violins and a Theme

2008-01-09T23:15:00.000-06:00

How did everyone like the first installment of Bridge Man’s ramblings? I asked him to write something because 1)his political rants rival those of Keith Olbermann and 2)I’m trying to avoid any more Debbie Downer type blogs. And so, for this reason, I will avoid telling you about how I got “let go” from my job at the ad agency. I won't talk about how freaking pathetic the job hunt has been going. I’ll refrain from mentioning the awfulness that was the entire month of November. And I refuse to complain about the fact that I can’t seem to sleep for more than three hours at a time. I just won't do it.

If you listen closely, you can hear a teeny, tiny violin in the background playing a sad, sad song just for me.

What have I been doing with all of my new found, jobless free time? Well, my short attention span leads me to abandon the monotony that is job hunting after a few short hours. But, let no one say that I’m sitting on my bootay, couch potato style.

This was Mohawk Day.

I promise, Bridge Man does not always look like that. I think some of the mousse and hair spray seeped into his head giving him a temporary Rob Zombie persona. (I was going to link a picture of Mr. Zombie here but, dang, he is seriously a scary looking fella. You may Google him if you choose but don't say I didn't warn you.)

This was Cigar Day.

This all started when J and I were watching an episode of Friends. You know, the one where Joey and Chandler want to be just like Richard so Chandler grows a moustache and Joey starts smoking cigars. I believe our conversation went something like this:

Mmmmm, cigars smells so good!

Oh, I know.

I wonder if they taste as good as they smell.

Where do you even buy cigars?

Anywhere. The gas station, the grocery store, the liquor store.

Let's go get some.

(Laughter followed by a long silence.)

Are you serious?

I'm betting you can guess where this is going. That's right ladies and gentlemen, at the age of 25, for the first time in my life, I smoked a cigar. And what did I learn? Cigars do NOT taste as good as they smell. Not even the flavored ones. We were (hacking and coughing) giggling so much it was ridiculous. We then made a mad dash to the bathroom to brush and gargle away the awful dirt taste the vanilla flavored stogies left behind.

(You'll have to pardon my awful hair, I thought I'd give it a break after the beating it took on Mohawk Day.)

The last theme day I have for your enjoyment was Cooking Day. Now when I say "cooking," this does not mean gourmet. Oh, no. This simply means that I cook actual food on that day. My recipe of choice, Black Bean Wraps.

They tasted like wonderful wrapped up beanie goodness. And they're healthy too. This was the final presentation:

Notice how there is nothing else on the plate? My menus rarely include side dishes. I always forget to plan that part of the meal. So I usually end up opening up some canned fruit and slopping it onto a plate. Bon appetite!

The plan is to continue to make up theme days to occupy my time. Who needs a job, health insurance, or a retirement plan anyway?

Why in the ...

2008-01-02T21:59:00.000-06:00

Disclaimer: For the regular readers of Spotless Mind. The following blog is not from the mind of Xteener. It is from the mind of Bridge Man.

A few days ago I was asked to write a blog for Xteener. I agreed and said I would need to think of something good about which to blog. I guess today is the day and the subject.....politics. However, I almost chose not to write after reading the last few blogs by Xteener. Having been touched, affected, involved (I don't know the appropriate word to describe my place in such an event) by the "life changing event" of which Xteener wrote and obviously being emotionally affected, some political whining by me didn't seem to matter. But, I was wrong; it does matter; it doesn't compare in importance but it does matter.

In a few hours some citizens of Iowa will go to their designated polling place to caucus for the presidential candidate whom they think will best represent the Democratic Party in the run for President of the United States. I'm sure some of you who pay little or no attention to politics could care less about the first primary election or the second or third. I know, it's not very exciting and it's not even the big November election so who cares, right? You don't have to care or pay attention or even give it a second thought but it is fairly important.

Each state chooses when to hold its primary election and Iowa is always first so naturally the candidates spend a lot of time in Iowa prior to the primary elections. When was the last time a candidate visited Alaska or North Dakota? I don't know and you probably don't either because they don't go there because those states don't matter. By the time these primaries are held the candidates are pretty well chosen. If a candidate doesn't win the first 3 or 4 they have no momentum to win in the following states and they drop out. So, basically Iowa, New Hampshire, and South Carolina decide the 2 choices we get (usually they both suck) when electing a president. Why in the F should the choices of Iowans have so much more weight than mine and yours? It shouldn't; not that those citizens are incompetent to make the choice but they don't deserve more influence. My point is this...every primary election in the country should be held on the same day similar to that of the general election. Write your Senators and Representatives; every state should be just as influential as the other.

I hope you enjoyed the blog. Tune in next time for another Xteener blog.
Thank you, Bridge Man.

What I do to keep my mind off things.

2007-12-21T16:38:00.001-06:00

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

2007-12-16T23:21:00.000-06:00

*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

2007-12-04T21:47:00.000-06:00

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

2007-11-28T12:39:00.000-06:00

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

2007-11-09T11:33:00.000-06:00

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

2007-10-25T16:02:00.000-05:00

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

2007-10-18T16:11:00.000-05:00

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

2007-10-17T15:34:00.000-05:00

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

2007-10-02T11:56:00.000-05:00

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.

2007-09-25T11:46:00.000-05:00

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

2007-09-21T16:55:00.001-05:00

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

2007-09-17T16:22:00.001-05:00

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,

2007-09-11T16:10:00.000-05:00

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

2007-09-07T15:55:00.000-05:00

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?

2007-08-31T10:31:00.000-05:00

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

2007-08-27T16:06:00.000-05:00

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

2007-08-15T14:42:00.000-05:00

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

2007-08-10T16:30:00.000-05:00

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

2007-08-06T16:24:00.000-05:00

- 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

2007-08-03T13:22:00.000-05:00

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

2007-07-30T16:59:00.000-05:00

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...

2007-07-23T16:49:00.000-05:00

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

I miss him so much.

What Your Family Doesn't Know...

2007-07-18T16:05:00.000-05:00

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

2007-07-12T16:18:00.000-05:00

* 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

2007-07-06T11:22:00.001-05:00

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?

2007-07-03T15:43:00.000-05:00

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

2007-06-29T15:06:00.000-05:00

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

2007-06-25T13:16:00.000-05:00

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.