Growing up you were like family. I would run into my Paw Paw's office and you would stuff me and my brothers and sisters up with ice cream, candy, and pop and send us on our way with sticky hands and faces much to Paw Paw's dismay. You know I adore you. My entire family is eternally grateful for all 50 years that you've given us.
However, your husband is a big fat perv. It's really weird to speak to you when he's in the room because I feel his stares. His song's he makes up with my name, "Amaya the sweet papaya" really is disgusting. Not only is he tone deaf, but he can't carry a tune. When he raises his eyebrows to me, I want to vomit. Does he really think I would ever even look at him in that light? I like older men, but 65 is a little too old for me. I know you see him stare at my chest even when my arms are folded tightly across my chest. I'm not only grossed out but I'm ashamed.
Your husband brings back a lot of uneasy feelings and memories for me. I know you are a remarkable woman, but forgive me when I cut our conversations short when he suddenly appears.
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Monday, April 27, 2009
Summer Lovin'
I’ve appointed myself an expert on all things summer. Why? Because I feel like appointing myself something and I have a lot of opinions today.
- if I can see your vagina, your shorts are too short. For real.
- Sunscreen- wear it. If I look at you and can’t help but wince in sympathy pains- I can’t imagine how you must be feeling. Even the prettiest summer dress, or most fantastic personality can’t distract someone from a lobster burn. Repeat after me, “baby oil is not my friend”.
- Perhaps skip the long sleeved silk shirt. Silk showcases sweat stains the same way Britney showcases neurosis. And even if your are wearing the most amazing outfit, if you have sweat stains the size of footballs under each arm, I’m going to be distracted.
- If you believe in one thing this summer, believe in the magic of patios. And beers. And beers on patios. Nothing will make you happier.
- If flip flops were husbands, I’d been Elizabeth Taylor. I do believe in keeping ones that you love year after year, but if a pair of flip flops cost less than the cost of a beer splurging on a new pair that are new, clean and bright is a good idea.
- Speaking of flip flops, let’s talk feet. Make them presentable. I mean, let’s face facts. For the majority of the world, feet are not the prettiest things. But you can definitely make sure they don’t make other people scream in horror and run away when showing them off in your new flip flops. Scrub, polish, lotion. Perhaps splurge on a pedicure. But for the love of all good things, if I see another person running around in Juicy Couture flip flops with feet so dry you could rub them together and start a fire- I’m not going to be okay. AT ALL.
- Deodorant is no longer optional for the small minority who thinks it is during the fall, winter and spring months. (Also known as people who always find me in crowded public places and stand far too close to me spouting communist views).
I’m putting my laptop away and heading out to a patio with friends. Because the only thing better than a patio and a beer on a Friday night, is a patio and a beer on a Monday afternoon. Man I love long weekends.
What’s your piece of advice for everyone this summer?
Babies and Unsolicited questions
Yesterday was Haven's baby shower in Jordan's mother's courtyard at her nice Surburban, Northern Virginia home. The baby will make his arrival at the end of May. They have changed his name several different times due to hormones. He will now be called 'Luke'. The look on my Mother's face was utterly priceless when Haven announced his official name. (Becca, Mom and I will work with her on this) The name is repulsive! Grandma even laughed and said 'When can we expect Mark and John since you already have Mathew and Luke!" Haven in all her true beautiful glowing self, just laughed it off preceded by one of the infamous Warner Woman stares.
We were surrounded by beautiful spring tulips and Mountain laurel with waterfalls. We sipped on lemonade, Champagne and ice tea. We ate delicious cucumber sandwhiches and shrimp with tortellini kabobs. We played a bunch of lame games. I was holding Haven's hand as the Mother in law asked the dreaded lame game question: How much weight has Haven gained? Even my mother thought it was out of line. A Warner Woman's weight is a sensitive subject having grown up in Surburban McLean with mothers who want you to be healthy, Tall & thin, i.e. (I am neither) Becca thought it would be cute to answer 65 whopping pounds. However, she has gained 34 lbs at 34 weeks of pregnancy. Is that bad, Lisa? Drew? After we suffered through the lousy questions, I essentially won the Haven game. My gift was a crystal candy bowl and beautiful stationary. I love pretty paper!
After socializing in the hot sun with my grandmother's garden club friends, I had to give me annual State of My Uterus address. These women felt it was neccessary to quiz me on when I was going to get married and have babies. I realize this is a typical question for those of us past our college age years. Yet it astounds me how often I hear this familiar, cliched, if usually (sometimes?) well intentioned, refrain.
Having seen and heard from a number of you it would appear that many of us are fielding the same infernal question, whether you are (1) like me and mentally preparing/wishing for future children and the related concept of 18-24 years of not sleeping in ever, or (2) just not wanting any children of your own, at any point, Marisa is perfect enough or (3) very much wishing to have children but struggling to conceive them in the first place. In short, many of us lady-types happen to not be pregnant right this very second. We are also perhaps not eager to discuss that fact with, by means of completely random example, your sister's boss' ridiculous secretary.
We thirtysomethings need to get together and concoct some politely, snarky retort to all of these pushy questions that we've endured over the years.
Of course, all of these women know everything! Based on the comments I've heard lately from pregnant friends and Haven in particular, I understand that no small number of people are STILL, in this 21st century AD, offering any and all manner of unsolicited, uterus-bound advice, under that most sinister guise of "help".
You might be asking yourself - why is Amaya, who is not pregnant, who has never been pregnant, NOT that it is anyone else's business, taking on this monumental task? What relevant observation could such a person possibly have on a state she has never experienced? Um . . . good question.
Happily, I've never been one to let inexperience get in the way of my opinions. Plus, my pregnant sister and friends are a bit preoccupied at the moment with, you know, being pregnant. And - AND! - you won't find me giving them advice about their current state. Surprising, I know.
In truth, the point of this post is motivated by sincere anger and heartbreak on behalf of my dear Haven who has recently had the double burden of pregnancy worries and fielding your numerous and - might I emphasize - unsolicited offers of advice about the same. To that end, a couple of thoughts from this admitted interloper:
- On how a mother chooses to bring her child into the world: I have no doubt that, due to your carb-free, pesticide-free, shadow-free diet throughout your rigorously scheduled pregnancy, your own personal labor was nothing short of a Broadway musical of delights. Keebler Elves assuredly tap-danced from your ladybits in painless unison to usher your Organic Little Bundle of Joy into the world, while the sun shone from your every orifice and Zac Efron crooned softly in the background.
Here's the thing: although your own pregnancy was a veritable feast of High School Musical delights, reliable sources tell me that might not be the case for everyone. Yes, even if they do follow your highly-regimented advice to the letter. What's more, if the object of your rapturous advice has not been so fortunate as to have such a blissful pregnancy, odds are your storytelling, strewn with fairy dust as it might be, may only serve to make the mom-to-be feel guilty or worse.
- On suggesting that a pregnancy setback or tragedy is the result of divine will: Religion being a deeply personal matter, I won't touch it with a finely manicured finger here except to say this - religion is a deeply personal matter. While some might take comfort in this sort of advice, many - even the spiritual amongst us - might not. Assume the latter & tread carefully, please!
Friends, can't we just all share one big epidural cocktail* and get along - silently, supportively, and, unless specifically asked, without judgment of our pregnant friends?
*Or not, if you or your Life Birth Lamaze Career Coach are against that sort of thing. Gah.
We were surrounded by beautiful spring tulips and Mountain laurel with waterfalls. We sipped on lemonade, Champagne and ice tea. We ate delicious cucumber sandwhiches and shrimp with tortellini kabobs. We played a bunch of lame games. I was holding Haven's hand as the Mother in law asked the dreaded lame game question: How much weight has Haven gained? Even my mother thought it was out of line. A Warner Woman's weight is a sensitive subject having grown up in Surburban McLean with mothers who want you to be healthy, Tall & thin, i.e. (I am neither) Becca thought it would be cute to answer 65 whopping pounds. However, she has gained 34 lbs at 34 weeks of pregnancy. Is that bad, Lisa? Drew? After we suffered through the lousy questions, I essentially won the Haven game. My gift was a crystal candy bowl and beautiful stationary. I love pretty paper!
After socializing in the hot sun with my grandmother's garden club friends, I had to give me annual State of My Uterus address. These women felt it was neccessary to quiz me on when I was going to get married and have babies. I realize this is a typical question for those of us past our college age years. Yet it astounds me how often I hear this familiar, cliched, if usually (sometimes?) well intentioned, refrain.
Having seen and heard from a number of you it would appear that many of us are fielding the same infernal question, whether you are (1) like me and mentally preparing/wishing for future children and the related concept of 18-24 years of not sleeping in ever, or (2) just not wanting any children of your own, at any point, Marisa is perfect enough or (3) very much wishing to have children but struggling to conceive them in the first place. In short, many of us lady-types happen to not be pregnant right this very second. We are also perhaps not eager to discuss that fact with, by means of completely random example, your sister's boss' ridiculous secretary.
We thirtysomethings need to get together and concoct some politely, snarky retort to all of these pushy questions that we've endured over the years.
Of course, all of these women know everything! Based on the comments I've heard lately from pregnant friends and Haven in particular, I understand that no small number of people are STILL, in this 21st century AD, offering any and all manner of unsolicited, uterus-bound advice, under that most sinister guise of "help".
You might be asking yourself - why is Amaya, who is not pregnant, who has never been pregnant, NOT that it is anyone else's business, taking on this monumental task? What relevant observation could such a person possibly have on a state she has never experienced? Um . . . good question.
Happily, I've never been one to let inexperience get in the way of my opinions. Plus, my pregnant sister and friends are a bit preoccupied at the moment with, you know, being pregnant. And - AND! - you won't find me giving them advice about their current state. Surprising, I know.
In truth, the point of this post is motivated by sincere anger and heartbreak on behalf of my dear Haven who has recently had the double burden of pregnancy worries and fielding your numerous and - might I emphasize - unsolicited offers of advice about the same. To that end, a couple of thoughts from this admitted interloper:
- On how a mother chooses to bring her child into the world: I have no doubt that, due to your carb-free, pesticide-free, shadow-free diet throughout your rigorously scheduled pregnancy, your own personal labor was nothing short of a Broadway musical of delights. Keebler Elves assuredly tap-danced from your ladybits in painless unison to usher your Organic Little Bundle of Joy into the world, while the sun shone from your every orifice and Zac Efron crooned softly in the background.
Here's the thing: although your own pregnancy was a veritable feast of High School Musical delights, reliable sources tell me that might not be the case for everyone. Yes, even if they do follow your highly-regimented advice to the letter. What's more, if the object of your rapturous advice has not been so fortunate as to have such a blissful pregnancy, odds are your storytelling, strewn with fairy dust as it might be, may only serve to make the mom-to-be feel guilty or worse.
- On suggesting that a pregnancy setback or tragedy is the result of divine will: Religion being a deeply personal matter, I won't touch it with a finely manicured finger here except to say this - religion is a deeply personal matter. While some might take comfort in this sort of advice, many - even the spiritual amongst us - might not. Assume the latter & tread carefully, please!
Friends, can't we just all share one big epidural cocktail* and get along - silently, supportively, and, unless specifically asked, without judgment of our pregnant friends?
*Or not, if you or your Life Birth Lamaze Career Coach are against that sort of thing. Gah.
Saturday, April 25, 2009
A Song for Me?
Joseph told me that when he listens to Beyonce's 'If I were a Boy' - he thinks of me and all of man troubles! He was actually understanding and sincere.
Is there a song that reminds you of someone?
Is there a song that reminds you of someone?
Friday, April 24, 2009
Motto of the Nite....
You can sleep with a redhead
You can sleep with a brunette
But
You won't get any sleep with a blond!!
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
Nutshell
I Love…
myself (don’t hate me because it was the first thing that came to my mind,- I was raised this way), my family (because if I said ’shoes’ next that would look reeeally bad), seeing potential, the smell of suntan lotion, books that make me cry, people who make me think, *a man with a plan, Friday nights when I’m sleeping by 10pm, hot showers on cold mornings, the face a child makes when they finally understand refraction, my friends, Cristal, the feel of clean sheets, dirty jokes, songs that feel like they were written about my life, Fridays, the mysterious allure of Kevin Costner, shoes!, when I get what it’s all about, people who are witty to the point of genius (ie. Jon Stewart).
I Ache…
(sadly) after an hour of really intense playtime my many nieces and nephews who have deemed me the human jungle gym. And during Aunt Flow’s visit.
I Always…
wake up before my alarm clock goes off, say “thank you”, blush when people make a big deal out of hearing me swear, try to give exact change, cry at weddings, think more is better, giggle when someone says ‘balls’ (because apparently I’m 9 years old), talk with my hands, leave a good tip, stop talking when I’m mad, complain about celebrity fascination but then catch myself wondering if Jen A will ever find true love.
I Usually…
write too much when answering these. Brush my teeth 3 to 4 times a day, take my shoes off before I go into my house.
I Am Not…
likely to ever stop being a daddy’s girl, really competive (unless it’s Scrabble and then I want to destroy you and all your loved ones everyone to try their best and have fun), able to lie well, faster than a speeding bullet, likely to ever beat you on a math test, eager for Friday, good at bartering, a fan party boys or most sugar free products
I Dance…
When I'm drunk, with my eyes closed, until I’m sweaty, as I master my air guitar, while planning my wedding to Justin Timberlake, with a passion rivaled only by those competing on “Dancing with the Stars”.
* a man with a plan refers to a well-adjusted man who doesn’t need a 5 drink minimum/an entourage/lifts in his shoes/a blackberry to feel confident enough to come over and say hi.
myself (don’t hate me because it was the first thing that came to my mind,- I was raised this way), my family (because if I said ’shoes’ next that would look reeeally bad), seeing potential, the smell of suntan lotion, books that make me cry, people who make me think, *a man with a plan, Friday nights when I’m sleeping by 10pm, hot showers on cold mornings, the face a child makes when they finally understand refraction, my friends, Cristal, the feel of clean sheets, dirty jokes, songs that feel like they were written about my life, Fridays, the mysterious allure of Kevin Costner, shoes!, when I get what it’s all about, people who are witty to the point of genius (ie. Jon Stewart).
I Ache…
(sadly) after an hour of really intense playtime my many nieces and nephews who have deemed me the human jungle gym. And during Aunt Flow’s visit.
I Always…
wake up before my alarm clock goes off, say “thank you”, blush when people make a big deal out of hearing me swear, try to give exact change, cry at weddings, think more is better, giggle when someone says ‘balls’ (because apparently I’m 9 years old), talk with my hands, leave a good tip, stop talking when I’m mad, complain about celebrity fascination but then catch myself wondering if Jen A will ever find true love.
I Usually…
write too much when answering these. Brush my teeth 3 to 4 times a day, take my shoes off before I go into my house.
I Am Not…
likely to ever stop being a daddy’s girl, really competive (unless it’s Scrabble and then I want to destroy you and all your loved ones everyone to try their best and have fun), able to lie well, faster than a speeding bullet, likely to ever beat you on a math test, eager for Friday, good at bartering, a fan party boys or most sugar free products
I Dance…
When I'm drunk, with my eyes closed, until I’m sweaty, as I master my air guitar, while planning my wedding to Justin Timberlake, with a passion rivaled only by those competing on “Dancing with the Stars”.
* a man with a plan refers to a well-adjusted man who doesn’t need a 5 drink minimum/an entourage/lifts in his shoes/a blackberry to feel confident enough to come over and say hi.
Love Letters
Sometimes I really do think I was born in the wrong era. I yearn to be a heroine in a Jane Austen novel. Fastened into a corset, wrapped up in yards of silk and a bonnet- clutching a finely written love letter from a lover on an adventure, but aching to return to me.
But I was born in the late 70's. Meaning, that the majority of my adult ‘love letters’ have come in the form of emails. I know this is partly my fault (I tend to email people before calling, or actually- gasp!- seeing them), but last night while I embarked on the dreaded tasks of cleaning up my email account, I couldn’t help but feel sad about it all.
My grandkids will not inherit dusty stacks of ink stained declarations of love wrapped up in faded ribbon. There will be no discoveries of who I loved at 18 years, or 22, 25, or 30. There will be no tangible evidence of the loves I’ve held and the loves I’ve lost. And in ways that I’m sure I will articulate better when I’m older, this makes me feel like I’ve done a disservice- not only to those I would want to share the letters with, but to myself.
As I allowed myself a bumpy trip down memory lane re-reading all the emails that I’ve amassed over the years, I found myself surprised at what I found. I had forgotten how lovely love could be. How earnest a man in love could sound, what surprises could unfold when I clicked to open an email. I found words that made me cry, words that made me laugh- words that took me back to a time when I felt smarter, but was far more foolish. I found words so… bare, so private I felt like an intruder reading them, though they were addressed to me. I found myself wistful- not for the man, but for the moment when a few short sentences would say everything I needed and wished to hear.
I poured myself a drink and sat back, staring at pages and pages of sweet notes crammed with inside jokes, long letters filled with promises of things to come and messages short on punctuation but long on thought. I realized that if I wanted to, I could print each one out, wrap them tightly and store them away, computer print-outs on pristine white paper never touched by anyone but me. Or I could let them sit in my inbox, a reminder of what is over. Or, I could delete them all, and start new. And promise myself that my Los, my love would be given a pen.
I deleted them all. I deserve the dusty stacks, touched by his hands as well as mine. I want that. And I know one day, my grandkids will too.
I’m off to find a bonnet.
But I was born in the late 70's. Meaning, that the majority of my adult ‘love letters’ have come in the form of emails. I know this is partly my fault (I tend to email people before calling, or actually- gasp!- seeing them), but last night while I embarked on the dreaded tasks of cleaning up my email account, I couldn’t help but feel sad about it all.
My grandkids will not inherit dusty stacks of ink stained declarations of love wrapped up in faded ribbon. There will be no discoveries of who I loved at 18 years, or 22, 25, or 30. There will be no tangible evidence of the loves I’ve held and the loves I’ve lost. And in ways that I’m sure I will articulate better when I’m older, this makes me feel like I’ve done a disservice- not only to those I would want to share the letters with, but to myself.
As I allowed myself a bumpy trip down memory lane re-reading all the emails that I’ve amassed over the years, I found myself surprised at what I found. I had forgotten how lovely love could be. How earnest a man in love could sound, what surprises could unfold when I clicked to open an email. I found words that made me cry, words that made me laugh- words that took me back to a time when I felt smarter, but was far more foolish. I found words so… bare, so private I felt like an intruder reading them, though they were addressed to me. I found myself wistful- not for the man, but for the moment when a few short sentences would say everything I needed and wished to hear.
I poured myself a drink and sat back, staring at pages and pages of sweet notes crammed with inside jokes, long letters filled with promises of things to come and messages short on punctuation but long on thought. I realized that if I wanted to, I could print each one out, wrap them tightly and store them away, computer print-outs on pristine white paper never touched by anyone but me. Or I could let them sit in my inbox, a reminder of what is over. Or, I could delete them all, and start new. And promise myself that my Los, my love would be given a pen.
I deleted them all. I deserve the dusty stacks, touched by his hands as well as mine. I want that. And I know one day, my grandkids will too.
I’m off to find a bonnet.
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Update
All is well here after having a wonderful weekend! Perfect weekend weather this weekend too. Lets get that boat Mr. V!
Saturday, April 18, 2009
Happy Birthday Emily
Emily is 6 today!
I'm hungover.
I'm no good.
Going to dry up in the sun.
Sex on the beach is not good for me.
I'm hungover.
I'm no good.
Going to dry up in the sun.
Sex on the beach is not good for me.
Sunday, April 12, 2009
A Sign of the Times
I'm not exaggerating when I tell you that in the last week I've had roughly five people solicit my house for various services. While that may not be extraordinary in another neighborhood it is unheard of here where my *No Soliciting* sign and adjacent gate generally let people know ahead of time that I'm not interested. Not that I'm being bitchy...I just usually know that I wont be interested in the Vacuum that doubles as a jump rope or the gajillion magazine subscriptions I'll never read. But if you're selling Girl Scout cookies......
Seriously, there's been a marked increase in the number of house calls I've received. As well, the cast of characters are not the usual door-to-door salesman meets Harry Krishna type. Several days ago I answered the door only to come face to face with an impeccably dressed gentleman in his early 50's who, after getting over the initial shock of finding me in my pajamas at 2PM, proceeded to launch into a diatribe about various investment options. Before I could let the poor man know about my illicit affair with Charles Schwabb he flashed his card, handed me a pamphlet and scurried off to the retirement community. Glancing at his card I took note of his name and it was a good thing that I did as two days later I received a thank you note from said gentleman thanking me for my time! This wasn't your random proselytizing freak but clearly a man who believes that, in this dire economy, desperate times call for desperate measures.
And you know what? I respect that.
But that's besides the point.
Fact is I'm finding more and more individuals going back to basics and soliciting themselves and their services door-to-door as waiting for the phone to ring isn't cutting it any longer. Just in the last few days I've had investment man, a representative from the American Lung Cancer Association, Merry Maids, Various Handymen and two arborists stop by and either ask for donations or offer services. While I don't like the blatant disregard for my *No Soliciting* sign I empathize with their plight of needing to make ends meet. Hence, I don't chew off their head and ask if English is their first language when I answer the door and realize there's no Girl Scout cookies in sight.
It's definitely a sign of the times. Maybe I should change my sign to *Good Luck*
Seriously, there's been a marked increase in the number of house calls I've received. As well, the cast of characters are not the usual door-to-door salesman meets Harry Krishna type. Several days ago I answered the door only to come face to face with an impeccably dressed gentleman in his early 50's who, after getting over the initial shock of finding me in my pajamas at 2PM, proceeded to launch into a diatribe about various investment options. Before I could let the poor man know about my illicit affair with Charles Schwabb he flashed his card, handed me a pamphlet and scurried off to the retirement community. Glancing at his card I took note of his name and it was a good thing that I did as two days later I received a thank you note from said gentleman thanking me for my time! This wasn't your random proselytizing freak but clearly a man who believes that, in this dire economy, desperate times call for desperate measures.
And you know what? I respect that.
But that's besides the point.
Fact is I'm finding more and more individuals going back to basics and soliciting themselves and their services door-to-door as waiting for the phone to ring isn't cutting it any longer. Just in the last few days I've had investment man, a representative from the American Lung Cancer Association, Merry Maids, Various Handymen and two arborists stop by and either ask for donations or offer services. While I don't like the blatant disregard for my *No Soliciting* sign I empathize with their plight of needing to make ends meet. Hence, I don't chew off their head and ask if English is their first language when I answer the door and realize there's no Girl Scout cookies in sight.
It's definitely a sign of the times. Maybe I should change my sign to *Good Luck*
Thursday, April 09, 2009
If things had been different...
Before I met Jack Daniels, discovered how important reading glasses are and found myself commenting on the price of gasoline, I was a kid. I was a kid who had big expectations for herself.
When I was little, being 20 years old made you an adult. Because being 20 years old meant you weren’t a teenager anymore and the only thing after a teenager was an adult. So once I was 20, I was going to be a teacher and a psychologist (apparently Doogie Howser and I drank from the same water bottle). I was going to have high heels and wear lots of pink skirts with flowers on them.
My hair would be really long and always blonde, no dark roots of course.
I would have a big house that had a porch all the way around it. I would have lots of flowers in my yard. I would have a housekeeper. I would drive a brand new red car and I would have gone to St Croix (a place of fascination in my youth). I would have actual tea parties, call people ‘darling’ and wear scarves around my head when I drove.
I would be married.
My husband would look like Uncle Jesse, but would make me laugh like Joey. Sometimes we would kiss when I wanted, and if I didn’t want to he would build me stuff like bookcases and take me fancy places for dinner where the forks would be as small as the ones in my playhouse. I would stay all the way up until 2 am and if I wanted, I would have vanilla cake with chocolate frosting for breakfast.
I would complain about bills, but always have enough money to pay them. I would have cloth napkins and always remember to say “may I ask who’s calling?”, when giving the phone to someone else. I would refinish furniture, quote Shakespeare in random conversation and own a well-used picnic basket.
I would worry about losing my wedding ring down the drain.
I’m past 20 now. A few years past, actually. And I realize that my life isn’t at all what I thought it would be like. I’m my own significant other, I don't drive that candy apple red convertible and I can’t remember the last time I had cake for breakfast.
Am I sad that my life is so different than what I imagined? Sometimes. It does sound easier. But I’m slowly learning easier isn’t always better and if this life means having more disappointments than I thought I would, I’m okay with it.
Besides, if I had the life I always thought I wanted, I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t know Jack,- Daniels that is.
When I was little, being 20 years old made you an adult. Because being 20 years old meant you weren’t a teenager anymore and the only thing after a teenager was an adult. So once I was 20, I was going to be a teacher and a psychologist (apparently Doogie Howser and I drank from the same water bottle). I was going to have high heels and wear lots of pink skirts with flowers on them.
My hair would be really long and always blonde, no dark roots of course.
I would have a big house that had a porch all the way around it. I would have lots of flowers in my yard. I would have a housekeeper. I would drive a brand new red car and I would have gone to St Croix (a place of fascination in my youth). I would have actual tea parties, call people ‘darling’ and wear scarves around my head when I drove.
I would be married.
My husband would look like Uncle Jesse, but would make me laugh like Joey. Sometimes we would kiss when I wanted, and if I didn’t want to he would build me stuff like bookcases and take me fancy places for dinner where the forks would be as small as the ones in my playhouse. I would stay all the way up until 2 am and if I wanted, I would have vanilla cake with chocolate frosting for breakfast.
I would complain about bills, but always have enough money to pay them. I would have cloth napkins and always remember to say “may I ask who’s calling?”, when giving the phone to someone else. I would refinish furniture, quote Shakespeare in random conversation and own a well-used picnic basket.
I would worry about losing my wedding ring down the drain.
I’m past 20 now. A few years past, actually. And I realize that my life isn’t at all what I thought it would be like. I’m my own significant other, I don't drive that candy apple red convertible and I can’t remember the last time I had cake for breakfast.
Am I sad that my life is so different than what I imagined? Sometimes. It does sound easier. But I’m slowly learning easier isn’t always better and if this life means having more disappointments than I thought I would, I’m okay with it.
Besides, if I had the life I always thought I wanted, I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t know Jack,- Daniels that is.
X+Y+Z= I'm a rawk star!
Confession: I have boots that I like more than some people. And before you judge me, let’s talk about the boots. They have a heel, are coal black and have a soft cushion insole. They zip up to my knee and do everything you wish magic boots could do. I mean, Cinderella wishes she had shoes like this. When I wear them my legs look longer, I feel three feet taller and suddenly everything I say becomes witty, important and/or insanely insightful. In these boots I’m pretty sure I could keep my own with Brad Pitt- they are just that great. I’m guaranteed a sigh of happiness every time I look down. They look perfect with skirts, dresses or jeans and I’m pretty sure they would even complement a wedding dress. In short, they are perfect. They are the George Clooney of my shoe collection.
I’m wearing them today, thus- boots are: X
Confession: For me, good hair days are better than Prozac. I’m not talking about the manageable good hair day, or the one that becomes good after 10 minutes of straightening/curling/pleading/blowdrying/concocting a recipe of gel,mouse and/or hairspray- I’m talking about the good hair that just starts out awesome. The one where you wake up and you think, ‘what the hell?! Is this really my hair? God does love me!” sort of hair day that prompts you to run all your errands you put off just so you can hopefully run into people. The sort of hair day I imagine Reese Witherspoon wakes up everyday having and that Britney won’t ever again. This hair day happened to me today. It’s shiny, with volume and it just feels longer today (and having it feel long is an important part of it looking great). I suspect it’s not likely to happen again before 2012 so I’m considering going to get head shots taken at Sears!!!
Anyway, fantastic hair day is: Y
Confession: “Irreplaceable” is on my ipod and I love it. (This is where the word ‘confession’ actually becomes relevant). I’m pretty sure when I sing along I sound even better than Beyonce and that I become the first person on the face of the Earth who actually looks cool singing with their eyes closed. Seriously. I don’t know what it is about that song but I could listen to it all the time.
Feeling like I could win a Grammy with todays sing-a-long: Z
Today I found myself going into Walmart wearing my boots with the shiny hair when the Z song came on my ipod. I didn’t walk down those aisles, I strutted through the gaggles of old men and women like a rock star without the drug addiction or entourage. I assume the seniors who stared were looking at my great hair, although in hindsight maybe it was because I was singing out loud.
Spring is here and today it’s in my step!
I’m wearing them today, thus- boots are: X
Confession: For me, good hair days are better than Prozac. I’m not talking about the manageable good hair day, or the one that becomes good after 10 minutes of straightening/curling/pleading/blowdrying/concocting a recipe of gel,mouse and/or hairspray- I’m talking about the good hair that just starts out awesome. The one where you wake up and you think, ‘what the hell?! Is this really my hair? God does love me!” sort of hair day that prompts you to run all your errands you put off just so you can hopefully run into people. The sort of hair day I imagine Reese Witherspoon wakes up everyday having and that Britney won’t ever again. This hair day happened to me today. It’s shiny, with volume and it just feels longer today (and having it feel long is an important part of it looking great). I suspect it’s not likely to happen again before 2012 so I’m considering going to get head shots taken at Sears!!!
Anyway, fantastic hair day is: Y
Confession: “Irreplaceable” is on my ipod and I love it. (This is where the word ‘confession’ actually becomes relevant). I’m pretty sure when I sing along I sound even better than Beyonce and that I become the first person on the face of the Earth who actually looks cool singing with their eyes closed. Seriously. I don’t know what it is about that song but I could listen to it all the time.
Feeling like I could win a Grammy with todays sing-a-long: Z
Today I found myself going into Walmart wearing my boots with the shiny hair when the Z song came on my ipod. I didn’t walk down those aisles, I strutted through the gaggles of old men and women like a rock star without the drug addiction or entourage. I assume the seniors who stared were looking at my great hair, although in hindsight maybe it was because I was singing out loud.
Spring is here and today it’s in my step!
Sunday, April 05, 2009
When a Run Can Break Your Heart
I have a confession. I’m a runner.
No, I’m not confessing to slipping on my pink and silver Nike’s at the twilight hour and running until a thin film of sweat covers me and my body aches in appreciation of being tested. My running isn’t healthy and doesn’t do anything positive for my heart. I run from people. Problems. Discussions where arguments hang heavily in the air like the smell of a burnt dinner that’s ruined the night.
I don’t run from every argument, every person. Just the big ones. The really big ones. The ones who matter, the people that earned an explanation before the shotgun goes and my legs start. The ones who deserve you to plant your feet and have the talks you don’t want to. The talks where your awkward fingers dance on tabletops giving you a focus other than someone else’s apologetic eyes.
Running doesn’t mean I don’t say sorry. When I feel something is my fault, when I have been in the wrong, chosen the thoughtless word rather than the the thoughtful act, I apologize. And I mean it. But when someone has hurt my feelings, suddenly my only option is to throw on my sneakers and sprint to a safe spot, avoiding the hurdles that come with a healthy relationship.
Perhaps running would be fine if I wasn’t the type of girl who liked to look back, but I do. I like seeing where I started, how far I’ve come. I need to see my progress, whether it’s the distance between me and the starting line, or me and a boy who broke my heart. But lately, looking back has only shown me how little I’ve moved. Instead of running on an open track, where the perspective changes with each step, I’ve been on a treadmill- pretending. Pretending that my aches and breaks, pains and gains have been worth something, and you know what? They haven’t. Running only works if you feel better from it.
I don’t feel better.
So maybe it’s time to hang up the sneakers and try something a little better for my health. Something that doesn’t promote regret and make my heart ache in a way that only making a big mistake can. Perhaps table tennis.
No, I’m not confessing to slipping on my pink and silver Nike’s at the twilight hour and running until a thin film of sweat covers me and my body aches in appreciation of being tested. My running isn’t healthy and doesn’t do anything positive for my heart. I run from people. Problems. Discussions where arguments hang heavily in the air like the smell of a burnt dinner that’s ruined the night.
I don’t run from every argument, every person. Just the big ones. The really big ones. The ones who matter, the people that earned an explanation before the shotgun goes and my legs start. The ones who deserve you to plant your feet and have the talks you don’t want to. The talks where your awkward fingers dance on tabletops giving you a focus other than someone else’s apologetic eyes.
Running doesn’t mean I don’t say sorry. When I feel something is my fault, when I have been in the wrong, chosen the thoughtless word rather than the the thoughtful act, I apologize. And I mean it. But when someone has hurt my feelings, suddenly my only option is to throw on my sneakers and sprint to a safe spot, avoiding the hurdles that come with a healthy relationship.
Perhaps running would be fine if I wasn’t the type of girl who liked to look back, but I do. I like seeing where I started, how far I’ve come. I need to see my progress, whether it’s the distance between me and the starting line, or me and a boy who broke my heart. But lately, looking back has only shown me how little I’ve moved. Instead of running on an open track, where the perspective changes with each step, I’ve been on a treadmill- pretending. Pretending that my aches and breaks, pains and gains have been worth something, and you know what? They haven’t. Running only works if you feel better from it.
I don’t feel better.
So maybe it’s time to hang up the sneakers and try something a little better for my health. Something that doesn’t promote regret and make my heart ache in a way that only making a big mistake can. Perhaps table tennis.
Thursday, April 02, 2009
Diary of a Sick Baby
Has has been sick for a while only we did not know how sick she was. She wasn't able to convey how she felt to us. She was misdiagnosed twice. Her official diagnosis is Acute Glomerulonephritis. It is essentially inflammation of the kidneys. It is brought on by a Strep. Of course this is all of my fault. A few Saturdays ago Emily complained to me that she had a sore throat. She also had a low grade fever. I went to the Pharmacy and the Pharmacist suggested that I give her Tylenol Meltaways for the pain and fever. I should have took her immeadiately to her Peditrician where she would have been diagnosed correctly. She took those for about 2 days to keep the fever away. She didn't complain anymore. The next time I saw her she was fine. However, Last Thursday she was feverish and puffy. We took her to the ER where she was diagnosed at that time with a UTI. She was prescribed Bactrim.
I spent all day Friday with her and she was swollen and pale, but still very active.
On Saturday morning, she was worse. She vomited her medication up. I intially thought since she is so sensetive to antibiotics that perhaps this was an allergic reaction. The Pharmacist agreed with me. So I took her back to the E.R. where she was misdiagnosed again with a UTI, a Virus, and the face was swollen due to seasonal allergies!!! The doctor did not notice the fact that on Thursday she weighed 45 lbs but weighed 47 on Saturday. We requested blood work, the doctor said NO that it wasn't neccessary. She was prescribed Cephlexin, Flonase, and Zofran and sent home.
She spent most of the day Sunday with Becca, Isaiah, and Chandler and was still puffy.
Monday morning, she was yellow, lethargic, and had the belly of an Ethopian child. She was swelling all over. It was hard to see. She wouldn't leave my side all day. She was the best baby ever! I called her mother, she came after work and said that she has to take her to a different hospital because there is something wrong.
She got to the E.R. and the Dr said that she had Proteinuria. Which is a large amount of protein in the urine as a result of a Bacteria infection. Her blood pressure was dangerously high and she looked almost Mongolian.
She was later seen by her Peditrician who wanted her seen at UVA. She finally was seen by a team of great doctors by the name of Randalla Lakkis and John Barcia. They thoroughly examined her and diagnosed her correctly.
Emily has been brave, only crying when she was injected twice with Predisione. She's had to pee in many cups and has been poked by big needles several times. She's one of the coolest chics I know!!! Keep her in your prayers.
I spent all day Friday with her and she was swollen and pale, but still very active.
On Saturday morning, she was worse. She vomited her medication up. I intially thought since she is so sensetive to antibiotics that perhaps this was an allergic reaction. The Pharmacist agreed with me. So I took her back to the E.R. where she was misdiagnosed again with a UTI, a Virus, and the face was swollen due to seasonal allergies!!! The doctor did not notice the fact that on Thursday she weighed 45 lbs but weighed 47 on Saturday. We requested blood work, the doctor said NO that it wasn't neccessary. She was prescribed Cephlexin, Flonase, and Zofran and sent home.
She spent most of the day Sunday with Becca, Isaiah, and Chandler and was still puffy.
Monday morning, she was yellow, lethargic, and had the belly of an Ethopian child. She was swelling all over. It was hard to see. She wouldn't leave my side all day. She was the best baby ever! I called her mother, she came after work and said that she has to take her to a different hospital because there is something wrong.
She got to the E.R. and the Dr said that she had Proteinuria. Which is a large amount of protein in the urine as a result of a Bacteria infection. Her blood pressure was dangerously high and she looked almost Mongolian.
She was later seen by her Peditrician who wanted her seen at UVA. She finally was seen by a team of great doctors by the name of Randalla Lakkis and John Barcia. They thoroughly examined her and diagnosed her correctly.
Emily has been brave, only crying when she was injected twice with Predisione. She's had to pee in many cups and has been poked by big needles several times. She's one of the coolest chics I know!!! Keep her in your prayers.
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