Triple Word Score

An Airing of the Grievances

2012-01-10T09:57:00.000-08:00

The time has come for an airing of the grievances, and answers to the questions that keep flowing in.

Q: Are you guys really thinking of moving?
Q: Why am I just finding out about this?
Q: If not here, where?
Q: Do you know there are, like, NO jobs anywhere else?
Q: Why?

A: Yes
A: Because it just sort of happened
A: We don't know—if David has any say it will be south, south, south
A: Yes–likeohmygod
A: Because NoVa just doesn't feel like home—it's too busy, impersonal, congested, plain, busy

We don't want to move because we're lonely or don't have anyone to talk to—in reality we have a number of really great friends who live nearby and who are very dear to us. We go to dinner parties with them, we see movies with them, we go to karaoke and out for drinks and ice skating and afternoon shopping trips with them. We watch football with them, when there's football to watch. We even have a small group that we see and have dinner with once a week. We have a church that we attend regularly. We have some family less than an hour away. We are surrounded by love, plans circled on the calendar, things to do, people to talk to. So that's not the problem.

We don't want to move because we think we can find better jobs somewhere else. The truth is there probably isn't a better place in the country right now to find and obtain a job. This place is teeming with them, in many different fields. We are confident that we could find other positions in this area—whether or not they would be exactly what we want to be doing—but it's just that we're not sure that we want them. We know that. We know we can't, theoretically, make as much money somewhere else, or be as career-driven, or as busy. And we don't want those things, we've realized. We don't need to be living in a gated community or driving luxury cars. We want to earn enough to provide for our little family.

We don't want to move because we think it's impossible for us to be happy here. That's silly. What makes us happy is being together, bottom line. No we don't live in an ideal area, or an ideal house, or have the most earth shatteringly exciting jobs right now, but none of that is it. The busyness, the congestion, the weather, the isolation of NoVa is just what we've come to find about it. It is nice to have every store imaginable nearby. It is nice to live 5 minutes from the airport. It is nice to be able to "do city" one day and "do mountains" the next. I know. Plenty of people are happy here. Even we are happy here in our own little way, because at night we snuggle up on our couch and go places—in board games, in conversations, in movies, in our favorite shows, in documentaries. We travel together, and talk along the way, we talk falling into bed at night, we talk in our sleep. We talk, nose-to-nose, when we wake up in the morning. We're happy, we're just not sure we want to be here right now.

That's it. We think we want something different for a while. A change.

Last week my mother told me: Geographical cures rarely work...

I know that. I thought. Don't you think I know that?

The problem is ... there is no problem. Doesn't a cure require an ailment of some sort that needs fixing?

No, it's not fixing, mending, that we need. It's adventure.

You told me we needed that, too, mama. Do you remember?

Not why. Why not? We don't have children or plans to have children for at least a few more years. We have three dogs—they are our biggest handicap. We don't own a house—we would be happy to leave our cute little dumpy townhouse. We are in a position where we can save up money over the next few months. We have work experience. Plus, we're young'ns. At every possible opportunity, someone reminds us of how young we are, how much life we have left to live, how little we really understand of what's really going on. And we know you're right, we're not offended by that.

We just see it as an "If, Then" conditional concept.

IF we are so young, with so much life left to live, with so much time to screw up and put it all back together and figure it all out, THEN why not go? Why not move to a city, a state where neither of us has ever lived before? Why not meet new neighbors, walk the streets completely blind to what is the norm, what is expected of us? Why not live somewhere that has a climate we enjoy—no snow, warm temps, sunshine. A place that has its own culture, not just lots of diversity in place of an actual culture. A place where people are kind and welcoming. Where we know the names of the people who live next to us. Where there is a sense of community that is greater than just knowing where the local community center is. What is it—what is it exactly that we want? Why not just go and find out? Free, for once, of the burden of knowing everything. Free to get lost. It sounds so good, doesn't it?

It's not a complicated thing, I get that. It's just most people only talk about it and never do it. We think we want to do it. We are talking about doing it. Whatever happens after that is all up to the man upstairs.

Stay tuned.

Thankful?

2011-11-21T09:24:00.001-08:00

I'm noticing a trend. The older I get the harder it is to ease into things—life changes...weather changes...my old jeans... and especially the holiday season. When I was in college everything was organized into class periods, semesters and breaks. Everything was easier. Back then, the end of the fall semester meant it was Holiday time! I could easily shift into preparation for Christmas music, home-cooked meals, wrapping, shopping, family time. By the time I pulled my rusty old Volvo onto Treys Drive in early December, I was ready for it.

Everything is different now.

I am unprepared for the sights, sounds, moods of the season. I sprinted through summer, was jolted by a lovely Florida vacation at the end of it, then got slammed by fall's indecision—warm days blended with cold, windy, rainy ones—never knowing what I'd get on any given day. All the while I was buried—whether it was during weekly work hours or on weekend time—mentally stuck under the stack of articles waiting on my desk, the never-ending to do list that got new additions by the hour.

Now we are four days out from Thanksgiving. And I'm not ready. Not ready to tie up loose ends at work as best as I can and let it all go for a four-day weekend. Not ready to pack up my bags and head over the mountain. Not ready to cook and scramble for hours, to trek over to my Great Uncle's and see 50+ family members waiting to hug and catch up. I'm not ready.

I'm not in the mood. I want to hibernate until winter is over. Hide under pillows and blankets dark and heavy enough to keep all of the light out—at least for a while.

It's not the holidays themselves—I love them. I love the cheerfulness, the togetherness, the decorations, the traditions. It's not my family—I'm obsessed with them, and I miss them dearly. It's not even money or lack there of—because it's not about that.

It's that I don't feel thankful.

I feel tired, overwhelmed, annoyed, unbalanced, unavailable, preoccupied. I know I am beyond blessed, but I am stuck in this I'm-not-ready-yet mindset. I just need some more time. I wish I could make time slow down—give me some of my weekend back, give me some of my morning back, and maybe I'll be fine. Give me back a month until Thanksgiving, two months until Christmas, and that just might do the trick.

I don't want to phone in another holiday. It's not worth it. It's not fair. But with the ability to adjust, adapt, I've lost the ability to psyche myself up at a moment's notice. There is no pep to be found in my step, there is no silver lining to spot with vision so foggy. So I go back to basics, the way I was raised. I go back to pen to paper, to pushing until some magic happens, to laying in the dark counting my blessings to bring on sleep.

***
I'm thankful for my amazing husband who is also my best friend. I'm thankful for a supportive and loving family. I'm thankful for my sweet dogs. I'm thankful for my job because even though it brings me down, it still puts food on my table and provides for my family. I'm thankful for my friends who listen to me and encourage me, and make me laugh. I'm thankful for my church and all of the ways it lifts me up. I'm thankful for Diet Cokes and corny jokes that help get me through the day. I'm thankful for my country—even when it lets me down so much that I ache inside. I'm thankful for people who believe in something so much that they're willing to stand out in the cold in protest for it. I'm thankful for warm socks that don't have holes in the toes. I'm thankful for unexpected shopping trips with my mom. I'm thankful for picture messages of my beautiful younger siblings. I'm thankful for an iron and an ironing board reviving the homemaker in me. I'm thankful for basic human compassion. I'm thankful for women who wear the pants. I'm thankful that books are back "in." I'm thankful for good health. I'm thankful for women and men who have the courage to serve in the armed forces that protect our country. I'm thankful for caller ID. I'm thankful for free coffee. I'm thankful for the amazing bloggers who give me a sneek peek into their lives and provide so much inspiration. I'm thankful for people who take a stand for the health of their families and maintain healthy diets and active lifestyles. I'm thankful for our humble abode. I'm thankful for soft tissues. I'm thankful for anything edible that involves pumpkin or sweet potato. I'm thankful for honesty, even when it hurts. I'm thankful for nervous/excited butterflies. I'm thankful for comfortable heels. I'm thankful for my faith. I'm thankful for photographs and how they sometimes capture memories better than a person can. I'm thankful Colin Firth was born. I'm thankful for unexpected kindness. I'm thankful for the ever-present hope inside me that keeps me from ever totally giving up, from believing the worst, that I'm not worth more, because it keeps me going with the promise that there is something bigger out there. Something better.

All l I have to do is stop comparing, dwelling, obsessing, complaining all the time, and just live for today, and then tomorrow, next month, at the start of the new year—go find it.

Life Is Too Short

2011-11-17T11:16:00.001-08:00

Oh, hey. Where have you guys been? I've just been waiting here to post something but no one showed up so I just went and did some other things, like dishes, and... OK. You caught me. I've gone and done it again; I've been cheating on this blog with a sly fox of a fellow called "real life." A portrait of our love looks like this:

But I had enough. I told him to bugger off and leave me to my little world of cheese and cuteness.

****
I have been preoccupied with thangs. Work thangs. Cute husband thangs. Dogs up all night thangs. Friends being happy thangs. Other thangs. I'm done saying thangs now.

And, yes, if you were wondering I AM forcing myself to blog today.

This morning I hopped my hiney out of bed at 6 a.m. as my alarm told me it was time to get up to work out before work. Before—did you hear me? Do I get a medal for that or something? Probably not, because the rest of the story is: I stumbled to my phone, slapped the snooze button on the screen and yelled—to no one in particular— "Life is too short!" as I threw myself back into bed and cuddled up to D. "Life is too short!" I yelled, excusing myself from working out today, something that will likely keep me healthy and kicking for a lot longer? Something is not right in my head.

I've been of the dog-tired sort lately. As most people expected, work spiraled out of control with the loss of two staff members, and I disappeared into all of it for a while. Into the mess of way too much to do and not enough time, enough man power, enough sense to do it all. I took on 3 jobs, welcomed a promotion in October, kept chugging along—stressing out, forgetting to take deep breaths, getting pimples—and juggled and juggled. A replacement for one of the positions started on Monday, so I've been enjoying the pace of a just-two-job day. I have time to come up for air, etc. I have time to peruse wedding sites, which is great timing because my perfectly wonderful dear old friends Emily & Jake just got engaged last Friday!!!!

Aren't they adorbs? After 6 plus years together they are tying the not! Wahoo! Party time! (And that's not even ALL, the day after they got engaged Emily ran her first half-marathon—making her a bride-to-be and a champ!)

Other than taking deep breaths, and cheering for my friends, I'm not quite sure where I am right now. I think I am just standing (sitting) here breathing for the time being. I am gearing up to start over again—to commence the job search, the excitement, rejection, exhaustion, interviews (hopefully) all over again and hope that this time I'll be one of the lucky ones. I've watched a few dear friends leave this place over the past year and while I have been so happy for them, it's been hard to be the one left standing, breathless. Walking empty quiet halls, keeping my head down until 5 p.m., missing the jokes, the joy I used to have here that made the work day a little easier to bear.

I still have the feeling that I am on the verge of something amazing. A new chapter. A fresh start. And whether that is just another chapter of our lives, or a new career chapter, I am hopeful about what it will bring, the peace that will come with it. I feel like I've been emotionally running on empty for far too long, and a new set o' wheels might be just what I need.

Life is too short, and so is the window of opportunity I had to compose this post. The phone is buzzing, the new guy is hovering in my doorway, the Inbox counter on my email is flashing a new number in my face every few seconds. All of it calling me back into the world of work, and I don't want to go, but I will—for now. Getting through today for the promise of something else tomorrow. Sticking around here so I can get there—eventually.

That's enough for now.

My Punch Line

2011-09-21T09:58:00.000-07:00

Of the strong suits that evolved as I grew from a young girl into a woman, self-confidence was just never one of them. I am a walking, talking "What do you think she really meant by that?"—self-doubting and self-loathing punch line. I have made myself the punchline of the joke of my life. That's not to say that my life is a joke, but that if my life were to be represented by one joke, I would be the punch line of my own joke of my own life.

Are you with me?

I don't think I ever asked for this, don't think I wrote in scribbled crayon letters, right below requests for light up tennis shoes and pillow pets, "Dear Santa, Please make me a punch line." Perhaps, in the comments section, my mom can even back me up on this. But none the less, it happened. Whether from mixed-up relationships, anti-social tendencies, negativity, geographical location or air pressure, I became a cutter of emotional proportions. To set the record straight, I am a tall, smiley 24-year-old who is married, gainfully employed and somewhere in the middle weight-wise when it comes to big girls. I have three loving dogs, a massive and loving family (and family-in-law), supportive friends, a good sense of humor. I'd like to think I'm kind to others—though David may dispute that ;)— but it's kindness, compassion to myself that I struggle with. I am not in denial about who I am or where I am, I acknowledge these things hourly, as the minutes pass me by, and I accept that I am not a failure, a flunky, floozy or a fatty. (Sorry, that just felt right.) I am also not in denial about the way I treat myself internally, and how true it is that I need to change. Because for too long, I have taken that self-consciousness and turned it all into a joke—Oh, it's no big deal, it's fine, I don't care—when it is a big deal, it's not fine, and I do care, a lot. I can't call the other person on this or that issue, so I will just make a joke of myself.

No need to feel inferior: I am a frumpy, oversized 24-year-old with a boring life, 100 bucks to her name and a dead-end job. I might as well be 50! Ha!

Whatever you have accomplished is far more important than what I've done: Everyday I go into a job I'm not crazy about and let those cowboys walk all over me! Ha!

You look great in that new outfit, I love your shoes: Here comes disheveled Lia, holes in the elbows of her sweaters, holes in her shoes, stains on her shirt. Ha!

Your opinions are probably more informed and significant than mine: I'm just here, taking orders, doing what's expected of me, staying in line. Go ahead, I'm listening! Ha!

It's not funny anymore.

Self-consciousness, on a surface level, could seem like the most opposite of self-involved or selfish, but lately I can't help but feel they are more similar than you might imagine. You think of the self-conscious girl—knobby-kneed, wearing glasses, big teeth, awkward—and then the self-involved girl—impossibly thin, white teeth, good hair, graceful—and that might be an accurate depiction in most cases, but that doesn't mean the thin graceful one is any more selfish than the other. You see, all these years I have been acknowledging my self-consciousness and rejecting the idea that I could also be selfish. The two are on opposite sides, right?

Not so fast. How can I honestly say that being self-conscious—everything you own makes you look frumpy, why can't you be a better sister, your hair sucks, why can't your stomach be more toned, you don't get what you deserve because you won't stand up for yourself (because you suck)—is not just all about me. It's not about struggling to achieve world peace, or shuttling orphans from war zones, it's about how I feel about me. How other people respond to me, how that, in turn, makes me feel about what they might feel about me. It's the "me" show. I take things too personally, because, well, my self is the number one concern on my mind. I can't make a big change, because my own oversized body is sitting on my potential.

Am I making any sense?

Can a gal be her own major problem and the solution, too? I know I need to make a change, to the find confidence, self-worth and pride that is inside of me, and let it all flourish. But first I have to get out of my own way. I promise I don't suffer from multiple personalities, I understand that this is not a me-myself-and-I situation, but it sort of is. Because it's no one's fault but mine, and the person it is hurting most is me.

I'm ready to stop feeling sorry for myself all of the time, like all of the eyes in a room are on me— scrutinizing everything I do, that each of my coworkers is slumping down into his chair and sighing at my ineptitude. I need to stand up taller, maintain eye contact, be proud of my accomplishments, my wit, even my figure. Embrace all of it, embrace myself.

I am worthy, I am no punch line. A girl with a few jokes, yes, but a walking punch line? No, not ever.

Stream of Consciousness Post

2011-09-13T13:08:00.000-07:00

-Vacations should be done away with. I really mean it. For working people, that is. There should just be two groups of humans: the workers and the vacationers. The workers would never have to come back to work after a blissful vacay, and the vacationers would never have to deal with work stress. It'd be perfect...as long as I'm a vacationer.

-In lieu of employee departure #2 this summer, I have been given (among other, many other, things) the task of posting to our Facebook & Twitter pages. The extreme levels at which my fake enthusiasm comes across in posts is scary. I mean, SCARY. "Check out this cool new gun! You can surely kill something with it, I bet, if you wanted!"

-For people who are plagued with a sweet tooth (as I am), that whole mouth/throat/stomach/body ache that occurs after drinking a Diet Coke and munching on a few SweetTarts should be outlawed in all 50 states. I cannot help that I have no self control. The self, in fact, has no part of it! It is that rolly polly voice in my head.

-Bug bites should never take place while in bed, because when they do, the bitten has no choice but to quietly freak out, rub Cortizone cream on every 20 minutes and believe she has indeed come in contact with bed bugs. And somehow, because of her rotten luck, will end up the first human bed bug-related death. (The bitten has not really come in contact with bed bugs, she is sure of it. She thinks.)

-Glitter nail polish is great because when it chips, it is busy enough that no one (except your OCD self) can really notice.

-H&M clothing was not made for anyone with boobs, hips or long and pointy limbs.

-I finished two books while on vacation. "The Big Sleep" by Raymond Chandler and "Gone Tomorrow" by P.F. Kluge. Both were good, "Gone Tomorrow" was really good, made me think a lot about teaching and writing as a whole. I have had the itch (bed bugs, bed bugs, bed bugs) to start writing seriously again ever since I put the book down.

-Can we all just agree that, if you don't have something of worth to say, you shouldn't say anything at all?

-In the past week or so I've had the strongest desire to move somewhere new and fun and exciting. Not sure if this place really exists. I told Dave I think we should do it while we still can, before we have kids, and jobs that we are too in love with to leave. We agreed that if we're not in a better place (house-wise, job-wise) by next June we will seriously consider just picking up and moving. But where?!

-I'm reading "Water for Elephants" now, it's kind of sort of keeping my attention, but barely. I see the writer on every page, in each conversation—she needed to pull back, way back. I wish I had been her editor. ;)

-I keep hearing this voice in my head (a normal thing for me) that asks: What are you waiting for? I don't know what the answer is yet. I know I want David by my side, I know I want to be editing and writing, but what else? What am I waiting for? I'm scared hard work will dissolve into years that I waited too long, and sat around thinking something would fall out of the sky. My biggest fear is regret—that I could have had what I deserved but didn't do enough—that one more thing—to achieve it.

-But I really mean it about the sweet tooth thing.

September 4th by David

2011-08-30T11:15:00.000-07:00

*Guest Post by David Dangelico

On September 4th, 2010, I married my best friend. Now, almost a year later, I can’t believe how much we have grown. How could I have made the leap then without knowing what I know now? Love gives you a confidence that is unparalleled. When talking to my dad about marrying Lia, he told me never to forget that love is not one person giving 50 percent and the other giving 50 percent, it’s both of you giving 100 percent. Now that I look back on our first year, I realize that he was absolutely right, and that the only person who I would be able to do that with was indeed Lia.

Marriage is a bizarre thing. So many books, movies and songs deal with the subject matter, though nothing can really prepare you for it. No self-help book can teach you how to be a good husband or wife. No movie can unlock the secrets of a man’s mind. No song can teach what is in a woman’s heart. These things are learned from experience and experience alone. Everyone is different in his or her own strange and beautiful way. On September 4th, 2010, I had no idea what I was getting into. All that I knew was that I wanted to get into it with Lia.

As a kid growning up in Wilmington, NC, I always tried to picture who my wife would be. Some famous person I assumed (because, of course I would be famous as well). We would live in New York or LA, I would be making movies, and she would either be acting in them or working on her singing career. Life would be awesome because we would be loaded rich doing crazy things. I would have an enormous swimming pool in the backyard and have a convertible parked in the driveway. It would be perfect, the life of my dreams.

But I got something better. I got Lia, the most real, honest, funny, and smartest person I have ever met. We are not famous; we get to eat our humble dinners by ourselves without being bothered. We don’t have an enormous house in which we would get lost and hardly see each other, we have a modest townhouse with one couch that is just slightly too small for both of us to lie down on (even though we do anyway). I don’t have a lavish car in the driveway, I have a car that is just slightly unreliable, thus forcing us to share a car at least once a month and carpool to work. My life is not the life of my boyhood dreams, but it is most certainly perfect, and I would not choose any other.

They say that the first year of marriage is the hardest, which excites me to no end. Sure our first year had its fair share of disagreements, maybe even a fight or two. But overall, it has been the best year of my life. And they say it is just going to get better? Well then I’m gonna say something that will most certainly make Lia roll her eyes:

Hell yeah!

Womance

2011-08-25T15:41:00.000-07:00

*A note: I hate the "embedding disabled" feature on YouTube. It has totally harshed my mellow this fine eve.

A little distraction does a body good, and more than ever I've been needing a mental break from the craziness that's been going on at work. It's all I think about, dream about, worry (and therein get pimples) about. Mama needs a break.

Dear Key West: See you in one week and two days. Love, Lia

Since I still have one solid work week between me and vacation, I decided to put together a lil' list of my Top 5 most romantic TV/movie scenes EVER for some fun. And oh, did I have fun. I was inspired by 1.) PW's amazing TV romances post and by 2.) my own insanity, including doing Harry's moan from "When Harry Met Sally" for at least half of my ride home from work today.

Here goes nothing, my people (in no particular order):

1. "Well then... your hands are cold."

I think that I thought I was the kind of woman who didn't like modern remakes of classic romantic dramas until I saw a remake of a classic romantic drama like "Pride and Prejudice" (2005). Everything about this movie is lovely: the cinematography, the clothing (swoon), the men (NOT the trollish cousin), the dances. I die for Darcy. There is nothing that wins my heart like a tall, dark and seemingly cold man.

My little sisters made me watch this movie in bed one weekend when I was home visiting from college, and I think we laid in bed and watched it at least 3 times in a row. I had no idea what I was getting myself into. There is no swoon like the swoon I succumb to during the final scene in which, just as the sun begins to rise, the figures of Darcy and Elizabeth Bennet emerge from a lush, dense fog and confront one another and the love between them. It is sweet, innocent, passionate, honest, raw and beautiful—and I love it.

2. "It was enough."

If you're not a "LOST" fan, well, first: I'm sorry and second: You won't really get this, but if you have a pulse it will still make you cry?

"LOST" is such a romantic show to me for many reasons—the main one being that David introduced (read: forced) me to the show, and the experience of watching it with him was very special.

This scene is from an episode called "The Constant," in which Desmond (one of the people stranded on the island) is finally able to contact his long, lost love Penny by phone. They are fragile, confused, broken, scared, but never more in love. Many years have passed since their last contact and it's very apparent that their love is what keeps them afloat. I get chills as soon as they begin to speak.

My favorite part of the whole thing takes place right after the phone connection goes dead and Desmond realizes their conversation is over. He turns to the man who set up the call, Sayid, who immediately apologizes that the call was cut short. So naturally, gently, thankfully, Desmond simply replies "It was enough." After years, across oceans, a one minute conversation was enough for him.

Couldn't find an embed-able video, but here it is on YouTube: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sCmLg3omWVE&feature=related

(Watch it if you know what's good for ya.)

3. "I was gonna get these to you."

In my many, many (24) years on Earth, I have discovered a simple fact: A lady is either into "Sex and The City" or not.

I am the former.

In the interest of full disclosure, I guess you could call me a "Sex and the City" fiend. I have the entire series, and I even have both a DVD and a Blu Ray of the first movie. I love all of it—except the 2nd movie. I'm sorry, but, just, NO.

The show is a journey, and the movie picks right up where the show leaves off. I eat it up. I love how even once the fairy tale of Carrie & Big has been tied up in a bow in the show, the movie puts them back through the ringer. That's real life. And, call me a sap, but the gut-wrenching heartache that Carrie and Big experience in the movie is perfectly presented by SJP and Chris Noth. They are the bomb.

It would be unfair for me not to tell you that I am also a Team Big girl. That will never ever change.

This scene moved and still moves me in ways I can barely explain. Maybe it's the swelling music, maybe it's the restoring of faith, maybe it's just two simple characters that I have been rooting for for so long finally getting what they really want.

You invest all this time and energy and tears in these characters and they become like family. If you think I'm a freak, you don't watch good enough TV. (Or maybe I am just a freak.)

Watch it here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UQEHtGdq1mE

4. "It's gonna be OK."

Did you know that this post is really just all about me? You did? SWELL.

I die for Ben Affleck. I love him. I will even say that while "Gili" is playing in any and every home in America. He is smart, tender, kind, funny—and that smile. Lord, give me strength. I luff the man. Do you believe me yet?

Therefore, unsurprisingly, (and because it was a great movie) I loved "He's Just Not That Into You." Fun cast, great acting, clever writing, I was into it 100 percent.

All of the couples in this movie are great, but of course the one with Jen Anniston and Ben makes my heart melt.

They have broken up and haven't seen each other in a while. Jen is in pieces dealing with her father's recent heart attack and the chaos that stemmed from that. She is needing him more than ever, and just like that—he shows up for her. I cry, cry, cry so hard and it's not even the romantic scene most would think.

But a man showing up for his woman when she needs him most, is there anything more attractive than that??

Watch here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DHu1WxQ7tBU

5. "I came here tonight because when you realize you want to spend the rest of your life with somebody, you want the rest of the life to start as soon as possible."

Surprise! (Not.) It's the final scene from "When Harry Met Sally" when silly ole' Harry finally comes to his senses and runs—I squeal at his little legs moving so fast—to find Sally on New Years Eve and proclaim his love to her. I love the running, I love the out-of-breath-ness, I love her hair and neckline (I'm weird), I love the writing and how it gives me chills all over and makes me cry every, every time. This is the kind of stuff I grew up on, so David, if you're reading this you can point to movies/scenes such as this one as the reason I say things like "Whyyyy can't you be more romannntic?"

Heartfelt, poetic, honest, sweet, funny—here is Harry's final speech:

"Harry: Well how about this way. I love that you get cold when it's seventy one degrees out, I love that it takes you an hour and a half to order a sandwich, I love that you get a little crinkle above your nose when you're looking at me like I'm nuts, I love that after I spend a day with you I can still smell your perfume on my clothes and I love that you are the last person I want to talk to before I go to sleep at night. And it's not because I'm lonely, and it's not because it's New Years Eve. I came here tonight because when you realize you want to spend the rest of your life with somebody, you want the rest of the life to start as soon as possible.

Sally: You see, that is just like you Harry. You say things like that and you make it impossible for me to hate you. And I hate you Harry... I really hate you. I hate you."

(She doesn't at all, not one bit.)

Now you tell me your favorite romantic scenes, OK? OK! Go!

P.S: David would like me to add "the most romantic scene according to men." He would like to say that: "this is the epitome of romantic cool." Whatever the hell that means.

Accept The Good

2011-08-19T08:24:00.000-07:00

I've had a tough last few weeks, we all know it's been a long and exhausting summer. I thought the storm was about to break, but with some bad news yesterday, I learned I have more tough days ahead. And the usual things happen: shock, anger, frustration, saddness—all stirring inside you until you collapse into bed sobbing like a baby the minute you get home from work.

But the moral of the story is: you get back up.

You step into the shower, letting the steam and hot water wash over you, your tear-stained face and bloodshot eyes. You stand there and take deep breaths and hold back more tears and try to wipe your mind clear. You dry off, put on fresh clothes and you go downstairs. You let your husband hold you like child, you talk on the phone to your sisters who encourage you, inspire you, comfort you, make you laugh.

You laugh so hard your stomach hurts. You let them warm your heart. You let yourself be happy. You remember all that you have to be thankful for.

Then comes sleep. No dreams. Just blackness, breathing, a knowledge that morning will come soon enough. You will rise again and face it all, and you will take it all in stride. You will overcome with kindness and with hard work. You will find a way to warm your own heart, and to move on and let a big change become the norm. Constantly moving forward until it's hard to remember things being any other way.

You get there by letting yourself be sad, crying all the tears you can manage, reminding yourself to take deep breaths and then managing a laugh—even if you have to fake it at first—just long enough to tell yourself you're going to be OK. Everything's going to be OK.

Things That Should Never End

2011-08-11T08:37:00.000-07:00

I am here today to file a petition against the phrase "all good things must come to an end." I hope that you can get through my highly complicated, important and convincing argument, which is:

WHY?

I hope I didn't lose anyone back there.

Look, I can swallow "life is not fair." I can take "the grass is always greener," I may roll my eyes, but I accept them—like a champ. But when you come at me with something as offensive as "all good things must come to an end," a girl has to put up a fight.

But per usual, I don't really have it in me to put up a fight, so instead of just crawling into bed like a lazy sack o' (big) bones, I offer you this list of things that should never, I repeat, NEVER, ever, ever, ever—get the picture?—end.

1. Good books that a lot of people didn't like

The Corrections, by Jonathan Franzen

My love affair with Jonathan Franzen began long before people started hating him for this book and the novel that followed called "Freedom." Well, actually, "The Corrections" came out in 2001, and I first saw him speak in 2005, but that's all apples and oranges, my people. I'm saying I love the man. Critics who actually like him call his work "serious fiction," and while I would normally laugh at that, I can see what they mean. There is nothing simple about the plot lines, the characters, the language in Franzen's writing. His view of the world—perverted, cynical, hopeless—pervades the pages of his novels. It can make it hard to turn each page, more like a chore than an enjoyable task that many people look for in reading. But I am enjoying the struggle, the chomping on big words and—yes, a gal can admit it—using my dictionary from time to time. Franzen is an intellectual, and I knew it the first time I heard him read, back in '05, when he read excerpts from a piece on bird hunting. Within moments, I was hooked. He has a way of making me care about things I never thought I could ever understand, let alone have an opinion on. He never takes the easy route, spoon-feeding his readers, his fiction is work. It's a chore, like any other. But I know he is making me a better reader, a smarter one. And if he could just make it so these last 15 pages never end, I will vote for him for President.

2. This glass of red wine

Look closer, the bottle's empty.

There's not much to say other than, AM I RIGHT? There is nary a sadder feeling, a more depressed state than a gal with a just-drunk empty glass o' wine.

3. Bowls of pasta

If you don't want to swim in this, you're lying to yourself.

Stop whatever it is that you're doing and go make this pasta now. N-O-W. Pioneer Woman, with all of her butter and her whole milk, does a body right. (When right means full of calories and badly needing a gym membership.)

4. Good T.V. shows

Stop hating on LOST and go watch it. Acceptable substitutions include: Mad Men, The Big C, The Wire, The West Wing, Boardwalk Empire, everything but the last episode of The Killing, I could go on, but I won't.

I was born a simple girl in a simple world. I grew up in a farm house, on a farm with no animals. We had casseroles for dinner most nights, we didn't say "shut up" and we only had three channels on T.V. In our butter-yellow farm house, T.V. was for boring people who got bored and didn't like trampolines and pushing each other into cow pies. This behavior—minus the cow pies—continued up until college. That all changed once I met my sweetie pie, and he introduced me to the world of good television. I didn't know such a thing existed, but now I have seen every teaser and special feature, heard every commentary, watched each pilot, viewed fan videos on youtube on repeat, listened to the soundtracks. I am up on the current-TV times. And, there are few things more cruel and unusual than having to say goodbye to a show, a cast of characters–your friends—that you've grown into for hours, months, years of your life. I don't like life without Sayid breaking a bad guy's neck with his feet. I don't appreciate the great state of New Jersey without Tony Soprano in it. I don't even want to go to Crab Fest in Baltimore, because I know that The Wire is no more. I am too depressed to go on...

5. Colin Firth's life

Oh, the heavenly goodness.

Why did I even go here? But seriously. I am shouting this one right up to the Big Man's ears. Don't do it, please. Just don't. I read "Tuck Everlasting," and I'm pretty sure with all of your powers and miracles that keeping one sweet, handsome, funny, humble, loving, scruffy, curly-haired, romantic, lean, tall, smiley British man won't break Ye Heavenly Bank. At least, if you're going to do it, good Lord, please just take me first.

The 5 Best Things My Friends Have Taught Me

2011-08-02T10:28:00.000-07:00

In life, a lesson can be learned every second. Don't do that again. Move more quickly next time. Be careful. Ask more questions the next time around. We learn them in high chairs, in classrooms, in our cars, at the mall, surfing the web. These lessons come together and make us who we are.

I look at myself in a photograph interacting with others, I watch a video, I re-read words I typed in a conversation and I wonder: Why do I say that? How did I learn that expression? Why did I act this way? How did I get here? And I can't help but open my eyes to the people around me in those photos and conversations, and when I do I realize just how much my friends have taught (and continue to teach) me about life.

1.) Don't be stupid: Hither Jembere

We were college roommates freshman year, does it get anymore poetic? From day one—when Hither arrived at least 5 hours late for move in—I admired her. Her intelligence, her humor, her view of the world. I can hear her now—faint traces of her native Zimbabwean tongue in her speech–and I can see her hand on her hip and her face contorted in disgust as she chides someone for a dumb comment, an ignorant observation. Every ounce of her saying "You can't be serious. Don't be so stupid." While chronically late, misplacing things and restless, Hither is honest, practical. Complaining of a headache or another ailment, I would reach for a bottle of Advil. "Don't be stupid," Hither would say, not harshly, but lovingly—like a mother. "Drink a glass of cold water."
And to this day, I remember her words and I do just that.

2.) Act your age: Lindsey Johnson

Early on in our college career, Lindsey fell for me and my Thriller-Nights moves, and it has been love like heart-shaped chicken nuggets ever since. Lost already? I'm not surprised. Lindsey and I are such an odd pair—laughing when it's inappropriate, going out of our way to steal the attention in a room, squealing with delight, talking too much, not having the words to adequately convey just how freaking exciting, surprising, scary something is. We don't make sense. We are dramatic, silly, mostly annoying, a lot like children. But my time with her is unlike any other. I often tell her she lives in a fantasy world, and she does. I've been there. I go there with her whenever I have the strength to leave the worries, the responsibilities, the stress of life behind and just play for a while. Over the years, she has taught me to not take myself so seriously, to slow down, to laugh when things are funny and, every once in a while, when it's completely necessary, to roll around like a baby for a while.

3.) Be prepared: Emily Watkins
One of my most favorite memories of Emily is from the night of my birthday party when I was in 6th grade. After a tumultuous evening that stemmed from, well, us being 6th graders, Emily and I had some sort of falling out, and I remember laying (in my signature dramatic fashion) on our front porch watching the small, lumpy figure of Emily with her sleeping bag bunched all around her walking the less-than-a-mile walk back to her house. My birthday falls in May, so I know it wasn't a chilly night but Emily is nothing if not prepared. If she was going to walk home, she was going to have supplies in tow. That's just how she is, and oh do I love her for it. And it's not just lip balm or the occasional bobby pin when you need it, Emily is often the needed item. She is my de-stressing agent, just being around her makes me calm. She reminds me to take deep breaths, to gather my thoughts. She looks at situations from a different angle than most, always ready with a new plan of attack. She is quick-thinking and thrifty, she is a great listener and list-maker and accomplisher, and shoot—she just makes me smile.

4.) Accept the good: Rachel Smith
I can't lie, there have been times throughout our 10-plus years of friendship that I've thought Rach was too nice. Ever forgiving, ever offering another chance, ever forgetting as quick as she could, ever putting on a smile to smooth things over. As I've grown I've learned just how right she's always been in this regard, her tendency to see the best in people. To believe in them when no one else will. That's not to say she hasn't been hurt. She has endured her fair-share of heartache, but in true tough-girl fashion, she picks herself up, dusts herself off and moves on. She keeps her heart open to the people, the possibilities of tomorrow–and damn you if you think that's cheesy—cause it's true. Few people live the life she lives, because few are willing to let go of the reins and enjoy the ride. She is both carefree and caring, both daring and careful when it counts. Her optimism chips away at my cynical, cold heart whenever I'm around her, and when I feel myself slipping, her example of accepting what's good and beautiful in the world helps keep me afloat.

5.) Strangers can be cool: Shauni Goodwin & Alison Hughes
I was always an obedient kid. Slowing to look both ways before crossing the street, saying my prayers, treating others as I'd like to be treated, but I've failed my parents in one major way as I've grown into an adult: I talk to strangers, regularly. I "met" Shauni and Alison on The Knot while planning our wedding—think charming "You've Got Mail" online encounters instead of, like, the creepy "Swim Fan" kind. Despite the tens of twenties of frequent posters, we caught each other's eyes (*creepy) and continued to communicate after our weddings, and off of the boards. These girls have become two of my closest friends in recent months. With similar schedules, and at semi-similar stages of life, we can relate and connect in a way I can with few other people. They are open, funny, smart, engaging, obnoxious, emotional, irrational—just like I am. We look to each other for advice, for sympathy, for a laugh, and we always get it. And though we have actually met in real life (once), they are still strangers. But they are strangers I hope I will always be close with, and just maybe, one day, become real-life friends.

Come On

2011-07-28T13:21:00.000-07:00

I had plans for this summer—yep. During the freezing months of wind and rain and ice, I dreamt of them: the dog-days of summer—days by the pool, work days that flew by without a struggle, plenty of sunlight and pretty-please mild temps.

I couldn't have been more wrong.

Good ole' Murphy strikes again. Stupid Murph.

I am thankful for the moments of peace I have had, but I'd be lying if I said they weren't few and far between. Work has been nightmarish. The days have been unbearably hot. Emotions have been running high—so much going on with so many different people in my life. The country is being pulled in four different directions while the economy continues its downward slide.

But, us? We're good—things are smooth, as we approach one year of marriage. The world around us seems to be spinning out of control, but we are enjoying modest dinners, compelling films, day trips, guests in town, fair-weather sun tans.

Outside of our cocoon of happiness and simplicity, I often find myself treading water.

If you don't work full time (darn you) you just don't understand. You can't comprehend a summer in glimpses, tasting only droplets of the the heinously hot and the beautifully mild days—making your way to your car as the sun sets just breathing in the air, office meetings that drag on for hours without end in sight. Photos and posts of others playing, sweating, twisting and bending in the light and the humidity. It can make a sane person lose it. I have been practicing my breathing and keeping jealousy at bay, which hasn't been easy. It's been lots of prayer, breathing exercises, caffeine and pep talks help, but I still need more.

Way more.

So, there's this:

Key West, Florida or Heaven on Earth?

And yes, in case you were wondering, I AM drooling right now. We will be here in four weeks. Four teeny tiny weeks that—Lord willing—will be quick and painless.

Come on, little weeks.

Come on, one-year anniversary.

Come on, no work in sight.

Come on, only bathing suits for days.

Come on, lasting sun tan.

Come on, late-night star gazing on the beach.

Come on, cocktails.

Come on, romance.

Come on, little bungalow.

Come on, cutie Goodwins.

Come on, diet out the window.

Let's wrap this silly summer up and put it all behind us. Shall we?

Sobriety Awareness Week

2011-07-19T12:10:00.000-07:00

This week I made up a holiday and told myself that it was my moral obligation to observe it. And that made-up holiday would be Sobriety Awareness Week. Yeah, that's right, I gave up drinking for one week.

Now, let's not get all hasty and say, Wow, if you have to force yourself to not drink for one week don't you think it's likely that you have a problem? (Love ya, Mom) This is not a alcoholism test, it is more of a holy-shite, I drink way too many calories reality.

We all have our cross to bear, right?

So last night, approximately 24 hours into my drinking embargo, this scene takes place:

7 p.m. in the Dangelico household

Me: Babe, you want a beer?

Dave: Sure, thanks.

[End scene.]

Just kidding.

So, I crack open a beer, and then I stand there in the middle of my kitchen—a mature, adult, well-adjusted independent woman—and I sniffed that beer. Yes I did. And when I sniffed it and imagined the frothy goodness that waited just below the mouth of the can (Yes, all of this for a CAN of beer) I thought: Well, I could probably have just a sip.

I thought about it.

As my will-power wavered, and the randomly formed and seemingly pointless goal slipped farther out of focus, I almost took a sip. I almost pressed my lips to the mouth of the can and took an itsy bitsy sip that not even David would have noticed.

But I stopped.

"No, no, no," I actually said outloud to myself, placing the now heavily sweating can down onto the kitchen counter. "I'll just have tea," I said. "YUM, tea."

So, after all that, here I am almost 48 hours sober, and feeling great. Strike that, I am feeling sluggish and crappy but let's just blame that on summer allergies and not jump to withdraw-symptom irrationalities.

In an effort to last the week, I am drinking excessive amounts of coffee and tea—I've got the shakes and heart palpitations to prove it.

Next week it will be on to my next goal: a week without caffeine.

Only kidding, of course. I can't afford to lose my job, husband, friends and all human contact right now. :)

Black and White

2011-07-15T12:06:00.000-07:00

I had big plans for this post—yesiree. Yesterday, I was like, Yes, I'm going to write a good, funny post about our court case today and it will get like eight comments and gain me world-wide recognition.

I actually didn't really think all of that, but I did have an idea for a post in mind. I even had a general framework of the words I was going to say.

But, as some insightful and very old philosopher once said:

shite happens.

Shite is right. Court was fine—when fine means the guy who hit us was indignant and the judge was LENIENT AS HELL, letting offenders off the hook left and right while I sat there with my mouth agape, often making slightly-louder-than-whispered exclamations of disbelief along the lines of "Are you joking?! I have paid more in fines for a SPEEDING TICKET—a speeding ticket, I tell you!" David had to "sh" me several times. And because we were in court and I could have gotten arrested for talking above a whisper in the courtroom, I even let him slide for it.

It was a little bit like watching a movie. Like watching Ben Affleck get away at the end of "The Town," but instead of being happy that he got off scott-free being pissed. Pissed that the guy who hit you—basically totaled your car, could have killed someone, really—can get away with being 30 minutes late to court, being rude to the judge, saying "huh" and "what?" a criminal number of times, NOT pleading guilty, mayyybe presenting falsified proof-of-insurance evidence and paying less in fines than you have for a speeding ticket (for going 12 over coming down a mountain, so shoot me).

It was hard to stomach. Did I want him to suffer? No. Did I want to see his life ruined? No. Did I want to see him in a jumpsuit walking toward the electric chair—great scott, calm down. No. But I did want the judge to peer down from his position of wisdom and authority and say something like this:

"Young man, do you understand that you could have severely hurt these young (attractive) people standing to your right? Do you understand that your recklessness could have gotten someone killed? Irreparably changed their lives, their families' lives, forever? I expect you want a good life for yourself. Maybe you want to find success, find a nice mate and settle down, travel the world, have children. I don't expect that you want to end up in a vegetative state in a hospital bed, or in a jail cell with a life sentence, or worse, dead far too soon. If I'm right, if you want a good life then you need to stop, take the hair out of your eyes, straighten up, look me in the eye and promise me that you are going to think twice the next time your feet hit the floor first thing in the morning. You are going to sit there or stand there for one minute longer and consider how your actions affect the people around you–your family and even strangers—and ask yourself if those actions help or hinder those people. Every time you put your keys into the ignition of a car, chant it to yourself if you have to, but tell yourself that by getting out onto the road you are taking on a responsibility that is greater than getting to point A or point B. You have the power to alter, to help along, to end the lives of those around you. And I believe that you care about those people around you. I believe that you want to take care of your fellow man, not hurt him, or scare him. And I challenge you to do better. I challenge you to never step foot in a court room again, because you will never get in trouble like this again. Do you understand? These two (attractive) people to your right deserve that, I deserve that, your family deserves it and you do, too."

That would never happen. Never. Even though the judge did make a few stern warnings to other offenders, most of what he said was short and sweet. I know he's in his late 60s and probably just looking forward to the end of the line, the end of the endless paperwork, and questions and decisions and tears and half-hearted apologies, but I also know, deep down, that I believe actions deserve real consequences. Good and bad. And in all of my progressive, liberal leanings, I believe that when you do something wrong there should be a penalty, no matter how minuscule or grand-scale. In this life—whether or not you believe marijuana should be legalized—there is right and there is wrong. There is a choice.

I walked out of the courtroom into blinding July sunlight, my hands flailing in disbelief as I ranted on and on to David about how there was no justice, how it would certainly happen again, how we had just wasted two hours of our lives that we could never get back. His reaction was different, more quiet and kept inside.

It is what it is, I could hear his mother saying in her soft, Eastern Carolina accent.

I took the rest of the afternoon off, went for an uncharacteristic run and sat on my couch with the dogs cuddled close to me and a book in hand, the sunlight streaming in from the window behind me. Breathing in and out.

I'll let it go, I told myself. Not everything is black and white.

And it's not. But I wish I came away from the experience feeling like that kid understood, was sorry, would have one ounce of hesitation before getting into a car, let alone, racing again. I wish he knew that he will be with me forever. There forever in every third, fourth glance into the rearview mirror or blind spot, every turn that makes me shiver and brace myself for the blow—the inevitable blow of metal on metal.

Worried

2011-07-07T10:54:00.000-07:00

I'm worried about us.

Us kids. My generation. We have entered, we will enter—at least I think—the working world. What do we bring to the table? What product do we offer? What unique skill do we possess? Have you worked a job? One you got on your own merit, one you strived to maintain and to excel in? What have you learned? What do you take with you?

I'm worried we have little to offer in an increasingly competitive job market. We're lazy, unimaginative, selfish. So many of us are unable to grasp the concept of working "for the greater good." The greed, the lust for power consumes us. And it's not just the working world. It's emotionally too. We are all so convinced "we've had it rough," when most of us cannot even fathom what that really means. We have been given everything. We eat from silver spoons in high chairs. We have lived a quarter of a century—times of great great profit and success, and times of slightly less success—and all we ever want is more. And to convince everyone around us that "we've had it rough," so therefore, we know better.

We don't know better.

If you knew better, you'd take better care of yourself.

Be careful.

Study, get through school, but don't stay there for too long. Not so long that you grow soft and out of touch with the real world.

Because as sure as air enters and exits the body, there is such a thing as the real world. You can put it off with this degree and that, but one day, the time will come. There are no extensions, no group projects, no summer vacations. Only the reality of showing up, punching in and giving everything just to hang on, to stay in the game.

I'm sadden when I hear coworkers of mine say, "If we're going to fill that position, we should go for someone older, middle-aged, they'd likely work harder, respect the job, the fact that they've got one."

I wish it wasn't this way. I wish we got our directions from maps and had dinner conversations over candlelight instead of the dull glow from a smart phone. I wish we called people back instead of texting them. I wish we wrote letters, and listened to CDs and never suggested that "we're old" simply because we want to get some sleep. We're always so tired.

I wish we listened when we were told that "life is short," that "the grass actually isn't greener," that "hard work pays off." Because life is short, and sometimes there is no grass at all—only bald patches of earth—and even though sometimes hard work doesn't pay off it's always better to work hard. To have the satisfaction of a hard day's work. You sleep better.

We nod in mock understanding, but we are not listening. We don't hear those words. And oh how I wish we would. We're drowning and don't even know it.

I'm worried about us.

HotOrNot.com

2011-06-29T09:22:00.000-07:00

Oy, forgive my absence. You don't even want to know what I have been up to lately. All work and no play, yadda yadda.

Who wants to play a quick installment of HotorNot.com?! (My hand is up in case you were wondering.)

HotORNot.com could be called a game, but it could also be called a random assortment of things I need to remind myself of on a daily (hourly?) basis so I do not spin off and go completely bat sh*t crazy. (The fact that we have never played this game before solidifies the fact that, yes, I already am bat sh*t crazy.)

I will post two pictures and you might shout "HOT" at one and I might shout "NOT" at the other and then we will wrestle and whoever gives up loses? Deal? Just kidding. This will really be more like me screaming "HOT HOT HOT" at my computer screen while my coworkers listen intently and maybe call HR.

Ready? Here goes nuttin'.

Size -4 vs. Size 12 to 14? Tough call, right?

WRONG. This isn't a tough call at all. This is the easiest call ever. This is like answering the phone to a "CONGRATULATIONS, you've won" kind of call.

You see, the stupid silly side of me instantly glues to the first image, and then I commence sighing and maybe even batting my eyelashes. Visible bone structure: YES. Arms the size of a pre-teen's: YES. Pokey hip bones with plenty of sass: DUH. Literal chicken bones for legs: I WANT IT ALL.

But after a few light slams to the face, I come out of my thin-envy coma and I start to look around and I notice the second image. A voluptuous chest and broad shoulders that transition into a midsection stretched across wide feminine hips.

She is so brave, I think to myself.

We are a sick bunch. And if you don't want to admit it, fine, but I will admit that I am a sick bunch. Well, a sick singular—but I digress. How can we desire this thinness so strongly, so fiercely, that we are willing to lose the natural developments that make us so beautifully female? Why do we beg our curves to melt into stick-straightness that make us look like any hip-less man? I love a healthy, active woman who stands up and says, screw you if my curves make you uncomfortable. I think I'm beautiful. And I want to someday be one of them.

I need to look at these photos everyday. I need to stand in the mirror and say, screw you to the voice that tells me "Geez, this is the biggest you've ever been." And "wow, you always thought you were big back then but look at you now. Look at those soft rolls of skin that were never here before!" I need to condition myself to see a thin woman and think, man, unless she is naturally that thin, she must have a lot of free time on her hands, instead of GIMMIE. I WANT. I need to see the feminine bounty—yes I said it—that was given to me as a blessing rather than a curse.

I also need to stop worrying about if my stomach sticks out in this or if my arms look thick in that. Who cares? We're all HOT or NOT to someone. The only way to get through this cruel world is to forget about those jerks, stay healthy and tell yourself you're the hottest thing around, and let that be enough.

And if that doesn't work, show the above photos to your man friend. I bet you 1/4th of a can of Diet Coke that he will completely stop listening to you (and likely start drooling) the very SECOND he spots image #2.

:-D

My God, Whatever, Et Cetera...

2011-06-24T07:29:00.001-07:00

I'm tired and depressed, which isn't the best combination for a blog post, but my mother always told me to get back on the horse and ride (she never once told me that), so giddy up, my people.

That giddy up was, of course, in honor of Al. Who is golfing or working a golfing event today. The witch.

See what I mean?

Anyway. What a week it has been—so long, exhaustingly long. I feel like one whole week, Monday through Friday, was self-contained in yesterday's Thursday. It was never ending. At 5 o'clock, I walked out into the sunshine to the parking lot and could not remember where I had parked my car, it felt like ages had passed.

To quote the wellspring of truth and wisdom that is "Grey's Anatomy:"

"Change. We don't like it, we fear it. But, we can't stop it from coming. We either adapt to change or we get left behind. It hurts to grow, anyone who tell you different is lying. The more things change the more they stay the same. Sometimes change is good. Sometimes change is everything."

Change has come to these here parts. Another empty office down the hallway. I'm happy for the people who get to go, but yesterday wasn't just a departure, it was heavier than that. The atmosphere here shifted from relaxed, loose to sharp and chaotic in an instant. One day it will shift back. The hours will speed by more quickly, the stacks of paperwork will dwindle, the tasks will be reassigned, the office filled—or turned into a storage closet. And we will make the change, picking up our steps in places and lingering longer in others. That's what we do, what I was raised to do, adapt. Figure it out.

Where does that leave me? a selfish little thing asks. When will it be my turn? I hold back the jealousy and try to keep my head up.

Words from an old friend pierce my impenetrable facade, and I crumble, as I often do, in the car driving home. And among tears there are those same selfish questions, and an ache that spreads with each passing day. A heavy load to quietly bear, day in and day out—each ounce of good news and understanding, every forced smile, and new task making it heavier...each look from my boss that says (as her mouth does) "I'm sorry, you just can't go, not now, not yet."

A Day Late for Dad

2011-06-20T12:11:00.001-07:00

Happy belated Father's Day. Does that sort of thing work?

Anyway, I was sort of out of commish last week. I kept busy all week with work, and with talking to Shauni all day, and trying to be good lil' girl per usual. I have been trying to write three times a week, but let's face it: When you put those kinds of restrictions on a body, a body is bound to rebel.

So Dad's day was yesterday. Woo! I am actually lucky enough to have three dads—a dad, a step dad and a father-in-law. Isn't that lovely? David and I spent the afternoon with my papa, and the evening with my step dad (and mom and siblings).The only thing that could have made the day better is if I could have seen my father-in-law yesterday, but don't even get me started on the woes of geography.

A day late, many dollars (for my dream life) short, I am here about my dear old daddy-o.

Here we are. As you can see, no matter the weather, chub cheeks, hair or not, silliness or serious, we are quite a pair.

My papa is a good man. He is the hardest worker I have ever known. He is honest (to a fault). He is funny most often in a dry way, but sometimes in the traditional corny way. He is a fabulous cook. He is a problem solver. He shaves his head. Given the right tools, he can fix an automotive part—better yet any part—that needs repair. He is a great listener. He has a big fish tank. His kitchen is rooster themed. He has good taste in clothing. He has a sweet tooth. He has about 47 pairs of brown, leather work boots. Unlike Snooki, his natural skin tone actually is: tan. His hands are rough like sandpaper. He owns a motorcycle but he never rides it. He writes in all caps, all the time.

Sometimes I catch myself sitting alone listing these facts and others about my father. Repeating little things that he does or says, or the way he pokes his head out from the kitchen, one eye and one ear on what's happening on television while he cooks dinner. I tell myself that no matter how few and far between our visits are, I know this man. I know my father the way anyone else knows theirs. I back up this statement with the aforementioned facts. Bald head, problem solver, fish tank. I know him, he is mine.

I don't know if my father knows those same things about me. Sometimes it keeps me up at night, but mostly I just let the thought bounce back in forth in my head until it develops into a rhythm I am comfortable with, a beat, an everlasting curiosity that I can stomach.

My father didn't want six children. I've never had the guts to ask him if he even wanted one, but regardless, he wound up with six. We are an impressive bunch—tall, outspoken, comical, artistic, creative, thrifty, compassionate, adventurous, dependable, talented, soulful, opinionated. He raised us up from infancy just the same. He worked outside all day in the sun, he brought home "the bacon," he sat through our talent shows, he drew us pictures of The Little Mermaid, he bought ice cream and made dinner, he took us on Saturday-morning rides to town, to the county dump. He was a good father. Gentle with us, considerate of us. His life path, his decisions were shaped around the needs of our family. Weeknights spent under the hood of our family mini-van.

He raised us up, and we arrived here. Somewhere. Some place between adolescence and adulthood, between small steps and big. Age 14 and age 30. Blurred lines that intersect in places and spread far from one another, like the opposite ends of a wide and broken up mountain, in others. He never left us; but there are times he departs from us. Moves away from the places that we are and holes up in a cave. Withdraws into the father, the man, the machine that he is, and remains there for a while. To catch his breath, or perhaps to imagine a different life for himself altogether. In those moments, it can be so hard to understand, so hard to accept the feeling of being skipped over, passed by.

But when he returns to us, when we are back together, little has changed. It is still small, soft daughter with eyes upturned to his bold, broad frame. His eyes meet mine, listening, understanding, accepting. Not trying to change me. Just taking it all in. You're all right. I am always trying to prove myself, make him proud. He smiles softly, leaning back into the kitchen counter. I am. I trust his words, what he is willing to give. There is always so much he wants to say. We could stand here for hours, only pausing to collapse into chairs at his round wooden table. He doesn't hold back or shield his disappointment and frustration at the sum of his days, at the way things turned out. And while they sting at first, I let them sink it and I reciprocate the understanding. You're all right.

It will never be the way it is be with other people. The daddy-daughter, daddy-son bond, a winning combination, the blue ribbon. And while it would be so easy to say, he just doesn't operate that way, maybe it is me, too. We are who we are. Stubborn, independent, self-conscious, sensitive, proud. The way we are. The way it is. But these small handfuls of moments we share are enough. The bond reaffirmed, sustained until next time.

And until then, the faith remains. I carry you with me, too.

How Much is Too Much?

2011-06-13T13:08:00.000-07:00

My tendency to overdo things has spread to more than just one-two-many pieces of chocolate, slices of cake and pictures of adorable babies. Indeed, I am an over-indulger when it comes to most aspects of my life. I always want more of the story, just one more minute of the movie, 10 more pages of the book—it's never enough. I've found lately that I'm the same way with the emotional stuff of life. I struggle with knowing when to quit.

I talk too much—my arms and hands flailing wildly about as I speak, shout and, most likely, repeat myself over and over again. I have a tendency to say whatever comes to mind, to rant on and on without thinking (or sometimes breathing) until I start to get lightheaded and short of breath.

It's really been bugging me lately.

I want to be stoic—a warm, inviting stoic, but stoic nonetheless.

I am getting tired of talking so much. Regretting so much. Wishing I could retract so much. And of telling myself over and over again, slow down, Lia. Slow down.

I don't try to be this way. It's just "the way I am." I hear an idea, a thought, a problem and my brain readies for battle, hell, it might even toss the first spears. Whether I am being "attacked" or just asked for my opinion, I go ALL in. I am a too-open book of options, answers, solutions, confusions, help, bigger problems, accusations, comforts. I just want to help.

I want to be helpful. I want to be—and be known as— a go-to kind of person who can be relied upon in a time of need, or any old day of the week. I long for acceptance (therein, respect) from my family, my friends, my peers, because it's what keeps me going when all else fails. I cringe at the thought of someone thinking me lazy, or careless or selfish or unwilling.

The more and more that I go on, it sounds all about me. And I guess maybe it is. But not consciously. I don't think, how can I help myself by helping you? It is just a given. I help, and in that I am helped. I comfort and feel comforted. I solve (sort of) and I feel fixed.

Maybe it's just these little daily/momentary victories that I am searching for. Enough of them to load into my pockets and provide me with the contentment I need to get through the day. Maybe it's just that my wild mind is stuck trudging through boredom most of the time that I am chomping at the bit for any little problem, any little chance to show that I am worthy. That I have a voice. That I am still here, as much as I may often feel like I am disappearing.

Medicated or not, 150 miles per hour all the time is no way to run. It promises quick wear, little control. So much guilt and frustration. Speeding, I often feel lost in certain areas (most recently, my career) and it should be no surprise. How do I detach from what drives me at such dangerous speeds, and slow down, take deep breaths and–for once—just be quiet and listen?

An Ode to the Normal Jobs of Yesterday

2011-06-08T12:54:00.001-07:00

*angst alert* *angst alert* *angst alert* *angst alert* *angst alert*

Gone are the days of the "normal job." The 9-to-5 only, the check your briefcase at the door jobs that men and even women once experienced. I swear I didn't just imagine it. Once upon a time, eager young men and women graduated from school—high school or college—and with bright eyes entered the work force. They often began at entry-level, punched in and out for a few years, accomplished what was asked of them, pushed the limits a little, challenged themselves, showed great promise and worked their way up the corporate ladder.

And then, POOF.

Gone.

Did all of those companies close down?? Did all of those CEOs move to Europe to enjoy eight weeks of paid vacation?? What happened to those days when men dressed in perfectly tailored suits and skinny ties filed on and off romantic-looking trains in the mornings and evenings and trudged homeward to attractive cookie-cutter houses, primped and pink-lipsticked wives, a couple of kids and a plate of meatloaf? (An aside: Did the whole drinking on the job thing disappear with these positions?)

Am I just wondering where the 60s went? I don't need a history lesson (read: I definitely do) from anyone, I'm just wondering when it happened that we crossed over from not-necessarily glamourous but solid, respectable jobs where you show up and give a good day's work a go and then head home at 5, to the madness of 80-hour work weeks, one-week paid vacation, never enough sick days, over time, work late, weekend work, the pressure the pressure, other duties as assigned, the bending over backwards, rat race, traffic traffic traffic, the water-cooler, bureaucracy, not-at-all-what-I-ever-saw-myself-doing-ness.

It's insanity. You go to school for 4 years, or you make the effort and get your masters, and you're still looking at an entry-level mayyyybe salaried position which barely covers your bills or leaves you any extra for a few beers out on the town, or a summer concert, or god-forbid a vacation you might actually take with your seven measly days off.

We're trapped. Especially those of us who are young and just starting out. Those who were being supported by their parents throughout college have been cut off and the rest of us who have been struggling to figure it out all along don't have plump savings accounts to fall back on. We are just trying to get by. Just trying to take it one step at a time. We don't want hand outs. Or Bentleys, or beach houses—I mean, don't get me wrong, it'd be niceeee. But, we just want to do an honest day's work and make enough pay to live on—even just barely.

Can we just go back? Is anyone really happy this way? Is anyone just tickled pink with making money but never really getting to go anywhere, or having to miss out on your kids' plays or games or feeling guilty all the time for "not really living your life" or being enough for your spouse?

My heart breaks when I hear David said "it's going to be a long night." (This coming from the man who has SLEPT, yes slept, in his office. And also worked over 30 hours straight.) It breaks again when a dear friend expresses some fear when asking for a raise that she ABSOLUTELY deserves. And then it falls into a million billion pieces when another worries about slipping down into the dark depts of "workaholic-ness" of getting stuck in a hole she can never get out of, of having to take a job that she worries could hurt her relationship.

It's madness. And I want to give us, all of us, a free pass to the successful, the fulfilling, the rewarding futures that we deserve. In general, I want to take all of the pain away forever, but that's for another time.

Rest in peace, you blissful thoughts of Mad Men's Sterling Cooper office. Rest in peace, long liquid lunches. Rest in peace, bonuses. Rest in peace, extended vacations. Rest in peace, carefree. Fare thee well, joy.

Maybe it gets better with age. Maybe everyone reading this is loaded AND even drives a Bentley. Maybe I speak for only 3-4 of us. But regardless, in my perhaps blissful ignorance, I will continue to pound my fists and proclaim loudly to all who are listening (not many): Give me a normal job, or give me death!

A Certain Kind of Woman

2011-06-06T09:47:00.001-07:00

I want to be a certain kind of woman...

A brilliant writer of the female experience, a confident & successful actress, a powerful musician & role model, a wise & respected actress/activist

I want to be innovative, sensitive, adventurous, gutsy, confident, admired, respected. I want to be the master of something, or many things. I want to plant a flag into the soft, dark earth and proclaim a small patch of it as mine. I want to be great.

I do not, on the other hand, in any sense of the word(s) want to be the kind of woman who...

*...fantasizes about all of the food that she is too guilty to eat. Like french toast. And almost wrecks her car as she daydreams of this amazingly delectable and delicious french toast topped with a dash of powered sugar and DRENCHED in syrup—the woman, at this time, would like to share that she doesn't like anything drenched ever, but in this fantasy she was to be swimming in syrup—then, for good measure, topped with some fresh cut strawberries from the garden that this woman would most definitely have a green thumb for.

*...is so ridiculously OCD about putting on sunscreen, in order to avoid the horribleness of skin cancer, that she somehow forgets to apply any onto her stomach for a day of sunbathing and now sits with a fluorescent-colored tummy and is now probably 70 times more likely to get skin cancer on her stomach. And, in case you were wondering, no, a red stomach is not like tan-ness that gives that sort-of kind-of look like you have the beginning of something that closely resembles abs. Red just makes you look like Santa in the off-season.

*...gets painful pimples that are so sensitive they send shooting pains across this woman's forehead if they are touched at all. Especially because this woman is no longer 16.

*...obsesses over whether or not the coworkers that see her exercising on her lunch break—in the dark and dingy, perfect-spot-for-a-mugging underground garage—thinks she is indeed crazy, or a car-jacker or just a fume huffer, instead of focusing on pumping her arms or speeding up her power walk or wearing proper footwear instead of dress flats or wedge heels to go walking. Maybe she should be worrying about her foot and ankle health before anything else.

*...is "that person" who can always "see where so and so is coming from," in a disagreement between two other people. Even when she obviously does not agree with so and so, and most certainly when so and so is opposing the woman's husband, who the woman loves and supports and believes 99.9 percent of the time. There is something in this woman's genetic makeup that, while she is secretly just as catty and judgmental as the rest, causes her to want make everything all right, to smooth things out, level the playing field. Just call her "The Great(ly annoying) Equalizer."

*...can sometimes, though she hate hate hates to admit it, be fake. And doesn't speak her mind, especially when she has been wronged and deserves to speak up.

*...secretly stops at McDonalds from time to time to grab a quick breakfast or snack when no one is watching; and also thinks that M&M McFlurries, while she knows they are disgusting, are absolutely delicious.

*...drowns out her husbands voice when he is telling her about this new ___________ (film, movie, comic, TV show, political fight) and disappears into iPhone world and then, when he gets upset, tells him he is "being ridiculous." And also tells him to get off of his phone "and talk to me" all of the time.

*...dreams entirely TOO FREQUENTLY about an unnamed actor who is 6-foot-1 and has curly hair and an accent and who you can tell is really nice and really thoughtful and a passionate lover... :-X

*...covets four delicious hours spent on the couch eating knock-off Chex mix, watching The Real Housewives of OC in her silk robe. Yes, silk. It may/may not say Bride in bedazzled, rhinestone splendor on the back, too. This woman is classy.

*...has this conversation 2 minutes ago with her husband:

david.dangelico@gmail.com: *talking about iCloud* holy. crap. they are upgrading the quality to all of your music

when it enters the cloud

me: hahahaha sweetie you are cute

david.dangelico@gmail.com: seriously honey, this is huge

me: THATS WHAT SHE SAID

*...if she had to be honest with herself, knows that the friend that she talks to the most on a daily basis is an internet friend/granny who she loves very dearly but has met face-to-face only one time. And is vacationing with said granny this September. (This she is totally a-OK with.)

*...feels secure when she has a mere $100 in the bank.

*...thinks being a vegetarian sounds fabulous but loves meat too much.

*...never listened to her mother when she said don't pop pimples, it will leave a scar.

*...never listened to her mother when she said don't pluck gray hairs, more will come to its funeral.

*...may or may not be dreaming right this very moment about a a hot, steaming plate of pad thai with chicken, not too sweet, not to spicy, that is sprinkled with lightly salted peanuts and served on a dainty, floral China bowl that the woman wants to eat almost as much as the food itself. Also she may or may not have had to smack herself and wipe the drool from her mouth three to four times before she could proceed with this post.

Is there hope for this little old fool? Please submit your answers in writing so I can pass it on to my dear dear friend that I am writing about above but who I certainly do not know very well since I am very bright, stable and well-adjusted but who, since I am a God-fearing woman, I am going to help. That is, if you can help me. I mean her.

P.S.: And don't we all, even us well-adjusted dames, want to be a woman like Karen O?

The Cord That Broke The Camel's Back

2011-06-02T06:56:00.000-07:00

The sounds of violent screaming and shattering glassware cannot be found within the walls of our home. There is no slamming of doors or sleeping on the couch. There is only, on occasion, two stubborn blobs, gritting their teeth and holding their ground for dear life.

Why do we fight about the dumbest things?

Scene: 10 p.m. in the Dangelico living room, the original "X-Men" is on TV. Husband and wife and (spoiled) dog cuddle together on the couch under a Steelers blanket. Suddenly, and without warning, wife perks up and says: "Where is the iPhone cord? I need to charge my phone."

Neither the couple nor the dog is ever seen again.

Just kidding, but really. No one could guess (except I probably could have) that what was to follow for the next 20 minutes would be a court-room style argument, both sides fervently pleading their case, declaring without a shadow of a doubt that the other is wrong.

"You HAD to have moved it, I would bet 8 million dollars that it is on your desk at work."

"8 million dollars? You are SO DRAMATIC."

"I wouldn't have to be if you would just put the iPhone cord back where you found it!"

"Where is the one that was here yesterday?"

"Haven't you been listening to ANYTHING I've been saying, counselor, I mean, dear?"

"You shouldn't even be on your phone. We're watching a movie!"

"Well sor-ry that people LOVE me!"

(You have no idea who said what, do you?)

It gets pretty bad sometimes. It often threatens to ruin our night, and many times it is clear that neither of us believes we have done anything wrong and therefore refuse to give in. But, one of us always does. Or maybe neither of us ever does, but somehow our stern facades are eventually broken down into laughter with the use of a funny face or an inside joke.

And even though they are basically harmless (save for a few benign name-callings) I always find myself wondering afterward why we even fought about it in the first place. We trust each other completely, we have gotten pretty good at understanding where the other is coming from and how to communicate with each other—we've got the big stuff down. I guess it's just that the missing cords, the spilled dog food, the wet towels are all we have left to make a case over.

I guess it's just those little, everyday frustrations that have a way of getting to you, keeping you from being able to enjoy a warm, quiet evening on the couch. We blame it on each other, on the desire to have someone to point to for all the ways the day has let you down. Regardless, we get over it. We let each other off the hook.

Most of the time, anyway, we just blame it all on Rooney.

The One Where I Whine

2011-06-01T10:09:00.000-07:00

Today started off pretty much like all of the others. I slept in a few minutes late, David clung to the covers for as long as he could before the dogs basically dragged him downstairs, I rushed to get ready and shrugged at what I saw in the mirror before I left. Not too bad, who cares?

I got to work, I drank my coffee, I ate two rice cakes with peanut buttah'.

Shortly after that, I found out that a girl who has my same position—except for a magazine instead of 2 websites like me—is leaving. She got a brand new job, a fabulous one, as PR Manager of a nearby PR Firm. A nice one. A pay increase, for sure and a massive step up from editorial assistant. Go head witcha' bad self, girl. Right?

Right.

At least, that's what I thought until—like a good lil' non-bitter girl—I sent her a congratulatory email and she replied "Thanks, Liam!"

Now, yes, I know that the "m" key is right next to the "." key, but there is an exclamation point that follows. Could she really have meant "Thanks Lia.!" (If so, she doesn't deserve her new, high-paying gig.)

I was fine about her new job, at least fine enough to resist any and all urges to jump out of the nearest window—that is, until she went and called me Liam.

So forgive me, and David cover your eyes because you hate it when I whine, but here goes:

Why can't life just be fair? Why can't the person who has been here the longest and been trying the longest to find a new job and has been working hard, just as hard as anyone else, and who has prayed many prayers and sent wishes up into the sky, and has been a good girl, and has endured many many scoldings for dress-code violations that everyone else does too, and has laughed at the stupid jokes, and acted like she knew the difference between bolt-action and any-other action, and has swallowed her pride and gotten picked over for the employee of the year award by none-other-than-mrs.-PR-manager-extrordinaire—why can't this UNKNOWN person find a new fab job before the...other one?

Why can't the boring, plain people be seen as boring and plain instead of impressive and better than the fun and interesting people?

Am I a fun and interesting person?

Why am I an undesirable candidate? I.E.: Why does no one want me?

And since it seems written in the stars for me to be where I current am: WHY am I here? For what purpose? Am I going to have to shoot my way out of a life-or-death situation sometime soon? Am I going to be casted for a shooting performance show? Am I going to become the next Outdoor Channel star? Is Sarah Palin going to ask me to be her speech writer? Is Joe Mantegna—who is here at work today—going to ask to adopt me and make all my dreams of no-more-student-loans come true? Am I going to eventually become a cowgirl? Am I really the illegitimate ~~son~~ daughter of Charlton Heston?

I really need these questions answered, otherwise I might have to resort to hanging around big open windows.

With love from your boy,

Liam

Meditations for My 24th Year

2011-05-31T14:22:00.000-07:00

Love myself without apology or fear of being selfish all the time

Let it go

Pixie?

Better posture

Be happy at work

Keep up the Colin Firth dreams

No more rushing (no speeding tickets) take my time

Be kind, from the heart

Tell it like it is

Keep car clean

Write more often

Give back

Make someone's day

Do nothing

NEW mother-loving job (Please Lord!)

And always, deep breaths

One for Whitney

2011-05-26T10:19:00.001-07:00

Sorry I have been MIA this week, my people. I've been in a depressive slump ever since ~~Brian Ganey said that he didn't read my blog~~ I realized that I can't eat pancakes and sausage for breakfast anymore. The funny thing is that I never ate pancakes and sausage for breakfast, but now that my medicine restricts me from calcium/iron intake in the mornings, I have a fierce hankering for all things breakfast. In other news, I am a weird, confusing freak.

But that'll have to be for another day. Today, I am here about my girl.

To be clear, there are two Whitneys in my life.

The first (and best) is my sweetest, littlest, fastest and preciousest sister, Whitney. Here she is:

Hi Whit! Isn't she a beauty—isn't she just divine?!

Anywho, there will be many many posts devoted to my Whit-Nosh at a later date. So I'll just get to it: my other Whitney is this wonderful, wild thing:

Hello lovely!

Ever since I was a little girl, (read: ever since I was in, like, elementary school and someone said "Is your sister named after Whitney Houston?" And I was like "No, she is the original Whitney." (Just kidding, I wasn't that sassy at age 9). But I was probably really like "Who's that?" And this super sassy 9-year-old, channeling Lindsey Johnson, was like "That's my GIRL, she is my favorite singer. I can't believe you haven't heard of her. Especially since your sister was named after her." This girl probably flipped her hair at me right then and there—just a guess.) I have loved Whitney Houston. I have loved her soulful ballads, her sparkling white smile, her laugh, her TO-DIE-FOR ringlets, her eyebrows, her high notes, THE BODYGUARD—omfg, her powerful bring-the-house downs, her fashion, her general glow. It was Whitney that I sang and swung my hips to, and whose voice I failed to emulate time and time again in my bedroom.

Given that I always idolized her, it has been difficult in recent years to watch her steady decline. There have been high points—see the FAB pic above—amidst all of the low ones, but they always seem to come back down.

(0:13) This is in my file of quotes that I will say forever and ever with the same tone/inflection that she uses that in turn causes people much alarm and confusion. Also fear.

And while she always manages to make me laugh, no matter the situation, I feel for her. I can't imagine what it must be like for amazingly talented people to rise so high, to reach out and touch the face of greatness, to only end up falling and losing it all. It's heartbreaking, especially because Whitney wasn't about the gimmicks. She didn't need to bare all, or hatch from an egg or have the highest Twitter following. She was an inspiration, a role-model, a voice for those without one.

I will always love her—pun intended—and I've found in recent days that my musical taste continues to stand beside her as well. FOR SURE, the following songs would be included on my playlist for a.) my last day on earth (Oct. 21, 2011?) or b.) the one CD I could bring along to a remote dessert island where I would be stranded until the end of my days.

You're still #1 on the charts o' my heart, Whit. Stay strong, my girl.

A few things: LOVE this movie, Kevin Costner is a heartthrob and this ballad will stand the test of time.

There isn't much else to say other than, my girl is right: I DO.

I try to hold it together every time I listen to this song but I just cannot.control.myself. I lose it. I twirl around, I unabashedly belt out the high-notes and even the squeals. I don't pay attention while driving. I bang on the steering wheel. I make coy smiles at invisible passengers in the car. I croon into the rearview mirror. It's a sight to match what is surely the most epic song of my existence. If any of you are reading this, pay close attention, because I mean this with every fiber of my being: I WANT THIS JAM PLAYED AT MY FUNERAL. At every single service—and loud, too.

P.S: I also have a sister named Mariah. More on that in the future.

Cappuccino Thoughts

2011-05-20T12:43:00.001-07:00

Today I enjoyed lunch and coffee with a old close friend of mine. It had been a while since we'd sat alone and talked, and the small buzzing Italian restaurant we selected made the perfect setting. Food, caffeine, energy, lots to talk about, lots to say to one another. We settled in, ordered quickly and got right to it.

It's such a natural thing, falling back into conversation with an old friend. No over-involved explanations needed, no drawn out ramble about who you are and where you come from: we already know. It's the Who/What/Where/When of now that we're not so familiar with it. It's a nice reward for being friends for over 15 years, you don't always have to start at the beginning.

Long overdue for a catch-up, we sat there, two mid-20-somethings, carefully plucking out the words to describe just "how things are going." Just what life looks like, how it feels now, what's been on our minds. Colorful, hazy, bright, dreary, good, relaxing, exhausting, scary, exciting, unnerving, confusing, politics, marriage, religion, friends, relationships, parents, education, money, travel, the job market, the golden road ahead. It didn't take long at all for that spark to ignite, either. That hopeful, wishful spark of ambition, of wide eyes turned upward, wondering and waiting for the next big thing, wanting more—the hint of promise in the air that tells us something better is out there. And we are hungry for it.

I am constantly told "you're so young, you have so much time to worry about things like that." But I don't subscribe to that way of life, and neither does my bright-eyed friend. No. We want more, and we don't necessarily want it all right now, but we can see it/smell it/taste it, and we want to do what it takes now, to have it then. We want to plot each step, to guess and check, guess and check, fall down, get back up, reassess, plot and plan, take deep breaths and start over again.

It's not just about money, success or wisdom, but a coveted balance of life. A level in which, even when the world is spinning around you, you have a constant foothold. You have a safety net that cannot be explained in dollars and cents, but instead by a thick web weaved of communications, faith, emotions, relationships, triumphs and failures, loved ones, memories, bits of knowledge, a personal truth.

A balance, like in nature, we tell each other, nodding in acceptance. It's about that push/pull, it's the give and take, the two-way street, the bottom of the food chain providing sustenance to the top, the small giving in to the big, the unsure, the wobbly cub growing into the strongest member of the pack. That's "it." That's what we want. A reflection of that inverse fairness, that "it's just right"-ness that cannot be explained, only felt. Only believed in with every fiber of your being.

We will never be the perfect ones, we know this. We may never find the perfect thing, but we will find what is right. The blessing of our shared faith—a faith that raised us from infancy—is that, while we maybe be seeking, questioning, misstepping, getting turned around, moving, bending, getting mixed up: we are never lost. There is always a ladder hidden somewhere in the depths of the proverbial well. And when the timing is right, maybe when the sun hits it in just the right way, we will begin our upward climb, closer and closer to that light we've been searching for.

Battlefield: Body

2011-05-19T13:14:00.000-07:00

In the beginning, God created the heavens and the ear...

OK, not that far back, but a long, not-that-long time ago—brace yourselves—I was born. I was a healthy not-so-lil' girl and I had a lot of hair. I know you are probably going to expect a baby photo here, I'm not giving it to you.

After all, people, this is your very first installment of "battlefield: body." There is no time to get cutesy.

OK, fine here I am (with a lil' rabbit friend):

I have always been fine. I never had cavities, I never broke any bones, I rarely even ever got a cold or the flu or any old thing. Great health, no complaints, nothing to report to the doc however few and far between I saw one.

But then, "they" lowered the BOOM on me. (Movie credit: Father of the Bride Part II)

There is a battle taking place, a fierce bloody battle with swords and evil little men, and it is taking place inside of yours truly. Other people's bodies give out, give in, tire out, get confused, but not mine. Mine turned up and on itself. This is what it looks like:

Actually, it really looks like this:

For the past forever, no matter what I ate, how much I slept, what medicine I took, how much water I drank, how much I exercised I have felt: sluggish, starving, tired, achey, I've had dry mouth, dry scalp, dry skin. I have had the general feeling of running on empty. No matter what, vacation or 10-hour work days, I have longed for sleep and just another bite of food. It's like my body is stuck in overdrive (thanks college) and just can't slip back into a normal gear. It's like there is something wrong with me.

A-HA! There is something wrong with me.

This old bag o' bones has been under attack, by itself. Dignified, right?! Confirmed today by my great doctor, my immune system has been attacking my thyroid, leading to major jack ass-ery of the thyroid gland, also known as Hashimoto's disease, or chronic thyroiditis. Who knows how long this has been going on, but the good news is that, with this war at least, there is an end in sight.

Tomorrow morning I will begin taking a pill that I will likely take everyday for the rest of my life. It will, hopefully, make me "feel young again," meaning make me feel 24, rather than 52 like I usually do. It should make me not so hungry, so dry-skinned, not so sluggish. In my signature dramatic way, I imagine it will be a total rebirth of the mind, body and spirit. I don't mind if I do play this up as a way to rejuvenate these not-old-but-feel-that-way bones! And while I wish this pill could also make me: petite, cute, a normal feet- and hand-size, I will take what I can get. (Which I hope is: being able to stay awake past 10 p.m. on weekend nights, wanting to go out and party in the USA, settling for just one piece of chocolate, no more sixth, seventh, eighth meals, no more dandruff?, fewer pimples and greasiness, more calm, a better memory, a slimmer waistline, a better attitude, the will to have and create fun!)

I will take an end to beating myself up (literally, ha!) and getting to meet who I really am below the exhaustion, the hunger and the confusion. I am hoping it will make me a better wife, friend, sister, daughter, coworker, employee, writer, etc.

But I can't promise you anything. If my blog starts to suck after this—unless you think it sucks now, in which case: get off of my page—you can blame it on a little thing called Levoxyl.

Catch you fools on the other side!

The Not-So-Fine Line Between Here and High Fashion

2011-05-18T10:28:00.000-07:00

Good morning, students. Please pull out your textbooks and open them to page 74—chapter 12, wonderfully titled "The Not-So-Fine Line Between Here and High Fashion." Today we will be discussing why, even if your super-spectacular-dream-world scenario of looking like this:

(TMZ photo)

This is three-months, I said THREE, trois, tres months after having a baby, folks.

... (fragmented thought).

Sorry, I slipped into a hyperventilation and jealousy-induced coma for a moment, but I am back. Where was I? Oh, OK, so yeah, even if you looked like this (she is 39, people!), on a good day, when your hair was obeying and your face was very bright and fresh, you could not pull this off:

(becauseimaddicted photo)

Why when I see this photo does "California, knows how to party..." instantly come into my head?

Gather your ~~tears~~ thoughts and stick with me. You could not, even if you wanted to with the fiery passion of a thousand burning suns, pull off a tangerine orange floppy hat with some same-color corduroy/polyester bell bottoms, a slouchy cream peasant top and some clunky brown disco shoes. If you were seen walking down Main Street USA in this, people would stop to ask you: 1. If there is a disco tonight at the local VFW or 2. If there is a 70s-themed Live Action Roll Play Convention in town. You will be publicly shamed, for sure.

But wouldn't you believe it that any stick-figure celebrity can slip on some Aztec-hieroglyphic designed shortie shorts and wrap a thick skunk-scarf around her teeny little neck and the fashion heads will roll. "*Gasp* She is SO FABULOUS."

The arses.

Not you and I, kids. We are normal everyday folks who consider dressing up to be a simple, black cocktail dress or a Ralph Lauren dress shirt and tie. We are simple people, who shop in malls and clearance racks to piece together our everyday attire. "Risky" means putting a belt around a cotton dress, or wearing just leggings and a t-shirt to the grocery store. (Note: Celebrities look great doing this, but when we do it, we look like lazy, off-duty strippers.)

THIS is a hat—a body-topper, a personal statement without words, a piece de resistance:

But we common folk can only go this far—a drab, slouchy thing we use to cover up a bad hair day:

On the field of frumpy vs. fashion: Red rover, red rover, send Lia Dee right over!

Why can't we break through to the other side? Is it money? Connections? Resources? A personal shopper? Exposure? Free stuff? that keeps us on our side of the field? That keeps me from being able to wear this, or this:

(becauseimaddicted photos)

And, oh how badly I want to wear these things. I could do one million sit ups to get rock hard abs of steel and sexiness, run one million miles until my legs are chiseled pillars of stone, and I could not wear those damned shorts. Even with all of my sass and lankiness, I could not wear a dangling skunk from my neck and get anything but concerned stares and calls from my mother.

It is a lot of things, there's no way money and exposure, etc., don't play into it, but I think a lot of it has to be confidence. Most of those broads are probably just as paper thin emotionally as they are physically—they can't be the most grounded, confident things ever—but they do have the spotlight. It can be cold and cruel, but it can also be the source of these things being attached to your name: gutsy, unique, fashion-forward, breath-taking, mature, evolved, role model, perfect, stunning, chic, fab. And to be honest, if I got one of those on national television every once in a while, I don't think I would care that much if Joan Rivers feels it's necessary to rail on my Grammys dress, or if US Weekly decides that "Beyonce wears it better." I would hold that one "fab" close to my heart forever and ever, wear it like a badge of honor everyday, and I would let it manifest itself as courage to wear even more gutsy, crazy things more often. (See: Paris meets the bird's nest, above.)

As always, my conclusion comes down to a series of "sweet little lies" we tell ourselves to get by—or at least just I do. Maybe, when we're in the department store, or shuffling through the even-more-discounted rack at TJMaxx, we should tell ourselves that everyone IS watching, that at the party tonight there will be a bright spotlight, just waiting for each of us to step into it. That, no matter who wears it better, at least we showed up, got noticed, got photographed. Why are we so afraid to be the celebrities of our own lives? What's stopping us—other than fears of being thrown in the nut house? I say: buy the bird hat, get the pixie cut, hold your breath until you're blue in the face getting into that painted-on pair of yellow skinny jeans, buy an imitation skunk scarf and wear it proudly. What's the worst that could happen?

I don't know about you, but I've got to stop being so afraid all the time.

What If...

2011-05-17T13:11:00.000-07:00

Today I had an ultrasound of my throat/thyroid and I found out that there are no growths (nodules) on my thyroid that would imply cancer, therein: surgery. Praise God, right?! In a strange, dramatic way, I feel like I just escaped a death sentence! I cheated death by a hair! ...when, in reality, I was never facing imminent death in the first place.

The time spent awaiting diagnosis can be a scary time, though. The face can maintain the look of calm, while inside you are anything but composed. You are frantic, desperate, scared, wired, exhausted, hopeful, discouraged. A strange mixture of emotions to juggle.

I'm still not exactly sure what's wrong; I'll find that out (hopefully) on Thursday. Until then, there will be more nerves—though less-severe—difficulty concentrating, lots of time spent "off in space." And also this:

If I had not in fact "cheated death" today, and had somehow, in an amazingly speedy and impossible way, found out that I was dying of cancer in ______ days, I would do following:

I would speed—at least 15 over the speed limit—to the ole work place where I would burst through the doors, singing the liberal rally cry "Working On a Dream" by Bruce Springsteen—Oh, you didn't know that? Well, yeah—and then I would stand on top of my desk screaming "I'm leaving, and I'm taking Danielle with me!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Oh, and P to the S: I heart GUN CONTROL." Then I would grab Danielle by the arm, and also my computer because in this world I am a daring robber, and we would dash out of the building while "Brooklyn's Finest" by Jay-Z and Biggie rang out behind us.
I would drive to Wilmington and fill a tub with pad thai from Indochine and eat until near-death, and then head over to The Little Dipper and dip miniature pastries and bite-size fruit into chocolate until my heart almost stops. Lots of wine is inferred here.
I would call Sallie Mae up, give them my account number and all and TELL.THOSE.ARSES.OFF. Once and for all. "You are dirty, rotten, scoundrels and you deserve a slow, painful death!!!!" (That is just an excerpt of my very effective speech.)
I would IMMEDIATELY go get a Pixie cut, and then call Lin and squeal about it for about 15 minutes, and then probably tell her to come over.
I would lay in bed for at least 3 days rolling around with the pups, letting them lick my face with as many kisses as they wanted.
I would have a FULL-FATTY Caramel Macchiato and a toasted everything bagel with regular cream cheese for breakfast every morning.
I would drive up to visit Shauni and Al whenever I wanted to. (A bagillion miles?! NO PROBLEM.)
I would hold David's hand a lot more than I do which is not a lot.
I would be "up in the bed" with Emily watching Say Yes to the Dress and eating cookies until the sun came up.
I would be rapping with Aidy Mac, as his YouTube career takes off.
I would color with crayons.
I would be brave enough to tell the people I love that they deserve better.
I would throw an embarrassing number of parties in my own honor, dance parties WITH KARAOKE
I would make my first and only pair of jorts and wear them proudly.
I would get an AmEx and take everyone I know on a shopping trip.
I would get on a plane without an itinerary, just go and figure it out when I get there.
I would eat McSkillet burritos without shame.
I would register for a marathon and walk/juggle the whole thing.
I would dye my hair blonde, then red, then maybe green.
I would play with babies.
I would take voice lessons, and then have a concert, making it open to the public. I would then perform a variety of ballads, golden oldies from Celine Deon, Mariah Carey and Diana Ross, and even new hits from Katy Perry, Beyonce and Rhianna.
I would sit in one room with my siblings as we all shouted and interrupted and talked over each other, as is our signature, and I would not feel bad about it or even loud.
I would take my mom to get a massage, and buy my dad something nice.
I would write a novel, poignant and rambling and devastating and hopeful, and I would dedicate it to everyone in the whole wide world.
I would find a way to hug Barack Obama. And Michelle and the girls, too.

On second thought, maybe I would like to rewind, go back to that small, dark office and get different results. Riskier ones, scarier ones that would push me to my Type-A limit, causing me to spring off of the ledge on a moment's notice, plunge myself into free fall. And for once—just see what happens.

D-A-V-I-D

2011-05-16T08:02:00.000-07:00

Do you remember when you first learned about pride? I do. For me, it was in elementary school, around the time I learned what adjectives were. My teacher would hand out colorful pieces of construction paper and tell us to write the letters of our names down the left-hand side of the paper and to match "an adjective" that describes us to each letter. I was "L-ong, I-ngenious and A-mazing." (And I still am.) Even now, I think it's the best way to show how great someone is, and there is no one greater than my sweetie pie. So, after much anticipation, I give you:

D-ashing

I just saw this picture for the first time yesterday. I feel it is necessary to tell you that I screamed so loud when I saw it that I almost made the subject of this post (and picture) wreck our (rental) car. This dashing young man is David Louis Dangelico, born October 23, 1986. (Maybe 3 days before this photo was taken.) From the shape of his head, to the ever-flared nostrils, to the squinty eye, this is, undoubtedly, my husband. And the only way he could be any better is if I could cradle him in my arms as he is being cradled here. (I am a freak.) Just like a baby, David is funny, sort of wrinkly, open, hungry, stinky, friendly, curious and a big sleeper. Unlike a baby, David is independent, brave, creative, considerate, humorous and a Steelers fan. (Contrary to what David believes, babies and dogs don't have preferences when it comes very much, especially when it comes to the NFL.)

A-dventurous

David is a wild-man at heart. As seen in the photo above, he spent many years going through the rigorous Boy Scouts of America program where he learned valuable survival skills like how to shimmy into the window of your house when you lock yourself out, how to avoid being killed by a crack addict (this is really what he was, so don't call the PC police) and how to survive a summer head cold while hiking Macchu Piccu in Peru.

One time, we locked ourselves out of the house, and by the grace of the good Lord, we had left one window open with just the screen on. So David stood on top of his dad's shoulders and pulled himself up to the second-story window and shimmied his way in. I am STILL beating myself up over the fact that I was too busy "spotting" in case David fell one floor to his bloody, horrible death, and worrying about what would happen if David fell one floor to his bloody, horrible death, to take a picture or video of this happening. One time, we locked ourselves out again 3 weeks later...

One time, David was driving back to his apartment in Wilmington, NC from babysitting his cousin. It was the middle of the night. He stopped to help an old, disoriented woman who was standing in the roadway, and after seeing how upset she was, he offered to give her a ride. (Note: If there was an S in David's name, it would be shown here as S-weet, because he is so sweet. Sometimes too sweet...) So, after driving this woman "just around the corner" which turned out to actually be across town, David pulls up to "her friend who is really really sick's house" and the woman hops out without saying a word to him. Before he can even put the car into drive, a bunch of people swarm the car, and one guy jumps in. As a cop car cruises down the street, the guy yells "DRIVE" to a shocked and terrified David. Other necessary details: David was forced to drive this man around at sort-of gun point. The guy showed he had a gun, and then told David that if he knew what was good for him he would just drive and not try anything. He then proceeded to ask David if he thought Heaven was real, and if he believed in God. David thought this was really the end. Until finally, they pulled up to the last stop and the guy got out, leaving David very happy to be alive, and also leaving a cup full of liquor and a flyer for an Easter Revival church service. I cannot tell a lie.

One time David went backpacking through Peru and I was really worried about him, and he got this really bad cold, and he got altitude sickness, but he survived and he made it to the top of Macchu Piccu because he is awesomely adventurous and brave.

V-eracious

One of the first things I noticed about David and liked about David is that he tells it like it is. Sure, he may tell a fib once in a while about having taken out the trash when really it is sitting in the rain getting soggy, but when it matters, David is unafraid to tell you what he thinks. I admire that about him. He doesn't worry so much about what the other person will think about him, or what the negative repercussions might be, he just speaks his mind—but pretty much only when its asked for. David also wears his emotions on his sleeve, which is why this conversation happens almost once a week in our house:

Me: What's wrong?

David: Nothing.

Me: Are you sure?

David. Yeah. Why?

Me: You just seem weird.

David: I'm not weird, I'm fine.

Me: I'm your wife, I know what you're usually like.

David: Do you wanna watch a movie?

*Two, three, four hours later*

David: I'm sorry, but it's just really bothering me that...

Maybe it's necessary to include that David's truth comes out in his own time, but nonetheless, I am always eager to hear what he has to say.

I-nvigorating

My man has the moves—what else can I say? (OK, well the only other thing I can say is that it also appears he has very few bones in his hands.) But other than those TWO things, I cannot say anything else about him. Oh, except that he looks SO CUTE in suspenders, and he loves beer, and also his thick-framed black glasses, and also my cousins. That is my cousin Forrest, stage left. (Hi, Forrest!) Also, David always knows the best up-and-coming musicians and bands, so he always knows the perfect song to play for any mood. He also knows pretty much any and all music trivia, even about the silly ones like my girl Katy Perry. Lastly, ever since we started dating David has made me these mix-CDs, they are always entitled "Love is a Mixtape: ______." The _______ is for whatever the particular mix is called. I have at least 10 of them. I still listen to them all the time. They are such good encapsulations of each different stage of our life together. They always make me happy, and there's always a good dance track or two on there, because, like I said: my man has the moves.

D-evastating(-ly cute)

Not surprisingly, I have a very similar reaction to this photo as I do to the first one of him as a three-day old. I live for that smile and those squinty eyes. It is in them that I find so much comfort, humor, warmth, kindness, support, trust and love. There is only one David. He is my best friend, my personal movie reviewer, my muse, my lover, my dog walker, my music critic, my murse, my coach, my teammate, my stand-up comedian, my breath of fresh air. He is a daily reminder of how blessed I am, how proud I should be and how precious life is. Last night we sat at our teeny kitchen table, drinking beers and eating tacos and talking about what comes next: the work-week, doctors appointments, movies, the summertime. With our chairs shoved closely together, we sat in our little townhouse with our knees pulled into our chests like two little children giggling over some secret joke. Blissfully unaware of the future, the unknown, just living for this one evening—because if it were all that there was, this one evening would be enough.

It's nothing fancy or overblown, it doesn't need explanation or excuse or alarm, it just is. Simple, happy—perfect. As right for me as any old thing could be. It's just D-A-V-I-D.

Words on...getting deleted.

2011-05-12T12:53:00.002-07:00

An open letter to blogger:

Dear Blogger,

Thank you for shutting down for, like, 72 hours. Thank you for ruining my blog-reading schedule for the week. I have lots of reading to catch up on this morning. Thank you for revealing to me that over 50% of the blogs I read are hosted by Blogger. AND LASTLY, thank you for deleting my whole entire post written on Wednesday—it was a long, long, long passionate post on writing and a current political controversy. I put my heart and soul into and you erased it ALL! OK, not all, but this is all that you DID save, even after I continued to save throughout the writing process:

"It wasn't long after I arrived in Wilmington, NC for college that it hit me: I was born to write. I wasn't born to look good in a bikini, or..."

I'll just let the rest of your imaginations run wild with this one.

In the meantime, I need to hop to writing that blog about David, otherwise he is going to tear up all of my Colin Firth posters (and pillows).

Signed,

Angry in Aquamarine

A Few Notes for Wednesday

2011-05-11T11:05:00.000-07:00

One. 2003 was timid little thing that began, simply enough, on a Wednesday. It was deemed "The International Year of Freshwater." On March 19, the Iraq War began with the invasion of Iraq by U.S. forces. June Carter Cash passed away, as did Katharine Hepburn and Bob Hope. But, that year, eight years ago today, something magical happened: This little sweetie pie—Aidan Michael Hoffman—was brought into the world.

It was a crisp Mother's Day morning, I was the ripe age of 16. Little did we know, it was the beginning of an incredible adventure for our family. Before Aidan came along, the youngest child, my brother Cullan, was 6. (Please give me a minute, I have fallen out of my chair due to oldness and I cannot get up.) OK. Sorry, so there was a 6-year age gap. My oldest sister Ashleywas 21.

How would we manage to start all over again? How could we backtrack into baby talk, talking toys, diaper changes and cartoons? The answer, as it turns out, to all of that was: swimmingly so. Overnight, simple everyday words and names were instantly transformed: the X-Box controller became "chade," Cullan became "bi-low," Aidan was called anything from Woobie to Aidy-Mac, Aidy Muckle, Schwabynab, Pudgey Lumpkins, Chooks. Spongebob Square Pants became a household staple, as did the short and stout bundle of blonde-haired, blue-eyed love and—energy—his little feet could be heard zooming in circles around the house at all hours. I have become an old sap today since he is no longer easily cradled in my arms, and he went off and had to turn 8. Thankfully, I still know his weaknesses: Slurpees, shooting hoops and cold hot dogs.

Two. Please be sure to check out the following things:

the novel, "A Single Man," by Christopher Isherwood (or the film)

(Oh, hey there suga' lips)

and...

the film, "Coco Avant Chanel"

Three. (See above) I have, after watching "Coco Avant Chanel" last night, decided that I missed my calling as a fashion designer. I want to break gender rules, define a generation (or twenty) and inspire women all over the world to express themselves through their fashion. First step: buy a sewing machine. Second step: Throw away clothes with holes in them, and actually make some semi-decent fashion decisions. Third step: Change my name to LiLi or Lolo or something catchy with which to brand myself. (Please note: LiLi has already taken off in several of my relationships.)

Four. What's for dinner? If you're looking to spice things up the kitchen, give this tasty, healthful recipe a try. I spotted it on SkinnyTaste.com, my go-to website for recipes for any occasion. I made this dish the other night, and it was so delicious. It would be a tasty, cost-effective way to "wow" dinner guests at your next dinner party, too.

Broiled Tilapia with Thai Coconut Curry Sauce

Five. And lastly, have you heard this song? If not, give it a listen or two. If you have heard it already, give it a listen or two again. It has a tendency to put me in a good mood, no matter what's going on. Also, I think it sounds like summertime. :)

The Crash of '11

2011-05-10T05:59:00.000-07:00

We all know about The Crash of '29, but do you know about The Crash of '11? No? Then gather 'round children to hear a tale from a land far far away, with a prince, three fat fairies, a few dwarfs, a dragon, a witch and... OK just kidding. (Sort of.)

Remember how I was committed 155% to posting here consistently, daily—when possible? I was all "never gonna give you up, never gonna let you down, never gonna run around and desert you?" Well, I'm sad to report that that—along with all of my Rick-rolling—came to a screeching halt last Tuesday night.

It was just after 10 p.m., and David and I left our friends' house to head home for the night. It is important to note that we live a mere three minutes from said friends. David was in the driver's seat and I was in the passenger seat, keeping up my usual routine of talking a mile a minute, while also texting (therein annoying David.) Anyway, David sees a car speeding up behind him in the right lane, so he turns his clicker on and gets into the left lane. About 30 seconds later—CRASH heard 'round the...county.

Me: *Screams* Oh my god, wh-what happened?! *Hyperventilates*

David: It's OK, It's OK, are you OK?

Me: *Crying* What? No? Yes? Yes, I'm OK.

David: *Superhero Mode* In a flash of light, he speeds to the other car, and pulls the driver out of the window of his now-obliterated car. Suddenly, Super David is in costume, cape and all.* (Despite the craziness, I was able to capture a photo of him in action:)

(In case you were wondering, his secret super powers are: caterpillar eyebrows and a scepter that shoots out poisonous stale Halloween candy from 1989.)

So I called 911, and after being asked 20 questions (which made me wonder, if my arm was falling off, would he do the same? Asking me how many drips of blood are falling per second, and which way the wind is blowing?) the operator said the police and an ambulance were on the way.

It's strange how emergency situations mess with time; somehow it seemed both in slow-motion and speeding out of control. (Oh wait, that was the other guy.) Before I knew it, my neck was being stabilized by a studly EMT—I'm talking Boris Kodjoe, here—and I was being put in a neck brace and transferred onto what has become known as "the board" in our house. The same was done to David, and in the pouring rain we were loaded into one ambulance and taken to a nearby hospital.

Aside from the EMTs corny jokes and unsuccessful attempts at keeping me calm, my favorite parts of the ride include: one of the EMTs declining his girlfriend's call on his cell phone and saying, "It's OK, when I tell her I was saving a husband and a wife, she won't get mad at me." And the other EMT finding out that I love to read and urging me to check out the latest collection of fantasy novels he's in to. And then the two of them telling every person we encountered once at the ER that we were husband and wife and HAD to be kept together.

Those boys didn't have much sway, because after being wheeled into the ER, I didn't see David again until almost 2 a.m.

What would follow included at least 4 hours strapped down to "the board." A word or two on "the board," is now needed. Have you ever been on the board??????? Who designed the board?????????? Has he/she ever been on the board?????????? Why is it legal?????? Does anyone really think that after falling, getting hit, passing out, etc., the board is going to KEEP you from being injured further????? It was by far the most uncomfortable experience of my life, and it should be known here that I had to have a catheter put in while in the ER. 'Nuff said. I would have done anything to get off of there, I would have even told my sweet Colin that we were living in a fantasy world and I could never see him again. I would have punched a puppy, maybe... OK probably not but I might have like, put it in its bed for a really long time with no snuggles. The board was death, and I soon understood torture and immediately respected every person who had ever lived to see life on the other side of the board.

We had CATscans and I had xrays, and we waited and waited, mostly we spent our time waiting, and then finally we were told we were all right, and were taken off the GD board, and taken out of the GD collar and we were semi-normal again. Aside from the fact that the driver who hit us was: not only going twice the speed limit and was under the influence BUT he had no insurance, and was an arse of epic porportions. (They didn't have to tell us that last part.)

What would follow would be pain killers, two days off of work, motrin motrin motrin, Rooney eating one of my motrins, emergency vet appointment, so.much.vomit, lots of sleep, lots of take out for dinner and PAIN. Mother-loving pain.

So, here I am, one week later and my shoulder is still sore, my neck is tight, the back-end of my car is basically being rebuilt, insurance is covering everything (Big Ups to Progressive!) and I am being tested for thyroid problems because the ER called me back on Friday and said the Radiologist spotted inconsistencies in my thyroid in my xrays. Grand. At least after The Crash of '29 they still had Jay Gatsby and flapper dresses—oh and everyone looked good with bob haircuts. I have a sore shoulder and no clean clothes.

Did you ever read my post on Murphy's Law? I wasn't kidding.

Tonight David leaves again for a quick trip down to Wilmington, and I venture to small group alone. Here's to hoping I make it there and back in one piece. But, Lord, if I don't and something else happens to me, at least send Boris Kodjoe to my rescue again. That's all for now. Please and thanks.

P.S.: After my Colin Confession, I promised David I would devote my next post to him in all of his wonderful glory, but then all of this happened. So, even though I do highlight his courageous superhero-ness here (This is not the first time David's Spidey senses have emerged. In college he pulled a woman from a burning car, and also survived being car-jacked at gunpoint. More on that later.) please expect to see a fitting post on my wonderful hubby soon. <3

My Colin Confession

2011-05-03T11:16:00.000-07:00

OK, it's time to get real. Real Talk with Lia Dee. (Maybe I should have gone with that for my blog title? Probably not. Here is why:) I have been keeping a huge secret from everyone for many years. Most of you know I am married. Very happily. But I can say, with much confidence, that very few of you know that I am really married to this man:

Hi, honey! (No need to get up, we're good here.)

I'm sorry that I have been keeping such a big secret, especially from my real-life (read: fake) husband David. For my "real husband" is none other than the foxy, the humble, the intelligent, the British-accented, the lean, the tall, the curly haired, the dreamy, the causal, the dimpled, the understatedly elegant, the masculine: Colin Firth, also known to me, personally, as sugar lips.

To clarify: Sugar lips is my "real husband" because if he were only my "fake husband," then that would mean my current conscious state is my "real world" and that just simply cannot be so because: 1. I am sitting at the NRA 2. There are fat rolls on my stomach 3. I am sitting at the NRA and finally, 4. Celery is my lunch today. Medical clarification: Firth, Firthy, the Firthinator is my "real husband" because I am in denial about the few depressing aspects of my life.

When I need to burn some cals—even though I really want to be stuffing my face with creamy pasta, or steak and seasonal cocktails—I've been forcing myself on walks, lately. So I trudge this big ole' body on up sidewalk, and I slip into my "real world" where sugar lips and I live for half of the year in a villa in the Italian countryside and spend the other half jumping back and forth between the different Greek islands. In case you were wondering, he looks the exact, perfect same way he always does and I look something like Penelope Cruz with normal-size hands and feet, standing on my yacht, holding my toy poodle, Marlee. (I could use my terrible photo-editing skills to show you just what that would look like here, but I'm too scared to take that giant step (down in my spiral).

On my walks, I talk and laugh with my "real husband" who thinks I am witty and adorable and sweet, and I let the wind blow my hair in a "dream world" free-spirited, beautiful way, that, in the "real world" makes me look like a crazy person who is in desperate need of a hair-tie. Talking to myself? Check. Laughing to myself? Check. Hair blowing in all different directions around my face so I can hardly see, as I stumble and huff my way through a less-than-half-mile walk? Check. Are you starting to pick up on my real world/fake would problem (read: delusions)? If you saw me walking like this, talking to myself like this, with a crazed look in my eye, would you call your local police? It's probably likely. But, I'll have you know that Colin and I don't care about that.

Nope. This kind of love is worth it, and anyone who doesn't understand us has never REALLY been in love in REAL life before. So you will just have to live with that, or we will. Either way we will continue to live together.

Before I go, I thought I would share one more photo from my private files. Here it is:

Jump in, the water's fine (and so am I).

I don't know what it is, but lately I am starting to enjoy "exercising" more and more. What a mystery.

Feel Freely, Freely Feel

2011-05-02T15:11:00.000-07:00

Given the sobering events of last night and today, there has been so much talk, so many facts to process, such intense emotional fall out, it's hard to make heads and tails of things. We were all affected by bin Laden's death, whether you're happy, mad or indifferent about it. Tragedies stick with us. Everyone remembers where they were during the 1998 Embassy bombings, and of course September 11th. I was in 9th grade. I remember feeling scared and hopeless and yet—united. I felt an overwhelming sense of being "a part of." I had never felt something so strong; I had never so deeply felt that I, as an American, was one small part of a greater whole. I was connected to those on the TV screens, scrambling from dust-covered fire trucks, to those gasping for air between choking sobs in the streets, to the others, like me, permanently affixed to living room couches, trembling fingers bent over their mouths wet with tears.

While we all remember where we were during tragedies, we all respond differently. Just like today. There are feelings of triumphant joy, vindication, concern, anger, confusion, apathy, judgment and much more. All of these things floating around in the air above and among us, bumping in to one another. We have to see and hear and process these differing feelings. We may be angry, but we have to witness someone else's joy. We may feel vindication, but have to read about how all that bin Laden's death does is beget more hate and evil and destroy any glimmer of hope left for peace. We may be reminded of the sacrifice or the loss of a loved one, while someone goes on about how they don't see what the big deal is. It's unsettling. It's not easy to juggle along with all of your own feelings.

So many times throughout the day I found myself shaking in anger over a post, a comment or a news headline that I just couldn't comprehend. How could that be your response to this whole thing, I found myself asking over and over. How is that your solution to all of this? How misinformed, insensitive can you be?

It just kept hitting me over and over in waves. I would swallow my pride and gather my wits, and go about my day only to be totally derailed again 20 minutes later. I thought we were part of a whole, I thought. How can we both have experienced x, y and z and come out of it feeling so differently?

I'm not on point here, I don't have a crushing blow to dole out, some poignant statement to tie all of this together and prove that I'm right. I'm only here to say that I was smacked in the face with a harsh reality today: I care way too much what other people think. (David will laugh when he reads this because he tells me this at least 5 times a week.) But it's so true. And it's never hit me so hard. Why do you care, Lia? What do you gain from caring? What do you lose? If this is a close friend going through a hard time, THAT is a perfect time to care "too much." But not something like this. A differing of opinions. A misinformed person. An accusation from an enemy. An attack on your character, your President. Shake it off like a rainy afternoon that cancels your plans.

I spend so much time and energy carrying the worries and thoughts and fears of the people I am connected to. I let their words creep under my skin, and work their way up to my head where they blast on repeat over and over for hours, days. I am mentally editing their words, their actions—striking through self-proclaimed mistakes and scratching bold red lines through patches of words. What a waste of time. I can't change them, I can't change their minds.

Starting today I am going to start pulling the attached wires off, disconnecting myself from negative connections. There is positivity, inspiration, motivation out there waiting to be grasped. And I am am eager—my mind open, my hands outstretched—poised to take hold of the real meaning of life, and let the rest of it slip right down off of my skin. And whatever you feel about today, and everyday: Let yourself feel that way fully, without embarrassment or condemnation or concern. Don't feel like you have to explain yourself all the time. Just freely feel. Accept it, accept yourself, stand firm on your own two feet and you can't go wrong.

Murphy's Law, AKA: Law of my Life

2011-04-28T08:46:00.000-07:00

Some people have allergies, some people get sunburned easily, others have unruly cowlicks, but me, I have Murphy's Law. That's right. Good ole' Murphy. According to Wikipedia, Murphy's Law is defined as "an adage or epigram that is typically stated as: 'Anything that can go wrong will go wrong.'"

Sounds peachy as a way of life, huh? Ole' Murph is so annoying we have even considered (Read: I have considered) naming our first child Murphy in hopes that it will off-set this horrid luck. (Murphy Dangelico. Ick) But, alas, it would probably just end up in an epic, LOST-worthy catastrophe of remote desert islands, excessive nickname-calling and a ridiculously short, evil kidnapper with a God-complex.

The ways in which Murphy's Law plagues me include—but are not limited to—the following:

First year of being married, insane amount of money due on our taxes
Multiple gray hairs before 25 (Shout out to my mom who, whenever I comment on my grays, says: "You know, your grandfather was completely white by 25." Please note that the number gets closer and closer to my current age each time she mentions it.)
My job (Growing up in a rented farm house with no farm animals does not a cowgirl make.)
Tall, big hands AND big feet ('Nuff said. And none of that "at least you're proportional," shite)
Eight-kids, poor parents (Sorry Mom.) (You know the song "Everybody, everybody, everybody wants to be a cat?" -Aristocats Well, just think of it this way: All my friends are cats. I'm a gargantuan mouse.)
Car repairs, always at the worst times
Elbow holes (THIS IS ONE OF THE WORST)
Fancy and expensive pizza stone breakage
Excessive sleepiness (I have managed to stay up until 12 exactly once in this new year, at least.)
Small teeth (See bullet number 4 = cruel combination)
Honeymoon FAIL (Including: Food poisoning and other undesirable illnesses, excessive buginess, overweight nude sunbathers and lack of AC/fan/a freaking breeze?)
Queso stain on my only white dress shirt (Cruel and unusual)
Coupons expiring the day before I want goto use them (ALWAYS)

and finally...the most-current whammy:

While trying to show a friend (Shout out to SJ!) how to to set-up an out-of-office reply, my email freaks out and sends an out-of-office reply to EVERY SINGLE EMAIL IN MY INBOX. What the? How is that even possible, right? (My boss got 100 emails. The DEPARTMENT HEAD GOT 47.) WHAAT?!

Someone please save me from the evil Murphy. Or just put me out of my misery. (Or just buy me a drink?)

P.S.: And, if, just if, you happen to be wondering what the little evil Murphy Dangelico might look like, Google has an answer for you. And (somehow, in God's name) this is what it came up with:

...I can totally see the resemblance.

All By My Lonesome

2011-04-27T12:01:00.000-07:00

"All by mah-sey-eeeelf, don't wanna be alllll by myyyyysaaaaalf, anymo'." -NOT Carly Simon, but Jamie O'Neil (covering an Eric Carmen original)

***Did I also forget to mention that I will be using this blog as a jumping-off point for my new one-line concert series: "The Classics, In Just One Line?"***

Editorial comment: A big shout-out to my mom for fact-checking me and pointing out that it was not, in fact, Carly Simon who ever even sang this song. O'Neil covered it in Bridget Jones' Diary (double shout-out to Steph for picking up on that). Needless to say, I will have to do some studying before going on tour...

OK, so, it has just been confirmed by sources closest to myself (me) that I will be all alone this whole weekend for the first time in many moons. Sure, I've spent the occasional night huddled in our big bed, surrounded by dogs and probably wide-eyed waiting for an intruder to break in, or maybe just spent the night dreaming about it, but I can't remember the last time I spent 2 1/2 days alone. Now, don't be silly, I will see people. I will most certainly pay a long-overdue ice cream visit to my main man down at the Shell station on the corner. He laughs at my Half-Baked ice cream, telling me Cherry Garcia is better, while trying to convince me to buy a lottery ticket. In addition, I will be helping some friends out on Saturday, and going to a wine festival on Sunday. OK, so...not really alone. But it sounds dramatic, and maybe makes you pity me about as much as you pity celebrities for being so rich that they can't, you know, like go out and "do stuff" like normal people, so I'll stick with it.

To recap: Me, bed full of dogs, being helpful, ice cream, creepy-yet-charming gas station attendant and wine will comprise my weekend.

Now, what else did I come here to say?

Oh. This sort-of-kind-of aloneness that will (not-really) plague me this weekend has spread to my work life. I am currently sitting in my teeny cubicle, and I don't hear anything. Not the annoying girl with the INSANELY pitchy laugh down the hall. Not my antagonistic coworker chiding the new guy. Not even the click of my boss shutting her door to shut the world out. Everyone is gone this week at the annual meeting of gunny minds of EPIC proportions in Pittsburgh, Pa. I won't go into it any further than that. So it's just me here holding down the E-Media fort with my black coffee and colored pens. Not only that, but the disturbing full-circle fact of it all is that, the reason I will be alone at home is because David will be in—that's right—Pittsburgh!!! this weekend, attending a funeral. (Tip-toeing away from sad/depressingness.)

Alternative tasks to keep me busy this lonely weekend include:

Clean our despicably dirty carpets (Thanks to 3 pooches, and my unsteady pouring hand)
Wash the car/vacuum out all of the dog hair and dirt (See above)
Buy new bed sheets
Paint a picture
Re-mulch the backyard
Start my novel
Brush the dogs' teeth
...World peace?! (Miss. Congeniality, anyone?!)

In other news, I just got an email from a coworker with the subject line: "Breaking News." The body of the email reads: "A tornado watch has been issued for the region. ================." I imagine that the dashed lines that follow the brief, but important, sentence are like the typed version of those beeps that always follow a statement from the Emergency Broadcast System. (Nice touch, fella'.) So, after all, maybe I will be spending the weekend in a bathtub with the doggies, or maybe huddled in a bomb-shelter with strangers, or maybe I'll get lucky and spend it like this:

Please, GOD, let it be option #3!!!!!!!!!

Makeova'

2011-04-26T15:50:00.000-07:00

Have I mentioned here before that I have a tendency to get discouraged and bored of things quickly? Well, tis true. But in an effort to revamp this very neglected blog and reawaken the writing spark within me, I have given the old girl a bit of a makeover. I may have gone a bit overboard in the "girly" department, but thankfully, I am a girl, so we're all good there. (In other news: how many times can I say "girl" in one breath? Oy)

How will I force myself to write more, you few followers ask?

Well, the answer is simple, but following through with it is not. The pen-and-ink answer is that I have expanded the purpose of this blog—even if just within the realm of my own mind. I am attempting to take away the stage fright I feel each time I log on, by lightening the mood (and look) and opening up the conversation. Not every post has to be poetic, or meaningful...or include something about my family. (Guilty as charged.) For the first time in a very long time, if ever in my life, I have time on my hands, time to kill, nothing to wear and nowhere to be. So, in the best possible sense, I plan to wallow, wander aimlessly, make a big fuss about some of the more beautiful things in this world—-oh, and likely, very likely, tell some bad jokes here and there. With such a winning recipe—from now on will we ALWAYS think of Charlie Sheen when we hear "winning?"—I cannot go wrong; I will surely devote more time and passion to my girl. A big part of it may, in fact, include me referring to my blog as "my girl" from now on.

So, what do you say? Same place, same time next week?—er, tomorrow? (I think I can, I think I can.)

I hope you will enjoy my future ramblings of all things-Lia: cooking, eating, puppies, not-exercising, talking too much, fashion, relationships, flowers, politics, forgetting to brush my dogs' teeth everyday, books, film, music, decorating and much much more.

See you on the other side!

Anniversary

2011-03-08T13:30:00.001-08:00

Today is a bitter pill to swallow. March 8th marks the two-year anniversary of being at my current job. I find it hard to celebrate (or be happy about) any part of it other than the future prospect of a new job and the paychecks that helped feed us. It has been a rough two years, though quick, and there have been periods within the span when I just wanted to hide from everything, escape the bad, escape the good. Start over. I have been tested beyond belief, tired beyond belief, but also blessed beyond belief.

The good certainly outweighs the bad, and thankfully that is what comes to mind regularly. I try to forget the confusion, hurt and disappointment and stay focused on what's ahead of me: Freedom.

I need all of the prayers and encouragement out there. Simply coming to work and sitting here for 8 hours a day has even gotten tough. There are times when I let the pinch of responsibility go, and I clasp the handle of my purse and think about rising and walking down the hall to the elevator. Fleeing. Never turning around to wave goodbye, or even scream. Other times I am fully lost in fantasy of how I will go when given the opportunity to leave for good. Will I make a list of wrongs and post it publicly, will I speak my mind and shout and kick and be escorted out by security guards, or will I go silently and let my absence speak volumes?

It is a very unfortunate thing to have a treasure in your possession and to let it go to waste. To let it fall by the wayside, neglected. Untended crops cannot grow. Cannot find joy in their work, or feel valuable, and capable and worthy. But if, just if, she has a solid-enough head on her shoulders and a bit of conviction, in time she will break through the soil—up and up, roots tearing from dark brown earth, jagged strands of life plunged into limbo, uncertainty, but: fresh air—and move along to a better plot of land.

And once she goes, she will never return, never give a single thought to you and all that happened here.

Sweet Stuff

2011-02-14T12:56:00.000-08:00

I live for holidays that fall on weekdays. While the initial statement may seem to make little sense, there is more. I live for holidays that fall on weekdays/work days. As much as a day off is highly appreciated (please & thank you), a holiday that falls on a work day promises treats. And as we all know, treats are "where it's at."

I've been told I got my sweet tooth from my father. "The garbage disposal" who would finish off left-overs from our childhood dinner plates, was also the only one of my parents who would buy sweets when he went grocery shopping.

Taking delicate, silent steps into the pantry after the groceries were unloaded, our small brown eyes burst with excitement. Oatmeal Raisin Cookies! Chocolate Kudos Bars! Marshmallows! Mint Chocolate Chip Ice Cream (the white, never the green kind). Even Nilla Wafers got us going.

Following my parents divorce, I would look forward to weekends at my dad's when we would go grocery shopping after he picked us up. We always knew we could convince him to buy a sugar-y sweet ending to the evening.

There shouldn't have been a problem. We were healthy eaters; the point was that treats were a once-in-a-while thing. A reward for eating heaping spoonfuls of vegetables throughout the week.

But, there was a problem. Like my father with dinner, I became a racing motorboat determined to gobble as many scoops of Breyers as I could. This dessert will be your last dessert EVER, I would hear in my head—I swear, the voice was very, very clear. One scoop, two, three. One more mound of the creamy white stuff. I have never been able to shed this sweetness obsession. One Dove chocolate becomes a handful—my work desk littered with crumpled tin-foil wrappers. I stuff them into my trash can before anyone comes along and notices my gluttony.

One cookie, three more. I can't stop. In the grocery line, I spy a Kit-Kat. My weakness. King-Size. My weakness on 'roids. I slip the over-sized candy bar into my cart, temporarily detached from my own body and brain (which is telling me STOP! NOW! Resist the urge!). I peer over the lanes, as if pondering a dairy purchase, unaware that a stranger has slipped delicious sin into my cart—and oblivion. It's all the same. For as long as I can remember, packages of candy always seemed to disappear just as quickly as they were opened.

The old metabolism seems to have faded without my noticing, too. Here today, must-work-out-incessantly-and-slap-hand-when-it-reaches-for-sweets tomorrow. I have to train myself to quiet the overzealous sweet tooth. But, when a delightful holiday comes around, the ladies in my office bring in baked goods. The men play it simple and bring in bags of themed chocolate. Even the ultra-thin secretary indulges, so I tell myself: it's OK. After all, it's a holiday!

The one upside to all of this is that my unruly tooth transcends baked goods and candy, to all things sweet. Puppies, my sleepy man in the morning, anything mini, babies, Dads with their kids, a much-needed card from an old friend, small arms hanging around my neck, the smell of fresh flowers. All of these things bring me to tears and soften my often-cold-hard heart. Somehow my love for the sweet helps me notice the little things everyday—edible or not. And so I thank my sweet tooth, and I pat my round, soft belly and rejoice for the silly, overdone holidays that bring me and this old tooth of mine so much delight.

Let's Be Adventurous!

2011-01-20T11:50:00.001-08:00

We started off the new year with a short and sweet visit up north, to Vermont, to ski, drink and meet new friends. Yes, we traveled 9 hours to meet new friends. (If this gives you any idea of our current situation, please pity us.) But, thankfully, what could potentially have been a dangerous experience turned out to be extremely fun and relaxing for both of us. (And, we hope, for our "real life" new friends!)

I'd be lying if I said it didn't take some convincing to get David to go along with my plans. I think he thought they were pipe dreams at first, and as they became more of a reality, he seemed in shock. We would discuss it, and he would doubt my sanity, and I would say: don't you want to go on an adventure?!

David always laughs at me and maybe rolls his eyes when I launch into one of my "put yourself out there" sermons. It is "so important" according to, well, me: to go, to do. To live outside your comfort zone!

ADVENTURE! I shout at him.

What exactly do you mean by adventure? he asks.

To go somewhere totally new and strange. Just imagine! Somewhere you—WE—have never ever been! Experience life, a culture you didn't even know existed! Doesn't that just sound thrilling?!?

He's not so sure. (Translation: he is very sane and normal.)

My half-hearted pep talks don't usually convince him, or anyone other than me—for one fleeting moment. And in that moment, I feel wonderful and powerful and in command, at the wheel of my own life.

So whether or not I should become a motivational speaker is still being debated, but in the meantime, for now, I can convince both of us to take little risks: hop in the car, jump on a plane and go somewhere new. Meet new people. Use the little time, little money, little energy we have to "be adventurous" by taking little adventures.

So I guess for now, that will be enough to keep my sweet man sane. And enough for me, too, standing here on my own two feet.

A New Year

2011-01-05T10:00:00.000-08:00

A new year. And I can't help but ask, who decided this? To clearly distinguish between one year and another. A heavy reminder of a clear beginning and end to everything in this life. Call me dramatic, but it seems like there's so much pressure attached to it. "That's the end of that..." says ticking-ticking Time, making a hand gesture that resembles brushing something off. "'That,' you know, the old way of doing things. Why, yes, 'old' as in...yesterday."

Yesterday is yesterday and today is today? Well, I could have told you that.

A new year. And we're all supposed to dress up, put on a new face, kiss at midnight and transform POOF! into new-year beings; waist-lines instantly slimming, better looking and resolutions to just be... BETTER, to boot! Then again, maybe I just have a bad attitude. Perhaps we need it, that yearly reminder that nothing lasts forever, that change is often the answer, a hopeful idea that just around the next corner your success, your one true love, your big break...your happiness is waiting.

"Change is the law of life and those who look only to the past or present are certain to miss the future."

—John F. Kennedy

If everything is being amended, improved by resolutions then why does it all feel the same? It is just a transitional period? If so, why does the same outlook, the same route, the same faces, the same feeling in the pit of your stomach—something is not right—last all year long?

CHANGE is such a great word, that is, when used as a verb. Change is too great to be just a noun, tossed around, given a few good tries before ultimately getting tossed out. Change must be cannot-breathe-without-it action, a failure to settle, a refusal to stand still. Change, Kennedy said, is the LAW of life, what dictates wrong and right. The difference between dormant life and a prosperous, sprawling one. So why are we so scared to say, "This year, I'm making some changes. I'm going to clean up the mess I've made." Instead it's made to seem that this year all of the things that have been done TO us will be fixed with a few simple New Years Resolutions—empty and emptier, like the dull repetitious hum of a shallow drum.

For me, it can only be change. That is the answer to every whine, every cry, every burst of anger that I spill out. I must change. And I know it is a process.

I see: me, standing alone in a dark, empty room filled with mirrors. I'm having a conversation with myself. I'm listening to the conversations I have with other people. I'm laughing at jokes I don't find funny. I'm watching myself cowardly shy away from saying what's really on my mind, what I really think—that you're foolish. I'm waiting for my turn to share what I think, how my day was. You keep going. I'm still waiting. I'm shielding my eyes from the blinding light of criticism. You're too harsh. You need to relax, take people for who they are. You can't expect them to be more than that. I'm being dependable, but the favor is never being returned. I'm giving much, taking little, dreaming of more, much much more. I'm being jealous, ungrateful. I'm staring at my body, willing it to change. Watching the way my skin stretches in places, folds softly in others. When did you get so round, so soft? I watch myself apologizing, and forgiving but not forgetting. Pretending things are fine, "totally all right," when they're not. Say something. Stop being so afraid of being a "bitch." You should really speak up. I watch my lips, still, silent. Coward. I watch myself faking it, putting on a show, smoothing things over. I'm really good at it. Take a bow. But then I see myself in his arms, happy—a mirror within a mirror—so happy, not disappointed, not feeling fat, attached, feeling warm. I am happy. And even still there are clouds on the horizon. I made them. Created them, brought on the rain. Remember to breathe, deep breaths. I have the power to clear it all away, and I'm waiting on nothing, no one but myself. No one around with anything to offer, no one to blame but myself. In the corner of my eye, at the base of the room of mirrors, I spy them. Yellow rubber gloves—size Large. I open them up and slip my hands in, each of my fingers finding their corresponding hole. Be brave. Don't be so scared all the time. The gloves are on now, and I raise my eyes to...me. Eye to eye, no turning back, honest. And just like that, someone flips on the lights.

My December Girls

2010-12-14T13:26:00.000-08:00

Many years ago, as a young pre-teen, my friends and I used to giggle inside of a tight-knit circle as we calculated—based on our birthdays—when each of us was conceived.

"Valentines Day baby, Valentines Day baby," we would squeal in delight and curiosity at one born in November. (After all, we likely didn't know how exactly a baby came to be.)

"Ooooh, New Years Eve, Oh la la," one would say to the other.

I sat here today at my desk quietly, half doing tasks, half eying the calendar, but mostly thinking that this year, for the first time since my own birth, you won't be here to celebrate your day. And as I scatter to plan for your daughter's (my mother's) birthday which falls tomorrow, just two days before yours, I couldn't help but strategize ways to keep her mind off of the fact that now hers is the only December birthday. Your mother, my great grandmother Honey, came first on the 19th, then you on the 17th and then my mother on the 15th. How amazing that three generations were born within 5 days of one another, only separated by the 20-year age differences between you. The closeness always felt special to me. I could easily group the three of you together: conceived in March, early springtime babies, all spring showers and lilacs, and roses. How fitting for the three of you, I thought, always with a song underfoot, a twinkle in your eyes, a little bit of something special on a tough day. Three peas in a pod, you grew from the same seed, the same attitude, hope, love (and poor planning).

My mother remains. Solitary, she is the lone December birth. I'm not surprised she's boarding a plane on the day that separates her day and yours to flee this coast, to hide out beneath the warm California sunlight for a few days, wearing a new face, an old dress and, undoubtedly, one of your scarves.

So, I guess I'm just here to say I'm missing you, and thinking of you on this windy December day. And I'll sing a little Happy Birthday tune every day this week to fill in the spaces and the new-found emptiness in this silly old month.

Happy Birthday, my sweet Grace.

Who's Got Spirit?

2010-12-10T06:46:00.000-08:00

Here we stand, two weeks from Christmas, and while it's simply freezing out, it just doesn't feel like Christmastime. Maybe it came too fast, maybe it snuck up on me while I had my back turned; but after a long, stressful, sometimes heartbreaking year, it arrived and I am still standing, despite cold fingers and toes, but left reeling.

Christmas, this year, feels like heavy workbooks—my father's—that are too big. I've got them on though, I'm trudging, my feet sliding forward and back with each step. Something doesn't feel right, the fit is off. But I don't want him or anyone else to know it. I've got a smile on. This is fun, it's just a show. Everything's going to be all right. Falling is impossible. I guess I just wonder if someone can pick up on the traces of fear hidden on my face—fear of being found a fraud.

There are lights in my front window, and a colorfully decorated tree in the corner of my living room, but it all feels like a set dressing. Props inside of four walls that come apart at the corners, and can be packed away for next year's display.

I blame myself. I don't spend enough time with family. I don't plan fun, festive activities on the weekends. I don't bake enough. I don't get outside enough. But no one's to blame, and I guess I'm realizing that now. The only thing to blame is the notion that Christmas has to mean the same thing for everyone. It doesn't have to be painted red and green, or be summed up in a few kitschy lines; it might not even be worn with a smile and a "ho ho ho." So, maybe I'm growing, or grown, now finding my fit. My Christmas. And I'm finding it's more of a bluish gray, but with an overwhelming warmth to it, too. Mine is less of a "party" and more of a time for reflection of the numbered days behind me, the memories of the year. What we've been through. Things gained, and lost.

So here's to: starting gates and finish lines, jumping off porches and almost breaking your foot, hungover breakfasts with best friends, crowding in for family pictures, Grandad Bill's "1, 2, 3," air conditioning and clean water, big screens, fireworks and flavored Sake, new acquisitions, losing someone you thought would always be around, thieving dogs, turkey trots, "Amazing Grace," marathon tears, spoiled brats, The Arcade Fire at Merriweather Post Pavillion, waist-high snow, shoveling, butt dials, weight loss, the South Beach diet, two weddings in a year, becoming a wife, rallies on the National Mall, Treme, 7-year-old break dancers, date nights at Hooked, Hilton Cancun, Lou's monthly visits, LOST, Mariah's soccer games, dinner dates with Callie, accomplishing goals, our Israeli HM friends, free Christmas trees, generous bosses, "kanye reupholstered my p*," getting wine wasted, Cullan getting too tall, wedding ring debacles, a Judge Idol star, The Social Network, becoming "old news" on facebook, dramatic readings of Kanye's tweets, "special time" with mom, no longer living in sin, calling Whit and once in a while having her answer, the knot obsession, business trips, internet friendships, shaun john and al, bridal showers, nail polish, turkey sandwiches, Donald Draper, bankrupt airlines, generous parents, "right in front of your eyes," having money again, stingy wedding guests, gay or straight?, human kindness, Williams Sonoma shopping sprees, utis, Win Butler's Air Force Ones, house-hunting, carpet stains, back rubs, "missing you," happy tears, 3 cups of coffee, polite 5-year-olds and "Roo Roo," married friends, cooking confidence, pre-wedding beach house, Michael Scott's last season, losing touch, letting people you love down, stoners, SP is an idiot, kissing for fun, running tights with a pee hole, masters theses, long-distance relationships, book clubs, work spouses, Marley and Me, "The Force is With You, Katie," dive kisses, gremlin dogs, breaking records, Cabanas Copal, Real Sports with Bryant Gumble, Ree Drummond/Pioneer Woman, recipes, fibromyalgia, Kanye on a stick, tinky Mar, rummy, jalapeno corn bread, the Biltmore, "Types of Bitches," radio mixes, Bibis, "the cars that go BOOM," having kitchen-table chairs.

And here's to a Merry Christmas, and to next year and all that it promises. And to everyone in my little life and this enormous world: wishing you more hope than you can even stand.

Please Send: Paprika, Money and a Slotted Spoon

2010-10-21T11:08:00.000-07:00

I wasn't raised among heaps of sticky dough on the counter, or pots of seasoned meat bubbling over on the stove. I wasn't raised with a stocked spice rack, or fresh produce in the crisper drawer. I was raised on simple comfort foods that could easily stretch to feed 10+ people. Things like tuna noodle casserole, mac & cheese, spaghetti, beef stroganoff, a keilbasa dish with spinach and potatoes. These foods filled us up—me and my sisters, and eventually my brother—and sent us on our way, out back to reconvene our jury trial on whether or not my younger sister deserved to be pushed off the trampoline for tattling, or another in an assorted line of games we made up to amuse ourselves.

It's obvious to most, the title of "cook" or "family cook" doesn't always belong to the woman anymore. This development is said to have sprung out of the last ten years, but for the sake of affection, let's say my mother was and always has been simply a modern woman.

It's constantly debated in our house who was the primary cook when we were children. In stories I've written, and memories my sisters have divulged, it seems we rob my mother of her title. We remember my father as the chef, not because he was there nightly, but perhaps because we looked forward to, longed for his meals—weekends when my mother was gone at trade shows, we were excited for his spaghetti with "doctored sauce." True, my mother cooked breakfasts and dinners and lunches for her small army, but while they was always plenty of food and a healthy balance, her food lacked wonder, excitement. It was clear even to our small, undeveloped palates that something was missing.

I never gave it much thought at the time. I never questioned the meals, always gobbled them down quietly and without complaint—my tall glass of milk sometimes difficult to polish off after stuffing myself with dinner.

We were happy children.

I began to notice the repetition, the sadness of it all, in high school, because by then I was making many of the meals myself. I knew the wash, rinse, repeat of a handful of salad, a cluster of popcorn chicken and potatoes or french fries. Under my mother's direction, I often made dinner for us who still lived at home. By then there was no back pasture, just the noise of cars out on the street. We were a different people then, my mother a different woman. Just a woman, no longer a saint. A single mom, not head of an army. There was almost no army left—just a broken and disbanded regime. The cooking didn't change, it just got simpler, and even still when I go home for visits, dinner is a predictable game, only switched up on occasion or in celebration.

I left home for college a woman, while slightly cynical, still able to watch out after a bunch of kids, straighten up the house before bed, get my work done on time, build my credit. I didn't know how to cook, though. Never learned, like someone missing that essential stage of life where riding a bike is taught, or swimming. College came and went and it wasn't a problem. No one cooked in college. Everyone spent their money (or their parents') crowding into cheap Mexican restaurants for all-you-can-eat tortilla chips and tacos.

And then suddenly, I arrived here. Present day. Twenty-three years old and unable to cook my husband an interesting (yes, interesting: not bland, boring, taste-less, cheap, easy) dinner. Well, at least until about a week ago.

Kitchen confidence isn't something most women ever even think about (I don't think). Their mothers and grandmothers raise them up in the kitchen, icing cakes, roasting chickens, stuffing peppers. I've seen them, friends of mine. Watched them in the kitchen as they reach for this and "oh why not, sprinkle a little of THAT in there." I didn't think I belonged in that crowd. I belonged in my own crowd. One where my father stops in for dinner out of the blue: We're having pasta...with sauce from a bottle. "Did you doctor it at all?" he asks. "No," I reply, a failure of a daughter.

When I get into the kitchen I start to panic: I don't have the right spices, the refrigerator is always empty, no eggs, no milk, no olive oil. I get turned around, I have the wrong tools, too many of some and not enough of the most important things. But something has changed in me recently. It's my new life, maybe. My new me. I can learn, I will learn. I'm learning. I have to prop myself up on crutches with my kitchen handicap, but all it takes is effort and I've got plenty of it. I'm learning that cooking starts with TWO things. 1. A recipe. You will never ever run out of them. There are bagillions. And they breed. One or two recipes after repetitive use grow into a new recipe, which sparks an idea for..."Hm, yes, what if I DID add dijon mustard to lemon juice and..." You will never run out of them. 2. Planning: a sales paper & a shopping list. Planning meals, why didn't I think of that? I put in the hours, and it's all there. So Thursday night when the recipe calls for 2 cups of Parmesan cheese instead of 1, DON'T PANIC. Just reach in the back of the top shelf of the fridge, and there behind the salsa is another bag of Parm. Praise God.

Or maybe there's three things. 3.) Passion (for flavor). I think it comes from the shoulders, the whip of the wrist, the spinning turns from counter to stove-top. Joie de vivre in the kitchen. My first successful meal planted that warmth in my stomach, the longing for flavor, for aromas and tastes that make you scream and clap with delight. This passion, I now realize, is what was always missing for me. Passion gives even the simplest pasta salad a captivating flame. The YUM factor. The TO DIE FOR factor.

Husband is beside himself. "You can cook, baby!" he exclaimed to me one night, sinking his shoulders down in delight. You don't understand, this is AMAZING. I've made curry. I've made lasagna. I've made ADOBO, yes adobo. And they were all great! I am an international chef mastermind. I wisk with confidence, I spread splendidly.

OK, OK.

I'm getting a big head, but that's because this is a BIG deal. Somewhere between a couple of food blogs, the encouragement of an e-friend and an everlasting desire to be more of "woman," I can cook. My days of frozen dinners, chicken tenders and scrambling once the clock gets to 6 p.m., are over. And with them, the endless openness and freedom of a hot summer day in our back field is over. Mama isn't in the kitchen anymore. Mama moved away, she's got a new house, more babies. Older sisters come home to their husbands, boyfriends, roommates, not that heavy round wooden table our family used to sit around at mealtimes. We've moved on from the past—hurt feelings, boring dinners and hidden treats from Dad in the pantry. We're grown women (and a man) now. And though we'll always been there, in person or deep within the caverns of our most cherished childhood memories, we've got to look out for own, now.

And so, amidst the steaming pot teeter tottering on my too-small burner and the sweat on my brow, amidst l'essence de onion that stings my eyes and several boxes of discounted pasta, I chant over and over to myself: I can cook, baby.

The Settled Life

2010-09-21T12:37:00.000-07:00

I feel like I just finished running an exhausting year-long race. Maybe even a life-long race. Before the dust began to settle, I was worried what I'd do with myself, what I'd do with "all that free time." David always says I don't know how to relax—so what would I do with nothing to do?

The leaves are beginning to change, slowly but I see it, and the dust, too, is settling around me—us—in our new life together. I've heard some say that getting married doesn't change much (especially if you were already living together), but I'd have to disagree. There is something different between us, something I can't quite put my finger on. I know the honeymoon period lasts a while, but I feel a new-found sense of respect, trust and responsibility. I've also never been happier, never felt more calm. Maybe this new, settled me is the best version of myself.

I learned early on in life to roll with the punches, to stay on my toes—whichever cliched expression you prefer—but I'm beginning to wonder if all of that is fading away as this new period of my life begins. For once, the constant moving, rolling, jumping, twisting to get out of the way, has ceased, and in its place a comfortable stasis has developed, one where I'm free. More than ever I feel like I have the power to figure out what I want to do with my life, not my career, but how I'd like to fill up my days. I think: dancing, baking, cooking, reading, writing, playing, traveling. I've already started planning trips up and down the coast.

I never considered the thought that once I was settled, feet firmly planted on the ground, I could finally begin to really move about and see what life has to offer me. I always considered any movement positive movement, a step in the right direction. But I think I was wrong. Sometimes there's nothing wrong with standing still, or taking a step back to really see what is in front of you, to take it all in. The stillness over these last few weeks has shown me more beauty than I've experience in a while. All I've seen for a long time is the whoosh of the trees as I go zipping by.

I think I like this new, settled life—whether it means I am flying above thick, wet clouds or slouching into our soft, comfortable couch. It's a happier life, a lighter load to carry and, so far, a better me.

My Cup Runneth Over

2010-09-17T12:30:00.000-07:00

Well, almost six months later, I'm back. Hopefully to stay, hopefully for regular visits. It's been hard—given the craziness of the last year—to feel sane enough to sit for a moment and collect my thoughts on a page. To be honest, I feel like I've been a writer in hiding. I even scrapped the idea of writing my own wedding vows. I sometimes find myself scared to sit down and write, afraid of what might rear its ugly head on the page.

It all started last September, in a mad-dash to wedding planning, that was quickly stunted by my grandmother's upsetting diagnosis in early October. Then it was the praying, the praying, the planning, the waiting, the listening, the confusion, the payments, the tears, the guilt—all the while the guilt for spending even an ounce of my time planning a joyous event while the minutes ticked by and it became evident we were losing her. But, then suddenly she was gone. And we let her go, whether or not we have fully accepted it yet. I'm not sure what I'm here to say, I didn't intend on touching the subject, but, alas, she comes up. She always does—my missingness of her, the lack of her, the lack of color in a room.

Despite it all, I am so thankful that now, she is always around. Always in earshot. I know she was there in the front row as I said my vows and David said his. I know she appreciated each and every flower—its intricate design—at each table at the reception. I could imagine the twinkling reflection of the sparklers in her eyes as we made our final exit that evening. I felt her wrapped around me, her arms like a blanket, warm, almost smotheringly so. At times, I could barely breathe. She was not there, but I felt like her presence was filled. Like that number of bodies gathered together, tied together with so much love, made the absence far less noticeable. I heard her laughter echoed in theirs, I saw her proud smile in their faces. I felt her shining within me.

Her pride has become my pride. I haven't always been the most positive, the most loving person. I have been quick to judge, quick to criticize, but lately I just feel aglow. For the first time in a long time, I feel a profound sense of joy in my heart. I feel joy in being who I am, and in doing what I do. And I know she taught me joy, so perhaps part of it is seeing a bit of her in myself. But I have to say, I feel so much genuine happiness when I think of the people I love, and I think it comes from pride.

Through our pasts, through struggle, disapointment, disaster, look at what we've become. My friends are brilliant, fresh, following their passions and their skills, working towards the goal of a masters, a degree. They don't know where they'll end up, but it doesn't scare them. They keep pushing, and despite deadlines and papers and endless tasks, they still make time for me. They still reach out to make me feel special, appreciated, like a celebrity. My family is an astonishing army. My sibblings are these little soldiers, shaped and buffed, willing to take on anything. So adaptable to what life throws their way, without complaint. Always willing to serve, to console, to support, to text, to pose, to LEAP. For me. My husband is the hardest worker I know. Whether he puts in 12-13 hour days, or takes on a whole other set of responsibilities on top of the ones he already has, he never complains, he learns fast and excels at everything. And he pursues me with the same level of tenacity that he does his job—always willing to step up, always willing to fix things, to take the fall, to scoop me up when I need it.

My cup runneth over with joy and thankfulness for this confidence, for these people who have grown this confidence, my person, into what I am today. The ability to live life without regard to the judgement of others, the worry of what someone might be thinking, is the most freeing feeling. I finally feel myself letting those old concerns go. I am open to what life has to offer me, open to let myself relax (for once), because of the support system I have. If I slip, slack, I won't make a crash landing, I will land gently in welcoming arms. And I know her arms and her hands—glistening with colorful jewels—will be Gracefully weaved into that web, too.

MARRIED :)

2010-09-16T05:41:00.000-07:00

Mwah.

2010-07-14T19:52:00.000-07:00

We Shouldn't, But We Shall

2010-03-24T12:49:00.001-07:00

I am going to do that horrible, horrible thing of making myself write a blog today. I have run out of every idea for killing time at work, my boss is gone for the day. What's a gal (with a fake job) to do?!

I'm bored at work, not challenged, not stimulated, and so I often sit myself down and ask myself: self, what do you really want to do? Where do you really want to be? Until very recently, I had my answer down pat. I want to start out entry level at a book publishing firm and work my way up in the editorial team. It's general, but yet specific. I know I want to be FORCED to read with my red pen all day. I want to be inundated with 500-page novels that carry on and on, without a likable character. While I know that that's still what I want to do, I'm left to wonder if that will ever happen (unless I'm willing to pick up and move to NYC). Reality plays a big role in all of this. Dream all you want, dream beautiful, magical dreams and work to make them a reality. But these dreams must fit into the scheme of your life, the capacity of your career, your mind. (Unless of course you're someone annoying who wins the lottery, or gets picked up to be Ronnie's new love interest on Season 2 of The Jersey Shore... I could go on, but I won't.)

You need passion to make it, they say. Along with hard-work, dedication. But aside from all of that, I still ask, what do you really want to do, self? Is it books? I can dive into the books that I WANT to everyday after work, everyday on the weekends. I can print out manuscripts and comb through them on my lunch break. What really matters to me? People.

My love for writing is undeniable, but I can't help but wonder, is it the people I get to (and have gotten to) write about what I love about it? Do I love writing oh-so-much when I'm writing a review of an Outdoor Shooting game for work, or a short piece on the 5 Best Purses for Your iPhone? I don't love it then. I run from it then. I avoid emails from my editor then. I love it when I'm learning who Maggie is as I create her. As I learn she is a recently-deceased but eternally beloved mother of two little girls, an amazingly captivating and passionate wife to a man who is struggling with her death, with the concept of moving on to raise his two little girls without her. That's when I'm enamored with the craft, with the placement of the words, the movement of the language, the image of a daughter's small fingers tracing the veins on her father's wrists. I love the people, the characters, and I don't even need to create them. They're all around: quirky and awkward and loveable yet disgusting and intriguing: John, the director of the Indoor Tanning Association of America; Henrietta Lacks whose "immortal cell line" has served as the foundation of most medical research done over the last 50 years; Hugo, the man arrested in Dupont Circle for jogging naked one Spring morning.

So whether I get where I "want" to be or not, I will make it with people around me to learn about and laugh with. There's no limit to what I can be and where I can go if my biggest expectation is that they'll be people there with interesting stories who need someone to listen and to love them.

More of Life Lately

2010-03-23T11:09:00.000-07:00

February 19, 2010...she closed her eyes, gathered herself and floated up into heaven. Here my mom, aunts, sisters and I wore some of her many colorful rings in celebration of a life well-lived, her breathtakingly beautiful life. I find myself missing her everywhere, standing in a crowded bar, someone pushes by me abruptly, coldly, and my mind tricks me. She's still here, it says to me. Just there, down 495 a ways...go see for yourself. But I don't, knowing the voice is wrong. Knowing she's gone for good. And anyway, it's too late, I'm already standing in sun blinding, tears streaming into my watered-down drink.

The weekend of her funeral, all of my sisters (except Eliza) slept under the same roof...as if we were once again little girls, crowding into one over-sized bed in her house for some holiday, or some weekend when my mother needed to get away. Herkimer stories and the smell of her books, and nightgowns and fresh flowers lulling us to sleep.

We've been having fun. Relaxing, sleeping a lot. Making mixed drinks for the fun of it. Watching the Oscars and catching up on all the movies we've missed. We are planning for the future. Planning our wedding. Looking for houses. Wanting adventure--a new city?! I feel so confident and happy when we're together...nothing can touch us, hinder us, knock us down. Together we are tough to beat. So proud of how far we've come!

So proud of my bebe girl for getting into grad school at Texas State outside of Austin, Texas. I just wish it wasn't so far away. I am proud beyond words, happy for her beyond words. I know one day I will be begging to be her book tour manager or something, but I'd be lying if I said I wasn't disappointed. Loss has taken on new meaning for me lately. I don't want to lose anything. Not a receipt. Not an old photograph. Especially not my best friend. I'm afraid to. Afraid of the disappearing act. But it's not just fear, it's regret. Guilt. Of time wasted. Of not taking the time to appreciate what you had when it lived right across the living room. I will never get that time back and I have to live with that. As I grown up, I will learn to be content with a friendship held together by trust from years of friendship, hard laughter (even when we wanted to cry) and good old Skype. :)

Me...lately. Stretched thin and anxious, but facing forward, sun on my face, a smile. Looking to the future, trying not to miss everything that whizzes by me: Rye's soccer games, "Fishing trips" with 'Liza, sitting in the sun with my Mom, talking to my sisters, hugging my Dad, holding David's face between my hands, snuggling with my puppy, listening to Cullan play the piano, visiting my grandfathers, writing poetry, hearing about a friend's day, the politics, the tears, the moments, the fights, the jokes, the movies, the sunshine, the sunshine... In, then out. I take deep breaths and say a prayer for the people I love, for the days, the life ahead of me. For the wisdom to take the best path and to stay on it. For the joy to make the best of every situation. For the faith to walk--with purpose--into what is unknown and figure it all out as I go along.

My Self, Lately

2010-01-09T10:56:00.000-08:00

Lately, I find myself missing the people from my past that I never took the time to get to know. The handsome, popular boys that I ignored in high school, but that I often thought of as I laid awake in the darkness, sleepless my in bed on school nights. Wrapped in my sheets, I orchestrated outlandish situations in my mind that this one and that one was in love with me, but couldn't bring himself to reveal love for a girl who was too tall, with hair too long and too little make up. I would image that somewhere, within walking distance of my own window, they, too laid awake in their mothers' houses, thinking of ways to get my attention, to start a pointless conversation. Perhaps I was foolish--and still am--in thinking they were as self-conscious, as neurotic as I was. They already had the attention, the looks, the allowance that I lacked--and secretly longed for.

Now I wonder, would it be absurd to drop them a line? I'm sorry we never talked more, how are you? To offer my congrats at finding that one is getting married or going to be an uncle? So happy for you... as if I were an old friend. But I am not. Would they instantly long to make a connection, ask me to tell them about my life, day by day since we donned maroon gowns and caps and climbed the stairs of our school for the last time? Or would they take my words, my overdue effort with the rest of the congratulations, conversations and confrontations of the day, and rinse them off with gentle soap in an early evening shower. Again, would they wonder about me? Do they, like me, ever wonder: what is she doing now? Why was she always so cold?

I am foolish to think that such a missed connection could ever be patched back together. Two sets of arms strained to reach behind them, like a driver's blind hands reaching for some object in the back seat--just out of reach. Not with all the passing of time, the states, continents, the pressure, the lovers with names we've never heard that have come and gone.

I am foolish to think that such a missed connection could be addressed when such a thing isn't even allowed with an old love. Someone who knew you, who laid next to you on other sleepless nights when you weren't thinking about boys in your high school class or anyone else for that matter. You cannot contact this person to say, "I'm sorry. You were right. I hope you meet someone. I hope you're happy." All of the things you meant to say when you had the chance but did not, cannot be said now, just to ease your own mind. Just to quell your selfish desires for ultimate "rightness" or "kindness" or some version of karma in reverse.

So I guess it's time to, as Sally from When Harry Met Sally would say, "just let it lie." Except I think this, type this, say this without the scowl on my face that she wore. Instead my face shows an assurance and a small hint of sadness--for a sense of youthfulness lost, for the idea of missed opportunities: for a time when I was a small fish in a pond of 300-or-so others. With fins pressed closely together, we swam through the waters, dodged (or tripped over) the same rocks and obstacles. We mourned our super stars and huddled together to watch those buildings fall. Will I ever belong to such a pack again? Experience such strength in such numbers? A small body surrounded by a sea of faces and personalities, a sea of walls on either side of me. Shelter. Odd, but I suddenly feel overcome with the need to thank them, stop hating them for those four short years we suffered through together.

And I make a mental note to think more highly of them (and myself) the next time, and to watch more closely for the connections that are slipping by me each day and to remember that sometimes it's all right to just miss and miss and miss.

Mother Bird

2010-01-07T07:07:00.000-08:00

Wandering an empty aisle,
crowded with items, I pause,
spotting a box with a small bird perched,
its eyes fixed on mine. Metal eyes twinkling.
In an instant, I see her there in her living room
scattered with colored glass birds,
rainbows cascading down the walls.

Will we think of her, mother,
Each and every time we see a bird?
Is it on purpose, do you think?
Hand-picked in her youth?
An assurance that she will never be forgotten?

“She is all the beauty I have ever known,” you say,
my face strained before you.
And I nod, understanding, but say nothing in reply.

Mother, you are mine, not your own,
who fades so quickly, so soundlessly (almost)
with the passing of days and the change
of seasons. You are cold, now. Numb, now.
Worried, as I am, of what’s to come.
Of a lull in laughter.
Of a lack of color in a room.

Now we know, after our many years of wondering:
death comes, not in a flash,
not in a moment of quick tragedy.
Death moves quiet and calculated,
lives multiplied, divided, taken away.
We often try to guess and fall short.
God sets the date.

I feel your fear, overwhelmingly.
Of needing an answer but having no one to ask.
Of finding your childhood home empty.
Of running out of time to say many things.
Of having to fly alone.

But, Mother, you have raised your own eggs.
From infancy, we rose sturdy, to float alongside you.

---

Birds, earth’s beaked angels, take flight
tracing our footsteps—as she will. A bread crumb here,
another there. Then—nothing.
Nothing but falling feathers,
and off in the distance, the sound of flapping wings.