HeatherHeather's niche

Facebook pride I do not hide

2011-12-04T22:22:00.002-05:00

I have once told my friend, Aaron, that I will delete a facebook post if not enough people "like" it.

This is true.

I have no shame in acknowledging my involvement (albeit addiction) to facebook. I love knowing that something I've posted is hilarious. I will even go back and re-read stuff later and giggle to myself with pride.

My beaufriend will comment about something I said, and I will retort "8 people liked it. So... PROOF. I'm awesome."

That being said, I always look forward to an enlightening post or funny blip from my friends. When I find nothing, I feel somehow let down. Or that I need to be friends with more people. However, my beaufriend's ex-wife has since created in me a deep fear of accepting new friendships.

But what a funny world we live in today. A whole world of connections that aren't really connections and only further feeding our need for attention and fostering insecurity, but also adding to the ADHD mentality.

Stuck in their ways

2011-12-04T21:59:00.002-05:00

I was thinking about the phrase "stuck in their ways" today when realizing that a lot of my views on things have drastically changed since I was younger. Well, I'm still young, so let's say since highschool. Or even college. I always correlate that phrase to "You can't teach an old dog new tricks" and how the most "set in their ways" people I know are typically old people.

But then I was thinking about how my late grandfather, Pop, wasn't a very "set in his ways" type person. Granted, I'm sure he had and always had certain firm convictions. The man was extremely frugal, sometimes irritable with bad service or rude behavior, and he without a doubt would have beat down any man that insulted or threatened my grandma. He was old-fashioned, but I will give him credit on his curiosity. He was a devil's advocate and one to benefit his own conscious. He had some beliefs on God and the afterlife, the purpose of our souls, and all those somber topics that I probably wouldn't have agreed with during college, but I find myself accepting them as more truthful now.

And I'm okay with that.

I remember, during college, I was sharing some of my religious beliefs and him challenging me. He was asking me very difficult questions and not only had I never had such questions asked to me, but he was also the most intimidating man I knew. Not because he was scary, but because I had such a deep respect for him and his attention to me had never deepened past hugs and kisses and more care-free conversational subjects like my school, lack of a love life, and any funny stories I had to share. Serious topics had never been discussed. So 5 minutes into my first adult conversation with my grandpa, I had already started to cry and agree with whatever I felt he wanted me to believe.

I'm a sensitive soul, though I seem thick skinned. (name that movie quote!)

It wasn't until he asked me why I was crying that he told me he wasn't reprimanding me, but just making sure I was thinking for myself. Logic is something that is very important to that part of my family. I think we deeply pride ourselves in the way we figure things out and look at the world. We are problem solvers and solution finders.

Since my grandpa has past, I've spent some quiet time thinking about the person I want to be, the things I believe, and how to challenge myself. I'm fortunate to have an equally, if not more so, logical and wise beaufriend that I can bounce ideas off of and him keep me more to the "straight and narrow".

With my new conclusions on what is true and what is pointless and what is knowable or unknowable, I have found a peace, even if I have found that I am not ready to share them. I find comfort in hitting a wall of a hard concept and throwing up my hands and saying to myself "I don't know! and in the big scheme of things... what does it matter!"

I think my grandfather would agree that's their is some wisdom both in the curiosity to test one's belief, but also to know when something has no true benefit in it's challenge.

p.s. to all my Christian friends, this was not a post about losing my faith. In case there was that fear I was being passive aggressive about atheism or something.

Swamster

2011-11-15T21:01:00.002-05:00

Swamster is the name I've lovingly given my Indian coworker. And this blog is dedicated to him.

It is not surprising to me that the people you work with can make or break your job. You can either leave home crying because some A-hole coworker yelled at you with his stanky-ass breath about something that wasn't your fault, or you can go home teary eyed because your coworker made you laugh so hard today that you were overwhelmed with a sense of thankfulness and acknowledgement that so much has changed in 8 months.

Since moving to my new job I have had such a great sense of accomplishment, fulfillment, and gratitude to those I work with. I've had one of my team leaders continually remind me of my hard work and great effort and that the other team leaders (and big boss man) are taking notice.

Aside from the pleasure in finding purpose and fruition in my career, I honestly work with some pretty awesome people.

Swamster is but one of many.

But Swamster is a special case. He is very quiet, a conservative Hindu, and the generic PhD'd super successful Indian engineer. He eats his curry every day, has a weird ring tone that sounds like cats are wailing (which I later found out was a famous female Indian artist's number one hit), and he drinks a lot of chai tea.

But Swamster is also open minded, calm, and mysteriously hilarious.

Originally, when our office was being rearranged, I found out I was going to be placed by this quiet man, and I was a little saddened. I remember thinking our little corner was going to be very dull.

How wrong.

I've had very enlightening conversations with Swamster about his arranged marrigae (maybe a future blog post), and he actually enjoys my random bursts of songs. He says I'm the most hilarious girl I've ever met. So obviously, I'm a fan of his too.

He laughs in such a way where his chuckle sounds like he is clicking his tongue in the back of his mouth against his teeth like you would to encourage a horse.

Where I freak out about a work problem and spurt out a million questions a minute, he calmly sits at his desk, lost in only one thought at a time, and rubs his stubly chin slowly while he ignores my outward turmoil.

He chokes every single morning on his hot tea because he forgets every single morning that if he sips it before it cools down his throat will seize up, and every single morning I find this hilarious.

He has a thick Indian accent, confuses his W's for V's, and has said such things as "Wedgie Burger", "Vhat is voot?", and today he even attempted a southern accent and said "fart" instead of "fight".

He also texts "V" instead of "we", which I found particularly hilarious because it seems he even texts in an Indian accent.

He is polite, always asks questions about my life, he isn't a gossip, he is encouraging, and he is very smart.

All in all, I am very fond of my cubicle buddy, and I count myself blessed to work with him every day. I was very lucky to have been placed next to him.

Thank you God, so much, for Swamster.

This little figgy went to the market...

2011-10-30T21:27:00.005-04:00

I bragged not to long ago about about how I made some fresh fig cookies. The inspiration came from a night when I was meandering through Publix to buy some scuppernongs (another odd ball fruit I love with little to no fame, despite the fact that it's a native grape to the SouthEastern portion of the US and has a deliciously sweet nectar that I look forward to over indulging in every August -September). While sorting through the scuppernongs (or muscadines, as the purple grapes are called), I saw an assortment of figs.

I thought to myself, "who eats figs? I don't think I've ever eaten a fig in my life. For the exception of maybe fig newtons." I looked at a carton of them, they were soft, some were oozing out some weird sticky nectar, and I wasn't sure if these little things would actually taste good.

But then I thought about the scuppernong. It is easily my most favorite fruit. My parents even started to grow them in their back yard for me (kudos to awesome parents!). There are all assortments of wines, cakes, icecreams, etc recipes for scuppernongs, but they never seem to be a big hit except for those people, like me, who have either already known about them or daringly gave them a try.

So.... why not a fig? I looked at the oddball little fruit, and said to myself in a robust and announcer type voice, "CHALLENGE ACCEPTED!!!" and then looked to see if anyone was wondering if I was insane.

I bought the little boogers, took them home and promptly googled "Fig recipes". To my surprise, there are a plethora of fig recipes, but I settled on a tempting concoction for "Fresh Fig Cookies".

After fixing up the mix, my house was immediately filled with the smell of deliciousness. Especially because the recipe calls for cloves, and I love the smell of cloves.

I highly recommend this recipe as a sweet treat. I'm pretty sure too that the recipe can be revised to be healthier, gluten free, or vegan friendly by subbing the sugar for agave, using gluten-free flower, and switching the egg out for whatever you sub an egg out with. I'll leave that creativity up to the vegans.

The recipe is:

1 cup white sugar

1/2 cup shortening (I like the butter flavored)

1 egg, beaten

2 cups all-purpose flower (I buy the healthier, non bleached, whole wheat kind)

1 teaspoon backing soda

1 teaspoon backing powder

1/2 teaspoon salt

1/2 teaspoon cloves, ground (you might need to buy a mortar to grind up cloves)

1 cup figs, chopped

1/2 cup walnuts, chopped

Preheat oven to 350 degrees F

Cream sugar and shortening and add beaten egg.

Sift dry ingredients and blend with creamed mixture. (if mixture seems super dry and lumpy here, it's okay, the figs will moisten it up REAL quick and make the mix soft and creamy again)

Fold in figs and nuts.

Drop spoonfuls on greased sheet.

Bake for 15 to 20 minutes.

Enjoy!

I think they make a great holiday treat, pending figs are still in season.

Wedding Planning

2011-10-09T21:41:00.002-04:00

Wedding planning, as I should have expected, is not easy. Despite the fact that I have close to a year ahead of me before the big day, I am already hung up on the fact my wedding will be close to 7 hours away from where I currently live.

Today I went to my first Bridal expo. The highlight was when my roommate (also engaged) won a 50% discount on a wedding cake. The low point? Realizing every single venue was for the Clearwater/Tampa area. So... that was a little discouraging.

Also tough: finding a venue in the boon docks of panhandle Florida and the outskirts of lower Alabama. Realizing that the photographer I would really like is probably entirely out of my price range. Struggling over the realization that I can't have all Maids of Honors like I planned, and that not all my girlfriends can be Bride's Maids. I hope no one's feelings are hurt, because I know how that feels.

Attending weddings and dominating the bouquet toss? Now that's my thing. Like... legitimately my thing. It's also hard to realize I wont' be catching any more bouquets. It's an end of an era. What is not my thing is planning this bad boy of a party-tastic wedding.

I'm a little sporadic and stressed. Between work, tutoring, trying to amp up the exercise bit, traveling to see my fiance, packing up my stuff, and expecting a strict study regime when my PE Exam count down begins.... how will I do this all? I went by GNC and bought a natural de-stresser.

I might turn to something harder though.

Youtube videos of kittens on robo-vacuums.

Fan-tastic fault

2011-09-24T23:57:00.004-04:00

When my roommate and I were first looking for apartments, we were first and foremost concerned with two things: is it cheap and will we get robbed? Because my last apartment was in the ghetto (seriously, the "hiccup girl" murder event happened right outside of my humble abode), it was understood that my judgement on safe locations was lacking strength. Because we found a place that seemed to fit both our criteria, I never thought to look for other amenities I need. One being a ceiling fan. I cannot cannot cannot sleep without some type of air flow. I sweat, feel stuffy, and I will wake up constantly feeling I'm being choked by stagnant air and my own hot breath.

Our new apartment did not have this luxury because our ceilings are slabs of concrete with spackle and paint laid over it. So, to fix this problem, I rigged up my old box fan (about 18"x18") to the shelf above my bed and leaned it over my upper body using some craft thread I found and tying it to an already existing hook screw in the wall. Here is a rough drawing so you get the idea.

Super sorry for the lame drawing, but you get the idea.

Anyway, I was very proud of my ingenious design. Surprisingly (to me), most others didn't agree with my improvisations. Everyone remarked that it didn't look safe. "What if it falls on your face?". "It won't. I'm an engineer. I know what I'm doing." I would respond, only slightly miffed that people would doubt my genius. My biggest critic was, of course, my fiance. He kept telling me it was going to come undone and fall on my face. "No it's NOT!" I would argue back. "I am smart enough to design something that will not hurt me. It's fine. That shelf will hold 80 lbs of weight, the fan won't slip off because the force of it is going down on the shelf and into the wall. The hook is fine too because I pulled on it, tugged it, tried to wiggle it, and it wouldn't budge. Trust Me. It's fine." Then he'd just roll his eyes and shrug it off. This conversation would repeat itself several more times.

This past weekend I went home to go visit him, his son, and my family. It was a truly long weekend. I had been at work all day Friday, left a little early to drive the 7 hours up to the panhandle from Tampa, spent a busy day Saturday and Sunday morning socializing with everyone who insisted seeing me, and then drove the returning 7 hours back Sunday night and getting in at a whopping 11:30pm at night. I was exhausted to the say the least. But not exhausted enough to leave me immune to horror and embarrassment.

No sooner did I get home then I dumped my stuff on my bedroom floor and noticed the air felt, well... muggy and off. I looked around to see if I had left a glass of juice out or something when I saw it. My fan laying on my air mattress, 7 feet below it's original destination in the EXACT spot where my face would have been if I had been asleep under it.

OH MY GOOD GOOGLY MOOGLY.

There is that sense of relief whenever you realize that something horrible could have happened and it didn't. Like, realizing I could have had a 5 lb block of plastic fall 7 feet onto my money maker, given me a black eye or bust my nose, leaving grated etched scars on my forehead and cheek, and it didn't. Fate was kind and I escaped bodily harm.

Then there's the wave of "Shiitake mushrooms. I can't tell anyone. Especially not him. Oh no, he mustn't know."

But in my family, we have a few strong rules that all of us faithfully abide by. The biggy is that when you do something stupid, you are honor bound to share it. This rule is only further enforced by the fear that if you don't tell and it is discovered by someone else, you suffer only further ridicule because you didn't own up to it in the beginning.

So even though I didn't want to tell my fiance or anyone else, I had this irking feeling like I had too. Plus, I knew it would be kind of funny, and I never ignore the chance for a good laugh.

Before telling the love of my life, I did what any smart woman would do. I set up rules. I told him "... before I tell you what happened, you have to promise to A) not say "I told you so." B) not bring it up in the future as a reference to my stupidity C) not hold it against me and D) not ban me from future improvising projects which you know I'm going to want to participate in." I think at this point he might have already suspected what happened, but he's a good man and agreed to the terms. Of course, I busted out with a hysterical and nervous laughter the first time I told him, so I had to repeat the whole thing so he could understand. Then... there was silence on the phone. And all I hear from his end is a kind of guttural moan and a mumble of "I want to tell you 'I told you so' so bad right now." But no! he agreed to the terms.

He laughed about it, but he asked if I put the fan back up. I told him I could and just use stronger twine this time (the fan failed not due to the shelf, wall hook, or fan itself, but the crappy thread I had used had frayed and broke), but having felt the fear of my face being flattened by a plastic grated fan I decided it would be more safe placed on the floor next to my air mattress.

and that's my fan story.

Miracle of miracles... I got engaged

2011-09-12T22:10:00.002-04:00

I know this is seriously belated. I got engaged over a week ago, and I haven't been the best about blogging anyway. But there are some occasions in a woman's life where she's just got to buckle down and blog about the happennings of her life. There are also those occasions where a woman shouldn't blog about the happenings of her life. I've done both numerous times, more so the "shouldn't share" blogs, so maybe this blog would trump all those negative or embarassing ones.

So yeah, I got engaged. Let me just say...

CRAZY!! Insane in the membrane! Thank you Jesus!! I do not have to donate my ovaries to science!!!

If someone had said to me 373 days ago that I was going to meet the man I would fall in love with and promise to partner with and be loyal to for the rest of my life, I would have probably spiralled into a bitter depression of denial and bought another cat for my cat... who already has cat. So I would have owned a cat and his two cats, thus solidifying my crazy cat lady-dom. And aside from cat's cats, throw in a tub of ice cream. Luckily, no one did this and there aren't too many pet stores directly adjancent to a Baskin Robbins.

But the truth is... it did happen. I did meet him. And boy has my life changed.

Wowzer.

For one, I'm leaps and bounds more happy. I used to be a bi-polar blogger. I also used to be very angry in real life, not just blogger life (which sounds so nerdy to say). I was jealous of my married/dating/engaged friends. I was insecure. I was lonely. I hated the Gators. And I don't really hate the Gators (okay.. I really kinda do), but I took all my agression and frustration out on facebook and austracized myself from a lot of great people. I was pretty much lame. VERY lame.

And I'm disappointed to say that a man changed all of that, because it somehow seems to say I'm half a person or that I'm incomplete, and I'm not. But I'm also the type of person who does not thrive in solitude. I crave affection, attention, and a sense of belonging. I am at my best, like most everyone else, when I am surrounded by friends, family, or other admirers (like my cats). Now I kind of get all of those wrapped up into a 6'1" hunk of burning love man flesh.

Too much?

I'm sorry! I'm engaged. I'm excited. There's so much to do!!

But I'm so thankful for this man in my life. Many of you have met him, and you have attested to what I already know to be true... we are so fitting for one another. True compliments.

I'm also thankful for those of you who are sharing in my excitement. Because of my bitter LAME-butt stage in life, I half expected people to not celebrate it with me because of the years I harbored jealousy. It kind of makes me a hypocrite. Yes, I know... it actually makes me a hypocrite. Not kinda. But I have been overwhelmed with humility and gratitude for my friends and family as they share mutual joy while I express my own happiness. I am truly blessed, and I've learned a good lesson from all this.

Thank you for your generosity and compassion in sharing in this happy event with me.

And now... I have a year to plan the wedding of a life time.

Pee'd off. (not really)

2011-08-10T22:26:00.009-04:00

First, I'm sorry for my absence from my usual presence in the blogging world. Between work, Fabian's death, then my grandfather's death, and then just apathy... I haven't felt the urge. But my wheels started turning around 10:15pm tonight. I took a sleeping pill around 9:30pm, and I'm hoping I can push out this blog in a funny and fast fashion before my chemically induced comma kicks in.

So, here goes. It seems that I have a plethora of pregnant Facebook friends. I mean seriously. I can think of 6 without trying. And that doesn't even include the number of Facebook friends that have already had their children. I believe it is obvious that the original college generation of facebook users has passed into the next stage of adulthood: child bearing.

While all these pregnant friends have been sharing the news of their soon-to-be additions to the family, I have noticed a weird trend. And by weird I mean "interesting and unique, but also kind of gross". They've been announcing their pregnancy by posting pictures of their pregnancy test confirmation.

Now, don't get me wrong. I am NOT hassling their pregnancy nor the method they have chosen to share the awesome news. I just find it... odd. Babies are a big deal. BIG deal. So I can understand everyone wanting to share the news in their own way with a personal flare or different twist. One friend proclaimed the sex of her baby by posting her pink fingernails. This was cute. It's also an appropriate way to share the news in actual public, like face-to-face.

Because I try to liken Facebook to the real world (which it's not, it's an internet based media for social networking... not the office water cooler), I just thought it would be weird to show your family or friends your actual pregnancy test in person to share the big news. Ya know? If you wouldn't do it in the real world, you shouldn't do it on Facebook. Vice versa. Although, apparently just posting a picture of it removes the ick-factor, but I don't buy it. I mean, my main beef is that it was peed on. PEED on. I can't help but think... that was really close to your who-ha and now there's a picture of it on Facebook.

And actually, I know this shouldn't be a big deal. Urine is actually very sterile when it first leaves the body. But nerd facts aside, it's still a bodily excretion. Possibly this is something you become immune to during marriage, you know... bathroom stuff and bodily fluids. You've had sex, pooped with the bathroom door open, and puked your guts out with your partner holding back your hair, so your like "Pee? - What-evs." You've passed the bounds of propriety into who-gives-a-shit. But I'm still squimish enough that I think those things should be kept private. Plus... it's really hard to ignore for me. I don't see "It's a baby!" I see, "you peed on that... and now it's on facebook?"

Maybe I'm the odd one out.

But let's put it this way... the only things that I can put in the same category of "Things I've Peed On that I Would Share On Facebook" is when boys spell their name in snow with their own yellow ink. And that's actually super impressive. I can't do it (though I haven't tried). So unless I became a really good squatter with flexible hips and my name was just a singular letter "O", I don't see anyone accomplishing that feat without a biological water pistol in their pants. And besides being able to declare male dominance over a snow mound, I honestly cannot think of a single other thing that I would be proud to share that I have peed on. That tree? No. That corner of the parking lot? No. My pants? Hell no. But maybe this is women's way of adding ourselves to a category originally dominated by men. We can be proud to pee on something and it actually be impressive. I've created life! HA! See what I peed on to prove I am gravid with a future human?!?!? I am awesome! Your yellow signature in the snow is puny compared to my uterus!

So yeah, I don't know. Maybe it's just me, but I find it oddly different. But more power to the women who can pee and be free, but it's just not for me.

I rhymed. hehe.

Fabian, R.I.P.

2011-06-13T19:50:00.006-04:00

Though a blog shout out hardly seems the most appropriate way to honor the life of someone lost, it is presently what I can offer in respect to my friend, Fabian, that passed away this morning. It is also a personal means for me to mourn his parting, to cope, and to remember all the wonderful things that came with our friendship.

Fabian and I became friends at UCF, and I am proud to say I was the instigation for his continued involvement in Campus Crusade for Christ. Through this organization, we both made many strong friendships and continued to grow in our faith. Our friendship grew and was frequented by many good laughs, including the time he asked me if I wanted some of his peanuts, and I thought he said "penis". We played soccer together, played poker, prayed together, and even served at the same church. He was a wonderful man and a great and loyal friend. My life was richer because of his presence.

Unfortunately, during a time our friendship came to conflict. I am sad to say that my own selfishness and stubborn pride let our friendship fade. But by the grace of God, we reconciled our relationship with a happenstance "bump into" that forced me to apologize for my grudge. In his death, I learned a valuable lesson. It is not good to burn bridges, hold grudges, or prevent forgiveness lest you never get the chance to change it and you might find you regret it. I am incredibly thankful I have no regrets with Fabian, but I am sad that this lesson came at the great cost of my friend.

As I spent today reflecting and crying over the life of Fabian, many things came to mind. First, my grief pales in comparison to those he survived: His parents, his brothers, his girlfriend... my deepest prayers go out to his loved ones.

Secondly, life is so fragile. Few, if any, get to decide the when, where, or how they will leave this world. Death is not fair, and it claimed a life that I truly believe was not meant to be lost so early.

Thirdly, the Christian clichés would say "Everything happens for a reason.", and I do not agree. None of us are meant to die. We will. Yes, of course. This is the brokenness of our world: that as soon as we knew our first breath, we would know our last. But I believe Fabian was meant to live his life to the fullest, without pain or sin or weakness (like all of us), and yet his life was cut short because we live in an imperfect world. I accept this, but I do not like it. Which leads me to mourning.

I want to grieve Fabian. Mourn our loss. We are now without our brother. And it's okay to be mad and angry at the loss of a life deeply valued. As Americans, I do not think we know how to mourn correctly so as it heals us or in the least brings us the sense of closure that we need. We choose to medicate it, drown it, or ignore it, and all that does is delay the response, not rid us of our sadness. Therefore, I think it's good to empty ourselves to the sorrow we feel and devote ourselves to mourning that which we no longer have. I think this shows respect to the value of Fabian's life. It brings closeness in those who survived him, where we can find strength in each other's encouragements and the memories of his life. And in some way, I think it weakens our spirit enough to allow us to truly heal from our loss.

Lastly, I am jealous of Fabian. No, I do not wish to pass from this world just yet, but Fabian, like me and our many friends, believed in Heaven. And I know Fabian is where he thought he would be when he died. And for as mysterious, unfathomable, and wonderful as Heaven is always believed to be... the veil is now lifted to Fabian and he is in a better place that the rest of us have yet to know. For that, I am rejoicing for his new freedom.

I celebrate you, Fabian. You were a true cut from a rare mold. I love you, I miss you, and I look forward to seeing you again.

Rest in peace.

Sugar Deprivation

2011-05-27T13:02:00.004-04:00

My boyfriend and I have both given up a vice this past month from May 15th to June 15th. For him it is caffeine, for me it is chocolate and any other sugary treat. So far I have cheated once, accidentally realizing my error half way through a Sonic grape cream-slush. Did that stop me? Of course not. I finished that bad boy all the way down to the last sinful slurp. So now, my punishment is an additional two days to the fasting time line. Because I LOVE sugar and anything sweet, this has been a very difficult challenge for me. And I must admit I've been a little cranky. I've additionally suffered from what I think are sugar-deprived headaches. If I could snort a line of sugar at this point and it not be considered cheating I probably would. I'd do little powdered sugar lines on a mirror like you see in the movies. My straw would be a sour-sugar straw just for added affect, and despite it having just been in my nose, I'd provably eat it after using it to snort my sugar. Because I'm willing to resort to snorting sucrose, I fear June 20th. This will be the day after my fast has ended. This will be the day for rueing and reckoning. This will be the day I eat chocolate chip cookies for breakfast, go through my day functioning strictly on sugar highs, and end my day falling asleep cuddled up next to a bag of jelly beans. It will be glorious. June 21st will probably suck and my teeth will have rotted into my head. But June 20th?!?!?!... My friends, I will live. Truly live.

On a more serious note: this process has actually taught me that I really do have a sugar addictions and I have absolutely no self-control (something this purge is trying to strengthen). The fact that I drove into Sonic and ordered a fattening dessert without even giving thought to the consequences of this being a normal thing for me was super convicting. I love to exercise but my eating habits are quite atrocious. If I'm not careful, I'm going to be a chunk butt forever and develop diabetes by the time I'm 35. Therefore this purge is actually very beneficial for me in realizing my thoughtlessness to my nutritional intake.

I still have cravings for chocolate though. How many gallons do you think it would take to fill up a child size inflatable pool? No reason. Just asking.

I love plants

2011-05-09T19:06:00.000-04:00

As is evident by the front of my apartment, I love plants.

And a few weekends ago it was Arbor Day. I dragged my friend Aaron out to get free trees. We could only get 2 per person, so I promised him breakfast if he'd be my gateway to two extra trees. I was expecting some meager little no-show event. Like everyone except me would be like "Meh... mother earth." But to my surprise, there was a line 100 cars deep around the corner to get these free trees. Insane! And wonderful! All those new trees have found new homes :) And will provide homes for birds, bugs, and some other critters.

However, I wanted to share my love of plants. Plus, I wanted to show off my talent for keeping them alive. Not many people possess a green thumb (partly because they don't want to), but I have two parents (one a Master Gardener, yes there is such a title) that both brought me up in a world where Saturdays were for yard work. I thought it was torture at the time, but I've come to appreciate what I learned and the love I developed for gardens, watching something grow and flourish under your care, and even sometimes eat the fruit of your labor.

What you see in that picture are all my plant babies. Two mango trees and an avocado tree (all grown from seed) - far left, a pomegranate tree, a blackberry bush, weeping willow, viburnum, red maple, and a dogwood. In the back (the more neglected plant babies) are my basil, chives, green peppers, and lavender.

Foreigner funnies

2011-04-18T18:19:00.005-04:00

I so badly want to write one of my pensive, slightly sad, mood buster blogs, but I'm going to post-pone because I'm anxious today, feeling a little angry at my boyfried's soon-to-be ex wife, and I need to choose between happiness or bitterness.

I will choose comic relief, as always.

So... I work with several foreigners. Pretty much most of Europe is accounted for a little bit of Asia too. We have the Brits, a German, an Indian, even a Columbian, some oriental ethnicities I'm ashamed to say I can't tell the difference, all the way through to a French girl that I'm quickly falling in love with.

For the French girl, Luce, not only did we both start to speak whale at the same time during "tea time" today when we mutual confessed our love for everything Pixar including Finding Nemo, but we were both pleasantly surprised by the odd coincidence (Paul (the Brit) looked at us like we were insane). But we also have the same sense of style, she has cats, and her cubicle is decorated with all kind of plant assortments. I must admit, I have a friend crush on her. I want her to be one of my best friends. I think she is the bomb-diggity.

Anyway, along with all the cultural diversity, and the fun rivalry between Paul (the Brit) and Jason (the American) for country vs. country banter including invisible boundary lines drawn between their two cubicles and both of them proudly supporting flags of dominance, and once a week treaties being drawn over "tea time", I just love where I work.

But probably the best part, as expected, is the cultural confusion. When cultures clash. When one phrase gets lost in translation and anole lizard turns into "anal leisure". Those kind of scenarios keep me going for days with random bursts of giggling and they are good stories to carry in my back pocket.

Such a thing happened at work.

In short, apparently there is a British slang phrase similar to the American phrase "you are getting on my nerves." Except in the UK, it goes "you are getting on my tits."

Odd. I know.

But Luce, my hopefully prospective French best friend, heard Paul (the Brit) say this to her when she was messing with him. She was like (imagine in french accent) "What? What does this mean? I have never heard this before!" She thought it was very funny.

A few days later, Adam (the other Brit) who Luce works closely with was giving her more work than she could handle. Under the frustration, she told him "Adam! You are getting off on my tits!" Clearly not getting the British phrase quite right.

Adam, gifted with that perfect British sense of humor, busted out laughing and asked her what she had just said and where she had heard such a thing! When she told him that Paul (the Brit) had said it to her, he connected the dots and promptly corrected her on what she should have said, and what she actually said.

This was all repeated to me over another "tea time", and Luce, smiling bashfully, took it very well.

World War Flea

2011-03-25T10:03:00.001-04:00

I promise that I’m a clean person. I shower at least every other day, always after a work out, and sometimes just because I figure you can’t be too fresh and so clean-clean, so fresh and so clean. I vacuum, wash my sheets, do my laundry, scrub my toilet, keep a clean kitchen (for the exception of a few seldom dirty dishes left in the sink- a bowl, a cup, nothing big). I de-fur-ify my house before company (as best as is possible with two long haired cats and not spending $100 on tape lint brush rollers), clean the bathroom for guests, and I change the kitty litter box every day and give it a fresh sprinkle of baking soda.

I’m a clean person, really, I am.

But I have declared World War Flea.

I have a flea infestation in my apartment. I’m not particular sure how this happened. I associate fleas with dirtiness, which is definitely a wrong assumption of mine. Fleas are really impartial, and what was learned from my google searching is that they are actually quite common.

Now, whether or not they came from my furry friends is probable, but undeterminable. Not only do I treat my cats with anti-flea stuff, but the are also inside cats… AND they’ve been at my parents house for 5 weeks now. So why the sudden infestation?

Does that mean I brought them in?
Does that mean they were in the apartment before Shannon and I moved in?
Do my neighbors have fleas and the critters are exploring for new territory through the cracks in our walls?

I don’t know. But I do know that purchasing $75 worth of flea Raid, flea carpet powder, and flea spray ought to create a miniature version of a flea massacre in my apartment. I imagine they will be pining for fleadom. And there will be many reports of mass casualfleas amongst their numbers. And in the instance that they are faced with the poisons, they will have the choice to fight or flea.

Okay, I’m done. You know I love a good pun. Or a few bad ones. It all levels out as eye-rolling in the end. But I hope I made you chuckle, even if it was fleating.

My manfriend

2011-03-16T21:00:00.000-04:00

I haven't gushed much about my manfriend. I put some thought behind the purpose of this post because I originally wanted to make one, detailed and strong post sharing all of the ways that I think the sun must shine out of his butt and how he is a perfect match for me (because the sun also shines out of my butt).

However, I've also come to the realization that my friends are protective of me. I'm thankful for that. Truly. But along with that I sometimes feel a hesitation or a doubt from my friends about his integrity of character or the seriousness with which I trust him. This is understandable because if I had a friend who had been single for years.. and years... and years! (and with two cats no less) and had all of a sudden said she has found the man she's going to marry and had no qualms about planning the rest of her life around this guy who she's only been dating for 6-7 months and who lives 6 hours away... I would think she was crazy. I would! I would tell myself that she was doing any of the following a) settling for this guy because someone finally gave her attention, b) was getting way ahead of herself and letting hormones decide her future, or c) thinking something must be off about this guy and she hasn't realized it yet.

I don't try to take offense in what I think are some of these assumptions my friends might have because I know I would (and have) made the same ones about my friends. There's the raised eyebrows of surprise, the air of reluctance in their voice, and the hesitation to ask questions to pry more into their own curiosity about this new guy. For the exception of Rachel, haha, who grilled me to no end. (You go girl!)

And so, after chewing on this for a while, I realized that a blog post littered with facts, stories, imagery, and details about how much I love this man and how he is the best thing to ever happen to me might not be so much about sharing to my friends how I feel, but it would be me actually trying to justify how I feel and what I know. And I feel that at 27, having dated some, done the online thing, and watched numerous marriages blossom (and some dissolve), I've learned enough about me, what is good for me, and what counts in a relationship. Granted, outside opinion can be warranted and welcome. But in this I am most confident, my manfriend is my best friend and he is the greatest, wisest, and the best investment I will ever make in my life.

If that means I elope with him at a courthouse, marry him under a gazebo on the bank of a river, or move in with him, have kids, and get old before ever having a certificate by the state of Florida stating our marriage is valid, I know that this man is who I choose to faithfully walk beside until my last breath escapes my body. And I will answer to no one for the reasoning behind my commitment or the way in which I will choose to practice it, except God.

So rest assured. I'm keeping him, and he's well worth keeping.

that is all :)

February- the month for lay offs and love

2011-03-08T18:54:00.003-05:00

First, February has always been my least favorite month. It mostly started when I was 21. During that month that year, I found myself with a totaled car, a torn ACL, my first D (damn you Physics), and coming home only to find that my precious childhood best friend had died. My cat, Tink, had passed away only a few days before. I was so distraught.

And only two years ago, February 16th, was I laid off from my first job. And just a few weeks ago I found myself laid off again, from my second job.

I mean... What gives? I hate you February! I loathe you entirely!!!

But actually I don't. Because this past February was cause for a lot of celebration. Not only did I finally get to enjoy Valentine's day via skype, but I also accepted a job offer for my new, current job.

And so, anyone who knows me, knows that I love a good story. I love irony, surprise endings, and comedic timing. I thrive on this stuff. I wish we could get it in liquid form, because I'd be a junkie on that kind of crack.

True to form, while still working at my previous job, I got a call from my current job letting me know that they were excited to extend me an invitation to join their team! I was so excited!! I hadn't been very happy at my previous job because of 'angry coworker', working with 4 middle aged men, and the lack of challenging projects. So the new job came as a welcomed surprise in a poor economy. The only draw back was that I couldn't announce my quitting to my previous job just yet. Not only was my annual review the next day (which would be poor timing to say "I quit!"), but I was supposed to take off for vacation, enjoy a weekend seeing my boyfriend, then we had a paid holiday, and so I figured I wanted to enjoy all of those perks before quitting and sometime the following week would be a prime time to let my boss know I was leaving.

And so, the next day at my previous job, there was a sense of peace and a little apathy. I knew I was going to like my new job, and I was also thankful to be leaving my previous one. Butt-faced angry coworker could yell at me all he wanted today, because screw him. I'm quitting!

But for as much as I desired the excitement of saying, "Here's my two weeks notice." I never got that chance. As I walked into my boss' office for my annual review, upon sitting down he bluntly explained to me that he was going to have to let me go. I was being laid off.

Normally that kind of news would knock someone's wind out. Having experienced it previously without a new job in sight, it's a horrible moment littered with worries about money, health care, money, moving, money. And that's when I was single, without a mortgage or a family depending on my income. But because I was planning on quitting anyway, I couldn't help but spread a broad smile across my face as my boss said "and we'll offer you severance, your annual bonus you would have received in April, and all your vacation time you haven't used paid to you as cash."

Essentially.... I just got a paid vacation and then some.

So despite my boss trying to encourage me throughout the day, insisting I was putting on a facade of peace to compensate for what had to be a overwhelming feeling that I was going to burst out in tears at any time... really, I was mentally planning my trip home to spend 2 wonderful weeks with my family, friends, and manfriend up in the panhandle while shopping for new work clothes.

February has been redeemed.

Dance Class Mishap

2011-02-15T10:08:00.004-05:00

As I shared in my blog I'm sorry Shakira, but my hips do lie, I am not the most rhythmically talented person. I make two stepping look hard. I'm not super sexy when I try to shake my grove thing, and it's not just that I don't think anyone is ready for this jelly, I really don't think they can handle it. I have a hard time handling it.

But that doesn't stop me from trying or laughing at myself through the fitness mirror as I realize, once again... I'm off beat from the rest of the class and I have no idea how they just did that little quick foot kick jiggity move they just did. So I simply run in place and look like a happy moron in my stationary jogging dance move. I'm burning calories baby!!

However, if you thought things couldn't go from worse to horribly more worse... we were both wrong.

This past week I attended my local YMCA's Latin Dance class again. The first instructor present during my first class was the sexy, smooth instructor that put my moves to shame. But this week it was a replacement because sexy, smooth instructor had the flu. This instructor was a very vivacious, lively, and drill type dance instructor. I liked her though. She was funny, blunt, and a little crazy. And because I was all the way in the back corner of the class (much easier to hide the awkwardness of my stationary jog when everyone's back is to me), I could only see her face and random glimpses of her body through the crowd of other gym goers.

As the Latin music blared out of the speakers, we all started in the customary warm up march in place with a little dash of hip swinging. During this point, somehow the crowd had parted and I could see part of her more clearly. I was mimicking her without a problem, ignoring others. We started in a side step, lunges to the beat of the music, and overhead reaches. I had noticed that we were doing a lot of right lunges, right reaches, right steps. And it wasn't until 5 minutes into the class that I realized our dance instructor was physically disabled. Half of her body was crippled and could not move as well as her other half.

This wouldn't be a big deal, except I had been mimicking her every move for the past 5 minutes. So essentially, because I had been ignoring all the other dancers (who are regulars and knew of her disability), I did not know she was limited in this way and I had just spent the last 5 minutes dancing like I was a handicapped person. I had my arm tucked in, my left leg wouldn't move from the spot, and during the left lunges and left reaches, I just stood in place like her, while everyone else had gone on as they should have.

After realizing my goof, I of course quickly fixed myself, but it was rather embarrassing.

First, I couldn't dance at all and I looked stupid trying to mimic the sexy, smooth dance instructor. Then, I couldn't dance at all and I looked stupid trying to mimic the half disabled vivacious dance instructor.

I'm a horrible person.

Camping

2011-02-10T10:48:00.011-05:00

I have long since loved camping, and I find it funny that some people don't hold a preference for it like I do *cough* Rachel *cough-cough*. I can empathize the lack in interest in staying in a make shift home open to the environment, animals, and bugs, void of today's technologies, proper plumbing, and other nice luxuries. Coincidentally, there is a quote that my dear friend Katie once shared with me, "Camping is for people who like to pretend they are homeless." (not her quote)

I've put in a lot of thought toward this quote, because in many ways it is rather fitting. I think this is one of the many reasons I love camping. For me, being out in God's creation is inspiring. I love the sound of crickets, the rain beating off the tent fabric, birds chirping early in the morning, or the rustle of leaves from an armadillo searching for food. I love the cracking and popping of firewood, the feel of it's warmth, and the food is always, always, better cooked over a campfire.

I also like the feeling of "roughing" it. I like pretending I'm a nomad for the weekend. It makes me feel like a survivor or a more capable human being. Like getting back to the basics and seeing if I can handle it. It makes me feel resourceful and creative. The engineer in me feels challenged, and the environmentalist in me feels appreciative and resourceful. I don't like feeling like I need modern day things to survive or to be happy. Camping reminds me that the simple things in life are really great and what bring me real happiness: good company, warm bed, and delicious food.

But nature is also so beautiful. You can see Ansel Adams pictures, walk in a park, or visit the zoo, but I believe a person will not fully be blessed by God's wonderful creation and their soul will not really be stirred unless we risk a little further adventuring into virgin territory (what little of it is left). And so taking a hike, camping out in the woods, and forgoing the white noise of society has been the only way I've been truly able to soak in real nature, real vulnerability, and real peaceful silence. I mean, silence!! When was the last time you didn't hear the hum of an A/C unit, the fan of your computer, the chirp of your phone, the motor of a car, the diluted voices of your neighbors TV, or the brush of sound from an over head airplane? When was it just.... silent?

Nothing.

Still.

Silent.

It's deafening and wonderful. The way it is supposed to be. And I think we forget that when we don't allow ourselves the opportunity to enjoy it.

So anyway, camping proselytizing aside... I went to Aucilla Wildlife Management Area last weekend with my manfriend. It's in the armpit of Florida.

While there, we stayed at a primitive campsite for free (which is rare that it's free... normally it's around $10/night). So this was a pleasant surprise. We hiked part of both the North and South trails that weaved in and out of beautiful sink holed areas, spring fed streams, and gorgeous forest. We saw a Wild Boar mama and her 8 little piglets (which did not turn out in the picture), an alligator, a Bobcat (which looked a little like the size of Teegar, but sadly ran away before we could get a better look), and a clumsy deer who when startled by our presence, ran off and fell into one of the rivers, then disappeared. Oh deer. (pun intended).

This is my manfriend and I standing on the banks of one of the spring fed rivers. The pictures don't do it justice, but it was such a beautiful location.

This spot had moss covering these older rocks. It reminded me of both what I imagine New Zealand looks like and something out of Star Wars where the Ewoks poke their heads up out from logs.

This was one of the singular campsites they had along the North Trail. We plan on going back and hammocking it up at this site.

Because it was raining, we had to cook dinner in our tent. I didn't mind this. It quickly got cold, and the little stove did well to keep our tiny tent warm. Plus, you can't go wrong with sausage and potatoes mixed with a little collard greens.

I'm often the silly one, but in this rare occasion, my manfriend decided he would be ridiculous and make a weird face. And that's why I love him. :)

You can't see it, but there is a wild boar and 8 baby piglets in this picture.

Note to readers, Gorilla Grip tripods are amazing. Most all of our photos were possible by using this nifty invention (thanks Mom and Dad for such a wonderful Christmas gift!!). It came in very handy as we could easily wrap our camera around a tree branch and take a picture.

Go camping. Don't litter. And support the conservation efforts in restoring and preserving our precious nature lands.

The end.

I'm sorry Shakira, but my hips do lie.

2011-02-02T13:45:00.003-05:00

I’ve been trying to get into better shape. Legitimately trying. I’ve been lifting weights 3-4 times a week, taking long brisk inclined walks, and forgoing Chic-fil-A, chocolate, and all those sorts of foods that make the average American very ~~obese~~ happy.

Outside of the usual instigations that inspired me to get healthy, I now have a buff, hott, manfriend who could be likened to a Greek god. In comparison, I feel like the Greek structures of the more rotund women you see portrayed in marble statues. Man, those Greeks, they really liked their women curvy. What happened to those days when cellulite was celebrated?! When a pooch was attractive? When your entire outfit comprised of only one long piece of chiffon draped around your body like an angelic looking muumuu?!?

But sadly no, those days don’t exist and our society pumps our heads with the allusion that perfection is attainable. I am luckily not buying that stupid lie, and even more blessed to have a manfriend that reiterates this to me. Despite his encouragements that I am beautiful the way I am, I also know that I could greatly afford to shed some pounds and hit the gym.

It’s not easy, but I’m trying to practice more self control. I’m also trying to make my workouts more fun. Outside of enjoying walks along the Tampa Bay, I’ve started going to this Latin dance class at my YMCA. Between the shaking of the body, the bumpity-bump-bump of the fun music, the random dude upfront who likes to whistle loudly, sweat everywhere, and randomly yell “aye-ya-ya-ya!!”, I’ve found that I really enjoy this class.

However, it is a challenge to see oneself in the surrounding floor to ceiling mirrors and realize that my bumpity-bump-bump is not at the same beat as the perfectly proportioned and rhythmic dance instructor. I look more like a thumpity-bump-rump. I try to jerk my hips and butt in a quick paced sexy way like she does, but instead it looks like I’m trying to shake off a dingle berry from my bum while in the squatting position. When she rolls her hips seductively and her body does this attractive wave from her toes up to her hands, I look at myself and I debate whether or not someone can have touretts of the hips. I’m just not there yet.

The good thing is that I’m not the only one. Aside from the gay guy who is in front of me (who should really invest in some looser pants), everyone else is just as awkward and confused as me. But it’s fun! Somehow no one is insecure. We all just kind of acknowledge that it’s a free for all and that imperfection is perfectly acceptable. The little old lady next to me smiles as she swings her probably twice replaced hips around in a big circular sweep, closes her eyes, waves her hands up in the air like a gypsy charmer. You go sexy old lady, I’m right there with you. I’m beautiful the way I am, and this is pretty darn fun.

Warrior Dash

2011-01-31T09:52:00.016-05:00

This past weekend I participated in an interesting event called Warrior Dash. For those of you not familiar with Warrior Dash, it's a 5k race/competition with numerous obstacles littering the course. Some of the obstacles are simple (like running over bales of hay), some of the obstacles are very difficult (like climbing up 20 feet of mesh rope), and some of the obstacles are very dirty (like crawling under real barbed wire through a pit of mud), but all of it was fantastically fun. For those of you who don't have facebook (dad), here are some photos showing the reason my legs are now covered in bruises and I'm still washing mud from crevices of my body I didn't know I had. (sorry for the visual)

The Warrior Dash Welcome banner.

One of the first obstacles: climbing under barbed wire and over several walls.
I'm pretty sure this is where I got most of my bruises.

Being a warrior isn't just about being hairy, donning cool costumes, and low octave grunts...
No. You have to be agile too with excellent balance. This was a rather daunting obstacle.

This was by far one of the dirtiest obstacles. A awkwardly warm tent filled with lots of warm, mushy mud that smelled a bit like cow poo, and no light so you had to "feel" your way through it on your hands and knees. Nevermind that you might bump your head on the bum of the person in front of you.

Of course, there is running over fire.
Next year I may plan on dressing up as the Marshmallow Stay Puft Man and convince two friends to dress up as a bar of chocolate and a graham cracker JUST for this obstacle.

There was also no shortage of interesting people and their costumes.
This sexy bachelor later got up on stage and booty danced to the gag reflex of all watching.

Little did they know we were right behind them...

I got a picture with a very impressively dressed warrior. I love costumes :)

Additionally, we were supplied with little warrior hats. Fuzzy, horned, comfortable.
What more could I ask for?

True to form, I did not back down from an opportunity to be weird. I gave myself a black eye, facial scars, and a uni-brow. I imagine that for the exception of Xena, Warrior Princess and Eowyn from L.O.T.R., most warrior women were very hairy and brute.

Last but not least, a warrior woman must end her day with a large piece of meat.

Talk about irony...

2011-01-27T09:16:00.003-05:00

On January 17th I posted my Ant-O-Sphere blog. I detailed how as a child, and leading up even into my adult years, I had always wanted an ant farm. Yesterday, my roommate texted me telling me that the inventor of the original ant farm, Milton Levine, had passed away last week. His death? January 16th. See here.

Now...that's weird. But in a poetic way, I feel I paid my respects to his legacy even if without knowing it. How ironic that I post a blog about my love of ant farms only a day after his death?

Eerie.

God wants my mom to read more

2011-01-25T20:40:00.008-05:00

My parents had this huge pricey TV that sometime around a year and a half ago got a busted bulb. In the process of replacing that bulb, they found themselves with a TV that showed everything with a neon green tint. What was supposed to be white looked lime colored. Everyone on screen looked like they were Grinch half breeds.

I don't go home to visit too often, but when I did I would constantly badger them over how annoying their TV was. "People are GREEN!!! That was a commercial with snow in it and it looks like the town was covered in green apple powder."

I still don't think they would have fixed it if it wasn't for the fact that last year's family reunion brought a new slew of remarks from my family and this past Christmas, when we actually watched the Grinch, it was the first time watching a movie looked somewhat normal.

So over Christmas they decided to take advantage of the after Christmas sales. My dad took their honker of a big TV into the shop to get fixed and my mom and I both bought the same TV on sale at Best Buy. Her TV would be a "temporary fix" as their green TV would take a few weeks to remedy. And side note: the only reason I was getting a new TV was because my old one (which I bought on Craigslist for $25) was an old school TV that emitted a high frequency ringing sound that gave me horrible headaches. So I donated it to Good Will.

Anyway, while in check out my mom asked me if I wanted to get a warranty on the TV. I said no, because they are a big waste of money. I'm not going to pay a third the price of my TV for a 2-year warranty. If it breaks, I can just get a new one, same model, for a much lower price in 2-years. She disagreed with me and my sound logic (that has been supported by many financial advisors I follow) and paid the $70 anyway.

8 days later, she went into the living room, turned on the TV, heard a pop, and saw the screen go blank. The TV had busted.

So... luckily she bought the warranty, and I was a little nervous that maybe I should have dished out some extra mullah because we had both purchased the exact same TV.

When she returned to Best Buy, they informed her that they were sold out of that TV. So they let her upgrade to a slightly better TV for just a small fraction of the price more. 5 days later, her stupid cat Baby Julie jumped up where the TV was, knocked it down, and the TV pulled it's cable box on top of it's screen busting the glass and therefor the TV.

Understandably, warranties don't cover feline incompetence, and my mother was out of not only one TV, but two TVs because the green one is still being fixed.

When she called Best Buy, they told her that they would at least refund her warranty purchase. And despite my dad offering to purchase yet a third TV for my mom, she insisted that the television gods were angry and she'd rather not further pester the situation with more technology carnage.

And for those of you that are curious, my TV still works great.

*knock on wood

Embossing is thrifty and crafty!

2011-01-24T09:41:00.005-05:00

I like doing crafts. Joanne's Fabrics is probably the store I could get most lost in, aside from Lowe's. It's also a place where I've learned that if I don't want to buy more than what I came into the store for, I need to put on blinders.

Case in point, last night's trip to Joanne's to buy faux leather for a warrior dash 5k I'm doing this weekend (I plan on making a Xena style skirt to wear while I huff and puff my way through the mud, over obstacles, and past the fire). My intentions where only to buy the leather. But little did I know that Joanne's was having a big sale and a crap load of things throughout the store were 40% off.

This did not bode well for me and my Dave Ramsey spending budget.

What started as a direct beeline to the cheaper fabrics, ended in a snake like weaving in and out of the aisles on my way to check out. During my detour, I found embossing kits.

Embossing is a cool way of imprinting images on paper. I learned this neat craft from my very artsy friend Lisa. You can either use stamps or pens that use a kind of sticky ink (reminds me of honey) and it leaves the thinnest of residues on your paper in which you dust on a fine grain of colored, shiny powder. What's left is a very impressive looking image made by the powder adhering to your sticky inked image or written letters.

Lisa, like me, doesn't like the idea of spending $3-5 dollars on a card. I can't wrap my mind around $5 on a Hallmark card where I could just slip in a $5 subway gift card and provided my giftee with a free lunch. The message is nice and some cards are seriously hilarious and well worth $5, but I'm still more of a monetary conscious card giver.

So instead, I buy these bulk, multi-colored, blank note cards at Target for $10 per 100-200 card & envelope packs. That's pretty good savings! That's about 5 to 10 cents a card!!!

Do what?!?!

And then I take these little cards and decorate them myself. Not only am I saving money, but I feel the personal touch of investing the time in a hand crafted card is more caring. Sure it might end up looking ugly, I smudged the glue, and my snow man looks like a deformed marshmallow, but I spent an hour on it darn-it!! I put effort into this bad boy!

Luckily, the embossing is very easy, very pretty, and fun. It also doesn't take a long time to do, which is a plus for time sensitive deliveries.

However, some embossing (the A La Mode brand) did not work out so well. I feel I could have just squeezed glue on my card and sprinkled glitter over it and gotten the same affect. Maybe I need more practice? But one thing I learned, the finer the grain of embossing powder, the better. And the Ranger Ink brand is top notch. I liked it best. I'm returning the A La Mode stuff today because it was poop.

That was a new brand loyalty shout out.

Harassment in the workplace

2011-01-19T21:08:00.002-05:00

In my professional career, I've only worked at two Engineering firms. There have been people at both firms that I have grown to really love or admire. However, it seems that I am cursed with the other lot as well. As in, the not so lovable and admirable lot. And unfortunately, I have had the unfortunate business of putting up with two of the most miserable men I've ever met in my life. Even worse, they were my supervisors.

The first boss undoubtedly suffered from bipolar disorder and an extreme need to be liked by people but also to compensate for his insecurities. This mix of uncomfortable characteristics would entice him into either drawn out awkward pauses waiting for coworkers to laugh at his seriously stupid jokes (think... Michael Scott... but not funny) or to berate and put down someone he thought would make him feel more like a man. I typically suffered the brunt of the latter.

Because I was just an intern, and eventually a new hire, I wasn't seasoned enough to understand this wasn't acceptable or appropriate. I am, quite honestly, a very nonchalant kind of girl. I try not to let things phase me, and especially in a working environment I didn't want to ruffle any feathers or be a tattle tail. But eventually things got out of hand. After pulling me in his office one day after I asked him what respite meant (my vocabulary was not so grand during that time and I thought respite might have been some type of form), he practically yelled at me that I was an idiot and that he thought I had a learning disorder and that I would never amount to anything. I left his office in a deep depression, fighting back tears, and debating if it was worth my job to slash his tires. Luckily, I calmed down, and later he was put on some kind of probation and I was told by the President of the company that I was not to speak to him one-on-one anymore. He got in huge trouble for the way he talked to me. I think I could have sued or something, but I'm not that type of person.

In the end, his wife wanted to divorce him (understandably), and the poor nut quit only months after I put in my request to be moved to a different department. I know I should feel sympathy, but it's difficult for me to give concern to someone who seems to so readily create their own hell and try to bring everyone else into it with them. I just don't know how Jesus loved these people.

Presently, I'm working with one again. He's not nearly as bad, but the inappropriate yelling, cursing, gossiping, insults about coworkers or clients, and harsh tones canvassed with random spittle and spurts of anger has created for me a very anxiety filled work environment.

I am not sure why I find these people. God must realize my patience, but he must think I'm capable of more compassion. I wish I saw that in myself because I think I've hit my wits end.

No one should have to suffer verbal harassment in the workplace under any circumstances. It is NOT appropriate to continuously yell, malign, put down, or throw up fisticuffs in frustration when another coworker is present. Hell, it's not even appropriate when another coworker isn't present. Have some composure man! This is a childish and unprofessional way of handling an upset, and I have neither practiced it nor intend on dabbling in it's nonsense.

Therefor dear readers, I'll have you know that this young lady is growing a back bone and saying something about it. I might be passive. I might be patient. But I am not a door mat.

Ant-O-Sphere!!!

2011-01-17T14:42:00.006-05:00

I've probably always wanted an ant farm. An ant farm would appease both my scientific curiosity and continual desire to have fun, abnormal pets. Even as I got older, it was constantly in the back of my mind that it would be lots of fun to have an ant farm. Having done some research, I even debated building my own but, again, the social oddity of a 26-year-old, single, female with two cats constructing her own bug Auschwitz would not help me to "fit in" or help me find a date.

Despite this, when my father asked what I wanted for Christmas this past year, I said "an ant farm". He laughed and said "No really... what do you want?". And again, with a serious tone, "an ant farm. But not the gel ones they have at Brookestone with the little glow lights on the bottom. I want something cooler than that." Of course, the nerd in me is drastically evident here as I seem to be under the impression that there is such a thing as a 'cooler' ant farm. Much like a 'cooler' calculator, or even a much 'cooler' name tag maker I could use to label my own underwear.

But no longer being worried about never getting married and further boosting my confidence with a boyfriend who undoubtedly would agree with me that you can have levels of 'coolness' attributed to ant farms, I reminded my dad that I wanted an ant farm for Christmas.

Lo and behold, Santa is a nerd too! Christmas morning I found myself staring in awe at an amazing contraption called the Ant-O-Sphere!

You may see a commercial for it here. Notice the excited children, the very happy ants, and how the Australian accent at the end was an obvious huge hit with me. How could I not love this thing?!? Ignore the fact that the box says "For Children 6 years of age and up", because not only am I a child at heart, but I got the age thing covered by two decades!! Oh happiness and warmth, you have enveloped me.

Eventually the Holidays were over and I had some time to sit down and assess my newly acquired toy. After some thought, I came to the sad realization that my roommate would probably not appreciate me bringing pests into our home. We have a few cans of raid to get rid of the very critters I was contemplating keeping captive. Not only would Shannon (understandably) not share in my curiosity over keeping an ant-farm, but to my great surprise, Ant-O-Sphere is way more advanced than it's competitor farms. I seriously got a "cooler" ant farm. Who'd a thunk?

The spheres are specially designed to mimic the natural formations the ants make in the ground rather than the usual 2D, flat glass panels normally attributed to ant-farms. But this causes the Ant-O-Sphere to take up a lot more room than what I can really afford right now in my small apartment. Additionally, I was under the assumption that the owner of the ant farm stocked up with mail-order ants. Yeah, I was under the wrong assumption. Apparently Ant-O-Sphere will not supply you with ants. Instead, I have to take their provided tweezers, specimen jar, and commit the interesting task of ant-napping from a nearby hill.

Seriously, I could and would do this. I'm not above walking out and napping some ants for the sake of keeping my inner child alive. However, I am now an adult and my neighbors thinking I'm crazy as I'm squatting over an ant hill, tweezers in hand, and looking like one of those apes who uses a stick to get bugs out of the dirt would not help my "adult" image.

So sadly, I've had to store away the Ant-O-Sphere until my future for it is a little more promising or possibly attended by a child who could appreciate it with me. I am, however, super excited to play with it and see exactly what the ants will do in certain situations.

Till then, my inner child lays waiting under my bed next to my plans to construct a 6 foot tall marble maze contraption that can be operated by a 4 year old.

Birthday Bash

2011-01-17T10:33:00.004-05:00

This past weekend I turned 27. Typically you'd expect the change of a digit to garner some sort of distraught feelings, especially because all the really fun ages are done and over with. Now... you're just getting "older" (even though I know I am still really young). But for some weird reason I've always thought 27 and 28 would be my favorite ages. I don't necessarily want to peak at 28, but I believe these will be really exciting and fun years for me.

And so I didn't wake up on my birthday with any worry or wave of "ugghh". It was almost more of a peace about the next year. There are already so many things I am excited about and equally so many things I know I have to be thankful for. And all this while being young, financially some-what stable with a job, dating my would be soul-mate if I actually believed soul-mates were real, and comfortable in who I am. I mean... shoot... that's a really good place to be.

Therefore, my birthday weekend was pretty snazzy. I celebrated it with several good friends around a campfire (and was thankful for the well wishes of those friends that couldn't make it -I love you too!). Chowed down some turkey burgers, turkey hot-dogs, and in the morning some turkey bacon - which by the way... it just turned out that way, I do not have an obsession with Jeannie-O's turkey products. And I even got to do some horse back riding. Having downed my own personal bag of marshmallows over the weekend, I must say that it was a great start to 27, and I am extremely excited to see what the future has in store for me.

Romancing rats

2011-01-12T21:23:00.004-05:00

I don't know how we got on the conversation one night, but several weeks ago I was talking with my friend, Laura, and my roommate, Shannon, about pest control. Laura had just told this funny story about how one of her friends was an animal cruelty sympathizer but her and her husband were having a rat problem in their home. They didn't want to poison the rats because they thought that was too slow and cruel. They opted for a quicker death approach and bought some snap mouse traps.

Upon actually snapping a rat, they were horrified to find it still alive and writhing in their garage. Not wanting to kill it, but also being too scared to touch it, they somehow managed to scoop it into a shoe box and drop it off at a Veterinarian's office. Because it was night time and the office was closed, they left the box of the dying rat on the front step of the building.

I can only imagine the humorous and grossed out reaction the Vet Tech's had the next morning upon finding a dead rat in a shoe box on their front step.

Anyway, somewhere in that story Laura was talking about how they coaxed the rat to the trap. I figured they used cheese. That's what they do in the movies and TV shows. But Laura shook her head and said "Nope. They just put a little flower on it, and the rats can't resist."

At this point Shannon and I looked at each other a little perplexed. So I laughed and said "What?! Are you serious? A little flower? No way that works."

But Laura insisted, not seeing why I was so shocked by this. "No, really. A little flower and they'll come to the trap."

I shook my head in surprise, "I didn't know rats where so... romantic. What a mean way to go. You think you're getting a bouquet and WHAM! You're dead. What kind of flower did they use? a daisy or a rose?"

And that's when Laura looked at me oddly, "No. FLOUR. As in baking flour?... You sprinkle it on the trap." We then all started laughing at the absurdity of what Shannon and I had heard.

Meh. It was pretty funny. I had visualized this whole picture in my head of this little girl rat with a bow tucked behind her ear running up to the trap with a little squeeky voice saying, "oh! For me?!? They shouldn't have. They really shouldn't..." WHAM!!!

Teegar

2011-01-11T14:33:00.003-05:00

I have this large, fluffy, sweet, mentally challenged cat named Teegar. He is pure bred maine coon, weighs about 18 lbs, and is a little over 3 feet long. He drinks water only if it's dripping from a faucet, and he's scared of everything... including my random pair of socks dangling from the hamper this morning.

I have this other cat who is the epitome of social butterfly and affection. He comes when I call him, curls up in my lap, purrs all the time, never knows a stranger, and is so fat that it looks like he ate a bowling ball. When he finally managed to climb up to the top tier of his kitty tower, I thought this was cause for great celebration! So I gave him some tuna and a scratch on his enormous belly.

Teegar is rather the opposite. I can see why the phrase "curiosity killed the cat" would apply to him. Just the other day he stuck his head in the toilet only to cause the seat to slam down on his head bringing forth an utter freak out with him careening through my bedroom and under the desk. There he was peering out expecting the toilet monster to come eat him.

From these frantic episodes he has broken/ruined 1 lamp, 2 vases, 2 dishes, 1 bowl, and 4 shirts.

But I love him. Even though 23 hours and 45 minutes of the day he is spastic, begging for food (oh wait.. that's Perro), getting into things he's not supposed to, falling off the bed in random stretch attacks mid nap, or curling himself underneath my desk chair in such a way that I can't back out from my computer without running the possibility of getting a chair wheel over his tail, despite all this... there are those random 15 minutes of the day that he falls on his back, dangles his huge paws, tucks his head upside down and makes it known he wants to be loved.

Shortly after this, and never understanding when the switch is made, he goes into attack mode and bits my arm and runs away.

Gosh I love cats :)

Check yo self before you wreck yo self

2011-01-07T09:58:00.007-05:00

To different degrees, we are all aware of our faults and misgivings. I hope to think that I'm a very honest person both with myself and with those close to me. If I'm wrong or I've done or said something hurtful, I like to think that I'm quick to apologize or at least make a mental acknowledgment of my poor behavior so I can practice improving myself later. But I think we all have the tendency to put on rose colored glasses when we look at ourselves. I tend to justify my actions, ignore empathy toward others, or I'm just so comfortable with my behavior that I genuinely don't notice when I'm being a butt.

Dating someone has changed that a little. Especially when you are dating a previously practicing Pastor.

This past weekend I visited St. Augustine with my boyfriend and a few of his friends. It started off really well, and I was having a good time. We ended up visiting the light house in St. Augustine.

Despite my knowledge and understanding of how construction works, the seriousness of safety regulations, and the integrity of most designs, I was very scared of the stairs in the light house. I don't like heights, and I also don't like rot iron stairs held into really old brick with only a few bolts. I didn't trust it, but I trudged on because I wanted to see the top.

On our way down, I was extremely nervous because I could see all the way down the tall lighthouse. The stairs where designed with porous steps and so it was very difficult for me to ignore how high we were and I was feeling slightly dizzy from it's spiral design. My hands were sweating, my body pumping adrenaline, I had a death grip on the hand rail, and I was a little more than scared. I hate stairs anyway, but these were stairs on LSD. But I was doing fairly well. Taking one step at a time.

Then BANG and the stairs were shaking. Another loud BANG, and I turn to see this young pre-teen boy stomping on the stairs. Without thinking I say loudly to him "If you don't stop that I'm going to kill you." And he responds with a scoff, "pshh... you're going to kill me?" and I respond, "Yes. I'm going to put my foot up your... (catching myself)... your brains."

I sounded like an idiot, I know. But I was trying to not curse at the boy. He was scaring me and what he was doing seemed obviously stupid. Upon reaching the next level where there was room for people to rest and stand, I told the boy "Go on. Pass me. If you insist on acting like a moron, do so in front of me." And then he said, "Don't tell me what to do." and without skipping a beat I retorted, "Don't act childish!"

At this point, in a battle of maturity, the line is extremely blurred on who would come out the victor.

Having finally reached the bottom, he jumps up and stomps hard on the base floor in obvious retaliation to me. The bottom floor is made of marble, so there is no shaking of the stairs as I assume was his intention because I was still behind him. So I tell him "Stomp on the marble all you want. Rock doesn't move." And I walk past him and hear him make some smart remark back, something along the lines of "bitch". So, of course, I'm mad. I'm rolling off an adrenaline rush, I'm not thinking "how can I be Christ-like" or "what would a mature adult do?" No. I'm pissed that this little immature brat just called me a foul name and has seemingly ruined the rest of my day. So I flip him off.

How ladylike of me, and obviously I have wonderful self-control.

Only seconds later I'm regretting my actions. How could I so quickly become infuriated and frustrated with a stupid little boy that I'm sending him the old 'one up' and mentally picturing myself giving him a brass knuckled noogie?

But at least I walk away.

I make a mental note that I need to work on my anger issues.

But the fun isn't over.

After walking out of the light house and into the adjacent museum, just moments later in walks the little brat with a smug look on his face and a very rotund angry looking woman. He points at me and says "HER!", and the woman starts to berate me "Did you threaten the life of my child?!"

My boyfriend standing next to me starts to explain,"No. She was scared and your son was not behaving and was jumping on the stairs."

She throws back, "Are you telling me how to raise my child?!"

And I can't take it. Despite thinking of all the other negative things I wanted to say, I just respond, "if you're such a great parent, where the hell were you while your son was jumping on the stairs causing them to shake?" She responds, "I was with him the whole time! " and I start to throw back "Oh really?!?! OH REALLY?!?! YOU MISERABLE COW!! You are a liar and &$*#)#*&*@@$.."

But luckily, sensing my obvious frustration, my boyfriend pulls me away at the first "Oh really?!?!?". I imagine my hair was aflame and my eyeballs were poking out of my head. I didn't get to inform her of her bovine nature, but that didn't stop the millions of things I wanted to yell at her. My peace seeking boyfriend just told the lady to "enjoy her tour somewhere else." and lead me away.

I was still pretty mad for the next hour. And after the flush of anger had slowly subsided, the reality of my actions weighed in on my conscious.

I had already told my boyfriend that I have a quick tongue, and I can't control it when I'm really angry, which is why when I start to get angry I normally have the sense to walk away and calm down before continuing a conversation.

But I was caught off guard (no excuse), and my faults and misgivings were made apparent both to him and were made more evident to myself. I don't want him to see me as some crazed woman who lost her cool over a adolescent snot ball who has his mama fight all his fights for him (I'm still bitter).

I chewed on this realization for the next day or two. I thought about how easily I get upset over stupid things, how I need to garner more patience, and how I need to nip this cussing habit because it's slowly become a larger portion of vocabulary... particularly when I'm frustrated.

So, trying to practice a little humility, I admitted to him that I realized I hadn't behaved well, that I was really immature in that situation, and I did not handle it the way I should have. I didn't really need to apologize to him, but I guess I needed to confess or at least let him see I was acknowledging my mistakes.

And therefore, I've found in him a new way of looking at myself. Without even knowing it, he's holding me accountable.

That's kind of nice.

What the Hell was she thinking when she wrapped this?

2010-12-22T09:41:00.005-05:00

I didn't dress up my cats this year like I had planned. I had originally intended on using high concentration spinach juice (DIY) to dye one of my cats green and not threaten his health (because kitties lick themselves a lot, and Perro loves spinach) and dress Teegar up with one single antler on his head. They'd be the Grinchmas cats.

But I practiced some self control, grace on my felines, and honestly... I just got too busy. Plus I value my arms in their non-lacerated state.

But if I had decided to don my cats in gay apparel, it would actually not have been the weirdest Christmas attire to haunt my Christmas' past. Oh no, even during my mullet years as a child, I saw some pretty funky Christmas garb... and they were largely impart due to the gifts of my crazy grandmother, Mommom.

Mommom is my mother's mom. And to dish out all the sweetness I can about this woman before I lay to waste the absurdity in some of her gift ideas, she was sincerely a very generous woman. She was awarded "Volunteer of the Year" in the town she lived for years in Maryland. She took a needy family's kids under her arm and lavished them with gifts, fun stories, and she always shared her sugar-free candies. She was a very generous, kind, and sweet woman. And some of my mother's best traits can be attributed to my grandmothers character.

However, she was horrible at gift giving.

I believe her experience surviving the Great Depression changed her perspective on what constituted trash. Having grown up during an economy that was extremely profitable, full of abundance, and not at all doing without... I didn't understand why my grandmother thought some things were worth saving. But because my grandmother could actually remember a time when there was nothing to eat, few clothes to wear, and jobs were scarce, she became a bit of a hoarder out of fear that there would be a repeat situation and she wasn't prepared. She wanted to be ready and be able to provide for herself and her loved ones. And ya know? I get that. I do.

But still, she gave gifts that left most people cock-headed with an eyebrow raised thinking "what the...?"

She had a bad habit of not just re-gifting, but finding anything in her house that she didn't want anymore and wrapping it up and mailing it out. Some of these gifts included (but were not limited to):

An expensive original Hummel... with it's head broken off. And not included in the box.
A box of chocolate covered cherries to a couple she had discussed with at length the difficulties of diabetes and how sugar could kill them.
A card that said "nice ass and your sermons are good too" with two pennies included... to our pastor.
A jar of cheese spread... that had been eaten out of.
A half empty box of Kleenex tissues.
A beautiful white silk blouse... with a grape stain on the front.

The best of course being the year that I got a half empty jar of men's cologne called "Hombre" and a used pair of camouflage, men's, thermal long john underwear.

Not only was I a 6 year old little girl living in FLORIDA. But you could tell the pair of underwear was used because the crotch was worn through. I could see my mother's face through the frayed fabric when I first lifted it out of it's box.

I seriously thought Mommom hated me. Or that she thought I was a boy. I mean, I did have a mullet... but still. I was a girl with style well beyond my years.

My wonderful mother, always seeing the good in everyone, repeatedly jumped to my grandmother's defense. She'd state, "It's the thought that counts!" And in all honesty, Mommom probably did think that I would want and enjoy men's underwear.

And so, as these types of gifts continued to get increasingly more and more outlandish and strange, and my mother kept retorting every year "It's the thought that counts!", my dad proposed an annual contest. The "What the Hell was she thinking when she wrapped this?" contest. If it was, in fact, the thought that counted.... What was she thinking??!

The rules were simple, you won the "What the Hell was she thinking when she wrapped this?" contest by getting the worst gift. And this wasn't just for family. Oh no... we extended the contestant invitations to friends too. They also had received some very questionable gifts from my grandmother.

Some years were better than others. And sadly the contest dimmed to a halt when my mother finally took over my grandmother's Christmas giving plans. We actually started to get things we'd want or could use! It was a nice trade-off, but I know there was a huge part of all of us that really miss those wonderful years of shock, awe, and laughter over the interesting things we'd receive.

So... Mommom? Thank you for your generosity and those many year's of laughter that you brought so many people with your quirkiness. That was the best Christmas present of all. And you are dearly remember this Christmas season.

Bucket List

2010-12-06T11:00:00.002-05:00

I have a 100 in 1001 things list which is 100 things that I will do in a given set of 1001 days time. But I've been wanting to sit down and make an actual life list. A bona-fide life to-do list. And then I want to get it laminated to make it authentic and legitimize it.

Any who, before embarking on such a serious task as setting in stone... er... plastic... my life to-do list, I've decided to write them down and take any comments, suggestions, or revisions from any potential readers. Who knows, maybe you'll be inspired to do the same :)

Places to visit, things to do:

Australia
Ireland
New Zealand - and do the L.O.T.R. tour
Norway -for the boyfriend ;)
England
Scotland
China
Italy - eat some pizza!!!
Germany - visit Auschwitz and pay my respects
Egypt - See the pyramids and ride a camel (again)
Japan - during the Cherry Blossom Festival
Switzerland - eat some chocolate, maybe open up a bank account, haha
Greece
Rome - see the Biblical landscape
Holland - for the worlds largest tulip garden, Keukenhof Garden
Alaska
The Grand Canyon
The Florida Keys
Vegas
Main - to eat a lobster
"The West" and whatever that may entail.
Swim in the dead sea.
Have lunch with a celebrity
Own a fainting goat
backpack through Europe for a month
Own an Australian Shepard dog.
Build or help build my own eco-friendly (possibly hobbit-like) home.
Fly on the night of the Forth of July so that I can see the fireworks burst up from the ground.
Run a marathon.
Go to a Burning Man Event
The Leaning Tower of Pisa
The Sistine Chapel
Hold my child
Kiss my husband
Have my dad fly with me and/or teach me how to fly a little
Kill, clean, and eat my own chicken
Own a piece of the sky
Go on a Hot Air Balloon Ride
Be obviously pregnant over Halloween so that I can dress up my stomach for the Holiday.
See either an actual Banksy exhibit, or just be lucky enough to see some of his art out on the streets.

And many more will be added I'm sure, but this is my starting list!

The Contents of a Foo Box

2010-12-02T15:01:00.006-05:00

Every now and then I do something really stupid. Just like a few months ago when standing inside a Chic-fil-a restaurant with my boyfriend and 4 of my good friends, my friend Zane went to go give me a high five, and at the same time I turned myself away from him and hunched over wanting a pat on the back. Everyone in our little 'friend circle' didn't understand what I was doing. There I was standing with an awkward posture that looked like I was rebuffing Zane's invitation at a high five and instead desiring a pat on the bum instead. Oh yes, and Zane's wife, my friend Deborah, was standing right next to me. Now... at the time, my logic seemed sound. I wanted a pat on the back. Clearly I was presenting this idea with my turned posture and exposed shoulder blades. I thought I was making a little joke, a good one too. But given my posture and Zane's hand still hanging up in the air, and everyone looking at me like I had suffered some involuntary body spasm... I realized I had made an oopsy.

And sometimes I say something really stupid. Okay, most of the time I say something stupid. I either use a word wrong, say it wrong, or the verbal part of my brain cross wires with my motor skills and somewhere in my mental outbox, the message gets spammed and I'm left wondering why everyone is laughing at me and trying to retrace exactly what I just said.

Luckily, I've developed enough confidence and a good enough sense of humor to laugh with people rather than get embarrassed and let myself get upset.

So over Thanksgiving, my family and I were talking about what we would do for this year's Christmas presents. In the past few years, all of the adults have had their name in a hat and each of us is allocated one other adult for which we will buy a gift. This has worked pretty well, but my boyfriend brought up the idea of doing an adult gift exchange that is similar to "dirty Santa". If you don't know what "dirty Santa" is, it's a fun game where you get to steal other people's gifts and/or give gag gifts. The risk is that you might have your gift stolen, or that you might leave someone with an unwanted gift.

While discussing what the rules would be, we started figuring out if there would be a price limit. In the middle of our bouncing ideas, I stated loudly, "We could make a rule that it fits in a shoe box."

Except... that's not what I said. Oh no... my brain wires got crossed and before my tongue could recuperate from the mixed message, I had made another oopsy.

Instead, I said to everyone, "We could make a rule that it shits in a foo box."

Of course, there was that snap of silence. Everyone was like "Did she just say that?"

I tried to regain control, "... I mean... fits in a shoe box."

But no, the damage was done, and everyone busted out laughing making quips about how they weren't going to open anything called a foo box, or maybe we should all chip in for the foo box and give it to someone we don't like, or even lighting a foo box and setting it on someone's porch. "How exactly do you mask the fact that it's a foo box?", "How much would one be willing to pay for a foo box?", "Can you tell the difference in quality from one foo box to the next?"

I was embarrassed. My boyfriend is sitting next to me looking at me with a mixed look of adoration and protectiveness. He found my statement hilarious, and at the same time wanted to help me hide underneath the big rock I wish existed in my immediate vicinity. I'm glad he finds my stupidity funny. But I do too, so we have that in common. But it was still embarrassing.

There will undoubtedly be a foo box underneath our Christmas tree this year.

Starbucks is sexist, but not really

2010-11-30T16:11:00.005-05:00

Today during lunch I stopped by Starbucks for a iced, Grande, Caramel machiato, with 5 pumps of vanilla, extra caramel, served upside down.

Yes... I am one of those people.

Upon paying for my deliciously over sugared beverage, I faced the typical trendy, multi pierced Starbucks dude at the cashier with tattoos running down his arm and up his neck and that glazed over look that says he hates his job. I handed him my credit card. But because Dave Ramsey has terrified me from using my credit card (even from emergencies such as a needed caffeinated sugar high), I try to never use it. Additionally, in hopes of preventing identity theft, I have written in big bold letters DO NOT USE on the back of my credit card. This not only reminds me that Dave Ramsey says coffee is too expensive for my budget, but it also instigates a quick driver's license check from most cashiers. For a while, I also had "STOLEN" on the front of this credit card to make EXTRA sure an ID was asked for upon charging the card, but this proved to be more of a hassle than a logical security precaution. I think someone wanted to call the police on me once, and all I was buying was a slurpee from SevenEleven.

So I removed STOLEN and just kept the DO NOT USE on the back of my card. Like I said, this normally spurs a simple ID check more so than when I had "See I.D." on the back of my cards. But for some reason, the logic behind this escaped the tattooed I-hate-my-job Starbucks dude. Instead of asking for my ID, he says "Did your husband write this?" pointing at the bold letters on the back of my card. To which I responded with a slightly offended air of "No. I take care of my own finances, thank you. I'm not married, I just do that so people will always ask to see some identification."

Then he responded, "Oh.... well, I figured your husband didn't want you to spend his money."

Of course, I'm staring at this dude wondering if he realizes that what he's saying is seriously sexist. So I tell him, "Do you realize that your digging a hole, right? I'm a female engineer, slightly feminist, and fully capable of spending my own money responsibly."

He just looks at me in a dull tone and after a few seconds of our stare down, he apathetically says "Do you want a receipt?"

I just say "Nope. And you still haven't asked for my ID!... oye!!"

I'm not really mad over the whole thing, but I found it interesting the blatant stereotyping that went on and his general ignorance of his words. But... Starbucks dude? I have no hard feelings. I will not be leaving you a tip.

Sibling Separated

2010-11-05T15:57:00.011-04:00

I do not think I have spent much time, if any, blogging about my brother, but my mother just shared her own posting about him, and the mood has struck.

It is an odd thing to have a sibling that I feel no more connected to than I would a complete stranger. They are one in the same. We share the same blood, we grew up in the same home, were awarded the same privileges and opportunities, and yet we are as opposite as two siblings can be.

I sometimes think that my brother's inability to show love, hope, or even a sliver of joy might be deeply rooted in the impact his biological father had on him at a young age. My brother has had 3 important men in his life: his biological father, my mother's father, and my father. Of the three, I feel his biological father had the worst affect on my brother.

From my understandings, even from infancy, Daddy Bob (my mother's first husband) was emotionally and verbally abusive. Not necessarily in any grand scheme way, but even the slightest words, unbridled tones, and careless whispers can degrade, tear down, and devalue those within ear shot. And since my brother's birth, Daddy Bob made it verbally known that he didn't want a son, he didn't ask for "it", and showed no affection or attention to my brother. Finally, after a few years of this disgusting behavior, my wonderful mother made the difficult (but wise) decision to end their marriage. However, by then, I feel the damage had already been done because my brother had spent his first few formative years being given the impression he was unwanted.

After this time, my grandfather "Poppop" was the male role model for my brother. He was a good role model, though I was not privileged to know him very well. He was a great father to my mother, he was patient, and a part of the old breed of American men that grew his own vegetables, fixed his own cars, and would escape to a shed that smelled of grease, cigars, and just... "man". He was someone my brother undoubtedly respected and felt deeply connected to. However, Poppop died when my brother was in highschool, and I can distinctly remember my brother being angry with God for having taken him away. I still think there is anger rooted in that loss.

Before my grandfather's death my mother met my father. My brother was 6 years old when my parents got married and I was born a year later. My father is a wonderful father (not perfect, but I'm so blessed to have had him as my dad). Regardless, my mother and father's parenting skills differ greatly. And under a new regime, my father was a parent who expected (not demanded) our best. He didn't expect the best, but it was understood that if we try our hardest.. that's all we could do.

And I imagine that for my brother, having first had a father who didn't want him regardless of what he could have done, felt that this second father could love him only dependent on what he could do. Despite my memory of an upbringing in a home that did not preach conditional love, but unconditional acceptance, I find it hard that my brother probably had the mentality that he had to earn my father's love. So first he felt he could not earn it from Daddy Bob, his own biological father, and then when he felt he could earn it from his adoptive father... my brother probably felt that he actually could not attain those expectations he felt placed on him. Maybe this is because my brother didn't believe his best would be good enough.

So despite my remembrance of a happy, healthy, loving upbringing, I imagine my brother felt disconnected, or hurt, or confused, or even angry about my father's new role in his life. My father had a different way of running things, he expected good grades (partly because he knew my brother could produce them), he wanted family participation, he demanded respect, and he probably didn't feel incredibly comfortable showing my brother the affection he showed his little girl - me. (My father lavished love and affection on me. And I am incredibly blessed by that.)

For this reason, I am not justifying my brother's behavior and especially not blaming my father (I mean hey... I turned out pretty well and stable), but I am attempting to understand why my brother chooses to be who he is. His apathy over the lives of his four children and the women who helped produce them is abhorrent. His choice to always choose and focus on the negative in life is sad. And his resentment at his family and lack of appreciation for what he's been provided is insulting. He lies, he judges, he complains, he is selfish, and acts of kindness by him are questioned, shocking, and considered "blue moon flukes". My family and I put no merit in his off-the-wall kind words and thoughtful moments.

My brother is lost, and every time I see a homeless man full of anger... I am reminded of what I feel my brother will eventually become: alone, angry, and hopeless.

And so, I'm not always sure how to process this. A major part of me does not want to be the older brother from the scriptural story about the prodigal son. I don't want to be prideful and condescending to my brother. I want to pray for him, hope for the best, and faithfully expect his redemption and repentance. I want to enjoy in his reconciliation. And yet... I feel no connection to this man.

Blood is a funny thing. It ties you to people you otherwise would not endure or give thought . It binds your heart to them in a way that is sometimes unpleasant and mysterious.

But it is true... I do not love my brother. I am practicing conditional love, and I hate that about myself. It makes me feel hypocritical, foul, and all those other words associated with people who kick puppies. If I did love my brother, it would only be out of necessity and expectation, not out of genuine concern. And this is my sin. This is my honest fault and a grievance for which I will be held accountable one day. But I do not understand fully how you love someone who you have seen cause so much hurt to others and who is so dead set on making his own hell.

Jesus, help me with this. For I cannot grasp that kind of love without your example and God's grace for which God poured out on Andy and for a sinner like me.

Space Bubbles

2010-10-28T12:55:00.018-04:00

I'm normally okay with weird people and strangers don't bother me, but I used to have a huge aversion to physical contact such as hugs, pats on the back, or even simple hand shakes from people I didn't know. But over time I've come to be better about this. I still love hugs from those people I love, but like everyone else, we each have our own space bubble: that atmosphere of comfort that hovers around our being... sometimes even our stuff... or our cats (keeping it real).

Most people are self-aware of their space bubble and how it may interact with other people's space bubbles. The size and diameter of a space bubble differs person to person, even cultures, and especially a person's age, but I think the typical, cognizant American has a space bubble that is around 18inches or more.

When you get closer than that comfortable 18 in., things start to get weird. I've become increasingly aware of this with a co-worker who does not always follow the space bubble rule.

The space bubble rules, according to me, include:

Do not cross the space bubble boundary.
Do not breath in the space bubble boundary with your bad breath.
Do not weaken the space bubble strength duration by mundane, argumentative, and loud conversations about things that do not pertain to me. Your yelling is unwanted.
Do not touch my person to get my attention when you have breached my space bubble and I am now showing you the back of my head as a physical sign to GO AWAY.
Space bubbles are not sound proof, but that doesn't mean you should pretend they are and yell louder when I crank up my space bubble to full force.

If you do any of these and/or more, then I'm liable to shut down, turn away from you, and become very silent. I've learned that space bubble intruders can sense sound and motion, so it is best to imitate a log (or play dead) and wait until the space bubble predator loses interest and moves on to their next victim.
Other indicators of my space bubble being violated is the onset of an immediate desire for a nap, my attempt at putting a physical barrier between the space bubble intruder and myself, dulled eyes and crossed arms, playing dead (as mentioned above), and the slow, careful, progression out of your office with the dulled acknowledgements of "hmm-mmm", "yup", or "oh my, yes." and then *poof* I disappear before the SBI knows where I've gone.

I had to go to the bathroom.

So I came up with a not-so-new idea of what if space bubbles were actual things? Like, what if you could buy one at Wal-Mart? You could deck it out with all the bells and whistles, choose a costume fit size for you, and get a guarantee that SBIs, annoying co-workers, or weirdos could not touch you, breath on you, or make you get the creeps by staring at you for too long during a cramped subway ride (because my space bubble would be decked out with a hazed-privacy option).
All their attempts at cramping my style would fail.

And my co-worker couldn't violate my nostrils with his horrid breath anymore. Especially because my space bubble would also include a motion response aroma dispenser. Fresh Orchard vs. gingivitis? Yes please.
I imagine it would look something like this.

But more commonly, let's not forget that John Travolta had the idea back in the 80's. Granted, in that movie he had no immune system and his space bubble was saving his life. But in the end he stepped out of his protective barrier to pursue a young lady he loved.

He probably died in 48 hours.

Wal-mart would also supply child size versions for your youngster who can't handle the kid that wets his bed, picks his nose, and eats play-do. Even little one's like their space.

And not that I'm one to say that Leonardo Da Vinci was anti-social, but I think his human form model was probably more of a personal statement on privacy problems than it was on man's proportional design.

Just saying. This is definitely a blue print for a space bubble if I ever saw one.

And let us not forget that hampsters everywhere were the original guinea pigs on the conceptual idea of space bubbles. Sure it makes it easy to have the little critters crawl around on the floor and not lose them to the crevices behind the couch, but it also allows us humans to see whether or not space bubbles would be more practical in the real world.

The only down side I can see is stairs.

Ctrl-Z

2010-09-30T10:15:00.004-04:00

I got this idea from my friend Deborah's blog. She talks about how we can use Ctrl-Z on our computers to undo work mistakes or as a safety net if we want to try something new on a fun project. We might found out we didn't like it on screen as much as we'd thought we would, so we just Ctrl-Z it and it's gone.

She included some very funny and cute ideas on how she wishes she could Ctrl-Z certain things in her life. And so it got me thinking... what about all the other shortcuts? Ctrl-X, C, V, U, I, F, and B.

I think there are already some Ctrl-Zs in our life.

Here are some unhealthy ones:

I wish I hadn't just eaten that entire bag of GenSoy Chocolate Sweet Crisps (not that I'm speaking from personal experience about what I had for breakfast just now... ). Ctrl-Z= Bulimia!!
I wish I hadn't just kissed that boy. Ctrl-Z = Vodka!!! (you won't unkiss him, but you also won't remember you did to begin with).
I wish I hadn't just been attacked by that stupid mockingbird outside my office. Ctrl-Z = pretend it never happened!!

But the truth is, we can't Ctrl-Z our lives. Sad, I know. I wish we could, but I bet there's a really good reason we can't. First, we aren't computers. Secondly, Ctrl-Zing our life doesn't bring forth growth or lessons from our mistakes. And thirdly, nothing funny would ever happen because everyone would Ctrl-Z all the hilarity in the world brought on by embarrassing situations. Not me though.... I'd still post it to Facebook.

So what about the other shortcuts? Rather than go to the gym or continue training for my marathon, I'd just Ctrl-X my body. That's right. I'd be cut. (hahahaha... admit it. That was hilarious).

Rather than worry about money, I'd just Ctrl-C my salary a few times over and go on a shopping spree!!!

I want to scare children away during the Halloween holidays? Ctrl-B my eyebrows.

Want to walk like a gansta? Ctrl-I my walk, so that I lean all cool like and get me a pimp cane.

*sigh* If only. That would be pretty cool if we could apply shortcuts to our lives.

101 in 1001 UPDATE!

2010-09-29T17:20:00.002-04:00

101 in 1001

January 1, 2009 - September 29, 2011

The Key:

Not Started

In Progress

Accomplished ( with the date)

failed miserably

New Goal

Love and Life

1. Send a gift to someone I secretly admire, and sign it as such.

2. Write my own song

3. Write a children's book, even if it never sees publishing

4. Shoot a gun (8/1/2010)

5. Find/create a healthy relationship with a young man(8/2010) OH yeah...

6. Read my mother's book A Headstone for Nellie

7. Get a second tattoo (5/5/2010) See this blog for details!

8. Go kayaking in 5 different places (3/5)

9. ~~Keep my tiny, out of date phone until I need (not want) a new one~~ (5/12/09)

10. Try a new fashion trend, and test it out in public

11. If I'm at lunch by myself, and I see another person (a stranger) by his/her self, I want to offer to sit with them and eat lunch together.

12. Kiss someone who doesn't end up breaking my heart (9/3/2010)

13. Go camping in 5 different locations (2/5)

14. Sing a solo in church again (9/5/2010)

15. Go skydiving again

Social Stretching

16. Host a murder mystery dinner party

17. Make a funny video to encourage a friend (4/30/2010)

18. Make a friend in a foreign country (3/15/2010) Thanks to Chatroullette! haha

19. Stop deleting Facebook friends (some of them were jerks though, really)

20. Make 3 new friendships or improve 3 friendships at Summit (08/12/09)

21. Catch as many bouquets as possible (9/11)

22. Completely replace my old wardrobe with newness

23. ~~Visit Chicago with my cousin Laura~~ (10/11/2009)

24. ~~Create a music video with my roomies~~ (5/2/09)

25. Try a book club

26. Go to 3 concerts (0/3)

27. Attend a Burning Man event

28. Go to a jazzercise fitness class in Oviedo with all the soccer moms (I moved to St. Pete)

29. Volunteer 5 saturday mornings to some non-profit (1/5)

Body and Soul

30. Get skinny!!!

31. Run 5 half-marathons (0/5)

32. Get one of those detox salt wrap things.

33. ~~Get a exfoliating facial~~ (12/13/2009) not as rewarding as I'd hoped.

34. Cook 50 different low calorie dinners using new recipes (11/50)

35. Start a book that lists only happy memories and positive thoughts about myself

36. Attempt snow skiing, with no injury this time

37. Go on a day long date with God

38. Sleep on the beach

39. Watch 30 completely girly and overly-romantic movies (9/30)

40. Tell 3 people exactly how I feel about him/her with no reservation (3/3)

41. Give up an addiction

42. Put half as much effort in my looks as my roomies do (I'd be so freaking hott)

43. Send myself and a friend or loved one flowers

44. Plant/pot some vegetables and eat them after they grow(12/15/2009)

45. Go to the beach, by myself, and not feel super insecure

46. finish memorizing the book of Romans

47. Re-memorize the book of Titus

48. Find my faith

49. Re-decorate a room (05/13/09)

50. Take a week with no Facebook

51. Give my number to 5 hott guys (5/5)

52. Send 2 big care packages to Malika and Jackreen in Malawi (2/2)

53. Pending all my healthy improvements, go on a $500 shopping spree for new sexy clothes!

54. Read the entire book of the Bible consecutively (3/ 66 books)

55. See a chiropractor

56. Attend 10 rugby games (2/10)

57. Jump Rope 1000 minutes (950/1000)

58. Do a sprint (mini tri-athlon)

59. Run the Muddy Buddy race with a friend

Money Matters

60. Complete a detailed budget for a year (8/2010)

61. Tithe exactly 10% of my income

62. Switch my savings over to a higher interest bank

63. ~~Pay off my car~~ (8/10/2009)

64. Pay back my parents for my new iMac

65. Pay off credit card debt

66. Pay off student loans

67. Find a new job that pays more, but I love more. - (It doesn't pay more, but I love it more.)

68. ~~Get a part time tutoring job~~ (11/-/2009)

69. ~~Have a yard sale~~ (4/25/09)

Busy-ness

70. Have my own office area and library (05/01/09)

71. Get a promotion (haha... I got laid off... that's the ultimate DEmotion)

71. ammended- Got a raise at my new job!!! (05/10)

72. Work in a foreign country OR study abroad

73. Read a business based book on how to build wealth

74. Pass the Professional Engineering Exam

Just Because

75. Learn a foreign language

76. Visit 3 new countries (1/3)

77. Finish all of my half finished books (1/16)

78. Read 5 new novels (3/5)

79. Make a snow man

80. Cook a holiday dinner for my family

81. Make a clay-figurine

82. Fill up my glass jar full of change and use it to travel!!

83. ~~Get a pedicure~~ (5/15/09)

84. Take a pottery class

85. Do another SAK graduation show

86. Do a massive spring cleaning!!

87. ~~Move somewhere new~~ (5/3/09)

88. Organize all my photos, music, and photos

89. Get a new shelving unit for all my board game (07/03/09)

90. Finish a scrap book

91. write 10 poems (2/10)

92. Meet someone famous

93. Get some cosmetic work done (not what you think)

94. ~~Sell something on Craigslist~~ (4/24/09)

95. Make a clay animation movie

96. ~~Make and sew my own skirt~~ (1/12/10)

97. Kill, clean, and eat a chicken

98. deck out my car in support or honor of a Holiday

99. Spend a day with my niece, just the two of us

100. Stop slouching

101. ~~Learn how to make my hair look like a movie stars~~ (12/-/09) Thank you youtube.

Life without him

2010-09-20T10:49:00.007-04:00

I'm in a relationship.

Shocker, I know. And because I don't think I have a mass following on my blog, actually... because I know I don't have a mass following on my blog for the exception of those few close friends and family who are invested in my life and I in theirs (and because they enjoy my ridiculous stories as much as I enjoy elaborating them), I figure I could open up a little bit about this new phase in my life. It's a little... daunting, but still exciting. And no... I'm not making it Facebook official. That's so... pre-2010.

Anyway, I always thought that love was going to be one of those things similar to the romantic movies where the girl proclaims "I can't imagine life without him!!", she slaps the back of her hand to her forehead and falls in a bed of flowers with a long sigh of obvious yearning. Maybe baby-faced cherubs dance around her head and little heart shaped farts escape their bare bottoms. I don't know. Or more simply, maybe you are struck with a line like "You complete me", and the girl responds "You had me at hello."

I can specifically remember my eyes hurting during most of these movies because I rolled them so much.

Yes, I was bitter. And yes... I still am bitter. Maybe this is an emotional habit I have not yet shirked, but part of me still finds that kind of Hollywood professed soul mate connection a little ridiculous. And I think I know why.

It's not that I don't feel deeply and richly connected to my "guy friend", because I do. It's almost alarming at how well we fit, compliment each other, and get along. He doesn't even mind my cats. Amazing. But it almost makes me feel like something should be wrong because there was always something wrong in my past relationships or dates. Clear skies are more suspicious to me than dark clouds. That is a definite sad testament to my previous dating experiences.

But that's not why Hollywood romance tickles my gag reflex. Though I admit I wanted greatly to dabble in that kind of romance, I never fancied it because I'm a very independent woman. I'm strong, intelligent, free-spirited with a sharp sense of humor, and I have had no qualms about grasping the steering wheel of my own life and charging full speed into a future of adventure, advanced education, and 2 cats... maybe even 3 when I turned 30. (F-you, cat lady stereotypes!!!) So where the Hollywood leading lady swoons "I can't imagine life without him!", I just can't relate to that sentiment. I mean, all I've ever known is life without him.

He was my plan B. I never thought it was logical to plan a life around someone who you didn't know existed. So Plan A never included marriage, kids, or that kind of commitment to another person where you know you are going to be roommates for life. So, actually, I can imagine life without him because that's all I've known for the entirety of my young adult life. And if he were to sadly disappear from my life, I know I could still build a life independent of his existence and be fine... a little more void of happiness, but fine. In the same way where Tom Cruise's character Jerry McGuire coined "You complete me", my guy friend and I both acknowledge that we do not complete each other. Not to get all theological on ya, but Christ alone completes us. Two imperfect people a perfect person marriage does not make. However, where we do not complete each other, I will argue that we greatly, greatly, greatly compliment each other. As Juno put it, "He is the cheese to my macaroni." (Just ignore the fact that I hate pasta.)

So, I can imagine life without him. But I am way more excited about the future I see with him than I am about the future I had planned without him. He is now my Plan A. And that may not be very Hollywood happily-ever-after, but it is my ever-after, and I'm very happy with it.

Kids say the darndest things

2010-09-14T11:16:00.007-04:00

My boss, who is awesome, has these three young girls. Their ages, I believe, are 6, 7, and 10. And my boss has extended his family's hospitality to me on more than a few occasions. I always accept, as his wife is a wonderful woman and an excellent cook, and my boss lends me professional wisdom and life lessons that I try to absorb both out of respect to him, but also out of an instinctive knowledge that what he's telling me is probably valuable information. On top of the good conversation, home cooked meals, and a little taste of family, his girls add an extra flavor of fun because they are three very energetic, smart, tom-boyish, extremely playful, little curious balls of sweetness.

I like his girls for several reasons, most of which is probably because they remind me of myself as a little girl. His oldest has a pet snake, loves nature, and finds science fascinating. His middle girl is very affectionate, quiet at times, and likes to observe her surroundings. And the youngest, whew, she is rambunctious, leap-before-you-look, fearless and charismatic. And together, these three girls are an energy vacuum that suck the life out of me, but the whole time I'm smiling and enjoying their company.

So every now and then, my boss and his wife will ask me to babysit. I gladly take up the challenge, as his wife has cooked some delicious meals for me in the past, and I don't want to do anything to jeopardize her future generosity with food. Her home made bread?! HEAVEN.

Last night I ended up watching the girls for a couple of hours. After they finished their homework and we had some dinner, they decided to go for a swim as I watched over them pool side. It started out as casual conversation with them (which consisted of "Ms. Heather! Watch me do this!" or "Ms. Heather! See how long I can hold my breath under water!" or "Ms. Heather... you could borrow mommy's bathing suit and come swimming with us."), but quickly the conversation turned sour... in a laughable now, I might cry about this later, kind of way.

This is how it went down:
Girls: Ms. Heather, how old are you?
Me: I'm 26.
Girls: WOAH... We thought you were a teenager or something..... You're old... really old.
Me: Actually, I'm not old. But I am not a teenager anymore. I haven't been for a long time now.
Girls: Are you married?
Me: Nope. See? I don't have a ring on this finger. *pointing to my left hand and immediately thinking of Beyonce's dance moves*
Girls: Why aren't you married?
Me: I don't know. It just has happened for me yet. I never met anyone I wanted to marry, and getting married is a very big, big decision.
Girls: Is there something wrong with you?
Me: *laughing* no... I don't think so, at least.
Girls: You have cats, right?
Me: *not liking where this is going...* Yup! They are my little furball friends.
Girls: How many do you have?
Me: Just two.
Girls: Woah.... we thought you had like ... 6, or 7... or 8!... or 9!! *as the counting becomes a competition between the girls on who can get the highest*
Me: No... no... just two. And two is enough.
Girls: But they are like your babies right? Because you don't have kids.
Me: Yup. No kids... yet.
Girls: Do you think you're not married cause boys don't like cats? (there dad, my boss, hates cats)
Me: *I take a long pause here... debating whether or not to change the subject of soreness or to continue seeing where this goes because it's kind of comical... and this next part is said in a very slow, methodical fashion to give emphasis to my deep thoughts on the matter*I've had many friends that used to joke with me that my cats were why I never got married, but I don't think that's it. I think that girls like us are just too cool for stupid boys, and boys are mostly stupid. We are smart, talented, and very pretty, right? *they nod in mutual pensive agreement*So I like to think that God had a bigger plan involved. Cats are hardly a reason to not marry someone. I always knew it was worth waiting for the right man to come along then to settle for less than what I thought would make me happy and who would fit well with who I am. And I think my wait has paid off.
Girls: Can we got get some ice cream after this? *making me aware that my monologue just feel on deaf ears.*

I mean, did I actually just expel about 10 years worth of dating frustration through an epilogue? You've hit a new low Heather. You tried to justify your life to 3 children.

I didn't let it get to me, but it did make me wonder how there is still a stigma in our society that little girls understand that women find their fullfillment in being married and having kids. And I'm not saying I disagree. I have always wanted to get married and would love to have children (I might have just protested out of bitterness for a while), and the longing has always been there most likely because that is exactly how I will find certain fullfillment.

What concerns me more is that cats + female = spinster

Do they teach this in grade school?

Euphemism

2010-09-07T16:26:00.011-04:00

Euphemism- the substitution of a mild, indirect, or vague expression for one thought to be offensive, harsh, or blunt.

I think I'm becoming a bit of a word connoisseur. However, my spelling is still atrocious. After writing a blog blind for a few minutes and letting my fingers speed through my thoughts, I'm always a little disheartened to look up or refocus sometimes and see numerous squiggly red lines littering my post. I also get my words confused. Maybe it's because I think I'm slightly dyslexic, but I'll blur the distinction between allegory and algorithm or not condoning and being conducive. I will speak it out load and think to myself, "Wait... is that right?" and make a little squished face of confusion. Next to Shazam and Facebook, my Dictionary.com iPhone app is the most frequented. And as I'm becoming a bit of a word nerd, I find myself deliberately using specific words, not allowing room for vagueness, in hopes that I will be able to make myself heard in a more concise manner. But I forget that most people don't care about doing that too. They would rather say "I'm sad", where I would rather pronounce, "Today, my emotions are reminding me that I am deeply void of the happiness that a certain someone's presence brings to my life."

Maybe I was born in the wrong century. I feel that old English and I would get along nicely. And pretending as much is normally about the time my friends stop hanging around me.

They doth protest to much.

Despite all that, I absolutely love the definition of euphemism. It's the epitome of being politically correct. When specifically addressing all thing political, euphemisms are normally spot-on in correctness, but creative politicians are so well versed that I think they can often come up with well worded insults that the less educated portion of the populations (I just used a euphemism there, so putting it bluntly... the stupid folk) may feel fly over their heads and beyond their understanding. They just smile their toothless grins and mutter "he talk pretty! Let's vote for him!". And although I hate the "beat around the bush" style discussion in politics (just give it to me neat! Don't sugar coat things!!!), but when it comes to my own life, I find that euphemisms are a great way to boost the confidence, thwart the offensive, and provide clever wit to all those who can keep up. Case in point, I will air out some of my own insecurities by providing the abrupt truth and then proceed to express the same sentiments in a clever wording through positive connotation.

Am I fat?

This is probably the number one insecurity of 99.9% of the female, American population. The other 0.1% I suspect suffer from an unknown y-chromosome mutation or they have obviously never had good food... or chocolate. Anyway, I understand the awkwardness of this assumption women make about themselves. And people sugar coat it all sorts of ways (specifically men, who have probably learned best how to avoid this assessment and they have hopefully, for the survival of our species, learned to 'duck and weave' out and away from a girl's fatally trapped question "Do I look fat?" by laying out some hardcore mojo and lathering the situation with some loving euphemisms to the nth degree). But here are some of my more favorite euphemisms for being fat:

Pleasantly plump.
Big Boned.
With a P H!! (my personal favorite joke, to insinuate ghetto-fabulousness: being Phat)
Relatively rotund.
More cush`n for the push`n.
Someone who shades in the summer, warms in the winter.

You're stupid.

Most of the time, if I think someone is stupid, I just tell them as much. But this limits that whole "let your words be full of grace" Christian thing with which I wish to be better. And so that kind of bluntness is not very full of grace, and it's also not edifying. It's pretty much a comment that either stops the conversation short or instigates a fight -- normally both. So I think it's actually best to never voice the opinion that you think someone is stupid (even if you really want to or if they are providing a substantial amount of evidence in favor of your possibly biased stance on the subject of their intelligence). But sometimes, maybe indirectly, I will share my thoughts that someone is "misinformed", "uneducated", or "lacking in those social and verbal skills required to make one's self pleasant to others and worthy of respect." Most of the time, I'd like to think I have enough self control to listen to these individuals and hope they do some self evaluation later on when my lack in contribution to the discussion leaves them wondering why I had nothing to share. Where my sentiments on stupid people were a little more diluted in insult, these following euphemisms (or jokes) are kind of funny:

A few colors short of a full box of crayons.
Not the sharpest tool in the shed.
The elevator is moving, but it doesn't go to the top floor.
The wheel is turning, but the hampster is dead.
The lights are on, but no one is home.

In the same way, when what I am really thinking is...
I have no idea what you are talking about/ your discussion topic is making me feel uncomfortable/ or I would like to move on to other conversational partners

I simply say... "That's interesting."

Cat Lady

As recently discovered this weekend, I think the more politically correct term for "cat lady" would be:

A female feline aficionado.

Stay-at-home mom

Domestic care taker specializing in the social upbringing, education, and refinement of personal progeny and their future successful contribution to society while also maintaining the necessary skills required of culinary expertise, sanitation detail, and sometimes financial management.

If and when I become a stay-at-home mom, I will have that whole thing rehearsed for when people question what I do.

Unemployed (fired or laid off)

I'm taking a personal leave of absence in which the duration of my non-paid vacation is unforeseen until future prospects present themselves.

I used this a few times last year when I lost my job.

Single

I'm committed to finding new relationships.

That last one though, is no longer applicable. Which is most excellent.

Scooters from Hell

2010-08-30T16:19:00.018-04:00

A week ago I went on my very first cruise. Joining this adventure with me were my 3 friends: Laura, Johnny, and Aaron. Because I had never been on a cruise before besides the exception of a day long, booze cruise with only gambling activities available and 90% of the guests aboard were 65 years of age or older, and being as how I was on this cruise with 30 other Christians from our Ft. Lauderdale missions project, our sources of entertainment were seriously limited. We couldn't drink. We couldn't gamble. We couldn't mac our skills on other young hotties by using evangelism as an excuse to 'outreach'. Honestly... it was lame.

So my expectations weren't high given my previous experience with vacation boats. I just knew that Laura and Aaron said they were great and that there was supposed to be a lot of food available. Besides the excitement of taking off from work, I was most thrilled about adding Nassau, Bahamas to my "visited list".

But despite my low expectations/no expectations, I couldn't help but conjure up some exciting things I might be doing.

Would I be lounging in a hammock?! Posing next to large sharks? !Claiming my own small island in the name of all that is awesome?! Or spending most of my time walking around the ship quoting song lyrics or movie quotes from popular sources involving boats?!

I wasn't really sure what was going to happen, but I never anticipated that I would be spending my time in the Bahamas praying that God would spare me my death, and that I would forever be traumatized by a small motorized vehicle: the scooter.

So the first day of our cruise came, and upon arriving in Nassau, no sooner did we get off the boat and through the visiting center then did we arrive at a scooter rental place. Of course we were coerced with the promise of "a very special deal for you" from a young black man sitting behind the counter. What he really meant was "You are stupid Americans, you don't know any better, I am about to rip you off, so come buy my scooters! You won't even consider bargaining a real deal with me because capitalist America has brain washed you to think that the only price available is the price announced. So come here, come here for your special deal that might end up robbing you of your life."

Of course... we went for it.

Aaron and Johnny loved the idea. I don't know if Laura and I fully knew what was going on. We both admitted later that we had no agenda so that whatever anyone else wanted to do was what we would do. And because Aaron had wanted for a long time to take a scooter tour of Clearwater, FL, we figured the Bahamas would be even better. So Johnny, Aaron, Laura, and I were going to go on a 2 scooter tour. I would sit with Aaron, and Laura would sit with Johnny-- the only one of us who actually knew how to drive a scooter.

Upon getting out of the rest of the shopping area to where we were supposed to pick up our scooters, we found that all the scooters had been rented out. This was immediately daunting to us because we thought that we had just been scammed out of $150. Tension started to rise as a little bit of panic set in on what we were going to do. At this point, I'm still kind of oblivious. I was just enjoying looking around at how touristy everything was.

Laura and I weren't paying full attention as Johnny and Aaron were being men and making all the necessary decisions while talking to the guy who sold us our scooters, etc. (that isn't meant as an insult... I gladly encourage guys to take control and be leaders).

As I'm handing something to Laura, we turn to see Aaron getting in the back of a random car and Johnny telling us they are driving with Eddy (the scooter salesman and a perfect stranger) to go get our scooters.

Uhmmm... WHAT?!

Johnny just kind of shrugs and says that Eddy told him and Aaron that he could get us our scooters from another location but he would have to drive them. "We'll be back in a few... unless you want to come with. This is Eddy's car."

I'm kind of in shock at this moment. Here we are, no less than 10 minutes into our first day of vacation in Nassau, and my two male friends are already engaging in activities TOTALLY against Tourist Safety Tips 101. You never, never, never, ever, never, ever, never, never get in the back of a strange vehicle for any reason whatsoever. You don't even do this in your home town!!

So maybe this is just a female thing. Do the Tourist Safety Tips 101 only apply to those individuals with 2 X-chromosomes and a strong sense in self preservation?

I'm not sure. But Laura and I were in a bind. Neither of us wanted to separate from our guy friends because there is a very rewarding strong sense of security that comes from having guys with you on vacations, but we also did NOT want to get in the strange man, Eddy's car.

But we made a gut decision and assumed it was best to not be separated. If we were going to be kidnapped, raped, and sold for drugs in the Bahamas, by-golly we were going to do it together! But to Johnny's credit, he later told us he was already preparing an escape route if things got nasty. He was going to self-sacrifice himself so that Laura and I could run to safety. Thanks Johnny!!!

But all of those negative things that I thought were going to happen were going through my mind a mile a minute. I could see my starving cats, withering away in my apartment after I didn't come home for a week (honestly... Perro would survive... he's carrying a month's worth of kitty chow in his gut alone). I envisioned my parents seeing my name in the newspaper. Or worse, I pictured myself as a crack-addicted prostitute having been sold into an underground trafficking ring through a Bahama gang.

But surprisingly, and thankfully, none of that happened. After getting in the car, Eddy drove us to a local hotel were we were relieved to see there were no white vans with cuffed and blindfolded Americans in the back (who also got duped into buying the "special deal for you" scooters). What we found instead was a small parking lot full of decrepit, broken, and jerry-rigged bikes.

To spare you, the reader, from what most of the rest of the day entailed us discovering about our transport devices... let me just be blunt from the beginning: these scooters were the epitome of the term "P.O.S.".

I'm pretty sure that in the States, these scooter sellers would be arrested for child endangerment, attempted murder, and breaking a plethora of all sorts of safety standards that I now realize I always took for granted.

Before we knew any of the above, Aaron and I decided on a test run.

Also keep in mind that they drive on the opposite side of the road in the Bahamas. So to take a right, you must stay in the left lane and make a wide turn out to the right. You wouldn't think a switch-a-roo like that would be so complicated, but it's actually terribly confusing.

From the very beginning of our test run, Aaron driving, we already were on the wrong side of the road, and I was calmly reminding Aaron that I didn't want to die.

Aaron nods in patient understanding that I value my life, and we go to make a simple wide radius turn to the right. Luckily there was no oncoming traffic (thank you Jesus). But as we are turning, we hear a horrible grinding sound. This scares us both and we realize we can't turn, something is preventing us from turning! (it was the kick stand we later found out would not stay up). So Aaron goes to brake, squeezing the left handle grip only to find the front brake doesn't work. In a panic, Aaron goes to squeeze the back brake grip, but as scooter engineers and mechanical designers are apparently idiots, the throttle is also conveniently located on the same handle as the rear break. So as Aaron begins to squeeze the rear break, he unintentionally also rotated the throttle. And as our new burst of speed startles him (and me), he squeezes harder... only projecting us in an even faster, quickly jolted burst across the road, over the sidewalk, and nearly into a pole.

Some people who have had near death experiences say that their life flashes before their eyes. But as I've now gone through TWO near death experiences (I was buried alive when I was 7, and now this scooter incident is number two), I must say I disagree with them. I have had no visions of my life as it was or it had been, and there was no thought of what I feared I would be missing if I were to die. All that was going through my mind was fear. Utter, pee-myself, my stomach is sick, how can I use Aaron to break my fall, the curb is going to ruin my face, Oh-my-god I'm going to die a virgin fear.

Obviously... as you are reading this blog... we did not die, my face is intact, and I surprisingly didn't pee on me or Aaron.

But the sickness of that experience carried throughout my being for the rest of the day.

I did get over my fear for the most part. I had a serious internal battle going on inside to whether or not it wasn't worth $20 to just get a taxi back to the boat. But I try to take pride in my adventurous side, and I kept wanting to focus on the positive: God loves me, if I do die... I'm going to heaven, I am meant to have babies at some point, and this might end up being fun.

Plus, I'm a firm believer in letting men step up and be leaders. So I didn't want to hurt Aaron's pride, and I trusted that he would be a good driver, especially because I planned to give him constant reminders to brake anytime I thought he might have forgotten.

We ended up spending the next 2-3 hours driving around Nassau, seeing the pretty beaches, trying to find a nude beach (no such luck as the key on one of our scooters caused a 10 minute delay and the combined efforts of one Finance Major and 2 Engineers to fix it), dodging the crazy Bahama drivers, and we even stopped at a public -- non-nude-- beach and enjoyed the water for a bit.

Other than learning our scooters had been cursed by Satan and Laura getting second degree burns on her leg from the exhaust pipe, it was a pretty good day.

Aaron probably went to sleep that night with my voice still ringing "Brake-brake-brake-BRAKE-BRAKE-BRAKE-BRAKE!!" in his ear anytime there was a car in front of us or we came to an intersection. This was only reiterated on my part by a death grip on his shoulder and my other hand slapping his back.

I'm sorry Aaron.

But in the end, I survived. I gave my great gratitude to my Heavenly Father for not taking me home that day.

I really don't want to die a virgin.

Sometimes you feel like a health-nut, sometimes you don't

2010-08-27T16:57:00.006-04:00

I consider myself to be a pretty healthy person. I mean, for the exception of the occasional chocolate overload and my obsession with Chic-Fil-A spicy chicken sandwiches (which I liken to a blend of cocaine and unprotected sex -- neither of which I have any experience with, but I imagine are equally as intoxicating and addictive), I've done really well these past few months at eating healthy, taking my vitamins, and hitting up the gym at least 3 times a week. I'm also not depressed anymore, my sense of humor is always top notch *brushes shoulder off*, and I live with two males who adore my very existence. Just ignore the fact that their prostration in worship depends greatly on the occasional can of tuna and head scratch.

So this healthy, happy living life style is becoming a nice habit. My marathon training also helps my motivation. During my cruise to the Bahamas this past weekend, I practiced enough self discipline to run 6.5 miles on the first morning of my vacation. This wasn't so much a physical test (though I did need Lady Gaga to save me from collapsing my last remaining half mile), but it was more a test of mental determination. Could I be one of those people who do the stinky, sweaty, health thing even on the days that I should be shirking all those things I don't want to do? Am I really that person who wants to collect medals and pins from various races I've done around the US? Can I really forgo chocolate cake in hopes of shedding a few more inches so that my butt looks better in my skin tight Under Armor running shorts? Well... apparently I can be, but I still feel that if I look in a mirror and compare myself to the pilates hotties all over America, I just look out of place.

Then, where is my place?

I have some friends who are very in sync with their bodies and all the health guru organic what-not. And I'm not dissing it, I just don't fully grasp it... yet. I've seen photos posted of what they eat, and they'll share interesting tidbits or sources about recipes boasting low fat, low cal, low everything (sometimes including low visual appeal), and these meals might sound healthily tempting, but I have a texture sensitive palate and a spinach smoothie with tofu chunks scares me away from trusting any linked suggestions.

I think my forte is probably more on the side of "keep yourself distracted, have fun!!!" health plan. I like having goals, making lists, and keeping boundaries. I've made enough of a stink about my marathon training that I now feel I'm too far into back out. Despite my legs starting to hurt, my fear of what the next few months will bring (10-20 miles runs and hellish early mornings), and my sacrifice of half of my Saturdays, my pride is too strong to lend myself to failure already. What would my grandma think?!?! She'd be so ashamed. Even if she didn't remember what she was ashamed about.

But distracting myself seems to be the best method for success. I think when it comes to fitness, I might thrive on ADD. Catch me on a treadmill when there's nothing on the TV but crap news discussing our obviously failing economy and the Jersey Shore idiots, then I start to convince myself I'm way more tired than I actually am: "Snookie has a new boyfriend? Oh gosh... this mile is killing me. I want to go home and eat a pint of mint-chocolate chip ice cream that's been deep fried in bacon grease." (which sounds gross, and I'm sure it is).

However, if I'm snorkeling, playing sports, kayaking, or running around with a friend and enjoying the scenery and good company, I might as well be wonder woman because I rarely give attention to my body's complaints on over activity. I do sometimes give way to it's frustrations, and when that happens, one of two things occurs: I break down into a comma induced nap during mid activity, or I party pooper my way home for a nice shower and a nap. As you see... the nap is not optional.

I think that one of my faults is that this ADD is also highly susceptible to newfangled, quick-fix health gimmicks. I've bought a lot, a lot, a lot of health stuff that met an ultimate demise of existence in a dust covered cardboard box. If it was advertised with any of the following slogans: "8 minute body parts", "boot camp", or "Wii fit", I've probably oogled it and bought it. The only exception being the Shake Weight... for obvious reasons presented by this SNL skit. Despite my most recent purchase of the P90X DVDs, I also have sarchopagused strength bands, abandoned ab DVDs, and forgotten Carmen Electra strip tease fitness moves (shout out to Katie and Rachel for some fun memories with that last one!! haha).

However, I need to break this cycle. I'm 26. And one day, hopefully.. some day, I will be naked in front of a husband ( let that be reiterated as MY husband, not one belonging to someone else). It would be nice to be confident in what I was showing off, ya know?

So, as I'm trying to nurture my healthy side, I think I might start to share some of my success stories, and as always, some of my failure stories too. No nasty smoothie recipes will be included.

10 reasons why I'm a hypocrite

2010-08-09T11:32:00.012-04:00

I like to think that being honest about my hypocrisy will somehow make the two cancel out. After this, I will be left in a "null and void" position where maybe people cannot condemn me for questionable behavior. It's almost like I'm beating them to the punch. That and I just hate when people bare false witness: lying, false niceties, and really bad fake tans (you're not fooling anyone Jersey Shore!!!). However, I doubt that being honest about my dishonesty will actually work in negating one over the other. It's not like running 3 miles to make up for the chocolate cake you ate at 3am (not that I'm speaking from personal experience or anything...). But there is a certain sense of rawness in that kind of risky honesty that I truly admire, and I also hope to practice more fluently through my own life.

So.... I thought about it. And I gritted my teeth over the idea of sharing some, but here is what I think are some of my more prominent hypocritical behaviors:

I'm an Environmental Engineer and I don't recycle. Yeah, that's right, my carbon foot print likens to that of a Sasquatch. But in my defense (look at me already justifying), my area does not recycle, and I don't eat enough to where saving up smelly recyclables for 3 months and hauling them to the nearest dump is worth the gas (or the odor) I feel would be penalized to me for doing a "green deed".
I have gossiped about others. And yet I hate it when I feel someone has talked about me. So when the temptation rises and I have the opportunity to reveal a juicy detail about something that is really not edifying or 100% accurate to my knowledge, I have to check myself before I wreck myself and ask, "Would they want me to share this?" But I'm such a sucker for attention that it takes extreme self control to shut my mouth and remain silent. Despite my slip ups, I'm actually a great secret keeper (and now, rather than justifying, I'm back tracking.)
I stalk other people on facebook, but I limit the information I share with most people. I'm an internet predator, just not the perverted kind.
I am very confused on why homosexuality is a sin. But as I am a Christian, I trust God and His word and those individuals who long ago wrote and compiled the Bible. Despite my not understanding why God ordained homosexuality as a sin (other than it being against the design of the human body's sexual organs and sex being largely purposed for reproduction-- gay people can't procreate--, and many other reasons I'm sure), I guess I find myself empathizing with the struggle same-sex attraction people must feel. I cannot wrap my mind around having that kind of desire - the same desire I will have for a man-, and knowing that God condemns it. I mean, I have a hard enough time fearing I'll be single for the rest of my life due to weak single male to single women ratios, owning 2 cats, and an extremely awesome (but intimidating) personality, but what if I were going to be single for the rest of my life because my sexual inclination was an abomination? And especially under the circumstances where a person cannot help what gender they were born. So, it's all very confusing and gray to me. However, like I said, I believe in a loving, just, protective, wise, and kind God, and therefore I trust His rebukes even when I don't understand them. And this conflict between personal opinion and conviction with my personal faith sometimes makes me feel hypocritical.
I'm not as smart as people think I am. I get all cocky about my intelligence sometimes. It's really easy. Especially when I can slip in a multi-syllabic word into a casual conversation or I drop the "Engineering degree" bomb on someone who questions my thinking capabilities. However, in all actuality, I don't consider myself super genius. Maybe underdog genius, but not super. I can't even complete a Monday's New York Time Crossword puzzle by myself!! (This little repeated blow to my confidence once a week has become something of a sad tradition between me and my iPhone app). I never remember names, places, or dates for cool trivia facts. And I don't have many leather bound books. I think I'm pretty normal. I think I'm just really talented at sounding smart.
I know I'm telling you the same story for the 5th time, but I don't care because I like the story, and I hate the silence. It's true. Even if I know you've heard the story, I'll probably repeat it just because I'd rather be talking about something than nothing. My absent minded grandmother (who will now ask me the same question 3 times in one day because of her advancing Alzheimer) and I get along very well because of this fact. I love that I can tell her the same story over and over again and each time it's new to her and she still finds it hilarious. She's the best audience ever!! Especially because if I make a joke and she doesn't laugh, I know that in a few hours I can avoid it and shoot for new material. It's actually kind of fun to see if she still does not finds the same joke funny a second time around. And normally her comedic taste are pretty consistent. She's like my little social experiment, but I love her and it's worth making lite of her condition to bring her constant happiness.
Moving to Australia/New Zealand scares the poo out of me. For the last few years it was either my objective to move to Africa and be a missionary or to move to Australia or New Zealand and be a social butterfly, sponging up as much culture and scenery as I could. But the more I learn about myself, the more I realize I value familiarity and family more than I value quenching my own thirst for adventure (and who's to say that staying in the US with a family wouldn't be a bigger adventure?). Therefore, my dreams of transferring to Auckland in 2 years have become more distant, and I'm left with a frumpy feeling of "what now?".
If I'm jealous of you, I'm probably going to look for a fault you have to make myself feel better. There's no other way to explain this one except that I can be really shallow. I compare myself to others just like 100% of the rest of the population, but it still doesn't warrant my practicing such a belittling behavior. I can recall seeing completely drop-dead-gorgeous girls and immediately feeling inadequate in comparison. So I start to tear them apart thinking "I bet she has no sense of humor." or "She probably has 3 nipples... and I bet they are all innies." And frankly, those callous mental blips are nothing but attacks my sinful brain spews out to compensate for my own insecurities.
Your baby is kind of ugly. It's horrible, I know. But I do not think every baby is attractive. Maybe this kind of awe-inspired blindness will permeate from me naturally when I have children of my own, but right now, I think some babies are just odd looking. All of the ones I have known have grown into some very attractive young kids: cute, symmetrical, and Baby-Gap commercial worthy, but not all of them were Gerber-Baby worthy. Are babies beautiful in and of themselves because they are new, precious, innocent, and exciting? Yes! But sometimes they are still sweet little morsels of too much skin, awkward bone structure, and no facial control. They are just kind of awkward. But this shouldn't come as an insult. I have a strong affinity to small, ugly, living things as proved by the time I was obsessed with adopting a pathetic looking Manx kitten that looked like it was more a disease-ridden rabbit then it did a feline.
I've had pasta, and I semi-liked it. Oh, the shit will hit the fan if some people knew this. But my dad actually has a video of when I was maybe 5 years old slurping up pasta and watching the sauced noodle slap my nose before disappearing in my smiling, satisfied maw. But, don't be fooled...I still hate pasta. And the smell of it can still nauseates me.

So, as true to my blog's intention, there's a daily dose of honesty for you.

Please don't judge me.

These are a few of my favorite things...

2010-08-07T23:16:00.004-04:00

This blog is inspired by something my dad wrote and also by my roomies, who sent me a book, Style Statement, which I have thoroughly enjoyed going through as I learn more about how I am, what I like, who I want to be, and what that might mean.

~~~~

I like to write. And not only do I like to write because I feel I get a respite from life, and it provides me the opportunity to sit, be still, and formulate my thoughts into a structured medium where I can better revise and formulate my ideas into something I'm proud of or that people can actually understand (for the exception of poor grammar and the inevitable spelling blunder), but I also like to write because I can make lists.

I'm no fan of to-do lists unless they a preceded with "life", but I do like to list things that make me happy. And I think this is healthy. It allows people to see that I appreciate them, and it also reminds me of those things for which I should be thankful.

In no particular order, here are a few of my favorite things:

Random dance parties with Katie and Rachel: just the three of us at The Cottage and Britney Spears.
When Perro jumps to the top tier of his kitty tower. It amazes me how he can defy gravity in such a way. He's so fat.
3 dozen blue crabs, a lemonade, and my mother sitting next to me smiling.
Children's unabashed curiosity and their innocence.
Quoting The Grinch with either my aunt Alyce or my cousin Laura.
Telling stories/jokes and knowing that I've brought laughter to my friends and family.
A happy baby (I'm not a big fan of unhappy babies, I'll have to get over this when I have kids).
The feeling AFTER a run. The during part is debatable.
Chic-Fil-A Spicy Chicken Sandwhich.
When I hear a good song for the first time.
Good friendships that are not dependent on close proximity: Megan-Megan, Katie, Rachel, Kaysey, Lisa, Deborah, and many others.
Being able to call my dad and just catch up for a few minutes.
Family sharing time during family reunions.
My grandmother's Chess pie.
My grandfather's smile.
Corny jokes.
Star gazing on the beach.
Skinny dipping (the G-rated version where no one actually sees you naked, haha).
Prime rib.
The fact that a good number of these favorite things listed have been food. I must have a healthy appetite.
Isaac Hunter's sermons at Summit Church in Orlando.
A really good book.
The "ding-ding" my phone makes when I get a text, and I know it's from the someone special whom I very much like-like.
Double rainbows.
Board games with friends.
NAPS!!!
Gardening and hopefully enjoying the fruits of my labor.
Cooking something new for the first time and finding I am an excellent cook. Why not just toot my horn?
Random outbursts of songs from Aaron.
The idea of newness, change, and progressing in life.

And that's all for now (but not limited to just those). I will address this more again later. It's fun to update myself on how blessed I am!

The 4 Stages of Like/Love

2010-08-03T10:04:00.011-04:00

In the summer of 2005, I lived in a run-down, ghetto hotel in Ft. Lauderdale, FL with 30 other college students and a few staff members of Campus Crusade for Christ. It was the Ft. Lauderdale Summer Project -- intended to help students grow and share in their faith. And that summer I learned many things, but probably one of the more important was the lesson on "The 4 stages of Like/Love"

My friend Megan Megan and I had a staff member, Michelle, that had decided it was about time that we learned this valuable life lesson. And so, as I've applied it to my own life numerous times, I will now indulge you, the reader.

There are 4 stages of Like/Love according to Michelle. Like/Love is the processes a person goes through as they meet someone and get to know them and maybe even eventually fall in love. You "like" someone, but you might end up "loving" someone.

Here are the stages as they apply to WOMEN:

Stage 1.
You notice him. You think he's handsome. He makes you smile. But you just like him. Nothing more. He's a friend.

Stage 2.
You've more than noticed him now. You find him attractive, which is different than just thinking he's handsome, because now you are drawn to him. He makes you laugh, and you want to know more. You trust him like you would a brother, and yet you don't want to think of him as your brother. You even toy with the idea of dating him. Here, you find you like-like him. Or what is equivalent to "likeing" someone while throwing up the hand gesture for quotation marks.

Stage 3.
You like-like him. Stated with a very serious tone and accentuated head bobs. This is serious now. He's no longer just a friend, and you are more than drawn to him. Now, you actually look for him in crowds or make excuses to run across his path. You might have even doodled your name replacing your last name with his. "Does it sound good?... hmmm... Mrs. Such-and-such.... I like it." You've probably run it through your mind that if you had children, they would have his mouth, your eyes, his patience, and your charisma.

You. Are. Hoooked. And this is dangerous territory now. This is when things get risky. Not only does he give you butterflies, but he is giving you a little bit of purpose. You start to shape your day around him. And if he's not matching up on stages here, you are gambling at a heart break. I think of this phase as the "make it or break it" phase. Either you make it out alive (and in his arms) or you break it and end up in your friends arms crying.

Stage 4.
Woah Nelly. You love him. There's no more like, like-like, or like-like, you flat out love the man. You no longer just fantasize about spending your future with him, but you actually pine to spend your future with him. You can feel your body thirsts for his presence, his attention, and his affection. You've fabricated a life with him so often that a plan B in his absence seems dark, lonely, and impossible. You are deeply tied to this man. When he moves, you move. Where he goes, you'll go. You are head over heels.

Here are the stages as they apply to MEN:

Stage 1, 2, and 3.
She's cool. She's kind of funny. I think she's pretty. I could date her. I like spending time with her. It's fun to kiss her. I think she's hott. Why is she staring at me like that? She's smells really good. Why is she so weird about stuff sometimes? I'm not thinking about anything in particular. I still think she's hott.

Stage 4.
I don't know what just happened to me. All of a sudden, something in my mind switched on, and I love this girl. I want to spend the rest of my life with her. I want to protect her, care for her, make sure she never cries. Woah. I love her. I want to marry her.

And as you can tell, women and men do not operate the same way (big surprise). But as it was explained to me, women are intimately in tune with every stage progression they make with a guy. We are aware of every emotion, every tingle, every touch, every thought, and it doesn't help that most of those experiences we conjure up in our heads during our free time are completely isolated from any help by the young man. We can plan our entire future with him, allowing our emotions to warp speed into a level of maturity that is most likely beyond where the relationship actually stands. It's like a extremely aggressive way to ferment wine.

Men allow their "love wine" (as I have just dubbed it) to mature in a natural, slow way. However women tend to try and spike a bottle of grape juice to make it something it's not. Not yet, anyway.

And so women tend to run with their thoughts and they ruminate on every detail of their interaction with the man of their affection. We over analyze EVERYTHING. I, for one, try really hard not to do this. And luckily, as I've always been more logical than emotional, I'm doing pretty well with it. But it's still not easy to tag along with the day dreams when they beckon me with promises of blue eyed children, lazy days on a porch while holding hands, and the companionship I think every woman wants.

But anywho, those are the 4 stages of Like/Love according to Michelle.

I hope you enjoyed :)

Biker Chick

2010-08-02T15:40:00.018-04:00

So a few years ago when I was still a student at the most awesome school in the world, the University of Central Florida, I had been trying to exercise more often and maybe even cut back on my carbon emissions. I had just bought a brand new hybrid bike that I though might be the perfect way for me to accomplish both goals, and so, I made a fateful decision to ride my bike to school one day.

It was a pretty good idea actually. I'm a big fan of making your carbon footprint smaller (despite carbon not being a "green house gas" or really contributing to the debatable global warming concerns, it's still good to stop as much pollution as you can).

In my excitement over my new idea, I didn't take much notice to some very important facts about that day and the event I had set my mind to accomplish. For one, it was the middle of July. Secondly, my class was at 2 p.m. Thirdly, it was around 100 degrees outside. And lastly, I lived nearly 10 miles from school.

So I overlooked a few "minor" details and got suited up and ready to go on my eco-friendly, lose the pounds, adventure to my Environmental Politics class.

It started out so pleasantly. "This is extremely nice!", I said to myself, "What a splendid idea. I'm a genius."

And so I casually rode down the road, enjoying being outside, and not taking any great concern by the fact that I was already sweating after a few minutes into my bike ride.

But quickly enough, I became aware of how hot it was. I persisted though, telling myself "It's not that far..." and giving myself little pep talks of self-encouragement and motivational mantras like "You can do it!" or "I think I can, I think I can, I think I can." I could feel the sweat dripping down my neck, and my hair getting matted to my skull with the added perspiration. My backpack was keeping my back equally as hot because there wasn't any breathable room. But I kept a-going. I would tough it out!

But eventually, the heat just got to be too much. I was maybe 5 miles into my ride when I realized it was REALLY freaking hott. My hands were sweaty, my forehead was sweaty, my butt was sweaty, my legs were sweaty, and the sun was over head just berating me with it's burning rays of death.

I was getting a little light headed. And the positive mantras I had been chanting to myself seemed useless in light of my lack of water. I thought to myself that "I think I can" will not suffice in the Mahabi desert and there probably isn't any inspirational quote posters in Hell. Sometimes reality has to set in. Sometimes, you don't need encouragement... you need a gatorade. And sometimes you need it ASAP or you are going to die. Which is exactly how I felt.

At this point, I went into survival mode. I started looking for the closest store available and I prepared myself for the social embarrassment that might come if I decided to do what I really wanted to do: leap into the ice storage unit. This probably would not have helped my already demented looking state. I was drenched in sweat, my hair had escaped from the holes in my bike helmet and they were flying loosely around my head out into the wind, and between my gaunt dehydrated state and my crazy hair, I imagine I looked like a more healthy version of HBO's Crypt Keeper.

I had later found out that two of my best friends and roommates at the time had been driving down the same road I had been biking. Not only were they driving down the same road, but they had also seen me. However, they didn't know it was me at first. As they approached, one said to the other "Eeewww!! Look at that weird person riding their bike. They look gross!" and then I imagine they both made "Ewwww!!" sounds in unison.

But as they got even closer, I think my posture, or my bike, or my familiar back pack must have struck a chord of familiarity with them because upon getting next to me, Rachel turned and looked and then probably screamed something like "Oh my gosh!! That's our roomie!!! What is Heather doing?!?!"

What Heather was doing was dieing. Dieing a slow and painful death due to ignorance and lack of dihydrogen oxide.

But because my roomies didn't know that I was delusional and seeing visions of myself collapsing on the side walk, my body scavenged by red ants, and my parents crying at my funeral, "Why didn't she just pollute?! Why didn't she just pollute and drive her car like a sane person.", my roomies just drove right on by. Shocked. Embarrassed. And then maybe more shocked and embarrassed.

In the end, I didn't die. I did actually make it to the UCF campus, but not to my class. I was still sober enough to know that I was beyond class going at this point. I was soaked in sweat, my hair was stuck and knotted in a weird way around my head, my face was bright red, and I was exhausted. As soon as I got into an air-conditioned building, I bought a gatorade, promptly inhaled all it's contents, and passed out in a corner of the hall way under a fake, decorative tree.

I could hear a class get out and the students file out of the room. I think I might have even heard some voices whispering "yo, check out that weird chick. Is she... is she dead?"

But no one checked for my pulse, and I was too exhausted to care. I just sat their in my corner of shame and waited for my blood sugar to return to normal enough levels where I could muster up a call to my friend Aaron for a ride home.

Here is a map of the days events. I am a very talented map maker:

Bouquets

2010-07-28T08:17:00.013-04:00

It's been a little over 2 years since I caught my first wedding bouquet. Well, to be honest, since I first fought for a bouquet. The first one I caught was at my brother's wedding, but being as how the only competition was the flower girl (my 3 year old niece), it was a real shoo-in.

But in May of 2008, I went to the first of what would be many, many, many weddings. I had never put a ton of thought into the bouquet toss. I knew it was a cute wedding tradition, and I was never one for competition.

In high school, I played soccer and ran cross country. My soccer team was so horrible that we once went out and celebrated a tie. "Ice cream on me!", said the coach, after our 1-1 draw. It was pathetic. And with cross country, my biggest competitor was myself.

And so outside of playing Settlers of Catan with my old roommates, my love for UCF football and hating all things Gator related, or feeling a righteous indignation come over me when I play a board game against some one who starts to get cocky about winning, you will rarely, if ever, find me being competitive.

I just don't get fired up about a lot of things. So when I was attending the Kennedy wedding in May of 2008, I wasn't looking for a win. I wasn't looking for a triumph or trophy. And I definitely wasn't looking to catch the bouquet as a sign that I was "next in line for the walk down the aisle". I was just thinking it would be fun to catch my friend Deborah's bouquet.

But with the first toss, and a mad dash by all the single ladies, I found myself and another young lady both holding the bouquet. Neither of us willing to let go, but neither of us wanting to take it from the other girl (to my credit, I'd say 75% of the bouquet was in my possession, but I doubted she was as analytical as me). Luckily for us, the DJ was quick on his toes and boomed over the speakers "It's time for a TOSS OFF!!!". We would settle this with a re-throw. Mano-a-mano. Or... womano-a-womano.

So I handed the bouquet back to Deborah, and I and the other girl took a few paces back behind her. I playfully gave my competitor the hand gesture that says "I'm watching you."And about this time something in me snapped. I don't know if it was the numerous yells of encouragement coming from my friends ("You got this Heather!!", "Taker her down!!!", "Come on Heather-Heather!!!") or if it was the look she gave back at me that says "You've got no game.", but I started to feel nervous. My competitor had a good few inches on me, and we were both barefoot. My body was getting flushed with adrenaline, I started to focus and calculate in my brain how far, which side, at what trajectory Deborah was going to throw the bouquet. I got into a sprinters lunge, pushed one of my arms in front of her, and waited. Waited like a crouching tiger or hidden dragon. Or whatever those weird kong fu movies say.

I was going to win this. I was going to win this.

And I did!

As soon as Deborah tossed the bouquet, we were both at it. My competitor had pushed be back, but with what little ummph I could muster, I jumped up (and got all of a pathetic 2 inches of air), swatted the bouquet away from her outstretched arms and dove for the bouquet as it fell to the floor.

Throngs of approval broke out around me and there was an uproar of celebration. I got a picture with the beautiful bride, and the rest of the day I was on a complete high. It was addictive. The rush, the success, the rivalry, earning the ultimate single girls wedding souvenir: pretty bouquet of flowers.

And that was the beginning of what would end up being a winning streak of 9 consecutive bouquet tosses.

Some of those bouquets are debatable, I admit. At wedding #8, the bride just handed me the bouquet. She was/is one of my best friends from high school and she knew of it's importance to me. Plus, it was a small wedding, I was the only single lady (lame), and I was a bride's maid. So I had ultimate dibs.

At wedding #6, I had already caught 5 bouquets, and the other single girls were starting to rally against me. At the toss, I felt 3 pairs of hands grab me and hold me down as I watched in sad horror my coveted bouquet fly over my head and into the abyss behind the mass of girls. I immediately felt a sense of extreme loss rush through me. I was just beginning my pity party when a friend told me that a little boy had caught it. I still had a chance! So I ran over to where he and another little girl were fighting over the bouquet. With my friend's help, we wrenched the bouquet out of their grubby little hands. As I realized the bouquet was now in my possession, I ran through the reception hall screaming in triumph with the torn petals of the roses flying around my head as I held the bouquet high in exploitation of my success.

That is not one of my proudest moments.

I behaved poorly.

It was totally worth it.

I was actually extremely embarrassed about this shortly afterward, but from what my friends, the bride, and the groom told me, it was one of the funniest things they'd ever seen. I was also a bride's maid at this wedding... so again, I called dibs.

And at wedding #3, I accidentally shoved an 8 year old little girl to the ground in my lunge for the bouquet. I didn't mean for things to get violent, and the look on the little girl's face will haunt me forever --shocked, horrified, and looking at me in a chastising manner of "who are you?!", which is never good to be upstaged in maturity by an 8 year old--. But really, I was going for the hat trick. And in going for the glory of a hat trick, there will be some casualties. She should have had stronger instincts in warning her of the impeding danger I am during the height of a toss. She should listen to that little voice that says "stay away!... this one is crazy!", but instead she just got in the way.

Of course, I'm really not that insensitive or naturally that competitive, but I am a little crazy. Life is short, bouquet tosses are fun, and I wouldn't do half of the embarrassing and stupid things I do if they didn't make my friends laugh.

But there is a sad side to this story....

I was shooting for a golden 10. But at the last wedding I attended, a girl who easily had 30 lbs and 3 inches on me caught the bouquet. I lost my edge. And that was the end of my reign.

Though short lived (actually... 2 years of domination is pretty good), I think it was about time I passed the torch. Not only was my shelf of bouquets getting cramped (yes, I still keep all of them, even if bent and deformed or shriveled and colorless), but I don't believe single young men admire my competitive edge on the bouquet toss. Some guys appreciate a little fire in a girl, but I might have been taking it the extreme. "might" as in "most definitely". So it's time for me to toss in the towel and behave like a young lady who's not out for blood over a bunch of flowers.

Granted, I still might slip in an elbow throw every now and then.

That time I got stuck on "Awesome"

2010-07-13T16:10:00.014-04:00

We all do it. We all get stuck. We all have our mannerisms. Sometimes you just can't help yourself. And it's never pre-planned. It's not like I woke up one morning and thought to myself, "Self!! Today we will become obsessed with the word 'awesome'".

But that seems to be exactly what happened. Subconsciously, at least.

It all started quite simply..

I would use the word in place of an expletive or in a sarcastic tone. If something broke or went wrong, rather than yell out profanities, I would go the ironic route and just calmly claim the disaster as "awesome."

And slowly the word started to be applied in more appropriate situations. "Awesome", according to the dictionary, means "inspiring awe" or "very impressive". So I would use it when something made me happy or when someone had earned bragging rights, and I wanted to celebrate in their success.

For example, one of my students for whom I tutored Calculus, finally got an A on her test. This was correctly exclaimed by me to be "awesome".

And so over time I started to use the word more and more. This food is awesome. This song is awesome. That bird looks awesome. Do you want to go see a movie with me? Yes? AWESOME!

But being as how I was a college student with a large majority of friends, and my day was full of intermittent conversations, I don't think my overuse of the word "awesome" ever became apparent because it was diluted so evenly between peers and broken discussions. Plus, most of my friends used the word "like" as if it were a comma or the sound you need to make when taking in air. I once started a count for a guy who used the word so much that I would get confused on what we even started talking about. In like 5 minutes, he had successfully, like, used the word "like", like, 75 times.

I did not like this.

But I can't judge him. I did not become aware of my obsession with the word "awesome" until it had almost ruined my opportunity at a job fresh out of college.

As some of you might know, I'm an Environmental Engineer. Sounds prestigious, right? Well, there's not a huge demand for Environmental Engineers, and I was excited to attend my first job fair my final year at UCF. UCF was hosting the event and I happened across a young man (but a little bit older than me) that was working for a company I had recognized as being smaller, family oriented, and looking to hire.

His name was Tom, and we were carrying on the preliminary conversation to taking my resume and there hopefully being a call for an interview. This was very nerve racking for me. I was trying so hard to be professional. And on top of that, I really wanted Tom to know how awe inspiring I found his company to be. So I told him it was awesome.

And then... the aweshit hit the fan.

What started as one simple word to describe my feelings, quickly became the catalyst to what would become a very embarrassing moment to me later.

I started to lose control... using it more and more. But I didn't notice anything was wrong.

Then I started to use it more and more and more. It was how I responded to everything he said. I would even interrupt him to say something was "awesome". He asked me a question, and I would initially say "What an awesome question...". I would say "awesome" as many times as I nodded my head in agreement with him. I coughed "awesome". My nose wheezed "awesome". I could NOT stop saying "awesome"!!!

Surprisingly, they called me for an interview, I was later hired, and I ended up working there for 3 years.

What I found out later was that I had been a bit of a butt of a joke. Tom, who became a close co-worker, said that in order to remember who I was he had written the word "awesome" on my resume. Also, as soon as I was hired, he came over and asked me if everything was "awesome?". Other people also came up and asked me how I liked working there and if I thought things were "awesome?". They knew me as the "awesome" girl.

Great.

My first real job, and I already have a thing. I didn't want to have a thing, I wanted to be seen as a young professional, but instead... I was "awesome" intern girl.

It wasn't until later that I realized my addiction because of a helpful nudge by my mother. As I was explaining to her how I had an interview with a new company (shortly after the Tom/"awesome" explosion I wasn't aware of), she kindly pointed out that I used the word "awesome" a little too much.

I, of course knowing more than her, told her she was silly. But she started to list to me how many times I had used the word "awesome" in the last few things I had said. And she was right. I was addicted, but with that realization came a purging of the word awesome. I cut it cold turkey!

I now only dabble with it when I talk to teenagers, as I believe the best way for me to communicate with them is to use moronic words over and over again.

I now use the word "really" quite readily.

Silent Treatment

2010-07-09T17:18:00.020-04:00

The other morning, I was dreaming about the usual things I catch myself dreaming about: dominating in a bouquet toss and drawing blood from another single girl, traveling to New Zealand and meeting my perfect man -- a lumberjack who has an accent and will sing to me--, winning the lottery, etc.

I was obviously in dream heaven. Most mornings I don't get to sleep in 100% successfully because my cat (or my cat's cat) will wake me up by 5:30 a.m. crying, pawing at my face, nibbling on a crinkly bag, and thus ripping me from a wonderful sleep and slamming me into the reality that is kitty ownership.

Despite my dreams of wonderment and happiness...

I woke up to a peculiar sound. Most people wake up slowly and awareness creeps into them and they gradually come to, but I am not most people and when I hear a strange sound I normally end up freaking out because I'm scared there is someone coming to get me-- which is why I sleep with pepper spray, my car keys, my phone, and sometimes a knife within arm's reach of my bed.

So as it was... I woke up in a fright.

This wasn't a usual sound either. Something was awry. I could feel panic striking through me, and even despite my sleep deprivation I could feel all my senses kick into over drive as I listened intensely into the silence.

From what I could tell in my sleep-stated-paranoah, was that the sound was not glass breaking, or my front door rattling from a burglar, or gun shots and women and children screaming "aliens"...

... but it was a short, stunted, humming sound.

I woke up and turned. Sure enough, somewhere in my close proximity I could hear a muffled buzzing sound. Is it a bee? Is it a car alarm in the far distant and the mechanics of materials in my room is making it sound like it's right next to my ear?

What the HELL is that sound?!?!?!

But as I should turn and look-- half sleep drugged-- around me, this is what I see: my fat cat, Perro, contently sleeping. And the humming buzz sound is coming from his bowels.

"What the eff?!... What is going on?"

Only a few seconds later does it finally register in my brain that the buzzing sound was my phone, and the muffled sound was because I couldn't hear the ringer through Perro's massive layers of lard (the cat seriously need to go on a diet, do they have kitty pilate classes?).

Despite my phone vibrating like crazy (probably it's only weak attempt at salvation from the under belly of my lardo cat), I could only make out the slightest muffled humming from it's shaking.

I finally reached underneath my cat, into the warm and furry abyss that is his cuddly stomach, pulled out my phone and it immediately started blasting the alarm.

I set my alarms for 5:30 a.m. some morning for when I go walk with a friend. And at 5:58 a.m., I finally saved my phone from Perro's puff.

It took me 28 minutes to hear my phone.

It rang for 28 minutes underneath my fat butt cat.

For 28 minutes, my cat just sat on it, indifferent to it's vibrating or screams.

28 minutes.

I have hit a new low my friends.

Despite being 15 minutes late to meet my friend Marcy for our morning walks, I left my apartment and took one last look at the remains from this mornings late start: Perro, now slunked onto his back, completely passed out from all the morning's excitement.

What a cuddle bear.

Tragically Beautiful

2010-07-01T19:49:00.007-04:00

I'm slightly obsessed with Eminem's new song called "Love the Way You Lie."

I warn anyone who hasn't heard it that it's very explicit, and I believe it details a harmful relationship between an angry man and his battered girlfriend or spouse.

Part of my intrigue into the song is the melody. It puts me in a trance. There are some songs that tend to bring me to that "place". That place we all have of contemplation, separation, exit, or whatever you call it that even if it's only brief, it stills you and gives you respite from life.

And because I do not think depressing things are entirely negative or hurtful in their nature, I find them as something that is sometimes very beautiful. No... I'm not emo. But I feel in a society that stresses perfection, Orange County housewifes, and pez dispensers filled with Xanax, sometimes it's good to be sad.

Some of our best artists were "tortured": cutting of their own ears, addicted to opium, or even committing suicide. I hate to say it, but sadness can bring out the best in some people. It wrenches our self from our self and that outer body experience finally gives our inner self room to breath. Or cry. And sometimes we need that. Granted it's means you are lending yourself to a darker place; it's cold, it's scary, and it's lonely. But isn't the sun all the more brighter the day after it rains?

It's ironic, sobering, juxtaposed, and digs deeper into our fears (even if experienced empathically) that I think allows us to understand more fully our brokenness.

Honestly, I think beauty would not be possible if it weren't for brokenness. The Holocaust is a time in history that has always intrigued me. Yes it was a horrific event in the human existence -- and that's putting it lightly. People were tortured in every way imaginable: spiritually, mentally, physically, emotionally, and sometimes without reprieve. Even time itself seems to be stolen from them. They were striped of their hope, their purpose, their bodies. And because I get so obsessed with what I don't have (a life in New Zealand, husband, Jennifer Aniston's body) I sometimes find myself drawn to the darker things in life because I find them tragically beautiful. My soul says to me "let us remember what we have by recognizing what could be taken away: what was sometimes lost to others"

And I am just daring enough to listen to the lie. I'm bold enough to feel the hurt.

Even humanity's very salvation, the gospel, is beyond explanation in it's beautiful irony. Perhaps this is one of the key reasons I am a Christian. Theology and upbringing aside, the story of Christ's sufferings for the very people he loved, who were the same people that sent him to the cross, is against logic. It's William Wallace fighting for a freedom he could only dream. It's Maximus Aurelius fighting for the death he knew would bring visions of his wife and son.

I find the fact that a God far exceeding our comprehension and our best would bring himself down to our level and subject himself to a horrible end in order to save the very creation he allows to destroy itself.

A father's sacrifice for his son.

The artist who bleeds over his creation.

The constant love for someone who abuses you, who doesn't deserve it, and who doesn't ask for it. To choose them ultimately and fully.

It's so tragically beautiful.

And I love it when I find myself in that place, even if it is brought about by a song from foul mouthed rapper.

If I were a cartoon

2010-06-30T15:45:00.005-04:00

Inspired by a blog I mentioned in my last posting that was introduced to me by my friend Deborah.

I love Hyperbole and a Half. Though, I'll admit... I'm a bit jealous of her success and her awesome sense of humor. But I was a little inspired to do something similar for fun. It's not a copy-right! Just inspired by... plus I'm giving the author credit.

So... like her cartoons, I decided to cartoon myself.

Here is what I came up with:

As you can see, I have a little captain in me. That's because I'm confident. And you note the curls, though they are not long enough to be an accurate representation of it's full length, but then again... my eyes are also not that close together. Luckily.

And true to form, I've included a little drawing of my cat, Perro. I didn't include Teegar because he's second favorite. I like to think of him more as my cat's cat. This way I can say I really only have one cat, thus avoiding the stereotype of crazy cat lady.

But seriously, Teegar's sweet, but sometimes I wrap him up in elastic Ace bandages at 4 in the morning because he won't stop pawing at my face to be fed for the umpteenth time that day.

And yes... Perro is really THAT fat. My drawing of his circular torso is hardly an exaggeration. But he's first favorite, and he likes to cuddle. So he wins a cameo.

Plus it's not like my cats are going to log on my computer and read my blog. But I'll know for sure if when I get home Teegar has pooped on my bed.

I heart blogs

2010-06-28T12:51:00.003-04:00

I enjoy blogging. I've been doing it for the past 2-3 years. In so many ways it's been more of an online diary: venting, story telling, random posts about things I've found interesting.

It started as a way to keep in touch with friends that had moved away. Then it molded itself into more of a personal, but publicly shared, log about my life where I wanted to daringly be honest with who I am. But as I've become more aware of other blogs-- more successful blogs that I admire or envy-- I feel an urge to start something new.

There are several blogs I follow because they belong to friends and they mimic my own original intentions with my blog: just to share about my life and make it available for anyone who is bored enough... meh, interested enough... to read it.

But there are many other blogs I've started to follow that have actually become extremely successful for their authors and have rewarded them richly through mass following, adoration, and even profitable business growth.

Hyperbole and a half is a blog that my friend Deborah recently introduced me to. I LOVE this blog. I find it very funny, and I feel the author and I have a very similar sense of humor.

The Pioneer Woman is a blog I started following because my friend Rachel suggested I would love the romance story behind how the author met her cowboy husband. I also feel a connection to the author. Her quirky sense of humor, creativity, and thirst for life is something I would like to embody my own life. I live vicariously through her, but just a smidgen. As I have my own vicarious living to do!

Regretsy (Where DIY meets WTF) is a blog making fun of a website, Etsy, where people can sell their homemade items. Sometimes the items are crafted with talent, and then sometimes with apparent insanity. The insane items are what make it on Regretsy.

Then there are others like the LOLCatz website which also has the link to the FAIL blog.

I've toyed with some ideas in the past that I thought could be my own outlet into successfully blogging. "Yes, and..."ing didn't really make it past a few posts and I took it down.

"Beyond your knows", even if kept up with regularly, still only limits itself to certain ideas I have to be careful I'm not copyrighting or bringing forth from sheer boredom.

But I want to do something funny. I want to start something new. A little project. Another slice of the internet I can call my own. Something that can be inspired by all of the following blogs/websites that I enjoy. And admittedly, I would like to become popular with a lot of readers.

And with the encouragement from Deborah, I think I might start a blog (yeah, that's right... ANOTHER blog) that will sort of embody my sense of humor, creativity, and imagination. Plus I feel I have a pretty good knack for story telling.

So what will this look like? I feel like it will be Jane Austen meets FAIL blog. Or Jerry Springer. Or Bridget Jones.

It will look like my life, but how I want my life to be-- which I think is very Jane Austen- esque.

It may detail a young, intelligent, woman who is embarrassed by her need for cat companionship, her fierceness and disturbing talent at catching wedding bouquets, her failed attempts at online dating, her obsession with men with accents, and her venture to discover who she is.

A PG-13 story based on the reality of my life, but accentuated and fabricated by the inspiration of my dreams... and sometimes my fears.

Kayaking- how not to

2010-06-24T09:56:00.007-04:00

A while ago I bought a snazzy, new-to-me kayak to replace my old one I had to sell. Not only is this new kayak a real upgrade from my old one, but it also came with 2 friends who also purchased kayaks. I do believe that was the real deal breaker. Kayaking, though peaceful and a good workout, leaves something to be desired for the community addicted individual like me when it involves solo trips.

And so Laura, Sarah, and I have been out kayaking a few times since our purchases. We've almost mastered the art of loading them in and on our cars, but I am still feeling the urge to engage my engineering mind into jury-rigging some kind of make shift, portable bracket.

Despite the sometimes frustrating and tiring efforts of getting the kayaks from point A to point B and back again, it is incredibly rewarding once we are actually out on the water and paddling our way through a Mangrove tunnel, seeing sea turtles, or just watching the clouds light up with hues of gold, pink, purple, blue, and all the glory of our amazing God as the sun begins to set.

However, one thing we debatable had not yet mastered was the task of getting back into our sit-on-top kayaks if we were to fall out.

Yesterday, Sarah and I took two kayaks (Laura and Sarah's) out for a paddle. Laura's parents had rented a condo, so we all had taken the opportunity at some point to kayak out from the beach in front of the condo. Once in deeper water, Sarah and I decided it was a good time to tip over and attempt getting back into the kayaks.

We learned that:
A. Laura's kayak is very easy to get into (a broad, longer fishing kayak).
B. Sarah's kayak is impossible to get into (a more narrow, short kayak).
C. All attempts at getting into either kayak will render the person temporarily immobilized through both laughing and terror at tipping over again.
D. Getting in kayaks is not a very lady-like process, as it involves a lot of grunts, straddling, leg flinging, booby squishing, and butt up in the air (prostrating yourself in fear) bodily positions that I didn't think are too flattering to a person's confidence.
F. I am terribly out of shape.

In the end, we learned that getting into Sarah's kayak would have be a two woman operation. As the one person is trying to get in, the other person has to carefully counter-weight the efforts of the new kayak captain. Then, after getting into an awkward mix of the fetal position and an upward dog yoga move, the person has to carefully (VERY CAREFULLY) rotate 180 degrees, scoot their butt up into the seat, and humbly accept their success. Humbly, because I quickly learned after our first successful attempts, that all exclamations of joy and raising of the arms in triumph will be thwarted by the kayak gods and you will immediately tip out again.

And all of these repeated attempts were only further marred by the repeated intrusion of salt water into my nasal cavity, thus forever rendering me incapable of smelling chocolate for the rest of my life.

Sooner or later, I will get a video of this and post it... it really was funny.

I got married last night

2010-06-08T10:37:00.008-04:00

As I've said in other blogs, I believe our dreams speak to us our inner most desires. We can see those things for which we crave most -- or maybe they are just lucid images brought on by a spicy dinner too late before bed. But as much as our dreams portray our wants, they can also sometimes share our inner most fears. And I've had my share of nightmares consisting of werewolves, showing up to school naked, and almost dying in car crashes. But oddly enough, I've never had dreams about pools of pasta. Blehck!

Last night was another nightmare. My dream was about my wedding day. And though I might hold a long record of singleness -- to long if you ask me-- and there is no prospect of marriage anywhere in my near future, I still find some of my nights being riddled with dreams about my wedding day.

The theme is always the same. It starts so pleasant and pretty! I'm walking down the aisle of some beautiful place: a floral garden with lily laden water pools, an orchestra playing "Canon in D", chiffon drifting in the wind, or a colorfully lit church with tons of flowers adorning every pew were I can see my closest friends and family smiling at me as I march toward the alter. I see my best friends lined up where maid of honors should be (because I've decided I will not have any bride's maids. All will be "of honor". This will avoid any confusion of favoritism and avoid any potential hurt). I'm getting close to the alter. I'm walking up the steps. And it occurs to me... "Who am I marrying??!?!?!"

And this is where the shit hits the fan. I start noticing all of these things that are wrong. The maids of honor are wearing unmatched, ugly dresses. One of the maids of honor is a girl from high school I don't even like! "Why is she in my wedding?!?!" And then I look down and there is what looks like a big poop stain on the front of my white wedding dress. "Who pooped on my dress?!?!?!" I start to panic. I start to sweat. Oh... my... gosh. This is not happening.

My mom comes over and tells me it will be okay. I look for my father's face, and I see the concern in his eyes which only alarms me more. I turn to look at the pastor, but instead I find my husband-to-be, standing there, smiling confidently, with his hand outstretched to me waiting for me to take it so I can step up and stand next to him.

And this is always the reoccurring theme. The real constant in my wedding day nightmare is that I never know my husband-to-be or he is someone I absolutely do not want to marry. I don't love him. I don't find him attractive. I don't want to spend the rest of my life with him. He's not funny. Who... is... he?!

The list of these men have been long. Sometimes in my dreams I really don't know who the person is both in dream and in real life. I'm not fully sure how I conjured up the face, but I wake up thinking that the dream husband-to-be was possibly the bus boy from the Mexican restaurant I ate at. "No more late night tacos for me."

But sometimes I do know these unwanted grooms. These young men have included annoying guys I knew through Campus Crusade for Christ, or coworkers, or high school crushes that later proved to be complete douche bags, and a college friend from Engineering classes that was so promiscuous, STD ointment might as well have been daily moisturizer.

Last night's contender was a young man from UCF, Graham A. Graham is actually a very nice young man, but one of my biggest concerns last night (while dreaming) was that I could not remember if his first or last name was Graham. I somehow concluded that his last name was Graham and that I was going to become Mrs. Heather Graham. And I really, really, really hate the idea of getting some lousy last name that sounds stupid or is a copy from some horrible celebrity. But despite that minor concern, I was still completely in hysterics that I was about to marry someone I didn't love, I didn't know that well, and that I would have to have sex with that night and I wasn't attracted to him, and I didn't want to be touched by him (nothing against Graham, I have physical boundary issues). I was crying. And at this point my grandmother popped up and told me I had to marry him because it was about time I settled down.

Everything in me said to run because I didn't want this future, I didn't want to commit myself to this man. But what was keeping me at the alter was the fear that I was going to disappoint my parents for having spent all this money on a wedding that ended in a run-away-bride. I was also scared that maybe this would be my only shot at marriage. Either I marry Graham or I become a cat lady... donating my ovaries to science in order to afford kitty litter. And I was also embarrassed. People would talk. "Heather finally has her wedding day, after years of complaining about being single, and she runs away?!! How pathetic!" These were the things keeping me standing at the alter, one foot on the top of the step next to Graham and one step planted toward the exit door.

Which is always about the time I wake up still wondering why that girl from high school was a maid of honor (or why there was poop on my dress. I mean... did I poop on my dress? What is this mystery poop?) And this morning I laid there contemplating the dream. It obviously says something about both my desires and my fears. I want so badly to have a partner in life, to have someone to look forward to seeing when I'm coming home, with whom I can enjoy my time, and someone who will mutually enjoy my buy-one-get-one free meal deals at local restaurants.

And my fears are obvious too. I'm scared I'm going to settle for less whether by choice or by accident brought on by poor decisions or extreme loneliness.

What a crappy dream! (no poop dress pun intended).

How to use the Men's room

2010-05-20T15:07:00.004-04:00

Step 1: Be Heather Heather.

Step 2: Be very, very tired from a long day at work.

Step 3: Stop by a Good Will store in hopes they had some cute, cheap clothes.

Step 4: Realize you have to go pee really bad.

Step 5: Ignore feeling and continue shopping because you figure you'll just go when you get home.

Step 6: Browse around the clothes for 10 minutes.

Step 7: Not try anything on because you are too tired.

Step 8: Figure you'll just go home because you are so tired.

Step 9: Remember you have to pee, and decide to use the restroom.

Step 10: Lazily see a door with a person on it, see it's a bathroom.

Step 11: Walk in.

Step 12: Think "wow... this bathroom smells horrible."

Step 13: Get in a stall and do your business.

Step 14: Hear someone walk in, go to the stall next to you, do their business, and cough.

Step 15: Think "that sounded like a very deep cough."

Step 16: Hear the person get out and wash their hands.

Step 17: Step out of your stall and go to wash your hands.

Step 18: Notice the person is a man, and then all of a sudden have all reasoning flush into your brain as you realize in a split second that you are, in fact, INSIDE the MEN'S restroom.

Step 19: Despite the flicker of fear that just spread across your face in a micro fraction of a second, display no further emotion. Smile and nod at the man as he looks at you in shock and confusion. Forget washing your hands.

Step 20: Walk out of the restroom with a calm composure despite the tornado of embarassment tearing through your insides. Walk through the Good Will and right out the door, making sure to meet no one's eyes in case they also noticed your blunder.

Step 21: Patiently get in your car.

Step 22: Sit in your car and just stare into space for a second. Then shout at yourself, "OH MY GOD! DID THAT REALLY JUST HAPPEN?!?!.......... Really?!?!?!"

Step 23: Bang your head against the steering wheel and laugh nervously as you can't believe you were such an idiot.

Step 24: Go home and make a mental note to blog about this later.

Depression

2010-05-20T14:39:00.007-04:00

I'll be posting a blog briefly after this one that I think readers will find funny. I think it will be needed after I post this semi-serious one.

My dad says I'm a bi-polar blogger. Going from deep lows to extreme highs. One blog I'm all "woah is me! Oh poor pitiful me! I'm still single! waaaaahhhhh... I hate happiness!" And then the next I'm as chipper and happy as a squirrel on a spring day who just found an open, abandoned bag of pizza flavored Combos. Don't judge. You know you'd be ecstatic too.

So this will be brief. I'm not in a pity party mood, but just assessing some truths I've been ruminating on the past week concerning my life.

....

I am depressed. Which is very misleading. Most people think of depression as a constant melancholy state where the world goes gray scale and you always have a mopey look on your face. And I'm sure a lot of people do experience that, but my sort of depression is unique. Maybe because I'm unique. But after posting some vents (in my usual passive aggressive way), I've had some wonderful friends speak some truths into my life.

Katie and Rachel called to tell me they love me. And they continue to encourage me and bring light into my life by sending me such fun things as a book that will help me use fashion to better portray who I am to the world. Though this wouldn't typically be my first choice in book purchases (I normally bolt straight to the fiction or humor sections of the book store... sometimes I dabble in the garden section), I can't help but praise their creativity and insight into how desperately this book will help me grow: not just as a fashionista, but also as a woman who is constantly trying to redefine, define, or just figure out who the hell I am and want to be. Kudos girls ;)

Deborah sent me an email that was full of 2 things that make anything written worth reading: truth and edification. She boldly took the risk of shooting straight with me. Lucky for her, I was actually expecting and wanting someone to do this. I have very poor insight into my own life, and an outside opinion is typically welcome from those who I know I can trust and those I admire. And Deborah made some very good assessments. Well... "very good" is lame. The lady hit the nail smack-dab on the head.

And then Lisa came to visit. To reiterate what Deborah shared and to further nourish the artistic inspiration brought on by Katie and Rachel's gift, we went to the Saturday morning market and visited a few art and vintage clothing ships then we had a heart to heart.

I believe that our understanding or awareness of truth does not validate the truth. Truth is truth regardless of our comprehension of it. But sometimes truth does not become personal truth until it is spoken into your life. Sometimes you just need someone to say it. And in those words, truth miraculously finds body, power, and substance that allows it be applicable to our lives.

Between these few wonderful woman (who I am deeply blessed to call friends), I became aware that I am depressed. And though that's not some great epiphany, it was enough to help me realize I was in a hole, which is the first step in realizing how to get out of the hole.

Because I am fighting an uphill battle in paying off thousands in debt, still struggling with the adjustments to a new city and a new job, facing constant loneliness due to coworkers I cannot relate to, having a small number of friends, and desperately missing the kind of family I had in the midst of close college friends in Orlando, and just missing my family in general, living alone, and being deprived of the one thing I've always wanted since I was 15 (a romance, or boyfriend, or husband)... I have to face the fact that I'm depressed.

I just don't cope like everyone else. I still smile to strangers, tell jokes to my coworkers, and I don't want to end my life (because I'm way to fabulous for that kind of exit strategy), but good grief....I still go to bed feeling extremely lonely.

Other blog

2010-05-13T09:47:00.002-04:00

I'm not a super self promoting type (though I dabble), but I just wanted to remind any followers about my other blog.

Beyond Your Knows has become a lot of fun for me even though I don't update it regularly and its still nascent. But feel free to send me suggestions of your own ideas on things you investigated further. Things maybe you've discovered or facts that produced interesting tid bits of random (and sometime useless) information that benefited you for no other reason than a chuckle and a noggin scratch.

I'd love to blog about it, and I'd give you credit! :)

Thought of the month...

2010-05-10T09:11:00.007-04:00

In college, I was told that my purpose is to glorify God, and John Piper put it best in saying "God is most glorified in us when we are most satisfied in Him".

A.W. Tozer says that we each have a "God-shaped hole" in our hearts. And I understand this to be true, because even though I've lived most of my life in a fairly content and happy state, I recognize that most joy is fleeting. I've never experienced a constant state of happiness. Even Pollyanna optimist encounter their curve balls of reality and have to face the sometimes gloomy seriousness of a faulty world and imperfect people.

But what I don't get is how do we satisfy ourselves with a God in whom I'm finding I do not like as much as I used to.

Yes, be shocked my fellow Christians. I, a Bible study leader for years, and a religiously tedious church goer is saying that me and God have beef.

Here are my qualms, my hold-ups, my "wait... do I really believe this?" moments:

Why does God hate homosexuality, and why is it wrong? And why didn't Jesus address it?

Why am I so unsatisfied with where my life is going if this life is apparently what God wants for me? If, and when I have, followed what I thought to be God's purpose for me, why was I still so unhappy, unjoyful, and frustrated with the outcome?

Why don't we see the same miracles today that happened in the Bible?

Why is it that the only way I think God will reveal himself to me is through tragedy? I often ignore God thinking he'll show up in defiance of my petulance (and lately he hasn'tl... and I'm not surprised by this), but then I get scared that he'll create some disaster in my life to knock me into check. And this makes me think, why do I believe in a God who uses punishment or heart ache to coax his people into his arms?

How do you have a relationship with a God who you can neither see, hear, or know personally without the help of a Holy Spirit (whom I'm not sure isn't always just a bad case of indigestion) and a book that has been interpreted and misinterpreted so many times that it's led to wars, murders, genocides, rape, etc. etc. And some of these people said "God told them to." Well, did He? And how do I know if God is telling me something? What's my point of reference on reality and supernatural?

Aye!

I'm so confused. But what I do know is that God and I aren't as tight as we once were. I have no desire to go to church, because I've completely lost interest in the monotony and predictability of the Christian culture. But at the same time I do want to try and mend that relationship with God, but I have to admit that I'm really burnt out on always running after Him. I feel I've always been the one pursuing, seeking, or reaching out. It would be nice if God put in some effort for a change.

Tattoos

2010-05-07T10:28:00.011-04:00

I got a new tattoo! And though I have no intention of getting any more, I can admit I see the addictive nature behind them. There is something defining, rebellious, and empowering about tattoos. Because of this, they are both enticing and intimidating to me. The severity of their presence being permanently etched into your flesh is something disconcerting to me. That, and I just lack the gumption to commit myself to something so.... lasting. I have commitment issues even with things such as body art.

However, I have wanted the word "Beautiful" on my foot for some time now because of the scripture verse in Isaiah 52:7 that begins with "How Beautiful are the Feet of those who bring good news..."

I originally wanted it in Hebrew, however, after visiting a blog about bad Hebrew tattoos, I figured I would stick with good ole` English and avoid potentially getting a tattoo that really said something to the affect of "Booty-licious" (though it is true enough).

Any-who, this is my foot pre-tattoo. Yes, my toes are long and weird looking. But I can't help that I run on the outside of my feet, or that God wanted to bless me with large enough footsies to make sure I never fall flat on my face.

Next you will see the beginning stages of my tattoo. Tom, the tattoo artist whom I had a lot of fun getting to know and teasing, places a small sketch of the art I wanted. Then he begins to embed the ink into my foot through a very, very, very painful process.

I really wanted to cry. It hurt so much!

This is where Tom started chastising me because I kept moving my upper body. I was rocking the chair I was laying in and he said I was going to make him ruin my tattoo. So, in my own doing, "Beautiful" could have actually ended up being "Beoutifol". And this would have been disastrous. However, in my defense, it did hurt a LOT, and I couldn't help moving because I was starting to feel a little nauseous. And the second I stopped moving my upper body, my foot started to twitch like crazy. It's a miracle it turned out so well.

Ah... but the finished product! I love it :)

Along with my tattoos, my friends Sarah and Laura also got tattoos. By forever committing themselves to the best school in the world, The University of Central Florida (obviously), they had the UCF Pegasus emblem etched in their skin as an awesome way to show their die-hard fanmanship. They turned out really, really well!

GO UCF!!

Single cliches that make me barf

2010-04-29T21:36:00.010-04:00

... and want to punch you in the gullet.

I just recently came across a fun and interesting article called 19 Things You Should Never Say to a Single Person. And as the last decade of my life is living proof that singleness is not always a choice, I will reiterate some of the points made in this article by sharing my own thoughts when people share these cliches with me. I'll share the ones I've actually heard. And although I understand the intentions of my friends is to boost my morale, pat me on the back, and encourage me to cancel an RSVP to my own pity party, it still irks me. My mind finds the insinuation that I'm doing something wrong.

But bless them for trying, because I do acknowledge the effort. The following quips come off as bitter (and they are), but they are not meant as insults to the encouragements I've received or to the people who gave them. These cliches in particular are just a little annoying after you've heard them over and over and over and over...

1. It happens when you're not looking. If this were true, then eharmony, match.com, plenty of fish, etc wouldn't be making bookoos of money every year.

And though you might not be adamantly looking by stapling signs around your community telephone poles with a sketch drawing of supposed Mr. Right with bold lettering that reads, "Have you seen this future husband? He's tall, dark, and handsome. Last seen holding the keys to my heart." and below there is a little row of rip off tags with your phone #. (by the way... this is a fun idea... but crazy). So even if you aren't aggressively proactive, I seriously doubt that anyone at anytime in their singleness has completely turned off the spousal radar. Unless you are a boy. Then that's the sex radar. And it only functions in the nether regions. It beeps more readily and often attracts whores and herpes, but not necessarily anything of substantial worth.

2. There are plenty of fish in the sea. Although I know this is trying to suggest that there a tons of options out there, I realize that "fishing" only works when the fish wants the bait. So all I think is that I'm bad bait. And no.... after college, there is no sea. It's more like a pond. A pond stocked with artificially enhanced fish looking to spawn.

3. So, Why are you single? A more literal translation is, "What is wrong with you?". I always want to respond in kind with something similar to Katherine Heigl's comments in 27 Dresses. I typically imagine myself saying "Oh, well... the main reason is that I have overactive sweat glands, I want to get a sex change, and I'm proactive about the increased use of ear wax as a renewable fuel source." But instead, I always politely reply, "I don't know, maybe I just have realized that.. {insert cliche here}"

4. You're too picky. This either suggests to me that the person saying this wasn't picky enough, or that this person doesn't know me. I have standards. Everyone does. And I refuse to settle for less than the type of man that will compliment those standards. And trust me... I have definitely lowered those standards... and those were never fun dates (though they made for fun stories later on).

5. You'll find the right person for you. Errr.. yes and no. Yes, that person will be right for me because of my explanation in #4, but no, I am not guaranteed to find him. This isn't browsing for the perfect blouse at Macy's, people. There is no spouse store.

6. He's out there. Is he? Me doth protest. Or me thinketh that thee has lost thine way.

7. It was bad timing. Awesome. I've got 26 years of bad timing. So now I just have to get my shit together, work on timing and then I'll find someone to date. And all this time I thought it was because I owned 2 cats and dressed them up during holidays.

8. Just have fun with it! Yaaaayyy. *puts on a party hat* Singleness is the shit! *Looks to the left to a non-existent date*

9. Have you tried online dating? Yes. And I've tried business networking, suggestions from friends, talking to strangers, blind dates, getting drunk, prostituting myself. I drew the line at selling my soul.

10. Well, when Steve and I first got together... because your success story is going to completely make me forget about my failure story.

11. You're next! (at a wedding) 9 bouquets proves otherwise, sweet cheeks.

12. It will happen when you least expect it. Trust me, I had been expecting it for so long through wishful thinking and ignorant faith that after many years of fruitless outcomes... I am NOT expecting it. I am however expecting both the rapture or an apocalypse. Just my luck that I'd die a virgin.

13. But you're so pretty! Why don't you have a boyfriend? Why you're so vain! Where do you want me to insert my left shoe?

14. It wasn't meant to be. Well.... obviously. So... will it ever mean to be?

That is all. I'm stepping off my soap box now.

Some favorite movie quotes

2010-04-29T13:57:00.005-04:00

Most people remember these amazing quotes from movies that are a cultural hit. It seems everyone works them into some comical pun at some point in their life. From "I'll be back." in a terminator voice to a teary eyed confession of "You had me at hello." But frankly, my dear... I don't give a damn, because my favorite quotes aren't going to be the popular ones, but they are the ones that have been stuck in my mind for years.

Here goes:

Stoney: "Meat group!" (yelled after Link eats a fly) from Encino Man

Doyle: (singing while taking cigarette butts and placing them one on top of each other in a giant frame) "Making a filter... Maaakiiiing a filter!!..." BioDome

How the Grinch Stole Christmas (2000) with Jim Carrey has a very special place in my heart. Not only do I think this movie perfectly encapsulates a genius sense of humor and perfect comedic timing, it's also a mutual favorite of mine, my cousin Laura, and my Aunt Alice to enjoy every Christmas. Forget laying out cookies for Santa, we would rather quote this movie! So here are a few of my many favorite quotes from this gloriously hilarious movie:

The Grinch: (Pointing at names through the Who phone book) "Hate, hate, hate. Hate, hate, hate. Double Hate. LOATHE ENTIRELY!"

The Grinch:"Oh, the Who-manity. "

The Grinch:"Oh. Bleeding hearts of the world UNITE. "

The Grinch:"Kids today. So desensitized by movies and television."

From The Emperor's New Groove

Pacha: What happened?

Old Man: Well, I threw off the Emperor's groove.

Pacha: What?

Old Man: His groove! The rhythm in which he lives his life. His patter of behavior. I threw it off. And the Emperor had me thrown out the window.

Pacha: Oh, really? I'm supposed to see him today.

Old Man: Don't throw off his groove!

Pacha: Oh, okay.

Old Man:Bewaaare, the grooove.

Pacha: Hey, are you gonna be all right?

Old Man: Grooove...

And I'll continue with more later.

World Travel

2010-04-26T17:24:00.004-04:00

I'm staring at a World map I've placed in my office. Something about it humbles me and also invigorates me. I decided to place a little red dot over each major city I had visited. I began to make a ton of red dots when I realized that I've sadly not visited many countries.

The entire south east of the US looks like it has chicken pox. But the rest of the world is relatively void of my mark. Hawaii, Vancouver, Malawi, Morocco, Spain, and France. But I feel like I've been to so many other places. In my mind, I've absorbed most other cultures, but realistically... I have done nothing but read about them or lived vicariously through my friends experiences.

What exactly brought about in me this desire to travel the world? I grew up in a small town. I've lived in Florida my whole life. And I don't know any second languages.

I blame this on my parents. And it's a good blaming. My dad is a pilot who has seen roughly 90% of the world. My mother was a military brat and she spent a large portion of her young adult life on different international military bases. She has actually stood atop The Leaning Tower of Pisa!

So maybe it's a genetic thing?

But I can't help and sigh, releasing a weighted frustration, that I'm not doing the things I want to do, and I don't always feel like I'm living life to the fullest.

So what's holding me back?

28k in debt.
The feeling that I am obligated to ground myself in some sense of a career.
Fear of traveling alone as a single, white, female.
Fear of missing my family and friends.

So what's attracting me to go abroad?

Studying Sustainability Engineering at the University of Auckland.
Learning to appreciate different cultures, expand my horizons, and open my mind to something outside of my norm.
Men with accents. `enough said.
Getting to experience the places that reshaped our history and bare the first recorded footprints of humankind's nascent history in the existence of the World.
Feeling like I've accomplished something that my married counterparts can't, because they've accomplished something that my single ass hasn't.
To escape.
To enjoy my youth.

But when will I get to finally do this? Who knows. I feel too many obligations. I feel I should do it the right way. And the right way is to be patient and use my career to bring me to those places I wish to travel.

But my fear says that complacency, obligations, increased responsibilities, or unforeseen hindrances (like a new relationship - but realistically... when have I EVER been in a relationship?-, family troubles, or apathy) will overtake my dreams and I will become a regular person living a monotonous life.

Carmen Sandiego

2010-04-07T15:45:00.005-04:00

That's how I felt this past week during my Facebook fast. Not surprisingly, I had a few concerned friends emailing or texting me worried that I had either blocked them or I had been hacked. After reassuring them that I was simply taking a hiatus from the internet social world, it seemed the interest in my disappearance vanished.

However, throughout the past week I realized how addictive Facebook is. Within the first 2 days I found myself subconsciously logging on or wondering what was going on. A purging of habit and thought was necessary, but not easy. I actually had what I will dub as "mental status updates". I thought that if I could log onto Facebook, I would inform my friends of the following with the actual word-for-word relay of what I would put in my status updates:

Heather Heather has just been invited to a vampire fetish fest... and it debating attending.

Heather Heather does not understand why homeless people seem to ignore pedestrian traffic laws.

Heather Heather wonders what everyone else is doing on Facebook. She misses them!

And that's when I realized I'm probably a little more pathetic than I thought.

Ah well... after the first few days the fast became freeing. It was nice not feeling obligated to respond to a wall post, or turn down the millions of fan requests and event invitations, or feel the urge to Facebook stalk that guy you made out with the last time you visited your cousin in Chicago.

I could start to shut it all out, take a step back, and enjoy my friends here and now. And that was very nice :)

I think I will make these Facebook fasts a more constant thing. However, I might just result in a huge purging of meaningless friends.

Facebook fast

2010-03-31T17:41:00.007-04:00

People are going to think I've dropped off the face of the Earth. And with probable cause because I believe I'm taking a week long break from Facebook to help readjust my insides. Maybe longer?

The luxury of social networking through the internet is that you can easily kill time by facebook stalking (my favorite pastime) and keep in touch with lots of people that have moved miles and miles away.

However, the problem I've found in Facebook is my increasingly persistent emotion of jealousy, annoyance, and agitation it seems to instigate.

Jealousy because every time I log on, it seems a new person is engaged, a new person has updated photos from their honeymoon, a new person has had a baby, another person is moving across the world to a foreign country, etc. These are all things I wish I could be doing or at least feel I should be doing. And the more aware I am of what others are accomplishing in midst of my continued monotony in the long process of trying to reach my own goals and get away from that mentality (whether it be my percieved pressure from the Christian culture or an actual pressure from the Christian culture that says at 26, I should already be married and planning children with "the world's most wonderful husband"), the more depressed I get in realizing I've made little to no progress in any department of "committed relationship" or "world travel".

So sionara to comparing myself to others.

Annoyance because I feel obligated to be friends with people I no longer want to be friends with (some family, old highschool friends, and most of the people I haven't spoken to in the last year). I don't think it's healthy to hold onto a cyber connection when a real one is long since dead.

Agitation because if there is one thing I hate more than anything else, it's poor communication. And as I've recently been learning that Facebook is not the best outlet for voicing your opinions on potentially sensitive subjects. Because despite my desire to discuss the most recent political issues, I've somehow managed to have people tell me what I should think, attack my view points, tell me how I should be behaving, or get hurt by things I've wrote. And this is mighty grievous to me.

Also... I might be addicted. I need to get my head out of the Facebook cloud I'd call "artificial reality" and ground it in those things that are more substantial and beneficial: my community, my friends in St. Pete, calling friends and family instead of writting on their Facebook walls, and going to the gym (haha!).

Beyond Your Knows

2010-03-15T13:48:00.004-04:00

I had wanted to start a second blog, and my efforts behind "A Year of "Yes, And..."ing" died miserably. I imagine if that blog had been a living creature, it would have been crossing a desolate and lonely road in the outskirts of nowhere hoping to find shelter in potential packed new beginnings. But it ultimately met it's demise when the big truck of monotony and 40-hour-work-weeks came quickly, without warning, and ran it over... killing it.

So, my apologies to anyone who was excited about that blog. I do believe in another life it would have been fantastic. But sadly my life is a little to boring to continually update a blog like that. So I've moved on to more realistic ventures.

Beyond Your Knows is going to be my blog about investigating the questions we constantly ask ourselves but repeatedly fail to answer. Or it might act as a refresher course for those facts that we should not have forgotten, but find ourselves embarrassed to admit "I don't know what the 3 branches of the American goverment are." (by the way, they are Executive, Legislative, and Judicial... and yes I sadly had to google that)

And in Beyond Your Knows, I hope to make it more reader interactive. Generating polls, shout outs, trivia questions to make sure we remember these facts, videos, and write ins to share your own Beyond Your Knows questions.

I'm a wee-bit excited :)

So I hope you enjoy it as much as I think I will.

What Matters Most

2010-03-01T12:06:00.005-05:00

Have you ever wondered what matters most to you?

In the past, I've heard a get-to-know-you question where a person is asked, "If your house was on fire, what would be the one thing you would grab to save, assuming your family is already safe?" Everyone can offer their opinion of what they would do, but I imagine the reality of that choice might differ given a real-life circumstance.

And as I've already had the pleasure of knowing the loss that accompanies a burned down house, I never got the chance to find out what I would have saved. I can only offer the knowledge of what I hated seeing go: the family photos, the death of pets, and the slow realization that most of your childhood memories are now void of precious memorabilia you had once hoped to pass down to your children.

But such is life. It's chockablock full of things we will eventually lose entirely.

But! I'm not trying to be morbid here. Not at all. In fact, this blog was spurred on by a very strange dream I had last night. The dream started where I found myself looking at the front door of my apartment. The screen door had been torn, the glass was broken, and the lock was punched out of the door frame laying bare wooden splinters and cracked paint.

I stood in shock realizing that my apartment had been broken into.

As I quickly ran into my apartment, I noticed that everything was in complete disarray. EVERYTHING had been pillaged. Furniture was overturned, dishes broken on the floor, and even toilet paper rolls had been unraveled, laying naked against the wall (I mean, what thief finds it necessary to unravel my toilet paper? That's just insult to injury! You do NOT toilet paper someone's house you just broke into.) In my dream, it looked like one of those scenes from a movie where the bad guys were looking for some type of incriminating evidence, and in the process of their search they ripped the entire place to shreds.

But as I was thinking about this dream this morning (and I always remember my dreams, I think I'm lucky in this way), what caught my attention were those items that I had been so desperate to find had not been stolen and those things which I was incredibly relieved to find still remained in my property.

Because I think our dreams speak volumes about our inner self, subconscience, or deepest desires (or sometimes they just tell me that spicy food will instigate dreams of me being chased by Mexican werewolves), I enjoy having dreams like last night's because I feel I can get a semi-real taste of how I would react in certain circumstances without having to actually undergo that circumstance.

Other than realizing my first 2 calls would have been 911 and my father, I also discovered that I would take charge in my own way and immediately look for fingerprints and/or other evidence I could use against my thief (I've been watching too much Dexter and Bones perhaps...).

I must remember I am not a forensic scientist. I must remember I am not a forensic scientist. I must remember I am not a forensic scientist. Okay.

Also, apparently I am obsessed with my cats, because I was most relieved to find them hiding pitifully underneath my claw-foot bath tub. To my utter joy, they were okay and accounted for. They hadn't been stolen or hurt (but seriously, what is up with me thinking someone would steal my cats?!)

Secondly, my computer hadn't been stolen. This actually surprised me because my 24" iMac is the most valuable thing I own, outside of 401K investments and my car... which isn't say much given the economy and my excitement in having just broke the 100,000 mile mark.

I noticed that the thief had stolen my tv, Wii, Xbox, DVD collection, and my Rob Bell Nooma videos. I actually scoffed at the idea of a thief stealing my tv. It weighs almost 80 lbs, has a crappy picture, and it cost me $25 off of craigslist. I actually thought "good riddance."

I wasn't upset over the Wii, Xbox, DVDs, etc. And I smiled at the idea of my thief stealing my Nooma videos. I remember thinking, "I hope they watch them, feels bad for what they did, convert to Christianity, and then... well... stub their toe or something." At the thought of my thief becoming a Christian, I couldn't wish anything worse for my thief other than a sore big toe.

I was also concerned that my grandmother's diamond ring had been stolen. It's not particularly valuable, under a grand, but the sentiment behind it is important to me because I've been saving it in hopes that when (or if) I one day get married I can incorporate it into my ring.

And lastly, I was most pissed to find my thief had trampled my tomato plant in their escape out my back door. I had been nursing that tomato plant for months, even cursed it to die before it finally succumbed to being fruitful. And in my dream, I saw it laying pathetically broken and squished on my porch. It's tomatoes having only turned slightly yellow in their nascent approach to ripeness. For this I hoped that my thief, even if newly-found-in-Christ, would die a horrible and painful death.

He done squished my 'matos. That bastard.

Take faith or take fault?

2010-02-26T15:17:00.004-05:00

The thought occurred to me today that it might actually be easier to live life with regret than to live life with unanswered outcomes.

This thought was spurred on by a quote I heard once that was to the affect of, "The best way to fail... is to never try."

It makes me think of that guy who never asked that girl out on a date. What if?
The Olympian who should have risked a little more. What if?
The girl who could quit her job, sell all her possessions, and move to New Zealand. WHAT IF?

But as I am not Christopher McCandless, I'm facing $30K in debt, and I feel a certain obligation to withstand a decent amount of self-respect, professionalism, and dignity, I don't think my head will ever agree with my heart on such reckless abandonment and adventure.

But I still want to. Ooooo... it would be so much fun!

Or...

It wouldn't. In the end, anyway.

The easiest way of getting someone to do something is by telling them they can't. Isn't that human nature? From the get go, man has wanted to touch the unreachable, taste the forbidden, and eavesdrop on the secrets. We can't help ourselves. We want to satiate our curiosity, even if at great cost or risky repercussions.

And lately it's been all the do nots of my upbringing that are trying to wriggle their way on my to-do list. Either I am bored (a 40 hr/week desk job can do to this to the sanest, self entertained person in the world), or I am finally assessing the worth in reward at risk of regret.

I'm always impressed, even if I am shaking my head in opinionated judgement, at people who take risks. I think part of the reward (even if they failed) is that they found out the outcome because they actually tried.

Granted, there is great wisdom in self-control, patience, abstinence, diligence, staying on the clearly defined path, and always driving the speed limit. I respect those things and fully understand the importance of them (specifically because a lot of people who don't practice these traits end up drug addicted, single parents, and in an accident). Not all, but a good handful of these people face daily regrets. For them, "what if?" means an entirely different reality.

So, in that respect, "The best way to avoid failure... is to never try."

What a conundrum.

Chatroulette

2010-02-25T10:51:00.004-05:00

Yesterday I found an interesting article discussing a new internet craze that has many people addicted and should have many parents concerned.

It's called Chatroulette.

Chatroulette is similar to the old school chat rooms. The original allure of these nascent social sites was that you could chat to a complete stranger from some obscure location around the world. That hype quickly succumbed to the desire to connect with pre-existing friends and networking with people you actually knew within your own social circle (msn messenger, myspace, facebook, etc.). Typing to a stranger quickly became dull, or even risky, given the information the internet can hold against you and the increase in online predators. As of now, privacy settings on personal profile pages has become not only a convenience, but also a serious necessity. Nothing is private anymore when it comes to the world wide web.

So in a strange turn of events, it seems Chatroulette (and similar sites) has reawakened the people's desire to reach out to complete strangers in the comfort of knowing neither of you know anything about the other person. Except this time it isn't just chatting. This time you don't need to write "lol" or inform your chatting partner you are smiling by sharing emoticons :p

Now they can see you face to face. AND hear you.

Yes, Chatroulette brings you video and audio chat.

I decided to try it out. Call it sleuth work or just boredom, but if it's all the craze, I figured it was worth a look. And having spent about 30 minutes skipping from one video feed to the next, I quickly discovered why it's fun and why it's addictive. It's almost like peeping into someone else's home or life for a brief second. You feel as if the world just got smaller, as if Liverpool, UK is just down the street, as if, just maybe, people everywhere aren't so different. We are all just curious. Not to mention, sometimes you end up seeing funny situations like this.

But in that 30 minute session where I sat skipping from one video feed to the next, I also discovered why it should be of great concern for parents. In that half hour I saw approximately twenty R-rated, perverse, and inappropriate video images. Most of which entailed men playing with themselves.

So, in that respect, Chatroulette is rather gross. But I'm not surprised. The internet, for all of it's expansive benefits and from it's very conception, has been polluted by perverts and voyeurism.

Therefore curious viewers, be ye warned!!!

But despite all of the graphic images, weird people, and creepy old dudes staring at the screen in hopes of seeing some nudity... you find a rare gem. A rare gem in the form of a young, male, professional soccer player, from Liverpool, UK who is interested in having a good conversation via my favorite tool: Skype.

New Zealand is still nice. But the UK is growing all the more tempting given those luscious accents. Maybe I'll take a permanent holiday there?

Cheers.

Skinks, as in... with an "i"

2010-02-23T10:08:00.003-05:00

A few years ago when I was working at my old job and in our old office, we had a little intruder.

A little lizard with a bright blue tail, shiny and smooth skin, and beady little eyes had taken a wrong turn into our front entrance area. Our receptionist, Jennifer, was in freak out mode. Apparently anything smaller than a chihuahua qualifies as a creepy, crawly critter. I, on the other hand, was raised under a different mentality, and my mother often encouraged me to handle (even play with) frogs, toads, lizards, and some bugs.

Granted, cockroaches still give me the heeby-jeebies. *shivers* ughh... I hate them.

But as Jennifer was doing a tip-toe dance of extreme uncomfort, I meandered into the front hall to see what all the fuss was about. And behind one of our decorative planters, I saw the little guy. I told Jennifer not to worry, and calmly stated "It's just a skink. They aren't poisonous, aggressive, or slimy. They are actually very timid and they eat bad bugs. Like cockroaches and spiders."

But my facts dished out in a motherly tone of kindness didn't seem to phase her.

As I was reaching down to get the skink, and trying to avoid breaking it's tail (which will easily tear away and wriggle as a decoy distraction to a real predator), one of my male co-workers walked in and saw me hunched over the corner of the front reception area leaning in and against the giant fern where the skink had decided to retreat.

He turned to Jennifer and asked, "Uhh... what is Heather doing?". And she replied, "She's trying to catch a skank."

To which I popped up immediately and responded while trying not to laugh, "uhm, okay. Let's not spread rumors? I'm trying to catch a skink. Not a skank. Big difference."

A guide to internet stalking

2010-02-10T10:03:00.016-05:00

I know for a fact that we have all done our own version of internet stalking whether it be through Facebook or simply Googling a celebrities name. And why not? We are curious people, albeit bored most of the time. The information is there. And as long as you aren't taking your investigations to the level of inappropriate voyeurism, then I think it's safe to say that doing a little search is okay.

I personally get a kick out of my sleuth work. Something about it makes me feel like I've found a loophole. In the same respect, I've also discovered how to keep myself hidden in the inner workings of the world wide web. This is why I don't post full names, or sometimes even real names, in this blog. It's too easy to find someone through a search engine; the internet is full of online scent trails just waiting to be tracked.

Now, if you are new to the whole internet stalking thing, I welcome you with open and non-judgmental arms. You have found a safe place. But let me indulge you in my own tactics, young grasshopper. And what better way to enlighten you then through my own personal experience.

A few Wednesday's ago, me and my girl friends went to a paint-your-own-pottery place. There was a young man working, and after looking through an assortment of items we could chose to paint, the young man spoke. And spoke he did. He spoke in a gloriously sexy English accent. As I'm 26 and still single, I immediately check for a ring. THE ring. And was happy to find his left hand barren of any jewelry. My heartbeat immediately quickened, and I could feel myself go into try-not-to-embarrass-yourself flirt mode.

Me and my friends sat down and were enjoying each other's company (I truly love these girls), but I was still trying to steal myself the opportunity to ask this young man questions and hear him speak. I thought we were getting along very well. I made him laugh, and he even made a few jokes back at me. I discovered his name was Robert. He was from Worcestershire, UK. And I knew he had to live in the area, and he worked full time at this pottery/craft store.

That's all I needed to begin my internet investigation as soon as I was at home, free from any questioning glares as to why I was hunched over Google with avid determination in my eyes.

God I sound like a creeper.

Step 1: Google the following: "Robert", "crafts", "location of the store", "Worcestershire", "pottery", etc. And see what pops up.
Step 2: If nothing pops up then use the same following words but type in "twitter", "facebook", "myspace", "blog", or "LinkedIn".
Step 3: Search Facebook by the name but use the refine search option by location, in which I used the location of the store, assuming he had a short commute. And being as how he worked at a pottery store, I couldn't imagine him driving more than 30 minutes to justify that kind of salary. Sort through the pictures and try to find a profile that looks like Robert.

The points of Step 1, 2, & 3 are to find a last name.

And Bingo! I found a picture via Facebook and it leads me to Robert Cutey-Pie (not really Cutey-Pie, but again... I don't want to use full names).

Now if the Facebook account is not blocked and you can see so-and-so's full profile, you have hit the jackpot. It feels like Christmas morning, doesn't it? Yes, I know. The adrenaline rush is great. But be careful, don't make a rookie mistake. You can't let that sensation become a drug. You must practice self control. Don't look at all 562 pictures tagged of your prey, but try and limit yourself to maybe 100.

If the profile is blocked, Repeat Steps 1 & 2 using the full name to find if they have an unblocked twitter, myspace, or blog account. I've found that normally people will keep their twitter or myspace open to public view, but not always.

Robert's Facebook was blocked, but it turns out he had a twitter account and a blog open for my perusal. Lucky me!

Step 4: Scan to find the information you are curious about. For me, it's almost always "Is he dating someone?"

As it turned out, nothing on Robert's twitter or blog suggested he was in a relationship. Sweet! Maybe I can use my new found glory information to randomly start a conversation on how we both love rugby the next time I go back to the pottery place. Sidenote: MUST LEARN RUGBY RULES AND FALL IN LOVE WITH SPORT ASAP.

Step 5: Double check.

Despite the fact that Robert's Facebook profile showed only him, void of any girl wrapped in his embrace, and the fact that his twitter and blog were barren of any girlfriend mentioning, there's always that slim chance he's the kind of someone that just doesn't boast about their relationship as openly as most of my newly wed friends do via Facebook status. So you have to double check.

How you double check is to search engine the person's last name only using the same "Facebook" and "location" words. This will either produce family members that live in the area or a spouse who shares the same last name.

To my surprise, I found a one Leanne Cutey-Pie. And her Facebook profile is not blocked. I open it up, hoping that Leanne is Robert's sister. But to my dismay, I see the tell-all saddening truth. Leanne Cutey-Pie is married to Robert Cutey-Pie. And upon clicking his profile link, I'm hyperlinked right back to the picture that started my stalking.

Sad day.

Robert, as it turns out, IS married, but just doesn't wear THE ring (which is a huge pet peeve of mine. If you are married... Where the f-ing ring!! Damn you, you misleading attractive married young men posed as singles!). Anywho, he also didn't feel it necessary to somehow work into casual conversation that he's already tied the knot when an overly zealous (and mostly desparate) American girl is obviously in try-not-to-embarrass-yourself flirt mode with him over a dish of pottery paint.

But it wasn't all in vain. At least I won't continue to flirt with him. I'm not a home wrecker. And at least I've spared myself the awkwardness of being rejected when I eventually asked him out for coffee (and I would have if I hadn't been brought into the light about his marriage).

So not all is lost.

Kudos Leanne. You're a lucky woman.

Weeding through fish

2010-02-05T09:16:00.013-05:00

As per my last post, I wanted to ruminate a little more on what I was trying to lead into. This whole concept of "anything that is worth having takes work" is a valuable lesson I learned as a child that tells me peace, contentment, and serenity all come at a cost... and sometimes some manual labor.

The lead into...

I've been doing this online dating thing. I'll admit that it's super sketchy. I can only compare it to going through the trash in hopes of finding that $20 bill you think you threw away. Online dating is like a dumpster filled with stinky, ugly, discarded, and sometimes dangerous pieces of relationship trash. But you hope, just maybe!, someone has thrown away something useful to you. Someone else's trash might be your treasure, or vice versa. And really, lets face it, we are all trash (broken, imperfect people).

At the end of the year, college students will throw away the most ungodly amount of useful stuff either because they want something more "new" or because they are too lazy to move it to their next apartment. It actually made me quite sick to see the wastefulness of my generation. But I digress... I remember throwing away my own cluster of unwanted items when I saw a pair of unused Roxy, leather sandals. Having no shame, I reached over the rim of the dumpster and snagged them. They didn't fit me, as they were WAY too big (I assume an Amazonian women didn't like them or an NBA player was cross dressing in my apartment complex). Regardless, I kept them. It wasn't until later that I went to Plato's Closet (a clothing store that will buy name-brand, gently used items from it's customers to resell in the store). As I still had the sandals in the back of my car, I brought them in to see if they'd sell.

Voila!! I got $12 for the mammoth shoes I pulled from the dumpster.

Someone else's trash was going to be my Lazy Moon and Jeremiah's style feast. Awesome.

This same kind of concept has kept me motivated enough to continue sorting through the online dating sites. Not to mention that I have several friends that have met their spouses and fiances via online dating sites. If it worked for them, why not me?

Well, as I said earlier, anything that's worth having takes work, and if you want the garden you have to do the weeding.

I've been doing a LOT of weeding. And despite all of the weeding (typically one guy of 20 will catch my interest), I have been on 3 dates in the past month and a half.

Ethan- 32, divorced (not a big deal to me), no kids, 6'3, Methodist, and a mechanical engineer.
Things were going well. We made each other laugh. He liked that I wasn't an air head, and I liked that he was adventurous and the think-outside-the-box type. But then I told Ethan I was a virgin. That apparently was a game changer, and Ethan stopped calling. That was a little bit of a gut blow to the confidence. But oh well! I hope Ethan finds a very nice non-virginal girl, and they both get syphilis. Just kidding, but not really. I'd settle for mutual herpes contamination.

Mike- 26, never married, no kids, 6'2, non-religious, and a finance adjuster something or the other.
As usual, things were going well. We went on our first date to putt-putt golf, ate dinner, and then he started asking some intense questions.

"If you have kids, will you make them attend church?"
"What do you think of gay marriage?"
"What do you think about Obama?", and the like.

Now, I'm always nervous on first dates anyway, but he just shot right into politics and religion? Ouch. I never got the change to hear his opinions, he didn't want to share them (not cool man, not cool). He didn't call me again. Fair enough. I guess my answers to his questions were too intelligent and well rounded in unbias wisdom that he couldn't handle it. Or... I just wasn't his type in the end. If everyone has a "type", every must have a "non-type". I was his non-type.

Robert- 26, never married, no kids, 6'1, Christian, a christian school math teacher working to get his MBA.
Even though on paper this guy would be a perfect match for me, I had my reservations from the beginning. Robert came across as a very hasty and to-the-point-I've-got-an-agenda type guy. But I figured I'd give it a go. Maybe opposites attract? Because I am more of a free-spirit Que sera, sera type girl. Regardless, we went on our first date. For the record, Robert is a very kind, intelligent, and attractive young man. I have no doubt he will succeed in any of his future endeavors. But that being said, I was not a fit for him. Specifically because I am not fit. Robert is a bit of a health nut (no harm in being health conscious), but when your date asks you what you eat, mentions what he doesn't eat (and you realize that's what you had for lunch 3 times this past week), and asks you how often you work out and then having this surprised, skeptical look of "really?" when you answer "at least 3-4 times a week", well... that just doesn't boast well. I thought, "Yes Robert, I DO exercise that much. I know I've got junk in the trunk, and I have no shame in enjoying cheese, bread, and butter... but I actually do take care of myself." His slight shock seemed to insinuate his doubt. Gut punch to the confidence Take-two. Robert said he would like to be friends and see where things go. Which is man code for: "You're really sweet and all. Thanks, but no thanks." So Robert, thank you for my chicken salad with low-fat dressing that I didn't enjoy because you made me too self-conscious to order what I really wanted, a f-ing cheeseburger.

FYI- I'm now calorie counting.

So, with all that being said... I'm weeding again. If there are plenty of other fish in the sea, then I'm weeding through the fish. Or fishing through the weeds. I'm preparing my quixotic garden for some unknown time when I can actually lay back and enjoy the fruits of my labor. And God, I hope he has an accent.