Quick Nothings

Have literally two minutes for catch up:

• Got the loan.
• Am looking for a car.
• Love the New Moon pictures.
• Am heading to Moab, right now.

Waiting For The Stars To Fall

My keys jingled against my fingers as I lumbered sluggishly to my car after work.

With my sunglasses on, I threw my head back to take a deep breath and in so doing noticed the moon directly above me imitating the midday sun as a younger sibling mimics his elder.

The white orb was barely detectable against the bright late afternoon sky. Yet she was there and as foolish as it sounds, I smiled an acknowledgment to her.

Exhausted, I navigated myself home surrounded by the after work traffic weaving through the crowded streets journeying towards any reprieve.

Unlocking the door and tossing my belongings onto the kitchen table, up the stairs I plodded into my bedroom, closing the door behind me. I collapsed onto my bed in overwhelming fatigue.

My eyes fluttered shut and there I lay for the next hour.

I stirred awake and was immediately gripped with the guilt of a child having broken any household rule. Why did I feel this way?

The evening, lackluster in events, ended with a much needed drive. In an effort to just get out for a moment and breathe deeply this incredible nightfall, I leapt into my car and drove.

This time the moon was brilliantly shining and I felt a kinship to the cosmos once more.

Few things in this world can calm a stormy soul the way a night sky can.

The sound of a nearby creek. Gazing into a fire. Smelling a fresh baked dessert. Holding another’s hand.

Sign Of The Times??

Eight years ago, I bought the very first car I ever owned in my life. I was as fresh as a college graduate could be and had nearly $4300 to my name. I had a roommate at the time with a brother who was an auto dealer. I was prepared to look for a car in the $6000 range and commenced a search for something which fit my skeletal requirements.

As a last final acquiescence to my roommate, we went to check out her brother’s Lexus lot. And there She was.

A five year old Toyota Camry with 58,000 miles on her. She was a sleek, sexy black and very well maintained. As I was test driving her, the dealer so typically explained how she was an afternoon trade-in the day before and the older gentlemen loved Her but was treating himself to a new Lexus instead.

It went down velvety smooth. I knew She was to be mine.

We negotiated out $8500 (which I naively did not know meant $9500 out the door), and I was to be on my way shortly. After the finances were all in place, of course.

I knew nothing about securing a loan. I trusted the dealership to do their part to help me get into this car, which they do so well, and they did for me. The man assisting me came out after running a credit check on me and I’ll never forget what he told me next.

“Your credit score is so amazing, I would let you drive away with any car on this lot for no money down.” I was proud because my parents had been incredibly instrumental in teaching me how to be a good steward over my money.

(Ironically, my interest rate was astronomically high. I took care of that one week later under the tutelage of a more financially knowledgeable man. Don’t finance through a dealership if you can help it. I know you already know this.)

Four years ago, I bought the second car I ever owned in my life. The story, though containing interesting elements to me, is unimportant.

Except the time has come for me to buy the third car I will ever own in my life. I have loved my baby but She is no longer as reliable as I need. (And I’m feeling a long distance road trip in my very near future.)

So once more I traipsed to my local bank branch whom I bank with and applied for another auto loan. I applied for a liberal loan on behalf of generality’s sake in an effort to have my finances in order for when I located Her yet again.

This morning my loan officer called me with the outcome of my application and what follows is the craziest experience I’ve ever had. Truly a fiscal sign of the economic times.

Loan Officer: Elizabeth, we ran that paperwork, do you have a minute?
Elizabeth: Absolutely! What are we looking at?
LO: Well as is, we’re more than happy to loan this amount to you but we’re going to require a strong co-signer.
E: (Actually surprised quite a bit.) Wow this economy has really affected you guys, huh?
LO: (Silence.)
E: (Joke is not well received. Noted.) Umm… well then you’re not really going to loan ME that amount, are you? How much can I get without a co-signer?
LO: Well we’re not willing to loan to you without a strong co-signer?
E: (Frustrated now.) Can I ask what my credit score came up as?
LO: Mid 700s.*
E: That doesn’t sound right to me. It should be higher I believe.
LO: Well there is this $130 charge off….
E: (**OH MY GOSH, I EFFING HATE M&T BANK!!! This is a mistake I’ve been working on for FOUR years now.) You can’t get me a decent loan when my credit score is sitting in the mid 700s and I’ve got SIGNIFICANTLY more than my loan amount sitting in my savings account right now? (This fact felt relevant to me as I know you can take out a loan against your own savings, at the very least.)
LO: You do?
E: (Still can’t believe I’m even having this conversation.) What kind of loan officer are you? You work at my bank, processed my application, and haven’t taken a look at my current account balance?
LO: (Confused and fumbling for words.) Well, let me see here, uh, well this does change things, ummm, I can run the numbers again which should make a difference, uh…. Can I get back to you?
E: Please do.

I hung up the phone and called one of my best friends in the world (Holla!) and couldn’t help but talk to him, a financial consultant, about my experience. We laughed and although he wanted to help me complete a 15 year plan (stop doing that), the talk was all I needed.

I guess I’m still waiting to hear how this will go down. Strangely, I feel confident the numbers will come back reasonably, and without the need for a “strong co-signer.”

*I know Mary and Mom both have phenomenal credit scores. You win. I’m over it.
** My apologies for the strong language but I have a searing hatred for that bank.

Wish I Could Keep You Much Longer

On a lighter note, a week ago, my roommate went out of town leaving me the house all to myself. I was entirely excited in anticipation of this week. It has been everything I hoped it could be. It has been enjoyable.

On my first night alone, I came home from work, trudged up the stairs where my bathroom and bedroom are, took a good look around and opened every blind and window. I secured my laptop, plugged it into my stereo, pulled up my iTunes, clicked on an absolutely random album, and pressed play.

I’d been dying to try a new remedy which I heard could clean any tub. When you rent, any tenant knows toilets and tubs, though clean, may always appear as though you could pick up a jungle disease from using them.

A co-worker had told me a week earlier auto carburetor cleaner could scour down any tub. So with the warning to run the exhaust fan and make sure I had a proper air supply, I buckled down to the task at hand while the Immaculate Collection played. (Great album. Second half especially. I swear I hadn’t listened to it in over 10 years.) I took time to sing at the top of my lungs.

It was enjoyable.

The following night I decided I would cook for myself instead of the shameful yet honest social dining out I do almost every night. I desired a night in and a little solitude. Taking time to prepare a meal has become a daily practice since. I had forgotten I had this in me but I truly enjoy cooking.

My phone rang and although I heard it upstairs, I was caught up in the kitchen. When I finished cleaning up the last pan, I fetched my phone and saw I had a missed call and subsequent text from one of my best friends in Provo. The text: I need out of the house tonight. What are you doing?

I called her and was elated to offer my place knowing we could do nearly whatever we wanted. So we did. Oreos & milk and one movie later the laughter continued. She returned to her life and although I had planned on reading a particular book on my list of things to do this week, I was happy for the diversion.

It was enjoyable.

I arrived home the subsequent evening and intently stared at my bedroom floor. It was a battlefield and I’ve mentioned before I use the cleanliness of my room as a gauge to the busyness of my life.

I cast off my work garb and quickly rolled up my sleeves to dive into the piles. (After all, you have to maintain organized piles. Clean piles and dirty piles and piles of clothing worn just once.)

Most everything had been restored to its home and I stood sweating in my room with a huge department store bag in my hand. “What had I purchased which required a bag of this size?” Many times when the need to downsize had seized my being, I wished for a bag of this size.

Capturing the moment, I approached my closet and prayed for the strength to part with my things. My old things. My unemployed, unused, idle, and aged belongings. First the clothing. Next the shoes. The boxes which had yet to be opened since my move. Ditching anything from a computer printer or television cables to dated fashions, unutilized blankets and luggage, I filled my car trunk.

I immediately headed to the thrift store. Sitting on any item would have created unnecessary vehicle clutter and a desire to re-rumage through what charity had rightly earned.

It was enjoyable.

I spent the weekend following suit to the first few days. Laundry, culinary experiments, guitar playing, sleeping. Oh the sleep. And some holiday time off to do my soul good.

I bunkered down and read the Louis L’Amour book a guy friend had recommended in an attempt to see what guys who read, read. It was an action book for any individual wishing to escape to another time and place. Surprise, it was enjoyable.

This past week has been so pleasant. I’m excited for my roommate to get home tonight. But I cannot lie. I’ll miss the time off from my usual routine which I daresay simulates a vacation of sorts.

Mostly because it was enjoyable.

PS. Speaking of things enjoyable, I'm looking forward to the new fall series "gLee". Totally dug the pilot this week.

Caught Up In Circles...

It’s back. The fidgety feeling I sporadically experience is back.

It’s been coming on for awhile but has evolved into a full force tidal wave emotion. I’d like to say I’m sitting on day 2 of homesickness (Marysickness?). It’s realistically more like month 8.

Oh the plight of a single girl. It’s amusing really.

In the corporate world, it’s rumored how preferential treatment is bestowed upon the married and the settled. My mind tries to convince me surely this must be a fallacy. Yet in this moment, I’d gamble on said type in a heartbeat over someone like me if I were management.

I feel the spirit of Sam Cooke has rested upon me in the mantra of “a change is gonna come.”

And why shouldn’t it? In a conversation once with a married adult (versus me, what? A single non-adult?), I was made to feel foolish, immature almost for the lifestyle I’ve been living since college graduation.

I’ve seen my share of moves and job changes. I’ve grown easily impatient at any given time of my present circumstance enough to impulsively alter it. So when said adult commented on the obviousness of my lifestyle and alluded to the fact it may be time for me to grow up and settle down, I felt embarrassed and inadequate. Childish even, as though I were being reprimanded for doing something wrong.

With another five years under my belt since that occasion, I’m now smart enough to retort, “I’m not you. I know nothing of the life you refer to. And perhaps my greatest advantage FOR ME is that I am not tied down… to any person, job, or city.”

Telling an enormously unsettled person to settle down is antiquated.

Tonight I comfortably positioned myself in the living room of a split level home of a dear friend. I nestled into a restful chair reading the latest People magazine while my friend snuggled into the couch opposite me. The window behind my shoulder as well as the door to the back deck were opened creating a cross breeze through the house.

The left over smell of grilled hamburgers and hot dogs wafted from the kitchen. I was calm with a tumbler full of milk and a stack of Oreos sitting on the window sill beside me. Below in the family room, a group congregated around the television playing Rock Band and their strains drifted up the stairs.

I paused in the middle of reading about Bristol's teen pregnancy to think about the book I had completed earlier in the day. A book which took me to a different place in a different world. I pondered upon the job I’ll return to first thing tomorrow morning, yet again. I reflected upon my current relationships and my mind lingered on one in particular. I gazed out the window and the sky blushed the first hue of pink.

Then it was back.

I should have felt content and satisfied. Instead I felt the opposite. Restless, edgy, and impetuous. I'm begging it passes.

I’m just saying... I’ve been HERE before, time after time.

Remove the Veil

Few times in my life can compare to the frustration with this wicked case of writer’s block I’ve been experiencing of late.

I’m a record keeper. I’ve been a consistent writer in many forums ranging from notepads of thoughts, theories, & essays to journals and the more public blogosphere.

Is it because I have nothing to write about? Absolutely not.

Is it because I’ve become busy and am now overwhelmed with the sheer volume of things I want to write about? Absolutely.

Is it because my lack of consistent writing has made me rusty and thereby insecure? Absolutely.

Is it because I’ve taken to other creative outlets (to remain unnamed at this time)? Absolutely.

Then what happens?

It’s a lazy Sunday evening and as I sit by the opened window anticipating my holiday tomorrow, the drumming rain upon these side streets creates the most soothing ambiance and a gal finds herself with a robust case of homesickness.

And where there is a charged emotion, there is a girl wanting to write… saddened at the fact she’s so overwhelmed she can’t.

A Message

This morning, I was driving behind a car with a bumper sticker which read, "Trees Are the Answer."

Laying all philosophizing aside, I applied the scientific experiment to the statement.

• Question: My last two days have sucked real REAL bad. Why?
• Answer: Trees

Nope. Doesn't work. Stupid. Stupid.

Then I parked my car in my work parking lot, jumped out of the vehicle, while my phone fell out of my pocket and crashed to the cement. My two month old Blackberry's screen is now busted for the next two years.

Day three and counting. WTF?

Like It. Like It Not.

Lately I’ve been exceedingly conscious of my emotions. Yeah, I know. ME, more alert to my emotions. I assure you it can be a full time job.

Rewind.

I have another daunting birthday approaching this year. Not too quickly but sooner than I’d like.

Without launching into an Oprah tirade about being more and more comfortable in your body (which really does happen), I assert one definitely becomes more aware of one’s self. Your being. Your likes and dislikes. Your emotions.

I haven’t always, but I appreciate the opportunity to have had time to get good and acquainted with myself. Time to make a friend of myself.

Along with this come these opportunities to laugh at yourself and also to embarrass yourself. Yet at the end of the day, I’m left with only me.

Skip to present again.

I’ve been especially aware of my feelings. I have been able to see a situation generating around me and able to call my reaction seconds before it happens as though I were an outsider watching.

I guess THIS is growing up. Becoming alert to your potential self, evaluating its necessity or appropriateness, and then altering your potential self to truly reflect how you would prefer others to receive you.

Following is a very organic recording of some of my emotions in the past week. I guess with good friends and family, you can just out yourself. I’ve written in the ever simple and ever raw outline of likes and dislikes.

· Midday personal contact: If you deal with me at all, you know I work hard and I work long hours. Because of this, I appreciate my personal moments throughout any day, especially midday. I love Mindee’s BB texts, Mary’s updating phone calls, and even listening to Ashley’s screaming children. But Mary really gets me going in the middle of the day. I love midday shout outs.

· Fresh Laundry: I love linens. I have a love affair with sheets and towels. I love fresh laundry. It always feels good to pull fresh sheets and towels out of the dryer. I love washing your white sheets in the hottest temperature your washer will provide, with a cup of bleach, knowing you are killing at least half of the flu off of them. Aww. Clean sheets.

· Emotions: One in particular. Anticipation. Whether it’s good or bad, but particularly when it’s good. Wait. Wait. Wait. Now you can. YES!

· Barnes & Noble: This is my secular church. My sister(s/in-law) go to libraries. I go to B&N. Some days when I feel like I can’t talk to another person, I’ll turn my phone off and go to B&N right after work and not leave until they close. I’m a late blooming book worm and I like it.

· The Sun: I love it.

· The Snow: Go away. I dislike it on April 25th.

· A text for text and a call for call: Even if your response is 24 hours later, I am a true believer in returning what you have received. I dislike when there is a breakdown.

· Know your place: Don’t tell me you love a song more than anyone around you. Especially when I am around you. Especially when you don’t know the words to the song. Especially when you just heard it for the first time a day ago. I heard it last year, when I watched the movie, the night before I downloaded it. I love this song too. Enough to know when it was released. Trite? Yes. Fact? Yes.

· Holidays: Ever since all of my family moved away, I’ve grown to dislike holidays. I hate thinking about where I’m going to go or if I’m going to celebrate them.

· Vehicle Problems: My car is old and always breaking. It VEXES me greatly.

A Forced Surrendering

I sat in the doctor’s office with tears in my eyes. It was one of the few times in my life I was really scared. I had no idea what to think because I just couldn’t come up with any explanation which made sense except I had AIDS.

I didn’t honestly think I had AIDS. I just knew I had something which left me without an immune system. THAT scared me.

A week ago Saturday I noticed it was a little difficult waking up in the morning but didn’t think anything of it because I had no pressing engagement to show me just how exhausted my body had been.

Things turned super strange when I went to Salt Lake to do some shopping with a friend. I almost fell asleep on the 40 minute ride up as though we were doing a cross country road trip, 800 miles into it.

Even then, I chalked it up to having eaten nothing and being on empty. After all, I am the queen of doing this as I frequently pull many long hour days without stopping to eat. (I don’t need a lecture. I’ve been told many times how bad this is for anyone’s body.)

So after three to four hours of walking around perusing Nordstrom’s Rack (hella hot pair of black trousers) and DWS (loved all the shoes so much, I bought none of them), I begged to be taken somewhere to eat. I was going to literally lay down and fall asleep anywhere.

We stopped and I consumed a sandwich. I felt immediately better, I thought. But as we traversed back home, it took literally 10 minutes before I thought I would pass out in the vehicle again.

I was dropped off at home, went upstairs, climbed into bed without removing one stitch and fell asleep.

I awoke confused but felt better. A friend texted me to go to a movie within minutes. I cleaned myself up and headed out. Two and a half hours later, I was home in bed completely fatigued.

Here’s the crazy part. I still wasn’t flagged to the situation… at all.

The indicator came the next morning, Easter morning. My alarm went off to get ready for my 8:30 AM church service.

And THAT’S when I thought someone with a bat had had their way with me while I slept.

I lay there contemplating skipping church due to illness, which was more than justified. Still I knew 90% of the non-regularly attending Christian world would be worshipping today.

It broke my heart to think of not going on Easter. So quite frankly some competitive side of my piety (the irony is not lost on me) ripped my being out of my bed and dressed herself.

I stumbled into church and was asleep within thirty minutes. I assure you I must have been a sight for sore eyes. I slouched passed out in comatose form apparently proving my discipleship to no one but myself.

I left after an hour and went home to, you guessed it, sleep. This is when I first realized I might have mono.

The rest of the symptoms came quickly and in blurred memory.

Monday morning was hell trying to wake for work. I had added strep throat to my illness and some sort of respiratory disease. Tuesday was the same only WORSE. I left work after a measly four hours.

Wednesday I was dead to the world. Every symptom was a trophied win as if a micro-biological Genghis Khan was conquering through me.

After Thursday’s swabbing, I was told I had the flu. THE FLU. And anyone who was following my facebook (the only thing I did while laying in bed sweating and only because I could use my Blackberry) knew I was finding out the hard way why millions of people died from such an epidemic.

I am not a baby when it comes to my sicknesses.

It is more than a week later. I’m draining. I’m healing. I’m running at 60% and I consider it a huge success. It’s been awhile since I’ve remembered how valuable good health is.

Could It Be??

I awoke Monday morning with hives all over my upper torso, my chest, but especially plaguing my neck. The splotchiest, itchiest, cherry rash on my neck. I spent all day trying to eliminate it.

I evaluated a constant mental checklist of what I might have changed to cause this allergic reaction. My constant self barrage proved futile. There was nothing I had done or used differently. I went to bed hoping it would go away by the time I awoke.

Tuesday morning I woke up with the same splotchy, itchy, cherry rash on my neck. This time the cherry was even cherrier and the itchy was even itchier. Visibly obvious, this inflammation was taking center stage in my every personal interaction with anyone.

“Have you used this salve?” “Have you tried that balm?” Ironically, I work at a skin care company and the suggestions poured in steadily. I finally conceded to my boss’s proposal of immediately taking Benadryl.

I was hesitant knowing it was about 2 pm in the middle of a work day and I would get drowsy. Additionally, I knew my work day went from 8 in the morning to at least midnight.

The medicine did nothing to alleviate the rash or the itch. It did, however, administer its lethargic effects upon my being.

There I was, miserable at 5 pm on a snowy Tuesday early evening, head on my desk, and inbox still with 50 emails needing to be reviewed by midnight for end of month.

I walked over to Benefits to submit my final cafeteria plan form for 2008. I had waited until the final day to do so. Upon entrance, my neck became the source of conversation.

“Yeah yeah,” I garbled entirely unamused. I head nodded in agreement while paying little attention to the exchange.

Lost in angst, I blanked until I realized I was being asked a question. My face immediately communicated my disoriented state so she repeated yet again, “are you stressed?”

Allow me a few words to answer this question. Yes. Immensely. Always… yet in an oxymoronically nonchalant way.

While sparing everyone the hum drum, daily living, social history of my stressors, know that Harry and Nancy each gifted to their children an inherent disposition to worry, fret, agonize, and lose sleep over the natural anxieties of life.

While trying to make an insurance claim before deadline, in the middle of our month end chaos, feeling the pressure of occupation, the fog of drugs, and sprinkling in some matters of the heart or heartache, I identified some of my stress.

So when the medication did absolutely nothing for me, I was even more flabbergasted to learn what I had been experiencing with this outbreak had less to do with a physiological reaction and more to do with a psychosomatic manifestation.

As a product of my family, this was unfeasible. We don’t get sick. We sure don’t get sick from our minds. I had spent two days trying to rid myself of the ailment which had been the source of uncanny constant discomfort.

Then this morning, I woke up. As abruptly as it appeared did it suddenly disappear. I was left with a souvenir of dry flakey in skin in an area I had spent trying not to scratch the past couple of days.

Hmmm…

Walking Left

Since I graduated from college, I’ve been eagerly waiting for my life to start.

I had this supposed inauguration marked by certain indicators. I would secure a great job. I would save loads of money and purchase loads of great things. I would help people. I would do great things.

I would also travel the world, a desire so strong anyone associating closely with me knew I was almost solely judging my success off of this fulfillment... or the lack thereof.

Finally in the month of January, I believe I spent a total of 6 nights in my apartment in the state where I reside. At one point around the middle of the month, our plane touched down for a layover and already having had five cities under my belt, I genuinely looked to the man beside me and queried, “what city are we in right now?”

A week later, I awoke in London.

One evening my travel companion and I were waiting for our play to start in southwest London. We stood in front of the Apollo Victoria Theater trying to decide where to kill time before the show.

Knowing Buckingham Palace was about a mile away, I suggested the quick journey up the road. We walked it and upon cresting the hill, I was immediately seized with the sight before me.

The night was purple black. The palace was illuminated with bright white flood lights highlighting its majesty. The London Eye was glowing indigo on the horizon off the Thames. I loved it.

I was so much reminded how I love looking at the DC monuments much better at night, when the tourists have left and the buildings are immaculately regal.

On that semi-foggy evening in front of Buckingham Palace, a question crept into my mind. “Elizabeth, what do you believe to be your Personal Legend?” A humid wakeup call smacking me in the face.

I once read a story of a shepherd boy living a common life who had a dream leading him on a journey to fulfill his Personal Legend.

Crucial to the novel was this idea of a Personal Legend. The boy learned of one's Personal Legend from a King who clarified to him "It's what you have always wanted to accomplish. Everyone, when they are young, knows what their Personal Legend is.” (The Alchemist, Paulo Coelho)

Spoiler. One of the enlightening beauties of the story exists in the irony of the shepherd boy finding his treasure in the place he commenced his journey.

By the end of London, I was ready to go home. My Personal Legend had less to do with “the where” as I had originally believed and a whole lot more to do with “the what.”

My plane left Heathrow and upon stepping foot in the Atlanta airport, I was heard to exclaim quite dramatically “God Bless America” as the surrounding passengers chuckled.

I spent all of January gone and have spent all of February making up for it… in a state I have long since had little desire to be in.

I feel once more a robust drive I have felt many times in the past. A drive which has many times directed me to stuffing my vehicle and moving. Each era guided me to trivial fulfillment.

I look forward to more travel. Traveling is enlightening. Inevitably, messing with the Where will help you to decipher the What.

However, it’s not the Where I’m trying to seize. Even now, it is the What.

Life Lag

It was freezing. 7 degrees Fahrenheit freezing. But the view was remarkable. 7 degrees Fahrenheit remarkable.

The house was positioned on the base of the mountain where the views of the valley were astonishing. All the city glittered in the night while left over Christmas lights twinkled sporadically here and there. The city glow ceased abruptly where the lake was responsible for the black out in the middle of the scene. The dark abyss was beautiful in its own sense and commanded respect for the grandness of the void.

When things get stressful, it’s always good to take a deep breath. When things get really stressful, it’s always good to take a deep breath of fresh air. Last night was the epitome of this.

I will spend the next 19 days straight working. I have a business trip to Anaheim at the end of this week returning on Sunday only to work on Monday; immediately followed by a business trip to Orlando at the end of next week returning on Sunday only to work on Monday through that business week.

Stressful. I rely heavily on my weekends. I love my friends and I certainly enjoy playing with my friends on the weekends. It’s a time to be renewed.

One of my dear friends started a new semester today. With half her classes registered for and the other half relying on a professor’s signature to add the courses, she too was anxious for today.

So last night while commiserating at her house, we wrapped ourselves up in blankets and sat out on her balcony porch enjoying the view… for over an hour… in coldness I would next to never be caught in. We breathed. We pontificated. We breathed some more.

Our problems did not disappear with our increased blueness. Just a deep breath. But on the up side, jet lag aside*, I’ll be in much warmer weather.

*UT to PA to UT to CA to UT to FL to ENGLAND to UT within three weeks. Literally coast to coast.

To Help Me Cope With Anything

When I was younger, I would wear my bathing suit day and night throughout the entire summer. I lived in it.

Each morning, I'd wake up wearing nothing but my suit. I would stagger down to the kitchen in my bathing suit and a pair of shorts I had pulled on.

I knew weeding our half acre garden was always the large chore of the day. So I'd pour myself a big bowl of grape nuts to put off the inevitable as long as I could manage.

It was hot. It was humid. It was Pennsylvania.

Still, if we worked hard enough, we were taken swimming nearly everyday by one in the afternoon. So after the garden, I'd grab my towel and actually use my swimming suit.

My siblings and I would come home tuckered out and I'd lie down on the couch and fall asleep. When I woke, it was usually time to set the table, eat dinner, do the dishes, and I even have a few good memories of our family messing around and playing summer games outside.

All was done in my suit.

We'd come in after the sky would darken and watch television. We'd go back out again and watch the lightening bugs.

I'd sleepily stagger back up to bed in my suit and fall asleep.

The next morning was exactly the same, only tasks of snapping green beans, pitting cherries, skinning onions, canning in general, hanging sheets on the line, burning papers (which means absolutely nothing to you unless you're part of my family), and the likes can be substituted for the gardening.

Most often though, all of it was followed by swimming, napping, eating, playing, and bedtime.

I know this seems unorthodox at best if not down right disgusting to most. I lived in my suit and had I not had church every Sunday, I would have spent the entirety of my summer in it. As is, the days I spent out of my suit would have been less that two actual weeks worth.

I'm missing the beach. What I would give to be in Hawaii right now, with no fewer than two weeks of vacation ahead of me, a pair of shoes, a skirt, and a swimming suit.

Lay Thee Down Now and Rest, May Thy Slumber Be Blessed

It's after midnight. But it's snowing. And I loathe the snow. But it's so beautiful. And it's the perfect backdrop for a restless night. So restless indeed, that I'm looking up quotes about my insomnia.

"It's at night, when perhaps we should be dreaming, that the mind is most clear, that we are most able to hold all our life in the palm of our skull. I don't know if anyone has ever pointed out that great attraction of insomnia before, but it is so; the night seems to release a little more of our vast backward inheritance of instincts and feelings; as with the dawn, a little honey is allowed to ooze between the lips of the sandwich, a little of the stuff of dreams to drip into the waking mind. Three score years and ten is such a stingy ration of time, when there is so much time around. Perhaps that's why some of us are insomniacs; night is so precious that it would be pusillanimous to sleep all through it! A "bad night" is not always a bad thing." ~Brian W. Aldiss

A Popcorn and Cranberry String of...

I could barely feel my finger tips in my black fleece gloves.

The black fleece hat kept inching off my head and was getting lost in the hood of my sweatshirt which barely moved with my body because it was clinging to the mint green fleece under it. The white tee shirt was twisting under the green fleece and all of it had separated from my jeans.

My bare lower back was itching from the pink striped wool blanket between me and the ground. The blanket on top of me was doing little more than annoy rather than warm. I shoved my hands in between my legs hoping there was warmth to spare for my extremities.

Despite all of this, I gazed up at the black night sky sprinkled full of white stars.

It was cold, yes. Yet it was a beautiful sight… and my two giggling friends were making it all the better. What can I say? When a person just needs to breathe some fresh air, she counts herself lucky to have friends willing to do it with her even on a frosty night.

We were all taking turns asking the questions. When I wasn’t staring at the heavens, I was focusing on the ice flakes which had formed on our blankets and any other exposed clothing.

“Is there anything you regret in your life that if you could go back and do it again, you would change?”

I laughed at the question. I still laugh at the question. I never know what I’m going to hear with something like this. Mostly in this day and age, a day where we’re taught to take little responsibility, an age where we’re told we don’t owe anything to anyone, in this day and age of moral decay, I frequently hear people comment on having no regrets. They’d do it all the same.

This has fascinated me. I understand the concept of thinking you’re on a good path now, of thinking there really is no going back anyway so why really think about changing any of it, of thinking you are a good person in a good place and to change anything about the journey may change those two facts.

The truth is I have a string of regrets. I have a series of events and behaviors I would undo or even summon the bravery to do.

I met a new friend or rather became more acquainted with a new friend who inspires me. A person who is fundamentally good to the core. A person who encourages, uplifts, and fortifies me in our every dealing. A person I can’t seem to get enough of because goodness in this form rarely, if ever, comes your way.

Every encounter leaves me wanting more and not of this person’s company but of myself.

I am reminded of my many mistakes. I see how this other has come across my same temptations and prevailed. I have many instances I bemoan.

I am thankfully aware of some of my own successes as I’m glad I don’t have to report wrong doing on my part. Not that I owe or would give any sort of accounting before this individual but because being in this individual’s presence makes me acutely aware of my being and I immediately find myself reporting to me.

I regret not being more, not giving more, not helping more. But regrets are fruitless and that’s the truth. Here’s to a holiday season which too is acting upon me as this new friend. To a season where most of us give more, help more, and generally are more.

And here’s to the friend as well.

... And You Lose Some

I rarely try to disclose any specific incident in my life unless it applies to my greater and more formulated themed essay. But I woke up this morning and was giggling literally within 30 seconds of being coherent. And I promise, I do NOT laugh in the morning.

What follows is an account as accurately as I can portray it. I have not embellished which makes it even better.

Each night, I sleep with the window open. I have done this for years. No matter the season. No matter the temperature. The window has to be open for me to sleep.

On a more personal note, I sleep in my skivvies only. I have also been doing this for years. I do not wear socks. I do not wear clothes.

However, when the weather turns cooler, I’ll pull on a t-shirt and bottoms and lately my ugg boots. I don’t know when and I can’t imagine it takes long, but I always seem to wake up back in my undies only.

Last night I pulled on a tee, some pants, and my uggs. After some television watching and a little socializing, I eventually sauntered up to bed completely exhausted. I must have been wholly worn out because this morning when I woke, I was lying on my stomach and my feet felt stiff.

I literally blinked open my eyes and was wearing nothing but my undies… AND my boots. Additionally I have no recollection of how the clothes came off and not the boots.

Wait. I'm thirsting to death!

... said my roommate to me when she walked in the door and I with guitar in hand told her I wanted to dedicate a song to her. I waited for her to fetch a beverage. “Okay, go,” she urged.

Probably for my final formal posted installment of all things gratitude, I grateful for good people… and my roommates are some of them.

This same roommate later on needed to run an errand and commented how her Jeep was out of gas. “Take the civic,” I offered. “I just filled her up yesterday.”

Of course I drive a mazda 626. The civic is indeed hers (yes, she is a two car woman) which she has been so hospitable to lend to me while my car, heaven help us all, is yet again out of commission and has been since Saturday.

Yet to know her is to know that even though this vehicle is hers, she’s just that nice that you’d have to offer it back to her. She’d never presume to reclaim it under my usage.

The best part is this girl is not a push over. She is a sassy little thing. But good people exist in this world. Better people than me. And I’m grateful for that. I’m grateful for them.

What Is It About... Certainly Not Me

I must confess, I’ve been excited to write this post for a few days.

I decided to make a goal to post on the 5th, 10th, 15th, 20th, and 25th entries of gratitude leading up to THE day of thanksgiving.

I made the goal with the intent to force myself to at least be grateful on those days having no foreknowledge I might actually be thankful on days in between. And I’m entirely excited for this one.

I am grateful for feeling blessed on days when I feel like I least deserve it.

I’m incredibly aware of my personal faults and flaws on any given day. I fall subject to many follies which beset mankind.

There are days when life is good, I’m very happy, and everything is going smoothly. On these days, I take little time to feel blessed. Then there are days when life is bad, I’m very miserable, and everything keeps getting screwed up. On these days, I take little time to feel blessed.

On the occasional day I feel blessed, it’s commonly a result of something going my way and the emotion which accompanies is a sort of giddiness. I smile. I laugh. I am… well giddy. Yet this is NOT the emotion I reference today.

There are moments in this world when you are going about your days knowing you could do better, be better.

You are indifferent to anything outside of yourself and apathetic towards yourself.

Then when you think no one is noticing, something INCREDIBLE happens to you. And you are immediately aware this is the result of nothing you’ve done and certainly nothing you’ve earned.

There is one source you know to offer up essential gratitude but the emotion is not giddiness. It is debt.

And it is a purer form of feeling blessed than anything else I know. I’m awed. I am overwhelmed. I… weep.

For THIS unpolluted, unsullied, authentic blessing which has absolutely nothing to do with me and everything to do with an altruistic Gift, I am grateful.

The Recipe

It was 5:34pm on a Friday afternoon. I was exhausted from my work week and excited to get home and get on with my evening plans.

I was wearing a black long sleeved shirt, a black knee length skirt, and fantastic black boots worth every last penny I spent on them. I had my bag strewn on my shoulder, my keys and security badge in my right hand and a bright red covered, holiday edition of “O” magazine in the other. I looked every bit the part of an executive woman ready leave.

As I journeyed to the glass door which separates my department from the general lobby of our building, I prematurely threw the force of my body into this door before I had adequately pushed the release bar to liberate the latch which secures shut the access.

Upon so doing, the most thunderous crash, followed by a metal scraping discharge of lever, while finishing with a pop from the sheer forcing of the door open drew all of the attention of the my two male co-workers lounging in the lobby to me.

A great deal of laughter commenced. The boys were roaring in amusement and I myself broke out in the most lively, hilarious mirth I’d experienced in an extended period of time.

My high school choir teacher once paid me one of the greatest compliments I have ever been given. One I have frequently treasured and thought upon when labeled with characteristics such as boisterous and the likes.

She told me she couldn’t help but laugh every time I laughed. She told me my laugh was one of the most authentically jubilant laughs of all the people she knew. She said I laughed from the toes of my feet to the hair on my head and was certain every part of my body partook in it.

In my more recent adulthood, for many reasons the world feels more comfortable with, I have learned to stifle this hearty laugh of mine. I have scaled back and toned down my merriment to be more appropriate for public displays of gaiety.

Yet on this darkening, autumn, Friday evening, I laughed what I have long since laughed. And I felt it in my toes and on my head.

The boys joked, “sheesh, you couldn’t wait one more second to get out of here, could you?” which sent us each into this gleeful fit all over again.

I’m grateful for laughter. This often socially inappropriate, audacious, roaring bellow of goodness which tingles life into every element of my being. I love when others laugh. However, I love it more when I get to do it myself. The sound of laughter is medicine.

A Flashlight

There are times when you find yourself lost, marching in the middle of the night on unfamiliar ground.

In these times you become wide-eyed and your alertness is heightened. Each one of your senses deeply awakened. Every sensation intensifies.

The moment to panic vanishes immediately in a desperate desire to survive.

Every resource you’ve been taught you could use is gone and as you look around, you’re overcome with a realization you may not make it. A feeling of defeat. The awful true knowledge that every last drop in your reservoir of faith has been used.

Yet in this final minute, this instant of despair, is when you stumble into a new reserve you were never aware existed. A sister quality of faith.

HOPE. And this is a tremendously grand experience. Mind-blowing in all its revitalizing abilities.

Then air starts to seep into your lungs. Your clenched fists fall to your sides and begin to release. Your jaw relaxes.

I am grateful to have experienced everything which has brought me to this moment.

To be taught again and again of pain, without any exposure to it, is to know next to nothing of pain. Still pain is a commodity the world has much of and anyone with a pulse will be subject to.

Nevertheless hope, a highly examined contemplation in most any philosopher’s mind, may rarely find dwelling in any given person. It shows up in the darkest of hours. It's the unlikely choice a person makes while having every reason to choose anything else.

Though if you do, it's like kicking into rock. Yet when you bend down to observe the damage, you discover a flashlight.

Do, Re, Mi in November

I look forward to every Tuesday. Even as I type this sentence, I feel like I've breeched this topic before. Nonetheless, I look forward to every Tuesday.

This is the day in which media drops, an industry term meaning albums, dvds, and books are released to the public for review and purchase.

I am an avid music lover. I know many people are these days and I don't begrudge sharing this hobby with mankind. In a world where it seems the hearts of men are waxing cold, music is a very simple, very powerful way to invoke emotion from even the most apathetic spirited person.

So the very first thing I’m thankful for this season is the gift of music. For the insightful words of wisdom gathered from inspired hopefuls around the world.

For a crucial escape from any agonizing moment.

For the soundtrack to giggling with the girls in my bed late on Saturday nights, baking pumpkin chocolate chip cookies and decided if blended oatmeal is a good substitute for wheat flour, and mostly for any good spiritual experience.

Music has almost always been the vehicle to bring me back to my divine disposition.

I am grateful to the many writers, singers, and producers who have sacrificed much to bring it to me. Music enhances my life and I, personally, am enormously grateful for it.

Nothing Is Real 'Til It's Gone

My friend said it’s similar to looking at the northern lights and telling someone you love them. I equate it to being at the Goo Goo Dolls concert after a week of hard work with three of your great girlfriends while more confetti than you could ever dream of falls from above.

There are few words and whatever words may be able to describe the emotion is certainly out of my ability to do so.

I knew it was our busiest week of the year. I knew going into it how difficult it would be. I had tons of anxiety. I knew as I packed my bags the night before, before I even checked into the hotel room, before I met the foreigners, it would be grueling and exhausting. I didn’t expect it would be one of the most rewarding weeks of my life.

I expected one hundred hours as the worst case scenario. I came in just under. Yet anything between eighty and a hundred feels the same. Simply put, it’s all a blur.

I work for a global company with distributors coming from many countries around the world. This past week was a corporate convention and it all started there. “There” being a corn maze shaped like David Archuleta as his music blared from the surrounding speakers while 500 multi cultural early comers were entertained by and on the company.

I gave a tour of our corporate headquarters (a frequent job task) to a group of sixty Hungarians and Czech Republicans. My tour consisted of my English to a French translator who translated the French to Hungarian while a Hungarian further translated to Czech for all the rest.

Early on, I sarcastically made a statement only to be told in English by the French translator sarcasm is American and doesn’t translate. “Well folks, I don’t really have much more for you. Here is the corporate state of the art boardroom, CEO’s office, the Co-Founders’ offices, the elevator. Any questions?”

Later that week I would annihilate two of those Hungarians in a speed drinking contest. Upon leaving the table and dashing off to usher another event, I took my wine glass of water, and swallowed the full contents in about half a second. The president of our Eastern Europe Market was impressed. When commenting on my talent, I openly accepted the familiar astonishment as I’ve known I’ve had this ability for awhile.

Two of these Hungarians then challenged me to a drink off in which servers were summoned to bring each of us two of these glasses filled with water, the Europeans’ being room temperature and mine being cold. “Un, deux, trois!”

I smoked them. To which I was told had they been drinking beer, they would have beaten me. I was informed Europeans don’t drink water. To which I notified them I was more than up for the challenge after I finished work. I was cheered by onlookers and fellow co-workers.

Yet if I had to sum up my sixteen plus hour days filled with luncheons & motivational speakers like Peter Vidmar, hand shakes & double cheek kisses (I love these the best), registration & onsite product store assignments, charity dinners & silent auctions, late night dance practices for Saturday morning general session introductions & even later night conversations with co-workers in hotel rooms, I think the only word I could use for the encounter would be “hope.”

I felt a sort of hope which I have long since felt. A resurgence of what I’m good at… people. That I have so much left to experience and contribute in this world… a listening ear and love. That although I struggle with having mastered nothing in this world, I am naturally good at almost everything I try.

I’m bright. I’m comical. I’m charismatic. Then for the first time in a long time, I thought less about how I’ve been begging Deity to take me to the people I need to be with or the place I need to be.

I thought more about how somewhere someone is begging Deity to send me into their life. As an employee. As an emissary. As a companion.

I felt hope. Hope in people of the world. Hope in two prayers are heard better than one. Hope in my future.

So even as the concert marking week’s end finished and I was getting my pictures taken with the Goo Goo Dolls (backstage passes), I was more concerned with getting to IHOP in time to meet up with my friends I’d been without for vastly more than a hundred hours.

I finally got home, went to bed, and upon waking 14 hours later had one thought in my mind. Hope.

A Penny Saved

Sunday is not my usual day for writing anything which may end up online.

I diligently reserve Sundays for personal writing. Pages and pages of journal entries.

Sometimes as simple as recounting a weekend activity, occasionally the philosophizing I restrict from public eyes, and intermittently the notation of private fears or passions.

I have acquired a weird hobby in the past couple months. I enjoy reading obituaries. I’ll go online and pull up any location in the country I wish to travel to and read about someone who lived a life there. And tonight I stumbled across a good one.

It was the picture which seized me. I gazed at this man and felt so immediately connected. I wanted to know about him. So I read. Born in another country. His immigration. His life, his education, his career, and his family. His story. Then I wanted to know him.

I have this immense love for the elderly. A substantial respect really. My friend seemed to finally take note of this in me within the past couple weeks and now frequently observes and comments on its presence in my life. I found her surprise at this fact comical and relayed it to another friend of mine.

When the latter queried to my fascination with this generation I simply replied, “I’m a story person. They have the stories.”

They have the stories about good times and bad times. The stories about war and about peace. The stories about love, hatred, and forgiveness. The stories about life.

In these stories are morsels of explanation, solutions to setbacks, and recipes for doing it all and potentially doing it better than what has come before us.

I hear optimism. I hear humor. I hear hope.

So tonight, I’m taking a second to meditate and re-immortalize this man.

I never knew you but I thank you. Thank you for reiterating to me the importance of education (formal or informal). To listen more and speak less. But mostly, thank you for showing me there are hard things to be done in life. Difficult things like leaving your country and the familiar to commence on a new path. A path I have no doubt frightened you terribly. Yet a path which offered much joy after the fight. You and others like you are inspirations to me.

Are There No Shoes?

About three months ago, I finally had to submit to a package of technology I've been avoiding. Unlimited Texts.

I don't mind texting. I concede to its convenience. Any time. Any place. Anywhere. The fact I had to upgrade proves this. My church texts information regarding activities. My boss texts reminders for meetings. And my friends…

However to ignore the repercussions of its existence would be irresponsible of us. It's impersonal. It takes little thought. It holds us accountable for next to nothing.

If I had a dime for every plan made over the phone and every plan broken over text, I'd be significantly wealthier.

This past year seems to have pummeled us, forcing us into a kind technology not essential for living or work. A technology which has been enslaving in our social practices and regressive in the fine art of communing.

Hereafter is simply my opinion, my experience, and my perception.

With focus on the internet, I have seen an explosion in signups on social networking sites and blogs alone. And with every click to add a new friend, to feel less isolated, we flush away kinship.

We reduce our relationships to a digital, less than 50 words, sporadic coming and going recaps. In our desire to connect, we become much less connected.

Sure we are touching base with a growing number of people. We are locating those who we temporarily lost. Yet at what cost?

Comparison and competition is thriving in this environment. The adolescent seemingly witnesses how peers are skinnier, prettier, and dating more. Women seemingly observe other wives doing it better, other mothers being more successful, and other women who are more involved and more accomplished. Or worse. Their pride supposes them the envy of others.

For me, it's merely the car I don't drive, the money I don't have, and the experiences I’m not encountering. Funny how every walk of life leaves us wanting more and feeling less. Never did anything perpetuate this feeling within humanity as the technology I have illustrated.

Where there is comparison and competition, there is enmity.

We sign on to see we haven’t been left messages or the “right ones” haven’t left us a message. We see those who sit idly on their accounts and others leaving their cyber prints all over the place offering little insight or connection rather a stamp to prove they’ve merely been there.

Additionally I could list more reasons. However it’s my final rationale which pains me the most. The lost art of communication and people relating.

When I was in high school, I had a boyfriend who furthermore was my best friend at the time. I loved talking to him. We discussed everything under the sun. We developed this practice of nighttime phone calls.

I would get done play practice at 10 or sometimes 11, come home, get ready then jump into bed while making the call. However the calls would linger well into the early mornings.

Once my mother picked up her bedside phone at 2:30AM and spoke authoritatively, “time to hang up now.” I will never forget it. I will never forget those conversations.

Work and life has been tremendously exhausting of late. Last night I decided to retire much earlier than my usual post midnight bedtime. Upon climbing into the covers, I desired a little pillow talk. Literally.

I picked up my phone and scrutinized my contacts. I found myself in a very real dilemma.

There were two types of people. People who I know and love, who might have been up for the late night phone chat but were on the opposite coast or long turned in.

The second (and this is the distressing part) were my fellow peers. Peers who I knew if I signed onto a certain networking site would all be chatting in spades. Yet peers who I deem as lacking the skills to carry on a heartfelt, authentic, unfeigned conversation. Had I called, I would have confused any one of them.

“What’s going on?”
“I just wanted to talk, that’s all.”
“What happened?”
“Nothing. Just longing to connect with someone.”
Awkward silence. Stuttering. “Oh. Well… how was your day?” And those would have been the wrong words.

The right words would have been anything which would have jumpstarted the conversation. “Well I took a test today and I’m pretty sure I bombed it b/c I never listen in class. The professor is a total bore.”

“Oh yeah. I hate that. I’m so glad I’m done school. I went to the mall because I have a $40 gift certificate knowing that I wanted a pair of shoes. And after looking for no fewer than 2 hours, I found nothing. Can you believe that? Me? The shoe hoarder of late. And when I went into Vans, a tried and trusted shoe stop for me, I was greeted by indifference to a WALL of shoes, which on any other given day I can covet up to 3 pair. Can you believe THAT?”

(Unfortunately that’s a true story of this past week, folks. The excursion. Not the fake conversation.)

These are the details of our lives which bind us together. Which are defining of our beings to one another. Which are NOT blog worthy. Which get lost in this day and age of being so digitally united while so emotionally detached.

“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us…" C. Dickens

Now I'm off to hypocritically develop my friendships via comments. After all, I love giving and getting them too.

Susceptibility...

... the state of having little resistance.

I can’t believe I’m doing this.

This entry is conceived in much shame. Nonetheless, most of my posts come only after I’ve tested the ideas against time. Meaning, if I think about blogging something and three days later I still want to blog about it, then I usually commence the process towards fruition.

Some of my friends and I have been on a stage kick of late. I’ve seen two plays in the last two weeks alone. And this pastime makes going to the movies look like an activity for the poor.

(I'm still going to the movies AND attending concerts. In fact, I've done all three this week.) Two nights ago, my friends and I decided to go see Aida which is playing locally at present.

I have really come to appreciate the direction which goes into these productions. Every stage is different and every new director has a unique vision for placing the specific story mood and essential details to generate an atmosphere on the small stage.

I was completely amused by the plot though predictable. However, I enjoyed what I believe the origin of the play to be. Elton John and Tim Rice having had so much fun writing for the Lion King that the moment it ended commenced the creation of Aida.

This musical is similar in plot location and musical theme only. Fortunately, it’s about people and not a pride of lions.

I am NOT before you writing a review. There was a simple detail the director took in this production which exploits one of my weaknesses for and affinity towards in my “Pandora’s box of male characteristics.”

(Sigh discreditably.) The fauxhawk. Or my truer kryptonite, the mohawk, when executed responsibly.

Now, there could not have been a better friend or companion at my side than was in this moment. For when I gasped so audibly upon sight of the Captain and his servicemen , the only person who could laugh and understand completely my immediate physical (emotional and let’s face it, 99% hormonal) response was the girl which sat beside me.

All the same. My former roommate. My very dear friend. A hair stylist. And my own color specialist.

I love mohawks but am extremely particular to shortness of the sides, wideness of the band, and overall height. So I love the fauxhawk. Additionally, a more traditional hair do is essential (as I prefer my men with respectable jobs) which lends itself to the conservative fauxhawk better.

Men in any play have never looked so appealing and so… well, delicious that appetite seems an entirely appropriate word for sexuality. I was in love. And those who do not presume lust to be a form of love, who sadly limit their definition of love to “happily ever after”, are truly missing out.

Should you believe this to be a random act of direction for the men of the play to be required to sport the look, the play has quite a sub-plot emphasis on fashion. It makes sense for the director to have employed fashion details such as this. I applaud the person who took my dull mundane week and turned it into daydream central ever since.

I cannot ever truly love a man who does not have a fauxhawk.