I have a tendency to worry about things far in advance. For instance, when I was 12, I began to worry about leaving for college.

Though recently, I've been very good about taking life one day at a time because if I didn't life would be a little much to handle right now and I'd be worrying too much about next year, last night I jumped far into the future with a new worry. I was out for dinner with my mom and began worrying about my hair. I've always had very fine hair. When I was a little girl, people were surprised to hear my mom say that, because something about the color and the cut made it look very thick. Then when I hit my teen years, it was kind of hard to hide how very thin it was. The light would hit my part in a way so you could see what I called "my bald spot." But, really, it isn't just one spot. I just have truly thin hair.

I choose who cuts my hair based on how sensitive they are about discussing how fine it is, because I'm very sensitive about it. Some hairstylists have been very blunt and exclaimed, "OH my!! I have never seen hair so thin!! This is going to be something to work with. How do you deal!??" So I nixed them. But I do want someone who will acknowledge it so they will at least cut my hair according to its texture, so I've nixed those who didn't say anything when I mentioned it and, therefore, didn't even cut it with the fine texture in mind.

Anyway, so I was talking to my mom about how it does come out in chunks sometimes (right now due to an epilepsy medication) and how I worry about what I'll do when I'm in my 60s, if it just falls and falls and falls until it looks ridiculous and I have more baldness than hair. This problem does run on one side of my family. We discussed extensions, but I imagined trying to put extensions into the 20 hairs left in my head and how that just wouldn't work. Then, finally, we found my solution.

A very nicely made wig.

A weight was truly lifted off my chest. When I hit my llate 60s and you can really see my scalp, I'm heading to the nearest fine wig store and buy an expensive wig that looks real and will keep me young.

I'm so glad I've got that settled right now.

(don't) Let it snow

How is it that I was born and raised in Iowa, I have never lived in any other state, the furthest I've lived from my hometown is a three hour drive, and I absolutely hate snow. Really, I just despise winter. The years come and go, and every year, I act like it's new and unexpected that it is going to be freezing, it is going to snow/freezing rain/ice/mixture of it all, and I'm going to be displeased with it all. I act like I don't know it's coming, even though I spend the rest of the year being so happy it isn't winter.

But I was born here. It's not like I know a whole winter without awful temperatures and terrible weather. I realize it happens in other places. I've spent a Christmas in an outdoor pool staring gleefully at palm trees while fellow Iowans told me they couldn't possibly imagine Christmas feeling right without snow. But it felt more like Christmas to me because the gift was that there was no snow, you see.

I've tried to blame my yearning for yearlong perfect weather on genetics. Could it be that because my dad was born on the equator that I just am destined to grumble, mumble, and stomp my feet at this snow and ice and subzero temperatures? That must be it.

Other people are all, "Oh, yeah, I don't like this weather. I hate driving in it and it's so cold. But, you know, ya gotta appreciate the four seasons!" And then I'm all in their face and say, "BUT NO! It could be BETTER! I hate this!! Places exist where it is 70 degrees ALL THE TIME! GENETICALLY, I crave it!! Why do I stay here and suffer so?? My genes say no! *pant pant*"

But I know why I stay here. Because my family is nearby and nothing is more important to me than family. My best friends are a hop and a skip away. Winter is different every year... sometimes it might only last from January through March and sometimes it can last from October through the very beginning of April, so I always have the hope that it will be one of those Two Month Winters. And finally... because hot lattes and macchiatos don't taste right in any other weather.

Logan

If you ask me, my dog is a precious little boogleedoo. I'd have his sweet little face posted on here, but I'm scandalously writing this from work. Instead, my writing will have to do.

When people ask what his breed is, my husband and I glance anxiously at each other take a deep sigh, because Logan is not what we thought he was and we want to answer slowly and carefully, so as not to offend anyone. People are often taken off guard by our response. I'm sure they expect us to giggle a little and say, "Oh, he's just some mutt." or go ahead and say, "Oh, he's just a widdle itty bitty Yorkie!" But it's so much more complicated. Logan thought he was a Yorkie and that's what we thought we were getting when we adopted the fuzzy little golden boy. So we prepare the inquirers for our answers, sit them down and, with understanding faces, we begin the story.

"Well," we start, "he looks like an oversized yorkie. We thought we were getting a yorkie, you see. And we like to make sure he doesn't feel bad about himself, so we haven't really discussed the discovery that he is actually a Silky Terrier, something no one knows of, but something that I find to be a blessing, bless his tiny little fluffy soul."

So there you have it. He looks like a precious yorkie on steriods, weighing in at 12 pounds, when yorkies generally weigh about 4 pounds. He doesn't really look real, is the weird thing. He looks like a stuffed animal that moves with these most animated moves, and looks at us with these amazing brown eyes that melt your heart like Gizmo's do on The Gremlins.

What being a silky terrier means is that Logan is very timid upon meeting new people. He doesn't bark much, he's pretty laidback about what people do to him. He's just a pretty chill dog. The only thing that makes him hyper are knowing that treats or chew bones are on the way and the arrival of people he knows. Even then, he doesn't bark. He flaps his arms for me. So hard that if I attached little wings to his arms, he'd totally fly.

The problem is, he is my little angel. Stress on the my. When it's just Logan and me, he behaves so well. Seeing as how he is two, there are absolutely no accidents. He tells me he needs to go outside either with a whimper or by pushing on something with his nose. He doesn't have any barking fits. He spends most of his time chewing on chew bones, curled up in my lap, or snoozing on his back somewhere. When I do my stretches, he'll even join me with his own little yoga poses. We have a great time. When it's just us at home, or if just I travel with him to my mom's he's an absolute picture of the perfect dog.

But when Kevin joins the picture or when it's just Kevin and Logan... something happens. I'll tell you now, on our lease, they accidentally put that Logan is a "Silky Terror" and even though Kevin loves him as much as I do, he tells people, "Isn't that the truth." With Kevin around or even when Kevin takes him to his parents' house, Logan suddenly has this need to show him who's boss. He'll have barking fits that used to last up to a half hour. He'll act out and have an accident, even though he's capable of holding it for 16 hours if he must. He'll steal Kevin's socks and put holes in them. He'll do everything he can think of to push Kevin's buttons. I don't think Kevin believes me when I tell him what a picture of innocence that puppy is when the two of us are alone for a couple of days.

It's not that they never bond, though. At night, Logan chooses to snuggle with Kevin, which makes me jealous. When Logan isn't having a barking fit as Kevin watches TV, he can be found lying on his chest.... that is, Logan can be found lying on Kevin's chest, looking like he's in heaven. And when I go to hug Kevin, Logan will leave whatever snuggly spot he has created and run to us, jump on Kevin's lap, put his hands on Kevin's shoulders and join the hug.

He is a precious little bundle of fur. I just don't get why he must push Kevin's buttons.

Mom

The blogs I read are mainly written by very loving mothers. While I am not a mother, though I love my dog dearly (I always wonder if people are offended when they ask if I have children and I bring up my dog. I don't mean to offend, he is just the closest thing I know to having a child), the stories I read usually take me back to my own childhood. I always wonder if the mothers of the blogs ever see themselves in their own stories, or if they're in such a busy world of mothering that they don't see it, yet.

My mom told me that it only recently hit her that I view her and have memories of her the way she views her own mother. Of course, they have completely different parenting skills. My mom took what she liked about her mom's parenting and kept it, then took what she didn't like and put in her own way of parenting that she thought would be better. But, for whatever reason, it didn't occur to her that I would look back on my life and have "Mom Stories" that she wouldn't relate to or remember. Or that my brothers and I would have "Mom Stories," typically funny ones, that we share and are independent from her.

I'm used to being the youngest child, both in my family and in my mom's extended family, and having everyone tell me stories of me being knee-high to a grasshopper. But my mom isn't used to hearing stories of being The Mom. She just was The Mom. I hope I'm getting the point across. It was just a new concept to her to realize that, although she knows almost every little detail about me, she can't actually go in my head and see the memories that I have of being her little girl.

It would take a novel to describe what being my mom's daughter is like. I have years of blogging to do that, I guess. In one word, it was a blessing. I wish all children could feel that. I wish children who are blessed with great mothers but go through their teen years turning their backs on their moms would get over themselves and appreciate what they have.

My mom and I have faced dark struggles together, possibly bringing us closer than your average mother/daughter team. But that's not what I want to focus on in this blog. I want to write a story about the time we went to Starr's Cave, this huge plot of land with trails, caves... perfect for an outdoor lover... something I've never known my mom to be.

We had just moved to Burlington and I'm going to assume that my mom wanted to do something with my brother and me to help us see what the town had to offer. Get us out and have some fun. So, a'hiking we went down the trails of Starr's Cave. Being an optimistic 9-year-old, I recall enjoying it as we got started. I can't say much for my brother, but what I know of him from that time, I can't say I picture him whistling and skipping along side me. I do recall having a snake scare, but my mom kept the energy up.

I remember we finally spotted a cave. I was far too scared to step into the dark hole. Who knew what that could lead to? Bears? Witches? Well, my brother was curious, so he stepped in and about 2 seconds later, the usually calm teen came running out screaming like a baby girl as bats flew out after him. Turns out that's what's found in caves. That freaked the doodle out of him and I wasn't really about that, so we were done with caves.

We kept tromping around and after a while, I noticed that we had passed the same cornfield three times. Four times. Five times. I knew it was the same because I saw a piece of farming equipment sitting in the middle of it. At this point, my mom and I had to join my brother in his lack of enthusiasm. The sun was starting to go, no one was coming our way, so we couldn't follow anyone back to the parking lot, if we even had a map, it had obviously failed us... visions of snakes and bats nibbling on our fatigued bodies were dancing through my head.

I have no clue how, but we did find a path that led us back to our car. Thank goodness. All my mom wanted to do was show us a fun side of Burlington. The move had been hard on the whole family, that includes her, and she thought getting the two of us out for a day of hiking would be great. For some reason, that backfired and she told me to never to go on trails ever again.

I followed her new rule until I was 18 when my friends and I, unfortunately, returned to Starr's Cave for a cross country ski trip and we got lost as the sun was setting. That's another story for another day.

John Stamos

It always seems to me that when people go nutty on the Internet about their favorite celebrity, they get to him him/her. So I thought, "Self, why don't you give this a try?" It's just... I don't want to get so nutty that I sound obsessed because (a) what if John Stamos does really read this and is scared of me, or (b) what if he doesn't but everyone else does and they're just plain scared of me?

So I'm going to keep it tame, but let it be known... I heart John Stamos.

Our (one-sided) love affair began in 1992. Maybe '91. Please don't do the math. I don't want to scare John away with how creepy young I was when I first loved him. I mean, if I heard that a 9-year-old was drooling on me, I'd be pretty grossed out... whoops. Anyway, he was on Full House, but without the mullet when the lovin' began. I looked forward to the show every Tuesday night for a while, but at this point, it might have been every Friday night. Besides that, I also watched two episodes right after school before I went outside to play until dark. It was my afternoon ritual. Not because of those Olsens. Not just because Stephanie was super cool and my age, though that was also a big part of it. But the big bonus was that they had the cutest uncle I had ever laid eyes on.

I will admit that as the show came to its inevitable end, I realized that it was pretty lame and time for it to go. But I missed my weekly dose of Uncle Jesse and couldn't wait until I could find him somewhere else. Unfortunately, I didn't live in New York to buy tickets to his Broadway shows.

So I had to wait until college when he was on a short-lived show called Jake in Progress. That did it for the time being. What was even better was when he did commercials for 10-10-987, a number that made your landline long distance phone calls cost only ten cents. He would knock on people's doors to tell them about the number. I wrote a whole paper for college about how I'd get all dressed up at home, just waiting for him to come a'knockin' with his schpeel about the number. Then I'd invite him in for some food and who knew what could ensue after that!

(Of course, John, this "dressing up and waiting" thing totally never happened. Totally not that obsessed. Only obsessed enough to consider it for a paper.)

Eventually, though, the 10-10-987 commercials were gone and I was left with the occasional picture of him in People magazine. Unseen on television, not not forgotten in my heart, John. As proof, when I got my dog from my loving and doting husband... he let me name him Logan John Stamos.

And then, it happened. John got a role on one of TV's best television shows. ER. I can get my weekly dose of him, again. I can find interviews with him on daytime and latenight shows. He's more likely to be found in mindless magazines. He's everywhere!

When I find him on a latenight show, I quiet down anyone else in the room, for fear that I'll miss any hilarious or heartfelt thing John says. I laugh harder at his jokes than anyone else. Basically, I'm like a teenager on a date with her biggest crush.

I really want to meet John Stamos. However, I'm afraid that if I ever did, I would do the stupidest things and make a fool of myself. He'd probably say, "Hi." and I'd probably laugh really hard and say, "Oh gosh! I knew you'd be funny in person! You're great on latenight shows, but this! This is funny!"

Oh. John. So great.

The Struggles I Face

I take the city bus home from work. Um, opposed to the school bus, I guess. I don't want to scare the children. Anyway at this point in the day, I am absolutely exhausted. I usually have a twenty minute wait between the time I get off from work and the time the bus arrives, so I'm generally one of the first on the bus. I like to choose a window seat when I get on. I don't want to be one of those uninviting people who will make someone stand instead of making sure everyone is safely seated. Back in the school days, I might have done that, but I'm 26, now, not 6, so I don't really get why people must be so needy about their space for just a few minutes.

Oh, but that's what I'm here to talk about.

So, as I said, I'm really beat after work, especially these past few days when it has been chilly and cloudy. And being on the bus for 25 minutes just reminds me of my traveling days as a child. We usually traveled by plane, but there were train trips, car trips, and maybe two bus trips. I was a good little traveler, not whiny. We often got compliments about how well my brothers and I traveled (what's that we hear? Oh, yes, me tooting my own horn). I usually just got sleepy on those long trips and relied on a shoulder of my big brother or dad to snuggle on to get me through the rides. And so the travel + the sleepy = reminders of my youth.

Well today, a man in a delightfully puffy coat came on the bus. All of the loner seats were filled, so he and his inviting coat chose to sit next to me. My exhaustion really began to set in, and this man's coat was coaxing me. I considered setting my head against the cold window, but what good is that? First of all, it's hard and cold. Secondly, think of all the oily heads that have sat upon that surface. Ew. The man's coat, however, with it's burgundy color and puffiness, slightly resembled the comforter of my bed. Just a little 25 minute snuggle with that would give me a good power nap for some energy to clean my apartment. The temptation was bordering on unbearable. I had to tell myself reasons why this was unacceptable, even if this man looked like my dad if I squinted my eyes just so.

First of all, I do realize that it is just inappropriate. Americans have their standards for personal space and just the fact that he was sitting close enough for me to tip my head and get a power nap in is uncomfortable for most Americans. I do enough inappropriate things in public to last a lifetime- dance routines down the aisles of WalMart, lift my leg while the dog pees outside, sing to my patrons at work. I need to learn where to draw the line.

Secondly, he might have mistaken my violation of his coat for a hint that, perhaps, I find him attractive. I struggle enough with why strange men think I'm interested in hearing their pick up lines. The last thing I need is to mislead this stranger simply because I decide to wrap my arms around him and push my head into his puffy, cotton-filled coat for 25 minutes. It's a simple temptation, but I don't need such consequences.

Finally, well, uh. Well, I don't have a "finally." Those just kept going through my head for 25 minutes to keep me from leaning on the stranger's puffy coat.

If I had given in, I would have found a way to blame him. Don't wear such a puffy coat and maybe I wouldn't have to use you as a body pillow, Sir.

Hippy to the Hippy to the Hip hip hop

Ay! I'm not so good at posting everyday, now, am I?

So, as I stated earlier, I began a dance class on November 3rd. We will meet every Monday at 9:00 at night. This, alone, is a big deal for me. On a normal night, I am in my pajamas and ready for bed at 9:00 (okay, maybe 8:00) and if there is a show that I want to watch that starts at 9 *cough*thehills*cough*, it takes a lot of will power for me to stay up. I really like to be in bed at 9 with a book until I can't keep my eyes open any longer.

On more than one occasion, The Husband has suggested that we run to the store, and before looking at the clock, I have looked at him incredulously and said, "I can't do that! It's practically time for bed! Do you know what time it--" and then I will look at the clock and see that it is only 7 o'clock. As a child, my neighbors were just finishing dinner at this hour. So when I see that I have no argument, I will begrudgingly get out of my sweats and into something that looks like I've been acting like a lively 26-year-old and we'll dash to the store.

So in order to be awake enough to dance at 9, I have decided to take an afternoon nap. That's what I did last week, and it worked. When 9 o'clock rolled around, I slapped on some sweats designed just for people with short legs, a dancing tank top that I bought for just $1 ($1!!) at WalMart, and my work out shoes. I then drove out to the boonies to the National Dance Academy that is located on the edge of a gorgeous neighborhood that I never knew existed until that day.

I hopped out of my car in a way that said, "I've done this before. I'm totally an experienced dancer." as I walked against a current of preteens who were piling out of the building and into minivans. It was the first time I stood in the building, because I was told I could pay after my first class, and I wasn't immediately sure which studio to go to... until I saw 30-somethings walking straight ahead into the first studio I saw. I followed them and asked if that was the beginners hip-hop course, and BINGO, I was right.

There were about 10 other ladies with me, in their 30s and 40s, all shapes and sizes. Our instructor looks to be about my age and is really friendly and bubbly. I was feeling comfortable right away. We started our 40-minute class with about 10 minutes of yoga-like stretches. I was digging that. I was mostly happy to see that I'm still pretty flexible. I've still got it!

After that, we started a new dance routine. I was relieved that they were starting something new, since I've missed the first seven classes. She must make a new routine each month. Now, this routine goes a little something like: step, step, snake your body, clap, turn, repeat with the left, repeat with the right, repeat with the left, ball change left, throw your arms, ball change right, throw your arms, ball change left, throw your arms, ball change right, throw your arms, feet shoulder length apart, arms straight down, sway four times, turn backwards (this all has a name, but I don't know what it is) and end. That's the beginning of the routine that we've learned so far, and I trust you follow.

I was really slow to learn. I can hardly remember what I just did five minutes ago, literally, so this was hard for me to catch on. I kept forgetting about the turns, which, as some may know, are done by crossing your legs and twisting yourself around. When I forgot about the turns, I found myself just walking in a circle, much like a dog chasing its tail. I also sometimes forgot to snake my body before the clap, so I would be the only student of all of us to clap and hear it echo around the room, over the music... I hoped people would just be so focused on themselves that they didn't hear it. And every time, when we finished, I was one beat behind everyone else. By the time the instructor turned around to see what we thought, I was still finishing.

Plus, we obviously had to keep practicing so we could get the steps down, and by the end of the class, the world was spinning after all of those turns.

Soooo, I'm not really good. BUT, I absolutely love it. I've practiced everyday this week and have improved (and lost a pound, to boot!). I like the music, the challenge, the exercise, and that I don't have to be the best at it. The point is just to have fun, get exercise, try my best to learn what I can and be capable of laughing at myself when I'm not quite there. I'm likin' this!

So Proud of America

I think I've missed just a day of posting. Yipes! I was busy being into the election. I'm so proud of our country for voting for change. We have a lot of work ahead of us, and, as citizens, we're going to have to start thinking of each other with this work... but I think it's about time we realize that we are the United States of America and not just America. It's time to think of each other.

And with this new president, we are going to get:
*Accessible and affordable health care. Something a person like me needs.
*Our failed economy will get back on track.
*Our nation's children will be put first, with investing in early education being one of the most important topics at hand. Even college will become more affordable - put in community service and take $4000 off your tuition. I'd be up for that.
*Our planet will be saved with renewable energy and alternative fuels which will also create new jobs... back to our economy.
*Our foreign policy will become more secure so we will become a safer and respected nation, once again.
*Our homeland security is going to be increased... something that has been lacking in the last few years.
*The war in Iraq will end responsibly and the war on terrorists that we need to work on will become our focus.
*Our seniors won't have to worry about losing their Social Security.
*95% of middle class workers will receive a tax cut. I sure don't make $250,000, so this will effect me and those who do make so much should understand that those of us who are struggling for our money can use the break. The people I know who make so much understand it.
*Our troops are going to be taken care of when they get home. Something that is often overlooked and won't be anymore.

This is just the tip of the iceberg and I'm beside myself with this new era that is about to unfold. A young man whose father was from Kenya (hey! like me!) and married his mother from Kansas (practically like me!), who was then raised humbly by his mother and maternal grandparents, lost his mother at a young age to cancer, worked hard enough to get into Columbia and Harvard for his law degree, but took a job in the southside of Chicago to work as a community organizer and then lawyer and professor before he became a senator... and now here he is. Humble beginnings that took him to the most powerful job in the world... and the first half-African American to do so.

It reminds us that America is really where you go to dream and make your dreams come true.

Now we need to do our part as citizens and break the political boundaries, come together, and make America the best country that it can be. I say that as someone who isn't registered as a democrat or republican because I don't know why there can't be shades of gray.

"We are the change we have been waiting for"

Superstar

I've got the cutest jacket this fall. Basically, it makes me feel like a superstar every time I put it on. And for bonus points, I bought it on clearance at Target.

I don't have a perfect picture of it... This is probably the best I can do, and you can hardly see what makes it so extraordinary, but my face does show how good it makes me feel:

It is the first jacket that I have bought in years and we were meant to be. When I put it on, I just strut around like I know I'm sort of a big deal. Sort of how my puppy prances around when he realizes we're about to go for a big walk. Compliments from acquaintances and strangers flutter to me like pretty little butterflies fluttering to a bright little flower. When it comes to style, I don't really know what to do, but I do know how to rock this jacket.

The only problem is that this jacket does me no good when it gets below 50 degrees. I do have a nice winter coat. It's cute and all, but... I don't feel like a super star in it. I don't strut like an excited puppy. Compliments don't come flying, because, though it's very nice, it's a common style.

There's only one solution to this. The temperature this fall and winter simply can't get colder than the 50s. I love this jacket too much.

Dancing Queen

Tomorrow I am going to attempt to pick up a new hobby. Dancing. Of course, as it is, I dance all the time. When I'm cleaning, when I'm in the car, when I have ten minutes left at work, when I'm shopping. If I'm not with a friend, I try to keep it to a subtle head bob or toe tap. No need to freak people out. But if someone is with me, there are no holds barred and whatever body part wants to jut out and shake to the beat is free to do so.

But I think it's time to learn the actual art of dancing. Some actual steps and perhaps an actual whole routine to a song. I enjoy music and find it irresistible to dance to (seriously, how do people listen to their iPods in public and not dance??) and am excited to learn how to really, seriously, dance to it. I've chosen to take a hip hop class, because that type of dancing goes with my favorite type of music.

My mom is pretty excited that I'm taking a dance class. These days, I often hear her say, "I've finally got a daughter!" because I was such a tomboy when I was growing up. I didn't like dresses, now I do. I didn't like shopping, now I do... on most days. I didn't want to take a dance class, and here I am, starting tomorrow. I know if my mom had chosen the type of dance I'd learn, it'd either be jazz (which I'm not against, I just got excited when I saw beginners adult hip hop was available) or tap.

I have this vague memory from when I was approximately 6-years-old. We lived off garage sale deals. Some of the best things from my childhood came from garage sales and cost my mom only fifty cents- desks, favorite shoes, huge teddy bears. We also had an amazing basement. Half of it was a finished play room for us kids. We had a huge TV, two couches that could be spilled on or whatever kids do to harm furniture and it didn't matter, my brothers' toy trunks were down there filled to the brim with GI Joes, Transformers, and Star Wars action figures and there was plenty of room to just run around and go safely nuts on the carpet. The other half of the basement was unfinished and turned into a little gym. My brothers had a kid-sized basketball court, I could rollerskate down there, I set up my little plastic bowling equipment there... it was a kid's dream!

So the point of this information is, one day, my mom came home from a morning of shopping at garage sales and found me playing in our mini-gym in the basement. She told me she found a great gift for the both of us. I was pretty interested. Maybe it was a doll. Maybe it was a water gun. Maybe it was a baseball glove so I wouldn't have to borrow from my brothers when we played catch. How this would reward her and me, I'm not sure. Maybe just the look on my eyes when she presented me with one of the above was going to be her part of the gift.

So she told me to stay in the basement while she retrieved the gift. She came down with a plastic grocery bag, incredibly excited to reveal this treasure for the both of us. I opened it up and inside were... two pairs of black tap shoes. One for her and one for me, complete with ribbony black shoelace.

I wasn't really feeling that.

My mom was super excited. She had us both put the shoes on and she reached back in her memory to her days of dancing with her twin, I assume, and tried to teach me the basic dancing skills in our mini-gym. You know... shuffle, drop, step... I think? I think that was our routine. I wasn't hearing any tapping and I was disappointed. My mom was trying to keep the energy up and get me excited so hopefully I would fall in love and want to take a class. Instead, I was eager to get the shoes off but thought my mom would look really great on a stage. I had a thing about always imagining my mom on stages performing. I've never even seen her on a stage, so I don't know where that came from.

Anyway, I don't know how long we tried our routine, but my mom made a great effort to try to get me pumped about dancing and it didn't work. I don't know what happened to the shoes, but I avoided them. I wouldn't be surprised if I hid them. As much as I loved watching people tap dance on TV, I wasn't up for another session of Shuffle, Drop, Step. I was just a soccer kind of girl back then.

But it has been 20 years, now, and I'm ready to take on the dance studio. I just hope I don't pull anything.

Where there's fire... I'm probably cooking

I don't get it.

The cooking gene seems to have forgotten me. My mom can make a tasty meal when she wants, though since I was a teenager and my brothers were out of the house, she and I switched to Healthy Choice dinners. My dad makes really excellent meals full of flavor. My brothers can both make great dishes full of spices that I've never even heard of. They are both excellent chefs. My aunts, my cousins, my uncles... they all know how to make a good meal, flawlessly. And, to top it off, I believe they enjoy it.

I'm not exactly saying that I can't cook. Put a recipe in front of me and I'll likely figure it out. The only thing I've really ruined has been some sort of baked good that has ended up runny or too salty. It's just that I really despise cooking and often times, smoke and/or fire is involved. I get confused about why smoke comes about, but whatever I'm creating can still taste good. What's with the smoke?

I remember the first time I was cooking and a fire sprung about. I was maybe 18-years-old and living with my mom. I'm going to guess that I was "cooking," so I was probably heating up some pizza rolls or something. The little buzzy thing on the oven went off, so I opened the door and a fire was a'blazin' on the, uh... you know... the cookie sheet. That's it. Even though my mom had told me many times what to do in this situation, everything had fled my mind, and my reaction was to pace back and forth. My mom was in the next room, just chatting away on the phone with her best friend. So I paced over to her and said, "Fire. Oven. There's a fire in the oven." I expected her to tell her friend, "Hang on, Meghan needs me." Or, "Omigosh, the house is on fire! Let me call you back!" Or, "I HAVE TO HANG UP TO CALL THE FIRE DEPARTMENT!!" Or some sort of reaction.

No. She just kept on chatting to her friend, all nonchalant, probably about men and how we should throw rocks at them, while I was burning the oven down. She calmly walked to the cupboard next to the burning oven, grabbed baking soda, tossed about a cup of it on to the fire, returned the box to the cupboard and walked away, never even acknowledging my existence... or watching to make sure that the fire really went out, which it did. She just kept yakking into the phone like nothing happened. Her friend had no clue that I practically burnt the kitchen off the house.

That was the first time I started a fire in the kitchen.

The second time, I thought I was pretty sly about it. At this point, I was used to my weird cooking ways and the fact that when I cook, smoke happens. Because of that, I often set off the alarm in the first apartment that I lived in with two roommates. I took care of that by waving a pillow at the alarm while I heated up my soup.

I am a big believer in cleaning as you cook. So one evening as I was heating up my soup, one roommate was talking to me. I noticed my soup had spilled over on the stove a little, so I took my paper towel and wiped the stove clean as we chatted and the edge of the paper towel touched the stove that was on for my soup and WAM, it was on fire. But as soon as it caught fire, it was out. So I did my mom's ol' trick there and kept talking like nothing had happened and my roommate stared at me incredulously. When I looked back up at her after my sentence she looked at the stove, then back up at me and said, "You do realize that your paper towel had caught fire, right?"

I was hoping she hadn't noticed.

Now I am 26-years-old. I have been cooking for 17 years. I have a 2-year-old oven mitt and it would share many-a-stories if it could talk. My latest fire happened just in the past week or two. Again, I think I was taking Kevin's pizza rolls out of the oven and touched the heating-up-thingies at the bottom of the oven. The oven mitt, given to me as a wedding present, started blazing up, but as soon as I pulled my hand out from the oven, the fire was gone.

Somehow, having this burnt oven mitt (with melted cheese all over it) just seems more fitting to me. It just says Meghan.

Do you remember me??

So, as you know, it's taken the little extra oomph to make me really laugh lately. I think God knew that and planned a little something for me this morning to make my day start with a good laugh.

My usual morning routine is to slap on decent clothes (because I don't think my green sleep shirt with white dancing bears that says "Shake It Up" and black shorts really says, "I'm Not Nuts"), run my fingers through my Bed Head, and stretch my eyes open so I can look like I've been awake for a few hours. This look passes off better if I don't have pillow lines all over my face. Once this look is accomplished, I take Logan around the neighborhood for his Morning Pooty. Squats and Leg Lifts, if you will.

This is usually a pretty bland deal. I might see a car drive by. I usually focus on how the weather feels so I can decide what I'm really going to wear for the day, and I take a few deep breaths of the fresh air to wake up. I smile at how Logan walks and how his ears jump with each step. That's usually the extent of the excitement, then we go inside and I seriously do get ready for the day.

But today when Logan made our first Leg Lift at the entrance sign for my parking lot, I sort of noticed a van pass by. It turned into a parking lot about a block away, the passenger stuck his head out his rolled down window and yelled, "HEY!" So I looked at him, still in my sleepy state, but pretending like I knew what was goin' on. He shouted, "Do you remember me??" In my semi-conscious state, I was in no place to speak back, let alone yell, so I shook my head. And he yelled, "I am the guy who just hollahed atcha.... HEY. DO YOU REMEMBER ME!! Bahahahaahahaa!! That's a good one! You're going to remember that one!!!" Then he hopped out of his van and walked into his apartment.

I wanted to tell the guy that that was pretty good, but I wanted more to curl up in bed and dream, so I just smiled, waved and gave him the thumbs up. By the time Logan and I were on our fifth Leg Lift, though, I was awake enough to realize just how funny that was and couldn't stop laughing.

A girl standing alone with her dog, laughing like the dog just told her the funniest thing. Now that's a sight I'm sure the neighbors are scratching their heads over.

Tough Decisions

I've been MIA on blogspot lately, so I decided I better type a little somethin' up to keep this fella rolling.

I think I'm going to bring things down a level and type something more serious than usual, because more serious things have been on my mind... and I guess it's okay to show I have more than one dimension.

How do you make a big decision? Up until this point, I'd say that I've made three big decisions in my life. The first one was when I was a sophomore at a university and decided after my first semester away that I wouldn't be a failure if I moved back home and finished up the school year at a community college, and then moved to a different university when I was a junior. The second one was deciding that I was ready to get married when I was 23-years-old. The third one was when I dried up my tears and decided to have a Vagal Nerve Stimulator (VNS) implanted to try to treat my epilepsy.

The scariest decision of the three was having that surgery. I didn't understand what a VNS was. I didn't know how risky it was, I did know that I hated having epilepsy, had never planned to have such a life-changing medical problem and didn't ever intend to have surgery to fix it because I hate spending any amount of time focusing on this problem. I'd rather ignore it, but epilepsy doesn't like to be ignored. When I realized that the worst that could happen with a VNS implantation was nothing and that it was mostly covered by my insurance, I decided to go for it. The best that could happen was that I would be treated. Maybe with no medicines, maybe with minimal medicines, but I could finally act like I didn't have epilepsy and leave the past in the past. Why would I pass up the opportunity to feel like I did when I was 20 and move on with my life? Pursue my careers and social life and not let this medical problem effect anything?

For a while, things were looking really good. I saw small improvements each month. I even got a part-time job and then something I thought I'd never be able to do... a 40 hour a week career that I'd wanted since I was 12-years-old. But there was still a problem. I was still having weekly seizures, I could only handle the job if I slept 10 hours a night, so my social life was limited to Saturday, and my job changed to odd hours that my health couldn't handle, even with the VNS. I wasn't fixed.

I don't want complain, though I may during my darkest times. I refuse to ask "why me," because, really, why not me? I'm not going to give this health problem to anyone else. But there are so many things that I miss. I do go out with my friends when they are around, because the VNS has gotten me to that point. But when they leave, I'm left feeling sick. I work 3-5 hours 5 days a week, with no added activities, at a job that a high school student could handle, and it leaves me drained and with regular seizures. My husband comes home to find me sleeping because my four medications leave me so weary that when I wake up, I don't even have a story about my day to share with him, I was too exhausted to do anything all day. Sometimes, I forget where I am, sometimes I forget why I'm holding something in my hands, sometimes I forget who I am when I wake up.

I miss having a clear head. I miss having a fun night with friends and feeling well the days that follow. I miss having the energy to do things in my free time, with no seizures, and telling my husband when he comes home because I'm awake when he opens the door.

I have no right to complain, because I'm doing so much better than I was five years ago, when my days were spent clinging to my bed, wishing I could work 3-5 hours at a college kid's job. Wishing I could at least take a walk around my block.

I'm writing this because I have a decision to make and I don't know how to make it. Soon, I will decide if I should pursue the diagnostic tests to see if I'm eligible for brain surgery. This could be my last chance to be that girl I was when I was 20. Or, there is a 20% chance that I will have stroke-like symptoms. At first, this was too upsetting for me to even consider... but then I started to think that maybe I shouldn't pass up on an opportunity to be my better self. That is, it's worth considering if there is a possibility that I can recuperate from the worst case scenario.

Everyone reminds me that this is my decision to make and no one else's. That is true. Only I know what my day-to-day life has been like for the last five years. But if I should choose to have the surgery, it doesn't just effect me. It effects everyone who loves me. I think that's what makes it hard.

Everyone who loves me has felt the effects of my epilepsy in their own way... and now if I make this decision and it doesn't go well, they'll feel those effects, too. But if I have it and it does go well... I can't even describe what that would be like. Elated, ecstatic... those don't even begin to describe how I'd feel if I had my old self back.

Driver's License Photo

I had to renew my license this month, so I took care of it yesterday. You know how everyone always complains about their license picture looking just awful? Well, I don't want to seem vain, but I always go through great measures to try to prevent a terrible driver's license picture. This is the fourth driver's license that I've had and I wanted it to look good. I don't really remember what my first picture looked like. I do recall leaving the DOT thinking it looked all right, but then I proudly showed it to a lady who was painting our house and her comment was, "Well, they are supposed to be bad photos." My pride was a little hurt, since I don't recall thinking it was that terrible, but then I just looked ahead until I got my next one when I was 21.

Now, that time, I worked hard, but acted like I didn't care, 'cause it just seems silly to get all dolled up for a driver's license. In reality, I spent lots of mousse and time on my long, bluntly cut hair. I carefully applied my make up because it's the small details that count. I found a blue shirt that would go well with the crazy blue backdrop. I casually walked in, did what they asked, and stood in front of the camera. I tried to act like it was no big deal, but I apparently did my signature pose... tilted my head a little to my left, so my good side would show. So the lady barked at me to look straight ahead. I looked straight ahead, thought of something funny and she snapped the shot.

The picture was awesome. And the best part was that I wasn't going to have to renew it for five years. Twenty-six sounded like it was YEARS away. My mom had renewed hers that day, too, and we just couldn't imagine that she and I would ever be 26 and 60. ha.

Welp, then I up and got married two years later and had to get another license with my hyphenated name and new address on it. I went through the whole process again. My hair was still long and blunt, easy to style with mousse and a hair dryer. I did my make up just so. I pulled the front of my hair back into a small clip to give it some "oomph." And I acted like I wasn't doing it for a silly ol' picture that hardly anyone sees, but because I was gracing the world with my presence and didn't want to startle anyone.

I did what they asked, I waited to take my photo, I thought of something funny for a genuine smile when they took the photo and.... ew. My face was super round, my hair was flat, it was a scary picture and I felt shame the rare times that I was asked to present my ID. I was glad that I only had three years to update it. I practically marked it on my calendar.

So yesterday was the big day. I have a nice, but difficult haircut that I don't understand how to style, but I didn't want to let that set me back. I've lived with an embarassing license for three years and I wanted one that I liked. This picture was going to happen. So I got out the big guns to try to make my hair work. I got out the mousse, the leave in conditioner, the pomade, the flat iron spray, the shine spray, the hair dryer, the flat iron, the ginormous round brush and the skinny comb. The troops who show up when I take a seat at the salon were sitting there to be used and make my hair beautiful, shiny, and perfectly straight for this photo. After a successful time with these products and tools, my hair is supposed to be sleek, parted on the side, with bangs that swoosh across my face, and my ends are supposed to be super straight. That's how it works when I bounce out of the salon, so I figure that when I have my troops around my vanity, it ought to work that way.

So I spent a good forty-five minutes on my hair, separating sections, using the various products, ironing it out. Um. In the end, I wouldn't describe it as sleek. Or straight. Or lacking frizz. But in that time of careful grooming, I did accomplish a deep side part with long bangs that swooshed across my face. So I hoped that, given the hard work that I put into it, the rest would just work itself out. So I moved on to make up, because that is something I understand. I don't really fuss with my skin. I just put on some eye stuff, fill in my gappy eyebrows, and wait to color my lips in with lipgloss RIGHT before I enter the DOT.

I chose to wear a red top to go nicely with the crazy blue back drop and, um, to compliment my skin. Not that I care.

So I finally got to the DOT and casually walked in, acting like I hadn't just spent more time than usual on my appearance, just for a photo that is hardly seen. I kept touching my hair, wishing that more people were vain enough to petition for mirrors so they could fluff before the Big Moment. I imagined that maybe, in the 15 minute drive from my apartment to the DOT, my hair had settled into either (a) a more straight, sleek position or (b) a casually wavy situation, opposed to the frizzy mess that I allowed it to be in when I left the apartment. Then I told myself to just accept that I wouldn't know until I saw my picture. Besides, I reasoned, what's another five years with a bad picture... another five years of shame when I'm carded at bar doors... another five years of embarrassment when I have to have my ID copied at new jobs... another five years of... okay, so it was bothering me. Am I really the only one who was this vain? I kept looking at everyone who went to the camera and wondered if they put any time into how they looked that day or if they just happened to need to have their hair placed just so or need to wear so much make up...

My name was finally called for the picture, and I gave an inconspicuous fluff to my hair. I stood in front of the camera, thought of a hilarious memory and hoped for the best.

What resulted was not the worst thing. I think I can live with the photo for five years. Basically, I can live with the eyes, nose and smile and the swoosh of my bangs is all right. Even my face isn't too round... it just sort of looks like I rolled out of bed and forgot to do something with my hair. It took me 45 minutes, tons of products, a brush, a comb, and two tools to get that look that I wasn't going for.

But I don't hate the picture.

Summertime

I think we all have something that characterizes our summers growing up. Of course, lots of things happen during the summer that we probably always participated in- street festivals, county fairs, Fourth of July parties and parades- but I think everyone has that one special thing that they did every summer when they were kids that really stood out. Some went to summer camp and treasure the memories, as they went from campers to junior counselors to counselors. My mom, for instance, spent time every summer with her twin visiting her grandma. She cherishes those memories so much that I feel like I was right there with her after hearing the precious stories.

The highlight of my summer was getting a visit from my cousin Jessica. Everyone calls us twin cousins. Not because our family has some sort of questionable and illegal morals. But because she was born five days before me and we are really quite alike. The best compliment I get is when I hear that we look like sisters or someone (besides myself) mistakens a picture of her for me.

We got along great as kids. Neither of us was particularly a girly-girl, we both had wild imaginations that took us to the craziest places, and we just got each other in a way that no one else can. We have other best friends who mean the world to us, but we've both got a little bit of "cooky" in us that I think only we can get... and it is probably only brought out by the two of us being together. We'd have inside jokes within minutes and when one of us said one word, the other knew the rest of the thought and we'd burst into giggles that made the rest of the family think we were laughing about nothing. Really at that time, when we were together, we even forgot there was a rest of the family.

To this day, we still say the same absolutely random thing at the same time, one will start a thought and the other will finish it without thinking about it, and we still laugh until we're in pain at the mutter of one word because the other one knows exactly what the other is thinking. It used to make our mothers paranoid that we were laughing at them, but we never were. We just didn't have to complete our thoughts to get the point across.



It's an incredible bond that I imagine sisters have. I feel blessed to share that with her and make sure to make that as clear as possible.

So now that I've done my best to introduce Jessica, I'm trying to narrow this post down to just one of our many, many memories.

So when we were about 11-years-old, Jessica came up with her dad. We felt too cool for school because, even though I lived in the same town as our grandparents, I'd packed my stuff up and stay at their house with her during the visit. That way, I could feel like I was getting a mini-vacation, too. Plus, our grandparents and her dad spent the days golfing meaning the house was all ours. For the sake of our pride, though it is documented on tape, I won't go into much detail about what we did during the day. I'll just be vague and say we made skits. Other than that, I'm going to skip over to the part where I hated that Jessica loved soap operas, but somehow she managed to suggest that we have lunch during Days of Our Lives. This involved the two of us making sandwiches, finding chips and some sort of frozen treat deluxe, then taking it to the living room and eating them on TV trays from, like... 1801. This killed me. I'm still traumatized by this event. I wanted to look through photo albums instead. I think what killed me more was, no matter how many times we unfolded those trays in our lifetimes, we still struggle with putting them back. Totally don't get it.

So our grandparents and Jessica's dad spent their time during the day golfing for some tournament and at the end of the week, there was a fancy-shmancy dinner. That was our favorite night. We had the house to ourselves until way after dinner was over and that meant making pizza (and cutting it with scissors. Jessica could never get over that), watching our favorite movies (Baby Sitters Club by Disney, anyone? We mostly liked to put it on mute and insert our own words), dancing to whatever music we could find, most often Grease, and doing my big scheme.

I always thought it was so clever, remember I was only 10, although we did this a couple of times, for us to go curl up in Grampa's humongous bed when we were starting to get sleepy and expected them home. We watched Nick At Night, which had Dick Van Dyke and I Love Lucy and maybe Bewitched on it. We'd get all cozy, and the moment that we heard the door open, we'd shut our eyes and act like we'd been sleeping all night because I just thought that was the most hilarious scheme. I wanted to know what Grampa would do to kick us, his "Little Girls" (that was our official nickname) out. However, it usually ended up backfiring. Gramma would come swaying in, showing some after effects of her wine, and take her jewelry off (I saw this through my squinted eyes) and leave the room. Jessica and I would look at each other and smile, then close our eyes when we heard Grampa's feet heading for the door. It took all I had not to laugh. It was killing me to know what he might do. Turn off the TV? Turn on the alarm? Make Uncle Mel wake us up? Poke us in the faces? Talk loud like we aren't sleeping? Let us have his huge comfy bed?!? The possibilities!!

Well, I heard him stroll into his room. When I thought it was safe, I squinted my eyes and watched him take his cuff links off and noticed his evening jacket was already off. He sat down to take his socks off.... this was definitely not going to plan. He was preparing for bed as if his two Little Girls weren't already settled in it! He didn't bother us or anything!

My memory says that I'd wait until he left the room for something and Jessica and I would realize the jig was up and leave so Grampa could have his bed. We had spent the whole evening expecting something great to happen, all we got was normalcy. However, when her dad realized we were awake, we were treated to 12" golf bags and golf clubs made entirely of chocolate. Now that was a pick-me-up!

My First Dance

I couldn't sleep a few nights ago. It was too quiet and I couldn't settle down. When I was young and this problem came about, I'd ask my mom to tell me stories from her childhood. I loved imagining her as a little girl, in the dresses that I saw her wearing in the black and white photos, acting out whatever story she shared.

So on this night, I asked Kevin to tell me a story to help me settle down. He couldn't think of anything to say since I put him on the spot, so I told him to tell me about his first dance and he spent some time reminiscing about all of the dances he went to until his last dance... the prom that I asked him to go to out of desperation... okay, and because I top secretly had a crush on him even though I hardly knew him.

Hearing his stories took me back to my first dance. I don't remember it in full, but I have flashes of memories. I'll get the embarrassing part out of the way right now. I was in sixth grade and had recently turned 11-years-old. I wasn't much for trends... um, or for fashion in general and though I liked boys, I dressed for myself. So my ensemble for the evening included black pinstripe pants, a red t-shirt, and I topped it off with a vest covered with Mickey Mouse's face. That vest was a favorite that year.

My school was just down the block, so I walked to the dance. I met with some friends whom I had known from fifth grade when I got there. We weren't allowed in the building, yet, so we eagerly waited out in the crisp fall air. Finally, they threw the doors open and we piled into the school gym where I'm sure they played 1993's greatest hits, like WHOOMP there it is! and Dreamlover by Mariah Carey and Cryin' by Aerosmith.

I wasn't really sure how the whole dance thing was supposed to go down, so I spent the first half as a wallflower, watching the grown up 8th grade girls towering over the boys who had asked them to dance. Then I saw one of my newer friends rush into the locker room in tears. Three girls followed her and I wanted to know what was wrong. When I got there, she was going on and on about her boyfriend who had just broken up with her and danced with another girl. One of the 7th graders wiped her tears away and sighed, "Well, that's what you can expect from men." And I rolled my eyes and said, "Uh, you mean boys." Meaning that only an immature boy would do something so hurtful. A mature man would know how to treat a lady. However, the 7th grader didn't get what I meant and turned to me and said, "Honey, in middle school, we call them men."

She certainly thought she taught me something. But I knew what I meant.

When our friend collected herself, we went back to the dance. This is when something interesting happened. Some song, we'll say Baby Got Back, started rockin' the gym and the DJ put strobe lights on. First, I thought it was really cool. Who doesn't like strobe lights? Everything looks all silly. But then, I started to feel really weird. Totally disconnected from my body and like I might faint or something. It's really hard to describe and I didn't know what was happening back then. Ten years later, I figured out that it was a seizure.

Because I felt so strange, I stepped out of the gym, grabbed some water and sat down on a chair in the hallway, next to the concession stand. I stayed there for a long time. Long enough to notice that a boy from my class in a polo shirt tucked too tightly in his jeans (like I had room to talk about fashion) kept buying suckers and wandering the hall. I guess he didn't really know what to do at dances, either.

I didn't think I should go back to the dance after the sensations that I felt, so I just stayed in the hall and listened to music when I tiny little girl sat next to me. She was excited because a family friend was going to adopt a baby soon. So we spent the rest of the dance becoming friends while we talked in the hallway. We left the dancing up to the tall 8th grade girls and their tiny 8th grade boy dance partners.

Me? An adult?

So I'm excited about my evening plans. I will be going out for coffee with a new friend that I made at the television station. She's easy-going, intelligent, and best of all, really funny. I have a great time talking to her.

What I find hard to grasp is that I am her "adult escape" from her three children, ages 1-7. I totally get what she means, because I've heard all moms talk about reaching that point where their social life ranges from their 12-year-old babysitter to any quick conversation they can manage to exchange with other busy moms while sleepy children tug at their shirts when they pick them up from friends' homes.

It's just... me? The adult escape? Would I have been The Chosen One if she knew that my favorite pajamas pants are scattered with Care Bears? Or that I was just cleaning my apartment... while performing Sarah Bareilles to my adoring fans of Logan the dog and framed photographs? That I traveled to St. Louis for my birthday with my husband... and my stuffed rabbit who has gone on every vacation but one since I was 7-years-old?

What, exactly, constitutes an adult, anyway? I did just turn 26, which I'm not very happy about, but at least I have that going for me if I need evidence that I'm an adult. When I think of an adult, I think of Barack Obama, for instance. I just don't think he sleeps in Care Bear pajama pants, performs Stevie Wonder to his photographs, and travels all over the country with his childhood toy. He lets loose, I'm sure, but in an adult-like way. Like, he relaxes in lounge pants, tells witty jokes and bobs his head to good music. That's letting loose like an adult.

Dictionary.com says that an adult is someone who is fully grown (um) or developed or of age. I guess that counts. But as an adjective, it says "having attained full size (um) and strength; grown up; mature." I'm just not so sure I fit the adjective. I guess my friend is willing to settle for the noun.

Why I need a pipe

I want a pipe.

You hardly even see pipes anymore. In my lifetime, I think I can name two times that I have seen someone with a pipe. One time, someone was driving and he had his pipe. The other time was last month. I was at one of my many favorite ice cream places with two of my many best friends. I was gleefully eating my orange cream ice cream cone, the way I do: *lick* "yum!" *lick* "yum!" *lick* "yum!" *lick* "yum!" For me, it's almost like by the time the ice cream goes down my throat and I prepare for my next lick, I've forgotten what it tastes like. So I take my next taste and am taken so much by surprise by the tastiness that I must exclaim, "Yum!" once again.

My friend, Luke, interrupted my heavenly world about two minutes into my practice by staring at me incredulously and asking, "Really?" Upon this interruption, I looked past Luke's head and saw it. A man looking distinguished with his pipe. That's when I knew that I wanted one. Without his pipe, he was just a man sitting at one of the best ice cream places in Iowa without an ice cream. With it, he was distinguished. I wanted to have educated discussions with him that involved words like, "preposterous" and, "By jove" and, like, "Socrates."

The Husband thinks this is ridiculous. For one, he points out, I don't smoke. Well of course not, and I don't see what having a pipe has to do with that. My pipe is going to be intended as an accessory. A conversation piece. I wear certain types of jewelry because they make me feel a certain way and they sometimes provoke conversation. Same with the pipe. It would make me feel distinguished and I think it might invite conversation. If anything, I've decided I would put coffee beans in it so if I were to suck on the stem of the pipe, I might taste some java. However, tobacco and I are enemies, so it is not involved with my fascination with pipes.

In his quest to prevent me from getting a pipe, my husband says that little girls look up to me. Now, I wouldn't want to encourage them to smoke, would I? Apparently, he hasn't been listening to my first argument. The pipe is not for smoking. Little girls will see me looking all intelligent with my pipe and see how creative I've been by not smoking, but holding it like the piece of art that it is. I've always made wise choices in life with the thought in my mind that a child might be looking up to me. My pipe won't be any different. In fact! In fact, I can even offer the child a swig of my coffee bean filled pipe. Maybe they shouldn't be drinking it, but they walk down the coffee aisle of the store all the time and inhale the fumes, so they can breathe it in from the stem of my pipe, right? I'm not a mom, but I think that's cool.

So, see? I'm still the good role model that I've always tried to be. Don't smoke that addictive tobaccy, kids, it'll hurt you. Instead, purchase this sweet pipe and fill it with coffee or cocoa beans! It'll make you look as cool as a pair of glasses and a scarf! Especially if you pair it with your glasses and scarf!

Kevin's initial reaction to my longing for a pipe was that women never have pipes. I realized that he was right. I've never seen a woman with a pipe. I don't know why that is, but I guess when I get a pipe, it is going to be my little ripple in the women's movement.

Geoff

I remember being little and being asked to tell a bit about myself and I'd say, "My name is Meghan, I'm 6-years-old and I have two big brothers." I felt very defined by having big brothers. Very proud that I was not only the youngest child, but the only girl, too. I never really craved a sister until I was a teenager, but really, I just consider my "twin cousin," Jessica my sister. What I mostly wished was that she lived closer so we could spend more time together. She gives me everything that I think a sister would give me. We'll get to that in another "memory post." Probably in lots of memory posts, because I don't think just one can cover everything she means to me.

You always hear about the special relationships that sisters have. You go to Hallmark and there are special Sister plaques, special Sister cards, special Sister necklaces, special Sister poems on special Sister bookmarks. But what about brothers and sisters? We have pretty great relationships, too. Sure, my mom didn't dress us alike and we didn't stay up late talking about cute boys, I guess because he doesn't happen to be gay. But I don't think that's what makes sisters any more special than having a big brother instead.

I feel particularly close to my brother Geoff. I have a short list of "real-life" heros (people I actually know, opposed to, say, Rosa Parks) and Geoff is on that list. The quick list of reasons why is because he is incredibly intelligent without rubbing it in your face and being obnoxious about it, he is so giving that he joined the Peace Corp, plus he does little everyday sweet things, he is hilarious, but not in-your-face look at me, I'm know I'm funny! hilarious, a rare type of Funny found in a small breed of people that I hope includes me, and he has an undefinable strength in him that I can only wish to have.

Being one of three children poses its challenge. Generally, as youngsters, instead of everyone grouping together, we usually joined into teams: two versus one. The only time this rule is broken is on vacation, when we all usually behaved (yes, unlike most family vacation stories that I've heard, we behaved on vacations as children). At this vital time, when the unknown laid before us, we grouped together, our big brown eyes peering out at the rest of the world, me grabbing onto whichever brother was closer, when a parent was unavailable for the grabbing. Otherwise, in my everyday life, I chose one brother to prefer based, usually, on who was being nicer to me. And you knew who I preferred that week based on if I liked the Bears and LA Lakers or the Cowboys and Chicago Bulls. If I liked the Bears and Lakers, then I was on Geoff's side. If I liked the Cowboys and Bulls, I was on Eric's side. But if Eric turned on me or said something mean about Geoff, then I liked the Bears and Lakers again. I liked the Cubs year round, because both of the brothers liked the Cubs. This is getting complicated, I know. But it made sense to me. It was a system that worked, and I felt that it must brutally hurt each brother if he turned on me when I switched which team I liked better.

Whether I liked the Bears and Lakers or not, I recall looking up to Geoff as soon as he frowned at me in the hospital when we met. He was frowning because it was the first time my mom had been away from him and he wanted her back at home, not because he didn't like me. In fact, he had been wishing for a sister ever since he heard that I was on my way to the world. He even picked out my plaid blue diaper bag that I still have. I appreciate that he didn't pick out a pink one. It's like he understood me before I was even born.

When he was about 8-years-old and I was 3, he would play our Atari in the basement playroom. He always sat with his legs side-by-side, straight out in front of him. I wanted to do whatever Geoff did, however Geoff did. So on many occasions, I sat right smack next to him as he played Frogger, my legs side-by-side, straight out, toes pointed up and wagging side to side, just like his toes. Even though you would think I'd be very limber at this age, within about 3 minutes, my little legs would be in so much pain that I had to give up on this sitting position. He sat like that the whole time he played his video games, but I never did know how he found that so comfortable. Not even at my limber state.

My goal in my young life was to keep my brothers impressed. While my best friend was at her house up the street playing Barbies with her sister, I sat in the room that my brothers shared, next to Geoff on his bed. On their walls hung the pendents of the Big 10 and Big 12 team flags. He spent one morning teaching me the school names and mascots of the Big 10 and 12 universities. I thought it was a big enough accomplishment that I could count the 22 pendents (at the time Penn State was not the 11th school in the Big 10), but I was very proud to memorize the names and mascots and recognize the pendants for Geoff and show it off for Eric and my mom (who, really, couldn't care all that much, but tried).

The one thing that Geoff could do to make my eyes go from shining at him brightly to glaring at him angrily was make up stories about my bunny. It was my most favorite stuffed animal that my dad gave to me from a trip to Minnesota. She still travels with me. Her name was Fuzzy and my imagination had made her so, very real to me. In my mind, I was very much her caretaker, and she was very much a happy, innocent little girl bunny with a speech impediment. The poor thing couldn't say her R's, dear soul. That's gotta be hard for a rabbit. But then Geoff would come and interrupt our happy little lives and make up harsh stories about Fuzzy's life on the streets. She road motorcycles, he said, and had tattoos. She had a secret French lover named Fred, he persisted. He painted stories of their affair. It made me angry, as I described back exactly how very innocent she was. She was only a little girl. With a theme song that I made up on our dad's piano. What kind of hussy would have a sweet little theme song that I created?! On our trip to France, Geoff even tossed her out of our hotel room and into the hallway, suggesting that she had plans to run off with Fred. The nerve.

As he grew into his teen years and I was a preteen, he didn't turn away from me, like teenagers can do. He wasn't annoyed by how dorky I was, how strange I dressed (suspenders? really?), how funny my retainer made my speech, how strange my haircut was, or everything else that's awkward for preteens... he actually seemed to just like me for me. I wasn't tempted to be an annoying little sister and bother him for the sake of being younger and annoying and try to get a rise out of him. We never had that sort of relationship where I had the temptation to annoy him just for the fun of it. I just wanted to hang out with him and he let me. And if his friends were around, he let me hang out with them, but even when I was 13 and they were 18, he scolded them when they cussed around me. I laughed, then. It's not like my classmates at that age didn't have a hay day cussing whenever they had the chance. But my mom taught Geoff that swearing in front of a lady isn't right and he didn't want his friends swearing in front of me, either.

This blog seems to be all over the place, and it's because I can't think of just one favorite memory with Geoff. There were road trips, days spent lounging in the pool, vacations, feeling cool running errands with just him, going to Forrest Gump with him at the old movie theater, his high school and college graduations, saying goodbye after moving him to college, saying goodbye each time he left for the Peace Corp, Christmas memories....

The main thing is that it doesn't matter if I'm 3 and trying to sit the way he does when he's playing Atari or if I'm 26 and thinking about him... he's made an impression on me and I'll always look up to him and want to be like him.

What's your favorite memory?

Whenever I'm asked to name my favorite memory, my answer is always, "Oh, but I have too many! I can't name just one!" And it's true. I've lived a blessed life with so many friends, so many loving family members, so many great experiences, and a great sense of humor (some of the memories were bad experiences appreciated with a great sense of humor)... I wish I could have captured everything on film so I could just show everyone all of the memories with all their details. I've decided that maybe I could tighten up my writing and keep this blog alive by writing about favorite memories whenever I'm lost for an idea.

My parents are now happily divorced and have been since I was about 5-years-old. Everyone else's memory of their marriage are probably accurate memories of an empty, sad marriage that needed to end in order for our family to be happy. Mine, though, is a little girl's memory of a Mommy and Daddy who loved her. I only have glimpses of memories of having a mommy and daddy in the same house and it's cozy.

One of my favorite memories of our lives back then must have happened when I was 3-years-old. We lived in a relatively small blue house, dubbed The Blue House when my brothers and I look back to reminisce about it. I don't remember this part, but apparently my brothers shared a bedroom upstairs and that was all that was up there. I do remember that my parents' bedroom was on one side of the house across the hall from my bedroom, separated by the house's only bathroom. Unless the random toilet in the basement counts.

Unfortunately for me, my bedroom was my least favorite color of all. A bright, sunny yellow. A pretty yellow comforter on my huge double bed. Yellow wallpaper. Yellow, yellow, yellow. I couldn't escape it and I hated that color. The only thing worse, in my eyes at the time, would have been if my mom had made it pink. Even at 3, I was a tiny feminist and didn't know why only girls had to wear pink and I just hated that color. So I guess my 3-year-old self worked with yellow because it was better than pink.

Each night, I was tucked in to my yellow bed by my parents at 8 o'clock sharp. We would say our prayers, but the thing is, even to this day, I don't know where to stop blessing people. We'd get to "Bless Mommy and Daddy and Eric and Geoff and Teddy (the dog) and Gramma and Grampa and the bad people in jail and crickets and grasshoppers and..." when I paused to take a breath and think of who I might have missed, my parents would jumped in with, "Amen." They'd tuck me in comfortably. You know how parents do. The sheets are so tight and crisp around your little body, all the way up to your chin, the pillow so fluffy behind your head. They switched the light off and shut the door as close as they could without shutting it completely.

And this was when the trouble began. I was never, ever tired at 8 o'clock. It didn't matter that my mom had been putting me to sleep at that time ever since I slept through the night in order to make it a routine. I was born to be a night owl. So I had created a little nightly ritual to sneak out of bed and head to a window on the other side of my bed. Even at 3-years-old, I was a contemplative person. I liked looking out the night sky and thinking about my day. I liked gazing at the brightness of the moon, then down in my backyard and seeing the shadows that it cast. I got lost in my little 3-year-old thoughts, and then, I realized the light inside my room was getting brighter.

The door was opening.

I didn't want to get in trouble for being out of my bed, so I ran to it, flopped on it, threw the covers on, and waited for my mom's gentle voice. "Meggie?" That's when I put my acting skills to work. I stretched and stretched. I tried out a yawn. I blinked and rubbed my eyes. I'm surprised I didn't throw in a, "Mommy? Is that you?" Instead, I said, "Oh, Mommy. You woke me up!!"

She just ignored what I said and took me to take a hot bath. At the time, I didn't realize it, but after years of reliving this memory, it has struck me that she was on to me. That whole Mom's Radar thing kicked in or something and she knew I wasn't settling down, so she thought a hot bath would calm me down so I could sleep.

After the bath, she let me curl up in their bed with my dad, who had the TV on at the foot of the bed and was reading the paper. Now, this was a treat. I remember leaning against him and looking at the black letters on the gray paper and explaining to him that I had been asleep, but then I woke up when Mommy opened the door, so she gave me a hot bath. "Oooh." He humored me.

That's where my memory ends. I just can't believe I was such a sneaky little liar! But I mostly like that memory because it was such a cozy night and I remember gazing out that window a few times while we lived there. It seems weird to do something like that at such a young age, but... no one said I was normal.

Love really is blind

I've had nosebleeds regularly my whole life. Well, actually, when I was a child, they came about in the summer and left me alone around October. We always assumed I'd outgrow them. Instead, with age, my nose has become less discriminatory and seems to enjoy springing up a disgusting nosebleed any time of the year. But that's besides the point, really, since this story takes place in the summer. All you really need to know is that I never outgrew it and I have regular nosebleeds. When I'm in the comfort of my home, I get lazy and most prefer to take care of these by rolling a tissue up and putting it in my nostril.

I realize this is gross, but that is the purpose of this story. I'm not here to impress you. I'm here to tell you how it is.

Another truth about me is that I am quite the site when I get ready for bed. It seems to me that most women can pull off quite the feminine look, even when they're getting ready for sleep. They may leave their hair down and put on a pretty nightgown. They may pull their hair back in a ponytail and slip into a tank top and colorful lounge pants and still keep a sort of prettiness about them as they pull the covers around them and read a book before turning the lights off.

Something about me is just off.

I'm learning how to dress fairly well during the day. I'm figuring out how to dress well for my figure. How to dress more feminine, how to dress like I'm in my mid-20s and how to dress like it's 2008. It's quite the task, but on a good day, I've got it down. Even my hair can look right on the best of days.

So on one of these good days, my husband had come home from work. After spending the evening together, he got on the phone and I decided I was getting sleepy and wanted to get ready for bed before my nightly ritual of watching Will and Grace.

This is when the transition to scary starts. I don't like to sleep with my hair down, but I also don't like to have it in a ponytail. Sleeping with the lump on the back of my head is uncomfortable. So I put my fine, limp hair in a little loop on the top of my head, the width of it about the size of one's pinky. On this night, I then put on my favorite pajama pants, which are... wait for it... Care Bear capri pj pants. I realize that these pants are disastrous. Not only are they Care Bears, but something about them makes my short legs look even more odd. I don't know what it is, but they make my shape look squat. But I can't help it. They're comfortable. A little big, but comfortable. To complete the ensemble, I put on a shirt that I stole from Kevin years ago. It makes me look as wide as I am tall, but that's where the comfort factor comes in.

As I was about to leave the restroom and get settled in the living room for Will and Grace, my nose decided to have its daily nosebleed. So to totally complete the look, I stuffed a roll of tissue up my nostril. Then, I strolled my squat, wide little self into our living room with my tuft of hair sitting on top of my head and tissue sticking out from my nose and curled up on the couch, my Care Bear-donned legs resting under my tent of a shirt. I realize that this does not shout "Supermodel!" Unfortunately, it does shout, "Meghan!"

Kevin was oblivious to my entrance (how, I do not know), as he spoke into the phone about roommates. A few minutes into this conversation, he said, "I, however, know how to choose the most perfect roommate of all." And he looked over at me the way Steve Urkel always looked at Laura on Family Matters.



He looked a little startled when he looked over at me, but who could blame him, what with the tissue shoved in my nostril, the tent I was wearing and the tuft of hair sitting like a small bird on top of my head and all. But he didn't retract what he said, like I expected. He just kept looking at me like he was Steve Urkel. I guess love really is blind.

Embarrassing Moments

I don't like to answer "What's your most embarrassing moment?" Not because it's so embarrassing, but because I've had so many embarrassing moments that it's hard to choose. I started to wonder if I'm just prone to creating embarrassing situations while others just have a way of avoiding The Awkward or what, but then... it happened. Someone finally did to me what I've done to others.

It wasn't falling. I've fallen in many settings and don't usually find the humor, because I've done it so much and worry about the people getting hurt. My most recent fall occurred at the television station while we were on air. I tripped over one camera in time for the weather guy to go on and he laughed so hard that he couldn't start his forecast. Instead, he announced it to our viewers and while I was steadying myself, I moved his camera so it looked like he was floating around his weather map. Smooth.

No, this person's incident was something I've, again, done many times, but could easily be avoided with a little smarts. The last time I personally did this, I was driving to work last fall. I had switched cars with Kevin that day and as I was approaching an intersection, I saw my beautiful, angular maroon car! It was exciting for me to catch a glimpse of Kevin on my way to work, so I wanted to make sure to catch his attention as I drove past. About half a block before I drove across the intersection, I began waving. He didn't seem to see me, so as I headed toward the middle of the intersection, my wave became more ferocious. My head got involved, bobbling from side to side as my arm flailed about. Finally, I noticed that his head was tracking my car, but he wasn't responding.... that is because, as I realized when I was directly in front of the car, it wasn't Kevin. In fact, the car wasn't even a Mitsubishi like mine. It was an Alero. It was just a tall older man, probably somewhere in his 50s, wondering what sort of maniac I was. I had about eight more blocks to drive before I got to work, and I spent it laughing so hard I wouldn't be surprised if he heard it. I was wailing and tears were streaming down my face.

If I had just looked closer at the type of car it was, this awkward situation could have been avoided. On top of that, if I didn't decide that all tall men must be my husband and maybe, um, paid attention to his hair color when I can't quite see his face, this could have been avoided. Smarts. Most of my embarrassing moments could be avoided with a little smarts.

So I was driving home a few days ago when I had stopped at a red light. I was in Kevin's silver Camry, which is a pretty common car around here. I was doing that thing I do at stoplights where I sit perfectly still and sing to music without moving my lips, because, you know... I don't want to embarrass myself and get caught singing and dancing alone. As soon as the car moves, though, I dance and sing without abandon. Anyway, so a car drives through the intersection and a man in his 50s looks at me excitedly and starts waving all crazy-like, then halfway through the intersection, when I study his face to decide if I know him or not, he gets that look on his face. That, "Oh no, I don't know her. Should I keep waving and act like I do so she thinks she's wrong and knows me? Or do I look stupid and abruptly put my hand down??" Face. And I don't know if I should play along and act like I knew him to make him feel better. You know, do my good deed for the day. Or just let it go and let him tell someone his embarrassing I Waved At Someone And It Turned Out It Wasn't My Wife story.

Life isn't rainbows and puppies... but I wish it were!

I haven't written for a little bit because I've been facing a difficult time. I generally like to keep difficult times as private as possible. Sometimes so private that those closest to me are shocked when they discover that I'm struggling.

But I'm realizing that life isn't always full of rainbows and puppies and everyone knows this. I don't have to pretend that mine is. I've had epilepsy for five years. It gradually took over my life and got to the point where I couldn't get out of bed. I clung to my bed because the sensations it caused were so overwhelming. The struggle is something that I don't like to go back to and, actually, I recently discovered that there are parts that I can't go back to. I came across diary entries from three years ago and had no recollection of that time. I blocked it out. And that's good. Why revisit it? I threw the diary entries away.

I'm talking about it now because I feel myself inching back to that time. In just the past few months, I've rediscovered Meghan. I had a surgery that took about a year to start reintroducing me to myself, and it has been the most amazing experience ever. I was never one to take anything for granted, but to lose everything, then to get just about all of it back is indescribable. Going to a movie is a whole new experience, going out and laughing with friends makes my heart swell, planning something a week or more in advance is something that I no longer have to hesitate to do. If I'm going to cancel on you, I better have a darn good reason! I've still had my bad days when seizures have snuck up on me for a day or two, but this used to be an everyday affair. Usually, I might be out with friends or at work and feel something for about five minutes, and no one even knows.

That was until my job changed a few weeks ago and my sleep schedule was turned around. I've had to be up at 3 am. I really thought this would be okay, as long as I got eight hours of sleep. I was wrong. Everything has gone wrong. Even the healthy people in my new department can't function normally. After a week of it, I began to worry. After a week and a half, my brain began getting mad. After two, I knew that I needed to be responsible and put my health first. I've only known my old self again since last fall. I don't want to lose her.

It's a struggle. When I reunited with Old Meghan, I wanted to pick up where we left off. I thought, Hey! You're back! The last time we were together, you were planning steps to start your career! Lets go at it, full speed ahead!! So I did just that, and it turns out that I'm not the same 20-year-old Meghan. On the inside, I am. I'm positive, bubbly and excited to run with life. I like taking chances and seeing where I end up. Basically jumping in with my eyes closed and hoping that the best happens. It's just that I have to realize that there is a little tweak to this Meghan. She feels pretty good, but she actually does have epilepsy and has to take that into consideration. She can't just go and wake up at 3 in the morning and think that she can function without epilepsy knocking on the door. She can't handle extensive stress, only life's usual stressors. Epilepsy doesn't have to rule my life, but it makes sure that it has a say.

I was going to say that having epilepsy is a constant guessing game. I always have to test the waters and learn my boundaries. Then I realized that, really, life is the same way. Things are thrown at you and you have to adapt accordingly.

Flood of '08

I've been through floods before. I grew up along the Mississippi River. Not, like, literally on the Mississippi, but the cities that I was raised in were both on the river. When I was little, my backyard flooded enough that, once the water receded, we had other people's belongings sitting by my playset.

I was 11 during The Flood of '93. I remember reading a lot that summer because it rained so much. Other than that, I lived far enough from the river that I wasn't personally effected, aside from our wet basement... but that was a regular thing for us, growing up. No biggie. Really, the big thing for me with The Flood of '93 was that I wrote a poem about it that ended up in our local newspaper. That was the first time I was published.

There were floods in our area after that that gained national attention. When I was in college, I took some time to volunteer to sandbag in one of my hometowns (I consider two places my hometown, because my dad lives in one city and my mom lives in another). I had been visiting my dad and was heading home to my mom's when I saw people sandbagging and thought I'd stop for a few hours to help. ABC's national news crew stopped me to interview, and I remember telling them that I had finals for school that week, but thought I'd pitch in and help for a bit. They tried to play up the part where I was choosing volunteering over studying... but all I could give 'em was that I was a nerd who had spent the last two weeks studying. The least I could do was spend a few hours to fill a couple of sandbags. I didn't end up on TV.

Now we're having the biggest flood I've ever seen with my own eyes. I now work in production for a television station in Cedar Rapids, so it's all I've heard about for the last three days. Before this started, when everyone in this area far from the mighty Mississippi was panicking about a little flood, I scoffed and thought, "Ha. A flood. Their basements will get a little wet. I've been through this several times. What's the big deal?"

Well, I found out what the big deal is. It was absolutely chilling when I had to drive on the Interstate, the only way that was open for people to drive through the city, and looked downtown to find water covering the buildings' first floors. I drove past a neighborhood on that same Interstate and their garages were covered. On Friday morning, I had to be at work at 4am, so, obviously, the sun wasn't up when I went in. Through the first half of the city, things appeared normal, except for the police who were guarding the closed exits. Then when I got downtown, it was pitch black, because there is no power. Below me was 30 feet of water that shouldn't be there. This is a bridge that was built over a street, not a river.

A delivery lady came into work to pick up boxes on Wednesday, the first day that everyone had been evacuated from downtown Cedar Rapids. She looked up at one of our televisions to see that we were showing live images of the downtown area and we happened to be showing her neighborhood. She had just evacuated the night before. Though the area has shelters available to people, she and her husband and their dogs went to a Motel 6 for shelter, and the place didn't even offer them any sort of discount. It was $80 a night, and who knows how many nights she is going to be out of her house? She only knew that she couldn't afford very many nights and that all of her friends had offered their space to other friends and family members. She didn't know where she was going to turn. She might have had to go to a shelter, but I know if I were in her shoes, that'd be the last place I'd want to go... and I only know of one that was accepting pets.

When I was at work on Friday, the anchors that I was working with reported that my city was starting to flood. I started to panic, because I didn't know how far it was from my apartment (I wanted to know that my dog was okay) and I didn't know how far it was from Kevin. Then they announced that the last road of many from Cedar Rapids back to my city was going to close in just a matter of hours. The traffic was bumper-to-bumper and moving at 5 mph. If I didn't leave then, I didn't have a way out. That's a truly scary feeling. Even though my kind manager offered her homes in case of an emergency, I wanted to be with my husband and dog, and I needed to be home for my medication. As a trapped feeling started to sink in, my manager sent me out the door, because she knew that I truly wouldn't get home if I didn't leave right then.

I crossed the bridge that they were closing down right as water was beginning to creep over it.

I am truly blessed that that is the most that this flood has effected me. Chilling images and nearly being trapped in Cedar Rapids, by a matter of an hour.

It scares me to see those houses drowning in the water, but I'm not the one who has to call those houses homes. It's frightening to see the train bridge that collapsed and wonder which bridge might collapse next, but I haven't been personally effected by that. It's terrible to see all of the businesses that are up to the first floor in water, but I'm not the one who is without a job right now or who has to return to work in a few weeks to clean up and replace thousands of dollars in damaged products.

I'm safe. My husband is safe. My doggie is safe. Witnessing the situation firsthand is scary.