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.