What No One Tells You About Growing Up...

It's terrifying.
Have you ever graduated from college?? Okay, this is my first time, so maybe I'm over-exaggerating. But, I'm pretty sure I'm having the same breakdown that every college graduate has. My heart and mind are being tugged in three different directions: 
Assignments are all due next Tuesday or Wednesday. Trash.
I just booked a flight to Korea and now have to prepare myself to leave after Christmas. Trash.
Graduation is next week which means announcements need to be mailed, and parties need to be planned. Trash.


I'm trying to do a piece of all three of these things each day until next Tuesday or Wednesday, and as soon as I finish my assignments and have booked my flight (check, by the way) and have mailed all letters and planned the two parties, I'm taking a really long nap. Praise the Lord. So, from Wednesday around 6 to Thursday around noon, consider me gone. I'm sleeping and not talkin' to anybody. Yup, that's my plan.


Now don't get me wrong. I am beyond excited about walking across that stage and proudly stating that I am finally a college grad. I am beyond excited to pack up my dorm room for the very last time and never have to go back. I am beyond excited to go to Korea. I am beyond excited about being in Byers near my church family and my Aaron.


I am also extremely sad. 


I'm gonna miss talks with my PaePae, walking into her office, closing the door and drawing the blinds because I cannot hold in my tears long enough to make it to my room; seeing her apartment door cracked and excitedly jumping on the couch next to her to watch whatever random thing is on her television; chanting, "Da Pae Pae" along with the rest of my Guynes family. I'm gonna miss my Pastor Peggy.


I'm gonna miss playin' racqball and studying with Maxey, getting texts from Alicia asking for my cheer help, listening to great speakers in chapel, smiling and talking to Ms. Minnie, Ms. Pat, Ms. Prudy, the smiley guy in the main line, and all of the other caf workers. 


I'm gonna miss the entire English Department--Ms. Bernecker, Ms. Jones, Mrs. George, Cameron Bishop, Dr. Montgomery, Dr. Amy and Dr. A, and most of all, Mrs. Lewis, my boss and my friend, who has helped mold and guide my college experience through prayer and advice about academics and simply life.


I'm gonna miss my roommates--gosh I've had a bunch of them--who have helped define my college years. My Anon, who has been my roommate for 2 years, who has become so much more of a woman than she was 2 years ago, who keeps me accountable and who has become my best friend--who says friends can't be roommates? Ha, the key is to be a roommate first, and then a friend. We have made a habit of leaving for summer and barely staying in touch then picking up where we left off when we see each other again. I'm really good at doing that with most people. But, in this case, she and I have to work on staying in touch. Because this time, I'm not leaving then coming back after winter...and that's so weird and saddening.


Your definition of growing up may be different, and your experience in growing up may be different. But, take each moment in stride because the joy that comes in growing up has an extreme sadness alongside it. Enjoy each happiness ya have before you have to leave it--that's for any moment in life. :)

Who Makes Your Decisions?

In my family, I am the decision-maker. I have the loudest voice and strongest opinion; therefore, my family has no need to ask anyone else for a decision. I decide Italian or Mexican, theater or rental, two cars or suburban.


In my dorm-room, I am the decision-maker. I have been at the school the longest and am in my last semester of school; therefore, I do what I want. Sounds obnoxious, huh? Well, my roommates are some of the most passive people I know, so they never really fight. Erin is my sister, so she already know me. Autumn has been my roommate for 2 years and understands my stubborn ways; when I'm too ridiculous, she puts me in line. Jessica and Okeivia got stuck with Erin, Anon, and I, but I think they enjoy our random outbursts of insanity...or at least, I hope they do. ;)


In my relationship, I am not the decision-maker; but don't tell Aaron because I'm pretty sure I've fooled him into thinking that I've fooled myself into thinking that I have it under control. Did you follow that? Me neither. Anyway, he makes the decisions until we'll on the other side of Dean, and he asks, "Where do you wanna go?" Then the door of my mind busts wide open, and I have to decide for the both of us about where we should eat. Here is the monologue that happens in my head:
I don't like Cracker Barrel, but he does, so we should go there.
But does he want a fast-food-feel instead of a full sit-down? We could go to Fuzzy's.
But it's not Tuesday, so we wouldn't get the cheap tacos, and he just made a budget, so we shouldn't spend too much money.
By that time, we've crossed the bridge, so he nudges me with his elbow and asks again, "Huh? Where do you wanna eat?"
I look up at him to stall time as my monologue continues:
We agree that Applebee's isn't as good as Chili's, but I have Chili's in Wax.
Parkway has good burgers, but there's not a good game on, and I'd rather watch a game if we go there.
We ate at Cheddar's last week, but again, it's a little expensive.
McAlister's isn't as expensive; I could get a water and drink his sweet tea--which he hates.
He looks down at me and raises his eyebrows. "Huh?" he asks.
The pressure's on, so I say, "Uhhhhmmmmm," as I continue my monologue:
I hate B-Dubs and won't go there.
I wish we had a Carino's because I love that place.
"I don't care," I finally say, exhaling all the air I've held in my lungs.
He rolls his eyes toward me because he knows about the monologue that has gone on in my head. "You don't care?" he asks.
I shrug my shoulders. "Gimme some options."


That is literally our conversation every time we go to Wichita.


I looooove making decisions when Aaron's not involved. When he's involved, I want him to make all of the decisions; I want him to take care of me. Is that lame? Yah, probably. But I like to be taken care of, especially by the boy who likes to take care of me.
I just giggled to myself. It's okay if you rolled your eyes.

When My Confidence is Shaken

I am more myself now than I have ever been in my entire life.  


The past three and a half years have transformed me into, well, me.
I remember watching movies and dreaming about being a woman who held her head high and had strong morals and did everything she needed to do in order to have a perfect life.
My life is faaaar from perfect, but I am finally in a place in my life where I can walk in that confidence that I've always dreamed about having.


In a month, that confidence will be shaken. 
I will have a nerdy, fun party with all of my friends; I will rehearse walking across the stage in flats, and later that evening, I will get all dolled up and walk across the SAGU stage in heels for the last time in my official undergraduate career. I will then go to dinner with my family, and when I'm back in my bare room, under my bright red covers, I'll probably cry.
Depressing, nah. I just know that December 9th, 2011 will close a chapter in my life like May 23rd, 2008 closed a chapter in my life. On May 23rd, I was relieved, ready to get out of Hominy to start my new plan; on December 9th, I will be terrified of leaving Waxahachie.


The confidence I've seen in women in movies has been found in financial status, men, and the idea of a perfect life. The reason I'll be able to actually get out of bed and finish pack on December 10th will not come from the fact that I have money--because I will still have a small but significant amount of debt; it will not come from the fact that I have a boyfriend--although his "Good morning beautiful" texts sure do help; and it will not come from a grand plan of a perfect life--because I have none. As cheesy and cliche as it sounds, the confidence I'll be able to rely on will come from God, the same Source I've had since I actually decided to give my full life to Him on May 14th, 2009, a page in my life that will forever hold a bookmark.


So the me you see now is true. Change--my clothes, my hairstyle--grow hair grow!, my opinions, my relationship status, my living situation--is inevitable, and I will embrace it as it comes; but one thing will remain the same: my hope, my strength, my joy, my confidence is in the Lord. He has been faithful as I have learned to trust Him, so I'll continue to trust Him.

"I lift up my eyes to the mountains--
where does my help come from?

My help comes from the Lord,

the Maker of heaven and earth."

Psalm 121:1-2

Something I'd Write About

I was chatting with Aaron about a new blog post, and upon asking what I should write, he said, "You should write about the weather change, and why you like to wear scarves and all that stuff. That seems like something you'd write about."
I couldn't help but chuckle because it's so true--the weather change is enough to make me shout for joy! I looooooove winter. I never had a full appreciation for it until I had my cute, red peacoat though. I know that sounds completely lame, but the truth is that when you have something cute, you want to wear it! And when that something cute can only be worn during the winter, you want winter!

This winter is especially exciting for me.
I am graduating in a MONTH on December 9th, which means no more classes--until I decide to start grad school--and moving out of my dorm, which is a little bit sad because Guynes has been my home for 3 1/2 years, and third floor has been my only way of working out for 3 1/2 years, and Anon has been my roommate for 2 years. Moving out will be sad; however, moving to Byers will be ohmyword so exciting! I don't know the details of that move, but I'm really excited for it to finally happen.
Because I'm moving to Byers, I'll get to spend all of my snow days in Byers, which means Aaron and I will be drinking lots of hot chocolate and watching Elf lots of times---that is, if it snows. Which also means I'll be playing in the snow with teenagers, and who doesn't like playing in the snow with teenagers who are willing to do the most daring thing you dare?!


Winter is my favorite time of the year, and it is finally here. Not today, of course, because the weather is 70ish degrees, and I'm wearing a t-shirt, but soon Winter will smile and let the snow fall from the sky...and I'll talk more about how I like to wear scarves and stuff... you know, because that seems like something I'd write about. ;)

Gravel is Not Conducive for Bike-Riding

When I was about seven, my older sister and I decided to have a friendly bike race down my Mawmaw and Pawpaw's driveway. I'd been riding back and forth for a while, so I accepted the challenge.


We got on our bicycles--one of us was on the coveted red bike that had a speedometer and the other one of us was on the banana-seated bike that was extremely uncomfortable to one's hindquarters--and took off. The driveway is maybe thirty yards, and I knew that a down and back race would not take my breath away, especially since I was in such great shape for a seven year old.

At about the 25-yard mark, my bike tripped on gravel. No, that does not sound like it could make sense, but I remember: I did not swerve; a stick was not in the way; my bike simply tripped over a rock or something and threw me off. I went flying into the air--I'm pretty sure I was winning because my sister saw the whole thing, from behind, of course--and landed on my face. 
My teeth actually broke my fall. Lucky me.


I don't remember getting up; I don't remember the blood; I do remember sitting on the counter in my Mawmaw's kitchen and hearing Kriston apologizing a thousand times although the wreck wasn't even her fault.


Today, pieces of my front four teeth--top two and bottom two--are fake. I don't think I have a whole fake tooth, but all four of them have a bit of falseness to them. 
However, the bike wreck didn't cause all four of them to be fake. I've learned several other lessons in nature besides gravel+bike=wreck. But, those lessons I will share later...when I don't have other assignments due.

Languages

I speak several different languages.
I have only lived in two places my entire life, Oklahoma and Texas, but my vocabulary is large in four different languages.


Hick comes from mah roots. Sometahmes wheen Ah get real tard or wheen Ah'm talkin' to one a mah famly members, Ah talk hick. Ah lose all dignity from mah speech and let words fall rahght off a mah tongue. Ah don't even re'lize it 'til somebody 'round me gives me a strange look. Then ah clear mah throat and move back into the proper way of speaking.
I can keep up with the business world in my speech. I can go from talkin' all hick-lahke to speaking professionally at the sound of a ringtone. When I need to put on the business suit, I clean up pretty well. I still have a tinge of hick in my voice, but I use it for charm. Who can resist a sweet Southern Belle? (I just batted my long eyelashes atcha.)
Another language I speak isn't too foreign to most. Those who took Calculus and Physics in high school--hold on, let me adjust my classes--speak and understand nerd-speech. I used to be able to keep up with the best of them when it came to derivatives and meters per second squared, but after three years without math and science, I speak more along the lines of commas and apostrophes. I speak grammar-nerd, which may very well be the worst of all nerd-speeches.
The last language I've accumulated over the years has words such as propitiation, sanctification, and salvation. Common conversations discuss daily devotionals, being called into a ministry, and the latest worship music. Since I've been speaking this language since the ripe age of birth, I tend to graze over phrases like "died on a cross for our sins" without taking into consideration what I am saying and what my audience is thinking. This language is the most important of my languages because if I never explain the words I say, and if I can never put in to different words what Jesus means to me--without speaking Christianese--I will never help build the kingdom of Heaven, or God's kingdom, or get people to go to Heaven--whichever makes most sense to you.


Languages come with cultures, and cultures define the boundaries of languages whether they mean to or not. Therefore, on any given day, I am a part of four completely different cultures--and for that I am grateful.

Senioritis: Overwhelmed

I don't mean to do it, but I am constantly treading water.


I wish that were a literal statement, especially in the holiday season of eat-all-ya-want-workout-later, but in every other area of my life, my life seems to sink under the water.
I'm not whining; I'm just stating a fact.
The problem with this fact is that I'm the only one to blame. I pile tasks on myself like they're nothing, but at the end of the day, I don't have much progress to show for that pile. I may have knocked ten tasks off of my to-do list, but I am still not nearly close to the end of it, making the to-do list for the next day even longer.


That is probably the best way I have ever described the weight of being overwhelmed, and let me tell you, it's no fun. I like to have my hands in everything, I like to be everywhere with everyone doing everything, but I am one person who can be in one place at one time.
Boo.

I have a lot of decisions coming up. I have a lot of papers that are due. I have a lot of responsibilities that I am currently avoiding for the simple fact that I don't know if I can pull myself away from my task at hand to go pray about those decisions and to go write those papers. This blog is actually one of those marks off of my to-do list.


I understand now why seniors drop out during the last semester in college. I understand now why Kenny Fickling hardly ever came to class his last semester--yes, I just put him on blast, but I'm sure he won't mind; it's the truth. I understand why planning a wedding during one's last semester is the worst idea ever--no, I'm not planning a wedding, and Aaron was wise to not ask me to plan one.
I simply want to lie on the couch in my long sleeved flannel and sweat pants, flip on a movie, and eat popcorn for weeks on end. After three and half years of pushing myself toward papers and perfection, I deserve it.


Instead, I'm gonna go pray. Cliche? Nah, I just know that I don't know how to keep myself afloat, but the good Lord does. I need a little peace and clarity in my mumble-jumbled head.

And I'm gonna eat cookies and cream ice cream, just in case you wanted to know.

Sweet Stormy

I'm not a pets kinda girl.


Cats are obnoxious, and big dogs scare me. Little dogs need attention; birds are annoying; fish need changed water; gerbils just smell. If something causes a house to have a specific odor or something runs at/to me in the yard, I don't like it.


I like cows and pigs, chickens and horses. They need food and water and no lovin'. Granted, a horse needs to be ridden from time to time in order to be in constant rideable shape, but he/she doesn't bug me by neighing until I get the saddle and bridle.


With that said, you'll be surprised to know that I have found a sort of loving adoration for my boyfriend's childhood dog, Stormy. Stormy is an eleven-year old German Sheppard who lives in Aaron's parents' front yard.


Apparently Stormy used to be the mean, fearless protector Kendra, Aaron's younger sister. Stormy would growl at whomever would be with Kendra and sometimes chase people away--I like to think that she chased lots of boys away on Kendra's behalf. I imagine Kendra bringing a nervous boy home to meet the parents and telling him he had to get passed Stormy first, which sometimes didn't happen because I've heard stories of her growls and bites. When Stormy didn't like someone, that person knew.


I don't normally pet Stormy--because she's an outside dog, she smells--but every time I step onto Marty and Sherry's porch, I greet that sweet, old dog, and she seems to smile up at me. She's never attacked me, so I'd venture to say that she likes me, which is a relief because I'd probably pee my pants if she even growled at me.


One day, Stormy will be gone, sadly enough, and The Littles will mourn the loss of a long-time beloved friend. And instead of standing off to the side like an anti-pet person would, I'll be sad, too. I've not know her all eleven years of her life, but I love seeing her every weekend; she's the perfect piece of comfort to my sweet second home.

Eavesdropping

I'm a natural eavesdropper. I have always listened in on conversations because people are so dadgum hilarious, and I am so dadgum nosy. So, when I received the assignment to eavesdrop for a dialogue exercise, I was excited!
Enjoy!!

Typical Guynes

   It's a typical Wednesday in Guynes Lobby. Four guys and a girl are sitting on the couches waiting for chapel time to roll around. They converse about the pumpkin latte from the grill tasting more like a caramel macchiato, then Arnie comments that Maxey looks just like Justin Timberlake.
   "We were lookin' back at music, man," he admits. "We wanted to listen to N'Sync."
   Mikey, sitting in an arm-chair, starts singing, "Bye, bye, bye--"
   Kelsie, his girlfriend sitting in the chair next to his, slowly turns her head toward him. "Are you singing N'Sync?"
   "No." He smirks then asks, "Is that the puppet one?"
   She smiles as she shakes her head. "No, that's 'No Strings Attached.'"
   He nods, remembering, and then sings again, this time to a different tune. "I'm bringin' sexy back."
   Kelsie's smile broadens while she shakes her head disapprovingly.
   Mikey continues to sing and hum as the boys talk about roommate situations. Mike, sitting in a chair next to Kelsie, says, "I had the wardrobe conversation with him this morning."
   Mikey stares at him in disbelief. "Really?"
   "Yeah," Mike says. "He asked once, and I guess he thought that meant every time." He paused. "But I told him he could only wear my clothes twice a week."
   On the couch across from the three chairs, Maxey and Arnie continue to discuss N'Sync. "I was thinkin' for Open Mic Night you could be Justin Timberlake," Arnie says. "And Willie looks like this dude from Backstreet Boys." He grabs his iPad and turns on the music video for "I Want It That Way."
   As the music video plays, Arnie is full of comments. "This was before they banned trench coats," he says, and Maxey laughs approvingly. "We need to get someone to play that guy," he comments, pointing at the screen.
   "We could probably get Nate," Maxey offers.
   They continue watching and pointing at the guy who looks like Willie until Arnie could no longer hold in his excitement. "Look!" he exclaims, "That's Willie! That's freakin' Willie!"
   Arnie's excitement catches the attention of Mike who asks, "Is that Backstreet Boys or N'Sync?"
   Mikey shrugs. "I dunno, I was never into that stuff."
   "That's Willie, guys!" Arnie exclaims and turns the screen to face the rest of the group.
   Mike catches the excitement and, raising his voice, says, "Put that junk on Facebook! Tweet that stuff!" He begins to bob his head to the beat, and he and Mikey sing along with the end.
   "I want it that way..."

Babysitters Club to Jodi Picoult

I used to get grounded from reading.
I was always the kid with her nose in a book when she wasn't playing outside with her four siblings. But, man, when I started a book, I didn't put it down until I finished the entire thing.
When I was 8-9-10, I read the entire series of The Babysitter's Club. One day, while reading, my dad came into the living room, grabbed my book, and told me I had to go outside and play. I was grounded from reading until he said so. Of course, it was a playful moment, but he really did ground me from that book for a while, and since it was one in a series, I couldn't just go grab the next one off of the shelf. That's blasphemy.
When I was 11-12-13, I read The School Story and Frindle by Andrew Clements and became a middle schooler determined to do something incredible--like write my own book and get it published or make up a new word. Haha.
I also became hooked on Lurlene McDaniel with her stories of cheesy (clean) romance between two teenagers. When I say "hooked," I don't mean I read a couple of her books; I mean, I took all of her books from the library and read until I needed more books by her. Mrs. Enos, the librarian, and I became great friends because of my constant visits to the library. She would often recommend books to me (like Life of Pi), and I would always start them, but my niche was romance.
When she discovered that, she introduced me to Jodi Picoult--more specifically, The Pact. Ohmyword, it was the best thing I'd ever read. It had romance; it had drama; it had action; most importantly, it had an intense family dynamic. I come from a family of seven and and extended family of too many to count on my fingers and toes, on both sides, so family is my life. It defines me in a way that I could never really understand. I think God knows that in order to get me out of my comfort zone, He'd have to completely take me from my family. And I would be devastated beyond words.
Anyway, Jodi Picoult quickly became my best friend. Lame? I don't care. Her characters were more real to me than the people sitting around me. I even almost asked for prayer for one of them in my Sunday School class. Lame? No. Good writing.
Jodi Picoult is still my favorite author as well as my inspiration.
I still read quite a bit, from cereal boxes and milk cartons to lengthy novels, but my leisurely reading is at a minimum right now. I started Jodi Picoult's latest novel over the summer, and my marker is still in the book because I can't read her without escaping from reality. Bubble bath, tea, cell phone off. Walking around like a zombie. That's how I read Jodi Picoult and Jane Austen and Francine Rivers.
Maybe I'm a rebel because I don't enjoy the classics as much as everyone else. I am very much a girl who wants to be romanced, so I read romance.
And I write it. My goal is to one day meet Jodi Picoult and pick her brain or just sit with her. I want to write in a way that captivates readers' attention like she captivated mine.
We'll see.

Rant-Rant-Rant-Rant-Rant

I'm very good at ranting. I've been known to get on my "soapbox" or my "high horse" and rant-rant-rant until I'm blue in the face. Sometimes, literally. 
However, I don't always like to rant. Sometimes I wish I had the personality of someone who sat in the back of the room and didn't say anything. But that's not me. And it would be so unlike me to sit and listen to everyone else. My reputation precedes me: I'm a ranter.
And this week--full of rants.


Now, telling them all to you would not be fun because then I would have to work up all of my emotion. However, I have one that I will tell, mostly because I'm most frustrated about it.


Wednesday, I went to get my hair cut. I have never really had a bad haircut, but this lady apparently didn't hear me when I said, "No, don't taper," and "Please don't cut the length. I don't want a trim; I just want layers." When I walked out of the salon (which will remain nameless), I should've fallen on my knees asking the Lord for forgiveness. No, I didn't cuss the lady out (out loud, anyway), but I did treat her like trash.
Did I feel justified? Heeeeeck yes. I mean, I live with my hair every day. It's my livelihood. It's my pride. It's what describes my personality, and right now, I'm done being the college kid. I'm ready to be a WO-man.
Not with that haircut I wasn't.
Long, sobby story short, the lady cut off two inches. Now, this may not seem to be a big deal to you, but two inches=4 months of vitamin E and rubbing my scalp to get it to grow. With that in mind, maybe you understand why I sobbed and almost lost my relationship with the Lord.


Now, this was a mild rant, because I had time to think it through. If only I thought through my rants before I ranted about them, maybe I wouldn't rant so much. Maybe I could become the kid in the back of the room with no input.


Nah.

Um, Can I Write About Your Life?

Last Friday, on my drive to Byers, I started thinking about memoir topics. I thought about several small events that have made major impacts on my life, and I figured writing at least one of them down would be difficult.
Wednesday, I sat down at my computer and started typing out all of my ideas for my memoir. As I started developing these stories, I realized something:
I don't like writing about myself.
Now, I have this blog, and the main topic of my writing is myself, but I sure don't like getting personal with the happenings in my life. As I sat down again on Friday, I could not crank things out of my head. I kept considering who would read it and how they would react, and I began to worry and search my head--and heart--for different events.
All of my events involved someone else, not necessarily in a bad way, but the way I would write my memoir could possibly hurt someone's feelings.


I gonna have a tough time writing this memoir by Wednesday, and I know I'm gonna have to pull on my heartstrings, which means I'll cry some. But, I it will be good. I think it could be refreshing.


You should try writing about an experience/event in your life--consider how much it's affected the rest of your life. See what you'll find.

   I still procrastinate.
   I thought my summer would be full of organized time of reading and writing, and I thought I would blog at least once a week and work on my book every other day. I thought I would learn how to cook and play piano and visit my family on occasion. I thought I would apply to several different companies or colleges in order to find my perfect fit. I thought I'd know what I would be doing come December when I walk across the stage.
   I thought wrong.
   However, my summer was so much more than I could have ever dreamed. I worked in a town of 500 people, in a church of 85 people. And I loved it.
   I read one book. I wrote half of a poem. I never blogged, and I didn't even open my book document. I did learn how to cook, and Aaron was my taste-tester--don't worry, he's still alive. I practiced piano very little, but I transposed I don't know how many songs. I visited my immediate family several times, but I only visited my grandparents once. Still kicking myself for that one. I didn't apply to one company or college, but I will be applying to Brown Books and UNT soon--famous last words of the procrastinator. ;)
   Beyond all that English-nerd-stuff, I met and developed relationships with some of the greatest teenagers on the face of the Earth. Exaggeration? Not a chance. These guys and gals know how to go after God in a way that I am just understanding at 21 years old. And they love each other. Revolution youth group has the most intense family feel of any youth group I've every seen. They are absolutely amazing, and I look forward to continuing to be a part of them.
   This summer, I didn't find out what I'd be doing come December, but I did find peace about what I want to be doing. I want to be serving the church. I don't care if I'm in a bathroom installing a vent or on stage leading worship. I don't care if I'm praying with adults in the altars or if I'm editing videos. I don't care if I'm taking attendance or greeting people at the door. I want to do. I want to help. I want to serve. This English stuff is just the nerdy fun side of me. Oh, I looooooooove reading and writing, and I will read and write until my eyes go blind and my fingers stop moving--and then I'll get audio books and a microphone attached to my computer. Haha. But, my purpose is much more than reading. My passion is much more than writing.
   And I've barely tapped in to what God has for me...how exciting!!

My Solution to My Self-Abuse

What is this abuse we call college??
Are we really learning anything here??
Is this worth the piece of paper we get in the end??
Someone--please tell me it's worth it. Pleeeeeeease...

Okay, I know, I know...a bit dramatic, a bit over-the-top.
But, really. I have written four huge papers in the past three weeks. I'm talkin' a whopping total of thirty pages.
This is the point when reality sets in:
THIRTY PAGES? IS THAT ALL??
So, when I signed up to be an English major, I forgot that reading and writing were the main ways to learn and produce English. Now, in my third year of college, with one semester until I walk across that stage and get a BA degree, I am realizing that, ohmyword, reading and writing and pulling something out of my brain and putting it on paper and organizing it to where it makes sense is, let me just say it again, ohmyword, so hard.


I am so much better at procrastinating than I am at anything else. I know, everyone says that, but really, I'm goooooood.
I even procrastinate my goal to stop procrastinating.
However, (here I go, New Year's Resolution in April), this summer, I'm stoppin' this madness. I have to learn how to balance my life.
And, ya know what, I'm getting rid of homework first.


Good thing summer's in a week.

i'm no band-wagon fan

I used to be a Boston Red Sox fan...sorta. My senior year, I bought the hat (bc it had the cute, little red socks on the back, of course) and learned a couple of names--that's all it really takes to be a "fan," right?
Wrong.
Last summer, I went to a bunch of Texas Rangers games. Aaron and his family love the Rangers; his dad is a real fan. He watches every game, knows every player--past and present--and actually enjoys sitting through nine looooong innings of baseball. Enjoys it.
I'm sure you know where I'm headed with this post, so needless to say, I started liking baseball--and the Rangers. I learned all of the names. I learned what scoring position was. I learned that the National League requires pitchers to bat. And I actually enjoyed learning it. I sat in the good seats where the players' heads were almost life-sized. I decided I could be a real Rangers fan.
In an unlikely turn of events, I found myself in my dorm lobby watching the Rangers kick butt during the American League (West) Division Series (ALDS). Then, the Rangers took on the Yankees in the American League Championship Series (ALCS). Imagine my surprise when they won that sixth game after their terrible start at home! So, the Rangers were in the World Series against the Giants. Did I know their past? No. Did I know how many times they had been in the World Series, or how long it had been since they last went? No.
What I did know was that I didn't want to miss one game--and I didn't. I had updates on my phone; I had Aaron texting me after each batter. I didn't want to miss one second. After they lost ("fear the beard," puhhhlease), I was sad, like every other fan, but I was set: I wanted to trade in my nasty BoSox hat and become a Rangers fan.

When the season started on Friday, I was ready. I had previously bought tickets to the Saturday Opening Night game, and I could NOT wait. Plus, the Rangers were playing none other than the Boston Red Sox. I was ready to trade in my hat.
The Rangers swept the BoSox this weekend, and I enjoyed watching Kinsler lead off with a homerun in the first two games. I didn't get to trade in my hat--I'm hoping they'll do that promo again later in the season--but I'm sure not wearing it again.


That's my story. I'm a fan of the Rangers now, and it's not because they went to the World Series. It's not even because of my boyfriend. It's because I found out what it meant to be a real fan.
Now I am one.

GOOOO RANGERS!!! 

No More Single Awareness for Me!

I'll be honest:

I am one of those mushy gushy, lovey, dovey, squeal-when-I-talk-about-my-boyfriend kind of gals. I am. I can't help it. I get excited and refuse to control the waves of excitement that overwhelm my soul; I let them out in what ever shape they come. Call it annoying; call it attention-hungry; call it ridiculous. 

I could care less because I'm in the silly, fun stage of my relationship with Aaron, and I love it.

He surprised me on Valentine's Day. :)

Monday is the most hectic day of my week, so I had several meetings. He had just finished a weekend of cookie making and event planning, so we were both a little wiped out by the time Valentine's Day reared its head.

I've never been the biggest fan of Valentine's Day. Sure, I'll eat chocolate until I feel like I have to puke--all in the name of love. But, Valentine's Day has always been a little annoying to me.

Until this year.

Yes, there it is, the cliche statement reminding you that I have a boyfriend. No more "Single Awareness Day" for me. I have someone who calls me every night and texts me every morning, and he came to see me on that day of looooooove.

He was so cute trying to hide the surprise from me. I called him when he was on the road, and he claimed to be going to WalMart or something. He asked me if I had received my delivery yet and told me a guy was looking for me.

That guy was hiiiiiim. :)

He brought me tulips (because petunias don't bloom til Spring) and chocolate covered strawberries. I wrote him notes and gave him chocolate kisses.

We sat by a pond, and he ate Chick-fil-a (because I had already eaten, of course) then we headed back to the dorms to chill in my room. Hooray for Open Dorms on Valentine's Day!

Simple but so so sweet and so like us. It was an us day, and it was perfect.

Okay, you can stop gagging now.

Excerpt

I'm needing some inspiration in continuing the book I started a year ago. I have finished 11,000 words, but every time I try to pick it back up, I just edit and re-edit and find myself four hours in and no continued work. Anyway, this is my latest edit. Tell me whatcha think. :)

            I remembered when it started.

            It was the middle of March. Rick had stayed the night at his best friend’s house, who happened to be my neighbor, because his parents were in a drunken fight. We stayed up half the night on my front porch debating whether we should tell my parents, and we finally decided that I should tell my mom and the two of us would tell my dad. We were both nervous about how they would handle it, but we knew we had to tell them before they noticed my belly growing bigger.

             My mom and I were in the kitchen where we always talked. My older sister and dad were helping at the church yard sale, and my little brother was at a friend’s house, so didn’t have to worry about any interruptions.

            I don’t remember how it started, but I remember where we were standing. Momma was doing dishes at the sink and I was to her right, leaning against the counter stuffing a banana in my mouth, not allowing my words to escape. I remember wishing she would just ask me, but I knew that wouldn’t happen, so as I swallowed a big bite, I opened my mouth to see what would come out.

            “Momma,” I started, and she must’ve noticed my serious tone because she turned and looked at me, puzzled. I held up a finger, catching my breath. “I have to tell you something.” I’ll never forget how foreign my voice sounded, and I could feel the sobs clinging to my throat.

            She rinsed her hands in the water, dried them on a towel, and turned to face me.

            “I—I don’t know how to say this, so—”

            “Dee, honey,” she interrupted, “just say it. Whatever it is can’t be that bad.” Her face was full of concern, compassion, for whatever was about to come out of my mouth.

            “Momma,” I started again, this time determining to get it all out, “I—um, I,” I put my hands on my belly where I this baby was doing flips. I felt like vomiting.

            I looked up at my mom, her eyes wide at my belly. At that moment, I lost it. My knees buckled, and I slid on the floor crying louder than I’d ever cried before. My momma sat next to me. “I was afraid of this,” she said through her tears, putting her arm around my shoulders and her hand on top of my hand on my belly.

            I couldn’t make words come out of my mouth, and my body felt out of control. My momma held me tight until I controlled my hiccup-cries. When I finally got the nerve to look at her, her eyes were closed and her lips were in a tense straight line, but she had tears rolling down of her cheeks.

            I hung my head and opened my mouth to speak again. “Momma, I’m so sorry. I didn’t plan for this to happen. I didn’t wanna have a baby.”

            My momma opened her eyes, and I saw puddles of tears in them. “Dee,” she said softly, “You will have this baby, but you will not marry this boy.”

            That was her response to my pregnancy, and the standard she stood by the next four months. She didn’t allow Rick to come to the house, hung up on him when he called, and asked him to stay away from me any time she saw him. She was patient and compassionate toward me until I brought up Rick. She hated him.

            My mom just didn’t understand, and needless to say, Rick wasn’t with me when I told my dad the news. A deacon in the church, my dad didn’t talk about how he felt, but I knew he was ashamed.

            Keeping my pregnancy a secret wasn’t difficult because I was barely five months along in the middle of May when I graduated. Ironically, my final paper was over The Scarlett Letter and, like Hester Prynne, I felt the pain of carrying such a secret.

            My curly-headed baby girl came early, on the fifth of August, and Rick and I took two days deciding on her name. We came across Maggie and just fell in love with it, so that’s what we named her. Two days after bringing her home, Rick found that his Greek heritage gave a special meaning for Maggie, one that was pure and beautiful. “Pearl,” the name of Hester Prynne’s own daughter in The Scarlett Letter, was the meaning behind my Maggie’s name. He never understood why my tears overcame his pride when he told me.

            Two months later, in October, Rick got “transferred” to Rockville, South Carolina. We told everyone that his company thought he would be better suited for work on the coast, but the truth was that we were trying to escape. Although my parents had already forbidden me to be with him, I went. We had a courthouse wedding in South Carolina, and moved into a tiny one-bedroom apartment. We lived there until I got pregnant with Abigail, four years later.

            I looked at the man before me. “We’ve been through lots, haven’t we?” I sighed and put my forehead on his. “I love you for staying with me, Rick.”

            “Dana,” he said sincerely, “I wouldn’t go anywhere even if you asked.” And he leaned in and kissed me.

Too Early for Death to be Funny

I had a tonsillectomy yesterday..and what an experience it was. From changing into a gown that had no back and not a real pocket (I told my mom that I didn't think I'd be in a hospital gown until I was pregnant and didn't care who saw me exposed) to smelling alcohol swabs to keep me from passing out, I had a partay.

My mom and I got to the hospital while it was still dark outside, and a nurse came in while I was giving the receptionist all of my information. I asked her if she was the one who would "take me to my death." My mom gasped, of course, and the nurses said I shouldn't say those kinds of things. I told them it was too early in the morning to joke. They didn't think it was very funny.

Obviously, my day started out on a good note. :)

I changed into a gown shorter than any dress I've ever worn--and skimpier because it had no back, met all 6 of the doctors who would be helping (how many docs does it take to perform a MINOR surgery?), and tried to listen to the anesthesiologist while a nurse put an IV in my arm. Now, I learned two years ago in my Psych class that I can't really handle blood (I pass out), but I don't like not watching a needle enter my body. That's just a dirty trick. The anesthesiologist just needed to hush so I could focus on the nurse. Needless to say, I probably missed out on something important because I was busy watching the needle insertion. After all of this doctor drama, I waited. A doctor, who looked my age, eased my mind by telling me he went to med school to learn how to take pictures snapped a photo of my mom and me. Not a funny joke, doc. Grow some facial hair.

Gown on, harassment passed, picture taken: I was ready to go. Because of the anesthetics, I was out as soon as the doctors wheeled me to the back room. And can i just say, I was pretty scared, so I was beyond glad that I was about to be out before the count.

I woke up, an hour later, in a strange room with a new nurse and my mom. They gave me water from a spoon, and I cried off and on because I didn't know what was going on, and I was in some pain. Not as bad as my wisdom teeth experience though ("mom, can we watch the Lion King when we get home? The ciiiircle of liiiiiife!!").

They tried to sit me up, so I could get dressed (I do not need your help, thank you very much), and I kept getting light-headed. Remember, I don't do well with blood, and I hadn't eaten in 14 hours. Ask anyone, I eat every other hour at least. The nurse gave me an alcohol swab to hold under my nose, and guess what! That sucker worked! What a relief! She gave us plenty for the next couple of days. What a great nurse.

Since being home, I have eaten 6 cups of jello, 3 popsicles, one egg (mashed into iiiiitty biiiiitty pieces), a small bowl of mashed potatoes, and downed 7 bottles of water. During the night, I woke myself up every two hours to take my medicine. Pretty proud. I'll be a good mom one day. ;)

I think I'm gona live, which is a relief, because my mom would be pretty sad after the comment about death yesterday morning.