The country isn't as peaceful as you think

So apparently there is an air born disease effecting the wildlife in the area and my friend Chris told me to expect a horde of zombies to follow, so I should be prepared. Don't worry guys, my dad's display case of guns reassures my safety enough. It's like Left 4 Dead without med kits laying about. (Med kits are the only exception. We are a heavy medicated, well prepared family with war vets, computer techs, bikers and college drop outs. And yes, you may very well find a stash of pills in random places.) I am mostly concerned with my cat Emmy, who was booted outside for the presents she leaves around the house and in strangers' shoes. I thought it was funny. Dad, not so much.

It all started today, while I was in class when Mom saw a raccoon walking down the driveway.

In the middle of the afternoon.

They are nocturnal.

You catching on?

This raccoon was swaying back and forth as it progressed down the hill from the main road with only brief moments of normalcy. One second it seemed perfectly fine, the next it was spazzing out, all twitchy and shit. That is a no go. Obviously something was seriously wrong with it. Her first thought was rabies. Anyone who knows anything about anything would have thought of rabies. You have to know this shit when you move out into the country, especially when you have children.

Well, a phone call to the police and to animal control later, it was beneath the deck in our backyard. With my cat.

A little bit of me died inside when I typed that.

Ahem.

An officer and someone from animal control came out to the property, took one look, and said that they couldn't do anything about it. If they shot at it, there was a chance that the bullet would hit the brick of the side of the house, and that was a no go. They didn't even stick around or try to persuade it out into the open. They just left my mom there with a house full of children and a delirious animal under the deck. Yeah, way to do your friggin jobs guys.

When Dad got home, and this is why I feel very much protected during a potential zombie apocalypse, he went into his room, opened the window, took aim, and fired. (Of course we kept the kids upstairs and distracted them in hopes they wouldn't hear the gun shot.) God. That creature didn't stand a chance. My dad is a badass.

Now we are watching my cat for signs of this disease, a disease that is not rabies. My other animals aren't allowed near her. It's heartbreaking, and there is nothing I can do. I have to walk away when she stares in through the window and meows. It's like I'm sacrificing her for the good of the group or something. To top it all off, I now know that law enforcement and animal control can't do shit out here, and that really sucks. God forbid there is a break in or a hostage situation here.

"Well... the door is locked. We can't get inside. Let's go home boys."

"But sir..."

"There's nothing we can do."

Zombie animals, dead beat people who can't do their jobs...

I can't wait to move to Galveston.

Let's hope someone says yes, and soon

Remember how in my last post I made the word "excited" my bitch? Well, that was because I was genuinely excited about my mom's daycare. Y'see, I didn't think it would be difficult to get people to invest in the business because my thoughts fell specifically on my grandfather and my uncles, all of whom make excellent money. What I didn't think about was that they all tend to keep it to themselves, which is sad, because my mom didn't exactly have the best childhood, so the least they could do is make up for all of the shit they put her through as a child and help her achieve her dream as an adult.

Of course, they don't and won't see it from her perspective. I can't imagine what it must be like to be abandoned over and over and over again by your family. I've heard a plethora of horror stories from my mom and aunt about how they were treated when growing up. My mom moved away from home when she was sixteen-years-old, because she couldn't stand to live under the same roof as my grandfather anymore. That's really young guys. I moved out to go to school when I just turned eighteen, which is a ripe age in my opinion. The mentality gap between sixteen and eighteen is huge. You can learn a lot about the world in two years, but I'd imagine that my mom had been fantasizing about moving out since she hit the double digits, so I don't blame her for packing her bags so early.

Grandpa didn't seem to mind. He was ready with the paint buckets the moment she walked out of the door.

From my perspective, it is really hard picturing this loving grandfather as the person who torments my mom. Ever since I was born, I've loved him and have been loved in returned. He nurtured me, cared for me, and always made sure to give me a hug and kiss before every goodbye. But when I found out his true, hateful nature, I never viewed him the same again.

People don't completely change. I've learned that the hard way.

Back to the point. On Easter my mom was preparing herself to approach my grandfather in hopes that he would take an interest in the business that she has always wanted. She brought it up gently, mentioning how amazing the building was and that she would love for him to check it out if he had the time. But immediately, without second thought, the topic was dismissed. He deliberately changed the subject to show just how disinterested he was in helping her. When she turned to my grandmother, she shrugged and told her that my grandfather doesn't like getting involved in family's financial affairs. My aunt, who had witnessed what had happened, was not surprised. No one was. Not even my mom.

But later that night, when everyone had left and we were cleaning up, Mom seemed sluggish and had a hard time smiling. I immediately knew what was wrong and I'm sure I made it worse with my open rants about Grandpa, which I suddenly regret now. In my defense, watching the woman who birthed me's dreams slowly begin to deteriorate because of the man that made her life a living hell years ago just tore me apart. I was furious at my grandfather, who only uses his money to update his electronics and lets the rest sit in his bank account until grandma goes on one of her huge shopping sprees, which is usually like every week. It's selfish, just selfish. (Or maybe I'm being selfish. It is HIS money, but come ON). Oh, and I'm sure he'll expect Father's Day to be a big event that revolves around him. He's pretty needy on his birthday too. It's sad.

I'm glad I live an hour away from he who used to be my neighbor, because I don't know if I could hold my tongue around that man. But my mom, over time, seems to be more and more content with his answer.

"It's okay," she reassured. "When the zombie apocalypse happens, he'll be running to my door, and the first thing I am going to say is, 'So you need me now?'"

Oh Mom. I really hope someone helps you. I'd hate to have a heap of dead family members at our door when zombies inhabit the earth.

A degree shouldn't trump happiness

Holy frig I've got so much to tell you, but my brain is being manhandled by the sound of plastic wheels against tiled floor accessorized with the wails of screaming children. A closed door cannot contain the madness. I haven't resorted to anything extreme just yet, but I assume that it will happen shortly. How my mother runs an in-house daycare is beyond me. How I have managed to keep my sanity since I moved in in January is also beyond me (apparently delusion is hereditary). You do not know what it is like to wake up to five screaming children at 7:00 on a Friday every week. Okay maybe you do. Thank the heavens she finally found the perfect building to start her daycare in.

...Let's hope I don't jinx it by posting the potential this building has on the internet. The web has the power to make or break you by harnessing the power of shit cloud, so I am really taking a chance on this one to tell you the details. You're welcome.

The other day, me and the parental units went to take a tour of an old firehouse down the highway that was up for lease. The first image that came to mind was a crowd of two year olds falling down the fire pole, so I thought the effort was doomed at the start, but I kept quiet. No reason to spoil it over the idea of dead babies... they are my mother's dreams guys. MY MOTHER'S DREAMS.

Gaping hole in the floor not suitable for children, or anyone really.

My fears were silenced when we saw the building. It was perfect, and I couldn't help but start visualizing the flow of children from one room to the other, me behind the desk, raking in the doe, looking all professional and shit. (I see a Mac desktop and more screaming children in my future!) Madre was even more excited. She was practically shaking with happiness, but Dad had warned her on the trip there not to scream for fear she would ruin his chances at negotiating prices. The man has mad haggling skills, I can't deny it. So the three of us toured, dreamed, and kept our outward expression to a minimum until we were safely in the car. Then the top of the truck blew off from the mushroom cloud of pent up elation being released.

"Jess! You and me, together! We're going to do this!" she said.

"DUH!"

...Just one problem ladies: University. (And wasn't I just complaining about noisy children?)

Alright. You got me. But that is why I am here, explaining this to you, because this dilemma was driving me up the wall. Let me ask you a question: "What would you do if you discovered the perfect job with the perfect salary and the perfect boss, but you'd only be hired on if taking on a nine to five shift everyday, but you are already a full time student (which you hate being with a fiery passion)?

Wouldn't most choose their education?

I must clarify something. To those of you who aren't aware, I am an English major with a Creative Writing emphasis, which makes me destined for teacherhood, a place I'd prefer to avoid going to. I'd rather freelance, blog, and do my own thing writing-wise, but that does not exactly bring in money (neither does teaching, but that is a dilemma all on its own). Hence the name of this blog.

I digress.

Let's consider the next stage of this frustration. Let's say I quit going to school and work for Mom. Michael is going to move here next month. If anything, I'd want to move in with him if school wasn't holding me back! So would it make sense to quit school and choose to work in a daycare instead of starting my life with Michael? What is a girl to do? I have been programmed to believe that attending college is my only gateway to success and opportunity, things I'd love to obtain... without a diploma. School has become this redundant chore that I find no joy in and that I've come to resent, and over time it has occurred to me that wasting years of my life trying to obtain a degree that is virtually useless to me in the long run is a huge a waste of time, especially if it does not make me happy.

Basically, I do not enjoy being a full time student with little options and little cash. So I approached my mom later about what it is that I am supposed to do, fearing the anticipated "no" and the expected cold shoulder. Surprisingly, the discussion went pretty well, and we both agreed that my best option at the moment is to invest my time in what could potentially be a family franchise. I could always continue with school later, if it suits my fancy. After she left the room, I felt like I could actually, for once, breathe.

Since that discussion, I have been dancing on cloud nine. I am happy. I've been working on standard things for the daycare, I have been buying things for Michael and my apartment on the beach, and I've been physically healthier due to the stress being lifted from my situation. Time to take care of the important things now: my health, my happiness, and my family...

...and my bank account. Never again will I have to make a box of cereal last me a week!

Zombiegasms!

I am that awkward girl with glasses behind the counter at work who plays zombie arcade games to pass the time until her shift is over. I am the girl who reads funny blogs and laughs hysterically at the screen of my laptop while my customers stare at me like I am sporting a T-shirt that says "Pap smears for everyone" on it. I am also that girl who would dare to adorn herself in such attire. Basically, I am not normal. I have this obsession with preparing for a potential uprising of the undead and have even caught myself turning down floor plans not suited for such an occasion when apartment shopping. It would only make sense that my Mother likes zombie games. The weirdness had to originate somewhere.

Today I decided to show my Mom an online game called "Rebuild," a strategy game that revolves around the directive to rebuild society in the midst of hundreds of walking, blood-thirsty corpses. The moment I mentioned it to her, she sat in some sticky substance on the counter (victimized also by shit cloud, and often) so I took advantage of the time when she had to excuse herself to change clothes in order to pull up the game. The only website I knew of that had the game available was Armor Games, my source of much needed entertainment during this less than eventful Spring Break. She entered the room, griping about her sticky bottom as I began to type out the URL, only my pinky decided that it wanted to insert two s's instead of the usual one in "games". No good can come from a typo in the address bar.

"armorgasmes"

I advise you now to avoid going there when accompanied by a parental unit or figure. There will be questions. There will be awkward pauses. There will be humiliation.

Then again, if you are alone, by all means! Enjoy yourself oh adventurous one! Just don't recommend it to Mother by describing it first as "a good time" and "you will play it for hours" like I did.

No way to title this but "eeeeeeeee!"

The other day I found myself in quite the predicament. There I was, listening to my aunt's sad voice on the phone explaining how she can no longer keep a dog that has been in the family since I was in high school, and all I could think about was how I had mentioned surprising Michael with a dog to his family, which did not turn out too well for me. When I aroused from these thoughts, the tone in my aunt's voice had changed. Then we both hung up, and I suddenly came to the realization that I had said yes.

Thank you motor functions. You really know how to stick it to my vampires.

Today started earlier than usual. I had a child leap on me at 6:50 am, two hours after the last time I had glanced at the clock and six hours before I had to be in San Antonio to pick up the doggie. You see, when you are watching a child that is not your own overnight in a house that does not belong to you, you tend to be jumpy, uptight, and anal about every sound that could signal a disturbance in the force. I woke up to the cat wheezing, thinking that the kiddo was crying. I woke up every hour, on the hour in the same fashion-- me rolling from the couch onto the floor in a frenzy of pure panic. When I finally managed to get a nap in, my phone buzzed, revealing a text message from Michael.

[4:48 am]
"Wow dream. I love you so much.
Please stop killing all the pandas in
my subconscious in that bunny suit!"

...

...

I...

...

...

What the fuck?

So yeah. Eventful night and morning. When the afternoon came, I found myself in a predicament of a more heinous nature. Charlie the weenie dog gets car sick, a detail I had forgotten until I was reminded ten minutes before my journey back to Canyon Lake. An hour drive. An hour. HOUR. Luckily he kept all of the fluids to himself and the car ride was a vomit free one. That didn't make it any less stressful though. With every yawn and every pant, I expected to be showered in liquidated biscuits.

Mom told me that shit cloud would take a break in 2011 to rest up for 2012. She was right. This year has been a great one so far. I have a dog, a cat, and a boyfriend in the military who just received news of his next station.

Drum-roll please!

Scroll down for effect.


































GALVESTON!

Could life give me anything more? Could I ever be more satisfied? Keep raining the goodness on me baby! Michael and I have been celebrating the news with frequent Skype chats, which is so nice after weeks of barely speaking when he was in EMT school. The conversation that took place today went a little something like this.

Me: Guess what I'm eating.

Mike: Cookies!

Me: With a fork Mike?

Mike: ...Why are you eating cookies with a fork?

I was eating S.O.S, FYI. The internet connection was not working in our favor today, but I managed to get this in:

Charlie, welcome to the family. And Michael, welcome to Texas! I can't wait for the two of you to meet.

What day is it again?

I have been putting off this post all day. At first I was excited. I logged on as soon as the shouts of children outside of my door and the crash of plastic toys colliding became too much for my REM cycle and it decided that enough was enough. I was still a little out of it and I vaguely even remember logging on. That's how pumped I was to post today. My subconscious acted for me.

Then I saw the topic that I was supposed to write on and I chose to study instead.

Now that I am finished studying and have already put off writing with another DVD of That 70's Show, I am faced with a dilemma presented on the computer screen I so frequently visit. Either I write the truth for fear that my friends and family will be exposed to something I've managed to keep somewhat under wraps, or let loose a secret that defines a period of my life that I am not very proud of.

So here's the topic: A time I thought about ending my own life. 

Here we go.

Freshmen year of high school was a disaster. The school year started off with a phone call from a friend telling me that my ex-boyfriend from two years previous had died in a car accident. I took his death very hard. What made it worse was that specific friend reminding me that before his passing, he had planned to ask her out. I was bitter toward her for a while after that. His interest in her was all she seemed to recollect about his life, and she flaunted it. But every night that led up to his funeral, I was wounded by the regret of not trying harder to make it work between us. Maybe then I would be happy like I was when I was with him. Maybe then he wouldn't have sneaked out for a late night drive.

I decided not to attend his funeral for one reason: the last time I saw him, he was smiling and laughing and was asking me to write something in his yearbook. I don't remember what I wrote, but I hope it reminded him of what a wonderful person I thought he was. I knew that if I went to his funeral, that would have been the last picture of him ingrained in my memory, and I didn't want that for either of us. He deserved to be remembered in the way that I remember him now.

As time heals most, it healed me, but only after a series of events occurred that warped my views on life, friendship, and love. My attitude had darkened and remained so for an extended period of time. My friends had little patience for it and cut contact with me. I was encouraged to end my own life by someone whose heart I had apparently broken. My friends practically dared me to do it, but did not fail to mention that they would not be attending my funeral if I had done so. I guess they had a different philosophy on funerals than I had. My parents' relationship was facing a rough patch that was not easily overcome. All of this hit me like a train, and I deteriorated beneath it.

Mom mentioned therapy. My therapy was my writing. Staring off into space helped too sometimes.

The idea of ending my own life occurred frequently during that time. With my friends gone, I had no one to talk to about what I was going through. They had all blocked my number and ducked away from me in the halls at school. The only person who had stuck around to pick up the pieces was an ocean away and was the boyfriend of one of the girls who stopped talking to me. He tried his best to keep his interactions with me under wraps for fear of more unwarranted conflict, but eventually I didn't hear from him either. I fantasized about dying, and out of spite did I envision all of these people attending my funeral, feeling sorry for every time they had ever hurt me or left me alone to deal with myself. I wanted to die to pass my suffering onto them. I wanted them to feel the way that they had made me feel, but worse. I felt so much and so little at the same time. It is an emotion as twisted and as undefinable as love. You simply have to experience it to know what it is.

That was when I cut myself. At school, I saw lines embedded in teen wrists all of the time and I scoffed, believing that the cuts were a cry for attention, that they were pathetic.

And they are cries for attention. But when I cut myself, I wasn't doing it in hopes of bleeding out, and I wasn't doing it so that people at school or at home would see them. I did not wear the cuts like trophies as some people do.

I hid them.

I was ashamed of them.

I hated them.

I hated myself for making them.

I was just so desperate for some other form of pain to distract me from what I was feeling. It worked too. For a moment I wasn't so focused on losing a friend, being lonely, being ignored, or possibly living in a divided house. I was focused on the shame of making myself bleed for the sake of having a temporary release from everything. The worst is that the scars are still there, always reminding me of what I went though and what I was willing to do to myself to escape from it.

Recently I had a friend who mentioned wanting to chug bleach. I was on that situation like nobody's business. My own experiences led me in that direction. I had to be the friend that I didn't have so many years ago. But when I called my other friends to ask if they had heard anything from this friend, I received a series of aggravating responses.

"Oh, she'll be fine. She does this a lot."


"It doesn't mean anything. She won't do it."


"Well do you want me to go over there? ...I'm kind of busy."

I was disgusted. I was angry. I was terrified. And it reminded me of when I was crying out for help and no one showed up to do so because they didn't take me seriously enough to be concerned for me.

My advice here is directed to those who have a friend who is in the rut and obviously needs help. Do not ignore them, because their cries for you could be communicated in different ways. Maybe they get mad at you more often. They might even yell at you. They might even ask you to leave them alone. But do not let them get to the point of wanting to die. They may fight you the entire time, and they could hate you after all is said and done, but as a friend you did your job. You kept them alive. You don't get a trophy for doing so, but helping a friend overcome a trial like that should be good enough.

Ways of contacting me are littered all over this damn site. If you are or feel alone and are facing something that seems impossible to overcome, please, email me. Talk to me. If the people around you fail to be a friend, I will gladly step in and substitute for them. Remember, help comes in many forms. I may not be able to offer physical consolation, but as a writer, I will gladly offer to you my words.

So now you know.

(Okay, I know. I fail at following directions. That is why I drove boss man back at work insane during my first month at the lounge. But I am sorry kids. I put too much effort into this, so the rules of the challenge are just going to have to be broken. Plus, I read the challenge while half asleep. You can't blame me. But don't worry, I will cover religion tomorrow. Maybe. I would rather talk about THIS than religion right now. Stupid funeral protesters can kiss my gay friendly and soldier supporting ass.)

That's a lot of shit

For the entirety of this month I have felt like a black cloud was constantly overhead raining piles of shit on the top of me and on top of everything that I did. No matter the circumstance, shit cloud would find me. I am not superstitious or anything, but for it to get this bad, I must have walked under thousands of ladders and broken a plethora of mirrors. Yeah, a plethora. That's how unfortunate I am. But I think after what happened last night, shit cloud will give me a break.

Firstly, I love animals, especially cats. When I was little, I was constantly begging to keep strays, so most of our animals weren't from the pet store- we collected hobos. But now that I'm older, the things that used to excite me don't excite me as much anymore. Birthdays are days that signify just how close to death I really am. Easter eggs no longer have anything inside of them worth hunting for. Christmas can wait until I've had a decent cup of coffee. So you would think that Dad surprising Mom with a cat would be, well, ho hum. But I squealed, I ran to the door, and I bounced up and down until my Dad came inside. Felines bring out my inner five-year-old.

"He shit himself in the carrier. The cat is covered in shit," he announced, bringing a wave of the cat poo aroma into the house with him.

That's when my excitement wavered and I was suddenly an unenthusiastic adult again, because I knew that I would play assistant in the operation that was about to commence: Operation: Bathe Chocolate Covered Kitty. 

At first we tried to clean him outside, but the poo was all dry and stuck to his fur, so that was a vain effort. Instead, Mom and I moved the foul, yet completely adorable addition to our family into the bath tub, but not without a strategy. (A strategy that did not take into consideration that cats think that water is the Devil.)

First Mom would get into the tub with kitty and hold him down while I poured soap into her hands so she could wash him without having to let go. After he was clean, I would wrap him in a towel and dry him off. It sounded simple enough until Mom realized that she would be standing in poo soup for the majority of the operation, but that epiphany came to her a little too late. She probably didn't expect kitty to climb her either, but the job got done and we both came out alive. Only I could no longer breathe and Mom was bleeding profusely. I can't imagine how many shots she might need from all of that exposure to kitty excretion. That shit was all over the place. Literally.

Shit cloud is ruthless.

So kitty was clean and Mom instructed me to do my share of the work and grab a towel. I grabbed the nearest towel and wrapped kitty in it. By that time he was exhausted from fighting and just wanted to be out of the damn water and dry. So I'm holding kitty to me to keep him warm, snuggling him, not realizing that Mom is still standing in the shit water staring at me.

"What?" I asked.

"That's the- ppffffhahahahaha!"

"What?!"

"That's the towel I carried him in here with!"

"BLARRRRGGGGGGG!"

No, I didn't throw up, but I wanted to. At that point, the shit cloud metaphor became literal.

I was covered in shit.

After all was said and done and everyone was sterilized, the energy died down as we decorated the Christmas tree and watched Elf. We managed to trap the poo smell in my parents' room and bathroom, which Dad wasn't too happy about, but I was just glad that shit cloud was quarantined. Maybe then I would have a little peace. But even though shit cloud was being held prisoner, another bad luck symbol of a different consistency but of the same nature was out to get my Mother.

All I could hear was the front door opening as she was letting the dog out and Mom screaming, "FROG IN THE HOUSE!" I, of course, burst out laughing and didn't help her because I am a terrible daughter and I deserve nothing but coal in my stocking. That's when the door slammed and she ran into the kitchen with her hands out in front of her.

"What?!" I cried.

"IT PEED ON ME!"

"OH MY GOD THAT SMELLS TERRIBLE!"

Yes. That was my response, accompanied by me running in the opposite direction of my Mother, who proceeded to chase me with the towel she wiped her hands off on after she washed them. I know, she washed her hands, but still. Ew. My first instinct was to run into another room and hide, which I did, only it was the room that smelled like shit. So the whole house smelled of frog piss and cat shit.

To summarize, Dad got my Mom a shit covered cat for Christmas.

There's nothing like claw marks and an active gag reflex to really kick in that holiday spirit.

Merry Christmas everyone, and may it be a shit-free one!

I'll Be Home For Christmas: The Darker Side of the Tree

If you have been following my posts chronologically for the past few months, especially during the month of October when I was preparing to fly to Alaska, you'd be caught up on how difficult it was to communicate to my family that I was ready to start my life with Michael. I'm not a Mother, I've never been a parent or a figure of the sort, so I acknowledge the fact that I won't understand their discomfort with the idea until later on when I do decide to have children.

But when you are ready to break away from an adolescent lifestyle and actually make some big decisions about your future with someone you love, it's very hard to give the people who disagree with the changes the time of day. However, on this trip I have discovered that there will always be opinions that you may not agree with, but they still deserve a listening ear.

I have enough respect for the situation to not share all of the details with my readers, which I am sorry about, because there is a lot that I want to say that I really just can't. I will tell you that my trip to New York was unexpectedly cut short due to some family conflicts caused by a variety of miscommunications, but there is nothing I can really do about it now. I am back in Texas, doing my best to cope with what has happened, while Mike remains in New York with his family during the holidays. The worst part, other than the fear of his family disliking me, is the forced separation. I have never felt so much resistance within me when standing in line for security at the airport. When I passed the threshold, and Mike watched me walking away from a distance, I could feel an absence within me. Something left me when I let go of his hand. More left me when I saw his face. I don't know what I took home with me, but I'm convinced that it's not much.

Luckily there were some friendly faces awaiting me when I got home. I have great friends. It was also nice to see my Mom, who insisted that I share a bed with her because Dad is out of town and she missed me.

I have updated you the best I can without overstepping my boundaries, so I guess this serves as a warning that I might not be as peppy as I usually am. I think my blog and my readers will help me heal. Hopefully that happens before Christmas.

FML

The only downfall to adding my Father on Facebook.

Maybe I should change up my strategy when it comes to cheering my friends up.

I'm not the only one who waited for him

Never before has karma shined its light on me like it has the past two days. I must have done something historically commendable, because I have never been as content as I have been holding hands with Michael while meeting his family. It has been fabulous. Firstly, Mike and I flew into JFK yesterday without anyone but his Mother knowing that we would be home for the holidays. He hadn't been home in two years, so of course I didn't know what to expect. He was having a reunion and would be introducing me to his family.

"Should I hang back when he surprises everyone? What do I do if they start crying? Will they even notice me? Am I intruding on this reunion? Should I even be here?! Ahhhhhhhhhh!"

Mike's Mom picked us up at the airport and I watched at a distance as he ran around the van and embraced her. I stood on the side with the bags and let them have their moment, which was the best thing I could have done. What I saw melted my heart, because even though I am not a Mother, I know what it is like being away from someone you love for a long, long time. And right afterward, she came running to me and wrapped her arms around me. "You are so pretty!" she said. I knew right then that all of my insecurities were unnecessarily considered, and you have no idea how happy that made me.

When we went home, we hid in the van like ninjas while his Mom went inside, ninja'd our way out of the van to the fence, then sneaked along the fence to the front door with so much stealth we impressed ourselves. When he opened the door, I immediately heard screaming. His sisters darted across the room and cried as he held onto them. While pinned between the reunited siblings and the door, my mind wandered to a few years ago when my brother came home from Baghdad. Alaska is no war zone, but to have a brother gone for so long with such a dangerous job, it's tough to hold in the tears when he's home and safe. I never really took all of these similarities into consideration when I was worrying myself about meeting his family, but now that I have, my eyes have been opened. I'm going to make sure that Mike sees home more often than he has, because his family deserves to see his face more than every two years. They are wonderful people.

The man who would die for his beer

I would like to start this entry off with an important announcement, then we will continue with our regular broadcasting. Tomorrow is my last day in Texas before I dive headfirst into the biggest adventure of my life. This is relevant because I am going to be distracted from posting for a few days. So I figured that I would write now before a long day of packing and last minute exercising and make the post extra hefty to appease those who get on my case every time I neglect my blog for a day. Don't worry. I will tell you all about my travels after I get some much needed time with Mike. I really hope that FreeFlying is my flight attendant. Can you say cherry on top? 

So yesterday my family had a scare. Dad and I were visiting with my grandparents when I received a phone call from my Mom.

"Jess, you need to take your Father to the emergency room."

Now wait a second. I was sitting right next to the man. He was laughing, having a good time, was not bleeding profusely or giving birth. His skull was not cracked open and his limbs were all still attached. (Insert creative injury here) So you could imagine my reaction.

"Uh-buh-duh-whaaaa?"


My Mom had previously shared those little numbers that show up when you take your blood pressure to two specialists, my Aunt and the Mother of a little girl that my Mom takes care of. Both said that the numbers were so high that my Dad could easily have a stroke. That alarmed me. I looked over at him and imagined the whole thing playing out- the side of his face sagging, the collapse, the panic, all of it. And I immediately began to feel that sense of helplessness, even as he spoke to my Papa with that wide smile of his. Mom had already informed everyone in the family, but I was the only one with the power to act.

So I did. But we went to a clinic instead. Life's all about compromise, and sometimes you are forced to when emergency rooms are so ridiculously expensive.

They ran their blood tests, took their samples, hooked him up to machines, filled out charts, and medicated him. "Hypertension and extremely high cholesterol" they diagnosed. The doctor said that with an immediate and drastic change in diet and exercise while taking his daily medication, the problem would be taken care of. So we left the clinic with eased hearts, only Dad's was working harder than it should for a man in his early fifties.

As we headed home in silence, I took another long look at the man that raised me.

"Why are you so frustrated with Mom?" I asked.
"Because she made the whole family panic over nothing," he sighed.
"She reacted like that because she loves you. Remember when she had a bad reaction to that medical dye before her surgery? You popped a blood vessel in your eye."
"Yeah, I know."
"She told everyone because she knows that you won't listen to her about going to the doctor."
"I know, I know."
"Why did you listen to me?" I asked.
"Because you're... different," he whispered.

Me and Dad

I remember looking out of the window and sending out a mental thank you to whoever was worth thanking for giving my Dad another day to live.

Later that night, as I sat at my laptop and wrote out notes for my book, I could hear laughing in the kitchen. Dad was standing in the pantry examining labels of his favorite foods while Mom supervised. With each label he read, the amount of food in the house he couldn't consume began to gradually incline. "Sonofabitch," he'd mutter, and my Mom would laugh. Not that lighthearted chuckle, but a full fledged laugh from deep within her. I think she's as thankful as I am. Or she was mocking him with her hysterics.

Or both. I mean, she eats Halloween candy in front of him.

I don't know what kind of payback she seeks, but she is getting it.

Which brings me back to my trip to Alaska. I could not be leaving at a worser time. The man needs to be monitored. Just today he stole a piece of cake, drank a beer, and ordered a pizza. The moment I told him that he would be limited to one beer a day, I received the "Well you'll be gone soon anyway" eye roll. I suddenly feel like the suspecting parent who is leaving for the weekend and expects the house will be trashed when I return. Only instead of a house, it'll be his health. Beer or no beer, if it were up to me, he'd be living off of spinach leaves until his numbers improved.

Ah great, he's in the fridge again. "Dad, what is that under your shirt? And why are there crumbs on your chin?"


Gotta love him.

Lucky Number Three

So I returned from attending my cousin's wedding in Waco with a story. As soon as it happened I thought to myself, "Blog-worthy!" Yes, it is a bouquet toss story.

Photo courtesy of Wink Photography

There are some things that you may find to be important background information. Firstly, I attend a lot of weddings. Heaps of them. Sometimes I plan, sometimes I simply attend, sometimes I participate. The only consistent wedding tradition I do take part in is the bouquet toss. Boy do I make those girls work for that symbolic flower arrangement, because even though I caught the last two in a row it still hasn't happened for me. I grow more ruthless with each wedding. I'm a freaking beast with these semi-promising traditions.


So for this wedding I put my game face on and started to limber up. I began with subtle arm stretches then moved on to Rocky style boxing warm ups, just in case someone was ignorant enough to leap in front of me. I hope to one day have a reputation at these events. Everyone around me was amused by my preparations, so I explained that I had caught the bouquet at the last two weddings that I had attended and intended on making it three to heighten the odds. My explanation was cut off as the girls started to walk to the center of the floor. I cracked my neck, focused, then joined gathering behind the bride. 

Wahahahaha! Suckers!

As my cousin was being handed her flowers, a subtle chant began to develop. I looked over to find that my aunt, uncle, and a few others were looking in my direction. As the chant grew louder, I realized that it was for me.

"Alaska, Alaska, ALASKA, ALASKA!"

With my own personal cheerleading squad as my backbone, I caught the damn thing, even after my Dad leaped in for a last minute interception. It was too easy, and I was amused by my Dad's distaste in my participation. My cousin may as well had just handed me the bouquet and dismissed the other girls to their seats. I bowed as the applause erupted, then walked triumphantly back to my seat. "Why were you all chanting Alaska?" I asked. My aunt smiled. "Because I envy you! If you catch the bouquet, that means that you are next to be married. If you get hitched in Alaska, that gives me an excuse to go!" For the first time, I felt like my relationship was being encouraged. That made my night.

Later on, the bride approached me and said, "I just want to let you know that my lucky number is three. So if this is your third bouquet in a row, then maybe it will be lucky for you too!" As my Dad brooded behind me at the prospect of me being the next in line to get hitched, everyone else nudged me playfully and laughed. Perhaps it was because my aunt and uncle had it out for my Dad, as their daughter was already one step ahead of me. May as well put a little fear in the man. But I was on cloud nine with the thought.

Yoga, Wine, and Contradiction

Today I traveled to San Antonio to spend the day with my Aunt Angela and I have officially drawn a line over something in my bucket list thanks to the visit. Downing a bottle of wine and performing yoga positions with kama sutra on the mind really was entertaining until I began to sober up and realized that drunkenness in itself is a limit pusher and maybe I shouldn't have stretched that much.

"Hey look! I can touch my toes!" should have been my first warning. I can't touch my toes for the life of me. My second warning should have been, "I am going to be so ripped after this." The third was the fact that the instructor was using foam blocks to support her, which neither of us had, but we did the positions anyway. "Why does this huuuurt sooooo muuuuuuch!?" Well I don't know Jess. Maybe it's because this position was designed for you to be five inches above the ground. You trying to bend that way says more about your ego than you care to share. Just stop before your hip pops out of its socket.

We eventually gave it a rest and instead criticized the yoga instructor on the TV for having no breast meat and began to tempt her with the idea of a cookie... which in turn led to me having a severe sugar craving. I guess it had the same effect on Angela because she visited the chocolate dish three times. Honestly, though, I think we stopped to make fun of the woman because we felt self-conscious for not being as thin and thus felt the need to conquer said insecurities with the might of chocolate.

My muscles are screaming at me and it doesn't even matter because I devoured a bunch of wine and sugar and I know that it is gradually adding onto the size of my ass as I write this. Let's do it again sometime.

Is it hot in here?

I know that it was expected that I would have to take the heat from this recent change in direction for the rest of this year, but my fingers are singed from the flame. So just know that when I type this, it is excruciatingly painful and you should be lucky that I am writing this at all because I am bleeding all over the keyboard and that can't be hygienic.

There is really not much to say other than I'm sad. I'm sad because of the reactions I received throughout the day. I am sad because there is this idea being nurtured that I should have to defend myself when it comes to making a decision of this magnitude. And not only that, I am sad that people gave me so much encouragement when the idea was premature, then right as I made this leap of faith, they pulled back and questioned me.

The worst part is, I'm letting it bother me. But maybe it should. I don't know.

When I leave for Alaska, I'm hope to be leaving behind something that has plagued me since I was a little girl- doubt. Beforehand I used to contemplate the idea, toying with it in my head. I always pulled back self consciously because I was afraid of everyone's reactions. "What would everyone think?" I never once thought to myself "what if it never works out between us?" Doesn't that say something? I was tentative because of my fear of what other people would think and was focused on that rather than Mike himself.

But maybe the fear was just, because it is happening as I had expected it to. Sorry NASA, the mushroom cloud of rage is my fault.