I'm throwing a pity party. Want to come?

I was going to do the regular Monday format again today, but I just can’t. I’m really sad today. Really sad. And I need to write about it.

I just learned that my parents sold our lake house. Maybe lake house is the wrong word for it. It was really just an RV with a room built onto the front of it. In Texas, we call them camps, but in California, people call them lake houses or cabins. It’s all the same to me.

My family has had our lake house for as long as I can remember. I think we got it when I was 10 or so. It’s just a small, quaint little place on the Sam Rayburn Lake. Growing up, we spent a large part of every summer there, including, without fail, every Easter weekend, Memorial Day weekend, and Labor Day weekend. And it’s served us well. Or at least I always thought it had.

That was until I found out my parents had decided to buy the “nicer, sturdier, newer” camp that was for sale next door to ours and put ours on the market. This might seem like a logical plan, but honestly, I could care less about “nicer” and “sturdier” and “newer.” I don’t want a “better” camp. I want our camp. I want the camp with the little back bedroom with the table cloth stapled up as wallpaper. I want the camp with the big front porch with room for everyone to come and visit. I want the camp with the fire pit out front where we can roast marshmallows and talk late into the night. I want the camp with the uneven sofa bed and the boarded up fireplace and the teeny tiny bathtub. I want our camp!

Why, you ask? Why would I want our camp with its mismatching furniture and tiny water heater and duct tape around the doors when I could have something nicer? Because this is the place where all my memories are! This is the place where I sat at the table and drew pictures for hours with my friends. This is the place where I woke up every morning and went outside in my pajamas to eat breakfast on the porch. This is the place where I peeked out the windows to watch the boy I liked ride by on his four wheeler. This is the place where I woke up every Easter morning and pigged out on candy, the place where my two best friends and I got all dressed up every Memorial Day weekend for the annual dance, fighting over the seashell mirror by the front door. This is my camp!

And seriously, I don’t care if the new camp is next door. I don’t care if it’s in front of, behind or inside of our camp. It won't be the same. And I honestly feel like a kid who wants to throw herself down on the ground and kick her legs and pound her fists and cry until her parents do what she wants. But sadly, I’m not a kid anymore, and my parents don’t have to consider me before they make decisions.

My mom said I should think of it as a new adventure, and my sister is mad at me right now because she thinks I should just look on the bright side. But I really don’t feel like thinking positive right now. I don’t feel like thinking about all the new memories I’ll make in the new place. Something that was a huge part of my life and the setting for a thousand of my very favorite days just got replaced by something “nicer” and “sturdier,” and I really just want to be sad for a while.

Maybe it will be fun. Maybe I’ll warm up to it in the future. But not today. And probably not tomorrow.

Sorry to be a bummer. Hope you’re all enjoying your Monday.

A grande "are you kidding me?"

I was walking by some coworkers today on my way back to my desk from the printer when I heard the weirdest question. One woman was saying to another woman that the yogurt parfait at Starbucks is really great and she gets it every morning. To this, the other woman replied, “Where is there a Starbucks?”

It was all I could do not to stop dead in my tracks and stare at her like she had just grown antlers. Who doesn’t know where a Starbucks is? They’re on just about every corner, within walking distance from just about every house or apartment and inside all the major office buildings and supermarkets.

Now, I’m not saying I’m a Starbucks regular or anything. In fact, I really only get Starbucks on Fridays (aka Starbucks Fridays) and on the weekends, but I could still tell you where the closest twelve Starbucks are to my office and my apartment. Heck, I could probably name every Starbucks in El Segundo, Manhattan Beach and Redondo Beach combined.

To me, asking “Where is there a Starbucks?” is like asking “What country do we live in?” or “What’s a hamburger taste like?” or “Who is George Clooney?”

I mean, seriously, how can you be an American over the age of 12 and not know these things??

Up until today, I thought it was pretty safe to assume that every single person working in my office new that the two closest Starbucks were the one on the corner of Rosecrans and Isis and the one on the corner of Rosecrans and Douglas, both of which are equally as close. Personally, I prefer the one on Rosecrans and Isis because going to this one on my way to work only requires right turns so I don’t have to sit through any red lights. But that’s just me. I suppose some might prefer the one on Rosecrans and Douglas because it’s right next door to a bagel place.

But this isn't my point. My point is simply that you should know where a Starbucks is. And if you don’t, you should find out. Today.

Happy Friday.

Words of wisdom

Many times, when I’m sitting in my cube at work, my mind starts drifting back over my life — things I’ve done, places I’ve gone, people I’ve known, jokes that have made me laugh, conversations that have made me cry.

Sometimes my mind will drift back to good memories that make me smile and laugh out loud and send an email to my sister or my mom or a good friend to let them know I was thinking about a fun time we had. But sometimes my mind drifts back to mistakes that I’ve made. Maybe it was a time I got fuming mad over nothing. Maybe it was a time I acted stupid and embarrassed someone. Maybe it was a time a made a really bad decision. Or maybe it was a time I got idiotically drunk or sad or jealous and ruined the night for everyone.

When my mind drifts back to these mistakes, I start to get all yucky inside. Suddenly, I can’t think about anything else besides how crappy I am. I start to wonder if the people I’ve hurt have forgotten what happened and forgiven me or if they’ll always remember me as the girl that messed up. I start to regret acting how I acted and get really sad thinking that the memory is something I can never take back and do over. An hour or so of thinking like this usually puts me in a not-so-good mood and it can take some major cheering up to yank myself out of the funk.

So yesterday, when my brain began wandering back onto thoughts like these, I decided to stop the pattern before it started. I went to the web and looked up some quotes about mistakes. I found some that spoke to me personally and inspired me to let go of the past and not dwell on my mistakes. Then I printed them out and put them up in my cube.

Hopefully they’ll help me remember that mistakes aren’t necessarily bad because not only do we have a chance to learn and grow from them, but they make us who we are. And although I sometimes fear that I’m learning from my mistakes at the speed of a turtle, I do think I’m learning from them, and so far, I think I’m turning out ok.

Here are the quotes:

Do not brood over your past mistakes and failures as this will only fill your mind with grief, regret and depression. Do not repeat them in the future.
--Swami Sivananda, Indian Yoga master

I think we all wish we could erase some dark times in our lives. But all of life's experiences, bad and good, make you who you are. Erasing any of life's experiences would be a great mistake.
--Luis Miguel, Singer

There are no mistakes. The events we bring upon ourselves, no matter how unpleasant, are necessary in order to learn what we need to learn; whatever steps we take, they're necessary to reach the places we've chosen to go.
--Richard Bach, Writer

If you have made mistakes, there is always another chance for you. You may have a fresh start any moment you choose, for this thing we call 'failure' is not the falling down, but the staying down.
--Mary Pickford, Actress

Just a swingin'

Ever since I was two years old and got my very first swing set from my grandparents for my birthday, I have loved to swing. I literally swang on that swing set until it rusted through and fell apart. Then, I upgraded to a big wooden swing where I could swing with friends. And boy, did I swing on that swing over the years.

I would swing for hours everyday, listening to music and thinking about stuff. The things I thought about don’t really matter. They usually ranged from weekend plans to silly crushes. But it was the comfort that I got from swinging that was so wonderful. There’s something about that rhythmic, back and forth motion that makes me feel like everything in the world is a-ok.

Sadly, though, since I’ve moved out on my own, swinging has become harder to do. First, because I don’t have a yard so owning my own swing is pretty much out of the question. And second, because I never really want to be that weird grown up person swinging on the kid’s playground and taking up a swing that some kid wants to sit in.

But last night, I really didn’t care about all that. My American Idol date fell through, and I was bummed. I needed a pick-me-up, and the only one I knew that would do the trick was a good, solid hour of swinging. Without a second thought, I loaded my new Taylor Swift CD onto my iPod, bundled up (springtime really has been so fickle this year) and headed down to the beach.

When I first moved to Manhattan Beach, I was completely excited by the swings on the beach. What could be better than swinging a few feet away from the ocean, I thought. However, I soon came to learn that everyone in the city felt the same way, which made it pretty impossible to ever find an empty swing.

But that didn’t matter last night. I was on a mission. I needed some good-old-fashioned swinging, a little country music and the wind in my hair, and if I had to kick some five-year-old off the swing set to get it, I would.

Thankfully, though, it didn’t come to that. There were two swings open when I got to the beach. I made a beeline for them, and for the next blissful hour, I swang. I swang and watched the people on the beach path. I swang and daydreamed about the summertime. I swang and sang out loud to the music that only I could hear playing in my ears.

And when the sun began to sink into the water (something that truly looks strange when you see it up close), I reluctantly began the walk back to my car. I could have stayed out there all night. Swinging. Singing. Thinking.

It’s funny how something that sways back and forth can make me feel so balanced. But it does, somehow. And I’m really so happy I went.

Milk, eggs and bread

This Friday is payday! And I’m really excited about it, but not for the reasons you might think. It’s not because I’m going to splurge on a new pair of shoes or some new sunglasses or even a much-needed pedicure. Nope, I’m excited about payday because that’s when I get to go grocery shopping!

My fascination with grocery shopping didn’t really start until I moved out on my own. Up until then, my mom had done all the grocery shopping for my family, and although I could throw almost anything that I wanted into the basket (my mom is one of the rare moms that actually let my sister and I eat junk food whenever we wanted it), it wasn’t the same.

No, there’s just something about grocery shopping for myself that is different, and I’ve really come to love it. From the day I sit down to make my grocery list (yes, I am a list-maker) to the unloading of everything into my refrigerator and kitchen cabinets, the whole process is somehow therapeutic and totally satisfying.

Over the past few years, I’ve come to prefer doing my grocery shopping alone so I can take as long as I please. I’ve also come to prefer shopping when no one else is shopping—2:00 in the afternoon, 8:00 in the morning, or late on a Saturday night when the rest of the world is out having drinks.

I like to push my basket down the aisles slowly, taking everything in. I like to gaze adoringly at the sprinkled donuts in the pastry case, linger on the bread isle, run my fingertips over the vegetables, and scope out the salad bar while I think:

Will I have spinach and walnut salad with my spaghetti or should I go with the Caesar? Do I want to add blue cheese to my burgers or keep it classic with the American? Should I pick up a carton of pineapple juice or try the orange/strawberry blend?

Although I usually stick pretty closely to my list, I’m quick to let inspiration sway me. If I planned on Cheerios for breakfast and a box of maple and brown sugar oatmeal catches my eye, I run with it. I’m spontaneous that way.

And while I can’t afford too many luxuries with my writer’s salary and LA rent, I make sure to splurge on one thing each week. Maybe it’s a ridiculously priced loaf of soft, fresh whole wheat bread—the kind with the little nuts and oats stuck to the crust. Maybe it’s a carton of the fancy brand of ice cream—french vanilla with perfectly square chocolate chips. Last week it was a container of green olives stuffed with feta cheese from the olive bar. Maybe this week it’ll be a bottle of red wine.

After I check out, I head home to unload. And once that's done, I like to stand back and look at it all.

Some people may feel successful and content when they look at their paychecks or their mansions or their sports cars. I feel successful and content when I look inside my full refrigerator—so successful and content, actually, that I almost want to never eat anything out of it.

But then I realize that’s silly and reach for a spoon. After all, there’s chocolate chip ice cream to be eaten.

Monday Nofunday

I know I did this same sort of post last Monday, but I think I’m going to make it a Monday ritual. I think it’s a good plan for two reasons: One, my brain doesn’t work very well on Mondays, making it almost impossible to conceive anything more than three-word sentences. And two, I think it’s a great way to remind myself to pay attention to the tiny memories I make everyday (not to mention a great way to electronically store them for all of eternity, or as long as this blog is up and running).

Feel free to fill me in on the tiny details of your weekends. I’d love to hear about them!

Ok, here goes…

1 dozen dyed eggs +
2 Easter baskets +
1 big slab of corn beef +
2 spoonfuls of purple cabbage +
2 hours waiting on the cable guy +
1 WSU basketball game +
4 pieces of pizza +
2 pitchers of Miller Lite +
2 celebratory Washington Apple shots +
2 terrifying hours of No Country for Old Men +
1 rom dram (romantic drama) +
2 hours of napping +
1 Easter service +
1 12:30 brunch reservation +
6 blocks in the bike lane +
1 trip to Von’s +
1 Rueben sandwich +
2 banana pancakes with powdered sugar +
1 fancy, fruity drink at Chloe’s +
1 red bull vodka at Britannia +
2 battling NCAA brackets +
1 slice of crunchy chocolate cake +
1 Taylor Swift CD +
8 new bowls and plates +
2 bags of Cadbury eggs +
2 marshmallow bunnies +
80 degrees of sunshine =

One fantastic Easter weekend

Spring resolution

Today is the first day of spring, and when I woke up this morning, I couldn’t have been more thankful. Why? Because I really need a fresh start. I need a second chance. I need a new season to inspire a new me. That’s why I’m making a spring resolution.

However, my spring resolution isn’t to eat more cupcakes or smell more flowers or wear only purple and green eye shadow. No, it’s something a little bigger than that.

When asked the question, “What would you change about yourself if you could,” many people might list things such as their hair or their butt or their nose. If someone asked me that question, I would say my inability to trust.

You see, I have a real problem with trust. Simply put, I can’t do it.

Although I never wanted to become one of those bitter people who got lied to once before and let it influence their whole life, making them suspicious of everyone and everything around them, I have become one of them. And now, I’m on a mission not to be.

I realized something last night. I actually expect the people that I love to lie to me. In fact, I assume they are currently lying to me. And when I find out that they haven’t been lying to me, I am honestly always a little surprised.

I don’t believe the people I love are bad people. If I did, I wouldn’t have chosen to love them. Then why do I assume they are dishonest and deceitful? I’ve thought about this a lot and come to the conclusion that what I’m essentially doing is assuming that every person in the world is exactly the same. I knew one person who was deceitful and dishonest. So, logically, everyone is deceitful and dishonest.

Now, I’m smart enough to know that this logic isn’t logical at all. But what I’m struggling with is how to reverse this thinking.

If one dishonest person can make me assume everyone is dishonest. Then, wouldn’t one honest person be able to make me assume everyone is honest? Can it work that way? Or is dishonesty somehow stronger or more all-consuming than honesty, making it impossible for honesty to undo the work that dishonesty has done?

I’m not just asking these questions for the sake of starting a good conversation. I really want to know. What are your thoughts on honesty and dishonesty and trust? And is it possible for a person who has been the victim of deceit to lower their defenses and make trust their default mechanism, instead of distrust? If so, how?

This spring, I resolve to find the answers to these questions, I resolve to make trust a cornerstone of my life and, ultimately, I resolve to learn to always assume the best about the people I love.

Working nine to five

I remember when having a ‘real’ job seemed real fun. I also remember being extremely excited about shopping for my mandatory business casual wardrobe. Heck, I even remember when the idea of decorating my cubicle thrilled me.

I’ve since changed my mind and now spend my days wishing for a world without cube walls, grey slacks and Microsoft Outlook — a world where everyday was a casual Friday, meeting requests were replaced by party invitations, and happy hour started at noon.

Today, as I sat at my desk, I became inspired by this dream world and decided to get out and enjoy some of the day. I grabbed my sandwich, my book and a bottle of water and drove to a park a couple blocks away from my office.

When I got there, I headed straight for the pond with the ducks. I found a nice spot on the furry, green grass and plopped myself down in the sun. After a few minutes of sitting up like a proper human being, eating my sandwich, I couldn’t resist it anymore. I lay down on my belly, stretched my legs out behind me and enjoyed the feel of the warm sun on my back.

I stayed like that for an hour, reading and watching the occasional woman walk by with a baby stroller. And when my hour was up, I went back to my cube happy and, I think, a little healthier than I left it.

As I type this, I can see a piece of grass still stuck to my grey slacks. It makes me smile.

I could brush it off. But I don’t think I will. I think I’ll leave it there as a little reminder that although corporate America may have dibs on me for 8 hours a day, the other 16 hours are mine for sun-soaking, page-turning, sandwich-eating and anything else my little heart desires.

Monday Shmunday

1 amazing steak dinner +
2 glasses of red wine +
2 hours of Caddyshack +
1 trip to Main Street +
1 Vodka Red Bull +
1 Guinness, drunk the "right" way +
3 pumpkin chocolate chip pancakes +
1 Glamour magazine +
2 extra hot decaf cinnamon dolce lattes +
3 of the same sweater +
2 new rugs +
1 late-night trip to the 7 eleven +
1 steaming hot plate of homemade manicotti +
2 days of sleeping late +
1 WSU basketball game +
15 parmesan cheese fries +
1 party mix CD +
1 tiny book +
3 funny pictures +
2 taxi rides +
1 spinach and feta crepe +
2 hours of Dan in Real Life +
4 blocks riding on the handlebars +
2 snicker doodle cookies +
1 trip to the car wash +
1 Tekati in the sun at Big Dean’s =

One amazing weekend.

Someday

Someday I’ll have a house down by the beach, where my front yard is nothing but sand and sun and surf. It won’t be one of those huge, granite and cement houses that look like they’d fit in better on the palm-tree-lined streets of Beverly Hills. No, it’ll be something smaller, and cozier—more like a beach cottage than a mansion. And it’ll have huge windows that open up completely so my living room smells like salt from the sea breeze.

My kitchen will be big and open, with an island in the middle, and my bedroom will have a balcony where I can sit and talk the night away with friends or read a book until my eyes get tired. And the whole house will be decorated in blues and greens and whites and light browns, a peaceful blend of earth tones, with bright pillows and knick knacks here and there for some punch.

During the week, I’ll wake up early and take my mug of coffee outside to enjoy the early morning ocean air and flip through the newspaper. I’ll watch the sunrise and the early morning joggers and listen to the seagulls searching for their breakfast. In the evenings, I’ll come home after work and go for a run on the beach path. Then I’ll cook dinner, with my windows open of course, so I can hear everyone walking their dogs and pushing their baby strollers. I’ll put on some music, maybe Bob Marley or something country, and when it’s time to eat, I’ll pour myself a glass of wine and settle down to eat in the golden beams of the sunset.

On the weekends, I’ll have friends over, and we’ll fire up the bbq and grill hot dogs and hamburgers and sip cocktails while we watch the parade of people bike, walk or skate by us on the bike trail. Then, when we’re full, we’ll play a game of beach volleyball and lounge in the sun until dusk.

Someday I’ll have all of this and more.

Someday.

(I know it may seem silly to write a blog about “someday” when I just said we should all live for “today.” But, as James Dean once said, “dream as if you’ll live forever, live as is if you’ll die today,” right?)

A lesson from Lennon

A couple of weeks ago, I was watching American Idol, as is my custom on Tuesday and Wednesday (and sometimes Thursday) nights, when David Archuleta sang John Lennon’s Imagine. And while I may be one of the few people in America who don’t want David to be the next Idol, I had to admit, the song was beautiful.

I’ve heard it before, of course, but hearing it again made it stick with me for days. I’d find myself walking around my apartment humming it to myself and singing it softly in my cube at work.

So, when I was looking for music to add to my blog (which I hope you’ve all been listening to and enjoying), I decided to add that song to the list. When I was setting up the play list, I looked up the lyrics and was amazed.

Even though I had been humming and singing the chorus for days, I had never really paid attention to the verses. When I read the first verse, I was blown away by how such simple words could convey such a heavy, heavy message.

Imagine there's no Heaven
It's easy if you try
No Hell below us
Above us only sky
Imagine all the people
Living for today

Ever since I got my current job and began spending my days writing about kidney disease and the people who are living with it, I’ve had this sort of morbid fascination with living each day as if it was my last.

Death has always been one of my biggest fears. But it wasn’t until I started interviewing people who had faced death and were living with a long term illness that I began to see that the only way to not be scared of death is to face it head on and come to terms with the fact that I, like everyone, will die one day and the only thing I have is the moment that I’m in, which should be lived to the absolute fullest.

It sounds terrible, I know. But ultimately, that thinking has freed me from so much fear.

Maybe some people have to come to a realization like mine. Maybe others can simply imagine there’s no Heaven or Hell. But some way, somehow, I think everyone should learn to live for today, grabbing hold of every splendid moment and experiencing it to the fullest.

A large 'Who Am I?' with an energy boost, please.

A couple of days ago, I went to Jamba Juice for lunch. It was sunny. The breeze was warm. And I felt like sipping on a Mega Mango smoothie. When I got there, I noticed two guys standing in front of the entrance. One had a notepad, and one had a very professional looking video camera. The one with the notepad was interviewing a young couple while the other one filmed.

I cautiously side-stepped the foursome and tip-toed my way to the door, not wanting to be stopped. It is Los Angeles, after all, so it’s not like this kind of thing is out of the norm, but I wasn’t in the mood to become a Jamba Juice spokeswoman.

While I stood in line with the 30 others who had decided that day was a good smoothie day, I pondered the people outside. Just what were they talking about? What kind of questions were they asking? What was it for?

My curiosity had gotten the best of me. So, on my way out, Mega Mango smoothie in hand, I slowed my step and strained an ear to hear what was going on. That’s when I heard the guy with the notepad ask, “What three words would you say best describe you?”

My eyebrows shot up in surprise. What kind of question was that?! The kind of question that is definitely not easy to answer on the spur of the moment, that’s for sure.

I got into my car and stared at the steering wheel, my smoothie in the cup holder, forgotten. What three words described me the best, I wondered. Happy? No, too easy. Fun? No, too vague. Grateful? No, too cliché.

Suddenly, I was obsessed with finding the perfect three words that best described me. I thought about it all the way back to the office. I emailed my friends and asked what three words best described them. I Googled synonyms for happy and fun and grateful. I was on a mission.

Sadly, I can’t tell you what three words I decided on because I never came to a final decision. Maybe it was the number. Three. How am I supposed to only pick three? Or maybe it was the way the guy had asked the question, as if the answer really mattered. I’m not sure, but I just can’t seem to decide on the three that describe me best. I think I could pick ten, maybe five. But three? Sheesh.

Think about it. What three words best describe you?

Lazy days of summer

Setting my clock forward is something I look forward to every year. I don’t just love the long, lazy days of summer, I cherish them. When it stays light later, I feel like I’m ten years old again and I have no school and I can ride my bike around the neighborhood until my mom calls me home for dinner.

Since those days, summer has come to mean different things. Tent camping, music festivals, longboarding, outdoor cafes, cut offs, beach days. And even though I may not get three months off to hang out with my friends all day long, I find plenty of ways to soak up the summer and have a blast, and I still love it just as much!

For weeks now, I’ve had March 9th circled on my calendar with a big puffy cloud marking the day that would mean the end of winter and the beginning of summer, or spring, if you want to get technical. It’s all the same to me, really. Flip flops, sundresses, oversized sunglasses, beach cruising, and sunbathing. If it’s warm enough for all that, I call it summertime.

A lot of people move to Los Angeles for fame or fortune or freedom. I moved to Los Angeles for the sunshine. And boy oh boy, am I glad for an extra hour everyday to enjoy it!

Happy Daylight Savings Time, everyone!

Run for your life

I began running in January. Yes, running, as in jogging on a track for exercise. Do I like it? Not one bit. In fact, I’d probably say I hate it. Every excruciating minute of it. Then why do I do it, you ask? Because I have high blood pressure, and two of the best ways to control it is with diet and exercise. So, in addition to loading my diet with fruits and veggies, I run. Three times a week. Four if I’m really motivated.

When I started running, I would run a lap, then walk a lap. Run a lap and walk a lap. It was a nice pattern. Not too hard. I could do it without my side hurting or my lungs burning. And I was happy with myself. But after two months of my nice little routine, I was given a challenge: Run a mile without stopping.

“But I can’t! I’m not a runner! I’m not ready for a mile!” I vehemently protested. And yet, I somehow found myself rounding the first lap and continuing on to a second. That day, I ran a mile without stopping. It was hard. I felt like I was going to pass out afterward. But I did it. I actually did it.

That was a week ago, and last night, I’m proud to report that I ran two miles without stopping for the first time ever. In my life. Quite an accomplishment, I must say. And today, my accomplishment has got me thinking.

When it comes to writing, I’m more of a run a lap, walk a lap kind of girl. I’m fine with writing the short things: blog posts, essays, short stories, journal entries. Those are a breeze. It’s the lengthy works that seem out of reach. And yet, it’s the lengthy works that have always been my dream. Ever since I could write, I’ve wanted to write a novel. And yet, no matter how many first 10 pages I write, I never follow through.

I wonder if, like running a mile, it’s really not as hard as I’ve made it to be in my head. I wonder if I really am capable of more than I give myself credit for. And I wonder if something as simple as a challenge could take a blogger and turn her into a novelist. Hmm….

Introducing.....me

You know that girl that always has perfectly manicured nails no matter what? And every single time you see her, without fail, she has perfect, shiny, smooth, manicured nails that coordinate perfectly with her outfit and her eye shadow?

Sadly, I’m not that girl. I’ve tried to be that girl. I’ve done it exactly how my mom taught me. Two coats of color, time to dry in between, and a top coat of clear. My nails still chip two hours later. And so, I’ve become okay with being the girl with chipped nail polish. Over the course of my 26 years, I’ve also become okay with being the girl who never washes her car, cries at the dentist, is a terrible cook and never seems to get anywhere on time.

And even though I may never be the girl that can do shots like the boys or win at chess, I’m pretty content being the girl that prefers the window seat to the aisle, the girl that drinks milk with pizza, the girl that buys a box of chocolates for herself the day after Valentine’s Day because they’re on sale—despite the fact that she’s already gotten one from her boyfriend and one from her mom. (After all, you can never have too much chocolate.)

I’m the girl that watches American Idol religiously, loves country music, takes hour-long showers and craves hamburgers dipped in barbeque sauce. I believe in God, love, truth and family. And I’m scared of snakes, heights, lies and death. I’m happiest in the sun, loneliest after a weekend filled with friends, and there’s nothing I love more than a real, genuine conversation, a good book, a good song, a home-cooked meal and a good night’s sleep. I may not be where I want to be in life, and I’ll be the first to admit I’m still figuring out what I want to be when I grow up, but I’m pretty excited about the path I’m on and where it’s taken me so far.

I’m sure you’ll learn more about me over time. But for now, I hope that summary will do. If you want to know more, just ask!

The welcome wagon

I’ve been journaling since I was 12 when my great aunt gave me a journal for Christmas. Suddenly, all the angst and passion bottled up in my 12-year-old body had a clean, unbiased surface to explode onto, and I had a new hobby.

Since then, I’ve filled up countless journals with my thoughts on everything from parents and family to friendships and loves. They line the shelves of my bookcases now, their worn, ratty pages reminding me how much of my uncensored self fills their pages.

But in this electronic age where we make friends by sending email requests and share our lives through online photo albums, it seems my ripped and wrinkled paper journals are becoming a thing of the past. And while I love them and won’t ever abandon them completely, I’ve decided to jump on the blog bandwagon with a blog that’s not dedicated to sports or cooking or dog breeding, but to my very own thoughts and feelings, however unimpressive and exceedingly one-sided they might be.

It’ll be my own little corner of the web, complete with mundane musings on life and love and health and beauty and wisdom and worry. And who knows, maybe every once in a while something grand or artistic or just plain fabulous will come out of it!

In hopes of that, I invite you to visit regularly and read until your eyes grow heavy or your stomach rumbles and you have to leave in search of a snack! Welcome one and all! I hope you enjoy yourselves!