If you could change one thing...

Never Been Kissed was on this afternoon. Now, I love that movie, I can't lie. I've loved it since before I even thought about getting a degree in journalism. Actually, it's a pretty poor representation of journalists and journalism in general.

If you're unaware Drew Barrymore plays a copy editor that is just so awkward. I mean, really awkward. Like, she's 25 but she dresses like this, and corrects everyone's speech because... copy editor.

I know copy editors, they aren't all awkward, I promise.

She wants to be an investigative journalist so for her first real assignment as a reporter she is told to go undercover as a high school student to find out about the secret lives of teenagers. Her massive awkwardness lands her with the nerd clique once again (and in the math club called The Denominators - hilarious) then her brother makes her cool so she ditches the dorks and hangs with the Never Been Kissed equivalent of "the plastics."

One of them is Jessica Alba, so they're pretty much awful. 

More stuff happens but if you've never seen it, I don't want to ruin it for you... although it came out 1999, so if you haven't seen it I don't know what to do with you. The movie makes journalism seem like this big undercover operation with lapel pins that are cameras and a whole article just about this chick's life and how she's never been kissed and learned stuff after going back to high school and how she fell in love with some dude. If I know my editors, and I think I do, that would not fly. 

Sorry I got off topic because I have a BJ. Yeah, that's right, a Bachelor of Journalism.  

Did I mention I love this movie? I really do. But this is the important part, after watching it my mom decided to ask the intriguing question: If you could go back to high school and change one thing, what would it be? 

My dad is of the opinion that the question is dumb, considering we can't go back and change anything. I like it though.

What do you think? There are a few things I would have done differently and I even liked high school for the most part. I'm just curious, if you knew then what you know now, would you have changed anything?

Also, can this just be me?

In KC...

I got to Kansas City, did I mention that? Yea, the flight finally took off.

And everyone cheered when we finally landed.

I got into KC at the same time my parents were leaving the restaurant, figures. I don't have to relive the movie The Terminal or anything, although if I was as upbeat as Tom Hanks in that movie I would have handled my situation better.

Anyway, Happy Chinese New Year, a woman I interviewed said in the year of the wood horse the best thing to do would be to let go of anything that can't serve you emotionally, physically or mentally. I'm letting go of that experience (and doing some spring cleaning when I get home) but mostly I'm going to let go of this and move on to enjoy what time I do have in the tundra of Kansas and the warmth of my family.

恭贺新禧，祝身体健康、事业发达。

Hell is an airport

I’m pretty sure I know what hell is like, and it comes in the form of an airport.

And airport in Atlanta.

See? Hotlanta, like hell is hot… whatever.

It really is perfect though. Think about it:

greasy food, constant gate switches, confusion, lines that never end, unhelpful workers, they get your hopes up then dash them again, rude people, exhaustion that never seems to end and no escape. Ever.

 That was my day, is my day… I’m still here.

It started out so well. My mom and I wanted to surprise my dad for his 35^th work anniversary. The big boss of the company was flying in to take my dad and guests of his choice out for a nice dinner, wherever he wanted. When my mom asked him who he wanted to invite he said, me (except I live in Florida and they’re in Kansas City) and his parents (both are dead.) None of those seemed plausible. We knew it would be special for him if I showed up as a surprise, and he deserves it, so we planned the whole thing. I bought my tickets on HotWire, getting the cheapest I could, considering I don’t have that much expendable income, set up a place to stay until the dinner, it was perfect.

Then snowpocalypse (i.e. a regular snowy day anywhere else) happened.

That was two days ago, but yesterday they canceled my evening flight. I started to worry a little (read: a lot), but I got new flights for early this morning that would get me into Kansas City in plenty of time to get pretty and make it to the dinner.

My original flight for this morning was canceled right before I went to bed, I somehow miraculously checked it or I wouldn’t have known, and replaced with one an hour earlier, so I woke up at 5 a.m. to get to the plane on time. Everything was great, except they kept warning that some flights had already been canceled. But I was obsessively checking mine; it was fine, still “on time,” no big deal.

I landed in Atlanta. We’re still good, the other Kansas City flight scheduled for an hour after mine was canceled, I felt bad for those poor people, but at least it wasn’t me. I sat around, read, got some lunch, checked my flight again…. And there it was. Cancelled, in that red writing surrounded by other happy flights that still touted “on time.”

So, being someone that doesn’t handle the strain of giant plans changing well, I freaked out. I started crying, not going to lie, I wasn’t wailing or anything, but there were definitely giant tears rolling down my face. My lip was quivering, it was definitely a thing. I’m standing in line with these other people that have either just gotten to the airport with their bags neatly packed to see grandchildren or business people that think the whole thing is a circus and kind of funny (probably because it is a PR nightmare that has been handled terribly. I bet they were thinking, “Glad it’s not my company.”) There are people calling family and explaining they still aren’t coming home even though they spent the night in the airport, some of them were teary, so I felt a little better. My family and friends kept telling me to try to get a different airline, one that isn’t so… horrible? That’s a nice word. I’ll use horrible… or fucking awful, that’s a good one too. Some were telling me to be a bitch and stand up for myself, some said I should just try to fly home again.  

I got on the “help” phone with a representative; they had already rescheduled me to a flight the next morning, stupid considering I don’t have a place to stay in Atlanta. I asked her to put me on AirTran, they can’t do that, I explained that I need to get home by 6 p.m. (dinner time) and that I’ve been sitting in the airport for four or five hours already. Thank goodness she gave me a new flight for 4 p.m. Why I wasn’t originally put on that one, I’ll never know.

My mom told my dad about the surprise, since I was trapped in an airport, so much for that good deed (no good deed goes unpunished, for real.) He was grateful for the thought. It just isn’t the same, it could have been magical, that was all just completely ruined.

I picked a spot by the gate and tried to curl up in a way where my legs were over both my carry-ons, so someone couldn’t take them. Let me tell you, that’s not a comfortable way to sleep, nor is it restful considering you always think you’re going to wake up with a missing bag.

The gate changed once, then twice, then again, but I was going to make it to dinner at 6 p.m. I didn’t want to bitch too much, karma, you know.

Finally, it was time to board. I stress about everything and have anxiety about everything, so I kept thinking when they scanned my boarding pass it wasn’t going to work. Seriously, that kept going through my head.

It did work, but after the day I had already had, I wouldn’t have been surprised.

Boarding took forever, they hadn’t planned on so many rolling carry-ons and we had to wait for someone to come and check them to put below the plane. Poor planning, but again, I was sitting on the plane. Yay.

Not five minutes after sitting down we had to deplane. For real. I would not joke about this because first, it isn’t funny and second, I started crying again. You want to know why we couldn’t leave? Because we didn’t have a fucking pilot. I think those are pretty important personally, but what do I know, I don’t work for Delta. Oops, did I say the name of the airline?

Then we waited for another two or three hours for the pilot to come, and we had to switch terminals just to add insult to injury.

Are you sure you want me to share my thoughts?

So, here I am, still sitting, waiting to hopefully get to see my family. I wanted to congratulate my dad, and we are supposed to celebrate my birthday too (my quarter-life crisis is coming up… 25… that’s 25 if you’re confused.) But we’ll see. Maybe I got in a car accident on my way to the airport and this is really purgatory... or hell…. It could still be hell.  

2014

It has been almost a year since I last wrote, which is just too sad for words. Actually, it's just too sad, I'm going to write words about it right now.

Writing actually helped me through things a year ago when I was falling apart. Then things started to get better and I assume I didn't have time or something. Maybe I just was using my energies in a different way, I didn't have much to spare in the way of writing.

Anyway, I stopped, and I've missed it. A lot.

For weeks I've been thinking of what I could possibly write about. Nothing really came to mind, so this is my attempt to just start again. Hence, the rambly thing I have going.

But I've decided, as I did when things were rough, that maybe to get to my next goal in life I need to figure out where I am now, and ultimately where I want to be.

Also, I'm kind of a nerd, not going to lie, and maybe this is a way to release that pent up nerd-ergy instead of just wearing my R2-D2 socks and Star Trek shirt. I'm referring to writing fan fics, but like, I guess this could encompass whatever, too.

Sooooo, goals - life goals
(This is so weird, I feel like those people that plan to have three kids and have their names picked out and exactly what age they want to be when they have each.)

 1. I want to make an honest to God attempt at acting professionally. Not just, "Oh I auditioned for a couple things." But really going to cattle calls and a lot of different auditions no matter where.

2. I want to try my hand at writing more than just a blog, especially one that starts collecting dust after a few months. I want to try writing a script or a pilot, maybe I'll just start by writing some short stories.

3. I want to get free lance eventually making videos and taking photos for organizations. I would appreciate that work being artistic in some way like for a theatre, but if not, that's alright. I just want to start out doing it.

4. I have been so insanely lazy about working out and eating healthy. I need to start doing this again, for real. The goal will be to do a little yoga practice everyday with other work outs combined, while actually paying attention to what I'm putting in my body. Like for real, I really want abs. Even when I played varsity soccer I didn't want abs, but for some reason I do right now so, this is going to take eating perfectly and varying my work outs.

5. I need to find some way to stop thinking about dying all the time. It is a contant worry of mine and contributes to an anxiety I have about things that stresses me out more than anything should. I should either go talk to someone about this, or at least find something that minimizes my worry. We'll see.

I'm sure I'll think of more eventually, but for now that seems sufficiently terrifying.

Chocolate cake, carpe diem and that other "c" word

I just had a slice of chocolate “I just found out my grandma has breast cancer and there’s a good chance I’ll have it too” cake.

But for real, I just had a piece of chocolate cake that I would usually feel incredibly guilty about eating. I would have obsessed about my consumption of that creamy filling moist cake combo for the rest of the night wondering why my self-control is so terrible or why I didn’t grab my orange flavored dried cranberries out of my desk instead.

I’m not even the type of person that eats my feelings. It just seemed appropriate.

It was chocolate and comforting and soothing and I don’t even care.

My mom and dad went to see some relatives, my grandpa’s grave and my grandma. She has been bed-ridden for at least 5 years I think and hasn’t remembered anyone in closer to 10. She doesn’t feed herself, can’t move, just lies in bed and gurgles for the most part. As my mom pointed out in a text, her skin still looks fabulous, no wrinkles or anything. None of this makes it any less difficult to hear (also in a text) that she has breast cancer.

As if her state wasn’t bad enough, let’s just pile more on top of that. Watching someone slip away with Alzheimer’s is just watching that person deteriorate until all they can achieve is basic functions that sustain life. I love my grandma and I know she is lying in that bed, but she hasn’t been the grandma that took me to poker where I sat under the table in a smoke-filled room and played with the cat, or the grandma that gave me nametags with my name on them from Hershey Park in a long time. She isn’t the same grandma that loved gambling and sometimes let me pick the greyhounds she bet on (I always chose them by how much a I liked their names.)

Now, it isn’t just about Alzheimer’s and that I’m scared my dad and I are going to turn into bed-ridden shells someday. Now, it’s a fear that I’m going to get breast cancer.

Don’t get me wrong, many of my friend’s moms have had breast cancer, a sorority sister close to my age has it, and it’s all terrifying and real and present. October basically turns pink every year with breast cancer awareness so it’s hard to push aside anyway. According to breastcancer.org, about 1 in 8 U.S. women will develop invasive breast cancer.

·      A woman’s risk of breast cancer approximately doubles if she has a first-degree relative (mother, sister, daughter) who has been diagnosed with breast cancer.

·      About 15% of women who get breast cancer have a family member diagnosed with it.

·      About 85% of breast cancers occur in women who have no family history of breast cancer.

It looks pretty scary when you look at it through numbers, doesn’t it?

I guess I could be just as scared about the pancreatic cancer my grandpa died of.

Maybe I wouldn’t be so concerned if Angelina Jolie’s double mastectomy hadn’t been a massive topic of discussion for a while. I’m thinking if I have that same genetic issue if I will have to consider that option if I somehow manage to make a ton of money one day. I mean, Melissa Etheridge thought it was a cowardly choice, so maybe no? I’m worried that if I get married I’m going to put my family through the stress of a loved one with the disease.

And maybe I’m over reacting. I think we all think deep down we won the genetic lottery that we’ll never have to worry about that stuff. If we feel perfectly healthy right now, there’s no way something like that could happen to us. But life has a funny way of proving us wrong.

For now, I suppose that cake was a good way to keep from unraveling quickly while at work. And I feel surprising OK. After all, I’m lucky enough to be healthy right now in this moment. I’m lucky enough to get to eat that fatty piece of heaven, whether that changes eventually is yet to be seen, but I guess I’m right there with everyone else wondering if they’ll inherit a tragedy.

That’s just no way to think and no fun. For those with ailments now, you’re so brave and I’m totally in awe of your strength, and for those with me waiting, well… let’s just help others, support each other, carpe diem and eat cake.

24

It’s my birthday again. It comes right on the heels of the major holidays, in the midst of those holidays used for getting lucky (you know that’s true, I mean Valentine’s Day and St. Patrick’s Day? Hello.) My birthday usually gets lumped with Valentine’s Day because of the proximity. I’m just glad I wasn’t born at the end of December because then I’d get the dreaded Christmas/Birthday present combo. People born in a span of time devoid of holidays escape the combo present curse completely.

I share a birthday with Abraham Lincoln, Charles Darwin and, this year at least, Fat Tuesday. Apparently, Joe DiMaggio’s brother was born on Feb. 12 too, who knew.

Since my last birthday I have quit a job, started a new one, moved states, ended three relationships and started two (that sounds like a lot but one of them was this weird on and off bad thing so it wasn’t multiple people. Right now if a psychiatrist asked me to say something that reminds me of that relationship I’d say – hanging chad), got my heart broken, had multiple visitors, attended a wedding, was asked to speak in a wedding and be a maid of honor, made new friends, made new enemies, learned to line dance, started playing soccer and acting again, swam in the ocean at night, saw manatees for the first time and glowing phytoplankton. There’s more, there’s a lot more actually. When I was in college the years between birthdays didn’t seem much different. Everything was working up to your 21^st birthday but beyond that it was a blur of school work, parties and a smattering of activities done sober. You learned more, maybe if you were lucky you learned enough to make changes that would benefit your life. If not, like most of us, things went on the same way. Maybe you learned to eat before drinking, that was an important one. New faces came and went, old ones stuck around or maybe we lost them somehow.

The only birthday in high school that stands out is my 18^th. The only one I was really looking forward to was my 16^th, but I don’t remember anything really exciting happening except that I could say I was 16 (maybe that came from the Sound of Music, I don’t really know.) My parents threw me a party for my 18^th with my friends, all of which didn’t drink (we weren’t hardcore it just wasn’t on our radar, we could act like idiots on our own, no alcohol needed.) We danced like mad to the DJ that was a family friend and eventually it was so hot we had to stick our heads out the window to cool off. It was freezing outside being February in Kansas, which is usually dreary, and full of shallow snow that turns the color of mud as soon as it hits the ground. It isn’t the pretty pure white snow you see in December. I always remember there being slush on the ground around my birthdays when I was in elementary school. Sloshing through the dirty wetness to get to a birthday party where we painted plaster molds to hang on the wall, or painted vases that would eventually be glazed, there was one where we dressed in Victorian dresses and played Victorian games where you won fancy soap as a prize. Those were the days.

The only birthday I remember in college was my 21^st. If the only reason to join a sorority was for your 21^st, that would have made it worth it for me. We met at the Heidelberg, to this day my favorite place to go in Columbia, Mo. Everyone started 21^st birthdays there, everyone could eat, drink or not drink if you were underage. I had a boa, my sisters made me a paddle and shot book (think scrap book but for the shots you are taking that night), ALL of my friends came to at least take a shot with me or just say “hi.” I took 21 shots that night with my friends timing me so I didn’t take too many too close together, I had a rule to not take any shots with multiple kinds of straight liquor (you know, four horsemen, three wise men, whatever.) I ate and drank a ton of water and I survived, no throwing up and I remember everything, I didn’t even get kicked out of a bar, which is a common occurrence on a 21^st birthday. I didn’t have to plan a thing and it was perfect. The Winter Olympics’ opening ceremony was on TV that night, but I don’t remember even being interested. I just remember trying to talk to all my friends and sisters that were there, letting them buy me shots called Scooby snacks or chocolate cake. My friend Bill had the tradition of buying a blowjob shot for everyone on their 21^st. He had made me a Rocky Horror themed shot book page and I remember thinking I was so lucky to have friends around me that knew me so well and being so grateful they had taken the time to plan something for me.

Last year, I spent the eve of my birthday in a hotel room in Virginia Beach with my then-boyfriend. He was on a base there and I flew in for the weekend. We didn’t go to an expensive dinner; he hadn’t planned anything although the hotel was nice. We ended up walking to a 7-Eleven as snow fell; I wasn’t wearing enough clothing by far because I had come from Alabama where I had worn a tank top and jeans onto the plane.  We picked up a pint of ice cream, wine and powdered donuts for the morning. That night we watched Tangled in the hotel room. I ate most of the ice cream and we didn’t finish the wine. I flew out the next day, on my birthday, but I don’t remember anything interesting about that day except that he told me Whitney Houston had died in the morning. I don’t remember what I did when I got back to Montgomery, I know that my apartment was like a refrigerator and I couldn’t find my fish (turns out he had frozen to death over the weekend since I had turned off the heat to save money. I know I’m terrible, but when I left I was wearing a tank top, how was I supposed to know a cold front was going to come through?)

And here I am this year. I’ve been alive for 24 years. Last night, instead of getting wine from a gas station, I made a big meal of jumbalaya, fried pickles and beignets to celebrate Fat Tuesday, listened to country, painted my nails and caught up on my programs. I spent the night alone. Today, instead of taking 24 shots I start rehearsal for a community theater production. My Facebook wall has been blowing up all day with kind words, some very kind and unexpected. It’s unusual for me to comment back to every message, but I appreciate each birthday wish so much I figured I’d show it this year, it doesn’t take much of my time. My friends at work decorated my corner with purple and green streamers (mardi gras, y’all) there are beads all over my desk and my boss got me a tiramisu cake with little peanut butter cakes. She said she thought I needed dainty things for my birthday.

Look how dorky I look. Twenty-four years old and I am just as gawky as ever, the tiramisu is the star of this picture. 

I know I must have wondered on the plane from Virginia where I would be in exactly a year. I know I hadn't considered a desk covered in mardi gras beads. Now, I wonder where I’ll be in a year from now. I guess, judging from this year, I could be anywhere, with anyone, doing anything. And although my year is streaked with depression, low self-esteem and anxiety (and any other problems you can think of associated with major change and some outrageous personal growing pains), I can’t imagine where else I would be right now. I’m afraid to imagine where I might be next year. I can’t imagine another year quite as exhausting as this one, but bring it on. I’m ready for it this time.

I was originally going to make this a post about what I wanted for my birthday, but that was really boring. So... money? Wait, wait, drinks, that’s it, just buy me a drink when we’re out. 

Honor

• Part 1: Love

Honor

My guilty conscience is one I would bet on if there was a contest to see how bad a person can possibly feel. There is absolutely no way in hell I would lose. I’m sure this stems from a Catholic complex, being the entire focus of my parent’s acute attention and feeling an anxiety inducing need to prove myself in an affluent area. Also, if I had a quarter for every time someone said to me, “What’s wrong with you?” I would be the most popular gambling-obsessed old lady on a trip to Atlantic City (they play the quarter slots, right? Or is that pennies...) 

This popped into my head yesterday and illustrates my point relatively well. I was in a play in middle school where I actually had a supporting role for once (my director in middle school hated me for unknown reasons.) Do you want to know what I was? I was a french maid and because it was middle school I had long sleeves a knee-length skirt and tights on. I swear, I don’t think a french maid character has ever been so covered up and prudish. We had to perform the show twice during school hours on opening day (which was awesome because we got to skip class.) We were eating lunch in the gym where the youngest kids in school were also partaking in lunch. I threw a chip at my friend (pretty sure I was provoked) she blocked it, the chip exploded when her elbow hit it out of my hand and you’d think that should be the end of the story. No, I was pulled outside with the other girl involved, and a couple kids that had apparently been exploding chip bags. Our group of rambunctious hooligans received a stern talking to. They threatened to take my part away, told us we couldn’t bow in the next show and told us we had to apologize in front of the entire cast for our behavior since we had set a bad example. So, while crying, I apologized to the entire group…for ALMOST throwing a chip. I cannot tell you how guilty I was for having practically pelted a friend with a salty snack. I didn’t get over it for months.

Whilst driving a friend’s car in Chicago one summer I absentmindedly T-boned another car – I was completely lost at the time. The owner of the now nose-less vehicle wasn’t in the car at the time; I was actually going to meet him at the field museum. No one was hurt; the police even said if there was such thing as a “good accident” this was it. The damage to the cars was minimal, they were definitely still drivable, but I swear I cried all the way back to Missouri. The whole time I was thinking my parents were going to make me move back to Kansas and go to community college because of my mistake. I kept thinking I would never meet anyone to marry me; that I had no future. A friend in the car told me at some point you have to stop caring what your parents think and everyone else for that matter, you live for yourself. Even then I knew she was right and to this day I haven’t been able to stop caring.

I’ve apologized for a number of things I never should have taken the blame for and many more things that were most definitely my fault. Things that weren’t that bad, that I was never able to explain, that I took upon myself in order to put an end to something and that someone else caused. It’s relatively easy (except that I like to repeat scenarios in my head over and over dwelling on what I should have done differently.) I have a knack for convincing myself that I’m terrible for whatever I’ve done, I can even perfectly justify why I think I’m the worst person in the world and my life is going to be over. 

Life is entirely too short of these shenanigans, but there's the rub. Everyone knows life isn’t fair. We are well aware of this fact, it’s like knowing you’re going to die one day, but that doesn’t mean we don’t bitch about it. And to avoid being  a terrible person (what does that even mean?) or too bitchy, or bratty etc., I just take it. Don’t get me wrong, if someone was harassing a friend of mine or saying inappropriate things or being racist or something I wouldn’t hesitate to fight about it (and I mean fisticuffs kind of fighting) it’s the smaller things, the passive things that I kind of curl up and take. The grey areas where some people are never held accountable and their conscience isn’t as outrageous as mine. Those in between times when the blame lies on both parties, where there's a difference between standing up for yourself, asking for what you want and being selfish or crossing a line. But then who's right? Who can even judge without knowing both sides, truthfully, with no embellishment?No one.

It's where taking responsibility resides, where you could say honor lives and stuff and junk. Honor sounds like Knights of the Round Table pinky promises and things that aren't things anymore (speaking of pinky promises, my little sis in Big Brothers Big Sisters had never heard of a pinky promise... is that like an old person thing?) Let's be real, you know it's true about "honor." Chivalry is for the most part dead, and honor is kind of going extinct, at least it's on the endangered species list.

I'm no better than anyone else, don't get me wrong. I definitely don't think I'm more honorable (I don't even think people of this generation really contain what was once known as honor, it's like an appendage we evolved without.) I make mistakes (tons of them), wear my heart on my sleeve, cuss too much, talk too loudly, vent, care too much, come off crazy and complain. I'm just really good at punishing myself for being...hm...less than honorable? I wonder how much of a sonofabitch I would be if I just ran wild and crazy without beating myself up all the time. You know that saying that we are our biggest critics? Yea, that's the gospel truth. Well, most of us are at least.

Seriously, if you think your conscience could beat mine in arm wrestling we should throw down guilt and regret stories. I bet mine could take yours.

Basically this was my confession to being my own worst enemy, like that Pink song.

Love

This is the preamble to a three-part series of posts - they are confessions:

I’m not exactly sure why I decided to be this candid in front of anyone who wants to read this, but I think it has something to do with a type of therapy.  If I write it down and share it I’m acknowledging that I’ve done something, I’m confessing, it’s a penance and something like a punishment - maybe it's just cathartic (not in the same way a T. Swift concert is, a friend gushed once that her concert was a very cathartic experience for him.)

I started out this blog at a really low point. I was writing it as part of my steps toward stability and it did help me recover some of my frail confidence. It continues to do that for the most part as I show the online world how vulnerable I am, my bad choices, flaws and things I’ve learned in attempts to change my frame of mind. 

This is all kind of funny because I just wrote a post about having a bright and shiny outlook, I’m sure I’ll get back there eventually. Right now, this is what I want to say.

"There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed." ~ Ernest Hemingway

Love

I was told recently that I think about the past too much, that I dwell on my former relationships and the irreversible choices I’ve made. This is all true and something that I was already well aware of. Example: I discovered CDs in my car this weekend from two different exes. I don’t know when the last time I listened to them was and I’m not sure why they’re still in my glove box but there they are, one with nothing written on it and the other in Sharpie cursive. 

I’ve only had three exes, three people I wanted to be in a relationship with (if you count my middle school relationship that’s four but I’m not sure anyone does that when the most intimate thing you did was hold hands at the movies.) Two of them I called my boyfriend with a sense of satisfaction I didn’t know possible. In high school, I wouldn’t call my long-term relationship anything, I wouldn’t admit that it was a relationship. I had some nice half-baked "relationships" along the way but none that rivaled those three.  Maybe that’s why I linger so much thinking about them. Without going into any detail, just know all of them ended like a broken bone that you never had set. They bother you and don’t heal quite right and they cause a lot more pain than they ever should.

I can take the blame for the ongoing discomfort; always looking back has a way of tinting everything and making it seem perfect. Even the bad parts can be overlooked and forgotten when you feel like you’re suspended in midair all alone (I imagine it’s what astronauts feel like in zero gravity only emotionally.) It’s scary looking around and having nothing to cling to. So, I’d look back and try to hang onto them to keep me grounded. I’ve never been the type of girl that needed a man , I still don’t think of myself that way, but once I’ve opened myself up to having someone be mine and I theirs it’s like removing a piece of myself to let them go (I assume most of you know what I mean.) I’ve only felt this three times, don’t get confused, I’m not like this with everyone. One of them I couldn’t even say “I love you” to because I was afraid what I felt wasn’t love, I didn’t want to be lying, I wanted to make sure it meant something every time I said it.

There have been periods of time when no one was interested in me romantically at all. Times when I was the friend at the bar, the one that had to be entertained by the friends of a dude that wants to meet the girl friend I came with. This still happens relatively frequently. There were times when a few people liked me at once, where I’d go on one date with someone and decide I didn’t feel anything and that we should just be friends (that was a common occurrence in college.) There were other times when I really liked someone that “friend-zoned” me hardcore. More recently, I’ve had guys at the bar asking for my number. I’ll half-heartedly give it to them thinking I should just give it a chance, to then be so obviously lukewarm and evasive they get the hint and stop trying. Maybe I really am disillusioned with the whole dating thing.

I’ve kind of always thought of myself as a bit bitter, maybe too realistic. I used to say it was because some of my family members had such hurtful experiences involving relationships. I can’t blame it on them. Maybe it came from being told at about 14 by a scorned boy that I'll never get married, and then told again as a 23-year-old. I can't be sure, this is just an aspect of life I struggle with.

So here we are, I melted down recently. Not that I haven’t had mental breaks before, but I would say this one might be the worst (not in terms of depression by any means, just in pure personality-lapse, I didn't react as myself) and triggered my deviation from more amusing posts to, you know, whatever this is. The whole thing had to do with a person, and none of that matters, right now, honestly. I will say however that if I wrote the series of unfortunate events that came to pass I could probably write a pretty decent TV show that could rival The New Girl, The Mindy Project and Girls in awkwardness (and possibly humor, I like to think that in a few months this might be funny.)

Here’s how I explained what I’ve been up to recently in Facebook chat to my daughter that's still in college (pledge daughter that is):

“I've been going to the country bar to line dance, and *                    subsequently melted down mid last week, so I drank for 4 days, proceeded to probably make myself look super psycho, but I'm better now 

I also play soccer”

*Redacted to avoid revealing what happened because at this point it's irrelevant.

I couldn’t really get out of the whole situation unscathed, I could have handled the whole thing better, but I try to handle everything without completely losing it (I'm not saying I don't fail at this sometimes, but in general I tend to not go too overboard.) I think it just wasn’t in me to do it this time. Everyone else gets to fall apart completely, they're usually forgiven. It's kind of like when you get screwed with enough and can't take it anymore you pull a Ralphie (OK so not exactly like that, but emotions are nothing to toy with.) So, it took me from Wednesday to Sunday to do this: 

And I've only kind of achieved the pulling myself together portion

I'm relatively certain the guys I've said "I love you" to have actually both stopped believing I ever meant it for various reasons. I did love them, however, despite my idiocy, poor choices and actions, despite everything they did to me and what I did to them. So, these are my confessions, a little less than a month before Valentine's Day, nearing my 24th birthday. Yes, the past holds me back, it holds a lot of people back because it will always be there. Yes, time heals wounds (kind of) and I know I'll be fine. Eventually, the embarrassment will subside, hopefully it's worse in my head than in real life (not so sure about that one though.) Yes, I am guilty of the typical Southern thinking that I am going to die alone because I can't seem to make this stuff work. Yes, I wish I could go back and react differently (like a lady as opposed to like... the opposite of that but crazy. I don't know what that would be.) Yes, I think I reacted on the side of dramatic and I wish I'd pulled an Audrey as opposed to a Britney, but what can you do. 

And if you think this is weakness you try writing your emotions out, how you're really feeling, try "bleeding" in front of other people. Anyway, no one can be strong all the time. 

I feel a quarter-life crisis coming on, wait...maybe not

I said something recently that was misconstrued (this actually happens relatively often.) What I said was, “The only good thing about your 20s is being young.” Unfortunately, I said this is in front of a few coworkers that are on the wrong side of 35. They apparently thought I was saying they were old or something. Really I was just trying to say that your 20s are hard. Like, harder than I thought they’d be when I was an angst-filled teenager.

I suppose when I was younger 24 sounded old (I turn 24 in about a month.) Actually, I know it sounded old because when I say it to myself it scares the hell out of me. Funny thing is, I play soccer with people in their 40s and I NEVER think of them as being old. When I think of someone else being 30 I never have images of cakes with gravestones on them and black balloons at birthday parties.

Tell me you get that reference, please. You know when people are getting older and friends give you cakes that say “Over the hill” or something equally “witty.” And there’s a gravestone on your cake and maybe someone gives you a gag walking stick with a mirror and a horn on it. I know that wasn’t just my family. But speaking of my family, my aunt’s 50^th birthday was a year or two ago and her cake was shaped like a toilet and had like blue gelatin in the bowl with a chocolate poop floating in it. The frosting read, “Everything goes to shit after 50” or  “After 50 everything turns to crap” or something equally gross to accompany a pastry.

A coworker recently said she was having a quarter life crisis, which I feel like is pretty typical. I’m not sure there’s a person I know that's gotten through the "torturous twenties" (get it? like terrible twos, but I just made it up...whatever) that really wants to go back.

I mean, in your 20s you look pretty good, gravity hasn’t completely destroyed your appearance, running on very little sleep and crackers for lunch still magically works somehow and drinking a tad more than is necessary is accepted and a reasonable way to deal with stress. That stuff is pretty cool. Figuring out where you want to go in the future profession-wise, relationship-wise and mentally being prepared for what that all means is the opposite of cool. It's also the opposite of fun. 

Also, when you turn 24 that song "What's My Age Again" by blink-182 doesn't apply any more and that just totally sucks.

This is it, but you should really know already. 

I like being able to say I'm in my 20s, I like imagining I have a lot of time left, a lot of options, that I could go anywhere and do anything. If I wanted I could move to the Northwest and live with the hipsters or move to Cali to pursue an acting career (or be an extra or something, BUT STILL.) I could move to the Northeast and break out my black leather jacket and dull colored clothes or I could stay here in endless summer to wear shorts and bright, obnoxious patterns. But then again, you don't have to be in your 20s to do any of these things. If you know what's going to make you happy, that should drive you (I'm saying this because I sometimes feel like I've backed myself into a corner and I don't have any options. This is like a reminder to me and maybe it will like help other people or like you or stuff and junk.) 

I know there's so much time for things to fall together. There's room to make mistakes and to do the right thing. There's always time to start doing what you want to do, it just always seems like time is slipping by, that there's never enough or that you are wasting what time you do have. 

So, I'm going to give you some advice some of my soccer teammates told me today. One said "stop and smell the flowers" but the other said "stop and smell the weeds." He said this because his daughter picks the weeds and puts them in a little vase with water. You know, some weeds are the prettiest plants, I know when you were a kid (if you were a girl) you probably made crowns with those tiny white flowery things that were actually weeds. I mean, hello, everyone put dandelions behind their ears when they were yellow and blew all the little puffy things off of them when they looked like little Epcot globes (and if you didn't make a wish you were doing it wrong.)  And I like thinking about it that way better. We already stop to smell the flowers because they're pretty, they're the easy things to enjoy, but the weeds take a little more work but worth it.

I don't know where all this crunchy talk came from, but it sounds good doesn't it? 

So, this is the New Year...

In the words of one of my fav bands (Death Cab for Cutie) - "So, this is the new year, and I don't feel any different."

That's not EXACTLY true, but it definitely isn't because the Earth had a birthday or whatever. Remember when I had this blog and I was good at keeping it up and stuff and junk? Well, the holidays put a damper on my creativity and totally wore me out. Excuses, excuses I could have made time or like, wrote a little instead of watching the Big Bang Theory and Family Guy every night before going to bed. I could have done less indulging (read: drinking) when I went back to my own personal winter wonderland in Kansas. I could have refrained from watching EVERY Christmas movie I could get my hands on (that includes The Santa Claus 2... really) with my parents. But I didn't, and here we are in 2013.

Pretty sure the world isn't scheduled to end this year, so that's a cool thing. I say that now and in a few months a crazy zealot will be all over the place talking about something weird that'll wipe us all like an acid rain tornado storm. Which now that I put scary environmental things together like that willy-nilly is actually a pretty terrifying mental image. M. Night Shyamalan should totally make a movie about that. Or Michael Bay because I imagine there would be a lot of explosions involved.

I didn't make any resolutions except for to keep on with my goal of trying to make myself happy instead of worrying about what everyone else thinks. I mean, there's that goal (that everyone should have) of not doing the same stupid shit this year that we did last year.  That one is actually a lot harder than it sounds because I'm pretty sure I've already messed it up, BUT I still have 357 days to keep trying. Or failing. Potato potato... which doesn't actually make sense in print. Potato po-tah-to then, for those of you confused about my phonetic rambling.

I do feel the slightest bit different on this side of the holidays, I'm trying to think about everything being bright and shiny because, well, I hear it's better that way. I've had people tell me that good things come their way because they think good things will come their way. That kind of thinking isn't even related to karma it's just their frame of mind. They want/think they deserve good things and they get them. Simple as that. It couldn't hurt to put on the rose colored glasses for a bit, drink the Kool-Aid and all that (wait). Although the color of 2013 is emerald (see, I'm not making that up) and when mixed with rose I think that would make some sort of breen color (yea, breen, like brown/green.... think I got that from Rocko's Modern Life...) I have a good feeling kinda'.

Do you ever do that thing where you just sit and wonder where you'll be this time next year? Not like imagining where you want to be, but actually wondering what job you'll have, who you'll still be in touch with, if you'll be dating someone, single, living in the same place or if you'll be drastically different. I wonder that all the time. This time last year I was still living in Alabama and it never crossed my mind that I'd be living in Florida in a year. I never thought I'd be working for a print publication, especially not one that focuses on business (remember how I'm bad at numbers...yea.) But here I am. And if I've learned anything, even one night can change everything. One misunderstanding on Halloween can halt a friendship for months, one chance meeting at a bar can lead to taking someone home for Christmas.

Think about it.

Weird, right?

The WAR ON CHRISTMAS [insert air raid noises here]

So, last year I wrote a piece on how public schools handle...or don't handle... the holidays in schools. I just reread it here and I sound quite smart (I watched Love Actually last night, and I think my inner monologue is coming off a little British today as a result. My apologies.) Anyway, I'm wondering how much of that intelligence was helped out by my editor and how much was me, I honestly can't remember, but look how many good points I made in that story nonetheless!

I was SO fair and TOTALLY not judgmental and I showed different viewpoints, because I definitely didn't agree with everything people told me.

One of my favorite things to do when I worked for my old media company was to have all the TV stations we owned send out, what we called, a Facebook callout. That's where they all ask the same question on their Facebook page. I wasn't interested in just any callouts though, I really liked the ones that were probably going to piss off a few people or get them fired up. In my defense, and in defense of my former employer, the questions themselves were harmless, people just get really flustered and impassioned about certain topics, one involves religion and since we are in the holiday season currently, let's talk about that one. These callouts helped me locate some sources for my stories including the holiday one, so there's the tie in.

Back to the WAR ON CHRISTMAS. I capitalized that because doesn't it sound like there should be intense music playing and possibly explosion noises happening in the background? Like in Young Frankenstein whenever they say Frau Blucher and a horse neighs:

Like this but with more bomb and gun sounds.

In that article I wrote a year ago, I mention Rick Perry. Remember him? Texas guy, ran for Republican presidential candidate but was like the first one out of the running even before Michele "Crazy Eyes" Bachmann. That's how dated my story is now ONE year later, but the whole purpose of writing it remains the same. 

I heard on the radio this morning the DJ saying in a few years we won't even be celebrating any type of holiday, we'll just be celebrating Winter in general, the solstice and such. He was very upset about this. Granted, I listen to a country station so the WAR ON CHRISTMAS is alive and well for that gentleman. 

I don't think it's a WAR ON CHRISTMAS. It's a war on "whatever I don't believe in." And sometimes it's a war on people just thinking others are trying to stifle their beliefs when really, they aren't. 

Listen y'all, I love Christmas and I'm Catholic, currently I'm having a hard time getting in the festive mood because it's like 80 degrees out here in sunny southern Florida, but damn it I have my tree out and my tacky reindeer lights under my bar. I even have a mistletoe hanging out (see what I did there?) over the entrance to my lanai (a lanai is a screened in porch or balcony thing in case you don't live in the octogenarian state or haven't watched as much Golden Girls as I have.)  

I also made latkes (potato pancakes traditionally eaten during Hanukkah festivities) the other day. This is my new tradition during December/Hanukkah. Last year, I made brie-filled latkes from complete scratch. I'm saying I peeled the potatoes and grated them and it was a major pain in the ass. This year, I bought a box of mix, and guess what, they were still delicious and somehow this time I didn't set anything on fire frying them. Confession: I've always wanted an excuse to own a really nice pretty Menorah. 

Watch out Internet, I'm about to step up on a Christmas package (the yule version of a soapbox.) I am more interested in other religions than the average person (probs) and I completely respect them. I'm sure this stems from a time in elementary school where I was obsessed with Roman and Greek mythology. OBSESSED, I tell you. I did an EXTRA CREDIT (sorry for the caps, but what self-respecting elementary schooler does an extra credit project for no reason? I didn't need the points or anything) project about a few gods and goddesses with a friend. I prescribe to the way of thinking that many religions have similar origins, stories that share qualities and teachings. They all have their place and whichever one you call your own is rad* as long as you don't try to push your beliefs on other people. Groovy*? Groovy. 

I also prescribe to the way of thinking that encourages everyone to learn about other cultures, this includes religion. Did I mention I was an anthropology minor? This should all start making sense now. Let me tell you a little story (No, no get on with your point of view you're saying, probably.) A friend of mine wanted to go to Ghana to help people and work for a nonprofit. I bet everyone just said "awwww" collectively. I love this girl, she is very sweet and only had the best intentions in her raging Liberal mind. I respect that she went overseas to physically lend a hand and see the country first-hand. She came back, after an unideal (that's a word) experience, with a different view of helping people. It isn't that we shouldn't want to reach out, if we have the means we definitely should try to help others. It's HOW we choose to go about helping that's the trick. We have to know the other culture, some don't want the kinds of help we may want to offer, we can't just go in and fix something we know nothing about. 

Enter religion. The more knowledge of why others do what they do, feel the way they do, celebrate what and why they do, the better. It doesn't mean anyone else has to have the same beliefs but just having the ability to understand where someone else is coming from isn't harmful. I'm saying teaching from an educational standpoint not brainwashing. Here's the rub, I'm a journalist (Wise shall be the bearers of light and all that) and I want everyone to have as much info as possible to make their own decisions. I'm not a teacher, so I don't know what would be best for children and I'm not going to say I do. It gets really tricky when some religions won't even have their kids learning about other religions because that goes against theirs. See? It's so hard and then you have to respect that and blah blah blah no one is ever going to agree. 

I just came off crunchy and granola-y and now let's all sing Kumbaya together or This Little Light of Mine or something. I am just advocating for the information to be distributed if possible. I think Christmas trees are awesome and I don't want to see them taken down everywhere or anything (funny story, Christmas trees aren't even really a Christian thing, it was a pagan tradition originally.) And if a huge Menorah went up somewhere in a public place I totally wouldn't care, it'd probably be really pretty. Actually, the hospital down the street from my house in Kansas does have a gigantic Menorah in front of it and it's called Menorah Medical Center and I have never given that a second thought. 

It's just sad and not in the spirit of anyone's religious celebrations to be angry and to attack other people. Sorry we don't always agree, opinions are like assholes as my dad likes to tell me. It's "all the ways that we show love that feel like Christmas" or Hanukkah or Kwanza, or whatever you may be celebrating this December. That line is from A Muppet Christmas Carol....yes really. 

Watch and be happy.

Let's talk about me

Let’s talk about me for a second. I bet you’re thinking, isn’t that what you do on this blog you narcissistic boob. In my head a black and white cartoon character was saying that then promptly took off his white glove to slap me across the face with it. To that I would say, “Of course you know, this means war.” But to the non-animated folks I would counter with, “No, no it is not what I write about all the time.”

But as Toby Keith put it, “I want to talk about me, I want to talk about I, want to talk about No. 1,” just for right now.

 So, the other night I tweeted this:

Let's just talk about how much I hate myself right now. What the eff is wrong with me?
— Amanda Heisey (@AmandaHeisey) December 3, 2012

Being a closet emo high school kid is a hard habit to break even into adulthood apparently. Oh, and I used to do theater, I’m pretty positive drama just courses through your veins after that for the rest of your life.

And I know people are probably thinking, why is she complaining? She has a lot going for her; she has a good job, lives in a beautiful place, so on and so forth. Or you’re going, that’s not funny, there are people that really struggle with hating themselves. And to all of you I say, yes I totally understand all of that and am well aware. You have no idea how aware I am of all of those things. I’m aware times infinity.

This does not, however, dismiss the fact that the other night I was really angry with myself. Don’t tell me you are happy and content all the time with the choices and decisions you make. Actually, if you are a person that has somehow managed to not feel remorse or regret things, you should probably tell me how you accomplished that feat. Unless you are like a cold-blooded killer (There’s Dexter again. My bad.)

But I am still riding the struggle bus when it comes to making good or not so good decisions. I’m pretty sure this comes from the fact that I have no idea what I want out of life. Not that I think everything needs to be planned, but having some sort of direction isn’t a bad thing I would assume.  

This whole thing came to a head partly because I feel as though many of my other friends have their lives together with long-term relationships; engaged, married, one even had a child on purpose. ON PURPOSE I tell you. I want a cat right now, but I’m a little nervous about how that would go, and one of my friends has another human being depending on her.

See, this is why people think Disney movies are bad influences on children. Pocahontas didn’t know where her path led but she had a magic talking willow tree to help her out. Where’s my enchanted vegetation? I’d settle for a smarmy palm tree (being in Florida I feel like that’s more likely than Grandmother Willow.)

Part of my frustration lies, not only in the fact that I am pretty jealous of my friends with their shit together, but because I do feel like, little by little, I’m actually gaining some control over my life. It just isn't quite there yet. While I’m making so much progress it’s difficult to realize I continuously make the same mistakes over and over again while improving other aspects of my life. And even though I think I know what I need to do, it’s like impossible to do it. Not impossible just very, very hard.

I suppose I sound pretty weak then, huh? I wrote that I hate myself because it’s just so difficult to know what you probably should do and to mindfully make a questionable choice. Then you judgers may say, “Why didn’t you just do what you know is right?”

Because, my apparently moral friends, it’s effing hard. OK? There are all of those what-ifs and the thought that things could be different for me and not suck if I make the slightly more reckless decision.  But I am most likely the rule and not the exception to the rule. Alas. 

Here's to struggling with, you know, life. Cheers to everyone out there being equally as stupid as me. Next time we're out we can take a shot to celebrate our frustration, or to take out our frustration, whatever works. 

So about that novel you want to write...

My mother wants me to write a novel. Doesn't everyone kind of want to be able to say that they wrote a book or a novel or a collection of poems or something that was published? I feel like even people that hate writing with a fiery passion still wish they could magically have written a book with their mind. November just ended, but it was National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo.) I bet you didn't know that unless you happened to be in my writing club in high school. Seriously, one of my extracurriculars involved hanging out in a classroom for a few hours after school every couple weeks writing prose or poetry about whatever we decided would be the theme for that meeting. It was awesome.

Anyway, I am someone who does want to be able to say I wrote a novel one day. I keep thinking if I blog long enough and enough people read this I could get a book a la Carrie from Sex and the City without the whole writing a column thing... and with less writing about sex. That is silly, but I don't judge your half-baked ideas. 

But, my mom has this idea that I should write a book about my family, more specifically my aunts and grandma. I think the working title of this nonexistent novel is Mi Tias, or some such thing about aunts. It would seriously be a great story if I could get said aunts to open up about their lives. I'm not optimistic about that part because who really feels comfortable being that candid about their lives? That's like telling the whole world, "Hey there, come look at all the messed up stuff about my family. Look at how dysfunctional we can be." I assume people would find this embarrassing. I happen to say really awkward and embarrassing things on this blog so I wouldn't be nearly as clammy about it. That's clammy in the sense of "clam-like." I should have just used the tight lipped or something that makes sense as opposed to a word that means moist and rubbery. Whoops. 

Also, moist and rubbery are two descriptors that should never be used in the same sentence. I vow to never write those two adjectives in the same sentence on this blog ever again, you're welcome. 

These tangents are why I probably will never succeed in writing a cohesive novel. BUT, if I were to write one about my family members I believe the theme would be men suck, life is hard, people make mistakes and forgiveness is the answer. Let me get one thing straight. I LOVE all of my family and none of them have ever spoken to me about the stories I would possibly be telling, but because we are a large family and I'm an adult now, I know lots of things about all of their stories. None of the stories are that different from other family's. I'm sure. There's some disfunction, cheating, unhappiness, good times, rough times - it was the best of times it was the worst of times - whatever, you get it.

I know there are a lot of reasons why people read: to escape, to learn, etc. But one of the reasons I do it is to learn about other people and to see if I can relate to someone. When we have problems sometimes it feels like we are the only ones that are crazy when, in reality, everyone is crazy. The things we struggle with are things that a lot of people have issues with. Even serial killers can relate to other serial killers. At least that's what I've gathered from watching Dexter.  I freaked you out for a second though, didn't I?

In defense of dragging skeletons out of closets for other people, I think it's necessary in some cases. The names can be changed to protect their identities, we don't have to have pictures, it could be like the print version of putting a source in a dark room with no light and then distorting their voice. This book could  teach other people how to handle situations and that they can move on with their lives and get through bad stuff. It could show them they aren't the only ones with terrible, terrible luck.

I am writing this as a forewarning that I may start writing my family's stories in this blog (with different names.) In case anyone from my family reads this, I wanted to warn them, it's in no way to rib anything anyone has gone through. It's merely telling their story, our story and the stories of many that aren't able to tell their own. Maybe it'll help someone out there.

Then, who knows, a publisher might read it and want to publish my blog posts into a book. That'll never happen but somehow Carly Rae Jepsen is famous so crazier things are possible.

This is Nick from the New Girl explaining his novel idea to Jess's dad. I mean, if Twilight can be a huge hit, it could happen.