Beauty is in the eye of the beer holder

The first time I found a gray hair it was kind of funny. But gray hairs are like top forty songs . . . ok at first but repetition gets old and you find yourself wondering why! Why was such a thing created!?
I have found more gray hairs in the last week than I have in the last year. They seem to be reproducing faster than the dust bunnies behind my computer. I used to tease my mom when she would pluck the little culprits from her head with a pair of tweezers: "If you keep pulling them you're gonna be bald!" Ha ha, ya now it is not so funny and I need to take my own advice.

But today my age hit me like a ton of Botox. We bought a Slip N'Slide yesterday, and my daughter really wants me to play on it with her. The problem? I have not tried on my swimming suit since before I was pregnant with Devin. While I have lost most of my post baby weight, let's just say things have uhhh, shifted. I put my fear aside and tried the suit on. The botton fits fine, but the top, now that is a different story. The girls were not exactly fitting comfortably in the spandex!

Ok, small blow to my self esteem. Not too bad... I can handle it. Then I go into the bathroom to put sunscreen on my face. That's when I saw it. An extension of the Grand Canyon on the left side of my face just below my cheek. I have never seen a wrinkle that deep before. But it wasn't just that, it was the suddeness of it! Where did it come from? Did the gray hairs talk you into this, you little annoying one? I swear it was not there last week, now suddenly it looks like The Joker has paid me a visit and decided to turn me into his likeness.

Now I have a cunundrum. I was going to go to the store to buy a new swimming suit that would keep the twins confined, but maybe I should get some face cream instead. Seriously, this thing can be seen from space.

It all hit me then. I am going to be thirty this year. I am not young anymore. I have all these clothes that I have been saving . . . thinking someday maybe I will be able to wear them again. There was once a time when you could see my abs! Yes, I had a six pack! Now I have stretch marks, my butt jiggles, one boob is bigger than the other, my back hurts and I am rarely awake past 10 p.m. 9 a.m. is like noon because I have already been up for hours. All I need now is to start vacuming my lawn and telling people driving by my house to slow down!

Bye bye skull and cross bone string bikini. (It is really cute, by the way) hello swiw suit cover up!

I must admit, it was quite the downer for a few hours. I went to Freddies to purchase the before mentioned swim suit, and saw these teenage girls with perfect little bodies that have never been through a pregnancy, let alone two! While shopping I kept stumbling across sizes 0, 3, 4, and I thought to myself, "who the hell wears a size 0?" After all, if such a creature did exist she has long been blown away by the fierce Idaho wind.

I finally found a swim suit (Do you have any idea how much these things cost! $68! Is spandex an endargered commodity? Damn!) I compromised. It is a two piece, and the back is open, but the front comes down in a sort of skirt form down to the bottoms part, so my girls are reigned in and the stretch marks are not flashing everybody.

I talked to my hubby later about finding a small canyon on my face, and he was quick to remind me, as the great husband he is, that he too is getting older. He always tells me that he has never been attracted to those super skinny girls. Who wants to hug a skeleton? And that he thinks I am beautiful the way I am. He has a way of putting things into perspective for me. It is just something in the way he puts things . . . swoon!

I slapped myself out of it (mentally of course!) and was able to tell myself that, ya, I am older, but hey, it is a part of life. I would never want to be 20, 21, 22 again. Those were some of the worst years of my life. I have strecth marks because I have two beautiful babies, and I would not trade them for cellulite, stretch marks, gray hair or aches and pains in the world. Those teenage girls I saw at the store think they have everything figured out, but they have no idea what love is!

I am wiser, I am smarter and I am happier than I have ever been. If life gets better with age, then bring on the birthdays!

At least I can still fit into the earings I wore in high school.

The end.

Do crazy people know they are crazy?

I love psychology. I love to watch people and figure out what makes them tick. Or not tick. Do crazy people know they are stark raving mad? The guy who has collected empty beer cans for 50 years thinks it is normal, but to a so called "normal" person, this is nuts. Have you ever tried looking at the other side?

I love watching those shows . . . Hoarders, The OCD Project, Intervention . . . (on the rare occasions when I can actually watch TV). Many people are fascinated by those shows, the number of them that exist prove that. But why? Part of it is the train wreck mentality; you just can't help but watch, but a bigger part of it, I think, is that we can all relate to the people in those shows, even if just a little bit. They make us all realize how close to insanity we all are at any given moment or on a day. Those people were not born that way, little triggers in their life caused them to start collecting or drinking or whatever.

Our minds are dangerously fragile. We all walk around thinking we are immune to the problems and vices that affect other people.

There are thousands of books and people with degrees, but no one can ever completely understand the human mind because there are so many different triggers.

What's your vice?
Crazy is subjective.

I have been bitten

Some people go their whole lives not knowing what they are supposed to be doing. They try different things waiting for something to click. Not me. I have been writing almost literally since I was old enough to hold a pencil. I wrote short stories when I was a kid, mostly rip offs of stories that I had already heard, but for some reason nothing appealed to me more than putting pen to paper and creating something. I collected little shaped erasers and wrote stories about them, complete with illustrations.
It is the closest thing I can compare to an addiction. Every once in awhile I feel it hit me, an urge like nothing else to sit and write. I just have to stop what I am doing and write, even if it is just a paragraph. I can literally feel a tingle in my arm and hand and it won't go away until I write something.
I have countless notebooks in my basement full of short stories and poems that I have formulated over the years. Countless pieces that no one has ever read. There is the story about the girl whose subconcious is so desperate to talk to her she has dreams about watching herself sleeping. Then there is the one about the family who thinks their house is haunted because they keep seeing things, then they learn that the house is not haunted, but a rare chemical in the house has made them crazy . . . many, may others that are collecting dust and webs and God only knows what else in the dungeon below.
I have these dreams that are so real . . . they play out in my head like movies. It's like I am there. I can smell the air and feel the weather. Then I wake up with an incredible story that I feel just has to be told.
Stephen King's stories come from dreams. The Twilight series was spawned from a dream. I am inspired by King, Edgar Alan Poe, Anne Rice, epic poetry like Dante's Inferno and others.
So what makes me think I can't do it? Why am I so scared? King's first book, "Carrie" was rejected something like 20 times before it was published. I know, I know . . .
During my second year of college I was going through a nasty divorce (who knew that, huh, huh?) I had a night class about the cultures and people of South America (fascinating class, by the way.) And I was super depressed and did not care about much of anything. Pardon my French, but I really just did not give a shit.
We had to read these books and write reports on them. I read half of one book the night before a report was due, then half-assed the report at like 2 in the morning. I turned it in . . . .
A few days later the professor asked to see me after class. I thought, great, he is pissed. I had come to class late, sat in the back of the room, etc. After class he handed me my paper and his exact words to me were, "Good God, girl, you can write!" He said it was some of the best writing he had ever seen. And this is coming from a highly educated and intelligent college professor. Believe me, not all college professors are educated or intelligent!
It woke me up a little bit. Maybe I should do something with this. Maybe I should actually try. He encouraged me to write for the college paper, and I did. And now I write for the local paper. BUT, the stuff I write for the paper is MUCH different than the stuff I write on the side. I have no time at work, sadly, to actually write something that is really good. And since I cover art and entertainment I am usually writing a fluffy preview of a local event. It is sad, really.
The few people I have let read my stuff tell me to try to publish it. Maybe they are just being nice. Could be. I don't know.
Red ink is my worst enemy. I am terrified of rejection, not just with writing but in all aspects of my life. It is like a curse, I am given this gift and then given a fear that does not allow me to use it.
I make up excuses . . . . I am too tired. After all I have two kids and work full time. I pass out at nine o'clock. I can't sit and focus when their are two kids who need fed, bathed, etc. They are my first priority. And I really enjoy spending time with my hubby. I am so grateful for him because he encourages me so much! We are supposed to be grocery shopping right now, but I told him I had to sit and write for a minute, and he is totally cool with it and taking care of baby Devin while I feverishly strike keys on my new keyboard.

Maybe today is the day. Maybe my inspiration will stick this time.

This is too funny to keep to myself

So I have heard this story from two people now, and I just have to share it. It is much too bizzare and funny to keep to myself. I am not gonna use names though . . .

I am hearing this third person, so I will do my best to get this right.

So somewhere in the thriving metropolis of American Falls, Idaho, there lives a family who has a son who is a little slow. I am not being rude... he is literally mentally disables. No disrespect! He is in his 20s but has the mental capacity of about a six-year-old child.

So the mom needs to run to the store really quick to get one or two items. She figures she will be right back so she can leave the son home by himself for just a few minutes. While she is out, she gets a call from her son who tells her, "Mom! I found a troll!" And of course, she thinks he is just playing and imagining things and assures him she will be home in a few minutes.

A few minutes go by and he calls again. This time he says, "Mom! I put the troll in my closet and he is really mad!" Hmmmmm. . . . ok, what is going on?

So, she gets home and discovers that there is indeed something barricaded in a closet in her home. But it is not a troll . . . . it is a little person. What is the correct term? Not midget . . . dwarf? You know what I mean. He was a Jehovah's witness who just happened to come to the door while the mom was out for a few minutes. The son thought he was a troll and not only put him in a closet, but barricaded it with furniture.

I guess the little man was really pissed! They talked him out of pressing charges.

But can you imagine? On both sides! What would you say if you came home and there was someone locked in a closet in your house? And what was the Jehovah's witness thinking? Wow.

I could not make this up. As they say, at least no one was hurt and all that good stuff. . . sigh. Truth is stranger than fiction.

Ghosts I have known part 2

So skip ahead a few years . . . I have gotten divorced and met a knew "love of my life" whom I have moved in with. The house we are living in is the same one that his grandparents lived in when his mom was little. In fact, his grandpa died in the house.

Nothing happened for a long time, then I started seeing things... there was a hallway next to the living room that connected the two bedrooms and the bathroom. I would be sitting in the living room and I would see an elderly male figure walk back and forth between the two bedrooms. It was quick, like he was curious or trying to not be seen. It happened more at night . . .

After awhile, the stereo in our room would turn on by itself at night, and the CD player tray would open and close by itself, then it would shut off by itself again. That freaked me out.

We bought a house in Chubbuck. It was a pretty new house, not much of a chance for spooky things to happen there. Except . . .

This sounds weird, I am sure, but there is a person whom I never met, who actually passed before I was even born, whom I felt I have a lot in common with and that we could have been friends . . . no one famous or anything ... but someone I knew of.

On days when I did not have to work, when I would get our daugheter down for a nap, I would too sometimes lay down for a little bit. After all, I was working, going to school and working full time. For about a month straight, every time I would get to the point where I was almost asleep I would feel a presence in the room. Ya know how you can just feel someone watching you even if you can't see them? It bothers you until you look up and then they hurry and turn away? It's so strong . . . you can feel their eyes drilling into you. It was like that. I felt someone watching me. And it was cold, the room literally got chilled.

I have never felt anything like that before. It was so strong, like nothing else. Eventually I would feel it lessen and I would fall asleep. . . or I would just kinda lay there, too afraid to get up.

Several weeks into this, I had enough. One day, without opening my eyes, I said aloud, "you're freaking me out, please go away." It never happened again. Maybe it was just my mind messing with me... I don't know . . . but I have never felt that before or since.

The final weird thing that happened at that house . . . Aria was in bed and Jayson was at work and it was late. I was sitting on the couch watching TV. The TV was turned down low so as not to wake up the toddler. As I am sitting there, a male voice came up behind me on the left side, right by my ear and whispered, plain as day, "Are you tired?"


I literally jumped off the couch and spun around so fast I think I was dizzy to see who had snuck into my house. Of course, no one was there. The crazy thing is, I know who it was. I want to know what he wanted. I would love to talk to him, but how?

Maybe I am crazy, you can call me that. I am not the kind of person who believes in bigfoot and aliens and all that stuff. I never even thought about ghosts or the supernatural until any of that happened. Maybe there is some sort of logical explanation for it, but if there is, I have not found it.

Life is a highway

I hate insomnia for everything except one . . .. when I can't sleep I usually get incredibly inspired. But it is dark and I can't see my keyboard, so forgive any typos.

Lately I have been thinking about how we are all connected somehow. Like the 6 degrees of separation but much bigger than that. It is like the U.S. road and highway system. I could get to anywhere in the country I wanted to. There are few places I could not get to because every road, street, lane, whatever connects somehow. Such it is with people. I may not know you, but I bet if I asked around long enough I would find someone who does.

We all affect each other, whether we know it or not. Call it the Butterfly Effect or whatever, but we all influence people we don't know. We all have twtwists and turns, and we all need repaired once in awhile.

The difference is that roads have maps so you can't get lost. (well, Ok, so most of us can't get lost). With people you just have to take your chances. Some lead you to a beautiful place, others lead you to a dead end. Some you wish you would have never traveled. But you learn from all your wrong turns and build your own map... full of wisdom.

In my road map of life I could map out many things . . . major highways where I did not want to stop where I was going . . . rest areas when I needed some space, and toll booths where I have had to pay a price. Places unmarked and unseen by anyone else . . . stop signs, detours . . .

Too much of a coincidence. We really are simple creatures, aren't we?

The power of forgiveness

A weird thing happened today . . . not that anyone cares but I feel the need to get it out because I have been thinking about it all afternoon.

It requires a back story....

A few years ago, not long after my daughter's father and I split up, I went out to have a few drinks with some friends. That night I ran into a girl who had been a good friend of mine in high school. I had not seen her in years and was so excited to see her! I started talking to her, and instead of being happy to see me as well, she was very cold and irritated. She informed me that back in the day I had broken a huge promise that I had made her and basically ruined her life.

I don't think I have ever been so shocked in my life. I had no idea what she was talking about. I tried to talk to her, but she and a friend sitting next to her got more and more agitated until I thought they were gonna try to fight me or something.

I hate hate hate confrontation, and this is not high school... so I gave it up and walked away.

I am sure I worry way too much, and that night was no exception. I sat on the side walk and just cried and racked my brain trying to figure out what I had done wrong (next to me was a friend who has since said something to me that I have not been able to forgive, ironically). I could not imagine myself doing something so hurtful to a good friend. And she was a good friend, I drove her home from school everyday, we had known each other since we were little kids. I would never, ever hurt her like that. That is not me. There just had to be some misunderstanding. If I did do the terrible thing she had said I did, I do not remember it, and if I did, I would certainly offer her a thousand apologies and wonder what the hell was wrong with me.

High school kids do stupid things. Apologies to any high school family and friends reading this. Maybe I should re-phrase. I did stupid things when I was in high school. We all say things we don't mean and do things with out thinking of the consequences. I am not one of those people who will claim to have never done anything wrong or said something that has hurt someone's feelings. The point is, if I did do something like that I would admit to it now because I know better.

I have thought about that night off and on over the years, wondering if she would ever forgive me for something I don't remember doing, wondering if there was a misunderstanding, etc.

I found her profile on myspace once and decided to write her a very heart felt letter. I explained everything I just did above, and told her that if she did not respond I would take that as a "F-U" and would not bother her again. She did not respond.

I have not thought it a lot lately. I havew made a point to put all things negative aside and focus on how great my life is now. I feel healthier.

I ran into her today. She was picking her kid up from day care while I was there trying to figure out where to take Devin after my grandpa has surgery on Friday.

I froze. What the hell would she say, we were like two of only three of four people in the building. I thought she would stare me down, call me a nasty name, something, anything. She made it clear a few years ago that her hate for me was boundless.

But she didn't. She talked to me. I was telling the day care provider about my baby boy, and this person who had wanted to kill me a few years earlier asked me how old he is and introduced me to her son. We chatted for a minute about how great the place was and how much her son loved it there. I told her that our kids were about the same age, etc. We just chatted for a minute, then we each left, going about the rest of the day as if nothing had happened.

My heart was pounding when I got into the car. I don't know what to make of it. I want to believe that she has either forgiven me for the awful thing she says I did to her, or if she realized that I did not do it after all.

I over analyze things and I care too much. But if she had not been a good friend back in the day I would not care so much. I think life is like a great novel you are reading for the first time, there are twists and turns and surprise characters in every chapter. But in the end it all makes sense and you don't want it to be over. This will make sense.