To BOO or Not To BOO

Wondering what to do for Halloween this year? Hey, me too! For the past five years my All Hallows holiday has been done G-rating style suitable for my preschoolers. Well, this year, the kids are going out of town so I feel lost in trying to plan for the night's activities. I'm no longer sure how to act like a single adult woman with endless possibilities. My newly single status adds a whole different BOO-factor to Halloween and the months to come. For the first time in a long time, I'll be tackling the holidays alone.

For the past five years I have holiday-shared with another person. It's been a Wes Craven-worthy nightmare trying to decide which set of in-laws to piss off on Thanksgiving. (Just joking Susan, sort of.) My husband and I had a system down, Thanksgiving in NC and Christmas in Nashville and the next year we would flip flop. It usually worked out OK, but it never failed that one of us was always homesick for our families. A lot of fights were spawned because of it. The upside to holiday-sharing is that you never have to worry about a date to a party. You always have the James Dean to your Marilyn Monroe, the Pilgrim to your indian, and the Santa to your Mrs. Clause. I'm realizing how very different this year is going to be.

Now that I'm a widow I'll be spending my first festive season single. I didn't realize how much this would affect me until now that my kids are going out of town and I will be alone for Halloween. We had our night all planned out to trick-or-treat at Johnny and Ashley's. The kids would consume candy, Ashley and I would consume Bergman and the night would end in sugar-high, wine-buzz bliss. So with the turn of events, I am faced with options. I could stick to the plan and have a most enjoyable time with one of my favorite families or I could venture out on a limb and join other ranks of my peers to dress up and pretend that we are 21 again. I do believe that my dear Ashley would never hold it against me if I do in fact choose 2nd Avenue over Old Hickory. She's a mom therefore she understands. :-)

Somewhere deep inside of me is a single party-girl that is simply dying to go out. Party girl wants nothing more than to dress up as a mildly inappropriate super hero, complete with cape, fishnet stockings and knee high super boots. For one night I want to wage a war on the dwindling social lives of single moms everywhere and take Nashville by storm.

There's only one kryptonite that might stop me.

I have no friends.

OK, I know that is a drastically unfair statement. I have PLENTY of friends who are probably very pissed off at me for even hinting that I am a loner. So, to be a little more specific, I don't have many unattached, party goers in my circle anymore. Being that I am a single mom I always seem to be either one body short with my "family" friends or two too many with my single friends. Don't get me wrong, I have the GREATEST of all friends on the planet and none of them ever make me feel left out or out of place, so I hope I'm not hurting anyone's feelings who may be reading this. I love you all. But it's a simple fact that most of my gang will be chaperoning little Princesses and Pirates around to neighbors while I am dreaming of Batman buying me something fruity and dragging me out onto the dancefloor. My other friends, the ones without kids, will be playing dress up with their significant others or flying home from changing the world in Peru or just avoiding the party scene because that's not their style.

So what is Party Girl to do? I'm open to suggestion. I do have one party that I will be attending regardless of whether I make it anywhere else or not. I'm playing with the idea of getting all dressed up and finding new friends for the night, which is a high possibility of what I will, in fact, do. Or I might just play it safe and get silly with Ashley, which is NEVER a bad idea.

However, attention Tennesseans… what's going down in Nashvegas this year???

And who should I be?

Channeling my Inner Hawaiian Tropic Girl

Several months ago I wrote a blog called The Bikini Transformation. Here's an excerpt:

In my heart, I'm a bikini girl. When I think of myself at the seashore, I'm always the Hawaiian Tropic model in the strings and seashells. Maybe not seashells, but you know what I'm talking about. In my fantasy, I'm lying on a towel soaking up the sun rays, spreading oil over toned muscle and beautifully bronzed skin. I play volleyball with my girlfriends and roll around getting dusted with sand.

Snap out of it. (Yeah, I'm talking to you!) Here's the reality: I've had two kids and other than the occasional Mystic Tan, I've been "the white girl" all my life. I've got a decent figure, but I wouldn't exactly describe it as toned and the only way I will ever be beautifully bronzed is if my freckles multiply and run together.

Fast forward to September.

With a complete mental breakdown ready to knock down my door any day, I decided to pack up my bags head to the sunny beaches of Florida with my friend Bridgett. She and I both deserved some serious R & R. The plan was simple: Corona, limes, sand and the sun. For one weekend, we were going to be completely selfish and satisfied and I was hell bent on looking good while doing it.

We all deserve to be just a little bit shallow from time to time, right?

I was determined to channel my inner Hawaiian Tropic girl, so I booked my first ever airbrush tan. Airbrush tanning is like "reality Photoshop". The difference is that you have to do it with your arms up over your head, standing in front of a fan wearing only a hairnet.

The entire process took about a half an hour. The first fifteen minutes was spent in the (nearly) nude, arms out, and legs apart as an "artist" hosed me down with an ice cold mist that choked me like tear gas every time I attempted to breath. Wouldn't you just love to have that girl's job? I mean, that's like right up there with being a bikini wax girl.

The second fifteen minutes was literally being "hung out to dry" in front of a fan. I couldn't touch anything or look anywhere but straight ahead because OMG I could get creases! I quickly understood why the receptionist greeted me with a glass of champagne upon my arrival. Have you ever tried standing for 15 minutes with your arms out like you're on a balance beam? I think I had a teacher in elementary school that would use that as punishment, but she may be in jail now (or should be if she's not).

It's a funny thing being one color when you wake up and a whole different color when you go to bed. And the tan would've been rockin' if my feet didn't look like this:

(No, those aren't really MY feet, but they could've been.)

I solved the problem by just keeping my toes buried in the sand, which was part of the original plan anyway.

People can go to some crazy lengths to feel better in their own skin. For one day I got to be a slightly brassy Hawaiian Tropic bronze.

Anyone else out there made any desperate attempts at fleeting beauty? Any of them worth trying? I'm all ears! LOL

The Mouse and His Giant People Trap

A coworker once told me when I was pregnant with my daughter, "Enjoy it while you can. She'll be grown before you know it." I must have heard this cliché a hundred times in my short while as a young mother but during two a.m. feedings and diaper changes it felt like I was going to have an infant for all of eternity. Canaan just turned five. I'm still in denial over it because there is no way that I am mother to a kindergartener. It seems like just days ago I was cleaning up poop finger paintings in her nursery. Yeah, gross I know. She's turned into this small person with thoughts and feelings and (freak out) opinions. I'm waiting for her any day to give me insight in who to vote for this election.

In her five years on the planet Earth Canaan has lived a lot of life. Much like her mother, she's already experienced joys and losses of people eight times her age. This year has been a confusing nightmare for both of my kids and for Canaan especially. I remember, with painful clarity, the morning I went into her bedroom, scooped her up in my arms and told her that Daddy wasn't going to be able to take her swimming after lunch. It was the worst day of all of our lives.

So about six weeks ago I decided to plan Canaan's birthday party. I looked at all of the possibilities: the bouncy place, the park, the tiny piece of hell-on-earth Chuck E Cheese. None of the options in Nashville seemed suitable for such a big event in her life during such a hard year, so I knew I had to dream a little bigger.

A dream is a wish your heart makes, when you're fast asleep. In dreams you lose your heartaches. Whatever you wish for, you keep. Have faith in your dreams and someday your rainbow will come smiling through. No matter how your heart is grieving, if you keep on believing, the dream that you wish will come true.

We packed our bags and headed to Disney World.

The trip was one of the best decisions I've ever made. It was a COMPLETE surprise to the kids. I literally told them just hours before putting them on the plane. This year has just been so terrible that I decided it was worth giving my kids the surprise of a lifetime. Sure, it's not my paradise, but Disney is like the Bora Bora for kids. My friend Brenda, knowing me ever so well, said of our trip, "Normally I think being in the "Happiest Place on Earth" would get on your very last nerve, however right now it may be just what you need to level yourself out." She was right.

Our first day there we went to SeaWorld and got to listen to Will sing his own theme song all day, "Who we gonna see? Shampu! Shampu!" And we did! I seriously considered quitting my job and learning to train killer whales for a living. It was amazing.

Day two was at the Magic Kingdom. When Canaan's eyes landed on Cinderella's castle for the first time the look on her face was priceless. I thought she was going to cry she was so excited. We went off on a trek across the park for a prearranged meeting with Peter Pan. Peter presented her with a very special "Happy Birthday" button and autographs from Tinkerbelle, Wendy and all the Lost Boys. Then I made the mistake of taking her on the Pirates of Caribbean and scaring the bejezus out of her. Good one Mom. Apparently Canaan doesn't share my same enthusiasm for a hot, robotic, Cap'n Jack singing "Yo ho, yo ho a Pirate's life for me!" Thankfully, soon after, all was put right with the world when she got to meet all of her favorite princess and Mommy got to shoot a lot of video of Prince Charming. J

Day three we were at Epcot and we stood in line for about twenty minutes to meet Mickey Mouse and all of his friends. My son was so excited when he saw Mickey that he took off in a dead run and nearly fell on his face trying to stop when we called him back. He got to dance with Donald Duck and show off his acrobatic moves, got a kiss that turned him red from Alice in Wonderland and huge hug from Dopey the Dwarf. At that moment, my sister and I both almost quit our jobs and signed up to play characters at Disney. I mean, what better job could there be than this:

Canaan's birthday lasted for seven days. All seven days she proudly wore her Happy Birthday button and was sung to and presented with cake for dinner every night. It was a week of memories that will last for eternity. And guess what folks? When October 2^nd rolls around next year…. I'm screwed.

What If Today Was the Last Day of Your Life?

My life is silent in a chaotic sort of way these days. The past ten months have been an excruciating mix of painful and pleasant experiences that have left me in a cloud, incoherently gliding through life. I've let my actions determine my decisions rather than moving myself toward a chosen goal. I guess I can't beat myself up too much for my passiveness, I mean it's been a pretty effed up year and there's been a lot to keep me preoccupied.

About three weeks ago the cloud began to lift. My tears dried up allowing me to see clearly and I looked around at my life and began to wonder, "What am I doing?"

There is a lot going right in my world. My kids are healthy and happy, I have a wonderful guy that loves me more than I deserve or understand, there is food on the table and a pair of seriously cute jeans in my closet. I just can't shake the feeling that something is seriously missing.

I see myself standing in a dark and empty room. It's MY room, the room where I'm supposed to be happy, safe and secure but all it feels like is a holding cell, a triage of an emotional hospital. In front of me are countless doors. I can walk through any door that I choose and finally make a change that will start a ripple effect for the rest of my days. I am being suffocated by fear. Fear of choosing the wrong door, fear of causing damage to those on the journey with me but mostly terrified by the thought of staying in that room.

There are faint voices all around me, the majority of them coming from myself. "You're a single mother; you're going to screw up your kids. You can't do it all alone. You're crazy for wanting to make a major change with the economy so bad. You're so ungrateful. You're not good enough to live your dream. You'll never make it. You're going to fail…"

I've checked off the major life headlines (as Tiffany calls them, see her blog I've Got A Fever). I've done the marriage thing, bought some real estate, had a couple of babies (one of each gender) and held onto a good job for nearly a decade. Now as I look forward from my 27 year perch I wonder, "Is this all there is?"

Of course I have my children to look forward to and I don't want to seem ungrateful for them. They are growing up and changing so fast and they are the biggest joy in my life. But for me, is this it? Is THIS what I wanted to be when I grew up?

A wise man once said, "If you set a five year goal for yourself and never start moving toward it, in five years you're still going to have the same goal but you'll be no closer to reaching it."
Today I'm not exactly sure what I want that goal to be, but I do have a dream and I have a feeling that dream is on the other side of one of those doors.

One thing I've learned the hard way this year is that life is too short to wait. What if this bleak and rainy Wednesday was the last day of my life?

Madness at 12,000 Feet!

Recently a group of my friends and I went to Gatlinburg to celebrate Eric's birthday. It has been his lifelong dream to skydive and being the people-pleasing (LOL) girlfriend that I am I decided to make that dream come true for him.

Originally there were 5 of us that were going to make the 12,000 foot jump but as the big day approached, one by one our friends backed out. I guess I can't blame them. I probably would've chickened out too if I had allowed myself to dwell on the fact that I'd just paid the deposit to hurl my body 12,000 feet to the ground in a 120 mph freefall. I chose to not think about

Saturday morning we drove toward Bristol, TN following detailed directions that included phrases like "Fish Hatchery" and "Past the old barn with the cornfield". For some reason, I was under the impression that we were going to an airport… silly Elicia. We actually drove past the drop zone the first time because I refused to accept the fact that we really might have just passed a runway that was cut through the middle of the wheat field.

After turning the car around and questioning my judgment and sanity for the five minute ride back we arrived at the site. We parked next to a porta-potty and were greeted by "Bobby" our flight instructor. Bobby handed us our liability waivers that we had to initial next to sentences like "In case of death or dismemberment…" All I could think about was, "OMG, I don't have health insurance" and "Did I remember to tell my sister that my life insurance papers and my Will are in my office?"

During my time of high anxiety Bobby looked at me and said, "Thinking this might have been a bad idea?"

Geez. You think?

We had a five minute class behind the plywood covered platform that served as the office, gear prep area, and lobby. We learned valuable flight terms such as "Aoogah!" and "Fabulous!" and why it is important to kick your tandem partner in the butt with your feet during freefall.

The next lesson I learned in Skydiving 101: You're not doing it right if you don't look ridiculous.

Enough said.

Finally I kissed my children goodbye, told Eric he'd BETTER love me for doing this and Bobby and I went up in the plane. It was a long ride and every moment of it was breathtaking. We were over the Smoky Mountains which ironically were VERY smoky that day due to forest fires. (As if jumping out of a plane isn't enough, let's do it over a burning landscape!) The plane began getting lost in the clouds and as the ground started looking more like a patchwork quilt than terrain I asked Bobby, "So how high are we?"

He checked his gauge. "Just over 3,000 feet."

Oh hell.

Our test jumper climbed out of the plane at about 5,000 feet. It was his job to test the wind to see where we should jump so we could land at the right place. Our test jumper was and eighty year old man. That alone was worth the day. He was my hero.

About seven minutes later Bobby nudged me. "This is it."

I swallowed hard and scooted to the front of the plane. The door swooshed open and the howling wind deafened me. I put one foot out on the wing and clung to the other side for dear life. I was strapped to Bobby so I knew as I dangled out of the side of the plane I had no choice but to go when he went. There was no turning back. We were so high it felt like we were jumping out of a space shuttle rather than a plane, but before I had a chance to get too freaked out we were plummeting to the earth below.

About three seconds into freefall your stomach catches up with the rest of your body and you no longer feel like you are falling. It really is like flying… in a downward direction of course. You can't see very much during freefall or breathe for that matter with the wind rushing in your face, but it's one of the coolest feelings I've ever had.

When the parachute deployed and we were jerked to a stop. I relaxed. It's always a good sign with the chute goes up. Spare any homicidal birds or floating embers from the fire we were out of harms way.

The view was unreal. The fires were still burning, but off at a safe distance and the horizon was spectacular. It amazed me how there could actually be people in the world that didn't believe in a Creator . There is no way I could imagine that what I saw from 12,000 feet was just there by chance.

With Bobby strapped to my back and the harness straps cutting off the blood flow to my legs we continued our descent to the ground. Thankfully when we reached the Earth, I was there to break Bobby's fall. I laid there for a moment taking in all of what I'd just experienced until our camera guy offered me his hand and said, "You can get up now, ya know?"

Canaan and Will were running toward me and my friends were furiously waving from the other side of the field.

So I add the experience to a long list of adjectives for myself. I am a mom, a computer nerd, a skydiver and now officially... a badass.

LOL.

Thanks to our new friends at Skydive Smoky Mountains!
www.skydivesmokymountains.com

Don't Let the Boat Pull You Over

If you've been reading my blogs for any amount of time you're probably ready for yet another meaningless life event blown up into some grand over thought analogy right? Well, you are in luck! This one begins with a tale from The Adventures of Dale Hollow Lake, a book that I will someday win the Pulitzer for… or maybe not.

I love being on the lake, but I'm not an avid water sports woman by any stretch of the imagination. My adventures usually involve a chick-lit novel, a floatation device (worn like a diaper) and a cold Corona with lime. I might get a little crazy from time to time depending upon the heat of the sun and wind up mildly tipsy and radically sunburned, but that's usually where the excitement ends.

This past weekend I was invited on a houseboat trip with some friends. In typical Elicia style, I stretched out on the top deck to get my tan (burn) on with a good book and good tunes. Unlike my usual accomplices on such trips the friends that were with me were much more into activity than relaxation and someone threw out the idea of wakeboarding. After some friendly persuasion, I put down the book and decided to give it a try.

My mind normally convinces my body that it is better, stronger, faster and more agile than it really is. Wakeboarding was no different. I looked easy enough. Relax in the water and wait for the boat to help you to a standing position and then glide across the water. I strapped on my board and floated out into the water waiting for the ski rope to be tossed to me. As I tried to get the board to cooperate with the direction of my feet while I merely floated, I realized quickly that I was sorely mistaken in my perception of the ease of the sport.

As much as I would love to say that I got up on my first attempt, the boat actually ripped the rope from my hands before I even realized we were moving.

The second attempt was strangely similar.

On the third attempt I did actually hang on but as soon I was partially up out of the water I was pulled over and landed flat on my face.

The boat circled around and the captain shouted over at me, "Girl, don't let this boat pull you over! You've almost got it!"

Five blisters, a pulled muscle and twelve attempts later I decided that I wasn't cut out for the world of wakeboarding. My friends pulled my exhausted body back to the boat and I barely made it out of the water before collapsing on the swim deck. I could have easily felt defeated, especially when everyone that followed me was not only able to stand up but could glide, spin around and even jump. However as I recovered and examined my bruised and blistered hands I couldn't help but feel a little proud. I had given those waves everything I had.

Every day for the past few months has had the boat-like potential to pull me over onto my face and leave me wallowing in the wake of my old life. A life that sometimes feels almost like it never even existed. I'm moving on through the sadness and tears, confusion and grief and I refuse to let the boat pull me over.

Sure, I might fail. I might fall flat on my face a few times, but I won't go down without a fight, a few blisters and humming the Rocky theme song.

"Confront the dark parts of yourself, and work to banish them with illumination and forgiveness. Your willingness to wrestle with your demons will cause your angels to sing. Use the pain as fuel, as a reminder of your strength." - August Wilson

You Make Me Stupid

By standard definition I am a pretty smart girl. I graduated with good grades with little effort. I like to read and play trivia. I can write and spell and most of the time I am grammatically close if not correct. I enjoy taking practice tests for college even though I never attended. I actually keep considering getting my bachelors but still haven't decided what I want to be when I grow up. I like helping kids with their homework and I enjoy seeing others succeed in education. I do well in my career and am for the most part self-taught. I know this all may sound a little cocky but I'm about to humble myself before you all. The point is: For the most part, I feel like I'm a pretty bright bulb most of the time.

Except the moments when I am stupid.

I'm dating a wonderful guy that has already seen all of the faces that I have. The sad face, the pissed off face, the giddy face and more and more he's seeing my stupid face. In all walks of who I am I feel as though Eric makes me a better person. However, I don't know what it is about him, but for some reason he brings out all the stupid in me!

Enjoy!

Incident #1
I love bubble baths. Eric bought me a nice gift set from Philosophy (guys take note: you can't ever go wrong with ANYTHING from Philosophy!) In the set was Red Velvet Cake Bubble Bath. Yum.

A few days after giving me the present we were having a riveting conversation about ice cream and he brought up Red Velvet Cake ice cream. At the thought of this I made the vomit noise. Nothing about red velvet ice cream sounded appealing. The conversation went something like this:

"Well, if you don't like red velvet I guess I screwed up on the gift," he said to me.

Realizing my blunder and my love for my new bubble bath I quickly back peddled. "Silly Eric, there is a difference between scent and smell!"

Eric pauses and then grins. "Uh… no Elicia, there's really not."

Incident #2
Eric is a Marine. A few weeks ago we went to KY Kingdom for the weekend and in the park we saw a guy walking around in full uniform. Now, Eric is just as proud as the next member of the military, but he doesn't have to flaunt it in order to feel special. Upon seeing this Army boot camp grad he rolled his eyes and mentioned how ridiculous he thought he thought it was that they were allowed to strut about in public in their cammies. I thought it was ridiculous simply because it was about 90 degrees out there and the guy was sweating like a stuck pig!

About an hour or so later we came across someone else in full uniform. Now, I'm sure someday I will be able to distinguish the different branches of the military on sight by colors, prints and emblems but we haven't really been together that long yet… And this guy was wearing a funny hat.

I nudged Eric with my elbow and pointed. "Hey Eric, what kind of Army is he?"

Without missing a beat. "Well, Elicia… that would be the US Army."

Incident #3
A group of our friends went to go see a thriller flick out in Cool Springs. I was a little perturbed because I was there against my will. I HATE SCARY MOVIES. The movie theater was PACKED. There were limos and buses dropping people off in droves and we had to wait in line forever to get our tickets.

He looks around the theater. "What is going on? What's with all the people?"

I roll my eyes. "What do you expect on a Saturday night?"

"I don't know, Elicia. Since it's Friday."

Incident #4
Recently we went on a Hookah bar adventure with some friends. Too make a complicated story short a hookah is a pipe that you smoke flavored tobacco out of. There is a stone that rests in the top of the bowl and we couldn't decide if the stone is what we were smoking or if the tobacco was underneath the stone. If you know the answer to this, please let me know…

Last night on our way to see The Dark Knight we were discussing the hookah stone again.

"Elicia, how could anyone make a stone out of tobacco?" he asked.

I pondered this for a minute. "Well, you know Eric they DO make paper out of cotton."

Again, he doesn't miss a bit. "Actually, Elicia. They make paper out of trees."

I don't know what goes wrong in my head whenever I'm around him. I don't know if my brain cells explode at the sight of his pretty blue eyes and cause me to drop a few IQ points or what. It's to the point now that as soon as I said the "paper is made out of cotton" bit I burst out in uncontrollable laughter before he could even get out his whole statement of correction.

I'm amazed that he hasn't rolled his eyes and dumped me yet for being a complete ditz. He keeps telling me that he likes the fact that I have a good head on my shoulders…. I guess I'm just determined to prove him wrong.

This is the way...

Yes, I know I’ve been pretty quiet lately. I’ve refused to blog because I’ve refused to write anything that would just depress the hell out of everyone. Let’s face it; my life hasn’t been a big ball o’ sunshine the past couple of weeks. However, I feel as though I am making a turn and that the road ahead is looking up. So, tonight I’m back on the blog front.

I still haven’t made much sense out of the recent events of my life and I’m coming to grips with the fact that Robert’s death will never make any sense – at least not in this lifetime. The only comfort that I have found is being able to look back over the past year and clearly see that even though we were all blind sighted by this tragedy, God wasn’t. He knew that Robert’s time with us was coming to a close and He had begun preparing us all for it long ago.

When my good friend Eric died suddenly in a car accident last February Robert and I really began to consider life insurance. Up until that point, we only had a small $20,000 policy and naively believed that this was more than sufficient. Well, guess what folks? The funeral and burial alone was $16,000. Yes, I know I’m over sharing some personal info here, but I truly believe it is important. PLEASE listen to me. If you don’t have life insurance, especially if you have kids, DO NOT WAIT another day to get yourself covered. Even though I’m not (by any means) sitting on a pile of money as a rich widow, I can’t imagine having to worry about getting food on the table for my kids while dealing with all of the ups and downs that his death has brought. Hopefully you will never need to use it, but trust me, life insurance is one of the most important, selfless and beneficial things you buy for your family.

The most comforting thing that I can see in hindsight is Robert’s growing relationship with a God who knew that Robert would be in His presence soon. Our dear friend Brenda wrote this in a memorial to Robert days after he was gone and I want to share it with you.

These last few months were especially challenging for Robert personally and as a result he had begun to desperately depend and recognize God in a new way. Robert was a man that God demonstrated his unfailing love to until the final moment He called him home. I believe God was working with Robert these last few months and I believe that Robert began to personally know a loving God. I believe Robert is with Jesus and for the first time Robert is embracing the abiding comfort of a merciful and faithful God who was faithful to complete what He had started in him.

I’m not a preachy kinda girl. I don’t get on a religious soapbox very often but Brenda is right. Robert accepted Christ into his life when he was 15. So it is not cliché when I say and believe that Robert is in a better place. I KNOW he is. Was he perfect? Nope. And he’d be the first to admit it. But thankfully we don’t have to be perfect, we just have to have faith in the One that makes us perfect in His time. Because of this, my kids can go to bed every night and think of their Daddy in heaven with Jesus and it helps them rest. Oh to have childlike faith again…

I was reminded of a great scripture tonight. It comes from Isaiah 30. It says, Whether you turn to the right or to the left, your ears will hear a voice behind you, saying, "This is the way; walk in it." I am reminded that even when I’m lost in confusion and my body is racked with exhaustion from the journey there is someone behind me that clearly sees the path and all of the obstacles and pitfalls along it. He doesn’t choose the car accident, but He sees it ahead and directs my path through it.

OK.... so it was only mildly depressing. ;-)

Why Am I Left Behind?

I've been on hiatus from writing for the past few weeks as I've been walking through the most difficult season of my life to date. Most of you probably know that my husband was killed in a car accident on May 31st. It was dreadfully unexpected as most accidents are and I have been left here in the wake of the aftermath trying to make sense of it all. The days pass quickly and are filled with emotion and tears. Yes, I said tears… who knew that the Scorpion Crusher could cry after all?

The few months before Robert was taken from this life have not been easy to say the least. I haven't blogged about it because some things in life just shouldn't be laid out for all of cyberspace to read. We separated in February and were going through what was turning into a very painful divorce for both of us. Over the past 13 days I've dealt with more emotion than I thought was humanly possible. Hermione Granger (for all you Harry Potter fans) once accused her friend Ron of having the emotional range of a teaspoon when he said to her "someone can't possibly feel all of those things at once, they'd explode!" Well, guess what Ron? You can feel a thousand different things at once and not explode even though you might want to.

The biggest thing I've dealt with is guilt. I keep questioning that maybe if I'd done things differently he would still be with us. I've laid awake many nights wondering, "Maybe this really is all my fault." In these dark times I'm fortunate to have good people around me and the smiling faces of my two children to pull me through.

My sister sent me an email this morning to encourage me after a long conversation on the phone last night. It was a verse from the Psalms. "All the days ordained for me were written in your book before one of them came to be." Psalm 139:16b

God knew of Robert's accident long before we ever separated. His days were numbered and held securely in the hand of the Father before Robert was ever even born.

I don't have an answer as to why all of this has happened. I may never know. I am however certain that God knows and that He has a plan for me and the kids. Last year I lost a couple of very dear friends and at their funeral someone said, "I don't ask God why He took them, but I ask Him why He left me behind."

One thing I've learned is that we are not guaranteed tomorrow. Live life today and love those around you as if it's the last day you'll ever spend with them.

Thank you to everyone for all of your love and support! I could not do this without you!

The Birthday Curse

Birthdays have always been a big deal in my family. Not one birthday in my life has passed without all of the birthday staples: friends, cake, ice cream, and presents. I love any excuse for a party and especially love MYSELF being the excuse. Most normal people (I think) sit back and wait to see if anyone plans anything special to celebrate their big day, but not me. I want to do it all, including sometimes baking my own cake! (I realize that this further confirms my skewed level of normality.) My reasoning is simple. It's my big day and I want to do exactly what I want for MY DAY, so who better to plan it than MYSELF? Sure, this might sound a little arrogant and selfish, but I grant myself this selfishness one day out of 364, so back off! :-)

I'm a holiday baby. I was born on the 26th of May (write it down, I expect a card) and the 26th always falls right around Memorial Day weekend. If I wasn't as deeply grateful as I am for the sacrifices made by our military for my freedom and safety, I would almost joke that my birthday is a National Holiday. However, out of respect for our armed forces that are way more badass than I'll ever be, I'll just be honored to be celebrated in general proximity to their holiday and extremely grateful for my 3 day birthday weekend every year. My big weekend is usually always perfect weather, hot enough for swimming but cool enough to want to be outside. People are by default friendly and fun loving and Anheuser-Busch goes into over-production mode for party-goers. It's the perfect time to celebrate.

You're all jealous now aren't you? I can see you there considering how poor it is to be born on some ordinary date in March that typically always falls on a rainy Monday when the coworkers are cranky and oblivious that anything is special in your world. Well, cheer up because I haven't told you about the Birthday Curse.

It all began when I turned 21. This is supposed to be the monument of all monumental birthdays, correct? I planned my perfect weekend for months. My closest friends from all over the US were going to gather at a cabin in the Smokeys for the weekend. We had a hot tub, pool table, grilling deck, and were far enough on top of the mountain to be as loud and obnoxious as we wanted. Great plan, right? Negative. It was a disaster. From the moment we all unpacked there was horrendous fighting and I lost one of my most valued friendships of all time that weekend. The heated confrontations weren't the worst of the drama either. Another friend of mine had to be taken to the hospital for fear of a heart attack, someone else got a stomach virus and to top it off I fell and cracked my head on the hot tub – not once, but twice. The Birthday Curse had commenced.

Every birthday since has been become a mini-crusade to try to recoup for the tragedies of my 21st but every celebration has failed incredibly. I've had more trips to the hospital, friendly-fire wars and family meltdowns than any once person should ever have to endure.

This year as I began the countdown to my big day fear and anxiety were in full force. What horrors would this year hold? God knows, my life sucks enough on a regular day lately… what more can I handle? I seriously considered locking myself in my bedroom and not coming out all weekend. Seriously. Briefly, I played with the idea of having a cookout with friends, because that's harmless right? However, after sending the invitations I began to fret about the fire liability of a grill and canceled the cookout. My sister even begged to throw me a dinner party and I practically refused because hell, at this point it's better to be safe than sorry! I'm tired of singing "It's my party and I'll cry if I want to!"

So I became anti-birthday this year and sat on my ass and didn't plan anything. And something amazing happened. I had the best birthday EVER. J

It's funny what life can present to you if you just let things take a natural course and stop trying to write your future for yourself. My best friend came to Nashville to see me, taking her only vacation time for the year just for me. That alone, MADE my weekend. Together we spent four days playing with my kids, visiting with people, laughing, and partying. On Sunday my wonderful sister convinced me to do a low-key dinner and I am so glad that I agreed. It was fabulous. Finally, on Monday my actual birthday passed almost completely without incident and ended with 3 amazing friends, a bottle of wine, a good movie and a surprise birthday cake. At midnight we toasted to the END of the Birthday Curse!

Happy Birthday to me and THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU to all of you who love me and have made this year soooo special!!!

Bring it on 28! I'm ready for ya!

If any of you have experienced any of your own birthday curses or have had the joy of being a part of mine, feel free to share!!!

The Phoenix Firebird

I recently got a new tattoo. I have a mild addiction to this form of self-expression but I’ve kept myself contained to only having four (so far). After all, good ink doesn’t come cheap. This year, in honor of my 27th birthday, some dear folks in my life donated money to my ink fund. So with a few ideas in mind, this weekend I submitted myself to the hands of a tattoo master and the pointy end of a vibrating needle.

I’m not the kind of personality that is content with walking into a tattoo parlor, picking a design off the wall and letting some no-name artist (or skuz-bucket with a gun) brand me for life. All of my ink, with the exception of my first tattoo, involved months of preparation and planning. I start with an idea then research artists and shops, looking at reviews and portfolios before calling and making an appointment. Sometimes this process takes years, but since it’s not one of those things you get to “do over” if you mess it up, the meticulousness of it all is very worthwhile for me.

On Saturday, I had a phoenix forever imprinted on my leg and foot. For those of you who slept during Greek mythology here’s a crash course on this history of this creature. The phoenix is an ancient mythical firebird that ignites into flame when it has reached the end of its lifespan and is reborn from the ashes. Pretty badass huh?

As we’ve discussed, I’ve been through a lot of rebirths in my 27th years on the planet Earth. Whenever my birthday rolls around I can’t help but reminisce and sometime shudder at all I’ve walked through. I’d be lying if I tried to pull the “woe is me” card because most of the crap that has happened to me or around me has been self induced by a lot of poor decision making. Never the less, I’ve always come out on top and hopefully better off than I was before.

But let me tell you, the fire isn’t easy. It’s painful. Even more painful than having the top of your foot tattooed… and take it from me – that HURTS.

During this season of my life I find myself in the fire once again. All of my trips to the inferno have made me realize that it’s best to suck it up and get it over with, sort of like digging out a splinter. Yeah, it hurts, but not as bad as it will once it gets all oozy and infected. I can’t run from the demons that I have picked up along the road of the world. Running away from dealing with things only prolongs the pain and spreads it out on more people around me. So I choose to stand firm, not back down and accept the flames that are refining me.

In my experience, self discovery has always been excruciating. I’ve spent more time on “the couch” than my wallet would like to admit. Recently my therapist has been trying to make me cry because apparently my tear ducts are broken. I think it’s because I have lost my soul sometime over the past few years. My friends tell me that I can’t cry because I crush scorpions, but that’s a whole different blog… and tattoo. :-)

The Bikini Transformation

Today I bought a bikini.

OK… I bought half of a bikini.

If you're a regular reader, you know that I've been looking for a bathing suit for quite some time now. This is one of life's worst punishments in the world of being a woman. I've come to grips with the reality that I'm not going to find that one perfect swimsuit. I'm going to find something wrong with all of them because I always find something wrong with the ME that is in them.

In my heart, I'm a bikini girl. When I think of myself at the seashore, I'm always the Hot Tropic model in the strings and seashells. Maybe not seashells, but you know what I'm talking about. In my fantasy, I'm lying on a towel soaking up the sun rays, spreading oil over toned muscle and beautifully bronzed skin. I play volleyball with my girlfriends and roll around getting dusted with sand.

Snap out of it. (Yeah, I'm talking to you!) Here's the reality. I've had two kids and other than the occasional Mystic Tan, I've been "the white girl" all my life. I've got a decent figure, but I wouldn't exactly describe it as toned and the only way I will ever be beautifully bronzed is if my freckles multiply and run together. I've NEVER worn a bikini in front of another human being in my life, but I have a confession to make.

I want one really bad.

Many years ago when I was going through one of many life transformations, I looked like an extra from a Grateful Dead tribute video dressed in my bohemian skirt, ripped blue jeans and tank top. Everything I owned smelled like patchouli and pot. My wardrobe spoke loudly of the condition of my heart and the state of my life at the time. Needless to say, I was a mess on the inside and outside.

A "preachette" (female preacher) from London came to speak at the rehab center I was locked away in. As I listened to this refined woman speak I couldn't help but admire her outfit. When I caught myself in the state of admiration, I was actually shocked and embarrassed of myself. This was the day that something changed inside of me. I don't remember what the woman said, but I remember her navy slacks and jacket and how great I would look in them. I confessed this foreign daydream to my roommate who must've spilled the beans because on the day of the preachette's departure, she presented me with a large box and in it was the suit. Four months later, I graduated from rehab wearing it.

Currently, I'm in another life transformation. Hopefully not AS drastic as the last, but pretty close. This time, I battle more of my demons. I battle feeling like a failure, like a bad mother and generally like I'm not good enough, not smart enough, not talented enough, not strong enough and not pretty enough.

This time, instead of a suit, it's a bikini. I'm starting off small, so I just bought half. Yes, the store clerk cocked her head to the side in puzzlement, because really… who only buys only the top? Me.

Fake it till you make it, someone wise once told me. So I'm faking it. Until the day that I am ready to throw all my flaws out there for the world to gawk at, I will wear only half and it will look damn good under a tank top.

Mother's Day Corset

Over the past couple of years I've read a lot of historical fiction. Historical fiction, for all of you who don't indulge often in the literary world, is fiction that based off of true historical events. You may have recently seen the movie in theaters with Natalie Portman called The Other Boleyn Girl. This movie is a historical fiction based film. My introduction to this glorious world of queens, kings, and beheadings began when my friend Tiffany left a copy of Philippa Gregory's The Constant Princess at my house. I thumbed through the first few pages and by the end of the first chapter I was hooked.

I'm not much of a fairytale kind of girl, so it may surprise some people how intrigued I can be with the royal courts of faraway lands. There's something about the enchanting tales of a princess in her lavish gowns and heavy jewels that sets off across the seas to find her prince and unite nations that awakens the feminine side of me that is sometimes forgotten. Her struggle to make it in her new country and be everything to everyone somehow makes me feel empowered. How could I not admire a woman who graciously wears a corset to cut off her circulation and only gets to indulge in a bath once a year?

The day I found out I was pregnant with a girl, I had a meltdown. I was sitting in my boss' office and I was crying myself into a puddle. "I can't have a girl," I sobbed. "I can't do tea parties and braid pigtails!" I thought for sure that God understood this and would only put me in care of dirty, messy, frog-toting boys. But nope, I was having a girl and I didn't know what I was falling apart! What does this have to do with stories of The Tudors and Marie Antionette?

Unlike her mother, my daughter was born with an appreciation of royal splendor. Through my modern day princess I am convinced that God has a sense of humor. Every day, my my four year old comes home from preschool and changes into a sparkly gown and tiara. She's even been known to sleep with the tiara. At least once a week we have a tea party with Dora the Explorer and Ballerina Barbie. I obligingly sip my tea, pinkie extended, and nibble imaginary cakes and crackers. On the inside I'm rolling my eyes toward the heavens imagining God, in all of His Glory, winking an eye at me.

At least her favorite band is Metallica.

In the fifteenth century women wore corsets. Here in the twenty first century, motherhood is my corset. It doesn't fit right, it's more than often uncomfortable, but it holds me together when I feel like I'm falling apart.

Here's to my princess and my little prince this Mother's Day!

Unexpected Angels

Today I took three children all under the age of 5 to Target. Some would call me crazy, some would call me a glutton for punishment and today I would have agreed with all of them. Target has this multi-kid shopping cart that is nothing short of a small, bright red tank with plastic bumpers and child restraints. Canaan and her best friend Moira climbed up on one side and I attempted, very unsuccessfully, to seat Will on the other.

You know those kids that you see in the supermarket that fling themselves to the floor kicking and screaming like you have just told them that Santa Clause, the Easter Bunny, and The Tooth Fairy were all just blown up by the Taliban? You know how you either roll you eyes in annoyance or look pitifully at the pathetic parent who is unable to control the flailing monster that is rolling around in front of the cereal aisle? Today, that parent was me. I wanted to put a "Free To A Good Home" sign on Will and leave him at the corner in front of Starbucks. If you are offended by that statement, then either you have never been a parent to a toddler or you need to climb down off of your high horse and stop judging me. I believe that every SANE parent at some point has looked at the child that they love (more than life itself) and wanted to run screaming in the other direction. Today was that day.

Out of nowhere appeared this grandmotherly Hispanic woman. She came up very quietly with one finger poised over her lips and whispered to my hysterical son, "Shhh." By the time the stranger approached the cart, he'd calmed himself to sputtering breaths between tears. He was no longer kicking or fighting me and I quickly fastened his safety belt. Some parents would probably be offended by this woman's response, but I looked at her like a Godsend. A moment later, she reappeared with a cookie for each of the three kids instructing them that they could only have the cookie if they promised to be good children for the rest of Mommy's shopping trip. If I were a hugger I would've crushed this saintly woman in an excruciating embrace of gratitude.

If you are touched by this experience then strap your emotional seatbelt on for the next one.

A couple of weeks ago my kids and I were on I-40 traveling through what is known as "The Gorge" between North Carolina and Tennessee. If you've ever been on this particular stretch of highway you know that it's the kind of road that makes you pinch your seat cushion (if you know what I mean.) It's curvy and hilly with a mountain on one side and a cliff on the other. It can be very scary. Without going into detail, we had a near death experience and ended up stranded on the side of the road in a very sharp turn. It was nearing dusk and semi-trucks were whizzing past us at ridiculous speeds.

In a little less than an hour a tow truck pulled to a stop in front of us. The man that got out reminded me of one of those old-school rocker dudes with curly gray hair, a beard and an earring. He pulled on his Iron Maiden jacket as he approached my window. I got out of the XTerra and he held up his hands to stop me. "First things first, little lady. I'm going to put you and your babies in my truck up there because this is not a safe place for you to be sitting. You grab one and I'll grab the other," he said pointing to Canaan and Will who were bug eyed in the front seat.

He tucked us safely in the cab of his tow truck where the kids and I said a little prayer thanking Jesus for keeping us safe. When he finished loading the XTerra, he climbed back into the driver's seat and we headed up the interstate. Instinctively, because I am a mother bear, I tucked my kids under my arm and scanned the floor for weapons that this stranger might have in his possession. Other than a lighter next to his pack of Marlboro's no dangerous objects were in sight so I started to relax.

He told me his opinion on the condition of my car and suspected that foul play might have been involved. Yes, I said foul play. You can imagine that my stomach was doing flips. He could tell that I was obviously shaken by this news of the potential that someone had intentionally tried to harm me and my children. He flashed me a spotted-tooth smile. "I'm going to make sure you're safe tonight. We'll take the truck back to the shop and leave it for the mechanics in the morning, then I'm going to put you and the kids up in a good hotel."
We drove to the repair shop passing several roach-motels that I would've settled for because they looked affordable, but he found something wrong with each of them. "Now, I don't want you to stay there because you would have to cross the highway with the children to get food and I don't want you to stay at that one because I wouldn't let a dog I didn't like stay there." He finally pulled out his cell phone and said simply, "I have a friend I can call."

Thirty minutes later, we pulled to a stop in front of a very pleasant Motel 6 that looked almost new. He carried my suitcases inside and stayed until the desk clerk had us checked in at his friend's "special guest" rate. His friend just so happened to own the hotel. It was conveniently located next door to Sagebrush and a Shoney's. Before leaving he gave me his personal cell phone number saying that he lived right up the street if we needed anything at all and that he would be by the next day to pick us up when my truck was fixed. I offered to pay him whatever cash I had, but he refused with a smile and left.

Do not forget to entertain strangers, for by so doing some have unwittingly entertained angels. - Hebrews 13:2.

Sometimes, angels wear Iron Maiden jackets and bribe two year olds with cookies.

Get Good Karma

I heard an interesting radio commercial in the car yesterday as my kids and I were parked on the interstate due to road construction on a Sunday evening. The announcer asked me if I was a victim of bad Karma. After taking an account of my surroundings: the exhaust being emitted from the hooptie-mobile in front of me, the mangy truck driver staring down at me from his semi to my right, and my kids who were having a screeching contest in the backseat, I answered aloud with a hearty, "Yep!"

Apparently, the remedy for having bad Karma is to visit this website called getgoodkarma.org. Yes, I'm serious, as being on the "bad side of the universe" is no laughing matter. I made a mental note of this as traffic finally began to move again and I promised the kids ice cream if they would stop trying to make mommy's ears bleed. At the next exit we stopped at the second McDonalds of the day for hot fudge sundaes. I turned off the car for about seven minutes and when I tried to restart it, guess what? Yep, my bad Karma had inflicted itself on my car battery.

I called my sister. Apparently bad Karma is also contagious or maybe hereditary. She and I are in a neck and neck race of who's life sucks the worst. I pulled ahead yesterday. All I could do was laugh. It was already nine o'clock and the kids and I had been on the road since 3:30. If you've never traveled with small children, let me just describe it as the third ring of hell. The only bright side was that the sundaes bought me twenty minutes of peace and quiet to figure out how the crap jumper cables work. Several fire sparks, a chocolate painted two-year old and forty five minutes later we were back on the road to home.

What should've been a four hour drive ended as a seven and a half hour trail of tears. After hauling the kids to bed and toting all of our junk back into the house, I got online. I visited getgoodkarma.org. I now hold the keys to cosmic freedom. Guess what was number one on the checklist?

#1 Send money. Haha.

I skipped to number two.

#2 Charity work. I think I've got this one covered. I mean, I work at a church and therefore my eight to five is practically all charity time. We're not exactly on the Forbes 500,000 list if you know what I mean. Adding to my do-gooder list, I do occasionally divvy up goldfish and animal crackers to a class of 30 screaming 4 year olds on Sunday mornings and sing songs about "The Arky Arky" and "The Walls of Jericho". I also have a handful of websites that I create, manage, and host for some non-profit ventures of other do-gooders, so that should count for something. And if the Karma thing was all about charity, my sister should be on the A-List of the universe – she spends her eight to five feeding hungry children for crying out loud!

Since #2 shouldn't be the problem, I checked out 3. Register to Vote. What does voting have to do with the universe's system of checks and balances? According to the website – a lot. "Civic action goes a long way", so it says. But I am registered to vote, even if there aren't any candidates out there I really want to put my vote behind. Hmm… I'd better save that bunny trail for another blog.

Well, maybe I should've just sent money. Too bad my bad Karma already sucked my bank account dry.

Irrational Crickets

A couple of weeks ago I was playing with the kids in the backyard at our new house. OK, I was lying in the grass while they ran circles around me, but whatever, I was still being an interactive parent with my children. Will, my two year old, began screaming like his leg had just been severed completely off. I shot up, thinking the worst, to realize that my brave big boy was running for his life…. from a butterfly.

When I got my hysterical laughter under control, I saved my son from his attacker. I rocked him in my arms until the offending butterfly was out of sight.

I remember when I was a kid I was terrified of the bathtub drain. I thought about that today while giving Canaan a bath at my parent’s house where I grew up. As a five year old, I was certain that if I was still in the tub when the drain was opened I was a goner. The swirling of the water would trigger so much anxiety in my small heart that I once fell out on the tile floor sloshing water all over the bathroom. It never even occurred to me how ridiculous this was until this afternoon. The drain didn’t bother Canaan at all.

As an adult I still have some stupid fears. My therapist would probably argue that no fears are stupid, but I’ll tell you and you can judge for yourself. Crickets. I have a morbid fear of crickets. See, I told you it was stupid. My fear of crickets wasn’t fully realized until this past summer when I went fishing with some friends at the lake. I had never fished using crickets as bait; I’ve only used NORMAL things like worms and corn. I actually asked the captain of the boat, “You’re kidding right? They’re still jumping.” He looked at me as though I must be kidding and replied, “I thought you’d been fishing before?”

What kind of fishing cult was this? They seriously expected me to spear this live creature of God “ass to mouth” (as they told me). The spearing wasn’t the part that actually bothered me. I didn’t even make it that far. After eyeballing the basket-o-bugs for a solid five minutes, my friend Valerie leaned over and asked, “Do you want me to bait your hook for you?”

Valerie is outdoors woman extraordinaire and I refused to look like puss. “I can do it,” I assured her. The crickets and their creepy little legs and antennas were hopping around and laughing at me and my obviously elevated heart rate.

Valerie leaned back in her seat, her smile growing with every second that passed. A couple of more minutes went by. I was honestly trying but couldn’t force myself to reach into the bug lair. “What if I just pick it out and you can take it from me?” she suggested.

I nodded and she retrieved a cricked from the basket. She held it out for me to take. I took a deep breath, several actually and reached forward. I withdrew my hand like I’d touched an electrical socket and Val doubled over in laughter. More deep breathing. I closed my eyes and tried again. I literally thought that my heart was going to burst through my chest as my fingertips closed around the wiggly, creepy, icky, tickly body and legs… ugh the legs.

“I can do this,” I kept repeating as I tried to put the bug on the end of my hook, with my eyes closed, mind you.

Just then someone snuck up behind me, grabbed my sides and screamed “Ahhh!!!!” in my ear.
I think I wet my pants a little.

The cricket went flying through the air on one direction and the fishing pole went in the other. The scream that was emitted from my lungs was later compared to a shrieking eagle by another fisherman nearby who came to our boat to assist in whatever certain crisis that had just taken place. My assailant had been Mike, the boat captain. It was his fishing pole that is now resting at the bottom of Dale Hollow. Serves him right.

I have no reason under the sun to be that terrified of a cricket. I know that they are probably the most harmless creature on the planet and beyond. They just creep me out. Their icky bendy legs and swirling antennas and their freaking unpredictability as they hop about. I unashamedly hate them no matter how irrational it makes me seem.

I guess I can’t be too hard on my son over the butterfly. He gets it from his mom.

Am I A Grown Up Yet???

Next month I'm turning 27. Now that I'm on the downward spiral to 30, I don't feel at all freaked out about it. At some point I'm sure I will feel a strange sense of mortality lurking at my biological door but that hasn't kicked in yet. I find my age almost surreal. As the years tick off on the calendar I find myself asking more and more, "When am I supposed to start feeling like a grown up?"

My friend Tiffany recently wrote a blog about a similar subject. If you aren't on her readers list, CLICK! don't c-l-i-c-k to get to her subscription page (MySpace). (If you didn't get that, I mean don't waste time in not reading what the girl writes.) Anyhow, she and I had a conversation about getting older in which I made the observation that my current age doesn't feel old, I just always thought that my life would be so different than what it is by now.

On paper, I am an adult. I've lived out from under my parent's roof for ten years. I'm a mother of 2 beautiful kids. I've been married once and I have a comfortable job where I feel needed and most days appreciated. I've owned two houses, more cars than I can count, ran up credit cards, paid down credit cards and I even have a retirement account. But let's wad up the fact sheet for a moment and let me tell you how I really feel.

I feel sixteen with waaayyy too much responsibility.

I love my job (most of the time). I've been there for (gasp!) 8 years. I have a cozy office with a window and a nice cluttered desk with a filing cabinet hiding away toys for my kids. I have two computers that ding all day long with countless emails and reminders and a phone with more buttons on it than the NASA launch console. This has been my 8 to 5 reality for a long long time and yet I still have to remind myself that there is no summer break to look forward to, followed by a promotion in the fall.

My oldest child is turning five this year so I'm not brand new at the mom thing. However, some days I actually look at my kids and think, "When is someone going to realize that I am not mature enough to be a mother and take you away from me?" I think back now to when I was five and wonder if my mom felt the same way. She certainly seemed to have it all together and always know all the right answers. I'm just not even close to being there yet. Maybe my kids won't catch on.

And then there's the subject of boys. While over the years, they have lost some of the luster that they had when I was a teenager, I still get giddy, yes – giddy, over boys from time to time. Johnny Depp, Vin Diesel, David Beckham… yep, they all do it for me. And while it's been a while since I've encircled Johnny's name in a white-out "love heart" on the top of my stereo, I still watch "What's Eating Gilbert Grape" when I'm having a bad day and I instantly feel all butterfly-ish.

I discussed this with my mom over my last visit to see her in North Carolina. She said that even at 60 she still doesn't feel quite like an adult all the time.

I've concluded that maybe it's because we simply are who we are. We are the same person at six that we are at sixty. Everything in time will change: love, appearance, dreams, expectations, likes, dislikes… but at the core I'm still just a crazy kid that likes to dye her hair and eat too much peanut butter out of the jar.

And you know what? That's OK with me.

My Name is Elicia and I'm a textaholic.

Step one of any common Twelve Step Program is admitting you have a problem. So here goes… My name is Elicia and I am a cell phone addict.

Whew. I feel better already.

Regardless of setting, attire or company at any given time of day you will see attached to my hand or hip a shiny, silver, phone/pda/camera/nuclear-weapons-launcher. One day last week I actually challenged myself to walk all the way around my office building to talk to a co-worker and then visit the ladies room sans phone. I literally almost got the shakes. It was a sad sad moment.

The only thing that makes me feel better is knowing that I am not alone. I actually found an article online entitled Tech Addicts Need Textual Healing. When I stopped LMAO and actually read the article thinking it was a joke I realized it the "experts" were quite serious in their concern with the isolation of "textually active" individuals. It even went on to discuss "cell phone detox" and I was immediately reminded of my hurried trip to the little girl's room nervously thinking of my phone buzzing away on my desk. EEK! Have I been infected with some icky TTD? I thought I was being so careful hiding behind the light of my LCD touchscreen!

All jokes aside, I do believe that choosing electronic mail over a good 'ol face to face "Come to Jesus Meeting" can also have adverse effects on many relationships. Have you ever had something you've emailed, IM'd, blogged, or texted interpreted completely opposite of how you intended it??? I HAVE! It's amazing what some people can read into the words you've written. No matter how many cute emoticons you stick in there.

So why do I do it? Why do I admittedly prefer a chat session to an actual phone call 9 times out of 10? Because I'm a "get to the matter" kind of girl. If I need to know whether or not to bring a bottle of wine to dinner I don't want to go through "Hey, how are you? How's the family? I'm great. No, the house hasn't sold yet, but the realtor is dropping the sale price…" – I just want to know "white or red?"

I'm taking all of this into account and starting at step number one. Now that I've admitted that yes, I do have a problem, I'm slowly working on tearing down the digital walls that I've built between me and my loved ones.

BZZZZZZZZ, G2G I'm getting a text and need to reply. TTYL

Bikini Marketing 101

I will admit that this blog has been spawned by a dreadful trip (dum dum dum) to a department store dressing room with an armload of bathing suits. I hate bathing suit shopping worse than I hate mornings… can I get an AMEN?

Let's start with a little bit of history.

I am not, on most days, what I would deem as overweight. I am a pleasant size 4/6/8 depending on how smart the marketing team is in whatever store I find myself. I'm a decent height at 5'6 and tip the scales somewhere between 138 and 142. Not too bad. Most of the time this is just fine with me, except for in the TJ Maxx fitting room.

Clothing stores take note. I am going to give you some tips that I believe will drastically increase your sales during this time of the year. The economy is bad right? And I'm sure you need all the help you can get. So, get your copy and paste buttons ready for some advice.

Tip #1: LIE TO ME. And maybe in the grand scheme of things your dishonesty and my distorted body image will balance out. Did you know that a few years ago I purchased an $80 pair of Abercrombie khaki pants (on sale, mind you) simply because the tag said size 4? At the time I was probably a 10 and I KNEW that there was no way on God's green Earth that I was a true size 4, but I proudly swiped my VISA (shh… don't tell Dave) and WORE HOME the happy lying size 4 pants. I don't even like khaki. Here's the deal, my mental image of myself is much much worse than any realistic reflection is going to be. So, it's really just cruel to be realistic with someone so irrational. If you can boost my self esteem by dropping the number attached to the waistband, I will be much more likely to buy your garment.

Tip #2: JUST SAY NO TO HALOGEN. There should be a constitutional amendment concerning the use of halogen lighting in any atmosphere. Don't do it. Sure, it may give me a more accurate version of what my pasty white cellulite is going to look like reflecting against the water in the bright sunshine, but that's NOT what I want to see while I'm cramming my butt cheeks into a bikini bottom. I won't have a mirror standing on the sea shore. All I will have is the glowing memory of how lovely my silky smooth skin looked in the dimly lit dressing room while trying the suit on. What I choose to be oblivious to won't hurt me.

Tip #3: THE MIRROR SHOULD MAKE ME HAPPY. Tilt the mirror. Good grief, tilt the mirror. There is no reason to have 19 different angles of myself all reflecting back the same sad image at 90 degrees. Do you know how slimming a mirror tilted back just a tad can make me feel? Again… it's all about tip #1.

I'm going to the lake on Sunday with some friends. I have no interest in dressing to impress anyone, but today I still feel the need to pop another happy pill and wash it down with a half a serving of SlimFast. I will be wearing last year's clearance suit and a cover up, thank you TJ Maxx.

Echo In My Thoughts

Someone once said something extremely profound to me. He said, "Elicia, when you're dead and gone, people won't remember the things that you said, they'll probably forget the mistakes you've made, and after time they may even forget what you looked like. One thing that they will never forget is the way you made them feel."

Seven years later, that statement still echoes in my thoughts every day. It is my wish that I may live life making others around me feel like they matter to me. Not because of how I might benefit from them at the end of the day, but simply because I appreciate their presence in my life.

One girl shouldn't be allowed to have so many of you that love me. Thanks for all the prayers, phone calls for no real reason, laps around the gym, Men's Health magazines, pudding parties, SlimFast, Snappy trips, NASCAR weekends, witnessing Mom wet her pants, and for finding me again after 7 long years.

May I always be remembered for loving you as best I could. With all my heart, E.
-didn't mean for that last part to sound like a suicide note. Please don't call. I'm fine.