Auld Lang Syne

New Year's Eve is upon us.

Despite my need to differ as much as possible from public opinion, I have always considered New Year's Eve one of the most romantic holidays. I used to imagine how I'd celebrate NYE when I was younger, having spent all of my holidays with my mother. (I love my mom, but she's not exactly the person I want to make out with at midnight.)

I imagined being at a huge party with sparkly everything surrounding me. I could see the countdown to midnight, voices chanting three two one all around me until Auld Lang Syne indicated the end of the year. I hoped I would feel some kind of unfounded hope you can only feel when beginning a year with a fresh slate. Most importantly, I wanted to be with a person who loved me as much as I love him or her. 

The song "Cars and History" by Strays Don't Sleep perfectly encapsulates the collective hope associated with NYE:

 December 31st/11:59/I had to let it go/I had to let it slip/funny how it all works out when you're giving up on it

My expectations for NYE were always over-the-top and really kind of insane, so it's no wonder that I was disappointed year after year once I turned 18 and began spending the holiday away from my family. I basically ended up spending NYE at home watching television with a bottle of wine, which wasn't a terribly tragic way to celebrate but wasn't the most exciting either.

Last year was different. Boy was last year different. Last year, for the first time in my life, I had one of those NYE kisses you only see in romantic comedies. It was the first time Gideon and I ever went anywhere together. We weren't even dating, so I had little expectation for the night besides seeing a band.

For Christmas, I bought Gideon a ticket to see the Old 97's in Dallas at the House of Blues. He introduced me to the band, so it was a half-Christmas and half-thank you gift. The band was great. I could describe the performances. Considering one of the opening acts featured nudity and a spoken-word song about the perils of giving oral sex, I could describe them in such detail that you will be as repulsed and entertained as I was.

But I don't remember too much about the show. I do remember Gideon holding my hand and putting his arm around me the whole time. I remember the way he looked at me when Rhett Miller, the Old 97's lead singer, began counting down to midnight. Though Gideon and I had kissed before, I suddenly felt incredibly anxious about what would happen when Miller reached one.

He did. Gideon kissed me, and I realized that it is possible to feel one year transition into another. I just hadn't been with the right person to feel it until that moment. This isn't from the actual show, but I hope this video will give you some idea of the experience:

This year, we're in Orange Beach, Ala. with his family and we are dating. Everything has changed and, for the first time I can remember, I can pin-point when it did.

Happy New Year and all that. May this year be better than the last, or at least just as good. I went into 2014 trying to remain skeptical about all the good in my life lest it end abruptly. I'm going into 2015 knowing there is magic all around. I hope you do too.

A Sad Post to Wish You Happy Holidays!

The holidays are a joyful time for my small family, which consists of me, my mother and my nana. Though we saw each other fairly regularly when I was a child, there was always something special about coming together in a more formal way around Christmastime. Now that I'm dating Gideon and spending the holidays with his family too, it's more joyful than ever.

But the holidays can also be incredibly melancholy for us. I previously wrote about my grandfather's suicide and how difficult it is to deal with the subject of suicide, especially when it hits so close to home. I didn't write about how much it sucks to lose someone, no matter how the loss occurs. I didn't write about the empty feeling I get every father's day when I reach for the phone to call my grandfather before remembering that he isn't alive anymore.

One of my coworkers lost her mother about 10 years ago. We were talking about holiday plans last week, and she described the emptiness I've been feeling for 11 years without a pause. "The holidays are great because the family gets together," she said. "But it's never been the same since we lost Mom."

It's never been the same since we lost Papaw. It will never be the same. People say that time heals everything, and perhaps that's true about some subjects. It is definitely not true about this. Just because you're decades removed from something doesn't mean it hurts less.

 My family doesn't really talk about this, probably because we all feel such deep hurt that even touching the surface would cause everything to disintegrate. Sometimes I wish we did. I wish we could cry and comfort each other. I even wish that we could reminisce without feeling sudden, inescapable sadness. I wish that Papaw never died even more.

When I was 11 years old and he was dying slowly, I realized one day that we had limited time left with him. I looked at my mother, who has always been the pinnacle of strength, and saw how sad she looked. It was an expression I had never seen before, not just on her face but on anyone's.

Papaw isn't going to be there when I graduate from high school, I thought. He won't see me graduate from college and he will never meet the man I marry or the children we have together. 

I graduated from high school. I graduated from college. I have my first job now, and he hasn't been here for any of it. It has gotten easier to forget but it will never be easier to digest when I think about it.

For all of you struggling with this, I hope there's some solace in knowing you aren't alone. I'm trying to be thankful for all that I do have this year instead of mourning what I had to leave behind, though it isn't easy. I've got a supportive family, a kind boyfriend who does the dishes without being prompted and comes with an equally supportive family, a job I love and excel at, the best cat in the world and amazing friends who have supported me even when I was so insufferable that Ghandi would have bitch slapped me.

I have a lot to be happy about - way more good than bad. This Christmas, I want to focus on that as much as I can. The people in my life just make it that much easier.

If I don't post much before Christmas (because I will be working and then I will be eating copious amounts of food and travelling to Alabama for Gideon's family vacation) please have the best holiday possible. If you can't do that, at least drink a lot of Christmas-themed liquor for me.

Yes, I Would Like Some Cheese with that Whine

I am tired. I am stressed. I paid over double what I was supposed to on my first student loan payment because the literature they mailed me was unclear. This might have been a positive thing if not for the fact that I kind of need that money for the holidays for travel and for checking my car out and for food. And sure, my family might read this and offer me help but I have too much pride to accept it.

This post is so complainey that I'm not sharing it on any social media though I will post it because I feel like I post an abbreviated version of my life where everything is happy and since I am human I am not always happy. Today I am not happy.

I wish this writing was better. I wish I didn't come off so melodramatic right now. But hey, you'd be pretty fucking melodramatic too if you just spent $200 more than you needed to and if you woke up with a stress headache from hell.

They Shoot Bad Gift Givers, Don't They?

This is my first Christmas buying gifts for people I care about. (Not that I haven't bought gifts for people before, but then I used my mother's money. Now I'm using all that money I earned while sitting through three hour school board meetings and later reporting on them, so it means quite a bit more.) To put it humbly, I am great at the buying and the wrapping and the arranging under the tree part of gifting. See for yourself:

Gideon offered to help me with wrapping gifts but I kindly reminded him that I am much better at it.

The part of gifting I kind of suck at is waiting until Christmas to give the gifts away. I get so excited about gifting that I force people to open presents weeks in advance. If someone is so brazen as to reject my early offer, I tell them what's in the package anyway. Surprises are not my forte. I hate being surprised almost as much as I hate waiting to surprise people. I'm a patient person in nearly every other facet of my life, but when it comes to happy surprises I tend to sulk and whine until people give me hints or let me give them a gift early.

Friday afternoon, I received some of Gideon's gifts in the mail and hid them in our spare bedroom. Of course, this was after I showed him the wallet I bought him to affirm that it was sufficient while smirking and knowing it was definitely what he wanted. I just wanted him to see it before I wrapped it. I have a serious problem, guys.

Anyway, as he was leaving for work I told him that he didn't know what one of the three items under the tree was. He smiled and agreed with me. Then, just as he started to close the door, I screamed, "IT'S SHIRTS." 

His mother visited us Saturday, where I forced two pre-Christmas gifts on her and also ended up giving her  a flat iron I recently discovered in one of my boxes from college. It was hard to convince her to open a gift early, but once she agreed to my pleas, I Flo Jo'd it to the Christmas tree. (If you're wondering, the gift was a cookbook she lost in a house fire roughly a year ago. It was either that or...well, I can't say because she'll read this but IT WAS EARRINGS. WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME.) 

To my credit, I come by this naturally. My mother has always had a hard time keeping surprises from me, often giving me gifts early. Last year, she asked if I wanted to exchange one gift on Christmas Eve before we opened everything with my nana. I agreed. After I opened the first gift, she asked me to open another. And another. And another. And another. Before I knew it, I had opened all the gifts under the tree and we both looked at each other thinking, "What have we done?"

Instead of telling Nana what we did, we carefully re-wrapped all the gifts and placed them under the tree. "Just act excited tomorrow," Mom told me. I was so impressively excited when opening gifts Christmas day that you could have mistaken me for an anime character. (I'm sorry if you're reading this, Nana, but you know we've got serious problems regarding waiting to open gifts. This should not surprise you.)

Sigh. I am terrible at surprises. If my mother is any indication, it will worsen with age. 

Sam's Sauna

When I'm tired, I get really weird. The past couple weeks have been so busy at work that I've been returning home later than normal and, in turn, have become a zombie version of myself. This zombie person often has strange ideas.

Last night, I had one of these ideas. I was taking a bath with lots of bubbles (I will forever reject bathing if it doesn't involve bubbles) and splashing around as I am wont to do. Gideon was in the kitchen rolling, cutting and baking Christmas cookies. I called out to him.

"What?" he called back.

"I should have a talk show in the bathtub! It could be called 'Sam's Sauna!' My guests would get in the bathtub with me." I added that we wouldn't be naked because that would be weird, but there would be lots of bubbles.

Then, for reasons I still do not understand, I launched into a Wendy Williams-esque monologue. "Today, folks, we are discussing VAJAZZZZZZZZLING! My guest knows a lot about vajazzling. She whispered to ghosts, she knows what you did last summer and she recently starred on The Client List. Everyone welcome Jennifer Love Hewitt! Come on out, girl! Get in this tub!"

Gideon was in the kitchen still and I couldn't hear or see him, but I'm almost certain he started questioning why he's dating a woman who creates her own talk show in the bathtub. Oh well. If he leaves, at least I'll have my imaginary talk show.

(If you're wondering, I did brainstorm other topics and I have many. These topics include: teen brides, dogs who talk to ghosts, fall fashion roundup, people with huge egos, which Home Shopping Network items are most/least useful and parents who date their child's friends.)

A Very Long Rant About Clickhole Sites, Feminism and Editors Who Can't Edit

Last night, I began ranting at Gideon at 7 p.m. and I didn't stop until 8:30 p.m. I rarely get seriously riled up about something, so I think it surprised him a little. In lieu of writing my whole rant here, I'm going to abbreviate the points in a list. It makes it easier for you to read and it makes me less angry to recall it. Really, we all win here.

• 7 p.m. - "I hate Buzzfeed! The titles on these lists are so pandering and stupid. Look at this! One of her posts is '23 People Who Definitely Have This Sexting Thing Down.' What is that? That's so dumb. The fact that she has to write 'sexting thing' instead of 'sexting' to be all cute. It isn't cute! YOU AREN'T CUTE BUZZFEED WRITER SO PLEASE STOP. And the stupid attempt at irony with the word 'definitely.' This is so stupid! I hate this!"
• 7:30 p.m. - "And you know what, this writer seems super focused on insulting other lifestyles to boost her own. She wrote some bullshit titled '25 Reactions When Someone Asks Why You Don't Want to Have Kids' and then another titled '23 Things Single People Never Have to Worry About.' You know what Buzzfeed writer? I'm perfectly happy in my long-term relationship and someday when I have kids I'm sure I'll be happy with that too, unless they don't like Lost - in which case I'll return them to the hospital."
• 7:45 p.m. - Gideon interrupts me to suggest that this kind of mindset stems from insecurity. I respond, "Well she should be jealous. My life is awesome. I have a boyfriend and a job and all she has is some articles on a clickhole site and probably a bottle of wine at home. But I've got that too so I still win." (Ed. Note: I was not serious about this; it was really an example of proper use of irony and humor, which still insults the Buzzfeed writer but on a professional, not personal, level. So I'm still classy and all that jazz.)
• 8 p.m. - "I want to get married and have kids and have a career, and it's people like her who make it more difficult for women to do this. If she doesn't want to have kids, that's fine. But she can't hate on people who do or make her life seem so much better than mine because I chose a path she didn't. This is just as bad as those people who say I'm going to neglect my family for my career or my career for my family. GO FUCK YOURSELF SOCIETY."
• 8:25 p.m. - "OH MY GOD. This writer has 'editor' in her job title and several of her comments have unforgivable grammar errors. DO YOU SEE THIS COMMA SPLICE? DO YOU? DO YOU? 
• 8:30 p.m. - "YOU DIDN'T PUT ENOUGH SALT IN THE CHOCOLATE CHIP COOKIE MIX. Oh, sorry. I didn't mean to sound angry about that."

I am lucky Gideon puts up with me. If not, the cat would have to hear all my rants about feminism and grammar and professionalism. I'm sure he'd enjoy it but he has no way to tell me that, which would severely strain our relationship.

Thanks and Stuff

I won't be posting anything tomorrow because I will be eating. When I stop eating, I'll start eating. After that, I'll probably go someplace to eat. Eating might follow that but it's a pretty loose plan so you never know what I could do. Hell, I could actually end up eating.

Because I'll be very busy tomorrow, I'm going to post something about Thanksgiving today. Specifically, I'm going to copy and paste an article I wrote earlier this week. It will free up my time so I can eat some more.

Belated Thanks

The summer after I graduated from high school, I worked in my mother's office to earn money for my freshman year of college.

We went to lunch together quite a bit, frequenting this a la carte Mexican restaurant near the office. "I know that when you leave, you're never going to live here again," she said one day. Chomping on a burrito larger than my head, I was at a loss for words.

Us last year before I performed Poison's "Talk Dirty to Me" at karaoke night and reminded her why she's glad we live far, far away from each other. (It's the embarrassment, if you're wondering. All the embarrassment.) 

I knew she was right. Since I was a child, I've been dreaming of the future. Specifically, I've been dreaming of a future far away from Texarkana, where most of my immediate family lives. Even in high school, I knew I wanted to be independent as soon as I could be. I wanted to move off. I wanted to make a living writing. I wanted to control my finances and personal choices as much as I could without interference from my family.

Today, I get paid to write and I live almost six hours away from my mother. After all that wishing and ruminating on the future, I have accomplished nearly everything I wanted to accomplish at this point in my life. This year will  be my first Thanksgiving as a mostly independent career woman - which I will be spending with my boyfriend's family in Fayetteville. Five years ago, I probably would have celebrated this moment with too much wine just because I could.

But now that I have everything I always wanted, I really hate that I have to go months at a time without seeing my mom and nana. I miss them so very much, and the thought of spending a holiday without them saddens me more than I could express in words and more than I ever thought it would.

This year, I won't get to eat my nana's special dressing, featuring celery and onions ground up so finely that you wouldn't even know they were in there. I hated celery and onions as a child - today, I have learned to tolerate them - and my nana altered her dressing recipe to fool me into eating it. She also made me a separate banana pudding sans banana, which is really just hot vanilla pudding and wafer cookies. She spoiled me and I'm not sure if I'm ready to live in a world where people expect me to eat your run-of-the-mill dressing and banana pudding.

Aside from that, I miss the camaraderie. I've come to understand - and even share - my mother's sense of humor and sense of responsibility over the past few years. In high school, I thought she was being judgmental when she criticized me for wearing a too-short skirt or for being more crass than I should have been. Now, I know she was just trying to prepare me for a world hyper-focused on first impressions and appearances. It often felt like she was trying to hold me back, but I know now that she was doing her best to help me achieve the professional success I always talked about.

It's really painful to realize all my mother has done to help me now that I can't see her every day. I miss our dinners. I miss our late night television binges. I even miss waking up super early on Saturdays to go window shopping and grab brunch.

Still, I'm very lucky to have the support I do from my mother. I may not be able to see her this Thanksgiving, but I am more thankful for her help and love than anything else. Yes, even more than my career and the independence I always longed for. After all, she's the reason I have everything I do.

This year, I'm more thankful than I've ever been. My heart is filled with love - love for my family, for my boyfriend's family and for all the friends I keep close despite the distance between us. I love my career, too, but I'm realizing that it will always take a back seat to the people who constantly enrich my life. More importantly, I'm realizing that this is the way it should be. And, yes, I'm very thankful for that.

Be My (Cat) Baby

Before I write anything, I'd like to pat myself on the back for referencing the wonderful Ronettes song "Be My Baby" in the title of this post. I've enjoyed that song since I first saw Dirty Dancing as a child; this was, coincidentally, the same moment that I decided I would marry Swayze when I grew up. I carried the song to my adolescence and then to college, where my friend Kelby and I spent a large amount of time driving around and singing it at the top of our lungs. We changed the lyrics to "be my babo" after one of my more illiterate Facebook friends continually - and hilariously - misspelled the word in this way.

That has nothing to do with this post, but it did give me a really exaggerated period of time to congratulate myself on how clever I am.

The actual post is about how I do something all cat owners do - or at least I hope all cat owners do - to my beloved Kiki. (Kiki is slang for "kitty," which is what my mother and I call BJ when we're trying to get his attention and he's too busy camping out behind the Christmas tree searching for spare ornaments to kick around the house to respond to his given name.) I transform him from a vicious land-dwelling predator - he really does slay those catnip mice - to dependent, swaddled Cat Baby. If you don't know how to do this, don't worry. It's super easy. Here, in five steps, is how to annoy and comfort your cat at the same time! This is a real 2-in-1 deal, folks. You don't want to miss it.

The final product

1. Locate a blanket. I suggest a heating blanket, since cats love heat.
2. Lay that blanket out in front of you as if preparing for a lover or, as I've experienced more often, the $10 box from Pizza Hut. (Scoff if you will, but it is very important to avoid spilling pizza crumbs all over your bed as you lazily ingest 3,000 calories in the same place you will soon pass out from all the binge eating. Placing a blanket down first really helps with clean-up when you wake up at 3 a.m. with no memory of eating an entire medium pizza and one order each of breadsticks and cinnasticks all by your lonesome.) 
3. Sweet talk your cat into jumping onto the bed with you. BJ generally runs over when I say, "Come here, Kiki. Let's re-watch that video of the Hoff drunkenly eating a cheeseburger." Of course, you'll have to determine what works on your cat. Few cats enjoy hearing David Hasselhoff slur as much as BJ does. 
4. Hold your cat and rub his ears in such a way that he doesn't know what is about to happen to him. 
5. Place the cat on the blanket and quickly wrap him up. After this, swaddle him and watch as his soul slowly deteriorates. 

If you don't get it right the first time, just remember that famous Abraham Lincoln quote: "Giving up is for the Confederacy." Yes, I'm sure that applies to this blog post, just like I'm sure he said that at one point in his life. 

My Obsessions

The last time I visited my mom, I mentioned recently re-watching the biopic Selena. My mother scoffed, rolled her eyes and looked at Gideon. "She made me watch that movie more times than I can count," she told him. "You should be really thankful you weren't around for the Lost years." The Lost years she was referring to are not a period of time none of us can recall or prefer to ignore - well, at least not me - but the six years that Lost aired and I fawned over it any given opportunity. 

She is the only person I've ever idolized who can rock a bejeweled bra.

If you haven't realized it by now, I have many obsessions. Selena Quintanilla of Selena y Los Dinos and Lost are only two of these obsessions, though they are quite important to me. I became obsessed with Selena after I saw the biopic in 1997. For those of you who don't know about Selena Quintanilla, she was a famous Tejano superstar who was gunned down by her awful fan club manager at the age of 23. Jennifer Lopez starred in the biopic about Selena's life and death, a film I watched every time it was on television as a child. Apparently, this ruined it for my mother.

The last time I watched it was about seven months ago during my last semester of college. My friend Kelby and I had been drinking and decided to wind down with some TV. Scrolling through the channels, I saw that Selena was on and drunkenly started crying. "I hate that Selena had to die for J. Lo to get famous," I cried. Then, I voiced hope that the film's ending might have changed from the last time I saw it.

It didn't. I'm not sure why I'm so obsessed with Selena. It could be that she seemed so nice and down to earth. And she was so beautiful and talented. I still get kind of upset when I think about her even though I wasn't even four years old when she was killed. 

And then, of course, there's the Lost obsession. Lost, the television show I adore so much that I wrote re-caps on my old blog during its final season, helped me come to terms with all the pain I struggled with as a teenager. The show debuted in 2004, just two months after my grandfather killed himself. I was a kid searching for meaning after feeling like all meaning and worth had been ripped away from me. I didn't have faith in very much at the time; I was never super religious, but my grandfather's death really put the nail in that coffin. (Or, you know, the lid on that urn. I'm not very fond of the idea of being buried unless I die rich. In that case, I want to be buried with all my diamonds and DVDs.) 

One of the biggest themes of Lost is having faith in others, and I really needed to see that after losing the man I had loved like a father. When someone you love kills him/herself, it's very easy to feel as if you've been betrayed. I knew my grandfather was struggling with cancer and wanted to alleviate his pain, but I still felt betrayed by him for years. So while my obsession with Lost seems over-the-top and hokey, I know in my heart that I needed it to recover. 

A lot of people seem to think my love of Lost is a personality quirk, like my affinity for tight pants and yellow cats. I'm not easily offended but it does bother me when people assume this. Lost meant - and still means - a lot to me. It helped me figure out how to keep going amidst all the tragedy I experienced. It's not really a topic I take lightly even though I "joke" about it when people criticize it. 

I have a sense of humor - a pretty good sense of humor, I think - but some things are sacred to me. Yes, I know it's just a TV show. But that doesn't mean it isn't a source of faith. That doesn't mean it isn't important to me. I'm quick to defend it because it helped me re-discover so much good. Sawyer's development from a wounded con man to a kind leader was extraordinary and reaffirming, just like Jack's transformation from a man of science to a man of faith. I used to be ashamed of this obsession, but screw that. 

It's important to me and I'm going to own it. 

Also, as an awkward end-note, I feel it necessary to say that I'm not trying to be sacrilegious here. We all have experiences that help us grow and cope with pain. This is simply my experience, no more and no less. 

More Wayward Attempts at Satire

I love The Onion, a satirical news website I have lauded on the blog in the past. In fact, I even used the same opening line in my previous post about it. I know I could have changed it instead of telling you that, but I am lazy and I have no other excuses for my behavior.

When looking at the "jobs" section of The Onion's website, I saw an opening for an editorial fellowship. I love my job and I'm not looking for another one, but I did want to see what the qualifications were for this position. According to the site, you'd have to connect with either LinkedIn or Facebook or send in your resume as well as submit 10 potential headlines. (For my journalism challenged friends, a headline is the title of a story. For example: Murdered sheriff lived, died by the law.)

Anyway, I decided to take this as a challenge and write my own headlines. Please note that I wrote this in literally five minutes last night, so it might not be as funny as I think it is. Here you go:

1. Your cats don't love you either, study shows
2. Local woman finds soul mate for fifth time
3. Firefighters leave kitten in tree to die
4. Stanford study reveals most children drowned by their mother are possessed by demons, post-partum depression a myth
5. Whimsical college freshman wears overalls unironically
6. Joining a fraternity will solve all your problems, fraternity pledge says
7. Jewish business owner gives large Christmas bonus to all employees
8. Murderer says he went to college with deputy, shot sheriff instead
9. Gold-digger tells wealthy suitor size doesn't matter
10. Robin Thicke's "Shake Your Hips, Not the Baby" number one on billboard pop chart for 10 consecutive weeks

In all fairness, I could actually imagine a tangible world in which Robin Thicke releases a song titled "Shake Your Hips, Not the Baby."

S(no)w

When I interviewed Joe Sellers from the National Weather Service last Thursday, he told me that there might be an inch of snow this weekend but that the weather system is rather "hit or miss."

Let's just go ahead and call this a miss. I spent all day Friday and Saturday preparing for the snow, hoping for the predicted one to three inches instead of an abysmal half inch to one inch. (This preparation mainly included perusing the internet for cozy winter wear and consuming far too much hot chocolate for one person.) Finally, Sunday came and the snow did, too. A half hour later, it stopped and never returned.

It was around just long enough  for us to get this photo. BJ did not enjoy the snow but he did enjoy sitting in Gideon's sweater.

I haven't always enjoyed snow that much. For much of my post-high school life, I saw snow as a hindrance. It prevented me from going to work. It got class cancelled, forcing me to learn twice the information in one class meeting. It was generally quite inconsiderate, especially last year when it screwed up the final exam schedule I had spent four months preparing for. Some people were excited about cancellations, but I was so busy that I couldn't really enjoy time off knowing it meant I'd still have to make all that time up and then some.

But then something magical happened. Snow started showing up at perfect moments, making it nearly impossible for me to hate it. First, it appeared when Gideon and I were driving back from Dallas, where we had seen the Old 97's on New Year's Eve. I was driving, drinking a salted caramel latte in true white girl fashion and listening to Matthew Ryan's sophomore album, "East Autumn Grin." I remember turning up the music when the song "Sadly Love" came on.

"I love this song," I told Gideon. I explained that I liked the line "angry and sad over a cup of black tea/your watery eyes and perfume were choking me" because of the imagery and the way it combined the tangible and the intangible to create a really specific feeling of hopeful hopelessness. Just as I said this, it started snowing. The music and the coffee and the snow and the conversation and the company all merged at once, forming one of those perfect moments you read about in shitty Nicholas Sparks novels. (Apologies to those of you who enjoy his novels, but it's kind of super shitty writing that makes for even shittier film adaptations.)

In that moment, snow seemed to be making all those missed classes and exams up to me. And it continued this trend, visiting the morning after Gideon and I started officially dating. We spent the night before at a party, where I consumed far too much alcohol - I'd like to say what kind but, despite how classy I am normally, I can't really remember much about what I drank - and ended up telling Gideon that we should date officially and that he was dumb if he didn't want to. (My charisma is simply unmeasured.)

The snow from the previous days had pretty  much melted that night, and I didn't know that snow was in the forecast for the early morning. So I woke up the next morning and Gideon said to me, "Hey, I love you. Look outside." I did, and I saw the ground blanketed in snow as far as the eye could see. It symbolized a blank slate for me; after years of missing each other - Gideon and I both dated other people for the first three years we knew each other - we had found a way to start something new.

Full disclosure: I was still a little hammered and didn't remember much from the night at first, so when Gideon said he loved me I thought, "I guess we're just saying this to each other now. Okay, cool, I guess." And I said it back. That isn't the most romantic thing in the world, but I feel I should be as honest as I can be on this blog without being too crass.

But still, snow really proved itself last year. I was excited for it this weekend. And it disappointed me again, as the fickle snow is wont to do.

The Moment When You Find Out Who You Really Are

When, while opening a piece of Werther's Original coffee flavored caramel candy at work, you accidentally fling the candy into the trash can adjacent to your desk. Suddenly you're faced with two options:

1. Eat the three other pieces of candy on your desk 
2. Dig that piece of candy out of the trash can like the monster you are

I think we all know which option I chose. And just so you know, it was delicious. 

It's My Party, and I'll Cry If I Want To

Tom Cotton, or as Gideon calls him, Com Totton.

I've been writing a column for my newspaper in an attempt to keep my creativity at the same level as my anxiety. I'm going to do the old copy-and-paste trick, but first I should give a little background for readers who might not live in Arkansas or the United States.

The United States is bleeding red after the midterm elections this week, with Republicans finally taking control of the Senate again. Tom Cotton, a corporation-controlled drone, was voted by Arkansans to replace incumbent Democratic Senator Mark Pryor. As a person who believes in basic civil rights and fiscal security, I am very upset about this. This is the article I wrote about it:

It's my party, and I'll cry if I want to

Trying to choose which protein bar to purchase last week, I encountered a staple of grocery stores: the angry, crying child. The child had splayed his body across the middle of the cereal aisle and was obviously displeased with his mother, who seemed far too comfortable with this type of behavior. As I walked past mother and child, I heard the boy cry out for a specific kind of cereal.

"That is ridiculous," I thought to myself, cherishing my childless home. After all, I continued thinking, the only time I have to console a hysterical, whiny individual is when the cat begs for extra treats. When my social media accounts blew up with both angry rants and obnoxious raves about the results of the midterm elections just a few hours later, I realized that I had been wrong. Furthermore, I was not only wrong about the alleged mature attitudes of those I surround myself with; I, too, had failed to react to the elections with maturity.

I went to sleep angry Tuesday night and I woke up angry Wednesday morning. When driving my boyfriend to work early that day, I grunted in reaction to all his statements. This is customary speech before my first cup of coffee, but I was especially incensed this morning. As my boyfriend left the car, he told me that he loved me. I responded, "I love you too, and I hate Tom Cotton."

At work, I checked my Facebook feed in-between editing a couple feature articles I wrote the day before. Some of my friends were even angrier than I was; one of them suggested moving out of Arkansas and a couple others insisted on calling Republicans "out-of-touch" and "uninformed," among more obscene insults. Alternatively, a few of my Republican friends gloated about how "the right party finally won."

I immediately found myself agreeing with the angry Democrats, even spewing a little extra vitriol toward my Republican acquaintances. And then, all at once, I realized that I might as well have collapsed on the floor of the grocery store next to that child the night before, drowning out his cries for sugary breakfast goods with derogatory comments about Tom Cotton.

I am still incredibly unhappy about Cotton's election and can't really see Arkansas moving in a positive direction after this, but I also know that this attitude is what partisan politics aim to create. Politicians like Cotton primarily rely on the acerbic dissent between Democrats and Republicans to get elected and to distract citizens from the laws being passed in Congress.

If Arkansans continue to buy into partisan politics in this manner - from either side - we will inevitably fail to compromise, resulting in little progress for the state's working class. We are allowing politicians to systematically alienate us from one another in the same way they alienate themselves from us once time comes to pass laws affecting our financial security and civil rights.

Instead of allowing the results of the election to disappoint me, I'm determined to focus on the good in the situation. Due to the election, the minimum wage will increase incrementally to $8.50 in 2017. This is great news; it will help so many Arkansans who struggle to meet the cost of living, and even if it won't make a huge difference in quality of living, it will make a difference nonetheless.

Just as Arkansans came together to raise the minimum wage, we have to come together on all issues as citizens and not as members of a political party. I'll be the first to admit that this is not easy. I still curse Cotton under my breath even though I know it isn't healthy behavior, but at least I'm aware of it. I'm aware that my opinions might not be the same opinions of other Arkansans, and I am willing to discuss these differences in the hope of finding some middle ground we can all stand on.

We have to learn to do this. We simply can't allow political parties to separate us anymore, because it brings us together in the worst way. Right now, all Arkansans are lying on the floor of the grocery store crying out for Cinnamon Toast Crunch, arms and legs flailing about like a fish freshly plucked from the sea.

Stand up. Stop crying. Accept what you can't change and work toward what you can, and do it together.

Fall

I know I have been slacking on my  blogging lately, but I really have been so busy that I can't think. In fact, I'm writing this late at night (as I do many of blog posts) just to fit in some time to blog. Gideon is snoozing next to me with the cat curled up on his side, and I can hear the wind ripple through the trees outside our bedroom window.

I love this time of year. I text messaged Gideon last week telling him how happy I am about the changing seasons, after driving to work among the rapidly changing fall foliage. While I had rolled up my car's windows - after paying $226 to fix my air conditioning system a couple months ago, I refuse to turn it off now - I could feel the crispness of the air just by looking at the various shapes and shades in the sky. It was like 50 Shades of Grey, but with less bondage and more science. The sun peeked through a cloud, just enough to announce itself but not too much to blind me into speeding off the road. (Though my car would have been perched really nicely on the orange-red tree-tops, which is about as beautiful as deaths come.)

I have always loved fall for many reasons. I love the orange-red tree tops. I love wearing boots and scarves and sweaters for reasons other than fashion. I love sitting by the fireplace with a cup of coffee and a good book. I love how cute my cat looks when he sleeps outside, enveloped by fallen leaves that complement his yellow-orange fur. As I said, these are things I have always loved about fall and always will. This year, though, I have a new reason to adore the season so much.

Forgive the pun, but last year during this time I started to fall in love in a real, all-encompassing, share-the-last-slice-of-pizza kind of way. At the beginning of November last year, I had just broken up with my long-term boyfriend and I was driving to Fayetteville to visit Gideon. The relationship I had been in was not healthy; I'm just now truly realizing how unhealthy it was. It took away my ability to love myself, so you can imagine how much it freaked me out to fall so deeply in love so soon after the break-up.

I recall driving through Mountain View, a small town about an hour outside of my college town. The road was twisty and commanded my full attention, something I became grateful for once I saw the landscape and the trees and the sky.  The colors overwhelmed me. Nature overwhelmed me. It was so beautiful, and I realized that just three days ago I wasn't able to see the beauty.

Then, I saw Gideon and we started casually dating over a period of two months. During this time, I denied to everyone - including myself- that I was falling in love. "Ha, we're just friends," I told my friend Kelby during one of our walks around a lake on Lyon's campus. "Of course he'd be super lucky to be with me, but everyone knows that."

Like the changing season, I fell in love with Gideon naturally. Nothing felt forced; in fact, I fought vehemently against it. I didn't want to immediately start dating someone new following a break-up, especially since the relationship with my ex-boyfriend lasted so long. I mocked women who could never remain single, and I definitely did not want to become one of them.

 But I did. I'm so happy I did. There's a quote from a song by The Avett Brothers - I think the song is "November Blue" - that captures how I feel better than I ever could: I've fallen like the leaves. (I'm not sure if they meant it in a positive way, but I do and it's my blog so you'll just have to accept the context.) It's such an awe-inspiring feeling that I can't properly describe it. It's a lot like fall, really, in the way the air has changed.

I can look out the window now and see an orange and red tornado, leaves swirling about before settling on the concrete below. I can do this with an amazing, patient, respectful man next to me. Because he's humble, Gideon would never take credit for my transformation from a bitter self-hater to a person who believes in love and people. But he did. He saved me.

It'll be winter soon, then spring, then summer and finally fall again. And next year at this time, I'm sure I'll still be falling for Gideon as orange leaves fall on my feet.

Why Can't We Be Friends? (But Really, Why Can't We?)

During high school - like most teenagers, I hope - I struggled deeply with identifying and confronting romantic interest. I had no idea how to talk to boys, hiding my nose in books to avoid eye contact with other people. Once, in my high school library, a boy I liked was standing over me talking to someone at a nearby table. I was not prepared for this.

Reading The Crying of Lot 49, I felt my face warm up. I knew I sometimes blushed when nervous, but this was much worse than normal. Normally, my cheeks would turn slightly pink and I'd resemble a cute cartoon character, albeit an extremely nervous one. But this time, my face literally reddened. It was so bad that I expected McCarthy to burst into the library and drag me out of the country. The boy standing over me even took notice and asked me if I was okay.

"I--I'm fine!" I stuttered. "I HAVE ROSACEA." Then, I ran from the library quickly enough to convince my fellow students of my super-hero potential. I was quite suave.

Another time, a boy I liked  (a different boy, though he was talking to the boy I encountered in the library so he might as well have been the same person, and, yes, I am aware that I was kind of slutty with my crushes but fortunately I wore bright orange tights and spoke of nothing but Lost, guaranteeing me little to no tangible romantic prospects) was walking in front of me in a crowded hallway. He asked his friend what he should do with the permission slip his parents had signed for a field trip that day. 

"TAKE IT TO THE OFFICE!" I said much more loudly than I expected. He turned around and was clearly quite confused. "Thanks," he said, his brow furrowing deeper than anyone's brow ever should. As you can see, I really did not know how to talk to romantic interests. 

Now that I'm happily in love and living with a wonderful person, you  might think I don't have these problems. And in a world where I continually improve as a human being, you might be right. I do not live in this world. In my world, I can't make new friends for shit. 

Gideon and I recently moved to Eureka Springs, where most of the residents are twice my age. These are nice people. I like these people. But I cannot divulge all the personal details of my life to them or mutually complain about twenty-something problems with them or call them over to my house after a long day to drink wine and watch The Voice on Hulu. I recently met a 24-year-old in Berryville who has quite a bit in common with me - and I'd love to be this woman's friend - but I absolutely screwed it up. 

"Yeaaaaaaaah well I love Lost, the best show of all time don't you know and you have to love it too, right? By the way I have a cat. Do you want to see pictures of him?" I blabbered. I actually shoved my phone in her face so she could see what my cat looks like. She said he was cute but I already knew that and  I wasn't sure if she even meant it. (And how could I be friends with someone who can't tell that my cat is the cutest cat in the whole world?) 

Guys, I thought I was done with this awkwardness when Gideon and I got together in January. I thought I didn't have to worry about the way I cultivate my personality anymore because I was comfortable with Gideon and his group of friends. (Of course, I have my own friends. Shout out to Dora, Kasey, Madii, Kelby, Amber, Alex and Nell! If I forgot to list you here that means we are not as good of friends as you think we are. Or I just didn't sleep well and can't think properly at the moment. It is probably the latter.) But now neither of us have friends we see every day, save for the cat. I am trying desperately to get us more friends and I am killing our chances every time I speak. 

Finding new friends is so hard. There are no self-help books for our specific situation. I know because I searched Amazon for "Finding New Friends When You Live in a Town Where No One is Your Age and All Your Friends Live At Least an Hour Away." 

Oh well. At least we have each other. 

And at least I have Hulu. 

Self-Hate and Why We Should Stop Loving It So Much

This morning, I woke up at 7 a.m. as usual. I drank a glass of water and walked to the bathroom at the pace of your average zombie. Once there, I straightened my hair, brushed my teeth and applied makeup and deodorant, though not necessarily in that order. I was dressed for work - wearing my uniform of black skinny jeans, a t-shirt, a cardigan and closed-toe pumps - when Gideon told me, "You look great" as he does every morning.

And, as I do every morning, I thought to myself, "No, I look terrible." I have done this since I was in middle school and probably earlier than that, and I know I need to stop. I'm not sure where this cycle of self-hate began, but I know I have never had the same self-confidence in my appearance that I do in my intelligence. On an average day, I mentally insult myself 10 times or more. These insults include:

• I'm so fat.
• I wish my skin was clearer.
• My arms are huge.
• My fingers are so fat.
• Thunder thighs is an understatement.
• I could probably compose a symphony using the sound my arm fat makes when I jiggle it in a tank top.
• I really screwed up my makeup today. 
• My chins are so out-of-control that they might begin rebelling against the chin I was born with. It would be a chin mutiny. (Yes, I get creative with my self-insults. I am a strange person. Everyone knows this.)

I hate to be that predictable person who struggles with body issues and, in turn, suffers from an eating disorder, but I have to admit that I am - against my will, of course - like everyone else in some ways. While I've never had a specific eating disorder, I have struggled with food my entire life. It was particularly bad in high school. 

The week before prom my senior year of high school, I was folding clothes with my mother and came across a striped shirt that was baggy the last time I wore it. "I think I'm losing weight," I commented. My mother is a very matter-of-fact person, so she responded, "I think you've actually put on a few pounds." It wasn't even really a criticism, but it hit me hard. I skipped lunch all week and began vigorously working out daily, dropping five pounds or so in one week. 

I thought it would give me satisfaction to look thin in my prom dress, but I don't associate happiness with that night. When I see photos of myself in my prom dress, I think only of how much my body image consumed me. I don't even look happy in the pictures. See for yourself: 

I am in the middle.

I'm not wearing the expression you'd expect of a girl going to her high school prom. I look tired. I look sad. And looking at this photo just now, I couldn't help but think to myself how I wish I could be back at that weight, even if it meant all the exhaustion and stress. 

That's not okay. I don't want to rule my life based on the way I look anymore. It's not healthy for me, and it's certainly not pleasant for those I love to hear me insult myself all the time. Even if I'm not saying that I feel fat aloud, my mood communicates it clearly enough. I really want to stop this, because I'm getting older and becoming responsible for others. As of now, "others" consists of Gideon. In the next 10 years, it will consist of children. 

When I have children - especially if I have a daughter - I don't want them to hate themselves the way I hate myself. It's tiring and painful to put yourself down all the time. I wouldn't wish it on my worst enemy - Dawn Ostroff, former head of the CW network who cancelled Veronica Mars and likely gives out fruit or pencils on Halloween - so I'm especially afraid of those I love feeling this way. I can't say that I will ever stop mentally insulting myself completely, but I know I can stop verbalizing it and allowing it to affect my mood as much as it does. 

Most importantly, I know my children will never hear me call myself fat. I won't let them. So for the next five years or so, my major goal is to treat myself with as much care as I'd treat my future children. This includes eating well and exercising, but that's really the easy part. I can run for an hour and eat salad all day if I have to; I am pretty athletic and regimented once I decide to do something. I can easily take the physical steps to be kind to my body. Unfortunately, I'm not so capable of mentally treating my body well. 

I'm going to try anyway. 

Wayward Attempts at Satire

I love The Onion, a satirical online and print newspaper. I've even tried my hand at writing Onion-esque articles. Behold the article I wrote last night:

Local woman finds soul mate for fifth time

After years of searching for, finding and losing the one, Candy Harper believes she has really found her soul mate this time.

Harper, 24, met Ben Green, 25, at a mutual friend's Halloween party last week. She said she knew it was meant to be because she and Green unintentionally coordinated costumes; Harper dressed as a sexy trash bag and Green wore a trash collector's uniform.

"He walked up to me and said, 'I'm sorry, ma'am, but I'm going to have to pick you up," Harper recalled. "That's when I knew." That night, the two made love on 21-year-old Ricky Berg's twin bed, sandwiched between a Nickelback poster and a half dozen empty pizza boxes. Harper said she cannot remember much of it, but what she can remember was "a pure expression of love."

The day following the party, she and Green met up for coffee, where they discussed various topics, from the quality of Kim Kardashian's makeup line to the pros and cons of euthanasia. Green said he would be in touch after the date, telling Harper to feel free to call any time, preferably after midnight on weekends. "He even joked about giving me money for an abortion if the condom broke or something. I love that he's already so comfortable kidding around with me," Harper said.

Though Green has responded to only one of her messages following the date, Harper believes their love is stronger than ever. She has compared his posts on Facebook before he met her to the content he has shared after, finding that he uses the letter "l" much more in his writing now. "Clearly, that means he is in love," she gushed.

Harper previously found her soul mate in 20-year-old Brett Worthington, who she believed to be Adam Levine for the duration of their relationship. She cited his petite body and high-pitched voice for the confusion, even though Worthington was always upfront about his identity. "I thought he was using a fake name to fly under the radar," she said. She realized his true identity after he told her "for the last fucking time, I don't know and never have known Blake Shelton."

After ending that relationship, she moved on to 21-year-old Lennie Quinn. Having practiced archery since he was a child, Quinn introduced himself to Harper by telling her that she "definitely hit the mark." He took her horse-riding for their first date, allowing her to groom the horses before embarking on a five-mile horse-back ride. "It was really romantic, but it was also really smelly," Harper said.

She explained that, while Quinn was definitely her soul mate before their first date, he stopped being her soul mate the moment she smelled horse poop. Fortunately, she met her third soul mate when she arrived home from the date, running into 27-year-old Mike Drake outside her apartment. Drake had just moved into the complex and asked Harper which key opened his mailbox. "I know it sounds crazy, but I could feel him fall in love with me two seconds into the conversation," she said, adding that their connection was secured when she brushed her finger against his to show him the proper key.

She quickly learned that he was married and had two children but didn't want a "trivial thing like timing" to stop her from being with her soul mate. Harper began mailing love letters to Drake, cutting words out of magazines and gluing them to a piece of paper to make the letters even more romantic. She also routinely sat outside the door of his apartment when she knew he'd be leaving for work. Eventually, Drake filed a restraining order against Harper.

But she didn't give up on love just because her relationship with Drake didn't work out. Harper quickly  moved on to 45-year-old fitness trainer Gerard King, a divorced father of six. She met him at her gym, smiling and telling him, "You could be my father."

Harper and King began dating, becoming physically intimate almost immediately. While Harper enjoyed King's experience and ability to take her to expensive restaurants, she found his children annoying. "He took me to a family reunion. I didn't realize one person could spawn that many people," she said. "And they were all so loud."

She let King take her out and buy her gifts for six more months before dumping him, hoping to find a rebound at close friend Ashley Davy's Halloween party. There's she met Green. "The rest is history," she said.

She hopes to be married by Christmas, just in time to conceive her first child. Harper has always wanted a "fall baby." "Everything is falling into place like I always dreamed it would," she said, adding that she hasn't spoken to Green in the past few days because he is working over-time. "I think he's saving up for my $20,000 engagement ring."

At press time, Green could not be reached for comment.

Ed. Note: I don't know what it says about me that this is what I do in my free time. 

Anatomy of My Cat's Day

7 a.m. - I should wake up the humans. If Gideon doesn't move promptly, I can stick my butt in his face until he realizes the proximity of his nose to my anus. Then he'll begrudgingly rise.
7:30 a.m. - If I rub my face against Gideon's leg enough, he'll pick me up and put me on his shoulders. He'll carry me around as he makes coffee and tries to wake Sam, which even I can't do on most days.
8:30 a.m. - Sam has left for work. I watched her through the window as she got in the car and cursed at the morning sun. She is such a character.
10 a.m. - Gideon and Sam are both gone now. This means I can attack those innocent mice Sam brought into the house undisturbed. (Ed. note: These are catnip toys. I have not been giving my cat actual mice to eat/chase.)
10:04 a.m. - I have destroyed the mouse. Now I sleep.
12 p.m. - Time for lunch. Wait, is there a vacant space in my food bowl? That must mean there is no food in the bowl. I will fast in defiance.
1 p.m. - Now I sleep again with my face to the sun. It really complements my yellow mane.
3 p.m. - I rise from my nap. Is Sam home yet? No.
3:30 p.m. - That damn mouse is staring at me again. I better attack it.
4 p.m. - That was tiring. I think I'll sleep now.
5 p.m. - Sam is home! Now I'm going to sit on her back as she plays a game on her phone. She'll love it.
5:30 p.m. - She's trying to take selfies with me again even though she knows I'm having a bad hair day. I'll look angry them. I hope she doesn't think it's cute
7 p.m. - Gideon is home! This means I get wet food now.
8 p.m. - I have given the humans enough attention now. I should sleep more to show them how little I care.

Cooking with Sam and Gideon! (Again, and with more burned things this time!)

 Last night, I suggested to Gideon that we make the can of cinnamon rolls I impulse-purchased a couple days prior. To spare you all the annoying exposition, I'll cut to chase:

It was a disaster. 

"Oh, Sam, how can you screw up cinnamon rolls?" you say. "It can't be that hard; the instructions are on the can." You have made a fair point but have also grossly overestimated my attention span and my knowledge of how cooking works. Before I put the cinnamon rolls in the oven, Gideon took a photo of me holding the uncooked dough to document our endeavor. (At this point, he still had faith in my ability to bake and generally function properly.) 

 

"Woah, are those cinnamon rolls still attached? Aren't you supposed to separate them before baking them?" you ask. Why, yes you are. Why didn't I take the time to separate the cinnamon rolls and place them into a round baking pan, allowing them to all bake through at the same time? I have two reasons for this decision:

1. We don't have a round baking pan.
2. I didn't want to.

So I plopped my cinnamon loaf in the oven, believing it would be ready for consumption in the 8 to 10 minutes specified on the package. Five minutes passed. I checked the cinnamon loaf, removed it from the oven and deemed it too-doughy. Back in the oven it went. 

Five minutes after that, the top of the cinnamon rolls were slightly brown but the loaf seemed to have baked perfectly. Basking in my glory, I asked Gideon to put the icing on them so that I could continue to scream obscenities every time Adam Levine spoke on The Voice. He did. We dug in. 

It was a disaster. The dough clung to the loaf like melted provolone, and even though we had already put the icing on the rolls, I decided we had to put them back in again. Before we did, Gideon cut off the cooked pieces to avoid burning them. (I would not have thought of this. I know because I tried to separate the half-cooked cinnamon rolls instead, causing a minor burn on my left index finger.) Then, we went on the balcony to talk.

By the time we had the sense to return to the kitchen, the icing had crystallized onto the chewy, sticky cinnamon rolls. I waywardly chose to taste the crystallized icing, and I learned that it does not taste good in any sense of the word. I rationalized my decision by choosing to blog about it and warn all of you. So now, instead of being the dumb woman who overcooked a cinnamon loaf with icing on it and then tasted the burned, crystallized icing, I am a martyr who has prevented others from suffering a similar fate. Praise be unto me. 

Here is the photo Gideon took after the cinnamon rolls came out of the oven for the last time: 

I know I look happy, but I was keeping a strong front for the cat. It was a disaster. Please zoom to see how disastrous this truly was.

I learned nothing from this except for how disappointing it is to expect delicious cinnamon rolls and then to eat burned, crystallized icing instead.

Cohabitation Probs: No Probs?

I created the segment "Cohabitation Probs" a month or so ago. When I did this, I intended to update it quite regularly. But Gideon and I rarely have problems living together; even if we have a messy break-up during which I slash my own car's tires to make a point, I could see us still living together. Why? We cohabitate so well. We are both clean people and our work schedules allow us to see each other enough that we actually miss each other and value our time together. Honestly, though, the "clean" part of the equation is the most important to me.

I once dated a man whose apartment was so messy that there was only one way to get anywhere in his apartment. He also collected way too many things, from old newspapers to McDonald's toys. This stuff - I usually hate using the word "stuff," but it is so true in this case - permeated his entire space, spiking my anxiety more than that time in 2007 when Veronica Mars was cancelled and I spent two months mourning it and writing hate letters to Dawn Ostroff, head of the CW network. At one point, I began slowly removing trash and other stuff I deemed trash, hoping to clean up his place slowly without him realizing it.

I am aware that this is kind of terrible behavior, but if you saw all those sad, abandoned pizza boxes slowly realize they would never make it to the trash with all their friends, you would have done something about it, too. Of course, you could argue that the pizza boxes eventually created a pizza box community, forming their own trash heap in what should have been a living space. Really, I admire their courage and determination. 

After this experience, I vowed to never date a messy person again. "If some guy brings me back to his place after a date and it's really, really messy," I told myself after breaking up with my ex-boyfriend, "I will definitely not sleep with him. Unless he's Idris Elba." (Idris Elba is the exception to every rule I live by, including the one that prohibits me from driving with my feet. Don't judge me. He is very, very attractive.) 

So I definitely lucked out with Gideon, who cleans up after himself habitually. Our current rule - though he follows it less strictly than I do - is that the first person home each day does minimal cleaning, keeping the house consistently tidy. I let him get away with not doing the dishes occasionally because, like my dear Idris Elba, he is very, very attractive. 

Though I would not break my no-driving-with-your-feet rule for him. That's for Idris and Idris only.

Belated Everything

Last week was super busy. I think I literally lost my head at one point; fortunately, a nice man found it and turned it in to the local police department. Police officers said they identified me by my red wine stained lips, though I suspect it helped that I spoke only in puns. Dental records might have been useful, too, but that's just boring.

It's a shame that I was too busy to blog, because I turned 23 last week and really could have used another medium for people to tell me how awesome I am and how happy they are that I'm still breathing in 2014. I have had a history of terrible birthdays, often finding myself in the emergency room or just crying in my bedroom on my birthday. True story: When I was turning seven, I hosted a slumber party for seven of my friends prior to my birthday party the next day. A brown recluse spider bit me in three places on my arm, forcing me to spend my birthday crying hysterically as the nurse searched for a viable vein to put the IV in. It was one of my better birthdays.

These are the flowers.

That said, this birthday was very nice. I went to work and one of my coworkers took me to lunch, where I ate really fattening, delicious pizza. Then, my other coworkers gave me a card and a cake and sang to me. When I returned home, I drank wine and drunkenly ate part of the birthday cake Gideon bought me the night before. (I was glad he didn't bring home candles or anything because I ate all the pretty parts of the cake. It would have been a terrible photo had he wanted one. I imagine I would have been staring into the camera with my candle-lit wine eyes, chocolate icing slathered about my face with a fairly demolished cake in one hand and a chocolate-soiled fork in the other.)

 Gideon made spaghetti, broccoli, garlic bread and salad when he got home. We spent the rest of the night watching Gilmore Girls and playing Farkle, which sounds super boring but was really fun and relaxing for me. Also, my mom sent me some really pretty flowers at work.

I had Friday off, so Gideon and I went to this amazing Italian eatery in Eureka Springs called Ermilio's. It is all I ever dreamed of and then some. The pasta. The gorgonzola sauce. The gorgonzola-apple bread. The regular bread. I just drooled all over my computer writing that, if that tells you anything. He also bought me chocolate cake there, which was about as delicious as the most delicious chocolate cake in the whole world. I have absolutely nothing snarky or sarcastic to say about this place; the food was too good for me to speak of it with any sass, implied or otherwise.

Honestly, the birthday was so great that I can't really talk about without gushing. I am pretty lucky to have all I do.

That said, I'm sure I'll be back to form (read: cynical and sarcastic) tomorrow.

This is a cute photo of my cat. 

Work work work?

Some days I am absolutely amazed at my luck in life. This amazement usually depends on how my work day goes; while I almost always enjoy work because of my coworkers, the articles I write that day can make or break my mood when I get home.

Yesterday, I wrote an article about a local lieutenant retiring from law enforcement after 35 years in the business. He told me several crushing stories from his tenure, one involving the suicide of a 12-year-old boy. The boy shot himself in the head and left behind a note simply reading, "Tell Mom she's a bitch." The lieutenant told me that when he pulled back the sheet to collect evidence from the boy's corpse, he initially saw his own son - who was 12 years old at the time, too - under the sheet. "I had to tell myself that it wasn't my son," he told me, his eyes hardening to fight back his emotion. "When I got home that night, I hugged my son and told him that if he's ever having problems, he can talk to me. That if something goes wrong, he can talk to me about it."

I found his story bittersweet. It made me think about how everything we do and everything we experience in life brings us to an epiphany about ourselves. These experiences help us figure out how to manage ourselves in often impossible situations. I haven't always been happy, spending most of my college years in a depression so deep I didn't even realize I was in it. But that's not a bad thing. It's a character building thing.

Today, I am writing an article about a special needs girl who was voted Homecoming Queen locally. Everyone I have spoken to has praised the girl, calling her "sweet" and "kind" and "hard-working." They described her attitude and personality, not the way she looked in her formal dress. The only physical feature they have discussed is her smile, which is always present even in the most unfortunate situations.

I found this story heartwarming, because I am not Satan or Pete Wentz from Fall Out Boy (basically the same person, if you ask me). No one I spoke to about this girl seemed to speak well of her out of pity. She seems like a legitimately positive person, which is often difficult for people who do not have mental disabilities. I know it is for me, at least.

My job is wonderful. I learn something new about myself and the world every day. Days like today make me feel so incredibly lucky to have a gift (writing, though I am also quite talented at writing dirty haikus and dancing like no one is watching) that I can utilize to share other people's gifts and experiences. It's why I wanted to be a journalist. It's why I keep doing what I'm doing.

He Said, She Said: The Day We Met

A couple days ago, I hinted at a future blog post that I would need Gideon's help with. He finally came through, allowing me to be much less vague than I'd like to be. (I am a mysterious creature, I'm sure.)

I had the idea a week ago to start a segment called "He Said, She Said," in which Gideon and I both write an individual account of one of our milestones. I wanted to start the segment where we started: the day we met. Before I transcribe Gideon's narrative, I feel it necessary to add a photo taken that day. This photo, you will see, negates Gideon's assertion that I had short hair when we met and proves that I am always right about everything. (Just let me have this one, guys.)

This is me and my friend Ryan. He will be important to my story but is not mentioned in Gideon's.  He is less blurry in real life.

HE SAID

My memory is a badly rusted bear trap -- cruelly trapping historical factoids in its unyielding grip but allowing names and faces to wriggle through with ease. This leads to amusing paradoxes like being able to recite the chronology of American Presidents or various English succession crises mid-coitus, yet unable to remember the names of professors I saw daily last year. My extended warranty on my brain is defunct, so I'll just have to make do with this mish-mash of clarity and shadows.

Meeting Samantha has long since passed from fresh, in-the-moment memory to old, hyper-analyzed and re-remembered memory. In reliving memory, I think you actually erase the experience and replace it with a facsimile memory. The first or second generation of relived memories are essentially the same. But just like a re-copied page gets fainter and fainter, so too (Ed. Note: Gideon wrote "to" instead of "too," but I am smarter than he is so I edited it.) does the re-visited memory. Eventually, the events are just a palimpsest for your current self to copy over. That being said, that day is now a vague setpiece that I have forgotten, re-written and re-arranged to contextualize meeting Sam.

That was a shitty, shitty day. I was being honored at the state capital for doing satisfactory school work. I hated everything. April of my senior year was the high-point for my cynicism and bitterness. I had become disillusioned with my school (more self-congratulatory masturbation than academic preparation). I had become extremely dissatisfied with religion and was flirting with radical/angry atheism. My excuse for a father (peace be unto him) was trying to use this to cut out my mother...somehow. I cheated him out of this by forcing him to be in the same picture with her. Anyway, I was an angry, bitter person. I had a nice suit on, too. Suddenly, a woman accosted me.

"Hey!" she shouted. "I'm looking to add friends to my roster."

"That's nice." I looked away.

"Yes!" she rejoined, not knowing my subtle clues for disengaging. 

"Would you like to be considered?"

She was tall, almost reaching my throat with her face. She was blonde -- short hair kind of bobbed. (WRONG.) She had prominent cheekbones, hinting at some non-European ancestry. I remember her smile best. It was three-quarters genuine charisma and one-quarter acting. I liked it.

What followed is a dreamlike haze of probables and possibles. I think I, being half-disarmed and half-charmed, engaged in a conversation about film and music. Her love of bad cinema and my love of mocking bad cinema intertwined. At some point, I escaped to get lemonade from the catering table. I handed her my iPod classic as a conversation bookmark (also as a guarantee that I wasn't simply running away). She didn't steal it, which was nice. I think I inadvertently met her paternal grandparents at the food station, but I wouldn't be formally introduced for a few more years.

That's about all I remember. We gave each other our real names so that we could find each other on Facebook. "I'm addicted to stalking people," she bragged. But that was it. We started communicating online not long afterwards. I went off to shake Mike Beebe's hand and tolerate my awful father and his awful family and my awful schoolmates and everything. She disappeared, becoming an aspect of my mind and memory -- reinforced by Facebook pictures and emails.

SHE SAID

My mother and I got into a huge fight the day before I was supposed to meet Governor Mike Beebe at the Governor's Mansion. I remember what it was about, but it's not really important to this story and I don't feel like re-hashing something that doesn't matter anymore. (I love you, Mom!) Still, we both agreed that it would be best if just me and my nana attended the event.

I was valedictorian of my small high school, which was actually an accomplishment considering how intelligent and talented the salutatorian, my friend Ryan, was. Ryan and I were the only two students in AP Calculus, giving us an interesting bond. When I arrived at Mike's house (yes, we're on a first-name basis) I immediately searched for Ryan. We both stood in line, shook the governor's hand, took a photo with him and his wife and dispersed to get lemonade and finger sandwiches.

Sitting at a table with our free food, I was telling Ryan how I am "so suave" and that I will talk to anybody with no problem. In fact, I said, I could pick up pretty much any guy in the room. "Fine," he said. "Hit on the next person to walk through that door." Not one to turn down a challenge, I immediately stood up and waited for someone to walk past. An elderly man in high-waisted pants walked past the door-frame; Ryan and I winked at each other but silently agreed that I should hit on someone with working parts. Two women passed, but I am not a lesbian so I continued to wait. 

Then I saw a way-too-tall man dressed in all black walk through. He had dark features, which I immediately liked. He wore a nice suit and looked like he was having a bad day. Of course I approached him.

"Hey man, what's up!" I exclaimed far too loudly. He said something along the lines of how he was just meeting the governor. I could tell he was trying to brush me off, but I'm not one to be pushed away if I really want something. 

I told him that I loved Howard the Duck and asked him what films he liked; I can't remember his response too well, but I'm sure he responded with some pretentious Kubrick film. His eyes still darted from me to the floor, trying to subtly tell me to go away. I did not go away. 

"What kind of music do you like?" I asked, slowly moving closer to him to prevent him from backing away. He listed off several bands - some that I liked very much - and deemed his musical taste "eclectic." Then, he told me that he wanted to go get some lemonade but would give me his iPod to look through while he was gone. 

After he had left, I started to think about what I was actually doing. This guy is crazy. He just gave me his iPod. I could grab my nana and scram and he would never have his iPod again. Should I do that? No, I have my own iPod. BUT IT'S NOT THIS BIG AND SHINY. Calm down, Sam, you don't need his iPod. Wow, he's actually attractive. Do I have to fart? Oh, I can't fart if he's going to come back here. Then he'll tell all his friends about the girl he met at the Governor's Mansion who farted. 

I saw him ascend the staircase and, as he was walking toward me, noticed that he seemed to be in a slightly better mood than when I had begun speaking with him. We exchanged information and that was that. 

Now we are crazy in love and we live together, all because my friend Ryan dared me to hit on the first person to walk through the door. 

I'm the luckiest person I know.

The Evolution of Sam

I called my mom last night to tell her about an issue I've been having with one of my neighbors.

"Hey, I'm kind of worried about something and I don't want you to freak out because I'm freaking out and I don't know if this is something worth being upset over yet," I told her. I heard her breathing a little bit heavier on the other end of the line, as if she was concerned about the issue even though I hadn't told her what it was.

"Oh," I said. "I'm not pregnant."

"Okay!" she exclaimed.

I think I could feel her breathe a sigh of relief, likely because everyone who knew me pre-college (and during college, too, if I'm being honest) has always assumed that I would make a terrible mother. It's probably because I make a lot of jokes about dropping babies and have often sarcastically exclaimed, "I'm a woman! All I want in life is to be a wife and a mother!" (I'm sure there's something about my abrasive personality in there, too, but I don't want you to see how terrible I can be. No, I am perfectly kind and gracious and anyone who says otherwise can go jump off a cliff.)

In all honesty, their reservations are not unfounded. I spent much of my childhood and adolescence asserting that I would never have children or marry; in my mind, a woman who resigned herself to stay at home with children would never be a successful person. And I was abrasive about this opinion, much more than I should have been. For a woman who didn't want to be judged for having career aspirations over family goals, I certainly judged others who disagreed with me harshly. I would regret this, but I don't believe in living a life of regret. That was simply an opinion I once held that I no longer do.

When I went to college, I became close friends with another woman, immediately assuming her to be a feminist, too. We talked about horror films and music but never serious issues. The day we did, I realized how judgmental I had been and how much I wanted to change that. We were going to see a horror film and she was driving. Somehow, we got on the topic of stay-at-home moms. "Everyone expects me to marry someone and pop out babies," she said. I laughed and said that was ridiculous. Then, she simultaneously changed my perception of her and myself with one sentence. "Eh, if it's all you've ever known and it's what you want to do, I don't see a problem with it," she said.

Various thoughts clustered in my mind. Should I rebut what she is saying? Do I want to fight that fight?Do I want to end a friendship over a fundamental disagreement? Why do I even care so much about this? If she wants to marry and have children, isn't that her right? If any woman wants to marry and have children and it makes her happy, isn't that her right? 

Everything changed for me in that moment. The person I was in high school was slowly dying away; I was near the end of my three-year relationship at this point and beginning to figure out what I really wanted to do with my life. Still, this conversation made me realize that I didn't mind if other women wanted to take a different path in life than I did. It made me way less judgmental. It made me a better person.

And then I broke up with my boyfriend and then I started dating Gideon, which is where things get a bit messy. Assume what you will from what I will soon say, because I'm not in the business of scaring off my live-in boyfriend with assumptions about our future.

I am okay with getting married and having children now. I think that everyone is married by the need to find themselves and to be happy, and I've been struggling with this the same way everyone else in the world has. The snap judgments I made as a child and teenager existed to help me develop a sense of self. I wasn't fully formed then; I'm not sure if I ever will be. I do know that I have evolved and will continue to do this as long as I live.

Now, I don't mean to support those people who say, "Oh, you'll change your mind once you're older" to young women who disagree with traditional marriage and child-bearing. I support women who want to have children and I support women who prefer to remain childless.

Mostly, I support being happy, however you might find this happiness. Unless you find it via yellow tabby cat genocide; then, I'll have to be all judgmental again.

College sucks, recent grad says

As the former editor-in-chief of my college's newspaper, I was recently asked to write a "Life After Lyon" column. And since Gideon has been lazy about helping me with a blog post I'm super excited about, I'm going to share my second column today. I didn't give it a headline, but I imagine the editors will use something like "College sucks, recent grad says."

Here it is:

When you're in college and stressing out about an exam, there are people who will inevitably tell you to "wait until you get out into the real world." These people insist that it's much more difficult to hold down a job and pay bills than to live in a dorm and go to school.

Screw these people. As a recent college graduate who struggled with everything from weight issues to anxiety attacks in college, I can tell you that it definitely gets easier in the dreaded "real world." In the real world, you don't have to come home from work and study so that you can be prepared for work the next day. In the real world, you don't have to take on student loans just to live comfortably. The real world is a haven, and I am quite upset with everyone who told me anything to the contrary. 

Last year at this time, I was balancing an internship in Lyon's marketing and communications office, a job in the writing lab, an editing position on the school paper and 15 credit hours. It was absolute hell. I remember finally getting home after a long day at work and thinking to myself, "If this is the best time in my life, I should probably start slowly poisoning myself with arsenic." Fortunately, I was too poor to afford arsenic (my jobs earned me enough revenue to pay Lyon tuition at the end of the semester and really nothing else) and eventually graduated into the real world I had heard so much about.

You know what's great about the real world? I can eat pizza for dinner every night. I can comfortably pay bills with the help of my boyfriend. Most importantly, my salary allows me to put back $500 a month, which will help me pay back all those student loans I took on during the alleged "best time of my life." 

I guess what I'm trying to say is that you don't have to take something to heart just because it comes from someone supposedly older and wiser. Obviously I am not including myself in this category, as I am only 22 and know little more about life than any of you do. (That said, if you need advice on setting up Source Gas billing, I can totally hook you up. That is my one true life skill right now.) 

College is tough. Don't let anyone tell you it isn't. Don't let anyone devalue the struggles you might be facing right now. Just know that it will get better. Someday, you'll be able to come home and hold your adorable yellow tabby cat and not have to worry so much about what the next day holds. 

Until then, try to live for today. It's not easy; I know that well. Still, I think it's important to take life one step at a time. While college is a difficult step, it is minor in comparison to the rest of your life. I know this because the day after I graduated from Lyon, I no longer cared about three quarters of the stress I had carried with me for four years. .

It gets better when you get a job and graduate from college life, I promise. And if it doesn't, I can at least promise that you'll get paid to be miserable, which is a hell of a lot better than the alternative.

This is actually kind of timely for me, because today I went to a work event and interviewed some people from Pulaski Tech College. They asked me how I enjoyed college and I laughed and said, "I enjoy it now that it's over." 

Seriously, college is the worst.