So, I could give you an update on all the glorious (and not so glorious) happenings in the last few days. But that would be a) sort of dull and b) not nearly as fun. (And yes, I realize a AND b are pretty much the same thing but with different words, but it’s important that I have at least 2 items when listing something and I could only think of one. Why am I struggling to make words into sentences may be answered by the rest of this post.)

I have listed 5 sentences below. 4 of them are true, 1 is false. The first person to correctly identify which are true and which is false, will win a prize- my respect, admiration and possibly a haiku. Let the games begin!

1. I have 26 hand-made Christmas cards on my desk. I have 14 more to go. I smell like a glue stick and have a zillion papercuts.

2. On Wednesday, I subbed grade 5’s. During an assembly (in which 300 kids where present), the presenters called on me to answer a ’skill-testing question’ about electricity (because apparently hiding from the presenter and taking off your keys to make it look like you’re NOT a teacher will make them more likely to pick you for the question). I got it wrong. I was the only person to get a question wrong. And honestly, everyone I ask still doesn’t know the right answer (this does make me feel better).

3. I have re-discovered a love for yogurt.

4. I fell going down stairs and apparently have a concussion.

5. On Tuesday I lost a mitten in a store. I went to the till to see if someone had turned it in. I saw it. But couldn’t take it (even when showing it’s twin in my bag) because the cashier thought that I could have ‘just found the second mitten on the floor and picked it up and pretended it was mine’. So. I have to wait THIRTY days to see if anyone claims the freaking mitten before I can go and get it. Because the cashier thinks I’m part of some international mitten scheme. Because after spending $130 in the store- it makes sense that I would be trying to scam her out of a pair of $6 mittens.

Good luck. And NaBloPoMo’ers-congratulations on getting to the end. I have about 6 weeks worth of reading in my google reader to catch up on, but I will do it!

Can I tell you something? If one more person asks me what I want for Christmas I may say a grenade launcher. So I can- wait, I’m not going to finish that sentence. It would be crossing a line. I’m not sure if it’s my cold medication or the fact that I’m just tired, but pondering the destruction I would like to create if one more person asks what they can get me to celebrate the birth of baby J, seems a bit over the top. Even for me.

Here’s the thing. For me, being asked what I want for Christmas is about as enjoyable as getting a pap smear. Because I’m not one of those people who formulates lists of what I want (and yes, the fact that I can easily whip up a list of why I should be Pope but struggle to create a list of things I would like people to BUY FOR ME, hasn’t been lost.). Besides the fact that I don’t have a zillion random ideas off the top of my head, I dislike the part where people judge what you say you DO want. For example:

Well-meaning gift buyer: Brandy, have you given any thought as to what you want for Christmas?

Me: Um no. I guess maybe.. some shoes? Or some books? I could use a new desk lamp…

Well-meaning gift buyer: What’s wrong with the lamp you have now?

Me: Well nothing really. I just think, I could move the one I have to my beside table and then-

Well-meaning gift buyer: What?! That is ridiculous! You are a fool and a scally-wag for even suggesting such a thing! A pox on your house young lady! A POX ON YOUR HOUSE!

Okay, so I exaggerate.

Seriously though, I’m not sure when I stopped really having a list of things I want. It wasn’t as though one snowy Christmas I decided to swallow a boring pill and stop imagining, stop wishing. It just feels like, with each Christmas my list of things that I want that can be bought and wrapped with a pretty ribbon- decreases. Sure, I could say I want anything from my birthday list, but I suspect if I didn’t get a diamond encrusted toothbrush for my birthday I might not be getting it now.

This isn’t to say I don’t want. Oh goodness, I want. I want another hour in everyday so I can sleep-in without guilt. I want to know what to say to those people I don’t know what to say to anymore. I want my cashier at Safeway to look like she’s not going to kill herself if I say I don’t need my milk in a bag. I want to teach a grade 2 class where everyone can tie their own shoes. I want to do nothing without feeling like I should be doing something. I want someone to uncover a lost season of The West Wing. I want rainbows scheduled every Sunday, world peace and ovens to smell less like DEATH and more like gingerbread when they are self-cleaning.

And if you can figure out how to wrap up any of that in a bow, I will stop talking about the grenade launcher. Actually, if you get me the diamond encrusted toothbrush, ( or anything from here) I will stop talking about the grenade launcher.

I promise.

(If my complaint laden post didn’t put you in the Christmas spirit, check out this lovely ditty whipped up by Evans based on the lurking post. The man is my hero.)

Lurk! The heralded blogger laments
On occasion, surfers please comment!
It takes time to write these things,
Don’t always fly by on silent wings.
Lurkers within the blosphere exiled?
Bloggers, lurkers- reconcile!
Joyful all ye who compose,
Comments are an option, I suppose.
Let us all co-exist and rejoice
Praise the medium that gives us a voice!

I’m here. And I’m writing about why I had to get wine on the way home from the grocery store.

I have something to say.

And I don’t think you are going to like it.

I’m a lurker.

That’s right- I lurk. I often read without commenting. It feels good to say that.

A few months ago, it was ‘World De-Lurking Day’. I missed it (I think I was still in a West Wing induced haze and high on the “I love you Josh” feeling that had swept over me and refused to let me go), but went back later to read the posts that people put up regarding this monumental day. People wrote about how lurking is insensitive, how it’s weird to write something and know people are reading it without responding, how a comment to say you’ve read the post really does mean a lot.

And for the most part, I get it. (I should, I once created my own ‘De-lurking Day‘, before I knew that the blogging world had already met at a Starbucks and picked a day without telling me). But part of me, has to say, I love the lurking. (And if a creepier sentence has ever been uttered, let me know).

I don’t lurk because I’m being insensitive. Sometimes I don’t leave a comment because I don’t feel like I have a comment to add. Or that I have nothing new to say. (I find this especially true when I’m the 67th commenter on a particular post.). Sometimes I don’t comment because I don’t have the right words to describe what I want to say. Sometimes I don’t comment because I don’t want to share my comment with the entire blog world. Sometimes I don’t comment because the post (however wonderful it often is) doesn’t leave a lot to comment on.

It’s easy to imagine how someone who just comments could feel like this. But I write too, so is it possible to feel the same way, that sometimes a comment isn’t necessary, or more accurately- it’s understandable when people don’t comment when I’m the one writing it? Absolutely. I think that’s why I’m getting more comfortable shutting the comments off on some posts. There are some pieces of writing where there’s nothing to say, or where I don’t feel like comments need to be on.

Now, don’t think I’ve always been this relaxed about comments. There was a time not so long ago, that shutting comments off or not getting comments would have been THE WORST THING EVER, equal to finding myself stuck in an elevator knee deep in snakes, forced to listen to S-Club 7 on repeat. I think it was only when I started getting comments that I started to really WANT them. And the more I wrote, the more comments I got, and this little cycle left me feeling happier than a school girl asked to the dance.

But then a funny thing happened, I realized that once you start getting what you want, you sometimes don’t NEED it anymore. Don’t get me wrong, I will always love hearing from you all, if there’s something that I write that hits close to your heart, if you disagree with my stance on Josh Lyman being one of the sexiest fictional characters of all time (swoon!), if you just want to tell me I’m a fool. But if you read without commenting, I like you just the same- I promise. You won’t find me putting up another post denouncing lurking, or begging for a comment.

I started writing because I had an hour to kill before I went to the new James Bond film, not for comments. Then I fell under the spell of comments and found that my joy came less from what I wrote and more from how many people left their url on my site. Now, I’m finding my way back. If you are finding something here worth reading, I’m happy. Regardless if you lurk or de-lurk, I’ll be writing.

Probably about The West Wing. But still, it counts.

I’ve waxed on and on about all the reasons I like teaching. It’s amazing to be there when they first discover how to make the color orange, understand Shakespeare, realize that a string of random letters can make a word. That’s the good stuff that stays with you and counters things like head lice outbreaks, unruly parents kids and lame pay. But there’s also another reason I love teaching. All the crap works of art kids give you. I try to throw as much as possible away because I do not have the room (or want) to have stacks of drawings of horses and rainbows around me all the time. Just imagine if everyday your co-workers gave you a hand drawn picture of them riding a horse with their favourite cousin with both of them looking like Bratz dolls. It would get old, yes? However, every once in a while a picture comes along that is too funny to recycle immediately. It must be shared because in some way, it has captured the true essence of it’s subject. Or- it makes you look ridiculous. Either way. Thus, I present to you, my latest ‘portrait’ given to me by a grade 5 student…

(click to make it bigger- twss)

The blue arrows point to my favourite part (in case it wasn’t obvious enough with the heavy shading and surface area ‘they’ take up in the drawing). The orange arrow is just to draw your attention to how close my beauties are to my neck. I’m close to being suffocated by my own boobs. Though she got my hair pretty close (I chopped 3 inches off yesterday- ON MY OWN because I live on the edge), she didn’t do my shoes justice. But, with boobs like that, how can I complain about anything in this spectacular rendition?

I’m thinking of sending a photo to the Harlequin romance publishers. I think I’ve got what they want for the next cover.

Sooooooo it’s been a ________ week. (Insert whatever word you want in there, I have a situation that would fit). A happy week? Sure, I got a cupcake. A sad week? Yep, that works too. A busy week? Check. A strange week? That fits. A memorable week? Absolutely. Productive? Of course. Lazy? Ohhh yes. There were moments of sloth-like behavior that shocked even me.

With such a week of ups and downs, highs and lows, comes a few memorable lines uttered by yours truly. None of these little chestnuts were uttered before last week and I’m pretty sure I will never say them again. (Well, I may say #3 again. If I ever see the douche bag). Let my list love begin!

1. ” I’m sorry I’m crabby, I can’t find my favourite sweater vest”. Ohhh yes. And the second the words left my lips I burst into laughter because I’m not sure which is worse- 1) being crabby over a missing sweater vest or 2) realizing that you have a FAVOURITE sweater vest. Also, I’m saying crabby now? When did that start? I’m thisclose to saying ’slacks’. I can FEEL IT.

2. “He was humming E.T”. It was a game night extravaganza earlier this week, and I witnessed one of the funniest things in the history of all game playing HISTORY. While playing Pop 5 (a better, more fun version of cranium) a guy attempted to hum “E.T”. In case you are fuzzy on what that entails (and I’m still a little fuzzy and I was there), the guy basically said “Eliotttttttt” with his mouth closed. I dare you to not try to do the same thing right now. Dare you.

3. “Of course I didn’t call you a douche bag. I wouldn’t say that to a stranger”. I’m not sure if it makes it better or worse to say that I shrieked this while on the phone. With a stranger. Named Aaron who gave my friend full-on creep treatment all evening (full on creep treatment= continuous staring and calling of name while she was out on the dance floor). Who had previously hung up on me. Is the story far longer than this? Absolutely. Is it worth sharing here and have all of you question my judgment at 3am? Not today. (But can I just say anyone who calls back to clarify that they hung up on you because they believed you called them a douche bag is in fact, a douche bag? Okay D-cat, I’m done with it. I promise. I promise.)

4. “No… I didn’t do the tequila shot alone. There was a guy…. at the bar…. he bought them” Does this one need explaining? But truth be told, there’s no way I’m sitting at a bar doing shots by myself. That’s not my style. And honestly, tequila isn’t a shot to do alone. It’s a social shot. Which is probably why we did more than one. Which is probably why I spent the better part of the next day watching daytime television (Dr. Phil! What is going to happen with that girl who went to the Middle East to hook up with the guy she met on Myspace? I’m hooked!), making sad face at my friend who suggested doing anything other than sitting on furniture complaining about how I hurt.

5. “Why aren’t more people wearing fur hats?” Watch American Gangster and tell me that you don’t wonder the same thing.

6. “I miss saying ‘cowabunga’.” Ditto the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles movie.

7. “Hold on- I’m reading the review on my favourite Babysitter Club Super Special” Um yeah. So, I mentioned it briefly at the end of my previous post but the BSC Headquarters blog might just be the greatest thing in the entire world, nay, in the entire universe. I read the whole blog in two days. Is that stalkerish? Perhaps. But if if reading EVERY SINGLE WORD ever typed at that blog makes me a stalker, then … well I have nothing to follow that. I’m just a stalker.

8. “Ahhh ha! That guy was shirtless because he was a stripper!”- Apparently men who walk around clubs without shirts are strippers and not just guys who are too hot for a shirt. This took awhile for me to understand. (My defense? It was late. Tequila had been consumed. I was dancing with my eyes closed to Britney Spears. ‘Nuff said?)

9. “He doesn’t have a mullet, it’s just longish. In the back. Middle part of the back.” In defense of someone who does not have a mullet, despite all the raging arguments to the contrary.

10. “Wait, you are an 8 year old boy and you are getting a bellybutton ring? Really?” Yep it’s true. I know an 8 year old boy getting a belly button piercing. I’m not sure what part strikes me most odd, 1) that he’s 8 years old, 2) that he’s a boy or 3) that I had to cover my mouth from giggling when he told me because he was SO PROUD. (But I suppose any boy who can convince his mom that a belly button ring is the right choice at his stage in life deserves to be a little smug).

I’m ready for a new week. Oh and one last (serious) note- I watched “Sicko” this weekend and it made me happy that I live in coldest freaking country in the world Canada. Although, Norway looks pretty sweet too.

There are moments that clearly stand out as examples of what your life is. A day that could serve as a snapshot of existence, where the holder of a photo could look down and get an idea of everything that you are about, what you stand for, where you are going. Maybe it’s the day your child was born, the day you got married. Maybe it’s the day you stood up to your boss, got divorced or kicked a bad habit. Maybe it was the day you graduated university, sang in tune to “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun” at a brightly decorated karaoke bar, maybe it’s the day you successfully argued your way out of a speeding ticket.

For me, my day was yesterday.

It was Ben’s funeral. I dressed early, swiped on some waterproof mascara and stuffed my purse with kleenex. I got stuck in traffic and arrived at the hall with 3 minutes to spare. I looked around and saw less than 10 cars. That should have been warning sign number one. Although confused, I jumped out of my car, smoothed my tweed skirt and walked briskly to the front door. A woman with cluster of pink balloons followed in after me. The pink balloons should have been warning sign number two. Instead, I look around and see a handful of old women sipping tea out of styrofoam cups and discussing where to place a large cut-out of a teddy bear. The teddy bear should have been warning sign number three. I walked quietly over to the women and asked the one who looked most friendly what was going on in the hall.

“A baby shower of course. Oh! Can you go get the door for Marie? She’s got more balloons.”

I ran and opened the door for the thankful Marie and then grabbed my phone and started dialing like mad. I was hoping to get anyone who I knew was going to the funeral and would give me some idea of what the hell was going on. Either I was at the wrong hall or had come at the wrong time. Thankfully, my brother can always be counted on to answer his phone in times of emergency. After a brief conversation (that included so much swearing that I’m sure Ozzy would have blushed), it was confirmed- I was at the wrong hall. And now, 15 minutes late. For a funeral.

I held the door open for Marie again (apparently this shower had a ‘balloon theme’, or they just really, really liked balloons) and then ran to my car. Gravel slipped quickly into my shoe and as I ran I stepped down repeatedly on two sharp chunks of rock. I let out a little shriek while opening my car door. I turned my key in the ignition and…. nothing. A brief grunt of refusal from my ‘new to me’ car followed by a frustrating silence. I tried again. And again. And again. Until I ‘flooded’ the car (that was the term used by Marie’s sister who was now bringing in cupcakes and heard me in the parking lot). I called AMA and was told that they would be 40 minutes.

I found that my waterproof mascara came in handy as I allowed myself a few minutes of deep seated self pity in the form of tears. Then I hit my steering wheel a few times (physical abuse on steering wheels almost always makes me feel better in times of distress). I dumped the rocks out of my shoe, walked back inside the hall and washed my hands (after physical abuse, washing my hands almost always makes me feel better in times of distress). I helped hold up the teddy bear sign at the front door since I was the tallest person in the hall (I think that was the first time my 5″2 self was addressed as ‘the tall girl’). I ate a cupcake (gluten was the least of my worries at this point) and told the ladies where I was supposed to be. They clucked sympathetic responses, and the one nice lady with frosting stuck to the delicate whiskers above her lip patted my hand. I said goodbye, went to my car and quietly thought of all the things I wished I would have said to Ben. AMA finally honked their arrival, gave me a boost and informed me that I needed a new battery.

I drove into the city first extremely annoyed with myself. I wanted to believe that this incident was an abnormal occurrence, something that wouldn’t be expected, a blip on my otherwise normal radar, but it wasn’t. I wanted to be shocked and amazed that I would end up eating a cupcake with a woman named Enid instead of at a funeral I felt I needed to go to. But these are the things that I do. The things that happen to me. I wasn’t surprised, in fact my first reaction when I realized I was at the wrong spot was ‘of course I am’. Not in defeat, but almost in… surprise that I expected something different. Even my brother wasn’t surprised when it became clear on the phone that I was at the wrong spot spending my time opening doors for women holding a zillion balloon strings rather than at a funeral I had wanted to go to.

The annoyance lifted as I became aware of two things- One, I had missed the funeral completely. It was over and there was nothing I could do. And two, that I apparently wasn’t a person who needed tears and funeral hymns to say goodbye. Apparently I could find a way to say goodbye with cupcakes, balloons and hand pats from kind strangers. And of course, a few moments in my car to say everything I never did.

My day didn’t go anything how it was supposed to. What I expected to happen never did, and what didn’t happen was better than I expected. A perfect snapshot of a not so perfect life. And for that, I’m thankful.

UPDATE: My google reader currently has ZERO unread posts. I can’t remember the last time it said that. EVER.

UPDATE II: I’m far too excited about this (courtesy of Jill of All Trades). If you’ve ever wanted to revisit what happened in the Second Super Special, how annoying Dawn could be with her love of health food or a detailed account of some of Claudia’s more wild outfits you have to check this site out. It feels like Christmas came early.

I suffer from insomnia. Unless I’m in a vehicle and then I suffer from narcolepsy. It’s all just part of my charm. Since I’m not curled up in my car, falling asleep as the driver gets annoyed, I’m currently having a hard time hitting up some REM cycles. I blame it on a lot of factors- one of which is the rain that’s currently streaming down my window.

Yes, the rain is falling silently, but it’s coming down quickly and without breaks. Usually I’m charmed by rain, the way it forces us all inside, yearning for soft sweaters and big cups of tea. And although I do not own a cat, there is always one present in my rainy day reverie. And a fireplace. And George Clooney (you had to know I was going to say that didn’t you?) But the weather is cold now, this rain will freeze as it falls and tomorrow as I drive to a school in another town, I will curse it using words that would make a sailor blush. My car will skate down the road weaving in and out of lanes and I will be throwing up prayers with my hands clenched at 10 and 2. And knowing this has me worried and is making sleep hard to find. But that is tomorrow and this is today.

So I can’t sleep and so far this post has no point except to remind you all that I love George Clooney. Speaking of celebrities- I just watched Mission Impossible 3 again today. I love that movie. In fact, I love it so much I also watched it yesterday. Is that a lot of Tom Cruise in a short period? Absolutely, but I can handle it- I stretched beforehand and mentally prepared with some Sudoku. In fact, I handle it so well I also watched all the special features today too. Not just the lameo stuff on the first disc, I’m talking about the heavy duty stuff on the second disc (hello Moviefone Unscripted? I’m all over that). The stuff most people skip so they can get to the good part where you see if the cast mates actually like each other by what they say in their personal interviews. And you know what I have to say after many, many hours of listening and watching the Tom?

I like him.

Stay with me now. I have to admit, I was an early Tom lover. I’m pretty sure my first words as a child were ‘cruise’ and that I paused “Far and Away” as a teen and kissed the television (Oh Joseph Donnelly I’ll be your Shannon!). I loved “Rain Man”, “A Few Good Men”, “Cocktail”, “The Color of Money”, and later “The Last Samurai”, “Jerry Maguire” and of course, the Mission Impossible series. Then there was Katie. And the Oprah incident. And the Matt Lauer debacle and suddenly Tom seemed like a nut with a strange love for ruining couches with excessive jumping and saying you liked him was the equivalent of saying that you supported genocide or loved ABBA.

But you know what? I don’t care. I like him. At least he seems happy. Granted, many could argue that it would be impossible NOT to be happy given the life he leads- but I think credit has to be given to a person who continues to find ways to make his life one that he is proud of and he seems to have done that. Of course the interviews and clips I’ve seen of him only give me a limited view of his life, and one that he can often manipulate to show himself in the best possible light- but I don’t think a person can fake the kind of happiness, the driven purpose he seems to have found. I don’t think he handled himself well with Matt- no one sides with a guy who can’t listen to the other persons opinions but I know I’ve acted poorly and gotten impatient on topics that I think I’m right about. I suppose the only difference is that they weren’t broadcast on international television.

As for the Oprah incident- I know I’m not alone when I say that love does sort of make you crazy. Especially new love, when you the idea that you’ve found someone who you LOVE SO MUCH feels the same. The sort of hazy period when the sight of their toothbrush at your place makes you weepy, when you love doing their laundry, when you find yourself counting down the minutes you can see them again when less than a day has passed since they left. Where you find that your cheeks are sore from smiling and that suddenly cheesy love ballads JUST MAKE SENSE. I don’t jump on couches when it happens, but you know what? I can see why others would. I’m not sure there is a better feeling in the world than to love someone and be so excited about it. And I would always rather watch an interview with someone who seems genuinely excited about their life and celebrates those moments with random acts of crazy than watch someone who seems so coached and utterly void of any real feeling that you wonder if they might be part robot (Nicole Kidman, I’m speaking directly to you).

So this is what happens when I turn to writing when I can’t sleep. I’ve always wondered what sort of shameful tales would come from this keyboard when the night was late and sleep was a long way off. Apparently, they all relate to Tom Cruise. I could be mortified by this but I like to save up my mortification for big events, (like when my father walks into the living room to see his teenaged daughter thisclose to the Tom’s face on the television), so I’m not going to lose sleep over sharing my Tom Cruise love. I like him. I suppose it’s all just part of my charm.

* I’m working on responding to all the amazing and heartfelt emails, e-cards and facebook messages I received today, regarding my previous post. Thank you all so, so much. So much. I appreciate them all.

I met Ben when I was 19 years old. He was marrying one of my dad’s hired hands, a girl who was an extremely close member of our family. Ben was loud. Really loud. Like he could drown out an airplane during take-off sort of loud. And he loved to laugh and joke. Within 2 minutes of meeting me he was already cracking wise about my truck. I drove a big red truck and he loved to comment on how hilarious I looked- a little blonde who’s head barely cleared the dashboard, wearing high heels driving the biggest, reddest truck ever. It looked less like a truck and more like a steamroller, painted fire engine red. He was completely convinced that you could see two things from outer space: The Great Wall of China and my big, red truck. And although I would stomp my foot and tell him that you couldn’t really see The Great Wall of China from space- that it was a myth, he would always smile and reply with ” Okay, so it’s just your truck then” and smile a great expanse of perfect white teeth.

He was the only guy I knew who grew his hair out thisclose to a mullet and still managed to look cute. A feat that I can’t imagine anyone else attempting, but something that he did that didn’t surprise me at all. It wasn’t that he was going for the mullet look, he just never went into the city to get it cut. He was much more at home on the farm, he looked happiest there. At their wedding, I played bartender and although I tried to push the drinks on him, he refused. He said he didn’t want to forget a single moment of the night. He said this as he scanned the crowd for his new wife and smiled. Then he told me I should drink my fill though, ‘academics‘ (as he often teased me I was) were better dancers after a few drinks then he winked and went to dance with his bride. I shook my head and laughed, but secretly knew it was true (at least in my case it was).

Years went by. I heard he was well, that he and his wife had started trying to have a baby this year- a mini addition to their family was what he always wanted. I was happy for him. I thought about calling to see how they were but never found the time. This fall I got a new car and put my big, old, red truck to rest. I thought of him and the face he would make when he saw me getting out of something that wouldn’t be seen from outer space. The jokes would be harder to come by, but I had no doubt he would make them, he would find them. Because that’s what he was good at, finding the funny in any situation, at making people laugh when they didn’t think there was something to laugh about.

He’s dead.

He died on Friday. Spending a few extra minutes with his wife, made him late for work. He did what we’ve all done before, sacrificed driving time to spend more time with that one person you can’t seem to let go of on a cold morning. When he did let her go, he climbed into his truck, started driving to work and ran a stop sign. He truck was hit by another vehicle and he died.

He’s dead.

I think of all the times I had him and his wife in my head and almost called but life squeezed in and I put the phone down. I think of the times their names ran through my head before I scurried on to another thought that was more pressing. I think of all the times I said to myself “I’ll call tomorrow” and never did. Because I couldn’t find the time. This week I will have the time, I will finally make the time- to tell him about my ‘academic life‘, to reaffirm that you can’t see The Great Wall from space, to tell him about my car. I’m devastated that it took his funeral for me to find a moment to share my life with him. I’m sad that I will be telling him things I want to through a prayer- in a tiny Church that will be crowded with loss and too many regrets.

Comments are closed. Writing a post like this is hard. Finding something to comment on a post like this is tricky too, so you don’t have to.

“I love you“

That phrase has probably caused more happiness (and sometimes panic) than any other three word phrase out there. I know people who have tossed and turned over when to say it (Is it too soon? Does he feel the same? What if I say it and he doesn’t say it back? And if he does say it back, is he saying it because he wants to or because DEAR GOD- he thinks he HAS to?). I know people who have dumped those who have said it too soon, gotten angry when it never got said, who said it when they didn’t mean it, and who wanted to say it so badly it hurt but never found the words- and lost their chance.

I, actually have an easy time saying it. And the best part? I mean it when I say it. I love often and deeply. Though I’m full of faults, holding back on saying “I love you” has never been one of them. I find it easy to find those words, to search for them when the feeling hits- and say them without questioning what will be said back. And for that, I’m grateful. There are however, many, many things that I struggle to say. I struggle because I don’t like how they make me feel, or how I think I will be perceived. I don’t like them because I don’t like how they sound when they leave my mouth, because sometimes things sound different when they are said for other people to hear.

My list of the “unspeakables” include….

1. ” I don’t have a full-time teaching job”. Saying that makes me feel like I failed. Although I’m subbing almost everyday, not having a full-time job feels like, well, sometimes it feels like getting the silver medal when you were the only one in the race.

2. ” I like matchbox 20″. I’m not old. I don’t wear polyester jumpsuits, nor do I believe the best dinner can be found at any buffet at 4:30pm. But I still like them. I mean, c’mon- “Push”? That was a classic. Rob Thomas is no Bob Dylan, but he’s not someone who should be avoided like the plague. (I knew a guy once who said he would never go to a matchbox 20 concert with me, which was a HUGE deal- and something I never forgot. Let me also tell you- this was the same guy who had me drop him off at the DOOR to the movie theatre because he was so eager to see “Jersey Girls” while I parked 3.7 miles from the entrance and walked through the rain alone into the theatre. I was supposed to be comforted by the fact that he had saved me a seat.)

3. “I am allergic to gluten”. I don’t like to say this. Because, I don’t like to believe it, and in some twisted way not saying it out loud makes it not real. Today for instance, I ate a croissant. Okay two. And I had a beer. Okay two.And I will feel sick for the next 24-48 hours. So sick that I will cry and for the briefest of moments allow myself to wonder ‘why am I feeling like this?’ and pretend that I’ve caught some awful stomach flu before the smartest part of me reminds the rest of me that it was my own doing. And then, I shake my head in the same sad way I do when I drink a bottle of red and wake up the next day wondering why it feels like world war three is being waged in my stomach and all the soldiers are wearing cleats. I will shake my head because I did it to myself. (For a better understanding of what it feels like to screw up and continue to poison yourself with gluten, oh so sweet gluten- read this)

4. ” I do not like Grey’s Anatomy”. I struggle with this. Daily. Ya’ll love that show. A LOT. And you know what? I used to love it and I want to like it again, but I don’t. I watched Season 1 every Sunday night and wept, WEPT when Addison showed up for the first time and Meredith was blindsided. But now… now I’m just tired of Meredith and all her complaining. I tried to watch it tonight and just can’t get back into it- Meredith: YOU HAVE A SISTER. THIS DOES NOT MEAN THE WORLD IS OVER. YOU HAVE A MAN WITH DREAMY EYES AND A ROCKING HEAD OF HAIR WHO IS ALWAYS LOOKING AT YOU LIKE HE’S THISCLOSE FROM RIPPING OFF YOUR CLOTHES HE’S SO IN LOVE WITH YOU. COUNT YOUR FREAKING BLESSINGS AND CALL IT A DAY. My feelings on this may be a bit stronger than you can imagine.

5. “Sometimes this will make me giggle harder than any conversation I have all day.”

Now that I’ve shared my list of things I don’t like to admit (and will incur the wrath of every Grey’s Anatomy fan who has ever uttered the word “Derek” while dreaming of a better life), tell me readers- what are yours?