Say "YES" to Drugs

I was doing what every normal person does.

Nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing that made me use my super human strength. No saving people from a burning house. Nope. I wasn’t doing anything impressive. Although receiving a medal of valor would be nice, I would be more likely awarded a medal of stupidity.

I threw my back out.

Many of us have been here. We’ve all experienced this mind numbing pain. The kind of pain that makes you shout out various colorful obscenities. I think I even made up a few. It’s the kind of pain that will cause the average person to crawl to the street corner and beg for illegal pain killers. Any kind will do. Really. We'll pay high dollar.

I was getting ready to go have lunch with a friend.

And since that’s what I was doing, I’m blaming him. It’s all his fault. If I wasn’t leaving to meet him then this wouldn’t have happened. If he hadn’t selfishly asked me to lunch then I wouldn’t have been laid up and out of commission for the past 12 hours. Sounds good, right?

Ok, maybe it’s not his fault. Plus he’s the one who gave me the pain killers. Which I have enjoyed. As I type this, I have no feeling in my body and life is good. Of course it’s 4:30am, but somehow I’m okay with that. I think I would be okay with just about anything right now.

I’m leaving town tomorrow and the thought of being on a plane for several hours makes me cringe. I guess I can get through anything as long as I have these pain killers and my iPod. I refuse to be in pain while on vacation. So as soon as my plane lands in Tampa, I’ve instructed my friends to make sure that I am continually supplied with adult beverages. Those mixed in with the drugs should make a memorable trip.

Yes, I still haven’t revealed how I gracefully threw my back out. That’s because I’m avoiding you. I’m trying to avoid the public humiliation that I know for a fact is headed my way. But since the pills I just took are starting to make me tad loopy, I best end this blog before I admit way more than how I hurt myself.

Ok, fine. I was putting on my shoe. There. Happy?

I was sitting down and putting on my left shoe. How uninteresting is that? So while I’m on my mini vacation in Tampa, feel free to make up a more exciting story. One that I can tell people without being snickered at. Maybe one that might cause me to be featured in the local newspaper.

Ok, I’m starting to see double and my brain and fingers have lost their connection. Gotta go.

Taboo: Chapter Three

As I sit here on my couch on Christmas Eve, I find myself confused.

While I’m expected to be celebrating the birth of Jesus, the only thing running through my mind is a long list of unanswered questions.

My questions are not original. I’m not the first person to ever have thoughts that challenge mainstream Christianity. My struggles with God are common with yours, but your struggles aren’t the ones that occupy my brain. This is a customized battle. One that God and I have learned to know well. The script and dance steps are well rehearsed. The same questions and doubts are always brought into the ring, but at the end of the day I return to my post and forfeit. Relinquishing my need for answers due to frustration, tiredness and wariness. I have, however, discovered through this process that having too many questions hinders your ability to hear the answers.

I believe there is a difference between religion and spirituality.

I’m not in search of religion. Religion is easily obtainable. I have a religion. I go to church. I’ve maneuvered myself through all the appropriate ministries and have felt temporary fulfillment through them. Spirituality is something that grows way deeper than just memorizing John 3:16 and repeating it enough times until it makes sense. To me, it’s a more complex level of consciousness and connectedness to oneself and to God. I have been fascinated by spirituality for years, but it seems my analytical behavior prevents me from experiencing it fully.

My life is surrounded by people of all levels of belief. From die-hard Christianity to atheism. When I was about 10 my father decided that our family would stop going to church and thus turn against his strong southern Baptist upbringing. Growing up he would never explain to me his reasons because he believed that I needed to decide my own path and not be restricted to his. Although his intentions were good, giving me “free will” left me dangling, unsure and without direction. As an adult I’ve asked about his outlook on God, but he is still silent. He still will not explain what happened all those years ago. Since I’m no longer a child, I assume his reasons for not being forth coming has changed. I often wonder if he fears my judgment while the truth is no more than me wanting to get to know my father. Wanting to know how his questions compare to mine. Wanting to know if we have the same fears or if he has somehow figured it all out. Because of the tiny bit of information I have managed to squeeze out, I have categorized him as an agnostic.

I believe my father’s decision catapulted my spiritual search.

One would view this as positive. It’s caused me to be open minded, nonjudgmental, and tolerant of different belief systems. Although I tend to stand on shaky ground about many spiritual issues, there are two things I do believe: that God exists and that we will transition into a different life experience after we die.

I think a lot of times we tend to mentally put God in a small box and project humanistic thoughts and characteristics on him. I’m guilty of doing this during my personal battles with him. At times I feel I’m fighting with a handicap. That maybe I’m not supposed to know certain answers, but yet I still ask the same questions over and over again. Not unlike my father, God remains silent. Why did God give me an analytical personality if he has no intentions on humoring me with answers? Why did he give me the ability to love a man’s mind, body and soul but yet hasn’t provided someone to receive it?

People blame God for tragedies as well using him as a coping mechanism.

Some people say they survived cancer though the Word of God while others say they survived on their own strength and positive outlook. I want to know why. If someone claims to overcome cancer “by the grace of God” then doesn’t that imply that those who passed were not in his graces?

Tammy Faye Bakker is in the final stages of cancer. She is now in hospice and weighs 68lbs. During a phone interview on Larry King Live the other night, she said that she has faith that God will heal her. That God will rid her body of this cancer and she will then be able to use her testimony to show others the power of God. Even though Tammy Faye is a person who is easily made fun of, I believe she is sincere. That she believes what she believes. Although a bit quirky, I don’t view her as a con. But I’m not a fan of hers. I can’t get past the eyelashes and the too-bubbly personality. Nevertheless, if it is true that God expects us to have faith in him and spread his Word, then Tammy Faye has done way more than most of us. If she’s expecting herself to be healed… will she? If she dies, what is our answer? That she didn’t have enough faith? That faith doesn’t matter? That it was just her time to go? That there is no God? That God chose to decline the perfect opportunity to perform a miracle in front of millions of witnesses? If she does live, will you give the credit to science or to God?

On Christmas Day my family will sit around the dinner table, hold hands and say a prayer of thanks to God. Of course it will end in the customary “…to the nourishment of our bodies.” I have many things to be thankful for this Christmas. I have wonderful friends who I hold close to my heart and a family that is incredibly supportive.

But as I sit there at the table with my eyes closed, I’ll most likely be asking the question “Who are you exactly?”

Cosmic Conspiracy

I think I was born into the wrong family.

It’s nothing against my relatives. Really. They’re great. I love them. However, I just think that I was meant for something else. Something different than this.

I think when I was born, some papers got mixed up. Maybe a baby-switch scandal. Maybe I’m really adopted and no one’s told me. I guess looking exactly like my father proves these theories wrong.

Maybe the Fertility God’s decided to play a joke. Maybe they were bored one day floating around in the universe and thought this would be really funny. Bad joke, perhaps? Little did they know that I would eventually catch on. That I would discover their cosmic conspiracy.

I think I was meant to be Royalty.

I spent the afternoon at the day spa. Let me say that again: the DAY SPA. There I was being pampered and fussed over… and loving every minute of it. I soaked it up. I think I was meant to be incredibly wealthy, have servants, a masseuse, a chef and a driver. They would all be paid an insane amount of money to make me feel like the princess that I know I am. Of course I can’t forget the cabana boy. He’s very important to my overall well being.

I don’t consider myself a high maintenance gal. I don’t require attention 24/7 from the people in my life. I’m easy to please. But I feel that what I experienced today should be experienced on a regular basis. Like every week would be grrrrreat.

I felt this conviction even stronger when I got home.

When I got home from the day spa, I was all noodley and relaxed and had this calm euphoric feeling. I was looking forward to chillin’ out… maybe watch a little television… maybe take a nap. I was all about anything that wouldn’t exhort energy. I wanted to bask in my royalty-ness.

When I walked through my front door, my house was hot. Not cool. Hot. This is not good for a princess. Princesses require air conditioning. I don’t know anything about air conditioning, so I did what every unknowledgeable princess would do… I went outside and stood there staring at the unit. I guess I assumed that it would tell me what was wrong. Other things do. My printer tells me when it’s out of paper or ink. When my car is low on oil, a cute little light that says “low oil” blinks. When I’m low on gas, it even sings to me. This big metal thing-a-ma-jig in my backyard was saying notta.

This was bad news for the refreshed princess. Luckily I was able to contact my landlord. She said that she would try to get someone over. Try? I didn’t want to play my Royalty card to heavily, but I explained to her that it was FREAKIN HOT and that it would be swell if I could have some assistance. It was 95 degrees and I was inside my house sweating. A sweating princess is not a happy princess.

Long story short, a nice man came over and fixed it. He was very efficient. I bet he realized that he was dealing with a future queen.

I wish other people in my life were as observant.

Girl Power = More Power Than I Realized

I’m not really sure what "Girl Power" is exactly.

A friend of mine’s eight year old daughter likes me. I mean, really likes me. I took her to paint pottery on Saturday which only escalated her fondness for me. When my friend, the father of the reigning Miss Girl Power, inquired about her affection, she responded with the attitude that only an eight year old girl can have: “cuz she’s a girl.”

She’s all about the Girl Power. I don’t think I’ve ever known anyone who has liked me just because I’m a girl. I hope I have other characteristics that someone may consider first when deciding if they want to be my friend. I would like to think my wittiness or accepting personality would rank higher than just simply being a girl. I may not be the smartest fish in the bowl, but I hope that someone would admire my intelligence before persuing a friendship based solely on the fact that I’m a female.

She threatened my life the other day.

On Sunday morning Little Miss Girl Power’s father emailed me an invitation for an early dinner. Normally I jump at the chance to eat his culinary concoctions since they are incredibly delectable. Plus I’m growing tired of eating cereal for every meal. However on Sunday I had a scheduling issue. In my emailed response, I noted my conflict and waited for his reply. And waited. And waited.

Later in the afternoon I emailed him a second time with a sarcastic remark and within minutes I received an email saying “answer your freakin phone!” It seems that I had left my cell phone in my car the night before.

I fetch my phone and… there they were. Five missed calls from the president of Girl Power herself. Five very important voice mails that were impatiently waiting for my retrieval. How dare I not have my phone next to me at all times? How dare I miss even one phone call from her royal highness?

The first voice mail was sweet. She politely introduced herself by name and gently offered the invitation for dinner. The second voice mail was still sweet, but had a very slight hint of urgency. By the fifth voice mail… she was pissed and passed out all kinds of threats. With the sound of high irritation, she s-l-o-w-l-y reiterated her full name and the full name of her father just in case I was too stupid to realize the matter at hand. She then explained to me how I w-i-l-l be there for dinner. Will. And then she hung up. No closing salutations. No “I’d love to see you.” No “hope you can make it.” No “I hope you’re not dead.” Nothing. Just a click. I felt my ranking in the office of Girl Power rapidly declining.

Until Sunday I somehow managed to live 36 years with my life being threatened only once. Considering the places I’ve been and the things I’ve done, being threatened only once is a huge accomplishment. A triumph worthy of recognition. The first time was by a crazy man and now... it's by an eight year old girl.

Girl Power: Zero Tolerance.

I guess I didn’t realize that aggravating the social structure of Girl Power resulted in being reprimanded. I didn’t know that this multi-level organization required that I remain alert and on my toes in case my recruiter beckons me at any given second.

Like how all Girl Power members should, I quickly gathered my things and headed over to the castle. She was pleased. And that’s all that matters. She soon forgave me and we had a lovely conversation over dinner about how she enjoys chocolate covered ants much better than chocolate covered crickets.

Girl Power. It’s an eight year old's world and I’m slowly learning how to be worthy of it.

My dog smells like a corn dog.

And I’m not particularly sure why.

I walked into my bedroom earlier to grab my pair of Slipper Socks “with grippers” that I won at the company Christmas party last weekend. Ok, I didn’t really win them. Someone else did and decided I needed them more since they were a little girly. Plus they wouldn’t fit his big toe much less his feet. I had actually forgotten about them but remembered tonight when I noticed my toes turning blue due to my cold house. If I ever move, remind me to get an insulated house.

So there I was fetching my new blue socks. While I was trying to break the plastic tag thingy with my teeth, I noticed a smell. At first I wasn’t able to locate the source. I walked around… sniff… sniff… sniff. The smell was strangely familiar, yet out of place. Corn dogs? Do I smell corn dogs?

My mind raced through all the possibilities.

The only thing I “cooked” tonight was a pot of water for my hot chocolate. To my knowledge boiled water doesn’t have a corn dog smell. Plus, I don’t normally boil my water in my bedroom. I even stood under the air vent to see if it was the heater. Negative.

As I stood there in the middle of the room scratching my head pondering this weird corn-dog-smell-phenomenon, Pepper stood up, twirled in a few circles, rearranged her blanket and then settled back into her tight curled up position. I’ve watched her do this for nearly 16 years and it always makes me smile. Watching her do her thing. Watching her be a dog. Becoming a little sentimental, I knelt down to give the princess her daily quota of lovin. The kind where I cradle her head in my hands, rub our faces together and sprinkle her nose and squinted eyes with a million kisses.

Well, let’s just say I started to…

As our faces got closer, I realize immediately what it is that smells like corn dogs: Pepper. I would like to say for the record, I have never noticed her smelling like this. Consider me perplexed. Baffled. Corn dogs?

Do old dogs get a smell like old people? If so, is the scent normally comparable to fair food? When I wash her will this smell go away or have I now entered the next phase of doggie geriatrics? Is there an anti-corn-dog-odor pill that she can take for this?

Since it’s too cold tonight, tomorrow will be bath day. But wait… that means tonight I will be sleeping in the same room with a dog that smells like corn dogs.

I’m not really sure I can do that.

By Design

I’ve been exposed to the phrase “living your authentic self” through television, books and friends.

It wouldn’t be authentic of me to say that it didn’t confuse me. I guess I understand the idea, but the process is a little harder to grasp. It’s not easy to crawl out from under all the layers of self lies or the expectations placed by society. And from what I’ve experienced, “society” can mean as big as the world or as small as your own family. The size of the group does not determine the depth of damage.

We’re encouraged to dissect the labels that we place on ourselves. To go through them individually and determine if they help us or hurt us. To determine why they are there to begin with. Did we put them there or did someone else? Others may project their expectations onto us, but we’re guilty for naming them and allowing them to define us.

Like you, throughout my life I have experienced the pressure from other people’s expectations.

They expect me to be a certain way… good or bad. And I’m sure like you, I feel that I’ve been a constant disappointment. I don’t consider myself a people pleaser, but I do care how the people in my life feel about me. And often I place my own expectations onto them by assuming their feelings. Putting my misguided thoughts into their heads. And since it’s not always accurate, this creates a bad cycle of foolish behavior. I guess this means that owning the real me and giving back others the freedom of their own feelings will end the cycle and be a step towards becoming my authentic self.

Not sure how easy that is to do.

I am a person with dreams, goals, desires and needs, but at a young age I decided to rob myself. As a child I decided that it was better to take tiny baby steps instead of defining and focusing on what I truly want. Test the waters. Don’t make huge waves. Sneak in and if it feels wrong, sneak out. Go unnoticed. I told myself that when you enter with a bang, all eyes are on you and your mistakes are magnified. Exposed for all to judge, dissect and label. I thought remaining under the radar was the smart thing to do. It wasn’t.

I tend to be attracted to people who are daring. Spontaneous. Go getters. Not just in my love life, but in friends as well. They make me nervous, but it’s a good nervous. I’m drawn to their freedom. Their bravery. The way they do things without always having to mentally list the pros and cons. They don’t test the waters… they jump in. And often they’ll grab my hand before the big splash. Sometimes I’ll willingly jump with them, but I always hold my nose.

Maybe I’ve digressed from my “authentic self” topic. But then, maybe I haven’t.

There are all types of people. And just because someone is willing to take a chance and I’m not, doesn’t mean they have it all figured out. That they somehow hold the key to life long happiness that I’ve been searching for. I guess to live my own authentic life would be to accept the way I am. The way I’m built. The way I’m designed. To not view it as a weakness, but as my character. But then there’s always the argument of whether or not it was placed there at birth or if it was placed there by life experiences. Internalizing other people’s actions or words.

Why can’t we allow our positive experiences be our life compass? Why do we latch onto the negative? If someone allows the positive experiences be their guide, does that mean they automatically live an authentic life? If they are generally happy and love their life, does that mean they don’t have to walk through the hard stuff like the rest of us? At what point are you able to look in the mirror and know you are authentic? Maybe I’m too busy looking for the on switch and I just need to realize that it’s a life long process. An inconsistent process that can be constantly conflicting. For someone who aches for security, unpredictability isn’t good news.

Once again… I have more questions than answers.

However, I can authentically say that always having a list of questions is part of my character. I may not always ask them out loud in conversations, but they are always circling in my head. This blog just surfaces a small percentage of mine regarding this particular topic. If I keep going, a novel might break out. Maybe one day I’ll ask the right questions to the right person and learn all the hidden truths.

If so, be confident that I’ll be back here sharing the knowledge.

Dear Diary

As I routinely laid my day’s jewelry in my small antique bowl, my eyes moved upward noticing the row of books I had placed on the shelf a few years back. Books that range from biographies to Paris travel guides to Robert Frost poetry. Also in that collection are my old journals. Journals that I haven’t written in or read in years.

As a child I was obsessed with blank books. Unfilled journals. I was constantly buying them. I had this idea that one day I would fill them all with words. My words. Words that I would creatively orchestrate into a poem or a personal essay. To me, my written word was proof that I was here. That I existed.

I guess I’m still that way.

All throughout my childhood I often felt invisible. Skipped over. Not worth the effort. Looking back now, that contradicts how my life really was. My parents showed me unbelievable love. I was popular with my friends. I won awards and was fed compliments. But yet I somehow still felt undeserving.

I removed my journals from the shelf, sat on the couch and began thumbing through the pages. Reading my own words written by the younger me. Remembering how I felt as I wrote each entry. Sadness. Anger. Confusion. Not unlike the feelings that motivate the writings of this older me. It’s just more alarming when it comes from the mind of a 13 year old. Somehow when you’re older, being bitter is expected.

I notice some of the entries are quite powerful. After finishing a page, there are no questions left to ask. Feelings are clearly explained. I've discovered that my words were more raw and forthcoming as a child than they are as an adult.

There are also pages full of love and hope. Ideas for my future. Wants, needs, desires. Most of which make me smile since they are totally unrealistic. I wrote confessions of love for some stupid boy and then admitting hurt when the feelings weren’t reciprocated.

I have my grandmother’s diary from the early 1930’s. She mostly wrote about school and washing her hair. She mentioned a few times about being ill and staying in bed. After she died, I selfishly and sentimentally gathered several of her old things – her diary being one of them.

I’ve read through it many times and enjoy her innocence. I love knowing her at that age through her words. However after reading my own childhood journals… I wonder who will possess them after I’m gone. Who will be the one to thumb through my personal thoughts? My words reveal much more than my grandmother ever would have dreamed.

If as a child I viewed my journals as proof that I existed, then I must let them be exactly that. No need to hide how I felt. What I was. What I am.

I suspect this blog is a mere continuation of me proving that I exist.

Drunk Therapy ALWAYS Ends Badly

I went to a birthday party Saturday night at a friend’s house.

Great music. Good food. Since I only had a few beers, I remained in a sober state. A state that allowed me to view my friends as they… well… got drunk. Which is always such a joy and a prime opportunity for future black mailing.

It’s hilarious the things people will say or admit after a few cocktails. The truth always seems to surface. The bold questions somehow don’t seem so bold. And the answers seem to spill out so easily. Wives openly discuss how their husbands fall short of their expectations and husbands complain how they don’t have sex anymore. And then just a few minutes later, they’re dirty dancing together on the back deck.

I had an interesting conversation with two friends.

A conversation that was sprinkled throughout the night. One friend is a female and the other, a male. Both drunk and both of which I’ve known for 20 years. The conversation was about my lack of a man in my life. As I sat there in the hot seat, they darted questions towards me in hopes to solve my “problem” before the night’s end.

I soon began shooting back. Defending myself against statements like “You need to figure out what you’re doing wrong” and clichés like “It’ll happen when it’s supposed to.” For the record, these are not the best things to say. It’s like saying after someone dies: “At least they’re in a better place.” True or not, it just doesn’t help.

At some point during this therapy session with my two intoxicated friends, the bold questions started to emerge. My female friend stumbles towards my ear and whispers the slurred words, “Are you sure you’re not in love with him after all these years?” The “him” was referring to the third person in this conversation. One of my closest friends. A 20 year platonic friendship.

I take a step back…

“Are you serious?”

“It’s a logical question.”

“No. Nooooo. Noooooo.”

This then takes another comical turn. He, not knowing what she asked me, says…

“Did she ask you if you’re gay?”

“WHAT?”

“Is that what she asked you?”

”Are you now suggesting that not having a man means I’m gay???”

As humorous and waaaay off mark as this was, I quickly shut this therapy session down. Short of humping the next guy who walked by, I didn’t feel I could properly defend myself. I was backed into a corner and so I began waving my white flag.

I like drunk people.

If I never take another sip of an alcoholic beverage, I’m still hanging out with those who do. They provide humor to my life in a way that is impossible without tequila.

I must say the wobbly birthday girl held her ground very well. As I told her that night, she is the most graceful drunk I’ve ever seen. Who knows how many apple martinis she had, but she swaggered with eloquence and remained poised throughout the evening.

And I told her exactly how truly envious I am.

Why I Hate Christmas

For most of my life I’ve been called Scrooge when it comes to Christmas. I’m hoping to set the record straight and attempt to defend my already questionable reputation.

Christmas is great. It’s wonderful. Really. I swear.

You can smell cinnamon cider in the air. Children are gleefully playing in the snow. People are sharing their love through gift giving. Carolers are caroling. Sleigh bells are ringing. Blah Blah Blah… You get the drift, I’m sure.

No matter who you are, you have to agree that when its Christmas time the cheese factor is pretty high. People buy sweaters that have snowmen, santas or candy canes scattered all over them. They don’t buy just one… but they buy a crap load so they can wear them E.V.E.R.Y. freakin day. And apparently large Christmas tree earrings are a must when trying to pull off the appropriate Christmas attire. If YOU are one of these people, I mean no ill will towards you personally… just your insanely cheesy wardrobe. To me, Christmas makes the world appear as if the Clipart Fairy threw up all over it.

Christmas = Presents.

I love giving presents as well as receiving them. No doubt about it. But as a kid, I enjoyed sleeping more than I did Christmas morning. While normal children wake up with excitement billowing inside them, I was that odd kid who opted to sleep in. So every year on Christmas morning my excited older brother would run into my room, disrupt my peaceful slumber, and loudly announce that Santa had visited us during the night. It would almost take an act of congress to get me out of that warm bed. One year my most thoughtful brother received a Polaroid camera from Santa. Instead of the usual Christmas routine of forcing me out of bed, he took Polaroid’s of all my presents and brought them to my bedside. Sad story, but sweet guy.

There’s a fine line between cheese and non-cheese.

If I ever do cheese, the cheese has to be so obvious that it’s understood. Make sense? The cheese becomes the joke. This I’m okay with. Of course, if ever I had children, I’m sure my house would have been adorned with all the fake snow, yard art, and animated santas that money can buy. And I'm sure the poor things would have worn snowflake dresses and Rudolf ties. Not at the same time of course…

I’m now trying to accept the cheese within.

I’ve been given more grief about my Christmas attitude than I can shake two cinnamon sticks at. I’m not one to mold myself into what other’s expect of me, but I feel I am someone who is willing to adopt someone else’s outlook if it makes sense. I may be naturally stubborn, but not so much that I slam the door in your face if you don’t agree with my point of view.

All that to say, I’m trying to find that cheesy Christmas spirit that lurks deep, deep, deep inside me. That verrrrrry tiny place where the love of a snowman tie and a candy cane sweater struggles to survive. The incredibly small corner of my heart that is reserved only for big plastic yard art and red foil Christmas trees. Like I said, I’m trying.

Act your way into a feeling.

I’ve even listened to Christmas radio in hopes to magically absorb some of this holiday cheer. Not only in my car, but I – on extremely rare occasions – have listened to it in my office. This has freaked some of my coworkers out. They don’t know what’s going on and have grown concerned about me. I assure them that my name still is Becca and I have not been abducted by tiny-stupid-Christmas-elf-aliens. Just know that the day I show up in a Christmas sweater, I’ll have fallen way over the edge. At that point, I'll be beyond saving. Run. Save yourselves.

A little too late?

As I write this, I wonder now if Christmas was the right holiday to begin my new pro-cheese life. Maybe I should have started with Columbus Day or something. A holiday less visually celebrated in order to start off slow with little pressure. Maybe make it a goal to wish at least 12 people “Happy Columbus Day”. If the day seems to be going okay, I could hum “America the Beautiful” as if it came naturally. Then branch out the next year to Fourth of July - maybe sporting a red, white & blue attire for the day while passing out tiny flags. Adopting a new holiday each year is a good idea to me. Then by the time the King of Cheese holiday is to be incorporated into the list, I’ll be better prepared.

I should have come up with this brilliant idea before I started torturing myself. One person can only hear “Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer” so many freakin times in their day before they fearl the men in white jackets coming to take them away.

Which reminds me of the lyrics of my life's theme song:

"They're coming to take me away, ha-haaa!! They're coming to take me away, ho-ho, hee-hee, ha-haaa"

The Letter

Forgiveness. What a crazy word.

I hear it thrown around all the time as if it is something easily obtainable. As if doing it is as easy as saying it.

“I forgive you.”

Like most things in my life, the more I think about it, the more confused I become. It’s difficult. It’s hard. It’s saying that I will no longer allow what you did to impact my life from this day on. I release you as my burden. But the truth is… it does still impact my life. It does still remain a burden.

I sometimes find it difficult to differentiate between forgiving and just not caring anymore. Knowing me and the way I operate, not caring about something is another form of avoidance. I avoid the pain by not caring and putting a pretty bow on it called forgiveness. True forgiveness would require me to take an extra step through the pain. A step that I would rather not endure if possible.

About ten years ago I was a juror in a murder trial.

Triple homicide. Three children were shot in the head while huddling in the corner on top of each other. As if protecting one another. I saw photos of their layered dead bodies surrounded by blood. Each photo taken from a different angle and distance. I heard the 911 tape of their mother screaming for help while the two murderers were trying to kill her. As I lived through each day of this trial, I heard and saw things that made me feel a level of emotion that I didn’t know existed. Those children. My God. Those sweet children. The mother survived the attack and as I watched her on the witness stand, I literally cried for her pain. I studied her eyes trying to comprehend what they had seen. Witnessed. The cold blooded murder of three of her four children.

The other jurors and I gave this murderer the death penalty. I was very pro capital punishment and walked away feeling like I had done my community a good service. I was mad knowing that this man had the option to appeal. My deep level of sadness and anger manifested itself into a need for bitter revenge. If someone had killed him right there in the court room… I felt it would be justified.

A few years later I was mindlessly flipping through the channels. I was halfway paying attention when I suddenly saw her face. The mother. I would recognize those eyes anywhere. One of the local stations was interviewing her about how she had forgiven these men who murdered her children. Forgiven them? But how? I saw graphic photos of what she experienced. I heard her screams. How can she forgive something – someone – so horrific?

I watched her eyes as I had done before. I listened to her words through my television. Her words were so honest and raw. Honorable. Moving. Poetic. I immediately gathered a piece of paper and pen and began writing her a letter expressing my respect. I admitted my confusion about her forgiveness, but my admiration of her decision. Within a few weeks I received a letter back from her. One that I did not expect to receive. One that spoke of peace. Of forgiveness. Of humanity. A letter that I will always hold on to and cherish.

Mary Hussian is an amazing woman.

She forgave the unforgivable. It took her several years, but she was finally able to find that place inside her. That peace. She no longer wanted the death penalty for this man that I had convicted in 1995. She fought for clemency, but failed. He died by lethal injection in 2003.

I’ve often wondered what it was inside her that clicked. What was it exactly that made her go from one extreme to the other? How did she forgive someone whose actions will impact her every day for the rest of her life? He killed her children execution style. How does one live through something so brutal and still manage to find peace? If forgiving someone requires an extra step through the pain, I don’t want to imagine that next level of her pain.

In comparison to hers, my life’s journeys have been quite mild. No matter how big my mountains are in front of me or behind me, Ms. Hussian is an example that forgiveness is possible. Doable. Even though I haven’t quite figured out her formula, I know that it exists.

Forgiveness.

The “Sunday School answer” says it’s for me and not them. However, this phrase doesn’t explain the process. It only explains the result. It doesn’t help me to understand how to turn “not caring anymore” into true forgiveness. It doesn’t explain that sometimes we need to forgive ourselves for not forgiving. Maybe this would release those pressures we place on ourselves and allow true honest healing.

I would love to have coffee with Ms. Hussian sometime. Forget the coffee… all I need is a hug.

The O'Becca Factor

Politics. Ugh. Why I’ve decided to write a political blog should be the eighth wonder of the world. I’ve touched on this subject before, but shied away from any particular issue. I do my best to avoid narrowing down my political opinions in writing because that will only result in exposing my utter ignorance.

So in order to not stray from tradition, I will attempt to be as vague and confusing as possible.

I’m not one to keep up with today’s headlines. Sure, every now and then I’ll catch the “top stories” at the top of the hour on CNN. I may watch Anderson Cooper every so often, but that’s mainly because I think he’s a cutie. Too skinny, but cute. One of my favorite shows is Larry King Live, but even I fast forward through most of the show.

I’m drawn to non-political stories. You know the kind… the little old lady who beats up a mugger. Or the dog who saves the life of a two year old. Or the teenager who throws her newly born baby into the dumpster. Or a highly successful pastor being caught with is pants down. Or how contaminated tomatoes are now being blamed for the most recent salmonella outbreak. Those stories, as inspirational, depressing or humorous as they may be, are what catch my attention.

I don’t watch war coverage.

I just can’t. For a couple of reasons. First, it depresses me. Second, it confuses me. I’m not up-to-date on all the players and so I tend to not know/understand what this game is all about. This is my fault. I totally take complete blame for my own ignorance, denial, uninterest... or whatever you want to call it. My excuse of avoidance can only defend me so far. This I realize.

And this makes me quite dangerous.

As I was sipping my second bout of coffee this morning with a friend at the neighborhood Starbucks patio freezing my ass off, I explained to him that reading about political issues now is like tuning into a movie an hour too late. Sure I can form an opinion on what little knowledge I have gathered, but that’s possibly a risky move since I don’t know what has happened before now. The information I receive from the media is filtered through their own political agenda and I find it quite difficult to trust. Candidates up for (re)election are only going to put their best foot forward and do whatever it takes to have me believe that they will make all the bad stuff go away.

Ignorance does not hinder my right to vote.

Should it? A couple of weeks before election day, should they hand out fee copies of updated “Politics for Dummies” books? Of course, I’m sure those would even be filtered depending on who’s shucking out the bucks.

Even though I probably know more about political issues than I’m letting on, it does scare me that uninformed people are voting for issues that may affect my life. There are people who go to the polls and shade in the first available oval because… well, because it’s the first one. Uninformed OCD people will have to perfectly shade in the first available oval all the way down the list. Or maybe they’ll shade in the first, then the second, then the third… until they run out and then start the whole cycle over again with the first. Granny will vote for anyone named “Robert” because that’s the name of her favorite grandson and anyone named Robert must be a good boy.

Oie Vey.

But I hesitantly admit… I can be just as damaging. I still don’t know who to vote for governor. I always default to the Democratic Party, but over the past few years I’ve decided that wasn’t a good idea. Defaulting can lead to bad uneducated decisions. But since I’ve missed the first hour of the movie, I guess can only do my best and apologize later.

And I’m going to completely avoid the topic of the fear of stupid people hacking into the electronic voting machines. If “they” can’t avoid people from manipulating the election results, how am I going to trust that they can prevent another tall building from crumbling down.

Red states. Blue states.

We live in America where statistics are used as often as they can. We love statistics. Red. Blue. Rural. Urban. Democrat. Republican. Americans tend to vote the way their families have. A kid growing up on a farm is probably going to vote Democrat because that’s what his family did. Same goes for a person voting Republican who grew up surrounded by the great resources of a big city. If your parents are Southern Baptist… you will be, too.

Gotta respect people who have learned to make their own decisions about politics, religion and life. Just because that’s the way your momma made the meatloaf doesn’t mean that it’s the best way. Side bar: My momma does make great meatloaf and I don’t even attempt to out do her.

Competition = Choices

I believe that all these different views are good. It creates competition which can – at times – be healthy. I wish we had more competition in life. Choices on electric companies, gas companies, schools, etc. I think it would bring quality up and prices down. But who am I... I’ve already admitted my lack of knowledge on the issues of today’s society.

I just went back and re-read what I’ve thus far typed.

If being vague and confusing and avoiding specific topics was my goal from the start, I believe I’ve achieved it. I will now put this blog out of it's misery and end it. I’ve been told I have the ability to write three pages about absolutely nothing. I can write you a short essay about the description and social importance of a mere thimble. And I’m sure it’s a talent that will amount to absolutely nothing.

There is no moral to this political blog. In order to have a moral, there would have been motivation from the beginning. It lacks insightfulness (a critique I received just this morning from my friend as we downed our hot coffee). If I were to attempt to summarize this jumbled mess, it would be to say that people need to vote. And if they don’t vote, let it be due to being uninformed on the issues and not because of laziness. Don’t vote for the fear of making the wrong choice and not because it’s out of your way.

Ok, I’m done with political blogs for now.

Insomniac

It amazes me that I’ve had the ability to come up with this many things to say in my blog. Or maybe it doesn’t amaze me at all.

So many things to write about. So little to tell.

I’m snuggled under my cozy comforter without the ability to fall asleep. I’ve tried. My brain just doesn’t seem to want to shut down. Too many things to think about I guess. How come it’s always late at night when this happens? Why couldn’t I have gotten all these thoughts over with earlier in the day?

As I lie here, typing, listening to my old dog’s deep snores, I can’t help but to think of every single issue. The good. The bad. The indifferent. All rolled up into one big ball that defines me. Who I am. Who I’m not. Who I’m going to be.

Most of these issues I’m not bold enough (or stupid enough) to mention here. And most are just too silly and shouldn’t even be using up valuable brain space.

But yet, here I am.

I’m not really sure why I grabbed this laptop and began typing in the dark. I guess I hoped that seeing my thoughts appear on this glowing screen would mean that they would then become permanent. Tangible. And there would be no need to replay them in my head again and again. My eyes are droopy and my thoughts are slurred, but I know that sleep isn’t in my near future. At least not until after I get these words out.

Words.

Words are amazing to me. They can break you. They can drain you. There are times in my life when I would much rather have taken a stabbing. They can build you. Protect you. Make you smile. But sadly, sometimes it’s the harsh words that shout out the loudest. Even years after they were spoken. Why is that? Bad words make me run. Avoid.

Avoid.

There’s another humdinger. Sometimes I’m so good at avoiding that I don’t even realize that I am. I’m usually called on it. Confronted. Told to change, but not told how. The exit door is unmarked and so I find myself just standing there waiting. Blogging.

Oh how this blog is not about you. Not for you.

It’s for me. It’s about me. It’s about that warped sense of self that seems to strangely co-exist with confidence and pride. It’s about contentment and happiness, mixed in with fear and doubt. It’s about loving my life yet yearning for more. It’s about today. It’s about six years ago. It’s about 28 years ago. It’s about how all of this will unavoidably mold itself into a tomorrow. The unknown and the uncontrolled. Into me.

It’s about thinking too much. It’s about thinking and not doing. Not fixing.

My brain is a remote control flipping through different channels. Flip-Flip-Flip. Each channel different in plot. Different genres. Comedy. Inspirational. Tragedy. One story never crossing paths with the next. Yet I’m the common thread. Funny how life can be so random, perplexing and simple all at the same time. Funny how I’m the one who probably makes it that way.

Hopefully I’ll be able to table these thoughts and pick them back up tomorrow when the daylight can expose new solutions. New ideas. New plans.

Goodnight...

My Latest Soapbox

As everyone in the world knows by now, Madonna adopted a child from Malawi, Africa.

And we all know of this on-going conflict between her and the child’s biological father, but what has caught my attention is the ridiculing of Madonna for adopting a child from another country.

People are saying things like, “There are so many children right here in America that need to be adopted. How dare she go to a foreign country. We need to take care of our own first.”

I had a relatable conversation a few weeks ago.

About a month ago I learned that my cousin (on my dad’s side) and his wife are selling all of their belongings and moving to Lebanon. I don’t know exactly their plan, but it’s obviously to help the Lebanese people in some way.

A few weeks ago I was telling my uncle (on my mother’s side) about my cousin’s decision. He became very critical of my cousin’s choice. He didn’t understand why anyone would move to a foreign country when there’s plenty of help needed here.

Two different stories. Same complaint.

I have absolutely no desire to move to a foreign country to “help” anyone. Whether it is on a mission trip, to help an orphanage, to feed the poor, to sweep the streets…

It’s just not in my heart. It’s not something that I’m drawn to and I can’t relate to people, like my cousin, who are. However, I think it’s fine if he wants to go. Go. I respect him for following his passion – no matter how different it is than mine.

See, I believe, that it takes all kinds of people. All kinds of passions. All kinds of hearts. Everyone. If we all had the same passion, this world would have ended a long time ago.

There are people who desire a child from another country. Great! That’s one more hungry, sick child in this world that is saved. Have you read up on the plethora of Chinese girl babies being tossed away because of their one-child policy?

There are people who desire an American baby. Great! I say go for it. Of course, once you adopt a black baby then everyone will criticize you for not adopting a white one. There are plenty of American babies that need to be rescued.

Here’s my point: We all have different ideas of what needs to be done to make this world, and our lives, better. We need all these different ideas.

If you had an extra $1000 and were asked to give it to a charity… which one would you choose?

Make a Wish Foundation? Special Olympics? National Association for the Deaf? Ovarian Cancer Research Fund? Girl Scouts? National Parkinson Foundation? Humane Society? Your church’s food bank?

A friend of mine who recently was given a clean bill of health after a battle with stage four ovarian cancer, just very well might choose Ovarian Cancer Research. She might see the importance of this non profit organization. She might feel that donating to the Girl Scouts is a waste of money since they rob us each year via Thin Mints or (my most favorite) Tagalongs.

Personally, I would give my money to the Humane Society. Some people might not understand why I would donate money to help a dog instead of donating it to help a starving child. Sure, I could tell you my reasons, but they really don’t matter. Some people feel that helping humans is much more important. And I’m not going to argue with them... because they are wrong. And they’re right.

They are all important and not important.

My cousin’s thing might not be helping the homeless in his community. And that’s cool, because I’m sure there are other people in his community that do have that passion.

If you complain that Madonna adopted an African baby, then prove your point by adopting your very own American one. What… don’t want to? You don’t want to save the life of that poor American child that Madonna didn’t adopt?

Don’t worry. It’s not your thing. I understand. But it apparently is her thing.

Am I making any sense here? Am I just talking in circles?

I’m not sure about you, but I need all you people that have different ideas of what needs to be fixed or helped, because, frankly, I have no desire to do about 99% of it.

The Next Level

Friendships are interesting to me.

I believe that we all have different levels of friendships. And I also believe that each level is important because it provides an avenue for friendships to grow. To deepen. To evolve. In my life there are four levels of friendships that equally play a part in balancing my life.

Basic level.

We all have the casual friendships. The people that we enjoy being around during social occasions. You laugh. You have fun. You say, “We really need to do lunch”, but you never do. It’s all surface, social interaction – which is important because sometimes you’ll meet someone that you soon allow into the second level...

Intermediate Level.

These are the people that you talk to often. You actually do lunch. Their number is in your cell phone. You call each other up for a movie or a late dinner. They tell you stories about their kids and you tell them stories about your pathetic love life. When they throw a party, you are automatically on the invite list. However, as often as you may see each other, it still remains a bit on the surface. There’s nothing wrong with surface. You need surface, because sometimes surface leads to the third level…

Advanced Level.

These are the people who have successfully passed the first two levels. They have proven a sense of loyalty to you. You now care about the fight they had with their spouse. You care that they are stressed at work. You just care more. You feel free to express your struggles, fears and concerns. You have great conversations and email each other often. They make your life fun and interesting. And sometimes, if you’re lucky, this type of friendship will elevate into the fourth level…

Lifetime Level.

These are the people that you know you will always have in your life. No matter what. These are more than friendships. They are relationships. They are what true, deep connections are made of. You understand each other. You have empathy for their problems. You feel excited for their triumphs. You genuinely feel that they are a part of you. They help define who you are. You may have differences in politics, religion, or social issues… but it doesn’t matter. You accept each other. This type of friendship gives you a feeling of freedom and acceptance. No matter how screwed up you really are or what stupid decision you just made or how incredibly lonely you really feel… they are there. They slap you when you need it. They hug you when you need it. They simply love you for you. And what an awesome feeling to be able to give that right back to them. To have someone that you can express love to freely. You would do absolutely anything for them. Sometimes life is good because of these relationships. Without them, there would be a void.

I have friendships on all of these levels.

I am lucky to be able to surround myself with witty, intelligent, sensitive, and amazing people. However, lately I’ve been affected more by the Lifetime Level. If these people are a reflection of me, then I’m doing pretty damn good. These people affect the core of who I am. They validate me. They give me a feeling of purpose. They provide me an emotional intimacy that I thrive off of.

There’s only a small handful in my last level. I like to keep things close and tight. I’m grateful for all of them, but there are two that have touched me the most this past week or so.

You know who you are and I just wanted to say “thank you”.

Exceeding Joy

About three years ago, I was approached with this question:

“Have you ever experienced exceeding joy?”

I’ve been trying to answer that question for three years now because I’ve never been happy with my automatic “no” response. I’ve turned the table and asked others this question, and it seems that the answers always fall into three categories…

• "When I got married": This is the number one response.
  
• "Children": Running in close second, people say the birth or raising of their children.
• "No": This would be the ONLY other response I’ve received and it has always come from people who have never been married and have no children.

Exceeding: to go beyond limits; to extend beyond or outside of.

I asked this question to some single friends Tuesday night as we hung out at Starbucks sipping our lattes and hot chocolate. After the question was presented, everyone sat there in deep thought. Looking up at the sky as if searching for a memory, everyone struggled to remember one experience that would qualify as exceeding joy. I would think that an “exceeding joy” experience wouldn’t be that easy to forget.

They confirmed even more the demographics of my survey results. They are single adults and their answer is “no”. One of us in the group just purchased a brand new, fully loaded truck. He said that he was VERRRY happy about his new pimped-up-ride, but he couldn’t say he was exceedingly joyful about it.

Even though I’m sure everyone can experience exceeding joy, I am curious to know why it’s always the same “when I got married” or “when my daughter was born” answers. Surely there are more memories in life that cause this overwhelming emotion.

Today was the day I changed my answer.

I’ve experienced joy. Many times. I’m joyful hanging out with a good friend. I’m joyful finding a great pair of shoes on sale. I would even consider it joy when someone else does my yard. But exceeding? No.

I had an experience today that actually had a mixture of emotions: joyfulness, happiness, amazement, humbleness… among many others, I’m sure. Being a woman, I can feel all these emotions at once.

I have a friend of several years who has been fighting multiple battles for many years. When I met her, she was at her lowest. She was addicted to very hard drugs, homeless, serious mental issues and being abused by her “boyfriend” who sold her for money on a regular basis. Our paths crossed because she was worried about her dog that was also being abused. I took the dog home and we became friends.

I won’t go into all the stories I’ve experienced with her. They are very dark and some people thought I was crazy. Literally. I was doing my best to help her without being taken advantage of. And that is quite a challenge. My unbreakable rules were difficult explaining for the 20th time to someone wacked out on crack. But even in her lowest moment, she was still a person of worth who needed someone sane in her world who believed that… because she couldn’t.

She asked me for money only once. It was for $20 and I gave it to her only as a test. A test that I – honestly – thought she would fail. I was wrong. She paid me back every last cent… she paid me with money she begged from people at various gas stations and stop lights. No matter how she got the money, this was a huge forward leap because it showed responsibility on her part and trust on mine.

She came to see me today.

I recognized her familiar voice in the hallway, “Where’s Becca’s office?” I turned around to see her standing there with a huge white teddy bear. She looks awesome. She’s been clean and on proper medication since January 29, 2006. She no longer weighs 90lbs. She had make-up on, brushed hair and a colorful sweater that brightened her face. And she’s got new upper and lower teeth that she proudly showed me.

“You look great!!!!”

“Ohh, I’ve gained too much weight, but if that’s my only problem now, I’m doing okay.”

“Who cares about the weight. You’re beautiful.”

“Becca, I love you and I want you to have this.”

She hands me this big white teddy bear that has gold wings attached to its back and a gold halo on its head.

“For me? Wow. Thank you, but you didn’t have…”

“I want you to have it. You’ve been my guardian angel and when I saw it, it reminded me of you.”

Up until today, I defined “exceeding joy” wrong.

It’s deeper than the default answers I’ve received. Or at least how I viewed them. It’s not just a one-time experience, but maybe an entire process where exceeding joy slowly reveals itself. She showed me this today. It’s the connection that she and I have. It’s going through everything that we’ve experienced and coming out on top. It’s her knowing what it’s like to think clearly. It’s me being a part of that. It’s knowing that the hundredth time at rehab worked for her. It’s finally seeing the white of her eyes, her clear skin and new teeth. It’s the feeling that I’m loved and appreciated for doing nothing more than being a friend. She is a miracle and I am amazed that I’ve had the chance to witness it.

Up until October 18, my answer was, “No. I’ve never experienced exceeding joy.” On October 19, I have changed my answer.

Do you ever misspell your own name?

As much as I hate to admit this… I do.

As you can see in Exhibit A featured above, my name is very round. Curvy. When writing it, you move the pen multiple times in the same fashion. Sometimes I find myself not paying attention and I’ll put more “c’s” in it than there needs to be. Like “Beccca” for instance. My name obviously doesn’t have three “c’s”, but my mind just wants my pen to keep going.

And when this happens, it kinda makes me look like an idiot because I have to go back and turn the third “c” into an “a” and then scribble out the last “a”. Or sometimes I’ll make the new “a” a little bit larger to cover the third “c” and the last “a”. Which makes my name completely unbalanced with normal sized letters in the beginning and then ending with a huge “a”. As a graphic designer, this bugs the hell out of me.

I can’t tell you how many times I’ll start writing a note to someone and then not be pleased with its position on the paper. Crumple it up and start over. However this is not practical when I’m at the gas station after I’ve misspelled my name on the debit card receipt. I can’t say, “Ummm, yeah. Hi. Can you reprint that receipt because it seems I’ve misspelled my name and it’s bugging the hell out of me. Thanks.”

I don’t misspell my last name however. All the letters are different. Nothing repeats. They are all different shapes. Of course, most of the time I just scribble the last two letters of it into an unrecognizable line.

Maybe that’s what I should do with my first name. Just a scribbled line.

Can someone wake up one day and decide to change their signature? I mean, it won’t match my driver’s license or social security card. Do you think that would cause some sort of governmental issue? Will the government accuse me of NOT being me? And I’m sure they won’t take me seriously if I told them that I changed my signature because I always misspell my first name.

Of course, this blog could be proof. You think? I wonder if they would believe me after I referred them to this particular blog entry. But then they’d get all nosey and read my other entries and lock me up for just being crazy and pathetic.

Ohhhhh why do I come up with questions that have no answers...

Sure hate it when I learn something about myself...

The other day I was flipping through the channels.

It was one of those afternoons where there’s a fine line between stupid TV and entertaining TV. So there I was going back and forth between “Cannon Ball Run” and some made-for-TV-movie starring either Susan Lucci or Linda Carter, when I found something actually quite interesting.

It was called “When I was a Girl”…

It’s a documentary exploring the life journeys of several well known women (actresses, athletes, politicians, authors, etc.), looking at where they are now in life and focusing on who and what inspired them when they were young. They talked about what ways their personalities evolved from children into teenagers into adults.

I don’t know about your life, but mine can get pretty hectic. Sometimes I get so bogged down with what needs to be done now that I forget who I really am… what got me here. I have forgotten that my biggest goal as a child was to own the entire collection of Barbie dolls, including the townhouse and convertible. I got pretty close to that goal, too. I even owned the Donny, Marie and Cher dolls. But then I sadly grew up.

If I close my eyes, I can remember running down to the creek near our house, taking off my shoes, walking through the cold water and feeling the moss between my toes. At that time in my life, the definition of success was catching the most tadpoles. Things sure have changed.

This TV show made me remember these things. It gave me an excuse to be able to sit back and think about fun stuff . . . when things weren’t so serious. When the worst thing in my life was when I couldn’t wear my snazzy red cowgirl boots EVERY day along with my favorite shirt that had “Becca” proudly embroidered on the back.

The documentary also brought up an interesting question:

If you could go back in time and talk to yourself at different ages, what would you say? What advice would you give the younger you?

There are a lot of things I’d like to say to the younger-Becca, that’s for sure.

I wish I had been a little more observant. I wish I had paid closer attention to what was going on around me at home, instead of putting all my energy into making sure every square inch of my bedroom walls were covered in Duran Duran, Rick Springfield, John Stamos, Michael Jackson and Van Halen posters.

I wish I had learned the value of a buck before I made the choice to collect credit cards just because they had pretty colorful designs. This would have saved me six years of working three jobs just to pay them all off.

I would also encourage myself in areas where I now know I would’ve been really good. Tell myself that creativity is not a sign of weakness, but in fact it’s something to be quite proud of. Embrace it, grow it, and let it take me outside the box.

I would tell myself to be a risk-taker. Get out there. Take a chance. Most chances are worth taking. That the only reason to NOT take a risk is because I’ve weighed the pros and cons… and NOT because I’m not worth the effort or the result. If I had realized that all those years ago, I wouldn’t be struggling so hard with it now.

I’m sure I can keep going with the “what-if’s”. But I do think that if I was able to go back and tell the younger-me these things, it would lessen some of today’s insecurities.

On this television show, these famous women also discussed the people in their lives that influenced them the most.

For me, I would have to say my Granddaddy.

He and I always had a special bond. A connection. It is indescribable. He’s been gone for several years now and I think and smile about him daily. Always will. I still hang onto his old brown leather cap that he always wore. I have a picture on my office desk of the two of us. I have an original painting of him that my uncle-the-artist painted for me. Granddaddy was the sweetest, most generous man anyone could meet. He was a man of integrity, had a quiet passion for God, and had no desire to live anything other than his simple life. No matter how scared I got or how much trouble I was in, I could count on him to love me. He loved me. Not just because I was his granddaughter, but because he knew I was worth loving. And he would have loved you, too.... just because you are you.

Memories are strange things to me.

Sometimes they are clear as day. Sometimes they are so vague that I wonder if they really happened. What childhood memory makes you smile? If you could go back for just a few hours and be five again, what would you do?

I would catch tadpoles with Granddaddy.