UNWAVERING GRACE

Push forward, move ahead
Hard to do with shoes of lead
Future’s horizon calling my name
Do what I can to not stay the same

Things I’ve learned, most of all grace
Even with lead it’s pace after pace
Busting down walls, making me strong
Going straight forward is where I belong

The heaviness will lighten, I know this is true
The horizon is waiting to make me anew
The lead will loosen and fall to the side
Joy will take over and make my smile wide

Move ahead, push forward
Find happiness to move toward
Can’t grow without pain, but it doesn’t last
I will make my future much better than my past

Written by Rebecca Grace Snider

Sometimes It's Easy to Make a Hard Decision

They had pretty pink bows in their hair.

Running through the grass and falling on top of each other, the two little toddlers were oblivious to their mothers’ watchful eyes. Their playful giggling drowned out any adult conversation coming from the bench only a few feet away. As I walked past them I wondered. I wondered if their children were adopted or if they had them the good ole’ fashion way.

I’ve been having conversations like that a lot in my head lately. It seems I’ve not only noticed children more than usual, but I have found myself caught in conversations about people’s children. I’m sure this has always been the case, but in light of my recent doctor’s appointment the thought of children seem to be more front stage than usual.

I don’t have any children and my scheduled hysterectomy on April 1 permanently closes the deal. Sure, I can adopt. I have no problem with that. But there’s something about the birth of a baby. Your baby. The one who has your green eyes or your curly red hair. The child who has your smirk. Your laugh. Your bad math skills, but your artistic flair. A little you… as good or bad as that may be.

I was a little girl once.

And I had dreams. As a child I always assumed I would get married and have children. You know, the white picket fence and children’s artwork on the fridge. I’ve never married. I’m in no hurry for a bad marriage and so I’m more than willing to wait on a good one. But the children. I’ll be 40 next year and I have never, never wanted to have children in my 40’s. I applaud those who do, but it’s not something I want.

My mother asked me to put off the surgery and see if I could have a child. God bless her. She’s probably the only mother in history to ask her unmarried daughter to get pregnant. I can’t. I never wanted to be a single mom. And I can’t ask my boyfriend of less than two months to be a daddy. Plus, the real humdinger is that I’m most likely infertile anyway.

Part of me wishes I could give her a grandchild. Even though my parents would strongly disagree, I do feel like I’ve short changed them. I have never given them something that would bring them such incredible joy. I would love to be able to do that for them. But I can’t. And it hurts.

I explained to my mother my decision for having the surgery. I told her as deep as the emotional struggle is to permanently end the dream of having children, the relief I will get from having no more pain is stronger. The unbearable pain has to go. And out of this decision comes the guilt over a child that has never been born. My child.

I would be lying if I said the doctor’s suggestion was a shock. I had been contemplating it for the past couple of years. It was always in the back of my head, but I was too scared to say it out loud. The “what if’s” kept my mouth shut. The “could be’s” kept the dream alive. It took the doctor to say something for me to actually acknowledge it. To realize it. To absorb it.

And it made me feel justified.

I’m not one for radical surgeries just for the hell of it. I don’t have cancer and so this isn’t an emergency. But the early April date works in my busy schedule. I’m not looking forward to the cabin fever, but I am looking forward to after the recuperation period. I think I’ve forgotten what it was like to feel healthy. They say you never know the actual level of pain you’ve lived with until it’s gone.

As of today – Friday, March 6 at 7pm – I’m happy with my decision. I reserve the right to break down and cry at any moment. But right now as I type this… I’m okay.

It doesn’t matter if they were adopted or not.

Those two little girls I saw playing were having the time of their lives. Their grass-stained pink shirts and their messed up hair were the furthest things from their minds. All they cared about was each other and how loudly they could laugh. They don’t know how they came to be. They don’t know if they were planned or an accident.

And it surely didn’t matter at that moment. To anyone.

Milli Vanilli blamed it on the rain.

I blamed it on the writer’s strike.

It’s been a while since I’ve blogged. It’s been a while since I’ve felt the need to express my thoughts. Well, that’s a lie. I’ve actually had many moments of overwhelming desire to sit down and tell all. To let it all out without care or censorship. But the truth is… I needed a break.

I received many emails asking about my silence. It was a convenience to blame it on the writer’s strike. No, I don’t belong to the Writer’s Guild. However, as an amateur writer, I did support their platform. Plus, it seemed like a good excuse. But that excuse is now old and unusable since we’ve all happily returned to our lazy television addiction. Even though I don’t watch The Bachelor, I am glad it aired for your entertainment.

My life in a nutshell. Ok, maybe two nutshells.

It’s been a year to the date that I purchased my new home. I can honestly say it has been the best decision I have ever made... although there haven’t been a whole lot of good decisions. Like the night I drank too many homemade kamikazes while attending a midnight bon fire in some rice fields in the middle of nowhere with people I didn’t know. But that’s another story for another time.

I love my house. I love everything about it. I love it’s potential and it’s location. I have my dream list of things I will do once I win the lottery. But until then, I will continue to slyly take advantage of my friends by using them for my better good. That’s what friends are for, right?

For those who ask or wonder, I’m still unable to catch and maintain a relationship. I realize this is no shocker to most of you. If you’ve read any of my blogs, you are very much aware that I’m just not all that lucky in love. I’ve gone against my victimized instinct and have ventured out into the dating world, but to no surprise none have worked out. Once again the fear of the inevitable rejection has caused me to crawl back under the “no way in hell” dating rock. Here I will stay until someone much stronger than I comes along and proves to me that it’s okay to trust again. Until then, overdosing in chocolate and staying in my pajamas all weekend will have to suffice.

I apologize for my non-blogging activity.

Since I’ve most likely lost my Blog Queen title, I will need to come up with a new marketing tactic. Maybe a few vacation give-a-ways or gas gift cards. Of course I can always sink down to the begging and pleading level. It may work since I have no pride or shame.

I hope you welcome me back into this blogging world. I cross my fingers and pray that I my writing rhythm and witty words will win you over with it’s honesty and candor.

- Just a crazy woman

From the Kentucky coal mine to the California sun

Freedom’s just another word for nothing left to lose.

I wish I had written that lyric. A simple phrase big enough to live your life around. Something that everyone – no matter who you are – can not only relate to, but believe in. Agree with. Strive for. Wish for.

Kris Kristofferson may have written the song, but Janis Joplin is the one who gave it life. It’s her voice that makes you feel the words. Hearing about her traveling cross country with her companion Bobby would make anyone want to pack it up and head out into the sunset. See the world without a watch. Tossing your schedule out the window as you go full steam ahead into the unknown.

What is your freedom?

We all express our own freedom in different ways. And there are those who are so strapped down to life’s demands, they don’t allow themselves to even dream of their own freedom. One person’s freedom is another’s luxury.

I’ve stood at the top of the Eiffel Tower and peered into the night sky viewing the beautiful Paris lights. I’ve floated down a river in Bangkok visually taking in the enormous gold encrusted mansions. I’ve visited a small German village, rubbed elbows with the locals and walked through a several-centuries-old castle. I’ve relaxed on a beach in Grand Cayman mesmerized by the bluest ocean I’ve ever seen.

Freedom? Sure, I have had the freedom to live these experiences in a world where others may not be so free. I also have the freedom to work, drive, and vote… all of which are unfathomable in some countries.

As free as these things may make me, they are not my freedom.

My freedom is internal. My freedom is the ability to sort through my feelings and own them. To express my thoughts and not be judged. To not be controlled by someone else’s games and expectations. To show love and to be loved without being under the umbrella of fear.

This is my freedom because I find it hard to achieve. If freedom came easily it would not be called freedom. We have to paddle through treacherous rapids before we can truly experience the calm essence of freedom.

If freedom truly is another word for nothing left to lose, we have to actually get ahead of our life, turn around, see everything as it is, accept it and own it. It’s impossible to move forward in freedom when you still have strings attached behind you.

Freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose.
Nothing, and that's all that Bobby left me, yeah.

She loved her life with Bobby. They shared the love of the road as well as an emotional connection. But no matter how much they had together, it wasn’t enough for Bobby. He left in search of his own freedom. His own home. To satisfy his own internal need for something else. Something better.

I guess Bobby felt he had nothing left to lose. Nothing, including Janis. Even though she was left behind, she loved him. She said she would trade all her tomorrows for one single yesterday.

Sounds like Janis needed to have learned a little bit about freedom from Bobby. I think she always knew his placement in her life wasn’t permanent. The part of him she loved so much was the same part that caused him to leave.

Funny when that happens.

Spewing expletives would have made me feel better.

I believe her apology, but I don’t believe her reasoning.

I can be crass at times. I’ve been told I have a sharp tongue. My humor is expressed through insults, sarcasm and harmless physical interaction. And one who carries these attributes can generally recognize others who do as well.

I love bantering with those who share my humor. I’m open game to your comedic insults and am prepared to bounce them right back. To be granted a front row seat in my life, quick wit will get you there. You either have it or you don’t. And if you don’t, the backfire can be a bitch.

Insulting someone without the backdrop of humor is very dangerous. But what is worse, is insulting someone just to be mean and then later using the excuse of humor as a way to dig yourself out of a self-inflicted hole. It doesn’t work. The table is then turned and you end up looking like an idiot. Sweating under that hot spotlight, you realize your wiggle room is rapidly decreasing.

Although I now find the humor in the following story, it still hits a sensitive nerve that I cannot shake.

It was beautiful outside. Standing on the sidelines of a little league football game, I felt the cool breeze and realized that autumn was well on its way. Good weather, good friends, a good game and my loyal companion ChaCha by my side. Not being a sports-kinda-gal, I didn’t know the rules of the game. I may not know what a fumble is, but I cheered on the team as if I were a football fanatic. Life was good. Spirits were high. We were living out a Norman Rockwell painting.

That is until she walked over.

The Scene: I’m standing next to a long-time friend watching his nine year old son push people down on the football field and ChaCha is sweetly sitting at my feet. My friend’s 72 year old mother is there. Although one would assume she’s there to watch her grandson play football, turns out she was there to irritate the hell out of me.

She walks over to me and stands right in front of me looking me straight in the eyes…

Her: Your dog is ugly.
Me: ---
Her: ---
Me: Excuse me?
Her: He’s ugly.
Me: No she’s not.
Her: Yes he is.
Me: SHE is NOT ugly.
Her: Yes he is.
Me: (giving her “go straight to hell” look)
Her: I guess he’s nice, but he’s ugly.

It was at this point I had a decision to make.

I could either call her a variety of words that would make even a sailor blush… or I could walk away. I thought about the first option. I already had the words picked out and in what order I was going to say them. Cussing out a 72 year old woman didn’t bother me. Cussing her out in front of small children didn’t even bother me. What bothered me was cussing out my friend’s mother. I respect my friend. I love him dearly and I felt verbally assaulting his mother right in front of him might cause some sort of wrinkle in our friendship. Especially since he didn’t hear her verbally assault me first because he was too busy rooting on his future NFL player.

So I chose option B. Not the most fun out of the two options. However, before I jetted off with my ugly dog, I did give her the meanest look I’ve ever given anyone. My evil look reached through her pupils and so deep into her soul I know it had to have caused her physical pain. I swear she turned to stone and crumbled as I pivoted away.

Let’s break this down…

I may think your dog is ugly. I may even talk to my friends about it and snicker behind your back. But I would never – NEVER – tell you to your face “Your dog is ugly.” Never. There are just certain things in life you don’t have to be honest about. It’s okay to have an opinion and NOT share it. Plus, ChaCha isn’t ugly. I think that’s what peeves me the most. She’s not. Here’s proof and here’s proof.

Later that evening I discussed the hateful situation with my friend. I told him his mother was rude and I felt she owed me an apology.

Flash forward two days later…

I’m walking out of my garage to water my soon-to-be-dead flowers and I find this irritant of a woman on my front porch. She’s looking for me. Great.

Her: Becca, come here I want to talk to you.
Me: Well, I’m kinda busy. Why don’t you come down here.
Her: I was told I hurt your feelings.
Me: Uh, yup. You sure did.
Her: I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to. I was only playing.
Me: Playing? You weren’t playing.
Her: I’m sorry.
Me. You know, there are certain things in life you DON’T do. That’s to say to someone’s face that their kid or pet is ugly. It’s just rude.
Her: Please accept my apology?
Me: It’s accepted. This is over.

She said she was “playing.” That’s crap.

I can’t believe she pulled out the humor card. She obviously doesn’t realize she’s talking to the Queen of Sarcasm. I invented sarcasm. I own it. And she’s no where close to it. Plus even if that were the case, she would have apologized a second after she said it due to the crushed look on my face. You don’t play like that. At least not with me. I know how to play and that ain’t playing.

I’m sure I’ll get over this eventually. Surely. I mean, if someone told me this story, I would find it quite humorous. Getting all in a huff because someone said your dog is ugly sounds like a Seinfeld plot.

Even though I’m sure I don’t have to prove to anyone again that ChaCha’s not ugly, here’s more proof.

Ok, I’m done. I’m totally over it now. Time for me to go feed my ugly dog.

My First Flower Bed: A Sad Tale

I stood there staring at the big heap of dirt in my front yard and thought, “Well, what am I going to do with this crap?”

There used to be a bush there. Or maybe it was a tree. However a crepe myrtle is categorized, it was gone by the time I crawled out of bed Saturday morning. I know a man who was in need of a crepe myrtle and I was in need of getting rid of one… so together we made a perfect match. My pain-in-my-butt trash was his treasure. Hallelujah.

At 7:30am I walked down the front steps of my new house to get a closer view of this large hole in the ground that used to house the overgrown plant. Tree. Bush. Whatever. Standing there with really bad bed-head and wearing my Elmo pj’s, I stared at the massive crater trying to decide my landscaping options. I’m not a landscaper. I’m not a gardener. I don’t even play one on TV. Scratching my bed-head, I decided no matter what… it’s time to get dirty.

After slapping my hair into the typical ponytail and changing into some unofficial landscaping clothes, I returned to my hollowed yard. It was while I was unproductively rearranging dirt when my neighbor’s six year old daughter came running over. When she started digging up rocks and tossing them in a pile, I realized that the child had a plan. A good plan. I gave her the title of Project Manager and I followed her lead.

Even though my new Project Manager became occasionally side tracked by squiggly worms, we managed to build up a pretty good collection of rocks. It wasn’t too much longer when the mother of my new young boss walked over to make sure I wasn’t being bothered. Little did she know I was relying on her six year old child for guidance.

My neighbor loves yard work. She’s kinda freaky that way.

I think the sight of the dirt, worms and rocks got her a little excited. She actually wanted dirt crammed in her fingernails. This is unfathomable to me. I was out there out of necessity. She belly flopped into the dirt out of desire. I quickly realized if I wanted more than a worthless heap of rocks, I better demote my Project Manager and bring this dirt-lovin-woman on as Director of Operations.

The more we dug, the dirtier we became. I swear the dirt multiplied. And so did the rocks. My red flipflops were now unrecognizable and my half way decent nails were breaking one by one. I think it was when we were a few miles away from hitting China when we discovered a hidden treasure of bricks. A lot of bricks. A crap load of bricks. All lined up as if they once were a pathway. I found it odd that someone - however many years ago - would cover them with such a huge layer of dirt.

I consulted with my Director of Operations and it was decided we would use the bricks to build a retaining wall to aid in our landscaping design. An idea that I openly credit her. If it weren’t for her, I’d still be standing there clueless with no direction. Like a captain of a ship with no idea where to go or even how to turn it on.

The fate of the bricks began an ongoing argument between the Director of Operations and the demoted Project Manager. It seems the six year old wasn’t aware of the staff change because she had other plans for the newly found bricks. Something about building a “Bridge to Terabithia.” This is apparently some sort of child-speak I’m not familiar with. She eventually lost the argument and we pressed on.

As we continued our hard labor, we had the typical female-to-female conversation:

Me: I’m sorry my legs are hairy.
Her: Girl, so are mine.
Me: The hair is just so black against my white legs.
Her: I noticed mine glistening in the sun when I was walking the dog earlier.
Me: I need to shave.
Her: If you’re like me and you’re not in a relationship, there’s no need.
Me: Girl, I know what you’re sayin.
Her: Sometimes it’ll get so bad that it’ll bother me when I’m trying to sleep.
Me: You know it’s sad when you’re forced into shaving your legs because your long leg hairs hurt you when you’re trying to sleep.
Her: So sad.
Me: I haven’t even brushed my teeth today.
Her: You know, me neither.
Me: Well, aren’t we an attractive pair.

About 3pm we completed phase one of the landscaping project.

I swear I’ve never been so filthy. My dirt-lovin neighbor enjoyed becoming one with the earth. I, however, felt less enchanted. Nevertheless, it did feel good to be productive.

Phase two would involve a field trip to the local Home Depot to purchase random flowers with 26 lettered names and vague instructions. I felt the overwhelming desire to scrub the earth’s soil off my incredibly dirty body before venturing out. And yes, I shaved my legs and brushed my teeth just incase I ran into “Mr. Right Now.” Which of course I didn’t. And I could bet a year’s salary I would have if I hadn’t.

My neighbor didn’t comment on my freshly shaven legs and fresh breath when I returned with the botanical goods. I was insulted. Saddened. Disappointed. But then decided I was being pretty pathetic. Shocker, I know. But when one’s hard up for a compliment, they’ll look under the dirtiest rock to get one.

I’ve learned a lot from my roll in the dirt.

One: trim your fingernails before you dig. It’ll save you in heartache later.

Two: mulch AFTER you plant. I now have to remulch the mulch.

Three: hairy legged neighbors sure come in handy.

Four: prepare for your flowers to die. I’m sure mine will. Soon.

And five: I still hate yard work.

Not only do you look like a monkey, but you act like one, too.

The following is the actual conversation I had with myself this afternoon as I was peeing:

“Jeez. I can’t believe I’m going to be 38 tomorrow. Lord have mercy. 38. Un-freakin-believable. Doesn’t even seem possible. Good gravy this is the oldest I’ve ever been. Sheesh. Wait… 38? That doesn’t seem right. What year is it? 2007? What year was I born? 1970. Wait… that means I’ll be 37. I’ll be 37 tomorrow not 38. Whew! Ok, things are looking up.”

And I’m not lying.

I could bore you with the things I’ve learned in my 37 years of life. I could also list all the things that I still have yet to experience. I could share my profound insights on life, love and happiness. And I could even explain to you the meaning of life. But I won’t.

September 6, 1970

All I’m going to say is thank God I was born in an even numbered year which is also the beginning of a decade. 1970. It’s easy to calculate and it seems the older I’ve gotten, the more important that is. If I had been born in 1967 or 1972 it would cause me to have to constantly carry around a calculator just to determine my current age.

Why is it that people are so hung up on age? And by “people” I mean me. Even though realizing I’m not turning 38 brings a little sparkle back into my old, weary eyes, the thought of being 37 is quite… quite… quite… horrific. Like I said in my self-conversation, “It’s the oldest I’ve ever been.” But I guess it’s better than 38. Or being dead. Or being 37 and living a horrible life. Which I’m not. Ok, maybe 37 isn’t so bad.

Here is a conversation I had Monday with friend:

Best Buy Clerk: Sir, can I have your birthdate?
Him: August 10, 1958
Me: 1958? Hahahahahaha
Him: -------
Me: And you’re not dead yet??

And here is a conversation I had today with a 31 year old co-worker:

Me: My birthday’s tomorrow.
Her: Yep. How old?
Me: 37
Her: Hahahaha
Me: What’s so funny?
Her: Do you realize that you are now OFFICIALLY in your late 30’s?
Me: Shut up.
Her: Look, you gave me hell when I turned 30. It’s payback time.
Me: When I turned 36 I was so happy that I was still considered mid-30’s.
Her: Those days are over, baaabbbbyyyy!!!
Me: Shut up.
Her: You are SO old.

What goes around comes around, huh?

One good thing about my birthday being tomorrow is that I’ll have good hair. A friend is my hairdresser. Tonight she pampered me with the works. Coloring. Streaking. Cutting. Even free shampoo, conditioner and other hair products that I haven’t quite figured out the purposes of. After she styled it I told her I looked like a rock star. Too bad she doesn’t do my hair every morning.

So there you have it.

A birthday blog that lacks insight, foreshadowing and reflection. I’ve been too busy obsessing over www.justin.tv to be concerned about how my aches and pains are going to only get worse. My new high-school-girl crush on Zac Efron has me way too occupied to bother with what I haven’t done with my life.

Ok, maybe I shouldn’t have mentioned the Zac thing.

But it’s true. It’s a coin toss between wanting to mother him by saving him from a desolate future in rehab due to drug addiction and wanting him to be my little-boy-play-toy. Perverse, I know. It changes back and forth pretty much hourly.

Is it considered omg-so-not-cool if a 37 year old carries around a Zac Efron lunchbox? How about a 37 year old without children who has watched both High School Musicals more than once?

Wait. Don’t answer that.

Dear Crazy People

You know who you are.

I know I hide behind the “Just a Crazy Woman” virtual mask, but the truth is… I’m not. Sure, I’m a little nutty, pretty complex, at times eccentric, kinda creative and incredibly insecure… but I’m not in any way mentally deranged. I’m not certifiable. I’ve never even once been held in a straight jacket. Well, maybe once, but that was for something entirely different. Kinky does not mean crazy. Unless your definition of kinky involves barnyard animals. In that case, you’re both kinky AND crazy.

If I had a dime for every time a guy has told me about his “crazy” ex-wife or ex-girlfriend, I’d be living it up in Belize right now. Lounging in a hammock and enjoying the ocean breeze while sipping some sort of tropical drink with one of those cute little paper umbrellas.

I’d have to change my name to “Just a Rich Woman.”

I don’t know what it is. These men. Calling all their ex’s crazy. Are they? I mean really… are they? What does this say about you if you find yourself dating all these crazy women? There’s only one common denominator… and that’s you, baby.

Sure, I can say that I’ve never been in a “healthy” relationship. Obviously. I’ll be 37 in two weeks and have never been married or even remotely close to it. That’s gotta say something right there. Not that all marriages are healthy. Because I realize they’re not. And, please, save all the emails saying how much better it is getting married “later in life.” This is totally not the point of this blog.

I’m writing this blog to all the crazy people.

The people who are ruining it for the rest of us. Stop it. Stop going out with guys and scaring the hell out of them by falling in love with them on the second date. Stop the stalking. Stop the crying about wanting to have a baby even though you’ve only been dating a month. Stop trying on wedding dresses behind his back. Stop trying to control his every move and every breath. Just STOP IT!

Stop freaking a guy out so bad that it makes him project all YOUR craziness onto us normal people. I have my own issues. I don’t need yours, too. My insecurities are enough to keep me busy. I don’t have time to be blamed for your infidelities, manipulation and birth-control-pill-popping forgetfulness. Do you realize how hard it is for a guy to see the essence of who I am while your back-stabbing, rumor spreading, and heel stomping energy is floating in the way?

And to all you men who find it necessary to talk about your crazy ex’s.

Don’t. The last thing you need to tell some new person is about your last trip to Crazy Town. It scares us normal people. We then want to know why you went there. Did you just drive through? Did you stay only a night or two? Did you invest in property? How long was it before you realized where you were? And once you did, how quickly did it take you to get your ass out of town?

That is unless your new person is another crazy.

Then this will scare them into hiding their craziness behind a “normal” mask. It takes about 45 days for it all to seep to the relationship surface. By then it just might be too late because they’re already picking out His & Hers monogrammed bath towels.

I can honestly say I have never called an ex “crazy.”

Sure, they’ve been controlling. Abrasive. Uninterested. Lazy. Boring. Confusing. But crazy? Nope. I save that terminology for those who truly deserve it.

Thank you for your time,

Just a Crazy Woman

Lessons from the Porch: Change

I don’t like it. It makes me sweat and incredibly nervous.

It takes every profound feeling I have and magnifies it to an unimaginable level. Ok, maybe that’s a tad bit of an exaggeration, but not much. I will obsess over it and analyze it until it’s broken down into so many pieces that it’s just about impossible to see clearly. I am my own worst enemy, but yet I do it every time.

Change.

Change is something you can count on. It’s life. It’s as normal as brushing your teeth. The average life goes through a multitude of change. I, however, hate it. I don’t like things being messed with. I don’t like what I know today to be different tomorrow. I don’t like counting on the consistency of something only to find out it’s now being altered into something different.

I’m not talking about the simple things in life. You can change tonight’s dinner menu on me and I’ll not care. We can switch vacation details at the last minute and I’ll go with the flow. You can even cancel plans with me and even though I’d be ticked, I’d handle it like a big girl.

I manage day to day complications with ease, understanding and hopefully a dash of humor. But once that dependable ground beneath me begins to shake, I yield and start asking questions. Not only of you, but of myself.

Some change is good and some change is bad. I get it.

In 2000 my father announced that he was leaving my mother after 30 plus years of marriage. You would have to know my family to realize what kind of shock this was. My parents represented the type of marriage that I yearned for. Because of their example, I decided early how I wanted to be treated. Their marriage made of stone was my template for how life should be. I felt it was as dependable as tomorrow’s sunrise.

This change shook the ground underneath me and I dug in my claws hoping to find some sort of sense of it all. I couldn’t. Although I still can’t, the passing seven years has caused me to live with a change that will forever be a defining moment in my life. The moment when I discovered love does not conquer all. That love may be as dependable as expecting sunny skies on your wedding day.

I have just experienced another life defining moment. Another change.

Being a single adult is great. My time is free and my money is mine. But as delicate and complex as love is, I have been searching for it since I officiated the wedding between Barbie and Ken.

I have been living my life in temporary housing for my entire adult life. Renting. Never burying my roots into a permanent home that I could call mine. This wasn’t necessarily a conscious decision. It was just self-assumed that I would permanently hang my hat in a home shared with someone else. Funny how life doesn’t listen to your plans.

Buying a house is stressful. Everyone knows this. And I feel being single makes it even worse. I have had to rely on the advice and help of friends who have gone above and beyond the call of friendship duty. But as I have begun settling into my new life in my new home perched upon this small hill, I have realized that this is the change I have needed for long time.

Through this change I have learned that the solidness of the ground beneath me isn’t dependent on someone else’s life or their decisions or their outlook. It’s only my own balance that can keep the ground steady. My parent’s marriage was just that – their marriage. Although it still saddens me to see how bad choices ruined a good marriage, I am slowly learning how to accept change as a way to customize my own life.

Right now I am sitting on my new front porch.

A front porch that belongs to me and not some landlord who is making an extra buck. All of the leaves on the big tree shading my house are mine. I paid for them. The other night I trimmed down the overgrown bushes planted alongside my driveway. Even though I hate every minute of yard work, I now know that maintaining those ugly bushes is an aid into helping me develop my own personal solid ground. It has been one out of many lessons I’ve experienced lately that has taught me that depending on myself is not a bad thing. It brings a sense of security that I normally looked toward others to provide. Although this change has been challenging these past few weeks, I am glad to have gone through the experience.

Of course my attitude can all change once I begin making the mortgage payments. And I reserve that right.

Deadly Sin: Gluttony

I’m a pig. I’m not going to lie.

I’m not one of those girls who picks at the tiny side salad she ordered as a full meal. I’m not going to eat before I go somewhere so I won’t be hungry when I get there. If you offer me food at your house, I’m not going to say, “Oh, that’s alright. I’m okay. Thanks anyway.” Rather, I will take your offered food, scarf it down and help myself to seconds. And if you offer me a doggie-bag to take home, you’re my friend for life.

I love leftovers. I love your leftovers. If you invite me over for dinner, don’t put it past me to show up at your house with an empty container. And, by the way, inviting me over for dinner brings as much excitement to my life as finding a $100 bill in last year’s coat pocket.

I wish I was one of those people who eat only for the purpose of fueling their body. I wish I could stay away from the Chinese buffet line like I can stay away from crack. I don’t have a crack problem and never will. I know “never say never” but I’m feeling pretty confident. Maybe a policeman guarding the door of my favorite Mexican restaurant would deter me. Probably not.

I’ve discussed my love affair with chocolate before, but I don’t think you quite grasp it.

I love chocolate. I’m in love with it. I want to marry it. I want to roll around naked in an enormous bowl of warm fudge. Whenever a co-worker of mine asks for a favor, she always bribes me with chocolate. She knows. It’s evil the way she taunts me with chocolate as if it was cold hard cash, but I fall for it every time.

A couple of weeks ago someone gave my mother a big ziplock bag of M&M’s. Not the plain ones, but the peanut butter M&M’s. That night I stopped by her house and before I left she handed me the ziplock bag of heaven and said, “Here. Take it. I don’t want this in my house.” She and I have the text book case of addiction passing down to the next generation. Not wanting to enable her addiction, I gladly took it. I hadn’t even driven a block before the devil appeared on my shoulder screaming in my ear “EAT! NOW!” I obliged.

I left the chocolate flavored cocaine in my car over night since having it in my house would have been a poor idea. The next morning I took it to work with me in hopes of sharing my treasure with my co-workers. It never left my desk. The ziplock bag remained unzipped for easier chocolate-eating-access. Sure, I offered it to selective people as they came into my office, but I mainly kept my stash a secret. I was a chocolate miser. Selfish. A wild dog unashamed to growl and show her sharp teeth if you got too close without being invited.

Running an errand that afternoon, I suddenly felt sick to my stomach. I was nauseous. I couldn’t figure out what the problem was since I hadn’t eaten anything weird or unusual. Walking back to my office I passed the receptionist’s desk and casually mentioned to her that I wasn’t feeling well. She stuck out her bottom lip, tilted her head and said, “Ohhhh, I’m sorry.”

I sat at my desk to finish up a project. I subconsciously reached into the unzipped ziplock bag and grabbed a handful of M&M’s. It was after I shoved the handful of crack into my mouth when I realized why I felt sick: I was in the middle of a chocolate overdose. I immediately thought, “Man. What a shame.”

I’ve gone on a three-month chocolate diet before.

I’ve never been so miserable. It was as if telling someone I dearly love that I don’t love them anymore. That I’m better off without them. It’s not true. It’s all a lie. I want them and need them in my life because they bring me joy. Make me happy. I can’t do that to chocolate. Chocolate is my friend.

If enjoying a good meal and going back for seconds or having an unhealthy chocolate obsession is defined as gluttony… so be it. Guilty as charged.

At least I don’t lie about who I am by saying I’m full after gnawing on a few carrot sticks.