Body Art

Let me preface this by saying that I am already tattooed. However, being raised by a conservative father and having a bit (a tiny tiny bit) of foresight (since I had no idea what career I wanted,) both tattoos are generally only seen by others if I want them to be.

Getting tattoos is addictive. No doubt. Each time I got one, I wanted another immediately. Unlike the most common argument I have heard against tattoos (I can't decide what I would want on my body forever) I consider my tattoos fond memories of the times that I got them. (Even the cliched rose on my hip that I got when I was eighteen. Sigh. Kids, there's a reason you have to be 18 to get a tattoo...and even then, perhaps you should wait. A rose? On my hip? Really?)

So for the past few years, I've wanted another tattoo. The location is what is holding me back. Because even though I'm decisive and generally don't let the opinions of others hold me back, I tend to poll my loved ones about decisions such as this, and the opinions of said loved ones definitely hold some weight. The more loved you are, the more weight your opinion holds.

Here are the limitations: The tattoo must be somewhere that is not obvious. That can be covered if need be. And I would like to be able to wear a formal dress on occasion without any tattoos showing. Which is why I've waited over four years for this tattoo. Because locations are limited. Shoulder? Too many backless formal dresses. Ankle? I wear flip flops and sandals all the time. Inside wrist? I'm not opposed to this. But front of shoulders and arms are out of the question - I wear way too many tank-top items.

So what I want is to get it on the back of my neck. And, this is the one location that the boy is vehemently opposed to.

He says: white trash. I say: sexy.

Maybe it's trashy-sexy?

He says: unprofessional. I agree. But you can't see it if I wear my hair down.

He says: What if you get your hair cut short. I say: I will never do so again, because I've SEEN pictures of my hair cut short and each time I wonder "WHAT WAS I THINKING?!" I have made a vow to go no shorter than shoulder length for the rest of my natural life.

He says: What if you go to a formal event and want to wear your hair in an updo? I say: Good point. Damn. I hate tattoos that show when formal dresses are worn. (And, if I were the sort of girly girl who would take into consideration one very important formal event that she has yet to go through, she might wonder about what would and would not show on this day - depending entirely on the dress. But on the flip side, she is comfortable thinking that she may never go through that event. Should she take into consideration something that may never happen?)

But, I keep thinking about it. And it's been years. This is generally the measuring stick that I use to determine whether or not I can live without something. Does it stay on my mind even when I'm removed from it? Yes. Yes it does. Well then I must have it.

It wouldn't be anything big - the symbol that I have in mind would be small and unobtrusive. There probably wouldn't be any color involved.

So....opinions? Thoughts? Comments? I welcome all points of view. Because, see, I woke up this morning with an uncontrollable urge to get something tattooed or pierced, and the boy would desperately like someone to talk me into the piercing vs the tattoo...

The way to a man's heart...

(via text exchange)

I'm trying out a new recipe tonight. You want in on this?

What recipe?

Asparagus soup. Look out Rachel Ray!

and...

Um, bread?

Uh...no meat?

Um, I have leftover chicken?

Oh oh!! Wait! Or bacon! I have BACON!!!

I'll be there at 7:30.

Done. You know you're responsible for making the bacon, right?

Figured.

A Gaggle

I hate geese. Seriously. Hate them. They're just so....mean. And...bitchy. All that hissing and charging. Ugh. Too bad my favorite bike/walking route between work and home is covered in them. There are dozens. Literally. Which makes sense because I'm, um, riding along a canal.

(If I were less afraid of cars than I am the geese, I would change my route. As it is, I'm terrified of drivers who turn right on red. Seriously. Look both ways people!!)

A few weeks ago, I was walking along the towpath and didn't realize that nesting season had begun for the beasts. Nesting season turns these monsters from mere annoyances to creatures that will actually attack you if you so much as step foot in a 2 yard radius from their nests. That are always very inconveniently located. Like a foot off the towpath.

Anyhow, I was walking Casey and a goose decided that we got too close to his nest. He unfurled his wings and charged at us, hissing. Which caused me to leap out of his way and shriek. Until I realized that he was actually charging at Casey. Who did the doggie equivalent of "Oh HELL no!" and sprinted as far away as the 16-foot retractable leash would allow, yanking her owner's arm roughly in the process. On our return trip, we gave the goose a wide berth, but he still found it necessary to scare the bejeezus out of Casey again.

I hate geese. Have I mentioned that?

So, just as a PSA, I thought I would share some facts. Did you know that sometimes, when you're on a bike ride that lasts longer than expected, a boy who may or may not have been waiting to meet up with you afterward might get annoyed? And he might call to express his annoyance. Which would then make you ride your bike home as quickly as possible.

And, when riding as quickly as possible, if you divert off the path to avoid a gaggle of geese, your tires will make a sound in the long spring grass that is similar to hissing.

Surprisingly, upon hearing this noise that is similar to a threatening noise that geese might make to one another, they react ridiculously quickly for ungainly lumbering birds animals by turning toward the sound and chasing it away.

Also surprising is that riding one's bike through long spring grass causes a decrease in the speed at which the bike is moving. This, of course, makes it easier for the monster geese to catch up. Which might increase the terror of the person riding the bike.

Which might cause the rider to decide to kick at the geese, thus taking her feet off the pedals where they should be if she had any hope of accelerating AWAY from the beasts.

Luckily, she came to her senses before she was consumed by the gang of bullies and was able to ride off safely.

Geese - 1, Emily - 0.

Stupid Geese.

Adventures in Bike Riding Pt. I

Well, that didn't take long, did it?

Today is Wednesday, which marks the third day of the first week that I've decided to commit to yet another ridiculous goal. It's actually the second day that I've ridden to work because yesterday morning was a bit damp, and I chickened out. (A fact for which I've since overcompensated.) Turns out that was a complete over-reaction because the afternoon turned out to be beautiful, and we were able to go on our somewhat regular group ride.

Which leads me to my first adventure.

We were meeting at a location about 3.5 miles from my house, so I thought to myself, "Self, I'll just ride there to meet everyone since I didn't ride to work today. That will make up my 7 miles for the day."

This turned out to be my first error.

My second error was when I said, "Candy - you're leading."

The ride was enjoyable, as group bike rides often are. We didn't push ourselves too hard, and we went on a path that was pretty uncrowded. The guys let the girls set the pace, and at one point, Candy and I got a bit competitive and sprinted to beat each other.

After that I decided that I would just hang out at the back of the pack. The very back. In fact, one might have said I was "lagging behind" if one wanted to get punched in the knees.

So with Candy in the lead, we just kept riding and riding....and riding....and riding. Until I looked down and the clock said 7:15pm. We had been riding for one hour. One way.

"Um, if it took us an hour to get here, it will take us an hour to get back, and I still have to ride home before dark. Maybe we should turn around?"

I said this tentatively, which was my third mistake. Because apparently Candy really REALLY wanted to get to the end of the trail. Luckily, z was the voice of common sense and simply turned around on the spot.

So the boys were leading the way home. At a pace a bit faster than what the girls had set. After over an hour of riding. And after an ill advised competitive sprint.

I'm not going to lie, I called them some nasty names. Fortunately I was far enough behind that they couldn't hear me. Until I mustered the last of my waning strength, sprinted to catch up to them, and explained what would happen if they didn't slow down.

So slow down they did. And the rest of the ride passed uneventfully until my solo leg home. (but that's another blog for another day.)

I think Candy mentioned in her blog that one of her goals last summer was to ride a marathon (26.2 miles) all in one ride. She worked up to that goal for a few weeks before attempting it and actually ended up riding farther than that on a few occasions - once she had worked up to it.

So you can imagine my surprise last night when I looked down at my odometer and I had ridden a total of 26.8 miles. On my second group ride of the season. After approximately eight months of school that included minimal working out. So there was no "working up to it." I still have noodle legs this morning.*

And that's how I learned that Candy doesn't get to lead group rides anymore.

But at least I'm well on my way to 50 miles this week, right?

*Exacerbated by the fact that I rode in to work today as an overcompensation for yesterday. Why yes, the heavens just opened up and it's pouring down rain. Thank you for asking.

Above all, challenge yourself

I like to challenge myself. I think it's what leads to growth. I also think that as we age, there fewer and fewer opportunities to practice setting a goal and achieving it. I think that sometimes just getting back to the basics of achieving a difficult goal can do wonders for making everything else in life make sense.

The first time I thought this, I challenged myself to train and finish the Indianapolis Mini-Marathon. Having never fun farther than a 5K before, I thought it was a new, fun, exciting thing to try. And it was. But it was also very very difficult. So difficult, in fact, that when something completely out of my control kept me from finishing my goal (I found out the week before the mini) I never attempted it again.

See, when I commit to something, it's no longer negotiable. It's either succeed, or die trying. (I still drink between 40-60 ounces of water per day and I never officially committed to that...) The first time I trained for the mini, I had no idea what I was getting myself into. Now? I know. Oh yes, I know. And I'm not quite sure I want to put myself through that again.

That seems to be a theme in my life, because the Inca Trail? Yeah, I'm never going to do that again either.

I have a feeling that my latest challenge might be a bit like that.

My friend Candy loves biking. So much so that she challenged herself to ride 1000 miles this summer. After much consideration, I think I might join her in her challenge. Not all of it, mind you. There's no way I want to ride more than 50 miles in one day. But 1000 miles by the end of the summer? Sure. I'll try that. After all, last summer I rode 200 miles. This can't be that different.

Um...

My plan of attack is similar to Candy's. I need to hit around 50 miles a week to be successful. And if I ride my bike to work everyday, that's between 30-35 miles per week. If I add in one decent group ride (which we were good about doing last year) then I should be okay.

The plan looks good on paper, right?

Riding to work is proving to be no small feat. It's not the riding, per se. (Although let me tell you - it is now obvious to me that I haven't ridden since last summer. Yikes.) It's the, "What do I wear?" "What do I eat for lunch?" "Do I shower at work or at home?" "What about rain?" It's also the "remembering to check the weather each morning." This is something at which I am woefully inadequate. (But given Indiana's unpredictable weather, something I should work on anyway.)

I rode in this morning and it wasn't terrible. I packed my outfit for the day in a backpack and decided that I would indeed shower at work. Since the shower at work is AWESOME, I think I can get over the weirdness of being naked in my office pretty easily. And now that all the shower necessities are already at the office, my backpack won't be as full in the future. Besides, if I leave my house at 7:00am, I can probably shower before anyone else shows up.

Today I only thought as far as getting dressed. I didn't think about lunch or breakfast. (Or filling up my water bottle for the ride. Suck.) Luckily, my boss brought in some breakfast today. But given how ravenous I was when I got to work this morning, that's something I'm definitely going to have to consider. Maybe oatmeal at the office? I don't know if a power bar will be enough. Suggestions? As for lunch, I can either brown-bag, or there's a Subway within easy walking distance. But brown-bagging it isn't something that I've ever been good at. And walking to Subway? What about the weather? What about the shoes I wore to work that day?

Why not ride my bike to get lunch? That's what I thought. But in reality, if you're in work clothes, how does that work? Do you change back into biking clothes for lunch? After that, do you change back?

I'm not throwing in the towel, but it's a bigger task than I originally thought it would be. Instead of incorporating something new into my life, this is seeming to require many small changes all at once. I'm posting here so I'm accountable because the small changes CAN NOT WIN! I WILL PREVAIL! Besides, short of getting hit by a car whilst on my bike (and really, how much different can that be than getting hit by a car whilst on rollerblades?) I don't really see a downside to taking on this challenge...even if I fail.

So wish me luck! By the end of the summer, that odometer that you see should say at least 1228 miles. (Oh, and cross your fingers that the thunderstorms will hold off until 7:00pm like the weather forecasters said. No one wants to see how angry Emily will be while riding her bike in the rain.)

D-U-N.

I iz dun.

Well, for the summer at least.

It was another humbling semester, and I see a common thread among humbling semesters. That thread is organic chemistry.

"Perhaps I just can't handle work and school" is what I mused to a friend. Actually, what I mean is, "Perhaps I can't handle organic chemistry and anything else that requires thought."

I am floored (FLOORED) at the amount of studying required for these pre-post grad classes. (read: upper level sciences) It was not uncommon for me to spend 12 hours per weekend studying organic chemistry. I don't remember doing anywhere near this level of studying in college. Of course, I'm comparing these classes to a degree in marketing and, let's be honest here, business classes? Um.... I mean, I remember having to work in Finance and maybe in Accounting... But I also remember falling asleep in accounting, showing up one day when there was a test that was a complete surprise to me, and still passing with a B-.

This feels to me like an entirely different type of hard. I know that business classes can be challenging (maybe just not the ones I took?) but this requires a whole different portion of my brain that I feel hasn't been used in ages. I can't decide if it's that the classes are harder, I'm older and you just can't teach an old dog new tricks, or that this time around I really really really care and really really really want to do well. Maybe it's a combination of all three?

Organic chemistry this semester was a completely different experience than last semester. Last semester was a bleak five months stretching out before me with no hope in sight. Maybe that was the "weeding out" portion that I've heard so much about. This semester the professor was helpful and genuinely wanted people to succeed. His notes were thorough, well organized, and his test questions were based on exactly what he taught. I still struggled, but at least I felt I learned something. And while his final was the hardest test I've ever taken, I didn't come out feeling completely defeated. If I didn't know the answer to a question right away, I could usually reason through it to make a logical conclusion. That is a HUGE change from last semester. I walk away at peace. I did the best I could.

But again, the class that I took concurrently with ochem suffered. If I walked out of the ochem final feeling beaten up but okay, I walked out of my biochem final feeling like a complete failure.

Le Sigh.

This year I apply to vet schools. Which means I have to take the GRE. I'm giving myself one to two weeks off, and then the studying begins for that. It seems surreal that the end of all this hard work is in sight. Sometimes it feels like I've been playing "pretend" and it's all for nothing... that I'll have a job I dislike for the rest of my life. But then there are days like this where the sun is shining, the birds are singing, I have great friends who are great support, and I think that everything will work out the way it's supposed to.

I just hope that "the way it's supposed to" is the same as "the way I want it to."

Fatty Fatty Two by Four

"Your dog is getting fat."

I swear that if it wasn't my favorite veterinarian who had uttered those words, I would have thrown down right then and there. My dog is not fat. She once ran seven miles with me last summer! She's high energy! We walk all the time! You can see her ribs, for goodness sakes. Right there, see? Oh. Um.... well the last time we walked farther than one mile was... Um... Hey! It's been winter and I'm in school! Don't judge me!! It's not like I'm maintaining my weight either. We're suffering together. Yeah, that's it.

This happened at a vet checkup during which Casey was medicated against the horrible allergies she gets every spring. Dogs show allergic reactions through their skin, and for the last couple of years, come April, Casey has red rimmed eyes (from rubbing her face) red feet (from chewing) and hives absolutely covering her body. In the past, given my reluctance to use medicine, we've tried home remedies to relieve her. These remedies included some Benedryl, washing her feet after every walk (THAT was fun, let me tell you) and repeated dunkings in any body of water that we came across. After spending the last two summers in itchy misery, I decided to break down and medicate her this year.

Do you know how dogs are medicated against allergies? Steroids. Do you know what steroids do? Among other things, they make your dog eat more.

The second comment came from the head of the pit bull rescue that I volunteer for. "Oh my goodness! Casey is getting so big!" And upon seeing my expression, "I mean, she's just always been so thin. She's really filling out."

Whatever.

When I mentioned this to my dog sitter, she said, "I did notice that Casey was a little round."

That was the straw that broke the camel's back. ROUND? In no way is my dog round. You can still see her WAIST for goodness sakes. She may not be as thin as she used to be, but she's....curvy. That's it. Curvy. And there is nothing wrong with curvy.

In the meantime, MonsterDog (aka Casey on steroids) is eating me out of house and home. She's almost doubled her food intake per day, and she's demanding about how hungry she is. She's stealing Blue's food. She's stealing the cat's food (never mind the scratches she gets when she does it - Laney does not give up her food easily.) She's digging in the trash. She's eating random things off the road when we walk. She's asking to go out literally every two hours when I'm home. And she's going to the bathroom each and every time. On walks? I now have to carry 4-5 plastic bags to clean up after two dogs. Blue uses one. At least Casey is a good girl and won't go in her crate. But when I get home after work/school, she's literally panting with the effort of not going, and she races out the door to relieve herself.

Well, "races" as fast as a tubby pit bull can run.

I'm doing some research for other remedies that I can try to avoid another steroid shot this year. Because, while they work fine, steroids can become less effective if used repeatedly. Besides, I can't handle anymore MonsterDog, let alone fat MonsterDog.

Blue goes home Friday. Next week? Casey and I begin operation "lose the tubby." I just hope she's not as grumpy as I am when her food intake is cut.

(I would post a picture, but Casey objected. Apparently there's no angle from which she looks thin. I will just say that she's gained 6lbs in the last six to eight months. This is a gain of 13% of her original body weight. And as much as we would both like to believe that it's muscle, it's, um, not.)

Vacation

Summer break is so close that I can almost taste it. It tastes like freshly cut grass and bike rides and sun and long walks with the dogs. It tastes like filling the hours between 5pm and 10pm with enjoyable activities (like volleyball!!) instead of class. It tastes like normal. And during the school year, I never really contrast my evenings with the evenings of summer, I just do what needs to be done. But man...this close to having a three month break? I am totally drooling over filling my hours with friends and fun instead of schoolwork and stress.

Speaking of which, I had a formal report due in my organic chem lab. And unfortunately, my responsible side fought a losing battle with my procrastinating side. Don't get me wrong... responsibility fought the good fight and made me clean my house and do the dishes, but couldn't QUITE get me to write my paper. Instead procrastination decided that it would be a better use of my time to watch Stephen King's "It." At night. Alone. (Don't ever do this. Trust me.)

The paper was due on Tuesday. I finally made myself sit down and write it on Monday evening. All at once. In about two hours. The formatting of the paper took longer than the actual writing. I think I finished up my edits about 45 minutes before the paper was due. I berated myself extensively and promised to never ever procrastinate again ever.

And then last night my lab TA told me that I got 50/50 points on my paper, and in fact, it's one of the standards against which she graded the rest of the class. Oh and also? She's giving it to the professor who heads up ALL of the sections of ochem lab so that he can use it as a standard as well.

WTF?

This positive reinforcement for procrastination? Not needed in my world. It will just be that much harder to write the next paper in a reasonable timeframe. And at my age? Recovering from the stress of procrastination ain't as easy as it once was. Instead of alcohol, it involves much sleeping and cuddling with dogs and eating of melted cheese.

Mmmmm....melted cheese.

Tonight I am going to fill my hours with ochem homework in an attempt to prepare myself for a final on May 5th. You know you're jealous. Feel free to tell me all about your exciting weekends so that I can live vicariously through you.

Just one more week....

The Bunny!!!

Fact - Last Thursday, April 22nd, was my last organic chem lab ever. Well, until I get into vet school (note the confidence.)

Fact - Tomorrow night is my first of three finals

Fact - I haven't yet turned to Taco Bell and regular Coke.

Hypothesis - I'm handling things pretty well so far.

Fact - I've gotten word that the final tomorrow is much more difficult than anyone anticipated

Fact - That news almost made me want to get a regular Coke. Unfortunately, zlionsfan has banned me from ever imbibing caffeine and sugar at the same time. However, he didn't outlaw JUST caffeine. Diet Mt. Dew FTW!!!

Fact - I've pretty much decided to live at the home of my chemistry genius friend until our final next Wednesday, May 5th.

Fact - My test scores have increased by 20 percentage points since studying with my chemistry genius friend.

Fact - My chemistry genius friend is the friend who lives with a bunny.

Hypothesis - This makes studying much more enticing.

Fact - last night when I got out of class early, I called the boy and invited him to dinner. He turned me down cold. Instead, I went to study with my genius chemistry friend. Have I mentioned that she's the one with the bunny? Anyhow, when she said I could come over, I asked if she was hungry and offered to bring dinner. She said that they were already making dinner and did I want to join them? They were having steak. Did I like steak?

Fact - while consuming steak and studying, I also managed to get head-butted by an "aggressive bunny."

Fact - I didn't cause it. A cat did. I was just an outlet for outrage.

Fact - it was the most adorable intimidating gesture I've ever seen.

Hypothesis - I'm in love with the bunny. I'm pretty sure you would be too, if you met him. Luckily, I took a picture so that you can judge for yourself. Go ahead and feel free to let me know if my hypothesis is correct.

Fact - I will spend the rest of the evening studying. Feel free to pray for me.

Two's Company...Three makes me Blue

Blue's back for a brief two week visit while my parents continue their efforts to visit every city in the world. Every time I get to have him home with me, it elicits some sort of response that includes the word, "Bluuuuuuuuuuuuue," or "suchagoodboy."

I don't know how I continue to forget the very distinct differences between Blue and Casey. I think it's perhaps because the cuteness of Blue overshadows everything else about him when, you know, he's not around every day. But now? Man, that dog is clingy. Casey sure does love me, but after our walks, she's off napping on the couch, chasing the cat, checking the perimeters of the house for intruders, etc. Blue would prefer to be right next to me at all times. I'm pretty sure that I'll end up breaking my neck when I step back in my kitchen someday and just fall over the dog lying behind me while I cook. He also fancies himself good at organic chem and insists on helping me with my homework, as illustrated by this horrible cell phone picture.

Ever since my last visit to my parent's house, they've been telling me about a problem they've been having with Blue. Namely that he won't get into his crate to sleep at night. Where he used to just walk right into his kennel with no problems, they now end up either having to literally carry him into his crate (my dad,) or threatening him loudly until he gives in so that the noises stop (my mom.)

I'll be honest. I was over-confident. Suuuuuure they couldn't get the dog into his crate. They're just not dog experts like I am. They are obviously not being calm and assertive. They just don't know how to work with dogs. I mean, Blue may as well be named "Your Highness" at their house with his designated couch spots and routine of going out and coming in with only a single bark as notification that he wants something to change. He rules that place.

And so, the first night visiting my parents, I made a $10 bet with my dad that Blue would go right into his crate with no yelling, no carrying, and no stress.

I won $5. Blue walked right up to his crate and then crouched there, looking at me pitifully as if to say, "If you don't put me in there, I'll love you forever." He required some nudging to take his final grudging steps into his crate.

Still, I was not daunted. "He's just spoiled here," I thought, "We'll get him back to Indy and he'll be just fine."

Um, not so much.

Monday morning was another episode into stopping about a foot outside his crate and cowering like he was going to die. Monday evening before class I almost had him fooled as I raced the dogs down into the basement. Casey rocketed into her crate and stood triumphantly, "WINNER!!" Blue skidded to a stop just outside his crate and stopped. Damn.

Tuesday morning I literally had to carry 50lbs of pit bull down the stairs into my basement and deposit him into his crate. My biceps still haven't forgiven me. Tuesday afternoon I just kept him on his leash and tugged the unwilling dog down the stairs into his crate.

Wednesday morning brought more carrying. Ouch. Wednesday afternoon I knew that my biceps couldn't take another carrying trip, so I walked behind him all the way down to his crate. Each time he tried to turn around, I just body blocked him. Success!

Now? We're back to normal. Blue follows Casey downstairs and into his crate. Sweet sweet success. Because honestly? I couldn't carry him downstairs again. And I know that dogs don't think like this...that they live in the moment...but I can't help but think that Blue didn't really realize how good he had it with my retired parents and his routine of sleeping on the couch all day (not to mention going outside whenever he wanted to.) I can't help but think that he's down in that crate right now cursing to himself, "If ONLY I had behaved better and gone into my crate, they wouldn't have sent me back!"

Don't worry buddy. It's only temporary. You'll be back to being top dog soon. Believe me, Casey's looking forward to it too.

Wherein I am as delighted as a 5-year-old

I am exhausted today. I feel as though I could sleep for 1000 years if only given a chance.

I'm sure it's no coincidence that I have an organic test tonight.

But I did have a very productive weekend this weekend.

That doesn't mean I spent a lot of time studying...oh no. But I sure did spend a lot of time doing other things that needed to be done. Like sweeping and mopping the entire house. Like quickly cleaning the bathroom. Like walking the dog for hours. Like laundry. Like various female grooming habits that have been ignored as of late.

And THEN, when I couldn't find one more thing that I had on my to-do list before studying, I took a nap.

Believe you me, I needed it. Because then I studied organic chemistry for five hours straight. I discussed it with a friend. I drew mechanisms. I read my notes.

I still don't feel the slightest bit prepared for the test tonight. FYI.

It's okay, though. I feel....at peace. I've done what I can do.

Besides, my friend? The one I studied with for five straight hours? The brilliant friend who got a 91 on the last organic chem test? (Which I didn't even think was possible.) She has a rabbit. Among other animals, because, you know, she wants to be a vet. Like me. Except she has a house. And lots of animals. And....a bunny. And when I went over there on Saturday, there was a bunny just hopping around the living room....interacting with the cats and the people like, "What? It is totally ordinary that I am here."

I was ridiculously geeked about the bunny. I believe my first sentence was "You live with the EASTER BUNNY!!!"

My friend quickly learned that my happiness is on par with a five-year-old when I'm really really excited about something. A fact that the boy reiterated the next day. Because the next day when he came over, I believe the first words out of my mouth were about the bunny and I didn't stop talking about it until he agreed to go over and MEET the bunny.

This song came up a few times.*

Alas, I did not take a picture of the bunny. (Shameful, I know.) But have no doubt that I will. There is still a final to study for. And the bunny? Well he makes the studying all that much more enticing.

Until then, I will just keep repeating, "I do not need a rabbit. I do not need a rabbit. I do not have TIME for a rabbit. I can not have a rabbit." You know, even though my friend keeps informing me that foster homes are always needed. (I could be a foster bunny mom!!)

Oh dear.

*What? I totally watch Veggietales. You have to ask yourself, why don't YOU?

Heartache

“A Parable of Immortality” by Henry van Dyke.

I am standing by the seashore.
A ship at my side spreads her white sails to the morning breeze
and starts for the blue ocean.
She is an object of beauty and strength,
and I stand and watch
until at last she hangs like a speck of white cloud
just where the sun and sky come down to mingle with each other.

Then someone at my side says, ‘There she goes!’
Gone where? Gone from my sight – that is all.

She is just as large in mast and hull and spar
as she was when she left my side
and just as able to bear her load of living freight
to the places of destination.
Her diminished size is in me, not in her.

And just at the moment when someone at my side says,
‘There she goes!’
There are other eyes watching her coming,
and other voices ready to take up the glad shout:
‘Here she comes!’

Unique New York*

My alma mater won last night. Maybe you heard. If not, feast your eyes on highlights:



And it's sort of a big deal that they won. Sort of a "they've never made it to this level of tournament play before" big deal. But I know that a lot of my friends don't really follow basketball and, you know...to each their own. Whatever. But I do. Specifically, I care about the NCAA tournament, and to be even more specific, I care about Butler in the NCAA tournament. So I was pretty excited about this win.

I didn't get to see one minute of the game, thanks to ochem.

What occurred instead was one of the most unique situations that I've ever been in.

Thinking ahead, I set up z and the boy to send me text updates as the game progressed. I knew I would have zero access to internet or to a TV during my lab, so I thought the text messages would be the best option to keep up on the game. What ensued was hilarious.

The first part of my lab was a lecture. In the basement of the science building. Where cell reception is spotty anyway. And where my lab TA has been known to confiscate cell phones that make noise. (true story.) So I set my phone to silent and took the desk closest to the door of the classroom. I put the phone on my desk and kept surreptitiously checking when a new text would come in. I would carefully type responses so as not to draw too much attention as the lecture progressed. Keep in mind that this was happening in a class of 13 people. THIRTEEN. Looking back, I'm pretty certain the lecturer knew that I was up to something.

As fate would have it, the lecture broke right as we hit halftime, and I got my final update: "35-25 at halftime. Fewest points in 1st half, biggest deficit at halftime for Syracuse." I almost danced up the stairs to the lab where we would begin our experiment, and started plotting ways to keep my phone in my back pocket, but still be able to check messages regularly.

On our way to the lab, I heard the lecturer (who was also leading this lab) ask someone else if they knew the Butler score. I almost tripped up the stairs, when I whirled around to blurt "35-25." He responded, "Syracuse?" to which I answered, "Nope. Butler. Can you believe it?"

What followed was a three minute conversation about Butler's chances, how the first half had gone, and how we couldn't believe they were up 10.

After that conversation, I went ahead and took the liberty of placing my cell phone in the same hood where my partner and I were conducting our experiment. Since the lab leader kept coming by to get the updates that I was getting, I figured I had a bit of license to be somewhat distracted.

Because both z and the boy were sending updates, I was getting different perspectives. When Syracuse pulled ahead, z was careful to never tell me the score...only who had possession and what foul had just been committed. The boy's updates were more irregular and more shorthanded (almost to the point where they could not be understood) but since he was giving me the score as Syracuse first caught up to, and then passed Butler, I could understand his stress.

Then suddenly, for a good five to ten minutes, both boys stopped sending updates. This coincided with a point in my experiment where I was washing my product with reagent and letting it sit for five minutes at a time - three washes. Three intervals of five minutes to obsessively check my phone for updates when, during the last two washes, none were forthcoming. I was fah-reaking out. We've already discussed how I can not handle suspense. And I had nothing. No way to check anything that was going on.

And then there was an explosion.

It seemed that everyone I knew was sending me a message. From "down by 4...they can't buy a basket... 4 min left," to "Woah, your boys r gonna win crazy!" to "holy shit!" to "62-56," "63-56. Syracuse ball," "63-58. 23.6. Foul on Syracuse," "Missed. Foul on Butler. In bounds to Syracuse," "12.7. Shooting foul on Butler. Almost made the shot too," "63-59," "Missed the second! Foul on Syracuse. Two shots. 9.9," "Missed the first," and finally "BUTLER WINS!"

These came in one after another after another. At one point I had 13 messages that I just could not keep up with even though I was reading them as they came in. Usually the first update would come from z (most of the messages above) and would be shortly followed by some variation of the same information from the boy. And then? Then came the Facebook updates after the win where EVERYONE freaked out.

It was unreal.

I know the game was stressful. I've seen the highlights and sorted through the text messages. Watching it would have been awesome. But this was a completely unique experience that was not the completely miserable situation I anticipated. My experience was tension from not knowing. Was jumping up and down while impatiently awaiting the next update and still managing to focus enough to time my reagent washes. My experience was excited chatter with others who didn't really have a stake in the game, but were catching on to my nervous excitement. It was sorting through a plethora of information that came all at once after a long period of knowing nothing at all. And finally it was jubilation that my team had just earned a huge win.

I was supposed to go home and go to sleep after that? No way. I live about five blocks from campus (if that) and if you stepped out on my porch in the rain, you could hear the noise from the students. I couldn't sleep. I watched highlights, I read Facebook posts, and I reveled in the excitement.

And I know that sports don't really matter. I know that I could be posting about any of several other more serious topics in the news lately. But when your team is the David that just beat Goliath? When the underdog gets a chance to say "Nah nah na nah naaaaaah?" It's a unique type of celebratory feeling. One that you want to revel in. To roll around in like a dog in an interesting smell. So that's my PSA for today. Get into sports. It's cheaper than drugs, and the highs are just as high. (just don't ask z about the lows.)

Now cross your fingers for Butler's next game at 4:30pm on Saturday, and if you have a time machine so that I can get study time in (for two tests!!) in ADDITION to watching that game? It would be appreciated.

*bonus points if you can tell me which movie the title came from.

An Open Letter About Karma

Dear person who hit my parked car and then drove off,

That was rude. I mean, I know there's no way you could have known that I was in a serious car accident a little over a year ago. Or that I had just gotten my beloved Curvy back from the shop where a very scary noise had just been corrected. I know there's no way you could have known that, perhaps as a result of the accident, car stress gets to me in a way that no other stress does. I know.

But you probably did know that my car, being parked in front of the humble abode that it guards every day, is my most expensive possession (and you probably guessed that I don't even really own it yet.) You probably did know, when your car connected with my car's rear left quarter panel and left a visible dent and scratches, that the damage would be expensive and that it was all your fault. That's probably why you drove off in a panic.

You probably had no idea that I had had a conversation about this very situation only a few days prior, and that I totally judged a co-worker when he said that he "wasn't sure" he would leave a note if he accidentally hit someone and there were no witnesses. You had no idea of my level of outrage because in my world? Not leaving a note is not an option. In my world? You own up to your mistakes.

But you know, I can't even be mad anymore. It happened. It's done. There's nothing I can do but suck it up and get my car fixed. There's nothing more I can do but rest assured that Karma is a bitch and I'm sure that what goes around, comes around.

But just in case karma needs some help, I have prepared a list of suggestions for what would befit a person, such as yourself, who would do such an underhanded cowardly thing.

- a pack of wild roaming cats can invade your house, pee on every carpeted surface and piece of furniture, and then disappear without a trace to leave you with the unending smell of ammonia until the day you die.

- your car will suddenly stop functioning on 465 at the point farthest from your home. In the left lane.

- you will be summoned for jury duty twice in 25 months and have to be sequestered both times.

- you will exit your house for a very important occasion (first date? job interview?) and step right into dog poo... the smell of which would follow you throughout the rest of the day/evening.

- Part I: your water-heater will stop working indefinitely, and since you don't have the money for car insurance (why else would you NOT LEAVE A NOTE?!) you will not have the money to be able to get it fixed.

- Part II: you will forget that you don't have hot water every morning until you're already in the shower.

- You will sit in cat puke multiple times in one morning.

- You will be forced to spend family holidays with someone who makes the experience absolutely miserable for you.

- Part I: You will be mistakenly picked up for terrorist activity and as torture, your fingernails will be pulled out one by one.

- Part II: As a result of your captivity, you will contract a nasty case of chicken pox and not be able to scratch.

- Two words: Adult Acne.

- When I leave for school full time, you will apply and be selected to do my job. For the rest of your life.

Any other suggestions befitting such a person? I mean, of course we have no effect on Karma whatsoever, but it sure would make me feel better. The more evil (but not permanent) the damage, the better.

EDIT:
- Ochem. I wish upon you a thousand classes of organic chemistry.

Snippets

- I am not a veterinary-school-prerequisite-filling dropout. I can't decide if it's because I'm ridiculously stubborn, or if it's because I really want to be a vet and haven't yet given up hope. I'm leaning towards the stubborn.

- I had an ochem test on Monday over the same material that was on the quiz (that I did, actually, get a 50% on.) I actually feel pretty good about it. The test, I mean. Not the quiz. I'm still depressed as hell about the quiz. But the test is worth 100 points, and the quiz was worth 25, so in the grand scheme of things... Anyhow, I'm afraid to spend too much time thinking about my test and how I did lest I jinx myself. I am supposed to get it back today, so if you don't hear from me for the next month or so, just come looking for me in the pit of despair.

- When you're the first person in the office in the mornings, and you happen to be in the bathroom when the second person gets into the office, it's super awkward when they call out "Good Morning" and you answer from the toilet.

- Next week is my SPRING BREAK. I plan to be as lame as ever during that week, but I'm still excited. Getting in to work at 8:00am! Dinner with friends instead of class during the week! NCAA tournament!!!!!!!!

- Yes, I will choose Butler to go all the way. I'm willing to throw away my $5 again.

- My dog is muddy. I would hate on that, but temperatures have been above 50 degrees lately, and I'm so happy I could cry.

- I know I haven't mentioned him recently (mainly because I try not to think about his existence) but I think we may have stumbled upon a new drug regimen for Tyson that just might work and is not out of the boy's budget at $10/90 days. I'll keep you updated on this very exciting news. (Well, in my world. You probably don't care. Unless you live with Cash.)

- My fingers = the same or worse. Thank you for all of the suggestions (I've tried each of them) but I think I'm resigned to have to go see the dermatologist about this. Drat. Maybe I DO have a latex allergy. Does that mean that I would have to quit organic chem lab? Do you think a Dr's note will excuse me? (I know, I know. I'm reaching. But it's nice to dream.)

UPDATE:
The majority of this blog was written yesterday and just not posted. Last night I found out that my professor will not be returning our ochem tests until after Spring Break. So I'm spared a week in the pit of despair. I'll find out on March 22nd. Do you know what happens before then? The NCAA TOURNAMENT BEGINS!!! Woot!! Hopefully I can keep my mind off of the suspense... Go DAWGS!

Drowning

So I studied all last weekend and then Monday and Tuesday nights for an ochem quiz that I had yesterday. When I got the quiz, everything looked familiar and I was thrilled that it didn't look like Chinese to me. I methodically worked through the problems and felt okay about the quiz...

...until the professor put the answers on the board.

People, I'll be lucky if I got a 50% on that stupid quiz. And I have a test over the same material on Monday.

Tomorrow is the last day to drop out of classes with a W instead of a grade.

All I can think is that I don't want to be in school anymore.

I mean, I know I want to be a vet. I get that. What I'm tired of is feeling dumb. I'm tired of questioning whether or not this whole "I'm an intelligent person" idea that I have is based less on fact and more on self-delusion. I'm tired of not having any free time. I'm tired of putting all of this effort into a class that I won't use ever again EVER and getting such little return. Most of all I'm frustrated. I hate that I can't do this. I hate that I'm drowning under work and school when I'm supposed to be able to handle anything.

I hate that organic chemistry has shattered my confidence.

Because vet school? Very competitive. And my GPA? Can't handle another C in chemistry.

The boy suggested taking a semester off. But if I was going to take a semester off, this should have been it. I mean, summer is coming after this, and that's usually enough of a recharge to get me back on the saddle in August. And if I take the fall semester off this year? Do I really want to delay my application to vet school again? (Answer: no.)

Z asked me if I was willing to do this for five more years. No. No I'm not. But I don't have to. Once If I get into vet school, it would be school full time. OMG I dream about this. It's like my crack. Forty hours more per week with which I could study? Classes that are relevant to what I want to do with my life? Done! Sign me up right now.

Only, I have to get through this part to get to that part. And right now, all I can think is that I don't want to do this anymore.

So I'm sending out an SOS. Help a girl out. Remind me that I can do this. Remind me why I should. Because right now? I can't remember on my own. All I can think is that I don't want to keep getting kicked when I'm down. I don't want to keep putting all this effort into something and barely getting by. Who, in their right mind, would sign up for this torture? All I can think is that I don't want to be in school anymore.

And tomorrow is my last day to make that decision.

Easily Eliminated

It's wintertime. It's cold. And apparently my low maintenance status-quo is just not cutting it. My body is screaming that I must pay a little more attention to it. I don't know if I'm treating this winter differently than I have previous winters, but I'm dealing with dry skin like you would not believe - even with all the water I've been drinking. Lotion has helped, but in particular, my fingertips are dry, cracked and peeling. Ouch. It's gotten to the point that I notice it all the time - it's pretty annoying.

(Before you ask, no, I'm not touching or using any lotions or creams that are different than my usual routine, and I always wear latex rubber gloves in chemistry lab.)

Of course I made the mistake of mentioning this to my mother and now a healthy dose of motherly guilt is suggesting that I head to the doctor to see if anything is seriously wrong. I don't believe that I have any serious illness but, you know, under the barrage of mother guilt, it's impossible that the door of doubt isn't cracked just a bit. What if I really AM dying? Because it's a little known fact that all serious diseases begin with dry, cracked fingertips, you know.

And so, even though everyone says not to do this, I googled my symptoms this morning. I was totally expecting all signs to lead to cancer, but I was surprised. There were actually some common circumstances/chronic illnesses that were NOT cancer and suggested as possibilities for what I'm experiencing. So I decided to go through them one by one and see if perhaps I did need to go to the doctor after all.

Um, no. Each one that I clicked on had "extreme weight loss" listed as one of the symptoms. That's not happening here... move along. And please pass the hand lotion.

Any suggestions from others?? I would appreciate any help at this point.

Quest for Ice Cream

(I need to begin this post with an apology to both z and the boy. Because I totally do this to them. And now at least I know where I get it from.)

On Saturday evening, I was heading out the door to meet a high school friend for coffee when my dad stopped me.

"Where are you going again?"

"To Starbucks to meet Kristen, dad. I'll probably be gone about an hour/hour and a half or so."

"Oh. Okay. You want to pick up some ice cream on your way home?"

"Sure. I can do that. What do you want?"

"Do you want ice cream?"

"No thanks."

"Oh, well, then don't worry about it."

I changed my tune. "Sure dad. I would love some ice cream. There is nothing on this earth that I would like more."

He laughed and said, "Forget about it."

"No seriously. I'll pick it up no problem. What do you want? A strawberry blizzard?"

"No. I don't like strawberry."

"Right, right. That's mom. You like peanut butter cup."

"Don't worry about it. Really."

"Oh maybe I'll just pick you up a pint of Ben and Jerry's?" I mused.

My dad immediately perked up and responded, "Do they have pistachio?"

"Pistachio? I'm not sure, but I can look."

"Nah. Don't worry about it."

"Fine."

Now, I don't know if I've ever mentioned how difficult it is to do nice things or buy gifts for my father. He's pretty self sufficient, and when you ask what he wants, you never get a good answer. (When he was working it was always "a new tie" - the man had over 100 ties - and now it's always "a bottle of Beefeater." - there is no shortage of alcohol at my parents house.) My dad is usually all, "Oh, don't worry about me. I'm fine." But this conversation? It was a chink in the armor of self sufficiency. My dad wanted pistachio ice cream. He wanted something. That I could provide! It was now my mission in life to bring home some pistachio ice cream.

I came to find out that this was easier said than done.

I started off by meeting my friend at Starbucks and then hitting four stores on my way home. The first was the grocery store that I had visited earlier that day. Where I struck out. But not after spending about 15 minutes in the surprisingly small ice cream section pouring over every different container. Still, I left optimistic. There were two other grocery stores within five minutes. Surely one of them would have it.

The second place where I stopped closed at 9:00pm. It was 9:10pm when I got there. I was dumbfounded. Seriously? The store closes at 9:00pm on a Saturday? Um, okay. Small(ish) town, I guess.

I tried an ice cream shoppe next. They make their own ice cream, so I was hopeful that maybe they had specialty flavors that no one else carried. Vanilla Bean, they carry. Chocolate, they carry. Pistachio - negative. So much for exotic flavors. However, after three strikes, I decided to ask if anyone knew of anywhere that I COULD find pistachio ice cream. I was directed to the Baskin Robbins on the east side of town. Sweet! That was on the far side of town, but if worse came to worst, at least I had a confirmed supply. I mean, assuming the high school kids behind the counter of a small-town ice cream shoppe were right. Grasping for hope, I chose not to doubt them.

On my way home, I stopped at the final grocery store. They were locking their doors as I arrived, so I just squeezed in under the wire. No pistachio, but they did have spumoni. I vaguely remembered that my father also liked spumoni, and perhaps the green layer in the spumoni was pistachio? (it isn't.) Regardless, I decided not to go home empty handed and bought the spumoni ice cream before heading back to my parent's house.

..where my father verified that the green layer is NOT pistachio, but still shared the ice cream with my mother so I wouldn't feel like a failure. Didn't work.

That night, while out with friends, I was recounting my quest and subsequent failure. I asked if anyone knew where to get pistachio ice cream? I was rewarded with independent verification that Baskin Robbins did indeed carry what I sought. Of course, they were closed by then (well past midnight) but I started plotting as to when I could get some ice cream the next day after church but before I drove the three hours home.

When we left the bar, my friend Jackie suggested that we drive past Baskin Robbins just to make sure. We did, and sure enough, "Pistachio-Almond" ice cream was on the menu. I was giddy. Super-giddy. This is what I blame on why I agreed when Jackie made the following suggestion, "Do you want to just go check Wal-Mart before we head home? It might save you a trip tomorrow."

It was 2:00am. I was tired. The thought of getting up for church was exhausting enough, not to mention the subsequent three-hour drive home. Saving me a trip sounded like bliss. Besides, I figured it was a long shot. I was certain that Wal-Mart wouldn't carry what I needed. No one else in town did. There's no way Wal-Mart would. Psh, Wal-Mart. Like they have anything good on their shelves.

Guess what Jackie found at Wal-Mart?

What a pickle. Seriously. I was torn. Spend money at Wal-Mart? The hated Wal-Mart? A store I wouldn't set foot in even when I couldn't afford real hand soap? The root of all evil? I mean, I sometimes act soulless and unethical, but to actually give my money to a soulless and unethical business??

But... the only pistachio ice cream I had seen in the entire town. (sob.)

I'm a daddy's girl. We all know how this story ends. Tears were shed and tantrums were thrown, but in the end I sold my soul for a pint of pistachio ice cream. I even had to use my damn credit card so there's proof! I feel dirty. Oh so dirty.

Still, the look on my dad's face when he found it the next morning? Priceless.

Not that I was there to see it, mind you. The man gets up at 7:30am. I didn't move until at least ten. But, you know, I can imagine.

An Early Morning Lesson in Small(er) Towns

This past Friday was my father's sixty-fourth birthday. Since I am the epitome of a daddy's girl, I made the trek back to my hometown for a visit. And since it's scientifically proven to be impossible to buy birthday presents for fathers, I decided to make waffles for breakfast (and do the dishes) on both Saturday and Sunday while I was visiting. Happy Birthday dad!

In preparation, I called my mother to make certain she had most of the perishable ingredients needed to make waffles that would not make the trek with me from Indianapolis. When I found out that she didn't have milk, I offered to stop on my way home, but she repeatedly assured me that she would pick up milk before Friday night...no problem.

Apparently this promise was forgotten. Two glasses of wine into the visit on Friday night (where alcohol seems to be flowing ever copiously,) my mother remembered that she had forgotten to get milk. Damn. No problem...I love my dad...I'll get up on Saturday morning before my dad gets up and buy some milk.

My dad gets up at 7:30am. Everyday.

My hometown is on CST while Indy is on EST.

So not only was I getting up at 7:00am on a Saturday, my body actually felt like it was getting up at 6:00am. I had also had two three a few glasses of wine. You can imagine how happy I was when I went to get milk on Saturday morning.

"I really love my dad," was what I chanted to myself repeatedly when I went to get milk at the crack of dawn. (It was either that or evil thoughts about my mother who had forgotten the milk in the first place. It was with great effort that I focused on the positive. I really really hate mornings.)

When I arrived at the closest grocery store to my parent's house (approximately a three minute drive, I might add) I had progressed from grumpy to crabby to certifiably evil. I headed to the back of the store to get the milk, cursing because I had to walk through the entire store to get to the dairy section, and seriously, what are we really accomplishing by setting up the store like this except making people who only need milk REALLY grumpy because they have to walk five miles farther than necessary in their trek? On my way to check-out, I grabbed a Starbucks frappuccino in an effort to help my mood and keep my familial relations friendly. Then I proceeded to get in the only checkout line open, behind two women approximately 70 years of age and shopping for their grocery needs for the next five months.

I looked around for the U-Scan, and finally sighed in resignation. Stupid small town. Stupid no technology. Stupid wait in line for 10 hours to buy milk and a frappuccino. Stupid waffles. Stupid people who shop for five months at a time. This would be so much easier if I were at home. In Indianapolis. Where there is technology and the world makes sense.

It was at this point in my internal grumbling that the lady in front of me turned around and said, "Honey, why don't you go ahead in front of me? You only have two items."

My early-morning brain literally could not process a response. I stood there in dumbfounded silence, during which the second little old lady turned and made the same offer. "Goodness yes. You only have two items. You go on ahead sweetie."

I should note that I did not know either of these ladies.

I stumbled over a "Thank you" and immediately felt guilty for my evil thoughts of only moments earlier. I shuffled to the front of the line, paid for my two items and got back to my parent's home within 15 minutes.

And it was thus how I was properly chastised by my small(er) hometown. Because you KNOW that for all the technology in the world, there's no way that would have happened in Indianapolis at 7:00am. In fact, the little old ladies up here might have even thrown elbows if I had dared reach around them to get a pack of gum.

Lesson learned. Small town living for the win!

Okay. Maybe not for the win...but not a complete loss. And for me to think that way about my hometown? Progress. Way to go, little old ladies!

I hate everyone. Where's the caffeine?

So today marks the beginning of Lent.

Obviously, I was raised Catholic.

Being somewhat non-committal on the subject of religion now (I prefer to say that I "make it up as I go") I'm always surprised by the gravity that Lent has for me. By the longevity that it's had in my life. When I was little, it was (duh) because Easter was coming. Easter meant Easter baskets. Easter meant a pretty dress to wear to church. (If I was lucky, there was also a hat.)

These days, though there still are Easter baskets, (that still come from the "Easter Bunny" because my mother rocks) I think I prefer the tradition of the season. (Lord knows it's not the Easter mass that I enjoy... Sorry Lord.) I kind of like the sacrifice. I like the deliberate-ness of taking something small and important out of my life, and every time I turn to do it/eat it/use it out of habit for 40 days, I deliberately think of WHY I am not doing it/eating it/using it.

And why am I giving something up for 40 days and 40 nights? Well, to go into that would be to go into what I personally believe regarding religion and a higher power. And you guys don't want to read that, right? That is not what this blog is here for. Let's face it, you guys want to know what I gave up for Lent.

I don't have any set rules for what I give up each year. I usually just know what it is when I stumble upon it. It has to be difficult enough to be a sacrifice, but it can't be so difficult that I'm miserable for 40 days and 40 nights. In the past (before I had to cut back in order to have the innernetz at my house) I have given up Starbucks. That was difficult enough that I actually did that a couple of years running. Last year I gave up high fructose corn syrup. MAN. That stuff is in EVERYTHING. That was a tough one. When I was in high school I gave up carbonated beverages.

This year, when I solicited suggestions on Facebook, they ranged from the ridiculous (regular Coke - please, people... the goal is not to be miserable) to the non-applicable (American Idol - sorry...I don't partake.) But they led to some considerations. Give up Survivor and my beloved Colby? Somehow I don't think that would be difficult enough. Another friend suggested giving up texting (and blogging) and I was intrigued... until I realized that all that would do is probably raise my phone bill (and, let's be honest, how regular have I been with posting lately??)

As Fat Tuesday wound to a close and I hadn't yet thought of anything to sacrifice for Lent, I started to panic. In the end, instead of just giving in and giving up something reasonable like regular Coke (which would be really tough, but not impossible) I had a complete lapse of sanity and decided to give up the snooze button on my alarm clock. Let me say that again. I gave up the snooze button on my alarm clock. For Lent. For 40 days and 40 nights. No snooze button. I get up when my alarm goes off. Like, I hear my alarm, and then I have to get out of bed.

I can't even blame the boy for this suggestion. I did it all by myself. Madness.

Me. The person who owns several different types of pajamas that all say the same thing, "NOT A MORNING PERSON." Me. The person who my family has learned not to speak to until I've been awake for at least an hour or had Starbucks. Whichever comes first. (My mother gave me a coffee mug for Christmas that says "Crabby." Yep, that about sums it up.) Me. The person who could sleep for 13 hours at a time if you let her. Me. The person who had an organic chemistry lab that lasted until 10:20pm last night and had to be in to work at 7:00am. Me. The person who everyone was afraid to wake from a nap in college (except for one brave soul....) Even today the BOY hates waking me up from a nap. It's not pretty. I do love me some sleep.

The things I'll do in the name of religion....sheesh. I swear. (Wait. No I don't. Swearing is a sin. Oops.)

The first thing this sacrifice did was cause me to re-set my alarm for a reasonable time. No more of this setting-for-5:30am-in-order-to-get-up-at-6:00-or-6:15-stuff. The second thing it did was cause me to practice self restraint when my alarm went off this morning, I couldn't hit snooze, and I had to remember why. The object is not to be bitter when remembering why I'm sacrificing. Yeah. That was a challenge. My entire shower was spent thinking things like, "Not bitter. Doing this for a reason. Deliberately thinking about things that I otherwise might not spend time thinking about. Not bitter. Do not hate the world."

Of course, if my cat hadn't chosen today to poop on my doormat which caused me to realize that no, I hadn't yet gone to the store to replenish my supply of paper towels, I probably would have been a tad more successful.

Anyone else out there give something up? If not, you can still show me some love by giving me your thoughts on how successful I'll be at this undertaking. The boy thinks I'll last a week. He's so supportive.