Crazy Eights - Why Not?

Eight Things I am Passionate About:
Music
Writing
My relationships
My work (most days)
My future
Working out (not exactly passionate, but newly excited and focused on it)
Traveling
Living well and fully

Eight Things I want to Do Before I Die:
Travel as many places as I can
Fall in love
Meet my children, and their children
Write a book
Become well-established in a career
Get in better shape
Take care of my family
See the Pacific Ocean

8 Things I say Often:
That's what she said...
oh hiiiii...
awwww
so cute
amazing...
I love this song.
I have no money.
I love you.

8 Books I've Read Recently:
Mercy
A Perfect Match
19 Minutes
90 Minutes in Heaven: A True Story of Death and Life
(this list needs to be longer...)

8 Songs I Could Listen to Over and Over (and over):
almost anything by John Mayer, Rod Stewart and Kenny Chesney
Mona Lisas and Mad Hatters - Elton John
Crazy Love - Van Morrison
Band on the Run - Wings
Keep It Loose, Keep It Tight - Amos Lee
Turn off My Heart - Rich Price
I Guess That's Why They Call It The Blues - Elton John
Better Man - James Morrison

8 Things That Attract Me To My Best Friends:
honesty
self-awareness
open-mindedness
loyalty
respect
sense of humor
strong sense of self (goes along with self-awareness, I guess)
love of life

Womanly and Inviting

The first time Jackie ever referred to my body as "womanly and inviting", I most likely spit out my drink. We probably both cracked up for a good 5 minutes and struggled to regain our breath. Although I know she was most likely serious and trying to deliver a compliment, we've both gone back to this phrase constantly, and it gets funnier every time.

In my 3rd, I think, week of going to the gym - faithfully (even weekends!) - I am finally starting to notice a bit of improvement. It has been undoubtedly slow, and I realize how much further I have to go. I am finding myself enjoying it, though. I actually want to go to the gym and I feel lazy if I don't. Never in my life did I think that I'd be an exercise advocate, but here I am.

Jack always told me it would get easier. She told me I would feel better, she told me I would get really into it and I might become a little addicted. She told me it would help with my arthritis.

Who knew? Maybe the next time Jackie tells me that my body is womanly and inviting, I will actually believe her...

I used to be allergic to candy, or so I thought.

Up until I was at least 5 or 6 (or the age where things start to make sense, you start processing thoughts and memories start leaving their marks), I believed I was allergic to candy. In a genious move by Peg, I was never allowed to eat it - for fear of some disasterous allergic reaction. I distinctly remember looking longingly at a pack of Rolos in our freezer and really wanting them. I wondered what would actually happen if I decided to try 1, just 1. The Rolos remained in the freezer for someone else to enjoy (Peg I'm sure).

It is not known how I actually learned that I was being duped. I am sure if I asked Peg there is a small chance she'd remember. It doesn't quite matter, at this point, because I am 26 years old now, no longer living under the false pretense.

The ban on candy in the early years of my life may have shaped my current eating habits. I almost never order dessert. I don't crave chocolate (granted, what I do crave is a cheeseburger). Sure, I'll always indulge in an ice cream cone on a summer night or a 3 pm trip downstairs to the Gateway News Stand in our building for some M&M's. I think, however, I can honestly say that I might be able to live without the sweet stuff. Cheesecake? No thanks. Cheese fries? Yes please.

So I guess I am grateful to Peg for withholding candy from me all those years, most likely keeping it for herself - as she is quite the sweet tooth. The woman used to crumble Oreos on top of her cereal and she chose doughnuts as her last meal - sweet tooth might be an understatement.

The Candy Allergy has prompted me to think about some other things habits that maybe I wish she had kept out of reach. I made a list, I ALWAYS make lists:

1.) Reality TV - I have developed such a love/hate relationship with reality TV shows. The ones I truly enjoy keep me captive in front of my TV for hours. America's Next Top Model is one hour a week where I can be completely vain. It feels good. The ones I do not like as much eventually convince me and before I know it, I am getting irrationally angry at the little, snooty brats who go through their parents money like water on My Super Sweet 16.

2.) Inadvertently touching my face - My skin isn't terrible, but I do have the occasional break out due to the magnetism between my hands and my face. I cannot help it, I do not even realize I am doing it.

3.) Tattoos - Can I start over? When it comes to body art, I probably could have made some better choices. I am working on it...

4.) ATM Card Usage - I've got 10 or so some-odd years of frivolous spending under my belt. I wish the ATM card was never invented, moreso I wish I wasn't allowed to use it. My Mom has tried, repeatedly, to help me with this. She literally took my card for about 2 weeks. It did work though (until I took it back) but I am trying to part with my little plastic friend once again.

I am sure I could think of more of these little vices. I'll have to start a new list.

Anyway, thanks Mom. xoxo

Water water everywhere, and not a drop to drink...

It's February 14th and our little office is a buzz with Valentine's day. Bagels from the sales team and Hershey Kisses from the Building - of which I've eaten at least 17 pieces. Of course, the day would not be complete without the quintessential V-Day indication - flowers. Bouquets dot the desks of quite a few of the lucky ladies I work with.

In reality, I was a little bummed about not having any special someone with whom to share the holiday. Yes, I realize how pathetic that sounds. So I let myself have a little pity party, table for 1 please, for just a few moments this morning. I joked with Barbra about when our flowers were arriving. She smiled painfully and joked back to me, "That's alright, we'll just plant our own flowers Kristen", and she laughed to herself. She didn't realize how right she was.

I'll plant my own...

Thanks for the Post It Notes.....

Thanks for the advice on our shared ailment, I need it and appreciate it (always).

Thanks for giving me my first "little" cousin, he isn't so little anymore (an understatement).

Thanks for the couple times you've loaned me money, I am forever grateful.

Thanks for the nickname, it has stuck.

Thanks for letting me (us) use your car.

Thanks for being my Fairy GodMother.

Thanks for being my ally, when needed, against my Mom, or your Mom.

Thanks for the books this Christmas, I cannot put them down, and they were exactly what I wanted.

Thanks for always being honest with me, ever since I was young.

Thanks for taking care of me when I was sick in grade school and had to stay home, thanks for the magazines, thanks for the milkshake.

Thanks for sharing that letter with us, it was nice to read it and know that we are not the only daughters who have ever felt that way about their Daddy.

Thanks for your unending support of whatever I am doing, including this very blog.

Thanks for being one of my biggest fans.

Oh and thanks for the Post It Notes...

"Is forever enough 'cause I'm never never giving you up..."

It's Sunday night, and I was lying in my bed after a long Sunday of indulgences with Jackie: food, SuperBad, M&M's, hysterical laughter, my couch, Pig Daddy's, Season 2 of The Office. She left, I watched the Giants upset the Pats and tried unsuccessfully to sleep. So I hopped up and got online to try and put together some thoughts.

Lately, I've been dreaming almost every night of my house in Darby. Whatever the dream is about, the setting is our house. 19 South 13th Street. I lived there since birth (just about) and we moved out a little over a year ago. My entire life played out in that house and leaving it was devastatingly difficult. I had a hard time imagining living anywhere else.

Admittedly, I drive down my old street at least once a week when I get off the train in Lansdowne. Slowly making a right onto 13th and heading towards the creek, I tap the brakes at the 3rd house from the end on the left. If anyone, particularly the current residents, saw me, I am sure I'd look like a nut or a stalker or both. I'd really cross that line of appropriateness if I did what I always crave doing - which is knock on the door and ask if I could come in and take a look around. Luckily, I've been blessed with a picturesque memory.

Coming in the front door to the porch, careful how you swing the door open. You wouldn't want it to hit the 3 white bookshelves along the wall that held tons of picture frames and cause them to fall. The sun always seeped through the 5 windows and sat in the little room like a warm fog. Throw your coat on the futon and, if you remember, take off your shoes before you step onto the whitish rugs of the living room and the rest of the house.

You'll probably be met with the smell of my Mom's perfume, cigs, eucalyptus, dinner cooking or a combination of all of the above. The couches were always oversized and comfy and TV always on. The doorway from the living to the dining rooms was framed with window panels up each side. Next to them is a light switch that never worked and we never knew its purpose.

The dining room houses the computer and desk, and our "Growing Up Gotti" mirrored dining set. The legs of the table are damaged from the flood, Hurricane Floyd, of 1999. It was my first semester at college and the storm brought the waters of the aforementioned creek at the bottom of the street to overflow. The damage to our house was extensive and it was unlivable for months. The first time I came home from college and was actually able to return to my own house wasn't until Christmas. It was a true homecoming...

Ivy and green is the theme in the breakfast room, sunflowers in the kitchen. The same fridge for as long as I can remember with photo magnets of each year we were on swim team. Head out the back door to the back porch and deck, my Dad's project in the 80's. Many, many summer nights spent out there eating dinner and it was Jenna's spot for most of high school and after.

Going up the steps to the 2nd floor, if it was the summer, there was a more than noticeable increase in temperature. The narrow bathroom's grey and white tiled floor was covered with a rug in whichever theme was the flavor of the month - butterflies, sun and moon, leopard... Peg knows she is the queen of the theme.

Jen's (old) bedroom, now used as a spare and then mine. The pink plush rug was worn in the middle. I slept in a twin bed my whole life. Remnants of my childhood still linger as well as high school and college pictures, way too many frames and an overflowing closet.

The hallway leading to the master bedroom, also narrow, is a place I used to sleep when I was young and scared. I'd awake in the middle of the night and, instead of climbing into bed with my Mom and Dad, just peek under the door, see the light of the TV and curl up on the hall floor. That was usually good enough for me. Their room was swallowed by their California King Brass bed and the dark wood furniture - the tan rug worn very thin and the air conditioner emitted a distinct smell - one that I'd recognize instantly and give anything to have the chance to.

The 3rd floor was used for storage, an apartment for my Mom Mom when we were very young, a little playroom of sorts, and eventually Jenna's room. Almost tripping over Puff's litter and up the dusty dark steps, it was a huge room that I would eventually kick myself for not moving my stuff up there first.

Way, way, way too many memories there to recount, I couldn't even begin to illustrate them. The house still feels like a part of me, although it's been over a year and my apartment is my own perfect little home. The day of settlement, I took off work and helped my Mom. When we made our last trip in, the rooms were depressingly empty and the walls bare, I found her sitting on the radiator, crying. She never cries, ever. Trying to be brave for her, I just sat down and soaked in the silence of being there.

I pushed my pain away and I attempted to let go. I tried (unsuccessfully) to keep a copy of the key. I left the number as speed dial 2 on my phone and listed as "Home" until I had to get a new phone. Denial? Maybe. More like tearing off a Band-Aid slowly so that you feel it and you know it's real.

Last week, Jenna sent me a text of a picture of the back porch. She took it while visiting our old neighbor. Barely recognizable and small, it surely is the same house, but not the same home.