I have been a fool for lesser things [have I, though?]

Here I sit - the babysitter nanny. I'm wearing leggings and a Wichita State t-shirt and Ugg boots. I am partaking in a healthy morning snack of baked natural Cheetos something-or-others and watching TV while the babe sleeps. What I'm telling you, is that I'm a stereotype. All I need to do is start chewing gum loudly and call the boy I have a crush on from the landline (I'll hang up when he answers, duh) and it's 1999 all over again.

My head is full of inanities and songs from the eighties today. I'm going with it.

My head is like an endless abyss of nonsensical song lyrics and tunes. I get things stuck in there, and they will not leave. This song has been stuck in my head for the past week or so (if not longer). Essentially, Billy Joel has taken up permanent residence in my poor defenseless little karaoke brain. Watch the eighties magic below and maybe you can get it stuck in your head for weeks too!

What am I doing this weekend? Glad you asked. By some miracle, two of my very favorite people will be making the journey to Denver tonight! These girls, well, they are a couple of my oldest and dearest. I knew them when they were wearing jelly bean tights with their Doc Martens and trying out for cheerleading. We rode in the same limo to our Freshman homecoming with a bunch of sweaty boys who couldn't drive yet. I knew them when I had braces and wore a half side pony (thanks for that Mom) and when I was writing love poems in my diary about a different boy every week.

[They went something like this:

standing by your locker
I am kind of a stalker
you are my one true love
sent to me from up above
I only wish you knew
that my feelings are true
please ask me to the prom
so I can call and tell my mom

I was a pretty promising poet. Never should have given it up. Maybe if you're lucky someday I will show you a real one from the archives.]

Those two were also there when I thought I could potentially be a clothing designer:

I know, I know. I've missed my true calling. Comfort is important, people. So if you want a swim suit that looks like something Kelly Kapowski might have worn in the Hawaii episodes of Saved by the Bell, I'm your girl. I also do wedding dresses, but that's another picture for another day.

I digress. My friends are coming. I still remember their home phone numbers. That's the kind of friends these are.

ali su wu, kelly "misdemeanor" marv, meeee, circa 2005, lawrence, KS

So, there it is. Maybe I will make a habit of posting a song on Fridays for your listening pleasure (other people do this... so I'm not original, but I have some really great music so I'm ok with it). Maybe I'll even throw in embarrassing pictures of when I used to dabble in all sorts of arts: modeling, more design, sketch artist, lyricist... oh yes. My Wichita closet is a wealth of embarrassment.

Time to go - the baby's up. I guess it's time to stop giggling with my BFF's on the cordless phone (3 way calling, of course), turn off MTV, and go fetch him. 

I intend to make amends by shaking my booty

It has recently come to my attention that a lot of good things aren't fun. In fact, I'd go so far as to say that "good" and "healthy" are often antonyms for "fun." Making amends is the notorious part of the 12-step process that almost everyone super hates. By the above definition, lots of steps aren't fun, but amends are the wooooorst (see how many o's there are? That's how you know I mean it). Sincere efforts to offer apology for past harm. Sick. We all [the addicts, the crazies, even you normalest of humans] have done harm - both to others and also, I think, to ourselves. It's a fact. If we're lucky, we've made right in a timely fashion. Other times though, we haven't, and those are the places we need to revisit during this whole step nine business. What I'm struggling with is that I think I owe myself an amends. I need to apologize... to myself. Awkward.

In my experience, self harm can have a lot to do with lies. The lie could be anything from "you can't do that" to "you're not good enough" to "you're not enough, period." It's easy, when that voice is loud (and this is the part where things get harmy) to live like those lies are true. To say, "you're right, I can't do that." So I don't. "You're right, I'm not good enough." So I won't even try. "You're right, I'm not enough." So if I work hard enough, maybe I can DO enough to somehow BE enough. Which, if you've been there, you know just doesn't work. Because I would argue our worth isn't our own doing. The lies perpetuate.

There is a post on Stuff Christians Like called "Thinking You're Naked" and the first time I read it, it spoke to my soul. From Genesis 3:

When the woman saw that the fruit of the tree was good for food and pleasing to the eye, and also desirable for gaining wisdom, she took some and ate it. She gave some to her husband and he ate it. Then the eyes of both of them were opened, and they realized they were naked; so they sewed fig leaves together and made coverings for themselves. They heard the sound of the Lord God and they hid from the Lord God among the trees of the garden. But the Lord God called to the man, "Where are you?" [Adam] answered, "I heard you in the garden, and I was afraid because I was naked; so I hid."

Jon Acuff calls God's response one of the "saddest and most profoundly beautiful verses in the entire Bible":: 

"Who told you that you were naked?" 

Before this moment, naked wasn't really even a thing - not a bad thing, anyway. I think it's not insignificant that the very first thing that happens after their interaction with the serpent is that Adam and Eve are struck with the awareness (lie?) that how they are naturally is shameful, and that they must cover it up. Naked was how they came. It was all they knew how to be, and they had never felt the need to hide before that moment. Here is the sequence of events as I see it: they came into contact with the father of lies. As a result, their "eyes were opened" and they "realized" that what they were was bad, and they became ashamed. As a result, they hid from the Father who loved them. They (we) exchanged the truth for a lie, and it separated them (us) from God. Lies induce shame. Shame tells us we'd better cover up, and fast. And I just don't think we were created to live under wraps like that. God hears our shame, sees the lies we believe and asks, "Who told you that?" There is an implied second part, I think: "because it wasn't me." That is profoundly beautiful. The truth often is.

Back to the topic at hand: I owe myself an apology. For believing lies, for living out of the shame that the lies created and for allowing them to separate me both from the Father who loves me and from the freedom I think was intended for us. I owe myself amends for hiding out from the things that I was created for (connection, joy, freedom, worship) because I was afraid of what might happen if I let myself be naked (metaphorically speaking). The question is, how does one apologize to oneself? Do I take myself out for coffee? Write myself a letter? Offer to do my own laundry for a month? Buy myself a nice bottle of wine? A gift certificate for a mani/pedi? I've been toying with it for a while now and then the other night as I walked out of my Zumba class, it dawned on me. I was making amends with myself and I didn't even know it.

Every time I do something that opposes a lie, it's an amends.
Every time I say yes when something inside me screams, "you can't!! you can't!," it's an apology.
Every time I tell shame to shut the @!#$... well, you get the idea.

It'll look different for all of us probably. For me, so far, it looks like being honest regardless of the outcome. It looks like sharing my junk with someone I trust without fear of rejection. It maybe looks like writing something that makes me feel a little bit naked and not feeling like I need to cover it up because I know it's truth. And as silly as this may sound to you, it looks like letting myself go to a Zumba class and admitting that I love it. Good things.

And I know what I said before... but some of it's actually even kind of a little bit fun. 
Especially the part that involves shaking my booty on a bi-weekly basis.

the upsetting power of the party pic

I used to think that a party was only truly great if it produced approximately 267 pictures of me doing fun things and looking awesome with crazy people having a crazy time. In most of said pictures, my mouth is open and my hands are in some sort of rockstar positioning (that's my go-to). So many candid shots of us having a grand ol' time. Posed group shots where we're all laughing because right before the picture was taken someone said something hilarious. It may have been about the creepy guy who is consistently lurking just on the outskirts of our dance circle, but there'd really be no way of knowing. The next day, you'll put up a totally hilarious Facebook photo album and title it some crazy quote from around 2 AM the night before about crab walking down 16th street mall or something. (The other option is to call it something like, "best night everrrrrrrr" with extended consonants to fully get across to the Facebook world just how AWESOME the night really was. Without them, no one will believe you even had fun.) Honestly, I think the day-after-picture-upload-frenzy is sometimes more exciting than, in reality, the party/night really was. If we're being honest.

It's a high-pressure situation then, taking party pics. This is part of the reason that my wise friend Cristy and I have decided that Facebook is probably going to end up being the root cause for 98% of anxiety disorders. It used to be that you could go to a party, have fun, and maybe scam a photo double (I loved double prints so much) at a sleepover a few months later. Or, you could NOT go to a party, and easily not have a clue what went on or what Sheila wore or how much fun everyone had. NOW, not only do you have to a) look good b) have fun, but you also have to c) be careful and not wear the same outfit you wore to last weekend's party (even if it's with different people and it was a really cute outfit) because what if you are outed by the Facebook pics? and d) (the worst) deal with the repercussions of your actions the next day when undoubtedly someone has taken a highly unflattering picture of you on the dance floor at the Tavern with an 80 year old man (not that that's happened to anyone I know). And if you miss a party, well, get ready to be jealous, because we all looked hot and had the time of our lives. Serves you right for thinking you could get away with going to visit your grandparents for the weekend. We'll probably never have that much fun again, I mean, did you SEE how many consonants were in that photo album title?!

It has become highly unnatural what we know and see about each other's lives, yes? The stakes are so much higher now! With everything you do, every step you take, there is a high likelihood whatever it is will inevitably be immortalized until the end of time on the internets. It's no wonder we're anxious. But I digress.

We had a New Years Eve party, and I realized the next morning that I took exactly two pictures: one of Cristy and Lindsay trying desperately to make ugly ribbon look like decoration instead of trash (to no avail, sorry girls), and one of the infamous board which was hosting a "Midnight Kiss Sign-Up List" that we thought should be documented. After that, I took no more pictures. Not a one. I wasn't really even IN any pictures. All total, I was in two, and I've decided that's great. It was a fun party and we had crazy moments and things certainly happened that would be funny in a Facebook album, but now we can sleep easy at night with the knowledge that we had fun and leave well enough alone.

But I do have these two gems to remind me of the fun times we had. I like to call them, "BC" and "AC" which stands for "before & after champagne." You can say it, I'm very clever.

Before: Megan & the aforementioned Cristy sipping Champagne in fancy outfits that sparkle

aaaaaaaand After.

There you have it - a truly great party. I'm 265 pictures short of proving it, so you'll have to take my word for it.

oh-leven [2011]

I have a seriously screwy love/hate relationship with transitions. On the one hand, I am reeeeeally bad at them. Not my forté in any sense of the word. But in theory, I think they are delightful. Which is why I like the idea of New Year's resolutions. I like the idea that one year ends and a new one starts, and that in said new year I can do new things. I can make new choices and meet new people and be new myself, somehow. I like that. I think it's hopeful and sometimes when things are full of yuck it's nice to get to a new year where there is a possibility of less yuck. I mean goodness, along that same line of thought I even sometimes like Mondays. New weeks when old ones weren't great. Yes, technically, any day or even minute can have the same effect, I recognize this. But there is something neat and clean about a Monday transition. And even more neat and clean is a new year. Oh-leven. New and neat and clean. 

Given my natural bent toward irrationality, I can tend to put too much stock in that, though, and I never want to put too much pressure on something silly like a change of date. Because really, it's just a different day. Things may not change much, in reality, and not even in a bad way. More in a just-because-we-write-a-different-year-on-our-checks-doesn't-mean-our-lives-are-dramatically-altered kind of way. Seems logical.

Which is why I really don't like resolutions. In theory, delightful, but in practice, potentially disastrous. In the past I have viewed it as much like saying, "Hey, I have an idea - let's make a list of things I probably won't do this year, so that when the year is over, I have an actual, pre-written, physical checklist of reasons I suck." Perhaps a little dramatic, sure, but my point is NYR's can go one way or the other. That said, I went back just now and read my blog from New Years LAST year, and I am unexpectedly thrilled. I did not plan this. I swear to you. Check it: 

[in 2010] I will be freer, generally speaking.

Direct excerpt from my "Christmas Card" this year. Check it:

Despite the fact that life is not perfect, that I still don't have a job and I am still in transition and I still have a ton to figure out, I feel thankful to reach the end of 2010 and tell you... I am free-er than I have ever been.

And you know I didn't plan that, because if I had, I would have spelled free-er/freer the same both times. (The difference is driving me a little nuts actually. I would say I am uptight about a total of 3-5 things total in my entire life but one of them is, beyond a shadow of a doubt, spelling.) I am acutely aware as I read those words (all spelling issues aside) that there was no resolution I could have made to make that happen for myself.

My hope for us in oh-leven is pretty simple. I want to learn how to do free better. I want to do new things and make new choices and meet new people and live newly. I want to do more of the things that delight me, like investing in wonderful people, singing karaoke in my living room, and wearing red lipstick and crazy nail polish. Probably I will try to find a job and go to the gym more or read more books too, let's be honest. I'm not completely above resolutions. But mostly I want to enjoy the gift I have already been given and try to live from there. I want to rest in the truth and power of Jesus and live out of that, because that's the only place I've ever found freedom. I want to take risks, and I will only take risks if I am free. I've started practicing (it's hard and hurts a little, I will not lie to you, and I can't say yet that I love that) but I want to get better at it. 

Making freedom the goal for 2010 wasn't a resolution, it was a prayer. 
And I'm not achieving it, it's being given to me. 

happy New Year & happy Monday & happy 1:19 pm. Newness all around. Let's pray and take risks and be free and new. What do you say?

this is a christmas card

Welcome to my Christmas Card and consequently, well look at that, my blog! I realize I am late, that Christmas has past, but I'm me. I wouldn't want to confuse anyone by being on time for something.

to those nearest & dearest to my heart, etc. & so on & so forth:

left to right: me, Santa, Cristy

I hope you all are enjoying the magic of the holiday season as much as I am. I look forward to this season all year; the season where cooking with pumpkin is once again acceptable, when people put horribly tacky lights and things on their homes, when I can listen to Mariah Carey's Christmas Album and watch Jim Henson's Christmas Toy without shame, when I can unabashedly stay home and make crafts on a Saturday night - because it's all in the name of Christmas! And no one can argue with Christmas!

I thought I'd catch you up on the past year ever so briefly, as Christmas letters are wont to do.
Here are the highlights:

I traveled to weddings, bachelorette parties, birthday celebrations, and graduations. I was a maid of honor. I threw a killer Halloween party with my three sweet roomies. My purse was stolen. I decided I believe in Unicorns. I was loved extravagantly and beyond what I deserve. I found, lost, laughed, cried, healed a little some places, healed a lot other places, and learned more than I know what to do with. I perfected a karaoke duet, finally had tea at the Brown Palace, started wearing red lipstick, and my hair got real long. I saw 7 incredible concerts (don't know how 2011 is going to top that), sang a lot of karaoke, baked a lot of funfetti, and had a lot of fun with a lot of really wonderful people. I think I understand the meaning of Christmas, too.

I worked as an office assistant for a Hedge Fund, a sales associate at J.Crew, a sitter of sorts, and even did a short stint with the Leukemia & Lymphoma society working on their Light the Night Walk. All the while writing innumerable cover letters, updating my resume daily, and applying for any and all jobs here in Denver. The search continues! Despite the fact that life is not perfect, that I still don't have a job and I am still in transition and I still have a ton to figure out, I feel thankful to reach the end of 2010 and tell you that I am happy. I am free-er than I have ever been, I have a great life, and I'm happy. That is great.

One gift of transition is that I have found that I love to write. I have taken the liberty to link you above to some posts from the past year if you are interested in hearing more about any of the aforementioned topics of great importance. I read it recently from another jobless blogger: "I blog because I love writing and, since there hasn't been an occupational opportunity, this is what I do." She goes on, and so will I: I write because I love it, and this is how I can keep doing it. I offer no deep analysis of the human condition and my posts are not about politics or anything of any importance at all (sometimes). "They're just me."

I don't mean to be presumptuous, but I want to offer you a special Christmas/New Years surprise. There are not many things I brag about, really, but if there is one thing that I am confident about in my life (other than my talent for doing voices) it is my ability to make a great mix CD. Seriously, and I don't say this lightly, but it is something I feel I really excel at. As such, if you become a follower of this blog (by going to the right side and clicking "follow") I will burn you your very own mix CD. I don't care who you are, or if I know you, or even if I like you. Follow the blog, send me an email with your address, and you will get a CD in the mail. Like magic. Available until supplies last. Or until I get tired of burning CD's.

I'll be here all year, folks. finding, losing, laughing, crying and writing about all of it.

wishing you all a 2011 filled with funfetti cupcakes, karaoke to your heart's content, red lipstick,
and every so often (if you're lucky) a piña colada in the shower.

meggie

Emmanuel, Barnabas?

I grew up with the Amy Grant & Mariah Carey Christmas CD's as staples for the month of December. I remember that on the day after Thanksgiving, Mom would drive Thomas and I to Kansas City to see Nana, etc, and it was on that day each year that we broke out the Christmas tunes. I would sing "All I Want for Christmas is yoooooou baaaaaaaby" until my throat hurt. I really like music in general, and I really like that Christmas music is only for a special period of time once a year. Nothing makes me crave something quite like telling me I can only have it for a month of the year does.

Just as a funny aside, when I was a wee one, I loved the Amy Grant version of "Emmanuel, God With Us," but I genuinely thought for most of my childhood that the words were "Emmanuel, Barnabas." (Before you judge me, sing it. It sounds right.) I can just hear me, 9ish years old, singing my little heart out. And I can just hear Thomas, 3 years my junior and know-it-all-y as can be, "ARE YOU SAYING BARNABAS? Mom, listen! Megan thinks its Barnabas!!!" Then I probably hit him and we both more than likely cried, but I'm just guessing here.

Not much has changed about much, including the fact that I often am mistaken about the meaning of things. (And Thom is usually there to correct me, but that's another story for another time.) Now, I can't say I've ever really been searching for the "meaning of Christmas," at least not the way they do in Lifetime Original Movies or Hallmark specials, but nevertheless, I think I finally get it. I think this is a big deal. Really big, actually. Bigger than I have words to describe, in fact, which is the kind of thing that I find at once both frustrating and delightful.

In church last Sunday we talked about Emmanuel. Just like I once thought Amy Grant was singing about a guy with a funny name, I don't think I really understood Emmanuel until last Sunday. The concept that God is here, with us, is hard. Lots of bad things happen. God is there? It is hard for me to believe that in the past two years of loss and suck that God was here. I hear so many people cry out in their pain, where is God? Why hasn't God shown up? Our pastor pointed out that more often than not, those three words are uttered as a question in desperation. Far less often are we sure of it.

Christmas doesn't just bring the answer to those, our most personal pleading - it is the answer. Baby Jesus is Good News. He shall be called Emmanuel, which means "God with us." The babe didn't erase our pain or guarantee us a life free from sadness, loss, rejection, hurt, loneliness, addiction, anger, or resentment which I think sometimes is what I expect "God is here" to look like. But alas, Christmas doesn't signify that we won't have to deal with that stuff. And really, how much more powerful - personal - is a God who does not remove our pain but steps right into it with us. I don't know. Some days this makes more sense to me than others, but right now, I feel it in my very bones. Emmanuel is not a question. It is a promise that's been kept.

There are times, not often mind you, when I get a feeling that I like so much that I wish I could bottle it up and give it away. I don't mean to imply that I have a monopoly on warm fuzzies or that you are not capable of getting it yourself. Probably even more, I'd like to save it for myself for the days when my bones feel less sure of things. I want to take it off like a jacket and give it to the people I know who feel sure of nothing right now other than that life is hard, because I was there and it was awful.

It is possible that being there was the only way I could get to this place, though. It is possible that I had to be there in order to really, finally, fully feel the peace I felt last Sunday when I heard that God is here.
Here.
It's not a question, it's an answer.

vacation angst [why I'm thrilled I'm not 15 anymore]

My family is going on vacation for Christmas, and as a result, a certain tale has resurfaced and I have been taking a lot of heat as a result. I figured it best to address it here, publicly, and then perhaps said story will lose its luster and everyone can move on with their lives. And stop making fun of me. Doubtful, but worth a shot.

We've all done things that we regret. 

Things that, if we could go back, we might do differently. 

Things that, in retrospect, are embarrassing. 

That thing for me is the Disney trip. Ten years ago.

First of all, in my defense, I was fifteen. Let's be fair. Characteristically and by very definition, fifteen-year-old girls are on the brink of hysteria at all times. I can't help it if this cycle of teen angst was set in motion just in time for the plane to leave Wichita, KS on the fateful first morning of Spring Break 2000, can I? No. I cannot. Hormones are to blame.

So it is the morning of our departure, and per usual I am jolted awake by my parents' voice on the intercom. I learned early on that with this intercom system, all I had to do each morning was SOUND awake. I didn't actually have to BE awake, but as long as I could muster one or two alert sentences, I was good to sleep for another 15 minutes or so. And what's more, in the morning, I am not smart. Nothing productive happens in my brain until about 34 minutes after the initial alarm goes off. This particular morning was no exception. On either count. 

As the story goes, when everyone else was hopping in the car for the airport, I was still slumbering soundly in my bed. I was discovered, in bed, unprepared for departure - the fury and panic in my mother's eyes will be forever burned in my memory. After attempting unsuccessfully to feel satisfied with my atypically unkempt appearance, I was ready. Tearfully utilizing my best theatrics, I headed out the door to a car full of sleepy, probably angry family members.

I vividly recall being pissed the entire week. Honestly, I have no explanation for it. I spent a lot of the time avoiding rides that scared me (which was, as it were, most of them) and being generally ridiculous. My niece who was 5 at the time commented that she remembered me being upset about a hair-braid situation somewhere along the line. Thanks for throwing me under the bus, there, Em. I'm pretty sure (and I only tell this because if I don't someone else will) that I insisted on getting the aforementioned braids and then pitched a fit because I didn't like them. My sweet little niece is now 16, and mark my words, when she has her inevitable meltdown on our upcoming vacation, I'm going to listen and nod my head sympathetically. I will tell her I understand, been there, felt that. 

And then, when she least expects it, at the ripe old age of 25, I WILL BRING IT BACK. 

I'm kidding, relax, I am a very nice aunt actually. I will probably be the only one who stands up for her. I will probably laugh a little bit... until they start talking about me again. I can hear my hypothetical children now: "Mommy, is Nena right? Were you crazy?"

Here are some personal rules I came up with to ensure that our trip will not be a repeat disaster:

1. No braids. I don't care how cute they looked on that girl in Teen Vogue that one time.

2. No skipping rides/activities for fear's sake. Even if it terrifies me and I am basically catatonic for an hour following, at least no one will mock me for skipping things that they've deemed "fun." 

3. No oversleeping. I'm setting 5 alarms and telling all 3 roommates to make sure I'm awake.

a. And not just that I sound awake, but actually am awake. 

b. Maybe shower the night before, just in case of mishaps.

4. Laugh at above story, which will inevitably be brought up at least twice daily on upcoming trip.

a. Cry in the shower if you have to. Don't let them see you break down.

b. Obtain a solid number of embarrassing tales about everyone just in case.

5. Wine. (This is the key option that was missing when I was 15!)

It may also help that I am sort of a grownup now. But in case it doesn't, and upon entering vacation mode I revert to my true inner teenager, I will have those rules in my back pocket. 

Puerto Vallarta, here we come!

birth-days are the best-days

It is no secret (I don't have many of those, if you haven't noticed) that I love birthdays. Love them. So much. I love my birthday. I love other people's birthdays. I love children's birthdays and geriatric birthdays. (I feel a little like Dr. Suess and I don't hate it.) I do not discriminate where birthdays are concerned.

There are several reasons for this, which are (but are not limited to):

1. I unabashedly love being the center of attention 1 day a year. If I ever tell you different, I'm lying. Or I'm being held hostage and I'm trying to let you know in an obvious way that my life is in danger and to please send help. One of the two.
2. I really love parties
3. Invitations, generally speaking, is my love language
4. Simple genetics (my mother is the birthday queen)
5. I get to send/receive greeting cards, and I really love greeting cards
6. Everyone gets one and no one is left out of the fun
7. When you're late with a card or gift (which I always am) it's acceptable because that only extends the fun of the birthday rather than being a bad thing (which it typically is). At least that's how I spin it.

There are more reasons, I'm sure of it, but 7 seemed like a good, holy number to end on. Anyway, this weekend I heard about a birthday celebration where celebrators sat around that evening and told the birthday haver why they all appreciated her. They poured encouragement out on her, prayed over her, loved on her and praised Jesus in all of it. I loved that. It made me realize today that THAT is the big reason I like birthdays so much. Because on that one day, we all get to be thankful for just you (unless you share a birthday, in which case fear not, there's enough to go around). The rest of us get to reflect, that day, on how much you mean to us and the reasons we love you and why we are so fortunate to know you.

It's not that on this particular day however-many years ago you were born as a tiny babe into the world so much as it is a good reminder, one day a year, that you (whoever you may be) are a gift. Maybe you are an attention giver, and getting attention gives you pit stains. Or maybe you are an attention fiend and birthdays are where you'll really shine. Whether you're a friend or a wife or a boyfriend or a sister or a dad. Whatever you are, on this one day per year (or one week per year, as I prefer to celebrate birthdays) we will celebrate you.

I think what I like most is that we all get a day. And to you birthday naysayers far and wide, fine. Naysay all you like. Don't have cool parties with hula hoop contests (I had that in 5th grade, not to brag) or bring funfetti cupcakes to school or let me sing to you in a restaurant, that's fine. But you cannot stop us from celebrating the gift that is you.

One day week a year.

lost in transition

For those of us in this great stage of life that I love to hate to call "transition," the holidays are annoying as all get out. Because really, there is just NOTHING more frustrating than having the "OH HI I haven't seen you in a year what are you doing what's new tell me everything!" conversation over and over again when there is really nothing cool to say at all. 

I don't mean to sound bitter, I really don't. I'm actually getting quite good at the "What's new?" "Nothing!" conversation. I have lots of great one-liners dripping in just the right amount of self-deprecation and humor. It's a science, really. And while, sure, I had to have a tutor for high school physics, I am something of a savant when it comes to THIS kind of science. (The banter kind.)

I used to think about making stuff up, just for kicks. I think maybe once I kind of did but then I got confused by my own story and ended up sort of just hoping people would forget what I'd said. I think it worked. Tomorrow I will embark on another journey through the luscious landscape (ha) of Western Kansas. Thing is, I am a 30/30 extrovert on the Myers-Briggs - and as such, I very rarely require alone time. But about once a year I dabble in introversion, if you will, and I CRAVE a road trip by myself. I need 8 hours to serenade myself with bad country songs and entire musicals. Heeeeavenly. So tomorrow, home for Turkey I go. And oddly, I do not have nervousness about said trip or said transition. And here is (I think) why.

Because I may be in transition, and I may hate it, buuuuuut I also get to see the mountains every day. I have an immaculate collection of fun, brilliant, big-hearted people who I call friends. I bake delicious pumpkin chocolate chip cookies on demand. I think my family is the coolest. I laugh, a LOT. I wear red lipstick when I feel like it. And because I read somewhere that those who look to him are radiant, their faces never covered in shame.

Transition isn't glamorous, that is one thing I know for certain. But in transition, I am learning about freedom. And though it may not make for riveting conversation over cranberry sauce*, if I have to be in transition to get that, then fine. I'm not even mad about it.

And per the advice of a wise girl I know, I will do my freedom dance. 

Radiantly and without shame.

Take THAT, transition.

* I've never liked cranberry sauce anyway.

don't you dare "we" me

I kind of hate the collective "we."

It starts simply enough; you're telling a story, writing a blog, giving a testimony or teaching a lesson... and then you cross the "we" line. One minute you're telling a story about yourself, and the next you're offering general commentary on the human experience. "When I was a little girl, Susie told me on the playground that unicorns weren't real. I never talked to Susie again because I was so upset. I think we have this tendency, all of us, as people, to believe in unicorns and hate any and all naysayers." and suddenly, I'm being lectured on the nonexistence of unicorns. I don't even care about unicorns.* Nor did I have any childhood friends named Susie. What just happened?! How did I get inside this story?

Here's what I think happens. You're talking, and you're fine, but then suddenly there's this moment of panic: "what if no one knows what I'm talking about? what if they don't realize that I'm making an attempt to relate to each of them individually with my personal anecdote? quick... how can I let them know??" And then you've done it. You've crossed into "we" territory. No no, I can't let people decide for themselves if they identify with my story. I must put them in there with me myself.

When people we me (yep, its a verb now), I usually have one of two reactions. Either a) I'm angry and outraged because for goodness' sake, you've just lumped me with you in the crazy without my permission! Everyone here now assumes I am crazy too (because everyone is always thinking about me) and I must prepare my defense. Now I'm not even listening to you because I'm too busy arguing with you in my head.

Or b) I'm just mad because you're right and I don't want to hear it. (9/10 times this is probably the case.)

I am just as guilty. I bet if we went back in time on the old blog, we could find one trillion examples of the collective "we." I we you all the time, and I'm sorry about it. It's just that I want you all to be here with me in crazytown. Nevermind that you didn't agree to come here - I have brought you here against your will. I don't want to be alone, goodness no, I feel too conspicuous! So I've brought you in with me.

Now it's not just me, it's we. 
I hope that's alright with you.
Personally, I feel great about it.

* False. I love unicorns.

I couldn't find it, so it found me

Forgetting is the worst.

There is a subtle difference (I think) between forgetting something and just letting go of it. Letting go might be a choice, or you might do it because of stubbornness, or laziness, or indifference, or even bitterness. And some of those things might be a part of the process of forgetting, but it's still different. It's worse.

Because when you forget, that's it. No one chooses to forget, it just kind of happens. You can't summon what you forgot back, and no matter how much you look there's a chance you don't find it. That it stays lost, forgotten, for a long time. There is also a difference between brain forgetting and heart forgetting. And I would argue that the heart kind is the worst of the worst. Because I can learn all I want. I can read, memorize, recite, listen, tell, and be told. But I cannot will myself to feel. I cannot think myself into emotions. I can't decide one day to trust or love or be comforted. I just can't.

Once I lost my favorite necklace. I got it at YoungLife camp - and I tell you what, I loved that necklace. It was sentimental and exactly perfect and I loved it. And then I lost it. I just forgot where I put it one day. I looked and searched and wracked my brain and retraced my steps and simply could not find it. I forgot what it looked like, after a while. I forgot how it was shaped and how long it hung on my neck but I knew it was gone and I hated that.

I think for a while I forgot how to believe that there was power in prayer, that there was comfort in that power, that there was relief in that comfort. And no matter what I did, or how hard I looked, or even how many prayers I said, I couldn't make myself remember what that felt like. I just knew it was gone and I hated that.

And I bet you know exactly how I felt the day I found my necklace. The day I looked in the bottom of a bag and saw it lying there, unworn, unchanged. It was relief and joy and delight and the assurance that, finally, a search was over.

This was like that. But like... 342,908,654 times better than that.

I didn't feel it, then I did.
I wasn't sure, and then I was.
I couldn't find it, so it found me.
I don't know why and I don't know how, but I remember.

I think that's neat.

on curing colds, popularity, and menageries

I have no legitimate purpose for this blog post. I simply have a lot of thoughts in my brain (probably inspired by my cold medicine cocktail) and feel the need to put them out into the universe. So here you are.

+ I think I somehow cured the common cold. Yes, researchers, sit down and shut up because I HAVE DONE IT! Yesterday I thought I might die... it felt as though Allison had roundhouse kicked me in the throat repeatedly. Felt like I was swallowing a cheese grater. It was terrible. I took a nap, and then over the span of the evening took Aleve (which I am convinced is made with unicorn tears, fairy dust and magic), sucked on a Cold Eeze (still just as gross as when my mom first made me eat one many moons ago), and then before bed downed some cough syrup (chased with orange juice because it still makes me gag). And this morning? I feel AWESOME. Still a little bit cold-ish, but my throat feels 98% better and I want to die much less than I did yesterday.

Boom. Cured. You're welcome.

+ I love Halloween. I love dressing up, and I love any excuse to wear black lipstick, red lipstick, fake eyelashes, too much makeup in general, witch tights, cowboy boots, and fringe... all of which I get to do this weekend. Tomorrow my costume is still in the works... but I am fairly thrilled about it. Today for work Halloween I resurrected the Wicked Witch costume (green face and all - although this morn I didn't have my hat on yet and our exec director looked and me and said - "let me guess - dead?" Wah wah.) Also the costumes overshadowed that this was my last day at LLS so I was able to very well compartmentalize that I have sadness about that. Ideal. Halloween is so useful.

Additionally, my sweet, long-time fantasies of popularity come almost completely true around Halloweentime. Let me tell you a tale. Three years ago, my roommates and I decided that we should have a Halloween party. Our house is great for parties, and we thought it was just a super idea. Somehow - and I do mean I literally do not know how this happened - it was pretty much the only party in all of the Denver area or something because it was RIDICULOUS how many people came. People none of us knew showed up. It was delightful. And now, 3 years later, this party has a reputation. People expect it and look forward to it for months. We have a responsibility, now, to the young fun people of Denver. And we dare not disappoint.

+ Lastly, a list: the top 5 reasons I love living in my house with the people who live in my house: (many require photographic documentation for full effect.)

5. My roommates:
i. Alli Pie: because she will push me through a crowd shouting "ITS AN EMERGENCY" when I need her to, does not really punch me in the throat, and is supportive of my pumpkin habit.
ii. Jammy: because she creeps around stealthily, texts me from downstairs, and looks in my throat when I'm convinced I have contracted the Bubonic Plague.
iii. Key-air-uh: because she makes glass menagerie signs when I want her to, sings rap lyrics gospel style with me in our house, and gets as excited about going to Target at night as I do.

4. The Old Man Chairs... None of our chairs cost more than $10. All of them are exquisite. Latest addition (not pictured) is a delightful blue striped rocking chair that is sort of broken.

old man chairs.

3. The Board. So useful. I love when people update it for us with cool new elements like "crush of the week" - thanks Vinnie!

 a couple of past boards...

2. The Glass Menagerie... our figurine collection. Still waiting for a second cat. I don't know why I think this is so funny, but I must say, it absolutely delights me.

glee & delight - figurines

1. The Halloween Party... duh. More on this as it develops...

"Oh great. I bet they're sexting from our phones!"

That is what Cristy said to me on Friday night when our purses were burgled.
Well, OK, on Friday night when I was dancing my little heart out and someone stole my bag from a bar. But seriously. Same diff right? We have still been done a horrific injustice, have we not?!

The whole thing is WILDLY irritating. Of course, I've been playing the "if only" game: "If only the stupid Tavern hadn't played Lady Gaga and kept me riveted on the dance floor for so long so I had gone to check my purse before last call" At fault: The Tav. "If only I had not worn my cute new boots which convinced me I should probs go dancing in them" At fault: Boots. "If only I had not packed every single thing I own that night and just taken the basics" At fault: irrational purse hoarding. "If only purse thief had decided to go to Cowboy Lounge that night!" At fault: sucky purse thief. See? So many things at fault that are not me.

I just did not realize the degree to which I am dependent on the things in that bag. And why on this particular evening I decided to pack a small travel suitcase to take to the bars is beyond me, but as a result, I have no stuff. Like, I go to grab my purse and every time I have this thought of "what will even go in it?" I'm like an 8 year old who has a purse and REALLY wants to carry it so she looks like a grown up but doesn't have anything to put in it really. So like the aforementioned 8 year old, I have to put random stuff in there to make it look legit to passersby. But if you looked closely, you'd see it was full of Barbies, a Unicorn figurine, an array of Scratch'n'Sniff stickers, assorted accessories from the Pretty Pretty Princess game, and a Hello Kitty wallet with my mom's old grocery store discount cards in it and the photo ID that my aunt made me out of cardboard (that, FYI, was a thing I actually had). Also maybe some fruit snacks. Who can say really.

I am realizing reluctantly that it is possible, although SUPER annoying and stupid, to replace stuff. I've been without a phone for a few days. (People keep asking me, "well, isn't it kind of nice? Sort of liberating?" Ummm, sure. Yeah. The bright side, you found it! Congratulations! Taking a break from your phone is one thing. I'm for it. BUT THIS IS NOT THAT. But really, your optimism is inspiring.) I have no camera. WHAT IF SOMETHING MOMENTOUS HAPPENS? I won't be able to capture it, that's what. I have no student ID to use for discounts at the movies anymore, which I couldn't go to anyway, since I have nothing to pay with. I wake up in the night and weep silently over the loss of my favorite J.Crew bag and Hobo wallet, and how they will probably spend the remainder of their days in a dumpster somewhere. I had to replace the 5ish Chapsticks that live in my purse, but really, that's no big deal because I have 17 more in my bedroom somewhere. I did have to stand in front of the Maybelline display in Target for a ridiculous amount of time in an attempt to remember the shade of lip gloss I loved so much, though.

But you know what? All of that I can deal with... but my FAVORITE pen was in there. I loved that pen. Enough to carry it with me everywhere. And now some thieving loser gets to enjoy MY Wild Rose Casino pen, and I hate him or her. You think I can just drive to Iowa again and replace it? Well, I can't. And also won't. There is just only so much one person can handle, and that crosses the line. Now it's personal.

The moral of the story here, kids, is that I never want all of my important items to be together in the same place ever again. Especially not a cute leather place with an accessible shoulder strap so that someone can conveniently carry it all away from me with ease and style.

If you need me, I'll just be here trying to rebuild my identity and fill a purse with legitimate grown up items.

why won't you wave at me?

To the drivers of Denver & other places I have lived and/or driven:
WHY WON'T YOU WAVE AT ME?

There are few things that make me more furious than those jerks on the road who KNOW that their lane is coming to an end and yet REFUSE to plan ahead and get over until their lane is 6 inches wide and they are about to crash directly into the side of my car. Fine, fine, you arrogant loser who clearly thinks your time is more important than mine, FINE. I will let you in. I won't even be rude about it. I'm calm, cool, collected, and far more mature than you. I might even smile at you, politely, inviting you to respond with matched courtesy. But do they? No. They don't. Not even a backwards glance as they cut in front of me.

It's just about as aggravating as lunch line cutters in the cafeteria. You think your time is more valuable than mine? You think you deserve warm, fresh lasagna and I don't? No, yeah, I see your point. Go right ahead. Let my noodles get crunchy. No big deal. It's the same story with driving. Yes of course, Toyota Tercel, I would love to let you in my lane. No, it's fine that you didn't plan ahead and are now holding up traffic. Sure, I'll be late to work, but at least you got up here faster than those jokers who merged lanes at the appropriate time - you really showed them. I was hoping to get through one more chorus of I Would Do Anything For Love before getting to the office anyway. Really, your arrogant merge habits are a blessing in disguise.

These are the kind, forgiving, very holy thoughts that fill my mind as that freaking Tercel cuts right in front of me day after day...
UNTIL I DON'T GET THE COURTESY WAVE.

You're an especially terrible person. YOU ALWAYS WAVE! I'm pretty sure serial killers and bank robbers wave. A guy who just pulled off a jewel heist and is running from the law would probably wave if you let them merge in front of you. I don't care what kind of jackhole you are, you wave. Because it's courtesy. It's basic human kindness. It's THE RULE. It's the thank-you note of driving. It's a little ray of hope and sunshine in the gloomy darkness that is traffic. The wave has become so infrequent that it hurts me in my heart. Honestly, I think not waving is more painful for me than if you'd flipped me the bird. If I made a list of ways I would want you to respond as you squeezed in front of me in rush hour traffic, a middle finger would be listed just above doing nothing at all.

Next time some poor, crazy soul singing Meatloaf in a red Saturn Vue lets you in her lane (like you gave her much choice, just saying), just throw up the hand. Give a quick wave. You don't even have to wiggle your fingers. Just one swift arm movement up to the rear view mirror could change the course of my day and restore my faith in humanity.

It's in your hands now.

(I have this feeling that given my last two posts, someone is going to send me to anger management or the psych ward or something. But these are legitimate upsets, people! I know somebody is as enraged as I am! Right!? I'm just trying to bring it into the light so we can all find some healing. You're welcome.)

Dear Microsoft Word

It has come to my attention that I have some very strong feelings about Microsoft Word. Computers in general, maybe... but mostly, WORD. Many of these sentiments are similar to what one might feel for a human person who has wronged them repeatedly. It's gotten personal. I have drafted a letter in an effort to therapeutically unload and express some of my word processing baggage. As a trained counselor, I feel that this catharsis is necessary. This is very emotional for me, so I ask that you be sensitive to my vulnerability. Thank you.

Dear Microsoft Word,

Hi. I feel a little awkward bringing this up... so publicly... but you've left me with little choice. This is what it has come to. Where do I even begin? We've been doing this dance for years, you and I, ever since you first betrayed me by losing half of my Good Life paper senior year of high school. Do you have any idea how hard I worked - how much heart and soul I put into that paper - only to have it ripped right from my hands the minute I turned my back for a moment? It took a while to regain my trust - I'm sure you remember the rocky years we had - but I always came back, even though the wound of that night still remains. I never left you. I never turned my back on you. And look where it's gotten me.

In college, and then seminary, you were never perfect, sure... but then, I never expected you to be. I didn't ask for perfection - I'm certainly not perfect myself. For a brief few years, I was happy. I let my guard down, and I let you in. I took a risk in vulnerability. How wrong I was. It wasn't long before I became wary again; I started feeling paranoid, living in fear of the heartbreak and document loss that lay ahead. It was hard to be content, hard to focus on anything at all with you constantly testing my patience, moving my margins, when I needed you at top performance. Is this fun for you? Is that it? I just... I just don't understand. I suppose I never will.

Lately it feels we are on the brink of destruction - I am this close to ending this thing once and for all. All I want to do is create documents that are well-formatted and attractive. Why won't you let me? Are you afraid of what will happen if my documents are pretty? Are you jealous, is that it? Is it because I said that thing about loving handwritten sentiments most? Is it because I use blogger to do most of my writing and not you? Well, why would I use you?!? Nothing I could ever say or do affects your choices - you have made up your mind and no amount of backspacing or CTRL+Z can change that. You are inconsistent, unpredictable, and impulsive. I think that's what bothers me most - the inconsistency. When I click "Tab," I want to know what to expect. Are you going to move an inch or all the way to the other side of the page?! I can never tell!! From one line to the next, I cannot predict your behavior. I feel on edge all the time. Flinching with each error message. Cowering every time I see the little paper clip guy come into the bottom right corner. I fear that our relationship has become abusive.

I tried being supportive, I did. I went to the Help menu, I tried to correct auto-formatting. I even spoke sweetly to you, stroked your ego, promised you my undying devotion, to reassure you. But nothing worked. Nothing. I continued to flounder, always afraid of your next move. I know I've been reactive, I've called you things that would make a sailor blush, but still you misbehave. I'm out of options. This isn't me! I don't even know who I am anymore. You have ruined my resume one too many times. Why must you sabotage my efforts to find a job? Are you afraid if I succeed I won't need you anymore? One too many times, you have refused my attempts at formatting when all I'm trying to do is make pretty signs for a charity event. A charity event, Word. What kind of monster do you have to be to get in the way of something like that? Your constant need to restrict my creativity makes me sick. You are controlling and manipulative. Let me choose how I want the wording centered! Let me decide how I want my lists indented! You don't always know best which font I should use. You can't fence me in. I will not be your doormat any longer. You can't continue to treat me like my opinions don't matter. Like I'm not a person with feelings. I'm done letting you walk all over me. This is an ultimatum.

I hope you will consider the things I have said, and I hope this is not the end for us, I truly do. I'm sure you have made and will make some people very happy. But I know I am not the first woman you have disappointed, and I'm certain I will not be the last. And I care about you too much to let you keep making the same mistakes. Maybe this will be a wake up call for you. More than anything, I feel sorry for you. I really do.

You leave me no choice but to wait for another word processor - one that will meet my needs, one that will treat me with the respect that I deserve. I wish you the best, I truly do. Get help. Until you do... well, I guess this is goodbye.

Sincerely yours,
Megan