On the Verge of Something Big... Maybe

The ball is rolling, baby.

Today we went to the Baby Doc. Our intention was to discuss the results of Muscles' most recent test and our options thereafter. I don't know why I thought that was just another step in the long, grocery-line wait for baby-makin', but it wasn't. It was progress. It was the beginning. It was dangerously hopeful.

We arrived at the fertility center half an hour early. Muscles and I paused outside the door of the center to say a quick prayer for good news. I suppose it worked because I found myself thanking God an hour later. Anyway, they got us signed in. At this particular office, they require a hospital-style bracelet every single visit for both partners. I quickly learned to thrust my bracelet-ed wrist at any personnel for verification of my identity. I suppose that's a good thing. Anyway, a nurse came out to get us nearly before we had a chance to sit down. Sweet.

We were sat neatly in a regular office instead of in a little consultation room like before. I worried immediately that our satisfaction with the center would diminish now that we were actually so close to action. These turned out to be unfounded. Baby Doc came in a few minutes later, the same as he had during our other visits. He told us he was pleased with Muscles' test results. There were a couple of below average numbers, but the most important numbers were adequate or even a bit above average. Doc made his suggestion, which is to try Turkey Bastin' without injectable, invasive drugs. For now. This is significantly cheaper than the type of Turkey Bastin' I thought we would be trying, which involves a series of expensive shots to stimulate my eggies to come out and play. Instead, there are pills to stimulate the eggies.

Then the surprise. (To me anyway)
Doc says, "Okay, so by my calculations, you are currently on Day 3, so I'll give you the prescription and you can begin taking it today. Schedule an ultrasound for next Thursday, and, if the medicine works we will do the procedure next Friday."
I heard Muscles suck in his breath. I looked at him to see if he was still with me. There was an evident surprise and a hint of fear in his eyes. I raised my eyebrows in that what-do-you-think look and he smiled and nodded. We were, we ARE doing this. With that, we left and I did, in fact, start the prescription today.

The chances for any fertility procedure to be a success are really against you. Even IVF success rates are below 50%. This procedure is even lower. It is closer to 10-15%. Still, my fingers are crossed. We're young and mostly healthy. It could work.

Send a prayer up for us, if the postman can get it there in time. Let me amend my thoughts on the fertility process to say this. There IS alot of waiting, but there also seems to be some periods of sprinting. Waiting. Sprinting. Waiting. Waiting. Sprinting. Waiting. I don't know how to adjust to that exactly, but I'm working on it. My fingers are crossed.

A Mish Mash, If You Will

Don't expect any big things from my bloggie blog today. I'm sick. Without climbing up on my soapbox to make my usual speech about my consitution and why it's always failing me, let's just say I have a crappy immune system. If you're carrying a bug, you're passing it off to me. That is definite. I have a fun little throat-sore-in', chest congestin', headachin' thing right now. I'm down, but not out.

Anyway, I haven't posted in a few days because I have been a girl on the move. Last weekend, Muscles & I made a quickie trip down to South Carolina to visit one of my best friends and her brand new baby girl. This is Hypochondriac Friend (Hypo for short). The little bundle of joy was only 4 days old on the day we arrived, so we stayed in a hotel and just popped in for a couple of visits. Hypo was gracious enough to allow this and put up with my many questions. Babies are just an ongoing mystery to me. The more I see them, the more questions I have about what in the heck to do with them. So... Hypo decides to teach me a few things, in her roundabout, I-didn't-intend-to, way.

About an hour after we arrived, LBJ (little bundle of joy) was getting hungry. LBJ is so very small and precious that her mouth is too small to breastfeed just yet. To prepare her to breastfeed, Hypo feeds her through a tiny tube sitting on her finger. LBJ sucks on her finger and thus, milk comes from the tube. Hypo says this is necessary so she does not get something called Nipple Confusion. Again, I was confused. LBJ, on the other hand, knew what was up. She was content as far as I could tell.

But I need to clarify something before I go on. One of Hypo's greatest qualities is her ability to be completely honest, blunt. In fact, it may be my favorite thing about her. Hypo has been known to get into a TMI situation at least once a day. But the great thing about this is that you know what to expect. Hypo has really been preparing me for pregnancy and childbirth in this way. I can safely say I am now more scared than ever. What I don't understand is why God makes our bodies for the amazing purpose of childbirth and yet, recovering from it makes it difficult to take care of said LBJ. I suppose it teaches you a lesson.

I have lots more to say, so I'll add to this later. But for now, I'm sick and I have to get some work done. :)

Top Ten Forms of Procrastination at My Desk

10. Facebooking. Who didn't see this one coming? It's the ultimate source of juicy information that's none of my business. In fact, I paused during this post already to check facebook. What would I do if I missed someone's status update indicating their plans for the day? And how would I function without knowing the most recent deets on everyone I went to high school with?!?
9. Vacation planning. I'm a big planner by nature, and, as mentioned previously, I love to travel. And it doesn't have to be somewhere exotic. I just love to explore new places. With Priceline, Expedia, Orbitz, Southwest, and BookIt (Try it if you haven't. It's my new fave.) websites readily available, it's easy to let my mind and fingers wander off into pleasant thoughts about where else I would rather be.
8. Eating & thinking about eating. I might be admitting I have a problem here. I have a desk drawer exclusively dedicated to snacking. It might contain entire jars of peanut butter, popcorn, crackers, cookies, and snackpacks of all varieties. It is also equipped with forks, spoons, and napkins. I also have a inconspicuous candy bucket on my bookshelf. To boot, there's a snack machine down the hall, constant reasons to "celebrate" with food, and a friendly co-worker with a penchant for having the occasional lunch out.
7. Rapport-building (and tearing down for that matter) with co-workers. We are lucky enough to work in an environment that encourages teamwork. In order to have teamwork, the team must talk. And as one might suspect, we often get off topic. It's easy to, say, begin planning an event, and end up talking about Ginger's latest antics.
6. Emailing. While this is part of my job responsibility, I often find myself doing some casual, personal emailing instead. With the majority of my close friends working in their first couple of years in grown-up jobs, we all have our grown-up email accounts to play with. And, of course, we may appear to be adults from a distance, but we're really probably planning the coming weekend's debauchery.
5. Bloggie bloggin'. You think I type all this in my free time? No way. At least half of this gem is produced during working hours. To my credit, alot of my job is to answer questions from volunteers, which sometimes involves just waiting around for the next question.
4. iPhoning... and iTexting... and iFacebooking... and iWeatherChecking... and iGamePlaying...
3. Babydreaming. Similar to daydreaming, but involves more diapers, onesies, and cribs.
2. Plan-solidifying. Surprising to most of the kiddos and volunteers I work with, I have a life outside of these walls. A busy one at times. In order to fit everyone in, I'm always busy texting or calling or emailing friends, family, & Muscles about where to eat dinner that night or who wants to go to the baseball game. Of course, this could be avoided if plans could be solidified in advance, outside of working hours. But they can't. And that's an asset as far as I'm concerned. If I make long-term (say, a week in advance) plans, I sometimes break them if I'm not feeling the activity. I hate doing that to friends and the like. So... I try to avoid that song & dance altogether and, instead, make short-term, last minute, fly by the seat of my slacks plans.
1. Being generally overwhelmed. Most days, I have more work to do than I could possibly complete. This is the nature of the nonprofit beast. As a result, I have learned to prioritize in accomplishing tasks. Sometimes, however, I get so overwhelmed with this workload that my brain seems to fall out. At this point, I know I'm ready for a break, and perhaps for one of the activities listed above.

Preparing me For a No-Fun Summer

I think the process of acquiring reproductive technology is directly related to God's desire to prepare us for little ones. It's lengthy. There's alot of excitement, but alot of waiting. You never get to do things your way, on your time, and you have to sacrifice alot of other fun things in life in order to make room for this. I imagine being a mom is like this, but with more love.

Until we decided to forge ahead with fertility treatments early (or 2.5 years late, depending on your viewpoint), I had big plans for this summer. Muscles and I are travelers... do-ers. To begin with, my birthday gift from the hubby was an airline ticket to El Paso to visit the Military Wife best friend. Sweet, I know. I haven't gotten around to purchasing it yet, though, because we are still waiting to find out when I can go. You see, I have to essentially be available at any moment once this madness begins. I will be scheduled to have various tests done throughout my cycle, checking my hormone levels and egg production. I will be on different types of shots and medications in order to make everything happen at maximum capacity. Then, when the time comes, I will be given another shot to tell my eggs to get out of my ovaries and into appropriate, babymaking areas. When that happens, of course, the both of us have to be available to go actually have the procedure done. Then we wait for two loooooong weeks to see if it worked. Be prepared for a depressing, pessimistic post if it does not.

And then, the entire process begins again. So, you see, I am perpetually unavailable this summer. Other plans that this eliminates include (but are not limited to) a vacation to Ocean City, Maryland and a long weekend, girls trip to the beach.

On another note, it is necessary to abstain from drinking to achieve optimal results. I have no problem with this, and neither does Muscles -- other than that, it is easy for us to forget in social situations -- however, our friends don't quite understand. I think it sometimes makes them feel better if there is no sober judgement present to remind them of their behavior the next day.

Anyway, even though I'm sad about the lack of vacations in my life this summer, I am continuing to be constantly excited about the prospect of parenthood. One of my two best friends from childhood (and still today), had a baby girl herself yesterday. Growing up like sisters, it is natural that I feel like this baby is my niece already. I told her mom a week or two ago about my daydreams of having a daughter myself one day, and the four of us bonding. She said that perhaps I would have a son, and then we could officially be family one day if they married each other. It's all silly, I know, but I can't wait to see what's in store for all of us. :)

Pour Some Sugar On Me

Today is my 3rd wedding anniversary. (I'll pause for applause.) Last night, Muscles, wonderful husband that he can be, took me to a country music awards show in Cashville, Tennekee as a gift. Yep, he outdid himself this time. Usually (as in the past 2 years), we just bebop down to our favorite restaurant for a quite evening of yummy food. We were both pretty pumped about this, though.

Muscles picked me up directly from work to head down there, so I had to make a temporary vanity station in my office. But it worked. I wore a long, patterned dress with braided straps. Very summer-y. Very retro-ish. Jonathan wore jeans, a button down, and a tie. We were adorable, if I do say so myself, but we were also a bit nervous. No one had informed us what the proper attire for this event would be. Luckily, we quickly noted when we arrived that no one else had been informed either. There were formal gowns, blue jeans, t-shirts, casual dresses, sports coats, and boots. Lots of boots.

We found our seats and were pleasantly surprised. We were five rows from the mosh pit, at side stage. On the tickets, we had feared this "Side Stage" label as we weren't sure if we'd be staring at camera cords and the backs of heads. It worked out, though, that side stage was actually just to the right of the stage and we were much closer than those who had tickets "front stage" (or whatever that's called. The next thing we noticed was that there was an abundance of alcohol around us. Neither of us had anything to drink, but our section definitely reeked of hard liquor. My only concern was that these sweet, fun, little beverages would catapult normally pleasant show-watchers into Up-And-Downers. And I was correct. The fateful result was alot of awkward flattening my legs against my chair and standing up to grumble under my breath. I dislike a show disruptor.

Anyway, one of the most interesting parts of the show was that I got to see everything happen behind the scenes. Below are some interesting things I picked up, in list format:

1. A choreographer came out about 30 minutes before the show went live and taught the people in the mosh pits some sweet moves to accompany the opening number. Without going into too much detail, I will inform you that there was a rodeo-style arm twisting move that some patrons of the bar outside enjoyed a bit too much.

2. Another producer or something came out and asked all fans to help with an emotional number by Trace Adkins. He asked that, when he gave us the signal (a flashlight), we would all turn on our cell phones and wave them slowly through the air, lighter-style. This was neat to see come to fruition, except that I felt like an idiot waving my cell phone in the air, periodically pushing the button so the light would stay on, and showing the world my background photo of Pokey, my pet dog.

3. There really weren't that many stars and starlets there. There were about 4 rows sectioned off for the famous folk, right behind the presentation stage. We were one section away from this, so we watched each of them come up the stairs from The Important Area Below.

4. Coincidentally, the entire front row of the mosh pit was made up of big-breasted, blond women in white wife beaters. Hm. At first, I thought I just missed the memo on appropriate attire, but, of course, they were planted there. Who wants someone's chain-smoking grandma front and center?

5. Every time a performer finished, the camera panned to another stage, and a church of men dressed in black from head to toe scurried out on the stage to disassemble the set. And EVERYTHING was on wheels. They wheeled a set out, and wheeled a new one in, band members already in place. Taking the wife beater-wearing women into consideration, it reminded me of a pit stop in a Nascar race.

6. Perhaps the mos interesting behind-the-scenes tidbit was the teleprompters. I had never been to a live recording of anything, and I had never sat in a position where I could see a teleprompter while a celebrity was reading from it. On one hand, this ruined the lame jokes Here's-Your-Sign Guy made because I could see the punchlines before he said them. On the other hand, it was funny to to see the celebrities that made up their own material rather than read the script. Muscles, old man that he is, did not bring his glasses, so he could not participate in the discussion about the teleprompters.

All in all, it was a lovely evening. We were starved when the show was over, so we stopped at Hooter's for some wings. (It was delish, but that place always makes me feel a little skeezy.)

We headed home, happy, and proud of another successful year.

Too Much Drama in the G-S-K

We have a lovely office manager, Ginger McGrouchy. She's an odd creature, prone to frequent doctors' visits, long lunches, and closed-door gossip. She's easily spotted as she as she has flaming red hair and pale, glowing flesh. She preys on fruit, crackers, and office staff who have more freedom than she does. She thrives in a hostile, unfriendly environment. You might recognize her crouching in our director's office, reporting infractions, or camoflauged behind the front desk. All in all, she's a peach.

So, today, my WorkPal and I spent many hours trekking around town, asking for donations so we could fun some t-shirts for girls during this Mom & Me event we're holding late in the summer. It was a chore. Just mustering up the courage to hear people reject you all day is tough, but then to actually walk (in heels) from business to business, past "No Soliciting" signs only to hear that the people we needed to talk to were out, or that they'd already given to charities this year was terrible. Five donations of $100 each would fund us, AND the business gets its name on the back of the t-shirts that kids and parents alike will be wearing around town to boot. I, personally, thought it was a good deal. I would've donated had I a working business. So, then, after about 10 rejections and a handful of MaybeButComeBack's, a monsoon hit - June 11th style. I had to pull over (Luckily, there was Sonic Drive-In and it was Happy Hour.), and wait that out.

Awhile later, we trudge back in the office, wet from the storm, to settle back into what we need to accomplish today. Ginger bee-bops over to my office door, armed with her deadly weapon: the pathetic sign. It must be mating season in Ginger's parts because she was in rare form. She was lookin' for a fight, as some might say.

CoWorker Pal is also in my office. Ginger begins with,
"I just want to start off my saying that I don't give a d@mn where you all go during the day."
Uh oh. If that's as good as it's going to get, this is bad. The Pal & I exchange glances.
Ginger continues to explain that she's upset, to say the least, that we left the office without making sure that she had lunch. Okay, well maybe we were douches there, but she didn't speak up. If I was starving at my desk, I would NOT have waved silently as we were walking out the door. I would've spoken up. Grow up, Peter Pan. I'm not your babysitter, and I'm not making you a PB&J. Tell me you haven't eaten if you haven't. She continued by pointing out that she also needed to know where we are at all times so she can answer volunteer's questions. Point well taken, EXCEPT that you get this handy slice of paper in your inbox every single week that details my whereabouts. Boo-Yah!

I stood my ground. I apologized for her having not the opportunity to take lunch. If she had mentioned that she didn't have that taken care of, of course, I would've sat back down and waited for her. Clearly, she was mad about other stuff, but tell me she wouldn't.

A volunteer walked in the office, so I said,
"I will make sure you have lunch in the future. Clearly, we don't agree about this, but that's fine." She agreed, and walked away. The volunteer finished her business, and what did Ginger do?!? She came back to my doorway. I wanted to close it in her face, but I sat there attentively.

She continued to try to sway me to her side. I do NOT agree, and I am not one to just let it slide. I tried very hard to be nice, but I also tried very hard to be clear about my feelings. I always maintain my composure. Another volunteer came in, and she retreated angrily.

Awhile later, she was back for Round 3. Geez, Louise. I restated my position. She persisted, pesky Ginger that she is. I cracked.
"I'm sorry that you did not get lunch. I will check in the future." This was said definitively, as if to also say Goodbye. See yourself out of my office. She stomped out.

This brings me to my point: Working in an office setting is too emotionally exhausting for me. With 7 women cooped up together 8 hours a day, there's bound to be trouble. And there always is. I want out.

Top Ten Reasons Being Perpetually 21 is a Great Idea

Today, I'm feeling restless, so I cannot quite commit to a full-size bloggie blog post. So, instead, I will reminisce about my favorite year -- the 21st. A tribute...



10. Got no job, got no money... and it's Friday. Might as well go... back to SLEEP.

9. Why, yes, I'd love to go to the bar with you tonight... even though it's a Wednesday in November. And yes, yes, I will go out tomorrow night. And the night after. And the night after. Etc. Etc.

8. What hangover? I'm ready for another drink.

7. Because running screaming into a bar or a group of people and proclaiming, "I'm 21. Woooo!" is socially acceptable.

6. Because going to class is optional

5. Because tanning was a top priority, right up there with drinking heavily and ordering pizza or chinese daily.

4. Because slutty clubwear was cheap.

3. For the prestige that accompanies being able to buy your younger friends malt beverages.

2. That it is acceptable to make hooch in any and all large containers, including but not limited to coolers, bathtubs, and buckets.

1. Any and all inappropriate behavior and wrongdoing is excused with admission of your age.

I Think I'll Sling My Backpack Over One Shoulder for the Duration of This Post

Today, I have taken a personal day from work to participate in the first day of classes for my internship. This internship is my very last requirement for my Bachelor's degree. In this, I have been selected to participate in a pilot project at the local university (that has international reach) that invites high school students to participate in 4-week courses for both high school and college credit. The course they choose is paired with a reading comprehension course because the purpose of this program is to improve the reading level of college students -- not to get too involved. This is really the reader's digest version. Anyway...



Currently, I am sitting in on an Intro. to Psychology class. My purpose is to observe students and feel out their reactions to class. There are 7 bright-eyed, young things who appear quite alarmed already, 10 minutes into class. Each are sitting stiffly, as if they are too cool for school, and, of course, they are segregated into boys versus girls. So far, I, for one, feel very superior. The professor, on the other hand, is probably my age or younger, and is somewhat unconvincing. I'm trying to build him up with reassuring nods from my spot on the back row.



Seeing these students really takes me back to my first year of college. Boy, was a I a different person then. I can't even begin to describe myself without saying that I was deeply involved in a very unhealthy relationship with a beast. He was terrible. Suffice it to say, this "situation" added a great deal of stress to my life every single day. Let me paint you a picture...



Raaah. Raaaaah. Raaaaah. My alarm clock would go off at 6 AM Monday through Friday. I got up, maybe took a shower, changed into some possibly-clean sweatpants and a t-shirt and rolled out. Yeah, I was that gross. Rest easy knowing that I have raised my personal hygiene standards since then. Anyway, I then picked up the Boyfriend at his dorm so I could drive us both to the top of the hill and get some prime parking. We were in the parking lot by 7 AM, and class didn't start until 8. I vividly remember listening to alot of Bob & Sheri In The Morning during the waiting period...that, and arguing alot. This entire song and dance was necessary to avoid a bottom-of-the-hill parking space and the sweaty trek up to class. To be quite honest, I'm feeling a little red-faced even admitting all this. What a dork.



After this, I bee-bopped over to class, head down. The Boyfriend did not like it when I made eye contact or spoke to other guys. He considered it flirting. Some kind of argument usually ensued during this time. Eventually, I made it into class. I felt comfortable there. I always feel comfortable in class, actually. I can be successful in those situations. I think for a long time, I retreated into academics when I was feeling out of control. It's like my own, twisted version of bulimia. It was also important for me to absorb all of the knowledge my professors had to offer because I was responsible for making sure the both of us (the boyfriend and myself) earned acceptable grades. Again, I'm embaressed. I was a dummy.



After class, we would usually walk down the hill, or maybe drive, to Boyfriend's dorm. A large part of this and the following year of my life were spent sleeping. I was nearly narcoleptic. If I had as little as an extra 20 minutes, I would spend it napping. During this particular semester, I recall having at least 2 designated nap times per day. This was one of them. Boyfriend and I would take a long nap in his dorm before waking up for the next class. You bet I looked nice after all this mid-day sleeping. So then, we went to another class or two (usually -- this is prior to my becoming a Professional [and proud] Skipper), and took a nap until it was time to go to work. Unfortunately, we worked together too. Oh, and the green-eyed monster probably made another appearance somewhere in there. What a tangled web we weave. I have no (zero) warm memories during this time of my life. Sorry to bring you down with this post. I'm really leaving out a multitude of horrendous details.

On to the fun stuff... From there, Boyfriend & I often parted ways. I would come up with some creativity-lacking lie, like I was going to work on homework, and then I would meet up with friends instead. That year, the girls I worked with met up at an apartment to talk and drink and maybe play cards a few times a week. We usually went out for margaritas at a local Mexican restaurant, too. In high school, I didn't drink at all, so there are alot of interesting stories about me from this time. (Nothing too bad, just embaressing) These are some of my best memories of college, and, definitely the best of that year. Some of my closest friends -- Ally, AJ, & Jennifer -- were made that year.

I look around at these apprehensive high school students, and I'm undeniably excited for them. They have so many great times and experiences ahead.

Yard Sale-ing - Not to be Confused with Yard Sailing, Of Course

Yesterday morning, the joke was on my bodyclock. I had to push myself out of bed at 5 AM, a time I wasn't even sure registered on my alarm clock, all in the name of a yard sale. A week ago, I convinced my parents to have a yard sale before they move. My dad's original plan was just to give away all of their belongings that they wouldn't be able to fit into the new place. He had been offering everything he could think of, large and small, to anyone he came in contact with, and I thought he could make a profit instead. (He can thank himself for that aspect of my personality.) So, when I said I would help, he gave in. What had I gotten myself into? The things we do for our families...

I bumbled blindly through a shower and headed to the big event. It was 6:30 AM when I arrived at the spectacle. My dad and his mother were sitting on the front lawn amidst what appeared to be my childhood home's vomit. Seriously, I think there were a few photographs of me for sale in that mess. The mess was, however, arranged neatly on tables, the ground, and across makeshift clotheslines. The meager boxes I had donated to the cause the night before were minuscule in the mounds of things my dad decided to sell. I mean, I guess I can't blame him, though. What, exactly, were they going to do with 3 leafblowers, 2 decorative, wall-hanging brooms, 7 coolers, about 10 broken fishing poles, my grandmother's abandoned sconces (Look it up if you're not sure what these are. We had at least a dozen if you're a fan of medieval-style, so I'm sorry if you missed the boat on that one.), and a plethora of gaudy gold, Home Interior items? Many of the things for sale, I hadn't even seen since I was a child. They had spent recent years hiding in my parents' basement.

Our yard sale progressed quite merrily, with the three of us doing our respective parts. My grandmother nitpicked about prices, floor displays, and which items were too ridiculous to sell. I, of course, ignored her and tried to coach my dad into pushing the prices up. My dad, in turn, just gave things away as usual. As in, you bought a teddy bear for twenty-five cents? Great, take this working VCR as a complimentary gift! All in all, he made a good profit, though. I still wouldn't say I had a blast. Perhaps, I have not acclimated to the culture of yard sale-ing. Either way, I have compiled my second top ten list, a tribute to all things despicable:

Top 10 Reasons I Dislike A Good Yard Sale

10. If I'm trying to interest you in purchasing my old junk, that is not an indication I'm looking for new friends. Keep movin', buddy.
9. Putting a price on old memories is impossible. Too low, and I feel like I'm selling my soul. Too high, and I'm stuck storing that old memory in a plastic tub until the next go-round.
8. I don't like the social pressure of haggling over prices. If I ask you what you'll give me for something, it's just because it's unacceptable to discuss money in our culture.
7. It is unacceptable to wear a bikini to a yard sale, thus I always end up with less-than-sexy farmer's tans.
6. People who insist on personal demonstrations of items for sale. I expect a tip if I have to drag out an extension cord and run through my yard amongst my other customers, proving that the leaf blower actually works.
5. People who mutter under their breath about the cost or quality of the items for sale. This is not a department store. I do not run blue-light specials like the local Wally World. Therefore, I am not interested in hearing one more old lady say "Oh that's nice, but eveything's TOO HIGH here."
4. The way neighbors, young and old, feel the need to mosey over, buy my stuff and relocate it 30 feet from me. If I want to get rid of it, I probably am not hoping to look at it on your front porch for the next year.
3. Drive-by's. This is the serious but picky, yard sale-er who rolls by slowly in his/her pick-up truck or rusted out, child-molester van, snarls her nose, and proceeds to speed away. THIS yard sale is not up to her standards.
2. Clean up. I didn't want all this crappy stuff in the first place. I certainly am not going to enjoy loading the leftovers up and dropping them off at the local Goodwill in the summer heat. Perhaps I could start throwing all remaining items in free with the last purchase of the day...
1. Other yard sales. I prefer to run a monopoly in the thriving yard sale-ing field. Please don't place your signs on top of mine, or in brighter colors. Don't put your announcements on my street's corner when that territory is clearly taken, and DON'T, by any means, bee-bop over to "visit" and comment "Wow. You have alot of clothes. Our yard sale is more tools and furniture."
This is NOT, I repeat NOT, a profession. Who cares if you've accumulated more stuff?!?

Top Ten Reasons I Won't Be Sending My Future Children to My Camps

I thought I might spice up the bloggie blog a bit with some Top Ten Lists. Here's the first one:

10. It might hurt their feelings when all the camp staff get printed t-shirts, but the girls have to make their own.
9. They won't be able to utilize the frequent smoke breaks, as I won't be supplying them with cigs.
8. I would prefer no one ever call my son a "Pixie."
7. Their musical tastes probably will not include early 90's Reba, thus they would be ridiculed.
6. Swimming with shoes on is not a good look.
5. Seductive dance is reserved for afterschool activities only.
4. I am fresh out of space for kitschy crafts.
3. There are enough creepy old men at the mall for our taste, thank you very much.
2. Porter johns are acceptable for state fairs and construction sites, but not for week-long, children's events.
1. I will be taking sweet revenge on Ranger Rulebook by sending 2 less kids into his brainwashing realm.

Of course, this is all in good fun. I have wonderful volunteers whom I would most certainly trust with my children. These are just some infractions that have been caught in the past.

Thunder Thunder, Crash Crash

Last night, there was a hugh-mungo storm in South Central Kentucky. Our local weatherman (if you can call him that) was at his post, cutting into our regular programming, warning us of strong storms, frequent & deadly lighting, possible hail (which never really happens, except for that one time it did), and, of course, tornadoes! I don't typically get too riled up about Mother Nature, and last night was no exception. Muscles, however, does. Muscles has been known to jump out of bed and run through the house at the sound of a little strong wind. He religiously checks the weather on his handy iPhone, and informs those around him of the percentage chance of rain on a bi-daily basis. He also sometimes musters up his courage and tries to watch the storm from the front porch, until lightening sends him running inside. My mother is also like this, so I'm used to it. I have lots of memories of my mom and I huddled in bathtubs and interior closest with pillows, blankets, and flashlights during thunderstorms. We are a safe bunch.

Anyway, as I mentioned in an earlier post, this is day camp week at my job. This particular night, of all nights, was the final night of camp, culminating in a sleepover. So, I have two camps full of kiddos huddled in lodges, and their designated adults are making important decisions. I decide to call and check in on both camps. The first camp, let's call it "Camp Legit" cause they know what they're doing for the most part, does not answer. Camp Reba (refer to earlier post) does answer, and informs me that they have no power, but all is well. The girls are singing merrily around a makeshift campfire, otherwise known as a lantern. It's not a dreamboat, but it works. The girls have had a blast there this week.

Repeatedly, I try calling Camp Legit. I can't get through. Suddenly, a light bulb goes off above my head. Duh, Rooster. Camp Legit's lodge has a working telephone, a land line. Now, just to find the number. I, instead find the number of Ranger Rulebook, the site maintenance and order-keeper for Camp Legit. I call him up.

"Hi, Ranger Rulebook. I apologize for calling so late, but I need the number to Camp Legit."
"THIS is NOT the number to Camp. You have the wrong number," he growls, misunderstanding.
"No, no!" I exclaim, "This is Rooster Roo from the Girl Scouts Office. I need the number to camp, please."
"What is your concern?" Rulebook inquires.
Oh, well since it's not obvious, I was concerned about the pollen count in the middle of the night, while a tornado is tearing through the area, I think sarcastically. Good thing I think before I speak most of the time. I explain instead that my camp director is new, and I want to check on them in this monsoon.

Ranger Rulebook, always knowing best as it is, begins a 20-minute long diatribe about the qualifications of the volunteers at camp, and how I do not need to call them. Again, I ask politely for the number, just in case, and again, Rulebook recites his speech about why I do not need the number. Clearly, Rulebook does not understand that I am the all-important, young CEO of this outfit. (Of course, I'm not, but it's a better title than my real job.) We talk in circle for another 20 minutes until, suddenly, SHHHHHHHHHHH. Click.

That was the sound of Ranger Rulebook hanging up on me. Or losing cell phone service. I am not sure. Either way, I call back to get repeatedly rejected. At this point, I was sitting in my own darkened house with no electricity, fuming. Since Rulebook refused to pick up from then on out, there's no feel-good ending to this. I just sat there, stewing, until I fell asleep. I woke up this morning with a new vengeance, though. Ranger Rulebook must be stopped.

How to Get Pregnant in a Lifetime or Less

And so, the road to our unborn child involves a great deal of waiting.

This morning, at the ungodly hour of 5 AM, I woke up and headed to our fertility center, a hour's drive away from our house, to have a required, preliminary test done. This test is called an HSG. Basically, a doctor blew up my uterus with a pear-shaped balloon, squirted some sort of dye in it, and then took x-rays to see if the dye was going where it is supposed to. This all is done while lying on an x-ray table, with a small team of medical personnel standing by, and my legs in something one might describe as super-stirrups. The nurse was, in fact, so interested in helping me through this procedure that she literally cupped my face in her hands during the "difficult" part. That brings me to another point. One of my best friends prepared me for this fun event by telling me how very painful this all would be. Thanks, dear. Luckily, pain was not an issue for me. I came through like a trooper. The pain and discomfort I experienced actually came several hours later. So anyway... We're one step closer to making something magical happen. Before I get too Disney-movie, I'll move on... Jonathan has a test scheduled for next week. The following week, we will meet with Doc to make a decision on a course of action. We are SO excited.

A Tribute to Reba

So, this particular week of my life, I have been participating in a new form of ridiculousness: summer camp. In my position with the organization I work for, I am the liaison to all things camp in the area we cover. This equates to alot of unnecessary paperwork and my traipsing through day camps with a mental checklist of possible wrong-doings. One particular camp, in a rural area (of Kentucky, I know, right.), is spear-headed by a couple of bumbling volunteers with ill-intentions towards The Man (or The Woman, in this case). A co-worker, whom one might refer to as Strong Sierra for fun, and I planned a surprise visit yesterday afternoon to this particular camp. In theory, we would arrive unexpectedly and "catch" them in any number of violations that they would correct before a scheduled visit from us. After the hour-long drive through no-where, USA, we arrive to find a shockingly, comfortingly normal camp. I mean, it's not top dollar, but it's working. The girls are having a blast and experiencing lots of new, "campy" things. We check out the waterfront, since it has alot of potential for possible safety hazards, only to find almost everything going as planned (Minus a nest of baby mice. Ick.). We then hike about 13 miles uphill back to the lodge (Not really, but it felt like it.) and share some snackies with the kiddos. I pick up on a couple of new faces in the crowd -- mostly because they were grown men amongst gaggles of young girls. I verify their background information and sit back to observe. I notice a little mild flirting between an adult female unit leader and one of these men, whom we'll call William because that was his name and I have no reason to protect his identity. Both, I'm quite sure are married. Nonetheless, the girls just thought it was funny and innocent. Their problem then, not mine. As I'm observing this, Bumbling Director Numero Uno saunters up to us to inform us that there is a must-see skit coming up in a few minutes. Great. We are obligated to sweat through thirty more minutes of sweltering humidity to watch girls hug and talk about friendship... Or so I thought.

Three of the oldest girls at camp are in charge of this jewel of a skit. They gather all of the younger girls around and have them sit in an appropriate area for the audience. Let me warn you, that is the last use of the word "appropriate" in this post. The three girls whip out a boombox and send William to stage left (in the woods, behind some trees). I clearly hear the girls tell him his instructions are to walk into the center of the circle and stand there when the music begins. Williams begs why, with no response. He obliges. Also, I'd like to break in with a special announcement now: Of course, he gets doused with buckets of water at the end of the skit. Yes, it's hilarious, but that's not the good part. Read on. One member of this clever older girl trio presses play on the boombox. A country song begins playing, and here comes William. The great fireball, Reba McEntire, begins belting out a song from the early 90's about a no-good, cheating man whom she's kicking to the curb. Greeeaaat.

The trio waste no time in forming a circle around William and dancing first angrily and then seductively. He stands there laughing. The young girls in the audience cheer as the trio push him around, take off his hat, and verbally spar for his affections. One extra-special highlight of the show was when the trio each fell to the ground in come-hither poses. This continued for the entire 3 and 1/2 minutes of Reba, and, of course, ended with William soaking wet. The crowd roared.

Haha. Funny, right? Cute? NO. Without climbing onto my soapbox for this, suffice it to say that this is NOT the positive, empowering message we were hoping to send out to girls. On the bright side, I'm sure Reba is dancin' in her boots, waiting on the royalties from that performance.

Deconstructed Birthday Cheeseburger

I'm feeling quite insightful and creative this morning, so why not go for Bloggie Blog Post #2?

This past weekend, I re-invented the art of a birthday celebration. Don't throw yourself into a frenzy. I am still a quarter of a century old. It wasn't my birthday. It was a very close friend of mine's, the age-before-you-might-be-considered-old's birthday. She invited her closest girlfriends, including myself, out for the three big D's: dinner and drinks and debauchery.

We began dinner at a local restaurant on their outdoor deck. (Actually, we finished dinner there too. Betcha didn't catch that grammatical error. Anyway..) I was in a feisty mood, as were most of the other ladies, so we ordered a round of Lemon Drop Martinis, Margaritas, Wine, & the like. Our first round became our second and after our second, we found ourselves ordering drinks that begin with phrases like "Bottle of..." and/or "Pitcher of..." Needless to say, we had a little too much fun, but that's bound to happen when great women like ourselves get a chance to get out together.

After dinner, we hopped in the car with our sober driver and pumped up the 90's on 9 channel, my personal favorite. We participated in a rousing, high-school style sing-a-long en route to downtown PlaceWhereIComeFrom, the haven for yet more libations. We arrived at a local bar in uplifted spirits, only to find a front row parking place. Sweet!

I need to take a moment to back up. I'm always terrible at leaving out essential threads of a story and thus making the ending predictable. Anyway, I drove myself to the restaurant earlier in the night. After an unexpected amount of drinky, I made the always-responsible decision to ride with someone I had just met. (Good thing she's one of Birthday girl - Amazon Ally's dear friends.) All of this was done with the assurance from Muscles that he would pick me up when I became ready to leave.

Anyway, we continued to have a blasty-blast, with the exception of the appearance of PsychoBitch. (Refer to Amazon for backstory -- Not mine to tell.) This particular bar that we were avid patrons of closes at midnight, a full hour and a half prior to the surrounding bars. When Amazon had had enough, she decided we would leave when this bar closed. Coincidentally, a couple of mine and Muscles' (mostly his) close guy friends showed up downtown around that time. I said hello cordially but shooed them away, not wanting them to rain on the all-female party we were having. I make the admittedly hazy decision that I will pop over to say hello when the birthday girl leaves and THEN call Muscles to hop in the Batmobile and swing through to get me. What can I say? I'm a social butterfly on occasion and I wanted to say hello to some friends I rarely see.

So... This all goes according to plan. I tell AA happy birthday and then head over. This is the kind of night downtown that I used to love. It seems like EVERYONE is out. I talked to everyone for maybe, 15-20 minutes, and then decided I missed my Muscles and was ready to leave. I went outside, plopped down on a park bench, and gave him a ring. Nothing. I called again. Nothing. (Nothing equals voicemail, Bee Tee Dubya) I called approximately 75 more times. Not really. In reality, I called about 15 more times, which is still a great deal. My Lemon Drop Brain was starting to think I was stranded downtown. Uh-Oh!

I called up my BFF. He's not really my BFF. He's Muscles' BFF, but it's fun to call him that considering we had what one might call a "rough patch" in the beginning of our friendship. Anyway, I ask him if he's talked to Muscles tonight.
"Yeah, about an hour ago, why?" BFF asks.
I tell him the story. He LAUGHS. What's wrong with him? What's wrong with men? (Refer to previous post for additional evidence.) I ask BFF to call Muscles because maybe my calls are not going through. He refuses and laughs some more. I might add that this situation is most often reversed, and I am equally unforgiving. Comin' back to bite me now, BIG time.
I end the convo somewhere around this time.

I then head back inside to ask the two afore mentioned friends if they can take me home. (One of them lives less than 3 miles from me, and I live FAR out.) He says sure, he'll take me as far as my road. Again, WHAT IS WRONG WITH HIS MALE BRAIN? That would be about a 3 mile hike for me home, in the dark, with the coyotes, in a skirt. No!

I head back outside to call Muscles because his (not ours, anymore) friends are big jerks. Fifteen or more calls later, I get through. Muscles claims he had no service. He was sounding a bit groggy. I was unimpressed, but I was too happy that I wasn't abandoned to care. He was en route in the batmobile. YES!

As I waited the 20 or so minutes for him to arrive, the intelligent, responsible people came out of the woodwork. Friends and acquaintances waited with me and offered to pay for cab rides home. Of course, I didn't need help anymore, but I was grateful. I also chose to use this time to cheerfully call all of my best friends for a leisurely chat. Guess how many answered at 1 AM? It was dismal.

Twenty minutes later, Muscles swooped me up in the Batmobile and we headed home. I insisted on a cheeseburger before bed, so he even obliged stopping somewhere along the way to get me one. We got back to our house in one piece, Muscles still groggy and myself savoring the thoughts of that cheeseburger. Somewhere along this time, the Lemon Drop Brain hit me. OH to tha NO. I sent Muscles to sleepytime, and I decided to stay on the couch until I sobered up a bit. Afterall, I hadn't behaved like this is quite some time, and I was concerned about the after effects in the morning. I think I sleepwalked after this. I can't be sure. I know I was falling asleep on the couch and then...

I woke up at 6:45 AM (You guessed it.) in my own bed. I looked at peaceful, snoring Muscles and shook my head around a little to check for a headache. Nothing. I looked down. I was also wearing something quite different from what I went gallivanting around in last night. Hm. How did that happen? I nudged Muscles and asked, "Did you come get me from the couch last night?"
"No. I've been sleepin'. I'm still sleepin'. I love you." he mumbles.
I was so confused. I felt as if I had been body snatched. Okay... So I decide I need to hydrate myself in order to continue to feel alive. I walk down the stairs slowly and focus my sleepy eyes on our coffee table as I put together the pieces of what I'm looking at.

There, on our antique trunk of a makeshift coffee table, is a row of items. First, is the top of my bun from my cheeseburger the night before, half eaten, of course. Next, is a small, neat stack of pickles. After the pickle tower, is a small pile of bacon. Next to that is the actual cheeseburger. And after that, is the other partially eaten half of the bun. Neatly. In a row. Like I was playing a game with them at 2 AM. Hm...

I got my glass of water, and climbed back up the stairs to snuggle back in with my husband. Happy Birthday, dear Ally. We had a blast. :)

Right here, buddy. Eyes on the Prize.

My bodyclock has suddenly decided to begin working, like clockwork no less. For the past week, I have been waking up at 6:45 AM on the dot. Wonder how and why one's biology makes the decision to do that? Either way, it has made me extremely tired by 9PM each night. In turn, being exhausted (and stressed to the max) has caused quite the unstoppable, cranky mood swings. Muscles thinks this is hilarious.

Last night, for example, I didn't get home until around 8:30/9 PM. I had a very important meeting that morning, worked all afternoon, and then went to a mind-boggling meeting for my internship that involved alot of nonsensical, theoretical professor-talk. I was one to be reckoned with, for sure. I found Muscles lying on the couch watching a basketball game, that, quite frankly, I was jealous I missed the beginning of. Our conversation went something like this:

Disclaimer: It is my belief that most women have the occasional day like this, and that we all carry around a deep shame for our actions. If you are fortunate enough to be even-keeled, please don't judge.

"Oh! Hey honey," Muscles chirps as I walk in the door.
"Hi." I say smugly. Why is HE so cheerful, I think. And why did I just answer in that tone? What's wrong with me.
Giggles ensue. Muscles gets a kick out of my PMS, clearly. This irritates the Mood Swing Monster (known in some circles simply as MSM).
"What's so funny?" MSM growls.
Muscles attempts to straighten up.k "Nothing, honey. I love you," he purrs.
This guilts me into suppressing my frenemy MSM, so I grin and bear it,
"I love you, too."

A few minutes later, I have settled into the couch next to Muscles. He comments that I have had a long, frustrating day and offers to rub my feet. Awww. At least that's what I should've been thinking. Sometimes, when sweet, sweet Muscles does this, I melt. On this day, MSM pushed those weak, mushy feelings aside. I complied, still giving Muscles the sideways look. He giggles some more.

What is he LAUGHING at?!? Clearly, I am unhappy. He is laughing because I had a bad day! My sound reasoning goes something like that. Geez. In retrospect, I sound like I should be committed, but even in the face of this monstrosity, I tell myself to calm down. I drift off into serious thought about the day's events, yada yada yada.

"Muscles?" I say tentatively, to get his attention.
He stops to pause the game, anticipating that this will be a lengthy convo. That annoys MSM a smidge, so the frenemy takes the defensive. I then proceed to ask some rhetorical question like "Do you think this would be a good career move for us as a family?", which ultimately leads into a rambling monologue listing the reasons why and why not. Guess how Muscles chooses to take part in this heartfelt discussion?

If I could draw a picture on my bloggie blog, I would. To put it lightly, he stares blankly and silently at the space beyond my head. Perhaps there was some sort of ball or shiny object there. I am unsure. Either way, the silence becomes deafening a few moments later. Has Muscles completely checked out, or has his brain suddenly fallen out onto the sofa? Mood Swing Monster, for one, is infuriated at his disrespect for our, ahem, MY personal thoughts and concerns. Can't he tell I'm trying to facilitate discussion, not give a presidential address?!?

Brace yourselves. You won't believe how the silence is broken. Muscles slowly turns his pin head towards me until his eyes come into focus on my face. Novel idea. And he says,
"I'm going to turn the game back on now. Is that ok?"

MSM goes berserk. There might have been a slew of questions spill from my mouth, including but not limited to: Did you hear what I just said? Do you not think it was important enough to warrant a response? Are you ears suddenly deafened? Did it occur to you that I'm asking you because your input matters to me? IS THE GAME MORE IMPORTANT THAN ME RIGHT NOW?

Muscles is no longer smiling. In fact, he looks frightened of his own responses. He's on the top of his game, though.
"Yes, dear. I heard you. Of course it was important, but I didn't know what you wanted me to say. No my ears are fine. [Giggle, giggle.] Oh! I thought you were just telling me about it. And NO! The game would NEVER be more important than you."
I am too exhausted to be anything other than appeased. Okay, I have a million times infinity arguments against that, but whatever.

Of course, this back-and-forth continued until I finally found Mr. Sandman around 11 PM. Then, I promptly rose at 6:45 this morning. Wonder what Muscles has done this morning to warrant my input? :)

(Of course, I'm kidding. Where and when do these hormones stop?!?)

On the Fast Track to Becoming the Creepy Old Lady Who Takes an Extra Special Interest in Other Peoples' Kids

First things first. You should know that my husband and I have alot of lame, strange names for one another. For your easy reading, I will be referring to him as Muscles for the continuation of this bloggie blog. The backstory on his moniker will have to be saved for later. I have important topics to cover here. Anyway, he calls me Rooster, and that's what I will use should I ever need to refer to myself... by my husband... in my own blog. Silly stuff.



So, Muscles and I have been married for almost 3 years. For nearly 2 and 1/2 of that, we have been trying to conceive our very own little bundle of slobber and joy. This was not in our original life plan, and, of course, it has put an additional strain on our marriage at times. However, we forged ahead with this decision upon learning of my diagnosis of a fairly common reproductive disease. To put it lightly, there has been alot of disappointment each month when I see only one pink line on the Pee Stick of Hope (PSH, for short).

Recently (as in, the few months), we decided to pursue fertility options beyond the usual late-night bump and grind. Two days ago, we traveled an hour to our first appointment with the baby doctors. Let me pause here to say that it amazes me that technology has not made advances that make it possible for me to leave my clothes on and keep all unwanted fingers and foreign objects out of my hoo-hoo for medical purposes. Anyway, we met a very nice doctor who set us up for a couple of required (AKA expensive) tests and discussed our options with us. If you happen to be blessed with the fertility of hamsters, let me enlighten you. We can either A) have Muscles do his man-business in the waiting room and then insert the goods via turkey baster into the ol' hoo-hoo, or B) Muscles still has to handle his man-business in the waiting room, whilst they remove one of my eggs with a long needle, mix the two crazy kids together, and then put them back inside of me in hopes that they'll stick around, so to speak. Both are quite expensive, especially considering that most offspring find their way in there for somewhere around the cost of a cheap bottle of wine, say $9. Anyway, the turkey baster option is less expensive, maybe 1/4 or 1/3 of the cost of option B. However, the success rate of Option B is 3-5x better. Seeing as how we don't have any money trees at fruition, we are in quite the pickle.
So, I say to the Doc, "Which option do you think gives us the best chance to conceive ?"
And he says, "You tell me what you all want to do. I don't want to push anything."
And I say, "But, in your medical opinion, do you think Turkey Basting is a waste of our time?"
And he says, "Every couple is different. You all have to decide what you want to try."
And I say, "Did medical school not teach you how to form an O-P-I-N-I-O-N?!?"

Okay, that last part is a lie, but I wanted to say it. I hate decisions, especially big, life-changing, costly decisions. Of course, a child of our own is priceless to us, but that doesn't mean we want set his or her nursery up in the nice, large cardboard box we will be living in after spending our savings willy-nilly. But I concur, we decided with Doc to wait until after the preliminary testing is done before we made a decision. The results could have an impact.

Now, I have to muster up all the patience I can find in my anxious, only child soul. This is going to be a process, and such things do not operate on my schedule, I already find myself telling myself repeatedly. On the bright side, though, we can relax a smidge and dream a little about having a family. We have already thrown around names for twins (Kingston & Kate), chosen a room in our house for the nursery (upstairs, closest to our room), discussed parenting styles (and not quite agreed, of course), and become generally more accepting of this constant state of fear. Sincerely, I just hope it happens soon and without too much disappointment. I have been through quite a storm during the past couple of years, and I am ready for a BIG blessing. :)

The Best Place to Begin is at The Beginning

Unfortunately, that is not where I will be beginning this blog today. I don't like to backtrack. I get bogged down in words, descriptions, and accuracy. I would love to have my life catalogued neatly into journals, but I'm not a journal-completer. I am a self-professed Never-Finisher. I think the problem in the past has probably been my tendency to get overwhelmed by everything I feel is necessary to include. So, I will instead begin with an introduction to myself. For your convenience, I have put it into a cheesy MySpace-style survey. Enjoy.

Name: Kristy
Gender: Female
Age: Duh, 25.
Marital Status: Mostly happily married. Marriage, of course, has its days.
Living Arrangements: I live peacefully in the quasi-country in a large house (compared to our previous small house, not in general) with my quirky, child-like husband, and my 4 lovable pooches.

This is the part where I skip all the tacky questions about eye & hair color and other aspects of my appearance. I mean, really, does it matter? Get your mind out of the gutter.

Do you like anyone? By far, I think this is the most ree-diculous question in these things. Of course, I do. I am not a hobbit.
Who have you been friends with the longest? Technically, my dear hypochondriac friend Rachel, but I think Heather, the military wife, should get some play on this question too. I have known both of them for around 18 or 19 years, and they are still my very best friends. I'm quite proud of their ability to put up with me this long.
Are you close to your family? But of course! There may have been a time when I was not-so welcoming of my parents' company, but these days, I hardly go a day without talking to them or visiting. This is definitely something you should know about me.
How many siblings do you have? Also quite important (and probably quite telling), I am an only child.
What's the best feeling in the world? I mean, there's the obvious happiness, but I think this question is actually implying what feeling creates the most happiness for you. In my case, knowing that my family (including those friends I refer to as sisters) are happy. I think it provides a sense of security.

Let's move on to the all-important "Favorites" section. I'm getting bored...
What's your favorite...
Color: Hard to say. Red or white probably... but not really together.
Food: Oooh! This is a big one. I LOVE FOOD, but only good food. I love cooking and finding interesting restaurants to try.
Sport: I don't play sports. Period. I try sometimes when I'm tipsy and that's a big time, but I don't compete in sports activities. I LOVE watching WKU basketball and NFL football, however.
Blog: Yeah, I threw this one in for fun. It's Donald Miller's (author of Blue Like Jazz. Read it if you haven't.).

So... That wasn't as fun as I anticipated. Let's get to chronicling this 25 year old life I call my own...