Packing for Two...

It's time to start packing for our marathon vacations. Yes, I said vacations.

The first, we will be heading 3 and 1/2 hours down to Myrtle Beach, SC with my husband's family. We will stay at his family's time share for a few days. Generally, during this time, we take in the outlet shops, the shopping malls, and all the big box stores... oh, and the golf stores and of course-- Bass Pro Shop. I've been told Myrtle Beach has a beach, but we never spend too much time sitting on it's shore.

I've found that there are two types of people in this world... the ones that love Myrtle Beach and the ones that refer to it as "Wal-Mart by the Sea" or in other words, the ones that hate Myrtle Beach. I used to be in the latter category. However, my husband's cousin got married last year (right after a hurricane) down there and we had a fabulous time sitting by the pool and hanging out at this bar called "Fat Harold's."

After a few days of hanging out with his parents, we will come back home to re-pack for Atlantic Beach, NC. My Uncle and Aunt always rent a huge place at Atlantic Beach for a week that can accommodate them & their kids as well as the extended family. This year I think we all are going to try to come down at some point-- even my parent's who generally shy away from big family outings.

And even though I'm excited about the prospect of shopping at the Kate Spade outlet in Myrtle Beach and spending hours by the pool at Atlantic Beach with my whole family, I really hate the idea of packing. Packing makes me nervous. I hate to gather all my stuff, and the really great part of being married, his stuff and stuffing all that stuff into a suitcase. I generally panic that I've forgotten something or that I did not pack enough of something-- like underwear-- you really can't have enough underwear when you are out of town. I'll obsess (quietly in my mind as not to tip off anyone that I'm obsessing) until we arrive at the vacation hotel/house/condo and I have time to go through our things. Just imagine, all the way down to Myrtle Beach, in my mind it sounds like this-- did I pack the toothbrushes? Yes... I think I did- I remember going in the bathroom for them, I just don't remember if I put them in the suitcase--oh well, if not we can just buy more down there. Wait-- did I pack a blanket-- last time it was cold, did I bring a blanket? I almost froze to death... I don't want to freeze to death- dying at Wal-Mart by the Sea would be horrible. Did I pack that stack of underwear I laid on the bed? Oh, please Jesus, please let me have packed that stack of underwear... what about those toothbrushes?

Yet, there are some really good things about married-people packing: 1) You can just bring one really big bag (not including my makeup bag and my huge Cole Hann leather bag). If I use one of our really big rolling suitcase I can fit basically everything we will need. 2) You can share things you normally wouldn't share to create more suitcase space. For example, when I get ready to start packing, I will just bring one type of soap, one shampoo, and one type of shaving cream-- theses are things we both use and can share. This also means that my husband goes around Myrtle Beach smelling like apricots and peaches, but that is okay because we saved space. Saving space = more room for shoes in the suitcase. 3) Well, I don't have 3-- so there are only like 2 good things about married-people packing.

As much fun as we probably will have while on our marathon vacation destinations, we still-- no excuse me, I still have to pack us up, which means I have to start washing clothes now, so we will have some clean underwear. I'd hate to see us going commando at Myrtle Beach.

The Cool People and the Color Purple M&M...

Today I was watching TV when a very old ad came on for "Monster Ballads" (a compilation CD of 80's hair bands with songs like "Every Rose Has It's Thorn" and "When I See You Smile") which completely sent me back to when I was in sixth grade. Back then, when CD's were just the latest and greatest music invention ever, everyone was hocking their compilation CD on the TV. This particular ad for rock ballads came on a lot after school and on the weekends-- so much so that my sister and I would belt out the pieces of the songs as they scrolled across our TV screen. We didn't even know the songs or the bands that were singing them, we just knew the parts that were advertised.

As soon as the ad came on, I was mentally transported to my parent's comfortable living room, sitting in my daddy's Lazy-Boy recliner (probably with a floppy hat on my head with a sunflower on the front) belting out part of a song from a band called "White Snake" with my sister. During this little trip down memory lane other little memories came flooding back as well.

Back when I was in sixth grade, I thought I knew everything. I knew I was a cool kid with a killer fashion sense (which I know now means I wasn't cool and I dressed like a dork-- after all, I was still in my Blossom stage) and I had a bright future ahead of me in modeling. (This was before I accepted the fact that I was destined to be short like the rest of my family-- add delusional to my list of flaws.)

But in sixth grade something very exciting was going on. America, possibly the World, was asked to give their voice to possibly the biggest decision of our lifetime. Was it the next president? Ending world hunger? Saving the environment?

No... we were asked to vote for the next color to be added to the already colorful assortment that is M&Ms. It was open to everyone and we had choices: Purple, Blue, and Pink. It was our American duty to pick which color we supported and cast our vote over a 1-800 telephone line-- and the beauty of it was we could vote as much as we liked.

Of course, no one in my sixth grade liked Pink, except for some really giggly girlie girls that kept to themselves (it seemed). Most of the boys liked Blue (of course), but the really cool people (like me) were rooting for Purple. Purple was going to be the next big thing in M&M color. I just knew it!

My friends and I would gather at each other's houses (for sleepovers) and cast multiple votes for the Purple M&M. At school, to show our support, we would make purple marks on our notebooks and hands. We would openly debate the beauty and superiority of Purple at lunchtime and while changing classes. Purple ruled-- Blue drooled (or something like that.) Math teachers, looking to make lessons relevant would take simple polls of the classroom to see which color was edging out the other.

For weeks and weeks the race was in full swing. Friends turned against friend. Houses, like mine, became divided on the issues. My sister, the sweet innocent little girl that sang those beautiful rock ballads with me, was supporting the Blue M&M and so was all her bratty little fourth grade friends. We may have shared a love for compilation CD's, but that wasn't enough to bridge the color gap. Yet, I knew I was going to win. Who wouldn't like Purple?

The votes came in, and as we all know, Blue was proven the winner. Blue joined the gang of Red, Yellow, Brown, and Green. Purple and Pink disappeared from the scene almost immediately (probably trying, at first, to score a tell-all book deal about how it was all rigged and when that didn't happen they settled for gigs as seasonal colors--M&Ms gotta work after all).

For weeks after I couldn't look at a bag of M&Ms without feeling defeated, hurt-- let down. I began to lean heavily towards Skittles, a candy that didn't resort to cheap tricks to boost sales and popularity. Good ole' Skittles and his fruity flavored deliciousness, would never try to add another fruit to its traditional bag by making you love something and then taking it away.

I now shy away from any sort of "voting for your favorite flavor/color/shape" promotion. My motto: fool me once, shame on you; full me twice, shame on me. I even stopped voting for my favorites on TV shows because the one's I do vote for end up getting kicked off. But for a few weeks back in sixth grade, Purple Ruled and Blue Drooled and I was going to be a Super Model-- and that was COOL!

Confessions of a Y&R addict...

Generally, during this time of day, I'm home from work and firmly planted on my couch watching the ending to my favorite soap, "The Young & the Restless" on CBS. But today it decided to rain (it seems to do that a lot lately), which causes the TV signal from space to be all messed up and digital scary, so instead of trying to figure out what's going on with Neil Winter's folks (will Lily live or die from cancer?) or if Catherine Chancellor's crowd ever decided what to do over the Cane situation (should Jill just adopt him as her son, even though he really isn't blood related and even though Phillip came back from the dead?), I decided to do a little writing.

I've been a loyal follower of the Y&R since I was four years old. My grandparents, who kept me during the day while my parents worked, watched the program and that started my exposure and led to my addiction.

I've grown up learning about the cut-throat cosmetic and fragrance industry thanks to the wheeling and dealings of Jabot Cosmetics and Newman Enterprises. Who knew a small town in Wisconsin could be such a hot bed for adultery, cooperate espionage, and the criminally insane? (Did y'all see Kevin hallucinate chipmunks and go on a shooting spree a few weeks ago?)

Now, I know that some of the story lines can get far-fetched and sometimes the writer's just recycle the stories over and over again but I'm addicted and I can't help but to watch.

I work with children, which means I have my summer's off. This summer I've been watching a little bit too much Y&R, it seems.

You see, one of the characters, Lily Winters-Ashbey, has just been diagnosed with Ovarian Cancer after thinking she was finally pregnant with her possibly soon-to-be-ex husband's baby (the soon-to-be ex is Cane, who pretended to be Jill's son so he could finally have the family he had always dreamt of as boy growing up in desolate Australia). Instead, she wasn't pregnant, it was just the tumor causing a false-positive on the pee stick. This is devastating because she is only 22 years old (although she should be more like 15 or 16 going by actual years since her TV birth) and she probably won't be able to have any children once they operate.

I realized a couple nights ago that I've been watching way too much Y&R when I was going to bed one night and silently prayed to God for Lily to be okay (like I actually knew her and she was my friend or something). As soon as I said it, I felt incredibly stupid. After all, Lily, regardless of how convincing the plot and story line and regardless of how well the actress plays the character, is not real!

How sad and pathetic of me, yet I'm not going to stop watching or anything.

Showers, Hats, and Plates (Oh My!)...

Who knew July 25th was going to be so jammed packed full of fun?

My two best friends and college roommates are getting married. Not to each other, after all, this is Eastern North Carolina and we just aren't that progressive 'round here. No, my two best friends are marrying two perfectly lovely gentlemen and because of these joyous events, today just happened to be day for two perfectly lovely showers.

The first shower, well actually it was a brunch, was a hat-themed soiree and in honor of the girl with the polka-dot and feather hat on, Cherish. I've known Cherish for almost as long as I've known my husband (they are first cousins). The first time I met her was at a family gathering. I've always been a picky eater and during the salad course she noticed that I wasn't 'digging' in. As the plates were cleared for the next course, she quickly switched my half eaten plate for her completely empty plate so her grandmother would think I liked what she had prepared. I knew right away that we would be fast friends. I lucked up with a perfect roommate when she decided to attend the same college as me two years after that family gathering. Her wedding is planned for December.

I had never been to hat themed party before and I was very excited because 1) I love a good excuse to wear a hat--I went through a Blossom phase growing up and I have never really out grown my love of hats (I even joined the United Daughters of the Confederacy when I found out hats were sometimes involved) and 2) I think brunch is the most perfect meal of the day. And who doesn't love a good egg dish at 11:00am?

The second shower of the day was a Christmas -themed pottery painting extravaganza, and hosted by yours' truly in honor of the girl wearing the brown and pink hat, Olivia. Olivia and I were both psychology majors in college and even though I knew of her long before I met her, we bonded over Freud, Jung, and a shared loved of talking about 'tacky people.' By our senior year (which really was a semester as we both graduated early) we were roomies along with Cherish, living it up in a beautiful four bedroom home just outside of campus.

Olivia is getting married in October and she had mentioned she would really love a Christmas shower... so what's better than a Christmas in July shower? I can tell you, painting Christmas-themed pottery in July with your closest friends and Olivia's most talented relatives in July is better!

For Olivia, I had Santa Hat invitations printed up. I spent the better part of yesterday making chocolate-covered pretzels, placing them in little clear baggies, tying beautiful green ribbons in bows around the twist ties, and to top things off, putting the baggies in little red tin buckets-- these were the favors. I even went so far as to wrap the forks in red and white striped napkins and green ribbon and whipped up my famous homemade cheesecake. Take that Martha Stewart.

Pottery painting is fun and therapeutic. Even if you can't paint good (as we say down this way) they have this handy-dandy little machine that makes stencils, so even your least talented friends can join in. If you can color, you can paint pottery. Luckily, we were all pretty versed in painting. In college, we three plus a couple others instituted "international nights." These nights, we'd cook something Italian and drink cheap wine and later decorate a beer koozie. We were crafty girls with hot glue guns.

So we had some major hat hair, but nevertheless, we loaded up and took ourselves down to Goldsboro, NC to celebrate the upcoming marriage of our dear friend Olivia.

In total our group made four salad plates and four dinner plates in complimenting Christmas style. I love the little "S" initial that Olivia chose for the dinner plates to commemorate her new last name. Once these plates are glazed and fired, they are going to be FABULOUS!

Olivia brushing up on her cake-cutting skills.

Truvy was Right...

I never thought about getting older a couple of years ago, because even though I knew I was getting older, nothing really seemed to change. My hair was silky and dark, my eyes had no lines around them, my complexion was smooth and clear. And cellulite, what cellulite? So even though the numbers that correspond to my age were getting higher, I didn't feel a day over 19.

Speaking of 19... Did you know that age 19 is the human body's peak? Oh, how I wasted 19! If I had only known that 19 was the "it" age, I would have walked around showing more skin, wearing tighter clothing-- really flaunting what I had. I would have volunteered to read to old people who couldn't see tiny print, because at 19, I had eagle eye vision. If I had just known.

Last year I turned 26. Big deal, I thought. 26 is just going to be exactly like 25 and 24, maybe even 23. Oh, how wrong I was!

I first started to notice the gray hairs. Now, I've always had a few gray hairs, since age 17, just none that were noticeable to anyone but my stylist. At best, I had like 5 gray hairs on my whole head. But at 26, I started to notice them, even my husband began to notice them. Big deal, I thought, what is a few gray hairs. To correct the problem, I started getting a few highlights and low lights, which added dimension to my dark hair and completely covered up those pesky gray hairs.

After the gray scare, I started to notice that my pants that were once a little loose were getting a little tight in the waist. No biggie, I thought, you probably are just bloated. Later than night, after a long day at work, the hubby and I were watching some horrible commentary show about the 20 best and worst beach bodies. During this horrible show, hubby lovingly looks over at me, pats my stomach and says, "You know, I remember when your stomach was a lot flatter." The wind was sucked from my lungs. He remembers what? Was it true? Have I let myself go? I had a hard time gauging the situation because hubby was all smiles, chuckling to himself and rubbing his every growing belly. For those of you that don't know, my husband has a strange sense of humor and a lot of the time I can't tell if he's joking or serious. Hubby says he was just joking, but I firmly believe that in humor there is truth and lets face it, the pants don't lie. So bye-bye perfect metabolism, hello Hip-Hop Abs.

So 26 was bringing the heat. First, my hair, now my abs-- what's next?

It wasn't long after the Hip-Hop Abs video's arrived on my doorstep that 26 showed it's next little gift. Mr. & Mrs. Pimple-Zit took up residence on my chin and decided not to leave. Before long, I had a little neighborhood of Pimple-Zits all over my chin. Adult Acne! Great! My Esthetician said I was experiencing a hormonal change. So I took myself to the doctor, who changed my birth control prescription and gave me a Rx for Retin-A. Take that Pimples!

The pimples have started to clear (sort of) and I thought life was getting back to normal. But 26 wasn't near done with me. A few Sunday mornings ago, I was walking past my husband on my way to the bathroom when he asked me, "What are those lumpy things on that back of your legs?" Again, the wind was sucked out of me. Was he serious? Did he really want to die today? I was looking for a sharp object, when I found myself screaming, "It's Cellulite! Got that? Cell-u-lite! Mr. I'm-a-man-and-I'll-never-have-to-worry-with-those lumpy-bumpy-things-because-I'm a man!" That Monday morning, I bought a big tube of anti-cellulite gel. I'll keep you informed on how it's working.

Recently I started to notice the the beginnings of crow's feet around my eyes, thank you 26. Any time I think of the word crow's feet I'm reminded of one of my favorite movies, "Steel Magnolia's." In this wonderful movie, the local beauty-technician Truvy, played marvelously by Dolly Parton, tells Julia Robert's character, Shelby, as she complains about the "early stages of crow's feet" that "time marches on, and eventually you realize that it's marching across your face!" No truer words have ever been uttered Truvy. The good news, sorry 26, the Retin-A my doctor prescribed for my colony of zits also is just super at erasing those little fine lines.

I'm worried, 26 is drawing to a close and 27 is lurking around the corner. Who knows what 27 has in store for me... sagging boobs, pot belly... hair loss? But as my father would say, turning 27 is better than the alternative. And he's right you know.

Wedding Woes...

(photo from the day-- taken by Swank Photo Studio)

Just a little over two years ago, after several years of dating, my husband and I finally made it official. We were married in June, during a rather perfect weather day-- the kind of days you don't get that much in Eastern North Carolina. It didn't rain, which was lucky because summer days tend to produce severe thunderstorms (which would have been just awful considering we were having an outdoor reception). Most importantly, I do not recall an overabundance of humidity that day, which is virtually unheard of down this way.



A year and a half went into planning the blessed event. In reality it was more like a year and a half of arguments, tears, and yelling with my mother over decorations, flowers, food, dresses, and most importantly, money. For my mother and me to be so similar in most regards, when it comes to spending money, especially her money, she is all practicality to my sense of whimsy.

Nothing about my husband is whimsical. When my father would offer us money to "just forget the big wedding and run down to South Carolina" for a quickie ceremony, my husband would seriously consider it. I could just see what he was thinking, "just think of all the money and trouble we'd be saving!" It became such a big joke that my wedding was putting my family into the poor house, that one of my daddy's friends put a begging jar up at the local store/hangout for everyone to see.

My sister, during this time of planning, earned herself a nickname, "the Axe." On the day of my wedding portraits, after picking up my bouquet from the florist and hating everything about it (how hard is it for a florist to make an all Calla Lilly bouquet???) and then crying all the way to Duke University for my photo shoot (not mention I participated in a little bit of yelling at my mother for making me use that florist in the first place-- I'm generally not so bratty) it was determined that my sister would pretend to be me and would fire the florist over the phone, for a fee, of course. From that day forward she was put in charge of dealing with all the wedding vendors.

Actually, I was surprised that I found planning my wedding stressful. After all, I'm the kind of girl that really loves to plan things. And from the moment I met my now husband I had dreamed of all the fun I'd have planning our big day. But instead, I got really tired of worrying over seat configurations and food. And I lost the ability to make a decision, which I used to be very good at. Every thought in my head, regardless of what was going on, would somehow wonder back over to the wedding-- which wasn't good seeing how I was in my next-to-the-last semester of grad school and was preparing for my Comprehensive Written Exam!

But I'm nothing if not reasonable (mostly). I began to remember what my favorite psychology professor in undergrad would say when he was giving out advice about weddings-- not to me necessarily, as I was not engaged, nor close to being married, but in general-- sort of life advice for the whole class. He would say something to the effect of: a wedding is just one day, the marriage comes after the wedding. It's the days after that count.

At the time the advice didn't mean much to me. Yet, once that ring was firmly on my ring finger and all sense had gone out the window, those words were like a beacon of light pulling me safely ashore and out of the crazy ocean that is the wedding business-- a place where wedding wands and custom garters are a must have... where fancy dresses and new idea are of life and death importance... where having the perfect wedding is the only thing that counts. Those words calmed me down (along with a very small dose of anti-anxiety medication) and allowed me to get on with my life.

Christmas Card Photo Shoot 2008

And what a wonderful life its turning out to be.

Musing Over Motivation...

So I'm already sort of a blog-slacker. I'm so disappointed in myself. I started my attempt at blogging on July 16th and had every intention of writing everyday after my flagship entry with a witty and entertaining post. Unfortunately, I soon discovered that being witty and entertaining takes effort and time-- most importantly, motivation.

Last night I was rambling on to my husband about several assorted events from earlier in the day when I accidently rambled onto the fact that I lack self-motivation.

When I was in school I found the necessary drive to complete projects and study for tests based on deadlines and dates that were imposed by teachers/professors. When I'm at work, I tend to be motivated by the fact that people are watching me and I have goals and deadlines to meet and therefore, I'll kill myself to make sure things are all hunky-dory. If I'm planning a party or I know people are coming over, I'm a mad woman trying to clean my home to perfection. Yet, when it's a deadline imposed by me for me, it just doesn't seem to bare as much weight, unless someone else is involved.

The good news--I think I've figured this all out.

First of all, I love myself. If I let myself down, I know I'll forgive myself. I always do. Case-in-point: A few months ago I was inspired to get into really good shape over the summer. Since I live in the middle of nowhere I decided to order several workout DVDs, because driving to the gym just wasn't an option and being a first order procrastinator, I'd find a reason not to make the trip. Once the DVDs arrived I had planned on doing the videos every weekday, taking Saturdays and Sundays to relax. At first, things were going great. I was alternating my cardio workout video with my ab video and I could not have been more pleased. However, after about two weeks of this, and not even a full two weeks (I refuse to do the cardio video if my husband is at home because I know I look like Denise Richards on Dancing with the Stars) I stopped doing the videos pretty much all together. I was so disappointed in myself, but being an old softy (literally and figuratively) I just let it go, telling myself as I looked at my less than perfect abdominal region in the bathroom mirror, that I don't look that bad.

Besides loving myself, which in my opinion, is completely healthy, I have decided with all the stress I put on myself to live up to other's standards, why should I waste any extra motivation I have stored up on things I'm just going to forgive myself for later? For instance, when I first got married (which wasn't that long ago) I tried to make our bed everyday because I thought it was important to my husband. My husband's family is obsessively neat. His mother vacuum's the floors almost everyday, she doesn't own an automatic dishwasher because she would rather do it herself, and everyone under her roof makes his bed everyday. I admire her ability to do such day in and day out. I hate to vacuum and I'm lucky if I get to it once a week. I can't live in a house without a dishwasher because I'm afraid of putting my hands in dirty dishwater (there's food particles floating around in there!) and I've never made my bed everyday-- except when I was in college.

Making the bed everyday started out great, but I one day I didn't find the time to do it and my husband didn't seem to mind-- he didn't even notice. Soon I noticed that the mornings where he was the last one out of bed, he didn't make the bed-- he did not even attempt to make the bed! I realized that if he did not care about the bed, then why should I? After all, just getting out of the bed and getting dressed takes pretty much all the motivation I can muster. I soon got over the bed making thing.

Of course, I'm motivated to do the things I like to do. I never have much trouble finding the will to read a book, watch a TV show, or do a little Internet shopping. I'm afraid that this all comes down to an ugly four letter word--LAZY. As bad as I hate the word and all that it implies, could it be that I'm lazy? At best only a few people realize that I have a tendency to be that way. Most of my colleagues, former professors and teachers, even my closest friends and acquaintances would never guess me for a sloth because I work too hard at work, I'm too organized and put together with my projects, and my house is always too neat for when people come over.

In actuality lazy or not, motivated or burnt out, we should all say a quick prayer for my poor husband, the guy who probably thought I was the type of girl the made her bed everyday.

It Even Smells Like a New Car...

I have taken a big step as of late. For years (actually since Internet came to my home at the ripe old age of 14) I've had the same email address. Oh, back then (some 12 years ago) I gave my email address moniker (or handle for those of you still into CB radios) tons of thought. I wanted it to scream feminine and girly. I wanted it to reek of pink and polka dots and thus I ended up with a name that implied I was a sweetheart (which really is far from the truth).

All through high school I was known on America On Line as a sweetheart. Which was fine, because half of my high school also had sappy names as well. In college and graduate school, I just assumed that I would drop the sweetheart for something more enlightened, but it just never happened and before I knew it I was 26, gainfully employed, not to mention married, at the checkout counter at William-Sonoma whispering my embarrassing email address to a very patient sales associate while my sister stared on at me in disgust.

This week I decided to end the madness and put little sweetheart@sappy.sadsack.loser (by the way, not a real email address) to rest. In all actuality, my old email address had became sort of an email whore. She was hanging out with a real spammy crowd, never once automatically filtering them away, and even though I was keeping an open mind (after all, I did spend much more time on my work email account than I ever did with her) I had to draw line somewhere. After all, you can only receive so many offers for Erectile Dysfunction medication before you have to admit that your sweet little email address that once oozed pink hearts and purple rainbows has grown into something completely out of control, like Brittany Spears before the intervention.

So far I've been very pleased with my step into serious email accounts. Everything is nice and new-- crisp like a head of romaine lettuce. The transition has been pretty much seamless and I've even noticed the nicest hint of 'new car' smell.

This new transition has also given me the courage to try my hand at blogging. Not that I have followers, but if anyone does happen to fall into my little blog world, be patient. I'm not really computer savvy (although I somehow did work in a computer lab once) and this will be, like most things in my life, a work in progress.