Mine vs. Yours

It is that awkward moment of "ours" instead of "mine."

It is one thing if you say something like "Our afternoon was great." or "Our matching Facebook profile picture is creepy and we need to fix that." or even bordering on "Can you pick up our dinner for tonight."

But when that inner planner, that part of yourself you hide from almost everyone, except your close and admittedly screwed up friends, comes out... that moment is defined as "when it got serious."

That moment defines if he, or you, will freak out. When you are accidentally on a ring site picking out which $12,400 Tiffany's engagement ring is perfect and then he goes to check a game score and sees. That moment when your friend says "Oh you should do that for your wed... uh for my wedding!" when she is married already and he is clearly one step ahead of the left of half of that word and realizes you two have already been planning the big event. Or... the mother of them all... when you talk about being a mother. With him.

Now it is a given that every girl (save for the ones who hate children and men) plans her wedding from the first time she sees a Disney movie and starts playing with baby dolls from birth. But I feel like since hitting age 20, I see babies everywhere. And not only do I see them, but I have a sickening, horrifying need to steal/abduct/kiss/have all of them. Sure, it is nice to look at them. But I want to put their squishy fat legs in precious CSU and Notre Dame onesies. I want to put them in stockings and pretend they are presents. I want to dress them in baby cow outfits for day to day activities. I fantasize about babies. And not just a baby but lots of them. A sweat shop work force amount of them. Not a bad idea either, if you are talking about getting a return on your bodily investment in having one. Kidding, kidding. Look what that did for Nike.

It is that moment, when one of you (because this is not only just the girl who will bring this up and I know that for a fact) brings up your children as in "our" children, that is when you know it is serious. Sure, "I love you" takes it up a notch. But saying "I would like to create another life and therefore be stuck with you involved in mine forever" is a different level of crazy.

When that "My kids will be swimming quarterbacks who ride horses and love calculus and want to play for ND and the Broncos and cook their mama dinner on Sunday after Mass" type of thoughts occur, and when they accidentally slip out in regular conversation because your 20 something brain is in baby mode because your body is saying "WOMAN you crazy, I am prime-o for baby making and you are wasting your time doing statistics you fool!" you realize that you are no longer in a high school relationship and it is time to buck up and embrace the fear of "ours."

Instead of studying I....

1. found a recipe for butterbeer on Pintrest.

2. found my engagement ring on Pintrest *only $4,600 instead of the $12,400 from Tiffany's*

3. ate a quarter of my pumpkin pie and half a tub of cool whip

4. stalked my boyfriend on Facebook

5. stalked my ex boyfriend on Facebook

6. stalked my dog on Facebook

7. posted the new Jenna Marbles video on my dog's Facebook

8. painted my nails

9. dropped a bowl, swept up the glass, put it in a cereal box

10. got back on Pintrest and stalked wedding things

11. got concerned about wedding obsession, reminded myself of life goals such as become rich, get a six pack, live in Sweden, etc.

12. put up our Christmas tree

13. opened notes and then got on Facebook to stalk kid in my class

14. tried to start study guide but couldn't find highlighter... searched for highlighter

15. found highlighter and then colored sheet of paper with highlighter.

and 16. wrote a blog since I have nothing else to do and keep meaning to write again.

Distraction: accomplished.

Oh, I hate you.

Sometimes I think about writing a book. The main subject would probably be love and how confusing it is. Or insulting people on accident, since that is something I know a lot about and seem to experience on a regular basis. Or baby cows or ducks. Those are all subjects that seem to thread a common theme in my life.

On the other hand, there are already an unholy number of books on love, and I don't know if I want to tell everyone every single stupid thing I do.

For example....

Tonight, a kid named Scott was at my house playing Mario Brothers with my roommate. Playing Mario Brothers is something still acceptable to do, kind of like running from your car to your door at night because you are scared or being really irritated when someone asks to borrow your new shoes. As he introduced himself I said, due to a lack of filter between what originates in my mind and comes out of my mouth "OH! Are you Courtney's Scott? Because if you are I hate you." to which he mumbled "no..." as my roommate mummbled "yes..." leaving me very confused, resulting in the response: Oh thank GOD you are not him!

Oh yes he was.

Turns out he had left my friend Courtney high and dry after a few too many dates for that to be okay... totally not an excusable thing, not similar to ageless events like Mario. At some point, you've gotta grow up when it comes to dating.

Long story short: I told a kid I hated him, to his face, based solely off of the drama between him and a friend of mine. Way. To. Go.

If you think of any good book ideas for me, aside from my humiliation, please let me know asap. Otherwise I will attempt to write blogs and perhaps someone will take pity and put them into one collection of my mess of a life.

Where were you born?

I am sitting in Starbucks right now, studying. Well, attempting to, but in reality I am having conversations with the baristas about dreams. The other night I dreamed I was knocked up and then woke up, but was actually still asleep so I thought it was real life when it was actually still the dream. Talk about horrifying. I woke up (actually, not dream waking up this time) and laid in bed wondering how different my life would be if I really was.

That got me to thinking about how events impact our lives. I read an article today talking about how we are the 9/11 generation. That was, for most of us, the first time we realized that if possible, someone out in the world would gladly kill us. When you are ten years old, that is a pretty altering fact to face. Standing in Mrs. Lodwick's classroom, I could not understand how a group of people an ocean away could hate us. As far as I was concerned, the world was made up of families just like mine. Families who got up, went to school, went to ski practice and ski meets on weekends with moms and dads who were coaches or refs. Families that spent weekends together camping and fishing and fighting. Not families sending their little boys into squares full of people with bombs strapped to their chests. Not families that uniformly hated my family. Simply because we went to church on Sunday or happened to live in America.

Have you ever thought about how we ended up here? How it comes to be that we are born into the families we are placed in? Personally, I think God knew I was going to be so stubborn, rude and determined to be my own person that I may not have lasted to age six if I wasn't born into a family with a mom who never cared what people thought or a dad who overlooked a bit of back talk in exchange for hugs. Granted, there were a few times when I was pretty sure that my parents were going to kill me (okay, so maybe those few times have been more recently than I would like to admit but I hope they are only few.) What baffles me is that based on where we are born, our lives and beliefs are molded without our knowledge. At age ten, I had faint ideas of lives outside of Steamboat. I had seen National Geographic, but it seemed to me that they were simply telling me stories and not real lives.

And so as I watched the Towers fall, the reality that someone out there wanted me dead set in. The months and years following have resulted in airport lines, random security checks, bomb dogs, and fear. This is how I grew up. The better half of my life, the half that I actually remember the majority of has been consumed with day to day reminders that we may not be safe. And that people hate us.

When I arrived in Sweden in eighth grade I was greeted by a few things: girls giving eachother hickies in the school hallway, showers that were called douche, and kids my own age telling me that they hoped I would die. Even in Sweden, who has remained neutral in nearly all international issues, I was forced to remove the security and safety of my childhood.

Yet ten years later, I look back at what happened with remorse for the lives lost, and pity for the people who felt the need to attack us. What lives must they have been born into, for them to feel that was a necessary idea. An idea worth their own mortal lives. Worth being sent to their Maker over. Personally, there are very few things I feel are worth my life. Family, friends, and faith. And yet my faith has not called me to kill people, because I was blessed enough to be born where I was. The phrase forgive and forget must be molded for this situation: we must forgive them, because if we don't we will be bitter people who can't accept that sometimes, we need to see that tragedy is a chance for us to realize why we are blessed, and never forget because the memory must remind us of those who were lost and that freedom isn't ever going to be free.

"Michelle, why don't you take a go at it and answer for us."

Every question the teacher asks seems to be self explanitory. You feel like a total genius, secretly knowing the answers in your head as he calls on all the students around you, and they flounder and flub speechless for the simple question laid before them. Silently you congratulate yourself, feeling victorious in that you know every. single. answer. Until your name is the card he pulls and you are so busy saying "wow, I am a total genius, muhaha." that you not only miss the question, but when asking to repeat it seem to have a slur. Then when he restates it, you actually have no idea what goes into retained earnings following the subtraction of net income and you are suddenly the person casting a low intelligence shadow over all your classmates. Remember that giddy feeling of intelligence... you lost that one baby. It is as if the moment your name comes out of his mouth, your mind is blank and all you have to hold onto is the fact that you do indeed know at least that it was your name, and you can spell it. But beyond that, you're screwed.

At least, I am.

F-

Oh hey, strangers.

Remember those good ol' days when I was writing weekly? Kiss those babies goodbye. And say hello to 19 credits and daily asskickings.

Not to mention that I woke up with a migraine, burnt two bagels, went to the wrong classroom not once but TWICE in one day, and was the victim of black exploding ink from my favorite pen. Oh Thursdays, the things you do.

Despite my daily malfunctions and my seeming inability to find the correct classroom at the correct time, I am determined that this is going to be my best semester yet. My professors all seem to be hilarious with brains full of facts (okay, except my geology professor who is clearly not in his right mind because he is obsessed with rocks...).

My first professors began class by calling a kid a prostitute and then progressed to call a creepy guy on American Idol a pedophile. He also informed us that he hated when one student felt the need to comment on every single thing he said (you know, those ones that they speak and everyone immediately groans loudly and checks out on a mental vacation for the next three minutes.) He is by far the best professor I have ever had.

With most certainty I can tell you that when it comes to writing every Tuesday I will probably get an F-. Hopefully that won't be a trend. I will attempt to find funny things to write about so that this doesn't become yet another portal for my bitching.

Today, I want to punch something cute.

I would say I want to punch a baby, except that always come off as rude and people think I am very serious about that statement.

You know those weeks where you feel like not only is life raining on your parade, but sending tsunamis, hurricanes and tornados of shit onto your every minute of life? That is how this week has been. And it makes me wish I was back in Santander where the realities of family, finances and feelings were a mere moment preserved on a computer screen and turned off in exchange for a walk on the beach. Oh, how I miss those days.

Prossibly the way to my heart (new word.)

I would like to say the following story is unordinary, unusual, or even unheard of on a day to day basis in my family.

Post-surgery (sorry to keep bringing it up, my sexy walking boot tan line seems to be a topic of discussion occuring at a frequency far too high for anyone's tolerance...) driving has been a bit of a dilemma. Thus, one of my most regular life dil-Emma's has been driving me around like a dedicated driving sister slave. On one such occasion when being picked up from work, I was assaulted by her ravings about Margaret spoiling this season of the Bachelorette. For the first few seconds I was relieved that the target of her wrath was not me, as it was last season when I told her who Brad picked. FYI... Reality Steve had it wrong last season anyway so I don't really see how I can be held responsible for ruining it for her with the wrong person in the end, but my fate was sealed a year ago.

Margaret and my mom were watching a preview for the Bachelor Pad (another high quality program watched by the Lichtenfels Women to enrich our lives and boost our self esteem) and Emma overheard something about Ames ending up happy with her. The "her" was not specified, so Emma stormed out in a blind rage certain that Ames won. For non-watchers, Ames has degrees from Harvard, Yale and Columbia, and when he was sent home this week told Ashley their love had been poetic. GIRL. What are you thinking. At least get knocked up with his kid before you send him home and then pick the guy you want.

Now, it seemed obvious to me from the beginning that _____ was going to win (which he is, if Reality Steve didn't jack this one up too) and I pointed out to Emma that obviously Ames didn't win and if she used her brain she could easily guess. At which point the lightning bolts of anger were redirected to myself and the car was pulled over and I was told to get out.

Like I said, it would be lovely to tell you that blow up fights rarely occur, let alone over reality TV, but that would be a lie. Anyways, that fight progressed into a full family fight with lots of crying and a dinner made to make it up to me. Which made me realize that, in true I am a girl with issues who acts like a boy fashion, food is the way to my heart.

Last night, I had one of those "so, summer is coming to an end, where is this going" discussions, and following being told that school and my friends would come first, that there would never be anger or pressure over my being busy and that he just wanted to be with me, he said the magic words: I will buy you Starbucks.

Bing bang boom that's how you seal the deal baby. Well, not literally because then I'd end up with a baby and have to stop drinking caffeine, thus the Starbucks offer would go to shit. But metaphorically. Make me pasta, feed me sandwiches from my favorite place, buy me BBQ burgers on a first date and ignore the BBQ sauce on my cheek and arm, and then offer to buy me Starbucks and all that "Oh, it's just fun" business may possibly be considered. Or "prossibly" which is a word I invented to night which means possibly/probably. In case you ever are in a sitch where you want to say both but be confusing (reverting back to the girl side of your complicated self.)

Prossibly food is the way to everyone's stomach. And obviously I need to go to bed because I meant to write prossibly food is the way to everyone's heart. Food and Starbucks.

Cold feet

I grew up listening to the Dixie Chicks. The song "Ready to Run" was the Runaway Bride borrow theme song to my idea of love.... riding away on a horse in a wedding dress, but somehow ending up happy at the same time. It seems silly that tonight, as I sat contemplating what amount of honesty was necessary for myself and for dating, that Sex and the City told me exactly what I needed to hear: "Sometimes, the most difficult yet interesting relationship we have, is with ourself." Amen, Carrie Bradshaw. Amen.

It seems that regardless of what date is taken, what text is exchanged or what movie is "watched" we all end up going to sleep at night questioning what we want. We. Ourself. What do me, myself, and I want. Yet do we really ever listen to that? And if we do, is that selfish or is that honest. That is the dilemma. My sister asked me a few weeks ago if I believed there really was the "one" out there for each person. As I thought about it over the next few days I thought about all the strange and gawky couples that come in with their often ginger children and are totally in love. Even after sleepless nights, baby vomit, and years of being together, they are happy. Yet divorce rates are through the roof and it seems that our generation is asking the question: is there anyone out there who will understand, appreciate or accept the fact that I am who I am?

Now, I will be honest and inform you (if you don't know me, which you probably do because you few are the only ones still reading this) that I am extremely independent, get stressed out and furious over small things, have rage issues involving laundry and losing things, and would probably physically assault a large number of people if it wouldn't hinder my career opportunities or put a mark on my police record. I love being in charge. And you know what? At the same time, I want a guy who is able to be straight forward about what he wants as well. If I know, so should he.

Jenna Marbles put out a video (PS this part is a little explicit Mom, and does not refer directly to my own life do not fear) talking about how she wishes we could cut the bull and have a new social networking site on which you simply say "Oh, I would do ( ) with this person" and you can so "Oh wow, if the situation presented itself, she/he'd let me go to second base." Virtually all of our issues with "Does he like me too much" or "Where is this going" would be fixed. And yet we are left sitting at home asking ourselves if we are selfish, or just confused.

My sister, in one of her brilliant moments where she put into words what I couldn't think of but needed to, said: Love is the one thing in which we need to be completely selfish. If you don't know what you want and expect it, you will never be happy.

Touche. Yet then until you find the infamous and evil "one" you are left sleeping alone at night with cold feet. And maybe your feet are cold because you can't take a risk or because, like me, you are stressed and busy and can't deal with having that on your new iPhone schedule. While blaming my grande white mocha for keeping me up, perhaps it is that instead of focusing on my own mental health after a 12 hour work day, I stayed up thinking about a boy and a dilemma. After six months of thinking about myself in Spain, I came home and have realized that while we need to focus on ourselves, it seems to be a pattern that we focus on someone else. Regardless, I am still a firm believer in both Carrie and Emma's promotion of our own self relationship and loyalty, so if that means we have cold feet now and then, maybe it just means we need to have a hot bubble bath or pedicure.

When I grow up...

School starts in just over a month, and in the midst of setting up wireless, couch hunting, and bedroom decor planning, I have been thinking a lot about returning to school. Spain was, to put it mildly, a bit out of my normal comfort level as far as school goes. We found out our class schedule two weeks into the start of semester.... that seems a bit late, right? For an American type A personality and straight A student, this was near torture. As a planner addict, I was forced to reevaluate what is important on a day to day basis; suddenly school was playing second fiddle to sangria and the beach. When I arrived at CSU in May to take calculus, I was instantly jolted back into the reality of the States. While the weather was thankfully bleak and rainy most of the month I was there, all the hikes I had planned on taking and the hours I anticipated laying by the pool were suddenly consumed with ten to fifteen hours a day (no joke) of math homework and studying. As the class came to a close, the looming final and the desire for an A forced me out of my cozy Spain slacking and into a frenzy of studying. While I did receive an A, this time I have had off, for surgery, gave me a lot of needed thinking opportunities. Life, as I have come to see after having my quarter life crisis on my 20th birthday, goes far too fast. When do we need to step back and say "Maybe that quiz is not as important as taking that hike." While that can't always be the case, if it was then clearly I would not be in college and would be a world class slacker, I do think that on the days my to-do list seems to be so stressful and packed, if I can simply take an hour for God, myself, and nature, that list suddenly seems a lot less important.

I have also been trying to figure out what on Earth I will do this fall. Adding a second major in Journalism seems daunting and scary, yet now that I realized it is what I want, I can't walk away. As each week comes to a close, and August creeps up at a surprisingly rapid pace, the prospect of starting not only my third year of college but adding an additional load of work is going to absolutely test my ability to balance my life.

Last night my dad and I went to a CSU dinner with the Dean of the College of Business, Ajay Menon. He moved to America when he was 19 and attended college in Texas. Now he is the Dean at CSU and was eager to connect me with people like the head of the Philadelphia newspaper who used to run three international news sources. The phrase "when I grow up" is becoming a reality and the "when I grow up I want to be......." statement is hanging over me like a rain cloud and I keep opening an umbrella and telling myself that I am still a baby. Ha. If only. And yet how exciting is it that we are approaching the time when we aren't getting paid $9/hour or wondering if we can even afford cable. At least hopefully we are getting closer to that! So as I get more excited and scared, and my inner nerd starts really longing for campus, I am trying to take the following quote to heart and remember that this is our world, and it's almost our time to change it.

"I love to see a young girl go out and grab the world by the lapels. Life's a bitch. You've got to go out and kick ass." - Maya Angelou

Promiscuous Bears

There is always an awkward moment, when watching any nature show, during which two animals..... mate.

Now, it is hardly as comical as that creepo in the movie Dodgeball, who says to the sexy bank lady...

"We should mate..... date."

Back in seventh grade everyone would awkwardly laugh and shuffle papers around as if each student simultaneously remembered they needed to make a note of that very important appointment/meeting/date they had. In real life though, for fellow nerds who secretly enjoy watching shows like Wild Russia, that unavoidable mating scene can't be handled the same as when we were 13.

Tonight the horny bears in Russia were getting it on like it was their job. The narrator kindly added to the event by commenting that female bears will have multiple partners to make sure they get knocked up. If the bears were smarter, you'd think they would find the biggest and best male and go at it multiple times; no, these frisky ladies want to see what else is out there. And so the question has to be raised: how do you deal with mating scenes in a dating situation? I mean, it's not like we women are out there getting as much action as those female bears, and it is unlikely that many of us watch red beetles getting it on and feel the need to get the romantic mood going. What do you do? Do you sit there and watch, or is that the convenient water break and potty time? If that is what you do, then it is obvious you aren't comfortable with sex. But then if you make a comment like

"Ha, that female bear booked it after, she probably wasn't satisfied, typical." then you sound like a jerk who has bad sex. Or just a jerk who judges bears.

Either way, I feel there should be a go to rule for avoiding awkward sex scenes, either animal or human. Perhaps we should make a standard rule that when the time comes, you simply smile and say "Good for them. Now we won't have an issue with bears going extinct. I was very concerned about that and was considering joining PETA blah blah blah." Then you can jump off into a conversation about how PETA is kind of a joke and that you are a person who enjoys eating tasty animals. Either way, I do recommend that, when the narrator says male bears will often eat cubs, you avoid saying

"EW. What if humans did that....."

Because I promise you, even your sister will think you are gross, and your date will probably be booking it to the door. Kind of like the female bears scarring off to find a new baby daddy.

Happy anniversary, to me!

Happy anniversary, to me.

This marks my one year fast from dating, come to an end. Four texts and one forced fifteen minute conversation later, my two year long, puppy giving relationship was ended over my supposed non-deservingness and my lack of ability to be a good girlfriend. Those included, but were not limited to, being stubborn, wanting to go backpacking, being overly confident, and being unappreciative. One night later he had downgraded from a Ferrari to a beat up minivan (metaphor, please note) and I was spending my Fourth of July on the couch, with a plastic cup stolen from work full of mint chip ice cream, sobbing. The next morning I was woken up to my friend crawling in bed with me, letting me cry for about thirty minutes, and then dragging my ass on a five hour hike upon which I cried, bitched and yelled at my mom, sister, and poor Theresa. I spent the next month in a foolish grovel fest worthy of someone attempting to not be slayed by Voldemort (pardon the HP reference, but the new movie is out in two weeks and it's on my mind.) I'm not saying having my heart broken for the first time wasn't worthy of an Avada Kadavra type shock and horror, but I think I let myself play the broken, dumped victim for a tad too long. It might have been my crying meltdown in France in February that made me realize that despite my pact to stay single for a year, I was still depressed about being alone. That might have been the fear that had allowed me to flow flawlessly from one guy to the next starting at age fifteen, leaving no more than a two week period of alone time between. It took planning and skill, and I luckily had an ever still faithful booty call available for my Catholic girl make outs in trucks instead of the full shag, but whatever it may have been, that period of serial monogamy (save for a few flip ups) made my suddenly single life a huge change. After three and a half years of non-stop boys, my whole heart and my whole family was ready for a bit of a break. Granted, I think my father was 100% serious when he attempted to lure me into signing a contract to stay single until I was thirty, but when I stepped back and had multiple nights to myself I had to wonder what I had been doing dragging all these boys to my house to meet my family. Frankly, I hate that. Don't be friends with my parents because then they want to talk to me about you. And furthermore, what the hell do I do with my nights now that you aren't in the picture? Riddle me THAT.

And so I have spent the last year in a variety of states: depressed over a broken heart, bitter about the lies and rumors that followed, furious at the overly delayed apology, homesick from Spain, and then finally in the spring.... free. I am writing this now, on the Fourth of July, and it comes as such a disappointment in me that I let a guy take my freedom. Now I'm not saying that he chained me to a bed and fed me graham crackers and water for two years, but I let him tell me that who I was wasn't correct. Bitch, please. When you want to tell me I shouldn't be so stubborn I will tell you how I talked down a rude bank manager in Spain and forced him to fix my account issues on three occasions.... in Spanish. Or I will tell you that you can suck it and that when I am your boss in five years you can file a complaint with HR. But for now I am just thrilled that on the Fourth I can finally look at myself and smile. I love me. It's just a fact. I am not sorry at all if you take issue with who I am. I take issue with the fact that our fireworks only lasted 10 minutes and were hyped up to be the best in five states, yet I can't change it and tomorrow I won't care. Sleep on it, and if you hate me tomorrow morning dump me over text messages and you know what? It won't faze me. I realized, one (toned down) negative roommate later, that not everyone is going to like me. If I accidentally date a few of those people, so be it. Because guess what: there are people I would enjoy making fall in a large hole and stay there. But seeing as I don't have that ability... I simply live life around them. Not that I don't get severely agitated and have the urge to crutch them or door them as I drove by, but at the end of the day I am busy reading nerdy things like the Economist and if you want to make my day suck a little that's your own prerogative.

And so that brings us full speed to today. I spent my day on the couch watching trash TV, and spent my night cuddling under the fireworks in a nearly gag inducing cute moment. And then instead of crying on the couch with ice cream, I kissed the boy who I used to think was probably the schools number one player (both of girls and of basketball) and secretly laughing inside at how if you had told me senior year as I judged his tall socks that I would end up dating him in a few summers, I would have told you that you needed to lay off the meth or move to Craig. When he left I watched an MTV special on Taylor Swift. She is my girl crush, it's true. I saw her in Madrid, playing her Speak Now tour, the weekend after Saint Pattie's Day. That had not been my finest night ever, and I'll leave out the details but will tell you a Life Lesson: don't drink vodka and then chug Guinness, no matter how many free Leprechaun hats they are offering you. Her music speaks to every event of the last year of my life to near perfection. And her curls are about enough to make me go blonde. But the greatest thing about her is that she truly is fearless. She will call you out in a chart topper and yet I have spent a year scared to get totally real with myself (let alone write about it on a blog.) I got my ass kicked by heart break last summer. And sometimes it still sucks. Even a year later. But then I look at who I grew into, and how much MORE stubborn I am. I refused to be sad and let it keep me down. I was stubborn for myself, for a change. I spent so long being determined that he deserved the chance and that the future was full of hope. You know what? That is total shit. In general I have realized that boys do not want to change. And if you see an area that needs to change in their life... run away. Most likely you will end up enabling them to NOT change. Because until "that" girl comes along, the one that is worth changing for and pulling their head out of their ass for, you are just wasting your time. And you might think you are that girl... you aren't. Just give up now. And if you get dumped right before he goes to freshmen year of college, here's the deal:

Freshmen boys want to have sex. Lots of sex. And they literally believe that they will show up at the dorms and girls will show up in bunny outfits and start raping them pleasurably. Sorry guys, if that seems rude, but let me ask you: if a hot girl showed up at your door freshmen year, would you have said no? I doubt it. Maybe you still wouldn't, and hey, more fun for you. But girls until you realize that you are worth more than a $40 Halloween costume to show off your boobs and legs and you are worth a guy who waits more than five minutes to get you naked: you are going to have horrible relationships. And even if you do wait for a guy who will wait at least ten minutes.... it still will probably suck! My friend Mark refers to it as "adding to the list of people that are NOT the right one, thus narrowing down the numbers of ones who could be."

Frankly, if you don't know you are worth the universe, you are screwed. And if he doesn't know he is worth more than his six pack abs, he is screwed. Because another fun fact is that there are a lot of bad girls out there, just like bad guys. And so we are left with the heavy burden of sifting through the bad ones and then stumbling upon a good one every couple rounds. Not to say that all guys are good, or bad. My ex was great, he really was. We were best friends and I still care about him. But the shit that went down last summer... not great. The last six months of our relationship was basically us being in denial that it obviously wasn't working. Which is what, after lots of thinking and analyzing, I realized was the issue. When you are not looking out for numero uno (yourself.......) and when you don't listen to what your head and heart are saying, then you are not in a healthy relationship. And if you head AND heart are saying get out, and you still ignore it... you have an issue. Like I did. You have lost yourself and your voice. Speak up! You are worth listening to. And in love, you need to be selfish. Because you deserve the best. Not one below the best or even a percentage less. So be stubborn. Be self-promoting. Be cocky. Because when you realize how great you are, when you do things that make you happy, that you enjoy doing, and you live your life the way you want: that is when you find love. You never hear people say "Well I went looking for a husband and found one." I heard a girl say she was 'going to find her husband that semester" and guess what... nope! You hear about your mom looking across a room at a stranger and knowing. Just knowing. At a dinner at her church for a group of skiers from Steamboat. And then after hiking and kayaking and fishing and doing all the things they loved to do individually, they fell in love. And then you came along and ruined all their fun by puking on them and eating all their food and draining all their energy. (Note.. if that sounds like your current significant other... guess what! That is what babies do! Not respectable adults.)

And so, after the best one year long relationship of my life, I am congratulating myself on how great I am. I would write myself a card and go buy flowers, but I am a cripple and can't. Instead I will go to bed tonight thrilled that I don't have a boyfriend (okay, well he hasn't asked yet but we'll see. The one year mark is over so now I can say yes. If I decide to.) and I have gotten even MORE cocky than I was accused of being before! I am great. It's a fun fact and everyone should know it. Probably I will be famous for how hilarious I am. Like the awesome pick up line I invented and will close with....

Are the seat heaters on? because your ass is SO hot! HAHHAHAAH!

All forms of crutching.

In my absence (which you all were noticing and getting depressed over....) I was busy crutching in the follow places/forms:

Starbucks crutching

Naked crutching

Intoxicated on pain killers crutching

Ninja jumping over things crutching

Transformers 3 crutching

Partially clothed crutching

Pissed off about being on crutches crutching

Speed crutching

One crutch one hop crutching

Feed me now Mom or I will hit you with a crutch crutching

Unfortunately, my life has also consisted of watching every single stupid show on TV all day long and killing my attention span and ability to focus. However, on Wednesday I am off crutches and will (theoretically and hopefully) have more adventures to write about. I lied to you a lot already though, promising to write about more interesting and entertaining experiences, and I failed. Shame. On. Me.

In other news....

Happy Fourth of July! Be glad that you weren't born to parents in Afghanistan or Antarctica.

Be my slave.

Isn't that how it works when you have surgery? Crutches really makes it fairly difficult to carry anything, and so I get to spend the next two weeks completely useless. Which is fun, but also means I am going crazy with boredom.

I was hoping that I would say lots of funny things when I was waking up from surgery, but unfortunately all I did was ask the nurse if her job was boring. And all my blog ideas seem to have disappeared with my pain killers. Or maybe they were removed with my ankle bone. That is yet to be determined. So until then, I am sorry for slacking on writing every Tuesday, I promise to find something exciting to write about so you can have something new tomorrow!

Baby snake in backpack.

(Sorry this is a day late...)

In one week, I will be a gimp. In preparation for my two weeks on crutches and then month in a walking cast, I have been hiking like it is my job. Which I wish it really was, but it is more likely that I will end up doing a corporate office job than being paid to wander around having small attacks of emotion and happiness upon seeing.....

dead baby snakes?

It seems to have died from a tail injury. Sadly for snakes, they are not like geckos that just grow a new tail and continue on their scurrying type of life. Instead, they die and are then used as props for people like my mother, who held her red apple, along with the dead baby snake, right next to her face and asked if I was reminded of that certain Bible story. If only all children had such real life experiences to make the Bible "fun AND educational!" then they would have definitely kept up with their faith. Following the quick intermission for a quick skit on Eve and the snake, the snake was then \ put into a backpack, on my t-shirt, so that it wouldn't get crushed. It's afterlife was probably far more interesting than its very short living life; it rode in a backpack, then in a car, then in a hand and onto a desk to wait for its first victim. However, my father was less than terrified by the adorable, three inche long green baby and it was then placed on the kitchen counter and then made it into Emma's hand as she said "Wow, this really looks real... EW IT IS REAL."

And today there was another case of "pelletitis" and another squirrel fatality was counted in the battle between the Lichtenfels/Robins and the Squirrels. It is days like these that remind me why I love being home, and why I love that I am only here temporarily. I have found it very trying for any sort of relationship when I bring someone to meet my family. Because dead baby snakes and dead squirrels and elk antlers and back straps hanging in the garage are just normal occurrences.

The dead baby snake is now in the freezer where Margaret is keeping it for three months until the fall when she can use it as prime brown noser material for the first day of science class. After 27 types of pets, a few too many types of dead animals, and an ongoing war with squirrels, I am bordering on positive that bringing friends/boys to my house before the five year mark in a relationship is just a very negative idea; not only for the relationship sake, but because at the rate things are dying around here, it may be in their greatest life expectancy interest to stay far away.

21 Letters

Timed tests. 60 minutes to regurgitate what you memorized last night at two am. Or 55 minutes if your name is 21 letters long and filling in the scan tron is the most difficult part of the test.

If I become president of the United States, the first thing I will do is require teachers to handout their scan trons five minutes before the test so that those of us cursed with obscenely long names have time to fairly fill in our bubbles without being penalized for our parent's mistakes. Why should we be victims of shorter testing times simply because our forefathers has some unpronounceable name from Europe when they arrived which became a long alphabet soup last name?

Also, I would like to express my irritation that, when picking my middle name as Ann, my parents did not at least go to the extreme and add an "e" to the end. Go big or go home.

Life Lesson: Don't wear shorts to drive.

Leather seats and shaved, lotion legs (sorry boys, I can't relate to your hairy ones) are not a sexy combo. In fact, they are a slimy, sticky and sweaty combo that is anything except attractive. Let it be known that driving in shorts is a poor idea. Unless you have cloth seats.

Also, can I just ask what the deal is with people loving leather seats? Not only does it make you feel about as sweaty as a body builder working out in the Sahara, but it burns the absolute life out of your legs when you sit down on your seat on a sunny day.

I suppose the only benefit to a boiling hot seat is if you were on a date and were able to say.... "Are the seat heaters on, because your ass is so hot."

Which I invented while driving with my mother. It can't come as too much of a surprise that she constantly asks us where she went wrong and how she creates such strange children.

Regardless, I find leather seats to be a very anti-hotness invention in the form of actual heat. How are we supposed to sexy our way out of tickets if we have to wear pants all the time to avoid ass scalding and sweating?

Amen, sister.

http://thesinglewoman.net/article/124

My ego's the size of Alaska.

Yesterday, I had a startling realization that I might be a bit overly confident. That might be due to a few events:

1. Cute boy sitting by me in math class

2. Hot black boy sneakily asking for my number

3. Being told repeatedly by my father that I am a princess/gorgeous/beautiful (which might seem highly ironic if you read my blog post from yesterday.)

Regardless, a certain event yesterday reminded me that not only am I not allowed to yell in a Ron Burgundy fashion: "Hey everybody, come and see how good I look!" but also: my intelligence is most definitely disappearing the more and more math I try to learn.

I was driving to King Soopers and was going to make a right hand turn at a stop light. After pulling up right behind the car sitting in the right hand turning lane, I noticed a guy who was probably about 27 leaning out his window staring at me. Now, because I am obviously so strikingly gorgeous and breathtaking, this was one of those "Oh haha look at you creeper, watch me roll up my window and turn up my music" moments. Even after shooting him a nasty look, he continued full on window leaning staring at me as they pulled away and turned left at the light. It was as everyone else pulled past me that I questioned why the car in front of my wasn't going anywhere. And as the alleged creeper drove off, I realized that it was not my drop dead looks that had him staring, but his utter disbelief that I was sitting in a parking lane, behind an empty Chevy, waiting to turn right. Now, I tried to play it off like "Oh la-di-da I am waiting for my friend who lives here..." and once all witnesses had left I pulled back out, made the right hand turn from the one of two lanes on that road, and left with an ego now about the size of Rhode Island.

"Police were contacted by two people at Yampa and Seventh streets who asked if two margaritas was enough to get them drunk."

-Steamboat Pilot and Today

Fact: Men lack tact.

One absolute fact of life is that men, in general, do not understand the extent to which any comment made about a girl's appearance, personality, or life is usually obsessed over for hours, days and months. Or, in my case, years.

I was probably six years old when it started...

"You have a honking nose... just like me."

"It is going to keep growing and you'll have a huge nose in no time!"

Oh the joys of growing up the daughter of Tom Lichtenfels, who in his deepest of hearts I believe has a nose complex to rival a Greek. Now, he meant all of his teasing in a totally harmless, "I am so hilarious even if I am the only one that thinks so" kind of way. Yet at six years old I was determined that sooner or later my nose would grow larger than my head and I would be forced to live in the woods, in hiding and shame.

And the nose was only the start of it... apparently, and to my poor mother's misfortune, I was also born with a head in the 98th percentile. I didn't really understood what that meant, but was aware that only 2% of the baby population had been born with a head bigger than mine. Add that onto the fact that I weighed seven pounds and 19 inches long...... I was, without question, a giant headed skinny stick baby. And I stayed that way until I went to Spain and finally grew into my huge head and tiny bones. Now I am the proud owner of an ass and no longer get asked if I am 14 and/or going into the eighth grade. However, if I look in the mirror, I don't a slight issue with my body except my obese head and nose.

Okay well that's a lie. I did get over the huge head issue after accepting that I would always have to buy the XXL ski helmets; that issue was easily avoided by refusing to wear one. And as for the huge nose issue, I realized that despite his best efforts to tease me into horror, my nose is actually very normal sized. And anyway, since when do noses get sized up? Unless you have one that is just utterly unavoidable, and in that case I am very sorry for you. But luckily, that is not me.

I think when it comes down to it, the whole tact behind "Honey, of course you don't look fat in that." is the extent of the male population's ability to spoof, bluff or sneak their way through those awkward and sticky conversations. But perhaps it is more that, similarly to my father, they just get immense joy out of giving us women shit without realizing that we will probably literally stare in a mirror for an hour wondering if our chin looks like a baby butt or our left eye brow is a quarter of a centimeter higher than our right one. Perhaps it is time we switched the roles and started informing them that it appeared as if they had gotten a hair cut, or maybe that is just a receding hair line??

Tick Tock Tuesday

Do you ever have those weeks or months where all of a sudden your days seem too short to get even a fraction of the things on your to-do list done? It was 11:30 last night when I realized I had failed, not only at writing a blog, but to even think about something to write about. Normally I have a few good ideas, and I have been thinking about a couple that I should write about but now, when I have fifteen minutes to waste before class, of course I cannot think of a single one. Instead, I have spent five minutes scrolling through pictures of Kim Kardashian and her soon-to-be husband. Doing so reminded me, once again, that you never know where you will hear what your heart needs. I read a book called Captivating, last summer, and it talks about how when there is a really beautiful sunrise, or when something random speaks to you, that is like a love note from God.

Recently, I have been thinking a lot about vulnerability and risk. There is a certain comfort level in being single; I can do what I want, when I want to, and am perfectly happy taking long baths, reading, and drinking Mike's hard on the couch while watching Bones by myself. But in the book, they talk about how true happiness comes from allowing yourself to be vulnerable. Isn't that kind of a strange concept? That risk is what actually brings satisfaction? But if I look at my life, I believe that to be true. My greatest fears, risks and potential failures for the most part resulted in a feeling of living to the fullest. So as I was stalking Kim, I read that her engagement ring has the bible verse John 3:18 which says "Let us not love with words or speech but with actions and in truth."

Of course, in the midst of returning to the States, returning to school, and the start of summer I have been caught up in the whole complexity of growth. I wrote about this before, from Spain, but the ideas of change, vulnerability, risk and growth never seem to be settled. And as I have wasted so much time trying to figure this out, I realized that maybe it is really as simple as just living love through actions. Maybe it is not about what I think about to write each week, or what I say. Because really when it comes down to it, the whole actions speak louder than words phrase is so true. Perhaps they took that snippet of wisdom from the Bible. Regardless, I was reminded that sometimes, even during the most embarrassing of internet stalking, you read what you needed to hear. So for today that is what is on my mind. Emma graduates this weekend, and so until then, when I will undoubtedly post a long and sappy story about how sad I am that we are old, I hope you have a truly beautiful week :) XX

In the bird versus squirrel war...

This is how our morning played out: my dad was in the kitchen loading his plate with eggs on toast with bacon, when all of a sudden he starts going "DEAL WITH IT, NO NO GO OUT THERE AND YELL GO NOW GO GO." as if he was having a sudden conniption over a non-existent football game being played. His outburst was meet with very concerned stares, to which he responded with bolting down to the living room carrying his plate trying to yell more and not spill. After analysis, we realized there was a squirrel literally being attacked by a robin in a tree. Which of course set Roo off in an attack of emotion to rival my father's and they were off. The robins are not down for the count. Not with "pellet-itis" sweeping our yard population of squirrels. Roo has adopted the job of baby robin guard, protecting the nest. I am not sure he knows that is his job, but he is finding it particularly entertaining that the squirrels are mysteriously flocking to that tree and thus he gets to chase them into a new one. It was all downhill (or down to the ground and out of the tree) from there. Roo thought he scared the squirrel to death and was very cocky following the stealth shooting action that occurred on the side of my father. But sadly for him he had to be leashed so he didn't go into a frenzy of pride and eat the squirrel. Roo... not my dad.

Team Squirrel: -1

Team Robin: +4 eggs

And as Tom eloquently put it "In the battle of robins against squirrels, I am on the side of the robins and I will lay down the law."

You tell them Dad, you show those squirrels who runs this yard.

And here is a perfect and hilarious video for you. It would not be surprising if this was me, but sadly it isn't. Instead I was kissing trout and poking their eyes when I was four. Not much has changed.

http://www.keepbusy.net/play.php?id=little-girl-finds-new-friend

I blame Mr. Belz.

It all started in the fifth grade. Mr. Belz had moved from his lazy boy in the library to a rolling chair in a class room, from which he presided over our class with totalitarianism and a snack ban. He and I didn't... click. The main issue was his math skills. Back in the good old days I really loved math. Well, I loved school in general, if you left out the trading lip gloss and failing at teatherball at recess part of it. When Mr. Belz was incapable of completing long division on the board during the math portion of our class, the overly concerned and high maintenance eme decided that the first day of class was a good time to correct him.

Now, they say it is wrong to speak ill of those who have died (he passed away a few years ago which made me feel pretty old) I have to say a few things: Mr. Belz did not want to be a fifth grade teacher, and to my interpretation he didn't like children. At least in the library he could sit in peace knowing there were very few of us who knew where the library was, let alone chose to visit it for more than a pre-class escape from the -20 degree weather. Mr. Belz did not take kindly to my correction, and I spent the better half of my recess time for that year sitting in his room with my head down. Now, if my calc teacher today asked me to do that I would lovingly abide and would enjoy a little cat nap during class. It never works that way though, and at the time missing recess was the end of my world.... how could I get a boyfriend? Would I be replaced at the lunch table if I kept missing lunch? Would Jasmin give her mom's stolen lip stick to someone else? Oh the horror.

I wish I could go back to fifth grade when life was so "complicated and difficult" and my brain worked through math problems like it was easier than breathing. This month, as I suffer through calculus every day with a test each Friday, I am wondering what happened to that portion of my brain and why I can't do math anymore. So I am choosing to forgo my ability to rationally take blame and admit that I have not really studied or applied over 80% of my brain power, and instead I will say the sunlight I was deprived of as a child as punishment for being correct at math has lead me to a psychological inability to process math without fear of retaliation.

However, I did point out to my professor that he forgot to teach us the material for the quiz, and so once again I am reminded that even though I may not be stellar at math, I am still great at calling teachers on their issues. Let's just hope they don't decide to call me out on mine.

I guess we missed the rapture.

We are all screwed. In four months Jesus is going to come machete our faces off.

HA.

HAHAHAHA.

And in December 2012 we are going to die because the Mayans ran out of room on their calendar.

Really now though, any one of us could get hit by a bus tomorrow and be made into a nice asphalt pancake and there is just as much of a chance of that happening as there is of Jesus deciding to pop on down and massacre us. So please, because Jesus died on the cross to save us from sin, don't forget that if He had showed up the other day, He wouldn't have left us all behind like "Oh yo, no biggie but I really just hung on the cross for fun because I was pretty bored one day, so you are all stuck here, sucks for you!" No. No. No.

This past weekend I was busy not being raptured at my friend April's wedding. It was one of those weekends where everything is so perfect and so radiant that you can't help but be so positive that God has a divine plan. Sometimes in the midst of life I forget that all those values I have aimed for, all those times I said no or walked away from a bad relationship, they seem to fall aside like poor decisions. As if settling would have at least mean someone, instead of another night of falling asleep wondering how I ended up being alone. But then there are those days, those rare wonderful days when love can't be denied. Not the kind of love that fades or that isn't worth waiting for. The kind of love that sets your heart on fire and forces you to believe in things you had given up as a little girl. Maybe that love has not arrived yet; for me it certainly has not. That makes it so easy to forget, to think of the alternatives like a hot hook up or a singleness pact for a year. But those days, those are the ones that snap you back. That make you remember that the hurt and the questions and the doubt will someday be thrown aside because you will have found that one great love. Normally this is when I would say something like, at least, that is what I hope. But today I can say that is what I know.

April was one of my closest confidants last year. She is 24 and was (and still is) the closest thing I have to a big sister. On the days when I had no idea what I was doing with my life, she was the one saying God had that under control. Not to mention she has completely lived her faith without boasting, preaching or lecturing. Just true peaceful living. And that is what I want. It was in February that she told me she was talking to a guy named Ryan who lived out West and that her heart was on fire. After two weeks of Skyping, following their mutual friend telling Ryan he needed to talk to her, she knew. Now, in true Marilyn Monroe form we all know "A wise girl kisses but doesn't love, listens but doesn't believe, and leaves before she is left." so there was the certain level of doubt. He flew out over Valentine's weekend, and that was it. Bing Bang Boom that's how weddings are planned. 18 months later we were in Salt Lake City watching them dance and shove cake in eachother's face.

Between cooking dinners, trying not to fail my calculus class, and biking around in the rain it has been so easy to forget about love; I feel like life whirls around me at some ungodly speed and grasping even small moments to live is difficult. Live in the sense of enjoying the people in your life, spending time in the sun, or reading a book. Not the living like we do it, like we are stuck on fast forward and can't take five seconds of our day to say "Hi" to a person on campus or take a chance on love. At the wedding I talked to a woman named Beth who used to run the international side of Proctor and Gamble. Literally like head honcho bust your ball business woman. She was a tad on the boozy side, and was telling me how much her twenty year old son resented her for the fact that she worked so much when he was growing up but now that she is retired she gets to spend time being a stay at home mom for his 11 year old brother. I asked her if she would do it again, and her main advice was that you work at 150% but you realize that at the end of the day, you don't want to go home to your job. So make sure you take time for the people who matter. Be it your husband, boyfriend, girlfriend, fiancée or your family, just make that a priority.

I left the weekend with a huge sense of realignment, as if my brain/heart went to the chiropractor. How sad is it to go through life terrified of love or hurt, and then end up missing out on all the wonderful moments that happen when we stop worrying so much about the next grade we will get or our next paycheck. And on top of that, how dull would life be if we spent all our time worrying and stressing out, as opposed to checking work at the door and letting ourselves just live a little. At the end of the day all we really want is that love that is "the one." Where you don't even know why or how but it happens. And until then I think we need to just fall in love with as many people and things as we can so that each day is absolutely bursting with beauty and life, because if not, what do we have left?

I want it all.

i want it all

i want that big love. i want pictures of us brushing our teeth. i want touching all night, i want watching our favorite show, i want spontaneous late night adventures, i want trips to the museum. i want the best friend love, the everything love. the comfortable love. the loud, unashamed love. the drunk on each other love. i want it all.

i think it’s real this time. i really hope it’s real this time. i always felt that i could turn my feelings off. in dire situations i can numb them so good i even fool myself, but now they’re back and i don’t have a choice. i’m stuck. i hope this pans out well.

--Courtesy of my bestie Megan Berray.

Sometimes there are two yokes in an egg.

Did you know that? I just found out. I learned it this year. I also learned that China violates most basic human rights set up by the UN. And that water in Steamboat is tolerable, but the rest is just gross.

When talking to Lizzy tonight (she's my future roomie, remember that so when I talk about her all the time you aren't like wait who is that) and discussed making lists of what we learned this year and we decided that it is the mature and reflective thing to do. Hopefully my list is compromised of things other than learning how to bake a potato.

After six months in Spain and lots of Skype dates, emails, messages and melt downs, this is what I somehow pieced together and need to not forget:

1. It is a good thing to have standards in life and to stick to them. For example: a car, a job, and a savings account are necessary for boyfriends. And a wage above $8.50 an hour is necessary for a job. And a smile is necessary to getting things done in stressful situations.

2. If you rinse your fingers with cold water immediately after cutting up an onion, they won't smell like onion for ever and ever.

3. In order to bake a potato, you need to stab it with a fork a few times.

4. Needles really don't hurt that bad if you breathe and don't think about somethings strange going in your skin.

5. There are worse things in life than paper cuts, break ups, hangovers, and breaking one nail when all the other ones are perfectly long and great.

6. Rest and regret is a good policy for after a slightly humiliating night. But limit it to one day of resting and regretting, then move on.

7. Never, never, never chug Guinness. No matter how many free leprechaun hats are being offered.

8. Don't say yes to every question you get asked; sometimes you need time to think and say no. Or think and say yes. But thinking is vital.

9. Not all stories need to be told. If you can leave them in the past, sometimes that is where they belong.

10. Standing up for yourself is a good thing. That way crazy girls you are forced to live with don't make you miserably, boys don't treat you like they thought you were a real cool snag at a garage sale but then decided to toss in the dumpster on their way home, and your professors will take a second look at that paper they didn't grade fairly.

11. Always get the shitty stuff done first: like calc. Why did I put it off until now? Really Michelle? Was senior year that much more fun without it? NO.

12. If a pipe is leaking in your brain and lots of green stuff is flowing out of you like Niagara Falls... go to the doctor.

13. If I have to pick between weighing 110 pounds or eating cookies and ice cream... I'll take the ice cream.

14. If I have to pick between going to the gym and going outside, outside is better. God created the world and frankly, if he thought treadmills were a productive way to spend my life, he'd have stuck on in the Garden of Eden. And I haven't heard a thing about Eve running her booty off on a treadmill. So no thank you.

15. Sometimes, people just are not going to like you. And that is okay.

16. And sometimes people are going to make stuff up to cover up their own problems, and that is okay too. Because as long as you know who you are, the rest of those rumors and lies don't really matter at the end of the day.

17. Seeley Booth is the most perfect fictional character ever and if it was possible, I would marry him. That was a big lesson because it bumped Mark Darcy to second place. Ouch, Darcy, did it hurt when you fell?

18. Always drink three glasses of water before bed if drinking has occured.

19. Do one thing a day that makes you truly happy. Taking care of yourself and your heart is vital if you plan on taking care of anyone else.

20. Proof read everything.

21. Think before you write. And sometimes, just don't write at all. Or talk for that matter.

22. Always put your dishes in the dish washer.

23. Laundry is stupid. It was 10 years ago, it is now, and it will always be. But it is also kind of therapeutic and so do it and don't wait till you only have one pair of undies left. EW.

24. Keep in touch with old friends.

25. Be alone. It is good for the heart and good for growth. But at the same time, don't force it. Leaning on friends is a good thing, which I learned this year.

26. Okay so this one I learned recently and haven't implimented: but set goal. Stop being a baby about it and decide what needs to happen.

27. Always say sorry first.

28. Even if you want to junk punch someone and tell them where they can put it: be graceful. Nobody really likes someone who goes around smashing egos openly. If you have to do so, try and be kind about it.

29. STOP DRINKING STARBUCKS EVERY SINGLE DAY.

30. Budget, budget, budget.

31. But don't miss things that are awesome cause you are on a budget. Sometimes you have to go to France.

32. If you have to wake up really early, trust your alarm. So that you don't spend all night waking up repeatedly to check the time.

33. Wait for someone who knows you. Really knows you. And take things slow. And don't be closed off to love. But most importantly: be with someone who makes you laugh. That is the key.

34. Laugh at yourself daily.

35. Drink water. Even though it tastes horrible and boring.

36. Mom is always right. Doesn't that just suck?

37. If Dad says no to a guy, listen. Otherwise you'll hear about it for EVER when it falls apart.

38. Put your name in all your books. But always share them.

39. Stop reading the same books over and over.

40. Try new things. Like bananas. Or basketball.

41. Always hold babies when you get the chance or babysit, that way you won't want to have one of your own.

42. It's okay sometimes to just let people be nice to you for no reason without feeling bad.

43. Tony on Ab Ripper would be ashamed of me, but on the weeks I get motivated, he is a god. So this year I learned that on fat days... ab ripper is a bff. So is spandex under your jeans. I think spandex counts as a workout plan.

44. It's okay to secretly be furious when your friend buys the sweater you wanted, when your sister gets better grades than you, or your ex isn't miserable without you. As a girl, it is kind of given that you are allowed to be secretly furious about these things. As long as you keep it relatively secret.

45. When drunk, it is not a good idea to be let near Facebook, Skype, or a phone. Or black football players.

46. Watching shows that stress you out or make you feel like you are going to get stabbed are not healthy.

47. Cooking is a fun. Baking is not.

48. Quotable cards are great if you need a status that nobody has used yet.

49. Traveling is the best way to learn.

50. Never wear heels unless the night requires no more walking than from a car to a chair.

Birth Defect.

Blame it on the parents. That is my new life solution for all my problems. For example: my heel bone is freak of nature connected to my ankle bone so this thingy called a sub-taylor joint is basically non-existent in my foot. Which means that the cartilage has been slowly deteriorating and probably by 40 I will lose all side to side motion and possibly up and down, leaving me with a club foot which I will use to scoot things around on the floor, as practiced after a few drinks on Friday.

Perhaps I will post you a video of my possible future birth defect. For now though, I just get to have a nice lovely surgery and some "very difficult and uncomfortable" rehab. What does that mean... they will circle all the fat parts of my body? That would be uncomfortable. We are talking making a joint move that never has in my life, which sounds more to me like torture. Really I would appreciate if one of you would start researching how to replace cartilage so I don't have a club foot and look like a fool. I really enjoy heels and cowgirl boots, so the whole "no solution" answer really isn't going to cut it for me.

Tonight we watched No Strings Attached, which I realized is kind of my life story minus all the sex. Which is good if you are God and you are observing my life. Which You better be cause I am trying awfully hard to be good, I even gave the Kiwanis Club people four dollars. So pay attention, You Up There.

Tomorrow I start calculus, and as nerdy and horrible as this is: I can't wait. I feel like my brain has been running at 40% and that is just not okay. The fact that watching Khloe and Lamar provides me great and vast happiness is a clear symptom of lack of brain usage.

Friday night (we are really jumping around right now, I am sorry) I threw my first bachelorette party. Which means I had to go to a sex shop to get a sash and crown and contemplated getting a two foot blow up penis, but our waiter ended up hating us so asking for an extra chair for our friend would have been even worse. Basically it was just probably a tad inappropriate. I also didn't order a male stripper, although I was told that at my party, they are going to call ten. So if you get invited, in ten years from now, be warned that I was once threatened with ten strippers and that may happen because that is my life. The party overall was a success I think, although I thought in true Hangover form that I lost Natalie. I woke up (butt naked for some reason I am yet to discover) and couldn't find her anywhere. And all I could think about was Alan without pants. On the bright side, there was no tiger, chicken or baby in our apartment. I found Natalie downstairs on the couch, and apparently she woke up naked as well and took a shower and shaved her legs because Natalie is a motivated drunk. She knows this because she went to bed with perfectly curled hair and woke up with shower hair and shaved legs.

Ten strippers threatened, and birth defect later, I am now going to bed so that I can go function at calc tomorrow. I hope your weekend was as eventful as mine, I would love to hear all about it if you feel like sharing.

Get out your binoculars, there's a new dealer in the Hood

I really wish that I could have told the little boys I babysit that the binoculars in the back of my car were for spotting deer. More likely, they were left there after a stake out, done by my parents, attempting to figure out what illegal substance was being sold by the new kids in the house across the street.

I can see it quite clearly, not because the exact situation just happened only from our dining room and during which my mother turned out all the lights to make sure he "couldn't see us watching him" in a real stalker type fashion, but because this is regular. Well, regular when you live somewhere that the most exciting news of the week is that a Steamboat dentist is on the new season of the Bachelorette, or that your neighbors are possibly drug dealers.

Across the street, a kid who is probably about 22 has moved in. He has that type of hair that looks like it is potentially ginger, and sticks out like he stuck his tongue in an electrical socket while enjoying a nice bubble bath and blow drying his hair. It is likely that he was hammering a stake into the ground, in the pouring rain, and then using it to rest his own pair of binoculars on it as a... school project? We didn't quite figure that part out, in our window creeping. However, something at the other end of the street seemed interesting to him. He also seemed to be using an App on his phone to make sure the stake was in at a 90 degree angle. Gotta make sure you don't mess that part up, when you are scoping out the people down the street... we certainly make sure we have nice resting posts for our binocs.

Perhaps he is actually doing his own investigation of the other possible drug house... I would guesstimate that from his perch he could see into their yard. My dad would thus jump to the conclusion that he is checking out his local competition. Wouldn't you be worried about who you were selling against, if you were cooking meth on Spruce Street?

Regardless of what he was doing, the possible physics project or landscaping issue he was having was the most exciting thing to occur in my mother's day today. Aside from my hourly phone calls about all the ridiculous things in my life, like a weirdo asking to take my picture with him or the doctor thinking that because I was in college I would now be "more familiar and comfortable with needles." Because... what... I went to college, developed a drug addiction, shoot up all the time and now have no fear of getting blood drawn? I don't know what she thinks I do at college, but I wasn't aware that becoming "comfortable" with needles was on the curriculum for normal students. Then again, look where I come from: a neighborhood that sneakily watches each other wondering if we can call the police yet. With all the drug dealers living around me, surely after another summer here getting my blood drawn will be just another afternoon needle stick.

When it's too muddy to hike...

It is 73 degrees and gorgeous out. Do you have the same problem I have, where it is SUCH a beautiful day but you can't figure out how to spend it? And then spend too much time inside stressing out about what you aren't doing, instead of just going and doing it? That's my current issue. The mud is preventing hiking, my lungs and this rockstar cough I picked up mean I can't go swim, and Roo means that the second I try to sit down and read he will assault me with a tennis ball and slobber. Rough life, huh?

Sometimes I get so stressed out about things like: what am I supposed to do with my life, why do all my tank tops make me feel like a six year old boy with a liking for pie, how am I supposed to remember where my keys are, why are people so absolutely challenged at driving and for the love of everything on Earth: why does Grey's Anatomy keep letting me down? And let's not even get started on things that actually matter like love or calling people back right away or adding another major or not freaking out about the past/present/future.

These are the normal things I worry about. Which could be a good thing... at least I'm not dying of cancer or a bear didn't decide I was a nice snack due to the lack of berries and yummy springy meals available due to the snow. Then again it kind of makes me feel like perhaps I should be deeper and worry about things like finding a cure for cancer or providing food for the poor bears. Really though, I am very stressed about things like tank tops and cough medicine and if I should get up an extra ten minutes early to make something other than, well, nothing... for breakfast.

That's what I have been thinking about today, between re-dipping chocolate covered strawberries just for the sake of having something to do at work, and going through all my country music about wasting days so I stop feeling like an utterly useless human being. So for now, I am resigning myself to listening to music and smelling this delicious candle and listening to my family get way too excited about the Kentucky Derby.

The grass is greener if you work your ass off mowing it and lose 10 pounds.

One issue I have with writing a blog is the whole possibility that I write things because I think they matter and really... they don't. Some things are needed because they provide comic relief. But I am actually planning on using this for SOMETHING. I just don't know what. I love the Single Woman on Twitter because I can count on multiple daily tidbits of happiness reminding me that despite the world's beliefs, I am not failing at life simply because I am not looking for a relationship. I love being single. That's just a fact. So that motivational goodoo bull shit is actually pretty stellar.

Then we have Jenna on Youtube, who I adore because if I cranked up my cussing 10 degrees and developed a Jersey accent as well as bleached the absolute shit out of my hair as she suggests, I feel like I could be her. Maybe not as funny, but as rude. Is that a bad thing? Probably.

Anyway, for now I am just going to keep telling you things like how I got asked if I was a high schooler when in Starbucks, but then an hour later got asked if I was 21 and could go out by a total cutie at work, so chances are I no longer look 14. Sorry, all you pervy peds out there searching for a fiesty little girl to creep on. Keep looking, cause I'm not your girl.

Which has actually come with a good side (not being asked if I am going into 9th grade with all those little prostitots) and a bad side (metabolism is no longer that of a 10 year old, thus drinking and excessive cheese eating mean my dresses no longer like to zip) and I am having a bi-polar relationship with my thighs. This is all important to your life because.... well frankly it isn't. But the good news is:we are both bored and I may be entertaining someone other than myself.

Knocked up or not?

So for all you fellow Harry Potter readers or watchers, I am throwing this out there:

If you had sex when you had taken polyjuice potion, could you get knocked up? Like, could Harry get knocked up if he took it and turned into Hermione? Also, if you were Hermione and turned into Harry (or Fleur, but we all know that she felt iiiideous as Harry) wouldn't you be entirely freaked out by having an extra appendage down there? There is nothing I would like less than that, aside from having a beard. Each would be awful. So ponder that and let me know. Because I doubt JK is going to email me back... I think she needs to write me a personal letter answering all my questions.

But I think God should do that too, and I've spent too many birthday wishes asking for answers. So I will settle for mind boggled-ness. For now.

They will write a country song about this week.

Okay on the history front, I am having a bit of an overload happiness crisis:

A royal wedding AND Osama dead, all in one week?????? This must be the work of the beatification of Pope John Paul II.

It is very likely that I'm about to have a spaz attack break down. Although to be honest, while it was precious that William and Kate kissed twice, where was that famous English snog? If I was Kate, I'd have laid a good one on him regardless of the Queen's disapproval. Perhaps, despite his gingerness, I shall go attempt to seduce Harry. Who, by the way, appeared to have rolled right out of bed with his on and off again girlfriend and right down the aisle with his brother. Unfortunately he didn't roll right out of my bed. Not to mention that Osama being dead will possibly spur lots of retaliation, similar to insulting Justin Beiber in a crowd of 13 year old girls, or telling Ben Landusky that the Greenbay Packers blow or depriving meatheads in the gym from their number one drink muscle milk.

At the moment I am watching some footage of Osama in a terrorist cell talking and doing some turban tying... frankly, being a terrorist looks: dirty, beardy, and boring. Why on earth would you pick that as your profession? Aside, you know, from the mental instability, insanity, desire to kill people, and overall lack of moral reasoning. For the entire TV clip, all they do is sit around kissing each other on the head in a windowless room, sitting on the floor on dirty pillows, in a manner similar to that of homeless men who lucked out on having a room to hide in. There are many things in life that I would rather do, like brush Roo's teeth with my tooth brush. Although in reality the number of dog kisses to my mouth that have occurred make that a pretty invalid statement. So let's rephrase: I would rather never see a baby cow again, or be forced to give up cheese for my entire life, or be forced to kiss Britney Spears than hang out with those men for a day. Let alone kiss their bald heads. I wonder if they consider making wigs from their beards, or just wrapping their beards all around their head to make up for their baldness. Perhaps my dad should take pointers from them.

The riveting moment of the video clip was when the turban of one of them men came unraveled. WOAH HOLD THE PHONE he has to re-wrap it. But first kisses a few men. Of course. Now I don't want to send people up in arms over my distaste for turbans, but it appeared to look quite like a roll of toilet paper when unraveled.

Let's jump back to the Royal Wedding. I am not sure if you were all as excited as I was (which was not, actually, enough to stay up till 3am to watch it live...) but perhaps it is my love for all things British: Pride and Prejudice, English bulldogs, biscuts, Bridget Jones, the word "shag", the phrase "the Queen's knickers", and boys with British accents who happen to also have nice teeth and a tan (does that even exist??), but I was very excited for the wedding. I am curious as to what on God's green Earth was going through Kate's head... "Oh la di da a normal day for me, marrying a real life prince and not getting snogged properly, oh why yes thank you I'll have a crumpet and some tea, let's go now my royal carriage is here, cheerio!" I would have been on a different level of nervous breakdown, that's for sure. Then again, as they call her "Waity Katie" perhaps she has already fantasized the life out of her wedding day. Adjusting to the idea that Prince William was going to be my husband and my entire life was going to be televised may be a bit too much to handle; look what it did to LC and Kristen on the OC. Perhaps though, Kate and William will be as addictive as Khloe and Lamar, which I secretly watch every weekend.

And so we finish this week, and have lived to witness what may be one of the most important weeks in history: the wedding, the beatification of JPII who I wish was my grandpa, and the sending of Osama Bin Laden to the firey place fondly known as hell, where he can spend the rest of eternity pondering what a total douchebag he was in the company of his fellow arseholes (thank you Britain) Hitler, Stalin, and the people who chew with their mouthes open in public.

The great U. S. of A.

Okay so Margaret was working on a writing prompt for a contest: what does it mean to be an American. While she was able to say lots of things like "Being American means everyone has equal rights and we are all part of a community." And all I could think was.....

1. It means that when you land in America you can be sure to see a Starbucks.
2. It means that when you go to the gym, you'll feel like an underachiever even though you are there trying.
3. It means that you won't get the financial aid you need for school and you'll probably be broke and eating Ramen for a few too many years.
4. It means that you get to have neighborhood BBQs and shoot fireworks at powerlines to see what will happen on the Forth of July.
5. It means that around Christmas time, everyone is a little nicer and all the old men with white beards better play out a Santa act.
6. It means that wearing camo year round is an acceptable fashion statement.
7. It means that if you go on private land, you might get shot.
8. It means that you can sue McDonalds if you are stupid and spill hot coffee on yourself.
9. It means that if you hate your husband, putting his finger in Wendy's chili is a good idea.
10. It means that when there is no football on Sunday afternoons, you are stuck watching Desperate Housewives and thanking God your life isn't that twisted.
11. It means that TV shows about pregnant teenagers are cool and probably you should join a pregnancy pact with 14 of your 14 year old friends.
12. It means that you can go into any branch of your bank, in any city, and cancel your account.
13. It means that when you see a man so wide that he has to walk down a Costco aisle sideways, you just smile and act like that's normal.
14. It means that when you go back to your elementary school to see your favorite teacher you have to check in at the office in case you are some pedophile creepo.
15. It means that you can carry a gun around in your bag in case someone tries to grope you, rob you, shoot you, insult you, etc.
16. It means you have to select English when calling an 800 number.
17. It means you still might not be able to communicate with the person on the line cause Dell employees are all from India or Mexico (or Louisiana) and you can't understand a word they say.
18. It means you can get whatever you want fried, smothered, or dipped in chocolate.
19. It means that you are obliged to like country music or pretend like you do so that you are patriotic. Or you have to be liberal and like weed. One of those prolly.
20. It means you can be obsessed with being from Ireland when in reality, only your grandparents were truly Irish and probably 75% of Americans are Irish so who really cares.
21. It means that the other 25% are secretly judged. Although I don't think police seek them out since in my experience police seem to flag gingers more harshly.
22. It means if you have red hair, you are ginger.
23. It means if you are blonde, you are probably going to hear a ton of stupid jokes and be hit on a lot.
24. It means that if you are balding, there are excessive numbers of products such as Rogain on TV to help you. Then your kids can ride around on your shoulders and use your hair to hold on. Since you still have it.
25. It means that you must care about Brad, Angelina, Obama, Britney, Lindsey, etc.
26. It means that you can have an opinion, and aside from the people around you who get offended, nobody will tell you that you are not allowed to talk. And if they do tell you that, then maybe you need new friends with more similar opinions. For example, I certainly wouldn't tell a group of obese people that I think they shouldn't buy $68 dollars of chocolate but should invest in a gym membership and some lettuce.
27. It means that when you are 16 you'll probably get a car, which you'll probably crash and your parents will probably get you a new one.
28. It means your mom probably has Botox.
29. It means that if you are a guy you are worried you don't weigh enough, and if you are a girl you are worried you weigh too much.
30. It means that you can either cheat, lie or steal your way through your education, job, relationships. Not to say that is a good thing, but it seems effective based off who ends up being CEOs and such.
31. It means that Stephanie Mayer is our one super famous author (at the moment, sorry John Steinbeck, despite the totally GRIPPING Grapes of Wrath, your reign is done.) which is also fairly sad because her literary abilities blow. So therefore it means we should now count JK Rowling as an honorary American.
32. It means you can now brag about David Beckham being ours. Yummo.
33. It means Posh Spice will never stop being a legend, even to those of us who weren't allowed to listen to her in case she would corrupt us. But if that is how you get landed with Beck, I should take lessons from her.
34. It means that french fries are your favorite food. Don't lie.
35. 
    

Saint Anthony, Saint Anthony

When I was little I used to lose things. A lot. Not much has really changed, but I have come to utilize a particular finder of lost things: Saint Anthony. Well, Saint Anthony and my mom. They are virtually one and the same. But I'll split them up for your sake, since chances are you can't utilize my mother for finding your lost things.

Saint Anthony, Saint Anthony, please come around, for something has been lost and cannot be found. That is what you chant as you are searching for your lost item. It becomes irritating about three rounds in, and when your little sister insists on doing it before school while you sleep off cough medicine with codeine can induce extreme thoughts of pillow smothering. My host mom (Tete, for those of you who don't know) said that you have to offer Saint Anthony a bit of a bribe... she goes with five euro to his offering box in a cathedral. Mayte, the assistant director in my study abroad program, suggested giving two euro to the next homeless person you see. Since Steamboat lacks both a cathedral and our only homeless person committed suicide by jumping in front of two high school girls in a car, I will have to come up with a new way to bribe him. Perhaps I could give five bucks to an emo kid in need of a milkshake. Or I would feed a car meter if we had those. Perhaps I will pay off my library fines or stop stealing the books.

If Saint Anthony fails to come through for you, here is the best advice in the book, straight from the mother's mouth:

It's under your bed. Simple as that. I promise that no matter how frustrating that is after you have sifted through sock drawers, backpacks, makeup bags, or cheerio boxes, whatever you are looking for is under your bed.

And here is the worst piece of searching advice I have been given: Where did you last have it? Uhm. If I know that, would I be SEARCHING FOR IT FRANTICALLY RIGHT NOW? NO.

Oh wait, another prime piece of advice: It will be in the last place you look.

If you are intentionally being annoying (or are my mother) try using that one on me and see how you feel after I verbally assault you in Spanish.

Just look under your bed. And if it isn't there, give up. Finding it will be like trying to convince Lindsey Lohan to stop running her live down the drain while speeding up the process by stealing necklaces she can afford to just buy.

When you leave the Lichtenfels girls alone for too long.

To start us off

When I was nine I started swim team. Back in the "olden days" of my swimmer years, practice started at 6:30 in the morning, and we rode our bikes to practice, up hill both ways (okay well down hill on the way there, but what sense did that make when I was biking uphill to go home after three hours of Finish spoken torture done by my coach Essi.)

Each morning, we were asked a few vital questions:

1. Did you take your Juice Plus?

2. Did you eat breakfast?

3. Where is your water bottle?

and most importantly

4. Why is your chest bare?

Now don't take that the wrong way, it wasn't that she was worried about our modesty. We were swimmers, after all, and I blame that for what my mother calls immodest behavior involving me walking around in undies regularly. Luckily I learned that my future roommate for the coming fall also enjoys a lack of clothing, so perhaps if the economy stays like this we shall join a nudist colony following college. Although I have thought of that and decided the only nudist colony I'd want to join would be one exclusively involving celebrities and models, with the exception of myself obviously.

The first three questions are pretty standard: take your vitamins, drink water, eat breakfast, yeah yeah yeah. But the fourth one I found to be pretty pointless. According to Essi, the second your chest is bare in cold weather, you will get sick. Upon arriving to Spain I was subject to the same tirade of questions from my host mom. It turns out that the theory is not simply embedded into the Finish mind of Essi, but into Europeans in general. Luckily for them, scarves are a must have fashion staple. And luckily for me I am prone to addiction and following fashion trends set forth by people with a better fashion taste than my own, which involves lots of fleece and jeans and tank tops. I left for Spain with four scarves and returned with 14.

You know those dreams you have where you forget to put on your pants and show up at school? I have those a lot. Normally I am about six years old, show up at Soda Creek Elementary and realize that I not only forgot my pants but also my undies. The dream-me progresses to hide under the playground structure all day while it rains. My return to America has been very much like that dream, but in reverse. I see people without scarves and immediately feel the urge to scream at them: YOU WILL GET A COLD AND DIE, PIENSA IDIOTA, QUE HACES???? What are you thinking?! Go home and get your scarf right this second.

You are naked without a scarf. So go invest in a few, because within three weeks of being home I am on an antibiotic for a cough I can't kick and each night I hear Tete yelling at me "NO HAS LLEVADO UN FULAR." You have not worn your scarf! Shame. On. You.