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.