Faith Restored, Path Plowed

I just want to send out an enormous THANK YOU to Kelly, the man who lives across the street from me for his help this morning.

Let me set the scene for you: we received at least six inches (I say more like 10, but I've never been good at guesstimation) of snow in the last couple days. I parked my car on the street (because our apartment's lot is always a horrible, un-scooped mess), thinking it would be easier to dig myself out from there. When the city cleared the streets, however, they barricaded my car with drifts reaching high enough that I was unable to open my car door. I knew this was going to happen, so this morning I bundled up, grabbed my scoop shovel, and was fully prepared to spend at least 20 minutes digging out my car. After 10 minutes of scooping (and not making as much progress as I had hoped for), I called into work, warning them I would be late, and dutifully returned to my shoveling.

As I was toiling away with my over-sized plastic snow shovel, I noticed the garage door on the house across from me raise. I expected to see a clean car come rolling into my peripheral vision shortly thereafter, but instead, a man appeared with a metal shovel & offered to help me in my efforts. I adamantly accepted, thanked him, we exchanged introductions (Kelly & Shelly, always a good sign! haha :)), and started shoveling. After a moment of surveying the light and fluffy snow, Kelly decided to fetch his snow-blower. In no time at all, he cleared a perfect path for my car to glide onto the street (after a little pushing, also done out of the goodness of his heart!).

Seriously, this guy was the definition of a Good Samaritan! He could have walked away at any moment, said he was sorry but he was going to be late for work, or done a little scooping & wished me good luck, but instead he stood by, shoveled, used up the last bit of gas in his snow blower, pushed my car out, and refused to accept any kind of payment! I thanked him over and over and over again, and I still wish I could have done more (at least paid him to refill the gas tank on his snow blower!). If I were having any doubts about the neighborliness of people these days, this one act aptly put an end to it. It is very refreshing to know that there are still people out there who will take time out of their own schedule to help a stranger.

So, once again, thank you, Kelly-from-across-the-street! I hope I can return the favor someday :)

You be the anchor that keeps my feet on the ground, I'll be the wings that keep your heart in the clouds

I wish I could take credit for that title, but it's actually the title of a song by one of my favorite bands: Mayday Parade.

There have been times--especially in the last couple of weeks--where I feel like I'm...bottoming out. All I want to do is sleep; the thought of going anywhere or doing anything is almost too much; I'll break down and cry for no reason other than, at that moment, I feel lost & hopeless. But, no matter how low I seem to get, there is always something that evens me out: Greg. He is the only thing/person who can instantly cheer me up. Being around him, being close to him, especially being outside with him (in this beautiful weather we've been having!) is the best cure I've found to a down-and-out mood.

And for some reason, he stays tried & true throughout all of these moods I cycle through. We've been together for over two years, and I still smile when I think about him. I still get butterflies when he shows up unexpectedly. I still catch myself staring at him from time to time. And when he smiles that huge smile he only gets when something catches him off-guard, or when he's so happy he can't hide it...-sigh-

"Let me think of how to word it...is it too soon to say 'perfect'?" (courtesy of the same song by Mayday Parade, by the way)

So, basically what I'm saying is: if you'll be the anchor that keeps my feet on the ground, I'll be the wings that keep your heart in the clouds.

Evan Eldon Fox

On October 16, 1989, my little brother came into the world. I wasn't quite three yet, so I really don't remember much of our first couple years together (I think I might have a brief memory of my mom with an enormously pregnant belly, and of course vivid memories of when Evan I shared the chickenpox before he was even out of diapers). But, in the years that followed, he became my favorite and most dependable playmate, my buddy, my partner in crime.

We played Cowboys and Indians with his plastic six-shooters, we spun each other mercilessly on the tire swing, we were "stranded" in the wilderness of our barnyard with only our dog and swords made of sticks (with which we would of course duel each other once in a while) for protection, we sprayed each other with Super-Soakers and the garden hose, we broke imaginary horses in our old corrals and rode them across the country on wild and daring adventures, we played restaurant with bark and mud pies and salads made out of grass, we spent our winters sledding down the steepest hills and taking shelter from the wind in the barn, we played safari with our plastic animals in the tall grass & weeds outside the yard, we even threw rocks at each other and tried to choke each other out of consciousness, as all loving siblings do (Evan will claim I did most of the choking, but he did most of the throwing!).

He was always the one person I could count on to be there whether I needed a guy's opinion on something, was having a bad day, or just wanted someone to watch a movie with. I don't really remember being embarrassed to have my little brother tagging along (actually, I think he was more embarrassed to have his big sister always butting into his business). I think I was even a little overprotective sometimes, wanting to protect my little brother, no matter how emasculating that may have been.

Then I remember coming home from college and my little brother had, in just over a year, grown to 6'3" and became the desire of nearly every girl in high school within a 60 mile radius. The same kid who used to come up to my ear now towered over me & was the most popular guy in school! I often joke that if he didn't look so much like our dad, I might be asking questions (haha, just kidding Mom & Dad!). He was the first to actually be the "protective one" for me when it came to boyfriends (which, to a girl who always kind of felt like the ugly duckling in comparison to her big sister, was a pretty great feeling).

One night, I ignored a call from a strange number in the wee morning hours. The next morning our sister called to ask what happened to Evan and was he ok? It turned out he had been calling all of us and no one had answered all night. He was trying to reach me after wrapping his car around a pole and breaking his collarbone, and I had just hit "ignore" and gone back to sleep. I have never felt worse in my life, and I'm not sure I've ever really forgiven myself for not answering that call and being there for my brother.

Granted, we have kind of grown apart over the years, but I still know that, no matter what, I could call him right now, and he would be there for me. If I ever needed a place to go or help with ANYTHING, he would be there. Because that's what brothers do. I just hope he knows that that's what sisters do as well :)

So, in short, my little brother turned 23 today. And I just wanted to let him know that the last 23 years have been wonderful, largely in part because I had such a great companion to grow up with. Here's to the next 23, little brother, and I don't care how tall you get, you will ALWAYS be my little brother :)

Happy Birthday, Evan!

Old Wounds

It's been nearly two years since this happened, and I would be lying if I said it didn't still send an aching pain through my gut to think about it and how everything went down. But, I never really told my side of the story. So I think it's time to finally rip off the bandage and expose this particular hurt to the world.

My senior year of college, fall 2008 - spring 2009, I became fast friends with a girl I met through our mutual classes and work study position in the PE Department. Since she was "kind" enough to avoid using my name, I will at least grant her the same minor courtesy. Though I assure you, the facts I type will indeed be just that; facts. One of us should be able to say that (by the way, there is absolutely NO bitterness in this blog post, none whatsoever! Or sarcasm. None of that either :P).

Anyway, as I was saying, this girl and I bonded quickly over many things, not the least of which was our strong pro opinion toward gay rights, shared love for writing, and disdain for online classes. That March, we planned a Spring Break trip to Chicago together, and remained close friends even after several "rough spots" along the way. She introduced me to my favorite show, True Blood; the bands +44 and Angels & Airwaves, as well as the wonders of tarot readings and Jimmy John's sandwiches. She was a large contributor to and often the subject of many of my blogs for class projects. We co-hosted a radio show together on the campus radio station. She was, quite frankly, one of my best friends.

In Dec. '09, I signed a lease and moved in with her, her fiancee, and their dog and cat. But things quickly got...awkward. Neither of them got along with or cared for my boyfriend at the time (which ultimately didn't matter, since we broke up shortly there after), and when I got laid-off from my job in January, it seemed as though I was expected to take on more of the household chores than I felt was necessary. Since I was home all day, every day and they both worked full-time, why couldn't I do all the dishes (even theirs)? Why couldn't I clean the apartment? Why couldn't I walk their dog? I still paid all my share of the bills, and paid one-third of the grocery bill, even though I did not get to eat one-third of the food. Rather than make waves, however, I stuck to loading and unloading my share of the dishes from the dishwasher, made my own supper, even went out and started buying my own food to avoid unnecessary confrontation.

I will admit, I got a new boyfriend (who did spend the night once or twice, bringing the total men in that apt to two) shortly after my break-up, and between our break-up in April & my exit in July, there were three other guys who slept over a couple times (in case you're keeping track--which I was--that brings it to five men who ever stayed in that apartment over a seven-month period. Keep that in mind).

By May, I knew I wanted to get my own place. Things were only getting more tense and uncomfortable. I had to let them know when I would be home and knock before entering my own home because there was always a chance I would walk in on them naked on the floor. I would drive around by myself for hours because I didn't want to go home. I didn't feel like there was anywhere I belonged.

By June, I told them I wanted to move out and was actively looking for an apartment. That month, while they were both out of town, I locked my keys in my car across town and had no way of getting into the apartment. The guy with me proceeded to kick the front door down, with my permission (we were both drinking, and no, I am not proud of this). The next morning, I texted them and informed them what happened, saying I was the one who broke down the door (I didn't want them going after my "friend" for money to fix the door; they were self-proclaimed man-haters--their words, by the way, not mine).

I assured them I would fix the door out of my own pocket, and that I would tell the landlady AFTER I had gotten it fixed, that way none of it would come back on them, and she wouldn't pull money out of their share of the security deposit to fix it. It was my mistake, I was going to fix it. And I did. Well...my dad did.

By July, I found a place and began moving my things out. My parents drove down to help me and my dad fixed the frame of the door (afterward, as promised, I told the landlady what had happened, and had her inspect the repair job to see if further compensation was needed, which there was not). During this process, their cat wandered out into the hallway at some point (I thought she was hiding in their room like usual). When I realized she was gone, I frantically searched the building and found her in the second-story hallway. She was safely returned and never even left the building, so I didn't bother them with it. In retrospect, I probably should have told them right away, but I honestly didn't think it was even worth mentioning.

I wanted to remain friends with them after I left, and I knew I was putting us all in an awkward position; my name was still on the lease, so technically, I was still responsible for one-third of the rent until December. By this point, though, I'm pretty sure we were all ready for me to leave. Back in the spring when I first told them of my plans to move out, I told them I would pay rent through August, no matter what. Then, if it got the point where they couldn't afford it anymore and were about to be turned out on the street, I would give them SOME money for September. I never once agreed to pay another full month. By the end of July, everything of mine had been vacated from that apartment and all the bills that had been in my name had been switched to my new address. But, as I promised, I dropped off a check for my share of August rent.

Early that month, they asked me when they could expect September's rent check. This is where things started to get very ugly. They claimed they didn't have the money to pay rent there, just the two of them, and that I was "screwing them over" by not paying when I said I would. But, miraculously, they scrounged up enough money to buy a brand new bedroom set (bed, dresser, night stand, the works) and a brand new living room set (couch, chair, table).

When I told them I didn't have the money to pay for two apartments when I hadn't been living there for over a month, my "friend" posted a very mean and hateful blog about me. I tried to take the higher road, sending them a message stating that I had paid their share of our final electricity and cable bills (which had been sent to my new address) and that they should consider that my "September contribution" because, quite frankly, that was all I had to offer. I also said, since I wasn't living there and had turned in my keys, I wanted to arrange a meeting with the landlady to have my name removed the lease, and that I was willing to forfeit my share of the security deposit to them.

In a last-ditch attempt to salvage the friendship, I showed up unannounced at their apartment to try and talk things out. I was still incredibly hurt by the spiteful and untrue things she had posted online about me, and I wanted to know if we could work through it. Neither of them were happy to see me (can't really say I blamed them), and the conversation was pretty short. She owned up to the blog, saying she was "pretty angry" when she wrote it, to which I replied that I was "pretty angry" when I read it (she never did apologize for it, however). She said she considered me part of her family and wanted to stay friends, which I agreed with. Her fiancee, however, had a different opinion altogether.

When she finally spoke, her fiancee insulted me for buying a loveseat for my new apartment (which I had been saving specifically for) and buying $20 worth of decorations for my new place when I said I had "no money" for them. She then said she didn't need me to pay her ****ing bills for her (I don't really like dropping F-bombs on public forums, so I'm just going to use asterisks instead), that she didn't give a **** about me, she was ****ing done with me and my ****ing family and as far as she was concerned, I could get the **** out of their lives forever.

Ok, you DO NOT insult my family. Especially when they bent over backwards to help you out and were always warm and welcoming towards you. That was the end of everything. Things were no longer salvageable at that point. I deleted and blocked both of them from every forum imaginable, and now if/when we see each other in public, we avert our eyes and turn up our noses.

Reading back through all my old blog posts, I remember how much fun we had together, how close we once were, and it hurts to know that that is gone forever. It almost makes me want to seek them out and make amends. But then, all it takes is one more read through her nasty blog post, and I go back to not caring if I ever see either one of them again and wishing they would leave town for good. I decided the best way to air all this out was to make her post public. Maybe this will be what heals my old wounds once for all.

http://www.ourlesbianlives.com/2010/08/hello.html

Confrontation

Big, scary word, I know. Confrontation is something that many people try their hardest to avoid. After all, no one likes to be the bad guy, and no one likes to have enemies. I used to be one of these people; I would go out of my way to avoid confrontation at any cost.

Now, though...not so much. I don't know if it's my wit that has become sharper, my b.s. tolerance that has become lower, or my mouth that has become smarter (although the latter seems to be the most popular opinion), but for whatever reason, I don't fear or avoid confrontation the way I did when I was shy and mousey. In fact, confrontation seems to be following me around. As of late, it has been prevalent in both my personal life and my professional life, and I'm stuck wondering, "How do I handle this?"

Initially, I never enjoyed being called a "confrontational person;" it didn't sound like your run-of-the-mill compliment. After a while, however, I decided maybe it isn't the worst thing in the world to be. Maybe it can mean that I have the confidence to stand up for myself, or others when the occasion calls for it. Maybe it can mean that people aren't allowed to walk all over me or take advantage of me. Maybe it can mean that if I don't think something is fair, and I speak up about it, things can change for the better for everyone. Or, maybe it means that I don't know how to pick my battles.

My initial reaction when my head is being bitten off: bite back. But in the classic cause-and-effect pattern, biting back may result in loss of promotion, loss of job, loss of important friendship, or even loss of relationship. It has been widely suggested lately that, instead of automatically biting back, I should instead bite my tongue, and wait for the appropriate setting in which to have a respectful discussion (see, isn't that a much less scary way to say "a confrontation"? Even the word itself inspires antagonistic feelings... Damn you, society!).

Overall, I don't necessarily think being "confrontational" is a bad thing, as long as you can find a way to still be respectful about it. Most especially in professional surroundings, but in a personal setting as well.

Now that I've shared my opinions on confrontation and being laced with the title of "confrontational person," I would love to hear others' responses, ideas, etc on the subject. You know I love a debate...but that may just be my confrontational side ;)

My Mom Kicks Ass

At first glance, my mom doesn't seem like the most intimidating person. But trust me, I lived under her roof for about 20 years, and she can definitely turn up the intimidation factor. My high school friends will back me up on this.

Despite the numerous disagreements (and outright fights, which made up about a three-year time span of our relationship) my mom and I have had over the years, she is by far my best friend. I don't think I know anyone who has as close of a bond or relationship with their mother as I do with mine. I'm not trying to brag, I'm just telling the truth. When I say I can talk to my mom about anything, I mean exactly that. Think about the most intimate, personal conversation you would have with another person, probably your closest friend. Those are the kind of things I tell my mom. She never judges me on anything I tell her, and she is always supportive of my decisions. Eventually.

I'm telling you all this so you can understand the bond my mom and I share and just how close we really are. About a week ago, I made the 350+ mile drive to my parents' house for my hometown's county fair. My parents own a feed and seed store in a neighboring town, so I stopped on my way through. During our conversation, my mom told me that they had recently fired an employee (for anonymity's sake, I'll call him Derek). When she told me why, I think my jaw nearly hit the floor.

Apparently Derek had trouble filling out his time card correctly (or at all) despite being walked through it numerous times by both my mom and my dad. When my mom confronted him face-to-face about it, he became very belligerent and disrespectful toward her, both as an employee to his employer, and as a 20-year-old kid to an adult. When she told him he should just go home and not bother coming back again, Derek took things to a new level of disrespect.

He called my mother what I believe to be the worst, most disrespectful term in the English language: a c***. As he was leaving, my mom demanded, "What did you just say?"

The little prick actually repeated it!

"You're a f***ing c***."

I don't know how most people were raised, but in my household you did NOT say things like that, especially to an authority figure, and my parents have never had a tolerance for disrespect.

My mom walked right over to Derek and, in front of employees and customers, slapped him across the face (at this point in my mom's story, I threw my arms in the air and yelled "Go, Mom!"). Derek apparently raised his hand as if to hit my mom back when my dad came over and effectively ended the little exchange. Needless to say, Derek is no longer employed at my parents' store, and never will be again.

My dad later said that he had never seen my mom slap anyone before. Well...I have. When I was 13, my mom and I were having our annual large-scale fight when, for the first time, I refused to back down. I kept arguing and back-talking my mom to the point where she slapped me across the face. Despite the fact that I completely deserved it (neither of us remember what I said, but we both know it was very disrespectful. I did NOT call her a name, though), my mom continues to feel guilty about slapping me to this day, and apologizes every time I bring it up. I have a feeling, however, that this latest slap is not one she will ever feel the need to apologize for.

In short, you don't mess with my mom!

WTF?!? (There is no other title for this...)

I found this on another blog (an extremely interesting one at that! If you haven't ripped your own eyes out after seeing this, you should really check out her site!), and it was so unbelievably awful that I had to share.

There can't be people out there who actually exist like this...can there?



You know, I would call this girl an "idiot", but when going by the actual definition, and the fact that she actually used punctuation and something that vaguely resembled sentence structure, I think the official definition of "moron" would be more suitable. And that's being pretty generous.

You just know that, somewhere down the line, either she's going to end up married to the richest vegetable in the world...or with her own reality show. Who knows, maybe both. At least neither of those will need require basic spelling skills...

Ugh, seriously, I am so...I don't even have words. Me. No words. Apparently, this girl's stupidity is as contagious as the plague. Here's what the inside of my head sounds like right now (picture this in very loud, outraged tones and random bursts): Imbecile! Simpleton! Cretin! I think that one may be my favorite.

I am embarrassed on behalf of my sex. Please, God, if you ever give me a daughter, please, please let her have my common sense! Hell, I'll settle for a fully-functioning sense of self-worth! Ugh, I think this made both the English major, and the woman in me die a little.