skills

Does everyone like my new design? Not to brag or anything, but I did it myself. I think I should add "HTML master" on my resume's list of skills. Because everybody knows that you can't get hired unless you have skills. And joke-telling skills and staying-up-all-night-and-still-being-functional-the-next-day skills aren't exactly what employers are looking for. But HTML skills? Now that's something I can bring up casually in an interview.

You know, I designed my own webpage. And I only copied a little bit from other websites.

Oh, what did you say? I'm hired? Hey, thanks!

So here it is, my loyal blog readers. I still have a little bit of tweaking to do, as you can most likely tell. But doesn't this page just scream Pink Poodle Prints? (Yes, I know it doesn't actually say Pink Poodle Prints anywhere. But that's not the point. Besides, I'm working on that.)

mail

I got mail today! Yippee!

It was an invitation for a bridal shower to be held in two weeks, at my apartment.

Who knew?

road trips

I like to think that I'm a really good road-tripper. I drove down to DC this weekend with a couple of friends, and they noted how pleasant I was to travel with. Not because of my pleasant and easygoing disposition, but because I didn't have to stop for a bathroom break the whole drive. Which, I have to admit, is an essential attribute of truly expert road-trippers.

As flattered as I was, I have to say that, were it not for my dad, I would not be the road-tripper that I am today. He taught me everything I know about making the most of a drive. Growing up, we drove to every vacationing destination. Now, most people will tell you that if you're driving with six kids and two parents all piled into one car, you should plan to be on the road twice as long as the drive should actually take. My dad, however, would not hear of it. We stopped for nothing but gas. We ate in the car, if someone needed to stretch, they just kicked their feet out over the person next to them. And if you had to go, too bad. You should have gone when we stopped for gas.

Now, I don't want you to think my father is heartless and had no mercy. I can remember two distinct instances when he made a special stop, just for me. Both times, I had been in tears for at least thirty minutes, begging him to please, please, PLEASE pull over. because I could not wait any longer. So he kindly pulled over at the nearest bush. Well, once he stopped at the nearest bush. The second time, there were no bushes to be found, but he did let me hide behind the car.

I've been trained well.

crush

Yes, that's right. I have a crush. And it's about time. Honestly, it's been way too long since I've had that can't-stop-smiling-head-in-the-clouds kind of feeling. And it's a beautiful addition to my already warm and spring-timey day.

I tried to get this guy to ask me out before spring break, but it didn't happen. I smiled, giggled, touched his elbow, but I forgot to bite my lower lip. Which, according to Katie , is necessary for really successful flirting. And if anyone knows how to flirt, it's Katie. She's just so darned good at it. It makes me a little jealous sometimes. But these are skills that can be learned, so I'm taking lessons from the best. Wish me luck.

fired

I've only been fired from one job in my life. Which, in my opinion, is one too many. I've always considered being fired an embarassment, and belived (somewhat naively) that people only get fired if they're not doing their job. And I was doing my job. I was doing exactly what I was supposed to, but still got canned. On my second day . And was fired by my own mother. Because I was doing my job too well. Now, that just doesn't make any sense to me.

I had just graduated from college, and had a few months before I started grad school, so I moved home for the summer. (Because I had nowhere else to go, and my parents weren't going to charge me rent.) I was spending most of my days playing with Cooper, reading, being lazy, and recovering from my treacherous senior year. So my mom decided to put me to work. Which was fine with me, because I was broke and she was going to pay me. And all I had to do was keep her from eating junk food. See, my mom is a sucker for anything sweet, and after having six kids, she's no longer the size 2 she used to be. So she decided it was time to get back in shape, and since I had nothing else to occupy my time, I helped her out.

Things were working out pretty well for a while. I got to eat all of the junk food in the house (so it wouldn't be there to tempt her) and was getting paid for it. Honestly, what more could I ask for? Not much. On the second day, however, just as we were finishing dinner, I saw her heading straight for the last piece of cake. Now, my mother has very few weaknesses, but that cake is one of them. And I can't blame her. Who wouldn't love homemade vanilla cake with a layer of raspberry filling and sweet buttercream frosting? But I couldn't let her eat it. This was my chance to prove to her that I'm the best little worker bee she's ever hired. So I grabbed the plate at the same time she did, and pulled it away from her.

Give that back to me!

Sorry, Mom. I can't do that. I'm just doing my job.

Well, I don't want you to do your job anymore. You're fired!

Well, that's fine with me. But I'm still not letting you eat this cake.

So I grabbed the cake off of the plate, squished it in my hands, and dumped it down the sink. Did she really think I'd just back down? She's the one who taught me to never, ever give up. Honestly, this is the woman who refused to shorten her running route, even after she fell into a pile of wet cement. She should have known better than to think any child of hers would give up just because she was fired. Yeah, right. Sorry, Mom, but that's not how I was raised.

a compliment from a friend

Hey, Brittany, I was thinking about you yesterday.

Really?

Yeah, I met this girl and thought, "Wow, this girl is nothing like Brittany." So there's your compliment from me today.

Huh?

learn to ski

I think I have an invincibility complex. It never crosses my mind that maybe I couldn't handle something. Or that I might get hurt. I see something that I want to try, and I do it. I go into everything almost completely blind, knowing nothing except that it looks like fun. People are always trying to tell me about the skills and training needed to actually succeed, but I generally don't listen. Partly because I don't want to hear it, and partly because I've learned that people aren't always right. Besides, I don't really care that much about succeeding, I'm usually in for the experience, and nothing more.

So, in my latest attempt to conquer another feat, I went skiing. For the first time. I tried to buy a pass to ski the entire mountain, but the salesguy informed me that 99% of skiers don't make it off the beginner slopes on their first day, and it might be better for me to buy the beginners package. After my initial shock that anyone would ever suggest that I might not be able to conquer an entire mountain in three hours, my wallet spoke up and kindly reminded me that I am actually far worse than broke right now, and in order to save money, I should probably break down and buy the I've-never-skied-before-and-need-all-the-help-I-can-get package.

So, I didn't get to ski the black diamond slopes as I had hoped I would, but I totally mastered the beginning slopes. Seriously, I'm a pro. And skiing is way more fun than I had ever imagined. Way more fun.

But, even with all of the fun I was having, and the pro skier I was becoming, I just don't understand a few things. Like, why on earth they would put the beginner slope right next to the road. The road that cars drive on. Don't they know that beginning skiers generally don't know how to turn? And when a beginning skier is headed right off the ski slope and straight towards the road, she really has no option but to throw herself on the ground? Even though she knows perfectly well that throwing herself on the ground is not the best way to stop, and could potentially injure her wrist? And why they would put unpadded metal poles right at the bottom of the steepest section of the beginner slope? Now, I understand that ski jackets are thick and soft, and provide excellent padding (trust me, they really work wonders). But really, lets be serious here.

I still managed to escape with no cuts or bruises. Not even a sore wrist! I really am invincible.

fate, you laugh

I got a phone call last week from Penn State's psychology department, telling me that I was one of eighty well-rounded individuals they had chosen to participate in a study. They thought I was well-rounded. It didn't matter that they'd never met me. Or that they knew absolutely nothing about me. I have no problem accepting any and all compliments, no matter how unfounded. And I've always wanted someone to tell me I'm well-rounded.

So anyway, all I had to do was give them my opinion on exceprts from a book they're publishing, and take a little test that apparently provided them amazing insights and understanding of how my mind works. I didn't tell them that I've been asking myself questions for the past 24 years, and still don't really understand my own mind. Because they were going to pay me. Three hundred dollars. I'll offer my services to science, if science agrees to help pay for my next vacation.

But fate had other plans. There was no psychology study, no three hundred dollars. Just a brief telephone conversation with a rather disturbed man trying to convince me to show him my "dark side." And apparently everyone's "dark side" is dirty.

Sweetheart, I don't feel like you're letting yourself into your dark side.

Well, maybe I don't have a dark side.

You do. I'll find it. Tell me you love me, sweetheart.

What?!?

Right now I want to take you and..... (I'll let you use your imagination on this one.)

Yeah. Right.

i'm a liar

I lie. All the time. Well, it's not really lying, but more pretending to be something that I'm not. Not so people will like me, or so I look super cool. But if I notice something that I don't like about myself, I pretend it's not a part of me. And I've found that after awhile, I don't have to pretend anymore. Because it's GONE. Now, I know that ignoring a problem doesn't make it go away. I've tried that, and it failed me completely. Bad idea. Horrible, in fact. But I'm not talking about ignoring a problem. I deal with it by making it disappear. And for the most part, it works.

I had a friend in high school who drove me crazy. Seriously. Insane. But she was incredibly kind-hearted, and honestly, one of the best friends I've ever had. She told me one day that I was sometimes mean to her. Mean! I hate being mean. But she was right. I was. So, I pretended not to be annoyed anymore. Because her annoying habits triggered my meanness, and that was my problem. One that I had to deal with. There was nothing wrong with anything she was doing. She wasn't being mean or insensitive, or really doing anything worth getting upset over. So I pretended that the way her teeth clacked when she talked didn't annoy me. Because, in all honesty, it shouldn't annoy me. And it especially shouldn't annoy me enough that I could no longer be nice to the girl. That's just ridiculous.

I've been criticized for this before. Because it's not honest, and I'm not being myself. Which is true. I'm not entirely being myself. But what if I don't want to be myself? Don't get me wrong. I like myself a lot. I think myself is a pretty adventurous girl, and for the most part, a good person. But she's not perfect, that's for sure. So I'm refusing to settle for just being myself. I want to be better than that. Nobody's perfect. So why not take action? Why not make an effort to correct my imperfections? It may not be the ideal method, but it's better than remaining stagnant.

just call me tinkerbell

I was accused this past weekend of living in a fantasy world. A friend of mine expressed his concern that I live in my own little make-believe dreamland, a place where everything is happy and nobody has to do anything they don't like. At the time, I was more amused than insulted, mainly just because I've always considered myself a fairly practical person. I'm happy probably ninety-nine percent of the time, but that doesn't necessarily mean I'm not living inside of reality. It shouldn't, anyway.

The more I thought about it, though, the more I realized that he was right. Yes, I'll admit it, Derek was right. I've never really done anything that I didn't enjoy. I've been bombarded my entire life with the ideas that I should find a career that I love, and that I should never, ever settle. And apparently it sank in, because I fully subscribe to these beliefs. So, I've always done what I wanted to. I majored in Engineering because that's what I wanted to do. I went to grad school because I wanted to. And now I'm going to teach high school, also because I want to. The idea that I might have to enter a new career, relationship, or locale that I didn't like has never crossed my mind. It's just never been an option for me.

Now, don't get me wrong. Everything I've done hasn't been all sunshine and rainbows. There have been elements of everything that I've disliked. I disliked doing my senior project, but knew that it was necessary to get my degree, so I did it anyway. I hate, hate, HATE grading papers, but that's part of being a teacher, so I'll do it. It's not a matter of refusing to do anything that isn't fun and exciting, but rather a matter of making sure that I like where I am and what I'm doing with my life. It's figuring out what you love, and not being afraid to make it happen. Maybe that is a dreamland. But it's one that I like, and one that I'm not ready to leave any time soon.

ruins

Guess who's going to Machu Picchu in May? That's right, I am! A friend and I are hiking the Inca trail, exploring the ruins at Machu Picchu, and visiting Lima, Cuzco, and Huayabamba during our two-week adventure. Can you tell I'm excited? Yeah, me too.

reasons why

(Not necessarily about me, just something I've been thinking about.)

His charm and his mind. That's why she loved him, for these things and also for him, for all of him. For what he was and for everything he could be. She did love him, more than either of them fully recognized. And that love had become so tangled in the branches of her emotions and of herself that it could no longer be extracted, but was there to stay. She had always been competitive by nature, had always wanted to be the best, smartest, and in this case, the most loving. At the beginning, she had loved him, absolutely and exhaustively, but with little recognition from him. Or, at least not the recognition she felt she deserved, the admission from him that she loved him better than any other woman had or could. She kept loving him anyway, and the best way she knew to love was to forgive. And so she did. She held on, held on to him, the last autumn leaf hoping that by refusing to fall, it can prevent the harsh realities of winter. It was her means to an end, the day he would realize the sacrifices she made for him, the unselfish forgiveness extended. Who else would love him that way, and forgive all that had been done. This would be her final victory, to give him this unreturnable gift, asking nothing in return. Asking nothing out loud, at least. He loved her to, but she never fully knew this. She asked little of him, so that's what he gave.

But she finally found another, one who also loved her. Again, she asked nothing of him. It was the only way she knew how to love, to give everything and ask for nothing. So that's what she asked, but this time he gave everything. She was no longer competing against an imaginary woman, someone who could give him everything he wanted. Because he wanted her, not for what she gave him, but partly for the person she was and mostly for the person she was becoming. And she finally knew how to love and to be loved.

read my pages

Welcome to my first attempt at being an open book. (This is very exciting, I know.) So today, the major item of concern for me is that my back hurts and I would like a man to stop by and rub it for me. (Yes, I'm very deep. I know.) This is not a I'm-feeling-sorry-for-myself-that-I-don't-have-a-boyfriend post. Really, right now I need a man solely for the physical benefits, and nothing more. My back really hurts, and frankly, it freaks me out to have a girl rub my back. That's just a little too intimate for me.

Now, I know that after yesterday's bold statement that I would reveal my deepest, most hidden emotions, you were probably all expecting drama and intrigue. Well, so was I. But the fact is, I haven't been dating for six months now, and have resolved most of my issues in that area. (Most, but not all.) And let's face it, if you're a female over the age of ten, men usually are the source of the most drama. But don't be disheartened. Like I said, I've only worked out most of my deeper issues, so I'll be sure to fill you in on the details of the remaining few.

read on

So Katie, who is a great girlfriend to the ear doctor and currently would rather be skiing than working, mentioned on Sunday morning that my posts have changed since I realized that people are actually reading this. My immediate thought was, "No. Not possible. I would never try to hide my feelings. I'm an open book!" and then began making excuses and trying to explain why my posts, while they may seem different, are really just exactly the same as they were before. But the truth is, they're not the same. She was right, and all of my excuses were just that - excuses. And pretty lame ones at that.

So. In an attempt to become the open book that I apparently think I am, I am revolutionizing the way I post. Because, the thing is, I really do want my friends to know how I feel. About everything. I hide my emotions not because I don't want them known, but because I'm afraid that people won't want to hear about them. I've tried blaming this insecurity on my past dating relationships (because, honestly, how can you expect me to be completely open with you when you behave either indifferently or critically every time I try?). But the truth is, it's my own problem, and up to me to fix it. So be prepared to dive into the deep, dark abyss of my mind. I hope you enjoy your journey.

Read on, friends.

*Disclaimer: Names may be deleted privacy's sake. However, the thoughts and emotions will be full and complete. And if you know anything at all about the situation, it shouldn't be difficult to figure out to what I am referring.

know me

I love getting together with old friends. The feeling of knowing that there are people who are important enough to me (and that I am important enough to them) that we are willing to put forth the effort of maintaining our relationships after we no longer see each other on a daily basis, the excitement of once again witnessing their everyday, even if it's for only a brief time. I love catching up on our lives, and talking and laughing together.

The problem? I always, always, always get nervous. My stomach gets queasy, my hands shaky, and I never know what to expect. I've changed, they've changed, and our relationships have changed, and there's always the challenge of re-discovering where you fit each other's now separated worlds. It requires finally abandoning your past relationship, and redefining it in new terms. The transition from dating to being just friends, or from every-day friends to long-distant friends all at once becomes final. And you must rediscover each other. You allow yourself to see them as who they are now, instead of who they were when you knew them last, and hope that they will do the same for you. Hope that they will accept and recognize the changes that you have made in yourself, and the effort it took you to get there, while maintaining the closeness you once had. A reunion requires a final admission that your friends have become new people, and no matter how much you care, or how hard you tried, you were not present to witness it.

fly me home

What the ticket counter worker told me, after finding out that my flight was delayed and I might not make my connection:

Well, you look like you're in pretty good shape. So I'm going to put you on this flight anyway, and hope you can run fast enough to make your connection.

I'm not sure I trust an airline whose back-up plan depends on the physical fitness of their passengers.

my friendly neighborhood.

This is Cooper. Isn't he adorable? Yeah, I think so, too. He gets to come live with me next year after my parents move to Mexico. Which will be so much fun, except that he's totally mastered the sad puppy eyes and puppy whimper, and can get me to do basically anything he wants. Which can be very annoying when I want to watch Gilmore Girls and he wants to go for a walk.

So, one Saturday, after spending an hour trying to finish my latest book, I finally gave in to his sad puppy eyes and pathetic puppy whimper and took him out for his daily sniff around the neighborhood. We were walking down the street, sniffing the trees, making sure none of the other neighborhood dogs had marked on Cooper's territory, when a van pulled up to ask directions to a nearby church. (Well, it was actually just outside the neighborhood. They never would have made it past our very own self-appointed traffic cop.) So I stopped and gave them directions, and Cooper, being himself, needed to sniff their tires. Because this was an outsider's car, with outsider's mud and new exciting outsider doggie scents. And as Cooper was still sniffing the tires, and my mouth was still forming the words have a nice day, this car full of lovely church-going people took off (so as not to be late) and ran over my dog while I was still holding the leash. And then, while my dog was still lying in the road, and I was still holding the leash, they backed up and, completely avoiding eye contact, drove away. (This time, they were careful to go around Cooper's body, which was still lying in the road.) And then they were gone, and Cooper was trying to be brave and pick himself up, and I was still holding onto his leash with my mouth open, trying to finish my have a nice day. Maybe they didn't know that it's a law in Texas that if you hit an animal you have to stop and find the owners to notify them. Of course, his owner was standing right there, and clearly knew that her dog had been hit, so I guess there was technically no need to stop. But at least they were on time to church so that they could learn about the good Samaritan and how, while it says we need to treat all men as our neighbors, it never says anything about dogs or any other animals for that matter, no matter how cute or loved-by-their-owners they are.

*Don't worry, although Cooper was limpy and whimpery for a while, he has since made a full recovery.

traffic patrol

My sister and I went on a pre-shopping excursion yesterday. You see, my mom is taking us shopping tomorrow, but what with her school and orthodontist appointment and boot scootin' boogie dance practice, we were afraid we just wouldn't have enough shopping time. Because you have to browse the sales, try on outfits, convince my mom that the clothes we want are cute enough and on-sale enough to buy. It's really a pretty extensive process, and takes a lot of practice before the whole shopping process is really mastered.

So we finished our browsing and were headed home for a late dinner with my parents. But we pulled into our neighborhood, and our neighbor jumped right in front of our car. Apparently, he had appointed himself Falling Brook's very own traffic cop. Which, when you think about it, is really very sweet of him. And what's even sweeter is that he put the good of the community ahead of his own life. I mean, I know very few people who would jump in front of a moving vehicle just to protect their neighborhood from unwelcome hoodlums like myself. So there he was, arms flailing, pounding the hood, shouting BACK UP! GET OUT! YOU CAN'T COME IN HERE! BACK UP!!

Excuse me? I can't come into my own neighborhood? Actually, sir, I'm pretty sure I can. And I'm pretty sure I'm going to. You, my friend, are more than welcome to stand in the road all night. I won't even get mad at you for pounding on my hood. But, just so you know, I'm not backing down. I will wait patiently until you get out of my way, and then I'm going home. (I can be amazingly stubborn when I want to.) So, I put my little car into park and waited. Which didn't go over so well. Nor did the fact that I found the situation incredibly humorous. THIS ISN'T FUNNY! YOU CAN'T COME IN HERE!!! No, I'm sorry, sir, but that's where you're wrong. This is funny. This is very, very funny. So we had a stand-off right there. I won. He finally gave up and moved out of my way. He did, however take down my license plate number so that he could call the cops and have them tell him that I was doing nothing illegal, but that it just might be illegal (if not very STUPID) to jump in front of a moving vehicle and pound on its hood.

I'm glad my neighborhood is safe in the hands of men like him.

only the good die young

My mom still thinks I'm getting married this year. Never mind the fact that every time I talk to her I report that, no, I still haven't been on a single date in the past six months and, no, I still have no interest in the same men that I've had no interest in for the last year and a half. She's beginning to think that I'm either just too picky, or am completely incapable of committment. (Which both may very well be true.) But I'm not the problem here. Not really. No, the real problem is that men these days (or at least the ones I've dated) are just way too healthy. Not okay. At all. See, I pinky swore that I would live with my sisters after our husbands die. And, in my family, a pinky swear is even bigger than a triple dog dare. It's solid. Unbreakable. Nothing, not even death (or, in this case, a husband who refuses to die) can get you out of the deal. We have it all worked out. Ashley will be the crazy old woman who everyone thinks is senile, and I'll be the sweet little grandma who feeds cookies and lemonade to all the neighbor kids. And Bex will provide the house. (Because her husband's going to make way more money than ours will, so she'll have plenty of extra room.) So, I really need to live longer than my husband. Really. But nobody I've dated really seems to understand this. It's not that complicated, guys! You die first, I live with my sisters. Easy, right? Wrong.

The last relationship I was in was doomed from the start. I mean, the kid was in great shape, and really tried his best to stay that way. I knew all along we'd never make it, but he was cute and charming, so I thought I'd give him a chance anyway. (I'm nice like that.) But honestly, he insisted on buying whole grain bread. The kind with the little seeds and other bits of nature that serve no purpose other than getting stuck in your teeth and completely ruining the texture of any sandwich. Well, that and lowering his cholesterol. I almost ended it right then, but like I said, he was cute, and really, the guy had a few other redeeming qualities. And I found his one weakness. Chips Deluxe Cookies. He could eat an entire package of them in one sitting. So I bought a box or two every time I went to the store, hoping to ignite the downward spiral into a couch-potato lifestyle. He thought I was just trying to be nice. It was way more than that, though. Way more. I was salvaging our relationship. But he seemed to think everything was just fine. He clearly failed to understand the depth of the problem. So the cookies worked for a while, but the more he ate, the more he exercised. Didn't he know that that was just counteracting any effects that these cookies might have? Apparently not. So the Chips Deluxe campaign was short-lived. (I can't entirely blame him for this, though. It really wasn't the best-laid plan to begin with.) Towards the end, I made one last-ditch effort that resulted in a rather unfortunate kool-aid incident, but which really brought no long-term effects. We finally ended things one sweltry day in late August. I gave it my all, but in the end, it just wasn't meant to be.

So, overall the search has been long and fruitless. I thought Americans were supposed to be lazy and out-of-shape. But where are all these guys? I can't seem to find any of them. It looks like my mom's going to have to settle for one more year with no wedding.

welcome to texas

So. Gordon B. Hinckley is coming to San Antonio in May. Now, to Mormons, he's kind of like a modern-day Moses or Abraham. Kind of a big deal for us. Actually, a huge deal. And he's coming to officially open a new temple in town. (Which, by the way, is also a huge deal.) So, the Mormon community in the area decided that it would be nice to put on a production to welcome him to Texas. A jubilee is actually what they're calling it, mainly because jubilee sounds big and impressive. And it's for the prophet, so we really wouldn't want anything less than that.

So. The 2000 youth in the greater San Antonio area are all getting together and dancing the Cotton-eyed Joe and the Boot Scootin' Boogie line dance. For the prophet. Complete with Wrangler jeans and bandanas. And, to finish it off, they're all singing The Stars at Night... Are Big and Bright. clapclapclapclap Deep In the Heart of TEXAS! (It's a good thing they don't know that there are actually ten verses to Deep in the Heart of Texas.) Only in the good old Lone Star State. And we wonder why Texans get such a bad rap. Hmmm....

honk if you love me

Why can't they make a horn that says "I'm not mad at you, kind sir, but your car is moving towards mine very quickly, and I just want to make you aware that I am here. You know, so you don't hit me." Because, really, that's all I want to say. And horns just sound so angry. I don't want to sound angry. I'm not an angry person. I'm nice. Complete pushover, let people walk all over me kind of nice. And I don't want to contribute to the ever-worsening road rage epidemic, either. I just want to be recognized, to let people know that, yes, I'm still here, and am pleased to be driving on the same road as you. So every time I honk my horn, I panic, worrying that "oh, no, what if this guy's already having a bad day. And now he thinks I'm angry because he inadvertently cut into my lane. I don't want to make his day any worse than it already potentially is!" So I really need something besides a horn to warn drivers that they're about to hit me, a friendly reminder that, hi, I'm here, please watch out, and by the way, I hope you have a great day. I've tried waving before, but that didn't do anything. They hit me anyway. Which is really what I should have expected. I mean, if I'd thought about it at all I would have realized that if they didn't see my car that they were about to hit, probably they wouldn't see my waving, either. (Dumb, I know, but I panicked and couldn't think of anything better at the moment.) Back in the eighties, everyone thought talking cars were the wave of the future. Well, I say bring them back! Restore civility to our roads. Please?

happy birthday, old man

Yes, that's right. Today my dad turns 51. Fifty-one. Although people usually guess that he's about 70. Which he absolutely loves. Because he's in really great shape for a seventy-year-old man. Never mind the fact that he's only 51. People think he's seventy, so he can amaze them all when he runs 10K's or bikes his favorite 100-mile race. Plenty of 51-year-old men can do that. But seventy? Now, that's pretty impressive.

But, all joking aside, I really love my dad. He's taking Monday off of work, just to hang out with me. Me! That's an entire day away from Mexico, to spend time with his very American daughter. Now, if that's not love, I don't know what is. He'll take me to the batting cages, even play Dance Dance Revolution with me, will wait patiently in the car when my mom and I run in to check out the latest Ann Taylor sale. And he'll only roll his eyes a little bit when my mom sends me back out to the car to ask if we can please borrow his credit card. Dad, you truly amaze me. Thanks, old man.

the brittany

I know, I know. After reading my dear butterfly post, you are all asking yourselves, "Wow, did this girl really have a cactus named after her?" Well, the answer is yes, this girl really did have a cactus named after her. It was actually named The Brittany. Kind of like Donald Trump is known as "The Donald." Except that Donald Trump is an arrogant moron, and I really would not like to be associated with him in any way. So never mind that analogy.

The cactus actually belonged to my friend Meagan, back when we were thirteen and were still going through the all-inanimate-objects-need-human-names phase that most pre-adolescent girls experience. (Why we ever thought that was cool, I'll never entirely understand. But we did.) So, she named her cactus after me.

Hey, look at my cactus. I named it The Brittany.

But it's dead.

Yeah! I know.

Um... Thanks? Thats, uh, really sweet of you.

Well, yeah...

Yes, folks, that's right, a dead catus. And not dead as in a little-bit-brown-around-the-edges dead. I mean dead dead. Dead as in a limp-carcas-flopping-over-the-edge-of-the-pot dead. As in there's-no-way-this-plant-will-ever-be-revived dead. So. A dead cactus was once named after me. My life is complete. I mean, really, what more could a girl want? Well, besides a new outfit...

i'm mexican

Well, only half-Mexican, actually. Or, I guess I should say that my family is half-Mexican. My mom's American, my dad's Mexican, so, you know, half of their children should be Mexican. It only makes sense, right? Right? I mean, isn't that how genetics works?

This is all according to my dad, anyway. Half of his children speak spanish, so, you know, they must be the ones who inherited the Latin blood. The rest of us just take after our mom. But he loves us anyway. (That's sweet of him, isn't it?) And he's been known to say (on more than one occasion) Well, since I'm from Mexico....

Really? Midvale, Utah is in Mexico? Because, you know, last I checked....

Well, what I MEANT was...

Oh. Now I'm interested. How are you going to explain this one, Dad?

Now, in his defense, he does spend seventy percent of his time in Mexico, and has grown quite accustomed to the Latin influence. (Meaning, he gets have a maid and sleep in on weekdays.) But really, his idea of "let's party!" is just not quite the same as your average Mexican's. And I just don't see him dancing on a beach with topless women. He's my DAD. Seriously. But we let him believe. Because, if you just believe in yourself, you can do anything. Even become a Mexican. Right?

dear butterfly,

Would you please stop flapping your wings? Pretty please? Now, I know that you're very beautiful, and only trying to make the world a more beautiful place, but really, you're triggering all sorts of snowstorms here in State College. And, in all honesty, I could definitely live without those.

Now, you're probably feeling pretty good about yourself right about now. I mean, you had this "butterfly effect" named after you while I, for one, have never had anything named after me. Well, besides a cactus. So you have sufficient reason to gloat and flutter about, just to see what meterological phenomenon you might create this time. But honestly, don't you think that's a little bit selfish of you? I mean, can't you think of others just this once? And when I say "others" yes, I mean me. Me, me, me. Me. You see, I'm not very skilled in the art of snow-driving, and tt's embarrassing to get my car stuck in a snowdrift and hold up traffic for five minutes while my fellow drivers brave the blustery winds to help push me out. I realize that this is something that you are completely unfamiliar with, as you spend your days dancing about in warmer climes, but I'm asking for your help. Just this once.

But, just so you don't think that I'm selfish, I'd be willing to strike a compromise with you. All I'm asking is that you hold off the wing-flapping for a few more weeks, just until it gets warm enough up here so as to trigger rainstorms instead of snowstorms. I love rainstorms. If you do me just this one favor, I will frolick through fields all springtime long, just to admire your beauty.

Sincerely yours,

Poodle