If you are in a hurry: It is no excuse to leave the water running and paper towels laying around the sink, floor and trash-bin. It is people like you and waste like that that have plunged this world into the environmental crisis it is currently experiencing. Also? There is no hurry–no hurry whatsoever–that could excuse leaving a wadded up roll of USED toilet paper sitting on the seat. I do not respect you. I could care less about your rushed schedule. And I think you are a lazy, disgusting pig.

If you are a germophobe: Figure out a way to turn off the faucet. Yes, I know you just washed your hands and there are germs on the handle. Ask me how much I care. I don’t. TURN OFF THE WATER. Again: Environmental crisis. Your fault. Etc.

If you feel the need to squat (even though there are handy-dandy seat covers): For the love of all things good and holy, make sure you’re aiming! Simply posing in the appropriate squatting position while located anywhere in the stall does not ensure that a.) you’re avoiding germs or b.) YOU’RE EXCRETIONS ARE ENDING UP WHERE THEY BELONG. It is unspeakably disgusting to walk into a stall in the women’s bathroom to find a PUDDLE of urine on the floor. It makes me want to vomit. But I can’t. Because I can’t get to the toilet without coming into contact WITH YOUR URINE. If it was an accident and you just… couldn’t… make it? Maybe? Fine. But go tell the security guard so those in maintenance can address the issue right away. Otherwise? You’re gross and you need to just sit all the way down using the flipping seat cover.

If you’ve had a bowel movement (any movement, really… but especially bowel): FLUSH! Flush, flush, flush. Can you do that? Please? Just flush the toilet. Have you ever heard that big, watery whooshing noise that happens before the other people walk out of their stalls? That’s called flushing. It’s a convenient mechanism that washes all of your waste (AND ODORS) blissfully out of sight and out of mind. For yourself AND FOR OTHERS.

If you are experiencing an unfortunately heavy cycle: Pay attention to what lands where. Look, I’m a woman who, in an attempt to avoid too much detail, will just say that I understand what can happen. It’s awkward and uncomfortable and messy and I get it, okay? But the apparent difference between you and me? I realize that the woman who uses the stall after me DOESN’T WANT TO KNOW WHAT I’M GOING THROUGH. Clean UP after yourself. Give the stall and the toilet a quick once over once you’ve completed your business and attend to any… situations. Because good Lord, it’s the only right thing to do!

If you are on the phone: No phone call could be so important that you couldn’t say something along the lines of, “Hey, I’m going to have to call you back in five minutes. We will continue our conversation then…” Now, I fully admit to the fact that there are three people I’m comfortable talking on the phone to while I’m using the restroom (to pee! Because anything more… just, no.), but I will only do that when I am alone in the bathroom. Not when there are five other strangers attempting to use the bathroom at the same time. Oh? and the woman who was on an INTERVIEW while going to the bathroom? I hope you didn’t get the job. Could you possibly value that opportunity any less? I don’t think so.

If you are feeling talkative: Save it. Save it! Lady, I am in the bathroom. I have no longing to carry on a conversation when a.) I am not wearing any pants! Or covered in any way from the waist down! and b.) I don’t know you! oh, and c.)? When you’re trying to sell me something! Holy cow, leave me alone. The only thing saving you from a steely glare upon my immerging from the stall? I don’t wish to taint your day like you’ve just tainted mine.

I’m finally training for a marathon. I say ‘finally’ because I’ve only been entertaining this idea for two years. No! More than two years. Since January of 2008 when Dorian ran the Disney Marathon with his dad and Shane, I’ve been fiddling around with a growing interest in whether or not I could do that too. Would I have what it takes to run a marathon. Twenty six point two miles. On foot. On purpose! Was it something that I actually even wanted to do?! I didn’t know. So fiddle with the idea, I did.

Alisa said to me once (when I was having one of my many freak outs about what it would be like to actually kiss my best friend–one of the sole reasons it took me so long to declare my relationship with Dorian official… because Heaven knows there’s no WAY I’m kissing without committment–which led me to freak out about ‘why-in-the-world-is-the-idea-of-kissing-someone-I-care-so-much-about-so-SCARY’), that if I wasn’t freaking out about something or examining the possible outcomes from every angle or having doubts in general that she knew it was not something that I really, truly cared about. She said that in the time she’d known me, I’d been incapable of making any kind of decision without spending an obnoxiously careful amount of time weighing the options. She said, “Kristen, you can’t even switch shampoo without getting five different opinions.”

And so it has been with the decision of whether or not to run a marathon. Would it be something that I was even capable of doing? Would the training be something that I was willing to commit to? I knew that if I was going to do this, I was going to do it 100%, refusing to hold anything back. I knew that I would want to be able to reach the finish line knowing that I’d given everything I could. And I knew that ‘giving everything I could’ involved so much more than the actual day of the marathon.

At one point, we questioned if me running a marathon would require sacrificing the long-term health of my knees. The jury is still out on that point, honestly. But what it came down to was that that is a bridget that we will cross if we ever get there. Ultimately, the pros far outweighed the cons. The major con is that possibly, one day down the road, my knees will be worse for the wear and may require surgery. But who’s to say that the marathon would be the number one cause of that? Will it add to it? I wouldn’t doubt it, yes. But so will many other choices that I’ve made when it comes to our fitness endeavors. And is fitness something that I’m willing to negotiate? Absolutely not.

But the pros? Ohhhh, the pros! The pros of diligently spending the next 6 months training, of dedicating my focus to running when I would have been working out anyways, of striving for something that is so overwhelming it almost doesn’t seem possible… The pros of that? Would be to crush the self doubt and loathing that I allow to set up camp in my daily thought processes. The pros would be to drown those thoughts with a rushing current of adrenaline and sense of completion. The pros will be to look back on all these months of blood, sweat and tears wondering all along if I’d be able to make it and know that, yes. YES I CAN.

And those pros? Those pros make every blister, every callous, every black & blue nail and every drop of sweat (which, incidentally? Could probably fill Lake Michigan by this point) absolutely, 100% WORTH IT.

Even though the events that followed at work didn’t seem to support that confirmation, we moved forward with researching the area and looking for apartments. We decided to visit in the beginning of November.

The market for apartment homes in Iowa was atrocious. Completely disheartening. The affordable monthly payments were for apartments that were trashed and poorly located. The other affordable payments were for glamorous apartments located perfectly… but only available to those with lower incomes. We missed the income-bracket by $2,000. The decent apartments that were located in somewhat decent areas had monster price tags attached. And then, of course, the wonderful apartments in perfect locations were the owners of monthly payments that dwarfed the other “monster” payments.

The visit to the Palmer campus left Dorian with an anxious knot in his stomach and clammy hands rather than the butterflied, nervous anticipation he had expected. The one-and-only church we could locate was of the ultra-mega-located-in-a-mall, variety. We were willing to give it a shot, but it left us feeling unsettled that there were no other churches to be found in the area. We Googled the crime-rate. It’s Red level was astronomical.

The first two hours of our drive home were blanketed in a heavy silence. We couldn’t bring ourselves to give a voice to our concerns. When we did talk, we put on a happy face.

It wasn’t until a week later–when Dorian caught me Googling apartments in Georgia… because, what if? What if we threw all comfort and all caution to the wind? What if we actually considered a different university, rather than going with a school just because my job could transfer to the same city? What if we stopped allowing fear of the unknown rule all of our decisions?–that we actually talked about what we’d experienced in Iowa. We realized that we were both in the very same, Knot In the Pit of Our Stomach, place. And we realized that maybe the “safe” decision wasn’t worth that kind of ache.

We started researching Life University and apartments in Georgia in true earnest. We decided that we needed to talk to our Pastor about this decision because we were wary of finding Georgia so appealing simply because Iowa had been such a disappointment. We didn’t want to turn our backs on what had seemed to be so obviously God’s direction toward Iowa; but we also did not want to be blind to His leading away from it. After our talk with Pastor, we decided to fast for a month. We both fasted from all internet aside from what was required of us for work… and Diet Coke. (Yes, Diet Coke. I wasn’t even going to mention it because of the responses that I’m sure were instantaneous. But please, no comments. I still don’t agree with you). (But since we’re talking about it now, I’m just going to have to say that it was not difficult to give up, at all.  I didn’t even miss it. The End).

Fasting was one of the most incredible experiences of my life. To be constantly aware of the need for prayer and submission to the Lord’s will is an experience I will never trade and one that I will now pursue regularly. Our God answers prayer and He absolutely answered ours. The answers were not obvious or easy. They did not come loudly or with any kind of pomp. They came slowly and softly. They came like a peaceful breeze that gently shifted each piece of our logic to stand squarely in the Lord’s path. And one day, Dorian and I looked each other in the eye and just knew…

Georgia. He wants us in Georgia.

And now we’re here.

Have I mentioned that we moved to Georgia? No? Well, we’ve moved to Georgia.

I pretend to hear a collective gasp of, “Georgia?!”

Yes, it was quite a shock to me, too. Well, a shock that was nearly four months in the making, which has led to about a month and a half of being unofficial Georgia residents. So, I suppose it doesn’t quite still measure on the Shock-o-Meter. But for the sake of assuming that someone reading this doesn’t already know… YES, Georgia! We live here now. It’s quite fabulous, let me tell you.

I mean, there are distinctly UN-fabulous things (including behemoth creatures that make their way into our apartment for the sole purpose of terrorizing me to my very core), and there have been distinct anti-fabulous scenarios of tears (dominantly surrounding a difficult job search and missing our friends and family, terribly)… But the overriding truth to these many unfortunate occurrences is simply this: God has led us to this point and to this place and He has been blessing every second since the decision to make the move has been made.

Every time I get to the point where I find myself telling the Lord, “Okay God… I believe you’re doing something, and I do trust you… but you’ve got to throw me a bone here…” He goes ahead and throws me twenty (bones, that is). Every time I start to feel a little lonely, He sends Dorian into the room performing one of his usual antics that warm my heart, lift my spirits  and remind me that He sent my best friend on the trip, right along with me. Every time I felt discouraged and overwhelmed by the job search, He’d send one more lead to my inbox, and often, He’d throw another interview in my path. And then that one time I asked Dorian how our bank account was and his answer made me lose my breath, the Lord went ahead and gave me a job with incredible benefits that offered to pay the top of my asking price.

So yes, to sum up: God is amazing and I am so glad that it’s His direction that we’ve chosen to listen to. Oh and yes, we live in Georgia.

Oh… and I was hoping you’d be willing to overlook my what? Five months? No? Nearly six months of absence. It all boils down to the fact that for so long, there were so many things up in the air about our lives that I was hesitant to give any kind of documentation to anything since, for all I knew, the story would be different in a matter of hours. I mean, as clearly evidenced by the fact that the last time I posted, we were officially, absolutely and no-questions-asked-ly moving to Iowa.

And I’ve got to say that I, for one? Am unspeakably glad that that location evolved to Georgia. Because, hello? Georgia instead of Iowa?! I now live barely thirty minutes from Hotlanta–not that we’ve actually taken advantage of that yet… nor will we be able to afford to any time in our forseeable future… but still, it’s cool to say–and everybody knows that Atlanta is where it’s at. Although, I’m not really sure I understand what “it” is. But so far, the things I would assume that “it” could be, would be as follows: Traffic. Humidity. Gorgeous, gorgeous mountains. Coca-Cola. HUGE bugs. History. Culture. And tan lines in March.

While I’m figuring it out though, I promise I will be far more diligent about posting. I’ve got stories to tell now! Stories that can’t really change anymore because hey, they’ve already happened.

Now, where was I?

Oh yes. Their conversation which, incidentally, has since transitioned…but whatever. They were talking about women’s pants and the lengths that frequently cause quite a bit of hand-wringing. The Short (or petite) pants fit almost perfectly in the store, if you’re planning on wearing flats. But the second you add any kind of heal to that ensemble, the pants immediately make you look like you’re prepared for a flood. Which is so two decades ago. And the Regulars jump up in length so much that they drag on the floor even while wearing high heels. The second woman expressed the exact same problem, but with the Regular vs. Long legths. And, I mean, the Short vs. Regular thing? SO MY PROBLEM. Buying pants is a gargantuan headache because I am so very limited on what kinds of shoes I can wear with them, depending on the poison I choose. And according to the many times that I’ve heard this problem complained about, I don’t understand why clothing designers don’t get on board with offering a wider variety of lengths for women’s pants. I say they offer Short, Shorter, Shortest and Long, Longer, Longest. The Short and the Long would be closest to the Regular length, the Shorter and the Longer would be a healthy in between on their respective end of the spectrum, and the Shortest and the Longest would be hanging out on the ends. It’s brilliant. It will prevent gnashing of teeth across the globe!

Now! To the topic of the day! I think I may have actually found my own personal heaven. Here on earth, that is. I stumbled upon it in my search for gift wrapping ideas for Christmas. In the pursuit of budgeting our way through the holidays (CHRISTMAS, especially) (I say ‘holidays’ because it is the perfect, broad-brush-stroke term to cover the myriad of events from Halloween to Christmas. Not at all because of any politically correct crap. Do you want to know why you celebrate December 25th? The original reason you celebrate it?  It is because Christ – Son of God and Son of Man – came to earth to live amoung us and eventually fulfill his Father’s will. FULL STOP.) (Woo! Soap box? Anyone?), we’ve decided to give gifts that I can make. And because I love to spoil people and am terribly worried that someone will get the idea that we didn’t want to spend more money on them, I’ve been desperately trying to figure out how to present these gifts in such an appealing way that the uhm, low overall cost, will be the furthest thing from anyone’s mind.

And that search gloriously led me to The Container Store. I mean, holy cow, I don’t think I’ve ever been so distracted in my life! This is like every OCD and/or Type A person’s Paradise! Containers and Organization and Shelving and Gift Wrap and Packing and Moving and ohmyword I don’t think I’ve ever been so delighted by a website! I may not be showing Dorian my order before I place it…because uuhhh, there may be a lot on it. And I can already tell you that my response to his scoldy look, exasperated sigh, and exclamation of ”Honey…do you really need all of these things?” will be, “OF COURSE I DO! EVERY SINGLE ITEM IS ABSOLUTELY, BEYOND NECESSARY FOR MY ABILITY TO SURVIVE!” And I’ll win and we will just be forced to eat less next month. See? Win-win. Tony Horton would probably condone, nay, ENCOURAGE my purchases! Now I want to make sure that we’re giving presents to as many people as possible just to have more excuses to find more cute containers. Because The Container Store has got them! It absolutely delivers on it’s title.

You should go to that website. Join me in basking in the organizational wonder that it is. I promise you will not be disappointed.

No, but really, I’ve had the most severe – albeit, self-imposed – case of writer’s block that I’ve ever experienced. There are multiple facets to my writer’s block, unfortunately. And when I feel that I’ve overcome one of them, there are fifteen more, just glimmering away in their taunting brilliance. I bet you’ve just been dying to read a post filled with whiny excuses. Well, hah! Look at me! I’m totally delivering. You’re welcome. I will accept your Thanks in the form of gifts. I like all things kitchen/cooking related and Vera Bradley. Please, I’m kidding!

I will also accept Coach.

Ahem.

Well, let’s get on with the excuses, shall we? Yes, I think we shall.

Excuse Facet Number One! I like to read blogs. A lot of blogs. A Pandora’s Box of blogs, if you will. There is a lot of variety and a lot of talent out there, is what I’m saying. I click my way along through my Daily Blog Commute and quite honestly become a little more defeated with every blog I read…in terms of comparisons. Because, hello? I am the Queen of All Comparisons. Their posts are longer than mine, or have more pictures than mine, or are far more witty than mine, or contain more interesting content than mine, or contain bigger words than mine, or are more captivating than mine. I could go on and on. You’d be suprised how quickly I can reduce this-here website to not much more than a dusty pile of idiotic, crumbling waste. So when I go to open a new post in the shadow of - what I see as - their sheer radiance, I get a little cowery and find a reason to nervously click into another task. Scoff at my insecure sniveling, if you must. I’m just telling you like it is.

Facet Number Two! In my ravenous blog reading of late, I have come across many Subject Specific blogs. The two subjects that I am rather partial to, I am sure you will be shocked to hear, are fitness and cooking. (Don’t those two subjects go together like a match and a can of gasoline? Ha! Look! I’m witty!) And since I am rather obsessive and would absolutely love to write about cooking my way through a cookbook or training my way to a marathon, I’d been debating on whether or not I needed to transform this blog into one of the above. I, however, preferred all of the above. Personal, fitness and cooking. Because all of those things seem to comprise my every waking moment, after all. And because I find that they overlap in my approach to them. So, my inclination was to just write about whatever specific subject (cooking, current fitness hurdle, or life in general) suited my fancy at the time, but then it occured to me that I may be alienating you, dear Internet. Because who wants to read any one person’s rambling chatter about what they are in love with for more than a paragraph? No one, that’s who. But then I realized that if you don’t want to read about what makes me, me, you won’t! And that’s just fine. A personal blog is, by very definition, personal. And the things that make it personal are the very things that make a person tick. So if you don’t mind my ticking, I don’t mind sharing it with you! And if you do mind? Well then I don’t mind if you leave. Problem, solved.

Facet Number Three! That, there personal life that I hemmed and hawed about how to write about? Yeah, it definitely took a turn aiming straight for… Utterly Confusing, Twist and Turn Flipping, Worry Inducing Doozy. We found out, on vacation no less, that a very Big Fish Company is buying my Little Sniglet Company…and no one knows what that means. Will Big Company keep those of us from Little Company that hold on for dear life in the merging process? Will they let us go before the merging process begins? Will they transition us into an entirely different facet of their own company? No one knows! What I do know is that all of this unknown? Took a big ‘ole sledge hammer and started whaling away on the Knowns of Dorian’s and my future plans. We were headed to Davenport Palmer because that is where my job would transfer to. But now should we go to Florida Palmer? San Diego Palmer? A different school all together Chiropractic?! We had been on the cusp of a final decision to go forward with owning a property rather than renting before this news. So that decision was sent into a tale-spin of – will we even be able to save up the money toward the down-payment if I get laid off and all of our Saving Plans in general are foiled? And the plans of living with dear friends for six months and moving in June turned into the question of – if I get laid off now, should we move sooner so that I don’t obtain a job for four months and then move only to have to search for another job? So let me just tell you that amidst all of that? My organized blogging method of writing down post ideas as they strike was flushed down my Tailspin of Decisions Toilet.

We still don’t know anything. I’m told that we’re a few weeks closer to finding something out. But a few weeks could still be added to that. And then maybe a few weeks more. Did I mention that…NO ONE KNOWS! So all of the other decisions that we’ve been juggling are still up in the air, but I think that we’re at least mastering some sort of rhythm to their flailing. And I am finally getting back to the point where I write down an idea or two to maybe, possibly write about in a few minutes. Or a few days. You know, either-or.

All that to say, I’m back! Feeling scattered and skittish…but I’m here! Hello! How I have missed you…

Moving on!

The other night…well I suppose if we’re being technical, what with the massive lapse of time and all, since my last post…the other night, about a month ago…No wait. Hold the phone. Let me back up.

Dorian is the Master Craftsman, when it comes to hard boiled eggs. Now, you stop. I know what you’re thinking. “Uhh, Craftsman? Master? Hard boiled eggs?! Pretty sure it’s not that hard to boil an egg.” And on the surface level, I’d be forced to agree with you. I mean there’s not that much thought involved. Fill a pan with water, turn on burner, add eggs, let boil, The End. So let me modify: Dorian is the Master Craftsman at the Art of Perfecting the Hard Boiled Egg.

He’s got it down to quite a science. It’s like he’s got this internal timer and he just…knows when the eggs are done. And then he does this thing where he taps the eggs to crack the shells ever-so-gently when they are mid-boil. And that too! He can just sense when the eggs are just hard-boiled enough that cracking the shell will not impact the integrity of the final product. The first time I saw him pick an egg out of the boiling water to crack the shell, I thought maybe his shell had been a little cracked. If you know what I’m saying. “What are you doing?!” I asked…a little shrilly…just a little.

An aside? Dorian and I communicate on opposite ends of the spectrum when any sort of tension enters the picture. When I get frustrated–particularly when we’re driving or when the situation at hand involves something that is about to happen and I feel the need to stop it–I get ex-tuh-remely impatient. My normal patience level (which is negative 2,096,234) to the n-th degree. So I need a response that contains a satisfactory solution in 4 words, flat. Example – Me: Which road do I turn on? Dorian: It’s three roads up behind that big tree and…. Me: Which road is it? Dorian: It’s the one behind that big tree with the sign… Me: What is the flipping NAME OF THE ROAD?!

And poor Dorian. Poor, poor, sweet, wonderful Dorian. When he gets flustered (or, you know, pressured for an answer NOW NOW NOW), his words come tripping out of his mouth like an overly intoxicated college student trying to muster up sobriety enough to walk, one-foot-in-front-of-the-other, on the three yellow lines blurrily criss-crossing their way through his vision.

So when I walk into the kitchen and think I need to stop him before not-quite-hardened egg yolk comes shimmying out of it’s newly cracked shell, you can bet his answer was quick and firm. “Just TRUST me, OKAY?!” And wouldn’t you know? He fulfilled my 4 word limit.

And the next morning, the brilliance of his method became screamingly evident. I rapped the shell against the counter a few times, picked at a broken piece, and the rest of the shell slid off in one piece. I had never had a hard boiled egg that peeled that easily. I assume it goes without saying that from then on, I kept out of the kitchen when that boy was fixin’ the eggs.

So, with that background, let’s venture back to that night. About a month ago. Lay off me! I’ve got my reasons for being scarce!

Dorian was working his magic with the hard boiled eggs. He’d finished and was letting the water cool a bit before taking them out of the pan, and I began marveling about how impressed I was with the way the eggs peeled. I regailed him with the story of how quickly and easily my breakfast came together in the morning. And at that point, he jumped up, realizing he’d forgotten the key component for the Easy Peel. He’d forgotten to crack the eggs! So he turned the burner back on. I wondered why he didn’t just crack the shell, rather than boiling them again. I was worried that they’d be overly-boiled. But I’d learned my lesson. Eggs were his thing and I was keeping my mouth shut.

About twenty minutes later, we made our way to bed and quickly fell asleep. I didn’t think twice about checking the burner, because, if you will recall…I mind my own business when it comes to the hard boiling of the eggs. And wouldn’t you know it? An hour and a half later, I woke up to the heart-attack inducing sound of a shot being fired IN OUR KITCHEN. I flew out of the covers, throwing on every single light in my path. On my way to the kitchen, I could hear the savage sizzling and popping of the eggs that had once been engulfed in a water bath. I grabbed the pan off the stove, flipped off the burner and filled the pan with water.

Everything ended up being fine. The pan was slightly damaged, but still usable. Our nerves were more than a little frazzled, but hey, what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, right? In the weeks that followed, we were a little (read: Crazy, psychotically) anal about making sure everything on the stove was turned off, and…I’d be lying if I said that Dorian didn’t receive a few teasing reminders to ensure that all burners were off whenever he left the kitchen. But that is neither here nor there. The next day, when I came home for lunch, I discovered the egg responsible for the volatile awakening. It had exploded, clean in half, throwing the yolk into the air…and across the kitchen. That finding started a week long adventure of the great egg-shard scavenger hunt. There were egg particles everywhere.

About a week later, I experienced the jarring realization that – I had run straight out of the bedroom, into the kitchen under the assumption that either a.) shots were being fired or b.) something had been dropped in a way that could only indicate that someone had done the dropping. I can’t imagine I would have escaped a scenario like that, unscathed. And it really worried me that my knee-jerk reaction was to go straight into what could have been a dangerous situation. But then I remembered that I had smelled burning and that was why I’d run straight to the kitchen. So…at least the mad dash into the ”dangerous situation” was along the lines of something that I could be pro-active with. There’s not really any logical reason to run head first into a robber with a gun.

I am currently muching on one, as my afternoon snack. And I feel like a “healthy snack” shouldn’t be this sinfully delicious! Can you imagine how incredible a home-made apple pie would be with these suckers?! Dorian! It’s official! I am getting a rolling pin and a pastry cutter this weekend! And I will be assembling an apple pie worth drooling over! That is…if any of the apples actually make it into the pie…heh. What? I can’t help it that I LIKE TO MUNCH.

My enjoyment of apples, however, can never be too extensive. I have an extremely sensitive stomach, you see. And the acidity of the apple makes me feel rather like keeling over whilst grabbing at my stomach and groaning my way into a snively puddle. Le sigh. So I am hoping that this big glass of water along with a trail mix chaser will do the trick of distracting my stomach long enough for the acidity pains to sneak their way through without registering.

Well, it is Friday, and I am very happy about that, indeed. We’ve got quite a jam-packed weekend including my having to come in to work on Sunday. But I never mind things like that. Just the opposite, actually. I’m glad that there is enough work to be done and that my hand in accomplishing the tasks is enough of an asset to require me to pull some extra hours. Plus, those hours will go quite nicely toward my vacation time…which is coming in SEVEN DAYS. Wahoo! and jumping up and down! and excitement! and all that jazz. No really, I am very excited…I think I just need to get through the next few hectic work days to be able to bask in the excitement.

Alright, back to the grind! What are your plans for this weekend?

Anyways!

I gave him a jersey. And he skipped around the apartment in sheer glee. And laid it carefully on the couch, where it stayed until we returned from Traverse City. Upon returning, we tried to decide where to put the jersey, where it would be safe in our time of limbo between Grand Rapids and Iowa. Eventually, it will be framed and proudly displayed in Dorian’s man-cave, er, office!

Finding a place to house the jersey in our apartment has proved to be a rather difficult task. Our apartment is twee, you see. And we are trying to avoid putting any more holes in the walls as we will be vacating the apartment in the next couple months and would like not to create extra work for ourselves (you know, such as, filling in random holes in the walls). Dorian finally decided to put it on a hanger and hang it on the ledge above our closet so that he can stare at it as he falls asleep and he can have sweet dreams of Jim Kelly prancing around in his REM cycle.

And, last night – the first night in quite some time that Dorian has been gone for the evening and I’ve had to go to bed alone – the placement of that-there jersey was the catalyst of what proved to be a quite heart-attack-inducing string of events. I’d made it through the entire evening with not even a hint of nerves or worry. I was able to bask in the uninterrupted time for accomplishing skads of tasks – such as, laundry, yoga, dusting, cleaning the bathroom, making some dinner, straightening a few cupboards, watching way too much of The Office, and really enjoying the peace and quiet. It wasn’t until going through my final rounds of straightening up the apartment and turning off lights to head for bed that it even occurred to me that I would have to lay in that ominously dark bedroom, all by lonesome with no Louisville Slugger to protect myself with.

I quickly brushed that thought away and was absolutely fine until…oh until. I turned off the bedroom lights, flipped on the TV and laid down in bed…and realized that the remote was on top of the TV. So I got out of bed, snatched the remote, turned around and peed my pants because THERE WAS A PERSON! IN THE CLOSET! STANDING THERE JUST STARING AT ME! AND ALL I HAD FOR PROTECTION WAS A TEENSY REMOTE! I blinked and jerked and started moving hastily toward the door until I realized, oh no. It’s just that damned jersey. I took a deep, steadying breath, glared at the jersey, turned the lights back on just to be sure that there wasn’t, in fact, a psychotic murderer in the closet, turned them back off and laid down again. I mumbled something about needing to get that thing framed and hung ASAP. Holes in the walls, be darned. And then of course, because my nerves were shot, I heard every single noise that could possibly occur. Including phantom stomping up the stairs outside of our apartment and thumping on our door.

Even though it took a while, I was finally able to fall asleep. That is, until the murderer thundered into our room and savagely grabbed my foot, causing me to sit bolt upright in bed, swinging my arms, panting heavily and mumbling the kinds of sounds that only someone not-quite-awake can make…or, you know…it was just Dorian who gently tip-toed his way into our bedroom, whispering my name the entire time and gently carressed my foot. He’s a wise man, that one. Knowing (from experience) to touch my foot when waking me up rather than being close to my arms. Heart attack, indeed. Once I woke up enough to register that it was only Dorian coming home from his meetings, he had to sit on the bed with me and comfort me until my heart stopped hammering in my chest and my arms stopped shaking.

You may wonder why he didn’t just let me sleep. And I would agree with you, except that…well, we’ve discovered the hard way that if he attempts to slide into bed next to me when I’m already asleep, someone gets injured. It has been proved that the heart attack is rather unavoidable. I will be startled awake if I’ve fallen asleep alone. But if he wakes me up from a standing position, he can at least have a bit more control over the Fight or Flight syndrome that completely takes over my body.

So I have good intentions. I open up a post, poise my hands over the keyboard, rack my brain as to what I could possibly prattle on about today, and then decide, “Ehhhh…let’s find another recipe I can’t make because what the heck is a shallot?!”

I think I also feel discouraged when it comes to writing material because really, life hasn’t consisted of much “material” lately. And the things I do have enough hot air to blow about are either really ranty or along the lines of thoughts I wouldn’t want to broadcast in a public forum.

Here is my boring Rolodex of Material I Could Write About, but Mentally Trash Because Hello?! BORING.

• Liking Dorian
• Life with Dorian
• Wanting to punch Dorian for being a yucky boy
• Work
• Being annoyed with work
• Really liking my job but feeling a bit stifled as I have no idea how to excel
• Cooking/Baking
• Love/hate relationship with cooking/baking or, rather, the money required for it
• Physical Therapy
• All of the physical therapy and holy cow with the physical therapy
• Rock hard muscles…and not in any cool, hot-bod kind of way…but more in the Physical Therapy, kind of way
• P90X
• Obsession with working out
• Nobody else wants to hear ONE MORE THING about my obsession with working out
• They will forever abandon our friendship, THEY SWEAR
• Or at least, I would be annoyed with me if I had to listen to every single whine and gripe and complaint about how unhappy I am with my appearance
• Disney/Vacation
• Feeling guilty for talking about Disney/Vacation because not everyone gets such a great opportunity to go on such a grande trip and I don’t want to come across as rubbing it in
• Driving
• I do not at all like how angry driving makes me. I would never ever say or think the things I do in my car if I actually had to deal with the consequences of someone hearing.
• Oh, oh – and Palmer. And Moving. But those things really don’t count yet because we don’t actually even have to DO anything even semi-related to either until January…JANUARY
• Am extremely impatient to get the ball rolling on both things

See? This is my boring life, let me show it to you.