Yes, Regina, there is a Santa Claus.

It was just about three (or four?) years ago, and my husband and I were settled in for our annual Christmas visit with his family. As we sat around, sprawled out on sofas, chatting comfortably about a variety of topics, sipping toddies and throwing good-natured jabs, the conversation turned to the moment we all first realized that there wasn't really a Santa Claus. Stories of disappointment and devastation. My sister-in-law lamented that she'd spent at least two years pretending to believe in Santa after she'd realized the truth in order not to hurt her mother's feelings. As for myself? "I never believed in Santa," I said. Shocked utterances and stares of disbelief were immediately thrown my way, as I explained that my parents had tried very hard to keep Christmas a holy day, as opposed to a secular holiday. We still had presents and cookies and went to Santa's Village to pet the reindeer. We still watched Frosty the Snowman and How the Grinch Stole Christmas every year, but the emphasis of Christmas at our house was on angles, God, and stories of stars leading the wise men to the Nativity. I knew that Santa Claus wasn't any more real than the people dressed as Micky and Goofy at Disney World. But you should have heard the uproar when I announced that I had no intentions of deluding my own future children with such nonsense either.

"You can't do that! You'd be robbing your kids of their childhood! You'd be taking the magic of Christmas away from them!" There arose such a clatter that I nearly dropped my Christmas beverage. I looked at my husband for support, but he was staring at me like I was a total stranger. Apparently this was a topic that should have been discussed prior to our vows.

The debate fired on for quite some time, as I was accused of being heartless and un-American. My nephew said he'd never been much for Santa until he saw the joy and wonder on the face of his younger brother, and that however short-lived, he couldn't fathom taking that joy away from him. My sister-in-law was on my side, stating that she didn't want her kids to suffer the same inevitable disappointment that she did. I recalled a story from my own childhood in which I'd told some kids at school that Santa wasn't real, and how silly and naive I'd thought they were. ("You think some guy comes down the chimney with your presents? Your parents buy them, dummy.") This particular story didn't do much to bolster my image, but I maintained that I'd rather my kid be me in that scenario than the one who went home in tears.

All that said, NOT believing in Santa has not left me damaged, unpatriotic, or "scrooged" in any way. In fact, you'd be hard-pressed to find a bigger Christmas sap than me. I love to decorate, I love looking at lights, I love having a real tree (the bigger the better), I love the sound of the Salvation Army bells ringing, I even love the mall at Christmastime. The decorations, the people rushing around buying gifts for loved ones, and the smell of the Karmelkorn as you come in the west doors. Smells! Talk about smells. Cookies baking, cider simmering, turkey in the oven, my fresh-cut tree warming in the house. Those things don't smell the same at any other time of year. The same family that accused me of being heartless and anti-Santa had never even seen A Christmas Story until I came into their lives. (Talk about un-American! How does that even happen?) I will keep the Christmas music station on in my car from Thanksgiving until Christmas day, and no, I never get sick of it. I will watch fluffy heartwarming Hallmark Christmas movies one after the next, and I there has never once, ever, in all my 33 years, been an occasion on which I have not teared up at the end of It's A Wonderful Life. Ever.

The irony is that even though I never believed in Santa Claus, I do believe in Christmas magic. (And really, what's the difference?) It's the feeling you get when you plug in the very first strand of lights, or when you see a child come in from playing in the snow, red-faced and sweaty, ready for hot chocolate. It's seeing someone quickly shove a twenty into the red kettle instead of change, or pass up a good parking spot because they know that another car has been cruising the lot for 10 minutes already. What's more magical than that? (Especially in North Dakota.) On Christmas day, a child was born that would change the world. He brought hope and possibility into the world in a way that only a child can. And that's magic. I believe in God, even though I can't see Him or prove He's real. Faith is believing in something, even when common sense tells you not to. It's every bit as hard to prove there is a Santa as it is to prove there is a God, and if you believe in one, then why not the other? If I'm ever faced with the wide eyes of a child, asking me if Santa Claus is real, I guess I'll just have to be honest. No one really knows, so....maybe he is. ;)

Merry Christmas!

The mid-life crisis continues...

Remember when you were young, and your birthday was the most exciting thing in the world? I was always confused by adults not wanting to celebrate their birthdays, or getting mad when I asked how old they were. (Probably because thirty-five was an unimaginably high number that I hadn't even leaned to count to in school yet. I'm sure my gasps and, "Whoa, you're old!"s were not appreciated.) Yeah. Those were the good old days. (No pun intended.)

I have at last reached the age of dreading my birthday. It looms in the distance like a storm on the horizon. I swear, I hear thunder in the distance. I hear ominous church bells tolling in my brain, growing louder and louder as each day passes, and I grow yet another day closer to death. Cake and ice cream? With my ever-slowing metabolism? Are you kidding me? Completely out of the question. (I'll take my calories in liquid form, thank you very much.)

Why is it so hard to get older? Is it the agony of watching my face and body change, ever so slowly, and painfully irreversibly, each day in the mirror? Isn't age just a number? Or is it really a numerical reminder that after three decades, I have no kids, no "career", and NO -count them, no- Academy Awards? Not even a Tony. It's funny how I never realized what a fountain of wasted potential I am until I turned 30. And here I am, three years later, desperately trying to recapture something that I feel I've lost.

I have officially entered the Mid-Life Crisis Zone.

A lot of people scoff  at this and snap, "You're too young to have a mid-life crisis." I beg to differ. I feel the term "mid-life" isn't necessarily applicable to the actual  age of the stricken, it's more a state of mind concurrent with the desire to be younger, no matter what the reason. Like when a new baby arrives in the household, and all of a sudden your 5-year-old wants to sleep in his crib and drink from a bottle again. Call it an "age crisis", if you prefer.

My age crisis started right around 30, and over the past few years has manifested itself in the form of no fewer than three tattoos, two piercings, two job changes, an eyebrow-raising hobby (pole dancing), a change of hair-color that has included both feathers and blue streaks, and an uncontrollable urge to wear fishnets and leopard-print apparel. I briefly toyed with the notion of getting a motorcycle, but my husband finally put his foot down and said I could have a motorcycle or a classic car, but not both. And someday, I'm GETTING that car. So the motorcycle is off the table at the moment. I've also taken a recent liking to antiques, something I've always admired, but never bought or collected. I can only assume that this (combined with too much History Channel) stems from a desire to feel younger by surrounding myself with things that are older than I am.

I think a large part of my crisis has to do with appearance, which may sound vain, but I think any and all females begin to experience this at some point. I have multiple friends who've already gone under the knife, needle, and suction-tube in an effort to slow the clock. You wake up one morning, and suddenly there's a stranger in the mirror. A banged-up version of your former self, with circles under her eyes, cellulite-y thighs hanging out of her shorts, weird little wrinkles you never noticed before, and an army of grey hairs that you'd swear weren't there yesterday. Suddenly spending a hundred bucks at the salon seems like a deal. Anything to hide the grey! Anti-wrinkle creams and moisturizers are a must. Time travel in a jar, you say? Sign me up! Facial peels, Botox, eye-lifts...whatever it costs, I'll pay it! After all, can you really put a price on your face?! There's got to be a way, you tell yourself. I am Ponce de Leon. He died searching for the fountain of youth, and likely, so will I.

One day I was shopping, and as I passed rack after rack of skinny jeans and t-shirts that screamed, "Your boyfriend thinks I'm hot", I realized that the age gap between me and the person who'd actually wear that stuff is probably over fifteen years. Shopping with my young cousin at Hot Topic, I realized that I was the oldest person in the store. Even the manager looked too young to vote. It was like a wrecking ball to the gut. I was originally thrilled when Forever 21 opened in the mall, and now even the name of the store sounds like a cruel irony. Am I too old to shop in juniors? Is the twenty-something on the other side of the rack looking at me sideways, thinking, what is SHE doing here? Am I officially relegated to the misses section, where instead of hoodies, the racks boast shapeless cardigans and shoulder-padded blazers? And they sell jeans with *gulp* elastic waistbands??? NOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!! IT'S NOT FAIR!!! I WON'T DO IT. 

I'm 33 years old. My bucket list is three pages long, and I WILL keep crossing things off. I vow to embrace what remains of my youth. I will hold fast to the notion that I'm only as old as I feel, and I WILL BUY whatever clothes I want. After all, now that I'm a grown-up, I can afford them. I'll get as many stupid tattoos and piercings as I want, and I'm not going to give a rat's ass how they'll look when I'm 80. I'm going to spend ridiculous amounts of money on anti-aging serums and cute underwear, because self-esteem is priceless. I'm going to get drunk at concerts and sing at the top of my lungs. I'm going to put up a pole in my living room, and hang upside down on it! I'm going to see the world. And I'm going to have the time of my life until they pry the '49 Chevy Fastback keys from my cold, dead hands.

And THAT, my friends, is my happy birthday to me! :)

I didn't know her well, and now I never will.

I went to a funeral today.

My second one in less than a week, actually, and my third one this summer. I sure wish people would quit dying. This constant reminder of humankind's inevitable mortality is one I do not welcome. I don't want to think about having to bury my parents, my husband, or my friends. In my mind, we are all going to live forever. Death is supposed to be for television and movies, not for those I love.

The church was hot and stuffy today. I noticed fans on the ceiling, but either they didn't work or no one thought to turn them on, which was a shame. Fanning my sweaty, tear stained face with a program, I wondered if it was disrespectful to use a photo of the deceased to keep my makeup from melting off of my face. I didn't know M. well. As a matter of fact, I didn't even recognize her by name until I searched for her facebook profile, and when her smiling face popped up in front of me I was surprised to realize that I did remember her. I've dealt blackjack in 11 different bars over a span of 7 or 8 years (but who's counting), and  I've seen dozens upon dozens of cocktail waitresses and bartenders, djs and door guys. And I am not kidding when I say I wouldn't know most of them from a stranger in the street. But I do remember M. She was a shot girl at a bar that I dealt at a year and a half ago. In my memory, M. was "the one with the fabulous shoes and the great legs." I probably only spoke to her a couple of times, but I definitely remember her. My eyes would follow her as she pranced around the bar with her shot tray, wearing 6-inch heels and having a great time. It made me smile to watch her, because it takes a real commitment to work in shoes like that. She claimed her feet never got sore, which, if that was true, she was lucky! Lol. M. was a head-turner, and not just because she had great legs and a beautiful smile. She really had a sparkle. She looked so fun and full of life. A hundred pictures of her were pinned up at the funeral, all showing the same girl I remember. A girl who bore no resemblance at all to the one lying silent and still in the casket next to them.

The cacophony of sniffles and ragged breaths all but drowned out the pastor as she stated with absolute certainty that M. is resting safely in God's arms. She told those gathered that there was nothing that they could have done, there was no way to see this coming. My uncle passed away last week, falling victim to cancer that moved much more quickly than expected. He left behind a young widow and a 15-year old daughter. He won't celebrate a 20th anniversary with my aunt, and he won't experience the joy of one day walking my cousin down the aisle. Still. His funeral was his loved ones, solemnly saying their goodbyes. M.'s funeral was a gathering of shell-shocked family and friends, united in grief and confusion. How do you wrap your head around something like someone you care for choosing to end their own life? My uncle lost his battle to stay alive. M. chose instead to surrender to her demons. Is that an act of selfishness? Or an act of selflessness, where one truly believes that others will be better off without them? We'll never know. And I'll never understand.

Today was a reminder to me that we may not always realize the ways in which we touch other peoples' lives. Obviously, M. had no idea what her death would do to the people around her. Or that someone like me would shed tears over her passing. But heartache is blind to reason. And whatever was going on in her head and in her heart that caused her so much grief and despair can no longer be helped. A young life, cut short. I hope that through their confusion her family and friends can take some solace in the fact that in God's embrace, M. has found the peace she was looking for.

Golf Digesting

Yesterday... I GOLFED. Most people wouldn't understand the significance of that two-word statement, but then again, most people don't have the personal history with the sport that I do. There's a reason it's in capital letters. When I say it in my head, it's in a loud, booming voice that echos and shakes the walls of my brain until the plaster cracks and the picture frames fall to the floor.

I. GOLFED. Boom!

My lackluster golf career began the day I turned nine years old, and my father gifted me with my own set of clubs, a box of neon pink golf balls, and a beautiful lavender canvas golf bag. His eyes shone with pride as I slung the bag over my shoulder and pranced out to the backyard to immediately begin taking practice swings. It was exciting! Being old enough to golf was kind of a big thing in my family, and I knew my dad was excited to have a little golfer of his own. We'd go to the driving range together, or off to the local nine-hole course to spend time together and hone my skills. It soon became obvious however, that I had no skills. Even for a gawky kid, my golf game was frightfully sub-par. (No pun intended.) But I kept at it. Over the next couple of years I took lessons, played in some small tournaments, and continued to play occasionally with my dad and younger brother, who was now also old enough to play on the local courses. Every time I swung a club it was with more and more spite. I truly despised golf. I was terrible. And worse than being terrible was the fact that each time I played it was no less terrible than the last time had been. I wasn't getting any better, and I really had no desire to. I didn't have any idea why my dad liked this game. Hauling a backbreaking load of clubs up and down hills of scratchy grass while the sun scorched my face and the mosquitoes and the no-see'ems relentlessly attacked from all sides? Chasing down that tiny white devil-ball that, no matter how many practice sessions, no matter how many pointers, no matter how my mind begged- simply refused to go the direction that I tried to hit it? This was supposed to be fun? Were they kidding?? Worst. Game. EVER!!! I'd rather watch paint dry. So I started turning down Dad's invitations to play. I let him take my brother to the courses without me, and I opted to stay home and read, do homework, do housework,  do anything. I hated being a disappointment to my father, but I hated golf more.

The last straw came in the form of the first and only 18-hole tournament I ever played. Dad had informed me that a co-worker's daughters were playing and they needed a fourth for their team. One of them was in my grade at school, so I said ok, more as a favor to him than anything. It wasn't my first choice of how to spend a Saturday, but how bad could it be, right? Maybe it would be fun.

WRONG. It was AWFUL. Literally one of most humiliating experiences of my young life. I still remember the smell of the grass. It was this awful, pungent, suffocating smell that radiated in waves from the ground and made my entire body itch. I remember staring down at my feet, trudging up and down the fairways, wishing I'd worn different shoes. The nail of my big toe was wearing through a thin spot of canvas on my sneaker, and I vividly recall watching it grow to a gaping hole as the day wore endlessly on. Making matters worse was the fact that I'd had no idea that this was a fairly serious tournament. The girls I was teamed up with looked perfectly at home on the course, shining brightly in their pristine polo shirts and smartly pressed khaki shorts. They had big fancy golf bags that stood at attention in their stands, and wore actual golf spikes. I'd shown up in a t-shirt. My purple bag, once a happy shade of lilac, was now dirty from being thrown to the ground countless times. The shoulder strap was dingy from so many afternoons spent resting against my sweaty neck. Everything about me felt cheap and grimy. I was way out of my league here. They girls were nice enough to me, and since I was personally holding up the entire tournament with each and every hole, they started mercifully letting me stop taking swings at 20. At some point, I think I blacked out. I have no recollection of finishing the tournament- I'm not even sure I DID finish. I know the other girls did. They all played golf in high school, and one of them would eventually go on to become one of the few female golf pros in the country. For me, it was it was just a really, really bad day. And it was the last time I'd swing a club for the next 18 years.

What instigated the change in my opinion of golf? Nothing really. I still find it stuffy and intimidating, and the scars that golf inflicted on my childhood are everlasting. However, it seems that I'm practically the only person I know who doesn't golf. My friends, my family, my co-workers, everyone I know thinks golf is just fabulous, so perhaps it was time for me to give this "gentleman's sport" another chance. I started slow, called up my father and with a deep breath asked him if he'd take me to the driving range sometime. Of course he was fairly overjoyed (he'd been waiting for this call for nearly two decades), and we went out on a nice morning to hit a few balls. To my surprise, I actually hit some of them pretty respectably. Dad was sweet and encouraging, full of compliments on my form, and reassurances that even the pros have trouble with their backswing. All in all, the experience was a good one, and I surprised myself by honestly enjoying it. I made it a point to include "playing a game of golf" on my 2012 New Year's Resolution list, and when the opportunity presented itself to play in a not-so-serious tournament with some co-workers, I decided this was my chance. Armed with a polo and matchign argyle socks, I was ready. The time had come.

My return to the game of golf was heralded with less than ideal weather. Chilly, drizzly, with gale-force winds gusting from every direction. It didn't matter which way we turned, or how many trees we tried to hide behind, there was no escaping the tornadic conditions. The wind sent our hats flying, swept away our score cards, and chilled us to the bone. It was pretty rough, but the beverage cart provided some ease to the pain. We drank enough to stay warm, and coincidentally, it was enough to make me forget that golf was once my enemy. I was able to play terribly yet still enjoy the time with my friends. Hit the ball in the water? Oh well, grab another one. Miss an easy putt? Not a big deal. Fall out of the cart once or twice? No one cares. The realization that our group was holding up the teams behind us (flashback!!!) combined with the loss of our score cards, and the fact that two of my foursome had become engaged in some sort of domestic quarrel led to our team calling it quits after about 10 holes. No matter. The smile stayed on my face for the remainder of the evening. I felt I'd really, truly achieved something. I realize that most people wouldn't consider playing terrible golf and quitting in the middle of a tournament anything worth writing home about, but for me? This was momentous! EPIC! A milestone. I could go to bed knowing that I'd accomplished a personal goal, and finally beat the golf demons that had been haunting me for so many years.

In short: I came. I golfed. I conquered.

A Soldier's Pride

Every once in a while, an event sticks in your mind. Random, haphazard, cosmically accidental moments that in the greater scheme of life should mean nothing, yet somehow become permanently ingrained in one's mind.

It was Memorial Day a few years ago, and at the time, I was stuck in a job that regarded such holidays off as a privilege instead of a basic American right. Wanting to escape my soul-sucking cubicle for a while, I decided to hit the mall and run a quick errand on my lunch break. After successfully completing a film drop-off at Ritz One-Hour, I had just a few minutes to haul-ass to my car and race back to work in order to clock in before my break was over.

As I was speed-walking towards the nearest exit, I glanced up in time to see an elderly man poke his head through the door, and emerge into the hallway dressed in full army regalia. Wrapped up in my own petty issues, and tied to a job that treated it like any other Monday, I'd completely forgotten it was Memorial Day.  My brain blinked as the pieces clicked together, and I wondered randomly if he'd come from some kind of Memorial Day service, or if he was simply proud to wear his uniform on the holiday created to honor soldiers. His holiday. Although he must have been in his seventies, he cut such a striking figure that I forgot where I was, and my step stuttered as I momentarily halted my pace. The soldier stopped and looked around, scanning the storefronts on either side. On any other day, he might have looked like an old man out of his element, no doubt waiting uncomfortably for his wife to emerge from JC Penny's carrying an armload of support hose. But not today. Today his gaze was sharp. He stood taller than usual, and with a pride I can't describe. With his shoulders wide and back straight, he strolled with a smooth gait my direction. As I walked closer, I could see that his uniform was perfectly pressed. His black shoes were polished to a high gloss, and the reflection of the lights above made them flash and shine as he walked. He radiated such authority, I had to fight the urge to salute. As we finally passed each other, I smiled his direction. As he playfully returned the smile, he nodded his head and touched the brim of his hat. The years fell away from his face, and his eyes sparkled with the same glint they must have had when he was a young man, decades ago.

I pushed the door open and crashed into the sunshine. The moment was over.

I don't know anything about that soldier, where he served, or what heroic feats he may or may not have performed. I don't know how many friends he lost in the war, or whether or not his sweetheart was faithful while he was away. All I know is that on that Memorial Day, he wasn't just an old man. He was an American soldier who stood up and walked with pride in his service to this country. And that pride was as tall and strong as any monument ever built.

Please remember those that have given their time and lives in the name of freedom. It's a gift we take for granted, never having had to live without it. Happy Memorial Day.

Dear Walmart:

To whom it may concern (including but not exclusively- Walmart owners, management, and relevant staff.):

While shopping in your store today, I experienced the most concerning of incidents. Having completed my shopping, I stood in line at the checkout, waiting patiently for the cashier to complete the ringing-up process for the customer ahead of me. Not that it matters, but I couldn't help but notice the customer's child crying (loudly) about some unicorn game she was trying to play on her mother's iphone. Who gives their screaming three-year-old an iphone to play with? Ever hear of an Etch-a-Sketch? Or anything that isn't two-hundred-bucks-down-the-drain when she gets cranky and pitches it across the store?

I digress. I set my basket of items on the conveyor belt, and as it rolled towards the cashier, she pulled it to her, and instead of grabbing the items out of the basket one at a time to ring them up, she turned the basket completely upside down and carelessly DUMPED its entire contents onto the conveyor belt. She even gave the basket a couple of hard shakes before declaring, "Yep. That's everything." My jaw dropped as three huge bottles of body wash and shampoo (which were on the bottom of the basket) crashed and smashed into the loaf of bread and bag of buns (which were obviously on top), and the bunch of bananas that I had carefully selected went flying across the pile and bounced to a stop on the edge of the counter. Then, just for good measure, Angie (or so her name tag proclaimed) grabbed the loaf of bread and buns and chucked them to the far end of the conveyor belt before she began running my items across the scanner.

Now, I've never worked at Walmart, and therefore am not privy to training techniques, but I can say without hesitation that never in my twenty years of patronage have I witness such an action. (And I have certainly never had such an experience at TARGET.) I realize that not everyone is having their best day while at work, and sometimes our personal lives affect our attitudes. I never fault a cashier at ANY establishment for not greeting me with a smile, or not attempting casual chit-chat. And I'm certainly not upset if they fail to wish me the obligatory, "Have a nice day." I'm not an unreasonable person. However, I draw the line at physical abuse of my groceries. I shop at Walmart for two reasons: it's cheap, and it's open 24 hours. And until someone else can beat the hours or the prices, I'll probably continue to shop there...unless the disgruntled employees continue to treat my purchases like roadside trash. I'm sorry, ANGIE, if your dog died. I'm sorry if your husband left you for his secretary, or if your daughter is a toothless crack whore who stole your credit card to pay for frozen pizza and meth ingredients. I'm just a customer who showed up for some Village Hearth and a couple bottles of Suave. I don't need any special treatment, I don't want to be your best friend, I don't even care if you're polite. I just want to get out of the store with my purchased items intact. I'm sorry if your life sucks, I'm really really sorry that your hair is in that grey straggly mess. (Have a little pride in your appearance for God's sake! You don't have to look like a 'People of Walmart' photo just because you work there.) And mostly, I'm sorry that you work at Walmart. But if you don't like your job, fucking get a new one and stop taking out your frustrations on my bananas!!!

Extreme Home Makeover: PART ONE.

Lately I've been dealing with the uncontrollable urge to make some changes. It's part of my mid-life crises, I  know it is. (That's the rational part of me talking.) Maybe it's psychological, or hormonal, whatever. I like to think of it as cosmic. The planets are lined up all weird, and their combined gravitational force is messing with my chakra. (Just kidding, I don't even know what a chakra is. Or if that's even how you spell it.) I get this constant feeling that I'm standing in the middle of a stagnant pond, up to my shins in murky water, hands on hips, staring at my surroundings saying to myself, "Well, this sucks. Now what do I do?" It is an itch that simply must be scratched.

I have to do something, but what? First, I changed my hair. And I love it, but it wasn't quite enough. So, it's TIME TO REDECORATE MY HOUSE! Not the main parts, but the bedrooms. And bathrooms. I HATE my bedroom. Which is really sad, because I think that a person's bedroom should be the place they most desire to be. When I was a kid, I loved spending time in my room. I loved being surrounded by my own things, listening to music or reading my books. It was the only space I could truly say was my own. My corner of the universe. Nowadays, my bedroom sucks. It's dark and dusty, and so incredibly beige that I want to gag. I have put my time and effort into the parts of the house that other people see, it seems that it has finally caught up with me. My bedroom is gross. ALL the bedrooms are gross! They need to be painted, two out of three need new carpet, and the guest rooms have become more like storage rooms for my unending collection of Crap That Has No Home. One of the "guest bedrooms" doesn't even actually contain a bed. (Yeah. I know.) And I don't even want to TALK about the bathrooms. Broken curtain rod, halfway-stripped wallpaper, wiggly towel bars...*shudder*.

I always have a problem getting started on projects like this. In my mind it seems like such a massive undertaking that I become overwhelmed at the mere thought and inevitably decide to scratch the entire thing. But it seems that here, in Mid-Life Crisis mode, accomplishing things is extremely therapeutic. Last week, I officially started redecorating Guest Bedroom #1. I took some art that I'd purchased to Michael's and ordered a custom frame. Then I went to TJ Maxx looking for a new shower curtain, but instead I came out with two throw pillows and a (rather ridiculous) accent chair. I think once you've committed to a piece of furniture like a periwinkle blue chenille corner chair, you're pretty much bound by invisible self-contract to proceed with project. So, proceed I will.

Project #1: Painting the Guest Room
In my 32 years, I have not painted so much as a fence post. How hard can it be? I know people that paint their own walls, and it seems to be no problem for them to do it, so why can't I? And according to the encouraging smiles of the Home Depot employees on television, anyone can do it with the proper tools. (Right?) I have a full can of leftover paint from a couple of years ago, when we had the main areas of our house professionally painted. I have no clue how long paint lasts, but I figure I'll be able to tell if it's still good when I open the can. (Right?) So I picked myself up and went to Home Depot. A more terrifying store, I have never seen. It's basically a floor-to-ceiling nightmare of items I cannot identify, or have only a vague idea of their intended use. I marched purposefully over to the paint section and stared up and down the giant wall of paint supplies, hoping I appear to be a person who knows exactly what they're looking for.  I figure I'll need a couple of brushes, a roller, and a paint tray. No problem. (Right?) There are about a million to choose from, and seeing as how I have absolutely no clue what kind I should get, I finally settle on a set that comes with a couple of rollers, a small brush, and a reusable tray. They range in price from ten to twenty dollars, so I finally grab a cheap one and an expensive one, and ask an employee what the difference is. After all, they're the experts. (Right?) Without looking up, he points to the more expensive of the two sets. "That one's better." Oh. Ok then. Feeling too stupid to inquire with the "expert" about any actual paint, (as Project #2 will involve Painting the Bathroom), I grab my supplies and head to the checkout. The clerk smiled at me, "Have fun!" she said cheerfully. RIGHT.

Today, I started painting. Without a real plan of attack, I taped around the window and the baseboards, and as an afterthought, along the ceiling. I took off the outlet covers and the light switch cover, and took down the curtain rod. I figure I'll start with one wall, and see what happens. Rather than take all of the furniture out of the room, I shoved it all to one side, and piled stuff on the bed. I cranked up some music, and started shaking up my two-year-old can of paint. As I cracked off the lid, the paint appeared to be in usable condition, so I stirred it up, and dove in.

Guess what? PAINTING IS HARD. My arm got tired immediately, as I was trying so hard to paint clean lines around the window and along the floor. The fumes were a bit stifling, and I was working up a sweat, so I cracked a window and continued on. Once I got out the big roller and started covering larger areas of the wall at once, I was pleased to see how quickly I made progress, and was happily thinking, "This isn't so bad." Then I took a step back. What had appeared to be a solid, even coat of paint looked patchy and amateur. My attempts to even out the thin spots seemed to make them worse. The paint got slightly darker as it dried, so when I tried to touch up a spot or two, the fresh paint appeared a different color, and I couldn't tell if I'd fixed the problem or made it worse. In addition to that, I was moving along much faster than I thought I would, and was faced with the problem that I'd only taped half the room, and there was a ton of furniture that would need to be moved if I were to keep going, and I really had nowhere to put it. Plus, I apparently SUCK at painting, so should I even continue? What's the point if it's gong to look like crap, and I'll have to pay someone to paint over it anyway? Finally, I made the obvious choice. I called my mommy.

She advised me to seal up the roller with plastic wrap, put the lid back on the paint, and she will be over in the morning to help. God bless her! I only have half a can of paint left, so she'll review my work and help me paint the remaining walls. If we run out of paint, or if the patchiness of my work cannot be fixed, there's always Plan B. *ominous music*....Wallpaper.

My Uterus, My Business.

It's been recently brought to my attention that I'm a defective member of society.

I'm a married, healthy, fully-educated, gainfully employed, god-fearing, taxpaying citizen. However, being 32 years old and having no children apparently renders me useless in the eyes of certain people who seem to believe that reproduction is the reason for human existence.

Don't get me wrong, I like children. I may even have a couple someday. But seriously, what is the deal with some people? Right now, at this point in my life, I am in no way mentally or emotionally prepared to be a mother. And I'm pretty sure that it's MY choice (and my husband's) to decide when and if we have kids, and no one else's. The problem has ensued due to extremely nosy (although well-meaning) family members who can't seem to keep their mouths shut about my husband and my childless status. Whether behind our backs or straight to our faces, the topic of my uterus is traditionally a hot topic at family gatherings, and I just DON'T get it. Why is it any concern of anyone else's when and if my husband I and I choose to start a family? I love my life the way that it is. I like my job, and my husband I and enjoy the fact that our time is our own. We can travel if we want to, without worrying about a baby-sitter or the kids missing school. We can buy a completely impractical vehicle if we want to, without worrying that it doesn't have side airbags or room for a car seat. We can spend a Sunday afternoon sipping margaritas on a patio somewhere without the constantly worrying that we are responsible for a small helpless human's survival.

It would be one thing if someone were to politely inquire if my husband and I plan on a family someday. It's a perfectly natural question that I am willing to answer without hesitation. But battling with repeated and increasingly upsetting remarks from family members that know full well what my feelings are on the matter is straight-up ridiculous. I've been explaining to people since my wedding day, that yes, we may have children someday, but not someday soon. And in five years, my answer hasn't changed. Despite the coos and gushing assertions that my husband and I will have the "most beautiful babies!", and the raised eyebrows regarding my age ("You can't wait forever, you know."), and the disappointed look on my mother-in-law's face when yet another holiday passes without "any big news." It's nice that the family is so excited to add another member, but I'll be damned if I'm going to turn my entire life upside down just so they have someone to dote on at Christmas time. Excuse me, but kiss my entire ass. I shouldn't have to be made to feel inadequate about my life by people who don't understand my choice. I have every respect for people who choose to raise children. It's a tough job, and I esteem those who embrace the challenge. But am I a bad person because I have no maternal instinct? Um, I don't think so. And as the gushing assertions have been slowly replaced by spiteful, biting remarks, I find my temper spiking higher and higher. Remarks such as, "Gina doesn't want to have a baby because she'd rather drink and party," or "Gina just doesn't want to get fat." Who the HELL do you think you are to say such things? Even if they were true, what difference does it make what the reasons are? My reasons are my reasons. There have been whispered conversations regarding my husband's sperm count, and wide-eyed fears that I might be (gasp) barren. I find this kind of behavior too disgusting for words. I'm scowling at my computer screen even as we speak. Why is it so hard for people to understand that MAYBE WE JUST DON'T WANT KIDS?!? There's more to life than creating offspring. I'm going to visit the Louvre. I'm going to see the pyramids, and snorkel in the Great Barrier Reef. And (yes, I'll go there) how exactly am I supposed to pole dance with pregnant belly? I intend to enjoy every moment of my life as it comes, and if a child isn't part of that plan, it's simply nobody's goddamn business. 

End rant.

The '72 Chevy Nova

Beautiful, shiny tail fins, immaculate whitewalls, and mirror-perfect chrome reflecting in the sunshine. I love love classic cars. (And I WILL own one someday.) Due to the unforgiving nature of North Dakota winters, most classic car owners keep their precious rides in storage half the year, so when I spotted a pristine yellow Chevy Nova weaving its way through traffic today, my heart swelled at the thought that summer is nearly upon us.

About a million years ago, I worked at a Blockbuster Video with a girl who owned a Chevy Nova. It was the first one I'd ever seen, actually. And I have never forgotten her, or the car. At the time I thought Blockbuster was the greatest job ever. I got to watch new releases before the general population, all my rentals were free, and sometimes (drum roll) I got free movie posters. I was nineteen and green, and the job. Was. Awesome. Carissa joined our staff after I'd been working there for about a year.She was described to me by a mutual acquaintance as a stuck-up and snotty popular girl, but I never found her so. (For all I know, she could have been a total bitch in high school, but I was in my first year at the local university, so it was no skin off my nose if she was a mean girl. I didn't have to go to school with her.) The Carissa I knew was a delightfully candid and rather flighty blond who always had a smile, and giggled at her own (frequent) ditziness. (For example: The movies at Blockbuster were arranged in alphabetical order, but for some reason Carissa could never find where anything went.) She was friendly with the staff, conversational with the customers, and despite being alphabetically-challenged, she was fun to work with.

I didn't own a car my freshman year of college, and although I usually had transportation, every once in a while I bummed a ride from a co-worker. One night Carissa gladly agreed to give me a lift back to the dorm, and strolling through the dark Blockbuster parking lot, I scanned the spaces for her car. Being a 'stuck-up popular girl' I assumed Carissa drove some kind of sporty little two-door vehicle, paid for by her parents. I was guessing it was probably a new(er) Mustang, most likely cherry red. Instead, she veered towards a banged up old blue muscle car. I actually stopped walking. "This is your car?" I could hardly keep the disbelief out of my voice. "Yup." She scurried around to the driver's side and unlocked the door. "Um...did you pick it out? Or did your dad?" I opened the heavy passenger door and climbed inside. It was like sliding onto the seat of a school bus. The steering wheel was as big as an oil drum. "What kind of car is this?" Carissa turned the key and the car growled to life. "I picked it," she said cheerfully. Then she looked at me sideways, clearly a little miffed that I even had to ask. "It's a '72 Chevy Nova. I love this car." I was caught somewhere between shock and awe. Rusted out and in need of a tune-up, this was the last car on earth I expected this blond-haired, blue-eyed giggle box to be driving. I would have been no less shocked if she'd climbed behind the wheel of a giant tractor. And despite the rust and the rather concerning noises coming from the engine, there was no question that the Nova was probably the coolest vehicle I'd ever been in. I was speechless. "Wow," I said. "It's awesome, Carissa." We gossipped a bit on the short drive to my dorm, and said friendly goodbyes as I hopped out of the Nova and slammed its giant door behind me. I eventually quit my job at Blockbuster, and haven't seen Carissa since. I have no idea what happened to her. However, thirteen years later, I still think of her every time I see a Chevy Nova. I wonder if she went off to college and started a career, or ended up with six kids in a trailer park somewhere. I wonder if she drove that Nova until the wheels fell off, or if she married a plastic surgeon and had it fully restored, and has it resting under a tarp next to her husband's Lexus in their suburban four-stall garage. I'll probably never know. But I thought of her today, and I smiled.

Short and Sweet.

Day 65 of 2012.

Well technically, it's day 67, but due to the fact that I worked New Year's Eve, I celebrated with my husband and some friends on New Year's Day. After a grand amount of beverages consumed, multiple bars visited, and way too much money spent, a good time was indeed had by all parties involved. (I think.) I then spent most of January 2nd in recovery. Therefore, my 2012 did not officially begin until January 3rd. Hence, Day 65.

I have my 14th week of pole fitness class tonight! I am simply tickled by how much I'm enjoying this. Anyone who knows me is aware of the fact that I have rarely seen a pole and not felt compelled to dance on it. Can you believe that I have managed to locate an official outlet for this bizarre urge? It's utterly fantastic. I cannot WAIT to put a pole in my garage. (My husband is in full support of this decision.) Not only is it fun, but the strength and muscle that I've built in just a few weeks is astounding. I've just started Level 3, which is 6 weeks of mostly strength training in preparation for the kinds of stunts I'll get to tackle in Level 4. The amount of upper body and core strength that it takes to do aerial pole work (super awesome tricks way up in the air) is mind-blowing. It's such a great feeling to feel body getting stronger. Suddenly I have actual definition in my arms again. (Bye bye flabby-skin wings!) I was in pretty good shape back in the day. (Let's not dwell on how long ago that 'day' actually was.) I was a dancer, and a cheerleader. I had muscles! I played a sport or two, but I was never any good. I like to think that I was much too (*cough*) graceful to ever be very competitive. Let the beefy clodhoppers bring home their sports trophies- my pom poms and I will stick to the sidelines, thank you very much. The uniforms were way cuter, anyway.

This whole pole-dancing thing is just another fabulous stage of my ongoing midlife crisis. Although it was clicking along quite nicely throughout most of last year (including, but not limited to: a tattoo, piercings, and weird random urges to wear fishnets and purchase things in leopard print), but here's what I'm working on in 2012.

So far, I've:
a) ...started my life as a pole dancer.
b) ...developed a correlating fascination with all things burlesque and boudoir.
c) ...made an appointment for another large tattoo.
d) ...dyed my hair black with blue streaks.
e) ...got plans to completely redecorate all three bedrooms and both bathrooms in my house.
f) ...still got a hair up my ass to buy either a motorcycle or a classic car.
g) ...started a blog to chronicle my female whims and early middle-age dysfunction.

Wish me luck! Blog #1: Complete.