F*ck this sh*t. LITERALLY.

It all began with rather unflattering text from my husband asking (with an emoticon smirk) if I had plugged the toilet. What? Moi?? GROSS. Um, I don't think so, honey. And even though it turned out that I was, in fact, the last one to use the toilet in question, I don't mind saying that the delicate business I'd transacted was a rather unlikely culprit. And although my husband continued to firmly deny any wrongdoing on his part, in a case such as this, isn't the man of the house kind of the usual suspect? Finger-pointing aside, it turned out that neither of us was particularly interested, for the situation required attention, regardless of the party responsible.

After twelve hours, one would think that whatever the blockage was, it would have had adequate time to soften and disintegrate. Not so much. This mighty clog was still going strong a full 24 hours later. Lucky for HIM, my husband was called away on business. With him out of town for the immediate future, and myself (unfortunately) being the only other person that lives here, it would appear that the nasty business of toilet maintenance had fallen to me. Obviously, flushing repeatedly was getting me nowhere. Some elbow grease and a heavy duty extended-nose plunger resulted in little more than some disgusting backsplash all over my feet. Clearly, standard techniques were having no effect on this, the Clog of all Clogs. It may be time to try somethign a little less traditional.

Operator: "There is a 24-hour technician on call for all emergency services, would you like me to page him for you now?"
Me: "Oh. Haha! Well, um, I don't know if this would technically qualify as an emergency...so, ummm...[Feeling suddenly absolutely ridiculous for calling an emergency plumbing service after midnight on a Tuesday for the simple matter of a clogged toilet] Yes. Well, I don't think I need to bother anyone at this hour. Why don't I just call back in the morning?"
Operator: [silence] "It's up to you, ma'am." 
Me: [Mustering what remained of my dignity] "I'll call back in the morning, thank you so much for your time."

The gentleman in question arrived the next day. He was a lovely young man, clearly qualified, and looked vaguely familiar. (Such is the case when one is from Fargo and has worked in the service industry for (cough) many years.) As he "snaked" my toilet, he made polite and appropriate conversation about the appliance he was servicing. Had it caused many issues, or if we had children and if they could have, per chance, flushed something non-waste down the toilet just for fun. 

Me: "Nope, no kids." [awkward laugh] "Except for my husband, and he rarely flushes anything beyond the norm." [I laugh again as the plumber gives me a knowing look, like...sure he doesn't.]

Plumber: "Well? If there isn't anything unusual, and you don't have kids or pets...wow. Must be just some really hard stool."

I'm sorry...some really hard stool? This toilet hasn't flushed for DAYS. How "hard" could one incident of simple excretion possibly be? I'd imagine anything "hard" enough to create this kind of blockage would have most certainty done a number on both the internal and external pieces of the unfortunate human that deposited such a specimen. For the first time ever at this point in my life, I wished desperately for some in-house children to take the blame.

In conclusion: I was MORTIFIED to pay the slightly familiar-looking plumber the 3-digit bill for the unclogging of my toilet due to a rock-hard piece of stool. Pete thought it was hilarious, and we both blamed each other. In the end, however, the problem (however it was created) was solved. BY ME.

GINA: 1

TOILET: 0

The House that Built Me

With tears in my eyes and my daughter in my arms, I snap a selfie in the mirror of my old bedroom. It was my refuge from the world during my formative years. My sanctuary. A world of my own creation, with posters, photos, stuffed animals, and secrets. I'd spent so many hours in that room, singing, sulking, wishing, crying. Hour after hour listening to music, doing hair and makeup, chatting on the phone, and dreaming of the future. I'd stared at myself in my bedroom mirror, thinking that age sixteen was so far away...would I ever be old enough to drive a car?

The future I'd once dreamed about is now part of my past.

Today I said goodbye to my childhood home. It's a stepping stone on the path of life I suppose, but you're never really prepared to confront the enormity of ending a chapter in your life. It's not the physical house that I'm bidding farewell, nor the memories made within its walls. The memories are mine to keep. But facing the reality of the amount of time that has passed is almost overwhelming. The persistence of forward motion, with all of its gains and losses. Has it really been over two decades since my high school graduation? When my family and friends gathered in the garage, eating the cheesecake my mother made. We looked at big poster boards of photos, trophies and certificates of achievement. The warm spring breeze blowing through the giant screen that my parents bought to let the air into the attached single stall on the corner of 10th Street and 30th Ave North.

I walk slowly down the upstairs hallway of our home, now empty of the photos that once lined the wall. In the spring of '88, my mother chased me down that hallway and I slammed my bedroom door. It was the day of my first communion, and I was wearing a beautiful dress that would eventually be worn by two of my younger cousins for their first communions. My mother made my veil. I wore a pearly heart-shaped necklace that was a gift from my friend Sharon. My face hurt from smiling. I'd never endured as many photographs in my life until that day, and I was done. "Just one more before you take off your veil!" My mother pleaded from the other side of the door. "Fine." I smiled as big and hard as anyone has ever smiled. That photo is still in a frame.

I descend the stairs to the basement. Where the wall phone once hung, the empty socket of an obsolete phone cord stares lifelessly out at the family room. The kitchen phone offered no privacy, so I'd spend hours sitting on the bottom two steps talking on that basement phone with my friends. I can still remember some of their phone numbers. The old orange couch is long gone, as is the table at which I'd done countless jigsaw puzzles and homework. There is a recently-patched hole in the wall just outside the door frame of my basement bedroom. One of my hamsters had escaped and ended up trapped between the walls. It was after midnight on a school night when I woke my parents to drill a hole in the wall to rescue her. How can that be thirty years ago? Thirty years?

There is a space in the backyard where a rickety old shed once stood. In third grade, as my friend Kristi and I went tearing past the shed on our way to play soccer in the nearby field, the door blew open. A protruding nail sliced through my arm, leaving a gaping wound that would require sixteen stitches. The shed is now gone, torn down and replaced with an updated version on the other side of the yard. But I still have the scar.

In two weeks, I will be forty years old. The bizarre reality of this statement rings even more bizarre at this moment, as the memories of my young self wash over me, so thick and real. I've built a grown-up life, with a family of my own. I do grown-up things that once upon a time, in this house, seemed so far off that they were all but impossible. Now they're just what I do. The impossible is now my reality.

I back out of the driveway for what is likely the last time. A tear spills over as a slide show of memories plays in my mind. Birthdays, holidays, rainy afternoons and sweltering summers. The smells from the kitchen that has since been remodeled. The stains that peppered the sidewalk every fall when the crab apples fell from the tree in the front yard, a tree that's been gone for years. Time takes no prisoners, but it does leave gifts. My kids babble from the back seat, happily oblivious to the emotional toll of the situation. I wipe the tear, and silently promise those kids a lifetime of memories to take the edge off their future goodbyes. That is the best gift that time, and I, can give.

Pole Competitions: Conquering the Fear

It's that time of year again! The pole competition season really goes all year long, but the bulk of comps in the Midwest fall between October and April. So many pole students tell me that they have aspirations of competing one day, but for the nearly three years that I've been teaching, I've seen only a few take that leap. Let's talk about why that may be, and address a few common concerns that tend to hold people back.

"I'm not good enough." 
Um, yes you are. Despite the impression we may be under due to the abundance of stunning pro-level YouTube videos floating around out there, pole comps aren't strictly for professionals. Nearly all competitions offer the option to compete as a novice, which generally means that no inverted skills are allowed in performances at that level. Judges will focus primarily on clean execution of beginner-level skills, stage presence, and musicality (which is basically how well your choreography matches the music). Although level descriptions may vary slightly from comp to comp, you'll find that novice, intermediate, advanced, elite, semi-pro and pro are pretty standard. Each comp offers detailed descriptions of what is expected in performances at each level, to give you an accurate idea of which level is most appropriate for you. Some comps go as far as to break down each level into age category, to further even the playing field. No matter your skill level, pole comps offer an excellent opportunity to gain experience, meet new people, and have fun doing what you love.

"I've heard that competitions are catty and cutthroat."
This was a huge fear of mine before I attended my first comp. And yes, there are a few bad apples in every bunch. But I have personally found comps to be an overwhelmingly positive experience. The energy backstage is nervous, excited, and supportive. Everyone is worried about missing a trick, not sticking to the pole, or having a prop malfunction. Everyone wants to do well, and believe it or not, everyone wants YOU to do well, too. At the end of the day, each and every competitor has something in common: love of pole. It's incredibly motivating to be surrounded by so many like-minded individuals.

"I don't want to embarrass myself."
What does that mean, exactly? So, like, what if you fall off the pole? *shrug* So what if you do? The audience will gasp, and when you get up to finish your routine, the whole place is going to go nuts. They want you to do well. The judges will dock your score accordingly, and the rest of your routine will speak for itself. What if you place last in your group? *shrug* Oh, well. Someone finishes last, every single time. There are still a hundred polers at home who weren't brave enough to get up on stage and do what you did. And you'll come home with professional photos and video to show your family and friends, and they will think you are amazing, regardless.

"I'd have no idea where to start with creating a routine."
Use your resources. Talk to your instructors and fellow polers, and ask what works for them. Find inspiration in blogs and videos online. Keep in mind that many pros hire choreographers to help them develop routines, and although no one expects you to do that at an amateur level, private lessons with an instructor may help you find your groove. Most comps have a Facebook group for competitors to join and ask questions. People are always asking about things like if a certain skill is allowed in a particular level, costumes, and when/where they need to be on competition day. It's also a great place to find support if you're having trouble. Odds are, if you are struggling, someone else is too. Buddy up with a friend at your studio or online, and make a plan to support each other and keep each other accountable.

"I'm just too scared."
Competitions aren't for everyone. I know some incredible polers who have no interest in competitions or performing, and that is totally okay. But if it's crossed your mind and something continues to hold you back, consider why that may be. If you never enter a pole comp, will you regret your choice? Unfortunately, our bodies don't last forever. They have expiration dates. Poling at 40 is different than poling at 27. And circumstances change! We get new jobs, we move, we have children... All I'm saying is don't sell yourself short, and don't let fear be the reason you look back with regret. Worst-case scenario, you realize competitions are simply not for you. At least you'll know, and you won't have to wonder.

Bottom line, from me to you: GO FOR IT. You are good enough, you are worth it, and you do deserve your moment on stage. I had been poling for almost 5 years before I registered for my first competition, primarily because my studio prior to that time offered me no support, and I was unaware of the resources at my disposal. I dearly wish I could have those years back! The fun I could have had, the relationships I could have developed... If you're feeling lost, reach out. There is an entire community of people out there, just a few clicks away. We all know the feelings of insecurity and doubt. They fear of being judged by our appearance. We also know the sense of triumph, and the pride of accomplishment that comes with having achieved what we never dreamt was possible.

You. Can. Do. This.

My Mother's Feet

I have my mother's feet.

Feet that I always thought were crusty and gross. With heels that were rough and cracked, and ridgy toenails that were constantly exposed in her ever-present flip-flops, toenails that I wished she would paint. No matter how much lotion was applied, no matter how often she worked across the callouses with the pumice stone that sat on the edge of the bathtub, my mother's feet were tough.

I have my mother's feet.

Feet that I was proud of in my youth, with their broad, well-shaped toenails perfect for painting. With a strong arch that my dancer-friends envied, a graceful point, and five straight toes descending in height that never hung awkwardly over the edge of open-toed shoes.

Feet that are no longer so pretty.

Feet that are scarred from bunion surgery, that ached and throbbed in exponentially increasing intensity throughout and following my pregnancy. Feet that pounded the pavement at a thankless job that I kept for way too long so as not to interrupt my insurance with a baby on the way.

Feet that go up and down countless flights of stairs, doing countless loads of laundry. Feet that hustle and shuffle up and down the aisles of the grocery store and the big box
stores, hauling decidedly unglamorous bags of necessities to and from the trunk of the car.

I have my mother's feet.

Feet with heels that are rough and cracked, and uneven toenails that are rarely painted. Feet that swell painfully after a night spent in towering heels, that embrace the comfort and ease of flip flops the following day. Feet that are permanently calloused. Feet that will carry my child when he's too tired to walk, that will hustle and shuffle to keep him safe, happy, and healthy no matter the sacrifice. Feet that are tough.

I have my mother's feet.

Conduct Unbecoming of an Officer

It is with a heavy heart and no small amount of disgust that I sit at my keyboard today. With a pile of work that needs finishing, my thoughts are held captive by the incident I witnessed last night.

After over a decade in the service industry, either serving drinks or dealing cards, I've seen my share of human behavior. I would never be so brazen as to claim that I've seen it all, but I tell you my friends, I have seen a LOT. Last night turned my stomach.

Late in the evening, after many bars hopped and many drinks had, a clean cut young man approached a female and her friend at the bar. He made a drunken remark to one of them in regards to her non-white descent. He proceeded to another female, also of non-white descent, and addressed her in an unseemly manor. He asked her name and race. Not being the shy type, the female responded and was met promptly with a racial slur and a punch to the face. Chaos erupted in the bar, as friends of either party and bystanders jumped into the scuffle. Shirts were torn off and punches were thrown. Efforts by the bar staff to get the offender to leave were unsuccessful, and the police were called. The young man was arrested and charges will be pressed.

Bar fights are a dime a dozen in my world, but never in my LIFE have I seen something so disgraceful as that drunk piece of garbage standing in the doorway of the bar with his friends holding him back, after having assaulted a woman, hurling racial slurs and screaming, "I'm a United States Marine!"

Wow. A United States Marine. Really? Now, I'm not so naive as to think that every American soldier is an angel in uniform. But on the heels of a holiday that was created in order to honor the fallen service men and women who gave their lives to ensure the safety and freedom of others, this behavior is indescribably disgusting. After the smoke cleared, Facebook-stalking of the assaulter commenced. Sure enough, there he was: smiling wide in his impeccably pressed uniform, with his mother glowing  proudly his side. I wonder how proud she would have been of his behavior last night? Scrolling through his posts, I came across a hateful piece of art (slurring multiple religions, Asians, and transgenders) that he deemed "hilarious" in his comments, and updated to his cover photo.

I am without speech.

I don't know what kind of consequences a staff Sargent may face after having been arrested for disorderly conduct in this manner, but I hope they are severe. "Conduct unbecoming of an officer" is a thing, right? For in my eyes, this man has disgraced his uniform, his family, and his country. I may not be much for politics, but I am a proud American. I am proud that this country fought for its own freedom from tyranny, and built itself into that most powerful nation in the world. I am proud that millions of people have come here to build a new and better life. And I am proud that after 240 years we are still striving to be a better society, evolving our laws, lives and hearts. Growing and changing our perspectives in hopes to one day grasp the happiness we have been granted the freedom to pursue.

No. I don't post pictures of my kid on Facebook.

I've been asked on more than one occasion why I rarely post pictures of my kid on Facebook. As though I am somehow lacking as a mother for having deprived the world of his cuteness. "That's what Facebook is for!" [shrug]. I don't know, is it? Because I thought Facebook was a tool to be used for my own amusement, in whatever way I see fit. Whether it be to blast my selfies out into the world, to share eye-rolling memes, or to promote my business.

There are three reasons that I keep photos of my son to a minimum on Facebook.

1) There is more to my life than being someone's mom.

I love my son, obviously. He's adorable and ridiculous, and even when he sucks he somehow finds a way to make my day. :) However, I am still ME. I have my own thoughts, opinions, and activities. I am a grown woman with a multi-faceted career, and every day in my life is an adventure, just the way I like it. My son is part of that adventure, but he's far from the only ride in this carnival.

2) Because, creepers.

Of my 380 "friends" on Facebook, many of them have never actually met my son in real life.  I was eating at a restaurant once, when a young woman (whom I did not recognize) came in with a child that looked strangely familiar. I spent the majority of my meal staring at them, trying to figure out who they were. Eventually another young woman arrived, whom I recognized (despite the fact that I had never met her) as the ex-wife of an acquaintance that I hadn't seen more than a couple of times over the past 5 years. The child was their son, whom I had only ever seen on Facebook. I found it unnerving to think that I could be sitting in a restaurant with my son, and some weirdo whom I had never even met could be staring at us from across the room, knowing exactly who we are. Even though I was the weirdo in this scenario, it didn't sit well with me at all. I don't see any reason that strangers should be able to pick my kid out of a crowd. After all, many of my Facebook friends are co-workers, acquaintances, old high school buddies, business contacts, and friends of friends. How well do we really know our "friends"?

3) It's all about me.

My Facebook is my Facebook. I choose what to post. No one gets to tell me that I post too much of one thing, or not enough of another.  When someone starts to post too many political opinions that don't align with my beliefs, or one too many pictures of whatever they're having for dinner that night, I can choose to ignore, unfollow, or unfriend. I am totally guilty of hiding the feed of persons unnamed who post nothing but pictures of their children. I want to message them and say, "Don't you have a life of your own?" But who am I to say what they should or shouldn't post on their Facebook. Because it's their Facebook. It exists as a tool for their own enjoyment, as much as my Facebook exists simply to amuse me.

The great joy in all of this is that not only can we choose what we post on Facebook, we can also choose what we see. I am constantly adding, deleting, friending, unfriending, and unfollowing. It's really nothing personal, it's just Facebook. :) The bottom line is, if you want to see my kiddo smile, come on over and bring him a present. Heck. Bring me one, too!

Three Completely Random Thoughts for a Wednesday

1. I frequently find myself inspired to write at the most inconvenient of times, such as when I am working, driving, showering, or on the toilet. (Don't act surprised. Like you've never had a Deep Thought while perched on the porcelain throne?) By the time I am able to seat myself at a writing device with a proper keyboard, the inspiration is gone. Without that spark, the writing feels empty. Fake, somehow devoid of authentic emotion. In similar fashion, I will occasionally begin writing, but when interruptions inevitably crop up, I'm forced to abandon the piece on which I was working. I don't feel right about publishing anything that I don't consider to be a complete work, and as a result, I have dozens of half-finished pieces sitting in my draft folder. I find this personally annoying. I enjoy writing, and other people seem to enjoy reading what I write, so what is the point of of a talent that I'm not able to share? In short, I am going to make an effort to publish more often, even if it's in a less formal fashion.

2. My kid's first birthday is tomorrow. It's an astonishing feat to have kept him alive for this long, when he attempts to thwart my efforts on a daily basis. That child isn't afraid of anything. If I leave the door to the garage open, he could literally be three houses away before I note his absence, and he is ONE. What is going to happen when he learns how to open doors by himself? I shudder to think. His favorite passtimes at age one include, banging his toys on anything that he could possibly scratch or dent, slamming doors, pushing big things with wheels (which is a problem at the grocery store when he wants to push the cart himself) and watching tv. (Yes, my one-year-old watches tv. The Baby Channel. Judging Panel: Go ahead and judge.) We'll be celebrating the amazing accomplishment of maintaining a healthy human for 365 days by throwing a big party and enjoying copious amounts of food and alcohol. The baby is invited.

3. I waste an unbelievable amount of coffee. Every two days, I brew a large pot, and pour myself a nice fresh mug. I add milk, sweetener, and occasionally a flavored creamer. If it's my day off, I'll throw in some Rumchada. (Yes, I put booze in my coffee. In the morning. BEFORE NOON. Again, I defer to the Judging Panel.) I will take a few sips, and then get distracted. Laundry, child care, shower...all of these things eventually lead to cold coffee. I will reheat the mug and maybe get a few more sips before it becomes cold again. At this point, I generally abandon my efforts, and make a mental note to prepare myself a fresh (reheated) cup before work. A few hours later, I will do exactly that. Reheat a fresh cup of coffee in the microwave, add the proper accouterments, and transfer into a travel mug for work. I will leave the travel mug on the counter, so I can grab it on my way out the door, and fifty percent of the time I will forget it entirely. My husband will find it a few hours later, standing alone on the counter. He will either dump it, or put it in the fridge for me to reheat the next morning. By the time I see the day-old coffee in the fridge, I will already have prepared a fresh cup, and it will get dumped out anyway. The other fifty percent of the time, I will remember to bring the mug to work, and (after spilling some of it on the console on the way there) it will become too cold to drink and I will move the travel mug out of everyone's way and then forget the mug at work. I repeat this cycle almost daily. SIGH. You're welcome, Folgers.

The Bikini Condition

I shuffle out of the dressing room and hand my pile of tried-on garments over to the fitting room attendant. "Did you have any luck with those?" she asks politely. A tight smile and small snort of disgust escapes me as I reply, "Not this time." Something catches my eye in the pile of bathing suits that she is sorting on the counter. "Oh! Does that one happen to be a size large, by chance?" She glances down at the swatch of colored fabric in her hand, and gives a mildly sympathetic shake of her head. "It's a small. Sorry." Psh. No, you're not. I think to myself as I stalk bitterly towards the front of the store. I usually feel bad for fitting room attendants. It's a thankless job, counting hangers and passing out those stupid little plastic numbers, re-hanging garment after garment for hours at a time, only to watch the items that you've just put away come back to the dressing room moments later and end up in a messy heap once again. But not today. Today I feel a rather smug satisfaction at the thought that the bathing suits I'd left behind the counter were making someone else miserable besides me. That's not very nice, Gina. I shrug to myself. It's not very nice. Such is life.

It's nearly spring, once again. And here, in the great frozen state of North Dakota, that means two things: 1) The city of Fargo is about to suffer a major case of spring fever. This usually involves a lot of yard work, as well as hundreds of people walking around in shorts and flip-flops even though it's only 50 degrees. And 2) Summer is just around the corner. This means that the tanning salons are being flooded with ghostly white individuals who've spent the past few months shielding their delicate skin from the frigid winter elements. This also means it's time to start shopping for bathing suits, and waking up to the harsh reality of looking at our bodies, practically naked in dressing room mirrors. Every extra Christmas cookie, every celebratory New Year's drink, and every hastily sneaked piece of Valentine's chocolate will hide no longer. This, my friends, is the reckoning.

My mother was very modest when it came to clothing, and as a result, I was never allowed (or even interested) to wear a bikini as a child. As a matter of fact, I wasn't even brave enough to don my first two-piece until halfway through college. I'd gone through a difficult breakup, and as a giant nose-thumb to the ex who'd told me point blank that I wasn't built to wear such things, as well as to my conservative upbringing, I decided to throw caution to the wind and let it all hang out one 4th of July weekend. I was surprised at the result. No one threw eggs at me or laughed hysterically as I walked by. I had a great time with my friends, both male and female. I realized that it didn't matter what I looked like in my bathing suit, because the people I cared about cared about me, and not my so-called physical imperfections. Ironically, back in the days when I was most insecure was probably the best I'd ever looked in a bikini.

Fast-forward fourteen years. That brings us to today, where I am suddenly a 35-year-old female, wishing desperately that I had the body I so loathed in my youth. Having birthed a child eight months ago isn't helping the situation much, either. Although the baby weight is all gone, it seems that things didn't exactly go back to the way they were before. Same size, but...different shape.

In a few short weeks, I am about to embark upon my first ever girls trip. Five girlfriends and I will strap on our traveling shoes and board a cruise ship from Miami to the Bahamas. This is obviously cause for some serious shopping, which is what landed me in that despicable dressing room with a stack of horrible bathing suits in the first place. What was I thinking? Even if we weren't just coming off winter, and even if I hadn't recently given birth, bikini shopping is the WORST! It's hard to hide flaws when nothing is actually covered. I decided to ditch the bikinis and give a selection of one-piece suits a try. Well, that was a mistake. Those adorable one-pieces with the sides cut out? The ones that look amazingly sexy yet still respectable? Like all of those swimsuit models in the Victoria's Secret catalog are actually just regular women with high-paying day jobs and the pictures in the magazine are simply candids from their family vacation to Florida? Yeah...not so much. Somehow, through some sort of gaping hole in the laws of physics, more material is actually less flattering. I felt like those "sexy" cutouts were designed exclusively to highlight my flaws. Like my own personal sorority hazing, where the senior girls make you strip down to your underwear in front of everyone and circle your fat spots with a Sharpie. Nothing will ever look good enough, because no matter how good I look, someone else will look better. I realize that this is ridiculous, but it's simply the female condition. We are bred to foster insecurities, and spend our entire lives working on ways to overcome them. Most of us give up "overcoming" and instead find a way to just deal with it. Rather like my 21-year-old self who threw caution to the wind to don her very first bikini, my 35-year-old post-baby self is going to have to take the same leap.

As I stomped angrily to my car, I thought back to the suits I'd tried on. I exhaled my breath in a long silent whistle and steadied my thoughts. Maybe, just maybe the pink and purple one would look halfway decent if I could find it in the proper size... I ordered it online as soon as I got home, along with one more suit for good measure. After all, even if I'm not entirely thrilled with my resulting appearance, it's really the only excuse I need to spring for a cute sundress cover-up. It turns out that my grown-up self know a secret truth that my 21-year-old self had to learn from experience: after all the muss and fuss, the hemming and hawing, the moaning and wailing, after ALL of that nonsense, comes clarity. No one is perfect, and it is a waste of energy to expect perfection where none truly exists. Life is about the experiences, not the appearances. In the end, it's just a bathing suit. And the reality is that the only person who truly cares how I look wearing it is me. I don't have a thing to prove to anyone except myself.

So. When the time comes for my my girls and I to drop our towels by the pool on that cruise ship, I can embrace the certainty that a couple of muffin tops isn't going to make one shred of difference in how much fun we have. Hand me some sunscreen and a margarita, and let the memories make themselves.

A Fond Farewell

You wouldn't think that the passing of a teacher would evoke much sadness among high school students. In fact, I think that as students, we all spent a fair amount of time daydreaming the demise of certain instructors, resulting in the imagined euphoric end of homework and pop quizzes. Some teachers, however, are in another category.

The legendary Randall R. Rustad, teacher of high school history and government, master of one-liners, collector of dirt. Mr. Rustad (for I will never in all my life feel comfortable referring to him as "Randall") was so much more than just a teacher. The gymnasium at Fargo Shanley High was packed with hundreds of teary eyes, as we collectively mourned the loss of a man who touched more people that I suspect he ever realized. And although he has now been officially laid to rest, I find my thoughts continue to dwell on him. His passing has brought to light so many memories, and they seem to be floating around in my brain like the pages of an old newspaper caught in the wind, occasionally catching the light and bringing either a smile to my lips or the prick of tears to my eyes.

What was it about this man that was so special? I doubt that hundreds of people will show up to tell stories at my funeral. For Mr. Rustad, they came out in droves, both in person and on social media. Every single student came armed with a story about passing Rustad's dreaded mandatory oral exams, or participating in one of the many class pranks that were played on Rustad, year after year. He was everyone's favorite teacher, but why? He was strict, and commanded respect. (Seriously. You don't mess around in Rustad's class. I fell asleep in government once. In the front row. When I woke up and realized that Rustad's lecture was still in progress at the podium directly above me, I felt that I had narrowly escaped certain death.) Yet he was hilarious and quirky. (He drank Tab. TAB. Where does one even find a case of Tab these days? In my entire life (post-1990) I believe the only place I ever saw a can of Tab for sale was in the vending machines at Shanley. And the only reason they stocked it was for Mr. Rustad.) He was jovial, and passionate about both his students and his work. Having taught government, history, and drivers ed at Shanley for nearly thirty years, it takes a special kind of dedication to display the same intensity with every class, year after year. History doesn't change, yet Rustad was able to cover the same material again and again, never failing to convey its importance, even the one-hundredth time around. Any teacher can regurgitate material, but Rustad possessed a rare quality in that he made students want to learn. Not that we had a choice, as we WOULD be learning the material, one way or another. I remember my very first day of class with Rustad a million years ago, when he announced that, "You WILL be learning each and every state capital, and you WILL be learning the 27 constitutional amendments, because I'll be damned if any student is going to graduate this high school without knowing their rights. Not on my watch!"

Even now, days after the funeral service, I find myself preoccupied with memories and thoughts that have resurfaced since Mr. Rustad's death. I keep seeing his grandchildren, seated at the funeral. Little bodies squirming in their parents' laps, short little legs dangling over the edges of chairs. I never thought of Mr. Rustad as a grandfather before. I went to school with all three of the Rustad children, so it stands to reason that they are all now grown up with children of their own, as am I. But the Mr. Rustad in my mind is still the young man of many years ago, with the future laid out as a path at his feet, as it was for all of us back then. It seems a cruel irony that after decades spent teaching other peoples' kids how to drive, Mr. Rustad's own grandchildren will one day take the wheel without him there in the passenger seat bellowing, "Use your mirrors!" Watching those kids during the funeral service, I wondered if any of them had ever been to a funeral before. Could they comprehend the impact that their grandfather had on the hundreds of people around them? Looking around the Shanley gymnasium, I saw classmates of my own from the late 1990's, as well as younger faces from the classes of 2000's and beyond. I saw parents, some of whom were former classmates of Mr. Rustad himself. I saw faculty and coaches, both current and previous. And of course, there were several members of the clergy seated in a row underneath one of the basketball hoops, and the casket, front and center at the free throw line. It was quite the gathering.

My senior year of high school, my family traveled to the Black Hills. Knowing Mr. Rustad's fondness for gathering souvenir dirt from historical sites (Civil War battlefields were his personal favorite), I scooped up a chunk of earth from Will Bill Hickock's grave on the legendary Boot Hill. I secured it safely inside an plastic film canister and brought it to school as a gift for my favorite teacher. Not wanting to look like a brown-noser, I left the dirt in my locker until such time as was opportune to deliver it without painting myself a suck-up. It sat on my locker shelf for the remainder of the school year. On our very last day of class in the spring of 1998, as the entire senior class was a manic panic of cleaning out lockers and counting down the last few hours of our high school careers, I grabbed the dirt and tossed it to an idle classmate. "Hey, go give this to Mr. Rustad for me!" She did as instructed, and that was the last thought I had regarding that little container until recently. Reminiscing about it now, I wonder if that dirt ever made its way into Rustad's esteemed private collection, or if he even knew that it was from me? I will never know. But every time I visit a famous landmark or a historical site, I remember the man who boasted so proudly of his extensive and fabulous souvenir dirt collection.

Lastly, my most vivid personal Rustad memory. In our senior economics class, we were assigned a "stock market project". (I should mention here that I truly hate economics. I only took the class because Mr. Rustad taught it.) We were to invest a specified amount of fictional money into our choice of stocks, and over a certain period of time, we were to buy/sell them as we saw fit and record the outcome. Having much more important high schoolish-type activities to attend to, I put off my work on the assignment until the last minute. I had already mentally selected my stocks, so it was the simple matter of going back to look up what they had been worth on the date that we were to have begun our initial "investing." This gave me the distinct advantage of knowing which stocks would do well and which ones tanked. I decided to scrap my original idea, and instead to invest in a pharmaceutical company that, the week before, had announced that they had perfected a new drug for cancer patients. In other words, I cheated. Their stock went through the roof in a matter of days. Cha-ching! I believe a made just over twenty-three thousand fictional dollars. That should be good for an A, right? Unfortunately for me, Mr. Rustad decided to post a list of everyone's stock results in class. In order. Biggest earner on top, biggest losers at the bottom. And there I was, right there at the top of the list with my $23k in earnings. The classmate listed below me had earned a just few hundred bucks, so my cheating couldn't have been more obvious. Next to my name, in parentheses, were the words, "Inside Trading." Well played, Mr. Rustad! I was totally busted, but Mr. Rustad never said anything to me about it. On our last day of class, I stole that sheet of paper off the board and I know that I still have it secured somewhere among my high school keepsakes.

The mark that Mr. Rustad left on his students is rare. A fond memory shining brightly through the darkness of those angsty high school years. I wonder about my own small son. Will he be lucky enough to have a teacher like Mr. Rustad? Perhaps yes, perhaps no. Either way, Mr. Rustad may be gone, but his legacy isn't lost. It lives on inside of me, and every other student who was touched in some way by this wonderful man. WE are that legacy.

Baby Steps

Eight weeks ago, I birthed a human.

He's a cute little human. He grins and squirms and makes adorable little gurgling coo sounds when he's happy, and I love him bunches. He is quite literally, the fruit of my labor.

I could go on and on in mushy detail about how incomplete my life was before I became a mother, but that doesn't really ring true to me. In my eyes and heart, I was every bit as happy before the baby as I am now. My life wasn't empty without kids, and now that I have one, it's still not empty. My days feel normal to me, just as they did before the baby, even though my days now are quite different from the ones I lived one year ago. Even as I constantly worry that things won't fall into place, somehow they continue to do so. It's like magic. It keeps me ever grateful and humble in the eyes of God, because only something as divine as He could keep me sane in the face of what could be an utterly overwhelming task: keeping our son alive and happy while managing not lose myself in the process.

As the horrific discomfort of pregnancy, and the messy indignities of childbirth fade into the past, my eyes turn once again towards the present and the future. I'm a mom now. (And saying that out loud is as foreign to my ears as if I were speaking Swahili.) How do I be Mom, and still be Me? How can I live my life for this little person who needs me, and still live my life for me? For ten months I let the little peanut camp out in my body. I gave up parties, vacations, kickball and pole dancing, as well as a number of extremely delicious foods and beverages in order to keep him safe and healthy. Now that he's breathing the free air, I am trying to reclaim some of those things. I desperately missed pole dancing. I missed laying by the pool in a bikini. And haters (you know who you are) can judge me if they want, but I missed dressing up and feeling sexy. And I missed alcohol. A lot.

Getting my groove back is proving to be a bit harder than I expected. I was so sick of being pregnant, I was really excited to have the baby and get my body back under my own control. And I'm not just talking about the weight. I'm talking about putting my internal organs back where they belong, and not having to pee every hour. I'm talking about being able to sit in the car without feeling like my pelvic bone was about to crack. For goodness sake, I just wanted to be able to bend over and put on my own f*cking SHOES again! Eating and drinking what I want, when I want, instead of what I needed to eat and drink for the health of the little womb-hijacker. I thought once I had the baby, all those long-missed niceties would be mine once again. However, it turns out a LOT of that was easier said than done. Getting over the extreme trauma of childbirth was frustratingly slow. Eight weeks later, I am still healing, both physically and emotionally. And although most of the weight has melted off (as promised, although I didn't believe it actually would), my body certainly doesn't look like it did pre-pregnancy. It's squishy and weak. Even though I'm just a few pounds from my pre-pregnancy weight, my soft, fleshy curves don't have a home in any of my old clothes. My boobs are HUGE, but they don't seem all that sexy, as they are always sore, require constant maintenance, and serve a decidedly functional purpose. *SIGH*

Two weeks ago, I was finally able to get back into the pole studio. Although I have a fitness pole at home, and had done a bit of beginner-level work on it since the baby, I knew that the sooner I was able to get back into a weekly class, the better. I need that studio time to keep me motivated and to get my strength back. I work harder when I have company, and an audience. Since it had been nearly a year since I was last able to perform to my full potential, I contacted my instructor and asked if it would be possible to get into a low-level class, just to get myself started. Last October, a month before I became pregnant, I fell while rehearsing for a performance. I suffered a separated shoulder and a torn ligament. I was hoping that pregnancy would be an ideal time for my body to heal, but it's been a bit rough and the injury is still painful. (I didn't consider it at the time, but pregnancy may have actually slowed my shoulder healing, since the body's priority would have been the baby, not my shoulder.) So not only is it pregnancy that I'm recovering from, but a fairly severe injury as well.

My first day back in class was both exhilarating and disappointing. I was SO excited to be back. I really missed my work-outs, and the amazing feeling of performing advanced tricks and pushing myself to learn more and get stronger every day. I was so proud to really be good at something, and to be able to inspire other women through my performances was good for my soul. To my disappointment, I struggled with even the most basic moves. Despite the instructor's reassurance that I "looked great", I felt heavy and awkward. Every move was a challenge. Tricks that I used to perform with ease were now difficult and painful. I fought back tears for the entire hour, and drove home feeling utterly defeated. What if I can't ever get back to where I was? Will I ever be strong enough to maneuver as gracefully as I did before? Worse than the physical pain, my pride hurt. I was always one of the best dancers in the studio, now I felt chunky and clumsy. My back ached with every move. I worked gingerly to protect my tender (enormous) breasts. My hamstrings and quads burned from trying to keep my legs straight. My feet, having schlepped and shuffled to hold up the weight of my pregnant self for all those weeks, just didn't want to point. After all that time spent waiting to have the baby so that I could finally be in control of my body once again, it still felt completely foreign to me. My eyes welled up and spilled over. Why couldn't I just be myself again?

Since then, I've attended two more classes, and am feeling much better about the situation. My subsequent attempts at performing my old tricks have been a little more successful, and I'm reminded how quickly the body responds to this type of fitness training. In addition to that, I used to hit the studio 4 days a week. With an infant to deal with, I've only been able to go once a week for class, and managed a couple of short workouts at home. My determination to regain the level of performance that I had before is very motivating. If I can get to the studio twice a week, (which is a simple matter of planning), and work out once a week at home, I should be able to speed up both the process of rebuilding strength, as well as healing my shoulder. I need to simply rediscover what my body is capable of. When I first started pole dancing, I was constantly amazed by what I could do. When I came back to the studio for the first time, I was only seeing what I couldn't do. That kind of thinking is a deterrent to my progress. Focusing on the negative doesn't encourage growth, it facilitates failure. (THAT GOES FOR ANYONE.) It would be like walking onto a baseball field after coming back from an injury, and being disappointed that you didn't hit a home run on the first swing. What would you do? Would you retire, or would you try again? (Duh.) Now that I have had three classes, I can already see progress. Small, but noticeable progress, and that is encouraging. (Which is another thing that I love about pole fitness. Progress comes quickly, and noticeably.)

Writing this down, and putting it out there for the world to see will be a lesson in accountability. One year from now, will I be back up to my old tricks (literally and figuratively), or will I have given in to the frustration and resigned myself to a life of mediocrity? Hmmm.

I think I prefer the former to the latter. :)

The Final Countdown

The batteries in the smoke detectors have been changed. The kitchen cupboards are loaded with bottles and bibs. The dresser has been stocked with tiny clothes and bizarre items like "swaddles" and "sleep sacks." The crib and swing? Assembled and waiting. Car seat? Installed and inspected. Hospital bag? Packed and ready.

I have a breast pump (I have a breast pump?) and I am prepared to use it!

As the clock ticks away the final hours of my pregnancy, I have been inspired to look back and see exactly how far I've come. Thirty-nine weeks, four days, twenty-nine pounds, hundreds of dollars, a dozen doctor appointments, half a wardrobe, and one life-altering decision from where I started. That's how far I've come. 

My organs have been unceremoniously shoved out of the way in order to make room for the squirming human inside me, just as my wine glasses have been relocated to make space for bottles and sippy cups. (Note: the wine glasses have simply been relocated. They are in no way obsolete. I feel that there is plenty of room in my life for sippy cups AND wine glasses. In fact, I feel that I will be needing the latter more than ever.) 

I think at this point I need to issue a public apology to all the other pregnant women whom I have encountered throughout my life. To be quite honest, I thought y'all were a bunch of whiners whose problems stemmed mostly from weight gain. I mean, let's be honest. Swollen ankles, sore backs, and fatigue can all easily be contributed to the fact that pregnant women are fatties. "Of course your back hurts!" I'd think. "You've gained forty pounds!" I didn't know that when pregnant, back pain can stem from the fact that the woman's spine actually develops a (temporary) unnatural curve in order to help compensate for her being so front-heavy. Did you hear that? My spine shifted. My spine AND my internal organs! Seriously, what kind of science is that?! And the fatigue is largely the result of my heart having to work twice as hard. Apparently, my increased blood volume (by 50%) really puts my ticker to the test. It doesn't even beat with the same rhythm or speed of a normal person. And all that extra blood is heavy! Turns out that of the nearly 30 lbs I've gained in 40 weeks, only about 10-12 lbs is actual fat. (Which is funny, since I swear I'm carrying at least that amount on each butt cheek.) The rest is blood, other fluids, increased breast tissue for (*gag*) milk production, placenta, and of course, the baby. I've been told I could drop as much as twenty pounds of that nasty stuff during labor. (God I hope so! When it's over, I expect I'll feel light as a feather.) In the mean time, I have also stumbled upon the realization that there is a REASON that pregnant women are constantly molesting their own bellies. I used to think that it was some kind of weird maternal instinct. Possibly they were attempting to bond with their child by petting their stomachs like a kitten? In actuality, women touch their stomachs all the time, because they hurt. When the baby kicks me in the ribs, it's uncomfortable! What might look like me "petting" my belly is actually me trying to shove the kid's foot out from under my rib cage and back where it belongs. What may appear to be a pregnant woman "carrying" their belly in their arms like a baby is actually a pregnant woman carrying her belly because that shit's fucking HEAVY. I feel like if I don't support it when I stand up, it might just tear my skin open and fall right off. My life as a pregnant woman has not exactly been magical and feminine. It's been awkward and occasionally violent. With mutations and explosions, eruptions, and medical supervision. Like a science experiment. 

That said, pregnancy hasn't been completely awful. (Just mostly.) As the child has grown, he's become more and more real to both me and my husband. After all of these months feeling him move around and grow, I'm SO ready for it to be over. Not just because being pregnant sucks, but because I'm desperately excited to meet the little creature we've created. It's like finally meeting face to face someone that you've only communicated with by phone or online. I am ready to put a face to the flailing limbs, and a name to the face. The face that I hope will be a perfect little mix of my Irish freckles and my husband's dark Italian eyes.:)

There's no turning back now. And as the theme from Jeopardy! continues to play in the back of my mind, I'm happy and scared, and ready to tackle our next adventure. Also, I can't help but wonder...will I ever be able to get my belly ring back in? Hmm. 

I think it moved.

Confession: One of my greatest fears regarding pregnancy has always been, what will the baby feel like inside of me?

Call me crazy, but I don't think that this is an unnatural fear. After all, having a small creature living inside of you is a very unnatural state of being. What does the baby do in there, anyway? I know he moves around a little, and sucks his thumb occasionally, but why? Is he trying to get away? Does he know that he's trapped inside my uterus? What if he suddenly gets claustrophobic and tries to claw his way out of my abdomen like those vampire babies in the Twilight series? (See also the "Birth of the Uruk-hai" scene from The Fellowship of the Ring. Scary stuff!)

When I was five years old, a friend of my mother's was VERY pregnant with her third (or fourth) child, and I remember she grabbed my hand and held it firmly against the side of her enormous belly. "Do you feel that?" She said, her eyes and her smile wide. I could feel through the thin fabric of her dress, very distinctly, the compete outline of a tiny little foot. Heel, toes, everything, pressed decisively into my hand. OMG WTF?! Neither of those terms existed back then, but I tell you, I have never been so disgusted. I pulled my hand away, and I don't remember what I said, but I will never forget how I felt. GROSS!!! And my mother's poor friend, I'm sure to this day, has no idea that she and The Foot scarred me for life.

At this point I'm almost 25 weeks into pregnancy (out of 40, for those who don't know). I've been able to feel the baby moving for a few weeks now, although for some time I simply dismissed it as gas. Other ladies told me that the movement would be a gentle fluttering, like butterflies in my tummy. Um, it's really nothing like that. And honestly, I'm happy to report that it's not nearly as gross as I thought it would be. There's a bit of pressure at times, but not painful or uncomfortable. It's more like bubbles moving through water, or someone playing PONG inside my stomach. What IS gross, is watching my stomach move from the outside. During a very boring meeting last week, I spaced out and started staring at my stomach. The baby was moving around a little, and with each of his gentle motions, I could see my belly pulse and shake. Like a Jell-O mold on a wobbly card table. *gag* It doesn't feel yucky, but it looks yucky. It is as weird as any sci-fi movie I've ever seen. (For all you super nerds, Season 4, Episode 23 of Star Trek TNG, "The Host" is an excellent example.)

Along with the slightly moving, ever-expanding belly comes of course, the host of people obsessed with looking at it and feeling it. The omnipresent Baby Bump. *sigh* At this point, there's no hiding it or sucking it in, it's out there for the world to see, and it seems that most of them want to touch it. Why? No idea. I just DON'T get the appeal. Due to my early-childhood trauma with The Foot, I have never again in my life had any interest in touching a pregnant woman's belly. Why anyone would want to is beyond me, but I will chock that up to being one of the many things about people that I don't understand. Right away I was being groped by people (mostly female friends that were similarly accosted during their own pregnancies). It's a little better now that The Bump is actually firm and you can tell that there is a baby inside, but early on it was basically just a giant fat roll. And I think we can all agree that having other people grab at our belly fat like it's a public squeeze toy is awkward and inappropriate. Now I don't mind as much, as long as someone asks first, or gives me the opportunity to stop their roving hands. And you can TOUCH it. Don't pet it like a puppy or rub it like a magic lamp. (For crying out loud.) Thankfully, I don't find myself in this situation often. I work with almost all men, and none of them have shown any remote interest in touching my stomach.

 Along with the parade of belly-touchers comes the flock of well-wishing advice-givers. This isn't actually as bad as I've been led to believe. Lots of people have advice to give on the best products to buy (or not to buy), and the best child-rearing techniques to use (or to avoid). I understand that all of this unsolicited advice stems from a good place- these are the things that the advice-givers wish that someone had told them back in the days when it would have been helpful to know. And advice is free, I can take it or leave it without a problem. What genuinely pisses me off is people who want to comment yet have nothing productive to say. Spiteful remarks about how "You'll never sleep again," or "Good thing you've done a lot of traveling, because you won't get another vacation for eighteen years!" These types of remarks are neither polite nor helpful. First of all, do not presume to tell me what I can and can't do with my life once I'm a parent. Travel has always been a priority for me and my husband, and we intend to pass those values along to our child. There are bigger things in this world than the cutest outfit or the fanciest toys. There are mountains and oceans, and it is important to me to show those things to my son so that he can appreciate them properly. I'm also not a fan of anyone who tells me that "I guess your pole-dancing days or over," or that I'd better get used to shopping for Mom Jeans. I beg your pardon? Where is it written that all moms are fat and schleppy? I'm not stupid. I realize that the early days of parenthood will be a struggle, but millions of women manage to get through it and somehow find a way to get their bodies back into their original shape. It's not impossible.

Speaking of fat and schleppy. Ever seen a naked pregnant lady? Ha! What a joke. Like, literally laughable. I wish I could say that I've been working out and staying fit like you're supposed to, but most days I'm too tired to consider it. The amount of additional blood in my body forces my heart to work harder to keep it all pumping properly, and the result is one very weary mama. Even a couple flights of stairs leaves me winded. The watermelon tucked under my ribcage makes breathing more difficult and putting my socks and shoes on something of a struggle. And obviously most of my regular clothes no longer fit. Maternity clothes are ridiculous. They come in two styles: Sausage Casing, and Mumu. And almost nothing is cute. I actually cried the first time I went shopping. Like it isn't hard enough to find a pair of jeans that doesn't make your ass look like a truck? And that's with ten thousand options! Try the maternity section. You can choose between this ugly pair of jeans, and that ugly pair of jeans. One pair has an itchy elastic band that sits just below your belly, and the other pair has an enormously comical Lycra-spandex panel that covers your entire belly and stops just below your boobs, like Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum. Everything is either stretchy or flowy, yet nothing really fits properly, because all pregnant women gain weight in different areas and designers have a one-size-fits-all mentality. Now I know why pregnant ladies always wear stretch pants and enormous hoodies. Here I always assumed that they were just too lazy to put themselves together, but it turns out those may actually have been their best options.

My husband asked me last night, if pregnancy has been better or worse than I expected it to be. At this point, some things are better, and some things have been worse. It hasn't really been that bad, but it hasn't been a picnic, either. And despite the fact that I have had a relatively easy pregnancy, there really isn't anything about it that makes me want to go through it again. (Kind of like ocean kayaking. I'm really glad I did it once, but that was the first and last time.) I'm happy to be starting a family with the man who will undoubtedly be the world's greatest dad, and I hope our little boy has big brown eyes just like his. :) That seems like an acceptable sacrifice for the weight gain, the discomfort, and the crippling fatigue. I try not to think about the actual labor part...we'll cross that bridge when we get to it.

And the baby JUST kicked me in the ribs. Sneaky little monkey.

And so it begins.

We'd always told my mother in law that we'd start trying for kids in 2015.

I did some quick math. Let's see...we got married in 2006. Age plus income...divided by house size...carry the two...in conjunction with upcoming events...equals...whoa. What day is it? How old am I? It's 2013. We're going to Sturgis in August of 2015, and I'm certainly not going to want to be pregnant for that. So it would have to be the year after...but if we waited until 2016, that puts me at almost 37 years old when giving birth to my first child. Thirty-seven?! Holy shit, when did I get this old? *sigh* Jeezus. I googled some info, punched up some quick numbers and ran the dates. Hmmm. Apparently after age 35 conception becomes a lot more challenging physically, and at this point, having never been pregnant before, we don't even know what kind of natural obstacles may lay in our path. Having already cancelled our tropical vacation for 2014, the only remaining events for the year were a wedding and a very important baseball game. So basically, that meant no beer at the game and no champagne at the wedding. That seems manageable. We had a Vegas trip in a few weeks, but I wasn't too worried about that. I realized that it takes a couple months of trying for most people to achieve "baby on board" status, so that shouldn't interfere with my planned Vegas activities. (AKA: Drinking my face off.) I called my husband and informed him that if we're going to start a family, it needs to be now. We have a very small window of opportunity here, right now, and if we don't knock this thing out of the park, that window's going to slam shut! Goodness, I didn't think he'd be so excited.

My mom always said, if you try to wait until you're ready to have children, you'll be waiting forever. Maybe, maybe not. Up until now, I've always known that it was the wrong time to have kids. The idea wasn't just absurd to me, at times it made me physically nauseous to think of being pregnant or giving birth. I actually suffered an anxiety attack at the hospital once, while visiting a family member who'd just had her first child. The sounds and the smells combined into this horrid, overpowering blur. My heart began to race and I started to sweat. We were able to say some quick goodbyes and get outside the building before the panic overtook me, but believe me: That day, just like every day before and after, I knew without a doubt that I was in no way ready for a baby.

And then, it happened. Out of nowhere. I woke up one morning, and as I lay in bed, I imagined a little somebody to take to gymnastics class. Would it really be that hard to schedule around? I pictured my spare bedroom stripped of its framed art and antique books, and instead I imagined it plastered with Star Wars posters and its shelves filled with little sports trophies. I could handle that, couldn't I? What if my husband and I took a trip, and instead of barging home to an empty house, we came home to little hands to fill with souvenirs? All of these thoughts rolled slowly, steadily through my head. I didn't get mushy or weepy. It was simply that all of a sudden the thought of having a child didn't frighten or disgust me. I just knew, for the first time ever, that somehow I could handle it.

This was it. This was the sign that I'd been waiting for. I knew I was ready, that everything would be ok. I knew wouldn't lose my friends or my identity. I knew that I'd still be able to see the world and check things off my bucket list. Now I'd have a little somebody to be proud of having the coolest parents ever. (Well. Until that little somebody turns thirteen and we become the lamest parents ever.) The thought made me smile instead of cringe.

I've spent a great many years trying to create my own identity, only to lose it, recreate it, decide I don't like it, and then build it all over again. That's life, right? A cycle of change and growth that never ends. Everything I've done, every choice I've made (good and bad), and every path I've taken (right and wrong) have led me to this point. Each mistake I've made, every friend, and every enemy have helped to shape me into the person that I am now. And it seems that all that action and all of those choices had eventually landed me inside a bathroom stall at the airport, staring at the door in disbelief, the plastic stick in my hand screaming the word "pregnant" while my flight was boarding a few yards away. What. Just. Happened? I'm about to spend five days in Vegas dead sober, that's what happened! Interesting.

Well. Turns out "sober Vegas" wasn't that bad after all. Although I decided against getting a souvenir tattoo (it seemed unwise to risk Hepatitis unnecessarily at this point), I still had a nice time, got plenty of sleep, and even played some decent poker. From that point on, time has continued to fly. With each passing day I'm washed-over with smiles and hugs, oddly sporadic symptoms, and a variety of emotions ranging from pure joy to sheer terror. Was this a mistake? What kind of horrible, selfish parent will I be? What if my friends don't want to hang out with me anymore? Or worse- what if I don't want to hang out with them? What if I turn into one of those crazy women obsessed with organic baby food who speaks of nothing but poop schedules and private preschools? I have no idea what pregnancy or parenthood will bring, but every time icy panic grips my heart, I remember that day I laid in bed staring at the ceiling, and those calm steady thoughts rolling through my head. That was the day I knew with certainty, that even though a million unanswered questions and an unexplored path lay at my feet- I knew that it would be ok. And after all. I haven't made a habit of shying away from adventure, and I don't intend to start now.

Won't you be my neighbor?

It's a beautiful day in the neighborhood...

My husband and I live in a peaceful cul-de-sac on the south side of Fargo. It's a lovely neighborhood, where the houses aren't too big or too small, and the trees are tall enough to cast shade, but not old enough for the root structures to have cracked the sidewalks and damaged the foundations. It's quiet. People water their flowers as grills sizzle, dogs bark occasionally, and children ride their bikes up and down the street. We are just far enough removed from the nearest traffic arteries that the sound of rushing cars blends gently with the rustle of the leaves in the trees.

The other day I returned home to my quiet street to find a bright yellow note taped to the front of my garage. It read, is scrawling block letters, "If you continue to drive recklessly by speeding and driving the wrong way to enter your driveway, you will be reported to the police. There are many young kids in this neighborhood. Including a visually impaired, physically handi-capped little boy. If you have any questions, feel free to talk to ANY of the parents on the block." No signature. No phone number. Just a sarcastic "thanks" scratched across the bottom of the paper.  

A beautiful day for a neighbor...

I was shocked. Thoughts tumbled through my mind, one after the other. Who wrote this? Some lady? Reckless driving? Police? Huh? Handicapped kid- how am I supposed to know there's a handicapped kid wandering around? Entering my driveway wrong- what does that even mean?

I ripped down the note, taking a huge chunk of paint off with it. I glanced up and down the deserted street before hurrying inside, where I sat steaming over the nasty note. Reckless driving, really? Admittedly, I did rather zoom out of the driveway earlier in the day, but I don't think a loud engine equates to reckless driving, and there's no way I could have even broke 30 mph before reaching the stop sign at the entrance to the cul-de-sac, and I know I was in a hurry, but was I really going that fast? I smirked at the "reminder" that there are many young kids in the neighborhood. Yeah, there are. A LOT. We've lived here for six years, and have watched as houses have been bought and sold up and down the street. There's always been one or two families with younger children, but never as many as there are this summer. It's like they cropped up out of the ground and multiplied like the rabbits under my deck. These kids are everywhere. Selling lemonade, building cardboard armor in the yard, chasing dogs, zooming around on scooters and bikes. Trust me, I am well-aware of their presence. But a handicapped child? This I was NOT aware of. But how the hell am I supposed to know there's a special needs child living on the block? Does he carry a sign that says, "Watch out! I'm visually impaired!" I'm guessing not. My blood boiled as I imagined a neighbor "concerned" enough to leave this nasty note, but not so much that they would have taken the time to come over and give me a heads-up that their child is challenged and may not have the faculties to get out of the street when there is a car coming. 

I have always wanted to have a neighbor just like you...

I taped the note up in the middle of my picture window, hoping that the neighbors could all see it displayed in silent defiance of their request. I imagined them all outside, pointing at it and gossiping about the crazy lady who tries to run down their kids in the street. It stayed there until my husband came home and removed it, rolling his eyes and telling me to get a grip.

Entering my driveway the "wrong way"? Wtf. Pretty sure I've pulled into and out of my driveway the same exact way every day for six years. If I've been doing it incorrectly, this is the first I've heard of such a thing. By all means, let's see the "proper way" to pull into a driveway. Is she referring to the rare occasion on which we back one of our vehicles into the driveway instead of pulling in headlights first? Because I'm pretty sure that's not against the law. And if she's under the impression that the cul-de-sac is some kind of one way...uh, there's no ONE WAY sign. I've never heard of a situation in which you would assume that a street is a ONE WAY. I would assume that a street is a regular two-way unless otherwise posted. 

In regards to the special needs child whose safety I may have put in jeopardy ..I think it's reasonable to say that I would have no way of knowing that a child is visually impaired unless someone tells me. It would have been nice to have been informed by a neighbor face-to-face instead of via anonymous threat. 

It's a neighborly day in this beautywood, a neighborly day for a beauty...

My husband and I live at the keeps-to-themselves end of the cul-de-sac. There are five or six houses in a row that contain couples and singles with no children. We don't have gatherings in the driveway, or mingle with the large families on the street. We don't have kids for their kids to play with, we don't have dogs to walk, and have never popped over with a casserole or asked to borrow a cup of sugar. I certainly don't mind. When I was growing up, we lived on a corner with no other houses across the street or behind us. In fact, we had only a single house adjacent to ours, and my mother grew the hedge six feet tall. Not because she hated the neighbors, she simply valued privacy in our yard. If my neighbors want to have yard parties and bonfires, great. It adds to the general ambiance of the neighborhood, and I enjoy giving and receiving a friendly wave as I cruise by. I've never once felt a pang at not being invited to a neighborhood gathering, but the passive-aggressive hostility displayed by whomever left that note is a different beast altogether. 

This situation has weighed heavily on my mind ever since I peeled that note off my door. I've toyed with the notion of formulating a response letter to the anonymous author, and leaving a copy in the mailbox of each and every house on my street. You throw a rock at my house, I throw one at yours, right? However. I don't want someone else coming home to a letter of questionable intent taped on their door like an eviction notice. I don't want anyone else feeling as confused and unwelcome in their own neighborhood as I did that day. Besides, I'm too smart for that. I realize that if we keep throwing rocks, something is going to get broken, and the peaceful tranquility of the street will be gone forever. Instead, I'm posting my response here, in hopes that with enough sharing, my thoughts and words will eventually reach her ears. 

Dear Neighbor,

I want to apologize for startling you the other day. I pulled out of my driveway pretty fast, and it may have appeared that it was without consideration to any children who may be playing nearby. Not having any children of my own, it's easy to forget that other peoples' may be underfoot. There are more children living on the street than ever before, and I admit that I'm not always as careful as I could be. I realize that your note was written out of fear for the safety of your children, so I can easily forgive the tone. In the future, please feel free to stop by with any concerns you my have regarding this subject. My husband and I are reasonable people, who very much enjoy living on this quiet Fargo street. We have no wish to cause harm or discord in any way. If we've done anything in the past to make ourselves seem unapproachable, I assure you that it was not intentional. If we aren't home, and you choose to leave another note, please include your name and number so we can chat. :)

Yours sincerely,
Gina & Pete Bushey

So let’s make the most of this beautiful day,
Since we’re together, we might as well say,
Would you be mine? Could you be mine?
Won’t you be my neighbor?

Out With the Old!

I've heard the phrase "de-cluttering is good for the soul". I don't know where I heard it, but it is absolutely true. I have discovered that there is something extremely satisfying about parting with things. It's like the items were literally weighing me down, and every time another box of stuff goes out the door, I feel a little bit lighter. Over the past couple of years, I have been slowly de-cluttering, both my house and my life. It kind of kicked into high gear when I started watching Hoarders. A more terrifying show, I have never seen. In case you aren't familiar with the program, it focuses on individuals who suffer from an emotional disorder in which they are compelled to acquire and store items of little or no value. It always starts innocent enough, with a small stamp collection or something, and then (usually after some kind of traumatic life event), BOOM! It's floor-to-ceiling pillars of crap in every room, the toilet's busted, there's feces everywhere, and you're sleeping on a mountain of roach-infested garbage.

I don't want to sleep on garbage.

One day, shortly after having moved into our first home, my mother showed up at my door with a pile of boxes from my childhood and said, "Now that you have a house of your own, it's time to get all your stuff out of mine." I took all the boxes to the spare bedroom in my basement, stacked them, and shut the door. Three years later, I opened that door and found that they had multiplied into my very own personal hoard. Ack! What do I do? I don't want to be one of those people! There has GOT to be some stuff in here that I can part with! Of course the first things to go belonged to my husband. (Turns out it was much easier to give away things from his childhood than my own.) My husband is a paper hoarder. He had an entire file cabinet stuffed with pay-stubs, bank statements, and random legal documents from as far back as 1995. Hundreds of statements from accounts that no longer exist, rental agreements from old apartments,old parking tickets, and documents relating to jobs he had in high school. I purchased a shredder.

Not surprisingly, my husband freaked out. He'd spent a lifetime accumulating this bizarre paper stash, and was none too keen on my idea to simply destroy it. However, the little tiff we had over the paper hoard was nothing compared to the battle that ensued when I tried to put his old He-Man guys on Ebay, so I took a deep breath, and turned my attention to my own pile of boxes. After all, I had a lot more stuff than my husband did, so if I was going to be fair, a lot more of my own things would have to hit the curb than his. Time to quit harping on my spouse, and own up to the fact that it was mostly my things that were the problem at hand.

Over the next year, I slowly sifted through the mountain. I went through box after box of my childhood things. I found items that I didn't even recognize. That made them easy to part with. If I couldn't remember why I had saved a particular item, it went into the Give-Away pile. Things that had no sentimental value but possibly some cash value went into the Ebay pile, and of course quite a few things made their way into the Garbage pile. I'd saved newspaper clippings, sheet music, programs from sports events, and posters from all my theatrical productions in high school. I had trophies and stuffed animals, photographs and souvenirs of every size and shape. All my ceramic kitty cats went into the Give-Away pile, and a few of my childhood toys went up on Ebay. I threw out broken items that I finally admitted I would never fix, expired cosmetics, old glassware, random books I'd never again read, and I games I'd never again play. All the VHS and cassette tapes went into the Give-Away pile (save home movies and a couple of mix tapes made for me by friends), along with coats and shoes and "skinny clothes" which, even if they fit, would be out of style anyway. One day, I looked around and was surprised to see that the number of boxes in my hoard had dwindled to a manageable number. Most of what remained were photo albums, a few keepsakes, and important documents. The slow process of shredding the hundreds of ancient papers in my husband's broken file cabinet was complete, and all that remained were certification documents and tax forms. In a great show of support, he even let me throw out three years' worth of old Sports Illustrated magazines that he'd been keeping in a dresser drawer. My once terrifying Hoard Room now contained a guest bed, some actual furniture. Where there was once twenty sagging cardboard boxes, there were now just a handful of plastic storage bins, all neatly stacked and labeled. I had done it.

It's not the cleanest of rooms, by any means, but you can see the carpet, and at last it's more of a guest room than a dirty little secret. It still contains things that I could probably do away with, but I'm so proud of myself for the progress that I've made. Sometimes I go into that room and just look around and congratulate myself on coming this far. As a person who sees value in old things, it's been a bit of a challenge to part with aged items. However, I have learned that just because I've had something forever doesn't mean that I have to keep it. And it's ok to give things away, because if I saw the value in an item, someone else will, too. I've made a game of selling things on Ebay and craigslist. I'm not getting rich by any means, but it makes me happy to put something that was once important to me into the hands of a person who appreciates it, and making a couple dollars while I'm at it is icing on the cake. Truth be told, I've already started collecting new items for the house, reinvesting the dollars I've made selling my old items into new collectibles, but it's helped make my home my own. I've turned a bunch of My Little Ponys that spent twenty years in a box into an antique trunk and an old radio to decorate my bedroom. I put my old toys into the safekeeping of a person who will appreciate them. At the same time, I've added to the beauty of my home with things that make me smile, and isn't that the point? As the weight of the past slowly trickles out the door, I have room for a new and exciting future.

And just in time for garage-sale season. ;)

The First Day of the Rest of My Life

Most people hate Mondays. We dread them all weekend, we wake up groaning about them, and we grumble about them on Facebook all day long, seeking company in our misery from others who share our pain.

When I worked a regular 8-5:00 job, Monday through Friday, I hated Mondays too. Why? Because Monday signifies the point in the week at which you have the most remaining work hours until your next day off. It sucks knowing that there are now forty hours of productivity (or misery, whatever) between you and that Friday evening happy hour. However, when I chose to abandon the 8-5:00 lifestyle, Mondays took on a new meaning for me. The night-job life means that I work nights and weekends. I am routinely scheduled Friday nights, therefore Friday is really nothing to look forward to. If I'm not battling through my week just to get to Friday, my reasons for hating Monday simply melt away.

For me, Monday mornings are mostly calm. Quiet. After a long weekend of work, dealing with drunken customers, shouting over loud music, and trying to fit in all those things that I didn't manage to get accomplished during the week, Mondays are my breath of fresh air. To me, every Monday is a chance to start over. The perpetual Day 1.

Day 1 of the Diet: Struggling with health and weight is a constant for most people, and like most people, I want to look and feel my best while simultaneously (constantly) indulging myself in excessive food, beverage, and naps. Obviously, this does not work. And after a weekend of enjoying myself, Monday is always the day I mentally motivate myself to get back on track. Because Monday is the day with the most remaining days between me and the weekend, it represents a fresh start, and blank page. I can make this Monday the start of a healthier me.

Day 1 of the Exercise Plan: I'm no marathon-runner, but as a woman approaching middle age, I am well aware that my metabolism won't last forever, and it's important to include physical activity in my life. Every exercise program from Sweatin' to the Oldies to p90x has a Day 1.Why not make it today? Fifteen minutes on the elliptical in the morning, one hour of pole fitness in the evening, and a reasonably healthy menu in between. Boom.

Day 1 of the Housewife "Home" Tasks: Desperate housewives of the world! I have six guests coming to stay with me Friday night, and in order to make sure that they don't witness any embarrassing filth, I have *cough* a few chores that need to be taken care of before Friday. Picking up all the clutter, making sure the pillows are fluffed and the beds are clean-sheeted, stocking the fridge, etc. Since it's Monday, I have the maximum number of hours remaining in which to complete those tasks. (Cue the sound of a whip cracking. *whoop-pISH!!*)

Day 1 of the Housewife "Other" Tasks: I have bills to pay, mail to sort, stuff to drop off, packages to ship, Grandmas to visit, gifts to purchase, and household supplies to re-stock. And Lord knows those groceries won't shop for themselves. Luckily, it's Monday, so I have lots of time to squeeze my errands in before Friday, and get them all done without causing myself a panic attack.

Day 1 of Soul Improvement: Arguably the most important of all the Day 1's, this Monday is a chance for me to improve mySELF. Smile at more people instead of giving blank stares, or let an extra car into my lane. I should take a few minutes of my drive between jobs and call a friend just to say hi. Try to keep bitterness and venom out of my head and heart, and remember not to let something small ruin my day. Learn to let something small make my day instead.

A cup of coffee on Monday morning is possibly my favorite time of the week. In the world of the "Day Job" people, 10AM on a Monday might be the worst moment of the week. It's just about time for that fifteen-minute mid-morning break, in which (if you're lucky) you'll be able to run to the bathroom and hit the vending machine. Maaaaaybe check Facebook, but only if you do it on the toilet. (Multi-tasking is key.) Right now, my week seems endless, in a good way. I'm looking around at my messy house, knowing it has to be cleaned, and checking the clock because I know I have places to be, but hey. There's plenty of time to accomplish my weekly goals, because it's only Monday. It's literally the first day of the rest of my life.

And with a small, determined grin, she chugs the rest of her coffee, closes the laptop, and thinks to herself, "Go get 'em, Tiger."

Mid-30's Spring Break: The New Awesome.

I walked up to the check-out at Express and plopped my purchases onto the counter. "Did you find everything alright?" The perky co-ed gave me a smile as she started ringing up my items. Suddenly a sea foam green tank top with a black sequined palm tree stitched to the front caught her eye. "Omygod, this is SO. Cute!" she gushed excitedly, "Are you going on spring break?!" I paused a beat as I tried to figure out if she was mocking my purchase. After all, what thirty-something (practically ancient in the eyes of anyone under twenty-five) would buy something so ridiculous in February? (Or ever?) In a split second, I decided she was genuinely, adorably clueless and responded with a cheerful grin, "Why yes. Yes, I am."

Spring Break. I never had one. My parents got their education the hard way. They WORKED, and they paid for it. As a result, I was entirely responsible for my own room and board, as well as my own college tuition. The closest I ever came to a spring break was when a bunch of friends and I road-tripped to Winnipeg one dreary March. None of us had any money (or any parents with money willing to foot the bill for a frivolous vacation that would no-doubt result in a Girls Gone Wild cameo that would inevitably ruin our chances at political office), so while the greeks and the rich kids flocked south of the border, my economically-challenged friends and I headed defiantly north. It was a great time. We stayed at a Ramada because, as an employee of the Ramada in Fargo, one of my friends got super-cheap rooms. We carpooled. We bought off-sale, cleaned out every ice machine in the entire hotel, and got drunk in our rooms to save money. We paraded down the street to a dirty strip club, and one of my friends purchased a fist full of bargain weed from some weirdo outside the mall. (YIKES.) Instead of buying souvenirs, I stole sticky shot glasses from the Tijuana Yacht Club. We passed out at the hotel in random heaps, wearing mini-skirts, Hawaiian shirts and smiles. I loved nearly every minute of that trip, but it still wasn't the same as a real Spring Break.

This year, my friends and I decided it was high time we take a tropical vacation together. Sun, sand, friends, and liquor. What could be better? It was long overdue! (Right?) However, due to costs involved, we ended up changing our original plans to chill at a Jamaican resort, to renting a house in Key West. Spend a night or two in Miami, Key Largo, and then head to Key West (in wicked rental mini-vans), where the booze is plentiful, there's a beach on every corner, and Cuba is closer than the nearest Walmart. (True story.) The house was GORGEOUS. Private pool, beach across the street, and the Southernmost Point of the United States was literally 200 yards away.

We had an amazing time. We drank. We danced. We saw strippers and sang karaoke. We took cheesy visitors' tours and bought tacky souvenir photos. I've got a million new memories and funny stories. We saw crocodiles, the world's largest lobster statue, haunted liquor establishments, and P. Diddy's Miami home. But do you know what the funny part is? It was unseasonably cold, and rained almost the entire time we were there, but it didn't matter. After all of these years it wasn't the "tropical location" that finally made our "Spring Break" a reality, it was each other. I've had the amazing good fortune to have found a group of friends that, even though most of us met by accident, has been able to stick together throughout the years. Although separated by distance, there is something about our relationships that time and distance doesn't change. And even though Key West was historical and beautiful, and Miami was all sexy and happening, that stuff was a mere background to the real action. My favorite memories of this "grown-up Spring Break" are singing karaoke in a tiny little Key West bar with barely any customers. We drank and danced, choked down jell-o shots, and sang the same songs we've been singing to each other for a decade. In Key Largo, we played drinking games and listed to early 2000's hip-hop at top volume until security banged on the door and threatened to kick us out. We hugged, we talked, we took silly pictures, and we walked arm-in-arm down Ocean Drive in South Beach like it was Broadway in Fargo, 2003. The honest truth is, I think that my friends and I could have taken a Spring Break anywhere and made it just as amazing as we did in Florida. We make our own fun, and that fun is about being together, not being somewhere. The setting is just the icing on the cake. The real treasure in this trip has been reconnecting with friends and realizing that while time irrevocably passes, some things truly never change. Those interpersonal connections are what keep us grounded, and what keep us young. Despite the demands of career, family, and society, I don't know if my friends and I will ever truly act our ages. Lol, I don't even know if it's possible. Whenever we set eyes on each other, it's like a time warp. Our hearts come alive with that carefree spirit we possessed in our youth, when all we needed to do was get home safely and pay rent on time. It's the indescribable feeling that you can only explain in hindsight. When I was 22, I thought I was an adult, but somehow felt like I'd be young forever. The world was my oyster and nothing was impossible. It's the kind of thing you can only appreciate looking backward. However, with age has come the wisdom and perspective to know that every day is a gift, and not one moment is to be wasted or taken for granted. And perhaps that is why now, more than ever, my friends and I can suck down a jell-o shot, grab that karaoke mic, link arms and sing our hearts out with a gusto like we never have before.

BRRR!!! I can't feel my face...

I realize I am stating the obvious here, but it is COLD OUTSIDE!!! And it's not just cold. It's true North Dakota freeze-your-ass-off cold. It's spit-into-the-wind-and-your-own-saliva-marble-nails-you-in-the-middle-of-the-forehead cold. And I realize that although it's (come on) not that big of a deal, (I mean really, all you have to do is make it from your car to the building and vice verse), but still. When you round the corner and a blast of icy wind slices through every layer of clothing like a knife, and your vision goes blurry for a second because your eyeballs have momentarily frosted over, it seems like a big deal.

The weather around here is a constant source of entertainment, hassle, and never-ending conversation. It amazes me that people live here! And at the same time, aren't we all just a little bit proud of it? "Keeps the riff-raff out," that's what we always say. You think some SoCal-born wimp could put up with this nonsense? No way. North Dakotans are bred to tough out the winters here. It's literally in our blood. Short history lesson: A long time ago (in a land far away), the Russian monarchy, looking to settle some of their underpopulated land, advertised throughout the rest of Europe that people could move to Russia to live on and farm the land for free, in exchange for a percentage of their crop. A large number of Germans took them up on the offer and immigrated to Russia. After a few generations, Russia started to suck, so the Germans picked up and moved to the brand new United States of America. Guess where a large number of them settled? The upper mid-west. Guess why? Because it reminded them of home. Cold, crappy, treeless, flat-ass Russia. They knew how to survive and farm land in a hostile climate, and no one else wanted to live here, so BOOM. Home sweet home.

I think it's amusing that "weather" is sort of like, the quintessential world's-most-boring conversation topic. Only around here, it's not. When someone bursts through the front door, and says, "Man, it's cold out there!" It isn't just chilly. It means that exposed skin literally freezes in four and a half minutes. We live in a region where people still freeze to death annually. Freeze. To DEATH. Human popsicles. Unreal. Not only that, but weather is something that every single person around here has in common. It doesn't matter the color of your skin, your political opinions, or your tax bracket. Rich or poor, every last one of us fights the same battle five months a year. Icy roads don't care how nice your car is. That snow in your driveway doesn't give a crap how important your job is. Waitress or CEO, we all have to conquer the same mountains of frozen crunchy white stuff in our attempts to drive to work, and every single one of us will have disgusting snot-cicles when we get there. North Dakota winters are the universal f*cking equalizer.

And speaking of snow, does anyone else dislike it as much as I do? Pretty or not, I resent the fact that every winter, the sky dumps buckets and buckets of frozen water on our houses and streets. We spend millions of dollars on equipment to move it, shove it, pile it, stack it, get it OUT of the frickin' way so we can go about our daily business, and then, poof! It simply melts into nothingness. All that snow vanishes without a trace, making a mockery of the time and money we've spent dealing with it, yet again. I picture that little clay-mation character Jack Frost, laughing maniacally as he zips off to his vacation home in the Caribbean, where he'll sit sipping umbrella drinks all summer long until his calendar says it's time to go back to Fargo.

All that being said, I like living in North Dakota. Snow, schmo. If I lived in California, I'd be dealing with little earthquakes cracking the plaster up and down my walls. In Florida, there could be a giant mutant lizard lurking in my backyard, waiting to eat my dog. Whatever. It's stupid cold outside, and I felt like a short, winter-inspired rant. I know every single person who reads this probably can't feel their toes right now, so I think you'll all catch my drift. (No pun intended.)