She Likes Purple

Things I've Been Meaning To Tell You

1. You sort of knocked me on my ass with your kindness the other day, now didn't you? In all seriousness, though, wow. Just thank you. A few of your comments I've gone back to re-read, over and over, because they're that incredible. I owe each of you a cocktail—although a reasonably priced one during happy hour as forty-six (!) cocktails can get rather expensive. Not that I would know. Fine, I totally know.

2. David Archuleta needs to be punched in the face. I don't care if you think he's a fantastic singer—okay, I admit he's not the worst of the bunch—but there is just something about him that screams, "I deserve a good punch to the head."

3. Do you watch One Tree Hill? Have you gritted your teeth through the last two seasons because you hate Peyton as much as I do? She stabbed her best friend in the back. TWICE. And yet she still finds the time to be a judgmental hag. Anyway, did you watch Monday night's episode? DID YOU SEE? DID YOU CATCH THE BONE THEY THREW AT US? The snuggling? On the couch?

4. I have dropped a few balls lately. I wish I could blame this on drunken escapades but it's more the fault of a hectic schedule combined with adding a ridiculous number of shows to my DVR. (Are you watching Greek? Or Top Chef? Or any of the Food Network shows that feature eating and traveling? I'm kind of obsessed. With all of them.) Anyway, I asked Stara ONE DAMN MONTH ago for help with a joint post I wanted to publish. She obliged within a few days and yet my contributions are still being edited. Stara, bear with me, my dear. And look for a thank-you something-or-other to come to you soon. Also, MONTHS ago, I mentioned a little pay-it-forward thing I wanted to do. And then I promptly forgot about it. Until today! I remembered! And those will go out before May is up.

5. I worked out yesterday for the first time in, well, a while. As I mentioned in the emotional meltdown post, I have been comforting myself with food through this whole no-baby thing, and I really have to stop. I want more than that for myself. I own cute clothes! I didn't buy them just to keep them in my closet! So, I worked out (once! must start somewhere!) and have started eating better. I already feel better, though, which is such a nice change of pace.

6. Look to the left! (Edited: To the left and down.) Elizabeth launched her Etsy shop today, and I'm proud to promote it. I imagine if you've been doing this long enough (blogging) you've met someone who you just know you'd be best friends with if they lived near you. Elizabeth is that person for me. But, posting a link to her Etsy shop reminded me there are other Etsy shops out there, created and managed by some of my favorite bloggers. If you have one, send me the link, and I'll put it in my sidebar and possibly buy things from you. WIN-WIN!

7. This weekend my sister-in-law was in town with our 19-month-old nephew, Jake. Everyone was over at our house this past Friday night and there were quite a few people Jake had never met before, but he's at that age where he walks around without any assistance. At one point, he looked up and realized he didn't recognize anyone around him. And a panicked look washed over him. I walked over to him, knelt down and his face softened. He reached up, and I scooped him off the ground and held him for a little while. That moment will go down as one of my top-ten favorite moments OF ALL TIME. The moment I comforted my nephew by just standing next to him.

8. Finally, remember way back when I requested some assistance from you lovely folks regarding our new house? Well, Heather linked to this chalkboard, and it's totally hanging in my kitchen right now. Thanks, Heather! (Pictures to come. Whenever I get caught up on Greek. And Top Chef. And Tasty Travels. And sleep, too.)

So Far, So Long

(I struggled long and hard about posting this—this really deep, long-winded and whiny post—but writing this may be the greatest dose of therapy I get through this journey, so thanks for your support in advance. Also, I plan to post some drunk pictures tomorrow. Something lighter to look forward to!)

When Mike and I began trying for a baby, there was this nervous excitement that bubbled up and out of us, and it constantly filled our house. It was all we could talk about, think about. We scoured the Internet for baby names, we bought a pair of monkey shoes (on clearance at Target) because they were too adorable to put back on the shelf and we talked about how, in all seriousness, we were going to prepare Molly for the change. It was one of the coolest decisions I have ever been a part of—the decision to have a baby with this guy I loved.

But as the months and months have ticked by, without a baby, the mood has shifted. We are still excited, we still want a baby with every part of us, but we have also been beaten up by this journey. We are hardened. We are sad. And most of all—I think in a way I'll never be able to accurately describe—we are scared.

I feel like I need to be honest because so many well-intentioned (and wonderful!) people have made countless suggestions in order to help us but—and please trust me—I've been to the doctor nearly twenty times over the last year. I've researched my condition. We have a course of action, a game plan, and I am on vitamins and prescribed drugs and usually without caffeine and, please please please believe me when I say, there is not a breath of advice you could offer that hasn't already been offered, hasn't already been thought of by my husband, by myself and by the (literal) team of medical professionals I see on a regular basis. It's not as simple as relaxing and it really won't happen when we stop trying—trust me. But we are doing our best to relax when we can. (I slept until noon yesterday. Fine, 12:30.)

I want to candidly write about this experience, though, because I do believe we'll have a baby one day (somehow) and if I choose to write about it then, with perspective and hindsight, some rawness and vulnerability will be lost. And when we do have a child, I want that child to be able to look back and know how much they were wanted and loved before they were ever created. I want to have a record to show him or her of how badly I wanted them to exist. So badly I began taking medicine that made me want to punch everyone I saw. Right in the head. I want to be able to say to our son or daughter, "Love, I wanted you so badly, I drastically cut back the amount of champagne I drink. DO YOU KNOW WHAT THAT MEANS? I wanted you more than I wanted a fourth season of Veronica Mars."

This experience has been the hardest thing I've ever done, gone through, felt. I have never before felt stronger and more broken all at the same time. I've never known such emptiness and pain and failure while simultaneously feeling so hopeful and optimistic and certain that it's meant to happen, someway. And here's where I'm humbled: we are not alone, we are not exceptional, we are in the "easy" part of this fertility-challenged club. We're just trekking through a particularly rocky valley where other couples are digging themselves out of hell itself. We have so damn much to be grateful for. We know that.

I don't want to go into too many details because that will require using medical terminology, and I find that when I send a label out into the Internet the Internet responds with a ferocity and an energy I have never before seen and I immediately become dizzy fielding all the (really well-intentioned!) advice that I'm pounded with. So, let's just say I have a condition that requires medical intervention on a fairly basic level. And it's a multi-stepped process, meaning we have to clear one hurdle at a time, but we really can't be promised how many total hurdles there will be. We've cleared a few so far. We anticipate a few more. We're prepared for that. But, lord, we just can't ever be totally sure.

So, let me say a couple of things. Some days are easy. Some days we are deeply hopeful and we secretly peruse nursery bedding and we think to ourselves, A January baby will be fun! We can tease them endlessly about missing the tax cut! Just think, we'll have the same birthstone! And then the hope crumbles and we look to the next month and we straighten our backs while our hearts fracture a little more. Some days we are ridiculously optimistic—we may have just gotten good news from our doctor, we have gotten a prescription for a drug that may help or we are feeling especially positive about things. Other days I force a lot of smiles, I choke on a lot of tears, I even throw a thing or two.

I have gained weight through this process and that's because I've been comforting myself with food and I have got to stop that. It's not helping anything; it's only making things worse. I have turned on myself in a way I never anticipated. Why can't I do what so many can? Why didn't Mike choose another woman, one who could give him what he desperately wants? And please don't tell me how wrong it is to think this way. I know it is. I rationally know everything. I could write a book about how to think clearly and rationally. But, fuck, I'm a human being. Thoughts creep into my head, and although I push them out as quickly as I can, they still come round sometimes. I will apologize for a lot, but I won't apologize for having them in the first place. And I think it's a natural place to wander, this dark punishing place. We don't want to go there, but it's where we end up sometimes. It's just how it is.

I can't tell you how much longer I can take this. Just when I think I can't take any more disappointment, I get a surge of resilience and I march through another month. I can't tell you what is up ahead. If this whole journey has taught me only one thing it's that you can't plan a day of your life without something popping up and surprising the hell out of you. And, lord, it's kind of irritating, isn't it? How insane life is, how little we have control of things. We can chart and monitor and research and Google like a sonuvabitch, but we're never really in charge. So much isn't in our hands. And accepting that fact—the fact that I am not in control of this, no matter how knowledgeable and proactive I've become—is the single hardest thing I've ever done. All I want to do is fix, do, plan, figure out (like a good little Capricorn) and instead I have had to learn to breathe deeply, rely on faith, lean on my husband, vent to the people closest to me, stop beating myself up and hang on for dear life.

I am a drastically different person today than I was last year. I am forever changed, regardless of what happens for us. I will never be the same. But that's a good thing. It is. Trudging through all this pain has toughened me, strengthened me, humbled me, and I know that all of this will make me a great mother one day.

I have received so many e-mails from friends—which is what I consider many of you. You ask me how I am; you offer your prayers. And I wish I could tell you how you've saved me when you've done that. How I sometimes open an e-mail when I'm teetering on breaking down, and you give me resolve. I dust myself off because of your words—not words of advice, but of support. You are angels, every single one of you. I was told, when we first started trying, not to tell anyone. And I think that's actually good advice. In fact, it's advice I'd offer up myself, to anyone who asked. But I, personally, could not have come this far with my lips sealed shut. I would have collapsed, long ago. I'm not going through this alone, and that is why I'm still going through it at all. You (reading this or otherwise) are why I didn't give up and buy a puppy three months ago.

Again, I do believe we'll have a child one day, somehow, and I believe we deserve one and will love one and will have fun with one and will enjoy showing our son or daughter the world. I know I will be a good mother. I believe a lot of things that make this experience worth it when it's crushing down on me. When we do have one, when the journey brings us to the one moment we're striving for, the first moment I hold my child, I'm going to tell him or her—right after, "Baby, don't ever let your father convince you Mythbusters is quality television"—is this:

Before having you changed my life, wanting you did.

The Best Of This

So, I have people coming to my house in about three hours for a party I just started buying food and drinks for about an hour ago. I have the heart of a party-thrower and the motivation of a sloth. But, it'll come together, right? I always think these things have to come together and if they don't, I always assume: that's why God invented beer. To shove into the hands of those making funny faces at your laundry pile. The one that's sitting on your coffee table.

(Kidding! Our laundry pile is currently next to our coffee table!)

To put off the frantic cleaning just a wee bit longer, I've thought of a fantastic post idea. (I'd like compliments for this one, friends.)

I was driving home yesterday from getting my hair cut (it's cute; I should take pictures) and I was thinking about our upcoming ONE-YEAR-WEDDING ANNIVERSARY (!!) and what I should post about. For whatever reason, one of Dooce's old posts came to mind—and it's easily one of the best things I've read by any writer. I wondered if I could just link to it on May 19 and call it a day. I concluded that, no, I should think up original thoughts but then I wondered what your favorite blog posts are. What posts have you read by other talented, funny women and men that have changed your day (your month, your year), changed your perspective, made you cry, made you forward the post on to everyone you know because not having those words in their lives was UNACCEPTABLE. I would love to know your selection(s)—either through a link in the comments or via e-mail—and if I'm feeling particularly crazy come Monday, I'll make a "Best of Blogging" list so everyone can access the brillance in one, handy location.

In order to inspire you, here are my top five picks:

That post by Dooce.

It was hard to pick just one but this particular one—by Holly at Nothing But Bonfires—may be my favorite. It's about heartbreak and how it usually works out as it should.

Oh, I cry every time I read this one by Finslippy.

Brave, beautiful—similar to everything else Linda at All & Sundry writes.

Amalah's Love in a Time of Madness.

::

Leah did something similar to this a few weeks ago, too. I bet her comment section is worth a once-over.

A Love Story

When Mike and I fight—or even jokingly fight—there is always a point, sometime during the makeup portion of the evening, when he will say to me, "I could never really leave you. My family would disown me." Or I will say, "I could never really leave you. I'd miss your family too much." And I'm fortunate, that adoring his family is a reality of mine, but I'm also completely serious. They're all wonderful, each and every one of them, but his parents—out of the whole, noisy lot—are as good as it gets.

At our wedding reception, the venue sort of screwed us out of the money we had set aside for the open bar. My coordinator assured me (beforehand) that the money would last the entire night, but it lasted, oh, an hour before the bartender began charging people. Instead of punching the woman in her face (which is what on-Clomid Jennie would have absolutely done, by the way), I told her I would just go get my credit card, and Mike and I would open a tab. Before I could take a step, my father-in-law swooped in and took care of it. He told me not to worry. He told me to go dance.

Once a week or so, we go over to Mike's parents house to watch Survivor and eat dinner. One night, during the show, we muted the volume to take a bathroom break. As we all settled back in, Mike told his mom to un-mute the show. She paused for a few seconds, surveying the remote and then said, "Where's the un-mute button?" We still laugh about that.

Mike's mom bought me a dress for a party Mike and I went to recently for no other reason than she simply wanted to.

When we were planning our honeymoon and talking over our plans with his parents, I said, mid-conversation, "Wait! You guys should come with us!" Mike looked at me, shook his head and said, "You are the only person in the history of the world who would actually want your in-laws to come on your honeymoon with you."

As I took a shot last weekend with a few new friends (a shot I should not have taken, my liver has reminded me every day since), I broke out my favorite shot glasses for the occasion. When someone asked where I got them, I said, "Oh, my mother-in-law bought them for me." Because she's not only generous, she's also quite aware (and accepting!) that her daughter-in-law is a lush.

My mother-in-law (and my mom) were both at my bachelorette party. They both watched me take a body shot off a stranger and then get bench-pressed. I think one of them even took a picture.

When I survey my life from time-to-time, when I think of the hard things Mike and I have gone through throughout the last few months, it brings me warm comfort to think of Bonnie and Dave and realize that—since I was lucky enough to marry their son—they are my family. 

Mike asked me once if I would still have married him if he had come with different parents. And I told him, "No. I don't think so." That sounds ridiculous, doesn't it? But he is who he is—a man so ready for his own children, a man so devoted to his own family, a man so loyal, funny, laid-back, confident and original because of the parents who raised him. Parents who did one hell of a job.

Parents who celebrated their 31st anniversary yesterday.

(I bet you're wondering if Mike's mom gave birth to him when she was ten. Not quite, but she does look fantastic, I know.) 

Blocked

Do you ever find yourself driving—to the grocery store (wait: do you say grocery store or supermarket?), the gas station, dinner, work—and a blog idea just hits you across the face? You jot down a little note in the notebook you keep in your purse and when you get home, you transfer jotted notes to computer keyboard and feel rather proud of yourself. I can go along like this for weeks: filled to the brim with post ideas, wondering if posting seven times in the same day would be considered obsessive. But there are other times—kind of like this entire month—when my life outside of the computer is just insane enough that when I do sit down to string coherent thoughts together, I usually have a minimal amount of energy and it's all I can do to sip on a glass of champagne and get through an entire One Tree Hill episode before falling asleep.

I suppose I should stop whining for a moment and ask how you are? How's work? Is it hot where you're at? It's EIGHTY-SIX degrees here, and although I was eager—downright ENTHUSIASTIC, actually—for the change in weather from stupid and cold to warm and sundress-worthy, it's also humid and sticky. It's warm enough to sit on a patio sipping a margarita but miserable enough to instantly sweat out the tequila. (No point in that! None!)

Time to poorly segue into some bad news. For any of my readers who have enjoyed The Bachelor lists I have been throwing at you each week (I think just my sister, right?), last night was unfortunate, wasn't it? Noelle didn't get a rose. I'm sort of not okay with that. I loved Noelle. Noelle was my favorite Bachelor contestant since Jen on Andrew Firestone's season. With Noelle gone, I'm just uninspired to continue recapping. (Why are you cheering?) Amanda's eyes have been seriously bugging me lately, I think Chelsea may be a lesbian and as someone recently reminded me, I was only hoping Matt would keep Shayne around this long so her exit from the show would be ridiculously fun to watch (I envisioned her ripping the flower out of her hair and throwing it at him), but now I'm rather afraid he's going to keep her ... for good. I am sure I'll watch the last two episodes (three if there is a Women Tell All), but I just don't think I can bring myself to guiltily enjoy the show like before. And this is a shame! If you can't guiltily enjoy horrible reality TV then what's the point of owning a DVR at all? There is none, I totally agree.

To wrap this up, I have a question to present you with. It's a TWO-PARTER, so basically you're doing more work around here than I am today. You deserve cookies, the lot of you. Anyway, if you were going to spend a little money on Amazon and you wanted to buy both a great cookbook (easy recipes! healthy too!) and a great workout video, which ones would you decide on? Links never hurt. I'm just saying. (And for the bonus question: I've heard good things about Nigella Lawson, but I can't remember where from. Do you have an opinion about her recipes?)

Now, let's all hope good things for tonight's American Idol episode. Carly, David (Cook, NOT Archuleta), Brooke, don't suck, all right? (David A., please do suck. I'm not a fan.)

::

Stara! The Dallas post is almost done! You're shocked, aren't you?   

Timeline: Sixteen

(To catch you up to speed, here's One Through Six. Then Seven And Eight. Over here is Nine. Then Ten. Then Eleven. Then Twelve And Thirteen. And, finally Fourteen And Fifteen.)

1998, age sixteen
On my sixteenth birthday Jason shows up at my door, holding a balloon and peach roses. He asks me—in not so many words—to forgive him. And I do. Three weeks later, on his sixteenth birthday, he tells me he loves me while we watch a movie in his living room. I say it back because there is no other word I know to describe how he makes me feel and even though I look back now, ten years later, painfully aware of all the things that girl wasn't aware of, I still can't dispute that she was—without a doubt—in love with that boy.

That night as we laid on his couch—whispering to one another, entwined in front of the TV—my friendship with Natalie suddenly cracks down the middle. Before Monday morning parents will be called, tears will be shed, words will be screamed and as I pass her in the hall for the first time since our friendship-ending fight, we look coldly past one another. We say nothing. There is silence where there used to be notes and laughter. There is crackling animosity and anger where there used to be a comfortable sisterhood. 

She stops by my house twice over the next six months, worried about my obvious eating disorder the first time and about her own peace of mind the second, but both times it feels like there is too much damage to repair, too much betrayal to overlook. Even though I find myself driving down her street, looking for her in the hallway and thinking of her on her birthday, the silence becomes deafening. Natalie and I begin our separate lives.

Jason and I fall deeper in love and because we're sixteen and we have no clue what the hell we're doing, we begin to hurt one another. We scream, we throw things, I cry, we apologize, we grab hold of each other. We are intense and exhausting, and because I just don't know any better—because I am stupider than I have ever been or will ever be again—we talk about getting married. I make him practice asking me, and he buys me a promise ring we pick out together.

It's an unhealthy relationship—hindsight shows me that much—but it's not all bad. And when I peel back the hard parts, I remember swimming in his backyard on sticky summer nights and long, stolen kisses in my car. I remember wearing his jacket and playing with his little sister. I remember his old, sad Beagle—"Spike the Wonderdog"—and sitting at my first Aggie football game with his family, hot chocolate in hand. I remember eating Wendy's together after school and how he would drive to and from my dance classes with me, just so we could spend those extra thirty minutes together. As so many things go in life, it really was good before it was bad. It really was breathless and intoxicating before it was suffocating and scary.

In November, I join thirteen other drill-team members on a trip to New York City, to dance in the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade. I'm not close with too many people on the team because I spend all my free time with Jason. But that week in New York City—dancing for hours in the ballroom of the Hilton and then exhaustedly exploring the city by ourselves while our twenty-something chaperons took shots in the hotel bar—was the best week of my life. The electricity, the excitement, the energy—everything about that city made me desire to see more. Something was roused in me that trip, and although I was still desperate to get back home to him, I wasn't as desperate as when I left. I mark that trip as the beginning of the end.

Eleven

I can hardly believe I'm going to start off this post in such a way, but do you watch The Real Housewives of New York City? If you don't—and, really, good for you—let me tell you a little bit about a ridiculously pretentious and pompous couple on the show—a couple who has very little reason to be pretentious and pompous because they don't even have proper floors in their house. The wife's name is Alex. The husband's is Simon. Their two little boys are so awkwardly named I can't bear to Google the correct spellings. Aside from the pretension and pompousness, they are also inseparable. And I guess it comes across as somewhat romantic—he tells her the sunset isn't as gorgeous as she is, she constantly tells the camera she is deeply in love and they pity every other couple they know for not being as blissful as they are and, yet, I feel sorry for the two of them. At one point, Alex is invited to a ladies' dinner and she pauses and asks, "Well, let me ask you something. Can I bring Simon?" There's so little they can do without each other.

Last weekend I was in Austin for Natalie's bachelorette party, and although I called Mike when we got to Austin and then again when we stumbled into our hotel room after our night of drinking and shimmying, it was more of a "Hi! Didn't get snatched and I also didn't spend our entire budget on body shots! Love you! Night!" conversation than an "I miss you so much. I am counting down the minutes until I can see your face again." one. And I truly don't think it means I don't love him or don't adore him or don't find myself just as lucky as Alex finds herself. (Although, I don't know if any woman who wears an animal print dress to the opera should be considered anything other than certifiable, lucky included.)

Here's the thing, when Mike and I first started dating, we spent every waking minute together. I stopped spending time with friends, I stopped showing up for work regularly, I started studying less and less. Here's why: I was afraid I would lose the relationship if I didn't hold tightly onto it.

About seven months into our relationship, as Mike and I were driving to lunch before he went to work for the day, I asked him what we were doing that night, and he said, "Why don't you go see Cherie tonight." To which I said, "So I won't see you at all tonight?" He responded, "Since we're spending forever together, it really is okay if we don't spend tonight together." And, OH BOY, it was like a giant, flashing, neon light went off. After that, everything changed in our relationship. I trusted that if I went to dinner with friends, he'd still be there when I got home. I trusted that when I surrounded myself with good friends and family—not only a good partner—I would become a more complete and peaceful person. I now believe that I serve Mike better when I allow both of us to breathe on our own.

I am not Mike's other half. He is not mine. Mike and I are two individuals, two complete people in one committed relationship. We did not become "one" when we got married. I don't think he's my soul mate, and I don't believe fate or destiny brought us together.

I have never worked as hard at anything in my life than this relationship. And not because being with Mike is harder than anything I've ever done. (Although, wow, have you ever been with someone who plans his week around the Deadliest Catch premiere? Not a piece of cake.) But I work so hard because I have never been more proud of something than of this relationship, and I want it to reflect that effort. And if I believed that our path had already been predestined, that we came together not of our own choices but because of some grander plan, I might get the inclination that I don't have to work so hard. And that's not the kind of relationship I want; it's not the kind of relationship I most believe in. 

When you walk into a marriage, the odds simply are what they are. Every couple who has gone their separate ways loved each other once—well, most of them—but the odds neither comfort nor scare. It's a coin flip. And so I work at it, and I choose him every day. Because I won't leave this relationship to chance, to become a statistic. I insist on being a part of this relationship in order to determine how it will grow.

Eleven months ago, on our wedding day, as I finished saying the vows to Mike that I had written myself, I said something that I continue to say to myself at least once a day—sometimes if the days are particularly hard, more than once. I say, "You are the best decision I have ever made."

He is a decision I continue to make, a choice I continue to choose. And Mike and I are the only two people who can—and do—take credit for the relationship we have.

Well, Mike, me and a hefty supply of alcohol.

Happy eleven months, Michael.

Things I Thought After Watching The Bachelor The Other Night

(I changed the title ever-so slightly from the last few weeks because, um, I'm learning nothing from watching this crap.)

1. Shayne fell down the stairs. Awesome.

2. Robin? Where did you get those pajamas you were wearing in the opening scene? Wherever you got them ... DON'T GO BACK THERE.

3. Matt, I realize you're filming this show in America, so we appreciate how many compliments you've given our grand land. And Idaho actually is quite beautiful, I know, but more beautiful than France? Now, come on. Were you stretching the truth when you said that? Just a tad?

4. Now, everyone who knows me remotely well is going to think I've become sick after they read this, but, JEEZ, they drink a lot on this show. Can anyone do anything without a glass of champagne in their hand? Did we learn nothing from Kelly last week?

5. Where do you think those mustard-yellow mugs are from—the ones Matt and Chelsea sipped from on their one-on-one date? WHY AM I SO INTO MUSTARD YELLOW THESE DAYS?

6. Matt, I love that you said "ass." That's it.

7. I've been snowboarding once before, and one day I'll tell that story (it's a story that involves me crying—hysterically—€”on the side of a mountain and Mike wondering just what in the hell he had gotten himself into with me) but because of that horrific, disastrous day, I know what snowboarding entails. So, I'll just go ahead and put this out there: I've gained respect for Shayne. I KNOW.

8. Wait, Robin, you're 22? No! Couldn't be! Are you 22 like Shayne is an actress? If you're actually 22, then perhaps my readers can help you by suggesting a new moisturizer. Readers?

9. Noelle? Will you be my BFF?

10. Chelsea, where did you get your rose-ceremony dress? Lovely!

11. Robin said, "I always get what I want." Robin, WANT A BETTER MOISTURIZER.

12. Shayne has far too many flowers that serve as hair accessories. Lorenzo, buy the girl a nice shiny barrette, will you?

13. Bye Robin! Bye Marshana! Try not to gouge each other's eyes out during the limo ride home.

14. I'm feeling all out of sorts with television this week. I actually didn't like Carly's performance on American Idol. I kind of sided with Spencer on The Hills. (Wow, I'd pack your parka if you're heading to hell this week.) I had a damn EPIPHANY while watching One Tree Hill which is a fantastic show, don't get me wrong, but I've had very few epiphanies while watching it in the past. And, um, Shayne is kind of growing on me. She's just so endearingly out of her mind. She never makes me want to punch her in the head, like I wanted to do with Robin at various moments and with Marshana at all moments. Actually, she just makes me want to sigh, shake my head and say, "Screw it. Pour me whatever she's having." She seems to be having just a ball out there in left field, and it's kind of bless-her-heart charming.

Well, It Really Is About Time

A little more than two years ago, a baby train came trucking through our family and our group of friends, and since then we've welcomed 13 babies into our lives—each one giving me a perfect excuse to troll the baby section at Target without looking too pathetic. Out of 13 babies we have welcomed 13 boys. NO. LIE. What are the odds of that? No, really, what are they? I'm just horrible with statistics. Now, you should know, I'm a huge fan of baby boys. In all honesty, if someone floated down from above and gave me the option of having a healthy baby boy or a healthy baby girl (no discerning differences whatsoever), I would choose a boy. (Even though, HA!, no-one seems interested in making me that offer.) (Also, Mike and I cannot agree on a boy's name TO SAVE OUR LIVES but we have two [TWO!] girls names we love. That's ironic, isn't it?) There is just something about the way a little boy loves his mother or how floppy a little boy's hair is or their energy, smell, smile, and I physically feel that I'll mother a boy one day. Obviously this feeling has led me to adore each and every baby boy in my life—my nephews, especially. But, it became almost comical, how void of little girls our lives had become.

About three months ago, Crystal—one of my best friends and, if you remember, the reason I have a ridiculously hard-to-pronounce last name—and I had dinner, as we do quite often. And, as I was rattling on about this or that (most likely how Mike records 27 of the same Survivorman episode and ha ha I kind of want to punch him in the head when he does that), she interjected to tell me she and her new husband were expecting a baby.

Yesterday she told me they are expecting a baby girl.

I finally get my girl—to shop for, to fuss over, to spoil, to babysit—and if you know Crystal, if you've ever been lucky enough to spend even a minute with her, you'll know what a perfect mother she will be to an adorable, dressed-all-in-pink, sweet baby girl. 

When you surround yourself with good people, their joys become your joys. It's the true beauty of life—that when you do it just right, every happiness is multiplied and every grief is divided. As your friend's heart grows to encompass all the good in her life, yours grows as well. As you watch her dreams come true, it's almost as if yours are coming true, too. Because you want—that deeply—for someone else's happiness.

Crystal, I love your daughter already. (Molly is a bit concerned you won't have time for hugs now, but I assured her there was—say it with me!—always time for hugs. She'll need you to convince her of that next time she sees you.)

And, Internet, look how cute this kid is going to be:

Timeline: Fourteen And Fifteen

(Ages "One Through Six" can be read here. Ages "Seven And Eight" here. Age "Nine" over here. Age "Ten" here. Age "Eleven" here. And, finally, ages "Twelve And Thirteen" here.)

1996, age fourteen
I wrap up eighth grade and head off to California for the summer. I baby-sit my way through my dad's neighborhood, so I can buy as many back-to-school clothes as possible for my freshman year of high school. At our freshman orientation, Natalie and I find out we have four classes together, including Debate, which will make standing in front of ridiculously critical upperclassmen and offering my point-of-view on such topics as the death penalty actually possible throughout that year.

High school officially starts and I wear a chocolate-brown dress on the first day. Natalie and I meet after every class, although we make new friends, too, through drill team and classes. We dance on the junior varsity drillteam every Thursday night at the JV games, and we wave our pompoms in the stands each Friday night, at the varsity games. As groups of middle-school friends fracture and fall apart (high school is a completely new battlefield and some people are rocketed to popular status and some people just aren't, as you probably remember), it seems to amaze everyone—Natalie and myself included—that she and I have managed to stay friends through all of the hard and awkward transitions. We're foolish to think we've dodged the ultimate bullet (starting high school) and that there won't be some serious obstacles up ahead for us.

This Christmas—December 1996—will be the last Christmas my mom, sister and I will spend living together and we celebrate by driving around, looking at lights, dancing in the street to the turned-up radio and laughing, just the three of us, which is something I will miss every day after my sister moves away, six months later.

1997, age fifteen
The night I turn 15, I'm in California for the second half of my holiday break. My step-mom has promised to take me driving around their neighborhood in the middle of the night—my first time behind the wheel. When she wakes me up, at 3am, she's positive I'll roll over and wave her away as I've always been a girl who loves her sleep, but I bolt out of bed and practically run to the car. Elece will tell the story for years to come—at my wedding reception even—of this night she teaches me to drive and how halfway through the tutorial I will turn to her and say, "Does your left foot ever stop hurting?" Confused she asks, "What do you mean?" "Well, it's kind of painful to hold your left foot up in the air until you need to press the break." (If she reads this, I know she'll snort out her coffee, just thinking about it.)

Sometime this spring, I decide to try out for the varsity drill team, even though Natalie has opted not to. And, somehow, I make it. I begin practices and over the summer I show up for drill team camp, which is miserable and seemingly never-ending and I swear I lose five pounds over those four long, treacherous days. Oh, and I also love every second of it.

My sister moves back to California over the summer, and I write a poem in my head to her in the back of my dad's van one hot afternoon. When I finally put pen to paper, I remember almost every line, and I send it to her in a card after hundreds and hundreds of miles and also hundreds and hundreds of regrets separate us. (We haven't lived in the same timezone since.)

As I start my sophomore year of high school, with hours of drill team practice and a new, shorter haircut, my mom tells me she's leaving me home for a weekend in late September to go on a church retreat. Since I'm a teenager and therefore equipped with awful decision-making skills, I decide to throw a small little party while she's away. Just a few close friends and a few illegally purchased bottles of Boone's. Natalie and I set about inviting a handful of people but, as most things go when you're fifteen, we weren't entirely prepared for what would happen that night. By the end of the party there ends up being quite a few people sleeping on my couch whom I have never met before. One particular uninvited guest was named Jason, a boy I had developed a crush on the year before in my biology class. He smelled like Tommy cologne and he walked kind of funny, limbering and heavy.

A week after that night—and after my mother totally found out about the party because it turned out I was awful at making decisions and lying—Jason stopped me in the hall outside of my history class and asked if he could call me sometime. My heart beat out of my chest for the next ten hours, until the phone rang, and a few days after that I went out on my first official, honest-to-goodness date, a date I forced Natalie to go on with me because I was more nervous than I had ever been. He also brought a friend. We saw The Game and then ate at Chili's, and we couldn't have known it then—we were far too starry-eyed and filled with buzzing excitement—but from then on our lives would never really be the same.

That Christmas I went back to California, anxious about leaving Jason for an entire week because, honestly, I didn't fully trust him. The day I got back to Texas, Natalie broke the news to me over the phone: my boyfriend of three months had cheated on me. That should have been it, and I hope if any 15-year-old girl is reading this and going through something similar it will be it for you (although I'm sure it won't be). But, I was so young and, for the first time, so in love with a boy who could change my mind/mood/day with just a look. I didn't talk to him for a week after our one and only "How could you do this to me?" conversation. I spent those seven days with my stomach twisted into roughly nine million knots, listening to the whiniest and saddest of songs.

I rang in 1998 at Natalie's house, watching The Fifth Element and crying softly into the pillows on her couch, just gut-wrenched over what he had done to me. My heart was unequivocally broken, and all these years later—more than ten, in fact—it's still an aching, physical pain I haven't forgotten.

Things I Look Back On, Part Three

(For #'s 1-25, visit here. For #'s 26-50, here.)

51. Talking for hours and hours and hours with Mike, until the sun peeked into the windows, until we frantically realized we both had to be at work in an hour. And then doing it again the next night. Because we couldn't stop talking to one another.
52. Standing on California Street in San Francisco on the first day of the new year, watching the desk calendar pages float down from the windows high above me.
53. Each and every hug my mother has ever given me.
54. The day I beat all the odds to become an officer on my high school drill team.
55. Driving my '89 Honda Civic on a golf course, laughing until I couldn't breathe.
56. The first time I heard "I love you" from someone who gave me butterflies—on January 18, 1998.
57. Eating at the Cheescake Factory, with the people I loved the most surrounding me, on the day I graduated from high school in the spring of 2000.
58. Climbing with my sister, ages 19 and and 22, on the "spider web" at the Seattle Zoo.
59. Ordering my first legal drink—an amaretto sour—at age 20, in a Toronto bar.
60. Watching STOMP in San Francisco and listening to my nine-year-old brother explain to a friend of mine the definition of a lesbian.
61. Driving through McDonalds before a very early-morning practice and not beating myself up for the calories—knowing I was about to work them all off and then some.
62. Reading the perfect blog post; the post that inspires me to strive for heights I know I'll never reach. Posts like this and this and this.
63. Dancing at halftime at a Cowboys game, with Reba McEntire singing roughly 50 ft away from me.
64. Feeling beautiful on prom night.
65. Being broken-hearted and nineteen and not knowing how I would get through it all because the boy who left me left me for a good friend of mine and then receiving an e-mail from Natalie that said, "I am going to kick his ass." And, what's more, believing her. (The true gauge of a best friend: she still doesn't like the girl, even seven years later.)
66. Eating dinner, the night before my wedding, with some of the best friends a girl could ever ask for and realizing that, wow, they were all in town for me.
67.  Walking so often through the yards of two houses—the houses between my house and hers—that we indented a path through the grass.
68. Locking eyes with him across the room.
69. Walking the streets of NYC, laughing at caterpillars and Shish kabobs, and wishing the day would never, never end.
70. Piggy-back rides.
71. Slipping on my engagement ring, at sunrise on a Florida beach, begging myself to remember, remember, remember.
72. Having drinks with Cherie, just the two of us, at Hole In The Wall, a bar in College Station.
73. Running into Brendon Anthony in Hastings and asking him, while hyperventilating, for his autograph and a picture.
74. Writing this one particular poem.
75. Laughing uncontrollably with Mike, on our wedding night, and realizing that, my god, we were both the happiest we had ever been.

Never Alone

So, I'm not pregnant. I thought I was. I hoped I was. And, what's more, I had reason to be rather optimistic this month—which was, I have to say, quite a refreshing change of pace compared to the seven previous months when my body basically did one long variation of flipping me off. But, I'm not. No Christmas baby. No fellow Capricorn running around the house. (Which would have been fun. Think of how insane we could have driven Mike, what with all the combined anxiety and hand wringing we'd do.)

I am staying positive. And come tomorrow, after a champagne-soaked night, I'll be positive again. But throughout this process there's always one day of the month that's harder than any other. For this month, that day seems to be today.

My palms become really clammy whenever I get the urge to talk about our "problems" getting pregnant—I use quotes because our problems very much fall under the headline of Definitely Could Be Worse—because it's tricky ground to tread and I don't want to develop some sort of subtitle after my blog that is some variation of Trying to Conceive. We are trying to get pregnant—or, as I like to call it Project: Trying To Get Knocked Up—but we're also trying to find a great desk for my office. I'm trying to gather the motivation to get up and run in the mornings. Mike and I are trying to decorate our house and host more poker nights. We're trying to get prepared for our housewarming party and our nephew's second birthday in the coming weeks. We're trying to plan our anniversary trip, and I'm trying to decide how many shoes I should bring with me to BlogHer (10? 12?). I think about having a baby a lot and we talk about having a baby a lot and I already know how I'm going to tell Mike when the time comes. (I wish I could tell you how, but that would totally ruin the fun of telling you WITH PICTURES, and—wow—I am the most patient woman alive. Send shoes.) But whether or not it takes us another year or it happens in a few weeks (um, that'd be nice, if someone could go ahead and make that happen) I know our ultimate goal has always been the same, regardless of how long it takes us to get there. We thought the road would be short. We were wrong. But we'll keep on. And we have so many things to enjoy along the way. For instance: I am enjoying Carly on American Idol. I already know you are not, Internet, so don't feel you have to tell me.

I was kind of excited about a Christmas baby, sure, but I don't want a Christmas baby or a summer baby or a baby who sleeps through the night or a baby who doesn't. I don't want a baby who will walk at nine months or will crawl until their second birthday. I don't want a baby with dark hair or light eyes. I just want a baby. Period.

I try to find the silver lining in all situations because it does seem like a better solution than ramming one's head into the wall until passing out. And I have a silver lining: this weekend is Natalie's bachelorette party, and if that's not the single-best reason to down a glass of champagne or seventeen, then, really, I don't know what is. If you've read this site for any amount of time, you've heard me mention Natalie—most recently in my timelines—but there will never be enough words in the world to really talk about her. I've had some low moments throughout all of this, and she's listened to me work my way through them. One night, when I was especially sad, when I was succumbing to some tears, I called her, and I told her I didn't know why I was so sad right then, but I was. And she listened and then she said, "You'll have a baby. Even if I have to carry it for you."

Sometimes the silver linings are hard to find—they're lackluster and grimy and we're just too damn clouded by all the frustrations and stress. And, other times, the silver linings—the friends, the times with those friends spent consuming copious amounts of champagne—blind you with their magic. No, I don't have a baby yet. But when I do, I have just the person I want him/her to meet.

Things I Learned While Watching The Bachelor Last Night, Part Three

(Week one. Week two.)

1. Shayne kept stressing the "honest truth" on the group date, and the phrase seemed kind of redundant to me, yet no-one else seemed to catch this—everyone else was nodding along like "yep, yep, honest truth, got it." But isn't honest truth sort of like SAT test? Shouldn't the truth be honest, you know, without having to preface it that way?

2. There is something about Robin that makes me want to drop kick her. It may be her smile or her too-white sneakers or ... something ... I don't know. But I do know I have a strong urge to knock the girl over the head with her parents' fancy tea maker.

3. Amanda thought Matt was a horrible dancer. Did anyone else think, Why, Amanda, that's very kettle-like of you? (Pot. Kettle. Black. Yada. Yada.)

4. Holly? HOLLY! Before you met Matt you knew you wanted to move to London? I DO NOT BELIEVE YOU. Sorry, darling, I don't think Matt did either. (And was that an embellished BUTTERFLY on your painfully bright pink top? Do you wear that sort of thing to your book signings? You know, for the books you authored? The books Amazon has NO RECORD OF.)

5. I like Amanda—she's nice, the hiccups are endearing, she's got fantastic hair—but do you get the sinking impression she would not understand half the things you brought up in a normal conversation? The upcoming election, global warming, the plot of your average Dr. Seuss book?

6. Hearing Mike yell from the kitchen, "OH NO SHE DIDN'T" makes watching this crap completely worth it.

7. (Must buy Route 44 Diet Cherry Limeade for next week. I finished my large drink half-way through and am still thirsty.)

8. Ashlee can't seem to form complete sentences. Ashlee! Use your words!

9. Shayne, wow, I can't believe I'm going to say this: I apologize for the alcoholic jab I made at your expense last week. Even though you're obviously a wack-job who still hasn't grasped the entire PREMISE of The Bachelor (he cannot cut the season short and whisk you off to some island because you are painfully immature; why do you seem genuinely shocked that he is STILL (OMG!) dating other women?) you still didn't SHOW YOUR BREASTS to him right before a rose ceremony and then almost fall off the couch. Kelly, sweetie, call your sponsor as soon as you get home.

10. Ashlee, I never particularly cared for you, admittedly, but even I felt badly for you after that horrific display of, um, WHAT EXACTLY WAS THAT? Here's a basic rule of thumb: Never sing immediately after being rejected on national television—even if you are a singer/songwriter. Speak slowly, clearly and eloquently to show America you are a classy woman who deserves her own season of The Bachelorette. BUT SING? DO NOT DO THAT. And if you must. IF YOU JUST HAVE TO SING? Please (PLEASE!) sing in tune and MY GOODNESS remember the words.

11. Based on Ashlee's little "performance" at the end of last night's episode, it would seem that this season girls are stretching the truth in the blank on their application form. Do you go to church sometimes and then talk about that church when you're around town? Yes? THEN YOU WORK IN CHURCH MARKETING! Did you put together a book to tell the kids you used to nanny that you miss them? WELL THEN! You're a children's book author! Do you sing at awkward moments? SINGER-SLASH-SONGWRITER! Did you name drop your way into Endless Bummer? ACTRESS!

12. I think Noelle is the dark horse. I see her in the final three.

13. Watching The Bachelor makes me talk/write/blog in all caps. I CANNOT HELP IT.

One Year Of This

This morning—on my way to work actually—I thought how it must be coming up on my one-year blogoversary. I thought, Hmm, that should be next week or maybe the week after. I should post something about ... something ... when it rolls around. But come to find out my blogoversary is, well, today.  TODAY! I HAVE NOTHING PLANNED! And, I know, a year is really nothing in this world of baring one's crazy on The Internet. It's years shy of how long you've been blogging, I'm sure. But would you mind if I reminisced a bit, since I have nothing else worked up to celebrate this occasion?

I blogged for years at MySpace and the main reason I jumped ship from over there was this: I wanted my mom to read, but I didn't want to send her off into the world of half-naked fourteen-year-olds and scare her silly with all the flashing graphics and misspelled words and scream-y music. So, I switched over to Blogspot for about a week. And I hated it. From there I tentatively signed up for Typepad on April 7, 2007 while watching a Sopranos marathon with Mike and reading archived posts at amalah.com. And here I've been ever since. I didn't have a blog name for a couple of months or a design or, quite honestly, readers, but it was the first step I took to get me here—one year later—and, wow, I'm pretty proud of myself in hindsight.

Sometime last summer I bought my domain name, and I also begged Mike to whip up some sort of suitable banner for me. Then, in December, I sort of "applied" for Secret Agent Josephine's banner contest and I found out ON MY BIRTHDAY that she had chosen me as her January winner. (I may have cried. It's possible.)

And somewhere along the way, a few people started reading. A few people started commenting. A few people started e-mailing. I went from THREE page views the first week I climbed out on this blogging limb to a few more than three page views now.

But, most importantly, I've made friends. I've met people who have changed my day, who have sent me gifts, who have inspired me and reached out to me. I have a better grasp on Sephora's inventory than I did a year ago. And I love my husband and family deeper because of your beautiful stories of loss and strength. I have shared with you my desire to have a child, and you check in on me from time-to-time, to see how I'm doing, to tell me you're thinking of me. And so many of you have told me you think Molly is adorable, which—I suppose it's fair to tell you now since we're a year into this—is ALL it takes for me to like you.

I met you somewhere along the way in the last year, and it has made me a happier woman.

Wait, have I met you? I sure hope I have. But, if not, do me a favor—think of it as a blogoversary gift, unless you're sending wine and then no favors needed—Introduce yourself! Delurk! Make my day!

I'll even make it easy for you: Tell me your favorite song right now. Or artist. Or band. Or American Idol hopeful. (Your choice!)

Blogging is an integral part of me. It keeps me humble and it keeps me checked in and it keeps me honest and it reminds me—refreshingly, amazingly—that my stories matter. So I'll keep telling them. And, please, keep telling yours too.

Timeline: Twelve and Thirteen

(In case you need to catch up or would just like to waste a bit of your morning: One Through Six here. Seven And Eight here. Nine here. Ten here. And, oh, eleven is here.)

1994, age twelve
Natalie and I spend afternoons meandering around our neighborhood, walking by our crushes' houses and wearing out our fake Birkenstocks from Payless. Natalie's mom tells us to be home at a certain time, and when that time draws near, and we're not ready to head back, we turn one of our watches back twenty minutes and assume we can convince her the watch mysteriously broke.

One of those crushes whose house we walk slowly by is named Caleb, and we have English together. Word gets to him that I like him and word gets back to me that he likes me back, and he calls Natalie's house one afternoon to ask me out and he is officially my first boyfriend. A week or so later, we go to the movies to see Mrs. Doubtfire, and he holds my hand. The butterflies slamming around my stomach are new, and it's ridiculously hard for me to concentrate on the movie. He moves to Oklahoma a few weeks after that, and I never talk to him again.

That summer, I take Natalie to California for three weeks. We fight and go back-to-school shopping and have a water-gun match in my dad's backyard. My brother is a little over one-years-old, and he has the bluest eyes and the blondest hair, and I give him his bottle every morning.

1995, age thirteen
For my thirteenth birthday, three days into 1995, my step-mom takes me to Clothestime to get a birthday outfit and I pick out this purple pleather jacket I kind of wish I still had. That night, we go to Mel's Diner in San Francisco for dinner before my dad surprises me with tickets to see The Phantom of the Opera.

Back in Texas, I'm in the middle of seventh grade, and in my Texas History class I am moved around the room 13 times because Mrs. Dixon claims I am the "chattiest" student she's ever taught. When she moves me next to a boy named Scott we become best friends and for a few years we stay that way.

Natalie and I fill up spirals and spirals of notes, writing back and forth to each other with various nicknames and slang—talking about Scott and other boys and what we're going to do over the weekend. But as eighth grade kicks off Natalie and I have a horrible fight and we spend an entire month not talking. I hang out with the "cool crowd" that month, going to haunted houses and birthday parties and pretending I don't feel ridiculously out of place. But I do. I can't remember how or why or when, but Natalie and I make-up and I bow out of the crowd I never belonged in in the first place.

At home my sister is leading her own life, and she has boyfriends and a job and still—all these years later—the better hair of the two of us. Unlike me, she keeps her room spotlessly clean, and when she isn't home—even though I know she would kill me if she ever found out—I sneak into her room and listen to her CDs while sitting on her bed very careful not to mess up the comforter. One day she drops by my school, and I get a note from her during my Algebra class. It says, "I'll pick you up after school and we can 'cruise around'" And it's the only time she does this, but it means the world to me all the same.

BlogHer Meet-up

I don't know who I think I am, arranging a meet-up at BlogHer, like I'm some sort of social director, but it's also not the worst idea I've ever had. Here's why: In the last year that I've been baring my soul (and my crazy) on the Internet, I've met ONE blogger in person (Hi Bethany!), and I know ONE other blogger outside of the blogosphere (Hi Kristie who is an accountant and never reads this site anymore!). That makes for quite a few strangers at BlogHer this July. And, well, on the one hand that's just the coolest situation I've ever put myself in: the opportunity to arrive somewhere with two face-to-face friends and to leave with a hell of a lot more. But on the other hand I'm ridiculously freaked out. (What if no-one likes my shoes?) I thought it would be nice to have a cocktail hour to break the ice with one another and afford ourselves the opportunity to hug the women we've been investing in for months and possibly wrap ourselves around the legs of other women we find so well-dressed and well-spoken and downright cool, we just can't believe we get to breathe the same bar air as them.

I talked with Emily a few months ago about my plans to put something together—something like a Blogging Icebreaker Cocktail Party—and she became my co-host. (Oh lord, I think I'm a host, too? Why am I so lame?)

My question—to you lovely women—is: would you be interested in coming to The Cantina in San Francisco on Thursday, July 17 for some ice-breaking cocktails before the big BlogHer kick-off the next day? And, if you're from San Francisco, is there a better nearby place we should consider?

If you'd like (please!) share this info with your readers who may be attending the conference, and we can create this great big, lovely meet-up that'll shock the pants off my husband who is convinced I'll be drinking alone in the bar that night which, come on, wouldn't be the first time.

Also, if you are interested, include your e-mail when you comment. I have big Evite plans as the day draws closer. I bet you never would have guessed, but I can whip up quite the kick-ass Evite.

Okay then, get back to your Friday afternoon/evening.

Oh, and if I haven't said it before, I just can't wait to meet you.

Thirty Before Thirty

(First: My blogs have been very list-y lately. Perhaps I'm not such a bad Capricorn after all.)

I am 26. I have less than four years (holy hell, how is this possible?) to do the following things that all fall somewhere between "totally doable: should have actually done yesterday but am a lazy fool" and "aw, the 26-year-old is crazy; that's cute."

1. Sit down and talk, candidly and openly, with my father. And not about sports or movies or American Idol.
2. Take a cross-country road trip and eat locally the entire time.
3. Sip on mimosas at brunch with my mom and my sister. 
4. Scrapbook my engagement and my wedding.
5. Send out every birthday card I intend to for an entire year. (Same goes for anniversaries and births.)
6. Have a child with my husband.
7. Go to my 10-year high school reunion ... skinny.
8. Speaking of, LOSE THESE THIRTY STUPID POUNDS.
9. Take Mike to Tulsa and introduce him to my uncle and aunt, two people I haven't seen since I was 13.
10. Buy Texas A&M season tickets.
11. Become a full-time and money-earning writer.
12. Run a marathon. Wait, let me rephrase slightly: finish a marathon.
13. Go back to Tahoe City and eat breakfast at Rosie's, the place Mike and I ate breakfast together two days after we got married.
14. Change my social security card.
15. Go to the Oprah show. Preferably when she's giving cool shit away.
16. Buy a car.
17. Buy a house.
18. Take my child to both the Pacific and Atlantic oceans.
19. Send my husband to Vegas without me.
20. Build up a recipe collection and cook consistently.
21. See a therapist and sort out the last of the things that need to be sorted out.
22. Pay off every last cent of my debt.
23. Watch my brother graduate from high school (holy hell, how is this only three years away?).
24. Meet a handful of incredible women who inspire me to be a more honest and stronger woman.
25. Finish every book I own.
26. See Greenday in concert (you with the eye rolling; who invited you?)
27. Visit Portland.
28. Dance to Journey with my son or daughter in the middle of the living room.
29. Take my mom on a spa weekend, just us.
30. Forgive myself for all of it.

What does your list look like?

::

In other, very vague news, we've been faced with something devastating. If you have an abundance of positive thoughts, send a few toward Texas, please. There are some people here who desperately need them. People whose happiness and peace mean everything to me. I haven't cried this much in years.

Things I Learned While Watching The Bachelor, Part Two

(First part—in case you care, which I would not die of shock if you didn't—can be read here.)

1. I kind of liked Holly at first. She's mellow and cute. She seemed sweet enough, didn't she? But unless she was told by some prankster ABC interns that this season was to be shot in Siberia or that the budget was slashed to do away with beach excursions, swimming pools and sunny activities there is hardly a rationalization for packing a SPRAY TANNER in her suitcase. Think of the shoes you could have brought along instead, Holly! The slinky dresses! Think of all the space you could have left for pilfering expensive champagne or a few of the nine thousand candles around the house! To sum up, I learned Holly is stupid.

2. I still think Matt is the coolest bachelor ABC has offered up to viewers thus far, but the cheesy hot tub quasi-rose ceremony with Holly? NOT COOL.

3. Shayne "doesn't wear her heart on her sleeve." She does wear her crazy there, though.

4. I don't know how I could be disappointed that the Red Bikini Girl from "Endless Bummer" was comfortable enough to show her hoo-ha to Holly and the entire camera crew, but look at that, I was.

5. Holly's reasoning for becoming a children's book author gave me the inkling that she couldn't toss the word "published" in front of her title.

6. Judge me, if you will, but I kind of love drunk, crazy Kelley.

7. And Chelsea, too. (Especially after the credits-rolling scene where she was trying on all of Shayne's [not cute] shoes.)

8. Amanda, were you really shocked that Matt liked music? I know when you first start seeing someone you sometimes feign interest in their interests but music? That seems like a fairly universal one.

9. Shayne may be an alcoholic. There was actual gulping when she was drinking her wine. I'm just saying.

10. More people need to cheer when I walk into the room.

11. I am just as shocked as you are going to be after I type this out, but did Shayne have a pretty valid point when she was chastising Robin at the rose ceremony? I kind of think she did, and OH MY GOSH, WHAT HAS THIS SHOW DONE TO ME?

Timeline: Eleven

("One Through Six" can be read here. "Seven Through Eight" here. "Nine" here. And "Ten" here.)

1993, age eleven
Over spring break, we fly out to California to visit my dad, and even though we're not hungry he immediately takes us to IHOP from the airport. It's there he tells us my step-mom is six-months pregnant with our little brother or sister. It dawns on me, perhaps not right away but eventually, that she was pregnant the first time we met her—three months before—and we had no idea.

Over Memorial weekend my brother, Adam, is born. This same weekend, during a trip to Tulsa to visit my grandpa, grandma and uncles, I am involved in a freak, random accident. My uncle accidentally hits me in the eye with a baseball bat, in a batting cage at a putt-putt place. I spend a week in the hospital and undergo surgery to rebuild my eye socket. To this day, there is no visible scar, and that's the third miracle of the situation. The first: I didn't lose my eye. The second: I didn't lose my vision. I will always have a few plastic plates in place of my eye socket, and I usually lead with this at parties.

When I'm well enough to travel, I fly out to California for the rest of the summer, and I hold my baby brother for the first time in the San Francisco airport. I spend the summer days with my step-mom, sister and brother, watching "Loving" and eating Otter Pops. I'm terrified of starting middle school in the fall, and one day as I walk with my dad down the streets of San Francisco, I begin to cry because I'm not sure how to use a locker. He listens and tells me these things work themselves out.

Sometime over the summer, back in Texas, my mom moves us into the house I will live in until the day I pack up everything I own and move to college, the house my mother still lives in.

I start middle school (sixth grade), and I somehow learn to use my locker. I have horrible hair this year, but I just can't figure out how to curl it or maintain it, so I wear a lot of headbands. I ride the bus home from school everyday. One day, about a week after school starts, I reach the bus late and find all the empty seats are taken. I ask a girl who I am sure is a seventh grader if I can sit next to her. She smiles and says yes. It turns out she's actually my age and her name is Natalie and she doesn't know a soul at this school either. We become inseparable and I spend so much time sitting at her kitchen counter, her parents joke about charging me rent.

Fourteen years later, she will stand beside me on my wedding day. A year after that—this May, actually—I will stand beside her at her own.