The greeting card industry just doesn't get me.

Have you ever had a moment in your life where suddenly everything makes sense and you realize that you've spent the greater part of your life lost, wandering and wondering what your purpose is? I feel like I've had a few of those moments, but none of them have struck me as hard as the two revelations I've had in the past month.

Let's back track a few weeks to the first week of May. I was sitting in a hotel in Nashville looking at a Mother's Day gift that I needed to ship to my mother who, coincidentally was not speaking to me, when I realized that I'd never purchased a card to include in the package. I grabbed my wallet and rental car keys and ran to the nearest drug store to find something suitable. 

Now, I'm the first person to admit that I have limited patience for a number of things and picking out cards falls somewhere high on the list. I mean, how many people actually take the time to really read them and consider the time and effort the giver actually spent selecting "the perfect card?" And don't even get me started on how expensive these throw away pieces of paper are - just don't. I digress.

So there I am, standing in some drug store overwhelmed with Mother's Day card options and I start grabbing cards, skimming through random options impatiently putting and pulling card after card. Every single card I picked up had some nauseating message on it, and I'm going to go out on a limb here and say there's probably a handful of people in this entire world where said message actually applies.

"Your arms were always open when I needed a hug, your heart understood when I needed a friend, your gentle eyes were stern when I needed a lesson, your strength and love guided me and gave me the wings to help me soar."

Let me pause for a moment. My mother is, well, she's something. She's an incredibly strong and organized woman, and I'll say there are many things I have learned from her. She's not a saint by any means, but she's my mother and I respect her for putting up with my bullshit for the past 31 years. 

As I stood there and read that, I couldn't help but call into question every single segment.

Yes, my mother hugged me. I wasn't completely attention starved (okay, maybe a little but I don't really blame her for that). But did she understand how badly I needed her to be my friend when I was 19 and tried desperately for her to make a beer run for me and my friends? Did she ever lecture me on my stupid choices and the resulting consequences? I may know how to do laundry and balance a checkbook, but of those two things did she place importance of one over the other?

So what's my point? I've discovered a gaping hole in greeting card options. All I wanted in that moment was something along the lines of "Thanks for carrying me around like a parasite for nine months and having to look at my pretty face ever since. I'm sure that's been a real treat. You're welcome."

Aside from a handful of Etsy shops and someecards, there's really a void of cards that truly convey what we're all thinking. If I remember correctly, I think I settled for something that was blank inside and I wrote, "Happy Mother's Day." The truth is that I recognized this void, but I'm really too lazy to do anything about it.

Which brings me to today. I was invited to a casual bridal shower for a woman who works in my [new] office. I've known her, albeit not well, for the past year or two. I grabbed a bottle of Veuve - because what else do you buy someone you don't really know but seems like a nice person that you could potentially drink a few bottles of wine with at some point in the future? You don't buy them something practical. You buy them alcohol. I had the guy at the "wine and spirits" store put it in a gift bag and hauled it home to feed and walk the dog before making my way to the winery this little event was being held when I realized that I needed to (damn it) buy a card. THE STRESS.

I stopped, yet again, at a drug store frantically searching for some card that would work. I was limited to five options, all of them written as though I was giving this card to my longest and dearest friend in the entire world. 

Excuse me, but where are the cards that say, "I don't really know you but congratulations on your upcoming wedding and I hope you have a nice marriage with the guy you're marrying. PS - Enjoy this $70 bottle of champagne. PPS - I wouldn't say no if you invited me over for cocktails sometime."?

I settled for something that was definitely not applicable to the relationship I have with this woman, but gave off the most casual vibe possible. All because I'm assuming she (and my mother) actually took the time to read what the card said. 

Sigh. The greeting card industry just doesn't get me.

Push Yourself.

I owe a lot of my strength and blessings to the struggles I've faced.

I've made a lot of decisions that have forced me way outside my comfort zone -  sometimes it's been easy, other times it's been really hard. The point is that I've always made it. Making it is the reason I continue to push myself and live in that difficult moment, even when it hurts, even when I've wanted to give up. Surrendering myself to something larger than me and knowing that the discomfort is only temporary has made me realize I am capable of so much more than I ever gave myself credit. I can do this - I can bend without breaking. I am so much stronger than I realized because it's that courage, that surrender, that trust, that faith, that's enabled me to bid my fears farewell - and that's empowering.

So on the subject of empowerment... I've been #living and #forgiving a lot. 

Life has a funny way of working itself out — and what I really mean by that is that God ultimately takes us down the path that He believes is best. 

The past five years of my life have afforded me many things that I probably wouldn’t have if not for the experiences. I’ve been pushed out of my comfort zone more times than I can count — I’ve moved twice, started new jobs, made new friends, become familiar with new areas, handled the uncertainty of my life and my future for five years. I have learned, loved, listened, been patient, and most importantly, I tried in-spite of my struggles. 

And I am beyond with how satisfied and at peace I am. I’ve wholly embraced the uncertainty because I own it now. I’ve traveled quite a bit over the last nine months, ran a couple of races (one of them being the most difficult I have ever done), started hiking and trail running on the reg, skydived, earned a few scars, read a ton of books, made new friends, deepened existing friendships, learning a lot about myself along the way.

I'm about to embark on another adventure, a new chapter, if you will. Soon, I'll be packing up my things and moving back east, to a new town to start all over again. I've done a lot of that over the past eight years - this marking my fourth move since 2007 - but this time it's different. It's completely on my terms, for me. And I couldn't be more excited to embrace it.

Bad Things Happen

It’s been a while – longer than I had hoped to write another post, however it seems to be the case that life (my life) always gets in the way. I’ve been working on a, eh, meaningful(?), strategic(?), project at work for the past few weeks, which has left me mentally drained come the end of the day. Add to it an abnormal amount of bullshit that seems to keep popping up in my personal life and I’ve got a lot going on. 

That said, maybe you’d feel better knowing what all I’ve been through in the past three weeks or so – because I’m starting to believe that I’m cursed. They say bad things happen in threes, but I’m not convinced – I’m on a streak of about eight or more annoying inconveniences. 

Let’s start with what I remember as the first, and probably the most memorable event. I was heading out of the office for the day, and happened to run into someone on the elevator that works in my office, but I hadn’t met before. Since our office only has about 80 people or so, you notice new faces. I introduced myself and asked him his name and what department he sat in, while reaching into my purse to grab my car key. The elevator stopped, I got off, turned to say good bye, and because I’m so animated when I talk, threw my hands up in the air while my car key flew out of my hand and directly into the 1.5” gap between the building and the elevator. 

I’m pretty sure that if I were an NBA player with a – I don’t know what you call it because I don’t watch that crap – a high percentage of shots made or whatever, or if someone had paid me a million dollar, I could have made that shot again. I mean, the key didn’t even touch the edges before falling into the elevator shaft abyss. 

I locked eyes with the guy riding the elevator with me right as the door closed and that was that. It was funny. Until I went to the security guard and explained my problem, and he told me that the only way to retrieve my key was to pay the engineering company something like $500-$1,000 in afterhour’s fees. Like most normal people have a thousand dollars sitting around to blow on finding a car key. I started to panic for reasons some might not understand – and most of the anxiety came from me not knowing anyone, except D, to help me out. 

After that wordy set up, the engineers came out the next day (at no charge, mind you) to look for my key and never found it. Why am I not surprised? 

The next day, July 3rd, I got off work a little early, went to the gym, and then picked up a case of beer on the way home. Because why not start celebrating America’s birthday sitting in the pool with your two best (dog) friends. Apparently our jack Russell, Audrey, ate or was stung by a few bees while I was sitting out there. I’ll spare you the specifics, but for a few minutes, I thought she was having a seizure or stroke and was dying in my arms. An unplanned trip to the vet and we were back home in an hour as if nothing had happened – except that I aged about 10 years in a very short period of time. 

You’d think that would have been the end of it, but no. July 4th, I was in the pool playing with the dogs, holding Beth (the lab) like a baby, when D runs and jumps in right next to us. Beth got scared and started pawing her way out of my arms, while almost tearing off what little is attached to my chest. We’re talking blood – a few weeks later and the cuts have healed, but the physical and emotional scars are still there. 

A few days later, on Sunday, I woke up, had my coffee and decided that I’d workout before taking a shower. I changed my clothes, put my shoes on and walked to the back door to put the dogs outside while I did my business. Let me back up for a second – our house backs up to a wash, which means that we have all sorts of little critters come into the back yard. Bunnies, gophers, birds… you get the point. The dogs absolutely love to rush out into the yard and chase the animals away, but really, I think they’re more interested in catching and killing them, which Audrey is quite good at. 

As I was saying, I opened the sliding glass door and before I could scan the yard, the dogs go flying out under my legs and all I saw were birds flying away. Then I saw Audrey chasing a gopher, who, scared for its little life, jumped into the pool. I love most animals, especially cute ones, and without thinking I ran out towards the pool, screaming at the dogs to leave the gopher alone. The poor thing was struggling to stay afloat, and as I reached in to pick it up, I (thank God) remembered that if it were to bite me, I’d have to be treated for rabies. I pulled my hand back (still screaming at the dogs) as D came outside in his underwear wondering what in the hell was going on. I turned to grab the pool skimmer, lost my balance and fell into the pool, fully clothed, with the gopher. Are you laughing yet? 

I struggled out of the pool and managed to rescue the little rodent, but I was in an incredible amount of pain from the fall and my struggle to get out of the pool. I still have bruises from that one. 

The following week, I’d put a pork shoulder in the crock pot before leaving for work. After I got home, I took the pork out to shred it and make the rest of dinner, but I had about a gallon of pork renderings left in the pot to discard. Here’s the thing – in hindsight I realize that my thought process at the time was a bit off. I attribute that to my mental exhaustion, but anyway, I decided it wasn’t a good idea to pour the juices down the sink because the fat could clog the drain – makes sense, right? I also decided that I shouldn’t pour it into the trashcan because, duh, if there’s a hole in the bag, it’ll leak all over. Eliminating those two options left me with the bright idea to wait for it to cool down a little, then pour it over the fence and into the wash behind the house.

That’s what I proceeded to do, but it didn’t work out that way. Instead, as I lifted the pot up to the fence, most of the contents actually spilled out towards me – onto my head, down my face and all down the front of my body. Have you ever had pig fat drip down your face? I wouldn’t recommend trying it. It takes a minimum of 3 showers to rid yourself of the smell. 

If my memory is still serving me correctly, the most recent (and hopefully final) event occurred just a few days ago. Monsoon season is upon us here in the desert, which I guess means that we get these freak thunderstorms that roll through in the afternoon/early evening. I’d come home from work just before the storm started, and discovered water pouring in from four windows in the house. Not sure how this was missed on our home inspection, but thankfully it’s covered under the warranty. 

The builders came out yesterday to inspect all of the windows, and to both he and my surprise, there’s at least ten (of about 30) windows that have had a leak of some sort. I have no idea what the repairs will entail just yet, but I think it’s safe to assume that whatever it is, there’s a promise of dust – and lots of it. 

So now, as I write this, I'm back on the East Coast for a little reprieve. Fingers crossed nothing goes wrong.

I can't be the only one.

I have a confession.

Sometimes when D goes out of town, I cheat. And not just innocent flirting - we're talking overindulgent, hardcore cheating.

When we were still living in DC, it was much easier because D traveled so much. Now he's home most of time, which means that I'm usually on my best behavior. But when he's gone, I'm like a recovering drug addict that relapses.

Earlier this year, D went out of town for about a week, and I had huge plans while he was out. I'd spent so much time planning, researching and daydreaming that he couldn't leave soon enough. Trying ward off any guilt that I anticipated feeling after going through with my plans, I decided it was in my best interest to go for a run. That always makes me feel better.

With each step, all I could think of was "Tonight's the night. Tonight's the night." After a few miles I couldn't take anymore, so I hightailed it back home to shower, then hopped in the car to come face-to-face with my vice. 

As a kid, my mother used to go the tanning bed frequently. There was a Little Caesar's pizza two doors down, and my sister and I loved to tag along because it promised a feast of pizza and Crazy Bread while mom roasted her tush. I couldn't tell you the last time I'd had Little Caesar's, certainly not in my adult life, but after they kicked off a pulsing ad campaign last year for their $5 Hot n' Ready, the memories came flooding back. I'd immediately searched for the closest location and was devastated when there wasn't a single Little Caesars within 20 miles of my apartment.

Fortunately for me, fate would bring us together and it was this very evening that I found myself sitting in a parking lot, 5 miles from my house, staring at the Little Caesars storefront. I'd built up this moment for weeks, when suddenly I started to feel very self conscious. I had to work up the courage to walk in the door, and when I did, I couldn't even look the cashier in the eyes. 

She asked me what I wanted to order, so I told her a $5 Hot n' Ready, and with the devil sitting on my shoulder, I asked for Crazy Bread too. It was painless and over in less than three minutes, and by the time I got into my car the smell was completely intoxicating. I told myself I needed to be patient, and started thinking about all of the consequences of what I was about to do to myself. I stopped at Paradise (Panera equivalent) to pick up a salad - which I promised I would eat first in an attempt to avoid devouring an entire pizza and order of Crazy Bread in one sitting. 

You don't pick up food from Paradise without grabbing at least two chocolate chip cookies, so I shamelessly asked for two of those as well. Returning my car, the smell of my $5 Hot n' Ready was so intense that it was all I could do not to drive the rest of the way home with the box open in my lap. 

I made my way to the kitchen counter with enough food to last any normal person who practices self-restraint at least 3 days, poured myself a large glass of Pinot Noir, before I ripped into the Crazy Bread and ate three breadsticks and two slices of pizza. The whole time I was thinking to myself, "This tastes like shit. I don't remember it this way...." as I continued to shovel more in my mouth. I had to stop myself to allow myself an opportunity to at least eat something that would provide actual nourishment to my body, so I ate the large salad before polishing off the rest of the $5 Hot n' Ready, Crazy Bread and two chocolate chip cookies. 

Enter the most disgusting feeling I've experienced since the last time Dave went out of town - like Thanksgiving dinner on steroids. A food baby to rival Kim K's baby bump that would last for days. This is what early settlers must have felt like when they made a kill after not having eaten for days on end.

Once I told him I was going to pick up something from the grocery store, and I made a detour to In-n-Out. I downed a double double, fries and a drink in under 5 minutes, and tossed the evidence outside of Basha's before running in for proof I'd actually gone to the store. I went home, cooked dinner, and then ate again. 

Don't get me wrong - I'd never stand on my soapbox and pretend like I should be the poster child for all things fitness and moderation. I'm human, I exercise, I aspire to (and do) eat healthy foods, and I give in to cravings when I have them - which is often. But that isn't my issue. My issue is cheating and the resulting guilt, like I have all but actually cheated on D, from binging like that - to the extent that I will burn the evidence. He's never made me feel bad about eating, overeating, or feeling a little soft around the middle. But I can't help myself - I always want more, and I always wait until he's out of sight.

Friendly dating.

My birthday was a few weeks ago and I was feeling really down, because it started to hit me that I really don't know anyone in Arizona. Around that time, D told me there's a guy he works with - Paul* - whose wife is (supposedly) in the same situation as me, looking to make friends out here, and thought we might like to meet.

I asked D all the normal questions you'd ask when someone is trying to set you up with another person, like, "Have you met her? Does she look normal?" He didn't say much more than, "Yes" and "I don't know, okay?" 

I'd made an immediate resolve then and there that I was going to exhaust all outlets to finding my new best friend, so I told him to get her number for me.

A few days went by and I still had no number. If I have learned anything in life, persistence pays off and I am anything but lacking in that department. I nagged D about it and he promised me that he would talk to Paul. The next day I had Paul's wife, Carrie's, number.

I decided to call Carrie. 

Allow me to pause for a moment and ask you something - Do you have any idea how hard it is to make friends as an adult - especially when you've moved clear across the country, work far away from where you live, have all Mormons for neighbors, and practice the "don't be friends with people you work with rule"? It's almost impossible. It's not the same as being the 5 year old version of yourself, where it's no big deal to approach a complete stranger and ask them to play with you. Second of all, it's like dating, because you don't want to waste time getting to know someone you don't even really want to be friends with.

So I called, introduced myself, and went on a tangent citing all of the things I just mentioned above* - how hard it is to make friends, how I am almost to the point of posting an ad on Craigslist I am that desperate, and on and on and on. She agreed to have a "play date" with me, and when I suggested meeting that weekend, she told me that she had plans to be out of town. I suggested the following weekend, and she chuckled and told me she had plans that weekend, too. I thought to myself, "I have to believe she's serious, but maybe she's brushing me off? Is this the sort of rejection that guys experience when asking a girl out on a date? Oh my gah, I am so glad I am not a man..." I told her she could get back to me and let me know when she's available, and that I was perfectly fine with her being honest and telling me I wasn't the ideal BFF candidate for her. 

I got off the phone and stared at the wall for a minute. Am I this socially awkward in real life? 

D got home a little later that evening, and I excitedly told him I'd called Carrie. He asked me how it went. My response: "I don't know, I think I may have come on a little too strong." 

Two days passed, and I still hadn't heard from her. Part distraction, part strategy, I decided I would try a couple more tactics to throw myself out into the BFF dating pool by signing up for a boot camp (because why miss a chance to get in a lil' workout?), and MeetUp.com. 

Four more days passed, and we're at Monday. I'd told my parents, my best friend Brittney (who by the way, I almost threw up from laughing so hard telling her this story), and pretty much everyone I work with. They were all on pins and needles wondering if Carrie would ever get back to me. And as the chaos of any Monday morning would have it, she texted me, asking if I would be able to meet later that week for dinner.

I ran halfway across the office to tell some of my at work pals in sales, because I was so excited. One of them tried to offer me some practical dating advice, telling me that I should wait a little while to respond because I shouldn't come off as being too eager - but it was too late. I had a blind friend date scheduled for later that week!

Then reality settled in. This is exactly like a blind date.

What if she doesn't like me?

What if I don't like her?

What if she has a unibrow?

And wears bad shoes?

What if she latches on like a parasite to a host?

I got so nervous I immediately started sweating from the stress. D could've set me up with a homeless person for all I know. A homeless person with a cellphone. And that was a real possibility because his joy in life comes from playing pranks on me.

The day of my blind date finally arrived and I was, fortunately, so busy at work that day that I didn't have much time at all to think about anything else. I did pause around 2PM and decided it would be a good idea to confirm our date. 

As the next two hours passed with no response, I started to believe that maybe I was going to be stood up. But she got back to me.

I'd ran home after work to tend to the animals and freshen up a little bit, and arrived at the restaurant about 5 minutes ahead of her. I wasn't as nervous as I probably would be had I been meeting a man with some romantic expectations, and shortly after, Carrie arrived. She was this little petite thing, very pretty, and when she came in the door, she immediately stuck her hand out to shake mine. I had a silent dialog with myself over that, because clearly it wasn't inappropriate for her to do that, but in my world, I only shake hands with people when there's some sort of important business introduction or transaction involved. Not even the people I pay to make and serve me dinner or clean my house from time to time get a handshake or hug from me, but I digress.

I don't recall all of the specifics from our conversation that evening, but I do remember a few highlights. One of them occurred within the first few minutes of being at the table when Carrie told me her side of the story - where her husband Paul came home and mentioned me as a potential friend candidate. She had told him that she could make her own friends and didn't need to be set up with anyone. That stung a little because it's the equivalent to a pity date, and no one wants to be in that situation, but I'm fairly certain she told me that with no intention of offending me. At least that's what I will keep telling myself.

The rest of the date was fine - we had plenty to talk about, and as we were settling our bills we got on the subject of our favorite reality TV shows. I figured that we'd had a decent enough time at dinner that it was a perfect opportunity for an awkward moment (cause I'm so good at it), that I began to reference Patti Stanger from Millionaire Matchmaker. Patti says that if you're enjoying your date and like the person enough to see them again, you should ask them for a second date while still on your first date. And that's exactly what I did.

Without skipping a beat, Carrie says to me, "Sure, we can get together sometime." 

As someone who has dated before, and who is in a relationship with a very sweet but strong-willed man, I know what "sometime" means. It means, "sometime in my lifetime". And if she actually felt that way, that's okay. 

But you know what? I'll take it. And in the mean time, I'll keep looking for my soul sister.

*Names have been changed.

**In real life, I think I am the worst storyteller ever. Most times, I re-live every detail in my mind as I'm sharing, wasting so much effort of little details that don't even matter that by the time I get to the point, everyone's eyes are glazed over and the point of the story isn't even interesting.

Here we go again (from the desert).

Here we go again. It's been a while and maybe, just maybe, I'll end up posting with more frequency. Only time will tell, people.

Much has happened over the past 6-7 months. Much. And I don't just mean what's happened in the news. Back in August, D and I made the decision to move across the country, to the desert - land of cacti, snakes, scorpions, coyotes and taurantulas. Life changing decisions such as this require a lot of thought, careful planning, and preparation - which leads me to the next big thing: Our new house. Dave spent about 2.5 months searching for our new home, and after 500+ MLS listings and countless showings, we finally agreed that our new life would be in the east valley suburbs of Phoenix. In December, we left our cozy 1,050sq ft apartment for a new house oh, about four times that size. Quite a change from the overpriced, cramped, metropolitain lifestyle that is the Washington DC area, right?

We're in still in the midst of getting settled, but it's already starting to feel like home. The dogs are loving the extra space and backyard, and I've accepted my temporary role as a gypsy "wife" (this joke is lost on anyone who hasn't watched My Big Fat Gypsy Wedding). Seriously, trying to keep this place clean is practically a full time job. When I'm not cleaning, I spend a lot of time trying my hand at cooking (and by trying my hand at cooking, I really mean I have no other choice otherwise we'd starve and I'd really be bored to tears), because living in the 'burbs means I can't just walk downstairs and grab takeout from Bangkok 54, Bill Jeff's or Lost Dog. Is there no decent Thai restaurant within 20 miles of here? It's depressing! My original point: I've had a few successes in the kitchen, and plan to share some of them with you.

That's the short version - who's ready for the next adventure in Consuming Calories?

Why Hello There.

Why hello there. 

Quite a bit of time has past and you know, I can't say with any level of certainly if I really missed you. The truth is, I didn't think about you that often, aside from when I was downing a fab meal. So you could say I thought about you but not enough to convince me to blog about it.

But here's the thing. All you regular bloggers with day jobs... I have no idea how you do it. You must have a maid, a personal chef, a dog walker, a masseuse, someone to workout for you, shop for you dress you, and bathe you. I happen to have none of these things and seem to be exhausted and poorly dressed all the time. Seriously, how do you do it? Instead of sacrificing an hour to post friendly updates of my uninteresting life, I have been opting for a bedtime of 9PM and loving every second of it. Anyway, enough of that.

Here's what has really happened since last August.

• I lost my toenail.
• I killed a few houseplants. I swear I can't keep anything alive.
• I worked a lot.
• We adopted a lil' pup named Beth.
• Dave got rid of Dennis. A whole story of it's own, but suffice it to say, there are many people on Craigslist eager to take a snake off your hands.
• I ran some.
• My toenail grew back.
• I bruised my toenail again.

As you can see, the most exciting thing to have happened here is that my poor toenail grew back. Pray for it, because after I run the American Odyssey relay again in two weeks, she's likely to be a goner again. Conveniently in time for sandal season. I toyed with the idea of posting a photo of it at its worst, but I'll spare you and instead, show you a picture of Miss Beth.

Isn't she the cutiestootiest? I thought so, too. Aside from a few instances waking from a dead sleep to the stench of puppy diarrhea, she's been a really great puppy and a great addition to our little family.