On preparing for parenthood....

I have recently discovered there is nothing my dogs won't eat.

When my husband and I first adopted them nearly 3 years ago, they came to us with instructions to feed them only the highest quality (and most expensive) organic dog food imaginable.

Then we learned that they'd been eating bacon double cheeseburgers while in foster care. Imagine our surprise when finding this out (from the same foster care giver that had "suggested" we feed them the pricy organic food)! The pups immediately went on a strict diet of affordable puppy chow twice a day and walks around the neighborhood before each meal...they lost weight FAST! Even their new vet was shocked when they first came in weighing 22-pounds and just a few months later, a svelte 17-pounds each. "If people think your dogs looks too skinny," she told us, "it means they're healthy. Most people overfeed their animals and think 'fat' looks 'healthy.' It's not."

So with Leo and Suki down to a normal, healthy weight and looking sleek and happy, the madness began.

First, they ate all our candy we brought back from Mexico. I have no idea how they even got to it considering it was on a table top. Then, they broke into a bag of tortilla chips and went to town while we were at work. That's when we started puppy proofing the house with locks on every cabinet that contained food. It worked for a while.

Then we moved to a third floor apartment.

That's when Leo ate the house clean of chocolate. I know, I know...chocolate could kill a dog. NOT THESE ONES! I came home one day to discover that all the chocolate in the candy dishes was gone. Sigh. Then, while I was in the shower one Saturday morning and Todd was out of the house, I walked into the living room to find Suki chowing down on graham crackers and marshmallows that were supposed to be taken to a friends house for fondue that night. She had the most pathetic "I'm not guilty" look on her face...it was hard to be mad, except that I had to re-purchase the fondue fixin's.

Another time, Todd took Leo out with him and I left to go to the gym, so Suki was locked in the kitchen by herself. Suki busted out of the kitchen and found Halloween candy and ate herself stupid on candy corn. I honestly have no idea what possesses my dogs to do what they do. While we were living at the apartment, the dogs discovered that trash was their favorite thing to eat in all the world. Too many times, they got into the trash and again ate themselves stupid (er than they already apparently are). So we child-locked the trash.

Then they discovered the tupperware cabinet. Fortunately, they only chewed up one or two dishes so it wasn't that big of a deal.

May of this year, Todd and I bought our first house in the bustling metropolis of Arvada. The dogs always seem to get really anxious when we pack up the house to move and this would be their second move with us...but I was so excited for them! They'd have a nice big house with a giant back yard and tons of room to run and play! They love the yard, almost as much as Todd and I do (though Todd might like it a little less than me since he's the one that does all the yard work *grimace*)!

We all know how moving into a new place goes. There are boxes and bags all over the place, half of them unmarked or have unknown contents. One such bag existed during our move and was left in the kitchen where Leo and Suki get locked up when we're not at home. We hadn't yet lived in the house for three days when Leo discovered one of those giant chocolate orange things in the bag and decided to eat it...all of it. Suki helped too...and the ensuing mess was almost unimaginable. Then they managed to break into the garage (which at the time was full of things to give away, donate, recycle, whatever) and found a box of Hershey's Kisses....and ate almost all of them, foil and all.

Up until this point, at least they were eating actual food, whether it was for doggies or not. Food it was.

Then they broke into the Tupperware cabinet and chewed up almost ALL of my Tupperware (fortunately, for them, it's still usable, but c'mon). Child-locked that cabinet.

Then they broke into the pantry (which I was convinced had a door too big and heavy for them to open) and chewed through a package of cookies that had a CD-ROM in it...and ate the CD. Yes, a compact disc! Child-locked that cabinet.

Then they broke into my baking cabinet. It has pie plates, mixing bowls, Pyrex measuring cups, all that good stuff. It also holds my deep fryer, that I keep filled with oil most of the time. It's been in that cabinet, at that height, the entire time we've lived in the house and never once have they gotten into that cabinet. I was sure the cabinet was safe. Until I got the following phone call from my husband:

Todd: The dogs got into your baking cabinet. They dumped out the deep fryer and ate all the oil.
Me: WHAT THE %#@^&%^@!!!!!!!!!!!

The rest of the conversation was a bit of repetition of that. Leo and Suki puked their guts out all night and generally looked miserable. Plus, they weren't allowed to have dinner that night or breakfast the next morning (not out of punishment - we're not that mean - but for safety reasons). It was a pretty horrible night for all of us (I'm a giant worry-wart and didn't sleep much that night for fear that my dogs would die in their sleep). But they ended up being just fine and no worse for the wear except that their fur is extra soft and shiny and they reek of vegetable oil (which is a nice change for Suki as she generally has a stench of tortilla chips and pee).

So we emptied out what remained of the oil in the fryer, cleaned it with soap and water and put it back, none the wiser.

Not three days later, I came home to find that they'd gotten back into the baking cabinet and had this time pulled out my antique marble rolling pin, gnawed down one of the handles and scratched the hell out of the marble. MARBLE! My dogs ate MARBLE! So Todd child-locked that cabinet.

The only remaining cabinet in our house that does not have a lock on it is the one containing our cookware and my KitchenAid stand mixer, which is worth more than Leo and Suki combined.

Suffice it to say, our house is 100% prepared to be inhabited by children someday...but based on what our dogs have done in the last three years, I'm a little concerned about the shenanigans a tiny human could get into...

On cooking up a human...

I was recently required to write a poem that had to do with something "work" related, but also had to be something entirely different. For the assignment, I needed to find the etymology of the topic I chose (baking, which should come as no surprise) and various words related to the topic. Here is what I came up with:

It’s a dry heat required for this technique.

Brewing up perfection

Layer upon layer, a masterpiece I create.

Every morsel, every crumb, every sacrificial taste

Transforms with each kneading twist of my hand,

Preparing for the final moments of searing heat.

Baubles of many colors, decorations abound.

I am a confectioner of incredible feats!

She is my soufflé of epic flavor;

Leavened and soft, sweet to the mouth, comfort to touch

Icing covers her as she rises from the fire.

My work of art, a delicious success.

__________________________________________

Todd came up with the idea to use baking as a "human factory"...he posted his version over on his blog. It's substantially more creepy than mine, but that should also come as no surprise

On wishing away the time....

I just looked at my desk calendar and realized that 2010 is much closer to ending than I thought. Frankly, I'm looking forward to it ending. The universe can have this year back, for all I care.

2010 has been a year of unimaginable pain, heartache, stress, and general disappointment. It's also been a year of strength, joy, and celebration. Neither outweighs the other; all of the emotions I've experienced this year come and go. I'm a veritable karate kid of emotion...they all wax on and wax off from time to time.

I've put myself and been put through an extraordinary amount of insanity in the last 10 months. The next three are almost guaranteed to be the least stressful months I've had in recent history. 2010 has increased the amount of snark that comes out of me. It's also made me more aware of the person that I am, the behaviors I exhibit, the people I allow in my life. As a general rule, I'm just more aware of my life and myself. It would be silly if I had gone through all of this year without learning at least something from all of it. What a waste that would have been.

The last time there was this much stress in my life, I was surrounded on all sides by my very best friends. I had a community of people that loved me, believed in me, and wanted the best for me. I came to a breaking point and just sort of fell apart and fell on my friends. I was strengthened by their passions and visions in their own lives. It was a surreal, sort of "Let go and let God" kind of experience.

This time around, I still have the same friends, but our sense of community is much different than it was five years ago. We have all gone slightly different directions; we don't even live all that close to each other anymore (thought, mercifully, we're all still in the same city). Three of us got married (which means that our little group got a brand new member in the form of someone's wife...and she is, well, a perfect fit in every way) and that changed the dynamic drastically. Some of our concerns remain ever the same and some are quite different.

Because of all of that, and because of my own insecurities, I fell apart not on my friends, but into myself. I nearly refused to talk about my life because I hate sounding whiny and I hate not being in control of myself and my life. Thus, I found myself raging internally, never really letting any of my friends see just how deeply hurt I was. Some of my friends knew, just because of how well they know me. Some were even expecting me to go all Mount Vesuvius on them... and they were ready and willing to be there when I did. I just never ended up doing that.

But maybe because of, or in spite of, my stubbornness, I learned that I am capable of much more than I'd ever thought. I can manage my stress in ways I've never been able to before. I can plan the hell out of events, vacations, my calendar. I can think and wish the most hateful things. I think it's in some of those moments that I'm able to (sort of) come to a comfortable place of letting go, knowing that karma can be a real bitch. I desperately hope that it is. I also know that I can't control that and that the only things I can control are my reactions.

So 2010, thanks for all the fun times, exciting moments, and exotic vacations, but if you could hurry through the next 90 days and get the hell out of my life, I'd greatly appreciate it.

On not being the best....

At some point in every life, there is a moment of inferiority. Whether it's real or not is beside the point. Every person, at one time or another (or multiple times for some), will feel inferior to someone or something.

I struggle with my own inferiority complex on a fairly regular basis. We're talking nearly daily. I'm not as thin as that person, not as athletic as another, not as smart at this person, not as successful as that one, not as valued (professionally) as that person, not as talented as the next one.

And in fairness, I'm thinner, smarter, and more successful than someone else out there in the world. So what's the point of feeling inferior?

Sometimes, I think it's okay, even healthy, to have an inferiority complex. It gives me something to push toward, another goal to achieve. It certainly has pushed me to do some things with my life that I probably wouldn't have done otherwise. I also think that we all need to feel inferior at some point in order to maintain a sense of humility.

From time to time, it's okay to get a simple reminder that I'm not as amazing as I might think I am. Don't get me wrong. I think it's fine to be proud of one's accomplishments. It's more than okay to toot your own horn every now and again. We all need to feel like we're great at SOMETHING. In fact, I firmly believe that all of us are really great at at least one thing. In our own circle of friends and peers, there's probably at least one thing that we really, truly are better at than anyone else.

From personal experience, I can assure you that failure is not the worst thing that will ever happen. Feeling like a loser is not going to end your world. I failed an entire college course once. It was a horribly sinking feeling...mostly because I knew I'd have to take the class again and paying for it (again) was going to be no easy task (this was before I started taking out loans en masse and was paying out of pocket). I don't like to lose and I don't like to fail. But learning that I can bounce back from a pretty spectacular tumble was one of the more important lessons I've ever learned. I sulked and licked my educational wounds for a while. I felt stunned when I saw that failing grade on my transcript. I never really told anyone about failing that class.

Failure is embarrassing, there's no questioning that. Copping to it, admitting your own inferiority, is never easy. It is, however, necessary. I feel like, the sooner you fail, the sooner you can learn to deal with it, move on, and learn how not to fail the next time.

So here's my way of encouraging you to cop to your failures, however hard it may be. And as another tiny bit of encouragement, remember that while there will always be someone out there who is better than me at something, anything, I likely guaranteed to be better at something, anything, than someone else...same goes for you.

On coming to terms with fear....

I have yet to meet someone who doesn't have a fear of at least one thing. Most people seem to have fear of heights or spiders or snakes or something like that. My list of fears is pretty strange, to say the least. I'm afraid of wet paper, depths, and mushrooms.

Wet paper makes my gag reflex kick in immediately and with a vengeance.
Depths stems from an incident in South Carolina when I was 15. I haven't felt the same about the ocean since. Watching Finding Nemo even makes me have minor anxiety attacks.
Mushrooms, well, they're just weird and gross. Why would someone eat a fungus? I don't get it.

But the other night, a new fear was introduced to me. The fear of completion.

I have a few friends who are writers, two of whom (one being my husband) who are actually, legitimately published. Todd has a contract with a small publishing house in Colorado and Ben recently won a pretty BFD award for Writer's Digest. Both have been pursuing writing for a looooooong time and I know absolutely for certain that Todd would like his writing career to be his ONLY career.

So when he completed his first novel, he immediately began sending the manuscript to agents, publishers, anyone who might want to take a look at it. Because if you're going to work that hard to complete a novel, the intention (probably) is to get it out into the world.

Ben brought up this whole fear of completion as it relates to writers. He suggested that a lot of writers simply don't finish a piece because once they've completed it, one of two things generally happens:
1. There's nothing left to work on; and/or
2. They have to DO something with the piece.

I don't understand #1, just because there's always something else that I want to write (granted, I write more article-style and not novels, though my husband is trying to pursuade me to write one). The second fear, however, I kind of get.

See, in my dream world, I'm a contributor to Vanity Fair. I love reading that magazine, I respect the talent of many of the writers (even if I don't always agree with their POV), and I want to be part of something bigger than me, professionally. I figure, the only way that I'll ever get to be a contributor is to actually submit a piece for review. I always seem to say, "Someday, I'll be brave enough to submit to Vanity Fair. Someday." Why not today?

I don't know what my senior writing project will entail, if it's a solo or group project, if it's supposed to be a singular piece or a compilation. No idea. But I think I'd like to create something that's worth submission to some credible magazines. But I do worry about the day that I actually complete a piece like that. I worry about holding the paper or staring at my computer, all the while thinking, "Oh crap. It's finished. Now I have to DO something with it." I worry that I'll pore over and over and edit the hell out it and basically torture the piece; edit it into submission, if you will. I worry that, even though I know it will be rejected, I'll consider that rejection the Simon Cowell of my writing career, however brief and fledgling it may be. I worry that I'll give up before I give myself another shot. I worry that I'll find it easier to sit on the piece, never submit it to anyone, and carry on with my meager existence, just so that I don't have to feel the sting of rejection.

It was suggested that I also mention the fear of success in concert with the fear of completion. I just don't really have a fear of success. I desperately want to taste success in my life. I want to be a successful career person, I want to succeed in the kitchen, I want my marriage and family to be wildly successful. Fear of success? Not me.

But I need to get over the fear of completion in order to even get a chance at success.

If you enjoyed this post, Follow this Blog or subscribe (below) to receive updates.

On being beaten up....

Ever have those days when you feel like you've been hit by a MacTruck? I'm sure most of us can think of a day when we'd had too much to drink or stayed out too late the night before. Going to work and sitting behind a computer for 8+ hours seems like pure torture.

I went to an indoor trampoline center the other week for a friend's birthday. I have an unconditional love of trampolines. I grew up with one (okay, my neighbor had one, but we were always over there jumping) and can't wait to get one of my own in the backyard. But at 30 years old, I'm not sure my body was well-equipped to deal with the aftermath of two solid hours of jumping, flipping, and general madness. I felt like I'd had the crap beat out of me and I felt like that for nigh on a week. Will that stop me from trampolining again? Absolutely not.


But what about when you take an emotional or psychological beating?

Normally, when I feel like that physically, I just go to bed early, take some pain meds, and drink a couple glasses of wine. If I'm feeling especially crummy, I'll throw in a salt bath for good measure.

Sadly, there are no salt baths for the emotional beatings, are there?

It's frustrating to feel taken for granted or (probably worse) totally disregarded. The last several weeks have brought a number of those situations my way. School was strange, twice not having anyone in my peer review group choose my work to review. I mean, I'm nearly fundamentally opposed to peer review groups as it is because I'm totally unsure of their purpose, but since it's an assigned task, I deal with it.

I've had my opinions, beliefs, politics, and reasons come under heavy fire this summer for reasons that I don't understand. At one point, I really just threw my hands up and said, "I'm going to be a Communist for Halloween; they practically think I am anyway!" I had someone question why I keep fighting for the "same old thing." Why do any of us fight for something we believe in? There are hills I'm willing to die on, and that particular topic happens to be one of them. But I won't get into it right now.

Some really insulting statements have been hurled at me with no regard for how the hell it might sound, much less how it might hit me.

This isn't a cry for sympathy. Not even in the slightest. I don't need anyone to feel sorry for me.
It's more about trying to find a way to be less affected by the stupid things people say and do.
There are times when I know know KNOW that what was said wasn't intended to be hurtful; it just came out wrong or I was in a vulnerable place and I took it wrong. Lord knows, I've been on the giving end of those statements.
But other times, it's painfully evident when a statement was made with intention. And those are the ones that I can't wrap my head around. Those are the ones that I can't seem to reconcile or "get over."

So what does one do with THOSE MacTrucks? Certainly wine can help, but that wears off far sooner than the shock.

If you enjoyed this post, Follow this Blog or subscribe (below) to receive updates.

On getting from there to here....

My educational pursuits have been many. I just completed a pseudo-documentary on my college experience for one of my classes so it's something that's been on my mind for a while. And, not long ago, my husband posted his own blog about his life as a student. He dared the rest of us to bare it all as well.

I went to the same school from the time I was 4 years old until I graduated high school at age 18. I remember almost all of my teacher's names (there is one I wish I could forget because she was so horrible, but alas). I was wildly involved with my school for as long as I can think. I was one of only two junior cheerleaders the school ever really had and I was hooked from then on.
I started cheering for those Crusaders when I was 7 years old and kept on going right through grade 11. I was a decent student, but probably could have applied myself better, especially in high school. In grade 4, in the horrible teacher's class, I was seated in the very back of the classroom and had a terribly difficult time doing math problems. My teacher told my mother I was probably developmentally behind the rest of the students and I was promptly sent to Ms. Prichard, the school's remedial teacher.
She was amazing. "Yes, your daughter has trouble with math," she told my mom. "But she's not stupid. She just can't SEE the blackboard!" So I got glasses and, on recommendation of Ms. Prichard, I wound up in piano lessons with Mrs. Moore. Apparently being able to read music while playing the keys was going to help my math skills (teaching me to multi-task, essentially). I fell more and more in love with music and continued to harbor a hatred for my grade 4 teacher and math.
Junior high was an horrific existence, as I believe it is for about 90% of humanity. Mean girls, Queen Bees, bitches, and all that. It was stupendous. I made the cheerleading squad the summer before grade 7 and didn't look back. I showed those horrible girls who never thought I'd make it...and I have Danielle, Casi, and Jodi to thank for that.

This is when music really started to take hold of me. I went to school and tolerated the studying so that I could cheer and sing. Some of the best memories of my childhood involve music. I refer back to Jodi, whom I practically idolized as a kid. She was practically perfect in every way. She sang, she cheered, everyone loved her, she was smart as hell. I still want to be her. The first time I heard her sing, I knew I wanted to be a part of that. So I fought tooth and nail to make into the show choir by grade 9...not something that was terribly common back then. And damn if I didn't make that choir for grade 9 and every year thereafter.

High school itself is a bit of a blur. I excelled in history, languages, and English. I barely made it through any of the left-brained classes. Honestly, it was torture for me, some of the classes. I can fully admit now that I cheated my way through one of my classes (which will remain unnamed) and I don't really feel bad about it. The teacher didn't give a lot of us a fighting chance.

But I made it through high school and made my way (very unwillingly) to Strathmore, Alberta, Canada where I spent a year in a discipleship program (read: Bible school). I met some really great people and amazing friends and learned a lot about myself, but not much about what I wanted to do with my professional life.


So after a summer in Mahtowa, Minnesota, I went to a small (Bible) college in Bemidji, Minnesota. Probably my worst imaginable decision to date. I hated nearly everything about being there. I hated school. I hated how mean some of the people were. The one really great thing about that year is that I met my best friend a few weeks after school started. She was and continues to be a constant source of support and reality checks.

But I couldn't fathom going back to that school. It's the place where I first learned what crying and heartache really looked and felt like.

So I came home to Colorado.

And took a LOT of time off.

Then I decided to (sort of) declare a major in Music Production and started my core requirements at Red Rocks Community College. I did several semesters at RRCC and at some point changed my major to Social Work.
Then I quit. Mostly, just gave up. I wasn't finding myself, I was involved in some crappy things, and generally had no direction.

So I got some random office jobs here and there. During one of those jobs, I met the girl I refer to as my "Colorado best friend" and she told me, in no uncertain terms, to "get off [my] ass and do something with [my] life." So I enrolled in a "real" college: Metropolitan State College of Denver, as a Sociology major. I worked really hard at that school and somewhere in the meantime managed to get my bridal consulting license. I changed majors AGAIN, this time to Hospitality and Event Planning (yes, it's a real degree and it's incredibly hard). I did that for a few semesters before taking on a course that was so far outside my skill set, I actually cried in my professor's office.
So I changed majors again, this time to English with a Spanish minor.

I did several semesters at MSCD as an English major and absolutely loved my Spanish classes. But one class in particular, Intro to Journalism, turned me off to the school for reasons that are inexplicable to me.

I just wasn't being challenged at that school. It's not a bad school, certainly don't take that away from my experience. I has some of the best programs out there. But their English program just wasn't my style or speed.

So I changed schools yet again and dropped the minor.

My major changed slightly from Metro to University of Colorado - Denver, but not much. I went from English to English Writing. I love editing with every fiber of my being and while I don't really care for some styles of writing, I figure I should know how to write before I tell someone else how to.

For the last two years, I've been at UCD, loving every very challenging second of it. My GPA is the highest it's ever been, even while taking a full-time student course load and working a9-to-5. I've even declared a minor again....Sociology (a previous major, if you're able to keep up with all of this madness). I'd taken a ton of sociology courses previously so my current adviser recommended that I take the one remaining course I needed and officially declare it as a minor. "Might as well get the paper since you've done all the work!" he told me.

And here I am, four short months from a graduation that's taken me 11 years, 5 colleges, and 5 majors (let's not talk about the money right now) to accomplish.

I've been in school for so long that I often do one of two things: 1. wonder what I'm going to do with all my free time; or 2. flirt with the idea of getting my master's/teaching certificate because I can't imagine my life without school and stress.

I think I'll just get a massage instead.

If you enjoyed this post, Follow this Blog or subscribe (below) to receive updates.