To the illustrious year of 2009,

Thanks for the memories, 2009!

You were quite a year, despite the fact that your lack of visual symmetry and balance really bothered me. Sorry, but you know my penchant for even numbers.

Still, 2009, you brought quite a few changes to my life.

First of all, I started a blog. And miracle of miracles, I kept at it.

Then, I took my first ever trip to the Big Apple to visit by best friend and all New York has to offer.

Next, my sister-in-law had her first baby, and I got another precious nephew.

Finally, I finished up what had to be the worst school year in the history of high-school teaching and cried for the relief and sheer joy that your dear summer months offered, 2009.

I then gave my first editorial advice to, of all people, my father, who still maintains he's going to write the world's next best-seller.

I also survived taking a bunch of hormonal high-school girls to Yearbook Camp and had a pretty hilarious time myself.

My husband joined the U.S. Navy, and we moved to yet another house, although this time, we knew it would the last Florida house we'd ever live in.

We visited family in Arkansas and returned homed to not one, but two dogs. Our original dog Marvin got a new step-brother for the year of 2009, and he's loved every moment of it.

My final school year teaching in the state of Florida commenced.

And then, 2009, the heavens opened, and the unthinkable occurred: My husband did his first (and probably only) guest blog post.

But even more miraculous, I found out that my oldest, best friend is having her first baby, leaving the New Baby Total in my family and friends to seven new little blessings either born or conceived within your time limit, 2009.

Then, the hubs and I became a half-way house for a different kind of baby: An abandoned and abused puppy we called Ruby.

And on Oct. 24, we celebrated our first anniversary.

We also watched several friends join together in holy matrimony throughout you, 2009, and we even had the distinct blessing to be a part of their special days.

So, 2009, before you and I even knew it, I was turning a year older, and we were celebrating Christmas.

And here we are. Mere hours away from your ceremonial passing of the baton to the next year, 2010, which, I'll admit, makes me slightly happier to deal with since the number is easily divisible by two.

Who knows what the upcoming year will hold? We have hopes and prayers for it, of c0urse, but we also have twinges of sadness that you, 2009, are over.

So here's to you, 2oo9!

May we never repeat the mistakes we made during your reign, but may we also look back on our times with you with fondness!

Respectfully yours (despite my crazy, neurotic nature over odd numbers),

I got the itch. And I scratched it.

Ever get the urge to chop all your hair off?

Maybe you feel the unexplainable need to get something pierced?

Perhaps you've felt inexplicably compelled to re-arrange your living room furniture for the 18th time?

Yeah? You do, right?

Well, not me.

For the most part, I'm not a huge fan of unnecessary change.

Except when it comes to my blog.

Because for the last month, I've felt the urge to re-design the old girl. Give her a face-lift, if you will, for the New Year.

Something a little spiffier; yet something a little simpler; something that didn't require you all to stare at me in my wedding dress every time you signed on (which was nice at first, but let's face it. It was getting a little bit unnecessary as I've been married for well over a year now. )

So, I finally caved.

I had my fabulous, go-to-blog-designer-genius friend, Kelsey, give Living in the Moment a 2010 up-date.

And I have to say, the satisfaction and relief I'm experiencing is wonderful.

I feel like I really accomplished something while on Christmas vacation.

Although, to be honest, it wasn't me at all. Kelsey did all the leg work, while I sent her random, oh-so-helpful e-mails; something along the lines of, "I like it, but I was thinking something a little bit more deep purple-ish, with a little more modern twist, but still cute, but more contemporary, but floral! But timeless. But crafty! With purple, and maybe some pink... and blue... and you know how much I love classic white and yellow... and plaid's always nice.... but with a distinct type ...but not too heavy ...and read-able... but with a finer point... but cute... but maybe some polka dots ....but maybe not some serious polka dots ...ya know?"

Thank the Lord, Kelsey did know.

And thanks to her talents - and her infinite patience and deciphering skills - here we are.

What do you all think?

Come away from those Google Readers for just a second and take a peek.

Because Living in the Moment is ready for her 2010 close-up.

You know, until I get that itch again in a couple of months...

***

For those of you interested in a blog re-design, Kelsey is having a fabulous holiday sale at her design site, Kreated by Kelsey. Go check her out - quick! Before Dec. 31! - if you're in need of an affordable, easy make-over.

Also, quick question for those of you Blogger fans: I received a couple e-mails saying some of you were having trouble loading/opening my blog. I, too, was having that problem with about 15 blogs I followed a couple of days ago. I thought the problem was with Blogger itself, but now, I'm not so sure. I really hope it's not my blog. Is anyone still having these problems? Or similar problems elsewhere? I've been told you might need to clear your cache or delete your cookies if several blogs are hard to fully load/open. That has worked for me in the past. I'm really sorry if you tried that and are still having problems. Let me know, and if it can be fixed on my end, I'll try to find the solution as soon as I can.

Thanks for the help, and Happy Wednesday!

What do I wear?

So, I've been invited.

To a little shindig.

Full of bloggers.

Who live in Florida.

Ahhhh!

I don't know if you all can comprehend how much I want to meet you all in real life. Like, seriously, if I had the money, I'd do my own little Tour de Blog, flying to all of you and getting to know your faces, your voices, your hearts.

In person.

But because I've never even so much as earned a singe frequent flyer mile, that dream is still a far cry from my reality.

So, I'm starting small.

Local, if you will.

Because Lil' Woman is hosting a Florida blogger get-together, and I think I'm going to attend!

It's tomorrow night - a night I happen to have available.

It's in the greater Orlando area - where I am currently spending the week with family.

It's a fun time to unite with other female bloggers - and I've got a husband who would much rather play his new XBox games with my brothers than hang with me.

So it sounds like I've got no other choice, right?

I couldn't be more thrilled.

But with this momentous occasion taking place in little less than 36 hours - and possibly because I'm back visiting the town and house I spent my high-school years living in - my crazy insecurities are coming out to play.

What will they think of me? Do they know how clearly my voice projects? Will they notice the five holiday pounds I've packed on since I entered Christmas Vacation World, where calories don't matter? Can they handle the fact that I hopelessly lose my keys and cell phone every time I place them in my purse, causing me to go on the Great Handbag Excavation of 2009 if I ever want to leave our restaurant rendevous point?

And then, the question that haunts all red-blooded women everywhere: WILL THEY LIKE WHAT I WEAR?

I mean, it's funny to think about the fact that I lay my soul out on this blog, over and over and over again, but the first chance I get to meet some of you blog-mates in person, I'm stressing out about my appearance.

As if it matters.

As if any of you, who touch my heart with your words and feelings, would ever judge me on something as silly as what I wear.

Still, I feel like the new kid who goes into the first day of school, wondering if I'll like the kid I'm assigned to sit next to; wondering if, above all else, they will really like me in return.

I'm totally the little girl who asks God, "Will anyone want to be my friend?"

Silly, right?

I know; I'm ridiculous.

But my mind is a bit blown right now.

I'm going to meet some of you in person. I'm going to get to hug some of you and laugh with some of you and finally talk to some of you, who honestly know what it is to be a blogger (while the rest of the world just laughs at our "little hobby.")

I'm so, so excited

And just a little bit nervous.

So.

Seriously.

What do I wear?

***

If anyone is interested in joining us on Wednesday night (Dec. 30,) feel free to comment below or shoot me an e-mail. I'll send you all the information Lil' Woman sent me. We'd love to have you join us if you live in the area or can make it for the night.

It will be a fun way to put some faces to some of the fabulous voices we get the pleasure of reading every day!

Happy Tuesday everyone!

It's a Christmas miracle

Just when I thought he was beyond hope...

Just when I imagined he'd never get there...

Just when I'd all but given up on my dream...

The husband purchased me Vera Bradley all on his very own.

Because, believe it or not, I unwrapped this little beauty on Christmas morning, courtesy of my dearly beloved!
The man bought me his very first Vera Bradley.

And it only took me two years of dropping hints to get him to do it.

Apparently, weeks before Christmas, he had the bravery to walk into one of those amazingly chicky stores - aptly and honestly named Simply Gorgeous, if you can believe it - and bought me a brand-new, calypso blue, Vera Bradley Laptop Portfolio bag.

He didn't even know that I had had a Facebook conversation with a dear bloggy friend of mine, Sam, which basically went something like this (and by "basically," I totally mean I've taken creative liberties to summarize our 30-minute Vera Bradley love-fest, which culminated with us sharing our mutual excitement over the fact that we heard rumors that Vera's making dog collars):

Sam: You mean, he's never bought you even a single piece of Vera? That's my husband's safe bet! His go-to gift! Does he know what he's missing out on?
Me: No, not ever. Not even so much as a key chain. I don't think he even knows where to get it. To be fair, I'm not even sure he knows it exists. I think he thinks it's a word I throw around, much like "pretty." You know, like, 'Look at this pretty bag,' but instead, I'm all, 'Look at this Vera bag,' and on the inside, he's all, 'Is Vera Spanish for pretty?'"

Sam, you'll be glad to hear that I was, in fact, wrong.

Apparently, he does know Vera exists (and that the Spanish word for "pretty" is, in fact, "bonita.")

And, oh, my laptop and I are so, so glad.

Still, the man couldn't stop there.

He did not want to be out done.

He just couldn't leave well enough alone.

Because the second gift I unwrapped on Christmas morning?

Muy bonita, no?

***

I hope you all and your families had a wonderful Christmas! We're still celebrating the season around here, as my entire family has the week off. So my blog presence will still be sporadic until next week. Hopefully I can post a few more funny family photos, etc., as we make our last memories of 2009 this week!

Happy Monday, everyone!

There's not much left to say but...

Merry Christmas!

As you read this, I am riding down the highway on my version of a one-horse open sleigh, my little Nissan Rogue.

My husband is in tow (actually he's driving - because he's the man, and I don't know why, but that seems a good enough reason as any at the moment,) and we're sipping our road-trip, non-fat, no-whip peppermint mocha lattes.

I'm pretty sure he's pulled the "I'm the driver, so I get to call what we're listening to, and I call All Sports Talk Radio, All the Time!" card, which means no Christmas carols for us, but hey, I pick my battles.

Our bags are packed, and our gifts are half-wrapped. The rest are sneakily stuffed in Target bags and swaddled in tissue paper, ready to be wrapped right before Christmas Eve.

The dogs are in the hands of capable care-takers; my cell-phone is fully charged, and I've packed enough clothes for a month, as Florida winters are temperamental, plus I'm not sure what all we're doing while we're away.

Because besides Christmas, we've heard mutterings of a reunion with my friends from college, a family camping trip, some post-Christmas sales shopping, a trip to Disney World, and even a movie or two.

And just like every Christmas, I will also need a good store of church-going clothes because with my father, just because we go to church on Christmas doesn't mean we don't turn around and go again in 48 hours, because, after all, it's a Sunday, and nothing keeps that man out of the pew on Sunday, even if that Sunday falls less than two days away from Christmas.

Yes, believe it or not, we're off for our own little version of a Christmas vacation.

Not even to return until after the New Year is upon us.

This, my friends, is going to be interesting.

So, as I'm sure once we reach my parents' door, I won't have a spare second to say it while it counts....

Merry Christmas!

I wish you and yours a wonderful holiday, filled with joy, celebration, memories, and a father-figure who drags you to some much-needed quiet moments of prayer two times in one weekend.

Please know how much you all mean to me during this Christmas season. You all are a blessing and true, real friends and factors in my life. I wish I could send each one of you a big, gift-wrapped package this year!

But instead, all I've got is this lil' ole Christmas blessing.

But I still want to give it to you.

To all of you.

So without further ado...

I wish you have a very Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year!

***

P.S. I will do my best to post sporadically next week once Christmas is passed. I will still be with my family, and I don't expect to have too much time, but I hope I'll be able to check in! I will make sure I'm at least reading your blogs; I just can't promise regular posting on this front until after we return home. In 2010! Wow! I'll miss you all! "See" when we get back!

Happy Holidays!

Where only a thank-you will do

Being a high school teacher is often a thank-less job.

Not always, but often.

Because unlike my fellow teachers who work with children under the age of 12, my students rarely think I'm cool.

They really, truly only associate with me when forced.

I'm not exactly who they'd like to spend their free time with.

In my job, I get more eye rolls than hugs, more rude laughs then cheers.

It's just all part of the calling.

It's in teenagers' genetic make-up to fight "The Man," so to speak.

And woman though I am, I am "The Man," in their lives.

I am "The Establishment."

And they can't think I'm cool - heck, they can't even think I'm kinda-sorta OK-ish - without selling out to "The Establishment."

It goes against their Adolescent Code.

Around Christmas time, this becomes all the more apparent.

Because while the elementary teachers leave the school days before Winter Break often laden down with presents, we high school teachers are lucky if we get a wave good-bye before the kids head out the door for the holiday.

Sure, a few of my students - mostly females - will bring me Christmas cards; the occasional child brings me baked goods, and I have one mother of a student who buys me a gift card before every winter and summer break.

But last Friday, when I left for this year's winter break, my arms were definitely not laden with gifts.

Still, I wasn't upset at all.

Because earlier that day...

I positioned myself at my desk just as the bell rang to cue our morning rush to the first class.

Students filtered in, grabbed an exam, dropped their bags and began to write.

The room was peaceful for close to 90 minutes, until the last student handed in their mid-term essay with 15 minutes in the period left to spare.

The talk began; friendly conversation about where they were going for break, what they wanted to get for Christmas, and who they hoped to see over the two-week hiatus from school.

A few kids - again, mostly girls - handed me Christmas cards.

The others did what they do best: Ignored me and tried to keep their swearing down below my hearing level.

Until one boy slouched over to me, dug around in his backpack, and slammed a crumpled card and small box of Christmas cookies down on my desk, muttering the following:

"Look, my Mom makes me do this every year, OK? So here. This is for you. Merry Christmas."

Aww. What a heart-warming sentiment, don't you think?

I kind of laughed and told the student, "You know, I wouldn't think any less of you if you actually wanted to give your teachers a Christmas card. It doesn't make a bad person, you know?"

The boy, who obviously felt this Christmas-card charade had catapulted him straight into the ninth-layer of high-school hell - immediate and total peer ridicule - slumped back to his desk with a grunt and a shrug.

I put the card on top of the stack of exams I had to grade and went about my day.

It wasn't until I was packing up to leave that evening when I opened the card haphazardly, realizing I'd forgotten to open it earlier.

Inside, a generic Nativity scene opened up to an otherwise blank card, except for one simple little phrase, scribbled in pencil, in the inevitably bad hand-writing any high-school English teacher can easily identify belongs to a boy between the ages of 14 and 17.

The message read:

"Thank you for being a teacher. Love, A(students' name.)"

That was it.

"Thank you for being a teacher."

No "Merry Christmas."

No "Happy New Year."

Not even a "Hope you enjoy the break!"

Just "Thank you for being a teacher."

Written not by the child's mother, but by the child himself.

I burst into tears.

Because this child - this sullen, semi-cranky, too-cool-for-school boy - put aside all the pleasantries that we normally associate with the holidays and called it like he saw it.

He just thanked me for being who I was.

He didn't wrap it in tinsel and sprinkle it with candy-cane dust.

He just expressed gratitude where he saw it necessary.

It was better than any expensive present I've ever gotten.

It was my little reminder that finding the perfect gift for your loved ones, swaddling it in parchment and tissue paper and ribbon, and watching them unwrap it hungrily is really just a metaphor for what we want them to get out of the presents we give them in the name of Christmas.

It's just a simile for our love and appreciation of them and all that they do for us.

We buy gifts to show our love, to show our care, to show our hearts for one another.

We send Christmas cards to express our passion and our admiration for those we love.

We leave voice mails in the name of the almighty holidays to let others know we're thinking of them, that we wish we could be with them.

But underneath that Vera Bradley purse, that iPod docking station, or that sparkly set of diamond earrings, all we're really trying to say is "Thank you."

Thank you for being who you are and what you are to me.

So, in light of these hard economic times, and because, in fact, Christmas is right around the corner, let's all step away from the crowded malls and picked-over Targets and Wal-Marts.

Let's just take a second to tell our loved ones what my sullen student said better than any big box with a bow could:

Thank you. Thank for being you.

***

Happy Tuesday everyone! Be back tomorrow with one final post before we leave to visit family for Christmas!

Not Me! Monday: The "Why Not Throw One More Log on the Fire?" Edition

Welcome to Not Me! Monday! This blog carnival was created by MckMama. Head over to her blog to read what she and everyone else have NOT been doing this week.

***

Due to what can only be exhaustion-induced semi-craziness, I decided NOT to hand-make all my own Christmas cards because I have NOT neglected putting together an actual photo holiday card like all the other big girls did NOT do well before the week prior to Christmas.

I also did NOT discard the fact that I had NOT averaged about three hours of sleep a night for the last week; that I did NOT break my toe; that I did NOT curse Al Gore himself when our home's Internet crashed on Wednesday.

No, I am NOT so senile that I would add one more burden to my already overflowing plate and decide to NOT cut, paste, glue, and bedazzle my own holiday cards less than a week before Christmas.

So, on Saturday, after NOT finishing all that work I complained about last week - Hallejuah! - I did NOT hit the craftstore and stock up on Christmas parchment, ribbon, buttons and felt.

Then, on Sunday, I did NOT wake up running a slight fever, so I did NOT decide to make the most logical choice when trying to nurse and heal from a cold:

I was NOT going to craft the heck out of it.

And so, I did NOT brew a pot of tea, boil myself some eggs, turn on a girly movie (the hubs was NOT at work,) and begin.

I did NOT cut ribbon.
I did NOT paste paper.
I did NOT tie string.
I did NOT glue buttons, and sew together felt like any sane, normal, pressed-for-time woman would.
And six hours late, I was NOT sitting amid a stack of red and green, silver and gold cards, all of them NOT different, all of them NOT unique.

And all of them NOT, distinctly, blank.
Not a one of them had been addressed.

Not a one of them had a poignant little Christmas message NOT inscribed inside from the hubs and I.

Not a one of them was actually close to being, well, done.

But my head was NOT pounding, my body was NOT aching, and my Christmas-card spirit had NOT run plum dry.

So I did NOT promptly put the calligraphy pen down and retreat back to my bed.

No way. No how.

I am NOT the kind of woman that would spend six hours crafting her own holiday cards through a fever, only to NOT inscribe and address a single one in time to make the mail for Christmas.
I'd NEVER leave such a big project like that unfinished. No way, no how.

Not me!

***

Thank you all for your good wishes last week!

My toe is healing nicely; my husband got the Internet in our home restored, and I finished the crazy workload I'd been stressing and losing sleep over all last week.

And - thank the Lord - I am finally on Winter Break! It feels so good - despite the head cold - that I'm in shock.

We're officially in Christmas mode around here, preparing to visit family, and loving it!

Hope everyone is having a wonderful (Not Me!) Monday! "See" you tomorrow!

Hi, my name is Debbie

Debbier Downer, that is.

Or, at least, that's who I feel like today.

You see, I had planned on writing you all a quick post this morning about "FREEDOM!" because in less than four hours, the schools are out, and this teacher should officially be on winter break.

Note that I say "should."

That is, in fact, how it should have gone. Until I returned home late Wednesday night to find out that the Internet was out in my home.

The Internet, which I need to finish 97 percent of my job before next week - i.e., all that stuff I was whining about yesterday.

I can't edit the school's yearbook pages without the Internet; I can't finish grading portions of my kids' semester exams without the Internet; I can't enter in scores, check my work e-mail, and deal with panicked students and parents without the Internet.

The only comfort I had about not eating and sleeping, but instead working working working for hours on end this week, was that I could do it in my pajamas, in front of a video, next to my Christmas tree, with my husband snoozing in the other room.

Oh, what a sweet picture that makes.

Instead, Wednesday night, I ended up taking a shower and crying myself into submission for 45 minutes before retreating back to work with plans to stay there till the midnight security guard kicked me out; I'd sleep there if I had to.

I then called my friend and canceled my Saturday Christmas party plans.

Because even with my sleep-at-the-school plan, I was still going to have to work Saturday. If I couldn't work five-six hours at home at night, every night, I was going to have to hole up in my office Saturday and finish everything.

I just was.

Do-able? Sure.

Fun? Not on your life.

But still, if I only knew how much worse it was going to get...

Later that same night, I went to get some water from the kitchen.

And then....I broke my toe.

Betcha didn't see that coming, did you?

Yep, I stubbed my toe on some gargantuan piece of technology my husband inexplicably left in the living room - because the room was pitch black and I couldn't see, not because I'm inherent klutz, though I am - and I managed to flick on the lights with just enough time to watch my middle toe on my right foot turn purple and black, swelling up to the size of a large grape and throbbing with increasing intensity.

I cried fiery tears before hopping on one foot to the kitchen to get some ice.

Great.

Just great.

When your only consolation is "Well, I've broken my toe before, and at least I know what to do about it without having to go the doctor," you know things are bad.

But apparently, not quite bad enough.

Because when I got to school yesterday at 5 a.m. - because Hello! I had no Internet in my stupid, stupid house! - the technology support team notified me that they had decided they will be shutting down our schools' Internet over this upcoming weekend to do some maintenance on it.

Which means I'm going to have to sell out to The Man and hop on one foot over to Starbucks to pay for wireless access - which I am sure I'll never get re-imbursed for - so I can finish my job, which I don't get paid enough to do in the first place.

Let me tell you, if I wasn't so busy crying angry tears, I'd kick something.

With my one good foot, of course.

***

I hope everyone has a good weekend! I will survive this and snap out of my crummy mood, I promise, and I will return to you all Monday only slightly worse for the wear!

Hope everyone else is having a happy Friday!

It's the most in-human time of the year

Do you remember college?

Remember the semester rolling around - a paper here, a project there, some reading, some homework, some studying to be done over a period of a few months?

Then, do you remember December in college?

The mad rush to study for eight different final exams, finish four different term papers and wrap-up two different cumulative projects all within a week's time, all while also Christmas-gift-shopping and attending every holiday celebration in town, because Hello! It's not like you can miss one party! You're in college for goodness sake!

When I was in college, there was a literally two weeks in December where I didn't sleep.

For two weeks, I walked around studying and drinking espresso and writing and drinking double-shots of espresso and working and drinking triple shots of espresso and shopping and drinking as much espresso as my limited college budget could afford.

For two weeks, I remained pretty much constantly nauseous, tired, broke and stressed out.

Also, just a little bit giddy.

Because just like every year, it was holiday/exam time, and I. Had. So. Much. Too. Do.

And just like every year, I survived it; I beat off the nausea, the caffeine sweats, the exhaustion-induced senility.

I'd make it back home to my parent's house for Christmas and promptly crash for three days straight.

I was tired; I was half-brain-dead; I was also a little overjoyed.

I'd done it! I'd conquered the semester! I'd beat all odds, worked around the clock and successfully completed a seemingly impossible to-do list in less than a week! I was the champion!

And in that moment, I single-handedly washed away every bit of stress I'd accumulated the week before, when I'd set out to do that seemingly impossible to-do list. I'd squashed that fear; that fear that comes with every almost-impossible deadline; that hard-to-state feeling that simply overwhelms you with a "How on God's green Earth am I ever going to do all that and not jump off a bridge in the process?"

It's terrifying; it grips your heart like a vice.

I remember physically starting to break down during those times, living in my college townhouse with two of my best friends; one of whom conquered College Exam Week by logging long, steadfast hours at our neighborhood Starbucks, and the other by taking her desk light, positioning it and all her books on our kitchen table, and shining the light directly in her face, as if she was taking part in a self-interrogation. ("Where were you the night of Dec. 2, 2003 when you were supposed to be studying for your women's studies mid-term?")

Sanity - and a restful night's sleep - were not a top priority in those days.

Still, once I finished graduate school, I thought I'd left those dog days of college behind me. I thought that the stress and the craziness and the jam-packed holiday-exam stew would melt away.

And then I became a teacher.

And I figured out that, like so many important things in life...

I WAS DEAD WRONG.

Because the nausea has returned. The lack of sleep has returned. The espresso-addiction has returned (as noted by the fact that I was bundled up, outside Starbucks this morning, waiting for them to open the doors and get. out. of. my. way, as they were obvious barriers to my drug, er, morning cup of joe.)

I even feel a little giddy.

I am seriously wondering how on God's green Earth I'm going to survive this week.

I'm wondering how I'm going to grade 100+ exams before Friday at midnight; how I'm going to submit 97 pages of the school yearbook before next Monday; how I'm going to wrap the bags full of Christmas gifts I haven't touched since purchasing them; how I'm going to mail packages to everyone out of town; how I'm going to drive two hours one way on Saturday to meet friends for a holiday party; how I'm going to clean my embarrassingly messy house; how I'm going to eat; how I'm going to sleep; how I'm going to blog; how I'm going to answer e-mail; how I'm going to mail Christmas cards, finish shopping, teach five more fitness classes, find replacements for two classes I'm "supposed" to teach the day after Christmas, pack the car, and leave town in six days.

I actually find myself holding "it" when I had to go to the bathroom - urgently - because I literally kept telling myself "I don't have time to get up and go."

Dear God, help me.

I mean, I know I've been here before. I know I've survived it; I know I lived to tell the tale.

I just don't remember how I did it.

So, I'm sorry if my blog-commenting has been a little sparse. I'm really sorry if I haven't answered all my e-mails yet, and I'm really, really sorry that I haven't called all the wonderful friends and family back who left me birthday messages. I promise, give me till next week, and I will get back to you all.

Assuming I don't lose my mind (and all bladder control) before then.

Wish me luck!

***

Happy Thursday!

Workout Wednesday: The Gifts to Give to Those at the Gym

It's hard to shop for people who like - or aspire to like - exercise.

It's a fine line you're walking when you try to give a workout-related gift to someone you love, who may or may not also love the gym.

By purchasing, for instance, a set of three personal training sessions for your significant other, you could be saying:

"Here. I know you wish you had the money to find someone to train you a couple days a week. And you know, it always helps to have someone else encourage you along in your weight-loss goals. So here! I celebrate you and your healthy lifestyle! Merry Christmas!"

Or, you could be saying:

"Here. I know you've been going to the gym lately, and I figure you'd like a personal trainer because, well, maybe I think I need to help you along a little bit more on those weight loss goals, if you know what I mean. No one's getting any younger - or thinner - as they say! Merry Christmas!"

The lesson here is this: Unless your friend/spouse specifically says, "You know what, my dear? I'd love a few sessions with a good old PT this year," think of something else for your burgeoning gym guru this holiday season.

And to help you along, I've got some suggestions below.

Without further ado, I give you, The Top Five Fitness Gifts to Give Every Gym-Goer.

1. A massage

source

Unlike the sometimes-misinterpreted personal-training sessions, a massage says, "I know how hard you work on your body, so here: Take a little break on me." It's something most people won't buy for themselves, either, but it's a crucial part of a healthy lifestyle and fitness regimen. People have to embrace relaxation, and a little gift-card for a good old rub-down will help them do just that.

2. A personalized fitness accessory

source

If you know the special person in your life likes yoga, get them a fun, flirty yoga mat (some places even allow you to produce mats with personalized photos printed on them. Cute!) If that special person enjoys cycling, buy them spinning shoes or a well-tested gel seat. They're Body Pumpers or strength-trainers? Get them a snazzy pair of weight-lifting gloves. These items are always well-appreciated, and they show that you know and understand what your special someone is into. But unlike, say, workout apparel, you don't run the risk of getting them the wrong (and possibly insulting) size.

3. A gym bag, complete with the necessities

source

Good gym bags are hard to come by, and more often than not, gym rats will instead stuff everything into an all-purpose tote and head out, losing their headphones in the huge purse's abyss and forgetting half of what they need. So get them a good gym bag, with many compartments, and fill it with pony-tail holders, extra socks, drink packets and trail mix. It's a personalized gift that keeps on giving. Check out my recommendations for what to pack in a gym bag here.

4. A nice pair of sneakers/running shoes

source

This idea comes courtesy of my husband, who did this very thing on our first Christmas together three years ago. Pack up your friend/wife/husband/sister/etc. and head to a running store, where a store employee will watch your friend/wife/husband/sister/etc run, walk, and shuffle, getting a feel for their foot, stride and what shoe would work best for them. Most stores and employees will make three shoe recommendations for your feet. Then, buy them the shoes they choose from the three. This is a great gift for someone who works out a lot and wears their shoes out. While they should be swapping them out every six months, many gym-goers don't. And thus, they begin to experience ankle, knee and shin pain. So get them those well-deserved shoes. They, and their feet, will thank you.

5. A subscription to a fitness magazine

source

With full workouts, diets and fitness tips in every issue, magazines like Women's Health, Shape and SELF can be helpful for a burgeoning workout king or queen. But buying each issue piecemeal - just after a "fat-burning" headline catches your eye at the grocery check-out counter - can be expensive. So buy your loved one a subscription. They'll appreciate it - and you - every month when that magazine arrives right to their doorstep.

***

So that's it on my end. Hope you can find something here for that special gym-goer in your life (or heck, yourself!)

And thank you for the all birthday wishes yesterday! You all are the best!

Until next time, Happy Exercising! Be back tomorrow with more of my normal ramblings!

They say it's your birthday

On Dec. 15, many, many years ago, America's first Bill of Rights went into affect after being ratified by Virginia.

The Sioux chief Sitting Bull was killed in a battle with U.S. soldiers

Adolf Eichmann was convicted for war crimes he committed as a Nazi in World War II.

And on a more upbeat note, Canada adopted the maple-leaf flag.

Oh, and I was born.

Yes, oh yes.

Put on the party hats, wrap up the presents, and light the candles, people. Because I am one year older and (kinda, sorta, maybe on a good day) one year wiser.

And I'm celebrating by....

Grading mid-term exams, drinking copious amounts of coffee, and teaching a boot camp class!

Celebrate good times, come on!

I'll be honest; I miss those days where you counted down the days until your birthday party. Where you really and truly wondered, deep in your heart of hearts, what was wrapped up in all that sparkly paper and ribbon. Where you lived for that moment where you could blow out the candles on that gorgeous, fluffy, high-calorie cake. Where you were excited, pumped even, to grow a year older; to be a "big girl."

Too bad nobody told me being a "big girl" meant all those fun parties and presents and cake were replaced with over-time and housework and take-out (which, at least, is infinitely better than making me cook myself my own birthday dinner.)

But apparently, you can't fight aging. (Well, there's always Botox, but my needle phobia is going to make it a bit hard for me to stiffen up and do it, if you know what I mean.)

So, happy birthday to myself!

Here's to another year under my belt, another year where I've been blessed beyond measure.

Another year where I've laughed and cried and ate and drank and sang and danced and pondered the meaning of life more often than I'd like to admit.

But hey, that's living.

So celebrate good times, come on!

***

A big thank you goes to Gwen, over at Confessions of a Control Freak, who mailed me a birthday card! It was such a surprise and really got me in the celebrating spirit!

Also, kudos to Katie, another dear blog friend at Loves of Life, who was my first official birthday greeting yesterday! I love birthday text messages!

Thanks for reminding me how fun it is to celebrate a birthday, girls!

Happy Tuesday everyone!

Own it, baby

On Sunday afternoon, I went Christmas shopping and grocery shopping.

And my husband went with me.

And no, hell did not freeze over. Pigs did not fly.

In fact, he even stood next to me in SteinMart while I lamented over what purse to purchase for a friend.

He nodded and considered several items of workout clothing I wanted to buy for his sister.

He even weighed in on a pink pair of polka-dotted pajama pants I considered getting for my mother (which I didn't. Sorry, Mom!)

The man traipsed through the mall, Old Navy, Target, Wal-Mart, TJ Maxx, Toys 'R Us, SteinMart and Sam's Club - all without a peep or complaint.

If I wasn't so fastidiously making my list and checking it twice, I'd have been worried.

Who was this man, and what was he doing following me around from store to store?

Couldn't be my husband.

No way, no how.

So, as we were checking out at our final destination - the grocery store - I thanked him for going with me. I thanked him for his help. And I thanked him for doing it all without whining like a 2 year old.

I was touched; I was impressed.

Until we exited the store, him pushing the cart and me presenting a store employee with our lengthy receipt.

The employee made a joke, which I giggled at.

We went on our merry way.

Then my husband came back to me.

Hubs: You know, if there's one thing I can always imitate about you, it's your laugh.
Me: What laugh?
Hubs: You do this little laugh. You kind of giggle really cutely, trail off, and then do a little sigh.
Me: Oh yeah?
Hubs: Yep. It's like "Hee Hee Hee Heeeeeeee...siiggghhhhh."
Me: Really?
Hubs: Yeah, it's your "thing." Like being stinky is my "thing."
Me: Wait, being "stinky" is your "thing?"
Hubs: Yep. I'm stinky. Sure, it's not a great "thing" to have, but hey, it's mine. Could be worse.

Just like that, the man I married was back. In his purest form.

Because it's true: The man does come home from a hard day at work quite smelly.

And yes, I often have to leave the house when he starts digesting anything that isn't entirely made of applesauce.

And sure, there was one time, when he was dropping me off for a hair appointment, where I refused to let him use the salon's restroom - even though he had to go "really, really bad" - because I didn't want to be embarrased by what I knew he would do to - and in - that bathroom.

But I didn't know that was his "thing."

I didn't know that his "smells," quite literally, characterized him.

I didn't know he owned "stinky" as one of this treasured personality traits.

Because if I had, I totally wouldn't have let him stand next to me in the purse section of SteinMart.

Happy Monday everyone!

Let's have "The Talk"

It was a normal Wednesday afternoon.

The last bell had rung. I was sitting in my classroom. I was grading papers. And all around me were several of my students, meeting for an hour-long study session for semester exams.

The purpose of my after-school study sessions is for my students to...drum roll please...study. (Shocker. I know.)

Towards the end of the semester/year, if I give my students an hour after school, where they have access to me if questions arise, many will take it. Plus, it keeps them in school, doing something productive, and off the streets, where one can only guess at what unproductive things they might get into.

Now, that being said, they are, in fact, teenagers. So even the most of productive after-school study session tends to go a little something like this:

Ask Mrs. C a question; study for five minutes; talk to the guy next to you about this weekend's plans. Ask Mrs. C another question; study for five minutes; go get a drink from the water fountain. Ask Mrs. C yet another question; study for another five minutes; talk about the big news on campus, as communicated to everyone via lunch-room gossip earlier that day.

It's par for the course. And on the kids' own time, I try not to intervene too much, unless totally necessary. I just sit there, grade papers, and listen.

Because you can learn a whole lot once the kids semi-forget you're there.

A whole lot.

So, on this particular Wednesday, my ears perked up when I heard the words "crazy" and "sex."

Or, more specifically, I began hearing sirens in my ears blaring "WARNING! WARNING!" once that dreaded S-word left their mouths.

I quickly glanced up, then just as quickly returned to my papers, pretending to grade some more, while listening all the while to a group of 17-year-old boys talk about S-E-X.

The convo went as follows:

Student #1: Did you read that editorial in the school paper where the girl said teenagers weren't old enough to have sex?
Me (on the inside): YAY! The students are actually reading the school paper!
Student #2: Yeah. We talked about it in government class even. People are a little ticked off about it, I hear.
Me (on the inside): "Ticked off," huh?
Student #1: That's because she just said out loud what they know is actually, really and truly, right.
Me (on the inside): Hurrah! This kid's got it!
Student #2: Yeah, do you know that at lunch some days, my friends talk about how stressed out they are that they might get their girlfriends' pregnant?
Me (on the inside): WHAT?!?!?!?!?!?!?!
Student #1: Can you believe that, Mrs. C?
Me (on the inside): No, I can't....Wait a minute. Are they actually talking to me now? Oh crap.

At this point, I'm pretty sure the room started to spin. Those warning bells in my ears turned to huge siren wails, screaming "ABORT! ABORT! DO NOT PASS GO! DO NOT ENGAGE 17 YEAR OLD MALE STUDENTS IN A CONVERSATION ABOUT S-E-X! GET OUT OF THERE NOW!"

I seriously contemplated using the old, "Did somebody just hear my phone ring?" before pretend-rushing into my attached office and composing myself.

Still, after I got over my shock that they were obviously willing to engage a female teacher in a rather personal conversation about a rather awkward topic, I managed to calm down enough to stammer out:

"Well, gentlemen, do you really think they're making a smart choice?"

They hemmed and hawed for a little while before Student #2 said, "Well, that's why they should be responsible and use protection, so no one gets sick or pregnant, you know? They should be smart enough to do that."

I remained silent; I bit my tongue.

I resisted the urge to run over and grab him by the shoulders and yell, "Honeychild, it's not just about getting pregnant or getting an STD! Think of what you're giving away yourself! Think of what you're taking from that poor girl! You all are babies in the grand spectrum of all of this! You are most likely not going to marry and spend the rest of your life with these girls! And think of how much hurt and pain you all will go through just by the fact that you are not emotionally capable of dealing with sexual intercourse yet??? So tell me, what do you think about that, honeychild? WHAT? HUH?"

Still, I shushed myself. Because if I've learned nothing else as a teacher, I've learned this: Calling teenage boys "babies" and "honeychild" will get you nowhere. And fast.

Plus, scaring the bejeebers out of them was not the way to go; I knew that, too.

So I shut up.

Finally, Student #1 jumped in.

"No way, dude. I'm not having sex now. I get upset when I get a bad grade on a test. How painful will it be to deal with all that stuff? It's just not smart. I'm telling you. It's just not smart. I know we can't handle it."

Bingo.

I resisted the urge to hug him as hard as I could and scream "Good for you!" before rushing into the office to call his mother and exclaim, "Never fear! He's not having sex! He's a good kid, and you have nothing to worry about!"

Student #2 was nodding in acquiescence.

They both returned to studying.

And I went back to grading papers, or pretending to.

But I was smiling down at those papers instead.

Because sometimes, as a teacher, you have to step in. Sometimes, you have to make your mark. Sometimes, you have to tell them what you think and why; you have to tell them what to do.

But other times?

Those other times, you just have to step back. You just have to listen.

You just have to shut up and let them talk it out on their own.

You'd be surprised what kids will say to you when you're quiet, when you're not pontificating at them, as an adult.

Because very often, they'll say it better than you ever could.

***

Quick Note: I'm not attempting to make a political statement here; I'm not attempting to throw an abstinence-only viewpoint in anybody's face.

I'm just coming from a place that many teachers and mothers of boys come from.

I'm coming from a place of working with lots of teenage boys I care about very much.

I'm coming from a place where I truly view my teenage boys (and girls) as my "babies;" they are "my kids."

And I know, after spending many hours with them, that having sex is not a good choice for them. It will, and often does, break there hearts.

I realize that a lot of the world doesn't agree with me on this, but I'm OK with that.

Turns out, some of "my kids" are OK with that, too.

And for that, I'm grateful.

Have a great weekend everyone!

Happy happy, joy joy!

Guess what, guess what?

The dear, sweet Jules over at Chic & Pink so graciously gave me the Happy 101 Award!

Isn't she a doll? Thank you, Jules!

This award, meant to be gifted to bloggers who make you smile, has two requirements.

1. List 10 things that make you happy
2. List 10 bloggers who brighten your day.

So, let's go for it, shall we?

10 Things Currently Making Me Happy (As a Clam)

1. The fact that we have six days of school left before Christmas break. And - Bonus Alert! - four of them are half days! Glory be! That being said, these next six days are going to be tough, tough, tough getting my students ready for semester exams. But after that, I have 2.5 weeks of amazing Christmas freedom! I. Can't. Wait.

2. The fact that I told told my students they "were like my kids" yesterday, and one of my 15 year olds immediately jumped in with, "Yay! I have a new mommy!"

3. The fact that my God-mother gave me a bunch of white, crocheted snowflakes last year, which, this year, I hung on my Christmas tree, on my window garland, and all over the house, making it a downright Winter Wonderland in my Florida home. They make me smile every time I come home.

4. The fact that I've managed to read two books this week. I worked hard - for my own sanity - to make reading for pleasure a priority this past week, and what do you know? It totally worked. I'm happier, and I've managed to chip away at the stack of material awaiting my attention.

5. The fact that I've managed to find some steals while I'm out shopping for Christmas gifts. I don't know if it's the tanked economy or what, but there are some great deals out there. And as we all know, finding a great deal can be downright exhilarating! I couldn't be happier with some of the items I've picked up for friends and family. (Steal Alert: Did you all know SteinMart is carrying Vera Bradley? Because they are! This Steal Alert comes courtesy of mother, who called me frantically the second she found a Vera wallet after meandering through her favorite store.)

6. The fact that I saw The Blindside and left the movie theater downright inspired. Granted, I cried through the entire movie, but I was still downright inspired. What an amazing (true) story.

7. The fact that I've become downright obsessed with tea. In an effort to cut down on my highly caffeinated coffee consumption, I've cut out my afternoon cup(s) of coffee and switched to green tea - when in dire straits - and herbal in all others. And I am loving it. It's delicious and warming and fulfilling. I've officially joined Team Tea! (Granted, without totally leaving Team Coffee. Sure, they may be conflicting alliances, but we're working it out. When it comes to warm beverages, I say, can't we all just get along?)

8. The fact that the series LOST resumes in LESS THAN TWO MONTHS! AND I SAW A PREVIEW FOR IT SUNDAY NIGHT! AND I SCREAMED ALOUD AT 10 P.M. BECAUSE I WAS SO EXCITED BECAUSE IT IS LOST, FOR GOODNESS' SAKE! AHHHHH!!!

9. The fact that I found - gasp!- brown leggings that were not made for a woman who happens to be six months pregnant. Miracles do happen!

10. The fact that I had pie last night. I love pie.

So now, for the 10 dear blog friends who brighten my day when I need it most:
New blog friends Laura, at Awake Amidst A Dream, and Erin, at Tobin Tales
My blog friends turned 6 a.m.-panicked-text-message friends Gina, at Namaste By Day, Sam, at The Ruby Turtle Hippie Times, and Katie, at Loves of Life
A (very brave) soon-to-be substitute teacher, Brittany, at Tales of a Southern Belle and Her Beau
My Name Twins at Molly Lou Gifts and Notes from the Grove
Sweet blog buddies, whose comments constantly make me smile, Mrs. Bee at the Secret Life of Sas and Lex, b.e.g. at brown eyed girl, Sus from The Edwards Edition, and Lyr from Breaking Through

I know, I know. That's 12 women, not 10. But give me a break.

I'm an English teacher.

Math? Not. My. Thing. And trust me, if I had my way, I'd keep going, giving it to you all and re-giving it to those of you that I know already got it!

Because you all - and I say this quite seriously - brighten my day to no end. So thank you, all of you, for adding sparkle and smiles to days that sometimes need it desperately!

I so appreciate it. And all of you!

So until tomorrow....

Happy Thursday!

Workout Wednesday: All things bright and (not so) beautiful

I teach a lot.

Which is a good thing, considering I'm a teacher. One could hope that teachers actually, you know, teach.

But I don't just teach English to high-schoolers. In the evenings, I teach fitness to men and women of all ages.

I've done it for a while.

In fact, I've done it for much longer than I've actually taught high-school language arts.

It's pretty routine for me: Get up, get dressed, pack my lunch and a gym bag, go teach English to America's reluctant-to-learn future leaders, proceed to the gym to teach a few fitness classes to much-less-reluctant-to-learn current leaders, head home, write fitness programs for tomorrow's classes, ice various sore points in the old bod, and go to bed.

Some days, I feel like I could move through the day in my sleep.

And while I love what I do, I have to tell you, some days, it's an act.

Especially the gym part.

I've taught so much fitness for so long that I can teach a lot of classes on auto-pilot, if need be. I've literally taken off the microphone after two hours of yelling at people and thought, "What in the world did I just say/make them do for two hours?"

Not something I'm terribly proud of, but hey, it's the truth.

And it's a purty darn valuable truth for the days when I'm sick, tired, or both, simply because I can turn on my "exercise brain" and just start teaching, no matter how rough the rest of the day has been.

However, that auto-pilot comes back to bite me in the butt from time to time.

Or, should I say, it comes back to bite me in the beautiful butt from time to time.

You see, with some classes, like strength-training or cycling, there's a lot of air time to kill.

In other words, you can only tell someone to squat and curl and lunge so many times - and to go "harder, faster, lower!!!!" - before they come over and punch you in the face.

Sad truth, but for some reason, people don't like to be yelled at. They much prefer praise and encouragement.

So, as an instructor, I try to do that. I fill all that air time with "Great work!" and"Keep it up! You're almost there!" and, when I'm feeling really peppy, "ExcellentexcellentEXCELLENT!"

Whatever I can say to keep people going (and to the fill the terribly awkward silences,) I will.

I have no shame.

But sometimes, when my fitness auto-pilot is kicking in and I'm searching for words of encouragement, I resort to a few standards; a few good, praising phrases that do the trick for me every time.

My new standard?

The word "beautiful."

Oh yes, "beautiful."

I love it for a million under-appreciated reasons.

I love that it has three syllables, but I can stretch it out to four or five, and enunciate the whole thing, making it sound a little more like "Bee-aahhh-yoo-ti-fullll!!!" (which I sometimes sing for extra emphasis.)

I love that it can be mixed in with tons of other words, a la "Beautiful work!" or "You're working on those beautiful legs!" or "Lookin' beautiful!"

And I love that it's just a nice thing to hear. Who doesn't like to be told they're beautiful, right?

Well, turns out, the novelty does indeed wear off.

I realized that last night, as I was teaching. I realized that, indeed, I love "beautiful" a little bit too much.

I use it a lot.

And by a lot, I mean two times a minute.

Without knowing it, I've become beautifully obsessed. I'm averaging about 50-60 "beautifuls" a class.

People, I'm starting to annoy myself.

And I'm pretty sure I'm annoying everyone else in the class, too. They've begun to stare at me as if to say, "Seriously, lady, no one is all that beautiful when they're panting hard and sweating like a pig. So zip it, you crazy freak!"

The problem is, when I start to think about it and tell myself "Brittany, pick a different phrase, for goodness sakes!" even worse things happen.

I second guess what I'm saying.

I'll start to say the, um, B-word, and then, Bam! I catch myself.

But I've already let a syllable or two slip out, and I'm forced to change phrase mid-word, causing me to shout something along the lines of "Be-attitudes!"

Or "Beaut-tudie!"

Or "Be-azzle razzle!"

All lesser-known, far-harder-to-understand fitness phrases of encouragement, which in the wrong company, may or may not be confused with several expletives.

Not good.

So there I am, stammering out some awkward gibberish phrase. Miked.

The silence that follows - filled only by that semi-cheesy, techno workout music - is deafening.

My class full of exercising people stares awkwardly. I laugh awkwardly. We all keep exercising, awkwardly.

It's one big beautiful disaster.

So, does anyone have any suggestions? What do you all like to hear for encouragement while you're working out?

Can anyone spare a quick vocab lesson for this rather pathetic English-fitness-teacher?

I desperately need help before I have to join some sort of five-step program for Word Over-Users Anonymous.

Hello, my name is Brittany, and I've abstained from using the phrase "be-azzle razzle" in public for two days.

Hi, Brittany.

***

You know what I just realized? This weeks' blog posts make me look like quite the freak.

One cold, eye-burning, beautiful-spewing freak.

I swear, I'm not that weird. (OK, I am that weird, but I'm also terribly nice person. I swear. Really. I am!)

So, thanks for all of you who managed not to point and laugh at me for the last few days. (Or managed to hide the pointing and laughing behind your computer screens:)

I appreciate it. I also appreciate all the advice from yesterday.

And to keep you all posted, I am planning on seeing a doc soon if it continues. I'm actually not a fan of most doctors, so it's terribly hard for me to do, but I realize I may have to go, in this instance.

And for those of you that pointed out that it might be happening on the same stretch of road every day, kudos! Because it is happening at basically the same place every day. I didn't even realize it. I wonder what's floating nearby in that area....Eeek! Scary!

Also, for those of you worried about my fellow road-travelers, never fear. I've gotten downright pre-emptive in guessing when the temporary blindness is about to start, and I pull over immediately, if not sooner. I don't want to hurt anyone. Plus, I don't want to get the thumbs down from Mrs. Potts:)

I promise to keep you all posted if/when I find out more!

Until then, Happy Wednesday!

I'm sorely afflicted

No, seriously, I am.

Sorely, sorely afflicted.

I'm pretty sure I need serious medical intervention.

But because I have no time or money to get it, I'm turning to the next best thing to a certified, professional M.D.:

You all!

So, allow me, my personal blog docs, to paint you a picture...

You're driving down the road after a long day at work. You're en route to the gym in brisk, moving local traffic between the hours of 4:30 and 6 p.m. You're rockin' out to whatever suitable tunes you can find on your radio because you are way to old-school to actually own and use an iPod. You're sipping a cup of green tea/juice/extra-shot latte and periodically peeking over at your cell phone to see if anyone is trying to ring you over your screeching, non-iPod-enhanced singing.

Then, it happens.

Your eyes begin to tingle.

You're eyes begin to water.

Your eyes begin to ache for just a smidge of a rub or just a little scratch.

If you have enough time, you swipe at a tear duct - gently - with the back of you hand.

But, before you can ponder whether or not you've somehow gotten an ill-fated eyelash embedded on your retina, the problem escalates.

And by escalates, I mean shoots up such a steep incline that you go from slightly itchy, watery eyes, to a face that feels like it's puffed up, on fire, dripping chilli oil, and spontaneously combusting all at once.

Your face is, in fact, aflame.

Or at least that's what your sensory overload is telling you.

Opening your eyes feels like somebody is shoving sand onto your pupils and rubbing it around your eyeballs. Your nose has started to run in time with your tear ducts. Your face literally feels like it's being stabbed with fiery glass.

You and your guardian angels manage to get you off the side of the road without killing you or others, so you can rummage around in your car, blinded, and try and find a half-used napkin from your breakfast bagel or an old sweatshirt with which you can rub your face as dry as you can get it, scrubbing furiously at your eyes in an attempt to get off whatever the heck is actively burning your face away as you sit, parked, with traffic whizzing by as if they haven't the slightest idea that you are, in fact, going blind right before their very eyes.

By the time the pain subsides and your vision returns, you're panting, maybe even crying panicked tears, thanking the Lord above that you managed to maneuver your way to safety and keep your face all in one day.

You are, legitimately, freaked out.

And by "you," I totally mean "me."

For the last couple months, this has been my almost daily routine.

I've taken to stashing boxes of tissues in my car, for pre-emptive swipes that sometimes, but rarely, stave off what I've come to call Burning Face Syndrome.

I've tried switching up my eye make-up or not wearing any at all.

I've tried protective sunglasses, diverting the car's air vents away from my countenance, and even washing my entire face before I hop in the car at the end of the day.

Nada.

Nothing's worked.

The Burning Face Syndrome lives on.

Of course, when the syndrome first struck a couple months back, I immediately Google-d my symptoms and basically convinced myself for several days that I was, in fact, dying of some sort of eye cancer, which would leave me blind at best and leave me, well, dead at worst.

However, I'm fairly certain that's not it; I'm fairly certain there's something much less suspicious and far more standard going on.

(Also, I don't have any known, standard allergies, and I've got perfect vision, so those two things are out.)

So now, before I break down, go broke, and actually find myself an optometrist, I thought I'd check with you all. Has anyone else had an experience like this? Any tips you'd like to share with me?

I'd really appreciate any help you can spare.

Until then, I'll be here, waiting. Hoping and praying that when I venture out from work once again, Burning Face Syndrome won't strike.

But if you see any headlines that read "Woman Loses License, Sight After Face Catches Fire in Rush Hour," expect a bit of a blog hiatus.

Can't say I didn't warn you.

***

Happy Tuesday everyone!

Living dangerously. And coldly.

When we moved to our current home back in August, it was approximately 145 degrees here in bright, sunny North Florida.

We couldn't take off enough clothes to cool down.

It was a "naked sweat," in other words.

So we didn't even think twice when the owners of the home we're living in told us that the heat was not electric but was, in fact, gas - a fact that would require us to have a "gas man/woman," if you will, come and fill our tank with more than $600 worth of gas before the not-so-long, cold winter, if we intended to use the heat at all this year.

So, we did what any normal, sweaty Floridian would when presented with our almost year-round enemy: Heat.

We decided we wouldn't use any of it this winter.

"We don't need no stinkin' heat!" we proclaimed.

Now, before all the rest of you located at higher latitudes start to laugh at the notion of Floridians really ever needing heat, let me just say this: It does freeze here during the winter. It is, after all, North Florida. So, yes, we don't have "snow days" or sub-zero temperatures, but we do still chip ice off our cars and experience degrees in the 'teens. It's cold enough to own two sets of clothing; winter clothes and summer clothes.

That being said, back in August, my summer-altered brain forgot all this; my summer-altered brain laughed at the notion of wearing anything with sleeves on it.

My summer-altered brain was hot.

We simply maintained that with enough layers, and with the body heat we'd collect under the blankets when sleeping, we'd be fine.

Worst-case scenario, we'd plug in those little space heaters when doing things like getting dressed and taking showers.

Sounds totally logical when you're sweating in a sundress, right?

Well, my friends, winter has come, and my summer-altered brain is gone.

I'm also seriously beginning to doubt my summer-altered decisions.

Because when I arose Sunday morning, the indoor thermometer said the house temperature was hopping between 45 and 50 degrees.

And me?

Well, let's just say I risked a bladder infection over lowering my bare bum onto an icy-cold toilet seat that morning, and I didn't find it at all funny when I clicked on the TV after church to find Cold Case re-runs playing away, oblivious to their own ironic presence.

The piece' de resistance was when the chicken breasts I started thawing for dinner defrosted faster in the refrigerator rather than out of it.

Because, baby, it's cold outside. And inside, for that matter.

Still, no omniscient TV show, frozen blocks of meat or frigid commode were going to deter this girl from her frugal winter. After all, we're Floridians? Who says we really need heat, right?

My husband does, that's who.

Yes, my husband says he wants us to turn on the heat.

Screw our well-thought-out frugal winter. The man has had enough of living on a budget, apparently. The boys wants the heat turned on. Stat.

But it's not because the boy is cold.

No sirree Bob.

My Arkansas-born boy wears shorts with sweatshirts - a poor fashion choice but a daring clothing combination nonetheless - even when its positively frigid outside. We jokingly call him a "walking furnace" around here, from time to time. My husband is not easily chilled.

So, even without the heater, the hubs isn't cold.

No, my husband wants the heat turned on for a whole different kind of reason, for a whole different kind of heat, if you will.

My husband, in fact, is sick of me being cold.

Or, more specifically, he's sick of me donning my new cold-weather-coping mechanism:

You see, I spent the entire weekend in pink-and-red, snowflake-printed fleece PJ pants; striped-blue, knee-high, booty fleece socks; an orange thermal shirt; a brown, knit beret; and my husbands' XXL navy hoodie.

I've been sleeping in this lovely ensemble. I've been eating in this lovely ensemble. I even decorated the Christmas tree - at 1 o'clock on a Saturday afternoon - in this lovely ensemble.

In essence, I look like a very warm circus freak.

A very warm circus freak who also enjoys looking like a shapeless lump of lounge-wear on her off days.

When he looks at me, I'm pretty sure he's wondering where his wife is, under all these layers of clothes.

I'm pretty sure he's wondering when the heat will return to the body that I may or may not still have, buried under all these layers of wool and fleece.

Sorry, honey.

I guess all I can tell you is: Expect your wife and her body to emerge in about three months.

Until then, don't you dare turn on that heat.

***

P.S. According to our weather forecast, we can expect high-60s, low-70s beginning tomorrow until the end of the week, when we'll get another freeze. Thanks to the fickle nature of Florida winters, it looks like I'll be able to lose the sweatshirt. The hubs will be thrilled.

P.P.S. I realize that using gas to heat, cook, and run a home is hardly novel to anybody else. But to me - and a lot of native Floridians - it is. I've never lived in a home where we used gas for anything. I've never even cooked on a gas stove. So while I'm sure I'll get some good-natured ribbing for this, trust me, I don't know the first thing about "filling up a gas tank."

P.P.S. In case you missed it, I had a guest post over at my dear friend Sam's blog, The Ruby Turtle Hippie Times, this past Saturday. She was kind of enough to let me ramble on about two of my favorite things: Christmas and books. So go on over and check it out if you get a chance.

Happy Monday everyone!

Step back; be blessed

If you're being kind, you'd call me "high-energy," abuzz with the doing of many tasks and willing to take on almost anything.

If you're being honest, you'd call me "anxious," "over-thought," and downright worried, with a huge inability to say "No!", thus leaving me stressed out and ulcerous in my mid-20s.

It's part of my personality I've had since I was birthed into this world, and a part of my personality I've loathed almost since.

I'll be honest with you all: I'm rarely at peace.

Quite simply, I'm never caught up. There's too much to do and not enough time in the day, week, month, year, decade...well, you get the picture.

And being in that space, though it's often self-inflicted, is not a happy place for me to be.

I get a little bitter; I get a little angry. I get snappy and stressed and downright peeved at the world, at the life I was given.

I yell at my husband; I yell at God.

And then I cower away, with my books, or my blog, or whatever it is that lets me be silent and think about anything else but the papers I have to grade, and the phone calls I have to return, and the 18,000 obligations I should have said "No!" to, but instead I smiled and nodded and acquiesced.

It's ugly.

I don't like it.

It makes me whiny; it makes me complain.

When, in reality, I've really got nothing to complain about.

I've got a roof over my head, a husband who loves me, friends who I cherish, food on my plate, the ability to walk and talk and shop and hug and exercise and read and do all the things I hold dear.

Luckily for me, God likes me to meet me right where I'm at - at that place where my whining meets necessary gratitude.

I found myself unexpectedly alone last Saturday afternoon - a rarity.

I had cleaned the house and done some laundry. I'd even done a mini-organization of my closet. I graded a stack of papers and popped open a magazine to read. I had the television on mute, watching my alma mater play a really good game of football. I had a mug of tea in my hand, where I had the perfect steep with the perfect amount of honey infused throughout it. I was bundled in fleece pants and a worn-in sweatshirt, but the windows were open blowing our first truly cold winds throughout the house.

And in that moment, where I'd managed to stop thinking about the 72 hours worth of grading and shopping and cleaning and exercising and phone-calling and e-mailing I had left to do, I felt such a God-given warmth.

Such a peace.

I was moved to tears.

For I am undeniably blessed. Truly happy.

No matter what there is left, what else has to be done in my world, it doesn't change the fact that I was gifted a life that is filled with love, filled with arms that hold me and care for me whether or not I've graded every paper or folded every piece of laundry in my life.

My friend's arms; my family's arms; God's arms.

So here's to a moment with a good breeze; a good cup of tea; a good pair of fleece pants.

Here's to stepping back this weekend and capturing that moment where you feel loved.

Here's to feeling blessed.

***

Thank you, Lucy Marie, for your inspiration on this post.

Hope everyone has a wonderful weekend! "See" you Monday!