Babies shouldn't be allowed near me. With water.

    (but hopefully no buckets were involved.)

I know you have heard this before, but my family is absolutely insane.

In the best...absolute best...possible way.

Only two days into our reunion, Brett had to hit the road for travel, so I naturally decided to stay the week with my family because I am unnaturally afraid of zombies, break-ins and child ghosts...in that order. My family is the perfect clan to disappear into when you are feeling  really unsettled and shaken up. Mainly because they, in normal form, are bat shit crazy.

Brett dropped me off and stayed for a BBQ, and I have to admit my eyes were trained on him for the better part of the afternoon. He was just raised in such a quiet and...normal family, and even after 7 years together I sort of stress out when my mutual worlds collide.  He handled himself expertly well, however. He only raised his eyebrow at me a few times, expressed quick and (to his credit, mild,) shock when I got into a heated, innocent, and VERY VOCAL debate with my mother, and he played with my nephews so hard they basically forgot who I was. Which kind of made me feel like the last kid picked for the team, but whatever. It was an amazing afternoon. I even fed my baby nephew his first bite of goat cheese. Which he promptly threw up. BUT STILL. MEMORIES.

This week enables me to be something more than a wife- something that I was before the aisle walk and the "I Do's" and the arguments over who squeezed the toothpaste in the middle: A sister. An aunt. A daughter.

I have two gorgeous nephews in Ohio, and my sister Ashley, ( their mother,) is the exact opposite of me, and that is NOT A BAD THING AT ALL. Case in point: my entire family was sitting on the deck, eating, drinking, laughing, and swimming, and my mom came up with the GRAND IDEA to give baby Liam (1 and a half years old,) his own bucket to play with. Full of water. I sat there and wrung my hands as I watched him splash around, picturing every single worse case scenario ever and sweating it out before it could even happen. AND THEN IT HAPPENED. One second. One tragic, quick second, and Liam went top heavy into the bucket, face submerged...and his little body couldn't pull himself up.

I was a nanny for so long. I'd even say a decorated nanny. People actually wanted to hire me for their kids, and even competed a little bit. (Sorry. I can't be humble right now, it is proving a point you will soon realize,) SO, the fact my gorgeous nephew suddenly went belly up in a FLIPPEN' BUCKET in front of me, and all I could do was freeze in silent horror...it kind of made me feel like less of a person all together. I couldn't move. I screamed, frozen.

And then my sister scooped him up, patted him hard on the back a few times, and all normalcy was restored.

My sister (Ashley) and I fight like cats and dogs, and- (being the older sister,) I naturally know what is best for her, her kids, and everything else in her world- ALL OF THE TIME.  So, seeing her react and be such a kick ass mommy...it just made me feel like maybe I don't always know all of the answers. Maybe I think I know what is best for me, and for everyone, but...maybe I don't. 


Wow.

Anyway, all I know is that I have my family for one week...and I don't know anything at all. I know I am a fun aunt...I catch fireflies, I jump in pools fully clothed, I allow sweets on the sly and I know every Disney song. I know my family is flawed, but gorgeous. They live large and loud and full- we fight, cry, rage, love...and there is nothing that can contain or hold us back. My sister has raised 2 boys that cuddle into my bed in the morning, forgive my lack of knowledge on all things Sponge Bob, adore their mother and don't mind when I don't mind when they are drowning.

I'm pretty lucky. And pretty loved. And pretty ok with this new phase of life.

Just no buckets of water. Like, ever.

How to Be a Wife from...0 Miles Away

Part 1.

Here it is. New chapter started, bags unpacked, new and unfamiliar house settled into, and a husband that slept next to me all night. (The novelty! I was getting used to a double bed shared with an actual battered teddy bear. This arrangement feels a little more grown up.) I'm sitting in our new (for the summer) kitchen, battling jet lag and still wearing what I call my "single girl" pajamas. (Flannel. In ridiculous humidity. I have "wife" pajamas around here somewhere, but oh God...flannel.) Last night I tossed and turned into the early hours, overwhelmed and buzzing from all that is now and all that is to come. I'm like that the eve before something big. I run my life through my head like a film in technicolor, wondering where I would have slowed down and where I would have edited heavily. I vibrate with fear, hope, excitement, trepidation, and anticipation. It sounds a bit dramatic and anything but restful, but hey...have you met me?

Traveling here yesterday was sort of a milestone on its own. I use to be terrified of solo traveling. And now, after of year of boarding planes at least twice a month and getting a routine down- I can literally do it in my sleep. Literally. I have. And hallucinating once with a ridiculous fever and an accidental overdose of NyQuil- BUT I GOT WHERE I WAS GOING, ALIVE, AND THAT IS THE POINT. I realized yesterday as I boarded my second plane and smiled warily at the young man sitting next to me clutching a Bible, (because I was clutching a filthy smut book and was trying to figure out how to crack the spine without him noticing I was essentially reading porn on the plane) that this would most likely be one of the last times I travel alone. I ordered a glass of wine at that moment in a sort of toast to the past and a welcome to whatever lay ahead of me in the future. The flight attendant handed it to me with a smile and refused payment.

"Oh no you don't!" she trilled. "The other attendants told me you are finally reuniting with your husband! It must have been so hard for you, him being deployed and all that."

What.

This was when I realized I talk waaaay to much to random people when I travel. I indeed had struck up a conversation with a flight attendant as we waited in line to board. I was clinging to a bag of pottery in my hand and casually told her it was something my husband made in California, and I was bringing it to him after we had been apart for a year. "It's time for us to be together again. It's been a war! It's been hell. I'm ready for it all to be over."

I didn't mean an actual war. 

After I explained it to the confused flight attendant, she was so flustered she just gave me the wine free anyway. Which sort of ruined the whole thing because I felt like a world class douche and Mr. Billy Graham to the right was eyeing me with contempt as I sipped it shame-faced. So, because he already thought I was Jezebel, I cracked open my smut book and read 200 pages.

A nice celebration, I think.

Anyway.

I came home with my husband to a beautiful apartment he filled with things I like. Boxes of Annie's Mac N' Cheese lined the counter, a rose' wine was in the fridge, a pile of Women's Health magazines by the bed, (ironic, no? Wine...macaroni and cheese...you get it, right?) AAND he actually bought me coffee. Which he hates that I drink. And usually fights me tooth and nail on, and I end up sneaking it like cocaine. But there it was...the future sitting there on the counter...a bag of coffee. (Half decaf, but he's trying.)

So, this morning I woke up in a new bed. I unpacked everything from my suitcases and realized that the only thing I forgot was my bag of make-up. I promptly called Brett at the office.

"So, I left my face in San Francisco." I practically whined into the phone.

"I'm pretty sure I saw your face this morning. On...your face."

"Not funny. I'm serious. I don't even think you should come home. I have NOTHING. Like, not even blush. You just...you can't look. Don't come home."

"We'll replace it, for God sake."

"YES, BUT THAT IS GOING TO BE ABOUT A MILLION DOLLARS AND I WILL STILL BE FACE-LESS UNTIL THEN."

(DISCLAIMER: I actually go without make up quite a bit. But, in true Irish fashion I am pale and freckled and benefit from a little enhancement now and again. I am not a diva by any means, but my first day with my newly home from deployment husband I would like to have lips and maybe eyelashes too.)

We ended up laughing over my "predicament" and made a plan to buy me a new face on the way to dinner tonight. Which isn't half bad for a first day together.

So, new face, new life. And who knows, maybe I'll go for a new shade of lipstick. Shake it up. buy colors and things I have never used before.

Let's see where this goes. I'm up for the ride.

Cooking up the new Chapter. Or mixing it up in a shot glass. Whatever.

So, guess what?

I think we are at the end of our journey, kids.

Right now I am sitting in my husbands child-hood room. I'm wrapped up in his native-american-style blankets, looking at the random dead animals mounted to the wall, the only touch of me and his adult life being my wedding dress hanging in the corner. (I really need to preserve that, but I am so not a fan of the wedding dress coffins all of my friends have.) On top of it all...it's my last night in California.

The "experiment" is over.

My friends, once hearing that I would finally reunite with my husband, expressed their well wishes but a few had more poignant things on their mind. "What will happen to the blog?" My reaction was simple: It's over. I was ending it. This was supposed to be a flawed snippet of my bumblings through this weird and chaotic life. In my mind, once I was living with Brett again, all normalcy would be restored. There would be no need for a blog because I am so normal and awesome and so good at life.

And then I remembered.

Um. No. I'm not.

And that is ok, right?

While reminiscing with friends over my journey a lot of interesting tidbits came up. One night this past week, a few of my closest friends and myself sat bundled up by a fire- the Golden Gate bridge twinkling in the background, our scotch glasses full and our laughter plentiful.

"Remember how Brett drove away and Melissa was so sad she accidentally broke a door and was bleeding immediately and slightly drunk 2 hours later?"

"Remember the first dinner Mel made in the apartment? She was trying to copy Brett's fish recipe? But we almost died from food poisoning?"

"Remember the night we tried breaking in to her apartment? Because she left her keys in the fruit basket in her house? With the fruit that she never ate? Because she only eats frozen fruit? And we realized her apartment was really hard to break into? So she felt safe? 9 months after living there?"

"REMEMBER HOW SHE ALWAYS MADE US WATCH "RATATOUILLE?!"

REMEMBER HOW MELISSA ALWAYS MADE US LAUGH AND ALWAYS HAD A HOUSE FULL OF ROTTEN FRUIT AND SCOTCH BECAUSE SHE LOVES HER FRIENDS AND SHE MADE OUR LIVES SO AMAZING?

Ok. I added that last bit.

The funny thing was, through the night and through the stories I could actually listen to myself grow and change over the giggles and the exaggerated re-countings and the embellishments. I looked into each face of the people I loved- lit by firelight and Dewars, and I felt very lucky that Brett and I had souls in our lives that hovered around us- no matter what. I slept soundly that night, my belly full and warm with the love poured into me. That alone is a memory I can take away from this last year- a memory that will last a lifetime.

But the good-bye's continued.

The most significant good-bye was a good-bye given by a very unlikely person: the owner of my local deli. I go in about once, (ok, 3,) times a week for sandwiches and wine. That's usually it. And rice krispy treats. AND WINE. I went in the other day and he immediately started in on me because he hadn't seen me in two days.


(in a thick Italian accent:) "Mrs.! Where have you been?! We were a-worried you died in a gang war!"

(Me. Not in a thick Italian accent, although after 5 minutes with them I start to mimic their accent because I am obnoxious and cannot help myself.) "I am a-live! I'm moving though. So, who else is going to put your kids through college with the sandwich and wine purchases? HA! Sorry. Not funny. I'm sure your kids can put themselves through college. Ignore me. I'm immensely white."

(them. Flawlessly Italian.) "You crazy, lady."

(me. Flawlessly white.) "Ah. Yep."

a little more banter like this finally revealed that I was moving to Ohio AND I KID YOU NOT the entire deli stopped what they were doing and gasped. LIKE, STOPPED MOVING. And the guy behind me in line shuffled his feet, looked down, and murmured, "Well, shit lady. Sucks to be you."

WELL, THANKS GUYS.

The thing is? No. It doesn't suck to be me. Is Ohio the mecca of artistic and cultural and foodie delights? Maybe not, but they do have drive through liquor stores. AND YOU KNOW WHAT ELSE THEY HAVE?

My family.

So, I guess this experiment paid off in a way. Yes, long nights of scotch and conversation and craziness are welcome, but they do not define me. You know what defines me? I'm a wife. I am a sister, an Aunt...I am a daughter and mother to my fat goldfish...I want long nights of reading books to my nephews, dancing in the living-room with my mother and my siblings. I want to finally sit down to dinner with my husband, listen to my brother talk about art...even when he has smoked pot, and love on him. I want to help plan my baby sister's wedding, and hold her in my arms because she has been fighting Cystic Fibrosis her whole life and every milestone is a significant and glorious one.

And I want to tip toe in to the rooms of the ones I love...and kiss them on their salty, summer-kissed foreheads...and thank God I was allowed to be in their lives.

So, this experiment has paid off, don't you think?

I'm ending this chapter...but starting a new one.

Stay tuned.

WIFE EXPERIMENT 2.0...Because, honestly. We are never, ever done with this experiment called life.

Tats, Melville, Beer, and Life. And B.D. Wong. Always B.D. Wong.

A fellow English major friend and I were catching up one day, sitting in the gorgeous California sun and stretching our cramped-from-living-in-a-sitting-position-for-all-time legs, and she made a comment that sort of caught me off guard.

"I wish I could be more like you." She said wistfully. "I mean, have you even seen the inside of the library here? You don't really care about your grades...and I wish I could be like that."

HOLD UP.

Ok, let's be real. It is no secret that I love a good party and don't shape my life around my school schedule. I am almost 30 years old. I understand at this point that pounding 4 red bulls and pacing around a library reciting Poe the night before a final is not going to help anything, and it is certainly not a measure of your intelligence. Yes, I party. Yes, I always have beer and a wheel of cheese in my fridge in case someone happens to stop by or I need a good breakfast. (Joking. I only do that around finals.) But, I read too. I study. I avoid libraries for a reason. I am a total, unapologetic, helpless people watcher and there is no better location ON EARTH to people watch than a college library. (Well, the Oakland DMV has a wealth of material, but I try to reserve that for a special treat.) I can spend a good 7 hours in a library and I will only have a paragraph of work written...and it is usually garbled nonsense because I can't tear my eyes away from the man in the corner methodically eating the pages of a book as he watches 'Rainbow Bright' on Netflix.

That all being said, her comment still bothered me. And made me question if I was a true student.

And then I took my last English final EVER today.

The night before the final we were required to write a lengthy self assessment that was meant to illustrate how we felt we had grown as readers and writers over the course. Normally, I find this sort of thing mundane and unnecessary. Can't you see how I have grown, Mr. Professor man? I write stuff and you read it and I don't fail! I sit in the front of class! I'm hardly ever on facebook during the lecture! I'm only on there when you turn around. A+, thank you, good-bye. However, this time the assessment felt a little more...holy. It was my last one ever. Before my last English final ever. I started school 6 years ago (no judgements,) as a wide-eyed and terrified beginner. And now I am leaving it with slightly squinted eyes and still...(aren't we all?) a beginner.

As I started typing, one thing kept threading its way through my mind. Our professor always told us to be "open to the nature of our own experience." When he first said that, his back was to me so I was on facebook, but when he said it again...it stuck. I didn't really know what it meant for me, but I relished the way it rolled around on my tongue like a delicious tab of ecstasy. (Just kidding Mom. I have no idea 1. what ecstasy truly is, or 2. if it even comes in tab form. I just like the shock value of knowing you will read this.)

Anyway-

As I wrote my last assessment I realized I had grown over the semester. Maybe my papers didn't get to publish-this-next-great-American-novel type of quality, maybe I only went into the library to use the (cleanest) bathroom on campus, and maybe my GPA was in the 3 range and not the 4. But, it was my experience. It was completely and utterly my own experience and I lived every single second of it, no matter how many times I stumbled along the way.

As this year comes to a close, I can't help but think about the experience as a whole, and as a journey. I took my last final at 11:30 am today. I sat in the sun, and tipped my head back to let Berkeley sink it's last rays of light into my body. And when I opened my eyes, a friend was standing there ready to chat about the final, laugh over how Melville is such a downer and show me proudly his B.D Wong from SVU tattoo. (He literally got a tat of B.D Wong on his arm. Like, the guy. His face. From SVU.)

When I asked him about it, he looked down and smiled. "Every time I look at it, I'll remember college." He said. "Because I spent a lot of time drinking in my apartment and watching SVU."

Now, this guy is brilliant. Truly, earth movingly, brilliant. As a peer, he challenges me and makes me proud to be a fellow student at Berkeley. So, when he showed me the tattoo of an Asian man emblazoned on his bicep, by initial reaction was to be horrified.

And then I stopped.

That was his experience. Or, part of it , anyway. (I really have to watch that show.) WHAT MATTERS MOST is that he was open to the nature of his own experience. So open, in fact, it stays with him forever.

But my experience will stay with me forever too. And I am proud of the student I was, and the student of life I will be.

Put that in your tattoo gun and smoke it.

Oh Berkeley...you have my heart. And most of my life savings.

I'm sitting here in my dining room (or, living room/ bedroom/ kitchen/ rumpus room,) I'm wearing someone else's shirt, (that happens far too often, and it is a girl's shirt, so calm down Mom,) drinking a glass of writing juice, (coffee. JUST KIDDING. WINE.) and realizing:

Holy crap. I'm almost graduating.

The time is almost here. I almost have that diploma I have been steadily working for the last 5 years of my life. I walk in May, officially graduate the first week of August...

and then I'm done.

This all is done.

And I won't be in Berkeley anymore.

I started this process closing myself up in this tiny apartment when Brett left, feeling completely lost and confused and so, so scared of being on my own. If you have been with me on this whole journey through the blog, you remember that 2 hours after Brett pulled away I was: 1. Bleeding, 2. Drunk, and 3. Had broken 4 things in my apartment. One was a glass door that almost crushed my mother-in-law. Now, that would have been awkward.

And here I am. In someone else's clothes, yes, but still me- and yet...a really different "me" that I am pretty jazzed about.

Looking back on previous posts I can trace my growth, (and, ok, increased partying,) post by post. At times I was laughing over my own words. And then extremely embarrassed that I was laughing at my own stuff. There were times I cringed, times I read between the lines and knew what I had omitted, and times I read and thought I probably should have just gone to bed and not blasted my sloppy ill-formed opinions all over the internets.

And there were so many other times where I realized that Berkeley started out as the enemy...and quickly became a close friend.

I live in a city where I have seen, one more than one occasion, a man defecating on the sidewalk. I've also seen more naked people than I would care to admit, and ALL DURING NORMAL BUSINESS HOURS IN PUBLIC. There is a man that sits at the front of campus and has called me both a "Dirty Native American Whore," and a "Filthy Nazi." I always smile at him and say things like, "Hey now...I'm only 1/3 Native American," and I think I'm growing on him.

Or maybe not, because he tried to throw a soda cup full of pee at me last week.

However, that all being said, Berkeley is a place where I fell back in love with theater, made countless friends, and had countless wine and cheese gatherings. I met people that could sit with me on my tiny balcony and drink scotch until 4am while discussing Emily Dickinson's sex life. I sat in Berkeley's gorgeous libraries and luxuriated in the feel of smooth, worn bookcases holding a world of information under my fingertips. I picnicked in the grass, overlooking sweeping views of the bay. I fell in love with this place.

And I think it fell in love with me, because I acquired a real, live stalker- but that is another story.

I have to admit I am going to miss this place. It is, essentially, the place that I grew up. And not in a "I'm-an-adult-now-and-I-only-eat-food-that-has-color-and-I-watch-PBS-way" but in a "hey-I'm-kind-of-a-good-person-and-I-like-hanging-out-in-my-own-skin-but-not-in-a-creepy-Silence of the Lambs-kind-of-way."

Which is progress.

So, hey Berkeley...you sexy, sometimes shockingly inappropriate lady: Thank you. Thanks for not always being gentle on me, for pulling me out of my shell forcefully with those elegant and tan California fingers...and for showing me that I'm not so bad after all. And that I am capable. And I am going to be alright.

And by the way: I love you.

But you need to be a little cleaner. People poop on you.

Fish Mommy

(image from www.babychatter.com)

Everyone in my life is pregnant right now.

I'm not joking. Everyone. In my life. Is pregnant. If you send me a message saying, "Oh hey Melissa. I'm in your life! I'm your mom- remember me? I'm not pregnant!" I will ignore you.

So just go with the fact that EVERYONE IN MY LIFE IS PREGNANT.

This has had an alarming affect on me. I waffle between deep despair as I realize Brett and I are nowhere near procreation and ridiculous, incredible relief that I am still "free." Wine tasting on a Tuesday? YES. I have no baby! Plans to try out every local restaurant's calamari appetizer and then compare them? Weird, but YES. I'M GAME. NOTHING LIVES IN MY STOMACH OR IN MY HOME.

Which is not true. I have a fish.

Let's get to him.

Brett is home for the week, and after he landed he eagerly asked to see our "pet,"- our 3 year old goldfish Caper. Caper is about 7,000 pounds and lives in a TANK by himself. Not a bowl. A tank. With a freakin' filter system. By himself. Needless to say, Caper can sometimes be a handful. His tank gets extremely dirty really easily. He eats 2 times a day- on a schedule. I can go maybe 12 hours without feeding him, but he will act out if that happens by hurling his hefty frame repeatedly against the glass the second he sees me come home. He is most likely brain damaged, because this has happened several times. He also has taken to "Free Willy"-esque suicide leapings from the water, and every single time I see him do it I wonder how much longer until he just hurls himself to the floor for dramatic effect. He is my baby, though. The one sole thing I can attach whatever motherly feelings I have to. So, when Brett saw Caper for the first time in 3 months and commented on his dirty tank and fat body, I bristled.

"Are you trying to say I am a bad fish mommy?" I asked him through clenched teeth. Brett, to his credit, recognizes a war zone when he sees one, so blessedly tried to back-pedal.

"No. All I am saying is that I think, but I could be wrong, but I think...that you are maybe over-feeding him? And you need to be more diligent about cleaning the tank?"

"I can't BELIEVE YOU ARE SAYING THAT!" I exploded. "You have NO IDEA how hard it is for me to take care of him ALL BY MYSELF! I have to do this ALL BY MYSELF! How dare you question anything?!"

"Melissa. We are talking about a fish."

"How do I know you don't think I'm not ready to be a mother?! You think I am going to be a bad mother!"

(Yeah. We got there. I don't know how. OH, WAIT YES I DO. Because I am insane.)

The rest of the day was spent with Brett trying to soothe my hurt feelings even though he was completely bewildered himself. In retrospect, I wasn't exactly proud of the way I handled that non-situation, but I redeemed myself by allowing Brett to clean the tank without attending a support group or anything. I guess the whole thing just touched on a deep fear that I have that maybe I am one of those people that wouldn't be a good mother. Let's face it- I know my way around a karaoke bar, I won't say no to a glass of wine in the afternoon, and I can't ever support my baby nephew's head properly. He ends up flopped and folded over my arms like some crumpled version of discount-store baby doll. It's something I really, really want to have in my life, and something I am really, really afraid I won't ever be able to do.

The friend that passed away was my beautiful cousin Sara. She was 30, gorgeous, funny, kind, and totally way more fun than I ever was. We would spend hours drinking champagne in the kitchen during family events, having drunken and hilarious conversations about how we would never have children. At one of these events, the tone was more somber. My doctor had just found some growths on my cervix, I was facing surgery, and suddenly the realization that I actually could face not having children was uncomfortably real. Sara led me to the garage for privacy, champagne clutched in her hand, and made a big announcement. "I decided," she said grandly, "to carry a baby for you. I will even stop drinking wine for 9 months." She did a little bow then, and I will never forget how I felt standing in that garage- just gifted with something that felt even more beautiful than a new human life. It was an ultimate gift of love- of incredible, selfless love- and it moved me more than words can say.

Sara is gone now, and I have a (blessedly) healthy cervix, and I have the ability to have a family someday...something that was taken away from her far too soon. So, it doesn't matter that I can barely take care of a goldfish. It doesn't matter that my mothering skills are flawed and often robotic and not fully formed. It doesn't matter that maybe I won't be "the perfect" mom. I will embarrass my kids. I will sing too loudly, I will probably feed them too many sweets, I will let them stay home from school once and awhile to help me paint a mural in our living room on a whim.

And hopefully my husband will come home, see his little family covered in paint and cookie crumbs, his flawed but (hopefully beautiful) wife laughing and living and not exactly worried about how dirty the fish tank is.

I think that sounds like a good mom.

Maybe I'm (almost) ready after all.

Let's try this again...

(And life. Life rules.)

2 months later and here I am.

I BET YOU ARE EXCITED.

This blog was something I took on with the idea that I would continue to document this very-weird-often-messy-always-chaotic-sometimes-lovely time in my life. I told myself I wouldn't tuck away when things got hard or when the real world loomed too large. I would valiantly continue to write through every misstep, every difficult moment, every awkward night where I ate an entire box of macaroni and cheese alone while watching "Hoarders".

And then I didn't.

A close friend of my family died tragically and suddenly, and then it seemed like writing in the dark about my marriage and boo-hooing over not getting to see him every day was incredibly selfish and pointless. I entered a writing rut that bled into the actual writing I had to do for school. When I turned in a paper that had the following statement: "Helen Keller was blind. And that was bad. Being blind is hard." I knew I needed an intervention.

As life moved on, however haltingly, I started hearing from friends about this project I had tossed aside. Encouragements about blogging again poured in, but I felt like I simply couldn't. Nights were spent sitting with family in the weeks after our friend's death, drinking scotch until the early hours and leaning on each other for support. We would laugh once and awhile, but nothing was funny. My world pulled tightly around the loved ones in my life and my focus shifted inward. Was I really making use of the gift of my existence? It wasn't about if I was spending this year growing and learning and laughing my way through the stumbles. I needed to spend my life doing that.

It then became incredibly clear that the blog was not selfish, it was important. It was an intrinsic part of my world because it reminded me that I had to live. My situation may not be ideal, but I am alive. I had to learn how to laugh again. I had to learn how to embrace my bumps along the road and try and find the humor in them. Maybe blogging every day about being depressed, being happy, feeling insane, feeling sexy, feeling like I need to stop eating things covered in cheese dust was frivolous- but it is my experience on this planet that is not going to be wasted.

After this blog post, I will go back to the normal stuff. The funny bits, if you will. This week you will get a blog post from me that is probably awkward, mostly obnoxious, and hopefully a reminder that we are all lucky and loved and pulsing with life.

So, I'm back.

And hopefully better than ever.