The Day I Stopped Caring What People Think. Because People That Love You Will Support Your Life Choices As Long As They Don't Involve Cocaine. (Or: The Day I Adopted Sedaris.)

I mean...how could you NOT take him home?

It might come as a surprise to some people, but a large part of the past 7 years of my life were made up of rules. While I was still a carefree individual, happy to go with my heart on a few things, the bones of my existence were rigid ideas of Right and Wrong. What I Should Do and What I Shouldn't Do. Black and White. Yes and No. There was little room for "maybes", "why nots" and delicious spontaneity. I had a very specific 5 year plan. And I clung desperately to it, blinders firmly blocking out anything but what was in front of me.

But, the blinders were ripped off. The 5 year plan crumbled. And that's how I found myself sitting on the floor of my Mom's kitchen, holding a puppy I had newly adopted in my lap as I bitterly cried and wondered oh my God what did I just do.

...........

The day before I had first seen the puppy in an unexpected trip to buy cucumbers. (Because that happens to normal people all the time.) I saw him. I held him. I found myself asking when he would be ready to go home with me. My Mom stood next to me, and when I was presented with paperwork she started awkwardly giggling. "Uh...Mel..." she sang, trying to gently pry the puppy out of my hands. "You're moving...you're going through a lot right now...are you sure about this, sweetheart?"

I looked down into his little face. And his little paws desperately trying to climb into my shirt to be smuggled back with me to my sad little weird life. And I knew I was sure- but I did the rational thing.  I took a million pictures of him on my phone, stuck them on Instagram, and said that I would sleep on it.

I did this because it wasn't "right." It wasn't something "I should do." I was in the middle of a major life change, I was moving alone across the country, and as timing goes- this specific time to go home with a puppy sucked. A puppy was something you adopted with your husband. One year before you tried for a family. One year after you moved into your first house. 5 years after you got married. These were very real ideas I had about life, and I couldn't shake them.

What the hell was I doing in Ohio...alone...trying to go home with a puppy?

I wrestled with these ideas all night, trying to break down the limiting boundaries I had put on my life, and just as I was about to fall asleep my Mom came into my room and sat at the foot of my bed.

"I think you would be really, really good for that dog. And I think he would be really, really good for you. And tomorrow I'm taking you back to him, and you're going to take him home." 

When I tried to argue she just shook her head sadly. "No- Melissa...I was wrong to doubt you. You've been doubted so much. There is no perfect time to do things in life. So, why not make the perfect time now?"

So the next day we picked him up. After I spent about 32749832749 dollars on new things for him. And as soon as we came home, and he sat in my lap and looked up at me...I started crying.

The weight of this decision- my first decision made alone in a long time- really weighed on me. My Mom found me crying into a pot holder and immediately freaked out. "Oh my God...did he bite you?!"

"No." I wailed. "Well, yes. A lot...but...what did I do?! Everyone is going to think I'm crazy. Everyone is going to think this was a bad, uneducated choice! Everyone is going to think I'm impulsive, and destructive, and making wrong choices! Everyone is going to be so upset with me."

"Who's "everyone"? She asked.

"Everyone." I weakly returned.

And then she said the equivalent to: "Fuck them" but my Mom doesn't really use that word, so it could have been some weird made-up swear because that's what she does. But, she did it emphatically. She emphatically fake-swear-reminded me that this was my life and it was up to me to fill it with the beautiful things I wanted to fill it with. And maybe even the beautiful mistakes I wanted to fill it with. And whatever the hell else I wanted to fill it with.

And then she wiped my eyes on the pot holder. And I blew my nose in to it, because I'm gross. And then I took my new little part of my life out for a walk.

It was the first time he had ever seen grass. As he stood, quivering at the edge of the sidewalk, pacing excitedly back and forth...he looked up at me, as if asking for permission to step into the green unknown. I smiled and nudged him forward.

"Jump in, little one." I said.

And he stepped back.

Readied himself.

And leaped forward.

I Support You. And Your Oil Habit.

I was sitting in a living room with a bunch of my Mom's friends, watching her nervously stack her notes against her thigh while I nervously stacked cheese into my mouth. We were at an event she was hosting- for a product my Mom had suddenly and passionately attached herself to and wanted to sell. She had discovered the healing benefits of essential oils, and now her house smelled like a Catholic church and she had this new job. I questioned this new endeavor of hers, and was not at all on the slippery oil bandwagon. In fact, I sort of teased her about it mercilessly, even right up until she had dragged me to this party for support where I supported myself with dairy products. She caught my eye mid-cramming-my-mouth and walked over, clutching a machine that looked like a robot hand.

"For God sake put the cheese down and let me read your imbalances."

"My what?"

"Your imbalances. It will tell you what your system is lacking, and then we can find the right oils to balance you."

"I bet Melissa's system isn't lacking wine." My 19 year old sister chirped next to me, as I fixed her with a glare. "I saw you have a glass before we came here, even though Mom said it would throw your balance off." She whispered.

"You never go to a tupperware party, an oil party, or any party that sells glass swan figurines without a glass of wine." I hissed. "Life lesson. Tuck it away."

Mom sighed loudly while attaching the robot hand to me, hooking it to a computer that immediately whirred to life. I admit I sat transfixed as it clicked and sorted colorful looking charts that were apparently reading my cheesy, wine rich sweat. A few minutes later it slowed considerably, before shooting a number across the screen. We all leaned forward to read the verdict...which basically said something along the lines that I was dying, a disappointment as a daughter, and should be covered in oils constantly.

Of course. 

"You need balance in your life, Melissa."

I needed more cheese.

..........
The rest of the party had us sitting in a circle, passing oils around and rubbing it into our temples, the bottoms of our feet, and underneath our tongues. I felt like I was at a massage party gone wrong, and when they passed the lavender oil (for sleep) I accidentally dropped the contents of the entire bottle into my crotch. So, there I sat, with the room getting hotter,  and my warm little body became a natural diffuser. Essentially my vagina began putting me to sleep. My head lolled back on the couch as I struggled to stay awake, and my Mom's face was victorious. "See?! NATURAL. OILS. It works! You're tired!"

"I also smell like a prostitute from the Biblical times." I sleepily answered.

"I wish you wouldn't joke about this. I care about this. Can you try a little?"

It was a weak moment for me. I was drugged out on lavender, I was lubed up like a body wrestler, and I very much wanted to be away from the nonsense that was this party. "Listen Mom- good for you, ok? But, I'm going to go home. This is all...too crazy for me."

I wanted to take it back as soon as I said it, but her face fell as she nodded. "You're right. Ok. Go home. See you later?"

As I drove back home I couldn't stop seeing her face- once so hopeful and then immediately crushed. And I thought oils were crazy? I lived in Berkeley and had pee thrown on me my first day of school! Why couldn't I support her in this one thing when she supported me throughout my whole life?

I was, essentially, an oily douche.

........

The next morning over coffee, my oily faux pas forgotten, my Mom and I sat on the couch- mapping out my suddenly wide open and terrifyingly empty future. I threw out crazy ideas for the next year: travel more alone, change career paths, maybe revive that once old dream to start a children's theatre. With each idea my Mom nodded and smiled, encouraged and drew up plans. And as I sat cuddled up with her, feeling so supported and buoyed by her love- I realized something.

This was the same woman that LOVED my childhood dream of me being a whale trainer-when I was afraid of swimming. The same woman that published my first poem- which was about a bird that talked to God and then fell out of a tree. This is the woman who high fived me when I told her I wasn't going to college right after high school, but was going to "become a famous actress." Like that's an actual job title or something. She literally stood by and let me do stupid shit all the time because I declared them dreams. 

And I couldn't accept her robot hands and vials of oil.

We can't just let people stand in the wings of our life and cheer us on, only to duck out of the theater when the spotlight swings their way. We have to encourage, we have to rub oil all over ourselves and drink wine after, not before. We have to sometimes support our parent's crazy ideas- even when we think they would be better suited to...oh, I don't know...moving in with us and making us food all day.

Which is why I stood up, rubbed my stomach, and looked at my Mom with a crease of concern. "I've been having stomach problems all day. You wouldn't...happen to have an oil? That could help?"

She smiled at me, understanding my olive (oil) branch I was extending her way, and jumped to her feet.

"I do, actually. And since you're now interested...let's try a few oils! What else is wrong with you?"

"Everything." I answered. And held out my wrists to be anointed.

So Today I was Totally Selfish and Stupid but God and Ricky Martin Helped.

This girl. I fight for this girl.

This afternoon Brett found me holed up in the bedroom with a stack of New Yorkers, the air conditioner on full blast, and still wearing my green snowflake pajamas from winter with a hole in the crotch.

"Oh my God. Are you sick?"

"Probably." I whined, before pulling the duvet over my head and slinking deeper down into my little cave of disgustingness. "You should go. There's a hole in the crotch of my pajama pants."

"That doesn't really mean anything...but..." he pulled the covers off my head and attempted a look of genuine concern through what I think was him biting back a laugh. "You want lunch? It...is 2pm."

"I can't possibly think about food right now." I snapped. "My life is ending and for some reason all of my pajama pants are going with it. THIS IS THE THIRD PAIR IN A WEEK."

"Maybe you should wear other pants besides...pajama pants?" (this was said in a half whisper because the look I fixed him with most likely made him question everything from his existence to his short marriage to me.) "Just kidding." He recovered, "I LOVE polar bears and snowflakes."

For some reason this made me cry, and as I choked out an apology and laid my head back in my nest of pillows I struggled to say something more. I struggled to explain to him that my lingering sadness was selfish and unfair and he was being patient and everything a best friend should be. Instead, I wiped my eyes roughly and whispered: "I think I need some queso and a margarita."

"Done. Even though queso is gross. But, maybe after you go for a run? And...shower?" He answered, already pulling me into a sitting position. SO, an agreement was reached and I found myself at the gym 20 minutes later, climbing onto the treadmill and  reluctantly stretching my legs through my first mile. By the second mile I started to get into my groove and relax a bit. Going into my third, I got a sharp pain in my lungs and had to stop- surprised at the searing grip on my chest and also feeling super embarrassed because a hot girl next to me was on mile 6. (I was looking at her screen. Obviously.) I slowed to a walk and started blinking back tears.

Because I remembered something.

A few years ago I attended the funeral of the mother of one of my youth group girls. The mother was flawlessly elegant, sporty, young, vivacious. She was taken by cancer and way too soon. And, as I sat in the church that day, my hand coldly nestled in Brett's, my heart breaking for the little girl in the front row that just lost her mom, the pastor said something that I'll never forget. I guess before she knew she had cancer, she was swimming in Lake Tahoe and suddenly had a sharp pain in her side. Instead of giving up in the middle of the lake, flailing her arms for help or to quit, she simply- (and I quote) "swam on the other side. The one that didn't hurt."

Now, I don't think I have cancer- and that is not the point of this. I think I haven't really run in a few weeks and maybe have been eating too much queso. Why this story resonated with me was because at the very moment I was in bed being a douche bag with a hole in my pajama pants my little sister, with Cystic Fibrosis, was actually going in for lung surgery.

I was sitting there and moaning about my life while she fought for hers.

I begrudgingly went for a run she can never take.

And I do believe God smacked me in the lungs and was like: "What's up, asshole? Who do you think you are?!"

Or something like that.

The story of the mom reminded me that we can't just let life cramp us up and bring us down. While she did eventually slip peacefully away, she sure as hell didn't go without a fight. And Kayla, my sister, was fighting miles away. Fighting for every breath and every moment while I sat down and decidedly did not fight. I whined and hid my healthy body under a healthy duvet in my healthy-ish home.

I stepped off the treadmill to catch my breath. And wipe my brow.

And then I put on some Ricky-Fucking-Martin (my go to running jams, sorry,) and climbed back up. And I ran for Kayla. And I ran for the mom. And I ran for me.


And then I ate queso. I'm sorry. It's QUESO. 

Don't turn out like me. But, if you turn out a little like me, that's ok.

Trust Me

I was distracted yesterday by all of the facebook posts about National Sibling Day. I scrolled through endless declarations of love, pictures of siblings with their arms draped around eachother's necks, and playful inside jokes peppered throughout my news feed. It made me think of my own 6 (!) siblings and how much I love them. And hate them sometimes. I will do, and have done anything for them. They are my Achilles heel. They are my weak spot. I have driven through the night to help soothe a break up. I've seen my sister's vagina pop out when she gave birth. I've told on my brother when he painted weed paraphernalia all over my mother's attic. I held my sister's hand after a heart transplant, and then brought her junk food the next day. I've changed their diapers, celebrated their successes, shut them in the dryer when we were fighting, and locked them out of the house in a  thunderstorm. They are the only people on the planet that undo me at the same time they make me whole.

I'd kill a bitch for them.

Being the oldest, I feel like I'm constantly wanting to protect them and have them learn from the (very, very many) life mistakes I've packed in over the past 30 years. I know I can't though. I have to sit back and let them get their belly buttons pierced and go on dates with "really, really nice, I swear!" guys that wear Ed Hardy t-shirts AND I CAN'T SAY ANYTHING. However, some mistakes are meant to be made by the oldest so the ones that follow don't have to go through the consequences of them. Which is why I drafted up this list- a love letter of sorts to the younger generation- of Things You Should And Should Not Do Because I Did Them And That's Enough.

Enjoy, my darlings. I messed up/learned a bunch just for you.

Don't trust wild animals that are not afraid of you.
In no particular order I have had: a tarantula follow me aggressively before blocking my path- leaving me stranded on a random hill for an hour, a squirrel try to walk off with my water bottle. (It literally pulled backwards with two little paws until it gave up and tried to climb my leg for it,) and a treed baby bear that was all: "Hey!" and I was like, "Hey! Cute!" and then Brett was all : "IF YOU SEE A TREED BABY BEAR YOU RUN BECAUSE THE MOM IS CLOSE AND WILL EAT YOU."

So, love nature. Just be suspicious of it.

Be nice to the homeless man that says "Good Morning" to you every day, but not to the one that jumps into your face and calls you a "stupid Native American slut."
Surprisingly, the latter cannot be reasoned with. And will throw a soda bottle filled with pee at you.

Carry pepper spray. But test it out before you try to use it. Make sure that when you do use it however, it is not in a windy alley and aimed at your landlord.
I don't think this needs much more of an explanation.

Avoid Captain Morgan at ALL costs.
You will vomit. You will vomit like your stomach is getting turned inside out and your body hates you and is on a singular mission to rid you of all necessary organs. You will probably vomit on wooden floorboards that have tiny cracks that will retain that vomit for years to come. You will embarrass yourself, cry along to the song "Everybody Hurts" on repeat, and then fall asleep in vomit and cold fried chicken. You will be 19 and turned off from alcohol until your 21st birthday...

wait. Maybe that's a good thing- Captain Morgan is awesome. Drink a whole bottle now.

Always splurge on underwear, wine, and good shoes.
Not all together in one purchase, because people will think you are a high end call girl/guy.

Learn how to play an instrument.
Or, just learn a few chords on the guitar and then tell everyone you meet you play. Just don't tell anyone at a bonfire because there sure as hell will be a guitar there...it's like a necessity or something- and then you'll have to awkwardly explain that your fingers hurt to not be found out for your lie.

Don't Lie.
Well, you can lie sometimes. For instance: telling people you are a writer at the show "30 Rock" is a funny lie. Telling someone you love them when you don't: Not so good. Lie carefully and always for creative effect.

Always love your sister Melissa because she was a writer on 30 Rock and can probably buy you a lot of stuff.
Just kidding. But know that I made these mistakes for you. And I cherish the day that you all were born. And I'm so lucky you are in my life.

That's totally not a lie.

Once more for Equality. With Feeling.

1 Corinthians 13:4-8 Love is patient and kind; love does not envy or boast; it is not arrogant or rude. It does not insist on its own way; it is not irritable or resentful; it does not rejoice at wrongdoing, but rejoices with the truth. Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. Love never ends.

I grew up in a small town in an even smaller house and went to the tiniest high school you can imagine.  (I'm not joking. I'm friends on Facebook with my entire graduating class. There are about 6 1/2 of us.)
My town had the quintessential makings of small-towness. We had a general store where I would buy chocolate milk on the way to school. We had a penny candy store on the river that was run by the town's beloved Sarge and his son who was, in fact, a pedophile that lived in the back room. I spent many happy afternoons walking along the beach before stopping into Sarge's and picking out 100 stale penny candies that I paid for with a crumbled dollar bill I kept shoved into my sneaker. I rode my bike past boy's houses on the lake. I acted out shows in my backyard with friend. I tested out the electric fence that kept in the horses across the road, sacrificing a bird to see if it was on. (Sorry, PETA.) My fingers were almost always stained with blackberries, my shoulders always sunburned, and I lived a sheltered and idyllic life.

And then I met Justin when I went to high school.

Justin was friendly and fun, a spark-plug who sometimes wore eyeliner to school to match his cape. I was desperately in love and thrilled with the fact that my Mom let me go out with him alone for "dates." She would stand in the kitchen as Justin and I rehashed all the gossip from school that day and raise her eyebrows when I asked if we could go to Friendly's for a soda. "Sure." She would carefully reply, as I wondered why she didn't seem to care that I was going out with a boy. "Just- have fun. Lock the door when you come in."

"What if we're super late?" I'd press, and she'd shake her head, confused, as she patted meatloaf into a pan.

"I'm sure you won't be."

She was right of course, Justin was gay and I had no idea at the time. I had no idea because my town didn't exactly have a community where gay people felt free enough to be themselves. Justin grew up in the same small town and disappeared after a breakdown his junior year. It took me years to realize that he was broken down by the community, by a family that couldn't accept him, and he faded away into the folds of society while we ignorantly (and not so ignorantly) stood and watched.

It still haunts me to this day.

I moved away to Berkeley, California, and quickly was swept up into an environment and culture that was so accepting of everyone all the time. It wasn't even about the gay community. All sexual orientations, all religions, all shades, all walks of life- in Berkeley you were loved AND hated, accepted AND spit on equally. It was nirvana. It was the place that I could walk through campus with a police officer, chatting about the safety lecture I had just attended, and as we were caught in a cloud of pot smoke from a barefoot grad student 2 feet in front of us, the officer gently moved me to the side. "Oh, let's get down wind from this guy, unless you have potato chips in your bag." It was a place that accepted the green-haired angry conservative man that came to rant about the war every day in the main quad. I'd watch bleeding liberals leave him wrapped sandwiches and cups of coffee as he marched around, screaming his argument out on forgiving ears. It was a place that I could hang out with my guy friend Andrew and no one stopped to ask if we were a couple? Was he gay? Was he straight? Because no one cared.

In Berkeley I felt reborn, I felt renewed, and I felt like my Christian faith actually came into play in this city more so than in the small, white, "straight" town that I grew up in. The whole point of Christ's message was to "Love One Another"...and I was getting to see it put into action every day.

My conservative family was harder to convince about this message, and there were many family gatherings that ended in tears and me sloppily trying to illustrate how twisted it was that we were not a "Christian" community that embraced everyone. I have to admit, as an alley to the LGBT community, I did a bad job in my support. I picked fights. I got angry and hurled insults. I did, essentially, the very thing that goes against the message of love. It took me years and quiet, intelligent conversations to finally feel like my voice had been heard. And with my voice the voice of millions. And then today something amazing happened.

My conservative sister offered up her voice in the support of equality. She posted a banner on her Facebook page- on This Very Important Day- that simply said that she was for marriage equality for all.

I immediately commented: "Really?! I am so proud!"

To which she responded: "God, Melissa. I have a gay friend you know. I even have a black one."
....

It's a small step, but a giant one at the same time. And all we need to do is keep stepping one foot in front of the other...one giant step or small step at a time...until we reach the goal.

Together.

Growing Pains. (Without crazy Kirk Cameron.)

I'm going to sleep in a cocoon of this after drinking it with vodka all night. Ageless!

“Look at how much we’ve aged.” Brett said to me the other day as we were going through an old box of photographs.

“I’m sorry. What did you say?”

“Aged.” Brett repeated, blinking at me, completely unaware of his major faux pas. “Like- we both look really old compared to when we started dating? We’ve aged? Physically?”

“Stop. Just…stop.” I said, holding up my hand while I closed my eyes.

“Why are you being weird? Look at this picture. Look- you’re so young!” He tossed me a snapshot of me at 22, sitting on the couch in our first apartment. All tan limbs and wet hair from a shower, smiling an unlined and hopeful smile. I snatched the photo and held it up to my angry face.

“Are you trying to tell me…that I look older than I do in this picture? Are you trying to tell me that I have aged? Do you want a minute to think about this before you answer? ARE YOU SAYING THAT I AM AGING?”

Brett sat back and seemed to finally feel the gravity of the situation. He thoughtfully pulled a hand through his hair while he regarded me warily. Finally, a look of recognition and understanding swept over him, and his features relaxed as he smiled at me sympathetically.

“Well, yeah.” He cooed. “But, don’t worry. We all are.”

(sigh.)

I hate to be the 29-year-old woman that talks about aging, but I’m going to be the 29 year old who talks about aging, so get over it. Don’t screech at me about, “SHUT UP I’M SO MUCH OLDER THAN YOU I HATE YOU FOREVER YOU ARE NEVER ENTITLED TO YOUR OWN VAIN FEELINGS!” because: you get it, right? You’ve been there before. We all should be allowed to have these vain and selfish freak-outs about aging. (Unless you are 17, and then you aren’t allowed to complain about anything.) So, I am the 29-year-old woman complaining, and I’m going to start with a story about my boobs.

We all have parts of our bodies that we are secretly stoked about. We’d never admit it, of course, because that’s bad, but we all have areas we love and then areas we spanx into submission.

I love my boobs. (sorry Mom and Dad. I mean? Thank you I guess? No. Gross. Ok- moving on.)

The other day though, as I was getting into the shower, I caught my reflection in the mirror and froze. Had my boobs…had my boobs moved?

I frantically stood front and center and lifted my hands above my head. My mind silently mocked me as my chest rose. “This is you at 19” It said. And as my arms came down it snickered. “Aaaand 29.” I flapped my arms up and down maniacally, trying to measure the slight distance that had naturally happened over a decade. If I’m being honest, it wasn’t terribly noticeable, but when you live in and hang out in your own body all of the time YOU NOTICE THINGS.

And then I noticed other things.

Like the extra line on my forehead. The extra crease around my mouth. The odd freckle or dark under eye bag that had previously escaped my scrutinizing glare.

And then I did the only rational and healthy thing.

I cried.

Brett was home at the time and worriedly knocked on the bathroom door. “Are you ok? Um- do you…need something?”

In between choked sobs I told him I was fine. “But…my boobs!” I gasped tearfully. “My boobs…moved. They moved.”

He waited a beat before nervously clearing his throat and asking:

….”Moved…where?”

This was enough to break my vain-weirdo-spell and dissolve into giggles. I was having a conversation through a closed door about my boobs’ migration- as if they had decided the north was too much and they were looking into some beachfront property in Boca Raton. It was all too much. I was too much. This was hardly something to waste tears over, let alone good shower time. I literally pulled myself up off the floor and stepped under the hot stream of water where I forced myself to really look at my body.

I had:

Strong legs that recently carried me up a mountain IN THE SNOW. WTF. SNOW IS COLD.

Arms that were slightly toned from a lifetime of talking with my hands.

Boobs…wherever they wanted to be.

And, a stomach threaded with a scar that snaked towards my belly button -a physical reminder of a bad surgery in high school that made me lose 40 pounds and suddenly got boys to notice me.

Not all bad.

In all seriousness, it was the most frank interaction I have ever had with my body. It was like we were having a conversation that started out tearful and psycho-girlfriend-angry, but ended in acceptance and forgiveness and maybe a sandwich. This body is the only relationship I will have my entire life. I might as well be kind in it.

Bottom line? I am aging. On my way out the door this morning, as I was doing my make-up I noticed a pure white strand of hair lying coyly on top of my dark tresses. I could have freaked. I could have plucked it. Instead, I did a little smile back at my reflection in the mirror…and pulled on my highest heels. If this is my life-long relationship, my marriage to my body, I’m going to be the sexiest spouse ever.

29-year-old boobs and all. 

True Love, Demons, and other stories.

I mean...HOW can you blame me?

There's always that moment that you fall in love with someone. You may have spent time with them before, and you fall gradually until it finally clicks into place. You may be on your first meeting in San Francisco, drinking champagne and eating pancakes after only knowing each other before this day online- when they suddenly say something so...perfect you just fall in love. It's just done. It's final and everlasting and BAM. LOVE HEARTS STARS GLITTER.

That's how I fell in love with Brittany.

So, funny story: we had just met after starting a friendship online, and we're sitting there in San Francisco eating pancakes and drinking champagne. (See what I did earlier?) And I was leaning forward, hanging on every funny word this girl was saying and then she says IT. We were talking about funny fears and quirks of ours, and she casually said: "At night when I go to bed I jump the last few feet to get in. I know it sounds irrational- but I don't want to get too close to what could be under the bed, you know?"

I was smitten.

This is why: I don't know if it comes across in this blog, but I am sort of a grab bag of quirks and funny little things all mixed together with gumballs covered in lint and glitter. That's the best description I can come up with to illustrate that I'm just...weird. I'd like to think in a cute, fun way and not in a way that you would be afraid to leave me with your rabbits lest I boil them, but you may disagree.  (You shouldn't. I'm very against bunny boiling.) I just think we all need to embrace our little oddities and be ok with who we are. Even the parts of us that are adult and still slightly afraid of what could be under the bed. So, when someone is authentically awesome with me: I'm theirs for life.

After her confession, I immediately told her that I was an almost 30 year old woman who still closed her eyes for 3 seconds after turning off any light. Why? Someone once told me that the devil only appears to you in those 3 seconds, so if you don't want to see him- you best shut yo' eyes. I know it's ridiculous, but I've been doing it for 20 years AND HAVE NEVER SEEN THE DEVIL, SO IT OBVIOUSLY WORKS.

Brittany and I clearly went on to live happily ever after, cultivating a friendship that I cherish and adore. But, that's not where the story ends, so bear with me.
...............
I've recently gotten into this very cheesy show called "Supernatural." The writing is horrible, the make-up on the ghosts and demons varies in believability according to how much the budget was blown that week, and the plot lines are confusing and laughable.

I obviously can't get enough of it.

I roped Brett into sitting next to me and watching it yesterday when I was home sick. My reasoning was that he could, you know, be here in case anything happened (like being attacked by ghosts and/or demons) and we could figure it out together. The episode was about a dead boy who apparently became a water demon and could kill people anytime they were near water. We got about half way into it, and I casually pulled a blanket over my head and continued to watch through the fabric.

Brett turned to me to ask a question and immediately started laughing. "OH my God! What are you doing?"

I sighed deeply. "I'm watching the show. Please be quiet. And tell me if the boy demon comes back."

"Why do I need to tell you that?"

"Because I can't see obviously. Who is talking now? Sam or Dean?"

"You're ridiculous."

He's right, I am, but he didn't understand the necessary precautions I was taking to make sure I was safe. It backfired, as I saw enough scary things through the thin fabric that the next morning in the shower, I washed up in record time with my eyes squeezed shut and the curtain open.

I'll be damned if I let the ghost-water-boy get me.

Thinking about all of this actually made me feel sort of lucky this morning. Sure, last night I employed Brittany's technique and launched myself the last 3 feet to the middle of the bed. Sure, I didn't dare to get up to use the bathroom because that was obviously when ghost-boy would want to strike. And yes, ok, maybe I did use a nightlight last night and warily regarded the shadows that it splayed out on my ceiling. And maybe I fixated on one shadow that looked vaguely human, but was probably a lamp. (And maybe it actually was my lamp, because I got up to check 3 times.) 

But, it's all ok. I'm colorful, imaginative, and extremely good at finding other people like that to be colorful and imaginative with. And that's a life worth living, isn't it? I would totally unwrap the blanket from my head to watch that story play through... until the credits roll.

(Also, I would like the record to show that I texted Brittany that I was writing about our conversation. Her reply was: "Yes! Make sure you say, though, that avoiding under the bed is to avoid the Mischa Barton character from the Sixth Sense!" Dear God I just fell in love with her again.)