A glass half full.

So I’ve been whining about bridal drama for more than a year now.

My dress is too big....

The flowers are too expensive...

My future in-laws are nuts...

My fiancé shaved off his eye-brows (yes, this is a true story, but best told in another post)...

For the past year, these troubles have trumped everything else and made me take absolute pity on myself.

However, last night I received news that a family member was diagnosed with terminal cancer and was given no more than three months to live.

This news came after my first dress fitting where the best seamstress in the area performed magic on my once baggy gown and has already managed to turn into it the dress of my dreams.

And this news came just before I got home and had three massive packages waiting for me that held fantastic and thoughtful wedding gifts from some unexpected sources.

I suddenly felt completely guilty for even thinking that I had problems when in reality, I don’t think my life could get any better.

As I unwrapped our new wedding gifts, which consisted of beautiful, new wine glasses, I began to pray for a wonderful man’s life and realized that its time for me see the glass as half full.

Well, I had a flat tire. So there.

It’s official. I’m bitter.

I don’t know when it happened exactly, but I do know that the culmination of recent events have pushed me over the bitter ledge leaving this once sweet, sugar coated lady a burnt and salty wench.

I came to this harsh realization when I started to do something that I HATE other people do. My biggest pet peeve is when people try to trump your worries and pains with theirs. These are the kind of people who respond to your grandma dying with, “well, my dog passed away last year of old age and it was really hard of my family even though I’m allergic to dog hair and have had my eyes swollen shut with dander for the past 13 years that Fido was living.” Um. Thanks for the sympathy.

Can these kind of people ever let others grovel in defeat without making them feel like they truly don’t know what defeat is? And why is it that their flat tire on a highway story is SO much better and more dramatic than yours?

I have sadly started to try to trump people’s stress but only because I feel so overwhelmed with life that I sometimes am shocked I make it to work and don’t find myself detouring to the Mexican border.

I normally handle stress quite well and can smile my way through a lot of chaos. However, the stressful combination I’ve been dealing with lately has turned into a toxic mess forcing me to stock pile every little “bad” thing that happens so I can successfully shoot down whoever attempts to complain about their own troubles. And what’s worse, I take every bad situation and make it even more terrible… let me give you an example:

A few weeks ago I was driving through construction and surprise, surprise I got a flat tire. But the tire didn’t go flat until I was safely at home turning out of my driveway on my way to run an errand that wasn’t urgent or even necessary. Even more convenient, my dad was willing and able to take my car in the next day to get fixed and cordially offered me a ride to work the next morning.

My response to all of this? “God hates me.” And better yet, I took that flat tire incident (that was resolved completely the next day, by the way) and have carried it around with me for the past two weeks and finish most of my complaining with, “AND I got a flat tire [insert number] days ago.” My bitter mind thinks such a statement packs some extra punch to the story of my current misery.

Dramatic, right? Now that I think back to all of that I’m pretty sure if God didn’t like me, he’d strike me down with lightening. Plus if he gave flat tires to those he didn’t like, there would be a dramatic decrease in violence because a significant amount of criminals would be stuck on the side of the road with AAA instead of at potential crime scenes.

So here I am, frazzled with my wedding, tired of dealing with selfish people, burnt out with house work, overwhelmed with a job that pushes me to my professional limits… oh, and did I tell you I got a flat tire 16 days ago??

I take all of this and package it up when someone starts to groan about a single worry like lost car keys or a flat tire (and note that I can complain about MY flat tire because I have WAY more going on than you do.) And I realize I’m not being fair because no worry, no matter how small, should be deemed insignificant.

In fact, my pile of worries probably pales in comparison to people who have actual problems because even though my bitterness forces me to act like a nut at times, I DO know that a flat tire isn’t the end of the world and that planning a wedding, regardless of the bumps in the road, is a wonderful thing no matter what, more responsibility at work is a positive thing that shows you actually know what you're doing and having house work is great when you think that most people don't even have a house to call their own.

I miss the girl who used to politely listen to people’s woes, nod sympathetically and sometimes even throw in a “I can’t imagine” to make sure full out compassion was given.

Although I’m not going to minimize the importance of my own stress, I am going to work on accepting other people’s with more humility because I refuse to become that person I hate.

And today I made progress. Someone I work with went on for hours about her broken TiVo and how upset she was that she couldn’t watch her shows. My first instinct was to laugh her in face and go into my full spiel about what it truly means to be upset, giving her a true show to watch. But I held myself back, listened intently and didn’t even bring up the fact that, due to my hectic, stressful schedule, I haven’t watched TV in so that I still think Kelly Clarkson was the last American Idol.

Do I smell something sweet? Yes, sir… my sugar coating is slowly coming back… but maybe I’ll sneak out at lunch and put a construction nail in her tire just so she gets a little perspective of what stress really is... yep, still a little bitter underneath.

Bridal Realization: Don't Mess with My Friends... They'll Beat You Up.

Hello, friends. Or should I say, “hello, mom and Megan” – aka – my only two fans.

I know, I’ve been MIA. I wish I could treat life like I treat this blog… when I don’t have the time or when I’m not in the mood to pour out my heart, I wish I could just put life on hold and come back to it when I’m ready. But I guess if life truly could work that way I would sadly only have two fans and let’s face it, I need more than just two fans in my life.

But I digress… at the end of the day, my blog has been neglected as wedding plans, mixed with a little bit of work, monopolize my day, my thoughts and my creativity.

However, today my morning cup of Splenda and cream with a splash of coffee and some delicious slices of raspberry kringle inspired me to capitalize on my sugar high and beckon Stejamoe out from her hiding spot.

So with wedding on the mind and artificial sweetner pumping through my veins, I proudly present yet another top ten list: the top ten things I learned about myself while planning my wedding.

10 – My health greatly benefits from my commitment to vanity. Before I got engaged I would ignore a strange looking mole and I would put off going to doctor for some aches and pains. Now I realize that a strange mole is not only dangerous to my health, but detrimental to the wedding pictures it may show up in. The dull pain in my side that I normally can suffer through could impact my ability to suck it my stomach all night in my wedding dress and impede on my bridal hotness. My solution? Go to the doctor and improve my health AND my look for the big day.

9 – I apparently make friends based on their willingness to kill for me. I have a wide variety of friends, with different personalities and from different parts of my life. During this entire planning process, one common thing has surfaced among them all: their willingness and eagerness to cause harm to those who harm me. Okay, would any of my gorgeous, proper, intelligent friends really risk jail time to ensure my happiness? Probably not. But they have given me an insane amount of support as I battle some difficult people who are forgetting that they aren’t the bride, and even my most passive friends respond with a “put em’ up” attitude. I never thought inappropriate aggression would touch my heart.

8 – I believe that the quicker you respond, the more you love me. I can’t help it. I’m organized and somehow believe everyone else should be too. As I wait for my wedding invitation responses I have taken on the mindset that each day you wait to let me know you “accept with pleasure,” you’re really just telling me that you “accept with disdain.” Harsh and irrational, I know, but if you don’t share your immediate excitement with me, I immediately think you don’t care. Love me, people!

7 – I think Chipotle burritos are part of a well balanced diet. I really want to look beautiful on my wedding day and by “beautiful,” I mean, I want people to marvel at how thin and skinny I look. But as I continue my mission to be as thin as I can be, I continue to indulge in my beloved fajita burrito. If you look up “Chipotle” in the thesaurus you’ll find “fat”… I guess I better start doing lunges and butt clenches in the office.

6 – I’m attached to my name. Who cares what your last name is? Apparently I do. Even though my fiancé doesn’t think this, my issue with changing my last name has NOTHING to do with him. It may seem irrational, but I connect my maiden name to everything that I am and I’m having a bit of a hard time knowing that I’ll be officially “someone else” come October. I’ll get over it and I’ll eventually come to terms with the fact that I went from having the easiest last name possible to having a last name that can be mispronounced and misspelled 50 different ways.

5 – I will never stop worrying. I’m sensitive. It’s a fact. I’ve gotten tougher over the years, but I will never be able to “get over” things easily when I’m hurt. And nothing is more personal than a wedding, so the slightest jab turns into a blow. The same issue that surfaced when I got engaged almost a year and a half ago is the same issue that keeps me up at night.

4 – I’m strangely good at “counting down.” Once we hit 100 days until the wedding, I have been able to keep track of the amount of days left before the big day regardless of distractions. A week could go by without anyone asking or me even thinking about the exact amount of time left before I walk down the aisle, but if a colleague randomly inquires, I can tell them the exact amount of time until the hour without skipping a beat. 54 days to go, by the way.

3 – Home improvement projects keep me sane. Unlike other brides, I prefer to have a lot going on outside wedding planning to keep me grounded. For example, while making appointments with wedding vendors, I thought it only made sense to consider replacing our aging windows and get a few at-home estimates sprinkled into our already hectic schedules. The outcome will result in us having all of our windows replaced a month before the wedding and the thought of having a major renovation done is as soothing to me as a day at the spa.

2 – I am obsessed with kitchen gadgets that I’ll never use. It wasn’t until we registered did I discover my love for really unnecessary kitchen tools. Why use your fingers when you can pull toast from a toaster with hand crafted toast tongs? I also can spend hours caressing our new, over priced mix master and there is not one darn thing I can think of that would need mixing any time soon – it DOES make my kitchen counter look legit, like someone actually cooks in there.

1 – I love my fiancé more than I ever thought I could. Of course I love the boy. I’m not the kind of girl who settles just so I can get hitched and I was madly in love with him before we got engaged. But wedding planning drama has brought out a side of my soon-to-be hubby that tells me he’s in to win it. Random cry fests over botched wedding envelopes haven’t scared him away and family drama has resulted in him showing me that at the end of the day, I’m the family that comes first. You can have perfect invitations and cooperative family members, but having a man you love is a lot more important.

I’ve learned a lot about myself during this whole process and I’m more ready than ever to get married. If you’ve learned anything, you would learn to just back off and let me be happy and if you can’t seem to do that, I will be forced to connect you with you one of my friends… trust me, it’s not going to be pretty.

Top Ten Reasons My Mom is the Bomb

Mother’s Day is this weekend so I thought it would only be right to pay homage to my own Mamasita. As you know from past posts, I’m pretty darn lucky when it comes to the parent department. My mom in particular always has my back and as I grow older I’ve decided that the term “mom” should have to be earned. Just because you give birth doesn’t make you a “mother” it should make you a “birther” or something.

Why do I say this? It seems unfair that a mom like mine who puts her children first is put in the same title category of a mom who could less about her offspring. But that’s neither here nor there; time to move on give my mom the credit she deserves in what I like to call, “The Top Ten Reasons My Mom is the Bomb.”

1. She’s real.

My mom is honest and sticks to her guns. She believes what she believes and never waivers. And yes, the truth hurts sometimes, but with my mom you know what you’re getting and she doesn’t play games… how refreshing.

2. She is a master negotiator.

This woman gets what she wants by being informed and fair. She does her research, knows the best deal and gets it by remaining calm. I took her with me to buy my first car and she left the greasy finance guy in pure shock. Once I agreed to buy the car all I heard for the next three hours was “waa waa waa waaaa.” As the finance guy saw an opportunity to take advantage of young girl and who he thought was a naïve mother, I’ll never forget when my mom leaned across the table, smiled politely and said, “I know how all this works, I’ve done this before… now stop offering my daughter crap she doesn’t need and get to the point.” Right then and there I just sat back and let her save me money while the finance guy sat dumbfounded [insert standing ovation].

3. Her parenting mantra has always been, “You don’t need another friend, you need a mom.”

Hospitals should put that statement on a bumper sticker and give it to new moms as part of a “don’t screw this up” welcome basket. Even though when I was growing up and wishing my mom could be “cool” like some of the hip moms that let their kids walk over them, I’m so glad she wasn’t. Yes, my mom is a friend in the sense that I like to hang out with her, but at the same time she was never looking for my approval and could care less if I pouted when she wouldn’t extend my curfew. I knew moms who would not only let their kids break curfew, but were with them when they did and buying them alcohol. Do you know where those kids are now?

Jail.

4. She easily could be a contestant on Top Chef.

Her cooking savvy amazes me. She can take a bottle of mustard and a handful of spices that no one has ever heard of and make a full meal that rivals fine dining cuisine. And the best part is that she garnishes everything with fresh herbs. If she makes rosemary chicken, you better believe she has a sprig of rosemary on the plate. There is no shortage of class at our nightly dinner table.

5. Birthdays are special to her.

As I’ve gotten older, I’ve learned that people start to resent their birthdays, but my mom has always embraced them as a day to celebrate YOU. Forget how old you are, you were born on this day and that makes it special. When it’s your birthday in my family, my mom does everything short of dressing up like a clown and riding a unicycle. I think those who can celebrate aging are those people who understand that life is more about numbers and more about memories.

6. “Smart” is her middle name.

I think all my mom’s good qualities circle back to her being smart. Yes, she’s educated, but I’m talking about the kind of smart that is a result of constant exploration. She reads and absorbs everything, while never fearing the unknown. She’ll try new things and over the years she’s shared her wealth of knowledge with her children, making us smart by association… shhh… don’t tell anyone that I actually have NO idea what I’m talking about…

7. She’s a solution seeker.

There are always options and alternatives with my mom. Just because something seems impossible doesn’t mean you should give up. She has taught me what compromise is and because her attitude has always been, “If something doesn’t work, lets figure out how to make it work,” I’ve gone into life with confidence knowing that “no” isn’t the end of the world because you’ll eventually come up with a way to hear “yes.” She’s the opposite of a “Debbie Downer,” she’s like an “Ursula Upper.”

8. She’s a great partner in crime.

My mom just goes with the flow and if she has time, she’ll join you on whatever adventure you’re embarking on. So many people burn out or selfishly don’t want to invest time in things that don’t directly involve them, but my mom is the best support system and will find ways to make every outing, every errand, every trip… fun. To this day she’ll come with me to not-so-fun doctor’s appointments and then arrange for us to have a great lunch at a local restaurant. She makes a memory out of every experience and I’ll hold onto those memories for the rest of my life.

9. She can’t argue with reason.

Although my mom has strong opinions, she is probably the most rational person I know. If you present a valid argument, she won’t deny it and this helped me hone my own negotiation and presentation skills. When I was growing up and if I wanted the new “it” item, I wouldn’t go whining to my mom like so many kids do. I would sit down and formulate my argument. Sometimes I’d win, sometimes I wouldn’t (to this day she never bought the “a gerbil would make a great pet” argument), but I’d learn something every time.

10. No one ever puts her babies in the corner.

Everyone’s mom is their biggest cheerleader, but I like to think of my mom as my own cheering crowd complete with foam fingers. She doesn’t pretend her kids are something their not, but she never stops supporting them… and based on past experience, I’m pretty sure she’d deck someone for me if they did me wrong.

So that’s why my mom is the bomb. She not only gave birth to her kids, she then followed up and became a great mom. Per list item #10, I’m sure you’re the only person reading this post so, so Happy Mother’s Day, Mom!

A Cyst on My Face, A Feather for my Cap

GIRL GETS STRUCK WITH YET ANOTHER MEDICAL MYSTERY.

That’s what my life’s headline read Friday morning. I have been sidetracked by yet another health issue – “issue” in this case means gross flesh eating disease on a bride’s most prized possession… her FACE.

Early last week I noticed a rather odd looking bump pop up on my cheek. I didn’t think it was a blemish… and trust me, this chocolate eating, combination skinned, stressed gal knows a zit when she sees one. This was different.

If you know me, I’m a “doer.” I don’t sit around and wait for something to happen… I get up and MAKE it happen. So naturally I decided to investigate this painful mystery bump, which was unobtrusively flesh toned at this point. A minor poke and prod resulted in a MAJOR problem…

The once camouflaged bump turned black and stood out like a hunter in an orange vest. What’s worse is that a stark white rim started to surround the site and it looked like I went to the carnival and had a bulls eye painted on my cheek by a drunk PTA volunteer.

Absolute panic sunk in. Start crying ……. NOW.

Yes, I cried. If you have read my past medical entries, you know I’m one tough cookie. Lose a finger? Argh. Break a toe? Boo. Maul my face? WAAAAAAHHHH!!!!!! There is just something about my face that you don’t want to mess with… it has been the only part of my body that hasn’t jumped on the “freaky disease” bandwagon with the rest of my body parts.

So here I am. Eyes puffy, mascara running and flesh eating disease flaring. With my strong reaction you would have thought I was walking down the aisle that next day, but even knowing that my big day is 5 months down the road, I couldn’t stop picturing myself in my gorgeous wedding gown accessorized with this massive tumor-like sore on my face. In my dreams, the sore comes with its own neon sign to emphasize its hideousness.

I naturally have all my doctors on speed dial and immediately scored an emergency appointment that following day.

The verdict? A ruptured cyst. But not just any ruptured cyst, an infected, ruptured cyst. [Insert vomiting noises now.]

How does one develop a cyst? Who knows? Who cares? I heard the doctor mumble something about cysts being potentially stressed induced, but I was too worried thinking about the future of my face that I didn’t really hear what she said.

Even though my face looked just as hideous walking out of the doctor’s office as it did on the way in, I felt a sense of relief once I was prescribed medication that will treat me from the inside out. And after a few weeks of major healing, my cyst will fade away and take its neon sign with it.

Moral of the story? There really isn’t one, but let me have a go at it.... when something doesn't seem right, don't try to fix it right away, investigate it first... gently. I often times jump the gun with my "go get 'em" attitude and if I had only thought before I popped, I wouldn't have a gross scab on my face. [Again, insert vomiting noises.]

But alternatively, this little experience has equipped me with yet more knowledge, so I'll just consider this another feather for my medical mystery cap... which looks like a Indian headdress at this point...

Expensive shoes, overpriced lattes and real estate.

What if you bought a pair of heels for $85 in Chicago and then you went on vacation to LA and those SAME shoes were $285… and THEN you went to your cousin’s wedding in Podunk, Indiana and those SAME snazzy kicks that were $85 in Chicago and $285 dollars in LA were only 5 bucks in the state that is considered the “armpit of Illinois?”

This kind of situation would NEVER happen, right? Why would the SAME product differ so drastically in price just based on where you are in the U.S.? Sure, prices fluctuate with taxes and some big cities can get away with charging an extra buck or two for a latte, but no product would have THAT big of a price difference.

However, if you insert a few extra zeros to those shoe prices and replace “shoe” with “house” it is not as surprising. And THAT boggles my mind.

Remember my rants last summer on starting my house hunt? Well, now the soon-to-be hubs and I have had our home for going on eight months and we’ve proudly gone from naïve property virgins to… naïve property owners. Somehow the mysteries of home ownership will never work themselves out in my mind.

So me the man were walking around our neighborhood the other night, two 60 somethings trapped in the bodies of 24 year olds, and decided to pull the flyers attached to the “for sale” signs we passed. First, the language these realtors use cracks me up… “stunning property with spacious patio and beautifully updated kitchen.” Translation? The backyard is pretty small because the previous owners decided to build a deck that was way too big for the property and out of all the rooms in the house, the kitchen is definitely not the worst part. As a PR professional and spin doctor, I tip my hat to you, realtors.

As we perused the listings and squinted at the thumbnail size pictures of the showcased rooms, I became baffled by the range of prices for what is a very small range of houses. We live in a “cookie cutter” neighborhood where all the homes were built by the same builder. Every 10th house you’ll find a home that resembles your own with a different paint color and/or a better car on the driveway. Unless a home has been dramatically upgraded or has a dead body in the basement, the prices should be pretty consistent among similar sized homes.

So what makes one home more valuable than the other? I have become addicted to home renovation shows and one of my favorite shows on HGTV has three realtors come in to put a value on a home after it has been flipped. Without fail you’ll always have one realtor who prices a home $50K to $100K more than their counterparts. That just shows that home value sometimes has nothing to do with the market and everything to do with perception.

Don’t get me wrong, adding upgraded appliances and installing hardwood floors in your home should rack in more money compared to a house that has a fridge from 1972 and shag carpet. But that aside, there is no other consumer product in this country that has such a loose basis for value.

As we begin to put the final touches on our own home, I started to think, what makes OUR home valuable? When we’re ready to move on from his humble abode why will someone pay more money for our place than the one down the street?

So here is my stab at writing a realtor-inspired description of our house:

Single family home spruced up by multiple family help. High grade paint throughout mixed with sweat and tears for that extra shine. Current owners pride themselves on being anal – male owner specifically licks his finger to pick up loose crumbs after the floors have been washed by hand. Open floor plan designed with an open mind. Although the love put into the home does not come with the purchase of the house, current owners anticipate that they’ll leave some remnants behind.

Now THAT is the kind of home that inspires you to buy expensive shoes and dance around with an overpriced latte - PRICELESS.

Next time, I'm bringing my cousin, Vinny.

It’s official. I’m a criminal. Although I won’t be making a cameo on Locked Up, I was forced to plead guilty to speeding to be granted court supervision and to have the FAULTY ticket wiped from my record. My other option was to speak the truth, plead not guilty and have to somehow convince the judge that a law enforcement official was wrong. I didn’t technically have real evidence, every one BUT me seemed to have some kind of legal representation speaking on their behalf and the judge reminded me of the “Judy’ variety, so I swallowed my pride, took the guilty verdict and ran…

Well, actually, I was forced to run and then stand in a line for an hour to pay for my court costs. Hopefully that money will be put towards a green initiative so at least this horrid experience contributed to the planting of a tree. And if I ever find out what tree that is, I’m going to saw it down and spit on it… the innocent never rest!

So to ensure that this traumatic experience wasn’t a TOTAL waste of my time, I thought I would outline a few interesting observations about the Cook County court system for your reading pleasure:

-- Apparently only men have to take off their belts in a security line, not women… I would think that everyone should just keep their belts on to avoid gang whippings and pants droppings.

-- They have bars of soap in the bathroom… bars. Nothing says cesspool like a used piece of soap that has been manhandled by criminals… after seeing the dingy bar of soap lying on the counter, I decided that I rather get a bladder infection than use the restroom.

-- Alleged criminals also come in all shapes and sizes… AND outfits. I saw everything from ripped jeans to hooded sweatshirts to pleather. I was probably the best dressed “civilian” and could have passed for a lawyer... if only I thought to approach the bench as “Stejamoe’s Legal Counsel.” Hindsight is always 20/20.

-- The court system takes cash, check AND credit – I charged my court fees… I wonder if the Discover Network will ever have a “criminal month” where they give you extra cash back for all legal-related purchases.

-- Vinny Gambini's character is based solely on FACT.

I hope to never step foot in that court house again and I plan on going 2 mph UNDER the speed limit moving forward. After this experience, I’m now completely okay with people passing me as I inch towards my destination. I’m willing to do anything to avoid another unjust confrontation with Officer Nasty, but if I’m ever forced to fight for my innocence again, I’m calling Joe Pesci to see if he's available to represent me.

Stejamoe Locked Up

I have to admit that I’m a little weird when it comes to what kind of TV shows I like to watch. I’m definitely not the kind of gal who gets into series or sitcoms. I don’t watch the Hills religiously like so many other 20 something females do nor do I set aside time every week for Gossip Girl. I don’t even have a “regular” show I watch every week and am perfectly happy to catch up on the Real World during a weekend marathon.

However, the one show that I do try to catch is MSNBC’s Locked Up. For those of you not well versed in cable news shows, Locked Up is a documentary series that profiles different state prisons and prisoners.

Before we go any further, yes, I HATE scary movies, I close my eyes during the Sarah McLaughlin’s “save the animals” commercial because the images are too painful and I also jump at any and all loud noises. But there is something about Locked Up that I love. I find it fascinating. Maybe it’s because the show is more about the human mind than violence. You’ll rarely see anything graphic; it’s all about getting to know what goes through the mind of a sociopathic killer or how prison guards learn to deal with complex workings of gang rituals. You can’t make this kind of stuff up, people!

Perhaps I feel protected by the barrier of my TV screen as I get reeled in by an interview with a crazy convict who burned off his left hand during a meth lab debacle and can’t be confined by traditional handcuffs anymore… I know, disgusting, but for some reason I rather watch one hand Willy talk about his motivation to sell drugs than hear the constant whining of Meredith on Grey’s Anatomy.

But now the distant stories of Locked Up aren’t so distant. I find myself facing the law and will be going to court tomorrow. In less than 24 hours, I could very likely be on the other side of the TV screen being interviewed by MSNBC, wearing an orange jump suit, black colored pencil for eyeliner and coffee grounds mixed with toothpaste for mascara (women do that in prison, you know… at least the knowledge I’ve garnered from Locked Up will make me look like I have some street cred).

No, I didn’t murder my mom’s ex-husband’s girlfriend. I didn’t get caught cookin’ up meth in the basement of my grandma’s house. I also didn’t shank anyone in my office, although the confines of this cubicle could get to me one day. I was allegedly caught speeding and received my FIRST citation. Take that, one handed meth man!!!

I use the word “allegedly” because like all good criminals, you never confess to your charges… however, this criminal was actually NOT speeding and was the unlucky car to get plucked away from a group of speeding SUVs late at night.

Long story short, I was given a ticket that wasn’t meant for me and my once perfectly clean driving record was put at risk and still remains in limbo. I have never even been pulled over before and my right leg is still trembling with fear from the experience that happened more than a month and a half ago.

The officer who issued me a ticket was a bitter female and until this experience I actually gave credit to those who serve our streets, but this lady has forever made me skeptical of the law. She was out for blood that night and she preyed of me and my adorable SUV stuffed with my adorable fiancé and adorable best friend on way to get pizza for a night in… how adorable. I have a feeling this adorable factor only made the officer angrier as she was plagued with a mild case of acne and wearing a not so cute uniform that did nothing for her figure.

Knowing for a fact that I was NOT speeding, I couldn’t help but to fight for my freedom and now will face the court tomorrow. I will have evidence, witnesses and my cunning to guide me through the process and only hope I come out to see the light of day. If not, I will use my Locked Up know how to survive the slammer.

And yes, while I may not be guilty of speeding, I AM guilty of being dramatic. But that’s why you love me.

I have a "fat" personality.

So I’m feeling pretty good since my last “Richard Simmons” post and hoping that as I begin to see friends and family for wedding related activities, they’ll notice my svelte new figure.

However, I’m reminded that people always remember me as “fat” so no matter how much weight I lose, I’ll always look thinner to those who don’t see me often. And when I say “those who don’t see me often” I’m not referring to my great aunt in Arizona who last saw me when I was 12 and definitely an unfortunately chubby pre-teen. I’m talking about those friends that you maybe don’t see for a month at a time… hardly a time lapse and hardly enough time to lose or gain so much weight that’s its immediately noticeable unless you greet your friends naked every time you see them.

So I’m convinced that I have a “fat personality.” And when I say “fat” I’m not referring to the 900 pound man who regularly gets featured on TLC specials. In this case, “fat” simply refers to any size larger than I actually am.

This whole phenomenon started with I returned from freshman year of college for Thanksgiving break. First, I’m shocked that I did NOT gain weight that first year of college… I sat on my butt almost all day eating Teddy Grahams and watching daytime TV. Neither my brain nor my body got much exercise that year.

Anywho, when I saw my old high school buddies for the first time in a few months everyone commented on how “great” I looked and that I must have lost weight. Knowing that I truly didn’t lose a pound, I figured I must have looked so good because so many other people looked so bad. Apparently Teddy Grahams and daytime TV took a toll on some.

But then I would come back to college after a week long break and my college mates would comment that I looked thinner. Hmmm… these are the same people I practically drank ranch dressing with on daily basis, so they were far more familiar with my size and body, but without fail, they said I looked “better” when I came back from long breaks.

This cycle continued all four years of my college experience and it follows me to this day. If someone doesn’t see me for a few weeks, I guess I shouldn’t question why they say I look thinner because what girl doesn’t like to be told she looks slim?! I’ll take what I can get.

But flattery aside, this is truly a confusing phenomenon. Then I finally figured it out – I have a “fat personality.” I’m constantly smiling, joking and laughing… I’m jovial, if you will. Santa is also jovial. The Pillsbury Dough Boy also tends to giggle a lot. Ironic? I think not.

I think I just happen to possess certain traits that leave a “hefty” memory of me in peoples’ minds. There is no other explanation. And if I had to choose what size people remember me being, I guess I’d go with a chubbier version of myself because I equate a few extra pounds to the robustness of my personality. People don’t want to mess with the strength of a full bodied woman that they remember me being even when they are reminded later in-person that I’m actually a half-full bodied woman.

So as I prepare to meet and greet people for all my upcoming wedding shenanigans, I guess I’ll have to be prepared to accept my “fat personality” and instead of saying, “no, I haven’t really lost any weight” in response to the “you look thinner” remark, I’m going to say, “why yes, I’ve been training with Romanian body builders and climbing mountains in my spare time – thanks for noticing.”

At the end of the day, it is all about how you act, not how you look. I’m going to strive to keep putting quality pounds onto my personality and embrace my larger self because that version of me is who people love to remember and who they love to see regardless of what the scale says.

What size does your personality leave on someone’s mind?

I'm Like a Bridal Version of Richard Simmons

Need to go on a diet? Get engaged.

If one word could describe the concept of marriage it would be “weight.” Once a man proposes, he is warned about his impending “ball and chain” of a wife. His social life will now be weighed down by trips to Home Depot and Bed, Bath & Beyond. Another single man sinks to the bottom of the domestic sea.

An engagement ring is also an example of the weight of marriage – a diamond is referred to as a “rock.” The bigger and heavier the rock, the happier and more envied the bride.

I was looking at wedding invitations the other day and was asked what kind of paper weight I wanted. The heavier the paper, the heavier the price tag. I didn’t even know the terms “heavy” and “paper” could be used in the same sentence.

And then there are the bodies of the bride and groom. I had heard before I got engaged that weight just “melts” off a bride when they are feverishly planning a wedding, and then ironically enough, the weight packs itself back on after commitments have been made securely and you’re back into your usual, comfortable routine.

Weight. It is lurking around every corner as I plan my own wedding, but I was certain when I got engaged it would have nothing to do with my body.

First let me say that I’m a pretty solid girl… not heavy, solid. In fact, if I visit a doctor’s office, I leave the nurses confused wondering how I could look fairly thin, but then weigh like I'm holding my purse on the scale with me… a purse filled with dumbbells.

Keeping with the wedding theme of this post, I like to describe my appearance in correlation with my actual weight through a wedding band metaphor. You see two silver rings – one is white gold and one is platinum. They LOOK exactly the same. They are the same size and width, but then when you hold them, the platinum band is considerably heavier… in this example quality weighs more, so I like to think that I carry around at least 10 extra pounds of pure QUALITY.

And my size rarely changes no matter how much I exercise or eat. I still wear some of my clothes from high school for God’s sake. Now don’t get me wrong, since high school, a lot more bumps and lumps have shown up, but nothing that I can’t tuck away easily and give the illusion of stunted fat growth.

So you get the point - I’ve been a solid, unchanging girl for the past 24 years of my life. Until recently. In the midst of fretting over the weight of paper paired with the weight of some other oh-so-fun stresses associated with wedding plans, I managed to knock off six pounds. Most of you probably turn up your nose at single digit weight loss, but for this hunk of meat, that means a lot.

It seems that as I weigh out the pros and cons of various wedding decisions, I’ve managed to go from a Big Mac to a Quarter Pounder (with cheese… if I lose another a couple pounds I’ll knock off the dairy.)

Food metaphors aside (its 4:30 pm, I’m due for a snack), I think I can personally now vouch that if nothing else, engagement definitely forces you to gain and lose weight both figuratively and literally … you take on new projects, new families and new responsibilities which are like those weights that you strap to your ankles for an intense workout. Then you’re forced to pick up the pace and not only move through the chaos of your every day routine, but also work on pulling together the single most important day of your life. And during all of this, you don’t have time for that midday munchie you’re so used to.

I'm going to embrace this heavy time and enjoy every moment of it, even if I don't lose another literal pound. Like a bridal version of Richard Simmons, I’m going to move forward upbeat and sweatin’ to the songs of marriage...

Happy Birthday, Happy Daughter

It is my dad’s birthday this weekend. We’ll be celebrating his 45th… again. Actually, my dad isn’t the kind of person to hide his age, although I’m pretty sure he’d have to think long and hard how old he actually is.

So here we are again, another year, another birthday, same wonderful dad. As my dad adds another candle to the cake of life, I can’t help but to think about how much he has contributed to my own life and I would like to take this moment to salute all the fathers out there that have dedicated themselves to be the best fathers they can be to their daughters.

First, allow me to insert some academia… I believe it’s a studied fact that fathers greatly impact how their daughters look at men and handle relationships. Okay, so I can’t site a research book or social scientist, but you know what I’m talking about. Everyone is familiar with the well accepted concept that women tend to marry someone like their father, so as a female, if your father is dog kickin’, no carin’ kind of guy, you can pretty much bet your money that your future hubs is bound to have some similar traits. If nothing else, chances are you won’t have any money to bet in the future because your deadbeat husband took it all on spent it on beer and the “Happy Days” DVD collection.

So that’s an extreme instance and probably not very fair.

Let’s take the example of the uninvolved, but super successful father. And before I go any further let me say this – for a father to be successful professionally it does not automatically mean he has to be uninvolved in his child’s life. And if a man is only capable of putting all his attention toward his million dollar paying job, then I wouldn’t consider him successful in the first place. Anyway, many dads in today’s world are the kind of dad who just brings home the paycheck and leaves the childrearing to the wife. The sad part of it all is that the dad thinks he’s providing for his family, but little does he know what a disservice he’s doing to the emotional health of whatever daughters he may have.

If a dad doesn’t make a conscience effort to pay a part in his daughter’s life, you better believe that daughter will grow up and misconstrue abusive behaviors from potential mates as “love.”

It’s true. If a young woman doesn’t get love and respect from the first man in her life, how will she be able to recognize it from the other ones? Standards are set at home, and that is why so many women “become like their mother” and marry someone like their father – it is what’s comfortable and it is what us girls know. So a daughter’s relationship destiny is ultimately in the hands of her father and boy, am I glad I have the dad that I do.

My dad is by far the hardest worker I know and successful to boot. But no matter how busy he was, he always took time to be a part of my life. He treated all women with respect and from day one, that’s all I knew, so if I saw an angry, bullheaded, chauvinistic dad in public, I’d literally get scared. And I’m sure you can picture it now: a little Stephanie with big blue eyes and an even bigger head sees a burly man yelling at his wife in Toy R Us and runs to her mom not knowing what to think of the mean man wearing what I’m sure what a tacky flannel.

As I grew older, my dad really let my mom take the driver’s seat with me, after all, what sane father wants to navigate the roads of puberty with a teenage daughter?! But he was always there both literally and figuratively. If I wasn’t in my teenage angst mode, he’d be there to listen and laugh (if I WAS in that mode, he was still there to listen, but then would run away and take cover). He also came to every school play, to every game, every special event. I’ve learned to start being a good dad, you can simply start by just being “there.”

Since my dad raised the bar for all dads, he then in turn raised the bar for every guy I would come to date. Short story long, the man I’m going to marry is a hard worker, respects woman, gives in to my every wish, only really like to eat meant and potatoes and actually LIKES to clean. The first two qualities are obviously the most important and the other three are just ironic, but hey, I’ll take a man who moves well with a broom ANY DAY.

The one thing that IS debatable is if my soon-to-be hubby will ever love me AS MUCH as my dad. Don’t get me wrong, my fiancé ADORES me – I mean, I wouldn’t marry a man who didn’t love me with every fiber of his being, because that’s how much I adore him. But there is some kind love that my dad has for me that I don’t think I’ll ever truly understand and is something truly only a great father feels for his daughter.

Oh man. I’m getting all teary over here.

Let’s wipe our eyes and get back to the whole point of this post… to pay homage to good dads, including mine. I guess you could say that it doesn’t take much to be a good dad because I feel like it simply takes some good old fashioned quality time, but for some men, time is money and spending a little time with a daughter isn’t worth the catch up they might have to do later. I do know that if “time is money” was MY dad’s philosophy, he’d be the poorest man in the world and I’d still be the happiest and most loved daughter.

Happy birthday, Dad!

My life is like a kabuki brush in a toilet.

So yesterday I’m standing at my bathroom vanity preparing myself for a day of errands. Let me first say that even casual Sunday errand running requires “preparation.” My mom always told me that it doesn’t take a lot of time to slap on some blush and mascara before heading out even for the most mundane of trips because you never know who you’re going to run into and you don’t want to be caught looking like death when you’re out in public, flaunting that you’re alive and well.

Anyway, I digress…

So here I am, digging through my makeup bag trying to find my kabuki brush. For those of you not well versed in makeup jargon, a “kabuki” is a fat little brush with only a little nub for a handle – nice for full coverage and high on the adorable makeup tool scale. So I’m digging and like a slippery fish fighting for its life, the brush goes flying out of my hand, across the bathroom and into the only water supply available… the toilet.

Two things went through my head – first, “I did flush the last time I was on that thing, right?” And second, “of course I flushed – go save your adorable kabuki before it goes kaput!”

I bravely grabbed the bobbing brush and ran in circles panicking over the fact that a brush that is consistently rubbed all over my face, just took a dip in a pool that consistently has a view of my butt. After the minor meltdown, I’m reminded that toilet water is very much like a dog’s mouth, probably the most sanitary place in the joint, so I calmly wash it down with cleanser and leave it out to dry – crisis averted. Plus, it needed a good scrub anyway; the brush still had remnants of my darker glow from last summer, so it was time for a refreshing overhaul.

(And if you know me, spare me the humor, and please don’t ask me if that’s “toilet glow” on my face the next time you see me. Just watch, toilet water may be the next fountain of youth and people will be dunking kabuki brushes in toilets across the country.)

Why do I tell you this story? For giggles? Perhaps. But more importantly, this little incident comes with a life lesson…

I’ve had a tough past couple of weeks – just the typical growing pains of a young adult mixed with the stresses of wedding planning. I like to think of myself as the cute little kabuki brush; always giving full coverage to friends and family and ensuring that every issue is taken care of. But every now and again, I get thrown in the toilet – sometimes intentionally, sometimes by accident.

Either way, we’ve all felt at some point in our lives like things were going down the proverbial “toilet.” It stinks. No pun intended. Okay, okay, pun intended.

But here is what you have to keep in mind – toilet water is pretty sanitary and all you need is a quick cleanse to bring you back to life… in fact, a swim in the toilet may force you to rinse off some of your past so you can start embarking on a sparkling future.

If I hadn’t dropped my kabuki in the toilet, it would still have remnants of old powder, germs and other pore clogging wee-beasties. After this bathroom incident, although traumatizing for a moment, my brush is now cleaner than ever and I’m sure my zit-free skin will thank me.

So my life lesson for today, although inspired by a makeup brush and toilet, is something to take to heart:

Know that sometimes it takes a stressful, "thrown in the toilet" situation to really cleanse you and bring you back to your original form, because you don’t realize how much dirt and grime you’ve picked up along the way.

Go forth. Be strong. And don't forget to flush.

Take Two Doses of "Good" Daily with Water.

Hello, readers. I’m not sure if you’re still out there. My apologies for the lack of blog posts, but my latest career move and my upcoming wedding has forced me to put my mindless ramblings on hold.

Since I last posted, you’ll be happy to know that I haven’t mailed anything that shouldn’t find its way through the US postal service and I now think twice before opening any mail slot. Ah, life’s important lessons.

Onto a new post! But before we proceed, allow me to warn you that its not going to be all giggles…

Over the past few months I’ve come to the realization that some times no matter how hard you try to make someone happy, it will never be enough. The combination of selfishness and insecurity is lethal and if you cross a person who holds this toxic brew, you’re dead… or at least that’s what I initially thought, but I’m slowly coming back to life.

The interesting part of dealing with someone who does not have your best interests in mind is that to remedy the ailments they bring, you need a dose of good. Plain, old fashioned GOODNESS.

Now “good” comes in many forms. For those less serious run-ins with selfishness and insecurity, “good” could be a soothing can of Diet Coke. It can be slow drive down a peaceful street. Heck, it could be a manager from Chipotle calling you to inform you that your business card was plucked from their fishbowl and you won 10 free burritos (take it from this TWO time winner).

But in serious situations, the Big Kahuna issues, goodness is in the form of a person, a supportive person. (And no, the Chipotle manager, god bless his soul, is not the kind of supportive person I’m talking about although my veggie fajita burrito never lets me down.)

After recently experiencing the effects of selfishness and insecurity, I was prescribed two healthy doses of “good” – I believe the technical name for the prescription was “mom and dad.”

Awww… makes you want to vomit a little, right? Daughter runs to parents for comfort. How typical. How nauseating.

Puke all you want, but as an adult, I turned to the two adults that are by far the most secure and selfless people I know. And yeah, they happen to be my parents. You do realize that it’s not required for parents to care about you, right?

I wasn’t even fully aware of the extent of my parents’ healing powers until I was faced with a situation that made me feel helpless and utterly confused. And it wasn’t the advice or the comfort they gave me that helped wrap my wounds, it was their underlying goodness that has made me remember that people do care about me and care about others in general. To be honest, I’m sick of talking about issues and trying to figure out solutions, so hearing my mom gush about my latest home renovation or having my dad give me a random, funny, flying high five, is that kind of goodness that heals someone’s heart when it’s in the process of breaking.

Another dose of goodness I received was an email that radiated excitement about my upcoming wedding. Even through her emails, my best friend has a way to type seemingly flat words that are read with so much enthusiasm. Her support, her goodness, came in the form of “enough about THEM, lets talk about YOU.” For a moment, my world lacked positive punctuation, and then she appeared in my inbox referring to something about my life with so much “!!!!!!”, that I couldn’t help but to get excited too. Pure goodness.

Everyone is either going through a hard time or knows that someone is going through a hard time. My advice for those who are going through something difficult is to find the “good” and seek the “goodness” in others. However, remember that goodness is not buried under insecurity or guilt, pure goodness, the “real good stuff” is right on the surface, you can’t miss it.

I would also ask for people to become someone’s “good” and give them the support they need in the form they need it. If you’re like my parents or like my best friend, you’re probably most likely giving someone the remedy they need without even knowing it.

So as I heal, I’ll continue to pop as much goodness as I can, and I encourage everyone to get their hands on a dose because you never know when you’ll catch someone else’s nasty case of selfishness and insecurity. Because remember, no matter how often you wash your hands, an irrational person is a viral problem that will always get you down.