A Shady Situation

Since when does the color white come in so many shades? I have realized that I have grown up in a generation that chooses to pick apart the basics with the goal to make them as complicated as possible. Not even black is safe. We now have charcoal, graphite and ebony, all of which have different twinges of blues and grays that play games with the eyes, driving even ROY. G. BIV himself crazy.

My first run-in with the complexities of basic colors was when I began shopping for my wedding dress. I realized that I would prefer to walk down the aisle in “soft white” opposed to stark white, opposed to ivory, opposed to cream, opposed to antique white, opposed to off white, opposed to pearl, opposed to just plain ole white itself. And the best was that one manufacturer’s antique white was another’s off white and ivory in one store was considered yellow in another. It’s like every shop I went to I had to learn a new language and embrace a new color spectrum just to get what I thought would be a simple white dress.

This shady dilemma has reared its ugly head once again, but this time on our home. Looking to add a kitchen island, the hubs and I wanted to match our already existing white cabinets. Trust me, they are white. Plain white. Standard white. Nothing fancy white.

Upon cabinet shopping we were blinded by the sample of what they called a “white” finish and opted to choose the more subtle, but still VERY white, “antique white” finish. Had enough “white” yet? Well, there is more.

We just got the delivery and in the box, the cabinets looked like the perfect shade of white, but when putting them in the kitchen, our new addition looked like a dirty gym sock. How in the heck can one white be so different from another? Our new cabinets look like they have a permanent shadow cast upon them… a shadow of stupidity that is, because we should have never have trusted our color instincts.

In all reality, and you know how I like to distort it, the cabinets aren’t THAT bad… its not like they are cream or off white… whatever that means. They will soon be dressed up with a new counter top and hardware, hopefully washing some brightness into the gym sock hue creating more of a “just bleached pair of tighty whiteys” shade.

Lesson of the day? Not all colors are created equal, not even the basics. What’s one person’s white, is another one’s ivory. And if life hands you an off shade, just embrace the differences AND your kitchen's dimmer switch.

We'll Always Have a Box of Cheerios.

Breakfast for dinner. Sounds easy enough, right? Wrong.

Since getting married, I’ve been on this mission to be the best wife possible, which includes a new found dedication to preparing home cooked meals.

Before tying the knot, I refused to touch raw meat, relied on pre-washed and chopped lettuce and couldn’t tell cinnamon from cumin.

But now, I’m trimming and handling raw carnage, buying and chopping fresh veggies and have a cabinet FULL of spices that I can name by scent alone. Not to be cocky here or anything, but I’m even impressing myself as I toast sesame seeds to garnish homemade chicken teriyaki and whip up banana bread after seeing a few forgotten bananas ripening on the counter.

However, last night took the wind out of my culinary sails as I screwed up the most basic of meals: breakfast.

My husband takes great pride in his breakfast making abilities, but my wifely confidence got in the way as I shot down his offer to help me prepare the morning fare for our evening meal.

Long story short, dinner preparations turned into a comedy of errors as I over estimated the time it would take to scramble eggs and under estimated the time it would take to nuke the bacon. And not only can I not successfully flip a pancake, I apparently can’t judge when they are undercooked and prefer to serve them with goopy middles that you discover only when slice into them.

Dinner was served and so was I.

Refraining from saying, “I told you I could help,” the hubs tried to hide his disappointment as he sifted through the pancakes to find the least runny one. Embarrassed of my failure, I quickly made my plate and tried to eat around simple items that had gone horribly wrong.

After a few minutes of eating by myself, waiting for the hubs to join me, and thinking “this isn’t THAT bad,” I heard a familiar jingle of cereal filling a bowl and realized that sure, its not THAT bad… it’s REALLY bad.

I stepped into the kitchen to find the hubs stuffing his face quickly with Cheerios to avoid having me see him admit to my dinner defeat.

I learned two things from this ego-checking debacle – first, a good husband never lets you see him scrape his inedible dinner into the garbage and second, you should always have a box of Cheerios on hand just in case.

Real Men Wear Eyebrow Pencil

I was in no way a needy or pushy bride-to-be. When comparing myself to the spectrum of brides, I would like to think I fell in the green hues, where I would freak out about missing wedding invitation envelopes, but didn’t demand that my bridesmaids all dye their hair the same color. I was emotional, but not irrational. I was picky, but not demanding. I had a vision, but I was open to suggestions. Basically, I was every wedding vendors dream.

It wasn’t until my then fiancé decided to buzz his eyebrows, shedding what use to be glorious strips of hair that framed his beautiful baby blues, that I FREAKED. OUT. It was my first irrational, bridal panic worthy of a reality show taping.

Before I go any further… yes, you heard me right. My husband buzzed off his eyebrows. 39 days before our wedding.

During a phone call at work, my hubby-to-be tells me that he “trimmed” his brows and thought they looked “a lot different than usual.” Apparently he “trims” them frequently and I thought nothing of it because his eyebrows have looked the same to me for the past five years. If trimming is his secret to being so handsome, please, trim away.

So I walk into our house later that evening and approach him from behind as he’s working in our office, staring at the computer. I go to hug him and recoil in horror as he turns around showing me remnants of what use to be his eyebrows.

They were gone. Well, practically gone. He looked like the lead character in that movie Powder, minus the bald head and freaky supernatural powers.

He didn’t think they were “THAT bad,” and got so defensive telling me they would grow back and scoffed when I noted we have a similar hair color and that my eye brow pencil would be a perfect shade for him.

I spent restless nights thinking about how washed out and odd he would look in our wedding pictures. I would love him no matter what, eyebrows or no eyebrows, but if you read my last post, the one thing I wanted to run smoothly were the wedding pictures and his tango with a trimmer jeopardized our chances of having perfect photos (little did I know my 103 degree fever the day of the wedding would be a far bigger concern than missing hair.)

It was one week after the “incident” and my hairless hubby still didn’t have eyebrows. I had time to get over the situation and realized there were bigger, hairier fish to fry. We were getting ready for our bridal shower and as I was putting my makeup on, the hubs paced nervously around me and finally said, “um… you know that eyebrow pencil you were talking about? Can I see it?”

It was then that I realized that real men make stupid mistakes with a trimmer and that real men will also wear eyebrow pencil under dire circumstances. And most importantly, I learned that real men will do anything to make their wife happy. I’m so happy I married myself a real man… who, by the way, had grown back a full set of REAL eyebrows by the time we walked down the aisle.

One "HOT" Bride

Ahhhh… it’s good to be back. A lot has happened since I last posted. The most important thing to announce is that I’m officially hitched now – I bet after all my posts about the bridal madness I faced you didn’t think I’d make it down the aisle, right? Not only did I make it down the aisle, I made it down with nothing but grace, beauty and a 103 degree temperature. Yes, that’s right. I gave new meaning to the phrase “hot bride” and have come to realize that the survival potential of your marriage is promising if you truly don’t know if you’ll physically survive the wedding and question if you’ll literally come out alive.

During the madness leading up the wedding, late night seating arrangement planning coupled with a frantic work schedule and the spread of the swine flu, resulted in an illness that will put me in the bridal hall of fame.

And we’re not talking about a little “cough, cough, sniffle, sniffle.” We’re talking about a full fledged virus that put me into emergency care TWICE (the second time the day before the wedding) and equipped me with medicine that came with the warning, “if I were you, I wouldn’t take this pill and partake in any kind of champagne toast.” I was weak, I could barely speak because my throat was swollen shut and I was hotter than the serving dishes at the rehearsal dinner.

The days leading up to the wedding I realized there would be no way I’d feel physically well on the big day. I hoped that I would have a strong enough voice for my vows, I wished that my fever would go down just enough to be somewhat comfortable but I PRAYED that I would still look healthfully flawless because after all, memories will fade, but darnit, pictures get passed around for decades to come. I don’t want my great, great grandchildren asking, “why is Grandma Stejamoe so pale and sweaty in her wedding pictures? Is that what they looked like in the 2000s?”

So my main goal that day was nothing more than to turn my “fresh from the ER” look into “fresh from the spa that just happens to have on call nurses and doctors on staff” look. And may I give you a piece of advice? If you’re in a bind and need to get attention ASAP at a an emergency care center, just tell everyone that you’re “getting married tomorrow.” Not only will you be treated well before the guy who just lost a thumb or the lady who has a screw driver stuck in her eye, you’ll also get the nicest bunch of medical staff crowding your hospital bed sharing stories about their wedding and “oooh-ing’ and “ahh-ing” as you try to croak out what your flower colors are and what you’ll be serving your guests. Does it really take five nurses to get your blood pressure reading? Well, apparently when you’re talking about bridesmaid dresses, it does.

So with my new ER fan club, a hearty combination of medication and the fear of horrible wedding pictures, I sucked everything up and hoped for the best. Its now nearly 5 months later and looking back at it all, I just didn’t hope for the best, I got the best… the wedding was flawless, the groom didn’t faint, I looked HEALTHY in our pictures and we had hundreds of our friends and family surrounding us with love that day… but I made a point to make sure they weren’t surrounding us too much as I tried to tame my wedding crashing fever.

Oh, and did I mention that I was coughing so hard before I walked down the aisle in an effort to oust anything that would impede on my vows that I sprained my neck? Yeah, for the first two days of our honeymoon I couldn’t turn to look at my groom without turning my ENTIRE body. And I was in so much pain that I tried to convince the hubs that we should find a Mexican doctor to inject my neck with a muscle relaxer and that I was sure it would be safe. What a romantic honeymoon, right?!

I do get sad thinking back about how sick I felt on my wedding day, but I also think back and smile knowing that I have one heck of a story to tell. And you know how people will tell you that if it rains on your wedding day it means you’ll be rich? Well, I’d like to add another saying to the books… if you turn up in the ER the day before your wedding sick as a dog, it means you’ll have a healthy, happy marriage… or if nothing else, it means you’ll get some impeccable customer service from ER staff.

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?