Day 91: Knick Knack, Patty Wack, Give a Dog a Bone!

I'm an impulsive shopper.  Lemme re-phrase.  I'm an impulsive shopper in the grocery store.  I see it. I want it. I buy it. Simple as that.  I need to eat...and I really don't care if my Braeburn apples are 10 cents more expensive than Red Delicious...if I want Braeburn, I'll buy them. End of story. 

Which would explain how I ended up with dog bone cookie cutters.  Don't ask. I can't explain. No use trying.

Anyhoo - this little purchase came with a recipe for dog bones, and even though it called for bizarre ingredients (powdered milk, whole wheat flour, unbleached flour, corn meal, etc.)...I somehow thought it would be a good idea to be a vixen in the kitchen...and whip up a batch of...oh...say 60 dog bones.

Just for the record...dog bones aren't nearly as easy to make as they seem.  The smiling dog cartoon on the side of the box is totally deceptive.  I ended up with this doggy batter matted on my hands like a catcher's mitt...I then proceeded to gracefully wipe my face...and ended with a giant smear on my face...and when I tried to get rid of the smear...I got my hair stuck in it.  It wasn't pretty. Not in the slightest.  Then...when the instructions called for rolling out the dough...I knew I was in trouble, because I don't own a rolling pin.  lol.  Seriously...the whole thing was a mess.

But in the end...it all worked out...I have more dog biscuits than I know what to do with...

And I'm using my surplus to spread the love...by packaging them up and mailing them out in a small series of Random Acts of Kindness...and I'm excited for that.  But more than the karma points...I have a happy puppy.

  
And I'm thankful for that :)

Day 90: Check, check, check, before they chop, chop, chop

Surgery might scare the hell out of me...but it's good for one thing.  I'm getting a TON of work done.  That is...everything except this post (at least yesterday).  Sorry! I had a lot to get done! :P

Anyhoo - I have gotten a lot crossed off my epically-long to-do list.  I mean...if I do end up dying on the table, I don't want my family coming back to a messy apartment with dishes in the sink, and dust on the top of the counters (OK, the dust is still there, because let's be honest...no one can see up there)...but everything else?  Check, check, check.  And yes, I realize I'm not going to die on the table, but let's be honest...I probably won't be in much shape to do laundry, and wash windows when I'm fresh out of surgery. So...It's prompting me to get a lot done...and be uber productive.

And I'm thankful for that :)

Day 89: At Ease Yourself :P

I'm not patient.  I have a need to know things...and a need to know them...well...now (is there really any other time?).  I have a penchant for asking questions and a deeply-rooted desire to understand.  I've always enjoyed knowing what makes things tick.  I wasn't one of those people who took apart clocks as a kid, and then put them back together...but did like to understand how things work, and why they work the way they do...so I ask questions 'til I get it...and not "getting it" really isn't an option.  Guess that's what makes me a good journalist.
Because, when I don't understand, I feel like the odd man out.  I start to worry, start to overanalyze.  I read into things...I obsess.  I feel like, it shouldn't be that hard, and then I beat myself up for not getting it.  It's perfectionism at its finest...and pride...and not wanting to finish last.  Takes me back to doing multiplication worksheets in fifth grade advanced math.  Is it weird that I remember that?  Math wasn't my strong suit...never was...never has been.  Somehow, some teacher saw something in me that convinced them I was good at math (to this day, I have no idea what that was).  I only remember it being a problem when we got to fifth grade, and we were pitted against one another in these timed math drills.  It was a matter of who could answer the most questions correctly in a certain period of time.  I would have rather fallen dead at that moment than do that stupid timed test.  I hated not understanding. I hated finishing last.  I'm too competitive.

I suppose that's a fantastic attitude to have for math...but for love? It doesn't translate well.  I have a need to understand...to know what I'm getting into...to guard my heart.  I know, I know...doesn't work.  I get it.  That's partially why I decided to give up worrying for Lent.  No easy task, that's for sure...but this wouldn't be a "thankfulness" post, unless I was thankful for something, right?

I made a conscious decision to just, "Let it be."  Whatever happens, happens...and I told myself, I was just going to enjoy the ride, while I still had the chance.  Be happy now.  Worry later.  And though worry has snuck itself in along the way, things are working out fantastically well.  With each passing day, a certain someone continues to open up.  Contines to trust.  Continues to pass along certain pieces of the puzzle...and with each puzzle piece comes a little more understanding.  It puts my heart at ease...because the more I know, the more I love.

I may not have all the answers.  I may not understand everything.  And as a 26-year-old, I may still finish last in a timed math exercise...but for the first time in a long time, I feel comfortable...relaxed...at ease.

I may not have it all together, but (when we're) together, I have it all.

And I'm thankful for that :)

Day 88: My Two Cents, Whether you Want it, or Not.

It's not often that I write something profound.  Not often that I string together the right words, in the right order to touch someone's heart.  Not often that my writing has an impact.

But every now and again...my words do just that.

On a side note...that's why I got into the business.  Many people get into TV under the illusion that it's glamorous (it's not).  They get in it for the fame...for the attention...for the notoriety.  I got into TV to make a difference.  To use this job as an opportunity to make a difference in people's lives, to open their eyes, to touch their hearts.  

So, you can imagine my satisfaction when I got a 12-paragraph note from an old college friend...who just so happens to be a Marine...who just so happened to have served in Fallujah...who just so happened to be impacted by my note.  Perhaps that's not entirely accurate.  But he was touched by it enough to write me a letter back and share secrets, that I'm assuming, he hasn't shared with many people.

For that reason, I won't tell you who he is.  What I will say is I met him my sophomore year in a cafeteria full of people.  What followed, was a remarkable friendship filled with some of the goofiest and bizarre comments on his part (mild and nutty comes to mind...) and a piggy back ride across campus late one Friday night when my joints locked up and I couldn't walk.  It took us a long time to get home that night (mainly because at that point in my college career, I was a bit of a chunky monkey..and he was a bean pole)...but I knew then, his friendship was one worth keeping.  We kept in touch for awhile after MSU.  I saw on facebook that he joined the Marines, and saw again that he was being deployed.  I sent messages telling him I'd pray for him, and to come home safe, but thinking back on it now, those were hardly substantial.  This Christmas was actually the first time since college I haven't mailed him a Christmas card...and after his 12-paragraph letter, I regret it terribly.

No, my dear friend...I won't say who you are...but I will use parts of your letter.  Your words resonated with me.  Because of my leg (and the pain medication veto given to me by my doctor yesterday) I didn't sleep all night.  So, I was awake when my phone chimed to let me know I had a new e-mail, and when I saw the message was from you, I read your note with sleep-filled eyes...and I haven't stopped thinking of your words since.  They're powerful...and I think people should hear them.  I don't have much of a platform...but (for some reason) people do read this silly New Year's Resolution of mine, and I want those people to hear your story.

"It's hard to phrase, but what I'm trying to say, is I'm still a regular guy and I don't want people to think I'm crazy, but there's a bunch of little things that are, as I'm told, 'a normal reaction to an abnormal experience'."

He goes on to talk about how he watched the life drain from his best friend's eyes after he took a shot through the neck by a sniper.  How he can't stop checking the backseat of a car before he gets in.  How he gets irritated over minor things, can't sleep, and doesn't enjoy the things he once loved before he deployed.  He also shared (what to him has been) a dark secret...he has PTSD.  He said he doesn't normally tell people that, because he's afraid at how they'll take it...and that just breaks my heart.  I'm no veteran. Shoot, I'm no soldier, but it appears to me that the war continues long after the battle field.  That, those that are lucky enough to make it home, still have a long fight in front of them.

It's a mixture of ignorance and pride (hear me out).  Ignorance on behalf of people back home...and pride of soldiers who are trained to be too tough to break down and speak up (Can't say that I blame them, it's just an observation...and one that my friend echoes perfectly.)

"I really think a lot of these images SHOULD be seen, by everyone. This sheltering of graphic images really does make it seem like it's all happening in some magically far-away land.  It's very real.  Those of us that came home all in one piece, still deal with enough problems that it could be a full-time job."

It breaks my heart.  It hurts that he was going through all of this, and I had no idea.  And it hurts to think of how many thousands more are fighting the same struggles...as I sit in my nice, warm house, with my nice job, and my nice, peaceful, naive existence.  ::sigh::

He goes on to say how he felt underappreciated when he got home.  That the majority of the support is lip service, and as shallow as some of the examples I mentioned in my post.  He says the VA is woefully underfunded, yet is given the task of fighting one of the largest untold demons of our military men and women -- PTSD.

All I can say is...my heart aches for you.  I've always been one of those people who wants to walk up to a vet and say, "Thank you so much for your service," when I see them in the airport, or in line at McDonald's, or after an interview...but I can never find the words.  I never know what to say so I don't sound cheesy.  That will change.  Your words have given me perspective, and I'm thankful for that.  Your story (or what little I know of it) inspires me.  It motivates me to give back, to advocate for change, to use my little soap box to help in whatever way I can.

I'm thankful for your letter, for the "two cents" you said you weren't sure that I wanted (for the record...I did, and I still do).  I'm thankful for your multitude of sacrifices.  I'm thankful for your bravery.  Thankful that you had the guts to do what so few people are brave enough to do.  I'm thankful that you fought for my freedom, and I'm thankful that you came back alive.  I'm thankful that you trusted me with your story.  Thankful for the perspective it gave me.  I'm thankful to have met you 8 years ago (seriously? 8? we're getting old) in the Landon cafeteria.  Thankful that you were eating by yourself, and brave enough to talk to strangers.  I'm thankful that you randomly decided to talk to some chunky girl sitting one table over...and I am thankful, and incredibly, incredibly PROUD to still call you a friend today.

And that's just my two cents...whether you want it, or not... :)

Day 87: Home of the Free, Because of the Brave

A lot of my posts are military-related lately.  Can't help it.  Looks like you'll be riding the Sarah-Patriotic-Bandwagon for awhlie ;)  If you don't like it...find another blog to read :P

The War in Afghanistan started on October 7, 2001.  We invaded Iraq on March 20, 2003.  As of February 20th of this year...5,885 people have died in both of those wars (4,424 in Operation Iraqi Freedom, and 1,461 in Operation Enduring Freedom).  Each one of them has a story.  How often do you hear it?  How often does that flag at half staff mean something?  (side note: This website (http://projects.washingtonpost.com/fallen/) does a good job of giving a face to the fallen).  How often do you think of the very sacrifices being made on your behalf (by complete and total strangers) just so you can be?  How often do we (as Americans) come face to face with the real cost of war (beyond the trillions of dollars and some odd cents)? 

Not often enough.

We're not entirely to blame.  I'm not here to stand atop a soapbox and be all "holier than thou," because I can assure you, I am far from that.  I don't think Americans are entirely to blame for their inability to fully grasp the magnitude of sacrifices being made on their behalf.  For starters, if you're not from a military family, or know someone who is...you're not exposed to it.  And technically, even if you are...many soldiers (my grandfather included) would rather go back into battle than talk about what they experienced and what they saw.  And if you don't know anyone in the military...the real story of what's going on over there...gets lost somewhere in the ocean.  I'm not going to blame the media, because I don't think it's entirely our fault (like how I said "our" there?).  We can only dissseminate the information that we're given, and that doesn't include shots of hundreds of flag-draped caskets coming back, or graphic video of gore and guts from inside a military hospital or on the battle field.  To be honest, I'm not sure most people would want to see those images.  I think many people are happy living within their bubble...being complacent with what's going on over there, absorbed in their own lives back home...and caught in the daily grind.  Yes, people will fly a flag in their yard, they'll go to the Fourth of July parade, and say a passing prayer for those brave men and women...but I think too often the true reality of the situation seems so remote and distant.

Today, it was dropped right in my lap.

I went to go visit (a very sleepy) Jonny.  He has some DVD set of lost WWII video remastered in High Def.  It was on when I got there.  Then again...a lot of war stuff is playing when I come over.  I'm not much of a history buff.  I wouldn't know a U-boat from sailboat (ok, that's a lie...haha), but my knowledge of current and former world conflicts and war is...well, rather limited.  As I've said before on here, I put bandaids on paper cuts...so the concept of watching someone get blown up into pink mist with a grenade...well....regardless of whether it's real (gross) or created by the magic of editing and technology (cool, but still gross), isn't something my eyes (or stomach) can handle.  I turn away at parts of Grey's Anatomy for Pete's sake!...so that hardly qualifies me to watch graphic war videos.

But today... I didn't have a choice...because Jonny put it on, Jonny passed out (into a deep state of snoring goodness), and Sarah had no idea what to do next....because Sarah didn't know how to work the TV.  So I watched two hours of lost war footage from WWII.  And I'll admit...I got sucked in.  I felt connected to the soldiers whose stories were being shared, connected to the nurses, and the families they both left behind.  I saw people get shot, and bombs explode.  I watched as cameras panned over dozens of dead bodies...bodies getting washed ashore...bodies missing limbs...bodies that were badly burned or decapitated.  I looked on as eyes went lifeless.  Looked at video of civilian casualties and injured children who suffered an unthinkable fate, by virtue of their proximity to a Nazi stronghold.  I cried.  (Are you surprised?)  I cried a few times actually.  I cried thinking, not only of the life that was lost...but at the thought that if so many Americans continue to be so disconnected from war, and so far removed from its realities, that that life (and so many others) may be lost in vain.

I cried. Jonny snored.

May we never forget...that freedom isn't free.  May we never forget that we're in the land of the free, because of the brave.  May we never forget the thousands of soldiers who left home to fight for our freedom and never come back...or the soldiers who came back, but will never be the same again.  May we never forget the nurses and medical personnel who see things far more horrific than any movie, and far more long-lasting.  May we never forget the thousands of military parents, who have watched as their babies marched off to war...or the military spouses/lovers whose arms (and beds) remain empty for the freedom of others...or the military children who have had to deal with something far beyond their years.

For ALL of the sacrifices that have been made...and all of the sacrifices that will be made on my behalf, and on behalf of the ones I love...I'm entirely grateful.

Words don't even scratch the surface.

Day 86: Worry, Worry, Worry

I'm a third-generation worrier.  My mother worries so much, I swear the woman has ulcers.  And my grandma?  Forget it.  She makes my mom's worrying look like child's play.

They'd worry that you weren't dressed well enough for the weather, that you didn't have enough food on your plate, that you had too much food on your plate, that you weren't wearing enough sunscreen under your winter coat, that that little birthmark on your head was actually a ravenous brain tumor in its infantile stages.  They'd worry that your runny nose was pneumonia, that a little in-flight turbulance was a sure sign of engine failure.  They'd worry you'd get kidnapped at the mall, that you'd lose your hand if you stuck it out the window of a moving car, or if you made that face...it really would freeze that way.  They worried...a lot.  About everything.

It drove me nuts growing up.  Absolutely insane.  I couldn't get into a pool without waiting a half hour after I ate, with floaties on every limb, and thoroughly shellacked in an inch of sunscreen.  I couldn't cross the street without wearing an orange safety vest, alerting the media, and looking both ways 55 times ("On second thought," said mom, "Why don't I just look for you that there aren't any cars coming?").   NUTS, I tell you.  NUTS.

I always told myself I would never be that way.  That I was ready and willing to resemble those women in a litany of ways...even the less-than-flattering ones (I was going to list a few funny ones...haha, but thought better of it ;) haha), but I refused to be a worrier.

I stood defiant.  Did all sorts of things that made my mom break into a sweat.  I rode horses when she was convinced I was going to get a concussion (never did that, but I did break my tailbone).  I got my belly pierced in a foreign country (by a man that didn't speak English) when I wasn't up to date on my shots (in my defense, my best friend did it too).  And I hopped inside of a 12-foot by 12-foot "Globe of Death", letting two motorbikes zoom around me in circles with cameras rolling.

Haha, Worry!  I DEFY YOU.

Or....uh...not.

Because somewhere along the line, "nature" and "nurture" gave me a one-two punch and knocked me on my behind...firmly implanting that worry and concern I spent the better portion of my life despising.
Some of my worries are normal.  I'm worried I won't say the right thing at the right time.  Worried that I'm over (or under) dressed.  Worried that my hair doesn't look OK (specifically my bangs -- because usually they don't).  I'm worried about how to pay the bills, how much longer I'll have with my beloved Janie, if I "fit in", or the all important...will I ever find a man that's foolish enough to marry me?  I mean seriously...

Other worries? Not so normal.  I'm secretly worried that the doctor will botch my surgery, I'll wake up with a leg that's amputated below the knee, and I'll spend the rest of my life trying to get used to a prosthetic limb.  And how do you look sexy in a short dress with a prosthesis?  I wasn't worried about dying in the middle of surgery, until my pre-surgery questionnaire asked me if I had a will prepared, which led me to start thinking, how I definitely didn't have a will prepared, and who would take care of Janie?  Would I have to start screening potential adoptive puppy parents now?  I'm not sure I really have time for that...and what would that mean for Janie?

And right now? I'm worried that all seven of you that are reading this (like how I didn't say two this time?) aren't laughing at all, and are secretly thinking to yourself..."Oh my goodness, this girl's a total freak."

It doesn't get any easier with relationships.  Especially new ones.  I worry that I call too much, and then when I pull back, I'm worried I'm not calling enough.  I'm worried to say how I feel, or not even that...I guess I'm more worried at how they'll react to what I have to say, or how it'll make them feel.  I'm nervous to let my guard down, worried that I'm not good enough, worry that I smother too much, that I'm not skinny enough, not pretty enough, that my boobs aren't big enough...that I'm not a good enough kisser.  And in the most recent instance, with my beloved Jonny, I'm worried about what's going to happen when he deploys, if he'll still care, if he'll still love me, if we can survive a year.  I'm worried about what's going to happen, and praying with all my might that it'll work out the way that I want it to.

It's funny -- because I can identify the problem.  I can see myself worrying about silly things (like what color my uniform will be when I lose my leg and join the Special Olympics), and tell myself it's silly to look that far out and worry about something that's not likely to happen.  I can see when other people worry, and give amazing advice on how to relax, settle down, and just let it be.  Yet I can't seem to adhere to my own advice.

That's where Lent comes in.  I gave up worrying (and chocolate).  I pretty much knew that I was going to break one of them at least once, so as a Catholic (who feels nothing but guilt for just about everything), I decided to give up two things as a safety net.  The chocolate was for my waistline (and because I nearly killed a few people when I gave up pop last year), and the worrying was for Jonny.

Love isn't about finding the perfect person. It's about finding the imperfect person perfect.  I'm trying to make things a little easier by getting rid of (at least one of) those imperfections.  But let's be honest...do I really have that many to begin with? (ha! Kidding...TOTALLY kidding).  He makes me want to be a better person, and I'm working hard to make myself into that better person.  It may have taken me 26 years...but I found my inspiration...to shed the worry...one layer at a time...realize that I'm powerless in this universe...throw my hands up in the air...surrender...and just let whatever will be...be.

Because worrying about it won't change the outcome...it'll just annoy your kids, and turn a 3rd-generation worry wart into the mother of a 4th-generation worry wart.

But the cycle stops here, folks (at least until Easter).

I've turned a new leaf...and I'm thankful for that :)

Day 85: Blue Light Special...

This post is going to be one of the largest backwards compliments I've ever given...so...please read to the end.  And don't judge me. :P

By my own admission, I am a mama Grizzly Bear.  I'm a tough nut to crack with a soft, gooey center.  But once I let that wall down and let you in...you're golden.  There's nothing I wouldn't do for you.  Of course, the flip side to that is, if you hurt me once I let you in, it's a hurt that's harder to forgive.  Ok, enough psycho-analysis.  Moral of the story is...I love my friends like family...and will gladly stand beside them on a sinking ship (let's be honest here...I am a pretty good swimmer).

Which means, if someone's crossed you...they've crossed me too.  If someone's yelling at you...I'll yell louder.  If someone wants to pick a fight, well, let's be honest...I'll run the other way, and curl up in the fetal position (ha!) But if it's a verbal fight?  I'll write some checks my mouth can't cash and go down swinging.

So how does the wonderful Ms. Kristin Martin fall into play here you ask?  Because when I met her...I was playing the part of Mama Grizzly.  For one reason or another, my friend didn't like her (silly boys), and out of support for my then-friend, I didn't give her a chance.  I wasn't mean to her...I just didn't give it any effort.  I refused to see the good, and reserved my position on that sinking ship next to my dear old friend.

But that's the thing.  It was a sinking ship.  The hatred was unfounded.  The disgust was unjustified.  And there came a point, where all the beautiful things I saw in her...could no longer be shadowed by an Eeyore cloud of negativity.

In short?  It was time for Mama Grizzly to come out of her den...and open her eyes.

And when I did (I sure hope you're still reading this Kristin, or this will all be for naught...), I found a fantastic friend.  She's as sweet as she is kind.  She's funny, considerate and caring.  We have newsroom songfests and dance parties ("It's Friday, Friday...).  She makes me giggle, has the best snacks in the newsroom, is a fantastic cook (or so I hear every time she leaves for a dinner break - gah!), and she has a bit of the Mama Grizzly in her too.  She fights for the little man, stands up for what's right, and helps build people up.  She's a remarkable listener, quick with a hug, and always has fantastic advice.  More than a co-worker, she's a friend...and I'm glad I looked past the jealous rage of an old friend (who I haven't heard from in nearly 6 months, mind you...), to give her a chance.

I took a chance, made up my mind for myself, opened my eyes and opened my heart, and made a fantastic friend.  And I can honestly say my life (and my weekends) are a little more special for having her in it.

And I'm thankful for that.