I did something out of the norm the other day.  Something I hadn't done in years.  I bought a copy of Vogue magazine.  And not just any issue.  I bought the September issue of Vogue. 

The September issue of Vogue is traditionally the largest and most important of the year.  It's usually super thick and showcases major advertising. 

As a fashion major in college, I remember anxiously awaiting the arrival of the September issue to hit the magazine racks, and when it did I'd be one of the first to have a copy.  I'd carry it around in my college book bag, next to my other textbooks for the entire fall semester.  Seeing how it was the same size as most of my textbooks, it blended right in.

I'd use it not only as a reference guide for class and life, but the pages of The September Issue would also be inspiration for any mood board I was to create that semester. 

It wasn't until after I had graduated from college that the documentary The September Issue came out.  It follows editor- in-chief Anna Wintour and the staff of Vogue as they produce the 2007 September issue of Vogue.  (Last time I checked, it was still on Netflix.)   Seeing how the issue was produced brought it all home, and shows why it's the most anticipated issue of the year. 

Sadly I hadn't bought a fashion magazine in years, so when I was standing in the checkout line and spotted the ever-famous September issue of Vogue, I splurged.  Unlike when I was in my 20's, it will now take me until January to get through it's 800 pages. 
Maybe for a few minutes each day, I can pretend I'm a twenty-something with nothing else to do but flip through a fashion magazine and study the current trends.  It will literally have to be a few minutes each day since others demand my attention these days. 

On a side note, I realize I haven't been up to speed on the fashion front lately, but are the Jenners literally everywhere these days?  Kendall and Kylie are in every add for every designer. 

When I was growing up, there was an old abandoned building that sat adjacent to my parents' property.  The building was probably once some kind of neighborhood grocery store or something, but it had sat empty for as long as I could remember.  One summer, it was purchased and converted into a small one room church.  There was never a huge crowd attending this church, probably a dozen or so during "services." 

Not long after this church was established, we learned that their goal was to bring the Word of God to their neighbors.  Near and far.  It might sound legit at first.  Isn't that what most churches strive to do?  But this particular church, the one only separated from our backyard by a shotgun house and a wooden privacy fence, decided to hang big speakers to the outside of their building broadcasting their every church service to the neighborhood. 

Now, I love Jesus. But I don't need to hear a monotone sermon followed by off-key monotone singing blaring loudly as I try to float in the backyard pool.  So night after night (they seemed to have church a lot) we would listen to the hymns as we swam in our pool.

What made this little church even more problematic was that the song choices were always about blood.  Jesus' blood.  Power in the blood.  Are you washed in the blood?  Covered by the blood.  Nothing but the blood of Jesus.   

I had grown up in church and had heard all of these hymns sung over and over, and when I was older realized what the blood of Jesus meant.  But for crying out loud.  Every song? 

To make it even creepier the "song leader" who led the congregation in these bloody songs (and apparently had a microphone that fed right to the outside speakers) was a creepy songster who made the songs about blood all that much more eerie.  Have you ever heard "The Memory Remains" by Metallica?  You know the slightly unsettling vocals throughout the song (sung by Marianne Faithfull -- I Googled it)?  That's what this voice sounded like.  Day in and day out.

There were several calls to the police, and my dad threatened to go cut the wire to the speakers, but the blood music would play on.  It got to the point to where every time we had a pool party, Blood Church would start up the choir and start singing about blood.  We'd try to drown them out with my dad's stereo (which also had outside speakers), blasting the grunge music of the 90's. But to no avail.

They even tried to out-song us during a pool party we were hosting for the youth group at our church, oddly enough. 

My mom used to joke that they were over there "handling snakes" in the make-shift church.  I know exactly what they were doing.  Annoying the hell out of me.  No pun intended. 

After that summer, the church finally went silent.  I don't know if they relocated or if the congregation got tired of singing about blood.  I never heard another monotone song about blood after that. 

As I sat in church this past Sunday, with the praise band playing an upbeat, peppy version of "There Is Power In The Blood," I was suddenly back in high school, floating in my parents' pool, listening to my jams.....then abruptly startled by a Marianne Faithfull-type voice singing Are You Washed In The Blood? 

I guess those hymns will never ever be the same to me again.  Ever. 

This blog post has been in the works for a while and I'd hesitated even writing it because it's kind of personal.  I decided to go ahead and share it for all of those women out there who sometimes feel discouraged and resentful of their circumstances.  I love my life, but every now and then I get angry when I think about how difficult things are for us sometimes.  I literally have to take a step back and think about how I got here and how it was God's plan all along for me to be in this moment right now.
For most of my 20's, I wanted to be a career woman.  In fact, I wasn't even sure I wanted to have kids for a while, and if I did decide to have them I wanted to have a successful career in place first.  My mom was a working mom and I knew that's what I'd do eventually too once I had my ideal career and perfect circumstances.

My college graduation, wedding to Jason, and move to St. Louis all happened within a month's time.  Since I was coming off of a stressful last year of school on top of wedding planning, we (actually I) decided I would take about a month off before really hunting for a job.  When my month was up, I started researching what kind of jobs I was interested in and started applying.  I kept a very organized binder full of jobs I wanted to apply for, ones I had applied for, and ones that had responded back with a yes or no.  I started applying for jobs and sending out resumes and cover letters.

I was actually surprised when no one responded back.  It was literally like that movie Post Grad ("but I'm a college graduate!").  Before long, I started lowering my standards and applying for jobs that I didn't really want.  I got several interviews and a few second interviews.  All of my interviewers said the same thing, "We really like you, we'll call you this week with our final answer."  I never got another call from any of them and when I called them I was placed on hold.  Every.  Single.  Time.  I was beginning to think St. Louis was full of liars.  I started getting rejected for jobs I was over qualified for.  I was told I "wasn't ready" for jobs that were exactly what I had a degree in.  One popular and trendy retail store manager had all but officially handed me the paper work hiring me, when the general manager turned up her nose and told me I wasn't right for the job.

When my binder was too full to add any more papers in to it (all full on the rejection side), I threw the whole thing out and took another break.  It had been two years since I had graduated from college and not a single person in all of St. Louis wanted to hire me.  My self-esteem took a major blow that it took me a while to come back from.  I went through a phase where I would roll out of bed at noon, move to the couch, and not get up again until bedtime.  I watched daytime TV and thought about how pathetic I was.

After a while, I started applying for jobs again and was finally hired part-time at a local boutique, where it became clear I was never going to advance in my career.  I would always stay exactly where I was there.  Thankfully I landed a job at a non-profit company a couple of years later and left the boutique job.  I loved my current job and was hoping to advance in my career there, but that wasn't meant to be either.

I remember being pregnant and sobbing as I researched online for day care providers.  I wasn't sure I was going to be able to leave my baby somewhere while I went to work.  I knew people did it every day, but I felt like I hadn't even met my baby yet and I was already preparing to hand her over to someone I didn't know.  I was really having a hard time with the day care decision, when at about 7 months pregnant, I found out that budget cuts at work would lead to my hours being cut way back after the first of the year.  My hours were going to be cut so much, that it didn't make sense to even try to find child care or worry about making the drive to a job that I now knew for sure would never advance my career any further.  So, after I had Katherine I made the tough decision to leave that job behind.

Over the next year, I had an epiphany.  God knew all along that I would have a hard time leaving Katherine and going to work.  While I was preparing for my career, God was preparing me to be Katherine's mother.  He knew all along that I would stay home with her.  There was no reason for me working any of those jobs I applied for and thought I wanted because I was meant to do this.  Those first few years were so painful and full of rejection, but they had to happen to bring me to this point.

I don't know what the future holds and I don't know if or when I'll work again, or what I'll even do for work.  I do know that for the first time in my adult life, I feel like I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be right now.  I love being with Katherine each day, I love making scarves for customers on Etsy, and I love writing this blog.  We may not have the money we used to, but being home with Katherine makes me feel fulfilled in a way I never imagined.

I've learned that making your own plans and waiting on them to happen, could mean you're missing out on some of God's precious blessings.  I wasn't meant to be a career woman, at least not yet, but I was meant to be Katherine's mom.  And that's the best job I could have.    

It's no secret around our house that Katherine loves music.  We played our favorite musicians for her pretty much as soon as she was born.  She took to some music, while completely rejecting others.  Some voices would calm her right down when she was upset,  and one of those voices that seemed to soothe her was David Nail.  This pleased her father because David is one of his favorites, and needless to say Jason would always play his music for Katherine.  When Katherine was still very small, David performed on the David Letterman Show, which we DVR'ed to watch later.  We played the performance for Katherine on the TV, and were surprised to find her mesmerized.  She was now able to visually recognize David (Nail not Letterman), and know his voice.

We tried showing Katherine other artists, but she would always be uninterested.  So, she grew up listening to "Whatever She's Got," and will come running from what ever room she's in to see or hear David (pronounced "Debit" in Katherine language).  Soon she learned the lyrics, which we thought was super cute until she started referring to the song as "blue jeans painted on tight" (the chorus from the song).  One day I found her in her playroom alone, with her wooden microphone belting out "blue jeans painted on yight.....I won I won I won whatever she's caught."  She loves to sing it, so I'm sure the church nursery workers have heard her rendition of this song and wondered what on Earth she's been listening to.  Oops.  I guess it could be so much worse.  I remember singing along with Garth Brooks as a six year old singing, "I'm much too young to feel this damn old."

If you were to ask her what singers she liked, she'd tell you Taylor Swift ("Tayer"), David Nail ("Debit"), and Anna and Elsa from Frozen ("Anna Elsa First Time in Forever Frozen" can you guess what her favorite Frozen song is?).  It was slightly less embarrassing when she learned the words to Taylor Swift's "Shake It Off."  I started letting her listen to Taylor because of her peppy, catchy songs, and the fact that I didn't see Taylor going off the deep end like other young song birds.  (Taylor, I'm watching you.  Don't screw this up for me.)

So at any given time, you may hear my child belt out "haters gonna hate hate hate," "blue jeans painted on tight," or any one of the Frozen songs.  I quickly learned my lesson by the time she showed interest in "All About That Bass," and promptly put an end to listening to that song.  And, after watching the Super Bowl halftime show, Katherine had a new interest in Katy Perry.  Being a fan myself, I embraced it with ever so much caution.  We only listen to a couple of her songs just to appease the audience, but omitting the songs with questionable lyrics (which are most of her songs but I digress).

I just mentioned to Jason the other day, how I almost dread the day Katherine joins the preschool choir because I'm afraid she'll think she's entitled to all solos, even when there aren't any solos to be distributed.  She'll insist on hogging the microphone, and maybe even start her own verse of "blue jeans painted on tight" in the middle of Jesus Loves Me.  

I guess we'll cross that bridge when we get there.  In the meantime, Katherine's Mimi has offered to give her piano lessons as soon as they get their new house in order.  Good luck Mimi.

One day back in September, I was browsing away on my iPhone when I noticed that I wasn't connected to wifi.  I was at home at the time and my phone always automatically connected to our wifi when I was at home.  I went to double check the connection when I noticed that the wifi button on my phone was "greyed out."  It physically wouldn't let me connect to wifi.  A little while later, I recieved a text message saying I had used up all of my data for the current billing cycle.  No kidding.  I had been unknowingly using up my data for days probably.

Upon further research I learned that a lot of phones like mine had had problems with the wifi chip inside the phone after the phone was updated to the current software.  I read tons of complaints online on the Apple chat boards how phones weren't working properly for no reason and out of the blue.  I also found several videos on how you could temporarily "fix" this wifi problem, most of which seemed a little crazy (putting your phone in the freezer, applying heat using a hair dryer, etc.).

I searched online for answers.  I even went to both my cellphone carrier and the Apple Store, neither of which were helpful.  I will say Apple was the least helpful of all, but that's a whole extra story.

Anyway.

About a month after the wifi stopped working forever, I noticed that my on/off button on my phone was permanently in the "off" position.  Though my phone was on, I could no longer turn my phone off, or restart it.  Anyone who has a smartphone knows that occasionally you have to restart your phone for whatever reason, so not being able to do so led to a whole new set of issues.

Before long, my apps stopped working.  And my voicemails never came through.  And finally (and this one stung the most), my text messages stopped working.  My phone was now just, a phone.  To make calls.

Every possible solution to my phone dilemma that I found online said the same thing:  Step 1 Restart your phone.  

Thanks, but I can't do that.

For a total of five months, my phone wasn't working properly for one reason or another.  I know.  First world problems.  But when you count on your phone for your business, not to mention your daily life, it's a hard pill to swallow when your "smart" phone is no longer that smart.

So, I got into the habit of manually checking my emails and messages and left my phone setting on the kitchen counter.  I found ways to do things online that I used to do from a handheld device.  Did you know you can post to Instagram from a laptop computer?  Well you can.  It doesn't always work and you can't use hashtags in the captions, but you can.

And poor Jason.  I complained a lot.    

Before long, I was getting used to setting my phone down and not looking at it again for hours (but yet the battery still drained super fast....what gives).  It was actually liberating.  I wasn't distracted by it and was able to focus on Katherine and family life.

My phone upgrade finally came due and I took it.  Happily.  I now have a brand new phone.  The latest model.  It's glorious.  I forgot how easy it was do things from your phone instead of hunting down a tablet or logging on to a laptop.

While it would be super easy to go back to my old ways of distraction by iPhone, I'm trying to keep my same habits that I had while my phone wasn't working.  I try to not constantly be checking my phone when I'm supposed to be spending time with my family.  It's hard.  We live in an age where everything is instant.  We want to look up something, or answer a text, or check an email, or browse social media now.

Ironically enough, the hardest part of breaking this smartphone habit is when I want to Google something.  As Katherine and I were watching Sophia The First, I knew one of the characters' voices sounded so familiar.  I wanted to grab my phone and look up who it was.  I refrained until later when Katherine was down for her nap.  It was Bonnie Hunt.  Bonnie Hunt is the voice of "Aunt Tilly."

Who knew my broken phone would actually be teaching me a valuable lesson:  Put your phone down more often and complain less often.

But it's still way better to have a phone that works.  I think I'll post something to Instagram.

Aaaaaaaaand done.

It was one of those days.

Earlier in the day, Katherine's new fascination with the toilet had led her to open the lid, lean in, and splash around like she was at the freaking wading pool.  This resulted in an unexpected mid-morning bath for her, and an unanticipated bathroom cleaning.

At lunch, she spotted me getting her Minnie Mouse plate out of the cabinet, and when I tried to explain to her that it would be another 3.5 minutes until her lunch was ready for consumption, she flung herself to the floor and kicked and screamed so loud that the dogs quickly fled the room.  Apparently when her plate is visible, her lunch should be promptly presented to her.  Photo proof of said incident:

Later, I decided maybe getting out of the house for a minute would be good for us.  I needed to go to Hobby Lobby to pick up a few things, so we headed out.  As we entered Hobby Lobby, Katherine quickly let me know that she wanted to walk and that riding in the cart would be out of the question on this particular day.  Because I only needed two items, I let her walk.  She was actually very good until we got in line to check out and she informed me that she wasn't ready to stop walking.  Standing still in line was not going to happen.  So I held a wiggling toddler in my arms as I paid for my two items and off we went.

Our local Hobby Lobby is next door to a Lifeway Christian Bookstore.  I had gotten a Lifeway giftcard for Christmas and found a book that I wanted to get, so we took a walk over to Lifeway, which Katherine seemed to enjoy.  She held my hand politely as we entered the store.  She held my hand politely as we moved through the sections of the bookstore.  When I couldn't find the book I was looking for on the shelf (that the website had said this particular location had in stock), she held my hand politely as we walked to the front of the store and asked the cashier if the book was in stock.  Katherine held my hand politely as we walked back through the bookstore with the cashier to find my book, which happened to not be in stock (thanks internet).  As we were rounding the corner to leave the store, Katherine spotted the toy section.  We walked over and proceeded to look at the children's books and toys.  When Katherine realized that we were not going to be taking any of the books or toys home, another tantrum ensued.  She refused to stand up and proceeded to roll around on the floor making a scene.  I finally got her to her feet and tried to walk her towards the door.  By the way Lifeway, who's idea was it to put the glass shelving displaying the breakable collectibles right beside the children's area?  Because right as we were moving through "breakable land" to get to the door, Katherine broke free my grip and flung her arms knocking over a glass knickknack, which then knocked over one of those Willow Tree figurines.

"Oh, S**t!"

It came out before I had time to process it.  I was in a Christian bookstore for crying out loud.  Luckily, the store was empty except for us and the one cashier, who had gone to the back to look for inventory for a customer on the phone.  Good.  I don't think anyone heard me.  I picked up the luckily not broken items, set them back up, scooped up my rowdy child, and we were out the door.

We hustled to the car, where an elderly woman watched judgingly as I tried to get my tantrum-throwing toddler into her carseat.

Of course Katherine was a perfect angel by the time Daddy came home later.  Luckily I had taken the photo earlier of the tantrum in the kitchen to show as proof.

Some days are easy.  Some days are hard.  Some days you cuss out loud inside a Christian bookstore.

If you read this post, then you know that we recently added some fish to our outdoor pond.  You may also know that it took over a week for me to actually be sure that the fish survived in their new home.

Aaaaaaaaaanway...

Our fish were thriving and growing....huge.  Katherine and I would go out and watch them swim every afternoon.  On Wednesday, as we were going inside, I noticed the larger of the two fish was trying to pull a "Finding Nemo" and swim into the filter.  I quickly turned the pump off, only to realize that our "little" guy was stuck head first in the filter.

I grabbed the fish net and tried to free him but couldn't, watching helplessly as his limp tail swayed in the water.  I ran and told Jason about the possible fatality, only to return to see the fish had not only freed himself, but was swimming....barely.

He was injured, but continued to swim.  We watched as his breathing slowed, and his fins barely moved.

We stood over the pond watching.  The smaller of the two fish kept swimming in circles around the injured fish.  He was worried about his buddy.  It was so sad.

I stood over the pond yelling.  "LIVE!"

"KEEP SWIMMING!" (You're welcome for the second Finding Nemo reference.)

I'm sure the neighbors thought I was crazy.  I threw some extra fish food into the pond, hoping the extra food would keep him healthy.  We eventually went back inside, and I just knew when I came back out later our fish would be dead.  I was so worried about the healthy fish that I went that afternoon and bought two more fish just in case the injured fish died.  I didn't want Healthy Fish to be alone with the "corpse."

The next morning as I let the dogs out, I hesitantly made my way to the pond to check on our fish.  I found all four fish swimming happily through the water.  Even our injured fish was swimming like nothing had happened.  I couldn't believe it.

When I told Jason the good news, his response was "I'm sure glad I didn't go out there and end his suffering like I going to."

A day later, we found one of our new fish lifeless.  Poor guy.  I was in the middle of the first verse of Amazing Grace when Jason scooped him up and flung him over the fence into the bushes.  So much for Fish's memorial service.


 

We were dogless for almost a whole week.  We had to leave Callie and Sammie in Kennett this week.  Why? you may ask.  Well let me tell you.  Caution:  Don't read this while eating.

We made a trip to Kennett earlier this week to visit family and go pumpkin picking.  On Sunday, Callie started getting sick.  It started with stomach trouble during the day and ended up lasting through the night.  She was restless all night long, constantly getting out of bed and wanting to go outside.  Not to be too graphic, but she had explosive poop, ending in having to have a bath every time she came in from going out.  Gross. 

I wasn't too concerned at first because both dogs usually end up with some sort of stomach trouble while we're in Kennett, due to a change in diet and lots of table food.  It typically lasts about a day and then it passes.  Callie was up all night Sunday night and on Monday her stomach troubles seemed to continue.  On Monday night, in addition to Callie's messy bowels, Sammie started throwing up.  Both dogs were up all night.  It was awful.  We had decided they had just had too much to eat while in Kennett, and once we got them home and on their normal food again they would be fine.  Worst case scenario, we would take them to the vet when we got home. 

So Tuesday we loaded up the car to head home.  Sammie was in the back seat with Katherine and Callie was riding up in the front on my lap.  We thought we'd play it safe and put a towel on my lap for Callie to lay on.  Just in case.  We had probably driven 12 miles out of town in the pouring rain when we heard Sammie tossing her cookies in the backseat.  We stopped at a gas station to clean her up.  Once Sammie was cleaned up we got back in the car and started again.  We had barely pulled out onto the road when Sammie tossed her cookies again, this time on herself, the chair she was sitting in, the floor, and into the diaper bag.  We pulled off the road again, into the parking lot of a Pizza Hut.  I quickly jumped out of the car, only to land in ankle deep standing water.  My shoes were officially done.  As I was holding the umbrella for Jason while he cleaned Sammie up, Callie rolled down the passenger side window, letting rain pour into the car.  She then crawled over the center console to take a huge watery dump in the driver's seat, all while Katherine watched from her car seat.

Something was obviously wrong, and trying to deal with it in the pouring rain in the parking lot of a Pizza Hut was not working out.  I called the person who always knows what to do, Mom.  When my parents finally showed up, we were soaked and sitting in a fowl smelling car that now needed to be professionally detailed.  Jason decided it would be better to send the dogs back to Kennett with my parents, so they could get to the vet.  We also didn't want doggie sickness to get on or near our 7 month old.  My parents graciously loaded up my poor sick babies into their towel and trash bag covered truck and headed back to Kennett and we headed back north.  I felt terrible for abandoning them, but I wasn't sure how I was going to care for both of them while taking care of Katherine, all while Jason was working. 

It turns out Callie and Sammie had tummy trouble due to eating grass and probably other randomness found in the yard.  Sammie is having back issues which also contribute to her stomach aches.  They were given shots and drugs to take home.  My parents nursed them back to health all week.  On Saturday, my parents brought them up to us.  I made pumpkin shaped dog cookies for their homecoming. 
We're so happy to have them home, happy and healthy.  We're even more glad that we're not still stuck in the pouring rain outside of a Pizza Hut with two sick dogs. 

Everyone loves a pregnant person.  Especially random ladies who want to offer advice and suggestions.  The more pregnant I get, the more pregnant I look, and the more people comment on my belly.  People have trouble making eye contact with me because they're looking at my stomach.  I had heard that this happens, but I'm almost getting to the point to where I don't want to go anywhere, including work.

At work I constantly get the same comments:
"When are you due?"
"What are you having?"
"Is this your first?"  (Insert "you're in for it" look here.)
"Do you have a name picked out?"
"You're too small."
"You're really big.  Are you sure you're not due until March."  (I'm sure.  Thanks.)
"Will you help me carry this to my car?"  (No.  Freak.)
"Oh I had an awful delivery.  Let me tell you all about it...."

When I'm out in public, I get the same questions, just less invasive.  That is, until this past week.

I was out and about, visiting my favorite resale shops in town.  I was browsing around one store, minding my own business when an older lady wearing a Christmas shirt (in January) noticed me.  I saw her watching and knew what was coming.  She asked when I was due, what I was having, was this my first child...the usual.  Then she walked over closer and started telling me about local helplines and nurse hotlines that could help me.  She began to tell me not to be scared and it would be fine.  Did I have parents in town to help me?  I'll need help with the baby.  There are hotlines for that too.  I could try the pregnancy crisis center.  Have I applied for WIC yet?  She then listed the items I could receive for free through WIC.  Did she think I was a teenager?  She definitely thought I was an unwed young mother.  I took my hands out of my pocket to reveal that I was in fact wearing a wedding ring.  This didn't phase her apparently.  I thanked her for her advice and tried to walk away, but it seemed like where ever I went in the store, she was close behind....watching.  If we made eye contact, she'd start in again about books I should read and people I should talk to.  She went on and on about finding someone to help me.  She continued to offer advice until I finally made my way out of the store and to my car.  I know she was trying to be helpful, but seriosuly.  Leave me alone.   

The lessons I learned from this experience are:  1.  If my wedding ring still fits, I will wear it in public.  I have a committed "baby daddy" thank you.  2.  I should probably look decent when going out...wearing make-up and having my hair look somewhat fixed.  (I apparently look a lot younger without make-up.)

Thank goodness I've only had a couple of "belly grabbers."  I try to keep my distance from people who want to really talk about my pregnancy.  I know that if I stand too close, they might actually reach out and touch my stomach.

{31 Weeks}

I love music.  It has always been a part of my life.  I love the way music can make you feel; altering your mood completely. 

Music has been a part of my life even before I was even born.  My mother was a middle school and high school band director, so I heard marching band music daily from in the womb.  When I parents went to a concert while I my mom was pregnant, I moved around so much in her belly that she eventually had to call it a night.  Music was pretty much instilled in me from the beginning. 

I remember my dad getting his records out, playing along with them on his guitar.  He would just sit there and play along with the songs and sing.   

{Playing guitars with my dad.}

When I was in elementary school, I learned that what came easy to me musically, didn't come as easy to others in my class.  I learned this lesson during music class in the 2nd grade.  Our Christmas program was coming up, and my music teacher was "auditioning" boys to play the drum during "Little Drummer Boy."  All the drummer had to do was hit the drum in a certain rhythm along with the music.  Boy after boy attempted to play the drum, but would fail miserably.  As the last boy in my class failed the drum test, my teacher stopped and looked over at me.  I could see the wheels turning in his head.  He knew who my mother was, and decided to take a chance.  He handed me the drum sticks and let me try.  I played the rhythm perfectly with the music on the first try.  He smiled and said we'd found our little drummer girl.

{Being the "Little Drummer Girl" in 1991.}

It wasn't long after that, that my mom enrolled me in piano lessons.  At first I was eager to get started.  I quickly learned the basics and in no time, was reading music.  I figured out that after playing with the sheet music once or twice I was able to play the songs by memory.  Sometimes, if it was a song I knew, I didn't need the sheet music at all.  This did not please my piano teacher and thus began years of disagreement and confrontation.  Before long, I was constantly being criticized for my lack of keeping my eyes on the sheet music at all times, my bad posture, the way I held my hands on the keyboard, the nail polish on my fingernails (although I don't know what nail polish had to do with my ability to play the piano), and so on.  Needless to say, my piano teacher and I were not getting along.  I started to not care about piano at all.  I stopped practicing and would cry and complain when my mom would make me.  Although I was a decent pianist, I hated it. 

One Saturday morning as my mom and I sat in the car outside one of the infamous piano "festivals" I was forced to play at each year, I burst into tears and told her I didn't want to do it anymore.  For the first time in my life, she said I didn't have to and we left.  We spent the rest of the day at the mall.  I quit piano lessons and never looked back.

{Piano recital 1993.}

Next up on my musical journey was beginner band in 7th grade.  I decided to play the clarinet and this, much like piano, came somewhat naturally.  I never practiced and was still about to outplay most of my classmates.  This began a six year battle with my mother about my musical abilities. 

{Here I am in 8th grade playing in the pep band.  You can tell how serious I am about pep band.}

By the time I was in high school, I had had my share of unpleasant music teachers (not all of them, but...some).  In high school band, I never could seem to focus.  I never practiced and made it a priority to aggravate my fellow clarinet section members (sorry Shannon) and my mother.  My mother was even using the words "disappointment" and "frustration" when discussing my lack of focus.  Even after purchasing me a very expensive new clarinet, I still had no interest. 

When it came time to apply for scholarships to college, a band one was out of the question in my opinion.  I think a lot of this hostility was just my own young ignorance.  Looking back, I'm not sure if I could have handled being in a college band with students who loved it and actually wanted to be there.  It just wasn't something I could focus on, much to my mother's dismay. 

It had been six years since I had been in a music class, when all of sudden I missed learning about music.  I started reading books on music and classic rock n' roll.  I ordered some piano sheet music online and before long, I was playing Sara Bareilles's "Love Song" on my keyboard.  I was surprised at how long it took me to read the music.  It had been way to long.

Musical ability is a talent that if not applied often, can go away.  Trust me.  I'm still trying to get back into the "musical" habit.  I feel bad that my mother spent so much time trying to make me a musical person and I just let it all go.  I'm still a work in progress.

Today was grocery shopping day. As I perused the frozen food aisles, the seafood caught my eye. It was the box of frozen fried fish “country style” that took me back to my college years, and Wilkes 2-In-1 Fish Palace.


In college, my friend and roommate came home one day telling us about a fish place she had heard about at work. She had heard it was the best fish you could ever eat; the only catch was that it was in a sketchy neighborhood. The place was called Wilkes 2-in-1 Fish Palace. We weren’t sure what the 2-in-1 meant, but we were going to find out.

After a little more research, we decided to give Wilkes a try. Because of our insecurities about this shady neighborhood, we decided to go as a group. You can imagine the surprise of the Wilkes 2-in-1 Fish Palace patrons when 3 separate cars of out of place college kids pulled up.

It turns out Wilkes was a tiny space in a rundown strip mall. When we walked in the door we were greeted by a greasy counter top with several women….and children behind it. As they took our “order,” we noticed that there really wasn’t anywhere to actually eat in the place. There was a small room where the front counter was and another room off to the side, but the door was covered by a bed sheet. There were sounds of more kids and a TV behind the sheet. On the walls were drawings done by kids and Bible verses.

We learned from the homemade signs on the walls that the kids in the “fish palace” were home schooled. By the misspelling and grammar issues of most of the signs, it’s safe to say they weren’t home schooled well.

Directly behind the counter was the kitchen were we watched the women prepare our food, all while a small child crawled on the floor around their feet. Our to-go boxes were filled with fried fish and spaghetti (strangely enough) with a white slice of bread slapped on top. We got an overflowing box of food for only $7.  The spaghetti was literally spilling over the side of the box.

We paid, said thanks, and left, learning that being in the “fish palace” for only minutes left our clothes reeking of fried food.

In the end, it was the best fish we had ever eaten. We got more than enough food for a great price. I think we ventured back to Wilkes at least one more time before graduating, but each time we made sure not to wear any fresh smelling clothes because we would immediately have to change upon returning home. We also never figured out what the 2-in-1 meant in the “Wilkes 2-in-1 Fish Palace.” Perhaps fish palace AND school? Fish palace AND……?

Back at the grocery store I smiled remembering Wilkes. I bought the frozen “country style” fried fish, but I won't be making spaghetti to go with it.

As I previously mentioned here, I am currently helping out at work by driving the moving truck.  Monday was full of pick ups, deliveries, and rain. 

The day started out normal enough.  I went to pick up some donated items from a lady who lived in a gated community full of million dollar homes in St. Charles.  The only problem was that the gate would not let us in.  People honked angrily as I sat there in my big ugly truck blocking the entry to the neighborhood.  I must have looked like I was coming to rob someone because a woman in a Lexus rolled down her window to tell me that I couldn't "tailgate" into the neighborhood because the gate would close on the truck.  Not that I was trying to "tailgate" but I'm sure in a battle between the gate and my truck, my truck would have won. 

After getting into the neighborhood, finding the house, and loading it up with donations, it was on to the next pick up.  The next obstacle of the day was the strong storm that popped up as I drove down highway 94.  Out of no where the winds picked up and the rain fell.  The windshield wipers in the truck probably hadn't been replaced since 1990 so they just smeared the water across the windshield.  When the winds picked up, the truck started blowing all over the road.  I couldn't keep it on the road.  Trash and tree limbs were flying across the road, but the turning point was when the driver side mirror swung over slamming into my window.  After pulling off under an over pass for about 5 or 6 minutes I was off again.  The next hour consisted of loading up more donations in a rain storm. 

After a long day of loading and unloading the truck it was time to take the donations we couldn't use in the store to the yellow box to be re donated.  As I drove down the highway again, an old man in a truck pulled up beside me and gestured that the back door of the truck was open.  We were almost to our destination by this point so I continued.  Once arriving at the yellow box, I noticed that indeed no one had closed the door on the back of the truck.  I had left a trail of clothes down every road that I had driven.  Luckily no one called the cops on me. 

It was a long day of back breaking work.  I'm definitely ruling out a career in moving services.

Now that Thanksgiving is over and Christmas is upon us, I look forward to getting out all of my Christmas decorations.

One holiday staple in my house is “Mistletoe Reindeer.” Mistletoe Reindeer has lived in my grandmother’s house in Newport, Arkansas; at my parents’ house in Kennett, MO; in the counselor’s office at my high school; in my dorm room at college; in my apartment at college; and now at my apartment in St. Louis. The story of Mistletoe Reindeer is a simple one.

One year around Christmas time, my family was visiting my grandmother in Arkansas. She proudly presented us with a hideous reindeer head made out of a sock.  It had a mouth, eyes, and even eye lashes. I can’t remember if she had made it herself, or actually purchased it. Either way, she wasted her time and/or money. As my mom gasped at the gaudy thing before us, my dad explained that this “thing” would not be coming home with us. End of story. Somehow the reindeer ended up in the car with us and made its way to our house. There, my dad threatened to throw it in the trash. I saved it from an untimely death and kept it for the next several years.

I worked in the counselor’s office during high school and one year I decided to bring the ugly reindeer to decorate the office with. We ended up hanging it from the ceiling. This is where the reindeer got the name, Mistletoe Reindeer. Mistletoe Reindeer spent two years receiving attention in the counselor’s office during the holidays. I had to sneak it back into the house each time so that my dad didn’t see it. He refused to have it in his house.

When I left for college, I had Mistletoe Reindeer in tow. This is where my reindeer spent 4 fabulous years bringing Christmas joy to all who laid eyes on her. My dad refused to let it back into his house so it has remained with me through the years. It is now one of my favorite Christmas decorations.

Mistletoe Reindeer continues to spread Christmas cheer even today, much to my dad’s disappointment.

There is a special tradition I have started for myself. This traditional outing comes around twice a year; once in the spring and once in the fall.

The St. Charles County Bi-Annual Yard Sale is one of my new favorite things. This is a county wide yard sale that takes place on the parking lot of an entertainment arena. There are hundreds of vender booths selling anything and everything. It’s a bargain hunter’s paradise. Being a bargain hunter myself, I couldn’t resist such an adventure.

My first experience at the yard sale was an excellent one. My brother and I went together and were surprised by the rows and rows of huge van and trucks pulling trailers piled high with new treasures. These people were here to buy some yard sale goodies.

It took us most of the morning to look through all of the booths. We had found a few small things, including some 1904 World’s Fair postcards for our mother. I was thinking about calling it a day when I heard a girl behind me say, “That John Stamos t-shirt is bitchin’!”

Sure enough I turn around to see a t-shirt from the early 90’s with John Stamos’ face on it. Being a Full House fan myself, I walked over to examine the shirt. It was my size and even had a signature on it by the one and only, John Stamos. This price had been reduced, so I took this opportunity to snatch up this excellent buy. I proudly took my bitchin’ t-shirt home with me.

The second time I went to the yard sale, I took my mother. She, too, enjoyed the sights and sounds of this slightly hoosiery gathering. This time we found a booth of bootleg DVDs. As the woman selling them tried to talk me into buying the Sex and The City movie, I wondered if she knew it was illegal to sell such DVDs.

On my last trip I found a shabby trombone with flames painted on the bell. If it hadn’t been priced at $60 I might have bought it. It would’ve looked nice next to my bitchin’ John Stamos t-shirt.

I am not, nor have I ever been, a party girl. I’ve never even been that big of a drinker. I’ve gone out on occasion, but I’ve never been too crazy. I can recall the moment I was scared “sober,” allowing me to dodge any kind of drunken behavior.

When I was in college the last Friday of the semester before finals was known as “Dead Day,” because the university would cancel all classes allowing students to study and prepare for finals week. The night before “Dead Day” (Thursday night) was obviously known as “Dead Day Eve.”

“Dead Day Eve” was the biggest party night of the entire semester. This is when students would go out, get drunk, and party into the wee hours of Dead Day. This was a college tradition that my dorm roommate, Shayna, couldn’t resist. She and her high school friend, party girl Jessica, had the night planned out and encouraged me to come along. With our other friend Brooke in tow, the four of us headed out for our first fabulous Dead Day Eve celebration of freshmen year.

Brooke and I were not party girls and were not experience in the college party atmosphere. We ended up at a house party on the edge of another university campus in town. This house was a small two bedroom shack with very little furniture and an overabundance of people. A thick cloud of smoke welcomed us as we walked through the front door. I noticed that the smoke didn’t always smell like cigarettes; a smell I was familiar with. This smell was…..sweet. I would later find out that the sweet smell was marijuana.

When a minor beer run was announced, Shayna and Jessica bolted for the alcohol leaving Brooke and I alone in a room full of strangers. We had both just gotten brand new winter coats and were regretting wearing them into the house when a drunken guy stumbled into us almost lighting my coat on fire.

“Hey!” I exclaimed as he stumbled away. Brooke and I looked at each other with horror. Where were we and how much long did we have to stay? There was no room to move in the house because of all the people. We found the one and only couch in the house but it was occupied a girl who had passed out. She lay sideways on the couch, eyes closed and mouth open. Two guys sat on both sides of her smoking and drinking. I wondered who this girl was. Who was she here with? Did they know she was passed out? What if something happens to her? What would her mother think if she could see her daughter right now? Brooke interrupted my thoughts when she asked if I was ready to get out of there. I happily agreed.

We finally found Shayna and Jessica and asked them if they were ready to leave. They had just paid some guy to go buy them beer and weren’t ready to leave yet. Brooke got the car keys from Shayna and she and I spent the rest of the night outside in Shayna’s car. We waited for what seemed like hours until finally Shayna agreed to drive us home and then return to the party.

When Brooke and I finally made it back to the dorms, we vowed never to do that again. For the rest of our college careers we spent Dead Day Eve at the movie theater.

To this day the image of that disgusting house with drunk and high people everywhere has stuck with me. I think this is probably why I stayed away from hard core partying. I never wanted to end up like the girl on the couch.

My dear, sweet, precious mother longs to be a storyteller. I guess technically she already is. She has taught school for over 30 years and in those years, has told thousands of stories.

As a band teacher, she told stories to go along with the music pieces the band was playing. She helped her students understand the music by painting a picture of what the music represents. As a teacher, she is always telling a story. Actually, she is always telling a story no matter what the setting.

When she stumbled upon a website several years ago about professional storytellers, she decided to look into that as a possible career. She began looking at storytelling workshops and festivals. At these events “professional” storytellers perform, teach, and give advice to those seeking information about this art. When my mother found a storytelling festival here in St. Louis, needless to say she was siked; this meant I could join her for this fun filled event. I reluctantly accompanied her, not wanting her to have to go alone, and thus began one of the oddest days of my life.

One after another, I watched people tell random stories about random things using instruments, sounds, and random body parts to help them “tell the story.” These people were odd to say the least and most of their stories were bizarre and weird, but I stuck by my mom who seemed to be enjoying herself. I couldn’t believe these people called themselves “professionals.” Some of them probably failed their high school drama class.

It wasn’t until a woman by the name of Loretta Washington stepped in front of us, that things really got interesting. In our brochure, it listed Ms. Washington’s story as being about “growing up in the bootheel of Missouri,” which is where we are from. We anxiously waiting for her program to begin, but were terribly disappointed by what came out of her mouth.

She never once mentioned specifically being in the bootheel of Missouri, but did ramble on about growing up in the country. She told us about being at her grandmother’s house one afternoon when she was a child. She and her sister were playing and noticed some beets and red onions on the kitchen table. When her grandmother stepped out of the house briefly, she and her sister started eating the beets and red onions. They ate so many that they threw up. That was the story. But it got weird, when she got very specific in her story about the red vomit from the beets and red onions she and her sister had eaten. She went on for what felt like hours about the fact that she and her sister had vomited after eating these disgusting vegetables.

My mother and I could hardly look at each other during this tirade for fear of bursting into laughter. I didn’t know if I should laugh or throw up myself. The story was making me queasy. It was not only a boring story, it was nauseating.

When the story finally ended we got up and dusted ourselves off, trying to forget this horrible “story.” Later in the day we decided to give Ms. Washington another chance. We located another one of her performances and decided to go. This would turn out to be a bad decision. As we found our seats and Ms. Washington introduced herself, we were horrified to hear her say, “This story is called ‘Beets and Red Onions’.” My mother and I looked at each other horror-struck. Because my mother likes to sit up front and close to the action, we then had to sit and listen to a second helping of “beets and red onions,” this time not being able to control our laughter. I could not figure out how in the hell we ended up having to listen to this disgusting story twice.

That was my last storytelling event. I hope my mother’s storytelling career takes off. I know she will have entertaining stories to tell. Nothing could be as bad as a vomit story.

I wrote an essay shortly after having an epiphany not too long ago. I submitted this article to a couple of different publications. Of course none of them wanted to publish it. So I’ll post it here. At least someone can read it.

“I Graduated. Now What?”
Graduating from college was one of the proudest moments of my life. It was something that I had worked very hard for over the span of four and a half years.

To me, like most college students, graduation was a relief. No more studying, or writing papers. No more sitting in class and pulling all-nighters. No more stress and being broke. As soon as I walked across the stage and received my diploma, I felt free. I was ready for the next step in my life.

My professors had done an excellent job in preparing me for life after college. I had been given the skills I needed to be successful in the job of my choosing. Some of my professors even went the extra mile to do an entire course devoted to interviewing for a job. I took lots of notes and read the books. I thought I was ready.

I knew finding a job was not going to be easy. I was expecting to go on several different interviews before landing “the” job. I thought I was as prepared. I wasn’t worried. I knew that I would get the job of my dreams because I was meant to do something great with my life.

After graduation, I got married. Two months later, I officially started my job search. How hard could it be? I was a college graduate. Because I was thinking big, I was applying big. I located some the most prestigious companies in the city where I lived and sent cover letters and resumes. It was a big step for me to actually send out that first stack of resumes. Although I was excited about the possibilities, I was also terrified. I studied up on all of the company information so that when they called me for an interview I would be ready. To my surprise, no one called. Days went by, then weeks, then months. Nothing.

Almost six months after graduation, I changed my tactics. I started looking at the job postings for different companies. I started applying online. After a couple of weeks, I was finally getting responses, and landed my first interview. My outfit was perfect, I had studied the company information, and I had practiced my potential interview questions. I went in to the interview very confident. The interview itself went very well. My interviewer seemed impressed by my resume and portfolio. A week later, I went back in for my second interview with them. Again, they seemed impressed with what I had to offer and told me that I would hear something from them by the end of the week. I was ecstatic. There was nothing left to do but wait. And wait. And wait. Two weeks later, I still hadn’t heard anything. No one returned my calls or email. Obviously, I didn’t get the job. I was devastated by the rejection, but more importantly frustrated with the fact that they never called to tell me I didn’t get the job.

A month later, I landed another interview for a job similar to the one I had previously interviewed for. Again, I had the perfect outfit, I researched the company, and practiced answering interview questions. I was interviewed by my potential boss. She liked the fact that I had a degree and was very excited about my resume. She had all but told me I had the job, when she announced that I had to meet with the district manager. The district manager “interviewed” me briefly in the middle of a crowded office. It was very loud and chaotic. I got a call from my interviewer the next morning saying that the district manager didn’t think I was ready for this kind of position. I was sad, but I was fine. Something would come along.

Over the next several months, I had applied for around thirty jobs and interviewed for about five of them. I got rejection after rejection. I eventually changed things up when I interviewed. I wore a different style of outfit. I tried being less prepared. I tried being more prepared. I wore my hair up. I wore my hair down. Nothing changed. I was still not what anyone wanted. I even started applying for jobs that I didn’t even want. My expectations had dropped significantly. I was no longer dreaming big. I was just hoping for anything.

It had now been over a year since I had graduated from college. I still did not have a job. I was embarrassed. All anyone ever wanted to ask is what I was doing these days or did I have a job yet. All of my college friends had landed jobs. Some of them had already gotten their dream jobs. Everyone was moving on without me.

I had not planned for this. I knew it would be hard, but this was unbearable. I had never felt so rejected in my life. I felt worthless. Eventually, I stopped looking for jobs at all. I sat at home all day, every day, while the world outside moved on without me.

In the midst of my depressed state, I read a quote that changed everything. It was “Keep true to the dreams of thy youth” (Friedrich von Scchiller). I pondered this quote for several days. What did I want to do with my life when I a kid? Before college and stress. Before I did what I thought other people would want me to do. I went into my closet and got out a big box that held all of my journals from grade school through high school. There, in the closet floor, I read. I read for hours. I read about all of my past hopes and dreams. And in the floor of my closet at 3 am, I finally figured it out. True, I was never going to be a country music star like I had wanted when I was 10, but I could be a writer. I had wanted to be a writer since I was in the seventh grade. So, I got up off my closet floor and started writing. I made it a priority to sit at my lap top and write something almost every day. I figured someday, one of my ramblings would lead to something.

I heard someone say “you’re as happy as you make your mind up to be.” I was miserable and I was doing nothing to change it. I had just sat in the house day in and day out feeling sorry for myself. Nothing was changing, because I wasn’t changing it. I decided to look at my time away from work as a blessing in disguise. Because I wasn’t working, I had time to do all of the things I had always wanted to do, but never had time for. I started reading for pleasure, something that was very rare while I was in college. I had forgotten how much I loved to read. I started sewing more, making several beautiful garments. I had always loved taking pictures so I started doing that more too. I even took a ballet class. I was still looking for and applying for jobs, but I had changed my attitude. I found that doing things that I liked to do made me happy. My attitude changed, and so did my possibilities. I was meant to do something; I just had to find it.

I know there are more college graduates out there just like me. Even if you think you’ve got it all figured out, often you don’t at all. It’s okay if you feel lost after graduation. A lot of people feel lost. There is something out there for everyone. Sometimes it shows up early and sometimes it shows up later. I tried to give up, but I’m glad I didn’t. I went back to what I loved as a child and I decided to be happy with my situation. I am still very proud of my degree that I worked so hard for. And no one can ever take it away from me.

As I have previously stated, I really had no plan for my life and career after my college graduation. As I pondered this the other day I realized that this lack of planning ahead was not a new development.

I tried to think back and remember what it was I wanted to be when I grew up. As a small child what did I aspire to be?

I’ll admit that I was a weird kid. My career goals changed weekly from outrageous to bizarre. Between wanting to be a cop after watching Police Academy and wanting to be a comedian after watching Ray Stevens, I wanted to be a country music star.

I can’t forget my quick interest in medicine or my brief fascination with teaching Language Arts at my former middle school. One career aspiration that did latch on for a while was archeology. After watching an episode of Reading Rainbow in the third grade, I decided that my life goal would lead me to all of the corners of the world uncovering ancient artifacts. As I entered high school I learned that archeology was in fact science, and not my best subject.

With my archeology career over before it ever began, I turned my attention towards a subject that had always been in the back of my mind; writing.

In high school I went out for the school paper, eventually landing the role of “co-editor-in-chief.” I spent my senior year writing and editing. I loved every minute of it. I even covered middle school basketball for the local hometown newspaper.

Before I knew it, I was in college and trying to find a major. I had noticed the heavy competition in the journalism program and decided that a cut throat environment wasn’t for me. For whatever reason, I never considered a career in journalism after that.

I looked back at my random collection of jobs. None of them made any sense. I had never applied for a job that would actually take me anywhere.

After my short run as a sports writer, I worked for a women’s fitness gym, followed by being a lunch lady for summer school, a score keeper for little league baseball, then a sales associate for a horrendous retail store, followed by goat keeper at a pumpkin patch, then finally a student worker for the health care center on the campus where I went to college.

None of these jobs would lead to another. No wonder I didn’t know what to do next; I never had a plan to begin with.

Maybe I was never meant to have a plan. For the first time ever, I currently have a job that I could potentially be a future career. I still don’t know if it’s the path I should take. I suppose if it is meant to be, then it will be. Until I figure it out I guess I’ll stick to what I do best (at the moment); sell previously owned designer clothes to bargain shoppers.

As an angry teenager, I couldn’t wait to get out of my parents’ house and be on my own. I had seen it in the movies; the young single girl living in a city on her own. It looked like so much fun.

Although my parents had taught me about money, I had never really had any of my own. I had never really had to pay for anything before. I was lucky enough to have parents who paid for everything.

At 18, when I left for college to be on my “own,” I still had the cushion of my parents’ money. My parents told me not to get a job right away. I think they wanted to make sure I could handle college without the added stress of working and financial responsibility. Even though I was away from them, I still didn’t really know how to handle money. Then I met Brooke.

I met Brooke the first day of college. We became friends and ended up living together in the dorm sophomore year. Brooke had worked since she was 16; paying for her own car and insurance. I was amazed. She knew about bills and how to manage them. I had never even seen a bill. She was very smart and money savvy.

Brooke took care of me throughout freshman and sophomore year. She was so self sufficient. She knew how to take care of herself. Because I was oblivious to the real world, she helped me along. She always knew just what to do. I didn’t think I’d ever be as smart as she was.

When we felt that living in a dorm had run its course, we decided we wanted to live off campus together.

Though my mother was against it at first, Brooke assured me it would be a savings from living in the dorm. Brooke was right. She presented me with an Excel sheet listing the cost of living in the dorm versus the cost of living in an apartment. She factored in food, gas, and rent. According to Brooke’s calculations, it was a savings. With my mother’s blessing, Brooke and I set off on our apartment hunt.

Actually Brooke did the hunting. She researched apartment complexes around town within our price range and geographical radius of campus. By the time we visited our first potential apartment, Brooke knew the possible rent amount (split between us of course), how many miles it was to campus, and the estimated time it would take to drive to campus (with or without traffic in rush hour).

Even though it was the first apartment we looked at, we loved it. As we stood in the two bedroom model apartment, I was already decorating it in my head. In the middle of deciding a color scheme, something caught me off guard. Brooke began asked the manager questions. What about trash pick up, water, utilities? What’s included? What’s not?

Trash pickup? You mean the trash man doesn’t come get your trash out of the goodness of his heart? You have to pay for that? Water? Isn’t water free? Utilities? What are utilities? My head started to spin. The manager answered her questions. Apparently it was what she wanted to hear because we signed a lease and moved in.

Over the next couple of years, I learned a lot from Brooke. I was starting to learn how to pay bills and how to take financial responsibility. By the time we finished college and went our separate ways, I had complete confidence in myself to take care of myself financially. I now find myself explaining to my little brother about trash pickup, utilities, and water expenses.

While I did learn a lot about money from my parents, I think it took seeing someone my age being so financially responsible for it to really set in. I grew up thinking my parents were the only ones who knew how to pay bills. I realized that people my age and even younger were taking care of their own expenses successfully.

I credit my parents and Brooke for getting to me to the point I am now.

While in college, it’s safe to say that most people find themselves in interesting situations. Especially when they’re a naïve undergrad who agrees to anything asked of them.

While runway shows were one of my favorite projects, I had a particular experience that was a little different.

My favorite runway show will always be the one that landed me in a gay bar.

A friend of mine from the fashion department worked at an upscale boutique. This boutique was doing a fashion show and she needed some extra models. Though I was very much an amateur runway model, I agreed to help her out. She gave me the information and thanked me graciously.

I showed up on the night of the show to learn that the show was being held at a popular gay bar in town. Having never been in a gay bar before, I was a little nervous. I took a deep breath and stepped through the door. Since it was before opening time, there were only a couple of bartenders stocking the bar. I walked past them and down to the basement, where I had been instructed to go. As I came down the stairs I found myself in the middle of a huge dressing room full of drag queens.

They all had on pounds of make up but were not dressed yet. Instead they wore bras, panties, and silk robes. No one seemed to notice me, but my friend located me and ushered me back to where the models for the show were getting ready. She explained that right before the fashion show, there was going to a drag queen beauty pageant. She shrugged and laughed at the fact that she had no idea these two shows were on the same night.

I looked at the other models and soon realized I was out of my league. Most, if not all of them were professionals. A couple of the other girl models asked who my agent was. They proceeded to tell me where all they had worked and what local ads I could find their photo in. Great. I could see it in their eyes. “Amateur girl, what are you doing here?”

As the night went on, I learned that drag queens take longer to get ready than most females. One of them, who we’ll call “Shelly”, told us that he/she had been there since 4 that afternoon. I was amazed how they all wanted everything to look so perfect. They really took pride in their appearance. Another queen who we’ll call “Terri” explained that this was his/her third show this week. Terri considered her/himself a semi-professional queen. The whole experience was fascinating.

While my own hair was being done by a professional stylist, my friend offered me a drink. She had made a special citrusy drink for the other models to have during show preparation. Because I was so thirsty I gulped two glasses before realizing that the drink was laced with vodka. I had drunk it so fast that my head started to spin. This was already a weird situation, so why not have a third glass.

My friend handed me my outfit for the show; tight black shorts and a red silky top. She then told me how “Arabella” would be doing my makeup. It turns out Arabella is none other than, the most glamorous drag queen in the room. Flaunting a lacy tank top and black mini skirt in his/her six foot frame, Arabella motioned for me to come over.

“Sit right here,” Arabella instructed. She/he proceeded to apply makeup to my face. I could feel that it was way more than I had ever put on myself. Arabella and I continued to make small talk with I looked down, seeing right down Arabella’s shirt. I saw a bra cupping two nude colored foam balls. Interesting. I quickly looked away not wanting to be caught looking down the shirt. When Arabella finished, I indeed looked like a drag queen. I thanked Arabella for the application and wished him/her luck in the show.

I can’t remember who won the beauty contest; I just remember how elaborate their outfits were. I couldn’t get over how nice they actually looked. My own show, the fashion show went well also. I remember being on the runway in a cloud of smoke, with Justin Timberlake bringing sexy back, and a large anxious crowd watching my every move. I practically ran off the stage when my turn was up. I could feel the eyes on me pointing me out as the non-professional.

When the show was over, I put my black dress back on that I came in, took one more look around the dressing room, and went out into the bar with my crazy hair and makeup still in tact. I was headed straight for the door, when a woman at the bar looked me up and down and gave me a head nod. I smiled brightly and made my way to the door.

None of the other fashion shows I participated compared to that one. It still stands as one of my favorite memories from college.

I can tell my grandchildren one day about the time I unpretentiously agreed to do a runway show for a friend who may or may not have mentioned that the show was being held at a gay bar on drag queen pageant night, allowing me to have my hair and makeup done by a man wearing a bra and fake boobs, all while being surrounded by beautiful professional models.