Well its Memorial Day weekend. I don’t have a whole lot to say. So far I’ve spent the weekend lying out by the pool, cooking out, shopping, and relaxing. Tomorrow I will hopefully be taking in a St. Louis Cardinals game. Everyone have a safe and happy Memorial Day weekend!

After a bad day (which I had recently) or just a bad mood, there is one website that puts me in a great mood every time!

I love this website so much I had to share it with everyone I know.

Awkward Family Photos are hilarious! This website has different categories of random awkwardness. Look at these photos and have a great day!

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.

Now that I am older, one of my favorite things to do is travel down south to Arkansas and visit my grandmother. When I was younger this was a burden that I felt was unnecessary. Visiting grandma usually meant I was missing out on something more important.

As an adult, I realize how important it really is to be with family; especially the older, more entertaining family. I now like to go visit my grandmother and her two sisters. All of them are in their 80’s now and they still bicker and argue like they did when they were young.

My Great Aunt Rita is the oldest and the most quiet and courteous. She would give you the clothes off of her back....literally. My Great Aunt Virginia is the next and a fashionable spitfire. She will tell you like it is. The youngest of the sisters is my Grandmother. She is spoiled and has to have what everyone else has.

When ever they get together its always entertaining. As they get older I know the importance of spending time with them. They are the last three siblings left of six kids. It’s sad to think that they once had three brothers, now they have each other.

This past weekend my family and I traveled down to Arkansas to celebrate Mother’s Day and my Aunt Virginia’s birthday. It was a treat as always.

I have been a baseball fan my entire life. For as long as I can remember I have enjoyed watching and playing the game.

I remember my parents taking me to my first professional baseball game when I was young. Then a few years later I went with my then boyfriend’s family. It was a blast. I love the atmosphere of a baseball game. I love the sights, the smells, and the sounds.

It was no surprise that I married a baseball fan. My husband played baseball in high school and in college. I noticed how much he loved the game. I found it endearing how he could care for a sport so much.

I started noticing things about baseball I had never noticed before. All of my life I had just watched baseball; outs, runs, innings and so on. I never knew or even noticed the statistics and strategies. Batting averages, RBIs, hits, wins, losses, saves; all of these strategic decisions were things I was completely unaware of. I had always just watched the game. To my surprise, the batter does not just walk up to home plate and start swinging away. He has a strategy. Does he need a base hit? Does he need to move a runner around the bases? Is he so good that the pitcher will intentionally walk him?

My husband spent hours trying to explain away my baseball ignorance. He finally gave up. I eventually read Buzz Bissinger’s book 3 Nights in August to help me understand the game better. It did help. Baseball is numbers, numbers, and more numbers.

I eventually looked forward to the end of baseball season when “summer guy” would go away and “winter guy” would emerge. When my husband and I watched the movie Fever Pitch (starring Jimmy Fallon and Drew Barrymore), I found myself relating to it a little too much. Thus the use of the terms “summer guy” and “winter guy.”

“Summer guy” is baseball obsessed guy. This is when I can say anything and do anything and my husband will not notice. He won’t listen when I talk. He won’t pay attention to what I do. If I need to talk to him, I had better not do it during a baseball game; he will not be listening. If he does pretend to listen, he will keep his eyes on the T.V.

“Winter guy” is when baseball season is finally over. My husband will pay more attention to his real life outside of baseball. He will strategically plan for spring training when “summer guy” will reemerge.

Silly me I thought, much like the female character in the movie Fever Pitch, that my husband’s obsession for baseball would eventually be redirected. Boy I was I wrong. He is now planning how our future children will enjoy baseball. He wants a room in our house completely dedicated to baseball and his favorite team.

Instead of trying to understand the game to its extent, I have gone back to just watching and enjoying. I ignore my husband when he complains about numbers and strategies. I want it to be like it used to be; when I just enjoyed baseball.

I will continue to anxiously await the return of “winter guy.”

I’ve always had very thick hair. It’s thicker than just about anyone else’s I know. When I was little, it was a huge burden for me and my mother. My mother would fix my hair every morning resulting in physical pain for me and emotional pain for her.

As I got older, I learned how to fix my own hair in the best way I could. I became very good at it and would get compliments on my hair daily. I would eventually consider my hair my best asset. Very few people had hair like mine.

I first got the idea to donate my hair to Locks of Love a few years ago. My hair had almost always been long. After a brief “short” phase in high school, I continued to keep my hair longer. A little over a year ago, I decided to actually go through with it. I started growing my hair out longer than usual.

After a year of not cutting it at all, my hair came down to the waist band of my pants. It was by far the longest it had ever been in my life. While I enjoyed having long luscious hair for a while, I eventually became annoyed by it and knew it was time. Unfortunately I was always chickening out. I was second guessing myself. I had spent so much time growing it out that I hated to lose it. My vanity was taking over my good will.

Then one day while I was at work, a young woman came into the store where I worked. She was very skinny and frail looking, and had a hat covering her bald head. She in fact had cancer. As she proceeded try on different hats it hit me like a ton of bricks; I had to cut my hair so that people like her could have hair again. That day I made an appointment to cut my hair off. She was here trying on cute hats to cover her head and I had more than enough hair to share.

Last Thursday, I cut 11 inches off of my head. I was amazed how much lighter I felt. Once the hair was gone, I didn’t think about it again.

I love my new haircut and I love the idea of giving someone with cancer a chance to feel better about this terrible time in their life. I was blessed with thick hair so why not share the blessing?

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.

I am reluctant to say that I have abandoned my blog the past week and a half. There is no excuse for my behavior, but that doesn’t mean I will come up with several excuses to make myself feel better.

After my laptop had a meltdown, I went to my hometown for a visit two weekends in a row. With all of the computer trouble and traveling I barely had time to think about what to blog about. Really.

Our new dog Sammie is adjusting well to her new home. After a few mishaps, she is learning the schedule of things. She now knows that she is to go number 1 AND 2 outside and not inside. Unfortunately, my new bundle of puppy joy sheds like an Eskimo on a hot day. Luckily, I’ve invested in a Swiffer. Without it my apartment would be one big hairy mess.

After driving south to spend Easter with my family, the shop where I work shot a commercial and segment for a local news program. On Wednesday, I arrived at work an hour and a half early to shoot the segment. After modeling that morning and working the rest of the day, I went to ballet class where I worked on a hippy-artsy routine with my fellow ballerinas. The long day must have taken a toll of me because I slept late on Thursday morning. This wasn’t a big deal because that is my day off. I spent the rest of the day Goodwill hopping where I managed to find several pieces of designer clothes and a cool baseball lamp. That made the busy week all worth it.

So there. Those are my excuses and an update. I feel a little better. I'm posting a picture of my mom, brother, and I on Easter and the link to my shop's segment on Show Me St. Louis.

Today’s post will be short and sweet. I am never spontaneous, but this weekend I got another dog. After seeing her two weeks in a row at a rescue stand inside Petsmart, I did it. I adopted Sammie; a Chihuahua mix. She’s a year old and she’s been at the shelter since she was a puppy.

She’s so happy to have a home now. And I’m happy that I could be spontaneous for once. So far, its working out.

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.

In my current line of work, I notice shopping habits. I notice how people shop and what they shop for. I can tell what kind of attitude they have towards shopping. After spending several months “studying” these shopping habits, I have categorized them into my own system of descriptive shopping behaviors.


“The Needy Nancy” -- This shopper comes in the door seeking attention. From the moment they enter the store, they want to be the center of attention. They want to know the sales, specials, and promotions. They want advice on what to try on and how it looks. They want someone to follow them around the store offering them items to try. They want suggestions. They want special treatment. They want the full and undivided attention of the sales associate.

“The Self-Sufficient Shopper” – This is one of the best shoppers a sales associate can encounter. This shopper is usually shopping alone. They smile and are friendly, but usually prefer to shop without being disturbed. They will listen to the sales associate recite the sales and specials, but will then want to be left alone to browse. This shopper is not needy and does require attention. They just want to look and discover things on their own.

“The Clueless Shopper” – In a world of shoppers with a mission, this shopper lacks motivation. This shopper has no idea what they are looking for or what they want. They don’t know what colors look best on them. They don’t know what styles look best on them. They don’t know how to shop or how to dress. They enter a store and wonder aimlessly until they either decide on an unneeded item or leave the store with nothing.

“The ‘I’m In My Own World’ Shopper” – This shopper annoys not only the sales associates, but also their fellow shoppers. Most of the time they are talking loudly on the phone; discussing the most inappropriate of topics with someone miles away. Sometimes they are shopping in pairs or groups. They usually ignore everyone not in their group. They laugh and talk with each other sometimes disturbing those around them. They camp out in dressing rooms as though it’s their own personal closet. They take their time, they don’t get off the phone, and they don’t consider anyone but themselves. They are oblivious to everyone around them.

“The RAB” (Rude A** B***h) – This shopper’s title speaks for itself. To this shopper, nothing is in the right place, nothing is the right price, and nothing is what they expect. This shopper will argue and let everyone know that they think they are superior.


So which shopper are you? I like to think of myself as the “Self-Sufficient Shopper,” and after having worked retail I plan on staying that way.

It is safe to say that I’m not the best at customer service. Unfortunately, that is part of my current job description. But before you get the wrong idea, I do like to help people. I like to assist them in accomplishing what they set out to do or, in this case, buy.

What I don’t like are those people who think it’s my life’s goal to accommodate them while they degrade me. In this scenario, my “the customer is always right” attitude goes out the window. It is very hard for me to be nice to someone who makes me feel like I’m beneath them. When this happens my happy-to-help-you demeanor goes away and in comes my happy-to-put-you-in-your-place attitude.

I know this is not the right attitude to have; especially in my line of work. But when I hear people say things to me like, “Is there someone older I can talk to?” or “Can I talk to the black lady?” or my personal favorite “If you knew anything about fashion then maybe you would know that I’m right.”

When things like this are said, it’s safe to say that all you’re going to get out of me are sarcasms and the “stink eye.” I want to say that I’m not as “young” as I look. I want to ask if it’s not racism to ask to speak with the “black” lady. And I want to get the message across that I do know about fashion having spent four and a half years studying it.

I have spent most of my life being kind and appreciative to all those working in the service industry only to have rude people act like I don’t matter; and there’s nothing I can do about it.

In the meantime, I just hold out for the courteous customers who are polite and respectful; the ones who honestly want and need my help and who are appreciative of it. These people do exists. I seem them everyday. They make it easy to assist them with a genuine smile on my face.

We are now 8 weeks into the New Year. I can say that I have successfully made a blog post once a week 8 weeks in a row.

This is the point when most people have already given up on their resolutions, but are now giving something up for Lent. I think it’s interesting that Lent comes around at the time when, if you’re like me, you’re trying to forget about whatever New Year’s resolution you’ve made; but that’s beside the point.

The point I suppose is how are you doing on your New Year’s resolution? If you don’t do the resolution thing, then how are you doing on your goals?

One of my goals was to start a blog and keep it going by posting at least once a week. So far, I can check that off of the list.

Another goal was to read the Bible cover to cover. I found a good reading guide and in a year’s time I successfully read the entire Bible. That one can also be checked off of the list.

A couple of goals yet to be completed are: to be published and to donate my hair.

I’ve been growing my hair out for quite some time now. I haven’t cut it in a year. Whenever I get up the nerve, I’m going to have it cut and donate the discarded hair to Locks of Love. Every time I think I’m going to call and make the appointment, someone says “Oh your hair is so beautiful.” I smile and say thank you and postpone my hair cut yet another week.

Anyway as I conclude my eighth week of posting with rambling of little meaning, I want to encourage you to keep up the good work with whatever you are planning towards.

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.

In college, I majored in fashion design and merchandising. I really enjoyed it. I looked forward to going to class (on most days) and was always ready for whatever project lay ahead. While it was fun and exciting, I never knew what I would do with this degree after school. After graduation I couldn’t, for the life of me, remember why I had majored in fashion.

In high school, I wasn’t good at most subjects. I excelled in English and grammar. The rest of the core subjects weren’t my specialty. In fact, I worked very hard to maintain my B average in things like math and science. My senior year I took art and sewing. These classes were easy for me. They were full of self expression.

During my freshman year in college I, like every other college freshman, was trying to find my place....and my major. I found myself enrolled in a “Fashion Basics” class. As I sat there, the first day of class, I took a look around the room. It was filled with girls dressed in fancy clothes with bold colors. Every girl in the room was wearing the latest style and trends, which at the time sadly was the “80’s revisited” look. These girls were so put together. I looked down at what I was wearing; an old sweatshirt and jeans that I had had since junior year of high school. It dawned on me then that I had not gone shopping for new clothes in a while. I was still wearing clothes I had in high school. And more importantly, I did not fit in with this crowd.

I had never put that much thought into what I wore. I had always just worn what was in my closet, how ever old it was. When my mom would take me shopping, I never noticed trends and styles. I had always just bought what I liked or what was on clearance.

For whatever reason, that semester I declared my major in fashion. Over the next three and half years, I transformed myself from slouchy and frumpy to trendy and stylish. My clothes changed with the trends, I shopped several times a week, and was always reading the fashion magazines trying to stay up on the latest and greatest in fashion. I knew designer names and labels. I knew what season clothes were from. I was obsessed with fashion. Along with my new found fashion, came changes in hair and make-up. The changes were: I actually started wearing make-up and fixing my hard to manage hair.

I started to feel better about myself and how I looked. With this new found confidence, I became more involved with my school’s fashion community. I joined the Association of Clothing, Textiles, and Merchandising, and was more involved with “fashion promotion.”

Before long, I found myself on the runway of several fashion shows in the town where I went to school. It felt good to finally be noticed; even it was just for a 30 minute show. I got to wear expensive clothes and walk the runway. Though I was no Heidi Klum, it was still fun.

One of the downsides to the whole fashion major thing was the stereotypes. After hearing my major, often people would give me the dreaded, “oh….” This “oh” meant “oh so you’re shallow.” Even the awesome people I meant at Campus Crusade for Christ would do a double take when I told them my major. I felt like some of them wondered how I could be a Christian and still be hard of the sinful world of fashion. I struggled to find a place in both worlds.

When I complete my own senior collection in my second to last semester of school, I had never felt more accomplished. Those who went to high school with me would have never guessed I would be where I was. I was never a fashion forward person. I was never voted best dressed. I would have never been the girl who would become a fashion major in school with a collection designed and constructed by hand.

Fashion became something more to me at that point. It was no longer about fitting in or staying up to date with trends. It was about being who I was. I had never been a scholar, but I could succeed in design and merchandising.

When I graduated from college with a degree in fashion design and merchandising I felt like I had really accomplished something.

I believe fashion can be something that is positive in life. Too many times it’s looked at negatively. There are the fashion stereotypes. The negative sides are the ones too often looked at. I would like to be a positive light in a too often negative industry.

I believe you can look like a million bucks without spending it. I also believe that if you feel good about what you wear, (you honestly feel good about it) then who are others to judge. You feel as good as you look.

With that said, I’ll continue on my unexpected and often questionable journey in fashion.

I am a self professed pool snob. I don’t mean the billiards game, but the swimming pool.

The reason I say this is because I had never had to experience the public pool scene until my 20’s. Every summer of my life, I enjoyed a privately owned pool without the added stress of the general public and their behavior.

When I was 12 my parents bought a new house with a giant swimming pool in the backyard. I don’t use the word “giant” loosely. My parents joked that the house came with an Olympic size pool (not really, but that's what my mom called it) complete with a slide and springy diving board. As a preteen, now equipped with her very own pool, I couldn’t have been happier. To make my existence even more significant, my bedroom included white French doors that led directly out to the pool. I realize at this point you may be thinking what an overindulged princess I really was, but I had never before led such a privileged existence. From that summer on through high school, my house was the scene for many pool parties. I could do what I wanted, when I wanted to do it. I was very thankful for my backyard paradise.

Before moving into the pool palace, my mom would drive us to the country club pool, where we were members, to swim. Though I thought of this pool as a “public pool,” it was hardly public. To swim in this pool, one must be a member of the country club, be immediate family of a country club member, or be one of only two allowed guests at time of a country club member. This pool was always clean and inappropriate behavior was quickly illiminated.

Yes, I was spoiled. Where some kids had to share their swimming experience with strangers, I never had to.

After leaving my aquatic privileged life behind to move to the big city, I realized that I had lived in my apartment building for almost three years and had never visited the apartment pool. Part of me was afraid of being in a bathing suit in public and the other part of me was afraid of what I might find lounging around the pool.

So on a sunny afternoon on the first day of June, I put on my one piece and ventured out to the apartment community pool. There couldn’t be that many people there; after all it was 1:30 on a Monday. As I walked toward the pool, wicker beach bag flung over my shoulder, I heard it. The sounds of men laughing, babies crying, and Sir Mix-a-Lot blaring from a stereo. I rounded the corner and saw close to 30 people splashing and lounging around the pool. I stopped at the gate completely frozen in fear. There was no turning back now. I was already here. So I stepped through the gate and started my search for a lounge chair. After noticing that all of them were taken, I pulled two empty chairs from around a disserted table. I picked a spot away from the table and set up shop.

After spreading my towel across the chairs, pulling my book that I brought to read out of my bag, and trying my best to make myself comfortable, I began to take in the sights. To my left were a group of girls about my age. They had on bikinis that could have been a little bigger, a stereo, and two or three young children. The girls looked like they had been tanning since mid February because of their perfectly tanned skin. I looked down at my own ghostly white legs and suddenly felt self conscience. While these girls tanned, their unattended children ran free in and around the pool. So much for the “all children must be supervised by an adult at the pool” rule.

Across the pool from me, was a large group of men in their mid to late 20’s. I counted 12 of them. They had taken most of the loungers to their side of the pool for what I can only guess was a drunken pool party. They laughed and carried on as if no one else was there. Their section of chairs was littered with beer cans. I could only imagine how long they had been at the pool because the amount of trash in their area. Some of them had jumped into the pool to play a rowdy game of volleyball. I heard one of the guys say that only two of them actually lived in the apartment complex. The rest were just extra friends. So much for the “only two guests per resident at the pool” rule.

I suddenly turned by gaze back to the group of mothers to my left when I saw a toddler, who I can only guess had been possessed by a demonic spirit begin to scream, stomping his feet. When his mother told him to quiet down, he angrily flung the cup his was holding hitting another women in the face. His mother jumped up from her lounger and took the toddler by the arm. Here we go, I thought assuming his mother was taking him to the bathroom to teach him a lesson. You can imagine my surprise when the mother took a chair from the table next to me, set the chair against the wall a foot away from me. She threw her son into the chair and told him to stay put. She then turned and walked back over to her lounger, flipped over on her stomach and proceeded to lay out while her son sat screaming next to me. I looked over at the red faced toddler sitting next to me. He looked back at me with tears streaming down his face, then turned his gaze back to his mother and began shrieking again. I looked over at mom and saw that she was ignoring him and no intention of coming back over to get him. I rolled my eyes and took my ipod out of my bag. I was so thankful that I had decided to pack it as I put the earphones in my ears. The sounds of Cage the Elephant partially drowned out the sound of the screaming demon child next to me.

Meanwhile, another toddler from the group had picked up the abandoned cup from demon child and started a rousing game of “fling the water.” At his mother’s encouragement, this toddler would lean over filling the cup with water and fling the cup so that the water would spray anyone within reach. I got to participate in this game once or twice, being the recipient of the spray of water. The demon child beside me jumped to his feet and began running in circles around the pool. I noticed this child did not have on floaties, and I was pretty sure he wasn’t a swimmer yet. I watched anxiously as he jumped around the pool, ready to jump in after him if he should fall in. His mother never noticed. Instead the group of “mothers” lit their cigarettes filling the entire pool area with a thick layer of smoke. So much for the “no smoking in the pool area” rule.

I then heard shouting from the frat party on the other side of the pool. I looked up to see that someone had pulled out a beer bong. The group of guys proceeded to drink from the beer bong, asking any female around to join them. A few tattooed girls joined in. I noticed they didn’t ask me to join their party. Oh well.

As the afternoon wore on, I was eventually joined by a woman about my age, in a bright orange string bikini, with what could only be described as “circus boobs.” Since there were no lounge chairs available, Circus boobs spread her towel out on the ground and prepared to lay out on the concrete. Suddenly, she was swarmed by the beer bongers like moths to a flame. I listened as these guys fell all over themselves offering her everything from free drinks to volleyball play and even one of their lounge chairs. Only the potential lounge chair caught her interest. She graciously excepted and within five whole sections was enjoying the comfort of her new chair. I looked at the middle aged, bikini clad, belly button bearing women across from me and shrugged. They too were laying out on the ground, but were not offered a lounge chair from the beer bongers.

Between the noise of the beer bongers, the unsupervised screaming children, the thick cloud of smoke looming over the pool, and the fact that the more beautiful people were offered companionship and comfortable seating, I had had my fill of the apartment pool. I told myself I would go back again. Just to see if my experience was a fluke or if that was the way it always was at the pool. I always knew that there would come a day when I wouldn’t have my very own pool in my beautiful backyard. I knew that one day I would have to grow up and except what I had. That afternoon, after my trip to the pool, I looked at my calendar and made plans to go home to visit and spend a week with my parents....and their pool.

Happy New Year. With every new year comes the excitement and goal setting for the upcoming year. Everyone is anxious to throw out the old year and usher in the new one. Whether your previous year was good or bad, everyone is ready for a change. Everyone insists they can be better in the year to come. And with that, along come the infamous New Year’s Resolutions.

I don’t make New Year’s resolutions. I haven’t in several years.

Every year millions of people list all of the things they want to accomplish in the New Year. They want to lose weight. They want to be happier, healthier, and accomplished. I used to be one of those people. Every year I would sit down with my journal and list the things I would change for the following year. The list was never long. It usually only consisted of four or five items. Most years had to do with being happier, working out more, and writing more. I would promise myself that I would accomplish my goals, and for the first few weeks I would stick to the plan. Then, like most people, by late February I would give up. As a result, one year I gave it all up. My New Year’s resolution was to not have any resolutions. And it worked. That was the first year I was successful. It’s been that way ever since.

Instead, I jot down a list of things I want to accomplish in general and leave it in my planner. These items on this list are goals I have for life; short and long term goals. I cross them off when they have been accomplished. I only make a list to keep me at ease. If I have a clear hard copy of want I need to do, I feel better equipped to handle it.

You could say that trying to start a blog is, in a way, a resolution. It’s more or less a goal to keep writing. I used to write all the time when I was younger. I started in elementary school with diaries. I would write about my day and who I had a crush on at school. I started writing short stories to fill the time and to entertain myself. In middle school, I would fill notebooks with my thoughts on the world around me. I could write for hours and hours. Because my middle school days were filled with adolescent trauma and drama, these notebooks are the most interesting to read. By the time I got to high school, I wrote very infrequently. I was caught up in boys and being angry at the world. No time to write.

With that said, I hope to usher in 2010 the way I do every year; with no specific set goals to reach in a limited 52 weeks.

Here’s to a happy and healthy new year.