Smashed Vehicle.

I love my car. It's small and red and has a sun roof. It drives fast and gets good gas milage. I adore it. Today, I even wrote in a note on facebook how much I love my car. However, I also wrote in said note about how scared I am of hitting something, and the greek gods or Jesus or whoever's in charge of shitty lessons that need learned decided that I loved my car too much.
I help my sister out sometimes. I take my niece out, we go to the park or Bouncin Bears or the lake and we play for a couple hours and eat icecream so Danielle can focus on the baby. I love it, my niece Valley loves it, Danielle loves it. But today when Valley and I were out, she got really sick and started crying. So i went to take her home. When I was pulling into the parking garage at the apartment complex, (into a really tight space that happens to have huge giant poles right next to it?) Valley suddenly starts screaming. I freaked out and turned the wheel all the way to the right while turning to see if she's okay... and hit my lovely baby car right into the pole. Where it got stuck. And every time I tried to move forward or backward, all I could hear was the sickening crunch of my right door and back end being smashed. Now my car is hurt and needs surgery, which I'm going to have to pay for. (AKA a new door and the back end buffed out and a paint touch up).
At first I was freaking out and I cried for like an hour. Bawled, actually. But I posted on facebook and people helped me keep it in perspective...
-No one was hurt. Valley is safe, I am safe.
-I can still drive the car while I save the money for repairs, it's not totalled.
-My first "accident" is behind me.
-My Mom isn't mad at me.
-No other cars were involved, so I don't have to deal with that.
-Did I mention that me and my niece are still alive? Because wow. I'm so glad I didn't get into a really bad accident and kill us both, or hurt her, or another driver.

So yeah. My car is hurt, I have to figure out how to pay for repairs, and right now it looks pretty ugly and I feel like white trash driving it, but I'm still alive, and no ones hurt (except for my car). And that is something to be truly grateful for.

Homemade Happiness

3 or so weeks ago, my friend Rachel and I were hanging out. I was mad because my Mom wouldn't let me go out to eat with my friends. (Grounded, remember?) So I was throwing a fit about it and insisting she cook me dinner. Rachel, I'm sure, was annoyed.
So she insisted we cook dinner.
We loved it. We loved working with our hands, being in the kitchen, having a delicious finished product that everyone enjoyed.
So we did it again, the next Sunday.
And then we did it again.
Now, we're cooking once a week, and Rachel's blogging about it over at:

www.homemadehappiness18.blogspot.com

Hop on over there and read about our adventures, once a week, every week.

He's Just Not That In To You.

I used to play. Barbies, Babydolls. I used to fantasize about weddings and families and being swept off my feet by Mr. Right. I've watched a million girly romantic comedies, hoping that someday someone would do something just as sweet for me. I used to be thirteen, fourteen, fifteen... waiting, hoping that "this" was it. That he was HIM.

But it never was. I've dated, but never had the romance of it all. Even in a near 2 year relationship, it was never romantic. it was more practical. I've received flowers twice from boys (and one of those times was because I asked for them for Valentines Day when it was asked what I wanted). I've never been on a real date.

I'm not complaining, but I think I may be settling. Or maybe I'm just growing up. Or maybe, I'm finally facing reality.

The romance is dead.

I quit waiting around to fall head over heels. I'm done wishing for sweethearts. I quit hoping that boys will have cute, surprisingly romantic gestures for me. I'm done waiting for Prince Charming to bring me back my god damn slipper I threw right in front of his face. I'm done waiting for someone to say "Oh, I'll get it" to the check.

I want reliable, dependable. I want someone who actually wants me. But maybe, to find that, I need to get rid of my fantasies.

I give up on romance, because even if it does exist, somewhere, my chick flicks have taught me one thing.

When it comes to life...
There is a rule. And there is an exception.
But the exception is just that - it's the exception.
And I am always going to be the rule.

298 Days.

I'm 17 years old.
I know it will all work out.
Just, sometimes I wonder.
I wonder how on earth I can go from this to being a happy... woman.
To being a woman, period.

I'm 17 years old.
Some days, I want to grow up and be married and have a family and just be fabulously happy.

But I wonder, how on earth am I going to get there? How can I go from broken hearted, silly teenager to adult? How does that transition happen? How am I supposed to, in three or five or seven or however many years, have a husband and then eventually a family and do all these happy grown-up things and be on my own? how am I supposed to go to college and be responsible for my own bills and do all my own laundry and vacuuming and cooking?

I think it's easier if you have someone transitioning with you. For the girls bringing their serious boyfriend with them to college, for the person who has someone to help them through it. For the kid whose parents have their college fully paid for. For the people with the twin. But I'm just me, alone, by myself. And very soon, I'm going to be all grown up and facing the real world. Which terrifies me.

In 298 days, I'm going to be legally an adult. I'll be able to open my own blockbuster account and get my own place and go to strip clubs and buy my own plane tickets and claim NOT A DEPENDENT on my taxes and get a credit card. I just have no clue how to be an adult. I have no idea how I'm going to go from me, now, here... to grown up. Adult. Alone.

I'm 17 years old.
298 days til doom day.

Peeing on Plastic Sticks.

Last night I had an awful nightmare.
Teen Pregnancy...
Is not something I want to experience ever, to say the least.

So even though it's practically impossible. Even though I've taken the necessary precautions. Even though it's been way longer than a month.

Today, I made that awful trip to WalMart.

I went into that uncomfortable section, standing next to women grabbing two or three different colored boxes, women looking anxious and hopeful... Myself looking paranoid and sick to my stomach.

I went into the bathroom, and I peed on that plastic stick.

I then waited for three god-awful minutes, imagining all my life plans being flushed down the toilet i was sitting on.

...The stick came up with one line, thank God.

But it made me feel really grateful for how lucky I've been. I'm lucky that all my teen-like excursions have ended with little heartbreak. I've never been pulled over while inebriated, I've never had to deal with sticky situations such as what on earth I'm going to do with a kid. I haven't had the cops called on me. I haven't been kicked out of any store, theater, or my house. (And I've probably deserved it plenty).

So thank you, universe, fate, Jesus, whoever is in control of teenagers and punishment. Thank you for having all my punishment for stupid crazy dumb things be at home, and manageable. Thank you that my punishments don't last me 18+ years.

Thank you that my pee sticks have all had one line.



(Not that I think all teen pregnancies are 'punishments'. It's just not something I would choose to bring upon myself).

The Letter I'll Never Give My Mother

Dear Mom,

Well, I did it. I'm sure you think I've gone off the deep end and that I'll never come back. I'm sure you're sure that I have a lifetime of substance abuse and hurt ahead of me. I'm sure you're wondering how I could've done this, when I saw how drugs destroyed my own father.

Now, I hate to have to say this, because it sounds so...teen. I hate that you don't understand this about me.

It's no big deal.

I smoked. I smoked a couple of times. I got high, I had the munchies, I felt really good. Yes, I even liked it.

But I'm done. Really, honestly, truly. I have no need to smoke again, and most likely won't.

I'm me. I'm the one who tries something once or twice, to understand it, and then doesn't do it again. I'm the daughter who got drunk two times and never again. I'm the daughter who snuck out twice, and hasn't since. I'm the daughter who wants to have these life experiences, but won't make it her whole life.

I'm still me. And I'm still that daughter. And I think that you know that, but you're scared to let go, to let me grow on my own and to make my own mistakes and choices. But you're going to have to.

I'm going to screw up. A lot. I'm going to do things that make you shake your head with shame. But these things are going to be the moments that break and build me, the moments that really teach me something. You have to let me have that.

Sometimes, it's okay to just be a teenager.
To have one wonderful, rebellious weekend of freedom and boys and lies.
Sometimes it's okay to let go, and live it up.
To try things you've feared.
Sometimes it's okay to break the rules, to experience life, to live on the edge.
Sometime's it's okay. As long as you come back.

Becoming Myself Again

I've been stressed. And angry. And really, really emotional.
My whole life feels out of balance, messy. I feel as if everything that could go wrong has gone wrong and as if my emotions have gotten the best of me. I feel as if I'm out of control.
I need a change. I need to balance my life out, steady my emotions, and get back to being a level headed me.So, I ordered a yoga DVD...

"The word 'yoga' comes from the Sanskrit root yuj,
which means 'to join' or 'to yoke'."
"Yoga is an ancient art based on a harmonizing system of development for the body, mind, and spirit. The continued practice of yoga will lead you to a sense of peace and well-being, and also a feeling of being at one with their environment."

I'm excited for this. I'm excited to calm myself and relax and be balanced. I'm excited to go back to being me.
I need that.

Pet Whisperer

Sunday, June 6, 2010



Lately, I've been talking to my dog.
Outloud.
And not just "sit", "stay", or "come", but

"Don't worry, we'll be okay", comforting only myself.
"He's just a stupid boy who doesn't really matter anyways" or
"Lets go, Riley", inviting her along because I don't want to be alone.

I've cried to her. I've yelled to her, letting her take the wrath for others. I've told her my secrets.

CRAZY people talk to their pets.
I'm not insane...

I suddenly understand that those"crazy cat ladies", maybe they aren't so crazy after all.
Maybe, the psycho who whispers to himself isn't, in fact, psychotic.

Maybe there's no one worthy of confiding in.
Maybe there's no one to talk to.

Maybe, they're all just lonely.