slamming doors

Never burn bridges.

One door closes for another door to open.

Approaching a crossroad.

Thus far, I've excelled specifically at one characteristic in life: leaving doors open. Setting myself in a position to proceed in any direction. Leaving the exit door of the past ajar has kept my mind at ease and emotions at bay. Saying goodbye has never been pretty when I'm involved. This reassurance has been created as a coping mechanism. Cracked doors mean I posses the ability to sneak back into the past and act as though I never left-- if desire one day strikes.

Neutrals and vintage and pearls and lace; never go out of style. Comforting knowing that my favorite black dress with matching lace pumps won't ever be considered last season. Worse comes to worse I find myself in a bind, that outfit is tucked safely in my closet. Familiar combination of lace and bows and neutrals and pumps never let down; never underdressed. Holding sentimental value, my precious outfit is becoming tattered and torn and quickly approaching the moment where we must part. Representing key moments of the past, people, places, emotions, decisions, priorities-- all which have altered over time. Begging for one more memory. It has served its purpose. The end is near. The time is now.

Certainly, I'll encounter this seasons lace and pearls and bows and pumps that leap off the hanger to share more of life's memories with. Surely this new dress will become tattered and old and eventually hold heart filled and heartrending emotions. In order to arrive safely at these unknown destinations, one must let go of familiar and dependable and recognizable and safe.

Doors must be closed completely; slam if necessary. Emotions will whirl and tears will fall and occasionally, smiles and giggles and sighs of relief accompany these moments. Decisions and doors unique to their own; the prize is reaching forward to the next door handle. Promise, the other side holds hope and adventure and new black lace pumps with bows.

Sometimes, there is no going back.

burnt muffins

Set the fire alarm off and burnt the muffins. They came from a box; I added three ingredients and poured the goopy batter into muffin molds. The timer beeped at fifteen; below the minimum requirement. They’re sitting on my stove, black as the night sky. Yeah, I burnt muffins out of a box. It’s been one of those days.

I need to write as much as ever tonight. This here, a moment where I question just how honest I’m willing to be, I’m reminded of a little promise made to my inner self about honesty. Honesty means vulnerability and vulnerability is not exactly my favorite concept—unfortunately, the intelligent side of my subconscious is firm on improvement. Vulnerability means improvement; vulnerability is necessary. This post will be different. Thoughts are spinning and whirling a jumbled mess inside my head. My subconscious is rolling her eyes mumbling "drama queen" while my inner self is screaming a girly scream and holding on for dear life. This is all I've got.

o   "We left their mark on California." It’s a labor of love; raw passion to the bone. He’s embarking on the same adventure I set out on at nineteen-years-old. There are only two reasons young adults are drawn to this lifestyle like a moth to a flame: 1, internal obligation for first or 2, absolute loathe of second. I beam with pride when I talk about him; he is living out his dream, passion paving the road but inside, it tears me apart. Parental instincts boil in my blood; I've never experienced the stir of untainted joy towards someone else’s happiness and accomplishments. With this come unsolicited, soaked tears. Convinced most people live entire lives without experiencing the need for something which evokes passion. Intense crave running below skins surface; barely touching heaven—it’s about coming alive. Oh, am I thankful for it all. Aches and pains and pops of my knees are all reminders of what once was. Absence of desire never gets easier. This here and now, this is my life. Attempting to help my ‘baby’ brother grasp just how special this feeling is. To treasure playing music in the clouds, on cloud nine, encouraging him to take big bites of out heaven. Let the feeling of coming alive burn into his soul and mind and heart and every part of him. Suck it up; let it cut deep and scab and eventually, scar. Leaving fragments and memories to guzzle later in life. To never forget what coming alive feels like.

o   Unpredictability has recently pitched a tent in my life and I have a suspicious feeling that it may be consulting a local Realtor. There should really be permit requirement for purchases of that nature. I've watched seventeen episodes of Pretty Little Liars, since Thursday, in a desperate attempt to create consistency and predictability. I have no appetite what-so-ever; not even for Wynn’s chunky chicken salad and ‘everything’ pretzel chips. My bedroom floor is scattered with piles of clean clothes, dirty clothes, bottles of nail polish and purses and shoes; it's all piling up. Constant eye rolls as I continuously step trip over the growing piles. Haven't thought twice about actually tidying up. Feeling as though I’m being left behind; an old soul who occasionally fails to remember my age.  Drowning in the brilliance of others is where I've been finding comfort in the chaos. Constantly overcompensating a forward motion, suffering a debilitating fear of regression. Rubbing my eyes, anxious for resolution, for peace, for a sound mind and improvement. With time, it will happen. With time.

This is all I've got. For now.

Pink flowers down Caxambas Court

Sweet, sweet summertime.

Ridiculous amount of emotions and experiences must be documented from the last two weeks. With time, they will. Tonight, I'm in the here and now. Soaking in the warmth of my Shabby Chic bedding as if it were an overflowing bubble bath, enjoying heaping spoonfuls of double dark chocolate gelato and fresh memories of adventure.

Sunday nights are reserved for family dinners and giggles and wine and stories. Old friends and new friends are welcome with open arms. Tonight, three-year-old Avery and I walked hand-in-hand picking pink flowers down Caxambas Court. Consuming hearty helpings of pasta and shrimp and lobster, we ended the night with bowls of fruit piled high with whipped cream. My belly and heart are full at the thought of it all. Watching Avery enjoy a Florida summer sunset over fruit salad, she would mumble, night night strawberry, right before she would sink her teeth into the juicy seasonal fruit. Intelligent beyond her years, she identified every fruit. I had to giggle when I heard, night night cucumber. I thought, for sure cucumbers had no place in a fruit salad. Avery learned tonight that kiwis and cucumbers are extremely similar in appearance. I basked in the presence of this free-spirit. Oh did I enjoy this summer night.

The sun sank below the horizon line as cars and trucks and boat engines roared and we departed our separate ways. Refreshed and prepared to conquer the week ahead. Behind the wheel of my brother's silver two-door Honda, I drowned thoughts and worries in my sixteen-year-old self's summer playlist, breathing in cool, humid Florida air. Oh, did I feel full and blessed and free and whole.

Welcome back sweet, sweet summertime.

Gate D11 Seat 27A

I swore To myself I'd write before I touched down in Paris. Do me a favor and read between the lines on this one. Pay no mind to the disorganization, the rambles, the sweaty palms and emotional jargon this post is about to contain...in just a short while.

Propped up cross-legged in a leather airport chair. I'm beyond gracious for the Starbucks I stumbled upon moments ago. Approaching the gate, not a single Starbucks in sight. What airport, international none-the-less, doesn't have that gold mine in a cup? Just my luck, this one did. I swear I heard angels sing.

Miami International, Gate D11. It's quickly approaching. Surrounded by strangers catching up and joking in an unrecognizable language. I'll assume it's French but I'm not willing to confirm it. At this very moment, it just occurred to me:  the most 'foreign' place I've ever been is El Paso, TX. There aren't beaches in El Paso. Definitely foreign.

'The moment.' The moment I've had branded on my calendar for months. The moment typed in all caps accompanied with little airplanes and strokes of emotion. It is here.

Four months ago I stood in my parents driveway begging and pleading her not to go. Heaving, gasping for air, doubled over in physical pain, piercing eyes met mine. Regretfully forcing her to second guess her decision, if only for a second, fearing I would not be okay without her. For the fist time understanding what "take care of yourself" meant. Take care of myself?! I wanted to shake her and say, "THAT'S WHY I HAVE YOU!" Too self-absorbed in the moment to form sentences. All she could fathom was, "should I go get Mom?" My countdown began the very next day.

Writing this, seat 27A houses the emotions of that night. Fighting their way out in the form of tears. Pain has ceased but recounting how vulnerable I felt is a horrifying realization. Sounds dramatic; I'm well aware but I'm also aware that grasping our relationship from the outside, is beyond challenging. It's rare and it's natural. We communicate silently through our eyes. In our early twenties, we whisper and giggle and hold hands under the covers in our childhood bedroom. My heart aches for those who never experience a relationship of this magnitude.

Less than twenty-four hours from now, we'll be [by choice] sharing a tiny bed, holding hands and whispering months and months of stories early into Friday morning. Longing for this for so long, it's just now I realize why the anxiousness feels absent. She hasn't felt it either. Initially, my heart ached. Are we OK being far away from each other? Have we grown apart? Has this destroyed our precious relationship?

Surely not but we have changed as women. We've grown wings; we've ventured beyond what is safe and what is cozy and what is expected. Conquered fears, overcome adversity and proved to ourselves we are strong and independent and adventurous; bound and determined to be better than we were yesterday. I believe I wrote--and if I didn't, I surely intended to--this would be our chance to grow separately together.

That, we did.

I land on unfamiliar soon, welcomed by all the familiarity I can guzzle at once. From there, we will embark on our next adventure, together. Four months ago I prayed that nothing would change between us. Appreciative for unanswered prayers, things have surely changed.

We are better women than we were four months ago; we are changed for good.

taste it

I spent, likely, my last Saturday night with the boys last weekend. Matt and Nick. I've been their 'stand-in' while my sister's gone exploring the unknown of foreign countries. They're her pride and joy. She's been with them close to six years and they adore the ground she stands on. Wonderful boys. They almost make me want a few. Never thought I'd be saying that.

Soccer balls soared across the yard at sunset. Spur-of-the-moment, fully clothed dips in the pool. Their negotiation was won. Blue and blown eyes disappeared behind reflective goggles. Splashes and giggles were music to my ears as I finished up dinner. Summer is close enough to taste.

Politeness earns adventure. Little boys with manners deserve exploration. Rushed a blonde and a brunette out the garage door, grabbed scooters and we were off. The race began. Three of us racing the sun to the finish line. Rules were made clear: crosswalks alone are forbidden, recklessness around patrons was unacceptable and maintaining manners was essential. Agreed upon. The race continued.

The eldest adventured further than my blue-eyed baby. Living to push the limits. Conversation trumps struggle in baby blue's world. Finding protection in conversation.

Our prize was in sight. Petite legs pushed harder, little feet moved with urgency. Spin. Self-serve frozen yogurt. Anxious eyes glared at me from crosswalks as to say, 'hurry! we're so close!'

Scooters propped against the building. Cups filled quickly. Concoctions mentally prepared. Finding a seat outside, we shared spoons. Heaping spoonfuls of candies and tart yogurt and popping boba. This time my older one finds comfort in connection. Shares knowledge about passing cars and motors and why I don't want a motorcycle license.

Our adventure is slowing dwindling down as the sun sinks beyond the horizon. Close to my side on the trek home. Pointer fingers and big eyes on the 'super moon.' Again, knowledge about the moon is heard from the older one. Retained information, like a sponge, from TIME Kid's. I didn't even know that existed.

The night ended with jamies and toothbrushes and hugs and giggles. Sweet, sweet giggles. Conversation continued until the lights were forced out. I pray they remember these days when they are older. I pray they remember this feeling. When they drive downtown at their leisure. When they spend more time with friends and less time with each other. The day when these adventures are not so special.

I pray they long for this feeling; hopeful that we made memories they'll long for. The magical feeling they allowed me to feel again. Carefree, summer adventures amongst nature.

Unexplainable tingles that summer is so close & Saturday night, we took a big bite and tasted it.

inpromtu

Days like today are extremely out of character for me. The more they occur, the more I wonder where they've been all my life. Oh, right! Now I remember. It's been rudely brushed under the rug by my need for plans; need for perfection. Desire for a precise time-- that I'd be characteristically and embarrassingly late for-- and an exact location. Organization is part of who I am. Organization geek if you will. Labels, color coding, sub-folders all make me happy. Venturing beyond the norm, impromptu girlfriend dates make me even happier.

I'm coming to realize that friendships are work. They don't just happen but bloom when nurtured with the proper care. Life doesn't always allot time for such nurture. It is then, creativity swings through. Dinner plans with girlfriends on Wednesday night led to an unexpected "what are you doing? meet me at Target in fifteen." There is always something you absolutely need at Target. I was up, dressed and parked in ten. Target led to a Publix run for dessert where we ran into our hostess, who was frantically racing us to her house, in the market. It ended in hugs and giggles and sighs of relief that we were all together. Those giggles continued over stir fry and bottles of wine and strawberry shortcake. Strawberry shortcake made by a big Cool Whip advocate. Yea, you heard that correctly. Cool Whip advocate. And giggles turned to belly laughs.

We drank too much wine for a weeknight complete with AM text messages about pounding headaches and how there is 'no way it was only Thursday.' We nurtured our friendships; gave it sunlight and water and sang sweet songs to it. Found beauty in spontaneity; an escape from the whirlwind reality we're faced with at twenty-something years old.

I'm already starving for another impromptu adventure of nurture, of meaty conversation, of gossip over a masseuse named Lester and how much we love certain things.

Things that are reserved only for the comfort of future fly-by-the-seat-of-our-pants girls' nights.

Shining light upon ordinary

How I long for inspiration. Someday, I'm borderline begging for it. The kind that awakens another side of my being. Forces an out of body experience. Instills empowerment and weightlessness, butterflies and spine chills. That "no one can stop me, I'm going to make it, you may not know my name but you will" kind of feeling.

Once in a blue moon, the universe surprises me. Shining light upon ordinary. Sparking questions amongst routine. Inviting itself into my heart and is graciously welcomed with open arms. I become more appreciative of these moments more and more when I'm longing and wishing and hoping for inspiration and it is nowhere to be found. I go to write and I have nothing. Fingers tapping and clicking, itching to write, only to find that they're still riding the last burst of inspiration's coattail.

I question if inspiration is attainable when desired. I've flirted with this idea through days of predictability. I trust that inspiration is all around us-- with the curiosity to explore it. Snuggling teary-eyed babies who miss their Momma. Candlelit showers on a Saturday morning. Fresh fruit smoothies at breakfast. Cracked windows on unseasonably chilly nights. Girlfriends belly laughing over glasses of white Zinfandel. Cool grass tickling bare feet that dangle just beyond a blankets edge.

Inspiration. We're unknowingly drowning in it.  Societal embedded blinders keep us from enjoying the beauty. Suffice our hunger to bask in the sun of inspiration. The beauty in the ordinary, beauty in routine, beauty in the predictable. I'm starving for it more often than not. All I have to do is seek and I will find. Beauty is all around us.

Giggle sweet nothings

One of those I'm-in-a-funk-and-have-no-idea-why kind of days. How badly I want to write something wonderful; something I can sip in at a later date and love it. How I'm convinced that will make this bad  weird indescribable mood more enjoyable. Well today, I've got nothing.

A day where I long for my sister. Not sorority sisters. Not best friends. Pure flesh and blood that knows what and how and when to say exactly the right thing. She never has the answer and she knows that. We talk things out; we talk life out. Memories reemerge to link us to better days; to happier times. We giggle sweet nothings and we hold hands. Hold tight, linking not only hands but souls knowing, we're never alone.

Regardless, today I feel a little something like that. Alone. Disconnected. Lengths of time from my best friend; my greatest confidant; my other half

humble & hungry

'Be humble and hungry.' I've heard it more times than I can count or have I?

In, what I like to call my old life, I heard that phrase as frequently as the words 'focus.. breathe.. concentrate.. listen.. kick faster.. yell louder!' I say I heard it but did I really listen to it? I grasped the whole be hungry part. All I wanted to do was kick faster and yell louder than the person standing next to me. I was hungry all the time. Figuratively. Literally, too. I never felt as though I wasn't humble until tonight.

This royal blue bag at my feet holds an unimaginable amount of memories and emotions and life lessons and accomplishments and hurt. I cringe at the thought of it. I've tried to get rid of it so many times but I can't. I woke up this weekend and I am ready. I am hungry. I am humbled. I roll my eyes at the thought of having that conversation. The one that means the world to the girl delivering and essentially nothing to the one receiving. Guts will be spilled. Emotions will surface. This girl will speak the words naturally. Inside, she will choke. I have to humble myself. I sat outside that gym tonight and starred. Starred for nearly an hour. I'm sure they noticed. I was paralyzed. I could gather myself enough to venture to the door. It made me beg and wish and long for my old life back. Routined. Familiar. Predictable. Easy. That isn't what life is all about. It's about being humble and being scared. Confronting my gear and holding myself together. It's about picking up the pieces and moving forward. If we stay where we are, that's the only place we'll ever be. I want to live the length of my time and the width and the height. I want to feel it all.

The thrill of victory and the agony of defeat.

Where I don't let success get to my head or failure get to my heart.

Be humble and hungry.

Do one thing everyday that scares you.

Well, this girl let this day pass without being humble enough. She wasn't hungry enough. She certainly and most definitely bailed like a complete coward when she had the perfect, beyond perfect, opportunity to conquer something that is scary.

Tomorrow is another day. Another chance to be great. I will have that dreaded conversation and enjoy it for the end result, will be success. Will be humbling. Will kick off a new adventure. They may not know my name but I assure, as I have before, they will. The day will come where they ask about my past because they care. They'll respect me. I will work for it. In the meantime, I will be hungry and humble. Look fear in the eyes and giggle.

Giggle in my short, blonde, girly-girl self and pursue that passion; light the fire and end the night knowing, I did one thing today that scares me.

Better Friends

You have friends and you have better friends. Most importantly though, you have core friends.

They laugh with me the way my sister and I giggle till our abs ache; have witnessed, first hand, streams of tears when my feelings are disregarded. Core friends understand my tough exterior is merely that, an exterior, and their reaction to the vinyl wall quote I hold up in the middle of a Target isle at 8:00 on a Tuesday night asking, "how do you feel about this?" is "not bad... well, the beige bothers me." I put it back on the rack. Not because she didn't like it but because she inconceivably pin-pointed the reason I just wasn't sold on the vinyl quote. It was all the beige.

I once read that a woman should never have a 'best' friend. Friends should not be ordered, for each serves a unique purpose in life. I do however, recognize that fact that I have core friends. We talk about our lives together. There are many 'when we have children, promise me we will do that with them' and even more 'tell me right now our husbands will be friends, too.'  That promise was made. Those men have no choice, now. That's the best part about it though: we'll wait for those men. For that time. For our time.

There will come a day when we will pick up the phone to a screaming voice saying, I'm engaged, and another day it will be, I'm pregnant. We will celebrate the happiness of our friends. We'll drool over diamonds. They will hold me together when I walk down that isle and I will, without question, reciprocate. There will be afternoons where we'll rub growing bellies and find humor in the bellybutton poking out.We will love one another's children as if they are our own. We will kiss them and hold them and love them and celebrate them.  We will celebrate.

There will be days where we look into the eyes of these God sent woman and say I can't do it. I will hold them with no intention of letting go. Only then, when they find the strength within themselves to keep going, I will unwrap my arms but never will I let go of their hand. I wish I could say that we will never have days or weeks or even months where we feel that monkey jumping on our back. The weight on our shoulders that is too heavy to carry alone. Times where we feel like we just can't. At 20-something-years-old, there will be those times. The sun will rise again and we will celebrate. Celebrate another victory; an obstacle overcome.

We will celebrate with pink drinks in fancy glasses, high heels and the unspoken admiration for one another.

We will celebrate.

Opened my eyes

Recently tumbling in my newest obsession, I came across this.  By accident really. My attention was initially focused on reading this. Becky's stories about her precious blonde beauty E have been added to the list of 'things I read daily.' It centers around her and her husband and her little bundle of adorableness. Her writing is honest and humorous and educational for first time moms. I'm not, nor am I anywhere close to being a first time mom but none-the-less, I find comfort in her words. I dream of being my future husbands best friend. I can't wait to be a wife. To take a new name. To have a cold ring occupy my left hand. I want to build a home together. When the day comes that I hold my own creation in my arms, I want to remember the days I read about the lives of others and longed to be in their shoes. I want to remember just how badly I wanted it all. I want to make sure I appreciate that day more than I ever imagined my heart could appreciate. I want to bring that new part of us to a home that my best friend and I made a reality. I want to watch the fluttering eyes of my little miracle in the dimness of the hallway light, while brushed up against the other half of my creation. I want my heart to burst with gratitude when I open my eyes each morning. I am eager for the 'butterfly kisses' fluttering in my tummy while I draw in my final breaths of the day.

I want to look back at this day-- and this day and this day-- and reflect on how far I've come. The sacrifices, struggles, tears and the heartache but more importantly, I want to taste the happiness, the excitement, feel the warm hugs and the pure, genuine love of my family and the family I have yet to meet.  I want to remember every moment that leads me to that night. I want to live every, single moment until that very night.

I get it. I sound just like every twenty something-year-old sorority girl who fantasizes over the day her daddy walks her down the isle at the wedding of her dreams. No. It's not like that. That's not where I'm going with this.

Normal day, normal reads. I was here when Becky posted this about little Nella's breathtaking birth story. Being the 'mommy blog junkie' that I am, it was like a little elf jumped on my index finger and forced me to click that link without even consulting my brain. Wherever that little outside force is, I'd like to thank you from the bottom of my being.

I'd suggest to anyone who asks (and even to those who don't) to visit the blog of this lovely lady who may, or may not have opened my eyes to life. Not a new life, not a better life or even a different life, just life. I vow to soak in every sunny day and to splurge on fresh flowers for my bedroom. Toss my plans into the wind and just drive. Swim in the gulf; in my clothes if I don't have a swimsuit. Be a better friend & celebrate others big moments and tiny occasions alike. Strive to walk closer to the Lord and lessen the 'stranger gap' between acquaintances. Deeply and sincerely love each individual for who & what they are, not what I want them to be.

I hate being cliche, I  simply won't do it. I am different. I'm not like every other girl. I'm just not. I have to learn to be vulnerable & this is where I dump my feels and spill my guts. There are times my fingers insist on typing things my heart feels but my head is too stubborn to admit. It's the fear of being cliche. I live in the same small little beach town as Kelle & Lainey & Nella. We share the same white, sandy beaches, drive the same roads and sit in traffic with the same wrinkly snowbirdies & there is more of a chance than not, that's all we'll ever share. It may not be in the plans for us to ever cross path. That's ok. Here we go. My fingers and heart are ganging up on my head and forcing me to admit this. These three amazing, genuine, loving women have opened my eyes to the world. To life. I don't even know them but they have changed me. They have each changed me for the better.

& I will leave it at that...for now.

Little Miss Crankypants

Walking into my house this afternoon, this post dawned on me. After hustling all day at work, I left nearly sweating. Finish the newsletter, print this, email that, chase that one down, give these people a tour, take reservations & the list went on. Every time I turned around there was a wrinkly old person standing at my office door needing something. They are very needy. I feel like you hit a certain age and then proceed to regress back to a helpless child. It's okay though. I am happy to help. It is my job after all. No problem. The weird part? The second I stepped out of the front doors, I turned into Ms.Cranky. BOOM. Like that. Out of nowhere. Cranky, irritable, anti-social and wishing I was "I dream of genie," could nod my head and be home. No such luck. At least for now.

I (of course!) fought traffic the entire way home. I know, I know- it comes with living in paradise. From Christmas to Easter our little beach town is swamped with those who drive too slow and don't quite know where they're going. To top it off, they're in absolutely no hurry what-so-ever. Again, its ok. It's only for a few months and this town does survive off tourism. I get it. I'm usually the only one that doesn't complain about the traffic but today, Miss. Cranky had a few choice words... followed by a prayer of apology for my impatience...for our precious tourists and snowbirdies.

Then, it dawned on me. Am I sorry for being cranky? No, not really. Sometimes you need to be cranky. You need to go home and lock yourself in your room, hurrying to get in your pajamas, without so much as muttering a word to your poor roommate. Normally, I'd send a text across the house saying "sorry for being a bitch" and then make up some excuse like, "I'm just really tired." Not this time friends. I'm allowed to be cranky every once in a while. I don't have to be Miss Politically Correct and Miss Friendly every. single. day. I really try but sometimes, I just have an off day. Sometimes, the wrinkly people just wear me out. Sometimes, I can't muster a happy "hello." I just can't. I'm allowed to sit in my bed for the entire evening and continue to work.  I'm allowed to skip Wednesday service at church to catch up on work. To finish stuff for work, stuff for Rotaract, stuff on my to-do list that seems to grow by every waking moment. I'm allowed to eat chocolate chip waffles for dinner, with milk, in bed-- because I want to.

So, needless to say, I have been Little Miss Cranky this afternoon. I'm not sorry about it. Tomorrow is another day. I will wake up with a smile on my face and seize the day. Today, I learned that you're allowed to  be cranky every once in a while.

That's a wrap...

I know I've absolutely neglected this blog for the past few months but in my defense, I was waiting for the perfect moment. Most people say that when starting a blog, to just write. I could write all day long; write about what I think, what I feel, things I should change and adventures I should take but trust me, if I blogged about every thought that popped into my little head, I'm not sure even I'd be able to keep up.

The next few months will be about me and (and like it says in my profile) my attempt to discover myself & my place in this world. Surely I'm destine for things greater than excessive tweeting and celebrity gossip. The catch? (please note the blog title) My sister is gone for four months. Yes! 4. Cuatro. Quatre. She is studying abroad in Dijon, France until mid-May. I will be on my way to Pari come May but until then, I have no choice but to look at this tervis tumbler half-full.

Her flight left the homeland exactly 24 hours ago and we've already exchanged four emails. Not nearly enough, if you ask me. I've had my moments where I cried like a baby and to be-quite-frank, it was refreshing. Now that I'm finished with that, it's time to put on my big girl panties and conquer the world alone until I'm reunited with my left hand. Only then will we set out on a totally new adventure. We explore Europe as one. When I get my hands on her, she'll never leave me again. If bribery doesn't work, I'm not afraid to take drastic measures.

Until then, look out world, here I come...well, here comes half of me, since the other half has flown the nest, left the coup- ya get my drift.

Here goes everything!