Parental Supervision Required

There's great benefit in having a nursing student for a roommate. Namely, she gives great advice on how to shorten a cold or can stitch up a gash from a veggie chopping accident while I'm passed out from the sight of my own blood.

But the best part of ALL is the fact that she works in a health clinic and has fantastic stories about the redneck patients she sees.

Most of the time, the stories are funny. Like the one about the large woman who wore jeans with two perfect-circle holes in the butt and had a boy in tow named DeWeese (bahaha). Or the one about the man who had to come in because he'd stuck one too many household objects up his poop hole.

But last night, she told me a story that's almost too horrifying to believe. I know this is going to make me sound 75, but what the hell is wrong with kids these days?!

Yesterday my roommate had to perform a pelvic exam on a 12-year-old girl because she'd been caught having both regular and anal sex in the bathroom at school.

(Yes, you read that right. When my roommate told me, I dropped my toothbrush and almost passed out and chipped my teeth on the sink.)

I know this is too much information, but when I was twelve, it was a BIG deal when the sluttiest girl in 7th grade went to second base...and that's just a little fondling.

Apparently, this sexually active preteen was both angry and scared to death of the exam. Um, hello? A little Q-tip swab is nothing in comparison to a penis in your butt. Ugh! It makes me want to shake her. In my opinion, a 12-year-old isn't mature enough to be dropped off at the mall, let alone having sex. What is she possibly thinking? And does this mean that MY kids will be having sex when they're five?

But here's the kicker. After my roommate gave her the whole spiel about abstinence, safe sex and birth control, the girl asked if birth control tablets come in CHEWABLES.

I may not be an expert, but I know that if you have a hard time swallowing a birth control pill (or want it in a fruity flavor), chances are you shouldn't be having sex. Period. End of discussion.

Now go to your room.

Wrestling With "Reality"

For whatever reason (perhaps this blog?) I recently received an invitation to a closed casting call to be on the next season of The Bachelor—I apparently have what “they’re looking for”. Whatever that means.

My first reaction was total disbelief. I definitely belly laughed and then wondered which of my goober friends pulled the prank. But after a little research, I discovered that the individual who contacted me really IS a casting agent for ABC.

I’ve polled a lot of my friends and every single one of them thinks I should audition. (Whether they think I’d do well or just want to tell people their friend is “famous” is unclear...)

My thoughts on auditioning are mixed. On one hand, it could be a great experience. When else would you get the opportunity to fly to exotic locales and drink loads of champagne on yachts? But on the other hand, every time I’ve ever watched The Bachelor, it’s mainly to laugh at the silly drama of all the stupid hookers. I can’t quite wrap my head around the thought of BEING one of them.

The only way I can come up with solving this dilemma is the classic pro/con list:

Pro: Free vacation. (Hell yes.)
Con: Telling my boss why I need three weeks off work.

Pro: Fantasy trips/dates.
Con: Putting up with (probably annoying) women tagging along on said fantasy trips/dates.

Pro: Being on TV. (Or is this a con?)
Con: My ENTIRE FAMILY watching me make out with a dude on national television.

Pro: Being one of the only cool, down-to-earth girls in the show’s history.
Con: Living in the same house with Barbie look-a-likes who think Oscar Wilde is an edgy designer.

Pro: Free booze.
Con: Being craftily edited to look like a snarky bitch on national television.

And…we’re back to square one. I’m torn. This is of course all assuming that I even make a call back, which is doubtful. The casting agents could just think I’m “nice”…

I’m opening the floor for your opinions/advice/hysterical laughter.

To Bachelor or not to Bachelor?

The Season

It has officially begun.

Yesterday, I received my SEVENTH wedding invitation in the mail.

Don't get me wrong, I love attending weddings. They provide the unique opportunity to drunkenly gorge yourself on fluffy cake while dancing to live bands and shamelessly flirting with other "unweds".

But this is where my attraction ends.

For whatever reason, I was never the little girl to dress-up and play "wedding" with her friends/dolls/siblings/anything that would cooperate at the "alter". I was too busy playing kick the can with the neighborhood boys, building houses for caterpillars and skinning my knees.

To this day, while some females light up during discussions of flower arrangements and dress cuts, my eyes tend to glaze over. While other females gush over cake stands at bridal showers, I can be found gazing out the window, wishing I was driving through the sunshine with wind whipping through my hair and Stevie Nicks crooning over my speakers.

I often feel like an outsider in the world of nuptials. Like an underdeveloped middle-school boy who's friends have become interested in girls overnight; he gets the attraction, he just doesn't feel it himself. Come ON guys! What's the big deal? They're just stupid GIRLS.

Maybe your mind frame changes when you meet that person who you want to stand beside at the alter. Maybe a "first dance" to a sappy, overused love song isn't so heinous when you're dancing with your perfect match. Maybe flower arrangements and dress cuts suddenly become synonymous with hope and happiness.

Or MAYBE, if I'm honest with myself, the only thing I'm truly looking forward to about my (very) future wedding is calling my mother in the midst of frenzied wedding preparations to ask if Port-a-Potty rentals will put us over budget. And then giggling as her head explodes in complete disbelief.

The Best I'll Ever Be

Yesterday I said goodbye to the greatest man I’ve ever known.

My incredible granddad died unexpectedly last Friday at the age of 84. And left me shell shocked. I’m sure it’s no coincidence that my last blog post was about my love for him. If I had only known at that Easter lunch that that would be the last time I’d see him alive, I would’ve stayed for days. But instead I’m left aching to hear more of his stories. Stories that will now never be told.

My grandfather was my rock. He was one of the greatest men in the greatest generation our country has ever seen. He lived and breathed integrity. He was gentle, yet commanding. Respectful, yet vivacious. Mirthful, yet deep. He’s been the best example, the best champion, and the best friend a girl could ever hope to have.

As funerals go, his was…nice. Over 500 people came to pay their respects which was powerful to see, to know that he’d touched that many individual lives. Unfortunately, I spent the entire time feeling as if I was trapped in a fishbowl. All I wanted to do was lie in my high school bed and sob like a little girl, but I dutifully shouldered my responsibility as his oldest grandchild and welcomed his guests. I received countless hugs from virtual strangers and tried to ignore their curious stares. As if I was a battered car wreck victim being hauled into an ambulance on the side of an interstate instead of a heartbroken young woman who’s entire world had shifted overnight.

But this story isn’t all sad. Whatever your beliefs are concerning an afterlife, the strangest thing happened to me on the way to his funeral. Something that lifted me up and forever tinged my memory of him with wonder.

I left Nashville Monday morning in a cloud of misery and dread. I knew that as soon as I arrived home, his death would fade from being dreamlike into stark reality. About 45 minutes into my trip, one of my tires blew out on the interstate. I have no idea how, but I managed to guide my car to the shoulder without hitting anyone.

I sat stunned on the side of the road for a few moments and then laid my head on the steering wheel and sobbed. I couldn’t believe that such shitty luck happened on that particular day.

Just when I’d managed to pull myself together and had started out on my hike to the nearest gas station, an older man pulled up behind me in a giant moving truck.

I’m sure I looked a mess—helpless, windblown and tear-streaked. But he gave me a kind smile and in an almost unintelligible stutter, asked if he could be of assistance. I resisted the urge to throw my arms around him and simply asked if he could help me change my tire. Because I already felt like the most pitiful thing in the world, I refrained from telling him where I was headed…

In no time flat (ha!) he got me back on the road. I burbled my gratitude and offered to compensate him for his efforts, but he just smiled. As he climbed into the cab of his truck, his stutter fell away and he said clear as day, “just consider me your guardian granddad”. And with a wink, he drove away.

I stood on the side of the road in silence as a chill crept up my spine. Then I threw my head back and laughed. Coincidence or no, it was perfect. It made me feel both exhilarated and protected, just like I did as a little girl when he would toss me into the air and then catch me in his strong arms.

Robert Clay Evans, you will be missed. Missed in a way that aches and forever feels empty. But in subtle ways, your spirit still lives on. It lives on in good samaritans willing to help the helpless. It lives on in your surviving family members who will tell your priceless stories for generations to come.

It lives on in your oldest granddaughter’s heart as she continues to be your biggest fan.

Oldies But Goodies

Several years ago (as shameful as this is to admit), I viewed visits to my grandparents' house as a necessary chore filled with mind-numbing questions. (What classes are you taking? Have you been to any fun dances? Are you sure you're getting enough to eat?)

I'd answer their questions robotically, all the while hoping my grandad would slip me some "gas money" on my way out the door.

But as I've grown older, I've begun viewing visits with them more as a refreshing pit-stop instead of just a speed bump on my fast-moving social calendar.

I can spend hours listening to their stories while attempting to catch glimpses of what they might've been like at my age. During rare moments, their gray hairs and wrinkles are stripped away and I'm left feeling like I'm chatting with close friends. Friends who straight up make me LAUGH.

Remember in Steel Magnolias when Clairee says, "If you can't say something nice, come sit next to me"? That's my grandmother to a tee. Especially in church. (If that woman doesn't stop showing off half her bosom, my Sunday School class just might nickname her "Trudy the Tart"...bless her little heart.)

While I have the utmost respect and awe over the great lives my grandparents have led and there is admittedly no other couple I'd rather swap gossip or old stories, it's hard not to laugh at their absolute bafflement of modern technology.

For the simple fact that I'm under the age of 50, I've been deemed their personal technology wizard. Every time I visit, they have questions about "the intranet" and lists of numbers that need to be programmed into their cell phone.

Last weekend while home for Easter, I decided it was high time they became a little technologically savvy themselves. So in a crash course of the 21st Century, I introduced them to their PICTURE PHONE (which they didn't even realize they had).

In several minutes flat, I'd snapped pictures of every family member in the room and set them to appear when each individual called. And if that didn't flabbergast them enough, I took a picture of them on their phone and text messaged it to my phone.

Judging by their amazed reaction, you'd think I set fire to the living room carpet with my eyeballs...

In the days following my "cell phone sorcery", I received multiple whispered phone calls from my grandmother to the effect of, "Can you please call me back? I'm at the Senior Center and want to see Doris' stunned face when your picture appears!"

Next up? Mastering the universal remote.

Bless their little hearts.

Team Player

In an effort to recapture my youth, I've joined an adult kickball league. The season started last Wednesday and so far, it's been a blast.

There's nothing quite like rolling out your cooler and lawn chairs and sitting under the hazy evening sky while watching grown ass men make fools of themselves.

Glints of athletic glory-days-gone-by shine in these out-of-shape, overgrown boys' eyes. These are the athletic scholarship rejects, but that fact doesn't interfere with their ability to slam powerful line drives like it's their job. Their self worth is wholly dependent on their number of runs scored...

Which is really too bad considering my team is going to CRUSH THEM. Buahahahaha! We've put together the best of the best and actually have a practiced strategy to ensure wins. Plus, we have the best kickball team name ever created.

It's...wait for it..."Rubber Balls and Liquor."

Dirty, but hysterical. And continuing with our theme, our jerseys have personalized drinks emblazoned on them instead of our own boring names. (Hello. My name is: "Hypnotiq".)

Despite the marketing genius behind our team's theme, it was a tad embarrassing to actually order the shirts. When I called a local screen printing shop to place our order, an old man answered the phone and asked in the most pleasant voice possible how he be of assistance (gulp).

"Um, please don't judge me by this, but I need 14 shirts with our 'Rubber Balls and Liquor' logo on the front and individual names on the back. Starting with number double zero, name 'Buttery Nipple'..."

Lawd, do I know how to make my mama proud or what?

Ridin' Dirty

About six weeks ago, I got rear-ended downtown. (I'm shocked that I didn't post some long-winded rant about sassy bitches who can't drive, but nada.)

Basically, she hit me, then threw me an attitude...which I threw right back. I'll see your huffy temper tantrum and raise you one snarky battle of wits.

To make a long story short, while our insurance companies haggle out who's fault it was (hers), my cute little Volkswagen is sitting in the repair shop. Luckily, State Farm is providing me with a rental car at no charge.

Because the rental company was short stocked the day I picked up my car, I had my choice between a tiny station wagon/tennis shoe-looking thing or a regular sedan. I opted for the sedan and chuckled when the man at Enterprise handed me keys to my brand new Chevy Impala...holla! (I definitely asked whether spinners and tinted windows came standard, or were an extra charge.)

It amuses me to no end to cruise around in this absolute boat of a car. It's like a full-size sofa on wheels with a ride so smooth a crater wouldn't rattle gramp's dentures (or Nelly's grill). An added bonus: it has a stereo system to rival the best of them.

And hey! At least it's not a minivan!

Belawha?

This past Sunday was absolutely gorgeous so Stella Mae and I postponed our movie plans to take my dog to the park.

When I picked her up, Stella Mae informed me that she's not allowed to go to the park by her house because people fight there, so we opted for a safer park in my neighborhood.

Little did I know just how much entertainment we were in for...

We pulled into the parking lot just in time to hear a shrill battle cry and witness several dozen adults (in medieval costumes) charging each other. Stella Mae sat agog as swords clashed and men fell to the ground. All I could think was, "Great! She can't go to her park because people fight there and yet here we are, surrounded by men with 'battle axes'".

Surprisingly, Stella Mae wasn't put off. She opened her car door and moved closer to the fray.

We sat together for awhile and watched in utter fascination as armored men took stabs at each other with foam weapons a la 7-year-old boys. In typical 9-year-old fashion, Stella Mae asked me a million questions about the spectacle before us. (The funniest was, "Are they playing Lord of the Rings?!") Unfortunately, I couldn't answer a single one.

So to fulfill both of our curiosities, I went home and did a little research. I discovered that this wasn't just a play club for nerds, but a highly organized National Medieval Combat Society called "Belegarth". The actual name for what they do is "LARP" which stands for Live Action Role Play. Apparently, these people create character personas and interact in a fictional version of the Dark Ages.

In case you ever want to partake, you can learn how to fashion vampire fangs out of denture material here and can buy your perfect LARPing garb here. By the way, according to one website, "LARPing isn't just a game, it's a way of life." (And to find out how much of your life LARPing has consumed, you can take the purity test here.)

After overhearing a middle aged man screech, "INCOMING ARCHER", Stella Mae proclaimed, "I think these people are a little weird...I bet they didn't have many friends when they were in school."

Wow. She probably doesn't know the half of it.

Pooptastic

After glancing out my office window this morning, I couldn't help but notice a filthy red car in our neighbor's parking lot:

Upon closer inspection, I realized that the white spots were not unfortunate paint splatters, but rather a shitload of bird poop. (Pardon the pun.)

Whoever drives this mess either a) lives in the middle of a bird conservatory or b) is a lazy slag who hasn't washed their car since the Reagan administration.

It made me laugh, so I thought I'd share.

Death by Saccharine

Last night, after a marathon spring cleaning session, I collapsed happily on the couch just in time to catch a minute of Grease: You're the One That I Want.

Dear God, this show is absolutely awful. Basically, dippy wannabe actors and actresses are vying for starring roles in the new version of Grease! on Broadway. A good percentage of them are half-witted middle class Americans who quit their day jobs as nannies and mechanics for a shot to be famous.

Despite their plastic smiles and chipper personas, I KNOW their 1982 Datsun's are sadly filled with cigarette butts, Egg McMuffin wrappers and dated high school playbills.

Granted, Grease! in itself is a little cheesy, but this reality show competition is like The Mickey Mouse Club on crack. You don't believe me? Here's a snapshot:

If you can stand anymore, THIS contestant definitely wins the cheese prize:

My only "vote" is that this Austin fellow needs a swift kick to his dangly bits.

Sock Shock

Since today showed the tiniest hint of spring, some friends and I decided to ring in our lunch breaks on the deck of a popular tex mex eatery in Nashville.

In the midst of gabbing and soaking up the sunshine, a guy friend of mine casually mentioned that he needed to start going to the tanning bed to get a “base tan” before summer officially starts.

I almost choked on my queso-covered chip.

Firstly, because this carefree guy is the last person on earth I’d imagine gracing the threshold of a tanning salon. Secondly, because…I don’t know…he has a penis?

Because I’m naturally curious and don’t often think before I speak, I blurted out, “When you go, do you cover up your junk?” (Eloquence personified.)

He informed me that after one bad burning experience, he now uses a SOCK.

I know I’m being sexist to think it’s strange/creepy for men to lay in tanning beds, but the mental image of a man lying bathed in blue light, wearing tiny baby goggles, rocking a 1990s Red Hot Chili Peppers cock sock makes me giggly…and a little ill.

Unavoidably from now on, whenever I see overly tan guys at the gym, I'll be suspicious as to exactly WHERE their socks have been...

Can You Hear That? I Think It's a Calling.

Since as far back as I can remember, I’ve been told that I have a “gift”. At first I brushed it off, but my own moment of self-realization came in the 7th grade when Mrs. Napolitano sobbed awkwardly in class after reading aloud a poem I’d written. And scared me.

Unfortunately, it’s taken me a long time to appreciate this so-called “gift”.

It actually started as something I resented. In middle school, I would’ve given anything to spend my summers flirting with boys at the neighborhood pool instead of attending writer’s camp with the most socially awkward, acne-ridden pre-teens my state had to offer. From there, it merely guaranteed me star English student status in high school...and then provided an extra income as paper-writer-extraordinaire in college.

Ironically, now that I’m officially done with school and the foolish mandatory writing assignments, I ache to write.

If I’m upset, it’s the only thing that truly soothes me. If I’m angry, it’s the best way I can express myself. If I’m joyous, I’m simply drawn to my computer to effervescently burble my thoughts.

The trouble is, the popular idiom says, “write what you know”. Well, that’s wonderful for the Augusten Burroughs’ and David Sedaris’ of this world. But despite being raised in a broken home, my childhood memories are filled with dance recitals, birthday parties and sunshine. I know comfort. I know love. I know a relatively charmed life.

Not long ago, while pouring through Me Talk Pretty One Day, for a split second I actually found myself wishing I’d been born with a debilitating lisp or a lazy eye; had a manic depressive mother or severe drug addiction…anything that would set me apart from the scores of middle class humdrums overtaking our country.

Sick, right? I know. But strangely, I can’t help it. I was born to be a writer and a writer I’ll be. My smooth-sailing past just ensures I’ll have to dig a little deeper to separate myself from the pack.

Hair lip or no, I’m determined to be brilliant.

Laugh Out Loud

I saw this on my way to Knoxville yesterday and HAD to slow down to take a picture:

Who says truck drivers aren't gentlemen? At least he said please...

Ring Fever

Several days ago, a girl I know from high school got engaged. She’s thrilled and I’m happy that she is…but the whole thing troubles me. Mainly because she has been so desperate for her boyfriend to propose that she booked a church in advance—twice. When confronted with the fact that by having to push him down the aisle, he may not be right for her, her response was, “But I don’t want to have to start over.”

Are you kidding me? A beautiful girl is scared to “start over” at the impossibly young age of 24? Is she so scared of being ringless for a little while longer that she’d sacrifice the rest of her life’s happiness by settling for the wrong man?

I honestly don’t know what it is with young women in this country—especially those south of the Mason Dixon. Too many seem to be operating under the misconception that their life will officially begin or that they will have “arrived” as soon as they have a ring on their finger.

Reality check: your life is happening in the here and now and by focusing your hopes and dreams on a fictional fairytale marriage in the future, not only are you setting yourself up for major disappointment, you’re wasting what precious time you have here by not enjoying it to the fullest.

A good friend of mine called off an engagement the summer after we graduated. Thankfully, she had the maturity and decisiveness to see that the relationship wasn’t right and ended it before they got in too deep. It takes a strong woman to openly admit a mistake and then fix it—and I have nothing but respect for her as a result.

Considering the scary statistics about marriages lasting in this day and age, I can’t figure out why anyone would want to rush into it.

Right now, marriage is so far off in my future it’s almost laughable—the thought of planning a wedding makes me break into hives. At this point, all I know is that I’m going to hold out until someone incredible comes along…someone who makes me unable to imagine my life without them.

Bottomline: it’s just a ring. Granted, a pretty, sparkly ring…but still just a ring. What sense does it make to sacrifice your independence, happiness and future for something you can easily buy for yourself?

Home, Sweet Home

In light of my friend’s recent loss, I decided to come home for the weekend to spend a little time with my family. I don’t get to see them often so it’s always a treat…and always interesting…when I do.

Priceless highlights of this trip:

1) My mom definitely said (in front of several family members), “Now, I don’t mean to pry into your personal life…but I’ve seen so many news stories about the bad side effects of the birth control patch that I hope you’re not using it!”

Wow, thanks mom. My sex life is exactly what I want brought up in front of my grandfather.

2) This afternoon I was drug to a women’s luncheon at our church and forced to make small talk against my will.

While sitting with my grandmother and some of her friends, the topic inevitably turned to my love life and lack of husband. (Since they were all happily married by the ripe old age of 19, my singledom at 23 makes me seem “adventurous” and “saucy”.) Because she rarely monitors what comes out of her mouth, my grandmother asked at top volume, how many "young bucks" I’d "seduced" lately.

The fellowship hall fell silent as everyone turned and looked at me. I tittered nervously, proclaimed that “seduce” was a very strong word and wondered how long I could hide under the table without being missed.

3) At dinner tonight, my dad told me a funny story about his experience in the waiting room at the local Ford dealership. He said he was sitting on the couch next to several men, feeling like he’d walked straight into an episode of King of the Hill, when the “white trashiest” woman he’d ever seen walked in wearing a lace top…with no bra. To quote, “You’d think those poor men had been in lockdown for 25 years the way they reacted over Bobbi Jo’s saggy nipples. I had to excuse myself to the restroom so I wouldn’t throw up in my mouth.”

I laughed so hard that I choked on my beer. And then desperately hoped to never hear my dad utter the word “nipples” ever again.

Reasons to Be Dateless on Valentine's Day

Reason #1:
Good Friends

Reason #2:
More Good Friends

Reason #3:
Free Pitchers of Beer

Reason #4:
Acting Like Goobers in Public...

Reason #5:
...And It Being Acceptable

Reason #6:
You Don't Have to Choose Just One. Holla!

Valentine, Schmalentine.

As awkward as this is to admit, this is my first official Valentine's Day without a boyfriend/admirer since uh, high school.

Truthfully, I've never cared much for this holiday, even when I had a suitor. I think the root of my dislike started in the 2nd grade when a wretched little boy named Trey gave every single person in our class a Thundercats Valentine BUT me. (And now he's fat, so...in his face.)

Because of the absence of a beau this year, I'd been dreading the big V-Day a little more than usual. But when my alarm went off this morning and I stumbled into the bathroom, I met my own gaze in the mirror...and GRINNED. And then laughed out loud because I'd fully expected to feel dread.

And it's been uphill ever since. I've gotten flowers, cards, candy and my email has been flooded with sweet messages. Granted, no boyfriend...but I've never felt so loved. (Life lesson perhaps?)

To top things off, as soon as I get off work I'm heading out to celebrate with an amazing group of friends over trivia and 2-for-1 beers.

Because when you get right down to it, nothing says "Happy Valentine's Day" quite like fried food, free pitchers and whipping ass with your random knowledge...

Gramnation

Like the rest of the pop-culture crazed country, I sat through hours of last night's Grammy entertainment. Not to be insensitive, but when it came to the long-winded tributes and boring performances (read: James Blunt), thank God for Tivo!

The only thing that truly struck me (in between fast forwarding) was the uncanny resemblance between certain Grammy stars and other famous faces.

Exhibit A:
The drummer for The Police (who sounded like they were performing karaoke at a dive bar):
...looks like a strangely anorexic version of THIS man:
Exhibit B:
While some might argue that this man was hot during his "Your Body is a Wonderland" days, now...notsomuch:

...he unfortunately resembles this freak-of-nature:

Exhibit C:
Personally, I'd rather listen to my landlord's porn tapes than James Blunt:
Which is why I cackled gleefully upon discovering his resemblance to Napoleon Dynamite:

Slightly uncanny, no?

The only other thing I took away from watching the Grammys was the burning desire to see Justin Timberlake perform live. So in a fit of ill-repressed longing, my roommate and I impulsively purchased tickets to his March 16th show in Nashville.

Which means that in a little over a month, I'll be among the sea of irritatingly rabid females vying for a place in his pants as he does this:

The groupie whores can scream, salivate and storm his tour bus all they want. The only reason I'm going is to watch that boy DANCE.

The Grass is Blue

Naively, I’ve always assumed that my parents would be here indefinitely. I’ve never existed without them…I wouldn’t know how to begin.

The past week has been nothing but a lesson in how much I personally take for granted. In the last several days, two of my friends’ fathers have died. My inner self rages at the fact that I’m not old enough to have friends with dying parents…but I am. Strangely, I am.

When did this happen? When was the exact moment where I turned from a blissfully comfortable youth to an adult who’s expected to say the right things when a friend calls, lost and brokenhearted over someone I’ll never be able to replace?

I’m driving to Memphis today to scoop up a shattered friend and hold her close to my heart. And I’ve never felt so helpless in my life. I’d give anything in this world to make things okay for her, but I can’t. All I can do is be there. To listen, to hold her, to stand with her at the graveside as she says goodbye to the most important man in her life.

I can’t even begin to fathom what she’s going through. And I’ve tried…but it’s like trying to imagine being colorblind or paralyzed. You can’t comprehend until you yourself have been there.

I just can’t dream up a life without my wonderful father. To not be able to call him when I hear a funny noise from my car. To not be able to tell him a joke I know will make him belly laugh. To not have random phone calls from him just to "check on his favorite big city girl". To not be able to run to him if a stupid boy is careless with my heart. To not have him walk me down the aisle when I meet that one boy who isn’t.

The song that’s been constantly running through my head says it better than I could ever hope to try:

I just can’t make it one day without you
Unless I pretend that the opposite’s true
Rivers flow backwards
Valleys are high
Mountains are level
Truth is a lie
I’m perfectly fine
I won’t miss you
And the sky is green
And the grass is blue

Blind(ish) Date

My mother is officially a nutjob.

Yesterday, she calls me at work and the first words out of her mouth are, "I hope you don't hate me for this one..."

Never good.

She then proceeds to tell me that a young guy in her office saw my picture on her desk and asked if I was her daughter. She told him yes and that I live in Nashville, am gorgeous, intelligent and witty (I'm assuming the last part...)

He then tells her that he has brother-in-law in Nashville who is amazing and somehow single...

And now the two are in cahoots to set us up on a blind date.

After being informed of this fact, I emitted a loud groan and told her that if she wanted to try her hand at becoming a yenta, she should visit the nearest synagogue and leave me out of it.

Being my typical mother, she ignored my complaints and told me to hear her out. She goes on and on about this fabulous guy who is in his late 20s, has a loft downtown, loves dogs, yada yada yada.

Then, almost as an afterthought, she adds, "Oh, and he plays hockey...for the preda...?"

"You mean the PREDATORS? As in, the team holding the top spot in the NHL western conference?"

"Yep! That's the one! We've already emailed him your picture!"

Lawd. My mother's done gone and set me up with a bonafide professional athlete. It's unsettling.

Being a hockey player, I'm just hoping he has all of his teeth. If he has less than two thirds, I swear I won't speak to my mother for a week.