Frankly, I knew it was coming. I’ve been a bad girl and I was due. When it came, it came and hit me horribly. Without going into all the details, life came crashing down and the effects are long-lasting and hard. Sickness and horror upon friends and acquaintances, hard times, school frustration, you name it. The business of life has been quite a lot to bear lately.

However, I’ve taken my licks like a woman and not a child and I think that I have just about had enough. Tonight, we’re in the black, karma. In. the. black.

I just went to take a shower. I was stank. Truly. My hair was greasy. I have been inside with the dogs all day due to snow and I just needed to feel clean. I leave tomorrow for a conference and if I don’t shower tonight, my long, thick, wavy hair will never dry in time for me to make my flight. It’s why I take my showers at night unless I want to have a bad 80s perm all day.

After making my way upstairs, I gathered my pajamas and went to the bathroom where I noticed that one of my two major sources of light was out. This wouldn’t be a problem but I needed to shave my legs. I know this is too much information, but bear with me. You have to know this part of the story. I’m 5’11″ and my body is all legs. I need that light to see and, quite frankly, I’d been waiting to shave until the night before the trip so I’d be silky smooth. Ladies, you know what I mean.

With a dubious look to the light, I started the water and figured I’d soldier on. How difficult could shaving be in the semi-dark? I could still see the legs, just not the hair.

This is the part where karma laughs at me loud and long.

We’re all good until the shaving part. I’ve put my conditioner in to set while I shave. With the first stroke, I know I’m in trouble. My blade is dull. It’s the last blade I have left before a trip I’m going on tomorrow and all I have is a dull blade, hairy legs and a dark bathroom. I make the unwise decision that if I shave MORE SLOWLY the blade will still do the work of a sharp blade.

I’m a smart person. This was not a smart moment.

I cannot see the leg, so I shave some areas and not others and then shave over some parts and make them sensitive and tender to touch. Nicks are everywhere.

This is when karma and I become even.

Someone in my house, either the 9-year-old or the 32-year-old, makes the unwitting decision that I need to be put in my place once and for all: They turn the water on. As I’m sliding the dull blade up my leg, yet again, the water goes from luke warm to scalding in about 2 seconds. I jump, the blade skips up my leg and…you can see where this is going.

I still have conditioner in my hair.

I’m hurt.

I’m angry.

And this is not funny.

Eventually the water turns lukewarm and I throw the razor across the bathroom and wash my hair out.

We are even, karma. Even Stevens. Do you hear me? It’s over.

Here’s one example.

In the middle of a disagreement…

Leon: (begins laughing uncontrollably)
Jillian: WHAT?!
Leon: I was just thinking “Maybe if I stay very still she’ll think I’m dead and attack something else.”
Jillian:…
Jillian: …
Jillian: I don’t even know what to say right now
(Later he admits that he thought “It’s not working, run away!”)

Yep. That’s our marriage.

Full-fledged geek extraordinaire.

I’m ok with it and I’m not sure why others aren’t, especially when I’ve embraced this aspect of myself. Is it no longer cool to go with the self-acceptance? Dork has such a negative connotation, but there is something to be said for people that are eccentric, quirky or don’t go with the flow. We tend to stand out. Some may say that it’s not in a positive way, but I don’t think that the way I am presents itself in a bad manner.

Last week, I was in class and one of my friends was talking to another cohort about the highlights she’s had all semester. She has spent a lot of time on her outer beauty this semester and I’ve really noticed. She’s beautiful. I don’t swing that way, but if I did, I’d give her a second glance. She’s a precious, sweet, amazing, funny woman and I think that she is special. She’d commented that it took almost the entire semester for this other person in the cohort to notice that she’d had her hair done. I made the comment that I’d noticed and that I’d “been digging on her all semester.”

Not only did she smile, but she came over to me, hugged me tightly and then she and another girl made me an “Oreo sandwich.” Apparently, this is where two amazingly precious African American sweethearts hug a confused Caucasian girl and make her the cream filling. Needless to say, there were some interesting comments about what I said, but I shrug them off. I’m an equal opportunity flirt and this girl deserved what I said. Yes, it took cajones to say it, but it’s part of being quirky: You say things that others might not and it changes the outlook of the group, one way or another. She needed to hear that she is adored and accepted. I met the need and was rewarded by her, kindly.

It’s part of being a friend.

I sing in the car. Loudly. With hand gestures. Cars around me either laugh and point or join along.

I wear my heart on my sleeve and it gets me into trouble more often than not. I get hurt a lot. It’s who I am.

I will eat chicken pot pie 4 days in a row and then convince my twitter friends, they should, too. Don’t lie. You know you ate the pot pie.

I laugh at fart jokes. I tell them in public.

I’m the girl who doesn’t wear the camisole under her shirt and doesn’t realize she’s flashed people until after the fact. It wasn’t that I was trying, I just didn’t realize the shirt went down that far. It didn’t occur to me. I’m glad you enjoyed the show. They ARE beautiful.

I rarely spend more than 5 minutes on my makeup and if my hair takes more than 10, I leave it where it’s at.

I wear sneakers most every day. Screw dress up shoes.

I’m a jeans and t-shirt girl.

My perfume smells like lemons. Not a girlie smell, a CLEAN smell.

I hate to cook and clean.

I literally just played rock, paper, scissors with a presenter while the professor took over her presentation and we got bored.

I make inappropriate jokes. All the time. At the wrong times. In company where it’s wholly inappropriate.

I named my car “Betty” because anything I spend that much time with deserves to have a name.

I make fun of my education. I have to. 22 years of education makes me a nerd, along with being a geek and a dork. Yes, it also makes me smart. I’m proud of it, but not so proud that I have to make you feel stupid. I may be stupid for sitting my butt in desks made for a 7th grader for so long. We can all be happy about our education.

I wear braids, pigtails and buns. I go out in public like this. I think I look cute.

I wear the friendship bracelets my 13-year old sister made me with pride. I’ll wear them until they wear out. If you don’t like them, don’t look at them.

I want people to be my friend. Including my professors and people that may not necessarily want to be friends with someone as free with their words as I am. I have no problem joking and cajoling until people give in and become my friend. I can be charming when I want to be. Not in the typical manner. I will run up to people and invade their personal space by hugging them before they know me. Sorry about that.

I’ve done the time warp.

I’ve made, worn and given out warm fuzzies.

Butterfly and eskimo kisses are my favorite to give and receive.

I spend way too much time on my computer, but I do it because I miss the people I’ve met on here when I don’t.

I text more often than I should.

When I have my sunroof open, I feel invincible.

How are you a proud dork?

When I have to drink a lot water, and we all should, quite frequently, I do something odd: I pretend. I don’t just pretend that I have to drink water or I’ll die (duh!). No…

It’s more complex than that.

I close my eyes…

lift the bottle…

and as I tip it and hear it glug glug glug towards my throat…

I pretend I’m a human water cooler.

I can drink a full-sized bottle of water in about 15 seconds or less in this fashion. For someone who isn’t a water drinker, this has been the best possible use of my imagination.

What? Water is good for you. And so is playing pretend.

I’m shy. That’s right. I’m shy.

I listen when you pee and I know you listen, too. Don’t pretend you don’t. It happens. There was one time an elderly woman was in the stall next to me making such serious fireworks that I snorted while I laughed. I couldn’t help it.

I’m immature, but it was hilarious.

So, when you sit in the stall next to me, I freeze up.

And here’s what I do.

I count to 13. Slowly.

I have no idea why it works, but it does. If I can count to 13, I can pee. It’s not the most compelling confession, but there you have it.

Since I was little, my grandmother would be sitting in chairs and would just fall asleep in the middle of conversations. To my knowledge, she was never diagnosed with narcolepsy or any other sleep disorder. We laughed at her mercilessly and she’d tease us back by saying, “You just wait until you get older.”

That day has come. I won’t say where I was last week, but I’ll say I was sitting in a quiet climate where I needed to focus and I had some serious trouble staying awake. And I noticed that I was nodding off. Out of nowhere. And it’s happening more frequently.

Yep. It could be because I’m an insomniac. Or it could be because I’m turning into my grandmother.

You decide.

I remember the terror I felt the first time I realized that he no longer had the baby scent.

And then the first time he smelled. I mean really smelled. As in “go take a shower you smell.”

And the first time he actually met my mouth instead of my chin or my nose when he gave me a kiss.

And all the small things that I find myself now terrified of losing: his hand when he crosses the street, the goodnight kisses, when he falls asleep in our bed–his little hand searching for my shoulder and the sweet smiles in his sleep when I say his name and tell him I love him, the first time he’s embarrassed when I tell him I love him in front of his friends, or the first time he doesn’t rush to greet me when he comes home from school.

Every stage of his life has been my favorite. He’s my favorite. He’s always been my favorite. No one makes me laugh as hard as him. He has my sense of humor. Of course I’m going to think he’s hilarious. He’s thoughtful and serious and sensitive and laughs at fart jokes because they are hysterical. They are. I don’t care what you think. THEY ARE HYSTERICAL. Prudes.

I don’t know how to let him go. But I will because I love him with quiet desperation and care. And the day will come when he has to let me go, too. Loving someone means that you will eventually feel the loss that comes with letting go. And I’m scared to death.

The progression goes something like this:

I notice the person is sleeping with their eyes open.

I watch for a while to make sure there is REM (rapid eye movement), where the eyes move back and forth slowly to indicate that the person has entered deep sleep.

I make faces at the person to see if they are really sleeping or trying to freak me out.

I laugh because they don’t know I’m making faces.

They may not breathe for a second.

Their eyes stop.

Oh no!

Wait.

Are they alive?

I shake them hard.

They snort, roll over, and have no idea I just woke them up from REM sleep.

I sigh happily that I can no longer see creepy open-eyed sleeping.

It freaks. me. out.

I will get angry when you try to coerce me to eat food I don’t want to eat because I’m a picky eater. Yes, I know that “but yours is different” just like everyone else’s. You eat it.

I love my job. A lot.

I’m most definitely a jeans and tshirt/nice shirt kind of girl.

I don’t believe in ghosts, but I love to watch ghost shows/documentaries.

I secretly read romance novels in between my academia and some great fiction stuff. And I love it.

90% of the men that I was obsessed with have been gay. I never saw it. Even after they came out, I was like “what??!” Yep. I just like nice guys with beautiful hair and stellar personalities.

My love language is gifts and my tank is empty. Leon.

Ok, that’s more than enough for now. In fact, I think I said too much. Do you have anything you’d like to share with me?

It’s true. I have no freaking shame. It’s a good thing we have pets that love to cuddle frosty toes or I think I’d probably be divorced by now. Leon is a human space heater, but even he has his limits. I’m cold by nature and I need a lot of blankets to get by in the winter months. Socks don’t help some nights. I’ve even tried heated blankets, one of which shorted out and sparked, which freaked me out to the point where I will not use another one.

So, until my circulation gets better, the dogs will be sleeping with us. They don’t mind it when I put my cold feet on them or hog the covers.

Leon will have to get over it.

I hate mayonnaise.

I’ve never had the chicken pox. I’ve been vaccinated. Yay. I think.

Mail makes me inordinately happy. Especially packages. And my birthday is coming up. Ahem.

I often stay up to see if there is a potential woot-off on woot.

If I get a bad waitress at a restaurant, it will ruin my whole experience.

New car scent is awesome. I’ve also heard it can give you cancer, which may or may not be true.

If someone tries to bring food in my car, I will harangue them until they never want to ride in my car again.

I think that’s enough for now. That’s more than any of you wanted to know today, right?

Happy Friday!

Now, tell me YOUR secrets.

I’m serious.

30 is coming soon. So, for those of you that have been wondering, that makes me the grand age of 29. In the South, women don’t tell their age. Luckily, I’m a transplanted Northerner who is attempting to be Southern, but who talks to much to make that happen. I’m also not afraid of aging, which I think is anti-cultural for this area.

Recently, in this blog, my friend, QT, made the comment that I was “What? All of 23 years old?” I grinned and laughed it off. I took it as a compliment, and who wouldn’t, but at the same time, I realize that growing older doesn’t have to scare me.

Part of this comes from the realization that my 20′s never felt typical to me. I’ve already discussed that and I still feel the way I felt then.

30 feels like a gift. The opportunity to be the woman I want to be in a manner that is comfortable, rather than struggling. Instead of finding myself, I’ll be defining myself. I found a white hair on my head the other day and celebrated that I will be having white hair (which will be gorgeous with my fair skin) instead of dishwater gray.

30 is the new 20 is the new…who cares?

I am deciding who I am in the next decade.

I am so excited.

And you get to come with me. The party happens soon! Who wants cake?

I’m an introvert by nature. People that know me tend to forget that when they first met me, I likely didn’t say much at all to them. When I am in large gatherings of people, I tend to talk only to the 2-3 people sitting next to me, unless I know all of them well. I generally speak when spoken to if I don’t know the people sitting next to me.

Recently, I was at a huge gathering of people that are friends with Leon (and some I will reluctantly claim–you know who you are). I was sitting between a publisher that I’d never met and Leon, who was talking to a friend of his on the other side. I’d also never met several of the people at our table. I quietly munched on some bread when the publisher looked directly at me and said, “this side of the table is awfully quiet.”

I tried to swallow the bread, which promptly got stuck in my throat, and mumbled something about it definitely being less lively than other parts of our rather long table. At which point I did something I never do: I went into counselor mode and started using my interviewing skills to ask him questions, because, frankly, I had no idea what to say.

I didn’t probe his mind or do anything unethical. I simply asked him some “getting to know you questions,” but I was quite uncomfortable for the first 20 minutes or so. About the time I began to grow comfortable with his company, he left to do some other tasks for the get-together we were attending.

Such is my life.

What does this have to do with talking on the phone?

Without those visual social cues, I often have difficulty judging where the other person is heading with a conversation. I like non-verbal language. I can tell a lot about a person from that non-verbal language. I think my clients appreciate that about me because I can often learn just as much from their non-verbal language as I do from their verbal language.

When I’m on the phone, I lose that ability. I dislike it. I have to keenly focus on pitch and tone and “trying to keep up the conversation,” which, for an introvert, is exhausting.

Bottom line: Unless I know someone well or we have lots to talk about or you are ok holding the majority of the conversation, text or email is best.

I hate talking on the phone.

I have a confession.

It’s not big enough for a full blog post.

But I don’t have time to write one anyway.

Don’t tell anyone.

I have HUGE feet. Paris Hilton size feet. Size 11 feet. Wide. I have trouble finding shoes. Sometimes, I even have trouble finding socks.

I could probably ski on my feet alone.

I’m just saying.

Have a great weekend.

And don’t forget, you promised not to tell.

P.S. For those waiting for the “brunch” post: It’s coming. Oh yes, it’s on its way.