I struggle with how to describe the change that comes over my dear friend. We all head to the nearby Mexican restaurant for a night of relaxation and laughter. The rules are simple: don’t use your cell phones, don’t yell out answers and submit them within the time limit to the person running the trivia night. We spend the time, as a small group of friends, eating delicious Mexican cuisine, running through our vat of useless knowledge and really, just having a wonderful time. I look forward to trivia night for weeks prior to it happening and I think my friends feel the same way.

When we get there, however, a subtle change begins to take over my friend, April. It starts with the delicious food. April starts to hum and dance a little at she eats what is, inevitably, a mountainous plate of food that she will never finish. When she proclaims herself full it will look as though she took one bite even though she ate just as long as everyone else did. During this time, she will smile and everything will appear to be well on the surface. It’s not. Oh, no, it’s not. Do not be fooled. She’s gearing up the way some people wear their dirty socks to a game. April is in it to win it.

When it comes time to play, she will cheerfully volunteer to go get the game sheets and bounce, nay, skip to the game table and come back with our sheets. Team Android, as we are called (what? We LIKE our phones), is about to show you all how it’s done. During this time, the change begins to show itself as whomever is putting our name on the sheets isn’t writing them quickly enough and April begins to scope out the competition.

As the game is played, April’s eyes shift and she makes sure that all are playing by rules and WOE to them if they are not. This has culminated in her calling people out for using cell phones by glaring at them until they feel her eyes on them, making it known to AJ so he will say “You aren’t supposed to use cell phones” loudly enough that they get up and leave and, during one of our last nights out, had April openly mocking a team who raised their hands to cheer when they did well.

April is not a mean girl. But Trivia night brings out the fighter in her. I have to say that it is hysterical and I can’t wait to see what happens next.

Mild mannered American sweetheart by day. Cage fighter by Mexican trivia night.

I might just request that they play Eye of the Tiger just for her, next time.

I’m veering off topic by a lot. I’m just going to say that my son is not worldly in the slightest and move on.

We were in the car on the way to my office when AJ asks, out of nowhere as per the norm, “Why do we celebrate 4th of July?” I’m not good with history, but I did my very best to explain our declaration of independence from England and why we chose to do so. He took this to mean that “we’re at war with England!” I explained that this was a long time ago and we are fine with England now. In fact, we’re pretty good friends. We like them. We do tea without tossing it over boats.

No. This is unacceptable. They were bad. They must pay. Grudges must be held.

I could feel the stewing going on in the back seat…and I chose to ignore it.

Until trivia night last night. There was a question regarding the back of the new quarters and the design on the back of one of them. The question had nothing to do with England, nor did it have to do with 4th of July or our war with England. But AJ chose to answer the question as “Florida. Because it has a direct line from England.”

I may not be strong in history. He’s not strong in geography. We’re both strong in grudge holding, but I think he’s got me beat. He mutters “England” in the same voice I utter “Derek Jeter.”

That’s my kid.

England, you better watch your back.

AJ does chores. I know that the idea of this may strike some parents as odd. There really are parents out there that don’t force their kids to do chores of any kind and for those parents I have a great big smack in the pants. For as much as I adore my child, he does plenty in this house. He does have a cell phone, gets to do lots of leisure activities and has all kinds of neat toys. But he does chores.

One of those chores is that he has to empty the trash cans in the house. Now, most people would just upend the smaller trashcan into the larger trash bag, get it done and move on, correct? Not AJ. AJ likes knowing exactly what I’m throwing away.

I wish I were kidding.

He’s just that nosy.

So, he takes the trash out of the trashcan a couple pieces at a time and sticks it into the larger trashbag, looking at each piece to determine whether he might want to keep that piece of trash or not. What this amounts to is him pulling out old paperclips, broken rubberbands, broken cups and pens that have run out of ink. Each of these ends up back on my end table where I cleaned them off in the first place.

When I question him regarding why he does this, he looks at me and replies, “What? We might need that later.”

I’m living with a future television star for the show HOARDERS.

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.

Last week, I was on the phone with my trainer and he scolded me. This is becoming commonplace. I need a little scolding now and then because, quite frankly, I’m bad. I have horns. Don’t be surprised when I do bad things. I’m not good. So, yes, sometimes I get scolded.

The reason for the scolding this time was that I’d become comfortable with the evil, wretched treadmill and the *heavens open up and light shines down* amazing, wonderful, beautiful elliptical machine. I was alternating them and frankly, my dear, it wasn’t enough. I needed variety. [insert scolding and I told you's here]

My response was “Yeah, yeah, yeah but stairs scare me! When I climb the stairs at school I end them in the fetal position and rocking.”

My trainer, Mike, was not impressed, yelled some more, and told me to get my butt on the stairmaster.

Whatever.

So I have thrown in it the mix.

It’s going to kill me yet.

When I’m on the stairmaster, I don’t get the nice feelings or the high that I get on the elliptical or the numbing, dulling zone out of the treadmill. I get the tired legs and the “you’re going to die mwahahahahah” of the stairmaster. I admit: I want to give up. Here’s how I don’t: I make up elaborate fantasies and schemes as to what will happen if I can complete my 25 minute stairmaster rotation.

“If I can just get through the next 10 minutes I can have that condo in downtown Nashville that I want! Floor to ceiling windows, baby. Decorate it any way I want it and my drive to both work and school is down to 10 minutes. Boo-yah!”

“If I can just get through the next 20 minutes, the minute I step off this stairmaster, a swarthy pirate named Hugh Jackman is going to come out the bathroom, growl, “MMM, I always liked ‘em chubby” and throw me over his shoulder while I meekly say, “Help. I’m being abducted.” Then he will buy me my condo in Nashville.”

Wait. What were we talking about? Oh, the stairmaster. See? That’s how I get through it. Man, I love me a pirate.

You haven’t conquered me yet, stairmaster. Hugh and I are going to get through this. We always do.

Before Thanksgiving, I had the opportunity, NAY, the privilege of being up around 5am. The reasons why are unimportant, but, needless to say, I’d rather stay up all night than get up at that time and my thought was that I’d rather run laps over hot coals than get up at that time in the near future ever again.

Anyway, I was driving at the unholy hour and it was foggy and colder than a chicken nugget in a freezer in the South Pole and I thought to myself, “Self, what kind of person would subject him or herself to this weather and this hour on purpose?” And then I saw you running and it came to me.

A crazy person.

A crazy person does this.

So, I salute you devoted runner. You take it to a whole new level. I appreciate your dedication to getting your buff on when even icecicles wouldn’t go outside. I’m sure your muscles appreciate thawing out in -1000 degree temperature and waking up at 4:30am to “get in the morning run.”

Yep.

You enjoy that.

I’m just going to go back to bed.

Sincerely,

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.

Our life is like a sitcom:

*softly tinkling music in the background while Jillian and Leon watch a movie. Adrian is upstairs*
Jillian (looking up at Leon): I hear the ice cream truck.
Leon: Uh-huh (back to the movie)
…2 seconds later…
Adrian, from upstairs: ICCCCEEEE CRREEEAM TRUCCCCCK! *sounds of crashing and running legs going down stairs, the door flies open and we see a flash of red going out the front door*
Jillian (barely looking up): Give me a second to pull out my money.

Leon and I have been together almost ten years. About 3 years ago, Leon decided that, due to my brown thumb and my inclination to kill plants while I tried to keep them alive, that he would get me a small cactus. He proudly proclaimed, “Honey, you can never kill this thing!”

When he recovered from the death glare he received, he handed over the little cactus, which was about the size of a small shot glass. I took it from him and watered it when I remembered to do so. I gave it light, when I remembered to do so. And I remembered to move it from our apartment to our new home, when we moved.

The little shot glass sized cactus LOVED the new house. I’ve never seen anything like this. I put it in the window in my kitchen, right next to all the dirty dishes I won’t do, and it flourished. A lot. And it still does. To where it has become this. And this is why I can’t have houseguests. Enjoy.

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?

Change who I am? Not get stuff done early? Procrastinate ON PURPOSE? I’m writing this blog over the weekend. I don’t procrastinate. That’s not what I do.

Be a little reckless. Do things I don’t normally do. Release the tension.

I have no idea how to not be high-strung, but I’m up for opinions.

Let’s also factor in the idea that mid-terms is in a couple of weeks and my diligence is of utmost importance during this time of year. However, I was reminded by her that if I have the kind of migraines I get, I can’t study, let alone drive to go to school, work, or practicum.

Frackingstackingsonofamonkeyloving.

You get where I’m going.

I need to destress.

And I need to do it now.

And I need to do it quickly.

Because I must get back to my old self as quickly as possible.

I may have missed the point.

Now I’m off to look at Craigslist and find another dog to supplant the need for another child. But my gosh, this baby is adorable.

As you know, smoking is a harmful activity to both the smoker, who inhales about 50% of the carcinogens and toxins within the cigarette he or she is smoking, as well as a harmful activity to the innocent people who are forced to deal with the other 50% of the carcinogens/toxins that float around the air after those people.

Risks of secondhand smoke for children include asthma, an increased risk of SIDS for infants of mothers who smoked during pregnancy, low birth rate as well as chronic issues that crop up for the remainder of the life of the child (dental cavities, eye and nasal irritation and mood swings.

Secondhand smoke is also a cardiovascular risk for those who do not smoke, but who inhale the secondhand carcinogens. It is also a known cause of cancer. (http://www.lungusa.org/site/pp.asp?c=dvLUK9O0E&b=35422)

Representative Blackburn, I know that I am not telling you anything you do not already know. Clearly, you are aware of these issues and I am sure you get emails like these all the time from advocates. Honestly, I don’t have time to join any kind of association or be an advocate. I’m a wife, mom, doctoral student and work in a private practice. However, because I’m a mom, I have to take the time to write to you and ask that you consider what I’m saying, no matter how ludicrous you might believe it to be, because, as a mom, I have the need to fight back in whatever capacity I can.

The Tennessee Smoking Ban has been amazing. What I am writing to you has no bearing on the unbelievable changes that law has produced in our communities. Unfortunately, the minute I walk outside the door of an establishment, I am assaulted with cigarette smoke. There is no “15-foot rule” or anything that is clearly enforced in which I can safely get around the smokers to get to my vehicle without breathing in the smoke or having it forced upon my child. Yes, I can choose to not take my son anywhere. That is a completely fair assessment. I am a fan of do the least harm, however, and it seems that those that are doing the least harm should be protected.

This is my proposal Representative Blackburn. Remember, I told you upfront that it will sound ludicrous, but I think it’s fair. I know a bit about psychology and what I think may be needed here is some good old fashioned conditioning. I’m not sure what you knowledge is, but a scientist studying digestion, named Pavlov, had some dogs and he conditioned them to salivate to the sound of a bell. He did this by convincing them that the bell and the meat were connected. My idea is similar.

I believe we should condition smokers that if they wish to harm my lungs, then they will have to face a consequence. For those of us that are forced to walk through a wall of smoke to get to our vehicles, we should be allowed to take a clear watergun and take one clear shot at the offender. My idea is that, much in the same way a cat will stop when hit with the water, that the smokers will move away and I will be able to get to my car without issue. This would also encourage smokers to remain in their designated areas. It seems like a win-win situation. I can keep my lungs healthy, as well as those of my child, and they can keep their carcinogens.

Water isn’t harmful unless you are the Witch in the Wizard of Oz. It would dry. No face shots would be allowed or it could be considered assault. All waterguns must be of small size and clear so as not to be confused with true firearms and only one shot would be allowed per person per smoker.

I am aware that there are people who would be furious and see this as taking away their civil rights. I view this as re-establishing mine, Representative. I have the right to walk from the post office door to my car without inhaling toxins. If a factory was emitting the toxins, they would be fined. Because we are not fining private citizens for what they place in the air, there is no way for me to protect myself from the damage they are doing to myself and my family.

I urge you to seriously consider my somewhat eccentric idea. Thank you for everything you do to keep us safe and for your time and consideration in this matter.

Sincerely,
Jillian

*While this letter is slightly tongue in cheek, because I’m aware of the way my request will be taken, I’m also aware that SOMETHING needs to be done and I’m down for non-harmful vigilante justice. It’s an oxymoron. I know that. I’m cool with it. And I emailed her this letter this weekend. Mama didn’t raise a wimp.