The Ugly Parts

Wheat and I got in a fight yesterday.

It was one of those big, ugly fights where you scream things that you instantly regret and slam doors that you wish you could unslam. Tears streamed down my face, swear words were exchanged, and frustrated sighs filled the uncomfortable silence that followed in the tight confines of the car ride back to Indianapolis.

One day earlier, we checked out wedding reception venues with the help of my parents and best friend, hand-in-hand and more in love than ever. We settled on one that we both love and celebrated with frozen custard and a bonfire in my charming hometown.

Then yesterday, all of that happiness was frittered away with each nasty word that escaped from my lips. I wish I could say that the fight was understandable. Instead, some ridiculous combination of two vicious head colds, my chronic pain and discomfort, his unrelenting work schedule, and a spilled bowl of bean soup in the backseat of my car led to an explosion of epic proportions.

As I sat in the backseat of the car for the final 15 miles of the drive (childish much?), we exchanged tearful apologies and meaningful glances in the rear-view mirror. I reached forward to hold his shoulders as he drove, desperately needing some sort of physical contact as a reassurance he was still there, as a reassurance I hadn't finally pushed him away.

Since I met Wheat, I've been afraid of pushing him away. Not intentionally, but with the ugly part of my personality - the part that obsesses over tiny things, the hypochondriac part, the selfish side. I never wanted him to see the raw part of me, the one that lets the snot drip down my face as I sob and scream, the one that hurls objects across the room in frustration. But eventually, I did, in part because we live together and I couldn't hide it, but also because I wanted him to know every part of me. And as he has in every other aspect of our life together, he surprised me by loving me even more fiercely, by holding me while I cried, and by picking up my broken pieces.

After our shouting match on Sunday, we sat in silence for a whole five minutes before making up. Unlike in most of my other relationships, I feel absolute regret in the wake of our arguments. Instead of being angry at him, I feel a desperate need to right my wrongs. Grudges aren't even considered. No hostility or secret resentments remain. It's a beautiful kind of fight because the instant it begins, we want it to end.

...and it always does, with us hand-in-hand and more in love than ever.

Why this chubby little girl won.

I've always struggled with my weight.

It didn't really affect me until middle school. Suddenly, I went from the chubby little girl that loved to read to the big, fat target in the hallway. I was made fun of by kids who probably didn't receive the right kind of love at home and definitely didn't know the weight of their words. I would spend hours at home, crying and writing little seventh-grade poems about acceptance, kindness, and love. I would devise and try to enact weight loss plans, but they never made a noticeable difference, I would get discouraged, and ultimately, give up. Mostly, I would worry that my weight would stand in the way of me finding love.

I watched as all the other girls went from boyfriend to boyfriend, told stories about making out at so-and-so's party, yet avoided all contact with their latest "boyfriend" at the dance. I had my secret crushes, usually became good friends with them, and often provided them with advice to get the girl of their dreams.

These feelings of insecurity continued into high school and college. The cycle repeated itself: insecurities, unrequited feelings, tears of unintentional rejection, and concerns that I'd always be alone. Inevitably, I became more comfortable in my own skin. I wouldn't say comfortable, I would say accustomed to my own skin. I was never comfortable with my weight.

I'm still not.

In fact, I think about it every single day. On my way to the gym, in the kitchen as I make myself lunch, at the store when I search for clothes that actually look like someone my age would wear them, it haunts me. It's something I'm constantly working on, but something I've almost come to accept.

This is me, all of me. I'm a 'big girl' and although I'll never be happy about it, I'm starting to be okay with it.

Last night, I was talking to Wheat about getting made fun of in middle school. I told him that a boy in my grade used to chant, "Brittany J., Brittany J., you're so fat you're in my way." I can still imagine exactly how he sounded when he said it and how he and his friends would laugh as they passed me.

I knew Wheat would sympathize with me. I knew he'd kiss my cheek, hold my hand, and tell me, "They were just stupid little boys."

But he didn't.

He got angry. He looked upset, almost to the point of tears. He crashed his fists down on the bed and asked, "Why would he say that? Why would he say that to someone so beautiful?"

...and I started crying. I started crying because I found someone who thinks I'm beautiful, no matter how much I weigh. I found someone who loves me so much that he wanted to punch a little kid for making me cry fourteen years ago. I found someone who sees beyond my pant size, someone who loves me for my heart and my mind, someone who defies every stereotype of what a young man supposedly wants in a partner. I found someone whose love is slowly (ever so slowly, despite my frequent setbacks) soothing my insecurities and making me feel beautiful and confident.

...and I started crying because the 12-year-old version of me wasted a lot of tears, thinking she'd end up alone.

Olympic Preview: Part 2

While watching the incredible Opening Ceremony tonight, I remembered that I was supposed to expose my obsession love for Michael Phelps. So, despite the serious risk of alienating all my friends with my creepiness, I'll try my best.

By now, you know I love celebrities. Understatement of the century. You've probably also noticed that these infatuations come and go. One week, I love Jonathan Toews. The next, I'm obsessing over Michael Buble. This comes in handy when I need inspiration for Man Meat Monday. However, there is one celebrity that I've loved consistently since 2000. That celebrity, of course, is Michael Phelps.

As I've already mentioned, the Olympics are a big deal in my house. During the Sydney Olympics in 2000, an attractive young swimmer caught my sixth-grade eye. He placed fifth in the 200m butterfly, I learned his name was Michael Phelps, and I was intrigued.

Throughout my entire childhood, my dad competed in marathons, triathlons, and even a couple Iron Man competitions. As a result, my living room television was tuned into international swimming every summer. In 2002, that meant the Pan-Pacs in Yokohama. As intrigued by sports as ever, I sat down and noticed, yet again, Michael Phelps. Only this time, he didn't finish his race in fifth place. During those Pan-Pacs, he won three gold and two silver medals while placing his name front and center in the world of swimming. I was hooked.

Ten years and sixteen Olympic medals later (14 gold, 2 bronze), I'm still as enamored with Phelps as I was back then. I'm way too ashamed to take a picture of the stack of magazines with him on the cover that I've saved over the years. I remember screaming like a maniac when he barely edged out Serbia's Milorad Cavic by one-hundredth of a second. I have his dimensions, calorie intake, medal count, and facial expressions memorized. I've defended him with fierce tenacity against those who criticized his marijuana incident and lack of training in 2009. With a level of devotion not unlike that of a loving wife, I follow him every summer...and, in the case of one summer, I mean that in a literal sense.

A couple summers ago, I actually traveled to Baltimore to see the place where his path to Olympic superstardom began: Meadowbrook swimming facility. I walked around the pool, taking pictures like a paparazzo for TMZ and imagining him in a heated discussion with Coach Bob Bowman about projected times.

I absolutely did not cry when Phelps announced that 2012 would be his final Olympic games...*cough* Yes, I did *cough* I begged my parents like Veruca Salt in Willy Wonka & The Chocolate Factory to take me to London for his swan song performance. The answer, of course, was a resounding "NO" because we aren't multi-millionaires. So, I settled with watching him swim in the Indianapolis Grand Prix in March.

It felt like the glorious culmination of a dream to finally watch him swim in person. Everyone in the crowd scooted to the edge of their seats and cameras started to flash as he shed his warm-up robe. The anticipation was palpable as he set up on the starting blocks, stretching and flapping his arms in his usual pre-swim routine. I held my breath as he dove into the pool for the first lap of the 400m IM.

Everything seemed to move in slow motion. My eyes started to water as he shot ahead of the field in his signature stroke, the butterfly. I watched with a bit of trepidation as competitor Tyler Clary passed him during the backstroke. However, Phelps regained the lead with a strong breaststroke and just barely edged him out for first after the freestyle. That is my camera flashing at the finish.



As he stood on the medals podium, the water slowly made its way down the ridges of his carefully-chiseled abs. His body, glistening with a combination of water, sweat, and stadium lighting, took my breath away. On TV (even HD TV), his ridiculous body almost seems fake, something enhanced with the help of special effects. In person, however, his 6'4" frame became painfully real, something tangible and something very, very close. He looked like a masterpiece crafted after hours of painstaking work from a slab of marble. One hand rested on his hip as the other slid haphazardly through his dripping hair. He inhaled sharply, working to catch his breath, and, in my seat thirty feet away, I did the same.

This just became 50 Shades of Michael Phelps. Sorry I'm not sorry. I'm just passionate about him. This week, I will continue to cheer for him in his quest to become the most decorated Olympian of all-time. I will defend his honor against critics if GOD FORBID he leaves London with a medal that isn't gold. Mostly, however, I will cherish these last precious moments of watching him compete. I have watched Michael Phelps swim for half of my lifetime. It was an absolute privilege to watch him work his way into the history books. So, with a smile on my face and drool on my chin, I'll watch as my favorite athlete, one of the greatest athletes in history, ends his glorious career by making just a little more.

Keep me away from story time.

Well, you can officially strike 'Children's Book Author' from my list of potential career paths.

This morning, I tweeted a list of children's books that I co-wrote ruined for everyone. Tonight, since I have more than enough time on my hands, I've decided to create some book covers for you.

The first couple highlight my ability to see the best in every situation.





The next one serves as a commentary on my sleeping hours.



I wouldn't be doing the children justice if I didn't share my writing niche with them.



I carefully instruct the children to follow in my stealthy footsteps...



...and finally, my personal favorite.



If you're wondering why a major media outlet hasn't hired me for my impeccable skills in MS Paint, I'm right there with you.

Still single.

The good kind of stretch marks.

Remember how I recently explained that nothing new has happened in my life lately? Remember how I told you that I haven't been feeling creative or interesting? Well, unfortunately, that sentiment continues.

However, I will send you off for the weekend with a particularly funny story.

My freshman year of high school, I had science class with an interesting group of people. I use the word "interesting" because that's the nicest way I can put it.

For most people, freshman year is an awkward time. You go from being 'top dog' in middle school (which, as you know, is not a big deal) to being the new kids on the block. Upperclassmen try their hardest to convince you there is a swimming pool on the roof of the school. The girls are doing everything in their power to attract the attention of the older boys. The boys are desperate and awkward, spraying themselves with copious amounts of Axe body spray in an effort to distract girls from the senior football players.

We all know it doesn't work.

At any rate, my freshman science class was, as its name so eloquently implies, composed of all freshmen. That fact, combined with a bizarre teacher and less-than-exciting subject matter, made it my least favorite class of the day. However, I tried to make the best of the class by befriending those around me.

One day before class started, a group of us were discussing what we find attractive in the opposite sex. Yes, I probably started the conversation. So, we made our way around the circle with typical responses. I explained the importance of a guy's height by stressing that I wanted a guy I could climb like a tree. A friend expounded on the attractive merits of a nice smile. Another talked about the sexiness of blue eyes.

Finally, the conversation reached a boy who I had known for a while. Like the other freshman boys, he was a bit awkward, unsure of himself. However, when it was his turn to speak, we immediately realized he was supremely confident in his answer.

With no hesitation and no hint of a smile on his lips, he looked at us and said, "I love stretch marks."

As you can imagine, the girls in the group were caught between hysterics and shock. The other guys had looks of clear disgust on their faces. Finally, one of them composed himself enough to respond, "What the hell, dude? Stretch marks?"

The boy, whose cheeks had turned a dark shade of red at our collective reaction, nodded before asking, "What? You don't? I love the way their shirts cling to them."

All of us were completely lost. After another minute of interrogation, we finally realized, to our relief and hilarity, that this kid, the quiet boy who blushed whenever he had to read out loud in class, thought stretch marks were the wrinkles created between the boobs on the fabric of a tight shirt.



Now, every single time I see a commercial about stretch marks, I laugh uncontrollably. I suppose freshman science class was actually good for something.

By the way, I apologize for the gratuitous talk about my boobs this week. It will stop now. I will have you know, though: Those bad boys aren't Janet Jackson's.

Observations at the gym.

Like the rest of America, I vowed to make my over-due return to the gym when the year started. Unlike many in America, however, I have the luxury of going to an incredibly cool gym.

In fact, my tiny town in rural Ohio is home to the world's largest YMCA. I kid you not. At 218,000 square feet, our YMCA has 6 racquetball courts, 2 indoor running tracks, 3 large gyms, an indoor and 7 outdoor soccer fields, a gymnastics center, multiple indoor and outdoor pools, saunas, whirlpools, a cafe, a senior center, an outdoor trail, a rock-climbing wall, 8 tennis courts, a pre-school, a huge cardio and weight room, and much more.

So, if I'm going to put myself through the torture of a trip to the gym, I'm pretty lucky to attend this one.

However, as I was huffing and puffing away on the elliptical machine this week, I started to notice something: No matter what gym you attend, you will always see the same types of people. Although most people blend seamlessly into the fabric of the gym, there are some attendees who are nearly impossible to ignore. Here are those people:

- The absurdly loud weight-lifter. In a desperate attempt to attract the attention of anyone within a 50-foot radius, this guy grunts every single time he lifts any amount of weight - without fail. If he's lifting a particularly heavy amount, he will even scream or shout "WOOO!" upon its successful completion.

- The clueless older woman. Every now and then, a gym newbie over the age of 50 finds herself in the complex cardio center. Although I can sympathize with her (our YMCA can be pretty intimidating and busy), she stumbles around like a lost puppy in her old gym clothes, until she finally finds a machine that she recognizes and feels comfortable operating: the blood pressure machine.

- The extremely active old man/woman. Although they, too, are over 50, this individual is the polar opposite of my previous description. They often dress in spandex, wear sweatbands on their heads, and have expensive water bottles and gym bags. No matter what equipment they are using, you can't help staring at them...because you're convinced they would outrun, outlift, and outlast you in any scenario.

- The socializer. Usually a middle-aged woman, this person bops around from machine to machine, talking to every person they recognize. They carry their cell phone in their hand and rarely exert themselves beyond a leisurely pace on the treadmill or stationary bike. By the time you're leaving the gym, you know all of their kids' names, all the town gossip, and what's for dinner that night.

- The stripper. This goes without explanation. She is scantily-clad, wearing only a sports bra, short shorts, and a full face of makeup that, miraculously, she never sweats off. She is also the prime target for the next category of gym-goer.

- The creep. Although I've seen younger ones, most creeps are older gentlemen, who stake out a claim on whatever exercise equipment is closest to girls jogging on the treadmill. Throughout the course of their workout, they rarely exert themselves and, instead, spend most of their time openly gawking at strangers with no shame whatsoever.

- The meathead. This guy is almost always in his 20s, way too tan for Ohio in the winter, and spends all his time lifting weights while staring at himself in the mirror. You're also convinced he is a recreational user of anabolic steroids and must be on a list of possible replacements for the cast of Jersey Shore.

- The obnoxious peeker. This person, male or female, seems to make every machine a competition. They can always be seen peeking at everyone else's machine, taking a mental note of how many calories they've lost, what resistance level they've chosen, etc. They are the reason why some people use their sweat towel to cover the read-out on their machine.

- The overzealous athlete. Again, this can be a man or a woman, and they possess one defining characteristic: They are intense. They run at a full-out sprint for three hours straight. Then, they get on the stair-stepper until you're convinced they've scaled the Eiffel Tower...18 times. You've never been there when they weren't and you're starting to wonder if maybe they sleep on a cot in the locker room.

- The hot guy. This guy splits his gym time evenly between cardio and weights, keeping his body in its impressive, toned condition. You often find yourself staring at him as motivation to continue your workout. However, if you run across him unexpectedly at the height of your exertion, you're absolutely humiliated by the redness of your face and pretend to be breathing at a normal, even pace. My "hot guy" is a tall, attractive guy with reddish hair and subtle muscles built from years of use. Sometimes, the hope of seeing him is the only motivation I have for going...

...okay, so maybe I'm a creep, too.

That time I got hit by a car.

For absolutely no good reason, I've been a horrible blogger lately. If Santa decided who was naughty and nice by their blogging habits, I would be receiving a lump of coal this year. That would be totally fine with me, as long as 'lump of coal' was actually code for 'Evgeni Malkin covered in nothing but soot.'

I didn't slice any Man Meat because I've been distraught about Crosby's recurring concussion symptoms. I didn't do a Glee-cap because it has been disappointing me so much lately. I haven't blogged about my life because nothing has been happening.

So, I will tell you a story - a story I promised my good friend Julie a long time ago.

As I've mentioned multiple times, I had the extraordinary privilege of attending Miami University for four glorious years. I know I'm biased, but the campus is truly one of the most beautiful in the country. The gorgeous, brick dormitories are surrounded by well-kept grass and enormous, full trees.

Sophomore year, I lived on the third floor of Ogden Hall.



Unlike many other dorms, Ogden didn't have a parking lot. So, during finals, residents would park their cars in the grass to make the moving process easier.

One particularly dreary evening during exam week, I was making my way to Shriver to meet my friends for dinner. There were a few cars parked in the grass and students were darting back and forth through the drizzling rain, carrying boxes and books from the building to their cars. I actually quite liked the feel of the cool rain on my skin and took my time through the grass.

However, as I made my way behind a nearby car, I noticed its red brake lights turn off. Unfortunately, I noticed a little too late and before I could even react, it reversed directly into me, knocking me over onto the grass.

In complete honesty, the next two minutes are pretty hazy. I remember thinking my pants would be muddy. I remember the adrenaline rush as I started to shake. I remember thinking, "No freaking way."

I remember the driver, throwing the car into park, swinging the door open in a frenzy, and dashing out into the rain to my rescue. Then, in another completely bizarre life moment, I noticed that, in her rush to check on me, the driver had spilled an open box of menstrual pads all over the ground.

So, I sat there in complete shock, on the ground in front of my college dorm, covered in rain and wondering three things: 1. Had she really not seen me? I'm pretty hard to miss. 2. What should I do now? and 3. Why did she have an open box of menstrual pads sitting on her lap while she was driving?

As you can imagine, the girl was concerned. Really, really concerned. She apologized profusely and asked repeatedly if I was okay. With adrenaline coursing through me and no apparent pain, I assured her I was and slowly stood up. Then, I resorted to my first line of defense and did what I do best. Not unlike Bernice in Dodgeball, I burst into tears and ran away.



So, there you have it. I can cross being hit by a car off my bucket list. That, of course, implies that being hit by a car was on my bucket list in the first place. It wasn't, but there is one thing I wouldn't mind getting hit by.

That time Regis Philbin hit on my mom.

The strangest thing ever happened last Wednesday.

As a child, I grew up on my parents' music, movies, and television. I listened to Elton John, Elvis Presley, and Simon and Garfunkel. I memorized A Chorus Line, Willy Wonka & The Chocolate Factory, and The Sound of Music. I spent my afternoons with Oprah, my evenings with Alex Trebek, and my mornings with Regis Philbin.

So, when Regis announced that he would be retiring this year, I was pretty shocked. My mom, on the other hand, was borderline devastated. True to form, we both cried throughout his final episode of Live! with Regis and Kelly. Then, we learned that Joseph-Beth Booksellers was hosting Regis for a book signing downtown. It didn't take more than 10 seconds for my mom to pick up the phone, pre-order his autobiography, and reserve our spot in line.

Finally, the day arrived. Mom was amped like her team made it to the Super Bowl and I conferenced with her on the list of potential one-liners she could deliver to Regis. Although we showed up at the bookstore over an hour early, we were greeted by hundreds of other die-hards and a number of local TV news vans.

As you would expect, nearly the entire line was composed of middle-aged women. Some were wearing homemade Regis-themed shirts, others were wearing Regis & Kelly shirts purchased from the official store. There were also a few men in line, some clearly suffering through the ordeal with their wives and others wearing Notre Dame paraphernalia.

At 7:00 sharp, Regis appeared at the top of the stairs with a microphone in hand. The crowd broke into raucous applause and began to chant, "REGIS! REGIS!" As I started to wonder if this was actually a stop on his presidential campaign, Regis launched into a story in the way only he can. He told us that Cincinnati has always held a special place in his heart. He used to make appearances on the Cincinnati news with his good friend, Nick Clooney. He mentioned some of his favorite places downtown and said that he remembered "little Georgie" running around.

He also told us an entertaining story about a drunken escapade he shared with George Clooney a few years ago in Italy. When he finished, he thanked everyone for coming out and sat down to sign the books. The line of excited fans slowly began to snake its way through the rows of books and up the stairs.

Over the years, my mom has been to an embarrassing amount of autograph signings with me. I remember her trying to talk me out of a nervous breakdown in the line for Brian Urlacher. I remember her assuring me, through my string of whispered cusswords, that I would get a ticket for Rick Nash. So, when the tables were turned, I knew I had to return the favor. I moved into passout-prevention mode.

As we made our way up the stairs, I snapped a couple pictures of the man himself.



Posed pictures, personalized messages, and extended conversation were strictly prohibited. So, my mom decided to go with, "HI, REGIS! THANKS FOR BEING HERE!" Finally, it was our turn. I pointed my camera at them and snapped this picture.



She exclaimed her pre-determined lines with the fervor of a child meeting Santa Clause at the mall. Then, he looked up at her and said the single strangest, yet hilarious thing I could ever imagine.

Regis Philbin looked right at my mom and said, "You look good...in that coat."

I emphasize the word 'good' because he did. Simultaneously, my mom started to laugh like a nervous schoolgirl, my jaw hit the floor, and a security guard escorted us away.

It took me a second to process what just happened. Regis Philbin, the harmless, endearing old man I grew up with on my TV screen, had just looked at my mom and told her she was hot. My mom, with her big smile and her leather biker jacket, had just been hit on by Regis Francis Xavier Philbin.

There was an unreal vibe in the car on the way home. You should have seen the look on her face as she told my dad. I wondered what Joy Philbin would think. I started to imagine how I would have reacted if Jordan Staal had told me I looked good in my glasses. You have to admit - I do have one hot momma.



I skimmed through his autobiography and saw cute, cheesy anecdotes galore. I contemplated writing my own autobiography.

This would definitely make an interesting chapter.

WTF Facebook Chat?

Strange things happen at 4:00 AM. I know this because I'm always awake for it. Tonight was no exception.

Most nights, I sit with the computer on my lap, trying to think of a compelling blog topic. Usually, I get sidetracked by Youtube videos, other blogs, Facebook stalking, etc.

On this particular occasion, I logged onto Facebook and was instantly messaged by someone I haven't talked to since the 5th grade. I kid you not. The 5th grade.

Do you remember how unbelievably cool AOL Instant Messenger (AIM) was? You spent hours trying to shorten all the quotes and shoutouts in your profile so that they would fit within the character limit. You loved creating clever away messages and the awesome feeling you got when reading the things people sent while you were away. If you got bored of your screenname, you created a new one and IMed all your buddies to inform them of the change. You divided your buddy list into multiple categories (ex. Besties, Boys, Girls, Younger, Older, Family, HIM OMGGGGG). You put an alarm on your crush so that you were alerted with a loud 'MOOOO!' when he/she signed on. You put more effort than you should have in deciding your background color and font.

It was basically stalking in a pre-Facebook world, but it was wonderful. It pretty much defined my entire middle school and high school experience. It helped me make plans before I had a cell phone, build new friendships, strengthen old ones, and express myself creatively long before I had a blog. It was popular, it was innocent, and it was awesome.

Facebook Chat is the polar opposite.

I'm not sure why, but it seems there is an unwritten rule book for Facebook Chat. It reads as follows:

1. Only message people you don't know or people you haven't talked to in years.
2. When messaging them, be sure to include one of the following:

A. An unbelievably strange statement that has them baffled beyond belief.
B. A strange flirtation that has them questioning their ability to attract normal members of the opposite sex.
C. Be sure to type, then delete, then type, then delete something, so that they can clearly see you're struggling with conversation.
D. Make an outlandish comment about a picture, post, or piece of information on their profile page. You must prove that you've been thoroughly stalking them.
E. All of the above

3. Optional: Ask them to hang out in the near future, even though there is an extremely slim chance of it ever happening.

Of course, there are exceptions to these rules. From time to time, I get messages from people I know and love, people I miss terribly, and family members that live far away. But, for the most part, I am usually confounded by the random assortment of people who message me on Facebook Chat (and that goes for 90% of the people that have friend requested me in the last year, too).

So, as I said, I was messaged by a guy who was in my 5th grade class - a guy who I only remember seeing once or twice since...and definitely not one I've talked to since. How do you possibly carry on a decent conversation with someone who you know absolutely nothing about, have no memories with, and don't plan on seeing ever again?

Needless to say, the conversation was short. He asked me how I was, what I was doing, and where I lived. Then, he told me I was one of his favorite people from school, he missed me, and wanted to hang out some time. Hey - at least he adhered to the Facebook Chat rules.

But, here's the best part. This brief, bizarre encounter with the boy from the back row of my 5th grade class also made my night. Here's why (for his privacy, I blurred out his name and user picture):


He asked me if the guy in my profile picture was my boyfriend.

If you can't tell by the tiny thumbnail, my profile picture is of me and Jordan Staal of the Pittsburgh Penguins. This, of course, made my night. Not only was it nice to briefly consider lying and telling him, "Absolutely and he's fantastic in bed," but it was also comforting to know that he deemed that as within the realm of possibility. Seriously, I had a total Lloyd Christmas moment from Dumb and Dumber and found myself thinking, "So you're saying there's a chance." As sad as this sounds, it was a total boost of confidence from a boy whose lasting impression on me was that he couldn't grasp the difference between the numerator and the denominator.

Man, maybe Facebook Chat is good for something.

Travel Disaster.

I know I've blogged before about the amazing 2-week trip I took to Peru with my dad in 2006. I detailed our adventures on the floating island of Uros and the amazing sunset we watched on Lake Titicaca. I neglected, however, to tell you about the absolute disaster I experienced in Cusco a few days earlier.

When we first arrived in Peru, we spent a couple days exploring the capital city of Lima. We strolled through the Plaza de Armas, toured historic churches, ate at wonderful restaurants, and took secretive pictures of skulls in the catacombs.


After our brief stint in Lima, we flew to Cusco, the historic capital of the Inca Empire located not too far from Machu Picchu. While boarding the plane, my dad mentioned in passing that Cusco was 11,200 feet above sea level and that some tourists experience altitude sickness due to the reduced air pressure and lower levels of oxygen. I, being the confident traveler I am, shrugged it off and fell asleep.

When our flight landed in Cusco, I didn't notice any symptoms and assured my dad that I felt completely fine. As we made our way to the tiny baggage claim area, I saw a number of posters on the wall, written in English, that warned of altitude sickness and its effects. I scoffed as we got our bags and hopped in a taxi to our hotel.

However, as my dad checked in at the front desk, I started to feel dizzy and nauseous. I assumed the feeling would pass as I became acclimated, so I agreed to drop our bags off in the room and explore Cusco. This was my first mistake.

Five minutes later, I was lying on the ground in the Plaza Mayor, gasping for breath and losing my vision. Tourists and locals alike stared at me like I was the drunk girl, incapacitated and drooling, in the corner of a college bar. Luckily, we hadn't ventured far from the hotel, so my dad ran back to get help.

So, there I was, practically unconscious, laying by myself on the ground in the middle of Cusco's equivalent to Times Square (which, as you can imagine, is absolutely nothing like Times Square).


After what felt like an eternity had passed, my dad returned with the desk clerk from the hotel. Like a drunk groomsman after a wedding, they helped me stagger back to the lobby and strapped an oxygen mask on my face. I instantly felt better. They also force-fed me a couple cups of scalding hot coca tea, which is said to help alleviate the symptoms of altitude sickness. Coca tea is made from coca leaves, the raw material used in the manufacture of cocaine. It tasted like boiling grass water and I nearly gagged as I choked it down. I also couldn't help but think that this was the closest I had ever come to recreational drug use, aside from definite contact buzz at Dave Matthews Band concerts.

When I felt good enough to stand up, we made our way to the room for a long nap. My dad had scheduled a tour of the city later in the day, so he wanted me to rest and acclimate as much as possible.

When I woke up from my nap, I felt miserable. Totally miserable. However, we only had a limited amount of time in Cusco before leaving for Aguas Calientes. I wanted to see the city and I didn't want to be a burden on my dad. So, despite my better judgment, I decided to go on the tour of the city. This was my second mistake.

My stomach churned as we drove from site to site. On multiple occasions, I refused to leave the bus while the rest of my tour group got out and explored first-hand. Although I was mostly concentrating on keeping the contents of my stomach inside my stomach, I listened to our tour guide share the history of the Incas with us. I also noticed an extremely attractive, Australian guy, traveling by himself in our tour group. At the first possible moment, I did what I do best and completely embarrassed myself by awkwardly bringing up the first Australian thing that came to mind besides kangaroos and the Sydney Opera House: AC/DC. This was my third mistake.


This is my creeper photo of the hot Australian. I know he doesn't look particularly great here. In his defense, he didn't know I was taking it and didn't pose accordingly. You'll have to take my word for it.

At one of the final stops on the tour, we reached Sacsayhuaman (say it fast - you'll laugh), an incredible Inca fortress that served primarily as sacred sacrificial grounds during Inti Raymi, the Festival of the Sun. I was far too intrigued by the idea of the ancient celebration and I decided to venture off the bus and explore with the rest of the group. This was my final mistake.

As we made our way to the grounds, I started to feel more and more nauseous. I felt a tiny sense of relief when our group finally stopped walking for a quick bit of information from the guide. However, as he began to share gruesome details of the llama sacrifices held annually on those very grounds, I knew it was too late. I was crossing the vomit threshold.

Sure enough, in the middle of his enticing story, I hit my dad as a warning, keeled over, and threw up for a solid 30 seconds on sacred Inca sacrificial grounds - in front of my entire tour group and the smokin' hot Australian. Yikes.

As is usually the case, I instantly felt better. Instead of nausea, a feeling of humiliation and fear came over me. Throwing up on sacred ground and the site of an important religious festival has to be bad luck. Right? For the second time that day, everyone stared at me with a mixture of confusion, pity, and amusement. My Australian Prince Charming unzipped his backpack and rushed to my rescue with a roll of toilet paper. My dad laughed hysterically.

Suddenly, a number of old, Peruvian street vendors appeared, seemingly out of thin air. One poured some minty potion from a tiny vial on his thumb and dragged it across my forehead, Rafiki-style. Another put a few coca leaves in my hand and told me to chew them. A third tried to sell me an alpaca rug and some Inca Cola, which oddly enough tastes worse than coca tea. My dad took a picture.


Please notice I'm holding coca leaves. The look on my face screams a combination of, "Is this real life?" and "Dear God, the Australian touched me."

So, there it is. My absolute travel disaster. But hey, if I'm ever selected as a contestant, my puke extravaganza makes for a pretty good Jeopardy story. The trip itself, however, was absolutely amazing and probably the best adventure I've ever been on with my dad. I learned so much on that trip that I will carry with me for the rest of my life. I will always have a bit of Peru with me and, although it was unintentional, I left a bit of myself in Peru, too...

I just hope no one stepped in it.

That time Mother Nature schooled me.

According to most of my friends, I am an awful travel buddy.

Let me be clear. It's not that I'm a bad traveler. I pack incredibly fast, I fly through security checkpoints, I never check a bag, and my carry-on is a reasonable size. I'm a seasoned veteran of checking into hotels, I do an insane amount of research before a vacation, and I'm fairly skilled at figuring out subways and metros.

So, what's the issue?

Most people view vacations as a break - a time to relax, eat, lay out on the beach, drink, etc. I, on the other hand, view vacations as an opportunity to do anything and everything that I can't do at home.

I have been an incredibly lucky traveler. My parents have taken us to so many amazing places and my Dad instilled in me an insatiable thirst for knowledge and an overwhelming desire to see the world. Throughout my childhood (especially during my angsty teenage years when all I wanted to do was sleep or call friends), my dad repeated one phrase to me on every vacation: The action is on the street.

He was completely right. Over the years, I have randomly run into celebrities, I have gotten cheap tickets to games or shows, I have met incredible people with interesting stories, and I have seen things I may never see again - all because I ventured outside. So, I fill every vacation with endless museums, shows, sightseeing, tours, concerts, sporting events, and, anything else I can find. By the end of a vacation, I'm completely exhausted, but I have some amazing stories. So, while my friends lay on the beach or sit in the room, I throw a temper tantrum and leave, in search of some action.

On our recent trip to California, we spent one wonderful day in San Diego. However, after a morning at the zoo and lunch in the Gaslamp Quarter, we started to head back to Oceanside for the night. I must admit - I was kinda upset. It's not that I didn't love Oceanside, but it's SAN DIEGO and I didn't know when (or if) I'd ever be back.

When we got back, we decided to take a walk on the beach. As I huffed and puffed along the water, the sun started to go down. Slowly at first, the colors in the sky started to change. The ocean breeze picked up, carrying the sound of the waves crashing on the shore and the distant cries of seagulls. I smelled the sea salt and felt the smooth, cool sand beneath my feet.


I dipped my feet in the cold water and looked behind me to see my family sharing this beautiful moment with me.


As the sun dipped deeper on the horizon, I was reminded, yet again, that sometimes it's okay to go with the flow. It's okay to step back and let things play out as they should. If we had still been in San Diego, we wouldn't have seen this.


Sometimes, the best things in life aren't things you make happen. They are things that happen to you.


Well played, mother nature. Well played.

Real life Pan Am.

As if I don't already watch enough TV, I decided to catch up and watch all three episodes of Pan Am tonight. As a bit of a history buff and a fan of the 1960s, I knew the show would interest me the instant I saw the commercial. However, I also have a much more personal connection to the show.

My grandparents (Nana and Grandad) met while working for Pan Am, my Grandad as a pilot and my Nana as a stewardess. After serving as a pilot in World War II, my Grandad took a job flying passenger planes for Pan American World Airways. During one of his flights, he met my Nana, a beautiful, young stewardess, who also served as the Spanish translator on the flights. After she denied his initial approach, he started to schedule himself on flights that he knew she would also be working. It didn't take long for her to agree to a date and the rest is history. They moved to Long Island (conveniently located near the Pan Am headquarters and JFK airport) and their first child, my dad, was born in 1952.

Although Pan Am takes place in the early 1960s, I absolutely loved watching it and replacing the characters with my grandparents. Although he didn't like to talk about it, my Grandad was truly a war hero, with the medals and ribbons to prove it. My Nana, a Chicago girl born and bred, really was a new breed of woman - independent, smart, and talented. It is so interesting to imagine how exciting their lives must have been - traveling to new places, seeing the world together.


My Grandad passed away from Alzheimer's a few years ago, but my Nana tunes in to ABC every Sunday night to watch the new episodes of Pan Am. Although she probably laughs at the romanticization of the job and the technical inaccuracies of the show, I'm sure she loves reminiscing on her days as a young woman. I'm sure she wishes my Grandad were still here to watch it with her, to hold her hand and remember. I bet, however, that the show also brings her comfort. It reminds her of him and the exciting life they shared in love. I suppose that's the awesome power of television. For one hour every week, he's with her - traveling to those old places, seeing the world together once more.

Halloween goodness.

I apologize for the lack of Man Meat. To make up for it, I have an extra drool-worthy post coming later in the week. Promise!

As my favorite holiday during my favorite part of the year, Halloween has always been a big deal to me. This, of course, means that I take my Halloween costume very seriously.

As a child, I was Pippi Longstocking five times. My mom braided my hair around a flattened coat hanger, so that my pigtails would stick straight out. I wish I could find a picture because it was impressive.

Since then, I've been:

Mario,


a Twister board,


a baby,


the Wicked Witch of the West,


Mrs. Peacock (from Clue),


and last year, my own version of a Pittsburgh Penguin.

I already have my costume picked out for this year. It's a secret, but you won't be disappointed.

No better time than September for a Christmas story.

Since I don't have much to say, I thought I'd tell you a good story.

About five years ago, my family went to a local dinner theater around Christmastime to see a play. During the dinner portion, we started talking about Christmas, our favorite holiday traditions, the best Christmas movies, the annual fake vs. real tree debate, etc.

Somehow, the name Kris Kringle was mentioned in passing. Instantly, I noticed the looks of blatant confusion on both of my younger siblings' faces. The conversation eventually strayed to something else, but I couldn't move on. I started to wonder: Is it possible for a 16- and a 15-year-old to not know who Kris Kringle is?

You see, my role in the Johnson household is to expose the embarrassing details of my family members for the sake of my own amusement. Being the exploitative big sister I am, I had to confront them.

Me: Wait. Hold on, hold on. Do you guys not know who Kris Kringle is?

LP (playing it smart and covering his bases): Well, he sounds familiar.

Jamie: Isn't he a football player? Like the quarterback for Ohio State or something?

I lost my mind. To this day, I'm not entirely sure why my 16-year-old sister thought Kris Kringle was a collegiate-level football player, let alone an athlete of any kind. The only explanation I can come up with involves Craig Krenzel, the starting quarterback for OSU when they won the national championship in 2002.

I don't know how she came up with that guess, but I'm certainly glad she did. In fact, Jamie should probably have a highlight reel of all her classic one-liners. I think I might start working on it now and give it to her for Christmas.


I'll put this in her stocking.

When I was cool...

My mom found something a few days ago and I thought I'd share it with you.


Yep. A plate that I made on July 13, 1993 (which means I was five). Of course, it depicts the four Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, me, my sister, and a very crudely drawn Splinter, the Japanese sewer rat.

This plate leaves me with a couple interesting observations and a few pressing questions:

1. Splinter doesn't look like a rat. He doesn't even look like an animal.

2. My sister doesn't have (and has never had) brown hair. Why did I draw her with a brown hair helmet?

3. Why was I considerably better at drawing human-like turtles than actual humans?

4. I'm pretty impressed that none of my letters are backwards. However, please note that my mom had to write the date. Couldn't handle numbers yet.

5. Michelangelo is placed prominently in the center because he was my favorite TMNT.

6. Why are Leonardo's arms coming out of his head?

Sadly, this is the coolest thing I have ever done. I peaked at age 5. Not proud.

Reminiscing.

Tonight, I spent some time reading my old blog. I do this every once in a while, in an attempt to remember how I used to feel and make myself laugh with how bad of a writer I used to be.

However, I came across something I wrote that still speaks to me. I wrote it in May of 2008, shortly after returning home from Miami for the summer. College was halfway over, but my summer in Lebanon had me reminiscing on high school and the relationships I had built there. I wrote:

I remember when we would stay up all night just because we could. We drove around, wasting time and gas, but it didn't matter. We were together. We spent countless hours laughing at each other, even though we weren't funny. We held onto each other because we knew it would never be the same again. We learned each other during late nights at Waffle House. We laid, together in silence, counting the stars and realizing how insignificant we were. We stood in the summer rain and felt alive. We held our breath and time stood still. We breathed in the autumn breeze and vowed never to forget. We explored each other, late at night with no one around, finding our bodies and finding ourselves. We cheered at the football games, putting more importance on the outcome of games than we should have. We made promises to stay in touch, tears streaming down our faces. We cried at how beautiful and how simple everything was. We were scared at how fast it was ending. We cursed all the time we had wasted. We felt ourselves become overwhelmed with how right it felt. We worried that we'd never find it again. These were our last days as children.

Even five years later, I remember exactly how I felt as a senior in high school. I felt comfortable, happy, in love. I never thought I'd meet another group of people who made me feel like myself. Yet, time marched on, as it always does. I was wrong - I met an amazing group of people in college, ones that I love deeply. Now, I find myself wondering how I was ever as close as I was to my high school friends. We've moved on, our lives carrying us in different directions. Even some of those I held the closest in high school have become strangers to me now - familiar faces with a different person behind them.

I used to fight so hard to preserve the relationships of my past. Only now do I see that the ones that truly mean something - the ones that last - aren't a fight at all. Those friendships pick up where they left off, even after years of silence. Those friendships can be rekindled at any given moment - without bitterness, without uncomfortable pauses. Those friendships are mutual, with both parties willing to put in the effort. They aren't forced, they aren't one-sided, and they aren't superficial.

So, five years later, I look back on high school with fondness. The people that came into my life were there for a reason - I learned from them, I found happiness with them, and I loved them. It's okay that we've distanced from each other. We've made room for other relationships and, if the friendship was real, we can always pick it up where it left off.

I wish I could have reassured the younger version of myself that it was okay to move on. I wish I could tell her not to fight it, not to hold on so dearly. I wish I could have shown her that those who mattered would always be there and that good things could be learned from those who didn't. I wish she had known to let go, to keep growing. I wish she hadn't convinced herself that the end of high school signaled the end of her happiness.

She was wrong. High school wasn't the end. It was the beginning.

The official end of my childhood.

I never thought today would come.

Unfortunately, I'm not referring to a Bengals' Superbowl victory. I am, in fact, referring to the midnight release of the final installment of the Harry Potter series.

How do I even begin to explain what Harry Potter has meant to me over the years? When I look back, I realize that the series has been an incredibly important part of my formative years. I've read all seven books (most multiple times) and seen all of the movies (most at midnight). I've made Harry-Potter-themed t-shirts with friends and brought wands to a movie. I've waited for hours at bookstores for the release of new books. I've stayed up all night long, unable to put the new books down and insistent on finishing them for fear of someone spoiling the ending. I've eaten Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans, made fake pumpkin juice, and bought a Sirius Black t-shirt. I've tattooed fake lightning bolts on my forehead and attended local Harry Potter festivals. I've visited Platform 9 3/4 in London and fantasized about a trip to The Wizarding World of Harry Potter.


The books have made me laugh. They've made me cry. They've made me angry, nervous, and excited. I've grown to love the characters. I realized long ago that I am Hermione Granger. I love Ron Weasley and his twin brothers. If I lived in the wizarding world, my celebrity athlete crush would definitely be Victor Krum. Oliver Wood is as passionate about playing his sport as I am about watching mine. I wanted to kill Dolores Umbridge and Bellatrix Lestrange. I made fun of Harry's emo stage (circa Order of the Phoenix), didn't like Cho Chang, and rooted not-so-secretly for Ginny. I always knew Snape was innocent, cried when Dumbledore died, sobbed when Dobby died, and I can't even talk about what's going to happen tonight. I watched Darren Criss's A Very Potter Musical and literally screamed when Ron and Hermione kissed. The books have taken me to incredible places that could never exist, but that I wished desperately did. The movies have done a wonderful job of doing the books justice and I feel like I've grown up alongside Daniel Radcliffe, Rupert Grint, and Emma Watson. I've even developed crushes on some of the actors (HELLO Malfoy and Neville Longbottom).

However, when I look back, it's not the festivals, the movies, the food, the shirts, or even the books that make Harry Potter so special to me. It's the reliability of it all. Harry Potter has been one of the most constant things throughout my childhood. While everything was changing around me, I always had Harry Potter to rely on, as my fall-back, as a constant. No matter what happened, when everything in my life was changing, I always had Harry Potter. Through friends moving away, high school graduation, falling in and out of love, going to college, falling away from old friends and making new ones, Harry Potter has always been there.

Even though nothing in my life seemed certain, even though everything seemed to be changing, Harry Potter kept me company, provided me with comfort, and allowed me to have some stability in my life. I always had something to look forward to - a new book, a new movie - and something to discuss with both loved ones and strangers.

Tonight, however, is my last taste of something new. There will never be another book. There will never be another movie. This is officially the end of the most important series of my generation...and, in a way, it symbolizes the end of my childhood. I've graduated from college. I, too, have moved onto the next chapter of my life. It's time to create a new story - my own story.

Although it's tough to say goodbye, I know it's finally time. This chapter of my life may be over, but it certainly isn't the end. I have much, much more to write.

It's comforting to know that whenever I need some comfort, whenever I need to feel at home, I can always crack open Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone and start the adventure all over again.

So, to JK Rowling, thank you so much for the story, thank you for the comfort, and thank you most of all for the memories. From one Muggle to another, I will never forget it.

NO PHOTO! Life lesson.

I have never been one to break the rules.

In fact, I'm actually quite boring. I've never tried any drugs. I don't smoke or drink. I've never stolen anything. I never got detentions in school. I don't talk back to my parents and they never grounded me. I don't honk at people and I've never gotten a speeding ticket. The most trouble I've ever been in with the police was being in a park after sundown - although I admit this has happened on more than a few occasions. I was always terrified of punishment, so I never did anything to warrant it.

Now that I'm an adult, I operate under the assumption that no one will scold me, anymore. For the most part, that's true. Aside from my dad telling me to be quiet every now and then, I've escaped mostly discipline-free the last few years.

Except for one time.

Last summer, I traveled to Italy with my dad for a couple weeks. The trip was absolutely incredible, I took a million pictures, and I'm already searching frantically for reasons to return. Although I loved Venice, my favorite Italian city was Florence. We spent hours perusing the outdoor markets and gold shops on the Ponte Vecchio, ate gelato and listened to musicians play Simon & Garfunkel covers in the Piazza della Signoria, and stared in awe as the beautiful colors of the buildings came to life as the sun slowly set over the Arno River.

My favorite Florentine memory, however, came from the depths of the Galleria della Accademia. After waiting in line in the hot sun for nearly two hours, we finally entered the small art museum. The size of the museum paled in comparison to the nearby Uffizi Gallery, but the Galleria had something far more special - Michelangelo's David.

Although I'm not necessarily an art fanatic, I've always loved David. To me, he is the flawless depiction of male beauty - towering in size and chiseled flawlessly in all the right places. Michelangelo's precision staggers me. The veins in David's arms and unusually large hands would be hard to create in clay, let alone marble. He is simultaneously human and god, real and unreal, the height of human engineering, the culmination of art and science. Although he represents the triumph of man, he is more than man, leaving tourists with a feeling of both appreciation and envy. If you ignore his not-so-impressive package, David is the quintessence of masculine perfection - strong, healthy, young, and colossal.

We all know that I am somewhat of an aficionado of the male body. So, my obsession with David makes sense. Sure enough, he took my breath away in person. He was everything I wanted and more. You turn the corner and, at the end of a long hallway lined with Michelangelo's Captives, there he is. Elevated high off the ground, he stands there, frozen in time, the sun shining on him in this naturally-lit room. I nearly crumbled to the ground.

However, I was with my dad. So, I pulled myself together and secretly wiped the drool off my chin. Guards were circling the perimeter, making sure no one got too close and threatening to kill anyone who took any pictures. I stood there, unable to peel my eyes from him, and was faced with a dilemma.

How do I come face-to-face with the most beautiful man-made creation of all-time and not take a picture?

I tried to rationalize doing it. I can find a picture of David on the internet, but it's just not the same. I may never see him again. If I'm subtle, the guards will never know. On the other hand, however, my immense fear of punishment continued to work its ugly way into my consciousness. What if they see me? What if they kick me out? Is it worth it? I could always just google him or buy a postcard.

After ten minutes of internal struggle, I finally decided to do it. Just once. I worked up all the courage I could muster, made sure my flash was off, and I snapped this.


I held my breath and heard nothing. I glanced around and reassured myself that no one had seen. I felt so naughty. I got such a rush from taking the first picture that I decided to take another. From a different angle.


Then another.


Suddenly, I heard the horrific sound I had been dreading. A stern woman's voice with a heavy Italian accent screamed from across the room, "NO PHOTO!" I tried my best to act oblivious. I looked around with a quizzical look on my face, trying to frame nearby tourists, but there was absolutely no fooling this woman. She stomped toward me with fire in her eyes and continued to scream, "NO PHOTO! NO PHOTO!" I had been caught red-handed. Everyone tore their eyes away from David to look at me. Tears began to fill my eyes and my face turned a shade of red that was actually much closer to purple.

Then, I did something that I still can't explain. I just walked away. My dad, who actually seemed to be laughing despite my mortified reaction, followed me. We stood outside for a moment, tears streaming down my face, ashamed that I had blatantly broken the rules of a such a highly-esteemed institution and disgraced by the attention I had attracted. For a person who cries when someone honks at them, this was utter humiliation.

My dad continued to laugh and shout "NO PHOTO!" at me. Then, in a desperate effort to soothe my pain, he bought me a coconut gelato. Slowly but surely, I regained my composure.

About an hour later, we sat on a bench and I pulled my camera out. Still hesitant, I scanned through the pictures...and a smile slowly came to my face. I had made the right decision. Those pictures were totally worth it.

It was in that moment that I realized for the first time that some rules are meant to be broken. Living your life by the rules might be safe, but it's also boring. You only live once - do it right the first time. Why live with regret? Push yourself to do something out of your comfort zone. It will change the way you view the world and it usually makes for the best memories.

Walk through the door that says 'Employees Only.' Stay out later than you should. Sing loudly and dance without shame. Live spontaneously. Try not to make detailed plans for everything. Talk to a stranger. Spend more than you should. Tell someone how you truly feel about them. Be a more outgoing version of yourself. You'll thank yourself later.

Clearly, I'm not much of a rebel if the most scandalous thing I've ever done is sneak a photo of a sculpture, but you get the picture (no pun intended). I'm still not an advocate for rule-breaking, but sometimes, in the right circumstances and within reason, it's worth the consequences.

...and hey! I can always have my way with imitation David in Las Vegas whenever I want.

Welcome to The Twilight Zone.

Tonight was the hardest I have ever laughed.

I'm fairly certain that no combination of words could ever do justice to what I just experienced, but I have to try. If not to make you laugh, then to help me remember.

I'll start from the beginning.

Around 1:00 AM, Jenn and I decided on a whim to drive 45 minutes to the nearest Denny's. Sidenote: We have a tendency to drive absurd distances for food at all hours of the evening. In fact, I've referred to us as Harold and Kumar on numerous occasions. So, we set out for the Denny's near the University of Dayton's campus.

As we pulled into the parking lot, we quickly noticed two things: 1. Denny's was completely packed and 2. We were a racial minority. This, of course, didn't bother us and we stepped inside. While waiting in line for the hostess to seat us, we scanned the restaurant, taking verbal note of the vast array of customers.

Some people were dressed in provocative nightclub clothes, others were in t-shirts and jeans. Some were loudly slurring their words while others sat in silence. Some seemed to be high schoolers, others were on the opposite end of 40. There was a group of five women in front of us, most of whom had butch haircuts. One of these women wore a shirt that read: I heart vaginas. Another shirt said: I like girls who like girls. I made some comment to Jenn regarding the impressive diversity of Denny's clientele.

Jenn explained that the nearby group of high school boys laughing hysterically made her nervous. I agreed, adding that I was pretty sure they were making fun of me. Jenn, unaware of her proximity and volume level, assured me that they were laughing at the lesbians in front of us. One member of said group instantly moved away from us, clearly offended. Oops.

We stood awkwardly in line for another five minutes, hoping desperately that a hostess would separate us from the others in line. Jenn quietly sang the theme song for The Twilight Zone. Little did we know how bizarre the night would quickly become.

Luckily, a hostess noticed that a booth had opened in the corner and she escorted us past a number of staring customers and a gentleman who shared an uncanny resemblance with Rick Ross. The large table next to us was occupied by ten people with multi-colored hair, more piercings and tattoos than Dennis Rodman, and The Clash and Sex Pistols t-shirts. We tried unsuccessfully to disappear in the corner.

Our waiter, an attractive guy named Tyrone, came over to take our drink orders. Showing absolutely no signs of subtlety, he openly gawked at Jenn, not dissimilar to the way I stare at Sidney Crosby. He mumbled greetings to us that we couldn't understand and we ordered our drinks.

We discussed True Blood for ten minutes, disagreeing on the attractive merits of Bill Compton and agreeing on those of Eric Northman. During our discussion, the table next to us was vacated and cleaned by Tyrone, who, thanks to Jenn, probably could have used the ample amounts of his drool to clean any surface.

Suddenly, a large, older-looking black woman plunked down at the table next to us. She was dressed in a nice blue dress and, by the look of her eyes, was as high as a kite. As soon as she sat down, she turned to us and exclaimed, "It's my birthday! I turned 63 today!" We exchanged pleasantries, wished her a happy birthday, and smiled as she started to dance and sing, "It's my birthday! Happy Birthday!" over and over to herself.

A minute later, she was joined by a large group of younger, black women - also dressed nicely and clearly intoxicated. At this point, Tyrone brought us our fried cheese melts (my own personal Kryptonite), asked Jenn what her name was, and mumbled something about her being really pretty.

We ate our food in silence, completely entranced by the lively group of women next to us. At random intervals, the woman would sing "It's my birthday! Happy Birthday!" They laughed hysterically, although nothing of note was happening. She started to yell things to Tyrone about how he couldn't use her phone. I tried for a minute to make sense of why she was saying this to him, but ultimately, decided that it was simply because 'phone' rhymes with 'Tyrone.' Hilarity ensued and we were reaching the breaking point.

Suddenly, the woman stood up at her table. In an attempt to get the attention of the entire restaurant, she started to shout at the top of her lungs. She told everyone to be quiet. When she had almost everyone's attention, she explained that it was her birthday and it was her day. She also wished all of the fathers a Happy Father's Day, but then reminded everyone it was her birthday.

No one seemed particularly amused by this. Except for us. We giggled, I was on the verge of losing it. Jenn coaxed me down. Then, all hell broke lose. Three of the women at the table started to sing a very different version of the "Happy Birthday" song than what I've ever heard. A very soulful, black Baptist-like version of the Birthday song.

Slowly but surely, the entire restaurant (which I must remind you probably had a sum total of 10 white people inside) started to join in. I have never heard this song before in my life. People were clapping, swaying back and forth, and singing along. A large, bald black man stood up and started to dance down the aisle toward the birthday girl.

I lost it. I started to laugh so hard that my entire face contorted. Despite my strongest efforts to avoid it, tears began to stream down my cheeks. Amazingly, Jenn held it together for the most part. She urged me to turn around and watch the man dancing toward us. I couldn't for fear of peeing my pants.

He sat next to me in the booth and I turned my head, pretending to look out the window. One of the women at the table exclaimed, "YOU'RE MAKING THAT GIRL CRY OVER THERE!" I sent Jenn a text that read: Is this a Tyler Perry movie?

At this point, Jenn couldn't contain herself. She laughed harder than I've heard her laugh in years. We both cried, laughing hysterically, while an R&B rendition of "Happy Birthday" was performed all around us. Eventually, we pulled ourselves together, grabbed our bill, and high-tailed it out of there.

We left, shell-shocked and in utter disbelief.

Like I said, I could never accurately describe this situation to anyone. It was the single most bizarre and hilarious thing I've ever seen in my life. I tried to take a video with my phone, but Jenn told me that I was being obvious and I decided against it. I wish more than anything that I could have recorded it.

I would have sent it to Tyler Perry with the working title, How Madea got her 63rd Birthday Back.

Doomsday 2011

If you know me well, you know the following three things about me:

1. My sleeping hours are quite different than the rest of the country (seriously, check the timestamps on my blog).
2. I think way too much...about everything.
3. I can be pretty dramatic.

All three of these details combined to create a very interesting moment for me this morning.

All day, Twitter and Facebook have been blowing up with statuses regarding the upcoming rapture. I've detailed my life-long struggle with my faith in previous blog posts, so I won't launch into my personal beliefs now. However, it should be no big surprise that I do not believe that the rapture will occur today or that the world will end on October 21, 2011.

Still, I cannot help but wonder about the apocalypse. I blame my all-encompassing fear of death and self-imposed quest for religion. (By the way, is there such thing as a God-fearing agnostic?)

I realize that the rapture isn't the end of the world...yet. I also realize that most Christians do not claim to know the date of the rapture. The rapture is when all of God's chosen believers will ascend to Heaven while the non-believers get to chill on Earth and deal with apocalyptic goodies like earthquakes and fires. According to most of the Christians I know, I won't be making that once-in-a-lifetime trip with Jesus. Comforting.

So, I'll probably be stuck here, blogging about how much the end of days completely sucks and how much I miss Tim Tebow already.

No, but seriously, the notion of the apocalypse (and the rapture, for that matter) completely scares me. Although I think Harold Camping's rapture prediction is complete bogus, I can't help but wonder what if.

Tonight, at 1:00 AM, I was sitting in my kitchen, completely alone and feeling sorry for myself. So, I sat and I thought for a couple hours about how scary the end of the world would be. I thought about my life and how I'd feel if it ended right now in hellfire and brimstone. I thought about all of my friends and family who think I'm destined to spend eternity in hell because I can't get myself to make the leap of faith, no matter how hard I try.

Every morning (weather permitting), around 5:30, I go outside and sit on my porch to watch the sun come up. This morning, the morning of someone's supposed Judgment Day, was no different. I stepped outside and walked to the end of my driveway. As I tread barefoot through the grass, I inhaled deeply. There was a chill in the air that made my blood pump faster. The sky, filled with bright pinks and oranges, was slowly becoming lighter, while the moon made its gradual descent into the dense treeline of my backyard. Fog hung low on the grass of my neighbor's beautiful yard and crept into the church parking lot across the street.


I stood there for nearly an hour, watching the fog slowly dissipate, breathing the cool air, listening to the birds chirp, and watching the breath-taking colors dance in the clouds. I thought about the rapture, my life, my family and friends, and eternity. Before turning back toward my house, I took another deep breath and finally, I smiled with relief.

If the world did end today, I think I'd be okay with that.