Is this length gonna cut it?

Friends, I need your help. Badly.

I have been growing out my hair since October of 2009. It started on accident. I'd gotten a fantastic haircut, and by January, I couldn't believe how long my hair had gotten. I decided to keep going and donate it. It would take no time at all!

Only my hair decided to stop growing as quickly, and along the way I tried to get a couple basic maintenance trims that turned into full-on haircuts, thanks to overzealous stylists who didn't pay attention to my "half-inch or inch at the most. I'm growing it to donate it" instructions. Those set me back a few months, and it happened twice. Yuck.

So now here I am, seventeen months later, ridiculously ready to hack off my hair. For months I've been getting more and more anxious to see it all go. It's in my way; it's in K's way. I'm ready to get to put layers back in it. I'm ready for my hair to be my hair.

I mentioned this to a coworker a couple weeks ago, so she decided to measure it for me. She told me it's 10" long at the middle of my back from my shoulders, and it's 8" on the sides, with the (grown out) layers that frame my face. I only need 8" for the Beautiful Lengths donation I intend to make. Suh-weet!

I excitedly scheduled my appointment last week. I'm supposed to go in this Saturday.

Only now I'm getting cold feet.

I had K remeasure my hair just in case. Nine inches from the bottom of my curly hair is right at my shoulders. That could be bad. If my hair gets cut above my shoulders, it becomes horizontal. I'll have to straighten it, which is a huge pain, until it grows out.

But what if I'm so nervous about having my hair long enough after the cut that I don't let them cut enough, and it all just has to get thrown out because it's unusable? What a waste!

What if the layers I told the stylists to ignore (and they didn't) make the majority of my hair unusable?

(And what if the hair gets lost in the mail before it gets to the company? Agh!)

Let me give you a visual here.

I will donate to Beautiful Lengths, which requires an 8" donation. I figure I'll give them 9", just to be sure they have enough. (Also, for those of you who clicked the link from my last major haircut, for the record, I do own other shirts than this one.)

That rubber band -- where my hair will be cut -- is dangerously close to my shoulders. Like potentially ugly close to my shoulders. Since my hair is curly, it will likely kink up and be above them. 

My options: 

• Cancel the appointment and reschedule for a later date (May, maybe?). 
• Cancel the appointment, immediately begin taking prenatal vitamins for the next 4 weeks. Then switch back to my vitapaks so those aren't wasted ... and when those are finished, resume the prenatals, since we planned on having me start those anyway.
• Go to the appointment, hack off my hair, and straighten it for a few weeks -- potentially with some prenatals in the mix -- until the awkward stage is over. Enjoy the warm fuzzy feeling that goes with knowing there's a little girl out there who won't have to worry about how she'll look when her illness takes her hair because of my donation and Beautiful Lengths.
• Go to the appointment and donate my straightened hair. That means less taken while still meeting the requirements, and I'll still have more left after the donation. Hopefully everyone wins. I may or may not have to use the straightener and prenatal post-haircut option. But I'll still get the warm fuzzy feeling.

My hair has been close to shoulder-length before. Maybe it'll look OK.

Either way, please feel free to weigh in. Either way, I am donating. It's just a matter of when (and how I deal with it post-cut).

With something as important as hair, I feel like I just can't make this decision on my own!

Looking for advice

Jewelry Storage

I've been expanding my jewelry collection over the last couple years, thanks first to H&M and now to friends having jewelry parties (gotta show my support!). My jewelry box just isn't going to cut it anymore. 

I've seen those cute little frames with the wires on them, but those only hold so much. And there are these, which are charming, but I'd like my storage system to not cost too much more than I'd spend on the jewelry it'll hold. 

I'm contemplating something like this, but I thought I'd check with you guys first. What do you do?

Dealing with Gum

I hate gum popping. Hate. It. 

I think it stems from my childhood. My mom is one of the worst offenders in the world. One of her favorite times to chew gum? In the car. So picture me, my poor brother, and my dad, stuck in a car for hours with my mom pop, pop, popping away.

Torture. 

I finally learned to make a game out of it, so that's what my brother and I did. We'd count each and every gum pop. Sometimes, it got hard to count that high. But it turned the popping into something funny, and we'd be laughing and shaking our heads over the fact my mom had just popped her gum more than 120 times in 5 minutes.  

She didn't realize she was doing it. But she'd hear us laughing miserably, ask why, and then laugh herself, embarrassed, when we told her how bad it was. Right before she started popping again a few minutes later. It was a habit.

So gum popping is (and always has been) one thing I just can't tune out. I can put in headphones and crank 'em up, and that works depending on how far the offender is from me. 

But I have a coworker who really loves popping gum. I usually put in headphones, but sometimes music is distracting too. And I feel like I shouldn't have to put in headphones every other day so this lady can do something distracting in an office place.

This is a question I've wondered many, many times. I've even found myself at a Broadway show sitting in front of an offender who popped through the show. I seriously think these punkwads follow me around.  

So what do you think: 

Is there a polite way to ask a person to stop popping their gum?

Fuck you, cancer

I lost a classmate on Friday. She died of lung cancer. On her 30th birthday.

Meg was a beautiful girl, one of those people who just glows. She was always smiling. In high school, she was on the drill team. She was in track. She was active and healthy. She didn't smoke. Her family members didn't smoke. Meg and her husband had their first child early last summer, just weeks before she found out she had stage 4 lung cancer.

Because she was two grades ahead of me, I didn't know Meg well, but I knew her brother. He was in my class, and I've known him since the first grade. I can't begin to imagine what he's going through.

The whole thing is just so terrible. It makes you think. It makes you angry.

No one that young -- that young and that healthy -- should die from cancer.

But Meg is the 3rd person I went to high school with to die from cancer. The others were 22 and 28.

I found out today that another classmate was recently diagnosed. Hers was found early, so she has a 94% chance of beating it. She is 31.

There was cancer in our past, too. A girl in my fifth grade class was diagnosed with cancer. Another girl in the class below me had lymphoma in junior high. They both survived. 

My hometown is small. I graduated with 175 people. The other classes were that size too.

Which makes the number of my classmates who have had cancer all the more upsetting.

Left Out

Being left out sucks. Nobody likes it.

It used to happen to me all the time in high school. My “friends” had this habit of doing things without inviting me – and then laughing about inside jokes that came out of those gatherings in front of me.

Since I know how crappy it feels, I’ve always made an effort to not make people feel left out. I don’t bring up activities that a present party isn’t invited to, and I even try to explain the gist of inside jokes if the number of people who don’t get it is anywhere close to the number of people who do.

Honestly, my hatred of feeling left out might be to blame for my feelings about Valentine’s Day. Feb. 14 is the ultimate left out day because more often than not, the ones who care about it most are the ones who feel like they don’t have anyone to celebrate it with. How crappy is that?  

You know what else is crappy? I’ve recently found myself in that same effing situation my high school “friends” put me in.

K and I have people over to the house all the time. For game nights, for potluck dinners, for watch parties … We typically wind up with 10 people, sometimes closer to 20. But we always invite everyone from our kickball team.

Many of the girls on our team watch The Bachelor. I do not. However, I went to a watch party for the show last year just to get some good girl time. I love me some girl time. So much that I’ll even put up with a craptastic show like The Bachelor just to get it.

Last year, it was a small group of three who watched the show each week. This year, it’s a big group. I’m not quite sure how big, though, because I wasn’t invited. I do know there’s a final pick pool involved (which is totally the way to make me semi-enjoy the show!), and every girl I know goes. It’s come up in conversation the last few times I’ve been in a group setting with more than one girl in The Bachelor Group. Which sucks.

It really hurts my feelings.

It came up yesterday when K and I went to watch some of our kickball friends play in another league. The semi-boyfriend of one of The Bachelor girls said, “Oh, so this is the group who watches The Bachelor.” The girl, who is one of my closest friends here and I regularly have lunch dates with, said, “Oh, no, MLIB hates The Bachelor.”

That may be true, but I’d love the opportunity to make the decision myself. Had I had that chance, I’d probably have joined. Weekly girl time and a glass of wine? Who would turn that down?

I was really upset about the whole thing yesterday, and I had mentioned it to K a few times. He told me I should talk to the organizer (I’m not even sure which girl that is) and find out why I wasn’t invited.

Only I’m not sure that’s fair. I mean, it’s their right to do whatever they want, and they can invite whoever they want. It would be nice if they didn’t talk about it so openly so I’d find out about it (again and again), but I guess that’s just life.

My feelings are justified, but that doesn’t mean they owe me an explanation or even an apology for not inviting me.

K felt differently. He told me if I wasn’t going to ask the girls about it, he didn’t want to hear about it anymore. When I told him I felt like that was unfair, he opened up. He agrees that it’s crap, and he actually thinks they owe it to me to invite me. As many parties and gatherings as we’ve had; as much beer, snacks, and alcohol as they’ve had at our house … He says we’ve invested in these friendships, and it’s not right for them to not invite me.

I see what he’s saying, but I disagree that they owe us anything. We choose to invite them to our house. We choose to share food and drinks (everyone brings a little something, but we have our kegerator). But we can’t do that with any expectations.

So I’m stuck. I hate drama, and I definitely don’t want to start anything unnecessarily. But at the same time, I think it’s rude for them to talk about this group when others who aren’t a part of it are around.

I swear, this is why I quit hanging out with girls in college!

I have to tell SOMEbody

Over the weekend, we had some more friends (acquaintances, actually) announce that they're pregnant. Afterward, we girls got to talking to her asking how she was doing, and the conversation inevitably led to the planning part. Someone started talking about prenatal vitamins and how you can take them up to 2 years before you have a baby.

I remember from several years back my doctor telling me at my annual well-woman appointment that I needed to be taking a daily multivitamin to make sure I have plenty of folic acid for someday when I have a baby. It wasn't an issue then, so I didn't pay much attention.

K got me started on GNC multivitamins years ago, and I take those most days (when I remember). I hadn't realized that prenatal vitamins could be taken so early. I definitely see K and I getting ready for (or even having) kids in the next couple years, so it occurred to me that I might ought to look into those.

And there's that whole birth control pill thing. I've been on those since I was 18. I know a few women who got off the pill, immediately got pregnant, and then had miscarriages (my mom included, which worked well for me because if she hadn't had the miscarriage, I wouldn't be here!). Sometimes those just happen, and oftentimes it's nothing the mother did to cause it. However, I can't help but think that if I can do anything to help that not happen, it's a good idea.

So yesterday I brought it up with K, slowly. I mentioned the prenatal vitamins, and how you can take them up to 2 years early. Told him I was thinking I might look into those. I've got all my GNC active women's daily multivitamins, but I could do research on prenatals and see how they differ. I could start taking those soon.

And in June, when I go for my well-woman exam, maybe I'd just not renew my pills. Just to get off them for a while before we're ready for any expansion (of the family and my belly).

I softened this proposed plan with a lot of, "Not that we'd have to do anything right away ..." and "Just so we're ready when we're ready ..."

K seemed pretty quiet. I asked him how he was taking it. He was fine with it. Unphased, even.

Looks like we have a plan!

What the f*cking f*ck?!

I don't know why this occurred to me on this particular morning on this particular day, but for some reason, I realized I could probably look at my mom's FB profile, scroll through her friends list, and find the FB profile of a scumbag I wanted to rip a new one in 2005.

The scumbag I heard about the day after Christmas, when my dad accidentally told me at my favorite restaurant in my hometown that my mom had had an affair years before (I say "accidentally" because he thought I already knew. My mom had told him that she'd already told me).

So I did it. And sure enough, there he was.

There he was, smiling like the player asshole I suspected he was. A 50-something wearing a collared white shirt, unbuttoned somewhere below the cropping of the picture so his sleazy, selfish chest peaks out for the world and his poor college-aged daughter to see.

And of course he's single. And of course he's looking for friendship, dating, and a relationship. (Evidently the bastard is always looking for that. He was married when he cheated with my mom.)

I wanted to send him a message. Short, simple, but totally not sweet. Subject: "Merry Christmas." Body of messsage: "I know who you are. Just wanted to tell you I think you're a selfish, asshole scumbag."

Oh, how badly I wanted to write that message. From the moment I looked at his profile -- his sleazy, nasty profile -- I felt the blood in my heart boil. I felt the adrenaline rushing through my body with a fire I didn't realize was there. I could imagine this asshole logging on -- probably to look at trashy porn -- and seeing this message. See the color drain from his disgusting face and his bare chest. Oh, would that be nice.

Except then he'd message my mom. And then there'd be this whole dramatic spiral. My mom knows that I know because I have strongly hinted at her. We've talked about it, even. She knows exactly how I feel about it. I didn't mince any words, that's for sure.

I didn't send Mr. Sleaze a message. But I did look at his wall.

And there, in a few places sprinkled throughout his wall, was my mom. In a few places, she was actually flirting with him! (Nov 1-"So what exactly is this truth game. Didn't think you could handle the truth! lol") My mom has always been a playful person, oftentimes with members of the opposite sex. Not to say that she's slutty or a tease, but she just enjoys laughing and joking around with them. I don't think it's a bad thing in all circumstances, but this one is not in that group. You do not flirt with a man you once had an adulterous affair with. Especially since I'm pretty sure her current husband doesn't know about this affair -- or if he does, he has no idea he knows the person my mom had the affair with.

I started typing a message to my mom with the subject "Reprimand." The message was telling her I'd seen him on her friends list, that I'd clicked on his profile and seen her messages on his wall. That I thought it was dangerous territory and she should be careful.

But I deleted the message. I glared at his profile a little longer, and I typed this blog.

It's the drama-free route.

The boiling has lessened, but it's still there.

Taking the high road sure sucks sometimes.

Damn hormones!

Obviously I have a lot of things to catch you guys up on, like actually telling about my marathon, and sharing pictures from a camping trip a few weeks ago, when I slept outside for the first time in my life. 

But there’s something a bit more pressing to share. It’s more pressing because it’s been kind of sudden. Or I’m guessing that it’s becoming that way. 

In the past, I’ve actually started a post a couple times about my thoughts on children (I never published them because I was afraid they'd come out the wrong way). About how once I got Piper and realized how badly I wanted people to like her and how protective I felt about a freakin’ dog, I also realized there’s no telling how ridiculous I’d be with a child. Not to mention when you consider how protective I am over my perfectly capable little brother, who I still refer to as my “little” brother despite the fact he’s 6’2” and 26 years old. 

I decided I wanted nothing to do with having a child. Maybe ever. Because the world doesn’t need that level of sanity, and ohmygosh do they ever stop crying? 

I heard them all around me. Crying. Begging. Demanding attention. I saw exhausted parents and parents who seemed to make their lives revolve around their kids. I saw dirty fingers. I saw minivans.

I realized I could see myself being ready for a family in 10, maybe 15 years (with an SUV, of course). Only I’d be 35 or 40 by that point (remember, this was a couple years ago). Plenty of people have started families at that age, but surely I’d want to start one before that. 

Thankfully, K was just as opposed to the idea of kids anytime soon as I was. 

Only he’s actually good with them. Kids love K. I’m the awkward one. I overthink the entire interaction. Oh my God, this kid’s handing me a Crayon. What am I supposed to do? Tell him thanks, or give it back? Am I supposed to hide it so he doesn’t color on the walls? Am I supposed to ask him what color it is? Shitshitshitshit!

And then ER had a baby. 

And then Danielle got pregnant.

Along with everyone I'm friends with on FB.

And I read blogs written by amazing mothers who have beautiful children who occasionally misbehave (like everyone) and sometimes have dirty fingers. But it’s great to see the moms' whole perspective, especially since I’ve watched these babies’ entire lives! Not to mention the fact that these moms manage to live for their kids (as it should be), but still hold onto themselves and do all the things they loved before the baby.

I had wondered if maybe I was missing the "mom gene," which would be crazy since I’d been labeled the mom in a group of friends a couple times. Maybe my aversion was to babies. I was relieved to talk to friends who said that the “switch” had flipped quickly for them. Or the ones who said they felt awkward around kids too, until they had their own. That it all came naturally. 

Lately, as I’ve been taking advantage of holiday sales (whoops!) for my professional winter wardrobe, I’ve thought to myself, Should I be buying clothes right now? Not because I feel guilty for taking advantage of Christmas sales for myself, but because I worry if I’ll be fitting into them much longer. *ahem ahem*

Then, last weekend, while hanging out with K’s family and his cousin’s 2-year-old son, I heard this weird voice in the back of my mind: I want one. 

Only I don't. I don't feel like I want one.

Not just yet. So where did that come from? Is my brain just preparing me for that time? Or am I in extreme effing denial? I've considered before that my ridiculous preoccupation with not wanting a child was a little suspicious.

I’ve thought about this dozens of times. It used to go like this: We could have a kid. I could handle that. It's just the responsibility of raising it that I don't want. I still want to be selfish and spontaneous.

Now, it’s a bit more detailed: We could do this. K and I could have a kid … Only we don’t really have room for one. We still need a guest room, so we’d have to use the office. Dang it! I like the office how it is. Maybe we could just throw a crib in there. It’s not like we’ll be here that much longer anyway. ... (Don't worry, I wouldn't just throw a kid in the office.)

And money. I mean, we're financially stable, but bring-a-kid-into-the-picture financially stable? 

I’ve told K (hesitantly) the things I’ve been thinking, and he's seemed pretty unphased. I haven't brought it up to anyone else yet, but I already know what ER will say. She'll tell me what her doctor told her: that most people don't ever feel like they're perfectly ready to have a child. They just make room for it.

Is that what's happening here?

Is this how it starts? Or am I just getting less vehemently opposed and more comfortable with the possibility? 

Intermission complete

It's funny how easy it is (for me, anyway) to fall out of blogging. You find yourself in a rut -- I hate my job. I'm on the computer all day; why would I want to log on at home? -- and next thing you know, you've hardly posted in weeks.

This time, I was pretty sure I was done. At least for a while.

But it's funny how things happen to remind you why you started it all in the first place. I've had a couple such reminders in the past couple days.

The first happened when K and I were discussing our upcoming 3rd anniversary. We talked about last year. We remembered we'd opted for something small and simple, with plans of doing something big this year instead. We just couldn't remember what "small and simple" was. "I'll check my blog!" I said.

The second thing that happened was a reminder of a good part of the reason I kept blogging. When I started this whole thing over 4 years ago, it was intended to be a way to record things that were going on in my life. I had been dating K for a few months, and I knew it was going somewhere. I thought it would be fun to have a record of it all, along with my experiences living on my own in Dallas.

What I hadn't realized was that this blog would bring several friends into my life. Friends who knew more details about my everyday life than my everyday friends did. Friends who knew about things I wasn't comfortable actually saying aloud.

Friends in places like New York, California, Florida, Michigan, and D.C. Even friends in Dallas, where it all started.

Tonight, I had the privilege of meeting the very first blogger who ever hooked me. In fact, it was the discovery of her blog that made me think, "Hey, I should do this."

So tonight, when Girl From Florida and I found ourselves in the same area, we knew we had to meet up. She actually joined me for my kettlebell class, which has become one of my favorite and most torturous workouts ever. (I'm totally addicted, and evidently she's got the bug now too!)

Then, she and her family and K and I went for dinner. What an amazing time! The food was delicious, but the conversation was so great that it was hard to care about even remembering to eat. And when it came time to call it a night, it took about a dozen tries to say goodbye before we were able to all get into our cars. I was giddy excited that I'd finally gotten to meet GFF. I can't wait until we can meet up again!

From this blog, I've gotten a nice record of the last several years. But it has been the unexpected parts -- the connections, the support, the friendships -- that have been the best part.

And that's definitely worth keeping this thing up for.

Help me decorate my living room!

I've been wanting to update the pillows on our couch to mix in some patterns and add some color. I ventured onto Etsy this week, and I found some I really like. In fact, there's one set in particular that I so want to work, but the colors in it don't match the rug ... I like the set so much that I'm worried it's clouding my opinion of whether or not it's an acceptable fit. 

All three pillow sets below are approved by K. There's one set I LOVE, one I'm not crazy about, and one that I'd probably like more if I wasn't so in love with the other set. 

So I'm asking you guys! What do you think? 

This was taken a while ago, but it's pretty much what our living room looks like.

Option 1

Option 2

Option 3

Blurbs. Because I haven't forgotten this thing exists ...

... And because I'm sure you're tired of my random posts complaining about my job.In case you haven't figured it out, I probably won't quit because I like having a paycheck and because I think I have to prove something by toughing it out. And yes, I know that's stupid.

Carrying on now:

I got stung by a bee yesterday on the fleshy part of my big toe. It stung. Whoever came up with that term to describe it chose wisely.

This job is still annoying the holy hell out of me. We had a longtime employee just quit -- effective immediately -- on Monday. She beat me to it. She started in this department two weeks before me (she worked in another area here for like 20 years before that).

K and I planted lilies in our back yard last year. They started blooming a couple weeks ago, and they were beautiful. I'd love to be able to show you a picture of them, but stupid rabbits have eaten all of them.

In other news, the rabbits that run all over our neighborhood are no longer cute to me.

I freaking. love. my kettlebell class. If it weren't for that, I'd probably be in a pretty pissy mood today. This job tends to do that to me.

My kickball team is undefeated. We've tied twice, but we've never lost.

Remember that game when I was named co-MVP? That's the last time I had a good game. I'm buying a kickball to work on my catching and kicking skills. I'm going to beat this thing.

I'm not OK with sucking at things. I think that's part of the reason I don't like this job. Do I beat the sucking, or do I ditch because it makes me cranky for pretty much 50 hours a week? (Note: We only work 37.5.)

K is out of town this weekend. I've made a huge to-do list for myself. It includes an ab class tomorrow morning, going for a run (I haven't run by myself in FOREVER!), getting a manicure, and watching at least one girlie movie. There are some chores on the list too, but I'm more excited about these parts for obvious reasons.

I'm also excited about the rabbit repellent I'll be buying and immediately spraying on my lilies.

Man I love Fridays.

Cuttin' it kinda close ...

All right, let's say that -- hypothetically -- your best friend had a birthday a couple weeks ago. You're seeing her this weekend for the first time in months, and she'll be having her first baby in less than two months.

Since it's her last birthday before babies, I'd like to do something special for her. Any great almost-a-mommy gift ideas?

A brighter day

I guess I'm just going to have a love-hate relationship with this job.

Monday, just like the entire week before it, was ridiculously stressful. And frustrating. When I got off work, I called K and vented to him, as I'd done the entire week before it, about the same topics I'd vented about the entire week before. He finally told me he couldn't take it anymore, that I should talk to my boss about it or put in my two weeks' notice.

And then Tuesday was better. It had its frustrating moments, but the ridiculous feeling of pressure and stress was noticeably gone. I even managed to be very productive! Today has been the same. I like my job today.

I'm getting more comfortable being honest about all of this to my coworkers -- even my boss. They're not surprised. I guess we're all in the same boat.

See, pretty much everything we do requires input and information from other people who are oftentimes too busy to give us that info in a timely or complete manner. So we're left scrambling, clawing, digging -- babysitting, even -- and stressed.

Many nights, by the time I get home, the last thing I want to see is my computer, which is partly to blame for my absence lately. (The other part is the fact we've had visitors the last 3 weeks. I'd like to keep my blog private, and they've all been using my computer.)

All this time, I thought it was just me. That if I told my coworkers I was frustrated, they'd think I couldn't handle the job. So not the case.

What a relief!

Ready to run

When I was little, like a lot of kids do, I thought about what I wanted to be when I grew up. Also like a lot of kids do, I changed my mind a lot. Actress. Singer. Lawyer. Teacher. Fashion designer. Helper. Writer.

I went back and forth on potential careers, but the one thing I didn't change my mind on was that I wanted to be tall when I grew up.

Sometime in 6th or 7th grade -- probably about the time I first really understood height measurements -- I decided I wanted to be 5'9" or 5'10". Just tall enough to not have to ask for help with items on the top shelf. I wasn't one of the tall kids in the class. My dad was right at 6', but my mom was 5'4". Who knew where I was going to wind up.

Then, in the summer between 8th and 9th grade, my body decided to grow very quickly. I started passing a lot of my friends. I got tall enough that when people asked me, "Have you gotten taller since the last time I saw you?", I could honestly say to them, "I hope not!"

I stopped growing somewhere between 5'9" and 5'10" -- right smack where I wanted to be.

But while my body was doing all that stretching vertically, it forgot to tell my knees to keep up.

So that summer, I had my first big knee injury. I had surgery. I got crutches and a brace. And then I hurt my other knee. I got a brace for it. Over the next few years, I went back and forth between dislocating my right knee and my left knee. My doctor gave me exercises I'd have to do for the rest of my life, and he told me I couldn't participate in any sports for the next 4 years. I didn't get "athletic" until after college, so at 15, that news wasn't a big deal.

When I did start running 10 years later, I ran with braces on both knees. Thankfully, random buckling incidents had died off. I still worried about my knees in certain activities, but at least they were more reliable now.

Then K and I ran the 10-Miler 2 weeks ago. We had done a training run several days before, and my left knee was swollen for a few days after. The 10-Miler left it even more swollen for a few days longer. I saw a doctor about it. They did x-rays, and when I went in for the follow-up, they took more x-rays.

I was scared they'd tell me I couldn't run anymore. Funny how all these mornings the snooze button has won out over going for a run, yet the moment it seems that option could be taken away, it seems devastating.

Thank goodness, the doctor told me I could keep running. Evidently my problem stems from the fact that my kneecaps point  to the outside of my leg rather than being center-aligned. The doctor says this is something that happened years ago when I was growing, and nothing I've done has caused it. I'm cleared to keep running, but I have new exercises to do. He also fitted me for a wicked-looking brace that came with a DVD. I was OK with that.

Then yesterday, the doctor called me again. He wants me to go back for an MRI. I guess one of the other things that's wrong with my knee(s?) made him want to get a better look.

I'm supposed to run a 10K tomorrow. Thanks to all this swelling/knee problem business, I haven't run since the 10-Miler. And since the doctor has said things to me like, "I bet your knees hurt when you have to sit for a long time, like at the movies. Here's why," I've become aware of the tinges of pain I've ignored. Like when I'm sitting on the floor hugging my knees. Or climbing stairs.

I've started babying my knees, worrying that certain movements can further damage whatever is already wrong with them. Like the constant squats in my favorite kettlebell class.

I don't like this change. I'm ready to get the stupid MRIs, have the follow-up appointment with my doctor, and know how I can go on about my life without worrying about the damage I may be inflicting upon my knees. I kind of need those things.

I couldn't make this crap up

My interview yesterday afternoon went well. I managed to find another interview-appropriate outfit, and for the second time, I removed my purple nail polish and went for a springy coral.

The guy I had to meet this time was very nice. Not too much older than me. He kind of grilled me, but in a nice, pleasant kind of way. It was clear he just wanted to make sure I had relevant experience and would be able to handle the responsibilities the position comes with.

I think I actually passed. The line of questions made me a little worried about the fact my professional experience is primarily with editing, since this is a writing position, but I think I did a good job of playing up my writing experience and the range it covers.

I learned more about the position in the interview. The commute isn't quite as bad as I thought it would be (25 min instead of 30, but it's under half an hour, right?!), and I left feeling so excited about the possibility. I think I'd really enjoy the work, so my previously blase attitude about the outcome has changed. I do want this job.

The guy asked me for some writing samples. I was surprised that hadn't come up before. I sent them as soon as I got home.

The woman I had the initial phone interview with (she's sat through all 3 interviews I've had, actually) told me I probably wouldn't hear back from them until after K and I get back from vacation, since things are pretty hectic for them right now. She seemed really positive, and it was nice because she was basically telling me I could enjoy my vacation without having to worry about waiting by my phone.

So imagine my surprise when this afternoon, I had an email back from her. And somehow, I was even more surprised when I finished reading it:

They want me to come back AGAIN after we get back from vacation so I can meet another person!!! This time, they'll take me to lunch as well.

I'm confused.

It was at this point that I quit going back to Hooters. This job is a little different, obviously. I plan on going to this 4th meeting, but I haven't answered the email yet. I want to say something more than, "Sure! See you on Thursday!" (or whatever day we meet), but I don't quite know where to go.

I guess I should be honored I've made it through this many rounds, but I'd like to know if there are still others in the running at this point. It would be kind of nice to know how many more rounds there will be. (By the way, I still have no clue what the salary is -- or even if it's salary -- but I actually would rather like to know the first two most.)

I'm just not sure if it's OK to ask.

Update on the job

So I heard back about the job today ... sort of. They want me to come in again on Thursday. Evidently there's "one other person who needs to meet you." Hmm ... I'm confused.

Does this mean they'll be offering me the job, or does it mean they're still deciding? In the face-to-face interview, I met the person who would be my supervisor and the director. Who else would I need to meet?

I don't know the hours or salary of this job. I'd hate to drive there again, learn that information, and have it not be enough to justify the commute. Especially since I have to drive through traffic to one military base and one major tourist attraction on my way there. Yikes. I don't want to waste their time.

Also, all three of the references I gave them last week said they'd let me know if they were contacted. I haven't heard from any of them, so I'm guessing they weren't.

I'm planning on going to this additional interview, but the whole fact it's even an issue leaves me really confused. Considering they've already done a phone interview and an in-person interview, what else do they need to know?

And wouldn't you know I just repainted my nails to purple last Friday? Am I going to have to redo them in another color AGAIN?!

My little reminders

See these? Know what they are?

That's right. They're gray hairs.

Know where they came from? My head. My 26-year-old head.

These are the longest ones I've ever found. I've been finding them for a while.

I remember the first time I gazed into the mirror and found these little intruders making their way into my brown, curly locks. I was 24. I was in Dallas, in my bathroom. My husband was on the other side of the world, saving the planet. I was doing everything I could to stay as busy as I could. I was planning our Dallas wedding, even though I had already planned one wedding.

There were only one or two grays, and they were short. Hardly noticeable. I was surprisingly nonchalant about them. It wasn't like I didn't expect them to come someday, you know? Plus, if when they start to take over my brown, curly locks, I'll just start dying my hair.

The thing is, I went through a lot to get these grays. The fact they showed up when they did makes me almost have an appreciation for them. Every time I find one, it's a reminder of how stressful that time was for me, how hard I worked to get through it, and how happy I am with the way things have turned out. Planning two weddings and watching the love of your life head off to war twice before you turn 25 isn't easy, but I did it. And we made it. Instead of a trophy, live gave me grays.

So every time I find a gray hair in my head, I smile to myself ... right before I pull it out. Just because I see them as a nice reminder doesn't mean I want the rest of the world seeing them too!

A sign I might be spending too much time around guys

I watched Bride Wars for the first time the other day. I had heard good things, so I was excited to see it -- just like I was when I saw The Proposal, Baby Mama and The Ugly Truth, since I'd heard such good things about them.

Somehow, every single one of those movies was disappointing. With Bride Wars, it got annoying watching such good friends let catty ridiculousness interfere with their friendship for so long. With The Proposal, I thought the story line was completely unbelievable. The last two just didn't do it for me.

I've always been a chick flick girl. Love Actually is my very favorite movie. I will forever love Pretty Woman and Steel Magnolias. The Wedding Planner, The Notebook, Sixteen Candles ... I love all of those. (I realize it's slightly blasphemous to throw The Wedding Planner in with that list, but Matthew McConaughey is just gorgeous.)

What I'm wondering, though, is if I'm just not a chick-flick girl anymore. The movies that I've loved most from the last few years have definitely not been chick flicks: the Bourne movies, The Hangover, Zombieland ...

It seems over the last few years, there've been a lot more chick-flick flops for me than chick flicks I've liked. The Family Stone and He's Just Not That Into You were huge letdowns. I think the last chick-flick I saw in the theater that I actually liked was Made of Honor.

This is odd, and a little frightening. It's left me with a few questions: Are other women disappointed with chick flicks lately? Have the plots just gotten old and uninventive? Have all the good ones been made?

Or is it just me -- has my taste in movies changed? Has the ridiculous amount of testosterone I find myself surrounded with started to take a toll on my movie taste?

And if that's the case, do I even bother watching the new movies I still want to see, like When in Rome, Up in the Air, and Valentine's Day?

We interrupt this blog ... (attention: venting language ahead)

I love living in Virginia, but there's one thing that's driving me fucking insane. When we moved here in July, my car tag was about to expire. I called the VA DMV, and they told me I could either keep my TX plates and renew there, or opt to switch my car to VA. I weighed my options, compared prices, and put something up on Facebook about my decision. An Army wife acquaintance saw it and told me I had to switch over to VA, that I didn't have a choice.

I visited the VA DMV's website, and evidently she was right. I made the switch. I brought my initial registration papers from TX to prove that I'd paid $1000 on taxes on my car when I first got it. And that was that.

Or so I thought.

Since then, I've been getting letters from the commonwealth of VA and the whatever-the-hell-they-call-it (city, essentially) that we live in telling me I owe personal property taxes on my car.

I called. Explained that I've already paid them in TX. But evidently that doesn't count. Because VA is a commonwealth. That means VA itself can charge me, AND the city can charge me just for parking my car within its borders.

To avoid all this crap (and having to deal with it every time we move), I can transfer MY car that I bought and I paid for solely into K's name, since he's the servicemember and is exempt from such shit tactics.

Then, in November, the Mil!tary Spouse's Res!dency Rel!ef Act passed. I thought, "How awesome! Now I can keep my car in my name!"

WRONG!

See, for some reason the act only applies to spouses who were born in the same state as the servicemember. How the hell does that make sense? I was born in this country. Aren't we all on the same team?!

And the most frustrating part? In my effort to follow the law, I screwed myself over. See, because now I have my car registered in VA. We had a little gubernatorial election in November too, so I registered to vote here. The November act allows me to have a home of record. Since I've changed so much over to VA, I guess it can't be TX anymore, which means it'll probably have to be VA at least for now.

So that takes me back to having to transfer my car solely to K's name.

I feel like the state (grr!) commonwealth of VA is stealing my car and giving it to my husband. K doesn't understand why I'm so frustrated by the whole thing. He says it's just a piece of paper.

But the trouble is, it's a legal document. Just like a marriage license, or a will.

It's my car. I bought it. Why can't my name be on the title? (And if my home of record stays VA, then I'll NEVER be able to have my name on the car title. To avoid being taxed out the @$$, it has to be solely in the servicemember's name.)

I was expressing my frustration tonight while I was trying to vacuum our living room rug and our couch. I had just moved a TV tray out of the way, which had resting on it K's fancy laptop and our ridiculous TV remote that has a touch screen and connects to the effing computer.

I struggled with the fancy vacuum and its eleventy billion attachments (K put it together while I was unpacking our kitchen, so I missed out on the, "THIS is how it works!" that comes along with putting it together). K cringed and kept telling me to wait when I was doing so much as picking the vacuum up. (Seriously, not even exaggerating. I wasn't slamming it, I wasn't jamming anything. Nothing.)

I'm so frustrated right now. I love the area where we live, and I'm so glad to be living with K now.

But part of me misses the simplicity of living with my shitty $60 Hoover (that wasn't that shitty, really) and the TV remote that I could carelessly toss across the room because it came with my shitty TV and could be replaced if needed, and in an actual state that wasn't trying to tax me for something that I'd ALREADY paid taxes on when I bought it FIVE FUCKING YEARS AGO.

Help me decide!

K and I are running the a 10-miler on April 10. We're planning to run a 14k (which is just under 9 miles) on Feb. 13.

My problem is what lies in the middle. There's a St. Patty's Day run, and we're there. I have a choice between a half-marathon, which I've done before (and blogged about it here and here and here), and a full marathon.

I had planned to run a full marathon last April, but it turned out to be a pretty hectic year, so I couldn't do it. I had planned on training for 3 months. If I start training immediately for this full marathon, I'll get in 2.5 months. Considering that the 3 months is supposed to work even for beginner runners, I could be fine in 2.5 months.

I have to register by midnight on the 31st to avoid a higher registration fee.

So it's time for a vote: Should I do the half-marathon, or the full?

Facts & confessions -- is it just me?

FACT: I suck at blogging lately.

FACT: I still owe you pictures from the homecoming. And a blog about it. And details on what we've been up to since K has been back.

FACT: I'm going to make you wait a little longer for those. (FACT: I'm sorry.)

FACT: K is here in Dallas with me this week. We went to lunch today, and somehow, we got onto the topic of a past *ahem* ... relationship of his.

CONFESSION: I'm not a virgin. (Shocker, I know.)

CONFESSION: I wasn't a virgin when I got married. Or when I met K.

FACT: Neither was he.

FACTS:

• Remember the jerk I dated all through college? He was my first, and I was his. Besides K, he's the only guy I've been with.
  
• When I met K, he was 26. For this fact alone, I was pretty sure that his history was going to be a little more extensive than mine. Because K is so genuine and kind, I figured his number was probably somewhere around 3.
• I was wrong -- it was a bit higher than that. It wasn't large for a guy his age, but it was more than I'd expected. I honestly just tried to make the best of it by telling myself he would definitely know what he was doing in that department.
  
• I was OK with his number. I was also OK with the fact he'd been engaged before.
  

FACT THAT ANNOYS THE HELL OUT OF ME: Of course, that blasé attitude changed once I started caring about K.

K and I have a very honest, playful relationship. I give him quite a bit of grief about his little history. I remember their names better than he does, and it turns out I remember a lot of the history of it better than him, too.

I don't know why I feel the need to give him so much grief about it or why I torture myself by asking K about it. Sometimes, though, it has just managed to come up in conversation, and K is always open and honest. Which is how we got onto the topic today.

I don't get catty or rude or gripe at K about things that happened before he ever knew I existed, but I probably tease him about it more than I should. And I know it bothers me more than it should.

I think part of it is that K is the first guy I dated who wasn't a virgin. (To be fair, he's the first guy I dated when I wasn't a virgin.) There never were any girls in my exes' pasts to dwell on -- and even if there were, I didn't care about those guys in the same way to care enough about their pasts like that.

FACT: K married me.

FACT: K still loves me.

FACT: I need to just get over it.

CONFESSION: I wonder if I'm the only girl who felt like she was more normal with this kind of crap BEFORE she fell in love.