Crap.  We have to move.  Again.  Crap.

:O)  Ethan got a job in Hampton.  It is totally exciting and I am so proud of him.  When I think about this opportunity, I get emotional.  He’s such an awesome husband.

But…

We have to move again.  Crap.  I loathe packing.  I loathe putting boxes and furniture in a vehicle, then DRIVING that vehicle somewhere else, UNLOADING said vehicle and then repeating the process.

I enjoy unpacking.  Unpacking is my cup of tea.  I tend to look at it like Christmas come early/late.  Yes I know whats in the boxes (after all I did pack them, load them, move them and then unload them-ugh), but I do NOT know where I will put the contents of the box.  Should the glasses go in the cabinet next to the stove or the cabinet to the left of the sink; should I make them fit on one shelf; should I bring out the coffee cups (a box STILL to be unpacked from the last move).  Should I put the sheet bin under the bed (forcefully) or should I put it in the closet of the guest room?  My books, what about my books?  Should they go on the bookshelf I made in 10th grade or should I discard that old thing and put my glorious books on display in the living room for everyone to see-so they perceive me as an avid reader with a strong interest in all things literary?  (I have a wide range, Tolkien to R.A. Salvatore to Stephanie Meyer)  Oh Oh, should I hang the wedding pictures above the TV like they are in this house, or should I hang them in the hall of our new house-if there is a hall.  Christmas is fun.  Unpacking is like Christmas.  Unpacking is fun.

God provided a new job for Ethan-a career.  He is beginning his career.  I am proud of him.  He is awesome.  Thank you, Jesus!

I grew up rather unconventionally.  My parents were hippies in the strongest sense of the word.  We moved around a lot.  Sometimes we had reason to move; other times we moved because we felt like it.  Until we moved to G-County in 2000, I had never lived in a single house longer than five years or city longer than three years.  My parents’ roots are not well established. 

I was told I need to write a book about my childhood.  I’ve thought this over the years, but have held back.  I love the way I grew up. I love that my parents raised me in the back of a 59 Ford truck with red kool-aid on my face and dirt on my hands.  I like that we pulled over on the side of the road to sleep late at night, only to leave early the next morning and eat breakfast at the first hole-in-the-wall rest stop we came to or wait for Moma would make bologna sandwiches while Dad drove.  I like that I share this experience with my little brother and at times my older brother. 

In every good story there is not only a protagonist-a beautiful princess, but an antagonist-the mean, ugly witch.  This “antagonist” part of my story, is why I have held back.   We all have things that we would rather not talk about or ever remember.  The problem with writing a book-a memoir, is you have to share the sadness and heartbreak to the reader.  You have to hope the reader forgives you or the other characters in your story.  You have to hope the reader understands the depth of your pain while also understanding the depth of your joy. You have to pour your heart out to the reader. 

You are essentially sharing your secrets-the deepest parts of your heart and soul- with a stranger.  Someone who may or may not judge you.  Someone who may or may not like you.  Someone who under the same circumstances would respond differently. 

Is it worth it?

And again…

Wow, it’s been a while. 

Before Ethan and I got married I lived in an apartment by myself.  It is a rather small apartment-about 527 square feet, one bedroom, one bathroom.  Ethan stayed with his cousin in a townhouse downtown.  When we got engaged in March and set a wedding date of September, me having my own apartment made the “whose moving in with whom” discussion rather easy.  When we returned from our honeymoon, “my” apartment officially became “our” apartment. 

“Our” apartment was big enough when it housed my stuff, Franklin, Gracie, Ethan and me.  When Ethan started moving his stuff in, however, I discovered that “our” apartment was rather-small.  I’m still confused as to how two people who are recent college graduates and who have otherwise lived at home with their parents have managed to accumulate so much crap-junk that isn’t even worthy of donating.  We needed more room. 

We also ran into another problem with having an apartment-our dog.  When I lived alone, Franklin slept in bed with me all night.  When Ethan moved in, the bed wasn’t big enough for us and Franklin.  He got sent to the floor.  Franklin wasn’t too happy about this, so he decided that needing to go potty in the middle of the night was a good way to get revenge.  I work early in the morning, so Ethan gets up to let Franklin out at 2:00 am.  He’s not too happy about it.  Franklin needed a yard/doggie door. 

The third and final problem we have encountered is the lack of dishwasher.  Our family rule is I cook dinner and Ethan does the dishes afterward.  Sometimes we eat pizza and sometimes Ethan forgets to do the dishes.  This makes our small kitchen look dirty and cluttered.  We need a dishwasher. 

I decided in November that Ethan and I should look into renting a house.  It would give Franklin a yard, us more space and we could select a house that has a dishwasher.  I found one.  It has two bedrooms, one bathroom, a fenced in backyard and best of all a DISHWASHER!! 

I’m excited for the memories we will create throughout the next year in our home.  I’m excited to rearrange the set up of our living room.  I’m excited to have a place to put our awesome wedding gifts.  I’m excited to have accomplished something so adult!!!

It starts…

I created a xanga when xanga was big…back in roughly my freshman year in college.  I actually used it.  I find that I have words-thoughts-going through my brain and am unable to get them out in any way besides writing.  I hate using pen and paper because I’m left handed and usually end up with about half of what I’ve written either on the side of my hand or smeared beyond recognition.  I also hate using pen and paper because my parents didn’t show me how to hold a pencil properly and after about two lines my hand cramps and I have to stop.  Usually when this happens I have barely scratched the surface on what I want to say. 

I tried keeping journals.  I’m very irresponsible and manage to lose things frequently.  In fact I have only about four that I’ve managed to hold on to over the years and through various moves.  One of them I left on the bus after returning home from losing a basketball game and the boys basketball team read it when they used to bus after us.  I was in seventh grade and swore NEVER to keep my journal with me ever again.  It wasn’t safe at home either.  I have a terribly nosy mother, and while she knew I wasn’t doing anything I shouldn’t be, she knew I liked to keep my thoughts to myself.  To figure out what I was thinking or why I was being bratty (which was quite often) she would scan my journal.  Of course she would never admit to this, but….I also have two brothers.  Need I say more?

To solve my own personal dilemma of wanting to express myself but being unable to, I was excited to learn of xanga.  I created one, used it often, got caught up in the world of being a college athelete and eventually forgot about it somewhere in my sophomore year.  Now I dont know the login information. 

This started with Kathryn-my friend from high school; my friend from college.  She has a blog and its funny.  Her sister has a blog-its funny too.  They have things to say-pearls of wisdom to share with the world. 

I have things to say too; thoughts that turn and twist in my brain.  Wake up, listen and please enjoy.