Dear Santa,

I need to be honest with you big guy, I know your secret. You aren’t real. But because I no longer get candles on my birthday cake, I have never seen a shooting star, I forget and tell people what I wished for on 11:11 and I am still not so sure about that Jesus man, you are really the only one I can send my wishes to. So here goes, and let’s try to not skimp this year… I don’t need another slinky:

1. First off, our Christmas tree is about twice the age of me, so I would first like to request a less pathetic tree to hang our ornaments on.
2. I know I have asked before but I didn’t want you to forget about creating world peace and curing famine. It is easily forgotten when kids in America are crossing their fingers for an iPhone, kids across the world are hoping they wake up to something to eat and clean water.
3. Back to the selfish traditions of the American Christmas: I wish I could snap my fingers and someone would arrive to give me a two-hour full body massage whenever I pleased.
4. My sister lives far too far away for my liking, so shorten the distance from Midland to Chicago by about 5 hours thank you very much.
5. The haircut I got from my ear surgeons, it’s got to go… reverse please?
6. On that note, it would be stellar if I could hear crystal clear without those surgeries.
7. You know that heartbreak I got earlier today? At first I was thinking to make sure he gets nothing but coal, but what I realized is that I want him to be happy. So what I will ask for instead is to eliminate jealousy and the fear letting myself feel deeply for someone. I’ll keep the heartache for now, I think it will make me stronger as long as I am open, take risks & not take things so seriously. Just don’t let me die alone. (I can’t be a cat woman, I hate them.)
8. If I am making wishes, might as well make ‘em big! How about an all-expenses-paid-roundtrip month long vacation across Europe?
9. You might have to pull a few strings but mostly I just want my dad back. I would give back every Christmas gift I have ever gotten and forget about my previous requests for just this one.
10. Oh and obviously it costs about $40,000 to pay for my schooling. I think you can get a payment plan for that but hey, you are Santa, threaten them with the naughty list and they might cut you a break.

My list would get far too long if I started making all the wishes for the happiness of the people I love because I think the number is close to 6 billion and the world keeps growing. In all honesty, they know what makes them happy more than I do. So my last wish is that they make a list of their own and for each one that you can’t fit under their tree, give them the strength, passion and confidence to capture it themselves.

18%

On a rough estimate 300/365 days of the year I am extremely empowered to be single (reference previous blog).

82% of my year I wake up and am responsible for my own happiness.

10 Reasons I am happy being single:

1. I wake up and do what I want.

2. My friends will never break up with me.

3. I can buy my own dinner.

4. I get more sleep, my teddy bear doesn't take up much space.

5. I don't wait on texts or phone calls... I make them.

6. My relationships are stronger because I have more to give.

7. I have guy friends. For real.

8. I don't give people the power to break me.

9. I have mastered self-soothing. Ice cream + sleep = less tears.

10. Having a crush is the worst feeling in the world, and I don't have to deal with that heartache.

Really the list can continue, but I want to get to more of what I wanted to talk about: times when I am acutely aware of being single. Ironically most of them seemed to pile up over my Christmas break.

Holidays

"So have you been batting off the boys at school?" No... No I have not and thank you for the reminder. I think judging by the number of boys I have brought to my family gatherings or holidays, they could logically conclude that I am a lesbian...pshh I wish. The snow, sad Christmas songs, significant others meeting the family, and no one to go ice skating with, reminds me that it is only the hot cocoa warming my hands, not the grasp of another's.

Being Sick

Instead of recruiting my mother and best friends to make me grilled cheese and build up my self-esteem after my ear surgery, I would've just liked a kiss on the forehead. To know someone was waiting to talk to me when I woke up. Someone who didn't even notice the surgeons shaved my head because they were in love with my soul... not my hair. Because when you are all doped up and vulnerable, it is a lot easier to cry that the only thing to cuddle with is your teddy bear.

The Five Minutes Before You Fall Asleep

This is where my teddy bear comes in...again. (I noticed that I mention him far too many times for a 20 year old woman, but I'm not changing it). He has been a dedicated member of my bedtime regiment, but this is the time I wish I could retire him. The five minutes before I fall asleep when all the thoughts of my day are rushing through my brain, I wish I could whisper them in the ear of someone who wanted to listen. When I am heavy-eyed and wonder about the person I am meant to be in this world in five years, I want to tell someone who is going to see me through it. Wishing for a moment I didn't look forward to dreaming so much, because as Dr. Suess said, "You know you are in love when you don't want to fall asleep because reality is finally better than your dreams."

When Tragedy Strikes

I was subpoenaed into court for tomorrow to give a deposition and I am scared. My mom keeps settling my mind and making the situation logical to ease my worries, but they still won't go away. But I want someone who knows I am irrational sometimes and that being involved in this messy situation makes me sick to my stomach. And damn it.. I just want to cry about it. I know that will not help a lick. But at this moment, I want someone to hold my head and let me sob and not try to make me feel better, but let me feel. When I found out my first-kiss died or when I got into a car accident or at my dad's funeral and my knees buckled beneath me, I wished I had someone to make sure I didn't fall.

A Love You Can't Have

Basically: Ryan Gosling.

...and any romance movie or first date that doesn't get a second or could-have-been's not texting you back or ex-boyfriend eye contact at the mall.

And like most, I have someone in mind who I would like to fill that 18%. I think he would do a pretty good job. No matter how much I daydream, the fact of the matter is that he isn't going to be my 18% any time soon. So on these days when my heart aches for a moment in loneliness, I remind myself of the 82% that I am so thankful for.

Happiness is a matter of perspective.

How often do I complain about:

• how tired I am?
• how much homework I have?
• the cafeteria food?
• boys?

Embarrassingly enough the answer is: daily.

I realized how much happier and pleasant life is when I have two mantras:

"Happiness is not having what you want, but wanting what you have."

And my own personal 6-word memoir: "Happiness is a matter of perspective"

So let's apply these perspectives to my common complaints: I am exhausted. Why? Because I have used up all my energy. What did the energy go towards? Going to classes, doing programs, going to meetings, helping with resident concerns and doing homework. What would you have done with the energy if you didn't use it up? Well...nothing productive I guess. Definitely not have the grades, the relationships and the benefits I do. So why are you complaining? I don't need to, I am tired because I have used myself up to my best potential. I have used every ounce of knowledge, love and concentration I have in order to better myself and the world. Exhaustion is an accomplishment.

That felt good. I am going to talk myself through the rest, so next time I complain, I can remind myself how lucky I am.

Homework. Yeah it sucks sometimes but being mad while doing it is counter-productive. I LOVE learning, growing & improving. The work I am doing in school is preparing me to do good in the world. I am part of a select population of the world who can afford to go on to higher education. People leave their lives and families across the ocean to come to America to have a chance at the opportunities I am complaining about. Education is a luxury.

Oh the RFoC. Not only does it provide with endless "FoCing" jokes but it nourishes me 14x's/week. Yes, the food is on a cycled schedule and gives you a suspicious belly ache. But get this: I can go up to the faucet and get a CLEAN glass of water, I can get 7 plates full of food and not eat it all, because "this is Amuuurica". How ungrateful am I for not realizing that some people in the world will never see this amount of food in their whole life. And look at me, not licking my plate clean, throwing away whole chicken legs if I am full. Privilege is a headache you don't know you don't have.

No denying getting your heart broken or being alone in a world of couples sucks big time. Nothing sounds better than groveling in self pity with ice cream and angry Alanis Morisette music. But being able to stand up on your own is the most powerful thing you can do. I wake up and am responsible for my own happiness. If I am lucky, I get the chance to make other people happy but not out of expectation. Out of love. I spend my days with my best friends experiencing and living life. Midnight rollerblading, coffee shop chats, 10 minute laughing fits... these people get me. Instead of relying on a single person to fulfill my needs, I have several who are all a little bit of everything I need. Some of them love poetry, some of them have morbid humor, some of them are dealing with the same things as me and some of them have seen everything I have experienced. I may not have that "void" society tells me I need to fill, but I am not a half missing it's other half. I am a whole person, by myself. Independence is irreplaceable.

Three days after Thanksgiving and I am still thankful. I think the world needs to practice Thanksgiving every day. How much happier would the world be if we just woke up and chose to be happy every day?

6 Word Memoirs

I've been wanting to blog for the past few weeks but I haven't had the creative capacity to write something I would be proud of. To fulfill my desire to express myself without pages of rhymes and alliterations, I am going to do a few 6 word memoirs to get it out. My life in six words:

Happiness is a matter of perspective.

Cry until you laugh, laugh forever.

Stop waiting around, make it happen.

Pause: let the world keep spinning.

People can't understand, let them try.

Love yourself, no matter what happens.

In the end, people are good.

He isn't gone, only his body.

What's yours?

My Adventure Story

Wait wait wait. Just hold your tongue for a minute, before you go sticking it in my mouth or using it to form sweet words that make me feel “special”. Telling me how I am different than any other girl you’ve met. I know I am. So I wanted to preface before you read this little story of my life and try to write yourself in it. You may think again and put me back on the shelf. I’m prepared for that. Trust me, I like it better on the shelf.

Chapter one and two are easy. I’ll let you read those. I’m good at the first and second date, professional almost. But before you go falling in love with my cute, quirky habits or off-beat humor, you might want to know about the third date: If this were any other story, the main character starts to think up her happy ending about now and things progress as society says they should. First date, hold hands, second date, kiss, talk everyday, meet the parents, he asks you to be his girlfriend, then you start taking him to family functions and it’s ok to kiss in front of your mom. Not this novel, it starts to tumble backwards and snaps shut as you turn the page. There are most likely going to be paper cut consequences.

Ready to put me back on the shelf? No? Well that’s okay, this story has legs and just might run away from you. You’re cute, nice and open doors for me; you fit in with my family, take me to nice restaurants and make me laugh. Honestly, you would be a perfect boyfriend, if I were the boyfriend type. But as soon as you take up a pen and doodle in chapter three or four even, I remember how much I like to write. I remember that I don’t want anyone else to decide the ending of my story, even if it is the fairytale type.

It’s nothing personal against you or too cliché as playing hard to get. I’m not playing, I just am. Mostly because I don’t want to be “got”. Each good story must come to an end, this I know, but I need to get to chapter seven or eight before I can add more characters. I'm not against happy endings, I'm just not ready for that part of the story. I like this part too much. I don't want my life to be a romance novel. I want it to be an adventure story. I hear that every classic novel has a love story... I don't want to forget that there is so much more to my story than that. I don’t even care what society’s book review says, “fear of commitment,” “impossible standards,“ or “not giving a guy a chance”. This is how I want to write my story. After all, it is my story.

Dead Dad Jokes

Coming up on three years ago my father “passed away”. He went to a better place, is no more, ceased to exist, relinquished life, went with God or however you would like me to so sensitively put it; my dad is dead.

I went into the office today and found what I gave my dad two summers ago for his last Father’s Day. “50 Reasons Why a Daughter Needs Her Dad” A tin accordion style list of reasons I made, and number one was: “To make her smile when she wants to cry.”

Although I don’t find an ounce of him being gone humorous, I find myself cracking what I have come to call “dead dad jokes.” Ironically, no one laughs except me. (and sometimes my best friend whose dad died when she was young too.) I create an awful, awkward moment, which we have to linger in until I collect myself, apologize and explain.

For example when talking about the upcoming Father’s Day weekend, a friend asked what my plans were. I responded nonchalantly, “I don’t have many big plans, I mean my dad’s dead so I don’t really do that anymore.” My laughter continues to disturb them, but I’m only chuckling at their uncomfortable expression and lack of response.

Sometimes a simple, “How are you?” can get an unexpected, “Fine, I woke up today and my dad was still dead, but I’m having a really good hair day,” reply.

My “jokes” aren’t really clever or extravagant. I just bluntly bring up the fact that my dad is dead in inappropriate settings. I WANT people to talk about him and ask about him. So I make it clear that it is ok to bring up the topic, I won't burst into tears or start rocking in the corner. If I am the first to "cross the line," then the rest of the conversation is a breeze. I have this overwhelming urge in my heart that I want to introduce my dad to everyone I love. I don’t want to forget where I come from and I want them to know him as well. Because saying, “My dad is dead,” only refers to his physical body.

My dad is more alive than many Earth-walkers I know. He still lives in my ability to laugh instead of cry when I think of him. He lives when I am helping others, giving second chances, hoping for the best, when I buy ice cream, when I fix my car, when I do a jig with my aunts, when I compare boys to his generosity, his know-how, his kindness and ambition.

The very molecules of my dad’s blood were composed of love and laughter, the same blood that my heart pumps through my veins. That is why I want to think of laughing when I think of my dad, even if I make EVEYONE uncomfortable. Even my friends who have been there since he was sick, still shake their heads when I make a comment.

I guess I have dealt with “the death” of my father. I don’t think about his the funeral or his sickness or pain. I just miss my dad and I think about not having him around anymore. So I keep bringing him up like I’m scared I will forget. In doing so, I forget the sensitivity others have to the deaths of their own loved ones, I can be inconsiderate with my dead dad jokes, forgetting that I’m not the only one. It’s an adjustment I am working on. I apologize if I have or if I will push the wrong button for you. Chances are, I will.

I will probably grow out of this strange way of dealing with a dead dad. I realize that even reading this blog is uncomfortable and unfunny to most. For now, it is working for me. I’m making a selfish decision to stick with my #MorbidTweets and awkward conversations until I am better at telling his stories.

Because this is my way of “making the complex simple and the painful bearable.” Just as number 12 says on my list of 50 Reasons Why a Daughter Needs Her Dad. I have to do it for myself because oh, did I mention? My dad is dead.

I know you are probably tired and your eyes are sore from reading this long blog on the computer screen, but hey, at least your dad's not dead.

Freshmen: AnspACH, chillin’ strong & lanyards for necklaces

As I’m absorbing the sunshine from the Kulhavi courtyard with one of my new found best friends, it’s hard not to get nostalgic as I celebrate finishing my finals and therefore my Freshman year. I first created this blog so I could remember my first year of college and see how much I’ve changed. So now that my Freshman year is over, I feel like a summary is appropriate.

“HI! I think you are my roommate, Sewnya?”

“It’s Sahnya”

“Oh I’m sorry!”

*HUG*

This is where is started, a mispronunciation of names and piecing together a jankity futon. Soon it grew to be so much more than that. I lived with girls who drove me crazy when they never locked the door or cleaned their closet, but I wouldn’t have done it any other way. There were nights when we stayed up doing the things we told our mothers we never would do. Nights we pretended never happened and mornings when we asked, “what the hell happened?” We made mistakes, memories, taught each other, shared closets and food. I learned that she pees with the faucet running, she takes pictures like it’s her job, she loves cheesy potato day in the RFoC, she doesn’t know how beautiful she is, she drinks a Monster more than water, she quotes Marilyn Monroe, she is hilarious if you pay attention, she knows when you need a hug and "she" is each one of my three beautiful roommates.

“This life is what you make it. No matter what, you're going to mess up sometimes, it's a universal truth. But the good part is you get to decide how you're going to mess it up. Girls will be your friends - they'll act like it anyway. But just remember, some come, some go. The ones that stay with you through everything - they're your true best friends. Don't let go of them. Also remember, sisters make the best friends in the world… Just because you fail once, doesn't mean you're going to fail at everything. Keep trying, hold on, and always, always, always believe in yourself, because if you don't, then who will sweetie? So keep your head high, keep your chin up, and most importantly, keep smiling, because life's a beautiful thing and there's so much to smile about." – Our woman, Marilyn Monroe

Not only did I share my Freshman year with my roommates, but I made beautiful friends that I plan on keeping forever, whether they like it or not. When I first came to school, I was nervous I wouldn’t find people who thought like me or who I loved as much as my friends back home. But I got lucky. A walk to a football game, bonding over a piece of garbage that made us both “Smile”, laying on the futon talking for hours about our pasts, reading poetry, laying in the sunshine, taking trips to Kaya, puking at State, getting spontaneous piercings, “I think my vagina swallowed my tampon!”. Consoling, crying, cuddling, laughing, rollerblading, eating, holding hands, braiding hair, watching movies, snowboarding, dancing: these are the people who made my Freshman year special. They put up with my illogical worries, made me feel worthy when I didn’t, encouraged me to become an RA, and were ALWAYS there when I needed them. People that showed me what genuine friendship looks like. People that I may not know like the back on my hand yet, but I’m getting there.

"Friendship is a true gift. It is given with no exceptions and no gratitude is necessary." -BoyMeetsWorld

And I would be lying to myself if I didn’t acknowledge the heartbreaks. If I didn’t give recognition to the boys I fell for, then I couldn’t take credit for the times I stood back up again. What I couldn’t have learned in any other way, was how important it is to love myself first. But this section will be small because I’ve said my peace, learned my lesson and already written too much on my blog about boys.

“And you’ll never know dear just how much I loved you, you probably think this was just my big excuse. But I stand committed to a love that came before you, the fact that I adore you is but one of my truths.” -AniDifranco

Probably the craziest thing that has happened to me this year was becoming an RA and part of the Wheeler staff family. I have never been so scared of failure and rejection than at that point of my life. BUT with the support of my amazing friends and the guidance of other staff members, I survived! And I am so glad I made the choice I did. Some nights were lonely and remorseful, I ate solo often and forgot what a party looked like. But the knowledge and strength I gained from the staff I was accepted into was amazing. They made me bolder, stronger, smarter, and have taught me the ways to love. It’s was a group of people that I don’t think it is physically possible for me to love and appreciate them more.

“Turns out , not where, but who you are with is what really matters.” –DMB

But finally, here’s to me. All these people I have mentioned have helped me go through this year and have seen me become who I am today. Although they were more than wonderful, I still spent a lot of time alone, figuring things out, "faking it to make it", smiling through the day, and balancing my planner. There were struggles; some nights sucked, some days did too. But I thoroughly believe that without pain of life, you cannot appreciate the beauty of life. It’s comforting to know that I am the same person as I was when I came into Wheeler, just a stronger version. "Sadie 2.0" I had a choice to be any person I wanted, but I still chose to be me. Which is good, because I am stuck with me for quite a while. Not to say there still isn’t room for improvement. I mean, I would still like to learn to play guitar, drive a stick shift and walk into the RFoC with no make-up on.

“Don’t cry because it’s over, smile because it happened.” – Dr. Seuss

Now if you actually have continued reading this, I’m impressed and I thank you: this would be the PERFECT time for a “Remember When?” for Freshman year.

Boyfriend Application

This is an open letter to all those who wish to apply to be my boyfriend. Well-qualified applicants will be interviewed and chosen accordingly. I would like to offer a word of caution: this job isn’t just for any unemployed chump..

This job requires passion. Preparation for when you see me with no make-up and you still can’t keep your hands off of me. Like up too late just thinking about if I am thinking of you thinking about me type of passion. Where you are doodling my name, planning our future and telling your mom about me type of passion. Yearning to know my soul, my mind and my body, a passion that truly has gone out of fashion. If this passion you claim, then we can move on to step two, pay attention darling, we’ve got a lot of work to do:

What is your employment history?

• Because baby we can’t keep this part a mystery. I want to know the habits you formed on breaking girls’ hearts. If charming them into bed was your art. I want to be prepared for how you will treat me from the start.
• Like flowers just because you care and when you’re hanging with your friends you can say, “Yeah, that’s my baby over there.”
• Socially you should be able to manage on your own, kiss my cheek when you pass by or wink at me from across the room. I'm not going to manage your conversations with my relatives because you're shy.

Be my best friend.

Ask about my dreams and capture a cloud for me to float on.

Rope the moon closer to my window.

Recite old movie lines and overrated poetry.

Dream with me.

Appreciate the rain on warm sidewalks and squirrels carrying acorns.

Understand my caution.

Smile even when it hurts, because you care about those hurting more than you are.

Give people second chances and strive for sincerity.

Wake me up for the sunrise.

Travel with me.

Accept others regardless of what the world says about them.

Question the stars.

I want to see my father in you: fix my car, open jars, protect my innocence, love my family, make me laugh instead of cry and accept my sense of humor. I want to dance on your feet to Frank Sinatra when you kiss me on the eyelids. Listen to Johnny Cash and read Lord of the Rings by the firelight.

If you are inquiring about the pay for such a job, you are already unemployed. Love is unconditional. It’s not the exchange of worth or benefit. It’s the respect and admiration of our souls.

Please note: this is not a temporary position. I don’t just date around for “fun”. Don’t apply with the mind set of some day resigning. I always begin with the end in mind, so if you see an end already, don't begin. Losing faith in a person isn’t my idea of “fun”.

I would be a damn good girlfriend, but I am not going to give that away to just anyone.

I would:

be your best friend.

write down your dreams and mail you the moon.

watch your footballbaseballsoccergolfwrestling and whisper you poetry.

write your name in the stars.

warm your hands on the ski lifts.

admire your faults.

remind you of your gifts to the world.

console you with kisses.

stay up all night talking and waiting for the sunrise.

encourage, trust and forgive.

This isn't an urgent position I need to fill. I need someone who believes in love and it's ability to change the world. Someone who believes in humanity and our ability to do good. Someone who worships God, or at least knows they should.

With requirements running rampant, I wish to give you a word of hope:

Love overcomes imperfection

but you at least need to mail in your application.

All dressed up and no place to go.

I can only seem to muster up my tears when I get the privacy to dig out the most painful memories I own. I keep them in my closet and try them on when I can finally listen to my own music and dance alone in my dorm. They don’t fit quite as snug as they used to, loose and hard to keep close. But I dance around in them until my face is damp, then usually fold them up neatly and discreetly return them so no one will notice. Knowing that next time I try them on, they won’t fit quite right.

In the mirror, before I hid my memories back into my closet, I saw something different than I have before; a new little secret I was keeping from myself. The memories haven’t fit well for a while, but now they were torn and pieces are missing.

You are forgetting him.

I replay the quietest memory I have, hoping it is enough.

Charles Gibson finished telling me my bedtime story and I kissed my father on the forehead. The first time I can recall not doting on my dad before I went to bed. I went silently up the stairs until I heard my name. “Squitzoid,” he reminded, “I love you more than air.” His eyes glistened near the firelight, something about an 8-year-old in a nightgown made him emotional, “I love you too Daddy.”

Not enough to help me keep dancing. I dive back into my closet, frantically throwing aside useless items and tennis shoes. Trying on another memory, tightening my belt, turning up the volume, hoping it will get me by:

“Daddy I just don’t ever want you to go, I can’t have you leave,” my beat-red face cried. In desperation I curled up on his lap, aside his oozing pain, as I had so many times before, unable to accept the daunting future. With a few shrugs and pen tapping I noticed his handwriting, “ice cream” is what he wrote down. Unable to speak, walk, or think properly I was confused by his demand. “You can’t eat ice cream dad,” I remorsefully reminded him through my somber lips and ocean filled eyes. The pen tapping like morse-code, more urgent and important I was frustrated by his relentlessness when it became clear through a tap on shoulder. Ice cream for me. Ice cream to cure my tears. He had nothing more to offer when his body was failing him, but his heart continued to beat.

I keep layering the memories from my closet, accessorizing with old pictures and visions of a future he will never see. The necklace of advice I will never get when coming home from college, the shoes he won’t ever walk me down the aisle in, the hat of memories we will never be able to create.

All dressed up and no place to go.

So I take off the memories and prepare them for storage, for a night ahead when I am too weak to dance alone. I slip into my pajamas like the day my father died. When all I had was my nightgown and shrill cries of helplessness, curled into a woman-child on my aunt’s lap. Because I can’t walk around in memories like that, the colors clash and are not right for my skin tone. Sometimes those painful memories are all I want to wear.

But then I recall,

you had such a sense of style

and I will remember that when I look into my closet.

In Your Waters

You are the horizon.

A place where sun and sky meet the water’s surface.

Beauty long in the distance.

Water rolls on

hoping for a chance to touch the heavens.

Glorious mural each rise and set.

Yet when the sun is at its height

or the moon has taken its place

Water and sky blend to no end.

It is no expectation to reach the horizon

yet I am a mermaid in your waters.

Unique and beautiful.

We each have our own

and somehow I still find myself swimming

Toward the horizon.

Unintentionally,

in one direction or another

I’m facing you.

Under the surface

My scales shimmer

Imitating your beauty to the fish.

I may fool them,

But we know the truth.

I rise to the surface laughing with you,

As I chase your endless border.

A separation of beauties

forever ruling the sea.

I'm interested to hear interpretations of this poem. Obviously I know who I wrote it for, but I just wonder what it looks like from a different perspective.

Good Irish Women

"Here's to good Irish women. May we know them, may we raise them, may we be them."

In honor of St. Patrick's Day, I took a second look at this quote. For a moment I realized why every woman in the Quinlan family has a decoration of some sort starting that very thing. When I think of good women, I think of Quinlan women... and they so happen to be Irish.

Before I start my mushy gushy rant, my disclaimer is that just because I'm only talking about how wonderful the women are, doesn't mean the men aren't too. I happen to be female, so they get the blog for the day. Plus it is mostly the wonderful Irish women of my family reading this blog!

What does being a "good Irish woman" mean?

It means that when your Godson needs to come home, the United States Marine Corps doesn't stand a chance against you.

It means you move across the country to chase your dreams and take chances.

It means you house nieces and nephews while they get on their feet or before their mother's want to cut off their feet.

It means at 60 you are still plotting cross country trips.

It means you cry when you want to cry and you don't wear a bra if you don't want to.

It means you get kicked out of hotels in Las Vegas for laughing too loud.

It means you publish books, read poetry, make quilts, craft cards & produce movies.

It means you still have weekend long sleepovers with your sisters.

It means you protect the virtue of the ones who can't on their own.

You teach, you empower, you tell it like it is, you cook for your family, you laugh at things that aren't even that funny, you wear purple.

Being a good Irish woman means you take risks, love until it hurts, and always, always, always look after one another.

Each aunt, cousin, sister & mother in my family took a part in raising this Irish woman. I have had the honor of growing up around good, strong, powerful women. I know them, they've raised me and therefore I can only hope to be one like them.

Childhood Confessions

Childhood Confession #1: I threw away whole pieces of food after dinner, because I thought the homeless dug through our garbage and I wanted them to have a quality dinner.

Childhood Confession #2: When we corrected our own papers in elementary school, I would mark some wrong even if they weren't because I thought my teacher would think I was cheating if they were all right.

Childhood Confession #3: SOME PEOPE LIKE TO ROCK SOME PEOPLE LIKE TO ROLL BUT MOVIN AND A GROOVIN'S GONNA SATISFY MY SOUL. &REPEAT &REPEAT &REPEAT

Childhood Confession #4: I pretended that orange was my favorite color because I felt bad that no one else liked it.

Childhood Confession #6: My sister said if I drank a jar of pickle juice, I could hang out with her and her friends... and I did.

Childhood Confession #7: I told my parents that if I died before them, I wanted them to stuff me and mount me on the wall like a deer so they wouldn't miss me (or maybe an attempt at becoming immortal?)

Childhood Confession #8: I sang the lyrics “piece of my Heart” by Janis Joplin as… “what’s love Dr. Do-Dr. Do-little” instead of “what’s love got to do, got to do with it?”

Childhood Confession #9: I was confused as to why people would die in movies just to make money, when they would be dead once they got paid.

Childhood Confession #10: I was convinced I was going to marry my dad and live with my parents forever.

Childhood Confession #11: I would steal my mom’s Vitimin C tablets to put in water to make “c” (tea) for my stuffed animals and me.

Hope is my middle name.

After two hours of making valentines and several nagging voices putting down my efforts, I began to question why people hate Valentine’s Day so much. I think Valentine’s Day holds a lot of expectations. A big show. Twelve dozen roses. Secret admirers. Five Star Dinner. Undying admiration. When it doesn’t fit expectations, “Valentine’s Day” becomes “Singles Awareness Day”.

I have never had a boyfriend or “valentine” but I adore Valentine’s Day nonetheless. I spend hours making Valentine cards, trying to think of everyone I want to recognize and how I can make it special for people I love. Don’t get me wrong, sometimes I get a little bummed. I still get a little bit of an ache in my heart when I see beaming girls and their doting boyfriends. A piece of me will always be envious, but I have been changing that envy into hope.

Hope that one day, I will be that giggling girl. Someone will love and adore me. Hope that someday I will get a stupid love poem or handmade card. One day I will wake up to breakfast in bed. Or I will lay around, watch movies and eat chocolate with that someone who makes me laugh. I have hope that a day will come that I will be able to love someone with all my heart and get love in return. This is a day of patience for me. Not being mad about 20 years of being single, or how I got my heart stomped on or how he stopped calling or that I don't have it RIGHT NOW, but holding on to a hope that one day I will... and all this waiting will be worth it and I will have a love that won't let me down. Valentine’s Day gives me hope for the future, because it shows me that love is real. I will look all around and see that love is real.

No matter the condition of my heart, a sprained ankle and on crutches, it’s going to keep trying, even if it is limping. Because I know that at this moment, my future love is walking on the earth. Since I don’t know where he is right now, sleeping, studying, making Valentine’s, or playing xbox but I am going to do my best to love everyone in my life, so maybe the love will trickle down to him. You may roll your eyes and say: Naive. Unrealistic. Sappy. Pathetic. No. It's hopeful.

Hallmark holiday or not, I love Valentine’s Day, even when it is a little painful. Because without pain, there can be no joy.

i carry your heart with me

E.E.Cummings

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart)i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go,my dear; and whatever is done
by only me is your doing,my darling)

i fear
no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want
no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)

**Hope really is my middle name... metaphorically and literally... in case you didn't know that.