Winter Is Coming

Not coming, winter is by golly here! Last night we dropped 20 degrees in one hour--what the what?! Yesterday is was 79, today it's 33. That's right, people, winter has arrived.

Last night I tried to prep for the big artic rush and someone decided they needed to "help" in this process. There's a $3.50 faucet cover totally demolished. Darn thing lasted a grand total of ten minutes. She just can't help herself sometimes...Oh, Penny Love.

Me? I was all too thrilled to pull out the warm hats and scarves for this year! I'm sure I'll be over the cold soon enough, but for now I'm excited to bundle up! Who's with me?!

Can't you see the excitement? Or maybe that's the caffeine...hmm...

Do you get excited for colder weather?

Kitchen Aid

Lately I've had this need to be in my kitchen. I've been dying to try new recipes for sweet treats and expand my general dinner menu. Am I bored with what I've been doing? Not really, I just need to add a bit of variety to my list of recipes. Plus, all this baking and cooking is satisfying this need for a creative outlet. I'm looking for something out of my ordinary and this is helping for the time being. A little kitchen aid, if you will.

I went last week and picked up a recipe journal from Barnes & Noble. Pryo Man and I decided we need to keep track of some of the new things we try and keep a running list of our favorites. It's interesting combining our two palates together. We often times have different ideas of what sounds good or looks good. This little journal might help us create our own cookbook of old favorites and new.

I turned to my one of favorite cookbooks from The Pioneer Woman, Food From My Frontier, for her Chicken Parmesan.  Delicious. This was my second time to attempt this recipe, the first being a couple years ago and I'm glad I took another stab at it. Takes a little bit to get it all ready, but I'm really glad I took the time. It was so worth it!

Janson caught me sauteing the onions and garlic.  

Table is set with our beautiful china. 

Dinner is served! Turned out pretty nice if you ask me and tasted even better!

Husband approved. 

Well, after dinner was finished and the Pyro Man helped me clean up (sweet man), I decided I needed to mess it all up again and try these Oreo Cheesecake Cookies from the Brown Eyed Baker. I accidentally doubled the recipe by reading the 3 oz of cream cheese as 8 oz. Fortunately I realized my "oops" moment early on and just doubled everything there after. I doomed this batch before even adding the third ingredient...

Part of trying new things is messing up a bit. These cookies looked delicious and really easy and yet, I wasn't really impressed with my outcome. However, I don't think it's the recipe's fault, but perhaps the baker. 

The batter is really great, but I was a bit disappointed with cookies themselves. After 15 minutes in the oven, they looked golden around the edges like the recipe said they should. So I popped them out, looking gorgeous, but incredibly gooey inside. Gooey to the point that both my husband and I wondered if they were even done (And yes, I realize this this a cheesecake cookie, but even cheesecake has some consistency.). 

After  another few minutes in the over, the darn bottoms got too brown, not burned, and the cookies tasted way too chewy. Well, I certainly took care of baking the gooey out of them. Perhaps they were supposed to be just browned on the outside with the super gooey center. Perhaps mistakenly doubling the recipe really was a bad idea (an extra 2 oz cream cheese might have added to the gooeyness...duh). 

I'd like to try these again and see if smaller balls would work better and not doubling the recipe on accident might help. We shall see. Try it for yourself! Even slightly crispy, the cookies have a great flavor to them! 

Oreo Cheesecake Cookies

Yield: About 1 dozen cookies

Prep Time: 20 minutes | Bake Time: 12 to 15 minutes

½ cup unsalted butter, at room temperature
3 ounces cream cheese, at room temperature
1 cup granulated sugar
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
1 cup all-purpose flour
½ cup chocolate chips
1 cup Oreo cookie crumbs --> I recommend running these through a blender or crunch with a rolling pin. I hand crushed mine, hence the giant chunks of Oreo. 

1. Preheat oven to 375 degrees F. Line a baking sheet with parchment paper (No parchment paper in the house, I used non-stick foil. Might have added to the extra browning on the bottom).  

2. In a mixing bowl, cream together the butter and cream cheese on medium speed until smooth and well-combined.

3. Add the sugar and vanilla extract and mix until the ingredients are well-combined. Add the flour and mix on low until the flour is incorporated then add the chocolate chips. 

4. Place the Oreo cookie crumbs in a small bowl. Scoop the cookies into about 1½ to 2″ balls and then roll in the cookie crumbs. Place the cookie balls on the baking sheet. Bake for 12 to 15 minutes, or until the edges are golden and the tops are slightly puffed.

5. Cool on the pan for 2 minutes before transferring to a wire rack to cool completely. Store in an airtight container.

The Art of Working Out

A couple of weeks ago I marched myself down to a local gym and signed myself up for a membership. Sure, I can continue to hop on my treadmill at home, huff and puff in the privacy of my residence without the thought that someone might see me gasping for air. Why on earth would I want to leave my personal gym for a public one? One word: Motivation.

See, this is not my first time joining a gym. I'm no stranger to these sweat boxes. I know what lies behind those doors. Gym devotees, those who spend hours perfecting their physiques so that not an ounce of fat lie on their impeccably toned bodies. These people sweat much, speak little, and work hard. I envy them.

These dedicated gym goers inspire me to get in shape, tone my buns and all that. They have some sort of built in mechanism that screams "MUST WORK OUT!" Me? I've always had to talk myself into hitting the gym. Alarm goes off in the morning and I lie in bed for five minutes, sometimes more, going over and over all the good reasons to get up. "You'll build muscle," "you will feel better having worked up a sweat," and my personal favorite, "you wear leotards and tights while staring at yourself in a mirror for hours at a time. Get up."

Since I graduated, I haven't necessarily had to wear leotards and tights every day, therefore, my interest in the gym has been pretty scant. Can you blame me? It's been a mental break that I have thoroughly enjoyed and savor every day. For the last two months I haven't planned my meals around what I wear and that may or may not sound weird to you, but let me tell you, it's nice. That's not to say I went completely hog wild, I just took a vacation from my regimen.

Now the vacation is over, it's time to get back in gear. Besides, swimwear is out right now, there's no getting away from it. I've shared with you readers about swimsuit shopping woes last year. It can be brutal. Can I get an amen?

Once I got my plastic member card, I decide I'm going to take some of the yoga and pilates classes. It's been a while, but hey. I'm a dancer, I can totally do this. Yes, that may be, but I'm a dancer whose taken time off. My body is not like it was at fifteen where I could jump into the splits without warming up. It's also not like it was two months ago, a little on the stiff side. Whoops. But answer me this: Why is it that when given a difficult option in life, we take it, attempting sometimes the most impossibly hard levels known to man?

Case in point: Pilates Class. The teacher is great, giving us all sorts of options from baby simple to the hardest of hard. Because I think a good challenge is a good idea and I'm a flaming idiot, every difficult option she gives, I take.

So I'm in pilates, working hard, puddles of sweat all around me, probably the amount of a small water tower, and I am dying. DYING. "For the sake of all that is holy, why is this so hard?! I" My muscles are shaking uncontrollable, screaming at my every move. My poor abdominals have grown accustomed to my easy-peasy conditioning and hate me. It wouldn't have surprised me if they jumped off my body and headed for the hills. At points in time I really question how badly I wanted a washboard set of abs or abs for that matter. 

My clothes are soaked and I'm slipping around my map like I was on a slip and slide. I'm surrounded by all these women and we're all breathing hard, but I refuse to cave. I have to work hard, I am a dancer for goodness sakes! I can do this!

Finally the class ends and I'm just flat worn out. At least I survived though, I made it through and that's what counts. Of course the next day I can barely move because I'm just one giant body of soreness.

You ask, why on earth would you put yourself through such misery? Pride. I didn't want to be a pansy. I wanted to be one of those gym devotees, capable of taking on any exercise. Let me tell you, pansy or not, I am never suffering through a class taking every difficult task when I am that unprepared. I like a good challenge, but man, I should have eased in.

On top of that, I started up ballet classes again. Yes, I broke out the tights and leos. Dancing felt so good and stretching was incredible fulfilling. I was a giant knot for a few days, solid grapefruits for calves. No worries though, I've recovered and have been steadily working out the last few days. It's all part of the process of getting in shape.

Here's the one weird thing about my exercise regimen, every time I work out, all I can think about is food. Is that just me or does anyone else do that? Hmm, maybe I'm just weird.

Finals Week!

I have made it to my last Finals Week ever! Let the celebratory dance begin!!!

Yahoo! Lots of exciting things are coming up! There is graduation this Friday, only four days away. I've got a bit of time with family next week for last minute Christmas shopping and of course some quality family time. Then there's Christmas with Pyro Man and after that, our exciting trip to England to visit his family! I've been waiting for all this excitement for what seems like years and now here it is upon us!

Well, I had my little trip to Branson last week--I can now say I've been to Missouri. Five hours. That drive was five hours long. That may not seem like a long time, but after hour three, your butt starts to fall asleep. That is not a pleasant sensation. Listen, I'm all for a good road trip. It gives me a chance to perform a whole concert of all of my favorite songs. But seriously, I ran out of Christmas songs at one point.

My little adventure started Thursday afternoon. I loaded up my car, fiddled with the Tom Tom, filled the tank, and took off. The Tom Tom and I have made peace with one another. Recently I had a very heated debate with Pyro Man and my mother about why I did not want a Tom Tom any time soon.

"I would need it if I'm traveling, which I'm not now. I would need it if I were in a new city and I'm moving back home. Bottom line, I don't need it now!"

And when this audition came up, I proceeded to eat my words. In any case, Pyro Man kindly sent his Tom Tom to me and after some tinkering, I figured out how to use it. It really is pretty handy. Kinda cool. Kinda.

So here, I go, driving down the highway, singing my Christmas songs and all. It being winter and all, the sun set fairly early in my trip. I crossed into Missouri in pitch black, guided by the light of my Tom Tom and every Branson show billboard known to man. The trip so far had been a breeze. I wasn't lost, I only had to make one stop, and there weren't many crazies on the road. Perfect! Or so I thought...

You  may not know this but Missouri has mountains. Mountains I tell you! I'm a Texas girl and upon consideration, I realized most of my driving experience has taken place here in OKC where the land is flat, flat, flat. NO MOUNTAINS. Here I am, driving down the highway, humming a tune when my car takes a nosedive down the road. I feel like I'm on a freaking roller coaster from hell. Up and down, winding right and left all the while with cars speeding past me. Can you believe people drive 65 and 70 MPH on these roads?!

So yes, if you drove through Springfield on your way to Branson last Thursday night and wondered who the heck that young grandma driver was on the road, it was me. I survived though. I managed to meander my way to my friend's house with a death grip on the steering wheel. Then, this is the best part, my friend told me that her landlady was hosting a surprise party for her husband and so there might be people in the house when I get there. No worries, they know I'm coming. Cool.

It's dark, I've been driving for about four hours at night. Needless to say, I can't see very well. I manage to get into the house, shut the garage door and am blinded by the house lights. Trying to assess my surroundings, two faces come into focus.

"OH! Hi. Ha. Um. Hi, I'm Julie. I'm uh, I'm supposed to be here, I swear. Melissa sent me. She lives here. Uh, I swear I'm not a burglar. Um, yes. OK."

Any type of calm demeanour I have ever had went out the window. I was just spitting out words, asking if I'm in the right place, not even giving a chance for these people to answer. These people must have thought I was a flaming idiot. I was so thrown for a loop, having forgotten people would be there--by the way there were another four people I didn't even see in the room. Good gravy.

We got it all worked out and chit chatted until the party showed. It was nice to visit with so many working performers in Branson. I met a group of sisters who have the most beautiful voices! Saw a friend I met working the Mary Kay show last year and of course, I got to visit with my sweet friend from OCU. There's something wonderful about performers. There is never a dull moment, always an interesting story to be told, and of course, entertainment. We listened to a young lady sing us a few of her own songs and my friends boyfriend, an OCU alum, sat down to his piano and played us a pretty tune. How incredible to be surrounded by so much talented!

Anyway, the audition! The whole purpose behind my trip! Of course, that's what I'm supposed to tell you! The audition went really well and I'm hoping to hear back from them in the next few days. It was a great experience in a very different audition setting. I performed two short thirty second pieces and had a nice interview with personnel. Not the the normal process where I'm standing in a room full of people as they make cuts right and left. Still in all, I'm glad I went. It's a great show, very well known, and would be a solid position to have for nine months.

Whatever happens I know happens for a reason. It also gave me some things to think about like jobs I'm really wanting to audition for, things I want to happen for the next year, and possible travel plans. Suddenly I'm feeling less scared about the unknown and more determined to get certain ones. A year will go by all too quickly. Branson is some place I'd like to go back to though. The people are lovely, there are so many shows, a great cost of living, and the opportunity to save! Like I said, whatever happens, happens for a reason.

I've got a lot of work ahead of me in this next coming year. I'm excited to get it started and looking forward to the challenges ahead of me. Remind me I said that when in two months time I'm having a heart attack trying to solve all of life's problems. Happy Monday!!

Just Call Me "The Fonz"

For the next week (or two), just call me the Fonz.

Really. I did a horribly stupid thing while making dinner last night and as a result, I am now a thumb popping, bandaged idiot.

After finally answering the age old question, "what's for dinner," (Sweet and Sour Chicken, if you were wondering) I began making the necessary preparations for my delicious meal. So there I go, happily pulling out all my veggies, defrosting my chicken breasts, and pulling out all my ingredients. I grab my cutting board, my nice sharp cutting knife and my round, yellow onion (I think they have more flavor than white ones.). I slice off one circle because hey, I'm only making enough for two servings. I chop, chop, chop, mindlessly working with happy little worker's hands and then it happens.

Must have thought my meal would have tasted better with a little sprinkle of Julie a la thumbkin 'cause I chopped a little too close to my left thumb. *Insert hee-bee-jeeby shiver here* It's like watching your life in slow motion. You see the knife go down, you recognize that it should NOT be in your thumb, and bam. It hits you. You've just tried to sever your finger.

Brilliant. I live alone. I can't go running into the next room crying, "Help! Help! I've been sliced and diced!" No, ma'am. So when I see the nice, new crescent shape slash in my finger, I'm not going to lie to you, readers, my back teeth went soft.

"AAAAIIIIYYEEEEEEEE!!!!!!"

I'm sure my neighbors LOVED hearing me squeal like a stuck pig. Gah. The blood. Ick.

You know, they always say you really don't recognize the pain until you recognize that something is wrong. Thus I REFUSED to gaze upon the damage for too long. Only long enough to see that I did not actually cut through my entire thumb. Thrusting the now tender appendage under cold water, I took deep breaths trying desperately to remember what the next steps I had to take.

1) Stop cutting finger. Check.

2) Scream in pain. Check.

3) Cry. Well, half-way there.

4) Clean and bandage wound.

A-HA!Something I had yet to do. OK, I say to myself, you can do this. Just find the band-aids and neosporin and you're good to go.

And indeed, I did get my thumb all bandaged up and after a quick call to Mom JUST to make sure I did not need stitches, I was fine. And thank you to Pyro Man for being so concerned as to suggest I super glue my thumb together. Still not too sure about that one...

To prove to myself that the knife is not as deadly as the person weilding it, I continued on with dinner and it was mighty good. Not even salty from the blood spillage. I kid! There was no blood spillage!

It's just a little tender and I'm quickly adapting to not using my left thumb. Instead I'm constantly in a state of "thumb's up." I look like The Fonz. Seriously.

EH! Good dinner!



EH! Good book!

See what I mean? It's a bit ridiculous.

One last tip though, the next morning when you remove the bandage, don't inspect it for too long or else you'll find yourself sitting on the side of the tub with your head between your legs trying not to a) throw up or b) pass out. Heaven help me if I ever have daring children.

Hey, it's already hump day! EH!

Happy Wednesday everybody!

It Finally Happened

After multiple warnings from my mother, jokes from my sister and the occasional eyebrow raise from my father...I had my first fender-bender.

Driving home after a somewhat gross day (woke at 6:30 to a migraine that left me curled around the porcelain throne for a while. I even convinced my professor to host class in the dark, for the whole 2 hours.), I managed to connect the front end of poor Iris, my car, into the back end of none other than a LEXUS...

Fabulous. I sat in my car thinking, "I hit someone. I hit someone and I crunched my car. I crunched my car by hitting someone. My car hit someone and is not crunched, killed.I KILLED MY CAR!" No matter how it was worded, it was bad all over...

Well, the upside was that I wasn't going fast at all and the guy was really nice. No yelling or screaming. Maybe he decided to take pity on me--I mean, I looked like death with my hair all crazed from lack of product (head hurt too bad to care for that morning) and the humidity (oh, it was raining, too). I had no contacts in, no make-up, looked as pale as a little white ghost--I'm not even sure if I was wearing the same two flip-flops.

I stepped out of the car, made sure the man was OK--he was--and then, slowly, I turned to inspect the damage. My hood was crunched up and the grill was definitely broken. Picking up the Toyota decal that popped off my car and onto the pavement, I let out a little whimper. I tried so hard not to let my upper lip start to quiver. That plan was blown out of the water as soon as I called Dad.

I know we had been over what to do if you're ever in a wreck, but all I could remember was "CALL DAD." So that's what I did. Called Dad and blubbered on the phone about how I was OK, but the car wasn't and I was so sorry and the guy was fine and I don't know what to do, yadda yadda yadda.

As I sobbed on the phone to Dad about how wrecks happened to Sarah, not me (Sorry, Big Sister--I've officially registered as a member of "We Wreck 'Em" club. I tried to hold off for so long!), I attempted to wait "patiently" for Mr. Police Man to show up and write a report.

I pulled myself together, ready with insurance and license in my hand, no tears. I was going to be an absolute grown-up about this.

Then he asked if I was OK...oh sweet jeebus.

The water works started all over again and poor guy, he must have thought I was a nut. He checked my car over, made sure I was OK to drive home and didn't even ticket me--which, by the way, was the LAST thing on my mind. Hadn't even anticipated that on top of my insurance going up, the damages on my car to be fixed, the damages on HIS car to be fixed, that I would have had to pay for a ticket. Thank you, Mr. Police Man for being so kind to this crazed woman.

So my car is crunched. It will now be the one in parking lot that no one will park next to because it's been in a wreck. It's like my car has leprosy--stay away from the bad driver! She'll hit you, too! Ah man...I'm now THAT car that no one will want to play with...shoot.

But as I have been reminded, cars are fixable. Good thing no one was hurt (other than Iris). From now on, I'll be driving like an 80 year old woman, 2 car lengths behind everyone else and breaking 50 feet ahead of every stop sign. I'm a changed woman...well, driver.

Hello Humidity

Ah, spring in Oklahoma! The weather is bright and beautiful, the trees are in full bloom, it's tornado season, we're getting spring rains and it's humid.

Oh wait, that last part, not my favorite part of spring. Why? Oh because I have blessed with the type of hair that tends to fuzz out at the slight chance of rain. Don't get me wrong, I have learned to love my hair, it's grown on me (ba-dum-ching!) and with some serious hair care help, I've learned to work with it pretty well.

If you've ever met my parents, you can see where it comes from. Dad used to have an afro (I love telling people that--it's true, too!) and Mom has a very wild mane of her own (curly, full, and thick red hair--Only the red gene skipped me, dang it. ). Put those two together and you get me, the human chia pet. Add water and watch it grow. Houston, Florida--we don't get along too well when it comes to hair care. WAY too much humidity in the hair, looks like I stuck my finger in a socket, yowzah!

These locks of mine have come in very handy for me though. For instance, I can predict the weather. Like today, I walk outside and wham! My hair starts fuzzing like you wouldn't believe. I can then conclude it's going to be cloudy with a chance of Big Texas Hair (i.e. rain). Oh and Big Texas Hair, it was key in a good majority of my dance performances as a child. Though I may have been born in the wrong era (always wanted to be Ginger Rogers), my hair certainly wasn't. It was MADE for Big Texas Hair. You know what I'm talking about?

The 90's hair where everyone used eight cans of hair spray on your hair to solidify the cascade of teased curls you fried your hair for. See, look at our homegirl, Reba, my hero at age six.



See what I mean? The girl had some volume. And yes, I wanted to be Reba. And Dolly Parton. "Jolene" was my favorite song ever. Continue snickering if you must--Focus on the hair. It was HUGE! And baby, did i know how to do Texas Hair.

Don't believe me about the big hair? Fine, some blackmail proof for your enjoyment:



Yup--that little bit, shaking her groove thing on the floor is me, age seven. Here's another from the good ol' days of dance:



Yeah, you can even tell I'm not too sure about this costume. Still not good enough for you? OK then. Pulling out the big guns. Please try not to fall out of your seat laughing:



The ultimate Big Texas Hair shot. I know, its outrageous how much it sticks out from under that hat--just to answer your question before you EVEN ask, the hair, the duds were all for a dance performance.

No, I don't wear my hair like this any more although I have been lucky enough to do so for friends--watch out ladies, you ask for big hair and I will not back down. I love helping people out with that because 1) it's so much fun to tease and hair spray 2) it's simply oh so tacky, but great from an audience perspective and 3) I have seriously mastered the art. Oh, there's an art to it, my friend.

Just watching my hair fuzz out today into its natural state does not bother as much as it used to. It is what it is and I kinda enjoy looking like Mufasa in the morning--I get an absolute kick out of my lion's mane, and I know the roomies did, too, when were living together. Letting my hair "do it's thang" feels almost freeing because it's so me. I joke that my hair usually emulates how my life is going. Pretty right on today since it looks like a rat's nest, just crazy.

I've wondered sometimes what if I have a little girl someday way, WAY into the future and she's blessed (or cursed) to have my same hair, what would I say to her?

To you, future little one, you'll look like a wild child ragamuffin for a time and absolutely hate when I take a brush to those tangles--that's why we'll own stock in Johnson and Johnson no-tangle spray. There will be tears on middle school mornings when your locks will rebel, refusing to stay straight like the other girls' hair. By high school you'll have mastered the unruly nature of your hair with a good straighter and products, but as time goes along, as you learn to love every bit of yourself, you'll find that your crazy curls are what you love the best, what makes you, you.

Airport Adventures

Oh yes, it's that special time where I write about yet another ridiculous happening just to brighten your day--and because I enjoy writing these little stories down. It's always fun to go back and remember these moments in a more comical light.

This past weekend I decided to take a little trip to see my honey in Abilene, Texas. BACK STORY: I was supposed to drive but my parents are incredible nice and thought it would be easier for me to fly. Thank you, sweet Parents! Thank you for giving my purple car a weekend off, for saving me 8 hours of driving and giving me more time to spend with my beau!

OK--so I'm flying, right? After a full day of school, make-up classes, staff meetings and last minute packing I finally make it to the airport in enough time to sit and wait for my delayed flight. As I'm waiting, I notice there's a guitarist sitting in a corner playing the most beautiful music. Quietly, peacefully eating my chicken sandwich and making necessary calls, I sat and absorbed the musician's notes as he played for free. Thought it might be nice to compliment him when I went to throw away my trash--such a bad idea.

Bad idea because then as my plane was called I suddenly had a new found friend attached to me like a starving puppy. I was nice and chatted with him as he made friendly conversation. Politely ignored his comments about how when you travel and meet new people you only really get a chance to see whether you like that new person or not--then he blushed and chuckled like he'd given a way a gigantic hint.

Oh Lord, love a duck...

Finally he asks me where I'm headed and who I'm going to see--"Oh, I'm going to spend the weekend with my boyfriend." Beaming the biggest smile, because, well, I can't seem to talk about the boy without shining like a light bulb. The guy's face fell instantaneously. And then he proceeded to walk about 50 ft away from me. No goodbye, no "have a good time!" Nothing.

Dang. You would have thought I had leprosy or something. I WASN'T COMING ON TO YOU WHEN I COMPLIMENTED YOUR PLAYING! I was just being nice, for crying out loud.

Flash forward to landing the plane at 8:30--By the by, my connecting flight took off at 8:55. We drive around the airport after landing for about 15 min giving me 10 min to get my bag, get off the plane, take a sky link and race onto the next flight all before it takes off.

So, I beg some older gentleman to get my bag out of the shelf in front of him because I'm caught in my chair and I need to get off the plane. He does and then proceeds to chastise me about the size of my suitcase! HELLO! Hurried lady here! And if anyone knows me you will understand I have issues with time.

Maybe it's from the haunting memory of being late to my own tea party birthday as a child or something. Either way, I get extremely anxious when I'm not early anywhere. Karley and Esther would repeatedly make fun of me for being ready 15 minutes ahead of when I was supposed to be leaving making me actually ready about a half hour before I had to be anywhere. Weird, right?

So I'm a wreck trying to get to the next flight--I've told everyone and their dog that I have a connecting flight, will I make it? "Of course. Of course." LIES! All of it! BECAUSE I get to my gate and I don't see a plane.

I frantically run to the first person I see sitting down and in a panic begin hurriedly asking, "WHERE IS THE PLANE?!"

Young man: "What?"

Me: "THE PLANE? The plane! 3447! Where did that plane go? Is it gone? Did they board and leave yet? TELL ME TELL ME TELL ME!

Young Man: *Nevously sweating* "I, uh, well, I think--hey look! Someone who works here!"

Clearly he was a little scared by the wild, crazy woman in front of him and wanted me as far away as possible. I run up to the first airport worker I find and ask him the same thing, this time fighting a lump in my throat and calmly trying to keep the tears at bay. I was about to miss my last flight out to a weekend I'd been looking forward, too, and no, that may not seem like something to cry about but at that exact moment it felt like a my whole bubble of happy I'd been floating on was about to burst.

Maybe it had to do with my tearing up (Yes, I've been gifted with the doe, glistening eye look that strikes fear in most every male heart--ask my Dad. He hates to see me cry). Or maybe not, but he went to check on the plane and started to tell me I had missed the flight. My heat stopped and I could feel the flood of salty tears just waiting to overflow when all of sudden, he whipped around and went running back down the tunnel. Could it be? Were they going to squeeze me on anyway?!

YES! They had to reopen the plane, extend the jet landing, argue with a not-so-nice flight attendant, and shove my luggage in between extra seats, but by golly I was on that dang plane!! Yahoo--that much closer to a much needed hug.

And then we sat on the runway for 30 minutes...

I gave in and ate one of the chocolate cookies I'd baked for my man and his family. Doggone it if that didn't at least make me feel better until take off.

It was a crazy, but it could have been worse. I'd never been so happy to be off a plane and finally done with traveling (at least for the day). Weekend turned out wonderfully and full necessary quality time, fabulous food, lots of Olympics, watching of the fishing channel, napping, and just having a relaxing weekend. Can't even wait for the next :)

And if you didn't get a kick out that, I ended the weekend by running face first into a glass door at a friends house. Oh, Life--how you treat this lady sometimes.

Moby Dick

I know why Captain Ahab had it out for that whale now... Allow me to tell entertain.

Cassie, a fellow MFA lovely, had to be escorted back home last night from class because, poor thing, she was on some pain meds. Her wisdom teeth were pushing on the nerves in her mouth causing her to be in excruciating pain and therefore have to have an emergency extraction this morning on an Ice Day, of all things (Sending you hugs and happy, Cas!). What a trooper!

Anyway, security carried my poor friend back to the homestead leaving Leigh Anne and I the job of getting Cassie's car back to her house. A little background on Cassie's living situation (I know, tons of side stories here, but the good stuff is coming!), she lives in this beautiful historic home with two other girls, one of whom has a dog, Moby.

Moby has no sense of bladder control, as I have been told. He pees on Cassies bed, he pees on the roommates bed, apparently tossed his cookies on his owner's, peed on the floor, basically anywhere he wishes and does so quite freely. I even found out that this dog will sometimes roll over onto his back only to jet out a stream onto any unsuspecting passerby. My question to this: Why hasn't the owner done anything to correct this?!

Leigh Anne and I trot up to Cassie's door, happy to see our medicated friend, puffy cheeked and all. As she opens the door, this white, matted, rat looking thing starts bounding all around our feet. I can only assume it's the Prince Peer himself, Moby. Bladder Boy is super excited to see new people and just a wigglin' all over the place like I don't know what. Clawing at my leg, I jokingly say, "Moby, you better not pee on me!" Never in a million years thinking that could ever happen. HA! Fate has a funny way of getting her kicks, let me tell you.

There, next to his bouncing body is a growing puddle of liquid. My eyes about pop out of my head when he darts away from me because there, THERE ON MY SHOE is a trail of pee. The dog had peed on me. And all over the floor! Needless to say I pulled the dramatic card, unable to contain myself any longer. The voice shot up about five octaves to screech, "MY SHOE! HE PEED ON MY SHOE" a few hundred times because once is never satisfying enough. Needless to say, I was slightly pissed off--pun intended (Cheap shot, I know, but you'd take it, too!). Moby just stands there, tail wagging, pleased with his marking on my foot--great, now my foot is his personal fire hydrant. Fan-freaking-tastic.

Meanwhile, Leigh Anne is holding onto Cassie for support because clearly this is a funny situation (truly it was) and their hearty laughs have glued their feet to floor, incapable of coming to my rescue. I love to see my friends. Seeing them doubled over, red faced and crying in silent laughter, well I had to bust a gut myself at this predicament I was in.

Wiping the tears away and finally catching our breath, the mess was cleaned up, the moment never to be forgotten. What gets me most is that on our way out, I patted Moby's head thinking, "You know, dogs do that and then they forget. It's not his fault his dingbat of an owner didn't train him properly." At that precise moment, Moby pees on the couch. (Gives a whole new meaning to the term, "Little Pisser.) Could it have been he was so scared of this crazy woman who had been making a ruckus minutes earlier over or did he do it just because he wanted one more dig at me before I left? Who knows. I can only say that I will be wearing rain boots to Cassie's from now on.

Easy Target

I'm that girl that's an easy target to pick on. It's true. Ruffling my feathers is a past time favorite for many of my friends and it never takes much to get me riled up. Have no fear for I know all this to be true and carry a good attitude about it all. I even enjoy joining in the fun because, well, sometimes you just have to laugh at yourself.

Today, I had a professor pull one on me and I have to say, props to my professor!

Yesterday my MFA ladies and I had to email our professor with a research topic for approval in our 8:00 am American Dance History. In my busy rush of the first day of school I didn't get to email my choice until about 10:30 am to which I then learned my top choice had been taken. Staring at my computer in utter and complete shock, I about had a heart attack--OK, maybe not a heart attack, mild panic attack perhaps (There are a ton of things due and I was going for one I enjoyed and knew enough about.)

The prize topic, the one I felt my little heart go pitty-pat over was gone. Fortunately, my next choice on the list was a go. To simplify the topic, I must compare and contrast several infamous dancing couples including my favorite duo. Forever and ever my heart will be true to my favorite partners, Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers.

I later recounted the story to my fellow MFA ladies, joked and laughed about my threats for them to sleep with one eye open--no worries, I would never harm a hair on their head over anything, especially a research topic. I just enjoy the facial expression and giggles that follow after such comments. We all do it out of love.

Anyway, I do believe my professor got a kick out our retelling of the story this afternoon in my Research and Writing for Dance class because, what do you know it?! We have another research paper to write and this time we get to pick whatever musical or dance concert we want. If you think I was going to let my perfect, fabulous, deeply desired proposal be taken, you are seriously mistaken, my friend. I must have scared the three new MFA's--"Newbies" as I will hence forth refer to them as--that started today. I whipped out my laptop as soon as class ended to email him my proposal as quickly as possible. Yes, I'm a nerd to the core. I had to get this topic. Last time I lost out, but by golly there was no way I'd lose again.

As I'm walking out the door, on to my next class, my professor pops their head out of the classroom and says "Julie! Check your email." HOT DOG! I think I've got it. Downstairs I rush with my two partners in crime behind me. Fast as I can, I run my fingers over my keyboard, anxiously trying to access the account that will hold the precious email I am waiting to open. I click open the note to find the response:

"No. It's already been taken."

"WHAT?!" (I tend to use the flair of dramatics occasionally. Makes life more interesting.) I tear up the staircase leaving my friends in disbelief. Pushing through the staircase entrance, I break through the door leading to a hallway of offices, slowing myself to a "quick" pace before popping into his door frame. "Please, please, please tell me you're kidding." (Is that a smile? I can't tell but good grief I hope you're kidding, Professor!) "Of course I'm kidding." Turning to their computer, they make the note and I detect a hint of a smile. Sweet goodness, I hope they enjoyed that. Now I'm sweating worse than a polar bear in the summertime. Winded even from my nice little sprint upstairs.

WHEW! And as I trudged back down to the bottom level of the dance building, clutching my heart to my chest, I had to laugh. How could I possibly not see that my professor wouldn't try something like a little joke? It was too easy. It must be hilarious to watch dance department students sweat and fret over all sorts of assignments and how tempting it must be for people to try and trick us now and again. Wish I could say that I haven't ever been tempted, but oh boy, I sure have done it a time or two to fellow students. So kudos to you, Professor. You got me good today. I hope you got to see me flail up the stairs like a blue-ribbon idiot today. If not, I'm sure Cassie and Leigh Anne will gladly reenact it for you.

Life w/o Sleep

There are certain tell tale signs that a person is lacking in sleep. For those of us who ignore said signs or truly are so tired that we are blissfully ignorant of the red flag waving in front of our faces, we embark on perhaps some of the most peculiar moments.


Peculiarity #1: I set myself up to study Sunday for my one and only final test, the rest being, of course, massive projects. Somehow while typing up the additional paper for this particular class I made the grave mistake of closing my eyes...I was out cold for a good 40 minutes before my saving grace of a boyfriend just happened to call and wake my butt up (Thank you, boyfriend, for your impeccable timing.) Back to work I go, furiously writing all I can about modern dance while simultaneously trying to remember names of foreign choreographers and their successes/failures, pupils, and whatnot. And I did yet another stupid thing. I closed my eyes again. This time there was no phone, no alarm, no rambunctious neighbor to stir this sleeping beauty. No, I woke up three hours later to my house lights brightly shining, cold cups of coffee on the table, and a candle STILL burning (it's a miracle I didn't set something on fire--I've left my house twice this week with one still burning. My poor guardian angel must look like she's been through the ringer...). The heavenly glow of my Christmas trees illuminated my body sprawled out on the couch, mouth wide open for catching flies, clutching my History of Dance notes as if I'll learn anything through osmosis. I thank my lucky stars no one had a camera to capture that "breath taking" view of me.

Peculiarity #2: I have come to realize that without much rest a person begins to lose the ability to comprehend their own native language. For the past week I have had to ask people to repeat what they've said multiple times because I swear they are speaking a foreign language. That and it takes about five minutes for a statement to process. Proof--While trying to fix my hair, a hopeless mess right now, in the ladies room last week, my fellow MFA lady, Cassie, began telling me a story. I looked right at her, made sure to pay attention and hang on her every word, conscious smile and nod appropriately when necessary. Did it help? Heck no! I stared at her for a minute after she finished before finally giving up. "Um, Cassie, I'm sorry. Could you repeat that again?" "Sure, what part?" "Oh you know...the whole thing..." Nothing sticks.

Peculiarity #3: While waiting on my cast of ladies to arrive at Starbucks last night for a coffee date, I happened to run into a sorority sister of mine. So excited to see her pretty face I jumped up to say hello and hug her neck. Half-way through our chatting I began to feel buzzing, no, vibrating along the right side of my body. Frantically searching through pockets, stopping mid sentence of relaying my story to her, I couldn't figure out where my dang phone was. As my dear sister watched with a glint of amusement in her eyes, I stripped off my coat and patted down my body searching incessantly for my cell only to realize that my cell phone was indeed in my purse and no where near my body. I'm so caffeinated my own body is vibrating...

Peculiarity #4: While the body is trying to chug along in its sleep deprived state, your emotions will take over all coherent thoughts and logical reasoning causing you to become a raging lunatic at any given moment. Symptoms include crying for no apparent reason, inability to process confusing or vague statements/texts that often leads to panic, frustration and inevitably more crying from lack of being able to think your way out of a paper bag. You are prone to obscenely loud outbursts at simple realizations--beware friends may find you to be hysterical or crazy especially if the outburst happens in a car. While you're driving. Symptoms can last anywhere from two to four hours. Simple solution for the problem: rest and relaxation. As if...

After today I will be taking my own advice, sleeping, trying to catch up so I can at least seem semi-human again. I swear I've never been so scatter brained in my life or felt more like a walking zombie. The good news is I've survived the semester and am now one year away from finishing my masters! Huzzah! And now, I must go make another pot of coffee or I'll have to resort to chewing on coffee grinds. Gross.

For All You Would-Be Techies

Choreography Show has come and gone again this year. I was lucky to be in a wonderful piece with a great cast where we reenacted the French Revolution to Coldplay's "Viva la Vida." Pretty badass number--way to go, Aubrey! Anyway, this posting is not about the fabulous dance or really dance at all, but more about my excursions during tech week. 

My fellow MFA students and I had to partake in helping set-up tech for the show as a class assignment. Over several days we did some observing and often times joined helping with what we could. I made the grave mistake to volunteer for a job without first finding out what the job was. Techies, beware. 

To say that heights make me slightly nervous might be an understatement. They make me very nervous. However, during the two days we spent in Kirkpatrick I took several trips up a ladder for different jobs, battling my way through anxiety and sweaty palms. I’m afraid I truly was a “weenie,” so to speak, during one particular job and poor Steve, the lighting designer, had to come up to help me. 

In order to get the right lighting for performances, adjustments have to be made along the way and thus comes my first lighting job: Climb into the lighting coves on either side of the stage, adjust the lights with Steve's trusty wrench per his instruction. Right. OK, no problem--big kid stuff, I was a management major. I can totally do this...I should have known it was trouble when I started climbing up the first ladder and half-way up asked Cassie to hold it incase I toppled into the wells. Oh and Steve forgot to mention that from the ladder to the cove was about a foot of empty space for me to heave myself up into. Have I painted you a pretty picture yet?

 I climbed all the way up the stage left lighting cove and while up there he gave me instructions to lean a ladder up against this wall/shelf, climb up to the top and throw my leg over this wall to adjust a light that was several feet above me (Keep in mind I would be leaning over the lighting instruments a couple stories up...hanging down to the audience seating.).  Looking up wide-eyed to my given task, I about swallowed my tongue and suddenly my body went it fight or flight mode. In the mean time Cassie is below me doubled over laughing as I start flapping my arms repeatedly to keep the perspiration to a minimum. My palms begin sweating profusely so I try wiping them on my pants over and over. Taking some deep breaths praying I don't start crying from sheer terror, I can't help but turn around and face my supervisor with the most pitiful, pleading look. Perhaps it was my sudden silence, the fact that I had “PANIC” written over my face or maybe how I began clutching my heart in hopes it would keep from bounding out of my chest, but Steve decided to climb up to help.

All I can say is thank goodness he'd worked with plenty of other girls over the years and was nice enough not to make me climb up there anyway. There's no doubt in my mind I would have had a heart attack. I made it through our second lighting adjustment in the other cove on stage right and safely back to the ground when Steve realized he had left his wrench in the first cove. On the wall he wanted me to climb. Did I retrieve the wrench? Yes, I did, but I find it hard not to wonder if that had been left up there on purpose. The mystery remains unsolved...

So all you would-be techies out there, be aware when volunteering for jobs and know there is no shame in pulling the "weenie" card now and again.