The Empire Strikes Back

I want to write. I can feel it. The desire is there. My fingers are like athletes at the starting line, shaking their muscles and squatting into the starting blocks. It's a familiar feeling - one I enjoy experiencing. The excitement of knowing what might come with the perfect combination of head, heart, and correct grammar.

The grammar? Let's just say the grammar and spelling come easier to me than most. (And heaven forbid I make some humiliating gaffe in this post.)

But I'm sensing a bit of a challenge from the other two entities that compose my writing empire. The decided, albeit involuntary, "default" source of most of my entries is my head. Be thankful you can open a window to my brain, take a brief look around, and leave just as freely. I, however, am trapped here. Blogging is my way of forcing you to share my burden. I have such great, albeit involuntary, friends.

Head demands humor. Anecdotes. Sarcasm. Gross exaggerations. And thanks to my acute ability to be insincere and callous, I'm more successful than not. It's in my blood. (Yes, that was me shirking some of the responsibility. Yes, I feel better. Thank you for asking.)

But Heart is filling my inner suggestion box with thoughts of its own this time. Instead of sitting around doodling unicorns and hearts and tiny woodland creatures with enormous eyes (oh, like yours doesn't?) and waiting for Head to take the lead, it's nagging at me to take a different, less-familiar route.

And I'm concerned.

First of all, if Heart becomes as opinionated as Head, I foresee me explaining exactly why you should love me. Graphs may or may not be involved. Oooooooo! And a laser-pointer!

Ahem.

But how am I supposed to describe the bizarre combination of happiness/gratitude/excitement/calm/attraction/connection/anticipation/expectation I'm being forced to experience? (Insert Heart wearing a big foam finger and cheering wildly from the stands.)

He listens to me. And that makes this verbally-inclined gal's heart sing. We can have discussions. In which we don't necessarily have the same perspective on. And not only still love each other, but still WANT to love each other. I have forced him into many conversations I don't think he ever dreamed of having until he found himself cornered on the couch, or in his truck, or behind one of the grain silos at the dairy...and then he, quite literally, sweeps me off my feet and I find myself looking into that patient, handsome face. And no more words are necessary.

He's seen every facet of me (like a diamond, I am). And, by some miracle, still wants to take me fishing & camping, teach me new things (like how to be quiet), introduce me to family & friends, show up with me to BBQs, sit with me in church, and talk about what the future may hold in store.

Everything is better when I'm holding his hand. Any raging, internal fire that might be roaring inside me is allowed to maintain a slow simmer until I'm ready to put it out. And he'll hug me in silence or take my hand mid-stride, just to let me know he cares. That he's not ignoring the fact that I'm hurt or upset, but that he knows if he says something, and it isn't the "right" thing, much damage could be done to his skillful fly-fishing hand. So he doesn't say, he just does.

And, ironically, him not saying anything speaks love directly to Heart and Head.

I Think I'm Gonna Be Sick

"Sixty-seven miles per hour."

Psh. That's an efficient pace but not enough to blow your head back. And, if you want my opinion, should be the speed limit on the 13-mile stretch of stop-free highway that sits between me and the rest of civilization. Noooo biggie.

Twists and turns and G-forces and breath-taking plummets towards earth. Sounds like a poor analogy for my life. Heh...heh. *Gulp*

But the view! Oh, the view! It's like you're soaring over the Manhattan skyline. Er...sorry. Maybe "soaring" was a poor choice. Besides, "soaring" implies that you're gliding effortlessly through the air, your gaze lingering on anything that falls within view, taking your time rising and falling, a whimsical dance with the breeze. With approximately 2.6 seconds to take in the view, "soaring" is definitely not the correct term. Screaming. Screaming through the air. Yes, that's much better. The double use of the word is far more accurate.

{Enter Thrill Ride of Doom, stage right.}

The Roller Coaster, New York New York

Lady Liberty is standing confidently in front of this man-made trap of steel tentacles. If nothing else, one would be, dare I say, proud to ride The Roller Coaster. "One" being anyone who manages to ignore the similarities between this ride and Davy Jones' giant squid whom he releases on the Black Pearl to "drag her back to the depths."

That being said, I conducted an informal poll on my FB friends: Is riding a roller coaster romantic?

The overwhelming response? Yes!

My first reaction was, "What the? This goes against every romantic stereotype...EVER!" Granted, I had to agree that puking did nothing to set the mood, so avoid that if possible. But between the marriage proposals and closeness that only fighting for your lives together can bring, I began to see their point. One friend summarized it nicely by turning the question around on me: "Would spending time together, enjoying each others' company, and have a blast of fun while your head and body whips around a track at a high rate of speed be romantic?" I was totally on-board until that last part...

But what brings people together? Drinking! Sigh. I promise to try harder. One more time: what brings people together? Laughter. And survival.

And if I survive, and am not otherwise occupied with other activities (puking), I plan on laughing off the experience.

And drinking.

Ce Cliché

What? No, that can't be right.

Heh. It's the French. Of course it's right. So right that I can hear the pinched-nose arrogance scoffing at me from my computer screen.

I was about to embark on a digital honeymoon, of sorts. A fantastic escape to a place where part (but not all) of my soul lives. It sits at unnecessarily small bistro tables, creates oil-based masterpieces on canvas as it casually picks at unnecessarily large baguettes, drinks café, lounges by fountains in designer labels, carries a small dog everywhere, strolls casually through museums with a glass of aged red wine (can you DO that?), laughs politely at some things but never loudly at anything, never has less than 4 shopping bags hanging from its arm at any given time, and is perpetually annoyed by the silly American who insists on verbally butchering the acclaimed Champs Elysees (shahnz uh-leezay). (You're welcome.)



Champs Elysees


Unfortunately, I am that silly American. Or "American idiot", as the French so eloquently put it. Of course, it sounds almost musical when said with the proper accent, but still, the term was unexpected as it popped up in the translator. The romantic rêverie I was mentally and emotionally prepared to plunge into was forced back into the metaphorical boat, toes gripping the edge, arms flailing in an attempt to rebalance.

So, here I sit, some place in-between my French destination and my silly American desk. And if I'm honest, I'll tell you I don't mind the "translation" interruption. It makes me laugh.

But only politely.

Vegas, Baby!

We all have those friends who've celebrated some milestone in the bright, never-quite-sure-what-time-it-is, open-24-hours lights of Las Vegas. Countless bachelor/ette parties and weddings take place, I daresay, every day. And it sounds so...typical, so casual.

If you've been part of the riotous fun of one of those events, please see me after for a brief Q&A session. I validate.

How? HOW does one plan something like that? With the literal and figurative buffet that is  Las Vegas, with all the water effects, one-of-a-kind cocktails, classy venues, and, um, skin, how does one choose?

Price? Definitely a factor for most of us. I'm (not) sorry to say I will have to pass on the $10,000 drink at Ovo (pronounced "oh-no!", trust me.) But I'm not kidding about the 10 large. It comes with custom cufflinks and a bracelet, I believe. The foolish regret that hits the next morning is included at no additional cost.

Style? Well, sure, but everyone's taste is unique. About 7 years ago, I accepted the fact that I was inwardly maturing at an accelerated rate. Late nights, loud music, dancing for hours, crazy lights, small-talk that had to be yelled to be heard...sigh. No mo'. I don't need every sense stimulated at the same time...do I? I looked at millions (give or take) of clubs and ultra-lounges, trying to find one that appealed to me; one that I wouldn't mind being seen in; one that I would be comfortable having my name on the front of in big, bold lights. And much to my surprise, I think I found one:

PURE Nightclub

Now to find the perfect dress to show up in! Also, can you see that beautiful symbol of romance gleaming in the background? Yeah. You could slap a picture of Le Eiffel Tower on a used boot and I'd buy it. This cynic realist has a soft spot for most things Parisian (except for the men; too much "sen-see-teev" and not enough "pickup truck".) 

Anyway, Sean and I are headed there next month and I've seen more of the internet than I ever hoped, trying to get this trip planned. He's been there tons and wants this to be "my" trip. As generous as that is, I feel a little overwhelmed. So any recommendations, advice, and/or warnings are readily accepted. Not that they'll matter much; if Sean can peel my clammy hands off the legs of Le Tower, he will consider it a success.

Au revoir!

I {Heart} Bulleted Lists

{Found this in my Drafts folder and laughed. So I published it as-is.}

Things I'm thankful for:

• Breaking bad habits
• 4-wheel drive
• Little flat-faced dogs who genuinely believe you are the center of their universe
• Little sweet-faced boys who genuinely believe they are the center of your universe (They would be correct)
• Bosses who make you laugh until you cry
• Child-safe doors for that one friend...
• Tanning beds
• Amazon.com
• Tools (a.k.a. Maybelline, CoverGirl, Revlon, etc.)
• Quarters
• Any piece of mail that isn't from an attorney
• My dumb phone (as opposed to your smart phone)
• Words with oddly-placed apostrophes
• "i" before "e" except after "c"
• Wheel of Fortune
• Cruise control
• Anything written by Jen Lancaster

Not to fear, those of you who thought I may have gotten horribly mangled by the Divorce Express {which is cruelly ironic for such a process}. I am alive and well and have decided, against my will, to take the Ferry to Freedom. Which is, needless to say, a significantly slower method of getting anywhere.

Landmark #7 - Bifurcated Bay
Ok, let's just be honest here -- does "bifurcated" sound like something your dog did after choking down a matted feather and following it with a cat food chaser? Well, in MY case it means I'm one step closer to jumping ship from my marriage in exchange for a ride on the "Kiss This" dingy.

The Other Side

In usual "Janelle" fashion, I have again let a vast amount of time slip by between posts. It seems the "blog-fog" rolls in and, naturally, rolls back out, and I am left with a very sporatic timeline of events. I imagine the dots on my timeline would spell out something fantastic in Morse Code, but leaves something to be desired in the way of consistency.

When I last visited here, I was smack in the middle of my divorce. And even now, I feel sorry for my anxiety-ridden self from then. Divorce is ugly, foul, and soul-sucking. I'm pretty sure that's how Webster's even defines it. Much like the tar-pits I imagine from the dinosaur age. It's been officially behind me for over a year now, so I hesitate to devote much time to further details. However, it is inevitable that they will come up in some fashion. A summary, if you will:

It was expensive in every way a person can be made to pay. Money will make even people in expensive suits do things they shouldn't do. A lack of morals nullifies a college degree. I'm still trying to figure out which feels worse: angry tears or sad tears...or no tears. Someone who lacks the willingness to change can change you. "I love you" became one of the most hurtful things I've ever heard. Worry clouds even the most beautiful days. A family, rooted in the Lord, will not be shaken, unless it has something to do with a very good martini; and you, my ex, are not a good martini. God is faithful; so cliche, but cliche for a reason. I spent more time reading the final report than I did the Bible = big mistake. Some people cut red meat out of their diets for heart health; I've found that scouring Proverbs for God's promises has a similar effect (bonus: they don't charge you for taking a list of them into the attorney's office with you! At least not yet, anyway.) Fighting for her child is something every mother is prepared to do, but not one should ever have to do it. Divorce is not God's design; it is man's, and it is beneath the Lord; however, this divorce was a blessing and the Lord's hand was on it.

Fast-forward to today, right this minute: I have a very tall, very handsome 6.5 year-old who lost all 4 of his front teeth in, what seemed like, 7 minutes of each other. He will be starting 1st Grade shortly and is madly in love with a sweet girl in his class. He's also convinced himself that once he's married her, he will be forced to kiss her because that's what you do when you're married. I have yet to correct him. The end of this month will mark my 2nd year with the wonderful engineering firm who I tricked convinced to hire me after the available position fell right in my lap. I'm coming up on my 29th birthday and am looking forward to the brand new decade that lay on the horizon. And while I know time continues to pass, I don't feel (or look) much older; I just roll my eyes and turn the channel more now.

And if we're friends on FB, I know you've seen him plastered all over my photos, but I would like to do a proper introduction here: Sean Armatage is the brave, handsome man who decided to date me instead of embark on a Mt. Everest-climbing adventure. I'm pretty sure the mountain would've been easier. But honestly, he walked into my life one evening and has yet to walk out of it. That was a little over a year ago. And I fall more in love with him every day. Not the flowery, birds singing, shooting stars, love is all we need bologna. I'm talking about the reality of every day kind of love. Knowing that, even though we might not see eye-to-eye on something, we both want to work it out because we know we have something great. And yes, this is me, almost 30, and talking about being truly in love for the first time. Which isn't a bad idea for the general population, if you ask me. Sean is one of the most patient individuals I've ever met, which doesn't surprise me -- I'm...well...less patient, let's say, so I'm pretty sure God slapped him on the back in a "you got this" kind of way as He shoved Sean into my life. Heh heh...poor guy.

We are getting ready for a couple birthdays/celebrations in my house, but I still promise to try to write more often. Writing that here is purely for my sake. We have a dinner party/river cruise planned for 2 weeks from today that I refuse to leave undocumented.