"Light the Lamp! Not the Rat!"

This is the third holiday season since I moved away from my family and friends in Connecticut. Because Christmastime is the single busiest time of year at Disney, as a Cast Member, they own my soul from Oct. 31st to Jan. 7th. Literally, we're not even allowed to request any days off during that time frame. Anyway, since I have very little seniority with the company, I have not been able to travel home for the holidays since moving here. I always miss my home and family during this time, but especially my sister.

I was blessed with one sibling. A younger sister born about two and half years after me. Although after joining a sorority, I've been lucky enough to have many wonderful women to call my sisters, I only have one true, flesh and blood sister. I'm sure many of you share your most treasured holiday traditions with your family as well. But being that we lived 3 hours away from our closest relatives, I usually spent the holidays with my immediate family only. We created many traditions and memories over the years but the ones I remember most fondly are those I created with my sister.

She is the only person who understands that it is an absolute requirement that we not only watch, but quote and sing every word of The Muppet Christmas Carol on Christmas eve and she knows my exact favorite part of the movie and that I fall over laughing every time.

She knows that on Christmas eve we'll try to make a fire in our fireplace which usually ends in a lot of smoke and a sad little flame while we open our 1 present.

She's knows that Jeff (who is a tree and not a person) spent every Christmas in our kitchen sitting atop the (unused!) wood stove. And she remembers the first Jeff and how he came to be in our house.

She is the only one who knows all the melody parts of which I know the harmony on the Amy Grant Home for Christmas CD that we sing along to while driving around looking for the craziest Christmas houses after church on Christmas eve.

She is the only person I've gotten trouble with during the Christmas eve service at Church. She also lets me freak out every year about her lighting my hair on fire during the candle lighting even though she's never come close.

She is really the only other person who understands my mom's love for A Christmas Story movie and will leave the marathon on, all day Christmas day.

She knows that although our dad loved How the Grinch Stole Christmas and pretended he felt the way the Grinch did about Christmas, he really loved making it magical for us and our mom.

And she is the only person who will drag her mattress across the hall into my bedroom so we can wake up together Christmas morning. <3

 And I could go on and on. My sister and I are very different people and have never been the closest of siblings but I always miss her so much during the holidays. I hope that my children create holiday traditions and memories together that they will cherish as much as I cherish the ones I have with my sister.

Here we are at Mickey's Very Merry Christmas Party in 2005

Thanks for reading.

So this one time I got married

For those readers who personally know me (aka. all of you) you know that I started dating my husband eight years ago at the tender age of 18. We did have a teenage whirlwind romance but came back down to earth as the years trudged on. We always knew that we'd get married someday. As the years went by, I built engagement and marriage up in my mind to a somewhat ridiculous level. I realized my guilt in doing this to myself after a few years and wondered if I'd feel a sense of disappointment once the engagement and impending marriage finally took place.

Engagement was more difficult than I expected but not a disappointment. No matter how many people tell you or many many silly wedding tv shows you watch, it doesn't prepare you for the stress and pressure of planning a wedding. And I had a lot of help. But I am happy to report that marriage is so far from a disappointment compared to what I had built it up to be. In fact, marriage has exceeded my expectations (which I honestly didn't think was possible). Eight years of build up is a lot. I will say, it is different than I expected but in positive ways. The level of comfort I feel with my husband is something I haven't really experienced with a person before. Also, marriage (so far) is much simpler than our dating relationship ever was. Of course I'm still very much a newlywed and only have about 3 months of marriage under my belt. But I believe marrying Duncan was truly one of the best decisions I've ever made in my life. And I'm confident that we'll run into struggles, road blocks and tough times but I really do have faith in our love and our marriage.

Thanks for reading.

(Apologies for the terrible grammar and bad writing in this post. This is what happens when one does not practice their craft...I'm working on it. But as promised I am posting a piece that I am not very happy with because the more I write, the better I'll get, right?)

Invaders!

I knew moving to a warm climate would be an adjustment. I assumed however, outside of Florida's super hot summers and missing New England's four seasons, it would be a welcomed change. Plentiful sunshine, warm air, palm trees, never having to drive in snow or contend with sub-zero temperatures all sounded great. However, one of the warnings I received before moving to my Floridian "paradise" was about the bugs.

Considering I'd lived in a 200 year old house in rural Connecticut for most of my life, I was used to seeing bugs - even inside. Every spring we'd have the invasion of the flying ants between the floor boards of our living room. Sugar ants in the kitchen were also a normal occurance. They were annoying but easily taken care of with a few applications of Borax. Even in the fall when the survivors of the first freeze would try to move inside for winter, I could handle it. I expected a similar experience and relationship with my insect friends in Florida. I was wrong. Beyond the giant bugs that the animal programs cast had on display at the front entrance of Disney's Animal Kingdom, I don't think I'd ever seen a real live cockroach. A little back story on my relationship with roaches. I HATE them. I don't even refer to them as cockroaches. They are so awful in my opinion that I only refer to them as "F-ing Roaches" (not the actual obscenity mind you...exactly as that is written). The way the arachnophobic population feels about spiders, I feel about roaches. I'm not necessarily afraid of them, I just despise their existence. And no, Wall-E's cute little roach friend in the movie, did not change my opinion of the real deal...sorry.

One morning, I stumbled out of bed at 6am and made my way to the kitchen to turn on my coffee pot. This is now part of my morning ritual and being that I am rarely actually awake at this point, its usually done in the dark. After waking up a bit more, I went back to the kitchen with the intention of pouring the wonderful, hot cup of coffee to enjoy before I started my day. I switched on the kitchen light and squinted as my eyes adjusted. Probably due to the harsh light created by those fluorescent bulbs, I looked down toward the floor. Suddenly my eyes were fully adjusted and I was wide awake...and on the edge of what felt like a heart attack. There he was, probably blinded as I had been, his antenna darting around the floor. The floor that I had just walked across BAREFOOT IN THE DARK!! His large dark brown body contrasting with the tan floor tile just made his existence more prominent. Considering it was 6am and I hadn't had the pleasure of enjoying my caffeine-filled morning beverage yet, my reaction time was not at its peak, to say the least. I stared at the intruder for a few moments in disbelief. The bug, that "f-ing roach" could not actually be in my house! My half asleep mind swirled with thoughts, 'I don't leave food out! My house isn't dirty! Only people who don't take care of their homes have roaches!' I was at a loss. However, upon realization that he was in fact there, on my kitchen floor, I tried to think of what to do. My husband was still asleep and hates bugs even more than I do so I decided to spare him of this experience. Of course as everyone knows, roaches tend to scatter when the lighting suddenly changes from dark to bright. So before I could actually come up with a plan of attack (yes, attack!), he took off under the stove, not to be seen again. I felt relief for a moment. He was gone. The fact that my insect invader had disappeared out of my sight didn't really give me solace for long however. Where did he go and would he be back?

In an attempt to put aside the apprehension of the possibility of the invader going home and telling his roach-y friends that he'd found them a new home, we called for pest control. Days went by and there was no sign of our insect intruder...until this week. It seems that despite my effort to prevent another invasion, (including vacuuming nearly everyday, never leaving food out or dishes in the sink etc.) the intruders seem to have deemed my little apartment a good place to hole up for winter. I saw a small one in the kitchen, then a large one in the kitchen, then a HUGE one in the bathroom. The fact that they were all dead or dying honestly didn't make me feel any better about the situation. I'd had it. I was on edge every time I'd wake up in the morning or re-enter my house after being gone for the day. I'd think about those stupid bugs while at work, on my way home, when trying to sleep. It was when I saw one crawling up my shower drain WHILE I WAS SHOWERING that I thought enough was enough. I stocked up on roach baits and spread them all over my house.

Enjoy you're poison roaches!! Eat up and bring it home. Happy Thanksgiving to you!

Oh and pest control is coming again today. In the broken English words of the front desk agent with who put in the pest control request. "Seen little roaches and big ones. SPRAY GOOD!"

Thanks for reading.

I am not a writer

Ok world,
(aka. Mom, Mom-in-law and my few sweet friends who will actually read this)
I was thinking about this blog and how, as much as I want to keep it current, I clearly am not making it a priority. Granted I was a little busy over the summer, you know getting a full time job, planning my wedding etc. but the time for excuses is over. I'm going to level with you. The real reason I don't update this more often is because I'm too much of a perfectionist especially when it comes to my writing. I want so badly to I be a writer but if I continue avoiding writing, I AM NOT A WRITER. What kind of writer doesn't write?...all the time?...as much as possible? Ask anyone who's published. I guarantee you that one eighty millionth (is that a number?...or a word for that matter? lol) of what they write actually gets published. Either way, I will try to put my desire for perfection after my desire to write. Besides, I'm not Julie...this blog ain't gettin' published...we all know that. (Especially with that grammar ha!) So I really have no excuse. So write I will...finished, polished, "perfect" or not.

Thanks for reading.

The renewal of my Passport

In August I am getting married and we have decided to honeymoon in Mexico. I am very much looking forward to this but leaving the country, or more importantly the prospect of being allowed to re-enter the United States has required the renewal of my passport.

My passport expires this month. How I am old enough to have something that is 'good' for ten years expire is still unbelievable to me. I was sixteen when I got my first passport. My family planned a wonderful trip to Paris and all four of us needed new passports. My sister, being under the age of sixteen received a passport that would expire in five years. But because I had turned sixteen earlier that year, I was eligible for the real thing. An adult passport that would not expire for ten years! It seemed like an eternity at the time, especially considering that the expiration date read 2010. That honestly seemed like a futuristic, space travel date to me back then. So we went to the passport office in Stamford and applied for the books. We received them, just in time apparently, as I remember that we traveled to France two weeks before April vacation from school. My picture is absolutely ridiculous but honestly, ten years later, I don't really look any different.

Here is the original.

 

Although my looks have generally stayed the same, so much has changed. What I didn't know when I received that passport and went to Paris with my family was that would be the one and only time we would travel across the sea out of our country together. It would be the last time we left the country, probably left the state, our last trip, last vacation as a family. Cancer hit my family like a ton of bricks and before I was eighteen, we had lost my father to it.

The last decade has seen so many changes in my life, I can hardly view them all in one thought. So strange that I am now able to view life in terms of decades. Until recently, I always looked back on time in school years or semesters. No longer seeing my life segmented into blocks of fifteen weeks has taken some adjustment. I think that came from the desire to continue that life which had become so comfortable. I was good at being a college student and then suddenly, the robed vice president of my university proclaimed what he assumed was my name over a loudspeaker (it will come as no surprise to anyone who knows me that it was not my name at all), handed me a piece of paper and I was supposed to figure out who I was and what I wanted to do with the rest of my life. This, I believe is why you are "supposed" to complete your undergraduate experience in four years...otherwise you'll never want to move on into your "real life." I'd rather postpone the inevitable, thank you.

But I digress...

While reading through the instruction for passport renewal (which I read at least ten times for fear of mistake), I discovered that one is supposed to give a "neutral" expression in the photo. I suppose that makes sense seeing that most people do not flash a smile while going through customs. However, I find it a strange way to, for lack of a better word, "create" one's identity. Essentially that is what a passport is. It is the only document that can always be used to identify yourself. Gone are the days of only needing a passport to travel. Try leaving (or re-entering) the country without one, applying for a job, a marriage licence. You need to prove that you are who you say you are and our government has deemed a passport the way to do so. I find it ironic that when I'm feeling like I'm in a time of my life where I'm trying to find my identity, I am forced to renew the one document that is my identity. On top of that, this will only be my identity until August when I will become someone else. I do not believe much of myself will change but to the rest of the world, I will be someone else. Someone's wife, a Mrs., a Currier. I will change my name once I am married and with that change the name on every tangible thing that proves who I am. What a strange concept.

But yet again, I digress...

We arrived at Charles de Gaulle airport on a chilly March morning. That flight; that interminable flight from New York to Paris was when I discovered the true meaning of claustrophobia and the fact that a overnight flight of eight hours combined with a seven hour time difference makes it feel like it has literally taken you days to get somewhere. Regardless, we had made it there and I was excited to use my brand new passport to get through customs. What I expected and what happened when I forced open the stiff pages of the little book were entirely different. Apparently, I assumed that the customs agent would just know how much of a sentimentalist I am and open my little book to page one. Then he would place the stamp that I knew I could only get where I was carefully in the first little box on the page. He would do this so I could always open my little blue book to page one and see where I had been. I was wrong.

This is the result of what actually happened.

I'm not sure it is really noticeable in the picture but not only is the stamp on page ten, it is in the middle of the page and upside-down! How disappointing. Every time I looked at it from that day on, it upset me. Why, could that agent not have taken the extra second to find the first page and put the stamp where I would have liked it? Now I realize, it is because, 1. he did not care about where I wanted the stamp and 2. he did not have the time to place it just so. But if only he had.

And now I have given up that passport. I don't know why the government needs it. The sentimentalist in me wants to keep it, forever. So I won't forget. But I have sent it away to Philadelphia where someone I've never met will process my application; process me. Then someone will most likely shred that passport, shred page ten with my one upside-down stamp and issue me a new one, a new identity. An identity that will bring me to the age of thirty-six. Again, I feel as I felt at sixteen, that that time is an eternity away, that there is such little possibility that that expiration date can even exist. But it can, and it will and as the little life experience I've had tells me, it will be here all to soon. Who will I be at thirty-six? Will I have found out who I am? Will I have an identity?

Here is my "new" identity.

Thanks for reading.

Post. Script. April 17 I wrote this before I sent in my application for my passport. Much to my surprise, the day I received my new passport in the mail, I also received an envelope containing the old one. The government punched holes in it making it invalid for travel, however, as you can expect, I'm very happy to have it back. I'm happy that page 10 was not shredded or lost in some government file. I'll get to keep that passport and remember those ten years of my life.

Seasonal Depression

I am, a self-diagnosed sufferer of seasonal depression.

Whether seasonal depression exists or if I have it, is definitely a decision made at your own discretion. However for the sake of this post, let us deem those questions irrelevant. According to what I know, seasonal depression is a type of situational depression that afflicts its victims during the winter months. On a biological level, it is apparently the body's reaction to a lack of exposure to sunlight and vitamin D. However, now that I live in the sunshine state, where the sun shines aplenty all year round, I wonder if my reaction is not due to the sun (or lack thereof) but to something else that occurs between January and April.

The phrase "seasonal depression" did not enter my vocabulary until I was twenty. This was in part because it was somewhat of a newly discovered condition at the time and also because I had never experienced changes in my demeanor during the winter before. The first year it struck, I figured it was due to my finally coming to terms with my father's death. It had happened three years prior but I had never really dealt with it myself. I was young and was the "strong" one. I don't think there is anything wrong with this and do not feel that it hurt me in any way. That was the way I dealt with the emotions (or lack of at the time) that came with losing a father.

As anyone with experience can tell you, your emotions will find you and you will need to deal with them, sooner or later. For me, it was later. The winter of 2004 to be exact. Looking back, the timing is strange to me. I had recently re-united with the love of my life and had begun taking classes again (after a semester off) that I was really enjoying. Some of my closest friends from high school, like myself, had diverted from the path's of higher education that they had chosen after graduation and had ended up back home. Honestly it was a fun winter. I remember doing well in my classes, having weekly bonfires with my friends and falling in love all over again with my now fiance. But I also remember waking up unable to get out of bed, using food for comfort which turned into weight gain, sobbing in the arms of my love and not understanding why I felt this way.

After finding me on the couch unable to stop crying for no apparent reason one day, my mother decided it was time to see the doctor. My sister had become very depressed after my father's death and had had success with medications the doctor had prescribed. I imagined my mom felt that maybe I was being affected in the same way. So I saw the doctor. She wasn't overly concerned and honestly neither was I. I was not suicidal and outside of missing a few classes and a few days of work, it wasn't interfering with my life in a way that was extraordinarily detrimental. But I was struggling and my doctor could see that. After assessing my condition, my doctor decided that I did not need prescription medication but would go a more natural route. Although at the time I was disappointed, now I'm very glad she reacted this way. My doctor never used the term 'seasonal depression.' But she was clear about the fact that I was not clinically depressed. She thought that the dreary conditions of winter could be part of the cause and sent me home with vitamins and told me to try to spend some time in the sun. It made sense, and I was glad that my condition was not of too much consequence and that it would probably pass. And it did. The snow melted, the semester ended and I felt better. And I thought it had been temporary.

The following two winters came and went and I was fine. Then came the winter I lived in a basement. Again, when I look back the timing is strange. I had recently joined a sorority at my university which had instantly given me a new group of friends. I was also part of other organizations on campus and doing very well in school. My then-boyfriend-now-fiance and I, although struggling with being somewhat long distance were doing well. This time, I fault that basement. I had planned on commuting to school that year seeing that the costs for on-campus housing were astronomical and to me not worth the price. However, my mother, being a mother could not bear the thought of her oldest daughter making the hour plus drive to and from school especially during the winter. I also was not really looking forward to it so I investigated other options. Luckily, a few weeks before school began in September, I found what I thought was the perfect solution. A teacher, who lived just ten minutes from the university was going through a divorce and needed someone to watch her two children in the morning. All that was really required was to get them up, ready and on the bus to school. In exchange a room would be provided. I thought this would end up like one of those movies about the nannies who become the big sister the children never had. What fun! Well as we all know, movies generally do not accurately reflect reality. The children were not terrible but not by any means delightful. I imagine this was due to the fact that their parents were divorcing and their father had run off to Maine, all while they were trying to pass the 2nd and 4th grades. The room I was given to live in was their basement. Prior to the estranged father/husband leaving the family, he had taken over this basement and essentially hidden out there until he had the courage and where with all to leave altogether. The children loitered in the doorway of my room the day I moved in and nervously watched as I began to change things and remove the remnants of their father's hiding place. I wanted to make it my own home away from home, the dorm room I couldn't afford. So I re-arranged. It was more homey, more inviting once I was done, however nothing could be done to change the fact that the only natural light that entered the room came from a tiny, probably 2 foot by 2 foot window high above my bed. The symptoms from three years before returned. I missed some classes but nothing that would cause anyone else to worry. But I knew those feelings, I had felt them before. But just as before, the snow melted, the semester ended and I felt better.

Unlike the first time, the symptoms returned year after year, but as they had before they passed with the coming of each spring. Then I spent my first winter in Florida. I had moved here the previous summer to pursue my Disney career. Mind you this time, when the symptoms came, their onset was much more understandable. I was working at a job I did not like, I had moved here for Disney and was not even working there. I had no friends and lived alone in a tiny garage that had been converted into a studio apartment by a family who barely spoke any English. My then-boyfriend-now-fiance had a job that caused him to work late nights that in turn caused us to have much less time to spend together. But as it always does (in New England anyway) the snow melted, and I felt better again. This time it was different. My life had actually changed for what seemed was the better. I felt back on track again and felt that no, this could not be seasonal depression this year. I lived in FLORIDA for crying out loud! No, that winter it was situational. And I entirely believed it. Until this winter. This background story, however lengthy (apologies to my readers), has finally brought me to the meaning of writing this post.

This winter, again, I find myself suffering from what I only assume (and honestly hope) is seasonal depression. But this time, it doesn't make any sense. I still live in Florida, where although it has been colder than usual, the sun has been shining ever so brightly. I share a house with five friends that has large windows allowing me to soak up that beautiful sunshine. I have a job that I like, working for the company I moved here for and I'm getting married in just five months. Then I ask, what is causing the feelings to return? When they first began, I ignored them thinking, "What is wrong with you? You have everything you been wanting for so long! Stop being ridiculous" Then I began to pay attention to them, wondering, "why have these feelings returned?" The logic alludes me. So I rationalize. I don't have any friends, but I do have fiance who loves me. I have a job I like, but I am so far down the totem pole and part of such a large group of employees that my contributions are essentially meaningless. I am easily replaced. The stress of planning a wedding is getting to me but, I'm getting MARRIED! This back and forth could go on for days. What then is the cause? Is it situational? Is it seasonal? Is it even possible to be affected by seasonal depression when the biological causes are not there? Is it something else? I can't figure it out.

However, I would bet money that the snow will melt in New England, this winter will end and I will feel better again. The true test will come when we change the calenders to 2011 and winter comes to Florida again. What will happen then? I can only wonder and wait.

Thanks for reading.

The Dishwasher

I know its odd that a kitchen appliance would be of any true importance in a person's life, but as of late, I have found that the dishwasher and my interactions with it tell me a lot about myself.

As long as I can remember, my house always had a dishwasher in it. I learned to load and unload it at an early age and it was one of the chores that my sister and I would do. Although I was young, I remember pretty vividly actually, the day we had a new dishwasher installed in our kitchen. It was an exciting day, as my parents had become tired of washing dishes before putting them in the dishwasher since the one we had was not the best. The new dishwasher (which is still in use in my mother's kitchen) was a VERY expensive, Swedish import. Remember the TV commercial where the woman puts a dish with an entire cake in the dishwasher and the plate comes out perfectly clean? That is what this dishwasher was like and honestly still works as well to this day. Our family very much enjoyed putting dishes into the dishwasher without rinsing them at all and having them come out clean. So I learned to use the dishwasher in this way. When friends came over and wanted to help with the dishes, I'd have to explain to them that, "No, you don't have to rinse your dishes before you put them into the washer; we have an expensive, Swedish dishwasher that doesn't require that." How cool I thought that was. Apparently the fact that my dishwasher did not require your dishes to be rinsed made me better than you. How ridiculous. This did pose somewhat of a problem however as I got older and used other dishwashers. At friends houses, I would just put my dish directly into the dishwasher without rinsing, only to be looked at funny and then told that there was no way the dishes would come out clean unless I rinsed them first. Spoiled I was with our expensive, Swedish dishwasher. So that is my history with our dishwasher.
As I got older, I'd load and unload the dishwasher often. Although my parents never required us to do too many chores, I felt that this would help my mother out even in the smallest way. I never really took too much notice of the way I performed this chore. I just completed the task and that was that.

In college, I moved into an apartment that *gasp* did not have a dishwasher! What!? How ridiculous that in 2007, a home did not have a dishwasher. I'd soon find out that this was one of the many ways in which I was a very privileged child. I barely knew what to do with myself. I knew how to wash dishes the "old-fashioned" way as my family had upgraded beautiful All-Clad pots and pans when I was a teen that in no universe were allowed to be put into the dishwasher. But how inconvenient to have to wash everything! On top of that, I had a roommate who loved to cook but not to clean so our tiny sink would fill all too quickly with dirty dishes which I just despised.

I was so relieved when I graduated college and moved into an apartment with a dishwasher. I shared this apartment with four other girls who all kept very clean and we all did our part to handle the dishes. But now I am in a new situation, which has brought me to writing about my relationship with the dishwasher. Now, I'm always comparing the dishwashers I use and have had in the kitchens of the apartments I've lived in to the expensive, Swedish one in my mother's house. None ever compare. I'm not sure if that is true because I have built the one in my home up so much or they literally do not work as well. Either way, the dishwasher in the home I currently occupy is definitely the latter.

I live in a townhouse that is only a year and a half old but was clearly built as cheaply as possible and this includes the dishwasher that is installed in the kitchen. But the quality of the appliance is not what caused me to begin this post. I share the aforementioned townhouse with four other people. Three are male and one female. The female is not currently in the home, so I am the only girl with three boys. Although they are not the cleanest of men, they are not filthy either. Because there are so many of us sharing the space in the home, specifically the kitchen, everyone tries to keep things tidy and clean up after themselves. In addition, the three male roommates all know how to load, run and unload the dishwasher and all do perform the tasks. However, I clearly have some sort of affinity to organizing the dishes in said dishwasher to my liking.

Every single day, often more than once, I open the door and find the dishes are organized in some (to me) ridiculous manner. Bowls where plates should be, glasses teetering off one of the parts of the top rack meant to hold them up. How it makes me cringe! I spend at least ten minutes everyday arranging and re-arranging the dishes within the washer. I've also noticed that I will move all the dishes around to where I think they should be. Plates go in a certain area, bowls another and when a large pot or pan makes me change it up, I spend a good amount of time figuring out how to make it work within my pre-existing pattern. Is my way the most organized and efficient? I would answer yes but honestly, I don't know. It may be that I put them that way because I want them that way, not because it is uses less space. What's worse is that because this dishwasher is not of the highest quality, I will often end up sacrificing the cleanliness of the dishes in order to organize them my way. In other words, putting the dishes so close together or in ways that they just do not get as clean as they would, had they more space. It has even gone so far as my fiance literally taking dishes out of my hand and telling me to stop trying to re-arrange them and just run the washer. Or telling me to "just leave that one out and run it on the next load." LEAVE IT OUT!? Why on earth would I do that when I know I can manage to make it fit somewhere! Talk about being a control freak.

Now, when I began to notice myself rolling my eyes or becoming frustrated every time I opened that door, I wondered why? The dishes have made it into the dishwasher and are not in the sink. Everyone does help to start and empty the dishwasher. Why then, did I have a problem with how the dishes are organized within those racks? I've always been a person who liked things well organized. My mother has told me that even as a child, I always organized my toys and other things very meticulously. Although recent study has shown that to be a sign of autism or OCD, I just liked things a certain way. I have grown up to like organization but honestly I am not such a neat freak that its very obvious. In the same vein, I've found that I love puzzles and puzzle games like those played to waste time on the computer. Although, when learning I tend to do better with concepts that use the right side of the brain, when it comes to day to day life, I am definitely prone to use my left side, being more logical and sequential. So this begs the question, is my relationship with the dishwasher just exciting the part of me that likes puzzles or is it the part of me that wants to be in control of something? Honestly, I think its a little of both. Either way, its funny to me that the dishwasher, a kitchen appliance of all things would bring all of this out of me. It just goes to show you, its the little things that tell you the most about yourself.

Thanks for reading.

First Post

Although new to blogging, I have been writing for a long time. In college, I discovered a true love for writing and thanks to professors who would accept nothing less than my best, I feel that I was able to begin developing my writing skills. Someday I'd like to enroll in a graduate level writing program but until my fiance is finished with school and I can talk him into believing that going back to school is really in every one's best interest, recreational writing will have to suffice.

Since my current occupation does not allow me much in terms of expressing my feelings (with words anyway), I've figured writing a blog might be the next best thing. I love reading the blogs of friends whom I am no longer able to see regularly so I thought maybe some of these friends would like to keep up with me as well. My feelings are always mixed on social networking so we'll see how this goes.

Thanks for reading.

"Around here, however, we don’t look backwards for very long. We keep moving forward, opening up new doors and doing new things because we're curious and curiosity keeps leading us down new paths.”~Walt Disney