Notice of Eviction

Dear Unwanted House Guests,

The funny part is I do not remember you actually asking if you could live here.  There was no ad placed on Westside Rentals touting “a fun place for silverfish to hang out and do their thing.”  I received no applications and no permission was granted for your admission.  In fact, I expressly remember boarding up what I assumed was your favorite entrance with a totally insect-proof wall plate.  Yet, you ignored all the warning signs and chose to wreak havoc anyway.

Had you asked nicely if you and your dozens of offspring could lay eggs and take up residence in my laundry basket, I still would have said no.  Why?  Because I’m insectist.  This may not be very Buddhist or vegan-friendly of me, but I’m sorry.  You are NOT wanted here.

I never received a deposit for the tissues I’ve wasted returning your cousins to the dust from whence they came.  Nor do I remember a contract with a panic attack clause, which would have cost you extra.  Not only that, but you’ve kept me up at night, literally, wondering when you little heathens were going to strike next.  You’ve sent out messengers to the master bath and guest bath; I’ve even seen some of your relatives in plain view on my walls!  Have you no shame? 

I realize that you like the water.  However, now that it is gorgeous outside, wouldn’t you prefer to set up camp by the sprinkler systems?  I’d even settle for you creeping up across the hall, where our lovely older single neighbor may enjoy your company.  Or perhaps you’d like to pack up your things and move further down the hall to enjoy some authentic Russian cooking next door.

Regardless of where you go, you must go.  Because unless you get a job, establish credit and start paying off the hefty fines you’ve accrued for emotional and psychological damages, I’m through.  I’m kicking you out.  By whatever means necessary.  That’s right.  I’ve been told that Pic powder kills you.  So even if I have to gate my dog from your favorite hang-outs for a little while, I will.  Because I’m sick of it.  Mi casa is NOT su casa.  This is not your crib.  So go pimp another hood with your colony and leave us the F alone.

You’ve been served.  You have 30 days with which to comply or else it’s off with your tiny little heads.

Sincerely,

The Giant Armed with a Kleenex Box Who Screams and Swears When she Sees You

P.S.  My four-legged furry bouncer will be watching you.

Revelation

Revelation

I am NOT claustrophobic!  I may have a lot of fears and anxieties, but one place these things don’t come out to play with my mind is in small spaces.  I once had an MRI, but the scariest part for me was not knowing how the injection of radioactive material was going to feel (it burned).  I’ve been in numerous caves during family trips to Tennessee and Missouri, as well as some pretty confined spaces in an archaeological site in Israel.  I often sleep with covers over my ears and sheets tucked around my body, only releasing my sockless feet once the temperature rises too high. 

I’m not scared! 

You know what else?  I’m not afraid of heights!  During a field trip to the Sears Tower as a kid (what’s this Willis nonsense, now?), I rode the elevator up to the observation deck and was only scared when I temporarily lost my sense of hearing from the abrupt change in air pressure.  I pressed my body against the glass window and looked out onto the miles of cityscape countless stories beneath me.  I like the window seat on planes the best.  In college, when no one would climb the rickety ladder to the ceiling to put a gel over a light in the TV studio, I volunteered.  I drove lifts that extended high into the trees when I worked as a stage hand, and I even bravely walked over catwalks with no safety to catch me if I’d fall – okay, I admit THAT was a little scary.

I am NOT afraid of heights…but that doesn’t mean I’ll jump out of a plane.  Ever. : )

I also love thunderstorms.  The bigger and louder the better.  I was afraid of them when I was really young and I don’t quite recall when the sound of a storm began calming me down instead of riling me up.  But for years, I’ve loved them, and ever since moving from a very stormy state to a state that institutes severe thunderstorm warnings in the morning mist, I’ve really missed thunder and lightning.  Somewhere, I’ve even got a CD of thunderstorm sounds, sans music. 

Last week, I was reminded that even though I’m afraid of a lot, there are a few things that will probably never faze me.  And as a self-described scaredy-cat, that’s really nice to know!

Full Disclosure

Sure, I’ve been writing a blog about fears that people in other cities, states and countries have been reading.  I’ve talked about my fear of ziplining, my fear of insects, my fear of driving fast and my fear of throwing up.  And everything I’ve expressed has been true, personal and honest. 

But I think thus far I’ve really only been spewing out fears that I know many people can relate to.  They’re common fears and it’s easy for me to write about them here, without judgment, because in the moment that my words are coming across the page, no one is trying to make me do anything about them.  I can’t see the odd looks on my friends’ faces or hear the creeped-out whistles or have anyone giggle at me and point.  You can only read and listen and I can feel proud that I’ve gotten the words out on the page, no matter how much hemming and hawing preceded them.

But this week I think I truly realized how hard it is having one fear in particular exposed.  Folks, I’ve got a fear of deep water, and perhaps, underneath all that, a slight fear of drowning.

Why

My parents are not to blame.  They forced me into swimming lessons as soon as I was old enough, and at the age of 4 or 5, I wouldn’t put my face underwater…not for a long, long time.  I jumped off the diving board at our community pool only once because my swim instructor PROMISED me she’d catch me at the bottom.  Only she didn’t.  I yelled at her and cried.  How can you break a little kid’s promise when they’re TERRIFIED???  It isn’t like riding a bike.  You can see the sidewalk and you know what will happen if you fall.  But the depths of the rippling pool beneath me were too much to bear.

Despite that event, I continued to go to the pool with my family, even jumping off the side of the pool into the shallow end (frowned upon by many lifeguards).  I continued taking swimming lessons and had perfect backstroke form, even perfect breaststroke form.  There was just one problem:  I couldn’t breathe.  I was told to blow bubbles out of my nose, but no matter what I did, I couldn’t get enough air out, and when I came up for air, I had to exhale before inhaling again, which tired me out after only a few strokes, and I’d have to stand up and start again. 

The result?  I can’t REALLY swim.  And it wasn’t for lack of trying.  I think I was in swimming lessons for 5 or 6 summers, but I could never advance.  And once my instructor told me I needed to start shaving my legs, I was done.

Still, my friend taught me to turn flips in the pool.  Once I learned that trick it’s all I did in a pool…that, and play catch and dog paddle around and float on my back.  I never even learned how to properly tread water.

The Event that Scarred me for Life

One summer, I was entertaining myself in the pool and my mom was sitting over on the lounge chairs reading a book.  I flipped underwater and opened my mouth by accident…and inhaled water.  Instantly my nose and throat began burning and when I surfaced I. COULDN’T. BREATHE.  I coughed and coughed but no air was getting in.  I thought I was going to drown.  I somehow got myself to the side of the pool and eventually choked up water.  But you know what?  NO ONE SAW.  No lifeguard came to my aid.  No other kid in the pool alerted anyone or swam over to me to make sure I was all right.  And I think that was scarier than nearly drowning…the fact that no one was watching.  It’s why I don’t really like swimming in lakes or oceans to this day.  People get immersed in their own thing and even if you’ve got a swimming buddy, they may not notice in time that you’re in trouble.  The thought of knowing that you can’t breathe, that you’re going to drown and someone is within earshot and you can’t call out…honestly, it’s just too much.

To top it all off, a young child drowned while in the kiddie pool at my swim club, just 12 or so inches of water with parents all around.  Years later while in a writing class in high school, one of my classmates wrote a poem about his baby brother and how he drowned.  It was the same kid, and I always thought about him, even though I wasn’t there that day at the pool, even though I didn’t know him.  I just couldn’t believe that in the midst of lifeguards and adults, some poor little boy could have suffered and drowned.

High School Humiliation

Like most kids, I dreaded going to gym class.  The ugly uniforms, the public display of my unathleticism and the daily dance of trying to hide my body while changing in the locker rooms…I think I’ve mostly blocked the shame and embarrassment out of my memory. 

But the dread was worse when I became a junior.  You see, juniors and seniors had to enroll in one swimming class per semester, and not only was I going to have to figure out how to hide my body while getting naked and putting on a swimsuit, but I was going to have to swim.  In front of others.  In a pool that was mostly deep end. 

I was a really good student.  Raised my hand all the time in class.  Participated in tons of after-school activities…speech team, theatre board, plays, band, orchestra…you name it, I was doing it.  I was good at a lot of things, and the things I wasn’t good at, well, I could fake them.  Except for swimming.  My face flushed the first day our gym teacher had us swim laps.  I couldn’t.  With the way I breathed, I didn’t have the stamina.  I didn’t know how.  I was the only kid hanging out with a special instructor in the shallow end.

For an assessment, I actually tried as HARD as I could to swim a lap, but during the test I kicked so hard that I started having a major muscle spasm in my leg and had to stop.  My teacher accused me of just trying to get out of it.  I got a note and limped to my next class, and THAT teacher accused me of faking being late.  She hated me, but that’s another story.  It’s just all part of the gym class swimming humiliation.

No, I Don’t Own Water Wings

I currently have a pool downstairs at my condo that I have, on occasion, taken a dip in.  But I stick to the shallow end for the most part.  I’m NOT afraid of the water itself.  And I’m more comfortable in pools than I am in actual bodies of water with roaring waves to unsteady my footing.

Last year, my husband and I took a trip to Hawaii and decided to go snorkeling.  I pushed that thought to the back of my mind.  Because not only would I be wearing a bikini in public for the first time, not only would I be swimming in the ocean, not only was I going to have to breathe through a snorkeling tube and put a mask on my face, but I was going to have to swim WITH FISH. 

I am not AFRAID of fish.  I think they’re pretty; I also eat sushi.  But what if I touched one?  Ew ew ew ew ew!  What if it brushed against my leg?

All of this and more came to a head at Hanauma Bay, the premier place for snorkeling on Oahu.  I put the mask on, waved to the camera, floated and — NO!  The minute I felt water touch the tip of the nose part on my mask, I was up.  Clearly it was going to go up my nose, I’d inhale it, choke and drown.  I tried again and again and again.  It took me nearly an hour to finally realize that that loud sound coming through the tube was normal — it was not Darth Vader; it was just me breathing air.  Not water.  The cold water outside my mask was just that — outside.  And I wasn’t going to drown in 4 feet of water at low tide. 

Once I got the hang of it, it didn’t stop me from having panic attacks.  The safety video we watched before snorkeling warned us to stay off the corals.  However, it was nearly impossible not to swim over them at low tide and get stuck while trying not to injure the colorful stripey fish.  I had constant panic attacks where I needed to stand up and catch my breath above the surface.  Sure, I pushed through my fear and was proud, but that doesn’t mean I “got better.”  I am not miraculously cured of the fears associated with snorkeling.  I can’t make a panic attack go away or stop hyperventilating within the mask and tube once I start.

Do I WANT to go snorkeling again?  Sure!  But on my terms in a place where I can be comfortable and secure in knowing that I can stand up, pop my mask off and calm myself down again.

For those who have major anxieties and fears, I am sure that even if you’re a great swimmer and don’t fear anything to do with the water, you can agree that your fears are your own.  And you might not want them out in the open, discussed, and probed.  You don’t want to be pushed into doing things that make you uncomfortable; if you choose to conquer your fears you’ll do them on your own terms in your own time. 

This past week, I was a mess over having my fears of deep water and snorkeling exposed to just a few people…and I’m pretty sure they all knew about my water insecurities already.  But here I am sharing them all with you.  It’s not funny that I never became a strong swimmer or never figured out how to breathe properly (I DID find out I have a deviated septum that might make that more difficult, by the way) or am afraid to have fish touch me underwater even though I was totally cool swimming with a dolphin in a pool.  And it’s not sad.  You don’t have to feel sorry for me.  I don’t feel I’m missing out and MAYBE one day I’ll learn or conquer that fear.  And just because that day is not today, it doesn’t mean I’m a failure.  I might just be the bravest person you’ve ever (or never) met.

Yet Another Nightmare

Right now, I’m really glad I don’t live in New South Wales:

http://news.yahoo.com/blogs/sideshow/thousands-spiders-blanket-australian-farm-escaping-flood-165958059.html

Capertillars

Before Adam Sandler sold out and made Jack & Jill, he made some better movies like 50 First Dates, The Wedding Singer, and Big Daddy.  And for whatever reason, the way the little boy in Big Daddy cutely mispronounces “caterpillar” has stayed with me, hence the title of tonight’s post.

So why did I name this Capertillars?  Because I saw a caterpillar today and I was instantly upset.

Despite the fact that probably my all-time favorite children’s book is The Very Hungry Caterpillar, I despise the way caterpillars’ bodies slink.  Nevermind that they usually turn into delicate butterflies, which I love.  I mean, nevermind that they’re the same darn creature in either form.  It doesn’t matter.  With their many pairs of legs fanning their long bodies out like a wave as they clamber across the sidewalk and up the trees, I can’t help but get the willies.

I think this all stems from a bizarre incident that happened when I was about 9 or 10 years old.  Each year for a few weeks, my neighborhood would get completely inundated by these small black caterpillars.  They’d be all over the sidewalk and I’d become weirdly OCD about not stepping on them or having them touch me.  Some of the kids from school would pick them up and let them crawl across their palms, but not me.  No way, Jose.  I was a bonafide chicken when it came to insects, even back then.

Feeling safe that the most recent influx of creepy crawlies had started waning, I returned home from school one day to find both my parents outside.  Dad was swearing and stomping.  Mom was waving from the front porch.  And covering the exterior of my house from sidewalk to doorframe were the thickest, flowiest, most terrifying caterpillars I’d ever seen.  About the size of my thumb, each giant black caterpillar had a flourescent yellow stripe down its back.

Dad was screaming disgustedly about goop coming out of them as he stomped on them and Mom was gesturing for me to come inside.  I couldn’t move.  I was frozen in my tracks.  I couldn’t take one step forward, lest the goop “get” me or a caterpillar fell on my head.  I literally think it took the better side of an hour to get me in the house.  I nearly had a tantrum out of intense fear.  I just knew that the one giant caterpillar over the door was going to flop off and touch me.

It did not.

Maybe it would have been better if it had because to this day, I still jump and shiver when I see a caterpillar.  And I get how the whole caterpillar to butterfly life cycle thing works.  It’s the same insect.  Yet I still hold out my hand to each beautiful butterfly I see.  Go figure.

Wasps are Persistent Little Bastards

Yesterday while avoiding my home office and slowly plodding through some freelance work on the living room couch, I noticed there was a bee buzzing around on the balcony.  I shivered, but felt secure, protected by both a thick layer of screen and heavy glass sliding doors.  It flew away and I thought that was that.

Half an hour later, I noticed the bee had long bendy legs and wings, the tell-tale signs of a wasp.  It was actually investigating our porch, zooming around our sun screen from side to side, landing on our haphazardly hung twinkle lights, crawling around on the balcony ceiling and even disappearing into an old curtain runner with hooks.

On my husband’s suggestion, I searched our cabinet for Wasp & Yellow Jacket spray foam, and this morning after noticing the wasp hanging out again, Greg rolled up the sun screen and sprayed where we’d seen the evil-looking insect loitering.  We basically wiped our hands of the problem.  But an hour later, the bee was back.

And even now as I sit here “keeping an eye on it,” the leggy wasp seems to have grown in size — unless they’ve decided to send in the “big guns” to intimidate us.  Honestly, that’s what it looks like he’s doing (in this scenario, I’ve decided the wasp is male, just roll with it).  He keeps buzzing up near our screen and hitting it like he’s pissed off we foiled his nest-building plans.  Honestly, I think he’s trying to get in to give me a piece of his mind…or stinger.  And he’s buzzing around closer to the sliding door, which is bad news for us.  If he starts building a nest there, we won’t be able to get at it with the spray and will have to call in some big guns of our own — a bee removal service.

I am terrified.  Greg went out there in shorts and a t-shirt this morning to spray.  If I was going to go out there, I’d have long pants, long sleeves, a hood, gloves and a face mask to protect me from the poison.  I feel like I should spray more but I’m scared I’ll either inadvertently let the wasp inside to attack me and Brody or he’ll “get me” while I’m out there, or I’ll accidentally spray the foam inside or in my eye or something klutzy, as I’m prone to do.

So in the meantime, I’m trying to show the wasp who’s boss by banging on the sliding door and yelling at it to go the hell away.  I’m not so sure it’s working on the wasp, but it’s definitely working on my dog, who slinked away and is now laying near the door instead of his favorite place in the sun.

I’m headed off to yoga in a few and if I come back and find there’s more than one wasp hanging out on our balcony, we’re going to have a serious problem.  I’ll show them my Hulk impression from the other side of the glass and if they’re not scared by that, I’ll just have to introduce them to my little friend, the massive can of Enforcer Foam.

Perhaps a Little TMI

I’ve grown.  You only need to look at the events of the past week to see how.

First, let’s start with my mild emetophobia (fear of throwing up).  The last time I violently emptied the contents of my stomach was at 15 years old after getting food poisoning from a bad burger at my high school.  I was so viciously ill – not to mention seriously grossed out about the epically foul patty - that I didn’t touch ground beef at all until about 2005.  And for whatever reason, the powers that be smiled down on me and decided I’d had enough and I didn’t toss my cookies ever again…until Tuesday. 

Normally, Mr. Upchuck is preceded by minutes or even hours of nausea and sweating, and for me, thick swallowing, crying, digging toes into the carpet, whining, panicking, palpitations and praying that either it will happen RIGHT NOW or never.  Bless those powers that be though for making this unpleasant event occur without warning.  Granted, this created a much bigger mess that I was then forced to clean while my insides continued to clean out with the help of 4 liters of sodium bicarbonate prescribed so that I could endure what is known in the gastrointestinal world as a “double whammy” — an endoscopy and colonoscopy.  Fun stuff, let me tell ya.  But hey.  At least I wasn’t sitting in a puddle of fear waiting for the inevitable.

Anyways, sparing you all the gory details, is it pathetic that I’m actually proud of myself for making it through?  I threw up, so what?  It happened and now I don’t have to worry about it anymore.  I had a good streak going there for 16 years…maybe I can go another 16.

Secondly, I had to undergo the afore-mentioned invasive procedures as part of routine maintenance for a suspected mild case of Crohn’s Disease.  If you’re not really sure what it is, don’t worry.  I’m not 100% sure either, except that it involves swelling in the colon and can cause narrowing of the intestines and can be really painful, embarrassing and make you feel very abnormal in the abdominal region.  I’ve probably been living with this (or IBS or IBD or all three, or colitis or a number of other issues) for years but this time around we’re hoping for a definitive diagnosis. 

I’d previously had two colonoscopies and one endoscopy as well as an MRI, several blood tests, and even a test in which I had to drink something weird and blow into a machine every fifteen minutes.  So this wasn’t all that scary for me…except the part where I had to drink the massive jug of metallic salty-tasting solution designed to shrink your stomach to the size of a pea, give you a supreme case of the shivers and keep you on the toilet till midnight.  I was so dang nervous about drinking that stuff because it makes me gag and dry heave…but not at all concerned about getting knocked out or about what they might find.  I’m mostly okay with needles, so the IV was a cinch (except for the part where they couldn’t find a vein, but what else is new).  Nope, it was the drinking that I was afraid of…that and the fact that during my last colonoscopy 4 or so years ago, I just so happened to wake up during the procedure.  (shiver)  But I requested that my doctor give me extra anesthesia this time so I was out like a light, and even once I woke I continued to act so drugged that I asked Greg the same question no less than four times in the space of about ten minutes.  Hilarity! 

So, for drinking MOST of the 4-liter jug of sodium bicarbonate and living through the yucky gastrointestinal procedures, I must pat myself on the back again.  I faced these challenges with dignity, tissues jammed up my nostrils so I couldn’t taste the putrid liquid, and my favorite fuzzy bathrobe, and only whimpered and moaned a few hundred times.  I was a champ.

Now, while awaiting my -oscopies, the hospital was running seriously behind.  I was told to check in at 9:30 am, so we left the house at 8 (hey, rush hour traffic on LA’s infamous 405 South is nothing to scoff at), got to the hospital by 9 and proceeded to wait…and wait…and wait some more.  I was not called back till about noon, when my initial appointment was scheduled for 10:30 am.  I had hoped to be leaving the hospital for home by noon.  So besides proving that waiting is the worst part of any medical test, a new fear sprouted in my mind.  Our dog Brody was at home alone with full run of the living room, dining area and kitchen for the longest time since he’d eaten an eighth of his weight in dog food just two weeks after he was adopted.  Since the incident that dragged us to the animal emergency room on Valentine’s Day 2010, Brody had been crated.  And my four or five replacement pairs of shoes had been happy.

However, lately we’ve been leaving Brody for up to 3 or 4 hours uncrated as an experiment.  With nothing out of place, we figured leaving him for the morning would be fine.  What we didn’t expect was that we’d be getting home 6 hours later. 

All signs point to Brody having slept all day, so feeling oddly confident, I suggested leaving Brody uncrated for seven hours while we were both at work on Friday.  This was completely out of character.  For the past two years, I’ve been the worrywort.  I always knew that at some point I’d be ready to leave him out of his “house” (partially because he was destroying every last towel we put in there) but I didn’t know I’d be ready now. 

So that’s the third thing I’m proud of this week.  Plus, I’m very proud of Brody for being a good boy and not touching a thing!  My shoes and I profoundly thank him.

As a side note, I apologize for being a bit too busy these days to write or to accomplish any crazy fears, but as you can see, I’m still working on my anxieties…even the little ones.  So I hope you’ll continue to support me on my journey!

Can’t Make Up My Mind

I’ve been dragging my heels on making a decision.  I don’t usually hem and haw over things so much.  Just a few words into Greg’s original JDate profile, I was hooked.  Thirty seconds after meeting Brody, I knew I was taking him home.  Twenty minutes into reading about UCSD’s Copyediting Certificate Program, I resolved to sign up—though I put it off and ultimately got waitlisted for the winter session, leading me to believe I may have a slight fear of actually succeeding – but more on this in a future post.  I pick out my own clothes, decide on my own hairstyles, and write my Facebook status updates according to however I’m feeling at the moment.  All of these things are hilarious, too, because they make me seem spontaneous, when what I really am is a hardcore planner.

Here’s the background on my impossible, yet somewhat trivial, decision.  I’ve started doing a little more freelance work and thought it might be a good idea to have a business card.  I’ve only ever had one business card when I freelanced for a small non-for-profit, and I was very hesitant to hand it out.  It seemed like an odd thing to bring up in conversation – “oh, by the way, I write eco-friendly enewsletters and you should sign up.  Here!”  There was no motivation for me to network.  I was already getting paid generously per article and having more registrants wasn’t going to directly benefit me.  It also wasn’t my passion.  Sure, I like to recycle and conserve energy and resources as much as the next guy, but I wasn’t gung-ho about it.  It was just a freelance gig I’d somehow managed to nab by writing a silly little rhyme about water conservation.

This new business card would be for ME.  I’ve started helping people out with their resumes a little bit and I’d love to gain more (aka PAYING) clients.  I have a passion and a knack for this and really feel great about helping people find work, particularly when they’ve been unemployed for an extended time or are new to the city, or even new to the whole “earning their keep” thing.  I’d love to suavely hand over a business card after freshening up their resume so they’ll keep in touch or pass my name along to another potential client. 

In addition, I’m doing more freelance work in general.  And though it’s making me just a teensy bit insane, I like it.  I like to be busy, and being busier keeps me more focused so I’m less likely to procrastinate or melt into the couch to the tune of Teen Mom reruns and Kitchen Nightmares marathons.  Knowing that I’m contributing to our savings by putting in a little extra work and effort also makes me feel proud in a way that I just don’t feel working at my full-time job.  Odd, I know.  But who doesn’t like making money?  We start as little kids.  First it’s the Tooth Fairy.  Then the lemonade stand.  I also recall trying to sell greeting cards and friendship bracelets in my neighborhood.  Money used to be about Garbage Pail Kids cards and candy, but these days, money = medical and financial security, comfort, food, seeing my family, vacations, clothes, gifts for others and the occasional splurge.  So if I have to work a couple more hours a week to get all that, is that really such a struggle?

There’s also a small business in my neighborhood that had a totally useless website filled with lorem ipsum text (the Latin placeholder words people use to determine layout in documents, for the web, etc.) for half a year.  I continuously emailed them to offer my services (even for free) in creating engaging brand copy to help market their café.  But I never heard back.  Maybe if I’d walked in with a business card, that opportunity would have panned out.

Also, I like free lunch.  And many restaurants offer free lunch and other items through monthly drawings – if you drop your business card into the fish bowl.  It just doesn’t seem fair that because I don’t happen to have a business card, I can’t get free food.

So, for all of these reasons and more, I’d love to legitimize and validate myself as a writer, and maybe even get a little better at that whole networking thing by ordering business cards. 

Last weekend I designed an inexpensive card online and showed it to Greg, who, just before I was about to click “order,” suggested that I grab a website domain.  BWAH???  Put my work out there?  Actually show my writing?  Gain clients and exposure?  Hold on, buddy.  I just wanted a free lunch. 

I mean, not that I’m not excited about the prospect.  Last year I began this blog and I’ve enjoyed the limited exposure and sharing my writing with friends, family, and quite a few strangers from across the globe that seem to have an obsession with desert blond tarantulas and spiny stick insects.   (My WordPress Site Stats don’t lie, you bug fanatics!)

But I can’t decide on the website name.  I’ve narrowed it down to my top two candidates, and though some of you have already voted, I really need your help.  This website would appear on my business card, and possibly even be added to job inquiries, future cover letters, and more to link to my resume and examples of my writing, including short stories, this blog, reviews and other articles I’ve penned.

I’ve already posted the vote on Facebook, but people are divided…and so am I!  Is it better to keep it professional and simple and have my first name in the URL, or do I want to be quirky so people will remember me?  What do you think?

Please vote by commenting on this post.  The top two contenders are:

1. Wordsbyjenny.com
2. Nerdforwords.com

Help me decide and get over my weird little fears of making a decision and putting myself out there—give me solid reasons as to why I should use one over the other for a professional site.  I promise I’ll make a decision soon, because if I wait too long, these names might get snatched up by someone else!

Thanks in advance!

Cold Feet

Three years ago today, I was having my hair done before walking down the aisle.  While my feet are always like icicles under the covers when I go to bed, I was sure that I wanted to marry my husband.  Always.  I even remember telling my mom after just a few weeks that if ever there was a man I wanted to marry, it was Greg.

I’m not really sure what gives people so-called “cold feet” when it comes to marrying the person they love.  Although the stress factor shot up exponentially when we were in that dreaded wedding planning phase, I don’t believe either of us changed.  We already lived together, so the blame game on whose shoes were left out to trip over (mine) or whose pants were always in a pile on the floor (his) was already down pat.  We knew who vacuumed (him) and who dusted (me).  He knew that every so often I just needed to cry, and he brought me ice cream to cheer me up.  I knew that every so often he just needed to be alone and tried to give him his space, hard as that sometimes was.  We both knew we wanted a dog as soon as we could get one.  For so very many reasons, I just didn’t have any doubts, and I was never worried that Greg would “leave me at the altar.”

I knew that my life was only beginning and that although my days as a single girl were going to be over, I didn’t care – in fact, I was eager to see them go!  Greg has seen me eat like a pig (reasons why no one is invited over for tacos #47), has heard me snort from laughing too hard (maybe the reason I don’t eat pork is because I’m part pig), and has seen my alien hair (the best way to enhance my natural waves).  He’s watched me stub my toes – daily – and fall to the floor, not knowing whether I’m laughing or crying and he knows I almost always burn myself at the kitchen sink.  He knows if I call him a name out of spite I don’t really mean it and that I have a hard time not taking care of him when he’s too sick to want company. 

If either one of us had gotten cold feet at that wedding, I don’t know where I’d be today.  I married my best friend.  He’s seen me at my best and my worst and still loves me whether my face is covered in chocolate, I’ve just burped like a truck driver or didn’t realize I put my underwear on backwards. 

Three years ago my feet were light, comfortable, certain and confident.  It may have been raining, but my feet were warm because they were walking towards their future to join a bigger pair of feet that were about to crush a glass to signify the end of walking through life alone. 

Happy Anniversary to my incredibly patient, supportive, romantic, witty and wonderful husband.  When I’m in your arms, it’s pretty hard to be afraid of anything.

It Could Happen

Basically, this is my worst nightmare.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BYadDH-7Wew