11 days! People keep asking me, “Are you getting nervous?!” No way, Jose. I am excited as hell. If I were any more excited, I would be lying awake at night while peeing my pants. I am also ready to go. We need to get the guestbook poster printed and construct the cake topper, but otherwise are completely ready for this. That’s a good feeling.

In other domestic news, Mr.W and I bought our first piece of furniture together: a couch. The couch we have currently is one I got my senior year of college. The upholstry is outdated and it has since gone through 5 moves–the most recent of which resulting in a permanent depression on the left-hand side. Needless to say, a replacement was sorely needed.

Also, WE ARE GETTING A KITTEN!! Probably around December/January. And it’s going to be a Ragdoll. I am very excited about this! Ragdolls are a little pricey, but they are also just about the best cat in the world. It evens out.

Why?, you ask.

–They are large-sized cats.
–Their fur is like rabbit fur.
–Though they have longer hair, it doesn’t shed a lot or mat. You just need to brush them to help with hairballs.
–They are smart and can be trained to do all sorts of things.
–They are super friendly and people-oriented: greet you at the door, follow you around, love to be picked up or groomed, all around lap cats.
–And they’re pretty!

[I was going to post some pictures of ragdolls here, but apparently WordPress doesn't like Chrome or IE9--the only two browsers I have.  Thanks a lot, stupid WordPress.]

Dear Year 2010,

You started out pretty sketchy. I went to the hospital a few times, had to use crutches… I don’t approve of those things. But you have totally redeemed yourself. I just wanted to write a letter to tell you that you have kicked every other Year’s ass. (Even that Year when I got to pet a freakin’ cheetah, and you know how cool that is.)

Your biggest fan,
Me

Truth.

I’ve been rereading one of my favorite books and came across a line spoken right after a character had to make a tough decision:
“Hardest thing I ever did … So now I suppose I can do the second hardest thing.”

That sort of thing has been on my mind lately.  Since Christmas specifically, when I did the hardest thing I’ve ever done.  I finally told my mom that, as a little girl, I was molested.  (Hey, hey, now the second hardest thing can be checked off my list!)  I’ve only told 3 or 4 people that in my life.  If you aren’t one of those people, it probably still didn’t surprise you all that much.  When I finally told my mom she said she had figured something like that had happened, but that she wished I had told her long ago.  Me too.  It felt so good to get that off my chest, which is also the reason I’m doing it now.  I’m tired of holding things in.  I don’t want to do it anymore.  So here’s a veritable Truth-Day-Free-For-All.

I was abused twice, one time I cannot remember except for incredibly vague details.  I’ve tried to remember it, but start shaking and crying.  So I’ve stopped trying.  I was 9 and 12.  First time was in school, in a girl’s bathroom.  Second was in a summer Bible camp, of all places.  Both times were boys in my age group.  I have had and continue to have some pretty deep-seated trust issues when it comes to men.  (I’m sure that’s a big shock for you all.  “Teri?  Trust issues?  No!”)

So there’s that.  If I can blog about that, there’s really nothing I can’t blog about.  For example, I was suicidal my sophomore year of college.  And the only reason that I didn’t kill myself is because I couldn’t.  I had no car and was living on the second floor of a small, Christian college dormitory.  I had no access to pills or weapons.  That is the lowest point at which I’ve ever been–not wanting to live anymore but unable to kill myself.  I had gone through several months of heavy depression and pushed away all of my friends (or tried to).  I almost lost my friendships with Tim and Steph, two of the most important people in my life, back then and today.   Unfortunately, I lost some other friends irrevocably.  I regret some of those.

Thirdly, I am a little racist.  I try not to be.  Hell, Steph is one of my best friends, and she’s half-Black.  I blame a lot of this on working at the hotel, where I was not exposed to the best examples of humanity.  And I think another part of it is that it’s a culture I am not a part of, and therefore have trouble understanding.  Not all, but the majority of Black men intimidate me.  Frighten me, might be more appropriate a statement.  That is unfortunate for many reasons, one of which being I have certain physical attributes that they seem to find very appealing.

Fourthly, I haven’t been going to church, because I don’t want to go to church.  I hate all the pretense involved.  I’m sure some of this might be “self-fulfilled prophecies” because I felt I needed to put on a pretense around church-people, but I don’t think I can take all the blame for this one.  I can understand why the world mocks them.  I’m one of them, and I mock them.  Living in legalistic little bubbles, surrounded by an air of holier-than-thou perfection.  Can we just get a bunch together and say, “Man, we’re all seriously fucked up,” and then just take it from there?  I would love that.  I think some of my dislike toward the “bubble people” stems from jealousy.  I am jealous at their ability to live in this bubble, or see the world through rose-colored glasses, or however you want to phrase it.  I’m jealous because I can’t do it.

Damn, I feel better.

I feel old.

Not because of my actual age, but because of the ages of some of the people around me.  For example, my brother turns 18 in December.  For all intents and purposes, that’s next month.  Eighteen!  When did this happen?  I can still vividly remember the days when he wore diapers and called me “Resa.”  (If I were my father, I’d then continue on to say something like, “It was only just last week.”  But I’m not.)

I saw a picture of one of my friends and her brother (taken at his wedding, no less).  In the picture, he’s Josh: this big, tough army guy who was fighting over in Afghanistan and is now going to Iraq.  But I look at him and can still see little Joshy: the boy who followed me and my friend around and played G.I. Joes with us.

I think it weirds me out because I don’t really feel like I’ve changed all that much.  I don’t feel a lot of time has passed in which I could have changed.  But then I am presented with overwhelming physical evidence to the contrary.  It’s unsettling.

You know what’s not/less unsettling?  Guitar Hero III is out!!  We’re getting it tomorrow!  Yay!

Speaking of things that aren’t unsettling–they are opening a gym in the building where I work.  And it’s free to employees!  I’m making it my goal to go after work every weekday.  Staying after work for an extra hour will also help me avoid some of those crazy-packed rush-hour trains.  I miss living within walking distance to where I work.  I was really spoiled.

Speaking of trains–Tim and I take the morning train together several days a week.  I like these days, because a train ride with him always puts me (and sometimes the people around us) in a good mood.  One morning I said “Clark and Lake” and he thought I said “Duck and Cluck.”  Since then, we’ve developed a very clear concept of what “Duck and Cluck” is.  It’s a train game where, during rush hour when the train is crammed full of people, a person will throw a live chicken into the air and yell “Duck and Cluck!”  Everyone proceeds to duck and dodge as the flustered bird rockets around the train car.  Once things settle down, people brush the feathers from their clothing and have a hearty laugh.  (At no point have I ever claimed that Tim and I are not crazy.)  We’ve gotten laughs from strangers around us.  We were joking on the train this morning (not about Duck and Cluck) when Tim laughed and said, “I feel sorry for the people around us.”  A woman promptly replied, “It’s pretty amusing, actually.”