On accessorizing

Accessorizing is my new favorite fashion endeavor. I've never been what I would consider "good" at pairing accessories with outfits, but recently I've been putting some effort into it and I'm loving the result! Adding accessories is a great way to make an old outfit come back to life and feel new and fresh again! Also, it's a great way to dress up comfy items (my fave!) and make them look a hint fancier without sacrificing any comfort. 

Plus, accessorizing doesn't have to break the bank! I just recently picked up this intricate multistrand necklace from Target for only $14.99.

On goodbyes and things I learned from Twilight

You can only say "I love you" so many times. There's only so many hugs you can give, and so much time you can hold on. At some point, you have to let go.

Justin has been gone now for 170 days. In that time, he's spent two weeks at home-- the last of which was about a month ago. This time was the hardest goodbye, because I knew he'd be leaving for seven months straight, and that where he was going would be dangerous and possibly unreachable by phone and internet. I was able to walk him to his gate in the airport on his last day here. In theory, this sounds like a great idea, but in reality it really just prolongs the inevitable last kiss, last hug-- last goodbye.

When you don't know how much time you have left, it makes the time you have all the more precious. 

On Halloween

Halloween is one of my favorite holidays for one specific reason-- I LOVE dressing up! And I loved this Halloween even more because Justin was home on leave so we got to celebrate together! 

This year, we went as Barbie and GI Joe-- very fitting for both of us, and kind of couple-y. 

Of all the fabulous Barbies there are to be, I picked the workout Barbie from Toy Story 2. What do you think-- did I pull it off?

On "holding down the fort"

Yesterday I had my first emergency of this deployment-- my first I-need-my-man, can't-handle-this-alone physical emergency, because we're not counting the kinds of emergencies that can be solved by a good cry and a pint of Ben and Jerry's (of which I've already had several since he left in June).

It all starts with the ridiculous 51-inch TV we bought together. Firstly, you should know that my apartment is 525 square feet. It's a studio design, with only two separate rooms-- the bathroom, and the kitchen/living room/bedroom. So, for lack of any other possible placement, this enormous TV is mounted on the wall, and the bottom of it hangs a solid foot above my head. You sort of have to crane your neck to look at it, and it encourages terrible couch posture, but it literally doesn't fit anywhere else, so there it hangs.

Anyways, I got the bright idea to hook the TV up to an antenna so that I could watch the Olympics (I'm not a believer in cable). Usually this is the kind of task Justin would be in charge of, along with all other tasks that involved electronics of any sort. Basically he is the electronics god. He has a magic way of making everything work that I will never understand, but greatly appreciate! But, alas, he is not here to magically make NBC appear on the TV. So, I decided to give it a try myself. Feeling independent, I did my research (a series of google searches starting with "How do I get local channel reception without cable?"), figured out which antenna I needed, marched up to Best Buy and purchased my $30 magic antenna, and started reading the "Easy Installation" instructions.

And in all honesty, the installation was pretty easy. I was feeling pretty darn proud of myself for accomplishing this task that would usually require my man's assistance, ALL BY MYSELF. But then, as I was tilting the TV back down from securing the antenna cable, the TV came off  one of the the wall mounting brackets and one side scraped down the wall until it was hanging precariously at a 45-degree angle.

My first reaction was to rush to the sagging side and hold it upright, which I quickly realized wasn't going to last long. I tried to push it back up onto the bracket, but it wouldn't click in. Then the remaining bracket, now holding the weight of the whole TV with a little help from me, started CREAKING. That's when I started really freaking out. My arms were getting tired fast as I mentally ran through my options for help-- Jason, five hours away at training. Dad, one hour away at work. And, oh wait, those are the only two people who I know to come to my rescue! Standing there holding half the TV over my head with arms shaking, I started bawling and expecting the worst. It's only a matter of time before the TV falls off the wall and is ruined. What if I get squashed, maybe break a few bones, and have to go to the hospital? Who would even take me to the hospital? What if the TV took out a cat on it's way down? What if it bursts into flames? Why does this have to happen when Justin isn't here to save me? Goddamn it, if he was just here! Now I'm going to die by TV squashing!

This is usually my first response to stress-- I get dramatic.

Then, with arms shaking and tears falling, I started to make a plan. Clearly, I couldn't do anything until I let go of the TV. So, I gently lowered the sagging side back down to its precarious position and got out of the way real quick. More creaking, but no falling! I don't know much about proper procedure for TV free-falling, but I figured it would be less damaging if it wasn't plugged into electricity, so that was step one. Then, I herded our cats into the bathroom, to prevent any curious kittens getting squashed in the event that it let go of the wall. Then, I started frantically knocking on the doors of all my neighbors, none of which I know, and running around the apartment complex desperately looking for someone, anyone, who could help me.

It was two o'clock in the afternoon on a weekday, so naturally no one was home. I checked back at my apartment a couple times to make sure the TV was still attached to the wall, becoming more frantic with every passing minute. It took me about three minutes to find people, and the people I found were two leather-skinned men probably in their mid-thirties standing on the sidewalk outside my apartment complex. It turns out, one is a firefighter, the other is a cop, and they both live on the fourth floor of my building. So, through a stream of tears, I blubbered out a ramble of  "I'm sorry. You don't know me. I need help. My TV is about to fall off the wall. Please. My boyfriend is usually here to fix these things, but he's being deployed. I'm so sorry to pull you randomly off the street. He's going to Afghanistan. I don't usually do this. I don't know what to do. I just know it's going to fall off the wall at any moment and squash a kitten." At least I had the sense to walk quickly while I rambled, so I was back at my apartment in no time, with hefty men in tow, who immediately assessed the situation, sprung to action, and had the TV securely back in its place before I had finished gasping through my life story.

They took my desperate and nearly incomprehensible chatter well.  They didn't let on that they thought I was crazy woman, crying over a TV, although I'm sure they must have been thinking it. They even offered their apartment numbers in case I had another "emergency" and needed help. I'm not sure I ever got to telling them my name, although it's all kind of a blur of emotion.

Looking back, I feel pretty silly about how I reacted to my TV emergency. But as is usual for a military dependent of sorts, it's not always about the emergency. Although I was scared for my TV, and even a little scared for my well-being if it were to come loose on top of me, the impetus behind the tears was my feeling of helplessness in the absence of my hero.

The lives of those left behind during deployments are often overlooked and under-appreciated, but they are brave lives in their own right. Some days, holding down the fort means facing unforeseen dangers and being brave in the wake of difficulties; it means going it alone, or learning to swallow your pride and enlist the help of others. In that way, I guess, we are very similar to our soldiers-- brave, strong, independent, and resourceful.

On fabulous nail polish

Lately, I've had a lot more spare time to pamper myself and get ready in the mornings (one perk of my man being away). So, I've been doing some experimenting with my nails! I'm not usually a big fan of painted fingernails,apart from plain white french tips and a glossy clear shine, but I'm branching out and loving it!

This funky nail art was for July 4th-- to show a little bit of my patriotism and just have some fun!

I used OPI "Spark de Triomphe" (gold sparkle), Sinful Colors "Ruby Ruby", Sinful Colors "Love Nails" (blue), Sally Hansen French Manicure "Pure White", and a thin paintbrush for the star and stripe details.

After that wore off I decided to try this new grey-ish color, and I am loving it!

The color is called "Wet Cement". I picked this one up at HEB while I was grocery shopping.

On goodbyes and gifts for your lover

It's Monday, which means I've made it a week without my man!

Yes, it's only been seven days, but everyone says you're supposed to take it one day at a time and that means I've got seven successful one-day-at-a-time's under my belt. Seven down, four-hundred to go!

For those of you that don't know-- Justin, my boyfriend of nearly five years and proud member of the Army National Guard, left for pre-deployment training last Monday. Which leaves me here alone while he goes through about five months of train-up and another eight months of fighting terrorists in Afganistan (ideally, because you learn quickly that in the military anything can happen and "the plan" doesn't mean much). This will be his second deployment during our relationship, and every keeps telling me each deployment gets easier, but so far I'm not convinced.

I was a senior in college the last time Justin deployed, and a lot changed while he was gone. As his life basically stopped during the year he was away, my life changed drastically from being a care-free college student living in San Antonio to moving to Houston away from our friends and family and getting my first "big girl" job as a teacher. And if you've ever been a first-year teacher, you know how far that year is from "care-free".

I have three very vivid memories from Justin's first deployment that adequately sum up my experience with the whole ordeal.

First, I remember bawling my eyes out in the middle of the LAX airport. He was about to leave for Kuwait, and I was flying back out to Sydney, where I was studying abroad at Macquarie "Uni", as the Aussies like to say. I still can't completely pinpoint why I was blubbering on so in the airport, but it still ranks in my top three lowest moments of my life. In that moment, all I could think about was that I desperately wanted forever with this man and what if I never got to see him again? Our life together was flashing before my eyes, and all I could do was mutter nonsense over the phone between sniffles and those obnoxious gasps you only get from crying much too hard. I'm pretty sure I told Justin we should get married, in some last ditch effort to regain control over the dramatic spiraling mess that I was imagining. Looking back, I realize I was overreacting, which I'm sure Justin knew as he patiently listened to my meltdown from the other side of the phone line. When I finally said goodbye and got on my plane, I drowned myself in romantic tradgedies-- The Notebook, A Walk to Remember, Romeo and Juliet-- crying all the while like a crazy person. I really owe an apology to the poor woman who had to sit next to my pathetic self for that nine hour plane ride.

Second, I remember watching Disney's Pocahontas one day while I was babysitting, and thinking it was the sexiest movie I'd ever seen. I guess that's what eight months of celibacy does to a person-- it makes Pocahontas feel like a porno.

Lastly, I remember riding to the airport with Justin's family to go pick him up for his two-week leave. I hadn't seen him in eight months, and was scared shitless. Don't get me wrong, I was excited to see him. I'm fact, I was over the moon! But, after eight months, would he feel like a stranger? A stranger, no less, that I'm supposed to have the most intimate of relationships with? A stranger that I was expected to hug, and kiss, and probably *gasp* have sex with like the past eight months hadn't existed? We'd been talking up and looking forward to this day for months, and suddenly I was scared I had forgotten how to be with him, or even worse, scared that I wouldn't know him at all. That morning I was feeling awfully nauseous, I couldn't eat breakfast, and I was on the verge of asking Justin's sister to pull over on the way to the airport. Vomiting felt probable at this point, which made me even more anxious-- because who wants to come home from a war zone to a vomiting girlfriend? It was a vicious cycle. But, although I wouldn't describe our first day back together as seamless, it only took one perfectly long hug to get reacquainted with my love and for all the butterflies in my stomach to fly right away.

Now, three years later, here we are facing another deployment and another 13-month separation. I do think this one will be easier, knowing that we've made it through this before. At least, that's what I've heard from other army folks.

I like to give Justin cheesy, sentimental gifts before he leaves for long periods of time like this. It's kind of a tradition that I started way back when he went away for his basic training. This time, I found the most adorable book called "What I Love About You".

It's one of those fill-in-the-blank books, where you personalize it for your relationship. Here are a couple samples of the kinds of questions in the book. It's a great gift for expressing your love and being a little bit silly with your lover. Yes, it's kind of cheesy, but what can I say, I'm a hopeless romantic!

The book is made by Hallmark, and I found this one in the greeting cards aisle at HEB. Justin loved it, and even referred to me as the "best girlfriend ever". And he's a tough army guy who I'm always a a little hesitant to get lovey-dovey gifts for, so I'd call that a win!

On birthdays and yellow accessories

I'm officially 24 years old!

Yes, my birthday was last Thursday, and although I'd love to go into all the juicy details of how awesome the day was, that would take a huge amount of embellishment and straight-out lies. Honestly, it was pretty anti-climactic. I guess that's how birthdays are after you get past 21. 

But, in an attempt to do something special for myself on my otherwise typical Thursday afternoon, I slipped by Target (my fave) and bought this little beauty on a whim--

What can I say, it was calling my name! I LOVE all the bright colors that are popping up everywhere this season, and I've been dying to get my hands on a bright YELLOW accessory for months. 

And, hell, it's my birthday.

On getting started

I've always loved to write. I still find myself saying that whenever I "grow up" (whatever that means to a now-twenty-something person) I want to be a writer. My love for the written word started early. I read voraciously as a child, and started scribbling down short stories around the time I was in first grade. As an angsty pre-teen I journaled, which mainly consisted of dramatic complaining about all the juicy details of my insignificant life. Although the content was rather ridiculous, it was my escape-- my safe haven where I could air out all my thoughts and delicately weave them into prose. In my teen years I took to writing poetry, songs, short novels, movie scripts, and of course kept up a diary. Other than showing a close friend and entering a couple poetry competitions, my writings were a private endeavor. I wrote for no reason, with no intention of people ever reading it-- I wrote for me. In high school, I worked tirelessly as editor of my high school newspaper and took all of the advanced-placement English classes I could. But somewhere in the busy-ness of those high school years, something changed. I quit writing for me. I got the idea all stuck up in my little head that I couldn't write unless I had something important to say-- that I should only write for a purpose-- only if it would be worth something. And finding something important, it turns out, is a daunting task. So what did I do? I quit writing.

In college, I chose the more practical route to post-secondary success, abandoning by love for English and journalism and instead pursuing my love for the sciences with high hopes of going to medical school. After all, spending four years in college to become a struggling writer and eat ramen noodles every night until I eventually, maybe got a respectable job just wasn't rational. Spending the remainder of my teens and all my twenties in school to become a doctor and live in a fancy mansion sounded much more appealing to my naive 17-year-old self. That lasted about a year. After realising that I hate sick people and nearly faint at the sight of needles or blood, I made a new career plan and finished out the remainder of my college years studying in the fields of psychology and education (with a minor in science, just because I'd already wasted too much effort studying that shit).

Fast-forward five years, and I have a rather fulfilling life and career as a high school science teacher. But, deep down there's an itch that keeps intensifying, as if to say "something is missing."

On a long, quiet drive, I started listening to that itch. It was coming from my inner artist, my creative being that I've occupied the last seven years with fashion, photography, decorating, and the occasional painting or craft project. And it wanted to write. Nothing important, nothing for a purpose-- just to write.

"I want to write," I blurted out awkwardly in the silence of the car.

"Then, write."

So here I am. I can't promise it'll be interesting, or important, or even make sense-- but I'm going to write, for me... again.