For a few years, I didn’t realize that nosebleeds were a problem.  So far, it had been a one time deal.  But, oh how wrong I was about to be.

I was 12 or 13–at the front end of the awkward teen years. It was a typical Sunday. I was sitting with my family in Sacrament Meeting and we had just sung the closing hymn.  My family had chosen to sit close to the front of the chapel that fateful day. We were probably 2-3 pews from the pulpit.

As the closing prayer begins, my nose starts to run.  I hurriedly wipe it with my hand (kind of gross, I know). But, it keeps running. Finally, I open my eyes (the prayer is still going) and I realize I’m having a full blown nosebleed.

I have no tissues.

None. Zip. Zero.  Nada.

Turning to my mom, I whisper, “Can I leave? My nose is bleeding.”

No response.

I wait.

I whisper again.

Still no response.

Finally, cupping my nose in my hand, I tap her arm. She peeks at me, and suddenly the situation makes sense to her. She searches through her back for tissues.

No luck.

She points me toward the foyer, just as the prayer is ending. As the congregation says, “Amen.” I’m lifting my skirt in a berry-gathering fashion to catch any blood my cupped hand isn’t,  and running to the nearest bathroom while all of my friends are heading off to Sunday school class.  (Which, of course, was in the same general area.)

Can you say social hardship?

My nose bleeds for a few more minutes. Both my parents are hanging out with me in the single-person, handicapped bathroom.

Once it finally stops, my parents tell me I’m not going to the rest of church, but instead I’m going home, where I can drink lots of fluids, keep my blood pressure low, and have tissues on hand.

Moral of the story: Always have tissues on hand. (A lesson I’ll be rehashing several times during this series.)

P.S. In my mom’s defense, she wasn’t ignoring me, nor was she deaf in her left ear. She just assumed since I was 12 or 13 I wasn’t going to be talking during a prayer and thought it was some other kid behind her.

On this lovely spring day, I sit in the back room and watch the new growth green up the pecan trees in my yard and count the days before I once again am choked with gallons of mucus, roaming the house looking for Kleenex and sounding like a sea cow whose just met a killer whale. I just went through this with miserably high oak and mold pollen counts. And now the pecan trees taunt me with their looming green horror. Life is not fair. 

I don’t really have any allergies, you see. I suffer from non-allergic rhinitis.  A few years back, I went to an allergist, who had me take off my shirt and then stuck little pins covered with every know allergen known to man into my back. Net result, nada. Zilch. That is, I’m not allergic to molds, grasses, oak pollen, cat or dog fur, or much of anything. But I live in San Antonio, the Hot Zone of allergenic material. In the fall, the cedar pollen blows in from the Hill Country like a pale green dust storm. You can see it coming. Similarly, in early spring, we get bombarded by mold and pollen from oaks and grasses. Soon follows the tyranny of pollen blossoms, that look like small, green worms and fall with abundance, carpeting my back yard like an two-inch thick blanket. The assault of this constant and overwhelming wave of allergens hits me like a club, battering my immune system until I am a walking repository of histamines. My eyes water and close, my nose runs like a cheap faucet and I cough and hack and blow sickening quantities of mucus.

Thank heavens I’m not allergic. No, not exactly. If I were allergic to any of these substances, the slightest hint of them would send me off to the doctor for a quick shot and relief. Me, I get steroid nose spray and buy boxes of Kleenex by the freight-car load.

So, why tell you this? Simple. I have discovered that misery really does like company. And if I’m going to suffer, than by God, those around me will too. See you when the pecan blossoms fall.

So the garbage cans are overflowing with crumpled kleenexes, there are half-finished cups of tea and ginger ale are everywhere and it’s taking all of my energy to write this post. The unthinkable has happened, both Mister and I are sick. It’s awful to be sick when your partner is sick too. Who is left to pamper us? Mister and I are left slouching around the house in a dazed decongestant fog.

Thank goodness for crappy reality TV and Campbell’s chicken soup. Fluids and sleep are the best thing for a cold so that’s what Mister and I are doing this weekend. It’s not exciting but it’s necessary. Send us your healthy thoughts! I’m going to lie down and watch another wedding dress show.

For the last 15 years, I have been treated for depression. It’s not something I’m ashamed of at all, in fact, I am proud of who I have become and what I have accomplished while fighting this disease.

I have been on several different medications, the one I’m on now has shown great success.  I am able to control most of my symptoms (there are always bad days now and again).

The one thing that I can’t seem to control is crying. I cry when I’m happy, I cry when I’m sad, I cry when I’m frustrated, and I cry when I can’t even figure out my emotions.  While a lot of people think it’s healthy to be able to display emotion, and I agree it is, there is a time and a place for everything.  Here are some of the places/events I’ve cried, that were inappropriate:

• Name any work situation in which I’ve been frustrated, and I’ve cried.  This is NOT a good thing.  How do you project a manner of professionalism when you cannot talk to your boss about a situation that caused you frustration without tears falling down your face?
• Talking to my daughter’s soccer coach, when he was providing me feedback on her performance and tips on how she could improve.  I tried to brush it off as something in my eye – not sure if he fell for it.
• Talking to my daughter’s teachers about her performance in school (which was good!).
• Talking to my doctor about my period.  Yes, my period.
• Susan Boyle’s audition for Britain’s Got Talent.  I can’t watch that and not cry.
• Hearing the “O Canada”.  EVERY time I am in a situation where I have to stand and listen to that song, the tears start to well up in my eyes.
• Participating in a moment of silence for Remberance Day (I cry like a baby for that one).
• At ANY funeral – whether I knew the person or not.  And, here, I’m talking full out weeping.  There is a river of tears.
• Seeing a funeral procession drive down the street.
• Completed running a 5K

The list goes on. I’ve tried positive self talk (“Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry”) but it rarely works.  And once that first tear escapes my eye, well it’s all downhill from there.  Usually within minutes I’m redfaced, runny nosed and flustered.  Once I start, it is VERY hard to stop.

This isn’t a new issue, I am much like my daughter is now (sigh) as a child.  I distinctly remember being called “CBC” (Cry Baby Connie) by my parents many times as a child.  Crying has always been a release for me I suppose.  I envy those people that find relief in art, or music.  My drawing abilities are limited to stick men and my music abilities are shameful.  But, I could outcry anyone, anyday.  Yeah me!?

I wish I could control it – ESPECIALLY in situations at work.  I have been at this job for about 8 months now and I’ve only (only?) cried twice.

I feel like a hypocrite - when my kids resort to crying for “silly” things, I (sometimes with a loud voice – hey, none of us are perfect) remind them to take control of their emotions and to rationalize that what they are crying about really isn’t a big deal and isn’t worth the tears.  I may be a bit hard on them, but I don’t want them to end up in the same boat as their Mom, and cry the first time a boss criticizes (or compliments) their work.   So, why can’t I do this myself?

I’m not sure that I will ever get past this “flaw”.  It seems to be something imprinted in my DNA.  I hope that as I get older and wiser I will be able to gain some more control over it, as I do see it as one of my greatest weaknesses.  And if I can’t get past it, I can only hope that the times I do end up in tears are more for the happy things than for the sad things.

Add one more item to my list above….

• Writing a blog about crying.

(…pass the Kleenex)

My daughter, in tears because she has to put the utensils away. It seems to run in in the family.

The gist of the story is: Why do we do things the way we do? Is it because we’ve always done it that way? What if we stop and assess things? What if we at least ask ourselves why?

An example: I keep a box of Kleenex in the bathroom. Always have. Always will. But why? Of course, it’s because that’s exactly what my parents did! And it makes sense. But I took some time to think about it. Yes, Kleenex in the bathroom is good… and I’m not going to change that, but where else might I put some Kleenex? Well, in my car, of course. But where ELSE? I always seem to need a Kleenex in the kitchen; I’m always grabbing a paper towel. So into the kitchen cupboard goes a box of Kleenex. And the best location I’ve found? In my coat closet.  I take my dog for walks in early, cold mornings and my nose is always running as we walk. So now I grab my coat, leash, and a few Kleenex tissues and we’re out the door.

So are you a bad monkey? Do you keep doing something the same way you’ve always done it, just because?

I was thinking about a syllabus in an online environment. Of course, teachers make the syllabus available to our students; often in Week 1. Often it’s a link to a Word or PDF document. That’s great! But, where else might a teacher put their syllabus? Just because my Kleenex were in one place, didn’t mean I couldn’t put them other places to make them handy. What if a teacher put a link to your same syllabus document in Week 3? We know our students are blitzed with information in Week 1 of their course. I’m guessing many of them say “yeah, yeah, another syllabus”. But we know it’s an important document. Why not give students easy access to it, again and again?

And why is the syllabus one huge document? (I’ve seen a 20-page syllabus this quarter, and it was for a good reason!).  Yes, our students need that document, but what about also “chunking” it into smaller pieces ? Maybe a weekly announcement with a paragraph or so from the syllabus that pertains to that week’s content? Starting a term paper? Remind students about your plagiarism policy. Starting your first discussion? Remind them of your online etiquette guidelines! End of the quarter? Do you allow for incompletes?

Don’t be a bad monkey! Take some time to re-assess!
(now… where else might I put some Kleenex?)

I shopped at CVS & Giant Eagle this week.

Before coupons $24.95 / After coupons $9.05 + $5 extra care bucks to use on a future purchase at CVS

I understand that they are well-intentioned, and, of course, there’s nothing inherently wrong with conserving – whether it be in the form of toting tweed satchels to Safeway or bicycling to work.  In fact, I personally found the transition to always-carrying-glass-and-bamboo-water-bottles to be both economical and, surprisingly enough, fashionable.  (I’ll touch on hot tips for how to win at water-bottle-accessorizing in a later post.)

So, in order to do my part for the conservation-crazed community, I would like to suggest that hipsters of Seattle unite and demand for the city to lawfully ban any and all use of Kleenex tissues.

Handkerchiefs, though slightly outdated, are really much more eco-friendly. Think about it: buy one square snot rag and you’re set for life.  Washable, reusable, shareable, probably can be made of hemp… I swear those descriptions are identical to those inscribed on the inner soles of Toms, which are arguably, though somewhat unfortunately, the official footwear of our generation.

Kleenex, on the other hand, practically define waste.  Use, throw out, repeat.  Heresy.  An ailing person, lying in bed and struggling to breathe through the nose, is likely to find him or herself reaching for the tissue box every two to three minutes, resulting in an ever-increasing and unstoppable mound of crumpled trash.  Personally, I’d like to just keep a big bucket of hot water alongside my bed and, once my hanky is full to the brim with nostril-phlegm, give it a quick dunk and maybe a few wring-outs.  Good to go.

Please join me, friends, in my venture to save all sustainably-crazed hipsters from hypocrisy.

Mattie loved me. I loved her, too.

It really was not a romantic thing, although if it was confirmed that we were marooned on a desert island, after three or four days of restraint, we certainly would have done our part to repopulate our new earth.

I really liked her voice. She had one of those folksy, husky alto tones, with a bit of available soprano-melodia. I used to love to sit in a room with her and listen to her share one of her original songs as I sipped tea and crunched on some Trisquits. That was really her best atmosphere. The sound she had selected for her style was not conducive to the recording studio or public arenas. It was simple and intimate. So Nashville producers were not busting down her door to procure the rights to her material.

Therefore, it was really sweet of her to be so supportive of me and my group when we did get signed. Matter of fact, on the day of our session, she showed up at the studio with Rice Krispie treats for everybody, which we gobbled down quickly (even though it did cross my mind that they could be poisoned).

Most of the time she was the brave little warrior, but one day I walked in and found her sitting in a puddle of her own tears.

“What’s wrong, Mattie?” I asked, moving to her side and putting an arm around her.

“I suck,” she replied, releasing a fresh gusher.

I sat for a moment, thinking about what the correct response or encouragement should be to such a proclamation. Merely saying “you don’t suck” seemed insufficient.

“What happened?” I inquired.

She handed over a piece of paper containing her latest rejection from a publishing house in Music City. Not only had they spurned her tunes, but had also misspelled her name. It was rather depressing.

She continued. “I’m ready to give up. I’m no good and will never be any good.”

Once again, as you can see, she didn’t leave me a lot of room to leap in.

“You know what the problem is?” I asked.

She paused, and then said, “Yes. I suck.”

“No,” I replied. “You don’t suck. You just feel like you suck because you’ve forgotten that you have more angels than demons.”

She crinkled her brow at me as she often did when I offered some piece of wisdom that she found to be too heavenly and not very practical. I quickly continued.

“All of us, Mattie, have more angels than demons. It just feels like we’ve got more of the bad guys because we chase the angels away. We don’t do it on purpose, it’s just that angels are more mannerly and less pushy than demons, and if we get in a mood to be negative, we scurry them out of our lives and they stay away until we invite them back in. Meanwhile the demons remain because they have no sense of fair play, and sit around laughing at us–moving the box of Kleenex so we can’t even comfort ourselves.”

She sat for a moment, then asked, “How did I chase the angels away?”

“The same way we all do. When we become convinced that what we have is not enough and we insult ourselves so strongly and meanly that the angels scatter.”

“How do I get ‘em back?” she inquired.

I didn’t answer at first. Sometimes I think there’s a danger in being too wordy or overly spiritual with someone who’s hurting. Because I gave that space of time, she answered her own question.

‘”I guess the angels would feel more like returning if I stopped feeling sorry for myself.”

“That’s good,” I said.

She did. Matter of fact, she doubled her efforts, and three weeks later signed a contract with a national adoption agency, which used one of her songs to promote placing unwanted children into new families.

Mattie never became a star, but I know there may be people reading this who were welcomed into a new home because of her efforts.

Everybody has more angels than demons. Everybody chases the angels away from time to time and forgets how to welcome them back home. The key to life is avoiding the temptation to destroy your demons. Instead, outnumber them with your angels.

Good news–we have more angels than demons.

The producers of jonathots would humbly request a yearly subscription donation of $10 for this wonderful, inspirational opportunity

for any of you that don’t know her, i’m sorry for you. and i’d like you to meet my mom. she turned 50 today, and even though she is still in maui with my dad and i’m a little mad at her for that, i think she still deserves a happy birthday post, don’t you?

you know her as the mastermind behind many of the delicious recipes i post on here, as well as the inspiration for all of my deepest wishes to better myself. and i’m going to need all the inspiration i can get if i ever hope to be as awesome a lady as she is.

my mom is not only a gorgeous lady on the outside (if you remember, she and my dad have incredible anti-aging abilities), she is made of pure gold on the inside.

are you sick? she will be the first one to bring you a meal.

are you hurt? she knows exactly what is wrong and if you need the ER or just a couple of advil and a heating pack.

are you just having lots of feelings in the grocery store and need someone to talk to? she’s your listening ear.

if you can’t tell from those things i just wrote about her, then let me spell it out for you. mama hools has always dedicated her life to taking care of others, and everyone who has been touched by her love over the past 50 years is better for having known her.

all of this to say, she is the best mom i could ever have asked for. she raised five pretty awesome kids who she taught to be very functional adults. she is the reason i have empathy, the reason i can laugh at myself, the reason i have self-confidence. she has been my support for my whole life and almost half of her own. my mom is my role model for how to be a good wife, a good mother, and a good person.

so happy birthday to a lady who deserves a living sainthood. i hope your next 50 years are even better than the first, and i want to thank you for setting the bar so high for all of us! i love you so much more than coffee.

you can put down the kleenex now mama.

Next Stop Paris … then Onward to Milan!

HAZMAT HEADLINE DU JOUR: Former Vogue Editor Reveals Models Are Eating Tissues to Stay Thin in Tell-All Book posted by JONATHAN KIERAN

CULTURAL TOXICITY QUOTIENT: 5.5 (Typical)

RUDIMENTARY ANALYSIS: At least they aren’t licking felines and swallowing cat hair to maintain that coveted skeletal look. Recent scientific studies do indeed confirm that Kleenex has twelve percent more nutritional value than cat hair. Models have the added bonus of being able to wipe the coke from their noses with their own dinner before eating.

EXISTENTIAL RAMIFICATIONS: Be prepared for a book called The Kleenex Kleanse: One Box and You’re a Fox

TAKE-AWAY QUOTE: Clements (the tell-all author) quotes an unnamed Russian model who told her over lunch that her roommate was a fit model, “so she is in hospital on a drip a lot of the time.” [HazMat Note: Oh, the irony. Clements and the model were discussing all of this "over lunch"? What was on the menu at this lunch -- Toilet paper bisque? Cottonelle casserole?]

THERAPEUTIC CINEMA: It doesn’t get any better — she ate the Kleenex instead of the popcorn. You know she did.

MUSICAL REHAB: “Eat It” by Weird Al Yankovic

DETOX DINNER: Light as Air Ambrosia Salad or anything from Recipe Recommendations Healthy line-up.

FURTHER READING: People Eat the Darndest Things

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

One witty 2,800 year-old warlock. A suspicious storm that hurls him to earth near London. A goddess who wants his face. REMOVED.

A deliciously twisted magical adventure is born. Use any of the Rowan Blaize book icons on the upper-right to learn more or buy with an enchanted click at Amazon (Kindle or paperback).

Amazon Author Page
Rowan Blaize Official Website

As I walked into the room with the open MRI scanner, the radiologist asked, “have you had other tests for MS?”  Um… huh?  I was blown away by the question.  Out of all the worry and confusion over my numb tongue, the last possible explanation in my mind was MS.  I had even joked with my mom earlier in the week that if this ended up being MS, she better find me the most potent anti-depressant out there!!!

I could tell the radiologist realized she had asked a question I wasn’t prepared for and made up for it by saying, “oh, the doctor just had it as a possibility to rule out.”  Needless to say, the damage was done and I already felt scorn by the MS diagnosis.  I tried to get past that simple question but it occupied my thoughts the rest of the afternoon.  Around 4:30 pm, I received a phone call from the doctor at Urgent Care asking me to come to his office as soon as I was off work.  Yep.  You know it’s bad news when the doctor calls you the day of your testing and asks you to come see him.  Thankfully, my boyfriend was able to go with me as I could foresee the inevitable bad news and me not being able to wrap my brain around what was being said.  He sat us in a room and very calmly said, “it looks like you may have MS.”  Bam.  And that’s when God leads you on a whole new path you never saw coming.

Obviously, I was advised to see a neurologist as soon as possible to start the official testing process and get some definite answers.  After meeting with a local neurologist in town, another MRI was scheduled to be performed on my brain and spinal cord along with some blood work and the two words no one ever wants to hear…. No.  Not “you’re adopted.”  Worse.  “Spinal Tap.”  Puke.

I took an entire day off from work in order to get all of those tests done within the same day and had been promised by a few that spinal taps weren’t nearly as bad as a person would think.  The MRI was performed first and took about an hour.  They inserted an IV and also tested with a contrast.  The contrast is injected through the IV to enhance the appearance of blood vessels, tumors or inflammation.   Keep in mind, I had been fasting due to the blood work to occur later in the day.  I had hoped they would do my blood work at the same time as my IV insertion, but no luck.

With the MRI done and checked off my list, it was time to get admitted into the hospital and check off the last 2 things: blood work and my spinal tap.  They gave me an attractive hospital gown which just happened to match my most recent pedicure.  (in those situations, you have to find at least 1 positive thing to focus on!)

Unfortunately, the hospital gown was the only thing I was allowed to wear.  Surprise #1.  I was not very happy about that.  Can a girl at least keep her panties on?!  Seriously… how low do you go for a spinal tap?

When the doctor came in, he asked the assisting nurse for the kit.  Surprise #2.  Who knew the spinal tap supplies came in what appeared to be assembled similarly to a Lunchable, but larger?  The doctor tore it open and stared down.  He stared down in such a questioning manner that I was forced to ask, “have you done many of these before?!”  It was like he opened a Christmas present he wasn’t so sure about.  “Oh yes.  I’ve done this many times.”  Right…

I was rolled onto my left side, where I could see my mom and boyfriend, and told to bend my knees towards my chest.  (think fetal position)  They start off the process by sanitizing the entire back area.  It’s cold and it especially sucks having your bare bottom out for anyone to see who may happen to glance in the room.  The doctor told me he would start by numbing the area with a couple needles.  I was nervous about a needle going into my lower back, but I knew this numbing stuff was a definite necessity.  It went smoothly and my hope was that this would be the most uncomfortable part since my lower back was now numb.

As the doctor inserted the needle into my spinal cord, it was an overwhelming feeling of uncomfortableness and wanting to throw up.  My nerves had got the best of me, along with not eating for close to 18 hours, and I prayed the experience would be over in just a blink of my eye.  It didn’t.  Something was apparently wrong as the doctor started to grunt and breathe a little heavier.  I think I had been holding my breath the entire time and decided now would maybe be a good time to start channeling some yoga breathing exercises.  He finally spoke up and said he wasn’t able to find the right spot and wasn’t getting any spinal fluid out.  He said he was going to have to move the needle around to try to find the right area.

This is when the memory leads me to tears.  The pain I felt during his searching within my spinal cord is a pain I cannot describe.  Surprise #3.  It felt like lightening bolts were striking my body and I felt surges of sharp pain from my head all the way down my leg to my toes.  It was such a strong surge that I remember my leg shooting out of my fetal position and groaning, “oh God.”  I couldn’t hold the tears in any longer and I hated my life at that moment.  What was going wrong with me and my body?  Why was I in this situation?  How had my life brought me to this very painful moment?  After what seemed to be 15 minutes (I have no recollection of time during this entire endeavor), the doctor was able to find a spot that spinal fluid was slowly dispersing.  The spinal fluid needed to be collected into not one, but THREE vials for testing.  It was beyond agonizing.  Every time he moved the needle to see if a different area would release spinal fluid faster, the jolts of pain hit me with immense impact.  I laid pushing a Kleenex into my eyes to soak up my tears while the nurse held a fan to lightly blow on my face.

When all was said and done, I tested positive for 2 out of the 3 spinal fluid tests for MS.  That, along with lesions found on my MRI scans, and my numb tongue, were the results the neurologist needed to give me a definitive diagnosis of MS.

It was June 29, 2012.

Most trecherous copycats

shampoos  & conditioners – this is actually interesting. I’ve used L’Oreal Elseve and almost took the latter (Gliss Kur) cos of the same colour of the bottle. Henkel seems too big for such imitations but it seems red L’Oreal is so popular, Henkel decided to benefit from it.

alcohol

Perigan’s Gin used the popularity of Gordon’s Gin when designing its packaging desing. The question is whether it benefits from the imitation or whether Gordon’s Gin benefit from it by strengthening its position on the market.

and even … Apple has its imitation

There are two types of copycats. Theme copycats imitate the underlying meaning or
theme of a leader brand, such as the “wild cat” theme of the Puma sports brand, the
“freshness of Alpine milk” theme of the Milka brand, or the “traditional, family-produced
olive oil” theme of the Bertolli brand.

Feature copycats occurs, for instance, through imitation of the letters of the leader
brand’s name (by replacing one or more letters or by rearranging them) or through imitation
of the distinctive perceptual features of the package design (e.g., the red-white oval logo of
Bertolli olive oil or the lilac wrapper of Milka chocolate).

The research (Sayman, Hoch, and Raju, 2002) shows that the package imitation occures in around one third of the consumer packaged goods.

Does it work? It seems so, especially with the cheaper imitations of more expensive products. It can be disappointing though, cos some people may buy the copycats unintentionally and realize that only back at home.

And then along came the geniuses at Kleenex. If we can figure out the technology to make double-stuff Oreos, there’s absolutely no reason we can’t engineer a facial tissue that is infused with lotion for all the grumpy sickies out there. And then it was so. And never was there again a chaffed nose…as long as you’re not a cheapskate and pony up the extra 50 cents for the deluxe tissues.

Kleenex with lotion, my nose thanks you.

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I waited all week to do my non-sale items hoping for a second 20% to stack, but no luck, just an online 20%.

2 Airwick Color Changing Candles | 8.99 ea | -2.00/2 mfr 03/03 SS | = 2/15.98

2 Airwick Warmer Units | 1.49 ea | -2.00/2 mfr airwick.com | = 2/.98

*received $10ECB wyb 20

Maybelline Baby Lips | 3.99 | -1.00 mfr 02/03 RP | = 2.99

Maybelline Great Lashes | 5.99 | -1.00 mfr 02/03 RP | = 4.99

*received $3ECB wyb 10 (98% threshold)

Schick Hydro Silk | 12.99 | -4.00 mfr 02/24 SS | = 8.99

*received $4ECB

Physician’s Formula Bronze Shimmer Spray | 14.99 | -3.00 mfr on-pack | = 11.99

*received $10ECB wyb 14

4 L’Oreal Advanced Travel Shampoo/Conditioners | 1.29 ea | -3 (2.00 mfr) 02/17 RP | = -.84

Bic 10 ct Disposables | 3.99 | -3.00 mfr 03/17 RP | = .99

-20% at 13.22 (one l’oreal coupon was manually entered as a CVS coupon instead of mfr)

Total (incuding 2.64 tax) = 34.33, Used 31.99ECB (1.99 adjusted to 1.69), Paid 2.64 OOP, Received $27ECB

I also received another $5ECB from the Beauty Club.

Have a total of $65ECB

And these are my sale items from today and Monday, except I also grabbed the Venus Monday because I knew they wouldn’t last.

I burned ECB again because I couldn’t pass up the Starbucks, Purex, and Chex Mix deals. Total ECB above is correct (calculated after this).

2 Chex Mix | 1.00 ea | -2 (.50 mfr) coupons.com | = 2/1.00

Venus Razor | 6.99 | -3.00 mfr 02/17 RP | = 3.99

*received $4ECB

2 Kleenex  Hand Towels | 2.50 ea | -2 (.75 CVS.com) | -2 (.60 mfr) coupons.com | = 2/2.30

Conair Slumber Cap | 75% Clearance | .74 | -1.00 CVS | = -.26

Purex | 2.88 | -1.00 CVS | -1.00 mfr 03/03 RP | = .88

Scouring Squares Sponges | 50% Clearance  | = .49

2 Starbucks Doubleshot 4-packs | = 10.00

Eggs | = 1.49

2 Cadbury Eggs | .99 and .25 | = 1.24

Total (including 2.54 tax) = 23.67, Used $21ECB, Paid 2.67 OOP, received $4ECB

I had other items on the list in case of another 20%, but when it didn’t come, I tried to stick to rolling. I shouldn’t have added the BIC razors,

but that was only an extra .20, and I did actually want to get the color changing candles and Baby Lips, so I am happy! All my sale items

burned ECB, but I would rather do that than real money at another store.

If you happen to have 2 %s to stack this week, other great items to add are the Dermasilk Wrinkle Eraser 19.99 w/ 5.00 mfr, Children’s Advil 2.59 w/ 2.00 mfr,

and Tena Pads if you have the free coupon from their website (or any other free item coupon you have). I also thought about adding the Gillette Disposables

BOGO 50% to my non-sale w/ the BOGO mfr (02/03 RP expires 03/31) and 2.00 mfr hoping for auto-deduct, but then I decided not to in case it didn’t.

I found this old dress, a relic from high school senior pics, a few days before traveling to Minnesota for my cousin’s wedding. Though more than ten years old, it seemed appropriate to wear. The posture of this photo is one I feel I took at the wedding: a faceless photographer–capable of participating only as outside observer.

I should have brought Kleenex. I always cry at weddings; I knew this. But I was not prepared for the emotions unleashed at my cousin’s wedding Saturday.

Not only the customary tears for a budding union, but I cried regretful tears for all that I had missed over the years. You see, I moved 1,000 miles away from all of this, and all of them, eight years ago.

Faces from my past swarming around me, coming at me in waves, breaking through some icy barrier I’d built. There were old classmates, old classmates’ parents, and even a former teacher. I wanted to cry just for seeing them. I did.

In the past, what had I imagined of such a reunion? In my teen years I was very conscious of at first having to hide things. Later on, when it would have been okay to share, I still mostly hid, out of habit. To the point that I disappeared from people’s lives.

Standing with two former friends at the wedding and hearing them banter like they were not just past, but present, friends, hit me in the gut.

“Yeah, next time on the fishing trip you’ll have to come with–and bring your brother, too.”

“Billy* couldn’t come to the wedding—we’ll have to see him next weekend.”

“So, there’s no alcohol at this wedding? You must have a flask stashed in your tux, huh?”

Soon I wasn’t even standing there. And I realized I had done it. I had erased myself from memory.

I excused myself for the bathroom. But then, selfishly, wondered if maybe, just maybe, they were talking about me.

Sad to say, I’m just beginning to realize how self-centered I’ve been all these years. Always thinking about my feelings—protecting myself.

The fewer people I’m close to, the fewer who can hurt me—was my unwritten, unspoken motto.

What have I done?

As I see faces from my past swimming at me, I now feel it was all a lie.

The face of an old teacher’s aide—from my first grade classroom, nonetheless—exclaiming, “Is this Lindsey?! She’s turned into such a beautiful young woman!” A mother of a classmate, gasping, exclaiming my name, and enfolding me in a hug.

My sixth grade teacher’s face lighting up as she asks, “Are you writing?” Yes. “Oh good; I always thought you should!” An ex-boyfriend’s mom even engaging in friendly talk as she never did while I dated her son.

My cousin’s, the groom’s, exclamation: “Lindsey, what an awesome surprise!” My old friends, C and T, who married each other, taking time to talk with me over an hour as if they had nothing better to do. “It’s so good to see you!” they say (and mean it, I think). It has been about eight years.

Another old friend looking in my eyes and, to my small talk, saying, “Being away from home must be the hardest part.” Understanding for the words I could not speak.

What have I done?

Desperately I snap pictures of my young cousins and their spouses and children, laughing and talking at neighboring reception tables. They too are familiar, comfortable, with one another. And like my classmates, they have passed through many of the same coming-of-age events as I, only together.

There’s something comforting about a shared heritage.

But I have refused to be comforted.

This visit has once again touched me where it hurts…still, thankfully, it has been different. Like the Minnesota snow I left behind last night, something in me is thawing.

As much as is possible from 1,000 miles away, in the future I’ll try to be less of a stranger.

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