numbers.

It's amazing the way a number can trigger a memory, even when you try to bury it deep inside your soul. Let's try the number twenty-two, the age I was when I buried my mom, way to young to have to experience such a thing. Or, the number fifty-five, the young age of my mom when she was taken suddenly and unexpectedly from me and my dad. Take the number eight. When I hear that number, particularly in reference to a date, depending on my mood, it brings up two emotions. First, happiness, for it is my best friends birthday in November. Or second, sadness, the opposite end of the spectrum, for on that same day in November, my mom passed away. Perhaps God chose that day so I can have a reason to play and laugh, a reason not to hurt as badly on that dark day. More numbers...eighteen, the age I was when my mom went against every voice her in head and came to my high school graduation, meeting many of my closest, dearest friends for the very first time after having suffered for years while secluding herself from society, family and friends because of fear of shame and scorn. Twenty-four, the day in October, which the world became a better place, because she was born. Or thirty-one, new years eve, when she met my future husband for the first and only time. Try nine, the date in May in which she again overcame all her fears and drove with my dad to Auburn for the 2nd time in 4 years to see her only daughter graduate with honors from nursing school. One-million, the number of times a day she would call to check of me, my first year at Auburn. One, the number of seconds it takes me to lose my breath every time I see a picture and have to remind myself, that I am looking at her, not myself. Two, the number of years this November since she left this cruel world. Zero, the chance I will ever forget what she went through, the chance I will ever stop believing that I will see her again. Infinity, the number of times/words/events I wish I could go back and change, the amount of belief in my heart that she will be by my side, beaming with pride, for the rest of my life. I don't talk about the pain a lot. It's a dark spot that I only allow one patient, loving person in my life to see, and now, more and more rarely at that. But it is a part of me, she will always be a part of me, I will always be her daughter and I will always love her with all my heart.

rewards.

if there is anything greater than mimosas...on river street...in savannah...with wonderful co-workers...after a crazy 12-hr night shift in the ER, someone please...fill me in.

guilty.

i love my pups. anyone who knows me, knows that. but i swear at times, they come close to being shipped to their grandfathers in b'ham for a "stay-cation". paul and i left for a nice dinner last night, bella locked in her crate and riley in the bedroom (unfortunately, we have deemed this necessary from previous experience). fast forward five hours and those dumb pups greeted us at the front door when we got home...both of them. someone please tell me how that dog got out of her crate. and then someone please tell me how they both proceeded to get out of my shut bedroom door. it's a mystery. oh and in case you were wondering...they had a blast while we were gone. multiple highlighters, pens and pencils lost their lives...along with my trash bag and a half-empty box of cheez-its (i'm pretty sure we interrupted the assualt on the ipod when we opened the front door, thank goodness). needless to say, after a humane-beating (she still wags her tail while being spanked with the various destroyed products she chews) this is where they spent the remainder of their night...

guilty as charged (and by association, riley)

here's just a few of the previous experiences that have won bella a full-time stay in her crate while we are away.

home

The thought of owning my own home was (and still is) absolutely terrifying and on the 15th of every month, nauseating. However, the joy of coming home to a place that is mine and only mine overcomes the pricey "rent" aka mortgage check that I hand over to Bank of America every month. 102 Melrose was a fixer-upper to say the least but we decided to go for it...make your own opinion, but I think it's been worth it.

 I'll be honest. There were a few tears thinking about this house and all the work needed to change it from the eye-sore it was. The taste of our previous owner was a tad bit different from what we desired...

call me crazy...but bright blue kitchen tile, blue counter tops, fish cabinet hooks and fish tiles were just not what I envisioned in my first kitchen...

the shell lamps above our fireplace are up for grabs at the next garage sale...get there early...they are sure to go quick!

textured baby-blue and white wall paper didn't stand a chance against my squirt bottle, hot water and a little bit of fabric softener...add in a little green paint (pics later) and we're in action!

thanks to a LOT of elbow grease from Paul (and a $50 machine rental)...

the blue tile is toast...replaced by a beautiful puppy-proof laminate floor (will eventually cover the whole house)

and now...drum roll please...we have a modern, furnished living room and kitchen, hallway and guest bedroom.

who needs a place to stay in savannah?!

can i do this?

Blogs have always fascinated me...however I have always had the mindset, "I'm boring, no one would be interested in what I have to say." So why am I doing this? Who knows. Perhaps it's being inspired by my dear friend Emily Alice or maybe the encouragement from Paul, Joni and Ashley (who reassured me, they would read). What a relief...how embarassing to have your views at "0". Oh well, whatever it is, here I am. Here to tell my story, past, present and future. Good, bad and the-not-so-pretty. So enjoy. I hope (fingers crossed), someone will.