Tragedy

My coworker's sister died on Tuesday, eleven days before her wedding.

When I heard the news, my heart stopped. I've only known this girl for six months, but she's one of the sweetest people I know. And the news hit super close to home, with my sister getting married next year. I've spent lunch hours talking to her in the kitchen about her dress, and all of the plans, and I even left a funny sticky note on her desk last week.

The news put everything in perspective for me. All of the bullshit I've been stressed about doesn't matter. Holiday obligations and trying to cram in a thousand trips to see various people no longer matter. Thank god I HAVE them to see.

I've had dreams about her this week, and I've been thinking of her a lot. In fact, I have found myself able to think of little else.

She came back to work today after a week off for the funeral, and I was terrified.

I usually consider myself loving and compassionate (sometimes to a fault), but this tragedy feels too heavy to bear. When I walk past her desk, a wave of sadness washes over me. I've been avoiding her all day, and I've been planning my trips to the kitchen around when she is in meetings.I just can't bear to run into her. I'm afraid when I do, I'll burst into tears. I've cried on my own a few times already.

I can't for the life of me figure out what to say. How can one person endure what are probably the happiest and saddest days of her life in one week? It doesn't seem fair.

The Miracle of Life

We sat, crowded into the gym turned makeshift movie theater, Trapper Keepers in our laps, staring in wide-eyed terror at the screen as a fetus emerged from a screaming woman's vagina.

I shuddered, hoping that wasn't the predetermined fate of every mother giving birth, and scanned the faces of the kids sitting around me.

Each one bore his own special brand of fear: cringing, pinched up faces, fear evident in clenched fists and crossed arms. A single tear of horror rolled down my cheek as I tucked my elbows in so as not to touch the boy sitting next to me (who happened to be my fifth grade crush).

What started off as a co-ed room slowly segregated to boys vs. girls. I didn't want to be near anything that could make that happen to me.

I never wanted to touch boys ever again.

All this debate about teen pregnancy... I'll tell you how we bring that statistic down: make every fifth grader watch The Miracle of Life.

That time I triggered a flash mob

We went to a super cool haunted house this weekend, and I spent most of it marching behind K, fists full of his sweatshirt, trying not to die. When it was over, we drank cider and ate donuts and stood in the middle of all the haunted commotion, waiting for the dimented clown sideshow to start.

Halloween songs played in the background, and as soon as I heard 'Thriller' I started making exaggerated dance moves and Michael Jackson-ing like it was my job. My friends laughed as I made a complete ass of myself in the middle of the crowd. I was JUST perfecting my zombie arms when I saw K looking intently over my shoulder. Suddenly, the music got super loud and I turned around to witness that a thriller flash mob had begun.

I totally pioneered that shit, people.

The dancers perfected the moves I was mocking, and I squealed and jumped out of the way for the real performers.

Today's lesson: sometimes, people, crazy zombie arms can be the key to summoning howie mandel.

This means war.

I stared down at the glass container with an aggravated frown. Two left. I did the calculations and assessed that I use one each morning, and he uses two. Which meant when he woke up, he would use the last two in the jar.

And probably leave it empty.

I crossed my arms in silent defiance and refused to cave and refill the container. It was my silent declaration of Q-tip war.

I arrived home from work later that evening, anxious to see the enemy's move.

Ah, just as I predicted: he left it empty.

I mean, I get it. Six feet is a backbreaking distance from the bottom cupboard to have to bend down bi-monthly, pluck a handful of misdirected cotton swabs, stand back upright and place them in the glass container. I can see how it's a struggle.

I stood staring at the container again, hand on hips, and frowned for a minute.

Then I thought about how he had made dinner every night this week, mowed the lawn, and prepared my coffee when he had to leave for work at 2am to work the night shift.

So I bent down, plucked a handful of misdirected cotton swabs out of the bin, stood upright and placed them back in the glass container, with an amused grin on my face.

Relationships are about compromise, right?

Two roads diverged in a wood

I woke in the middle of the night in the freezing cold tent, K curled up in the warm blankets like a drunk burrito. My hand immediately went to my stomach as the pain seared through my gut.

Guess burgers from Walmart weren't the best idea.

My eyes opened wide as I realized the urgency of my situation.

Frantically, I grasped for my pajama pants and clumsily fumbled for the zipper on the door. There was no time to find my glasses, but I remembered my way to the bathroom. As I stumbled down the dirt road past dark and quiet tents, I weaved and bobbed my way down the road, guided only by moonlight.

I made it safely to my destination and back out into the road again, where I suddenly came to a dead stop. The trees were a dark blur, and I developed a sense of vertigo in no small part brought on by the 10 beers I had consumed by the fire earlier.

Which way was the tent?? I squinted frantically, searching the skyline as as panic set in. I should have taken the extra minute to find my damn glasses. Or grab my cell phone to call for help, although that wouldn't have even helped since we had no service.

I started walking in the direction I thought I remembered the tent being. After tripping on several tree trunks and almost falling on my ass, I made it back to the tent.

But I'll tell you two things ill never do when camping again: forget my glasses, or eat burgers from Walmart.

Photo Shoot

I clutched my bags and stared up with glowing eyes as I took in the sights and sounds of the city. People streamed around me, talking on the phone, drinking coffee, rushing home from a long day of work in the city. They all looked tired and disillusioned, and my childlike excitement gleamed in stark contrast. But I didn't care that I stood out, considered a "country girl". My heart was exploding with pride, I had just finished art directing my first photo shoot. I thought back to my days at Cosmo, and all the scary choices I'd made between then and now. 6 years ago I moved to NY, leaving everything I'd known, and 3 months ago, I quit a job I'd been at for 5 years for the unknown.

Even this morning, as I made my way to a studio I'd never been before, to meet a photographer I had never worked with and actual stylists. Would they be bitches? Should I act like I knew what I was doing? But I didn't. I swallowed my pride, asked questions, and marveled at how so many talented people could come together and bring a vision to life.

We were shooting drinks and a very expensive necklace for an opening spread in one of our magazines, and I spent much of the day staring at the half-million dollar necklace lying nonchalantly next to a stack of napkins on the table. I wanted to put it on so badly, but the grown up in me thought better of it.

The day went smoothly, and as I walked out of the studio, i couldn't keep the grin from spreading across my face. Tears brimmed in my eyes as I realized that I finally, FINALLY found my dream job. And all of the scary choices I've made have begun to pay off.

Who's been having S in my bed?!

Listen. It's no secret that I have been knee deep in staff meetings and not cleaning my house since I got a grown up job.

But I was more than a little disgusted with myself when I only just got around to washing the sheets on the guest bed this morning. From memorial day.

I rifled through the sheets in a cleaning fury, when a crumpled jean skirt fell out of the unmade bed onto the floor.

I paused for a moment as my fury skyrocketed. What was THIS?! Who has been having adult relations in my bed?!

I grabbed the skirt and stormed downstairs to demand that K get on board the angry train with me.

LOOK AT THIS! I declared. Do you know what this is??

He stared for a minute with a confused expression, as I held up the skirt with both hands, to showcase my disgust.

The skirt was tiny. TOO tiny. Toddler tiny.

It was my 3 year old niece's skirt. (and not some skankity skank, like I'd originally thought.)

Lesson: don't jump to conclusions. Or clean your house more. One or the other.