Lesson Learned, the Second Go-around: A short history of the locks of love, or lack thereof.

The wee hours of the morning are meant for sleeping, not awakedness. Otherwise weird things might just happen, things you may or may not have done had you been more fully on your mettle (I just learned that phrase. I had never heard it before. It's kind of strange, so I had to use it), things you may or may not regret in the morning. This I have learned, now multiple times over. How was I to know though? I was never warned about this. I was always taught different consequences for staying up and out too late. Allow me to explain.

Way back in high school, I sported these swoop bangs, as noted in this picture:

I enjoyed those for a couple of years, until my second semester of college, at about 2:00 in the morning to be exact, when I asked my roommate to simply trim up such swoop bangs. After the scissors were out, the hair was cut, and a mumbled oops from roommate was heard, I ended up with these:

After a couple days of grumbling, and many days after the fact, a few laughs, I decide bangs aren't so much my thing, and begin to grow them out...

...and grow them out some more.

After a couple of years of this, I decide to try my hand at swoop bangs once again, and turns out, I was overall pleased with the outcome.

And well, one thing led to another and I find myself with these as a result of another late night:

Striking resemblance? Yup, I know. Thought I would have learned my lesson the first time around? Me too. Hopefully next time I'll remember to just go to bed. Until then, the grow out process begins once again.

***All photos were used for the sole purpose of demonstration. Please excuse any blurriness or weirdness.

My Fave-Day: Seabiscuit

Allow me to take you back with me to the Jeppsons, not quite two years ago, to the weekend in which Seabiscuit came into my posession. It was this weekend I took on a great responsibility. It was this weekend I inherited a life changing potted plant from my brother-in-law, which had been given to him in his days of singlehood, along with the instructions that if he were to keep it alive for a year, he would be ready for committment.

All these many years later, I find Seabiscuit in my own possession. Mike, needing to get rid of it, but unwilling to part with the beloved plant to the trash, passed it on to me on a weekend visit with the very same instructions once given to him. I hesitated. That's a lot of pressure. I've never been one for keeping much of anything alive. Not only would I be dooming myself in taking on such a responsibility, but I knew of Mike's attachment to the blasted plant, and I would be the cause of great disappointment felt by all parties if I were to kill it.

As I got ready to leave at the end of the weekend, I found Seabiscuit brought down from the ceiling hook, cleaned up, and sitting by my stuff to be taken to the car. I guess I really had no choice in the matter. With a big gulp, and a warning to not be disheartened if I kill it, I took the plant, assured that Seabiscuit was impossible to kill.

To my surprise, I took great care of Seabiscuit. I watered him on a regular basis, and even got people to watch over him when I left town. Other plants came and went, all of them strugglling, all of them ending in the trash, but Seabiscuit remained resilient, and I was feeling pretty good about myself at this point.

I hit around the 8 month mark, and I was feeling more and more committed with each day Seabiscuit flourished. The weather turned nice as Spring crept along, and I decided to place the cheery potted plant outside. The weather, however, is a fickle matter, something I didn't take into account, and much to my horror, I woke up one morning to find Seabiscuit a heap of crippled, brown, crusty rubbage. Turns out plants don't do so well in nights that freeze over as the sleeping, unsuspecting humans dream away. Plants left outside are not quite so resistent and secure on such nights.

In my frantic dismay, I watered it incessantly. "These crispy leaves just need a little more water," I would tell myself as I poked and prodded the rotting compost, unaccepting of the fact that I had killed the supposedly unkillable plant. When water didn't work, I turned to fertilizers and plant foods, but to no avail. I had done what Mike had assured me was not possible. I had killed Seabiscuit. I was disappointed, but mostly, I knew Mike would be disappointed...that is, IF Mike ever found out. He would tell me it was okay and that he really didn't care, but what's the sense in telling him. I knew better, and thus I stuck with the philosophy that what he doesn't know won't hurt him. I never did tell him. In a last ditch effort before I could aknowledge the fact that was staring me in the face, I clip the single remaining semi-green sprig from Seabiscuit, plopped him in a glass of water, and waited and hoped for roots to grow.

After much care and anticipation, roots did indeed grow, and after not potting it soon enough, roots fell off and died, and starting from square one yet again, roots grew back. The process was arduous indeed. Fast forwarding to today. This very day, I potted my first plant ever, and Seabiscuit is reaquanited with a pot once more. He looks lovely, and I think...I hope he'll pull through. It was a little rocky there for a while--a bit touch and go, but Seabiscuit remains.

Proof.

I would say go me, but I'm not sure I deserve that, but it's even potted in the friendship pot my roommate gave me. How could something not thrive in something as happy and cheerful as a friendship pot? It was my fave-day today, and not because my day was that awful, and for any of you that know my family on any level know that that's a big deal.

Creature of Habit

Seriously. I've turned into just that, a creature. I've always been one for routines. I'm all about routines. I like their predictability and foreseeable outcomes. They allow me certain aspects of my life I can count on every time. It's my way of feeling like I have control of my life when, let's face it, I really don't, especially during times of commotion, change, unrule, and upset. Routines are good. I like routines.

I've noticed as of late, however, that such routines have turned into something far more than just the mundane practices of life. They've morphed themselves into something more--weird quirky habits.

• I use the very same bathroom stall every single time at school.


• I've become obsessive over making lists, and then promptly lose the lists, thus creating the need to make more lists.


• I go to and from my house the very same way every time when there's about a billion other ways I could go.


• My morning and nightly routines resemble each other exactly from day to day. Every part of the process is carefully crafted and has a very specific purpose for being in its particular place and time in the sequence.


• Showering: Shampoo my hair first. Wash my body while rinsing the shampoo out (That's right, simultaneous action). Next, apply conditioner to my hair. Whilst waiting for my hair to condition, accomplish any necessary shaving. Rinse out conditioner. Rinse out and hang loofah. One last rinse of the hair, and turn off the water, lower the shower trigger and wait for the last little gush of water out the faucet. The routine feels so utterly incomplete without that gushing. That could quite possibly be the most important part. Lastly, open the shower curtain from left to right. Never right to left. Shower routine complete.


• I use disgustingly similar words when people ask me what I study. Question: "What is your major?" Answer: "Communication Disorders." And since the majority of people don't really know what exactly that means, I add, "So like speech pathology and audiology." Wait for the awkward smiling and nodding of faked interest..."It's fun, (short pause with a shrug of the shoulders) I like it." Said in attempts to fill that so often uncomfortable pause, and there you have it. Word for word.


• The right zipper is zipped counterclockwise to meet the left zipper on the leftmost side on my backpack. Every time.


• To save face, I shall refrain from continuing, but you get the idea.

That's it. I've diagnosed myself as severely habituated. I've turned into a drone. Too many of my routines have turned to a new extreme of a strange and eerily repetitive nature without my realization. It's like a song stuck on repeat that won't turn off. Yuck.

Needless to say the past week I've made a conscious effort to use various toilets throughout the day, and have especially avoided the inner tendency and extreme urge to use them in any kind of pattern. Watch out, next week I may just zip up my backpack to make the zippers meet in the middle...but then again, just thinking about that makes my nose wrinkle. Baby steps.