Going through some pictures and I noticed something.

I've got a bunch of Calvins for nephews.

I'm a big girl.

Except for when it comes to shots or anything needle-esk. I've spent the past 15 years avoiding needles quite successfully. I've never taken anybody up on a flu shot, never donated blood, only had to have my blood drawn once about 8 years ago, and only had to have an IV once, also about 8 years ago, and I was in a bit of a state of delirium at that time, so it hardly even phased me that I had a permanent needle stuck in my hand. Aside from these times few and far between, I run at the site of any needle. I can't really explain this irrational fear. It's not like it hurts that bad. I'm tough enough to handle the bit of a sting they cause, but they just give me the heebie-jeebies. The only explanation I can give is that I'm afraid of needles like people are afraid of spiders. They're just...scary.

Since I'm a supposed grown up now, and I'm supposed to be doing grown up things like starting internships and working with a real clientele, I'm also supposed to have grown up immunizations in which I failed to get as a wee child. I warn all the people of the world now, that hepatitis shot, it'll catch ya if you don't watch out, but I figured since I'm a big girl, I can do big girl things, and I could handle a simple shot. No problemo.

Turns out? I was kidding myself. When it came right down to it, I experienced something of strange palpitations and awkward heart arrhythmia's, and I concluded I was quite nervous. My roommate, Aimee insisted on accompanying me, and frankly, I was quite relieved. The drive there involved wrong turns, wrongly remembered addresses, a couple panic attacks, and several attempts at chickening out. The talk with the receptionist involved her trying to trick me into getting more shots than I agreed to, and a large chunk of money out of my bank account for an experience I wanted nothing to do with to begin with. The walk into the needle room involved Aimee trying to tell me I will be fine, the nurse telling me she wasn't really a nurse (Great confidence booster), but that I could look at the cartoon pictures on the wall for a distraction (like that's going to make her more of a nurse?), and then ensuing some story about the San Diego aquarium and sharks and then *pop*, the sound of the needle opening, and that's about as far as I got with her story. Something involving Aimee noticing the sudden stricken look on my face along with the disappearance of color, and the extreme tension in my muscles as the needle and my skin were being prepped. Something about Aimee's voice saying, "Just relax. It's okay. Don't look at the needle! Just look at me."

Focus on Aimee. Can't take the suspenseful anticipation. It's coming any second. Focus on Aimee. "Nurse's" rambling story in the background. Ouch! Prick in the skin. Don't think about it! Don't think about it. Find a happy place. Oh my gosh there's a needle in my skin. Stop! You're thinking about it! Focus on Aimee. Will this ever end? Just breath. Breathing away. That's what I'm doing. Breathing in and out. Wait. Pretty sure "nurse" just asked me a question. Uuuuh, wasn't listening to a word she said. She smiled sympathetically and something involving I was done, and wasn't that harmless? Ha. Jokes.

The aftermath involved a bit of trauma, lingering soreness in the arm, an ice cream bar from Aimee for being so brave, a long nap in recovery, and several glances down at the Tweety-bird band aid covering what I swore was the gaping wound left behind. Some may argue I resembled something of a toddler showing off a 3 week old owie to anybody who will stand still long enough. They lie. Don't listen to them.

Nope, still don't do shots. It's not something I do. This time I don't have 15 years to recuperate. I've got a month. Jokes, so many jokes.

It's more than a drink, it's an experience.

Sleepy time tea, it will change your life. It will stimulate every one of your senses in such a pleasant, gentle manner while soothing your soul at the same time. The first warming sensation appears in the nose as you submerge the delicate tea packet into the steaming water. The subtle addition of mint in the gentle concoction immediately diffuses into the air and up your nose, resulting in a sense of tranquil serenity. As the delightful smell works its way through your olfactory system, your eyes will behold the seeping colors slowly oozing their way from the tea bag into the depths of the mug of water. As you leisurely swirl the tea bag through the water, the warm liquid will gradually grow darker with deeper and deeper color, drawing you ever so slightly into a deeper trance. Cupping the warm mug in your hands gives you a whole new sense of experience as a hot, tingly sensation will slowly spread first through your extremities and then gradually up through your arms and to your core. All of this leads up to the climax of the ultimate sipping of the beverage. The delicate hint of mint, the dollop of chamomile, and the slight trace of honey and other flavorful herbs make a blend of utmost pleasantry inside your mouth, soothing not only the taste buds, but the essence of the core being. As the swallowing mechanisms engage and the relaxing warm liquid is felt all the way to the belly of both body and soul, you will find yourself slipping ever more deeply into repose. It's quite the relaxing experience, and you may find yourself just peaceful enough for a restful evening of slumber. It's just what the doctor orders after a long day at work or school. Or at least what I order every night before bedtime.

The only problem is that sleepy time tea before bedtime turns into sleepy time pee-pee time tea amidst bed time. You give some, you take some.

First attempt at the whole "holding-the-camera-phone-in-front-of-you-to-take-the-picture-because-there's-nobody-else-around" picture. Pft. Pathetic. Only got 1/4 of my nightly tea mug.

Second attempt - still no mug, and a handle for a face.

So maybe the third time is almost the charm, but roommate Meridith was rapidly losing interest.

A Perfect Match

I've always really loved things that just fit together in a seemingly perfect way. Just ask my mom when she was digging the bead out of my nose that didn't fit quite as perfectly as I had imagined it fitting. I was just a child then, and my perception of what fits wasn't quite as developed as it is now. This obsession of matching duos is the reason why I make sandwiches to take to school for lunch when I don't really like sandwiches--for the sole purpose of being able to nest it so rightly in my little sandwich container.

I'm also quite convinced that a motorcycle and me would be quite a good match. I'm told I could get this piece of work up and running for only about $700. Honestly, who can refute this? It just fits.

I'm even more convinced that the guy playing the guitar in the very middle is the perfect match for me. I'm pretty sure I could make room for two on that bike for him.

These are all extremely wonderful matches, and they make my soul feel, well, settled, but this next match blows them all away. With this match, I'm not just settled, I'm complete. After 7 years of searching, and after 7 years of disappointment and let down after let down, I've finally found the one. I've finally found a song whose beat goes to the rhythm of the blinker in my car. "You in the barricade listen to this! No one is coming to help you to fight. You're on your own. You have no friends. Give up your guns or die..." If I'm not careful I might get carried away and quote the rest of the musical. I knew there was a reason I feel such a connection toward Les Miserables.

Faces and bathrooms, on the other hand, are not such a fit. I find this highly disturbing.

I don't like the looks of it.

My Cup Runneth Over

"And when the servant of the man of God was risen early, and gone forth, behold, an host compassed the city both with horses and chariots. And his servant said unto him, Alas, my master! how shall we do?

And he answered, Fear not: for they that be with us are more than they that be with them.

And Elisha prayed, and said, Lord, I pray thee, open his eyes, that he may see. And the Lord opened the eyes of the young man; and he saw: and, behold, the mountain was full of horses and chariots of fire round about Elisha." (2 Kings 6:15-17)

Kind notes, thoughtful emails, tasty treats, caring cards, countless phone calls, incessant availability, beautiful scarves, cheering countenances, big juicy apples, comforting and courage inducing words, Irish accents, exercise partners, pictures drawn, Mormon messages, many traveled miles, reassuring hugs, continuous support, endless prayers, and warm thoughts. I feel them, and they mean the world. My eyes are opened. You are the ministering angles. Thank you.

How does this happen?

These here crystal orbs are in actuality my contacts. Or were. I guess they still are, but they're not very functional anymore seeing as the one on the right has been hacked away at, missing large and slightly important chunks from the outer edge, sliced up like a slashed tire, and scratching gouges out of my eyeball. And also because they're now shriveled up in the basement of my trash can.

I can assure you, I have not razors on the inside of my eyelid, or mysterious bugs that thrive only on the shredding of contact lenses that live in my contact case, or little tiny men with little tiny scissors and favorite past times involving cutting edges off thin clear filaments inhabiting my house. I guess I can't tell you with 100% confidence, but I'm pretty sure I don't sleep walk into the bathroom with an exacto knife to carve away at the only thing that allows me to see with any kind of clarity, and I'd like to say I have good friends that generally don't sabotage my possessions that make my life more functional whilst I slumber. I'm pretty sure I blink like a normal person without any head banging or eyeball poking, and I have not been involved in any sort of eye karate chopping, razor blade throwing, or knife juggling action. Having all these accounted for, how else on earth does this possibly happen?

Aliens. Extra-terrestrials. It's the only explanation.

Negative Nancy

Whelp, it's been cute and fun and all, but I'm done pretending. I don't like dirty butter. I hate headaches. Dating is a drag. It annoys me when the toothpaste gets squeezed from the middle. Stubbing my toe makes me want to say bad words. Cold toilet seats ruin my life. Animals gross me out. I can't stand obnoxious PDA. Wet pant legs make me grumpy. I'm not looking forward to 2012. Most of all, I don't like grad school. Oh, and raisins are disgusting. There. I said it.

But I did just find a ticket to Dublin for $495. Now Ireland I like...