Come home, TomTom

All I can think about today is my missing TomTom charger. Which means all I'm going to write about today is my missing TomTom charger.

Here's the deal. That TomTom and I have been through a lot. A few summers ago, I made an epic road trip from good ol' Michigan to Seattle. Coast to coast. Alone. Did I mention I planned this road trip in oh, two days?

The first day was brutal. I stopped somewhere in the middle of Illinois after getting on and off the same highway exits for about 45 minutes (Literally. When I realized I was just going in circles on the same clover-shaped highway exit paths I broke out in instant tears.). I pulled into a CVS and called my boyfriend at the time, sobbing. Straight up sobbing. 

"I can't do this," I blubbered, "Everything is really hot and fuzzy and I don't feel good and I just feel like I'm gonna pass out. And I'm clammy. And I have a fever. Oh my god I think I'm sick. Oh my god. How can I do this?"

"Autumn," he said calmly, "Is your AC on?"

Oh. Remember that summer? The great summer of country-wide heat wave when the electric companies literally shut off power for a few hours each day because they were overheating their machines? You know, that one. I had been driving in that god-awful heat wave (97 degrees at the time?) for four hours with no AC. 

Once I got the AC on, I made my second mistake of the day by hitting the 'refresh' button on my iPhone map. Insert fresh round of sobbing when my map and directions completely disappeared because I was in the middle of nowhere and not connected to the right network (who goes on a cross-country road trip with just their iPhone?!?!?!). This time, I called my parents sobbing who insisted that I stop at the next major town and get a real GPS. The next major town: Hannibal, MO. 

Every stereotype you have ever heard, and more. I pulled over at a gas station and interrupted the female cashier (missing four teeth, leather skin, smoker voice) and a nice young man (missing one tooth, freckled skin, cowboy hat) chatting.

"Excuse me," I said. "Do you have a Best Buy around here?"

"A what?" she said.

"A Best Buy? You know...like a technology store." She stared. "I need to buy a GPS? I'm taking a road trip?"

"Ohhhh...no we ain't got one of those anywhere around here. But we do have a WalMart. They should have most everything you need."

I took down some directions from her and was about to leave when she literally jumped up on the counter, reached over, and grabbed my necklace "Wellll lookeeeee here!" she shouted, "That right there is a real pretty necklace! I've never seen such a thing before!"

Now I don't know about you, but after driving for four hours with no AC, getting lost countless times, and pulling into the world's sketchiest gas station in America's most poorly named city, the last thing your heart needs is some woman you've never met grabbing at your necklace. Surprisingly, she genuinely did just want to compliment my crucifix (praise Jesus!) and send me on my way with well wishes. In the end, I got my TomTom and everything after that was relatively smooth sailing.

The point is, TomTom, I went through a LOT to get you, and I can't quit you even though sometimes you try to be a straight up biatch and send me into the middle of nowhere Wyoming (still hatin' on that, yep). And now, you're gone from me. I have a road trip this weekend across four states, and I need you. I need you, boo. I can picture you shivering, alone and cold, in my ex-boyfriend's mother's car. I hope she treats you right. Do you hear me calling for you TomTom? Do you think we could organize a trade? Bottle o' wine for my TomTom? We could have a nice little chat and bitch about our mutual hatred of PTLs? TomTom, come home. 

I Like My Bars Dirty

How do I like my bars? Dirty. I love a good dive bar. The more sections of wall that consist of tacky wood paneling, the better. The more creepy townie men who stare inappropriately before turning religiously back to the sporting show on the fuzzy TV, the better. I don't want to pay a cover, I don't want to have to look cute just to get sticky alcohol spilled all over me in on an overcrowded dance floor and I don't want to have everything bathed in a shade of weird purple 'trendy' lights.

Also, I am not skilled enough to order drinks at these hip bars filled with dancing, flirting, glittering 20somethings. I still order drinks like I'm in a frat house, because that's where I learned to drink. I like my drinks strong, and I prefer them in a solid glass mug or something non-breakable. Once, right after I moved here, I told a bartender that I wanted a Dr. Pepper and vodka. He was in shock. He asked me if that was a fancy drink from Michigan, because he had never heard of it. I just went with it and said yes. In reality, I could not tell you the difference between a mai thai, a cosmo, a martini or a rock collins. I am used to simple drinks: liquor, chaser. Two ingredients. Or maybe three, if we're going to get wild and make pink panty droppers (beer, vodka, pink lemonade).

So give me the dive bars: the ones with the best food, the weirdest people, the dimmest lights, the dirtiest floors, and the least decorated walls.

This is the actual level of lighting within the bar. I can barely see the back wall. 

Perfect.

Bars using posters of Gossip Girl will be given extra points in my book.

Just look at the dirt and the wood and the bottles. Clearly, you don't come here to flirt. You come here to drink. (Also, on the wall behind me there was a collection of mammoth beehives. Why? Because they can. Or maybe it's their version of a breathalyzer. When you start believing bees will actually come out of them, you've had enough.)

But the following really took the cake. This backwoods, old-man bar had squirrel decorations. That's right. Dead squirrels. Posed. Costumed. In shadow boxes. Like it was no big deal. Like this was a completely normal thing to do. And the closer you looked, the more squirrels you saw. 

Oh Missourah, you take the cake on old man bars. Cheers to you. 

Linking up with my boo Steph to celebrate her one-year blogiversary! Happy blogabirthaday, babay. 

That time I told my niece Mary was an attention-whore

I didn't hear the tornado sirens, but I did see the pack of five moms running in unison and that's kind of the same thing, right? That's right. I survived my first Missourah tornado.

Consequentially (not really, the storm has nothing to do with it) I am having immense writer's block. I read a blog today that really struck a chord with me when the writer said that blogging forces her to be more present in the moment and drag things out. Because really, our life is funny and it is adventurous, but so often we're waiting for "the next big thing" that we miss it. So, while I'm here, I want to remember being here. And a huge part of my life here in good ol' Missourah has been the kids I get to work with in the nursery. I recently realized that perhaps my sass has gone a little too far, especially when it comes to children. I imagine their not listening...but they could be...So for now, until my writer's block heals, enjoy the following sample of my sassy-child interactions.

12-year-old: hey! hey! hey! 

me: WHAT

12-year-old: i got a lunchbox (he has been repeating this for about 30 minutes, 

and I finally catch on)

me: yeah? did you get the velcro too? 

*12-year-old's mouth drops open in utter horror*: how do YOU know that song???

*church choir singing*

6-year-old girl: this music SUCKS

me: HEY. That is the music of the LORD. 

Israel (the special needs boy I watch, who has absolutely no sensory perception) has developed a new habit of whenever he's in a crowd, just putting his arm straight out (Hitler style, no joke) and pushing through into anyone in his way until they move. So of course, he does this to a 60 year old woman, and of course, his hand comes to the height of her butt. Which he proceeds to push on. For a few too many seconds. 

Me: Israel! If you're gonna touch her butt, you could at least say hello!

Creepy 70 year old man behind me: Heh heh, he's just starting early. 

And now...the grand finale. Throwback Thursday...to Christmas...me...and the love of my life...re-enacting the Christmas nativity story. Please enjoy the key parts where I teach her that:

 +Mary was "big and fat and pregnant and this made her very tired"  

+Jesus's "first friends were other animals in the manger, who he sometimes slept with but surprisingly never crushed him" 

+Mary loved all the attention she got when the three kings came bearing gifts

And yes, she does jump in shock when I sneeze at the end. Seriously. Best 5 minutes you'll ever spend.
(Also, sorry I'm not sorry I'm not a professional videographer and at one point my fat fingers cover the mic for like...a minute. But just turn your sound up, it's still gold!)

Like I said...I should watch what I say more...

Day made? You're welcome.

A Letter to My Workout via GIFS

Dear Eternal Optimists:
This post is not for you.

Dear Workout Class Instructor:
No. Just no. I'm not feeling you. And no, I will not "find the burn" and "just give in to the burn and stay there. stay in the pain."

If I wanted to TORTURE MYSELF I would get some whips and chains and handcuffs for my bedroom. That's painful and cardio all at the same time, biatch.

Dear fellow workout classmates:
DO YOU SEE THE FACES YOU'RE MAKING?!?! Why do you insist on inflicting so much pain on yourself??? This is WEIRD. I want to go back to the days where we didn't have to torture ourselves to STAY IN SHAPE. When you just walked everywhere and just the activity of being alive was a workout. How weird is it that we spend an hour every other day(ish) literally TORTURING ourselves and RIPPING our muscles apart...only to go sit down for the rest of the day???? I DON'T UNDERSTAND THIS AND I DON'T WANT TO UNDERSTAND THIS.

Dear workout classes:
You should be separated not by experience levels but by bra size. All these girls who don't have to wear any form of sports bra and just prance around in their neon colored twenty-criss crossing-straps-just-for-decoration are really pissing me off.

And this? Not happening. Let me tell you what happens as soon as you bend remotely halfway over to pick up a weight or I don't know, workout...those puppies are gonna fall right out. This picture is filled with lies. 

Dear Missourah:
You try my patience like no other. I do not know what our deal is, but we are not sympatico. Every day I wake up with less and less patience. I lived in a house with 40 other girls for three years in a row and never wanted to cut a bitch run away screaming more than I do from you.

Dear Easter weekend:
You were more fun at college when we camped out in our sorority house, sun bathed on the roof, partied a little too hard, stayed up till 5 am 'watching movies,' and got to see one of our sisters welcomed into the Catholic Church to be followed by the world's greatest Catholic party of wine, appetizers and visiting priests. I miss you.

Dear Michigan:
Miss you too. Good thing we'll be reunited soon.

Dear Mackinac Island:
You've been stuck in my mind lately and I don't mind. I could use your sunshine, bicycles, boardwalks, beaches, fudge, and lakeshore anytime right about now. I think it's time I start recruiting friends to take a trip up there with me this summer....yes? Yes.

Dear spaghetti:
Still planning on making you. Except instead of noodles I'll use bacon and instead of red sauce I'll use cheese sauce.

I'm a Tree Fairy!

The other day, I was sitting on my ass couch watching TV when a commercial with the typical adorable child came on. Instantly, I started bemoaning "childhood is wasted on children. wouldn't it be great to be a child again...just for one day?" I thought of all the things I would do as a child again for just one day: not pay bills, not complain about whatever my mom cooked for dinner--just be grateful I wasn't cooking it, get a bunch of hugs, spend all day outside just playing. Remember when we were kids and we just went outside without having anything to do? As an adult, I feel like I can't really go outside without something to do. I need to be playing a specific game, taking a specific walk, or reading a specific book. But when I was a kid I would just go outside without any specific activity in mind most times...but four hours later I was dirty, tired, happy and content.

This weekend, winter visited Missouri.

I enjoyed laying on my couch for hours...but around 4 o'clock I wanted to start ramming my head against the wall. I caught myself whining "I can't even go to my gym classes because there's so much snow. Ugh." And then I saw my neighbors outside, building a snowman. My roommate thought they were crazy and I thought they were brilliant. They wanted to be outside, so they did. I wanted to be outside, so I did. At first, I took a walk. But that can only last so long. And then...I spied it. We had already had one tree fall, and my roommate and I were waiting for others to snap from the weight of the snow.

That's cool, I didn't need to get upstairs anyways.

I was desperate for a way to stay outside. And then it came to me. I could be the self-proclaimed tree fairy of my apartment complex. I could prevent other trees from snapping by ridding them of their too-heavy snow! So I ran around and shook all the branches I could find.

It hit me. Literally, and metaphorically. Metaphorically, my wish had come true. I was a little kid for a day. I didn't have a care in the world. I ran from tree to tree to tree, up hill, down hill, across the parking lot. Just shaking branches. Letting it avalanche onto my head. Sometimes pulling the branch back like a sling-shot and using it to hit the snow off the branch ahead. Unburying some branches that were already buried completely under the snow. It was wonderful. I know it sounds simple but--no, no buts. It was simple. And it was beautiful. It was fun and simple and thrilling. Each time I shook it, shrieked, got pelted by snow, and then got to watch the branch swing two feet up in the air, snow free again I felt a huge rush.

While I was swinging away, I was reminded of this quote.

I couldn't be a kid for a day then, but I could be a kid for today. When I wanted it, the answer was "not now." As a human, I oh so often assume that means "not ever." But today was a great reminder that our God is an awesome God, and he never forgets His children--down to their littlest desire. How beautiful.  Think of everything the Lord has to keep track of. Politicians, starving children, single moms, Pope Francis running away from his body guards (again) to go bless some homeless people. All these people and burdens and prayers...and yet He remembers me, a little ol' girl in Missourah, under a tree full of snow. Out of all of the requests and prayers and petitions He gets every single day, He remembered my one, thirty-second thought, "I want to be a kid again" and He made it happen.

Some of you are probably rolling your eyes. It was frickin' snow, get over it you may say. But to me, it was more. It was a reminder that "not now" doesn't mean "not ever." And I needed this reminder, desperately.  I've been stressing over everything--money, job, Missourah. And today, I got my answer. Not now. That doesn't mean He's forgotten me or that my life is over and I just have to deal with where I am. I'll get where I need to be, when I need to be. And along the way, I'll learn some cool things. Like today, I learned the coolest way to enjoy snow as an adult. And hopefully, I saved a branch or two.

Love,
The Tree Fairy

Now that's a rosy-pink shade of exertion that even my Bar Method teacher would approve of. Brought to you for free from the great outdoors.

You're bored? Do something. You want to get off your ass?  Get up.
You want to go outside? Go outside. Is it hard? You bet. Worth it? Absolutely.

I ran from tree to tree like a total moron. Do my neighbors think I'm crazy?
Who cares. I'm fabulous.