I am predictable.

Here's how this post is going to go - I am going to start with random observation about my life, tell you a story, make some jokes, impress you with my dark, slightly nerdy humor....you know - the usual. Then things are going to get real and I'm going to confess some slightly flawed, yet good-intentioned trait that is brought to light because of whatever happened in the first part of my post. I'll wrap things up with a charge for myself to be better and healthier - and end things with a sentence about who I am on the outside. Who I am on the inside. And something I plan to do that brings the whole post together.

You thought you were the only one that could read through my painfully predictable format? Wrong. As you may have noticed during the numerous posts I've written about myself - I am overly self-aware (and slightly self-obsessed). I'll be the first to admit these things, and anyone who tries to convince me otherwise will be written off as trying to sell me something. I'm a bit (ok, a lot) frustrating in this way - I know myself well enough to predict my future actions, but don't always do things to change things when one of my many faults are about to become the driving force behind my decision making. I like myself and that means I like my faults, too. I'm a personality and relationship perfectionist, meaning I gauge, predict and control my way through almost every scenario.

Call it a need for control, knowledge or sense of stability - but I like knowing everything about myself, never being caught unawares when someone brings to light something they don't like about me. I knew it first, I hated it first - and I learned to live with it, and so should you. I even am aware that I am frustratingly aware - rarely giving people the opportunity to bring new, valuable insight to my life.

Should I stop examining myself in an effort to release the iron grip of control I place on my personality? Should I continue examining, explaining and excusing the faults in my life under the hope that it's somehow making me a better person? At what point does the pursuit of self-improvement turn in to self-obsession?

I don't know. If I did, maybe I wouldn't have this narcissistic blog. But like I said, I like myself far too much today to let go of my faults. They make me....well, me. And most days, they're all I've got.

I am predictable. I am a narcissistic, know-it-all. I'm still ending my posts in the way I always do - because well, that's the point of this whole blog, isn't it?

I am a sister.

I remember back in the 7th grade, riding on my way to a track meet in a Wylie ISD bus. I know it was 7th grade because my brother, Caleb, was on the bus with me - I realized I hated running not long after junior high. I was sitting just away from the cool kids crowd, but not quite in the loser section. My brother, as usual, was sitting directly in the middle of the coolest of the cool. Seeing my brother there, surrounded by girls I would never be as pretty as, and boys that would never consider me as a viable crush - I decided I wanted to do something to even the score. I used the one thing I did have over my brother - words. I told the entire bus my brother came out of the womb as a hermaphrodite (big word for a 7th grader, but like I said - words have always been my gift) and we named her/him Kayla/Caleb and let him decide when he was 10 whether he wanted to be a boy or girl.

Instant coolness. I joined in with everyone on the track bus laughing at my brother. I had the power - through a lie and a joke I was in, he was out. It is stories like this that defined my relationship with my brother. I tended to hang with the less cool, smart kids - while my brother became captain of the football, track and wrestling teams. I tried not to not let our lives overlap too much - but when they did I found myself to be petty, vindictive and downright nasty. I felt like Dr. Jekyll and Sister Hyde.

Thankfully my brother and I are now much better friends, in large part to a significant realization on my part. I am jealous of other people, and my coping mechanism for this is sabotage. I want to be the most liked, the favorite and if I'm not - I'll do almost anything to change the stakes. I have a hard time lifting people up in their own accomplishments without throwing a "me too" in there for good measure. I don't mind if people are getting praise - I just want it too, at the expense of whoever is around. It makes me sick to think about how many times my brother was on the receiving end of this fault - it's no wonder we didn't talk a majority of our college years...I would be glad to be rid of that kind of toxicity too.

Thankfully, a good dose of humility and time heals most things. My brother is now one of my favorite people - and I have on good authority I am one of his. I have found joy in his accomplishments and feel no need to stick a 'me too' anywhere in our conversations - just praise, love and some sisterly prodding for good measure.

I am a sister. I am learning to love without jealousy. I am looking forward to my brother's visit this fall.

Picture: The picture that sums it all up - him, a little higher and better; me, making it look good.

I am a talker.

Yesterday, I witnessed my first execution firing.

The day started off normal enough - the victim employee, Francis (I changed the name because I'm friends with people I work with and don't want to get the reputation that I'll post your business on the internet - unless you do something really horrible to me, coworkers, then the gloves are off), was as usual, the first person in the office for the day. Looking back, I feel a bit guilty because...well...let's just say Francis wasn't my favorite person ever. As he drank his cup of coffee in front of my desk, waiting for me to finish my actual job duties - I remember thinking "Is this all you have to do in the mornings?" I guess so, because after I hung up my phone Francis began to tell me how three of the big-wigs from his department were coming to our campus (we are located about an hour and a half from our main location) - and how this was how people got fired, on a Friday afternoon during a last minute meeting.

Oh Francis, did you feel it coming? Or do you just have a sixth sense I should have been capitalizing on during your time here? Because sure enough, four hours later I find Francis carting off boxes of his things and said big-wigs waiting by the door to make sure our dear Francis left the building in peace. No goodbyes, no explanations - just gone.

I hate to say it - but the thing that upsets me the most about this whole situation is that I had no one to talk to about it all. I am not an internal processor. I am not a secret keeper. I am not a "mind your own business" kind of person. If there is something juicy, exciting or scandalous going on - I want to be the first to know and the first to tell other people. When something happens to me I think is especially note-worthy - I make three phone calls - one to husband, one to mom and one to one of my two best friends (not necessarily in that order, depending on the scenario).

Also adding to my bouts of excessive taking is what my high school Spanish teacher dubbed "verbal diarrhea." If I'm nervous, upset or excited in anyway - the flood gates of my mouth magically lose their kill switch. I'm not sure if it's an unconscious belief that I can talk my way out of anything - or a need to hear my voice to gain stability when I feel out of control...either way, I talk. A lot. Most of the time it's funny and helpful, but other times it can be like watching a slow moving train wreck - with no control to put things back on the right track.

I think it comes from a fear of loneliness. I know that sounds far-fetched - but I don't want to have to go through life and it's trials alone. I want to know what my friends think, in order to find out what I think - because I want to live the kind of life where I am not the ultimate authority and my experiences and thoughts are not the only ones that matter. I realize this is a thin line to walk, between giving people healthy influence and unhealthy control - but I have found it is most rewarding to know I am supported, that people agree and share with the experiences and decisions I'm making.

I am a talker. I don't want to live my life alone. I am just leaving work if my boss, her boss and the department chair ever tells me they're coming in for a "last minute meeting."

I am fickle.

Here's is a typical Friday night conversation in the Armstrong house:

Levi: So babe (he calls me this always - I think he forgets my name), what do you want to do tonight?
Leah: Oh, I don't know - what do you want to do? (I am fighting the urge to quote Pinky and the Brain or the Jungle Book at this point)
Levi: I know! Let's [fill in the blank with some fun activity].
Leah: Eh..I don't know. What about [some not so cool but still fun activity].
Levi: Sounds great babe (it's LEAH!) let's go!
Leah: Well...I don't know - maybe we should [third, not so cool or fun option].
Levi: It's whatever you want to do - you pick.

And you know what ends up happening almost every time? I either can't make up my mind and we end up sitting at home waiting for me to make a decision - or we end up doing something we've done times before, but for some reason I enjoy anyways.

I am a fickle person. I have a terrible time making up my mind and then sticking with my decision. Ironically, I'm almost the complete opposite once I've made up my mind - I'll hold on to a belief, plan or idea against all logic and reason once the decision has been made...it's the getting there that causes me some trouble.

I eat the same foods because I don't want to go through the trouble of convincing myself something else on the menu may be a good dish. I wait until the last minute to buy plane tickets or make travel arrangements because I have a fear of last minute changes without the freedom to adapt. I can't seem to commit to the details of life - I know where I'm going in the long run I just can't figure out how I want to get there.

I am scared I'm going to miss something. Life is so full of goodness and excitement - I find myself overwhelmed by my helplessness in experiencing it all. The decisions I make today are in some way inhibiting me from experiences I could be having tomorrow. Who am I to know what is worth the sacrifice and what is not?

Instead of making decisions boldly and unapologetically - I am stuck. My desire to experience everything in life is mutilated in to a debilitating fear that hinders me from experiencing anything. Once again my best intentions and desires, when left unchecked, are my greatest faults.

I am fickle. I am scared of missing out on life. I am letting Levi make the plans this weekend.

I am a messy eater.

Growing up, I was allergic to tomato sauce - though not in the way you'd think. You see, I used to break out in hives not when I ate tomatoes sauce - but when it came in contact with my face...which turns out, was a lot. So much so that I though I was internally allergic to tomatoes for years and years after growing out of the allergy.

Much to my mother's dismay, I am a messy eater. This certain character trait is so intense it's earned me the nickname "camel face" from my brother - commenting on my tendency to chew things with what I'd like to think is "passion and vigor" as opposed to the often stated "open mouth and lack of class." I just really really like food, ok? Can I help it if I have abnormally small nasal passages that make it near to impossible to chew and breathe at the same time? Is it my fault that I also have a large enough mouth to stick my entire fist in - therefore enticing me to shove as much food as possible in it? If I had a dollar for every time someone has told me to "eat pretty" - I'd have enough money to hire a mobster to sew someone's mouth shut the next time that phrase was uttered.

...I wish this bothered me more - but it just doesn't. Eating is one or the most primal things we do as a society - yet we insist on putting rules of conduct, propriety and politeness on every detail of our meals. To make us feel better about stuffing our faces? To ensure cleanliness and hygiene for ourselves and those around us? I'm quite certain it's a mixture of both coupled with a large dose of "because I said so." Let me tell you about a girl who hates doing things just because someone said she must - she chews like a bovine.

I enjoy food. It reminds me of all the good things in life - love, happiness, laughter and just a general sense of prosperity. I can admit I do lose a sense of control when I'm in the middle of a really good dish - I just can't help myself. I'm a more-is-more kind of person and nothing triggers this attribute more than good food. Though I'll fight anyone that tells me I have to "eat pretty" for pretty's sake - I will agree to saying I maybe should not enjoy eating to the extreme that I do. Food was made, and should remain, a tool for us to receive nutrients - nothing more. When you start looking to food for comfort you start angry eating, social eating and eventually over-eating. Though food is an amazing addition to any family, friend or general gathering - when I think about exactly how much power I give food to make or break my day - it scares me a little. Like that spaghetti sauce that so often got all over my face as a child - it feels good going down...but because of my lack of control I end up in pain (and a huge rash).


I think I need to work on managing things that I enjoy. I tend to live in those things too much, rely on them too often - and let them take up too much space in my happiness. Because really, I've found more often than not - life's greatest joys come from things not obviously good, but from things that take hard work and tears to make them in to something great.


I am a messy eater. I give life's pleasures too much power in my life. I am making spaghetti for dinner tonight.


Picture: Me, in all my improper glory.

I am a part of a family.

Here's what you need to know about my family: we're southern, we're loud, and we consider any blood relation (no matter how distant) lifetime cause to get all up in your business (in the best possible way, of course). Done. Amen.

Growing up, family meant a lot of things to me...Sunday dinners, Christmas presents, vacations and having about 15 people at every dance recital and awards ceremony. Now that I've gotten older and moved on to creating my own family - I've realized a thing or two about what family actually means.

First - You choose to be family. I know some of you may be rolling your eyes at the genetic implications of that statement, yet even though birth may choose who you're related to - commitment decides who is your family. Case in point? Caroline Geiger. She has been one of my two best friends since high school (about 10 years now - GAH) and around year 5 we realized we had crossed some invisible line from friendship to family. Caroline is the closest thing I have had to a sister - and whether we like it or not, we're doing life together for the long-haul. Another example is my aunts - though they did not choose to be related to me - they have chosen time and time again to invest in my life and treat me like a real person, not someone who they are required to spend time with according to the laws of relation.

Second - Family is messy. Heck, life is messy. If you're not fighting, bickering or somehow ticking each other off at some point or another - you're not doing it right. The deeper your relationships get - the more honest and vulnerable you become (hopefully), therefore opening yourself up to let faults and insecurities come in to play. This is a good thing because you also allow other people to experience them, giving you and your family an opportunity to work through things together.

Third - Your family (and it's members) may not be what you want, but they're going to be what you need. I know this may sound horrible, but I don't always want to hang out with my family. That's why I have friends - my friends are people I've chosen to do life with who share my same passions, interests and ideas. My family, however, does not usually adhere to those same standards. They are who they are - whether or not I agree with it. A part of being family means you want the best for your family members - but it also means you stick together regardless of disagreements on any level. They're there when you need it - not when you necessarily want it...and it's always good.

Family. What a fantastic concept. In the past few months mine has grown, changed and evolved in ways I never imagined and am endlessly thankful for. I am constantly being reminded of their generosity, love and compassion for my life - encouraging me to reciprocate with everything I have.



I am a part of a family. I am eternally grateful for every one of them. I am already counting down to my next trip to Texas.


Picture: There are two - First, me and my sweet Caroline. Second, my newly expanded family (well, at least some of them).

I am a nice person.

Someone broke in to my car last night. I wish there was some witty, insightful thing I could immediately take away from all of this - but I'm just left feeling....violated. I mean, it was MY car, in front of MY house, with MY purse and MY credit cards in it. I just wonder what gives anyone else the idea they have some sort of claim to what I've worked hard for (or been generously given from family members).

Two things really upset me about all of this - how easily someone violated what I consider my personal space, and the lack of understading of the mentality behind someone who would commit this crime.

Guys, I'm a nice person. I mean, not nice in the way that I won't talk behind your back (I totally will) but nice in the way that I'd do/give almost anything to someone who needed it. As already covered, I have a bleeding heart - making me ready to open my house, money and life to those who need a helping hand. I try to give when I can, listen when it's helpful and encourage when needed. Not because I think this will earn me any extra points with the big guy, or some sort of magic "nice person" bonus in life - but because I really do have compassion for the lives other people have to lead (my life is sometimes tough and I think I have it pretty easy). How can you not see how hard people work to make it through life and find some sort of compassion for it all? Sometimes it hurts my stomach to think about how hard my parents and their parents worked to get me in the place I am today - I have been blessed beyond words...why would a total stranger think they have a right to that sacrifice? My grandfather, who worked with machines nearly all his life, gave me that car. It cost him more than money to work and be able to gift me with a good, reliable car.

Hopefully whoever stole my things found what they were looking for - and hopefully it doesn't involve any more of my stuff.



I am a nice person. Some people are not. This is life.

I am an unwilling grown-up.

There is this great poet I was turned on to during my stint at community college (which, by the way, had some of the best, most interesting classes I've ever attended) who always struck a chord with me. William Wordsworth.

Never heard of him? Blasphemy! Eh, I hadn't either until his works became my homework. I simply got lucky my professor happened to have great taste in poetry - and I was just bored enough living at home with my parents at the age of 21 that I had the time to read his works. (We'll cover why I was in community college at the age of 21 some other day.)

There's this one ode he writes called Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood that speaks to things in me that I didn't know where there until I read his words. For those of you not dying to read an old English poet in the middle of your Monday - let me give you a run-down. It is essentially a poem about how in his youth, Wordsworth thought life was pretty much magical - but for the life of him can't recapture that same feeling of wonderment now that he's grown older.

My sentiments exactly, William. Most people have to lose their youth before they really regret getting older - yet I have always been painfully aware of the years slipping away, chipping at my childhood. I knew when I was 10 that I never wanted to be 11, and at 20 I was ready to stop the aging process all together.

Don't get me wrong - age has brought things so good I can't believe it. A loving husband, an unparalleled friendship with my mother and a stability and sense of control over my life...yet I find, as Wordsworth found, life has a little less of the rosy glow or innocence it used to have. I have to blame it on being an "adult" - on taking on more stress, more responsibility, and a bigger dose of realism. All things that we're taught are good for us, yet I find I would gladly trade for feeling like the world is full of endless, magical possibilities once again.

But I don't feel without hope. I believe there is a place where age and time will have no hold over us - and each moment will be as rapturous as the innocence of those first years.....Disney World!!!

Just kidding, of course I was talking about heaven - the great beyond - whatever you want to call it. When I'm dead time won't have power over me any longer, and I'll be glad to rid myself of it's curse.



I am an unwilling grown-up. I am waiting for the day I become a child again. I am already dreaming of my next vacation to Disney World.



No picture, rather my favorite line -

The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star,
Hath had elsewhere its setting,
And cometh from afar:
Not in entire forgetfulness,
And not in utter nakedness,
But trailing clouds of glory do we come
From God, who is our home:
Heaven lies about us in our infancy!

I am a bad speller.

I know what you're thinking...."NO WAY! But you're so articulate, well spoken and smart! You must have a brain tumor that impedes your ability to spell."

My thoughts exactly. As we've already covered - my penchant for over-diagnosing every minor symptom can lead to a lot of false trails, yet I have to think there's something not quite right about my inability to spell things correctly. Grammar? Mastered. Vocabulary? Excellent. General command of the English language? Well, you can read for yourself. Then why, for the life of me, can't I manage to tackle words like tackle (I get the l and e mixed up constantly)?

Thank goodness for computers and spell-check, otherwise I'm quite confident I would never have made it in to any AP or GT classes in high school - let alone be accepted to college. I recently updated the operating system in my computer at work - and could not continue performing my job duties until I had successfully figured out how to reinstate the automatic spell-check in my Internet browser. I'm not kidding. It's that bad.

So once again - I'm left asking myself why am I this way.

I think it may have to do with my tendency to skip over the details of life. I'm one of those people that enjoy looking at, planning for and moving towards the "big picture" but once the small items start to become big issues - I'm done. For example - I almost always have to read a book at least twice. The first time I read it I fly through the story with the sole purpose of finding out the big picture. I want to know what happens at the end, regardless of how many small details I miss along the way. So inevitably I will get to the end of the story and realize that though I read the entire book, I did not actually pay attention to it. Thus the second reading is required. Roughly the same scenario happens across all of my life - I can remember the stories and big pictures but can forget the small things. I know the words and can create the sentences - yet putting the letters in the right order always gives me trouble.



I am a bad speller. I am bothered by small details. I am blaming it all on a brain tumor.


picture: I'm smarter than I look.

I am a woman.

WARNING - if any part of the female reproductive process offends or grosses you out..stop reading. This post just isn't for you, sorry.

So being a woman means a lot of things. Some people think dresses, make up, gossiping or all sorts of socially defined "feminine" attributes. You know what being a woman means to me? Periods.

Did I just gross you out? ....why? Almost every woman - ever - has had to deal with them for the majority of their lives. It's one of the most common experiences across the globe - yet we are taught to hide it, be ashamed of it's consequences and generally try to involve as little people as possible in our plight. Again I ask, WHY? I honestly don't understand the sense of shame associated with this event. It's a monthly occurrence that we have little to no control over - and that actually can cause us a lot of pain and hardships. Yet there is a continual feeling of shame and secrecy that reinforced across generations, cultures and religions.

There are a lot of other things about the woman disposition that are taught to be less than worthy traits, actions and attributes. Ever heard the phrase "big girls don't cry"? Let me tell you, big girls cry - A LOT. You try not crying when you have a metric ton of hormones racing through you body at any given moment. Why is crying undesirable anyways? It simply shows you're feeling something strongly - whether it be pain, fear, happiness or sadness. We have been conditioned to link crying with helplessness - yet I cry almost daily and rarely feel helpless. Why are we taught to not let our bodies express the emotions that come so naturally to us? I could present the same argument for a myriad of female related traits - hospitality gets turned in to a homebody; our need for relationships gets turned in to gossiping mongering; and our love of beauty is warped in to vanity and conceitedness.

Not that this stuff doesn't happen to guys as well - I get especially angry when I hear people trying to make men in to hyper-masculine testosterone-bots. Men can be and act however they please, in whichever way feels most natural. As can women. Amen.

So what does being a woman mean to me? Periods. Because everything else I am is not defined by my chromosomes (thought it may be influenced by large amounts of hormones). I choose to be who I am, in whatever way fits me best. I define what being a woman means to me - no one else gets that kind of power in my life. And no one else can make me feel bad for who I am unless I let them.
And I don't.


I am a woman. I am self-defined and unashamed. I am getting off my soapbox now.


Photo: Picture of a woman.

I am an entertainer.

One word: karaoke.

I was made for it. Is it my penchant for over-dramatization? Is it my uncanny ability to emulate any female singer with a low range voice? Or is it my total lack of anything resembling shame when acting like an idiot in public? I'm going with all of the above. I went out with some good friends a few nights back to visit a friend-of-a-friend who was DJing the whole ordeal - and let me say, I am hooked. My poor husband now has to listen to me practice my various singing voices at all hours of the day. (I have Cher down pat - but Shakira, Britney, Jewel and Gaga still need refining.) And I'm afraid he will have to get used to giving up one night a week so I can make a fool of myself in front of total strangers.

But hey, at least I get it honest. It is a little known fact that my mother, father, grandfather, and two aunts are in a southern gospel singing group - The Nesbit Family Choir (they don't really have an official name, that was the first thing that came to mind). And well, they're pretty stinking good. My mother can sing the smoothest, clearest harmony of anyone I know, and my dad can range from bass to tenor with no trouble at all.

In addition to being impressive singers and performers. My family is also a bunch of story-tellers. We love sitting around the table after a Sunday afternoon lunch telling the same stories we've heard countless times before. My brother is the best at it. I could sit for hours and listen to him talk about the time he pooped in our grandpa's RV floor or the numerous adventures he's had with my dad while fishing. It's his gift - and I am jealous and in awe of how he pulls us all in. If you ever have the chance - watch a football game with him as well. He blends his storytelling ability with years of high school football experience (and a mild obsession with all things sports related) to make even the most sports allergic person entertained.

Isn't it interesting how things that you feel come naturally are usually something passed down from the generation before? Yet there's always that spin of individuality thrown in there that makes it something you enjoy, rather than are just good at. I don't think I could ever see my sweet mom being as shamelessly devoted to her Cher impersonation as I am - but then again, I don't have the ear for harmony like she does. It makes me feel good to know my kids are going to enjoy performing one day - just like me, just like their grandma and just like everyone else in their crazy, but lovable, family.


I am an entertainer. I am a product of genetics. I am going back to karaoke next week.


Picture: The Fantastic Fisher Family cicra 1990s. Do we look like a bunch of hams or what?

I am a wife.

I don't know if you've caught on by the amount of times I've managed to drop the word "husband" in my past posts - but I am recently married. As someone who was determined to become a world traveler, famous actress or ...well anything that did not involve getting a real job - I'm as surprised as you are. I suppose being raised in the south ingrained in me at an early age that marriage and babies were as inevitable as taxes and death. So though I never set out to find a guy and get married - I knew it was going to happen eventually. I just didn't think I'd be engaged at 22 and married by 23 - though the fact that both my mother and grandmother had children by my age should have hinted at a genetic disposition to settle down early. But like I said...I just didn't think that was in the cards for me.

Yet here I am. I still catch myself qualifying my current marital status - "I'm a newlywed BUT I'm not one of THOSE newlyweds" (who am I kidding, yes I am). I just never really thought I was the kind of person to settle down early. I never thought I was a woman who would decide her husband should be the one with a career, and I just want to raise a bunch of snot-nosed rugrats (we've already covered my distaste for children).

I've found there are a lot of things I never pictured myself doing or being - yet I am. I wanted to be a free spirit, making my own clothes, climbing mountains and giving my time and energy serving the less fortunate. Instead I wear my business casual outfit to work everyday helping the middle class man trying to further his education. And you know what? I don't regret any of it. I am still that same girl with lofty dreams and a unquenchable thirst to buck the norm - I have simply learned that I don't have to be doing something drastic to live drastically. I can still serve those ever frustrating adult-learners through my compassion and love - and make my summer dresses to wear on the weekends. Simply because I am walking down the path many others are on...doesn't mean I can't keep one foot on a path all my own.




I am a wife. I am a contradiction. I am climbing a mountain with my husband this weekend.



Picture: Me, back in all my nature loving, rock climbing, hippie glory.

I am a hypochondriac.

Here's something to never do - date a budding psychologist. (marrying one is a different matter - ca-ching.) He will give you neat little psychological assessments for "class projects" that reveal far too much about your damaged psyche. What did I find out? I am pretty much a hypochondriac.

I'm not kidding. I'm one point away on some test from being able to be clinically diagnosed as a hypochondriac. Surprise, surprise. I can't help it if I feel my body too much. I am acutely aware of every ache, pain and strain my body feels - therefore I think everything is a lot more serious than it is. Adding to my irrational fears are countless hours watching ER, House and Grey's Anatomy that have given me enough working knowledge of the human body to realize I could die at any moment. Left side pain? Could be a rupturing appendix. Headache? Brain tumor. Indigestion? Ulcers.

Adding to the irrationality of it all is an overriding distrust of any and all doctors. Why? I don't really know. I just know I feel like they never really listen to what I'm saying and either write it off as a "viral infection" or the common cold. Did we even entertain the idea it could be cancer? I COULD BE DEAD TOMORROW AND YOU'RE GIVING ME COUGH MEDICINE. I wish I was kidding - but these are the things I think about.

I just have this deep feeling that life is too good. I have been blessed with too many wonderful things to keep this up. I just know at any moment my body's going to give up on me and I'm going to start experiencing the payment for all my years of blessings and happiness. Why should I get it all? I don't think that's the way life works - and if someone is going to pay for it... I'd rather it be me.



I am a hypochondriac. I am scared of life's dark side. I am taking a sick day from work tomorrow.



Photo: What happened during my last trip to the doctor's office (a sleep study - and what I had to try to sleep in)

I am a clean freak.

This may come as a surprise to anyone who actually knows me...but I am a clean freak.

Having a house to myself for the first time in my life (my husband doesn't count - he rightly defers to me in all domestic decisions) has lead me to discover a few things about how I prefer to live. Huge TV with full cable? Check. Comfortable couch? Check. Fridge always stocked with Diet Coke? Double Check.

But the thing that surprises me the most is finding that I prefer to have a clean house. I realize this is a given for most people, but as someone who has lost her keys, cell phone and wallet in her own room on more than one occasion - wanting a clean space is new for me.

But the clean I'm talking about is more along the lines of washed, not straightened. I like a general lack of dirt, grime, dust and trash in my house. Shoes and clothes all over the floor don't bother me in the slightest - but put a messy counter or a dusty table in front of me and my skin starts to crawl. I go through furniture spray and bathroom cleaner like they cure cancer. I think it comes from a place of wanting to keep what I have. I have a nice, clean house and am too aware of how quickly dirt and grime can creep in to the cracks and only present themselves when you have company over. I am fearful that I'll wake up one day surrounded by so much filth I won't be able to clean it all - pretty irrational, I know.

But that's where I'm at right now - a horizon (and house) full of new things and great possibilities...and I'm just worried I can't keep it from all turning to dust.

I am a clean-freak. I am a worrier. I am getting high on the fumes from my bleach based house cleaner.




Picture: My sweet, clean house.