many reflections

I have a lot to catch up on here, don't I?

First, our trip to DC and Chambersburg was wonderful. Too wonderful, in fact, because it was actually physically painful to come home to Orlando. The mobs of harried holiday travelers we encountered at OIA versus the cool organization of Dulles did not enhance the comparison in Orlando's favor, either. I really feel as though I have lived in this city too, too long, and if it weren't for coming back to my dear friends, my degree, and my snugglebuttons cat, I might not have come back at all.



We spent 4 days pounding the pavement around DC and northern Virginia. The only other time Jason and I were in DC was back when we were dating and in the city for my cousin Jen's wedding in October 2004, and he only saw Georgetown University and about 45 minutes of one Smithsonian museum. So, I was determined to show him "my" DC, and we covered just about everything: the memorials and monuments, the museums, the White House (outside only, as we didn't know you need some sort of special clearance from your local congressperson to get in), the Capitol Building, the Library of Congress, the Supreme Court, and of course, probably a hundred miles total of the Metro system. We must have walked between 5-8 miles a day, trying to get everything in - my legs have never been so sore. But we got some amazing photos from it all, which you can see here. Staying with my Aunt Carol and Uncle Tim was also a treat: their house was always the home you wanted to come home to when all was said and done.



Our time in Chambersburg was really incredible, even though we only had a few days to spend there. Chambersburg is this little-but-growing town in southern Pennsylvania, about an hour from Gettysburg and 20 minutes from the Maryland state line. It is home to Martins Potato Rolls and hundreds of acres of manure-scented pasture. When I was growing up, it was always cool to go to DC - endless hours of stimulation and entertainment awaited me. However, I never liked going to Chambersburg: nothing there to entertain me. I loved all my uncles there, my mom's Amazonian brothers, who towered over me and made me squeal with delight when they tossed me into the air. I loved seeing my Nana. But those cow pastures get pretty old, and to boot, there weren't any kids my age on that side of the family. I had 3 cousins whom I hardly saw, two of whom were boys and therefore Infested With Cooties, and the one girl, a few years younger than me, decided that it would be great fun to lock me in the trunk of her dad's car, giggling outside and making me sure I would die a slow, carpeted death. She got me out after 15 minutes, but I never got over it and vowed to never, ever play with her again.

So it really, really surprised me last week when I found myself falling in love with the town after so many years away but so many vivid memories still playing in my mind. It is small, quaint, miles away from anything resembling bad traffic, filled with families and cute antique shops and some newer development, like the Target store being built and the Hagerstown outlet mall just minutes away. My Nana is still there, my uncles are still there (and still very, very tall), the cow patties are still there. Two of my aunts are there who are both wonderful, down-to-earth people, and there's the addition of my most precious cousin, Kiana, who delights me with her 8-year-old girliness and giggles (you can see her about a year and a half ago here). After about 6 hours there, Jason and I looked at each other and then to the town where we saw everything we had been looking for: a small town with wide open spaces, a great community to raise a family, all four seasons plus some snow. The job market is wide open, as is the real estate market, and Chambersburg Hospital is a great place that desperately needs good nurses. We're hoping to visit again during my next semester break - possibly early May - and we're submitting all of these revelations and deep desires to God in the meantime.



And I came home to Orlando after several large, butter-laden meals financed by my relatives, only to find that I had lost 1.2 pounds. It was pretty astounding, I tell you. I am only .2 away from reaching the 150's, numbers I saw only for a brief while as I was growing up. And even more amazing than that was the shopping day in Hagerstown at Ann Taylor with my mom: I instinctively reach for size 12s, thinking that they're going to be tight anyway. This cute skirt I found in a size 12 nearly fell off my hips, so I assumed they sized them big and reached for a size 10. Still didn't fit: it was just too long and didn't hang right. My mom insists the size 10 is too big and gets a size 8 for me, and I protest because no way am I a single-digit size in anything, especially not at Ann Taylor. Still, she makes me try it on... AND IT FITS.



I think I'm still in shock. I'm in shock over all of it, really: the knee-length boots that zip without tugging, the tops in sizes not containing the letters "XL" or "L", the butt that is both smaller and rounder, the delight in seeing myself in the mirror reflection. I'm not yet where I want to be - I'm about halfway - but I love that I am smaller and am finally enjoying the process and not just the anticipation of the goal. People compliment me a lot these days, and though the weight isn't dropping off as quickly as it used to, I'm at a miraculous spot right now, and anything in the losing-weight direction is just more icing on the fat-free cake.

might be in trouble

Jason and I acquired something I've been fantasizing about for years now: a steam cleaner. It's actually a loan from my friend Wendy, but nevertheless, it is in our possession for the entire weekend. I was so excited about the reality of having clean carpets, I mean really stinkin' clean carpets, that I could barely contain myself during church today. People probably thought I was having some sort of Advent-inspired religious experience. I mean, our carpets have gotten so bad that when I apologize in advance to visitors for our messy carpet and they sort of brush me off like, "oh yeah, we have the same issue at home..." and they walk in our door, they actually stare at the various spots under their feet as if being hypnotized by some primitive Rohrschach test. One of my friends, upon seeing the disaster, actually muttered, "Wow... yeah... whoa..." and sort of tripped out on all the spots and stains. So, this steam cleaning we're doing is actually a purification of my renter's soul - I am no longer an Untouchable and can live amongst those who have sparkling, all-white carpets and never ever rub Coke into the carpet with their sneaker, surreptitiously, during dinner with their husbands.

While Jason was steam-cleaning my carpet (and my soul, mind you), I wandered into the kitchen for a snack. I have weigh-in tomorrow and am anticipating a loss, so I don't want to pig out on anything tonight and have to include its remains for the numbers on the scale tomorrow. I'm drinking a LOT of water, needless to say. Anyway, I'm in the kitchen, and I decide to have a bite - yes, just one - of ice cream. Now, Jason's favorite ice cream in the whole world is actually the one I despise: espresso chip. If it was espresso-flavored ice cream with chocolate chips, that would be pretty okay. But the chips themselves have coffee grinds in them (Jason argues they are chips of espresso beans, which is pretty much coffee grind to me) and that's just gross to me. So, having half-gallons of espresso chip in the house doesn't hold much temptation for me. However, there was a sale - a 2-for-1 deal - and since there was only one tub of espresso chip left, I also got him peanut butter cup. He normally eats the generic version of this from our local Publix, and it's not really that great: the fudge tastes too dark, the ice cream isn't that great, and there are maybe 3 miniscule peanut butter cups for the entire tub. Hmph. I'm expecting the same from this new tub I get from Edy's, so I go to have my one little spoonful, just enough to satisfy that cold-creamy-sweet craving and go on with my life.

Holy freakin' cow. It was, quite possibly, the most spiritual experience I've had outside of accepting Jesus and getting married. With the whirr of the steam cleaner in the background and chunks of perfect fudge and peanut butter (and HUGE peanut butter cups) in my mouth, I thought I was being lifted by St. Peter himself to the pearly gates. I had the simultaneous conflicting thoughts of wanting to pledge my not-yet-conceived firstborn to the Edy's corporation and visions of a massive hate-mail campaign against them for being Diet Ruiners and Fat Packer Advocates. It took every last iota of willpower in my body to put the spoon down and not shovel the rest of the tub into my mouth in a last-supper experience.

Damn you, sweet ripples of fudgy, peanut-buttery evil.

giving it away

I donated my wedding dress, crinoline (aka Big Puffy White Nightmare), and shoes to Goodwill this afternoon. I have to admit I was feeling like Mother Teresa, driving down to the donation site. However, I think I was more relieved to just have the space in my closet back. It was the last remaining clutter of the closet after I had cleared out all the clothes that no longer fit, and now my closet looks all clean and roomy and pure. I have to admit I was a little nonplussed when the lady accepting the donations just took my bagged wedding dress, folded it over, and plopped it on top of some dusty puzzle boxes, Danielle Steel books, and stuffed animals of indeterminate breed (is it a dog? a horse? or a "dorse"?). But I hope it can bring someone else joy for their wedding day and perhaps take up large amounts of space in their undersized closet, too.

I took my exam Wednesday morning. I walked in confident, hoping for an A, and left terrified, praying that I had not failed badly enough to have a bad grade for the course. As it turned out, I scored a B - miraculously - and earned myself a good, solid B for the class. I was so relieved when I found out - I think pharmacology/pathophysiology was the hardest class I've taken to date. And now I have a whole four weeks to relax and recuperate before starting it all again for another 4 months.

The Sarasota trip was good. We ate at Yoder's, an Amish restaurant about 5 minutes from his grandparent's home. The Amish restaurant experience is pretty great: a mom-and-pop style restaurant with quilts everywhere, friendly teenage girls in plain frocks, and massive portions. Jason and I shared a slice of apple pie the size of your average barnyard animal, and our dinners could have each fed 4 people. So much for portion sizing!

I'm gonna poison all my patients

This morning's weigh-in: down 1.4 for a total of 26.6 lost. I've lost my cat... twice. (her dead weight feels like the whole 26 pounds, though) What I didn't understand, though, were the ladies just behind me who talked the entire way through the meeting, only to stop the leader every 5 minutes or so and bark, "Huh? What did you say again? Can you repeat that?" in nasally-toned New England-y accents. Why? Maybe they think they'll burn more calories with all that constant whiny talking. I don't know.

As motivated as I am to be in shape and lose weight, I am just not feeling the motivational vibes for school, and I only have one exam left to go. One. Tomorrow morning, for my super-hard Pharmacology & Pathophysiology course. We took some standardized, generalized, lobotomized testing last week - ATI tests for those of you in the know, supposedly to simulate the NCLEX experience - and I just found out I scored somewhere in the 10-40th percentile. Now, it was a hard test, I know, but you have to realize that I grew up as this test-taking wunderkind, scoring in the 99th percentile of, like, every freaking subject, even when I was making mediocre grades in high school but still managed to crank out an obscenely-high SAT score. So scoring in the 10-40th percentile in anything except perhaps my body weight, well... my whole world just got shaken. I know it's pathetic, my obsession with perfection even on the stupidest crap like a test that doesn't even count for a grade. The pharmacology part of the NCLEX is only a very small percentage, anyway. Or at least that's what they tell me. If I get to the actual test and the only questions I get are asking me about the contraindications of Depakote and the method of action of adrenergic antagonists, someone's gonna have to pay.

Tomorrow, after the exam, I get to be prettied up by my stylist, and then J and I set off for Sarasota to see his family. I have spent so very little time with his family that going to see them is like the first time, every time, and I start getting nervous and chatty and Avon-lady smiley in anticipation, forgetting that we've already broken bread together a handful of times and I have no reason to be uptight. And as far as in-laws go, I lucked out: no horror stories here. But I still get wigged out. We're bringing them gifts, and they're taking us out to a Sarasota phenomenon: Amish restaurants. I was so enthralled by the idea of an Amish restaurant: I imagined a large wooden house with no electricity, and you have to leave your car in the next block over and walk, or else come by horse and buggy, and you are served all sorts of amazingly hearty culinary delicacies by candlelight, served by women in frocks and austere hair arrangements. My friend Rachel, a Sarasota native, tells me that it's really more like going to Cracker Barrel, but I hold on to my other-world fantasy.

Oh, and the singing went well. No high-note-itis or glitches here, except for perhaps a small moment of amusement as I launched into the second verse and saw a small boy vigorously arm-farting his appreciation to me. Very reverent.

you know it was... divine night

As I prepare to deliver another heartfelt rendition of this loveliest of Christmas songs to an assembled crowd, I am always struck by my panic, left over from my singer-in-training days, that I will not get the high note. The one everyone waits for, and the one that makes the song. The version tonight is in a fairly safe key, but like most people's fear of public speaking, I too have the fear of Public High Note Shaming. Kelly, my realistic, ever-grounded fellow singer, always tells me that we are our own worst critics and that the majority of people don't know from bunk if you mess up. Maybe I have too much faith in my fellow man, for I imagine everyone in the audience with a pen and paper in hand, writing extraordinarily-crafted, detailed critiques of my every diaphragmatic offering. (A flair for exaggeration? Yes, I do have that.)

However, nothing makes me feel more at ease - or makes me nearly lose control of my bladder - than this. There is no possible way that anything I could sing tonight could come remotely near it. And if it did, I would sell it and make millions off of my comedic genius, like this singer should have done a la William Hung and Florence Foster Jenkins.