Wear Sunscreen

Ok, so I definitely jacked that title from the song in the early 2000's, but it's still an important piece of advice that fits just preciously in what I'm about to tell you.

Disney World.

Epic.

Every individual that's alive or has been alive at some point, wants to go to Disney World (Disneyland will suffice as a substitute).

Make believe characters running around you all the time? Tiny princesses and princes AND rides?!  HOLY CRAP IT'S HEAVEN.

Ok, perhaps an exaggeration, but I tell you no lies when I say that I am 27 3/4 years old, and I want to go back to Disney. And not just because the one and only time I've ever been was a complete and utter train wreck, but because it's the most magical place on earth. Minus...no, there's not even a cute enough joke to go here, because Disney World is it. It's absolutely amazing.

Rides, characters, delicious funnel cake and cotton candy, AND an entire area that is like a zoo?! (I have a thing about zoos...not really sure why). There's basically no losing at DW.

FALSE.

PAUSE.

I just thought I'd let you in on the fact that I'm writing this blog about the most magical place on earth while listening to Flobot's "Handlebars" - doesn't add up. But a lovely little tune nonetheless.

PLAY.

I lost at Disney World. And not in the, 'I played a game and lost and didn't win the most giant stuffed tiger at the booth', kind of lost. I mean a loss about as epic as Disney itself.

I was 15 when I went to Disney World for the first time. And I was every bit excited at 15 as I would have been if I was 5 because, as previously stated, IT'S THE MOST MAGICAL PLACE ON EARTH.

The trip to Disney happened because it's where our band director decided to take us for our band trip that year. It's the only trip I actually remember taking with band, other than the weekly trips to marching competitions in the fall, and SO HELP ME GOD IF YOU'RE MAKING FUN OF ME FOR BEING A BAND NERD RIGHT NOW.

Apologies. High school was rough.

So we left late at night and drove down to Orlando (which I've since dubbed 'Whorlando', and you would too if you spent any time near there as an adult) and I listened to my CD Player the entire trip. OMG I went through so many AA batteries on that trip obsessively listening to Savage Garden's sophomore album, Affirmation...

But I digress...

We get down to Orlando and I am SO FREAKING PUMPED. We stopped at some restaurant that I amazingly cannot remember now and had breakfast. All 80-something teenie boppers in this restaurant. God bless our chaperones and the staff of whatever establishment that was because band people are batshit crazy. DO NOT MAKE FUN.

Oddly, I remember brushing my teeth and pulling myself together enough to look appropriate for whatever dressed up character I'd run into first, but not eating breakfast or anything else. Just freaking out and running back and forth between the restaurant and the buses with my friends. Insane, I tell you. I'm not looking forward to when my hypothetical children are teenagers....boarding school, ftw.

Because we were there for a few days, the parks were split. If I remember correctly, Magic Kingdom was Day 1, Day 2 was Epcot and something else I cannot remember because I was so uninterested it wasn't funny, and Day 3 was Animal Kingdom (OMG ANIMALS) and Typhoon Lagoon Waterpark.

I can't believe I actually remembered that. That was a little Dustin Hoffman 'Rain Man' of me.

Ok, anyway. So we are briefed by the chaperones to meet back at this one place at 5 o'clock or something ridiculous. I didn't pay attention because we had broken through the gates and were actually standing in THE MOST MAGICAL PLACE ON EARTH. Off we go.

I've sunscreened up, per my mom, and as my last post pointed out, I don't fare well without it. We take off. OMG I don't even remember what we did. I think I was the oldest "child" on the Dumbo ride and the Tea Cup spinny ride. I vaguely remember sprinting through the Swiss Family Robinson house (we were teenagers and had a LOT of energy. Plus, these were the days when Surge was still a thing, so we literally sprinted through this house; also if you don't know what Surge is, I'm unsure that we can continue our friendship. JK, but no really.)

Also, whomever played Ariel in the OBC Recording of "Little Mermaid" on Broadway (did NOT know that existed), that is now playing on my Pandora Disney station, is screaming, not singing, "Part of Your World" and it is upsetting.

The morning of that first day was amazing. Running around in the sunshine, sugared up and ready to go. It was absolutely magical. It wasn't until the afternoon that I started losing at Disney World.

After lunch, we were headed to another part of the park, and we were walking next to some trolley tracks that run through the park. I was, obviously, a completely oblivious teenager, and did not realize that I had stepped into the tracks. I say into because I was, quite literally, IN a track divot. My friend, who was behind me, is telling some silly joke, and I am laughing and turn around to say something to her, and then it happened. Something popped or clicked or something unsettling in my knee. My foot was in a track, so when I tried to turn around, my knee turned, but not my foot.

LOSING AT DISNEY.

This was obv a less than fortunate event in the most magical place in the world, but I had nice friends, and they spent the day trading off piggie back rides for me and my increasingly swollen knee. Luckily, I was several inches shorter and about 25 pounds lighter than I am now.

That evening, we get to the gates, tell the chaperones and they are all blah blah cackle cackle, and I'm like, yo, I'm fine, this shan't destroy THE BEST VACATION EVER.

After we had dinner and settled into the hotel, I had droves of band moms coming in to check on me and change out the rotation of bags of ice I had been putting on my knee. I tried swimming, but with one largely bum knee, that was difficult. I called it a night, iced some more, took some Ibuprofen and passed out.

The next morning, my knee is huge. Shitsticks, I cannot walk around Heaven on a super large knee. So what happens?  The band moms get me a wheelchair.

First thought: OMG I CANNOT BE THE 15 YEAR OLD IDIOT IN A WHEELCHAIR I WILL NEVER HAVE ANY FRIENDS AGAIN EVER MY LIFE IS OVER.

What really happened: OMG, Candice has 57302656485372 friends now because Disney is SUPER preciously nice to people riding dirty, wheelchair style.

I was insanely popular for our last two days there. Which was fun, except not. But I did get bumped to the front of every line and got to sit where I wanted on rides, so there was that.

As usual, I had sunscreen on, but I super sunscreened my right shin because it was all out there. You see, my knee was gigantic, and I couldn't bend it, so the little wheelchair foot rest had to be extended. Basically I was getting a killer tan, but only on that small part of my leg. Oh, also, I had a knee brace on, so my kneecap was exposed.

I must have sunscreened my lower leg every 2 or 3 hours for the next two days, but I still managed to lose epically at Disney. By the end of the 2nd day, my leg was an awesome lobster red. I tried to cover it with t-shirts, but if you have ever been to Florida in the spring/early summer, IT'S FRICKIN HOT. An extra piece of clothing was sending me into fits of hot panic (which is what I like to call what happens to me when I get too hot. I hot panic - in laymen's terms, it's just a hissy fit).

This was the time where not letting my injury ruin Disney started to fail me. My leg was on fire, my knee was throbbing, and my "friends" kept directing my wheelchair to the areas they wanted to explore, and none that I had any interest in discovering.

I was so stoked to go to Animal Kingdom, it was ridiculous. However, by the third day, I was quite miserable, so Animal Kindgom proved to be less than awesome. Between the knee pain and sunburn, the dinosaur ride we went on that should have been THE BEST DINOSAUR RIDE EVER, was only the most uncomfortable thing ever.

By the time we got to Typhoon Lagoon on the third day, my leg was so burnt that going in the pools was too painful. So I sat under an umbrella, in the shade, with my face painted like a tiger (the only thing that day that elevated my sadness...I looked like Mufasa, so that was kind of winning).

After what should have been the most amazing three days ever FINALLY ended, I couldn't wait to get home. We drove through the night back to South Carolina, and I went to bed ASAP.

The next morning, I realized how serious my situation was. I wore sunscreen, like 50 SPF, and put it on every few hours, and yet my right shin was PURPLE. Literally. Purple. It didn't hurt really, probably because I cooked almost all the layers of my skin, but I knew I may have a real problem when my dog put her paw on my leg, dragged her nails down my burnt skin, and it didn't hurt.

I have been varying degrees of medical professional, and I can tell you with absolute certainty that THAT IS NOT GOOD NEWS.

So basically, the next few days were pretty crappy. Once the purple faded, it blistered and peeled and I hated everything because a breeze would blow by and I swear to you that what was actually happening was Freedy dragging his knife-fingers across my leg. NOT precious.

Oh, also, my science teacher told me that I was pretty much 100% going to get skin cancer, so that made for an awesome afternoon. I cried through that whole day of school.

Good news: All the pain eventually went away, and a few months later I had knee surgery to fix my busted limb. However, there is this tiny thing that happened that I can't seem to get rid of.

The "tan".

For awhile, I had a circle on my kneecap that was all freckles, but that has since gone. What has not vanished, is the section of my leg where the knee brace ended and my sock started that is so freckled it is ridiculous. It will never go away, as, for me, sun exposure = freckles, and the more sun I get, the more freckles that shin gets, and it's never even with the rest of that leg, since one time, for 2 days, my shin was destroyed.

So watch out where you're walking, and wear sunscreen.

Oh, and one last thing. Learn to laugh at yourself and your happy accidents. Had I not busted my knee, I wouldn't have ridden half the rides I did because I would have been waiting in line. Running through Animal Kingdom, painted as Mufasa, would have been more fun than rolling around as Mufasa, but no matter what, I was the King of the Jungle for a day. And how many people can say that?

This F*cking Week.

A few weeks ago, I wrote a blog post. In this post, I shared my frustration with the country and my lack of pride in America at the time. I will not ask for a 'take-back' of that, nor will I apologize for it. It's how I felt, and I shared it with you.

HOWEVER.

Here I sit, several weeks later, in tears. This (excuse my language, but this week deserves this intensity) fucking week has been absolute hell. I feel like every day this week, I woke up and was greeted with some sort of heinous, sad, troubling news. But tonight, I do not feel sad, nor troubled, but proud.

Let me just say that I HATE this week. I hate it. But mostly, I hate the last 10 years of the world. How is it that we have children alive on this planet that have never known a day in their short, precious lives that 9/11 didn't exist? That the Iraq and Afghanistan Wars don't exist. That the Syrian conflict doesn't exist. That every school shooting, plus the Aurora, CO movie theater shooting, and we'll just throw in Columbine for good measure - and because countless people suffered and parished that day, tomorrow in fact, as well - doesn't exist. And now this.

Are you serious right now that this is real?! The 26th mile of this epic event was dedicated to Newtown. Newtown. Remember that event? I couldn't stop crying.

It's not enough that we're living in a world where kids are alive that don't know a world without this terror and horror, but 20 of those sweet angels went to Heaven that day. I'm not God, so I don't know for sure, but I'm willing to bet that He wasn't quite ready for those 20 babies to make it to Heaven that soon.

Then there's this week. This amazing, annual, exciting event that brings together thousands, millions of people from around the world. And the last mile was dedicated to those that perished in the Sandy Hook shooting, and what happens? People get blown up.

So I'm just going to say it.

Fuck you, Tsarnaev brothers.

It makes me nauseous to even refer to you by your name, and not the disgusting, low life, pathetic pieces of shit you really are, but I suppose I will.

You selfishly took something that wasn't just important to the American people, but the world, and you attempted to tarnish it. Attempted. 

But shame on you for being so blind during all the years you spent here. Have you ever taken a look around?

Americans are pretty bad ass. We're also politically charged, disagreeing idiots, but we're mostly bad ass. And you think you can just come in and try to ruin something because of whatever silly, asinine reason you'll come up with?!

Please, bitches.

A few weeks ago, I was not proud of this country. I looked around me and saw a hot mess. A. HOT. MESS.

Monday, I looked at my computer screen, and saw the destruction that happened in Boston. Tuesday, I couldn't pull my eyes away from the stories. The heartbreak, the loss of limb, of life. Wednesday, I saw the explosion in Texas, and tried to absorb the destruction. Thursday, I saw flooding in the midwest. In the city where my heart lives, Chicago. In states where people couldn't get help, and suffered gravely because of it. And this morning. This morning I woke up to the agony of the chase. The sadness of Sean Collier's death. The reminder of Martin Richard, Krystle Campbell, and Lu Lingzi. And the countless people in hospital beds all around Boston, trying to figure out how to put their lives back together. How to tackle their tomorrows.

I finally walked away. I couldn't do it anymore. I'm not in Boston. Or Texas. Or Chicago. I'm here, in California. So I did the only thing I knew to do, give blood.

After I got home, the chase began again. They cornered him.

Coward.

You hide in a boat?

Coward.

You blow people up, kill people, and you hide?

Coward.

But you grossly underestimated this country. Not just the city you picked to attack, but this country.

This was one of the worst weeks we've seen in a long, long time. Not one that will go forgotten, that's for sure. But you know what?

It was also beautiful.

In the videos replayed on a loop from the bombings, and we've heard it all week, you can see people running toward, not away from, those injured. We saw Carlos, a cowboy-hat-wearing man running next to Jeff Bauman, a man with both his legs blown off, holding Jeff's artery with his fingers. We saw dozens of people rushing to help, with absolutely no concern for their own safety. We had marathon runners running extra miles to the hospitals to give blood. We've seen countless sites created for donations to victim's causes, or medical care funds.

We saw loss of selfless life in Texas, when first responders were searching for life, risking their own. We saw lay people and law enforcement alike helping those trapped by floods.

Flowers, signs from abroad sending love, tweets from afar sending prayers, closed eyes with heads held high that we will prevail. Patton Oswalt took the time to write this gem of a status. Thousands of law enforcement officials, both federal and local, came together and put aside years of one-upping to capture this terrorist and bring a town to at least an evening of rest.

I'm nothing special. I'm just your average American. Much like those people we saw on TV running toward the victims, running toward the hospitals, opening their homes to people who were hungry or cold or needed a wall outlet. All of these people's first thought's were, 'how can I help?' That's why I gave blood. Because I wanted to help.

HELP.

Because that's what this country has learned. If we're going anywhere, gaining forward momentum, we've got to help one another. We've got to follow our instincts and not let the first thing we think of be ourselves. Jeff Bauman wouldn't be alive today if Carlos Arredondo didn't risk his life to save him. I'm sure some of the survivors in West, TX wouldn't be alive if someone didn't put themselves second and go rescue them.

No one cared this week about your political stance, or where in this country you came from, or how much money you make, or what sports team you root for. This week, all over the country, newspapers, twitter feeds, websites, all read one thing. WE ARE BOSTON. WE ARE TEXAS.

We are America.

And I couldn't be more proud.

Bubble face

Hello again! My sincerest apologies for the length of time between blogs....I apparently fell off the proverbial wagon or whatever. But I'm back! (For those of you chomping at the bit for my next blog? How disgustingly arrogant of me....anyway)

Two weeks ago, I was in South Carolina for my niece's 1st birthday. HOLY CRAP SHE'S ONE THAT'S INSANE. Anyhow....the weather was weird, as it is this time of year below the Mason Dixon Line, and the day of sweet little Clara's party...

Ahhhhhhh!!! Cake!!

This one is just for good measure to show you "how big" Clara is now!!!

Ok, apologies. I really can't help myself. The pictures don't even do her justice. This kid is a little precious ham.  Love her face.

Ok.....so anyhow, the day of her partay, it was GORGEOUS!!!  And I wore a dress, which is a HUGE deal, as I don't generally do those types of things...

I have blog ADD right now....so sorry. Anyway, the dress is/was irrelevant, but I looked cute, so whatever.

I chose, on this day, to ignore my Irish/Swedish/French heritage, and try to defy the sun. I failed. I ended up rather pink red by the end of this shindig, and it was painful. My mom was scratching applying fresh aloe vera to my burns later that evening, when I was reminded of an awesome thing that happened to me when I was 13.

And by awesome, I mean awful. And by 13, I mean highly impressionable, very sensitive, teenager.

So, I used to be friends with this girl. We'll call her Apple. Yes, Apple. Mostly because she's NOT Gwyneth Paltrow's child, no one else would name their child that name, and also because the only person whose situations I'd like to exploit in this blog are mine (and sometimes my sister's, when appropriate).

Ok, so Apple and I used to be great friends, and spent a lot of time at each other's house. Like Monica and Rachel, but without all the super fun, quippy dialogue, and awesome 90's outfits. 

Over the summer, before we started high school, Apple invited me to come along on a trip to Myrtle Beach with her mom and mom's friend. It was to be a super awesome friend bonding exciting outside sunshiney weekend. And I.  Was. STOKED. I had never been to Myrtle, and was insanely excited to get back by the water where I felt at home (we had just moved back to South Carolina the summer prior to this one, from a small island in Georgia. I missed having sunkissed skin and Barbie blonde hair, but mostly I missed the freedom of the wide open ocean, the way the salt water mussed your hair up, and, quite obviously, dolphins - see previous posts if confused).

We did the little road trip and sang songs and woo hoo, windows down, chicks going to the beach.

SO EXCITED PEOPLE.

Two things that I've told you are of the UTMOST importance in this story:

1. I moved from GA the previous summer. Sunkissed skin disappears and your hair turns that ugly brown/blonde it was before, and you turn into a pasty human again.
2. I am of Irish/Swedish/French (also English and German, but they tan well, so whatever) descent. These genes have only gotten more intense as I've aged, and I'm sure I'm blinding people on the daily in LA with my translucent skin. 

For those now confused, Irish/Swedish/French people don't tan very well. Somehow my sister got some gene that my dad has that allows them to tan beautifully. I, on the other hand, only had a brief and spectacular love affair with the perfect tan. Now I just have freckles. And when I get in the sun, I don't get tan, I get more freckles. It's precious. 

Not.

Ok, back to Myrtle. We get to this little cute cabin/house/trailer thing we're staying in, and Apple and I take off to the beach. Our little weird sleeping quarters were just that, weird, but also, amazingly like 20 feet from the beach.

It's also important that you note that I like sunscreen. 70SPF, stuff you use for babies, sunscreen. It didn't take long for this bottle of Elmer's to understand that when I get burnt, it's awful and painful and sucks for so long, so I applied generously, and proceeded to swim. And swim. And swim. We must have spent at least 6 hours frolicking in oceanic glory before Apple's mom summoned us back to the weird quarters to shower and get ready for dinner.

We go to dinner, get back and are super tuckered, as we spent a LONG time in the sun, and as you know, that makes you sleepy. Lots of Vitamin D in exchange for your energy. The sun is a pseudo-generous Succubus (thank you, "Lost Girl", for that reference).

Ok, so please remember that I'm 13 at this time and 13 year olds are in constant battle with their faces. They are constantly doing things to attempt to avoid zits. 

I am a smart 13 year old and have been around the block enough to know that while sunscreen is your BFF against skin cancer and all that jazz, it is NOT kind on your pores.

We're getting ready for bed, and I brush my teeth and wash my face. Apple and I get in bed and pass out in 2.4 seconds. What a good day.

The next morning, I awaken feeling....odd. My eyes are puffy and I feel REALLY thirsty. 

1. I am a walking allergy test. If i'm allergic to something, my body's initial response is to create a hive, or a series of, to alert me to stay away. Shortly after, my eyes are puffy and itchy and I need a Claritin or a Zyrtec, or worst case, a Benadryl and a nice long sleep.
2. The sun also sucks all your hydration.

These numbers serve only to tell you that I wasn't THAT concerned about these facts. Until I went to rub my eyes.

I reached up, and suddenly was stricken with panic. I could feel weird bumps on my face. OH EM GEE GUYS I HAD A FACE FULL OF PIMPLES.

False.

Face full of pimples would have been a gift. No no. Apparently I wasn't that smart of a 13 year old because I didn't do the:

                               6 hours in the sun (sun burn) + face wash with salicylic acid =

                                        BLISTERS EVERYWHERE ON YOUR FACE

math equation that I should have. It was awful. I ran to the bathroom and my face looked like a balloon covered in tiny clear grapes. It hurt so much and was so swollen. I started to cry - mistake. So painful.

Called mom. Freaking out. Can't complete sentences.

In bathroom. Crying. Whyisthishappeningtome?! Mylifeishorrible!

Finally, Apple wakes up. She is trying to calm me down, to no avail. My mom is trying to calm me down on the phone, but nothing is working. Apple's mom wakes up. Tries to calm me down. Doesn't work.

HOT. ASS. MESS.

Finally, I chill out. I put a cold wash cloth on my face and take some deep breaths. Eventually, the day begins. We eat breakfast. Yadda yadda. 

I, apparently, have overestimated how awesome of a friend Apple really is, as she only had maybe 2 hours of sympathy for my plight. After that, she was BEGGING me to go back to the beach. I kept resisting, naturally, as I took a moment to do the math of this bubble face + more sun = ? Death? I'm not sure, but it could not be pretty.

Also, hat wearing was out of the question, as whatever brim existed would just rub on the forehead bubbles, making me miserable.

I'll just wrap this Apple vs. Candice argument up like this:

• Apple is being unsympathetic.
• Candice urges her to go to beach with her mom.
• Apple says that is dumb, Candice should go with.
• Candice pleads. She will stay and read. It will be fun.
• Apple wins. Candice goes to beach.

This ends even worse, because I was really feeling strongly that sitting on the beach in the sun would leave me with the same result that would have happened if Katniss had run INTO the cornucopia instead of away from it. So I went swimming. I cried my little salty tears into the ocean, and prayed that the dolphins would fix my face. Ok, I didn't. I actually prayed that God would fix it because OMG I WOULD HAVE TAKEN PIMPLES. SRSLY.

Great news. Swimming, also not a great idea. Avoiding UVA/UVB and salt water would have been the winner in this competition. 

The muddled, nonsensical, pathetic details of the next day or two - yes, I spent more time crying into the ocean, courtesy of Apple's beach-time insistence - don't matter. What matters is this.

By the time we left Myrtle Beach (THANK YOU BABY JESUS IN A TUXEDO SHIRT IT'S OVER), my face looked like one giant scab. Imagine that guy from "Hannibal". What was his name? Mason Verger. Yes. Post Hannibal eating his face off. Delete the fact that I actually didn't have my lips eaten, my eyes were still very much intact, and the general creepiness of the idea that Verger's face was EATEN OFF, and that was me. 

Hold please. That was quite possibly the most ridiculous hyperbole I've ever used in my life. My face wasn't that bad, just really really really scabby. I just feel this embarrassing event is WAY better if I dramatically over exaggerate the happenings.

Ok, let's wrap this business up. We stopped at a MALL on the way back. Which, when you're 13 is the BEST THING EVER, unless you look like you're slowly morphing into The Fly, then it is quite possibly the worst thing that could happen to you.

Small children were pointing and staring, and I made a serious decision that me and Apple's friendship needed to abruptly end. I then reconsidered, until I had to go to the dentist the day after I returned from the most awesome horrifying trip of my life and couldn't open my mouth wide enough for the hygienist to do her job without flaking half my scab-face off.

The dentist is miserable enough. Your face flaking off with each tooth scrape? Apple, we're done. 

So folks, the next time you decide to max out your Vitamin D exposure for the day, do yourself the favor of reading all the ingredients in whatever you're going to put on your skin. And if you find yourself questioning whether one of the ingredients might put a hurting on you, remember this:

                        (certain) face wash + sunburn = Mason Verger.

Nerd Kiss

I'm repulsively in love. It's gross. Every love song on the radio and every mushy chick flick sends me into little floating heart fits of giddiness. I sometimes write disgusting Facebook stati about how in love I am, and for once, I'm not sorry about it.

This is my 7th blog post. And since 7 is Keri's favorite number, I thought I'd tell you a little story about believing in that life-changing, world-altering love story that we all love to hate. Because it's real. Because it happened to me.

Keri and I met just about 4.5 years ago, playing dodgeball. I was in a good place, not looking for anything magical, just looking to make friends and play a sweet sport.

I won't say it was love at first sight, that would be lying. I definitely thought to myself 'hey self, that's a pretty lady over there', but I wasn't in "love" the night we met. We didn't really have a "courtship", if I can use such an outdated word that seems only applicable to princes and princesses, but rather, we became a living example of the old lesbian adage, "what does a lesbian bring to a second date?"

Answer: A u-haul.

If you don't understand, just ask, I'll explain it.

We'll avoid too many details, but Keri and I spent an evening hanging out and the next morning, she left for a week for Christmas. I have never texted as much as I did that next week in my entire life. The weird thing is, I knew I was in trouble before she even got on that plane. We knew each other for just over a week before I fell for her. And I fell hard.

Gross, I know.

I am a hopeless romantic. For the longest time, I had genuinely convinced myself that romance and love weren't real unless they ended like Sleepless in Seattle. Then I became an angry, cynical teenager who grew into a young twenty-something that realized all of that is just Hollywood magic. Created purely so we can all live vicariously through characters whose portrayer's love lives were just as miserable as the rest of us.

Then I met Keri. And it was over. I was done. She was the closest to "you had me at hello" I'll ever get, and I'd venture to say that she had me at "hey again". And I wouldn't be lying.

I just recently finished the book What Dreams May Come, arguably one of the best pieces of literature I've ever read, so read it.

No, seriously. Write down on whatever "Books I should read list" you have, and write it down. Then pull that sweet move that Netflix let's you do on your instant queue, and bump that sucker to the #1 spot. You will in no way be disappointed.

Excellent. Now that that is done. Moving on.

It talks about soul mates.

Soul mates.

Such a weird subject when you think about it in the beautifully Western-world way we've learned to.

The book says that soul mates are two beings whose astral vibrations are the same. Like a melody, not complete until both parts are working together. I don't know how to feel about soul mates in the context with which I was first introduced, but there's something about the idea that soul mates are two people who are meant to bring this sweet melody to the world together that just makes sense.

Keri is my harmony. Sometimes there's dissonance, but overall, the song we bring to the world is beautiful, and I couldn't imagine the emptiness that would occur if I were to lose that other chord.

Wo.

This has all gotten very metaphorical and insanely mushy.

Let's Harlem Shake this business back to Earth.

Nerd Kiss.

My blog. All about experiences that have been ridiculous and silly and sometimes embarrassing, but have shown me something that the universe wanted to me see. So of course, my little love story wouldn't be any different.

I named my blog Nerd Kiss because it is the thing that sums up my life.

It's perfect, in all it's imperfection, and I wouldn't change it.

Here's where it came from:

Keri and I both have terrible eyesight. It's ghastly. There are glasses on each bedside table, and tiny screwdrivers in a lot of our junk drawers. Glasses cases in drawers, and contact solution in bulk under the sink.

When we're at home (when we lived in the same place), we normally wear our glasses. We had been dating for a few weeks, and we were lounging at home, watching movies or being silly or something, and I wanted to give her a kiss. So I leaned over for a kiss, and instead, was greeted with a 'klink'. Our glasses impeded the kiss. How nerdly precious. So we laughed about it, and Keri says 'aww, nerd kiss!'. It was so perfectly indicative of our relationship.

Adorable, but nerdy and perfectly imperfect.

The night that I decided to write this blog, I was so excited that I had come up with the 'theme' or whatever, and I was telling her about it. I told her that I just didn't know what to call it. I went to give her a kiss, and in the process, we had a nerd kiss. That was it.

You'll never see something that dorky in a movie, unless it's staring Patrick Fugit and Ellen Page, and is being produced by Focus Features....ok, you might see it.

But I certainly never saw it in any of the mushy chick flicks I grew up pining over. The first time it happened, I just remember thinking how perfect it was. That our relationship wasn't perfect, my life certainly wasn't perfect, but that one little thing was so perfectly us.

I just realized that I'm using the word perfect, or some variation of it, a lot in this blog. I'd apologize, but I'm not totally sorry, and I'm certainly not going to Thesaurus my face off to give you something more eloquent to read. I'm not perfect, and I'm also not Shakespeare. So excuse that transgression, and enjoy the rest of this.

That day, and every time a nerd kiss happens, I'm reminded of how beautiful the little imperfections of our lives are. I used to hate wearing glasses, but if I didn't wear them, there would be no nerd kisses. No reminders to embrace the little gifts that make you you.

My love story isn't chalk full of grandiose gestures and dozens of roses, nor fake orgasms in a cafe, or kisses atop the Empire State Building. No. Instead, it's full of so much more.

Of nerd kisses and sweet paintings with hidden meanings. Of 'please listen to this song I love it so much', and late night gigglefests when we should be sleeping. Of passion and understanding. Of dreams and desires. Of support - the best word I can find, although it doesn't even adequately encompass what she does for me - and of love. Not always mushy, gross, sweet nothings type of love. But a love that lasts ages. Love that is honest and kind, understanding and stern, and love that expects nothing. Nothing but me and nothing but her. No false pretenses, no expectations, no hidden truths.

Just me and her and the melody we make together.

And a whole lifetime of Nerd Kisses.

Lucky

My best friend is my younger sister, Stephanie. You can read her blog here. It's lovely, mostly about the happenings in her beautiful life, and stories about my niece. Who, just so you know, is the most precious tiny human on the planet.

See.

Ok. Now that that is out of the way. I've lost my train of thought. BUT LOOK AT HER SHE IS PERFECT.

Found it.

Ok, so Steph and I have grown very close over the last 5 or 10 years, and I don't know where I'd be without her. When we were younger, we "hated" each other. No siblings really hate each other - correction, maybe there are some that actually do, but I digress. There is that period of time in your life where they are more of a nuisance than something to be celebrated.

Steph and I had that, absolutely. We'd be fine one second, and the next I was threatening to push her down the stairs (I was a total asshole peach of a big sister). As we got older, our fights got bigger, and sometimes even involved pushing and shoving and slapping and sometimes your little sister gets mad and digs her fingernails into your skin so hard that you bleed. But I'm totally not bitter.*

Why am I droning on and on about our childhood nonsense and antics? 

Answer: I've been given some information recently that has brought to my attention how special our bond really is.

When I say special, I mean that in the most...I can't explain how I actually mean it, but here's the little ditty I just learned about.

Steph and I have a family member that is sort of harsh. That's really all I'll say, as I'm trying to do this new thing where I try to be a really good person. Alright, so my family (dad, mom, me, sister) lived with...

I need to interrupt this because I turned on the Backstreet Boys Pandora channel to bring back this era of my life, and O-Town's "All or Nothing" just came on. You're welcome for that reminder that that groupy existed.

OK, so my family lived with this family member (it's a grandparent...I'm going to screw up by the end of this and air it all out) a couple of separate times. This grandparent has one room in their house totally devoted to dolls. Not presh little Cabbage Patch dolls, I'm talking Chuckie meets some trippy version of Teddy Ruxpin and his creepy tagalong friend, Grubby. Look, Teddy Rux and Grubbster were a good time in the daylight, talking and making you LOL, but I'm telling you right now, those lights go out, and your worst nightmare is coming true. So there were those, plus an entire wall, an infinite wall if you will, draped in cabinets that were overflowing with porcelain dolls. Those creepy ones whose eyes always eerily shift in the quietest moments of a scary movie. The white faced terrors of my worst nightmares.

To say we hated this room was a ridiculous understatement. I would have volunteered to sleep in Freddy Kreuger's lair if it meant I could avoid the doll room. 

Would you guys mind if I took that back?  I am, in very real ways, absolutely terrified of Freddy Kreuger, so I'd like to renege that previous statement.

We'll just say I would have rather slept in a wet hot dog bun than in the doll room. Just think about that for just one second. A wet hot dog bun. Ew.

Steph and I didn't agree on much around this time in our lives, but the doll room, we totally agreed on. We would go to bed together and leave the room at the same time in the morning. It did not matter if the other was tired at night or not done sleeping in the morning, it was a pact. We wouldn't let the other be in that room alone. 

Just for reference, this story starts in the afternoon, circa 1993ish. I was somewhere around 7 or 8 years old, and Steph was 5 or 6. The deets are a bit vague, as I had forgotten this event even occurred until a few days ago.

Ok, you should also know that Steph and I would actually stick together when we had to stay at this relative's house. If I spent time explaining why, we'd be here for days, but just know it was a necessity for the two of us to be on the same team. There's power in numbers and all that jazz.

Wait. NSYNC's "This I Promise You" just came on. I'm living my tweens all over again.

Odd, this song starts off, "when the visions around you bring tears to your eyes...", which reminds me an awful lot of the doll room.

Again, I digress. Ok, so here's what we've established:

• Circa 1993
• I'm around 7 or 8
• Steph's around 5 or 6
• We're working together to combat not-kind relative
• We've spent an afternoon playing

This particular relative is mean. And they were not too keen on you walking through their house after you'd been in the pool if you were the LEAST bit drippy. I cannot say for sure, and I don't like to lie, but I'm pretty sure we got in trouble that afternoon, because one of the two of us dripped pool water on the carpet.

I'm telling you. I want to make reference to a Nazi war camp type setting, but I'm really feeling like that might be inappropriate. Look, we were in Sing Sing, except we had a pool and a doll room to "enjoy".**

So we're going to bed that night, pretty irked that we got in trouble, and we walk into the dark doll room. I really just cannot emphasize how intensely horrifying this room was. I wish I had a photo. Anyway.

So the middle of the night, I wake up, soaked. I have a really vivid imagination, and used to have nightmares, so it's not uncommon to wake up soaked from sweating. Night terrors, no joke. So, I'm soaking wet, and Steph wakes up, and I'm all ahh, I'm soaked. She's like, you're sweating, shut up.

That's the story. Boring.

Here's how that conversation in the middle of the night SHOULD have gone.

ME: Ahhh, I'm soaked. What the heck?!

STEPH: Yea, I peed the bed because I was mad and I hate the doll room.

ME: YOU PEED ON ME?!

STEPH: Yes. Shut up.

The other day, I'm skyping with Steph, and somehow this story gets brought up. I had forgotten about it, because I've woken up sweating from nightmares or being hot or whatever, a zillion times. No no, she says, she peed the bed cause she was mad.

My sister peed on me, and not in the Chandler peed on Monica kind of way. No, she just peed on me to smite the unnamed relative. And maybe piss off (see what I did there?) the dolls.

Either way, here we are on skype, and she is crying laughing, and I'm reminded of the time I thought my dog, Princey, had gone to a farm because he bit someone, only to find out 9 years later my parents put him to sleep. So either one of two things is true: I'm insanely gullible or I'm surrounded by jerks. I'm tempted to say B, but I'll give the benefit of the doubt and go with the former. 

So the next time you wake up soaked from a "bad dream" or "hormones", question the person sleeping next to you. They may have peed on you because you upset them. Suggestion: take a quick second to do a little sniff sniff and make sure you've not just convinced yourself that you're some sort of over sweat producing freak, when in actuality, someone has golden showered you without your consent.

Almost one year ago, my sister gave birth to my sweet niece, Clara (see above photo). Clara was so tiny and so perfect, and my dream of becoming an auntie had finally come to fruition. So, with permission from mom and dad, I changed one of her first diapers. And she pooped on my hand.

I guess it's true what they say...

The apple doesn't fall far from the tree.

_______________________________________________________________________________

*I'm really not bitter at all. Now we laugh about it. Besides, I told on her and she got in such an immense amount of trouble that I ended up sort of feeling bad for her.

**Perhaps too far, but if you know me, I'm not so good at knowing where lines are so, yeah.

I speak Dolphin.

Today has been pretty monumental in the world and what not, so I thought I'd contribute my two cents.  Ok, so this post is about gay marriage. But please read it anyhow.

In August 2010, Keri (my fiancee lady-friend, for those that do not know) and I embarked on a little trip up Pacific Coast Highway in beautiful, sunny California*. We started in San Diego, and drove north (duh) to San Francisco. This trip was amazing for roughly 2 million reasons, including the literal 30-40 degree difference between LA and San Fran that we definitely did not pack for. Who knew October was the warm month in San Francisco?

Answer: We did NOT.

The first few nights, we were in San Diego. The Whale's Vagina. It's nice.

Ok, so then we took San Diego public tran - not recommended - and got a little rental car and off we went. The next 4 nights we were going to camp out, and then upon arriving in Sanny Franny (San Francisco - that's what I like to call it. Don't judge.) we'd get a hotel for the last couple of nights. 

PAUSE.

I just felt you should know that I am stifling the VERY strong urge to give you a play by play of this trip it was so flipping amazing. But I will not, even though you would love every. single. minute. of it.

PLAY.

We drove from the Whale's Vagina up to Torrey Pines and then to LA. We did the Walk of Fame and I freaked out and took a picture of me with an empty star and now it's mine. One day my name and tiny hands will be on it AND I WILL BE SO PUMPED.

Ok, so also, it's hot in LA in August, which is only important because now I live there**. I felt like an egg frying on the pavement. So I suppose that star has already been marked mine, as some of my flesh melted off onto it...wo. I'm getting gross. 

It was hot. We'll leave it at that.

Also, I will tell you this. Now that I'm living here I can absolutely say this with 100% certainty, but LA traffic is the dumbest thing I have EVER encountered in my life. Also the 405 when you are not familiar with it can be the scariest thing you'll ever encounter in your life. We got lost leaving LA (easy to do) and ended up on the 405. I managed, only by the grace of God, to maneuver us around LA and we ended up on Mulholland Dr., taking photos of the Hollywood sign with a lovely group of tourists who were part of some celebrity houses tour nonsense. You better believe we took extra pics there so I could get a firsthand look at whose house we'll later model our mansion after. :) It was fun and we saw Ice-T's house (courtesy of that lovely tour guide who just so happened to be pointing and talking while we were awkwardly loitering) and it's lovely.

NEXT. 

We finally end up back on Pacific Coast Highway (PCH) and are in Malibu at our campsite faster than we could blink. Now that I live here, I feel REALLY stupid, because we were literally 15 miles west of tons of delicious restaurants, but we were so hungry that we continued driving north for somewhere in the realm of I have no idea how many miles. Somewhere around 30 minutes later, we ended up in a parking lot with a CVS and a restaurant called Sharky's (they are everywhere here, and I am feeling more directionally challenged the further we dive into this story). 

Ok, so we head back to the campsite after eating, and we set up our tent and the sun is setting, and I am flooded with thousands of memories of my childhood when I lived on St. Simons Island, Georgia.

Keri and I sat on the rocks right where the water breaks, a mere 50 or 60 ft from our tent, and soaked it all in. The sun setting, the smell of the Pacific, the sound of the waves hitting the rocks. I'm literally misting up thinking about it.

There was a dude and his two little kids camping right next to us. They were adorable. We chatted and the guy was super friendly, and offered us hot dogs, which we did NOT take. Thank goodness. In the middle of the night, he was barfing, and it was NOT adorable. Beautiful waves crashing on the rocks is totally overshadowed when someone is hurling 15 feet from you. Also, it's cold at night. This is something I'm aware of, having lived by the ocean for almost 6 years, but had forgotten. Plus we had limited blanket space and such, blah blah. Needless to say, the equation went like this.

Freezing cold + barfing guy = Candice and Keri sleeping in a car.

We woke up to the sound of the kids next to us running around while their dad made breakfast. We threw our shoes on and ran to the water. There is NOTHING like the feel of the ocean breeze on your face first thing in the morning. It's so crisp, and the ocean is just waking up. It's amazing. 

I should now make you aware that I LOVE sea creatures. I mean, it's a borderline obsession. When I was 10, my parents adopted Orcas for my sister and I for Christmas. It was literally THE BEST DAY EVER. 

Look, everything that lives in the ocean amazes me. They are huge and graceful and they all literally take my breath away. I was going to be a marine biologist, but I have ADD and kept changing my mind. Shit happens.

That said, you can obviously understand my disappointment that we had been near the ocean for something like 3 days and I had only seen birds. I hate birds. Love sea creatures. Hate birds. Got it?

I was distraught. I remember telling Keri that if we see no sea creatures on this entire 10 day extravaganza, this trip will be a bust.

I'm also melodramatic. Did I mention I'm living in LA to pursue my dream of acting?

Here's the glory of being a grown up. There's a point in your life when you realize that if you want something bad enough, you've got to do EVERYTHING you know how to do to make it happen. So here's how my 'make sea creatures appear' checklist looked after 3 days:

1) Pray. - Check

2) Obessively watch the ocean, while still attempting to drive. - Check, although not recommended.

3) Whisper sweet nothings to the ocean while you watch the sun set. - Check.

4) Speak dolphin.

THAT'S IT. I figured the last one was a bit far fetched, but a girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do. 

So here we are, beautiful day, Keri and I standing in our jammies on the rocks, and I belt out an awesome, if I may say so myself, dolphin call. 

I'm going to be grossly arrogant right now and say that I am good at a lot of things, but I must be the BEST at dolphin calling, because seconds, I mean seconds after my call, 2 or 3 dolphins broke the surface. I kid you not. Swear on my life. I FREAKED OUT. I almost jumped into the Pacific Ocean. Keri had to grab my arm because she actually thought I was going in. Good instincts, cause I totally was.

 Keri and I laughed so hard, and I have no idea why, but my first instinct, well second actually. My first instinct was to jump in and play with them. My second instinct was to run to these children whom I did not know, and drag them to the edge of the ocean to see these dolphins. Which they did. I just had this moment of pure exhilaration. I remember being a kid and seeing my first dolphins in the ocean, and thinking that I finally understood what grown ups mean when they talk about things being 'bigger than themselves'. It was amazing. 

Let's ignore the fact that these kids lived in LA and probably see dolphins on an almost regular basis. I WAS EXCITED.

The kids ran off and Keri and I just watched this little dolphin pod, playing in the morning sunlight. We were holding hands, and I was leaning on her arm, laughing. And she looked so happy. And it was perfect. 

We ended up seeing much more sea life than just dolphins on that trip, but no one can ever argue with me that I speak dolphin. If you are at all rooted in scientific fact, you will have no choice but to admit that I must be part dolphin. Right?  I mean, if A=B, and B=C, then A=C, right?

Totally irrelevant.

I thought briefly of changing my name to Candolphin after this trip, but decided to stick with what my parents gave me. It might hurt their feelings if I chose to embrace my other species half that strongly.

I'm sorry, what's that you ask?

Oh right, gay marriage. Umm...I just told you that whole story? Did you not pay attention? Or were you expecting something different?

My story is no different than yours, no matter what your other half looks like. The important part is that I had my soul mate next to me in the most pivotal moment of my life - the day I discovered I speak dolphin.

_________________________________________________________________________________

*PCH runs along the coast of California. The majority of the trip, you can see the ocean, and it will change your life. Googlemaps it, then plan your trip. You can thank me later.

**The campsite where this epic story occurred, is only about 25 minutes from my apartment here in California, and that makes me so pumped. 

Sacrifice

This post is about lessons, but not the funny kind. I hate to mix up what I'm going for here, but I think this is important. And honestly, I just have to talk about it because it's eating at my insides. It's long, but I'd appreciate if you read it, and even commented with your thoughts. We'll get back to the funnies tomorrow, but for today, there's this. 

Yesterday was the 10 year anniversary of the Iraq war.

Anniversary.

I'm not sure if it was my upbringing, and how I was taught to find the silver lining, or if it's the word itself, but 'anniversary' is connotatively positive. Celebratory almost. 

So it's really hard for me to actually type the 10 year anniversary of the Iraq War. We're not celebrating the deaths of almost 4500 American soldiers. Yes, their service and their sacrifice are to be honored, and their lives and convictions should be celebrated everyday, but the anniversary of this war is different. It's different because the reasons behind this conflict and everything involved with it are so hazy, so secret. I will not sit here and make you read about my standings on this war, because that's not what this is about. 

As most of you know, I served in the US Army Reserves for four years. I must have had nothing short of Michael the Archangel sitting on my shoulder, because I signed my contract on August 6, 2006, and was discharge June 28, 2010, and was never deployed. I recognize how lucky I am to have never had to deploy and face the horrors that so many of my fellow soldiers did, but I was also prepared to do so if I was called up. My time in the military was strange, and difficult, and it has left me with a few messes I am working on resolving, but that is neither here nor there. I am proud of my service, my sacrifice and I used to be proud of my country.

I joined the military because my life hit a fork in the road, and I chose the path that I thought was going to be the best choice. I wouldn't say I come from a long line of military members, but I have military family, and I thought my Grandpa would be proud if I joined. He died when I was 17, and I always looked up to him as a man full of spirit and pride, and I thought joining would be a proper way to emulate what I loved most about him.

There was that and 9/11. September 11, 2001 was a strange day for me. I was 16, and I had never been faced with that level of tragedy and pain before. I didn't know anyone that died that day, but something inside of me changed, and I couldn't let that feeling go. When I signed my contract to join, 9/11 was in the forefront of my mind. So many people died needlessly that day, and I wanted to do what I had wanted to do my whole life - be a protector. So there I went, and I became a combat medic, so I could do the most possible good in the field.

I apologize if this is recapping things you already know about me, but this all has a point. I was in two different units while I was in the military, and something I came in contact with at both places was the distinct difference in how men and women were treated. The military, the Army at least, is very much so still a boys club. If you want to fit it and survive, you better learn to hang with the best of them. So I did. To the very best of my ability. I sat by and listened to the boys talk dirty about girls in the unit, and say things that in any other arena, I would have reported as sexual harassment, and sometimes even listened to derogatory things being said about me. But I'd laugh it off, because I knew, if we ever deployed, those boys would save my ass if I ever needed it. I hoped they would, at least, and luckily I never had to test out whether that was true.

It's a strange position to be in, being one of the guys. As a woman, you grow up knowing what is and is not acceptable verbiage, conversation and etiquette between men and women. You learn that you don't have to listen to people speaking derogatorily about one sex or the other, and you're taught to stand up for yourself and others if you hear or see something that is inappropriate. Then you join the military, and they get you combat ready. You're a soldier. You've worked your tail off, you are trained to kill, more confident than most people you'll ever meet in your life, and then you ship away to your unit, only to disregard all of that beautiful confidence and strength you've gained, so you can fit in and not cause a stir. 

Last night, I watched a documentary called The Invisible War. It's not really a film you'd sit down on Friday night to watch, but it's important that it is seen. I can't say I loved this film, in fact, I hated it. Cinematographically speaking it was wonderful, and from every film aspect, it was great, but it made me sick to my stomach. I hated the facts it was telling me, because every bit was true. The film is about rape and sexual assault in the military. Without giving you a play by play, the film chronicled the journey of several individuals, men and women, and what happened after they were raped and reported it. The men interviewed never reported their rapes, and I think we all know why, and the women said that once they reported, most of THEM ended up under investigation for a variety of reasons. Very few, if not zero, of their perpetrators ended up paying for what they did to these women, and the chain of command failed them. I would suggest strongly that everyone sit down and watch this film. Put your politics aside, your masculinity, your femininity, and just watch it, as a person. As a person whose freedoms are secured by the sacrifices that these men and women have made to serve the country they THOUGHT would keep them safe. And tell me it doesn't raise an outrage inside of you that makes you sick to your stomach.

Watch it, and then tell me that I should still be proud of my country. There are a million reasons why people, on both sides of the red and blue line will say that this country is going to shit, and I do not care about one single one of them. But we have a serious problem when the members of our armed forces, the first ones to stand up and sacrifice their lives to save ours, are brutally terrorized within their own community, and no one, not even the Department of Defense itself, stands up and says no, this can't be.

I thank God I never witnessed any sexual abuse or rape during my time in service, but I kept my mouth shut on enough sexual harassment, and I let my worth as a woman be degraded by the chauvinistic, pig-headed men I was serving with more times than I care to count. And just to be clear, it wasn't all the guys I served with, not even half. I served with plenty of honorable, courageous, strong men that would've stood by my side if I had chosen to go up my chain of command. But I saw what happened when there was a complaint. Next drill, we'd have a sexual harassment session, and our commander would always start off by saying that there were complaints and while he doesn't think there's any truth to them, we have to watch these videos. Inevitably, everyone would find out who lodged the complaint, and they'd be on the shit list for months. I watched this happen multiple times, and all I could think to myself was that I hope we didn't get deployed because whatever girl had complained was going to find herself in a mess of trouble in the sandbox.

I'm not proud that I didn't speak up, trust me. It makes me nauseous when I think that I chose to cover my ass instead of speak up for what was right, and that is my cross to bear. To know that I shouldn't have cared what hammer would have been brought down on me, that I should have taken a stand. I cannot take that time back, but I can do something now.

We have to change what the culture has become, in and out of the military, and it can no longer be acceptable that people are targeted and have nowhere to go, and no one on their side. Victims are victims, that's that. Someone who has been harassed, assaulted or raped should NEVER be made to feel like they asked for it, and should never leave feeling like it's their fault.

Watch the film. Talk about it. Get mad about it. Talk about it some more. Then maybe, just maybe, we can bring about change that has to happen. 

"The land of the free, and the home of the brave." Let's stand up and speak for those who are too brave to speak for themselves. I should have done it then, but I will definitely do it now.

http://invisiblewarmovie.com

Check this out, and find a way to help. Even if it's taking 10 minutes to write your Congressman. I, and countless others, thank you in advance.