Changes.

Fall is in the air (well, sort of, if you're from Colorado...), and we all know what that means. Time to bring those winter sweaters down from the attic, pull on the electric blanket, and curl up on the couch with your honey. In keeping with the changing of the seasons, your favorite blog will be moving to a new location and getting a new, well, everything! Stay tuned this week for big, big changes!

And remember that poll you took about the things you'd like to see on this blog? Well, I listened, and my dear friend Samantha Lynn Kelly was kind enough to take some stunning photos of my stunning family. Here are just a few to whet your appetite. Keep checking back for a link to the new site!

Freeway Mayhem and Footlong Subs.

Today, I violated one of the unspoken rules of womanhood-- a rule so vital to the female way of life that one is born with an innate understanding of it. As women, we're all ingrained with code that guides our actions, which is how we know that it's dastardly to wear white to a friend's wedding or unwise to eat a burrito before expecting a goodnight kiss. And we all know that to violate these tenets will result in almost certain disaster. Well, I'm here to affirm for you ladies that that this is true. Indeed, this particular mistake ended in a consequence most foul-- and most hilarious.

I was driving home today in the middle of heavy traffic, and I had the misfortune of being stuck behind an obnoxiously large truck with an obnoxiously large tailpipe and those horrible, gaudy -- need I say obnoxious-- mud-flaps with naked ladies on them, and that's when I made The Ultimate Female Mistake.

You know what I'm talking about, ladies. This was the big cheese of mistakes. If mistakes were power couples, this would be the Beyonce and Jay Z of mistakes. If mistakes were really bad movies, this would be The Last Song, only slightly more mortifying.

I made eye contact. I couldn't help myself.

Scarier. Than. This.

I made eye contact with the drivers of the Manly Man Mobile. I turned my head 45 degrees and invited trouble. See, all women of driving age know that to allow our eyes to roam into the car next to us is to start a conversation. It's as if the man next to us interprets this gesture as the equivalent as a lusty nightclub come-on, and we're Megan Fox. Meanwhile, the ladies are sitting there like deer in the headlights, white-knuckling the steering wheel as though our lives depend on it.

It's a tale as old as time. I couldn't roll up my window fast enough to block the onslaught that ensued. See, this is the reason why gorillas avoid eye contact in the jungle. It's because a female gorilla knows that if she makes eye contact with a male gorilla, she's essentially inviting him to make wildly lewd comments about her boobies. Invariably what happens in this scenario is that the female gorilla succeeds in ripping off the male gorillas face, which I think is a good case for the argument that humans should start taking cues from the Animal Kingdom's Book of Etiquette.

"I am not an objeeeeecccct!"

Anyway, I digress.

The point is that the next 15 minutes were filled with humiliation, mingled with horror and a hint of nausea. The loud and overcompensatingly large vehicle paced me for what felt like an eternity. The driver, who was offensively adolescent in every way, spewed fragmented innuendos out the window, though I tried my damnedest to appear as though I was engrossed in a very important phone call. I'm pretty certain I heard the words "wiener" and "dong" come out of someone's mouth.

Kind of like this, only slightly less... regal.

But here's where the story gets weird. At one point I simply could not resist looking back at the boy. In that instant, it was as if my eyes were magnetically attracted to his, and his to mine. I sustained the eye contact. I did not back down. I was filled with righteous indignation. 'I'm a pregnant lady!' I thought. 'I don't have to take crap from anybody but babies!' I'm pretty sure I looked totally deranged, with my crazy lady eyes boring into the kid's skull and my lips pursed in motherly disapproval.

My newfound confidence clearly unnerved the kid, who quickly broke my gaze and fell back. 'Haha!' I thought, 'Victory is mine!' His friend in the passenger seat, however, did not sense the change in power that had just occurred. As the truck faded into my rear-view mirror, I saw the passenger wave something out the window. He was wielding it like a flag of triumph, shaking it violently. It took me a minute to realize what it was, and when I did, I burst into a fit of unbridled hysteria.

It was a sandwich. The boy was waving a sandwich. I guess that's all you *can* wave around before you get your gun license...

(Also, I knew it was a sandwich because a pregnant lady can recognize a Subway wrapper from a mile away. I bet if I had been downwind, I could have told you what kind it was just by the smell.)

Anyway, at this point I was trying not to hit the car in front of me, so I'm not exactly sure what transpired. The next time I looked, the driver was laughing maniacally and the passenger looked cartoonishly distressed. Clearly, he had lost his sandwich. Somewhere a homeless drifter on I-25 is having himself a field day.

On behalf of women everywhere, I laughed like a fool all the way home.

Finally, I turned onto my own street. The quiet little street where old ladies strut around in their Shape Ups, and pesky teenage kids ride their scooters too fast past my driveway. I was more than giddy when I met my husband and daughter in the driveway.

I pulled up and gave the sticky, messy little monster a kiss. (And then I gave my daughter one, too. Ha!) When Doug asked me how my day was, I didn't fill him in on the intellectual breakthroughs or the important conversations that took place. I didn't tell him about the nuances and the witty banter.

"Oh. My. Gosh. Babe, you are not going to believe this! I got tailed by some teenagers AND heard the word 'wiener' today!" I exclaimed.

"I believe it. Every day is an adventure with you," he said.

"Oh, and I saw a dude lose a sandwich on the freeway!"

"All in a day's work, " he said.

We went inside and I wrote this post to you people, and at the end of it I made the resolution to get a Subway sandwich for lunch tomorrow.

The end.

The Reveal.

Y'all do a lot of clicking for folks who don't comment much. Why the silence, blogger friends? It's like I'm on a blind date and I keep asking, "Sooo, where ya from?" and you're the date who sits there with the napkin in her lap chewing on the same piece of steak to avoid answering the question. And I think I deserve better than that, blog friends. After all, I AM treating you to a steak dinner. Ha! See how I set myself up there? Sigh. How can you refrain from commenting?

And so it is that you force my hand.

I'm going to let you in on a secret, blog friends.

The thing is, I don't just WANT y'all to comment. I NEED y'all to comment. Because over the coming months this blog will turn into a more well-defined entity. One of the purposes of this blog is going to be asking questions and, as my friend Ariel would say, "gettin' some answers." Because I'm working on some ideas for some writing I want to do. Not just blog writing. Book writing? Short story writing? I don't know, exactly. But feedback is going to play a major role in it, since it's by gleaning insight from friends that I process data best.

I want to hear from you guys on topics like marriage or singledom, shoestring fries versus curly, having children or enjoying the sticky-free lifestyle, and all the things in the middle. I hope you'll join me in that journey.

So get ready to start answering some questions. Please don't be shy. If you're up for engaging, for giving honest feedback, for being a part of discussions both intimate and inane, I hope you'll respond with an

"Aye."

Much love and thanks,

M.

Let's Try This Again!

Okay, folks. It turns out my readers are of the shy variety, so let's try a new angle.

What do you LIKE about this blog? What keeps you coming back?

There! That should make the task less intimidating. And thanks for taking the poll! I appreciate the feedback! In the next few days, you should be seeing some changes around here, with the ultimate facelift happening before September 30! Stay tuned. :)

Big Love.

Friends, Romans lend me your eyes! I want to thank all of you who make it a point to click the ads on my blog. Just fyi, I have made $3.86 today. That means that 55 of you clicked ads today alone!

FIFTY-FIVE PEOPLE!

That's a lot for a small-town blogger like me! My ultimate goal is to make $30.00 a day. That's just barely enough for me to support my Pei Wei addiction. I mean, kids in sweatshops make more than that, don't they?

So, please stay tuned, folks. This blog is a living, breathing organism. You know, sort of. In the sense that it is a technological method of communicating with the world. You know what, just forget the thing I said about it being a living and breathing organism. It's not. But I AM! And Momma needs her Pei Wei fix.

There will be big formatting and content changes made to the blog this month, including WEEKLY give aways, photo entry contests, and more daily posts.

Here's my question for you, friends: What can I be doing better? What do you like the most and what would you like to see more of? Do me a favor and tell me what your favorite post of mine has been, so I can see what you like. Don't hold back. Punch me in the gut if you have to. Only, remember that there's a baby in there and that's frowned upon in this society. Maybe aim for the face...

Leave me a comment. I want the feedback because I want to keep writing to you people, whoever and wherever you are. It's more to me than just a way to piddle my thoughts into the giant piss-stream that is the internet. It's a way to have relationship with good people I can't chat with everyday.

So, anyway. Thanks for the love. I love you too.

Best Blog Ever

Friends, I'm throwing all dignity and discretion out the window by shamelessly plugging for myself. VOTE FOR ME IN THE INDY'S "BEST OF" Contest!

I'm funny, smart, and super, extra gorgeous. I just got word from the Man Upstairs that if you vote for me, you get extra wives in heaven! Or custard, your choice!

Vote here. Lots of love!

http://www.csindyballot.com/

Writer's Butt. I Mean Block.

Writing is the singularly most sedentary profession one can be in. Don't get me wrong; it's noble, but it's sedentary. I don't know any writers who say things like, "Yeah, I'm going to write that blog post and then run a 5k." Pretty much our lives revolve around our computers. We're never more than six feet away from an outlet. If a writer committed a crime-- which would be highly unlikely in the first place given the aforementioned assertion that writers are sedentary creatures-- you could probably find him in a Starbucks ordering a Pumpkin Spice Latte and writing a blog about it. Talk about an easy day for the cops! All in a day's work, gentlemen. Now cuff that literary fiend!

I was just thinking about this because I know my waistline has taken a bit of a blow over the years. I blame it on being just. that. committed. to my calling.

And I started to imagine how funny it would be if we could all identify our writing kin by the flatness of our rear ends. Envision this conversation, if you will.

Writer 1, scoping out Writer 2's rear end: Oh, wow, dude. That's a serious case of Writer's Butt.

Writer 2: Tell me about it. I'm working on my manifesto.

Writer 1: Well judging by that Writer's Butt, you like the downtown Starbucks, right?

Writer 2: You know it, bro! Comfy chairs! You a Pikes Perk kind of guy?

Writer 1: Toootally.

And the two would part ways with a mutual understanding that can't be found in any other profession.

*Note: I don't know why my writers talk like they're from San Diego...

Lilac (Repost.)

(This is a repost, just because I'm still thinking on these themes, and want to keep them in the fore. A new post is coming soon, I promise.)

Last night, a dear friend watched The Fay for me whilst I whittled away the hours on bed rest. That's a good friend, my friends. As I lay dying of terminal boredom, Jes, her daughter Aspen, and Fable did all manner of crafty things.

One is wont to notice all kinds of things while horizontal. (Keeeeep it clean, people. Jesus reads this blog.) First off, popcorn ceiling is the everyday Rorschach Test. I got a glimpse into my psyche last night as grinning circus clowns, old ladies with crooked spines, and stampeding horses emerged from my wall. That was a fun five minutes. Then I was back to having nothing to do.

So, I tossed and turned a little. Did some praying. Daydreamed about what my life would be like if I had longer hair (radically better, with far more fashionable montages). At about mile marker 2000, I decided to get out of bed. Who says bed rest needs to be literal BED rest? I mean, aside from my doctor and all.

I putzed around the house in my usual style, albeit more slowly. Tidying this thing and that (read: moving it from one unorganized drawer to another). I started a skein of crochet, only to undo it again. Went up the stairs for some reason, only to forget why when I reached the handle to the bathroom door. (How does a person forget what she intends to do in the bathroom? There are only so many things one can do in there; the options are easily exhaustible.)

Finally, I bunkered down in the black armchair in the living room. I sat in the quiet. I'm so shamefully bad at sitting in the quiet, either in my head or in reality. (Philosophy majors, feel free to quip that what's in your head should count as what's in reality. When you're done, call yourself a pretentious twit for me.) Truth be told, I didn't know what to do with myself without Fable around, yapping at my heels.

I've become so accustomed with multitasking, with putting on a puppet show with one hand and disinfecting the countertops with the other. At the end of a day filled with Legos and puzzles, meltdowns and "More juice, Mommy!" I am thoroughly exhausted and satisfied. I'm acquainted with that form of exhaustion. It's fulfilling, unlike the kind of exhaustion that camps in your bones when you're sick. This kind, the new and harder kind, makes me cry at the drop of a hat. Makes me need to rest in the middle of doing the dishes or having a conversation with my husband. It makes me restless and irritable, but somehow more contemplative.

I feel like a butterfly pinned down by the wings, under the giant lens of the Lord. It was C.S. Lewis, I believe, who said something to the effect of, "God whispers to us in our pleasures, speaks to us in our conscience, but shouts in our pains: It is His megaphone to rouse a deaf world." Oh, Lord. Have I been deaf? Is that the root of this pain?

Lord, I prayed, let me hear you. Still me. Wrestle me to the ground as you did Jacob. Leave me with a wound, but don't leave me here.

Over the last week several doctors have lain me down, told me to prepare for the pain of a needle or of morphine coursing through my veins. But nothing has compared to this, the pain of holding still for the Lord.

And so, I finally did some musing. In a silent house, in the space inside a whirring mind, I settled-- as much as I know how. Minutes passed, but they felt much longer, as if the Lord were stretching them to their fullest. To think of all the minutes in a day, and how few of them I spend before the presence of God... no wonder it hurt so much.

My time alone came to a close. I heard Jes and Fable approach the door. Finally, my sweet, sticky distraction was home. It's indescribable, the way her rosebud mouth and forever curly hair warms me up from the inside. The warmth was almost unbearable within the walls of my freshly scrubbed heart.

Fable trotted up to me, as she always does, in the the style that so reminds me of a baby beagle tripping over his ears. Sometimes I just want to hold her so much, I can't help but scoop her into me. When she is 16, I will still be pulling her into my arms, despite her protestations.

This time, though, the singularly most amazing thing happened. Fable held out her hand to me.

"Here go, Mommy." And just like that, the Lord came rushing in to mend the wound. Clutched in her tiny, sweaty palm was a thick shoot of lilac.

My first ever flower from Fable. It smelled so good to me.

I found a glass for it, but by the time I filled it with water, Fable had all but demolished the poor thing. No matter-- none at all.

With all the pride and thankfulness in the world, I put the dilapidated petals and naked stem into the glass. It sits now on my dining room table, proudly displayed for all to see.

Today I don't feel so raw. Not much better physically, truth be told. But no worse. And my spirit? It has rarely been better or healthier. I suppose this whole blog started when I realized that I sit here, in this dilapidated state, proudly on display for *my* Father.

There's no better place to be.

Foot. In. Mouth.

Dear friends,

I have a confession to make. Among the laundry list of flaws I ashamedly boast (chronically overbooked, obsessed with diseases I'm not likely to ever contract, unable to watch Lifetime TV without crying, devoid of any remorse for returning library books late), there's one in particular that I've had to do battle with lately. The thing is, I'm Chairman of the Party Planning Committee. The *Pity* Party Planning Committee. (We have branches in all 50 states. Ask me how you, too, can have a Pity Party all your own!)

I've been fighting the urge to throw myself a Pity Party these last few months. When I feel that need cropping up, I fight it with the best of my abilities. I cling to the things I have to be thankful for, like my clearly flawless skin and impeccable social reputation, not to mention my immaculate lawn and perfectly behaved child. (My penchants for giving to charity and ministering to homeless men make my life all the more fulfilling.) You might be asking yourself, "Melanie, with your blinding beauty and enormous heart for saving dolphins born with birth defects, how could you ever find a reason to complain?" The answer to that is simply, "I just made up that entire list." Hard to believe, I know. (You are very gullible, my friend.)

The truth is, I'm not who you think I am. I'm not who I want to be. If you think I'm being modest, think again. (Take a moment to reflect on the previous sentences about my stunning beauty. To my credit, false modesty is not yet a flaw on that laundry list.)

The thing is, folks, this has been a hard time for us. Thankfully, it has not been a senselessly hard time. Those seasons of life are the most difficult; when it seems that God's hand is writing in the sky, but you can't see it for the smog. God is always tender and clear with us, much in the way that a parent is tender with her toddler. "Oh, yes, I know. That ouchies. Doug and Melanie want to have a cookie? Yeah? A cookie make it all better? Here you go. Have a cookie."

(Disclaimer: I know the Lord doesn't talk like a giant, condescending grandmother in the sky. I think I just really wanted a cookie when I wrote that last little bit, so my subconscious made me go there. Moving on.)

I rarely have a doubt that God's hand is actively at work in my life. Over the last few months, as life kicked us repeatedly with her black leather boot, I have kept in mind that my God is healer; however brutal the injuries we incur, God is able to heal us for His glory. I know that truth. I cling to it.

And I thought I was doing well. I could feel myself wanting to boast about my awesome faith. "No, really, we're perfectly fine. Sure we're unemployed and I spent the last three weeks in the hospital. Sure, this pregnancy is high-risk and scary and exhausting. How do we maintain our composure you ask? Well, sit right down and I'll give you a tutorial in being a good Christian, like me."

Thank goodness the Lord smacked those words out of my mouth! It took only one more trial for my feeble house of cards to topple, and I praise God that they did. If it hadn't been for the misery that was about to ensue, who knows how much damage I might have started to bring to my most cherished cause-- the cause of Christ.

My demise came in the form of allergies. Allergies. Not global famine. Not another health crisis (though Lord knows we've had our share). Not family conflict or personal peril. Not even a long check-out line at Safeway.

Allergies. Green, gooey, itchy, disgusting allergies. That's all it took to undo this woman. Made from steel, I am not.

I woke up to one of the worst flair-ups of seasonal allergies I have ever had. In my defense, this was no normal allergy attack. This was a full-on assault on my immune system, ironically waged by my immune system itself. (Talk about mixed feelings! Me vs. Me. Who do I want to win?!) My eyelids were glued shut by extra-strength crusties. My voice sounded like it belonged to a 65-year-old smoker from Atlantic City. My nose made a perfectly charming honking sound when I attempted to inhale nasal spray. I was a papparazzi's delight. You know, if I were famous and all.

Commence the Pity Party montage! Tears! Angry, balled up fists! Tissues littering the bedspread! The stuff of movie magic!

The day dragged on and on. My attitude went downhill with each withdrawal from the tissue box. Finally my husband extracted himself and my two-year-old daughter in order to (escape the crazy person) allow me some alone time.

I was alone. Ironically, I realized, that I only feel alone when my attitude is bad. At that point, I'm such an unattractive person that I'm convinced even the Lord takes a hiatus from our relationship. He never leaves me, even when my health is going haywire and my life is on the fritz. I only feel alone when I can't see around my own ego. It was quiet in my room as I sat (with tissues shoved up my nose) making a half-hearted attempt at reading a book. I didn't want to be alone. I wanted to be having fun with my family.

I threw the covers around like a petulant teenager, lamenting my fate. It felt like I had been alone for hours when Heidi, our dear friend and Fable's surrogate aunt, sheepishly poked her head around the corner. Her grin was enormous. Apparently she didn't notice my horrible attitude or the tissues sticking out of my nose like two badly placed pigtails. "You've got something special in the maaaaail," she sang. "I hope it's an enormous bottle of Benadryyyyl," I sang back.

Now, not a lot could deter me from my Pity Party at that point. I was miserable, but I was doing a good job at my misery and I don't like to be interrupted when I'm on a roll.

But as much as I like misery, I like packages even more. Even packages I'm expecting from Amazon are thrilling to me. And this was no ordinary package. This package clearly contained flowers. (Ironic, no? My allergies were going nuts as I tore the tape off the box.) Not just any flowers. SUNFLOWERS. The box contained sunflowers. I adore sunflowers. They are like gold on a stem. If you're not from Colorado, you simply can't understand the glory of sunflowers. They are the halo of the city, burning golden and bright as the sun sets. They are the crowning jewel of the season.

Flowers. For me. The girl with the sour face and spoiled heart. Can you imagine how I felt when I read the card that came with them? "Sunflowers always have their faces to the sun. I've noticed that you always have your face to the Son, too." Well, isn't that nice? My ego tucked its tail between its legs and limped away. My eyes leaked, this time out of gratitude.

Can you fathom the recoiling my spirit did upon reading that? It was a perfectly timed message, for sure. It was a blow delivered straight to the knees of my pride and sense of entitlement. How I so desperately needed that.

I love, and also sort of hate, the way God lavishes on me. Even when I'm an enormous ball of snot. Literally.

I know there's a more poetic point to drive home, but I wouldn't want to cheapen the lesson by wrapping things up in a trite little package. All I know is, I'm going to go think about this theme in my life. My prayer is that I learn to be a Christian who runs the race with endurance, one who doesn't get sidetracked by something silly, like a runny nose. I'll let you know how that goes. Hopefully, you'll just see it for yourself.

It's good, this life.

Darling.

My friend, Tiff, snapped this photo yesterday. It's funny how some of the best pictures are the ones you take on the fly, without any preparation or pretense.

I immediately fell in love with this photo. I tend to make the most wooden faces in photos, so I love how fresh and free I look here. Also, I love that I don't look like a cross-eyed Christmas elf in this photo, which is how I tend to see myself in pictures. I was happy, and I look happy, but I don't look mentally-challenged happy.

Also and mostly, I love this photo because this is my girl. I never get tired of saying that. I catch myself staring at her, often more than once a day, awestruck that she's mine. I think this photo captured the spirit of our relationship. Fable's windblown hair is perpetually askew around her face. She always looks like she has come fresh off the back of an adventure. She's so independent that for her to even sit still and let me put my arms around her is enormously gratifying for me. You can see it on my face. That's my love face. I wear it all day long.

What a life.