run, forrest, run

as you may know, we got a puppy a while back. for the first couple of weeks, she woke me up at o-dark-hundred and accompanied me on sunrise jogs around the neighborhood. i ran something like 12 out of 14 days, which is unheard of for present-day me. and i sort of loved it. i lost 5 pounds for the first time in forever. i even got some new shoes and running pants without holes in them. i was dangerously close to becoming one of those crazy people who willingly run on weekends, or on vacation.

i can think of worse ways to start the day

then something weird happened. feta, the puppy, decided she did not like to run anymore. or even walk. she started out a little squirrely - we live on a really busy road and i would have to carry her across the street, but once i set her down on the other side, she got going just fine. not so anymore. she loves running around on nearby trails, but i don't have time to put her in the car and drive to her desired destination every morning. and the neighborhood strolls are a total no-go.

so, we got a treadmill. ostensibly for ourselves. we've wanted one for a while because we are lazy f*cks and can't make it to the gym, like, ever.

also, it is generally frowned upon to leave your two- and four-year-olds at home alone while you run out and about with the wind in your hair. but, i figured maybe feta could benefit from the treadmill as well. my dad's dog uses one, so i know it can be done. but she's not havin' any part of that.

thus came the end of my illustrious two-week running career.

if there are any cesar Milan-type folks out there that have some pearls of wisdom to get my scaredy-dog either running out-of-doors, or on the treadmill, please do share. but that's not actually the main point of this post. my main point is that i used to be a runner. i did cross country in high school, and i ran consistently throughout college and law school. not super far or anything, but a couple of miles almost every day. i won't say i ever really loved it, but i didn't hate it, and it was a nice way to get outside, burn some calories, decompress, sort my thoughts, etc. my brief flirtation with running last month reminded me that it can be addictive, and almost fun.

meanwhile, one of my best friends has been on a boot camp/health kick lately and i keep seeing her insane/inspiring posts on facebook. (she lives far away otherwise i would enlist her help in kicking my butt in person.) anyway, she has this "Map My Run" app that seemed cool so i was like, "I'm gonna get that! Maybe that'll help motivate me even though my running partner ditched me." Well, let me tell you, it was not motivational. It was DE-motivational. My super sporty friend is already up to 5+ miles and I imagine if I could ever bring my aging bag of bones to achieve such a goal, i'd be pretty damn proud of myself. but that's not what happened. I ran, and thought to myself, "wow, that must have been like 2 or 3 miles!" and then my map looked like this:

oh well. this same friend is the one who coined the "No Shoulds" philosophy of life, so i'm not going to beat myself up too much about it. plus, it's almost time for new year's resolutions, which means at least 12 more days of exercise are in the not-too-distant future ;) back to your pumpkin pies, folks!



if you eat candy ON the treadmill, the calories don't count, right?

 

humble pie

i know a lot of people make fun of christmas cards and the humble brag letters and awkward family photos, but i have a confession to make: i LOVE them. i mean. i might make fun of you and your dog's matching sweater sets a little bit in my mind, but it's only because i love you. and really i am the queen of geek when it comes to christmas cards so i have no room to judge. i love getting cards and i love preparing them too, from the family photo sesh -- well, okay, no. that part actually sucks. i can't think of anything else, except maybe child birth, that is as painful as family photos, yet ultimately brings me such immense joy. but i love getting the proofs, choosing the cards, thinking back on the highlights of our year, and getting matching wraparound return address labels. i f*cking live for stationery, people. seriously. when i die, please cremate me and turn my ashes into some coordinating handmade note cards and gift bags from The Paper Source.

anyway, i love seeing pictures of your family, your fabulous christmas trees, your chrismakkuh displays, your kids on santa's lap under duress, your clever elf-on-the-shelf machinations (to a point. don't get all crazy on me. and for the love of god, don't make your elf be a dick. that is a phenomenon i will never understand!) (i think everyone and their grandma has read this, but if you are the one person who hasn't, please do so now: people i want to punch in the throat's post on overachieving elf on the shelf mommies.)

but i realize some people see all this as a chore.

this year, we added some new couple friends to "The List" (of holiday card recipients). one of the moms texted me when she received her card and said, "how on earth do you have time to do all this? by December 1st?! it stresses me out just thinking about Christmas cards. ugh. i guess i better get on that, stat!" this reminded me of one year when my aunt was complaining to my mom about how the Christmas photo card tradition was such a production and it was basically ruining her life. my mom replied, "then don't do them." the thought had never occurred to her. she was so bogged down in the sludge of "should" that she didn't even see it as an optional obligation.

here's the deal though. nobody really cares. okay, i mean, i might cry one glistening tear, but i get it. the holidays are supposed to be a time of love and family and gratitude, not stress and rampant consumerism. i, mackenzie ninjago cheeseman, am granting you the freedom to let it go. separate the wheat from the chaff. determine what you're doing because you WANT to do it, versus what you're doing because you feel like you SHOULD. keep the former. ditch the latter. 

i don't know about you all, but i am SO TIRED. like, "regularly ask The Google and Web MD what sort of terminal illness i have"-tired. and something occurred to me the other day. i'm sure i'm not the first person to draw this analogy, but, you know how, when you leave a million apps open on your phone, it drains your battery quadruple-y fast? well, that's life as a mom. or a dad. and, okay. i know this is sexist and perhaps not even true, but i do feel this might be a terminal illness that plagues moms at a higher rate than dads. at least that is true of DM and me. he is much better at compartmentalizing, at letting things go, whether it's work stress or life stress or the dirty dishes in the sink. which might not get us on the cover of good housekeeping magazine, but at least it'll keep us out of the nut house. priorities.

so, this holiday season, don't forget to close all those apps you aren't using. save your battery for what really matters. like google maps. so you can always find a 7/11, for emergency late night slurpees and champagne.

i could seriously look at these allllll day.
http://awkwardfamilyphotos.com/

in the spirit of thanktidude

I meant to post this on Thanksgiving, but then, I didn't.

It was gonna be a TBT + Thanksgiving Double Whammy. It's a Facebook post from Thanksgiving 5 years ago... when I was a couple weeks away from embarking on a (belated) sun-drenched, rum-infused month-long honeymoon to Costa Rica and Nicaragua. Unbeknownst to me, I was actually like 2 weeks pregnant at the time, and the honeymoon would be less rum-infused and more fainting, barfing, and spending time in a Nicaraguan ER. Can't win 'em all!

Anyway, pre-beastie-babies, this is what I was thankful for:

iced coffee from 7-11, and crunchy soda fountain ice at am/pm. < shit. where's an AM/PM?! get in my mouth, crunchy ice!

tj maxx, ross, and marshalls... and holiday sales at cost plus/world market and tarszhay. < who isn't thankful for this. 

my house. < and my job, so I can pay the mortgage on said house.

my best buddy, Ole Blue, in any of her many iterations... sleeping curled up in a black furry ball, or on her back in faux-rigor-mortis, snoring like a fat old man, snuggling, spazzing, displaying inappropriate behavior towards chew toys, or tending fastidiously to a bone with her legs splayed out behind her like a frog. < awwwww :( I love our new furry baby to bits but there will only ever be one Blue!

emoji :) < and exclamation points!

it's November and its 75 degrees outside. < this.

my husband is not a douchebag. in fact, just the opposite. he is the best friend, partner, and accomplice a girl could ask for. also best bartender and mixer of powdered beverages. makes my heart hurt. in a good way.

eggnog and Christmas music.

the best group of friends, EVER. < seriously. sixteen years later and still going strong. you know those friends with whom you have a collective consciousness? them. there are memories and sayings that I honestly don't even know if I was there for, but it feels like they are in my own mind. from verdrunken no-pants parties in college to family barbecues, quarterly baby showers, and grown up cocktails, I wouldn't trade them for the world.

my new laptop that takes less than 17 minutes to accomplish any given task.

my sister, brother, pops, and of course my nephew, mister bacon bit, who i'd choose even if they weren't already family... not to mention my in-laws who are pretty awesome too.

trader joe's and sprouts and farmers markets and other places you can buy affordable, non-carcinogenic food. < don't get me wrong. there's a time and a place for carcinogenic food, e.g., Friday nights.

the Encinitas public library. < the best.

birth control. < yeah. still a big fan. but opting for more reliable methods (i.e. ones that are a little more forgiving of human error).

the sheer magnitude of calories burned in hot yoga. < I don't care if i'll gain it all back before morning, I just lost three pounds, bitches!

blockbuster nights. < remember blockbuster??? sub Netflix. or better yet, sub my bed and a good book.

cheese. bread. cheeseandbread. manhattan giant pizza and pillsbury crescent rolls. alcoholic beverages derived from grapes. cholula, tobasco, chili garlic and sweet chili sauce. ranch. garlic salt. avocados. lima beans. berries. fresh-squeezed oj. real whipped cream. crepes. < and sriracha. whenever we meet new people, one of the first things my husband likes to say is that i'm a vegetarian who hates vegetables. they inevitably look at me strangely and ask, "so, what DO you eat?" first of all, this is an exaggeration. I like at least three vegetables. second of all, in what universe is a diet of bread, dairy and condiments not okay? do you hate America or something???

the (friends of) humane society de tijuana and the amazing work they do. even the spanglish name has grown on me.

people that give the courtesy wave... let you cut in line when you only have one item in your basket... and all other random acts of kindness. < seriously! the courtesy wave. some basic human decency is all i ask. 

a $12 pedicure, even if its a little scary. < fuck that. i'm too old for that shit.

flowers and funny love notes. < I remember those. sigh.

dinners out, not to mention the fact that we can afford them. sort of. < I remember those. sigh. I appreciate them TEN TIMES MORE now!

bev-mo's 5 cent wine sales. < I appreciate them TEN TIMES MORE now!

facebook's privacy settings. < Remember when Facebook had privacy settings and wasn't in collusion with the NSA and the thought police?

working from home. < when the children are at school.

long-ass and hilarious email threads with my besties. < makes working at work bearable.

the baskin robbin's employee who asked me if i had a preference, top or bottom (for my scoops of ice cream, of course!) < does baskin robbins even exist anymore?

street fairs. and etsy - the mega street fair of the internet super highway.

funfetti cupcakes and homemade cookie dough.

i am thankful in advance for the kindle that santa is bringing me for christmas! < funny! santa is bringing me a new one this year, my ghetto five year old model finally bit the dust.

plane tickets to and from central America - we're finally taking a honeymoon, woot! < DO-OVER!

mochi balls. except the green tea flavor that tastes like an ash tray.

thanksgiving in delaware that will consist of sitting, chatting, watching football, and eating. and eating. and eating. my kind o' party! < i do love the persian thanksgiving in DE but i was also very thankful for our quiet thanksgiving and no airplane travel this year!

the fact i no longer have to buy a whole cd with 13 songs i don't like. sorry eddie veder and other itunes haters.

clean public bathrooms. < More than ever now, as my little people are guaranteed to touch at least thirteen surfaces with their bare hands/asses.

a cold rainy morning. < slightly less appreciative of these now, as it means I'm stuck inside with three stir-crazy Tasmanian devils.

live music in small venues.

obama. and michelle. < sigh. i still love michelle. and i want to give Obama a hug.

push up bras and anti-muffin-top thongs. < preach!

the fact that i don't have to use books to shepardize cases (or conduct legal research in general). < can you imagine??? what did people do before the internet?

brunch! < sigh. brunch. that glorious, sleepy sunday pastime of the childless class. now it's more like, a greased pig race and an eating contest all rolled into one. not quite the same.

the retired sheriffs volunteer patrol. < serving new grandpas daily!

and I would probably add a couple of items for 2014:

my children. as much as I want to throw them in the river for fish food, they give my life joy and meaning, blah blah blah. seriously though. they give me all of that. also gray hairs.

parents who are not assholes. and kids who are not assholes. (I haven't actually found any yet, but a girl can dream.)

my friends (and family) who still love me even though I am an asshole parent.

bounty select-a-size paper towels, honest baby wipes, and economy packs of toilet paper.

back-up cameras. particularly in the preschool parking lot.

my real, big-girl camera that is almost fast enough to catch my children moving at normal child speeds a.k.a. faster than the speed of light (except when you are trying to get out of the house on time. then? slower than molasses). 

The Google and amazon prime.

and this. the motherfucking grilled cheese cronut. you can actually cross out the 53 items above and leave just this one:

photo: huff post taste

the creepy chaperones

While we're on the subject of children leaving home... How do parents of teenagers not just cry all the time and follow their kids around like crazy ex girlfriends?

Let me back up.

If you happened to check Facebook last Wednesday night, you might have noticed that DM and I were on a date. On a school night, no less! I'm gonna go on ahead and pat myself on the back for that one.

It being date night and all, I engaged in some married flirting, saying things like "Will you still make out with me even though I smell like dirty head and the 80's?"

why do they all smell like Madonna?

And "It's gonna take two people to get these pants off, but they're fastened with a hair tie so at least you'll have a head start!"

just fyi, that's a (really) dirty mirror, not dirty pants. well. the pants are probably dirty too. but, not THAT dirty.

We went to a Bastille concert. We may have been the oldest people there. I felt like we were chaperones on a school field trip. My immediate charges were a pack of strongly scented, perfectly coiffed Scandinavian exchange students. They were like Swedish Bieber triplets. It was fun. My favorite part was when the band did a rendition of TLC's "Scrubs." Funny what bits and pieces of pop culture have staying power. Like the other day I heard a young teenage boy make a 'Mean Girls' reference. Who'd'a thunk?! Then on the way home from the concert, DM and I got into a debate over whether the song "Pony" playing on the radio was a recent song (his view), vs. a recent remix of a song that's nearly 20 years old (my view). For future reference, Googling "Pony Horny Ride Me" is NSFW. Also, I was right (obv).

Anyway. Back to the show. I really enjoyed it. The lead singer was one of the most polite young men I've ever encountered. His parents should be proud. It was good music and they put on a great show. At one point they asked everyone in the audience to turn on their "torches" but since no one has lighters anymore, everyone turned on their cell phone flashlights, so instead of mood lighting, the place was lit up like a Christmas tree and it sort of felt like we were in the middle of a mass police interrogation. Also, at the end, the lead singer went out and ran around the audience while he sang. I love that kind of shit, even though I was sort of having a sympathetic panic attack for the guy because people were grabbing and touching him and it was 23% scary.

rockin.

everybody put your hands up, you're under arrest!

I have to admit, though, I spent a good chunk of the show sort of creepy-staring at the group in front of us. It was a mom and dad, probably in their 40s? With their younger son (clearly just along for the ride), their high school-aged daughter (honestly she could've been anywhere from 12 to 17, I'm not good with ages), and a handful of her girlfriends. I'm not going to be able to put the pull of these people into words, and I'm probably just going to come off sounding like a stalker, but I was so intrigued by their dynamic.

First off, this teenage girl was willingly in public with her parents, so they must be doing something right. And she and her friends were sort of mesmerizing. She was beautiful, but not old enough to really know it, or to be self conscious of this fact. And she was completely transfixed and transformed by the music and the experience. I remember feeling like that, at that age... Like I was just mainlining music straight into my soul. It made me wonder at what point we all get so crusty and jaded?

But what really caught my eye was the mom. She wasn't that much older than me. She seemed as hip as you could be, for a mom. She knew all the words to every song, though whether that was from a personal affinity, or because her daughter plays them at full blast on repeat is unclear. But she wasn't really watching the show much, either. She was watching her daughter watch the show. Riveted. And garnering such pure, unadulterated joy as it was being filtered through her daughter's eyes. It almost made me want to cry. Like, happy/sad glistening tears, not ugly-crying or anything ;)

I just kept thinking about my daughter. Both of my children, actually. Even now, at 2 and 4 years old, I am constantly blown away by the fact that they are turning into such little PEOPLE. Like, real legitimate human beings. But, really, they're still so present. So open. So needy. So accessible. There's no barrier between me and their feelings, their hearts, their thoughts. (No barrier AT ALL. They wear their hearts on their sleeves, at MAX volume, always.)

I can't imagine what it's going to feel like when they're further along in the "conscious uncoupling" process, when they start to become truly separate and distinct from me. On the one hand, if you don't fuck it up too badly, your heart's just got to be bursting with pride. You freakin' CREATED these humans from nothing but tequila and a smile, and they are surviving in this big bad world, and they are the type of people that you would actually like to know, even if they hadn't sprung forth from your very own vagina.

On the other hand, I have to imagine it feels a lot like you're outside on a cold night, looking in on a bright, warm party to which you were not invited. Maybe they'll take pity on you and let you in out of the cold. But you know you're only there out of the goodness of their hearts.... You definitely weren't on the guest list. Hopefully, on the flip side, when they're as growed-up as they're gonna get, they'll let you back in, but man, that in-between-time has got to be a polar vortex for your heart. Ugh.

I did not expect to be this kind of mother. I wouldn't have guessed it in a million years. I didn't cry when I had to go back to work, when I sent them off to preschool, when I leave for a romantic grown-up getaway. I'm always happy when it's Friday, but usually, I'm pretty happy when it's Monday again, too. (Monday is the working mom's Friday ;)) I surreptitiously toss 97% of their "art" into the trash. (Like a ninja in the night. Hell hath no fury like a toddler who found his "mastowpiece" crumpled up in the garbage can.) The idea of saving a lock of my kids' hair or their baby teeth gives me the heebie jeebies. I mean, used teeth?!? That's just fucking disgusting, people. And yet. Here I am, on the verge of tears at some concert because the strangers in front of me are making me nostalgic for my life 15 years from now? WHO ARE YOU?! AND WHAT HAVE YOU DONE WITH THE OLD ME WHO WASN'T A COMPLETE AND TOTAL SAPPY PANTS?!?!

Jayzus.

So. I have seen my future, and it involves me following my teenage children around with puppy dog eyes, watching them while they sleep, snuggling their long-forgotten blankies in the corner of my closet, and crying at the drop of a hat because of the way they eat an apple. I am really feeling that quote right now that says "Making the decision to have a child is momentous. It is to decide forever to have your heart go walking around outside your body." (Elizabeth Stone). Ohhh my heart.

I just figured it out! This is like toddlers being freaking adorable so you don't murder them in their sleep. Conversely, teenagers are total angsty A-holes to their parents so that mom and dad don't spend four years mooning and moping and sobbing uncontrollably in public. It's God/Mother Nature/Darwin's way of helping us let them go :)

Anyway, when DM and I returned home, we revisited the too-tight-pants-tied-with-a-rubber-band issue. He was like, "What in the hell? I don't understand this. I mean, it made some sort of sense when you were actually pregnant, or recently pregnant, but it's been almost three years! Why do you continue to buy pants that you have to jerry-rig shut? Just buy bigger pants!" I thought: NEVARRR!!! I said: "Well, these happen to be really old pre-pregnancy pants that are WAY to small. But I do also sometimes buy pants that are a little too small, because I'm between sizes, and I just can't bring myself to buy the bigger size." DM: "Okay, but why, if you're between a 5 and a 7, do you buy a 3?!"

Aaaaand, that was the end of date night. (Although his cluelessness re: women's sizing and the notion that I could even get my ankle into a size 3 is kind of cute. And there was no way I was getting those pants off by myself. And it also reminded me of when I was pregnant and he would always take my boots off for me because I couldn't reach over my belly. Okay, fine. He can stay ;))

the freshman 50 and other cautionary tales

The second installment, continued from "seven years of college down the drain."

My sweet sugar bean:

I remember when I left for college. My mom and little brother (your Uncle Ned, who was 7 at the time) drove me down to San Diego in our minivan packed to the brim with color-coded bins of booty from Bed Bath & Beyond. Shower caddy, soap dish, hairbrush, loofa, desk organizer etc. in shades of aquamarine. Turned out my roommate (who’s now your best Auntie B) had the same exact haul, in indigo blue. Pair that with our matching, emphatically cheery bed-in-a-bag ensembles and it was love at first sight.

Mom and Ned helped me unpack and get settled. We spent the day at the beach, went out to dinner at a slightly seedy Chinese joint in La Jolla, and then they hopped in the minivan and went on their merry way back to Sacramento. Mom didn't shed a tear, and I didn't expect her to. That just wasn't her style. But she called me the next day and said, "I wanted to thank you for leaving a sweeping shit-storm in your wake, so that when I walked into your room, I just got pissed off at the mess instead of collapsing on the floor and crying." It wasn't until that moment that I thought about what a big deal it was, for my mom to be sending her baby off to college.

That was the last time I saw my mom, as you know. What you don’t know – what you couldn’t have known – is that being your mom, raising someone so much like me, has helped me know her more. Helped me understand her more. Yes, at times it has made me miss her more – but it makes me “feel” her more, too. You are me, and I am her. She is in both of us. And I am so grateful for the chance to get to know her again, through you.

I used to think that I was “the lucky one,” being 18 when my mom and stepdad died. I was a “grown up.” I didn’t need my mom and dad like my little sister and brother did, who were 14 and 7 at the time. And I still think this is true. But man, what I wouldn’t give to share a margarita and shoot the shit with them today. It turns out grown-ups need their mamas, too.

My mom was always pretty straight up with me. (I remember when I was 14 and she told me that if I ever wanted to smoke pot, I should tell her, because she trusted her “sources” more than some shady dealer that sold to high school kids. I nearly reported her to my local D.A.R.E. affiliate.) But that lady had lived, and I know she was saving the real juicy stuff for when I was all growed up. I just wish she’d been around long enough to share some of those gems with me. Alas, she wasn’t. And I do not want that to happen to you. Which is why I’m writing this when you’re two.

So. Here goes. My advice to you.

Honestly, perhaps we’re just blinded by love, but your dad and I have never been too worried about you. We stress about your brother’s sensitive psyche surviving out in the "real world," but we’ve always joked that you’ll take life and punch it in the face. You just started preschool, and today one of the teachers said to me, “She’s such a good big sister,” knowing full well you’re a year and a half younger than your brother. That’s just you. You’re our glue. Our rock. Our super snuggly rock. You're a handler of things. Sugar and spice and a mean right hook. That's our girl.

Still. Who can’t use a few pearls of wisdom now and again?

First and foremost, nothing brings a guy to the floor like a knee to the nuts. Boys and their fragile little boy parts. Reminds me of that Betty White quote (Google The Golden Girls. You’re welcome.) “Why do people say ‘grow some balls’? Balls are weak and sensitive. If you wanna be tough, grow a vagina. Those things can take a pounding.” Ha. Okay. But no vagina pounding until you’re 33, deal? Please just nod and smile for your dear old mother, thanks.

Only slightly less important, keep being you. Keep singing loud and laughing louder, dancing to songs you don't know, asking questions, being brave, exploring and making every day an adventure. Keep turning it up to 11. You sprang into this world with a solid sense of self. Continue to embrace it. You will spend these years perfecting the particulars, but don’t lose the essence of you in the frenzied melee of 20,000 other kids trying to find themselves.

Keep in mind: Heel height should be inversely proportional to levels of alcohol consumption. Drunk walking is dangerous business. Ask Auntie Autumn. Your metatarsals will thank you.

Also, steer clear of the skeevy-looking old dude at the nude beach. Just take my word for it. Conversely, feel free to befriend the charming and helpful lifeguards. They may prove quite useful one day.

Get yourself an industrial supply of that roofie-detecting nail polish. That’s just freakin’ genius. You can never be too careful.

Dance parties are always a good idea. Costumes make them even better.

Don't subsist solely on gummy bears and late-night burritos. That freshman fifteen is no joke. It was more like the freshman fifty for me. But all my friends got chubbier, too, so the whole year we were saying, "No, you look great! That's so weird that we used to be size 7 but now we're size 13. They [‘they’ being all clothes manufacturers on earth] must have changed their sizing?!" Then I came home at the end of the year and the first thing my grandma said was, "You got fat." Gotta love Grams (one of my favorite people in the world, after whom you were named). She just got more and more “insightful” as she aged, like a fine, vinegary wine.

Incidentally, I would never call you fat. Even if you were, I would still think you were the most gorgeous creature on the planet. I didn’t tell you that story so that you would worry about the number on the scale, or what size your waist is. Just worry about how you feel. Do what you need to do to be healthy and happy (which may or may not include the gummy bear diet). You are beautiful, and when you are striving to be your best self, that beauty radiates from you like sunshine and everyone around you just wants to sit close enough to feel the warmth. I saw this light in you the day you were born. (Except it was more of an orange glow those first days. We just thought you were really tan, but it turns out you had jaundice. Whoops!)

There will be plenty of boys (and girls) who love you. Young love and heartbreak are just part of the personal evolution process. Everyone goes through it (it's good medicine in some ways), and there's only so much your old ma’ can do. If you need someone to join you in a pajama-clad Dirty Dancing-Ben & Jerry’s binge, I’m your gal. And I promise you this – you are going to be alright.   

When it comes to love, be judicious about sharing your heart, your body, and your soul. You are more than the sum of your parts, but you must value each of those parts. Be sure that those who claim to love you cherish you just as much with your clothes on. You are our badass batgirl princess. Don't waste time on those who don't appreciate that fact. You are the real deal, my girl. Don't let anyone treat you like anything less.

You will know people who get married in college. Don’t be one of them. There is nothing sadder than a bachelorette party in a dorm room that consists of a budget male stripper, a $5 pizza from Little Caesar’s, and a six pack of Natty Ice. Girl, you are better than Natty Ice. Speaking of, I wish I could protect you from the vicious aftermath of your first night with Boone’s Strawberry Hill, but I believe this is just a rite of passage. Anyway, my point is, give yourself room to grow. Get to know you. Learn to love you. Then worry about Love-with-a-capital-L.

If you do go to a wedding, just a helpful hint: sign the guest book and/or pose in the photo booth at the beginning of the wedding, not the end. I once, let’s say… misjudged. I meant to write "May the best of your yesterdays be the worst of your tomorrows," but instead I wrote, "May the worst of your yesterdays be the best of your tomorrows." Those wise words are inscribed in indelible silver glitter ink for the rest of eternity, next to a photo of my friends and me clad in nothing but Spanx and mardi gras masks. So, yeah.

Oh, and that reminds me! Now, more than ever, photos are forever. Forever-ever. And can be distributed to a bunch of grubby boys’ smartphones with the push of a button. Please, for the love of God and everything holy, keep your lady bits away from the business-end of all photographic devices.

You are so trusting. Too trusting. Jumping off a tree limb and just assuming someone will be there to catch you. Be sweet, as grandma always said, but be careful who you let into the inner circle. Make people earn your trust, rather than just assuming that they're worthy of it. Find some good girlfriends, friends who will hold your hair and hold your hand, who will tell you you’re a size 6 when you’re a size 16, who will tell you Tijuana is a terrible idea, but get on that bus right behind you if duty calls. Look out for each other. Otherwise you might end up with a South African stalker who breaks into your house and steals your underpants... or something like that. (I’ll save that story for your first visit home.) Please refer to the paragraph about knees to the nuts, above.

Don't make important decisions when you are tired, hungry, angry, or sad. Or intoxicated. Eat a sandwich. Drink some water. Sleep on it. Then decide.

Take time for yourself. College is a time of so many things. Especially in today's day and age, where every event is captured and memorialized and romanticized in real time. "FOMO" (I just learned this term - Fear of Missing Out – aren’t you so proud of me?) – is a real thing, and so much worse now than it used to be because everyone everywhere is telling us how much fun they're having and we can see it ticking down our “news” feed minute by minute. Bathed in the becoming light of an Instagram filter, they all seem skinnier and tanner and happier than we are and we want to be a part of it. But trust me, they’re not. They’re trying to figure it out just like everyone else. Sometimes you need to step back. Take a break. Unplug. Unwind. You can be anything, but you can’t be everything.

And so, learn to say no. Or preferably, "No, thank you." Let's not forget our manners just because we're big college kids now, *nudge nudge.* Prioritize. Figure out what YOU want (not what you “should” do), and do that. Anyone who isn’t ok with you, the way you like you, just isn’t ok.

Finally, don't forget to visit your ole' ma and pa once in a while. If ever you are in need of unconditional love, free laundry, and a hot home-cooked takeout meal – come on back. We’ll be here. Well, unless we’re in Hawaii. In which case, we’ll meet you there, with cold Mai Tai’s in hand (we might even share!) 

Love you periwinkle,

Your mama