"I would hate to be perfect, perfect is boring."

I've never had a perfect day. Mostly because I don't believe in them. Perfect moments are much more memorable, and much more realistic. It isn't right to think you've spent an entire day, from the start to the finish without any one thing not going perfectly. If you say you have you're a liar and a scoundrel and I want nothing to do with you.

That's not true, my favorite people all happen to be liars and scoundrels, so I probably want a lot to do with you.

But the point is, my days have never been perfect. But I have had a perfect moment. A few actually, fortunately. Although none of them momentous or profound or belonging in a movie shown four times a day on lifetime.

The interesting thing about my perfect moments are that they really weren't that perfect at all. They've all had something incredibly imperfect to center around, whether tears, heartbreak, death, or deception. And I've spent a good deal of time deciding whether this meant that my perfect moments, which felt so complete and fulfilling, were not perfect at all, merely astounding in a way that they've worked through my memories and color everything that happens around me with their smells and their feel and sometimes a song playing in a store on a random Sunday morning.

But I've decided, because it best suits my purposes, that they were, in fact, perfect. And I've decided this based on nothing more than they are the moments that I hold closest to me, secreted away in whatever part of my brain I keep to myself, so that someday I may take them out and wrap myself in them and use them to write something poetic and dramatic and a little bit silly (sort of like right now.)

Maybe because these moments had so many things wrong with them I love them so dearly. Maybe because they had great consequences, or tragic endings, or because they changed nothing in my life in any apparent way except to push one more cog into the right slot. I don't know, and honestly, I don't care. And, in fact, maybe it takes really horrible things to make you see the beautiful things that come out of them. Maybe I needed those tears to clear my eyes, or that heartbreak to clear my head. It's like a stomach ache, you never realize how good it feels NOT to have one, until you do.

And with that, I realize, I would hate for my perfect moments to be too perfect. A summer day on a blanket in a backyard, the sound of water and smell of a bonfire on a cool night, A 3am giggle-fest with the least likely person to giggle you've ever met, or life and death in the same room in such an incredibly tangible way you feel like the universe shared some big secret with you alone.

None of those were perfect, and all of them were the most perfect moments of my life.

These jokes are making me uncomfortable...

I haven't written in a long time. Maybe because life gets busy and full of things you don't expect, and maybe because I've sat in front of the computer staring at the keyboard not quite knowing how or what I will write. Probably a little bit of both.

I wanted to be able to package everything that's gone on in the last month in this neat little way that made it cohesive and surmountable. But there isn't any way to do that. And, eventually, none of it matters anyways.

I want to say that something profound has happened, that made me grow up and wake up and decide what direction my life is going to take. But that would be a lie. Not about things happening. After all, profound things are always happening, aren't they? But about the growing up, waking up, direction part. Maybe the profound thing that happened was me realizing I had nothing left I wanted to or could change. Well, that's not really true. I am changed, but it was like a shock of cold water, and now I'm warming up again.

So I'm almost thirty, and I'm still afraid of the noises a house makes at night. I still daydream about winning the lottery. I still try to run as fast as I can when nobody is around and I'm out walking the dog late at night. I like to skip, I like to chew gum, and I sleep with a light on.

I don't know what I want to be when I grow up, and I'm not particularly concerned about figuring it out. My feelings still get hurt if someone calls me names. I don't like to sleep because I think something fun is happening while I am. I look into doorways and windows out of the corner of my eyes so I can catch something magical that might disappear if I look directly, And there are days I look in the mirror and make faces at my reflection...like, mostly every day.

Does that make me immature? Probably. But I've started to realize that something happened to the people around me that made them grow up, and that's great, they pay bills on time, they feed and clothe themselves, they make sensible decisions about what it is they're going to do on Friday night. But that's not me. I eat peanut butter out of the jar and I dip popsicles in whip cream. Sometimes I jump over the cracks in the sidewalk for good luck. I like cartoons. I still read comic books. I like to ride bikes, and go on roller coasters, and try new things just for the sake of the adventure.

So maybe I'm a child stuck in a grown ups body, and maybe that won't ever change, but that's okay. Part of being a kid means you're not real worried about what is or isn't going to happen. You're more concerned with how funny your names sounds when you say it really slowly over and over again.

Alright, I admit, being a grown up has it's perks. But if that means I have to stop being amazed at every sunrise, stop thinking jumping in puddles is fun, and start wearing trouser socks, no thank you. I'm still too busy living my life to start letting it pass me by.

Can you feel it now?

At 30 years old I got my wisdom teeth removed. Alright, not quite 30, but painfully close.

Speaking of pain....

Whoever contrived the idea that these little white pearls of wisdom should be ripped from my head in an unceremonious display of blood and tissue, was one hell of a bastard. I stand by previous statement (Many times over) that they weren't bothering me and it would be more of a hassle to get them removed rather than live with them. Okay, so they were a little hard to reach, but thanks to my incredibly healthy oral hygiene habits and my penchant big toothy grins, I think I had mastered the living with them part quite well.

However, at the strong urging of my dentist (and everyone who knows me is fully aware that I happen to be in love with the dentist. I love getting my teeth cleaned, I love flossing, I love that horrible thing sprays water down your throat despite the high suction thing they accompany it with.) I decided to go ahead and have those babies removed.

Now, I, like most people, assumed that my wisdom teeth removal would be accompanied by that fabulous little friend of mine, an IV full of drugs. I would cruise through the procedure in a half awake state filled with sparkly bursts of light and perhaps a unicorn or two. Because of numerous things, I can't be put completely asleep, but I was assured at my scheduling that I would be put into "twilight." Well, seeing as I'm staunchly team Jacob, I could get on board with this whole "twilight" concept. I showed up to my appointment rocking my favorite wolf adorned t-shirt and an old pair of sweatpants. I was shown to my chair with my rather little, but highly attractive, oral surgeon who was humming along to Colbie Calliet with his cute, equally little, and shit talking assistant bustling around us both.

Lying there, I notice an utter lack of anything resembling the promised IV, I immediately, still in my right mind after all, inquire about when they will be sedating me. They look at each other without saying a word. "We don't do that at this office." the assistant says, looking at me to see if there's going to be a big reaction, "we find it unnecessary." She smiles. The Dr. leans over me, "Don't worry, we fill you up with Novocain, you won't feel a thing!" He smiles. I ponder this. I'm already here, there will be numbing, and my Dr. looks awfully cute in those tiny scrubs...

Roughly 20 minutes later, after I am all numbed up and my face feels like I grew a whole other head, the Dr. reaches in with his pointy little scalpel and asks me if I can feel, "this" at which point he jams the scalpel into my gums and slices them over. "YES!" I cry, "I can feel that, I can feel that!" The Dr. and the assistant exchange looks, then he proceeds to shoot me with more Novocain, and repeats the same exercise. I can still feel it, but not as bad, so I say I'm fine, assuming by the time they actually do anything I'll be completely numb.

Here's my offer of advice. If you can still feel it when they cut your gums open, then you will be able to feel it when they cut your teeth in half with the electric Hi-Speed drill and crack them away from your jaw bone. You'll be able to feel the entire thing, and no matter how much your cry out, "I can feel it, please, I can feel it!" and they shoot you with more Novocain, it's not going to make a difference. So you will lay there, with tears streaming down your face while you feel every single minute of your wisdom teeth removal. You may emerge from your surgery shaking and crying have experienced probably the most traumatic 1 hour of your entire life.

Now, I do not blame the Dr., how could he possibly have known that it wouldn't work on me, and I do not blame the office, because they've done this hundreds of times and probably very rarely encounter this problem. But I will say that if you are not guaranteed to be put under, do not get your wisdom teeth removed.

Now, packed with ice and unable to eat anything, I'm going to take three of these fabulous little pills and pass out.

Chapter One: In which she meets the Mayor, breaks her back, is yelled at by Tom, and learns a new Joan Jett song.

This week has been a horrible week. Sure, I had food on the table, money in the bank, a job to go to, and a whole host of people who love me...but other than that, it was a horrible week.

Now I just sound pathetic.

My week started out on Saturday with a massage to celebrate the lovely Miss Molly Robbin's birthday (30 is the new 27) which went fabulous. Sunday Morning I had the worst back ache I'd ever experienced. I think the girl pinched my damn nerve. I have now spent the week (and $125) going to chiropractors and hobbling around the office like a polio victim. Sigh. They're calling me hobbles there. HOBBLES.

On Thursday I met the Mayor. He was at my train station. I come hobbling in with my hands totally full trying to simultaneously balance 2 dozen bagels and not run in to anyone. The Mayor asks me if I'm okay. I look at him blankly. Obviously, I am not. A woman wearing too much lipstick and high heels asks me if I'd like my picture taken with said Mayor. I look blankly at her. They look blankly at each other. I keep walking.

Tom, you confuse me. One minute I love you, one minute I hate you. You yelled at me today. I deserved it, but not so much for my own doing. I was willing to take the brunt of it.

This morning, in the safety of my bathroom and relaxing my muscles (with pills) I danced to Joan Jett and sang into a hairbrush. It was remarkable considering only a few short hours later I was back to hobbling. But there was a moment, me, the hairbrush, and Joan shared that simply will not be taken back.

Now I'm going to drink this here bottle of wine and fall asleep on the couch.

He said, She said.

As a pathetically inconsistent blogger, I feel the need to ask this questions: Why must a blog be filled with pearls of wisdom and intellectually stimulating ideas? Why is it that this forum for my unsolicited opinions must be an example of my higher thought processes. And why does everything have to be spelled correctly for me to be taken seriously?

I'm asking these questions because I'm finding myself less and less inclined to have deep conversations in my every day life. Sure, I enjoy the occasionally stimulating debate on politics, the passionately argued pontification on morals, the use of big words and complex ideas, but just as much, if not more, I enjoy the simple exchange of conversation between two friends. Or many friends. Or sometimes my dog. Although that's not so much an exchange...

I think this is my way of combatting the way that my generation is developing the annoying and sometimes nasty habit of ripping apart people's ideas because they've failed to throw enough fancy colloquy around. When is it that we found ourselves so above the sharing of each other's opinions that we can simply ignore what's being said and instead focus on correct grammar and how many words with more than 8 letters were used.

I have some news. Just because you have a beautiful way of speaking, or because you can convey those carefully cultivated concepts with an impressive array of diction, or because you happen to know the correct "their" to use in conversation, does not make you smarter than everyone else. In fact, paying closer attention to the way things are being said than what is actually the content...that's just plain stupid.

Now, I don't want to be one to lecture you. I just wanted to warn you that in your attempt to sound smarter than the rest of us you sound like an idiot.

The conversation I want to have is filled with funny little jabs at each other that make me smirk and raise an eyebrow. It flows easily from one to the other of us with no hesitation or careful wording. I want to tell you I like the way the air smells today, like pecans and sugar cookies, and have you agree with a simple nod of your head. I want to say that I am sad about all the bad things in the world, and I want your answer to be an arm around my shoulders. I wish I could tell you I wanted to be famous when I was a little girl, and for you to tell me you wanted to be an astronaut, but are just fine with what you became and what I became too. I want you to tell me how you wish you could cure cancer, and I want to hold your hand in understanding. I want to laugh at the jokes you tell, and cry when you share your sad stories. And I want to talk to you by sitting there beside you in the warm sun someplace, resting my head on your shoulder, and knowing exactly what you're thinking.

What could be a better conversation than that?

The point I'm trying to make is that we should all stop trying to one up everyone through our impressive exchange of big words. Maybe we'd understand each other better if we listened to the intention despite the words. And what we need now, more than lofty ideals and a "can-do" attitude, is understanding.

Some of my favorite moments are wrought with poor grammar, awful spelling, and not one intelligent thing said between us.

You bring the Beer, I've got the chips.

Alison's Dating Advice (Part One)

Because I, like many women in my position (married, happy, ridiculously hot) am constantly surrounded by those of you who are single or dating, I feel the need to comment on the plethora of stupid things you're doing in the name of love. Now, I do not pretend to be the expert on matters of the heart, but I have picked up a few things along the way. So listen up, and listen good.

I should also mention these are my opinions only. I do not, nor have I at any time, possessed a degree in psychology. Use at your own risk.

1. Under no circumstances, at any time, for any reason, should you talk about your former escapades with future prospects. This is also applicable in reverse. Trust me when I tell you that your new boyfriend doesn't want to hear about the guys you dated last summer in your "Summer of (insert your name here)" stage. And trust me even more that the guy who follows you around like a puppy even after you broke up 3 months ago doesn't want to hear about the hunky new prospect you took home with you last night. Be a lady, and ladies don't kiss and tell, ever.

2. Listen. Trendy clothes are cute. They are. I like them (even though I can't figure out to wear them.) I think it's great to dress up and look foxy. But there are some things you should keep in mind when wearing "trendy" outfits. Trendy...doesn't mean slutty. If your ass is showing, your boobs are popping out, and you look roughly like a thirteen year old hooker runaway...you don't look hot, you look like crap. Sure you'll probably make out with someone and maybe even go home with them. And then you'll promptly turn into the girl they text at 11 p.m. on a Wednesday night when there is no chance you could meet anyone and be mistaken for their girlfriend. Everyone knows what's under those jeans, you don't have to show them. Keep it classy.

3. If a guy you're talking to just wants to be friends, guess what, he just wants to be friends. And no matter how much makeup you wear to watch the game at his house, and how short your skirt gets, and how much you flirt with his cute room mate.... He. Just. Wants. To. Be. Friends. That being said, there is a good chance he'll still sleep with you. Keep in mind this does not void the fact that he prefaced your romp with "Let's just be friends" In fact, you've now just made yourself the perfect girl not to date. Not only does he not have to buy you flowers or listen to your bitching about how bloated you are, you'll have sex with him. Score. Do what you will with it.

4. I will tell you right now this pains me to say. Listen to your Dad, because he was a guy, and he DOES know. The truth is, your Dad is a heck of a lot better at deciphering what that boy meant when he said "Maybe we can hang out sometime." then any other person you know. This also means when you're Dad says, "he's only after one thing!" He's only after one thing. This is also applicable to your brother, your cousin, your uncle, and any other dude who offers advice. I would hate for you to turn into that girl who says she should've known. Because you did know, you just chose not to listen.

5. If a guy "doesn't want a girlfriend right now," that means 1 of 2 things. Option A. He doesn't want YOU as a girlfriend right now. Or, Option B, He doesn't want YOU as a girlfriend right now. That's right. Suck it up. Wipe those tears. Get over it.

Alright, that's all for this installment. Look for the next installment soon, in which I address that obnoxious baby voice he hates and the various ways he tries to avoid snuggling with you after you've fallen asleep.

The Topic of the Day: Heartbreak

Okay, I'm a girl. I like to talk about love, and almost just as much, I like to talk about love gone awry. It's ingrained in me. As wonderful as being in love feels, heartbreak is like a bruise, and you just can't help yourself from poking at it. It doesn't really matter how happy or unhappy you are with your current state of affairs (Hey, I've been married six months, and I'm happy, and I love my husband madly, just in case you were wondering,) when your heart is broken, there is a tiny piece that becomes irreparable. Anyone who says there isn't is a bold faced liar, and I challenge them to a dual. Mostly because I've always wanted to say that.

When people around me end relationships, I always find myself examining my loves-gone-by and all the (surprisingly many) times my heart has been broken. I don't know why I do it. Maybe it's a good way of keeping myself grounded in that, life's not perfect and can push you face down in the mud at the same time it's lifting you up, way. Maybe it's because there are inevitably happy memories floating around in those dark times, and maybe it's because it makes me appreciate The Gnome, for being a great husband, and a great friend. Neither of which matters as much as the fact he has the unfailing habit of telling the truth and trying to do the right thing. A trait that took me 27 years of jerks, cowards, morons, and the occasional good-but-not-good-enough guys to realize just MIGHT be important.

The last time my heart was broken (oh, I'm sure we ALL remember that...) I honestly thought my world was ending. I had literally decided that it was all over, that I would live alone for the rest of my days. Dramatic? Probably. Healthy? Not a chance. Absolutely necessary and normal reaction for getting cheated on? Duh. Little did I know that a mere 1 month and 20 days later I would meet my future husband. What turned out to be the worst year of my life, also happened to be the best one. Go figure. I tried things that year, I learned things that year, and I experienced things that year that I would have never done if my heart had been left as it was.

These were all great things, but what stands out most to me was the incredible outpouring of support, love, shoulders to cry on, crusades to get me drunk, and people to listen to me wail about the unfairness of it all. I simply cannot think how I would have gotten through that time without my friends. That being said, I always strive to do the same thing when someone else, guy OR girl, gets their heart stomped on. Mostly I'm good for the getting drunk part. Occasionally I'll let you cry on my shoulder as long as I'm not wearing silk or it's going to ruin my good time.

I had a lot of people around me to give me good advice and to listen to me. I had a lot of people there who could distract me from the things that happened, and that could help me put my life back together one little bit at a time. I was blessed. But the one thing I will never forget is the two weeks my parents took me on vacation to the East Coast with them. I fought this tooth and nail until the very last minute, because it was originally planned as a vacation for four, which quickly turned into a vacation for two normal people and one crying puffy eyed miserable mess of a person. It was, hands down, two of the best weeks of my life. I will never forget what they did for me, and will always be grateful for my parents and the people on that trip for making me get out there and live my life again. I'm most grateful to my Dad though, who gave me this one bit of advice that I am certain he did not realize would affect me in such a way.

One day, you wake up next to the person you love and you think to yourself, there is NO ONE, not one single person, I could ever love as much as I love them. And then everything and everyone that came before them just seems to not matter anymore.

Funny thing, at the time I didn't believe him, but this morning, when I woke up, everything and everyone before just didn't seem to matter so much anymore.

Guess sometimes your parents really DO know what they're talking about.

And on that note, it's something I always share with the broken hearted. It turns out that the single best thing that person who broke my heart ever did for me was just that, breaking my heart, and giving me the freedom to be the person I turned out to be. Lucky Me.