tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-90888993855690586572024-03-13T00:20:37.352-08:00rebecca is fabulousA glimpse into the mind of a completely average, completely fabulous woman-mother, girlfriend, daughter, coworker, peer...Rebecca is Fabuloushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08488628928151163115noreply@blogger.comBlogger168125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9088899385569058657.post-90833901698452621942012-11-07T19:59:00.002-09:002012-11-07T19:59:37.186-09:006<br />
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There is something amazing about age six. Granted, I have loved every age Violet has
reached (except 4. 4 sucks.), but this
is a whole new level of amazing.</div>
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Until this point, it was like she was in training; she was soaking up the world around her,
learning how it worked. There has been
this switch where she no longer observes the world, but is an active
participant. </div>
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She has these astounding thoughts that I end up sharing with
professors, things I have to stop to think about. In her world, things are black and white, yet
colored with compassion and creativity. </div>
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Though I study religions, I have none of my own. However, I was raised in a very conservative,
very fundamental Christian household. The
Christian ascetic life is what I knew…I know.
It was torturous for me to embark on a intellectual journey that would
lead me away from that. So I don’t want
to push my personal views on God, religion, the afterlife onto my
children; I want them to come to their own
conclusions after learning facts and histories.
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So when the subject of God came up recently, I was at a loss. She knows what my parents believe, but she
wanted to know my thoughts. Instead, I
deflected it back to her.</div>
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“Who do <i>you</i> think
God is?”</div>
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The thing about my girl is that she is not going to give you
a stock answer. She is going to think,
consider, frame her response. Simply
infuriating when trying to decide what to wear in the morning, but phenomenal
to watch in a religious discussion.</div>
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“I think,” she said, ”that God is something that takes care
of people. Like baby Hiram is our
godbaby. So, really, everyone is God.”</div>
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Good lord. I had to
digest the enormity of that statement, then discuss it with a woman who holds a
master’s in Religious Studies…she was as blown away as I was. </div>
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Now, I am not stating anything about God. Your beliefs are sacred, and should be
respected. </div>
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But what really floors me about this statement is the
concept of care, of spreading compassion and love to your fellow man. EVERYONE should take care of someone, and so
reasonably, EVERYONE is someone who should be cared about. Each person is
worthy of love. </div>
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I love that she looks at the world this way, as a place of
caring, compassion, and love. My girl, she teaches me things. </div>
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Rebecca is Fabuloushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08488628928151163115noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9088899385569058657.post-13616011262145258272010-10-15T09:07:00.011-08:002010-10-15T10:13:45.339-08:00And so she blogs.<div style="text-align: left;">I gave it up. I gave up the blogging. I couldn't tell you why, other than I was empty. I was trying to be fabulous for the ones of readers, and I had nothing.</div><div><br /></div><div>Maybe one day I won't struggle with an emotional stasis. However, I don't really expect that.</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">*</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">We are in another new city, another new state. I wonder often if we should have stayed in Alaska.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I do like our new city, Owensboro. A smallish urban center in north-western Kentucky. There is a small mall, museums, parks, Democrats. We have a two-bedroom flat in a group of buildings that houses many families. There are bike paths and friends for Violet and Carli. An oak tree beyond the balcony that is slowly turning orange. Three pumpkin patches within driving distance.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">*</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">The best feature is the distance to school. It only takes 4 minutes to drive to classes; 6 in traffic.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Jason is near the top of his program, Auto Technology. He doesn't take his General Ed Requirements seriously enough, but he doesn't really have to.<br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I do, though. The nursing program is highly competitive. More get turned away than accepted. The only way to guarantee the spot is a 4.0; so far, my 88% in math is cancelling out my 103% in Psych. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I'll get it, though.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">*</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">So, we are good. Happy, even. Dealing with Carli's lactose intolerance and Violet's minor sensory sensitivities. Collecting fallen leaves and painting window catchers. Budgeting 3 months of loan money to last 5 months and folding sweaters to earn money for Christmas. Driving through miles of fall foliage and evading conversations with my parents that steer towards politics or gay rights or wine.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">And maybe, finding some time, here in my own space.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2kDaAzPIQcBXsNbx6sgCT8GjrLCjH0sZRJl8T3guFsMV-SfNnr60dJpSMaQ_IsZrk-drKoaBUfLb79pkpnX62xKdZzYdEeOB7FRXxBUdw5pMhgAtakqVOxmn1skaWQEG6ZcyjTsOrmqA/s400/bloggin.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 291px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5528337147459163698" /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div>Rebecca is Fabuloushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08488628928151163115noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9088899385569058657.post-20981552416988608622010-03-15T14:24:00.003-08:002010-03-15T19:08:17.346-08:00Fabulous Day 6<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNyUBnVn6MwZObWyrY9BDDFoJLa-UHH0nArR64eEzS833LMbnwJoF4cyLuVqnLQdXtm4pLhMxprHjl3VMeOTImNPAfjxA965X_SpTamq95Y2jxF5eF9FHMuUIxqeHAuWPBgt0aHK7SZQw/s1600-h/me+jason+beach.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNyUBnVn6MwZObWyrY9BDDFoJLa-UHH0nArR64eEzS833LMbnwJoF4cyLuVqnLQdXtm4pLhMxprHjl3VMeOTImNPAfjxA965X_SpTamq95Y2jxF5eF9FHMuUIxqeHAuWPBgt0aHK7SZQw/s400/me+jason+beach.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5449063201492806482" /></a><br /><i>Windblown Sea Hair and a Handsome Husband.</i>Rebecca is Fabuloushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08488628928151163115noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9088899385569058657.post-28610899117325817922010-03-13T06:40:00.002-09:002010-03-13T06:42:36.008-09:00Fabulous Day 5<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvJ6CKX4Lg09dC73L-GifhsFpzxUFVpcZ86exau4hzO8ROYfe_TfnyOHAXZ9x9njB0pz0KYiwJPwOgYrxQSOYvzsQXw4rb-2-ofgQ0quvkpntuZZUzYKNWKyBI6LV1oTD9jRfYQDlhnt4/s1600-h/DSCF3245.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvJ6CKX4Lg09dC73L-GifhsFpzxUFVpcZ86exau4hzO8ROYfe_TfnyOHAXZ9x9njB0pz0KYiwJPwOgYrxQSOYvzsQXw4rb-2-ofgQ0quvkpntuZZUzYKNWKyBI6LV1oTD9jRfYQDlhnt4/s400/DSCF3245.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5448144321778666066" /></a><br /><i>My Favorite corner of the kitchen: turquoise breadbox, pink teapot, pear timer. </i>Rebecca is Fabuloushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08488628928151163115noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9088899385569058657.post-77145061079948661462010-03-12T15:49:00.004-09:002010-03-12T16:01:04.824-09:00Fabulous Day 4<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifQp4NZx6K5DWhzKuB0uLWmah5TQzJglwXeGJdcn73PswHjkvsyyD4Rt3vFQvM8ofKid-P0AcUHDqP32yuRAciCvYxSZpi6OzR_ezAWitk9aMMWDemDJrURi0p9PRXuuPTTn4VC_MdanA/s1600-h/DSCF3208.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifQp4NZx6K5DWhzKuB0uLWmah5TQzJglwXeGJdcn73PswHjkvsyyD4Rt3vFQvM8ofKid-P0AcUHDqP32yuRAciCvYxSZpi6OzR_ezAWitk9aMMWDemDJrURi0p9PRXuuPTTn4VC_MdanA/s400/DSCF3208.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5447917096150335778" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZju8Qa008tQuA3fUZyifbBY5m94Dpm9Hy4tiIULxJc7brKOx6GhdYD7JzTjCwHGtW0CcM7sIAcQML-nhgsUuJH1WMUROO6eaCDlqARfmdwmSGEpCJWbptKG1CPUZ7BA5f-fa4PtkLccs/s1600-h/DSCF3209.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZju8Qa008tQuA3fUZyifbBY5m94Dpm9Hy4tiIULxJc7brKOx6GhdYD7JzTjCwHGtW0CcM7sIAcQML-nhgsUuJH1WMUROO6eaCDlqARfmdwmSGEpCJWbptKG1CPUZ7BA5f-fa4PtkLccs/s400/DSCF3209.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5447917094095229314" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgueaEkumUqaP8zhlqDR3aIYULS2-1fd1gzdEeEZnWxhaaxiaHMySyNFyFaSKWw6UKtfOGa3rrwAtGdhzKkidzyr5qNlZ6L5z6r1gPibw1jpiKtmrr5Na97LH0ShAmgwL-lxhL53X8Wgf0/s1600-h/DSCF3210.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgueaEkumUqaP8zhlqDR3aIYULS2-1fd1gzdEeEZnWxhaaxiaHMySyNFyFaSKWw6UKtfOGa3rrwAtGdhzKkidzyr5qNlZ6L5z6r1gPibw1jpiKtmrr5Na97LH0ShAmgwL-lxhL53X8Wgf0/s400/DSCF3210.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5447917083795723922" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_ZxtPvvnwTChoBjJkm84g6NFC5VRCfdPvZEf-Ry3-Gz5G0CfhN4oq9unuEM2ugwyIyNR6ud7tSqInGIpToMZye9qWjdbUF6jM9sBHj2BVdbHzgUL9gaE3Ds79SLDsFTpn1nXLThGDF4w/s1600-h/DSCF3211.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_ZxtPvvnwTChoBjJkm84g6NFC5VRCfdPvZEf-Ry3-Gz5G0CfhN4oq9unuEM2ugwyIyNR6ud7tSqInGIpToMZye9qWjdbUF6jM9sBHj2BVdbHzgUL9gaE3Ds79SLDsFTpn1nXLThGDF4w/s400/DSCF3211.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5447916842838945378" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIhjIRg4wORtHFVzZaH25oA3bXd1HpRI3Tt-G2xXhAwdKZPdDLqwty5qjaUieQKktOXmh_gjEC-iwHtc7aXhKH5hMmCFTF7EyfrGidq79Iw5ZHuVlLJtAtByKeKNUvAdo622ZiUfCm2DY/s1600-h/DSCF3212.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIhjIRg4wORtHFVzZaH25oA3bXd1HpRI3Tt-G2xXhAwdKZPdDLqwty5qjaUieQKktOXmh_gjEC-iwHtc7aXhKH5hMmCFTF7EyfrGidq79Iw5ZHuVlLJtAtByKeKNUvAdo622ZiUfCm2DY/s400/DSCF3212.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5447916840143372290" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEPKJTOo6P9A0GukkP4-EFEo8vHfeIN6JBX7zXwZ2oiYyFYLPkJNP_aO-hjB-bvmKIN3q5ZGtDnICQBmcqJI7nLO2tqOV-xKKBkXa1C6ZveEmI5-MdVeC5PD3PYSjLNldnndeGN2mWMOg/s1600-h/DSCF3213.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEPKJTOo6P9A0GukkP4-EFEo8vHfeIN6JBX7zXwZ2oiYyFYLPkJNP_aO-hjB-bvmKIN3q5ZGtDnICQBmcqJI7nLO2tqOV-xKKBkXa1C6ZveEmI5-MdVeC5PD3PYSjLNldnndeGN2mWMOg/s400/DSCF3213.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5447916828880647074" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiGQkFLyvzDcLNIGRs4Ja0jecrVoGHINgJYtz1fbKGYiw9IsZTUc6I8MysfapABHnYXEC6cPBIVjwsxf96fPeA281kmvCE9cul8ns_HAqo0Ufuu-1NfAumx8iKh9H7bBDSmyAYu-U36Ho/s1600-h/DSCF3214.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiGQkFLyvzDcLNIGRs4Ja0jecrVoGHINgJYtz1fbKGYiw9IsZTUc6I8MysfapABHnYXEC6cPBIVjwsxf96fPeA281kmvCE9cul8ns_HAqo0Ufuu-1NfAumx8iKh9H7bBDSmyAYu-U36Ho/s400/DSCF3214.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5447916824470991394" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8tUsEFUibD5N3V2PFqC6jabZ4OFCwvvu3PoSrjwXDgxWvYP_HLrBs13OD2IZ_j5bLYmzFl2SWstD8OE_WKfmK6bgYC9vVGeDQeZhFLC_mi-qIqDyH_GgxrTdP677Hf4ydqWlIbQnkwFs/s1600-h/DSCF3217.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8tUsEFUibD5N3V2PFqC6jabZ4OFCwvvu3PoSrjwXDgxWvYP_HLrBs13OD2IZ_j5bLYmzFl2SWstD8OE_WKfmK6bgYC9vVGeDQeZhFLC_mi-qIqDyH_GgxrTdP677Hf4ydqWlIbQnkwFs/s400/DSCF3217.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5447916813555112450" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Violet conquers her fears at the playground...and with style.</i></div>Rebecca is Fabuloushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08488628928151163115noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9088899385569058657.post-72634002987334665282010-03-11T17:36:00.002-09:002010-03-11T17:43:22.924-09:00Fabulous Day 3SO. Violet hid my camera. So my documented fabuolous things are postponed. Today's fabulous thing will be un-photographed. <div><br /></div><div>I have finally taught Carli to drink out of a straw. Not only do I not have to worry about having a sippy cup Every. Time. I leave the house, but the muscles used to suck on a straw are the same muscles that help a baby learn to talk. </div><div><br /></div><div>Seriously. This was the most awesome thing to happen this week.</div>Rebecca is Fabuloushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08488628928151163115noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9088899385569058657.post-40397700860548312432010-03-09T14:12:00.003-09:002010-03-09T14:16:26.548-09:00Fabulous Day 2<div><i>Two beautiful girls in 'party dresses', eating Nutella bread.</i></div><div><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiA5NR_nfZjqzOlRZXT4jpD_yahlpNlA2KJyZwJLwySkgjSojPYPjNquzPteuMrKbhRiX8UsRXISOAEWDBj9Fs_wJ81u0fuPFzKqjBS3D0Yfy_52TYNoNA-K3AYKuSk7V5cqXPkXGrn7rQ/s1600-h/0309001708.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiA5NR_nfZjqzOlRZXT4jpD_yahlpNlA2KJyZwJLwySkgjSojPYPjNquzPteuMrKbhRiX8UsRXISOAEWDBj9Fs_wJ81u0fuPFzKqjBS3D0Yfy_52TYNoNA-K3AYKuSk7V5cqXPkXGrn7rQ/s400/0309001708.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5446776744736791794" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div>Rebecca is Fabuloushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08488628928151163115noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9088899385569058657.post-10289506270399840312010-03-08T18:09:00.002-09:002010-03-08T18:14:56.463-09:00Fabulous Day 1<div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>The view from my favorite chair:</i></div><div><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJZr7I8FIygZ71SQK_O4fgkiuriA7YdTKxZXfcMhmjATMYXdt6Mg6LHrFcm-asZ0jy8Fhd5PVFFr8BmEDXH6_htVEJIBV0CSfqeKzJeUNe9zP4Wv_ujPU3to2eJdy1IRIxez7wYOuNS90/s1600-h/0308002108.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJZr7I8FIygZ71SQK_O4fgkiuriA7YdTKxZXfcMhmjATMYXdt6Mg6LHrFcm-asZ0jy8Fhd5PVFFr8BmEDXH6_htVEJIBV0CSfqeKzJeUNe9zP4Wv_ujPU3to2eJdy1IRIxez7wYOuNS90/s400/0308002108.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5446466671557091346" /></a><br /><i>my first completed afghan; boot-cut blue jeans; orange toenails; and artwork by Violet taped to the front door.<br /></i><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Rebecca is Fabuloushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08488628928151163115noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9088899385569058657.post-55055874288882869872010-03-05T21:55:00.004-09:002010-03-05T22:25:48.100-09:00so fabulous.I am lacking. <div><br /></div><div>I want to be a happy stay-at-home mom more than anything in the world. And I love being with my girls. I got to see Carli's first steps; I get to teach Violet the alphabet. I love being at every appointment, making the meals, giving the baths. </div><div><br /></div><div>But I have been losing part of myself. Maybe the lack of social interaction is to blame. I left all friends but Jason behind to move here; then, my mother moved to Kentucky, and took the last bit of my sanity with her. I became that person who tells the cashier way too much information, simply because she is the only person I am not related to that I will see for days. I find myself apathetic to how I look, because some switch in my head flipped all my self esteem off. </div><div><br /></div><div>I changed my anti-depressants. And while I really do love my new medicine, it takes some adjustment time. And in that time, I have had to deal with my ambition being zapped, my energy gone. There are days when I feel like I an encased in a rubber glove, and though I am going through the motions of my day, I can't quite be there, in that moment, fully present. I am removed, watching my day play out on a big screen t.v. Not all the days are like that, and they are lessening; but when they do come, they are disheartening. </div><div><br /></div><div>The strangest part is that I have a hard time remembering that I was not always this way. That I cared about fashion, that I used a flat iron or curlers every day. That I could carry an interesting conversation, that I didn't feel the beginnings of a panic attack when someone knocked on the door. That I gave dinner parties that people asked to be invited to, that I was someone who people sought out for advice. </div><div><br /></div><div>I forgot I was fabulous.</div><div><br /></div><div>I named this blog Rebecca is Fabulous not because I look like Megan Fox or have a sparkling personality or am a trendsetter. </div><div><br /></div><div>It was because I was well-rounded. I could look at my life and point out the bits that were fabulous. That I could take an ordinary day and make it special. And a little bit of tongue-in-cheek, as well; I am quirky, I am geeky, I am odd, but that can be fabulous. </div><div><br /></div><div>The thing is, I am still that person. I know that under my lethargy and frustration, I am still the person I was so fond of before. I just need to remember who that is. </div><div><br /></div><div>So, to that end, I am embarking on <b>Fifty Days of Fabulous.</b> I am setting a personal goal to find and celebrate something in my life that is fabulous every day. Something small, something large, something ordinary, something quirky...anything. </div><div><br /></div><div>My bloggy friend <a href="http://www.shelikespurple.com/">Jennie</a> sent me a set of champagne flutes for my wedding. They were lovely, and unfortunately met a sad, sad, tinkly demise, but I enjoyed them immensely when I had them. I drank just about anything out of them. They were well-loved.</div><div><br /></div><div>Anyway, the note attached to them said, "Celebrate every day."</div><div><br /></div><div>So that is what I plan to do. Find a way to celebrate each day, each detail. Join me if you like. </div><div><br /></div>Rebecca is Fabuloushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08488628928151163115noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9088899385569058657.post-31472709291060331362010-02-26T14:16:00.004-09:002010-02-26T14:59:35.401-09:00Violet has short, short hair.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmeQho-Q9L5METAcs7bye9wx2Vlo_-Oxmdd0qxechKFCfWQhX03nTTdDDW9g8cyoZxZET4HQcypC2r3wAU8cbKFC63mwCFfnlYxtHHRuQna-kMHRp8AHNpZFQyP1H6wbtEls8wCptkpGg/s1600-h/Violet+cooking.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 272px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmeQho-Q9L5METAcs7bye9wx2Vlo_-Oxmdd0qxechKFCfWQhX03nTTdDDW9g8cyoZxZET4HQcypC2r3wAU8cbKFC63mwCFfnlYxtHHRuQna-kMHRp8AHNpZFQyP1H6wbtEls8wCptkpGg/s400/Violet+cooking.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5442705521829450434" /></a><br />And I love it. She hacked into her hair one day last fall, and it resulted in a short pixie with longer bits in the front.<br /><div><br /></div><div>She is a beautiful girl, and the fact that she wears pink or purple every day keeps her from being mistaken for a boy. But, truthfully, the style is reminiscent of Justin Beiber; dye it black, and she'd be Pete Wentz.</div><div><br /></div><div>The pink and the purple is her thing, not mine. She chooses her own clothes, and has since she was a year old. </div><div><br /></div><div>Violet is a princess. She plays with Barbies. She watches <i>Enchanted</i> and <i>Beauty and the Beast</i>. She is obsessed with Princess Tiana and Dorothy Gale. She freaks over tea sets and cooking instruments; she loves to vacuum and wash the dishes and peel vegetables. She loves to be active and play Kung Fu, but only if she can be Tigress. She is much more likely to make up a dance or a song than kick a ball. </div><div><br /></div><div>(Though in our house, this has little to do with gender: Jason cleans and cooks as much as I do, and in reality, is much better than I am in these areas.) </div><div><br /></div><div>Frankly, I feel like people need to get over celebrity kids. Sure, they are adorable, and they have awesome clothes and really cool strollers and look! Tea Leoni wears her robe to drop her kids at school! I am way better than her in my jeans and t-shirt! I even comb my hair almost every day!</div><div><br /></div><div>I am tired of hearing about Suri's high heels and lipgloss; Violet got <a href="http://www.disneystore.com/accessories-light-up-jewel-princess-snow-white-shoes-for-girls/p/1249517/57495/?CMP=AFL-AffLSGen&att=LSGenAffl&LSID=279014%257C10676026%257CLightUpJewelPrincess">these</a> for Christmas, and wore them until she grew out of them. And I am sure that the Sephora makeup Suri gets is a lot less unhealthy than the Dora lipgloss that Violet uses.</div><div><br /></div><div>I am tired of hearing about Shiloh's identity crisis. Today, Violet is wearing purple striped pants, a pink flowered shirt, pink Dora skater shoes, and a pink velvet sweatshirt. Does the fact that her clothes don't match make me a bad mother? She picked out each item herself. She put it on herself. And when she takes it off, she will put it in the hamper. Shouldn't we be focused more on the fact that Shiloh seems healthy, happy, well cared for? And stylish, even? </div><div><br /></div><div>In reality, it is none of our business. As long as a child is fed, clothed, sheltered, and loved, then what right do we have to question their parenting choices? </div><div><br /></div><div>I don't really have a point. I just know that Katie and Angelina sure handle the judgment a lot better than I would. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Rebecca is Fabuloushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08488628928151163115noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9088899385569058657.post-89552600470820618202010-02-08T18:59:00.000-09:002010-02-08T19:00:38.106-09:00Carli<p class="MsoNormal">I wake up this morning because your father has plopped you on the bed beside me.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>You grin, you laugh, you make a beeline for me and cover me with your open-mouthed kisses.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The clock says 7:30.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i>This time one year ago, I was pacing through empty hospital corridors, trying to increase my contractions from the 3 minutes apart they are at. There isn’t a delivery room open yet, and the nurses are skeptical that you are actually coming today. But I know. </i></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I heft myself out of bed and carry you downstairs to greet your sister.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>You squeal when you see her:<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>she is your favorite person.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>You spend your days chasing her, mimicking her, trying to steal her Little Pet Shop figures and Barbie shoes.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>She tires of you occasionally, but never misses an opportunity to tell anyone who will listen about ‘her baby’.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>We all dress and head to the grocery store.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The clock says 10:30.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i>This time one year ago, I was finally checking into a room. I had been in various stages of labor for about 9 hours at this point, and told the nurse to get the epidural ordered as soon as possible. You dad settled into the couch beside my bed to watch the Powder Puff Girls and lament the fact that he hadn’t bought more tacos on our stop on the way to the hospital. I adjust my bed and think, “This has got to be over soon. Second births are faster. She will be here soon.” Little did I know that you do things on your own time.</i></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Today has passed in a blur.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>You are so active, so busy, that the days fly by.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>You started walking in earnest last week, and have already progressed to running.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>You don’t talk much, but you squeal with joy, you chortle, you snort…you are a little bulldog.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Your father let you walk through the store today, and you smiled your huge, gap-toothed smile the entire time.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>People cannot resist you;<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I am often told how blessed I am.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>It is true.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Now, I put lotion on your freshly bathed tummy, and give you a raspberry;<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>you laugh, dimples flashing.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>You gulp your sippy of milk in record time;<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>you know you have precious few moments of play time before bed.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>It is now 7:30.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i>This time one year ago, I am finally dilated enough to push. I am only at 9.5, but the midwife is sure that won’t be a problem. And it isn’t. At least, I think it isn’t, until many moments have passed, and I am still pushing, pushing. At one point, my midwife won’t give me a break; I don’t just push through a contraction, I push for a solid ten minutes, grunting, gasping. I ache, I beg Jason to make her stop, but he keeps coaxing me as well. I find out much later that your head was stuck, and you were turning a bit purplish. But your mama’s kegels paid off, and with the help of my vigilant Tanya, and my calm-in-the-storm Jason, you were free. And returning to a normal color. And as is the case with most babies, the rest went rather quickly. And soon you were on my chest, lovely and slimy and squeakily squalling. Gazing at me. And I fell in love. </i></p> <p class="MsoNormal">My life is richer because of you.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>You make things shiny;<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>you remind us to smile.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I adore you, baby turtle.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></p>Rebecca is Fabuloushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08488628928151163115noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9088899385569058657.post-50385714990034550622010-01-18T10:57:00.007-09:002010-01-18T11:43:10.287-09:00Broke as Heck.A couple of weeks ago,<a href="http://swistle.blogspot.com/2009/12/coming-out.html"> Swistle</a>, whom I love like Diet Wild Cherry <div>Pepsi (aka LOADS), came out as plus size. There was much controversy, many people cheering her own. Of course, there were a few haters, but it seemed to me that there was overwhelming support. Score one for the big girls!</div><div><br /></div><div>It has inspired me to honesty. I am quite open about being a bona fide Big Girl, so obviously that is not what I keep hidden. Quite possibly every who has ever come across this blog has been bombarded with me babbling on about being zaftig. The thing I tend to sweep under the rug is the dismal state of my finances. </div><div><br /></div><div>Part of what drove us from Alaska was the recession. We left before it hit hard, but barely. Jason's job was being eliminated shortly after we left, and the company I worked for was projected to do a fraction of the work it had the year before. We never lived the high life in Anchorage, but if we were comfy. We went to the theatre when we liked; we ate in hipster-yuppie restaurants on a whim, whenever we felt the need for some stuffed french toast or salmon eggs benedict. And the COFFEE. Oh, the coffee. Toasted marshmallow lattes, and triple shot soy iced kaladi's, and chocolate croissant on the side, and a raspberry Italian soda for Violet. Locally roasted specialty beans to grind ourselves for use at home. We easily spent $40 a week on coffee. </div><div><br /></div><div>I now spend about that on groceries. </div><div><br /></div><div>Jason has a good job. Just not a well paying job. I stay at home with my girls and pick up tutoring jobs. The cost of day care would well outweigh what I could make on the salary offered to someone who has one year towards a theatre degree under their belts. We are stuck in the vicious cycle of hand-to-mouth, working hard with little reward, and yes, even a little government assistance thrown in. </div><div><br /></div><div>We live highly budget conscious. True, I have the internet; however, it is a requirement to pick up tutoring jobs with private school kids. Yes, we make lovely, wonderful food - with cheap groceries from discount stores and a lot of help from Food Network.com. Christmas was only possible with careful saving. Even at that, we spent less than $300 in total for presents this year, including extended family. </div><div><br /></div><div>I grew up <a href="http://rebeccaisfabulous.blogspot.com/2009/07/wt-or-dubya-tee.html">poor</a>. Backroads Kentucky, Aldi shopping, missionary barrel poor. My mother made it work; no one would know the lack of finances, no one would realize how below the poverty line we were. She had the touch. She makes everything special. </div><div><br /></div><div>I don't have the touch. I do better than some, but I fall well below Ma. Jason and I want to do better. We want possibilities for our girls. We want comfort and luxuries and place firmly in the middle class. Which is why we are going back to school. </div><div><br /></div><div>Which is going to make us even poorer for a while. We have to save the money to get to school, then the money to stay there. We will make it work, because we are that kind of people: we are survivors, strong-willed and ambitious. Eventually, Jason will have his doctorate. I will have my master's. </div><div><br /></div><div>But in the meantime, there will be a lot of beans, a lot of thrift stores, a lot of making do. And I hope, in the interim, I am teaching my girls something much better, much more important than how to live in the middle class. I hope I am showing them how to achieve their dreams, how to handle obstacles with elan and grace. How to not give up. </div><div><br /></div><div>Even with a belly full of beans and ratty Salvation Army cardigan.</div>Rebecca is Fabuloushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08488628928151163115noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9088899385569058657.post-86009870264308613622010-01-01T07:04:00.002-09:002010-01-01T07:21:44.077-09:00Watch out, 2010!I realize this post is very similar to the one 3 or 4 previous...things I want to be, ways I want to change. However, if I learned anything as a kindergarten teacher or tutor... REPETITION is key. So, without further ado:<div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">2010 is the year I will:</div><div><br /></div><div>*get healthy. Not skinny. Healthy.</div><div><br /></div><div>*teach Violet to read.</div><div><br /></div><div>*finish writing a book. Any book. </div><div><br /></div><div>*get my hair to its natural color.</div><div><br /></div><div>*be the best mother and wife I can be.</div><div><br /></div><div>2009 was a mixed bag. I had some lows - such as staying in bed for weeks after Carli was born, deeply relapsed into PPD, and my parents moving 500 miles away. I had some highs - my gorgeous CJ was born, and I feel like I am starting to get myself back. I had the bittersweet moment of CJ turning 9 months old on the day Max would have turned 1. I had moments when I wondered if my marriage would survive the girl's early childhood. I went to a church that I loved because my parents were there, and hated because so many of the people attending were bigots. I had the joy of leaving that one for a church I love, completely. I have had the privilege of watching my eldest start to turn into an amazing person. I have enjoyed a new freshness to my marriage, where we enjoy, and even SEEK OUT, each other's company. </div><div><br /></div><div>I suppose a lot of this comes with nearing 30. I have been told by many wonderful woman that a women's thirties are when she comes into her own, when she truly finds herself and becomes content. And I look forward to this. I feel the beginnings of this. Of wanting to be no more that what I am. I know there have been times in this past year I have been less than I could be, when I have not fully realized my potential as a mother, as a wife, as a person. And I am eager to embrace myself this year, to be more fully Rebecca than I have ever been. </div><div><br /></div><div>Here's to keeping New Year's Day high as long as possible. </div>Rebecca is Fabuloushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08488628928151163115noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9088899385569058657.post-16691853476525348662009-12-29T07:50:00.006-09:002009-12-29T08:21:37.624-09:00Bougie Butts*<div style="text-align: left;">It has been a good 3 months.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-8x4QlhQuueSzl3pecyVl3K5A8f9fRcgQY0zH7kxjt9vZtSRC9kVIAMxORwqYgi1pe6bhKRjeTfh6JQrtZuJHUvPgyr7p3RdGAGc_Agq30ufkrLCll2YZdIetQC2nsPldwXxcLD_DRhA/s400/fc4.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 257px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5420708449595435170" /><div style="text-align: left;">My girls are...enormous and brilliant and lovely.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div>Carli is a first rate explorer: she can make it to the top of the stairs in under a minute - something you realize when you decide to pick up the blocks before putting up the baby gate. She can climb just about anything, and luckily, has learned to back off the couch (bed, table, laundry basket) safely.</div><div><br /></div><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj068P3V5aO1kPkwxPVee3jj7OzAUrAaJgYN377PuVyoNP4W06jQXctzMuU_P0_WaZoW88itcK05IzVGxoZiz8WvtAM9vql2mY9VjL6PVsB07cOA9ChMlUDC7ZSgOdmzZeqzLSy4TL3kVI/s400/kiki+avatar.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 381px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5420708455471072866" /><div style="text-align: left;">Violet is smarter everyday, and so imaginative. She is constantly taking care of her 'babies' (which she has named Sylvia, Gwendolyn, Rapunzel, Batilda), imitating Rachel Ray in her play kitchen. She received her first bike for Christmas, and within 20 minutes was shooting around the lot on her own. She is also currently obsessed with reading her abridged version of The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe - which makes for a very long bedtime ritual.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhszE0ygQY0f3qO0PQOUzOclOfpJDBDbAldaafu0SHzDPHVnZqkxslx7gth1tnpbYEJTdDpmUFyQ0xQ5xpHiyeDrotAAzhoHQQlqVQjJoM90X4cO28IsxIgJIbyHDzJdPq0Bv2HkKC3hyI/s400/DSCF2807.JPG" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5420708457525540834" /><div style="text-align: left;">Perhaps the biggest change has been one that hasn't happened yet. Jason and I have decided to go back to school. My schooling was interrupted by Violet's conception, and Jason's never really started. The thought of school has always stayed in the back of my mind, but with no real direction. However, after nearly 5 years of discussion, Jason decided he wants to be a veterinarian. I am so happy for him, and completely support this decision; I can't wait to get started.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div></div><div><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNt4aEtlID1diZUI_vdGYsXSDXHDGyFJFj33AyvuOypm9OLHb2T-5R5gBt-vqH5VKJRmU2NrlaI3AtIkc1ybElnd4eSHApthXiwkpbb6PoPjQgPQkPlY1DsfFZSx_ck3-P4mNYkyL7pqg/s400/IMGP1170.JPG" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5420708474517342802" /><div style="text-align: left;">But it is a real commitment; there are only about 40 schools that offer Veterinary degrees in the country. We want to find a place the girls will be happy, where we can all be happy, for the 8+ years it will take for us to get our degrees. Jason will have to get a bachelor's and a master's, and I will be working full time, and only able to attend 1 or 2 classes a semester. So we are on the lookout for a place that matches our family. Our current leaders are Knoxville, TN (university of Tennessee), and Columbia, MO (University of Missouri). We don't know if we will aim for this coming fall, or wait a year so Violet can attend pre-k here. Big decisions afoot.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div></div><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGPi2A_e3O7hswpWcgjSvwGmKCktTKsTz9uUWU2vmbiCNtPNnzcEd7Q5l0GmxMpqieJD0cFuxpiV45ACAT9DTEQx_cMrzTZIwaDDDv535iifkMob8Y_pv3mX-Wi1HrztCCu2KlN7LSK1E/s400/0823091551.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5420708467303034434" /><div>So that is what we have been up to. You know, plus Thanksgiving and Christmas and my parents moving to Kentucky and Halloween and homemade costumes and blonde hair and red hair and Violet in the Christmas program and changing churches and joining a playgroup and Carli's month long ear infection that wouldn't die and visiting Knoxville and changing my meds and Violet chopping off all her hair and about a million other things I can't remember right now.</div><div><br /></div><div><i>*The term of endearment Violet made up for Carli. Now commonly heard in our house.</i></div>Rebecca is Fabuloushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08488628928151163115noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9088899385569058657.post-27441979397055491692009-09-10T08:34:00.002-08:002009-09-10T08:39:43.415-08:00Working on That Woman2 days after the last post, my mother asked me to help her write her biography.<div><br /></div><div>I have been blogging for over 2 years, and being a Blogger, no matter how small time, has become part of my identity. Being on the BlogHer ad roll has given me a huge sense of pride.</div><div><br /></div><div>But I need to focus on this for now. I need my thoughts to be geared toward bettering myself, to be centered on my mom's amazing story.</div><div><br /></div><div>Not to say I won't be here occasionally; blogging is a drug, the therapy that has gotten me through the past 2 years. But I need it to be occasional, not necessary. A writing treat, if you will.</div><div><br /></div><div>Thank you, Blogher. You helped me realize my self worth, gave me a gentle push on this road I am on now. The road that is long and arduous, but is my silly little dream.</div>Rebecca is Fabuloushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08488628928151163115noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9088899385569058657.post-91961618539471805922009-08-23T14:09:00.003-08:002009-08-23T14:12:24.549-08:00my list.<div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">T</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">h</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">e</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">w</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">o</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">m</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">a</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">n</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">w</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">a</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">n</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">t</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">t</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">o</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">b</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">e</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">i</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">s</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">:</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">One who sends thank you cards and snail mail.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">One who listens to others more than complain.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">One who has cool hair, tattoos, piercing, and doesn’t care what others think.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">One who does crafts with her kids.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">One who smiles most of the day.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">One who is actively following her dreams.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">One who cleans her house before she goes to bed.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">One who wears what she wants.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">One who compliments more than criticizes.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">One who has fabulous dinner parties.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">One who kisses her husband every day for more than 7 seconds.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">One who sews and crochets.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">One who laughs easily and loudly.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">One who loves herself.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">One who is always ready for drop-in guests.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">One who has solid and quiet faith.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">One who accepts compliments gracefully.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">One who has a strong family ruled by love and respect, not fear.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">One who is a writer.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>Some are silly things, some are very serious things. But they are all things that I want to be said about me.</i></div>Rebecca is Fabuloushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08488628928151163115noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9088899385569058657.post-9409093312967936182009-08-20T12:26:00.002-08:002009-08-20T12:30:35.793-08:00Chasin' Rainbows<div>I went to my doctor on Monday, as my anti-depressants prescribed in Alaska have finally run out. My parents love their doctor, so choosing a new guy wasn’t a problem. Ma came with me to watch the kids and have her blood pressure checked…which is a whole other post about my mom and the sickness she has to deal with and how it is isn’t fair that someone so good and wonderful has to deal with all she does. </div><div><br /></div><div>This appointment was…different. Usually, I go in, tell them I have clinical depression, they give me pills. So the four of us go back to the room, we weigh, we chat with the nurse, we wait. He came in, he looked at my facial orifices, he asked me what was up, I told him I need pills.</div><div><br /></div><div>But then he talked to me. </div><div><br /></div><div>Like, really TALKED.</div><div><br /></div><div>Asked me how I was doing. Asked about my home stresses. Asked why I thought I was sad. </div><div><br /></div><div>Asked if I wanted to be happy.</div><div><br /></div><div>WOW.</div><div><br /></div><div>Let me tell you, that is a loaded question.</div><div><br /></div><div>I have had this diagnosis for two and a half years. I know that it is a chemical problem, I know that it is encouraged by hormonal changes. I know this is a physical problem.</div><div><br /></div><div>But I am coming to realize that I am leaning on it, depending on it as an excuse to not try. To not strive for happiness. </div><div><br /></div><div>I know that exercise will help me, I know it will release endorphins, will benefit me physically, but also help me feel strong, in control of myself. But it has taken me until now to establish a routine. It has taken an unconscionable amount of time to make myself get off the couch, for my own health. </div><div><br /></div><div>I know I am too hard on Jason, I lean too much on him, I blame him for too many things. But I do it anyways. </div><div><br /></div><div>I don’t think that I be able to completely leave medications behind like my doc thinks I can. But I can make myself happier than I am now. Because I sure do cry a lot for someone who is on a steady anti-depressant. So we made a plan.</div><div><br /></div><div>I have to exercise every morning. With Jason around in the mornings, there is no excuse not to. Today was hard…truthfully, if Jason hadn’t pushed me, I would have skipped it. I was sore and sleepy and grumpy. But now I am glad I did.</div><div><br /></div><div>I have to lower carb, especially white carb, intake…Doc thinks my body doesn’t like them. (Although I am pretty sure my face does.)</div><div><br /></div><div>I have to cut out pork. My family had heart disease history, so even though I currently have no cholesterol issues, Doc wants to make sure it stays that way. (sadly, this comes just after I find an awesome garlic lime pork recipe.)</div><div><br /></div><div>I have to choose to be happy every day. I have to get up, smile, and pray that God helps me make that choice every day.</div><div><br /></div><div>I have to decide what I want to do with my life. I know this seems strange, but one of the things that makes me sad is not having a dream anymore. Before I got pregnant, I was on a very straight course: bachelors degree (with honors) in theatre, grad school in Philadelphia, a few years in small theatres in New York, then become a professor at a small college. I even had my honors project picked out, lined out. Then I got pregnant, and choosing a profession that pretty much dictates poverty was out of the question. So I have been floundering, trying to decide which ‘normal’ career will make me happy. </div><div><br /></div><div>I love being a stay at home mom, I adore my kids, and spending every day with them. Bu what is my purpose outside of that? </div><div><br /></div><div>I want to be a writer (obviously, duh, isn’t that every blogger’s ultimate desire?), but doubts assail me. Something keeps me from taking the steps to do that. Everyone who knows me has heard me talk about writing this book or that book…it has been a long standing dream.</div><div><br /></div><div>So Doc says I have to believe it will happen. He told me stories of his life, things that made it seem impossible that he would ever get to medical school. But he did, because he worked for it, he never gave up the dream. </div><div><br /></div><div>So…it is time to grab the dream by the horns again. I have to try. </div><div><br /></div><div>And my last assignment is to decide what kind of woman I want to be…and become that woman. </div><div><br /></div><div>I’ll get back to you on that one. I gotta do some research.</div><div><br /></div><div><i>Disclaimer: I recognize this is not the path to happiness for everyone. This is just the way I am trying to find my rainbow.</i></div>Rebecca is Fabuloushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08488628928151163115noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9088899385569058657.post-42241575024537288632009-08-12T20:16:00.001-08:002009-08-12T20:19:50.973-08:00Just the way you are, if you're perfect*<div>This subject is so old hat, I am loathe to bring it up.</div><div><br /></div><div>But, the truth is, this blog is an expansion of my brain. And part of what is occupying my brain lately is weight loss. Though in my head, it is Weight Loss. And sometimes WEIGHT LOSS.</div><div><br /></div><div>There is a struggle associated with weight loss that has nothing to do with wanting to eat cupcakes. It is the struggle of whether to try in the first place. </div><div><br /></div><div>Like many women, the desire to lose is constantly wrestling with the desire to have self-acceptance. By going out of my way to decrease my waist size, am I not basically saying that I dislike myself? I tell myself it is all for my health, that I don’t care how I look as long as I am healthy. But I know that part of what drives me is the desire to wear sizes in the teens, to look at the tag on my jeans and not see a 2 followed by another number. </div><div><br /></div><div>And how awful is it that I initially typed ‘be a teen size’? Like I am not Rebecca, I am not a woman, a mother, a writer, a wife…I am a 22, and that is what defines me the most?</div><div><br /></div><div>Also, what about my daughters? I put a lot of effort into teaching them to be strong, independent, caring people. I teach them to eat healthy food, how to exercise their bodies. But by being dissatisfied with myself, am I instilling in them societal beliefs that big people have something wrong with them? </div><div><br /></div><div>So I move forward gently, quietly. Trying not to call much attention to the face that I am dieting. Not saying the word diet. Doing exercises that resemble salsa dances, jumping jacks, things Violet likes to do. We move and sweat and laugh together, as we try to master the moves before us. Projecting a not-quite-true image of self-love so my daughter doesn’t learn that hating yourself is the norm.</div><div><br /></div><div>The truth is that for most women in this society, at least the ones I am around, hating yourself is the norm. That we tend to have one or two things we like about ourselves, and hundreds of things we don’t. Really, shouldn’t it be the other way around? </div><div><br /></div><div>I don’t have a delusion that Violet and Carli are going to love everything about themselves. But my goal, what I strive for is that the things they like severely outweigh the things they hate. </div><div><br /></div><div>Daily we work on it. Daily I tell them the wonderful things I see in them. Daily I tell myself the wonderful things I see in myself, so that eventually the self-love half-truth can become a whole truth. Daily that list grows. </div><div><br /></div><div>And daily I eke my way to a healthier me, one that can keep up with them each step of the way. My ultimate goal is not ‘Hot Mom’, I have no desire to look like a super-model. I am not even shooting for a single digit size. The ultimate goal is the size 14 I was when I became pregnant with Violet, which was the healthiest time in my life (mostly due to being too broke for groceries and having to walk miles across campus each day. I don’t plan on using this method.) </div><div><br /></div><div>But for now, my immediate goal is 2 pounds a week, 40 by December 31. I direct your attention to the tiny box on your right, boldly reminding me each time I come to this site that I have WORK TO DO. </div><div><br /></div><div>Little by little, step by step, day by day.</div><div><br /></div><div><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">*Alanis Morrisette, Perfect</span></i></div>Rebecca is Fabuloushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08488628928151163115noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9088899385569058657.post-64539832892259829582009-08-07T13:24:00.001-08:002009-08-07T13:25:40.219-08:00Those Days<div>Tuesday night, my girls didn’t sleep. </div><div><br /></div><div>They went to bed at 8:30, sure. Then I cleaned house, folded laundry, did my chores…I went to bed at 12:30.</div><div><br /></div><div>Carli woke up.</div><div><br /></div><div>I fed her, changed her, got her back to sleep. I fell asleep about 1:30. Then 2:00 am rolled around.</div><div><br /></div><div>Violet woke up. </div><div><br /></div><div>Not from a bad dream, not for any reason. She just wanted to be up. </div><div><br /></div><div>She fell asleep around 4, during which time I fed Carli another time. I fell asleep around 4:10.</div><div><br /></div><div>My wonderful husband let me sleep until 11, but I woke up in a mood.</div><div><br /></div><div>My bad days are few and far between, but when they hit, they are vengeful. And when I have so many good days in a row, like I have been…the bad days are just awful. </div><div><br /></div><div>I snapped at Jason. I cried into a pillow. I wanted to crawl into my cocoon, like I always do when the bad days come. </div><div><br /></div><div>It just makes me feel so out of control. My girls aren’t the targets, my husband is. I pick fights. I call him names. I scream at him. </div><div><br /></div><div>He has been through this enough to know when it is an episode. That it is chemical in my brain, not representative of how I really feel. But he still has the patience of a saint to sit through it. </div><div><br /></div><div>After he went to bed, my sister called. She took us out of the house, and gradually, my day ebbed away. </div><div><br /></div><div>I am still a little edgy today, especially when my blood sugar got low, and Jason grabbed my butt in the grocery store. I usually love that, but NOT when I am on edge…</div><div><br /></div><div>Tomorrow, I should be back to normal. </div><div><br /></div><div>These days are getting farther and farther away. I just wish…I just can’t wait until they are gone forever. </div><div><br /></div><div>I hope that it happens. I know it might not ever go away. But I can hope.</div>Rebecca is Fabuloushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08488628928151163115noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9088899385569058657.post-46378020117760546352009-08-04T18:17:00.004-08:002009-08-04T20:51:57.867-08:00Tuesday Night Rocks the HouseMy nights are pretty tame. Primetime hits, and I sit on the couch, feeding Carli her bedtime bottle. Violet sits beside me, and we watch whatever I deem safe for her to watch.<div><br /></div><div>Tonight, it was her favorite, America’s Got Talent (love me the guys in the pageboy caps and suspenders…RAWR)…just about the only show I can get her to sit through the entire hour for. Well, the first hour was the one where they pared the contestants down to 40...and I bawled through the whole hour. Then they showed the previews for the new season of The Biggest Loser…and I bawled. (her WHOLE family DIED!!!!) I am fairly sure I bawled through a Sprint commercial. (Their 3G network is SO BIG!)</div><div><br /></div><div>I need to get out more.</div><div><blockquote></blockquote><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>My gypsy heritage affords me many perks…curves no matter how much weight I gain, olive-ish skin that rarely sunburns, the propensity to be the loudest in the room and thus Center of Attention. </div><div><br /></div><div>However, it also comes with hair. True, the stuff in my head is thick and adorable (I humbly proclaim), but the stuff growing out of my chin is equally thick and not nearly as adorable. </div><div><br /></div><div>Seriously. I can get up in the morning with nary a hair…and by lunch, my fingers will feel the beginnings of one starting to poke through. And that baby is BLACK and THICK and while that may work for Beyonce, I am not feeling it, yo. </div><div><br /></div><div>The BEST (insert sarcasm here) is when I am at Target, handing the clerk my debit card, and Jason says, “Reka, you have more facial hair than I do!”</div><div><br /></div><div>Not that that has happened recently. OH WAIT YES IT HAS.</div><div><br /></div><div><blockquote></blockquote><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Carli does not stop moving while she is awake. She hasn’t started crawling, but she can get anywhere on the first floor of my house in less than a minute by rolling her little self at the speed of light. Sometimes so fast she spits up from dizziness. </div><div><br /></div><div>She’ll climb onto the shelf under my coffee table and sort through my books. She’ll roll under her swing so she can lay on her back and push it with her feet. She makes a bee line (caterpillar line?) for anything Violet leaves on the floor.</div><div><br /></div><div>Her favorite is the shoes, though. </div><div><br /></div><div>Living in Canada, then Alaska, for so many years has cultivated a habit of taking off our shoes at the door. This creates a pile of shoes near our front door. Which Carli likes to roll around in. </div><div><br /></div><div>I came down the stairs this morning (Jason watches the girls when he gets off work so I can sleep till 8), There was Carli, laying on the floor, grin huge, dimples flashing…hugging Jason’s topsider.</div><div><br /></div><div>That’s my girl.</div>Rebecca is Fabuloushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08488628928151163115noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9088899385569058657.post-10471692902535229892009-08-03T12:45:00.003-08:002009-08-03T12:49:26.306-08:00Good-bye, crappy first half of the year.<div>Jason works the night shift at a hotel. He goes to bed at 2 in the afternoon, sleeps until 10, is at work by 11. This is a schedule that works for us as a family: we go to the beach at least once a week, during the day when the tourists are low; we go grocery shopping as a unit; he gets to go do the menial errands, like paying the water bill and going to the bank, without me. I get to take Violet to pre-school story time at the Library without lugging along CJ. I don’t have to drag both girls along with me to doctor’s appointments.</div><div><br /></div><div>But there are certain things I miss…the main one being primetime television with Jason. Even though his night schedule increases family time, it severely decreases couple time. This leads to watching a lot of America’s Got Talent/Wipout type shows with Violet instead. </div><div><br /></div><div>In order to still have time to connected, I stay up late on Friday nights. Jason doesn’t change his sleep schedule on the weekends; we found out through trial and error that it just made for a grumpy, grumpy husband. So, Friday, I put the girls to bed and hang out by myself for awhile, until Jason wakes up. Then we watch a movie or whatever TV-on-DVD he is currently hooked on, laugh, catch up on our lives, sans kids.</div><div><br /></div><div>So, I was up at midnight on Friday, and realized that August was officially here.</div><div><br /></div><div>The year is officially on its way out.</div><div><br /></div><div>Thank Heaven.</div><div><br /></div><div>There have been some amazing things that have happened this year. We have moved to a lovely place where I get to go to the beach for no reason at all. I have a beautiful, wonderful little elf of a new baby girl. I get to finally be the Stay at Home Mom I longed to be.</div><div><br /></div><div>But, ho-lee. Everything this year has been a struggle. I feel like I have been clawing my way to normal all year. From the reoccurrence of my PPD to Carli puking up nearly everything we fed her to just the one million everyday things that seemed to take over my brain. Nothing tragic, just…hard. Maybe it was the whole Mercury-in-retrograde thing.</div><div><br /></div><div>But the past month or so, things have started to lighten up. Maybe because my brain is beginning to return to normal, maybe because we are settling into life here. Whatever the reason, I am grateful.</div><div><br /></div><div>And I am looking forward to fall. It is my favorite time of year…pumpkins and scarecrows and crunchy leaves and the tinge of non-barbecue smoke in the air. Halloween and Thanksgiving. I can’t wait to take Violet and CJ trick-or-treating without having to layer them in long johns. And to have cool nights when I can wear my favorite, 10 year old hooded sweatshirt again.</div><div><br /></div><div>I am just excited. Something has lifted, and I feel joyous again. Bring it on, last half of 2009.</div><div><br /></div>Rebecca is Fabuloushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08488628928151163115noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9088899385569058657.post-26828969465901075912009-07-31T18:36:00.002-08:002009-07-31T18:38:51.285-08:00The Last Baby<div>We have decided we are done procreating. </div><div><br /></div><div>We originally planned to have only one, our wonderful Violet. But as she grew into toddler-hood, I knew that I wanted her to experience having a sister. I have two awesome sisters who I am very close to, and I want my girl to have that experience. </div><div><br /></div><div>So we decided to try for number two.</div><div><br /></div><div>(also playing into that decision was the desire to have a kid on purpose. Novel concept, eh?)</div><div><br /></div><div>We got pregnant right away, the first month we tried. And were so happy. Ecstatic. I bought a heap of onsies to celebrate.</div><div><br /></div><div>Then, we lost him. Fairly early into the pregnancy, but still. I was traumatized. I spent a week on the sofa, staring at the sky, the TV, my daughter. I decided not to try again. I couldn’t deal with the heartache.</div><div><br /></div><div>But four months later, completely by surprise, the second line showed up. I threw up. Sobbed. Called my mother. Shook as I told Ali, my best friend. Then I took a deep breath and dove into the pregnancy. </div><div><br /></div><div>It was hard. Especially the first 20 weeks, when the movements were infrequent and the cheap at-home heartbeat-listening device didn’t work. </div><div><br /></div><div>We got past it. I made it through the pregnancy that seemed to last forever, though she was born 2 weeks early. (though I did find out I was pregnant at 3 weeks 6 days, so it WAS a long time.)</div><div><br /></div><div>Then the post partum depression went into full-blown Action. I barely got out of bed for 2 weeks. I lay in bed with a remote and the baby. I barely ate. Jason took care of Violet, and I…descended into my cocoon. I thank God I have an awesome and understanding husband; we gently discussed what was going on and what steps we could take to make things better. </div><div><br /></div><div>And they got better. I got out of bed. I started interacting with the world again. I started taking the full dosages of my medicine again. And my family bloomed.</div><div><br /></div><div>We are content. Our little family of four is perfect for us. Violet adores her baby sister, and Carli positively beams at Violet. I love the baby snuggles I get. I love the drooly, open mouthed kisses. I love the downy head and the neck rolls and the arms and legs that never stop moving. </div><div><br /></div><div>But I am done with pregnancy. I am done with the immobile first months. She is now in the 6-12 month sizes, which means she gets to wear brighter, cuter toddler clothes; my days of pastel one-pieces are behind me. I will never again wait for the first tooth to pop out, or have to constantly support a weak neck, or try to disguise that bald spot babies get from moving their head back and forth constantly. </div><div><br /></div><div>I am thrilled. Honestly, completely one hundred percent ECSTATIC.</div><div><br /></div><div>I have been going back and forth since she born, wondering…am I really done? Maybe I need one more. Or maybe even 5 or 6! </div><div><br /></div><div>Nope. </div><div><br /></div><div>We were planning our 2011 family reunion, and I realized-I am going to have a 2 year old and a five year old. I will have CHILDREN, not babies, people who can actually, you know, do some things FOR THEMSELVES. </div><div><br /></div><div>And I love that thought. </div><div><br /></div><div>I am not really a baby person. I hate being pregnant. I have depression that just loooves to feed off my hormones. We don’t desire to have a boy; Jason is perfectly happy with his two blue-eyed beauties.</div><div><br /></div><div>I am excited to move out of that trying to have babies/having babies section of my life; to completely throw myself into the parenting my children part of my life.</div><div><br /></div><div>Jason will be getting a vasectomy (or fixed, as I like to say) sometime in the near future. </div><div><br /></div><div>Which led to this conversation:</div><div><br /></div><div> ‘So, when I get my thing done, will I still, you know, shoot out anything?’</div><div> ‘Yes, you’ll still have semen, just not sperm. Did you think you would just shoot air?!?’</div><div> ‘Well…’</div><div> ‘Wait a second…can you not say vasectomy???’</div><div> ‘No! No, no, no, no…it hurts just to <i>say</i> it.’</div><div><br /></div><div>And that is why I am glad we don’t have a boy.</div>Rebecca is Fabuloushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08488628928151163115noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9088899385569058657.post-45376608663830080372009-07-29T23:51:00.003-08:002009-07-29T23:57:20.353-08:00W.T., or Dubya Tee<div>I went home to Kentucky last week. </div><div><br /></div><div>Yes, I am a down home country girl, born and bred in the blue-grassland. But not the hat-wearing, julep-sipping east Kentucky. The mine-stripped, dying, backwoods west Kentucky.</div><div><br /></div><div>The town I am from has one stop light. One convenience store that also serves as restaurant and tanning salon. A tiny post office, one lonely baseball diamond. </div><div><br /></div><div>I attended the elementary school, but by the time my youngest sister was old enough to attend, the community had to close it down. The kids were bussed to a neighboring town. </div><div><br /></div><div>My street…destitute is the only word to describe it. Our house was one passed down through my dad’s family, old and creaky, but large and solid. You couldn’t say the same for our neighbors. They were living in literal shacks: 3 small rooms made of flimsy wood covered in tar paper. Skinny, mangy dogs roamed the streets; skinny, dirty children did as well. </div><div><br /></div><div>My parents kept us clean and fed and mannered. I know it wasn’t easy.</div><div><br /></div><div>We moved to Canada when I was a teen, and the majority of my pre-adult years were spent in a pleasant, middle class suburb in lovely Alberta. I received a great education in a bright, cared-for, well-respected school. There was very little White Trash in my years succeeding that move.</div><div><br /></div><div>But I always feared that White Trash is what I truly am. I would become the woman with the bleached hair and stale cigarette in a tar paper shack. I wondered if that was my true destiny, if it would one day catch up to me. If my heart and soul didn’t belong in rundown, beat-up western Kentucky.</div><div><br /></div><div>My trip has assured me I have nothing to worry about. I am not that person. </div><div><br /></div><div>Because that person isn’t about not having money, about living in a poorer part of town. What really makes someone White Trash is attitude.</div><div><br /></div><div>Being racist. Telling my sister that you mourn her future hard life with her black boyfriend. Complaining about those adopted black cousins while they are in earshot. </div><div><br /></div><div>Believing every email forward you get about President Obama being an Islamic non-American who burns flags and eats babies.</div><div><br /></div><div>Holding grudges. Believing you are a better person than everyone around you, and never forgetting any mistakes they made.</div><div><br /></div><div>Believing you are the absolute Right, and never entertaining the notion that you may not have all the answers.</div><div><br /></div><div>I am not that person.</div><div><br /></div><div>I may wear too much eye-liner. I may have only have clothes that are second-hand. I may make a joke that seems racy or off-center. </div><div><br /></div><div>But I believe everyone is equal. That if you are going to preach respect for authority, that includes our awesome President, no matter what Rush Limbaugh says. That a mistake is in the past, and it forms who you are in the future. I don’t need to be asked four times in three days if my ‘wild steak is over.‘ Because if I hadn’t run off to Alaska and gotten knocked up, there would be no Violet Lynn, and consequently, no Carli Jay. </div><div><br /></div><div>I am a left-wing, garage-rock-loving, Sunday School teaching, tattoo adoring, punk rock wannabe hippie, and I am proud.</div><div><br /></div><div>I may be from a dinky little poor town in Kentucky, but it does not define me as White Trash. </div><div><br /></div><div>Also, Kentucky makes my allergies act up. </div>Rebecca is Fabuloushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08488628928151163115noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9088899385569058657.post-3941485184229526202009-07-21T21:33:00.001-08:002009-07-21T21:33:40.710-08:00BRB<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; color: rgb(0, 51, 102); font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px; ">Going to family reuinion...first time I will have seen most of my relatives in over 5 years. Am excited. Have to finish packing and sleep...leaving in 7 hours. Maybe shower, too.<div>*sniff*</div><div>Yep. Definitely shower, too.</div></span>Rebecca is Fabuloushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08488628928151163115noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9088899385569058657.post-80558279023884748862009-07-11T19:44:00.005-08:002009-07-11T19:50:00.971-08:00i let Jason cut my hair.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiT0WK_GGDvaBJNrF7KJctT2Yz97Ofuhyb1SvfD4duDlGYMt8C2wdg9h_Kv72EIlU6Sq2voPWbJZO5p9dJJSgPkvIGLQJYmCcwugWENU49n2pjHVY4WIPq5_aO0sfce3WK-UAkrNWOQw08/s1600-h/mah+new+hair.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiT0WK_GGDvaBJNrF7KJctT2Yz97Ofuhyb1SvfD4duDlGYMt8C2wdg9h_Kv72EIlU6Sq2voPWbJZO5p9dJJSgPkvIGLQJYmCcwugWENU49n2pjHVY4WIPq5_aO0sfce3WK-UAkrNWOQw08/s400/mah+new+hair.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5357414704271425538" /></a><br />gave him the scissors and let him go to town. <div><br /></div><div>told him to just not touch my bangs.</div><div><br /></div><div>he came up with this:</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><i><a href="http://www.sweetney.com/">Sweetney</a>, if you ever see this...it is a form a flattery? cause yours is so cool? and way more awesome than mine anyways? and i shouldn't worry, cause their is no way that you, awesome queen of the cool blogger world, would even see this anyways? but if you do, I LURVE you?</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div>Rebecca is Fabuloushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08488628928151163115noreply@blogger.com0