I wasn’t paid any money for this post, nor was I bribed.

I was given a couple of CDs at Blissdom and BlogHer.

And arm candy.

I wasn’t going to buy into it. Cute boys who sing are a dime a dozen. I’m from Utah. You want to get a girls attention? You play an instrument and you sing. Maybe that’s not just Utah, but seriously, UTAH.

But the boy (Chris Mann) can sing. And he’s funny. And he’s charming. And so far his head is still in check.

So to my boo, @iamchrismann, congrats on your EP coming out today (on itunes, amazonMP3, Rhapsody..etc.)

And to the rest of you? Go buy it. I promise you he can sing.

And that you’ll want to make out to a few of his songs.

Multiple times.

Just try to keep your mind on your significant other and not this.

Yeah. Good luck with that.

(And sorry for objectifying you Chris. But yum. Cody agrees, however with him the yum ends with your music.)

(Really.)

(Ends. with. the. music.)

I scored a few tickets to see the Drum Corps International Quarterfinals yesterday through work.

Super premium tickets to see the  Drum Corps International Quarterfinals.

I figured it was a swell chance to get inside Lucas Oil Stadium for the first time and who doesn’t love marching bands?

I called my neighbor to see if she wanted to go with me. “HI, Tiffany? You see, I have these SUPER PREMIUM tickets to go see the Drum Corps International “marching music’s major league” quarterfinals this afternoon DO YOU WANT TO GO?”

Before I even spoke the last syllable Tiffany was geeking out on the other end of the line.

“WILL THE CAVALIERS BE THERE? WHEN ARE WE GOING? SHOULD I GET READY NOW? What about The Glassmen? WILL THE GLASSMEN BE THERE?”

This is when I realized Tiffany not only knew what DCI was, she spoke their language.

You see dear friends, Tiffany was a band geek. A drum major in Ohio to be specific. She wore hats with plumes and polyester suits. She even went to drum major camp. In addition to band camp.

I pick my friends well.

Without Tiffany there I may have stayed for about an hour, long enough to see about four performances. However with Tiffany in tow we stayed ALL SEVEN HOURS. (and this just in! Apparently people go to movie theaters to watch ALL SEVEN HOURS!)

Now before I get into the pictures, I’ve learned from twitter that DCI is something to be revered, honored and respected. To those of you about to march? I salute you. Because I could never EVER do what these guys did. I can’t play an instrument, I can barely walk when I have all my senses about me so to mash the two together? Utter and epic fail.

Thankfully Tiffany was there to explain to me the finer nuances of DCI, drum corps traditions and history, because as a marching music layperson? The rifles and sabers started to become really silly.

For those of you who are unfamiliar with drum corps culture, each group has a sort of “theme” to their performance with traditional props that their color guard uses, including flags, banners, sabers, and rifles. With each theme I pictured the color guard director sitting around plotting the greatest performance ever -for example- South Carolina did a Peter Pan/Emerald City theme. At some point the color guard director had to think about when to work in rifles into the whole Peter Pan/Wizard of Oz story.

There are certain things in life that we all have in common, married, unmarried or divorced. Religious or not. Parent or childless. Man or woman. These are the things that allow us to relate to almost every human on the planet, if we can’t relate to someone with one of these criteria then we can fall back on the fact that we are all human and most everyone has a bellybutton.

But then there are sub-genres of things. Those who have experienced miscarriages, the loss of a child or infertility. Those who come from “traditional” homes, single parent homes or same sex parent homes. Often when faced with those who know a life so much different than ours we are left staring at each other from opposite corners, or struggling to find common ground. Other times common ground is irrelevant because that whole “we’re all human” thing takes over.

But what about the times when we’re staring down those who have more in common that we’re used to? Sometimes our fight reflex comes out. Sometimes our trials and difficulties are what define us and we get uncomfortable in the presence of others who are going through similar difficulties. I know I have a hard time seeing other couples who deal with infertility so eloquently, or on the other hand couples who are just starting down the scary and uncertain road who avoid me, knowing that they may one day be where I am. A two thousand dollar shot in the butt with nothing to show for it but crazy.

I had my heart broken nine years ago. Smashed, destroyed and left for dead. I cannot say I have had my heart broken a thousand times because it only happened once, and once was all it took. Maybe if it had never happened I could be one of those who could say I had my heart broken more than once, never knowing what a true broken heart was.

Cody bears the scars of a broken heart too. While it’s not my story to tell, he was hurt. And hurt badly.

While we both struggle when we talk about those who broke us before we found each other, I have a feeling we both nurse the wounds of our broken hearts privately more often than we’d like to admit. I wish it had never happened to me. Cody swears he’s healed. I’m mad at the girl who hurt Cody. I’m mad that I’ll never know what he was like before her. That she left a mark on him that affects him and our relationship to this day.

I’m also mad at the boy who broke my heart. I’m mad that I have to know what that pain feels like and constantly live in fear of feeling it again.

I know our most personal struggles can bring us closer together with those who have gone down the same path. Yet at the same time they can put us against one another.

We are put into these little “groups” by default.

The haves and the have nots.

How would my life be different if I had never been hurt? Would I love Cody any less? Would we have even found each other?

If you could go back to the one moment thus far that defined you (or hurt you) the most…would you undo it?

I am not a food blogger.

Food blogging is a whole mess of work between the photography, the steps, the presentation and THOSE PEOPLE WHO ALWAYS HAVE TO TELL YOU HOW TO DO IT BETTER. (I’m looking at you CORN SNOBS.)

Blah.

So I made these muffins today. Only I made them in my muffin top pans. (Proof that God loves a good muffin top.)

SCOOORE!!!

I took pictures of all the steps but they didn’t turn out very well because today was the day God nearly forgot the promise he made to Noah not to flood the Earth ever again and the lighting in my kitchen was seriously compromised due to all the fire and brimstone going on outside.

Let me show you…what my street should look like normally…(well okay so this is AFTER all the flooding, but you get the idea.)

Earlier today? It looked like this…

Normal trip to the mailbox should go something like this…(with tutu, yes.)

Earlier in the afternoon? This…

And you people wonder why we Mormons are so big on being prepared for natural disasters. The only reason I left my house today was because if the world was going to end today?

I was going to have Double Stuffs to see me through it.

So yeah, I made the muffins. And took pictures. Pretty self explanatory.

What I didn’t do was take a picture of the finished and baked muffins.

Because I ate them all before I remembered.

And this? Is why I would never hack it as a true food blogger.

I have to hurry up and write this while I’m coherent and sane.

Had I sat down and written this four hours ago when I originally intended to you would all be cocking your heads doing the “AWW.” thing offering to send me puppies and rubbing your rosaries for me and my poor tortured spirit.

You see, four hours ago I was making spaghetti while bawling my eyes out because my friend had asked me what I was wearing. (Truth be told that I was wearing the same thing for 24 hours straight and I smelled like an armpit. This in and of itself was utterly and completely depressing.)

The best way I can describe the feelings I have on Lupron?

It’s like watching one of those slow motion crash test videos and Crazy Lupron Red (that’s what we call her around these parts) is behind the wheel and Normal Not Lupron Red is screaming at Crazy Lupron Red (phone call, hold please.)

(Gramma Flower just called and sent me back into spaghetti bawling hysterics because she got a puppy. OH HOW I WISH I WERE KIDDING.)

Okay. Back to the Crazy Lupron Red crash analogy. Only this time Crazy Lupron Red will be telling a little more of the story.

Crazy Lupron Red is headed for a gigantic very painful crash in very slow motion. The logical part of my brain (Normal Not Lupron Red (another aside, Cody calls me Red.)) has been forced to sit in a soundproof booth and just watch Crazy Lupron Red descend into madness. No matter how much Normal Not Lupron Red screams and yells at Crazy Lupron Red that “this will all end and it’s only temporary and THIS ISN’T REALLY YOU!” Crazy Lupron Red cannot hear Normal Not Lupron Reds logic.

I dialed the first 10 digits of a lot of phone numbers today. I could never bring myself to hit that last number though.

I so desperately wanted to talk to someone but couldn’t bring myself to burden some poor unsuspecting soul with my blabberings. This isn’t me. No need to spread the crazy farther than my front door step.

And here is where my friends are reading this going “YOU BIG DUMMY, YOU COULD HAVE CALLED ME.” I know I could have called you. But I have really good reasons for not calling you all snotty and hiccupy. I didn’t call you because you live in Canada and that’s expensive. I didn’t call you because you’re in the middle of moving and hardly have time for the blatherings of a menopausal 27 year old. I didn’t call you because YOU JUST HAD A BABY and the last thing you need is *this right here*. I didn’t call you because frankly we’re not big phone talkers, I didn’t call you because you’re a boy and as much as you’d like to think of yourself as a girl YOU’RE A BOY. And lastly I didn’t call you because even though we have hung out in a hotel room I still don’t feel like I’m to that point where I can call in the middle of the day bawling into my marinara and not worry about what you’re really thinking about me.

Ten years ago the lowest point of my life was when I was in a pit of depression and I realized I had NO ONE to call and talk to.

Today? I had so many people I could call that I couldn’t even be bothered to make a decision.

I need to watch what I say. I feel as though I am very full of venom and a little too unpredictable. I am going to be completely selfish for awhile. Not only for my own benefit, but so Crazy Lupron Red doesn’t take down some nice people while on her warpath to an endometriosis free life.

I am quite certain I will not be “me” for the next few months. So take this as your warning.

When I break down for no apparent reason in the middle of the grocery store over a particular shade of orange melamine?

It’s the Lupron talking.

Go here for the panda backstory.

(thanks Della)

I don’t have the energy level it requires to maintain a complaint.

I get very complacent very quickly and so when I burst into passionate annoyance or over the top dissatisfaction I rarely have the gusto to follow it up. Then I just feel like a jerk.

Getting angry about stuff takes too much energy.

Besides I usually cry about it so much in the first place (or last place or middle depending on the situation) I’m pooped before I even have a follow up argument. And then I get into that whole hurting people unintentionally with my ardent outrage.

Sorry about that.

A majority of you know I don’t like swears and that I avoid the use of them at all costs. Those of you even closer to me know that when I do swear it’s because I. MEAN. BUSINESS. Cody knows darn well that if that one word comes from my mouth in conversation it’s time to drop whatever he’s doing and save whatever or whoever is in my warpath. (Most recently it was our banker. *ahem*)

I do not abuse this power.

If you have ever or do ever hear me swear? You’d better believe it’s because something inside my mild mannered spirit has snapped.

I got into a rage tonight on twitter about the fact that after all of this health insurance LET ME HAVE MY BODY BACK  so that maybe JUST MAYBE one day I can get pregnant again I find out that we are most likely not going to be able to afford maternity coverage for a few years.

*insert swear word that references the poop of a very large horned mammal here*

See. And now I feel bad.

The good news is that my husband is a lawyer (at least he had better be as of October 2, 2009 at 8:31 a.m. EST.)

The bad news is that he’s also a lawyer.

I won’t get into it. I don’t have the energy for it.

We are just at the lowest of low points as far as this whole stupid transition into adulthood will get for us (hopefully.)

I get scrappy at low points. Or when I’m pissed off, backed into a corner or worse yet emotionally drained. Cody would have you believe I get scrappy on days that end in y and during times that end with o’clock.

We have made it through the last three years together. However ironic that it is that a great majority of the last three years was spent alone and away from each other.

No more studying until 2am.

No more finals.

No more tests.

No more school.

No more bar.

I finally have him back.

And really honestly and truly that’s *** good enough for me.

(***CRAP I SO BADLY WANTED TO PUT THAT WORD UP THERE. You know, so you’d all know how serious I am. BUT I JUST CAN’T DO IT. So put it in there with your mind will you? Okay. Good. Thanks.)