I truly enjoy the winter holiday season. And it has nothing to do with Christmas and birthday presents, although those are admittedly fantastic. What really knocks me back and fills me with awe is the attitude that seems to permeate the months of November through January. Appreciation, gratitude, love, kindness, hope, nostalgia, excitement, wonder, and peace are so present in my life and my family during this time. The day after Thanksgiving officially marks the beginning of the Christmas/New Year season for us (I have forbidden myself from listening to Christmas music until Thanksgiving has gotten its due limelight) and every year I am amazed at how good my family and friends make me feel. I know that I am a blessed person, and remembering this at the end of the year shows me how rich my life is.
It also inspires me for what lies ahead, and I must say that for many reasons, 2013 is probably going to be the best year of my life. I have a fiance that is loving, funny, trustworthy, strong where I am weak, and understands me. If that weren't enough, the dude can cook and has green eyeballs. Any girl that wants more than that is chasing a unicorn fart. On September 28, 2013, I get to marry that guy and have a partner and companion for the rest of my life. (Note: You may be wondering about the date. Our original wedding date was August 31, but we changed it to accommodate a football game. The McCann-Franklin wedding and a home game in the SEC is way too much awesomeness for one weekend in Aggieland). That alone makes 2013 an incredible year for me.
Aside from that, 2013 will also be the year that I graduate with a Master of Science degree and, Lord willing, will begin the career that I have wanted since I was 14 years old and opened a book about forensic investigations. My birthday last week marked the 12th year that I have been slowly but surely working towards this goal, and this week I finished polishing my resume and writing a cover letter that I was actually really proud of for a job that makes my heart swell to think about. Keith and I will live in Laredo as he accepted a job offer for his dream job at a law firm in Laredo, and I have learned that a brand new, state-of-the-art DPS crime lab is underway in Laredo to be open for business in September 2013. September? Isn't something happening then? Oh, yes, I will be getting married and moving to Laredo and will have a MS degree in forensic science hoping to work in Drug Chemistry/Controlled Substances. Just as an impressively new crime lab opens in a city that largely seizes and investigates controlled substances. As with my future husband, I feel like this is meant to be and proof that God loves me (further proof that God loves me: Crunchwrap Supremes). While I have a long way to go, finishing the cover letter felt really good and made me feel like I am actively doing things to help myself.
I also enjoy this time of year because it is fun to set new goals and challenges for the next 12 months, and while I don't meet every resolution I set for myself, New Year's is a very inspirational time for me to figure out how I can better myself and my relationships. I keep trying to examine myself and see where I need improvement, and the two main flaws I am trying to focus on right now are to stop interrupting people and to be a better listener (not too far removed from one another, I'll admit). I should have mastered these two qualities in middle school, but I think it will be good for my relationships to work on this part of my life. My other resolutions for 2013 are mostly about eating better, exercising, and winning back the affections of an outside kitten who my neighbor's son stole from my porch and raised in their garage. I have not yet decided if forgiving said neighbor's son is on my resolution list or not. Rome wasn't built in a day.
Friday, December 28, 2012
Friday, August 10, 2012
Life Lessons from Liz Lemon's Soul Sister #001
When dumping a bag of chips upside down to funnel the crumbs into your wide open mouth, remember to close your eyes.
I've been nearly blinded by Cool Ranch shards one too many times.
Tuesday, June 19, 2012
A Wedding Date and Mario on Wii - AKA Things that are Pumping Me Up
I have been avoiding writing posts because I haven't been able to create a story format in which to explain what has been going on this summer. I started my summer internship in Houston this summer and am actually halfway done as of this week. However, since the stuff I get excited about at work makes me look like a psychopath (autopsy photos, body exhumations, big shipments of controlled substances) and the fact that I'm not supposed to talk about specific casework in a media outlet, I don't think that I can really get into it (or find a relatable audience) via my simple blog.
However, while perusing DIY craft projects on my Pinterest or browsing a funny website or doing something fun yet unproductive, I had a subtle musing: what's wrong with just sharing what is making me really happy right now? I am finding a lot of joy in life, and while I am susceptible to getting in a funk occassionally (I drive in Houston every day and miss my sister and fiance being closeby) I have experienced a few things that have helped me Get Over It and even find happiness for the majority of my day.
For one, I have set my wedding date and booked a venue. These are two major steps to complete, and I am very pleased with both. As long as the world doesn't end beforehand, I will marry a pretty awesome dude on August 31, 2013, in the city where we met.
Also, I got a Wii for Christmas but, due to my spring class schedule, I was too afraid to install it for fear of throwing my academics down the toilet. I'm proud of my decision since I had a really good semester, but this last weekend Keith installed the console for me and I ended up reliving childhood memories of Mario tearing through Koopa territory to rescue that helpless dame yet again. I have vowed to beat the game by the end of the summer.
I am uplifted by countless other blessings in my life, like the fact that Texas is getting some much-needed rain this summer and my classmate Jesse and I meet up every week or so at a sports bar to watch basketball games, have a beer, and shamelessly eat a lot of buffalo wings. I see/read/watch something funny every day and try to love people: I think that above all else, this is my biggest piece of advice for living a fulfilling life. Laugh every day and be loving towards people. Both feel really good.
Something that doesn't feel so good: having masking tape ripped off of your tender preteen skin when you and your sister decide to design a poorly-planned T-shirt on your bare chest with tape, which is the subject of the next part in my series That Time I Should Have Died (Part 3)!! See you then!
However, while perusing DIY craft projects on my Pinterest or browsing a funny website or doing something fun yet unproductive, I had a subtle musing: what's wrong with just sharing what is making me really happy right now? I am finding a lot of joy in life, and while I am susceptible to getting in a funk occassionally (I drive in Houston every day and miss my sister and fiance being closeby) I have experienced a few things that have helped me Get Over It and even find happiness for the majority of my day.
For one, I have set my wedding date and booked a venue. These are two major steps to complete, and I am very pleased with both. As long as the world doesn't end beforehand, I will marry a pretty awesome dude on August 31, 2013, in the city where we met.
Also, I got a Wii for Christmas but, due to my spring class schedule, I was too afraid to install it for fear of throwing my academics down the toilet. I'm proud of my decision since I had a really good semester, but this last weekend Keith installed the console for me and I ended up reliving childhood memories of Mario tearing through Koopa territory to rescue that helpless dame yet again. I have vowed to beat the game by the end of the summer.
I am uplifted by countless other blessings in my life, like the fact that Texas is getting some much-needed rain this summer and my classmate Jesse and I meet up every week or so at a sports bar to watch basketball games, have a beer, and shamelessly eat a lot of buffalo wings. I see/read/watch something funny every day and try to love people: I think that above all else, this is my biggest piece of advice for living a fulfilling life. Laugh every day and be loving towards people. Both feel really good.
Something that doesn't feel so good: having masking tape ripped off of your tender preteen skin when you and your sister decide to design a poorly-planned T-shirt on your bare chest with tape, which is the subject of the next part in my series That Time I Should Have Died (Part 3)!! See you then!
Friday, April 27, 2012
That Time I Should Have Died Part II: Come on, Baby, Light My Fire!
I grew up in the rural Piney Woods of East Texas. I had a wholesome country childhood that involved waking up to birds chirping, exploring the woods surrounding our home, and learning vital survival and environmental skills. It was like spending your entire pre-pubcesence as a Boyscout on a wilderness weekend, learning to recognize poison sumac and using moss on a tree trunk to find due North and creating fire with a flint rock. With this kind of daily experience, you are set for life, ready to live a self-sustaining existence like Jeremiah Johnson (I think, I never actually watched that movie, but I wanted you to think I know all about classic Robert Redford films).
Unfortunately, I did not actually have this kind of childhood. I read books throughout adolescence, and apparently they didn't reach me much of the common sense I would have gained had I taken more looks around my physical world. Aside from reading Hatchet, an book that actually teaches children about basic survival and efficiently using all of the possible resources at your disposal, I read a lot of fiction kid stuff that only describe a protagonist's inner struggle between good and evil or the harrowing tales of underdogs rising to their full potential and proving the nay-sayers of the world wrong. Rubbish, essentially.
The tour-de-force of my failure to understand basic common sense occurred one evening when my parents started a bonfire out in our spatial pasture. Living on a farm on many acres, my family was blessed with seclusion, natural surroundings, and (except for me) a resourcefulness to take care of ourselves. My step-dad had changed the oil of our tractor earlier in the day, at least I think so because he had a five-gallon bucket of used oil, which he used as a propellant to get the bonfire started.
Before I go any further, I would like to make the statement that I understand how completely environmentally crappy this was of us to start a fire with oil. That was a long time ago, and my step-dad is a good man, and he only did it for a little while until our firewood caught aflame. Okay? Still friends? Great.
Anyway, after using the oil to start our bonfire, my step-dad sat down next to my mother, and we all watched the flames for a while and enjoyed being together out under the stars. Since I was a stupid little kid, though, I soon got bored and looked for other means of entertainment. Although my parents never approved of my playing with fire, I found a long, thin stick halfway emerged in the flames with the other half sticking out towards me, a perfect handle to a perfect torch with which to explore. I took the handle and pulled the stick out of the flames, but I was disappointed to find that given the thinness and greenness of the stick, the flame soon puttered out from the tip of my otherwise perfect torch.
I spent several minutes re-emerging my stick into the fire, hoping to ignite it long enough to walk away from the fire and find some adventures like Indiana Jones. However, it just wasn't working. I impatiently looked around for something to help me with my endeavors.
That was when my eyes fell upon the five-gallon bucket of oil.
I realized that I could dip my stick into the oil, which would definitely help my flame stay lit at the end of my torch, which had already burned out again. I approached the bucket and coated the end of my stick with runny, black oil. I was thrilled to discover that my stick did in fact catch fire very quickly with my propellant on it, but the flame still did not last long enough for my enjoyment. I practiced dipping my extinguished stick for different durations of time or exposing it to the bonfire for a longer period of time, with no success.
Then, I had an epiphany. If dipping the extinguished torch into the oil was not producing my desired results, then surely it would work if I put the stick into the bucket while it was still aflame. That would help the fire stay lit long enough, and I could run around with my torch to my heart's content. I quickly set my plan into action. I burned my stick for a few seconds and when a flame appeared at the tip, I walked it to the bucket of oil. I slowly lowered the burning stick closer and closer to the surface of the oil. I distinctly remember that the flame illuminated the surface of the oil, and I could see the reflection of my own face hovering over the bucket, watching the flame come within inches of the liquid.
If anybody does not see a problem at this point, let me inform you: I SHOULD HAVE DIED THAT NIGHT!! Had that flame touched that high volume of combustible oil, I would have sent my parents and myself straight to the Promised Land in a burning ball of hot oily fire. I should have blown up like a firecracker, but at the last possible microsecond before I plunged that flame into that oil and self-destructed my entire family, I heard my mother's worried shrill pierce through my own pyromaniac thoughts of glory with, "TIFFANY, WHAT IN THE WORLD ARE YOU DOING?!"
Before I could explain my reasonable intentions, though, my parents seized my failed torch, gave me a very quick and angry lecture on the combustibility of such a large amount of oil, and sent me to the house so that I wouldn't kill everyone. I don't think we had another bonfire for quite a while after that.
Looking back now, I can't help but marvel at the wondrous timing of my mother's intervention that saved our family from a fiery death, and I also wonder at how a child who was really old enough to know better could be so thick-headed. I am proud to say that I now have a vast knowledge on basic chemical reactions (and even some more advanced reactions!) and am doing much better at staying alive through fundamental brain functioning.
However, I also think that more children's books should address the topic of things you shouldn't do that would turn your family into an atomic fireball.
Unfortunately, I did not actually have this kind of childhood. I read books throughout adolescence, and apparently they didn't reach me much of the common sense I would have gained had I taken more looks around my physical world. Aside from reading Hatchet, an book that actually teaches children about basic survival and efficiently using all of the possible resources at your disposal, I read a lot of fiction kid stuff that only describe a protagonist's inner struggle between good and evil or the harrowing tales of underdogs rising to their full potential and proving the nay-sayers of the world wrong. Rubbish, essentially.
The tour-de-force of my failure to understand basic common sense occurred one evening when my parents started a bonfire out in our spatial pasture. Living on a farm on many acres, my family was blessed with seclusion, natural surroundings, and (except for me) a resourcefulness to take care of ourselves. My step-dad had changed the oil of our tractor earlier in the day, at least I think so because he had a five-gallon bucket of used oil, which he used as a propellant to get the bonfire started.
Before I go any further, I would like to make the statement that I understand how completely environmentally crappy this was of us to start a fire with oil. That was a long time ago, and my step-dad is a good man, and he only did it for a little while until our firewood caught aflame. Okay? Still friends? Great.
Anyway, after using the oil to start our bonfire, my step-dad sat down next to my mother, and we all watched the flames for a while and enjoyed being together out under the stars. Since I was a stupid little kid, though, I soon got bored and looked for other means of entertainment. Although my parents never approved of my playing with fire, I found a long, thin stick halfway emerged in the flames with the other half sticking out towards me, a perfect handle to a perfect torch with which to explore. I took the handle and pulled the stick out of the flames, but I was disappointed to find that given the thinness and greenness of the stick, the flame soon puttered out from the tip of my otherwise perfect torch.
I spent several minutes re-emerging my stick into the fire, hoping to ignite it long enough to walk away from the fire and find some adventures like Indiana Jones. However, it just wasn't working. I impatiently looked around for something to help me with my endeavors.
That was when my eyes fell upon the five-gallon bucket of oil.
I realized that I could dip my stick into the oil, which would definitely help my flame stay lit at the end of my torch, which had already burned out again. I approached the bucket and coated the end of my stick with runny, black oil. I was thrilled to discover that my stick did in fact catch fire very quickly with my propellant on it, but the flame still did not last long enough for my enjoyment. I practiced dipping my extinguished stick for different durations of time or exposing it to the bonfire for a longer period of time, with no success.
Then, I had an epiphany. If dipping the extinguished torch into the oil was not producing my desired results, then surely it would work if I put the stick into the bucket while it was still aflame. That would help the fire stay lit long enough, and I could run around with my torch to my heart's content. I quickly set my plan into action. I burned my stick for a few seconds and when a flame appeared at the tip, I walked it to the bucket of oil. I slowly lowered the burning stick closer and closer to the surface of the oil. I distinctly remember that the flame illuminated the surface of the oil, and I could see the reflection of my own face hovering over the bucket, watching the flame come within inches of the liquid.
If anybody does not see a problem at this point, let me inform you: I SHOULD HAVE DIED THAT NIGHT!! Had that flame touched that high volume of combustible oil, I would have sent my parents and myself straight to the Promised Land in a burning ball of hot oily fire. I should have blown up like a firecracker, but at the last possible microsecond before I plunged that flame into that oil and self-destructed my entire family, I heard my mother's worried shrill pierce through my own pyromaniac thoughts of glory with, "TIFFANY, WHAT IN THE WORLD ARE YOU DOING?!"
Before I could explain my reasonable intentions, though, my parents seized my failed torch, gave me a very quick and angry lecture on the combustibility of such a large amount of oil, and sent me to the house so that I wouldn't kill everyone. I don't think we had another bonfire for quite a while after that.
Looking back now, I can't help but marvel at the wondrous timing of my mother's intervention that saved our family from a fiery death, and I also wonder at how a child who was really old enough to know better could be so thick-headed. I am proud to say that I now have a vast knowledge on basic chemical reactions (and even some more advanced reactions!) and am doing much better at staying alive through fundamental brain functioning.
However, I also think that more children's books should address the topic of things you shouldn't do that would turn your family into an atomic fireball.
Wednesday, March 28, 2012
Lab Reports & Worm Medicine
I feel like the majority of my posts (few as they are) start with an apology for my sporadic posting "schedule." Since enthralling the world with my sister's bullying tactics against my bullies or the marriage proposal that ever-so-sweetly blew my mind hole, I have been swept up in a whirlwind of activities.
In February, I went to Atlanta, GA, for a week-long forensic science conference and experienced thousands of personal highs and two tragic lows; I lost a pearl earring Keith's parents had given me and nobody actually called the city Hotlanta.
I found out my cat had worms via her disgusting choice to use the bathroom rug rather than her litter box and had to exploit her love of tuna fish to administer her medicine. It is a sad existence when you fear walking into a room because you know you're going to find the wayward excrement of an animal and have to check it for parasites. After about a week and a half of Zsa Zsa actually using her litter box for #2, my world was crushed again this very day when I came home to find that the worms have caught their second wind on my fluffy bathroom rug; I guess the (mis)adventure begins again.
Just last weekend I spent a glorious Saturday with Keith and his parents viewing the King Tut exhibit at the Houston Museum of Fine Arts, marveling at the intricately (and quite impressively) sculpted jewelry and statues as well as getting some serious tingles watching a video of scientists and anthropologists collecting and running a DNA profile on the mummy of Tutankhamun. Not so tingly: King Tut's mother and father were siblings, making them Uncle Dad and Aunt Mom.
Since Christmas, I have also started my second semester of grad school and have been struggling to stay focused on both my numerous reading assignments and NBC's Thursday night line-up. As soon as I check one thing off of my to-do list, two more chores take its place, like a modern day Hydra flinging different commands at me: "Write your Trace Evidence paper!" "Don't forget to read for Toxicology or call that guy to mow the lawn!" "Have you checked your cat's stool today?!" (how often do you get to drop a Greek mythology reference?!) The amount of schoolwork this semester has me barely keeping my head above water, and my long bouts of sitting by myself studying/reading/watching Hulu are starting to noticeably stunt my social skills. If you've noticed, I think I have talked about feces in almost every post to-date; clearly, my sense of humor is just getting juvenile.
However, school and life continue to fascinate and bless me, even if it means I am far too sleep-deprived and way over-caffeinated, surrounded by textbooks and sifting through cat turds (if you can't tell, I'm really unhappy about this cat poop thing). If you've had the patience to stick around, I humbly thank you and hope to repost a little more frequently.
Speaking of, I am currently cooking up my next post, the second installment to what promises to be a long-running series. That Time I Should Have Died: Part II is soon on its way! See you then!
In February, I went to Atlanta, GA, for a week-long forensic science conference and experienced thousands of personal highs and two tragic lows; I lost a pearl earring Keith's parents had given me and nobody actually called the city Hotlanta.
I found out my cat had worms via her disgusting choice to use the bathroom rug rather than her litter box and had to exploit her love of tuna fish to administer her medicine. It is a sad existence when you fear walking into a room because you know you're going to find the wayward excrement of an animal and have to check it for parasites. After about a week and a half of Zsa Zsa actually using her litter box for #2, my world was crushed again this very day when I came home to find that the worms have caught their second wind on my fluffy bathroom rug; I guess the (mis)adventure begins again.
Just last weekend I spent a glorious Saturday with Keith and his parents viewing the King Tut exhibit at the Houston Museum of Fine Arts, marveling at the intricately (and quite impressively) sculpted jewelry and statues as well as getting some serious tingles watching a video of scientists and anthropologists collecting and running a DNA profile on the mummy of Tutankhamun. Not so tingly: King Tut's mother and father were siblings, making them Uncle Dad and Aunt Mom.
Since Christmas, I have also started my second semester of grad school and have been struggling to stay focused on both my numerous reading assignments and NBC's Thursday night line-up. As soon as I check one thing off of my to-do list, two more chores take its place, like a modern day Hydra flinging different commands at me: "Write your Trace Evidence paper!" "Don't forget to read for Toxicology or call that guy to mow the lawn!" "Have you checked your cat's stool today?!" (how often do you get to drop a Greek mythology reference?!) The amount of schoolwork this semester has me barely keeping my head above water, and my long bouts of sitting by myself studying/reading/watching Hulu are starting to noticeably stunt my social skills. If you've noticed, I think I have talked about feces in almost every post to-date; clearly, my sense of humor is just getting juvenile.
However, school and life continue to fascinate and bless me, even if it means I am far too sleep-deprived and way over-caffeinated, surrounded by textbooks and sifting through cat turds (if you can't tell, I'm really unhappy about this cat poop thing). If you've had the patience to stick around, I humbly thank you and hope to repost a little more frequently.
Speaking of, I am currently cooking up my next post, the second installment to what promises to be a long-running series. That Time I Should Have Died: Part II is soon on its way! See you then!
Sunday, January 15, 2012
The Day My Heart Peed a Little
On December 19th, the day after my birthday, I was the happiest and luckiest girl in the world. Not only had I just turned 25 and entered the world of lower car insurance rates, but my boyfriend and the love of my life (same guy, of course) proposed to me in the most thoughtful and personal gesture that I ever could have imagined. It was intimate, well-planned, and indicative of our relationship together. I was surprised and overwhelmed with the magnitude of it all; to put it crudely, my heart peed a little in excitement.
If you would indulge me, I would like to briefly paint a word picture of that day, as it is a beautiful story and several people do not understand why we are standing by a building under construction in our pictures (yes, there are pictures of this moment! How awesome is that?!) Also, I have only allowed myself short, infrequent bursts of "engagement craze" because I do not want to bring about the pained eye rolls I have witnessed (and experienced) during other ladies' bride-to-be gabbing.
About a week before the proposal, Keith called me to tell me that he had planned my "birthday present." In months past, I had told him that I really wanted to dress nicely and take pictures together at our favorite spot on Texas A&M University's campus: the place where we met and began our friendship-turned-everlasting-love, the steps of the Harrington Education Center. While we were at it, I said, I wanted to take pictures and walk under the famed Century Tree, popular as a place to proclaim your undying love for your significant other.
In all my attempts to take these pictures, Keith stood firm in his denial, either because he had eaten a huge lunch or because he would rather us go to the Chicken for a game of dominoes or because he hated taking lovey-dovey photos. In short, I thought those pictures would never happen. However, when Keith called me the week before my birthday saying he would take those pictures with me and frame a couple of them for my present, I was pretty ecstatic. He suggested we ask my sister to take the pictures, mostly because he didn't want to be noticeably uncomfortable in front of a less-familiar friend. Jessica happily accepted, and she and I had a very short and vague discussion about how all of this sounded "almost too romantic for a birthday present." Being the hopeless romantic that I can sometimes be, I fought to disregard any notion of something more than a photography session with my boyfriend and sister so as not to get my girlish hopes up.
On the morning of the 19th, Keith and I had some Christmas shopping to take care of first thing, and I sneakily watched him throughout the shopping trip. Aside from glancing on his watch to make sure we were "on schedule" for our 4 pm pictures, Keith was cool and calm and a far cry from a guy about to ask someone to marry him. I was convinced; I had let my imagination run away a bit, and the afternoon would simply be taking some beautiful pictures and nothing more. Which was fine, because it was still something that I really wanted and would appreciate.
At 4 pm, Jessica, Keith and I parked on the edge of campus and started to walk toward the Century Tree, Jessica snapping pictures along the way.
As we got to the Century Tree, we took a couple of sweet shots, much to Keith's embarrassment and at the expense of his "street cred." When we decided to move from the tree to the steps of Harrington, I had officially abandoned all expectations beyond a couple of good photos.
At the steps, we struck a few good poses, and Keith laid out his bandanna for me to sit on, given the drizzly weather. After a few minutes of pictures and smiles, Keith asked Jessica, "Is this a good shot?" When Jessica affirmed that the images looked good, I remember Keith saying something like, "Well let's try a different pose."
In a fluid motion, I watched Keith pull a flash of gold out of his jacket and take a one-knee stance next to me. I remember him asking, "Will you marry me?" and looking at the beautiful ring in his hand, feeling like my heart was leaping out of my chest, like a romantic version of Alien, but with overpowering feelings of love instead of an infant monster. I took the ring; it was perfect, just what I had fantasized about, with a yellow gold band and three-stone princess cut setting (that's right, gals.) I slipped it onto my finger, then remember thinking, "Oh, I need to give him an answer!" My smiles and tears and head nodding wouldn't suffice.
One thing about me: I'm a red-faced crier, and for some reason I always try to hold it in, which makes my throat burn. It's weird. So in that moment, as I was fighting inevitable tears of joy, the best thing I could squeak out was, "Yeah!" Crap! You can't say "Yeah" to a wedding proposal! Composing myself, I corrected with, "Yes, thank you!"
Cue the kissing, laughter, more crying, and Keith looking quite proud of himself. My sister was able to capture some great reaction shots through her own tears, as well.
After the initial shock wore off, Keith showed me that he had put an inscription inside the band:
Gosh, what a freaking prince, right? From the proposal, Keith informed us that our friend Tobin, who really deserves significant credit for helping Keith and I get our relationship off the ground, was at the Chicken and did not know of Keith's engagement plans. We hurried across the street to share the good news with him, and as I rounded the corner of the bar, I was surprised once again with about 20 of our friends, anxious with excitement and ready to yell out, "Congratulations!" Apparently, Keith had told several of our buds well ahead of time and coordinated a surprise engagement party for me immediately after popping the question. Awesome, totally awesome.
What followed was a truly wonderful time spent with near and dear friends sharing in Keith's and my happiness, made even better by the free Wedding Cake shot I received. I'd like to say that we closed the Chicken down with our festivities, but the truth is, after buying them out of Miller High Life (which no one even thought was a possibility), the Chicken closed us down......at 8:30. The horseplay may have also had something to do with it, but I guess that made the occasion "Classic Keith & Tiffany."
To everyone that has already wished us well, we truly appreciate it from the bottom of our hearts. Being a person that doesn't always indulge her feminine side, it's been a real treat to share in some serious girly discussion with other chicks, and of course I am very blessed to begin this new chapter in my life with someone like Keith by my side.
There have been several questions since our big announcement, like if we have set a date (not yet, that's a little scary and we are in school for the next year and a half), where are we planning to have the wedding (College Station is central for our families and most of our friends), and if I would be interested in a bachelorette party in Vegas (uh, why do you think I said yes?!) But for now, we are tucking into a nice long engagement and I am just enjoying Googling wedding images and surfing the web for venues and flowers with my sister. I have also vowed to not turn into "Bride Tiffany," which is the version of Tiffany that only talks about her wedding/engagement/catering/colors to friends and victims. Unless, of course, somebody asks.
If you would indulge me, I would like to briefly paint a word picture of that day, as it is a beautiful story and several people do not understand why we are standing by a building under construction in our pictures (yes, there are pictures of this moment! How awesome is that?!) Also, I have only allowed myself short, infrequent bursts of "engagement craze" because I do not want to bring about the pained eye rolls I have witnessed (and experienced) during other ladies' bride-to-be gabbing.
About a week before the proposal, Keith called me to tell me that he had planned my "birthday present." In months past, I had told him that I really wanted to dress nicely and take pictures together at our favorite spot on Texas A&M University's campus: the place where we met and began our friendship-turned-everlasting-love, the steps of the Harrington Education Center. While we were at it, I said, I wanted to take pictures and walk under the famed Century Tree, popular as a place to proclaim your undying love for your significant other.
In all my attempts to take these pictures, Keith stood firm in his denial, either because he had eaten a huge lunch or because he would rather us go to the Chicken for a game of dominoes or because he hated taking lovey-dovey photos. In short, I thought those pictures would never happen. However, when Keith called me the week before my birthday saying he would take those pictures with me and frame a couple of them for my present, I was pretty ecstatic. He suggested we ask my sister to take the pictures, mostly because he didn't want to be noticeably uncomfortable in front of a less-familiar friend. Jessica happily accepted, and she and I had a very short and vague discussion about how all of this sounded "almost too romantic for a birthday present." Being the hopeless romantic that I can sometimes be, I fought to disregard any notion of something more than a photography session with my boyfriend and sister so as not to get my girlish hopes up.
On the morning of the 19th, Keith and I had some Christmas shopping to take care of first thing, and I sneakily watched him throughout the shopping trip. Aside from glancing on his watch to make sure we were "on schedule" for our 4 pm pictures, Keith was cool and calm and a far cry from a guy about to ask someone to marry him. I was convinced; I had let my imagination run away a bit, and the afternoon would simply be taking some beautiful pictures and nothing more. Which was fine, because it was still something that I really wanted and would appreciate.
At 4 pm, Jessica, Keith and I parked on the edge of campus and started to walk toward the Century Tree, Jessica snapping pictures along the way.
 |
| Keith: Romance Ninja |
As we got to the Century Tree, we took a couple of sweet shots, much to Keith's embarrassment and at the expense of his "street cred." When we decided to move from the tree to the steps of Harrington, I had officially abandoned all expectations beyond a couple of good photos.
At the steps, we struck a few good poses, and Keith laid out his bandanna for me to sit on, given the drizzly weather. After a few minutes of pictures and smiles, Keith asked Jessica, "Is this a good shot?" When Jessica affirmed that the images looked good, I remember Keith saying something like, "Well let's try a different pose."
In a fluid motion, I watched Keith pull a flash of gold out of his jacket and take a one-knee stance next to me. I remember him asking, "Will you marry me?" and looking at the beautiful ring in his hand, feeling like my heart was leaping out of my chest, like a romantic version of Alien, but with overpowering feelings of love instead of an infant monster. I took the ring; it was perfect, just what I had fantasized about, with a yellow gold band and three-stone princess cut setting (that's right, gals.) I slipped it onto my finger, then remember thinking, "Oh, I need to give him an answer!" My smiles and tears and head nodding wouldn't suffice.
One thing about me: I'm a red-faced crier, and for some reason I always try to hold it in, which makes my throat burn. It's weird. So in that moment, as I was fighting inevitable tears of joy, the best thing I could squeak out was, "Yeah!" Crap! You can't say "Yeah" to a wedding proposal! Composing myself, I corrected with, "Yes, thank you!"
Cue the kissing, laughter, more crying, and Keith looking quite proud of himself. My sister was able to capture some great reaction shots through her own tears, as well.
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| Keith Franklin: The Best at True Love |
Para siempre. -Keith
(Forever)
Gosh, what a freaking prince, right? From the proposal, Keith informed us that our friend Tobin, who really deserves significant credit for helping Keith and I get our relationship off the ground, was at the Chicken and did not know of Keith's engagement plans. We hurried across the street to share the good news with him, and as I rounded the corner of the bar, I was surprised once again with about 20 of our friends, anxious with excitement and ready to yell out, "Congratulations!" Apparently, Keith had told several of our buds well ahead of time and coordinated a surprise engagement party for me immediately after popping the question. Awesome, totally awesome.
What followed was a truly wonderful time spent with near and dear friends sharing in Keith's and my happiness, made even better by the free Wedding Cake shot I received. I'd like to say that we closed the Chicken down with our festivities, but the truth is, after buying them out of Miller High Life (which no one even thought was a possibility), the Chicken closed us down......at 8:30. The horseplay may have also had something to do with it, but I guess that made the occasion "Classic Keith & Tiffany."
To everyone that has already wished us well, we truly appreciate it from the bottom of our hearts. Being a person that doesn't always indulge her feminine side, it's been a real treat to share in some serious girly discussion with other chicks, and of course I am very blessed to begin this new chapter in my life with someone like Keith by my side.
There have been several questions since our big announcement, like if we have set a date (not yet, that's a little scary and we are in school for the next year and a half), where are we planning to have the wedding (College Station is central for our families and most of our friends), and if I would be interested in a bachelorette party in Vegas (uh, why do you think I said yes?!) But for now, we are tucking into a nice long engagement and I am just enjoying Googling wedding images and surfing the web for venues and flowers with my sister. I have also vowed to not turn into "Bride Tiffany," which is the version of Tiffany that only talks about her wedding/engagement/catering/colors to friends and victims. Unless, of course, somebody asks.
Saturday, January 7, 2012
Happy Birthday, Jessica!
Since my last post, a plethora of blessings and adventures have fallen into my life, and I assure you I will try to get to each and every one of them, if not on this blog than in my daily prayers of thanksgiving. However, today marks a special day for me that I would like to address first and foremost: it is my sister's (a.k.a. my built-in best buddy) birthday today. Jessica is one year older, and as you can read at Blog and JAM, ready to make 2012 the best year of her life.
Jessica has always been a fixture in my life as an older sister and a source of advice, comfort, and friendship throughout my trip on this big blue marble. Being the eldest, Jessica pioneered out into life, the first to enter high school, to enter college, to go to a job interview, and the first to drive 90 mph in a 60 trying to haul our tardy butts to Parliamentary Procedure practice. I have been very fortunate to learn from Jessica's leadership and exploration, especially since she succeeded at nearly every endeavor with seemingly effortless grace and poise. I know for a fact that the only reason I was ever able to accurately fill out a FAFSA application was because Jessica had already completed that tasks weeks before with our family income information.
Aside from a teacher, Jessica is a very empathetic soul who can easily pick up on my fluctuations in mood and temper. A prime example of this quality occurred when Jessica and I were in 7th and 5th grade, respectively.
For those who did not know Jessica and me in middle and high school, we were not always the Best Friends Forever duo that we are today. During the delicate, hormonally-imbalanced years spanning from 5th to 9th grade, Jessica and I were a seesaw of emotions. A seesaw in a vortex machine. In the burning center of a shooting star traveling at speeds beyond our comprehension. We were classic teens thrown at the mercy of our own changing bodies and chemical makeup. If we weren't in the middle of a screaming match over me using Jessica's makeup or her "borrowing" a shirt of mine, we were fiercely laughing and joking around with each other at a friend's house or cruising through our neighborhood (it was a small town, guys; we didn't have many options in the way of entertainment).
As I was saying, Jess and I were in 7th and 5th grade. One day, I sat in my math class waiting for the lecture to begin, and a young bully that we'll call Sam (hah! His name really was Sam!) decided to pick a little fun at me. He announced to the class that my face looked like my mother had an affair with Mr. Ed the horse. Two points to note here: 1) Sam and I had just ended a brief 2-week relationship, so naturally we were both embittered towards each other, and 2) Nice, Sam, real original. Unlucky for you, everyone else in the whole wide world had already seen The Nutty Professor, so we know that you didn't make that joke up yourself. Turd.
Now, in hindsight I should have shrugged this nasty little joke off as a little punk kid making the most of our classroom time with the teacher out of earshot, however my mother was at that moment not making it with a barnyard animal but in the hospital recuperating from an unplanned medical procedure, and I was sensitive. I somehow managed to hold my tears in throughout the class period, but when everyone bustled to the cafeteria for lunch, I remained distraught over this bestiality comment at my expense. As I waited in line, I saw my sister walk in with one of her friends, and through that magical, sisterly connection that we have, she immediately looked my way and locked eyes with me across the room. Granted, I'm a heart on my sleeve kind of person, but when Jessica saw my face, she knew something was up. She and her friend double-timed it over to my spot in line, and I remember her asking fervently, "What's wrong, Tiff?" Her compassion, as well as the fact that she was an older, cooler kid openly talking to me in a group of young, nerdy middle-schoolers, sent my emotions into double time.
I started crying, barely managing to squeak out what Sam had said, along with, "And Jessica, Mom doesn't deserve that right now! She doesn't deserve it!" (blubber, sniffle) After rubbing my arm reassuringly, Jessica looked up and down the lunch line, zeroing in on Sam standing about 5 or 6 spots ahead of me. Without another word to me, Jessica marched up to Sam, towering over him by about 10 inches, and asked him in a stern voice, "Hey! What is this I hear about you talking sh*t to my sister?"
Sam's eyes widened in shock and fear, because aside from being one of the most coveted girls at our middle school, in this moment, Jessica was terrifying. I watched Sam stutter and sputter, denying any involvement in my shattered emotions. After listening to him stammer for a few seconds, Jessica looked at him with a menacing glare and told him, "Good, because if I hear you say anything to her again, I'll kick your ass." Then with a flick of her blonde hair and a sneer on her lips that would have made Elvis shudder in his golden jumpsuit, she walked away from him, leaving him in utter embarrassment among his little turdy friends. Needless to say, nobody was making horse sex jokes on my account after that verbal spanking.
Of course, this story is not indicative of Jessica's everyday mannerisms, but it is a cherished memory of the bond we have with each other. Nobody but my sister would have willingly humiliated a youngster with swear words and threats at that point in my life. Jessica loves boldly and is a faithful and loyal friend to others, and I am both blessed and thrilled to have her in my life. That is why I chose to honor her special day today with the story of her threatening to beat up a kid for his lewd suggestions about my mother's mating preferences.
Happy birthday, Jessica! And a very awesome 2012 to everyone!
Stay tuned-I have one more week of freedom before school starts; I intend to blow up my own personal section of the blogosphere until then.
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| JAM herself |
Aside from a teacher, Jessica is a very empathetic soul who can easily pick up on my fluctuations in mood and temper. A prime example of this quality occurred when Jessica and I were in 7th and 5th grade, respectively.
For those who did not know Jessica and me in middle and high school, we were not always the Best Friends Forever duo that we are today. During the delicate, hormonally-imbalanced years spanning from 5th to 9th grade, Jessica and I were a seesaw of emotions. A seesaw in a vortex machine. In the burning center of a shooting star traveling at speeds beyond our comprehension. We were classic teens thrown at the mercy of our own changing bodies and chemical makeup. If we weren't in the middle of a screaming match over me using Jessica's makeup or her "borrowing" a shirt of mine, we were fiercely laughing and joking around with each other at a friend's house or cruising through our neighborhood (it was a small town, guys; we didn't have many options in the way of entertainment).
As I was saying, Jess and I were in 7th and 5th grade. One day, I sat in my math class waiting for the lecture to begin, and a young bully that we'll call Sam (hah! His name really was Sam!) decided to pick a little fun at me. He announced to the class that my face looked like my mother had an affair with Mr. Ed the horse. Two points to note here: 1) Sam and I had just ended a brief 2-week relationship, so naturally we were both embittered towards each other, and 2) Nice, Sam, real original. Unlucky for you, everyone else in the whole wide world had already seen The Nutty Professor, so we know that you didn't make that joke up yourself. Turd.
Now, in hindsight I should have shrugged this nasty little joke off as a little punk kid making the most of our classroom time with the teacher out of earshot, however my mother was at that moment not making it with a barnyard animal but in the hospital recuperating from an unplanned medical procedure, and I was sensitive. I somehow managed to hold my tears in throughout the class period, but when everyone bustled to the cafeteria for lunch, I remained distraught over this bestiality comment at my expense. As I waited in line, I saw my sister walk in with one of her friends, and through that magical, sisterly connection that we have, she immediately looked my way and locked eyes with me across the room. Granted, I'm a heart on my sleeve kind of person, but when Jessica saw my face, she knew something was up. She and her friend double-timed it over to my spot in line, and I remember her asking fervently, "What's wrong, Tiff?" Her compassion, as well as the fact that she was an older, cooler kid openly talking to me in a group of young, nerdy middle-schoolers, sent my emotions into double time.
I started crying, barely managing to squeak out what Sam had said, along with, "And Jessica, Mom doesn't deserve that right now! She doesn't deserve it!" (blubber, sniffle) After rubbing my arm reassuringly, Jessica looked up and down the lunch line, zeroing in on Sam standing about 5 or 6 spots ahead of me. Without another word to me, Jessica marched up to Sam, towering over him by about 10 inches, and asked him in a stern voice, "Hey! What is this I hear about you talking sh*t to my sister?"
Sam's eyes widened in shock and fear, because aside from being one of the most coveted girls at our middle school, in this moment, Jessica was terrifying. I watched Sam stutter and sputter, denying any involvement in my shattered emotions. After listening to him stammer for a few seconds, Jessica looked at him with a menacing glare and told him, "Good, because if I hear you say anything to her again, I'll kick your ass." Then with a flick of her blonde hair and a sneer on her lips that would have made Elvis shudder in his golden jumpsuit, she walked away from him, leaving him in utter embarrassment among his little turdy friends. Needless to say, nobody was making horse sex jokes on my account after that verbal spanking.
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| Jessica: Champion Sister & BAMF |
Happy birthday, Jessica! And a very awesome 2012 to everyone!
Stay tuned-I have one more week of freedom before school starts; I intend to blow up my own personal section of the blogosphere until then.
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