Halloween and Other Stuff

Well, I've just passed the last legal-landmark of age: turning 21. I can now accompany my husband to buy wine instead of waiting in the car. On Tuesday, I languished in a day devoted to me--and being able to spend it all with my husband. Granted, I had to attend class, but I did get work off. We used that time to go to Longhorn Steakhouse and eat (on my end) lobster and crab soup with bacon mac n' cheese. Not having the ingredients for my dad's bacon mushroom mac n cheese (which I usually request for my birthday), we went to the only place we knew had the closest thing. John ate french onion soup (which was surprisingly tasty--after an unfortunate incident with bad french onion soup, it took a lot of bravery for me to try it again) and an amazing BBQ sandwich. After, we went and bought an ice cream cake from Publix (also tasty). I received some great presents from my parents in the mail, and my hubby made a dent in my amazon wishlist by getting me "Tales of Beedle the Bard" and "The Casual Vacancy" by J.K. Rowling.

I spent the day thinking about how much has changed in a year and a half. For the first time in my life, I realized that I didn't care if I was given a gift ever again, because I was given the best gift of all on May 7th of 2011. I was introduced to the man of my dreams. If ever there was a reason to believe in a higher power, John is my reason. Of the billions that inhabit the Earth, I managed to bump into my soul mate at a party I wasn't planning on going to in the first place. Home from school, all I wanted to do was hang out with my dad before he went to his check up appointment at Mayo Clinic. I was still having a hard time being away from home knowing my dad was living with cancer. It was my best friend who convinced me to go to her friend's birthday party to relax and celebrate. When I arrived I realized I didn't know anyone there but Bill, a man I had met just days before. My best friend not there yet, I wanted to turn around and go home. Maybe it was the allure of the campfire, or the sign of recognition on Bill's face, but I walked over and sat in the only spot available--directly next to my future husband.  

I think of that moment often; the animated hand gestures as he spoke, his ability to make me laugh despite my sullen mood, his eloquent words, the firelight glinting with the mischief in his warm eyes. Before I knew it, it was 3AM the next day, only a few people lingering around the dying fire. I had just enough time to get home and wish my dad luck before he left for Rochester, and I couldn't bring myself to miss that opportunity. I left that party intrigued by John, hoping that we would bump into each other again soon.

I'm not saying our lives have been perfect--love can be a struggle some times. But 100% of the time, I'd rather be arguing with John than anywhere else I thought I'd be at this time two years ago. All I want for birthdays, Christmases, Easters, Thanksgivings, Valentine Days, and any other holiday is to spend time with my husband.

****
 Yesterday was Halloween, and for the first time in my life, I got to hand out candy to trick or treaters. Since I can remember, my family has lived out in the country...not a very likely option for kids to go knocking on doors. When I was a kid, my dad would take my brother and I to the Saint Hilaire Lions Club. They put on a costume contest and a hayride for the kids in the area. I loved riding around the neighborhoods, seeing the homes decked out in flashing lights. I was excited all day--for some reason, all I've ever wanted to do was hand someone some candy on my favorite holiday of the year. When the knock came at the door, I pushed homework from my lap and raced to the door. I flung it open and beheld...kids wearing winter jackets. Perhaps they had costumes on underneath, but they were dressed like I used to be this time in Minnesota. It was only 55 degrees in Savannah. My first year without snow, the first year I look forward to kids wearing costumes, and the natives are bundled up like there's frost on the ground. One look at the candy, and eyes popped wide.
 "How much can we take?" One boy asked, hopping on his feet. Murmurs of 'trick or treat' flew across the others, the moms standing with a watchful eye on the steps. I paused, trying to remember how much I got when I went around to homes in Saint Hilaire. Apparently, my answer came too slowly. Before I could open my mouth, hands dove into the plastic bowl I carried, children dashing ahead of parents with prizes being stuffed into coat pockets. I blinked, looking at the almost empty bowl before going back inside. Though one group of kids near cleared us out, I still couldn't help but feeling happy. Giving candy is definitely better than taking it!

Fear of a Thing Inspires

Fear is an excellent driving force. When I first began college in 2010, I was afraid of failing classes. I studied my ass off to ensure that didn't happen. So it didn't. When I was given the opportunity to interview for the Video Production position at Armstrong, I was terrified that I would get the job, and that I wouldn't. I'd never gone out for a job I really wanted before. If I did get the job, what if I couldn't do it? So I researched, I practiced interviewing...and I got the job. And I'm doing pretty damn well for never touching a video camera before, and with minimal experience with editing film.

But when I got the hang of classes at Armstrong, I stopped caring if I didn't get all A's. Honestly, I just stopped caring about school. There is not one class right now in which I participate, in which I put forth all the effort necessary to do more than average work. I've never gone a full semester of not speaking in a class before...but that's what's happening. I've become that person in the back of the class taping pictures of eyes on my eyelids to appear interested. I still worry about assignments, tests, but only enough to make sure I don't scar my record with D's or F's. I'm worried about my 7-10 page paper for my Intro to Literary Theory class, because I don't really know what I'm doing. I don't have a solid grasp of my own thesis, or how I'm going to incorporate two different 'isms' (psychoanalysis is one so far). I've been in the class so long, it's hard for me to argue against the way of critiquing via the 'isms' of theory, so I'm doing what I've been programmed to do (and I wasn't programmed all that well). In the effort to balance views, I asked my husband to ask his SCAD teachers if I could do an interview with them on my topic--H.P. Lovecraft's "The Outsider." None of them believe in the worth of literary theory, and that's what I need. But now, I'm terrified. One of his professors actually said yes (probably because he's in such a good mood. He's just been given the option of turning one of his books into a movie--can you say PAYDAY?). I haven't felt this short of breath, this anxious and hand-wringingly stupefied since high school. I said I'd get him the interview questions and a summery of what I'm doing by Monday. That's one weekend to get my head on straight. Suddenly, this assignment means more to me than anything I've done since starting college. If I can prove to him that I can write, even a little bit, I might gain some kind of inside track that could help me if I get accepted to SCAD. Even if it doesn't, I just don't want to be a disappointment--my husband has awed them with his talent, I don't want his professors to think badly of me. Suddenly, my writing has meaning again. Call me shallow for caring what this prestigious author thinks, but it's kick-started a fear that will make me take this paper seriously. Fear has energized this lethargic writer, and I want to take advantage of it.

D.A.D

http://www.change.org/petitions/the-state-of-georgia-create-a-domestic-abuse-database-for-violent-offenders

Last night my husband received a text from her sister: she was in the hospital.

Her boyfriend of about 8 months beat her up pretty badly. I watched my husband's fingers flash across the mini keypad, his breathing labored.

My sister-in-law was sent for an emergency MRI because they thought blood might be flooding to her brain. This is not the first woman in my life to become a victim of abuse. My husband's anger and worry has morphed into something we can all take part in: finding a way to reduce the risk of this happening to other women. My husband is starting an organization called "DAD or Domestic Abuse Database. Similar to that of sex offender registries because the crime is eerily similar in how it repeats. The objective is to create pressure on our leaders to enact laws requiring those who commit acts of domestic violence to register themselves with the state government and to require those state officials to maintain these databases."

This woman's story is a prime example of why a database like this is needed. Connie Nelson knows her life will change again once her husband is released--it has been 12 years since anyone has seen him. If he comes after her again, the chances are small that someone would be able to recognize him and to help prevent access to her.

Please, help begin the change that society desperately needs to reduce the risk of abuse.