Any 8 year can tell you what it means, if you aren’t sure.

*ahem*

Xamine Your Zipper.

Now, bear with me for a minute while we skinny dip in a sea of metaphor.

Wow.  That was just mean.  I apologize.  I couldn’t help myself though.  Stay with me.  It IS game day and I might have had some vodka.  I’m getting somewhere though, I promise.

*ahem*

Socrates said “The unexamined life is not worth living.”  I have spent these last twenty-five days reflecting on my life.  Examining the last year in minute detail as I strove to find things to be grateful for that began with certain letters.  I found, as mentioned in the S blog, that there was much more than I expected.

Some days though, it was a struggle – and I let all my ugly bits hang out for the world to see.  One day, in particular, I neglected to ‘Xamine {my} Zipper.’  And instead just spewed ugly in your eyes.

Yeah, I went there.

I told you – a SEA of metaphor here today ladies and gents.

A zipper holds back, hides, the ’shameful’ parts of us.  The parts society says should be kept private.  That society has insisted are Private for long, that it became a euphemism.  Parts of us that, frankly, no one else wants to see without advanced warning, and then may still put the kibosh on the idea of letting all that hang out in the breeze…

My biggest lesson in the last year has been to examine that line.  As I’ve quit smoking and re-learned to manage my emotions.  As I got in trouble for blogging at work because my words hurt someone’s feelings (again.)  My lesson has been learning when to share…and when to simply sit quietly.  To think about WHY I want to say something, and try to do so before saying it.  To determine if I SHOULD unzip… in that moment…that situation.  To evaluate if the good it does me outweighs the harm it could cause another.  And then to act accordingly.

I have learned that when I do this – I find my Xanadu.  I am the ruler of my little slice of life, with a pretty palace near a sacred river.  But it is every bit as fleeting as Coleridge’s Opium-induced vision…  For though I am older than I was, I am not yet wise – and I find myself grateful for my follies – because I truly believe they are what is keeping me Young (at heart.)

And I am grateful for the Zipper that separates it all.

W is for Wicked.

On our Wedding Website I said:

Courtni is Amanda’s Soul Sister.  Her words, her inspiration, her attitude and her unconditional love and support were crucial to Amanda becoming the woman that Robbie fell in love with.  The wedding would not be complete without her.

That is not an exaggeration.  When I first ‘met’ WickedGame – I was intimidated beyond belief.  I had never cared for or about blog-ratings or the myspace ‘elite’ as I thought of them – and she, at least in my eyes, was one of the Elite…but I desperately wanted to know this Woman Whose Words echoed my soul.  More than just Wanting to know her, I Wanted…Needed…her to know ME.  I stalked her blog for months before leaving my first comment.  I almost cried the first time she commented on mine – I felt like I’d won an award.

Wicked is a Writer.  The undiscovered/unacknowledged 10^th World Wonder.  Untempered honesty Winds its Way through every Word she speaks, pens, or types.  More than anyone else I know – Courtni owns Who and What she is.  Completely and Without an ounce of shame.  I have never seen her pull a punch.  And so, when she accepted me – I knew it was real.  When she complimented my Writing – I knew it was real.  She played a big part in my acceptance of my Self.  She exudes strength and Wisdom, and I soaked it up.

And, for the first time in my life, I found myself truly interested in watching a pregnancy progress.  Even being squicked out if I thought about it in terms of ME or MY LIFE… I found myself fascinated by her letters to her unborn daughter.  Teary eyed and full of Warm fuzzies.  It was the first glimpse I had into the soft, gooey WickedHeart beating beneath the hard {candy} shell she portrayed.  And yet, it was no less strong than that exterior.

I almost pee’d my pants when I learned she was going to be in Tennessee for Gigifest.  I was SOOO excited to be able to meet this amazing Woman…and then got tongue-tied when I finally did…and right about the time I started to realize she was human, and neither deserved, nor wanted the pedestal I’d placed her on – and relax – I got the flu.

In the months following got to know Courtni all over again.  Without the idolization, as an equal – a sister.  I stopped feeling like the lost little loser tagging along with the cool kids and realized the cool kids thought I was cool.  I stopped trying and started BEING.  It was a flipped switch, not a process.  An epiphany fueled by the knowledge that Women such as Courtni liked me. Me.  Singing badly at the top of my lungs at two in the morning in the kitchen, wearing pajama pants and a lime green bra that had seen better days – they liked me. Stressed up by superstition and in desperate need of a sports bar – they liked me. Sick as all hell, whiney, mopey and bitter at missing out on the festivities – they liked me.

And when the Frog turned out to be just a Frog, and not a Prince – they were there.  And as I came into my own, there were Wicked little text messages spurring me on.  Forcing me to think a little harder, dig a little deeper into the void known as my Self and KNOW.  And when I needed a new outlet, she got me a visa to thepqnation.

And when I met a man really Worth my time and effort…and when I fell in love with him…and when I got engaged to him– no one was happier for me than Courtni.  LittleMissWicked was happier to hear I found a love like this than I think my own mother was.  It made total sense to me to ask her to stand with me.  And the perfect way to express what (at the time) I had no Words for:  How much she meant to me.

(*ahem*  notgonnacrynotgonnacrynotgonnacrynotgonnacry *ahem*)

So yes.  W is for Wicked.

Carry on.

Is it sad my brain, when faced with the letter ‘V’ – immediately thought of the Sookie Stackhouse novels I’ve been reading?

Then I thought of my friend’s LongDeadVibrator named Vesuvio.

I am grateful for the entertainment both of these things have given me, though Vesuvio died more than a year ago.

But V is for Vanity.

Vanity probably seems a bit strange as a topic for these specific blogs… but I can explain.

I am vain.  I can admit it.  In fact, I just did lol.   Looking nice matters to me.  It’s the number one motivator for my continuing to not smoke – which Iam grateful for.  Despite the weight gain, and the emotional outbursts I am still learning to control…  I know I look better.  My nails aren’t yellow, warped or cracking.  My teeth are visibly whiter.  My hair grows faster and my chin and cheeks break out less often – since I am not pressing my fingers against them all day long to get the cigarette to my lips and the nicotine in to my lungs.  I SMELL better – which is an instant attractiveness boost in anyone’s book.

As much as I want another cigarette – and don’t think I don’t want one more than you could possibly imagine – I am equally reluctant to undo the physical differences quitting has had on me.  For (exactly!) 50 weeks now, that has kept me (relatively) smoke free.  It is why I haven’t brought smokes home.

Even the reluctance to FAIL at quitting can be attributed to my Vanity.  Failing to quit smoking is a very public failure.  Everyone will know if I fail – and we’ve already gone over how much I hate to fail in front of people.

My Vanity has me making a conscious effort to eat better – and now with less frequency.  I am also heading back to the gym after a two (three?) week hiatus.  It has me rediscovering how much I love a good salad…and cottage cheese with sunflower kernels…etc

Despite my weight gain in the last year… I am healthier than I was this time last year.  And I am working my way down in the weight department as well.

My Vanity spurs my determination…  and I am grateful for that.  I figure its better than more than a few of the other Sins anyway…

My first instinct is to go with Undapants.  Mainly cause I like to say “Undapants.”   (Really, I like the expletive “PANTS!” as well, but that’s neither here nor there…)

But, really, I am rather on distinctly Unfriendly terms with all things pants-related at the moment… soo…..

In the last year I have come to realize precisely how many people Understand me.  Who are Unsurprised by the things I do or say, or -more importantly- the way I react to things.

According to Facebook I have 93 friends.  Some of those are duplicates – “dummy” or “safe” profiles.  Some are family. Some are more friends of Robbie than me… Some are people, honestly, that I just haven’t deleted yet because it was easier to just hide them in my feed.  There aren’t many of those though – I purged the list not too long ago of anyone I felt didn’t deserve that level of access to my life.  I deleted a LOT of people who did not Understand me.  People who judged me for things I said or items I ’shared.’  People who were determined to change me.  People who would not admit they didn’t really like ME, but instead were enamored with the character they believed me to be.  People who expected me to not care, or disregard, things that affected me on the deepest, most primal levels.

And yet…93 people are still there.

Ninety Three.

That’s staggering to me.  Someone once predicted that I would never be truly known and loved.  That anyone who truly got to know me would running, screaming, in the opposite direction.  I used to believe that with entire heart and soul.  I wagered on it.  I’m pretty sure I owe at least a couple people a hundred bucks because they’re still here…. years later.  (shuddup Jeremy.)  I was convinced the character flaws were mine.  That the reason I was going through roommates like toilet paper was somewhere inside *ME*.  Just me.

I was wrong.

I Understand that now.  Because so many people, so many of YOU, Understand me.  And have helped me Understand myself.

It’s a cycle, but a beautiful one.

I’ll take it.

Ah. Life.  That awesome, beautiful, FUN thing that always seems to get in the way of my blogging now.

It happens.

Today is, first, for T.

And T is for Teridactyl.

I stole the nickname from DeAnne.

Teri is my rock.  My family away from my family.  She adopted me.  And let her mom adopt me too.  Until I met Robbie and we made our own little family – Teri’s family WAS my family.  I went to her Aunt&Uncle’s house for holidays.  I was around so often her entire extended family were convinced we were dating – and well enough liked that her Grandmother told them all to shut it – and that it didn’t matter if she was.

My own family wouldn’t accept me if I were gay, but Teri’s did.

Teri is Tacky with me.  We are hateful, evil, malicious little bitches when we are Together – and it makes me happy.  She is my cohort for all things horrible-horror-movie related.  She is my Mistress of Bubbles, even though it means she has to wear a dress and have her picture taken.  She will be the first person I go to to help decide if I can pull off this bikini thing I have planned or not when the time to actually order an outfit comes around.

She tells me when I need to calm down and lower my voice, and is one of only three people I will listen to when they say it.

She bought me butter cookies.

…and an animatronic Triceratops.  <3

She stays in North West Austin once a week, driving all the way home to South Central Austin – even though she has her own cable now and doesn’t NEED me to watch So You Think You Can Dance.

She loves my dogs and doesn’t mind that one smells bad and the other drools.

She has drug my drunk ass out to her car, and driven my incoherent, rambling self wherever I needed to be to crash, and let me borrow a shirt to sleep in more times than I remember.  And brought me aspirin at least twice before I passed out.  AND I think she actually, physically, changed my clothes for me once.  I don’t have words for how much it means to me that she stuck around despite all that.

Teridactyl’s are the bestest best friend that ever best-friended…  and she somehow maintains TWO of us.  (Side note:  Sarah gets an honorary mention for sharing her Teridactyl with me.)  And her hectic family life/responsibilities as well.

And she lets me lick her when there are cameras around.  Is there really anything else to say after that?

When I started this, the plan was to take Christmas day off.  But I took yesterday off instead.  And it’s been a day.  An introspective, intraverted sorta day.  I spent the day with the boys, and spent some time in the back seat with the music up – so while they chatted up front, I thought.  I reflected.  I remembered.

I can trace most of the things I am most grateful for to a Single, Stolen Sentence.  And since it is Stolen, I am less willing to go back through blogs on TheSiteThatWontBeMentioned and search for where I found it…when I Stole it.  I know it’s been at least four years… I think?  Three maybe?  Aw hell, no I *have* to go look.

On May 30, 2006, I read a blog that forever changed my life.  I didn’t know the woman who wrote it.  She had never seen my name or face or profile before.  I didn’t even realize at the time how profound the impact of that blog would be.  That it would become MY Truth as well.   My mantra.  The foundation of my being.  I didn’t even know the woman’s real name – she was simply known – at that time – as BurstMyBubble. We later came to call her Gigi, and finally, years later, I embraced my friend Carol in real life.

She titled the blog Seek Sunshine.

When Robbie met Carol this last summer, there was a (possibly drunken) moment when he admitted that he’d never let his walls down until he met me.  I had to respond truthfully and say that mine came down when I ‘met’ Carol.  I only recently realized it could be traced to that specific moment, that specific blog.

Seek Sunshine came from the mouth of a babe.  A toddler.  Carol’s little boy.  She Shared that Story with the world.  That personal, deeply emotional prose, with the world.  And in doing so, set in motion a chain of thinking, of events in MY life that ultimately lead to here.  It started me down the path where I embraced my Strength rather than revile it.  It helped me to feel Secure in Severing toxic ties that were keeping me Stagnant.

Seek Sunshine.

In a nutshell, it is exactly what it seems to be.  The knowledge that the Sun is right behind the biggest blackest cloud in your Sky.  Still there.  Still existing, just out of Sight.  Even on the coldest days.  When you are tired and sad and alone and heartbroken – the Sun is coming back.  Always and forever.  Push through the dark, the pain and sadness and you will find it.

Taking it further, because that’s what I do, it meant to cut away anything choking out the Sunshine.  It meant weeding the garden of my life…  I am only now beginning to realize how much beauty and happiness has replaced what I weeded away.  How much room I made in my Soul for MORE Sunshine.

EVERYTHING else I have now – literally – would not be here if it weren’t for that one Stolen Sentence.  I don’t know why it was this phrase that hit me so hard.  I spent YEARS being told “Seek and Ye Shall find” and “This, too, Shall pass.”  The lesson is the same, only combined and Simplified.   Everything you need in life, rolled in to one Simple, Stolen Sentence.

Seek Sunshine…

…in yourself.

…in life.

…in YOUR life.

…in others.

…in spite of everything.

…TO spite everything.

…in everything, all the time.

And so today was not about Sex.  Or School.  Or Sleeping in.  or Snakes.  or Sterling Silver.  or Saturdays.

And remembering, realizing and publishing the impact Seek Sunshine has had – has made today the best Christmas I could ask for.

A few days back, when this whole thing started – Robbie Randomly mentioned my blog.  The theme, the challenge, I had given myself.  Before I knew it he was listing off topics for the various letters.   R, obviously, was to be for Robbie.

And because it’s obvious, there is a part of me that wants to Rebel.  It’s too easy.  Expected.  Like those quizzes we make up to find out “how well” our friends know us, and then make the questions as obtuse and misleading as possible so that they “have to really, REALLY know {us}” to get them Right.

Oh shuddup.  I know I’m not the only one who does it.

And there are so many things that start with R that I am grateful for.

Raggedy Anne’s.  Rock and Roll music.  Reggae.  Rockabilly.  R&B.  Rap.  Running water.  Rainy Nights.  Rapture.  Red Bull.  Rocks.  Rings.  Romance…  Red Wine…

Remembering spending all night decorating the Cal Farley’s Boys Ranch Dining Hall for Christmas…

All those things, and more…

But, if we are honest… If I am honest – and if I can’t be honest here gods help us all – Robbie is more.  (Sorry, Courtni.  I tried really hard to stay un-mushy… but that’s where this is heading now.)

On June 29, 2008 I wrote the following:

…I accepted a long time ago that I either do or do not like people.  That it’s decided quickly.  That I get attached quickly because I don’t waste time on trying to make myself like people I don’t.  It’s not a judgement, just a difference of opinion – and I accept it.

But I’m trying to slow that down where the men are concerned.  Trying to stick to the 500 questions or six weeks rule.  But I know I *could* love him.  And really have known since the first night.  I also know it’s only been two weeks since I met him.  Four days of which I had no phone and didn’t talk to him at all… so ten days.  During which we have slept in the same bed four times.  *Slept* being the key word.  Bizzare to me.  Foreign.  Did I mention HE wants to take it slow?  Yeah.  Apparently he has a six weeks rule or something similar too.  I’m aiming for a compromise…

I’d already let him sleep on my bed.  (ON, not IN, as I very clearly specified in that blog lol.)  I knew.  He knew.  We would both argue that we knew the moment we met – regardless of anything you might have to say regarding love at first sight.

Robbie is my Refuge.  My Right when everything else is ohsoverywrong and crumbling around me.  My Remedy.  Every bad day, every cramp, twinge, headache and snotty nose is made better with just his presence.  Knowing he is near makes me feel better.   I can’t even stay mad at the jerkface for more than twenty minutes before I start crying because we can’t be mad at each other and stay in the same room.  Yeah, it’s really that pathetic lol.   He is the Rock I tell my secrets to.  And he lets people know when they’ve hurt my feelings – because I am too proud to do it myself.

More than anything else all year, more than anything else EVER: I am grateful for Robbie.  Not just that he is in my life, not just that he chose me – but that, somehow, *I* am what makes him happiest.

I am 28 years old.  Three of my closest friends, my inner circle, are Quadragenarians.  These women steady me.  They ground me.  They have no Qualms about calling me on my shit.  They have a decade more experience navigating this Quagmire called Life than I do, and they share it freely.  They don’t tell me I’m too young.  They don’t Question my knowledge of my Self.  I love them, and am grateful they are in my life.

That I love and appreciate a particular Ms. Quello goes without saying, methinks.

Quaker is now making High Protein and High Fiber Oatmeals in delicious flavors.  This I am also grateful for.

I am grateful for Quiet Saturday mornings with my dog and a book on the chaise.  I am grateful I can almost see the definition of my Quadriceps again.  I am grateful that in high school my Math teacher taught me a song to remember the Quadratic Equation.  (Okay, maybe not, but ‘Q’ is hard, dammit.)

I’ve never had quail and I’m honestly not a fan of quiche…

Um….. Q is hard.  /pout

Questions?

I’ve been told, many times, that I am strong.  I do not think this is the truth.  Surviving is not strength.  Making it work is not ‘being strong.’  I am not strong.  I want to cry more often than I let myself actually do it.  I want to give up.  But all you can do is try to keep on living, so that’s what you do.

What I am is stubborn.  What I am is Proud.  I HATE admitting defeat.  I HATE failing in front of people.  It’s why I won’t play video games in front of the boys.  Why I taught myself how to drive a stick shift at two in the morning in an empty parking lot.  Why I am timid and quiet when I first start a job.  I WILL FINISH.  I WILL SUCCEED.

…but I don’t want anyone watching until I do.

And if someone DOES see me fail… I will Persevere until I can show them I triumphed.  Until I can kick ass and take names.

And that characteristic has paid off this year, and I am determined to carry that over from my Professional life into my Personal life this next year.

P is for Promises.  To me.  From myself, and from others.  Promises of love, of care, of forever, of always…  Promises I would never in a million years imagined were mine to hear.  To believe.  Promises of health and welfare.  Promises of a Better Tomorrow.  Promises that give me hope and spark my Pride and Perseverance.  Promises to myself that I CAN and WILL keep.  Promises I will strive to not get mad at Robbie for helping me keep.  Such as altering my diet to meet tummy tetris needs so that this Pooch around my middle goes the hell away.  P is NOT for paunch.

P is for Prayer.  Yes, even I Pray.  I refuse to classify myself as Christian or Pagan or Wiccan or Agnostic or anything other title… but I will admit that I Pray.  And I’ve Prayed for a lot in the last year.  Little Prayers here and there, repeated over the course of a year.  Praying is much like blogging – it is an outlet, a release, a confession or a Plea.  It casts out, sends out, transmits to the universe what you want, what you need, what you are thinking and where your heart is.  Sometimes they are answered.  Other times, much like a blog, no one comments.  The result is really moot in Squishtopia.  The very ACT of Praying is soothing.  It brings Peace.  It is action.  And whether one believes or not, it is easy to do.   It is an easy box to check on the “All I can do to resolve this Problem” checklist.  And it can’t hurt, can it?

O is for Orange Juice.  Which, if you know me, you understand I don’t drink.  At least, I didn’t use to.  However, in the last year I have been introduced to the beauty that is a mimosa.  And you can’t have a mimosa without Orange Juice, now can you?  Orange Juice also goes in my protein smoothies that Robbie makes me after we work out.  It is now a staple grocery on our list and I am glad to have found new ways to love and appreciate it this year.

It might also be for Orgasms, the quality of which has never been so good as it has in the last year.  But we’re tryin to stay family friendly here, folks, so that’s all I have to say about that.

I wanted to say Open Minds and Open Hearts, but Jane Seymore ruined it for me.   Having an Open Heart, to me, is about more than just “love finding it’s way in.”  Even if Love doesn’t, there are other equally valuable things that come from keeping your heart Open.  Humilty, Knowledge, Grace, Patience…  all good things learned when one keeps their heart Open.

I am grateful for the Opinions around me, 90% of which seem to differ from mine 90% of the time.  I will always call it chili, even if there are beans in it.  Meat/Tomato Stew like substance = chili.  I will now and forever maintain that Sarah Palin is not a woman and might possibly be the Antichrist.  I do not hate Obama, and can appreciate what he is trying to do.  I’ve wanted to move to Sweden for YEARS because they have socialized healthcare.  I LOATHE the Cowboys, the Spurs, and UT sports in general…  And yet somehow, I live in Texas.  With a LOT of good friends who believe differently than I do on all those counts with their entire being.  Having Opinions that differ from mine challenges me, tests the courage of my convictions.  Opinions make me think “What if?”  They make me consider an alternative… and I like having considered all sides before choosing my own.