My mom was right...

It's funny how often mothers are right. Not about everything, but the things that matter. My mom always told my sisters and I we would appreciate each other someday. In the aftermath of a childhood brawl (because girls in my family fight with fists and feet, and there ain't nothin' dainty about it) she would chime in, "Just wait, one day you'll actually like each other. Friends come and go, but you'll always have your sisters."

Of course, I didn't believe her. How could I? Haley (my older sister) had just left an enormous red welt on my back perfectly matching the size and shape of her opened hand. I probably deserved it for being annoying as only a middle child can be. In retaliation, I abused Corrie- the smallest and the youngest. Not necessarily fair in the strictest sense of the word, but in the land of siblings, totally acceptable. I would pay for it later- with three sisters, there is always a man out. Somehow Haley and Corrie's ages equaled out to mine... still not quite sure how that figures, but I am mostly over it. And thus when the next scuffle took place, it was two against one. Not great odds.

All this talk of fighting is not to say we loathed each other. In fact I think we had pretty good relationships for the most part, it was just normal growing up stuff. We stuck together and stood up for each other. We could play peacefully together, and build forts without too much trouble. It hasn't been until recently however, that I have counted my sisters as friends.

Corrie and I hang out now. She comes to my new pad in this new city of mine, and we just chill. A couple nights ago we walked the streets of downtown, me pointing out all the parts of the city that thrilled me, Corrie hoping the Coldstone Ice cream shop was still open. Sharing such a simple event with her reminded me of how fortunate I am to have her, my little sister whose occasional attitude is only a front to protect the most tender of hearts. She's funny and charming, beautiful but WAY to hard on herself. And she's my little sister. Always has been, always will be. I hope wonderful things for her, and know she will find a happiness uniquely her own. Heck, even if she wasn't my sister I'd still be friends with her. The same goes for my older sister Haley. I wish she lived closer, as Los Angeles is not exactly a day trip from upstate New York. But the times we have together, limited as they may be, are great. Haley the blazer of trails, the person who never had a thought her mouth couldn't use, and a woman with the courage to say after earning her masters in journalism (and winning THE award from THE school for journalism) "I think I would rather be a doctor." That takes serious guts. I am in pertpetual awe of her.

How did I get so lucky to have these incredible people in my life. I certainly have done nothing to deserve it. I suppose all I can do is be grateful for it. And from my deepest core, I am. My heart aches for love of these people, their joy is my joy, and their pain my own. For anyone who would hurt them, I say, watch yourself. Karma has a funny way of working, and it might just come in the form of death stares from a tall redhead with one heck of a right hook (just ask Corrie.. hehe).

So if you have sisters, or brothers for that matter, I hope you share not only parents, but friendship. And if you don't, just remember, there are no other people on the planet who can understand what it is like growing up in your family quite like your siblings.

Happiness feels better.

There are inevitable ups and downs in life. Most can't be predicted, some can. But everyday is a new chance to choose your happiness. I know, how cliche... choosing your own happiness. Hey, they are cliches for a reason right?

Yesterday I made it back to gym after about 3 weeks of spotty attendance due to an 800+ mile move and the subsequent unpacking of boxes, cleaning out of crap, and arranging of rooms. I love going to the gym. I feel strong when I am there, empowered when I leave, and borderline slammin' the rest of the time because I know I am emitting that healthy "I exercise regularly" glow.

Getting back there left me feeling totally pumped. On drives home from the gym, I have a tendency of basking in an exercise-enduced endorphine rush. Life seems grand on those drives. The trees reflect stunningly vibrant greens and sparkling flecks of sunlight dance like pixies from one emerald leaf to the next, the air is sweet and soft on my skin as it whirls in through open car windows, the music on the radio is just the song I want to hear, and instead of cursing under my breath at the 16 year old boy who races by me in a pimped out honda only to cut me off and slam on his brakes when the light we (all the experienced drivers on the road) knew was going to turn red, does in fact turn red, I put up a prayer, "keep him safe, and bless his life today". And who says miracles don't happen?

Last night's drive was extra appreciable. The stars aligned in just the right way, at just the right time to reveal a universal truth to me. It feels better being happy. I suddenly realized how much time I waste feeling sorry for myself. Maybe by focusing on how this hurt me or that hurt me, I turned myself into a victim. And who wants to be a victim? Being a victim means I have no control over my own fate, no ability to overcome struggles and shortcoming, living in a perpetual state of "poor me" Instead of wallowing over the few hurdles I have faced in life, why not celebrate the jump over them, and all the times life has smiled on me? Why not spend that time appreciating all the great things I have experienced?

So I did. I spent the rest of the night embracing my great mood. I invited my sister over, joked with my dad, indulged in a Coldstone icecream, walked around my new (I can hardly believe I live here because it is so cool) neighborhood, read a few pages of a good book, showered- because going to bed with a fresh soapy smell is one of my favorite things, and slept like the dead.

A pretty good day, I'd say.

Observations

I have often wondered about the things human beings are inclined to observe. We observe the obvious, those things affecting our physical state, the weather, the temperature, rough, itchy fabric vs. smooth cotton sheets, the softness of a summer breeze as it kisses our skin or the sharp, clinching bite of winter air as it first enters our lungs. These things are tangible. We can reach out and touch them. They effect our nerve endings and make firings in our brains that tell our bodies to sweat or conserve energy, pull away from the danger of a flame. But what of those things that are less concrete. The tension in a room after a fight, the feeling that someone is watching you, the sense of joy at seeing a family reunited in an airport. These are equally pervasive.

What causes some to see art in the details of everyday life, and others to be keenly aware of peoples minute excentricites that give away fear or sadness in even the most guarded of people? How are these things differentiated in the brain- an organ that is composed of the same parts and synapses in almost every human being, but causes each to tend toward one kind of observation over another? These are just some things I have been thinking about. Here is an observation of mine.

In one state.

Great things have been accomplished by man; the pyramids, penicillin, moon walking (Neil and Michael), and today that list is one longer, Trina has officially consolidated her worldly possessions into one apartment, in one state. I think we should mark this day as one for the history books. After all, pigs can now fly, hell froze over, and the moon turned blue; I am officially sleeping in my new apartment. I'd say that is noteworthy.

I was a little concerned that this day would never come. Particularly when we discovered on Sunday -after four solid days of travel, moving and towing an enormous trailer behind a big ass (but ridiculously comfortable) SUV, that my box spring would not fit around the corner and up the stairs to my bedroom. People who graciously offered to help me move in, saw me at my exhausted, almost-ready-to-crack, worst. When I swear aloud out of frustration, watch out. But with only one small hole in the wall, we got it up there. We just had to purchase an alligator-esque DeWitt hand saw, buzz down the middle of my box spring, brace it on both side and body check the frame to make it crack in half. After that, it turned around that corner and went up those stairs like a dream, a terrible, terrible, but funny when you look back on it, dream.

Now as I lay in my "grown up" bed, and spread my whole body over every possible inch, I soak in the wonderfulness that is a high thread count and bless the Gods that created hand saws. Oh and my dad, definitely my dad, who risked life and limb to cut my bed in half, and brought the drill to put it back together. Bless you, bless you both.

I am.... my first encounter with memes

I have been tagged by Amanda, the crazy cool momma of two with inspiring insight into her days of womanhood, motherhood, and hanging in the 'hood of the Adirondacks. The basic premise, sentences starting with I am....

I am a loud belly laugher.

I am sometimes soothed by familiar smells from my childhood even when they are carcinogenic, ie. Virginia Slim cigarette smoke.

I am often overcome with a deep-inside aching love for my friends and family.

I am a believer in people.

I am generous to a fault.

I am patient.

I am not a risk taker.

I am mesmerized by nature and its simultaneous complexity and simplicity.

I am blessed in love.

I am scared of swimming in water where I can't see my feet.

I am trying to overcome the above by swimming in water where I can't see my feet anyway.

I am 23.

I am lonely for companionship, but enjoying life none-the-less.

I am a moderator.

I am thrilled with the fact that I can bear children.

I am an artist.

I am running out of things to say I am... therefore,

I am finished.

I am tagging Lara.

The Truest Sign of Friendship

After I graduated from college a year ago (holy crap) I moved back to the town where I had grown up, a great little city with an abundance of beautiful houses and parks, big old trees along wide streets that make canopies of shimmering green in the spring sunshine, minutes from the queen lake of the adirondacks, lake george, 15 minutes from the horse racing glory of Saratoga and in my mind, right back where I started.

Most of my friends had cut and run. Despite the charm of the city, there are very few jobs unless you want to work in a paper plant or Boston Scientific. Coming home felt a little like a failure... all this work and all the success I had in college going toward.....??? But I consoled myself with the thought that it was not permanent. I had a good job with great people. I could figure some stuff out and relax a little before jumping into the next chapter.

Having few friends in the area however, proved to be a little tricky. Luckily, one friend of mine from high school got a job as an elementary school teacher at a local school and has been my saving grace as far as friends goes. You see, she got set up on a blind date with the cousin of her boss, and though their first few dates will go down in the history books as "worst blind dates imaginable", it is a testament to both their characters that they stuck around for what is turning out to be a great relationship.

How this affects me; the new dude in the picture turned out to be a fun guy with fun friends and we have had some good times over the past few months. But being something of a guarded person, I don't tend to let people in all too easily. Despite my very friendly demeanor, you have to work to gain my trust, -isn't it funny how just a few times of really getting burned in your youth because you trusted people can have a ripple effect that follows you for the rest of your life? Life lesson- don't shit on people. You're sending out some seriously bad karma that will absolutely bite you in the ass. That being said, once you've gained my trust, you're stuck with me, for better or worse.

So this new dude, was a good guy, I knew that much. And he was good to my friend which worked in his favor, but it wasn't until this past Monday after a softball game and dinner outing with the group that I felt truly embraced as one of "the gang".

And what was this defining moment you ask.... I got hardcore, buttcheecks against the glass of my driver's side car window mooned by new dude. Now you all know the secret to my heart, ass cheeks. hehe.

23 here I come!

Saturday marked the turning of my 23rd year. Yikes. I don't know about anyone else, but odd number years just sound older, 23 sounds older than 24, 35 sounds older than 36. It's strange. But I have decided, I am in fact, not old, or even close to it.

Old, Cool, Hot, these adjectives are entirely based on perspective. An example if you will; picture me, the now 23 year old, in my 8 year old youth, frolicking in the back yard, climbing trees, riding bikes, playing dress up and then continuing to climb trees while in "dress up" attire (otherwise known as 1970's era lingerie my mother purchased at a resale shop because it made for excellent beauty queen costumes). We had a babysitter named Christy, and she was everything I wanted to be. She was in, (sigh) high school. And she was so cool and grown up. She had a boyfriend, and played on the tennis team, which meant she must have been the most amazing tennis player to have ever graced the court. She was 16 and she drove this little beater of a car. My sisters and I crunched ourselves into the back when we drove to the grocery store to get summer treats and I can vividly remember one such trip where we had to hide from one of her ex-boyfriends (oh the drama!). When I reached 16, I realized with something akin to disappointment, that I was no where near as cool as Christy had been at 16. When I turned 21, a similar situation. I was not grown up, or sophisticated, and I definitely was not as "together" as I thought I would be at 16 or 21. Now at the ripe old age of 23, I can see it's all about perspective. Christy was the epitome of cool because she represented a teenager, someone that had experienced grown up things, but wasn't a parent or a teacher. I looked at her life through the rose colored glass of my young years and limited experience.

The same thing goes for "old". To someone in their 50's reading this, I am young and carefree, without their world of potential middle age worries, paying for college, taking care of kids, colonoscopes, mammograms. But for me, this is as old as I have ever been and I am feeling it acutely. The loss of my childhood, the rush of emotions that come mostly from fluctuating hormones, school dances, taking classes, final exams, term projects, all these things that have defined my 23 years are fresh in my mind. My perspective of age is derived from my experience, because what other measuring pole do any of us really have?

I probably seem to the children I have watched through years of babysitting, to be very grown up and together. Hehe, oh if they only knew. But I hope as I get older, and gain little pebbles of wisdom, I maintain the veil of rose colored glass that is youth, looking forward to every part of life as a child would view it, with high hopes and undaunted enthusiasm for what's to come. To have that, AND the ability to enjoy all that is this moment, to soak in life until my fingers get all pruny. With that I would be happy. With that, I would feel I did all I could to make my years on this earth count. Right now I am 23, with a lot to learn, and a lot to experience. But I have high hopes for what's next. I think 23 is going to be a pretty great year for me, I can feel it. Like a good book I can't put down, I am looking forward to turning every page.

Because My Mom is Beautiful...

My mother is a remarkable human being. She loves her children with an intensity I am not sure I will ever fully comprehend until I have children of my own. She is our cheerleader and supporter, our counselor and friend, and when necessary the iron fist (though now that her three children are all 20+, not so much).

When I think back to my childhood, I can't remember my mother getting sick. Of course she must have gotten sick at least a couple of times along the way. With three children serving as carrier monkeys, there is no way she could have avoided all our cooties, but what is interesting is that I can't ever remember her being ill, ever. It's weird.

As I enter adulthood, I have begun to see more and more the humanity of my mother. Through the eyes of a child, she was a super-hero, with no task too big (or too small), nothing out of her reach, she could do it all. When she was my age, she had a toddler and one cooking in the oven. I can only imagine the immense pressure she must have felt, not only was she going through the same "finding yourself" crap that I am currently experiencing, but she was raising children as well and balancing a full time job, a marriage, crazy parents, the recent death of a sibling, good GOD! How did she do it? With grace, humility, perseverance, unabated optimism, and a love that runs incredibly deep. I am brought close to tears at the thought of how fortunate I am to have her as a mother.

We were talking the other night, sharing our exercising/weight struggles with each other. She was sharing about the trainer she recently hired, and telling me how much weight she had lost. I was telling her how I was a victim of three digit syndrome, that despite what I know to be muscle weight because my clothes are looser than they were, I am still pissed to have gained three pounds. (I know, whoop dee, three stinkin' pounds, I freely admit that it is entirely psychological) The conversation was mostly positive, but then my mom said something that really got to me. It kind of made me mad. She was talking about where she started, prior to trainers and early-morning cardio sessions, and she called herself a "cow". It was said in a joking fashion, and she softened it by inserting it into the following sentence, "I have only lost ____lbs. but my trainer said it was all definitely fat because I wasn't really in need of a trainer to begin with. I felt like such a cow before." I didn't voice my reaction, but I got mad at her. How dare she call my mom a cow, the woman who for my entire life I have thought to be the most beautiful woman I know. How dare she! No one messes with my momma, not even my momma.

It suddenly occurred to me how hurtful we are to ourselves. I felt the sting of her words because I love my mom and I know her beauty runs so much deeper than the skin covering her bones. We get so used to calling ourselves names, to picking apart our appearance, finding flaws, imperfections, things that could be better, worked on, improved.... we forget that these thoughts and words are hurtful. My mom would never call another woman a cow. I would never tell my friend or a woman on the street, "You know, your thighs are really disproportionate to the rest of your body, you might want to work on that." What makes it ok to say these things about ourselves? Why do we not see our bodies as magnificent? Yes, keep it healthy, take care of it, exercise it, feed it, and then love it. Love it like you love a friend, with forgiveness and support, encouragement and caring words. My body is the only one I have. And it is never going to change. I am never going to be able to trade in my thighs for a different pair, but no one on this earth has a pair that would fit me better. They are mine, they are strong, and from now on, I am going to treat them with the respect they deserve.

So this is for my mother, who is, in a word, incredible. I love you because you inspire me with your wisdom. I love you because you make lame puns that I think are hilarious. I love you because you LIVE your life, accepting its ups and downs with a grace I will forever strive to attain. I love you because you have shown me what love looks like, that it is not perfect or neat or easy, but essential, and all that there really is. I love you because even though I was born five weeks early and blue as the sky, your body made me strong enough to pull through. I love you because even though you may become irrational at times, you come around in the end. I love you because you taught me how to be my own person by supporting all my goofy endeavors. I love you because you are my mom, not because you weigh what you did at 18. I understand now what you meant when you said, "Stop beating up my kid." I know what you felt when I knocked myself down, you felt pain, just like I did, when you knocked yourself down. So from here on out, I will, I'll stop beating up your kid, as long as you stop beating up my mom.

an ode to britney

She may not have used the best judgement when she shaved her head, married K-Fed, or when she chose that silver, skin tight cat suit for her music video, but let me just say, with the whole, "not a girl, not yet a woman" thing, she sort of hit the nail on the head.

Granted, the song is lame, but the sentiment is definitely understood. I think it happens all the time, people getting stuck in between life paths and phases. No one really wants to admit it, because who wants to admit not knowing where they are in life, but I for one, freely and proudly admit it. Trina: Not a girl, not yet a woman.

I am sure almost everyone who knows me would say otherwise. I tend to give off a very "I've got it all under control" attitude, but deep down, I've got one foot stuck in girlhood and the other somewhere on the outskirts of womanland. I do adult things, I pay bills, and have a 9-5er. I cook all my own food, I do all my own laundry, I have a retirement fund and "People" to manage it. And not that I wish an unfortunate anonymous death upon myself, (and I know this is kind of morbid and probably the result of too many crime tv shows) but if CSI investigators found me in some remote location, I would be classified as an adult female, 5'9" 162 lbs. ADULT. On paper, I certainly fit the bill.

I have always had an overly keen sense of responsibilty, at times causing me to miss out on some positive risk taking, but I can't seem to think of myself as a "woman". The term comes equipped with so much weight, like I should have to accomplish great things in order to deserve it. The term "Woman" holds a lot of power. This isn't a feminist statement or a petition to change the langauge so it is more gender neutral, just a fact. The term "Man" when applied to an individual male holds a lot of power too. To be a "Man" in my mind anyway, you have to build things, cook outdoors, make fire, play rugged sports, be a sex machine.... hehe, you thought I was serious there for a minute and all the "male social stereo-type" hairs on your head stood on end. Don't worry, to be a "Man" means so much more than an ability to wield an ax or a throw a football as some might have you believe. To deserve the term, I think a guy needs to be able to take responsiblity for his actions, own his strengths, and his weakness, treat all individuals with respect, be able to compromise, go after the things he wants in life, stand up for himself and those that can't stand up for themselves, be willing to admit there are things that scare him, but have the courage to stand up to those fears. And I think pretty much all those same things apply to the term "Woman". No pressure or anything.

But despite what might seem like unrealistic expectations, I don't think it is wrong to expect things of people, or of myself. It's like grading... a lot of teachers these days will give you an "A" for fulfilling the requirements of an assignment. But in reality, you deserve a "C" : average work, you fulfilled the requirements, no more, no less. An "A" means you went well above and beyond, you busted your ass, you made an effort and accomplished excellence. Maybe the expecations I have for myself are too high, and I will only deem myself a "woman" when I have faced all my fears and boldly gone where no Trina has gone before.

Maybe it will be more like my counselor said a while back, (yes I see a counselor from time to time, I highly recommend it, it helps you get some perspective and learn to help yourself... geez I sound like a self help book) "Becoming a woman is less of a sudden realization and more of a gradual progression. You'll find yourself talking to someone who may be older than you, but you'll decide, 'yeah, I'm an adult, I am on equal footing with you.' and then you'll be talking to someone else and feel like a kid again. This process will keep on repeating until the times you feel like an adult start to outnumber the times your feel like a kid. And one day, you'll look up, and suddenly there you'll be, an adult."

Or perhaps it will be a combination of the two, because I can't imagine I will stop having high expectations of myself, I will probably edge my way into adulthood through the my "go-getter" experiences and the lessons I learn from my successes and failures along the way, floating back and forth from kidville to womanland, until I find safe harbor somewhere in adulthood.

As for right now though, still not a girl, and still not quite a woman. Oh well, I'll keep you posted if there are any new developments.

Politics as fun as a Dane Cook Show

All right, I am not sure who else out there tunes into C-SPAN, I mean, I do on a pretty regular basis, but I am not sure that is the norm, at least for someone my age. Well let me just say, there is some pretty good entertainment on the channel of politics in action.

Yesterday, while flipping through stations dedicated to the very important and world changing issues of infomercials, QVC, reality TV and movies starring the incredibly talented actor, Dwayne Douglas Johnson, ie. former WWF wrestler, "The Rock", I happened upon a recording of the British House of Commons. I have stumbled upon this in the past, and let me say, I kind of always hope it's on. It's a guilty pleasure, akin to episodes of The Office and romance novels. Indeed, there are some striking similarities between the three.

Though no one is sporting a white powered wig (a sad loss), you won't find politics more entertaining than this, well excepting perhaps the incredible vocal stylings of our "Man in Charge". Picture this, a room packed with the voice of the common man, (the elected representatives of each district within the UK), the Prime Minister Tony Blair and his posse, the head honcho for Tony's opposing party and HIS posse, seated directly across from Tony, and a large centrally located table with a couple of micro phones placed on either side. The room is set up in a fashion similar to the arena where small animals such as roosters, or dogs have illegal fights in the basements of seemingly legit butcher's shops. And trust me, the battles that ensue in this "public forum" have a similar bite. But for the sake of decency, there is an appointed Speaker to maintain order, currently that task falls to Michael Martin I believe. (I am pretty sure he has a much larger role than merely officiating one of the largest branches of the British government, but for the sake of my story, he is pretty much wearing the black and white stripes.)

Once the session begins, anyone who wants to ask a question, make a point, take a jab at the Prime Minister, hear themselves talk, take one for the team, throw in a few statistics, give their respective party a leg up, or shoot the shit, as it were, aggressively stands in unison, some almost jumping out of their seats, others, ACTUALLY jumping out of their seats, hoping the speaker will see them first and allow them to voice any of the aforementioned alternatives. Once a person is identified (though I imagine the Speaker probably just guesses, because I mean really, who would actually be able to pick the first to stand, and what of the people with knee problems, who can't burst from their chairs as easily as their sprightly and nimble counterparts?) the rest sit, many like sulking school boys who hang their heads and look forlorn.

Whoever "stood up first" (yeah, right), will continue standing and proceed with their comment amidst what can only be referred to as loud grumbling. Sometimes the grumbling grows to yells and at times I believe, cat calls. If a question is posed, the Prime Minister will bound from his chair to the podium, binder in hand, full of what I can only assume is page upon page of potential answers for potential questions brought to the House that day... it's a pretty big binder, and then, usually having to yell over the laughs, chuckles, and cat calls of the representatives, (while leaning on an elaborate avocado colored chest serving as a podium), answers the question and trys not to laugh with the rest of the crowd. After the question is answered, he bounds back to his chair and everyone else immediately jumps from their seats repeating the process of "first to stand" and hoping for the Speaker to "PICK ME!!!! PICK ME!!!!".

And this is what they do, almost the entire time the House is in session. It is Hilarious, not only because of the method, but also because while people are insulting each other (or the Prime Minister for that matter), they are throwing around terms like "Right Honorable Gentleman"... and ""The Good Sir/Madam" ...for example, "The Right Hornorable Gentleman is son to a horses ass and a can't even bother to show up for meetings held to discuss the very issue he is complaining about." Ok that might have been a slight exaggeration, but you get the point.

So to make a long story short, for those of you who think politics are dry and pointless, I encourage you to watch C-SPAN more often. If you happen to catch the House of Commons, you are in for a great show. I personally think the US Senete and House of Representatives could take a few cues from their hilarious methods. And don't get me wrong, I am not belittling the British system of government at all. In fact, I think it's pretty fricken cool that members of the House of Commons are having a great time while they speak for the people. Laughing and grumbling WHILE getting stuff done. Sounds like a plan to me

There's nothing like a party

"and the Nori Award goes to.... Trampoline Design!" (enter whooping, hollering and general jubilation). Such was the scene EIGHT times last night at the Ad club Nori Awards in Albany. Suffice to say, the night was a total success, and not just because we won 8 of the 14 submissions we entered (ok I might be bragging a little here), but because I saw how clearly the joy of success felt by one member of Trampoline was felt by every other member at that table.

And then it hit me as I sat there, flanked on one side by my date, (otherwise known as my dad), and Boss Couple #1 Paula and Derek, the couple who since I met them about 7 years ago, have helped restore my faith in marriage with the notion that even after 10+ years and two children, two people can continue to genuinely enjoy one another's company, and that when she comes up in conversations, a man can talk about the beauty of his wife as if he is laying eyes on her for the first time; and on the other side, Boss Couple #2, Sean and Amanda, the uber cool, hilarious, and devoted to one another duo, whose wisdom and appreciation of all the small moments that make up life and family seems to come not from the mouths of two new parents, but instead from the seasoned voices of a 75 year old couple scootin' along with all their years of experience to draw from; and beyond them, the "On the same level as me, under Boss Couple #1 and Boss Couple #2" Couple, Pete and Jen. I don't know Jen very well yet, but since she can hang out with Pete all the time, she must possess some pretty fine qualities, and Pete, the kind of person with the sense of humor everyone wishes they had, a person who when you buy them some granola because you remembered they said they liked it, will come to you truly appreciative of the gesture, and then a while after they have eaten all the "chunks" ask you if you have yet to come up with a method for re-clumping the straggling pieces of oat because he can't finish it if it is un-clumped. Pete is also profoundly accomplished at talking "shit", fluffing his ego feathers when certain LAME members of the community get up in his grill, and taking with dignity the taunts of the Y chromosome member of Boss Couple #2 (Sean).

So after pondering all these people around me, I realized, we were something of a family; a group of people who shared in each other's happiness and success, struggles and sadness. I wonder if at the beginning, when Sean and Derek were first thinking of starting a business together, they realized this is what it would become. They have seen each other through the birth of two children, a home lost to fire, death of a beloved grandparent, a health scare with a parent, illness, milestone birthdays, and that is not to mention all that goes into running a small business with money matters, problem clients, new hires, dealing with Pete, landing big jobs, winning eight Noris in ONE night, being up for a best in show award. I bet a steak dinner with a side of vegetables that it's more than either of them bargained for.

Sitting there I felt called to let up a prayer of thanks, thanks that these people were in my life, that at a time when circumstances have left me sometimes feeling adrift, without a place to belong or a community to depend on, I was a part of this group, this family. Without my realizing it, the three men I worked with day in and day out, had become like big brothers to me, teasing me when appropriate... insert "Trina's gullible moment" here, supporting me and all my crazy endeavours, appreciating my efforts at the office, and each on separate occasions at the awards ceremony last night, making a point to tell me I looked great. What girl doesn't like that?

Success was measured in more than one way last night. What began as a ceremony celebrating Trampoline's incredible talent and hard work, became a moment in time when its people and what they created was suddenly paramount to any award they could have won.

The Hunt for Independence

So I am gearing up for a pretty big change in the next couple of weeks; moving into my first post-college apartment in a new city. Granted this new city is only about 20 miles away from where I currently live, and I did live in an apartment (albeit on campus) for three years, so I am not totally new to the world of independent living, but I am still feeling the crunch of a big life change.

I am absolutely a creature of habit. I fall easily into comfortable patterns and tend to stick with them until life forces change upon me. Since graduating, my patterns have tended more toward those of a middle-aged male plumber, ie. my father, who has graciously allowed me to stay with him for the past year while I figure out some kind of life plan, instead of the more appropriate patterns of an upbeat 22 year old woman. Don't get me wrong, I love my dad. He is a great guy, and I feel we have become a lot closer in recent months. But until this past year, I hadn't lived with him full time, for an extended period of time, since my parents divorced in 1997. With few friends in the area, and a small work environment where the people are fantastic, but everyone in the office is married with small children or busy with a girlfriend/house renovations/small business, it has been tough finding people my age to hang out with. So I have become something of an old woman. I go to work, hit the gym, get home to make myself some sort of vegetarian concoction with whatever I can find in the cabinets, work on some sewing or the crocheted blanket I have been trying to finish for the past two years, maybe read a book, and then go to bed, usually around 10:30. Not exactly the thrilling life I hoped for.

I began looking for an apartment, and a roommate. My first attempt at finding a friend to live with, not so successful. The one person in the area I could think of, a great friend of mine from high school, and probably the most perfect 1st grade teacher you will ever find, was not quite ready for the break from home. And that was fine, but I was itching for a place of my own where I could set up camp, have people over for dinner, throw the occassional party, and all those other things I couldn't do in my father's tiny two bedroom apartment where the median age of the complex probably didn't dip below 65. So I searched for places I could afford on my own. I wasn't particularly interested in living alone. I feared the solitude that would accompany coming home to an empty apartment every night. My father may have been "watching" a Yankee's game through his eyelids every night, but at least he was there, and would rouse to say hello when I came in, and occassionaly enjoy or at least pretend to enjoy my vegetable delights.

Sadly, or perhaps serendipitously, the only places I could find in my budget were either the size of a postage stamp with a living room just wide enough for me to stretch out my arms and touch my fingers to either wall, or dumps where I would fear taking showers barefooted. Feeling resigned to wait patiently for my friend to get sick enough of her parents to move out, I kept on crashing at my dad's. Really, it hasn't been terrible. Though perhaps not quite bursting with excitement, I didn't have to pay rent, (which allowed me to visit my sister and the rest of my family in Rome for a week) it was a short commute to work, and I got the bigger bedroom so I could set up my Trinabags sewing station. But then out of the blue, I get a call. One of my sister's best friends is looking for a bigger place, would I like to room with her? Abso-fricken-lutely.

We started hunting. She suggested Saratoga, a hip young town with a great art scene, funky bars and restaurants, and the track. At first I was hesitant about the commute, having never had one before, but then we looked at some places, walked around the super downtown, and my feelings shifted from hestitancy to how fast can we make this happen.

The first few places were nothing to write home about, but then on our way home after a few unsuccessful viewings, I saw a "For Rent" sign in front of a big old Victorian located just a five minute walk from dowtown. We called the number, and the landlord said, "It's open, take a look if you want." The place felt right from the moment we walked in. Two floors, a living room, a dining/kitchen area, two bedrooms, plenty of storage, and all the charm you would expect from a house dating back to around 1890. Not wanting to rush into anything, we both took the night to think about, though in retrospect, I don't think either of us really needed it. Then next day, we said we'd take it, and signed on the dotted line. Now I am in the process of retreiving my stuff from the three different states where is has been housed for the past year, North Carolina, Virginia, and New York. Once I have it all, I'll be moving in, and throwing a huge fricken house warming party. :) Handsome, single, young men are welcome.

Knock em' dead

Oh the pressure of a first post. Of course, my obsessive, perfectionist, super-perky cheerleader of an inner voice is yelling, "Make it a DOOSEY! Knock Em' DEAD!" while my other, the overly rational, slightly cynical, sometimes jaded voice is saying with a certain amount of disdain, "Trina, get a grip".

They are my angel and devil, each sitting happily on their designated shoulder, proffering taunts and cheers, eye rolls, and accolades. You'll get to know each of them pretty well as the posts accumulate I imagine.

I started this blog to keep a record of the ups and downs and the daily oddities. These are the necessary reflections of a twenty something searcher, just trying to figure it all out. It will at times be entertaining (I hope), and at times, probably just dripping with lameness as I ponder all life throws at me. So here it goes, my first post...