I was in third grade the first time I fell in love. A crushing, choking kind of love that left me speechless and trembling, hiding behind the lunchboxes under the bench in the coat room. And though, for the life of me, I can’t remember the name of the teacher I spent 5 days a week with, I’ll forever remember the name Mike Donahue.

He was a sixth grader, cool, composed and ultra-popular, and me? I was a frightened bunny, always scouting an exit and ready to bolt at a moments notice. But, oh, how I pined for him. Many a recess was spent sitting on top of that strange metal contraption. You remember the one…the ½ sphere set in the ground, that you could climb on, or over, or hide beneath when the urge would strike. But I never hid. I would perch myself on top, and pretend as hard as I could that I was aloof, and important, and precious…all the time stealing glances toward the blacktop where he played basketball, or tether ball, or just leaned, ever so handsome, against the side of the red brick building. I remember this, as clear as it was yesterday, and I can still feel that sinking sensation in the pit of my stomach, knowing how far our worlds were apart. My first love, and my first, want that for which I cannot have. I vaguely remember a time or two when he chased me round the swing set, and the way it set my heart on wings; to be noticed, to be acknowledged. To run and laugh until my breath was gone and my cheeks were set rosy by the whip of the wind and the pain of my shyness.

At the end of the year, after many days of stress and worry, I finally worked up the nerve to ask him to sign my autograph book. Which may or may not be true, for as the years have passed I can’t recall if I actually asked, or if he, knowing the effect he had on me, asked if he could sign it. But I do remember the signature. And I do remember the way I so carefully dog-eared the page in a slightly different way then all the rest, so that I could find it on a moments notice. And I do remember tracing the flowing lines of the letters with my third grade index finger, and thinking how close I felt to being someone at that moment. And oh, the hearts I would trace with my finger, around and around. Never daring to defile the actual page with lead or ink…it was enough to imagine it there, to know it could have been there.

Many years later, my sister ran into him on the campus of MSU. Now “Dr.” Donahue, and she reminisced, and laughed, and caught up on years that had passed, and then, and then…he asked about me. He said he could still remember how everyday he would find me in the lunchroom, and come to say hello. He said he knew he could count on three things. I would never make eye contact, I would blush a bright red, and I would always offer him the dessert my mother had packed in my lunchbox. He said he always thought I was cute, in a third grade sort of way, and that my incredibly excruciating shyness was endearing. Almost as endearing as my willingness to hand over my ho-ho’s and twinkies, and cookies, and ding-dongs.

And though now, I can sort of somewhere come up with a hazy recollection of that lunch time routine, until she mentioned it to me, I had completely forgotten. And I guess, in a way, it just goes to show, that not only will a girl never fully outgrow a case of the bashful’s, but if she’s the type to, as a third grader, give and give and give, just on the off chance that it will make someone like her, she probably always will be.

All better. But still so tired. It's been so long since I've actually had a full night's sleep, it should really be a crime. Did not workout AT ALL for I think 2 weeks...Timeline for the size 4's not looking so good. I did, however, do a leg workout and go to kickboxing last night, so I'm sufficiently exhausted today, in addition to the sleep deprivation previously mentioned. It might even qualify as dog-tired, which, I imagine is the state of complete oblivion that my boxer slips into as she lays on her side and snores loud enough to shake the siding.

Two days ago I was laying on the floor playing with the baby, and then she got up and knocked over the vacuum cleaner I had next to the couch, and the handle hit me right on the bridge of my nose. Two black eyes later, and holy crap my face hurts. I didn't hear a crack, which is good, because I've already broken my nose twice and then had it re-broken when the 2nd doctor didn't set it right, and all I've got to say about that is freaking ouch, okay? I swear, if I would have heard a crack, I'd have pulled an office space on that stupid vacuum.

Bronchitis almost gone...Am starting to breathe again...Thank God for the Z-pack!

Last week was pretty much a bust. I wasn’t feeling well, so I spent the most of the week curled up with comfort food feeling sorry for myself. I did get the flowers planted, plus the others I bought looking for a star magnolia, and the third batch I bought when I went back to get mulch. That I need more of. It’s never ending. My dad and step mom and sister and niece flew in on Friday…my dad and step mom have never yet been to the house, and haven’t seen my kids in a year, so it was about time. My brother, his wife and their new baby drove in to meet us so we spent the day together. It was really nice to be around family. I forget sometimes how much I miss living near anyone. And I forget how much it squeezes my heart to say goodbye. Of course, Thursday I was a nervous wreck, because to say that my step mom is a neat freak would be an understatement. Of the century. Don’t get me wrong, my house is “neat”…just don’t open anything. No. seriously. Step away from the cabinet. What I really need is crazydogmama to come and organize me. God knows I’m completely incapable of doing it myself. So Friday was this beautiful day of beer and laughter and family and it went off without a hitch. Everyone had a great time and it was one of those feel-good kind of days. Course, I didn’t get to hold the baby…was still feeling a little under the weather, and didn’t want to pass it along, but other than that, great stuff.

Saturday I woke up without a voice. Not a sound. Not a squeak. Nothing. Still don’t have it back, which makes work interesting. Though not as interesting as trying to keep my four kids in line the rest of the weekend. There was a lot of foot stomping and hand clapping. Like that Marxx brother that didn’t talk…harpo? Yeah, that was me. Honk honk…stop hitting your sister.

I’ve also determined that when I’m completely wrecked from a night of no sleep (pre-step mom house inspection) I should not be allowed out in public. I went to the grocery store, just barely conscious, and did my shopping. Now, I’m a cheapskate, mostly because I’m always broke, so I go to the store that charges you less, but you have to bag your own groceries. Not usually an issue, because usually I go through the self checkout, and they happen to have the bags right there. This night, however, the self checks were closed and I was forced into a slow moving line. Finally made it through, paid for my stuff, and walked out the door to the truck. No freaking bags. Shit. So I load up the soda and water and milk…stuff that doesn’t need bags, and I sneak back in the side door, snatch a handful of bags and run out with my head down….no eye contact. I’m bagging, I’m bagging, I’m bagging…shit. Not enough bags. Side door is now closed. Shit. I have to go in the front door. Sneak in, grab way to many bags, and get the hell out of there. Worst grocery store trip since the time my daughter threw up in the cereal aisle.

See. This is what happens in my world. I'm going along, feeling swell, decide not to workout on Monday because I want to plant the pretty flowers I bought, and WHAM. I get sick. So now it's Wednesday, I haven't worked out yet this week, I've been eating nothing but comfort food, sneezing, coughing, and feeling sorry for myself. AND I still have a porch full of flowers that must go into the ground tonight before they all die and I kick myself in the ass for wasting more money. Oh, and I accidentally bought a few more today at lunch that I just couldn't live without. It's a sickness. The first step is to admit you have a problem.

And, by the way, I hate Paula Abdul. "Oh, Constantine, I LOOOOOOOVE you so much, oh, I'm just addicted to you...oh, blah blah blah"

Things I will do when I win the powerball jackpot tonight...
1. get my lawn graded and sodded. It's terrible. This will be my first full summer in this house, and something has got to be done. I mowed the lawn on Tuesday and by the end wanted to shoot someone. It's really clumpy and there's holes, and I'm pretty sure it's mostly weeds, cleverly disguised as grass. Bad.
2. buy new carpet. Oy.
3. and new furniture. perhaps some without the green marker and old blood stains from my five year old's last nose bleed (I TOLD her not to play football in the house) and blue gogurt stains.
4. breast lift ('nuff said)

Today, I have decided, is the perfect day to boycott. Though I am usually quite motivated to work out on Mondays, today it is supposed to be 80 and I’ve decided that I’m not spending any time in a hot and smelly room. Just not doing it. And I refuse to feel guilty about it. Okay, who am I kidding. I feel guilty, and will most likely blame this day and my lack of fortitude for most of my future transgressions, including, but not limited to, not fitting into my size 4’s on the timetable I have previously deemed appropriate.

But today, I am going to take advantage of the first gorgeous day of april and take a little lunch time run to the home depot. On the menu? Flowers, grass seed and fertilizer. And when I get home from work today at 5:15, I will be elbow deep in topsoil and daffodils. Because some days, a girl needs not only flowers, but to feel her hands in the dirt.

***update***
I got some lovely flowers in yellow and red and white...forgot the seed and fertilizer, but do love to support my local farmer's co-op, so may swing by on the way home from work. Oh, and now suddenly I have a sore throat and throbbing head. Yeah me!