All I want is to rock your soul

Dandelions.
I loves them.
Always have.

I mean, check out my computer background.



As a child, I formed some kind of unnatural obsession with plucking any in sight and scattering those petals on into the wind. I guess it's the dreamer in me. Any reason to wish is reason to get excited. (And as an adult, I still do it. And wish on the first star spotted on any given evening, too.)

I guess I just keep hoping that the wind is just going to blow that change I seek my way. Which I guess says a lot about my personality.

Dear Universe,
I bow down to you and acknowledge that you are fully capable of making wishes come true if I only bend to your necessary whims and allow you to do your thing.
Love,
Alison

Last week, I got a wild hair and organized - I mean, really organized - my room and the living room. Those who know me know this is a biiiiig deal. For a solid week, I have maintained a very un-Alison like level of continued organization. I hate to admit it but...I'm kind of happier this way. I waste less time and energy finding things so that I have more of both to do the actually important things. Novel concept, really. But even with all the now niche-i-ness, something was missing. Observe.



While perusing a cute little home goodies boutique, I came across some adorable wall decals. They were pretty pricey though, so I avoided the purchase and headed for the internet instead. (And besides, decals? Surely I could come up with something arty-er.) Initially, I looked for stencils, assuming it would be the most economical choice and lend a little more "look what I can do!" to my wall. Y'all. Stencils are both expensive, and hard to come by.

Back to decals.

So over to Etsy I headed, because Etsy never lets me down. And I found this.

Dishes are done, man. Dishes are done.
But to sweeten the deal, I also found this.

Which I ordered in light pink (not black) and will accompany the scattering seeds I will send sailing across my bright pink wall. And then I ordered a tiny set for my computer, too. It really shouldn't be left out of all the fun. There's a chance I may later order a bright pink set for my bland white wall later but I didn't want to go too overboard just yet.

So within the next week, my room will receive it's final touches. And every day, I will wake up and remember that I am a girl who never stops wishing.

It's impossible to you, not impossible to me.

And so the journey begins again. I've been stagnant and dormant too long.

On January 1st, 2005, I began Weight Watchers. Over the course of 11 months, I dropped 60 pounds.

For the year that followed, I maintained.

On September 22nd, 2006, I moved to New York. Over the course of the next year and a half, I dropped another 27 pounds. I wish I could tell you this was done entirely healthily, but I think we all know that my first 2 months in New York had me living on McDonald's Happy Meals, granola bars, and peanut butter. Ah, the life of a starving (hopeful) artist.

For the year that followed, I maintained within about a 5 pound fluxuation range.

87 pounds down, and sadly, about 50 more to go.

Somewhere in June, I joined a gym. (As you have already read.) I guess an eensy weensy part of me hoped my schedule would magically clear up, I would spend 2 hours there 4 times a week, and life would be magically healthy and the pounds would melt away. As we all know, that ain't so. After talking to Megan's parents about their success, I have decided to give South Beach a go. Frankly, my body needs a bit of a cleanse and I've got nothing on my plate (pun intended) for a couple weeks, so now is as good a time as any.

The good news is, Marielle and Megan are doing it with me which is going to make this sooooo much easier. And, Megan already had the books. Here we go.


No fruits, fewer carbs, and no alcohol for 2 weeks. If I'm crankly, I apologize. Here's hoping I emerge from Phase One at least 10 pounds thinner. From there, it will be onto Phase Two and the re-introduction of carbs, fruit, and (thank GOD) wine. The goal is 25 pounds by September 15th.

And after that? Only another 25 pounds until my FINAL GOAL. I finally feel close. Perhaps somewhere in early 2010, 5 years after I started, I will hit that "I've lost 127 pounds from my heaviest point" mark. I will slap it square across the face and remind it it is indeed my bitch. And I will never. EVER. Go back.

It gets so bad, but I just keep coming back for more

I keep meaning to write you a long and wordy post about how I'm ok and flooded with love and realizing the difference between wants and needs.

Instead, tonight I will regale you with stories from the gym. Or as I playfully love to call it...well. Hell.

I keep hoping I'm going to wake up magically one day and be one of those people who just loooooooves to work out. Now check it. I have in fact lost 87 pounds from my highest point. Across those pounds, I have tried walking. Jogging. Running. Pilates. Yoga Booty Ballet. YMCA. Curves. Yoga. And lately...Lucille Roberts. Because it's 20 bucks a month, around the corner from my apartment, and yes, I am now at the point in which I need to be toning and doing cardio in addition to learning fries and pizza a well-rounded meal do not make.

And even though I love how I feel AFTER I work out, and occasionally I love that great warm spread in my chest that comes with breaking a truly remarkable stride...I do NOT love the act of working out. For me, I look to the gym how many people look at their ex-spouse. Specifically if a marriage shattered with kids in tact. Everything is done politely, but with gritted teeth and bruised egos. Y'know. For...the kids.

Only for me, the kids happen to be my multiple chins, my jiggling arms, my buddha belly, and my thunder thighs.

On my first morning at the gym, I was a solid 7 minutes into my QT with the elliptical when a very polite woman approached my machine, demanding it was her turn. An obvious rookie, I hadn't realized when I signed up for a machine, it would do me some good to make sure I got on the right one. The silly part of this story is that amidst her yelling, (all in Spanish, to boot) no less than 4 machines stood empty. The kind woman next to me finally relinquished control of her machine only after I screeched "IT'S MY FIRST DAY. I DO NOT KNOW WHAT I'M DOING. DO YOU REMEMBER YOUR FIRST DAY?!"

The past two weeks have been relatively uneventful. I'm learning the quieter times when I don't have to fight for machines and can steer clear of those directly in front of the floor to ceiling mirrors.

Yeah, can we talk about that for a second? There is NOTHING I look forward to more than planting myself in front of a mirror and watching the sweat pour and my face turn into a veritable Ally Tomato.

And then today rolled around. After a weekend of overindulging in birthday cake (for me! for America!) and beer and wine and burgers and cheese and sushi and pizza and gelato, I shimmied myself into my favorite pair of part lycra (aaaaallllll comfort) pants and headed to see good ole Lucille. 2 miles on a bike had me good and revved up for 40 minutes of "let's see what I can do!" on the treadmill. Well. 3.5 miles is apparently what I can do - 2.5 of them at an actual run. Go me, right?

Right.

Until it was time to get off the treadmill. My feet hit that nice and still and steady ground aaaaaand...I fell. Right on over. Yup. I did that. And I mean, I couldn't help but laugh because what else do you do when you appear drunk at a gym at 10 in the morning?

It's fine. I'm not bitching. I'm just aware I'm never going to love this modern torture chamber called the gym. But I'll keep on going.

Y'know. For the kids.

How many times can I break till I shatter?

Saturday Night. 8:45 PM. I’m sitting on my balcony, alone, with nothing but a six pack of Red Stripe to keep me company. It’s finally not raining and I’m thankful I can see the sky and feel a completely unseasonal cool breeze. I’m positive there are things I could be doing and friends I could be hanging out with, but somewhere in the chaos of New York it feels nice to be alone and not speak with anything but my fingertips.

I don’t regret much, but I do regret my mouth and my heart and the world of hurt they’ve both brought raining down upon me in the past month. If I could un-love him I would. If I could find a way to be happy just being his friend I would, too. It was a long hard fall, learning I’d once again misread the signs and given my full self to someone who neither wanted nor deserved it. So I’ll open up to you, Cyberspace, and apologize to the Universe for the tangled mess I’ve become. I have completely unraveled.

One year ago and a few days ago, Lori was here. (Lori is now pregnant and in Georgia – two things I both love for her and hate for me.) One year ago, I made the promise I make every year – that this was finally going to be my year and I’d finally conquer this whole love thing. One year ago, I honestly believed that by the time I reached the point I’m at right now, I would no longer be alone. Lori rolled her eyes and reminded me that I say that every year.

Birthdays stop being fun when you start to approach your scary age. 27 is my scary age. It now looms a short 5 days away, and Unraveled Alison must now step up to the plate and admit she is not where she wants to or thought she’d be. In all fairness, I am at least things I never thought I’d be and I won’t apologize for or doubt my successes, wherever they may lie.

When 27 arrives, I will make no promises. I will tell no one that this will finally be my year. I won’t open up my heart or gently place it on my sleeve for the universe to locate its partner. I am not going to let myself believe that I am actually any different than any of the other lost souls out there, hoping to figure it all out before it’s too late. My time will come when God is good and ready to give it to me, and no wishes placed on burning candles will ever change that.

This year I’ll only swear on the things I can deliver. I’ll be a better boss, a better daughter, a better neighbor, a better roommate, a better friend, and a better Alison. I won’t be selfish, but I will be self-aware. I’ll make the time anyone spends in my presence as pleasant, good-natured, and fun as possible. I may have done nothing wrong, but I sure don’t feel like I’ve done much right, either.

27 may be my scary year, but the world isn’t going to stop turning because I’m uncomfortable. And that’s all I have to say about that.

This ain't no love that's guiding me

I couldn't make this up if I tried.

Today at work, an older gentleman approached my desk. We got to talkin', and I couldn't help myself from inquiring about his thick Southern drawl. (Afterall, a girl from Alabama must find her people in this world.)

"Where you from, sir?" I posed.

"Baby. I'm from Bowlin' Green, Kentucky!"

(And though I'm usually not a fan of being referred to as "baby," especially by complete strangers, he was at least charming about it.) This lead to a whole discussion of all things Southern, and therefore all things good. He looked down and noticed my empty left ring finger.

"Baby, you single!" (It was definitely more of a statement than a question, even though I kind of believe things like that should be approached a liiiiiiittle more cautiously.)

"Let me see your palm." A demand, this time. I held out my left palm and he shrugged it off, motioning for my right. After a brief once-over, his face lit up as he marked with pen on my hand.
"See this? It should be up here. It's not. This tells me you are a very positive person. People whose lines go all the way up are ho-hum and hum-drum. You are not. Even when you're sad, you still remain positive."

I think I may have had to blink back a couple tears. My clouded expression probably didn't help my case.

"See that? Even now, you're sad about something but it don't matter - you're still just as positive as you can be."
Another pen mark, this time in the bottom center.
"Oh, and you're a healthy girl."

I, of course, muttered something under my breath about that ending with my healthy appetite.

Mr. Kentucky then tried to bid me adieu.

"Wait!" I pleaded. "You asked to see my hand because you seemed interested in the love side of things. What does my palm say about that?"
(Really, Alison? An old man reads your palm, tells you you're healthy and positive and now you're going to seek love advice from him?)

Relunctantly, he gathered my hand in his once more.
"Baby. You ain't got no love."

There we have it. I ain't got no love.

"This here hand is always changin', just like you," he continued. "But I wouldn't really be lookin' for much of anything there for another 6 or so months."

Given the things that have gone down in the past 3 weeks, he's absolutely right. And for some bizarre reason, I actually feel better. I have a timeline. Six months. I can't even begin to understand why, but perhaps these things happen for a reason. Perhaps my heart is currently shattered for some just cause and perhaps God sent me Mr. Kentucky today as some kind of messenger of things to come.

Baby, you ain't got no love.

But I'm positive that someday, I will.

Somethin' tells me I'm into somethin' good

Onto the next adventure!

This weekend, I decided it was high time I abused my job to all new heights. As in, 2000 feet in the air. So on Sunday afternoon, Megan, Jeff, Danielle and I hopped into a helicopter and went soaring over New York City. It was...breathtaking and remarkable and I loved every second. (As evidenced by the mouth agape in every. Single. Picture.)

See?

Calling out, somebody save me, I feel like I'm fading.

It's June 1st.
A new week, a new month, and a beautiful day at that.
I've always liked June 1st, because after June 1st comes July 1st, and after July 1st comes my birthday. And I love the new hope that each birthday brings because my curious self can't ever help but wonder if this will be the year I've been waiting for.

Perhaps I will approach 27 with a little more caution and tact than the previous 26 years, but something tells me the only thing I've ever gotten good at is being Alison which is to say, probably not. Alison does not reign it in, and Alison certainly does not bottle. Sometimes I wish I was better at these things, as a little control and a little mystery really never did anyone any harm.

My best friend once told me my life is a bad country song. I didn't believe her until now. I mean, if your life has to be a country song, one could at least hope it was a badass one like a Johnny Cash or a Patsy Cline. Nope. My life is of the bubble-gum country persuasion. Taylor Swift probably sings my song, and millions around the world delight in the tedium as it blasts through the airwaves. My life is Soap Opera Network, when I would really prefer Comedy Central.

(My best friend is honest and also right, and I wouldn't be much of anything without her and I typed the last paragraph as an attempt to return to my funny. Please take it as such.)

My best friend also gave me the most sound advice I've ever gotten today.

...but don't hold on the present hoping for the future

Hows about I just start holding the future accountable for all I know it will be, instead?


It's clear this conversation
Ain't doin' a thing
Cause these boys only listen to me when I sing
And I don't feel like singing tonight
All the same songs

Here, in these deep city lights
Girl could get lost tonight
I'm finding every reason to be gone
Nothing here to hold on to

Could I hold you?

(Sara Bareilles)

Guess you'd better go get your armor.

I'm heartbroken, hurt, troubled, stunned, shocked, shaken up, falling down, freaking out, humbled, confused, sad, and a lot of other words that can't seem to find their way to me right now.

Some good will come of these emotions, someday, but for now I kind of wish I didn't have to be the way I am.

Lucky for me, my heart's used to this by now so I know exactly what to do. I know good and well that dwelling, moping, and toxic negativity do nothing to alleviate the pain. So. I'll cry to myself, let my friends support me like I know they can, and keep right on doing whatever it is I'm doing.

I wasn't ready for this. And I really don't have any clear next step. I'm lost.

and there is nothing more to it than that.

This year's love had better last. Heaven knows it's high time.

It's Sunday morning. I'm sprawling on my old bed which somehow feels new because it's freshly made and has new pillows. And I'm staring at a hot pink wall, which feels new because it is new because it's in my new apartment and also, I just painted it two days ago.

I didn't really intend for it to be THIS hot pink, but I'm pretty sure I love it.

From here, I can see Maggie sniffing all the luggage and piles of things that will somehow have to find new homes in my new home. And my new bathroom. I can definitely see my new bathroom, right here, from my perch, in my new old bed in my hot pink room in my new apartment. I say MY new bathroom, because here it sits, in my new bedroom, all for me. Which is a lie, because I fully intend to be a nice roommate and share with the others. But still. I live in New York and I have a hot pink bedroom and my own bathroom and I'm pretty sure life doesn't get much better.

Remember when I told you change scares me? If it results in things like this, and things I'm pretty sure are coming, it's actually not so bad.

I'm moving onto the next part of the story. There were infant years and adolescent years, high school years and college years. Then came the Charlotte years and the I'm moving to New York years and the Holy Shit, I just MOVED TO NEW YORK years. And though each chapter builds the book, this is a passage I never intended to write so it's probably going to be the most exciting yet. Really. I never meant to stay. I meant to come up here and poke around, pat myself on the back for trying and make some kind of triumphant return back down yonder.

Life's just more fun when you let it be an adventure.

Correspondance Thursday/Friday. And Merry Everyday, too.

Wherever I seem to be, there you are.

You, darling Elizabetta, have pretty much seen and heard it all when it comes to the tales my life spins. And when I was 24 and made a great leap into a massive unknown and landed in New York, you quickly became a safety net. Perhaps I didn't take full advantage of you and me, us in this city. But all along, there haven't been many greater comforts than just knowing you were here.

You know everything about me, and yet you love me anyway.

(I think that often about those nearest to my heart.)

There have been road trips and giggle fits. Chocolate sundaes and french fries, and Tasti-Delight, too. Anxieties. Weight Watchers and long walks. Photo shoots. The Brooklyn Bridge. Boston. Every city and every interstate in the greater Southeast. Warm afternoons in Bryant Park. Bad musicals. Music. Oh goodness, the music. Haircuts and boys in eyeliner. Jobs. Hobbies. Fails. Wins. Losses. Second, third and fourteenth chances. Compassion and love. Change. Acceptance. Jesus.

You've spared the kindest words that have ever been said to someone like me. I am grateful to have shared a time in our lives that nothing and no one will ever be able to touch. And I love that our lives are so similarly connected, so absolutely unplanned that we'll never have to worry about the silly little things like time and distance that seem to bog others down.

I would never have made it this far without you. And although I hate that we can no longer have instant adventures, I am positive that in the grand scheme of things "we" are not only far from over - we have barely begun. I'm happy to share you with a world that needs you. I can't wait to continue to be able to point and say "See her? She's my friend."

Love. Love. Love.