Pikachu. I Do. Sign on the Dotted Line

When you are little, you want to grow up and be a doctor or a firefighter and save the world. You want to buy a little house with a little white picket fence and a row of rose bushes and potted chrysanthemums on your porch and a cute little fodder shock in the yard in the fall, wrapped in a festive ribbon of course. You want the best of domestication, of having your own little home to fill with pictures, and timeless furniture and all of the love you can fit in the confines of those four walls.

When I was a child, despite my “tomboy” ways and my quest to be a firefighter like my dad (and about 50 other careers of course), I did enjoy “playing house”. My cousin Jon and I transformed our parents sheds behind our trailer into a his and hers of happy homes. His was most often decorated with matchbox cars, power rangers and pretty much every Pokémon card you could ever buy. Mine had a stray car or two, but it also had a vase of fake flowers, beanie babies and even the occasional Barbie doll. Some days we would go for hours without so much as a sour note and some days we would fight tooth and nail until one of us would run off and “tattle”. Despite our disagreements, those little “houses” were filled with the most important thing… Love.

In the past couple of months, my husband and I have been on the quest of home ownership. A place to call our own. A place for wedding pictures and duvets. A place for antique quilts and Christmas lights and all of the goodness of seasonal decorating. A place for Wrigley to roam and play and for my husband and me to come home to after a long day. Most importantly, a place to fill with happiness and laughter and all of the great things that come with sharing your life with the one whom your soul loves. I expected this past month to be one of the most joyful experiences one can have. Boy was I wrong.

Don’t get me wrong. I am elated that my husband and I have the ways and means to purchase our first home together. I am thrilled to have room for my furniture and for my dog to play. I am so excited to hang pictures of our happy memories on the wall and make my husband’s breakfast in a kitchen that rivals the size of the entire apartment in which we currently reside. I’ve definitely spent my fair share of time on Pinterest looking for ideas for my future home and scrolling through pages of comforters at Bed, Bath and Beyond.

So, with this being such an exciting time, where on earth did I go and why didn’t I share my good news with you?! Let me tell you something… I know a thing or two about stress. I am working on degree number 3. I’ve been in some sort of school for 22 years and have been attending some form of post-secondary institution for over 7 years. I’ve juggled study groups, mid-terms and finals, group projects, part-time, full-time and two jobs at the same time. I’ve juggled my home life, my school life and everything in between. I’ve done all of that and still managed to eat right, exercise and manage my stress levels very well. You would think that this home buying experience would be no different, right?

Wrong. The housing market in Tampa Bay is one of the greatest examples of supply and demand I’ve come upon in my short life. There are so many people wanting to buy homes while the market is favorable and there are only so many homes available for sale. Our first offer was over the asking price of the home and we were not the highest bidder. No worries. We look again. One Saturday my husband and I along with our Keller Williams realtor viewed a string of 5 homes in a matter of a couple of hours. The last one was the one we had to have. A cute 3/2/1 nestled on a golf course. We put in our offer and sat back and waited. And waited. And then we waited some more. We knew the owner was waiting for more offers and for most of the time frame it looked like we were going to get our “dream home”. At the 11th hour, someone agreed to pay cash for that home. I was heartbroken. I was a little angry. I was probably more emotional than I should have been. After all, it’s just four walls and a roof. It’s just a house.

My husband and I found another home and we put in our offer. It turned out to be a better house than the one I had my heart set. Everything happens for a reason, right? We secured a contract and had it appraised. Everything was going so well. Until the home inspection…

I came home from work the day of the inspection to find my husband sitting on the couch. No dinner had been cooked and he was half watching ESPN. He’s a man of few words (remember?), so I waited for him to tell me how it went. “The home inspection did not go well” he said. We got in the car and started driving while he recounted the inspector’s report on the roof that was well beyond its life and would in no way, shape or form be approved for homeowner’s insurance until it was remedied. As we were driving, I realized I had no idea where we were going. When I asked the husband, he replied sheepishly that he couldn’t tell me.

We ended up eating pizza. And garlic breadsticks. And Cam even enjoyed a couple of adult beverages. We drowned our sorrows in carbs, and grease and cheese. Which happens every once in a while, right? So, we waited to hear from our realtor as to whether the seller would agree to fix the roof. And we waited. And we waited some more. It’s been a week and a half and finally we have received word that the seller will be fixing the roof and we should be able to close in the middle of July. It looks like we will finally have those four walls, and a roof and a fenced backyard. We will have our own space to paint, and decorate and fill with happiness and laughter and most importantly, Love. That’s what makes a house a home.

So where have I been? Honestly, I haven’t wanted to blog. I haven’t wanted you to know my struggles with stress management and even my eating. I have had so many things this past month and a half that were in no way good for me. I’ve been downhearted, sad, angry, happy, excited, and everything in between. My roller coaster of emotions has gotten the best of me and I haven’t made the best of food choices. I strive everyday to be a role model in all aspects of my lifestyle, both exercise and diet. This past couple of months have not been my best.

I’ve noshed on Kilwin’s fudge covered rice crispy treats and Paciugo gelato. I’ve had pizza, french fries, ice cream, lasagna, and a plethora of other foods that were not paleo and generally not good for me. At all. I definitely am not proud. The few moments of feel good food turn into several hours or days of discomfort, an ulcer and a couple of extra pounds around my middle. I hope you will bear with me my dear blog readers. Bear with me as I “reset” myself. My parents will be visiting next week and I will probably indulge on a few of those days. After that, I will be getting back to eating paleo and continuing to workout. Everyone falls down. It’s just a matter of whether or not you get back up. I’m not just getting back up; I’m going to spring back up. I am taking back my health, physically, mentally, and emotionally. I can’t hit rewind but I will push play. It’s time to move forward and get back into my happy and healthy groove.

I can’t imagine doing this without my husband by my side. He’s been there to balance out my range of emotions. His attitude that everything happens for a reason and there’s no use stressing over things we can’t control has been what I’ve needed to keep me from ending up inside the confines of four walls and a straight jacket. He’s had his share of bad food choices too but together we are getting back on track. If you are struggling, find a friend or loved one to take the journey with you. Sometimes you need that shoulder to cry on and that spot for the bench press. Sometimes you need some encouraging words and some genuine competition. Whatever it takes to get you back into your groove, do it. I’ve learned to stop stressing the things I can’t control and that exercise, more than anything else, is the true stress reliever.

Oh and one more thing…



We bought a house!!!!!

Simply the Best

 I’m still here, I promise!  It’s been a busy, busy, busy couple of weeks at the Halfacre household, of which I will discuss in my future blog, but today’s blog is short, sweet and one of the most important.  Today is my Mom’s 51^st birthday and I want to tell you a little bit about this most amazing woman.

After the passing of their first child Barbara to heart complications, my grandparents gave birth to my Mom.  She would be the oldest of 5 children living in a small two bedroom home in rural Kentucky.  The first few years of her life were spent in a home without indoor bathroom facilities.  To say the least, my grandparents were not wealthy and getting by was often a struggle.  My mom would dutifully get up every morning before school, help her younger siblings, tend the family garden, go the school, and then go to her job at a local restaurant called Southern Treat.  She would go on to work at that restaurant long after high school.  It’s where she met many friends, where she met my Dad, and where I would eventually spend many days after school waiting on her to end her shift so we could go home.  She would be dead tired but whenever someone would come to the window and want to see her, she would wave with a big smile on her face.  She was full of sass, wit, and sometimes mischievous and she pretty much knew every face that came up to order, sometimes even reciting their usual meal to them before they could even get it out.  It was hard work, sometimes stressful, but my mom loved her job and the people she met along the way.  

I grew up at that little Mom and Pop restaurant, always trying my best to imitate my mom.  Propping my hands on my hips and exclaiming such things as “Honey, NOOO!” and “Bless Its heart”.  Those were some big shoes to fill.  I was her shadow at work and she would always let me help out, regardless of my clumsy little fingers or incessant questions.  I was her only child, her “pride and joy” as she would say.

I was in middle school when my mom was diagnosed with Breast Cancer.  She endured extensive chemotherapy treatments, 45 days of radiation and watched in great sadness as each strand of hair fell out of her head.  I went with her to her local hair salon to shave her head before she had to watch any more of her hair fall to the floor.  I could tell it broke her heart.  It broke mine too.  Watching my mom go through that was one of the hardest moments in my life.  I couldn’t fathom facing all of that and still going on about life as if nothing was wrong… but she did.  She continued to work when she could, to take me to school, take me to fiddle lessons and help me buy a dress for 8^th grade graduation.  She was completely bald the day I walked across that stage, it was the one and only day she ever wore a wig.  She suffered through hot flashes, an itchy hot wig, and clothes to cover her scars and radiation burns in a hot auditorium before vowing to never wear a wig again.  Good riddance.  My mom was the most beautiful bald woman ever.  

The next year my mom would lay her younger sister Angie to rest and not long after would watch as her beloved Aunts passed on too.  All of them had suffered from cancer and I know deep down inside my mother wondered if she would be next.  But she stayed strong and carried on.

She would face another loss when her sister Amy was tragically killed in a car accident in 2010.  My mom watched so many of her loved ones pass on before her and I know it took its toll on her.  It was more than enough heartache and devastation for one woman to have to endure.

My mom is still battling illness.  She still misses her loved ones, as anyone would.  She still has struggles on a daily basis and her stress level is usually through the roof.  One thing remains the same, she is always, always, ALWAYS there for me.  If I’m having a bad day or I need a shoulder to cry on, I know I can pick up the phone and she will make me feel better.  I know I can call on her for anything.  She shares in my triumphs and in my struggles, in my successes and my failures.  She has always been proud of me, supported me, and loved me unconditionally. 

I am so thankful for my Mom celebrating another birthday today.  Even though I’m 900 miles away, I want her to know I’m celebrating her, not only today, but every day.  She’s strong, resilient, and even a little bit stubborn and I wouldn’t have it any other way.  Happy Birthday Mom!  I love you today and always!

Fitch, The Real World, and Summer Girls

The summer before my sophomore year of high school (the same summer as my aforementioned incident) I was a typical petite teenager with an immense desire to fit in with my peers and wear what the “cool” kids were wearing.  Every pass by the Abercrombie and Fitch store in the mall made me want that pair of size 4 faded bell bottom jeans even more.

Now, let’s get a little perspective here.  I grew up in Eastern Kentucky.  My mother and father both worked day in and day out to provide me a comfortable trailer to live in (now that I’ve moved, apparently we don’t call them trailer parks but “manufactured homes”).  Let’s face it, I wasn’t rich by any means but enjoyed a nice simple life in the trailer park (just being honest,  it’s a trailer park.  No shame here).    Not long after I started high school, my parents finally purchased their first home together, one that didn’t have wheels that is.  We settled into a small three bedroom ranch with a bigger back yard and an above ground swimming pool.  I was pretty much in teenager heaven at that point.  

Now my parents may have been able to buy a home with an added perk, but they were by no means in a position to be dropping 80 dollars on a pair of jeans.  Being the naive teenager I was, I could not fathom why my parents didn’t want me to be cool.  I mean after all, I had a pool now!  I probably said some nasty things to my mother that I can never take back that summer when she denied me even entering that migraine headache, asthma attack inducing Abercrombie store.  Looking back (as most people do as they grow older), I do not understand how I had let my world revolve around getting a pair of jeans.  

My mother could see that I wanted a new “cool” outfit for the first day of school more than anything that I had wanted throughout my short life.  I had survived freshman year, kept my 4.0, and worked weekends at the skating rink for little to nothing to have some spending money, but nothing significant enough to buy anything labeled with A&F.  So my Mom, in all of her wisdom and desire to appease her teenage daughter, found a place called “Plato’s Closet”.  This little boutique style store was not far from the crowded mall where most people did their school shopping so it wasn’t too far from where we would have traveled anyway.

Gently used “name brand” clothing, shoes and accessories lined the walls of that hole in the wall store in a non-descript suburban strip mall.  I searched the jeans rack with an intensity akin to the dedication needed to end world famine or build a rocket.   I was bound and determined to find that coveted pair of jeans.  After several minutes, I came upon the treasure I was seeking.  There on the rack was a pair of size 4 Abercrombie and Fitch jeans, complete with the petite length.  I should have bought my mother an award for dealing with such an emotional roller coaster as I had been that day.  I snagged that pair of jeans for $20 and my mom even let me pick out a few shirts to go along with my loot.  My first day of school outfit had been found, complete with a green shirt emblazoned with that (now obnoxious) Abercrombie and Fitch logo on the front.

I never got to wear those jeans.  My incident occurred three days before school started that year and by the time I recovered and returned to school, I was 5 sizes larger than the largest size Abercrombie and Fitch even offers.  I had been from one extreme to the other.  I was very small, then not so very small.  At all.  Those jeans would sit in a drawer for over 2 years before I finally handed them off to someone new.

So it brings me to the current issue surrounding the CEO of Abercrombie and Fitch.  My facebook feed has been abuzz with the article titled “Abercrombie and Fitch CEO Explains Why He Hates Fat Chicks”.  Do I think that he could have said better things?  Yes.  Do I think everyone is entitled to their opinion?  Also a yes.  

Here’s how I see this situation:  I have been from one extreme to the other and back again in terms of my weight.  I used to desperately want to shop at Abercrombie and Fitch because I thought that would make me cool.  That was 10 years ago and I still thought clothing defined who you were.  You see these two pictures?

Besides the fact they are both me at my heaviest and now, they have one striking thing in common.  Neither one of them can fit into Abercrombie and Fitch clothing.  And to be honest… who cares!?  I am not defined by what I wear but rather what I can do.  People are going to be mean.  They are going to say hurtful things.  They are going to try and tear your down.  So what?  Pick yourself up, dust yourself off and show them what you can DO.  

I have the body of a mature woman, who considers herself somewhat athletic.  I do not base my self-worth on the fact that I can’t fit into clothing sold by a company targeting the pre-pubescent bodies of 2001.  Somewhere deep inside, I think the CEO of Abercrombie and Fitch sees this too.  His clothing line is no longer as relevant in a society where there are fit women who have curves and can squat, press, lift, and run circles around him.  Perhaps this comment is his attempt to gain some sort of publicity in the face of company decline.

Regardless of whether he is genuinely a shallow human being or said this for publicity purposes, I do not care what the CEO of an overpriced, outdated company thinks of me, and neither should you.  I choose to shop wherever I find clothes that are comfortable, make me feel good about myself, and show off my hard work.  Abercrombie and Fitch is not one of those places. 

I am not offended.  If I was, then it would be more about my emotional health than anything pertaining to my physical appearance.  I define myself by rep counts, weight increases and race times.  I define myself by smiles, and laughter and good times with friends.  I define myself by hard work, dedication, determination and perseverance.  

Don’t like your weight?  Do something about it.  Don’t like that you can’t run a mile without stopping?  Do something about it.  Don’t like where you are in your educational journey?  Do something about it.  Don’t like what the CEO of Abercrombie and Fitch said?  Who cares.  Be your own “brand” of awesome and leave the labels for those with nothing else to show.

Hearts of Gold

So, if you are not familiar with my background… once upon a time I was hit by lightning.  No, seriously.  I was.  Now I will spare you the details but needless to say that meant a lot of time for me in and out of hospitals for various tests, overnight stays, check-ups and routines.  August of this year will mark 10 years since my unfortunate accident, but there are many things that will remain with me forever.

The events of the day leading up to and including that fateful evening are fuzzy as well as many of the things immediately following.  So what do I remember?  I remember having some of the most amazing healthcare providers for one of the darkest times in my life.  The struggle with seizure activity, memory loss, depression and weight gain was overwhelming and each trip to the hospital made me feel like I was losing complete control of my life.  I could have easily slipped through the cracks and been resigned to being a medicated mess.  But I wasn’t.  No matter how bad I felt, how out of it I was or how cranky I could get, there was always a nursing smiling back at me and telling me it was going to be OK.  They were always there with blankets, food, or just a soothing touch and gentle smile to help me make it through.  I was granted a second chance, a new outlook and a fresh start after all I went through and there was a nurse there every step of the way.

While I did not have to face certain death, many of those I’ve loved in my life have.  My life changing event came a few months after losing my aunt Angie.  She lost her 6 year battle with breast cancer at the age of 34.  She spent the last year of her life medicated and spent the last few months of her life in the care of a Hospice Nurse.  In the late stages of her illness, as she suffered the debilitating effects of brain tumors, she would often act out or imagine that her nurse was there to hurt her, steal her husband, steal her son or numerous other things.  It was heartbreaking to watch and I struggled so much with realizing it wasn’t really her saying all of those things.  Despite experiencing the yelling, the anger, and the deterioration of my aunt before her eyes, that nurse was by her side attending to her every need.  How one person could endure all of that and remain so strong was mind blowing.  To spend week in and week out watching people pass on and yet giving each and every one of them everything they could was the way of a hospice nurse.  Being there when all other hope was lost and giving the dying their dignity even in their final days was their way of life.  

When my mother was facing cancer and chemotherapy and radiation and needles galore, it was a nurse whose caring hand held hers through the treatments and the tears.  When my father was nearly killed in an industrial accident, it was a nurse who helped him get up out of bed every morning and held his hand as he slowly began to walk again.  When all seems lost or when we receive devastating news, it’s the nurses who are there to catch our tears and pick up the pieces.  

I spend my days teaching future nurses, and I see the compassion, the dedication and the love it takes to care for the ill and even the dying.  So this week, I raise my water bottle high to all of the nurses who devote their lives to others.  I advocate being proactive with your health and taking control of what you can, but accidents happen and you never know what life will throw your way.  This week, I am thankful that if/when the time comes that I must go to a doctor’s office or a hospital that there will be a nurse ready and willing to devote their time and energy into helping me get better.

This week, we celebrate National Nurses Week.  We celebrate those who devote their lives to being compassionate, caring, and loving to those they barely know.  We celebrate the long nights, endless rotations, and many sacrifices nurses make in order to make our illness just a tiny bit more bearable.  It truly is something to be celebrated.

Say thank you to the nurses in your life and if you are a nurse, give yourself a huge pat on the back.  You deserve it.  

**I also dedicate this post in loving memory of my late aunt Amy who tragically lost her life in an automobile accident at the age of 31.  She devoted her life to being a Hospice Nurse and she is truly missed.**