Chaotic Untangling

Here is something I would like to get off my chest.

Honestly, when the conscious uncoupling of Gwyneth and Chris came out, I felt like it was sort of an unnecessary glimpse into their personal lives. They didn't owe anyone an explanation. But, I think I can see the point. For better or worse, our lives are on display online.

With that being said, I want to state that Dylan and I are separated. We are selling our house and are on the path to divorce. 

Truthfully, it has been a long time coming.

Dylan and I met 8 years ago, and his addiction to alcohol has been a third party in our relationship at every turn. Booze is like a mistress. And unfortunately, no matter how much we love each other, our love isn't stronger than addiction. 

Addiction fights dirty. It lies and it cheats and it turns humans into monsters. It locks the doors to the outside world and throws away the key. It nails the windows shut. It suffocates love and it blinds hope and it breaks trust. It is sneaky and deceitful. It is a chess master, in an endless gridlocked checkmate with those in its grasp and the people who love them.

The clanking of glass sends shivers down my spine. The sickly scent of stale wine breath chokes me. Finding bottles covered haphazardly by blankets ties my stomach in knots. And I guess I'm exhausted and I can't do it anymore. 

We are trying to be cordial, but the feelings are messy. They spill out in untidy ways. I cry and I smile and I sigh and I sob and I yell and I laugh. The untangling of belongings is uneven and unsettling. Watching my vows and wedding photos disappear from our walls is heartbreaking. A conscious uncoupling is much more chaotic than cordial. 

We're both hurting. We both need a friend. 

When a heart breaks, no, it don't break even. 

Test Results

Huntington's disease is what can be best described as a degenerative, genetic disease. It is a wicked cocktail of symptoms from diseases like Parkinson's, ALS, and Alzheimer's. It robs your mind and it zaps your strength and it makes things which were once easy seem impossible. In a rotten twist of fate, this disease is passed down from generation to generation. It is deadly. There is no cure. There are no "carriers". If one of your parents has Huntington's, you have a 50% chance of developing it, like a sick, sadistic flip of a coin.

My dad, Michael, suffers from Huntington's. He is fifty. He has been deployed as a military policeman multiple times and was stationed away from his family for years on end. He has PTSD and was blown up so many times during one tour in Iraq, that he has traumatic brain injuries, as well.

Many times people with Huntington's die from something frustratingly stupid, like a fall, or choking on food, because they have lost their balance or ability to swallow successfully. This disease is insidious. My father gave 20 years of his life to the US Army; he survived exploding IEDs, having a hit taken out on him by drug lords, and countless dangerous missions. I hate the idea that one day a hunk of steak could take down my Staff Sergeant MP father. It doesn't have the gravitas and the honor I feel he deserves.

Huntington's has snaked its way through my father's side of the family, spreading its venom up and down the family tree.  His mother passed away due to a fall and Huntington's complications when he was in his very early twenties. I know of many aunts who suffered from it, and it probably dates back long before recent memory. The most recent victim of this wretched disease was my Aunt Liz, my dad's sister. She died over the Summer peacefully in her sleep from Huntington's at age fifty-two.

Of course, if you can stay alive long enough, Huntington's gets uglier the longer it progresses. The last years of someone's life often involve a wheelchair, a feeding tube, and an inability to speak or identify family members or friends. That, to me, is hell.

You're probably wondering why I am writing this. "Save me this sob story," you might be thinking, "there's already enough sadness in the world." I agree. I get it. It feels to me that, on both micro and macro levels, we are in the middle of a shit storm. So, in a world with a terrifying political climate, emotionally draining social media posts, and a mother nature hell-bent on revenge for her mistreatment over the last two centuries, why write a post about my dying father.

Last week, I received my results from my genetic testing at the University of Washington Medical Center. The process for testing takes months. It's laborious, and agonizing, and involves a lot of mental health check-ins. You have to attend three different appointments over a few months with genetic counselors, doctors, and nurses. There is a high risk of suicide as a result of a positive Huntington's status, so they try to prepare you as best as they can along the way. Positive, in this case, is actually the result with negative consequences.

Many people choose not to get tested. They don't want to know their 'status' until symptoms potentially arise down the road. I get that. I really, truly do. And if my fiance and I didn't see kids in our future, I probably wouldn't have gotten tested. But we do. In 47 days (woah), we will be married and we want to start a family.

There have been amazing advances since the discovery of the Huntington's gene in 1993 (before that you couldn't even get tested, so knowing your status prior to becoming symptomatic was impossible). Now, there are medications that can help with symptoms, there are many studies in the works to deactivate the gene, and they can do more with family planning. It is possible to do in-vitro fertilization using the sperm and eggs of you and your partner, test the resulting embryos for the gene, and only implant the embryos which test negative for Huntington's. They can even do that without informing the mother of her status. Since this is bound to be an emotionally and fiscally expensive endeavor, we did not want to do that if there was a chance we could just get pregnant the good, old-fashioned way with no risk of HD being passed on.

Bearing that in mind, I waited for my results with baited breath. My stomach was in knots all the time. I felt sick and nauseated and worried. My brain would keep me awake at night in an anxious whirlpool of thoughts. Usually my thoughts wouldn't be about the testing directly. That subject felt like looking into the sun. It was too much to take in and it hurt to look at it. So, instead, I would worry about boutonnieres for the groomsmen or about whether the house was clean.

I suffer from severe clinical depression and generalized anxiety disorder. Situations like this can cause many of my mental health symptoms which are usually under control through medication, diet and exercise, and regular therapy sessions, to rear their ugly heads.  One symptom of my depression is forgetfulness and inability to hold things in my hand, stay balanced, or not run into things. I guess my brain is on overdrive and can't bother to worry about little things like what my body is doing. My anxiety usually makes me sick. It also causes panic attacks. Two days before I got my results I had a panic attack. I got hot and there was a buzzing in my ears and I couldn't breathe or think and the sounds around me were fuzzy, but too loud and I felt trapped. My therapist suggests maybe this is because this situation feels like there's no way out. I guess there's a reason she's my therapist.

As I waited for my results, I kept coming back to what I have dubbed 'The Sock Problem'. Back in seventh grade, there was a math problem about a sock drawer. We were studying probability and trying to determine how likely we were to match a pair of socks without looking, knowing the colors of the individual socks in the drawers. Honestly, as a student, this problem baffled me. How could I know the unknowable? Why wouldn't I just turn on the light and look at the colors of the socks? The logic of probability eluded me. In recent weeks, The Sock Problem has become more clear to me. I picture half of the socks are white and half are black. If I make a match, I'm sick, if I get mismatched socks, I'm healthy. Or maybe vice versa. I think about the probability of this disease. The Russian Roulette aspect of planning a future. The Sock Problem would have made more sense to me as a kid if it had been given a bit more weight. If Mr. Lee my math teacher had told me that each of my siblings had our own individual genetic sock drawer and we had equal chances of making a deadly match or mismatching, I might have understood it better. Well, Mr. Lee, I get it now. And unfortunately, my unlucky gene sock match doesn't remove any socks from the drawer for my siblings. They remain equally likely to test positive.

I have now received my results. I, too, am positive. I got that deadly pair of socks. If anything, the mental health issues have remained, if not worsened. This week, I wore my sister's contacts for three days and didn't notice. I came to work without my badge or key. I often could not process information when it was told to me. It's scary and it's frustrating to have a situation be so out of your control. I'm alternating between angry, and sad, and scared, and worried, and feeling sorry for myself.

When I found out my dad's diagnosis, at first I was in a state of shock. I couldn't get out of bed. My mom and I sat and watched Gilmore Girls for weeks because we couldn't do anything else. But, as my functionality came back, I became determined. I would not take my body and mind for granted. I would not waste any more precious time. Since that diagnosis, nearly three years ago, I have applied to graduate school, become a certified teacher, bought a house, trained to run in two half-marathons, traveled to two countries where I had never been, and gotten my first tattoo. My tattoo is of a shell I brought home from Mexico (a visual reminder for me to travel and continue to adventure).

Now that I know for sure that I am negatively positive for Huntington's, I plan to get married, start a family, travel to more places, read, run a marathon, climb Mt. Rainier, try a stand-up comedy open mic, and write down my stories. I want to write down my dad's stories. Eating healthy and exercising and doing things like crosswords and puzzles can stave off symptoms or keep them in a stasis for a time (although, of course, not forever). I'm going to keep doing those things as long as I can, because I am not going to make things any easier for this disease. I am not taking this lying down. I'm taking it running. With the wind in my hair and the pat-pat of the pavement under my pounding feet. Because I can.

I don't know what will happen with Huntington's research down the road. Maybe my symptoms will not be a death sentence when they arrive in the next decade or so.  Regardless of that, I want to live every moment to its fullest.

It's not a bucket list. It's more of a While I Still Can list. I am keeping a gratitude list, too. I'm grateful to not be in the dark. To be able to use the information I have to help me live my best life. I'm grateful for the friends and family who have supported me and for a partner who doesn't seem to have run away (yet).

I do know that down the line, I don't want to deteriorate into nothingness. I don't want to be a vegetable, living as a parasite, wasting the time and money of relatives too sad to let me go. I want to go while I'm still me.

I don't know what happens next. None of us do, really. Any of us could get hit by a bus tomorrow. But I do know that, in the immortal lyrics from the Pretty in Pink soundtrack (the band is

Orchestral Manoeuvres In The Dark, but I definitely had to google that), "I won't
waste one single day."

Huntington's Disease Society of America (about Huntington's, how to donate to research, etc.)

Me, two days post-diagnosis, sending an EFF YOU to this disease in my Huntington's Hope Walk tee-shirt after running 7 miles. THIS DISEASE WILL NOT DEFINE ME.

A Word on Public Education.

I have always been "good"at school. I have a photographic memory and am an auditory learner. I learned to read at age four, because my parents valued literacy. I would read to them and they would read to me. I would read to absorb all the information I could about the world around me, and I would read to propel myself into other worlds entirely.

It's possible that I would have been successful without public education. It's possible. I learned when my third grade teacher made me do worksheets by myself on the floor in the hall, because I was ahead of the other students. I learned on the bus. When the other kids coming in from my "bad" neighborhood were fighting and acting out Jerry Springer in the back of the bus, I sat up front and read my books. I could read information and remember it. I desperately wanted to do well. Most students are not as lucky as I am, in those regards.

More importantly, however, my learning was nourished and nurtured by public education. Through the SAIL program, a classroom made up of the top 1% of 4th and 5th grade students in the district, I was challenged with rigorous curricula and enriched through song and foreign language and dance and performances. Then came SOTA. I did fine in regular school. I would have continued to do fine in regular school, I'm sure; however, SOTA gave me a number of gifts. The first was the ability to learn through interdisciplinary lenses (a skill which would lead me to an interdisciplinary college in the future).  At SOTA I learned how to create and to collaborate with my peers. When I entered college, in spite of being a first-generation college student, I felt prepared for my classes and my workload, due to the amount of reading, critical thinking, writing, and discussion which had been integral parts of my time at SOTA. All of these invaluable skills would not have been gained without my access to public education programs.

Last year, I student taught at a school with a high poverty-rate and low parental involvement. The job of a teacher in the public education system is to take students from all walks of life and help them to meet nationwide standards for learning, gain college and career-readiness skills, and, ultimately, to graduate with their diploma. Teachers are charged with bridging the achievement gap between races and classes and filling in deficits in learning for students whose parents are too busy working three jobs to read to their children before bed.

My younger brother, Connor, has severe autism. He is the product of 18 years in the public education system. We grew up poor. There was no way my parents could have afforded a special school for kids with disabilities, let alone the therapies provided to him by the school. He reaped the benefits of having small class sizes, individualized instruction, and paraeducators to assist him one-on-one. I am not saying everything ran smoothly all the time, or that the special education system is perfect. At the district-level, we sometimes had to fight tooth and nail to get Connor's needs met. But there was a place for him to learn, and even to gain skills for the workforce; he received job training during his final years at school.

I teach in the hopes that students like Connor and students like me and every student in between can have their own needs met. Not only do teachers provide academic lessons, they also help students gain life skills, as well as support them emotionally. Sometimes a teacher is the only positive adult influence in a student's life. Very often, that student's family would not have the means to "choose" another school.

The charter system of so-called "choice," provides a business-model and an exercise in capitalism which discounts students as people and teachers as mentors and turns them into commodities to be bought and sold to the highest bidder. Charter schools have no consistent way to vet their teachers or employees, and many administrators of charter schools have no formal training at all. Sending a voucher for a student to a charter school takes money directly away from the trained, vetted, and certificated teachers in the public education system (which eats into funding for books and curricula and supplies and arts and you-name-it), and funnels it into a school which may not benefit the students at all.

Just as students are not commodities, the head of education should not run public education like a business. Someone with no background at the classroom level or administrative level has no idea how public schools work, what they value, or what their goals are. Education is not a for-profit organization. It is not trading stocks or bonds. We are trading the lives and futures of real people.

The appointment of DeVos is appalling. The idea of students losing their opportunities and teachers losing their jobs is fear-inducing. It is easy to feel hopeless or lost or trapped or confused. The future looks scary and sad. Who knows what kind of changes may be thrown our way in the next four years?

My plan in the meantime is to teach until they rip the books out of my hands and tear me away from my students. My plan is to love my students and care for them, because they are people, not commodities, and they matter. My plan is to fight when I can fight and write when I can write and vote when I can vote. My plan is to pay attention.

I will not go into this future blind. I will make a difference. I will fight.  Will you?

An Open Letter to the Gilmore Guys

Hi Kevin and Demi,

I've been wanting to write to you for a long time to tell you how much your show has meant to me over the last two years. At the start of January 2015, I discovered your show via the hellogiggles article about it. I was finishing up my last couple of weeks at a job I hated, after having been laid off. I knew I would be facing under/unemployment for the next unknown period of time. Mere days after my last day at my job, my dad was diagnosed with Huntington's, a terminal, degenerative, genetic disease which is sort of a deadly cocktail of ALS, Alzheimer's, and Parkinson's-Esque symptoms. This also meant that my siblings and I each have a fifth percent chance of inheriting the same disease. This news was devastating to my family.

For months afterward, I would lay in my bed for hours on end with my mom and rewatch Gilmore Girls on Netflix. 

Like Kevin, I'm a crier. I found that every time I listened to music, no matter what it was, it would either evoke an emotion in me and lead me to tears, or give me too much free time to think, again resulting in waterworks. The only thing I found that I could listen to without sobbing was the Gilmore Guys podcast. It made me laugh in a time when all I wanted to do was curl up and die.

Eventually, the two of you became my familiar carpool buddies, my inspiration as I trained for and ran my first half-marathon, and the warm voices to fill an empty apartment.

I even got my fiancé to start listening to your show, which, finally persuaded him (after years of needling) to watch Gilmore Girls. And now, he actually likes it! He hasn't seen every episode, but he did watch the six hour revival with me, eating pop-tarts and Chinese food, while I raged through the Life and Death Brigade sequence, grimaced in surprise at the last four words, and sobbed uncontrollably through 90% of Fall.

Today, I finished your episode about Fall. From the time Demi started giving his speech, through the a capella version of Where You Lead, I cried and cried. It was ironic (and "full freakin circle") that I teared up at a show which was initially my escape from my sadness. I don't want to say good-bye.  

Here are some pictures of me with my dad (who just turned 50), my half-marathon, and my little GG:AYITL get-together with my mom, sister, fiancé, and dear friend.

Thank you for everything.

Nice chicken.

Kaylie Rainer

EDIT: 
I got a response from 1/2 of the Gilmore Guys and now I am extremely happy.

Hi Kaylie,

Thank you so much for this note, this means a lot to me and I’m very touched that we could bring a little bit of joy in your life in hard times.

I hope your 2017 is full of better days. We’ll be here for you! (if you care about bunheads at all that is) Thanks for writing Kaylie!

Copper BOOM!

-KTP

Get Outlook for iOS

Proposal Story 12-28-15

My fiance proposed to me in Disneyland. I had a hunch it was coming. His friend had drunkenly spilled the beans to me a month or two before, and I had been not-so-subtly hinting that Disneyland would be my ideal proposal locale for about two years at this point.  Before we left, I got my nails done, per my mother’s suggestion, in case any proposal hand selfies had to be taken. You know, because, priorities.

We left for Disneyland two days after Christmas. We were going with his parents, who were bank-rolling the trip, in celebration of my fiance’s new job with Boeing. We left their house at 3 a.m. after visiting with friends and family until after midnight the night before. I was extremely excited at that time to go, and we went to the park right away once we got settled. However, we all needed evening naps. Even after a nap, I had still only had about four hours of sleep, and I am no fun to be around when I haven’t slept. I don’t think I am ever truly mean, unless I am sleep-deprived or hungry. My mom has told my fiance on multiple occasions that, much like a gremlin, I need to be fed on a regular schedule, and asleep before midnight. She’s not entirely wrong.

Anyway, that evening, I was trying my best to be cheerful, but I was grouchy and snippy one minute, and then sobbing uncontrollably at fireworks the next. Dylan later told me that he knew he couldn’t propose that day, because I was too cranky. Fair point, Dylan, fair point.

Our first full day at Disney, everyone’s spirits were higher. Dylan had insisted that he and I schedule two fancy dinners during our week there at the nicer restaurants in the parks. (Yes, there is gourmet dining at Disney, who knew?) I suspected that this first fancy dinner might facilitate the proposal. We came back to the hotel for a swim and a siesta around 1:00 p.m., and ventured back out into the park at 3:00 p.m. Now, because we had made our reservations pretty last minute (like two days prior), we had dinner slots at 9:30 p.m. and 9:15 p.m., respectively. Dylan advised me to get dressed for our date before we went back into the park at 3:00.

Since I was pretty sure he was bringing a ring with him, I knew there would be lots of pictures taken (see also: I would be taking lots of selfies/assaulting strangers to take pictures of both of us). I am not normally a makeup-wearing gal, but I knew if I had huge dark circles under my eyes or a massive zit, it would put a damper on my frantic showing off of our proposal photos. I put on make-up, I put on a nice (albeit stretchy) dress, did my hair, and put on boots with a short, chunky heel. The boots are the catalyst for this entire anecdote.

Now, you’ll remember that I don’t function very well when I’m not eating regularly. I’m actually hypoglycemic.  I was running on adrenaline for the first few hours, but as the day wore on, I became more and more irritable, due to my hunger and my footwear, which I began cursing at every turn. It was about a quarter to six when I was really getting ornery. I was asking Dylan every few minutes if we could go back to the hotel to get my tennis shoes. He wanted to soldier on. Perhaps he didn’t want me looking like Hiker Jane in my proposal...I mean our proposal pictures, maybe he’s just sadistic...who’s to say? His parents were in line for It’s a Small World, After All, and the line was supposed to take ninety minutes. Dylan felt that with his parents saving our spots, now would be a good time to explore Toon Town.

For those of you who may not have been to Toon Town as an adult with no kids...it doesn’t really offer that much besides a photo op in the jail cell.  .

Hilarious

Dylan had set his sights on something else entirely: the Roger Rabbit ride. I’m not sure I ever rode this as a kid. Maybe I did, but I don’t remember. It held no sentimental value for me. He noted that the line outside was very short, so I begrudgingly agreed that we could ride it, envisioning myself shortly stationed in some cutesy rabbit-shaped car, with my feet blissfully burden-free. Never be fooled by a short outside line, folks. The indoor queue took us a whopping 45 minutes. I took full advantage of this time to complain about my sore, swollen, sad feet, and to find other things to complain about. My chosen target: Jessica Rabbit.

“Jessica Rabbit is just another absurd figure in the media who dates some ugly, stupid man, like Lois Griffin or whoever the Queen is on King of Queens. You would never see a male character who was super hot with an ugly or weird girl. Actually, you know what, that’s probably pretty accurate because women are less shallow than men.”

At that point, Dylan finally rose to the bait, attempting to defend his gender. I don’t remember exactly what was said, but the argument lasted us almost the entire queue. My sarcastic remarks turned into a Jessica Rabbit-fueled, feminist soapbox and my unwitting partner could barely keep up with my rage. In between barbs, I found every surface, counter, and floor, which was sit-on-able, and attempted to rest my feet, to very little avail.

When we finally boarded the ride and got settled in the car, I felt the sweet release of my feet not holding up my body, and sheepishly looked down.

“I’m sorry.” I whispered to my lap.

Dylan just held my hand and said, “I know,” because he has a high threshold for my lunacy.

Poor, sweet Dylan and the photo that started it all.

I actually didn’t hate the ride itself, probably because it didn’t include walking. By the time we returned to the Small World queue, I felt a little better and also a little embarrassed, so I tried to be a good sport.

Here is a photo of Dylan, Good Sport Me, and my in-laws Darlene and Brian outside Small World.

When we finally got to Small World, which is the longest ride ever, I was able to relax and enjoy the antiquated, slightly racist, Christmasy puppets of yore. My hunter, builder, woodsman father-in-law pointed and exclaimed with delight throughout the ride, which brought extreme joy to my heart. I was determined to be less cantankerous throughout the rest of the night.

I didn’t actually succeed with this goal entirely, because I got really really hungry, but let it be known that I did try. We watched a parade, I think I ate a churro, then finally it was time to go to the restaurant. Yay! Food! But also, yay potential proposal!

We arrived at the Napa Rose restaurant a whopping 45 minutes early for our reservation. I guess it wasn’t actually time yet. But they were able to seat us a little early, thankfully. Maybe the host understood that I might eat him if we were not seated soon. They brought out pre-dinner bread and I ate the entire basket. Dylan was quiet and didn’t eat much. I didn’t notice because I ate everything. All the bread (except one piece, which I politely gave to Dylan because I’m extremely kind), my entree, some of Dylan’s entree, and a huge dessert. Then I felt extremely content and noticed that Dylan hadn’t eaten or said much of anything.

Here is a blurry picture I took of the bread; I was so excited to eat it. Note Dylan's polite folded hands as I gorge myself.

As I was finishing dessert, Dylan looked uncomfortable and like he wanted to start a conversation.

He finally began, “Well, 2015 has been a pretty amazing year-”

I interrupted him, before I could stop myself.

I snorted and scoffed, “No it hasn’t.”

This caught him off-guard, “What?” he asked.

I listed, “I got laid off, my dad is dying from Huntington’s, I might have it, too…”

Dylan tried to recover, “Well, it’s had its ups and downs, but, uh…well, anyway, cheers.”

And he held up his wine glass, and we toasted. Part of me felt annoyed, “how could he have thought 2015 was a good year, what the hell?!” and part of me screamed, “SHUT UP FOR FIVE SECONDS, YOU IDIOT, HE’S TRYING TO PROPOSE.”

And the moment was officially ruined. By me.

Here is a picture of us outside the restaurant. I am happy and fed and Dylan is phoning it in as I ask the waiter to take five thousand photos of us and he worries the park will close soon. Classic.

I had the waiter take some photos of us, by the Christmas tree, outside by the sign, (hey, I wore make-up, I had to show it off.) When I was satisfied, Dylan grabbed my hand.

He said, “We have to get back to the park!”

“Can I at least change my shoes? The hotel is just over…”

“No time!” he commanded, and whisked me away.

At that point, he had decided his next choice for proposing would be the Storybook Land Boats. He assumed the ride would be a real mood-setter. He was envisioning a private, romantic, intimate boat ride. What he got was a boat captained by the world’s oldest narrator, and a passel  of children on-board with us.

The Storybook Land Boats go through Monstro the whale from Pinocchio’s mouth and enter a small canal, with miniature versions of Disney castles on either shore.

As we passed the castles, at a speed of about two miles per hour, the Professor Binns of boating would drone, “And here’s where Aladdin and Jasmine found a ‘whole new world’...of love.”

I sat back and enjoyed the weirdness that was this ride, but Dylan was visibly antsy. We had been forced to wait a few minutes for the narrator/boat captain to arrive, and dinner had taken a fortnight, so the clock was really ticking. By the time we completed our not-so-magical journey, It was 11:30 p.m., and the park was set to close at midnight. Dylan clutched my hand and started sprinting away, as soon as we docked. This time I had no idea where we were going.

We ended up at Snow White’s Wishing Well. Dylan had confided in me earlier in the trip that this was his favorite place in the park, as a kid. There’s not a whole lot to do in that area at night, no characters or anything, so I was a little confused.

Nearby, there were two young couples canoodling. One couple left fairly quickly but another couple (teenagers) stayed and made out for a few minutes with gusto.

At this point, Dylan attempted to stall for time, since he wanted to place cleared out. He tried making small talk, as he anxiously waited for the couples to dissipate.

“So, uh, who’s your favorite dwarf?” Dylan improvised, taking a cue from the dwarf statues nearby.

I balked, “Uh...I don’t know. Dopey...maybe?”

When the other couple finally left, Dylan needled me to toss a coin in the well and make a wish.

It took me an inordinate amount of time to actually find a coin in my purse and I remember thinking, “Oh gosh, if I don’t find some kind of a coin, he’s not going to propose…”, which was probably untrue but at the time, I was rattled.

Finally I did find one, and I wished for him to propose.

“All my life I’ve waited to find my princess, and now I finally have. Will you spend the rest of your life with me?” He asked shyly.

“Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes!” I cried happily, kissing his face and jumping up and down.

“Wait, you have to let me kneel down and get the ring out!” he protested.

“Oh, yeah, okay, go ahead.”

He got out the ring, he got down on one knee, he proposed, it was adorable. We rode some celebratory kiddie rides, Snow White’s Scary Adventure and Pinocchio’s Daring Journey, and I ran around asking people to take our picture and telling everyone who would listen that we were engaged.

Unsuccessful, extremely dark selfie

First attempt at getting a stranger to take our picture courtesy of a lady who didn't understand flash or flattering angles or technology, in general. This was the only non-blurry photo she took.

Second stranger photo attempt: perfection

1/2 point of weight loss!!

Hello!

The last time we "spoke
I was just beginning my weight loss journey in January as a sort of extended New Year's Resolution.  After 8.5 months of Weight Watchers and 2 months of the Couch to 5 K program I am feeling tons better about myself, I know I am looking better and I am in much better shape!! I have lost 43 lbs, and am about halfway to my weight loss goal!  As a part of my quest, I've decided to take pictures at significant landmarks wearing the same swimsuit so people/me can see the differences more significantly.  So...Here are the first half!

September 2011: approx. 228.6 lbs

May 2012: Approx. 205 lbs

and finally, today (8/17/12) at approx. 185 lbs

 It feels REALLY exciting to be able to see such significant progress. Obviously I look diva-riffic in that first picture...not really sure why i look like a limp noodle in the second, and am molto STOKED in the third.

Let me tell you, it is HARD work. Every day is a struggle. But I'm growing to love healthy food and exercise (although I still love me some tasty treats!!)

I've pretty much decided that I am aiming for to lose a full 100lbs.  After which we are going to have the biggest, most awesomest party ever.  Maybe a build-your-own salad high-five fest!

Just thought I would let everyone know about my progress!

Exclamation point!

Day two and three!

Well, it is officially Day Two of Kaylie’s Official Second-Go at Ghetto Weight Watchers. For those who don’t know, Ghetto Weight Watchers is for people who are too poor to pay for meetings, or website use. And if you’re thinking, “that’s not a thing!” you’re right. I made it up. It has one member. That member is me. Whatever. The decision to start Weight Watchers has been a difficult one. The last time I did it, I did it because of severe low self-esteem. I thought being thin would solve all my problems. And, low and behold, at my lowest weight since the seventh grade, I was the most unhappy I have ever been. Outside forces, aside; the size of my jeans didn’t really make me any happier or comfort me when I was sad. I was just colder. And my boobs were smaller. It’s been a long journey of self-rebuilding in the almost 3 years that have passed since then. I’ve spent a lot of that time concentrating on putting less stock in numbers (weight, dress size) and more on the way I feel. I think it’s stupid for women to not feel beautiful if they are above a certain weight. So I’ve tried really hard, and I think I’ve made a lot of progress, to love myself exactly as I am. I’m not saying I’m the Ghandi of self-confidence or anything. But I’ve grown a lot in my appreciation of myself. Or at least, I’ve gotten better at talking myself out of self-deprecating thoughts. So, this time around I promise myself this: I will not lose myself in the obsession of losing weight. I will get in shape because I want to, not because I think it will make me prettier, or sexier, or happier. All I can say for the past two days is this: I’m hungry. It’s probably mostly psychological, I understand that. But still. Also, I’ve been trying to exercise regularly, which is making me really miss Western’s rec center. Maybe I’ll get a gym membership. I do love that elliptical guy. Regardless, I have plans to at least *attempt* doing BodyRock’s 30 day new year’s challenge. Although I may die. We’ll see how things go.

Day Three of Weight Watchers!

Day three has been so much easier. I have hardly felt like dying from hunger at all, which is excellent. Last night Mom and I made a very filling delicious dish (Whole Wheat Spaghetti with Marinara, mushrooms, broccoli, cauliflower and tofu,) the leftovers of which I had for lunch. It was excellent! I've missed cooking, it reminds me of Italy. Can't wait until I'm doing my own shopping again. This morning I had egg whites with mushrooms and veggie sausage on a whole wheat English Muffin. Nummers!

In the past, I've found Day Three to be the hardest day of a diet. Yes, Weight Watchers Gurus, I realize that WW is not technically a 'diet,' it's marketed as a 'lifestyle,' but for all intents and purposes, I'm calling it a 'diet.'

Anyway, I have a pretty sordid diet-related past. I've started and stopped Weight Watchers more times than I care to count, done all sorts of Fat Flushes and Fasts; pretty much anything advertised on the cover of a magazines and

National Coming Out Day. 2011.

First of all: This post is going to talk about Sexuality. So don't read it if that freaks you out.


Well, it's National Coming Out Day.
Every year this day is a sort of weird internal struggle for me. For a long time, I've struggled with how to define my own sexuality. There are so many adjectives today describing sexual states of being (Just look at how long the LGBTQQ...2...A...A etc. acronym is getting!) and yet, somehow I still don't feel that one of those perfectly describes me. So, as somebody who finds themselves attracted to both sexes at an uneven ratio, who's sort of confused, I guess that would put me at that second Q or ?, Questioning. But as a white, sort-of-straight girl, I don't really feel like I should even be able to "come out." That to me is something private and important for people who actually have an idea of where they fall on the sexual spectrum. I don't want to steal anyone's thunder, and what do you say in my situation anyway? "In honor of Coming Out Day, I thought I'd let everyone know that I'm totally confused. Carry On."

To those brave enough to come out today, Thank you. I admire your courage. Keep on keepin' on. To those of you who are a little confused, like me, well...I guess we just keep trying to figure ourselves out.

Meanwhile. A rant on bisexuality stereotypes.
There are two prevailing stereotypes in American society about people who are bisexual. That they are either gay men, who are transitioning into being "fully out of the closet" or straight women who seek attention from straight men by kissing other straight girls.

Can we please let that die? It's a truly disrespectful response to someone who has been brave enough to express their true sexuality. While I won't say that those kinds of people aren't out there, it is not the majority. Bisexuality does exist. Just because you don't understand it doesn't mean it's not real.

Sorry for taking up your time with my confused rantings. I told you you didn't have to read this.

Post-Graduate Musings

Well, avid readers, it's been almost two years since my last post. When I think about what I was doing two years ago, it makes me unbelievably sad and disappointed about where I am now. Not that my life is so bad or horrible or anything, it's just that...to go from romping about Europe, totally free and independent, surrounded by art and 2000 years worth of civilization, to moving back in with my parents in Tacoma, Washington is a little depressing. It all comes down to money, I suppose. Which is, I think, the biggest lesson I'm drawing from le real world, you gotta get the dolla dolla bills. So, now I'm living with my parents, working three jobs, trying simultaneously to further my theatrical career (gotta buff up my grad school application)and move out of my childhood home. Not that living at home is torturous, in a lot of ways it's really nice. Not having to pay rent, for example, is enough of an incentive to stay with my parents indefinitely. I just feel that, at this point in my life, it's not conducive to my growing and changing. Something I really miss about college is the social aspect. Most days, the only people I spend any time with are my family, who are great, I just miss people my own age. It's strange to come back to this place where I had so many friends and forged so many emotional connections, to find that most of them have flown away. I'm assistant directing and also acting in a play at one of the local community colleges at the director (my high school theatre teacher's) behest. Upon arriving at the campus yesterday I felt gripped with fear and anxiety; something akin to 'first day jitters,' but also overwhelmed with excitement just to engage with people in my own chronological demographic. Much to my surprise, however, community college is not just twenty-somethings and post-high school students, but people of all different ages, from running start high-school students to octogenarian learners. Which, in a lot of ways is really fascinating and cool, but not in the going out for beers after rehearsal kind of way, which I'm so desperately seeking. Not that, honestly, I have time for social interaction most days, that's the nature of the money-grubbing beast that is capitalism, but I do miss it. Which is why I would love to live with people my own age, so that I could squeeze in a little social interaction at those brief times when I'm not at work or rehearsal, without having to hunt down someone on whom I can force my companionship. One refreshing thing about "Almost, Maine" (the play I'm working on) is the big fish, small pond realization. Having just graduated from a highly competitive theatre program among truly proficient artists, it has been a long time since I felt talented, particularly in the acting department. Fresh off a community theatre rejection (that honestly didn't faze me very much, it comes with the theatrical territory,) at the first rehearsal, I was surprised to be given praise and compliments and support. Whether this show turns out to be a great opus or not, I anticipate it becoming a great community, which would be welcome. That's all for now, I guess. It's a slow day at my office job, but I should at least feign working.

Assissi, Dublin, London, Venice

Yes, Dear Readers (or casual skimming acquaintances) I realize that it has been an excruciatingly long amount of time since last I wrote. About anything. For this I apologize. It follows that I should also apologize for what will be, logically, an excruciatingly long entry. Ahem.
First came Assissi. The program with which I'm studying took an excursion there a few weeks ago and it blew my mind. For those of you who haven't caught on already Assissi is particularly famous for St. Francis of. Before we went we watched a movie called "Brother Sun, Sister Moon" about his life, which I've been meaning to see for ages anyway. He was the most fascinating figure! Italy is funny, in the fact that since I've been here I've added a fair bit of Catholicism into my giant stew pot that I call faith and St. Francis was a huge addition. Before recently, I knew vaguely of Francis (animals and kids, right? pet blessing?) but had honestly never really thought about him before. He was amazing, though. He gave up all of his wealth and power to commune with nature, be impoverished, care for lepers and the poor and build churches and was even a huge activist against the Crusades (we're talking conferences with Sultans to stop the violence.) Even if you don't buy the whole "two years of stigmata" thing, which, admittedly, I haven't really decided on, this guy was truly amazing. A pacifist, an activist...really someone to look up to. I finally get the whole 'saint' thing. It's something for humans to strive for. Anyway, we went to Assissi, up mountains, driving by a multitude of old medieval castles, until we got there. The main focus of the town is San Francesco's Basilica. The building is beautiful, of course, but the inside was phenomenal. Every square inch from floor to ceiling was decorated in beautiful frescoes detailing Francis' life, or stories from the Bible. And in the very basement, is the corpse of St. Francis himself, just as he requested to be, "buried in new earth." The whole place had this hallowed nature to it. Many of the churches in Italy feel that way, but especially here. People travel from around the world to pray at the body of St. Francis and it felt like all their energies converged into this basilica, filling us all with a deep sense of awe and wonder. Saint Claire's church was lovely as well, though more simple, and it contained the church at which the original Franciscan monks used to worship as well as the cross which inspired St. Francis to do all the things he did. It was magnetic, the way we were drawn to it.
Besides feeling spiritually stimulated, Assissi also held the delightful bonus of having a multitude of monks and nuns, everywhere. There was Macchismo Monk (on a vespa,) Northwest Monk (with a Northface backpack and Birkenstocks,) Eating-Gelato-From-A-Cone Nun (with an admonishing, "I know you're taking a picture of me air) and, my personal favorite, Nun-Having-Fun (swinging on a swing, with tourists on her lap taking pictures!) Sounds too whimsical to be true? I would never lie about Nuns Having Fun.
The week or so that followed, I don't really remember, but that generally indicates that nothing particularly exciting happened, so it's just as well.
Now: Holiday (as the Irish and English folks call it)
Our Holiday started out with several night trains, a three hour layover from 1am to 3 am in what is lovingly dubbed "the armpit of Italy" and, finally a plane into Dublin. We took a bus from the airport, (by the end of our trip we had deduced that apparently airports are always at least 40 minutes away from anything interesting) and walked down O'Donnell street as happy as clams. We could speak English here! HOORAY! That's not to say we didn't forget every now and then and say, "scusi" or "gratzie" with weird looks in response, but we definitely did not have to try so hard here! We looked at the statues lining the streets, listened to the incredibly lovely accents and found our way to the Litton Lane Hostel. The interesting thing about Litton Lane is that it was the recording studio of U2, Van Morrison, The Cranberries, Sinead O'Connor (Ireland LOVES Sinead) and various other bands. The walls were all decorated with paintings in a pop-art style of musicians, especially those who had recorded there. There were two big scary paintings of Sinead. Nothing compares to me, apparently. We lived on the Bono and Bowie floor. Delightful! Since we'd been up all night travelling we took a nap and got up right at dusk. We began to explore Dublin, and crossed the Lithee River, with all its monuments lit up with lights of green and blue and it swept us off our feet. It was magical, even if the Lithee, judging by its mucky contents, does appear to have a nasty habit of swallowing bikes. We found a local pub "O'Shea's," which we would later dub our place, and went for a traditional Irish dinner. We had soup or stew, which was hearty and warmed us right up, apple pie, which is not at all like American apple pie and not something I would reccommend, and, of course, our very first Irish pints of Guinness. There was some live tradition Irish music later, which we enjoyed (the Irish call it a trad sesh, or sesh, or session.) Then we met some rowdy but endearing British men who had flown to Ireland for a stagdo (bacherlor party.) They could not stop going on and on about how amazing our accents were or how lovely and straight our teeth were. One of them explained to us that his teeth were "mingink" which apparently means, really bad teeth. They made us say phrases like "bachelor party" over and over again and quite simply thought we were the cat's pajamas and danced with us to the trad sess. Our first time being liked because we're Americans! We then went to another pub and heard an Irish guitar play cover famous songs. It was an excellent first night, all in all. Over our time in Dublin we explored Phoenix park, the biggest park in Europe, with its big autumn-colored trees (which we don't have in Italy, damn you evergreen olive trees,) rolling hills, red-headed children playing,trails, bikers, monuments, and plinths. It was beautiful, a lot like Central Park, actually. There was a huge, somewhat phallic giant plinth erected (pun may or may not be intended) for Waterloo, which we climbed and admired. My favorite part, though, was the lyrics to "Wonderwall" by Oasis, which someone had unassumingly graffitied in a small area. It must be the starving artist in me. We saw Dublin castle...which was big and gorgeous, and all signs point to the fact that it's been turned into offices...sadly. The tourism center was an old Anglican church with gorgeous architecture...But since Episcopalians are notoriously poor they had to sell it to the state. Jenny and I came across a beautiful Catholic church, while Brooke and Vanessa were on tour in the Guinness factory (I saw the outside, and certainly tasted its wares but was too poor for the actual tour) and while trying to look at the artwork, we sort of stumbled in on mass. It was a lovely service, and a short one, somewhat hard to understand because the lectors had thick Irish accents and were about 9000000 years old, but nice all the same. We were certainly the only ones there under 65, and we slipped out during Communion seeing as neither of us are confirmed Catholics. It was a nice experience though. We also went to a dance club one night, and I met an Irish guy who liked Death Cab so we had a good conversation about music. He was jealous of my living near Seattle...IRONY! While we were in Dublin, we also took a day-trip to Howth, (pronounced HOEtt as in goat,) a little fishing village nearby, not unlike Gig Harbor...only a little less kitschy. It was foggy, and we were surrounded by huge green rocky cliffs and seagulls and seals and rocky shores and everything Roan Inish said Ireland should be. We ate these giant tasty beautiful buns (we would call them cupcakes) and looked at all the Irish children, most of whom seemed to be in matching outfits. We also took a trek up to an old beautiful church, which ended up being built in the 12th century and restored in the 14th. It was now an old old graveyard. Graveyards, especially interesting ones, are always fascinating, however morbid that my sound, and it was really cool to look around. Then I started to get sick, and a girl in our Hostel who had been keeping us awake with her boyfriend every night, and who broke about every hostel rule woke me up four separate times, both with shaking and shouting telling me to "STOP SNORING!" I kid you not. I had a tiny wheeze because I was sick and this girl goes mental. BAH. The next day the girls left for Galway, and I spent a feverish last night in the hostel alone. I got up at 3 in the morning and started my journey to London. I finally arrived in Melanie's area at noon. It was so good to see her, we had so much fun. I didn't do a lot of touristy stuff, which was actually kind of nice, I felt like I got more of a real taste of life there. But I did see the gay district, chinatown, the theatre district, and one of the most gorgeous views of my life. At dusk, Melanie took me to a place where I could see Big Ben and Parliament (look kids!) and the bridge from Harry Potter 6 and an industrial area and the Theatre and the London Eye. It was gorgeous. Again with the sparkling. Nearby there was also a skatepark covered inch to inch in graffiti...another favorite of mine. We ate Italian food that night and I spoke with the owner in Italian, which was fun. Afterwards we went to this old Stables that they'd turned into a venue and saw some bands play, after which it turned into a club where we danced with an adorable, yet intoxicated gay couple for a while. From the hours of 1 to 3 AM we attempted to get busses back to Richmond (the area of London where Mel lives, and where her school, which is gorgeous and fascinating and looks like a castle, is.) We took a night bus (no 'K' see, or I would have just stuck out my wand arm) and got in around 4. We had an interesting conversation with a man sitting behind us, who said I had a unique speaking pattern and he thought I would become a famous writer because of it. I told him if I did I would dedicate my first book to him. "To London, and the dear fellow on the Night Bus to Richmond." The next day I went back to Ireland, at this point I am getting very sick of planes and still have one more to take, where the girls and I had a hotel literally in the airport parking lot. We still weren't feeling well, so we mostly soaked up as much English-speaking TV as we could, before we headed back to Italy in the morning. We left early early, took our last plane (YES) and landed in Venice. Venice was a most interesting place. It's true, everything there is on the river, water taxis, gondolas, buildings. It's very fascinating and has some gorgeous architecture, boats, STRIPEY SHIRTED GONDOLA men, intricate masks, each with their own personality, light and lovely blown glass and kitties (including one who looked like a short-haired, Italian, straight-eyed, less cute Mark Cohen.) It's also very touristy, very dirty, very expensive, and a VERY long train ride from Macerata. Since I still felt sick, Brooke and I took an early train home that day. We had a stimulating political conversation in Italish with some trainy locals and finished the night in our own beds. It was a truly brilliant holiday...even if I may have bronichitis.

Ciao! This weekend a group of us went to a town called Ascoli Piceno. It was about a two and a half hour trip from Macerata, and we stayed over night in a youth hostel. We walked forEVER to get from the train station to the hostel, but the hostel was, I kid you not, in a medieval fortress, with a huge stone tower. (I got a million free postcards from there so if you want to see it, let me know) The six of us all shared a room and there was no one else there, so it was nice and comfortable. Ascoli is this ancient/medieval town with ALL these big fortressy castley towers all over the place. The bird's eye view of the place is really cool. There is one particularlky cool piazza there, called la Piazza del Popolo (plaza of the Pope) and it's big, full of cool cafes, shops, a big church (as always here,) and a huge clock tower with a statue of...some pope or other. It was raining a lot when we first got there, so it was all puddles and head scarfs and huddling under church stoops. We had dinner at this nice Trattoria (a nice dinner place in Italy that works in traditional course by course style) and then had gelato. At this point it had gotten dark, and the clock, in true Disneyland fashion had begun to change colour. It went, purple, pink, red, green, yellow, orange and blue and we were FASCINATED by it. Afterwards a few of us went to do Karaoke at this bar. I successfully ordered Jenny and I two Gin and Tonics with lemon. Which was less difficult than I anticipated because it translates to: gintonica con limone. Ah well. Anyway, it was huge. We patiently waited for our turn, the D.J.s flirting with us, talking about "le american girls" all the time on their microphones. But the rest of the people there (almost all Italians, except one crazy German man) kept stealing our spots and pushing ahead of us. It's a cultural thing. Here:no lines. Nobody waits orderly. It's every person for themselves. This can be particularly affronting to us, especially after we waited FOR EVER and never actually got to Karaoke. We wanted to sing Bonnie Tyler's Total Eclipse of the Heart, but we would have settled for anthing, we just wanted to sing. Ah well, it was worth it to hear a little old German man sing "New York, New York," in a faux rat pack big band voice. Soon, though. We WILL sing, oh yes, we will. The next day we drank cappuchini at a famous cafe, though none of us were quite sure what it was famous FOR. We ate at this lovely little restaurant (if you ever go to Ascoli, go to Blahblah Il Vagabundo. Delicious.) looked a massive pretty church and saw an ancient Roman theatre. The sad thing about the Roman ruins around here, is that for a long period of time, no one had any regard for historical value, so marble and stone were removed from old famous architecture and used to make new things. MAMMA MIA! So you have to do a lot of imagining in order to see the structure as it once was. It's interesting because next to it there's a medieval church, it's along a modern street, all overgrown with fauna, and in the middle of it, right in the center of all that theatrical history, is a Bobcat. A tractory like thing. Strange. But also really really neat. We saw ancient fortresses and encountered these young men and boys throwing huge flags in the air and catching them with their hands and feet. A truly fascinating art form (sport?) It didn't hurt that the young men were particularly attractive. It was a lovely time though we had to run to catch our last connection to Macerata. Today's agenda: Jesus Christ Superstar.

Where do I begin? This week has been so long and crazy and amazing that I really don't know how I can do it justice in one blog entry. So it will probably be long. Tune out now if you aren't interested. First on Wednesday evening (of last week) two of our Italian friends, Claudio and Ricardo came over to cook for us. And let me tell you, all that you've heard about Italians being great cooks is true. They were pretty adamant about teaching our American friend Tyler how to cook so he can attract the American girls. They said that all Italian men are excellent cooks, but they stop as soon as they got married, and the only good women cooks they knew were their mothers and grandmothers. Disheartening, yes. But, I have a feeling that if I hooked a good lookin' cookin' Italian man, I could convince him to cook for me. Between that and Vivian, I'd be set for LIFE. And also 803203948 pounds, but that's okay. I talked about health care and journalism and censorship with one of them and we ate pasta and cheese (with honey and jam which is both traditional and surprising, but also SUPER DELICIOUS) and drank wine and drank wine and limoncello, and played some guitar. It was really nice. Thursday night the whole program went out to a nice Maceratese restaurant down the street from the school, where we had all eaten our first few days in Macerata. We celebrated Ginnie's birthday with Tiramisu and singing in Italian and English. She cried. On Friday we did more touring of Macerata, only this tour was more in depth. We climbed up the clock tower and from every angle you could see forever. The clock tower is the highest point in Macerata. You could see courtyards and cars and buildings and acres and acres of countryside and rolling hills. It was completely breathtaking. We also got to see the Teatro Lauro Rossi which was palatial but simplistic and felt immediately like home. It felt good to stand on a stage again, even if it was without a purpose. I miss performing like mad. I have some presentations this week in my theatre classes which is exciting, so that should fill that void...mostly... Anyway, the theatre was built during the renaisscance, maybe a little earlier, so there are boxes in the balconies for the richies, a duke's seat, and where the chairs are on the floor, was once only standing-room-only for peasants. One thing I'm totally devouring here is all the history. It's so wildly different than anything that exists in the states, even on the east coast. Old there is what the tour guides here call "relatively new." We also toured what used to be an old mansion belonging to one family until as late as the 1960's. It was gargantuan, frescoes EVERYWHERE! The ceiling in one huge room was painted with so many different Greek myths and characters it was hard for your eyes to focus. The entire building was a myriad of art. The bedrooms are aphrodisiacs, covered in paintings designed to incite lust. The next day we went to Cingoli, which is supposed to be the "Balcony of the Marche region" which is high up on a plateau and over looks the whole region. We saw some gorgeous churches and old art...but the best part for all of us was that, unlike Macerata, Cingoli is rich in TREES! We had a midday picnic in the park, sitting on carved stone steps, surrounded by big beautiful trees enjoying cheese, wine, bread, olives and all of those delcious Italian snacks. Sunday was a day of rest. Yesterday we toured a winery. I officially have a new goal. Marry a man who owns millions of acres of Italian vineyards, and happily make wine for the rest of my life. I'm not kidding, this place was wonderful. The grapes they use are just like candy and the wine is the tastiest I have ever had. This winery's wine is considered the best in Italy, and Italy has the best wines in the world. That means that I tasted and purchased two bottles of, the best wine in the world. Epic. We also saw some AMAZING ruins from the Roman era. There were frescos on the walls of this collapsed temple that date back to 1ad. Jesus couldn't even talk when these buildings were made. And the crazy thing is, that some of the structures are a hodge-podge of materials...used from other older structures! We also saw the remains of an ancient Roman Theatre. It was like a Theatre History 1 lesson came alive. Many of the seats are still there, and the altar. I could feel this ancient communion with all the thespian that came before (as nerdy as that sounds) and it was so powerful and all-encompassing and magical. I can't tell you how much I love it here. Every day is like reading a novel. Only it's my life.