First Kisses, Starbursts, and Idealizations

Spurning my advances. #allijerk #snootigator

Here's a fun story for you: the first time I got kissed, my reaction was, no joke, "That was weird. Please don't do it again." (I was really nervous, okay?!)
If there were a list of things boys don't want to hear after they kiss you, I'd imagine that one would be sandwiched somewhere between "Wow, does your breath always smell like that?" to "I think your spirit animal is a dead fish."

Okay, maybe I just concocted those scenarios to make myself feel better about what I said, but you get the gist. I'm sure it wasn't his favorite thing to hear.

The point of this post, though, isn't to give you kissing pointers, because yuck, I don't really want to do that. And I can't undo a starburst using my tongue, so I'm probably not qualified anyway. (Gross.) This post is not about things you SHOULD say after a first kiss. (Though you could try this one on for size: "You are the wind beneath my wings." You're welcome. I'm sure that will get you a second kiss. Or also maybe no more kisses ever for the rest of your life. There's only one way to find out.)

The point of this post is that I had idealized for years what my first kiss was going to be like. It was going to be beneath a tree on a spring afternoon. My zit-free skin would be highlighted and contoured to perfection and I would look like an angel-goddess. I'd probably be wearing some flowy floral dress. And afterward I certainly wouldn't say "That was weird. Please don't do it again."

Instead I got kissed on a dirty old couch in a living room. So yeah. Dream big, I guess.

I was SO worried about finding the perfect guy to fit into that perfect day in my perfect life that was going to be part of my perfect eternity.

Unfortunately, spoiler alert: that didn't happen. And it couldn't have happened because a) I am still really bad at highlighting and contouring and b) life is NOT, nor will it ever be, perfect.

I think so often we want everything to work out in exactly the way we imagine. We want the right guy to come along and we pray for him and then we search and search and search for him like life is some kind of Where's Waldo book where it's just a matter of looking hard enough to find the guy who meets all of our perfect criteria.

I certainly wasn't any different. Whenever my friends dated boys or got married, though I was happy for them, I would always wonder in the back of my mind, "Uhm, excuse me, where is MY perfect man?"

Thankfully, my mother is wiser than I am and she told me something that changed the way I dated. One day after I'd had a good ranting sesh about my lack of luck with boys, my mom said, "Amy, don't worry so much about finding the right person. Worry about BEING the right person."

Then I was like, YES MOM. #GIRLPOWER
But seriously, think about it: you may not be able to control who comes into your life or when, but you certainly can control the person you are and the person that you're becoming. So stop worrying about finding the perfect future husband or future wife. Stop worrying about someone fitting your exact mold of what a perfect boyfriend or girlfriend looks like. Worry about YOU. Worry about being the best you that you can be.

Luckily, though I may have a tiny brain, I wasn't too thickheaded to realize that my mom was giving me some stellar advice. So I decided to give my mom's creed a try. (Not to be mistaken with the band Creed. Watched the "One Last Breath" video in 4th grade. Not a good life choice. #stillscarred) I decided that I needed to become the best me I could be. So I did all of those thing I knew I was supposed to do: I focused on church and on my relationship with God. I focused on school. I focused on reaching out to others and serving them. I focused on being healthy and exercising. (a.k.a. I rode the stationary bike like one time.)

And guess what happened when I started becoming the best me I could be?
HERE IS WHERE YOU THINK I WILL SAY FOUND MY HUSBAND LOLOLOL
I started to like myself a lot more. I liked who I was becoming. I liked the way I was living my life and I became comfortable being on my own because I liked my own company. I made more friends, I had fun with my roommates, I learned to love life... With or without a boyfriend.
And then, somewhere along the line, I did find the perfect guy. But he's already taken, so I'll hope for your sake that there's a close runner-up out there somewhere.

Just don't worry about finding him. Worry about finding you. 

Until next time,
Amy

My Mission: Struggles, More Struggles, and Finally the Lessons of a Lifetime

During my second transfer of my mission!

"Amy, I love you and I will never be disappointed in you, but I would be disappointed for you."

I will never forget that moment, staring at the computer screen, willing tears not to come to my eyes. The words in that email from my father will forever be etched in my mind. I had just asked my dad a question that plagued my soul: "Would you be disappointed in me if I came home?"

My mission is, without any shadow of a doubt, the most difficult thing I have ever experienced in my life.

My whole life, I'd heard returned missionaries say during their homecoming talks that the mission was hard. I'd heard more times than I can count that missionary work is work; that it's not fun and games; that it's harder than it seems. But those words never meant anything to me until I was in the middle of it.

I've always been a happy person and I've always loved other people and loved my Father in Heaven. That's why when it came time for me to decide whether or not I'd serve a mission, the choice wasn't a hard one to make. I filled out my papers in just a few weeks and received my call just forty-five days prior to when I entered the MTC. I got to the MTC on May 15th, and to say I loved it there is a major understatement. I adored the MTC. I made friends that I still see regularly; I learned more about the gospel; I soaked up every minute of devotional and every second of class time. The MTC, for me, was paradise.

And then I got to the field.

My first few weeks, I assumed that the way I was feeling was normal. Everyone has a hard time adjusting to the first few weeks or even the first transfer, or so I'd heard.

It was after the first three months that I really started to worry.

I'd never felt like this before. I felt like I was drowning; like I was suffocating and couldn't find air anywhere. There was no relief, with walls inching closer and closer to me every day, threatening to break me and crush my spirit.

While we were teaching, I could be okay. I could put on an air of happiness and joy, but inside I felt like my emotions were too big for my body. There's no other way I can describe it: it was too big for me and I couldn't handle it. It was like the feeling of panic, but all the time, 24/7, magnified by a thousand. And I couldn't take it anymore.

Because I genuinely loved my investigators and the members and because I could pretend to be happy when I wasn't, a well-meaning companion suggested that I just needed to be more positive. "You're not clinically depressed, Sister Carpenter. You're just not."

I knew she was right. I just knew it. I was sure that if I simply had a better attitude, that if I wasn't so selfish, I wouldn't feel this way. This was my fault, I told myself. Was the Lord disappointed in me? I couldn't take it out here. I couldn't handle it. But oh, everyone would be so ashamed of me if I went home! Everyone would judge me and think less of me. I poured out my soul in prayer, begging to find peace and comfort to no avail.

I began to meet with my mission president, an angel of a man, weekly. God bless him for his persistence, for his patience, for his love. He talked with me, read scriptures to me, and never once judged me or gave up on me.

I'd entered the field in May, and by November, I was steadily growing more and more depressed. I became CONVINCED that the Lord wanted me to go home. That was the only possible explanation for the way I felt. I scoured the scriptures, prayed, fasted, and I was absolutely positive that every scripture I read was a sign that I was meant to go home. I would do ANYTHING to believe that I wasn't supposed to be there anymore. I couldn't keep feeling like this. I couldn't.

And then came the other day that I'll never forget as long as I live. I called my mission president and told him I couldn't handle this any longer. He allowed me to call my dad, and then followed the experience that will touch my heart for a lifetime.

We lived with members, and we stayed in their basement. In the corner of the basement, they had a little pantry. I went into it, immediately curled myself into what was basically the fetal position, and called my dad. He picked up and I instantly began sobbing. "Dad, please come get me. Please come get me. I can't do this anymore. I'm going to die. Come get me, please come get me."

Can you imagine getting that call from your child? Hearing her heart breaking, hearing her begging you for help, hearing her defeated and hopeless and lost? I can't imagine what that felt like for my dad, but I'm grateful that he loved me enough to say what must have been the hardest thing for him to tell me.

"Amy, I'd crawl across the country over broken glass on my hands and knees if I thought it would help you. But I know you. I know what this experience is going to do for you."

He pleaded with me to try medication, which I had resisted, since there was absolutely no way that I was depressed. He promised that if I tried it and it didn't help, he would come get me. So I promised, but I knew it wasn't going to help because it was my fault and besides that, I was supposed to go home.

I tried it. I was prescribed an antidepressant the next day and literally within weeks, I was a new person. I could feel joy again. I could feel peace, and because of that, I began to understand the Spirit more clearly. I was then able to finish the rest of my mission.

During this entire experience, the one thing that assured me that maybe I had done the right thing and the one thing that truly kept me on a mission were these words by Elder Jeffrey R. Holland: "Once there has been illumination, beware the temptation to retreat from a good thing. If it was right when you prayed about it and trusted it and lived for it, it is right now." I knew I had received the answer to serve a mission. I knew I had felt God's hand in my life and that He was there and was, though it felt like He wasn't at times, there for me and aware of me.

Now don't get me wrong. I'm certainly not saying that no one should return home from a mission due to depression struggles. There are certainly situations and circumstances where that is what needs to happen so healing can take place. What I'm saying is that sometimes it gets really hard, when you're grieving, to discern what's right from wrong; to discern what's from the Spirit and what's from your own desires. What I'm saying is to please, please, please, PLEASE take care of yourself. Get the help you need. Ask for help, pray for help, and certainly do not be too prideful or too overcome by your own prejudices to accept help. I suffered so badly for so long because I was too wrapped up in my own head to think that I actually might need medical help. 

Mental illness is real! If it wasn't, medicine wouldn't help. And it did help -- for me it made all the difference.

When I was struggling, I received blessings over and over saying that my experience would help others. I remember thinking, "I don't care who this is going to help, I just need it to be over!" Maybe that's selfish, but when you're in the deepest despair you've ever experienced, it doesn't feel selfish; it feels like SURVIVING. I didn't know how I could go on like this. It felt like I was in a tunnel with no light at the end, pressing forward with no indication of when I would ever be out. 

But my experience did help people. I was able to connect with SO many people because of my experience: people that felt alone, people that felt depressed, people that wondered if God was there. I was able to love them more. I was able to cry with them and understand them and comfort them. 

I'm grateful for my experience. I never, ever thought I would say that, but I am. No way in the world would I ever want to relive it, but I'm so grateful for what it taught me. I understand Christ on a deeper level than I ever thought I would. I understand more than ever that the power of the Atonement is real. 

My mission changed my life. It changed me and allowed me to get a glimpse of God's love for us. I'm grateful for a parent who loved me enough to watch me hurt because he knew I would grow. I know without a doubt that my dad would have loved me and supported me no matter what I chose to do, but I also know that he realized I hadn't tried everything I could try to make it work. I'm thankful for a mission president who didn't give up on me when it might have been easy to. He worked with me, loved me, and accepted me. Their words of encouragement and love have lifted me in times when I felt things were impossible.

"I love you and I will never be disappointed in you, but I would be disappointed for you." My father recognized that this experience was a time of growth and development FOR ME. Now things vary case by case, but for me, I needed this experience. It has shaped my life more than I could ever put into words. 

Above everything else, my dad's words in that email helped me to better understand the character of our Father in Heaven. Don't you think that's exactly how Heavenly Father feels? He loves us so much and I think He's far more often disappointed for us than He is in us, because He wants to give us blessings and He wants us to grow to become more like Him. This advice applies to so much in life, and I hope you'll never forget it, because I know I haven't. I remember thinking, "I've tried so hard my whole life to be good, and this is what I get?" But looking back, I know that our Father in Heaven would "crawl across the country over broken glass on [His] hands and knees" if He thought it would help us, but often He lets us suffer because He knows that it will allow us to become better than we ever could be without adversity.

Show compassion. So often people are struggling and we have no idea. No one should ever feel like I felt: ashamed to need help. Afraid to go home because I was worried I'd be judged and thought less of. No one deserves that, but unfortunately it is sometimes a reality. We are all trying and we all deserve love and kindness, regardless of what we may or may not have done. That is Christ's way and it should be ours, too. 

Missions are hard. Life is hard. And there are times when it seems so, so impossible. But there is light at the end of that tunnel; I know there is. I've lost sight of it before and believed it wasn't there, but it ALWAYS is. Because God is there. He is real and He can help. Please let Him. 

Proposals and People Who Ruin Them

It's been a while since my last post, and there's good reason for that: I couldn't think of anything to write about. Okay, so maybe that's actually a super lame reason, but it is, much like MC Hammer or perhaps Rod Kimble, legit.

Last night I did something that I often do; something that I'm sure is so endearing and not at all annoying to Jake... I started laughing to myself out of nowhere. When Jake asked what I was laughing at, I can only imagine that my response elevated his self-confidence to an all-time high: "I was thinking about when you proposed."

Now before you start calling me all kinds of names (i.e. "Heartless," "Hateful," "Wartface"), you have to understand that I wasn't laughing at Jake. Jake is honestly perfect and I'm pretty sure God let him marry me so that Jake could more thoroughly understand the suffering of Job. So yeah. Totally not laughing at Jake, I promise.

Rather, I was laughing at what happened WHEN Jake proposed.

So there we were in Coeur d'Alene (NO, I DIDN'T HAVE TO SPELL THAT TWELVE TIMES BEFORE THE RED SQUIGGLY LINE DISAPPEARED) standing on the most beautiful, deserted pier. I'm looking out at the lake and then all the sudden Jake falls overboard. Luckily he was wearing floaties at the time, as he always does around water (including the shower).

Okay, no, that didn't happen. But the pier thing was true; that really is where Jake proposed. So we were standing there and it was sweet and romantic and SUPER cold. Jake is being cute and telling me how much he loves me and I'm pretty sure he said something about how he knew he wanted to marry me after our first date, but honestly it's a little fuzzy because JUST as Jake is getting on one knee, some random middle-to-oldish-aged man (let's call him Bob) decides that this is the time that he will also walk along the pier. Picture this: just as the man I know I want to spend the rest of my life with gets down on one knee, I'm finding it very difficult to look at him because I've just made eye contact with Bob, who is at the top of the stairs leading to the pier. Bob quickly realizes what is going on because HELLO, why else would Jake be on one knee? (Unless he was pretending to be an Oompa Loompa, which I'm sure that Bob immediately ruled out because Jake wasn't painted orange.) Bob, realizing the awkwardness of this situation, slowly starts backing down the stairs (my favorite part of it was that he didn't even turn around; he just went down the steps backward).

Before I know it, Jake is looking at me and I'm like, "Oh... What? I mean, yes!" And then we're hugging and stuff and as soon as we start walking off the pier, Bob comes up again which is awkward because apparently he didn't even leave, he just stood there and listened! AND HE DIDN'T EVEN CONGRATULATE US!! Uh, hello, Bob, you just witnessed a life-changing moment here; I don't think it'd kill you to say, "Hey, sorry for blatantly eavesdropping on an extremely private moment. Congrats, you li'l lovebirds." (That's how I imagine Bob talks.)

So yeah. Contrary to the title, Bob definitely didn't ruin our proposal; he actually made it more memorable and hilarious. I guess what I'm really trying to say here is try to make people as uncomfortable as possible while they're getting engaged... They'll thank you later. Or never. But maybe later.

Until next time,
Amy

p.s. To help you visualize, I found a picture of the pier. The yellow arrow is roughly where we were; the red circle is where Bob was. Awkwardness ensued.

"Sticks and Stones" and Other Phrases That Make No Sense

 

"Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me." 

I have a few beefs with this phrase. (Also, who came up with THAT phrase? Beef is delicious. Not sure what the problem is here. Seems like it would be a good thing to have a beef with someone, so long as that person is not a vegetarian. Oh, English language, you have done it again!)

So yeah. Who made the "sticks and stones" quote up? Was that person having sticks and stones thrown at him (or her...)? Things that seem like a bad idea to say when someone is throwing things at you: "Sticks and stones may break my bones..." Don't taunt them!! They are already throwing things at you!!
If they weren't throwing sticks/stones at him, I guess they were verbally attacking him and he wanted to prove that their words didn't affect him. 

That's great. That's really great and I wish I was like that, where people's words never hurt me. 
But honestly, I think that's about the most dishonest quote in the world, besides "A penny for your thoughts," because has anyone EVER come through on that statement? Plus, that is literally the smallest amount of change you could give me. Your bribing strategy is terrible.

Words are so powerful. They have the power to do so much good; the power to lift and inspire. Yet they also have the power to cause so much pain.

For example, I'll never forget the boy in 6th grade that said I was fat, or the boy who said to his friend, "You're friends with pretty girls; why are you talking to her?" 

That was 11 years ago, and I can still remember it as vividly as though it were yesterday. That's not to say that you should hold on to things forever and never forgive -- you absolutely SHOULD forgive. And I have. But truthfully, I haven't forgotten and I don't think I ever will. And honestly, it's shaped the way I see myself, even though I really, really wish I could say their words never affected me.

It's not that I don't want to forget. I would love to forget that those things were said about me. I would also love to forget the time that I walked into a stop sign (clearly I was neither graceful NOR obedient...) in front of a bunch of my college peers, but some things just stick with you. But seriously - try as you might to forget, words scar you. 

On the other hand, they can mold and shape your life for so much good. 

When I was a little girl, I remember my grandma said to me, "You have the sweetest disposition. You are so kind and good." She would tell me that nearly every day, and I began to really believe it. My whole life, I have believed that I am, and have tried my very hardest to be, a kind person. 
Would I be that way if no one had ever told me that I was? I don't know. But I'm grateful that someone did -- and I will never forget it. 

I guess the point I'm trying to make is that we have more power than we know. We affect people's lives in ways that most of the time, we probably don't even realize. I can practically guarantee that those boys don't remember telling me I was ugly, and they'd probably feel bad now if they knew they had. But I remember. I remember having to pretend "There's something in my eye; can I please go to the bathroom?" so I could go cry. I remember when my 6th grade teacher said to me, in front of my entire class, "Are you stupid?!"
But I also remember when Sylvia from 5th grade told me I should join choir because I had such a pretty voice. I remember when that boy in high school told me I was funny. I remember when a woman from my mission said that I was sent there just to help her. 

I suppose all I really wanted to say was that you never know what people will remember about what you've said or done... So make it good.

'til next time,
Amy

Easter.

When I think about Easter, I have a few memories that can't help from worming their way to the surface of my mind:

1. Many, many memories of eating ham. I have always hated ham. Literally have nothing good to say about this cut of meat.

2. One time I got a Diva Star (if you don't know what that is, Google it. You won't be sorry. Actually, you might be -- they were kind of freaky looking.) around Easter time. My brother and his friend then took it upon themselves to record a tape of them speaking in low, gravelly voices and put it behind my Diva Star in my bedroom. They timed the tape to go off at a certain point and then, while I was sitting in my room minding my own business, the Diva Star was suddenly, it seemed, talking to me. "Amy -- this is the devil coming to you through your Diva Star."
That's the story of why I have so many nightmares.

Yet most importantly, I can't hear the word Easter without thinking of the most important thing in my life: my Heavenly Father and His perfect Son, Jesus Christ. More specifically, I think about the Atonement and Resurrection of my Lord and Savior.

I am so flawed; so imperfect. I make mistakes and then I make even stupider mistakes... and then I do it all over again. There are times when I feel so scared and alone; times when I wonder if I can possibly make it through another day. There are times when it feels, in the deepest moments of my despair, that no one in the world could possibly understand the pain I'm experiencing. As Elder David A. Bednar said in a talk that changed my life, "No human being, perhaps, knows. But the Son of God perfectly knows and understands, for He felt and bore burdens before we ever did."

Many people know that Jesus Christ took upon Himself our sins (if you don't understand that concept, please ask me OR the missionaries of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints), but not everyone knows that He also took upon Himself our pains, our sorrows, our illnesses.... Every single bad OR good thing that has ever happened to us, Jesus Christ knows and understands because He lived it. He lived it so that He, who was perfect, could find a way out of our sorrows, sins, and pains -- and so that, in effect, we would NEVER be alone because there would always be someone who not only understands us, but can help us. He LITERALLY took upon Himself the exact experiences we have gone through. It's mind-blowing and incredible, but the most amazing and awe-inspiring part of it all is that it is TRUE. I know it's true. Anyone can know it's true.

If you're struggling or you need help to believe this, please don't wait. If you want to believe it, I promise you can. I know you can. Because it IS true and it IS real, and Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ want so badly for you to know that so that They can help you. Ask Them for help. Ask me for help. I promise it's worth every sacrifice you have to make to know that it is true.

Jesus Christ experienced everything that we've felt. On top of that, He was tormented, humiliated, and mocked just for trying to help people. When He went to the Garden of Gethsemane, He, Who had never experienced guilt because He had never done a thing wrong in His life, suddenly felt the weight of not only MY guilt, but the guilt of every single person who has ever lived. I can hardly even begin to fathom how that must have felt. He did it willingly because He loved me. That, to me, is the most beautiful part of it all. He loves me. Me! Imperfect and unworthy as I am, He cared deeply enough for me to suffer the most excruciating pain just so that I would never have to feel alone.

After everything that He did, He was crucified. After every miracle He'd performed; after every life He'd touched; after every heart He had healed -- He was crucified. He, the perfect Son of our Father in Heaven, was killed for nothing more than serving others. He was killed and he was buried, just as we will be. But three days later, He rose again. He lives again. And we will, too.

This life is not the end. There is more, so much more. And it is all possible through Jesus Christ.

I love Him. I love Him for all that He has gone through for me. I love Him for being my friend not only when I do what's right, but when I'm a fool and forget Him and turn aside from His commandments. He is always there, willing to help me get my life back on track. He is always there, waiting and wanting to speak with me.

He is always there because He lives. His life on Earth wasn't the end. I know it.
You can, too.

Until next time,
Amy

It's... you know... THAT time

This week's blog post title, also known as "Why I Could Never Be a Lyricist."

So, you know, I'm a girl. (How I'm going to begin all my conversations from now on.) Being a girl, each month I go through a very special time. A time when, according to nearly every Tampax commercial I've ever seen, I should spend wearing a bikini (because how in the world else will I inform people that I'm bloated?!) sitting by the pool. If I'm not sitting by the pool, apparently my only other option is playing soccer. I don't know why those activities epitomize a woman on her period, but whatever. I guess a video of a woman clutching a heating pad and like, screaming at literally everyone because HORMONES wouldn't sell as well. I don't understand why.

Anyway, this, my loves, is a true story about me this past week in a rare moment when I wasn't poolside or playing soccer.

I'd like to preface my story this way: I normally have the emotional stability of the average person, I'd like to think. But when I'm on my period, it's like, every emotion I feel is, I would guesstimate... roughly 8 billion times stronger than normal. Approximately. There's no way to be sure.

So there I was, watching a movie on Netflix one night at about 10:30. The movie itself isn't important... And by not important, I mean that it was Scooby-Doo 2 and I'm really embarrassed about it because I'm pretty sure that even a 7-year-old would have turned it off after the horribly special-effects-heavy Scooby-Doo performs a disco number.

So anyway, it gets to a point in the movie where Velma tells Shaggy and Scooby, who believe themselves to be misfits, that they have been heroes all along.

Awwww. So sweet, huh? WELL APPERANTLY I THOUGHT SO, because all the sudden I am legitimately crying.

Yes, Shaggy and Scooby!! You are inspirational!!! You are heroes! I wish I had a Lisa Frank notebook that I could write all three of our names inside, encircled in a heart!!

Like, what the heck am I doing?! I am a 23-year-old woman, CRYING  at Scooby-Doo 2, a movie that is literally about how Alicia Silverstone's character is actually a costume being worn by a middle-aged man (let's not even get into how super disturbing that is) so he can bring down Coolsville's (clearly a town I would not be allowed into, judging by all of my blog posts) heroes. I am not laughing at how ridiculous this movie is; I am crying because I'm so touched by Velma's 30-second speech.

Yeah. For real. That story may actually be more embarrassing than it was to stand outside for all my neighbors to see me in my robe, but I can't think of any better way to encapsulate what being on a period is like.

Jinkies, it's hard.

Oh, and just a quick word of advice: never, under any circumstances, watch "P.S. I Love You" while on your period unless you're willing to watch and live its unofficial sequel,  "P.P.S. Somebody Take Me to the Emergency Room Immediately Because I Just Lost 80% of the Fluid in My Body Due to Excessive Sobbing." The title wasn't super catchy, so uh, that's probably why you've never heard of it. But yeah. Trust me on this one.

Til next time,
Amy

Embracing my inner Scooby-Doo 🐶🔎👻

Stop: Potty Time

Okay, so I actually kind of hate the word potty AND it makes me feel like I'm a four-year-old, but for some reason "Toilet Time" just didn't have the same ring to it.

I know it's been kind of a while since I posted, but I've had a rough couple of months.... 
And that, my friends, is how our (and by our, I mean MY, because only I am capable of being this embarrassing of a human being) awkward story begins.

DISCLAIMER: We're about to get personal here. Like.... Bathroom personal.
(Disclaimer on my disclaimer: That will be the title of my first album I put out. "Amy Keim: Bathroom Personal.")

So look, y'all; there's no non-gross way to explain this story, so I apologize. 
To begin, I have stomach problems. I've had them for several years now, but for the past 6-7 months they have been especially terrible because my body is like, "Amy has been enjoying life too much," or something.  I finally went to a Gastrointestinal Doctor, and she had me get an X-Ray. Results showed that I was severely backed up. I KNOW, GROSS, I SAID I'M SORRY.

To remedy this situation, my doctor had me do a colon cleanse that people do before they get a colonoscopy. Here is what it entailed: 
-An entire bottle of Miralax divided between two Gatorade bottles, refrigerated overnight.
-Four Dulcolax pills. 
*Not required, but recommended -- lots of water so you won't run out of tears.

Yeah. I'm not a mathematician, but even I know that that's a crap-ton (PUN INTENDED) of laxatives. 

So anyway, I wake up on a Saturday morning, all ready for my cleanse. I start my first bottle of Miralax and take two of the Dulcolax pills. Nothing happens. Four hours later, I take the other two pills. An hour after that, I start on the other bottle of Miralax. 

That's when everything changes. La-la-la, minding my own business, doing fine and then GET OUT OF MY WAY I HAVE TO GET TO THE BATHROOM OR I WILL LITERALLY DIE.  

It was seriously that sudden. At this point, I'm going to the bathroom every few minutes. 
So there I was, sitting with Jake in a rare moment that I'm not in the bathroom... And we hear something in the back of our apartment... Popping? We don't know what it is, but it doesn't sound good, so Jake quickly back-handsprings his way to the back of the apartment (just kidding, but that would have made the story approx. 8000x cooler)... and that's when he sees it. 

There is fire coming out of the bathroom ceiling. 

...Yeah. Our ceiling fan caught on fire in the bathroom -- and no, it wasn't, as my brother so lovingly suggested, from my "gas fumes." I guess the brand was just pretty bad -- there have been multiple accounts of their fans catching fire! We had to run out of our apartment, call 911, and wait for the fire department to show up.

That in and of itself would've been a crazy story, but no, no, no. It gets worse. 

So we're forced to stand out in the street while we wait for the fire department to come. Everyone and her dog (not joking) comes out because our alarms are going off and police cars are pulling up.... And I am standing there for the world to see, looking glorious in NOTHING BUT MY ROBE. That's all I'm wearing. A robe. And I'm practically doubled over because HELLO, I just had like a thousand laxatives. (Only a slight exaggeration.) I go sit in my car and my husband tells everyone that I'm sick because what else do you say in that situation? I'm just more or less dying in my car while all of these people that I've never met come up and give me these pitying looks and ask me if I need some Tylenol. NOPE. What I need is a bathroom that doesn't resemble the underworld. Something that isn't in flames would be an ideal situation. 

Long story short, we ended up having to drive at the speed of light to my sister's while I cry in the car and have visions of having to wear a diaper for the rest of my life due to the traumatic impact that this entire event has had on me. 

I'll spare you the rest of the details (namely about how now, nearly three weeks later, we're still at my sister's because they're still doing repairs to our poor little charred bathroom.. However, we are so blessed that the bathroom was really the only thing affected!), but you really only need to know two things: 
1. No, I'm not in diapers, and
2. Make sure that you have a fire extinguisher handy at all times because you never know when you'll be in dire need of a bathroom that is on fire.

Til next time,
Amy

Frodo Bloggins

Man, I'm clever.

Also, though, not really clever enough to figure out how to use a blog. MUH BEEZY. Like, it took me approximately a million years to figure out how to set this thing up and get the layout I wanted and what-not. I guess you could call me tech-savvy. Or not, because no one has ever called me that. DREAM BIG.

So in the title of this blog, I promised awkward stories. And if nothing else, I am a deliverer. Not in a baby or pizza kind of way, but in a metaphoric way. If I tell you I'm going to do something, there is definitely a 50% chance that I will do the thing. BOOM. DELIVERER.

(Also, let me just apologize upfront for my weird sense of humor.)

So there I was. And by there, I mean in my bed at 11 o'clock a.m. because I have laryngitis and I'm a big baby and everything hurts, so like... Why would I even ever leave my bed? (Disclaimer: I AM OUT OF BED RIGHT NOW. Stop screaming at me and calling me lazy!! Heh.) Anyway, I'm all cozy in my bed, minding my own snapchats.... And I happen to look at my friend Amber's Snap Story. She's a total babe and in shape because she wasn't in her bed eating chocolate like certain people that also totally aren't me. (Fine. Me.) She had posted a post-workout selfie (round of applause to her because my whole life is pre-workout) and so I sent her a snap saying "Your abs are looking👌👌👌".

I'm sure Amber loved it except for WAIT, I ACCIDENTALLY DIDN'T SEND IT TO AMBER. I 100% sent it to my ex-boyfriend.

Excuse me, but what do you even do in that situation? "HEY REMEMBER ME I'M MARRIED NOW but HEYYYYY!" (What that snap probably was translated to by my ex.) Frantically, I was like, "HAHAHA wrong person. Meant to send to my friend Amber." Had to make sure he knew it was a girl and that I am a faithful wife and I love my husband and I don't stare at other guys' abs.

Anyway, my ex actually thought it was funny and didn't file a harassment suit against me, so I guess everything worked out fine in the end.

But I think I really learned a valuable lesson today... Check before you snap. But mostly my advice is just don't date until you're married because you'll accidentally send weird stuff to people you haven't talked to in a year. You should probably go write that down somewhere; it's pretty sound advice. You're welcome.

Until next time,
Amy