it's over, jerkface.

Dear February:

I'm breaking up with you. Do you know why?

Because you suck.

I'm so tired of your antics. Snow? Really? Like, a bazillion feet of it? Is that really necessary? You've been a total jerk about it for too long.

Your lack of sunshine? C'mon. I wake up every morning, all ready to face you and crap, and that's what you give me? Grey skies? 100% cloud cover?

Well, no more.

Oh, and the whole cold shoulder thing? Or, should I say, the whole cold-all-the-time thing? Yeah. It's getting old. Is it really too much to ask you to try to work above 35 degrees? You're so selfish. Seriously.

And the slush and messiness of all it? Please. You know I'm a clean freak. You know I like tidiness, yet you just continue to be gross.

So, I'm dumping you. Tomorrow, I'm going to ask March out on a date.

with love from Pittsburgh,
Laura
{photo from here}

i'm impatient. and it's making me impatient.

So, here’s the thing: I like to think that I’m in control of the universe. Silly, right? Yes. Very. I’m a control freak. Totally. I’m also impatient sometimes. Not like hey-jerk-why-aren’t-you-turning-you-totally-could-have-gone-by-now, but more like but-I-want-everything-to-happen-on-my-timetable-especially-in-terms-of-my-own-personal-growth-blah-blah-blah.

Well, the Ross-a-tron set me straight. Indirectly, of course. He’s far too lovely to actually give me the smack-down that I so rightly deserve and desperately need. Instead, the sweet man sent me an email of this:

Patient Trust

By Pierre Teilhard de Chardin

Above all, trust in the slow work of God.
We are all, quite naturally,
impatient in everything to reach the end
without delay.
We should like to skip
the intermediate stages.
We are impatient of being
on the way to something unknown,
something new,
and yet it is the law of all progress
that is made by passing through
some stages of instability-
and that it may take a very long time.

And so I think it is with you.
Your ideas mature gradually –
let them grow,
let them shape themselves,
without undue haste.
Don't try to force them on,
as though you could be today what time
(that is, to say, grace and circumstances
acting on your own good will)
will make you tomorrow.

Only God could say what this new spirit
gradually forming within you will be.
Give our Lord the benefit of believing
that His hand is leading you
and accept the anxiety of feeling yourself
in suspense and incomplete.

Um, yeah. I was triple-snapped. But it was worth it, because these words are pretty gorgeous, don’t you think?

with love from Pittsburgh,

Laura

{image from here. i love their stuff.}

part 2 of my web series.

Oh, my goodness! What will happen next?

{Don't you love the suspense? I know, right? To catch up on the story, check out this post first. I'm in a web series for Eyetique here in Pittsburgh.}



with love from Pittsburgh,
Laura

dobby and cookie. me want.

Please meet Dobby and Cookie. Dobby is a French Bulldog and Cookie is a Boston Terrier. I am in love with these two. I could watch them all. day. long. Boston Terriers are my most favorite dogs in the world. Ever. And Dobby?

Total. Spaz.

I love it.




Also, they're hilarious. But, um, you probably already realized this.

with love from Pittsburgh,
Laura

ashes to ashes.

It's a good look for me, no?

Okay, first things first: Boob Day was a blazing success. No cancer!! Whoo hoo!! Thank you, my darlings, for your good thoughts and for gettin' your pray on for me. It's always nerve-wracking when February rolls around. But this time, we're in the clear. My new oncologist is a lovely woman (who, I learned, thinks the Ross-a-tron and I are pretty hilarious and entertaining, and, of course, I agree, because we are). And it was so nice to see the regular crew again: Carmen, Marlene, and Kristen. The girls at the Hillman Cancer Center are really good to me. Bless 'em!

Next up: Ash Wednesday. I just got home from Mass, and let me tell you: totally beautiful. First of all, did you see the cross of ashes I'm rocking in the above photo? I know, right?! How kick-ass is that? (Ooooh, I should watch my language...) The Bishop had Mass, and I made sure to get in his line for the distribution of ashes. Let me tell you, that dude does not mess around. Looks like he took a Sharpie to my head! I love it! Everyone else's ashes looked like smudgy grey-ish blobs on their foreheads. Waah waaaaah. I wish it wasn't practically bedtime, because I really do wanna rock it for longer than another couple of hours.

So yeah. Lent starts today. A lot of people are all "Aw, crap. I gotta give up something? That sucks." I used to feel that way. In fact, some seasons of Lent, I just didn't participate. "Whatevs," I'd say. But this year is different. My heart feels a lot more full and a lot more aware of what I think Lent really means. I'm giving up Starbucks and Panera treats. This is really hard for me. It will be a true sacrifice. Those treats are such a part of my daily life. It's like they're ingrained in my daily schedule: arrive at parking garage at work, walk to Starbucks on campus, get treats (I just show up at the counter, and Eric, Marva, Charita, and Will just know immediately what I want and start to make it for me), and head towards my office. It's comforting to me. It makes me feel like work isn't really work. And, so, I'm giving that up. And I think I might do something else, too. Some sort of service. I'm not sure yet, but I'll try to make a decision in the next few days.

The Bishop's homily tonight was great. He started out by saying, "You know, this is the perfect season to really look into our hearts and ask ourselves what parts of ourselves got less like God over time. We could take those and put them on the altar and offer them up. I don't know about you, but when I look at myself in the mirror in the morning, I mean, really look at myself, I see parts of myself that I'm really embarrassed about. They're not parts that are how God made me to be. And I want to fix them. Maybe you have parts like that. But I can only speak for me, because I know I do."

This dude is one of my favorites. Bishops can become Cardinals, who can then become the Pope. So, yeah. He's pretty high up there. And I believe he's a holy man. But he's also so human! And he recognizes that, which is one of the things I love about him so much. (You'd love him, too. He's, like, totally my other boyfriend. Don't worry. The Ross-a-tron knows.)

Anyway, it was such a beautiful moment to look around the church--which, by the way, was filled to the brim with college students (my parish is right in the middle of the University of Pittsburgh and Carnegie Mellon University)--and know that all of us are human and have crap about us that's, well, crappy. Even the friggin' Bishop. There was no "I'm the Bishop and I'm better than you." It was like he was our friend, confessing that he's got some crap he's gotta sort out, just like the rest of us. And Lent is such a great time to put that crap on the table and say to the Big G, "Alright. I've had it. I'm tired of carrying around this crap that makes me less than what You want me to be. So, here. I'm handing it over. It's too heavy, and it sucks. What? You'll take it? Really? Of course You will, because You're totally in love with me. That's awesome."

And that's what Lent is for me. I'm going to spend the next 40 days (46 if you count the Sundays) really trying to be more of the person God wants and made me to be. I'm handin' over the crap. And I'm giving up something I really, really love. Sure, it'll be hard, but I think of it like this:

Jesus nailed to a cross

vs.

no treats for me for a month or so

Then I realize that it's such a tiny gift I can give, in comparison. And then I know I can do it. And it makes me happy to know that I can give that.

But.

I apologize in advance if I get a little cranky. I *will* miss my tall, decaf caramel mocha, extra hot.

Happy Lent, friends. Not Unhappy Lent.

with love from Pittsburgh,

Laura

quiet.

{this photo? it makes me feel peaceful. it's from here.}

I hope you'll forgive me, but I've lost my words today. I feel very quiet inside. This weather, in all its snow-filled ridiculousness, really has me feeling balled up (as the Ross-a-tron says). And tomorrow is Boob Day, so I'm feeling a little anxious. {One of these days, they'll find cancer. I just know it.}

But.

I won't leave you empty-handed. This made my heart sing today, quietly to itself, but it sang nonetheless. Don't you want to come and visit me now?

with love from Pittsburgh,
Laura

oh, valentine.

I'm on a mission. Let me tell you why. Valentine's Day.

See, here's the thing. It's not just about romantic love. No, really. I swear. It isn't.

It breaks my heart when Valentine's Day rolls around and I hear so many people say how much they hate the holiday, how they think it's stupid or they feel left out because they don't have a boyfriend/girlfriend/husband/wife/partner.

Last time I checked, "love" doesn't only mean "romantic". But lemme grab my OED and double check.

Yup. There's more than one definition. It means more than "romantic". Phew!

Have you ever really thought about love? What it really means? Think about your best friend. Or your parents. Or even your pet. That connection. That desire to be with that person or animal, that wish to protect them, to share with them, to provide for them. That hope that their comfort and happiness comes before your own.

That's love.

No smooching, no sex, no making out. (With your dog? Eeeeew!!!)

And it's still love.

At Mass one day several months ago, my priest gave a homily about love. And one of the things I'll never forget him saying was that love--true, deep, real love--is sacrificial. Not I'm-gonna-cut-off-my-left-leg-and-offer-it-as-a-sacrifice, or I'm-gonna-go-ahead-and-run-a-dagger-through-my-jugular-to-show-you-how-serious-I-am-about-my-love-for-you. No. Sacrificial in the sense that you're willing to give up your own comfort or desires in order to make sure the person (or animal) that you love has theirs.

We've all done that at some point. And, therefore, we've all loved. And that should be celebrated, don't you think?

Thus, Valentine's Day. Do you know the story about St. Valentine? He was dude who helped Christians during a time when it was against the law to do so, when they were totally persecuted against. He helped them. He showed them love. He made sure their comforts were taken care of first. And the result? He was stoned and beaten and basically had the crap kicked out of him.

And sometimes, when we love someone, we feel like that happens to us. Love is hard. It can be utterly painful. It can totally. kick. our. asses. We've sacrificed. But the end result is pretty awesome. Someone else, someone outside of ourselves, experienced peace, their needs met, joy, comfort. And we helped. That's pretty kick-ass.

A couple of years ago, a friend and colleague of mine wrote and presented a scholarly paper on the power that love has to transform our culture. A scholarly paper, people. With research. And other forms of brilliance. How cool is that? She referenced Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., in it many, many times. It was inspirational.

Can you imagine what this world would look like if we acted like St. Valentine? If we put others before ourselves? If we knew that the greatest gift of all was love?

My mission? To remind people that love isn't just about kissing, sex, and being romantic. Love is literally the thing that can change the world. No, really. It can. I've seen it.

On this Valentine's Day, I hope that you will turn to your neighbor, to your friend, to your parents, to your pet, to a total stranger, and show them love. In some capacity. And celebrate that moment. Celebrate that. Love moves us towards peace. And isn't that what we all want?

with love (oh, yes!!) from Pittsburgh,
Laura

{Image? From here.}

that one time i was in a web series.

I'm an actress. Most of you already know this. I filmed this little ditty back in November for a high-end eyeglasses boutique called Eyetique, and my make-up artist just let me know that it began airing today. I've been waiting FOREVER to see it. There are several more vignettes, and I have to admit that the script is really, really cute, and I had a blast filming.




And as they say, I wonder what happens next! (insert dramatic music here)

Guess we'll have to wait to find out!

with love from Pittsburgh,
Laura

snOMG, parts 2 and 3.

Not wanting to worry my darling Eileen, who left a comment recently about my whereabouts (a snow drift, perhaps?) and her readiness to call in the National Guard (thank you, lovely!), I now continue my Tuesday Adventure into Snowpocalypse 2010.

I bring you parts 2 and 3 of my three-part installment of...

The Trek to the Grocery Store.

snowpocalypse 2010, part 2 from la la on Vimeo.

Yes! There's more!

snowpocalypse 2010, part 3. from la la on Vimeo.

I've been home from work for the past three days, and if I stay home again tomorrow, I'm totally making another video. I'm goin' a bit stir-crazy here. I gotta find some way to entertain myself.

with love from Pittsburgh,
Laura

boob day.

So, I'm gettin' a mammogram next week. Awesome. Yessirree, nothin' like havin' your boobs squished under 19 pounds of pressure. When you're a B-cup. Barely. I also really love walking into the waiting room with all of the other ladies sitting there, mouths open, jaws on floor when they see how old I am.

Being 32 years old and a high-risk breast cancer patient is great fodder for conversation. (And blogs, I might add.) Women twenty and thirty years older than I am find it unbelievable that I'd be getting a mammogram before the age of 40.

Next week, I'll be getting my fifth mammogram in three and a half years. Four years ago, I found a lump in my left breast. Turned out to be an atypical papilloma--a lesion that, according to my surgeon, is right between cancer and non-cancer. They took that bad boy out, left a gorgeous scar (my surgeon asked, "So what type of modeling do you do? Just so I know what I'm working with."), and occasional jabs of pain that feel like lightning bolts zapping at my boob.

And the doctors said, "You're now 5 times more likely to develop breast cancer in your lifetime."

Again, awesome.

They watch me like a hawk. I get my mammograms and they examine those digital images like nobody's business. My first mammogram? They found linear calcifications. That looked like cancer was nearby. I was in surgery again...two days later. Benign, thank God, but terrifying. I wasn't even 30 years old then.

I have little boobies. I like them, actually. If they were any bigger, I'd look funny. I'm nearly 6' tall, thin, and big boobs would make me look, well, odd. But the part I don't like about my boobs?

Puttin' 'em in that damn mammography machine.

"Here," says the technician, usually a middle-aged woman with cold hands, "lemme just see. if I. can get this in there. a leeeeetle more, " while she tugs and pulls at my teeny, tiny boobies.

There's nothing much to get in there, darlin', I want to say back to her. But instead, I laugh. Because I'm nervous.

But, like magic, she does. And I hold my breath, because that's what you're supposed to do.

Each boob, three different ways. Squeeze, press, tug, pull. It's more annoying than painful. And I have to laugh when I think of my teeny, tiny boobies going anywhere.

The days leading up to Boob Day, as the Ross-a-tron and I affectionately refer to the experience, are nerve-wracking. I'm convinced I'm going to get breast cancer someday. It's not a matter of if for me, but a matter of when. My oncologist calls me an anomaly. Atypical papillomas are rare. But, oh--will I fight. I will fight and fight and fight.

February 19th at 12:45 p.m. Think of me. And in the meantime, feel yourself up, ladies. Do those breast self-exams (BSEs). For me. For you. For everyone you love and who loves you.

By the way, I'm a guest blogger over at Krista's today. Head on over. I promise you'll love her.

with love from Pittsburgh,
Laura


{oh, Dolly...you're a hoot!}

snOMG.

Have you heard? It's the Snowpocalypse 2010. Pittsburgh got buried in about 22" of snow over the weekend, and guess what?! We're gettting another 6-10" by tomorrow! Whoo hoo! It's snowing like crazy out right now. Again. The National Guard's been brought in, our street hasn't been plowed yet, and I've been struggling to make meals from the little food I have in my home. So, I ventured out of my house today for the first time since Friday. I needed to go to the grocery store. My cupboard? Well, um, it consisted of instant coffee and a can of beans. I'm creative, but not that creative. Alas, the grocery store run had to happen. Only, rather than running, I walked. With my friend Megan, who also lives in my neighborhood. Work's been cancelled for the past two days for both of us, and we were getting a bit of cabin fever in our apartments.

Plus, we needed chocolate. Badly.

I thought it'd be fun to make a video series of Snowpocalypse 2010. You know, for you people on the West Coast who are like, Snow? What the hell is that?

Here's Part One of my three-part video. Enjoy!

snowpocalypse 2010, part 1 from la la on Vimeo.

i've jumped on the band wagon.

I know, I know. Everybody's doing it.

Also, I like attention.

Go ahead. Ask me somethin'. This could be fun.

I hope.

I'll post your questions and my answers at the end of the week.

with love from Pittsburgh,

Laura

*what the frick'?* friday.

Here's what I don't get:

1. Seahorses.

2. The "sleep" button on my alarm clock. "Snooze" = yes. "Sleep" = I mean, really. What. The. Frick.

3. What's up with Bassett Hounds' legs? Aren't their ears cruel enough? At least they've got that cute thing going for them, though.

4. The stick figure in crosswalk signs.

5. Sumo wrestling. Looks more like hugging to me.

6. Ugg boots. You are not living in an igloo, skinning baby seals, or gathering whale blubber for oil to heat said igloo. I repeat: You are not living in an igloo, skinning baby seals, or gathering whale blubber for oil to heat said igloo.

7. The whole vampire phenomenom. Look, I was born without my canine teeth. Quit rubbing it in, okay?

8. The appendix. I know I'm not alone in this.

9. Flossing teeth = itchy nose.

10. Why the word "pifflesticks" isn't used more in daily conversation.


with love from Pittsburgh,
Laura

a disconnect.

Brace yourself. I'm gonna talk about religion for a second. But only for a hot second. Now, don't worry--I'm not gonna get all preachy or judgmental or anything. Good heavens, the last thing I want to do is push a reader away, scare him or her off. I just want to explore something that's been on my mind lately. And, heck--maybe you can help. In fact, I hope you can. So I hope you'll stick with me on this one.

Religion is a touchy subject. It has been for me for a reeeeeally long time, as a matter of fact. I grew up surrounded by some people who said things that made me feel bad about myself, made me feel like I was doing the wrong things, thinking the wrong things, believing the wrong things. That I wasn't a good Christian.

I'm not only a Christian, I'm a Catholic. That adds another level to my situation.

My mom's mental illness manifested itself in some pretty scary and disregulated ways, which resulted in my first experiences with Catholicism and All Things God and Jesus being not so good. In fact, they were awful. And I had other people in my life who weren't Catholic, but were Christian (some born-again {whatever that meant}, some non-denominational), who spoke in a language I didn't understand and talked about Jesus all the time. In every sentence. And it pushed me away. It all did. I folded up into myself and hid, batting away anything and anyone that tried to bring Jesus, religion, or Christianity into any equation or experience. I couldn't handle it. It was trauma. It was all trauma-related. It was my Vietnam.

Fast forward to now, and I have come to a place in my Catholic faith that I'm really comfortable with. I love Mass. It's so beautiful to me. The sacraments? Awesome. I love God like he's my best friend. You may recall my award-winning post in which I express my desire to have a beer with the big G. And Jesus? Dude, if I could be more like any human that ever lived, it'd totally be him. I mean, he was, like, it. But I don't agree with everything the Catholic Church teaches. And so, some may say that completely disqualifies me from actually being Catholic. I disagree. Until God looks me in the eyes and says, "You know, Laur', you were a really sucky Catholic," I'm not going to worry too much about it. The truth is, I'm just trying to find my way through this thing called life as best I can. I mean, aren't we all?

With that being said, I've been trying to find some other Catholics out there--specifically, young adults who are modern, hip, living in this world like the rest of us--who are, well, on that same journey. Who will help me feel like I'm doing okay with it all. Validation. Yes, that's it. From other Catholics. I've found a couple of cool blogs for Catholics, but when I go online and stumble upon blogs written by Christians, I feel a bit alienated. Because although I'm a Christian, I'm a Catholic, and that separates me from other non-Catholics. Because we actually do believe some different things. And so when I'm on these Christian blogs, I feel like there's virtually no Catholic representation at all. And I feel like I can't relate to non-Catholics sometimes because 1) I don't always get some of the language/vernacular they use, or what I've experienced as a constant reference to themselves as Christians (i.e. "As a Christian, I've decided to....", "As a Christian, I feel this about xyz....", "As a Christian, I shop at...", etc.) and 2) we really do believe some very fundamentally different things, which makes me feel like we don't really share a faith.

I mean, I read a blog post once where the writer asked if Christians should smoke. I was like, What? And while I really like this blog and the way the writer writes, I sometimes feel alienated, because it feels like it's all about what people do as Christians. And it makes me feel like the human side is negated. It feels like they're saying they're Christians first, and every single thought and action revolves around that, and it seems like it's obsessed upon, and it brings back my trauma from earlier in my life. And it makes me very, very uncomfortable. Maybe I'm generalizing, or even judging (that's not my goal! I promise!). I just don't experience of lot of Catholics who talk in that way, nor have I experienced it much in the blogosphere (with the exception of Catholic Chicks). Maybe that makes me a bad Christian, or not really even a Christian. Or, and this would suck, a bad Catholic. Or maybe I just need to talk to more people. Open myself up more for the possibility of not having a disconnect.

Does that make sense? I feel like I'm rambling and being completely inarticulate.

I guess what I'm trying to say is, why does that disconnect exist? Or is it just me? Am I the alien? Do the non-Catholics want us to stay away? I have no idea. But I'm noticing it. And it makes me sad. I mean, I don't like to categorize people as Catholic and non-Catholic, but there are fundamental things that non-Catholics probably won't ever understand or relate to. And so that creates a bit of a separation. At least for me it does.

I just want to yell from my blog sometimes, "Where my Catholics at?!" Or does anyone even care? Am I too liberal? Am I not Catholic enough? Am I a lazy Christian? Am I alienating? Does it even matter? I'm proud to be Catholic, and I want people to see that Catholics can be cool and modern and hip and not push people away or make them feel alienated or judged. Maybe I'm failing miserably at that, but I really hope I'm not. Gosh, I'm probably waaaay overthinking this crap, aren't I?

Ugh. My head. Anybody got any help for me?

with love from Pittsburgh,
Laura

ouch. ugh. blech.

The Ross-a-tron always rolls his eyes at me whenever I say I think I'm dying. Which is a lot of eye-rolling, to be honest. Like, I can't believe they haven't just rolled on out of his head by now. And I'm not saying this to be mean, to make the Ross-a-tron out to look like some heartless creep. He's actually very tender and understanding. I'm the one who's lost her marbles.

I'm convinced I currently have: fibromyalgia; various types of cancer, including (but not limited to) breast, skin, and colon; a brain tumor; cataracts; blocked arteries (hello, I love dairy), and a currently undiscovered rarity that is only acquired by women between the ages of 30-35 who have been south of the Mason-Dixon Line during the third Wednesday of June 2009 when it was rainy and they'd previously had cantaloupe with their breakfasts. No, I haven't been south of the Mason-Dixon Line recently, but that doesn't mean anything.

I am constantly in pain. I'm not making this up. Seriously. Pain. All the time. Every single day. My lower back, my wrists, the joint in my left thumb, and that soft spot between your shoulder and your collar bone. My shins, my arches, my hips. Sometimes it's a dull ache, other times it's a quick, shooting pain that lasts for only a second. Even my boobs hurt. Not PMS-like, but twinges that feel like electrical charges. Granted, my oncologist said that was normal after an excisional biopsy, but can't a girl catch a break?

And don't even get me started on my intestines. Let's just put it this way: the ladies' room and I are intimately involved on an hourly--yes, hourly--basis. I hate eating. If there was a pill I could take or an IV that could just hook into me once or twice a day, that'd be awesome.

So, basically, I'm convinced my body is revolting against me for, well, something. It hates me. And right now, I'm not too fond of it, either. I'm going to the doctor on the 17th of this month because I'm at the point of desperation. I'm ready to hear the hard truth. I'm ready to do whatever I have to (gasp! exercise?!) to get my body right. And I'll get bloodwork done. I'll change my diet if I have to. (Well, I'll still be a vegetarian, but I'll work harder at it.) If I have to stop wearing heels because they're throwing my bones and joints out of whack, well, then....aw, crap. Something has to give. I'm 32. I shouldn't feel like I'm 92.

And I don't want to hear anyone say, "Oh, sweetie, it just gets worse as you get older." I'm not making this up. I'm not imagining this pain. None of my other thirty-something friends feel this way. (Well, except for this one...) Something is wrong. And I have to fix it.

Even if it means staying above the Mason-Dixon Line. Or wearing--omg--flats.

with love from Pittsburgh,
Laura

{photo from here, and loving it}

who died and made me queen?

Confession time: I sometimes think I'm more important than I actually am. Like when I'm driving, and I slow down and let a pedestrian cross at the crosswalk, I think I should get the I'm-not-a-jerk-so-I'll-wave-a-thank-you-to-you-for-not-mowing-me-down wave from said pedestrian. I mean, it should be required. Same goes for merging. Hmmm...I'm noticing a theme here... There's this spot on my way home from work that always gets congested because people need to merge left and right. And I feel as though I'm important enough to be given a turn signal indication that the car in front of me would like to merge. Or, if you're in the car next to me, I feel as though you should get my attention, smile, and make the Can-I-get-in-there? motion with your hand. And then, when you actually do merge (thanks to my benevolence), I believe it's only proper for you to give me the courtesy wave in your rearview mirror. Yes. Be nice to me. I am that important.

When I send you an email, I expect you to respond. Quickly. With details. Lots of them.

When I have to call my agency and re-schedule an audition, I always think that as soon as they hang up the phone with me, they turn to whoever is around and say, "Sheesh! That Laura...she's always being an inconvenience." As if they think about me that often. Or that centrally. Because why wouldn't they? I am important. Aren't I the first thing they think about when they get to the office in the morning? What time is Laura coming in? Is she going to re-schedule like she always does? Gah! I hate that!

When I studied and lived in London somanyearsagoI'vepracticallylostcount, a friend of mine back here in the States said to me, "Laurita," (he was originally from South America) "your way is not the way." I was flabbergasted. It's NOT?! I thought.

Huh. Apparently it's not.

And now, here I am in my thirties, and I'm all what do you mean you don't like my idea or think about me all the time or do what I think you should do? Don't you care that your shoelaces are all wrong and that the font you chose is atrocious and that you're committing a crime by wearing white after Labor Day? How can you cross the street and not bow to my compact car in grateful acknowledgement and why on earth would you think that the decision you made last week about that thing was a good one and what do you mean we're having that for dinner?

Seriously.

But not.

I am a control freak. A daughter + a schizophrenic mother = I have to rule the world and make sure everyone knows that I make the rules and that my way is the way.

And I have a lot to learn. Because my way can't be the way. Well, at least not all the time.

Help.

with love from Pittsburgh,

Laura