Tuesday, August 31, 2010

hippity hop is my motivation

What an amazingly productive day!! I could tell that today was going to be a good day, even before I woke up to my alarm @ 6.30 am this morning.

I had a great evening last night and was able to get a great run (4 cleansing miles in the disgusting August heat) with my newly downloaded songs off dirpy.com (If you haven't heard of dirpy.com, get on it! It's a website that is highly illegal. That should be enough encouragement for all you red-blooded "F you! I'm going to take the shortcut" Amurikans will appreciate). There is something to be said for a run that consists of music that honestly makes you think you look like the hottest piece of ass this side of New York.

I don't know what it is about rap music that makes me feel incredibly hot and sexy. It motivates me in ways that red dirt (sadly) cannot. Although I fully recognize that my extreme cut off Derby Days shirt from 2004 and nicely fitting Asics running shorts is nowhere close to the outfits that the chics wear to the bars (clubs, if you're sophisticated and if you're reading this, chances are you know me and then, well, you are not sophisticated enough to call bars "clubs". Sorry). In my mind, every car that passes me along City Park is a car full of gorgeous men, sorry- I am being 110% honest. Perhaps, one of those imaginary guys is actually T.I and he'll think "Damn, that girl is listening to my music." Eh, maybe not.

Point is, we all need our motivation to get shit done and for me it is an active imagination full of hip hop music with Lady Gaga thrown in the mix. When I think that everyone who is driving by is relaxing in their a/c cars and God saved them from the ugly stick, it motivates my ass to keep going when the look on my face is probably pure death. You've got your way to stay motivated and I've got mine and of course, mine WOULD involve boys. boys.boys.boys.

And I did not anticipate the blog to take this turn, but it did. Interesting how that happens.

What I was saying, was that I knew that today would be a great day, because I was able to run AND walk. Ajl came over after his crazy frantic day and we enjoyed an amazing dinner cooked by one of my roommates. Then, ajl and I went on our nightly walk that is the glue in our relationship (along with a lot of other things). It is during these walks, when it is just us, that we get to know each other so much better. We go over our schedules for the week and emotionally "check in" with each other on random things. I honestly feel that EVERY couple should take the 30 minutes each day, or whenever you can, to do this. Walk together. It's great for the body and amazing for your relationship. Trust me, because I know relationships.

And no, I do not worry that ajl is checking out the ass of every blond bimbo that "trots" by us, because that girl has got nothing on me. But it's taken me 26 years to realize this and, my oh my, do I realize this.

Monday, August 30, 2010

How do they get by?!

There are people around me and I wonder "How do they get through the day?" "How do they continue with their lives and are still a positive influence to those around them?" "How are they in healthy relationships, when the model they had growing up was so fucked up?!"

While back home this weekend on the farm, my youngest sister was telling me about a girl in her class (Jacinta is in 8th grade), whose mother and father divorced when she was there years old and her and her mom then moved in with her mom's boyfriend. That relationship went down the shitter and then they moved into her grandma's house for several years. During this time, the mother was in and out of the picture. Now, the mother and the daughter are living with the new boyfriend and his three kids from a previous relationship. Jacinta said that one day, the girl was called out of the classroom by the school guidance counselor and was told to bring all her stuff with her. When classes switched at the next hour, the whole class walked by the junior high office, to see the girls biological mother arguing with the biological father. The whole bunch of 8th graders saw this and saw the daughter, tearing up in the seat behind them. And yes, this was in a Catholic school. NO, we are not sheltered from the harsh realities of fucked up relationships. Not every kid who wears the blue skirt and white polo comes from a perfect religious home. Some of the kids there are sent in hopes that the bit of religion and discipline that Trinity honors will somehow change the negative cycle their family is cruising down.

I have a close girl fiend whose father recently passed away suddenly. This man was the humbled father of four beautiful daughters and my girlfriend, like myself, is the oldest of the bunch. I sit here and imagine, as I have much since her father passed away, how can she continue? How do you dig in your plow so deep and keep going, when your world is rocked like that? Her sisters are not drowning their sorrows nor dedicating facebook status everyday to the doom and gloom they recently were dealt by the hand of God. No, instead they have facebook profile pictures of their Dad with the memories that they'll remember and that he'd want them to remember: smiling and being goofy. Their family is the sort of family I have come from and hope to have, someday. They are strong. They are close and not to mention, gorgeous girls.

I look at the strength that Jacinta's classmate must have to accept that as her "ordinary". Not having a stable family home. Watching "Home Improvement" and not knowing the feeling of a true family dinner. Not knowing the feeling of going to Christmas concerts as a family, because her concept of "family" changes as the wind blows. For my girlfriend to keep living her life, but not forgetting the legacy that has been laid before her and her sisters by their father.

How can I look at my life and grumble and complain and bitch and whine? Grant it, ten minutes after I publish this post, I'll start bitching about something. God knows I will and he's ok with that (because, hell, he created me this way). However, for this brief moment in time, I am blessed. God, I am blessed.

Yes, I do have a horrible time getting to sleep at night. My mind does not shut off.
I have hairy feet. It's a hereditary thing, I think. I swear, Bergkamps used to climb trees way way way way back when, because my toes are incredibly long; "hobbit like", if you will.
I sweat. I sweat a lot. I can be freezing in bed with the fan and AC blasting, but yet- somehow- will be sweating like a whore when I wake up.
I would love to get a brow lift, because my brow bone is way too low, I think.
I have wide feet. I think it's because I have a beautifully wide ass.

But, damn, I am blessed because all those little annoyances were given to me, much for the same reasons God gave the crosses to the girls I've mentioned: because he does not give us a cross one ounce too heavy for our strength.

And, if you know me, you know that my leg strength is insane. Thank you, Landwehr hips.

Friday, August 27, 2010

Daddy is Chevy Chase meets Jesus Christ

My Daddy is Chevy Chase meets Jesus Christ.

He has the sarcasm and wit of Clark Griswald who appreciates the odd and quirky vacation destinations, all the while having his black plastic rosary in his pocket at all times and his sweaty scapula on. If you do not know what a scapula is, google it.

It's a Catholic thing.

Daddy will pray a rosary when he is driving to Halstead (roughly 10 minute drive from the farm) and any other time when he is in the car for over 10 minutes. We always arrive at church 15 minutes early and he is there, kneeling praying the rosary. Our family still does not eat meat on Fridays. Quick Catholic history lesson: pre-Vatican II, all Catholics were to abstain from meat on Fridays, to remind themselves of the suffering of Jesus Christ during the Passion and Crucifixion. At Vatican II, that order was relaxed and Catholics were permitted to eat meat on Fridays. He is the Catholic father that I am blessed to have.

He is a bank of witty jokes. He is notorious for embarrassing our family when off the safety of our own farm and in the real world. Story: on the random events that we would eat @ a restaurant or fast food, when the timid high school zit faced cashier would tell us our total, Daddy's response was always the same "Gosh! You've got to be kidding!". He would say it in a way that would embarrass the living shit out of us and probably scared the little cashier out of her wits. Story: Daddy has the gold molar fillings that all kids who grew up in the 60s have. Growing up, when I would ask "What dat, Daddy?" He would tell me this long drawn out story about working on the roof of the barn and one day the train was going by (our farm is about 1/4 mile from the railroad tracks) and people on the train just starting shooting at him and he caught the bullets with his bare teeth. "Ahhhhhh", I'd say with the innocence my dark brown Shirley Temple curly hair would allow me. He has told this story to all my sisters and he'll say it probably 539 more times before it's all said and done.

And that is ok by me.

Growing up, though: that was NOT okay by me. Daddy was an embarrassment to me. After Homecoming dance, before I was able to drive, his 11 pm naps in the car waiting for me outside Trinity Catholic HS, was not cool. His tough love approach was perceived by me as reminiscent of another German with a mustache and swastika on his uniform. Daddy was tough. Really tough. I was the oldest and always always always pushed the envelope from everything, from low cut tops to church or conveniently ignoring the call on my cell phone @ 12.30 am on a Saturday morning. I did not like Daddy, let alone love him (so I thought). He was a jerk meant to ruin my life. He was a dumb dirt farmer who had no idea what the real world was like. How could he? He spent his days on a tractor bouncing up and down the field listening to shitty AM country music (I know love "shitty" AM country music).

My oh my. What good a little time, a rough set of life obstacles, and maturity do to a father-daughter relationship. Now, when Mom sighs and says "Every time you come home, I am reminded how much like your father you really are", I take it as a compliment. Although, I know this observation is more out of angst than appreciation.

Why this sense of nostalgia for Joe Bergkamp on this Friday morning? Ajl and I are going home tomorrow for the weekend; this is the two week lull between picking dry land corn and starting up with irrigated corn mid-September. I am a bit disappointed that I won't be able to try out combine skills perfected @ Leiker Farms in July, though. And I know ajl is itching to drive another semi-trailer or grain cart. Point being, naturally I am so excited to spend time with the family (although it'll be half the family, as Mel is living @ Leoti and Alayna is @ Fort Hays) and add to the embarrassingly funny stories of Daddy "insisting next time, he'll pick up the check".

Daddy's girl? Yes, please.

Thursday, August 26, 2010

compromises and too many parking permits

Oh the joys of the FIRST WEEK! I swear, K-State must have accepted record number of baby wildcats (or just anyone with a beating heart), because this campus is freaking zoo, minus a few pandas and cheesy parents with fanny packs. The parking lots have become literal practice zones for Fort Riley. I swear, thank God this campus has a ordinance against bringing M-16s, because I'd only BET how many bitches would have a cap in their ass over parking. Parking is ridiculous. Thank God, I haven't had any problems finding a parking spot (faculty parking). However, I nearly have met my match with one two many dumb ass undergraduate females in SUVs tearing around the parking lot, like a bunch of international students who are just learning how to use their accelerator. Seriously. Rumor has it that the parking garage (that monster of a building that was meant to solve all our parking problems) was full a couple days back, which means that the students who donated their first born child in order to afford that ridiculous pass, were fucked for parking. The parking garage pass is only good for the parking garage.

Then again, that is a rumor. Much like the rumor that is going around campus that there is this gorgeous hot brunette chic with killer legs who wears pink Crocs from the faculty parking lot to Willard Hall.

Well, wait. That is true. I wear pink crocs and change into my 4.5" heels @ my office. It's an amazing idea and I really don't give a shit about the stank eyes I get from people (mainly females).

I have survived the first week of my graduate classes. All nine hours of 'em. Even though it IS just the first week, I felt this HUGE sense of accomplishment as I walked to my car @ 9.30 pm last night, after my final class of the week. Fuck ya, I made it. Then, I realized: I have 15 more weeks of this. However, I made it through the first week with only one emotional breakdown. And that ain't too shabby, I think.

I do worry that I have stretched myself beyond my limits this semester. I have the full time working gig, full time graduate schedule, signed up to be a mentor to four baby freshman, stuck my head out there and contacted the lead adviser of Theta (my sorority) to be an adviser for our chapter, volunteer as a lector @ St. Thomas (and now St. Isodores), have a social life, K-State football, and ajl.

Luckily for me, ajl is the same way. We both are involved in so much more than "just" our jobs. It's an incredibly attractive trait in someone, when they want to and actually DO do more than "just" their paying job. You don't feel like you need to baby sit them or you don't have to feel guilty when you're honestly busy as hell on an evening. It makes those nights when you both don't have activities going on, that much sweeter together. That is not to say that the control possessive side of me is always subdued :S It's part of a relationship: compromises, as my dear sister-I-didn't-have Jackie reminds me. My world is still my world. And ajl's world is still his world. However, we can't ignore the other person's world, if that makes sense. Yes, we have our own little spheres in society. But there is a healthy balance between teh two adn I think this is where a lot of relationships fall apart.

The girl expects the guy to make HIS world HER world or vice versa. That just ends up with someone drinking too much whiskey on a Saturday night and slashing tires on a car, after they send 5920 text messages and blow the other persons phone up 59 times. Awkward when they realize that dark blue is not black. And a ford is not a chevy. I think, instead of saying you're in a relationship, you should say "I'm in a compromise", because that's what it is. A compromise. You're compromising a bit of who you are and they're compromising a bit of who they are, sometimes without even realizing. I used to attend 8.30 mass at St. Thomas and now I am attending 6 pm mass at St. Isidore's. I don't particualrlyi like St. Isidore's; I see undergrads everyday, why would I want to see them at church hungover?! I like to go to mass early on a Sunday morning; that's church to me. However, ajl goes to 6 pm mass @ St. Isidore's. It's not even a question for me. I am going to 6 pm.

And you really think ajl honestly enjoys "Real Housewives of DC", "Real Housewives of New Jersey", "Dating in the Dark", "Jersey Shore"? You think he's sitting on pins and needles for this weeks episode of "Jersey" to see if Sammy gets her shit together long enough to realize that Ronny is a douche bag who is only using her for sex?! I doubt it. But, he does that. Because it's a compromise. He's not watching these shows to "get anything" out of me or to suck up. And I'm not forfeiting hanging out with old people and crying babies, because "it's what Aaron wants". I do it because I want to.

That same mentality can be applied to anything in life. In this dog eat dog world of competition and winning and shit, it's easy to abandon the ideals of Mother Teresa (happy birthday to her!!) and look out for yourself. However, you may find it's less stress when you consider someone else's feelings. Except in a parking lot. Then it is dog eat dog.

Maybe I should bring back Daddy's Versatile this weekend. Then, bitches had better check themselves.

Monday, August 23, 2010

you're so a freshman

Ah the first day of classes!! The young children and future generations of our world taking on collegiate level classes while expanding their intellectual horizons and pushing their comfort levels through higher education.The excitement of pushing themselves to new levels of understanding resonates through the halls of higher academia everywhere on campus today.


You know what my favorite part of the first week of classes is? The outfits. The hilarious outfits. The girls who are OBVIOUSLY freshman or sorority girls trying to work their mojo on their peers the first day. The frat boys rocking their "I'm too cool for school. You all should be happy that I rolled out of bed and found this snazzy $75 Hollister polo for you and found this sick plaid shorts." Ah, adorable. It's like little kids out from hibernation so excited to start their mating season all over again. They anxiously place themselves strategically in their 10.30 US History since 1877 course and eyeball every.single.student.that.walks.in. Because they know that this is where the beginning of epically bad decisions (or good ones) start. Here in these classrooms with our Wildcat students. It's much easier to start a conversation @ Alpha Gamma Rho with that hot cowboy, if you have a different common connection, other than having them hold your legs while you do your keg stand. Or they're your best friends brother *ahem*

Just sayin'

I apologize for the lack of length on this blog as I am exhausted from looking damn hot in my new outfit (yes, once a sorority girl: always a sorority girl). Damn, it's good to be good <3

Saturday, August 21, 2010

sharing spaces

I am blogging today from the privacy of my own bedroom. My own bedroom. Allow me to say tat again: my own bedroom. Attached to my own bedroom is my own walk in closet. Attached to my own walk in closet is my own walk in bathroom. This may seem like a not so big deal to you. However, to me this is epic. I never had my own room growing up. Never. I always shared my space with another of my sisters; at one point, I shared a room with my two youngest sisters while I was in high school. Yup, in high school. That is an idea that I know makes 95% of high school kids squirm. The thought of having to share something as precious as your space with someone else pisses a lot of people off. It makes them feel as though they are being put down a peg or two in their precious world. There is a line in "Gone With The Wind" where Scarlett's Daddy tells her that the only thing a person can accumulate and not have taken away is land. Hence, our insane desire to hold on to our space. It's a part of our identity and we love that freedom of stretching out.

I know that the reason I was able to handle living in a dorm room the size of a concrete mousetrap and then a sorority house of 70 college girls (some more superifical than should be allowed in the Midwest) is because I never had my own space growing up. I was always forced to share with my sisters. It was embarrassing growing up and having girlfriends spend the night and they'd look at our space and think "Wow. This is, uh, cozy?" But, then they'd see the wide open spaces of the country and how much more quiet it was out there in the country than the city, and I like to think they'd see the reasoning behind my parents living out there. And if not, screw them.

My kids will never have their own room. They'll never have televisions or computers or anything technologically overrated by their bed side. The bedroom, for children, is for one thing and one thing only: punishment and sleeping. I know that this may seen weird and odd, to not want my kids to be spoiled brats. However, I know that when they're older and 26 living with 2 other people and a bitch of a cat and an overweight cocker spaniel and they can legitimately be content with it (minus the cat shitting and peeing on the furniture), then they'll appreciate the way they were raised.

If not, they can go into their room and think about it. With no tvs.

Friday, August 20, 2010

limelights and cow patties

I am tentatively relieved right now. I just finished up my final appointment for Freshman Orientation and Enrollment. No need for me to vent on and on about how much I loathe assisting students with classes the day before classes start. Or vent about my opinions in regards to an university that accepts and accepts and accepts students regardless of the capacity they can hold. No need. Water under the bridge. That ship has sailed. Wahwahwaha and who really wants to "hear" me bitch about the imperfections of others? That's what I thought.

I am tentatively relieved now, because orientation is done. However, I really feel as though this the calm before the storm; classes start on Monday. I want to get really excited and happy with being done. I want to jump up and down and breath one big ole sigh of relief. But I can't. I can't because I know that shit will get real on Monday. My throat will be sore as hell from talking on Monday and I can only thank God that we have central air in our new offices, because I sweat like a whore on Sunday when I get steamed. But you know, I feel like I did on exam days in college, when I think about Monday. I loved exams in college, because it was a chance for me to show off what I knew. I know a lot about this department and the protocols and procedures. I have our fall 2010 schedule memorized. I'm a weirdo. Professors come to me asking what they're teaching and where. It's weird. I'm every one's personal secretary, minus the free sex like they get on "Mad Men." Part of me enjoys the respect they have with me and the awe they have over the knowledge I do really have. However, "to whom much is given, much is expected". Which can be a heavy load to carry at times.

We all want to be the big kids on campus. We all want the fame. The glory. We want to have the "Heyy!! circa: Cheers response" when we walk into a bar. We judge how important or how successful we are based on how many people we know. Or how many friends we have on facebook or our chosen social circles. I am a fame whore. I can admit it. My mom will be the first to tell you that I like the lime light. I appreciate being a known person. I find it hard to share the spot light with anyone and until Melanie was 8 years old, I did all her talking. Humble pie, though, is something I have had so much of I could win an episode of "Top Chef" cooking.

However, as I have grown through life and experienced crazy life changing events, I find that I am ok not being in the spot light. Do not misquote me; I still enjoy being the life of the party. But there is something nice in being just a person and not have control over someone or something. That's why I loved working at GAP as an associate, because I was responsible for nothing. Zilch. Except those pesky gap credit card applications with 40% interest. Other than that, I coasted through my shifts. I wasn't' responsible for anyone. I wasn't responsible for much. Just show up. Clock in. Smile. Give some brutally honest opinions. That was it. The possible idea of moving to the middle of nowhere, America sounds amazing to me now. I wouldn't mind blending into the background of society. However, I do have one criteria: Internet access to GAP.com and the occasional trip to a major city to stock up on my ridiculous priced make up :)

If this posting isn't the typical smart ass quality, it is probably because my brain is shut off. Ugh mental exhaustion. I need some Tallgrass Buffalo Sweat. And I need it now

Thursday, August 19, 2010

degree! "get" your degrees here

Oh my hair mary full of grace. This is going to be one of those blogs that I just type so incredibly fucking fast that I only can hope that my fingers can keep up. Today is Transfer orientation and enrollment date. For classes that start for Fall 2010. As in two business days. Yeah. Two days. what's open, you may ask? well, from what i can report: intro to geophysics. That's what happens when we have a jillion students, who enrolled in june and then we had the other jillion and half who have already enrolled. i had 7 students who signed in with art or some form of it this morning @ registration with our Deans Office. Between 9 am and now (3ish), 12 students have wobbled their way over to Willard Hall, all in pursuit of earning an ART DEGREE! Oh wow! who wants a cookie?! Let me break this down in bite sized pieces.


This brings to mind a thought that I honestly wish the powers that be would consider: capping enrollment OR (what a concept) hiring more faculty to accommodate the bumrush of students K-State has experienced! Raises have not been issued to the faculty the past three years and I'm not living in no fairy tale where the payment doesn't affect my general cranky/frustrated mood and general desire to go above and beyond the call of advising duty. Sorry to be Captain Obvious, but I am not alone in this idea.

The value of a degree is extremley dimished when an university accept studetns whose transfer GPAs are below 2.0. C's and D's get degrees-> remember that phrase that you joke about at 2 am at a frat party when you had class @ 9.30 that same morning? Yeah, that's very funny to an academic advisor who sees everything full circle. I have students who just want to "get" a degree; not earn. They want to "get" one. I will say loudly and to anyone: You do NOT need a degree to find happiness or success in life. Shocker. You better be damn sure before you sign up for a chunk of debt that this is what you want to assist you in finding happiness. Society has it ingrained in our heads (and admissions) that this is what will make you happy. A degree is our fountain of youth. Bullshit.

I have to preface that I am close friends with many of those who work in Admissions Offices on this campus. I feel for them, because just like I feel pressure from my superiors, they are feeling pressure. Numbers Numbers numbers. The more we have, the better we look and sound to other universities and alums across the nation. There is a phrase that the smartest man in my world (Joe B) who only earned an associates from Hutchinson Community College would say:

Quality over quantity.

I would take 50 amazing, solid, motivated, determined, pro-active freshman over 100 wishy-washy kids whose parents do their living and talking.

I don't care what color their money is. The universities are taking the way of big business; we are no longer educating our students, but educating them on the calculated interest on their student loans. The only aspect of my kids' lives that I honestly care about is their happiness. I know it appears that I hate my job. I hate my car. I hate the color purple. And I hate the fact I spent 50 bucks on the Incredible Bra.

However, the exact opposite is true. I love my job and I do love my car (well, not really at all.... but it runs, so I love it) and the color purple gives me chills (in a beautiful way). And the Incredible is amazing; you should try it out. Unless you're a creepy male; in that case, keep your paw's off my Incredible.

Get excited, because tomorrow is New Student O&E and I promise another fun filled blog full of unicorns and paint canvases and brutal honest truth.

Wednesday, August 18, 2010

Dedicated to my sister number 3

For those that don't know me well enough to comment on my hair type, allow me to divulge. I have a thick head of gorgeous dark brown hair, that's wavy/curly when allowed to be au naturale. My bangs are being grown out now, because having them in the heat of summer was/is a bad poofy decision. I recently had Erin put a darker shade of brown (2.5) on my hair, to have it match my eyebrows perfectly and love it. Gone are the days when I tried to lighten my hair. Oh dear god, when I was a freshman in college and a self proclaimed "jersey chaser" (those experience are a whole new different blog for another day..), I had long hair with blond highlights (one of my precious cousins called it "zebra stripes" at a fellow cousins wedding.. Yeah, I was cool). For some reason, I thought having blond in my hair was cool (?) Never again. I'll never put caramel or red highlights in my hair. Ever. Again. The only thing I'm doing is going darker. Sexy darker. Mysterious darker. God, I love how I go off topic all the time.

When I'm in the shower, I always pull out handfuls of hair. As in enough hair to produce a wig for a cancer patient. And I can say that, because my mother has breast cancer and attempted to wear a wig, which she never really wore (again, a whole new blog on that topic at some point will need to be given out). It's really sickening the hair I produce, that I put on the wall of the shower I am currently enjoying. After shampooing, I can pull out several handfuls of hair. Then, with conditioner: more hair. This loss of hair, should be painful physically right? I mean for the average guy, if you were to take away that much hair, they'd be looking like... well, a bald headed handsome man (cue: my handsome radio nerd). I am sure when I first noticed that I was losing pounds of hair, it scared me. But, with time passing, it become no big deal. A part of my shower routine, along with shaving my legs daily (damn hair grows like a weed).

Sister Number Three heads off to Hays, Kansas tomorrow morning to start her freshman year of college. Her freshman.year.of.college. I remember that Christmas eve morning that girl was born. Now, she's starting a whole new chapter of her life. Essentially, her life is starting tomorrow. Who she was until this point, will be a past chapter this time next year. The bullshit of high school will be a forgotten memory in a year book that she'll never look at again. The cool kids of high school, will still be living at home with their parents and hanging out with the same kids from high school. That is all cool, for some.

But not for Alayna Bergkamp.

She has dreams meant to accomplish outside of Harvey County, but she'll always have a bit of us in her heart. Nerves and anxious feelings will disappear as the hourglass is moved upside down and she grows into the mold she already has. She'll fail. Hell, she may even bite it on college dorm steps in front of "everyone" (and seeing that it IS Fort Hays, tha'd be.... 5 students) and won't want to leave her dorm room. That big exam she studied for "weeks" for (ha), she'll fail and call home crying to Mom. Her first love may break her heart (and re-break) in a way that only the first love truly can (and get way with it) and she'll call her sisters to bitch and say she'll never get over him.

She will.

She'll find her oldest sister's tough love to be annoying and she'll think she "doesn't get it. She never had this happen to her." Oh, but I have.

But what she'll never second guess is that I will get on I-70 so fast, that it'll make heads turn the second she needs me. I won't think twice. I won't care (but I will charge her for gas). Whether it is 2 am or 4 pm. She has family. She has sisters (and dedicated soon-to-be brother in laws).

She has a life. And she's going to get busy living it.

Tuesday, August 17, 2010

lost wal mart lists....

My eyes feel as though they've been plugged with liquid magma. You know that feeling when you're in bed and you know the time is ticking by and you have to get up and be productive (well, productive enough) within a few hours? That feeling of dread ranks right up there with a 5 hour Holy Saturday mass @ your local Catholic church. Bonus points if your priest says all stinking readings. It blows. The contacts were not feeling it this morning, so I opted to go for the conservative stylish Ted Baker frames.

And I can't find my Wal Mart list for today. That may seem so small of a lost precious piece of paper to you, but to me: it's total frantic. You see, I live in Manhattan. Manhattan is a university town and, like most universities, we start classes next Monday.

With each day that passes on my August 2010 calendar, the streets and the major discount stores start to resemble akwardfamilyphoto.com more and more with the additional plethora of incoming freshmen the trips to Wal Mart MUST be rationed like panty hose during World War II. And thank God they rationed panty hoses, because women began to realize how STUPID hose were and how much more comfortable it was to NOT wear them. That is a lesson that my mother still hasn't learned. Do you know how uncomfortable it was to be 12 years old and wearing PANTY HOSE to church?!

I digress.

The point of the story is that I misplaced my list to Wal Mart that I was going to squeeze between 5 and 6.15 today (I'm entertaining a few dear friends from my graduate program to chicken feta pizza tonight and they're providing sides and dessert). My luck? I'll half ass a list and will forget crucial items. OR I'll get shit I do not really need out of frustration of not remembering my initial full list. Then I'll be talking to myself, which I do a lot in Wal-Mart, and while I am using the self check out (which I absolutely love), I'll be watching the total grow. And grow. Then grow more. I'll look @ my cloth bags FULL of crap and think "What the fuck did I get that's costing me over 75 bucks?! Oh yeah, that fancy shaver that I think I just need to have.... OH and the discount cake on the reduced bakery shelf.... Shit, really Monica? You really needed glittery eyeliner? Who are you? Fn Adam Lambert?!"

So, stay tuned. I'll see how many reduced priced cinnamon rolls I lug over to ajl's later tonight in frustration over my lost list.

speaking of ajl: official congrats for KMAN 1350 AM earning "Station of the Year", for second year straight. I'm gloating. I'm proud. I see the hard work, dedication, motivation, sacrifices he has made and will continue to make. To see that effort pay off, warms my HV country girl heart

Monday, August 16, 2010

not so perfect Pro Active

I am 26 years young and still break out with whiteheads. Yes, I wash my face. As a matter of fact, I was an avid spender with Pro-Active for years, as in close to 8 years. It did work, enough. However, it wasn't working enough to justify the $48/month and they did not give discounts for being over the age of 21 and still have acne. Lame. I know switched gears and use Clean and Clear Advantage. It works just as good (a bit better) than Pro-Active and with the $20 price tag, I will take it.

I still break out, though. Now, it is the weird, random and awkward white heads under the nose and lip. The spots where you pray that it is on the right side of your face, so it is less noticeable. At least for me, that's the side I'd prefer to have blemishes, as my left side faces the office door. I am superficial.


This is only further justification for me to continue tanning, as I feel tanned face can diminish the look of these pesky reminders that we are only human. I loathe you people who can use soap and water or nothing at all to wash your face and you still look like a clean slate. I also really loathe/jealous of those who do not have the need to wear contact or glasses. I can't even begin to count the $$ I have spent on contacts, glasses, contact cleaner, contact cases over the past 12 years on that crap.

And do you know much planning it takes prior to a night of going out as an undergrad, trying to remember to bring a contact case with solution, in the event I happen to spend the evening at a place other than my residence (ahem)? Yeah, it's not fun. You can go a night without brushing your teeth (that's right, Melanie), but you can't go a night with your contacts in (if you have an astigmatism in both eyes). However, that was during my wild and rebellious years, of course.
It would have made my life much easier, if the bars had little machines that produced contact cases and solution. Can't you just see that? Right next to the condom machine with all the flavors you can imagine, would be a machine for all you need for care of your eyes. Maybe this said machine could have had a mirror that shows how you're really looking, you hot mess. It was always a classic moment from this sorority girl, when the lights would come on @ bar closing time. Man oh man. If I could relive those moments of sheer giddiness when people realized 1) how amazing they really do look 2) how amazing their grinding partner really isn't looking.

Classic. Oh classic.

Thursday, August 12, 2010

first dates and gurgles

Ah, the jitters of a first date with someone.

Even if you really aren't interested in the new prospect, you still have those jitters/butterflies. Oh and I know I'm not the only girl who plans her whole life with the new guy on a first date. Guys, even if we don't want to end up with you when our dating race is over, we still fantasize (maybe fantasize is the wrong word to use, maybe "plan" is better) a future together. With every guy in college that I was associated with (and by associated with, I mean made out with, shared a shot with, went to frat date parties with, ahem, etc) I dreamed up what our lives would look like together. Where would we live? What kind of house? How many kids (well, let's be honest. I've wanted to have six kids since I was old enough to know how to make kids... So since I was 21 years old) What would we be driving? How would his work schedule jive with picking the kids up from over-priced beginner's lessons? You may think I'm crazy and off my rails, but trust me. Every.Girl.Does.This. If she claims she doesn't/didn't, she is lying, because she doesn't want you to think she's "that" girl. Women are planners. It is in our DNA. Get used to it. Or we will plan you out of our lives.

On this first dates of jitters and inner monologues that we practiced with our roommates before we left to meet you, we are also trying to curb our tongues in spilling too many beans about our past. We've been "taught" by magazines and society to not say too much, but to say just enough to wow you into thinking we're these mystical creatures that you are just dying to chase. Some girls envision a wild African prairie of lions and lioness and random impalas and they are the lioness (similar to Nala "Lion King") alluring their mate. For me, I'm just trying to keep my gurgling stomach to shut up, which of course may affect how many times I cough to mask the gurgle. It's quite sexy. And that's just the fear of the internal organs! I haven't even touched on the major issues that we want you (our prey) to be made aware of on the first date. Depending on the age of the girl, we determine what person she wants you to believe she is. If she's younger and really not sure of who she is as a woman, she'll try to play the role of what society wants her to be. Docile, quiet, alluring, (read: high maintenance on this one).

However, when you get to a certain age, fuck what society is saying you should act like. Add in some major life changing issues (i don't' know.. having a baby, going through open adoption @ 25) and you're laying it all out on the line. You don't have the energy nor the time to deal with posing and being fake.

Fuck that.

That was my mentality starting about a year ago. What you see, is what ya got, Baby. And what I found, was that it greatly reduced my stress when it came to dating/guys. I didn't have to deal with the pressure of continuing this idealistic view of myself to someone. I'm not perfect. My tummy gurgles and I am now taking Activa to help my poor internal system out. I didn't want to date or be with a guy who couldn't take the real me. I am way too damn old to deal with being someone else. Dating was easy, because I knew right off the bat if I was really into a guy or was going to be wasting their time and mine. I was being honest with the person I am head over heels in love with: me. I have a son out there whose mother deserves to make him proud. None of this rift-raft half-assed dating.

This honesty then affected my self esteem, because I felt like a rock star. I knew what I was wanting in someone else. Ah hell, I still planned our lives together during the first few dates (silently, of course), but that's where it ended. I knew that when I found someone who connected with me on life values (religion, family, goals, my endless spending account at GAP), I'd be done dating. I tell ya, going through what was my last two years really forces you to realize what is important to you in life.

And I found this guy who connected with me on all my major issues (two biggest: faith and family) and I'm done. Put the kabosh on and cancel my match.com membership. Lock it down and move it out. Because this girl was honest with herself and found a man who can be honest with her.

Put that in your honesty pipe and smoke it. And do yourself a favor and be honest with that next hot date. And take the Tums, just in case.

Wednesday, August 11, 2010

scroll down

Last night, my roommate and I made dinner for her gay husband (Jerry is Jessica's best friend who happens to be gay) whose last night it almost is in Manhattan. I had planned to make Strawberry pretzel squares from kraftrecipes.com, which was a new one that I hadn't yet taken on. I quickly skimmed through the recipe and saw that it needed to refrigerate for 1.5 hours. Awesome. I can totally do that; go home @ 5, smash a few pretzels, melt some butter and whip whatever it is that take 1.5 hours to refrigerate. I'd be golden and the heroine of desserts. Ah, victory is mine.

I hit up Dillons @ my lunch hour, pick up the ingredients I needed and dropped them off at home. I quickly run by Jess what I was making for that evening, then headed back to campus. Which is a shitshow, because every intersection in Manhattan is having new tar, old tar replaced, blah blah done.

Lo and behold, when I was skimming through the recipe (when I am skimming through readings, recipes, long emails from my Mother, I say "blah blah blah ok blah blah". I think it may scare my students, because they think that I'm not really reading things. But I am. Except for Mom's emails. A lot of that information goes in one ear and out the other. She's great about updating me with every single detail of the farm. Which is great, only doesn't totally entertain me when I have facebook STARING me in the face) I missed one final detail.

I didn't scroll down to Direction number four.

Refrigerate. 3 hours.

shit. double shit.


Blessed for me, Jess was home sick yesterday and stepped in and made the dessert for me. Which was fantastic, for the record.

If only I would have totally read the recipe AND scrolled down. I would have caught that this wouldn't have worked out for me and my time schedule last night. Minor details. Minor minor detail.

How many times, oh how many times, do we do that? Skim through a situation "blah blah blah ok" make a decision and BAM move on! Thank God during childbirth my nurse didn't go think "ok.. blahblah needle in spine...blahblah. ok got it. Lean over. BOOM."

So here's to reading the full recipe and luckily having those people in life who can step in when we don't scroll down. And the Strawberry pretzel squares were delish.


Tuesday, August 10, 2010

Biggest sacrifice

I am a Catholic girl.

No, not the Brit Spears "Catholic-school girl uniform" type, but the legit Catholic school girl who wore knee length navy blue pleated skirts (which was a horrible wardrobe decision by Trinity Catholic administration as being put in a pleated skirt when you are not a size 6 is not the wisest fashion decision. Moving on). In being raised Catholic, we gave up something during Lent in preparation for Easter and to signify Jesus Christ giving up his life for the world on the cross that fateful Friday afternoon. This is probably the first formal time I gave something up for a bigger cause. In the Joe Bergkamp house, we did not have a choice in what "that" was. It was always sweets (desserts, snacks that were sweet, etc). Always. We had no choice. That was the "law of the land" as Daddy would say. I wonder if it would still have been the "law of the land" if one of us was diabetic. Hmmmm......

Since those days of torture during Lent, I have given up little things here and there for people that I care about and love (past tense love, in some events). They say the ultimate sacrifice is to lay down your life for a friend. You know those old school comedies (black and white old school) where the girl is tied to the track by the evil bandit and a train, of course, is bailing down the rails? She's laying there all cutsey and screaming (these were the silent comedies, but you can see her face screaming and such). She was always blonde with pin curls, it seemed. Lo and behold, she was saved last minute by some schmuck who was dumb enough to believe that she would live happily ever after with him. I guess you could say Dumb Schmuck was giving up his life, potentially, to save hers. I always wondered if there were people in my life who would give up their life for myself.

There is one out there who I gave my life up for. And I would do it again. Then again.

I gave up my humility in admitting to myself that I was not ready for the gift that God had given me. The timing was off. So off. I could have given him materially everything he needed for life. However, I could not have given him a father. Or at least a father that was a father in what a father is suppose to be. The term father seems to be one that society is becoming more lax than the LA County jail system in enforcing. To be blunt, it's bullshit the shit our boys are getting away with when they make the decision to become fathers. Where are THEIR parents when they skip out on their responsibilities? If they are mature enough to be engaging in sexual activities, they are mature enough to be a father.

Ahem. I digress, again.

My heart grieves and breaks daily when I look at pictures of a smaller version of a Bergkamp boy hamming for his mother's camera. With eyelashes that would put even mine to shame, he is incredibly happy. So content. So fragile. I do not regret a moment from when I walked into Manhattan's Catholic Charities Office that day in October, alone. When I gingerly walked out of Mercy 6 months later with my mom and when I said "Good bye" to his parents, and his Dad said "It's not goodbye; it's see you later", my heart broke. And it keeps breaking.

But, it's not the juvenile-Twilight-heart-breaking-teen-drama kind of breaking. It is the breaking that you know is ok. Normal. With every break, your heart becomes stronger, because you know this is the right path. It's like that break up with the loser boy who kept dragging you along and involved you in his shit. You know it's for the best, but you still hurt. In giving up his drama, you are taking on a new life. A new chapter, but always remembering "that".

Is it possible that the biggest heartbreak of someones life, can also be their strongest moment when they saw life in the clearest of lens?

Bring on a railroad tie. I'd lay my life on that line for him.

So long as I can be gussied up in 1940s regalia.

good little girls make some mighty wild women

I am good. Life is well. And I love Radina's yogurt parfaits.

That's it, for now until this afternoon when I make a legit, colorful post!

Monday, August 9, 2010

Friday, August 6, 2010

leave some to the imagination, kids

Sometimes less is more.

There really is no need to wear every bracelet, bangle, necklace, and earring when you step out of your home. However, a lot of people truly believe that from the moment they leave their house that a burglar is going to come in and this said burglar is looking for ONLY accessories. Therefore, they wear every piece of jewelry. Obviously. Because that's what makes sense and tells the world that YOU, my friend, are and ACCESSORY HIGH ROLLER.

I digress.

Facebook is another venue for people to overindulge their love for their amazing significant other, random song lyrics that, golly, just hit the spot, stupid lines about Team Douche or Team WhoGivesAF***, and a million pictures of their baby (1 month old) in the SAME POSITION. Well, geez, because I didn't quite get how cute your child was on picture number 395. And I do 110% realize that this is admitting to you that I stalk picture albums on facebook. Sue me. But I bet you do the same. If not, you must not be a state employee. And your retirement is not near as good as mine. And, yes I have focused on my relationships in blogs and the positive aspects they are having in my life. However, that is not the point. Duh.The point is that "other people" are guilty of this.

We all know those people. People's whose facebook statuses' revolve around what canister to put their sugar in, how annoyed they are that their nap was interrupted by their baby "grrr"(their words, NOT mine) or how they're thinking about having their "amazing" hubby trim the branches outside their "amazing" home. And we all know what these homes look like, because they've posted about 59304 pictures of each nook and cranny of the damn casa. Speaking of being a burglar, I could break into a bunch of people's homes, just based off facebook albums and know where they keep the "good stuff" (of course their goddy jewelry comes to mind). And these are people I don't even KNOW. But they have their albums posted for EVERYONE TO SEE. And trust me, you people who think the whole world is looking at the album of your new 1998 Buick LaSabre, we ARE.

Oh, we are.

And we agree, the pink dice is just to DIE for. Oh, and you tagged your bfff in the empty front seat, because "oh my god. You are just going to be a permanent fixture in my new ride. lmao! lol!"? You're just dandy, aren't ya? "LMAO"- really? Really? Are you REALLY laughing your ass off? I find that hard to believe. I also find it hard to believe that you passed a driving test, let alone high school.

It's amazing how I start these blogs out and they go a whole different direction than I had intended. The point of this was going to state how much I love accessories and how they can add or totally destroy and outfit. And somewhere along that I was going to report that I have enough glitz in my bangles today to bring down Air Force One.

but I digress

Thursday, August 5, 2010

plucking and sorority homes

I have no shame, to a certain extent. When living in the sorority house, I had no issues in walking around topless, naked, or bottomless (or maybe it's pantless). Much to the disgust of my roommates, I am sure. My schtick was that, I'm not the one looking at me, so what did I care?! That lack of modesty has carried over to the filter on my mouth.

I have none.

Luckily, working with college students, (allow me to correct myself: college students AND their parents) I am allowed a few verbal slips here and there and there again. To quote Miranda Lambert "I've got a mouth like a sailor and yours is more like a Hallmark card." My poor mother. She routinely reminds me to utilize "Harvey County language" when I'm home. No, Harvey County language is not a foreign language metric system that is similar to Arabic or German. Harvey Co. language is similar to the language you'd use around your old cranky German grandmother. Minus the shouting. I'm hoping having a bf who works in radio and can't curse on-air will help curb my lazy tongue. So far though, it's not effecting it too much. Or maybe it's "affecting" shit..

Here is to the girls who don't raise their eyebrows when a lady curses or plucks the black coarse hairs on their chins at stoplights. Yes, if you ever see a smoking hot brunette girl in a gold Honda Accord plucking hairs at a stoplight, that would be me. And you can stare all your pretty little eyes want. I ain't changing. A thing. Peace be your journey.

Wednesday, August 4, 2010

"rest stops" and "overactive bladder " friends

Tonight I am making dinner for one of my dear friends that I met through my graduate classes. We both have crazy busy lives (he works and lives in Jardine Apartments here on campus and being a residence life graduate student is an all-consuming duty. He seems to always be on call, etc. You'd be surprised as to the late night emergencies international students have at 11 pm). Andrew is one of those guys that I think everyone should have around. We used to hang out nightly watching season of "entourage" last fall semester, but then both of us got busy with our own lives and classes and work.

But are there hard feelings for this business spell? Absolutely not. He's the type of friend I love. I can get busy and distracted with my life, but they don't take it personal and think that I'm being a bitch or avoiding them or being rude. We can mutually check in with each other momentarily and then carry on with our lives until the next "rest stop" in our relationship. I hate those friends that want to be treated like overactive bladders. Constantly needing attention. And by attention, I mean attention on them, of course. It's their own personal shows and we're "invited" to partake. My cousins Mary (Bergkamp side) and Rebecca (Landwehr side) come to mind when I think of the happy balance. We don't talk weekly or even monthly. It takes usually one good long conversation every few months to re-connect and the random facebook message here and there. These are girls who know me incredibly well and probably a large part of it is the fact that we're family. From the same stock, as it were. Same backgrounds. I grew up with Mary and her family. My family would baby sit her and her siblings when her mom would be in the hospital having a child (and they had 8 kids.. so that's a lot of time @ the Ponderosa). Rebecca always grew up at least a state away, but as luck would have it, she moved back to the Wichita area for her career (she's one of those famous local celebs in wichita who wears ballcaps in public so she's not recognized. SHE'S A NEWS ANCHOR ON FOX NEWS @ NINE AND DOES REPORTING FOR KWCH 12). That change in coasts may have been a curse to her, but it has been a blessing for our relationship :)

So, here's to the rest stop friends in YOUR life. And forget the overactive bladders ones and God, I hate those overactive bladder commercials with full balloons. Maybe it's because I really do need to use the facilities. TMI, opps. My bad

And enjoy the picture of my sisters and Rebecca @ her wedding in KC Labor Day 2009 <3

Tuesday, August 3, 2010

devil went down to MHK

**All because two people fell in love. Norbert Bergkamp plus family, Christmas 2009**

Maybe I've taken my love for gutting out runs in 105 degree heat too far. I've felt touches of nausea all afternoon, but have been drinking more water than a sorority girl on Sunday morning. I'll do half the work out today after work and will wait until 6 to hit it. Is it wrong that every guy I passed around city park while running, I thought "What the fuck is this idiot doing in this heat?!" Note: there were no girls running. I guess that is good?! And how do I justify my desire to vomit Lean Cuisine? I'm a country/farm girl. I can take this heat. duh. Which is beyond ironic, because I never really did do intense work in the heat while growing up. The excuse of being a farm girl is as legit as saying I'm protected more by God because I'm Catholic.

Ah, snap. I am just kidding to my non-Catholic friends. Although, do not come crying to me when you're burning alive in hell. Ahem. Well, wait. By, that point you're already dead. So forget what I just said.

Speaking of being the chosen people because I am Catholic and participate weekly in those festivities, allow me to bring to light an issue that irritates me more than the latest Hollywood bimbo driving an SUV comparable to a military tank drunk. And Jesus, you're telling me they can't afford a taxi home?! Anyways.

I love passionate people. Hell, I am a passionate person (not crazy, passionate). However, the people in the world, especially hard-core Christians, who look down on people and judge those who do not hold their beliefs really "burn my biscuits". I've experienced the cruel judgment eye of those in my extended family in regards to the decision and mistakes I've encountered in my past. These people who are all high in their ivory tower. The were a bunch of girls in my sorority that were the same way. They thought they were the fn untouchables, because they were all good and shiz. I love my family. I love my daddy's sisters and brothers and all 40+ first cousins. Howe er, there are judgemental people amongst them. And don't read this and act as though YOUR own family doesn't have crazies like that. You do. You know it and you're thinking of them. Right.Now, aren't you?

However, there are limitations to what I personally consider guiding someone to your faith and beliefs and forcing it down their throats with arsenic while clamping their mouth open, ya know? Luckily, when it comes to a family member doing the forcing, we can hope and pray that their heart is in the right place. We may not see it at that moment, when we feel "this tall" under their stank eye raised. But, we have to hold on to the belief that their love for us is what is causing the insane ruler of perfection, that only they are the judge of. Family isn't always a Cosby Show, or Little House on the Prairie if you were a freak (like the Bergkamp girls) growing up. The one thing about family is that we have no choice, but to stand by them and support. Maybe that's why their harsh criticisms hurt more than someone who isn't family. We know there is no getting away from them. And when we're alone by ourselves in our rooms, we really would rather have it that way. That sort of guarantee is comforting, even if we hate or are too proud to admit.

Hell, I'll take my family. I'll take Uncle Tommy calling Daddy at 6 am every morning to chew the cud (even on a Saturday morning and for some reason, Daddy feels as though when people call on a cell phone, that means he has TO TALK REALLY LOUD). Bring on Bergkamp gatherings at Grandpa Bergkamps in a home that raised 8 kids with 3 bedrooms and no showers in the house. Throw in the 40+ first cousins between the ages of 4-30 years old, with significant others+their kids. I lived for Rebeccas wedding with Miss Natalie Ketter with the adorable maturity of a young woman. Forget the fact that she's been prodded with needles the size of knives. But, damn. That girl has the heart of a lion. No, a lioness.

As far as the stank eye, I'll take that, too. Because I know the only judgement that matters doesn't come from someone with a last name. It comes from the person with no last name.

I still feel nausea, though. Ah, the perks of being human.......

Monday, August 2, 2010

high school proms and 45 minute waits

**The reason why my Daddy is awesome. And you wonder where I get my sarcastic sense?**

Ah, the weekend was just what the doctor ordered for ajl and I. We had a perfect Friday night with dinner at Arroy Thai, then killed time driving around MHK during our 9.45 "Dinner for Schmucks" movie. It was a beautiful time; I think all relationships need that "your" time, where it is just you and him or you and her. Even taking it back to old school dinner-date style. We spent some time at the Farmers Market Saturday morning, before I sweated out two pints of sweat, before going to Bluestem for breakfast and heading out to KC for the Royals game. I was so proud of all the work ajl put into the event ("Manhattan Day at the K") and he was rewarded with a signed baseball and time on the jumbotron, waving like a giddy high school boy @ prom. Yup. That's my boyfriend. He's off to DC for Delta Tau Delta's international convention this week. Sigh. However, this will be like harvest, only he HAS decent cell phone service this time. Unlike Holly, CO.

Speaking of the giddy high school boy @ prom, there is an amazing picture of him out there when he was a sophomore at prom. With a great hairline. Those who know him, know what I am referring to. I am now the giddy girl @ prom, because we are finally saying the "l" word <3 Love it.


With anyone else that I dated, I cannot tell you the moment we said the "l" word. Probably because it wasn't that big of a deal to me, because I really didn't love them. Or, to be honest, I was probably hammered. I took it for granted. I thought I knew what it was or what it meant or felt like. I didn't. I knew I was falling for him, when on our second date the wait for 45 minutes and I was so excited, because that meant I got 45 minutes to talk with him and spend with him. I love our car trips, because I know that is time we get to spend together and I can be with him. I love cooking for him, because I know it's something I normally don't like to do. But for him, I love it. It took me going through "that" (the past) to get to this point in my life, where I am looking forward to long waits at restaurants and new recipes (even though they are kraft.com, so nothing at the "Top Chef" level). I am not puppy dog in love, where I can ignore the negative things in our relationship. I pick up when he goes into radio voice explaining things to me or when we're in public and he's recognized and he's no longer "my boyfriend", but the voice inside their radio.

OK, sorry to all the heartbroken people out there who are currently downing tubs of hydrogen peroxide, because that sounds better than reading about two kids in l-o-v-e.

Return to your lives. It's time for me to hit the pavement and get a run in before the devil returns to claim his spot in the 111 degree heat.