My mother.

When I was growing up, my parents decided my mom would stay at home with me and my brothers and my dad would go to work. I'm fortunate, because I remember my mom always being there. I knew kids who had house keys by the age of seven. Not that there's anything wrong with that, but there was something about running up the front porch steps from the bus stop to mom being there with a snack, asking us how our day was and how much homework we had that just made life more comfortable.

If you know my mother at all, you know she's always dancing, singing and smiling. Always. Sometimes I roll my eyes and laugh as she pulls me across the kitchen floor trying desperately to get me to dance with her. But there was a time when I was six, she'd put on Madonna's, "The Immaculate Collection" and I'd stand on the coffee table in our family room and dance and sing my heart out.

My mom always wanted to surprise me when I was little. When I was turning ten, she sent me to the roller rink with a friend and her mom. When we came back, there was a surprise party waiting for me in our house with all my friends and family.

When I was twelve, I decided to go to camp for the first time. It was really my first time away from home without being surrounded by someone familiar (a grandparent, a friend, etc.) and I was terrified. My mom wrote me via fax once a day for the entire week I was there, and when I came home, she had surprised me and painted my room purple--my favorite color.

I remember when my grandmother passed away, my mom just hugged me and cried. I didn't know my grandmother incredibly well; we had always lived about 500 miles away from her. But that moment made me realize the bond that I had with my mother. I stood on my bed early that February morning so I was just a little bit taller than my mom. I don't think I fully understood why my mom was so sad, but I remember thinking that if it were her that was gone, I would be devastated. That, alone, made me understand the situation and realize I never wanted to lose my mother.

When I played soccer as a kid (or any sport for that matter), my mom never quite understood exactly what was going on but you could put money on the fact that she'd be at every game. Her and my brothers would sit on the side line and even though she was the smallest lady out there, she was, by far, the loudest. Her screams and cheers could be heard clear across the field.

Baking at the holidays was always a family affair. My mom would blast Christmas music and put on festive earrings and sweaters. She'd dance and sing and rotate from one child to the next and help us with our holiday cookies. Again, we'd roll our eyes (but we were unable to hide the big smiles on our faces) as we'd add the various ingredients to our cookie bowls.

My mom has this way of literally making almost everything okay. A simple hug from her could fix a bruised knee on the playground at age five and today, there are days when the office is hectic and the phone is ringing off the hook when I think to myself it'd be nice to just get a hug from my mom.

I'm thankful for my mom's quirky, goofy dancing and singing; for the way she was always home and how her hugs could heal anything. For she has made me into who I am today.

I recently visited Amoeba in LA and found a copy of "The Immaculate Collection". I recognized that pale blue cover from aisles away. Sometimes I'll pop that in my CD player and sing and dance a little like I used to on that coffee table or with mom in the kitchen. Even from three thousand miles away, I can still see her bopping her head from side to side and snapping her fingers along to "Cherish"; it always seems to make everything okay.

Sorry this is so late, Mom! I blame the salmonella! Miss you every day. Happy (belated) birthday.

My father.

I was the first born kid in my family.

My mom grew up as the oldest with three brothers and sisters whom she helped raise, but my dad on the other hand had been an only child and never really interacted with any small children in his life.

Apparently when I was born, my dad cried. I assumed it was because his social life was officially over, however my mom informs me he was really happy to see me ;).

Mom tells me all the time that for the first few weeks, he was determined he was going to break me. He'd look at the baby clothes and then at my tiny frame and try to contemplate how in the world he was supposed to get my arm through the sleeves in the onesie.

But that was just the beginning.

Growing up, my dad was obsessed with Halloween. I was always okay trick-or-treating because I always knew my house would be the scariest one on the block, so I had nothing to worry about. Every year he built this massive spider out of garbage bags and PVC pipe in the front yard. He'd always rent a fog machine (I'm pretty sure after a few years he finally just bought one), we had a skeleton who's jaw would move while hooked up to a microphone. My dad would hide behind the curtains just inside the window and make creepy noises and sounds, imitating eerie zombies and monsters. Kids ran away screaming and we'd all roll around on the floor and laugh hysterically at how crazy (but awesome) my dad was.

I didn't love a lot of sports, but soccer was just my thing. I played for years and years on a rec team and every year, my dad was my assistant coach. He traveled for work during the week, but always tried to make my soccer practices and games. He introduced me to the various sounds of ACDC, Goo Goo Dolls and Third Eye Blind. We'd drive through the business park where broken sprinkler heads sprayed into the street. He'd roll down the windows and drive through the streams, making me giggle as the cool water droplets landed on my skin.

We butted heads a little as I got older, but he was always looking out for me.

He bought me my first car when I was seventeen. I went away to camp for a week and when I came back, he opened the garage door and there it was--my Honda Civic. Mom said he searched and searched and searched for that car--making sure it was safe and perfect.

He was the one I called when I got my first (and only, knock on wood!) speeding ticket. I prepared myself that I was going to get in serious trouble. I was already crying from the stress of getting pulled over, and was fully prepared for my dad to yell at me. I deserved it. Instead, he calmly said we'd talk about it when I got home from work that night and he made sure I knew he had gotten plenty of speeding tickets in his day. Telling me it happened to everyone and not to stress over it.

When I failed economics in college, I called my dad--again, fully prepared to get lectured. College was expensive and he was footing the bill; I deserved it. Instead, my dad chuckled and told me the story of how he had failed economics in college himself--it was a tough class. He told me how he got through it and that I could try again next semester.

When I sat my parents down and told them I was packing up my car and moving to California, I could see the hesitation on both of their faces. Again, I was fully prepared for them to disagree with me and not understand. While they were certainly sad to see me leave, my dad nodded and told me he'd drive with me if I wanted. When I told him I really wanted to do this by myself--he swallowed it and pulled out an atlas. He brought it to me with each and every state I would be driving through tabbed. He told me the nicer areas to stop along the way, and the not-so-nice stopping areas.

He told me one more thing. He told me if I ever needed to come home, he'd book the first flight he could and we'd drive back together. He assured me he would always be there, and I'd always have a home.

We don't always see eye to eye, but I appreciate him now more than ever as an adult. I hope he knows he's given me my wings and prepared me for this epic journey I've found myself traveling on.

Thanks for everything, Dad. I love you. Happy birthday.

"To live is the rarest thing in the world. Most people exist, that is all."

Mondays.

I've never really liked the stereotype of Monday. I think it's unfair and undeserved. I wholeheartedly believe we should give every Monday a chance. Like really, what did Monday ever do to you?

Well, today. Today I tried to give Monday a chance, and it just chewed me up and spat me out.

I've gotten to this point where I'm concerned with the "directions I'm taking". This happens to me every so often. In college, I usually evaluated a change in study every three to six months. I went into the whole: "who am I? What am I doing? Who am I supposed to be?!" panic mode.

This usually ended with me in tears with my mother on the phone; her trying to reassure me that while yes, every decision I made counted, did not in turn mean that every decision I made was forever. I would dry my tears and mope to the student union where I'd vent to friends over buffalo chicken wraps and Starbucks coffee. Our vent sessions turned into laughing sessions and we usually ended the night lounging in Memory Mall watching the stars.

And then it came to college graduation--where I was pretty sure my world was ending. What was I supposed to do with my life now? How was I supposed to just wake up one day and be a grown-up? How was I supposed to start my career?! Again, this ended with my mother telling me that none of these decisions had to be forever; they just had to be for right now. And if I thought with my heart and my head, I would make the right decision.

So here I am, almost two years post undergrad graduation, and it's Monday. This morning I overslept giving myself a mere twenty minutes to pull myself together. I realized I had a fairly ginormous tear in my favorite pair of tights. I hurried out the door into the lovely West Hollywood/Beverly Hills/West LA traffic. I cursed myself the whole way there over why in the WORLD I chose to live in a city where driving a simple 6 miles takes me almost 45 minutes. The man at the coffee shop in my building was neither friendly nor attentive and completely screwed up my order. I twisted my ankle (again) and it's now the size of a baseball.

For a quick minute, I let today get the best of me. In fact, up until posting this I was letting today get the best of me. I found Negative Nancy knocking with thoughts like, "Ugh, typical Monday. The rest of today is going to suck--just accept it now and move on. Everything's failing! What are you doing with your life?!"

And then I really took a look at my life, but specifically the last two years.

The direction I took in college surely guided me, as did the choices I made after college graduation. But none of my decisions or "bad days" or experiences defined who I am. And I'm honestly surprised by and proud of the girl I am today.

So, take that, Monday. Lucky for me, you're almost just another sunset under my belt.

Trust. Friends. Life.

I think one of the hardest parts of growing up is learning how to trust yourself; especially for those of us who grew up with parents who wanted to be there for us in the best way possible, which turned out with them making a lot of our decisions for us. Hence, why I trust my mom and dad more than anyone else in this world (myself sometimes included).

Everyone is born and raised differently; that's the way life works. There's no right or wrong answer, and I appreciate the way I was brought up because I love who I am and I know I wouldn't be this way without my parents raising me the way they did.

We make mistakes--this is life. Everyone in the world makes mistakes (big and small) and I'm the kind of person who wholeheartedly believes that if someone makes a mistake and returns to mend what's been broken, they deserve a second chance. With that being said, I'm also a person who does not believe in third, fourth, fifth or sixth chances. I believe in the whole: "Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me." I comprehend and accept that statement--I know if things go sour twice, it's on me.

I believe in seeing the good in people, because let's face it: we all have pasts that contain laundry lists of mistakes and errors and judgments. We'd be hypocrites if we walked around looking for the perfect person. We'd also be lonely, because that person doesn't exist.

Positive influences exist. I believe that it's important to have positive influences in our lives but in return, it's important to be a positive influence for someone else. Sometimes the people on these lists are one in the same. Sometimes they are not. That doesn't bother me. What's important is that you know who YOU are and what YOU believe and allow that to be your truth.

Over the last two months I've grown up--a lot. I always thought that there was no way in the world I could grow up as much as I did when I moved to Los Angeles in the first place, but I've proved that to be incorrect over the course of the last sixty days.

The great thing about this post is that I came out and said what I believe to be my truth. The great thing about life is that you don't have to agree with me on any of it. But the important thing is that you accept me anyway.

So if you can see past the things that we view differently, then I am so excited for you to be a part of my life.
If you can't see past the things that we disagree on, then I'm sorry you feel that way.

Trust is earned, and I feel with the people who are in my life right now that I've earned that, as they have with me. If there is no trust, it's impossible to have a healthy relationship.

I'm proud to finally be able to defend myself.
I don't know how else to defend myself besides the words that I've written above.
Take me or leave me, this is who I am.