Last week I was invited to join a Facebook group for my 25th high school reunion.

Let’s just address the number 25 for a second, shall we?

How the hell is is possible that I graduated from high school in 1987?

In 1987 Ronald Regan was President. The Simpsons was just a short on the Tracey Ulman Show. Michael Jackson released Bad and I’m pretty sure Lethal Weapon was my favorite movie.

That was a long-ass time ago.

I was the kid in high school who had friends in every group, but I wasn’t a part of any one group. I drifted, I suppose. I didn’t have a lot of friends, but the ones I did have were awesome. I had the occasional boyfriend, but I rarely dated anyone who went to my high school mostly because the boys I went to school with didn’t seem to pay attention to me. I wasn’t popular and I wasn’t unpopular. I didn’t sit home every weekend—I went to parties and football games and dances, but I was never part of the groups organizing them. I didn’t participate in sports, and I wasn’t involved in clubs or the band. My after-school activities consisted of going home and reading and doing homework or, when I turned 16, working.

I was painfully shy and ridiculously insecure, which made me a target for getting picked on. I tried really hard not to stand out because of that. I went to Catholic high school and I loved having to wear a uniform because it allowed me to blend seamlessly into the masses.

High school wasn’t a horrible experience for me, but it wasn’t exactly the time of my life, which is fine because now I don’t have to live my life knowing my best years are behind me. I spent the better part of those four years just trying to survive.

Looking back, I’m sure I could have made more of my experience. And the reality probably is that I wasn’t as invisible as I felt. In the past couple of years, I’ve had classmates reach out through Facebook and for the most part I’ve been thrilled to reconnect. Part of me is surprised that people remember me

Oddly, we had a five-year reunion and even more odd, I actually went. I couldn’t get anyone to go with me so, uncharacteristically for me, I went alone. I don’t remember a lot about it honestly, except that it was on one of those Hornblower yachts that cruised around the San Francisco Bay.

I had an okay time, but five years was too soon. There were a couple guys there who I had huge crushes on throughout school. They were the stereotypical Big Man on Campus dudes that all the girls wanted to date. They were athletic, popular and for a girl like me, totally unattainable. Separately, they came up to me and introduced themselves, unsure of who I was but wanting to know. When I told them, they both vaguely remembered my name but couldn’t exactly remember me. I wasn’t necessarily surprised because in the five years since graduation I had lost the braces, finally ditched the permed hair and got rid of the baby fat that plagued me through high school.

They chatted me up in a flirty way and I was briefly flattered but then I got annoyed. I was transported right back to high school and once again being judged on something external and superficial. I was probably more annoyed by the fact that I actually cared what these guys thought of me even though five years had passed and I no longer physically (or emotionally) resembled that girl.

I left the reunion swearing I would never go to another one again.

But that was 20 years ago. I’ve grown up and moved on. There’s a part of me who’s excited to see some of the people I’ve reconnected with on Facebook. There’s also a part of me who has no interest in looking back.

So I pose the question to you all? Reunion or not? Would you go? Have you gone to yours?

My yearbook photo, senior year

If you’re new here, here’s Part 1 and Part 2. PS: Parts of this post are totally gross.

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I know, I know. You’re sick of my snot. Me too.

But! I finally had my sinus surgery last Thursday. I had a septo and endoscoptic sinusotomy or something like that. All I know is there were three procedures done on me and I came out of there looking like I went 10 rounds with Mike Tyson, which is to say, I looked more bad-ass than I felt.

The surgery went well—once the doctor got me on the table I think I was out of there and back at home in a few hours. The nurses at the surgical center were awesome and the place offers one of the best amenities ever—warm blankets. It’s so simple and so genius. When you’re laying on a bed in a paper-thin gown and not much else, it’s fucking cold. Instead of tossing an equally paper-thin blanket over me, they gave me a big warm blanket to snuggle under while I waited.

There was a bit of a delay—the surgery before me ran long—so after sitting for an hour or so with a cold IV dripping into me, I was freezing my ass off and I was starting to freak out. Bill, my defender and advocate,  had a brief Shirley McClain in Terms of Endearment moment when he chased after the nurse yelling about getting me more warm blankets. His wife was cold, goddamn it.

I never loved him more than I did right then.

The drugs were obviously good because I don’t even remember them giving me anything. I scooched onto the operating table and the next thing I knew I was waking up in the recovery room.

I felt pretty decent—but totally out of it—the rest of the day, sitting up, chatting with Bill, watching some TV and taking to my parents and brother on the phone.

Then the morphine wore off, and Friday was a completely different kind of day.

It wasn’t so much that I was in a ton of pain. But after the surgery they packed my nose with what essentially amounted to tampons—cotton plugs meant to absorb all of the blood and mucus that was flowing freely.

That’s right—I was one sexy bitch, people.

I could only breathe through my mouth, which wasn’t bad when I was awake, but made sleeping brutal. I’d doze for an hour or so and then wake myself up because I’d develop some gross film in my gaping maw that made it hard to breathe. I’d try to clear my mouth with some water, but the stuff in my nose made it hard to eat or drink. The smallest sips of water or juice made me feel like I was drowning.

Everyone told me that as soon as that packing came out I’d feel a million times better, but when they told me to come back on Monday I thought, “You have got to be kidding me. That’s way too soon.” By Monday, it wasn’t soon enough.

I had three people (including the doctor) warn me that removing that stuff feels like my brains are being sucked out of my head. And they all used that exact phrasing. Probably because it’s the most accurate description for what happens. Removing that stuff was hands-down the worst part of the entire ordeal.

I sat in the chair, tilted my head back, gripped one of Bill’s hands with my left hand and gripped the chair arm with the other. My doctor put some forceps-type thing up my nose, grabbed the end of the packing and pulled. I heard this gross sloppy wet, slurping sound and I screwed my eyes shut and tried not to scream from the pain. It felt like he had reached into the back of my skull and slowly sucked out my brain matter. Bill actually watched and said it was like he removed two slugs from my nose. I guess after 5 days of absorbing snot and blood those cotton things swelled so much they were like twice the length of my nose and certainly more than double the width.

When they were finally out of my head I sat still for a minute to get oriented again.

Within 30 minutes I started to feel human again.

I hadn’t been able to really eat or drink since Wednesday night so Bill immediately took me to McDonald’s so I could get some food in me right away. That Diet Coke was the best Diet Coke I ever had in my life.

So I’m on the mend. I’m sleeping better, breathing better (although still kind of snotty) and I can eat and drink. I’m excited because I’m looking forward to feeling good again. I have felt so meh for so long, I’ve been unreasonably exhausted, uncharacteristically cranky and sick of feeling sick.

I’m thinking this was a good way to start my year.

Okay, yeah, I know. It’s been about two weeks since I’ve posted. I’m sorry. I suck. But I have a good excuse.

Really. I do.

I finally had my sinus surgery on the 19th so I’ve been out of it for the past week. I’m finally feeling human again so I’ll catch you up on everything in a few days.

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I am addicted to fashion blogs. I don’t know when it happened, but I can’t get enough of them. It started with …Love Maegan a few months back. I stumbled upon her tutorial for diamond-tipped nails (I got so many compliments on that manicure) and got hooked. I love how she puts her outfits together, and even though the Manolo Blahnik’s are out of my budget there’s always something to inspire me.

Then I found the holy grail for girls like me. Petite fashion blogs. Apparently, there’s a slew of them out there and best part is most of the women wear the brands I wear—Gap, Banana Republic, Ann Taylor and J Crew.

I think my favorite (at least this week) is Extra Petite, which is written by a woman who is my height and shoe size. Unlike a lot of blogs that just post photos of outfits, this one talks about fit and fabric and when and how to alter a piece of clothing. She also has a pretty good list of petite-friendly brands—an awesome resource for me because I tend to shop at the same four places over and over.

One of my other favorites is Fast Food & Fast Fashion, which is similar to Extra Petite, although her style might be slightly more quirky.

One of these days I’m going to actually bust out of my style rut of jeans and T-shirts and update my uniform wardrobe. The weird thing is, I have a lot of awesome clothes that I’ve bought over the years, but I don’t know how to put them together so I just get lazy and comfortable and wear the same things over and over.

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Speaking of fashion, I did try to break out my boot rut and bought these today (inspired by the blogs above):

Nine West Amalia

I love Nine West. They carry an extensive amount of size 5s, which is rare. Most sites sell out of the 10 pairs they carry right away and that’s it. Nine West has adorable shoes and I can almost always find what I want on sale. These were 25% off, plus I had points saved up from previous purchases, so they ended up being about 40% off.

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I found this post (called “No Shit,” so of course I love it) through another blog (I can’t remember where), and it serves as a good reminder that no one is perfect, and we need to stop beating up on ourselves for not looking a certain way. Read it. And then “move the fuck on.”

Back in October I went to Utah for a dog show. This was a national breed specialty, which meant Samoyeds as far as the eye could see, along with swirls of white hair floating in the air, lots of shantung skirt suits, “nude” nylons (they’re never really nude, are they?) with tennis shoes, and too many sequins for daylight. (There’s enough bad dog show “fashion” to warrant a series here.)

I was looking forward to going—and even more excited to write about it when I got back because the movie “Best In Show” has nothing on the real thing.

But nothing—NOTHING—prepared me for those four days.

The dog show itself was great. Penny did well—she made the cut in her group, which means she was considered by the judge, which was all I hoped for in such a big field of dogs from around the country. Penny’s handler had a great few days as well. Her trip climaxed with going Best in Show with a Veteran dog that she had been showing for years.

Everything went sideways for me the first morning when I went to grab some breakfast at the hotel and ran into Penny and Gracie’s breeder.

And I never shook her. Never.

I generally try to limit my exposure to her. She’s a nice enough woman, and I’m sure she means well, but she doesn’t know when to stop talking. Sitting ringside, within earshot of the handlers, judges and owners she kept up a steady commentary about who had a shitty dog, who wasn’t handling their dog well, who was showboating in the ring trying to get the judge’s attention, and on and on.

The deal with dog shows is, you never say anything about anyone’s dog. Period. You don’t criticize handlers or judges. You don’t complain that the judge looked at the wrong end of the leash (ie; chose a well-known handler instead of choosing the right dog). You don’t do any of those things. At least until you’re in the privacy of your motor home or hotel room. Then you can bitch about everyone all you want. Because you had the best dog in the ring and the judge is a moron. In public, you’re polite. You congratulate winners and console losers.

I was mortified. I didn’t want everyone to think I agreed with her commentary. It’s the kiss of death. You get a reputation and judges won’t pick your dog, handlers won’t show your dogs and “fanciers” (as we’re called) don’t want to be around you.

The long and the short of it was, she latched onto me because no one else could deal with her and she thought she found an ally. Why? Because I was too nice. I couldn’t tell her to back the fuck off like other people do. It was my version of Single White Female. So I found myself sneaking in and out of my own hotel room. I feigned exhaustion, went to my room to go to bed, and when I thought the coast was clear, I sneaked out to meet friends. By the second to last day I found myself sobbing uncontrollably in Penny’s handler’s motor home, begging people to keep her away from me.

Good times, yes?

I was so traumatized that I pulled Penny out of shows for the rest of the year and hid in a dark room while rocking myself back and forth and whimpering.

You think I’m exaggerating, don’t you?

I was never going to another dog show again. (I’m pretty sure Bill heard angels sing when I announced not only would I not drag him to shows, I wasn’t going either.)

This past weekend was the Palm Springs Kennel Club dog show, which in this area is the first and one of the biggest dog shows of the year. It’s at a beautiful location and it’s just a really professional competition. I like going but I considered sending Penny along and not going until I found out that her breeder wouldn’t be there.

I actually had a good time. Penny did well enough. On Friday she won her class and was thisclose to winning points. But, alas, always the bridesmaid…

But I think we’re close. The judges are looking at her more now than they were when she was younger. She’s matured and filled out—less gawky pre-teen and more prom queen.

There’s a saying in dog shows that the hardest dog you’ll ever finish (ie; make a champion) is the one that’s most in line with the breed standard.

I’m clinging to that one.

In the meantime, I have a clean dog and we have a pretty ribbon.

Life has been a little overwhelming. I have lists of my lists of projects that I need to tackle. If I stopped to think about everything I have to do, I’d be paralyzed because the reality is, there’s no end in sight.

I have a laptop, an iPhone and and iPad and all of them have calendars and to-do lists, but the thing I rely on the most is an old-fashioned 12-month desk calendar that I get at Barnes and Nobel every year.

It’s not that I don’t trust the electronic devices (and I DO use them)—I just prefer writing things down, crossing them off and flipping back and forth through the months to see what I’ve done and what’s coming up. It’s satisfying. I spend part of yesterday writing in appointments, birthdays and my to-do lists and events for the year.

I also tackled my e-mail in-box, deleting and filing (mostly deleting) over 1,000 old e-mails. I started sorting through drawers and closets and actually parted with 20 pairs of jeans (sadly, that didn’t really even make a dent in my jeans pile). I’ve been tossing old receipts and scraps of paper that have been strangling the top of my dresser and nightstand, finding homes for all the Christmas gifts, and generally tossing anything that doesn’t have (and hasn’t had) a home.

I’ve even made pathetic attempts to get our kitchen cabinets in order. Sadly, that project is going to require a little more fortitude than I have at the moment.

It feels good, but it doesn’t feel like enough. I want it all done now—that’s my style. And my downfall.

I want the house cleaned, the laundry done, the clutter gone, the books organized, my music cataloged, my writing done… You see my problem, right? There’s a part of me that feels like if I don’t get this stuff done I can’t get on with my new year’s resolutions. But I suppose it’s all intertwined, right? If my goals are to be kinder to myself and let go of expectations and negativity, then this is a good place to start.

I have to remind myself that the best thing I can do is get organized and do the best I can.

How are your resolutions coming along?

I know my last post was all about being zen and present and mindful, but that doesn’t change the fact that I’m giddy as hell about the return of Mob Wives tomorrow night!

You can’t watch this extended trailer and tell me you won’t get sucked in.

I was going through my photos trying to organize the chaos into some semblance of order when I came across this one.

This is Gracie at about 2 weeks old. They grow up so fast, don’t they?

Just a couple of weeks old

I didn’t have time this year to take the dogs to get their picture with Santa Paws, so armed with my iPhone, Bill and a fistful of dog treats I tried to get some cute photos of Penny and Gracie with their Santa hats. Clearly, I’m out of my depth.

I don’t normally do New Year’s resolutions.

I think there’s something noble and worthy about setting goals for the new year, and New Year’s resolutions can be powerful motivators in life, but too many people, myself included, blithely make vague proclamations about what they hope to accomplish without really thinking about what that means, what they want out of life, and what it will take to make it all happen.

I feel like it sets up my year for failure.

Lately, though, I’ve been thinking more seriously about the new year and what I’d like to accomplish. Sure, I’d like to eat better, work out more, get organized and save money. Those are all worthy and legitimate goals that I do need to work on. But I’m thinking a little bigger. I’m even thinking a little more spiritual. I’d like to do more than just change some habits. I want to change my life. More specifically, I’d like to change how I live my life.

The word transformation has been rolling around in my head quite a bit, and being the Virgo that I am, I’ve been researching what exactly that means. The best description I’ve come across was in an article I found online that said “Transformation has to do with actualizing potential.”

Working Toward Balance in 2012

When I think about how I’ve spent the last year (and longer if I’m honest), I’m a little disappointed because I’ve wasted a lot of time and energy on the wrong things, energy that could have been used more productively. It would be fair to say that I’ve squandered my potential. I wasted a lot of time bitching about everything that is “wrong” in my life instead of putting that energy into making my life what I want it to be. I’ve been too passive and it’s time to start being an active participant in my life.

I’ve written about setting intentions this year, but I don’t think I really understood what that meant until recently. Now I’m ready to really embrace that concept and take it a step further.

Here are a few of the things I want to work on this year:

Inner Peace

Okay, that was sort of a joke. But not entirely. For me it means I have to find a way to introduce more calm into my life. The stress is killing me, dude.

Creativity

This will actually be a big one for me this year. Whether it’s writing here or elsewhere or finding other creative outlets, there never seems to be enough time or I never have enough energy to sit down and create. But the reality is, there’s never going to be enough time. I’m going to have to make the time.

Live in the Moment

I’m a big dweller. I can worry about things that have or haven’t happened for hours. Meanwhile, life passes by and I’m not further along than I was before. The past is gone and the future hasn’t happened. I have to learn to be present.

Let Go Of Expectations

I can’t change other people; only myself. Control freak that I am, this is a big one for me. This one is more about relinquishing some of the control that I try to exert over everything to no avail.

Let Go Of Negativity

Or at least minimize it. I know, this blog is called The Daily Snark for a reason. But trust me when I tell you that in my daily life I am the Queen of Negativity. I can’t find something negative in just about any situation and it’s just becoming a fucking bummer.

Be Good To Myself

It probably doesn’t seem like it to those around me, but I tend to put myself last a lot. This year is about making sure I get enough sleep, find time to work out, read or even get a massage. I do much better when I have a little time to myself.

Be Grateful

I’m definitely a glass half empty girl. Instead of thinking about what I don’t have (and probably don’t need) I have to remember what I do have—my health, my family and great friends.

Be kinder and gentler to my husband

Last, but not least…

So that’s my preliminary list. I’ll be fleshing out in the coming weeks. I realize my intentions for the new year seem a little, um, lofty? Heady? Arrogant? Believe me—I KNOW. It’s weird to me, too. I’m still working all of this out, though, so bear with me.

We usually deck the halls on Thanksgiving weekend. Bill and I drag my 652 10 Rubbermaid bins out of storage, and hang the lights on the house and set up the tree. During the week as I have the time I decorate the tree and every other available surface, including the dogs.

This year, however, I’m not sure we’re going to decorate much. Last year the lights on the house short-circuited everything any time we turned on more than one light, and we never got that sorted out, so I agreed to forgo the house lights this year. But I don’t even feel like dragging the tree out. It kind of feels blasphemous, too. I, did, however, hang a lit garland over the fireplace yesterday. It’s kind of pathetic. But honestly, I don’t have the energy to deal with it this year. Plus, I’m pretty sure I’m going to have surgery some time this month and the thought of having to take it all down in the midst of my recovery, just doesn’t seem appealing. And I doubt I’ll ever be able to convince Bill to hand wrap in bubble wrap the 100 or so hand-blown glass ornaments I’ve been collecting over the years.

I do have this sad little tree on a bookcase in my office. That counts, right?

Not quite a Charlie Brown Christmas tree, but close.

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 Last night I went to bed at 8:45 p.m. Actually, I was in bed by 7:30 or so and finally turned out the light and fell asleep by 8:45. It felt great! The dogs woke me up at 10:30 p.m. to go out and I felt like I had already slept 8 hours. That’s how hard I snoozed. I could do that every night for a month and not feel caught up on rest.

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And because I’ve got nothing else, here’s a gratuitous shot of Penny napping…

Sleepy baby