These past two weeks have been absolutely nuts.

My city filled with flood waters, and everyone is still getting back on their feet. And we have a ways to come before things are back to normal.

My adopted state is facing disaster because of the oil spill. (And one of the eleven who died in the explosion? Was one of my sorority sister’s husbands. Sad face.)

And, last Thursday, my grandmother, Bugga, passed away.

She was really sick, and previously that week, she had slipped into a coma. We all knew this. And yet, knowing did not stop the tears when my mom called and said, “Bugga is gone. We were out of the room and when we came back, she was gone.”

I broke down.

I was at work when I received the call, and luckily, my boss was wonderful when I told him the news, sending me home and telling me to take as much time as I needed.

After frantically finding airplane tickets and packing our bags, the boy and I landed in Pittsburgh that night.

The weekend was a blur: the visitation was Friday afternoon (into the evening), the funeral was Saturday morning and we hosted everyone at Bugga’s house after the funeral for food and company.

During these events, I met friends of my grandmother’s. I met distant family members for the first time, including my grandfather’s cousin. I spent time with friends of the family who I had heard about throughout the years, but never had the chance to meet.

One of Bugga’s friends, Dorothy, was telling me goodbye when she saw my smile for the first time.

“Oh my goodness! You have her smile. Exactly her smile!”

My smile widened.

“All of you girls have a part of her in you. You know that, right?”

I nodded, said, “Thank you,” and then gave her a hug.

Dorothy’s words ring true.

My Bugga may be gone from Earth, but she lives on in her daughters and granddaughters: through our smiles, through our eyes, through our sense of humor or the way we view the world. She lives in us because, not only do we look like her (or parts of her, in my case), but we all carry her memory and the invaluable experiences we shared with her.

So whenever I feel sad about not being able to give my Bugga a call, I remember this. And, from this day forward, I will always light up whenever I see my reflection because I know my smile is the same as hers.

                          

A week ago, I moved away from my little Mississippi town and into a fancy schmancy condo in a booming Tennessee metropolis.

While I may have been a bit snippy while (re)organizing the kitchen, things at the new place are finally coming together, thanks to the boy and my mother.

I couldn’t be happier that I am finally where I need to be and that things are somewhat coming together.

My boy finished his exams last Wednesday, and I wanted to fix him a nice final dinner of the semester Tuesday night. The dinner, itself, was delicious. The preparations leading up to the meal? A minor disaster.

I don’t know what happened, but something fell beneath the burner of the smashed potato pan, and, umm, the entire thing basically caught on fire. Like, flames were coming out of the burner. We quickly moved the pot (and the potatoes weren’t scalded, thank goodness!), but it took a while for the flames to go down. And all our fire alarms were going off.

Luckily, the dinner was tasty, and we chose to put the potential kitchen fire behind us, never to speak of it again. (Or so we thought.)

On Friday, we came back to my hometown, and things have been going splendidly here. The boy has left for his home, and I’m spending time here until after Christmas. My mother and I have shopped ’till our hearts content.

And firewood was delivered to our house yesterday afternoon.

(I know y’all can see where this is going.)

Today, I was deadset on having a fire in our fireplace. Something to warm up the chilly family room on a cold winter night. Something to make us both smile after a long day of shopping. Something that would feel Christmas-y.

My mother and I tinkered with the flue and came to the conclusion that it had been open ever since we bought this house. (Hint: We were wrong.) I carried in a few pieces of firewood, tossed in some crinkled up newspapers and lit the fire.

And smoke immediately started pouring out of the fireplace into the house. And since it’s a two-sided fireplace, smoke was pouring into two different rooms.

Both smoke alarms were screaming by the time I could get the smoke under control. All the fans were turned on to high-speed and the doors were opened. And my mascara is still blotched because of my eyes watering as the house was filled with smog.

The house cleared out in about thirty minutes, and when we spoke to my sister, my mother revealed that I almost burned down her house.

Correction: I almost smoke damaged the front portion of the house. Nothing was in danger of actually being burned.

The good news? We figured out the flue, and there is now a roaring fire in the fireplace without our home being filled with soot.

The bad news? The entire home still smells faintly like a fire. (And probably will for the next few days.)

…

So, between this and the semi-kitchen fire this past week, my boy came to the conclusion that I shouldn’t be allowed around any more open flames this holiday season. Something (else) bad could happen.

Agreed.

What is one of the craziest things that has happened to you during the holidays this year?

                          

I was taking Lucy for a walk when I decided to call my grandmother Tuesday afternoon. I like bringing my cell on our miles-long walks through the new neighborhood because it’s at least an hour to catch up with old friends and family.

I was in for a surprise when my aunt answered the phone.

My grandmother, who had been admitted to the hospital a few days earlier for a virus, had gone into emergency surgery that morning to remove an obstruction from her intestines. It turned out to be a cancerous tumor, and her long-time doctor didn’t think she would wake up from the invasive surgery. She is, after all, 90.

I cried myself to sleep that night, worrying that this was it.

She woke up Wednesday. She’s been awake daily since then and is her old self most of the time. But the cancer has spread, and the doctors have not figured out/told us to where.

I am confident, though, that whenever we find this news, we will bind together and fight together along with my grandmother. If there is anyone who can defeat cancer at her age, it’s her. She’s a tough old lady, a fighter, and she won’t give up easily. Neither will we.

But for now, this waiting is nervewracking, and the entire experience has got me thinking about my own life.

Life is too short.

Life is too short not to keep in touch. Life is too short not to travel to visit friends and family. Life is too short not to say, “I love you.” Life is too short to settle.

Life is too short to be miserable.

Life is too short to NOT do what your heart desires.

And my heart? Desires something different.

I’m mapping out my plan for the next few months, and I am so excited about this impending change. It’s getting me through these long days and nights waiting. It’s getting me through the tough truths I have to face. And it’s pushing me to where I need to be.

William Jam once said, “To change one’s life: Start immediately. Do it flamboyantly. No exceptions.”

My plan is in motion. I have started the change, though I am still working on the flamboyant part of it. And I am so excited.

So, friends? If you want a change, come on and start this journey with me. Because we all deserve better than what we have right now if we aren’t truly happy.

And life is too short not to be truly happy.

                          

I received a surprise text message from my ex last night.

Drinking wine out of the Loretta Lynn coffee mug you and Liz brought me. Somehow, I feel you would approve.

It surprised me simply because he and I don’t really speak anymore. Sure, we’ve had GChat conversations in passing, but we haven’t seen each other or spoken on the phone in at least two-ish years.

It put a smile on my face, remembering those days, and I told him so. It also inspired me to have a glass of wine.

And he responded with:

And ‘Cento anni di salute e felicita’ to you, too.

An Italian blessing. Basically meaning 100 years of health and happiness to you.

And that was it.

(So those of you fearing a he-said-she-said back and forth post between my ex and me? Sorry to disappoint. It wouldn’t be too terribly interesting if it did happen, though, and it would probably end with me pulling out some of my hair and calling my boy to let him know how much I love him and how perfect he is for me.)

It got me thinking, though. Since I’ve had so much time away from him and the situation that surrounded our breakup, I’ve moved forward.

It feels nice.

So poured myself a glass of wine and turned on my iPod. A certain song started playing, and I was a junior in college again.

When I was a junior in college, I started work at the student newspaper. I was naive, and as a new photographer, I got the crappiest shifts. Monday nights. Friday afternoon and Friday nights.

I was in an unfortunate position because by the time I finished my afternoon shift Friday, I had to walk back to my car in the dark. I wasn’t a fan of that, but what was I going to do?

One of the copy editors/designers felt sorry for me as the semester wore on, and it became a thing for him to drive me to my car. (Nevermind that I had a HUGE crush on him, as only an innocent, newbie photog could.)

It was in his car that I first heard the opening chords to “Marching Bands of Manhattan.”

It was a brisk fall afternoon, and the sun was setting over the stadium, and we breezed through campus on the way to my car. I hadn’t ever listened to Death Cab before, but I fell in love in a matter of moments.

The next week, my editor burned the CD for me. We listened to it in the newsroom. A LOT.

The editor-in-chief, Scott, turned to me one day as I was editing images and listening to Death Cab and stated, “This is our song.” So whenever I hear “Brothers on a Hotel Bed,” I think of him. In fact, I still send him a text whenever I hear the song, four years later.

That fall semester was filled with a lot of firsts. I discovered photojournalism. I made quite a few friends from different groups. I had a MAJOR crush on a guy who wasn’t good for me. (It should be noted that he was the first of many.) I discovered alcohol, more than just in passing. And I met my ex, even though he and I didn’t get together until the following spring.

His text last night jolted me, but not in a bad way. It took me back to a time of innocence. Of learning. Of passion. Of liking someone so much your cheeks hurt from smiling. Of liking that person so much that you might (maybe) consider kissing them. (And then not.) Of falling in love with music over and over again as one CD spun ’round and ’round.

For whatever reason, the entire CD reminds me of autumn. Plans struck a chord with me four years ago, and the only time I listen to the album is during the fall. The opening ballad, “Marching Bands of Manhattan” takes me back to a crisp morning walk to an early morning class. I remember driving around and holding onto every word of “I Will Follow You into the Dark,” hoping one day, I would find a love like that.

I never realized how important “Different Names for the Same Thing” would become a year later, after my time in Italy. I loved it more when I knew what it was like. I also never realized how “Your Heart is an Empty Room, “Someday You Will Be Loved,” and “What Sarah Said” would effect me a year later.

I took the album off repeat when the days got even shorter and January rolled around. I had other mixes playing in the spring and summer. I had almost forgotten, but then the fall showed up, and the beautiful weather reminded me of an album I fell in love with the previous year.

That fall, the ex and I had our messy, drawn-out and public breakup. I took comfort in a lot of the songs on Transatlanticism, but as the days got shorter and the temperatures dropped, I found Plans in my CD player. Again. But for different reasons.

The fall of 2006 was a time of loss. Sure, my ex and I had broken up, but the biggest blow came when I learned one my grandmother, who had ovarian cancer, had taken a turn for the worse and was placed in hospice. That 5.5 hour ride home was hell, and I spent most of the drive frantically calling family members, friends or anyone else who would talk to me. I also listened to music, and “What Sarah Said” took on a new meaning. I had always loved the song, but it became personal as I sped home to hold my Memother’s hand and to spend some time with her as the cancer worsened.

I took solace in Ben Gibbard’s lyrics. Every plan IS a tiny prayer to Father Time. And whenever I hear the opening lines to that ballad, I tear up a little because it takes me back to those moments.

In the fall of 2007, it played as I started dating my boy. In the fall of 2008, it was the background music as I worked night shifts and day shifts and everything in between at my new job.

This album got me through so many bests and worsts, and the weather has finally cooled down enough (at night and in the early mornings, at least) to start playing it on repeat. And I wonder what new significance it will take on as this autumn slowly takes hold in the South.

Only time will tell, friends.

                          

A few weeks ago, my boy accompanied my mother and me to a wedding in my hometown. Two of my old church friends were getting married, and I played my violin in the wedding. After the ceremony, we all headed over to the reception site after I played photographer with my friends, and we boogied the night away.

I didn’t think much about it other than it was a fantastic time, and I was so thankful my boy could come with us.

My mother called earlier this week with a scoop for me. I listened carefully as she explained the story to me.

She had gone to dinner with one of her friends — a church friend who also had been at the wedding with us — and they were talking about her daughter’s boyfriend. This friend and her husband don’t like this guy, and she offhandedly made the statement that she wanted an “E.P.’s boy” for her daughter.

My mother was curious and asked for a little more detail on this.

The following is the response she got:

“You should have seen the way he looked at E.P. when she walked up after the ceremony with her violin in hand. That’s the way a girl is supposed to be looked at!”

And with one look, my boyfriend earned the approval of quite a few old church and family friends.

Score one for cuteness!

                          

Last Thursday, I awoke from one of the strangest dreams I had in a while.

(For the record, I totally blame this dream on me re-reading the second Southern Vampire series book in celebration of True Blood’s new season, and then waking up to think aboutcutlines and how ones from the previous day could potentially be incorrect because of twins.)

I was playing baseball with some players on a local team. And Miley Cyrus. (Y’all know I am NOT a baseball fan, or really a Miley fan, either.) It was cloudy outside, and I was happily playing first base. It was just like the good ‘ol days, minus the fancy pants baseball players who actually knew what they were doing.

The sun started to peek its way out from the clouds, and I was grabbed by two players and dragged into a shed. There, they explained I was now a vampire, and I couldn’t go out in the sunshine. I had questions about what happened, and they had no clue, but they were vampires as well, and we had to stay in the shed until the sun went back behind the clouds or it was night. They also mentioned thatMiley was also a vampire. She didn’t come into the shed, and we heard her screaming from the field minutes later.

So what did these two guys and I do? Get your minds out of the gutter, folks. We chatted. About life, about my fear of baseballs, about everything. Then, one of them looked me in the eye and told me I needed to get laid. Umm, what?! I shrugged it off awkwardly and asked about my boy. They didn’t have any information, so I decided to brave the elements to find him.

The last scene of my dream was one of the guys saying, “No, E.P!” and then I woke up.

What’s up with that, folks?

As someone who lives by herself in a small town, I read a lot of books and watch a lot of television. Are they influencing me too much? Should I take a break or really stop and think about what I’m reading before I do?

I started thinking about it, though, and I have always somewhat applied the television I watch to my life. Or found weird comparisons. Or something along those lines.

Prepare yourselves, folks. This post is about to prove my geekiness and could potentially be TMI. (But not in a bad way.)

Dawson’s Creek
Apparently, I’m the Joey of the photo staff. That awkwardness was compounded when Pacey declared his feelings for me. And, a little less than a year later, it’s still horribly uncomfortable.

Roswell
Since my town didn’t have The WB, I had to wait until Dawson’s Creek showed at midnight on ABC. I had stayed up late and stumbled upon this show after DC. The first thing I realized was two of the main characters shared a last name with me and my crush. Was that a sign? No way, but apparently, he wants to date me now. Ten years later…

The O.C.
I was in college, and I would happily admit that I loved Seth Cohen. Boys like Seth didn’t exist at my school (or I just didn’t ever meet them.) However, I found the perfect studious, funny and handsome guy at the student newspaper, and I haven’t looked back, despite the fact that he will not listen to indie rock with me.C’est la vie.

Weeds
I once had a roommate who smoked a lot. He introduced me to the show. My allergies couldn’t deal with all the fumes, so I moved, and he still dislikes me to this day. I also want Mary Louise Parker’s hair. But other than that, that’s it. No other comparisons here.

Greek
I was a member of a Greek organization in college. I never hung out with fraternity guys because they were bad news. But I love this show, despite the fact that it’s either dead-on or horribly incorrect about everything in the Greek system. I’m a fan ofCappie and Casey, and I even got my mother addicted to this show. She asked me if the characters reminded me of people I knew in college, and I had to admit that they do, even after she pointed out that my boy’s fraternity was probably more like Evan’s than it wasCappie’s. That is OK, because the only guy who was anything like Cappie (carefree, fun, a party animal) in my own life? He turned out to be an asshole. And no one wants to associate with those.

So there you have it, folks. Are you completely freaked out by my nerdiness? Are you thinking I have entirely too much time on my hands? (You might be correct on this one, especially today since it is my Saturday.)

And, lastly, am I the only person who draws comparisons from television to their own life? … Please tell me I’m not.

                          

You'll never guess which one I am. (Hint: It was 1989, my bathing suit is awesome, and I had a bowl cut.)

Dad,

I know we’ve had some rocky times since high school, but despite that, you have always cheered me on, no matter what I was doing.

You’re the guy who taught me how to play basketball and coached my team for years before I went on to play junior and high school basketball. You bought me my first guitar, and, unbeknownst to me, sat outside my bedroom and listened to me play and sing for hours. You taught me the technical terms of multiple plants before I could read, and I would impress other adults talking about the landscaping. And you sat through hours of violin concerts and filmed them to document LL’s and my progress.

You supported (and financed) my painting habit through high school and shifted over to photography when I was in college. You even picked up your camera again, and I love the geeky conversations we share about apertures, different lenses and photography, in general.

I always know you are looking at my work, even if you don’t say so. You always ask about my day whenever we talk and listen through all the useless information I tell you. And you even told me my senior pictures looked good. (For the record, we both know that was a lie.)

Know that I’m thinking of you today and the memories we have shared together over the years. I wish I could have been in Memphis today to hang out.

Much love,
E.P. (and your grandpup)

                          

… Reverend Green be glad to see you when you haven’t got a prayer.
But boy you’ve got a prayer in Memphis.

The boy and I spent this past weekend in my hometown, which is a place where everyone has a prayer, according to Marc. Either way, we had a fabulous time, and I wish we could go back already.

We didn’t hit the usual haunts I visit whenever I go home, but it was just as wonderful.

Friday night, we spent with my father, enjoying conversation and drinks over a fine dinner and an ice cream treat afterward. Saturday, we lounged around the house, went to see Slumdog Millionaire then went to a fantastic pizza place (that’s BYOB!) with my mother. I may or may not have been a little tipsy off the cheap red wine we brought to dinner by the time we left. Sunday, the boy left after church and lunch, and I spent most of that evening at my dad’s home.

My mother and I went to Riverside Nails to get pedis and manis (the ultimate relaxation thing for us), gorged on BBQ for lunch and explored the new Target that opened literally one mile from her home before I hopped in the car and headed back to Mississippi with Lucy.

All in all, it was a good weekend. Something about being home is relaxing, no matter how dramatic my family can be, and I hope we can make our way back that direction in the near future. I’d forgotten how much fun it is to spend time together with my parents.