Guest Posts

As I’m away in Asheville, celebrating my 2-year wedding anniversary with Husband, Amy from Just a Titch has offered to guest blog. Enjoy her story of a trip to her boyfriend’s childhood home and how she fell in love with a different part of him.  

I’d visited my boyfriend Andrew’s family home before, when Illinois was blanketed in snow and Lake Springfield, where his home rested on the banks, was iced over and frozen. It was a lovely first visit, despite my crippling nervousness and aversion to snow and the odd bits of settling into someone else’s family. Once we’d gotten comfortable, one phrase was repeated over and over: “You’ll have to come back in the summer—summer here is magical.”

And so, we packed our bags for three weeks, and headed back to Springfield to spend time with Andrew’s family, soak in the lake and to let me get to know the people Andrew loved best. We arrived late one sticky evening, and immediately went to sit out on the deck of their sprawling house, overlooking the lake. I heard the buzz of bugs and felt the cool breezes coming in off the lake.

For the next three weeks, I lived in summer culture. I woke early, enjoyed fruit on the deck for breakfast and piping hot coffee with fresh cream. We explored the city, taking in Abraham Lincoln exhibits and old funky buildings. I spent days at a time in my bathing suit, sitting on a foam noodle or swinging willy-nilly on an inflated tube behind a ski boat. I read books I’d put off for months in the sun. I was spoiled by Andrew’s mom’s amazing cooking: roasted corn on the cob and barbecue. There was a night at a bar with an amazing band where I laughed and met Andrew’s friends and got to know his city.

It was the highlight of my summer. The highlight of many summers.

And the highlight of it all was the fact that I fell deeper in love with Andrew. Sure, I knew him as he was with me: an Illinois transplant from California, a poker player, my boyfriend. But I got to know him so much better. I saw him as a son, as a big brother, as a childhood friend, as a little boy, sleeping in the bed where he’d dreamed so many big dreams and grown and changed.

I fell in love with lightening bugs and lake water and most importantly, with my relationship all over again.

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I know it has been a while since I’ve blogged … and it’s going to be a little while longer. I decided to take an unannounced break from the internet during the holidays. However, when I return, I’ll come back with a new blog design, and I have a few ideas for the blog.

Today, though–today is not my day. Today, I’m allowing Brandy some space on my blog. Because blogging is all about community. If you feel so inclined, copy & paste this to your blog.

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My name is brandy. And I have a blog.

And a plea.

I use my blog to showcase the crazy I meet everyday, share the stories of the kids I teach and document my love for tequila, dairy products and the abdominal muscles of Ryan Reynolds. Rarely do I talk about personal issues on my blog- as personal as the dude that I adore (who I actually met through my blog- single ladies, let that be a very good reason to blog, the possibility of meeting someone as wonderful as my man), but I need your help. And it involves my dude.

He’s a guy who made math comics for my class, so they would love learning about addition. He’s the kinda guy who sends my friends gift cards when they are having hard times, who remembers every story I ever told him, who was the first person I celebrated with when I got a teaching job. He’s the guy who sent flowers to me at school- dozens of my favourite pink roses just because he loves me. He’s a guy who has spent a year patiently explaining (and re-explaining) everything there is to know about football during the important games when silence is preferred. He’s made me word puzzles and comics and stayed up late playing Scrabble with me (even though I beat him almost every time). He’s listened to me cry about school and family and jobs. He is everything I never knew I needed and everything I always knew I wanted.

The holidays have hit us hard. He’s recently been told he may have something called multiple myeloma- an incurable cancer, that gives a person an average of five years of continued life. Though this news has came as a shock, he continues to be exactly who has always been- spending his time worrying about me, rather than worrying about himself. He’s the most selfless individual I know- (he stayed late on Christmas Eve to work, so his co-workers could leave early) and a post like this would never be something that he would promote or encourage but when I’m overwhelmed and feeling helpless, the blogging community has always given me tremendous support and comfort, two things I desperately need at this time.

As I write this, the future is uncertain and we aren’t sure what’s happening. He’ll need to see an oncologist soon, to verify what’s going on in his body. My hope is that everyone who reads this think positive thoughts and if you are a person who prays, could you add him to your list? (You can refer to him as ‘brandy’s hot awesome dude’). If you don’t pray, please keep him in your heart. This cancer is only a possibility and I believe that the prayers and positive thoughts of people can make sure it never becomes a reality.

I want to give a big thank you to the blog owner who scraped their original blog plans and graciously put this up. My goal is to get as many people as possible to see and read this post. If you are reading this and want to help, copy and paste my plea into your blog or send a link through twitter, so more people can keep him in their thoughts. I would be so very grateful (even more grateful than I am to my friend who first showed me the picture of Ryan Reynolds on the cover of Entertainment Weekly. If you haven’t seen it, google it. You. Are. Welcome).

I realize this all sounds dramatic, a Lifetime movie in the making- but this is life. Right now. And I’m throwing away any hint of ego and am humbly asking for you to pray or think kind thoughts. If you are able to pass this on, thank you and if you know anything regarding MM- please email me (my email is on my blog). This isn’t a call for sympathy or a plea for pity. It’s just one girl hoping you can think positive thoughts for the person she adores. If my current heartache provides you with anything, let it be with the reminder that life is short, love is unbending and no one knows what could happen next. Maybe it is silly, but I really do believe that positive thoughts can make a huge difference. Thank you for reading this and if you haven’t already? Please tell someone you love them today.

I did.

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Hey, everyone. I’m over at Lauren’s blog today for the 20sb Blog Swap! (Sorry for the boring post over there, but I have an extreme case of writer’s block.) So, she’s blogging here today. It’s about her accent! I used to live in Florida, so I completely understand. When I moved here to Tennessee, people made fun of my “accent” — even though they all had one, too! Enjoy Lauren’s post.

Hi! I’m Lauren and I blog over at www.halfdesertedstreets.com. When doing blog swaps I like to learn a little bit about the person before writing for their blog. While doing this, I learned that Megan was from a little state called Florida, where I currently reside. I haven’t always lived here, though.

I lived in a small city on Long Island for 12 years of my life. Every summer we’d vacation in the exotic state of Pennsylvania, going to both Dutch Wonderland and Hershey Park, and that was pretty much all I knew. One summer we drove down to Florida to visit my elderly Jewish grandparents. Of course they lived down south; it’s almost natural to be sucked there when you’re over 50 and knitting matzo holders. One thing that really struck me when there was the accents. We ate a Cracker Barrel and I was intrigued by the slow, drawn out drawl. I was “Laaaaren,” not “LAWren.” It was “ya’ll” not “you guys.” I felt so foreign. And I hated how they pronounced my name.

Back at home, I told my classmates about the accents and we all imitated them during lunch. Sounding like cowboys and Southern Belles, we ordered our mushed meat and potatoes in the school cafeteria. Later that year I learned that our vacation to Florida wasn’t, in fact, just a vacation. It was a trial. We were to move there that upcoming summer.

I didn’t have a reaction, really. As a shy 12 year old, I had a handful of good friends, but that was it. Part of me was sad to leave them, but the other part was excited for something different, something new.

During my first day of 9th grade, I tried to blend in, not wanting to stand out too much. I sat in the middle of the classroom, avoiding the back with the cool kids and the front with the geeks. I ordered what everyone else ordered at lunch and sat silently by a group of kids, but not necessarily with them.

It was during History class that I realized how out of place I really was. After discussing that we’d start the year off by learning (once again) about the Revolutionary War, the teacher asked for important events that happened around that time period. Raising my hand timidly, I answered “The Boston Tea Party?”

Everyone laughed.

Red faced and horrified, I sat silently wishing I would disappear. Behind me, a boy I later learned was named Justin asked for me to say it again.

“Say what?” I questioned.
“The answer!”
“The Boston Tea Party?”
“BAHAHAHA. BAWWWSTON!”

It was then that I realized that I, too, had an accent. Being the deluded 12 year old I was, I thought that I was normal and everyone else was different. Needless to say, I monitored everything I said for the rest of the year. No “coffees” or “dogs” or “mall.”

It’s been 13 years and I’ve mostly lost my accent. When around others from NY, or when back up in the state, it comes back, full and strong. I don’t get mocked anymore for over pronouncing words in a clunky dialect. However, I still hate when people call me “Laren.” It’s just not right.

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