Remembering To Forget Katie Keller (To Hell and Back and Better)

A lot of people have been encouraging me to start writing again lately. I miss it. I've wanted to come back for quite some time now.  But the idea of just jumping back into telling the story of my life seems more and more daunting as time passes from the last time I checked in with all of you. I feel like I need to find a way to catch you up to speed before I can resume sharing social, personal, relationship, sexual, and otherwise commentary on my 20sSomething life. I would love to call this a brief summary of where we'd left off.  But I have a feeling there will be nothing brief about it.  I will say that once we get this out of the way I will have a blank canvas to start drawing on again. It's just the last few scribbled-on pages need to be torn away before we can get there.  So here goes: 

So my Dad died.  And everything got real foggy.  It was the most intense, disconnected, real, unreal experience of my life.  I remember some things very vividly.  Like my siblings and I embracing on the front lawn, almost in slow motion, holding each other and crying minutes after he took his last breath.  But the day of the actual funeral is a blur of PBRs in the parking lot, Beatles tunes, and a late-night Sonic run. I stopped writing around then because I didn't have anything to say.  I didn't know what or how to feel, so I certainly didn't know what to write. 

After a few months of floating, surviving the days, things started getting weird.  I was receiving cryptic text messages from an unknown number explaining that my boyfriend was cheating on me.  I don't know if I really believed him, or if I was just too sad about everything else to question him, but I assumed it was just a crazy ex of his and let it go.  Well, my lack of response to these texts was not okay for this unknown person on the other side of this unknown number. So texts turned into phone calls. But like, a psychotic amount of phone calls.  We're talking 60 missed calls in under 10 minutes.

With the situation with this person I didn't even have so much of a name of continued to escalate, my boyfriend and I finally decided to go to the cops.  Over the time that we were filing police reports and getting the ball in motion for a restraining order, she had shown up at my house, my work, had taken video of me inside my work, followed him and I around to numerous events and outings. It was scary and it took most of this happening before all the pieces fell apart and my boyfriend admitted that he had been cheating on me with this woman for the vast majority of our relationship.

I didn't want to give up on the relationship though. I was still hurting from everything else, and I didn't feel like hurting more by ending the relationship or fighting to make it work.  So I just lived in it.  But as time wore on, and the truth revealed itself, I had found some of the things he did were plain disgusting.  He held me with one hand while texting her with the other from my father's funeral to make plans.  And those nights that he was "out with friends" he was taking her on dates.  He even shared with her some of my deepest fears and most intimate secrets that no one outside my immediate circle of people has the right to know.  It just all became too much.  It hurt too much. 

As a result of being punched in the stomach with a bunch of sick realities of what he had been doing to me, I started to evaluate if I'd ever been capable of doing this to someone else.  I couldn't imagine I had, at least not to this degree. I mean, not in the midst of losing a loved one.  But if on any level if I was capable of being so deceitful and going to such lengths to disguise my lies.  The only time that I could really remember back to was my senior year high school boyfriend Ryan.  I had an immediate sinking feeling as I remembered that I did cheat on him, albeit we were 18 years old, I cheated on him, he found out, and shortly after he ended the relationship. (I could have maybe learned a few things from his timeline versus mine).

So I sat down one Friday night and wrote an email. I didn't know if the email would be found.  If it would be read, acknowledged, and I was most certain it wouldn't warrant a response.  I wrote an email to Ryan explaining that I looked back at what I had done to him and that it was completely wrong and that I have learned and grown since then, and that I hoped that at some point along the way he could forgive me.  And if not, just know that I was sorry for what I had done and any pain that I may have caused.  I said I hoped he was finding happiness and his life was going well and I signed off.

About an hour later, to my surprise, he responded.  He said it was long in the past, that all people can do is grow and try to be better each day.  He said he had made his fair-share of mistakes and he'd let go of any anger years ago.  My heart immediately felt lighter.  It was as though knowing my sin was forgiven could make me start to heal the wound of what was done to me.  But not with someone, like Ryan said, who wasn't trying to be better each day.  So I ended my relationship with Jason.

A week later after a long series of emails and text messages, I boldly asked Ryan if he'd like to grab a drink sometime.  We had that drink on Thursday, November 13th.  We went on a few dates after that, and he didn't kiss me until the third time we hung out.  Which made me crazy but led to the greatest kiss of my life.  It wasn't like kissing him back in high school.  It was like kissing someone new, better, but in a familiar place. I'm pretty sure I floated away from his face after that kiss. And he's made me float with every kiss since.

We consider our actual anniversary to be in December, as that's when his roommate at the time awkwardly called us boyfriend and girlfriend and we agreed to it.  But since about November 14th and a 1/2 I knew I had found the one that every sad blog has led me to.  Including this one.  I have a feeling deep in my gut that the just previously told story will be the last sad ending in the romantic life of Katie Keller. Every day with him I am reminded of those first few words he said to me about trying to be a better person every day.  And it's easy to want to be when you are with someone that treats you like you deserve to be the best version of yourself always.

April 27th marked the one year anniversary of my Dad passing.  It's been a whole year.  And in that year I've managed to shake the bad and start actively searching for and loving the good.  Both inside of me and around me in my life. An in just 14 short days Ryan and I will share our first home together with a cat and a dog and a real, uncomplicated, simple, true and faithful love.  And I know without a shadow of a doubt in my mind that my Dad would be elated for me (mainly to have someone else around to do the guy things in my life) but because I am being treated the way he'd always hoped for. And standing on my own two feet proudly all the while.

So here we are, folks.  Death, affairs, police and restraining orders, emails to long-lost boyfriends, first kisses, and first homes. You can't say I haven't been busy.  Or at least, as always, entertaining to watch. It's time to start putting my heart back on paper.  Not for you, but for me.  Because it's finally strong enough for it.

Until next time...

Forgetting Katie Keller

For the last 3 years I have poured my heart and soul into this blog.  I have told every story of triumph and failure as it was happening in my life; with my family, my friends, and my relationships.  I have told things on here that I probably should have kept to myself, and I have exposed parts of my life that were probably better off kept hidden.  I have never minded having these stories to look back on.  If anything being able to go back and look at the struggles I have been through has helped me overcome things later in my life.  I have learned from my broken hearts and have grown exponentially over the past 3 years that I have taken the time to document my life lessons.

I guess the concern I have run into lately is that by having all these parts of my life displayed online, it's as if people think they know me.  Where I have been, what's best for me.  And the fact of the matter is I hardly know myself well enough to know where it is I want to be, should be, need to go.  Those stories, that girl that I used to be, are gone now.  I don't know if time has changed me, tragedy, maybe it was just a long time coming.  But I don't feel like the girl who typed those words down so confidently over the last how many months.  She is a stranger to me now, and I sure as hell don't think any of those stories will define who I am supposed to be today and moving forward. That is just who I was, and what I did.  Not who I am, or where I am going.

I will always love to write.  And the joke of this whole thing is that I only enjoy writing about my life, as it is all I know.  But right now I can't even form words to make sense of my heart and my head to my closest friends, nonetheless make them sound whimsical and inviting to you readers out there. The fact of the matter is I am a bit of a lost soul these days.  I don't know how to fix anything; myself, my relationships, my broken heart.  I do know that it is something I will have to figure out entirely on my own.  I am so consumed with how people perceive me.  Whether I am a good enough friend, girlfriend, daughter, sister, coworker. I need to let myself off the hook for everyone else's perceptions and start living my life in the way that is going to make me the happiest.  Fuck if I know what that is, though.

I will write again.  Somewhere, someday when I have something more to say.  It won't be here though.  I'm not "Forget Katie Keller" anymore. I'm not the girl who wears her sexual prowess as a badge of honor.  I am not the girl that kisses and tells.  I am not the girl who needs every moment of her life validated by a "total blog views" number on a stupid website.  These words have been mine, and they can remain as they once were true.  But I am bowing out from this blog.  From that girl.  And trying desperately to figure out what's next. Life is hard. Getting up everyday not knowing if I will ever be able to figure out what I am, and what I want is exhausting.  I am bruised all over from loss and pain and hurt.  I don't know who I trust and what bridges are meant to remain and which are meant to burn.  I don't know what my story is, therefore there really isn't a reason to keep telling one here.

I have loved sharing the good and the bad with you all.  And I have loved even more the support and encouragement I received from my friends and family that took the time to read all my silly words.  They all seemed so big and important when I was writing them.  And now not much of anything seems big and important.  So I'm off to find something big and important.  Something inside my soul tells me that big and important thing will be me.  And whenever I get there, whenever I find what it is I am here for, what I am meant for, I will come back.  I'll have a different story to tell, about a different girl, that did things differently.

Goodnight, and good luck.

Every Day is Father's Day

I have been lacking motivation lately.  I have fallen into this very comfortable phase of good days and bad days and merely just surviving them and the inconsistency of them. Just getting up, fingers crossed, that that day would be one of the good ones. The ones where I cook dinner for the boyfriend and I, we watch tv and movies together and laugh all night.  The ones where I get to spend time with old friends and remember when times were easier and every day didn't feel like a crap-shoot.  Then there are the other days where you really can't even gauge if you are doing anything right. You are underwhelmed with work, and balancing relationships with 4 family members who's worlds all just got rocked just as hard as yours. And every thought of sadness you feel or anger that creeps in, you question whether is a result of those things being true, or the product of having to say goodbye to the most important man you've ever had in your life.

I don't want to be the writer that used to write about relationships and sex, and now just writes sad things about not having a dad anymore.  But losing him is the underlying theme to every good day and every bad day equally.  When things are good, I know he would be so happy of me finding a way to be happy when my heart is so heavy.  And on the bad days, not only feeling I am failing at the finding happy part, but I don't have him there just to have a bad day with.

I don't want to sit down and write about how much I miss him. How many thoughts in every day are dedicated to remembering his greatest one-liners and some of the more raw moments where he helped me out of dark places - at both young and adult ages.  Sometimes they are stories that make me laugh so hard, and then I just want to tell everyone about them. I just want to talk about my dad all day.  Way more than even the most concerned friend is going to want to hear about.  And then the sad days I don't want to talk about him at all because then I feel like every other feeling of sadness, anger, and disappointment is negated by me still clearly grieving his loss.

I guess what I am trying to say is that I don't know how to be Katie Keller without dad yet. Without David Keller - the smart, funny, honest, very very forgiving man.  And until I know how to be me without him, I don't know how much motivation I can muster up beyond the simplest of getting up and doing it again until I figure out who that person is. I do hope that when I do figure her out, she has a little more perspective, a very strong conscience on her shoulder as a result of her undying need to want him to be proud of her, and that's she's just a little bit stronger so that she can figure out what her next chapters will be about.

I Do's and Don'ts

Someday I am going to get married.  And it will be the greatest day of my life.  I'm not one of those girls that planned out her wedding at the age of 9.  I don't have a scrapbook of flower arrangements, or even an idea of what I would want my dress to look like.   I don't know if I want to get married in the spring, or in the winter, or on a beach, or in an igloo.  I have none of the finer details planned.  But I know it will be the greatest day of my life because it will be the day that I stand in front of every person that matters to me and I will look into the eyes of the person that matters the most.  Because the only thing I've ever truly wanted - more than a career, or a nice car or house - is to fall in love with someone and then grow old with them.  To clasp our wrinkly hands together as we take walks around the mall for exercise.  That person that will help me grow, inspire me to be better, and in the worst case scenario hold my hand after 32 years of marriage as I suffer through a terminal illness.  It will be the greatest day of my life.

The thing is, whether my veil falls perfectly over my face, and my future husband's eyes well up with tears just slightly as I start my ascend down the aisle; it has the potential, at best, to be an almost perfect day.  Because even though I haven't obsessed over what the wedding would be as much as that it just would be, the only thing that's always been there are the parts that have to do with your dad.  Your dad walks you down the aisle.  When the officiant says "Who gives this woman's hand in marriage?" your dad says "Her mother and I do." And then he lifts your veil, and his eyes well up with tears just a little, too.  And then he watches a man promise to love and take care of his daughter for as long as they both shall live.  And then he holds you close for a daddy/daughter dance and tells you how beautiful you look that day.  That's what's supposed to happen at your wedding. At least that's what it is for me.  Or what I would want it to be.  But I am not everyone. And I am never going to judge how someone wants to have the best day of their life.  But it's hard to look around, to not just friends but family and see what hurts almost the most about losing my dad: those moments that I will never get to have.  

When we had the benefit for him just a few weeks back I had really wanted to dance with my dad to Rod Stewart's "Forever Young" as that was the song I always imagined we would dance to at my wedding.  It seemed a bit sappy, and lord knows I don't want to remind the guy any more than he already knows that we aren't going to get that moment together later in life. So with the confidence of an onslaught of old friends and family's love and support, and perhaps a few Corona's, the DJ turned it on and my dad and I danced.  And we talked, and we laughed, and we cried a little.  And the most amazing part is my wonderful friend recorded all four and half minutes of it. So of all those dad moments I am going to miss out on one day at my wedding, after I have the first dance with my husband, I will get to have that dance again with my dad.  I got to have that dance, in a Moose Lodge in Berwyn.  And now I get to share that dance with him again at my wedding.  It will be the greatest day of my life.  But it won't be perfect.

I understand that my reaction to weddings these days is amplified with the loss I am experiencing.  And the fact of the matter is, with no prospects on the horizon for marriage anytime soon, it's not something that should consume my thoughts or cause me this much frustration.  So you strip away the event.  You strip away whether it was done in a court house, or a destination wedding.  Whether there were or will be first dances. Whether it's in front of a hundred people or in front of nobody.  That person that I choose to be with, no matter how we choose do it, will never shake my dad's hand.  And I'll never really know if he likes the guy or just tolerates him because he thinks he makes me happy. That, I promise you, is harder to accept than the thought of any missed photo opportunity at my wedding.  

I guess the point I am trying to make is that when you are going through something traumatic sometimes even just the idea of something can be a fierce reminder of something so much bigger and harder.  At the end of the day, still sans scrapbook, I know my wedding will be the greatest day of my life. I have to change my expectations a bit.  I mean, I've already settled on less than perfect.  But my qualifications for perfect aren't everyone's.  And I really do hope they have the best day of their lives.

It Isn't Always, But Sometimes It Is

I had woken up for work one morning, very very late.  I had been very very late to work all week because I seemed to be losing the ability to sleep at night, and once I finally got myself into bed it became an impossibly daunting task to get myself out of bed the next day.  I didn't want to sleep, I didn't want to wake up.  I didn't want to shower.  I didn't want to get dressed, or go to work. Which, with Thursday marking my 4th day late into work that week, I would say the morning wasn't going well.

I was 19 years old working at a University.  I really liked my job, and my boss was a nice, understanding lady - but I knew I had been slipping and it was noticeable.  I was prepared for some sort of confrontation when I slide the back door of my office building open and settled into my desk.  Lori walked in from the other room and sat down in an open chair near by.  "You're in a little bit late again today, Katie." Her tone was sweet, sounding more of concern than anger. "Is there something going on?"

Silently, and without warning, I started to cry.  I was crying a lot. I knew I had to say something, give some reason that would explain this sudden meltdown in my office at 9:25am.  "My brother just left for the Navy." I sobbed.  It was true.  My brother had come home on leave before getting stationed, much like we all knew he would months before.  Yes, I was very upset my brother was leaving again.  I was sad he wouldn't be around.  But what I wanted to say was "I got pregnant. And the guy that got me pregnant left me. And I don't think I can afford the apartment that I am living in and I am sinking into debt. And I may or may not be drinking too much for a 19 year old girl.  And I think I have to move."  But instead, I sat in my office silently crying.  After about 10 minutes of watching me cry, Lori went in the other room and got on the phone.

I didn't know what she was doing, all I knew was that I had to pull myself back together, turn around and get back to work.  But instead I sat in the same position, facing her empty chair, and cried and cried.  Lori came back into the room shortly after.  She handed me a piece of paper with an address.  It was a mental hospital just down the road. There was a therapist waiting there for me.  I was being sent by the University's HR department to be assessed.  

The next 2 hours are kind of a blur.  I sat down with a women in a basement office of what looked like any other normal hospital building.  She started to ask me what was going on, and I determined that if I was being sent to a mental hospital by request of my employer, it was probably time to start being honest.  I started with the story about Zach leaving, as it seemed to explain some of the sadness.  At least enough to transition into the worst of it.  I ended up explaining everything, which lead to explaining a lot of other things from before that had just never been explained to anyone.  After an hour long chat, I was handed paperwork to be admitted into the psychiatric out-patient program at their hospital.

The out-patient program was designed for people leaving in-patient with more serious problems, while being on the mend.  And with folks that weren't bad enough to warrant checking into The Hotel-Crazy.  After signing my name a dozen times, I was being walked into the back of a building to a small classroom. Inside there was 9 people sitting in a semi-circle talking to a leader.  As it had been explained to me, I was going to come to this classroom everyday from 8am-4pm for group sessions, individual therapy, arts and crafts, and reflection.

Over the next 2 weeks I got to know a mother who recently buried her son, a woman who was admitted for a severe shopping addiction that was threatening to destroy her family, a homeless alcoholic that was transitioning from upstairs, a few older drug addicts that used the program to stay on the straight and narrow, and one other "just depressed" older man.  We spent time sharing stories and learning how to apply cognitive behavioral thinking to the things we've already been through to prepare ourselves for similar situations we'd be faced with.  I met with a handful of doctors.  I was diagnosed as having a "Depressive Personality" and increased chance of addition because of my depression.  I was put on prozac.  I cried a lot.  I sat crossed armed through a lot of classes where people tried to explain to me how I was feeling things when I didn't really believe they could know why or how. 

I didn't stay on the prozac at the end of the two weeks.  I didn't remain friends with any of the people I had spent hours laughing and crying with.  I did from that point recognize the fact that I was going to probably always struggle with depression, and that yes, I was probably drinking too much for a 19 year old girl.  Other than that, I was resolved to just try harder. Try harder to be less sad, and keep it together a little bit better.  It didn't fix me though.

Here I am now, 25 almost 26 years old.  And in the past few months the dark, in-explainable sadness had crept back in just like it so frequently does.  Only this time, that 19 year old girl with a lists of reasons of why the world seems to be falling apart is looking at me telling me this isn't shocking or something you didn't know would happen.  The world is kind of falling apart again.  And I maybe haven't worked out all the kinks from long before as much as I have ignored them or blogged them out of me as best I can.  I am a chemically imbalanced person.  And right now I don't want to do the things I normally like doing.  I don't want to go and hang out with friends at the bar.  I don't want to leave my couch when I don't have to.  I don't want to have sex. I have a hard time falling asleep at night and I'm having a hard time waking up in the mornings.

This is depression.  It isn't always.  But sometimes it is. And there will always be more times.  I am going back to the doctor in a few weeks.  I am ready to stop thinking I can fight this entirely on my own.  I do want to get back into therapy and I do want to relearn and learn the things I can to combat the way my brain seems to process things. Which sometimes is brighter and better than I even know how to feel.  But the other times, the times where it's not, it's scary, and hard to explain to people, and most importantly is it's my least favorite version of myself. 

I don't know if I would have recognized the importance of writing this blog or forcing myself to read these words back if it wasn't for the brilliant writing of Jordan Holmes over the past 2 weeks.  

You can read his blog at www.craptrap.net

You Can't Kill Heroes

2 years ago my dad was diagnosed with stage 4 renal cancer.

Did you hear me?

2 YEARS AGO.

2 years ago I was told to enjoy the holidays that upcoming December and to cherish every moment we had because this is a terminal disease.  I have seen my dad spend 2 more summers golfing, riding his motorcycle, and drinking beers with his friends.  I opened Christmas presents with him 2 times since, took him to see "A Christmas Carol", went with him to get my driver's license, and have shared a million laughs.  And he has stage 4 renal cancer.Of course now he has stage 4 renal cancer in his lungs, blood, spine, liver, brain and 1 remaining kidney.  But it's still a full 2 years later.  

Now, with my personal beliefs, those full 2 years later didn't fall upon us on through an act of god.  They came at a heavy price.  A price of weeks in the ICU for IL2 treatments, to weak-fatigued days and nights with chemo treatments, and to start 2013 with intense radiation treatment.  My dad has fought for every moment to beat this thing, even as it gained momentum over his body.

The past few weeks have been especially hard as all these little medical miracles have finally taken a severe toll on my dad's health.  He is still my dad in every witty, quick, and sarcastic response to the attention and support he is shown through so many friends and family.  But things have gotten a little bleak and as to be expected it's exhausting mentally and physically.  I'm experiencing my own response in ways I never imaged - beyond the sad and worried, but the heartbreaking feeling that someone you love with all of your heart is in pain.  And you just want that pain to go away.

2 Saturdays in a row I have watched the Chicago skyline zoom past me on the way to Northwestern Memorial Hospital.  Both times not knowing if I would leave that hospital with a dad.  I think there is a thing as to being over prepared, and I don't want to tarnish the moments we have together now thinking about what is going to happen when we aren't.  I have to just get up every day and have a dad, and love him and support him until I don't have a dad any more.  And that's a weird and confusing thing.

But here's what's amazing: after fighting like hell, and struggling to keep to his feet in this fight, he met with his oncology team today and started another round of chemo.  It's borderline insane behavior.  But I am humbled and in awe of the strength and will it takes to keep punching through it.  I have known so many men, and I can't think of a single one of them being so badass as to just jump into survival at any means they can find it.  It's brave, crazy, and in a world where he isn't my dad, crazy sexy.

2 years ago my dad was diagnosed with stage 4 renal cancer.  Yesterday night my dad called to tell me his new nurse was George O'Malley.  I am so lucky to have had every moment we weren't supposed to, and I am even luckier to have a dad that will fight for as many more as we can.

Fake Dating 101

When I am in a relationship there is nothing I enjoy more than being home with my man.  My favorite moments are spent cuddled on the couch, watching entire seasons of television shows in one sitting.  I like to cook chicken nuggets and french fries - share spoonfuls of ice cream out of the Ben and Jerry's container.  I don't need to be wined and dined to feel like I am the luckiest girl in the world that has everything.  I feel sexiest in an over-sized t-shirt and a pair of boy-short underwear.  I like dozing off on the couch with someone just as much as I love being completely distracted from the television when hands and mouths start wandering all over.  I like getting up to grab him another beer, I like watching him watch me walk away with no pants on.  Even if I am in torn up shirt with my hair a mess - I know you still love it. 

I don't want to admit that going out or "dating" by societal standards matters to me.  But it has been brought to my attention that maybe the reason I have so little interest in it, is because it is so seldom something I get to do.  A close friend had asked me a few weeks ago if he could take me out on a date.  Not with hopes of redefining our platonic relationship, but strictly for the sake of showing me what a date could be, should be, and how it could leave me feeling.  

I got to put on a fancy dress.  I got to do my hair, and my makeup, and even though he is a friend who knows me incredibly well, and I've spent more time with than most people, I even found myself getting butterflies just minutes before his arrival.  He showed up in nice jeans, a suit-coat, with roses in hand.  He commented on my appearance and with a hand on the small of my back led me out on a real date.  We didn't need to go on a carriage ride through the city, or have a paintball fight set to Semisonic's FNT.  We went to dinner and a movie.  We ordered a bottle of wine.  I ate a burger.  He touched my arm when it was appropriate and laughed at my jokes.  It was nice.  I felt like the prettiest, most adored girl in the room.  And there were other people in the room to draw that contrast against.

HSF has been in my life for like, 103 years now.  Would you even believe that in all the time I have known him, all of the countless hours we have spent together, only once have we ever gone outside of my house.  ONE TIME.  And it was for ONE DRINK at the closest bar within driving distance.  Jason was no better - we went out once a week, every Thursday to the local bar-trivia he attended anyways.  And quite frankly the entire evening was spent with him resenting me for knowing answers to questions or wearing a low cut shirt in public.  These weren't dates, I didn't get to dress up for them or feel like they wanted to show me off, or even what the very essence of what dating should be, which is trying to win over the attention and desire of the woman you want to love you back.

I'm not under the impression that men are solely responsible for maintaining romance, or for putting in the effort.  Lord knows more than anything I love doing little things for the men in my life as a reminder that they matter more to me than anyone else.  I recently purchased a Christmas present for a special guy in my life, and I can honestly say the satisfaction and joy of getting him that gift over-shadows even the greatest feelings from the greatest dates. But just because a girl is content with, more than content with - elated with, spending their days with you on the couch doesn't mean we don't need that reminder that we are worth wooing and fighting for.  And I think girls need to be reminded of that whether you've been dating 2 weeks, or married for 50 years.

I'm so quick to jump to that point in the relationship spent makeup-less and in pajamas, that I let guys off the hook for having to "real" date me right out the gate.  Who am I to expect, months later, them to have some desire to take me out or want to make me feel those things that get lost in Mad Men marathons and grilled cheese sandwiches. I guess I just wish that being that girl that would rather be low-maintenance and remove the pressure of romantic "dating" would more likely be the one that deserves to feel insanely loved and sometimes in the way of a $20 dinner for 2 at Chilis.  And I'm having a hard time convincing myself that that's too much to ask.