My head hurts. Bad. Not fun...it's the kinda hurt where you wanna cry but you know that will make it hurt worse. It's a miserable feeling. Oh well. It could be worse. I could have just found out what douche bags serve as jurors and how they just gave in and are now responsible for the fate of my existance.
My friend Martin Heidgen- whom no one calls Martin except people who don't know him- was just convicted of murder. Wow. That's the first time I let that sink in. Murder. It's such an easy word to say but yet when you put it in association with someone whom you love and care about, it takes on a different meaning.
I met Marty totally by accident. We worked for the same company but in different departments. He was doing random training with different people all of the departments so when some crazy called into customer service and needed a translator, Marty would know the basic principles of insurance claims and reposession. I had not been with the company for very long when I was asked to show him what I do. I see him and he's cute and I smile and become thankful that I have a boyfriend because if I didn't, I would have to flirt a little because dang, I want to hang out with this guy. I show him what we do and some how we begin to talk. He borrows my coconut lotion. Odd, I think, seeing is how he's a guy and this flavor resembles that of a crispy chick fresh out of the tanning salon. Whatever. We chat for a good hour or so and I decide that this kid is pretty cool. He writes down his extention for me and suggests that we do lunch or break sometime. Throughout the next few days I found notes on my desk from him just saying hi. We begin to take breaks together. He'd call me or I'd call him and we'd go downstairs and chat. Not about anything of mucho importance but it was cool. He always ate a banana, or a breakfast burrito with salsa. He never kept his debit card receipts and that bugged me. We did have lunch once a week or so until he moved to NY. He liked the chicken pasta stuff. I was scared of the café food but that entree was actually tasty. Marty always saved me a bite. A few times, more than he'd probably care for me mentioning, he came to my house for a little manscaping. I decided that his eyebrows were crazy out of control and if he would just give me a moment or two, I would have him looking like a million bucks. After weeks of coaxing, he finally agreed. He followed me home one day after work, laid in my lap and let me pluck hair by hair out of his black eyebrows. I'm a little compulsive. I like makeovers and making people feel fresh and pretty. It's a curse I know but it's who I am. I talked Marty into letting me give him a mud mask. We wrapped a towel around his blue Polo shirt and used a headband to hold back his bushy hair and I applied the green goo to his face. He looked ridiculously funny laying in my lap and when a knock appeared at the door, he begged me not to answer it. Knowing that it was probably just my neighbor, I opened the door. He was mortified when she chuckled and managed to get out a 'hi'. We continued our little routine every week or so and I think I enjoyed it as much as Marty did. After his move, we talked every few weeks or so. He was happy, loved his job, making new friends. I was at the lake when I received the phone call from a mutual friend about the accident. I could not breathe. I wanted Marty to be okay and more importantly, I wanted the families of the little girl and of the limo driver to be okay and to not hate my friend. I was mad at Marty. He knew better. He knew not to drink and drive. He knew it was still a new city to him and that he didn't know his way around. He was smarter than that. I couldn't even cry. I sat there just praying and begging God to be with my friend and to comfort the families. And then I was calm. I knew that Marty was doing the exact same thing. I knew he was praying and begging God to forgive him and to comfort the families. I knew he felt horrible and that he felt like an idiot and that he didn't deserve to go on while knowing all the while that two others would not have that chance. That's just who he is.
Writing and receiving letters this whole time has been bittersweet. At first I didn't want to talk too much about what was going on in my life because I didn't want him to miss life or to make him feel bad. Then, my first letter was kinda like a mom scolding a child. He told me to not be sad and to expect nothing more than the same Marty that I've always known. That was kinda unexpected. Letters came about twice a month. Each one was as if we were having normal phone conversations. I cried over everyone thinking of how horrible he must feel but more so about the people that he hurt. I've read some nasty, hating articles and blogs but have held true to my knowledge of who Marty really is. But there has also been some good stuff. The day the jury's decision was read, the fate of my friend, he had just heard the most horrible news and what did he do? He turned, winked and flashed a smile to his mom. That's the real Marty. He's a good man. He made a mistake and I know the he is punishing himself each and every day, more so than anyone else could.

I said goodbye to my sister a week ago. Not goodbye forever, just goodbye for now.
I remember when I left home and moved to Colorado. I recall looking at my room and my bathroom and the kitchen and knowing that the next time I returned, it would be a little different. The thing with Sara moving is that she totally is ready. She's a mom and a wife and she needs to be away from 'home' and build one of her own.
It was very difficult helping her clean and pack and be in the house that I spent a million weekends in, eating, watching movies, dyeing hair, and sitting in my designated blue chair thinking about the guy I was dating and wondering what he was doing.
The first time I went to that house, I was scared to death. It was out in the middle of no where and down a long dirt road. It was very cute and neat, not like a boy lived there at all. It was a few days before my sister was to get married. She had it decorated a little and I remember it all seemed very grown-up. I mean, she was about to be a wife and have a mortgage and I was living in a condo in CO with 3 other girls and going out every Thursday night. The first time she was 'wife' in that house was beautiful. Sara is younger than me and I had always seen her as the little girl that I used to make eat mud or moon dad. It was Christmas time and she had the house decorated very festive in holiday décor. She feel asleep on the couch and I remember looking at her and thinking, 'wow, she's a wife...and that's my little sister'. After I moved back, I spent pretty much every weekend there. It was a ritual to drive to Hot Springs on Friday night and crash with her and Jason. I slept on the couch a billion times. It was always cold in that house, the tempeture not the atmosphere, and it smelled like gardenia.
Being in the house for the last time was bittersweet. I knew that this move would be great for Sara and she actually handled leaving the house better than me. I didn't let it show, but as I was touching up the baseboards with paint, I was crying a little thinking about how someone else would build memories there and I would never be in this house again and it be my little sister's home. As we drove down the bumpy dirt road, I felt peace. I knew that Sara was going home.