It's an IM epidemic.

My eight-year-old sister Lyndsey just got Instant Messenger. I remember the day I got Instant Messenger. I was 13 and I think Al Gore had just invented the Internet. I remember my dad leaning over me, trying to help me come up with a screenname. For about 2 hours, I think I was x mikie217 x, which was in deference to my favorite basketball player, Michael Jordan, and my birthday. I'm not sure what the x's were for, as they were Dad's addition, but I think it's probably good I didn't stick with that because it kind of sounds like a porn star's e-mail address.

But I digress.

I talked to Lyndsey for the first time on IM yesterday, and this is how it went --

On losing a tooth --
Lynds: I pulled my tooth out and it wasn't ready yet.
Lynds: hahahahaha
Lynds: that funny
Me: Oh no! Which one?
Lynds: doyou know the one by my right big one
Lynds: you get it
Lynds: or not

Only an eight-year-old can find that so hysterical. Or attempt to accurately describe the location of her missing tooth by saying 'by my right big one.'

Talking about my dad --
Lynds: he slipped on the ice
Lynds: i thought he was heart

Heart. Not hurt - HEART. This is adorable and melts my HURT.

On finally getting a screen name --
Lynds: i told myranda about this instant messenger
Me: you did? uh oh
Me: you two will be on talking to each other all the time!
Lynds: ya
Lynds: i hope
Lynds: really do
Me: it's fun, isn't it?
Lynds: ya so fun espshley that sometimes i inoie amy
Lynds: i'v got to go
Lynds: i have to go to bed
Lynds: bye\

'I told Myranda about this here new-fangled instant messenger contraption. And I'll be talking to her all the time - I hope. I really do! Hope, that is!' And how adorable are "espshley" (note the similiarity to my name) and "inoie"? I don't think I've ever had a longer "AWWW" in my entire life. I think it's important to make an editor's note here by saying that in no way do I condone or promote errant spelling. The only time it is ever acceptable is if you meet every single one of these criterion - You must be 8 years old. You must be my sister. You must look like Cindy Loo-Who. You must have straight golden brown hair with a hidden mop of unruly curls in the back underneath it all. When you come down to breakfast in the morning, my father must ask you how your midnight motorcycle ride was - because your hair is just that crazy. Speaking of my father, he also must sing 'Leroy Brown' to you, making pointed reference to the line 'meaner than a junkyard dog', because sometimes you seem like it. You're a tomboy and I'm pretty sure you could rival a few junkyard dogs, but you also give the best hugs in the world, and you DO further distance yourself from rabid Dobermans by that Cindy Crawford-style freckle right by your button nose.

If you meet this criteria (EVERY. SINGLE. ONE.), by all means - misspell away. I will love you. I suppose I will even love you if you have blond hair instead, but still fit under the 'meaner than a junkyard dog' category, and are a little shorter and a lot sassier - and even if you do scrawl "Lyndsey is a poop stain" on the front of your Olive Garden menu with a green crayon. It will be a lot harder and I may have to squeeze my eyes shut and count to ten backwards in Spanish, but I'll still love you. Or at least let you ride home with us - even if it is in the trunk.

In other news, my older brother, Brian, called me on my way back to school Sunday, to wish me a happy birthday. My state trooper brother said that he was on patrol on Friday night when he pulled someone over. As he was sitting in his car writing them a warning, he happened to glance at the clock to see it was midnight - my birthday! He continued writing the ticket and when he had finished the address, he looked up and realized that because he was thinking of me, he had accidentally written my name in place of the offender's. This, of course, begs the question of what the warning was for in the first place. "Speeding," he said. "That's entirely plausible," I replied.

'I think I'm going to throw up.'

I am officially 21 years old. As my sister Amy said to me with big eyes on Friday night, "Ashley, this is your last birthday that you actually have something to look forward to!" I took this remark quite seriously. And then I said, "Actually, I'm quite looking forward to turning 25 so that I will be allowed to use a rental car - and come on! Who isn't excited to be 55 so they can get senior citizen discounts?" I think I won that argument, although I'm sure my dad would gladly hand over his AARP membership.

I got to go home this weekend for the first time this semester! As soon as I walked through the door, I was pounced on by the resident darlings, who proudly showed me a sign they made that was hanging on the kitchen doorway - "Happy birthday, Ashley! We missed you!" Exhibit 1298739 of why I am obsessed with my family. My parents were out to dinner so to really get the party started, I decided that Sandra Marie should come in out of the cold. She was shivering on the back step, which was probably just to make us feel guilty, since she could have EASILY gone into the garage and laid down on her green flip chair. My mom is very anti-pets in the house (although God knows Lyndsey and Lexie have made various attempts to warm her up to it), but hey, I was the birthday girl and I had been gone a long time! When my mom and dad walked through the door, my mom eyes got big and she said, "ASHLEY!" and then she saw the blond mass wagging her tail excitedly behind me, and my moms's smile drooped a little and she said, "And.... Sandy."

My family - sans Kevin, who was at a friend's house - went out to dinner at the Olive Garden on Saturday. As we were waiting for a table, I warned my parents that they were NOT to mention my birthday, and they agreed. When we were seated, our waitress took one look at Lyndsey's 1980s not-retro-in-a-cool-way red velvet dress and cooed, "So what's the special occasion?" And my mom replied, "We're not allowed to say." Which, of course, gave Scott liberty to announce that it was my 21st birthday. Fabulous. As she walked away with this newfound knowledge, I made my parents swear not to give her a tip if all the waiters sang to me.

Dinner progressed relatively smoothly. We had gotten near the end of the meal when Lexie - two breadsticks, an entire cheese pizza, and some of Julie's spaghetti later - announced that she thought she was going to throw up. We all groaned loudly, as this is never a good sign. Then, with our jaws slightly agape, we watched as this 50-pound child proceeded to wiggle another breadstick out of the basket, dunk it in her spaghetti sauce, and take a huge bite. "Alexis," I said, patronizingly. "You just said you were going to throw up. Why are you still eating?" She took another big bite and smiled. "'Cause Mom always gives me Sprite when I'm sick!" My parents gave each other a Look.

A few minutes later, the demon waitress returns with a blazing chocolate cake and a handful of singing waiters. I wanted to pummel her. "Your face is so red!" she squealed, after everyone finished clapping. She was incredulous that I didn't want a glass of wine with my meal. "Man, when it came time for my 21st birthday, I couldn't get enough of the stuff! I had to go into the military to get it out of my system." Reason 1298371293 why I don't drink - I don't want to turn out like you.

My mom told me that she went to Lexie's classroom for her Valentine's Day party. The kids had been assigned to decorate big red hearts with the someone or something in their life that they loved best, so my mom went out in the hallway to search for Lexie's. She saw a few, "I love my dad!' and 'I love my mom!' and even 'I love my dog!' so she figured - obviously - that Lexie's would have something to do with a cat. WHICH cat was more of an appropriate question - Missy, may she rest in peace? Fuzzy? McKinley? So she was quite surprised when she finally came to Lexie's heart, which read, "I love my sister, Ashley."

That kind of makes up for all of the times she stuffed an entire package of my gum in her mouth, or hid my cell phone under the couch, or took all of the tags off my Beanie Babies, or just basically destroyed all semblance of tranquilty of our home.

That night, as I was getting ready for bed, I opened my shower door to grab a tube of facial cleanser to find that my shampoo had been replaced by a bottle of Bud Light. Upon further inspection, I found a second Bud Light bottle tucked neatly under my sheets, its neck resting on my pillow.

Thank you, Scott.

What a great birthday.

Sleepless slumber

I have had three nights of very interesting sleep.

Night No. 1 - I had just returned home from my Sunday in St. Louis, which involved lots of driving, eating and shopping. I was so exhausted that it was all I could do to crawl up into my bed before I passed out. I was having the world's most restful night of sleep - and then my dream hallucination sensation kicked in. I dreamed that I was sharing my bed with two giant ants and a cat. In my dream I was tossing and turning and trying to get away from them - it's lucky that I didn't roll out of bed and plunge six feet to my death. After having been sufficiently terrorized by these three random bedmates, I woke up, drenched with sweat after this fight to the death. I then burst out laughing about how stupid I was and went back to bed.

Night No. 2 - No wacky dreams, I demanded of myself, going to bed semi-early again (11), since I'm pretty sure I am in a permanent state of mono. I slept really soundly until 6:03 a.m., when I was jarred awake by the sound of my cell phone jumping out of its metal encasement. I groggily grabbed for it and peered at it with one eye open - a text message. Really?! Who hates me this much? It was from my sister's friend, Rumer, who was lauding 'Snow day #3!!!!!!!' I wanted to pummel her. Not only did Missouri NOT have a snow day, but a 14-year-old was rubbing it in my face and waking me up early.

Night No. 3 - I decided that it was time to go to bed, but my uterus had other ideas - like making me wish I were never born. Every time one of my hands would come within an inch or two of my hip bone, I almost swore I was going to throw up. The same with my two socked feet rubbing up against each other - I finally had to take off one sock and then I was okay. I eventually popped three ibuprofen and sank into sleepville. This is why being a girl is sometimes the suckiest thing ever. Good thing we're smarter or I'd really feel like we got screwed over on the sex allotment scale.

I would like to take this opportunity to wish everyone a happy Valentine's day. I know some of my single friends get really depressed every Feb. 14 for not having a boyfriend, but I - for one - believe that holidays are meant to be celebrated. That is why, annually on the feast of St. Valentine, I am thankful for the fact that I don't have some stupid-ass boyfriend.

My life story (abridged to include all the bad stuff)

I am so comfortable with life right now. I love my classes and I love where I live. I have such good friends here; Carly and I exchange at least three e-mails every day; and I get to go see Wendy and Keith in less than a week!

For awhile, I was really worried that there was something wrong with me - that regardless of my situation, I would never be happy and I would never find happiness. Maybe my definition of happiness was different than everyone else's. Maybe I had set my happiness standard too high. Maybe it just wasn't meant to be for me.

I can't remember my last truly happy year. The last two years of high school were tough, with Leah moving and Becky getting sick. I think that's when I really started to pull away from everyone and treasure my alone time. It wasn't what everyone else was doing, but I had never really felt like 'everyone else' to begin with.

My freshman year of college was a bust. I had all of these elaborate dreams of independence, but when it really came down to it, my mom and dad practically had to drag me kicking and screaming to school. I'll never forget sitting in my car in our garage, tears streaming down my face, and my mom and dad standing outside just looking at me - crushed but not sure what to do for me. Maybe things wouldn't have been so bad had I not despised my roommate. Or if the end of my floor didn't have a constant haze of marijuana smoke. Or if I had actually made friends.

I'm not sure I will ever be able to look back and say to myself, "What a growing experience! Good thing I went through that." because, you know, it really sucked. I think it's one of those life experiences I could have bypassed and still turned out okay. But maybe, just maybe, it helped me appreciate my next roommate's greatness that much more.

We clicked on the first day that we met. She later admitted to me that she was really nervous when she first walked in and all of my stuff was there but not me. She looked at my hot pink bedspread, my hot pink lamps, my hot pink rugs and my closet full of clothes and shoes, and she thought she had a sorority girl on her hands. But then we met and talked all through the night, and then every night after that, and to this day I consider her one of my best friends.

Maddie and I had a great first semester together. I don't remember too many details, just that Maddie would pretend to be offended every time my mom called and asked what was up, and I said, "Oh, nothing at all!" - even though Maddie and I had been in the middle of a conversation. And I didn't mean to do this, but I kept doing it, over and over again, on accident - and every time it slipped out of my mouth, my eyes would get big and I would look over at Maddie, and she would be pretend-glaring at me.

Then the next semester came and everything changed. I started the semester off in a bad way, and it just went downhill from there. I have never been more depressed in my life, and I didn't think it was possible to go lower than I had been before. When I finished my time reporting for the newspaper, again, like before, it should have been, "Wow. I finished something that I never thought I would. Look at all I've accomplished." Instead, it was more like numbness. When I walked out the door on my last day there, I felt more like collapsing than celebrating.

So then I had a really crappy summer - blah blah blah. Being home was great and it should have been the most relaxing summer of my life, but I was in rehab too much too enjoy it (not literally, but that might have helped).

I was really honestly tired of people telling me that I had to make my own happiness - and me feeling that they were absolutely right. If I wanted to be happy, I could have been, damnit. I SHOULD have been. Another thing to feel bad about. I wanted to be miserable and I was selfish for not being happy with what I had.

And THEN I went to London, and as you all know, I had the most amazing time. It didn't really strike me until late in the semester, when I was talking to my friend Nikki online. I realize that Nikki is a surprising font of profundity (I love you, Nikki!!!), but what she said really struck me. She said, "Ash, I'm really glad you found a place where you can be happy. You should stay there." And I sat in stunned unable-to-type-back mode. What if there really is A Place for Everyone? And what if I had found mine?

Whether London is My Place has yet to be determined. What is for certain, however, is that I am not a mutant, that happiness did not decide to evade me. It's out there. I'm waiting for more, and I'm enjoying it while it lasts. And I'm optimistic that 2007 could be my year of angels singing and trumpets blaring and happiness excess.

Did you have a Super Bowl obstruction? Me too.

It's almost 2 a.m. and I'm exhausted, but my body is so hyped up on caffeine-laden Diet Coke that I can't sleep!

What a weekend. I spent 16 hours in two days in the newsroom, proofreading stories and writing captions and headlines and cutlines and t-decks. I feel like my mind is a jumbled mess of alliteration and errant commas, and I can only hope that I don't dream about anything to do with my flippant sports' headline at the eleventh hour - "Bowl movement hampered by dampness." Gosh, that's bad.

I think of how exhausted I am and then I remember that I worked the equivalent of two eight-hour days. As in, two-fifths of a normal work week. Good thing I'm still in college and have at least another year to come to terms with that.

I have a job! Well, not officially, but it's almost guaranteed. I will be tutoring student-athletes a few hours each week, starting with my favorite former roommate! Maddie e-mailed the director of student services for athletes and requested me as her writing tutor. My first project will involve helping Maddie with a business research paper on breast implants. I will make $8.50 an hour.

The chicken pox epidemic continues in my household. Six-year-old Lexie has become the second victim of the angry red spots - just as Kevin stopped itching, conveniently. Amy is as certain as she is scared to death that she will be next. I wish I could offer some encouraging words, but I'm sure she's probably right. Luck has never been her forte.

God spoke to me late Friday morning in the form of a graduation checklist. After this semester, I will be 13 hours short of graduation. THIRTEEN HOURS. I need one more journalism class (I'm taking Advanced Editing and Design), and I will be done - FOREVER. My other ten credit hours are general electives, which means that if I really want to take Introduction to Walking, I can (that was my mom's suggestion, by the way). I'm thinking more along the lines of language classes. Eight years after I gave into the demands of my mother and chose Spanish as my high school language, I can finally learn introductory French. Good thing French never came in handy like you said it wouldn't, Mother, since I've only been to France TWICE now. My other language choice is Russian since I am currently obsessed. I want to spy on the Kremlin.

I should go to bed now even if my mind is running a 90-yard kickoff touchdown. What a Super Bowl relief that was! MAKE ME STOP.

I love February - and not just because it's Black History Month!

February is birthday month in my family.

My niece, Whitney, turned 11 on Feb 1. I mailed her a card and recounted my memories of her birth. My dad had just picked me up from Girl Scouts and told me that Brian and Lori had had their baby. I remember thinking, "Puh-LEASE let it be a girl." Brian and Lori had picked out the name Clay for a boy, and I remember thinking that Clay was the most God-awful name I had ever heard. Thankfully, she was a girl, and at nine years of age, I became an aunt to Whitney Jane. After all of this, I scribbed into the card that I was happy that Whit's mom and dad had gotten better taste in boys' names by the time Holden came around. Whitney called me tonight during my copy desk shift and told me that her mom said I wasn't invited to their house anymore. Actually, she informed me that the name in question was actually Cody - not Clay - which is ridiculously better, not because Cody is a good name but rather because Clay is just THAT BAD. Whitney said she agreed with my sentiments, however, so both of us are very pleased that she is female.

My infamous brother, Scott, turns 19 tomorrow. There's really nothing momentous about turning 19. I mostly liked it because I have a thing for odd numbers. I hope he has a good birthday, nonetheless. For his sake, I hope his hives are gone by then.

I come next on the 17th. I love the date of my birthday. I suppose I'm happy to be turning 21. It seems quite grown-up, as 20 still screams teenager to me. It's really too bad 'being grown-up' in our culture translates into drinking alcohol. I really would just like to flash my ID, though. So torn! I think it's so funny because whenever I tell people about my weekly Saturday shift and how my birthday also falls on a Saturday, they're like, "It's your 21st? Well, NO WAY can you work on your birthday then!" And inwardly I'm like - heck no, I can't! - but not for the shots I won't take. I can't wait to spend the night of my 21st birthday in bed between my parents watching CSI: Criminal Intent.

My cousin Sean hits his golden birthday four days later on the 21st. Those four days have been the bane of his existence growing up. I cannot tell you how many times I rubbed it in his face.

21 years ago today ...

Twenty-one years ago today, my grandpa died. He was 26 days away from his 71st birthday and 17 days away from meeting me.

From what I remember my dad telling me, my grandpa went to work that day. He came home and started feeling chest pains, and he was rushed to the hospital. My parents lived about an hour away at the time. It was an awful night - bitterly cold and snowing. My dad was going to go to the hospital right then, that night, but my grandma told him not to - that my grandpa was going to be okay and that, besides, it was too dangerous. He should come tomorrow instead, she urged. The next morning, my parents got the phone call that he had died.

I don't really know that much about him. In fact, I'm not even really sure what he did for a living. I do know that my dad greatly resembles him, from the pictures I've seen of my grandpa when he was in his 40s. I wish I had known him. When I was growing up, every year that January 31 rolled around, my dad would say, 'You know, my dad died today.' Or on his birthday, February 26, he would remind us that it was our grandpa's birthday. When I was little, I always remember getting so sad. I've always had a great memory for dates and would always remind him of so-and-so's birthday or so-and-so's anniversary. I wonder if he thinks that I just never remembered about his dad. I always did, usually weeks in advance. I would just hope that somehow he would forget the day, and then he wouldn't be so sad - but of course he never did.

I cannot imagine losing my parents. My mom's parents are still alive, but my dad's are both dead. My grandma died when I was eight. I remember that my mom picked me up early from school that day, and I heard her tell my teacher that I might be gone for a few days. As I packed up my bookbag and said goodbye to my friends, I remember being so excited because I thought we were going on vacation. I remember that she loaded Scott and me into the car, and as the buses pulled in to pick up the other kids from school, she told us that our grandma had died and we all cried.

I don't have a lot of memories of her either. I remember that she had a gum drawer that Scott and I used to visit every time we came to see her. She loved cooking and would always fix us pot roast and mashed potatoes. My mom told me that she would invite the homeless in for Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners. I remember one sunny day when I was around six, my grandma and her boyfriend Charlie took us for a car ride in the park. I remember looking out the window and seeing swans. My last memory of my grandma is visiting her in the hospital. It was just my dad and me and my aunt Marilyn. I remember saying goodbye, and as my dad took my hand and we walked out of the door, I heard my aunt Marilyn said, "Isn't she just the sweetest thing?" and my grandma said, "Yes, yes she is..."

My grandma was in the hospital on her last day, and she had been having trouble breathing. It was time to put in a breathing tube, and my dad knew she didn't want that. The doctors asked if she should be taken off life support, and my dad said yes. He held her hand as he watched his mother die. My dad had always been his mother's favorite, and he adored her just as much. When he came home from the hospital that night, he came in through the back door of our old house. I was sitting at the kitchen table and I turned around and said, "Daddy...?" And he raced past us upstairs, sobbing. I started sobbing, too, and I was so scared. I had never seen my dad cry.

After my grandma died, her house was lifted off its threshold and moved out to the country where one of my cousins lives. They razed the land and built an ATM and a circle drive in its place. I used to drive past it all of the time when I drove to Iowa to visit Leah. I couldn't pass it without getting a huge knot in my stomach. I can't imagine how it feels for my dad to look at his parents' house and see a car lined up where his bedroom used to be, with its patron waiting to grab money out of the teller machine.

Every night before bed, my dad would read a book to me. One of the books he used to read was called "I'll Love You Forever." It's the story of a little boy whose mom always used to say that to him. His mom would sneak into his room when he was asleep as a teenager, brush the hair of his eyes and whisper those words to him. When he moved out, she would drive to his house some nights to kiss him goodnight. But when she started getting older, her son would do the same for her. Finally the mother dies, and her son starts the cycle of saying, "I'll love you forever" to his new daughter. Basically, it's the saddest, sweetest book in the history of the world. Every time my dad would read me the book, he would begin to cry. I couldn't take it anymore. I didn't want my dad to be sad, so one day, I hid the book under a pile of quilts in my closet. He never mentioned the book again, and neither did I. I found the book when I was packing up my things to move when I was 14.

I love my dad more than anything in the world. If anything ever happens to him, I will die.