When I was younger, I always looked forward to Valentines day because of the party at school where you passed out your Valentines (mine were usually Alladin themed, or Snow White themed), and you got a lot of candy.  As I got older, my mother used to always buy me a pretty significant Valentine's Day gift.  And although it wasn't my favorite day of the year, it was ok because I usually got a cool piece of jewelery, or a new item of  clothing, and the most important gift of the year:

I love these things.  There is nothing about a Reese's Peanut Butter Heart that isn't perfect.  So as annoying as Valentine's Day was to me, nothing could really make it a bad day if there was a Reese's heart in the gift bag.

Until Valentine's Day of my junior year of high school...

Like I said, my mother always gave me a gift on the day, so, per usual, I woke up to a little gift bag on the kitchen table.  In the bag was a little necklace, of course, a Reese's, and a package that said "Grow A Boyfriend".  No Joke.

                                  

Really?  Now I know my mother meant all the best and was doing it as a little joke, but really?  Although the packaged growable creature was a little bit creepy, I was going to play along, so I couldn't help but be curious as to what this thing would turn out like.  I pulled it out of the package and thought it looked a little weird, but proceeded with the project.  I put it in the bowl of water and let it sit for around ten minutes.  After eating two Reese's Peanut Butter Hearts, I returned back to the bowl to see how my growable companion turned out.  I pulled out the now bigger figure and examined it. And guess what.

IT WAS A GIRL.

That's right.  My growable frigging boyfriend had long hair, a dress, and boobs.  I don't understand how these things happen to me.  I mean, I guess it was packaged wrong, but really?   How does this happen to me?  Why was I the unlucky one in America that the packaging lady thought it would be funny to play a mean joke on?  I mean, dang.  Not only was I single on Valentine's Day, but the only companion that I had given to me turned out to be growable...... and a girl.  

I'd like to pretend that I'm mature enough to not be bitter and irritable on Valentine's Day, but I'm definitely not.  How could you not be after an experience like that?  Plus I'm always asked to sing for some kind of Valentine's Program every year.  Now don't get me wrong, I love singing any chance that I can get, and I am even happy to sing for a big group of couples, but Valentine's Day? Gross.  I really do try not to be unpleasant, and this year I even bought heart shaped BoBerry Biscuits (mainly because they were two for 99 cents).  But I'll be honest, I'm just not all about it.  I mean, why make one day of the year the day that you do great things for the ones you love?

Here's my deal.  I'm going to try show my love every day of the year....365 days of big ole loving from yours truly.  This does not include love for Josh Groban, Taylor Swift, or Justin Bieber.  They will never receive my love because they're terrible.  But, my friends, let's all show a lot of love to each other every day of the year instead of this one lame day, right?  Hug somebody really tight.  Or sing a little ditty to someone (even if it's off key, like Taylor Swift). I mean, you can't buy love on EBay right?  (Although I am really looking for a nice, new camera, so if you would like to be especially loved by me, you can buy me one).

And for now, friends, at least I'm not this guy.  Happy day.

So.  I know it's been a while since I've blogged.  I'm not sure how many of you read this thing.  But to those of you who do, I'm sorry I have been a negligent mother to my blog.  Since my last update, my cat Jasper has gotten huge.  My pregnant sister has gotten REALLY pregnant.  I experienced one of the quickest rehearsal processes that I've ever been in and ended up with a finished product--"MY WAY", which was a musical tribute to Frank Sinatra.  I woke up every morning with a new song in my head.....and if I sang "That's Life" one more time, I thought I was going to intentionally break a leg just to stop the showtunes JUST for a while.  But we pulled it off.  And I have temporarily moved in with some new roommates.  I fondly call them--"my parents".  It's safe to say I'm in a big transition period in my life. I'm looking forward to hopefully going to grad school...or possibly getting hired by a theater company....but right now....it's just hanging out with Mom and Pop....and my very pregnant sister (who looks fabulous, btw).  Some people think this may suck....but let's face it.  Things could be a lot worse, right?  I mean, dang.  I got food.  My family's really cool.  And I have a super cool cat.  So...things could definitely be worse.  In fact, I'll tell you a story to prove my point.

When I was 16 years old, I had heart surgery. Don't freak out.  This isn't a sob story.  The surgery was scheduled to be down in Charleston....gooooood ole Chucktown.  So, Kelley, Mom, Pop, and I packed up the car and headed down the interstate.  When we hit Columbia, I'm pretty positive that the leftovers of friggin  Hurricane Hugo hit us.  I mean, you couldn't see anything.  Randy tried to stay calm and collected, but you could tell he was starting to sweat...and naturally Kelley and I were semi-hyperventilating whilst covering our faces with pillows.  We finally get to Chucktown and park in the parking garage from MUSC.  Well good news.  It's flooded.  And I'm not talking a little water in the gutter.  I mean the entire Randall clan rolled up our pants, took off our shoes, and waded across the red freaking sea into the hospital where we were greeted by a man who said "Do yall folks need an umbrella?"  Thank you sir.  Thank you.
We head up to the pre-op consultation room where we wait for an hour.  During this hour, we literally heard nothing but a child screaming bloody murder. I think we all know how I feel about screaming children. The anesthesiologist asked if I thought I would need a little medicine to relax me before the surgery the following day.  My response was that if the kid who was still screaming was in the hospital the next day, absolutely.
The next morning was the big day. This wasn't open heart surgery, but it involved scary things like lasers and stuff.  So let's be honest.  I was terrified.  And all I wanted was a chicken biscuit from Chick-Fil-A....but you can't eat the day of your surgery.  I walked into the pediatric cardiology unit and suited up with Kim and Rands standing beside me.  On the ceiling was a painted light house that was by the beach with a big sunshine.  The anesthesiologist and nurses came in and gave me my "calming medicine".  Just when I thought the medicine wasn't working, the waves around the painted lighthouse started moving and the light in the top of it started flashing.  I felt fine.  Aaaaaand that's all I remember.  Apparently the nurse said to my parents that often times the medicine they gave me made most teenage girls cry.  I, however, began hysterically laughing and starting making a beeping noise as they began to back me up.  Reeeeeeally cool, Taylor.
The next thing I knew, it was 8 hours later and I was laying flat on my back in my hospital room.  Two nurses who weighed about 2 pounds each came in to my room to transfer me from the rolling bed to my actual hospital bed.  Now let's remember this was the pediatric cardiology unit.  This girls were used to moving around babies.  So when they got ready to move big girl to her bed, you could see the worry in their eyes.  They counted to three and literally heaved me onto the bed.  You could hear them strain.  Awesome.  My nurse's name was Cari.  She was from Indiana.  She also weighed 2 pounds.
The night crept on and I was slowly making progress, but I was ordered to stay flat on my back for at least 5 hours in order for my incisions to heal.  Kelley and Mom were both in room with me all night, but since I was doing a lot better, Mom decided to go downstairs to make a couple of phone calls.  So there we were, just Kelley and I.  Kelley had stayed in the same spot all night because she was terrified of all the germs in the hospital.  Well.... I sat there laying still on my back....and suddenly I started feeling a little queezy.  I turned to Kelley who was, again, in the corner.  "Kelley, I'm not feeling so good."  Kelley turned white.  I mean, WHITE.  She jumped out of her chair and starting fanning me with her Sudoku book that she had been working on all day, saying "No you don't, you feel great.  You feel awesome! See how good this feels?"  She was panicking.  And sweating.  I looked at her again, and calmly said,  "Kelley, really.  I don't feel so good."  "NO TAYLOR YOU FEEL FINE! YOU FEEL PERFECT!"  One last time, I said "Listen Kelley.  This is it.  I'm gonna hurl.  You either help me or you don't."  So Kelley hands me a bedpan.  I was still supposed to be lying flat on my back, but according to Kelley, she was scared I was going to choke.  So she quickly raised my hospital bed up, but then panicked and quickly lowered it down. She repeated this up and down and up and down and up and down process several times while I continued to hurl into my bedpan.  It was like a bad episode of "I Love Lucy".  Kelley then darts down the hallway crying and screaming "NUUUUUURSE NUUUUURSE MY SISTER IS DYING!" Cari, the 2 pound nurse whom I later fainted on, rushed into the room and saw the situation. She helped me out, took care of me, and then looked at Kelley saying "Miss, next time there's an emergency, you can just push the red button on her bed.  No running is necessary."

See.  Things could ALWAYS be worse.  You could be yakking in a bed pan....or you could have a bowl cut......or you could be Josh Groban. Just saying.

And for now, at least I'm not this guy.