I ride past a clinic where abortions are performed every day on my way to and from work. It’s just a normal building, with nothing in particular that makes it stand out from the antique shops, hair salons, offices, bookstores and restaurants it’s located near. Except when the protesters are there. In fact, I never even realized what it was until I rode by one day and saw people lined up, with crosses and signs out front. They were chanting, and I was stopped at the light, so I rolled my window down to hear what they were saying. “Yes to life! No to murder!”

I see people of all ages there, making their voices heard. Some women bring their toddlers, and they run about and play while their parents chant or hand out pro-life brochures. What do I think of this? I think that this is America, and that we’re blessed to have the right to stand outside any building and protest or support what goes on there. Do I feel for the women who have to walk past this or any other clinic and have things shouted at them? Absolutely. I personally don’t believe they deserve this. I believe that until you’ve walked in that woman’s shoes, you should not judge her.

The recent murder of Dr. George Tiller should remind everyone that violence is not the way to prevent abortions from happening. Another doctor will eventually take Tiller’s place. Women will have abortions. They had abortions long before they were legal – some in horrifying ways and conditions. Even if every abortion doctor in the United States were gone, the pro-choice and pro-life groups would not stop arguing their sides, and abortion would continue to be a heated topic.

Neither side “wins” by another act of violence being committed. What Dr. Tiller did for a living was legal. You might’ve found it reprehensible or brave – but either way, it was legal. Tiller lost his life because of what he did for a living. And no one should die for that.

In discussing things from childhood on Gchat, I suddenly realized something about myself…

me: I was also a big Muppet fan.
me: I loved Miss Piggy. Go figure.
me: She was very bossy. Poor Kermit. And Miss Piggy had a temper. Come to think of it, maybe that is where I got my entire personality.

My house is alarmed. I’m talkin’ every window and door with a sensor, people. Why? Because I’m a chicken, that’s why.

It took the ADT guy a bit longer than I thought it would, so I had to spend another night with my desk propped up against my bedroom door – but finally, after 2 days of seeing ADT man and wondering if he wanted to move in with me…I have a security system.

Sure, it cost me more money than I care to admit, but as I lay my head down tonight and drift off to sleep with ease (thanks to the window sensors, door sensors, attic sensor, smoke sensors and panic button and whatnot), it will be worth every penny.

Side note: Someone remind me of this when I complain about not being able to buy new clothes and get pedicures.

Well you go through life
So sure of where you’re headed
And you wind up lost
And it’s the best thing that could have happened
Sometimes when you lose your way, it’s really just as well
Because you find yourself,
That’s when you find yourself

From “Find Yourself” performed by Brad Paisley

I hope you had a nice long holiday weekend. I know I did, and I didn’t do much of anything at all. I made lounging a priority on Sunday, and thus, I did what people do whilst they lounge. I watched reality television…Jon and Kate Plus 8, to be specific. Props for the marathon, TLC. I mean, what else was a girl to do on a rainy Sunday?

Having never watched this show before, I’m still in the dark about some things. I don’t live in a hole, so I knew who Jon and Kate were and why they had so many childrens running around. I also knew of the rumored affairs, and how most people think Kate is an overbearing, berating wife (thanks, Joel McHale – he watches it all for us, after all). However, what I am fuzzy on is how this couple went from renewing their vows in Hawaii to not even sitting on the same couch in the newest episode last night. What gives, Gosselins? What happened between then and now?

Did the money and fame that came along with being “Jon and Kate Plus 8” ruin their relationship, or was it headed for failure on its own? Jon seemed very bitter about the show and even having to talk on camera in last night’s season premiere. Has he always had this attitude? It didn’t seem like it while I watched the marathon, but I did see every season. Help me out here, people. Comment or email me your thoughts. And yes, I know I need to get a life. So don’t post that.

And, as if the “Plus 8” drama didn’t depress me enough, I wandered over to MTV last night for The Hills. (Y’all know I love me some Hills, right?) My spirits weren’t lifted by this show, either. Whitney Port has long been gone, Lo hasn’t been seen very much at all, Justin Bobby isn’t there for me to wince at/make constant fun of, and now, Lauren Conrad is leaving. It’s too much. I swear, if Tori and Dean get a divorce, or if the Real Housewives leave NYC, I will need Prozac.

This month’s issue of Skirt! Magazine is titled, “The Nest” and is all about home. In thinking about that word, I realized that home brings up more positive feelings than most words do. “Love” can bring up hurtful memories, and “family” can bring up all kinds of mess, but “home” is one of those words that has few negative associations. Being the huge dork that I am, I looked up the definition of home and found this one: an environment offering affection and security.

Not a building with a grand entrance and perfect decor. An environment offering affection and security. Indeed.

As I’ve shared with those of you who read this blog (Hi, Mom!), I’ve recently gotten a house of my very own. I’m working on making it my home, and I identified with one of the essays so much that I had to share the last part of it with you. I hope you’ll pick up a copy of Skirt! and read it in its entirety (or simply click here). It is well worth your time, and I don’t do it justice by only giving you a section of it.

“There may be guidebooks to help single women buy a house, but there’s no manual for living alone in your own home. My house soon became a visible record of all my limitations: the dining room window I couldn’t close; the exposed electrical switch I hadn’t been able to install; the secondhand mower I couldn’t shut off without a sledgehammer. When the weird smell in the basement turned out to be backed-up sewage, it dawned on me how much I’d relied on men to take care of things for me. Growing up, my father had been the one to stoke the woodstove and shovel the driveway. In college, a boyfriend had changed the light bulb in my dark refrigerator. When I saw a mouse in my apartment, the landlord dutifully arrived with a mousetrap. But now there was no one to call. For the first time ever, I was on my own.

Before I bought my house I used to think that the biggest social divide was between single and married people. But it turns out that it’s between renters and homeowners. One night not too long ago I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the dark curtainless window. Gone were my strappy gold sandals and French manicured nails. Instead I was wearing a paint-splattered white undershirt, cut-off Levis and a purple bandana over my hair. My shoulders were ropy from wielding paint rollers and hoisting the aluminum ladder, and my thumbs were spotted with blisters. I was drinking a Labatt’s Blue and eating a slice of cold pizza. For a split second, I didn’t recognize myself. And then I realized that I’d become my own handyman.

Sometimes it’s hard to recognize the defining moments in our lives when they’re happening. I understand now what I couldn’t have known that cold day in February: that by entering the house I was not only crossing the invisible border between being a renter and being a homeowner, but also expanding the territory of who I was and what I thought I could do. Renting may have given me the illusion of dwelling in the present moment free from attachments, but deep down I was waiting for my “real life” to begin. Buying a house is a declarative act of intentional living; instead of hoping someone else will make my future for me, my house taught me to claim it for myself. In my mind’s eye I see myself hover over that windowsill threshold with one foot on the porch and one foot in the house, poised between two worlds. Then I take a deep breath and jump in with both feet, ready to explore all that waits within.”
-Megan Fulwiler

Megan Fulwiler teaches English at the College of Saint Rose in Albany, New York. When she’s not working on her house, she walks her dog, reads food blogs and practices yoga.

Oh lawdy, am I in a mood today. Watch out, Georgians – I’m on a rampage.

Heel broken, flat tire, diet coke spillage to the point that I need to change my pants but have no pants to change into, cell phone battery dead, missed work event due to flat tire, neck crick has made a comeback and is stronger than ever.

As Luanne on the movie Shag would say, “Damn, damn, damn, damn, damn, damn! Every damned thing has to happen when you’re in a damned hurry!”

And, please don’t tell me “it could be worse” because you’re boring me. Just let me be angry.

Thank you. As you were.

Every time. Every single time.

They say, “Tell me what you can see.”

I say, “The big E.”

They ask, “No, really?”

I say, “Yes, really.”

Annual eye exams make me feel like a failure. Fabulous.

Side note: I know it’s a big E because it always is. If they changed it up on me, I wouldn’t know.