Today...

I did not discover the cure for cancer.
Today, I didn't create peace in the middle east, or convince Kim Jong-il to dismantle his nuclear weapons program.
I didn't spend my day rubbing elbows with celebrities, or lunching with Hollywood's elite.
Today, I did not get appointed to the Supreme Court.
Today, I didn't slap on a Dior power-suit and tackle corporate America.
I didn't make millions (or even thousands) today, short-selling the stock market.
Today, I did not commit a single act that would be considered "impressive."
But...
Today I made my baby laugh.
A big, gorgeous, belly laugh.
And it was the most beautiful part of my day.
And that's all I need.

I Realize I'm a Filthy, Disgusting Pig-Person, But C'mon...

So I went to the nail salon tonight to get a pedicure. To say "it's been awhile" would be a gross understatement and an insult to the word "awhile." After my pregnancy, I had to have toe-surgery on both feet (don't ask, just know that pregnancy truly did screw up every square inch of my body, and my extremities are no exception) so I have not been allowed to paint my nails for about 6 months. Also, it's been winter, which means dry skin, and I have some serious hatred for feet in general (yes, even my own) so I don't pumice them or do any of that tomfoolery that other women do to keep their feet looking perfect all year. I could make excuses all day for the condition of my feet, but the truth is that they are jacked up, and in serious need of a pedi.

Hubs, Little Man, and I are leaving for North Carolina tomorrow morning for a cousin's wedding. I needed my pedi in a hurry so I went to a place that is close by (I've been there several times before) and that allows walk-ins. The lady took one look at what a desheveled mess I am and immediately yelled for the little mousy woman in the back to come help me. I saw a few women sitting around (it was obviously a slow night) that had worked on me before, and done a good job, but she picked the mousy, super-old looking one with the excessive green eye-shadow, messy hair and only wearing one shoe (God only knows...) I picked out my nail-color, and took a seat in the big massage chair. This next part is where it gets interesting. Homegirl shuffles over (she was shuffling of course because she was wearing one shoe with a 4 inch heel and nothing on the other side), picks up my foot, stares at it with disgust for what seemed like about eight minutes, then starts shaking her head and yelling (yes, actually yelling) in Korean. I can only imagine what she was saying. She clearly wasn't thrilled with the hostess for seating this filthy mess of a human being at her station. I suppose there is a chance that she was just talking loudly about the weather (while shaking her head and shaking my foot at the hostess), but it is unlikely. It's times like these that I wish I knew Korean. Just enough to say "I know what you're saying about me and it's not very nice" or even just "I'm sorry I'm gross." I know French. I know a little Spanish. I learned some Mandarin Chinese last year because with the current state of our world it seems like it may come in handy some time. I have great aspirations of learning ASL this fall even. But Korean is not a language that I typically find myself wishing I know. Until I have some crazy Korean woman shaking my foot threateningly at another woman and yelling what I can only imagine are terrible, terrible things about me.

The remainder of my appointment was rather uneventful. The woman eventually settled down and (after a great sigh, and I mean a really HUGE sigh) shook her head a little and went to work. I pretended not to be insulted. I even tried my little "kill it with kindness" approach that tends to work on around 78% of the retailers, restaurant servers, etc that I manage to offend with my very presence. I complimented her on her pretty shirt (which was dreadful, btw) and she smiled fakely in response. She did my nails, cleaned my feet up a bit, and then sent me away. It got a little dicey when I went to pay and saw the sign that said "Please do not attempt to tip with credit card." I don't EVER carry cash, so I looked apologetically at the woman and explained that I didn't know. I was fairly certain by the look on her face that she was about to lose it, but the manager stepped in front of her and explained to me that I could tip on my card if I needed to, they just ask that people try not to because then the manicurist won't get it for two weeks, until pay day. I tipped her well (about 40%) and acted like I was sorry but seriously, why shouldn't she have to wait? I always had to wait two weeks between providing a service and being paid for it at any of my jobs. And this way she is sure to pay taxes on that tip. Yeah, that'll teach her! I'm going to go now...hang my head in shame and possibly learn a little Korean.

The Finished Product. Slightly less heinous than before.

Yummy New Recipe

I am the pickiest eater in the world. In the entire world! You may think that your four year old is pickier than me, but I guarantee you she is not. Bring it on, four-year-olds! I'm not sure what's wrong with me, but I could be perfectly happy eating bland baked chicken with some green beans and a little orzo on the side every night for months. My husband, however, is pretty much the polar opposite when it comes to eating. I can count the foods that he doesn't like on two fingers. Hubs requires a little more variety so for the past 7 years, I am constantly searching for new recipe's to add to our repertoire that I will actually like. Last night I found one (Hooray!) I will share it with you, but I must warn you that it's not going to be the most healthy meal you've had. We've been trying to eat healthier, and while this recipe does have some veggies and chicken in it, it also involves mucho olive oil and a little cheese as well. I wish I had a picture, but we dug into it before I thought to do so. If I make it again, I will probably use softer pea pods, and possibly add a little more garlic and a tiny bit of salt. It was pretty good though. Enjoy...

CHICKEN AND SPINACH RAVIOLI WITH GARLIC PESTO SAUCE

2 Tbsp olive oil
4 boneless skinless chicken breasts, cut into 2-inch cubes
2 cups fresh pea pods (chose pods with a softer skin, such as sugar snap peas...the ones I chose were a little tough)
1 small suzzhini, cut diagonally into 1/4-inch slices
1 red bell pepper, seeded, cut into 1/4-inch strips
1 (9-oz.) pks. spinach ravioli (I used an organic spinach and artichoke ravioli that was tasty)
1 (7-oz.) pkg. prepared garlic pesto sauce (or you can make your own, like I kinda did)
1/4 cup (1-oz.) freshly shredded Parmesan cheese

*In large skillet, heat olive oil over med-high heat until hot. Add chicken; stir-fry 5-6 minutes or until chicken is no longer pink in center.
*Add pea pods, zucchini and bell pepper to skillet; stir-fry an additional 5 minutes or until vegetables are crisp-tender.
*Meanwhile, in med. pot, cook ravioli according to package directions. Drain and add to chicken and vegetables. Add pesto sauce; toss until well mixed. Springkle with Parmesan cheese.

Makes 4 servings

Mommy's Day!

First (official) Mother's Day= Success!

To start the weekend off (yes, it was a whole-weekend long affair) I received a flower delivery on Friday. I almost didn't answer the door (due to the nondescript white van with no visible markings on it in front of my house and the semi-creepy man pacing at my doorstep) but then I saw the flowers. Truly beautiful lavender flowers.


I know that flowers are expensive and they die after a week or so, but I SO love receiving flowers every now and then. Having fresh, fragrant flowers in my home puts a smile on my face every time I walk by them! The fact that Hubs (Mr. Frugal-Fanny/orders-everything-off-the-internet-because-he-hates-shopping Himself) actually went out of his comfort-zone to a local florist, picked out a bouquet himself, and paid full-price for it was a BIG deal!

On Friday night, Hubs came home early from work and he and Little Man took me out to my favorite restaurant, Tripps, for a nice steak dinner. I heart Tripps! All of their food is made fresh on site daily, and they get their steaks from the same place as Ruth's Chris Steakhouse, so it's top quality but much lower price than a Ruth's Chris or a Morton's. Anyway, I could sing their praises for hours... So we had a lovely dinner out, and on the way home Hubs had one more surprise in store for me. He took me to the paint store and told me to pick out any paint I wanted and the HE would paint the basement and the upstairs hallways (I've been wanting to do this for about a year). This was a truly impressive gift (not to mention selfless) because while Christopher is a hard-working man who is incredibly handy around the house, the man would rather shove his thumb through his right eye than pick up a paint brush. Painting is his Everest, so the thought of him signing up for a whole weekends worth of painting nearly caused me to pass out. It was such a sweet gesture, but Hubs underestimated his wife's level of perfectionism. He didn't realize that I've spent months pouring over colors and had not quite found the right hue of Cappuccino for the "accent wall" in the basement family room. So we agreed that I'd take a rain-check on the painting (as he breathed a sigh of relief) and he decided that instead he would clean the entire house for me, and spend the weekend taking full responsibility for the baby, so that I could spend the weekend relaxing. It was glorious!

On Saturday morning I woke up just long enough to feed the baby, then went back to sleep until 11:30! I spent the entire day relaxing while Chris took care of Little Man and cleaned the house. I still got to feed and play with my baby, I just didn't have to be "responsible" for him. I even got to make a run to Whole Foods and Trader Joe's and take my time grocery shopping. This may not seem like fun to some of you, but I truly love a leisurely stroll through the supermarket (which I have not experienced since Spencer was born) and there is something about those two stores that makes me feel all healthy and good about myself. It was truly an awesome day! Sunday was more of the same, only he made me breakfast and gave me the sweetest card, and a present (I LOVE presents!) Apparently "Spencer went to Jared" (you know, like the commercials?) and bought me a beautiful necklace with his birthstone in it. It's a simple, understated (just how I like my jewelry) opal set in white gold.


So pretty. Spence did a great job of picking it out ;-) To cap off the day, we took all three children (Spence and the two dogs, of course) to Krump Park to stroll around in the sunshine.



A perfect ending to the perfect first Mother's Day.

Hate is a Very Strong Word...

But I actually HATE Gladiator sandals. What moron fashion designer had the cocaine-induced brilliant idea "Hey, I know what I could invent, a sandal that looks like what the ancient greeks wore, that will look ugly on everyone alive, and will make even Heidi Klum look like a frumpy mess." Sheer brilliance.



I actually feel violent toward this shoe, and you know I love me some shoes. So I know you're thinking "If you hate them so much, what's the big deal?" The big deal is that I recently bought a dress for an upcoming wedding that we're attending (my cousin Matt and his oh-so-adorable fiance, Ashley), and it's one of those Maxi dresses. I feel certain that you've seen them everywhere. These things are hot. I originally wasn't so sure I liked the Maxi either, but after trying one on I realized that they are the perfect weight for summer, can be dressed up (say, for a wedding perhaps) or down for a picnic with the fam on Belle Isle. They also hide a multitude of sins (can we say post-cesarean belly?) and can be easily taken in as I continue to lose this dreadful pregnancy weight. It's a cute dress, but EVERY single ad I see for ANY Maxi dress (any style, any color, any pattern) features a woman wearing it with Gladiator sandals. It's almost as if there's a rule. I asked a friend if I could get away with pairing it with some Espadrilles or a cute strappy sandal with a low heel and she laughed at me. Her response:

"Look, I hate the Gladiator sandal movement too. Everyone does. But you just have to do it. Put on your big-girl panties and deal with it. The Maxi dress has love for only one style shoe."

What to do???

Here Comes the Rain

I love love love rain. I love the way it sounds, I love the way it smells and feels, and I love taking any excuse to wear my adorable polka-dotted rain boots. I know it's not an opinion shared by many others, but there is something so very beautiful about watching a good rain. As I write this, I am sitting on my comfy couch under a warm, soft blanket (given to me by my best girl, Angela), watching the rain fall out my back windows. The entire back wall of my house is full of windows, facing a huge wooded lot so all you see is trees upon trees upon trees, giving that feeling of bringing the outdoors in and making you feel one with nature. I sit here watching the raindrops hit my deck, each droplet bouncing a little as it hits. As the drops trickle down through the trees, they make the most refreshing sound. There is something very cleansing about watching a good rainfall. Not to mention the fact that the sound of it hitting the roof makes for the most AH-MAZE-ING nap ever...and I do love me a good nap!






I know there are times that we hope/wish/pray for beautiful sunshiny weather, and curse the folks at weather.com for forecasting rain during our planned trip to the amusement park, our family picnic, wedding day, etc. I personally was planning to meet a friend at the (outdoor) mall today to take our babies for a stroll and possibly do a little shopping. Now, since our 6/7 month-olds most-likely wouldn't appreciate a cold, wet stroller ride and the indoor malls around here are mostly rubbish, we probably won't be able to go. I was so disappointed for a minute, and then it's almost as if God said "Hey you, look outside for a minute and see that the rain was put there by Me, and therefore it is both necessary and beautiful." God is good at that, you know, thumping me over the head from time to time.

I've been praying now for months that God would somehow show me what my "purpose" is on this earth (or at least my purpose for the immediate future.) I want Him to show me what that purpose is, but only if it doesn't involve any "rain." For example, I'd love for Him to tell me to go serve on a medical missions team in South Africa for 2 weeks, that would be amazing. But what if He wants us to pack up and MOVE there and be full-time missionaries? That's a little too much "moving of my cheese" for my likings. Or what about hearing that Hubs and I should join the Big Brothers/Big Sisters program and help some troubled inner-city youth feel loved and be a good adult influence in their lives. I would be very open to that! But, what if God instead decides to ask us to become foster-parents, and to take one of these troubled children into our home and our neat little lives and try to parent them, then what?

I know that God's plans always end up greater than ours. I do know that. I know that the few times in my life when I clearly heard the voice of God call me to action, I followed him and was blessed IMMENSELY for it. But it's still human nature to want to avoid the rain. "I'll just stay in my cozy house on those rainy days and pray that tomorrow will be sunny." We tend to like it cozy. Who wouldn't? But watching the rain this morning I am becoming more and more aware that rain (both real and metaphorically speaking) is both good and necessary. We are going to go through a whole lot of "rainy" days/months/years in our time on this planet. Why not embrace it? Know that the rainy days will come whether they are invited or not, and live our lives doing what we are called to do (I'm speaking metaphorically here, people, keep up now). I think it's time for me to stop praying with contingencies and start opening my life up for God to use me, no matter how uncomfortable the changes may be. The only time we ever see a gorgeous rainbow is after a good rain.

It's Cinco de Mayo! Whatever that means...

Hubs and I were invited tonight to join a few friends at a local Mexican Restaurant to celebrate Cinco de Mayo. I've never been entirely certain why it's such a popularly celebrated holiday among the gringos here in the U.S., although I have a feeling it has something to do with half-priced Margarita's. I suppose I should wiki it sometime and learn the real origins of this holiday, rather than contentedly celebrating a holiday of which I have no clue the origin, like an ignoramus. (note to self: search Wikipedia today for "Cinco de Mayo")

So we headed out (in the torrential downpour) to Plaza Guadalajara, and had a great time. Chris' coworkers and their wives have quickly become some of our closest friends. They are so much fun, and have been such an unexpected blessing in our lives. We had a few laughs, ate about 12 times more food than any human ever needs to consume, and let the baby dance on the table to some fun Mexican tunes. I mad my first "Bahama Mama" (verdict: it's okay, but next time I'll just take a Pina Colada) and left with about a pint of liquid cheese in my stomach from the irresponsible amount of chips and queso that I consumed.

Later, my friend Angela came over to watch a few DVR'd episodes of our new fave show, Monk. If you haven't watched this show, you need to. This guy is seriously hilarious. Also, the slightly perfectionistic OCD control freak in me can relate to Mr. Monk in more ways than I care to admit.

Now it's time for both me and my massive tummy ache to go to bed. Maybe after wiki-ing Cinco de Mayo...

Where's the Fast-Forward Button?

I've been struck lately with the reality that time is flying by me. I notice myself looking forward to the future, and saying things like "I can't wait until the beach this summer" or "Won't it be great when Spencer can walk and be a little more independent." I actually find myself looking in my planner (love, love, LOVE my Franklin planner! It keeps me sane...relatively, that is) forward through the next year to the exciting events we have planned. A few weddings, a reunion with our old church friends in Blacksburg, traveling to see family, certain physical-goals I've set for myself (I'm toying with the rather insane idea of getting in good enough shape to run a marathon possibly next year...will start with a 10k so I don't kill myself though), Christmas (I love the Christmas season and look forward to it starting around April or May of every year.) Yesterday, it struck me like a brick to the head that it's as if I'm hitting the fast-forward button on my life. That "let's skip this and get to the good stuff" mentality is so common in this world. LIVING has become mundane. And hello, as with any movie that we fast-forward our way through, there is an end. We are given a finite amount of days on this earth and while I personally know that there will be something (much better) awaiting me on the other side, I still have to laugh at myself for essentially counting down the days to my own death.

What ever happened to just enjoying LIFE?

At the end of the day, I put Spencer down to sleep in his crib and I stand there above him, watching this sweet angel look adoringly at me, blinking his eyes sleepily, I always find myself thanking God for the day he's given us. Lately, every day of my life has been the greatest day of my life. Even the tough ones where Spencer decides to boycott his naps or have a random meltdown in the middle of a Macy's, At 8pm, I still find myself right there, standing in my spot above his crib, with my husband's arm around me, looking at my family and feeling like life just doesn't get any sweeter than this.




Maybe some days are more rewarding than others, and some more exciting, but time will pass whether I make an impact on this world or not. I don't know specifically what great things God wants me to accomplish while I'm here (aside from raising a young man), but I think I need a new outlook on things. I need to tackle each day with an attitude of "what greatness can I accomplish today?" And whether that greatness involves helping a friend in need, sending a letter to my Congressman, boycotting products that do animal testing, or simply giving a friendly smile to the lonesome old lady in Whole Foods I am making each day count. Even teaching my infant to make a respectable sounding "raspberry" with his mouth is one more way to enrich his life and make mine count. How often do you hear someone count down to the weekend? "Only 3 more days until the weekend," or "TGIF!" Are we really content to only spend 2/7ths of our lives in a content state? We can do so much more LIVING on that other 3/4 of our lives! Let's start living people!

Cleaning for the Cleaners

I'm up in Fairfax for a few days, visiting family and photographing the D.C. Cherry Blossoms. It's always fun hanging out with the fam. My mom ("Nana") is beside herself, spoiling Spencer rotten. She took him to Toys R Us yesterday and spent a small fortune on toys (have I mentioned that he's only 5.5 months old???), and she hasn't put him down since we arrived. All in all, a great time.

Today, however, I got to experience once again the insanity that is "cleaning day" at my parents house. Mom and Mark have cleaning people who come fortnightly (look it up, it's a cool word that's undoubtedly underused). They both work full-time and have a larger-than-average home, so I've always thought this to be a good idea. Until today.

The "cleaning day" ritual begins the night before, with Mark scrubbing the kitchen top to bottom. I'm more than slightly confused about this practice, as it seems to me that that may be one of the things they are paying their cleaning buddies to do, but apparently that's just the beginning of the insanity. In addition to the kitchen, he picks up every magazine and book from his bookcase in the living room and stacks them on top of his chair. Before bed, mom goes around the entire main floor and picks up every single thing weighing less than 100lbs off the floor and stacks them on various pieces of furniture. The following morning is a flurry of activity, as mom runs around making sure the bathroom vanities, dresser tops, nightstands, and all other pieces of wood furniture get cleaned off. She then does a cursory cleaning of the bathrooms, making sure to hide the toothbrushes in a drawer so they don't get cleaning spray misted upon them. She locks up her sewing room (she has resorted to locking the door, since the sign on the door saying "No Entrar, Por Favor" caused them to "entrar" anyway and suck up with the vacuum cleaner half of her materials that were perfectly laid out to make her latest quilt--they were hanging on a piece of felt on the wall, for crying-out-loud!!), and then she pulls out the crappy vacuum cleaner (don't worry, the "good vacuum" is hidden away somewhere so they can't find it and break it...the cleaning people have somehow broken two previous "good vacuums" so their pennance is to have to use a sub-par vacuum cleaner...THAT'LL SHOW 'EM!) Last, we have to call the company's owner and find out what time they'll be there so we don't interrupt their "creative process".

At 11am, three very tiny, very sweet El Salvadorian ladies enter the home and proceed to cause more damage to my parents house than any child, frat boy, or hurricaine could ever manage. They rub the vacuum cleaner against the walls and floorboards, they also beat the living hell out of any and all hardwood furnture (can't you just hear that vacuum banging against the legs of your nice dining room suite...SCHMACK...SCHMACK...SCHMACK!) It'll probably take a few days to survey all the damage (it usually does), but there's always multiple little "surprises" after cleaning day. Mom informed me last night that they seem to pleasure in pointing the shower heads toward the door, so when you turn on the shower to warm it up it shoots you in the face. And we can't forget the great peanut-shell incident of 2008 . My mom came home from work mid-day to grab something and accidentally surprised the cleaning ladies while they were working. That night, their sink was totally clogged and the disposal was jammed and full of peanut shells. Apparently one of the girls had been shopping in their pantry and eating their peanuts (which wouldn't have been a big deal, had they not tried to cover it up by cramming the shells down the sink in order to conceal the evidence and almost cost them a new sink.)

Mom and Mark have been talking about firing them for years. I think they've even gone so far as to inform the owner of the "company" that she would be letting them go due to all the destruction. However, my mother being a bleeding-heart, took one look at the sadness in his eyes when he shook her hand and thanked her for her business, that she called him the next day and invited them back for more damage. Why not just give them the house, mom? Seriously.

Ouch

Is it just me, or do the developers of underwire-bra's need to be lined up in an old fashioned firing line and then shot multiple times in various uncomfortable places with BB guns? I should preface this story by saying that yes, I am aware that you get what you pay for, and that my Nordstrom Bra's have NEVER caused the near-fatal injuries that my cheap Kohls ones have. However, when you're in the process of being pregnant (which means you're gaining about 70 pounds per week) and you know that the day you give birth your bra size is going to shoot up to letters that aren't even an option in the English language, and then throughout nursing you'll be losing weight, but your bra size won't necessarily go down...anyway...you get the point...I was not about to spend $70 on a bra that would only fit me for a minute. So a month or so after I had little man, I bought myself a few cheap-o $20 nursing bras in various sizes and shapes to hopefully accommodate MOST of the changes that my upper-body would be facing over the next 6 months or so.

Now comes the fun story...
Today, about 20 minutes after leaving the house (of course) to run a ton of errands, the left underwire of my bra snaps and begins stabbing me in the absolute most uncomfortable place imaginable on my chest. This is not the first time this has happened to me, but I am usually either home or am able to get myself to a restroom where I can MacGyver it somehow into working until I get home and ceremoniously throw the damn thing in the garbage. Today, I was not. Today, it happened while I was sitting in the car on my way to a frou-frou invitation store (buying invitations for the Ladies Tea that I'm throwing my mother-in-law for her 60'th birthday.) I waited until the next stop-light, and then played around with it (in the most ladylike of ways, of course) until I saw the guy in the truck next to me staring, then I decided to leave it until I got to my destination. Upon arrival at the frou-frou invitation store, I realized that this was not the type of establishment that would appreciate me digging around in my bra, so again I waited. At this point the itching/irritated skin was morphing into a pretty awesome pain. I've said it before, but I'm really not a wimp about pain. It takes a lot for me to react to physical discomfort. The boob-stabbage being caused by el-cheapo bra was becoming unbearable in a hurry. Next stop on our list of errands was to return a few pillows to West Elm. Once I found a parking spot at the mall, I made sure no one was watching, and then quickly peeked down my shirt to see what sort of evil was transpiring down there. It was not pretty.

There was actual blood.

The broken wire had somehow (in record time) rubbed a spot so raw in my skin that I was bleeding all over my shirt. Of course, I happened to be wearing white today. Of course. I found a few tissues in my glove-box that I used to apply pressure and stop the bleeding. Then (after waving to the nice elderly man that I didn't notice getting into the passenger side of his car, right next to my window...watching me doctor up 'the girls'), I yanked the underwire out of the bra on that side (you're going to want to remember the words "on that side" a little later in this post). Victory is mine. I felt a lot better at that point, and it was on to West Elm. While pushing the stroller through the store, I stopped to admire this gorgeous huge floor-mirror. And then I saw myself...and realized why underwires are so very necessary for those of us that are "well endowed." My left breast was almost 2 inches lower than my right. I looked like some sort of circus freak. At the very least, I could easily make myself at home on the stage of the Jerry Springer show. I immediately ducked into a corner of the store and messed around a bit, but it didn't seem to be working. The left 'girl' didn't seem to want to be confined any longer. She was tired of her mistreatment with the whole underwire debacle and wanted freedom. I tried to be covert while digging my arms around in my shirt, pushing here and tugging there. Just then a very young, very homosexual, very peeved-looking (male) sales associate came around the corner and said "Can I help you with something ma'am?" I turned around slightly (hand still in shirt...looking very guilty) and said "no, no, I'm fine...I just...need a minute." As I pulled my hand out of my shirt, I felt a certain breeze that informed me that only half of my left breast was still contained in it's rightful place, and that side of the bra had shifted north by several inches. Then, as if on cue, about 3 pieces of bloody tissue fell from my shirt onto the ground.

He looked horrified.

I tried really hard for about 15 seconds to disappear, and when that didn't work I started rambling out an excuse as to why I looked so disheveled. I started regurgitating some lie about scratching myself on something, but realized quickly that it was stupid and pointless. It's not like there was any non-embarrassing reason for me to be standing in his store, feeling myself up and throwing my bloody tissues all over his floor. I quickly made my return and then slinked away in embarrassment. I tried to call my mom to tell her of my mortifying story but somehow (SOMEHOW) got caught up in other details of my fabulous life and forgot.

I probably won't be shopping at West Elm ever again. Also, I'll be calling my girl Jodie (my Nordstrom bra sales associate) to make an appointment tomorrow. The end.

Welcome to Blogspot

I've decided to start up a blogger account. I'm trying (pretty unsuccessfully) to import some of my recent blogs from my other page and my wordpress account, but I'm incredibly computer-illiterate and seem to be losing many of them. I swear, I'm like an 80 year-old lady when it comes to technology. I know how to turn on the computer, and open up my web browser, but that's about it. Hubs is constantly yelling at me because whenever I get any sort of pop-up, I just start clicking "Enter" over and over (sometimes I throw in a few "Escape"'s for good measure) until it goes away. Apparently we ended up with a LOT of spyware on our PC because of my shenanigans. It's not nearly as bad now that I own a mac (they are SO much more intuitive...I heart my MacBook so...) but I still have no idea how to use this crazy internet thing. I'm so old.

Anyway, if anyone cares to read about my somewhat dull existence, have at it...