Beware of Paper Towels

Chopsticks at Panda Express… why?  You’re at Panda Express.  And you aren’t from China.  It’s like wearing a sombrero and poncho to Taco Bell.  Although, I think I’ve figured out why those who use chopsticks are so skinny.

Today at the gym a woman who looked to be in her 70’s walked from the shower and placed two paper towels on the bench in front of me.  While she was covered in a towel she hiked it up and sat on the paper towels while putting her shoes on.  She stood up and the paper towels got stuck in her butt crack.  No, I’m not joking.  The best part was the giggle that came out of her.

Does anyone else with kids feel like they’ve run a marathon after bathing 2 kids???  It sounds like it should be so simple!  Bathing 2 kids… it’s like herding wet cats.

 

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Random Shat We All Think

I love being a regular at Starbucks.  Until I want to try something different.  Although, it does mean I get two drinks: the one the barista made me when she saw my car pull in the parking lot and the one I asked for, which they prolly spit in.

If my kids were less cute they’d be better behaved.

{I can’t stay mad at you.}

My dream job is teaching yoga on the beach.  I feel like it’s a thing.

Scratch that.  I’m not serious enough to teach yoga.  I’d just make fun of everyone.

I have an Oscar acceptance speech written in my head.  I practice from time to time.

When I was younger I used to wonder what kind of schedule celebrities keep to need hospitalization for “exhaustion”.  Then I realized that “exhaustion” must be code for “meth”.

Why do people apologize when they obviously aren’t sorry?  “Hi, um, you over charged me.  I’m sorry!”  No, you aren’t.  Why would you be sorry that SHE over charged you?  Are you sorry for pointing it out?  If so, you don’t deserve the money.  Are you sorry for the inconvenience?  You shouldn’t be.  If you hit the clerk in the face, then you should apologize.

 

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Christmas Card Chaos

Each year, I send a cute Christmas card to all 10,000 of my closest friends and family members.

{Yes, I exaggerate.  Maybe I get confused because I spend $10,000 on stamps.}

The first year we sent cards we didn’t have a ton of time or money to find a photographer so our card was a hodgepodge of candid pictures through the year.  Christmas Card 2011

Super cute, inexpensive, got the job done.

Then the hubs we raised the bar.

My hubs is a classic overachiever.  Bachelor’s degree + TWO Master’s degrees = super-smart.  He didn’t get to where he is now by being average.

And I love that he pushes me to rise to his level of over-achievement.  I appreciate this about him very much.

HOWEVER, the reason it takes him pushing is because I know that once that pesky little bar has been raised, it’s hard to shove it back down.  Believe me, I’ve tried.  A lot.

{“Wow, E.  You birthed a 9 lb. baby boy with a head the size of a bowling ball for my birthday!  That’s the best present ever!”  Dam.}

“Hey, E, we need to have family pictures taken.  Like the nice ones we see all over Facebook.  Not the ones that we take ourselves.”

{He has a point.  But I must tread lightly.  One misstep and by the time the kids are in high school I’ll end up with no place to go but the Kardashian Kristmas card.}

Kardashian Kristmas

nicksaglimbeni.com

 

Yes, we should send all of our enemies friends a 3-D Christmas card!  Should we include the glasses???  No, I’m sure everyone has the 3-D app on their iPhone 10.

Surprisingly, I am a perfectionist.  I want everything I touch, ESPECIALLY our Christmas card, to be perfect.  A beautiful representation of my sweet little family on our best day.

BUT, I realized early on that I didn’t want to die of a heart attack by age 15.

Because I know I can’t control everything and everyone, I step back.

I have to “Let it Go” in order to get anything done.  Otherwise, I’d work on my hair for 3 hours, spend 3 hours ironing my pants, another 8 hours scrubbing baseboards with a toothbrush, 10 hours organizing bills and stuff, 5 hours folding laundry perfectly… you get the idea.

So, when I take a picture of my family at home there may be a pile of crap in the background:

Crap in background

In my defense, we were renovating… that’s why the bed’s not made.

My clothes sometimes look like this:

Wrinkles

All the wrinkles will keep each other company!

My hair sometimes looks like this:

Gross Haire

Just. Gross.

I’ve learned to let things go for the sake of sanity.  Once I learned how it was like a thousand butterflies lifted the dumb bells off my shoulders and angels embraced me.  Aaaaahhhh.  For my tightly-wound friends I highly recommend trying it.

{Luckily, I don’t live in a town that will put me on the prayer list if someone “calls” on me and my bed isn’t made.  I’m just on the prayer list because I have the mouth of a convict sailor, drink alcohol on occasion, and have tattoos.}

Now, back to Christmas cards (You were wondering, weren’t you?)

{Ladies and Gentlemen, thank you for riding Tangent Airways.}

The second year we sent out Christmas cards we used a picture from our first family experience with a professional photographer.  Shameless plug, if you’re in Atlanta, Claire Elise is amazing.

Christmas Card 2012

Bar.  Officially.  Raised.

The third year we used the same photographer (she really is awesome).  This time we were dressed up a little more, all color-coordinated, on location at Piedmont Park.  Our card was breathtaking.  Especially when I MISSPELLED OUR LAST NAME.  Ooops.  Ma bad.  (I snipped the name part out of the card for the post so it’s like it didn’t really happen.  I’m still perfect.)

Christmas Card 201

What I love about this picture is that no one would have any idea that Bella decided it was hilarious to honk my boobs during much of the shoot.

{Bar raised, then lowered by half on account of the spelling mishap.}

So began our descent.

I knew this year the pressure was on.  All I had to do was nail spelling our last name correctly.  I got this.

I made the appointment with Claire in October, carefully taking into account my hubs’ call schedule, kids’ activity calendar, and any miscellaneous events I’ve over-committed to.

Every detail was planned.  Claire was going to meet us at the square and we were going to be all dolled up in our best holiday attire.  Heck, I was feeling so sassy that the cray-cray dogs were even going to be included!

I felt very prepared and accomplished… and then it rained.

Part of me was relieved.

The hubs wanted the opportunity to buy clothes specifically for the occasion and he hadn’t had the chance.  Maybe this would give him the window of time he needed to find the perfect Christmas outfit.

{Isn’t finding the perfect Christmas outfit top of mind for every man???}

Reno 911!

youtube.d3.ru

 

Hi Officers!  Just on my way to have my Christmas pictures taken.  No big deal.(Really I just wanted to reference “Reno 911!”)

 Plus, I found a corduroy blazer for Roman but the store was out of his size at the time I needed it for pictures.  Maybe now I had the chance to put my little guy in an old guy blazer!

{I love to see little boys dressed up like old men.  It’s like watching a Hallmark commercial.}

I also needed a “perfect” bow for Bella’s hair.

AND, I was looking a little pasty.  SPRAY TAN TIME!!!

Only none of those things ended up happening.

Instead of investing in the perfect family Christmas pictures we had to have our hardwood floors replaced because our furnace leaked.

We lived in a hotel for a week while our floors were being fixed.  Sooooo, that chunk of time was out of the question.

And then the kids started karate twice a week which narrowed our opportunities for free time even more.

But, around the middle of November I thought, “No big deal!  Our first Christmas card was totally adorable {“totes adorb” for those under age 25}.  We can revive the candid pic card!”

MM-MM.  Nope.  Not so cute.

We rarely get the chance to take a family picture.

When we do, chances are one of us has a wonky eye or a runny nose, someone {Roman} is crying, a random dog is pooping in the background, or I decide, “Today is the day I choose to not wash my hair.  I’m not doing anything important today.”

Joke’s on you, E.

Today is the day you will take a memorable, candid picture with your family during an impromptu ice skating adventure.  Today is the day everyone is adorably cute and perfectly poised.

And your hair will shine like the Star of David.  Your friends will ask why they just purchased cooking grease from the store when they could have harvested it from your head.

Also, today is the day your face decides to retain all the water you’ve been drinking for the past year.

Ugh.

I’ll take one for the team.

However, as the days ticked by, I thought, “Maybe I don’t have to use the swollen-face-dirty-hair picture.  I’ll dress the kids up in their cute Christmas pj’s and get a beautiful picture of them by the tree!  Who needs a pro??  I GOT THIS.”

Nope.  I attract jokes like a magnet.

I dressed the kids up and positioned them in front of the perfectly lit tree.  I got out my professional DLS Nokia phone.  AAAAAAAAAND our new black lab puppy who weighs 1,000 pounds photo bombs our picture.

What the face, Georgia!  MOOOOOOVE!

Bella, who is terrified of Georgia when she acts like a puppy (which is all the time), freaked out and just about pooped her pants.

Move Georgia

{The look on her face says enough.}

Roman decided it was time to tackle Georgia because all he’s ever wanted to be is a Football Player Boy.

Lola, our Chihuahua, was laid up on the couch with her eye hanging out.

{Different story for a different time.}

Sometimes in life (especially where kids are involved) you just have to say “at least we’re pretty”.  Or “shudda called Claire”.  But then I wouldn’t have this horribly transparent blog post.

So, without further ado, I present our 2014 “Swollen Face-Dirty Hair-Black Lab Bombed-Oops I Crapped My Pants” Christmas card:Christmas Card 2014

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Why I Love Kids

I LOVE kids.  One of my favorite things about kids is all the comedic material they provide.  I wasn’t really expecting that when I had my first child.  She was really my first experience with babies.  My sister was born when I was four, so I didn’t remember all the baby stuff and I only had one friend who had already started a family when I found out I was pregnant and she lived out of state.  I had NO idea what to do with a baby.

The one thing I expected (from reading the thousands of books) was to hold this fragile little being like she was a brand new Balenciaga handbag.

{You know, the $1 million, platinum-dipped bag that you don’t want to breathe on, much less throw a wallet in}

HOWEVER, as soon as the doctor handed me a tiny, 6 pound baby girl she lifted her head and flared her nostrils.  And I SWEAR she was looking right at me.  That’s when I knew I had to re-evaluate all the books I’d spent the past 9 months reading.

Neither of my children had that floppy-head thing that most newborns have.  And sometimes when they looked at me it was like they had the wisdom of Confucius with the body of Stewie Griffin {who my son channels every night with, “Mom, mommy, momma, mom, mom, mom, mooooom}.

My daughter did everything early.  She was crawling at 5 months, walking well by 10 months.  Naps???  What are those?  I’ve been in a constant state of exhaustion for almost 7 years.

My son came out the size of a linebacker.  His favorite thing to do as a baby was use his head as a weapon against my nose.  {What did my nose ever do to you???}  And he’ll take a nap if you drive him around in the car.  Still not helpful in allowing me time to sleep as well.

My daughter is a ball of spirited energy.  She’s impulsive and dramatic and independent and a born leader.

My son is a sensitive bulldozer.  He is a tank, full-throttle, and physical but let his sister call him a name and he cries for two hours.

Both of my kids are hilarious.  I’m not just saying that because they are my kids and I value hilarity.  They are truly funny.

My daughter, Bella, has zero filter.  Whatever pops into her head comes out of her mouth.  (I hold my breath a LOT).  She also loves performing.  She’s been known to belt out “Let It Go” in the middle of Target for an impromptu concert.

What makes those qualities of hers exponentially awesome is that she frequently mispronounces words and butchers song lyrics.

Simple math (none of that Common Core crap)

Bella + (no impulse control * butchered song lyrics) = Erica (that’s me) pees her pants and almost dies from asphyxiation due to hysterically laughing

Case in point

My top 5 favorite Bella-isms:

  1. Athter = After
  2. Bownero = Bow and arrow
  3. Naybe = Maybe
  4. Billy Wonka = Willy Wonka
  5. Happy Gilmert = Happy Gilmore
  6. BONUS = Any word starting with “HU” is pronounced as a “Q”. Qu-man = Human, Qu-ge = Huge

 

{Imagine hearing this monologue: Roman, did you know that Billy Wonka made that candy you’re eating?  It’s true!  Mom, did you see that quge queman on Happy Gilmert?  It looks like he naybe has a bownero through his head athter that one part!}

My top 5 Bella-ized song lyrics:

  1. Let it go, let it go, turn around and sit on the floor (from “Let it Go”)
  2. Baby I’m playin’ on you ta-nigh, hunt you down, eat you aligh (from “Animals”)
  3. Feliz la ti da (so sings the daughter of a Spanish major… from “Feliz Navidad”)
  4. And abba ubba bo try to save me, but here’s my numba, so call me naybe (from “Call Me Maybe”)

{Me: Hey, Bella, what do you think “abba ubba bo” means?  Bella: Duh, Mom, it’s for the song.  Me: oh, ok that makes sense.}

  1. All the singalets, all the singalets, all the singalets, all the singalets (from “All the Single Ladies”, obviously.)

My son, Roman, is incredibly head strong.  He hates to be told “no”.  He also likes to take on other personas.  For example, Roman has been known to practice his WWE wrestling moves (declaring himself a “wrestler boy”) on his sister in Target (I feel really bad for others who happen to be in Target when we arrive).

The qualities that mesmerize me most about my Roman are his ability to effectively trash talk at the age of 3 and the expert way he keeps everyone guessing (who is he going to be today???).

I submit as evidence

My 5 favorite cut-downs delivered by Roman:

  1. Mommy, you talk funny and I’m a clown.

{This is possibly the equivalent of calling someone a “mommy fudger” in his world.  If you mock the way he says a word, he falls apart for days.  And he thinks clowns are scary vampires that will strike fear in the Devil himself.}

  1. Mommy, I don’t care if you put me in my cwib. I gonna climb out.  Then I gonna open tha door and spank you.
  2. Bella, I gonna take you in jail.
  3. Me: Roman, I need you to pick up your toys, please.

Roman: No, I need you to do it.

{Redirecting.  I see what you’ve done there.}

  1. Bella, I gonna fart on you.
  2. Me: Roman, please pick up your towel

Roman: Roman, please pick up your towel
Me: Roman, Mommy isn’t joking.  Pick it up.
Roman: Roman, Mommy isn’t joking. Pick it up.
Me: Roman, let’s go talk to Daddy
Roman: No!  I not!  Mommy, I NOT YOU’RE BOYFRIEND.

{Ouch, baby.  Very ouch.}

My 5 favorite alter egos of Roman:

  1. Capit Amewica
  2. Leaf-blower boy (He even has the sound effect down)
  3. Slash
  4. Batmanrobin boy
  5. Adam Levine

I love kids.  When given enough rein to express themselves they are more incredible than incredible and more wonderful than wonderful.  Plus, they provide infinite material for my blog 🙂

(once I stop laughing long enough to get to my computer)

 

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HOW DID I GET HERE???

By day I am THE Senior Manager of Compensation. Most people don’t even know what that means. My husband’s brain explodes when someone asks him what I do. I could try to explain it to you but you really don’t care. You would probably stop reading and never come back. Sometimes I wonder how I got here. Sitting in my office, bored out of my mind, thinking to myself, “listen, I get that you want to hire your girlfriend as your secretary and pay her $200k/year. But I don’t care enough to fudge data for you.” Thinking back, my journey went a little something like this:

Hey! Congratulations on your college degree! That’s awesome. Now, I’m going to need you to find that super, amazing, high-paying job in the next few weeks or you’ll be labeled a failure and embarrass your parents making them regret the financial investment they’ve made for the past 4 years. Thank you!

For those of you who are still in college or even high school, get ready. It’s coming.

Growing up I heard a rumor that in order to be successful in life one HAS to get good grades, go to college, graduate from said college and, if one does that, one will have mounds of gold coins falling from the sky and a money tree will sprout from the backyard of the perfect picket-fenced house that you’re magically issued upon graduation. Rainbows and unicorns will follow you for the rest of your life while feeding you cotton candy, you’ll never gain an ounce of weight, and you’ll have your own pep band follow you everywhere just like Dan did in the old Starbucks commercial.

{ENTER REALITY STAGE RIGHT}

Ouch, Reality! That freakin’ hurt! GAH! MOOOOOOM! Reality just slapped me in tha fah-aaace!

Only mom didn’t get out her wooden spoon. Or even put reality in a time out. Not. Fair. What everyone forgot to tell me was that I was now expected to put in my time.

{Um, no, you must have missed my degree.  I’m here for the CEO position, not the Administrative Assistant.}

Most of us don’t graduate with a killer resume. The smart ones are really good at lying. Some have rich parents that set up a trust fund. Others have parents who own their own company. I was too dumb to lie, not lucky enough for a trust fund, and my parents probably wouldn’t have hired me even if they did have their own gig. So I had to start from the bottom. With a degree in Romance Languages no less. What tha face, Erica. No one knows what a Romance Languages degree is!!

“OH, you wanna teach?? You should teach!”

NO! I spent all four years of high school plotting my escape! I don’t wanna go BACK!

“Well, then, what are you going to do?”

I wanna be famous I want to end world hunger and adopt all of the orphans and I want to rescue dogs and I want to save dolphins… How am I supposed to know??  I’m 22!

Um… I’ll move to Italy for a bit while I drink a lot of wine, eat too much pasta, and spend some time with lifeguards named Luciano while I ponder the direction of my life. {B.T.Dubs, the answers to ALL of life’s questions are hiding in Italy.}
I spent the next year applying for EVERYTHING. I had no idea what I was doing.

{Project Manager of a construction site? Sure! Although, now that I think about it, hard hats mess up my hair and dirt isn’t really my color, so… I’m going to have to pass on that.}

Finally in April (almost a FULL YEAR after graduating from UGA) I had a job offer. As a flight attendant!!! {Yay!!! I’m going to see the world and be pretty and-}

{ENTER REALITY STAGE LEFT}

Ok, Reality, stop. I swear to everything sacred. You touch me again and I’ll punch you in the throat. Seriously. Not even joking.

I was on ready reserve for the first few months. THAT means starting at 4:30 AM schedulers can begin calling you to go wherever they need you to go for up to 3 days. And you have two hours to get to the airport. Remember that thing in a previous post about me not being a morning person? AND you only get paid from wheels up to wheels down. Plus, have you tried being pretty at 4:30 am? Mm-mm. Not gonna happen.

To top it off, I worked for AirTran. So I didn’t get to see the world. I got to see a lot of Bloomington, IL. Sometimes, if I was a really good girl (not very often), I got to see Baltimore. {Hi, I’m in Baltimore.}

I knew it was time to hang up my wings while on a fateful trip that was supposed to make a quick stop in Orlando to pick up passengers then head to Chicago for the night. Simple in and out (Heh, y’all know why I’m giggling right now). As soon as we landed in Orlando we saw the backup. There was an 8 hour flight delay. So I grabbed myself a snack and the crew sat on the plane to wait. That was at 12pm. At 11:30 am the flight was finally cancelled (because the crew timed out) after the passengers had already been lined up 3 times to board the plane. The passengers were so homicidal that security had to escort us off the plane and down stairs through a back passageway so that we wouldn’t get hurt by the passengers who were, at the time, throwing stuff. We had to spend the night in a hotel that was being remediated for mold after a hurricane (super stinky) and we had one of the first flights out in the morning. A mere seven hours after the flight was cancelled. Which meant about 4 hours of sleep. The next morning we were super lucky to get another group of incredibly angry passengers on their way to Buffalo, NY (aka, the land of hospitality). They were so angry, in fact, that the Captain had to threaten that the next person to cuss or throw anything at the crew would be removed from the plane. We finally took off; things were ok, then BAM. One of the flight attendants passed out cold. Once I got home and recovered from that flight I quickly called the boss I had as an intern in college and switched professions to the more stable Human Resources. (Sure there was the time we had to notify a convicted murderer that he wasn’t getting a janitorial job because he was convicted of felony murder, and the time a woman came to the office and threatened us for not hiring her so security had to haul her off but at least I wasn’t stuck in a metal tube 35,000 feet in the air with the crazies).

However, I learned a lot during my short time as a babysitter in the sky:
First of all, be nice to your neighbor. Not all flight attendants should be trusted to get you safely out of an unsafe plane and the person next to you may be your only hope. If you piss them off you’re screwed.

{You know I’m right.}

Please don’t have a chip on your shoulder while flying. The flight attendants didn’t delay your flight or lose your bags. No one is out to get you. In fact, no one wants you, The Douche, on the plane. We want you off the plane ASAP. Better yet, if you could just not board at all that would be stellar.

{Oh, yes, Sir. I’m so sorry that you are mad about being stuck on the tarmac for six hours. Actually, I’ve been stuck for six hours as well and I’m currently missing my dad’s retirement dinner, my mom’s 50th birthday, my grandparents’ 100th wedding anniversary, and the birth of my first child. And I’m not being paid right now as you are cussing me out so… The person you want to address that harshly worded letter to is Mother Nature. She works in our corporate office, although she may be out today. (She travels a lot). If this is an emergency, you are welcome to pop the tail cone, walk across the tarmac, climb that tower over there, and speak to an Air Traffic Controller. Also, I’m going to need you to back up to a distance where I don’t smell your horrible breath or get a facial from showers of your angry spittle. Thanks so much!}

If you act like a douchebag you will be made fun of. And probably someone will spit in your drink.

Life has thrown me a lot of curve balls. A few have pegged me in the arm but none have knocked me out and for that I am grateful. HR was an interesting surprise. Not one I would have picked for myself intentionally but it was a curveball I could hit. Hopefully I can hit the next one, too!

I don’t like it when balls come at me that I can’t hit.
THAT’S WHAT SHE SAID!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

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Wrote a Blog About It… Like Ta Hear It? Here it goes…

I kinda thought my life was “normal”.  Everyone has highs and lows, right?  It was only fairly recently I started noticing that people seem to react with nervous laughter, shock, awe, horror, or a “bless your heart” look when I’d join in on the water cooler talk.  The bad reactions made me pause.

{Doesn’t everyone have a crazy Green Beret ex-husband who tried to start another family while still married to their pregnant wife? NO????? Wait a minute…}

So, naturally, I did what every “normal” person does when they suspect something in their life is amiss; I drank heavily and went on a crime spree.  Just kidding.  (or am i???)   The things that I’ve gone through and the lessons I’ve learned have to be for something.So here I am, vowing to share with you the good, bad, and fugly. (It’s really a thing. Google it).

Full disclosure, I’m not a “trained” writer. (I know this comes as a shock cuz I’m so good at rhyming).  Growing up I wanted to be an actress.  More precisely, I wanted to be on Saturday Night Live so bad I could taste it.  For a minute it was a tossup between In Living Color and SNL.  But I settled on SNL because it was more established.  (See! A LOT of thought went into this).  And I had a plan to fulfill my destiny.  I would be discovered in a mall or bar a la Ashton Kutcher and magically appear on camera to tons of adoring fans because I was so incredibly awesome that everyone would automatically love me.  SNL would beg ME to join THEM.  From SNL I’d transition to Oscar-worthy films along the same line as Superstar, Happy Gilmore, and anything by Monte Python.

Making people laugh is all I’ve ever wanted to do.

But, being that I’m a member of the co-dependent club (recently discovered… more on that later), I gave in to “reason” and went to college (UGA, GO DAWGS!) to study Romance Languages (B.T.Dubs, not as sexy as it sounds).  I took film and acting classes as electives to satiate my desire to perform and put the dream of famed comedienne aside as outside pressure to conform to the norms of society mounted my hopes and dreams like a dog in heat.  Born of the fugly (heh) union was a string of life choices that were questionable at best.

Don’t get me wrong; I’ve had some amazing experiences. I graduated from a great party school college, went to parties joined a sorority while I was there, worked as a nanny in Italy for a second (well, hello, hot Italian lifeguard), had a promising career as a babysitter flight attendant for a minute, I coach cute little 5-year-old cheerleaders (I really can’t believe people trust me with their kids… maybe this blog is a bad idea), and have met some wonderful people along the way.

As roundabout as my journey has been, it brought me to my current situation, which is pretty dreamy. I have a hunky husband who sticks with me through the great and horrible (thanks, babe), two of the best kids in the history of kids (the cause of the permanent “II” between my eyes), and awesome friends who keep me grounded. (No, that’s not true. They feed my dirty, twisted sense of humor).

As it turns out, my career path has been a good, stable one. I’ve worked my way up the corporate ladder and my husband and I both have been able to provide well for our family. BUT, I still find myself unsatisfied (that’s what she said).

{Apparently, the white collar types look down on spontaneous comedy routines in annual incentive meetings… stuck up jerks.}

So, to simultaneously feed my hunger for comedy and spread some gul powa (Spice Girls), here is my blog.   In an effort to begin our relationship on the right foot, I have a few promises to make to you:

  1. I promise to try to not be vulgar or inappropriate (I will TRY)
  2. I promise to add a new post a least once a week (Pretty doable. That’s what she said)
  3. I promise to only publish posts that make sense and I promise to do a better job of editing out my stream-of-consciousness dialogue. (For me this is going to be hard because sometimes I get sidetracked on a slight tangent and then the next thing I know I’m on People.com and then- OH! I just read that Billy Gilman revealed he’s gay. Not sure who that is but good for him. I bet if I read the article I’d know who he is… BRB)
  4. I promise to try to not use “That’s what she said” jokes. LOL! I can’t. That’s a lie. When I see an opportunity to use that line it’s like the universe is daring me. And I can’t turn down a dare.

Out of the 4 promises above (which really are only 3, I think, because #4 could count toward #1) I’ll probably only stick to #2. Just being honest.

There will be laughs (I hope), there will be some awkward moments (I’m sure), some unexpected twists (no doubt), but I’ll lay it all out here.   (There will also be comma splices and misused words. This is your warning). And maybe, juuuust maybe, I can help someone out there live a little easier by avoiding some of the poo piles I’ve found myself in the middle of or, if you’ve already found them, know you aren’t alone and maybe have a laugh. Besides, and this is important, no matter how stinky life gets… AT LEAST WE’RE PRETTY!

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