Hump day. Am I right, Jay?

Tired. The promise of Thursday is my motivation. And after Thursday comes FRIDAY.

And thank goodness for that. Might even compel me to blog better tomorrow.

Moving right along

I had every intention of typing something that waxed poetic. Something that'd cause you all to cry tears of pleasant, home-hitting joy, possibly feel nostalgic, and make you all feel awesome. I might have even won a Pulitzer for it.

But then my cat came to sit on my laptop's keyboard, and she sat there for like twenty minutes, and when she got up, all inspiration was gone.

It's okay. Mia's display was adorable, and I don't want to win a Pulitzer anyway. Who wants an award named after the guy who was after a bunch of newsies, anyway?

Do you guys hate me?

No one wants to hang around a guy who ends every sentence with, "Do you guys hate me?"
- Mike Birbiglia

Okay, so maybe I don't end every sentence with "Do you guys hate me?", but it's practically the end of all of the sentences that simmer out of my internal dialogue. I wish I were kidding about that.

For those few of you that have known me since high school, I've come a long way when it comes to self-esteem. I've made strides, I tell you. For the most part, I think I'm pretty fabulous. My hair tends to look great more often than not. I like the way my butt looks in those jeans. I've got an awesome nose.

But then I start analyzing myself socially. And I go from all of this positive self-thinking to stuff that sounds more like this:

Am I bugging her? They must think I'm so freaking annoying. Am I calling/texting/talking too much? Too little? What if they're all nice to me to my face and I'm the person no one really wants around? I shouldn't have mentioned watch that show/movie; now they're going to think I'm an idiot. She probably regrets being friends with me. Am I being talked about when I leave the room?


That's it. They all secretly hate me but no one's brave enough to say anything - or worse, they think that by being nice to me it won't hurt my feelings. Why did I get out of bed today, seriously?


These are the thoughts that go through my head when I'm at work, around my friends/family, at church, on Facebook (yes), you name it. It's not as constant as you might think, but when I get socially insecure, these self-questions get really loud, really quickly.

I could ask my readership the "do you guys hate me" question. Maybe there'll be one or two people to affirm my socially good standing, but I always dread the silence more than anything else.

Resolved: If you hate me, tell me so. If I'm mildly annoying, tell me so. If you'd rather I stay on that side of the room and elect not to talk to you, tell me so.

Ready? Go.

Well you know

I saw Sascha Baron Cohen spill Kim Jong Il on Ryan Seacrest. I saw Batman give Octavia Spencer a much-deserved award.

And now I'm currently watching the most Mad Men and Purple Rose Of Cairo themed display of Cirque du Soleil that I've ever observed. I'd say the Oscars were a success.

Take a moment

Not much to report today, save that I have my very own personal, detachable, Scarlett O'Hara 'do to wear on my tour days at the history center.

Can we just pause and declare that my hair looked freaking AWESOME as a result? Look at that beautiful, braided faux-bun.

Here it is

Your Friday Moment of Zen. (Also clearly identifiable as Your Friday Gif of Something Precious.)

Don't worry; I know how much you love it.

Theme Park, Multi-Level, Homogenize-the-World Mochaccino Land

Today's entry marks my hundredth post, and to commemorate the occasion, I thought I'd present you all with a bit of fluff about one of my all-time favorite movies.

You've Got Mail hit theaters when I was twelve years old. Let's face it: no twelve year-old has a sweet clue about the essential formulaic principles governing a good rom-com. Naivete aside, I saw it in theaters about four times.

This movie became a quotable, stay-home-when-you're-sick-because-it-makes-you-feel-better movie. And then, years later, it became a movie that I watched and got all nostalgic for AOL and such things as dialup. (How did we even function as a society without at least the most basic DSL? I ask you.) It makes me feel more energized when I'm typing away on a laptop keyboard (e.g., right now). It fills me with a zeal to visit every single one of the filming locations on my upcoming trip to New York.

It also features Meg Ryan's character running an adorbs children's bookstore and reading customers Roald Dahl stories with a pointy hat. Let's be perfectly honest with ourselves here: I would be so stinking good at being The Storybook Lady.

Above: My dream job.

I don't even dig romantic comedies, but I absolutely love the warm fuzzies that You've Got Mail gives me. And it makes me almost want to revert back to the simpler days of AOL and dial-up. Almost.

Also, for those of you who have been reading from my first entry to today's #100: thanks, y'all. You give me the warm fuzzies. Let's make my next hundred blog posts even better. (And by "let's," I mean "I should.")

Lent: Day One

First day without sweets was a success. The only ironic part was that the Girl Scout cookies that I'd waited ages for decided to come in today. They couldn't have arrived yesterday, when I was still allowed to indulge, oh no. And so, I'll have a box of Trefoils and a box of Savannah Smiles waiting for me after Easter.

I did hear this little tidbit from the Ash Wednesday service tonight: Sundays are meant to be "feast days," which means that you're permitted to have what you'd been denying yourself all week, but only once a week. Anyone else know about this?

Either way, I think I'll be careful with what I do with my Sundays. I'm determined to make this whole Lenten season not about losing weight. Will it be awesome if that happens as a result of denying myself sugary treats? Sure. Should that be my goal for the next 40 days? No.

I'll let you folks know how I'm doing as I putter along.

So. Whaddya got in mind, soldier boy?

"Wh-who's there?"
"Telegram!"
"Telegram? I don't want a telegram! Go away! ...Who is it?"
"Flowers!"
"Flowers? I don't want any flowers, go away! Who is it?"
"Landshark!"
"What?"
"...A.D.!"
"Oh! You're an A.D.?"
"Oh, yeah!"

Stalking's a little harder than I expected.

Work to Live

Today was a rotten Monday at work. And I mean rotten. Like Alexander and the Terrible, Awful, No-Good, Very Bad Day rotten. It made me want to move to Australia and everything.

But see, that's the thing about work: I go to work, I earn my money, and then I go home and enjoy life.

This isn't to say that I don't enjoy my life at work. I do. My co-workers are good to chat with. My job is mostly easy (except on a day like today, when everyone needs everything RIGHT NOW and there are no simple solutions). The hours I work are good. I've got a boss that's very understanding, smart, and approachable. The pay is pretty decent.

Does that mean I love my job? ...Not exactly. I don't wake up and just love what I do for a living. I wake up, log my seven hours of time on the job, go home, and decompress.

Today, decompressing included just being so danged pleased as punch to be able to come home and see my handsome husband, to feel loved, to hug him for centuries at a time without even caring about getting anything else done, to make steamed dumplings and rice for dinner, to sit down and watch the latest installment of Once Upon A Time, and to maybe even go to bed early.

It's for all those reasons, and many more, that I won't let my professional world get me down. In fact, I'll continue to think I'm awesome.

And if you're in need of motivation to feel awesome, look no further:

It definitely helped me today. I mean, right?!

Property Virgins

I don't have the initiative to look through old posts and see if I'd mentioned this one already, so I'll mention it again: David and I are starting out our quest for home ownership. We took a very official step this afternoon and toured our Very First Potential House. Words can't adequately express how freaking awesome and indicative-of-grown-up-ness this is.

And also a little scary. But mostly awesome and indicative-of-grown-up-ness.

The house we viewed today was huge. Way too huge for what we should be able to afford with our budget, quite honestly. It didn't seem to make sense as to why that was, seeing as how the house was (a) on a nice piece of land in a (b) veryvery nice neighborhood with (c) a heck of a lot of square footage. Upon touring the place, we learned that, while it's not a total fixer-upper, there's a lot of cosmetic damage that needs looking at. The house hasn't been lived in in over a year, so I imagine it needs a bit more love than it's getting at present.

We're not saying "no" to the house just yet, but we know we can get more ready-to-go houses that are just as nice (if not better) for well within our price range. And let's be honest, the whole notion of home hunting is just plain exciting. I'm most content with touring more homes for the simple reason that it's just plain fun to do so.

Needless to say, I'm giving myself the task of watching as many episodes of House Hunters and Property Virgins that I can in order to prepare for the rest of our search.

Oh, and: HGTV does a lot of its production in the Atlanta area. So, y'know, HGTV, if you're keen on saving some gas money, you've got a sweet, attractive husband and wife that would just love if you assisted them with their home search. Thanks much. XOXO

Whip it. Whip it good.

Although I've yet to sit down and watch Whip It, I was intrigued when David offered to take me to a roller derby. Can't beat an eclectic date night of watching minimally-protected girls hip-check one another out of bounds, right?

We ventured toward midtown, where, at the unlikely venue of the Shriners' Yaarab Temple, some highlighter-yellow electric tape marked the makeshift rink. The body checking was abundant, the fans absolutely nutty in appearance and demeanor (were we the only ones that didn't come from Little 5 Points, seriously?), but it was a rockin' good time. Lots of energy, body checking, showmanship. Roller derbies are theatrical experiences, I tell you what.

I daresay we'll want to go again. And, thanks to the schedule magnet that was wedged in our program, we'll always know when to hit up the Dirty South Derby Girls again.

Here it is

Your moment of Zen. (I think I'm kind of digging this theme for my Fridays. It's stress-free, fun, and I'm sure it'll boost my viewership. Eventually.)

This never gets old. Ever. All my A Goofy Movie appreciators represent.

This brief blog entry brought to you by Uncle Sam

Hold everything. I thought that good honest taxpayers can celebrate around tax time?

Uncle Sam, I am disappoint. I also detest filing taxes.

Resolved:

I'm participating in Lent for the first time ever, and I've decided to give up sugar. I'll be relying only on natural sugars like fruits, fruit juices and honey to get my sweet tooth fix.

(Too bad I couldn't give up blogging. AH-HYUCK.)

S.A.V.D.

There was once a time that I was so frustrated with the concept of Valentine's Day - that cursed day out of the year that it was rubbed in my face how tragically single I was - that I formed an unofficial committee in protest: Singles Against Valentine's Day, or S.A.V.D. (pronounced "saved") for short.

If that sounds like a dreadfully middle school thing to do, that was because I was in middle school. I grumbled to myself (and to any other transient members of the club that happened to lend an ear) and was an overall unappreciator of all things pink, heart, candy, et cetera. Sounds kind of annoying, actually, doesn't it? Common sense prevailed a few years later, when I started to understand that there was nothing overtly criminal about people wanting to celebrate being with the ones they love.

Why oh why, then, do some of my fellow twentysomethings still grasp for days when S.A.V.D. was a Thing one could embrace? (Hint: It doesn't look attractive when you seethe, darling.)

So, armed with my scant amount of advice, let me drop some knowledge on y'all:

To those of you without a romantic involvement this Valentine's Day: Chin up. It's only one day. Desperation and fervent, angry hissing about the holiday won't do you any favors. And yes, you can look desperate to the outside world without meaning to. Check your thoughts, your emotions, and dust off your shoulders because you are fabulous, hon. (You're only not fabulous if you think your entire sense of self-worth is only validated by having a main squeeze on February 14th.)

To those of you lucky souls that have a sweetie this Valentine's Day: We get it. You love your honey pie, your sugar lips, your widdle schnookie bear (and you'll wuv them forever and ever and ever and ever). We're even glad she slaved over a hot stove to prepare an impossible meal after a hard day's work. Hooray, he went to Tiffany & Co and bought you something outrageous. Good for you, seriously. Remember this, though: Valentine's Day shouldn't be celebrated once a year if you have someone you love in your life. Love them all day, every day. That's the beautiful stuff right there. (Oh, and be mindful of how you're making your single friends feel with every lovey-dovey, gushy tweet/Facebook update.)

Moral of the story: Love one another. If it's good enough for Jesus, it's good enough for you. Just don't be shovin' that lovin' in the faces of those that don't care for your gushin'. Dig?

Beating the Mondays

Sure fire way to clobber those post-weekend blues: leftover fettuccine alfredo from Maggiano's, marathons of "Modern Family" with my husband, and freaking BIRTHDAY CAKE FLAVORED OREOS for dessert?!

This madness slapped my Monday right in the nose.

Love is...

1. Sleeping in until whenever we want to this morning.
2. Eating sugary cereals for breakfast in front of the TV.
3. Taking our time to get ready.
4. Driving through local neighborhoods to browse for potential home ownership.
5. Passing through historic downtown Roswell.
6. Covered bridges.
7. Surprise windows.
8. Walking around Anthropologie and wishing their gorgeous clothes were affordable.
9. Gift cards to Maggiano's (when they work).
10. To-go boxes.
11. Making fun of Breaking Dawn together.
12. Totally and for-serious wigging out at tonight's Belle-infused episode of Once Upon A Time.

All of those things, and so many more, add up to eleven months of married bliss to my very best friend. David, you make my world go 'round.

Got my hurr did

Today, as I do with at least one or two of my Saturdays a month, I logged some volunteer hours at the Smith Family Farm at the Atlanta History Center. This is one of my favorite things to do for several reasons:

1. Giving tours as a docent is a great way to get my history fix.

2. The environment and the people that work there are so fantastic and laid back.

3. I get to wear 1860s-era attire.

Let's be honest here: I love playing dress-up. There's an awesome calico dress I borrow that makes me feel like one of the March sisters and an apron that hearkens back to my Belle days. In order to look the part, I usually have to twist my hair back into a period-appropriate up-do. This is all well and good, except I don't have the rear-end-length tresses that nineteenth-century ladies (we're talking more barely-brushing-shoulders-length, at best). This provides just enough length to get the sides to twist, but you don't get that awesome Louisa May Alcott bun gathered in the back.

UNTIL TODAY.

The photo doesn't quite do it justice, but the house manager unearthed a wonderful Cinnabon of synthetic hair all wound up in a beautiful braided bun. We pinned it to the back of my scant twist of hair, and voila - instant Scarlett O'Hara.

Best part: I'm getting my own personal piece next time I go. I'm gonna wear that magic Cinnabon like it's my job.

Hot dog.

Here it is

Your moment of zen:

HAPPY FRIDAY, EVERYBODY.

Feel the burn

There once was a time when I hated exercise. I mean, grossly detested it. I think I can trace it back to my first grade P.E. class, where one afternoon, we were given a ball and a field hockey stick and instructed to bat that thing around a field (approximately half a mile, to be precise). I was the very.last.person to finish, and it wasn't like a close-second sort of finish. I was struggling, you guys. In fact, it was the only time I ever cried in school. (Yes, I'll let my faithful readership feel sorry for six year-old me. Let's face it, that's a pathetic mental image. Don't you just want to adopt me?)

I was never grossly overweight, but I was never really content with my post-puberty "blessing" of the curves I got. So, right around the summer of 2007, I decided to take the plunge and join Weight Watchers. Not that I've any ambitions to be a WW poster girl, but I stuck to the program for the better part of a year, and it worked. Had a year or two where things started to look like they'd, ahem, flesh out again, but to this day I am still 40 pounds lighter than my pre-WW bod. It feels good.

And sometimes, I've learned, keeping that weight off involves a lot more than pushing away sweets and deep-fried delicacies (because Lord knows I haven't done that as much as I should). Sometimes you've just got to haul your cookies to the gym and burn some calories.

Sometime in between getting engaged and present day, I found myself becoming a bit more inclined to hit up the cardio/weight equipment (oh, and my Shake Weight. Hate all you want, but that stuff works). At present, our apartment complex has a pretty decent workout center just downstairs. I'd be a fool not to take advantage of that, seriously.

I've gone only sorta-kinda-regularly since we moved here in October, but it always feels dang good. And you guys: remember the girl that hated P.E. class and cried because she couldn't hockey-stick a ball faster than anyone else? That girl ran a mile and a half without stopping.


And what.

Oooh La La

Many folks make it a daily goal to try and do something that they've never done, be it skydiving, saying hi to the creepy guy that works a few cubicles down from you, trying unagi. Now, while that's not a goal of mine (daily blogging is plenty in the one-goal-a-day category as far as I'm concerned), I totally did try something new today: I attended a painting class with some freaking awesome girls in my small group.

Are we or are we not the complete spittin' image of all that is fine art?

After a delectable bout of dinner and delightful conversation over sushi (!!!), we went to Creatively Yours, where for our Groupon-tastic price of $10, we attended a two-hour painting seminar that included a ginormous canvas, paintbrushes, paint, the works.

It started as all good things do: with a blank canvas, chocolate, and a community bottle of cheapo pink fizzy wine.

My finished product. I call it "Polar Bears Drinking Milk In a Snowstorm." (I kid, I kid.)

Our painting tutorial for the evening was guiding us step-by step on how to paint an abstract vase of abstract daisies. Armed with our four-color palette and fancy paintbrushes, we set to work and made things look absolutely beautiful.

Our works in progress. Mine's the angry-textured one next to Christina's blue-background piece.

After much pleasant chatter, dancing to *NSYNC and Jackson 5 jams, texturing and learning that I tend to have quite an angry way with brush strokes, and approximately two hours, four colors, and twenty some-odd painted daisies later, we had ourselves a masterpiece.

Above: a masterpiece. You're welcome.

So I think that despite my angry texturing and my wonky way of drawing stems (the artist that was teaching us had stems so perfect that I kind of wanted to throw paint at her just to mess things up), I'm overall way proud of my efforts. (This was made evident by every five seconds of painting, when I'd gush things like, "Oh, this is so pretty, you guys!")

The company was absolutely delightful and really made the trip even more worthwhile. And seriously: are we complete artistic geniuses or what?

Ta daaaa!

Now the only dilemma is finding out where David will let me hang this gorgeous little piece of work, or where I can hang more... because I totally want to do this again, and very pronto.

A little fangirling never hurt anyone

"Don'tcha know that we'se a family? Would I let you down? No way."


It's been many many moons since I've spent any facetime with Tag, aka Becky B. I must say, we were egregiously long overdue for a girls' night, ESPECIALLY since she lives right in my neck of the woods. How the flipping flip I haven't taken advantage of that is beyond my understanding.

As Tag so appropriately pointed out, we have dazzling teeth going on here.

And so, we met up at the mall, nommed on Chick-fil-A, perused the moichendise at Forever 21 (which has apparently gotten all swank and now calls itself XXI Forever?), grabbed a sinful cup of Cold Stone, and sat in the car, listening to the Newsies stage cast recording, fangirling like whoa (as well as learning that "it's bedtime at the zoo"), and just being overall pleased as punch that the big trip to NYC is happening in May.

May is too far away, though, for serious. Even so, nuggets of funtimes such as these are bound to tide me over until then.

All in all, 'twas a perfect way to beat the Tuesdays, let me tell you.

Crazy cat lady

Today's cop-out blog entry is brought to you by my little furballs, Mia (the dear little tabby) and Vega (the dapper tuxedo).

They tend to get in a world of trouble, including, but not limited to, standoffs with my husband.

But they're kind of awesome little furbabies.

Am I ready for some football? (Hint: Answer is no.)

I kind of love being married to a man that, among his many redeeming qualities, isn't a rabid football fan. It's not to say that I don't dig a good football game, but it's not my whole world, you know? Maybe you do know. Maybe you're one of the five people that isn't watching the Super Bowl right now.

My lack of appreciation for football isn't some smarmy way for me not to conform (goodness knows I run the rat race to conformity plenty enough as it is). It's not even that I can't follow the game or that I'm not familiar with the rules. It's just simply not my thing is all.

And so, today was spent watching the Puppy Bowl on Animal Planet (Aberdeen was robbed of the MVP award. ROBBED, I TELL YOU), working out in the downstairs gym (I ran over a mile on the treadmill and didn't get tired, you guys!), making soup, then snuggling up with my non-football-appreciative husband watching Studio Ghibli animation and decidedly calling it a night early.

In other news, tomorrow is Monday. I can think of no other word to describe my sentiments on this matter except for a disenchanted, deflated pleh.

Artsy fartsy

We went on an excursion to the High Museum of Art, which gave way to my embracing my own artsy side and taking a handful of pictures. Observe:

The Handbag Chronicles

Some girls are shoe girls. You know the type: all about buying 47 pairs of pumps in every shade and dedicate an entire closet to rotating displays of all sorts of stuff. Them types of girls. Shoe girls.

I'm more of a handbag girl. Only, see, I don't go around buying multiple handbags to coordinate my outfits. (This isn't because I don't want to; it's because I have a horrid tendency to forget to put things back into purses I use. Like, oh, I don't know, my wallet.) What I do is a typically wear out a handbag/purse/tote to death and I go on a quest to find another one.

Tonight, it was time to find another one. That shouldn't stress me out as much as it does, but I'm awfully particular about the bags I use.

They've got to look hip, yet functional. Roomy bags are a must, but they can't be a black hole into which all of my lip products disappear. They have to go with, like, every single one of my outfits.

You should've seen me, guys. I was walking through the same three aisles at Target tonight, looking over every.single.bag. It was like speed dating. For bags.

And then I saw her.

Ain't she a beaut? A huuuuuge tote bag with crumpled leather finish and and and it's pretty danged awesome.

This bag girl is very pleased.

Your moment of zen

Coming tomorrow: A real blog entry. I promise.

Rabbit Rabbit

Okay, fellow '90s kids: does anyone remember when Nickelodeon had the "NickDays" TV spot in between shows? It was because of that handy little bumper that I learned that one has to greet a new month by saying "Rabbit Rabbit." It's good luck, don'tcha know. Anyhow, I remembered to say it this month... well, at least I tweeted it.

(I fully meant to show you guys a clip of said "Rabbit Rabbit" NickDays spot, but we'll have to settle for the below bundle of other NickDays spots. Pack up the car with lots of snacks, kids; we're going on a trip down MEMORY LANE.)