Guess what, guys?! I’m THIIIIRRRTTTTYYYY! Holy cow. That’s insane. It’s not old, but I’ve been in my twenties for so long….about ten years now. It’s weird, you know? I’m not old enough to know if birthdays will really affect me the way they do some people, but I really don’t think they will. Working with the elderly, I’ve learned that getting old really isn’t about the number, it’s about your quality of life. I’ve seen a very old fifty year old and a very young eighty year old. All that being said, this week, I bought a bag of lemons to drink lemon water every day. On my birthday wish list are: Running shoes, Fitbit, and skin care products, so obviously somewhere in my mind I’m fighting the aging process. I just hope I’m a young older person for as long as possible. While thirty isn’t old, it has certainly been long enough to learn a few life lessons. Through the years, I’ve grown a bit wiser. I’ve learned a lot, and have a lot left to learn, but here are thirty things I’ve learned in each year of my three decades: Continue reading
You know the type. They’re pretty, they’re popular, and you just KNOW they’re shallow. They have no depth. They think they’re the greatest little tanned bodies south of the Mason Dixon line. They could wear the exact same outfit as you and be the winner of “Who Wore It Best?” every time. You know what else they are? Totally unapproachable. When they walk up to the group you’re talking with you think, “What do I have to say to her?” and “How can she take this perfectly great conversation and turn it in to something I have no input on whatsoever?” We all have those girls that we don’t want to talk to. The girls you don’t even want to see. Those snotty, two-faced, fancy pants-wearing, jerks. Ugh. Continue reading
This morning, as I was clearing the counter off, I asked Rick while picking up random items, “Is this trash?” (It’s super weird the things that AREN’T trash, so I’ve learned to ask.) Anyway, today, he says, “I always write trash on items that are trash. If it isn’t marked, it isn’t trash.” Obviously, I don’t have to tell you that this idea would be absolutely ridiculous. Choosing to write “trash” on something takes more time than throwing the trash in…the trash-but Rick is a man of his word. I watched him from the living room as he finished the last of the milk, opened the drawer, pulled out a permanent marker, and wrote “TRASH” on the milk jug, setting it back on the counter. All while complaining that it’s not easy that he has to write “trash” on all of his trash. I guess the point of this little story is to let you know that my husband is weird. Like…really weird. He’s so weird that I am in awe of the creativity required to carry out this weirdness in a hilarious manner. Continue reading
My day today-and most days this week:
Mommy: Do you want up? Say, “Up!” and I’ll pick you up. Say, “Up!”
Jack: WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA YOU ARE THE WORST PARENT EVER!
Mommy: Say, “Up!” As soon as you say it, I’ll pick you up.
Jack: WAAAAAAAAAAA WHY HAST THOU FORSAKEN ME?!
REPEAT. Five hundred times. Continue reading
There she was, both feet planted on the headboard, staring at the enormous portrait hanging above her bed. She admired the man in the picture and the work of the artist, not knowing that it was actually she who had painted it. She couldn’t place him, but she knew him. She would do this so often that eventually the painting was removed. It was dangerous for her to flip around in bed all the time and it confused her to wonder who the man was and why she seemed to know this piece so well. Her son took it home with him and hung it on his own wall. He could appreciate the memory of his father without doing somersaults off the furniture. Continue reading