The Scene In Which The Words Are Back

When you used to blog all the time and haven't really in, say, more than a year (with minor exceptions), starting off a post can be sort of weird and awkward. It's like running into someone you used to be super good friends with and then didn't talk to for awhile and then ran into at the market and you're like "oh....hi...." and then some weird conversation ensues about how nice the weather's been, and if you're like me you sort of sway awkwardly from side to side because what you really want to do is blurt out something like, "Did you ever break up with that one dude that was totally an asshole and screwing with your head? Also, it's weird you never called me back, right? Are we just pretending that didn't happen?" and you're talking, but mostly just resisting the socially unacceptable word vomit urge.

.......um, anyway.

So for awhile there I had tons of stuff to blog about, and everything seemed like a funny story, and the words would pop into my head faster than my little fingers could type (which is saying something if you've ever seen me type: my husband refers to it as "violent") and then OUT OF NOWHERE, the well ran dry. Thank god I make my living in flowers, not words, because it was just gone, and there wasn't a damned thing I could do about it. And not only that, but I started putting all this weird pressure on myself to KEEP DOING IT, and BE FUNNY, because that's "what my thing is" and then one day it sort of occurred to me, hey, eff it. IT'S A BLOG, and on a good day, like three people read this.*

I mean, really. There was no drama, people! There was no strife! There was no complaining, no crazy house stories, no insane travels, no hilarious pratfalls! I was a happy newlywed living in my cute little house and working on my gardening and decorating projects in my spare time between puttering around my flower shop and cavorting with my hunky new husband and our adorable puppies. Had I any tendency towards pastels and soft, wavy haircuts I was an Estee Lauder "Beautiful" ad**.

That is, until I decided it would be a super bright idea to not only re-do all my website and print design pieces but also found myself looking for a new studio AND packing our old one AND renovating the new one AND moving during wedding season AND hiring a new employee AND doing all this when we aren't really working too much AND meeting with new clients AND, AND, AND....and for awhile there really nothing that didn't involve flowers or paint or moving boxes or figuring out cash flows was really first and foremost in my brain. If "Beautiful" had a sister perfume of "Tired, Stressed and Financially Insecure" I was wearing it this winter, at the shop. (Sidenote: wow. Many thanks to my husband for still loving THAT version of me all winter.)

Also, because this post is nothing if not about rambling thoughts, I turned 30 this winter, and with that came not the mounting dread of getting older, nor the mental berating of myself for not completing everything on my "bucket list," but an honest to goodness sense of "oh thank god." Rather than dreading it, 30 to me represented the ability to completely rock my own sense of person (which, I believe, if you're lucky you spend your 20s trying to figure out- or at least figure out enough that you claim to be able to own it at 30), embrace what I am and what I'm not, and say eff it to the rest.

HECK YEAH, my brain told me, you  made it through that crazy-ass decade known as your 20s. Congrats, kid. You got a degree. Hell, you got two. And then you got a job, and then ANOTHER job, and then you decided to heck with it, and opened a business, and it WORKED! And you survived dating! And found THE ONE, and somehow managed to convince him to marry you, WOW. And you had a condo! And now you have a house! And rent another house to work in! You're like a FREAKING LAND BARON, and you have dogs to boot. AND you get to do stuff you like doing and you don't have to pretend to like stuff you don't like because it's the "cool" thing to do! WAY TO BE. You earned a decade of rocking it out.

It's sort of incredibly freeing, right?! Be yourself. Be TRUE TO yourself. Yay thirty.

Also, I pierced my nose to mark the occasion, or at least that's the excuse I used when I was in the situation where I could finally get it done and didn't have any  major life event (i.e. my wedding) coming up in which I'd be forever scarred by my adolescent bad decisions in having random facial piercings in my eternal memory.

So far it hasn't been a bad decision. Even my mom, who answered my "Guess what I did!" photo text with a voicemail saying, "So.....you stuck a diamond in your face." thinks it's cute.

(where was I going with this? Oh yes) so all that happened and STILL NO WORDS.

Honestly, for awhile there I wasn't sure I was going to have the words, ever again (spoiler alert: you're reading this). I even went so far as to think about deleting this blog, because I just thought it was sort of sad that it just kind of tapered off....into....nothingness....

And then. AND THEN.

I was baking yesterday, because in my spare time I'm a housewife, and I was thinking to myself that I wanted it to be the last time I was baking these items using boxed mixes, because of course this whole "we are eating food that's been genetically modified and packed with riboflavin, and who the hell knows what that actually is" thing has been really hitting home for me lately, and I've been trying to figure out how to cook more, and it occurred to me, "I should totally blog about this," which seems completely normal except that it's a sentence that hasn't entered my brain in 8 months and HOLY COW, THERE WERE THE WORDS, and there were LOTS OF THEM, and there was a WHOLE POST before I knew what was happening and then my rational brain took over and was like, "Whoa. You haven't blogged in like ten months, you can't start out with life lessons in blueberry muffins, chill out."

And then I got my first CSA box today and, people, I have been so freakin' excited for this since we signed up, but also a little bit nervous, because I'm new to this cooking thing and I knew there would be things I didn't know how to use and MAN, did I jump the gun, because when I opened that box today there are things I don't even RECOGNIZE, and I'm in for it now, because I'm going to have to Google Image search my food.

And then HOLY COW, THERE WERE THE WORDS, and there were LOTS OF THEM, and there was a WHOLE POST before I knew what was happening and then my rational brain took over and was like, "Whoa. Ok. You might be on to something here, but you need to go warn these people first."

So, there you have it. I lost the words. I planned a wedding. I turned 30. I pierced my nose. I'm still happily married. I'm still happily self-employed. I'm learning to cook. I found the words.

And I'm not sure what this blog will be about going forward, to be honest. Maybe it's part of the whole thirty-thing but I don't feel the pressure to be always funny, or always have some major story, or always....anything. It will probably mostly be happy, because I think there's such a thing as oversharing, especially when it comes to problems and/or marriages and/or struggles, and that works for some people, but I really don't feel like I need to document that all for the internet (see: awkward blogs about marriage problems that turn into awkward blogs about divorces and DUDE, YOUR KID READS THAT). Everyone's life has unfunny parts from time to time, but to be perfectly honest, this blog is probably going to read more like the highlight reel of my person, lest my potential future children ever stumble upon it. I feel like I should warn you that a good portion may be about cooking, so if you're like "oh god, is she going to turn into one of those people raving about how Monsanto is ruining our lives or how awesome her bread pudding turned out," I mean, I don't know. Probably. They pretty much suck***, so you're not going to find any sympathy for them here, that's for sure. I may write about work. I  may write about music. I may write about awesome things.

All I know is that the words have returned, and I'm hopping on board. Join me for the ride, won't you??


*I'm fairly certain more than three people read this. Maybe like 8.
**I can totally make fun of it 'cause I wear it. BAM.
***"They" being Monsanto, of course, because nothing about bread pudding sucks, except people who do it wrong.

The Scene In Which We Don't Drink The Water

Having worked in a restaurant for a few years in college, I'm well aware of how a restaurant kitchen looks.

If you currently live under a blissful cloud where every restaurant has stainless steel everything, employees with runny noses don't ever come to work, everyone wears gloves, and spotless glass bins sporting carefully lettered signs hold food supplies, well, then.....stop reading. You'll never eat out again if you do.

So, yes. I get it. Occasionally in my own kitchen a random fruit fly might alight on a syrupy drink and get stuck. The dishwasher doesn't always get every item perfectly clean and I don't always catch it before I put it away. 99% of restaurant mistakes are just simple things, multiplied in chance by the number of people served every day.

THAT BEING SAID.

There are things that, as a restaurant, you can do to ensure your dining guests have a great experience and maintain the mental image of your kitchen as a Martha Stewart-esque lair.

The following? Is not one of them.

I had been seated at a local restaurant waiting for a friend of mine to arrive to join me when the waiter came and asked if I'd like something to drink. Not knowing if my friend would want to join me in an adult beverage or not, and not knowing what I planned to order yet, I asked for a glass of water.

Sip of water.

A minute or so later, my waiter casually walked up to the open-window serving area about 10 feet away from my table. There were only 3 or so tables full in the restaurant, so it wasn't exceptionally loud, and as I wasn't currently talking with anyone around me the conversation floated my way.

Sip of water.

General joking about food service, and then

Waiter: "And you know why you NEVER order water at a restaurant? Because guaranteed, it's *lowers voice* mumble mumble mumble."

Kitchen Staff: "BWAHAHAHAHAHA!"

Me (mentally): ohmigod.

My friend chose that moment to walk in, and pleasantries for exchanged for about twenty seconds before he realized something was not entirely right with me, and that was because at that point, I still wasn't sure I wasn't going to puke because WHAT DID I JUST DRINK.

I explain.

And then I get mad. Because REALLY?!

And then we debate what I'm going to do about it because...I mean....I have to say something, right?! Right. But then again...this person is now responsible for my food for the whole night.

The waiter returns with a diet coke for my friend.

"Excuse me," I say. "I think I'd like something, um, other than water to drink."

"Um.....sure." says the waiter, looking mildly concerned by what is probably a green pallor on my face. "What can I get you?"

"A Coke would be fine," I reply, then sweetly add, "Unless there's a really good reason not to order one of THOSE at a restaurant, too."

I'm pretty sure if his eyes could have gotten wider, they'd have popped out.

So there you have it, folks. Don't drink the water. Dave Matthews knew it, and now you do too.

The Scene In Which I Totally Change How I Do Business *Just For You!* (Alternately Titled: Dear Rude Person).

My favorite thing about my business, aside from the whole bringing-joy-to-your-event thing which is obviously well above all the other perks, is that it's MY business.

Becuase I'm the one who *gets to* arrive early, stay late, and assume all the worry, I take the trade-off as well: I get to make the rules, I get to make the decisions, and I get to be the boss. I get the right to run my business as I wish, and offer what I want, and not offer what I don't.

And sometimes, my decisions mean that I have to turn people down for things, and most of the time people are generally understanding when it comes to this.

"Are you free on my date?" "No, I'm sorry, we've already closed that date," is typically met with an "Oh, darn."

"Do you sell flowers by the stem?" "No, I'm sorry, we're an event planning and floral firm only," is typically answerd with "Oh, ok, thanks."

But then there's the 1% of people who just truly do not understand, or who don't bother to try to understand. They don't read the signs in the parking lot or on our window or on our door which say "Appointment Only!" and "Events Only!" or even stupidly specific signs such as the one in the window that literally says "We Do Not Offer Cash and Carry Services At This Time!"

(Seriously. We could not be more clear about this. NO.)

And sometimes, when faced with the harsh reality that the rules and decisions I have made in the way I run my business might actually apply to them, these people turn into what I like to call the "I QUESTION YOUR LIFE CHOICES, BIATCH" people.

Usually, these are callers, and usually, they've been told "No," for some crazy reason like we're already busy on their date or we are not available at the precise ONE window of time that they desire to meet with us, other clients or events be damned.

I can usually peg that they're going to be an IQYLCB caller when I can hear their hip popping out sassily and their pointer finger coming up in the silence between my "No" and  their "Esssssxcuuuuuuuuuse ME?!"

"What do you MEAN you are closed that weekend? I mean *sound of abject disgust* how many events can you POSSIBLY be doing that day?" (Answer: If we're closed already? Probably 5. Maybe 3. Maybe 1 really awesome big one. There are about 13,000 weddings in our region PER YEAR. Do the math. Or maybe I'm just not working that weekend, not because I have a life or anything like that, but because my robot batteries need recharging and that guy who thinks I'm his wife wants to see me.)
"I mean, really, WHAT kind of place does not offer Saturday/weekend meetings *sound of abject disgust*?" (Answer: The kind that does Saturday/weekend events. Like the one you're calling to book.)

(and my absolute favorite): "*Sound of abject disgust* Well, you SHOULD be able to do mine, because MINE isn't that hard. I totally already met with someone and I know EXACTLY what I want and I just need you to do it." (Translation: Please steal another person's work and ideas and give it to me for less, and make it exactly what I want.)

But today was definitely a first. Today I had a IQYLCB walk into the shop, snark, leave, and then COME BACK FOR MORE.

There's a reason my door is now locked.

So this person walks into the shop -without a greeting- and starts explaining what they need for a luncheon. I question if the luncheon is today and when it is, explain that we don't do cash-and-carry pieces and are appointment only (like it says on three different signs located BEFORE you enter my shop) and unfortunately, we have no flowers in the store.

This is typically met with an "Oh, rats!" reaction.

Oh no.

Blank stare ensues. This person is literally in disbelief that I cannot help her. I give her recommentions of two other florists, both within a 5-10 minute drive, and say, "I'm sorry we can't help you today!" to which I literally get a "huffff.....Yeah, me too," as she storms out.

Pleasant. Nice to meet you too. Terribly sorry you don't approve of my business model- gosh, I will just get RIGHT on that.

Back to work, right??

Oh no.
5 minutes later.
This person comes back in, tells me they're just going to buy flowers at the grocery, and asks to take a free vase so they can just make a centerpiece on their own- they'll return it, naturally, so obviously I'll just give it to them for free. Because they aren't just any person- they are WITH A CATERING COMPANY, thankyouverymuch, and therefore I am obligated  to help solve their problem.

In between the 10 or so seconds of incredulousness (wait-weren't you just in here questioning the way I choose to run my business and now you want something free?) they point to a cut-crystal display vase and say "You're a doll. I'll take this."

Awkward discussion (between my mentally berating myself for not locking the door earlier) ensues about how I'd prefer to give her something that is a little more of a typically stocked item (not, say, a CRYSTAL VASE) which is met with a less than pleased reaction.

I wind up offering a glass curved vase that is nicer than a "plain vase" but something I won't miss if it doesn't come back to me, which though she says it will, meh, may or may not be likely. And that's fine, mind you, it's a vase- but no, you're not taking one of my expensive ones, and certainly not when you're taking it for free, and certainly not when you've basically been rude this entire time.

I get an exasperated "yeah, fine, I guess." The key words not utilized during this transaction are "thank" and "you."
Bonus?! I had a client in my office the entire time, who thank god is also a close friend,  but which this person had absolutely no way of knowing.....so this *professional* came in and did this TO someone she didn't know, IN FRONT OF someone she didn't know.

And people wonder why  my door is locked.

The Scene In Which I Think I Smell Funny Today

To be honest, I'm not sure what happened.

I woke up this morning like any other morning and took a shower. I used the same body wash I always do, smoothed on the same lotion and deoderant, and splashed the same perfume.

But now? I'm pretty sure I smell funny.

Not bad, mind you, but not great. Not disgusting or dirty or anything but just.....weird. Off.

I thought it was my car, and granted, it still might be after the amount of water I spilled from flower pots over the weekend and how disgustingly hot and humid it's been.

But then I just went to walk out the door and the breeze blew past me and my nose went, "Huh. That's it again."

And now I'm paranoid. (DOES THIS HAPPEN TO OTHER PEOPLE?! For the love of God, please tell me it does. Lie if you have to.)

Not once, but twice, have I peeled off my cardigan (which is one I'm trying to wear to rescue it from the Goodwill bin, as it's in danger of the not-worn-in-6-months default donation) and waved it around to air it out.

And now I'm trying to remember WHY this was in the Goodwill bin to start with.

And NOW I'm pretty darn sure that it's because the last time I wore it, my skin started to smell funny.

And now I'm stuck in this potentially funny smelling sweater for the entire day.

And I'm even more paranoid. And starting to sweat as a result.

You might call this a catch-22. Or, in a more hipster-ish fashion, "an ironic moment."

I really wish I could say this was an odd occurance, and in fact it sort of is, but the act of having an odd occurance is, well, really not odd.

So it's just Wednesday. Hope you're having a good one. If you see me today, and I smell a little off to you, please don't tell me. It will only make it worse.

The Scene In Which We Get Married

We are married.

And let me tell you, it is amazing.

For starters, the thing about being married is that when you wake up the next day, that person next to you? the one that's your best friend? the one who knows all your silly stories and smart-ass sayings and serious secrets? the one who you want to raise a family with and grow old with? is your husband. Or your wife. Or your partner. Or whatever label you choose to ascribe them with. They are yours.

It's lovely.

Our wedding was a beautiful, amazing weekend of celebrating with friends and family in a truly gorgous place. Naturally there were also some hilarious moments.

In hindsight.

Among other things, we had a fantastic wedding party that included our closest friends and siblings. On Friday night we had an amazing rehearsal dinner night where Cute Husband and I had the pleasure of toasting each of them and sharing silly stories of how we met them all.

On Saturday, despite the threat of inclement weather our Golf with the Groom and Beach with the Bride events were both a hit, though Beach with the Bride did turn into "Poolside with the Bride under Tented Cabanas with Food and Indoor Entertainment" which doesn't roll off the tongue quite the same way but was fun nonetheless.

I'm told our welcome party on Saturday night was a fantastic evening with wonderful food and a fun time to mix and mingle. I, however, was....um....otherwise occupied during the party.

Brides. Heed my advice. If you should start to feel a little, ohhhhh, under the weather at your welcome party? Like you're about to star in your own version of "Bridesmaids," and not so much the scene where they all band together and sing Wilson Philips with coordinated dance moves but more like....the scene where they're trying on dresses?

Cut and run. Don't wait to see what happens. I've seen what happens. It's not pretty.

In a moment of BLINDING CLARITY it becomes apparent that something is really, really not right here, and that it's about to become really, really wrong, and that time is right. now. and let me tell you, when that moment of brillance happens, you lose all pride and sense of polite decency and you worry about one thing and one thing only and that is GET ME TO THE BATHROOM.

I don't think I actually shoved anyone out of my way, but I was definitely on a mission.

Awesomely, at this point, approximately, oh, everyone at the party has seen me heading to the bathroom at one point or another. I didn't so much mind that, or really care who in the public bathroom got to witness the amazingly glorious site that was me hurling my guts in said white minidress.
What I cared about? Was making sure everyone knew I WAS. NOT. PREGNANT.

I'm pretty sure I advised everyone who had the guts (no pun intended) to come near me that night of that fact. Classy. Let me tell you.

Spoiler alert: I lived. My mom actually came in my room at 2 AM after Round 3, when the meds started kicking in and it became apparent I would live through the night, and said "Don't worry. Nobody really even realized you were gone. And at least this will make a funny blog post!" to which I'm pretty sure I groaned and moaned "TOO SOON." Alas, she was right. Well played, Mom.

Sunday dawned gorgeously and thankfully barf-free. Despite high winds that forced us to move off our original beach site, our wedding day was sunny and beautiful.

Our ceremony was beautifully officiated by one of my bridesmaids (and former college roommate) who is now a wondeful minister. The dress fit like a glove thanks to the couple pounds I'd miraculously shed the night before (again, see Bridesmaids reference), Cute Husband looked amazing in his suit, the flowers were gorgeous, and dolphins literally danced in the surf just outside our ceremony site.

OH YES. Top that, wedding gods. Dolphins frolicking during our vows.

The reception was absolutely amazing thanks to the hard work of John, Monica, Elise, Ben and everyone who helped us with the design and decor aspects of the day. The food was fantastic, the lounge area was thoroughly enjoyed, and the live music during our ceremony and cocktail hour were amazing.

For the dancing portion of the evening, we hadn't provided a complete playlist for the DJ. We'd simply requested that he stick to pop, Top 40-ish songs, and work in a couple slow songs that I'd provided and a couple house songs that Justin had provided. No Katy Perry, no Beyonce. Nothing against those ladies but, eh, not my favorites.

We'd also requested he avoid such *amazing* wedding hits as the Macarena, the Electric Slide, the Cha Cha Slide, and, well, basically anything with any type of universally accepted dance movement.

Easy, right? Great.

In retrospect the first Katy Perry song should have tipped us off.

Possibly also the beginning of a trio of 80s songs that no one recognized.

If not either of those things, I probably should have realized it when the strains of OH OH OH, OH OH OHHH OH OH ALL THE SINGLE LADIES! began ringing through the air, but I was in the bathroom at the time, and really, have YOU ever peed in a wedding dress? Let me tell you, that requires enough attention, thankyouverymuch.

Also hard to do in a wedding dress? The Cha Cha Slide. Oh but we did. Slide to the left! Slide to the right! Take it back now y'all! One hop this time! Two hops this time! Criss cross! Criss cross! Cha Cha now y'all!

Which was the first time - but oh, not the last - that Cute Husband caught my eye on the dance floor and mouthed "What the eff?"

However, the point of the evening during which it became blindingly apparent that we had completely lost control of the music? was me leading a conga line through the reception hall to "Jump In the Line."
I'm pretty sure the DJ just assumes that you are so ravingly drunk at this point (oh sad but true: copious upchucking the night prior leads one to spend most of their wedding night stone cold sober) that you don't actually really care what he plays, and besides, who wouldn't want to Shake! Shake! Shake! Senora! at their wedding?!?!?

Work your body line. Work it all the time.

The thing about the wedding music is, it's a party. It doesn't matter. In the end, you plan everything down to the very last detail and you know what? stuff goes wrong anyway. And nobody cares, least of all you, because what went RIGHT? is that you got married.

After a week of sunshine with family and friends, we came home and back to reality. Wife-dom has apparently triggered a new instinct in me and in the couple days we've been back, I've been cleaning up a storm, cooking homemade dinners (whatever. two dinners is a plural. Who cares how many days that's over??), and grinning like a madwoman every time I refer to Cute Husband as, well, Husband!

And THAT, right there, tells you that the best part of the whole thing? Is that now we are MARRIED.

(that, and the new Keurig.)

The Scene In Which I Am Totally *That* Girl

If you don't know by now that I'm *that* girl, you probably haven't been reading this blog too long.

Or else I haven't been posting all that often.

Meh. Tomato tohmahto.

Seriously though, I'm absolutely *that* girl. The one that the thing that you think only actually happens in a slapstick movie, likely starring someone like Zooey Deschanel as her typical loveably-quirky-character, actually happens to in real life.

I fall up stairs.*

I'm the person who goes to pick up the heavy trash bag and makes it alllllllllll the way down the driveway and then (and THEN) the bottom falls out and the entire contents of the bag dump into a large pile at their feet.**

Awesomely, this particular trait occasionally involves realizing significantly after the fact that I have done something totally embarrassing.

So this morning.

I've tossed on a pair of jeans for the day that I haven't worn in awhile, and for the life of me, I can't remember why I haven't worn them recently. They are finally broken in, which means I've washed and worn them exactly enough times that I have finally gotten them to exactly the level of softness and comfort that I love.

It also means that they have inevitably acquired a small hole in the knee area. So they've become "work jeans" where knee holes are acceptable, because all I'm doing is making flowers.

Except for days like yesterday, when I wear those jeans to work not remembering to bring something else along for the latter part of the day, when I'll be actually going out in public and interacting with other humans.

Fast forward to the fun part, which is this morning, when I pull on the same pair of amazing jeans (because right? I'm in love with them now?) and head off to work.

And sit down on the floor to work on something.

And notice a slight....scratchy feeling.

Like I can feel the carpet through my jeans.

And that's when I remembered why I had retired this particular pair of jeans awhile back.

Possibly because there is a small rip in my jeans.

And by small, I mean, there is a LARGE rip in my jeans.

And by *in* my jeans, I mean, smack in the middle of the ass of my jeans.

The jeans that I spent the entire day walking around the Zoo in yesterday with three small children in tow and countless others who have now possibly*** seen my backside.

And, apparently, my hot pink underwear.

I can't help it. This stuff just happens.



*More frequently than I care to admit.

**I literally couldn't make this shit up if I tried. This happened WEDNESDAY.

***I say possibly because it makes me seem less totally weird and freaky. There's no way people didn't notice. How I didn't notice the BREEZE is another story.

The Scene In Which It's All In A Name

I've been thinking a lot about names lately, namely (har har) because I'm about to add one to mine- I'm taking Cute Boy's last name in just a few short months!

After much consideration, and given the fact that his last name manages to pack two W's, to O's, a J, and a CZ-sounds like-CH combo over three syllables whereas mine now is FOUR LETTERS, pronounced EXACTLY LIKE THEY LOOK, and given that it makes my entire name a total of four syllables.....well, let's just say I'll be retaining my maiden name for business purposes. I'm planning to hyphenate my last name legally.

But I really wanted to take on Cute Boy's last name, because I personally think it's important for a family to have a family name, and because one day I want to have the same name as my children.

Another reason I'm planning to hyphenate is that here in the great state of Indiana, you can't have two last names without one, and you can't have more than three names, and I didn't want to give up my middle name, which is Laine.

Which is apparently, as I learned today, A COMPLETELY CRAZY NAME. Unlike one, say, with multiple W's and O's, and J's and T's and Z's. Say that threetimesfast.

Now, I've had a lot of people tell me my middle name is unusual, but I've never really had anyone insist that it was wrong and then try to PROVE that to me...until today. I had to give the Victoria's Secret checkout girl my license so that I could return a bra (purchased as a possible wedding-day need but my awesome tailor didn't require it), and apparently, you also need an Act of God to return something to there, because this girl critiqued my entire license. Which led to.......

cashier: Oh look, they like, spelled Lane wrong on your license.
me: Nope, haha, that's how I spell my name.
cashier: No, no, like the street part, that's ok, but like, here in your name? That's wrong.
me: Nope, that's really how I spell my name.
cashier: oh. With an I? Like, not the street?
me: Yep!

me in my head: um, it's getting weird. It's my name. Just return this thing and sell me this other overpriced bra, mmmmk?

.........

cashier: Really?
me: Yes, I promise, really.
other salesgirl starts to stare at this point. Either she thinks I'm a crazy name misspeller (hah- funny- spellcheck dings that word) and possibly a psychotic killer as a result or she's mentally trying to tell her coworker: LET IT GO .

.........

cashier: apparently receives mental message Oh.

It's days like these, along with the times I watch/listen to my fiance spell his name for people after saying it and watch their brows furrow as they try to reconcile the letters they are hearing with the word they just heard that I'm really, really grateful that the first 29 years of my life were spent with such an easy name.

But I'm still really looking forward to having the hard one to add :)

The Scene In Which I Hear Voices, Alternately Titled, My Computer Wants To Kill Me

So, seriously. This technology stuff kills me sometimes. I cannot believe that in the time between my dad's first cell phone (Zach Morris, eat your heart out, this one had a snap-top case that you could store it in because there were times you weren't using it, and let me just tell you- a REMOVABLE ANTENNAE) and today, we now have the ability to check our email, plot our travel, order anything we need, listen to music, text, and what-have-you all from these tiny hand held devices.

Now, I'm not saying I'm not a little bit technology- savvy. I have an iPhone, if only because when I finally went to replace my third, beloved, well-used Razr phone this past winter.......well, you guessed it, they laughed at me when I asked if they still made them.

Hey, I LIKED MY RAZR, OK???

I also have- wait for it- a laptop computer, which I love dearly having finally figured out where all my buttons and emails and shortcuts and such are and which is now, of course, beginning to act in ways that it should not including a few random keys not working, and of course the absolute inability of the battery to function more than 30 seconds without being tethered to the wall by a power cord, which sort of defeats the purpose of having a laptop, but HEY, it works for me, unless someone is up for opening a PC store in my house and giving me a new nifty one like those commercials, someone, anyone??

But earlier this week, technology nearly did me in, and it was when this happened.

If you've been in my office lately, you'll know that I use a large, former schoolhouse mailbox system for an open-air filing system. Which means that everyday, when I sit down to work, I take out the files I need to work on that day from their neat (ok semi-neat...ok I need to organize them again) cubbyholes, stack 'em on my desk, and get to work.

Usually I open my email at the same time too.

This is where it started going badly.

Because unbeknownst to myself, the first email that I chose to click on was sent by a person who wanted me to do an event in November and had ALSO just left me a voicemail that pretty much said the exact same thing, in pretty much the same words, in pretty much the same order.

Also unbeknownst to me, the stack of folders I'd just set down had been set down directly on top of my work phone, and in a series of sheer impossibility I don't think I'll ever be able to recreate, I had managed to turn on both the speakerphone AND activate the voicemail, on a slide-top phone.

(Seriously. I don't know how this happened. The phone has a slide-open feature for gosh sakes. Half the time I can't even figure out how to get the voicemail when I'm TRYING to. )

The end result of both those items left me opening an email and starting to scan it at the exact same time my brain clicked in to something speaking to me from somewhere nearby, followed shortly by the realization that the email and the voice were saying the same thing and the simultaneous realization that OH DEAR JESUS, MY EMAIL IS TALKING TO ME followed by the only natural conclusion to be drawn which was GET THE EFF AWAY FROM THE COMPUTER, and left me catapulting myself backwards out of my chair and towards the door, just in case the computer decided to do something really tweaked for its next trick, like SPROUT LEGS AND KILL ME.

It's a damn good thing it has to stay plugged in all the time. Take that, technology.

One of these days, if they haven't already, they're going to invent a software program that reads your email to you and yes, it will seem like a cool invention, and you might even be tempted to try it, but let me tell you first- there IS such a thing as too much technology, and THIS IS IT, because talking computers? EFFING CREEPY.
>

The Scene In Which If You Are What You Eat, I'm An Astronaut

Sooooo.....among the disproportionately long list of completely unhealthy things I've been feeding myself lately as I've worked long days getting all the centerpieces done for tonight's event would be today's lunch: a hot dog from Dairy Queen.

Seriously, they are SNEAKY FOLKS, those DQ people. They KNOW you want to check out the drive thru line. They KNOW you won't committ if it's too long. So what do they do?!? PUT A BARRIER UP. I literally HAD to order food, after turning into the parking lot.

So I got a hot dog. On the scale of unhealthy things I could have eaten for lunch, this probably ranks about a 6.

Fortunately, here in the state of Indiana we still surprisingly allow some things to not be deep-fried, so I avoided that. But I couldn't avoid the little hot dog factoid on the DQ box, which informed me that "In a single year, Dairy Queen sells enough hot dogs that if placed end to end, would reach from the Earth to the International Space Station and back....six times."

Huh. Really. Cool.

-stops. thinks. -

Wait.

-stops. thinks. -

Gross.

-stops. thinks.

- I mean, really. That's a LOT of hot dogs.

-stops. thinks. -

And they're cheap, too.

-stops. thinks. -

WHAT AM I EATING?!?!

aaaaaaaand there you have it. Whatever the reason may be, whatever provokes you, it's time to start thinking about these things we're eating that we call food. And maybe stop eating some of them.

The Scene In Which We Did Not Buy A House

You win some, you lose some. You love some.

But some have asbestos.

And roofs that weren't installed correctly.

With warranties that don't transfer.

And electrical hookups that could potentially light your house on fire.

Which you might be able to put out with water from the shower, but you can't use the shower, because it needs to be totally re-grouted.

Which probably means there's water in the walls.

Beyond the water you already found in the walls.

Which only adds to the moisture in the attic.

Which is there because all that moisture from the bathrooms hasn't been venting out correctly....and in fact is in your attic.

And to top it all off, the seller? Scares the crap out of you.

Because he's the kind of person who talks about how home inspectors scare buyers by "pointing out things that aren't really important."

Like asbestos.

And bad wiring.

And bad roofs.

So you decide that you love the house, but you don't love all the problems with the house, so you walk away. And you try again. To be continued.......

The Scene In Which We Get A Home Inspection

I hesitated to post my "We Got A House!!" post yesterday, for the simple reason that nothing is ever certain until you actually close. However, I figured you guys are with me through the good and the bad, and I wanted to share my excitement about our new place!!

And then we did the inspection today.

And I realized I should have waited to blab.

And I know it's not a huge deal, in fact in the great scheme of things, it's not, at all. It's a house.

But it may not be mine, now, after all.

To be continued.....

The Scene In Which I Am In A Book!

Hey kids!

Just your average Monday morning...did a little laundry, checked email, caught up on a few blogs, and OH HEY, I'M IN A BOOK!! It's called Single.Women.Entreprenuers and it's available on Amazon!

I'll back up.

Several months ago, I met the amazing Erin Albert by chance via another Indianapolis entreprenuer, Tiffany Benedict Berkson- friend, neighbor, entrepreneur and history guru- as they grabbed a cup at Starbucks.

As Erin was in the process of speaking with Tiffany about the book she was currently working on (single women entreprenuers) Tiffany shared with Erin that I'd spent the past few years working on my own business and was now self-employed.

Erin and I exchanged info, and several days later she contacted me about sitting for an interview for her book!

Needless to say, I said yes.

The premise of the book, I learned, was to profile successful women entreprenuers who had all been unmarried (single, widowed, divorced) at the time they began their own business and print the interviews they gave.

Despite the fact that I started dating Cute Boy about, oh, thirty seconds after quitting my job to pursue my business full-time, I was single at the time I started lilly lane, and single at the time I left my full-time job, so I qualified.

And was interviewed.

And got really excited about the book.

And then realized that a LOT of women in the book are passionate female entreprenuers with years of experience who can speak eloquently, forcefully, and factually about statistics, trends, and a myriad of other topics on why women are better entreprenuers than men and why single women make better entreprenuers and why women need to be considered authorities and a LOT OF OTHER STUFF THAT I DID NOT TALK ABOUT, because what I DID talk about was how I really liked flowers and didn't like fundraising and my dad started his own business and I was like hey, this seems cool, I think I'll go do this now with NO experience and NO training and NO real foresight, but hey, it worked!

So I'm a little bit worried that next to these other women, I'm going to sound a little different.

Which I'm OK with.

Because if I'm being honest, I DIDN'T have a ton of experience when I started my business. I hadn't, and still haven't, read eight thousand books about the subject. If this book had existed prior to my starting, the odds that I would have stumbled across it, purchased it and read it are probably pretty slim. I'm just not that person. I didn't take a class, didn't write a 90-page business plan, didn't raise capital, and didn't do a whole lot of other things that maybe some other people do.

Which is actually pretty fantastic, because at the end of the day, I'm thinking this book exists to show women that you don't have to fit a mold to be a successful entreprenuer- you just need a good idea and decent work ethic.

You might learn a few other lessons, too.

But you'll have to get the book to find out!

The Scene In Which I Have A Sparkly Ring On An Important Finger

That's right kids, Cute Boy and I are ENGAGED!!

This may not be big news to most of you- in fact, anyone who actually knows me already has heard the news, given that it happened on January 6th - but for the lurkers out there, you're in the loop!

Side note: I actually don't know if I have blog-lurkers or not. I mean, I'd like to think I'm all cool and awesome and there's people out there that have never met me but like to read my blog, sort of like I kind of blog-stalk follow people like the inspiring Angie over at Bring The Rain (please note, if you have never read her blog and decide you have an hour or two or four to read her story, I don't recommend you do it at work, because you will cry at your desk and have to go home early....just sayin'.) or Pioneer Woman, or people that are married to people that I knew in college but I've never met like Jessica, or of course the hilarious Ali at Cheaper Than Therapy, who, by the way, doesn't know it yet but is about to become my new best friend because we are both Midwestern girls marrying Canadians and she lives in Toronto and Cute Boy is FROM Toronto and we just got ENGAGED in Toronto and we walked around Yorkville where she talks about window-shopping at Anthropologie and WE saw Anthropologie and I was all like, OMG, any second now a woman in kick-ass cat-eye glasses is going to walk past me and I'm going to be like "OMG ALI!" and then we'll be best friends.

Which is probably why I didn't notice? as we were walking around Yorkville? that CUTE BOY WAS TRYING TO PROPOSE.

Oh yes.

Honestly, if you know me, you'll be shocked by the end of this post that I DIDN'T SEE THIS COMING.


To rewind a bit, we've been talking about getting engaged for awhile now, along with making all sorts of other fun plans about buying houses and keeping our foster dog forever (we hope) and eventually having some of those tiny humans that resemble us, and even picking out said sparkly ring things :)


Christmas passed with visits to both our families, and New Year's was spent with friends in Indy. Shortly after New Year's, we planned to make a trip to Toronto (our fourth in a year). With Younger Brother planning a short getaway at the same time as our vacation, the fabulous Princess and Finnigan needed a place to go for the week, and when my parents offered to take them, we said yes. Figuring out how we'd get them there (my folks live three hours away) Cute Boy volunteered to drop them off during a day trek to Chicago with a friend, ostensibly to buy skis for the friend.


Because GOODNESS KNOWS, there aren't skis to buy in Indy!!


And YES, I BOUGHT IT. Hook, line, and sinker. No questions asked about why they'd drive three hours to Chicago for skis, no inquiry when the trip only took about eight hours (not really that long to shop, by the time you include travel back-and-forth) and not even saying a word to the friend who was supposedly going with, because - get this- Cute Boy told me not to mention it in front of our other friends, and I DIDN'T THINK THAT WAS WEIRD, AT ALL.


Looking back I think a tiny part of my brain registered that asking too many questions might ruin a surprise. Fortunately, this translated mentally into "Don't question it too much or YOU'LL be the one driving the dogs to Chicago!"


The part of my brain that told me not to question things? Is not typical. And did not come with us to Canada. But that's further along.


At any rate, we trek to Canada. We encounter our usual friendly welcome at the border (Canadians= thrilled to welcome you into their country. Americans= typically not thrilled to welcome you BACK into YOUR country. No joke.)

We drove through to Toronto, where Cute Boy dropped me off at the home of some of our friends, then left with three of his buddies to head to Buffalo for the World Junior Hockey Championship Game. And believe me when I say, this game is a BIG DEAL.

They didn't get back until after midnight and it was after 1 in the morning when we arrived at the condo of the friends we usually stay with in Toronto, so naturally, we slept in. Waking up on Thursday morning with everyone else at work for the day, Cute Boy proposed a lazy tourist day in Toronto- strolling through the streets up in Yorkville, walking down Yonge street, maybe heading over to Nathan Phillips Square to ice-skate at the public ice skating rink. Naturally, YES! was my answer to this.

And then we have a lovely day, folks. We window shopped, I kept an eagle-eye out for blogger Ali, we chatted, we held hands while wandering the streets, we stopped for snacks and drinks at a cute little pub, and Cute Boy even tolerated- nay encouraged! - a little browsing at a Yonge street boutique that I will absolutely need to revisit on a future trip, because seriously, the cuteness, and it was cheap. Like $8 sweater cheap.

So by the time we wound our way back to the city center and it was getting on towards 5 PM, we'd been walking for awhile and starting to think about heading home, and the amazing dinner we'd be having later at Pangea, a restaurant where one of Cute Boy's best friends works.

Or at least, I WAS STARTING TO THINK ABOUT THESE THINGS, and Cute Boy was still thinking about something else entirely.

As I'd discover later.

By the time we got to Nathan Phillips Square and the ice-skating I'd been excited about earlier in the day, I was a little over the idea. Skates were $10 or so per person to rent, and while it was absolutely adorable out there on the rink with the snow falling gently (I know, RIGHT?? ROMANTIC. RIDICULOUSLY ROMANTIC.) off to the side....well.....all the benches were snowy, and I'd just gotten new boots that day and I didn't want them to be full of snow, and there were no lockers, and we'd bought a couple things and I didn't want to leave the bags lying by the side of the rink and, well, I was trying to be nice to Cute Boy, who I know FOR A FACT based on previous attempts to go ice-skating does not actually like to attend these kinds of public-skate things, because he likes his hockey skates and he likes being on the ice during practice and he really doesn't care for public skate.

So I said we didn't have to skate.

And Cute Boy said it was fine.

But I said we really didn't and I didn't want to get my butt wet on the snow or have someone steal our packages.

And Cute Boy said he'd carry the packages.

And I said I didn't want him to do that because then he wouldn't be having any fun and I knew he wouldn't anyway and I didn't really want to skate for too long because I had to go home and shower for dinner.

And Cute Boy said fine.

And we left.

So ladies and gentlemen, let me state for the record: I AM A TOTAL SUCK, and ruined what might possibly have been the most adorable proposal in history, on the center of the ice in the lightly fallen snow in Toronto with my Canadian ice-skate loving fiancee.

BECAUSE I DIDN'T WANT TO GET MY BUTT WET AND COLD.

Can I just tell you, readers, how much I really really really really really really wish I had never known "The Plan" was to propose on the ice?? Devastating. Still.

But things happen for a reason, and as we headed away from public skate sans diamond ring, bought hot chocolates and strolled towards home instead, I had no idea that I'd come thisclose to getting engaged just a second before.

Back at the condo I got ready for dinner while Cute Boy hung out with his friend. I packed a bag, because we were planning to drive over to Cute Boy's aunt's house that night and spend the night there (yes, on a Thursday night, and yes, we'd be arriving around 11, and YES, I did actually question the plausibility of this story, but was told to "just GO WITH IT!" so I did, thankfully.) and we headed out to find a place to have a drink before our dinner.

Only, as you might have guessed, we weren't spending the night at Cute Boy's aunt's. Instead, he pulled up at the lovely Sutton Place Hotel, said, "Surprise!" and got out of the car.

AND THAT'S WHEN MY BRAIN REALIZED THE WHOLE DAY WAS LEADING UP TO GETTING ENGAGED.

I frantically tried to shrug the thought back, because if I was wrong, I was going to be severely disappointed and not enjoy the lovely romantic evening he had planned with a hotel and a fantastic dinner. So I casually inquired if we should "bring our bags up to the room before we head out??" trying to suss if there was a surprise within.

"Oh, yeah, we can do that if you want," he said.

We got to the room.

"Nice," he commented. "What's the view like?"

"Looks nice!" I said. "There's a balcony!" (More sussing.)

"Cool. I'm going to the bathroom." he replied.

But the balcony wouldn't unlock, so instead I unpacked some things from my bag. When Cute Boy came out of the bathroom, he asked about the view and then- strangely- freaking attacked the balcony door until he wrenched it open.

It's entirely possible he broke the lock.

Regardless, we went out on the balcony to look at the city view in the night lights with the snow falling and it was INCREDIBLY lovely and, well....you can guess what happened next....the trip to the bathroom was actually to fish my ring out of its hiding place in his wallet, and my adorable man proposed right there on the balcony!

And then I starting giggling.

And then I started crying.

And then I started hugging him.

And then two minutes went by.

And then he inquired as to whether or not I wanted to give him a yes anytime soon.

Oh, yeah.

That "saying yes" thing.

I forgot to do that.

So I did.

And THAT, my dears, is the very long story of how Cute Boy and I got engaged, and a little snapshot of what the poor man is going to have to put up with from me, aka "The Woman Who Questions Everything," for the rest of his life.

I'm really lucky he loves that about me.

Most of the time, anyway.

The Scene In Which We Do Not Pee On That. Please.

I love talking on the phone to my friends that have kids, because they are possssssssibly the only people more distracted than I am at any given moment. In particular, I love talking to my friend L, who has two kids and absolutely none, zero, nada difference in vocal inflection when switching between phone conversation and kid conversation.

This would be a lot less hilarious if her kids, particularly her oldest, didn't do some really funny things.

For example.

L: Hello?

Me: Hey! Sorry I just missed your call.

-General pleasantries exchanged-


Me: So what's up?

L: Aside from the fact that I'm pretty sure I'm going to drink this entire Wine Cube tonight?

Me: What's a Wine Cube?"

L: They're from Target. They're like four bottles of wine in one cube.

Me: Neat.

L: Yeah. Normally I try to wait until the kids go to bed but I'm not sure if I'm going to make it tonight.

Me: I may need to get one of those.

L: Well, I was actually calling to see if you had any good ideas. I'm trying to think of a good title for my new blog, which I'm thinking is going to be something about the kids, and me, and my job, and stuff like that.

Me: Ok.

L: I was thinking "My So Called Life," but that was kinda already taken.

Me: Yeah, I'm pretty sure that's taken.

L: So then I was thinking something funny, and I thought I'd ask you because you're witty, and you can have more food if you want it but I'm not going to feed you, 'cause I've already fed you a plate and you can feed yourself 'cause you're a big boy.

Me: Whaaa?

-Kid Noises-

L: Ok, then are you done? If you're done you need to go get in the shower, because we're starting the movie at 7 and you need to be showered and in your pjs by then. So get naked!

-Kid Noises-

Me: Wh-

L: Get naked!

-Kid Noises-

Me: Is tha-

L: GET NAKED!

-Kid Noises-

Me: -laughing hysterically- I'm pretty sure you're the only person who calls me to yell Get Naked at me.

L: Thanks Beck.

Me: So you need a name for the blog. Maybe it should be something funny that you say.

L: Like what? I don't really know of anything. Please don't pee in the shower.

Me: Huh?

L: Oh my god. Seriously? He's PEEING IN THE SHOWER. And believe me, it's not anything classy like the water's already running or anything; it's just pee and a shower. It looks like a urinal in there.

Me: I definitely think you can name your blog something you yell at your kids.

L: Like what?

Me: I don't know. In the past five minutes I've heard you say "I'm not feeding you, get naked, and don't pee in the shower." I like the last one.

L: Yeah, I don't know...oooooh Rudolph, I gotta tape this shit.

Me: -LMAO- you have to tape this shit?

L: Haha, yeah, and oooh, the Grinch, gotta tape this one too.

Me: I think you should name it "Please Don't Pee In The Shower."

L: But he pees on other things too.

Me: Seriously?!

L: Well, you know, he's a boy. So he sort of pees at the park....and sometimes in the yard......and sometimes in the wastebasket.....and, well....

Me: I feel like "Please Don't Pee On That" might serve you better.

L: I'll think about it ohhhhh sweet Jesus.

Me: Oh no.

L: He's taking a bubble bath.

Me: ......

L: In the shower.

Me: Oh god.

L: With an entire bottle of Bath & Body Works stuff.

Me: OMG.

L: I gotta go.



Ladies and Gentlemen, please join me in welcoming "Please Don't Pee On That" to my blogroll...and hopefully to yours!

The Scene In Which Apparently Gardening Fails Me

I have two very major confessions to make, friends. Be gentle.

First. (And this, if you know me and have, say, driven past my house in the recent weeks is not so much a confession as an acknowledgement.

MY YARD LOOKS HORRIBLE.

Seriously, summer has wreaked some HAVOC on the yard. Dead. Crunchy. Brown. The flowers have all gone to seed and past it. The bushes grew out of control and resemble sea urchins. The phlox is spiny and woody and brown (and half-dead thanks to some overzealous mowing by one of my neighbors, but it was on his side, so that's not even contributing to the awfulness).

And I just need to get out there and clean it up. I know I do. (And I don't want to hear that if I stopped writing this blog and just did it it would be done, because this blog only took me 7 minutes to write and my yard is going to take many, many more minutes than that thankyouverymuch.)

Confession #2 is not really a confession but a confirmation of what you already might know having seen my yard, and that is that I really like color palettes in the purple/pink/green range. Purple phlox. Butterfly bush. Lavender.

I like THINGS TO MATCH.

Naturally, the potted plants that dot my porch also contain pink and purple plants throughout the summer months. But as the summer dried those suckers up faster than you could've fried an egg on the sidewalk some days this August, last week I decided I was going to put my fall plants in.

I happened to be at Lowe's with time to kill and hit the gardening section, where I was promptly disappointed by the lack of creative fall offerings. There were mums. And....mums. And....wait, wait....mums.

For someone who was craving some ornamental cabbage, maybe a few fall grasses, and such, it was a letdown.

Nonetheless, I rebounded, and even did something that for me (the person who likes THINGS TO MATCH!) was way crazy.

I picked twenty small mum plants off a buy-one-get one shelf with absolutely NO color indication. The photos ranged from pinks to yellows to reds and oranges and purples. I even went so far as to deliberately pick plants off different shelves and from different pre-packaged flats. I was determined to have a colorful splash out front, if only to make up for the hideousness that is the rest of the yard.

So I eagerly went home, planted all my mums, watered dilligently, and waited for the first signs of color.

This weekend, they began to bloom.

They are ALL YELLOW.

Every. Single. One.

Friends, I swear, I couldn't make this up if I tried.

The Scene In Which My Dog Has Developed A Potty Mouth

Has this happened to anyone else?!?!

Finnigan The Blind, my absolutely fantastic, lovable, sweet little rescue pup who has been with me for three years (count 'em, THREE YEARS. THIRTY SIX MONTHS) and has never, ever, ever, EVER done anything like this, has suddenly developed a potty mouth.

More specifically?

His new favorite water bowl is my downstairs toilet (NEVER before. EVER.) and, worse, he has developed an innate ability to ferret out and EAT! CAT! SHIT! from the feral cat who counts our house as one of her roaming sites.

So lately, the peaceful silence around my house has been broken with phrases like this, which I actually just said to the little beast a minute ago when he tried to kiss up to me on the couch after a feast of cat about 20 minutes ago: "Don't even think about kissing me with that cat-shit mouth, buster brown."

Help!

The Scene In Which I Have Possibly Found The Cure For Cancer. In My Fridge.

With summer coming to an end, the last few weeks had been pretty busy at the condo. As a result, the refridgerator hadn't been getting its normal level of attention - the kind that comes when you are home regularly and eat the food you've purchased and consume the leftovers that are lurking inside and generally keep things clean.

But Younger Brother and I have been traveling a bit, and I've been slammed with end-of-summer weddings and have been eating via the grab-and-go method, and in general, the fridge just needed a little attention.

Especially because....(cue Jaws theme).....there were......FOIL WRAPPED ITEMS.

Lurking.

Any person who has ever cleaned a fridge out knows foil wrapped items are the worst. Tupperware is the best. With Tupperware, you can at least see what you're getting into when you discover the leftover taco meet from two weeks ago or the other half of a now dessicated can of chicken noodle soup. You can even make the enlightened decision, as I've been known to do a few times, of chucking the entire Tupperware container into the trash without the benefit of opening the lid and debating, via smell, whether the container is salvageable or not. But foil, now, well, foil's another story. And mysterious foil-wrapped packages are the worst. And here's the thing about them- at least for me - you Can't! Not! Open! Them!

It's just not possible!

I've GOT to know what it is I'm throwing away! After all, I could be mistakenly throwing away something that was wrapped in foil only yesterday. It could be a brownie or two! It could be CHEESE!

Or it could be something that perhaps once was meat that I'm pretty sure my brother cooked for dinner a week ago. Ew.

It might even be the cure for cancer.

Though unlikely. But I'll check.

The Scene In Which The Hair Dryer Dies

This week marked a sad moment at my house as we laid a dear friend to rest.

My hair dryer.

Dramatic? Yes. But seriously, ladies, you know how it is, right? One minute you're happily humming along to whatever song's playing in your head as you point that piece of heated plastic at your scalp, and the next, the device that's given you confidence and style for the past two years starts starts making The Death Noise.

nnnnnnnnnnrrrrrrrrrrrrr (regular noise)nnnnnnnnnnnnnnnrrrrrrrrrrrrr.............. (spark spark spark spark)NRNRNRkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkk kkaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaappppbbbt.

Guys? You with me? It's kind of like an Indy Car that gets a flat one lap from winning it all but still miiiiiiight pull it off and yet you're torn- because you're cheering like hell for the little guy to putter it over the finish line to glory BUT you're also keenly aware of the fact that sooner or later, homeboy's gonna burst into flames.

So yes. It was a sad day when we laid Ol' Dryer to rest. And composed this ditty in its honor.

sing it with me (to the tune of American Pie)

So bye bye, Turbo one-eight-seven-fiiive
Had a good run while it lasted but now my hair you don't dry
And when I turned you on and scary sparks they did fly
I knew today it'd be to Target I driiiiive.

The Scene In Which I Do Not Have The Day I'd Planned

Today, I had one of those days that just kind of turns out to be a clusterf***.

You know, the kind where you wake up late with greasy hair 'cause you didn't wash it yesterday 'cause you're getting it cut today.

Lock yourself out of your house 'cause your key breaks in the door as you're trying to pull it out (needless to say, this happens while in "locked" mode, not "unlocked," 'cause that would be easy.)

Get to your appointment and wind up not getting a haircut 'cause you wrote the wrong day on your calendar and your stylist is on vacation.

Beg a random stylist to wash your hair 'cause it's a greasy mop and now you're not sure how many meetings and things you're going to have to attend today in your shorts and t-shirt 'cause you're locked out of your house.

Blow dry and style your own hair even though you're at a salon 'cause if one thing goes right today, it's gonna be that you don't look like crap.

Realize you've got to call your afternoon meeting and reschedule 'cause your files are locked in your house which you are locked out of.

Realize you've got to call someone else to get the number of your afternoon meeting 'cause the number is locked in your house which you are locked out of.

Realize you've got to call a third person to get the number of someone else to get the number of your afternoon meeting 'cause the number is locked in your house which you are locked out of.

Make said calls.

Get excited about being able to run errands instead of having a meeting because you really need to return a few things which are, oh yeah, locked in your house which you are locked out of.

Get excited about having the time to shoot some photos for a meeting that you need to do and you just need to grab your camera which is, oh yeah, locked in your house which you are locked out of.

Get excited about getting some much needed work done except that you just need your laptop and it is, oh yeah, locked in your house which you are locked out of.

Go to Lowe's and buy a new lock 'cause you know you're going to need one 'cause you've needed one every other time this has happened and you're going to be all AHEAD OF THE GAME this time.

Get home and meet the lock guy who is able to fix the lock without using the new lock you've just purchased at Lowe's 'cause he's just better than all the other locksmiths that have been summoned in the past.

And this is why my blog is called "That Wasn't In The Script." Because sometimes, friends, IT JUST WASN'T.

But at least I have nice hair.

The Scene In Which I Have Spent $23. On Something.

Earlier this week I got my credit card statement, and like most months, gave it a quick perusal to be sure nothing was out of the ordinary. Sure enough, it all seemed legit- a couple tanks of gas, a few (or four...or seven...or eleven) trips to Starbucks, some purchases at Lowe's, and of course, the $23 I'd spent at the "Family Name's Feed and Mercantile" in Some Town You've Never Heard Of, Indiana.

Whaaaaa?

I racked my brain.

I rifled my reciepts.

I tried to remember WHAT I could have POSSIBLY spent $23 on at a FEED STORE somewhere in East Jesus, Indiana.

And I couldn't.

So I called my credit card company and spent about five minutes on the phone explaining to the nice young man that, in fact, I had not spent $23 on something at a Feed Store.

And then I got on with my life quite nicely until today, when I went to grab a few things out of my purse so that I could put them in another purse.

And felt the crinkle of a shoved-down reciept.

For $23.

To the Feed and Mercantile.

Whaaaaaa?

I racked my brain.

I rifled my (now found) reciept.

I tried to remember WHAT I could have POSSIBLY spent $23 on at the FEED STORE somewhere in East Jesus, Indiana.

And I couldn't.

So I called my credit card company and spent about 5 minutes on the phone explaining to the nice young woman that, in fact, I had spent $23 on something at a Feed Store.

But, hand to God, I have ABSOLUTELY NO IDEA WHAT.