The Scene In Which I Meet LP!!!! And Yes, Geek Out.

I wrote this post two months ago and scheduled it to post a day later and then I sort of went on about life and never actually realized it didn't post until I went to reference it in another post and OH HEY.

Here you go.



Every so often I get really geekily excited about a piece of music that I hear somewhere that isn't the radio, like a TV show, commercial, etc, and then I spend a ridiculous amount of time and effort trying to find it.

Sometimes these end disappointingly, like the Canadian Pacific Rail holiday commercial last year where the one brother grows up playing with tractors and the other brother grows up playing with trains and you fast-forward ten years and one is a farmer and one is a train engineer and they get together for the holidays and it's all like "we're brothers but we can't show emotion" and so they give each other's kids presents instead and the train guy gives the farmer's kid a tractor and the farmer's kid give the train guy's kid a train like THEY USED TO PLAY WITH, and then they shake hands but then they really hug, and then everyone cries (specifically, I cry).

You don't believe me? Here. Grab a tissue.

Anyway, back to the point, TELL ME you don't want to know what that song is after. I do, because I want to listen to it like two thousand times more because (as you'll recall) I'm a geek like that. So I spend 40 minutes stalking it online, and discover that it's NOT A REAL SONG AND THEY JUST WROTE IT FOR THE COMMERCIAL AND WELL, SHIT.

So when I first saw the Citibank commercial where the girl is climbing the rock and it's a kind of kick ass song with an amazing female vocalist that I didn't recognize, I didn't get my hopes too high. What were the odds that Citibank just didn't have someone write them a little jingle?

But I still turned on my geek and searched around. And then I found songwriter- and now singer- LP. and "Into The Wild," the song.

Her album wasn't out yet, so I spent a good half -hour scrolling through various "OMG WHO SINGS THIS SONG" links until I found a download of it, which I promptly listened to 10,000 times until her iTunes album was released, which I then proceeded to begin listening to 10,000 time, and then last week, I was backing out of my driveway one morning when my favorite local radio station, WTTS, announced they were doing a free show that night with a promising emerging artist named LP and I about backed into my mailbox.

In a fit of irresponsibility I cancelled a night meeting, put off some to-do items, and headed out for a night on the town with Cute Husband who agreed to come along to hear "some girl that sings some song in some commercial" with me, despite the outdoor location and less-than-pleasant temps.

She gave a freaking bad-ass performance (note: the description is actually Cute Husband's, and though I certainly concur, I say this to illustrate just how talented she is) and then HOLY SHIT, THIS HAPPENED:

which is that I GOT TO MEET HER, and I might have geeked out even more than the time I was the biggest Babysitters Club fan ever and got to go to an Ann M. Martin book signing and I had all these things I wanted to tell her about how much I liked the books and my favorite character and I waited in line for an hour and what I finally said to Ann M. Martin was, "Hi."

(Brilliant. Bet she'd never heard that one.)

So I decided to go all out and just be my geeky honest self, and what I told her was, "Hi. That was a great show. And I can't lie, I totally can't even be cool right now because I about crashed my car this morning when I found out you were playing here,"

AND THEN SHE SAID, "Ha. That's awesome. You actually seem cool,"

AND THEN WE TOOK A PICTURE AND SHE SIGNED A POSTED FOR ME AND IT WAS THE BEST MONDAY OF THE SUMMER.

All because some song in a commercial got under my skin.

So there you have it. Be a geek about whatever you're a geek about. Maybe if you're lucky you'll wind up meeting the very person who inspired it.

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 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.
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The Scene In Which I Think My Dog Is Actually A Small Child

Our foster friend Princess has been with us for about three weeks now, and if the present situation is any indication, we're in for a lot of fun and snuggles with this one.

And a lot of patience.

I think she may actually be a small child, and by that I don't mean the "children of the four-legged sort," I mean there might actually be a small child going through her terrible two's while teething, crying and going through a destructive phase hiding inside my dog.

See, here's the thing. The last time I had a PUPPY was in the second grade when my family brought home Molly the Border Collie (yes, we'd actually refer to her as such on occasion). When I was in high school, we found Bennett, our first rescue golden, in a park. After Molly passed away Benson came to live with our family, another golden rescue. And when Bennett passed away, we took home Maggie, a -you guessed it- golden rescue.

Even Finnigan, despite his blindness and relatively young age at time of rescue (we think he was about two) came fairly housebroken and well-behaved. Sure, he peed in the house a few times, but he got over that pretty quickly, and he has been known to make some messes playing with a toy, but big deal.

So when we got Princess, I figured, "hey, whatever." She is at least 6 years old, so I figured the puppy-energy was gone, and as long as she was housetrained, we'd be fine.

Holy crow.

I was wrong.

In fact if there is any sort of good indication as to just HOW WRONG I WAS, it might be that I'm finding myself relating to my two favorite mommy-blogs as they write about all the weird things they've said outloud to their kids this week.

(Random sidenote? My favorite is "I don't believe you when you say you're afraid of corn." HILARIOUS!)

Because if she isn't actually a child, I'm pretty sure this dog, in fact, has been sent by the angels to teach me what it will be like to have toddlers one day.

Or she's a demon.

Either way.

Overheard at our house this week:

"Please don't bite him."

"No, that is Finnigan's food, not yours."

"My glove is not a chew toy."

"No, this is Finnigan's treat. You just ate yours."

"My hat is not a chew toy."

"NONONONONONONO!" (Peeing on the rug. AGAIN.)

"My hairbrush is not a chew toy."

"No, this is Finnigan's food. This is yours."

"What do you have? Put that down. Don't put it in your mouth."

"Hey! Drop that! Gimme that. Gimme that out of your mouth. Open your mouth."

"That's his food. I said THAT'S HIS FOOD! Hey, that's HER FOOD! Come on guys-that's not your food! Ok, if you want to eat out of each other's dishes that's fine. Whatever."

"My underwear is not a chew toy."

She's lucky she's stinkin' cute.

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 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.

The Scene In Which I Interrupt These Renovation Updates To Make Fun Of Myself

I realized a few moments ago that I hadn't given you all a fun, old-fashioned, let's-laugh-at-Becky-as-she-does-stupid-things story in awhile.

I may or may not have realized this as I was standing in my front yard watering my porch plants and getting soaked from head to toe in the water that was spraying every which way out of my (previously unrealized) somewhat non-correctly-secured garden hose.

Wearing a white shirt. You know, the kind you can see through when it's wet.

And linen khaki shorts. You know, the kind you can see through when it's wet.

And, ahem, certain undergarments that were perhaaaaaaaps not either of those colors.

I'm not sure what was funnier (and I mean this in a funny but yet slightly sadly pathetic way):

1) that I actually didn't care much because OH, MYLANTA it is hot out there

2) that I actually didn't care much because most of my neighbors could care less about seeing me in see-through garb

3)that I actually didn't care much because most of my neighbors are used to seeing me in see-though garb (thankfully, not true, though anyone around at 7 AM usually gets a peek at whatever I threw on to walk the dog in the morning....regardless of color, pattern, normal purpose of the clothing, or time of year.)

4)that I actually didn't care much because I couldn't wait to get inside and post the story for you all to laugh at.

The worst part? The only reason I was watering at this particular moment was so that all the little birds could get some water from the planters. What's up with me and the birds this summer?!?

The Scene In Which My Sacrifice Has Not Pleased The Gods (aka...Baby Birds Part 2)

Here's the thing.

I'm really starting to worry that the birds are out to get me.

It started last year, when devoted readers might recall I survived a vicious seagull attack while vacationing in Italy.

I'm still mocked for this.

Then, as you may recall, back in April I had an unfortunate run-in with several baby birds (if you haven't read the story, it's about halfway through the post) resulting tears, guilt, and the worst trip ever to Lowe's.

In an attempt at karmic retribution, I slaved over making this for the birds who call my yard home, and modestly thought that my offering, though humble, would appease the wrath called down upon me.

IT HAS NOT.

Because now, an adorable robin has decided that the wooden planter on my porch would be an excellent spot to build a nest.

And lay eggs.

And NOW, I have more baby birds on my conscience. Because every time we leave the house, we scare Mom off the nest. Every time we come home, we scare Mom off the nest. Every time I let Finn out, I scare Mom off the nest.

And from what I hear, when Mom's eggs hatch she's going to become a protective sort. The sort who, rather than just flocking to the nearest tree for a moment, is going to start dive-bombing me as I try to enter the house.

So I'm going to scream and wave my arms around like a crazy person. And then I'm going to scare her away with my smell and Finnigan is going to scare her and the cute little eggs that have hatched into cute little babies might die and I'm going to be responsible and I'm going to cry.

So you see, I need to appease the birds. And quickly.

Suggestions are welcome.

The Scene In Which I Can See The Future, And It's Covered In Vomit

When I was a kid, my mom was the one who took care of us when we were sick. My dad might help out, but when the chips were down (or, er, coming up) in the middle of the night, it was Mom who got out of bed and dealt with the puker.

Family lore tells the story of the time my brother got ridiculously ill - and failed to "aim" correctly. For several hours Mom changed sheets, cleaned the bathroom, and otherwise dealt with the contents of Younger Brother's stomach. When my dad woke up at 6:30 AM to get ready for work, he surveyed the cleaning supplies, sniffed the air, and inquired casually, "One of the kids get sick last night?"

Today, I got a glimpse of the puke-future.

I was putting on makeup and getting ready for a morning meeting when Cute Boy came into the bathroom.

"I think the dog threw up," he announced.

I paused.

"You think he threw up, or he threw up?"

"Well, I mean he threw up kind of."

Finnigan does this thing where he gets coughing attacks and kind of spits up, so I inquired, "Was it spit, or actual puke?"

"It was mostly actual puke. I think."

...........

"Ohhhhhkay......thanks?"

"Yep. I'm going to go now," he said. "Bye!"

"Ok, I'm going to clean it up. Where is it?"

"At the end of the bed."

"ON THE BED?"

"No, on the floor."

"Ok, thanks babe."

I have seen -and cleaned- the future. And while there are no babies imminent for Cute Boy and I (we're kind of enjoying that thing called "dating" right now, thanks)I do plan on having them someday, and I do assume that at some point they will puke.

And now I know whose job that will be.

The Scene In Which I Restore My Karma, Lose My Voice, Eat Some Chocolate, and Open A Store (In No Particular Order).

OH HEY THERE, blog world.

It seems like the last few weeks have really been flying by. I was talking to a good friend of mine today, E, who I haven't talked to in awhile (and who passed the bar exam! woot!) and she asked how my trip to Florida was. "Gosh," I thought/said, "it was so long ago, I have to think about it!"

It was THREE WEEKS AGO.

(I miss Florida).

Apparently this is what happens when you decide that it is a really good idea to try to move everything from your house to a new store, whilst trying to get ready for a two 1/2 week off-site show, whilst trying to meet with five new clients, whilst trying to spring-clean your entire house since of course, you've just moved all your small-business stuff out of it.

I'm pretty thankful for the leftover Easter candy I have to get me through this- that and the fact that some genius finally made Junior Mints in a box that is actually one serving size, as opposed to the typical 3 or 4 servings found in a box or in a candy bar.

Seriously, WHAT good is that to me?

If I'm in a place where I'm actually buying a whole candy bar, I think it is safe to assume that I want to EAT. THE. ENTIRE. BAR. RIGHT NOW. Regardless of calories. And I'd like the makers of candy bars to investigate why they think it is a good idea to list how many calories would be in, say, 1/3 of the bar at any given time. It just makes us feel bad, dudes!

I digress. But yes, you read correctly, I HAVE A STORE!! Pleased to announce that the flower biz has vacated the condo's kitchen and is now in the process of being organized into "something resembling a workspace and storefront" in the Butler Tarkington neighborhood. More info to follow.

In addition to the craziness that you might expect that to bring, I've managed to lose my voice due to being a dumbass and playing Sing Star while already hoarse from allergies allergy-inflicted laryngitis, which I am assured has nothing to do with anything I may or may not have done, said or sung but rather the massive amount of pollen wreaking havoc on the sinuses of Indianapolis this spring.

(Ignoring the fact that it gave me laryngitis, can I get a big THANKS UNIVERSE for the awesome spring weather this year? As in, we've actually had a spring? Not just a day where I turned off the heat and then later in the day turned on the AC * thank you, I grew up in Chicago * but a real, live, rainy, warm, plants-growing, people working outside, gardens blooming, SPRING? Love.) (Finnigan loves spring too. And eating my plants).

Back to the fact that for the better part of this week I've sounded like a teenage boy who hasn't, ummm.......well you know what he hasn't had happen yet.

I suspect that some of the laryngitis may have been universal retribution, which I have also attempted to amend this week after losing some major karma during an altercation involving a dead baby bird (DBB) last week.

I debated sharing this story, because it is AWFUL and will MAKE YOU CRY and will possibly make you want to punch me while crying out "WHY? WHYYYYY?"

In other words, Mom, stop reading now. Also any small children that might be reading this. (Sidenote- WHY would you be reading this blog if you are a small child?? Get off the Internet and go play outside! Sheesh!)

Here's the thing.

'Tis the season for baby birds and, hence, the season for baby birds to fall from nests. Because they haven't clued into the fact that Finnigan is blind, birds tend to avoid my porch as a nest-making option. Therefore, I am less clued-into watching out for the helpless fledglings and DBB's as others might be.

But last week I went to deliver flowers to someone's house and that's where THE AWFUL THING HAPPENED.

Unbeknownst to me as I traipsed up the front walk with a vase of flowers blocking my view, the homeowner had just removed a nest that she didn't know had eggs. The eggs had fallen to the porch floor, where as you might assume, they had broken and the occupants had died.

I can't stress this enough. THEY WERE ALREADY DEAD.

At any rate, I couldn't see them, and (I can't do anything to make this sound better) I stepped on one. And then, of course, I looked down to see what strange object I had squished with my flip flop.

AND NEARLY THREW UP/SCREAMED/CRIED.

My first instinct was to run for the car and sob for about 25 minutes, but as I'd already rung the doorbell, I had to remain calm and deliver the flowers. After they were safely inside and the door had shut, I (already starting to cry) examined the other fallen ones to determine that they were, in fact, already deceased and my careless stepping hadn't caused additional suffering and pain.


Despite that, I still went back to my car and cried about the DBB as I drove to the post office. I also nearly threw up about 8 times that day thinking about it and, frankly, have been choking it back as I write about it.

(I also can't stress THIS enough. If the person whose house I visited reads this, please know I absolutely, positively, in NO WAY hold any grudge against you for this unfortunate incident!!)

I got my taxes safely sent (hopefully the clerks assumed my teary face was the result of having to write those checks!) and headed out to do some other errands.

One of those included stopping at Lowe's for supplies for a weekend workshop in our neighborhood, involving- of all things- painting birdhouses and birdfeeders. In an attempt at karmic retribution, I purchased THE NICEST multiple-perch, 2' high cedar birdfeeder I could find to paint and hang in the yard. And then I spent bits and pieces of four days painting it green and orange with flower accents and pink polka dots. It made its debut this morning. They like it.

I also spent most of the day tearing up with every step I took, because (unbeknownst to me) I had actually stepped in a large wad of gum somewhere shortly after the birdie incident. Therefore every step I took I stuck to the floor a little bit. Therefore every step I took I assumed there was little bits of DBB gunk sticking to my shoe in a mad, "OUT, DAMNNED SPOT!"-esque mindset. Therefore I was in tears or in gag-mode most of the day and actually considered throwing the shoes away.

That would be when I discovered the gum.

In a really sick sort of way, that's actually kind of funny when you think about it.

But the feeder looks really nice. If you want to learn more about how easy it was to make (I can't resist!) check out BeckyGetsCrafty.blogspot.com!

(My house is not for sale, my neighbor's is. Photo angles rock.)