Boring Can Be Fun

Oh, hey. Didn't see you there. Because I wasn't here until just now. It's been a minute or two since I've hung out with you here, right? Oh? Five and a half months? I'm just going to awkwardly laugh and pretend that's nothing. Nothing! Sooo, how's your mom 'n' 'em? How are you? Goooood, gooood. Glad to hear it. Oh, me? Let's see, I'm doing pretty well. What's new since last we spoke? Patrick and I have done a good bit of work on our house primarily funded by the sale of his Jeep. We've painted (translation: he's painted), gotten trees cut down and brush cleared, updated light fixtures, and some other small odds and ends. We used some of that Jeep money to buy a replacement car, too. We were highly productive during January and February until... I had another baby in early March. Had I mentioned I was pregnant? Yeah, we flew in to the hospital on two wheels when, as it turns out, I was fully dilated and ready to go, p...

I'm going to go out on a limb and assume you already know this, but nevertheless: Wow, y'all! It's 2016! New year. Fresh start. Endless possibilities and boundless optimism. That's how the first week of the new year feels, right? Like, this year, IT'S MY YEAR.  Although it makes no sense, that phrase. I do not own a year. A year is not mine. I share it with however many people are also alive on the planet during this year.  Fine, sure. I know that people mean IT'S THE YEAR I'M FINALLY GOING TO GET MY (stuff) TOGETHER. Okay, that I can get on board with. Let's all get our (stuff) together this year. And how will we do that? Uhhhh... I know: Let's just wing it, like always, and see if things magically work out for us a little better than every. other. year. Solid plan? Yes.  Recap: first week of the year--feeling invincible! Weeks 2-52: back to normal. Anyway. For whatever reason, once the holidays are over and it's just cold...

It's that time of year! You know--the end of it. Naturally, what I'm supposed to do is recap how my year was. Here you go: COOL. Have a nice 2016! You don't buy balloons to say bye to YOUR year? Rude. . . . . . . . . Okay fiiiinnnneeee. I'll write a little something else.  In order from start of the year to the end (clever way I've come up with to organize this list of events, don't you think? Start to finish? Man, I'm good at blogging), here are a few highlights of my Boring, Fun 2015: Celebrated 3rd wedding anniversary Celebrated Sutton's 1st birthday with a Button Bash Easter Consistently exercised and started to get abs Got knocked up again and lost abs Sutton's first trip to the beach (SO MUCH SUNSCREEN) Dad went through radiation for prostate cancer (treatment successful) Mom had "nose job" to remove skin cancer (treatment successful) Ate all the food Patrick had append...

Dearest, dearest  Food, It's not you, it's me.  That's not true, because actually it's you, too. It's both of us. Let me explain. I need you, you see. Like, literally. Without you, I'll die. No! Seriously! I'm not being dramatic. I'd literally die without you. Oh yum! Salad and water! But there's a catch. As we all are, you're nuanced. You come in many shades, flavors, and moods. And levels of nutrition. You're the crisp spinach salad, loaded with veggies and olives and feta, dressed in olive oil and lemon juice. You're the warm, fragrant, home-made yeast roll, served to me by my mother on Christmas day. You're the slice of Lane Cake, a delightful confection that teases the palate with hints of bourbon and nostalgia. You're the roasted vegetables. The ham. The sweet potato casserole. You're the PIZZA ALL THE PIZZA. You're a perfect clementine. You're a chewy, sugary concoction of high fructo...

You may (or not, whatever) recall that roughly (almost exactly) two years ago I found out I had the ol' G.D. Gestational DI-UH-BEETUS. Sugar is stupid anyway, so who wants it? (Meekly raises hand.) I do. I spun a tale about how much fun I had getting not one, but two glucose tolerance tests and how I was sosososoSO very excited to get gestational diabetes. If I may, and, excuse me, but I do sincerely hope you'll forgive me, and, please, please don't hold a grudge, but you probably didn't pick up on all the sarcasm in that post way back then.   You may have really thought I was, like, so stoked to get all in some finger-prickin', carb-countin' shenanigans. Well, I wasn't. It was a major pain in my over-pricked fingertips. So I essentially lied to you. And you probably shouldn't read any of my highly popular, critically acclaimed stuff anymore, because it's 90% sarcasm, 9% failed attempts at sarcasm, and 1% me being an actual, norma...

There once was a girl from Nantucket... No, wait. Wrong story. There once was a beautiful young woman who had fallen pregnant with her second child. With her first pregnancy, she found that though she wanted carbs a little more than usual, she didn't feel like there was a massive change in her appetite. She gained a very reasonable amount of weight and basically felt good about that. She had her baby and, eventually, got back to looking a way she felt comfortable. She had that pain in the butt gestational diabetes, of course, but that's neither here nor there. During this, her second pregnancy, one day as she approached her 22nd week, she took a long, hard look in the mirror. Was she still as lovely as the most delicate, pink rose found in nature? Naturally. Did her baby bump seem to be appropriately adorable? Yes it did. Did her legs seem to be a little bit heavier? . . . . Aw, snap. She began thinking about the way she'd been eating lately. The pasta. T...

Back in the dark ages  Early Aughts when I was in my early 20's, Girls' Night was such a thing to aspire to.  I went back in time and contacted myself from about a decade or so ago to see if I could get an insider's perspective on what a Girls' Night is all about. Me from 2003, take it away: Hi! I'm awkward, extra-skinny, big bangs 21-year-old Rebecca! I look 16, which sucks, because no one takes me seriously. The big bangs, total inability to dress myself well, and general awkward demeanor may have something to do with that. Old-As-Dirt-and-What-Happened-to-My-Boobs-Did-I-Have-Surgery-Rebecca asked me to talk to you about girls' night out. (Yes, even at 21, I want to use the proper apostrophe.)  Well let me tell you, I want to feel like and be perceived as the grown-up that I am! (Because, I definitely am a grown-up. Right? If you call yourself a grown-up, you probably are just that. Because 40 year olds often say,  "Hey, I'm a grown-up, and ...