My life has always moved at a stunningly fast pace, which is a cause for concern for both friends and families. There are days (weeks, months, years) where I disappear off of the map entirely, only to reappear out of the blue, gasping for a breath of fresh air and a cold drink. I'll stay for a few minutes, just long enough to remind myself of how much I love and miss the important people in my life, and then I'll force myself to jump back into the chaos of life and to keep my focus on the light at the end of the tunnel.
This year's pace hasn't altered one bit from the standard. The main difference is I'm at the finish line for so many different aspects of my life that I have to concentrate with all of my might to not lose momentum - all while kick-starting the next phase, which includes a whole lot of work and worries.
My marriage to Tim has started a whole new chapter of my life on so many levels that I couldn't even begin to explain all of the joy (and complexities) that comes along with it. The newest development has been house hunting, which is tremendously exciting. The start of a new life in a new home...it's hard to really wrap my head around it.
Grad school is finally coming to a close. Two long years of continuous studying, presentations, group work, and essays - all coming to a sudden conclusion, complete with a peacock blue tassel and hood, honor cords, and fancy piece of paper. I look back on all of the people that have influenced me and pushed me in the right direction over the course of both my undergrad and grad degree, and I'm overwhelmed with gratitude. I don't even know how to fully say "thank you" to these people.
Work opportunities aren't exactly presenting themselves like I had anticipated, but I've made the switch from the Bou to Trader Joe's, only because of the increase in pay and potential "plan B" management opportunities. It's been a bittersweet transition. I'm looking forward to meeting new people and experiencing something different, but over the past four years, the Bou surpassed a "workplace" and became a little oasis for me when things got rough.
Moral of the story: transitions are terrifyingly beautiful.
Sunday, March 18, 2012
Friday, March 16, 2012
Signs that I'm turning into the crazy cat lady
1. I have two of them. And I still refer to my mom & dad's cat as "my cat." So three cats. I feel like somewhere, off in the distance, there's some prophet looking into a glass ball, saying ominously "It begins..."
2. When describing my two cats, rather than explaining them as "an all black cat" and a "calico," I talk about them as if they have distinct characteristics and personality traits, like a person. "My one cat's name is Goblin, and he's morbidly obese. My other cat's name is Gypsy, and she's the bane of my existence."
3. I talk to my cats in two ways. The first way is a simple you-meow-I-meow conversation. The second is more of a reprimanding...I have to continuously remind both of my cats that they're not human beings. "Stop sitting at the table. And don't sit on the table either." "Potato chips aren't for cats." "STOP TRYING TO DRINK OUT OF MY GLASS. YOU'RE NOT A PERSON." Either way, they're used to me acknowledging them constantly, because Moses forbid I'm on the phone with someone, they'll follow me around and cry to the heavens until I turn around and shout at them (which, in their cat brains, is the equivalent of me basking in their feline glory).
4. The cats did something ridiculous? Break something? Run head-first into a piece of furniture that has always, always been in the same spot? Don't worry - I'll be sure to start the conversation with my husband by saying "You will not believe what your cats did today."
5. My inhumane schedule prevents me from having a real social life, so sometimes my cat stories are the only ones that have any level of humor to them. People don't really appreciate them. "Goblin was drinking water the other day, looked up at me, and being the idiot he is, wanted to meow and drink at the same time. So he meowed, and all of the water that he forgot to swallow fell out of his mouth and went all over the ground. Then he looked at it, as if he didn't know where it came from." *cricket chirps*
6. I wrote a blog post about my cats. Case in point.
2. When describing my two cats, rather than explaining them as "an all black cat" and a "calico," I talk about them as if they have distinct characteristics and personality traits, like a person. "My one cat's name is Goblin, and he's morbidly obese. My other cat's name is Gypsy, and she's the bane of my existence."
3. I talk to my cats in two ways. The first way is a simple you-meow-I-meow conversation. The second is more of a reprimanding...I have to continuously remind both of my cats that they're not human beings. "Stop sitting at the table. And don't sit on the table either." "Potato chips aren't for cats." "STOP TRYING TO DRINK OUT OF MY GLASS. YOU'RE NOT A PERSON." Either way, they're used to me acknowledging them constantly, because Moses forbid I'm on the phone with someone, they'll follow me around and cry to the heavens until I turn around and shout at them (which, in their cat brains, is the equivalent of me basking in their feline glory).
4. The cats did something ridiculous? Break something? Run head-first into a piece of furniture that has always, always been in the same spot? Don't worry - I'll be sure to start the conversation with my husband by saying "You will not believe what your cats did today."
5. My inhumane schedule prevents me from having a real social life, so sometimes my cat stories are the only ones that have any level of humor to them. People don't really appreciate them. "Goblin was drinking water the other day, looked up at me, and being the idiot he is, wanted to meow and drink at the same time. So he meowed, and all of the water that he forgot to swallow fell out of his mouth and went all over the ground. Then he looked at it, as if he didn't know where it came from." *cricket chirps*
6. I wrote a blog post about my cats. Case in point.
Thursday, March 15, 2012
Wedding Planning: The Ultimate Lenten Challenge
Background note: I'm already a married woman. Tim and I decided in October of 2011 that we wanted to commit to each other marriage before he had to deploy to Afghanistan. We quickly planned the whole thing (6 days, to be specific), met at the Justice of Peace with two friends and our parents, and said our vows. Thirteen days later, he was on a plane heading across the world. He's home, safe and sound (thank You, God), and we decided to plan a day to celebrate the Sacrament of Marriage at my home parish, along with a proper celebration with our friends and family.
Ladies and gents, take my advice - just get married at the JOP and leave it at that. Or go to your home parish and wed secretly with only God, the Priest, and your folks present. Plan an after-party barbeque, and leave it at that. Because this whole wedding planning thing will drive you to drink.
I've found that it's really easy to let the materialistic culture of a wedding consume and cloud my mind, when really this is an intensely personal, yet public moment of love, trust, and faith between two individuals. It has been such a struggle wrenching my mind from the stress of what the hall will look like and what decorations I should purchase or rent, which is really shocking for me because I am by no means a materialistic. I'm not the type of person to sit online for hours and look at the different things that I want to buy, what will make me look "unique," and how many hours I'll need to work to afford these things that, on any other day, I would care nothing about.
But, to be frank, this is the most pressure I've ever been under in my life. The wedding is, in theory, a direct reflection of the couple's love, the parents' support of the couple, and the overall creativity of the bride.
I can hear family members and friends now - "It's your day - we just want you to be happy!" I have a whole plethora of issues with this statement. For starters, it's not my day. It's a day to celebrate the friendship, love, and commitment that my husband and I share. I refuse to give into the temptation of "This is what I've dreamed about since I was a little girl, and therefore, we're going to do it this way." Don't get me wrong - compromise on some issues really hasn't been my forte. The wedding shower in particular has been the biggest battle. Meshing what I have in my brain as the ideal day with what my in-laws are expecting has been so difficult and frustrating. It's only through the power of proper breathing and prayer that I've been able to take a step back and remind myself that, in the grand scheme of things, the wedding shower is a small dot on the spectrum of life that Tim and I will be spending together.
Furthermore, the wedding is celebrating the fact that our families have all shown us what it means to love, how to cherish one another, how to stay committed 'til death do us part. At the end of the day, it's not about the centerpieces, the chair covers, the food, the DJ, or the dress. The thought process, in my opinion, should be "My family taught me how to love. My belief in a loving God has expanded my capacity to love. I love you that much and then some. I'm with you for life, no matter what it brings." So, because my family and his family play such a huge role in this equation, they deserve a certain level of participation and say in how the day will progress.
...I just have to continually remind myself of that as I pour over menu after menu for restaurants that are potential wedding shower sites. Two more hours, and I'll have reached the socially-acceptable time to pour myself a rum and coke.
Ladies and gents, take my advice - just get married at the JOP and leave it at that. Or go to your home parish and wed secretly with only God, the Priest, and your folks present. Plan an after-party barbeque, and leave it at that. Because this whole wedding planning thing will drive you to drink.
I've found that it's really easy to let the materialistic culture of a wedding consume and cloud my mind, when really this is an intensely personal, yet public moment of love, trust, and faith between two individuals. It has been such a struggle wrenching my mind from the stress of what the hall will look like and what decorations I should purchase or rent, which is really shocking for me because I am by no means a materialistic. I'm not the type of person to sit online for hours and look at the different things that I want to buy, what will make me look "unique," and how many hours I'll need to work to afford these things that, on any other day, I would care nothing about.
But, to be frank, this is the most pressure I've ever been under in my life. The wedding is, in theory, a direct reflection of the couple's love, the parents' support of the couple, and the overall creativity of the bride.
I can hear family members and friends now - "It's your day - we just want you to be happy!" I have a whole plethora of issues with this statement. For starters, it's not my day. It's a day to celebrate the friendship, love, and commitment that my husband and I share. I refuse to give into the temptation of "This is what I've dreamed about since I was a little girl, and therefore, we're going to do it this way." Don't get me wrong - compromise on some issues really hasn't been my forte. The wedding shower in particular has been the biggest battle. Meshing what I have in my brain as the ideal day with what my in-laws are expecting has been so difficult and frustrating. It's only through the power of proper breathing and prayer that I've been able to take a step back and remind myself that, in the grand scheme of things, the wedding shower is a small dot on the spectrum of life that Tim and I will be spending together.
Furthermore, the wedding is celebrating the fact that our families have all shown us what it means to love, how to cherish one another, how to stay committed 'til death do us part. At the end of the day, it's not about the centerpieces, the chair covers, the food, the DJ, or the dress. The thought process, in my opinion, should be "My family taught me how to love. My belief in a loving God has expanded my capacity to love. I love you that much and then some. I'm with you for life, no matter what it brings." So, because my family and his family play such a huge role in this equation, they deserve a certain level of participation and say in how the day will progress.
...I just have to continually remind myself of that as I pour over menu after menu for restaurants that are potential wedding shower sites. Two more hours, and I'll have reached the socially-acceptable time to pour myself a rum and coke.
Sunday, January 16, 2011
I'm alright with being angry about this. You should be, too.
To all who have subscribed (or even casually followed) my blog - I'm sorry for the prolonged silence. Grad school and an unbearable work schedule have forced me to temporarily set aside any and all hobbies, including leisurely reading and writing.
Anyways, moving on to the latest societal factor that is making me twitch.
I have been inundated with commercials for an upcoming movie called "No Strings Attached." I can't escape them - they're literally everywhere. TV, radio, Pandora, Facebook, Netflix Instant Queue, even in the Center for Student Activities at OU. I understand that this is pretty typical for movie advertisements. My complaint is that I have no desire to see this movie - or even associate myself with it - and I simply do not have the option of clicking it off and ignoring it.
So, a bit of rage has begun to bubble...and rather than risk an aneurysm, I'll just blog about it.
As of this point, I know the ins and outs of the entire plot. Natalie Portman plays a successful and incredibly busy woman, whose best friend is the charmingly idiotic Ashton Kutcher. She decides to offer the proposition of becoming sex friends - friends that have sex casually whenever they feel the bodily urge, with no commitment and no feelings past the physical. The one rule to this arrangement is that they can't let their emotions get out of hand. One scene in the advertisement actually shows Portman and Kutcher in bed after sex, with Portman encouraging Kutcher to avoid snuggling afterwards in order to avoid making things weird. So, as one would expect, Kutcher ends up beginning to fall in love with Portman, and the advertisement ends with Portman shouting "Why can't we just have sex?!" before flashing to the opening date of the film.
How sweet.
At what point did we become OK with this? If a man were to tell a woman "Why can't we just have sex?", he would be considered a chauvinist pig. But if a woman goes down this path, she's liberated, successful and sexy.
Am I the only woman on the planet who sees a slight problem with this?
I'm currently working on getting through my Master's program with a GPA of 3.7 or higher. I'm also picking up multiple side jobs whenever possible, not just for the money, but for the experience and possible connections that they might bring. And despite all of the work that I will be putting into my degree, all of the late nights and early mornings, and all of the things that I will put on hold to make this happen - I am constantly barraged with disturbing statistics. Women will make, on average, 70 cents to every dollar that a man makes for the same job. Women typically only have a 50% chance of receiving pay when they go on maternity leave. And women are not given managerial positions nearly as often as men are.
So yeah, needless to say, movies that portray the epitome of a successful and beautiful woman to be one that wants nothing more than a sexual relationship where she uses another human being is a tad frustrating.
I understand that solely watching this movie is not going to encourage the female population to start having casual sex friendships while abandoning all other dreams. But the fact of the matter is, our pop culture defines our society. It defines the level of acceptability. Not only do I want more for myself than just a good job and a casual sex friendship with no emotional attachment, but I want my future daughters to aspire - no, demand - more than that. Women should aspire to be, amongst a myriad of other things, intelligent, strong, compassionate, beautiful, and yes, sexy. But it takes a lot more to make a woman of that caliber than just, well, sex.
Being a strong, successful woman is so much more than the ability to take off your clothes and enjoy sex with no societal pressure. And I'm so disgustingly disappointed to see that the majority of women simply don't care to understand that.
Anyways, moving on to the latest societal factor that is making me twitch.
I have been inundated with commercials for an upcoming movie called "No Strings Attached." I can't escape them - they're literally everywhere. TV, radio, Pandora, Facebook, Netflix Instant Queue, even in the Center for Student Activities at OU. I understand that this is pretty typical for movie advertisements. My complaint is that I have no desire to see this movie - or even associate myself with it - and I simply do not have the option of clicking it off and ignoring it.
So, a bit of rage has begun to bubble...and rather than risk an aneurysm, I'll just blog about it.
As of this point, I know the ins and outs of the entire plot. Natalie Portman plays a successful and incredibly busy woman, whose best friend is the charmingly idiotic Ashton Kutcher. She decides to offer the proposition of becoming sex friends - friends that have sex casually whenever they feel the bodily urge, with no commitment and no feelings past the physical. The one rule to this arrangement is that they can't let their emotions get out of hand. One scene in the advertisement actually shows Portman and Kutcher in bed after sex, with Portman encouraging Kutcher to avoid snuggling afterwards in order to avoid making things weird. So, as one would expect, Kutcher ends up beginning to fall in love with Portman, and the advertisement ends with Portman shouting "Why can't we just have sex?!" before flashing to the opening date of the film.
How sweet.
At what point did we become OK with this? If a man were to tell a woman "Why can't we just have sex?", he would be considered a chauvinist pig. But if a woman goes down this path, she's liberated, successful and sexy.
Am I the only woman on the planet who sees a slight problem with this?
I'm currently working on getting through my Master's program with a GPA of 3.7 or higher. I'm also picking up multiple side jobs whenever possible, not just for the money, but for the experience and possible connections that they might bring. And despite all of the work that I will be putting into my degree, all of the late nights and early mornings, and all of the things that I will put on hold to make this happen - I am constantly barraged with disturbing statistics. Women will make, on average, 70 cents to every dollar that a man makes for the same job. Women typically only have a 50% chance of receiving pay when they go on maternity leave. And women are not given managerial positions nearly as often as men are.
So yeah, needless to say, movies that portray the epitome of a successful and beautiful woman to be one that wants nothing more than a sexual relationship where she uses another human being is a tad frustrating.
I understand that solely watching this movie is not going to encourage the female population to start having casual sex friendships while abandoning all other dreams. But the fact of the matter is, our pop culture defines our society. It defines the level of acceptability. Not only do I want more for myself than just a good job and a casual sex friendship with no emotional attachment, but I want my future daughters to aspire - no, demand - more than that. Women should aspire to be, amongst a myriad of other things, intelligent, strong, compassionate, beautiful, and yes, sexy. But it takes a lot more to make a woman of that caliber than just, well, sex.
Being a strong, successful woman is so much more than the ability to take off your clothes and enjoy sex with no societal pressure. And I'm so disgustingly disappointed to see that the majority of women simply don't care to understand that.
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
I thought only Paris Hilton did that
It started when she first walked in the door - I said hello, and she said "Do you guys have almond milk?"
She was about 100 pounds soaking wet, and her skin was that burnt-cookie color that tends to only be associated with insecure, self-absorbed young adults and chameleons blending into the bark of a tree. Dressed in pristine, ankle-high heeled boots, a pre-torn denim skirt with a studded belt, and a black tank, you would've thought that she had stopped in to caffienate before going to a dance club complete with martinis and overly paid athletes. The problem is it was 5 o'clock on a Tuesday night - in Michigan.
After correcting her assumption that no, the title of "dark chocolate" does not in any way imply that it's vegan, she decided to go with a Black Thai Tea Latte, complete with an absurd amount of artificial flavorings and soy milk ("I just don't understand why no one carries almond milk," she complained pitifully, as if I could use my barista magic to contact the great Almond Cow and beg for a gift of it's precious milk).
As she walked out the door, I realized that in her overly-large prada purse was a tiny, shivering chihuahua, which looked back at me mournfully as she flipped her hair back and pulled her Droid phone out of her pocket. I didn't realize that creatures could look like they were experiencing suicidal thoughts until that moment.
She was about 100 pounds soaking wet, and her skin was that burnt-cookie color that tends to only be associated with insecure, self-absorbed young adults and chameleons blending into the bark of a tree. Dressed in pristine, ankle-high heeled boots, a pre-torn denim skirt with a studded belt, and a black tank, you would've thought that she had stopped in to caffienate before going to a dance club complete with martinis and overly paid athletes. The problem is it was 5 o'clock on a Tuesday night - in Michigan.
After correcting her assumption that no, the title of "dark chocolate" does not in any way imply that it's vegan, she decided to go with a Black Thai Tea Latte, complete with an absurd amount of artificial flavorings and soy milk ("I just don't understand why no one carries almond milk," she complained pitifully, as if I could use my barista magic to contact the great Almond Cow and beg for a gift of it's precious milk).
As she walked out the door, I realized that in her overly-large prada purse was a tiny, shivering chihuahua, which looked back at me mournfully as she flipped her hair back and pulled her Droid phone out of her pocket. I didn't realize that creatures could look like they were experiencing suicidal thoughts until that moment.
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
Coffee Shop Thoughts
A cliche goal in life is to write and successfully publish a book. I've been tossing the idea around in my brain for quite some time now. It's not that I can't do it - I'm a talented and meticulous writer, and I love the art of words with a passion that's borderline unhealthy. I just haven't been able to put my finger on exactly what I want to write about.
I think I've figured it out. Coffee shops. Barista chronicles. I wouldn't want to focus on the business aspect at all - in fact, I think the focus on the dollar bills as opposed to the love of the product that typically starts any major chain is the reason that coffee is turning into a status-symbol commodity rather than, well, just coffee. I wouldn't even use the name of the coffee shops that I've been employed at, or the ones that I frequent. I think it'd be fascinating to just talk about the role a barista plays in a coffee shop - not so much the whole "taking pride in a great double shot of espresso," but more the customer relation aspect.
To put it bluntly: wouldn't a book about the nut jobs that frequent coffee shops be a good read? Bartenders can blame these people's actions on alcohol, waiters and waitresses can blame it on hunger - baristas can only blame it on the obscurity of human nature. Caffeine addiction doesn't even cover it with these people - you can lay more blame on the cycle of the moon than on that.
I would talk about some of the sweeter moments, and some of the absolutely incredible people that I've met along the way...but still, I can't help but feel like people would be more interested in the crazy aspect than anything. There's nothing like a book that makes you legitimately laugh out loud and thank your lucky stars that you have your sanity and an occupation that keeps you as far away from these people as possible.
I think I've figured it out. Coffee shops. Barista chronicles. I wouldn't want to focus on the business aspect at all - in fact, I think the focus on the dollar bills as opposed to the love of the product that typically starts any major chain is the reason that coffee is turning into a status-symbol commodity rather than, well, just coffee. I wouldn't even use the name of the coffee shops that I've been employed at, or the ones that I frequent. I think it'd be fascinating to just talk about the role a barista plays in a coffee shop - not so much the whole "taking pride in a great double shot of espresso," but more the customer relation aspect.
To put it bluntly: wouldn't a book about the nut jobs that frequent coffee shops be a good read? Bartenders can blame these people's actions on alcohol, waiters and waitresses can blame it on hunger - baristas can only blame it on the obscurity of human nature. Caffeine addiction doesn't even cover it with these people - you can lay more blame on the cycle of the moon than on that.
I would talk about some of the sweeter moments, and some of the absolutely incredible people that I've met along the way...but still, I can't help but feel like people would be more interested in the crazy aspect than anything. There's nothing like a book that makes you legitimately laugh out loud and thank your lucky stars that you have your sanity and an occupation that keeps you as far away from these people as possible.
Sunday, May 16, 2010
Turning-Point Anxiety
I can't remember if I've updated about this recently or not, but I'm officially moved in with Tim. We've been living together for quite some time now - I think since February. It's been a major adjustment for a lot of reasons (and, surprisingly, living with Tim has not been the most complicated part).
Coming home to an empty house at night legitimately scared me for quite some time. On an average night, I get home from work around 10:30-11:00 pm, whereas Tim doesn't get home until 1:30-2:00 am. The silence would make my ears ring. I'd quickly turn on the TV to whatever garbage is on at that time, just to have some background clatter to make it feel like the noisy environment that I had recently moved out of. If there were dishes, I'd wash them. If there was laundry, I'd fold it. If there was homework, I would find some other meticulous cleaning that needed to be done and eventually get to writing that paper. In any case, I kept myself busy, not just because it was my home now and I wanted it to look presentable, but also because I didn't want to sit down and think about how often I was home alone, and how I've never had to deal with being alone for more than an hour or two at a time. I couldn't tell you why it frightened me - it just did.
To add to the whole "it was my home now" bit, I had to adjust to that, too. It sure didn't feel like my home until quite recently - it was still "Tim's place." No family pictures around, none of my candles or keepsakes had been unpacked because there were no shelves to place them on, none of my books were out. That ratty, fluffy white blanket that I was so used to curling up in wasn't on the couch anymore. That squeaky floor board right in front of the fridge that I would intentionally step on repeatedly to annoy my brother was replaced with a squeak-free one. And there was that damned silence again - the baby wasn't babbling and throwing his plastic cups around, and mom & dad weren't screaming at the referees during the Wings game.
The fact that I was feeling all these incredibly bizarre and overly emotional sentiments worried me. This was supposed to be one of the most exciting moments of my life, and instead, I feel disheveled and completely out of my comfort zone.
But, not surprisingly, I adjusted over time. Each cupboard became progressively more organized, pictures of my family started going up, a magnetic notepad with Snoopy and Charlie Brown has been placed on the side of the fridge - all little things that say "Pam resides here." Not only that, but the new time with Tim has been FANTASTIC. Sure, there have been things that irk me, just like there would be with any roommate (why, oh WHY, should the can opener go in the sink after being used? AND WHY IN THE HELL ARE ALL OF THE GIRL SCOUT COOKIES GONE?!!) But, between cooking meals together, playing a few rounds of cards, or just chatting at the end of the day, I really couldn't be happier with where we are at.
Overall, I'm getting used to being a big girl - and I'm pretty darn content.
Coming home to an empty house at night legitimately scared me for quite some time. On an average night, I get home from work around 10:30-11:00 pm, whereas Tim doesn't get home until 1:30-2:00 am. The silence would make my ears ring. I'd quickly turn on the TV to whatever garbage is on at that time, just to have some background clatter to make it feel like the noisy environment that I had recently moved out of. If there were dishes, I'd wash them. If there was laundry, I'd fold it. If there was homework, I would find some other meticulous cleaning that needed to be done and eventually get to writing that paper. In any case, I kept myself busy, not just because it was my home now and I wanted it to look presentable, but also because I didn't want to sit down and think about how often I was home alone, and how I've never had to deal with being alone for more than an hour or two at a time. I couldn't tell you why it frightened me - it just did.
To add to the whole "it was my home now" bit, I had to adjust to that, too. It sure didn't feel like my home until quite recently - it was still "Tim's place." No family pictures around, none of my candles or keepsakes had been unpacked because there were no shelves to place them on, none of my books were out. That ratty, fluffy white blanket that I was so used to curling up in wasn't on the couch anymore. That squeaky floor board right in front of the fridge that I would intentionally step on repeatedly to annoy my brother was replaced with a squeak-free one. And there was that damned silence again - the baby wasn't babbling and throwing his plastic cups around, and mom & dad weren't screaming at the referees during the Wings game.
The fact that I was feeling all these incredibly bizarre and overly emotional sentiments worried me. This was supposed to be one of the most exciting moments of my life, and instead, I feel disheveled and completely out of my comfort zone.
But, not surprisingly, I adjusted over time. Each cupboard became progressively more organized, pictures of my family started going up, a magnetic notepad with Snoopy and Charlie Brown has been placed on the side of the fridge - all little things that say "Pam resides here." Not only that, but the new time with Tim has been FANTASTIC. Sure, there have been things that irk me, just like there would be with any roommate (why, oh WHY, should the can opener go in the sink after being used? AND WHY IN THE HELL ARE ALL OF THE GIRL SCOUT COOKIES GONE?!!) But, between cooking meals together, playing a few rounds of cards, or just chatting at the end of the day, I really couldn't be happier with where we are at.
Overall, I'm getting used to being a big girl - and I'm pretty darn content.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)