Everyone has their bologna

This post is 15 months in the making

2014-10-09T15:12:00.001-05:00

...and that's all I can come up with. That empty space above...

Over the past six months, I've watched some of my favorite blogs shut down. Including some mammoth ones like Young House Love. Those folks had a book and a line of products at Target for chrissake. And they left it all to go participate more in the very life they've been blogging about.

There's this thing that happens- somewhere in the first half of your 30s for most of us- that makes you want to talk about it less and do it more. Maybe it's the marriages, the baby making, or the joys of home ownership that leave us prisoners of our cubicles and small, windowless offices in hopes of the promotion that'll fund new appliances/windows/a new garbage disposal. If you're trying to fund a new baby... Good luck.. Most of us struggle to pay for that one no matter what.

We are fighting hard to get ahead and gritting our teeth as we fall behind.

Who the hell has the time or the stomach to write about it?

My longtime Love and I got married last weekend. Finally, I know. Or maybe not so finally. We sold a house, bought a house, both changed careers, saw loved ones grow old and ill and pass away, bid farewell to beloved family pets, painted the basement, and just this week, learned that together, we can trap and destroy a mouse infestation in the third car garage stall.

Chris and I were so busy living that there wasn't time for marriage. Which seems to be a common theme for most of us- there's never any time.

You wake up one day with an Instagram collection of 1800 pictures but only 14 of them contain tangible memories of actual life moments. I will not ask you to raise your hand if this statement rings true. It doesn't have to be said: the world is full of white noise.

We spend so much time trying to appear successful/beautiful/happy/fulfilled that we aren't doing the work to get ourselves there. Really there in the real world.

I've done a lot of living in the past 15 months. Probably more so than in any other stretch of life. I've learned that I suffer from a yeast allergy. So all those times you saw me running like a whackadoo around downtown under the influence of Coors were only partially my fault.

I've learned that Chris and I bring out both the most disgusting and most delightful aspects of one another's personalities. I wish the former weren't true, but it is and I take ownership of that.

I've learned that Corporate America will never, ever be for me. 1100ish wedding related emails almost sent me to the Crazy Place. Can we have a 72 second phone call and skip the seven email volleys?

Chris has learned that there are moments- like when our treasured 6 year old dog was diagnosed with terminal cancer- in which I cannot power through. I don't think he ever saw me weak and broken until that moment. I've learned that Chris is stronger than I thought and can hold me up when life is bringing me down.

I've learned that I can relandscape a yard, in the rain, by myself.

And last Sunday, when we woke up married and everyone asked, "so does it feel different?" I learned that marriage did not change anything other than my last name. Which tells me that Chris and I did not marry to fix something that was broken, or because it was expected, or because we were looking to fill some kind of void.

Chris and I married because we were living our lives and the path lead us right on up to that altar. It was glorious and overwhelming and magical, and I can't wait to see where it takes us next.

An Open Letter (like the ones film directors write to Lindsay Lohan, only this one is for my fitness folks)

2013-09-16T22:52:00.000-05:00

In all of my years of lifting weights and running triathlons and hill sprint intervalling, it never crossed my mind that fitness would bring my life anything other than euphoria and joy.

This past weekend, fitness delivered a spitefully packaged dose of shame and a tinge of embarrassment for those in my fitness community.

We all have tales of woe. Some sad. Some tragic. Some ridiculously dramatic. I am no different. I was picked on as a kid- a teenager- a young adult. Picked on to the point of changing schools and hiding in the bathrooms during lunch period so I wouldn't have to worry whether or not anyone would want to sit with me or someone would tease me for- GASP- eating in front of my peers.

I was taller than my 5th grade teacher, taller than most of the boys, bigger than the girls. The bathroom of my grandparents' house is the first place I remember crying over how fat I thought I was. At 7 years old. There's a family photo from that day and there I was, so unfat, in a turquoise and white dress with my Mom holding a red geranium and me feeling like I was unworthy somehow.

But all kids get picked on. It's an important part of growing up: learning to tolerate criticism and stand up for oneself.

I was teased by softball teammates and the Cool Kids in high school. Called butch and a dyke and all sorts of other things. I turned down every invitation to a school dance ever received because I thought for sure I would be teased and taunted for being a fat girl trying to look pretty in a sparkly dress at prom.

This is not my tale of woe. This is my tale of growing up and having had a tough go of it only to find my voice and myself and to feel so good now that those woeful moments are a memory so distant that I hardly give them thought for long enough to roll my eyes, shake my head, and move on.

I had always played sports and been active as a kid. My Grandpa was still swimming laps and lifting weights well into his 70s. He was meticulous to the extent of using a ruler to draw charts for his exercise. I so admired him. And he admired me and everytime I did something noteworthy, he made sure to marvel. While living with my grandparents during freshman year of college, I would watch Grandpa from the corner of my eye. I'd use what we learned in the high school P.E. class weight unit and what I saw Grandpa doing and quietly took up exercise. Not the occasional jog around the block, but the deliberate kind.

The endorphin rush took hold of me. I felt empowered everytime I exercised. It felt like each mile and lift and lap swam was payback for every derogatory name my childhood self bore witness to.

My soul wanted more.

The story of how I met my trainer is well documented. It's a classic: Girl gets engaged; Girl hires personal trainer to get skinny for wedding; Girl calls off wedding/cries in front of trainer/trainer says GUT CHECK, HOMIE and both survive an hour of crying over lost love and lunges.

I cried through many more workouts. But with each week- each new 10lb plate I added- my soul felt stronger right alongside my glutes and triceps. The only thing about exercise I dreaded was running, so the logical choice was to sign up for a triathlon.

Years and races and tens of thousands of back squats have passed and fitness has taught me more about resilience, tenacity, and self reliance than any absurd Chicken Soup For the Soul book could. Because when 275lbs is sitting across your shoulders or you're standing in the middle of a race course all alone, wanting to quit but knowing the only way out is to finish... it's you and your own devices... THAT is inner strength and confidence that cannot be shaken by any external force.

Fitness and I are deeply, eternally devoted to one another for that reason.

When I come across others just like me- others that make the choice to show up to the gym, that make the choice to give their time and energy to putting in hard work-- those are my soulmates. I've met beautiful, encouraging people along the way. I remember the faces of competitors that absolutely kicked my ass in triathlons but turned around and came back out on the course to cheer me on to the Finish. I remember the first women I saw at Lifetime that were lifting heavy weights. Because God knows that six years ago, there were only a handful of us daring to go there. I know the smiles and sincerity of people that holler MEGAN! HEY, HOW ARE YA over the headphones and across the Stairclimbers.

I love these people. If all I ever know of them is that she power cleans 15lbs more than me and he gets double protein in his post workout smoothie, this community of people has a place in my soul.

So when I see us acting like total and complete jerkoffs to one another, my soul feels ashamed and embarrassed for this community of very wonderful people behaving very badly. Outside of the bubble of our suburbs, this Crossfit vs Lifetime feud is entirely obsolete and inconsequential. As it should be. But inside of the bubble, the air is thick and stinks like whey isolates that have been spoiling and mutating inside of an unwashed shaker for a week.

There is a difference between competing WITH each other and AGAINST each other.

No one is more competitive than me. Believe that: no one. But I can want to mop the 50yrd dash track with your face in competition and still think kindly of you as a person once the timer stops. You feel me?

This gym has done that to spite that gym and that gym has used that gyms blah blah who cares shut the fuck up all of you about all of it!!!

When I came to cheer on friends- from both gyms, thank you- at Saturdays Lifetime Alpha competition, I stared at all of the folks wearing shirts with CROSSFIT CHAN blazed across the front and thought.. what pricks. Then I turned to my left and saw the marketing materials Lifetime had used out of spite and thought.. what pricks.

It isn't everyone. I am taking nothing away from anyone that showed up for the right reasons. But let's be real-- there were a lot of wrong reasons on the field on Saturday.

I was so overwhelmed with irritation for the melodrama that I had forgotten that there was supposed to be a competition going on. And it didn't feel like a competition between competitors, it felt like a pissing competition between egos.

Fitness saved me. It has saved many of us. Perhaps that is why I feel connected to many of you beyond that we all wear Lululemon at the gym, preschool, and probably on dates with our husbands.

We are a community bound together by common interests. There is room for us all and each of us should take it upon ourselves to cheer one another on in our pursuit of individual goals. Surely, not everyone's hands are dirty, but it is only the unfortunate few that can poison the well for all. If positive thinking can get you through Fran or 50 minutes of Prowler pushes and kips, then it can surely bring a little harmony to the air between our two parking lots.

Love and Burpees. Forever.

For The Love of Fitness: Let's all be friends.

Musical Resurrection. Melodic Biography.

2013-05-30T21:18:00.002-05:00

Paleo Is for More than Crossfit Crazies: It's For You Too, You Crazy Carbovoire

2013-02-09T21:24:00.000-06:00

I first learned about the Paleo diet/lifestyle about four years ago when my body weight started climbing and energy dropped. Paleo came after South Beach was so mindless that it practically asked for cheating.

My trainer kept chirping about a book called Primal Blueprint, urging me to read it because he felt it was keeping right in line with my beliefs about food. Save for the fact that I was newly out of retirement from a decade as a pescetarian vegetarian. After browsing Mark's Daily Apple a few times, I picked up the book and quickly proceeded to read it cover to cover.

Over the next couple of years, I used Paleo as a starting point for reducing processed foods in my diet. It was also a sure fire way to cut weight quickly and repair stalling energy. I moved on to a Ketogenic Diet-- something I'd seen a childhood friend live through as an Epilepsy patient at a research hospital-- and delightfully ate nothing but chicken and cheese for as long as I could take it and voila! Five to seven pounds gone in less than a month.

I can clearly remember being Keto on moving day. Chris can probably clearly remember, too. Especially on day 4 of unpacking when I stood at the dining table, flailing silverware and a box cutting knife, screaming and weeping IM LIVING ON CHEESE, WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME!!

So that didn't last.

As exercise programs like Crossfit grew in popularity, cookbooks, websites, and Pinterest pins with Paleo recipes and substitutions popped up in the mainstream. Plenty of the recipes tasted worse than cardboard, but for the most part, it's safe to assume that if you take white and processed foods out of your diet, you're at least Paleo-friendly.

Now, fellow Cavepeople and wannabes, please use common sense when Pinterest suggests that so long as you use almond flour instead of Gold Medal something is Paleo.. just... ugh. USE YOUR BRAIN. Organic Oreos are still Oreos and a wolf in sheeps clothing still has sharp fangs.

Everyday Paleo. Southwestern Frittata.

If you've never tried Paleo, please please please start with this recipe. Sarah is the most badass bitch of Paleo cooks and this recipe will show you that clearing your diet of grains and artificial "foods," can be delicious, affordable, and completely satisfying.

Southwestern Frittata

1tablespoon coconut oil

1/4 cup yellow onion, finely diced

1 small jalapeno, seeds removed and minced

2 garlic cloves, minced

1 cup sweet potato, peeled and grated

1 pound grass fed ground beef

1 tablespoons chili powder

1 teaspoon ground cumin

1/2 cup salsa verde (I used Trader Joe’s Salsa Verde)

12 eggs

Sea Salt to taste

Preheat oven to 350. In a large saute pan, saute the onions and minced jalapeno in the coconut oil over medium heat until the onions are translucent. Add the ground beef and cook just until it starts to brown and add the grated sweet potato and garlic. Cook until the beef is completely browned and the sweet potato is soft. Add the chili powder, cumin, and salsa, stir and cook until heated through. Taste and season with a little sea salt if desired. Transfer the meat mixture to a 11×7 glass baking dish and spread the meat mixture evenly over the bottom of the pan. In a large mixing bowl, beat together the 12 eggs add pour over the meat mixture in the baking dish. Cover tightly with aluminum foil and bake for 30 minutes. Uncover and bake for an additional 10-15 minutes or until the eggs are set in the middle when you jiggle the pan.

Now, don't try to be cute and modify the recipe because you feel scared of the coconut oil instead of butter or because you've always put milk in your eggs to make them fluffy. Because if you add milk or butter, you're not Paleo. And if you're not Paleo, you're not feeling as freakin awesome as you could.

I made this tonight with the intentions of having it before flying out the door for a Sunday at work. But the smell was so enticing that I stuck my fork in and didn't take it out until I'd helped myself to an entire serving. The best part is not only the clean eating and the yumminess of it, but walking away from the plate fully satisfied and not feeling like you're going to explode/vomit/or die.

You're welcome.

Feeling green

2013-02-04T21:11:00.000-06:00

It was a busy weekend at Casa Megan. (Chris's) Family dinner on Friday, (Megan's) family dinner on Saturday, Superbowl on Sunday.

The hours were also filled with the predictable and prerequisite workouts, trips to the golf store and grocery, laundry, and daydreaming of all the things the future holds.

Chris and I are in that awkward relationship moment when we aren't married, we don't have kids, and we are already moved into the house with the yard and dog. For quite a while now.

We often look across the room at each other on Saturday afternoons and think, "there has to be more than this." More than just a boyfriend and a girlfriend and a big house full of too many boring grownup possessions.

We know the missing piece has ten tiny toes and ten tiny fingers.

But since that's a really serious lifetime commitment, for now we doddle and tinker and bicker and do aimless things like shop online and reorganize garages and pantries.

After a full week of anticipation, this box finally arrived on Saturday and it sent me running into the house for a scissors to tear into it with.

Inside were precious contents. Paraben free contents. If that sort of thing tickles your intrigue, then be sure to checkout Abe's Market. While many of the items are available at Whole Foods or the Co-Op, internet shopping practically guarantees a discount code of some kind. So I snagged shave cream, deodorant, and the most awesome Vicks-esque stuff called campor. I mist the inside of the humidifier before bed and I feel clear in the morning and my sheets aren't muddled in scary petroleum grossness.

The green theme continued on Sunday when a rare occurrence of Spring Fever struck me. I generally adore winter and swallow enough D3 and fish oil to keep the Winter Blahs away. But for whatever reason, the greenhouse and its between seasons destitution whispered into my ear to come inside.

I was disappointed to strike out in the herbs department. The hope had been an enormous basil plant and a rosemary topiary, but that's fine because lord knows I can't get a usable herb to grow in the herb garden much less a kitchen window in the dead of winter.

Instead, I found these darling clay pots rimmed in silver and distressed enough to sport some real Euro flavor. Like sheep on the countryside and lavender fields as a backdrop for crusty bread and red wine.

They were charming and a fiscal ripoff originally, but an acceptable amount on clearance. My one regret is only buying three for myself and not picking up the rest to fill for fiends as gifts come spring and summer. Nothing says I Love You, Pal, like a fabulous pot full of mojito making spearmint.

You can never go wrong with succulents and even if you neglect them, they'll still give you a good amount of life and green before joining the English Ivies and ferns in Houseplant Heaven.

I love Sunday nights for their quiet nature: I love Sunday nights because it's like getting to hit Restart on the computer and the week can begin clean, fresh, organized and uncluttered. With Sunday night comes a sense of satisfaction for what was accomplished and an anticipation for what's yet to come.

We may not have babies, but we have succulents and gleaming countertops. Here's to hoping the weekend found your time blooming with goodness.

The Not So Sugary Truth

2013-01-29T10:02:00.001-06:00

When I decided to walk away from college before my senior year, there wasnt an ounce of hesitation in my heart nor a doubt in my mind.

Others were not so sure.

People wondered how long I'd "babysit" before getting a real job.

And while I don't have a 401k match program or large group medical benefits, I can assure you that there is nothing more real than the responsibility and privilege of the work I do each day.

Ive been called a servant and someone's personal bitch and a babysitter and a spineless doormat.

Please ask the kids I care for who and what I am: they will tell you I'm the person that taught them how to ride a bike without training wheels, I'm the person that prepares thoughtfully homemade meals 3x a day, I'm the person that begins the morning with a smile and a hug for every child, every day. They will tell you I'm a champion at fort building, scheduling, and Scrabble. I read to and with them each day and through gritted teeth, they will even tell you that I'm the person that takes away electronics, unplugs XBoxes, and sits them down for those tough to have This Is Unacceptable discipline talks.

I've been called a Fill In Parent. And while flattering, it is also untrue. You see, I am no one's bitch and I am no parental replacement. Because I've been grinding and hauling and poopy diaper changing for long enough that I don't have to work for just anyone. I choose not to work for lazy or absentee parents because that's a shipwreck that I can't change the course of.

Been there, done that.

But the not so sweet truth of what I do is that I'm not a fill in parent for one main reason. And it's the thing you're not supposed to say: I do it better.

That's not a judgment, it's a fact.

I could not go to the office of any of my employers and do what they do. Because I'm not an executive, I'm not a finance whiz, and I'm not a ruthless business person.

I am a Nanny.

Boogers on the shoulder of my shirt, sticky handprints across the thighs of my pants, and probably a Dora The Explorer bandaid stuck to the bottom of my boot: loud and proud, I am a Nanny.

A professional one with more than a decade of experience and instinct and Babies Should Sleep In Their Own Beds knowledge.

Where parents have every right to let little Tommy watch the Backyardigans for a moment of peace or even a shower, I dont have that right. Where McDonalds is easy and convenient and super practical when you're running around to hockey practice, a choir concert, and school to pickup the homework Tommy left in his locker, I don't have that right.

Where parents are human, I am expected to be superhuman.

I am paid to wear the cape.

Each day, I dont just show up and do my work. I excel and I give it every ounce of my every effort and when thats not good enough, I dig deeper. I fold another load of laundry, I play Barbies AGAIN, I do something that's not really my job but is helpful and needed.

You see, being a Nanny means not saying, "that's not my job." It means coming early, staying late, and giving up your free time to showup at Tommy's football game on Saturday because it means something to him that you came. That you care. Even when not on the pay clock, these kids come before all else.

My job description is never ending because my job is whatever is best for the kids. Which means yes, I break my neck to keep Moms happy and cared for and I believe in that. No one believes in Moms and family more than me.

And I can only hope that someday, I can be as good of a Mom as I am a Nanny.

Generation gap

2013-01-17T15:39:00.001-06:00

This is an actual snippet from the actual dinner table conversation that went on in my house last night.

C: have you seen the new Rory and Tiger commercial?

Me: no I haven't why?

(pulls up YouTube. and I'm thinking ok, crap, now I have to watch the commercial and try to look interested)

C: see it's really kind of funny how the media and the public are trying to make it look like there's a rivalry going on between these two guys.

M: staring blankly. Trying to remember to blink and look alive.

C: I mean, there actually IS a friendship and that's real. they just played together for the first time last year and they truly are friends now. But the press is trying to make it look like a rivalry.

M: like Britney and Christina.

..crickets...

I dare you not to cry like the little baby that you are

2012-12-06T22:43:00.001-06:00

Watch "Wrestler With Cerebral Palsy Wins Wrestling Match After Opponent Allows Jared Stevens to Pin Him" on YouTube

I hope to God that I raise children with enough character and heart to put others first this way. Not in a pity sort of way, but in a courageous and selfless kind of way.

Heck, I hope I someday have this much integrity.

Puppies and Arsenic Filled Gumdrops

2012-11-08T07:11:00.000-06:00

Along with the infuriatingly GLACIAL PACE OF MOVEMENT that came along with Chris was a fluffer nugget puppy named Snoop. D-O-Double-G.

Snoop is the kid that gets in trouble in class because he's too smart for basic multiplication tables. He needs to juggle bone China with one paw, perform long division with decimals with the other, and jump up in down in concentric circles all at once to be adequately entertained.

God love him, Snoop is one enormous pain in the ass.

At the mere sight of a shoe or the reach for a set of keys, he loses his composure. Barking and whimpering and jumping and totally losing his freaking marbles. We have tried pheramone collars and mists, Quiet Moments calming tablets, a bark collar, and putting him in a different room while we work. A ROOM you proper dog owners say.

Why yes. Because two summers ago, during a thunderstorm during which Chris and I were away, Snoop took his tiny teeth and tried to chew himself out of his metal crate. Not only did he wreck his teeth, but he tried to jam his head out of the opening and instead pierced his neck with broken metal.

Sad and tragic, yes. But more than anything, infuriating and idiotic.

We moved him to the kitchen and put up a baby gate to keep him in. We then came home to find that he chewed the buttons and knob off of the dishwasher.

Chris and I can't sit next to each other on the couch, no. Snoop doesn't like it when people touch. Not when they touch anyone/thing that isn't him, anyway.

Snoop is an attention whore.

He's a 16lb ball of fluffy love and over enthusiasm. Surely, he is more human that canine.

He understands calendars- predicting which days and times we will leave for work. He anticipates goodbye kisses in the morning and bedtime cuddling. If Chris and I scoot too close?

OH NO YOU DON'T, HUMANS!

Snoop will throw his entire body down in between mine and Chris's. No joke. A canine cock block.

Sigh.

Guys. Real dog owners. Miracle Workers. Save me. Snoop is the asshole step child I never really asked for and now have to deal with his bad behavior. I love him endlessly: he's funny and loving and full of character. But his bad behavior actually changes the tone of our day. Snoop is our fur baby- the most doted on member of our family trio-- but another decade with this snippy, yappy, chaotic interruption of human life is unfathomable.

Warm Your Bellies With This Liquid Gold

2012-11-06T07:07:00.001-06:00

About a year ago, after one of those I simply cannot stand you Sundays with Chris, we tromped into a Panera Bread where the mere thought of speaking with him about what I was going to order raised my blood pressure. In an attempt to send one of those I'm too angry to eat ~~temper tantrums~~ messages, I ordered a cup- not bowl, CUP- of tomato soup knowing I wouldn't like it and then could slam down my spoon, food uneaten, and glare at him while he consumed his Cuban sandwich.

Much to my surprise, I did like it! I did like tomato soup, Sam I am!

Since then, I've discovered that Costco makes a delicious version, only it leans on the salty side. I have tried a couple of homemade versions. Buttery ones. Creamy ones. Backyard herb garden basil-y ones. Even some with silly French cafe names. All were meh, but none that tickled me quite like that Panera Bread cupful.

Then THIS happened. And why I am surprised, I don't know. Of course Ina Garten would come up with a blue ribbon worthy version of such a simple, comforting meal.

Yes, I do recognize that the term "grilled cheese croutons" implies a certain amount of Laissez Faire-ness towards any sort of dietary consideration. But people! The winter months are upon us, the days are brief and cloudy, moods lethargic and anxious for something sparklier and more festive than the lingering days of Fall.

For a mere 4 cups of stock and just one simple can of San Marzano tomatoes, this recipe produces quite a lot of soup. And that orzo? OH, THAT ORZO! I questioned it initially, but it truly does change the landscape of something that could otherwise be consumed by straw. So fire up your giant soup spoon, folks, you're going to wish you had a shovel for this one!

Pink Peonies Go With Everything if You Want Anyone With a Penis to Sleep in Your Bed Never

2012-11-02T18:32:00.001-05:00

Since the chances of me marrying a man that will allow pink and purple and orange FLORAL BEDDING are absolutely nill, I shall instead pin this beautiful bedding and quietly pout about yet another Pin that I'll never have.

Dear Pinterest,

You have ruined an entire Nation's concept of real life. I hope you're so pleased with yourself that you go bake yourself an Oreo stuffed chocolate chip cookie marshmallow and go eat it at the table you whittled yourself from the organic Sugar Maple trees you grew in your raised bed backyard forest.

If I May Speak on Behalf of Your Children, They Want You to Know that Youre Too Old for that Top, And Also....

2012-11-01T21:48:00.001-05:00

Over the years, one of the most valuable lessons in parenting I have come across is to recognize that, oh, how do those Christians say it?-- judge not lest ye be judged.

That's right. KEEP YO' MOUTH SHUT. (please ad lib your own colorful curse in place of the one you feel I would most likely place here)

This lesson applies for a bountiful number of reasons, but the most notable of them is to know that wonderful parents have really rotten kids, and really, super piss-poor parents end up raising Ivy League do-gooders.

parents.com image

HOWEVER. Life lessons are reserved for books and hindsight: this is real life, folks. And the one lesson that I, Megan, Uberest Uber Nanny of All of Time, most want parents to recognize is the following horse-pill to swallow:

Children are not soldiers. Indeed, the trouble with kids is that they are, in fact, tiny humans.

GASP you say. TYRANNY!

No, Grown Up People, not tyranny. Truth.

Children are real life people with real life feelings, thoughts, temperaments, and actions. They are independent in motivation and fear of consequence. Or lack thereof. Of all the many children I have encountered and the variety of parenting atrocities I have endured, the truest of troubles is the power struggle that arises when a parent clenches so tightly that a child is left with no choice but to crumble to the ground or fight back in resistence.

And what the hell kind of choice is that?

We, Grown Up People, are not here to brow-beat children into compliance or to raise them to be so afraid to fall out of step with the masses that they never discover their true self. It is not our job to shame a child for squishing the yellow Play Doh into the blue and jamming it through the green spaghetti stringer. And I know, that makes my skin crawl, too. But how can anyone look at a child and not see joy?

So stop it, fellow adults. Stop squashing the spirits of tiny humans that are merely in search of themselves.

Get Familiar

2012-11-01T21:14:00.000-05:00

Promoting products and brands is something I find tough to do. Mostly because I see not a nickel for my kind words but more so because there simply are not that many products or companies worth getting behind these days.

HOWEVER. I need to send a mad shout out to my pals at Zappos.com today.

I first ordered from Zappos five years ago when it was only shoes. Five years in the land of technology is like 35 human years.

In fact, it was so long ago that I hear you can even get your transmission fixed by the Zappos wizards these days.

I kid, of course, but they're seriously selling absolutely everything over there. It's the Amazon of every woman's dreams.

Five years ago, I can recall feeling really wowed by their 365 Day Return Policy. Particularly since I was an unemployed party girl that ordered 7 pairs of shoes and proooobably needed to send a few back.

Today, they still have this awesome and easy return policy, plus free return shipping. Oh yeah, AND FREE EXPRESS SHIPPING.

I placed an order at 8am yesterday morning and when I came home from work today, there on the doorstep before 5pm was a beautiful white box stamped ZAPPOS.

YAHTZEE!

Their customer service and prefab confirmation emails even have a bit of sass to their wording and boy, do I like a little free sass with purchase.

In addition to Zappos, I have to say HOLLA to my pals at Brooks running this evening.

My feet happen to be a circus side show- much like my insanely callused hands. The right foot is 3/4 of a size larger than the left- which is technically not considered abnormal until they are a full size different. It is so like me to not be entirely normal but just miss the mark on being entirely unusual. The right foot is also wider, which has been the real buzzkill. In spite of ordering custom shoes the last two times around, though the length is adequate, the width has become uncomfortable and aggravating. My mom used to grouse at me for wearing impossibly high and pointy shoes- those awesome stilettos of the early 2000s. Now, as I stare at the busted up mess that is my feet, I recognize the extreme correctness of her ~~bitching~~ advice.

Add in about 10-12 hours/week in the gym, a handful on my bike plus an unbelievable amount of stair climbing, baby hauling, and stroller pushing at work and my feet are the clydesdales in the stable. I've been wanting to try the barefoot style to help strengthen my foot and reduce some nagging foot/heel pain, but I didn't want to go that disgusting and disturbing TOE SHOE route. I'd read good things about Brooks and resisted since I scoff at "runners."

Everything I was finding had toe slots or pukey colors though, and I like fashionable funtion. In addition to my Innov-8 cross-fit shoes for lifting, I grabbed a pair of Brooks Pure Connects in a real dope neon orange. At $90, they're about half the price of my previous custom kicks and that's quite nice given that I burn through gym shoes about every 3 months.

Kids... this shit is on point. Room in the toe box for my hooves and cushion in the arch in a barefoot style. I am currently rocking these kicks with my pajamas and I'm even considering running laps around the house just to take these babies out for a spin.

Nothing is spookier than having to spend the rest of your life with someone

2012-10-31T20:29:00.001-05:00

While I'm not one to watch wedding videos and feel any sort of feelings, the following is a Must View.

Okay. Everything I just said is complete bullshit aside from the part about the following being a Must View.

Sometimes, I even stalk Facebook, trolling for wedding videos and montages to watch. I have wept over the vows of total strangers. Love overwhelms me like a really horrific case of chlamydia.

You could skip some or all of it EXCEPT for seconds 15-65.

If you do not find yourself a little breathless and welling up with tears at the 55th second, you are not human.

We should all be so lucky as to find a love that renders us so eager for one another. May they bicker about the irrelevant and fuss at one another over the frivolous for the rest of their lives. Cheers to LOVE.

In the very best of company

2012-10-04T23:00:00.001-05:00

Although no company will be joining us for dinner tomorrow night, I've elected to re-visit Ina Garten's Company Pot Roast. And as I put the period at the end of that sentence, it is dawning on my tired and sort of drunk on red wine brain that DUH, STUPID! You should've invited your parents over for Sunday dinner!!

Ugh. Opportunity? See ya around the way again sometime, I guess.

This is, indeed, a meal meant for company. It isn't fancy or exceptionally WOWing in presentation. But I'll be damned, I don't like roast, I don't like one pot meals, and I love the crap out of this dish.

I've made it only once before and I distinctly remember Chris and I looking at one another from beneath Meat-Sweats-Brows and saying good Lord, is this filling!

It is, by no means, a standard pot roast. It is complex in flavor and involves no french onion soup packets or cream of condensed crap gravies. This is the only way to do pot roast. Period.

Yes, it takes a little doing. A little searing. A little thought. I sipped on a glass of wine before pouring a few into the dutch oven. Then I sipped on another as I joyfully tossed in the last of the fresh rosemary from my backyard garden. Yes, I know, you hate me and you badly wish you could be as exceptionally wonderful as me.

Please address that letter to my Commonlaw Husband, Chris, and remind him of how exceptionally wonderful women deserve sparkling gratitude.

We'll be feasting on this meal in the loving company of one another; mopping up the red wine and brandy-romatic gravy with homemade, harvest foccacia bread. Damnit, Pinterest, you've really forced all of us to up our games.

To you and your's and the pending Autumn weekend, Salute.

Grilling Up the Rainbow

2012-07-16T20:41:00.000-05:00

Perhaps the new It Dinner of the moment around our house is grilled panzanella.

There are innumerable variations on this Italian summertime classic, but today I'm sharing with you my favorite. While it was initially built on a foundation of onions, panzanella is now considered to be a tomato and bread salad. My take on it opts for feta rather than mozzarella, which I find to not pack enough flavor.

I love STRONG flavor profiles served in rustic-y kinds of ways. The zucchini runneth over in our house during the summer, so it is entirely apropos that I'd chop it up and serve it en mass.

Without further ado: Grilled Plumage Panzanella

There's no science to this, only to create an equal ratio of each vegetable. The recipe below makes for 6 to 8 GENEROUS side servings

2 red bell peppers
2 yellow bell peppers
2 zucchini
1 or 2 yellow squash
4 or 5 slices of day old Italian bread, about 1/2" thick
1/2 pint cherry tomatoes, halved
1 cucumber, chopped
1/3C fresh basil, chiffonade
1/3C fresh mint, chopped
4oz feta cheese
1/3C olive oil
1/4C balsamic vinegar

Core, seed, and slice bell peppers into quarters. Chop the ends off of squashes, slice in half lengthwise. Place vegetables and bread on a sheet pan, oil lightly and season with salt and pepper.

photo courtesy of Camille Styles)

Be sure to use a light hand with the olive oil, as you will dress the salad with more later.

Grill vegetables until they begin to char- about 4 minutes on each side over a medium high flame. Remove and allow to cool to room temperature.

In a large bowl, place halved tomatoes, basil, mint, feta cheese and 1/4C pitted and halved black olives if you so choose. I detest olives and will vomit if you place them in this salad, but I guess I'll let you make the call.

Also add the cucumber- you could use a seedless English one, but I find them to be overpriced and bitter. Instead, peel a regular ole garden cuc, core (remove seeds), and chop.

After the vegetables have cooled, chop them roughly and add to the bowl. Tear the bread slices and add. Whisk together vinegar and olive oil, season with salt and pepper and dress the salad. Season lightly with more pepper (about 1/4t) and salt (about 1/8t, as the feta adds a salty component already).

Tonight, I served this salad with a steak and after a 6am workout, a full day of work, running errands to the granite showroom and the cabinet maker with my Mom, it was PERFECTION. Simple, rustic, flexible (google "Panzanella" and you'll see how endless the possibilities are) and relatively healthy. Minimal mess and vegetable leftovers for the compost bin.

An Earth Mama's wet dream.

Venti Coffee and Kindness

2012-07-08T22:17:00.002-05:00

Last Tuesday was a half day of work for me. As Chris's car was in the shop, I took him to work at 7am as any dutiful ~~wife~~ girlfriend would do. After dropoff, I whipped into the Starbucks Drive Thru line for what was intended to be a quickie cup of coffee before hitting the gym.

The length of the line was long and its forward movement slow. I began growing impatient but stayed ferociously committed to a Venti Iced Coffee, no syrup, two Sweet & Low. As a pickup truck towards the front of the line seemed to be place an eternally long order, I stared at my phone and considered Facebooking how freakin PISSED OFF it makes me when people order more than two drinks at a drive thru.

It must've been 10 minutes before I arrived at the window. Wearing my best Oh No, I'm Not Irritated face, I reached out to had the barista a five dollar bill, only to have her refuse it. "The person in front of you actually paid for your drink" she said.

While I've experienced the kindness of that moment before, that was a particularly special morning. I handed the barista my five anyway and told her to pay for the person behind me and keep the three bucks change for herself. She smiled giddily- an older women with what looked to be a few tears welling up in her eyes. "Incredible" she said. She went on to tell me that the delay in the line was because the SIX CARS in front of me had all paid for one another's coffee.

As the seventh person hoping to grace someone else's morning with a little generosity, I drove away floored by the kindness of strangers. My favorite aspect of this so-called "drive thru difference" is that there is NOTHING IN IT for the person paying- you drive off without the person behind you even knowing you just did something kind.

Kindness that does not seek reward is my favorite kind of kindness.

Friends & Warriors

2012-07-08T21:39:00.002-05:00

Ode to My Best Friend

It says a lot about a person to possess long-standing friendships. This is Heather, who happens to have been my best friend since 1988. That's almost 25 years should your algebra be on vacation.

Often mistaken for sisters, she is, indeed, a sister. A girl that has been there when it was really good, really bad, and really ridiculous. She's the friend that takes me as I am, but doesn't beat around the bullshit bush.

We rode the school bus together and used to write down license plate numbers in case criminals were following us to school. We shared goalie gloves during soccer tournament snowstorms. We secretly put Bacardi in our "virgin" daiquiris before packing them up as roadies en route to early morning softball games.

She laughs when I'm funny and rolls her eyes when I'm outrageous. Which is often.

I admire her vim and vigor- her hilarity- her no fluff approach to life. She is tenacious, adventurous, willing to try.

Whether it's Warrior Dash or strolling the aisles of Target together or delivering me ice cream for an insanely terrible hangover, she's my Go To Gal. Ride or die.

To be jealous of the complete badassness of such a friendship is only natural.

Forgiving being myself

2012-06-24T08:37:00.001-05:00

Yesterday was a bit of a fitness milestone for me.

For a girl that, according to my June account statement, visited the gym 9 times in the first 8 days in the month, that's saying something.

It wasn't a personal record, no, that was about 3 weeks ago (repping 410lbs on the leg press, thank you!). It wasn't even anything that was physically so totally incredible: It was a Mindset-Shaking-Moment of the This Shit Will Change My Life calibre.

I love fitness. When I miss a workout or am too rushed to put in the work I want, I feel anxious and worried. Some of you read that and see me in pictures on Facebook or at Target on Sundays and you're saying, yeah, okay Megan, sure.

And you know what? Screw you and your judgment.

When I was six years old, I sat on the scale at my Grandma's house and cried because I thought I was fat. It was spring break and I was wearing a sun dress with that waffley, stretchy and supposed to be fitted top piece that little girl's sundresses often have. The picture of the exact dress and day is at my parent's house and it reduces me to tears everytime I look at how I'm trying to hide the body I already hated behind my mom's arms.

Nothing on me was fat. Not even little kid chubby. My heart breaks for that little girl- trapped by herself within herself for so, so long.

For the next 18 years, I felt bad about myself. I was taller than my teachers and the boys, bigger than my naturally thin girlfriends. It felt like I was not only the oddball, but I was somehow wrong; wrong for not finding some magical way to change who and what I was. Everyday was tears or frustration or turning down invites to prom because I thought I was too fat to wear a fancy dress in front of my peers.

Paralyzing fear and sadness.

Then I met the man in my life. No, not Chris, but that dreadful sludge dwelling ex of mine. Given the impending wedding, I bought a Mack truck ton of personal training sessions and told the head of the department to match me up with a male trainer because I cannot get along with women. What I really meant was I'm so insecure that being around women that are thinner or prettier would make me too self conscious to function. When asked three times what my goals were and what I wanted out of a trainer, I simply said I wanted to be skinny.

It was a short sighted and shallow goal.

The breakup came and so did that infamous workout: the crying on the step up machine moment when Trainer Tim said the next 50 minutes would be a gut check, that the two things in life you'll never regret are going to church and a great workout.

No one has cheered louder for me than Trainer Tim. When boys have heard about my love of strength training and said "don't get all gross and myscley like a dude" and others have made comments about being "a dyke" or suggested that lots and lots of running and fewer deadlifts would make me smaller, he's there with the next heavier weight on the rack and a big old fuck 'em.

Yesterday was a delectable little athletic morsel called Alpha. Not the Olympics, but certainly a mountain of physical torture that most would be unwilling to try. It's the culmination of what our workouts are: rope whipping and kettlebells, rowing and snatches and log jumping followed by fun filled incline runs with commando crawls. And when those aren't enough of a party, get down, get up, clap your hands and repeat 39 more times.

Burpees are acrylic nailes filed to a point screeching down a chalkboard.

People quit. People were disqualified. People left the course in the back of ambulances. Most did not finish.

The deets of the day are moot. But the waters were not smooth. I came mentally and physically amped up for my 9:15 start time only to find my number and name on the registration, but somehow missing from the schedule. It was nearly three hours before my toes were finally at the starting line. Any competitor can sympathize with how the wait squashed my initial adrenaline and my mental focus and enthusiasm fizzled. There were silly mistakes along the way- mistakes that arise from mental laziness more so than physical failure. They were mistakes that kept me from the leader board that I KNOW I should have been on.

Those are the thoughts I'm trying to not harp on. They are the negative thoughts that bring me down and create self doubt in exactly those Gut Check type of moments. Rather than feel bad for the not so glittering moments, they are going to be exactly what propels me to keep training, keep trying, and keep focused. I finished Alpha on my own two feet knowing I could've done better and that sucks a little. At the same time, I know I could've done better at something 99.9% of people could not do at all.

I suppose the beauty of not winning is that I didn't win. If youre already at the top, what's left? Stay there or come down.

I get to keep digging, keep reaching, keep seeking the height of how high I can take myself and that is an absolutely thrilling rush.

Karaoke ambitions and food truck dreams

2012-06-21T15:01:00.001-05:00

Last weekend, I very politely asked Chris if he'd like to shake things up a bit by heading downtown for the Stone Arch Festival along the riverfront. But since my sweetfaced Love was completely engrossed in the US Open, much to my chagrin, I said f these niceties! And rephrased my request, "Chris, we are going out like regular childless people on a Saturday night!"

One of the perks of our extremely central residence is that we are 15, maaaybe 20, minutes from absolutely everything. Including downtown. Parking was a cinch and we held hands and strolled down to the riverfront where we indulged in crab fritters and street fair galore.

After wandering the art tents, we walked across the bridge to listen to some really awesome music and eat brisket nachos from a well-known St. Paul food truck. The nachos were meh; not exactly the earth shaking food moment I was hoping for, but so what?

The music was awesome in that special sucks so bad but all these cool looking Indie people are swaying their Keens and raising their whiskey filled Sigg bottles so oh, what the hell kind of way! The singer hung her head and moved like a rag doll as the not so discreet smell of marijuana loomed.

I love people that simply do not give a fuck.

We headed back up the hill to Nye's Polynaise for some strong drinks and dear God, a black and white photo booth! For two years, Chris has scoffed at my every request for the low quality strip of silly poses, but on Saturday, he obliged. For those that have quietly asked what lies beneath the omni present hat, yes, he does have hair. An entire head of it even.

After a couple of rounds of drinks and flirty love taps and elbow shoves, we busted out if Nyes to head to 1029 Bar for what Bon Appetite has called the best lobster roll in the nation.

Me, I hate lobster. But I love a happy common law husband. As we sank into our seats and eased into another cocktail, the karaoke began. And this was no ordinary karaoke either. People came donning costumes and wigs and put on performances that had obviously been rehearsed in great repetition. My favorites were a heavy set woman of middle age and an unassuming brunette bob. For us, she rhymed Warren G and did not miss a solitary cuss or beat. Also topping my list was a flamboyantly gay man in skinny Jeans singing Maneater. He went so far as to throw himself onto the floor, toss up his legs and kick his feet back and forth as if to personally identify with the plight of being an unforgiving predator of men.

We left 1029 and felt a sense of sadness that we left the small, dark security of being away from home and lost in the moment with one another. We wondered who on the lineup we were missing and what they were singing.

We wondered when we could go back next.

Parmesan Dreams

2012-06-19T20:08:00.003-05:00

On Saturday morning, I woke up to nothing but the dog's ass facing me as he perched proudly atop Chris' pillow. Generally, I'm the first awake or awakened only moments after Chris and/or Snoop get up.

It's a Mom thing- the family stirs, the captain takes the helm.

After a continuation of our back-breaking but really awesome pace and busyness, I slept in until almost 8:00. If you, too, suffer from an extreme need to find reasons to create (and win) competitions with yourself over how many items on a To Do list you can pack into a 24 hour period, then you understand that 8:00am is the clock-watchers equivalent of DEATH.

I shuffled into the living room to find Chris snoozing peacefully on the couch. Nothing new- no, not new at all. There he laid, his hat tipped back and to the right, just the way it always does when he has dozed off. The TV was blaring- again, nothing new- but this time, oh THIS TIME, you guys, there on the screen was Ina Garten. The Barefoot Contessa herself.

There he was, unsuspectingly asleep and dreaming of simple recipes and quality ingredients. My infiltration was complete. No one in the world could be more meant for me.

I'll Take 2 Brats & A Good Cause

2012-05-27T20:12:00.001-05:00

In case you were under the impression that this 3 day weekend is for boating and BBQing, take a quickie moment away from your Banana Boat session to explore the Wounded Warrior Project.

You don't have to agree with this war-- which I don't. You don't have to agree with military recruiting practices-- which I don't. In fact, you don't even have to agree with guns and bombs and violence at all-- which I don't.

But the fact of the matter is that our country must have a military the way that you and I must have water and oxygen.

The Wounded Warrior Project holds a special place in my Bookmarks because a family member is himself a Wounded Warrior. Minus me and my big mouth, my family is generally a pretty private group of misfits, so the deets needn't be put in public forum.

Just know that no matter how you feel about war and violence and all of that, it is a daily fact of life. While I feel passionately about not being a person who would ever volunteer to go plant bombs in other countries, thank God for those who are willing to do it so that I have the choice to NOT go do it.

Ya feel me?

So while you're jamming your face in a blueberry pie and coating your fingers in Sweet Baby Rays, please remember that there are families sitting at home with an empty seat at the picnic table-- be it because their dad, brother, cousin etc is in Afghanistan or Iraq or Colombia or because their life has already been sacrificed so that your's could be spared.

Rubbing Elbows and Ruffling Feathers

2012-03-26T21:06:00.000-05:00

Way back in 2006, when I was a mere lad with wide eyes and the belief that people who have children actually want to raise them, my Dad tossed in front of me this article from USA Today.

On a whim, I Googled Beacon Hill Nannies, filled out the application, and never gave it another thought. The agency was clear about its strict requirements and desire for Pedigreed nannies for the pickiest of ~~snobs~~ the elite. A couple of weeks later, the agency called me back and asked that I submit a video interview to be shown to potential families. I'm cringing as I type that because it has just now dawned on me that when I ditched that circa 2006 desktop computer during last Fall's move, I neglected to save the video footage.

I sat in front of a pond full of geese in a park during a perfect autumnally appropriate and orange day. My sister asked questions and filmed as I sat on the bench in my J.Crew khakis, button up shirt, and denim coat and pink loafers for a touch of, "look at me! I'm a nanny! I'm a professional AND I'm fun!"

Chris mocks me to this day because for every interview, I sport some random, nonsensical accessory. He wiggles his Jazz Hands at me as I go out the door and taunts, "look at me! I'm FUN!"

Khakis with embroidered puppies land the job, every time.

Anyway, I ended up with the agency and felt really proud of the accomplishment. Beacon Hill was known to be THE YALE of nanny agencies and I had somehow squeaked by their SAT requirements. The owner pimped me out as a Midwestern Girl which is exactly the kind of prime rib dinner that hungry East Coast tigers like.

You know, family values, solid morals, and hot dish casseroles? The sort of things that serve as a substitute for parents that don't want to do an ounce of parenting.

Why do what you can pay someone else to do for you!

After years with a Totally, Certifiably Whacked Out Cuckoobirds family, I resigned on my own free will. There was an AH HA moment of holy shitballs, I am almost 25 years old and I have never had my own life because I've been so damn busy managing someone else's!

I took a year to teach preschool. I accepted a job as the nanny of five for a seemingly normal family.

They were not.

Six years after I first read that article in USA Today, I had a flashback moment last week when the New York Times ruffled the feathers of many with an article last week about a $180,000 nanny. I read the article and nodded sagely to some of it-- knowingly-- and rolled my eyes at some of it. I read all 325 comments left by online readers and felt both offended and appalled.

The only comment I found acceptable was this:

180,000 per year
365 days per year
24 hours per day
comes to $20.55 per hour.
That is a FANTASTICALLY low wage for someone with all the various skills, talents, knowledge and disposition that a nanny does. More power to them!

Which is exactly what many professional nannies do and it is what ALL East Coast nannies do. There is not a moment of personal time, not an ounce of privacy, and more use and abuse and mistreatment than anyone could imagine.

To be a professional nanny is to be someone's personal slave, I can assure you.

Oops, I did it again

2012-03-25T15:45:00.000-05:00

I know, I know, overuse and abuse of an inexplicably popular song by an inexplicably popular ~~white trash hobag~~ entertainer.

As discussed many times before, I suck at baking. Cooking I do, baking I do not. I found this over the weekend and identified Dilemmas #4 and #5 as the culprits in my dessert mishaps.

Now if only I could FIX the problem.

There are many variables in baking. Pictured are cookies with various problems using the same dough (with flour adjustments in numbers 3 &4).

1. This cookie is done just right. It is pictured to compare with the rest.
2. This dough was not refrigerated. It is still good but a little flatter than it should be.
3. This dough contained too much flour and did not spread much at all. It is interesting to note that the dough looked identical to the correct dough, but was much stiffer and drier.
4. This dough had too little flour. It spread too much and didn’t bake evenly.
5. This dough was over-mixed. It had a poor color, baked flat and had a strange consistency.
6. This dough was formed too small. It was overcooked at eight minutes. It is fine to make smaller cookies, just bake them for less time.
7. This dough was formed too large. The outsides were done while the middle was too high and underdone.
8. This dough was baked in an oven 25 degrees too hot. The outside was overdone and the inside was slightly underdone.
9. This dough was baked in an oven 25 degrees too cool. It fell flat and became too crisp without much of an inside.
10. This dough was frozen when baked. It took longer to bake and didnâ€™t cook as evenly. To use frozen dough, set on cookie sheet at room temperature while oven is preheating, 15-20 minutes. It takes the frost off and bakes perfectly.

Look at Me, I'm Not only Having my Cake, I'm Eating It!

2012-03-25T10:00:00.000-05:00

Dear Self,
Today, you are 28.

That's right, kid:welcome to your motherfucking late twenties.

It's a little scary, and the road here has done a lot of meandering en route to THIS moment. The good news is, the track didn't take a total nose-dive off of a cliff, it just ran off course for long enough to taste the bitter bite of being young and dumb and making piss-poor choices.

Try not to be too hard on yourself: none of those choices shamed your family or completely squashed your dignity. And also, in spite of stealing a few pieces of federal property for giggles, the stop signs and construction barrels were all disposed of before words like "arrested" or "convicted" entered the picture.

The neck piercings and Warped Tour Band Member Boyfriend episode were sort of embarrassing, but not altogether tragic. Your hair has been every color, your closet has represented every Shouldn't Have Done That fashion moment since baggy carpenter jeans, and your bank statements have gone from bar tabs to utility bills.

Congratulations, you're growing up.

And oh, those grown-up wrinkles! I know you stare in the rearview mirror during your morning commute four out of five days each work week and are mentally saving for Botox already. You're a planner, a worrier, a Doomsday Prepper.

Those wrinkles were hard-fought and well-earned.

Two years ago at this time, you were sitting in your parents' basement wondering when your time would come. Those were some tough days: years of use and abuse as a domestic employee are hard on a gal. It would only be natural to look at the big salaries, beautiful houses, and growing families that surronded you and feel a little sad.

We all throw Pity Parties for ourselves sometimes. As long as you don't drown in your own tears, it's acceptable for a certain period of time.

Last year at this time.. and brace yourself, Big Girl... you had left the Job From Hell two days ago. The Mrs sent you on your merry way with Bible scripture about selfish people rotting for all of eternity. Those years of tolerating such mistreatment and total lack of boundaries have made you stronger. Tougher. Bolder and more adament about your right to be treated like a valued employee with a schedule, and oh yeah, AN OVERTIME RATE should you be called in early, held late, or worked until your fingers bleed.

This year has been big. Too big to minimize by trying to write about it all.

It feels good to feel good, doesn't it? To have real, grownup relationships with family members and friends. Real friends. Not people that are readily available when you want to pay for their Kamikaze shot and conveniently unavailable when you need a ride while your car is in for an oil change.

Twenty eight is going to be deliciously full of good things. And even when the skies cloud over withe Really Bad Things, your twenty-eight year old self will have the strength and the smarts to know to sit tight, hold onto your britches, and believe in the ultimate outcome.

Happy Birthday, Self. It is a happy day, indeed.