Are Maternity Clothes Only For Pregnant Chicks?

There is a full length mirror on the bathroom door at work. It is a single bathroom. Just a toilet, trashcan, pedestal sink, and full length mirror. Now I love a good full-length mirror, but in the bathroom? Really? I’m not sure that anyone at my office is so hot that they like to look at their entire body each time they pee. I’m sorry if you think talking about staring at your body while peeing is TMI… Trust me, I don’t like it either. That’s my point. But there is nothing I can do about it. Someone put it there for a reason, I can’t just remove it.

So each time I visit the ladies’ room I have to decide. Do I turn to the left and look at the wall? Do I turn to the right and look at myself… while I pee? Or do I look forward and risk getting sprayed in the eye by the Air Wick FreshMatic? I’ve done the FreshMatic thing so many times that I think the quality of my contacts has seriously been compromised. And staring at the wall for 10 seconds just gets boring. So the mirror is really my only option.

Yesterday during one of my visits to the mirrored restrooms, I was noticing that my stomach is looking sort of swollen. Fat, if you will. Not cute. And not something I want to see. And honest to goodness, I literally thought, “I wish I were 3 months pregnant so this was acceptable.”

That’s not a good thought to have.

Last night I was invited to an event called Champagne, Color, and Chat. I had no idea what it was all about but I agreed to go because it had the word “champagne” in the event description and it was free. Free champagne. I’m classy like that. (I think it should be noted that, like an idiot, I forgot to have a glass of champagne. I had Chardonnay instead. Who does that?!) I got to the event and learned that the hostess is a consultant who, for lack of more eloquent words on my part, teaches people how to dress. Think “What Not to Wear”… but nicer. She’s got certificates and qualifications and all that fancy stuff. She does closest audits to teach you how to use the clothes you have. She takes you shopping if you need help narrowing down your search. She teaches you which colors work for your skin tone. Basically, she teaches you how you should dress. First, she discussed this season’s “in” colors so we can be on the look out to update our wardrobe.

I instantly thought that I was clearly not her target audience. The people that need to be there are people with money. People who won’t cry if they have to throw out old clothes. People who are willing to spend more that $11.99 on a new top. I was wearing a cami that I bought at a boutique in Kansas (yes, they do exist) when I was in at our family reunion circa 2004 and a cardigan that is so old that even Old Navy would ask me to stop wearing it. I’m not the type that can afford to update my wardrobe to keep up with the times. And honestly, I’m not that hip.

But then she mentioned that she can teach you how to dress your body. And this is a valuable lesson. Not all bodies should be created equal. So she can teach you how to dress yours. How to pick items that camoflauge your flawed spots. You know, like your pregnant belly that is filled with cheesecake, not baby. I guess I did need to be there…

— Here’s the info for any of you in Houston that might be interested. Her name is Stephanie and she’s awesome. Really, she’s not paying me to say this and I only officially met her yesterday. I just know that some of us need some help! http://www.uniqueyouimage.com/ Enjoy!

 

Maternity Clothes

Maybe I’m a Loser

The past few weeks I’ve been feeling like there is something missing in my life. There’s a void. You’re probably thinking that what my life is missing is a meal with even a smidgen of nutritional value. You’re wrong, didn’t I tell you about the potato bundles? Potatoes and onions – both veggies. They count. No, that’s not what I’m missing. There is a two hour hole in my heart that can only be filled with quality television. The Biggest Loser.

Oh how I miss you Alison Sweeny. And how I miss the crazy challenges and giant scale. I do not miss Jillian, she has shown her face around Hurst Castle a few times to beat my body and make me feel guilty for phoning it in. Not really, I don’t feel guilty. I can’t keep up with her. She’s a freaking machine. But I do miss Bob. And the drama. And the glorious transformations. And the vomiting and crying. Come back to me Biggest Loser.

But, alas, I have to wait until September 15th for the next season to start.

I’m not one to fill my life with television shows. Not because I don’t enjoy them, but because I don’t like feeling like I have to be a slave to my television. I knew a girl in college that had about 8 shows that were “her shows.” You know what I mean? “Oh I’ve got to get home, my show is about to be on.” I don’t know how she had time to make friends or, you know, study. I can’t blame her for this. I would be the same way if I allowed myself to be. It all started with Friends. And for a while it was Survivor. (Back in the Colby days… can you blame me?) I used to be addicted to The Bachelor. For a few seasons I would park myself in front of the television every Monday night to see who got a rose. Not because it was an excellent show, but because I got sucked in.

A few nights ago we turned on the television and that new show “More to Love” was just starting. Know that show? Like The Bachelor, but with real life sized women. Ones that clearly don’t have any emotional baggage… I’m sure when that chick said “I am just ready to get married. Have a house and kids and all that” after sitting on a bench with this man for 5 seconds, what she really meant to say was “Hmm, I think I’d fancy a nice dinner date with you.” Stephen allowed me to watch for about 10 minutes and then I changed it after this conversation:

Girl 1: So if you make it all the way to the end, do you think you’d actually accept a ring from him?

Girl 2: Oh definitely. I could definitely see myself falling in love with him.

I’m sorry, what?! I thought this was the first episode and you’re on your first glass of champagne in your evening gown. I’m pretty sure he doesn’t even know how to tell you all apart at this point. You don’t even know him. He’s probably a creepy guy who lives in his parents’ basement with his Star Wars action figures and life sized Darth Vader cardboard cut out. Maybe not. Maybe his parents don’t have a basement. I shouldn’t assume.

Why did I watch? Because I need something to watch. I need one show each week to watch. I do love HGTV’s Design Star but that is on Sunday nights so that doesn’t help my mid-week desires.

Enter “I Survived a Japanese Game Show”… hello! This show is awesome. It’s hilarious and disgusting and I love it. It will never compare to my love for Loser, but it is a sufficient substitute for now.

So each Wednesday night, you know where to find me. Sitting in front of the television watching semi-respectable adults dress in cat costumes pouring sour milk over each other’s heads. Or seeing two grown men in leotards jumping off a trampoline and contorting their body into a shape on a sticky wall. It’s insane. It’s shocking. It’s brilliant. Give it a shot!

—–

After many requests, I will be posting the cheesecake recipe on my recipe blog sometime today. I have a few other things to post on there as well. So check back later!

Does She Talk About Anything Besides Food?

Last night was a festival of calories. Stephen and I ate ourselves stupid. At the time it was painful and uncomfortable, but now in hindsight, it was glorious. But instead of grossing you out by listing out everything I shoved into my overeager mouth, I’ll tell you about some good things I’ve done. I have completed more of my 101 in 1001 list!

7. Paint our bedroom. (In progress)
This isn’t actually done. I had great plans to finish it this past weekend but apparently I’m awful at estimating the time it takes to do these tasks. I don’t want to talk about it.

12. Send out 10 cards, just because. (2/10)
If you got one, you already know. If you didn’t get one, you’re jealous. I know.

20. Make a cheesecake.
Anniversaries and Valentine’s Day are the same in the Hurst household. Stephen always makes a steak. He always marinates it in his favorite wine with a packet of Italian dressing mix. He’s always in charge of sides but I always end up making them because I like to and he hasn’t quite mastered the art of timing a meal to be completed at the same time. (That’s a skill people, it can be tough! That’s why it gives me nightmares to think about hosting Thanksgiving.) I always make a new, fancy dessert. Then we eat and drink all night. Last week I got a recipe in the mail for a Deep Dark Chocolate Cheesecake. The picture looked great. It looked like it was cooked in Heaven’s kitchen and shipped down here to the most talented food photographer. So I thought I’d attempt it. My very first cheesecake.

Check it out!

Please ignore the wood paneling in the background. It didn’t change the taste of the dessert so it shouldn’t be factored into your judgement. Oh good gravy, this was delicious. It was about as rich as Ryan Seacrest but, much like him, it was excellent in small doses.

47. Make 3 Pioneer Woman recipes. (1/3)
I think God wanted me to make this recipe. Yesterday P Dub posted this recipe for Potato Bundles. Potatoes happened to be on the Anniversary Menu so I thought I might try them this way. Potatoes, onions, butter, salt, CREAM, parsley… HELLO! The onions… there really are no words. They tasted like candy. I guess if you put enough butter and cream on anything it will taste like candy. But the beauty is that you still get credit for eating a vegetable. Right? …. Right? …. Anybody??

56. Fry something.
Really, I’m not obese. I’m not typing this from my laptop in bed, waiting for my sponge bath and my second helping of french toast. I just like food. Fattening food. I can’t help it, okay?! Leave me alone! Last week I fried some chicken breasts in oil and butter. I’ve never done this before. It was delicious and made me want to sop up the drippings with a crusty roll. I didn’t, stop judging me. I think I’m going to fry something else. I feel like this was an easy way out. I’m thinking about something more along the lines of onion rings or donuts. My mom makes a mean donut and I think she’ll teach me if I ask her nicely. Maybe if I give her a piece of my cheesecake…

Mom? Puh-lease? Pretty please, with ganache on top?

69. Encourage one person to do the 101 in 1001.
Sarah at Life on Dayton has already started this. The link to her list is posted on my 101 in 1001 page. A few of you told me you were going to make lists of your own. If you’ve posted yours, send me the link so I can add it to the list.

81. Grill something (instead of having Stephen do it.)
I did this. I made bacon wrapped venison back strap last week. It was pretty easy but it was gross. Stephen loved it, you might too. I just really don’t like venison. I’m trying. Really, I am. I make it often and always eat it. But I don’t enjoy it. I figured the marinades and the bacon would help. It did, but not enough. But that wasn’t the point of the exercise. I now know how to grill and will probably do more of it.

So there you go! A pretty impressive accomplishment. I’m really enjoying this 101 thing. Maybe because half of the goals revolve around food. I probably wouldn’t like it much if it was all work-out related. Oh well, it’s my list. And it will be my fault if I have two extra chins on day 1001.

Got Nerd?

I can vividly remember a day in high school when I was hanging out at a neighborhood pool with two of my guy friends. We were just sitting around and talking, occasionally jumping into the pool to cool off. We’d been there about 30 minutes and their dad showed up. He said he heard we were here and wanted to come hang out. So he did. He told goofy dad jokes and felt comfortable sitting around with us. At one point I was sitting at the edge of the pool with my feet hanging in the water and one of my friends was tossing the nerf football with his dad in the pool. I could hear them having some ridiculous conversation about physics or chemistry or some other science related thing that I don’t understand. And that’s when I made my decision – I wanted to marry a nerd.

There is something endearing about a man who is comfortable with himself and doesn’t take himself too seriously. There is something valuable about a dad who can joke around with his kids and take time to play around. And I decided that wasn’t something I could negotiate on. I wanted a man who was goofy. A man who was friendly and smart. A man that I knew I could have fun with for the rest of my live. There’s no time for boring when you’re going to be married for the rest of your life.

Two years ago, I accomplished that goal. I married a nerd. He’s handsome and smart and honest and sensitive. He loves me and Jesus and playing games. He’s a goof. He tells jokes that I don’t always understand. He loves my cooking and our dog. He watches the History Channel and listens to talk radio. But he is a nerd. And more importantly, he’s my nerd.

See my nerd:

Oh goodness. How embarassing. We aren’t even looking at the camera. Hold on, we’ll turn around.

Isn’t he cute? Yeah, I know. That’s why I married him. Or was it because of his dimples? Or his foot rubs? Or his passion for Jesus? Oh wait, I remember. I married him because he’s a nerd… that’s right. Hmm, there are so many reasons, I lose count of the most important ones.

Every now and then he’ll do something to remind me. Like a couple weeks ago when he was eating a hamburger and ended up with two globs of mustard on his shoulder. Or like a week ago when I asked him to kill a bug and he carefully caught it in a Sonic cup and smashed it with the straw.

Even though I roll my eyes and check his birth certificate to see if he’s really as old as he says he is, I love it. I love him.

A few weeks ago our friend James was in town. He said to Stephen, “Sometimes I don’t understand what you’re saying. Not until later when the truth is revealed… then I can look back and it all made sense. It’s just hard to understand at the time. You’re like God.” Don’t worry, I think God appreciated the joke.

So, happy TWO YEAR anniversary to my love. Stephen Bridges. Thank you for making my life interesting!

I’ll leave you with a few pictures from the big day… Enjoy.

My thoughts exactly, girls. There is nothing sexier than a man in a penguin suit! (Except maybe a man in a baseball uniform… but my dad told me he wouldn’t pay for the wedding if I put Stephen in an Astros uniform…) Oh, and it may look like my cousin Natalie is bored. She’s not. She’s just sad. Maybe because the love of her life is about to get married. Or maybe because her stupid cousin (cough…me…cough) gave her the wrong last name on the program.

It could be worse, Natalie. It could be your wedding day and the DJ could have gotten your name wrong. Chew on that for a second…

Yeah, moving on. Check out my cake!!

Ooooohh!

Ahhhhhh!

Wow!! Love that cake!!!

See ya later…

I love you, Estaban!

What Can You Accomplish In 3 Days?

The Hurst Castle was built in 1965. We are assuming that the scratched red tile, wood paneling, and disgusting wallpaper is from ’65 as well. Since we bought the house in 2007 and there was no sign of anything updated, we’re pretty sure that the previous owners never cared to keep up with the times. We are I am slowly trying to remedy that. If it were up to Stephen, we’d keep the wood panelling and red tile forever. I fear that I’ll lose my sanity if it doesn’t change. We don’t have the money to tear up the tile and put in wood floors so that will have to wait. And, as for the wood paneling in our living room, we don’t have the guts (or time or energy) to make a decision of that magnitude. So I’m just painting the rest of the house.

This weekend my goal was to paint our bedroom. We have a pretty large bedroom with an inset vanity area. The vanity area and the wall it is attached to is covered in wallpaper. Not just any wallpaper… wallpaper with gold flecked trees that has been adhered to our walls for close to 45 years. That stuff wasn’t coming down. I decided I didn’t want to spend a month of my life tearing that wallpaper down bit by bit and then spend another chunk of my time retexturing the walls. I settled on the cheap, quick, and easy task of gluing tissue paper to the entire wallpapered area. I had done this before in our dining room to cover up a DISGUSTING wallpaper mural on an accent wall. With the help of my sister, it took a couple hours and ended up looking great. I don’t have a picture of it but this what it sort of looks like:

It’s not fantastic but it’s cheap and it covers the wallpaper. And those were my only real requirements. So I decided that Friday night I would cover the wallpapered walls, Saturday I would paint the remaining three walls in our bedroom, and Sunday I would paint over the tissue paper. I wasn’t thrilled about the idea of spending my entire weekend on one room, but I was willing to do it anyways.

I gathered my supplies on Friday after work. As I was out in the garage finding my brushes and roller and all that fun stuff, I saw that I had some leftover primer. I hadn’t planned on priming the walls but figured that I may as well. I knew it wouldn’t take long. I really didn’t want to complete the walls and still be able to see glossy trees through the paint, so I spent Friday night priming the walls.

I’m always so excited about projects like this. Then, about 10 minutes into it, I remember how much it sucks.

Saturday morning I had a meeting so I didn’t get started on the walls until about 11. I figured it would take me about 3 or 4 hours, then I’d get going on the other walls. Wrong. Wrong. A thousand times wrong. I didn’t finish tissue papering my walls until 8:00… on Sunday. I’m annoyed. Not just because my hand is still throbbing, but because I have so much more to do. Our room is not in great shape right now. The furniture is pulled away from the walls, the outlet plates are off, it looks bad.

Throughout the weekend I had the television on. I watched You’ve Got Mail because it’s my favorite movie and I knew I would keep my mood up. I had Food Network and HGTV on so that I didn’t feel like the only person in America working on tedious tasks the entire weekend. When I finally finished last night, I laid on my bedroom floor and moaned about how bad my back hurt watched the new HGTV Design Star.

It was the famous “kitchen week”… this is always a bad week. It never fails, a team doesn’t complete their kitchen. It’s always the team that tries to tile the backsplash. Now I could see how I may be awful at estimating the time it takes to complete a project. I’m a rookie, an amateur, a regular chick with an ugly home.  But they have no excuse. They are professionals. So of course one of the teams didn’t finish. They cried. I rolled my eyes. It was great television.

So I have a proposal. To all of the millions of aspiring designers that read my blog. I have an ugly kitchen. Actually, let me rephrase… I have a wonderful blank canvas. If you plan to apply to be on HGTV’s Next Design Star, you need practice. You need to learn how to demo and build cabinets and install backsplashes. I will provide the space. Come work your magic. Don’t humiliate yourself on national television. Humiliate yourself in my kitchen. I’ll give you three days. You provide the team, supplies, and basically everything else. My only requirement is that you leave it better than you got it. In return, I will provide you with publicity on my blog and invaluable knowledge.

You can’t put a price on that. Hence the word “invaluable”… think about it.

He’s Kind of A Big Deal

Last night Stephen and I had the privilege of attending the Silver Snoopy Presentation Ceremony. If you’ve never heard of the Silver Snoopy, there are two reasonable explanations for that. 1. You don’t live in an area that is saturated with NASA related things. 2. You aren’t cool enough to know someone who has received this award. I’m guessing #2. Before last night, I was also a person that fell into that category. Thankfully, my coolness factor has risen quite significantly after last night. If you are patient, I will enlighten you, and you can also be just a little cooler.

This is the Silver Snoopy:

He’s a pin, not a pen. That’s a tough thing to understand when you’re listening. They are homonyms, you know. So don’t be confused. A pin. This pin has been in space. Naturally. I think Snoopy would look sort of silly with his space suit if he hadn’t just been in space. So my friend, Wes, was awarded the Silver Snoopy. The photo above is actually taken from collectspace.com because I wasn’t allowed to touch Wes’s award. Just kidding. I was. Only in the box though. That’s okay Wes, after all of those astronauts had touched it, you don’t want my civilian hands messing it up.

I knew I’d be attending this ceremony yesterday and I wanted to be educated. So I did what any responsible researcher does, I looked it up on Wikipedia. The Silver Snoopy “is a special honor awarded to NASA employees and contractors for outstanding achievements related to human flight safety or mission success.” That’s big time. Wes is big time. Ladies, this man is single. Here is a conversation with my boss about Wes:

Chelsea – Hey I have to leave at 3 today. A friend of ours is receiving an award from NASA and we were invited to the ceremony.

BossMan – What is he, like a rocket scientist?

Chelsea – Yes.

BossMan – Sweet.

So Stephen told me that Wes may or may not actually be a rocket scientist. All I know is that his job description has the word “reentry” in it. I know that’s related to a rocket, and I’m pretty sure science has something to do with it. So to me, he’s a rocket scientist. Wes, one day you’ll need to explain it to me. Just pretend I’m a 5 year old… you know, so that I will then know how to explain it to children I meet…

Anyways, all joking aside, it was a great accomplishment. Less than 1% of employees receive this honor. And our friend, The Big W-D, did it! I’m sure that my random provisions of lasagna and chicken kabobs have something to do with his success. So in a way, I’m honored to be an extended recipient of this award.

Crap, I had said all joking aside and there I went, making a dumb joke. Sorry Wes. You’re awesome. We’re so proud of you. The only reason we didn’t walk on stage with you to help you accept your award is because we are all certain that one day you’ll realize how many IQ points higher you are and you’ll end our friendship and curse the day that you let your average friends in the one and only Silver Snoopy picture with you. Plus we were sort of scared of the astronauts. But we are still proud of you! And we’re proud of us too. We must be sort of smart if we are able to be friends with a rocket scientist and you allow us to hang out with all of your other rocket scientist friends. I tried my hardest not to mention the words pedicure, Chelsea Handler, or dog vomit. I know astronauts don’t like to discuss those things. 

Hope we didn’t let you down.

A big round of applause for our friend Wes!

Puppies Are Better Than Apologies

I am having the worst blogger’s block ever. I know, I know. Second time this week. I think it’s because I’m really tired. (No, I’m not pregnant, I’m just tired. I’m allowed to be tired and not be pregnant.) So instead of coming up with a bunch of junk and then apologizing for it later, I’ll show you pictures of Molly. For all of you newbies, Molly is my mom’s dog. She got her from my dad for her 50th birthday.

I’ve shown you a few pictures of her in the past. This is me when I kidnapped her one day.

This is why I kidnapped her. You can’t leave a puppy alone when she looks at you like this:

You just can’t. She’s always had that cute, innocent look to her. I think the breeders trained her to look like that. Deep down she’s pretty evil. Just look at her trying to attack my mom’s face the night they brought her home.

I know what you’re thinking. “Silly Chelsea. That’s not a dog! That’s a guinnea pig.” You may be right. I’m not sure. All I know is that she barks… you be the judge of that. I’m just here to show you cute pictures.

I think she’s trying to bite my mom’s neck here. I’m telling you, this chick is trouble.

Every now and then she’ll do something really cute so that you let your guard down.

This was her trick at the beginning. She loved to sleep on our shoulders. We aren’t sure what to make of it. We have a few theories. She’s either trying to be cute. Or she’s the little devil on our shoulders. Or she thinks she’s a bird. The latter is her namesake. They played with the name “Polly”… it didn’t work. So my sister’s friend recommended Molly. It felt right.

Awww, yeah I know. I can hear you. Yes, she’s cute. She looks more like the angel on her shoulder. Everyone looks innocent while they are sleeping. But what about when she’s awake? Just look at her, feeling trapped in this life. She wants out. She’s longing to be wild.

A few weeks ago I was lucky enough to catch her living her double life. She had sweet-talked my brother and grandma into supporting her behavior. I’m so thankful I had my camera with me or you’d never believe me.

No Shih-Tzus were harmed in the making of this presentation. Well maybe one of them, but don’t worry, only her pride was hurt. For the record, we found out later that Molly was downing an O’Douls. PETA, you can move along.

They’re Not In Texas Anymore

Everyone handles stress differently. Some people eat until they forget that they are worried. More accurately, they eat until they are worried about something else, like their stomach pains or gag reflexes. Some people cry. Some people get angry. Some keep busy. Some people are able to ignore it altogether. These people amaze me.

I fall into a different category. I fall apart. I get knots in my back and terrible migraines. So for the past week, I have been fully prepared to wake up with a headache. The knots are there… in full, golf ball sized form. But I have yet to get a migraine. If I believed in luck I would knock on wood. But I don’t. So can you knock on wood for me?

I think I’m having another strange reaction to my stress. The past few nights I’ve been having some strange dreams. I dream a lot. It’s one of the few good things about not sleeping through the night. But lately, they’ve been weird. Remember way back when, when I was lucky enough to hold a week old baby? The mom is a girl I went to high school with named Lindsay and we were able to meet up to chat and drool all over her precious daughter. Two nights ago I dreamt that she forced me to host her daughter’s one year birthday party. She told me that since I was the first non-family member to hold her baby, it was my responsibility. She also told me that I needed to get a bouncy house. Now don’t get me wrong, if Lindsay asked me to host her baby’s birthday party, I wouldn’t skip a beat. I’d probably make Stephen dress up as a clown and make balloon animals. I’d take a cake decorating class and make baby Ashlyn the cutest, yummiest cake in all of existence. I would get TWO bouncy houses and buy all of the kids some fun socks so they didn’t have to jump in that nasty house with bare feet. But I’m sure that a few seconds into the party I would realize that Ashlyn is only one. She doesn’t jump. She probably hates clowns and is scared of bouncy houses. She would be just as excited about a store-bought cupcake as she would for a homemade fancy cake. And, more importantly, I wasn’t the first non-family member to hold her. This party should be in someone else’s backyard!

Last night I had another weird dream. My friend Lyndsey from Kansas City came to visit me and brought some of her co-workers. They were standing in my living room and between each sentence, she took a puff. Smoking in my house is not okay. Smoking weed in my house is punishable by death. My jaw dropped and I told her that I was ashamed of her. She said, “Oh calm down. It’s normal in Kansas City. It’s classy up there.”

So I woke up wondering if KC really is that different from Houston. Does she really live in a completely different world? I also woke up wondering if I know anyone that isn’t named Lindsay/Lyndsey. It’s weird to think about how different we all are.

I remember a couple weeks ago, Pioneer Woman had just hosted a weekend for a bunch of her high school friends. They chatted and ate and took beautiful pictures. At that time, you could relate. Every couple months I get together with a few of my girl friends from high school to chat and catch up. I realized that the crazy ranch PW lives on in Oklahoma couldn’t be that different from Hurst Castle. And then I read a sentence that changed that thought forever. She was discussing the calm feeling in her house once all of her friends had left and she said,  “The dishwashers have been started.” Dishwashers? With an “s”??? Seriously, Ree, you lost me. (Only for the rest of the post of course, I went back the next day!)

Okay so maybe Ree and I have nothing in common but certainly my friends and I don’t differ that much. I mean, we all lived in the same place at one point. And then I read an email from my friend Rachel. We are friends from high school. She’s been my friend since I was young, ugly, and awkward… that’s how I know she’s for real.

This is at her wedding. She’s at the top. Since it was her wedding, she got to wear the white dress. I’m the one to the left of her. Wow, look at that. I got sidetracked. Anyways. I got an email from her the other day that, honest to God, had this sentence:

I get crabby if someone screws with my naptime. Like today when my father in law volunteered me to paint signs for a friend with a corn roaster stand at the Ellinwood After Harvest Festival.

I asked Rachel for visual proof of these signs since I’m having a hard time picturing her life. The Rachel I knew was a city girl. She was always quite crafty but she normally just used my walls as an outlet.

I guess we aren’t the same people as we were. We are spread all over the country. The rest of the country is different different than Texas. Hopefully there isn’t a place where weed is classy. But who am I to judge?

Word Count: 582, Quality Count: 0

So this is the deal. I have nothing to tell you today. Nothing at all.

Stephen and I were going to go get ice cream from Baskin Robins last night with our monthly Buy One Get One Free coupons but those plans got postponed since he and my dad were too busy tearing apart our washing machine. My dad came over to take a look. Approximately .672 seconds after he looked at it he realized the problem was not with the lid clicky thing and that was what he was counting on. “Well, I’m out of advice…” So they unscrewed some things and checked out some wires and did something with some fancy contraption that makes a beeping sound when something happens. And after all of that, they think they found the problem. Stephen will get the replacement part tonight and see if he can work his magic.

Then maybe we can go to Baskin Robins and I’ll have some funny story to tell you about how Stephen ate a super rich ice cream cone even though he’s semi lactose intolerant and ate too much fiber cereal for breakfast and spent the rest of the night rolled into a ball screaming with stomach pains. (I say this so that it won’t come true. I’m pretty superstitious like that.)

Or maybe tonight I’ll Shred with Jillian and have something entertaining to tell you about how I’m about ready to punch her in the face for using words like “phone it in” or “I’d do just about anything for those abs”… Or about how annoyed I am that the chick on the left works out with her hair down. Who does that? (Besides Helen from the pink team… remember her? Ugh.)

Thanks to all of my blog and real life friends for your words of encouragement yesterday. I loved your comments and emails. We’ve all been in these sticky situations and it’s nice to have a few people around to tell you that sometimes you have to try harder to make lemonade. Sometimes you don’t actually have lemons, you have oranges. And sometimes you just need to add some vodka to make your lemonade taste better. Blog friends are great.

This weekend I was at Bella Rose with Lauren and her friend from Canada. My brother stopped by to help my dad fix a few things. As I was introducing them, Justin asked, “How do yall know each other?” This is where things get awkward to non-bloggers. “Well, um, Lauren is my blog friend. And I don’t actually know Corlene.”

His face was priceless. “Blog friend?? O…kay.” If he only knew. It’s a twisted little world we all live in. And I love every minute of it!

I’ve thrown this out there before and I usually get two or three tidbits of good advice. For days like this, when my life is dull and I have nothing to tell you, what do you want to hear? Are there any questions you have? Like… Is Stephen really that fun? (Yes.) Does he care that you write about him so much? (No. He likes it.) Does he even read? (Yes, everyday. Our marriage depends on it. Not really. But he does read.) Etc.

Additionally, I have a hilariously sarcastic friend who has decided that he wants to be my guest writer the next time I’m out of town. This is intriguing to me. I’m thinking this could open up a whole new world of fun here. Thoughts?

Does Anyone Know How to Make Lemonade?

The end of last week was rough. A few things combined to make Stephen and I want to throw in the towel and just stay in bed for a month eating junk food and watching crappy television. I’m not sure why that would solve any of our problems. It would probably just help us ignore them. Or, more accurately, it’ll allow us to wallow in our misfortune. Oh, woe is me… my car battery died.

Actually, a few of the things troubling us were worth a bit of wallowing.

We know that part of being a young married couple with a house means that things go wrong, we will be poor, we are slaves to our jobs, and things aren’t really “how we planned.” It’s very easy to feel sorry for yourself in this state. So Stephen wallowed a bit at home. And I wallowed a bit in Galveston. By Saturday night we were feeling a little better about our situation. Not great, but a little bit better.

Start the violins, the “poor” chick is crying again.

So I managed to cheer myself up a bit, which is an incredible feat considering the fact that my hormones would rather I start a big fuss about everything. You know what they say… when life gives you lemons, make lemonade. So I decided to be productive last night. I started cleaning out my closet, gathered a big box of books to sell to Half Price, worked on laundry, made dinner, grocery shopped, wrote some cards, etc. etc. etc. Basically, I was being awesome.

Then at about 10:30 I went to go change the laundry so my robe would be dry in the morning and all of a sudden I realized, I clearly don’t know how to make lemonade. There, where my washed clothes should have been, was a lemon. It looked more like a washing machine that had broken in mid-cycle and was full of soap, water, towels, and my robe… but you and I both know it was actually a lemon.

So how do you make lemonade without even more random lemons showing up around your life? Maybe my recipe skipped a step? Maybe I didn’t make a big enough batch? I’m not sure. But if I don’t figure it out soon, you may find me in bed eating a bag of chocolate chips and watching marathons of Bridezilla and Keeping up With the Kardashians.

Please don’t let that happen.