hello, lover

Anthropologie

fragments of thoughts right now

Ladies Weekend, Ladies Weekend, Ladies Weekend... !

Playing footsies right before that moment when sleep hits is sometimes an acceptable substitute for "I love you"

Whatever happened to those good Gap commercials with all the dancing?

I try to trick myself into not being hungry by drinking many cups of tea. Instead it just makes me have to pee all the time.

I'm being followed by a moonshadow...

she speaks the truth

"For some of us, books are as important as almost anything else on earth. What a miracle it is that out of these small, flat, rigid squares of paper unfolds world after world after world, worlds that sing to you, comfort and quiet or excite you. Books help us understand who we are and how we are to behave. They show us what community and friendship mean; they show us how to live and die."

- Anne Lamott

yay or nay

Ombre nails. A new trend I've been seeing pop up. Done well it looks very hip. Done poorly and it looks like you decided to play beauty shop with your 8-year-old niece.  

Yay or nay? Talk amongst yourselves and get back to me.

shotgun. bang.

Let's talk architecture. Specifically shotgun houses and my love for them. Ya'll know how I feel about New Orleans and shotgun houses just happen to be prevalent in the Big Easy. A shotgun house typically has one room leading into the next without hallways. This is suited for hot climates (hence, being popular in New Orleans) because opening the front and back doors allows for a breeze to flow through the entire house. Why is it called a shotgun house? Because it is said that a bullet fired through the front door would go right out the back door without hitting a wall. Brilliant!

These little houses make me happy. All I dream of is to someday have a little house and a little yard with some character (with closet space for my shoes). Husband says there is no way we are ever living in New Orleans, but little does he know I plan on forcing him to retire there. Ok, actually he does know that because I frequently bring it up. For now we are Keystone Staters.... but someday I wouldn't mind having a little shotgun house. 

A girl can dream, no? 




Images found here, here, and here

be my anchor

Husband, will you do this with me?



Dern it, I forget where I found this image. Sorry for not giving credit where credit is due. I aim to be better about this.

st. stanislaus fair / camera play

Husband took me to the church fair on Friday. I was kinda cranky before we got there but as soon as I saw the beer tent I cheered right up. That's right, being Catholic means you get to drink at social functions.

Small-town fairs make me happy. They sort of feel left over from another era.

hi paul

I love you (and your salad dressings).

Happy Friday, ya'll.

on repeat. and repeat.

chase / catalano

Made me smile.

some days / a little bit about the 'betes

Husband has diabetes. Type 1, which means insulin dependent, so he gives himself injections 4 times a day every day (before meals and before he goes to sleep at night).

He was diagnosed at age 21. This is a bit uncommon because Type 1 is almost always juvenile diabetes. In some ways he is lucky that he didn't have to spend childhood taking shots. In other ways it was a harder adjustment than if he had been dealing with it during his formative years.

In the grand scheme of things diabetes sucks but it doesn't suck that hard. There are many, many other diseases and disorders that are worse than diabetes. Most days it doesn't impact our lives except for that shot before each meal. Most days I don't even notice diabetes. 

But some days? Some days I want to punch diabetes in the face.

Over the weekend I hated that my husband has to have diabetes. I hated that his glucose level dropped and it made him feel sick. I hated that it caused him to be upset when there wasn't anything to be upset about. I hated that it made him confused, muddled his mind, and hindered his ability to get the simplest sentence out.

Most of all, I hated my brief but initial reaction. Annoyance. I was annoyed that I had to stop what I was doing and get him something to eat. As terrible as it sounds, having to take care of him sometimes frustrates me. There are days when I just don't want to deal with getting glasses of juice or trying to locate something in the pantry that has enough grams of sugar. I am human and there are days that I feel this way.

But then I stood there in our mess of a kitchen, hugging him while he tried to get a sentence out, and felt like crying. Because my husband is such a happy, easy-going man and diabetes sometimes takes a little bit of this away.

The weekend was a rarity. The majority of days are a-okay with glucose levels in check. We are healthy and happy and in love and all that mushy stuff. Doesn't mean I don't want to coldcock diabetes every now and again.

a shake your shoulders, can't help smile kinda song

for hard days

“For what it’s worth: it’s never too late to be whoever you want to be. I hope you live a life you’re proud of, and if you find that you’re not, I hope you have the strength to start all over again.”


 —F. Scott Fitzgerald

nice things lately

Having an old Marine vet tell me when it was safe to cross the street and then having a conversation with him for two blocks.

Vent sessions over beers.

Pastries and coffee.

Slowly getting to know someone a little better.

Notices from the library that my books on hold are now available.

Riding the train home with my husband.

i would go to arkansas just for this

Thorncrown Chapel in Eureka Springs, Arkansas. So beautiful it brings tears to my eyes.

hello, lover

image via Madewell

job of yesteryear

Wow. I have really neglected this blog of mine. Blame it on moving. Blame it on packing and un-packing. Blame it on my recent dive into stress eating. Well, we finally bought our own laptop so fingers crossed I'll be more consistent.

The other day I was thinking that I am going to have to do a good job of documenting the past year as well as this upcoming year. Because it is glaringly apparent that I need to know that one day I will laugh about all of this. Dear sweet baby Jesus, please tell me that one day I will laugh about all of this.

While I will soon delight you with some tales of the bizarre town we just moved to, right now I'd like to tell you about a job I used to have. I am simply going to call this job the government job. I'd like not to rat out a certain federal government agency so mums the word on the location and identity of said government job. Although anyone who knows me knows exactly where and what I am talking about. But please zip your lips.

My friends from the government job and I always said we should have written a book about our experience. We should have documented everything because there is no friggin' way that anyone will believe that we actually worked with the type of people that we worked with. I can regale you with plenty of things that I witnessed my co-workers saying - why yes, Hong Kong really is in China, Puerto Rico is considered American soil, Canada is an entirely different country and no, for the 10th time the abbreviation for Alaska is not AL - but I'll just focus on the clothing that people wore. Into the office. And no, I ain't makin' this stuff up.

Here are some wardrobe highlights from my years at the government job.

• Clear plastic stiletto boots
• Drawstring sweat pants
• A string of pearls worn with an oversized thermal henley t-shirt
• Red pleather boots that laced up the side
• A lace top worn without a camisole underneath
• Pink hair
• A Bob Marley t-shirt (complete with Bob smoking a doobie)

The greatest part of all of this is that my supervisor didn't have a talk to the group regarding dress code until I started wearing jeans on Fridays. Casual Fridays were not in our dress code, but I figured if Bob Marley could make an appearance then so could my Gap Long and Leans. My friends and I called my jeans-wearing a REVOLUTION. Well, my revolution lasted two weeks. Then my supervisor (of the pearls and thermal shirt) decided to have a talk with the group. Everyone shaped up for 3 weeks or so and then hooded sweatshirts and flip flops started making their way back into the office. By then I had given up on my revolution. 

As ridiculous and mundane as that job was, there is something the say for the hilarity of it all. Not everyone can say that they worked in an office where pleather is an accepted fabric, can they? Unless you are a hooker. Oh excuse me Dad, you taught me that the proper term is lady of the evening. I think bad jobs are a right of passage. It was a sad day when I left that job. I knew that never again would I feel like a rocket scientist with a supermodel's wardrobe.