Beginnings

Later this week we're moving offices. We've all been moving things around, sorting through files and throwing out unwanted stuff. Through the course of the move some interesting stuff has been found, including the cover letter I wrote just about a year ago.

In my opinion, it's pure cheese. Because, in all honesty, I quoted Forrest Gump.

Now, let me explain. My boss has a great sense of humor. In fact, a sense of humor was a requirement in the job description. As well as a love of chocolate. Hence, "life is like a box of chocolates." Yes. I really wrote that in my cover letter.

But you know what? I got the job.

I remember my first interview really well. I desperately wanted to sound upbeat and confident about what I could do. I was praying that despite being right out of college with absolutely no experience in PR, I would be given a chance. I remember thinking I made a big mistake when my now boss said, "well, I'm not really a big fan of Forrest Gump..."

Shit. Oh shit.

"But," OH! There's a but!

"I liked your cover letter. I can tell you can write." Phew.

When that cover letter surfaced last week I was surprised. I hadn't thought about it in so long. And then my boss began to read it. Out loud. In front of people.

I was so embarrassed. I could feel my face getting hot and all of the sudden I was the color of a tomato. It may have gotten me the job, but it's definitely not one of my finest pieces of writing.

As we pack up for the move and I go through my work from just a year ago, I can see a change. I've gotten better. Besides learning the PR ropes, my writing, both professionally and personally, has improved. I'd like to think I've come pretty far since that cover letter.

And that makes me feel pretty good.

Stay At Home Me

I woke up this morning to snow. Lots of snowing covering the yard, the deck and the cars, but not so much on the street. But since I had obsessively checked the weather reports yesterday I knew that the worst of the storm is due this afternoon. I hate driving in snow and wanted to avoid getting stuck in something yucky all together. So I'm working from home today. And I'm really glad I did as my street is now icy and white.

I told my boss I could really get used to this working at home thing. Editing while in bed while What Not To Wear plays in the background? Yes, please. I actually saw a story on the news last night about companies that are allowing employees to pick not only their own hours, but the location from which they work. If they want to work from the office, the work from the office. If a coffee shop, kitchen, or, like me, snuggled under the comforter in their queen-sized bed is more their scene, then so be it. The argument was that by incorporating your job into the environment that makes you happy, you'll actually be more productive.

I can't exactly test this theory today because two thing I need to do I can't access. But I definitely see the logic in it. And today only reiterates what I've always know. Eventually, I will work mostly from home. I lucked out with my current job because the office is a fairly relaxed, non-cubical environment. But a lot of offices aren't. And I don't want to end up in an office like that.

Can I make a living as a stay at home writer? I don't know. I would really love to one day. Truth be told, at this point I'm not confident enough to find out. Being only two years out of college I feel I need more experience in the working world before I take a step back from it.

Right now I'm happy. Happy with my job, happy with where I am in my life.

And today I'm especially happy, because I'm still in bed.

That Was Way Harsh, Tai

The other day I stumbled across this blog. Basically, people submit their blogs for "review" by three women who proceed to rip them apart. I find this blog absolutely atrocious. These women are catty and bitchy and seem to have started a blog as an excuse to be just that. Since people (mostly women) are voluntarily submitting their blogs, the women can justify tearing them apart. And from reading their reviews it seems to me that since their own writing is just sub-par, they pick on others to feel better about themselves. So those who can't write...critique? Where is the logic in that?

Lately I've been really annoyed with the blogging community. When did it get so mean? The attack on Clink the other day and the bitchiness I referred to on Tuesday really surprise me. I don't find this stuff on men's blogs. Why are women so mean to each other? It's really sad that we have to break others down to feel better about ourselves.

Ugh, it's like a virtual high school.

Oh Baby, Baby

I want a baby. Not like, right this minute, but one day. Actually, I want two. Or three. But probably two. Over the last year or so my desire to be a mother has intensified. I'll see a tiny dress in Marshalls and imagine dressing my own daughter in it. Or I'll notice a baby-sized ball cap and picture it on the peach fuzz covered head of my baby boy. And the shoes! Oh the shoes! Itty bitty packages of cuteness.

Maybe it's because most of our couple friends are having babies. Or my time spent working in a daycare allowed for hours of chubby cheek kissing. Or the fact that I feel even more in love with Michael than I did five years ago and the visions of our future are feeling more like a reality and less like a dream.

I realize it's not entirely realistic for me to be pining for a baby of my own. There's that whole getting married thing. And the fact I'm not exactly ready for the life change that comes with having a child. I like my mid-week martini dates, weekends out and the freedom to come and go as I please.

For now.

But someday. Who knows, in three of four years I could be a mom.

That's completely terrifying and absolutely amazing at the same time.

The Glamorous

There's a blog I read sometimes. I don't read it everyday, I don't link to it and I've never commented on it. It's because I don't like the author. She's a snob.

Then why read it? I don't know, I think it's because being a mean girl is interesting. It's like those girls in high school you didn't like but secretly wanted to be friends with. I don't want to develop a blog-relationship with this woman, but I am sometimes curious about what she's up to. Even though I find myself rolling my eyes at her posts, shaking my head or even voicing the occasional "what a bitch!"

She's the skinny girl who knows she's skinny but complains about being fat so someone will tell her she's not. She's the girl at the bar batting her eyelashes, sticking out her cleavage and fake laughing to get a guy's interest, only to toss her hair in his face and move on the minute he buys her a drink. You know they type I'm talking about. She may come across as pretty, but her insides are ugly. And although I've never seen her, I know this is true. Because like all of us who blog, she puts herself, her insides, out there for us to read. And I assure you, it's far from pretty.
I wonder if beneath the Prada covered exterior this woman has true friends. Friends that will remain true despite her designer bags, rich husband and big house.

I might not have all those things, but I have a life filled with friendship and love.

And I wouldn't trade that for anything.


** I've had some requests to share the URL for the blog, but I've decided not to. I'm probably just paranoid but oh well. I'll tell you this much, the writing isn't that good and the woman appears to actually be just an aging bitch who now is married with children. Sorry to disappoint, but you're not missing much.

Tales From The Gym

My favorite elliptical was open. I did a brief scan of the surrounding area as I approached, noticing the woman to the left and the empty machine to the right. I put down my water bottle and iPod and left to get a magazine. When I returned the woman was at a moderate jog, alternately pushing her arms out in some slow tai-bo type move. I didn't really get it, but who am I to judge? (HA!)

I started running, when BAM! It hit me. B.O. My nostrils went into panic mode. B.O.? Not B.O.! Now yes, I know, I'm at the gym. Where people sweat. Including myself. But B.O.? I am deeply offended by B.O. (See here and here.) The smell was getting worse and I glanced over at the woman, now rapidly tai-boing, allowing for her armpits to be exposed and slowly kill me with their toxic emissions.

I thought it would be rude to stop working out suddenly and change machines so I stayed. I'm not sure why I did, why I was afraid of hurting this woman's feelings. I tried breathing through just my mouth, but that just made me thirsty. So I sucked it up.

And then, when I thought it couldn't possibly be worse, an older man began his workout on the machine to my right. The machine facing the opposite direction from mine so his rear is near my front.

And ripped a deadly fart.

Life Furnishings

In just two hours we managed to spend enough money to cover a mortgage payment. Today I bought a laptop, the most expensive thing I've ever bought and my first real big girl purchase. We also bought a whole new set of very non-office looking office furniture. We will probably weep when the credit card bill comes.

This is my first laptop and I'm enthralled with all it's fancy features. Seventeen inch screen? Droooool. Michael and I are already arguing over who gets to use it. The novelty of using it on the couch, in the kitchen, lying in bed, hell, even on the toilet if I really wanted to, is not wearing off. This is great!

But the coolest part? All the shopping, for us, for our home, felt just right.

Perfect, actually.

It Is Friday, Right?

Fridays are supposed to be a good days. I can wear jeans, the weekend is rapidly approaching (and Michael is off!) and everyone is more relaxed. Like most nine to fivers, I appreciate Fridays. But so far, today hasn't been all that great.

Someone cut the line at Starbucks. I was waiting patiently for my soy chai latte, standing third in line during the early morning rush. All of the sudden this woman came barreling through the doors, walked right up to the counter and slapped down a list. Anyone who knows me would tell you that usually, this would not fly. I would be the first person to call this woman out and remind her that there are people waiting in line. That were here BEFORE her. I went to elementary school. I know what happens to cutters. Cutters go to the back of the line.

But today I just didn't have it in me. I was too tired to make a scene in the busy Starbucks. So I let it go. No one else said anything, but there was some definite eye rolling.

All was basically forgotten with the first sip of my chai, until I walked into my building. Skunked. Again. Do you know how disgusting it is to work with the smell of skunk permeating your nostrils all day? Awful.

Which brings me to now. I'm hoping that lunch with coworkers will turn the day around. I'm also looking forward to dinner out in Newport tonight with Michael and another couple. This is huge because all of our couple friends? Are having babies. And that means very few get togethers. And when there are get togethers talk centers around, you guessed, the baby.

Don't get me wrong, I'm so happy for these friends. But the thought of a glass of wine and Thai food with a recently married, baby-free couple is looking really good right now.

I Didn't Sign Up For Gymboree

I took a risk by going directly to the gym from work. It's really hit or miss-- sometimes it's packed with the highly motivated after work crowd and other times it's almost empty. Unfortunately, last night it was busy. But I was lucky to score an elliptical and since I had forgotten my earphones for my iPod, (I know, I can manage to bring all my work out clothes and sneakers and the actually iPod to work but forget the earphones...) I grabbed an easy to read while you're running Star Magazine.

The good thing about my gym is that they have lots of new equipment and the price is right. The bad thing is that they also have a basketball court and after school activities that attract kids. Mostly kids between the ages of eight and 15. And I guess because they think it's cool they come into the gym when they're finished. Maybe it's because I'm usually plugged into my iPod, but I never really noticed them until last night. This time I couldn't miss them.

First there were the two girls on ellipticals. They must have been around 14 and after a few minutes one became bored. "Mia! Mia! Miiiiia! MIA!" I turned my head to see one of the girls yelling to the other, who couldn't hear her because she was smart enough to remember her earphones. Probably because she was well aware that her gym partner was the type of girl that frantically waved her hand in the air, "ooh, ooh, oohing" whenever the teacher asked a question. So annoying.

"MIA!!! I'm BORED!" Seriously, I almost threw my water bottle at her. Finally Mia heard her and lifted one earphone long enough to tell her friend to find another machine if she was so bored. Go Mia!

With 10 minutes left to go on the machine I spotted Gold Digger on a bike. Oh no! I had to get to the weights before he did. The image of is finger lost inside his navel cavity began to haunt me. No, no, no! Look away!

I looked ahead and noticed a woman with a girl who could not have been more than eight. The little girl was on the treadmill and the woman was encouraging her to run. The girl was only a little heavy and I felt bad for her. Wouldn't it be better for someone of her age to take dance classes or play soccer or even take walks with her mom? Must she already be told that she's heavy and be put in a gym?

I headed over to the weight machines and was bombarded by a group of twelve-year old boys. I know they were twelve because one of them was talking about his last birthday. These scrawny little boys in their over sized basketball shorts with their hair spike just so, jumped from machine to machine, acting tough and grunting as they moved the weights. It took all I had not to crash into them as they rapidly switched places with each other.

I finished up and realized how tired I was. I know you're supposed to be physically tired after working out, but mentally? No.

Damn kids.

Trigger

I listened to the self-titled Third Eye Blind CD on my way into work. (Yes Michael, you can have it back and yes, it was in a case and no, it's not scratched.) I know the words to every song. It was the CD I played on repeat in my CD walkman during a trip to the Jersey Shore. It was the CD I bought for all my friend's birthdays and the CD that makes me think of overnight bus rides during my trip to Australia.

The trip down memory lane got me thinking about other music that represents a certain time for me. There was Green Day's Dookie, the first CD I ever bought myself in sixth grade. This followed the first ever bought for me, TLC's Waterfalls, but we don't need to talk about that.

Eighth grade brought Alanis Morissette's Jagged Little Pill, for when I was angry or just felt like being moody. This was followed by the girl-power anthems of Meredith Brook's Bitch single (we changed to words for a summer camp song..."I think farm's cool, you grow vegetables, and when they're grown you eeeeaaat them!") and I was a Wannabe for the Spice Girls. Marcy Playground's Sex and Candy, Semisonic's Feeling Strangely Fine and Savage Garden (another one we can forget) were all played at top volume as I danced around my bedroom.

Papa Roach, Limp Bizkit and Jay-Z's Vol 2...Hard Knock Life corresponded with wanting to break up with my boyfriend and spread my wings.

I bought Dave Matthews Band Crash because a boy I liked was a big fan. I could never get into it and packed it away for years until I met Michael, also a DMB lover. Since then I've really grown to like them on my own. I guess it took meeting the right boy.

Speaking of the right boy, Counting Crows' August and Everything After is the CD I associate with Michael. Always one of my favorites, it became the soundtrack to the long drives and talks into the wee hours of the morning that our relationship was built upon.

I love how music can trigger memories.

Bet you have Meredith Brooks stuck in your head now, don't you?

Is It Summer Yet?

I need a change. I'm in a rut. Maybe it's because Mother Nature is making one last attempt to prove it's winter that I want to get the hell out of here. I want to lie on a beach with a drink in my hand and the sun beating down on me. I want to float in and out of sleep to the sound of waves crashing. I want to go dancing. I want to eat Mexican food washed down by a cold Corona. I want to wake up to the sun streaming through my window instead of an alarm rudely beeping.

I need to be refreshed. I'm going through the motions...wake up, work, eat, sleep, rinse, repeat.

I want to drive with my windows down, wear sundresses and open-toed shoes. I want green grass and flowers and frozen lemonade. I want to drive past the sea wall and eat ice cream cones before they melt. I want fireworks. I want dinners outside and citronella candles. I want white capris with strappy sandals, bonfires and bar-b-qs.

Wake up, work, eat, sleep, rinse, repeat.

I want to go on evening walks with Michael, go out on the sailboat and eat corn on the cob. I want daiquiris, margaritas and mojitos, big sunglasses and naturally highlighted hair. I want fresh fruit and swimming pools, freckles and tan lines. I want sand in between my toes, coconut scented sunscreen and evenings warm enough for shorts but cool enough to wear a hoodie.

Wake up, work, eat, sleep, rinse, repeat.

How much longer till summer?

Literal Translation

When I first started this blog I wrote a post about the meaning of the title. And while I feel as though most of the time my posts accurately reflect it, sometimes they tend to stray. But today, in literal translation of the meaning, These Little Moments have made up my life recently:

- I went out to lunch with my boss on Thursday. During our conversation I mentioned that I had been exhausted lately and didn't know why. With a raised eyebrow, my soon-to-be father for the second time boss asked, "are you pregnant?" WHAT? NO! I'm adamant about taking the required measures (at the same time, everyday, since I was 16) to prevent that from happening. No!

Later that afternoon I was feeling so nauseous that I took the next day off. The rational part of me knew that I had come down with the bug that was circulating through the office. The irrational part of me freaked out for a good two minutes. Am I pregnant? I can't be pregnant. Could I be pregnant? Damn you, boss!

No worries. It was just the bug. Of course.

- We went to dinner at his mother's house yesterday. I am always anticipating the worst but it wasn't that bad. She always invites other people and counting us there were 11. Of course her table isn't meant to sit 11 so I got to straddle the leg of the table and eat on an angle. She was nice and even gave me my favorite Easter candy (solid chocolate mini-Cadbury eggs with a hard candy coating...drool....) But I knew there had to be something.

Turns out it was one of the guest's birthday. I've had dinner with this woman at least 20 times now, but didn't know it was her birthday. If I had, I would have brought a small gift or flowers and a least a card from me and Michael. But his mother hadn't mentioned it on the phone so we had no idea.

After dessert, the guest was presented with gifts. On the card from his mother read "blah, blah, blah, Happy Birthday! Love, The Mother, the foster children, Michael and the dog." My name was not included. My name was conveniently left off, but THE DOG was thoughtfully included.

The other adult guest had also brought a gift so it appeared as though I was the only one who didn't bring one.

ARGHHH!!!!

- Yesterday I was doing my usual weekend house cleaning and had finished just about all the chores I wanted to do. I was about to walk out of the kitchen when I noticed a few dishes in the sink that could be washed. I reached inside the blender with the sponge and "OW! Damn it!!" I dropped the sponge and cursed as I realized I had stabbed my finger with the blender blade. I wrapped my finger in a paper towel and sat on the couch with my arm above my head. That's what you're supposed to do, elevate. Right? I sat there for a few minutes looking ridiculous and feeling sorry for myself because, OW, and then decided to yell for Michael to come downstairs. He did, asked if I was OK and asked if he could do anything.

Well, no, actually. I just wanted acknowledgement of my boo boo.

"Do you want a kiss?" he asked.

Yes! He makes things better.

My finger still really hurts though.

Feel sorry for me, I think that will help.

A Post With Little Purpose

I stayed home from work today. A combination of being overwhelmingly tired and slightly nauseous (no, I'm NOT pregnant) made staying in bed very appealing. Also, it's pouring. Buckets and buckets of cats and dogs. So I feel I made the right decision.

Our yard borders a river. Most days it's very peaceful and pretty to look at and Kodiak enjoys barking at the geese and ducks that like to float with the current. Today, however, the river is in our yard, making it soggy, muddy, squishy and overall gross. I would take a picture to show you what it looks like to have a river instead of a backyard, but that would involve going outside and that's not going to happen.

Even the dog won't go outside, minus once this morning to pee. And then he left a trail of muddy footprints through the kitchen and do you know how much fun it is to lift up the feet of a Newfoundland to wipe their paws? He's 120 lbs, I'll let you figure it out.

I'm off to shower. Nope, haven't showered yet. I think it's a rule that if you stay home from work there will be no showering before noon.

You must also watch bad television, eat ice cream and paint your toe nails.

Puppy Love

I was exhausted last night and fell asleep on the couch. After waking up around 10:30, I dragged myself upstairs and fell into bed. I was sound asleep and didn't even feel Michael come to bed.

At 1:30 a.m. I sat straight up in bed, gasping for breath. It felt like my heart had literally stopped. It took me a few seconds to realize that I had jumped into Michael's arms and Kodiak was barking. Not his usual "I'm happy to be in my yard" bark either.

This bark was more of a howl and a growl in one. He was standing in our doorway looking out into the hall. It was scary. He ran out into the hall and stopped at the top of the stairs, looking down and continuing his aggressive noises. I was straining to hear what he heard, but couldn't decipher anything. After a few minutes he calmed down, but I was AWAKE now and couldn't sleep.

Kodiak usually sleeps in his crate, but every now and then we let his sleep upstairs with us. I was really glad we had made that decision. I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling and hoping that I would get tired again. Just then he was off into the hallway again, growling and upset. This time Michael heard noises that we determined were probably the neighbor's kids and their car. I was still on edge, though, and tossed and turned. While I was lying there I realized how far Kodiak has come in the year we've had him. He's always been a Daddy's boy. I was a good second if Michael wasn't around, but the minute he came home I was pretty much forgotten. Now I am showered with kisses when I come home, he lays next to me when I watch tv and most of all, he's protective. Newfoundlands aren't aggressive dogs, but they are very loyal to their families.

As I tossed around thinking about how far he's come, a cold, wet nose touched my arm. I looked over to see the big, fluffy head I love so much. He rested his head on the bed and looked up at me with his big, brown eyes, as if to say "are you OK, Mom?" I scratched his head and the he lay down on my side of the bed. Something he never does. He stayed there the rest of the night until he woke me up with kisses in the morning.

I really do love that puppy.

Gold Digger

My workout last night started off well. I got on the elliptical and a few minutes later I felt a tap on my arm. I looked over to see my friend Ashley on the next machine. We both laughed at the fact that we were working out right next to each other and hadn't even noticed. I suppose we were both following typical gym courtesy where you work out and mind your own business. I hate it when the person next to you is constantly looking over at your machine. I can tell they're comparing our distances and my speed against theirs. No thank you.

After chatting with Ashley, I finished my cardio and moved over to do weights. I was resting in between sets and scanning the machines to see which one I wanted to do next. My eyes stopped on one directly across from me. Sitting on the machine was a guy in his early 20s, obviously oblivious to everyone around him. Why?

He was picking his nose.

Not just picking, DIGGING. We're talking up to the knuckle, face contorted, must have been hitting his brain, digging. He wasn't even trying to hide it! Talk about gym courtesy. I almost threw up.

This went on for a least a few minutes. I didn't stick around to see if he cleaned the machine after he was done. I moved far away to another machine and vowed not to step near his until at least the next day.

Seriously gross.

At least he didn't eat it. At least, I don't think he did. I wouldn't be surprised, though.

Sing

Know what's funny? Having your picture end up on a band's website. The band that was playing at the bar this past weekend. It's not a great one, but I'm nice so I'll show it to you.

That's me in the middle, sandwiched between Jen and her cousin, the lead singer.

Moving on...

My friend is getting married in May and has asked me to sing during her sand ceremony. When I told my family this they were surprised. Actually, I think the exact words were, "Really? You? Why did she ask you to sing?" Not quite the encouraging words I was hoping for.

The truth is, I can sing. Not like my sister who is incredible, but pretty well. But my family has never really heard me sing, so I guess I can't really blame them for the lack of support. They've heard me a little in the car or around the house, but never singing singing. I guess I just didn't see the point. My sister is the singer in the family and I'm the dancer. We fell into those roles and made them our own. So while my sister is still a great dancer, she knows it's more my thing.

I sang an a cappella solo during Greek Week my senior year. At first I refused, but Elle and my sisters convinced me that I was good enough to do it. When the day came I was so nervous. I barely remember it happening...all I remember is that Michael was standing in the back of the room and I stared at the exit sign above his head the whole time. It wasn't until afterwards when I watched the video that I realized, huh, I'm not too bad.

When my friend asked me to sing at her wedding I was shocked, but flattered. At first I wavered, but knowing that it meant enough to her to ask, I accepted. That was a couple months ago and the wedding seemed far enough away not to freak out.

I just realized the wedding is in exactly three months. That is not far away. At all.

It's a short folk song that she picked out and the sand ceremony only lasts what, a couple minutes? I'll be fine. I'll be fine. I'll. Be. Fine.

No one will be looking at me anyway. Right?

I hope the room has an exit sign.

That Girl

Saturday night I went to a bar with some friends. Jen's cousin's band was playing and we figured it would be a good time.

We found parking somewhat easily for a weekend in Newport and managed to snag two seats both at the bar and near the stage. We ordered our drinks and started to catch up. The band started--playing covers ranging from the Killers to 80s hits and everyone was dancing. It was loud so we had to scream at each other to be heard.

All of the sudden I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned around to see a guy, late 20s, saying something.

"WHAT?" I yelled.

"Can I buy you girls a drink?!" he yelled back.

Oh yeah, sure. I like free drinks. Of course with free drinks comes chit-chat, but I'm good at that and didn't mind. He was in the Marines, in from California for a few weeks meeting up with his friend from college. When the conversation lulled I tipped my drink at him, said thanks and turned back to Jen.

A little while later her cousin bought us drinks. As soon as he left a round of shots appeared in front of us. "From those guys," the bartender said, pointing at California Marine.

Again, I like free drinks.

A little while later CM appeared at my side again asking if we wanted to join him and his friend at another bar. I declined, saying we were meeting up with more friends. And then the inevitable:

"Can I get your number? I'd love to take you out sometime."

So the real question was, am I a dick now or a dick later? I can be that girl that clearly talked to him for the sole reason of free booze, or be the girl that lets him think he'll see me again and then never calls.

"Give me your number," I replied. He punched the numbers into my phone and when he turned to say something to his friend I shut my phone without saving it. We waved goodbye and CM disappeared, unaware that he would never hear from me.

I know it's mean. But I obviously had no interest in this guy (Hello, hot boyfriend.) And I never asked for the drinks, they just appeared.

Part of me felt a little bad as he walked out the door thinking he did well.

But after being in a relationship for so long and not being the flirtatious vixen I once was, the other part of me was like, oh yeah, I still got it!

Nice to be reminded.

Gluttony

Thank goodness it's only once a month that I deal with this serious dilemma: do I eat the donut, the gummy bears or the crunchy cheetos? Because I? Want all of them. Any other week I would be dry heaving at the thought of consuming all of that and would really rather eat an apple. But not this week.

Calorie-wise the gummy bears are the way to go. But my hormones do not care about calories. My thighs may protest, but my hormones? They're saying donut. With sprinkles.

I probably shouldn't tell you I've already had chinese food today.

I'm not going to tell you if I choose the donut or the gummy bears.

Because there is a chance I may have already eaten the gummy bears.

It's All Ridiculous

I was expecting some interesting searches that would lead people here yesterday. You have to expect it when you write about boobs. A look at my stats revealed that people were searching for, among others, "boobs", "big boobs", "little boobs", "my sister's big boobs" (um, ew), "breast milk" (did I write about breast milk? No.), "small boobies", "boobs get bigger", "blog girl boobs" and "milk maids".

I was also very surprised to see how many readers are in the same boat. It's nice to know I'm not alone in my frustration.

Moving on...

The weather was so nice yesterday that I decided to take a break from the office and go for a long walk. What I wasn't anticipating was that the warm weather had made the once frozen ground turn into a squishy, muddy mess. This caused me to step awkwardly around puddles and completely coat the heels and sides of my not-so-appropriate-for-walking-in-the-mud shoes.

As I started to head back to my office I felt pain on the bottom of my feet. Crap. Blisters. Just what I needed. Now the following is kind of gross, I'm not going to lie. But you've read about my bathroom habits, embarrassing moments and my issues with Things That Smell Bad. I think you can handle it.

The blisters had to be popped. There was no way around it because by the end of the walk I was hobbling up the stairs on tip toe. I'm no stranger to blisters. I was a dancer, after all. Blisters were a weekly thing. Once one healed, another formed. I was also on the crew team in high school. I once had a blister that took over the width of my hand. So gross. If they hurt, oh well. You danced on them, you rowed with them, you dealt with it. Pop, drain, repeat.

Apparently my tolerance has worn off because these new blisters? They HURT. Seriously, how am I ever going to give birth?

On a completely unrelated topic, some things that have been bothering me lately: men driving VW Bugs (it just seems weird), a house near work that still has headless scarecrows propped up on a bench that have been there since October, and the realization that with spring on the way, Mandals will once again make an appearance. You know, Man Sandals, those leather sandals with the open toes made for men?

Shudder.

Boobs

I ordered a really cute dress that was on sale last week. It came in the mail yesterday but I waited until this morning to try it on. The image reflecting back at me from the mirror was not what I was hoping for.

I looked like Miss Molly Milk Maid offering you my rack of lamb.

Holy. Boobs.

I always liked my chest. It suited my frame just fine and I certainly rocked the cleavage in high school and my early years of college. But then came junior year. One day I went to put on my favorite tank top and it didn't fit. I struggled to get it over my chest doing one of those awkward, twirly dances you know you've done in a dressing room when the dress you picked was too small.

I called Elle into my room and presented her with the problem. "Huh," she said. "They got bigger!" Bigger? Why did they get bigger? I didn't want them to get bigger! I was happy with what I had before. After much deliberation and denial on my part, Elle convinced me a trip to Victoria's Secret was in order. Time for new bras.

We walked into the store and I picked out a few in my old size, determined that they would fit and the tank top had shrunk. Elle laughed when I let her in the dressing room and told me I could not walk around with my chest up to my chin. She left and I stood there, staring at myself in the mirror and trying to wrap my head around it. This is what women want, right? Big boobs? But all of the sudden I felt self-conscious and so much more aware of them than I ever had before.

Suddenly Elle thrust her arm over the door and said, "try this one on." It was a D. I refused. "I am not a D!" I yelled at her. But she made me. So I did.

And it fit. Perfectly.

I left the store with my new bras and a feeling like I was going through adolescence all over again. It just felt weird.

Over the next couple weeks other people began to notice. My sorority sisters were making comments. My roommates were making comments. (I was no Boobeski, but it was a noticeable change.) After a visit home my sister started calling me "D's". Michael was making a lot of comments. Needless to say, he did not see this as a problem. But I was starting to feel like my boobs were what people were noticing about me first. Not my big smile, my sense of humor or intelligent questions. My boobs.

I know some of you are rolling your eyes. Thinking, what is she complaining about? Maybe you have nice B's that fit perfectly into any any top or bathing suit you try on. I don't.

I have to pass by all the cute spaghetti strapped, empire waisted, flowy tops because I look like I could serve you dinner off my chest. I could never wear a strapless dress without looking like a linebacker.

But I do put things in perspective. My mom was lucky that her breast cancer did not result in a mastectomy. Many women are not so lucky. Thousands of women, even women my age, have lots their breasts to cancer.

When I step back and look at it that way, having large breasts may be an inconvenience, but things could be so much worse.

I'm really disappointed about that dress, though.