Regular crazy was replaced by holiday crazy last
week. In the days leading up to the long weekend, which included friends from
out of town, my daughter’s birthday, Thanksgiving and two family Christmas
parties, I became a mega bitch.
As much as I’d like to blame the steroids I was
temporarily on, I cannot. My husband aptly noted that my pre-event frenzy was completely predictable.
Shockingly I didn't get pissed off by his comment, because I
recognized the truth in it. When it comes to events and hosting, I tend to go a
bit overboard. The frustrating ...
So it seems I may actually be a little bit crazy.
Many of you may be thinking “no shit, that’s why I read this blog. Your crazy
makes me feel better about my crazy.” (insert humor defense
Yesterday, I went to the doctor for mysterious,
prolonged pain and sensitivity in my back and under one arm. Plus, I wanted to
discuss why after four months of a slower-paced life, I still feel exhausted to
my bones and want to nap after a 30-minute run.
It turns out I have atypical shingles—the kind
that causes pain without the ...
tried a new yoga class at a new studio. The instructor was lovely as was the
studio space. However, it seemed that I’d stumbled into some kind of restorative
class for the old and injured—lots of use of blocks and easy movements.
speaking, I like my yoga challenging and sweat-producing. I’m not there to get “zen”
so much as I am to get a good ass kicking. It’s a very unyoga-like mentality,
but I’ve made my peace with it.
So my mind immediately
began rebelling and criticizing this simple class. Yet, at ...
Somehow a tree has started controlling my moods. Every morning from my second story bedroom, I peer through
the slats of my cheap rental blinds at the majestic tree across the street. It
is old and beautiful and huge, towering at least four stories high.
When we moved in, it was lushly green. A month or so ago, it
turned gold. Even now with the increasing cold, when the sun shines upon those quickly
drying up leaves, they glow like melted copper against the clear blue sky.
No matter how tired I am when the alarm goes off, the sight ...
My husband isn’t a flower man. He’s much too practical to
buy something that will die in a week. In fact, I can count on one hand the
number of times in our 17-year relationship that he’s given me flowers.
There was my birthday two months after we started dating and
a few times when he was working as a bike courier. (Let me tell you, a bleached blond, tan, fit bike
courier bringing you flowers on a Friday evening is hot—even if it is your
husband!). And there was last year right after a wonderful ...