The other day, Anne asked me what it was like to vote in America. I thought it was an interesting question, and since Anne had just said that she found Americans to be incredibly polite, I felt somewhat obligated to come up with an answer. Also, how can I refuse a woman who has taught her two year old to swear in two languages?

Voting in America is much like what I imagine voting is like in any number of places. You register, stand in line, vote for your preferred candidate for several different offices, vote yes or not for various proposed laws or bond issues, and then collect your I Voted sticker and go on with your life.

Voting in America is also very different that what I imagine voting is like in any number of places. You are very unlikely to be shot for voting, which is a bit odd considering how much we Americans like to shoot each other. The polling place is very unlikely to be attacked or blown up. You may vote however you like without fear that you will be jailed or beaten. Any citizen, native or naturalized, who is over 18 and has not been convicted of a felony can register and vote. There are no requirements for education, prosperity, political affiliation. You are not even required to be of sound mind.

The strangest thing, to me, is the Electoral College. This was put into place by our much-admired Founding Fathers to prevent political parties from dominating national elections. Clearly, it has not proven to be as successful as they hoped. The result is that rather than a one man one vote system, we vote by state. Whichever candidate receives the majority of the votes in each state receives all the votes controlled by that state in the Electoral College.

I am a blue girl in a red state. There is no doubt that the majority of the people in my state will vote Republican on Tuesday and therefore my state will vote to re-elect the President. My vote will not count. I have real problems with this, as I firmly believe that the current President needs to be fired. He is a liar and a zealot. He has spent four years working his own agenda with no concern for the future well-being of the American people or the reputation of America around the world. He is an embarrassment. I am embarrassed that we put him into office and mortified that by living in the state where I live I helped to put him into power. It is my fervent hope that we send him home on Tuesday. However, I will in effect be voting to keep him in office.

I will vote anyway, and I will wear my sticker and I will be proud. Voting is a moral imperative. Less than half of us do it, which is the real embarrassment. When I vote on Tuesday, I will think of the people who have fought and died over the centuries to give me the right to do it, and I will think of the people who are still fighting for the privilege to stand in a voting booth and cast a single ballot for the things in which they believe. I will be angry when my vote is thrown out and my state votes against my values and opinions, but I will be angrier still at all of my fellow countrymen who stay home.

I encourage all of you to vote on Tuesday and to vote your conscience, and I encourage you to encourage your family and friends to do the same. It is quite literally the least that we can do.

First, can I just tell you how much I love that I have an item on my calendar today that says "Disco Call?" I have a disco call at noon, people, it's time to break out the polyester.

Second, can I just tell you how nice all of you people are? Thank you so much for your kind words and happy thoughts and kinky suggestions (especially the kinky suggestions). Thank you for the crossed fingers and toes and hairs but not legs and the prayers and for being the loveliest nicest prettiest internet people with the best hair in the whole entire world.

Third, yes, I know that lots of people go through this and more and some of them even choose to write about their experiences and that has been incredibly helpful for me. I just hope I will be able to maintain a small amount of the grace and courage and humor I have come to admire in these other women. I know we will have kids one way or the other and sooner or later, but nobody has ever accused me of being patient and I WANT MY BABY NOW DAMMIT!

Sorry, where was I? Oh yes.

I am amazed and humbled and awed by all of you. Thank you.

(P.S. Anybody wanna make out?)

I'm not planning to talk about this a whole lot, but I don't want to pretend it isn't happening, so here goes. If you don't care to hear about my personal biology and medical history and a long discussion of girly things you may want to skip this post.

I have always wanted to have children. It was always sort of a random, unfocused desire. When I was younger, I decided I wanted to be finished having children before I was 30. Later, I wanted to have started having children before I was 30. Later still, I just wanted to be pregnant before I was 30. I will be 30 in a little more than two weeks. I am not pregnant.

About two years ago, my random, unfocused desire became very un-random and very focused. I started wanting a baby. I started wanting a baby so much I could taste it. I started wanting to pick up every baby I saw and put it entirely into my mouth. I started thinking of names and figuring out how I could work part time and thinking of how I would decorate the nursery. Mainly, I thought about how good the top of a baby's head smells and about how much I wanted to make a person that was a piece of me and a piece of my husband. I also thought a lot about how badly we would screw a kid up and how much I should start putting away into the therapy fund. About a year ago, the planets aligned. We were doing well, had good jobs, a nice house, and we decided it was time. I went off the pill. I had reasonable expectations. I thought I would be pregnant within 6 months or so and have a baby early next year. A year later, I am not pregnant.

I'm not pregnant because my ovaries are a couple of lazy, slack ass bitches. I am really very pissed off at my ovaries. I have been nothing but nice to them. I have given them everything, really. I've kept them warm, I've taken them on numerous vacations with me, I've allowed them to experience the joys of copious amounts of alcohol and moderate amounts of other somewhat less legal drugs. In return, I have asked very little. They didn't have to do a damned thing for the first 12 years of my life; they were just along for the ride. Their only real responsibility is to get off their lazy butts once a month and generate a teeny tiny little egg. This cannot be very trying. As there are two of them, they don't even have to do it every month. They can alternate, or maybe have six months of one and then six months of the other or whatever other labor-sharing arrangement thrills their little ovarian hearts. And then, after this very easy life, they get to retire at 50. Basically (and yes, I have done the math) I am asking each of them to do only 228 things in their entire lifetimes. That is roughly one third of the number of times that I brush my teeth in any given year. Apparently, that is too much trouble for my slack-ass ovaries as they stubbornly refuse to cooperate. Bitches.

For the last few months, we have been subjecting ourselves to the joys of modern medical science. I have given gallons of blood. I have at times looked like a particularly dedicated heroin addict thanks to my professionally administered track marks. I had an HSG, which involves shooting radiographic dye through the uterus and fallopian tubes. At my house, this is affectionately referred to as the "hose up the cooter" test. I was expecting my uterus to look like that pink, rounded triangle always depicted in biology text books and was rather surprised to see that it looked more like my cat's head. I seriously considered getting a copy of the pictures to post in an "About Me" section on this site. My husband has participated in one of the few officially sanctioned medical tests which involve the liberal use of pornography. He was deeply unsatisfied with the selection. There is nothing wrong with me. There is nothing wrong with my husband. I don't ovulate and my collection of highly educated doctors is at a loss to tell me why. So now we are moving from infertility testing to infertility treatment. The first step is a round of Clomid, which theoretically will deliver a sharp kick to my useless ovaries, preferably while wearing steel toed boots. For some reason, the decision to start the Clomid is a lot harder than the decision to go off the pill. We decided to give it one more shot on our own, two months at the most. This is the right decision for a lot of reasons, so why does it make me feel so bad?

Meanwhile, I'm a wreck. I cry at commercials and cheesy tv shows and especially at the trailer for that damned Adam Sandler movie where they talk about how important kids are and how all you can do is the best you can. I was first diagnosed as infertile two days before I received another nasty bit of news. I think I could have handled one or the other. Both in two days pushed me under the bus and it has been a serious struggle to peel myself off the asphalt. While I know it intellectually, I can't help feeling in my heart of hearts that being infertile is a reflection on me. I am defective. I am less of a woman. I am not worth loving. None of these things are true. I have a fairly common medical problem for which I will receive treatment, but that logic is cold comfort.

I don't know how this will end. I can't stand that. I don't know why I am putting myself and us through this, except that I don't have a choice. I have never wanted anything this much. Nothing has ever been this important to me. I'm scared and thrilled and morose and elated and totally alone and surrounded by friends who understand. I am scared out of my mind by the thought of having a child. Somehow I think it will be more challenging than having a cat. I can think of a hundred reasons to never have a baby or to wait another month or another year or another decade. None of that seems to matter. I want a baby and my husband refuses to let me steal one at Starbucks and Jenny has steadfastly refused to be pregnant with twins and give one to me so I guess my only choice is to make one of my own.

So wish me luck at getting knocked up, people.

God. My ass is going to be huge.

Thanks for all of the crossing of the various bits of yourselves. It must have worked, because the thing was just a thing after all. I'm eating peanut butter cookies to celebrate.

I have a thing today - in about an hour actually. I'm trying to remain calm, but I'm nervous as hell. The logical side of my head tells me that this thing is not a big deal, just one small thing in a string of things and really nothing to get worked up about. The illogical, emotional, irrational, reactionary side of my head tells me that this one half hour thing today will define the rest of my life.

Guess which side is winning?

If anyone wants to cross their fingers for me, I would appreciate it.

My husband never leaves the seat up. No really, never. Except when we're on vacation. You get that man into a hotel, and the first thing he does is run into the bathroom and put the seat up. I just don't get it.

Is it rude to walk up to a total stranger and say, "Dude, what the hell is up with your ear?" I don't think the guy appreciated the question, but really you should have seen his ear. I wasn't judging the ear, I was just curious.

A couple of weeks ago, I combined three blogrolls into one. In doing so, I inadvertently dropped a link and have been duly chastened. I have corrected the problem and you should all go check out Patrick because he is erudite and interesting and also kinda hot (although also kinda married, so don't anybody get their hopes up). Anyway, now I'm worried that I may have either dropped or overlooked someone else. So help me out people. Go take a look at my blogroll and see if you are there. Go ahead, I'll wait.

.

.

Back? Good. Now, if you aren't on my list and you should be, please let me know so I can add you. If you were there before and aren't there now I promise it is a mistake. I only remove links when I discover that the person is nasty and horrible and I haven't had to do that very much. It has to be serious nastiness and horribleness to qualify, just being a Republican is not enough. Also, if you are linked to me and have never said hello, this might be a good time so I can start reading your site too.

Finally, if anyone was curious why I wanted a dirty limerick last week, you can get the scoop at my husband's site. Part one is here and part two is here.

Confidential to the web geeks: I just learned how to do trackbacks, I think. Are you proud of me?

Confidential to Patrick: Does telling the internet that you are hot get me forgiven?

Williamsburg is very educational. This weekend, I learned all about funny costumes, wig making, horse poop, and silly hats.

It's official, nobody loves me. I'll admit there are very good reasons for it, but it still makes me sad. I have been a lousy lately - not commenting, not answering emails, going on vacation, not posting, etc. I suck. But I was still surprised yesterday that I suck so much that only one person wanted to help me write a dirty limerick. I can't even promise that I'll get much better soon, since I have this new job which is good but also crazy. But now I'm so sad and depressed that I'm not sure I even have the energy to do my new job. Poor Beth. Poor, poor Beth.

(How'm I doing? I'm practicing my guilt-tripping powers. I decided to cut the hubby some slack and practice on the internet instead of on him. I'm open to pointers.)

Seriously though, sorry if I haven't been to your site in a while and I really miss you all, but I have literally ten meetings today and that is only slightly unusual for my new job and that sort of thing really interferes with my blogging.

Anyway, I have been freaking out since Tuesday morning about the whole boss hugging thing. I started thinking that maybe she didn't really want to hug me and I had misread a totally innocent gesture as a hug-me clue and that she thought I was a total freak who went around inappropriately hugging and that she would fire me or report me to HR or tell jokes about me to all her non-stupid-hugger friends. Seriously, I lost sleep over this. I've also been pulling out my own hair and talking to myself and don't you all feel sorry for me that I have such issues? Do you want to buy me a kitten to make me feel better? (Whoops, sorry. still practicing.) However, as the new boss was leaving last night, she hugged me again and that was definitely what she was going for because she hugged my officemate too. So while I found the hugging a little unusual, it is a nice change from my last manager who would just as soon throw rocks at me as look at me.

All in all? Hugging is better than stoning. No contest.

Anybody want to help me write a dirty limmerick? I have a good reason for it, but I don't have time to explain right now.

Also, I just noticed that if I had a little floppy bow tie I could go straight to work at McDonald's. I am such a fashion plate.

I just met my new manager for the first time. She hugged me. I didn't realize that hugging was going to be a job requirement.

I started my new job today! Although, not so much as I have yet to speak to my new boss and have spent the entire day going through emails from last week that are all about my old job. You see, my former so-called-manager could not be bothered to give me anyone to transition things to, so everything basically just sat in my inbox last week. This is terrible because it drives me crazy to have things going undone due to a useless manager. However, it is also wonderful in that 80% of the email I received last week I have just been forwarding to my former so-called-manager and saying "please respond to sender." Giggle.

In unrelated news, in an effort to be good and healthy I did not get the peanut butter cookies out of the vending machine and got the animal crackers instead. I am regretting that decision.

New York was wonderful. The weather was gorgeous other than our last morning and we got pretty drenched on the way to Penn Station. Is there some reason cabs always drop you off a block away from Penn Station? Do the cabbies just like to watch you pulling your luggage over the subway grates? I love cabs in New York. In Washington, where I live, you can stand on the corner for half an hour to get a cab with a cabbie who may or may not know where you are going. In New York, it's easier to find a cab than a fake Rolex and the cabbies always risk life and limb (yours, granted) to get you where you are going at a rate just shy of the speed of sound.

The main thing we did was walk. Midtown, Upper East Side, Central Park, Upper West Side, Times Square, Fashion District, Financial District, Battery Park, Chinatown, Little Italy, Soho, Nolita, Noho, Greenwich Village, Lower East Side, and halfway across the Brooklyn Bridge. I'm always amazed by how small Manhattan really is. You can walk most of the city in a couple hours, if you're dedicated. We went to the Guggenheim, which was a little disappointing since the main rotunda was closed to install a new exhibit. We also went into some of the chi-chi stores on Fifth Avenue that we were too shy to go into last time. I went into Sephora on Fifth Avenue, just so I could say I had done it, and frankly I didn't see what the big deal was. Now, please don't revoke my estrogen card for saying this, but it was just a bunch of makeup. La-dee-dah, whatever. We also went into Tiffany's, which is a lovely place. From the guys greeting you at the door to the guys running the elevators to the people at the counters who seem to materialize to help you the second you become slightly interested in anything, the service is impeccable. I tried on a few things since I have decided the hubby should give me some bling for my rapidly approaching 30th birthday. Nothing thrilled me. Well, nothing that cost less than five grand thrilled me and that is a little too blingy for my blood. I also tried on one of those "return to Tiffany" necklaces that everyone and their brother seems to have. No, now offense intended if you have one and love it, but I felt like I was wearing a dog collar. The guy at the counter was not too amused by that observation.

To keep our strength up for all that walking, we had to eat. Boy, did we ever eat. We went to Becco on Restaurant Row (West 46th Street a couple blocks off Times Square). Ok, to be totally honest, we went there twice. Yes, it is that good. We also went to Capri on Restaurant Row, Noho Star in Noho, and a Thai place on the Lower East Side. I can't remember the name, but they had really good tofu satay. We also ate lunch twice sitting in Bryant Park on 42nd Street. If you are ever in NYC on a nice day, grab a sandwich and eat lunch in Bryant Park.

We went to the World Trade Site. There isn't much to see there anymore other than a huge construction site. It was still very humbling to stand there and think of the thousands of people who died within that one city block. Saint Paul's Chapel, right across from the site, was what really did me in. That was where a lot of the rescue workers went after their shifts to get some food and rest. There are lots of displays of various artifacts of that time, my favorite was a wall of hundreds brightly colored origami peace cranes sent from Japan. Another very powerful memorial is in Battery Park. There was a sculpture of a sphere near the towers which was damaged but not destroyed. That sculpture has not been repaired and was moved to Battery Park. Seeing how misshapen that steel globe is gives you some idea of the incredible destruction of that terrible day.

On a happier note, we saw three shows. Avenue Q was hilarious and amazing. If you get the chance, see it. Just be prepared to watch muppets getting it on. Stomp was also excellent, although if you see that I recommend seats in the middle of the house. We had third row seats and it was a little tough on the eardrums to be so close. We also saw Wicked. Chris and I disagreed a little bit about that one, he thought it was mediocre and I thought it sucked.

My favorite part was something we stumbled on accidentally. We were down in the Financial District on Monday and Broadway was closed for several blocks for a street fair. There were vendors and music and lots of people, including traders out for lunch in their ugly mesh jackets. Who's idea was that? We had a great time looking at all the random items the vendors sold - everything from jewelry and sweaters to underwear and sheet sets, and also had what may have been the best samosas this side of the Ganges.

There was also some shopping of course, although not too much since there isn't much you can get in New York that you can't get in Washington - or in Tyson's Corner for that matter. We did get some tacky souvenirs and some cashmere scarves and, um, ok, so I bought a purse. Actually, I bought two purses, but one is for my sister-in-law, I swear! Maybe. It's pretty cute, so I may be forced to keep it for myself. Also, since we are dorks, we bought 15 books at the Strand and had to buy a new suitcase to get them all home.

There are pictures, of course, but since my husband has already done lots of work to get them all pretty and posted over at his place, if you want to see them you can check them out there. I would appreciate it you would all take care not to notice the shot of me where it looks like my chin is eating my neck. It's just the angle, honestly, and also the lighting and everybody knows that digital cameras add ten pounds to your neck. And also to your upper arms. Just ignore that one, okay? I think there is also a picture of my new purse, which you are welcome to admire and compliment as long as nobody mentions the part about me selling out my morals and convictions for a designer handbag. I already gave myself that speech and feel just awful about it but have decided that I will just carry my moral high ground around in my pretty new purse.

All in all, a great trip, but there's really no place like home.

We're home. NYC was great and I'll write all about it tomorrow-ish. Right now, I have something else to say.

Three years ago today we returned from another vacation, to North Carolina's Outer Banks. Three years ago today, a dear friend of mine died. He was 25.

I have tried to think of something profound and meaningful to say about my friend, but all I ever come up with is stuff about gum and sunglasses and crazy drunk conversations and none of it captures how amazing he was or how much I miss him or how much it still hurts.

We were each other's evil twin. I lost a part of myself three years ago today.

Miss you, Peanut.
Like crazy, baby.

Right click and save please, to hear him sing.

I'm off to NYC, kids. Don't burn the place down while I'm gone.

BTW - my toenails are painted Big Apple Red. That makes me cool, right?

Reason #1:
I have not been to anybody's site in at least a week. Also, I have about a gajillion unanswered emails. What can I say? Things are crazy.

Reason #2:
My husband and I are going to be walking around New York City wearing matching fleece pullovers. If that's not cool, I don't know what is. I'm just hoping I have time before we leave tomorrow to buy some matching fanny packs.

I'm on a conference call. It's been an hour and fifteen minutes so far, and I'm expecting another three hours or so. I am giving serious consideration to chewing off my own head to escape.

UPDATE: Just passed the 3 hour mark and still going strong.

ANOTHER UPDATE: 4 hours, 38 minutes, 47 seconds. Really.

Yesterday I lost 9 hours worth of work.

Then my fish died.

If I make it to 5:00 today without either screaming of crying I will consider the day a huge success.

I'm not sure I will ever be able to be completely happy if I am not allowed to make out with Sting at least once.

Sadly, there was no winner in the Name the Purse contest, so nobody gets a picture of my butt. I know you are all brokenhearted. Since I'm officially bored with this, here are the answers.

The other day I made a snarky comment about people who act like owning a couple of Coach bags is some sort of positive reflection of their value as a person. I picked Coach bags sort of at random, but also because I own a couple myself and I figure if I'm going to be insulting I may as well insult myself first, especially since, you know, I'm not really like that. It was more the attitude than the item that I was getting at. But then.

I ran out at lunch today to pick up a couple things for my vacation next week and I very nearly bought myself a new Coach bag while I was out. This was not because I really liked the bag, oh no, but only because it was on sale. I saw Coach and 25% off and I got a little light-headed and may have blacked out for a second and the next thing I knew I was heading towards the register with an ugly pink purse in my outstretched arms like a zombie on the scent of fresh brains. I snapped out of it. I put the purse down and backed away slowly with my hands in clear view. I am truly contrite and ready to pay my debt to society.

Nice to meet you Kettle, I'm Pot.

On a totally unrelated subject, Saturday is my fifth anniversary and I do not have so much as a card for my husband. We decided not to do gifts this year since the trip to NYC is costing plenty, thank you very much, but I do want to have something to give him. Just a little thing, to show I, like, care, or something. Problem is that he is impossible to buy for and I have no idea what to get. Anybody have any recommendations? Or, I know! How about if one of you just sort of casually asked him what he might like and then told me? Please? Somebody? Just don't tell him that I asked or what it's for. Thanks!

Ok, who the hell dressed me this morning? This damned jacket is driving me mad! As soon as I figure out who it was who decided that this was a reasonable outfit selection, I am going to make them wear this jacket for the rest of the day.

Honest to God people, I don't know where all of these came from.

Well, ok. I know that one came from Paris and one came from Egypt and one from my wedding and one from being a bridesmaid and one from Chris's grandmother, but really this is a little insane.

Also, anybody else notice I have a black thing? Maybe tomorrow we'll do a shot of all my black shoes and then on Thursday we can do my collection of nearly identical black pants.

The bottom step has the three leading contenders to go to New York. From left to right they are: the ugly travel purse, the sparkly evening bag and the extra auxiliary bag that I am taking for no reason in particular.

The one on top is not actually a purse but rather my cat. I'd use her as a purse, but she is always dropping my sunglasses.

So, here's the game. There are three Coach bags in this picture, can you pick them out? I was going to add little numbers to make this easier, but decided I would lose interest around number 8. Instead, you will have to describe the position in the line-up, such as: top step, second from the right. First person to get it right before we all get bored and go read other blogs wins a prize. I don't know what the prize will be, possibly a picture of my butt in my new jeans, but I will negotiate that with the winner.

I almost sent an IM to my boss saying "No shit, bitch." I mean almost as in I typed it and caught myself just before I hit enter.

So, um, if I post pictures of my Coach bags, will you guys help me decide which to take?

They were gifts, I swear! But there is one I love like it was my child.

Guess what I bought this weekend?

Ok, I admit, that covers a pretty wide selection of things, so I will just tell you. I bought jeans! Two pairs! They fit over my bodacious booty and not one single other person or rhinoceros could get in the waistband with me. This is huge and major and exciting, because clearly I really needed some new jeans.

Anyway, I got Gap stretch boot cut regular length (thanks Casey!) and Gap stretch flares ankle length. Can anyone tell me why ankle length boot cut jeans are so much shorter than ankle length flare jeans? Also, while you're at it, can you also tell me why regular length flare jeans are not any longer than ankle length flare jeans but they are a lot tighter. Does squeezing your legs make them shorter?

In other shopping news, I bought quite possibly the sexiest pair of pants ever to wear to dinner on my anniversary. One of you smart and fashion-focused people probably know what these pants are called, but I'm just going to have to describe them so bear with me. They are two separate layers. The bottom layer is a pretty standard wide-leg pants shape except that the outside seams are open from just above the knee down. The top layer is totally open on both outside seams so that layer is really just wrapped around your legs. Does that make sense? If not, just take my word for it that they are awesome and hot and I am going to be the prettiest girl in all of New York City on Saturday night. Now, I just have to lose 5 pounds before Saturday so I don't have to eat dinner standing up on my anniversary. The pants are hot, but they are also a little more ambitious about the size of my waist than is practical. (Hey, um. would somebody please remind me to move that button before Saturday? Thanks.)

I got the sexy pants at Nordstrom, where the staff is very helpful and also insane. I had a very nice woman helping me pick out possible anniversary outfits. My favorite thing she chose was a cute black skirt with a pink silk halter-ish top printed with fleurs-de-lis and a jacket with matching fleurs-de-lis on the lining. It was gorgeous. It was $1500. I told her I was looking for an outfit for my anniversary, not divorce court.

Finally, I really need some advice. What is the maximum number of purses I can take on a six-day vacation without becoming one of those snotty bitches who think owning a couple of Coach bags is some sort of personal accomplishment for which they should be complimented and admired? I'm thinking of taking three: my ugly-but-damn-it-holds-everything travel purse for days, a sparkly evening bag for sparkly evenings and a non-sparkly day/evening crossover bag for fancy afternoons and non-sparkly evenings. That's reasonable, right? In a non-snotty-bitch sort of way? You can tell me the truth, I can take it.

And the Ditz of the Day Award for Saturday, October 2 goes to....

Beth!

Congratulations, Beth! You have won this prized and coveted award by leaving your ATM card in the ATM and driving away! Way to go, Beth!

And now, if you will excuse me, I have to take my husband out and make him buy me things since he is the only person in this relationship who still has any purchasing power.

I really should be working. I have so much to do that thinking about it makes me hyperventilate. But damn, it's boring stuff. Also, I only have a few days left of this crappy job, so motivation does not come easily. I'm working at home today so I can really focus on these stupid spreadsheets, but it hasn't quite worked out that way. I've been taking pictures instead. So, I am proud to present Beth's Procrastination Photo Essay!

First, here are my pretty new running shoes.

Lovely, yes? These are the flowers I made Chris buy me.

I like them because they are yellow and because when I was a kid my favorite color was yellow because I had a yellow bathrobe that glowed in the dark. My flowers do not glow in the dark. Yes, I checked.

This it the fantabulous new scarf that I just finished knitting. I am very talented.

This used to be my breakfast.

It was quite possibly the best blueberry muffin ever and it made me very happy. It made Pixel very happy too. That cat will eat anything.

This is a picture of my very handsome brother and some chick in a great dress and shoes that hurt like a bitch.

What, you can't see the shoes? You will just have to trust me as I have it on very good authority that wearing those shoes was a particularly cruel form of torture. Also, back off girls, he's married.

And finally, here's a picture of the hubby and some other random chick with very bad bridesmaid hair and also some strange guy.

What's wrong with her, you may be wondering? That is just the normal human reaction to being mooned by a group of men wearing kilts and sparkly red thongs.