tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14457036106253822152023-11-16T02:41:35.189-05:00the would-be writers guildMediocre writing at its best!Tiffanyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06541824528443852791noreply@blogger.comBlogger307125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1445703610625382215.post-75333294327559056952014-07-11T17:12:00.002-04:002014-07-11T17:12:23.791-04:00An Imaginary Daughter is BornHaving an imaginary child is one of the better decisions of my life. Around the time that I conceived her, my husband and I were trying to decide whether to have a third child or not. And since both my kids and my eggs were getting older, a decision needed to be made. We'd had our first two in our twenties, neck-deep in full-time work, graduate school, and not much money to our name. I had a bit of a romantic fantasy about having a third child under better circumstances like steady jobs and more square footage. I'd walk past the little girls' clothing section in stores and get a pang in my ovaries. Was this a sign?<br />
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One afternoon we were attending my older son's middle school basketball game. I sat near my friend Marianne whose son was playing for the other team. We were newish friends at this point, but I enjoyed her quick laugh and her straight-shooting manner. While we were visiting and cheering on our middle schoolers, Marianne was deftly wrangling her two little boys, ages 3 and 2. One dropped his sippy cup under the bleachers, the other was demanding more goldfish crackers. At one point, both of them were writhing on the gym floor, unhappy with each other, life in general, and overdue for a nap. I believe one of the sippy cups had been thrown at the other's head. They were so adorable.<br />
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"They're so adorable," I said to her. Or maybe my ovaries said to her.<br />
"What?" she asked, confused.<br />
"They're just so cute," I said. Then, to explain myself, "We're trying to decide if we want another one."<br />
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Suddenly Marianne was transformed. Her previously frazzled and semi-distracted state transformed into the stillness and clarity of an oracle. She looked me square in the eye.<br />
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"Don't. Do. It." she said.<br />
I laughed.<br />
"I'm completely serious," she said, "don't do it. I'm on the other side now. I've been you, and I'm telling you, you have no idea how good you've got it."<br />
My smile faded. She was serious.<br />
"Listen," she said, "I love the little guys and I'd never trade them, but if you're really on the fence, I'm here to remind you that you've done the hard work, the diapers, the sleepless nights, the car seats. Do you really want to go back?"<br />
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It was a good question, and I thought about it a lot over weeks and months after that. If I was honest with myself, the third child idea was more about getting all the things out of child-rearing that I didn't get the first two times around, namely a girl and the means to dress her well. Ultimately, I decided those weren't good reasons to have another baby. Plus, I had grown quite accustomed to sleeping through the night. It was kinda my thang.<br />
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So I got knocked up on Pinterest instead. I created a Pinterest board titled, "<a href="http://www.pinterest.com/tiffanywbwg/my-imaginary-well-dressed-toddler-daughter/" target="_blank">My Imaginary Well-Dressed Toddler Daughter</a>" and began curating the Third Child and the Third Child Life I'd wanted. I named her Quinoa. I dressed her well. And I found that it completely satiated the thirst I'd had inside.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP5o_QnAz0lJLG5FbitsfcmrltM8o4zO65pALiM6r0ZvIc6xU4T2Dh2kYk2XRI88CmwGHnAi_m_M58mgGYwEILWU76ACXDN1AAtkmKwnbErWpJSXZN1CCm9beVnQvRz7aPDvcAY1EpBCDK/s1600/Screen+Shot+2014-07-11+at+5.02.32+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP5o_QnAz0lJLG5FbitsfcmrltM8o4zO65pALiM6r0ZvIc6xU4T2Dh2kYk2XRI88CmwGHnAi_m_M58mgGYwEILWU76ACXDN1AAtkmKwnbErWpJSXZN1CCm9beVnQvRz7aPDvcAY1EpBCDK/s1600/Screen+Shot+2014-07-11+at+5.02.32+PM.png" height="163" width="320" /></a></div>
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As it turns out, imaginary children:<br />
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<ul>
<li>do not interrupt sleep</li>
<li>require no diaper changes</li>
<li>do not emit strange noises, smells or fluids</li>
<li>have no food allergies</li>
<li>can be overindulged without regret</li>
<li>can be left unattended for hours, days, and even weeks at a time</li>
<li>never spill grape juice on your silk dress</li>
<li>never repeat your favorite four-letter words in front of the grandparents</li>
</ul>
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I was really onto something. And then, quite literally overnight, the world was on to me. In June 2013, my Pinterest board went viral. Quinoa suddenly had countless new friends all over the world. Within a few months, I had a book deal, a lifelong dream come true. And nine months after that, I held <a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/076245427X/ref=s9_simh_gw_p14_d0_i1?pf_rd_m=ATVPDKIKX0DER&pf_rd_s=center-2&pf_rd_r=171RXHT5YGF3N2TCWY3D&pf_rd_t=101&pf_rd_p=1688200382&pf_rd_i=507846" target="_blank">the book</a> in my arms for the first time. I looked it over with the same wonder that I had my newborn sons. Instead of counting toes, I counted pages. They were all there. I smelled it. And just like that intoxicating newborn scent, the industrial perfume of the paper made me want to do it again and again.</div>
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If I'd had another real child, I have no doubt that I'd be enjoying him or her, doing my best to live out that romanticized version I'd had in my head, but I'm glad I took the road less traveled this time. In the end, my imaginary daughter has required just as much work as my two sons. And like raising my sons, the process of bringing her to life (in book form) has taught me an awful lot about myself. What is it the Rolling Stones said? <i>You can't always get what you want, but sometimes, well, you might get what you need.</i></div>
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<br />Tiffanyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06541824528443852791noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1445703610625382215.post-51300687078909057882013-10-10T17:01:00.003-04:002013-10-10T17:02:55.376-04:00Do You Use Grammarly?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.grammarly.com/" target="_blank"><img border="0" height="157" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAa069XZVzPrhnXO1znZhYsjxI3sBECpSIHrowDVwb6O5p_O6b71jV2VVSng1nzbb_ftGEKaDVZxEWmAZ3eZmxmBc5YHnBxwGYVcwpX5bJHXfTkyhKjkh0dEy4uO3GVHzIYcMBexBBpMgN/s320/Screen+Shot+2013-10-10+at+4.56.27+PM.png" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial; font-size: 14px;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial; font-size: 14px;">I use Grammarly's </span><a href="http://www.grammarly.com/" style="background-color: white; color: #1155cc; font-family: arial; font-size: 14px;" target="_blank">plagiarism checker</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial; font-size: 14px;"> because the only person I ever want to plagiarize is myself. Because sometimes I have to teach myself a lesson. Because if I don't, who will?</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial; font-size: 14px;">You can quote me on that. But you can't pretend you wrote it yourself.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial; font-size: 14px;">Seriously, you should use <a href="http://www.grammarly.com/" target="_blank">Grammarly</a> too. </span>Tiffanyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06541824528443852791noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1445703610625382215.post-11117734311987206332013-09-13T00:44:00.000-04:002013-09-13T00:44:44.318-04:00Big Announcement: I'm Having a Book!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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This is happening. An unbelievable summer of Internet frenzy has led to a lifelong dream of mine: to write a book and find it on a bookstore shelf. Last week I signed a book deal with <a href="http://www.perseusbooksgroup.com/runningpress/">Running Press</a> (the geniuses who brought you <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Suris-Burn-Book-Well-Dressed-Commentary/dp/B00C024106">Suri's Burn Book</a> and <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Feminist-Ryan-Gosling-Imagined-Sensitive/dp/0762447362">Feminist Ryan Gosling</a>). My book, featuring my imaginary daughter Quinoa, will be published in spring 2014. (Can't believe I just typed that.)<br />
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I would like to thank everybody who wrote, tweeted, posted and shared MIWDTD with their own audience, even if it was an audience of one, as well as my friends, my family and my agent who helped me bring this dream to life. This would not be happening without you, so thank you!<br />
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Guys, it's going to be amazing. Quinoa demands it.Tiffanyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06541824528443852791noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1445703610625382215.post-26957033032347183532013-04-10T16:57:00.001-04:002013-04-10T17:34:04.955-04:00That's the Way the Cookie Crumbles<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLbgMBKxuV5CN3234PZuKdNd5BJIUSEYq33c45C_ETEKqz22sHgWaNKto97aXXlPAwuQxTw0_0QwelxhRns53okzRqrdZhksPayZNTf1ar_1HxiOS6b8GdTzbXA6PNX8EqV4mck-eJ30CB/s1600/photo-7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLbgMBKxuV5CN3234PZuKdNd5BJIUSEYq33c45C_ETEKqz22sHgWaNKto97aXXlPAwuQxTw0_0QwelxhRns53okzRqrdZhksPayZNTf1ar_1HxiOS6b8GdTzbXA6PNX8EqV4mck-eJ30CB/s320/photo-7.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
The kids are suspicious of my cookies. Christian passed them by yesterday, an entire glorious rack of them.<br />
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"Aren't you going to have a cookie?" I asked.<br />
"That depends," he said, "did you put something extra in them to mess them up?"<br />
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The answer was yes, that I added corn flakes. And also, yes, that it messed them up. I thought it would give them a refreshing crunch. It actually gave them a pesky chew, like when you accidentally get a piece of wax paper in your bite of saltwater taffy. Oops. Some risks in life don't pay off.<br />
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Normally I add toasted coconut, which the kids also consider to be the ruin of a perfectly good chocolate chip cookie. The toasted coconut is my favorite, which means that I get plenty of opportunity to enjoy my cookies before the kids finally break down and begrudgingly eat them.<br />
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Last week I made peanut butter thumbprint cookies with adorable little dollops of raspberry jam in the middle. Christian reluctantly tried one, but not another. I asked if he liked them and he replied, "They're good; they're just not really my thing." When Max got home, he eyed them for a minute and opted for a tall glass of carrot orange juice instead.<br />
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"You guys are weird," I said. "My mom never made cookies. She made 'green drinks' with alfalfa."<br />
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The times that I make their favorite pure, unadulterated chocolate chip cookies for them? Well, you should see all the positive reinforcement. It's like a ticker tape parade in Compliment City, all in my honor. There are audible moans and groans of pure cookie ecstasy. Sometimes hugs. And while I'm no more extraordinary than any other lab rat, I become suspicious of positive reinforcement when it comes to catering to my children's whims. I believe in fulfilling their needs, but only 18.2% of their wants.<br />
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You like these plain chocolate chip cookies? Why don't I add some walnuts next time?<br />
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On the bright side, my kids are going to grow up believing a woman can bake whatever cookies she wants. (Just as I was raised believing my mother would die before feeding us a bologna sandwich.) Long after I am dead and gone, they will reminisce to their own children that dear old mom sure baked a lot of cookies we didn't like. And they will be better men for it.<br />
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In the mean time, anybody want some gross cookies?Tiffanyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06541824528443852791noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1445703610625382215.post-62473566703087398392013-04-08T17:31:00.003-04:002013-04-08T17:31:36.365-04:0025 Things Before I Have To Go<br />
<ol>
<li>The windows are open, the breeze is blowing, and I finally believe that spring might be coming.</li>
<li>Lucy does this thing to communicate with me where she shakes her whole body like she has the shivers, rattling her little tags and letting me subtly know that she needs something. I wish I loved her more than I do. It makes me feel bad about myself.</li>
<li>I'm learning that growing up is a process that never ends. Still growing here, and hopefully up.</li>
<li>I have absolutely no patience when it comes to painting my toenails. I glob it all on, and a few days later, when the excess has washed and worn off the surrounding skin, they look half decent.</li>
<li>I like small bowls filled with candy. </li>
<li>Dinner tonight is orange chicken, courtesy of Costco's freezer section. Ryan is out of town, and I seem to have motivation for cooking when he is gone. It's because I associate preparing food with showing love. </li>
<li>I still can't believe I ran a half marathon. I've yet to revel in that accomplishment and I don't know why. I had very similar feelings with my college graduation.</li>
<li>I'm terribly, terribly afraid of becoming a serious person. I only want to be 25% serious, maximum, at any time. But lately I find myself thinking serious thought. Oh help.</li>
<li>On Thursday, Ryan and I will have been married sixteen years. Sweet sixteen, indeed.</li>
<li>I am interested in the idea of having a lot less stuff. </li>
<li>My social media of choice these days is Instagram. (tbeve00) </li>
<li>Max just came in looking for squirt guns with his friends. Welcome, sunshine!</li>
<li>I'm dying to smell freshly cut grass.</li>
<li>I need to reschedule my hair appointment, but keep forgetting. Maybe writing it down here will help?</li>
<li>Writing feels rusty. Like stiff muscles.</li>
<li>My parents are on the other side of the planet. And I can sort of feel it.</li>
<li>We took a road trip to South Carolina for our spring break. I came back with a new nickname for Ryan: Boss. I keep forgetting to use it, but it makes me giggle.</li>
<li>If you want to hear a story that delights and haunts me at the same time, <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GNJWHwTUvwU">watch this</a>.</li>
<li>I buy ice cream, but I rarely eat it. I like knowing it's there in the freezer. </li>
<li>I have fallen in love with reading again, which I think is why I have struggled writing. When I was writing more frequently, I was hardly reading at all. Is this a cycle?</li>
<li>I've been teaching Christian how to drive. The drivers here are terrible and I'm determined to give him a long, thorough education. You're welcome, Society.</li>
<li>Neon yellow pants are my new favorite.</li>
<li>I'm not a person who requires a lot of friends. The handful I have are amazing people.</li>
<li>The fridge in the garage is not going to clean itself. But I'm going to give it another day or two, just to be sure.</li>
<li>Phew.</li>
</ol>
Tiffanyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06541824528443852791noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1445703610625382215.post-12200683290535634112013-02-27T22:25:00.001-05:002013-02-27T22:25:04.347-05:00I Don't Talk About Her Much Because She's So Modest<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://media-cache-ec3.pinterest.com/550x/aa/23/c4/aa23c4123b1804b7df1c46f6b5ba8460.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://media-cache-ec3.pinterest.com/550x/aa/23/c4/aa23c4123b1804b7df1c46f6b5ba8460.jpg" width="245" /></a></div>
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Do you remember <a href="http://pinterest.com/tiffanywbwg/my-imaginary-well-dressed-toddler-daughter/">my imaginary well-dressed toddler daughter</a>, Quinoa? </div>
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She's been very busy lately on <a href="http://pinterest.com/tiffanywbwg/my-imaginary-well-dressed-toddler-daughter/">Pinterest</a>. </div>
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(She actually invented <a href="http://www.pinterest.com/">Pinterest</a> in a Mommy & Me computer class so that I could catalog my favorite photos of her. What a sweetie!)</div>
<br />Tiffanyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06541824528443852791noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1445703610625382215.post-18702087316253783192013-02-15T17:19:00.000-05:002013-02-15T17:19:07.394-05:00Bedtime Chats and Mental Health<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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"Can we talk?"<div>
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Max asks this frequently at bedtime, after I've tucked him in and started for the door. My kids have always become pensive, philosophical, and talkative in the minutes before going to sleep. It's mostly sincere, but also a delay tactic. I'm no dummy.</div>
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Last night we talked about the four presidents on Mount Rushmore, the Civil War, racism, and the system of checks and balances in our government. You know, regular nine-year-old stuff. Speaking of, try explaining racism to a kid sometime. It's embarrassing to explain such a concept to an innocent child. It makes no sense to kids because it makes no sense, period.</div>
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Mornings are the opposite of bedtime with Max. He is sluggish and slow. Nearly every morning for weeks, he has asked if there's a possibility of a snow delay. Or a chance he might be able to stay home. Please, oh please? I'm nice, but not sympathetic. When he says he doesn't want to go to school, I tell him that part of life is doing things we don't necessarily want to do but should. Welcome to growing up.</div>
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Monday, however, I had a change of heart. I spent a couple minutes prodding him out of bed, and then stopped. I told him that he gets one day a school year to stay home and he could choose today if he wanted. But (and it's a big but) that meant no more complaining on future mornings. He thought about it for a few minutes, considering the pros and cons, and finally decided that, yes, today he would cash in. I met him in the kitchen later when he began explaining that it was good that he stayed home because he had a bit of a stuffy nose and sore throat and maybe a cough too.</div>
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"No, no, no," I said, "we're not going to pretend that you're sick and need to stay home. Sometimes you just need a day off. We all do. It's called a Mental Health Day."</div>
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He was a little skeptical, but seemed to understand.</div>
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He spent his Mental Health Day eating crepes for breakfast, lounging around with the iPad, reading a little, lunching at McDonald's and learning how to play solitaire. Not too different from an adult day off, actually. Tuesday morning he got out of bed without question. Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday too. My plan worked.</div>
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Although, this week Max has referenced his Mental Health Day a few times, as in, "I wrote those valentines for you guys on my Mental Health Day." Or, "I think I watched that show on my Mental Health Day." Is he talking about Mental Health Day a lot? At school? With his friends? </div>
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Hey, did you hear about Max? He had a "Mental Health Day." I heard he was on the verge of a breakdown.</div>
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I hope this doesn't come back to bite me in the butt. Perhaps one of our bedtime chats will be about how people misunderstand mental health.</div>
Tiffanyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06541824528443852791noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1445703610625382215.post-36993164779121528382013-02-06T15:09:00.000-05:002013-02-06T15:09:59.194-05:00No PromisesOver the summer, I took up running. (Please don't roll your eyes and close your laptop. I'm not going to become an obnoxious running blogger.) It was during the summer Olympics and something inside of both Ryan and myself nudged us to attempt more than our daily walk. The human body can do amazing things, as evidenced by the high-flying gymnasts and torpedo-like swimmers we watched dutifully from the couch each night. There was a lot of evidence to suggest that our 35 year-old bodies could do more than we'd been asking of them.<br />
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First, we considered learning a series of back-flipping, triple-twisting acrobatics in our backyard, but found that our health insurance does not cover mid-life gymnastics injuries.<br />
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So we started running for 30 seconds.<br />
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And we pretty much thought we would die.<br />
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But we didn't.<br />
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We worked our way up to 3 miles, and while we were quite proud of ourselves, we pretty much thought we would die the few times we attempted 3.2 or even 3.5 miles. We stuck at 3 difficult miles every day, figuring we had met our limit. Every run was hard, but ultimately fulfilling in that I-guess-this-is-an-accomplishment-considering-where-we-started way.<br />
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Months later our friend Marianne asked us to do a half marathon with her in March, and we trepidatiously agreed to try it and begin training. When I looked at the training schedule climbing slowly up to 8, 9, 10 miles and beyond, I felt panic down in my toes. I couldn't imagine this future version of myself who would be able to do this. I questioned her existence as much as I had once questioned Santa's.<br />
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Here's the crazy thing: I really love the long runs. And though it makes very little sense, the 3-mile runs are still tougher for me than the 8's, 9's, and even the 10-mile run I had on Saturday. Here's another crazy thing: it's possible that I could have stuck at 3 miserable miles forever, if I hadn't taken that scary leap into something bigger.<br />
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Of course, all of this running has made me think about writing. My writing. For many, many reasons (some consciously explored, some probably unconsciously hidden), I sort of shut down my writing shop. Here on the blog. In the novel I started many moons ago. Pretty much everywhere except for the paid work I do copywriting.<br />
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I tried to explore the possibility that maybe I don't need to constantly feel the push to accomplish something bigger. Maybe I should just be content with my little copywriting jobs and the life around me. Maybe I'm not good enough or smart enough to do anything bigger than that, and maybe that's perfectly okay.<br />
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I've tried to adopt that way of thinking, but could never really get past temporary foster status. It might be time to let that idea go to another home. I can't get over this nagging suspicion that I'd been stuck at 3 miserable miles without realizing it.<br />
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"No promises," I'd said to Marianne when I agreed to start training. Let's see what I can do. She told me I would surprise myself.<br />
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No promises I say today.<br />
<br />Tiffanyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06541824528443852791noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1445703610625382215.post-66307818890710961872012-03-22T21:48:00.002-04:002012-03-22T21:48:47.408-04:00Banter at Bedtime<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
Me: How's it going, old man?<br />
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Max: Bye, older lady.<br />
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Me: Where are you going, short person?<br />
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Max: Haha, very funny. You're smaller than Christian.<br />
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Me: Yeah, but I can still sit on him. And I can sit on you, too.<br />
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Max: Yeah, but you're just a midget.<br />
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Me: Too bad for you, since you have the same DNA.<br />
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Max: DNA? Who cares about DNA?<br />
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Me: Let's move on to another subject. What would you like to talk about?<br />
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Max: Something you don't want to talk about.<br />
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Me: Like politics?<br />
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Max: Maybe something different.<br />
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Me: Let's talk about unicorns. How many unicorns do you think it takes to make one unicorn burger?<br />
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Max: See you later.<br />
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Me: What? Did I upset you? Does the thought of a big, juicy unicorn patty make you cry?<br />
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Max: Wait, I need to go to the bathroom. For about, like, forever.<br />
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Me: Hmmm. Must have had beans for dinner.<br />
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(Several minutes later)<br />
<br />
Me: Were you rapping in the bathroom?<br />
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Max: No! Maybe. Yeah, I did.<br />
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Me: That seems like a fun bathroom activity. What are your plans this weekend?<br />
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Max: Sleep, uhhhhhh, and other stuff.<br />
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Me: Sounds fun. I'm ready to go to sleep right now. How about you? You could get started on your weekend.<br />
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Max: Great! I'll do it a couple hours after you do.<br />
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Me: I may be funny, but I'm not stupid. Go to bed, you short little old man.<br />
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Max: Oh yeah? I think I can do more math problems than you.<br />
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Me: What's one little boy plus one bedtime?<br />
<br />
Max: Equals Mom sleeping and little boy partying.<br />
<br />
Me: Wrong. It equals 73.Tiffanyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06541824528443852791noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1445703610625382215.post-70889536189856721812012-03-14T16:57:00.000-04:002012-03-14T17:11:57.309-04:00My Imaginary Well-Dressed Toddler DaughterFriends, I'd like to introduce you to someone very special--my imaginary well-dressed toddler daughter. Her name is Quinoa, and I found her on <a href="http://www.pinterest.com/">Pinterest</a>, begging me to give her an imaginary home filled with designer clothing and incredible lighting. She's a lovely, lovely human being. Would you like to see what she's been up to lately?<br />
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She rides around town on her mini Vespa scooter, but she always stops for pedestrians.</div>
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She loves to dress up for church in Chanel and roller skates, because she absolutely adores a juxtaposition.</div>
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One of her favorite activities is twirling, and nobody does it better than Quinoa.</div>
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Please don't confuse twirling with spinning; they are very different activities (though she is equally talented at both).</div>
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Every night, she lays out her impeccable outfit for the next day...</div>
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...then prays for all the children of the world, that they might be as happy, healthy, and well-dressed as she.</div>
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Did I mention that she's thoughtful and well-spoken? She attended the funeral of a classmate's hamster and gave a touching eulogy.</div>
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Where does she shop, you ask? Where doesn't she shop? is the answer!</div>
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You want to watch Indiana Jones with her? She's got an outfit for that.</div>
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Sometimes she lets me dress her up as a Von Trapp child and we sing about raindrops on roses and all of our favorite things.</div>
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She loves to put on a show. Here she is doing a tribute to Whitney Houston. It was amazing. The children really are our future.</div>
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She sure loves our country, right down to the toes of her red designer boots. In fact, she can recite the Pledge of Allegiance in seventeen languages.</div>
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Even when she's not trying, she manages to look super cool, just like a Hollywood starlet running to Target for some tampons.</div>
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She's adorable at all times, even when a large spider is crawling toward her on the floor.</div>
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You should see her dance. She's got the moves like Jagger, and the charm of Gene Kelley, all wrapped up in a size 4T.</div>
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Before you accuse her of being shallow and obsessed with her looks, you should know that she's a human-rights activist, president of seven book clubs, and is weeks away from a degree in Marine Biology.<br />
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Oh yes, my little Quinoa is the kind of imaginary daughter every mother dreams of. I consider myself very, very lucky to have her in my life. Wouldn't you?<br />
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<i>(You can keep up with Quinoa on <a href="http://pinterest.com/tiffanywbwg/my-imaginary-well-dressed-toddler-daughter/">Pinterest</a>.)</i>Tiffanyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06541824528443852791noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1445703610625382215.post-7672118324887324832012-01-17T15:21:00.002-05:002012-01-17T15:21:21.154-05:00Thought for the dayThe longer I live, the more I am rendered speechless. I'm expecting to be a mute by age 40.Tiffanyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06541824528443852791noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1445703610625382215.post-61786022869758637102012-01-11T16:53:00.000-05:002012-01-11T16:53:05.322-05:00Care To Help a Leper?I have leprosy. It's a mild case, but I thought I should let you know. There is a small, scaly stripe of skin on my left eyelid that hurts. Leprosy is painful, in case you didn't know. It's serious mild pain I'm experiencing. Each morning, I shed another layer of flakey, pie-crust-like skin. One step closer to death.<br />
<br />
I've been administering hydrocortisone cream to it for three days, even though the tube distinctly says, "DO NOT USE ON EYES." I suspect this is because the makers of the medication are anti-leper, and prefer that we suffer. It's an age-old bigotry that I'm fighting, as well as a dermatological disease. (See: The Bible.) So far the leprosy is limited to my eyelid, but things can get serious fast. I could wake up tomorrow without a leg.<br />
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I think I caught leprosy because I'm also suffering from hypothermia. It's that hypothermic time of year around here, and everybody knows that hypothermia often leads to leprosy (and dressing in ugly fleece clothing). We keep the thermostat at Effing Cold* during the day to save money. And since I'm the only one home during the day, I dress like an eskimo and pray for global warming.<br />
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The bad news is, the hydrocortisone and fleece sweatpants aren't working. (But the praying does make me feel better temporarily.)<br />
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If you are wondering how to help me, please send cash. Insurance, as you might guess, does not cover leprosy. (Anti-leperism runs deep in the insurance industry.) Only cash will help me now. Its cool, soothing, papery texture will be administered to my eyelid in the form of a makeshift patch worn for five minutes per bill, after which a new bill must be administered. For some reason, twenties and fifties seem to work best.<br />
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Thank you for your time and your concern. And your money.<br />
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Love,<br />
Me<br />
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<i>(*I am not a fan or user of the F-word, but I find the term "effing" hilarious. So sue me. After you send me cash.) </i>Tiffanyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06541824528443852791noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1445703610625382215.post-17885338245768362722011-11-14T15:20:00.001-05:002011-11-14T15:23:28.477-05:00A ConfessionI bought Ryan some cologne that I loved so much that I started wearing it myself everyday until one day he said, "This cologne is running out really fast. Even when I don't wear it."Tiffanyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06541824528443852791noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1445703610625382215.post-28266542869305160822011-11-03T18:08:00.000-04:002011-11-03T20:24:24.148-04:00Heavy, Heavy Hang Over My Poor Head<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Remember when we used to say that at birthday parties? "Heavy, heavy hang over thy poor head." And then we'd smack the birthday kid in the head with our gift and say, "What do you wish me with a bump on the head?"<br />
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Where do these strange traditions come from?<br />
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But I digress. There <i>is</i> heaviness hanging over my poor head and not in the form of gift wrap. I am going to stop challenging the Universe with thoughts like, "This year can't get any worse." I'm beginning to fear it's like tossing the Universe a soft ball, and the Universe can't resist proving you wrong.<br />
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This has been a monumentally difficult year and on Friday it got exponentially worse. (That's right, I'm pulling out the five-syllable guns for this one.) As one dear friend of ours is fighting the good fight against cancer, another of our dear friends was snuck up from behind by it, sniper-style, with what looks like a fatal blow to the pancreas. And the ripple effect of that blow has brought us to our knees. In a year filled with heartache, frustration, worry and angst, there's nothing quite like the looming death of a loved one to be the proverbial cherry bomb on top and change your perspective on just about everything. And I mean everything. The problems and stresses of Thursday seemed embarrassingly manageable by Friday afternoon. I can't even feel bad about my lack of employment in good conscience anymore.<br />
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I feel especially drawn to my kids right now. I want to soak them up and hope that their resilience rubs off on me, just like their scent of must and grass stains. They take terrible news in great stride. They care, they love our friend as we do, and yet they keep moving along finding joy in the same places they always have--candy, corny TV shows, friends, and pizza. They don't try to resist the news, spinning the wheels of "whys" and "what ifs" as if they will turn back time and give us a chance to undo what is already done. Is it because they are still operating in a world protected by the umbrella of our love and security? Because the structure of their world--mom, dad, house, food--is still in place? Or is it because they understand more than we do that there is very little in this life that we can control, and it's only as we get older tinkering with checkbooks, thermostats, and career paths that we mistakenly believe we are in charge?<br />
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My first reaction on Friday was to cry. My second was a fleeting determination to stop loving people because it often includes instances of pain. My third was to try to approach this situation with acceptance. My fourth was to bake.<br />
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And the baking, as it turns out, was the most productive thing to do. Our friend seems to have developed a healthy sweet tooth in spite of his physical decline. Apparently a cookie can provide temporary joy in this temporary life. Apparently when there seems to be nothing to do to help, a small act of kindness is something.<br />
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The kids probably could have told me that.Tiffanyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06541824528443852791noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1445703610625382215.post-68107031648865531552011-10-24T22:51:00.001-04:002011-10-24T22:51:37.637-04:00Happy Housefuls<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
These four have had a lot of fun over the years. A lot. We're excellent multi-taskers. We can talk, laugh, eat, cry, validate each other, and make inappropriate jokes all at the same time.<br />
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We spent the weekend together at our place with all of our kids (for a grand total of nine) and today the house feels strangely empty without them here. Usually when they come to visit, they accidentally leave an article of clothing. I was really jonesing for Becky to accidentally leave that gorgeous orange coat, but I can't find it anywhere.<br />
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We had a great time riding roller coasters, eating deep fried everything, watching movies, roasting marshmallows, and staying up too late. In other words, we had lots of fun. Lots of multi-tasking fun.<br />
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When I was young, I thought I'd have a bunch of kids just like my mom. Turns out, I only had two kids but a bunch of visitors, which means that I have a bustling houseful of people...on occasion. It suits me well, I think. It's a nice balance.<br />
<br />Tiffanyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06541824528443852791noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1445703610625382215.post-64862162208493691382011-10-19T17:24:00.001-04:002011-10-19T20:20:55.972-04:00My Day in the PittsWhen you think of Pittsburgh, what comes to mind? Industrial town? Steel mills? Cold, gray, desolation? Depressed, forlorn factory workers who dress in ratty black jumpsuits and chain smoke and complain about "the man"?<br />
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Um, that is not Pittsburgh. Why were we thinking that was Pittsburgh? Why am I dragging you into this with all this "we" talk? Because this is my blog.<br />
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Pittsburgh is beautiful. Like, really beautiful. It's nestled inside some lush mountains. Or, large speed bumps, as we call them in the West.<br />
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We ventured to Pittsburgh to cheer on the Utah Utes. Here are my boys representin'. Please notice in this photo that Pittsburgh has three beautiful rivers that join in it and a plethora of lovely bridges throughout. See the one in the distance? See the one we're standing on? See the cheery yellow stadium in the distance? Bee-yoo-tiful.</div>
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<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/92617070@N00/6261600446/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" title="DSCN1111 by TiffanyWBWG, on Flickr"><img alt="DSCN1111" height="375" src="http://farm7.static.flickr.com/6101/6261600446_a4bb8f4ece.jpg" width="500" /></a></div>
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We were also representing with our intake of local food. I love local food. We did our homework (a.k.a. hours of <a href="http://www.travelchannel.com/TV_Shows/Man_V_Food">Man vs. Food</a> watching) and found these <a href="http://www.quakersteakandlube.com/">Quaker Steak</a> wings at the stadium. (By the way, is it just me, or does Max look exactly the same as he did when he was three? Yes? I know. So weird.)</div>
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<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/92617070@N00/6261601492/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" title="DSCN1112 by TiffanyWBWG, on Flickr"><img alt="DSCN1112" height="375" src="http://farm7.static.flickr.com/6111/6261601492_10b2dc8be8.jpg" width="500" /></a></div>
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We cheered on our team. I also cheered on the sun who was battling the clouds that day. Go Sun! You can do it! Show me the sunny!</div>
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<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/92617070@N00/6261075613/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" title="DSCN1114 by TiffanyWBWG, on Flickr"><img alt="DSCN1114" height="375" src="http://farm7.static.flickr.com/6234/6261075613_f8e65ea383.jpg" width="500" /></a></div>
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We got there a little early and were lucky enough to sit in the visiting team family section. Careful what you criticize when you're sitting in the team family section. Somebody's mama might bop you on the head. (By the way, whenever Ryan is dressed in hat and sunglasses, I think he looks majorly CIA. I, on the other hand, look majorly DORK.)</div>
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<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/92617070@N00/6261603202/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" title="DSCN1117 by TiffanyWBWG, on Flickr"><img alt="DSCN1117" height="375" src="http://farm7.static.flickr.com/6235/6261603202_af5c946bec.jpg" width="500" /></a></div>
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Our cheering paid off. The Utes won! The team came over to sing the fight song after the win. It was really cool. It was also really cool because the clouds beat out the sun for the weather win. Womp, womp.</div>
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<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/92617070@N00/6261606286/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" title="DSCN1127 by TiffanyWBWG, on Flickr"><img alt="DSCN1127" height="375" src="http://farm7.static.flickr.com/6222/6261606286_4554a037a2.jpg" width="500" /></a></div>
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Pittsburgh also has beautiful architecture and a nice city center. We did not see the Pittsburgh ghetto of my imagination. I don't think it exists. Everybody we met was really friendly and nobody threatened to kill us with steel beams. Several people even called me "hon," which actually threw me a little off guard. I guess I'm getting used to our proximity to Philly because I was about to say, "Yo, knock it off with the 'hons' if you know what's good for yous." However, since I lived most of my life in Utah, I just smiled and said, "I sure do apprecia'cha!"</div>
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<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/92617070@N00/6261607604/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" title="DSCN1130 by TiffanyWBWG, on Flickr"><img alt="DSCN1130" height="375" src="http://farm7.static.flickr.com/6226/6261607604_a91f1c79cb.jpg" width="500" /></a></div>
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Speaking of <a href="http://www.travelchannel.com/TV_Shows/Man_V_Food">Man vs. Food</a>, we followed Adam Richman's advice and made a bee-line after the game to <a href="http://www.primantibros.com/">Primanti Brothers</a> for their famous sandwiches. There were lots of "hons" flying around that place, but it's not what you think....</div>
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<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/92617070@N00/6261081287/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" title="DSCN1131 by TiffanyWBWG, on Flickr"><img alt="DSCN1131" height="375" src="http://farm7.static.flickr.com/6103/6261081287_5de430018a.jpg" width="500" /></a></div>
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It was me saying, "Well, helllooooo, hon," to this sandwich. Let's dissect the layers, shall we? Bread, tomatoes, tomatoes, cole slaw, cole slaw, cole slaw, runny egg, french fries, french fries, cheese, pastrami, and bread. Don't make that face. It was bliss, I tell you. Pure bliss. </div>
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<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/92617070@N00/6261609178/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" title="DSCN1136 by TiffanyWBWG, on Flickr"><img alt="DSCN1136" height="375" src="http://farm7.static.flickr.com/6048/6261609178_3d8cb7ec73.jpg" width="500" /></a></div>
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Pittsburgh. It's the land of many wonders. Like, I wonder why I had such totally false ideas of what it would be like. Perhaps the word "pitts" is to blame. Maybe subconsciously the ideas of avocado pits and armpits created the negative connotations?</div>
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If I were the mayor of Pittsburgh, I'd start a PR campaign to educate dumb, prejudiced people like me. And the first thing I'd do is change the name officially to Brad Pittsburgh. It's much more appropriate and fitting, don't you think? It brings to mind all sorts of wonderful connotations.</div>
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Brad Pittsburgh: The Devastatingly Handsome City</div>
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Brad Pittsburgh: We'll Adopt You And Love You Like Our Own</div>
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Brad Pittsburgh: We Oughta Be In Movies</div>
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Brad Pittsburgh: Angelina Jolie Chose Us, Why Don't You?</div>
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Those are just a few ideas off the top of my head, but I think I'm on to something. </div>
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Goodbye, Brad Pittsburgh! I hope to see you again soon!</div>
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<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/92617070@N00/6261071075/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" title="DSCN1100 by TiffanyWBWG, on Flickr"><img alt="DSCN1100" height="375" src="http://farm7.static.flickr.com/6216/6261071075_79dbd33a6c.jpg" width="500" /></a></div>Tiffanyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06541824528443852791noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1445703610625382215.post-264344048708521832011-10-13T15:24:00.002-04:002011-10-13T15:29:59.583-04:00Sometimes I Have to Remind Myself...<br />
<ul>
<li>When I don't feel like a writer, I can just <i>pretend</i> to be a writer.</li>
<li>There's an ebb and flow to everything, especially good times and bad.</li>
<li>If I want to lose weight, I have to stop eating stuff.</li>
<li>Taking my contacts out feels monumentally easier at 8:30 than at 10:30.</li>
<li>Loving people doesn't require solving their problems.</li>
<li>Making dinner is usually more fulfilling than going out. Except for when I'm really, really tired.</li>
<li>Being a good person usually requires action.</li>
<li>Cleaning the kitchen doesn't take nearly as long as I think it does.</li>
<li>Everything is better with mushrooms.</li>
<li>I'll thank myself for every time I record my kids on video.</li>
<li>Trashy TV should only be enjoyed in small, delicious doses.</li>
<li>Good ideas usually come after about 300 dumb ones.</li>
<li>Putting myself out there almost always ends up paying off.</li>
<li>Be thankful, appreciative, and gracious at every opportunity.</li>
<li>Celebrate anything. Everything.</li>
<li>I am not my job, my salary, my weight.</li>
<li>Accept change. Welcome it, if possible.</li>
<li>Dance in the kitchen.</li>
<li>Sing in the car.</li>
<li>Give funny greeting cards.</li>
<li>Don't judge. Ever. Not even when you really, really want to.</li>
<li>A root beer float is delicious when you haven't had one in a long time.</li>
<li>Err on the side of compassion.</li>
<li>Electricity is amazing. So is pasta. And guacamole.</li>
<li>Never pass up the opportunity for a ridiculous self-portrait.</li>
</ul>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRQr7xOXjRdCi_Ji-Zx2Z_Er9YTXSfDpnjvlwLuh1j4AduXSFRTYkPjpg-rtX1A0RdPPkqXRH6sCzRnerwXhLYDJv9MhGzntydLDML702y57-M3DJ6baHCnpNhQgIJxGXBGFi9NrQNR4hD/s1600/Photo+75.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRQr7xOXjRdCi_Ji-Zx2Z_Er9YTXSfDpnjvlwLuh1j4AduXSFRTYkPjpg-rtX1A0RdPPkqXRH6sCzRnerwXhLYDJv9MhGzntydLDML702y57-M3DJ6baHCnpNhQgIJxGXBGFi9NrQNR4hD/s400/Photo+75.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>Tiffanyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06541824528443852791noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1445703610625382215.post-61855225624053568192011-10-12T16:05:00.000-04:002011-10-12T16:06:32.510-04:00Hey Me, Where Are You?Do you ever feel out of touch with who you used to be? I've been wondering how I became estranged from me, version 2007. I liked her. She had lots of energy and ideas.<br />
<br />
<br />Tiffanyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06541824528443852791noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1445703610625382215.post-87514368696640737952011-10-10T17:46:00.000-04:002011-10-10T20:23:39.001-04:005 Unrelated Facts and 5 Haikus<br />
<ul>
<li>Max has been referring to his "Netherlands" as his "boing loings."</li>
<li>My dog is getting fat.</li>
<li>I love Man vs. Food. It's part of my watch-people-eating-instead-of-eating diet.</li>
<li>Christian gives shockingly wise love advice to his compadres.</li>
<li>Ryan likes apps on his Blackberry.</li>
</ul>
<div>
Here are five haikus dedicated to those 5 facts.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<b>Boing Loings</b></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Call them what you want</div>
<div>
But make no mistake, my friend</div>
<div>
No one wants them kicked.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<b>Fat Doggy</b></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
It hurts my feelings</div>
<div>
The way you look at my dog</div>
<div>
And judge her. Stop that.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<b>Weird Diet</b></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I'll watch you eat that.</div>
<div>
I'll imagine how it tastes</div>
<div>
While you gain the weight</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<b>Dr. Love</b></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
He might be a kid</div>
<div>
But don't ignore his advice</div>
<div>
If you want the girl.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<b>Apps</b></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Fandango, TripIt,</div>
<div>
Open Table, Weather Bug,</div>
<div>
The man has got apps.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
Tiffanyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06541824528443852791noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1445703610625382215.post-17617395556611075302011-10-04T22:34:00.001-04:002011-10-04T22:34:42.964-04:00A Worthy CauseMax just informed me that he needs to wear pink tomorrow and bring at least five pennies to school tomorrow to help fight "breath cancer."<br />
<br />
I hate breath cancer. I hope I never get it.<br />
<br />
In other cancer-y news, I get to accompany Alyssa to her last chemo treatment tomorrow. (Hooray! Hooray!) I made cookies to help celebrate with her chemo friends and nurses. I packed them in a Brookstone bag I had from last Christmas. I hope the bag won't cause any confusion for anybody. I don't want them trying to use the cookies for an ergonomic neck pillow or to try plugging their iPods into them.<br />
<br />
It's just a bag, people.<br />
<br />
Anyway, tomorrow, whatever you're doing, I hope you find time to think about those fighting the good fight against cancer. Breast, breath, and otherwise.Tiffanyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06541824528443852791noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1445703610625382215.post-84572690482448967412011-09-28T14:33:00.001-04:002011-09-28T16:24:15.828-04:00For the RecordI <i>did</i> work on the Book yesterday.<br />
<br />
I also made the first pot roast of my life.<br />
<br />
But wait, there's more.<br />
<br />
I plan to do both again.<br />
<br />
Thanks for the encouragement.<br />
<br />
But wait, there's more.<br />
<br />
Here's my boys. Remember them? One is really enjoying himself and one is really restraining himself.<br />
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<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/92617070@N00/6193177148/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" title="DSCN1003 by TiffanyWBWG, on Flickr"><img alt="DSCN1003" height="500" src="http://farm7.static.flickr.com/6164/6193177148_eb041b5182.jpg" width="378" /></a></div>
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Here's my other boy. This photo was taken by Max as part of a two-part series called "Happy Dad, Abstract Dad." I accidentally deleted "Abstract Dad." Oops.</div>
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<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/92617070@N00/6193177998/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" title="DSCN1010 by TiffanyWBWG, on Flickr"><img alt="DSCN1010" height="375" src="http://farm7.static.flickr.com/6124/6193177998_1a5e098acd.jpg" width="500" /></a></div>
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But wait, there's more.</div>
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Do you need anything texted for you? I know a guy. He's very good at it. Quite proficient. Quite prolific. Quite protextual.</div>
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<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/92617070@N00/6192661389/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" title="DSCN1031 by TiffanyWBWG, on Flickr"><img alt="DSCN1031" height="375" src="http://farm7.static.flickr.com/6027/6192661389_89610126d9.jpg" width="500" /></a></div>
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I hire most of my texting out to him. </div>
Tiffanyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06541824528443852791noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1445703610625382215.post-3546813619075061762011-09-27T12:01:00.004-04:002011-09-27T12:02:13.892-04:00Shhhh!Pssst! Over here. Yeah, down here, under the table. Hurry, before it sees you! I'll scoot over so you can fit.<br />
<br />
Yes, we're hiding. But seriously, you've got to whisper before it finds us.<br />
<br />
What do you mean, what are we hiding from? Isn't it obvious? The Story, the Book. It's lurking around here trying to find me, trying to make me make good on my plans to write it today. But I figured if I just crouch down here under the table until the kids get home from school, I'll be safe for another day. Good idea, huh?<br />
<br />
Yeah, the Book is driving me nuts. It's like this big, fat obligation I have sitting on my head. I try to be nice to it, but it's so....I don't know, <i>needy</i> and <i>oppressive</i> and <i>entitled. </i> And <i>sloooow</i>. I mean, it's really hard for me because I'm so different from that. It's a very one-sided relationship, you know?<br />
<br />
Wait. What? You're leaving? But you just got here! I was looking forward to your company!<br />
<br />
You expect me to sit all alone under the kitchen table all day by myself? I brought Oreos and nail polish and an iPod! You can play Angry Birds! You know, as long as you're really, really quiet.<br />
<br />
No, I'm not crazy. This is very rational. You just don't know the Book like I do.<br />
<br />
Stop being judgmental.<br />
<br />
Yes, I want to write the Book. I do. I really do.<br />
<br />
I just don't want to do it today. I'm not "feeling it," you know?<br />
<br />
Well, probably tomorrow would be better. Maybe Thursday. Yeah, Thursday. Definitely.<br />
<br />
You don't mean that. You don't really think I'm an idiot, do you?<br />
<br />
Well, thanks a lot. Some friend you turned out to be. Give me back that Oreo.<br />
<br />
Wait, stop shouting. Oh my gosh, please stop. The Book is going to hear you. Quit ratting me out!<br />
<br />
I AM NOT HIDING UNDER THE TABLE, BOOK! I WAS...DUSTING. AND PICKING UP OREOS! <br />
<br />
Oh. Well, there you are! Hey, Book! I see you've met my friend. You know, the overbearing, pretentious one I've told you about. Yes, yes, it has been a while. Heh, heh.<br />
<br />
What? You've been wandering around the house for an hour looking for me? That's crazy! I was here! I was right here just, you know, waiting for you to get here so that we could spend some quality time together. I thought you were late, or forgot or something, which is totally okay because that stuff happens all the time. That's just life, you know? I'm very forgiving and understanding of such things.<br />
<br />
No, no, don't be silly. I would never try to avoid you!<br />
<br />
Don't listen to her.<br />
<br />
That's not true.<br />
<br />
I never said that.<br />
<br />
She's taking that completely out of context.<br />
<br />
Well, yes, we do have our issues, Book. That's probably fair to say.<br />
<br />
Alright. Fair point.<br />
<br />
I can be that way, sure.<br />
<br />
Wait a minute, now. A wussy? Me? I'm...I'm speechless. I don't even know what to say to that.<br />
<br />
Very funny.<br />
<br />
Yes. Yes, I do want to write the rest of you, Book.<br />
<br />
No, I really do. I won't be able to live with myself if I don't.<br />
<br />
Yes, I realize that.<br />
<br />
Yes, I know.<br />
<br />
That's true.<br />
<br />
You're right.<br />
<br />
Yep, one page at a time.<br />
<br />
I know, I shouldn't care about that.<br />
<br />
Or that.<br />
<br />
You're right. We do need each other.<br />
<br />
Sure, let's hug it out.<br />
<br />
Oh, you mean all of us? Well. Okay.<br />
<br />
Me too. I'm sorry too. To both of you.<br />
<br />
Yes, let's get writing, Book. I'm ready. Let me just say goodbye to my friend.<br />
<br />
Okay, you too. Thanks for coming by.<br />
<br />
No, you can't have the Oreo back.<br />
<br />
Just kidding. Thanks again.Tiffanyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06541824528443852791noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1445703610625382215.post-56811018354850290272011-09-23T13:46:00.003-04:002011-09-23T13:46:55.669-04:0054 Thoughts<br />
<ol>
<li>I'm killing time.</li>
<li>In forty minutes I'm heading out the door.</li>
<li>I'm going to New Jersey.</li>
<li>I'm going to have a sleepover in New Jersey. </li>
<li>I've never had a sleepover with New Jersey before.</li>
<li>I've packed my bag and a sleeping bag.</li>
<li>And a toothbrush.</li>
<li>The TV is on to keep my company.</li>
<li>A generic decorating show on HGTV.</li>
<li>I'm venturing out from my regular two channels: Bravo and Food Network.</li>
<li>You should be so proud.</li>
<li>This is the part of the generic decorating show where the homeowner gets doubtful about the decorator's color recommendations.</li>
<li>This is called "decorating drama."</li>
<li>I'm not sure, but I have a feeling they're going to love it in the end.</li>
<li>It's raining cats and puppies.</li>
<li>A while ago it was raining cats and dogs. </li>
<li>This weather report is brought to you by generic decorating shows.</li>
<li>Want to know why I'm not watching Food Network right now?</li>
<li>Because the Neelys are on.</li>
<li>They drive me nuts.</li>
<li>I'm all for being in love with your spouse, but there is way too much sugar going on.</li>
<li>And exuberance.</li>
<li>And self-satisfaction.</li>
<li>And spouse satisfaction.</li>
<li>Oh my gosh, the the big reveal just happened on the decorating show.</li>
<li>The young couple has yet to use an exclamation point, though I think they like it.</li>
<li>This is very confusing.</li>
<li>Have they not seen decorating shows before?</li>
<li>They're supposed to cover their mouths with both hands, jump up and down, and joyfully express a few expletives.</li>
<li>It's not unusual to see a few tears.</li>
<li>Rookies, I guess.</li>
<li>I hate to admit it, but this couple could use a little "Neely" in their expression of emotion.</li>
<li>I'm sorry, Neelys. </li>
<li>I harshly judged you.</li>
<li>Forgive me.</li>
<li>And then forgive me for continuing to boycott your show.</li>
<li>The rain is not letting up.</li>
<li>I need to go out and check the mail before I leave.</li>
<li>I guess I will drive to the mailbox on my way out.</li>
<li>I need to put the clothes from the washer into the dryer.</li>
<li>But it's raining cats and dogs.</li>
<li>I realize that I don't have to go outdoors to get to the washer and dryer.</li>
<li>But I thought I'd try that excuse.</li>
<li>Did it work?</li>
<li>There's a new show on now.</li>
<li>The challenge is to decorate a Cape Cod home.</li>
<li>Three decorators are vying for the job.</li>
<li>If they choose the first decorator, I'm going to throw a fit.</li>
<li>The couch she suggested was ridiculous.</li>
<li>I have to leave now.</li>
<li>I'll never find out.</li>
<li>Maybe that's for the better.</li>
<li>I'm off to Jersey now.</li>
<li>Yo.</li>
</ol>
Tiffanyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06541824528443852791noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1445703610625382215.post-64662585236179577132011-09-21T20:48:00.000-04:002011-09-21T20:48:36.771-04:00I wish I had written this...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://d30opm7hsgivgh.cloudfront.net/upload/183688370_LgWt8FgJ_c.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://d30opm7hsgivgh.cloudfront.net/upload/183688370_LgWt8FgJ_c.jpg" /></a></div>
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Found <a href="http://taza-and-husband.blogspot.com/2011/08/you-are-my-child.html">here</a>.</div>
<br />Tiffanyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06541824528443852791noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1445703610625382215.post-86408988619235549532011-09-20T14:59:00.001-04:002011-09-20T15:12:07.075-04:00What I Done DidFirst I got on a train. I sat behind a group of judges who'd been in Philadelphia for a conference and were on their way home to New Haven. They were playing Words with Friends on one of their iPads and complaining about the computer's lack of respect for them and some of their words. They joked and giggled and gossiped and acted generally immature together. Judges gone wild.<br />
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Next, I got off the train in New York City. You know you're in New York City because of the smell of fresh urine and pretzels. Mmmm. I met up with my sister-in-law Betsy and niece Sydney. You know you're with Betsy and Sydney because of the fresh smell of shopping bags. Aren't they cute?<br />
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<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/92617070@N00/6166394213/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" title="DSCN0959 by TiffanyWBWG, on Flickr"><img alt="DSCN0959" height="480" src="http://farm7.static.flickr.com/6180/6166394213_7fc83a9e76_z.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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We ventured to Brooklyn and stood in line for the best pizza on earth. It only took an hour to wait for the best pizza on earth, which is reasonable, I think. Especially on a beautiful fall day.</div>
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<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/92617070@N00/6166933300/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" title="DSCN0961 by TiffanyWBWG, on Flickr"><img alt="DSCN0961" height="480" src="http://farm7.static.flickr.com/6162/6166933300_b1c57184d1_z.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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Later, I sat in their hotel room and asked them to share all their shopping finds with me and, oh, what a parade! Ladies and gentlemen, the economy has officially been stimulated. I lived vicariously, delighting in the gorgeous fabrics and frugal finds. I may or may not have coveted a poncho and lusted after it in my heart.<br />
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The next morning, I arose bright and early and donned my walking shoes. I made like a pioneer and walked and walked and walked all day. First, I walked to Alyssa's apartment. Look how cute my baldy friend is! We're calling her new look chemo-chic. My look is slept-on-the-floor-frazzled. But I think it works.<br />
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<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/92617070@N00/6166398669/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" title="DSCN0972 by TiffanyWBWG, on Flickr"><img alt="DSCN0972" height="480" src="http://farm7.static.flickr.com/6177/6166398669_6f9ee1a138_z.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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The color theme of the day was pink. We joined a sea of pink at Central Park for the Race for the Cure. I'll be honest, mine was more of a walk for the cure, but I know the cure won't mind.</div>
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After the race, we had lunch with some of Alyssa's friends (such nice people, by the way) and then Alyssa and I spent some much-needed sofa time together at her apartment, laughing, talking, and occasionally crying. Eventually it was time for me to catch my train, so I walked and walked to the station. They oversold my train, but I pushed my way through before I could get bumped to the next one. I was ready to get home to my house full of boys. And also my bathtub.</div>
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The next day, I got to have dinner with my brother John who is in Philadelphia for some meetings this week. Lucky for us, it's Restaurant Week in Philly, so we took him out for swanky Mexican food. (Did you know Mexican food can be swanky?) We ate ourselves silly. We ate so much, my hair lost all its volume and pizazz.</div>
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<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/92617070@N00/6166941048/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" title="DSCN0980 by TiffanyWBWG, on Flickr"><img alt="DSCN0980" height="473" src="http://farm7.static.flickr.com/6161/6166941048_f431c5b07a_z.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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I crashed in bed last night. I slept like a corpse. When the alarm clock went off this morning, it was a foreign and disturbing noise. I must have been dreaming that I was a wealthy aristocrat, able to sleep to my heart's content and never bothered by such annoyances as alarm clocks. I love that dream. I finally awoke, firing the butler, and crawled back into my everyday life.</div>
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Everyday life today included more walking, some writing, some emailing, some errands, and the creation of the first butternut squash soup of the season. It's roasting in the oven now, bathing in Thai spices and coconut water. I will patiently wait.</div>
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And that's what I done did. I wonder what I will done do next.</div>
Tiffanyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06541824528443852791noreply@blogger.com12