Wednesday, June 27, 2012

It's An Honor To Be Nominated...But I Really Want To Win

If you've popped over here from, welcome!  

I'm very excited about being a finalist on OneWed's Bridal Blogging Competition!  I can't wait to bring a funny and unique perspective to wedding planning!  

I love OneWed because their motto is "Smart Planning".  Any bride knows how crazy planning a wedding can be.  Being a very lucky bride some time back I escaped with only minor mental anguish (those seating charts will get you every time) and a lovely, memorable day that I'll never forget.    

People can either go off the rails or surprise you with their grace. 

Did your otherwise very sane best friend insist on making you wear $700 hair extensions for her wedding?  You thought she was crazy...until you got engaged.    Does your mother insist on inviting her entire Sunday School class but doesn't think the officiant needs to eat?  

"Smart Planning" is possible.  It just takes effort, will power to not kill your family and friends and good ol' fashion booze.   

Nah, thankfully that's where OneWed steps in!  

The competition runs through Friday, June 29.  You have until then to LIKE or TWEET your favorite finalist's entry!  

Also, I suggest arm wrestling your mom for the guest list.   

Tuesday, June 26, 2012

Flying, Public Speaking, First Dates and...the Spa?

You know that feeling you get when you are anticipating an unpleasant experience?  The clammy palms, stomach tied up in knots, chest is pounding and that line of sweat starts to bead on your brow. 
I’m presuming common triggers for this would be flying, public speaking, first dates, etc.  That sort of thing.
The spa does it for me.
I KNOW!   I don’t know what’s wrong with me either. 
Do not mistake my basket of nerves for not wanting to go. 
Stay with me; this is where it gets weird.
I love the spa.  
I really love it.  I love the ambiance, the quiet, the noiselessly moving ladies bustling about, and let’s not forget the plush robes.   It’s not like anyone is forcing me to go get manicured or waxed (a la Fifty Shades of Grey but that is another ball of wax. Pun totally intended).
The pinched and pulled women intimidate me and I'm never quite sure if I'm doing what I'm supposed to be doing.  Yes, I know.  It's mostly laying there.  But these are MY neuroses, thankyouverymuch.   
First, everyone whispers.  It’s the whole PEACE and SERENITY thing.
Apparently, I have the hearing of an 97 year old man.  You whisper something to me once, and I don’t get it I’ll ask you to repeat.  If I don’t pick it up the second time I’ll just nod, and accept whatever happens next.
That is how I got my lips spackled with something akin to dry wall paste. 
Unbeknown to me, I said yes to some fancy-dancy lip treatment.  I should have known when my lips started burning.  After what seemed like an hour of the esthetician scrubbing and pulling off the dried goo, my poor lips looked like two balloon animals glued to my face.  And they stung for hours afterward.
Secondly, I don’t want to look like I don’t know what I’m doing... sooooo I just don’t do anything.
For my first ever facial I had no idea what it really entailed. 
Everything was going swimmingly until she burnt my face off. 
(For those of you who don’t know:  there is a part in most facials that the esthetician will use steam as a way to soften and prepare the skin for the treatments). 
I wasn’t prepared.  She didn’t say anything.  She didn’t even whisper anything (at least I don’t think so).  
All of a sudden, the sun had camped out on my face.  
I couldn’t breathe.  
I couldn’t open my eyes. 
There was nowhere to turn my head to get air. 
I was suffocating. 
You are probably asking “Couldn’t you just move the machine away?” And you’d be right.  And of course I could have.  I just didn't want her to think I didn't know what I was doing.   
This is it.  I’m going to DIE.  In a spa.  From steam I hope Mark knows not to put this in the obituary.  Nice going, Kristen 
She came back into the room at the very minute I would have expired.
"Weird, I guess I turned it on MAX.  But don’t worry; your skin is going to be AMAZING."
Oh, goodie.
Finally, there are some things I’m just not comfortable with getting touched. (You don't need to stop reading, Dad.  It's totally PG.)
Massages are super ridiculously awesome.   If I had a tail, I’d be wagging it at the mere mention of a massage.
For a great massage, you have to communicate with your masseuse about what you’re looking for. This should be a good thing. 
In the intro I always ask for deep tissue, but also I ask them not to massage my feet or hands.   Weird? Yes.  Crazy?  Nah. 

You see, I hate my feet.  They are ugly, ugly feet.  Not just run of the mill, haven’t-gotten-a-pedi-in- a-while  ugly.  Ugly.  It’s my cross to bear.   

My hands are a different story.  When I get nervous my palms sweat.   And since I’m in a spa situation I’m nervous from the minute I walk in the door until the minute I’m signing the credit card receipt. 

I don’t want the masseuse to think I have some weird hand sweating disease, so I put my hands on the Don’t Touch List as well.

My first massage at a new place here in Texas went something like this:

Yeah, so if you could just NOT do my hands and feet that would be great.

Um.  What?

I really don’t want my hands or feet massaged.  Cool? *Trying to move on*

That’s like THE best part of the massage.  *Insert hand on hip attitude*

For some people, I bet it is.  Not for me, though.  Sorry! 

With a look that said “you are THE freakiest girl in the world” she sauntered off so we could get started.

Not 10 minutes into my massage, she started whispering.

I’m face down, trying to enjoy my 50 minutes of peace. 

Hmm…I’m sorry, what did you say?

Mumble, whisper, mumble.


And don’t you know I got my hands and feet massaged. 

Damn Whisperers.  

(And, yes.  I did tip her.)   

Wednesday, June 13, 2012

Let's Get Physical ... er... Healthy

I’m doing this “Let’s Get Healthy” thing. You know the drill – eat better, move more, consume considerably smaller amounts of brownie, etc.

(Side note: “Let’s Get Healthy” should be sung to the tune of “Let’s Get Physical” by Olivia Newton John. It just makes sense.)

In the spirit of “Let’s Get Healthy” I had to measure myself last night. It wasn’t pretty. Mainly because I don’t know how to work a tape measure. Do you put the metal end piece thing-y so it’s just touching the other end of the tape measure or on top of the tape measure? I took livestock in 4-H because I thought it would be a good way to meet boys so my sewing skills are lacking. (Note: if you like making out with someone that smells like manure then, yes, it is a great place to meet boys.)

That is not the point, however. The point IS: I had to measure myself last night. Measuring a few areas on your body is supposed to be a good way to tell if you’re losing inches. Pounds lost is not always the best guide. It's also a good way to become an alcoholic.

So for those of you looking to make a change and want to get started, I’ve made a quick step-by-step guide:

1. Figure out how to use the tape measure.

2. Wrap the tape measure around the body part you choose to start with. For example, I chose my thigh.

3. Stare, disbelievingly, at said number.

4. Deny that that number is correct.

5. Re-do the measurement.

6. Start whimpering.

7. DENY the measurement.

8. Storm out of bathroom.

9. Grab a glass of wine.

10. Measure, AGAIN.

11. Commence bawling.

12. Sip glass of wine. Grab the bottle of wine.

13. Lie on bathroom floor.

14. Order a pizza.

The following steps are crucial, y'all:

15. Have your significant other tell you that you are awesome and perfect and lovely no matter what that stupid tape measure says.**Crucial**

16. Wipe nose with his shirt.

17. Throw away tape measure.

Clearly there was a reason those manure boys and I didn’t work out.

Photo credit: Flickr


Friday, June 8, 2012

High Five for Friday

Can you believe we've finished the first week of June already?

I don't know about you but even though I'm out of school (psst...and have been for quite some time!) I'm still giddy when it comes to summer.  Even though I still have to get up early in the mornings and go to work, there is just something about this time of year that makes me happy.

I'm linking up with Lauren of From My Grey Desk blog for her High Five for Friday series.

Magazines are one of my favorite things.  My pile is too high to even show you right now but this one will get read pronto.  I love Salma Hayek!

Date Night! 

Bath time is my favorite time of the day.

I had jury duty on Tuesday.  It was less fun than I had imagined but my nerdery runs deep.  I was the only one in there who actually wanted to be a juror.  Alas, it was not to be.  

I'm SO excited to spend the weekend with one of my besties in Dallas!  I'm in need of some girl time over  margaritas.

I hope you all had a great week!

Here's to a great summer :)

Thursday, June 7, 2012

Marriage: Just Hire the Experts

Our house is truly a joint effort.  My husband and I both do dishes and change diapers.  We take turns making dinner while the other one feeds the miniature She Devil (mess with her apple sauce and there will be hell to pay.)  
I'd say we’re pretty much 50-50... unless you count the Boy Jobs and the Girl Jobs. 
Growing up, I was one of four kids, the oldest and only girl.  My dad and my brothers did a lot of the yard work (OK, all of it), took out the garbage, did the plumbing/electrical odd jobs, put up outside holiday decorations, and of course, tended to the cars.  The boys also had to help in the house.  I mainly had to help in the house.  
Before you get all judge-y, I also had jobs outside the house and spent a lot of time being generally pretty awesome.  Being awesome requires lots of time and effort, y’all.   
Now that I’m married, it's funny because I automatically assume that all jobs outside are Boy Jobs, aka Mark jobs.  Some inside jobs, but not all, are Girl Jobs, aka Kristen jobs.  
For example, he'll say We really need to re-caulk the drive way.  Immediately, I think Thank God I don’t have to do that! And he never thinks it’s funny when I say Be sure to wear sunscreen! Enjoy!  
Queue the discussion about how both of our names are on the deed and 'outside' does not equal Mark.    
By the way, I don’t even know if caulking your driveway is a thing.  I just made it up. 
Also, I get the whole We really need to organize the garage speech.  A lot.  But I don’t like the garage.  At all.  It’s really hot in there.  Like gross hot.  That 'everything is bigger in Texas' line, well, it’s completely true in the bug department.  We’re talking geckos, anacondas, spiders, baby velociraptors and not so baby cockroaches.  Granted, we exterminate on the regular (to the point that I’ve invited Ray of Terminix to dinner) but still.  Ick x infinity. 
It's not that I think I'm too good to organize the garage or caulk the driveway it just doesn't occur to me to go out and do it.   I'm not very hands-on in that way.  I'm flipping awesome at laundry and my dish washer loading skills are top notch.  He's pretty great at garbage and putting that plunger/ball/hook thing in the toilet tank so it flushes.   
So, compromise.    That's the ticket.   
Also, now we just hire the experts.  Life is much easier when you don't have to caulk the driveway or mow the lawn.  

Wednesday, June 6, 2012

Wordless Wednesday

Two Toofs

Monday, June 4, 2012

Weekend In Pictures

It was just us girls this weekend. Dada was doing his duty with the Navy.

We got lots accomplished : naps were taken, Cheerios consumed, pjs were worn. If you're wondering the dishes didn't get all the way done, the floors didn't get swept but we had lots of cuddles and snuggles.

We love our toy from Auntie Y.

I can't even begin to tell you how in love I am with these feet. She crosses them every chance she gets. Just like her Daddy.

Like I said naps were had. Dishes can wait.

NO, you're the one who gets on her belly and refuses to rollover!

OK. No, seriously. I can't roll over. Why are you taking pictures instead of helping me?

We did venture to the grocery store. So gangsta.

Baby Faux Hawk

More naps. More cuddles.

Even with all those naps, I'm still pooped.

Monday morning = Diet Coke.