Lucky duck
The Hammond girls celebrating Steff’s bachelorette-hood
Tara, Chantell, Steffani, Pam, Me, Adriana
I woke up this morning thinking my odd mood would have passed, but it stuck with me all day. I just couldn’t shake it. I had a girls’ night planned with two of my sisters-in-law, Tara (far left) and Adriana (far right). I was tempted to cancel because I was just feeling so blah. But I am so glad I didn’t.
They were exactly what I needed. They calmed my fears and concerns, they made me feel so loved, and they made so grateful for my amazing family. In a matter of minutes, the strange mood I’d had for 24 hours vanished.
I’m feeling like a pretty lucky girl to have inherited some fabulous older sisters when I married into the Hammond family. I don’t know what I’d do without them. (Oh wait, yes I do. I would have eaten another TEN cookies today in an attempt to cure my funk.) Tara & Adriana, my waistline thanks you.
Blame it on Mother Nature
I am having the worst evening. And I can’t even console myself with treats because I have already hit my cookie quota for the day and I am too embarrassed to tell you what that number is.
Even a phone call to my mother and spending time with Jason can’t help.
I feel oddly inadequate. And yet I’m feeling confident enough to share. Which is unusual because that is normally not the case.
Please don’t take me too seriously. I don’t need anything except a place to vent.
And now I am going to watch some chicky show on Netflix and ponder the possibility of increasing my daily cookie quota.
It’s like birth order, but more important
When I listen to a new album, I absolutely have to listen to it from beginning to end. No shuffle for me. I’m a firm believer in song order. They put those songs in a specific order for a specfic reason. I don’t know the reason, but I know it works. The proof is in the pudding.
One time I was listening to a new Rooney album for the first time and I listened to it from bottom to top for some reason. That’s just the order is was in on my iTunes. I hated so many of the songs! Which is weird cause I loved Rooney. But the next day I decided to give it another try and happened to listen to the album from beginning to end. It was as though I was listening to the album for the first time. And the songs I hated before, I all of the sudden loved.
I hope there is a psychologist out there who can tell me why this is. There’s got to be a good reason to explain that insanity, right?
Well it happened to me again yesterday. I was listening to the new Keane album on Spotify and shuffle was checked on. And boy oh boy that music did not move me. When I realized that tragedy that was occurring (you know, shuffle destroying what should have been a great album) I went to turn the shuffle off but by then I had already listened to most of the album. So today I made sure the shuffle was off. And now I’m happy to recommend a new album to you guys.
Have you heard Strangeland by Keane? Cause it’s great. Just be sure to listen to it in order.
Tattered
As a young and impressionable child, I felt like all of the women in books, movies and tv shows could be found at some point lounging around at home in old tattered t-shirts. It’s what they wore while cozily reading a book, or when a man they had a crush on surprisingly showed up at their door when they weren’t expecting anyone. It’s what they wore to bed or to paint their walls. There were holes, the colors weren’t as vibrant, and to my young mind, they were the coolest thing these beautiful, smart, and stylish women wore in the entire book/movie/tv show.
Right before we moved to Connecticut, my parents bought my brothers and I crisp new Yale sweatshirts to show support for my dad’s new employer. Go Bulldogs! Well obviously I quickly grew out of the sweatshirt made for a four year-old. I’m not sure how many other Yale sweatshirts I had between then and 14, but by then I officially stopped growing.
At 14, I bought my last Yale sweatshirt. And this year it has officially achieved tattered status. This. Is. A. Huge. Deal! The ends of the sleeves are totally coming apart. Which I adore. But I’m also experiencing mild panic. If this sweatshirt ever comes completely apart, so will I. I wear this sweatshirt pretty dang close to EVERY SINGLE DAY. Life just wouldn’t be the same without it.
How did those fictitious women maintain such confidence when their favorite articles of clothing were falling apart?! Hollywood lied to me..
