Monthly Archives: April 2014

Anyone hungry?


Cute baby and everything but I think I’ll stick to drooling over food. Thanks anyway, People magazine.

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True true.


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I admit it, this made me cry.

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Hero of the day: this chick

I was not lucky enough to go to the Bruno Mars concert last weekend (but I did get to go to the Merrie Monarch this past week so nyah) but I read about it, watched videos of it, and listened to his two albums Unorthodox Jukebox and Doo-Wops and Hooligans day and night and as I’m scrolling through facebook one especially busy Bruno Mars feed day I came across this story about a girl named Paige who went on the radio and tried selling her Bruno Mars tickets.

I mean, hello! Tickets were sold out like instantly. Even after they added on extra shows. So who’s going to say no to that opportunity to snatch up a pair, right?

But instead of selling them for like one hundred billion dollars like Dr. Evil would’ve, she gave them away.


Gave them away. To a kid. From the Make a Wish Foundation. How awesome is that?

And then the kid goes to the concert and ‘accidentally’ bumps into Bruno Mars’s dad, Daddy Mars and voila– gets a picture with the man (not the Daddy but the Bruno) himself.

Can you say chicken skin?

Now, I’m not going to steal her picture off of the internet like some weird stalker but here’s a link to 102.7 the Bomb’s facebook page so you can see her awesome face for yourself:

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Beach day today.

It was a water on the toes, toes in the sand, sand in the hair, hair all a mess, mess on the mat kind of day.

Kids were happy.

TOO happy.

Until we had to leave.

See, the 5-year-old left her puny slippers right along the shoreline and as we were getting ready to leave she started bawling for them. So we all play a twenty minute game of find-her-stupid-slippers-guys. Don’t know if the things walked off or sailed off into the sunset; all we know is that they were not where they SHOULD be, which is on her puny feet.

Being ordinary non-cobbler folk, we left as we could not possibly spin air into rubber footwear, and this made her mad. So mad she sulked all the way home.

And when we got home she refused to get out of the car.

I finally enticed her out with the promise of a piggyback ride, which she took right into the house. I spun her around and around like pigs often do when they give people these sorts of rides, plopped her down on the couch and then, she started crying again.

“What?” I ask.

“Arhuh mahuhuh guh alab burhini hugga trrrrrro.”

“What?” I snap.

To which she snaps back, “Arhuh mahuhuh guh alab burhini hugga trrrrrro!”

“What are you saying?” I hiss.

She is furious now. Screams, “I hic-I h-h-h-h I suh-suh-suh-suh-said, ‘Arhuh mahuhuh guh alab burhini hugga trrrrrro!'”

I have no clue. And I am not a patient lady. Especially when I’m getting screamed at. “I don’t even know what you said just now.”

“She said,” my 7-year-old daughter sighs, like I’m some kind of an idiot moron, “that she wants to go back to the beach to find her slippers because she really likes them a lot.”

“Really?” I ask her.

“Mmmhmm.” She says, her voice dripping with sunshine and the magic of rainbow unicorns.

And suddenly all is right in this world. The message was delivered. Promises were made to replace said foot objects. The little one is happy again. We are all at peace. Thanks to my little translator.

I guess sisters really do understand each other best.






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