Adulting so hard…

Y’all, it has been one of those weeks. One of those “two” weeks really.

I just got home from a meeting which made it my 9th night in a row of “stuff.” I’m not (necessarily) complaining. I signed up for everything I do; I enjoy it all and it all means something to me. But maaaan, am I tired.

I feel like I’m living life like…


So, tonight when I got home I decided I needed to make myself dinner and take a few minutes to myself; soak up some silence, remember what I’m thankful for, remember what I do it all for, eat a home cooked meal…

So, because I’m a freak, I organized all my cabinets and then poured a glass of wine and decided to make a little eggplant parmesan – it’s one of my very favorites and I deserve it. I carefully peeled my little eggplant, sliced it in pretty perfect 1 inch rounds, tossed it in a carefully-measured bread crumb mix, greased my pan, put the slices in the oven, made some noodles, mixed up some spices to “spice up” a jar of tomato sauce, pulled out a nice plate, set everything up pretty as a magazine picture… and then poured cinnamon all over the entire thing because I was too tired to read the label (and had reorganized my cabinets) and thought it was a jar of red pepper flakes.

You know what’s even sadder… I still ate it.

…I think maybe your taste buds die a little the crazier and sleepier you get.

Cheers to everyone out there fighting your way through the week. You are not alone and I appreciate you. Give ’em hell.






#winning the wine game…

A week or so ago, I threw away my beloved wine bottle opener. It had seen better days, it was time; plus I had just opened a bottle and figured I’d buy another opener before I got through the new bottle.

…I severely underestimated myself… or overestimated myself…? Either way.

Last night, I found myself in my pajamas early, bottle of Barboursville Red in hand… without an opener.


Panic immediately set in. Never mind the fact that I live two blocks from a grocery store where they sell both wine openers and screw-cap wine bottles (my personal favorite). I started digging through drawers, through bags, through shelves, through boxes and closets. Nothing.

I sat down in a chair for a self-pep-talk, “think… think, think, think! There has to be a way – there has to be!” All of a sudden, a video my cousin had posted on my Facebook wall popped into mind- link – simple enough, I had a shoe and I had a wall… I spent the next 5 minutes slamming said shoe against said wall without success.


“Okay… okay, okay…think…”

Then it hit me — panic… desperation — but also… screw… screw driver… hammer… I lunged towards the tool box that my dad had given me (which hadn’t seen much use until now); SCREW! SCREWDRIVER! HAMMER! I put the bottle on the counter, stood over it basking in my own brilliance, screwed the screw into the cork, flipped the hammer around and started pulling. The screw popped right out… but the cork, ugh, the cork did not…


The screw was too small, God bless it, the screw was too small.

Then delirium set in. I’m not ashamed of my actions, though I’m aware that I crossed over into to a place that I can never return from…

I went into my bedroom, removed a larger screw from a piece of furniture, dropped it into a pot of boiling water that I had on the stove intending to make noodles,  strained it, screwed that 4″ sucker into the cork, plopped down on the floor cross-legged with the bottle pinned between my bare feet, and used every ounce of strength I had to pull the screw AND CORK out with the backside of the hammer…

And hour after my original inkling for wine…

FullSizeRender (1).jpg

Wine. Sweet victory. And neither had ever tasted so good.

For the record, this makes it official… I fully intend on ruling the world one day.


Have a great weekend!

Life · Stories

Those firemen though…

It’s been two full years since I totaled Sally-Civic (Phew! Statute of limitations is up!). Two full years since a very sweet lady pulled over on the side of 95 and helped me out of my car. Two full years since the nicest state trooper I’ve ever met sat me in his squad car and talked me down from passing out while we waited for the ambulance. Two full years since five firemen sweetly knelt down around me and bandaged up my (later stitched-up) knee while very likely (but surely accidentally) looking up my dress. Two full years since I limped around on a date with one of those firemen who seemed dreamy and charming. And a little less than two full years since I went on a second date with said-fireman and learned that he was (definitely) not (though, I guess he had already looked up my dress and I should have known better).


At the risk of being dramatic, I might should have died that day – at least gotten a lot more hurt. I wrecked during a rush hour on interstate 95 in the far left lane and somehow drifted, briefly unconscious and surrounded by airbags and that awful airbag-smoke-smell, across three lanes where my car stopped on it’s own 50 yards down the road on the far right shoulder.  How I wasn’t hit as my car made it’s way across those lanes and so far down the highway can really only be attributed to God looking out for me.

The stories that followed that accident are mostly funny – knowing those firemen really did probably see up my dress as a sat on the guardrail hyperventilating (I actually told them I was going to faint – as you know, I don’t do well with blood. They all jumped up and freaked out thinking I meant I had hit my head or something. I had to calm them down and say it was just the blood issue… and they laughed at me) and going on those two dates with the one (who I’ve bumped into around town a few times since – once sleepily, makeup-less, in my pajamas, with my hair on top of my head as I evacuated my apartment building for a fire alarm at 3 o’clock in the morning).

But really, it reminded me, and continues to remind me, of our power to encourage, comfort, support, and affect one another. In the days following that accident, I was overwhelmed by love; all of the strangers who had been so sweet to me, one of my best friends – Alex (previously mentioned) leaving work and getting stuck in the traffic that I had caused to pick me up because I desperately did not want to ride in the ambulance, and everyone who checked on me and sent their love. I still think about all of that kindness regularly.

I’m obsessed with the power we have to impact each other’s lives, and incredibly blessed and thankful that people repeatedly use that power to positively affect me.

That’s all. 🙂

Stories · Uncategorized

Intimidating…ly nice?

Whoa, I almost let a whole month go by! It’s overall been a good one! Lots of living and laughing, with only a couple of stumbles. Doesn’t get much better than that.

While there’s definitely some life happening that could be written about, I’d prefer to stick to my crazy life stories theme.

Here’s a quick one to reel you back in (I hope).

Yesterday, I took my car to Flagstop and struck up conversation with a group of strangers in the waiting room (I love talking to strangers and can usual get them to talk about whatever I want). After a few minutes of me kind of rambling at these folks, a man turned to me chuckling and said “you know, you’re kind of intimidating.”

I was so excited, because let’s be honest, every girl wants to be at least a little intimidating and I only ever get called some variation of “nice,” that I jumped up, hugged him, and said “Oh my gosh! This is so exciting! Thank you!” to which he responded, pretty stunned, “Hahaha, well aren’t you so nice!” …





The morning after…

Yesterday I told you the story of my falling off a boat in front of a bunch of people this past fourth of July, which, re-reading now, wasn’t written very well (so sleepy). It really is a pretty funny story but maybe you also have to know my friends to see the light in it.

Perhaps the best part of the story is here however, in the aftermath. july 4

<– That’s aftermath.

What I didn’t mention yesterday was that after falling off the boat in front of 300+ people and having been wrapped up and sat down by two people I don’t doubt take care of me to the absolute best of their ability, I didn’t really do a one-check over to be sure I was still in one piece.

I didn’t stand up again until the boat had docked back at the house and it wasn’t until then that I felt a rip run across my the bottom of my knee and something cold run down the front of my leg.

Sidenote: I hate blood. Like, absolutely cannot handle it. I don’t even eat ketchup because it looks a little like blood to me – and it tastes gross – but anyways. I’ve passed out 3 different times in the last 15 years over this topic. Well 6 now but. Ugh. Blood. Even typing the word kind of gives me the shivers. (Baha, though, all of a sudden this flash back video just popped into my head.)

As I started to tilt my head down to look at the cause of the creepy feeling, Steven lifted my chin right back up, “Hey, so, it’s all good. Don’t look down though, cool? It’s fine. Come on.” and dragged me towards the bathroom inside. Within seconds, with Corbin dad-like standing in the doorway and Steven pushing my face away from the scene, I had been doused in hydrogen peroxide (which actually burned like the fiery pits of hell), bandaged, wrapped, and sent back outside to play.

And the night went on without a hitch.

I woke up early the next morning, determined to get back to Richmond in time to make it to church.

When I got back to my apartment, I decided I should probably check out what had been the cause of such sweet-friend-parenting the night prior and started unwinding the bandage that had been done over top of something I never even saw.

To my LITERAL horror, the gash in my leg was still open and still bleeding. Pretty profusely. And as I started thinking, “ohhhh shiiiii….”  everything around me faded to black.

I woke up on my kitchen floor, surely not too long after that but I never once looked at the clock so I’m not even sure of the timeline of these events, and started crying. Haha, fainting sucks but fainting home alone while almost all of your friends and family are still out of town and your leg is still bleeding, REALLY sucks. I managed to pull myself together and decide that a shower would be a good idea-it would clean my leg off and calm me down, and I was still, at this point, thinking I was going to make it to church.

As it turns out, the shower isn’t smart when you have an open wound and being in a “confined” space isn’t smart when you’re hyperventilating. I remember reaching for the soap trying to act all showery-normal, peptalking myself “everything’s fiiiine, it’s just a little cut, you’re fine, it’s fine, haha, only you, it’s okay self, it’s okay” before glancing down at my knee to check on my shower-will-make-it-better-theory… and the world faded to black again.

At this point, even in my delirium, I started to recognize that one day this was going to make for a great story, and I literally crawled out of my shower in a 50/50 – laugh/cry.

Because my shower idea had failed, I figured I had better get to a doctor to stop the bleeding and I started texting my always there, always supportive friend Lindsay for a lift (because you know, you shouldn’t drive when you’ve fainted twice in an hour and possibly smacked your head on both your kitchen and your shower floor). I’m sure my Lindsay got to me pretty quickly, but it could be that fainting again while I waited for her helped to pass the time.

If you live in Richmond and you ever need a Patient First, I recommend the one over there in Cary Town. They quickly took me (and Lindsay because I begged her to stay by my side. thanks Linds!) into the back and a large grumpy woman hooked me up for all my vitals (seen above). Grumpy nurse actually yelled at Lindsay as she took that photo, but how worth it was it?! Haha, I laugh out loud every time I look at it. Sidenote: I have no idea how my hair looked that normal after the morning I had had. It doesn’t even look that normal on most normal days!

When the doctor came in to my little room (I wasn’t laughing and swinging my legs this time because you know… fainting, head injuries, delirium, blood) he questioned my waiting to come in, telling me that I should have gotten stitches 8 hours prior. When I told him that I had been at the lake and blah-blah-blah-fell off a boat, he rolled his eyes and laughed – surely thinking I had been tanked (which, for the record, I was not.) He bandaged me up with those steri-strip thingys, left the room, and came back with both a tetanus shot and an antibiotic prescription because apparently lake water is yucky.

As soon as he threw back the curtain and we went to leave, I was “the girl who fell off the boat on the fourth of July” and no one believed that I could be so ridiculous as to do so sober.

But I was (for the most part). And I am. And I’m sure it won’t be the last time I fall off of something or get accused of doing something drunk that I actually did sober or have a doctor laugh at me…. because this is my life. And these are the things I constantly do.

My other scar (which happened since then and didn’t require a tetanus shot because I knew TO THE DAY when my last one was thanks to this series of events) healed up a lot better than this one has but I don’t mind so much because this one is a constant reminder of how amazing my friends are… how’s that for “the bright side”?


yeah, I’ve dabbled in online dating…

I’m hesitant to write about my dating life because I’m still dating (don’t get confused, I’m currently quite single but you know, “dating” *eye roll*) and I would hate to end up meeting someone who already knew too much about my history or who’d worry that he’d end up in a story online. But some of the funniest, craziest “stories of my life” involve dating and what’s the point of misery and embarrassment if not for other people laugh at it? So, to protect the “innocent,” I promise to only share old dating stories and nothing too recent.

For now. Mwaha.

I am a happy and glorious 26 years old but also one of the last girls standing in my friend group – which is fine with me, truly. But when your friends all start getting “husband-ed/wifed up,” the likelihood, as it turns out, of meeting people through them or out-and-about with them, goes down. Like way down. And so the flickering screen of the online-dating-world beckons…

This will have to be a continuing theme in posts to come because I have a boo-coo of hilarious attempted dating stories, both online and off, but to kick it off…  a relatively-tame quick awkward too-close-for-comfort meet-up that happened (not so) recently…

I think chances are, everyone lies on their online dating profile. I’ll admit to having my “Body type” listed as “About Average” which… I don’t know… I might teeter on the “A little more to love” line sometimes? Maybe? Nah. Eh? Yesssss. Dangit.

But that’s a thin line! (Ha.) And that’s not so bad, is it?! I met a guy whose online profile claimed 6’2… which really is kind of the “dream” height, not that I’m really deterred by any number but there’s a tiny little extra pep in your step on the way to meet 6’2. I’m too old and I’ve been out with one too many 6’2-ish losers to really care about height, but… I would have worn a shirt with a higher neckline…

After website-talking, then text message-talking, then phone-call-talking (gah, so exhausting), 6’2 and I met up at Cafe Caturra for a drink. He said he’d wait by the fireplace and he’d have a book, which was just… adorable… in theory. When I walked in, I saw lots of men with books, and one by the fireplace.

I’m 5’7. I recognize that maybe this is a little tall for a woman (Confirmed: Wiki says 5’4 is the average height for women in the US. *scoffs*), but it’s not that tall… unless you’re expecting Mr. 6’2 when Mr. 5’2 approaches…

Do you know what the difference is between 6’2 and 5’7 and 5’2 and 5’7? Well, for a woman, it’s the difference between a hug involving your head “on” his chest and his head “in” your chest. You know what I’m sayin’? … an innocent hug versus second base.

In my natural way, I tripped on my way to meet him halfway between the fireplace and the door (always happens) and in a laughing-fit-first-hug, Mr. 5’2, wanna be 6’2, kind of, I don’t know how to put this, bit …-ish my…Don’t make me say it.

We had a glass of wine in uncomfortable hysterics and then never spoke again.

…that is until I started seeing someone else… and accompanied him to party at his friend’s house… and what do you know, the house was owned by the guy who accidentally, publicly, within 2-minutes of meeting, bit(ish) my….

Don’t make me say it.

This is nothing compared to my book of dating stories. Please do stay tuned.