I think I’ve let enough time slip by that you’ve all moved on from the holiday / New Years resolution crap right? Like, we can talk about other stuff now? As in, big picture stuff?
Kgood.
So I’m currently in the middle of two very important things:
1. Designing my first business cards for the photography business that I started two years ago.
2. Breaking the news to my mother (and myself) that she is in love with Steven Tyler.
And while you’re contemplating the meaning of this and low-carb diets, I’m gonna serenade you with a few random pictures from the past two weeks.
I think the above statements are pretty self explanatory. Clearly, I’ve waited two years to design business cards because I’m an unrepentant pessimist and was quite certain that I would not even be able to figure out how to use a DSLR. And if I did, the world would probably end first so why invest in cards? That extra twenty dollars is the difference between designer imposter perfume or the actual Elizabeth Taylor White Diamonds fragrance. 75 gas station cappuccinos or one caramel macchiato from Starbucks.
And although the discovery of my mom’s secret love affair is alarming, it’s not entirely surprising. Being able to detect the inevitable destruction of a relationship is my sixth sense.
I first picked up on it when Steven Tyler appeared on last year’s American Idol. They laughed in all the same places. My mom unapologetically admired his purple suede pants and feathered hair accessories, claiming that they were in homage to his supposed Indian heritage. She was not happy when I had to tell her that feathers were the newest hair trend and could be purchased at your local Great Clips for 7 bucks a feather.
The culmination and affirmation of my suspicions occurred tonight, when my mom kept switching back and forth from the OWN channel to see if the 2hour Steven Tyler interview was on again. She had been talking about it for days after watching it with my dad. (I know, the nerve!) ‘Cause, first of all, the OWN channel?
“Mom don’t you hate Oprah?”
“Well, I hated her on that other show. But now she’s doing different stuff.”
“Other show? You mean, the OPRAH show. There’s nothing different except now she just has an entire network called THE OPRAH WINFREY NETWORK. It’s like one big continual OPRAH show.”
“But these interviews are cooler.”
“Because they’re 2 hours long or because she’s interviewing your boyfriend?”
Her lack of protest might as well have been a handwritten admission of love stamped by the king of England with that melted candle waxy stuff to ensure that it’s legitimacy.
Sorry, my Tudors phase is never far from me.
When the interview finally came on, she rushed to the living room saying, “Oh my gosh, it’s on again! I could watch it a hundred times. Brit, you gotta see this. His house is so cute, it’s on a lake in New Hampshire. His kitchen cabinets are yellow!”
Um. Ok, mom. I’ll watch it. I’ve always been concerned with the interior color swatch of Steven Tyler’s kitchen. But I’m slightly more concerned about how dad is going to feel when you’re cooking bacon in that kitchen in about six months.
I grabbed a blanket as I watched him talk about his battle with drugs and self esteem and monogamy. This tool is going to be my stepdad? Will this make me part fake-Indian too?
And if so, do I get free stuff?
Like, just college? I heard they got clothes and food and stuff too. ‘Cause, I could probably come around to the idea.
I’ve always liked New Hampshire. And I mean,the cabinets can’t be that ugly. The sun is yellow and I like that.
I have returned to blogging over at Celery and the City where I write about clean eating, healthy living and post allergy and gluten free recipes!
Me: Well, since we live soooooo far away from everything, wouldn’t it make sense for me to get a horse?
Speaking of robberies, you do know that from 2006-2007 I was robbed six times, right? Your ears did not deceive you. Six. 
So what does this have to do with me almost dying of heat exhaustion and /or embarrassment yesterday? Well, it was sunny out. I opened my sliding door and stepped out onto my porch, where I sat for about an hour, trying to become a
I was born in a trailer park. Does that mean I get to cry a river and say that I’ve had it a little worse than the rest of you? No? But do I get to blame at least a few of my issues on that fact? When my parents were married, my dad was making $6/hr, yet they managed to save 50% of his income a month, while my mom stayed at home with the kids. This is could be where my Suze Ormond frugalness stems from, the kind which allows me to be perfectly satisfied driving a ’99 Saturn with a hole in the hood, that floods every time it rains. Especially last night.