Over the shoulder boulder holder . . .

 . . . or as they are more commonly known: bras.

What an awful thing to do to a woman.

I had to go bra shopping today. By myself. Somehow I managed to make it 29 years with never going bra shopping alone. My mom had been my most frequent bra-shopping partner. Once or twice I went with a sister. And I went to VS once with a friend because I'm pretty sure we had no dates and no prospects one weekend night and needed some bra shopping to distract us.

Today I went to Target. They are having a sale on under things this week, in case you're interested.

Why do I feel like a pedophile when I'm bra shopping by myself?! And why on earth did the Target people put the bras on the outside of a store "block" with walkways on three of its four sides?? It felt like every sex offender had just been released from the local jail and delivered to Target by bus. And they all just happened to be passing by the bra section while I was thumbing through the bras. I got such an eery look from one of them that I put the brightly-colored bras back and went for the neutrals. Then, on my way to the fitting room, every young, innocent teenage boy in town passed me. It made the ten yard walk feel like a mile. I felt like I had been breaking some kind of law, when I was simply trying to buy underwear. I just wanted to yell, "It's underwear, people! You wear it, too. I didn't ask for these appendages on my body.  Trust me, I'd much rather go without a bra." Unfortunately, that's frowned upon in our society. Is it France where the women go breezy free? I think I want to live there. When you live in a society that allows you to wander braless without the judgement of others, that's when you know you've arrived. I call that Utopia. Or, Bratopia. Yeah, I like that one.

The moral of this story is, just don't go bra shopping. Because eventually the bra fairy will magically drop one off on your doorstep that fits perfectly. That's what I'm banking on. Because I put all of my bras back on the hangers and walked out empty handed—like any rationally-minded adult would do. Right?

I have the same problem shopping for other female-related products. But that's another story for another day. Probably not on this blog. Because I'm too immature.

Maybe someday I'll grow up. Maybe when I'm 30. That seems like a good age to grow up.

On the eve of my twenty- . . . uh, third birthday

Wow, I can't believe I'm already going to be twenty-three.

My close friends and family know what a big deal birthdays are to me. More specifically, my birthday. I whole-heartedly embrace the birthday month approach with a special focus on the birthday week. It has been a pretty sweet week. I love spoiling myself and letting others do the same as they see fit. It's the little things . . . like when I was frosting the brownies the other day, I was going to hand the spatula over to my husband to lick. But then I came to my senses. "Birthday week," I thought to myself. And we all know what happened next. (Except for my husband who had no idea there was ever a frosting spatula to be had.) And I slept in a day or two this week, took extra long showers, had a Coke, spent time with some close friends, had my hair done, and watched Leave it to Beaver whenever I felt the urge. All of this and it's not even my birthday. I can't wait to see what I have in store for myself tomorrow on my actual birthday.

This year for my birthday, I got a house. At least that's what my husband keeps telling me. And I tell him that I can't wait to see how he plans on topping that next year. Tomorrow we will have been in the house for two weeks. It has been an exciting, tiring, frustrating, and blessings-filled two weeks. We feel really lucky to be in this house in an area that we really love. It's not perfect, but it's wonderful. Being the planners that we are, we've been planning for and looking at houses for two years. And, just like everything else in my life, I had plan A in mind all along and ended up with plan B, which is exactly what we needed. It's amazing how quickly this house has felt like a home. But maybe that's just because it's something I share with the person I love where other people we love come and visit.

I love yard-work husband. I see him tooting around on his lawnmower, digging all around with the shovel. I hear power drills and roto-tillers running on evenings and all day Saturday. I love it. And he does, too, which is great. It reminds me of my dad, and for some creepy reason, I love that my husband reminds me of my dad. Now I just need to get him some Hawaiian shirts and a straw, wide-brimmed hat for the summer and the resemblance will be uncanny.

I'm actually having fun working on the inside of the house. I hate decorating; it stresses me out. But the place is getting really clean and organized. And every once in a while I find myself able to buy a decor item and place it without too much stress.

The biggest problem in organizing the home is trying to figure out what to do with all of my books. I think I counted over ten boxes of books when we moved. And then . . . there are all the boxes of my teaching stuff. More and more boxes of other books.

As I was packing the books at our apartment, I came across this book, coincidentally during the same week of Maurice Sendak's death.

I love this book, always have. But I really love this particular copy of the book. This was the first book that a teacher of mine ever gave to me. It was Mrs. Casteel in first grade. I loved her so much. I still have such vivid memories of her face, her clothes, her words, and how she made me feel (and that one time I got in trouble for talking when all I was doing was telling the people by me to stop talking). In my mind, she was the world's greatest teacher. 

She gave me this book as a reward for reaching my goal of reading 100 books . . . I think that was in one term. I don't remember for sure. But for the sake of making me seem like a brilliant six year-old, let's say it was in one term. I read that book over and over and over and each time I read it, I would remember the pride I felt in reaching my goal. I imagined that my teacher had gone to great lengths to purchase and choose this book for me. Though, after teaching school myself, I realize it was probably a freebie book she received from the book orders. But again, let's choose to remember the glorified version of the story. 

I love Where the Wild Things Are. I love it because it reminds me that I love reading, school, teachers, and the positive impact that teachers can have on children. Mr. Sendak may have been sick of the book and sick of being known for the book, but I love it. I love books, all ten+ boxes of them.

Things that make you go hmmm

Someone's mom was too tired to fight this battle today. 

Boy child wearing lady shoes: 1

Mom: 0