what the …?

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As I entered the second half of my 20s, for the first time, I started to think that I couldn’t be anything I wanted anymore. I had completed school and gotten hitched, and both of those things gave my future some direction. Not that either was a hindrance, but I didn’t dream about working for NASA or being an Egyptologist after getting an English degree, and once I was married, I didn’t intend to sneak off to Europe for a year to drink wine and figure myself out, you know?

(It should be noted that I don’t care for math or science so much, so NASA was pretty much out of the question by sixth grade; I’m terrible with history and dates, and also terrified of snakes, so Egyptology wasn’t looking so good; and I get nervous flying alone when I know where I’m going, let alone going to bunch countries where I don’t even speak the language.)

But, I just read this post, which made me realize I’m totally not the only one who has entertained crazy career notions. And I’m betting you have, too!

I’ve had more than just the above-mentioned dreams — in another life, I’m pretty sure I could’ve been: A movie star, a Rockette, a professional swimmer, a clothing designer, an interior designer, a linguist, a dog trainer, or a beach bum. What about you?

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Yesterday was the Gator Gallop — a two mile race along the homecoming parade route in Gainesville for which I had signed up Jared and myself a couple of weeks ago. But, when we awoke yesterday, it was rainy and cold, and this was our conversation:

Me: Are you sure you don’t want to just pick up our t-shirts and skip the race?

Jared: After everything I’ve put into this? No, we’re doing this.

Me: Dude. You trained two times.

Jared: Exactly.

And then he went on to beat me by a full minute. Bastard.

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Okay, I’ve been back since Friday, and I know I’ve been avoiding you. And I’m sorry. I just have SO MUCH to say, and I don’t even know how to start. So I won’t.

In fact, I’m just going to shoot you on over to Polka Dot Bride, a blog I frequented daily while writing for AisleDash, and for which I have done a guest post on tuxedos. You might have already read it at AD, but Ms. Polka’s got a fabulous site, and I highly recommend you check her out.

I PROMISE I’ll be back with pictures and stories (ohmygod, cab drivers and subway crazies!!!). Soon!

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I was pretty lucky throughout my athletic “career.” Aside from a few sprained ankles, I suffered very little in the way of injuries. I mean, I had a lot of owies, and I probably made a big deal about some of them at the time, but I didn’t break or tear anything important.

As I’ve gotten older, I’ve stayed active (actually, I’d never run more than two miles at a time until I was 23 years old), and I’ve experienced a few new boo-boos, and each one brings with it a wave of panic — Oh my god, will I ever be able to run again? Will I be able to play basketball and volleyball? Will my fitness level go down and my weight go up? I’ve got a crunchy, gross knee, which, if I ice it occasionally, still lets me do whatever I like, and I had a bout of plantar fasciitis — and that was BAD, but I got over it. But now I’ve got something fun and new. My shoulder. My goddamn shoulder.

I’m thinking that my shoulder saw Kerri Walsh playing in the Olympics with her crazy black tape and decided, hey, that’s cool, I want in on that, because all of a sudden my right should has just decided that it’s not going to work for me anymore. It was a little sore last night, a little more sore this morning, and became HELLA sore later (you know, after I did push-ups and went swimming — the Olympics always motivate me!). It actually hurt so much that I only went halfway through my swim before I gave up, and trust me — I don’t do that.

Anyway, I have an appointment with my friend and chiropractor, Kristin on Friday, so I think I can suck it up until then, but good golly, molly, I am HURTING. And, to rub salt into my wounded, throbbing shoulder (there’s not really a wound — Mom, don’t worry), I’ve been trying not to drink (much) until we go to NYC so I can try to be, you know, maybe a couple pounds lighter, so I’m in pain and I CAN’T EVEN DRINK IT AWAY. Sucks to be me, man …

(Oh, and also? NO FREAKING CLUE what I did to bring this on, just in case that wasn’t clear. No clue AT ALL.)

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As many of you know, I’m a total So You Think You Can Dance freak. I don’t watch any other reality TV show or contest — just SYTYCD, and tonight, I’m PISSED. Will was voted off. Will!!!!

I mean, I guess if I cared so much, I could actually vote, but I don’t really do that (except for Season One, for Benji, because he was my dancer soulmate, and I called his victory from his first audition). But I really don’t get what happened, because EVERYONE I talked to about the show (and I’ve talked to a LOT of people about it, believe me) thought Will was the clear winner. So, seriously, what happened?

Also, this makes me most nervous for the November election — if America screwed up so badly on this choice, what’s going to happen then?

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Alright, when I write about fashion, I don’t really write as me most of the time. I mean, it’s under my name, and my fingers are hitting the keyboard, but in my blogging world, I don’t have the kind of budget constraints I experience in real life. I write about $600 shoes and $1500 handbags and designer clothes as if I have a closet full of those items. And, in my mind, I do. My mental closet is KICK ASS.

However, in my real world, I have a few designer pieces (emphasis on FEW), and none of them are the types of designer pieces that were ever worth over $500. Still, I’m finding that my blogging world is starting to interfere with my real world.

All of a sudden, I find myself coveting $800 shoes, and when I see designer heels on sale for $350, I think, “Wow! What a steal!” You know, like the fact that they were previously $800 makes $350 affordable. (It doesn’t, sadly.)

Here’s the thing: What does it even matter? Nobody I spend time with would realize the fact that the cute shoes I’m wearing cost hundreds of dollars. In fact, I wouldn’t notice it on someone else, most likely. I would notice if they were cute, and I would notice if they looked REALLY cheap, but there are a MILLION gorgeous shoes for well under $100, so why the hell would I spend a week’s pay on them?

Has anyone else had this problem? Because, as much as I love scouring the internet and pretend-shopping and looking at designer duds, I’m not going to be in a place anytime soon where that can make up my wardrobe. It’s fun, but it’s a spectator sport for me — much like I shouldn’t jump into a pro football game, I’d better remember to stay out of harm’s way with internet shopping. Sheesh.

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Have you ever found that you have duplicates of the most random crap when you empty out your house to move? For example, we have two three-hole punches. We Seymours are not really an exceptionally hole-punchy family. In fact, I can’t remember the last time I used one. No, wait, I can — I used ONE of the three holes to punch a hole in something a couple of years ago. And so, why we have TWO three-hole punches is beyond me.

What is also beyond me is why I don’t get rid of one, because I distinctly remember having this same revelation the last time we moved.

And, because you’ve been asking so nicely (or at least most of you have been nice about it … I’m not naming names here, but you know who you are …) here’s a pic of the house:

and another …

Who’s coming to help unpack boxes visit?

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So, we’re going to start moving today, and here’s what we’re dealing with:

In case you can’t tell, it’s shitty and rainy, and in case you forgot, it’s FLORIDA, so it’s still warm, which means that wearing a rain jacket is too hot. This is going to be GREAT.

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I learned something tonight that has changed my life. Well, it might. And it would’ve been DAMN handy to know a few years ago.

It turns out that the blade-y things on the bottom of the blender are removable. Who knows these things? Is this something EVERYONE knows? Because it came up at dinner tonight with two of our friends, and they knew about it, and Jared knew about it, and just now, when I was talking to my friend Susan and we were discussing how we don’t use our blenders in large part because we hate cleaning them, I found out that she knew about it, too. What the hell, people? Was anybody planning to tell me this? ‘Cause it would’ve been AWESOME to know this a couple of years ago when I was doing the protein shake thing and using my blender EVERY DAMN DAY.

And, I now feel the need to ask, are there other things you’re not telling me? Because if I find out there’s an clean-the-nasty-crap button on the shower, or an auto-pie-baking function somewhere on my stove, I’m gonna be pissed. And then pretty happy because, hey, then I’ll know. But still, you should fear my wrath if you’ve been hiding info from me. Fear it.

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I think I’ve mentioned before that we have a centrally located skylight in our home, and when it rains, it gets really loud. Well, it turns out there’s something else that’s loud on it, too. Squirrels.

All of a sudden, the squirrels have determined that the most fun thing in Squirrel World is to get on our skylight and scamper around. They get no traction on there, so I don’t know if it’s, like, a double dare, or some sort of squirrel hazing ritual, or what. Or maybe it’s fun, like a slide. Although, if they like slides, I would think they would go the park and use real slides. I mean, don’t they live at the park?

What’s really funny is that we can see them up there, but I know they can’t see us (because J was up there not long ago cleaning it, and he couldn’t see me). I think it must be what it’s like for fish, if they’re able to see through any ice in the winter and we come slipping and sliding across the lake. The squirrels, who look so confident and agile leaping through the trees, look like they’re about a second away from completely busting ass up there. Nuts, man.

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