On why details matter, and why it pays to be observant

The food we had in the apartment consisted of trail mix, oranges and diet coke. All delicious, but put together did not a balanced meal make. So employing what I considered to be  stellar problem solving, I purchased some Whole Foods microwavable dinners (affordable! healthy! easy!) and proudly placed the chicken tikka masala and chicken curry packages in the fridge. A few hours later I pulled them out and went to place them in the microwave...which doesn't exist. Our apartment lacks a microwave, making the microwavable dinners still affordable and healthy, but no longer easy. After employing some slightly humbler problem solving, (throwing every part of both meals into one pot and heating the mixture on the stove), we were ready to eat. I pulled out the paper plates, the plastic cups and reached for the plastic utensils...which didn't exist. We had failed to pack or purchase silverware. And so, employing some down right ridiculous problem solving, we used a wooden spoon and a spatula to move rice from plate to mouth, before just giving up and eating Oreos.

It's a good thing I"m not a boy scout because I'm always never prepared. That's probably not the only reason it's good I'm not a boy scout, just the most relevant reason today. 

FYI, spell  check does not recognize Oreos.

gimmee that toot toot, beep beep

I've been honked at twice in my driving career. Both times it crushed me. But what made me feel even worse than being honked at, was the one time I honked at someone else. I immediately wanted to apologize. I think I cried. These feelings of honk induced shame are most likely due to the car culture in my land of origin, Provo, where one must commit a serious traffic sin to be scorned by a horn. So imagine my despair during our drive to and from the district the other day. Either Stephen is the worst driver ever, or people use their horns all. the. time. here. Someone honked while the light changed from red to green. I'm not exaggerating. So it's decided. If I can't take the metro or walk somewhere, I'm not going there.

Looks like we've made it

Yesterday I passed a man on the street. He was a sharply dressed man with a nice face. Nice, not only meaning handsome, but also kind. Five minutes later while I stood in line at 711, a sharply dressed woman with a nice face cooed at Ivy and offered to help while I struggled to fish my wallet out of the over-stuffed diaper bag. Another 5 minutes later I walked by sharply dressed man talking to sharply dressed woman, and I overheard her say, "My number is..." and it made me  extremely happy. I hope that they get married and have sharply dressed, nice faced babies.

In other news, we made it to Maryland in one piece (or three, I guess) and only slightly worse for the wear.

Kansas was flat.

Missouri was green.

The Rushforths took us in when we reached Maryland, and have not stopped helping us since we arrived.

DC is spectacular.

Ivy celebrates 4 months by wearing a furry hat

When I was enrolled in a fiction writing class and had an upcoming assignment due, I started writing a story about a baby who decided to never crawl, walk or talk because said baby enjoyed having every need taken care of by parents. I got a page into the story and it just wasn't working. Something wasn't right. Now I think I get why.

Ivy wants to be grown up. She tries to hold her own bottle. She tries to roll over (and succeeds every once in a while). She tries to sit. She tries to grab my Diet Coke. She laughs constantly, sometimes for real, sometimes fake. She babbles all day. She puts everything in her mouth, including her own feet.

Ivy is in the 91st percentile for height, and the 11th percentile for weight. She's teething and has the drool to prove it. She likes almost everything except church and new people. 

Ivy seems to genuinely enjoy getting older. She loves that she can pick up toys and put her binky in her mouth and giggle at her silly parents. I think she can't wait to crawl, walk and talk, hold her own bottle, sit up, and knock a Diet Coke out of my hands.

Though she can't wait to grow up, Stephen and I are trying to savor every day as we get better acquainted with this sweet, hilarious, beautiful daughter of ours. It never stops getting better.

"

That was 90% gravity

The Bachelorette. Oh man, The Bachelorette. Let's talk about the guy whose title is "Luxury Brand Consultant". The second funniest title of the season, behind "Party MC". The producers started Mr. Consultant off on the right foot by flying him in on a chopper because THIS SHOW DOESN'T HAVE ENOUGH HELICOPTERS. Of course the rest of the dudes hate him, blah blah blah, he'll be around at least until the final four because it makes awesome television (see Michelle, Vienna, Courtney, Rated R, etc.). Let's talk about the totes adorbs Jef from SLC, the first Utah contestant who is not completely crazy sauce banana pants (see Michelle...again, Bentley, blond girl from last season). Let's talk about the phrase "He has a lot of the qualities I'm looking for" and how it always mean that the "he" is soon to be sent home. Let's talk about Emily and how great it is that she made Handsome Sports Dude unload her groceries and make cookies for soccer practice. Let's talk about the face Handsome Sports Dude made when he learned that was the day's activities. It was very "WHERE'S MY HELICOPTER?" Let's talk about the poor suckers whose response to "where do you see yourself in five years was, "I see myself happy" as if that makes any sense or would ever be considered a sufficient answer to anyone who has ever had a conversation with another person, ever. Let's talk about The Muppets and how terribly, terribly wrong it was to see Chris Harrison try and mimic Statler and Waldorf. Show some respect, you scumbag.

Stephen's Lunch Don't Touch!

In an effort to simplify our lives before we pack up our belongings and DRIVE ALL THE WAY ACROSS THE FRIGGIN COUNTRY, I've spent the last two hours going through our wardrobes and making a donation pile. While doing so, I had to keep reminding myself of lessons I've learned from my past as a clothes  horse with borderline hoarder tendencies:

1. If you say to yourself, "It might fit again some day," It won't. Let it go.
2. If you say to yourself, "I can fix that hole," You won't. Say good bye.
3. If you say to yourself, "It's vintage," an Old Navy Fourth of July flag tee is not what those hipsters are talking about. Give it up."
4. If you haven't worn it in the past year, you never will. Trust me.

Shout hooray

Yesterday Carey, aka Mom, had a big birthday. 

A year ago, when we found out we had a wee one on the way, I wasn't sure how my parents would feel about becoming grandparents. I hoped they wouldn't feel that we were somehow prematurely aging them. So I was relieved when Carey wept with joy after we told her the news. She's been in Rocks Star Grandma mode ever since. 

Without Carey, I don't think we would have survived the first week after Ivy was born. When she left to go home to Utah, I sobbed uncontrollably. She made everything perfect, kept our apartment cleaner than it's ever been (and probably ever will be), got up in the night with Ivy, insisted that I relax, drove us to doctors appointments, cooked constantly, and babysat so Stephen and I could go get sushi after nine months of deprivation. 

Not only does she make 50  and grandmotherdom look really good, but so far Carey is the single person who can make Ivy giggle at any moment. Ivy laughs at everyone, but usually only sporadically. With Carey, it's patty cake and chuckle fest all the time.

We love you, Nana Carey.