Eat, Drink and Be Merry For Tomorrow We Die, Pumpkin

Last night I attended a bachelorette party for my friend Hannah Parish who's getting married this Saturday, which, incidentally, is also the long awaited Day of Judgment. We had so much fun celebrating her upcoming nuptials and kicking off our last week on this earth. Her Aunt Diane threw her the most fun lingerie shower I've ever attended, then we got our nails done. After that we went to dinner, where I enjoyed a faux cocktail, and then back to Sarah Emily's house where we played games. The girls had cocktails while I had more mocktails and got myself all hyped up on juice. It was a wonderful time with very special ladies.

I am looking forward to this wedding so much. Hannah and her groom Daniel (I know, weird coincidence) have incredible taste in clothes, art, music, food and friends, so this wedding is bound to be abundant in style and personality. Daniel and I are so excited for this sweet couple, and Daniel has looked forward to the prospect of shooting their wedding since long before they got engaged. That's how cool they are. As excited as I am to celebrate with them at their wedding, I'm even more excited I'll be there to see what adventures lie in store for this sweet new family in the future.

Here's something else. Last night when we were at the restaurant, I caught myself just in the nick of time before I called our 40-year-old male server Honeybear. What? Why would I even think that? The thing is, this has been happening to me a lot. I don't know what to do about it. I've never been much of a pet name person, and I actually have some pretty intense pet peeves related to that. I hate it when anyone who isn't extremely close to me* calls me Honey, Hon or any variation of Sweetie, especially if it's a girl my own age. It seems really condescending to me. So why am I suddenly bursting with the impulse to call perfect strangers Baby, Babycakes, Babychild, Honeychild, Honeybear, and Boobear, to name only a few? Every time I get coffee, I consider calling the barista some new term of endearment. Of course I never do it, but it always leaves me feeling really disconcerted. I ask myself, why do I want this so bad? Why am I like this?

I don't know if I can directly pass this one off on pregnancy. You have to pull the pregnancy card sparingly, by the way, or soon you'll be justifying all kinds of inappropriate behavior like arson, kidnapping and grand theft auto. I definitely think it's indirectly related to being pregnant, though. There's the chance that thinking about my unborn baby all the time makes me misplace my affection for the baby on whoever's in front of me at the moment, (for instance, middle aged men with receding hairlines and visible nose hairs). Maybe since I don't have a baby that I can physically see and squeeze and call cutesy names, I feel the need to at least do that to somebody. The other theory I've considered is that maybe I think that the fact that I'm somebody's mother now gives me a license to act like everybody's mother. Like I have some kind of special privilege. But I have no idea where I'd have gotten that notion. I don't see other young mothers running around calling fellow adults baby names and getting away with it. I mean, people do it, sure, but people also dress dogs in tiny human clothes and carry them in tote bags. You can do a lot of things in this world, but that doesn't mean you should, or that those things aren't awkward for everybody around you.

I guess that concludes my random pregnancy observations for the day. Now for a brief update on Trimester 2 thus far. I've been feeling much more energetic for the past few days. I usually still need naps, but when I'm awake I feel more alert and energetic than before. My nausea hasn't gone away, but it has changed. Anytime I get nauseated, the onset is really sudden and intense, and I'm more likely than before to actually throw up. But the good news is that it's briefer, and doesn't seem to happen quite as often now. Oh, and my baby is the size of a peach. And that's all I have to say about that.

*A few questions to help you determine if we're extremely close:
1. Are we married to each other?
2. Were you in my wedding party?
3. Are you related to me by blood or marriage?
4. Have I ever peed in front of you?
If you answered yes to any of the above, you are qualified to call me whatever you want. May I suggest Love or Dear?

Super Daniel

Today, I want to talk about what makes Daniel Meigs is the best baby daddy a girl could hope for.

I mentioned a few of my annoying pregnancy symptoms in my last post, including fatigue. I'm going to talk about that one some more. Y'all, I've been a mess. I can barely pull it together long enough to get myself cleaned up, dressed and to and from work, where I'm pretty much a zombie. On days I don't work, I'm generally about as productive as one of these guys. For a while, the tasks around the house that I normally take care of- cleaning, laundry, grocery shopping, etc.- were either being severely neglected or performed by a very cranky little girl. But not anymore. Because guess what? Daniel Meigs to the rescue, that's what.

I've been so thankful to have Daniel these past few weeks. He noticed that I was struggling to keep my head above water, so one day he just started doing everything I was too tired to take care of. He didn't ask me if I needed help, he just started helping. One day, out of the blue, I came home from work to find the formerly filthy kitchen spotless and dinner in the oven. Dinner! Dinner has been the bane of my existance on days I work, because it involves forethought and preperation, and by the time I get home I'm already starving, and there is nothing scarier than a hungry pregnant woman. Trust me on this. Fixing dinner after work has probably made me the crankiest I've been over anything these past 13 weeks. I'm tired, my feet hurt, and I just want to lie down and magically have food in my belly. But it's not. And I have to stand up on my angry pregnant feet and make it. So if Daniel had presented me with a diamond encrusted tiara in that exact same moment, I probably would have been like, "that's nice, honey, but DINNER?! This is too much!"

Another thing: I don't know where Daniel is getting all this energy and time. He works too, you know. When he doesn't have a shoot, he spends most of the day editing. I don't understand how he's getting all his work done and still managing to pick up my slack, but I'm grateful to be married to Mighty Man.

I feel so blessed to be going into this whole parenting thing with such a sweet partner. It's so good to know that when I have too much on my plate, he'll come through for me and he'll do it with such a cheerful spirit.

He ain't too hard on the eyes, neither.

One Down, Two to Go

I'm now 12 1/2 weeks, and baby and I hit a couple of milestones this week. First of all, at long last, The Bump has begun comparing baby to decent, respectable fruits. This week, baby has reached the size of a plum. This may not sound like much of an accomplishment to anyone who hasn't had a baby in the age of the The Bump, but what you need to understand is that our baby has graduated from being compared to wimpy and often unappetizing foods, such as apple seeds, olives and prunes. Poor Baby Meigs' cuteness has been insulted time and time again, but we're past all that now. We have crossed into the land of sweet, adorable, plump fruits, and no one will ever compare my baby to a prune again if they know what's good for them. Also, about a week ago, Baby Center's artist's renderings of fetal development started looking significantly more baby like, and less like some kind of mutant grub. Baby Meigs is getting more attractive by the minute, as evidenced by those ultrasound pictures, which I just can't stop looking at. Do you guys want to see them again? No? You're sure?? Okay. Here are some labeled pictures of someone else's reproductive system, though. You're welcome. The first picture depicts week nine, while the second is week twelve. See what I mean?

The second milestone is that these next few days in week twelve will be my last days in trimester one. Crossing over to trimester two is something worth celebrating because everyone is projecting a significantly more pleasant existence for me during the coming three months. Legend has it that during the second trimester morning sickness is forever banished, energy returns, and by some accounts, the hormone-induced emotional roller coaster I've been riding levels out. It sounds just like the Promised Land. I hope every word of it is true.

At this point in time, all three of these things take place every day of my life:
1. Nausea, often accompanied by dry heaving. At least I haven't thrown up much, but still... this is getting old.
2. A nap. If I can't take a nap, I develop a miserable headache between 2 and 4 and can think of nothing but my bed and how comfortable it is and how good it would feel to be in a horizontal position.
3. Tears. I'm pretty sure I've cried every single day of my pregnancy so far. It's pitiful. Adele's new album is good, but I suspect it's not really all that sad.

So as I said, I am happy to leave trimester one behind and move on to bigger and better things. Although I'm pretty sure "bigger" is the operative word here.

Welcome to Prego Land

Remember that time I didn't blog for two months? Well, this time, for once, I have a legitimate excuse. We found out about six weeks ago that we're expecting, and decided to wait till after my first appointment to make a public announcement. In the meantime, could not think of one single thing worth blogging about that didn't involve babies and pregnancy.

Yesterday, at long last, I had my first prenatal appointment and everything looks great. Now I'm free to sing of my pregnancy loudly from a mountaintop or, more practically, plaster photos of my uterus all over the internet. Incidentally, I am aware that some people are uncomfortable with ultrasound images. I have never been one of those people, so I'm not very sympathetic to their plight. But I would like to formally apologize now to anyone I've offended. I know some of you who I'm facebook friends with have not seen me since high school and probably don't care to see my insides. That being said though, if you knew the first thing about me in high school, you really shouldn't expect better behavior from me now. We're talking about the girl who co-founded and regularly celebrated the holidays "Vagina Tuesday" and "Uterus Thursday." Not because I was making some bold statement about celebrating femininity, but because I was profoundly immature, and thought that was hilarious. Come to think of it, you probably shouldn't be facebook friends with me at all. I'm kind of gross. Am I really the kind of person you want to be associated with? Your mom told you in high school that you're known by the company you keep, and that's why you stayed far, far away from me. You should probably keep that up, because, as I've already pointed out, I can be pretty crude and immature.

Now that we've got that out of the way, let's move on to the very pressing matter at hand: boy or girl? Okay, so it's really not pressing at all. But it feels that way to me and this is my blog, so I get to call the shots on what's pressing and what's not, okay? I hearby declare this a pressing matter of extreme urgency. So here's what I want to do: when my sister Haley was pregnant with her first child, Kate, she held a poll on her blog and had people place their bets on the baby's sex. It was a lot of fun, and by the way, I guessed right. I have a great track record in the baby-sex-guessing department. But you can bet your hiney I'm not telling you what I think the baby is now, because then it may compromise the results of the poll. I don't want you guys peeking at my test paper now that you know I'm a straight A student in Divination.

If you're still reading this and didn't peace out a few minutes ago when I made my very convincing case for why you shouldn't be my friend anymore, please leave a comment and cast your vote. I'm going to have to think of some kind of prize for the winners. You know those contests where you guess how many jellybeans are in the jar and if you guess correctly you get to keep the jar? It will be like that. But wait... in this case, I think Jar of Jellybeans = My Baby. Never mind, bad example. You can't have my baby. But I will give you something. Like, maybe I'll let you name the baby. Just kidding. But maybe though, because we're kind of stumped. I know we have almost seven months left to figure it out, but I'm starting to worry we're never going to find a name we both love. We might end up having to settle on a name neither of us like, just so it will be fair. Like Urkel. Or Fanny.



(Oops! But look how sweet! I just can't help myself. I hope I successfully weeded out those squeamish guys earlier.)

I also have a pregnancy related update on my haircut situation from February. My backward bangs have grown out at lightning speed! It turns out that was such a fortunate time to get a bad haircut. Thanks, baby! And the length grew on me after a week or two. I may start getting it cut that way from now on. But, you know, without the unfortunate... features.

I leave you today with the promise of much more frequent updates. Now that I'm free to talk about morning sickness and nurseries and fruits that thebump.com is comparing my baby to, (this week it's a lime,) I am confident I will have a lot more to say for the next seven months.

What Happened to My Hair

A few weeks ago, it struck me that my hair had grown very long without my consent. I don't mind long hair. In fact, I typically prefer it. But mine was by no means the sleek, soft long hair that we can all appreciate. Lord no. What was happening in my particular case was that every hair on my head was rising up in mutiny against me for forgetting to cut it for a year.

I only recognized the problem when, for several days in a row during my morning routine, I spent 20 minutes thrashing about in an unsuccessful attempt to release the wild animal that had entangled itself in my mane. And that's when I realized it was time for a haircut. So I booked an appointment at a local salon school.

Now, if you know anything about my unfortunate history with salon and spa treatments, you already know what an asinine move this was, and probably have a pretty good guess as to the outcome. For those of you who aren't familiar with my uncanny knack for selecting the world's most unprofessional salon personnel, I'll have to chronicle those experiences in a future post. Just know it's bad, and that I really ought to have learned my lesson by now, the lesson being that I shouldn't allow anyone to touch a hair on my head unless they have a PhD in Cosmetology, which I am almost one hundred percent sure isn't a thing.

I will say this for myself: I at least had the sense to request a level four student, meaning a student who's almost completed the program, and has had more hands-on experience. I was told over the phone that Jessica would be cutting my hair, and when I arrived the girl at the desk asked me to wait while she got Jessica. The first red flag went up when a young man who appeared to be about 14-years-old came to retrieve me from the waiting area. He introduced himself as Tyler*

Tyler was a sweet boy. He reminded me of the kind of kid I was in high school, and the kind of kids I hung out with back then. Part of me related to Tyler, and I wondered if he was the same insecure teenager I had been not so many years ago. I wanted to help him along on his journey somehow. Perhaps by imparting some wisdom to him, or just listening, or being his camp counselor. But though Tyler was a very sympathetic youth, by no stretch of the imagination did he inspire confidence. There wasn't a graceful bone in his body, and this became apparent to me within approximately one minute of meeting him. Every move he made was sharp and sudden. I wondered what he was doing here, and considered the possibility that he'd just walked in off the street.

I still had a faint, distant hope that maybe this kid was just prepping me for Jessica. I'd never seen anything like that, but who knows? Maybe the students had mentors here? Maybe he was just shadowing Jessica? I soon realized, though, that Jessica was but a happy delusion of the past, and that Tyler was my future. Whatever Tyler had in store for me would be mine to live with.

The first thing he did was brush out my dry hair with a fine tooth comb. As I described earlier, my hair was not exactly in a brushable state, especially not when it was dry. Also, Tyler did not know how to comb hair. He started at my roots and just tore his way down. There was a lot of muscle involved. It was the worst. I'm serious you guys, I still have a headache.

Next, he awkwardly "shampooed" my hair, which could me more accurately described as "rolling my unsupported head around in a sink while lathering my forehead and neck excessively." Meanwhile, he told me the story of how he had decided to become a hair dresser. "I had always straightened my own hair," he told me, "but I never thought of cutting hair. I went to community college for a semester, but I just wasn't interested in school. My parents (who he'd mentioned earlier that he lives with,) were totally cool with it when I dropped out. Then one day my friend's hair looked really stupid, so I told him to wash it and I would blow-dry and straighten it for him. When I was done, he said it looked really good, and he was like, 'man, you should cut hair.' At first, I was like, ‘no,’ but then I thought about it some more, and I thought it could be kind of cool, even though I'd be the only straight guy doing it. When I told my parents they were cool with it. So here I am... and I graduate next week!"

In my last ditch effort at optimism, I took comfort in knowing that Tyler was one week away from graduating, and was, in fact, a level four student. But my confidence was soon shattered when he asked me what kind of music I was into, and upon my returning the question, he answered that he liked "emo and hardcore." It was time to accept my fate.

After once again aggressively combing the ever-living daylight out of my hair, the first thing Tyler did was pick up the topmost chunk from the crown of my head and cut it three inches short. Like reverse bangs. Tyler and I had discussed in detail what I wanted done to my hair, and what was happening right now had nothing to do with that conversation. I really just wanted a trim. And now I had bangs on the back of my head.

He kept cutting with all the technique and sophistication of an ape. It was so random- as far as I could tell he would just pick up a piece and cut it whatever length felt right? He was free styling my haircut, you guys, and I knew it, and there was nothing I could do. Well, that's not entirely true, I guess. There was always the option of asking for someone else, but I really didn't want to hurt his feelings, because he was so proud of what he was doing. And that's another really weird thing about the psychology of getting a haircut from a nine-year-old. I felt the need to support him in his dreams, because he was so tender and vulnerable. I needed to protect him by telling him that of course he could be an artist when he grew up, and displaying his art on my fridge. Except that his art was my hair, and my fridge was my head. He genuinely thought what he was doing was great. He kept saying things like, "this is going to be awesome!" I couldn't see it, because he'd started in the back, but I was still pretty sure it was not awesome.

The haircut became visible as he made his way around the side of my neck, and I realized that this was even shorter than I was expecting, and that the backwards bangs were rapidly becoming 360 degree bangs. I was really, really worried. I asked if he thought I would be able to pull it back in a ponytail, as this was my only hope for hiding this obscene haircut until it grew out. "I don't know," he replied, then, looking at the student next to him, "Emily*, do you think she'll be able to pull this back in a ponytail?" Emily replied in an exasperated, Hermione-esque tone, "No, and if you keep cutting it that way, she's going to look like she has a bowl on her head.” When he started to protest that it was too late to change the pattern, she interrupted, “She doesn't want layers that high around her face, Tyler" ("...you harebrained buffoon!"). Emily then demonstrated to Tyler how he could try to save my haircut in the remaining two-inch margin on either side of my face. Half an hour later as he worked on some final touches, he exclaimed, "I'm really glad Emily told me to do that!", solidifying my distinct impression that he had had no exit strategy until that moment. I actually came that close to having a bowl cut.

Before he "styled" my hair, he told me he'd need to have a teacher come look at it. A man came and examined me, and asked Tyler, "what do you see here?" He was pointing to either side of my face at the ends of my hair, directing Tyler's attention to the very plain fact that one side was longer than the other by at least an inch. The teacher touched up my hair a little himself and blended the layers, but told Tyler to fix the length issue himself.

Finally, Tyler “styled” my hair with a diffuser, repeatedly praising its volume. I would be much more inclined describe what was going on as “unruly poofiness,” but yes, I suppose “volume” is another way to put it. If there had lingered any trace of hope that Tyler had a genius master plan that would justify this goofy haircut and turn everything around at the last minute, it was obliterated. I looked like I’d just woken up after sleeping on wet hair. Tyler declared it “awesome.”

After this two hour ordeal (seriously,) I went to the front, and the girl at the desk, who'd already gone over the pricing with me for the various levels of student experience, charged me for a level one haircut. There are two possibilities here: one, she saw my hair and felt really bad for me, or two, they always charge Tyler as a level one because even though he's graduating next week, everyone knows he's a dud.

Now that I’ve styled it properly a few times, I’ve decided that I can live with it, and maybe even go out in public on occasion. I’m going to have to get it fixed by a professional because I’m sporting the “two haircuts for the price of one” look on the sides, where the highest layer is taking on a life of its own and looks like an independent haircut. But I'm fairly unemotional about losing so much length. After all, it's not like I cared about the 'do I was rocking before- not like I patiently and painstakingly "grew it out" and nurtured it. I seriously just forgot about haircuts for a year, and it kept growing because hair does that, and then one day I realized I couldn't brush my hair anymore, which kind of ticked me off. I was actually kind of mad at my hair at that point in time. So... good riddance, I say!

The experience reminded me of this great commercial for a Cosmetology school in Utah that exhibits a healthy sense of humor about the risk one takes when receiving a haircut from a student.

Lesson learned. Next time I get a haircut, I'll just go to Cognito.

*In the interest of protecting Tyler's identity, Tyler is not Tyler's actual name.

*Emily's identity is not protected by a pseudonym, because I don't want to diminish one drop of glory due to her. Sweet, sweet Emily. Merciful goddess of the Salon School. Helper of the helpless. Thy name shall ever be revered among the mortals. Amen, and Amen.

It's That Time of Month Again

Time for me to write my monthly blog post.

Wait... what were you thinking? You guys are gross. Grow up already.

Since I do have a tendency to blog on a roughly monthly basis, let me tell you about the coolest thing that happened to me this month. My brother Aaron told me in late January that he, Kelly and Clark would like to come visit Daniel and I. So last weekend, they made the five hour drive to Nashville with a one year old in tow, which I realize is no small feat. They were also really good sports about the sleeping situation at our house, which is currently not great. We do plan to remedy that situation this year, so please don't cancel your plans to come see us just yet. Even when one of the four animals in the house (I suspect Babs) climbed into the basket of guest linens and soiled them, the valiant Aaron Rices didn't complain or even go to a hotel. They just slept right on them, like little babes. No... no that's not what happened. Seriously guys, please don't call me and say something came up that will make it impossible for you to ever stay with us again. It would break my heart. It's not that bad, I promise, it's just kind of medium bad.

The highlights of our weekend included going to the Pancake Pantry on Saturday morning to participate in the famous Nashville Tradition of waiting in line to get into the Pancake Pantry. The food was pretty good, too. We also introduced Kelly to the Wii, but I don't think she was into it.




Oh, and Clark ate his first sushi.



So as you can see, we had a really fun weekend, and Clark is the cutest baby Nashville has ever seen. The end.

Now let's discuss my employment situation. I think it's time we all talk about it. About a week ago, my manager at Obelisk approached me and was like, "you're just going to keep showing up here, aren't you?" And I was like, "Yeah. Even if you stop paying me, I'll keep coming." So they said I could stay and my job's not seasonal anymore. Okay, so that's not exactly how it went down... the point is that this puts me in the position of being able to work several days a week and still have time to write from home. Lately I've been trying to get the ball rolling with freelance journalism by building my portfolio (read, "writing for free") in hopes that one day someone will want to pay me to write for them. So now that we're on the subject, would anyone like to pay me to write for them? Pretty please? I promise it will be more polished than this blog, and I won't make jokes about menstruation in my introductory paragraphs. Usually I'll probably wait till somewhere in the body, maybe the conclusion. You have to know when your audience is prepared for period jokes, so it's a little different every time. It's really quite an irregular thing. You can't just schedule it, say every 28 days. lolz.

Alright. I'm done. Before I go, though, I'd like to direct you all to an exciting blog that's going to get even more exciting come March 23, when our dear friend Nate Johnson takes off on his trip biking (and blogging) from Florida to California. Nate is a photographer, and will post a series of photo essays documenting his trip and sharing stories of people he meets along the way. In his first post, he articulates his reasons for wanting to do this. It's very inspiring, by which I mean that it makes me feel like a lazy bum. Here's how you can support Nate on his journey:

• Read his blog. The opportunity to share stories is the core reason Nate is doing this. Whether you know Nate or not, he would so appreciate your comments and words of encouragement along the way.
• View the map on his blog and get him in touch with anyone you know who he can stay with along the way. Nate will be camping most nights, but any chance to sleep in a bed will be very welcomed, as you can imagine.
• Pray for his safety and health.
• Spread the word. The more readers, the better!

Thanks for reading, everyone. I'll catch you in a month or so.

All the Pretty Things

Last week, Daniel and I celebrated our first wedding anniversary. At the time, we were visiting Elmhurst, IL so Daniel could take his brother Joe's senior portraits. Joe is, without a doubt, ready for college. Just take a look at this guy... he simply oozes intelligence.

Seriously, though. This is what college is really about, isn't it? Being comfortable enough with yourself to dress up like a banana and walk around downtown like you own the place. We had a lot of fun taking these pictures- everyone in Elmhurst was simply delighted to see a banana amongst them. Joe was an instant celebrity. The public was especially pleased when we got in the car. His stem was getting squashed down by the roof, so Daniel opened the sunroof and we stuck it out the top. People were practically in tears for joy.

So we celebrated our anniversary in Chicago. Daniel's parents very sweetly got us tickets to see the Broadway musical, The Lion King. It was one of the coolest live performances I've ever seen. You really have to appreciate how much creativity goes into it... the costumes were beautifully ornate, and not at all what you'd expect. (I have to admit, I had my doubts about how someone was going to dance around the stage dressed as Simba without any road bumps.) The best part, hands down, was the music. A lot of the musical numbers are the same as those in the movie, but when you hear it live, it's a lot more powerful. You start to notice that there's like 30-part harmony in every song, a lot of it is sang a cappella, and it's perfectly executed. We were pretty impressed.

Then we went to dinner at this place called Girl and the Goat, which was right up our alley. Then we went and got each other's names tattooed on our bums.

Ok... we didn't do that last part, but we did get our wedding bands tattooed on. Daniel's is a simple band, and mine is an, err... this thingy:

This was taken a few days after I got it, and now it looks like I drew it on with a blue pen then washed my hands several times. I'm going to have to get it retouched once it heals up, but overall, I'm very happy with the design.

People have funny reactions to this, by the way. People are very hesitant about the idea of getting, of all things, your wedding band tattooed on. The most common response I've gotten is, "well, that's certainly a commitment." My answer? "Yes. Incidentally, so was getting married." Another thing I'm experiencing is people's responses to the design. The first thing most people ask is, "What is it?" I would describe it as a fan or half a flower, but it's not really anything other than a shape I thought was pretty. Here are some of the interpretations I've gotten: stained glass, (cool... I can see that. I like stained glass.) lace, (I like lace, too... nice!) and "a chief hat." Seriously? No. I do not like Native American headdresses. At least not enough to get one tattooed on my finger.

Last Friday, we had an anniversary party. Entertaining has been a huge part of our first year- we love having friends over for dinner, to play the Wii, or to make s'mores in our fire pit. So it only seemed natural to celebrate with yet another shindig. I wanted to make this one extra special, so I started reading up, and I found this article that suggested making the party paper themed, since your first anniversary is your paper anniversary. I thought that was awesome, because it involved hand making a bunch of pretty things, which was my favorite part about planning the wedding. I even decided to make Daniel and myself outfits out of paper to wear that night. Now, if you know me at all, you already know how this worked out: it didn't. Why? Because, although I love this kind of thing, I'm not great at it. I can do some semi-artsy-craftsy things that involve minimal hand-eye coordination, but I'm really better off sticking to small projects. I did make an honest attempt, but was quickly disillusioned. To give you an idea, I ended up taking a creme paper tablecloth and cutting a hole in the top for the neck, then cutting holes for my arms, cinching it with crepe paper, then admitting to myself that this was not going well at all. I don't even know how to describe what I looked like. It wasn't good. Same with Daniel's paper vest.

But here are some of my projects that did turn out...

I made garland out of tissue paper flowers (the white ones are made from paper doilies) and raffia, and hung it across the dining room wall.

In between every string of flowers, there was one of paper hearts strung on embroidery floss.

Since Daniel and I lost the top layer of our wedding cake in the flood, I decided to compensate by making a paper cake of hat boxes covered in pretty paper. Then I made cupcakes in the same flavors as our wedding cake.

Remember those tea stained cards we had you write on in lieu of a guest book at the wedding?

I strung some raffia in a couple of places around the living room and fastened those cards on with tiny clothespins. It was so much fun getting those out and reading them again... we have such loving, supportive friends and family. Aaron and Nate, yours both stood out. You made me tear up a little.

We also got out some wedding pictures and set them around, lit candles, and made a playlist of songs we played during different parts of our wedding (pre-ceremony, ceremony and reception). Daniel made a slideshow of wedding photos and highlights from our first year together.

All of our friends from the wedding party who live in town were able to make it, as well as a few new friends. When everyone had arrived, we played a few games, including Mafia, which was definitely the highlight of the evening. Nothing quite like getting a bunch of friends together and having them accuse each other of murder.

It really was so perfect to gather and celebrate with the friends who have been here for us through the ups and downs of our first year. We are constantly reminded how blessed we are to have such loving community.

In other non-news, most of you probably already know that I have a seasonal job at Obelisk, a housewares and gift shop in Green Hills. I've been there for a month now, and am thoroughly enjoying it. The people I work with are wonderful, and it's such a fun, laid back environment. Plus, we sell awesome stuff, like this thingy:

Before I finish this post, I have to brag on my man a little. Today I got to sleep in, and when I woke up I found that Daniel had called around to find a florist who had my favorite flowers (ranunculus) and driven across town to get them.

I am really a very lucky girl, and I hope I never take for granted how much love I have in my life.