I remember, years ago, when a certain “diet pill” was on the market. It seemed like every adult in my small town was on it. I watched as all the customers at the convenient store (yes, that’s what we called it) I worked at literally shrunk before my eyes. I remember this one specific woman who was losing weight at a very fast (and very unhealthy) rate. Every week she’d walk into the store wearing a new outfit, showing off more of her thinning frame then the week before. You could see how happy she was by the new spring in her step and the sparkle in her eyes. She loved being thinner. She became more talkative and outspoken. She started to flirt with the male customers.

I was thrilled to see how being a smaller size made this woman seem to love life so much more. I imagined what it must be like to be her and enjoying herself for the first time in maybe twenty years. I was young back then and didn’t truly understand the pressures of marriage, kids, and just life in general. I also didn’t understand the feeling of being older and not being content with how you looked on the outside.

All I saw was that she was happier. And much more confident.
I remember thinking that instead of some magic diet pill someone should invent a pill that gave you self confidence. It wasn’t being thinner that made people happy, it was just the confidence that made them happier.

At least that was my perception.

It’s funny what a little confidence can do.

I really do fine it interesting that somebody hasn’t invented a pill form of confidence yet. Dude, get on it.

And it’s funny what people gain their confidence from.

Alcohol is often referred to as liquid confidence, right? I imagine that’s one big reason why people drink in social circumstances. If I was a drinker, you know I’d be drinking any time I had to go out in public or had to be around people at all.

(By the sounds of that last paragraph, it’s a darn good thing I don’t drink.)

(Thank you, Jesus, for helping me not be a [confident] lush.)

I think I gain my own dose of confidence when I’m dealing with something I’m comfortable with. Like if I’m in charge of a certain project at work and I know the ins and out of the project, then I’m all about rocking my confidence. If I’m in a room full of people that love TV and want to talk about TV…dude, I’m the most confident person in the room.

It’s when I find myself surrounded by people that like to camp. Or mountain bike. Or go on hikes. Or run races. Yeah, I’m the one over in the corner being all nervous and crap.

So not confident with that subject matter.

I’m confident with public speaking. But only when I’ve been given ample time to prepare what I’m speaking about. And as long as I like the topic. (Yeah, like the one time I was asked to speak in church about the Reformation. Um yeah, I know nothing on the subject.)

I’m confident with my Weight Watcher chocolate chip cookie making skills. So much so that I entered a cookie backing contest at work last month. (I didn’t win. The contest was fixed. I’m just saying.)

I’m confident with my knowledge of all things Rhett Miller and Old 97’s.  Oh yes, those topics give me confidence.  (But not enough to make me confident in Rhett’s presence.)

I guess as I get older I gain more confidence in myself. Or rather, I’ve learned to not put myself in situations where I’m all wobbly and speak incoherently about subjects I know nothing about. Pretty much I steer clear of REI and people that like to hike in their spare time.

(Well, except for my bestest friend from high school and her damn hippie husband.) (I heart them.)

That doesn’t leave me much, I guess.  It just means I’m stuck only being confident when I’m speaking publicly at work, about Rhett Miller and television, while serving chocolate chip cookies.

Holy crap.  I suck.

So tell me, what would you do if you had a prescription for Confidence, in a pill form?

It’s no secret that I struggle with my look. I think the majority of grown women do. Am I right? I would be crazy to pass up on Casey Moosh’s offer to pay for a lucky blogger to get a new hair-do. I’d be ever crazier to pass this up since the all-powerful Whoorl and her Hair Thursday magic are involved.

Today we will be looking at pictures of my hair-past. Why you ask? Because I said so. And because sometimes you must share things with the internet in order to win a free hair make-over. Especially if you have a horrid hair-past like I do.

It all started when my mom, who it must be noted is a licensed hair cutter person, didn’t know what to do with my crazy toddler hair. Do you put it in little pig-tails? Do you put it in spongy curlers? Do you bother to comb it?

Heck no, you just cut the damn hair off and forget it ever existed. (Hey wait, are the couch cushions different from the couch? I’m going to have to talk to my Mom about that one.)

I mean who doesn’t love a little girl with hair shorter then most little boys? Compare my hair length to that of my older brothers. It’s neck and neck. Also, is that the exact same cut my mom is rocking?

I think it is.

See how I gave you a few cute pictures of me before I throw this bad boy in your face? Boo-ya, I present nose-picker sitting in front of a very creepy empty fireplace wearing a very odd jumpsuit. With maroon socks.

Looks like my mom was letting me grow my hair out a bit.

Good thinking mom. The extra length definitely takes away from the booger picking.

Clearly my father was a professional photographer. Check out this artsy photo of me. What you can’t see (because it’s B&W) is that my coat is rainbow colored. Very 70’s chic.

Here I’m sporting bangs. And a very pensive look. I call this portrait, “How Can I End World Hunger?”

Here’s where it all starts to get ugly. I don’t know about you, but I had a very intense awkward phase. It started the day I began the 6th grade and ended, well, it is just now starting to wind down. I would ask that you be kind and understanding. It would also help if you tried to remember back to your own awkward phase.

Continue at your own risk.

(You have been warned.)

(Seriously.)

My white sandals go great with the flannel shirt and shorts I’m sporting. My Mom made sure to never dress me in pink. As you can see that rule didn’t stand for my younger sister.

Who, by the looks of this picture, had some sort of itch.

(What’s the worst thing in this picture? My bangs or my sister’s itch?)
We all know that the 80’s look is currently very trendy. Too bad I didn’t hold on to this sweater that I got for Christmas in 1986. (What in the hell is my younger brother doing in this picture? Maybe he got my sister’s itch from using the toilet after she did.)

I had bangs for quite a few years prior to the whole Bigger Bang thing that was introduced to Utah (and the world) in the 80’s.

I rocked the straight cut bangs for years.

Not only was this awkward phase um, awkward, but I was also a little chubby. I assure you it was only baby fat and would leave by the time I was 25 35 (maybe?). The horizontal striped shirts I insisted on wearing and the pegged pants didn’t help to make me look thinner. Maybe standing in front of a dinosaur will help. And maybe by creating the highest bangs in the history of the world will make my face look thinner.

At least that’s what I was thinking.

Let’s look at a profile shot of from that same day.

Yep, the hair is high. And the pants are pegged.

Shudder.

The same trashy white sandals that I was wearing on the earlier camping trip picture made a second appearance! At least they look better with this skirt. A skirt that I was convinced(!) made me look thin. But only if I sucked in all day long. I wore that skirt all through middle school and junior high. It was good to me.

The bangs, yeah they weren’t as good to me. I just didn’t know it at the time.

Most of junior high was spent in a haze of hair spray. I divided my time between creating complex mathematical equations that would enable me to get my bangs to touch the sky and collecting necklaces to wear on top of each other.

Hey, it was a look.

I also discovered that if I braided my hair at night when it was wet it would look like a real live permanent wave by morning. I was by no means allowed to get one of those horrible perms, so I succumbed to a fake perm.

That’s right, I put my hair in small braids every single night of my life in an attempt to fake the look of a perm.

I also made my own lace for my collars and put shoulder pads in all my dresses. All of this kept me too busy to tweeze my brows. Dude, I was just too busy.

Somewhere between junior high and high school I lost The Bangs. But not before my dad convinced me to get all gussied up for our own at-home-backyard-photo-shoot.

(My dad scanned this picture and sent it to me. He titled it “model”. I’m not kidding.)

I spent my sophomore year doing what every other girl in my grade was doing; growing out my bangs. This took much longer for me since my hair was longer then should be legally allowed. Here I am sporting my First Day of School outfit. Yep, I’m ultra trendy and chose a plain white top. I’m sure all the boys noticed.

I preferred to pull my hair out of my face, but I knew this accentuated my forehead and my damn brows. So I cut a few pieces of hair to shield the head. Marci and I referred to them as “Kreblings” and they remained for years.

Thankfully I was no longer rocking the fake perm from my junior high days. I was, however, still rocking the super duper long hair.

My mom had a strict rule that I must pull some of my hair forward for every picture. She said this was to showcase my gorgeous long hair. Looking back I’m glad I followed her rule. It makes it easier to mock the length of my hair. (Notice how I said “mock” and I’m wearing a mock turtleneck in this photo? I’m clever. I wonder if Whoorl and Casey will give me extra points for that?)

Every picture taken of me has some hair pulled forward for the sake of the picture.

Even random shots had my pulling my hair forward. And I wasn’t even proud of my long hair. Only my mother was.

I didn’t get asked to many boy-choice dances in high school. Surprise, I know. I did go to the (girls-choice) Preference dance with The Most Preferred Junior boy. I lurved him. He was in a wheelchair and the Florence Nightingale effect was in full force.

I put so much time and effort into planning this date, but he picked another girl to escort him during the program. I tried to act like it didn’t bother me. Of course it did.

In an attempt to make this boy notice me, I decided to cut a ton of my hair off and wear a new fancy white bow for the dance.

At the time of this grand hair cutting my hair measured in at a whopping:

I should have done this years before.

My mom probably only cut a foot off, but it was a big deal to me. Nobody else noticed. I think it’s because they were too busy looking at the crazy polka-dot bow that Marci is wearing in this photo. This was smack dab in the middle of our “we must wear huge bows” phase.

My date never spoke to me again after the dance. I guess he wasn’t impressed with the foot of hair I cut off for him. I bet if I would have saved it and presented it to him in a little box he would have liked me more.

After high school and during college I decided to experiment with my hair a little. And by “experiment” I mean I let my drunk ass roommate cut it. And then I bleached it.

I looked so different that even I wasn’t sure this was me in this picture. Since I’m holding my cousin and my sister is standing next to me, I’m pretty sure it is me.

But dude, short and blond is not a good look for Isabel.

And yet, I wore my hair like that for most of my early twenties. Give or take the few days I added some cute little barrettes to jazz up my look.

By the time I met my first husband I had let my hair grow out a little bit. And I quit bleaching it. Thank goodness. He probably wouldn’t have paid me any attention if I had looked all blonde and crazy.

Oh wait, would that have been such a bad thing?

I’m a star!

(A star that sneaks into the local high school to get school pictures taken for cheap. Seriously, I was 21 at this point. And not a student at the high school. I can’t remember why I did this.)

Yeah, my hair was a little poofy and I had fake nails. And eyebrows that go on for days. This is exactly how you catch a man.

A few years later and my hair was slowly growing past my shoulders. (Now my older brother was the one bleaching his hair.)

I am still making the same damn face that I always make in pictures, head slightly tilted, eyes not opened all the way. It’s classic Isabel. Even if I try to not make the pose, I do it. Every time.

(This picture was taken in the middle of my divorce. I was still pretty much a mess. Don’t worry, that didn’t last too long.)

By the time I met The King my hair was long and straight and easy to keep up. I typically had it highlighted and blew it straight every day. I liked it. And I guess The King did to.

And then like most brides, I cut it all off after we got married. (Why oh why do girls do this?) Short hair is not a good look on me. I found this out the hard way and them immediately began growing it back out.

And while my hair is ultra flat and my roots are about two inches long (and yes, my glasses are blue), The King’s hair was big enough for the both of us. (Whoorl and Casey, can The King enter this little contest too?)

After a few years of marriage, adult braces, growing my hair out and learning that my hair’s actually naturally curly, I’m getting more and more used to my current look:

But that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t do whatever it takes to win Moosh’s make-over contest. Even if I winning means I have to subject myself to the embarrassments of posting 33 years of Isabel’s bad hair for all the interweb to mock.

So tell me, was your awkward phase as horrible and as long as mine was?

After I graduated from college and long before I was married I had one specific girl friend that I hung out with all the time. Andi was a lot of fun and we both liked to be around each other. We spent a few years spending all of our spare time together. We both liked going to Salt Lake City to the clubs. We both loved to go to concerts. We both loved the sun and fun. And, of course, we both loved the boys.

I’m not sure how it happened but Andi and I always seemed to have boyfriends at the same time. Thus making us also single at the same time. This system worked out great for us as we never had the guilt from ditching your friend for your new boyfriend. At the start of one particular summer we were both dating new guys that the other had yet to meet. Andi had been talking up her new guy something fierce. Apparently this new guy was smart and hott and came from a good family and had a good job. Andi was smitten.

(My current boyfriend wasn’t smart or hott or from a good family. And he didn’t have a job. But that’s a story for another day.)

Andi was super anxious for me to meet her new boyfriend. So anxious that she brought him into my work so I could meet him on my lunch break.

Andi was right, Tony was hott. He had dark black hair and light eyes. He smiled and his perfectly formed teeth shimmered from their sheer brightness. Andi introduced me to Tony. We both said “hi” and then Tony started to say something. I have no idea what Tony said but I know it was lame. The minute, no, the second Tony opened his mouth he instantly became less hott.

This guy was a complete tool. He wasn’t smart. He wasn’t funny. He wasn’t anything except a compete and utter tool. I instantly forgot about his perfect hair and his perfect teeth. All I wanted to do was get as far away from Tony as I could.

I spent the rest of the summer trying to avoid double dates with Andi and Tony. Thankfully, eventually, she broke up with him.

Phew. I thought I was going to have to stop being Andi’s friend simply because she might marry this guy.

Tony, who was pretty on the outside, became ugly once I saw his insides.

Wesley was five years older then me, and yet somehow we became friends my senior year of high school. He was over a foot taller then me and double my width. Due to a childhood accident Wesley had damage to his vocal chords that caused his voice to be low and raspy. His quiet voice didn’t match his huge stature, which made him stick out even more in a crowd. Wesley didn’t look like Brad Pitt or Rhett Miller. But he had a heart of gold. When I was around him I instantly felt better about myself and my teenage-angst-filled life.

His insides were pretty so Wesley became pretty to me.

And this surprised me, although I’m not sure why. It’s just like my mom always told me and like all the lessons at church. What you are like on the inside really does affect how you look on the outside.

And I guess as I got older I really did realize this more. I found myself initially drawn to the hott boys, but soon realized that maybe they weren’t so hott once I got to know them a little better. I quickly learned it was super rare to find someone I liked on the outside and the inside. It made sense to me then, when I first laid eyes on The King, that I was floored that someone so freakin’ attractive on the outside could be so striking on the inside too. I guess it’s when you find the person that is just so compelling that have to stop everything and marry them. Right?

It’s what I did.

Here’s hoping I’ll still find him just as attractive on the inside after the next two days of being stuck in a car with him and Babboo.

And here’s hoping he’ll still find me attractive on the outside after his requested alone-adult-time in my parent’s barn this weekend.

—————–

Want to hear my thoughts on yesterday’s police shooting in downtown Seattle?  Head over to SeattleMomBlogs to read all about it.

My first husband and I never spoke of pooping. Ever. Not only did we never discuss this topic, we never actually pooped while they other person was in a 10 mile radius. Give or take a few miles. This tended to make things uncomfortable.

Especially vacations spent in cramped hotel rooms over an extended amount of time.

I’m not really sure the reasoning behind our No Pooping edict. Was it his fault? My fault? All I know is that we weren’t comfortable with pooping around each other.

Long before I was married I worked with a woman named Debbie. She and her husband had been married for ten years and had four children together. And yet Debbie never hid the fact that her husband had never seen her naked. Ever. Not when their four children were conceived and not when those same children were birthed from her (assumingly) naked body.

Debbie just wasn’t comfortable with her husband seeing her naked.

My ex-sister-in-law went through some fertility issues during my marriage to her younger brother. During this time she had quite a few medical procedures done on her body. One of which caused her some alarm. She was so upset by something that was happening to her girly parts that she made her mom come over and check it out.

I was all, “why doesn’t her husband just take a look?” and everyone in the family was all “her husband!? Oh no, her mom needs to check it out?”

I guess she was just more comfortable with her mom (who is not a doctor) seeing her special place up close and personal then her own husband.

Last summer one of my close girl friends asked a group of us if we want to go with her to this “woman’s only” sauna outside of Seattle. Apparently, since it’s just women, you can go naked in any of the saunas. Everyone thought this sounded like something fun for us ladies to do. Everyone that is, except me. I was quite confident that I wasn’t comfortable with my girlfriends seeing me sans clothing.

I know this is odd since I’ve admitted that I’m comfortable going to a nude beach.

I think the difference, for me, is that nobody at the nude beach knew me. I didn’t have to sit next to them at church on Sunday. I didn’t have to look at them over the dinner table on a Sunday night. I didn’t know their kid’s or their husbands. They were strangers.

I guess I’m saying I’m comfortable with strangers seeing me naked?

That doesn’t make sense.

Oh well.

I know I’m really, really not comfortable with my mom seeing me naked.

One of my very best friends had her first baby last week. While talking to her on the phone last night she told me she finally had to tell her mom and dad to leave her house so she could nurse her newborn in private. She just isn’t comfortable with them there while she whips her boobs out and feeds her kid.

I totally understand. I nursed Babboo for fourteen months and I never got super comfortable with doing it in public. I understand that it’s natural and all of that. It wasn’t that I was ashamed of nursing my child. I was mostly just ashamed of my fat rolls and my pasty skin. I wasn’t comfortable sharing it with the world.

It’s been hot around these parts the last couple of days. I keep asking Babboo if he wants to take his shoes off and run around in his sandals. He refuses. I don’t think he likes his toes being exposed. He’s just more comfortable with socks on.

The King is comfortable with almost everything. You want to see the mole on his inner thigh? He’ll show you. You want to hear about the topless shows we saw in Vegas a few years back? He’ll tell you. The only thing he really isn’t comfortable with is talking about my miscarriages. Or having my parents stay at our house.

Everything else, he’s totally game.

So tell me, what are some things that make you uncomfortable? And what are you totally comfortable with that might surprise the rest of us?

———————

You know I’m totally 100% comfortable talking about Brazilian waxing with you all. So much so that it’s my latest New Thing.

Anyone watching The Two Coreys? I am. And I blogged about it over at WeHeartTV.

Every summer, when I was little, my parents would pack up our car (or our truck, depending) and we’d drive down to Utah to visit my mom’s family for the 4th of July. We lived in Oregon when I was in elementary school so the trek to Utah was a long one. Having us all stuffed inside our little car (of worse, in the back of the truck) was painful and only made the trip that less desirable. Sure we loved spending time with our extended family in Utah, but we hated the drive to grandma’s house.

In an attempt to make the long car trip more manageable my mom would do everything in her power to keep us entertained. She would pack bags full of library books and puzzles. She’s also pack a cooler full of water and sandwiches so we wouldn’t have to stop to eat. My mom always made two pans of treats and loaded them into the car still in their pans. One pan was her famous fudge (half with nuts, half without) and one pan was Jello jigglers. I was mostly only interested in the jigglers.

The rest of them fought over the fudge.

I have a few very distinct memories from these trips. One involves an intense bout of car sickness and a leftover sandwich baggie my mom wanted me to vomit into. Another memory is sort of the same. Except there was no baggie that time.

Only an open window and the wind in my face.

One story, that I don’t remember, gets retold time and time again. Apparently my family and I were driving through the night while my older brother and I were asleep in the back seat. I woke up and decided to play a trick on my dad, who was driving at the time.

“Guess who,” I asked my dad as I put my hands over his eyes.

And then he freaked out, swerving on the empty street. My mom and brother instantly woke up and my mom quickly pulled my hands away from my dad’s eyes.

Oopsie.

I remember playing silly road trip games like Bingo and Slugbug. I remember my mom prompting us to look for specific farm animals or car. Or even license plates. I remember tying to sleep with my head propped between my pillow and the window. And I remember freaking out when my younger sister had gas and we constantly had to open the car windows to let in some fresh air.

Good times.

Since moving to Seattle to marry The King almost eight years ago, he and I had driven to Utah once or twice. Maybe three times. Usually we just fly. It’s so much faster and relatively cheap to get plane tickets. But now that Babboo’s over two, we have to buy him his own ticket. And we all know that tickets aren’t as cheap as they once were. (Dude, what happened to flying to Utah for $99 roundtrip?)

And yet, I’m still itching to be in Utah for the 4th of July. I want Babboo to have some of the same experiences I had a child visiting family in Utah. I want him to go to the parade on the morning of the 4th. I want him to sit in the same spot my family’s been sitting in since my mom was born. (In front of the bank, in the shade.)

(My family and I, in our spot, for the 4th of July parade in 1986.)

I want Babboo to wear his new 4th outfit and try to catch the candy as the floats go by. I want him to walk up to the park, after the parade is over, and eat cotton candy and punch bags. I want him to sit under the big tree in the corner of the park and watch the people go by. I want him to eat turkey sandwiches on homemade rolls at my grandma’s house and drink as many punch bags as he can sneak with the rest of the kids. I want him to watch the fireworks and try to catch fish in the pond.

And that is why we’re packing up our car next week and driving down to Utah. It seems a little ridiculous to spend three days in the car when we’ll only be in Utah for two days. It’s something I’ve wanted to do for most of my adult life.

I’m taking my son to the 4th of July.

Now we just need to make it through the drive to get there. We’ve never gone more then a few hours in the car with Babboo. And I’m pretty sure a pan of fudge and Jell-o jigglers isn’t going to hold his attention like it did for my family. And I’m not sure he’ll sleep in his car seat if we decide to drive all night. And we don’t have a portable DVD player.

So tell me, how do I make this road trip the best start to an even better mini vacation?

One of the many places my ex-husband I lived in was a house that his great uncle owned. It was a very, very old house. Old enough that it was the house his great uncle has been raised in. The house was just a little farm house with only two little bedrooms and a bathroom that always seemed like more of an after thought.

My ex’s family wanted to keep the old farm house in the family. I liked the fact that his uncle only charged us a few hundred dollars a month in rent and they were just happy that we were willing to live in the house.

Unfortunately his uncle lived next door to our little farm house and my in-laws lived across the street.

Suede (which is what I like to call my ex, mostly because he hated that nickname) worked evenings and I worked days. I would get home from work every afternoon and have about five hours to kill until he would get home. This was perfect on the sunny days where my girlfriends and I would head out right after work to do something fun. But on the boring days where I had no plans between quitting-time and husband-getting-home time, I had to try to kill the time.

When we first moved into the house, I was excited to spend my free afternoons working out in the yard. I had never had my own yard before and the thought of planting flowers I bought and watering them with my very own garden hose was thrilling. One of my first free afternoons was spent at the nursery picking out the perfect plants for the yard. I came home with a crate full of pretty flowers and a new shovel. I turned on some music and started planting away.

Almost as soon as I starting planting the flowers, Suede’s great aunt appeared from inside her house. She didn’t say anything to me, she just messed about in her own yard. I couldn’t be sure, but I felt like she was there to watch me. To make sure I didn’t do anything she didn’t approve of. Since I wasn’t planting marijuana or burying dead babies, I was pretty sure I wasn’t doing anything that she wouldn’t approve of.

I shook of my feelings of being watched and just kept planting.

The next afternoon after work, I went back out in my yard to check on my new plants and to give them some water. Almost immediately after I turned on the hose, Suede’s aunt appeared in her yard. She wasn’t doing anything really, just puttering around her yard. But again, I felt like I was being watched. This time it wasn’t as easy to shake off this feeling. I quickly finished my tasks and went back inside my house.

The next day, Suede’s aunt was already out in her yard when I pulled in the driveway after work. It was as if she was waiting for me. I nodded to her as I unloaded my car and walked inside my house. I closed the front curtains as soon as I put my things down and decided to stay inside the rest of the afternoon.

I was a married adult and I didn’t like feeling like a child who needed supervision. Especially when I wasn’t doing anything wrong.

Okay, so I admit that this all might have been in my head. Suede’s aunt was a pleasant lady-even if she was a million years old. She had lived next door to the little farm house since she had been a new bride. She was probably just used to keeping tabs on the old farm house, no matter who lived there. And really, it was technically her house. Suede and I were just (paying) tenants.

The rest of the time Suede and I spent in the old farm house had me shut inside with the curtain closed. The yard work was only done when it had to be done. I gave up on having bright flowers and spending time out in the sun in my yard.

As you’ve all heard, The King and I moved into our new house this weekend.  It’s still technically under construction, so yard work is the last thing on my mind.  I’d like to first hang up some window coverings and maybe figure out where the toothpaste is.  Then I’ll think about tacking the yard.
Maybe.

And since work is still being done on the house, it means that when Babboo and I get home in the afternoon, we aren’t alone in the house.  The King’s dad, who is semi-retired and awesome enough to help us, is there working on the last few odds and ends.  It really has been a blessing for us to have him available to help us with the new house, but still, it feels a little odd to come home to a house where someone else, someone that doesn’t live there, is working away.

I know my father in law isn’t watching me.  I know he isn’t keeping tabs on me.  I know this.
And yet, I can’t stop feeling like I did with Suede’s aunt.  I immediately want to put down my things and hide from my father in law on the top floor with Babboo.

But yeah, I’m a married adult and mother and I just can’t do that.

Last night Babboo and I made dinner while my father in law was in the basement working on my new house.

So tell me, am I the only one that feels super weird knowing that someone is watching me in my own house?

——————-

Head over to read all about my latest New Thing.  (And dude, I wrote that post before last night’s ride home on the bus where the bus driver decided to take his own route headed in the completely wrong direction and I feared that we were being hijacked by a terrorist.  Seriously.)

Want to hear what the latest “How I Met Your Mother” news is? (hint: someone knows who The Mother is!) Read all about it over at WeHeartTV.