My Computer Almost Died, but Then It Didn't

Our computer died this week, so I fully intended to clink out a little post finger by finger on my iPhone. I was minorly worried about losing all the information and photos on our hard drive. Actually, it was really the thousands of photos because, I am a photo person and to have those gone makes a little (okay, big) part of me die inside. But. BUT, I did not let myself think about it too much because I was pretty sure (and hopeful) that it was something to do with our charging cord and nothing to do with the computer itself.

It was the cord. And my Apple savvy father donated a cord for us so that we could have our computer for the few days it takes us to get out to get a new one. Not that we can't go a few days without a computer (we could, I swear, but only because we now have smart phones. We might've perished with the inhumanity if we still had our old phones AND no working computer). Anyway, thanks Papa.

Crisis averted. Photos in tact.

But, our computer is pretty old for a computer. A whole six years (gasp!). So, this little hiccup made me realize that perhaps I should do something about the thousands of photos on my computer that are here and only here and not backed up and I perhaps would be DEVASTATED to lose. What can I do about it? (No really, I'm asking you.)

Not to mention the gazillons of photos take up all the space on our hard drive. It's pretty terrible, actually.

Anyway, blah blah blah. Computer, shomputer. Technology, shmechnology. Apparently my lack of access to the computer has really taken my pointless ramblings up a notch.

Other people can write poetically about the symbol of Easter today, I'll just bore you with a story about my nonworking (but now working) computer. My computer was reborn! Hah! I brought it back to Easter! See? I can be symbolic too! (Although I'm kinda wondering if comparing the death and rebirth of my computer is blasphemes, is it? Obviously I know that Jesus rising from the dead is the important thing here. I promise.)

Clearly this post is going down hill fast. Thanks computer, for not eating all my photos. I'll make an appointment at the Apple Store asap.

xoxo, christine

Might as Well Just Get Myself a Typewriter

It's hard to imagine, in this technological age, that Adam and I ever lived without a computer, but the truth is, until about five years ago we did. Our first computer purchase together (because my parents had gotten me one in high school, that I dragged to college, that eventually died) was when I was home with Hope and desperate for something aside from the television to keep me company with a baby that never talked to me.

After putting a lot of thought and research into it, we decided on a Mac laptop. One that we loved from the start and that has survived numerous falls onto tile floor. It is, in fact, the computer I type this on now.

Five years doesn't seem like that long, but apparently for the life of an electronic it is ancient, as I have recently found out some rough news. There are web sites that our old web browser can no longer support and in my search to update our web browser I learned that OUR COMPUTER IS TOO OLD TO SUPPORT A NEW WEB BROWSER.

Do you realize what this means? I can't even update the software on our computer because our computer is too old to support it.

I do understand that this is a first world problem and all, but, really!? I have to buy a new computer in order to use certain websites? Lame. (And, most likely not going to happen.) What makes me especially frustrated is that I used a free photo editor website to make collages and edit photos and that is one of the sites that no longer works.

But, aside from buy a new computer, what else can I do? Just complain and complain and post fewer pictures and never update the photo at the top of this here blog. (Life is hard, I tell you.) I'm sure that I will get over it... someday.

Just not today. I'm going to spend a little more time being annoyed first. (You can find me pouting in the corner.)

In other news, tomorrow (after school) is the start of Spring Break which I've decided means it's actually going to start feeling like spring around here. I will totally ignore the fact that snow was falling today, and focus instead on the rain beforehand that melted some of the massive snowbanks still lingering.

Happy Spring!

xoxo, christine

Five Things I Should Give Up for Lent

1.  Making commitments due to guilt. Feeling guilty about things I am doing. Feeling guilty about things I am not doing. Actually, I should just give up guilt altogether, but oh-so-impossible because the Catholic Guilt is strong in this one.

2.  Procrastinating. (Facebook. Email. Facebook. Buzzfeed. Huffington Post. Facebook. Candy Crush. Facebook.)

3.  Sleeping in. But my bed is so comfy and we just moved our furniture upstairs and it's like a cozy retreat and I'm just going to close my eyes for a few more minutes....zzzz

4. Not shaving. So basically I should give up being hairy. It's about time to start keeping up with these things...m'kay? Of course, given my Yetiness, it will probably take all forty days just to get this situation under control.

5. My sanity. I hear that sanity is highly over-rated anyway, so I might as well let go of any last remaining shred I had and be free. Here's to insanity!


*****

What am I really going to give up for Lent, you may be wondering? I suppose I should get that figured out today. Until I decide I better not do anything, think anything, or eat anything. Don't want to start these forty days with a failure.

xoxo, christine

These Boots are Made for Splashing

I bought myself some rubber rain boots yesterday. I am so ready for spring.

Apparently, Mother Nature didn't get the memo. She and I aren't on speaking terms right now.

But, that's alright. I am perfectly happy to trade in my clonky snow boots for some cute (although also clonky) rain boots. Even if there's still approximately 100 inches of snow on the ground. And more frigid temperatures in sight.

Spring might not make an appearance until June this year, but, by golly, I'm going to do whatever I can to make it spring, for me. If that includes drinking iced coffees instead of mochas and rain boots instead of snow boots, I am all over that.

(Unfortunately, I have to draw the line at wearing a spring jacket, etc. I do value my warmth and well-being.)

I have a feeling it's going to be a loooong time until it feels like spring. But I am ready. Rain boots and all.

xoxo, christine

Goodbye Dear Friend

Dearest Vacuum,

It is with semi-great sadness that we said goodbye to you this week.  You have been with our family from the beginning, purchased with money we received from our wedding.  Perhaps not the most romantic of gifts to give ourselves, your practicality won us over.

Although you were one of the cheaper models, you were in no way cheap, serving us for a good five and half years.  I think it was your violet hue that caught our eye that fateful day in Kohl's.

You have seen us through our first apartment, a move into a house, the birth of two children, and the chaos in it all.

My relationship with you might have been precarious -- filled with the joys of your ability to suck up all our messes, but my annoyance with having to clean up at all, plus you were a bit on the heavy side.  Still, you did good by us, and, up until the end, kept a lot of our secrets.  I am sorry I was not with you as you sparked your last breath and sputtered to an end.

Of course, it will not be the same without you, but we will move on.  And although we have no replacement for you yet, fear not, our house will not remain unvacuumed for long.  (After all, you know it can't, as we have carpet in our dining room and a two-year-old eating there.)  We will make you proud and find an easy, bagless, lightweight -- most likely, expensive -- vacuum to bring home.

Thanks for cleaning up our crap.

xo,
Christine and family

How to Remove Pen from a Child's Coat

Step 1:  Let four-year-old use a pen unsupervised.

Step 2:  Notice pen scribbled all over the back of four-year-old's coat and have no idea how long it's been there.

Step 3:  Wait a few weeks.

Step 4:  Finally decide to try to remove the pen.

Step 5:  Spray with Shout. Scrub with toothbrush.

Step 6:  Pour on laundry detergent. Scrub with toothbrush.

Step 7:  Let sit for unknown amount of time.

Step 8:  Wash coat in washing machine.

Step 9:  Hope for the best.

Step 10:  Remove coat and rejoice.  Pen is gone!

Step 11:  Do not allow four-year-old to use pen again.  Until you do.

Step 12:  Repeat all steps.



 ****

Linking up with Parenting by Dummies for Wordful Wednesday.

Project 365 Week 6 - Conversation Bubble Edition

Project 365 Week 5 - Bonus Edition

Hooray!  Today you are getting a bonus edition, which means - you lucky person you - you get a bonus... (drum roll)

Picture!

I know, I know, you can hardly contain your excitement.  No thanks necessary, although if you do want to show your appreciation I accept chocolate, coffee, and ice cream.  Or chocolate swirled, coffee flavored, ice cream.  And cash.

Ahem.  Anyway, you are such fortunate individuals because I used Picnik to make my collage and they do not offer a seven frame collage, thus, the bonus eighth picture.

I mean, I did it just because I know you were so wishing for more pictures.  Yes, that's it.

So here is our week, in a nutshell.  Or rather, in a collage.

As you can see, we laughed, we played, we played we laughed, we watched TV, made funny faces...  Oh, and it was foggy.

But you will be happy to hear that there was a teeny, tiny, minuscule increase in the amount of sleeping this week.  (I know you were wondering.)

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go check the freezer.  I'm suddenly craving some Ben & Jerry's.

I Never Thought I Would...

Once again I am participating in Monday Listicles with Stasha.


Yes, I realize it is no longer Monday.  It is, in fact, getting farther from Monday as I type, but I'm a rule breaker like that.  Actually not so much.  I'm pretty straight-laced, or a square, or whatever other metaphor you want to use.



But anyway...


This installment is "I'll Never...": The Top Ten Things You Said You Would NEVER Do And Have Caught Yourself Doing.


Here is my list, in no particular order.  Because, you know, we don't want number three to get a complex because of number seven.  Or something.


1.  I never thought I would get sick swinging, and yet, the past several times I've tried to really get up there I've found myself feeling like I just spent the better part of a day in a car ride through the mountains.  Guess this old lady's days of swinging so high her toes touch the clouds are over.  Only baby rocking back and forth for me.  Unless the girls ask.  I'll just have to make sure I'm doped up with dramamine first.


2.  I never thought I'd cry when my first baby went in for her first immunizations.  I knew it was all for good and yet, I shocked myself when my eyes flooded at the sounds of her cries and I called my husband sobbing and telling him I was not doing that without him EVER AGAIN.


3.  I never thought I would wish I had more photos of my body, specifically my belly, from my college and early twenties (read: before pregnancy).  Did I really ever have a flat tummy?  Totally wish I had physical proof.


4.  I never thought I'd have the awesome in-laws that I have.  Not that I ever thought I'd have horrible ones, but I just never could've even imagined my good fortune.  (Did some of you just roll your eyes in my obvious attempt to suck-up?)


5.  I never thought I'd marry a blue-eyed, blond-haired Fin from Northern Minnesota.  Uh, hello?  I, like, was totally going to meet, fall madly in love with, and marry [insert high school movie star crush here] who would, like, totally sweep me off my feet and love my completely reserved and quiet personality.  Duh!


6.  I never thought I would run a race.  Or run for fun.  Or run for any other reason other than someone or something totally freaky and scary and worth running from was chasing me.  (No need to mention how long it has been since I ran said race.  My tummy is no longer flat -- you can make your own assumptions.)


7.  I never thought I would live so far away from my sister.  Even though when we were younger we talked about her moving out to Colorado and me moving... I can't remember where but it must've been somewhere totally romantic and exotic like Brazil or France or Indonesia or... Detroit (hmm).  I just never thought she would be so far away and it would be so hard to stay in touch on a regular basis.


(Excuse me a moment while I grab a tissue and cry for a bit....  Whew.  Okay.  Moving on.)


8.  I never thought I would sign up for Facebook.  But I did.  And look at me now.  I've got me a blog, a Facebook page for my blog, and I'm tweeting like I know what I'm doing.  Only I don't.  Know what I'm doing that is.  With any of this.  (But shhh, don't tell.)

9.  I never thought I'd stick a baby's pacifier in my mouth to keep it clean.  But I just did it this weekend.  Twice.  With the pacifier of my friend's five month old baby.  Oh calm down!  I'm just kidding.  But I did do it with Little P's pacifier once and then was so freaked out that I haven't done it since.

10.  I never thought I wouldn't own a minivan.  (How's that sentence for convoluted?)  My husband vows he will never get a minivan and since I grew up with one I never really thought about not having one.  I'll keep you posted on how this one pans out.  He might not be able to stop the inevitable after we have the five more babies he doesn't know I'm planning.  [insert evil laugh here]  Hmm, we might have to get a bus instead...


You made it!  Whew.  Thanks for sticking with me.  Now go take a break.  I promise my next post won't be so wordy.

A Four-Year-Old's Humor (you've been warned)

My daughter has a potty mouth.

No, not the vocabulary of a sailor.  Although, that's not to say she hasn't overheard a few naughty words from her mother father.

Her potty mouth is, in fact, about the potty.  Poop and butt seem to be her new favorite words.  And any combination of the two, or even adding a well-placed adjective such as stinky, is guaranteed to cause a fit of giggles.

Spongebob Squarepants is now Spongebob Poop-pants.  (Not that we watch it, because he is not my favorite cartoon for a four-year-old.)

Her sister too, has caught on to the hilarity of it all, and will run up and down the hall yelling, "Poopy butt!  Poopy butt!"

I'm not sure, but Adam and I may not help the situation when we joke around about toys pooping and tooting on each other.  (There is your ah-ha moment.  Our daughter comes by it quite naturally.)

For the most part, I don't mind.  When it's just the four of us.  In the privacy of our own home.  Alone.

But before you go running for the hills, or feel the need to remove your child from my daughter's preschool class and thus her poopy influence, I will tell you, for the most part the potty humor does stay at home.

But just in case, I might be having a little discussion about where potty humor is appropriate.  You know, just so she doesn't end up getting a note sent home from school informing us she called the teacher Mrs. Poopy Pants.

A Funny* Thing Happened on the Way to 30

I used to be funny.

Maybe not of the hilarious kind, but I had a fair amount of humor up my sleeve.  In fact, my grandmother used to call me the Family Clown.  (Not because I was always throwing pies in people's faces or making balloon animals.  Although I did have some big red shoes...)

(And yes, my grandma was an expert on the topic.  Sort of.  Maybe.  Okay, not really, but I swear she wasn't bias toward me.  At.  All.)

Last year, when I told some other moms about my grandmother's nickname for me, I saw a couple of mouths drop to the floor.  Later, one mom admitted to me that she thought I must've come from a family of morticians**.  (Not because I am so unfunny, I hope, but because I was always so, ahem, serious quiet.)

So what happened?

Perhaps it was never there.  Or perhaps my stint of college matured it away. (ha)  Or perhaps I lost it on my way to becoming a mother.

In any case, I do not use funny as an adjective for myself.  I have no future in stand-up.  I will not be featured on SNL.  And I certainly will never qualify to be Kristen Wigg's sidekick.

But then, fairly recently, an acquaintance called me funny.  Not in the you-are-weird kind of way, but in the you-say-things-that-make-me-laugh kind of way.  Which made me feel all warm and fuzzy inside.

Why did this "being funny" thing become important to me?  Is it because I am now at thirty and looking for a way to connect my youth and putting up posters of early 90s heartthrobs and obsessing over Newsies is out of the question?  Unlikely, but possible.

Actually, I think that somewhere along my journey I have come to believe funny = fun.

And who doesn't want to be fun, right?

Whether or not this equation is true, I don't know.  (Actually, I don't even know if one thing equalling another is technically an equation.  But that's neither here nor there.)

All I know is, I've dusted off my joke book.  So watch out.

Not really, I only had a joke book when I was like 12, but I'm using it as euphemism for trying to bring a little humor back to myself and, as a natural side effect, all of you.

And for goodness sakes, if you don't think I'm funny, feel free to give me a pity laugh anyway.  (I may be thirty now but I still have a few insecurities leftover from my youth too.)






*pun intended
**this is not to imply that morticians are not or can not be funny or that all morticians are quiet or serious

NY State of Mind

I miss New York City.

True, I've never lived there, and I've only actually visited approximately four times, but it can be true love after four dates, right?

Don't get me wrong.  I'm not cheating on the Twin Cities.  I enjoy living here, and I certainly can't imagine living anywhere else.

But I'm lusting after New York.

I love the energy of the city.  I love the hum of the people, the traffic, the life.  I love the chocolate croissants, the tiny corner grocery stores, the multitude of authentic and delicious restaurants, the busy shoppers, the loungers in Central Park, the iced coffees.

I love the public transportation and that you can walk or ride to just about anywhere and/or anything in the city.

And I love that my awesome sister lives there.  (I will neither confirm nor deny that this is one of the biggest reasons I love New York.)

Of course, I do not love everything about it.  Even though I know plenty of people do it, I can not imagine sending my children to school in New York.  Not because the school system is bad, but because it is so competitive.

I do not love the crazy traffic of the city.  I would NEVER drive there, or even try to ride a bike around.

I do not love the lack of wide open spaces (not that the immediate Twin City area has a lot of those, but I was raised an Iowa girl, and what would life be like without the occasional farm or corn field?).

Ah, but these things can be overlooked for NYC.  We're still in the honeymoon phase of our relationship.  And to tell you truth, will probably always be.

Aside from my sister (sniff), our family is here.  We grew up here.  We like it here.

But even though I'm happy where we are, that doesn't mean I can't fantasize, right?  And maybe I'll just have to go out and visit my sister a little more often too.

Let Her Eat Cake

My daughter is turning four this week.

We have been trying to decide on a theme for her birthday.

When asked what she wants on her cake, Hope told me, Elmo.

(What!?  Elmo?  Child had an Elmo cake when she was two.  She then got so caught up in Dora and her exploring that she did not show interest in the little red monster again.  Elmo, really?)

So I asked her, "Hey Hope?  Why do you want Elmo on your cake?"

"Because Paige likes Elmo, Mommy," was her sweet reply.

"Aww, honey.  That is very nice.  But it is your birthday.  We should do something that you like."

"But I like Elmo."

Sigh.

A few days later I tried again.  Her reply?

"Elmo."

"Hope, we are not doing an Elmo cake for your birthday," says the mean mom that I am.  "What else would you like on your cake?"

"Um, dinosaurs."

(Are you kidding me!?  This child has exactly two plastic dinosaurs that get played with maybe twice a year.)

"Hm, why would you like a dinosaur cake?"

"Because Noah [her cousin] likes them."

Again.  Really?

"Hope, why don't you chose something that you really like?"

"But I like dinosaurs, too."

Sigh.

We tried many different suggestions (some even with visual aids), all shot down by my almost-four-year-old daughter.  It was not until after Christmas, and her new toys, that she finally found a theme we could agree on.

(You know, one that she actually has shown an interest in the past year or so of her life.)

Let's just hope I can pull it off....

The Case of the Missing Cheerio

My daughter stuck a cheerio up her nose this morning.

Not the little one.  The one who will be four in less than two weeks.

Cheerio.  Up her nose.

I could not even see it.

Every time I had her blow her nose, she blew hard and then proceeded to take an extremely big sniff, IN.

Because I am a (sometimes) cautious parent, I called the nurse line.  Had it been, say, a bead, uncooked noodle, peanut, or marble (can kids actually get marbles up there?), I would've known for sure to see a doctor, but as a cheerio gets soggy in milk, I figured it might also do the same in, uh, snot...

After asking if I could see the cheerio (again, I could not), and then a good little chuckle (ha, ha), the nurse told me that yes, we should come in and see the doctor.

I'll spare you the details, but after a few blows into a tissue while in the waiting room, it appeared a cheerio exited Hope's nose.

We still went in to see the doctor.  He checked her nose, listened to her chest, and gave us the all clear.

On our way out I had a little chat with Hope about how nothing goes into any hole in your body, unless it's food, you know, going into your mouth.

And that was how my week started.  Happy Monday!

The Plight of a Christmas Tree

I think our Christmas tree is feeling neglected.

In much excitement, and some new snow, we got our tree last Saturday.

She then stood naked in the tree stand.  For three days.

Finally, I got around to putting on the lights.

And ran out.

Instead of running out to get another strand of lights (believe me, the thought crossed my mind).  I decided it would be easier (ahem) to just restring the lights on the tree.

We started decorating.

And then it was time for bed.

(Notice the arrows.  They point to the six ornaments the girls put on.)

At this rate, we might have it fully decorated by Christmas.

Well, for sure by New Year's.

Another One Lost...

This is how I feel when I get my haircut.  Every.  Time.

I can not find a good hairstylist.

Honestly, each time I get a haircut I have to try a new stylist because the previous cut (and stylist) did not work out.  And each time I feel like I've wasted too much money on something I am unhappy with.

Once.  Once in my life I found The One.  She was my haircutting soulmate.  She was cute and funny, chatty but not too chatty, and best of all gave me the exact cut I didn't even know I needed.  And six months later when I called to schedule another cut --

(yes, that's right I get my hair cut about twice per year)

she was gone.  Gone.  Without a word to me.  No call, no letter, no this-is-where-you-can-find-me, here-is-my-forwarding-information-for-your-hairstyling-perfection.  I mean, we shared one beautiful and wonderful haircut, the least she could've done was given me her social security number for my "following her anywhere" convenience, right?

As you can see, I am still devastated. And have been left to wander aimlessly amid a sea of Not For Me hairdressers.

Now, as if this three year long search has not been hard enough, today I find out my doctor is leaving me.  My fabulous, really-listens-to-my-concerns-and-takes-them-seriously doctor.

Ah!

I'm not sure I'm going to be able to manage the search for a hairstylist AND a new doctor.

And once I do find them, if I ever do, what then?  After one haircut, or a couple of physicals, they could leave me too.


Does anyone else find it hard to find and keep a hairstylist, doctor, dentist, or whatever else?

She is Not Herself

It’s that time of year again.  Tis’ the season.

No, not the ever-joyous holiday season.  The other season.  The runny-nose-flemmy-cough-spiking-fevers-cooped-up-inside-germ-spreading season.

At least, that’s the season we are in here in the Midwest.

And poor Little P is in the throws of it all.

And by “throws” I mean, drippy nose, cough, 104.4° temp, complete lethargy and fitful sleep.  After she started on antibiotics I was hoping she would show visible improvement.  Yes, her temp is gone as is the lethargy, but both have been replaced by the biggest mood swings I have EVER seen.  I mean, we’re talking worse than PMS here, people.

Instead of her usual this:

Happy Silly Paige

and this:

Happy Smiley Paige

We have been dealing with some of this:

Serious Unamused Paige

And this:

Crying Throwing Fits Paige

One minute she is perfectly fine (or at least, as fine as one can be while recovering from infection), the next second she is screaming, flailing her body, kicking her legs, throwing herself away from me, throwing herself at me, wanting to be up, wanting to be down, completely and totally crazy.  And it lasts FOR-EV-ER.  Or ten or so minutes.  I can’t really say for sure.

It doesn’t matter what time of day.  Morning, middle of the day, before bed.  Her moods are like a monkey swinging from tree to tree.  And nighttime.  Oh, the night.  Her sleep is like that of a newborn, waking every one to two hours, but instead of being lulled back to sleep by nursing or rocking, she is a crazy she-devil of the night.

Adam and I are considering an exorcism.

And I am at a loss.  Are these “just” temper tantrums?  Is this because she’s sick?  Her ears?  Is she just over-tired from her lack of sleep?  Is she developing some sort of mood or behavior disorder?  Really.  I am at a loss.

My mommy instinct worries that something else is going on here.  But Adam is pretty convinced we just need to be firmer and put our foot down with her.  (She has been a bit spoiled these past few days.)

If tonight is not better, I am taking her back to the doctor.  And maybe digging out my priest's phone number, just in case.

...In Which I Tell You of My Marker Love

I love markers.  I love their ease of use and bright, vivid colors.

I love that when Paige was younger the only thing she wanted to do was take the caps off all the markers and in the process got it all over her hands and clothes.  I love that said markers were left on the floor to either be stepped on and/or to dry out.

I love that when Hope colors over and over in one spot, the marker makes a hole in the paper and leaves a funky colored mess underneath.

I love that Paige now wants to color with marker on any and all surfaces.  Paper?  Sure.  Table?  Why not?  Refrigerator?  Super!  Kitchen floor?  Awesome.  (And I love that Hope somehow thinks it is a good idea to join in.)

I love that even though they say "washable" the girls are left for multiple days with multicolored tattoos after each use.

Yes, markers are pretty great.

They produce this:

and this:

So all sarcasm aside, I guess I really do have some fondness for markers.  Because I love the fun and joy they give my girls.  (Even if it means a little more clean up all around.)

My Friend

For my friend:

If I am having a rough morning, you support me.
If I need a boost in the afternoon, you lift me up.
You are here for me any time of day, any day I need you.

You provide comfort when I'm down.
You fill me with warmth.

I used to think I was too good for you.
I thought I needed fancy.
I thought I needed rich.

Now I know, it doesn't matter.
I'll take you just the way you are.

(Well, maybe not quite just the way you are.  I still need cream and sugar.)

Coffee, you are
My Friend.

*****

Linked up with Mamakatslosinit's writers workshop.

I Will Remain Calm...

When I went out to New York for a long weekend, the only thing I wanted to do was walk around, absorb the city, and hang out with my favorite sister. On the last day, I jokingly told my sister I should’ve said the only thing I wanted to do was see a famous person.  (Okay, so I was only half joking.  I mean, c’mon.  How neat would it be to share a bench in Central Park with Jennifer Aniston?)

Well, apparently I don’t need to go out to NYC to see someone famous.  I don’t even have to be on the East Coast.  Or on any coast, for that matter.  That’s right.  I saw someone famous here.  In Minnesota.  At my church.  It wasn’t Jennifer Aniston, but someone I have an equally big girly crush on.  Nicole Curtis from DIY Network’s Rehab Addict.  (If you don’t know who she is or what she looks like, you can find her here.  Cute, right?)  I can not tell you how nerdily excited I was to see her sitting across from me.  I desperately wanted to run over and ask for an autograph, a picture, maybe even if she’d like to be my new best friend.  According to my husband though, church is not the place to bombard someone, no matter how big your crush is.  I had to settle for sneaking a few glances every now and then.

But maybe next week I can nonchalantly position myself next to her so that we can shake hands during the sign of peace.  Because that’s totally casual and normal, and not stalkerish at all, right?