To Snickers, Or Not To Snickers

You know how there are some days you wish you had taken your own advice that morning and hid a Snickers bar in your purse and forced yourself to forget about it so that you could stumble upon it at that magical three o'clock hour where your chocolate/junk craving is at it's worst?

Today is that day.

Cape Cod getaway

Happy anniversary Mr. and Mrs. Lucas!

Two years we've been married.

Two whole years last Sunday.

So to celebrate we decided to take a trip.  And if you follow any of my obnoxious tweets you know we rounded Cape Cod and settled for a long weekend near the tip, in North Truro.

Our hotel was right there on the beach, and at night at high tide you could just about spit right into the ocean.

Corey could have.  I, being a proper lady, am not proficient in spitting.

It.  Was.  Magical.

Not the spitting.  The weekend, it was lovely.

First, the entire elf shoe that is the cape is just one awesome, sandy beach chunk of land that has the feel of vacation and relaxation the second you cross the Bourne Bridge.

We stopped in Sandwich, Corey's least favorite place on the cape and I could see why: it was my favorite.  Antique stores and museums as far as the eye could see.  Then there was this gem:

Hello Captain Scott, your crabcake sandwich was absolutely deeee-vine.  And Corey says thanks for the memories....of some rockin' fried shrimp.

We stayed in North Truro through Sunday, our anniversary, where we consumed large amounts of fried seafood, cooked seafood, seafood mixed with other seafood and chocolate.

Oh the chocolate.

I ate cake at 10:30 in the morning. And ice cream. And candy.

Because I can. I'm an adult.

We walked the beach in the mornings; one morning witnessing a particularly hungry seagull shake the living daylights out of its breakfast, a good sized crab.

"It's the circle of life."

Indeed. But that circle is terribly violent, for goodness sake.

But I digress.

Corey loves, loves, loves taking pictures. I usually have no time behind the lens, unless I'm directed to snap a picture of Corey on the beach, Corey on the balcony, Corey in the vineyard, Corey doing his goofy dance in his underwear and socks, etc.

He's really good at it.

This was our view across the bay toward Provincetown.

"Ooooooo...."

We spent a few hours each day in Provincetown, an iddy biddy little village at the very end of the cape.  I would say it rivals Saratoga in cuteness, but don't tell my precious home that.  However, what we saw and who we met could alone fill its own post.

If you don't already know why a couple-a kids from small towns like Corey and me would have a hard time just knowing where it was safe to look, then your mommies and daddies probably don't want you to know.

I found myself in a few situations in the art galleries where I was face to face with things I don't see in my day to day routines.

Unless my day to day routines involved touring local strip joints.

TMI?

I had to fight the urge to giggle and run from the buildings.

Remember, adult.

Safe places: the taffy shop, the ice cream shop, and that home furnishing store that had three Golden Retrievers sitting outside.

Although most of our actual anniversary was spent laying around the hotel room watching football while Corey fought a terrible headache, Sunday was my favorite day.  Large breakfast in the hotel's cafe, antique/craft fair/bake sale in N. Truro and a jazz festival at the vineyard down the street from our room.

First, I'm a sucker for breakfast.  I like food and I like mornings, a good breakfast literally makes my day.

Second, I'm a sucker for arts and crafts, and antiques, and bake sales.  This was all wrapped up into one large event.  Yes, Corey did have to drag me away from the beautiful Polish dishware, but just having the opportunity to look was a dream come true.

Obviously it does not take much for me...

And Third:

I love vineyards.

I love jazz.

And I love this guy.  And this guy was having a good time.

We left early on Monday.  It was time.  After a full three days of being on the go we were tired.  And Corey missed his dog.

I'm not going to say the first two years of our marriage have been candies and roses. 

Unless you count actual make-up candy and roses.  In that case, I've ingested my weight in chocolate.

I'd imagine anyone thrown into a share-everything-including-life's-biggest-decisions-and-a-bathroom situation is going to struggle at the beginning.

But things are starting to shape up.

Corey and I went on a vacation together and had a really good time.  We love each other.  We enjoy being together.  And we genuinely wanted to celebrate being together.

Despite anything that happened in our first two years, I think our future looks good.




...as long as there is still some chocolate.

Coming Together For Hope: check

Remember that thing I was talking about last week?

You know, that little event keeping me from blogging, and working, and keeping up with friends, and eating normal meals at normal hours of the day?

Well, that little event is over.

(enter huge sigh of relief here)

It darn near killed me, a fact Corey can attest to after seeing me nearly face plant in my french toast the next day, it definitely fried me, and I needed a full three days to recover.

My best friend with a red beard, Pete of PJN Photography, was our official photographer.  I know you're dying to see pictures of the thing.  Especially after reading my weekly rants of waning sanity, and then not reading because I was always just too busy.  I promise I'll post some when I get them

Yeah, just like how you posted pictures of Kimberlie getting snotted on by that alpaca.

Ok, that was an entirely different situation depending on my mom, who does not have a professional reputation to protect, getting me those pictures which are still floating around somewhere.

But I digress.

The day was good.

Crazy, hectic, and long, but good.

Here are some bullet points with words after them:

• The event was about bringing people to Jesus, and thankfully there was no actual going to Jesus when two of the larger-than-a-two-bedroom-house bounce houses deflated.
• Or when some of the vendors packed up early and drove their cars straight through the field.
• We'd do things differently next time.
• I suffered from swampy feet all day.  Note to self: bring extra shoes when dew is involved.
• Additional note to self: remember that you actually have extra shoes while wishing you had extra shoes.
• I will from now on leave notes for myself: Is your zipper where it should be?
• On the occasions when it is so important for it to be up, it is usually down.
• Two words: Christian rap.
• Three more: I like it.
• Now four words: Anthony Kohlhepp is cool.
• You'd think churches would be all over a church-type event.  They weren't.
• (shrugs shoulders)
• Our planning committee was awesome and now that we aren't meeting every second of the day I kinda miss them.
• I got to carry a walkie talkie. 
• My dad wore a Mickey Mouse shirt because he goes by Mick.
• My dad is goofy.
• (shakes head)
• Up next: serving breakfast to thousands at 5am to raise money for the same soup kitchen. 
• With all this work we should at least get a discount on our meals.
• That was a lame joke.
• The executive director and his wife are on my "Nicest People I Know" list.
• They showed me where the secret stash of chocolate is in the basement.
• I needed it.

Chew on that for now, folks, until I get some pictures up and running.

Oh, the anticipation!!!

Chocolate Progress

I am officially one week into my chocolate fast, and I have to say I've had only a few minor meltdowns.

That may be due to my "break" on Sunday to participate in a Brownie Bake-off.

But in my defense that bake-off was planned months ago, I forgot about it last Wednesday when I pledged to abstain, and I'm pretty sure I got permission.

Then I heard from a semi-practicing Catholic that they take breaks on Sundays anyway.

So I'm extra covered.

Although I plan on going straight through to Easter with no more interruptions.

For five and a half more weeks.  Which is, um, a lot longer than I thought...

**breathe**
I should survive.  At least I can look at it as five and a half more weeks of telling people why I'm grouchy not allowing myself to eat chocolate. 

See, I always saw Lent and the practice of giving things up for 40 days as an obligation instead of a sacrifice, and I think a lot of other people do, too.  But the sacrifice is where the love is, and I think is what is honored more.

Hey, I'm grouchy, leave me alone sacrificing, come love Jesus with me!

But, alas, I'm still a sinnin' lady.  I'm going to want those leftover brownies sitting on my counter as much as I want to breathe and I'm going to pout a little bit when I realize I can't have them.

Next week's lesson: mercy and grace. 

Halleluiah!

Just Say No!...to Chocolate

I did the Mardi Gras thing Tuesday: I ate pancakes.

They were as thin as crepes because I had to use waffle batter, but I ate them anyway.  And they were good.

Then I did the Lent thing Wednesday: I gave up chocolate.

My sweet, sweet nourishment.

Because it's the least I can do for a savior who gave up, you know, his life.

Follow me here: I have an unhealthy love for Snickers.  I need it.  It makes my world go 'round

(my arm is not saying it needs candy, this is a pie chart, if you will.)

So by giving up Snickers and it's chocolaty cousins I have a giant, arm-sized hole.  My life as I know it is over.  I have no reason to be...

Uh, hey Stace, you think maybe you let your sweet treats get a liiiiitle more credit than they deserve?

......Yep.

So now I am giving up something I thought was keeping me going, what I thought I needed, and filling it with what I really need:

So, as much as I would like to shove Hershey's kisses by the handful down my throat, I will abstain.

Again, it's the least I can do.

But for your sake I'll be sure to take pictures of what Stacie with the shakes looks like.

...

P.S.  I'm not trying to minimize the importance of God in a person's life to what can fill up a single appendage...I  think we can agree He needs to be in everything, but giving up just one thing, one important worldly thing helps us remember what exactly our priorities should be...and I like to draw on my computer.

Weekend Wrap Up: Happy Birthday!

Oh, the weekend wrap up...four days late.

There were four main areas I wanted to touch on:

• I, rightfully, get made fun of for forgetting stuff.
• A cake ball tower is not a good substitute for a birthday cake.
• Laser tag is cool despite what the 12-year-old you are shooting says.
• Karaoke is best kept in a bar.

Saturday I drove up to my parents' house to help my mom with her sewing class.  Later on as I was visiting with the folks and my sister we were talking about a new song on the radio about forgetting stuff and it driving the singer crazy.  My family all laughed and pointed at me as if I should be able to relate.

Needless to say, I was shocked.  "No, I do not forget stuff!"  Moments later, as I was starting my car to leave, I stopped and walked back into the house because I forgot my phone.  But I couldn't remember where I left it.

Finally, I was able to get in my car and drive away.  Until I remembered the cake pans I needed for my sister's birthday cake.

Oh the shame.

...

So there I go with my cake pans and a recipe in mind for a homemade chocolate cake with a chocolate ganache icing.  All she wanted was a Betty Crocker version, but for my sissy I go above and beyond.  However, "beyond" ended up sticking to the bottom of the pan and I was left with two lopsided halfsies and lots of broken chunks.

Luckily, my baking skeelz are top notch (more like middle notch), so I turned to Plan B: chocolate cake balls.  I ran out for a block of cream cheese (and milk because I forgot it the last time I was at the store and Corey desperately needed to make a milkshake.  at noon.  in the middle of winter) and began the transformation.

Problem: the girl was expecting a cake.  One solid mass that she could cut into and eat with a fork.

Solution: stack all those cake balls and make a gooey, cohesive cake ball tower.

Result: "Mom, can you make my cake next year??"

Whatevs.  The "cake" was awesome.

...

Now, it was not the birthday girl's idea to force everyone to play laser tag (as I do on my day with mini golf).  It was my dad's.  And there was very little convincing on my part:

"So I thought on Katie's birthday we would play laser..."

"I'M IN!!!"

We played two rounds, and if Corey hadn't thrown out my scorecards I would have shown you my first and second place finishes.  My codename was WildStar and I played to win.  My mom's codename, on the other hand, was Sloth and she came in almost last.  I think she might have felt bad shooting little kids.  You know, as a mom.  I did not.  Because they had no problem stalking me and hiding in small spaces.

The jerks.

So I shot 'em.

And I crawled in small spaces.

And then I did that thing where I roll around on the ground to avoid gun fire.

No.

No I didn't.

But I did shriek a lot.

And I asked everyone flashing my team color (green) if they were one of my sisters.

See, it's dark in there.  And I get a tad freaked out in the dark.  Especially when one particular round had only 12 players and I found myself wandering around, seeing not a single soul, wondering if the game was actually over and I was trapped inside with a serial killer.

No more Criminal Minds for this girl.  Or American Justice.

But I survived.  I lived to gloat about beating every single one of 'em.

...

So after all the birthday festivities (the dinner, the cake, the laser tag, the presents) everyone is tired.  It was, after all, 8:00pm, just one hour from my own bedtime.  However, the day would not be officially over until the fat lady sang.

The figurative fat lady being me and my sisters, the only brave ones to try my new Wii karaoke game.  Pumped up on chocolate ganache we each sang two songs and I can honestly say for certain that not a single one of us was given the gift of song.

We cannot carry a tune if the gold medal of karaoke depended on it.  Which it did.

But as I entered my sugar coma all that mattered was watching Katie's idea of what the dance moves should be while singing:

"If you want my body aaaaand you think I'm sexy come on baby let me knooooow..."

...

The.  End.

Wait a second, this was supposed to be a Weekend update.  Where's Sunday's news??

Um, ok.  Sunday: went to church, lunch with friends, slept in chair while watching Lifetime movies.

The.  End.

For real.

Say it ain't so!

Bad new, folks.  Just saw this in my email (apparently someone has heard of my unnatural love of chocolate):

Will there be a chocolate drought? World’s supply of sustainable cocoa could run out by 2014

It's an article.

And it predicts a most unfortunate occurrence.

One that ranks above global warming on my scale.

'Supplies of sustainable cocoa are set to run out, it's that simple,' he said.

So what do we do?  Where does this leave us?  Growing mini cocoa crops in our back yards?  Seed processing plants in our garages?  Our own personal team of chocolate bar producers at a cost of $5,000 per Hershey's with almonds??

I grow dizzy at the thought.

But at the same time I wonder if 2014 is when I finally break myself of my kiss-a-day habit?

(and I'm not talkin' about Corey kisses)

I think New York State is doing something very similar with tobacco.  Not that there is a shortage.  They've hiked the taxes so high it costs an arm and a leg for a pack of cigarettes and it's forcing some people to quit.  If I have to save a month's worth of wages for a simple Lindt truffle, it just might be worth it to me to instead use that money for, say, a few car payments.  Maybe a week long trip to Europe.  Or a complete wardrobe change.

But as I read the article further, I see they're talking about fairtrade cocoa.  It makes up something like 1% of the chocolate in the world.

Looks like the addiction continues.

Lady Business

Fellas, you may want to use this Internet time to check the scores of the game or the weather forecast or brush up on your Italian...or just check those scores.

The following is a topic for the ladies.

Why alienate my (three) readers, you ask?

Because there are just some things that need to be said.  Er, typed.

And there are just some things with which only a select group, say those who have ovaries, can empathize.

There we go.  I think that just knocked off the last of the lingering gentlemen.

Gentlemen...hehe.  There was a lady I worked with who would ask me about my "gentleman friend."  Cute old people.

But I digress.

Hey ladies, preferably those who have a scientific knowledge of the human anatomy and hormones and chemical stuff, why is it I thought I was going to die if I didn't eat that package of peanut M&M's, all the while knowing I would die from the pain of eating said M&M's?

I went back and forth for awhile: do I eat them and curl up in the fetal position and moan for an hour swearing to scoop out my insides with a rusty spoon?  or do I skip them and think of nothing but chocolate covered peanuts in a hard candy shell for the rest of the day?

Obviously, I chose the former, regretting my decision instantly.  The only comfort came in knowing I would have been equally miserable in choosing to forsake the treat.

So back to my question, why??  Why does this chocolate have such a hold on us?!

(I say "us" loosely because I know there are a few of you out there who are able to turn your noses up at a Godiva truffle like it's a chocolate covered doodie, however, to you I say "pity, pity.")

It's a love/hate relationship.

Today I hate it.

But I still ate two chocolate chip cookies for breakfast.

An epic fail...but I exaggerate

I was supposed to give up sweets this week.  Starting Monday.  I had a little too much dessert with my jazz and was in desperate need of a sugar detox.

However, today is Wednesday and I have already cheated.  This morning.  With chocolate chip cookies.

Who eats cookies before noon?

Someone with a problem.

Two of my co-workers went on a six week diet where 75% of their meals came from little silver packets.  The other 25% was from various forms of lettuce.

Six.  Weeks.

They complained.  They starved.  They craved food that did not come in powder form. And yet they showed the dedication and restraint of a willful two-year-old.

I, on the other hand, walk in the door, look at the plate of fresh cookies and think:

No.  No.  No.  No.  No.  Ok, maybe just two.

I can't go Three.  Days.

My will power is broken.

Chocolate covered nutrients

I am not usually one to question God's design, but I think I ran across an error.

Broccoli does not taste good.

Asparagus does not taste good.

Zucchini does not taste good.

But chocolate cake, pecan pie, and peach cobbler do.

The problem lies in the stomach ache.  You will not get a stomach ache from eating too much broccoli because you will never eat too much broccoli because it does not taste good.   You will, however feel immense pain from eating an entire chocolate cake (know this from experience) because the odds are great that you will eat the entire thing because it is chocolate and chocolate is good.

But, for some reason, it is the broccoli and the asparagus and the zucchini and the brussel sprouts and the spinach and all of the other rabbit foods that your body needs.  So my question is: why can't we need pecan pie?  What about bread pudding or flan?  What's so wrong with the nutrients in Godiva cheesecake?

I can't speculate where things went wrong, I just know they did.  Allow me to prove myself using a lower species of the animal kingdom: lions.  These big, beautiful cats chase and eat antelopes.  The meat is nourishment for their bodies.  They lick their lips.  Because antelopes taste good.  What do they stay away from?  Horney toads, because they do not taste good.  And as everyone in the entire world knows, frogs are not good...for anything.  They are probably poisonous.  And cause warts.  You should not eat them.  Even in fancy French restaurants.  And you probably shouldn't dissect them in biology class.  They're better off sitting on their lily pads with their frog wives and frog babies.

And then there are dogs.  Sometimes they eat their poop.  Why else would they do this if it wasn't delicious and nutritious?

I think the best solution is to make carrots taste like cookies, broccoli taste like pineapple upside down cake, cauliflower like banana split, etc.



Excuse me, you're saying you enjoy veggies the way they are?

Liar.

You heard me....er, read me.

I would put down the $40 Corey allows me to have each month (kidding) that you boil those veggies down until they're malleable and swallow them whole.  No?  You soak them in butter.  No?  You bread them and fry them.  Yes??  I knew I'd get to the bottom of it, because no one can honestly say they like the all natural essence of a turnip.

The bottom line here is that someone (looks up) should probably correct this little mistake so that someone else (looks...in mirror) can stop hiding baby spinach where it doesn't belong.  Like in a burrito.  On a pizza.  Or in a brownie sundae.

Thanksomuch.

Death of an IHOP tradition

I had my very last stack of IHOP chocolate chip pancakes with a whipped cream smiley face on Monday. 

(The smiley face has already been consumed.)

Never again will arguably the world's two greatest foods, chocolate and pancakes, sit blended together in a stack of goodness in front of me.  Never again will they enjoy the mastication process by which they bond with my spit to form a pasty, chocolatey goo fit for digestion.

My discontinued patronage was not a rash decision based on silly nutritional facts or the noticeably absent class of the establishment.  It was based solely on the stank of the bathroom and my incurring heebie-jeebies.

I know you probably would like details.

I've always been a fan of IHOP, but never paid much attention to the condition of the restaurants (if you can call them that...) until recently when a certain someone who frequently employed the above mentioned pancakes as a make up tactic started pointing out its deficiencies:

"Wow, you're right.  This table IS filthy!"

"Ohmigosh, I never noticed the layer of syrup covering each and every inch of the menus..."

"Hmmm....it DOES smell like turd back here."

Although my eyes were opened, I still treasured my chocolatey treat.  And I occasionally looked forward to fights with you-know-who because I was sure to get my make-up-pancakes.  Because that's what couples do...right?  Make-up....pancakes?

Anyway, Sunday was an occasion that most definitely called for some pancake lovin'.  And off we went on Monday to the nearest of the 20 IHOP's in the West Palm Beach area.  We chose the one next to the vacant, overgrown lot on Dixie Highway.  You've probably seen this strip on COPS, several times.

We sat right down, made nice with the waitress to avoid "spitcakes," and placed our order.  After a few short minutes of chit-chat we were presented with two heaping stacks of pancakes.  His covered in blueberries, mine in chocolate chips, and both topped with miles of whipped cream.  We rested assured with this level of care there couldn't possibly be a big slimy loogie hiding between layers...unless Melissa was trying to throw us off, which did not occur to me until just now.  Gross.

After eating half of my stack I realized the sudden urge to use the ladies facilities but the door was locked.  I waited.  Melissa (was that even her name??) exited.  I entered.

Had I been on a blind folded tour of bathrooms across America I would have said I just entered a bathroom at a Highway 87 truck stop.  "Not the nice kind," I would have said, "the kind where you have to ask the attendant for a key and walk around to the back of the building because they prefer to keep stink flies away from the customers."

In other words, it was stinky gross.  McDonald's bathrooms are cleaner.  Hess gas station bathrooms are cleaner.  My sister Katie's bathroom is cleaner.  What's the deal, IHOP?  You getting all cocky because your pancakes are all that?  Yes, they are good.  Probably the best.  But does that mean you get to neglect your other duties to focus on perfect 'cakes? 

I saw our waitress come out of that stinky, grody mess of a ladies room and all I could picture was her touching the door handle on her way out.

It's probably safe to assume by the smell of the place many IHOP patrons aren't too concerned with cleanliness.  **shudder  And based on that assumption I will go further and say they probably don't **shudder wash their hands. 

Putting it all together: if they don't wash their hands they're putting their germs (read: fecal matter, but I disgust) all over everything they touch.  And if they're touching the same things my waitress is touching (door handle), and my waitress is touching things that go in my mouth, they might as well come and "make a deposit" (read: poo) right on my beloved chocolate chip pancakes.

I think you can see now why I had to end my 27 (minus time spent in infancy) year relationship with IHOP.  No matter the condition of the establishment I will forever associate my pancakes with icky germs. 

Corey will just have to come up with some other make-up strategy.  I am leaning towards jewelry...

My inner demons

Inner monologe:

"I really should eat better."

"Hmmm...that's a good idea.  Eating right makes you feel good, and who doesn't want to feel good, am I right?!"

"Right indeed!  I saw we start with a helping of veggies.  Maybe some broccoli."

"I concur."

"Me too."

"Me three."

Two minutes later...

My co-worker, Sharon, comes into the room.

"I'm going to Rockhill Bakehouse, do you want a brownie?"






"Lemme grab my purse..."

So much for being in control over myself...myselves.

An Ode to Weight Loss

Ah, last five pounds.

Your effervescence of triumph.

Toil and trial endured

Stinky sweaty towels litter the floor

I await your good news.

Last five pounds you can't possibly know

My joy.  My tears.  My struggle.

My brownie-less days.

Chocolate cake free nights.

I live on broccoli.

Last five pounds you know the words I long to hear.

"Eat up," you will never say.

For you are nothing but a glob of fat sitting on my love handles.

And fat does not have a mouth, or vocal chords, or lungs.

Yet there you still sit.

My sweet silent encourager.

My last five pounds.

by Stacie "Maya Angelou" Lucas

32 days...

Um. This is bad. I just read the side of a van. It said, "North Country Janitorial." But I saw, "Cupcake."




Lord, help me make it through these last few weeks of wedding planning without the assistance of your most wonderful creation: the Snickers bar, and without killing the groom or anyone else who happens to catch me at my "best."

Give me kind words when I talk to the wedding coordinator who still has not returned my panicked message from over a week ago.

And, could you please replace that panic with soft, fluffy, marshmallow clouds? I wouldn't want to accidentally, in a state of complete mindlessness, seat my gentle, old granddaddy with Corey's loud and rambunctious track friends.

Also, about that cupcake...

Friends don't let friends eat their weight in cookies

They just don't.

And where were my so-called friends last night? Right next to me. Watching as I got up for "just one more."

Well "friends," I betcha didn't know I can't hold my cookies. After four I can no longer walk upright and I end up with tummy grumblies like you wouldn't believe.

So, thanks. Thank YOU Cathy for making the darn things. Thank YOU Janie for sitting right next to me and not intervening once. Thank YOU Brad for pointing them out to me and getting the whole destructive process started. And thanks to the rest of you who just watched.

My name is Stacie, and I can't control my cookie consumption, but you all are enablers, and you should be ashamed of yourselves.

100 days...

Right now I am choosing to ignore the, "What more could you want?" comment my dear, sweet fiance posted earlier because, of course, he meant, "what more could you want besides a beautiful and loving future wife, like my Stacie?" See, we can read each other. I know him like the sixth finger scar on the back of my hand.*

Similarly, he knows that when I say, "I'm having a bad day," what I really mean is, "find some way to get a huge, chewy brownie in my brownie hole within 45 minutes of right now or else I will turn into a tornado of hair and fingernails you don't want to cross."

That's a special connection.


*I'm pretty sure I did not have a sixth finger on the back of my hand that my parents secretly had removed when I was a baby. I just say that I did because it's much cooler than saying, "See this line on my hand? It's a line."

131 days...

That little outburst was unnecessary. Things are better now. I'm doped up. Got my chocolate IV connected, little wheels on the cart so it's portable, goes everywhere I go. Corey and I will deal with the double vision and the tremors...and the hallucinations once I go off the drip after the wedding. I appreciate your concerns, but you shouldn't worry about me...just mail me a stash every now and then.

132 days...

Chocolate is my valium. It's my Benadryl PM without the groggy side effect. I just ate one of the best brownies in the state of New York (what?...you have a better brownie?...and you think I should judge a taste test?!) and all is well. Moist and delicious gooiness with mini chocolate chips and walnuts on top makes the world alright.



I haven't heard from my seamstress in a month. I'm not worried.



75 more invitations to go. Eh, I'll finish 'em.



Wedding shoes make me taller than the groom. I can squat.



Still no string duo to round out the trio....yeah, no problem....



No honeymoon flight or accommodations booked, um....that's.....ok.



Florist closed up shop....AAAAARRRRRGGGHHH!!!



Ahem, excuse me. I have to, uh, take care of some things.