I just thought to myself, "Oh fun! I could do my taxes today!"

Is it weird that I love filling out forms? I used to even think that I might enjoy a career in data entry.

But so far, this tax return is not looking so refund-y. Good thing this year is the year I'm going to get rich off of one of my good ideas. I just know it! And with all that money coming in, we won't even need a tax return.

And you know how I know this is the year? I was at Hobby Lobby yesterday (which is my favorite store in the whole wide world) picking up things for my latest awesome idea. When the guy at the checkout asked me what I was doing, I told him my plans and he said, "You have a creative mind. You should start a business."

I would have given him a $20 tip if I could have.

At the risk of you stealing my idea, and then my $$billions$$, I will share my project with you. But believe me, if I see these on Etsy I'm hunting you down!

They are mirrors for hanging on the wall, with pretty fabric around the edges. These ones are going in my living room, but I could make them in any kind of fabric for any kind of room and any kind of taste.

Seriously. Don't steal my idea. I'm not even going to tell you how to make them unless you'll hook me up with a patent attorney for my other awesome idea that I will never leak on the internet.

I'm going to post a poll on the side. Go vote.

Feb. 14, 2009

In any relationship that matters, there are ups and downs. Good days and bad days. Sometimes things seem perfect, and other times you're both just trying to keep it together. But when the storms have been weathered, you both come out more convinced than ever that you belong together.

I speak, of course, of my relationship with my hairstylist.

I didn't see it coming Thursday. She had always done exactly what I wanted. But as I sat in her chair Thursday night as her next appointment waited in the wings, all I could do was give her my best fake smile and answer "yeah," when she asked "Is that what you had in mind?"

I thought I would get home, take another look and realize that it wasn't so bad. I'd be able to work with it, I knew it.

But I wanted to cry when I looked at that woman in the mirror who just couldn't be me. I knew it must have been a simple miscommunication, but how did it go this wrong?

So I discussed my options with Dave, who was grieving as much over the money I had spent as I was grieving for the loss of my pretty hair.

(If I haven't told you before, I'm just a teensy bit obsessive about my hair. Ask my mom. She was forced to perfect my ponytail with no lumps and 1/4 cup of styling gel when I was in 7th grade.)

As we saw it I had two options:

1. I could buy a box of dark brown hair dye and cover it all up. This would possibly lead to the demise of the stylist/client relationship, and possibly even the husband/wife relationship because "You paid for highlights, so you're going to have highlights." Sound reasoning, for sure.

2. I could face my desperate fear of any kind of confrontation, call her, and ask her to fix it.

Then when Dave went to another room I came up with option #3, all on my own. And I texted her. This was my slightly more comfortable, much more passive way to get to work on solving the problem. Dave thought it was totally weird of me and likened it unto breaking up with boyfriends via e-mail, which I am twice guilty of. If Facebook would have been around back then I might have just used a status update to end a relationship.

"Emily is... really sorry. It's not you, it's me. Can we still be friends?"

Anyway, my stylist and I texted back and forth for the next 18 hours or so. Talking would have been much more efficient than typing my explanations out on a cell phone, but again, talking is scary.

I was nervous it would be awkward to go back, but I was going to do what it took to keep a good thing going. I scratched several stylists off the list before I found her, so I wasn't about to give up. And I'm so glad I didn't. She fixed it, I love it, and the client/stylist relationship is in tact. Now I know we have what it takes to make this a long-term arrangement.

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SPEAKING of good husbands (Everyone is speaking of good husbands today), mine is pretty rad. He spent his day perched treacherously atop a ladder, painting our living room.

As I was small-talking with a Sephora employee today, he asked if I had any plans for Valentine's Day. I told him I left my husband home to paint. He didn't think that was very romantic of me.

When I told Dave about the conversation, Dave asked, "Was he a black man?"

"Yes, how did you know?"

I must have put on my best black man voice without even knowing it.

Anyway, here is where I mention that I LOVE my Valentine, my husband of nearly 8 years. He deserves all 8 pairs of Costco dress socks I wrapped up for him, and SO much more!

Happy Valentine's Day!

From Me to You!

A British Nanny has stolen his heart.

I never thought it would happen to me, but my husband is in love with another woman. Her name is Mary Poppins.

I really can't blame him. I mean, she is practically perfect in every way.

His obsession is getting serious. He bought the movie soundtrack "for our son" for Christmas and now it's playing non-stop in his car. Yes, even when there's no toddler in the back seat.

A couple weeks ago, Dave took his car in for service and he realized he left the Mary Poppins soundtrack playing when he dropped the car off... by himself. I've got to wonder what they thought when they turned on the car to hear "It's a Jolly Holiday" or something equally as jovial.

But I should clarify. I don't think he's actually crushing on Mary Poppins. I think he's relating to George Banks. In fact, if anyone wants to do a production of "Mary Poppins" in northern Utah, they'd be crazy not to cast Dave as George Banks. He's got every lyric memorized and he sings along with great gusto. And he leads his subjects: servants, children, wife, with a firm but gentle hand. Just like George.

All teasing aside, I'm a lucky girl. Dave is the kind of guy who hates most media and won't even watch a PG-13 movie if it's questionable. Which means he fully embraces wholesome, family-oriented entertainment. And when I say "embraces," I mean it. And the reason he likes this one so much is because of its message that raising children is more important than raising money. Or, as Bert explains in a reverse-psychology kind of way at the end:

"You've got to grind, grind, grind at that grindstone,
Though childhood slips like sand through a sieve.
And all too soon they've up and grown,
And then they've flown,
And it's to late for you to give..."

But "Poppins!" (as the movie is known in our house) has become a family obsession, you could say. A couple months ago I heard our 2-year-old son in the kitchen chanting "Step in time, step in time." I peeked around the corner and saw him dancing along with his own accompaniment. And now he loves to sing "Let's Go Fly a Kite."

And then there's me. I totally want Mary Poppins and Bert to hook up. They need to make a sequel. Oh, and you know that part where Mary's reflection sings like an opera diva in "A Spoonful of Sugar?" I sing along there - And nail it! But really, if I were to try out for this local production I'm suggesting, I think I would want to play Mrs. Banks. I've got that whole "Sisters Suffragette" thing down.

This has been my humble submission for Sue's Very Funny Friday.

These pants aren't gonna fit today.

Today has been one of those days. Let's just say I'm thankful for stretchy pants and 800mg Motrins that were prescribed for my sprained ankle a few weeks ago.

It's also been a day of introspection, as stretchy-pants-and-Motrin days tend to be.

We'd like to have another baby. But babies don't come to us easily, which means that I spend about half of my life wondering if I am pregnant and the other half split between bemoaning the fact that I'm not pregnant and trying to get pregnant.

Which leaves little time for physical fitness, don't you agree? I don't want to start a fitness program if I am pregnant (which I never am, BTW. Well, I was once.) I'm not in the mood to start a fitness program in the week that I'm confirmed un-pregnant, and there are more important things on the agenda in the week that I'm trying to become pregnant. And so it goes.

But something's got to give.

This morning as I was "checking my stuff," I read a blog post from my cousin's wife, Roxanne, who is inspirational in countless ways. Seriously. You should meet her. On her blog she announced she was preparing for two marathons this summer and asked if anyone would like to join her. I commented that I have dreams of being a marathon runner, but I am so far from being able to do it. She came to my blog and left a comment (because she's nice like that) that she was sure I could be ready for a 5k in time, and that if I was serious, she would help me get there.

So I'm taking her up on it. In fact, I immediately went looking for my running shoes.

Not in the coat closet. Not in my bedroom closet. This is a bad sign. Has it really been that long?

I search the garage which is full of boxes we haven't yet unpacked from our move. There's one running shoe. I'm gonna need two. The search continues. I find my bathroom scale. Do I dare? I dare. It's bad news.

I find a pair of shoes that will do. I pack my son on my hip and with a "Curious George" DVD in hand, we head downstairs.

I plug in the treadmill, awakening it from a very long coma. It works! I try to adjust the incline. And now the treadmill doesn't work anymore. I cuss at it. (Not a real swear word. Those aren't allowed. Just something that would make Dave ask me "What are you cussing about?" To which I would respond, "I'm not cussing! Why the heck do you always have to ask me that?!")

So I give up on the treadmill and give the elliptical a reason to exist for 10 minutes. So I did something at least. Something that will get me just a little bit closer to being the hottie that I'm supposed to be.

I have a 10-year high school reunion coming up. I don't want to be fat for that. Dave doesn't understand why I care. He doesn't understand why I would want to go to my reunion in the first place (we had very different high school experiences), and he especially doesn't understand why I would care about impressing anybody.

But here's the thing. I don't care about impressing anyone. The huge popularity of this blog (check out my 9 followers!) and my smokin' hot husband are all I need to impress anyone.

It's just that... I'd rather not know that everyone's first thought at seeing me is "She's gained weight." I'd like to spare my own feelings from knowing that shame a couple hundred times in one night. Am I too self conscious? Maybe. Do I care too much what other people think? Definitely.

So no more banana cookies for breakfast. And when I'm finally lookin' fly, I'm going to try to be a JCPenney model.