You ever have one of those mornings you wish you could have as a do-over? Yeeaaahhh, this was one of them.

First, Murphy has learned to press his sweet little nose into our bedroom doorknob (from the hallway) to make an obnoxious sound, which wakes both me and Allan up. After about 10 minutes of the metallic, jiggling sound, Allan (per usual) climbed out of bed, left the comfort of our room and took care of our fur-baby.

Thirty minutes later, after tossing and turning and trying to get back to sleep, my alarm went off on the Blackberry. I hit snooze, but when I woke up 27 minutes later, it was clear that I only thought I hit snooze. Instead, I dismissed the alarm and, of course, fell into the deep sleep that was alluding me earlier in the morning.

I rushed around and tried to do something – anything – with my shitastic haircut. Gone are the days of pulling my hair back into a ponytail and heading out the door. No, I had to poke it and prod it and beg it to not look embarrassing. And I failed.

When I finally left the house and walked through the downpour to get to my car, I realized I left my uniform inside. Oh, yes, it’s an RBC night.

While driving to work, I hit a random patch of traffic where there generally is no traffic at all. The cause? Pigs. On the interstate. I don’t know all the deets, but I saw at least one cute, pink pig darting across at least two of the four lanes of westbound traffic.

And then for the rest of my drive – and actually, ever since – I’ve been hoping that those escaped little pigs would get a reprieve and be left to live their lives on a farm rather than be turned into bacon. And then I feel guilty for my love affair with bacon.

Finally, when I went to the cafeteria to grab a bagel – again through a downpour – a cafeteria worker told me that if I wanted to have children, I needed to get rid of my dog. Because he’s part pit bull, you see, and according to the cafeteria worker, they’re awful, aggressive dogs that need to be left tied outside if they’re to be owned at all. And they will eat my children.

I wanted to be like, dude, you do not know my dog. You have never met my dog. If you did, you would see that he is an utter joy. That he loves anything with a heartbeat. That he excels at cuddling and brightening the days of those he meets. That he is no more a threat to a person than a beagle or a boxer or a Labrador retriever. And that no dog, regardless of breed, should EVER be tied up outside. EVER.

So, enough about my morning.

Today feels like a Tuesday even though it’s a Wednesday. I didn’t have an actual, work-week Monday because I was in Charleston, S.C., prettiest city I ever did see, hiding from the rain and the cold, dreary weather. At least I got to hide with Allan, and really, as long as I’m with that kid, I don’t care what the weather is like.

Oh, sorry, did that make you vomit in your mouth a little bit?

We were in Charleston for Shel’s wedding, which I mentioned last week before I started posting nothing but pictures. The wedding itself was very pretty, and the storms thankfully didn’t start until they were officially married and all of their guests were safely beneath tents. We had a nice time at the wedding, although moments were a bit awkward. It can’t be helped when your husband is basically tripping over ex-girlfriends and such. But we were totally at the Cool Kids Table, surrounded by nice conversation and sweet people, so that was enjoyable.

The following morning we met up with the California Contingency for breakfast, which was Allan’s favorite part of the weekend, which surprised me because he was so quiet. If you didn’t already know this, Allan’s the shy one, I’m the talker. We balance each other out. But breakfast was, indeed, really great. The same can’t be said for the rest of the weekend. Yes, I was in Charleston, my most favorite southern city. And yes, I was with Allan, my most favorite southern boy. But, man, the weather was shit. We weren’t able to do a lot of the things we had planned, like a trip to Ft. Sumter or a carriage ride. Okay, so maybe I was the only one who wanted to take a carriage tour, but still, we couldn’t do it.

I started off on Saturday wearing a knee-length cotton dress and cardigan. Then I bought a (clearance sale – score!) scarf at Banana Republic. Then I bought a pair of cheap yoga pants and fashion be damned! I put those bad boys on beneath my dress and was rocking a black cardigan, navy printed scarf, navy dress, black yoga pants and beige Rainbow sandals. I was looking so sexy, It’s a wonder Allan managed to keep his hands off me. Or, you know, I was not sexy at all.





As far as this hockey season goes, I’m running on fumes. I’m tired of kissing Allan goodbye on a Tuesday morning and telling him I’ll see him Thursday night, which is what I did today. I’m tired of never being home in the evening, of having my car loaded with discarded clothes that I had to change into and out of on the way to the arena. I’m tired of skipping dinner three nights a week and replacing it with (what I’ve been promised is an) all-beef hot dog. I’m just plain old tired, man. I’m really, really tired.

But, anyway. Enough of my bitching.

I think it’s officially spring now – hoor-freaking-ray!!! Spring means a bunch of things, but one of the best things is the arrival of Peeps, my cute little sugar-coated marshmallow friends whose ears and beaks I love to eat. Wanna hear something sad? I brought some Peeps into work this morning. Three yellow bunnies. And my plan was to take their picture for my picture of the day (POD), then eat them. But I forgot about my plan and I ate them after I ate my hard boiled eggs (minus the yolks – eeggghh) and banana. No photo was taken. FAIL.

I wish I hadn’t taken a picture of my bracket pre-tourney for my POD because then I could use one as it now stands, with tons of blue highlighter ink covering the names of my picks that denied me an opportunity to win $200. I went from first place to nearly last place in three short days. I have no hope now, what with my national champion selection bounced in the second round. Apparently Jesus doesn’t love Notre Dame as much as I thought he did.

This weekend I’m attending the wedding of a fellow you may know as my webmaster extraordinaire. Shel. He’s also one of my oldest and truest friends.

We met as Internet pen-pals in high school, then our friendship thrived via AIM in college, we dated as young post-grads but realized we were only meant to be friends, and now we’re coworkers. We’ve been through all of these topsy-turvy phases with different labels for each other, and I feel so lucky because of how things turned out. Not only do I have help with my blog whenever I need it(!), I also have this really lovely, solid, hard-earned friendship.

He’s marrying someone who Loves him with a capital L and who makes him incredibly happy. Which, of course, makes me very happy for him and for them.

And believe it or not, last week Allan and I sailed past the six-month mark of our marriage. Which means we’re halfway done with being newlyweds, which is a little sad. Well, what does being a newlywed mean, really? Other than you get to make out in public and be like, oh, excuse us, we’re newlyweds and we can’t keep our hands off of each other. Which actually doesn’t even come close to happening with us. My dear, sweet husband is terribly shy, and if I get a peck on the cheek when we’re outside the protective walls of our house, it’s a major victory for me.