I need you to need me.

I was strolling though the Barnes and Noble yesterday at the mall where that girl got stabbed (true story) and I saw this book called, “Why men love b*tches.”

And I was all, “Crap, why DO men love b*tches?” So I picked it up and read it. The entire first two pages. And it had all this stuff in there about how men like a “mental challenge” and women who “know what they want” and I was all, “Frick. I’m too nice.”

Then, I kind of started freaking out in a needy sort of way.

That’s how I roll.

I’m needy, with a capital NEEDY.

Wait. Please don’t go. Stay. Please. PLEASE!

I usually just blame all my screwed-upness on my childhood, because my childhood was very weird. No. No. Weirder than whatever you’re thinking right now. In fact, take whatever you’re thinking, times it by 40 and add dead mice.

To be fair, the dead mice thing mostly was handled by little brother Steve while I was at college (Go Steve!). But still, there were dozens of dead mice. In my house!

So ya. That’s why I’m screwed up.

I have this problem where I constantly worry that whichever boy I’m with will find a hotter girl because there’s no way I’ll ever be THE hottest girl ever and boys only like girls for looks, right? I worry that I’ll call too much. Or that he’ll randomly leave. And now, I worry that I worry too much.

I don’t understand how to date.

I just want a boy to come along, and not suck and embrace all my neediness with a smile and not worry about the fact that when it comes to men I have the confidence of a  cow at a slaughter house (that’s my vegetarian plug of the day). I don’t want to pretend I’m easy going when I’m clearly not. I don’t want to pretend that I don’t like to know plans in advance, when I clearly do. And I don’t want to make you think it’s OK if you’re atheist when it is clearly not.

I don’t want to work on me for you. I want to just be me with you.

And, I’m kind of awesome once you get past the fact that I like to call you six times a day and text 500 times an hour. I’m smart, I have a strong faith and some people call me pretty. Once in a while, I bet I’ll make you laugh, I’ll never judge you for eating Taco Bell, and I’ll talk football with you any day of the week and twice on Sundays.

Oh, and I have a super awesome blog.

And if a guy would just take three seconds to see past my shaking hands, and total lack of confidence, I bet we could totally rock together.

Maybe. Probably. Eventually. Right?

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Happy me.

I had so much blissful, chocolate-covered-with-a-cherry-on-top fun today that I don’t want to go to sleep.

I just keep scrolling back over to the  camera-phone pictures I uploaded to Facebook so I can see it all again.

There’s me at the Chicago Diner and there’s that awesome picture of the skyline. OH! OH! And there’s me holding Bronson’s martini glass so I can look cool.

I have not lately been as calm as I was sipping my $8 hot-chocolate-with-caramel-minus-the-marshmallows in the Signature Room at the Hancock. Looking down over the entire city of golden lights and black diamond buildings and a pond so big they call it a lake, I was all-good.

The world was small. And I could conquer it any day of the week. Twice on Sunday.

Sometimes I forget that I have that ability. Bronson made me remember though.

For all of today.

And I was just me.

Just happy me.

There. I’m done now. Feel free to puke from the joy of it all.


I was born in ’83 for those keeping track.


A city to love.


No alcohol was used in the making of this picture.

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Thankful for my family.

I took this video on Thanksgiving. It captures the holiday for me. Family, food and pretty ear rings.

A few footnotes:

Mark is my brother. He’s me in opposite land. (And he’s always got a smart comment).

One family was a couple hours late, but total we had 23 people.

The tofurky tastes WAY better than it looks. Also, the spinach dip was amazing!

Gladstone is my sister’s dad.

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