She Likes Purple

Blogging Community

Another guest poster here. I'm Kristabella, and I blog over here. Jennie asked me to fill in for her while she's in Toronto probably doing all sorts of Canadian things like eating fancy ham and calling it Canadian Bacon, referring to everything in kilometers and finishing all her sentences with eh? Because that is the only thing I know about Canada. That and Ali lives there with her "children".

I always have a mild panic attack when I am asked to guest blog. One, because I'm not sure why someone would want me to write on their site. I mean, come over to mine - I talk about Bacon, booze and I swear a lot. And now that I'm unemployed, I can talk of NOTHING ELSE. (Although, maybe that's why Jennie asked me because clearly I have nothing going on, I can easily go on and on on her site about nothing at all.) (When in reality, doing nothing all day makes you really boring and not funny.)

The other reason I don't like to guest blog is because of everything I've already written here. Who wants to read this? Don't answer that, Slynnro.

So I figured I should come up with some sort of topic besides bad dentists, belly button lint and cat nail clippings. Because that is as exciting as my life is right now.

But something I was recently talking about with my mom was the community that I have created online through my blog. The people I have met online are some of my closest friends. (Weird, right? I should get out more or write about dryer lint.)

It's weird how normal it is these days to have friends that you've met online. And how creepy it was back less than 10 years ago to fly across the country to meet people from the internet, let alone fly that far to go to a blogging conference with 1,000 other bloggers.

All of us bloggers have our own little community, our readers, who feel like close friends and family. People who genuinely care about you and are there to pick you up when bad things happen, like when you lose your job, or there to cheer you on or congratulate you when good things happen, like when you tell the blogging world you're pregnant after months of trying.

This blogging community that we are a part of, whether you write a blog or just read them, is really a unique thing. With the technology we have, with blogs and instant messaging and Twitter and text messaging, you're able to keep in touch with so many people who feel like they are your neighbors, when in reality they are scattered all over the country and all over the world.

The best part for me, is meeting so many people that love the same things I love, drink as much booze as I drink, say snarky things about the same people we don't like. These are people that I have so much in common with, besides just that fact that we all share our personal details on the internet for all to read. There are so many smart, funny, talented women out there on the internet and I don't regret for a second deciding to start a blog (a blog that once got me fired) and share my drunken tales on the interwebs because of all the great people I've come to know.   

While she's away

Why, hello there. I'm Kristie from Momma K. I'm honored to be a guest poster for Jennie while she's off in Canada visiting her family and no doubt giving her adorable nephew tons of kisses, hugs and all the other things Aunt's do.

I'm so nervous to venture over here and write something because, Jennie? Well, you all know she writes with such passion and grace and you can literally feel her words when you read them. Or at least I can. I cannot even begin to compare our writing styles. Probably because my writing style is called No Style. It's my thing! I invented No Style writing.

Anyway.

While I was stressing over what to write for this post I was also getting ready for the day. I took my kids to a local botanical garden to walk around and enjoy the gorgeous weather we had. It's not 107 outside! I won't melt into a puddle as soon as I step foot outside! I know that hurricane Ike made people leave their homes and tons of people are without power, but I am relishing in the cooler weather over here.

As I was getting ready, my older son was playing with my younger son. Now, I know this is nothing monumental in the slightest, but it's a big deal to me. You see, my kids are 11 and a half years apart. The oldest, Derick, is 13 years old. The youngest, Jackson, is 19 months. Just a small age gap, yes?

When I was pregnant with Jackson I worried that the vast age gap would hinder their relationship. I pictured the oldest kid gallivanting with his teenage friends and ignoring the baby in the family. I cringed when I thought of the little one being hurt because his brother didn't pay any attention to him. I even talked to a lady who happens to work in the same building I work in and she told me she had two kids who were 12 years apart and that they hated each other. Great. I'm setting myself up for kids that hate each other.

This morning I realized that not only do my kids not hate each other, they adore each other. As I was getting ready Derick played hide 'n seek with Jackson. They danced and giggled and played and they were both happy. Watching my two sons laugh together and walk hand in hand makes my heart melt and I fall in love with them more and more. The immense pleasure I get from watching them interact is what makes me day a little easier.

I hope that when Derick discovers girls (Lord help me) and gets his driver's license that he remembers to laugh together with his little brother. My wish is for them is to have each other to lean on and support each other in only the way brothers can. I hope that the unconditional love flows freely between them as it does now. When I'm gone one of these days, I hope that my sons will be as close as they are now. I hope they continue to seek each other with explosive smiles plastered across their faces when they see each other. I pray the silly games never end and that they adore each other as they do now.

Neither of my children were planned babies, but it sure seems like someone had a plan. And it sure is a beautiful plan.

   

Look Over There!

I know you're enjoying watermelon and hamburgers and yelling at your family, but if you have some downtime in between all of that, head over to Jodifur to read my guest post contribution about honeymooning with Mike and how it was on that trip when I realized, yep, I made a good choice here. With both him and the raspberry coladas.

“Tip the world over on its side and everything loose will land in Los Angeles.”*

Before I talk about stepping over a used condom in downtown Los Angeles, can I spend just a moment oozing gratitude for Heather and Jonna? They are fabulous bloggers--as I (and the Internet) know--but they are equally fabulous guest bloggers. When I called Natalie during my trip (so she could Google the closest In-N-Out Burger to me) she said, "Your guest bloggers are so funny." And Natalie knows funny. When Natalie gets drunk, she sometimes talks in nothing but Spanish. Natalie doesn't actually speak Spanish. That's funny! Don't you want to get her drunk now? Anyway, thank you Heather and Jonna for taking care of my site, for causing me to double over in hysterics on Monday, mere hours after I had to rip off the screen on our master bath window because I was locked out of my house at 2:30 am. (Husband hid the key so well, his wife couldn't find it!) To sum up, you are quality writers, quality women, and my admiration for you both is kind of ridiculous, I have to say.

::

So, anyway! I'm back! Exhausted and bloated from all the awful food I ate since I was eating on a company credit card but back all the same! I returned late last night and then sat in the D/FW airport for an extra two-and-a-half hours waiting on luggage that was there--not lost luggage, luggage that I could probably have seen if I had been allowed back in the terminal to look out the window--but luggage that couldn't be sent up to me because something was broken, some belt thingamajig that the bags are sent up on. Now, can we think about this situation for just a quick minute? Can we think about how long it took from the onset of the problem (thingamajig breaks) to the solution (thingamajig all better), and that during that (long) time I could have walked out to the tarmac and picked up my bag myself. I COULD HAVE TAKEN ANOTHER FLIGHT. Who was managing this problem? Who was standing around, surveying this broken belt and mulling over potential fixes---send the passengers to another baggage claim (hell, another terminal, even), carry the bags to the exhausted, irritable passengers ourselves, OFFER THEM COCKTAILS WHILE THEY WAIT---and settling on waiting until a thingamajig fixer can be stirred from his/her sleep, summoned out to the airport and coerced into spending hours fixing the belt. I work in management, and I think I would have a stern talking to if that was the solution I settled on with not even a mention of meal vouchers. I think I'd be sent back to management training and then TALKED ABOUT BEHIND MY BACK for my obvious asshatedness. Now, I don't usually resort to so many capped words but I was tired and whiny and grouchy and when I thought about it---sitting in a hard plastic chair reading vampire fiction---it just irritated me to no end that the airline industry is the only industry I can think of that can make you sit around, uncomfortable and exhausted and angry, for close to three hours and not have to be HELD ACCOUNTABLE for their shitty service.

All right, then. Aren't you just thrilled to have me back? Are you slowly backing away from your computer? Hiding all the sharp objects? Let me apologize. This trade show is one of my favorite times of year but it's also a lot of work with very little naps. Let's move on and talk about that condom, shall we?

So, Los Angeles? Kind of a shit hole, no? Now, granted, I didn't see all of Los Angeles this trip but it sure didn't look like an episode of The Hills, I can tell you that much. The last time I tuned in to see Lauren walking to class or eating brunch I don't remember seeing a used condom on the sidewalk beside her. Or a rat scurrying in the background. But, funny enough, that's the Los Angeles I was introduced to. Not to mention the stroll I took down a street that was apparently a gang hangout; that was interesting. Oh and that In-N-Out  Burger Natalie looked up for me? In nice-sounding Huntington Park? NOT NICE. I love that burger joint more than most--we had our rehearsal dinner there after all--but fearing for your life isn't what you imagine ordering a side of to go along with your chocolate shake and greasy burger. We did take a fairly expensive cab ride to Hollywood/Beverly Hills for the sole purpose of eating a Crumbs cupcake, and that was nice. We then strolled down Rodeo Drive in a sugar coma and in hot search of a restroom--"Do you think they'll let me use the bathroom in Michael Kors? What about Chanel? Fendi? Versace? What if I tell them that this lovely cotton dress I'm wearing is Old Navy? Think that'll persuade them?"

The show was a success and I scored a few nice books and a fun tote bag I have absolutely no space or use for, and other than bringing two left flip-flops (I have two of the same pair) making it obviously impossible for me to change out of my uncomfortable shoes before heading to the airport, therefore securing some bleed-y and puffy blisters on my heels AND toes (and other than the condom, rat and various times I feared for my life) it was a nice little break from reality.

We opted to walk to the convention center one afternoon--the day of the condom spotting, actually--and the weather was just perfect, not too hot, not too chilly. I took off my jacket and enjoyed the California sun and it dawned on me that this was weather that could sure make you overlook a lot--that scowling man with the mask on, reaching into his jacket pocket pulling out what you can only hope is a cell phone, for example. You won't hear me say a little sun doesn't go a long way. But then I caught a glimpse of the gas prices--regular gas for $4.56--and I thought, "Seriously, why does anyone live here?"

I'm sure you've wondered that a time or nine hundred about Texas,  haven't you? But as it goes with trips--even trips to the greatest of places--and traveling and lugging suitcases and airport food and cramped hotel rooms and even expense accounts: the coming home really is the sweetest part, wherever home may be.

::

*Frank Lloyd Wright

Warning: Excessive talk of cat puke

A few days ago Jennie sent me - Heather B. of No Pasa Nada - an email asking if I had time in my rather hectic schedule of sitting around and staring out the window, to guest post for her this Friday since she would be away for work. It took me exactly five minutes to reply that I was not busy and obviously so since I was able to get back to her immediately after I got her email. Of course then I did a bit of hyperventilating as I am prone to do because what the hell would I write about? Also Jennie is JENNIE and every time prose runs from her brain to her fingers to the page I curse the Universe for not giving me that kind of talent.

So later that day I went to get some wine - Riesling if you must know since I'm headed towards my light summer phase also because when it's good and cold, the second it hits your lips you want to be sitting on a backyard patio with an outdoor Mediterranean kitchen. While someone grills shrimp and corn and roasted peaches and excuse me because I've digressed and there is drool all up on my desk. Anyway, I get home with my Riesling and say hello to the animals. My roommate has a dog and a cat; Daisy and Simon. Daisy is perfectly pleasant and sweet as can be. Simon ripped a chunk out of my leg WITH HIS TEETH when I first met him. I ended up spending months walking around my apartment with a spray bottle to shoot streams of water at him anytime he entered the room. He now snuggles next to me while I'm typing and follows me around the kitchen while I bake and curls up in the nook of my arm and is so god damn precious that it makes me forget about the massive scar on my leg.

I say hello to the animals and they both eye me for getting to be outside and in the sunshine while they sat around the house watching Oprah all day long. I'm wearing flip flops and the second I step into the kitchen I feel my left foot slip from under me. I manage to regain my balance and grab onto the door frame and turn on the light. I look down as I mutter a hearty the hell?! and what I see when I look down and survey my kitchen causes me to recoil in fear.

It's cat puke. And not just one small pile of cat puke. It's like Simon ate furiously then purged each and everything he had ever eaten in weeks. If he were a human he'd be all "What the hell? When did I have corn?" The first pile that I had stepped in was the largest of the THREE piles. He puked in the door way. Walked in his puke then puked again. Walked in his puke then puked again by the window.

I remove my shoe and hop around on one foot while screaming maniacally because WHAT THE HELL there is CAT PUKE from a cat that ISN'T EVEN MINE all over my damn kitchen. Meanwhile Daisy and Simon just casually stare at me then Daisy walks over to me and is all sad eyes because she wants to go out and Simon starts weaving around my leg that is still on the ground wanting some love and I'm about ready to punt that little shit off the balcony. I then briefly contemplate leaving a note taped to a bottle of Clorox for my roommate saying that she should clean up after her damn cat and perhaps call her to tell her that her cat is about to be choked because DUDE it was EVERYWHERE and I needed my damn wine to be chilled.

But I'm nice so I clean up the puke without gagging and promptly email Jennie. I tell her that she's going to get a kick ass Pulitzer Prize winning essay on how my cat puked everywhere thus rendering me unable to get to my wine. Which is really the most important part of this story. Jennie writes back to me "You can even add that another good reason not to have pets is because when you put a beer on the coffee table they may "unintentionally" knock it over and then LAP IT UP themselves. Nobody wants to compete for alcohol with their dogs"

And that was the second I realized that if I didn't adore Jennie before I sure as shit did now. Because it's hard not to appreciate someone who gets you and knows that when it comes down to animal versus alcohol the animal will lose. So I had a come to Jesus talk with Simon where I shook my finger at him and said "If you ever screw with my drinking time again. You will be hanging off the balcony by your tail". He then sprinted away to my roommate's bed and I enjoyed my semi-chilled wine. Wine that would have been chilled perfectly if I hadn't had to maneuver around cat puke to get it into the fridge.

The end.

In which I ramble incoherently in someone else's house ...

Well, hello there! I'm ... well, I'm feeling rather nervous, if you can believe it, because this group is a strange group with only a few familiar faces, and I am NAKED, just naked right now and I'm totally going to take advantage of it. (Also, that line makes me think of Jennifer Love Hewitt and her one Top 40 hit "Barenaked" which I am embarrassed to admit that I sort of liked ... aaand also, I like Jennifer Love Hewitt quite a bit, despite the fact that people call her "Love" (GAG) and this definitely includes The Ghost Whisperer, where I am riveted by her spider-leg eyelashes and massive boobs. Do you hate me yet?)

I'm Jonna, by the way -- of Jonniker, if you didn't know, and why would you? -- and Jennie asked me to post in her stead while she's away on business.  To be honest, this is something I've never done before, mostly because I'm a pansy and don't want to ruin someone else's blog. And worse, I am a REALLY awful blogger to write something in one contained post, because I tend to go all over the place (see: Jennifer Love Hewitt and her MEZMERIZING BOOBS).

So ha ha! Why should this be any different? For the briefest of backgrounds, I'm a 32-year-old freelance writer married to the delightful Adam, and have recently relocated to Vermont from Florida, although Boston is my home, mostly. Oh, and I've been trying to have a baby for like, a really long time, and last time I checked, I didn't have one, or even the beginnings of one. I am not convinced any of this will be relevant to the post at hand, because -- per usual -- I have NO IDEA where I'm headed with this.

Can we talk for one second about infertility-lite, which is sort of what I have, for the moment (let's leave medical specifics out of this, shall we? Because I won't be able to do it well). While some people get up in arms when people ask if they're trying, or when they're going to start having kids, I am bothered by the fact that people tiptoe around us like we're broken. No one asks about it because they're afraid I'm a petite little flower who's going to blow up and begin weeping uncontrollably in their face. And you know, that's kind of insulting -- for starters, anyone who knows me realizes that's not particularly likely, and secondly, by avoiding it, it becomes this HUGE PINK ELEPHANT in the room. And the fact that it's become an elephant, not the situation at hand, is what makes me want to cry.

Nowhere, by the way, is this elephant more obvious than when my stepmother spends twenty minutes updating me on my brother's two little boys, then pausing for like A REALLY LONG TIME before blindly asking, "So, ah, how's Sunny? We really need to get a picture of her for the grandkid wall!"

Sunny is my dog. And while yes, she's my baby right now, she is not, in fact, an actual baby, and I know my stepmom is just trying to relate, and yes yes, I do love her for it, but I wish she would JUST ASK ME ABOUT THE ELEPHANT, you know? I'd feel better than trying to pretend that my dog is equal to her grandchildren. Because while for some people, it might be, because of my elephant, it isn't, you know? So I just end up feeling sort of empty and stupid.

So I guess I'm saying, if one of your friends has an elephant, maybe think about whether she'd like you to ask about the elephant. At the least, I'm sure she'd say she'd rather you not IGNORE the elephant and talk about a dog instead. I mean, at least I would.

Ahem. It feels good to say that. Also, I found out this morning that I am not pregnant, and I'm telling you, I really thought I was. Aand, my parents arrive today. Am looking forward to elephant talk.

So, ah, here's a totally unrelated question in the world's most awkward segue: You know those dances, like the Lawnmower, The Hammer Dance, etc? Seeing as I apparently MISSED the 1980s watching too many Golden Girls episodes and sitting with my nose in a Roald Dahl book (oh, The Witches!), I ... well, I'm having a hard time believing that anyone actually DID those dances back then, although once, at a fraternity formal in college, some dude busted out with the running man in utter sincerity and nope, we never went out again. Does this make me shallow? Probably. But I'm telling you, I couldn't marry someone who did the running man without the SLIGHTEST TOUCH of irony, and it was time to just ... well, get out while I could, I suppose, before a lifetime of running man's flashed before my eyes.

(And let's forget that once, I fell in love with a guy I saw breakdance at a bar in college. I am an onion of many incongruous layers. That guy, by the way, is now a pastor at a southern super-church and is married to a bottle blonde wife with acrylic nails and huge, barrel-curled bangs. And let's just say that's not a lifestyle I ever dreamed of, which means that I TOTALLY should have stuck with my dancing instincts on that one. A narrow miss, I tell you, A NARROW MISS.)

(My husband is not a dancer. No surprise there.)

Oddly, this is in conflict with my general feelings on dancing, which are that if you're going to dance, you have to go WHOLE HOG. You can't be tentative, you can't be a pansy. You just ... well, you just have to go for it, because nothing is worse than a dancer who's just awkwardly going through the motions, you know? It's like you can just SEE that they are in agony, which puts the witness in agony which ... well this, my friends, is why I don't dance. The genesis for this topic is because at the moment I wrote this last night, my husband was inexplicably watching quirky wedding dances (mostly based off of the Evolution of Dance, which surely you've seen, yes?) on YouTube while an NBA playoff game languished on pause. I don't get it, either, and I'm SO FIRED as a wife if he finds out I told you that. So don't tell anyone, okay?

And finally, because frankly, I've likely bored you to tears and lost Jennie as a friend at this point, I'll leave with a product recommendation. Now, I don't know about you, but I'm a picker -- gross as this is, I CANNOT let a whitehead just lay there, which often means that I'm either making zits worse, or creating one from nothing more than a tiny clogged pore. Either way, the result is an unpleasantly polka-dotted face. Non-pickers do not understand this, but I'm sorry, I CANNOT UNDERSTAND YOU EITHER. Also, if you have a whitehead, I am likely spending the bulk of our conversation wondering how I can politely ask you if I can take care of that for you. Which makes me gross. So utterly gross, I know, but I CANNOT LOOK AT THEM WITHOUT THE URGE.

GAH GAH GAH.

Enter Mario Badescu drying cream. Holly recommended the lotion here, but my preference is for the cream, mostly because my zits tend to be of the underground variety. And this stuff DRAWS THEM OUT, YO. As in, you put it on the night before, and the next morning, yes, yes, you have a zit that may, um, need to be popped (SORRY SORRY SORRY), but if you take care of business (GENTLY), and reapply the drying cream THE NEXT NIGHT AGAIN, you will wake up the next day and it will be very nearly gone. Poof! LIKE MAGIC. A word of warning, however: Unless you are the color of lemon curd, this cream is NOT skin tone and will not conceal in the slightest. Use at night, dude, when no one can see you and your lemony zits.

And now that I've grossed you all out, I think maybe I should wrap this up. Thanks for listening and thanks to Jennie for having me.

Have an awesome Thursday, Friday and beyond if I don't talk to you again you know, like ever!   

I'm Somewhere Else Entirely

EmilyPie asked me to guest post for her today, while she's gallivanting in NAPA sipping WINE and CHAMPAGNE and probably eating cheese and bread, too. But, I'm totally happy for her and not a bit jealous. Why do you ask?

If you're long on time and short on blogs to read, go read my post about six things I'm loving right now. And bring your wallets. And comment because it's always embarrassing to be the guest poster who can't hold the attention of a single reader.

The biggest thanks.

I'm Over Here Today

Angella asked me to fill in for her today, while she's soaking up the sun in Mexico. My post is officially up and waiting for you. 

Committed

Hello there!

My name is Angella and the ever-lovely Jennifer has asked me to guest-post for her while she is away.

I have a confession to make.  This is my very first guest-post.  I am a little skeered.  Please be gentle, mmkay?

There is something about Jennifer that has rung true for me.

Yes, she is funny.  Yes, she has great taste in shoes (She even sent me a pair to match a pair that I bought for my daughter!) Yes, she has great taste in fashion (as I look down at the Wal*Mart t-shirt and yoga pants I am wearing, complete with snot trails from my kids)

*Ahem*

Do you know what has really cemented my rapport with Jennifer?

Her fierce love for Mike.

You see, I have been married for almost eight years. I met Matthew (aka Honey) in November 1999. Our first date was November 30th. We got engaged exactly once month later. We were married the following May 20th. That would be (not quite, but almost) five months later.

We encountered a lot of flack from people. "They" said that you needed to date at least a year before you got married. That you then needed to be engaged for at least a year before you got married. Because somehow this was a magical formula that would ensure a wonderful marriage.

Matthew and I have built our marriage (and our life, for that matter) on a foundation based on faith. Out of that faith has come a quote that was given to me long before I ever met my Honey. This quote is one that I repeat often (sometimes it is the only thing that keeps me from snapping at Honey...or the kids).

Before I share it maybe I should give you my family history when it comes to marriage. You may think that I come from a family has a generations-long string of people who kept their marriage commitment. Who have never divorced. Who make it look easy. This is most definitely not the case.

My Mom has been married and divorced twice. She has been common-law with my stepdad for twenty years now. My Dad has been married (and divorced) four (FOUR!) times, and is currently living common-law with lady number five. Thanks to all of the marriages, I have eight (EIGHT!) siblings. We came in three different sets. But that is a different post.

What I learned from my family experience is what I do not want for my own family. While my parents are both lovely people (ish), my upbringing brought more than its fair share of heartache. I vowed marry someone who would fight as ferociously as I would to keep our marriage commitment to each other. Forever. 'Til death do us part.

I was blessed enough to meet someone who believes as strongly as I do that we are in this forever. No matter what happens or comes our way, we have the security of knowing that divorce is never an option. It is never hinted at, threatened with, or even mentioned. Unless we are discussing how sad divorce is for all of the people in the midst of one. We are (happily) stuck with each other for now and for always.

What is the quote that I love to repeat to any and all that will hear?

Love is not a feeling.  It is a commitment.

Feelings come and go.  Commitment is constant.  Beauty fades.  Vows are forever.

People often wonder if married life is boring. That initial excitement of meeting someone new has long worn off. We no longer stay up to the wee hours talking about everything and nothing all at once. While I sometimes get weak in the knees, it is not an hourly occurrence as it was in the very beginning. The twitterpated stage is over. And I am glad.

We now have a solid foundation of love, trust, and commitment. Matthew is the one person on this planet who I trust utterly and completely with every single part of who I am. There is peace in stability. There is a comfort in knowing that we are going to grow old together. Our culture is one of ease. We may choose to recycle instead of throwing away the old, but I, for one, will never be recycled.  Nor will my Honey.  For this I am glad.

I see this fervor for love, this passion for commitment (and each other!) in Jennifer and Mike. It brings me great joy for I know the love they have is true and pure. It will last forever.

Of this I am sure.

The Top Ten Reasons I Like Purple

Hi. I'm Elizabeth.

When Jennie asked me if I would guest post on her blog, I was super duper flattered, because hi, it's kind of an honor, right?  But then that happy feeling wore off a bit and I must admit I was rather semi terrified.  Because I mean, hi, you people probably don't care about me!  I mean, if you wanted to read what I have to say, you'd be reading my blog.  (Not Very Subtle Hint:  Read My Blog.)  Ha ha, kidding, kidding. Sort of. 

Anyhoo, terrified.  I had no idea what to write about and I also wasn't sure if Jennie had maybe some of those unwritten rules for what she does and doesn't write about on her blog, you know what I mean?  For example sometimes on my blog I will in fact drop the F-bomb, although I do make a conscious effort to not be a total potty mouth absolutely all of the time.  And also almost no one I know in real life reads my blog because it is a big old secret and then I started to think oh my god, I think her mom might read her blog, what if I offend her mother?

Commence Freak Out. 

But then I took a deep breath and rallied and I decided the best course of action would be to force Ms. Purple to send me a list of possible guest blog topics using a carefully calculated system of threats.  In other words I told her that if she did not tell me what to write about that I would post nothing but "Peyton Rulz" over and over again.  But thank god the threats worked and she sent me some really wonderful topics.  Unfortunately they were all about me and I just can't help but feel like you don't want to read about me, because, again, you can do that at my own silly blog.  I mean, you come here for the Purple, right?

So I thought this.  Let's just have a love fest! I mean, not in a bad Oprah way, you know, but heck, you can't really tell people on your own dang blog to tell you how much they love you, now can you?  I mean, please.  So instead, I'll do it! I'll tell you the top ten reasons I am so terribly fond of Jennie and then you can chime in with your own reasons and then when she gets back from vacay it will be like we  had a regular old party for her while she was gone and I swear she did not put me up to this, "Love Fest for Jennie" was not one of her suggested topics, I swear. 

So here, without further ado, are the Top Ten Reasons I Like Purple:

1.  I've never liked the color purple.  This might seem like a strange thing to start out with, but hear me out, because it makes sense in the long run, I promise.  So here's the thing.  I've never been a purple lover.  Or even a liker.  Just didn't do it for me.  It seemed sort of seventh grade to me and lord knows I was too cool to get involved with any tired ass seventh grade colors.  And then one time a few years ago an acquaintance of mine was trying to describe someone she knew who was in her mind semi lame and she said "It's like when a grown woman's favorite color is purple" and we all laughed and and nodded and agreed that was bad news and nastily went about our day feeling better about ourselves and our fabulous terribly grown up not purple liking taste.  And I've kept that in my head all this time and probably derided other women with it and when I stumbled across the this blog from a link I have since forgotten I almost almost almost clicked away because of the title, because hi, I was mature and worldly and waaaaaay too cool for purple.  But luckily I read just enough to realize, hey, this woman's a really good writer.  And she is funny and awesome and actually kind of super cool.  And I actually sort of like her, maybe even sort of a lot.  And then I left her a comment or two and she wrote back and she started to leave me the nicest comments on my blog and and whenever I saw her updates in Bloglines I got all happy and and then you know what?  Not only did Jennie become one of my honest to goodness friends, but I started to sort of like the color purple.  And I started to think about what a crappy thing it is to judge other women right off the bat like that, for something so stupid and small.  I realized that one of my favorite things about Jennie is that she just puts this stuff out there, her favorite color, shoes she likes, how she feels, what she thinks, and how she isn't spending all this time worrying about whether she makes some imaginary grade or is cool enough for bitchy judgmental people like me and our arbitrary systems we use to tear other women down and I learned a little bit about myself and what I learned I did not like.  Shouldn't we be building each other up?  Shouldn't we be celebrating our differences and loving each other and just plain trying to make this world a better place?  Jennie and her love of purple made me think yes.  And while I will admit I am not yet completely in LOVE with purple, I am more than a little enamored of Jennie and also, I am here to tell you that this summer I am going to two weddings and I am totally going to wear purple shoes.  And I promise that the rest of this list isn't going to be this crazy long.  And Jennie, please forgive me for being such a giant beotch.  The end.

2.  I love how much Jennie loves her husband, and how she's not afraid to gush on a bit about it.  I love it. It reminds me of when I was first married and it reminds me to give my husband that extra little pat on the fanny when he gets home from work.

3.  My favorite line Jennie has ever written is something that has stuck with me since I first read it:  "I believe-deeply-in the power of an ordinary life."  I find that just amazingly beautiful, and it reassures me on a daily basis.  I have been, at times, terrified of an ordinary life.  This terror almost prevented me from having kids or getting married at all.  And I took that leap anyway, on faith, and I am so grateful that Jennie has helped me to see that the most mundane of things can be beautiful and magical and that on days when you are covered with spit up and dog hair and nothing feels too wonderful, that the crazy fun reasons that make life worth living are all around you anyway, all the time, and that ordinary can be extraordinary if you live it the right way. 

4.  Um, hi, she always links to the cutest shoes.  Enough said.  God, I when you really think about it, shoes don't even make sense, but I do adore them so. 

5.  She's open minded.  When I first started reading this blog, I just assumed Texas = Republican.  Now I was super relieved to find out that wasn't the case, as I am the most die hard crazy hippie liberal you may ever not really meet in person, but at the same time, I love that she reminds us all the time that kindness isn't limited to liberals and you know, she's totally right.  Something for all of us to remember.  Mostly me. 

6.  I love that she tells it like it is.  Even though I know she's totally 100% butt crazy in love with her husband, sometimes all of us need to hear about how someone else's husband is also kind of a pain in the ass and how he doesn't always take the trash out when he says he will or how he was kind of semi annoying after his shoulder surgery or how he took the dishwasher apart for no apparent reason.  It makes me feel better to know I'm not the only one, you know?

7.  I am crazy about that story where her husband Mike ate that pasta thing she made for him even though she didn't boil the noodles.   So awesome.  That's love, people, real, true, forever and ever amen kind of love, and also, a great story.  I think "would he eat uncooked noodles for me?" should be everyone's true love test.  I mean, that kind of thing is absolutely how you know it's for real.

8.  I love how she says "My taste is not universal."  That kind of confidence just kills me.  I am PERSONALLY offended if you don't love what I love.  I am also PERSONALLY offended if you try to copy me.  I am clearly insane, and I would so love to be more "Hey, here's what I like, your opinion of it is welcome, but not necessary to me forming my own."  Jennie makes me see how it is possible to do this.  She is directly leading to me being slightly less of a total nut job, so yeah! I also love how I have turned this whole list into things about me. 

9.  It's just nice sometimes to get a different point of view, to be reminded that my own brain is not the final authority on the world.  I am thinking of something she wrote recently about how we needed to remember to be polite to our spouses.  How we are raised to be polite to our parents and friends and our co workers but we allow ourselves to be just straight up rude to our husbands.  And I admit, my husband has recently asked me to be a teeny bit less of a psychotic shrew where he is concerned and and when he said "I just want you to be nice to me!" I could NOT hear it, but when Jennie said "you know, we should at least be polite to our husbands like we are to the REST OF THE WORLD", I heard it.  So she's like, single handedly saving my marriage over here with her blog wisdom, and for that I am very grateful. 

10.  Jennie always leaves me the best comments, so go ahead and leave her one and tell her why you like purple too and get with the love fest already. 

P.S.  Peyton Rulz!!!