See what you have to ask yourself is what kind of person are you? Are you the kind that sees signs, that sees miracles? Or do you believe that people just get lucky? Is it possible that there are no coincidences?—Signs
I believe in signs.
I believe there’s a reason I always said, “There’s no way I’m going back to Kiefer…unless he proposes…with a ring…and has tickets to Vegas.” And then…that happened.
I believe there’s a reason Kiefer and I saw this sign in Washington, DC, on a date after he proposed.
Most signs aren’t this clear.
I believe there’s a reason that a week after I said “Yes,” we finally found a new house.
I believe there’s a reason that a couple months after Kiefer’s proposal we got pregnant…and got this cutie pie:
I like putting her in hats that are too big for her. It makes her head look smaller, which makes my nether regions feel better.
Everyone with me now: I believe I can fly…I believe I can touch the sky….
Sorry. My writing made me channel R. Kelly. If you don’t know the song, don’t tell me. It’ll make me feel old.
Do you see signs?
Favorite Comment From Last Post: “Those toilets are real time savers though. If you go in with some shampoo, you can squeeze in a quick shower.”—correctionsandclarifications
Dear Picketers on the Corner of 15th and M Streets,
You stink. Who starts picketing at 7 AM on a Sunday morning? This President’s Day weekend was actually my Valentine’s Day celebration. And you ruined it. Thanks. Thanks a lot.
I’m not sure if you were aware, but although you were screaming at the Madison Hotel, the guests at the hotel next door heard your chants as well. In particular, your chants woke up Kiefer.
Do you know how dangerous it was to wake Kiefer up so early? Especially without having some freshly brewed coffee sitting on the bedstand next to him. You really took your life into your own hands.
When we walked to breakfast, Kiefer nearly beat you over your heads with your signs. Lucky for you, I held him back. You owe me.
When you get better wages, I’ll expect a cut.
Oh my god, I have Ebola!
How did I reach this self-diagnosis? Usually I self-diagnose through watching House, but this diagnosis comes from reading Richard Preston’s The Hot Zone.
- Coughing? Check.
- Sniffles? Check.
- Sick to the stomach? Now that I suspect I have Ebola, Check.
- Dark circles under eyes? Check. Or is that mascara?
- Addiction to chocolate? Check.
So I made up the last one.
This isn’t the type of book I normally read, but it’s about an Ebola virus outbreak in the suburbs of Washington, DC.
And it’s a true story.
Really. This isn’t one of those times when I say, “True story” when it’s obviously a big fat lie.
This was my thought process:
Know what Ebola does to you? It makes you a zombie, and it turns your insides to jello slush.
His face lost all appearance of life and set itself into an expressionless mask…The eyeballs…seemed almost frozen in their sockets, and they turned bright red.
Then it kills you. Only you don’t come back as a zombie. So uncool.