The sleepiest.

I’ve been getting “You look tired” from folks for about two months now, which is not the most flattering thing to hear when you really tried to wake up and look presentable that day. Guys, I think it’s just my face — I have tired eyes, dark circles and a forehead frequently lined with pillow wrinkles. And I get a fantastic nightly 8 hours, so shut up about it, excuse me please.

K. figured out a way to make this look work to my advantage after finding me snuggled on our parent’s plush couch in last weekend’s scarf and baggy charmbray shirt uniform. Get ready for a side project: The Sleepy Style Blogger. All fashions will be comfy, rumpled and photographed while I’m lying on my couch or your couch or desk at work or church pew or anywhere else I feel like napping. There might be a “Pajama Pants of the Week” submission feature, “Earliest Bedtime” contest and “Fiercely Tired” high-fashion photoshoots with PJs made of live iguanas, etc. Get excited! Get some sleep!


Last week I had a blubbery, tearful conversation with my sister. My voice broke the first time and she said, “You sound sad.” I said, “I am. I also listened to some sad songs in the car on the way home to make it worse.”

“Ooooh, girl,” she said. Because she knows. She does it too. Just being emotional and relishing it a little bit. I even threw myself down on the couch, briefly, for good measure, before blowing my nose and dialing it back.

It’s the pure pleasure of wallowing, of feeling a little bit guilty and a lot raw, that makes us go crazy for “Someone Like You” and the final Harry Potter book (everybody dies).

So, hey, how about some devastating cover songs to kick off your week? I’m just going to think about everyone I’ve ever loved and never told, starting with Ben Sawhill in second grade, who had the most gorgeous bowl cut and was a really perfect tire swinger.

More please.

“Bliss is your birth right. You have great potential in this lifetime. The key to life is gratitude. You do not give enough thanks.”
— “How do I do that?”
“Simple, say ‘thank you.’”
— “When?”
“All the time. Like right now. And after you say ‘thank you,’ you should say, ‘more please.’ With gratitude, the universe is totally abundant.” — Happythankyoumoreplease


You’re my complement. You give my life an anchor, and I’d like to think I’ve given your life wings. — Sue Steinacher talks with her husband, Glen Pardy, via All There Is

I have two things to say about today. First, happy Valentine’s Day to my journalism career. It’s been three incredible-ish years of single-minded dedication, sweetheart.

OK. Bitterness accomplished for the year.

But second, I really kind of like this holiday. I think I’m the only person in the world who actually enjoys conversation heart candies — so, more for me when they’re on sale tomorrow. And I’m also a big fan of telling friends and family how much I love them, which is either weird or heartwarming depending on how much it’s reciprocated.

So here it is, just in case no one else tells you today: I love you so much.

I love you more than I love animal hugs.


On Saturday, I got this fortune at lunch:

Which is really appropriate except for the not being a man part. I consider myself a generally happy person, with the occasional cranky comment or wine-induced existential musing.

Then, during an evening painting session, a friend took a look at my watercolor set and pointed out my heavy use of dark colors — the palette’s just about out of its blacks, navy blues and jades, but full of magenta and tangerine. The comment resulted in a spiteful, wine-induced lime-green heavy painting and some light soul searching. Am I a dark person or a happy man?

These twin songs skew to the dark side, but I’ll make up for it by sending out extra bright Valentine’s Day emails to all my lovers tomorrow.

Crying shame.

I have a crying problem. It’s new and unpredictable and defies logic. I will shed no tears for your car accident, but forward me a nice email and I’m devastated, trying to hide my brimming eyes at work by hunching over an edit page. I nearly teared up today when a source invited me out to see his baby horses in the spring (because it was a nice offer and because of baby horses). I choke up when I think about how much I love my parents. And, most embarrassing, I sobbed during the trailer for Big Miracle — the whale movie.

I have no idea what’s causing these acute attacks of sentimentality, but I’m feeding it: I’m reading “All There Is” every night before bed, and good lord, sobfest. The book — which I highly recommend and gifted to myself for Valentine’s Day — is a StoryCorps project and features interviews of ordinary people talking about Love. Talking with their husbands or wives or reflecting on partners who have passed.

To be fair, that’s the part I’m on now, and that’s the part that kills me. Lost love. It goes like this: I crawl into bed, snuggle in under five extra blankets, drink some water, double check my horoscope to confirm it was correct AGAIN, then open this little book.

One thing: If they ever let me in those pearly gates, I’m going to walk all over God’s heaven until I find that girl. And the first thing I’m going to do is ask her if she would marry me, and do it all over again. — Leroy A. Morgan, 85, remembers his late wife Vivian

How can your lacrimal glands compete with that? My eyes start to water, the page blurs, and soon I’m crying silently, sometimes whispering, “That’s so perfect. He loves her so much.” My under-eye circles swell up like inflatable travel pillows; the salt irritates my skin all over so it’s red and blotchy. At this point, I know it’s time to close the book. Save some of the tears for tomorrow. So I turn out the light and stare up at the ceiling grinning and crying because it’s just so happy.

Have you seen the Kristen Bell sloth video? Because, I mean, yeah.


First, P. and I tried out a new restaurant Tuesday, celebrated happy hour and perused their week’s worth of  nightly specials, kicking ourselves for missing out on Wednesday app deals. Then there was the Thursday ladies’ night: cheap wine and half-off salads. My inner feminist is disgusted. My inner spinach salad lover is going back next Thursday.

Second, John Waters says the greatest things about books:

You should never read just for “enjoyment.” Read to make yourself smarter! Less judgmental. More apt to understand your friends’ insane behavior, or better yet, your own. 

Third, when we wake up, it will be Friday.