For the first time since I was 18 years old, I live in a place I have no plans to move out of in a year or less. Pretty much non-stop for the last 7 years of my life, I’ve moved constantly. The first five times were fun, but then it just started to wear on me. I want to nest! I want to own furniture that actually matters. I want to come HOME, not just have a place to sleep.

This new place is going to be a home. I’ve been staying busy organizing and clearing clutter that has followed me around for years because I haven’t had the energy or the time to throw things away. I spent all of Saturday going through random boxes of junk and just tossing stuff out and cleaning up a storm.

I cleaned my make-up brushes, which I admit with some shame I haven’t washed since I purchased them in 2009. Blech. I know I’m not alone, all you filthy make-up brush owners.


I found pictures of when I was chubby, when I was blonde, and when I was so young I looked nothing like I do now. It was fun to reminisce. I laughed at the huge box I found of mostly movie ticket stubs I saved through middle school with notes on the back of who I saw each movie with. If that isn’t meticulous… I don’t know what is. I wish I could devote that enthusiasm to keeping track of business expenses.



Then I cooked a spinach alfredo. I was good, but not great. I shall update and then maybe I’ll post it here. We went and played Jenga. I did not know this, but I’m like a Jenga ninja. Challenge me, I dare you.



Yesterday, I joined the rest of the masses and watched the Super Bowl. It was fun, I was happy the Ravens won. Watching the Wire has made me care about Baltimore. So, yeah. Less than a week till Thailand. Holy moly, it’s really happening.


Weekends are for…

Fridays are for eating soft-serve.

Saturdays are for relaxing with pups you are lucky enough to babysit.

They are also for organizing.

They are for finding old things and remembering how cool they are, like your middle school diary with a key in the back to tell you who you wrote what poems about. Thanks, emo 12-year-old Jen.

They are for finding your boyfriend’s old band’s CDs.

They are for finding old books your mom gave you for Christmas one year.

They are for walking pups who are tired of watching you organize everything.

Sundays are for celebrating mothers. Dog mommies.

Cat mommies.

That’s what weekends are for.