- Trying to talk at a concert is like battling autocorrect while drunk texting. “Those are some nice groots.” “Groots? WTF are groots?” …searching for possible replacement words… “BOOTS! Yeah…they are.”
- I bow down to the all-holy hamburger truck that parked itself outside of Japp’s Annex this weekend. Four vodka cranberries in and that cowboy burger was yeehawing my name, to which I hooted and hollered right back.
- When whispering sweet nothings and getting romantic, Sam’s voice drops an octave and becomes alluringly deep. I told him how sexy this phenomenon is, and he proceeded to talk like Isaac Hayes the rest of the day.
- “I’m hungry. And you are my chicken and waffles.”–Sam, practicing his Isaac Hayes voice and cracking us both up.
- I love when my Spotify friend pays a visit and drops something in my inbox. That little red dot just makes me smile, and I wonder what little musical gem has been delivered.
- I did not win the $350 million Powerball, which means my next windfall will come in a meager little lump sum from my tax return. Better odds at least.
- All children are starting in their own beds this week. At some point I will have to lock my door so I can redirect them back to their own bed when they try to find their way into mine in the middle of the night. This means interrupted sleep for me, so my drive to do this is not extraordinarily high. But they are old enough to be sleeping in their own beds the entire night–no matter how huge and empty my king size bed feels when it’s just me owning it.
I love you all, some more than others.