A Little Smidge of Horrifying Humor

This isn't necessarily a story I'd normally broadcast all over the Internet, but I found it quite funny and my pants are too tight today (likely cutting off bloodflow to my brain) so I'm going to share it.

Let me first start by putting us all on an equal plane: we all have body hair. In weird places. I think everyone has experienced the boobie creeper hair that pops up overnight. (A friend of mine once called it haireola.) And we've all caught the glint of a random chin whisker in the mirror. Some of you even have patches on your toes that require shaving.

So it should have been no surprise that I would end up with a tickler in my nasal cavity.

It all started Sunday when Mr. Wonderful and I went to a screening of Cars 2 and, in the darkness of the theater, I thought I had a cat hair up my nose. Every now and then, I'd breathe out and feel something up there. But I didn't seem to be able to whisk it away with the back of my hand.

Maybe it was the wine I had later in the night, but I stopped noticing the feeling and figured the stray fuzz/cat hair/phantom poker had disappeared.

Then I went to work Monday and felt it again. And I knew.

After work, I greeted Mr. W in the kitchen and told him I thought I had a monster nose hair growing in my right nostril. I don't think he signed up for that kind of talk when he married me, but he's stuck now.

I assembled my tools: a hand mirror, a pair of scissors and a set of tweezers. I sat down in the bright evening light by our sliding glass door and peeked up my nose.

Sure enough, there it was. A rogue hair growing from somewhere far up in the cavern down toward the entry hole. Tickling. Horrifying.

I'm happy to say that he is much shorter now. And that Mr. W has not served me divorce papers. Likely because of that one random sprout he gets on his earlobe sometimes.

Ah, the joys of getting older. I seriously do not even want to know what else lies ahead...

Mano Y Mano

I'm over at 'S Wonderful today talking about hand-holding. You can read the post here.

Um, and while you're over there, wanna add your name to my followers list? It feels awfully lonely on blog #2 with only one devotee. (Thanks for your loyalty, Scribe!)

When One Moment Passes, There's Another Right Behind It

Upon returning from my two-week honeymoon last month, I found myself thinking a lot about time limits. Not deadlines, exactly, but rather periods of time you know won't last. (I guess life is a period of time we know won't last, but bear with me...)

On vacation, you don't really know if the time you have in a particular city or a particular park or at a particular restaurant will be your one and only, so you generally tend to soak it up in a most magnificent in-the-moment way. You live each second. You enjoy experiences to an extent you might not at home. Because home is available. Like the nice guy you put off dating because you know he'll always be there waiting for you.

My return from Italy left me thinking, "how can I create that same sense of urgency and commitment to the moment in my day-to-day life?"

I did it when I got laid off in 2003. I got up every morning and made the most of every day—sometimes writing for hours on end—because I knew it wouldn't last forever.

But in the safety of my gainfully employed nest, I can't seem to push myself to live with the kind of vigor that comes naturally on trips and during bouts of joblessness. And unfortunately, once you've experienced that feeling, when you're not sensing it you sort of feel like you're not living.

If only I could fully convince my brain that life is short and every day counts, even if they're spent at your stand-up desk.

I want to be burning with desire to write. I want to hustle to churn out query letters or Etsy business cards or even that scrapbook of my half marathons. But I keep thinking I have all the time in the world for that. All the time in the world to fritter away on Tivo and Facebook.

Any suggestions on how I can get myself to start making more—making the most—of every moment? Even if it's not in a piazza in Italy?

Pucker Up!

I'm blogging over at 'S Wonderful tonight. Talking lemons and future lemon orchards and limoncello. Ah, to be a real farmer someday...

Um and also, here's a little shameless promotion of some of my recent Etsy additions. Gotta plug the goods anywhere I can, right?

Upcycled jewelry catch-all

Italian leather journals with eco-fi felt cover buddies

Upcycled travel jewelry box with eco-fi felt flower

Upcycled travel jewelry container with eco-fi felt owl top

Sc Sc Sc Score!

You guys, the Ttt Ttt dude got moved to a different floor. This means my eye twitch and neck spasm might stop!

What's more exciting though, is that I got a stand-up desk today.

Several weeks back when I was in the throes of insanity with Ttt Ttt and my new seating situation, I decided to put in a request to the ergonomics department to get my desk elevated.

See, I work for an Internet company that believes everyone should be equally miserable in grey, 4.5-foot-tall cubicles. But having my desk raised meant I could look over the walls and actually see my team members again and potentially attain an altitude above the jet stream of Ttting.

Then the Universe threw me a huge bone by not only enabling me to get my desk raised, but to have it moved over to a seat that was being vacated by one of Ttt Ttt's coworkers. I now have a view out the floor-to-ceiling balcony windows. Score.

In addition to my boosted morale, I'm pretty sure that I've extended my life expectancy. According to the American Cancer Society, "women who reported more than six hours per day of sitting were 37 percent more likely to die during the time period studied than those who sat fewer than 3 hours a day."

Yikes, right?

I've also heard that standing releases certain enzymes that help your metabolism. All in all, it just seems like a healthier option for getting through my 9-6.

The other benefits I discovered this morning after I moved in? I feel super productive like a cat who is continually springing into action because I'm on my feet. And even better than that: when a good song comes on iTunes, I can totally dance in place. Awe. Some.

Good Thing I Wasn't Wearing Wooden Shoes When I Stuck My Foot in My Mouth

This past weekend, I attended a very lovely wine-tasting bachelorette party in one of my most favorite getaway cities, Solvang, California. It's practically a second home for me—I've tried new dishes there, completed a couple of half marathons, and even rung in the New Year with my parents. Its windmill-lined streets and Danish charm have a very special place in my heart. However, it's a pretty funny little town.

Founded by Danes in 1911, it has retained so much of the original architecture and culture that it almost has a Disneyland-like feel to it now. You sort of expect to round a corner and see someone in a giant furry pastry costume waiting to pose for pictures with you. It's odd and sort of wonderful that this kind of storybook land can exist just north of Santa Barbara and right in the midst of Central Coast wine country.

Given its kitschy nature, I wouldn't expect it to be a huge destination for international travelers. Which is why I was sort of surprised (perhaps I shouldn't have been) when we pulled up to our hotel and the bellhop promptly informed us that the Prince of Denmark was staying there.

We walked into the lobby and a few of the girls from our group were commenting on the heavy police presence outside.

"The Prince of Denmark is staying here," I told them. "Because of course if you're the Prince of Denmark, you're going to visit Sooolllvaaang on your trip to the states."

There was heavy mocking in my tone.

A couple of the girls got very wide-eyed.

"He's right behind me, isn't he?" I asked.

They smiled and nodded.

I snapped my big fat mouth shut and froze.

The Prince breezed past me, likely thinking to himself, "Stupid American."

I guess if I were Princess of the U.S., I'd want to go visit "Little America" in a foreign land, too. And I probably wouldn't be too happy if some snarky local made fun of me for it.

Denmark, I would like to formally apologize for my insensitivity. I welcome you back for an American-made aebelskiver anytime you'd like to come.

And Now, a Very Special Story about Night-Before-Wedding Sex Talks

My mom reminded me recently that a rather hysterical night transpired before my walk down the aisle and I forgot to document it here.

It was the eve of the wedding and, with much fanfare, my matron of honor sister had welcomed me into her home for a slumber party. There was a little white bouquet on the guest bedroom pillow for me, streamers on the wall and a banner that said, "Tomorrow's the big day!" with a picture of me and Mr. W on it.

It was all fantastic.

But the highlight of the night came after my sister, nieces and I had changed into our jammies and were lounging in the family room.

I don't quite remember how it all started, but Younger Niece, who is 12, whispered something to Older Niece, who is 16, that caused Older Niece to sort of scamper across the couch and let out a wail. (We call her Moana because of the frequent moaning she does when she doesn't like things.) After a little prodding, we got Younger Niece to just ask the question out loud. She was in a safe, family environment—we would be honest with her and not punish her for being inappropriate.

"I just wanted to know if it's verbal sex or oral sex," she said.

And then my sister and I proceeded to pee our pants.

The conversation that ensued was something I could have only dreamed of the night before my wedding. Endlessly entertaining. Highly informative. I went to sleep that night feeling like the most knowledgeable virgin bride on the block...

Monogram Mourning

When Mr. Wonderful and I got engaged, there was never a question that I would change my last name. If I had told him I wanted to keep my maiden, he would have been fine with it. But I'm a traditionalist, and I also happen to really like his last name.

See, even though I adore Hetherington (sounds like royalty, doesn't it?), adopting Mr. W's will make it a whole 7 letters shorter. And that's great because "Hetherington" gets cut off all the time on documents and fill-in-the-box forms. It also causes me to get called "Heather" a lot (which I often jokingly attribute to my striking likeness to Heather Locklear. Ha.).

So all was well and fine with my adoption of the new moniker until I realized it was going to affect my initials.

(Cue some sort of dramatic musical ensemble.)

For one, I sign my initials on work stuff several times a day. I'm so used to sort of connecting the "M" and the "H," I don't really know whether I'll ever be able to break myself of the habit and write any other letters. I'm also a habitual user of "MH" when signing off emails.

When I came back from the honeymoon, my Creative Director had edited some of my project documents and in each one, where I had put "MH," he changed it to "MM." The new initials. It pained me. In my spleen.

To me, initials are almost like my first name and changing them is like changing my identity in some way. Who am I going to be if I'm not MH????

I'm having a hard time with this, people. And I think I'm going to have to practice writing "MM" a hundred times before it comes naturally from my hand.

The worst part? My new full initials are "MAM." And you know how I feel about ma'am...