Does Anyone Actually Like the Chatty, Stalker Sales Clerks?

I hate stalker sales clerks. I'm not talking about a friendly clerk who says hello, asks if I need any help, and then recedes into the background. I'm talking about the ones who pretend to be my shadow and follow me around while I try to shop. They ask a thousand questions, tell me about all the current promotions, inquire about my personal life, remind me about the current promotions, and act as if we are best friends. Even though I answer their questions with monosyllables and grunts, they think that their conversational skills are increasing the likelihood of a sale.

Don't they realize they are just annoying the crap out of me? Why must they be so freaking persistent? I have a few theories:

1) Annoying Stalker Sales Clerks are just really oblivious and stupid. They do not realizing they are killing my desire to buy a new lipstick or hand lotion. Have you ever hosted a soiree and there's one guest who does not realize the party is over, and that guest lingers for hours? And starts going through your photo albums and planning the vacation you are going to take together next Christmas? The guest-who-will-not-go-home is probably an Annoying Stalker Sales Clerk.

2) The "follow the customer around like a shadow" strategy actually works. By asking a customer a thousand questions, the clerk guilts and/or bullies the customer into buying some crap she does not actually want.

3) Customers actually like the Annoying Stalker Sales Clerks. These customers decide to go to the mall in the hopes of befriending an Annoying Stalker Sales Clerk. They want to share their life story in the hopes that the clerk will help them buy a scarf that will change their life.

My third theory distresses me the most. My friends and foes: if you are in such dire need of conversation, please visit a bar or nursing home. For the love of all things sacred in this world, please don't encourage the Annoying Stalker Sales Clerk.

Harry Potter Substitutes

Although the last Harry Potter book was released more than five years ago*, I still find myself searching for books to fill the HP hole in my bookworm heart. Fortunately, I have found some excellent fantasy novels that make the end of the HP series a little more bearable.

I recently inhaled A Discovery of Witches, the first book in the All Souls trilogy. It was on the NY Times bestseller list, and the next book in the trilogy was released last month, so I'm a little late to the All Souls party. Still, I feel morally obligated to tell you that if you are a Harry Potter fan, than you must try A Discovery of Witches. It involves witches, vampires, and a mysterious manuscript. It's intellectual with lots of details about alchemy, history and genetics; but it's also "fluffy" with details about food, relationships and clothes. Please read it.

I also loved Night Circus, a story about a "duel" between two young magicians. Erin Morgenstern created an enchanting world. You really feel like you are walking around the tents of the Night Circus when you read this book. Some haters complain that the plot is weak. It is - but that did not detract from the magical experience this book created. Books do different things. Some books create unforgettable characters. Other books have complicated stories with twists and turns. This book is about setting. Just as J.K. Rowling created Daigon Alley and Hogwarts, Morgenstern created the Cloud Maze and the Ice Garden. If you haven't visited the Night Circus yet, you should.

Miss Peregrine's Home for Peculiar Children is another outstanding fantasy. I don't want to describe too much, because the reader should get to discover this unique world for herself. I will say that most fantasy books strongly resemble other fantasies. Even with books I love, I often find myself comparing the story or world to series like the  Lord of the Rings and The Chronicles of Narnia. Miss Peregrine's Home, however, felt so original, there is no comparison. I cannot wait for the sequel!

The Magicians is a blend of Hogwarts and Narnia, but the mood of the book is darker. Much, much darker. I read this book over two years ago, but every month or two, I shake my head and think, damn, that was a really good book. There's a sequel, but I have not read it yet. I'm saving it for a rainy day.

Are you still trying to fill a hole in your heart left by Harry Potter? Found any good Harry Potter substitutes? Leave your recommendations in the comments!

* I can easily remember exactly when Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows was released because it was the same day that Nathan and I went on our first date. We were having dinner, and I may have mentioned about a thousand times that bookstores would start selling Book Seven at midnight. Somehow, I managed to not scare my future husband away.

The Wizard of Bras



I'm not making this up. There is actually a store called "The Wizard of Bras." It should be in the Guinness Book of World Records for "Best Store Name in The World" (assuming such a category exists). 

 

I cannot tell you how many times I've driven past this sign. The Wizard of Bras is located in Monrovia, right off the Myrtle Exit on the 210 East. If you are going to Peach Cafe for breakfast from my house, then you get off at this exit. The Peach Cafe makes the best blueberry pancakes in the world, so Nathan and I often find ourselves taking the Myrtle Exit on weekend mornings. And whenever we exit the freeway, I think, I really need to visit the Wizard.

Recently, we have not been frequenting the Peach Cafe as often as we would like. The service is less than stellar. In fact, one could say it sucks. The kitchen is soooo sloooooow. I do not understand why it takes them so long to make an order of pancakes. Are they laying the eggs themselves?

More importantly, the Peach Cafe is always playing the same Beatles album. (It's the one with Rocky Raccoon). At first, it was kind of endearing. Oh, hey Nathan, they are playing that Beatles album again. Now it just makes my skin crawl. Holy effing crapballs, if I hear Rocky Raccoon one more time, I'm going to smash that stereo and then destroy every Beatles album in the Los Angeles area.

But Peach Cafe's blueberry pancakes are magical, so we keep going back. And we keep driving by the sign for the Wizard of Bras.

Sorry for the tangent. I just had to get that off my chest. (Pun intended). Now back to our regularly scheduled programming. 

I needed some new bras recently. I would ordinarily just go to Nordstroms. Although I am cheap about things like t-shirts and jeans, I am a believer in expensive bras. A bra performs a serious job - perhaps the most serious job in a lady's wardrobe - and I find the expensive models perform better. If I'm going to wear a cheap bra, I might as well stab myself in the chest with some rusty wire - because that is what is going to happen when the bra disintegrates. (In Madrid. While sitting on a park bench with my freshmen roommates, if you must know). 

Instead of Nordstroms, I decided it was finally time to pay a visit to the Wizard.

The Wizard of Bras is a unique bra-shopping experience. I wish I had more photos to share, but the entire store is basically the changing area.  Although I sometimes have a potty mouth, I am not about to post photos of ladies in various states of undress, thank you very much.

When you enter the store, you fill out a slip of paper with some basic information. Then a saleswoman leads you to the back. There are a few bras on display, but mostly there are just curtained, individual changing rooms. My saleswoman (name already forgotten, so let's call her Bianca) took my measurements and asked me what I needed. Then, Bianca disappeared to the back room and returned shortly with a few bras for me to try.

Five minutes later, I had two new bras.

Bianca was very helpful, friendly, and knowledgeable. She also did not to push me into buying more bras than I needed. I wish I remembered her real name so I could give her a shout-out.

The Wizard of Bras is not for everyone. If you like browsing through racks of lingerie, then you should go to Victoria's Secret. But if you are like me, and you get intimidated by racks and racks of possibilities, then the Wizard of Bras is a godsend.

The Wizard of Bras is also not for the painfully shy. I read some Yelp reviews that made it sound like your boobs are on display for the world to see. This is not the case. Every customer tries on her bras in a private, curtained dressing room. But, if you want the benefit of the staff's advice, then you need to expose yourself a little.

I highly recommend the Wizard of Bras to anyone in the Los Angeles area in need of a well-fitted bra. And if you time your trip right, you can stop by the Peach Cafe for blueberry pancakes. (Just remember your ear plugs if you're not in the mood for the Beatles). 

Care Package to South Africa

My brother Matt and sister-in-law Sara are currently volunteering with the Peace Corps in South Africa. By "South Africa," I do not mean "a major city with modern amentities like electricity and plumbing." Oh no. Matt and Sara live in "a remote village that you've never heard of in the middle of freaking nowhere, and once, they saw a cobra in their front yard (I would totally crap my pants and die if a cobra came within a mile of our house)."

I like to send them care packages, but postage to South Africa is EXPENSIVE. When they first left, I assembled a joke package with lots of random crap, like Fritos and a big plastic cup decorated with all the Twilight vampires. I proudly sealed up my box and took it to the post office, where I was advised it weighed five pounds and would cost about $70 to ship.

It should go without saying that I took the box home and resolved to send a lighter care package.

Since then, I've learned that the best way to ship some American love to South Africa is in a Priority Mail envelope. I use an envelope that's roughly the size of a People magazine. I can stuff as much as I want into the envelope, and the entire thing ships for the bargain price of $16.95.

According to the Peace Corps grapevine, the postal workers in South Africa are not exactly ethical. They have a bad habit of pilfering the contents of American packages. However, if you write things about Jesus and the Lord on your package, it's more likely to be safely delivered.

I feel a little weird writing "Jesus Saves!" on the envelope, but so far, all my care packages have been delivered to my brother's remote South African village.

This particular package contains a People magazine (for Sara's celebrity gossip needs), three blue pens, two small notepads, and chocolate. It's about 90% chocolate, because let's be honest: they are desperate for chocolate. Even though it's only August, my grocery store is already selling the Halloween variety candy packs, so I was able to send a varity of chocolate love to South Africa.

On the customs slip, I wrote that the package is just a gift of old magazines. Hopefully the South African postal workers will not smell the chocolate inside. My baby brother needs his Reese's fix.

p.s. The first time I mailed chocolate to South Africa, I was worried it would melt before it reached its destination. It can take a good three weeks for a care package to travel from Pasadena, California to Remote Village, South Africa. However, I have now sent candy several times, and it has all arrived in an edible form. Peace Corps volunteers can't be choosy about their candy.

Behold! The Claw!

I would like to introduce you to my dear friend, The Claw:

The Claw is my wrist brace support thingee. Actually, I have two wrist braces, but I'm too lazy to give separate names to the left and right braces. Besides, what name could top "The Claw"? (Answer: none).

I've had weak wrists since law school. No, I don't have carpal tunnel syndrome. Yes, my doctor has examined and x-rayed my wrists. I just have lazy weak ass wrists. If I do too much knitting or writing, my wrists go on strike, and I have to bust out The Claw.

Fortunately, my wrists take turns. I have never had to walk around with double wrist braces.

Unfortunately, to let my wrists recover, I have to avoid activities that involve my wrists too much.  Activities like blogging.

Please excuse my blogging silence as I coddle my wrist.

p.s. It should be noted that thanks to my weak ass wrists, I cannot do a downward dog to save my life. Want to drive a yoga teacher crazy? Tell them your wrists are too weak for downward dog. They will spend the entire class trying to solve your body's limitations.

p.p.s. The Claw says hello.

Seed Bomb Misadventures

This, my friends, is a seed bomb:

I bought it last spring at Wholefoods. You are supposed to throw it at a barren wasteland that needs some flowers and then - BOOM! - the barren wasteland is transformed into the Garden of Eden. 

After careful deliberation, I threw several seed bombs at this sad patch of dirt:

I could not wait to marvel at the transformation. Flowers would tumble everywhere! Garden fairies would sing as you drove by! Crime and divorce rates would plummet, and no one would ever feel lonely again.

After I distributed my seed bombs, this is what happened:

What? You can't see the flowers? Oh, yeah, that's because there are no flowers. Nothing grew. Not one freaking scraggly flower. I didn't even bother to take a new photo to demonstrate the Before/After transformation because there was no lousy transformation. 

I guess some ugly patches of dirt just want to be ugly patches of dirt.

The Decline of Western Civilization

This has been on my mind for awhile: boardgames for children should not involve poop or farts.

Two Decembers ago, Nathan and I were wandering our local Walmart and discovered two appalling boardgames, Gassy Gus and Doggie Doo. The first game involves a fat man in a chair. You feed him gassy food and try to avoid making him fart. According to the commercial on Youtube, it's a "blast" for all ages.

I'm not going to describe the premise for Doggie Doo. Just watch the commercial if you want to be disgusted.

Look, I'm not a prude. I grew up with a younger brother who was a farting machine, and to this day, I appreciate a good fart joke. But the line of decency has to be drawn somewhere, and I draw it at boardgames like Gassy Gus and Doggie Doo. What ever happened to checkers and chess? Or Monopoly and Clue? Do children really need fart sounds and fake poop to be entertained? What's next? Vomiting Vladimir? Snot-Nosed Susan? Nose-Picking Ned?

If I ever see the words "diarrhea" or "mucous" on a board game, I'm packing my bags and moving to a remote island. 

Summer Resolutions Update

I drafted a list of Summer Resolutions back in April... and I've pretty much crapped out on the list. Nathan and I did have our beach day, but I have not played with sparklers, busted out the croquet set, or learned to grill. 

The sparklers are buried somewhere in the basement. I'm not exactly certain where. At this point, they are probably too damp to ignite anyway.

The croquet set is also in the basement, but it's too damn hot to voluntarily linger outside, unless one is submerged in the pool. Maybe croquet is more of a fall sport in Pasadena? I could set up a Halloween themed croquet course with pumpkins and fake spiders.

As for grilling, well, Nathan is already the Grill Master. Why should I learn how to grill the chicken when he already does it so perfectly? But, I did learn how to turn on the grill, which is a major improvement over last summer. Also, I did attempt to grill pork loin for dinner... but when I tore the plastic off the meat, I was overwhelmed by a stench of death farts. Rancid meat! The Universe was obviously trying to tell me to leave the grilling to Nathan.

But I did start a vegetable and herb garden! For reals! I meant to blog about it weeks ago, but the photographs I took of my garden were depressing. Let's just say my vegetable and herb gardens are not going to be gracing the pages of a magazine spread anytime soon.

For the herb garden, I planted basil, chives, sage, thyme, parsley, mint, chocolate mint, rosemary and a few other things that died. The basil thrived, and we had several glorious batches of homemade pesto. I was eating pesto with every meal: pesto with my scrambled egg whites; pesto spread on my sandwich; pesto with pasta; pesto as pizza sauce. I could have bathed in pesto, it was so yummy. Then I got too busy to harvest my basil, and the plants got unruly... but the basil was still a huge success. I expect I'll be planting basil every year for the rest of my life.

The chives did well, and the rest of the herbs died. The chocolate mint won the title of Summer 2012 Most Spectacular Plant Death. Most of the herbs wilted and faded, but the chocolate mint literally died overnight. One evening, it was blooming merrily and I was clipping recipes for chocolate mint ice cream; the next morning, it had turned to plant ash. It made my heart feel sad.

As for vegetables, I planted cherry tomatoes, corn and a red bell pepper plant. Everything was planted in containers, so the corn was a really stupid idea. I knew I was being ridiculous when I picked out the corn at the nursery, but my father-in-law is a farmer who grows corn. How could I not give the corn a shot?

The corn grew several feet and a few ears of corn started sprouting, but then the corn realized it was growing in a container in my Pasadena backyard and died. I guess I'll leave the corn growing to my in-laws.

The red bell pepper plant grew, but very slowly, and now the August heat is overwhelming it. I don't think we'll be eating fresh bell pepper this summer.

The cherry tomatoes have been a huge success. I bought three different plants, and they have each produced dozens of tomatoes. I usually eat the tomatoes like candy when I'm watering the plants.

Two summers ago, I tried to grow full-sized tomatoes and stationed the containers on our concrete patio. Those tomatoes all shriveled on the vine. This time, I stuck to cherry tomatoes and positioned the containers on the dirt patch by our lemon tree. Lesson learned.

Lastly, I bought two strawberry plants. I had visions of eating sun warmed strawberries for dessert with a dollop of whipped cream... But the plants have only produced a few strawberries, about the size of my thumbnail, and they taste like dirt. Next summer I'll definitely have another vegetable and herb garden, but I'll skip the strawberries.

Walking Out

Have you ever seen a movie so bad that you left the theater before it was over? Until today, I had never done this. I don't finish every movie I rent, but if I paid for the movie ticket, I'm going to sit in the theater until the credits roll.

But this morning, I took myself on a date to see Woody Allen's new movie, To Rome With Love. I have a love-hate relationship with Woody Allen movies (love: Annie Hall, Manhattan, Midnight in Paris; hate: Celebrity, Match Point). I never know where the latest Woody Allen movie will fall on the love-hate spectrum, so I try to give them all a chance.

Nathan was not willing to give To Rome a chance. I pouted, widened my eyes, and stroked his arm in the most pathetic way possible, but my man was not willing to waste two hours on this film. I reasoned and argued and reminded him how much we loved Midnight in Paris last summer, but to no avail. So finally, with some free time this morning, I took myself.

Big mistake. Within three minutes, I realized I should have followed my husband's instincts and skipped this movie. I love you, Woody, but I just did not click with To Rome With Love.

So I left.

There were about forty minutes left to the movie, and I had zero interest in seeing how things worked out. I debated my decision for a few minutes:

Me: I hate this movie.
Me: Agree.
Me: I should leave now.
Me: Yes, please.
Me: Maybe I'll feel guilty if I leave.
Me: You're going to feel guilty if you waste any more time on this stupid movie.
Me: Maybe ... I want a bagel for lunch.
Me: Excellent plan! Let's ditch this movie and get a bagel.
Me: Deal.

I think I need to watch Annie Hall tonight to restore my faith in Woody Allen. Also, Pasadena needs more bagel shops. (And while we're at, Pasadena also needs a decent deli. Could someone arrange this? A girl should not have to drive 20 miles for a decent potato knish!)

Public Service Announcement: Pineapple Pie Is Weird And Gross

When we were recently ordering dinner at Philippe's before a Galaxy game, Nathan and I spotted a slice of pie with an electric yellow filling. Our server told us it was pineapple pie, so of course we ordered a slice.

If you are ever given a choice between a slice of pineapple pie and any other type of pie, you should choose the other pie. God did not intend pineapples to be baked inside a pie. Philippe's makes some damn good pie, but this crap tasted like the worst airplane food I've ever eaten. I think someone baked it as a joke just to see how many slices they could sell to idiot customers. It tasted like rancid jello with a swirl of vomit and just a flutter of lemon.

As a service to my readers, I ate off the crust so that you could see the unnatural glow of the pineapple filling. It looks like something you'd find at a nuclear waste site.

p.s. The crust was delicious.

Nights Alone

I was never scared when I lived alone in my apartment, even though my second floor apartment had a balcony that overlooked an alley, and a rapist/serial killer could have easily broken into my abode. But now that I live in a house, I get spooked whenever Nathan leaves town and I have to spend the night alone. Fortunately, Nathan rarely travels without me.

I am getting better with spending nights alone in our house. I used to have trouble falling asleep and then managed to sleep four hours, tops. Now I fall asleep easily and sleep the entire night - but there are still some rituals that I must follow in order to survive the night.

Ritual One: The week before Nathan leaves town, I seriously consider staying at my parents' house, but my laziness always prevails. It's easier to stay home alone with all my stuff than to pack a suitcase.

Ritual Two: I park the car in the front of the driveway. This lets the bandits, goblins and pirates know that someone is at home. I should probably put a macho bumper sticker on my car (maybe something about wrestling or hunting) just to create the illusion that a man is at home.

Ritual Three: I must debate for a full ten minutes whether I should leave the lights in the front room on all night. My initial thought is that this will reinforce the message: People are home! Don't rob this house tonight! But then again, leaving the lights on all night just screams: A poor defenseless woman is home alone! She's scared and has not taken any self-defense classes since high school! Did I mention she's defenseless? Besides, if I went to the kitchen for a midnight snack and saw the light was on, I'd probably assume a burglar was watching t.v. in the living room and crap my pants.

Ritual Four: I must check that the front and back door are locked. At least fifteen times. Because I'm insane.

Ritual Five: I must check that all the windows are locked. At least five times. Because I'm insane.

Ritual Six: I must check inside the washing machine and dryer, just to make sure a rapist is not hiding with the laundry. At least twice. Because not only am I insane, but I am also shameful. (You have to watch out for those double-jointed rapists).

Ritual Seven: I debate bringing a knife or other weapon into the bedroom and settle on my keys. Because everyone knows that rapists/burglars are terrified of a woman armed with her keys.

Ritual Eight: I bring my purse into my bedroom. I have no idea why I do this.

Ritual Nine: I inspect the house for thieves, bandits, rapists, vampires, ghouls, anarchists, murderers, terrorists, and highway robbers. I check every closet, every shower, and every large cupboard that is spacious enough to accomodate a midget murderer. I look under the beds and check the closets again. I don't know what I would do if I actually flushed out an intruder. I'd probably just stand frozen to the ground, and they would kill me. I never said my rituals make any sense.

Ritual Ten: I lock myself into the bedroom.

Ritual Eleven: Then I unlock the bedroom doors and repeat Rituals Four, Five and Six because, like I said, I'm insane.

Ritual Twelve: I cycle between Ritual Nine and Rituals Four, Five and Six until I am disgusted with myself. I call myself horrible names and finally, I get into bed and read until I am too exhausted to keep my eyes open.

These are my rituals for nights that I spend alone and this is a major improvement over a year ago. By the time I'm ninety, I may be able to get away with only checking the washing machine only once before bed.

Please note: if you are thinking at this point that my rituals for nights alone exhibit some OCD tendencies ... I would not argue with you.

Caterpillar!

The Very Hungry Caterpillar comes to life in my very own kitchen!

The bad news: I did not inspect an heirloom tomato closely enough and came home with an inedible disappointment.

The good news: A caterpillar crawled out of the rotten tomato and posed merrily on a peach.

The sad news: Then we banished the caterpillar to the backyard, where it was presumably eaten by one of the 500 lizards that have taken up residence on our property.

The unexpectedly cute news: Baby lizards are adorable (so if they need to eat defenseless caterpillars to survive, I can respect the circle of life).

Please ignore the dirt and grime and just admire the baby lizard.



Some Random Olympics Thoughts

Random Olympics Thought No. 1
The things that the female gymnasts can do on the balance beam are just unbelievable. I could maybe walk from one end of the balance beam to the other without falling off, but I would have to concentrate really hard and use both arms to balance (and there would still be at least a 65% chance that I'd fall off). But the gymnasts don't just walk across the balance beam; they flip, jump and tumble around. I can't even perform those feats on the ground. (Hell, I couldn't even begin to perform those feats on the ground, even if I was assisted by a harness, several trainers, and a few wizards).

Random Olympics Thought No. 2
I'd love to be a fly on the wall in the Olympic Village for just an hour, because I have many questions: How does one Olympic athlete flirt with another athlete? Do they ever play Spin the Bottle? Do they have their own lame pickup lines? Do the gold medalists only pair off with their fellow gold medalists?

And then I have questions that do not pertain to romance: Do the athletes wear their medals around the Village? What countries are the cool athletes from? Is the Olympic Village like a discotheque at all hours of the night, or do they enforce a strict bedtime? Do they pull summer camp pranks, like shorting the sheets and putting someone's hand in warm water to make them pee in their sleep?


Random Olympics Thought No. 3
I just don't get volleyball.

An Open Letter to Idiot Motorcyle Drivers

Dear Idiot Motorcycle Drivers:

I hate you.

Before I start this rant, I'd like to clarify one thing: I do not hate all motorcycle drivers. In fact, most motorcycle riders seem to be civilized folks with a healthy fear of death. Yes, they drive between freeway lanes when there is traffic, but can you blame them? At least they drive defensively so they don't get killed.

But you, Idiot Motorcycle Driver, I hate you. You race around like you are immortal BUT YOU ARE NOT. You stupid effing dumbass. If you bump into my car, my car is going to end up in the shop... and you'll be dead. Your motorcycle is going to flip through the air and you are going to skid across the freeway and end up in the path of a big rig. I might get a little whiplash, but you are going to be a pile of human pulp.

Idiot Motorcycle Driver, you need to be more careful. You are not a god, and you do not own the road. If I kill you with my car, it is not going to be my fault. It will be your fault, for driving around like a drunken blind one-armed dumbass. You'll be dead, and I'll be alive.

And I will have to live with the guilt.

Idiot Motorcycle Driver, maybe you have a death wish. Maybe you drive like a suicidal devil because you are hoping a driver like me will put you out of your misery, while you are up to your 110 mph bullshit antics. But that does not give you a license to drive like an asshole.

Idiot Motorcycle Driver, I don't want to spend the rest of my life with the guilt of your death on my hands. No one wants to kill an idiot motorcycle driver, and yet it happens every day, again and again and again. Idiot Motorcycle Driver, show some respect for the drivers of sedans and SUVs. We don't want to bump into you, and we are doing our damn best to keep you alive, but when you are driving like a lunatic, accidents happen.

This is my wish for the Idiot Motorcycle Drivers of the World: (1) that you get the most expensive speeding ticket possible every time you drive like an asshat; and (2) that a herd of wild buffalo tramples your motorcycle; and (3) if #2 is not possible, then I'll be happy if a maniacal circus clown throws your motorcycle into a ravine.

With love and affection,
Courtney (a safe driver who hates Idiot Motorcycle Drivers)

Things I Love About Summer

Holy crap, it's August 1st! How did that happen? I don't remember giving Summer permission to fly by so quickly.

While we still have plenty of summer sunshine to enjoy, I thought I'd take stock of a few of the things I adore about this season:

• Swimming outside (indoor pools make me dizzy, sigh) 
• Delicious grilled meats
• THE OLYMPICS!!!
• Movies and popcorn (and Red Vines, and Whoopers, and Sour Patch Kids, and M&Ms...)
• Going outside with wet hair without fear of catching pneumonia
• The extra daylight hours (although I do feel a little guilty when it's 8 p.m. and we're watching t.v.)
• Early morning walks, before the heat arrives
• Watermelon! Peaches! Plums! Oh my!
• Dining al fresco
• Ice cream! Gelato! Frozen yogurt! Oh my!
• And because I can also be healthy: Zucchini! Corn! Tomatoes! Oh my!