Breaking news: a new power couple has emerged in the playgroup.

Ladies and gentleman...I bring you...

Scotty and Cara. Henceforth to be known as...Scara.

It started out innocently enough, as these things tend to do. A longing look from the blue swing. Playful babbling that only makes sense to them. These loving gestures soon grew and by the time we went to leave, there was some serious canoodling in the parking lot.

This new couple does not come without its share of drama. Cara just got out of a long-term relationship with Henry, one of Scott's BFFs and fellow August '09 kid. Scotty and Sam had been on-again, off-again over the holidays, and while things seemed to be moving in a positive manner, these photos may be the final nail in the coffin: Scotty + Sam = dunzo.

Life moves quickly when your age is still measured in months.

And Sam, I'm sorry you had to find out this way.

Something momentous happened on Wednesday.

I turned 23.

For the 10th year in a row.

(::giggles::)

To be honest, I was dreading my birthday this year. With all of the events of this summer, I was just not in a celebratory mood. A few friends had asked me if I wanted to go out and grab a birthday drink, and I promptly turned them down. The thing was, I just wasn't sure how I was going to be feeling. And the last thing I wanted to do was schedule a big night out only to have me crying uncontrollably and completely ruining the whole thing.

(The Strip lights have been hard to look at lately. My dad loved the Strip, and on the night we were at the Cosmopolitian with Uncle Jay, I had forgotten about this until I was comfortably laying in a chaise lounge by the pool. One glance at the Paris and Bellagio signs and I melted into a puddle of Kim. Not good. Kind of makes for an awkward night for everyone involved. Especially when I forget to wear waterproof mascara.)

So I made the decision to avoid the Strip at night. Except the next General Membership meeting for Junior League was being held at the Foundation Room at Mandalay Bay.

At night.

On my birthday.

And I had to speak for my committee.

Really?

It was kind of one of the those one-two punches where I was like, "How am I going to get out of this one?" but kept coming up with no answer. I had missed the last GM in June. I didn't want to send another proxy.

And so I sucked it up, gave myself a mental pep talk, and declined every invitation to celebrate my birthday that night. Because who knows how I was going to feel? I figured I would just keep my head down and go to bed early. No harm, no foul.

Besides, my dad has always sent me flowers on my birthday for every year I've been alive. He never missed a year. Ever. The idea of not getting flowers because of my dad's passing was like a total sucker punch, right in the gut. that took the wind right out of me.

Quite honestly, if the opportunity arose, I would have cancelled the whole day altogether.

Instead, I woke up on Wednesday morning only to find my forehead wrinkle to be bigger and deeper than ever. (I've been talking about my forehead wrinkle forever; it's the one right between my eyebrows. If I could, I would Botox that sucker into oblivion.) And on the morning of my 33rd birthday, my forehead wrinkle seemed to be mocking me, making it known that I wasn't getting any younger and future would be filled with fancy creams and injectables. Yay. Break out the balloons.

I was incredibly grumpy by the time I poured myself my first cup of coffee. Brian brightened the morning by giving me three of my favorite cupcakes from my favorite bakery (Retro Bakery!) with candles in them. Scotty sat in his chair, clapping and shouting, "Cupcakes! Cupcakes!" The gloom from the rain and my giant forehead wrinkle seemed to feel a little less heavy, though I wasn't sure what I was going to do all morning.

By 8am, I had my answer.

A loud knock on the front door revealed my very silly friend Deana, thrusting a giant cup of Starbucks coffee in my face, shouting, "HAPPY BIRTHDAY!" Her kids were in the car, Courtney was on her way over, and according to them, I was off for the morning. They had booked me a mani-pedi at the local nail place, a blow-out with my stylist, and were on Bear-duty for the rest of the day.

Me? I was speechless.

Let me tell you, that forehead wrinkle didn't seem to be that big of a deal at this point. Ditto for the rain.

With a little convincing, I managed to stay for a bit of a play date with the girls (presents! Cards! Coffee!) and then head to the gym to get my miles in (this marathon isn't going to run itself.) Then it was back home to feed Scotty, put him down, and oh yeah, did I mention they had called the sitter to come an hour early, allowing me to make it to my hair appointment on time?

By 3pm, my nails were polished ("Ibiza" by Zoya on the toes, "Second Honeymoon" by OPI on the hands) and my hair was a bouncy, shiny cascade of curls. I joined Deana while she was getting her haircut, and the two of us sat there, sipping Pinot Noir and giggling. We changed into our nicer clothes for the meeting and headed to Mandalay Bay. I felt like a saucy, glammed-up version of my normal self. The shiny, Spanx-d kind.

Dawn, Deana's co-chair and a member of our provisional class, met us in the parking garage, with Popcorn Girl popcorn for me (swoon!) and champagne for all of us. Seriously? I felt like I was back in college, without a care in the world, as I sipped my Vevue Cliquot, except in college, there was no expensive champagne, no Cole Haan kitten heels, and no leaning against an adorable Mercedes convertible in a giant casino parking garage. But you know what? If this is what 33 looks like, count me in.

The meeting went great, I managed to not vomit on the microphone or trip over my new handbag (a birthday present from Brian, what I can only call "The Purse that Will Never Be a Diaper Bag," since all of my other purses seemed to have morphed into matchbox car-carrying, diaper-stashing bags.) I don't know if it was all the champagne, but I couldn't stop grinning. Even the sight of the Las Vegas skyline, lit up against the night sky, did not upset me. I felt great. I felt happy. I felt...excited.

And so five of us headed to Fleur for a quick birthday dinner after the meeting, and surprisingly, my heart did not hurt a bit. There were no tears on the horizon. Nancy purchased a mini-bottle of Vevue Cliquot to split (again, what is up with all of this great bubbly? Where has it been all my life?) and just as the croque monseuirs were arriving...

...so did a certain silver-haired Bravo TV Top Chef judge and contestant.

Be still my beating heart. It was Hubert Keller.

If you've read this blog, you know that I've been talking about Chef Keller for years. YEARS. And there were a few near missed for he and I over the years. The one time Brian and I were there for dinner, and he was there, but did not approach our table. Or the other time we saw him getting out of the parking garage elevator with his wife and we waved but he didn't hear us. Or the many, many times I've attempted to stalk him at the Burger Bar with my cute, camera-ready child in tow.

And then on all nights, with absolutely no pre-planning or pre-thought on my part, he just walked out of the shadows and up to our table and asked us if we were enjoying our meal.

I have no idea what my face looked like, but everyone started laughing hysterically at me. Apparently the first words out of my mouth were, "Hubert Keller! I LOVE YOU!" and I popped out of the booth and started vigorously shaking his hands.

Yup, that was me. Cool as a cucumber.

Thankfully, he was very good-natured about it and posed for a few pictures. (I even managed to touch his little ponytail...it's as soft and beautiful as he is.) He came back to our table a second time and asked if we had ordered dessert yet. Sonnya told him it was my birthday and without hesitation, he told us he would be happy to have our server make us Fleur's signature dessert, a fogado, tableside. I also told him we had an empty spot if he wanted to join us, but he politely declined.

Bummer.

Honestly, it was such a great night. It was so overwhelming and wonderful and exciting. The a fogado was made with liquid nitrogen (a nod to Richard Blaise, perhaps?) and was totally delicious. It reminded me of Ireland. I don't think I stopped talking about Chef Keller the whole night, either. I was still talking about it by the time I arrived home and Brian greeted me (Dawn had texted him a picture of the two of us.)

Amazing? Absolutely. And the whole day - not just the Hubert Keller part - was perfect, start to finish. For what could have been a really tough day, I'm happy to say my friends made it into something extraordinary. And when I woke up on Thursday morning, I didn't even notice my forehead wrinkle, mainly because the laugh lines around my mouth were so much deeper.

But those are wrinkles I will gladly take.

Defriendation:  [dee-frend-A-shun]
    (noun): 
-- the intentional and willful deletion of a previously approved friend on one's Facebook account. Deliberate and with purpose. May or may not be done with malice.
Also see: "I'm just not that into you," "Don't call me, I'll call you," and "You suck."

                                            *************************

So, I got defriended this weekend.

By two people. Two people, interestedly, that are friends with each other. Coincidence? Hmm...

It was a strange moment, I'll admit. I was on the iPad, just surfing around on someone's page when I noticed my first alleged friend had a little block by her profile picture that said, "Add as a Friend." No wait, I thought, I'm already friends with you.

But I wasn't. At least, not anymore. When I clicked on her profile pic, I saw nothing. Except the little box that said I could add her as a friend.

And then I scrolled down further and realized yet another friend, a very good friend to my new non-friend, had also hit the termination button on me. She had the same box by her name and again, no access to her page.

Huh?

I will admit, I was surprised. And hurt. Here were two people that I considered friends, and I guess they didn't feel the same way anymore. Both have moved out of Vegas in the past few years, but I thought the distance was just physical, not emotional. I attended their baby showers. They attended mine.  I saw them probably every few weeks when they lived here. I didn't really keep up with either on a daily basis anymore, but I know them. Does a move justify defriending someone? I have no idea.

Of course, I had to scroll through about 27 mutual friends' pages to see who else got defriended. And as it turns out...it was just me.

So that makes me think it was personal. What did I do wrong? Was I talking smack about something, as I am so prone to do? (also see: "Hygienist, My" from last week entries) Did I forget their birthday? Fail to acknowledge major moments in their life?  Not comment on their photos? Honestly, I'm at a bit of a loss on this one. I probably did all of the above -- since it's impossible to keep up with absolutely everyone on Facebook -- but does that justify defriending someone?

I will admit, I went through a fairly quick grief reaction.

Denial:  This can't be right. There must be a mistake. She probably accidentally deleted me and then the other one followed suit. I know - drunk defriending!  I bet it was an accidental click of the mouse. They are probably no longer friends with a bunch of people...here, I'll double check...okay, nope that's not true. I really did get defriended. Hmph.

That makes me...

Angry!  What the hell? Seriously? Oh my goodness, they are so stupid. They want to defriend me?  I'll show them; I'll "unlike" any page they've ever suggested to me. Ha! Showed you! Jerks. But maybe, what if I...

Bargained?  I'll just shoot them an email and let them know I know I'm defriended. I bet if I did that, they would probably re-friend me and we'll iron out whatever went wrong. But right now, I'm feeling really...

Depressed.  Geez. I must be a loser if two people de-friended me. Gosh, this hurts. Am I smelly? Boring? Not fun? A bad friend? I'm probably a really bad friend. I still haven't sent [insert name of college friend here] a baby gift, and her kid is like, six weeks old. She'll probably defriend me next. Gosh, I'm lucky I have any friends at all. Loser.

Okay, wait. Why am I beating myself up? I am not a loser. I need to find a way toward...

Acceptance.  You know what? In the big picture, this doesn't matter. How much did I like these people any way? I didn't really keep in touch with them, and they have moved on. They have every right to defriend me as I have not been a big part of their current lives. It's okay. I'll live. ::deep breath::

And because this is  Facebook-level grief and grief not about an actual loss, I'm adding a sixth stage:

Whatever.

It's Facebook. All I need to do is turn off the computer and walk away. Problem solved.

(except that I have it on my phone and iPad. Damn you, social media!)

One of Deana's sons, Jackson, is probably the most verbal child I've ever met. This kid is only 10 days older than Scotty and he's practically talking in full sentences. He says hello to me, hello to Scotty, and can tell you what he wants for lunch ("apple and crackers, Momma." Deana normally does not abide by his wishes, as most parents of toddlers are prone to do.)

Anyway, this kid is hilarious. And with his verbal skills comes a penchant for handing out nicknames. Sam, Scotty's ex, is loving referred to by Jackson as "Ham." (We think "Ham" might have moved on from Scotty to one of the twins. We're not sure who she fancies, but according to Deana, while Alex is a looker, she'd have more fun with Jackson. I can already see the headline: "Brothers torn apart by one little blond bombshell of a toddler". Oh, the baby drama.) 

Back to the point here - Jackson, ever so creative, also now refers to Scotty as "Scotty-bop-bop," mainly b/c Scotty yells/says/mumbles "bop bop!" about every four seconds. Try driving in a construction zone with this child in the backseat. He straining out of his car seat, jabbing his chubby little finger at all of the trucks lined up along the side of the road while shouting "Bop bop! BOP BOP!" over and over again. And sadly, since we are now the proud owners of about 15 books about trucks, I find myself acutally looking at the bop-bops thinking, "Hmm...cement mixer? Dump truck? Is that a skid steer? Why do I know this now?"

And as we approach 20 months, his little personality is really starting to shine through. He is very serious about some things, but then a total goof ball about others. I also like to think he's a loving, sweet child that would do well with a new pet (ahem, Brian) since he's so good at taking care of his stuffed animals. Ever since I taught him to give his little (fake) pet doggy Tucker a bottle, Scotty insists on feeding all of the other animals, too. We have a whole bunch of wooden fruit to play with, and the other day I found him offering an apple to the horse, a strawberry to the bear, and a lemon to the cat. He even gives some of his sippy cup to his doll ("Dow-eeeeell," as he says.) It feels a little like living on a faux farm ("Gotta feed the animals every day..."), but it makes Scotty happy to feed, groom, and arrange his little friends.

But the other morning, I found him doing something that takes the cake. He must be paying attention to all of our cooking lessons, since as I was making breakfast, he very carefully opened the one cabinet that he has access to. I watched him gently remove the small saucepan and drag it over to the fireplace hearth in the living room. (this is a good 20 feet away). He then returned for the lid. I trailed him into the living room where I saw him slowly lift his little stuffed frog blanket into the pot, pretend to stir it, and then put the lid on it. He was even holding the pot by the handle, just like Momma.

::sigh::

Maybe the kid wants frog legs? French cooking? Or just a table at Joel Robucheon? I don't know. Either way, I'm glad he's watching and learning, since Top Chef will be casting for their new show soon.

Editor's note:  "The Adventures of Scotty-Bop-Bop" will be a weekly segment on the blog, so be sure to check it out as the little Bear grows. And of course, a percent of future royalties will be mailed to Jackson B, since he came up with the name.

Whew.

That was a close one.

I'm not going to lie, one of my greatest fears in this life is if the Packers were to make it to the Superbowl and lose.

Thankfully, I don't have to worry about that this year. :-)

Sunday was pretty awesome. Adam, Tiffany and Alex rolled into town Saturday morning with Adam dressed in his Steelers gear. He and Brian had tried for the past two weeks fervently to find affordable (I use that term loosely) Superbowl tickets, but no dice. So in an 11th hour decision, they decided to head to Vegas for 48 hours and test the limits of Brian and Adam's 15-year friendship. Happily, it survived. Though Adam's giant inflatable Steeler helmet almost did not. (he squished it into a tiny ball in the last play of the game while releasing a string of curse words that are unprintable.)

And the part about my presence in the house causing the Packers to lose? Maybe the curse is broken? I spent most of the first half in the living room with Scotty and then watched a little of the third quarter. During the fourth quarter, I had just reached the top of the stairs with Scotty in tow to start bedtime/bathtime when Brian shouted up, "Clay Matthews just recovered a fumble...just sayin'." (meaning I left the room and the Packers are somehow in a better place because of it.) Considering how the game went, maybe it's not broken...maybe it's just further confirmation that I shouldn't watch football at all. (I am 100% okay with this.)

I am certainly not going to discuss the meager, weak little party I put on for the big game. It was sad, to say the least. I was barely functioning since the four of us had stayed out to a ridiculous hour of the morning the night before. Alex had graciously offered to both watch Scotty Saturday night and wake-up with him on Sunday...leaving Brian and I free to sleep in, together. This is a golden, golden opportunity and one I was not about to let slide. And beside, have I mentioned how much I love the Cosmopolitan?

(Tiffany and I coined a new phrase after witnessing a shocking number of girls wearing the tightest, shortest dresses I have ever seen. I mean, I wouldn't wear these dresses as a shirt with pants, and yet there were flocks and flocks of young women in these dresses that stopped just below their, well, lady parts. The term we came up with starts with a v, and I'm sure you can figure out the rest. And there were tons and tons of v-dresses on Saturday night.  I'm not sure who started this fad, but I'm going to blame the Kardashians. And here I thought I looked trendy since I wore my knee-high boots over my recently-purchased skinny jeans.)

Back to my sad little party. The grill died mid-brat-cooking, I under-cooked, and then over-cooked, the cheese sticks, I burned the hot dogs, and new flavor of Tostitos I purchased was kind of crummy. (Black Bean and Roasted Garlic - skip it.) Oh, well. I can tell you no one left hungry since we literally have piles of food left in the fridge, meaning I'm going to have to a bratwurst everyday for a week. Joyous. 

And as we know, in the end, the boys from Green Bay were victorious. I don't think I've seen Brian that happy ever - not when he proposed, not at our wedding (for obvious reasons, however). Not even when Scotty was born. (I think we were both just plain exhausted and terrified.) But today, he let me sleep in (hooray!) and as  he took the garbage out to the curb, he stretched his arms wide open and said to me while looking up, "The sun is shining a little bit brighter. The air feels just a little bit warmer. The birds are chirping a little more happily. It's a great day, indeed."

Happy Brian. :-)

Type Fast: The Beauty and Challenge of the One Nap Schedule.

I'm not lying, I really am typing fast.

Scotty turned 17 months yesterday (and was a stinker for most of the day...please, please tell me that 16 months wasn't our peak) and he's officially a one-nap kid. It took a little while to get to this point, and just like all things in Motherhood, you constantly question yourself about what you are doing and if it's the right thing. I mean, I know there is some statistic that says by 18 months, like 80% of kids are down to one nap. But what if my child was part of that 20%? And what if I'm essentially robbing him of precious sleep and in four years, he's going to be inaccurately diagnosed with ADHD as a result of his over-tiredness, not actually because he is hyperactive and I've officially screwed up his life?

Do all of you have these thoughts? Please tell me I'm not the only one.

::deep breath::

Anyway, I can tell you now that I feel fairly confident that Scotty is squarely in that 80% figure. After a 7am wake-up, his little eyes regularly droop by 11:15am. We eat a quick lunch and he's shuttled upstairs by 11:30. On a good day, he'll sleep until 2:00pm. On a GREAT day, he'll sleep until 2:30-3:00. On a I-want-to-kill-my-husband-because-he's-not-suffering-through-this-the-way-I-am day, he'll sleep until 1pm. (dagger to the heart). But really, the best part is Scotty is so tired that there is literally no fight over nap time anymore. Be still my heart! Oh, music to my ears. I cannot tell you how stressful that damn afternoon nap had become; keep him upstairs for an hour as he wails, but bring him downstairs only for him to fuss and grunt at me? What's worse? And there were so many times that I would listen in agony to the monitor for 45+ minutes, only to go upstairs to get him and be met by total silence. Since we were not thoughtful enough to purchase a video monitor (Jill, you're the smart one), I would stand outside the nursery door with my ear pressed to it. Is he asleep? Did he finally collapse from sheer exhaustion? Or did dingos break into my house and steal my baby? Either way, I wasn't about to open that door and find out.

I'm so glad the dingo-fears are now behind us. The little Bear wearily climbs the stairs, heads to his room like a big boy, we have a brief diaper change, some snuggle, and then it's snoozy time. Easy as pie.

And another perk of the one nap schedule is I can actually do multiple things during the day, versus living my life two hours at a time. We can do morning play-dates, be home for lunch, and then work in an afternoon at the park. Glorious! Scotty is hitting the bath by 6:15 and is in a deep sleep by 7pm. This schedule just feels so darn...clean. It's organized, it's simple, it's beautiful.

I, however, am not. Because the challenge of the one nap schedule is while Scotty may benefit, it's making me run a little faster. See, before, I would hop in the shower when Scotty went down for the 9am nap, and then have plenty of time to blog as he slept. I had an afternoon nap to suffer through, but cleaning the house was a good distraction to what I was hearing through the baby monitor.

Now, I have literally about 2 hours to shower, eat, clean the kitchen, clean whatever part of the house he destroyed, dry my hair, put makeup on, and do anything else that needs to be done when a child is not present. Which is essentially how I've divided up my day: what things can I do with Scotty around (wash dishes, pick up toys, vacuum) and the things I cannot do when he's around (blog, check Facebook, talk on the phone, write out bills, etc.) Sadly, "use the restroom" falls in the "When Scotty's Around" category, but I'm hoping it's good modeling when our time comes to start potty-training. Although he's developed a a penchant for shredding toilet paper. (please file that under "Clean Up What's He's Destroyed.")

I think the hardest part for me is showering. I hate having to ask Brian (beg, actually) if I can hop in the shower before him on a weekday morning. Sometimes it works, but if he has court, I'm screwed. And I'm the type of person that just really isn't awake until I have a shower, regardless of the amount of coffee consumed.

(In fact, when we were playing Angry Birds one night, we had gotten to the part with the Boomerang Birds (the ones that you fling over the building and then touch the screen, which causes them to squawk loudly, do a 180, and then crash into something) when Brian exclaimed, "Oh, these are Kimmy-in-the-morning-birds!" Hahaha. Yeah, he's right though. Touch me pre-shower and I will promptly squawk at you and then dive right for your throat.)

Anyways, unless you too are showering during the day, it's easy to miss how much damn time one spends on basic hygiene...which isn't saying much, considering how I look most days. A shower is 10 minutes; drying/dressing is another 5. It takes me 12 minutes to dry my hair and another 17 to lotion up/put makeup on. That totals 44 minutes of time spent attempting to look mildly presentable to the rest of the world, and when you're working with maybe 120 minutes max, it feels like a giant waste. Of course, I could skip the blow-out and makeup, but all of the other mothers I hang out with manage to look really pulled together. It's like of like the Arms Race of Motherhood; if we'd all just put down our blow-dryers and mascara, we'd have so much time for other things. But I'll put mine down just as soon as you put yours down...

So this is my advice to those transitioning to a one nap schedule: find a mother who lives near you, who has children exactly the same age as your child, and is very similar to you in terms of lifestyle, personality, and sense of humor. That way, you can bemoan or celebrate every part of your day with a buddy regardless of if you are awake or not. For me, this person would be Deana. I realized the other day, she's not just a friend, she's my co-worker. She's the person that you share a cubicle with at work, and within six months, you realize you've shared every detail of your life up to that point, and when something extremely small (yet hilarious) happens, you don't call your husband (because they actually are working), but you call your co-worker. Your co-worker must also be up for multiple play dates during the same day (since her kids sleep when yours do), trips to Costco, trips to the park, and best of all, trips to your house "after hours" when your husband has to work late so you don't have to eat dinner by your.

This Motherhood stuff is tough, and it's so much better with a buddy. So thank you, Deana, and I hope you managed to get a shower in today.

This blog entry is brought to you by the letter 'B.'

B is for...

and...

and finally...

Our trip to Santa Monica was a smashing success. Have I mentioned I love 16 months? It's really the greatest age, ever. Aside from an early wake-up time (and Brian and I tip-toeing through Adam and Tiffany's house, begging the Bear to please, please be quiet), this is an ideal time to travel. (car travel...not sure how the Bear would be in the friendly skies. We're not going to find out).

I mean, he is down to one nap, which makes scheduling easier, and was a delight about 90% of the time. The other ten percent was spent screaming in the bath, running from the 60 pound bulldog that had an unnatural affection for our little guy, and screaming his head off from Barstow to Vegas. (and his defense, it was a long time to be in a car seat. I felt as though his protests, though annoying and ear-splitting, were justified.) But I'll take 10% bad as long as there is 90% good any day of the week.

As promised, Scotty also had a lot of firsts.

First meal at Chik-Fil-A:

First time living with a dog for more than 24 hours...

...although you may be saying to yourself right now, "Hmm...that's the second picture we've seen of Teddy, but the Bear is nowhere to be found." And the reason for that is Scotty was scared out of his mind of the dog. He didn't cry, but the two were like opposite ends of a magnet; if Teddy went this way, Scotty went that way. The only safe zone was the dining room and Scotty spent a lot of time in there. 

I think it was the combination of a very large animal (something Scotty has no experience with) along with the loud noise Teddy's nails made as they clattered along the (gorgeous) hardwood floors. Big sight + loud sound = one nervous Bear. By Saturday, Scotty had warmed up considerably and would venture within about 2 feet of Teddy, but that was about it.

And finally, his last major first: seeing the ocean for the FIRST time ever. What a lucky kid. I didn't see the Pacific Ocean until I was in my 20s. (one of the pitfalls of growing up in Chicago, I guess.) It was cold, as you might glean from what we are wearing, but it was so fun to see him shuffle through the sand and gaze at the big, blue sea. And not to fear, the Cheerio cup was there for moral support. (of course).

But aside from Scotty enjoying the beach, I think my favorite part was going with Adam and Tiffany and seeing how happy/sweet they were with our little guy. Evidence below.

Will Scotty have a playmate soon? Let's hope so!!

(thanks for a wonderful weekend!! Love you.)

Yesterday I received what I can only describe as The Best Invitation Ever.

As I've lectured to many friends getting married or hosting a party, your first contact with your guests sets the stage for the eventual event so make the invitation one to remember. While I'm a fan of thick cardstock and swirly fonts (a traditionalist, for sure), nothing can beat a unique and witty invitation like the one I received yesterday.

I've probably read it over 20 times, mainly since some of it is over my little Democratic, Nevada-residing head. But it's brilliant, right down to the very end. The author of this insightful, snappy, and insanely clever invitation? None other than my dear friend Tiffany, whom most of you may remember as getting married earlier this year (and my rather graphic struggles to zip the bridesmaid dress.) She and her husband Adam are hosting a New Year's party at their new house in Santa Monica and wrote up a little synopsis for the past year. 

See? I told you she was as smart as she is pretty.

(and yes, she really is that right-wing. I swear, I wasn't exaggerating.)

(I'm dying to hear my uber-Democratic friends reaction, too).

So enjoy! It had me chuckling for hours.

2010: A Year in Review

by Tiffany A.

Scott Brown takes back “The People's Seat”
Dems on The Hill start to feel the heat

Leno to Conan, to Leno again
4 game suspension for Steelers Big Ben

Tiger Woods and Jesse James
Prove cheatin' with hussies can only bring pain

Obamacare ignited a movement
Townhalls, Tea Parties and rallies to prove it

US Census to count us up whole
New Orleans Saints win the Super Bowl

Oil well explodes off the Gulf Coast
POTUS reaction? A kin to milque toast

SB 1070 enacted by Brewer
Holder (without reading) decides to sue her!

33 miners, 2 miles underground
Chile (flexes Capitalist muscle) rescues ALL, safe and sound

Adam and Tiffany finally wed
"It‟s about time" their priest lovingly said (true story!)

Christine O‟Donnell "is not a witch"
But America agrees Nancy's one hell of a bitch

Whitman, spent record millions to campaign
But Moonbeam's in office, unions toast with champagne

November 2nd Reps win- Dems lose
In the West, a plethora of Rocky Mountain metaphors ensues

Wikileaks dumps diplomat intel
Giants win the World Series…what the hell?

Prince William's engaged! Kim Jong Il is still crazy
The Lost series ends, though the plot remains hazy

Full body scanners and a TSA agent
Prompt the “don’t touch my junk” heard cross the nation

So raise a glass to 2010, do a shot for '11
Cause this time next year we may have a bun in the oven!

Hope to see you on NYE!
-xoxo-
Tiffany & Adam