I may have told you once—or possibly a hundred times—that I do not dance. I’m basically Brandon Walsh. It’s not that I wouldn’t enjoy dancing, I’m sure. It’s that I have been blessed with the natural rhythm of Carlton Banks and Elaine Benes combined. I speak the truth. Normally, this…
I’m decompressing this post-changing-of-the-clocks Monday morning—over a plateful trough of mini whoopie pies and frosted brownies and black and white candy (and copious amounts of coffee)(and then more coffee)—and figuring out how I can share all the incredibleawesome that was my girl’s Bat Mitzvah party, complete with stories of (almost)…
My firstborn, my oldest daughter, my mini-me turns twelve today. My dancer, my actress, my singer, my LOST addict, my Aritzia-leggings wearer, my Dorothy, my Mary Poppins, my Disney VIP, my chills-giver, my babysitter-in-training, my fashion guru, my ombre-hair coveter, my Taylor Swift lover, my shower concert giver, my dark…
