Happy Tooth Decay Day!

My husband. He cracks me right up.  

Today I put Jake in charge of picking up some treats for our trick-or-treater's. This was mainly because we waited until the last minute {as usual} and I was in class. Guys, he did great. 

Five bags! Five bags of Halloween goodness! And guess what? NOT ONE TRICK-OR-TREATER!  Okay, okay. I guess we did have one if you count the Jimmy John's delivery person we begged to take some candy so we could feel the slightest bit festive. But still. Didn't the fairies, football players, princesses, and superheroes know we have spent the entire month of October planning what treats we would serve? {Okay, you caught me. Slight exaggeration}. How inconsiderate of them.

I also asked Jake to pick up a little something special for our niece and nephew. You know, just a little extra treat to make sure they knew they were our favorite trick-or-treater's {who knew they would be the sole candy collectors we would see all night}. I came home to this. 

One pile for each. Oh boy. Don't worry, I rationed them before their mom could yell. Our poor kids don't have a chance. 

So here we are. Eating our Jimmy John's. Patiently waiting for our doorbell to ring. Please send your kids our way or we will be eating 5 bags of candy for the next year. {Okay, it is Jake and I. It will be gone in less than a week.} 

Until next time, 

♥kate

it's {just me} and my marie...

Why hello. It’s {just me} again. Care to hear a little story? Once upon a time {as every good story starts} I was twelve. And I was as sassy as a twelve-year-old could be. {Seriously, ask my parents. Or don’t. I don’t want you to think less of me.} You see, this was a hard year for me. My parents sold our home and drove us and all of our belongings to the middle of Nowheresville. Really, the population sign says the number 174 for goodness sake! Nowheresville, I tell you! Talk about ending a 12-year-old’s social life right in her prime! What were they thinking? I cried for days. I can distinctively remember my dad prying my fingers from the car door in the driveway of our new house as I yelled and kicked and screamed that there was no way I was moving to Malta and there was no way he could make me. {Boy, I was desperately wrong…Dads are much tougher than 12-year-olds}. So obviously, this year was rough for me.

But that’s not the story I wanted to tell you. This year - along with moving our family to Malta - my parents decided {I use this word extremely lightly as it was not much of a decision but more of an “incident”} to have a baby. Now why was this hard for me, you ask? Because this baby was stealing my hard earned spot as the youngest in our family of seven - soon to be eight. How totally unfair. Not to mention the major dent in my social status this caused me. You see, at this point my parents were no spring chickens {Just kidding Ma. You were young. Very, very young} and the fact that they were having a child was just…totally embarrassing to my 12-year-old self.

But my anxiety about no longer claiming the spot as the youngest quickly disappeared when Marie was born. I immediately took ownership of her. She was my dress up doll. She was my personal shadow. She was my little sister. She was mine.

You see, we have always had kind of a special bond. As the {previous} youngest member of our family, I always felt a little left out {poor me, I know}. Jessica had Kim. Then Kim had Jami. Then Jami had Alan. Then Alan had…well, me and Alan never really saw eye to eye. {Don’t worry. We get along much better now}. But then Marie came along. And I finally had my own someone! I love my all of my siblings; but my Marie really does have her own little place in my heart. Just for her.

Tonight I saw a picture of my Marie all "prettied" up for her dance performance. It made me cry. She is no longer a little girl. She is all grown up. Well, as grown up as a nine-year-old {almost ten} can be. But still. Let me show you. Prepare yourselves. It might make you cry too.

Melts your heart, doesn't she?

She is too stinking cute. And so talented. Really. Don’t believe me? I will prove it.

My Marie loves to read. Just like me.
My Marie plays the piano. Better than me.
My Marie is spiritual. Like I want to be.

She is a dancer. She is a writer. A sewer. A baker. A singer. A joker. A teaser. A creator. A thinker.

She makes me so, so proud.

So Marie {Marieski, Rieski-roo, Rie}, do me a favor and stop growing up, k? I don’t know how many more pictures I want to cry over. I love you Sis.

You make your big sis smile!


♥Kate

it's {just me} ranting about school...

Hi guys. It’s {just me} again. You know what I hate? Hate as in grind my teeth, clench my fists, and want to scream hate? School. Can you believe that less than a year ago I was planning on becoming a teacher? Really. Six more credits and I am a certified, fully fledged educator. What the heck was I thinking? Can you imagine? Waking up every day and going to school for the rest of my life? Yuck. I think I dodged a bullet on that one, am I right? Anyways. Back to my serious hate. I am in my fifth year of college and just want to be done already! Not because I hate learning. It’s quite the opposite actually. I love learning - certain things, that is. Math and science can be crossed off of my “I love to learn” list. That’s {his} expertise. But give me a good Marie de France lais and I am easily in education heaven. But lately I have been experiencing the above stated hate even towards my favorite subject, English. *gasp* Want to know why? Too bad, I am going to tell you anyway.

This, my friends, is ratemyprofessor.com. {ever heard of it?} Basically students give honest reviews of their professors at certain colleges to help future students pick their classes. This particular set of reviews is directed towards the professor of English 4462 Gender in Literature. Let me state that a little more clearly. This particular set of reviews is directed towards MY professor of English 4462 Gender in Literature. How lucky am I? {Cue grinded teeth, clenched fists, and screams just waiting to escape}. I swear, this woman is going to be the death of me.

Okay, I will stop the dramatics and give her a little credit. Ever read “The Handmaid’s Tale” by Margaret Atwood? Me either.

That is, until this woman came into my life. Great book, by the way. {See how I strategically took a picture of my face turned slightly to the side? It is to hide the annoying cold sore I can't seem to make disappear. I get cold sores when I am stressed. Yet another reason why I hate school.}

But still. I am having the hardest time getting through this class. Not because of the workload. Really … that I can handle. It’s more of the two and a half hours {IN A ROW} I have to spend with this woman every week.

So basically, this is me begging, pleading for a little advice. Ever had a bad professor? Ever had a bad professor that was ranked the “worst educator” at Idaho State University on ratemyprofessor.com? If so, dish out your advice! How did you get through it? How did you go a whole semester without ripping your hair out?

Thanks for the help {really … my hair thanks you},
♥Kate

it's {just me} being extraordinarily ordinary…

Hello to the blogging world, or more accurately, hello to the five people that will actually read about my ordinary, uneventful life. See, that’s my hesitation about this whole “blogging buzz”. I’m ordinary. I’m uneventful.

The thing is, I am in a rut. And it is not even my fault, or a bad thing for that matter. To illustrate what I am getting at I will borrow the overused cliché, “Life is a roller coaster”. {Creative, right?} At this moment you could say I am stuck in the middle, right before the point at the top when you can see the whole world and right after the point at the bottom when you let the seat take you off your feet. Wait a second. I think I mean a ferris wheel. Yep. Definitely a ferris wheel. So scratch that. Life is really a ferris wheel {or at least it is right now so I can make my point}.

You see, I am a newlywed. {Go ahead, let out a cute little sigh. I secretly do it all the time.} Anyways, when I got married I let the seat take me off my feet. See what I am doing here? It’s a metaphor, people. The point where I reach the top of the ferris wheel is where most people consider my life will actually begin. {i.e. kids} Yes, kids. We have none. And don’t want them for quite some time. We are selfish and want each other all to ourselves. {*sigh*… see, I told you!} This blogging world I am about to enter is full of mothers. Mothers who post cute pictures of their cute kids doing cute things. Now don’t get me wrong, I am not judging. In fact, I love it. My favorite blogs are those of my sisters {the inspiration for my first blogging experience} because I seriously believe I have some of the cutest little nieces and nephews ever. Go ahead, see for yourself!

The Loud Caring One: Jami
The Creative Super Mom One: Kim
The Homemaking Mothering One: Jessica
Oh, and how could I forget.
The Littlest Cutest One: Marie {Yep. She is nine. And blogs. Yet another push for me to become a "blogger"}

My point is, it seems {from experience} that after the wedding décor is boxed up, you fall of the face of the earth. No one cares about you anymore. No one wants to hear about your boring life. That is, until the baby shower announcements are addressed and stamped. Then – and only then – are you cool again.

So basically this brings me to my first disclaimer.

• We have no kids…yet. This is awfully important because this blog will be majorly about me. And my cute husband. Really, I have nothing else to bring to the blogging table. So prepare yourselves {all five of you} for many o’ snapshots of my face next to my hubby’s. And maybe some random guest appearances. But no kids. Not for about seven years anyway. Just kidding. Maybe five.

Since I started, I guess I better keep going. You don't mind do you? Good, because here comes the long list of very important disclaimers. {Brace yourselves}

• I can’t cook. If you are looking for one of those hip cooking blogs that show you step by step directions on how to create dessert masterpieces, you better exit your screen. Now. Really. Don’t stay I didn’t warn you. I think I can count on my fingers {and maybe a few toes, just to give me a little credit} how many times I have cooked my husband dinner since we have been married. By the way, we got married last December. Go ahead, let out a *gasp*. But this isn’t my fault. Not really anyway. You see, we are on quite opposite schedules. But that’s a whole other blog post. {Wow, I am already looking into my blogging future. Look at me. A blogger.} 

• I don’t sew. Not for a lack of desire though. I begged my parents for a sewing machine last Christmas. I got it. It is now set up all “pretty like” in my sewing room. Okay, that’s a lie. It’s under our bed right next to the piano I asked for Christmas the year before. Still in the box. What can I say; I am a queen of good intentions. So if you’re looking for a crafty blog to read, you’re really barking up the wrong tree. {Barking up the wrong tree…what does that even mean?} 

• I am not a fashionisa. I shop at the Goodwill for goodness sake. Not that I am ashamed of it. Nothing gets me more excited than finding new {to me} clothes for a buck. A buck, people! My closet is not full of designer clothes. It is full, and when I say full I really mean FULL, of secondhand purchases. I am not exaggerating. I could count on my toes – the one’s I didn't use to count the meals I have made for my husband – how many items of clothing I have bought from someplace other than Goodwill. I am not cheap; I am thrifty. They are different, I am sure of it. 

So there you have it. Details of my very ordinary life. And the truth is, I am fine with it. Great with it, in fact. If I could do it again, I would choose my ordinary life. I would choose my ordinary job. My ordinary house. My ordinary family. My ordinary marriage. Because basically, I’m extraordinarily ordinary. I’m {just me}. See what I did there? I tied in the title of my new blog. Just in case you didn't catch it.

Until next time,
♥kate