When I cracked my eyes open this last Saturday in Chicago and saw the slate grey sky and heard the pattering of raindrops on the windows, I had a feeling that it was not going to be a good day. My premonition would prove to be correct. Over the course of the day I burned the bacon I was making for breakfast, accidentally wore the pants that have an inappropriate hole in the back to the grocery store and fell down the stairs while holding an open can of diet coke. Oh and before I even got out of bed, one of my dogs ran into the bedroom, jumped on top of me and vomited on my head.
|I would do anything for extra credit points.|
|And I have excellent fashion sense.|
|What. A. Dreamboat.|
"He is appreciating you in the way one does a fine wine," I tell myself. "Plus he is from another country where this sort of thing might be commonplace."
So then instead of being like "Stop smelling me perv," I am like "You shall be my secret boyfriend now and we will go to the mall and hold hands."
And that is the story of how I know that my skin smells like petunias and vanilla.
In case anyone is wondering, I finally got through all two hundred-ish (seriously) emails regarding my four contributors' spots. I was blown away by how very hysterically funny you all are. My decision was not in any way an easy one. I spent much of the weekend torn and vacillating but in the end extended offers that were accepted to two more people, which brings my total number of contributors up to four. I am working on responding individually to each and every email I received. You all are ridiculous and wonderful and I will be naming my first child after you, which will be unfortunate for the child - to have a name with so many hyphens.