Thank You Notes: Blissful Edition

(This post is sappy, personal, and ridiculously lovey. Not your thing? Read my first Blissdom post instead.)

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Dear Esther,

Thank you for being my friend, not just online, but in person.

Thank you for making me think, for sharing your stories, for sharing your insight,

for being you.

Thank you for checking on me when I got locked out of my hotel room, and thank you for *not* making me feel like a total idiot when I pocket dialed you (twice) and left you messages of me discussing the best cookie choice with the sales girl in the hotel lobby.

(It was white chocolate cherry, in case that wasn't clear from my message.)

(Sorry 'bout that.)

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Dear Casey,

Thank you for hugging me when I shared one of my biggest fears with you,

for getting it,

for getting me.

Thank you for telling me to "do it" when I said I might cry. (Not in a mean way (DO IT), but in an encouraging way... I thought I should clear that up.)

Thank you for stopping me when I was leaving the party the first night, for talking to me instead of allowing me to wander around by myself.

Thank you for telling me I'm awesome, for being awesome yourself, for being my new found lobster.

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Dear Mary Anne,

I hereby dub you my Fairy Blog Mother.

Thank you for hugging me, telling me you were proud of me,

being my safety net.

Thank you for telling me which side of the stage to stand on to get my picture taken with Harry Connick, Jr. You're basically the best Fairy Blog Mother ever.

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Dear Steph,

Oh Steph. Thank you thank you thank you for hanging out with me.

For letting me essentially stalk you.

You are stuck with me now, my dear,

because I adore you so.

Thank you for saying hello, for dancing with me, for letting me hold that beautiful tiny dancer of yours.

Thank you for inspiring me.

(Seriously, Ivy is so freaking cute she makes my uterus hurt).

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Dear Alli,

You throw one hell of a party.

I am forever in awe of you.

Thank you for letting me be a part of it,

for including me,

for stopping to hug me whenever you saw me,

for being amazing.

Thank you for saying "Ally B Speakin'" with the best southern accent ever... it makes me smile every time.

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I met more women than I can thank here. They all deserve it, though, and I thank them too.

Seriously, ladies, if we talked, hung out, danced, hugged, or even rode an elevator together,

thank you.

Love Letter

Dear Mike,

Thanks for not laughing or rolling your eyes when I called you as you were leaving work to ask if you would get me some frozen yogurt on your way home.

And thanks for thinking that it was totally normal that I wanted Cap'n Crunch as my topping.

And thanks for watching Michael Jackson videos with me and then listening to me ramble about how he was a freakin' genius and how he essentially changed pop culture as we know it.

And thanks for making me spit out my water when you said that you were named after him.

And thanks for checking the backyard to find out what that scary noise was. Some people might have thought you looked silly with your head through the dog door to see if our neighbors were murdering someone, but I felt very safe looking at your torso stuck half inside/half outside the house.

Loves,

Ally B

Fit or Fail: Open Letter Edition

Dear Muscles,

What did I ever do to you?

Yes, I've let you go soft over the years. No, I haven't used you to your fullest abilities. And maybe I haven't done my best to give you the nutrients that you need.

But, seriously.

WTF??

I decided to get you all strong and stuff, so I asked an expert what to do and he told me to get this book. And because he's an expert, I went out and got it. And read it. And did the first two workouts.

And now? I can't walk... or bend... or lift anything.

Although it would be easy to blame said expert, or said book, I am going to say that it's not their fault.

It's YOUR fault, muscles.

You have conspired against me. You hate me. You have decided that I am some evil dictator in a world war and so you are going to take me down from the inside out (sort of like that Nazi Tom Cruise played... with the eye patch...).

You are trying to kill me.

(I'm ESPECIALLY talking to you, quads!)

But, I'm not stopping. That's just what you want, and I'm not going to give in.

I'm going to keep working on you so that you get bigger, stronger, and rue the day that you tried to take me down.

So, buck up, because I could really use your help.

In extreme pain,

Ally B

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Dear Book,

Might I suggest packaging this book with a heating pad, and possibly a prescription for Vicodin?

In Serious Need of Hard-Core Pain Medication,

Ally B

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Dear Expert,

Thanks for the suggestion and help, but I can't help but wonder if you're actually not only a fitness expert writer, but also trained in torturing people.

If you don't watch LOST, then you won't understand why, but I think I'm going to call you Sayid.

(He's a super nice guy that just happens to be an expert in torturing enemies for information... and he's a trained killer... but otherwise, he's a real stand-up sorta dude.)

I'm just saying that I don't think you would recommend these workouts if you didn't have some other agenda...

I just don't know what you want from me.

Thankful and in Pain,

Ally B

My Baby Brother is the big Two-One...

Dear Andrew Jay,

You're my brother!!

It's your birthday!!

You're 21!!

You're in Thailand!!

(I know that YOU know all of this... but I'm setting it up for my blog readers...)

(And I know that I could just email this to you personally... but I am whore for blog fodder...)

So, since you are not here with us, we will be having a party without you.

(You know our family... we never turn down an opportunity to party...)

Even the dogs will be there to celebrate.

(I just realized that there will actually be more dogs than people there... we're kind of pathetic.)

My idea: eat Thai food... since you're in Thailand... I thought I'd just clear that up in case you were confused because I want you to realize how much of a genius I am.

Mom's idea: make a cake and let Ally pick the flavor. Hell yes! I told her that I think that this should be the protocol for ALL future birthdays in the family... so we're having FUNFETTI cake with chocolate frosting. I will attempt to make a portrait of you on the cake with the frosting.

Mom's idea: she is getting ME a present for YOUR birthday... AGAIN, this should just be protocol for all birthdays... including national birthday holidays (like Lincoln's birthday... Washington's birthday...the Nation's birthday... and of course, Jesus' birthday). So I am getting THE TWILIGHT DVD for your birthday, so thanks for that.

(I heart Edward Cullen.)

My idea: since you're turning 21, one of us should get gratuitously drunk tonight.

Dad's idea: it should be Mom.

So, your party is really a group effort...

I'll take pictures for you to show all of your monk friends.

(Side note: Don't tickle a monk... unless they look sad... then the don't-tickle-a-monk rule is void.)

(I just made that up... I would double check on that, though...)

So, happy birthday!

I miss you so much, but I am so thrilled slash proud slash jealous that you are able to take this journey of yours.

(I'm like 90% thrilled and proud... 8% jealous... and 2% hungry... I heart Thai food...)

PS: I thought I would tell you that while writing this post I hit my knuckle on the table and it HURT and I screamed profanities in PUBLIC with CHILDREN around and MARK laughed at me and now my knuckle is all red and that is the FIRST SIGN of TRAUMA so I may not have a FINGER when you get back which will really suck because it's my pointer finger and I type with ONLY my pointer fingers (mostly... it drives Mike NUTS) so my BLOG will FAIL because I won't be able to type anymore... just so you know...

I May Be Single After This...

*UPDATE!* This post was accepted at DivineCaroline.com! You can see it on that site here! My quest for world domination is well on its way...

Dear Mike,

It’s been awhile, huh?

(OK, you only left for work about 3 hours ago… but I wanted to start this letter like that because I felt it was all literary and shit so shut up.)

So, I was loading the dishwasher and thinking to myself about how you are so going to yell at me because I’m just shoving dishes in there and you think that there is a “right” way to load the dishes and according to you I only do it the “wrong” way.

But, you know what? There is NO RIGHT WAY TO LOAD THE DISHES INTO THE GOD DAMN DISHWASHER.

(OK, that’s not completely true. I’m now picturing all of these ways that would obviously be the WRONG way to load the dishwasher. Like if I put the dishes in there face-down instead of in the little plate slots… or if I decided to put all of the dishes in with my feet… both are excellent examples of the WRONG way.)

(But I don’t do either… though I’m now looking forward to trying…)

There may be a more effective way to load it… but the way I’m doing it isn’t hurting anybody, so you shouldn’t yell at me about it.

Now, I’m not going to be one of those women who say, “Just realize that I’m always right, honey, and your life will be a lot easier.”

Because, honestly, there will probably be PLENTY of times where I actually DO do something wrong.

Like, if I accidentally put our baby’s diaper on his head instead of his butt… feel free to tell me that I am doing it wrong.

(If it’s NOT an accident, though, I expect you to laugh your ass off at my hilarious joke because I’ll probably be all crazy hormonal and will KILL you if you don’t.)

(Fair warning.)

And if I get so damn lazy that I start walking around with the baby like this:

(From FailBlog.org)

...THEN you may rip me a new one.

Or, if I get the brilliant idea to clean the bathroom by flooding it with soapy water and then siphoning it out through some elaborate system I will invent in the future… you might have the right to slap me around verbally.

(Unless it works, in which case you will BOW DOWN TO ME as I will most certainly be the winner of some amazing invention or peace award and therefore your Sugar Momma...)

So, I guess I’m trying to tell you that there will be PLENTY if opportunities to yell at me… so maybe you should consider choosing your battles a tad more carefully.

We’re in it for the long haul… and someday you’ll look back and realize that the whole dishwasher thing was JUST THE BEGINNING.

Can't wait...

Love,

Ally B

PS: I may or may not have tried to get Hannah to carry some plates and silverware in her mouth so I wouldn’t have to carry them, which probably qualifies as the WRONG way to load a dishwasher. You may yell at me for that.

PPS: Can you please pick up some new dishes on the way home? She failed and broke them all when she rounded the corner… bad Hannah.

Genius

Dear President Obama (I know that you are technically not the President yet, per se, but it's less than 24 hours until it's "official", so let's just get it over with already),

First of all, congratulations on the whole president thing. I'm very happy and looking foreword to the next four (eight!) years.

I hope you are excited to move into the White House, and I really hope that you are able to get the republican smell out of the curtains.

I sure hope President Bush didn't think it would be funny to pull some sort of prank, like leaving a fake rubber rat under your pillow, because that would be mean.

So I was thinking about you and your exciting future and I remembered that you'll be getting a dog soon. And then I started thinking about what you should name the dog and I came up with the PERFECT name for your new best friend.

Why not name the dog "George Dubyah"?

Think about how awesome it would be!

"Oh man! George Dubyah pooped in the Oval Office again!"

"Stop humping my leg, George Dubyah."

"Oh crap... George Dubyah bit the Secretary of Defense again."

And it would be even better if it's a girl.

"Oh, what a good boy your dog is!"
"Nope, George Dubyah's a girl! George Dubyah's a girl!"

Well, it's just an idea. Take it or leave it.

Sincerly,

Ally B

Jealousy is Best Served Cold and Windy

First things first: Zeus didn't listen to me. It's still effin windy and cold and it sucks. Bonnie is so depressed that we aren't going out that I had to leave the house to escape the sad eyes.

And so, I am forced to accept that Zeus does not exist, either. Why else would someone not listen to my pleas?

And so, I will readdress my letter to someone who I know is real, and a deity.

So, Brad Pitt, can you please just read this letter, and work on getting the wind to go away.

I have faith in you.

OK, now that that's out of the way, I must tell you all that I am super-duper jealous.

(Is it just me, or has my jealousy been a recurring theme here since oh-nine?)

(Well, this jealousy is TOTALLY well founded.)

My father is going on a trip with National Geographic where he will visit ALL seven continents!!

(See, now we can ALL be jealous together.)

He gets to go with these big National Geographic hot-shots, and I am really wishing that he was at the age when he needed me to come along as his care-taker.

(OK, I'm actually really glad that he's not at that age, but I'd like to go, regardless.)

Here was his email telling us:

A brief note to let you all know that I was accepted to go on an around the world trip on the 22nd of this month with National Geographic! I'll be visiting all 7 continents of the world with 3 well known experts in various fields. I'll be gone for about a month. I've got a lot to do before I go but wanted to let you all know. Love you.

(My father just exudes excitement, even when he types...)

This was my response:

Holy hell!! That is SO COOL!!

(Mike is yelling at me that you need to get a telephoto lens, preferably the 70 to 300, so that you can take pictures of lions iris'... if you do not get one Mike is not letting you go.)

I am SOSOSSOSOSOSOSOSOSO jealous!!! You get to go to Africa!!! And Antarctica!!! And Asia... and back to Australia... wow that's a lot of "A" continents... I guess I'm partial to that letter....

JEALOUS!!!

I shall blog about this now...

I love you and am very proud of you for doing this.

(Now THAT'S excitement!)

(Mike really was yelling at me about the lens. He's so damn pushy.)

(Soon after this I realized that BOTH of my parents would be out of the country at the same time. So I called my dad and he told me that it didn't matter. "But what if I get a bite!?!" (I have a history of getting weird bites and then calling and crying to my parents.) "Email me," he said. "Well, god bless technology.")

(I should have said "Brad bless technology".)

And so I started to think about where I would like to go. I mean sure, I'd love to go to all seven continents (though, given my aversion to windy cold weather, Antarctica may be full of my shrill complaining... but it'd be worth it), but not all of us get to do that.

So, where would I put my priority?

AFRICA.

I have wanted to go to Africa since I was in elementary school and wanted to be a vet for big cats. I was OBSESSED with big cats. My room was all leopard and tiger print (not in a slutty way, though... I was ten), and I had every big cat stuffed animal available in the Denver Metro area.

(Note: my love was of BIG cats (lions, tigers, cheetahs)... not over sized domestic cats... I didn't like house cats, even then... but don't let a house cat read that... they may come after me.)

So I wanted to go to Africa to steal a cheetah to take home who I could hang out with.

(Sort of like Jasmine with Raja... a girl can dream.)

And even though my love for big cats isn't what it used to be (I still find them fascinating... but I've got my hands full with an over-active Aussie Shepard), I still want to go to Africa. I still want to go on a safari and I still want to see all of those amazing animals in the wild.

So Dad, you better get that telephoto that Mike said, because you have to take awesome pictures of those animals to hold me over until I'm retired and traveling the world myself.

Brad speed, Daddy... Brad speed.

Are you There, Zeus? It's me, Ally B

Dear Zeus,

So, I know that I've been complaining a lot about it being freezing and all. And I understand that you may have been a little upset about my whining, but seriously, dude, what is up with the wind?

Really?!?!

Is it totally necessary to send hurricane force winds down on Boulder that causes my patio furniture to fly across the backyard?

Is it totally necessary to make it so windy that the dog door flips open so far that a small child could crawl through off of the street?

(This is my biggest fear about having a dog door. Not that a raccoon, coyote, fox, mountain lion, or burglar will crawl into the house. Nope. Small needy children scare me the most.)

And do you really have to make it so windy that I can't sleep without bolting upright every hour because the neighbors trashcans are being thrown against their wall outside of my bedroom window?

I have had enough wind to last me another year. While we were in NZ, you send a crazy-ass-hurricane down on us when we stayed in Milford Sound.

Sleeping in the parking lot of a campground, in a very unstable RV, in said hurricane was, like, the worst night ever!! I stayed awake all night afraid that we were going to roll over onto the car next to us and then be swept away by a flood.

(Poor Mike... I clung to him like a spider monkey the whole night whimpering...)

And so, please cut it out.

I live in Boulder, Colorado, not Kansas.

My name is Ally B, not Dorothy.

I have no desire to wake up in Oz... even if it is in Technicolor.

And I would like to be able to drive down the highway without fear of another truck bed flying through the air at oncoming traffic.

(Seriously. It happened today. Saw my life flash before my eyes.)

So, if it wouldn't be too much trouble, please quit it. The wind does NOTHING for anyone... and I will sleep better knowing no babies will be crawling into my house.

Sincerely yours,

Ally B Hatin' the Wind

PS: Feel free to send a new puppy through the dog door, though. Just take some precautionary steps to make sure Bonnie doesn't eat it before I wake up.

(Picture from seemikedraw.wordpress.com)