Y’all. It’s been too long.

You’ll have to forgive me, but my life is craze to the z right now. Work has been terribly busy, and I can never seem to get everything finished, so I’m there constantly. Not fun.
But, hey, I’m grateful for a job.

I’m in the process of buying a house, and Lawd have mercy – there’s a lot to do there, too. Meet the home inspector, then a roof inspector, then a chimney inspector. I would not be surprised if there is an inspector who specializes in inspecting the inspection. Not to mention the meetings and phone calls with the bank and insurance agent. Not fun.
But, hey, I’m grateful I am in a position to purchase a home.

What is fun, though, is how close I am to becoming a home owner. It’s a mixture of pride and fear that is hard to describe. A million thoughts go through my mind about that house every day: Am I making a mistake? Will it have good resale value? What if this goes wrong? Then, I remember to breathe, and I answer myself: No, you love it, it’s perfect for you. Stop worrying about selling something you don’t actually own yet. You’ll just get it fixed.

My Dad says I’ve lost my mind for buying an 88-year-old house, but I beg to differ. Sure, she’s old. But she’s got style. And charm. And at 88, I bet she’s just as pretty (if not more so) than when she was 15, or 20, or 30.

I want to be just like her.

It’s that time of year, again. The time of year when Spring is peeking through, the rain is here and the flowers will follow, girls are putting away their sweaters and breaking out the dresses, the days are a little longer…and moods are lifting right along with the temperatures.

And if you live in or near Augusta, Georgia, the time of year has arrived when everyone and their brother begins to ask you, “Hey, can you get me tickets to the Masters?”

See title. That is when I can get you tickets.

Of the United States of America, not like President of your company, ok?

Look, I’m not the best at the shout outs. Forgive me, I promise to do better, blah blah blah.

Happy Belated Birthdays to the following people…
Amy (her son Henry had one, too!)
Colleen (she’s also expecting!)
Austin (she’s a lawyer, we were roomies in the ghetto once, no babies, but an awesome dog named Bates)
Leigh (Leigh Leigh and I were in ADPi together, she’s seriously pretty and funny – and a lawyer, too)
Beth (she also gave birth to another baby boy, and named him Sims – how cute is that?)
Ginny (also known as Jenny Woodrow for reasons I can’t disclose, a much better writer than I could ever dream of being – and former roommate and illegal alien)

Today is Friday the 13th, and also my Benton’s birthday. She’s 29, blonde, hot, has a pet pig named Gus, has traveled everywhere you can think of, can’t dance (but does anyway) and is as sweet as she is pretty. Ifshelikesyou, that is. It’s a joke, B – you are incredibly sweet and I honestly don’t know what I’d do without you. Happy Birthday!

yay for:
my dog looking annoyed when the alarm went off this morning
beautiful weather
ruffle front blouses and big gold earrings
understanding and supportive parents
sugar free oreos in my desk
the sweet man who let me cut in front of him while buying coffee
text messages with Edward that make me laugh
finding two unused gift cards
helpful co-workers
a heavy eyeliner day
pandora radio
this lotion that not only feels good, smells good
making plans for lunch that don’t involve eating
blackberry messaging (as if i needed another addiction?)
not being this guy or this one, either
more daylight at the end of the work day
being excited about seeing my favorite people this weekend

I used to think that once you got married and had new last name, it would be incredibly hard to remember to use the new name in conversation, or while signing it. To my surprise, it really wasn’t that hard at all. I reluctantly embraced the new last name after a few weeks, and it just started to flow. In fact, I rarely slipped and said my maiden name, which is odd, seeing as how I thought this would be something I had to consciously remind myself of. That, and the fact that I liked my maiden name better than my married name. Sign number 1? Maybe.

Enter the situation (which is now referred to as the “unmarrying” process), and I find myself in quite the pickle. Professionally, I’m Mandi MarriedName – so that is how everyone associated with my job knows me. I haven’t been at this job all that long (You remember the lay off, right? Geez. Rough year.) so to switch over overnight seems like a bit much. What if I change everything (emails, business cards, allthatjazz) back to my maiden name…and people start asking me if I got married? That would be a disaster for me to explain, and I’m not really fond of telling Random Rita from XYZ Company all my biznass.

This is when it would’ve been a smart idea to hyphenate my name. Then, all I would have to do is drop one. Like, oops, it fell off, I’m just Mandi MaidenName now. Dang those traditional ideas. Dang ’em.

Sometimes, just for kicks, I mosey over to someecards.com to see what those crazy kids have come up with lately. Today I saw this, and it cracked me up:

I recently had a conversation with a girlfriend of mine about that awkward point in a relationship when you either decide to talk about numbers, or to not talk about numbers. Most women* like to know the ins and outs (pun intended) of the history, while most men prefer a more vague approach (like the one above).

*I will not disclose how I feel about this subject, because my mama reads this blog.

As a side note, my mom told me the other day that she couldn’t date “in this day and age.” I asked her what she meant by that, and she said she’d have to see the person’s most recent STD tests before taking things to the next level with them. Sadly, that’s not a bad idea.

To talk about “my realtor” – even if I have known him since high school.

Hey, I live with my parents right now. I need as many grown-up moments as possible.

Dear Jason Mesnick,
Where do I begin? Is “you’re an asshole” too much to start out with? Ok, ok, I’ll be a little nicer. No cursing allowed.

Let me start by telling you that you pretty much had all of us (and by “us” I mean every woman in America) fooled into thinking you were Mr. Nice Guy. You’ve got that whole dark haired, tanned skin thing going for you, you’re a single dad with a cutie patootie little boy, and our hearts went out to you when watched your heart get broken by that gosh awful DeAnna on The Bachelorette. I sort of wish you would’ve just gone on with your life, and left me wondering, “Whatever became of that great guy on The Bachelorette, the one with the adorable son? I’m sure someone snatched him up by now, and they’re living happily ever after in Seattle.” But, no. No, Jason, you had to go and become The Bachelor…and Mr. Nice Guy went out the da, er, darn window.

I mean for these next statements to be helpful, ok? Ok, here goes. You, Mr. Mesnick, cry entirely too much. Seriously, you cried or made a face like you were on the verge of tears during every episode. I like a man who is in touch with his feelings, but you might need some form of antidepressant. Moving right along, I think you could rethink your shirt/tie/suit combinations. Someone over there at ABC should’ve been able to help you out with this. Also, you say the word “amazing” constantly. Please learn to use it more sparingly, you know, like you would cayenne pepper. Not everything is amazing, and not every woman is amazing, ok? If she is so freaking amazing, why did you send her home? Lastly, I’m going to need you to stop proposing to women. Why don’t you date them before you ask them to be with you forever? I know it sounds crazy, but give it a whirl.

Now, I know it seems like the whole country is up in arms about you breaking off your engagement on national television, and I’m not going to lie to you, Jase. The whole country is up in arms about it. If polled, I’d bet you all the money in my wallet (or someone else’s, as I don’t really carry cash around) that Bush’s approval rating is higher than yours. So, if I were you – I’d watch my back. You and Molly will most likely be booed everywhere you go, so you might want to subscribe to Netflix for a while. It’s generally not a good idea to tell the girl who you asked to be your wife that it’s not working out and then make out with another girl 5 seconds later. Even for those of us who liked Molly, who rooted for Molly, who thought she was cuter than Melissa…it’s just too much. We’re “Team Melissa” now, Jason. And we have you to thank.

Give my best to Ty Ty, and please go away after this.
Love,
M

You know what annoys me about men? Well, one thing that annoys me…you don’t need to be here all day – you’ve got work to do, I’m sure.

The thing that annoys me is that as soon as September hits, they have a one track mind. Football. Football, football, football.

Honestly, I think that most Southern men would turn down a threesome with Jessica Alba and Julianne Hough if it happened to fall on a college football Saturday. Now, don’t get me wrong, I love me some college football (shout out – Mark Richt, I heart you) but it isn’t my life. I wouldn’t like, not go on a free vacation or something because Georgia played Auburn that week. I can root for my team from Italy, you know? And it’s not like me being there helps at all. I showed up last year for Alabama, blacked out even, and we all know what happened then. And, Florida? We. Don’t. Discuss. It.

Wouldn’t it be nice if we could just live our lives freely, without having to wonder who plays who the weekend your friend from college is getting married?

Yesterday, while sitting with a group of co-workers and eating lunch, one of the older ladies at the table looked at me and said, “You make me sick. You eat so much and are still tiny.”

First of all, I had to glance down at my plate. I was a little embarrassed by the amount of food that was not left on it. Then, I quickly began defending myself. “Yes ma’am, I do eat a lot, but I don’t eat any sugar, and I stay away from almost all carbohydrates. I can’t eat anything I please and still be the weight I want, so I just do that.”

It was then that she asked this dreadful question: “Well, do you work out?”

My response? “Oh, gosh no. I haven’t exercised since 2003.”

Y’all. Thisisnotgood. I can’t believe that it’s true, number one, or that I would admit it, number two. Don’t they say your muscles start to deteriorate after two weeks of no use? By now I’m nothing but fat and bone. Yikes. Working out to begin today.