Happy 4th of July!

Subtitled: I'm Baaaaack.....

Have a wonderful, sun-filled, safe 4th of July everyone!

hat: beachfront store in the Bahamas; cover-up: Target; bag: Longchamp

I'll be on the beach in my pretty seaside town in my giant beach hat.

My husband will be the idiot on the beach making fun of my hat while I make fun of his sunburn.

xoxo

(Wo)man's best friend, Part 3 (Still no vibrators in the telling of this tale, though)

When we last left off:

~~~~

"Well I'm planning on bringing both [dogs] home with me so you'd better figure that out, huh?"

...

Deep down, I was skeptical, but fluke was supportive enough and, honestly? Leaving them for longer than necessary wasn't even an option. So we arranged to pick them up in June, once the school year was over and we had moved into our house.

~~~~

Fluke and I left Queens (rejoice), then the states of NY and CT, and as soon as I could no longer contain the vibrating in my chair over the border in MA, we stopped off at PetSmart and spent the first several hundred of the thousands and thousands of dollars these stinky beagles would cost us. But damned if it wasn't the most exciting thing ever to buy crates, collars, bowls, leashes, and toys.

Then June came.

True to form we picked the beagles up in the. shadiest. way. humanly. possible. No seriously. They had us back into one of the school's INTERNAL LOADING DOCKS (NO THAT'S NOT A EUPHEMISM. YES THE CAPS-SCREAMING IS NECESSARY). I had to literally get out of the car, get onto a ladder, and climb to the top of the loading dock once the garage door had fully closed behind us.

Then they tried to sell us uncut heroin. KIDDING. But fuck, I was ready for it.

I signed paper after paper, received these 9 month old dogs "partial" medical histories that actually didn't fit into an envelope because they were so long (apparently just the pieces the vet would need, like when they were spayed, microchipped, etc), and finally had had enough and just said I didn't need any other information.

We had our leashes with us and I had read countless books on beagles but *der* the dogs had never spent as much time out of their crates as they were about to, much less know what a collar and leash felt like. We got the collars on no problemo but walking? HA!

Valentine ran around like a pixie on steroids AND cocaine and my Blazer girl army-crawled across the ground in random directions just trying to shut out the world.

"Fuck this!" I very loudly exclaimed (mama reached her breaking point). I gently picked up Val and handed her to my friend, Alison, (we went with 2 girls since the dogs weren't comfortable with anyone, much less males) and then held a trembling Blaze myself.

We got to the loading dock after waving off help from the vet techs who I was now not just mentally, but actually cursing at. Creatively, too! It was a proud moment! Until I realized we had to climb down a ladder and load two petrified dogs into a car (another unknown) in crates (another unknown). I'll spare you the details. Dogs = unharmed. Alison & I = scratched to smithereens and bruised everywhere.

Once we had everyone loaded, we got the f*&^ out of Queens again and made our way to my parents' house in CT. Ready for it?

Their first car trip:

Val was so sick there were rivers of spit in the bottom of her crate. But... SUNSHINE! For the first time ever!

Blaze figured out that the bumps were easier laying down.

Then we got to pull over and....

Gah! What do we doooo?

The light! I have to squint because I've never seen the light!

And then they were home. And dudes, I cried like a baby when we walked in the door (1) out of relief and (2) out of pure fear. These were some seriously untrained pups who were pretty traumatized and even my "save the world" heart was second-guessing.

Coming up: ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-chaaaanges (for me, for the pups)

xoxo

Spoiler: It's really hard to look at pictures of Val. She is FINE, for those of you wondering, but not living with us for reasons to be explained. She has a wonderful home, I know where, and I get pictures.

When you have a beagle...

...you have to be careful how close you stand to the table when you're holding her.

And then you have to repeat the process with pictures.

xoxo

The only time you will see me in a sports bra. I'm that stressed. Hide yo kidz.

I know, I know, everyone's waiting with bated breath for the 3rd installment of the dog story. It's coming. Perhaps even tonight.

But right now here's where we're at:

The visual:

also see: stressed enough to go for a run which means whoooooa nelly

unrelated: i can up and run 2 miles no sweat bitchez

ok so i feel like i'm dying

no panic no panic no panic oh god no cry no cry no cry

AHHHHHHHHH

FWOOMPH (that's how my brain explosion sounds in my head)

The explanation:

+I got the charter school job (+1)

+I realized I now go back to work essentially in 3 weeks and work an 11 month year instead of the normal school year (-1)

+I suddenly became unreasonably overwhelmed at the idea of creating curriculum for 50 kids that are 16-20 year old high school drop-outs who have already made the principal cry once. (-1)

+I rationalized that I still get nice breaks for Christmas and some regular school breaks too, and even having 5 weeks off in the summer isn't going to be awful (+1)

+We're refinishing the wood floors in our house and all our furniture is being moved this weekend (-1)

+Fluke swears he'll be the only one taking care of the aforementioned furniture move (+1)

+The furniture then needs to be moved back in and the next day the whole house (all three floors) are getting painted (+1) and (-1)

+I have not chosen paint colors (-1)

+I had a panic attack when I withdrew all my other job applications because what if I imagined the whole thing... and HOLY SHIT I HAVE A JOB and it's 10 minutes from home (+1)

+Today and tomorrow were going to be easy days. Instead I've done nothing but be on the phone and tomorrow have 3 separate meetings (-1)

+I need someone to teach me balance (-1)

+I'll actually have the money to hire someone to teach me balance! (+1)

+We're also getting an estimate on replacing our fence tomorrow (?)

+We leave to go to CT (again) while the floor people are working and have to reconfigure the dog-sitting sitch. (-1)

So we're at -2. Once I calm down about the job thing I'll be cool. But guys? I HAVE A JOB!

Please send support. And chocolate.

xoxo

Dear Dad (not daddy or popsicles)

Dear Dad,

I have to write "Dear Dad" because, in our language, calling you different things has different connotations. Daddy means something's wrong. Popsicles means I'm teasing you. Daddy-o was what I usually called out in the halls of the high school where I went and you taught (I'm sorry about that one). But Dad is reserved for when I'm (trying) to be real with 'ya. This is not a trait I come by easily and, dangit, you can take the blame for that.

Why yes, that's you wearing an "I've Been Naughty" hat directing a roomful of people singing Christmas carols. It's how you roll.

You've been a strong, silent supporter every single instant of my life. Don't think for a split second that I don't know that even though it appears that mom wears the pants, if you really want something (especially about the sis and I), your word goes. I firmly believe this is why I had to have Jim Kennedy's parents call your house in the 10th grade so you could make sure they were home. Even though then his mom talked to mom and not you on the phone. Not bitter. I also believe that it took everything in you to not speak when I decided to leave my music behind me and find my path in life as a teacher. It took awhile for us to rebuild from that, but we're getting there. And you realized it was important.

Even though you hate traveling out of your comfort zone where people don't speak your language (and everyone should, even just so they understand your hilariousness), here you are atop the ferris wheel in Paris.

So listen, I know it seemed silly, but when I heard that "Mr. Popper's Penguins" was going to be in theaters on June 17 and when I realized it was Father's Day Weekend, well, I hatched a crazy plan and you loved every second of it. You see, I remember talking to you about music, about my life, about sports, and jobs. But one thing we really never got into was school or reading. And I was a reading beast. There are two books that you ever gave to me (compare to mom's 39845783) and I remember them so clearly because they were all the more special. They were Mr. Popper's Penguins and Homer Price. And bud, when I said I was going to drive 7 hours in 2 days, pop in for less than 24 hours, go out to dinner, to a children's movie, and see mom for a minute on Saturday, you were all, "HECK YEA!"

So off I went (and Dad, I had my personal fake manservant take these pictures. Of course I wouldn't be an idiot and do it myself while driving........):

Open road, baby, open road

This here's the tunnel on Rte 15 that signals that you're so close to home you can taste it. It's also inevitably when your bladder starts screaming at you and you turn up the music to ignore it.

Through the rabbit hole

Too. Much. Driving. Are we there yet? Arewethereyet? Arewethereyetarewethereyetarewethereyet?

Through the tunnel and over the hills, to daddy-o's house we goooo.

Oops. Good thing that cop was radar-ing someone else.

Off the highway. There's something special about being in old stomping grounds.

Even if I don't remember how to get to things I know I've been to trillions of time.

Like movie theaters. Derrrr.

Listen, Dad? I love you oodles and shmoodles. I loved seeing you and spending rare precious alone time with you Friday night. I love you for everything you do and say, but more importantly for everything you don't, because even in those moments I know you're in my corner. There is no more precious gift in the world.

Love,

Me.

(Wo)man's best friend, Part 2

If you missed part 1 make sure to check it out!

First things first, Mrs. Matthewser... don't you worry, I took care of this place and will continue to make sure this doesn't happen. If you want in on the crusade you just let me know. Is it weird that I'm cool saying that at the beginning of a post because I *think* I know you well enough to know you'll flip your shit?

So let's see.... where were we....

~~~~

And suddenly my breath caught. My eyes welled up. I had someone cover my 8th period class and I left.

There were 9 beagles and names on that list. 9 names - DOG names - that could have come from anywhere.

One of the names was Lila.

My grandmother's name? Was Lila.

~~~~~~~

I walked (more like floated) out of school in a daze and called fluke. My grandmother, who had passed away a mere 4 months prior to the list of dog names, was coming back to me in dog form. And of all things, in flippin' beagle form.

I had a moment of

OK WORLD, I GET THE MESSAGE. YUP, COMIN' IN LOUD AND CLEAR.

And then my moment turned into whining

REALLY?! YOU HAD TO FIND ME BEAGLES IN FREAKIN' QUEENS, NY? I MEAN, QUEENS?

But who am I to argue with the universe?

As...we've...established... the universe and I have been on the outs for awhile, it seems. So now that I'm looking back on this sordid tale (and yes, it does get sappy and sordid and all kinds of crazy), I've got my eye on YOU, universe. AGAIN. And I'm begging, pleading, on my knees with forgiveness and a need for some calm.

So we embarked on the misadventure of a lifetime.

Fluke and I drove down to Connecticut, picked up my mom, and made our way in Queens. When we got off the exit, the first thing we saw? Was a prison? For real? No question marks actually needed in this explanation???... !!! Parking was a joke (visit your favorite inmate day?). I specifically remember saying several times that this just wasn't meant to be. So my mom let Fluke and I out and drove around while we went inside the school.

Guys? Not a single person in the place even knew there were dogs there. (batshit crazy clue #1)

I called the teacher who was in charge of adoptions and she directed us over to what I guess I'd describe as a holding area? She came out (by that time my mom had caught up with us) and led us through three sets of locked doors. No really, I was waiting for her to have to enter some voice recognition bullshit. (batshit crazy clue #2)

When we walked through the SOUNDPROOF (batshit crazy clue #3) doors and the cacophony of beagle howls and kitten meows slammed into our ears, I immediately knew something was seriously wrong.

"Would you like to see the beagles, maybe meet one or two of them?" the woman asked in the stark white hallways that showed no signs of animal life visually. I looked at fluke. I looked at my mom. I will never forget my mother's face. Hindsight being 20/20, I think she figured out the real deal before I did with these dogs.

Because, "Sure," I said. And we were led to look through a tiny window of a locked door, behind which 9 dogs were in 5 crates, each crate no bigger than 3'x5'. When they saw our human faces peering at them, 7 of the 9 dogs retreated to the back of their crates, cowering in absolute and utter fear, despite the thick locked door between them and us.

It was at that point that a vet tech student walked down the hallway carrying a beagle that was going back to her crate. "Oh, this is Violet!" she said, and set the shaking dog on the ground. The dog looked up, saw me, the vet tech, fluke, and my mom, got completely down to the floor in shrunken fear and peed all over the place. And not a single one of us had even moved a muscle.

I looked at my mom. I looked at Fluke. I looked angrily at our guide and started peppering her with questions. Then it came out. And I saw colors swirl before my eyes that I didn't even know existed on the color spectrum because:

+The dogs spent 23.5 hours a day in their crates and were not crate-trained

+The dogs had never been on a leash

+The dogs had never been allowed to play

+The dogs were being fed shit quality food that the school got for free as a promo

+The dogs had never seen the sun or been outside their crate room or the room where they were bathed...

+...unless it was for a medical procedure, of which they'd had countless numbers

+The dogs were completely unsocialized to other dogs.

+The dogs didn't recognize their names, know any commands, or have any trust in any humans.

+The school was going to practice euthanizing any of the dogs they didn't find adopters for (they were all adopted, I know, I freaked too)

+The dogs all had FDA tattoos on their ears and were technically... wait for it...

lab dogs who had also seen the inside of the science building at the school.

My heart absolutely sank. I knew that most vet tech schools do this whole she-bang very differently, if they have live animals at all. And then my save the world mentality kicked into superhuman high gear and I pointed to the two dogs who hadn't cowered when we looked at them.

"Those two. I want to meet them. Outside the crate room. Together."

And the adoption coordinator looked at me and said, "But we can't bring both out at once really, and..."

"Well, I'm planning on bringing both home with me so you'd better figure that out, huh?"

Fluke looked at me like I had 17 heads and 0 brains in any of them but I was too far gone.

We weren't allowed to have cameras (batshit crazy clue #too many to count) but you best believe that I snuck a photo of both dogs, Blaze and Valentine.

Blazer baby in the room that they let us see her in (the one they bathed them in, if you look closely you can see the grates on the floor). She wouldn't go near ANY of us. This picture was a lucky snap after Fluke had been sitting on the floor for about a half hour and she worked up the courage to sniff him, even though her tail was firmly tucked between her legs.

Valley Valentine girl had no interest in the humans, but charged around the room and if she could talk, I swear all you would have heard was "freedom!freedom!pantpantpant!freedom!"

As soon as it was obvious the dogs could be worked with by at least me, I clearly told everyone that this was it, I wanted both. Deep down, I was skeptical, but fluke was supportive enough and, honestly? Leaving them for longer than necessary wasn't even an option. So we arranged to pick them up in June, once the school year was over and we had moved into our house.

PHEW. There's more guys, so much more.

Stay tuned for part 3

(Wo)man's best friend. Nope, not vibrators (wow that'd be a different post), Part 1

Fluke and I moved in together after 9 months of dating. Our parents

thought we were batshit bananaramas crazy were fully supportive and loving and obviously spoke about us behind our backs but deny it. Listen, we were two young fools in love.

(Begin long side note: Well, I was a young fool. Flukestar is 5 years older than me but he just can't be trusted to take care of himself.

Case in point: he gained a well-needed 35lbs when we go together. TRUE STORY: check the before and after:

click to enlarge

This is the end of your long side note.)

I am a dog-crazed person. I am also a verging-on-the-edge-of-OCD person who wanted a dog the **splitsecond** we moved in together. Fluke was for this, our landlord was not. It killed me and, I think, that's where Fluke got the idea it would be OK to tell me that once we were in a position to have a dog, that I could have free reign over the dog deal.

BIGGEST. MISTAKE. EVER.

So about 10 months into our 1 year lease, I began the hunt for the perfect dog. For one reason or another, I was talking to the librarian at the school where I taught (everyone always goes to the librarian, right? It's a thing, I swear!) and she mentioned that her daughter was in vet tech school and that the school had a litter of 9 month old beagles that they were looking for homes for.

"Beagles?" I thought. "Beagles." I thought. "Beagles..." I thought. "BEAGLES!!!!!!!" I thought.

So in February I was placed in touch with Alison, the librarian's daughter, to learn more about these beagles.

Now, beagles have a lot of meaning in my family. My mom's family had a beagle, Pumpernickel, when she was growing up. Then when my grandparents divorced and my grandmother moved to the house in the North Shore of Boston that fluke and I now call home, she adopted another beagle, Piccolo. When we were sorting through grammy's things before fluke and I moved in, we came across some of the sentimental stuff.

Listen, my grandma wasn't a very sentimental person. She was one of the first FIVE woman to ever graduate from the University of Michigan School of Law. She was brilliant. She completed Sunday crosswords up until the week before she died. She loved her family with every ounce of her being. But not so much on the sentimental crap-keeping.

But. On the "special showcase behind glass" bookshelf on the top shelf was a key ring and on that key ring? Every single tag of Pumpernickel's, a dog that had died some thirty years earlier. There were some tears on the day we went through the house. There was mostly laughter and appreciation for an amazing person. But there was bawling and nose-wiping and ugly crying in heaps on the floor when we found the dog tags. And then there were memories, countless amazing memories, of stories that we remembered Grandma telling us about Pumpernickel.

I felt in that moment, the moment when we were slumped on the floor staring in awe at these carefully preserved relics from a seemingly impervious woman's past, that I could sense her presence and that I understood her that much better.

So yes, beagles.

A week went by and I didn't hear from Alison. Then one day, I got an email. There weren't pictures (which I thought was odd) but there were the list of the 9 dogs' names. I scanned it quickly; I was at work.

And suddenly my breath caught. My eyes welled up. I had someone cover my 8th period class and I left.

There were 9 beagles and names on that list. 9 names - DOG names - that could have come from anywhere.

One of the names was Lila.

My grandmother's name? Was Lila.

Check out part II

On Dogs

The following story is one that might be frightening so I'll start with:

EVERYONE'S ALIVE AND EVERYONE WILL BE OK AND NO, WE'RE NOT LOOKING FOR ADOPTERS. YET.

**Cue Scene**

It was a gorgeous sunny day in a quiet seaside town in northern Massachusetts. The wind was blowing peacefully and a woman was painting picture frames outside. Because she's planning on creating a frame wall collage thing going up the stairs. But pinterest makes her want expensive shit. So she's salvaging any frame she can find and painting it white.

In english class we call this "setting."

But I digress.

The woman (who obviously doesn't paint often, as evidenced by the fact that she was wearing a dress...) had her two dogs on the porch while she was less than 20 feet away on the grass. She looked up when she heard growling and her heart dropped as all she saw was a tangle of limbs and the beagle disappearing under the pitbull. She ran full tilt to the deck, threw open the gate, and (mindful of her hands since she'd already stayed at the hospital once thanks to a dog bite) grabbed the collars of the dogs.

But the beagle had a good grip on the pit's mouth.

And the pit had a good grip on the beagle's leg.

And the girl only weighed 30 lbs more than the pit.

She'll claim adrenaline now, but she (without hubs' help...he wasn't even home) separated the two dogs, threw (literally) the pit inside the house, and calmly assessed damage on the beagle.

Puncture wounds on the arm: check

Puncture wounds on the ear: check

Freaked out giant-eyed beagle look that makes you want to cry: check

Then she checked on the pit.

Scratches on the tummy: check

Puncture wounds on the mouth: check

Freaked out trying to show the human he loves her: check

Then she ignored herself, called the vet, and brought the beagle in.

At this point, the heroine's knight in rusty armor pulled in the driveway and had the balls to start bitching about his day. One look, however, at the woman had him stopping.

"Uh, Why do you have scratches all over your legs? And are those... bruises? on your thigh? Wait, why can't you lift your right arm? Hang on, is that blood on you? WHAT HAPPENED?"

So the woman took stock of her own injuries for the first time. Truth? She thought (still thinks) she was the baddest baddassery badass of the world. In separating the dogs she was scraped, bruised and had legitimately torn a muscle in her shoulder (editor's note: dude. this morning? not liking the shoulder thing so much).

At 6pm, armed with a newly-formed plan for the dogs and a 5pm glass of wine/xanax combo, the rusty knight and the lady picked up the sad-eyed beagle from the wonderful vet, who made them feel better by saying his FIVE dogs had gotten in tons of fights. And then gently suggested keeping them apart for awhile.

Done.

After giving the beagle copious amounts of pain meds and reassuring the pit (who was having a panic attack over making sure everyone knew he loved them and trying to lick the beagle and apologize) the Bruins game was watched, and margaritas fixed the world.

**End Scene**

So here I am this morning. My pitbull has his own little apartment on our 3rd floor, which was going unused, and our beagle, well:

She's loving the pain meds and the fact that she gets my undivided attention. But bitches, please. This dog is walking everywhere, begging for treats like it's nobody's business, and milking this shit for all it's worth.

Here are my thoughts on the debacle:

Dog ownership is a tough thing. As Fluke often points out, we have animals living in our home and what's so normal about that? I don't have kids and these guys are my fur-babies. I talk to them, they talk back, the Fluke and I have given them voices and personalities. I think the key here is that I don't have kids. Because if I did this would obviously not fly. I think I feel a series coming up about the dogs, because their stories are really, truly unbelievable. What these two have been through to make it to our house, the place we swore would be a "forever" home, is remarkable. They are both deserving of love and this is meant, IN NO WAY, to demonize pitbulls as a breed. Please don't say "you deserve this" or "that's their nature." Fluke and I are overly educated people who researched and worried and wondered. We knew the risks, we know the behaviors, and we know the unconditional love.

Stay tuned. We'll start the story of the dogs on Monday. Today I need to blame it on the a-a-a-al-a-al-co-hol.

xoxo

Soapbox Moment: Charter Schools

Alternately titled "If you really want to be a teacher you play songs that use curse words."

Preferably you play these songs with curse words while the principal of the school that you're interviewing to teach at is IN the room at the time. And then you listen as she raps the lyrics back to you with the kids.

And then you weep with joy because you have found your soulmate and you want the job so badly you can taste it.

So that's some advice.

But really, I took an interview today for a brand new charter school (I would be a founding teacher... it's a pretty prestigious position/job if I were to get the offer) and it was my second round.

For those wondering, in layman's terms:

Charter School: a school that is technically public and given state money, but where the educators have some innovative idea about teaching or education and don't have to follow any of the rules that public schools do. Usually this means longer school years and school days, more "at risk" populations of kiddos, and more than a little creativity.

Until recently, charter schools have been under a lot of scrutiny, and some have said that they are idealistic instead of realistic. More importantly, people allege that charter schools take money that would otherwise go towards regular public schools. That said, the most recent Department of Secondary Ed in Massachusetts granted an unprecedented number of new charters and renewed tons more.

Listen, I get these arguments. And when I say "I get it," I actually really mean it. But when you stand in front of a group of 30 kids in one public school English class (and I'm a public school gal, born and raised) and there are two or three kids who consistently interrupt the class to the point where they get so discouraged because YOU'RE so discouraged that they drop out of their own accord, you learn quickly that education is simply not "one size fits all."

It seems like a very basic concept: everyone learns differently. Blah blah blah. But it goes beyond learning. In today's world everyone not only learns differently, but also LIVES differently. There needs to be way, in the public education world, to accommodate those living situations. There ARE teachers that are willing to say, "Oh? You don't have a car to get to school today? I'll be there in ten minutes and I'll drop you off at the end of the day too. Other excuses?"

So the school I'm interviewing at? It targets students aged 16-20 who have either already dropped out of high school or are at high risk of dropping out. Today I met teen mothers, teens with parents who are incarcerated, and 20 year old KIDS who need good role models STAT. They were there of their own accord, because they realize that this school is their shot at a high school diploma and that these interviews are their chance to have a real say in their education, for what feels like the first time in their lives.

So listen. Whether or not I get this job? Whether or not I bitch and moan about tax dollah dollahs?

I get it. I see it. I'll pick your ass up and drive you to school in the morning.

xoxo

You need to have sex to get pregnant, right?

I bet you're wondering how I worked that question into a doctor's office visit as a college-educated 20-something.

So I've avoided writing about this for a few days (a week) because I've been somewhat (completely) shell-shocked (in denial), but I had to get a root canal.

This? Not the funny part of the post.

They gave me meds to calm my panicked ass down and then had to take x-rays. The female assistant looks at me and goes, "you're not pregnant, right?" and just as I said:

"You need to have sex for that to happen, right?"

The decidedly male doctor walks in and goes:

"Well, guess you've had some calm candy."

To which I answered:

"If I had some more pregnancy might even be a possibility without immaculate conception. Can I take this stuff home?"

And then it took them over an hour to numb me up. It was fun.

I'm pretty sure I'm the talk of the office.

Two Days of Playin' Hooky (the end of my week in phone photos)

I never take photos on my phone. I'm trying to document life more (for some unidentifiable reason other than "Hey! I have a blog and... uh... what am I going to do when I don't have my students to make fun of/write about?"). So we'll see how this goes.

True fact 1: teachers are often way too excited when given the opportunity to take a day off. Like, teenagers the night of prom in the hair salon while panicking about the color of their nails and whether their dress will match their date's vest excited.

True fact 1a: it's prom season. can you tell? shootmenow.

Last year I had to hold a student's hair while she puked in a toilet because she had a "migraine."

Wait for it... and the headmaster BELIEVED HER.

True fact 2: fluke and I played hooky on Thursday - Friday this past week and did very scholarly things.

First we went to Castle Rock, sat on the cliffs, and pondered philosophical stuff like, "what should we do for dinner?" and "are we going to go to the bar tonight to watch the bruins?"

IMPORTANT SIDE NOTE: **WHY IS THERE FINGER-BITING IN THE NHL? WTF?!?!**

Then we went to Singing Beach in Manchester By The Sea (yes, that's the legit name of the town). There we pretended we were in phys ed and ran on the sand to make the sand "sing." No! REALLY! If you move at the right speed with your feet dragging in the sand it makes noise.

Obviously yours truly was like a 3 year old in this situation. I was screaming "FLUKE LISTEN TO THIS" at 2 minute intervals for the entire time.

Also: I am newly obsessed with stripey shirts. Never used to be. That one's J. Crew. The jeans are Paige. We can do more of this nonsense if you'd like but my there are 50:1 odds that if you guess one of the following you're right:

1. lululemon

2. paige premium denim

3. j. crew

4. something second-hand from here

Fluke stopped the crazy ranting about the magic sand by taking self-portraits. We usually don't have much luck with those. But this one's not so bad!

I feel ending here is appropriate. Have a great Sunday peepsies!

xoxo