They say recognition is the first step

As I've mentioned, I've been doing a lot of blogging at my new job. I noticed a few days ago that I seem to have adopted a new vocabulary to help me fulfill my tasks better. We'll call it the "way fun cutest ever" word bank. What is it about crafting that makes me want to add three or more additional "o's" to "so" and to liberally scatter as many superlatives as possible in one sentence? And I don't think I've used "super" so much in all of my life. (Side note: I googled the phrase "super cute" into Google, and this is what came up under the images. I have no idea what it is, but found it terribly fitting for the discussion at hand). It's all in an innocent attempt to attract readers. But at what point should I start worrying about my soul?

(Here's another confession: sometimes I relish over-the-top dramatics in my writing. It makes me feel like what I'm writing about is more exciting than it really is.)  

And since I'm on the subject of admitting details of my life that I'm not particularly proud of, there's just a few more things I'd like to get off my chest. I may regret this later.

Lately I've noticed that I've turned a dash more emotional. Now, I don't mean to suggest I've transformed into a blubbering mess, but it seems as if an over-sentimental spark has been ignited within me. It happens anywhere—a poignant passage in a book, a compelling movie, a talk in church, a nostalgic thought—and suddenly there's a lump in my throat and a teardrop threatening to make itself known across my face. I could argue that experiences in recent months have offered me a greater appreciation for life and its purpose, but really, I think I just need to get ahold of myself.

Next, I like Nellie Furtado. Some might find this a strange confession. And it is. But I've always been a closet Nellie Furtado fan because her music doesn't really fit my normal music styles. Granted, I'm not familiar with that many of her songs—mostly all I know is from what I've heard at the gym. And even though I feel strongly that some music should be given up on after the 8th grade, I—well, you know. At least it's not Miley Cyrus—Tacie. Just kidding.

Finally, I'm a klutz in the kitchen. A couple of months ago Tom informed me, after I dropped a carton of blueberries (which in turn had a hay day bouncing and rolling everywhere throughout the kitchen), that I was clumsy. (He, however, did not limit my blunders to the kitchen as I have done. His was more of an accusation that spanned all facets of life) Naturally I insisted that he was way off, but unfortunately in my efforts to disprove his theory I've only made it stronger. Self-fulfilling prophecy, or self actualization?? In this situation, it's probably just a simple case of awareness. I am indeed clumsy—in the kitchen. I spill. I make messes. Occasionally I injure myself. I sadly accepted the truth a few weeks ago when I dropped a brand new, never-been-opened jar of pickles. The glass shattered so severely that pickles were impaled, and rendered inedible. Those of you who know me well will understand that my pain was compounded tenfold—not just in the realization that Tom was right—but in the loss of all those pickles.

Well, I certainly feel a lot better. All those sleepless nights solved in the matter of one evening's blog. I hope everyone will continue to be my friend, now that they know the truth. And since I probably won't be blogging again before, I hope everyone enjoys their Easter. Tom and I are setting out for Vegas Thursday morning to celebrate with my fam. I'm eagerly looking forward to incredible weather and egg hunts with the kiddles. I'll try and snap a few way-fun super-cute pictures to blog about later.