Modern Family is probably the best show on TV right now.
And so is The Middle.

I watch so much Hulu that I think I might know the Nuvaring commerical by heart.

I use my blog like my Twitter page. Random thoughts, random conversations that are relevant to no one else but me.
So I was going back the other day and reading the first blog post that most people have written where they spend the better half of their posts justifying why they started their blog (mostly out of boredom or because everyone else was doing it. Peer pressure I tell you)

I started to blog because I had forgotten English.
And how to write.
And I hoped that practicing would help. But it never did. It was not like how it was back in school.
But perhaps 20 years from now, my children will read it and understand their mother better. I can picture it right now -- my adolescent children texting me across the dining table "Wow Amma, we've come to the conclusion that you were one ditsy tween growing up."

On a side note, my Aldo heels and Steve madden chappals are missing. I'm heart broken. Remind me never to wear shoes that don't fit because I'm the girl in the bar sitting crosslegged on the chair with her fancy heels in the bag looking like total-image-damage-epic-fail.
Aiyoo Rama.

I'm tired of all the Halloween pictures on facebook especially when people ask me what I was.
I was...nothing.
On Friday night, Ashley decided to drag me for a party at the old Alma mater with all the old Biology graduate assistants who I definitely disliked. So I had half n hour at Halloween USA to pick out scraps and bits left behind by high school kids and freshmen for a last minute costume which was surprise surprise, a sorry witch.
I picked up a witch hat and a broom and I was done.
I lost half my costume the first night and the second, I just couldn't bother.
I'd been talking for MONTHS about being a dirty dirty girl in an autoclave bag, but I confirm repeatedly that I am an 'all talk do nothing'.
So I went as a semi witch the first night, and a hemi witch the next.
But does it really matter when you're 23 and past that age where dressing up is important?
Unless you have a killer freaking body that you want to show off the rest of the night, no one really gives a flying f***. In ten minutes, people have posed for their Facebook-profile-picture-worthy photos and then there are costume bits all around the room.
Yay!
But Facebook stalking is fun.