[Non]Sense and [Southern] Sensibility.

Emily shaved headMy sweet sister shaved her head and raised over $5,000 to fight cancer. I know a number of you jumped in to help her—THANK you.

In other news, who looks that cute with a shaved head?!

It’s been snowing for two days in New York. I am, of course, fighting my North Carolina urge to run to the grocery store at the first flake’s sighting and BUY ALL OF THE THINGS. My New York friends can’t figure out what’s wrong with me—two snowflakes, and I bunker down in my apartment like it’s the apocalypse. Once upon a time when Kellan knelt down on a white-sanded beach and asked me to marry him, I’m almost certain that his dreamy picture of marriage was NOT coming home to a crazy-eyed wife on her fifth day of yoga pants and pink fuzzy socks. [These are the things that probably would have been useful in premarital counseling.] I’ve informed my sweet husband that I am simply living my truth–and right now my truth happens to involve yoga pants. My southern sensibilities have been so grossly offended by the frosty air swirling outside my door that I’m on a shower strike—mostly because showering would require taking off the aforementioned Yoga Pants, which at this point I have become one with.

Yoga pants are my spirit animal. 

Over Thanksgiving, my sweet Mother in Law picked up on the fact that I had yet to purchase a pair of snow boots yet, on account of UGLY. Given that her grasp on reality is a slightly steadier than mine, she took me to Dicks Sporting Goods, where I stood in front of a daunting stack of the world’s most tragic-looking rubber snow boots and disdainfully refused to so much as deign to try them on. [I am a gem.] I mean, I already bought the androgynous marshmallow coat—what more could New York ask of me?!

Gina wisely insisted that I needed a pair of boots [and a Valium], and so it was off to the mall with us where we compromised on an adorable pair of RAIN BOOTS. [She was desperate.] So clearly, living in the arctic north is going just SPLENDIDLY.

[In other news, if I make it through winter with all ten toes intact, it will be thanks to my in-laws.]

Finally, I’d like to announce that I DON’T KNOW MY HUSBAND AT ALL. Y’all. Our house hunt has had us watching a lot of HGTV lately—and not just because of my mild obsession with the Property Brothers. [Seriously, handsome men waltz into your dump of a house and renovate your kitchen? BE STILL MY BEATING HEART.] The other night Kellan and I were sitting on the couch when an email chimed on my computer screen, informing me that an HGTV producer was interested in speaking to me about the possibility of our appearing on a little show called House Hunters.

…come again?

I asked Kellan what on earth was happening, and grinning, he informed me that he’d signed us up to be on the show, never imagining that anything would actually come from it.

Baffled, I sarcastically inquired as to how many other shows we’d been signed up for that I ought to know about.

Impishly, he responded: EVERY. SINGLE. ONE. The most private man that I know signed us up to be on every single HGTV show! So y’all just watch for the Dickens, coming soon to a TV screen near you.

Except not, because ain’t nobody got time for that.

Happy Friday, friends!

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