Running Update

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Across the nation, runners planning to run fall marathons are gearing up to start their training programs. The Greenway where I run each weekend is flooded on Saturday mornings with runners of all shapes, sizes, and fitness levels. The parking lot at the tennis court where the Greenway begins resembles a massive tail-gaiting party as runners hang out in groups and wave to friends and share sips of Gatorade from plastic cups. 

The most common question heard on the Greenway at this time of year is, "What are you training for?" My answer at the moment is a glorious, "Nothing." 

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I GREW THIS SQUASH!!!

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I have found the inner farmer in me and her name is Sue.

Split personality aside, check out this squash I grew! Oh sure, Blair built the square foot garden, dug the earth, researched, bought, and combined the soil components and planted the seeds, but I watered the plants and therefore take full credit for creating life. 

Oh, it's the cutest little squash. First food I ever grew from seed. And there are a lot more baby squash out there still. 

You all need to hope and pray our green beans don't survive. Otherwise this could be a l-o-n-g summer of blog posts filled with photos of vegetables. 

Cheers,

Dena

All I Wanted Was Some Under Eye Concealer

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After Tuesday's trip to the Apple store, I zoomed by Belk's to pick up some under-eye concealer from Clinique. I had no idea the horrors that awaited me. 

First of all, for you men out there, you need to know there are make-up hygiene rules that are determined by the very companies selling women overpriced product to begin with. Mascara is supposed to be replaced every other month, lipsticks each year, foundation every six months, etc. 

I don't know a single woman who follows these rules. Who the hell tracks how long they've owned an eye-shadow? Personally, I think the whole bacteria thing is a myth. I made it two years once on a single vial of mascara and lived to tell the tale. 

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What My Phone Case Says About Me

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There are too many options in life. No surprise there. I've written before about being stymied trying to buy a flat-iron and don't even get me started on how long it takes me to select a bottle of nail polish (deciding if I'm a "Carnation Pink," "Sunset Sky" or "Crimson Glow" is just beyond my decision-making capabilities). Now there's a new horror to add to the list: shopping for a shell for my iPhone. 

 

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