My life after the 15 minutes…

As I sit down to write this blog, I’ve realized there’s been an overarching trend in my last few entries… I am an incredible brat. This is true when I read each blog individually. It’s also true when I zoom out and read the overall narrative of my writing since we first blew up on Reddit. I met an amazing guy when I was the ripe age of thirteen, and I’ve spent nearly every day since being an absolute pain in the ass. I’m thirty-four now. I write a lot of these blogs almost like diary entries. I try to make them entertaining for the people who read them, but a big part of why I write is to have a record of this season of our lives. Sometimes that season is big and exciting and a lot of people can sympathize or empathize with me. Other times I come across as a bratty, boring housewife who doesn’t appreciate how good she has it. After this long preamble, this blog will be the latter. One of the things that has always driven me crazy about my husband is how he can have 30,000 irons in the ...

As most of you know, we moved from our childhood hometown in Texas to Tucson, Arizona last year. For the most part, it’s starting to feel like home—and while I had my reservations at first, I’m actually starting to like it here. One of the things I’ve come to appreciate most is how quiet it is. Tucson is a very “normal” mid-sized American city of about a million people. We have all the same stores, all the same chain restaurants, mixed with a lot of local flair inspired by the Native American and Hispanic cultures that were here long before Tucson became a genuine Old West railroad town. (The O.K. Corral—the site of the most famous shootout—is less than an hour from our house in Tombstone.) That was until this week. Earlier this week, Today Show host Savannah Guthrie’s mother was reportedly kidnapped from her home on the north side of town. I tend to personalize stories like this anyway, but Savannah Guthrie has been something of a personal hero of mine since her reporting on the ...

Thursday was Abby’s 10th birthday, which still feels impossible to say out loud. I officially have a kid in double digits, and I’m not convinced that should be allowed. On my mom’s side of the family, tenth birthdays are… a thing. A big thing. I used to think it was just a Texas quirk, but I’ve since realized it’s more of a love language—one that involves travel plans, head counts, and a total disregard for subtlety. When someone turns ten, the village shows up. Which is why, earlier this month, Abby came to me with a very serious request. “Mom,” she said, “I don’t need a huge party. Can you please tell Grandma and Aunt Jenn I just want to stay in Arizona and maybe go to dinner with you guys?” This is Abby in a nutshell. Thoughtful. Quiet. Deeply aware of her own limits. I told her that was fine with me—but also warned her that it might break a few hearts. And that there was a very real possibility they would all just… come anyway. Because I cannot imagine my sister Jennifer ever missi...