Last weekend I watched Food Inc and solemnly swore to myself never to eat McDonalds again. Then I got my period and needed French fries from McDonalds more than I needed oxygen. I drove toward the gleaming arches in a hormonal fog, salivating at the thought [...]

Laurin Evans and I have a friendly dispute going on over who started stalking who first. We’ve settled on the conclusion that she read my blog first and I sent the first email. She lives about two miles away from me, which is awesome. I mean, how often to you stumble on a random bloggy friend who happens to live in the same zip code?

Since Laurin’s a recovering lawyer and is in general far more stylish and savvy than I am, she has all sorts of professional lady contacts in the city. She started bringing me along to some networking event type things. They ended up being surprisingly fun. Possibly because of wine. Also because I get to stand up and introduce myself as, “Hi, I have a blog. Also I write for a website called Aiming Low. No—not Amy Lo—Aiming Low. Like, Aiming…Low. Yes. Yeah. It’s funny? Um, basically it’s about how we suck. Please hire me to write your marketing copy!”

While the Summer Olympics have gymnasts (oh my God, their arms) and scantily-clad runners, the Winter Olympics have flair. The Winter Olympics have figure skating—and figure skating is the most theatrical sport on the planet. To be precise, figure skating is awesome.

In 1992, I spent an entire week sitting on the floor in front of my parents’ TV watching the Winter Olympics. I was 12-years-old, and I loved figure skater Paul Wylie. My newfound hormones left me in a weepy, ridiculously flushed state every time he skated. Seriously, when he skated to a song from Jesus Christ Superstar and I nearly exploded into a ball of dorky fangirlish love.

It’s true. I’m afraid of chicken.

And I can’t be the only person who’s afraid of chicken. Right? Right??

I’m convinced that the slightest shade of pink means WE ARE ALL GOING TO DIE IN A SALMONELLA FUELED ZOMBIE APOCALYPSE AND IT WILL BE MY FAULT. See also: we’re all going to get diarrhea at the same time and what if we run out of toilets?

Chicken is terrifying. With almost any other meat, you can be all “oh it’s just medium rare, that really brings out the flavor nuances” or some shit like that and it’ll probably even be true. Plus, sushi, hello, totally raw. Duck is a bird, but if you eat it rare it just tastes awesome. It won’t potentially kill you. I ate beef tartar in Croatia in 97 degree weather once and I didn’t die. Because it wasn’t chicken.

My Goodreads shelf is kind of embarrassing. Most of the stuff on there is either about two dudes in love (what can I say, it’s a thing) or some sort of pseudo-fantasy written for teenaged girls. Actually one of the things on there is a pseudo-fantasy about two dudes in love written for teenaged girls.

I’d like to blame my love for young adult literature on my mommy brain, but like most of the time I pull that card, it’s just a cop-out. Yeah I’m more tired and distracted and busy now, but when it comes down to it I just have a better excuse for being late, flaky and exhausted.

The truth is I enjoy adventures and hearty use of the imagination. I rarely want to read about married women or family drama. (A few exceptions like Middlesex and yes, Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood stick out.) I want to remember what it felt like to be fourteen-years-old and obsessed with Marion Zimmer Bradley novels and Outlander (neither of those are for teens) and swordsmen and pirates and rebels and dragons.

Confession time. Again.

I read celebrity baby blogs. Avidly. Like, every day. In fact, I read them before I had children.

When I’m in line at the grocery store, I grab magazines to flip through to see celebs and their kids. I follow bump watches and read about Hollywood baby showers. I’m pleased to announce that I think my son is (barely) cuter than Kingston Rossdale.

When I was pregnant with my first son, Angelina Jolie and Katie Holmes and Gwen Stefani were pregnant at the same time. When Angelina got pregnant with the twins before I got pregnant with my second, I was so pissed. The chicks I worked with totally anticipated it too. They were like “Oh honey, do you want to go buy some cupcakes? I’m so sorry.” True story.

Confession: I love lists. I love reading them, I love writing them. I love Top Ten Movies and Top Five Cute Actors and Top Eight Shitty Horror Movies. The list goes on and on. GET IT?

Oddly, all my efforts to write 2009 lists have ended in a lackluster one or two items. Instead of something useful or entertaining, here’s a list of some stupid 2009 activities that qualified me for Aiming Low.

The other day I tweeted about eating spicy salsa, yogurt and an apple in one sitting. Someone immediately replied, “pregnant?” My first instinct was to laugh. Because it would totally be a wee baby Jesus, immaculately conceived with I suppose the help of my vibrator.

(While we’re discussing my sex life, I’m happy to report that I’m finally on the Pill and have firm plans to get it on with increased regularity. Increased regularity being, at all.)

My second instinct was to think, oh hell no. Followed by awwwwww, what if. Which always puts me right on the topic of baby names. (Cause I’d rather name my figment-children than think about how brain-breakingly-stupid it would be to have another kid right now when we can’t fit three car seats in either car and my mom would eventually like to someday retire from being my childcare while I work.)

I’m kind of addicted to baby names.

So, obviously you love your family and friends. At least some of them. But do you really have time to quiz them on all the little details you’ve always wanted to know? Probably not.
Between Me and You Journals are gifts for the people in your [...]

Nothing says aiming high like sending gorgeous modern holiday cards to your friends and loved ones. But let’s be honest—holiday cards are completely time consuming. And, if you’re like me and you’ve forgotten how to write with a real pen, it’s downright painful to hand-address dozens of [...]