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Girly moment — I received my first Birchbox sample box today. If this collection is a good example of what they’ll be sending every month, then it’s totally worth the $10.

It held a sample of Kate Spade Twirl (which, yes, I could have probably gotten at a department store, but then I’d have to endure a sales pitch from ladies wearing lots of makeup); a small bottle of Blow NY volumizing shampoo; a sample of Sircuit Cosmeceuticals Molecular Mist, which contains “heavy water” that’s supposed to keep my skin hydrated (and I assume that it has nothing to do with nuclear reactors); a couple of nail polish stripper removal packets (note to Birchbox: next month, send nail polish); and, finally, a full-size container of Laura Geller Baked Blush N’ Brighten blusher/highlighter.

As I expected, it’s going to be very exciting to see what’s in the box every month. It’s an awesome gift to myself.

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It seems I’m the kind of woman who gets pinball machine parts for her birthday.

Awesome?

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I have to share two must-read accounts of a marriage proposal: his and hers. It’s my favorite kind of proposal — the kind that ends in laughter and taco sauce.

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So now my recurring weird anxiety dream features a hurricane embedded with huge tornadoes. If I can work the dream about dozens of snakes coiled under the clothesline in the yard of my childhood home in Collins, Mississippi, back into the nightly lineup, I’m pretty sure I can get a discount on therapy.

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I am at a loss as to what to say about the recent tornadoes that carved a path of destruction throughout north Alabama. Our home is fine, but I have the same feeling that I had after multiple hurricanes took aim at Mobile, Alabama, when we lived there: It’s as if Mother Nature has drawn a bead on me and the people I care about.

But whining and worrying don’t do anybody any good, and they’re both really just luxuries when my own home remains standing. There are entire communities of people and animals that need help, and helping others can be so exhausting that you don’t have the energy to wallow in your own fears.

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This New York Times story on the non-standard sizing of women’s clothes pretty much outlines why I hate shopping for clothes.

I have literally four different sizes of clothing in my closet. I can try on two pairs of pants, in the same brand, make and size but in two different colors, and one pair will be ridiculously large or small. I rarely order clothes online because I dread the trip to UPS or the post office to return the items that don’t fit.

I can reliably buy the same size jeans every time at Gap. Everywhere else is a circus of ill-fitting clothes, and it’s almost like taking on a second job sorting through them all to find something that fits.

Grrr.

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Successful weekend: Overloaded on Doctor Who reruns, saw Source Code (because I am apparently a total Duncan Jones fangirl), researched apocalyptic science fiction and had Easter calzones.

I seem to be living the idealized life of a nerdy 12-year-old boy. And it’s rather awesome.

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Pinkeye? Really, springtime cold? This is your next move?

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Oh, Internet. Without you, how would friends ever let me know that Yumbot Robot Cupcake Molds exist? Not to even mention Rabbit Ears Salad Servers.

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Confession time: I saw more heavy metal/pop metal concerts in my youth than anyone could possibly imagine. So I couldn’t work up any amount of disappointment when the husband announced he had purchased Motley Crue tickets.

The last time I saw the Crue, Tommy Lee played the drums wearing only a tiny pair of underwear in a spinning drum cage. Fingers crossed.

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