I am a really easy person to buy a gift for.
At least *I* think so.
I drink a lot of coffee, so you know you are always safe with gift cards or mugs or tumblers. I like to read, so gifting me with a book-shaped present? DROOL.
I like pop culture. I like movies. TV shows. Music. I like video games. I like board games. I like lip gloss. I like dresses. I like purses. I like Anthropologie. I exercise occasionally. I like to sleep, so you are always safe with delicious flannel pajamas. I like hoodies. I like theater. I like photography. I like the 60s. I like candles. I like to smell awesome. I like history. I live in a cold climate, so obviously you are safe with scarves and hats and gloves and mittens. I like necklaces. I like to cook AND I like to eat.
I am even open to the idea of manicures and pedicures. I’ll be honest. I HATE getting them. But, I like getting them as gifts, because while I don’t love them, I realize they are a necessary evil to being, um, ladylike; see also: waxing.
I do not, in any way, think that a gift card is a cop-out.
I mean, occasionally, I get a little surprised by some gifts. I mean, I’m the girl whose Grammy gave her $1.47 in Canadian coins as a wedding gift. I remember when I turned 12 and my mom got me this Mickey Mouse watch that she was so excited to give me. I never wore it once, and sulked for at least a year about it. But, I mean, I was TWELVE. And, you know, there was the time I received toilet paper as a gift. It had pink hearts on it, but still.
But it's safe to say that it's pretty hard to not impress me.
I'm an easy sell.
Which is why I was shocked when I received a little tweet from my husband last week. The whole family was deep underneath Chrismukah wrapping paper, unwrapping dolls and games and toys and clothes and boots and jeans and hats and books.
And there it was.
A gift.
A gift that was way above and beyond what was necessary.
(Easy sell, remember?)
But that is how a girl who would be happy with a bag full of Bath & Body Works antibacterial hand gel ends up getting a trip to Los Angeles and Santa Barbara in May.
I am way too lucky.
Oh my.
So, I need to come clean to you guys.
Ever since this lovely lady admitted her love of Nickelback, I wondered if maybe I needed to stop hiding behind a shameful little secret.
I don't know if you know, but Jude Law is kind of Amish now.
And.
Well.
I dig it.
It actually might make him even more appealing to me. You see, Jude Law has been my pretend celebrity boyfriend since 1999. He had me at The Talented Mr. Ripley. And I have stood by him. Sure, there have been some questionable movie choices (I'm looking at you, A.I. Artificial Intelligence), and some questionable life choices (I'm looking at you, Nanny), and some questionable wardrobe choices (I'm looking at you, MANPRIS) and, obviously, there's the whole has-he-or-has-he-not-had-hair-plugs debacle. And yet. I'm still standing by my man.
(No matter how much Jon Hamm and Ryan Gosling try to change my mind.)
(Which is A LOT.)
But no, that's not the shameful little secret.
The secret is that I am hoping Jude Law's new Amish ways means that he is into Amish girls, because you guys, I am basically Amish.
I like to go to bed early, I don't dance, I like quilts, I love butter, I own much wooden furniture, I wear a lot of dresses
AND I DON'T DRINK WINE.
There.
I said it.
I do not drink wine.
I don't like it.
At all.
Can we still be friends?
I started blogging in 2004. After a colleague was shocked that I didn’t have a blog—free publishing, Ali! FREE!—I fiercely googled what this whole blog deal was all about and within minutes I was on blogger.com setting up a domain name and writing a post about putting something new into the world and quoting Nick Hornby novels.
(I don’t even know either.)
Pro tip: Never google your old archives. It will send you down a mortifying wormhole where you suddenly have the desire to delete everything between the years of 2004-2007. Obviously, I have never hit that delete button, because, you see, all the bad material that exactly two-and-a-half people read helped me become the blogger I am today.
You know, the kind of blogger who gets emails that start with, “Dear Writer of Cheaper Than Therapy.”
It’s serendipitous, really, that I am here today as the brand-new editor-in-chief at the brand-new YMC. With more than a decade-long career in publishing—both in print and online, and sometimes both at the same time—I have found what I think is going to be the perfect fit. I don’t have to tell you that the people who work here are powered by passion, drive, and coffee. It’s my favourite combination, really.
It seems that I was looking for YMC and YMC was looking for me. There were tears shed over a banana cake dessert and discussions about braces and oral health. No really, I swear. There were tears.
I’m excited to be a part of this amazing team professionally.
And personally too, as this little space over here is all mine, I get to wax poetic (and something wax non-poetic) about my passions—my three unintentionally hilarious children, my possible addiction to doughnuts, my legging police badge (that I wear proudly) and my intense relationship (it’s hot and heavy, yo) with all things pop culture.
I’d grab a seat if I were you, I tend to ramble.
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