Real America is Terrifying

I'm in Texas.

I have no idea how this was allowed to happen.

I scream-sang Baby, I'm an Anarchist with friends and jumped over a fence to get into the hotel pool after hours. I drank beer kept on ice in a hotel bathtub and said a lot of really inappropriate things to people I only get to see a few times a year.

THEN WE PLAYED LASER TAG AND THEN I KILLED A TON OF ALIEN ROBOTS WITH A HUGE PLASTIC GUN.

And I got to hang out with this girl:

And this girl:

Oh and I spoke on a panel:

I know. I look really unimpressed.

And now I just want to sleep.

Wild and Precious

Months ago something really clicked in my brain, shook me awake (when I didn't know I'd been sleeping) and shows no signs of slowing down.

Maybe it's the endorphins talking.

Saturday was the first truly warm day in DC that we've had this year. After coming home from the gym I put on a sundress and walked down my street—standing tall, sun on my face, eating strawberries.

Every foot step, every beat of my heart, every swallow said I'm alive, I'm alive, this is what living really feels like.

Look I know I sound like a complete douchebag right now but I really don't care.

This is where I was when this year first started.

I've spent a lot of months confused, over-thinking, and hurt. I invited people into my life who didn't deserve to be a part of it and I suffered patiently because I thought that's what loyalty and compassion looked like.

Wisdom to know the difference. 

I have a scar on my face now. You can hardly see it when it's covered with make up. When it's not covered with make up it is shiny and red and sits beneath my eye. I can feel it and it yes, sometimes it hurts.

I'm changed—but I'm not deformed, I'm not ugly, I'm not broken.

So, I'm not angry at the wasted months, I'm not embarrassed that I tossed my heart in the air and nobody caught it—I regret nothing.

So—tell me, what will you do with your one wild and precious life?

Sometimes You Get Bit By A Dog In The Face

I wasn't sure if I should write about this.

When I first sat down to write it seemed self-important and meaningless—but I think now it seems like a good example of how I deal with crisis and how it's okay to be at multiple points on a spectrum of emotions in a given week.

I'll start by saying I am good in a crisis.

I'm not one of those people who falls to pieces when something goes wrong—the only way I know how to deal with chaos is to plow through it uninterrupted.

Friday night I was invited to a party.

I had spoken on a panel earlier in the day and couldn't wait to see everyone again—but with the added bonus of alcohol and more comfortable clothes.

This is what I looked like at 3:00 p.m. talking about memes and social media seated by the lovely Ericka Andersen.

With about 15 minutes to spare before running out the door, I walked out of my room to put on makeup and think seriously about what dress I wanted to wear.

Truman—Caroline's dog—was visiting for the weekend. She had left his leash on by accident before leaving for dinner so I bent over to take it off. I patted his head and said "hello sweet puppy" just as he lunged up snarling and bit my face.

Bear in mind what I said about crisis earlier.

I did not handle this with a lick of grace. I am to this moment shocked and honestly scared that my neighbors didn't call the police to report a woman screaming next door. I'm sure I sounded as though I'd been stabbed.

I kept screaming "why did you do that?" at Truman as I ran back and forth from the bathroom to my bedroom not really sure what I was doing. I called Caroline hysterical. Blood was everywhere. I kept looking in the mirror horrified at what I was seeing.

Caroline ran home and was the perfect mix of compassionate and proactive. She behaved exactly as I imagine I would have for someone else had I been someone else. But I wasn't someone else—I was me and I had a mauled face and I couldn't stop weeping.

What came next I'm very glad happened.

My friend Jake arrived.

Jake's leg got blown off a few years ago.

How in the hell was I supposed to cry about a flesh wound when his leg got blown off? I mean, seriously.

It made me suck it up, put on a dress... and yes, I went to the party. With a bleeding, horrible face.

Stupid? Maybe. But I had a great time.

This is what my face looked like the next day.

On Saturday I was all self-deprecating humor and grace. Smiling when people asked what happened and saying "isn't that crazy?" and "I don't think it will scar too badly."

When I walked out my front door a little boy was struggling on his bicycle with his parents. "Why do you have that on your nose?" he asked. I laughed, "it's making my face better!"

I walked around Eastern Market for my usual produce buying and latte drinking... and then I started noticing the stares. Everyone in my coffee shop stared. In fact... everyone everywhere stared. The looks on their faces were unpleasant, shocked, maybe pitying. I brushed them all off and kept moving. I went back to the coffee shop again for another latte and the barista I have a crush on (he looks like Ben from Felicity, people) looked horrified by my face.

Let me break this down for you, reader: Women don't want men they're even remotely interested in to react to their faces with horror.

Finally I cracked. The stares from strangers had worn me down and this was the final straw. I burst into tears.

I'd never cried in public before.

Walking home it occurred to me that everyone in the place probably thought I was a battered wife. Crying with a black eye and huge gashes.

That night I had nightmares about dogs attacking me. I woke up three times thinking about being bitten again. All day Sunday if I heard a dog bark I would tense up. And I love dogs.

I played with Tut (Sarah's German Shepherd) because he would never hurt a fly and I wanted to make sure I wasn't traumatized.

Monday at work I was fine again—my black eye was darker but the swelling was gone and I felt prettier somehow. The gash on my cheek wasn't healing well but otherwise it was fine. Everyone had convinced me I would have no scars if I took care of it properly.

Then one of my coworkers informed me that no, it was not okay, I would have scars, Maderma doesn't work, and I probably needed to talk to a plastic surgeon.

I smiled through her advice and took it to heart—maybe I would need a plastic surgeon.

I cried all the way to the gym. I cried after class.

On the metro a little boy turned to his mother (what is it with little boys being totally honest about the world around them?) and told her, "mommy that lady has a broken face."

So I cried all the way home.

I tweeted: I did graceful and I did self deprecating humor. Now I'm doing break down crying because a child said "mommy that lady has a broken face."

I felt like I was being pathetic by tweeting that—but I needed to get it out. I needed to stop pretending that I was fine and that I wasn't bothered by it. It's my face.

And the next morning I woke up and remembered that I have an incredibly blessed life, my face is not going to be deformed, and I have 309820598345 pretty dresses.

Sometimes it's okay to fall apart a little. I don't always have to weather everything with a smile and pretend that nothing is wrong. I don't have to measure whether or not my pain is worthy of being talked about just because other people have it much, much worse than I do. It's okay to cry on the metro (okay, maybe let's not go that far) and then put on a smile and go about your business.

Because life is short. And sometimes you get bit by a dog in the face.

May the bridges that burn behind me light my path.

I'm having a difficult time describing how excited I am about life at the moment.

It lacks an appropriate word.

I feel so much purpose in every day—so much more drive, freedom, and joy in everything I do.

I remember in one of the very few conversations I ever had with Andrew Breitbart he said he lived most of his life being professionally lazy.

It was impossible to imagine this man—who was constantly on at least two tech devices balancing the world on his shoulders—could ever have been described as lazy.

When you become a workaholic it just clicks.

When the switch is flipped there is no going back.

And twirling in pretty dresses doesn't hurt either.

Stagnation.

I work in a world with incredible, inspiring people. I watch them grow and feel challenged by them every day. My friends and I are not just pretending to be excited to learn more about our field and become early adopters—we are high energy, passionate people with ceaseless motivation.

But I think it's time we take a look in the mirror and get really, really honest with ourselves.

There are a lot of people who work in this space who contribute nothing.

We're not entirely sure what they do, but they're skilled self-promotors and talented at doing the bare minimum to get by.

We celebrate them because they were here when it all began.

It doesn't seem to matter that they're no longer contributing, no longer growing... and that nobody can really remember what they brought to the table in the first place.

We don't need more tutorials on how to use Twitter.

We don't need more workshops on how to start a blog.

We certainly don't need to waste hundreds of thousands of donor dollars flying the same group of irrelevant activists around the country to have happy hours and talk about what innovative conservative activists they are.

It's not entirely the fault of the pretenders. While the work horses are busy promoting their causes and principles, the fakers are busy promoting themselves. We don't work with the intention of gaining recognition—when we speak publicly it's to share our expertise, not elevate ourselves.

But let's not dwell on the negative.

We're faced with an incredible opportunity to learn from November and shape the future of our party. We have the resources and an introspective mindset.

Now what are we going to do about it?

You Might Be Happy, But Are You Baby In A Kitchen Sink Happy?

I sat down last night to think about what I wanted to give up for Lent.

Before anyone accuses me of bragging, I should clarify that I find making my selections public helps my friends hold me accountable and isn't my way of saying look how totally awesome and self-righteous I am.

This year instead of simply abstaining, I want to add new challenges and goals to my daily life.

I've never had a problem giving things up—sweets, alcohol, coffee—because once I draw a hard line, I don't cross it. I'm like a Lent robot.

But how meaningful is that?

I'm the kind of person who eats kale and drinks Dr. Braggs because I could care less how bad things taste if I know it'll make me healthier. Being uncomfortable has never really bothered me, so I have a problem reflecting during Lent and connecting abstinence with any greater sense of purpose or intention. I know how blessed I am—I don't need to sleep without a pillow or stop drinking lattes to get that.

And let's be honest, ladies, Lent conveniently occurs just before bikini season. We know why you're giving up carbs and chocolate. The jig is up.

So this year I'm not going to do the traditional caricature of Lent. This year I'm going to be a better steward of my resources, a better listener, more kind and generous to my friends (and strangers).

This means I can't just buy everything I want (so many pretty things!), I won't roll my eyes at people who wait until they're standing in the turnstile to pull out their smarttrips to leave metro, and I won't look at my phone or scroll through emails while I'm spending time with friends.

How are you recognizing Lent?

Être blonde n'aide pas.

I received a lot of feedback on my post last week about confronting fears.

While a lot of people found it inspiring, others were confused by the idea that fears hold people back.

To those friends, the logical response to fear of failure is to try harder not to fail.

I wish my fears worked that way.

Instead of my fear of failure thrusting me forward and motivating me to achieve, it locked me deeper into my comfort zone. I didn't want to speak up for fear of saying anything stupid. I didn't want to take risks because, at the end of the day my life was okay.

When I moved to DC I was finally surrounded by people who were as driven and ambitious as I was. And it was okay that I was the new girl in town and didn't quite know how everything worked—I asked a lot of questions and tried to learn as quickly as possible.

But now, after a few years of living here and working in the political space, I've found myself confronting something new: fear of not being worthy.

I know I can't be alone on this.

I fight insecurities about not being good enough, a creeping feeling in meetings that maybe I don't understand my craft as well as everyone else.

And my initial, counter-intuitive response to those fears was not to research harder, read more about my field, and ask more questions—my response was to shut down.

At first it was easy enough to ignore and appease—then one afternoon I walked out of a briefing at which I was expected to make remarks about social media because I was absolutely terrified that my voice would shake and I would say something idiotic. As I walked out of the building and into the metro I realized that something had to change. This was not just stifling my growth—it was impacting my ability to do my job well.

Recently a friend and I talked about how women in political communications don't like to talk about their careers. We're less likely than men to sit on panels and talk not just about our field of expertise but about why we're passionate about what we do.

We're humble, we're not natural self-promoters—our energy is typically devoted to promoting other people and causes.

And even though I'm a communicator, public speaking terrifies me. It absolutely terrifies me.

Last year when I sat on a panel to talk about Pinterest in politics I was moments from having a full blown panic attack from the time the panel began until it ended. I was confronted with the realization that everyone on the panel was smarter than me, they deserved to be there, and they all knew their craft better than I did. I just worked in social media and thought Pinterest was really neat. Why was I asked to be there and would it be alright if I just walked out of the room?

Eventually after stumbling through a few awkward questions, I realized I had plenty to contribute to the conversation. I had meaningful points to add and understood the value and interrelatedness of this space... and it was a really exciting topic about something I loved. Why was my first instinct to tell myself that I wasn't good enough?

That's how fear works.

It mocks the meat upon which it feeds. If you tell yourself that you're not good enough, eventually you're going to start believing it.

So what am I doing differently now?

Well, first off, I'm not hiding from opportunities to speak publicly anymore. I practice with friends and have told them that I need their advice and encouragement. I'm not concealing my fear and letting it grow silently in my soul—I've brought it out, I'm talking about it, and I'm going to get over it.

Does my voice still shake when I have to speak in a crowded room? Sometimes.

But I'd rather sound nervous while saying something of value than stay silent about a space I'm so passionate about.

Soigner Ton Coeur

We talk a lot about confronting our fears.

It's easy to say.

What are you afraid of? Stop letting your fear hold you back.

I have a friend whose life I inactively follow as I scroll through my Facebook feed every day. Often I see his tortured status updates and in them I see unmistakeable frustration and lack of direction, a sense that he's never going to become the person he's worked so hard to become or actualize his dreams... and perhaps, even more frightening, that he doesn't know what his dreams actually are.

I never comment, but I often want to shake him by the shoulders and tell him to stop whining, confront his fears, and go kick some ass.

I see in his updates the same fears I once had, the same crippling self-doubt and unwillingness to dive into the unknown. I thought debt was holding me back, or that my house of furniture was keeping me from moving, or that being too far from my family would be scary.

Once I stopped making excuses and decided to change my life, everything fell into place.

Actually, no, I'm not going to sell myself short by saying it was easy.

Everything did not "fall into place."

I gave away and sold all my furniture. I doubled up on payments, took on contract work, and got out of debt. I put all my clothes in the back seat of my car, quit my job, and drove into the sunset. Does any of that sound easy?

Eventually everyone gets exhausted by the practice of just holding on and hearing that everything, in some conjectural eventuality, will be okay.

It's my number one piece of advice—because I know it's true.

Confronting fears means making a plan and following it—and accepting that your life will not actually follow the plan. It means putting one foot in front of the other and making yourself do what is unnatural because you know, somehow, some way, you'll be better for it.

It means living your life with intention.

When you put pressure on your body, your body adapts.

When you stop accepting your boring life and atrophied limbs, you'll never want to look back.

You'll also likely start to seek out and make friends with other people who know the unmatchable satisfaction of getting what you've worked for.

If you want to change your life, I encourage you to hang around people who don't complain.

Hang around people who have big ideas and dreams and are excited about their lives and their work.

Seek out people who lift up their friends, celebrate their accomplishments and encourage each other not just to achieve but to take risks in order to do so.

These people will also be there when you need a couch to sleep on or a shoulder to cry on—if they see in you that you're not just wandering through your life.

And if you want to change your life, be that kind of person, too.

And when you reach success, open your home to people trying to be awesome. And make them breakfast. Preferably pancakes.

Judge all you want—we're all going to die. I intend to deserve it.

My mother always said I was stubborn.

Very rarely did she say it as a compliment.

As a child I wanted to do everything myself, without anyone else's help. I wanted to own my accomplishments as mine.

You'd be hard pressed to find a picture of me past age 4 without skinned knees, tangled hair, and bruises—all the result of falling out of trees, wrecking my bike, or just generally playing in the woods like a kid.

I wanted to bake—and if that meant that I wasted a ton of ingredients creating monstrosities, my mom learned to scrape off the burned bits and feed my experiments to our dogs (and my poor brothers).

I wanted to paint—so in the dead of night, when our house was quiet, I painted wild colors on the back panels of all my bedroom furniture before carefully moving everything back into place and finding sleep.

Every Sunday morning and Wednesday evening in bible class I heard a lot about how one day I'd have a whole hell of a lot of struggles and challenges.

I remember thinking to myself that that was silly. Struggles were for people who didn't know how easy it was to say "hey, this is wrong, let's go do something else."

A few months ago something robbed me of my peace and my confidence.

And I thought packaging it neatly away and "moving forward" was the best decision to make.

It was not.

Pretending that bad things haven't happened to you is not learning from your mistakes.

Pretending that you've grown from something horrible doesn't work when you can see how it has negatively changed the way you think, live, and work.

People can see the light peeking out through the seams in your "I'm okay" suit—even if you don't think they can.

I find myself looking at women who have it together as if I'm watching videos of a former version of myself. Smiling, self-assured, and completely oblivious to the crippling, perpetual void of being robbed of any sense of trust or security.

I try to dress and carry myself as if I'm just like them, but the act only works until I have to open my mouth to speak.

The jig is up.

Call me stubborn, call me a bitch, but I'm determined to make everything right again.

And it's time to stand up and say hey, this is wrong, let's go do something else.

Bonheur est un choix.

I have rituals. Everyone does.

For me, morning lattes are like high church; I walk carefully over the uneven bricks on 4th Street like I'm moving down the center aisle to receive eucharist.

I've finally given up the hope that any barista will ever spell my name correctly.

"What's your name?" 

"Fifi. Eff Eye Eff Eye."

I'm thrilled the holiday season is finally over and I can return everything to normal—but better.

I typically shy away from saying that I've made resolutions for the coming year. Self improvement is decided by a series of daily choices and not one major decision made in a champagne fog.

I'm sure I'll smoke a cigarette or two this year. I'm sure I'll blow a paycheck on shoes and go to a happy hour instead of the gym one too many times.

But overall, I think this will be a year of triumphs.

Parce que le bonheur est un choix.

The heart wants what the heart wants.

He comes back to haunt me at the most inconvenient times.

Memories stop me on sidewalks like invisible walls.

He's in the colors of shirts he used to wear or the way soap bubbles meet a drain. He's inexplicably in songs we never heard together.

There are so many people on this earth who aren't him and it's just not fair.

We're told not to speak ill of the dead, but I can't help but exercise my imagination, telling myself that, had he lived, we would probably hate each other by now.

We'd have grown apart, our insufferable habits and idiosyncrasies finally doing us in. He popped his knuckles and was rude to waitstaff.

It's a self-preservation thing.

It's a new year—and I've finally decided instead of trying to leave the past in the past, it's best to let these memories weave themselves into my life and have their fleeting moments.

Shoulders back, cupcakes.

If I'm good at nothing else in my life, I can say with confidence that I'm exceptionally well-practiced in the art of reflection.

I take all criticism and failure as opportunities to change and become better—because there is always a next time.

Conservatives, unlike liberals, do not deify leaders—we see them as what they are: fallible men who act as mere instruments of our ideological thought.

Mitt was presidential. He was the best candidate we put forward in the primary and we would have been blessed to have his strong leadership and presence of integrity in the White House.

The problem was in the conservative ground game.

We didn't go into black and Hispanic neighborhoods and make the logical case for conservatism.

We let liberals define us to women.

We—in our ineffable willingness to keep faith in humanity—thought the producers would outvote the takers—and we failed.

Somewhere along the way, we engendered a generation almost wholly comprised of takers—men and women who openly curse those amongst them who innovate and create opportunities for others. It's wrenching.

But it's time for everyone to stop blaming Romney, look inward, and learn from this.

I've got a suitcase packed full of bikinis and gauzey dresses (thank you, Caroline).

My house is clean, my inbox clear, my pedicure tropical.

I'm getting out of the country for a little while—and guess what I won't be doing while I'm away? Reflecting on this election.

Don't tell anyone...

I'm going back to St. Thomas in a week. One week.

Allow me to get real: I might never return.

I will seduce you with my awkwardness.

Caroline and I are precious.

Anyway.

It's been weird.

I'll be honest—I actually love the excitement of storms.

No, I'm not giddy at the prospect of the loss of homes, property, and lives—that aspect is terrifying—but there is something so intangible and romantic about winds and rain blowing against cozy houses.

I worked right here at my desk, in my little house, and listened to gusts of wind rush against my windows. Late at night, when the rain calmed down, we pulled on wellies and walked to our corner bar. 

There was a dog, so our night was completely made.

Something about the fact that we were all there as neighbors, a little scared, happy to have the lights on,  worried about people up further North, made us all friends.

And I think the storm was the perfect segue into the week before the election.

Every election year at about this time—six days away or so—I get completely fatigued. My system is overloaded with polls and figures, conflicting ideas, predictions, and opinion pieces.

Friends from Real America are calling and texting, asking me to help them see through the fray as if people who live in DC are privy to special sets of information the rest of the country is not.

I can be smarmy, but I tell them all, with total sincerity, that no one knows what's going to happen and anyone who says otherwise is a moron.

I'm not emotional. The crying in bathroom stalls usually happens about a month out—I'm well past that stage—now I'm just zen. This is when I get into a weird calm zone in which nothing affects me, nothing makes me lose my temper or roll my eyes, I just accept everything as it comes and move along.

I won't attend briefings or happy hours. I won't play with any more interactive electoral college maps. I will delete emails from listservs without opening them or replying.

And this is where it all becomes complete. I lay bare my vulnerabilities and flaws and say, you know what? I've grown so much in the past few years.

If I could reach through this screen and tell 2008 Lyndsey anything about campaigns and elections, I don't even know where I would start.

Everything that I've learned has come at just the right time and with just the right purpose.

And people who work here should never complain. It baffles me when people complain. The late hours, the missed events, the friends and family who never really get it... none of that matters.

We are the luckiest.

So there's that.

I think I've finally decided that I'm really sad that I have to miss my brother's wedding this weekend.

There, I said it.

I haven't wanted to update or write anything because I have a gray storm cloud looming overhead.

We all make sacrifices during election season, but I have a feeling this is going to be one decision I'll look back on years from now (or days from now) with regret.

What kind of selfish, tunnel-visioned person misses her own brother's wedding?

Treat Yoself, 28 Days Edition

This weekend we threw a surprise party for Allison (I mean, really, I should be paid to throw events at this point). We made punch and a really hideous cake and stole a golden retriever. You're welcome, Allison!

Did you think I was kidding? No, seriously, the cake was gloriously ugly.

Also not lying about the golden retriever. After we surprised Allison, Caroline and I went out front and started rambling about how we should have borrowed a dog for her birthday since she's absolutely more obsessed with dogs than we are (which is saying a lot).

Then a guy walked by with the above dog and I said, "excuse me, sir..."

He stayed long enough to drink a stella while we literally rolled around on the floor with the darling.

So yeah, I know how to throw a party.

Also—TWENTY EIGHT DAYS, Y'ALL!!!

Don't worry, America—the ladies of CRAFT are on the case.

Happy Monday!

Call Me Fifi

Love doesn't just sit there like a stone, it has to be made, like bread; remade all the time, made new. —Ursula K. Le Guin

My little garden is always fledgling somewhere beween effortlessly thriving and potentially failing—DC weather, like the city itself, rewards the hardy and punishes the delicate.

I find myself gravitating away from writing deeply introspective and (let's be honest) morose blog posts—always questioning if I'm where I'm supposed to be or if my narrative is heading in the right direction.

Sometimes I just want to blog about the hummus I just made or the tomatoes I found in Eastern Market. Sometimes I want to blog fashion advice for women in D.C.

Life doesn't have to be so heavy. Not everything has to have an assigned value. Sometimes a Saturday afternoon on the lawn with girlfriends is just a Saturday afternoon on the lawn with girlfriends.

So let's talk about bicycles.

Before my bike was stolen, I was riding daily around the city—to happy hours in NoMa or meetings on the hill. Sure, I got weird looks as I pulled up to Heritage flush with color and my hair all over the place, but I saved $10 on cab fare and burned off my morning latte.

But I keep putting off buying a new bike.

And now it's autumn. Which means soon it will be winter. So I'll just have to buy a new bike later (and yes, this is how my brain works).

Summer lasted just as long as it was meant to.

I'm in love with this gradual season change—transitioning from iced to hot lattes and pulling on cardigans.

I hope I never forget the simple memories of walking to coffee every morning with Caroline before we drive to work with Chelsie. I love our little morning rituals.

There is talk that this will be a harsh winter. Loads of snow—Snowmageddon proportions—and months of bitter cold. I don't want to jump too far ahead of myself—I've got plenty of boots and hats and coats—for now I'll just enjoy the occasional chilly breeze and deeper shades of lipstick.

And of course, just before we plunge into the winter months, I'm going back to St. Thomas.

Be jealous.

Surprise.

This weekend we opened up our house and garden for a surprise party for Chelsie.

The whole day I was dreading the purposefully-small dinner that would give Chelsie the impression that I hadn't put any thought into her birthday. I left dinner early to greet guests (which made the birthday girl even more upset) and wait for everyone to arrive.

It took every bit of my energy not to give the surprise away.

If you know me, you know I bubble over with excitement about 10 seconds before I get my latte in the morning, so you can probably imagine how absolutely spastic I was as I waited for her to walk in.

It was absolutely perfect.

I should throw parties for a living.

Puglife

It's been difficult being dog-less in DC.

I've found myself involuntarily going up to people with dogs, making incoherent noises and otherwise just being socially inappropriate. I have no self-control.

I left Brinkley in Montgomery and have felt a massive void in my life ever since.

Look at that face.

It's been emotionally taxing—there is nothing more therapeutic and healing than hugging on a dog who loves you. When I go home and see Brinkley, he comes up to me completely beside himself with glee—does anyone love you like that?

A few months ago I pug-sat for two precious pugs and it was like a little visit to heaven. I instagrammed the hell out of those dogs. They slept in my bed. They followed me around my house like ducklings. They were angels.

But then I had to give them back. No bueno.

So Caroline and I had a great idea. When we want things, we ask for them. And we have a pretty great track record for getting what we want.

So we asked for the pugs. No, their owners weren't going out of town for the weekend—we just wanted to borrow their children.

Magically, they said yes.

Best weekend ever.

Souls Grow Back, Right?

Asking for a friend.