Dear Husband: I'm sorry you had to deal with my armpit hair this week. I know it got out of control at one point. I was scared, too. Thanks for doing what all good husbands should... force their Bohemian wives to get their armpits of doom under control.
Dear Future House: Let's call you Waldo, because we're lookin' for you (although I really hope you don't have red and white stripes). I know you're out there. You've pretty hardwood floors, a huge walk-in closet, no hideous wallpaper to speak of... right? Make it easy on a sister, reveal yourself. I promise I will keep you squeaky clean (right before company comes over).
Dear Buzzfeed: I've never laughed so hard. (That's probably not true, don't wanna build this up too much.) But seriously, people at work were concerned. Hi-freakin-larious. If you need another excuse to remember your birth control today, please do yourself a favor and read this.
Dear Marathon: You are approaching sooner than I'd like. Somehow I've convinced myself this last week that running isn't actually essential to this whole training thing, and that McDonald's fries will increase my speed. Mistake. I was feeling pretty good about my 6-mile run until a 8-month preggo lady passed me on the trail. Embarrassing. Maybe there's an award for last place?
Happy weekend, everyone!