Winner, winner turkey dinner!

Hey y'all!  Sorry about not posting yesterday!  I was still in a turkey coma. 

Buttttttt...as promised, I did pick a winner to my Bella Bag give-a-way using random.org: 


















As you can see, I included all 55 comments in the generator, but then took out the "removed" comments and the comments that were added to *original* comments when I counted down to see who left comment number 35. 

Then I counted twice with my mother present to make sure it was accurate. 

Then I had my step dad count to make sure.

And it pleases me to announce that the person who happened to submit comment #35 is someone I've known since birth!  So congratulations Lisa Fabian! Wooo hooo!


Lisa, shoot me your addy via facebook or at meganithappen@gmail.com and we'll get you this bag!!!

Didn't win?  Don't forget to check out all the other AMAZING bags over at Stitch and Swash.  A HUGE thanks to Angie for donating this bag.  You da best.  

Enjoy the rest of your weekend, everybody - and thanks to everyone who entered my "bribe to subscribe" (I'm looking at you, Katie!).

Megan

You say Oprah, I say Opera...

Here's the deal:  I used to teach English, so when I notice a snafu typo in a blog post - specifically MY blog posts - I dwell on it for a good month and a half before I finally feel like I can move on.  The problem is this: I know no one cares as much as I do (except maybe my mother) - but if I have someone PROOF read my blog posts, I suddenly find myself TRYING TOO HARD.  And when I TRY TOO HARD I start not to like blogging.  I also start to not sound like myself. 

Don't start sentences with AND.  SEE!!!  It never ands.  ENDS.  It never ends.

Therefore, every time I post, you're likely to see sentences like this: 

And even though I try to convince her that we need to contact Opera, she simply shakes her head and tells me that sewing and touching every bag that leaves her doorstep is just too important to her to ever go that big. 

See, yet another sentence starting with AND.  But also (SWEET JESUS NOW I'M STARTING THEM WITH BUT!), you'll notice that I said we need to contact Opera. 

I meant Oprah.  

For the record though, I DO think someone should make a rock opera out of Angie's story.  It shall be called, Angie and her Twilight Smothered Dream Bag.  It would be glorious.  (Please note that titles call for italicized font rather than "quotation marks" unless we're referring to the title of a song or a poem or a chapter.)

Another time, I said that my son turrets, when I meant this kind of tourretes).  Now this one actually worked out, because as times my son really does act like a small tower that projects vertically from the wall of a building.  Still though, I meant the other kind.

In other words, blogging - which requires, in my opinion, a deliberately impromptu, raw, unedited word vomit - can be hard on a former English teacher.  Please ignore these types of dumb mistakes and know that I am smarter than my blog posts make me look. 

Also, if you have not entered in to win this awesome bag...

...you best get on that right now. 

Kisses and sunshine,
Megan

Cinderella story. And my very first give-a-way. So, you know, happy Friday.

Well, the moment has finally come.  Internets, we’re having a give-a-way. 

Why?  Well, because I like to feel popular.  And I've kept my son alive and thriving for 1 year.  And Christmas is coming.  And my best friend and son’s General Manager happens to one of the most generous and talented individuals I know.  

No really, she is – and multifaceted, if I may say so.  In fact, let’s list a few things that make her the president of club awesome before we get right down to the give-a-way.  This will be fun because I like lists and she dislikes people bragging about her.  I’m hoping this incites a series of awkward twinges that I’ll feel all the way from Washington.  Right now I’m guessing she has her hands on her cheeks as she peeks through her fingers, squinting more and more with each sentence of this post.  (SMOOCH!)

In any given day, you might find my best friend doing any number of the following things:

1.)    Cooking ridiculously good meals:

2.)    Winning arm wrestling competitions:

3.)    Adopting abused animals:

Love the shirt, Nic.

4.)    Taking incredibly cute pictures with her husband

5.)    Or designing handbags used by famous people in famous movies. 

Whew!  That’s a multitalented bitch, right there.

I could go in to detail about each one of the items listed above, but for the purpose of today, let’s focus on #5.

Here’s the deal.  While I spent my summers by Ft. Peck Lake, listening to mixed CD’s of No Doubt and Oasis and doing everything within my power to drive my mother bat-shit crazy, my best friend was elbows deep in fabric and thread, learning to craft her talent in domesticity.   (In comparison, my mother was understandably disappointed.   I would argue however, that if it weren’t for those summers, my mother would not OWN a mixed CD.  Think about it, mom.  Your car rides would be filled with a full hour of songs from THE SAME ARTIST.  Can you even imagine?)  

But alas, under the fine direction of her mother, who to this DAY sews the best hair scrunchy this side of the Mississippi, Angie learned to craft a talent that now makes her a living.  And also makes her kind of famous.

And also makes me feel popular.

And will, in a week’s time, make you cooler.  

Fine.  I’ll get down to it.  (Drumroll!.....)

Friends, I’d like to introduce you to THE BELLA BAG:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Why is it called the Bella bag?  Maybe these pics will help clarify:

What?  What’s that you say?  You recognize the person holding that purse?  You recognize the movie?  Twilight, you say?  The final movie of which opens today, you say? 

Huh.  How timely.

This bag, hand made by my bff, Angie, was picked up by a prop designer for the Twilight series in a boutique in Seattle, where Angie’s rent payment was, at the time, dictated by whether or not she would sell a bag that week.  The prop designer bought it for herself, but then decided to use it to round out Bella’s wardrobe for the movie – so she called Angie and asked her to make a replica.  Angie complied, and a few months later Twilight came out.  And Angie was all, “You don’t suppose???” and then she watched the movie and I suppose you could say she supposed right:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Rob Pattinson is holding Angie’s bag, you guys. Do you see that?

The year that the movie was released resulted in so many orders that Angie worked hand over fist, day after day, rarely taking even one day off - pumping out bag after bag.  And from there, she’s managed to make a good living doing what she loves to do.  And even though I try to convince her that we need to contact Opera, she simply shakes her head and tells me that sewing and touching every bag that leaves her doorstep is just too important to her to ever go that big.  And there is just something so. damn. admirable about that.    

I have this bag, and many of my friends have a version of the bag.  And we all love it.  I’m not just saying that because she’s my best friend.  I can honestly say that I have NEVER owned anything that has received more compliments than this thing.  EVER.  And what’s even cooler is that when she’s out and about, sporting one of her own bags, she’ll get compliments, too.  And do you know what she does when she gets compliments? 

SHE JUST SAYS THANK YOU.

That’s it.  She doesn’t even tell them that SHE MADE THE BAG.

Unbelievable.

I guess that’s what modesty looks like, but what she lacks in boastfulness I make up for in casual conversations with people I’ve never met.  When anyone compliments me on my bag, I take up half of their afternoon telling them how I have a famous best friend and that she makes these amazing bags and that famous people have used them in famous movies and they should go to her website RIGHT NOW and buy one because she customizes the screen print and the fabrics and uses refurbished leather and you can also pick whatever style of bag you want in whatever color leather you want.

And it isn’t until I gently rub my bag against their cheek so that they may feel the softness of the leather that I sense them pulling away.

And because she is my best friend and she knows how much I like to feel popular, she is donating one of these bad boys to one of you! 

So, what do you have to do?  Well listen, I know there are a number of you out there who silently follow, so I'm just going to ask that you speak up today.  Just this once.  And it only takes two easy steps:

1.        Follow me.  I really like looking popular. Yes, you'll have to have a google (gmail), yahoo, twitter, AIM, Netlog, or Open ID account to follow me.  That's lame and I'm sorry but I don't know how to get around it.  But really, for a bag this good?  Make up and account and then never look at it again.  I'd say it's worth it.  :)  

2.        Comment  on this post after you follow me, and poof!  You’re in. Don't know what to say?  Tell me which bag you like best from her website.  Or ask me a question. Or tell me the middle name of your cat.  I don't care.  Say something!   

3.        Want to get entered twice?  Share this post on Facebook or your blog (or both!) and tell me you did it by commenting again. 

I’ll pick a winner using random.org on Black Friday and post the number that corresponds with the comment.  It will all be fair.  Don’t worry.

And if you don't win - no biggie!  You can still buy the bag - or any bag for that matter - at her website.  Currently I have my eye on this little number, but they're all great.  Seriously.

Good luck!

Dear Kid: One Year

Dear Kid:

Just over a week ago you turned 365 days old. That means we’ve kept you alive for a year. A whole year. 52 weeks. 365 days. 8,760 hours. 525,600 minutes.

That’s a butt load of time, fyi.

Well, not really. In the great grand timeline of your life, 365 days will seem fairly inconsequential. Especially those first 365 days of your life, because you won’t remember one damn minute of it. I’m not trying to be negative or anything, but it’s true. If you’re reading this, you’re probably at LEAST in your 20’s, because dudes don’t really care about sentimental stuff any time before that. At least, I don’t think they do. (But either way, when your first girlfriend calls I won’t hesitate to say, “Let me go get him. I think he’s in his room reading the love letters I wrote to him that first year.”)

But just so I can put this into a context that’s familiar to you, let’s just assume that if you’re reading this, you’re in your early twenties. Remember a few weeks ago when you drank too many Captain Morgan cokes and woke up not knowing where you were, how you got there or why in God’s name you were wearing a cheerleader’s sweater from 1971? And all you know is that there was a lot of laughing, a little crying (crazy ex-girlfriend alert), a crap ton of stumbling around and you never want to hit the bottle ever again?

Well, that’s how you should view your first year. Except I didn’t feed you alcohol, and I never put you in a cheerleading costume. (That was your father back in 2006.) The similarity here is that there’s been a lot laughs, a few tears, no one else wants you to ever hit the bottle again either, and we all have headaches and are craving the Baconater.

But seriously, it’s hard for me to fathom that you won’t even remember a year of your life, because this year will be so engrained in the minds of your father and I that there is no amount of alcohol that could erase it. Trust me. We just got back from an all-inclusive resort in Mexico, and if there were, we would know.

Yes. We were in Mexico for your 1st birthday. And it was AWESOME. Your Godmother made me go. She was like, “Semisi is turning one. Let’s party.” Just kidding. You can’t party yet. But I will say that your first year’s celebration is really more about your father and I anyway, if I’m being honest. I mean, good job to you, sure. But good job to us for, you know, learning how to be parents. When you’re 18 you can start taking credit for being born, even though I will secretly still credit myself.

But listen, the real reason we were in Mexico was because your Godmother was getting married. Don’t worry though, she’ll make it up to you some day. TRUST. When you turn 21, we’ll send her out for Gatorade and a Taco John’s run the morning after, and I can say from experience SHE WILL NOT LET YOU DOWN. She did that for us after a New Year’s Eve extravaganza one year and 40 dollars and a dream later, she came back with enough potato ole’s to feed the Irish during the famine.

Since we’re talking about her – here’s a picture of her. Now you have proof that we had good reason to be gone:

It was important work. That’s me in the coral dress because I happen to be the one who married them.  So now you have a Godfather-in-law. He loves the Godfather movies so he is totally prepped and ready for this job. He is rad. His name is Albert. You're welcome.

Don’t feel bad though. We still threw you a party before we left:

And you ate cake:

Then we threw you another party after we got back. And you ate cake again:

So see? We really did make it about you.

Moving on.

Here is a progress report on your, umm…progress?

You walk.

Run, kind of. Like you’re drunk, actually. Why do we keep talking about drinking? Quit.

You eat. Everything. Anything. We cannot put food in front of you fast enough. This morning you ate a whole banana in about 2.5 seconds. I had not yet had one sip of my coffee and that banana had disappeared. Then, after taking a long swig of milk from your sippy cup and giving us a good grunt of satisfaction as you slammed it down on the table, you carried your father to daycare.

Speaking of carrying things, you’re very strong. You carry around things that you should not be able to carry. This would be helpful if we could channel it to bags of groceries or the laundry basket, but currently you’d rather pull full gallons of milk out of the fridge and move Gus the Dog’s house around the floor. As if that dog doesn’t have enough anxiety, now he has to re-live Nam.

And you talk. You say dadda, momma (more than dadda, now. Good work.), Papa, and the other day you whipped out a little “ba” after I said “bath.”

But you know what? None of that matters. You could be doing none of those things and I’d still like you just as much, because you’re just, well, damned likable. That hasn’t changed since day one. Yes, sometimes you throw temper tantrums when I remove you from crawling in to the vegetable crisper drawer of the refrigerator, but we promptly ignore this unseemly behavior and you get over it, and then we all move on.

And like I said, even if you don’t remember this year, son, I can assure you that your father and I will hold on to, cherish and remember every moment day of it. On October 26th, just as our plane landed in Mexico, I turned to your father and told him that it was hard to believe that at that moment, one year prior, I was having contractions. Your father, stop watch in hand, would look down at my belly and up at me, waiting as labor progressed throughout the night. We were two people who had no idea what to expect. All we knew is that we were unbelievably excited to meet you. And 32 RIDICULOUSLY LONG, PAINFUL, MISERABLE hours later, there you were. More than fashionably late, but much anticipated. And, as it turns out, worth every 1,920 minutes of labor.

You still owe me for 9 months with no booze though.

But seriously, son, in an instant our lives changed for the better – all thanks to your arrival. Last night, as I was swaying you in your room, lights off, just before bedtime, I caught a glimpse of the two of us in the mirror. Your head was on my shoulder and your body was stretched along the entire length of mine, and suddenly I realized that in the blink of an eye, you’d changed from a small, 7 pound, squishy little baby:

…to a boy:

And let me just say that your dad and I will be forever grateful for the little guy you are today, the kid I’m sure we’re bound to delight in, and the man we’ll be proud to call Semisi Michael Kongaika.

All my love to you, son, one year later, and for every year to come,

Momma