Why I Will Never Be a Stepford Wife.

I originally named this post "An Apology to My Future Husband".  But after reading back, I realize Nick is the root of most of these stories.  

This morning I woke up to Nick complaining that the socks I went out and LOVINGLY purchased for him were too big.  After a brief pause, he then had the nerve to say “Oh well, I’m sure you’ll shrink them when you do laundry”.

I tried to throw a remote at him except I was slightly delayed due to my sleepy state – he wasn’t even in the room when it happened.  And also except that it wasn’t a remote, but a water glass that shattered. Awesome.

I dragged myself out of bed to go get a broom.  When I got to the kitchen I started thinking about all the ways I fail at domestic life.

-          I can’t boil an egg.  Boiled 18 eggs and when I went to peel the shells off about 67% of the egg whites came with it. AND I FOLLOWED A RECIPE.
-          I shrink laundry at least once a week. Although apparently this is good for my sock purchases.
-          I can’t figure out where you buy vacuum bags.  Seriously.  I feel like shop-rite is conspiring against me. I have been looking for vacuum bags for at least 3 ½ weeks and it just dawned on me now [as I type this] to maybe try the manufacturer website.
-          I keep using the vacuum. My house smells like burning dog hair every time I run the vacuum. 
-          I bought Nick awkwardly shaped boxer briefs.  I’m just going not explain this one. Thanks.
-          Nick cut his foot on the glass I left on our bedroom floor while I wrote this list. 

I can't write anymore because I can't think over Nick's shouting.  
Until next time people! -Jaime Mac


Random Weekend Recap

If you know me at all you know that I am a random human being. Allow me to further solidify this concept with a crap I did this weekend segment:

Went and saw an amazing band [Junk Punch] at a local dive bar where I was quoted saying “Tonic is for pussies”.  
 <- Me being bad ass

Continued the night with a dance party in my living room from 2-4:30 a.m. with some really cool people.

Tried to give my dog away after he ate a pair of 6” burlesques heels I had out for the dance party.  Surprisingly, there were no takers.

Life Lesson: Don't drink and try on shoes.

Got bored and decided making and canning jam would be a perfect time killer. So far made 24 jars of jam.  I actually ran out of jars, and already bought the fruit for another 24 jars.  I’m taking bets on whether 8lbs of fruit is destined for a slow, rotting death in my fridge or if I’ll actually remember to go buy more jars.

I also decided on a name for my Jam business if I ever started one: 

Watched the LOST season finale.  Doesn’t sound odd, right? Well it is when the only episode you’ve ever seen is the first one.  Still, feel like I guessed correctly on the ending back then.  So this leads to the last thing I did this weekend:

Confirmed I’m mother-effin- psychic!


An open letter to Tank.

Dear Tank the Dog,

We adopted you about a year ago.  From day 1 you were my dog and, I your master.  I think Nick was a little jealous of those close bonds we formed so early on.  But what did we care?  We had each other.

It hasn’t been all peaches and cream, but you’ve generally been a great dog – with a few exceptions. It wasn’t until early one summer morning that I truly began to realize just *how* much you loved your momma.

I remember the day well.  You were being a terror – refusing to go potty outside, chewing on everything, and sneaking off when I wasn’t looking. I decided to put you in your crate – trying to salvage my last few minutes to get ready for work.

As I dragged you near the crate I couldn’t help but noticed your blankets seemed extra….fluffy. “FLUFFY? That’s odd”, I thought.  But I was determined that you would be spending the day in there wreaking no more havoc on my house.  That is, until something shiny caught my eye.

Upon closer inspection, I noticed a half chewed up picture of me had been lovingly nestled away in your blankets.  Confused, I started to pull both the picture and blankets out.  To my surprise I found a treasure trove of Jaime memorabilia – a dress, 1 sock, the picture, a ponytail holder, 2 different shoes and my favorite bra. And yeah, you read that right - an entire dress was in there.

It was 1 candle short of a shrine.

As I turned around in stunned horror, it was though you just HAD to go the extra step to prove your utter fixation with me. That’s right little puppy, you then proceeded to barf up a bunch of my panties.

There was an awkward moment where we both sat there looking at each other.  You, with a manic love in your eyes.  And me, with a new dawning that you might love me just a little too much.

Since then, you’re panty passion has never wavered.  Why just the other day you chewed on 3 more pair as though it was your own personal doggie feast.  Leaving my yard looking like a screwed up version of an easter egg hunt.

I want to scream “cut it out”! But I’m not disillusioned enough to think this letter will change your ways. Mainly because you are a dog and you can’t read. Now who’s the weirdo??

Your Sketched Out But Ever Loving Momma

Jaime Mac


THIS JUST IN: Living in NJ may cause heart attacks.

I’m not a doctor or anything, I’m just really, really smart.  I kid- I’m not smart either. Did you read my attempt to connect returning shoes to MURDERING KITTENS?  ‘Nuf said.

Although I’m talking about NJ, I prefer to make sweeping, inappropriate and dramatic generalizations about topics.  So it seems fitting to define “NJ” as “the-entire-mother-effin-north-east”. 

NJ people talk fast, drive aggressively, and are some of the most high-strung people I know.  NJ is like a heart attack waiting to happen.  Am I biased because they are also 99% of the people I know? Nahhhhhh.

These hyper-strained tendencies of NJ folks are most glaring when you travel to “friendly” States - a.k.a. anywhere but the-entire-mother-effin-north-east.  For instance, when I went to Denver everyone sounded like Ned Flanders to me.  Every time I met a new person all I heard in my head was, “Hi-diddily-ho, Jaimereenos”. Uh, did some hippy just call me a ho???

Makes me wonder what I sounded like to them? Stabby and aggressive most likely – which is actually pretty awesome.  Although that disproves where I’m going with this post, so disregard how bad ass I am for a second.

My question is why are we in such a rush? I think it has something to do with how hectic we make our lives.  I captain killer flag football teams, start wine clubs, squeeze in martial arts workouts, on top of building a house and planning a wedding.  I’m also constantly trying to make time with friends, get errands done, and work a full time job. 

Most importantly, I try to keep my puppy alive and be a non-absentee fiancé.  Did I just make up a word? Its okay, I totally fail at that last one some days anyhow. Which stresses me out!

No wonder I drink 57 cups of coffee a day. No wonder I always feel like I’m late to my next stop.  No wonder why I’m so freaking anxious all the time. This can’t be healthy – even if the anxiety burns enough calories to put about 4 fat camps out of business.

When I read back through the list of things I do, I can’t help but notice “down time” is not on there.  Maybe the right idea is to kick a couple items off my to-do list and schedule some me time.  Clear my head and re-learn the art of doing nothing.

Maybe with all of this extra time I can take a defensive driving course or learn how to relax with a hobby like bonsai gardening…



Shoe Bulimia Kills Kittens

Anyone who knows me knows I have a love affair with shoes. You need only look as far as my closet to get the idea. TRUST ME when I say this is only a sliver of what I've packed into this closet.

This is why shoe bulimia is so unsettling to me.
That’s right, shoe-bulimia.

It’s your standard splurge and purge reaction.
I have a friend with this disease. To be clear, I don’t mean “Friend” in the way where everyone thinks I'm talking about myself accept ME because I'm in such crazy denial. No. I'm talking about a *real* friend, but for anonymity purposes we'll simply call her Shaimee Craybrook.

Shaimee will wander around a store buying up gorgeous shoes left and right. Within 10 minutes of her purchase she'll be weighed down by a guilt so heavy, its the equivalent of having eaten 3 ice cream sundaes. This is where she begins talking about why she must return them.

Common lines heard from a shoe bulimic are
"I don't have anything to wear them with" or "I already have 2 other pairs like it" and even "they looked better in the store".

To Shaimee [and all shoe bulimics out there], purging these shoes will help her sleep better at night and not have to explain to her hubby why the house bills had to go unpaid. All excuses! And along the way her stories and rationale begin to make her the victim of a rushed purchase.

But shoes are the TRUE victims to this disease. They are the cute, but homeless kitten of the shopping world. Do you adopt pets and return them??? No. Because that's about on par with being a kitten murderer.

No one likes kitten murderers. This is why I had my closet designed to house 75 pairs of shoes. And guess what else, it's FULL. I buy up all the sexy shoes I see with no remorse or second thought.


Because I'm generous to a fault

It's a heavy burden to carry, but *someone* needs to think of others before themselves.

The moral of my story is to stop murdering kittens.


Food is totally asking for it if you ask me.

Is it creepy if you can relate to Glenn Close’s character from Fatal Attraction?

I think about food a lot. What can I say? I have a crush on food. To be fair, it’s hard *not* to think about food because it’s everywhere - at home, on every street corner, at every social function. It’s practically begging to be stalked. Food it totally asking for it if you ask me.

This is why dieting is so difficult. My downfall to dieting is that it *requires* me to think about food even more. When we get hung up watching carbs or trying to eat 57 small meals a day, thinking about food can turn into obsession terrifyingly fast. We become Glenn Close in Fatal Attraction intimidating anything delicious in the house. “I will not be IGNORED. Ice cream.”

I really don’t have an answer to this diet-conundrum. The best I can come up with is to keep your brain busy maybe with some hobbies.

Plus, if those hobbies involve burning calories its killing two birds with one stone. AND if those hobbies involve killing a bird... it’s killing THREE birds with one stone. That seems like a VERY efficient use of your time to me.

Regardless, today I am going to do my best to not obsess about food. I’ve got my own, busy life to think about. I don’t even care what food does.

What's that? You heard food was with someone else? Well I'm just going to take a quick ride by food’s house and see if that's true….


Showers – You’re doing it wrong.

Showers of any kind are awkward and boring. Well, except for the kind where you clean yourself. If *those* are awkward and boring for you, then you’re doing it wrong. Just sayin’.

No, this post has to do with baby showers and wedding showers. Don’t run boys! This post will give you some serious insight into girl-world. (I’m probably lying)

I guess back in the day there may have been more of a point to these *stick-a-lavender-scented-candle-in-my-eye-to-get-out-of-sitting-through-another-four-hours-of-present-opening* events. But let’s face it, people get married later and have two-income households. No one needs 187 gifts in one day.

I dread my own wedding shower
. Not because I don’t want party with friends and family, but because I know how much I dread these things. When did I become the inflicter of this pain -
on my loved ones no less?

But what about those who are always the guest, and never the inflicter of pain? Don’t THEY have a right to impose this pain on their loved ones?

SO NOW IT'S YOUR TURN. Go register for all that crap you have always wanted and throw yourself an un-shower. A shower for just being you. A shower for being a strong, single, wonderful woman.

Why not? I promise to attend and celebrate where YOU are in YOUR life.

And hell, I’ll even bring a gift
. I’ve been wondering what to do with this creepy porcelain basket that could serve no other purpose than to hold stale, *chewy* hard candy. ;)

PS: This is dedicated to my bestie bird for being an inspiration to me in more ways than I could ever list.


The good, the bad, the Jaime.

I actually stole this title from a friend who once blogged about me. How cool is that? I thought I was a rock star for 5 whole hours. But slowly it dawned on me, people *still* don't want my autograph. What the eff?

Anyways, this first post is to give you enough background on myself to hopefully make you WANT to read about me, without revealing too much to make make you WANT to turn me into the police or anything - yet. OK, here goes nothing:

I'm planning a wedding into a nutty Italian family. I have a million stories that will make you laugh, cry, and never accept an invitation to an Italians house on Christmas eve. All of which I do promise to share at some point.

I'm also an Email and CRM Marketing Manager for a fortune 500 company within the travel industry and have lots of great knowledge on the topics that they actually pay for me to know. I'm challenged daily to stay at the head of my industry in both maintaining a strong foundation and testing fun, new enhancements. I'll be happy to drop some tips now and again. Or just give a shout out if you have a specific question.

Lastly my "fun" side (and by fun I totally mean random and crazy). I started a wine club called the HBIC Wine Club. That's Head Bitch in Charge for those not in the know. It's pretty much awesome because I get the title of *THE* HBIC and have an excuse to drink to access with all of my favorite people. To counter-act all my boozing ways, I also captain a flag football team and love to try randomly violent workouts like Cardio MMA and SLAM!

Finally, here is a little insight into my personality. For better or worse...