Crazy, right? I blame the tax credit.

2. Started tons of projects for said house

Everyone says homeownership is a lot of work. They’re right. We tackled the back deck area last weekend and a few other miscellaneous projects. And by we I mean my brother-in-law, dad and sister’s BF. Now it’s onward to painting, whee!

3. Hung out a lot with these guys

They’re growing up so fast. And there’s going to be one more come December.

4. Bought lots of baby bibs

For a while it seemed like everyone was getting married. Now it seems like everyone is procreating. If you need a good gift, check out my friend Kara’s Etsy shop.

5. Went on vacation. Took no photos. Oops! Good thing we’re going back to Ocean City, Md., next month.

What did you do on my blog vacation?

So what is the Erin Express? A free bus, sponsored by about 15 Philadelphia Irish bars, that runs in loop between all the bars for 5 hours.

I’m always up for a legendary experience but this was the first year my schedule allowed for shamrocking shenanigans. My sister and some of her friends met up with some of my friends in the Art Museum area for a day of debauchery. While it had all the makings of awesome, we quickly quit the Erin Express for a couple of reasons:

* Bud Light bottles at the first bar were $5. Sure, they were green, but they were Bud Light.

* The bus ride from hell. Yes, it was free. But we probably could have walked from Fairmount to University City quicker than the hour-plus we were trapped on the school bus. God bless the woman who had the unfortunate task of chauffeuring rowdy, green-clad, drunk people all around Philadelphia. I’m sure there was a specific route she had to take but that route did not make any sense at all, hence the hour long ride and the screaming match between the driver and a spoiled, drunk brat.

* I’m old. Age is just a number but I think there comes a point where you need to stop trying to drink as much as possible as early as possible. I’ve reached that point.

* Too many butt cheeks. Ladies, not a classy look at all.

So we quit the bus and made our own tour of Philadelphia. First up, hibachi. Then super cheap drinks at Tavern on Broad followed by more cheap drinks at Jolly’s piano bar.

At Jolly’s I figured out why I’m single.

I started talking about the exercise recovery benefits of chocolate milk and he mentioned that that’s probably a healthier (and safer) way to recover than his current recovery food.

Two raw eggs.

Because it was good enough for Rocky.

And then I almost fell off my barstool laughing.

It wasn’t until running along Kelly Drive this afternoon that I remembered I recently told a different guy I was thinking about going to law school.

Because of Legally Blonde.

Duh, right? I understand Facebook. I’ve participated in Webinars, listened to conference calls, attended meetings centered around using Facebook to enhance your brand and market to consumers. I know you shouldn’t post anything on Facebook you wouldn’t want your grandma to see. (Although my grandma may be an exception, but that’s a whole ‘nother post.)

There’s one thing they didn’t teach me during those sessions - Facebook can complicate dating.

As if dating isn’t hard enough, if you use Facebook to chronicle your life, it opens you up to stalking and takes away the ice breaker conversation.

Favorite music? Already listed. TV shows? Same. Farmville awards? Level 27! What did you do last night? I already saw the photos.

Then there’s the whole messaging situation. E-mail doesn’t necessarily get checked every day. But if you update part of your Facebook profile, he can see that you’re just not responding to his message.

Obviously the key is to wait to become Facebook friends. Afterall, unfriending is hard to do.

What’s your gameplan when it comes to dating and Facebook/social media?

PS - I also blame the Internet for making me telecommute tomorrow instead of enjoying a glorious snow day like I rightfully deserve.

“D, pick up your toys now.”

“No.”

“Pick them up, please.”

“No.”

“D, wwwwwwwwone… twwwwwooo-”

“Three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine!”

He hasn’t quite mastered ten.

Suffice it to say he didn’t pick up his toys.

(Background: My dad can maybe turn off a computer, he usually just pulls the plug. Although there was that one time, like 10 years ago, he really enjoyed playing pinball.) (Also, my dad has a disposition similar to Red from “That ’70s Show.”)

Dad: What ARE you doing?

Us, in unison: Playing Farmville.

Dad: What?

Me: Farmville. It’s a computer farming game.

K: You plant crops, milk cows, earn money.

Dad: You idiots. We have 150 REAL acres out there. Go farm for real.

Me: But we don’t get smelly farming on Facebook. And it’s much warmer in here.

(Aside: You make way more money for your cows’ milk on Farmville than you do in real life. And I don’t think anyone makes pink tractors. By the way, brown cows don’t produce chocolate milk, nor do pink cows make strawberry milk.)

And then there are those magical days that make you realize it’s not so bad.

Today I had a meeting with football team that rhymes with Smaltimore Smavens. Over the past month or so I’ve had the opportunity to meet with two other teams as we work on a huge project to tackle (ha!) childhood obesity. Meeting with these teams is kind of wasted on me - I’m not a huge sports fan. Sure, I’m always up for a good social function around a sporting event but that’s usually for the alcohol. I think athletic interest is imparted by your parents which my parents never encouraged. I grew up on a sole proprietor dairy farm and my parents were too busy, and we lived too far away, so we weren’t allowed to participate in organized sports.

Anyway, I’m not a huge sports fan but I can still appreciate the experience I had today (and that it was kind of wasted on me). We were invited to the team’s practice facility, which a colleague described as Hogwarts from Harry Potter. Gorgeous. After the meeting, we ate lunch in the team’s cafeteria during which the PRESIDENT of the TEAM sat with us.  Then toured the facility. We checked out the locker room (those boys are messy!), met the equipment manager (the players wear new shoes each game - they go through 1,000 pairs of shoes a year), toured the weight room, hung out in the team lounge, and watched some of this afternoon’s practice.

Was I bragging when I updated my Facebook status with, “Just ate lunch with the president of the Smavens.”? Are you a Smavens fan? Do you ever have magical opportunities at work? Do you ever feel incompetent? Anyone from the Smavens want to hire me? (Employees get free food, access to the team’s gym, free fitness classes and a posh office. And to meet with me.) (Also, there was a sign on the front door that said if you have flu-like symptoms, you weren’t allowed in the building.)

PS - A couple weeks ago, I wore TWO Super Bowl rings.

Though we fought (really, physically, emotionally fought like cats and dogs) through out childhood, as we matured we grew really close. We bought sister rings on our Griswold family vacation. We took crazy photos at random locations on another trip through the South. We’ve helped each other move and stood beside our sister as she said “I do.” The night before S got married, we all slept together on our parents’ pull out sofa bed. We had cookie making parties and have matching footie pajamas.

So I bought these picture frames months ago hoping that in the very near future we would have another picture-perfect opportunity we could capture on film (or digital) that I could commit to photo paper and seal behind glass. But it’s been months, more than 12 of them, since the four of us have had a happy, carefree, sisterly moment together. We haven’t spent a holiday together since Easter 2008, the day before S walked out on her husband and chose a new path in life. She has a new family now; new friends, a new man, a new baby. Because of the man’s history with my family, either he won’t come around or she won’t bring him around. So she chooses him, even though he’s unworthy of her.

Then I think, who am I to judge her? Him? Why can’t I just support her and love her, decisions and all? I just want my sister back. I want more photogenic moments. I want to eat Thanksgiving dinner beside her. I want to send wrapping paper flying through the air on Christmas Day beside her. I want to see my nephews - those adorable, lovable baby boys who own my heart - dressed in Halloween costumes. I want, I want, I want to be a happy family again. I need to be a good sister and just accept her and her decisions because I think that’s what she needs.

A few days ago I found the forgotten empty frames still wrapped in the Kohl’s bag. I cried.

“Whose wedding are these [beer coozie] favors from?” I asked of the favors shrouded in a Ziplock bag.

“Oh, they’re from Mary and Ted’s wedding a couple months ago,” said a portly grandmother, bespectacled and chiding.

“We were sorry we couldn’t make it,” my sister said. “Did you have a good time? Didn’t Peggy make the wedding dress?”

“It was really nice, we had a really good time,” Grandma said. “I have my camera, I’ll have to show you pictures. The dress was short, two pieces. The top was kind of like a vest with a black shirt underneath. It was really pretty!”

“It was camouflage,” my sister explained.

“Oh,” I said.

“And so was the tux!” Grandma said.

Out came the Kodak. I silently flipped through the photos, because my mother told me if I couldn’t say anything nice, I shouldn’t say anything at all. For once I managed to follow that small rule of decorum.

“And there’s the sign they had hanging as we entered the wedding,” Grandma said. “One one said it ‘Get ‘Er Done!’ and as we left we saw it said, ‘Got ‘Er Done!”

You wield the Glamour Black Bar: Camo wedding wear: DO or DON’T?

My oldest nephews (oh wait, I forgot to blog that my sister had a baby almost two weeks ago? Poor Cody.) have an Amish babysitter. Interesting Amish factoid of the day: most Amish only bathe on Saturdays, in preparation for church on Sunday. And they don’t wear deodorant.

Because she was moving the next day and had to borrow my dad’s cattle trailer to transport all her rustic cabin furnishings and dead, stuffed animal heads, my sister visited my parents’ house Friday night. She brought with her Blayne, who spent all day with the Amish babysitter. On Friday. Which is the day before her weekly bath.

My sister didn’t appreciate it so much when I nearly gagged after taking a deep breath of what should have been that magical baby smell but was instead horrific BO.

Tomorrow’s update: Surprise! It’s another boy!

I understand feeling pride for your child’s accomplishments, but really Pennsylvania? Really? If that’s not redneck, I don’t know what is.

(Although I kind of expect my sisters to sport similar bumper stickers when their children reach the designated hunting age.)