Rog.

I might have a problem.

It wasn't long into my new job when this showed up on my desk one morning:




















In my defense, I started at the same time as Wimbledon and had one of my two screens showing live updates. It wasn't a good tournament for Roger, but never mind that. I didn't bring it up until I was asked for whom I was rooting.

They probably saw the sparkle in my eye.

Then came the notes:




















"Kyla, I love watching you work."




















"I think I should retire, Kyla."

I have a sneaking suspicion the Nadal fan in the office was behind this one.





















"Tell me about your long day at work while I massage your feet with my strong tennis star hands."




















"Kyla, you're a sweetheart. I want to take you to Dubai..."






















"Your beautiful face has me paralyzed. Haven't swam a lap in weeks..."




















"That lady was CRAY CRAY. Let's snuggle..."

Ridiculous, but it keeps me laughing and in love with my coworkers.

Happy Birthday to YOU.

Since my super sweet little roommate turns 21 in the morning, I decided to bake a cake. I used a mix, don't get excited, but it was edible and she pretended she liked it and that, my friends, that's good enough for me.

This girl is a star - she's sweet talked a law professor into letting her take a final she missed, she makes killer headbands, and she could cook Giata under the table. She's an inspiration to us all.

Cutie pie.

My masterpiece. Disregard the fact that the cake looks like a casserole with ground beef - gentlemen, eat your hearts out.

Happy Birthday, Chelsie! Can't wait to celebrate.

Wah Wah Wah.

I complain.

Deal with it.

Now that we've gotten that out of the way, can I just tell you how hot it was today? 94 F, 113 F with the heat index. (For my international readers, that's 45 C, which is not nearly as impressive, so switch to the Fahrenheit system.) Now I like to be a bronzed and golden and glowing and sun-kissed blonde as much as the next girl, but ayiyi. This is searing. But it's a great excuse not to run, and for that I am most thankful.

And speaking of wah wah wah, does anyone remember the babies people carried around in high

school? The ones that cried in the middle of the night and had microchips so the teacher could see who would be an abusive parent?

Someone at work recently told me that their school was poor, so they carried around dolls with sacks of flour tied to them. Because this is the most accurate way to determine which high schoolers would be good parent and which would not.

Actually, I think the point was to encourage abstinence (and yes, abstinence - I'm from small town Indiana).

I never had those. My home economics career ended in junior high (no surprise there if you know me), and the furthest I got was the hard boiled egg. I think it survived, I don't remember. I do remember 'accidentally' forgetting have my mom sign the permission slip to go on the "career choices" field trip to the funeral home.

You-a Make-a Me-a Verrry Happy.

An Italian man once told me this and then immediately brought me a piece of cake and a glass of champagne. He was a tennis instructor and loved Leffe and Federer and was ten years older than me. Sometimes we text.

There are so many thing that make-a me-a happy right now.

Lizzie and Sally are in Bloomington and I'm more grateful than they'll ever know to have them.

The Script. See ya in September, Danny.

Pictures of babies. Babies, babies everywhere. I love them all, and I love their mommies who send me regular pictoral updates. But mostly I love the babies.

Katie and Carrie and David Gray were exquisite

last night:

But I just can't help from thinking
If I had you by my side
That we could fall in love again tonight

So was the $5 wine I had.

"Party Rock Anthem" keeps me dancing.

My bank account didn't overdraft today just like Carrie said it wouldn't even though it absolutely should have. Poverty is fun!

Imagine if someone said, "What's your dream job?" and then - *poof* - you had it? I feel like that happened to me. I love my office and I love my coworkers and I love the students I meet and I love what I do.

My parents love each other. They both tell me this often, and I think about this often.

Once upon a time, two of my friends visited another friend they both met through me. And I wasn't there. And they were perfectly content because they were all friends anyway and everyone lived happily ever after. TJ and Kristi visited Katie in DC! This...this I love.

Good night, y'all. Here's to whatever adventure tomorrow brings.

Waking Up.

I hate it. Every morning. Every single morning.

I think about how much I hate it as hit my alarm six times and get six terrible seven-minute increments of half-sleep instead of actually getting up.

I think about how picking out an outfit is the bane of my existence and I wish I could just roll out of bed and wear my men's XL boxers with a legit hole in the front and an orange and black skull pattern to work. And my see-through t-shirt from the thrift shop that I'm pretty sure I never washed before wearing the first time. And no mascara even though when I don't put it on people think I'm sick because my eyelashes are blonde and basically invisible to the naked eye and I guess I'm pizzazzless without it.

I'd rather look like that than get up.

Sometimes I do look like that. And I have to rely on my wit and charm to get me through the day. And it often fails me.