This post has nothing to do with ice cream.

I'm just trying to make an unpretty story...prettier.

Something has been going on with my skin these past few months, and I haven't written about it because...well, because I've been freaked out about it. And you know how when you're freaked out about something you sometimes actively try to ignore it and just hope it'll...go away? That's what I was doing.

Graduation Day, 2015

Both my husband and I went back to school "later in life" - for me, it was an abortive (but still hugely impactful) stint at NYU to study hospitality management, and for Kendrick, it was Yale Business School. Making the decision for him to attend a school located an hour and a half away from our Westchester home and spend days at a time away from his two-year-old son and pregnant wife (and later infant daughter) - not to mention move from being a two-income family to a one-income family for the duration - was, as you can imagine, a big deal.

But we did it. And we'd do it again.

These diamonds aren't "brown"...they're cognac. Which sounds WAY prettier.

When I took my engagement ring into the jeweler a couple of weeks ago, we played around with some different ideas for what to do with it. I knew I didn't want to just replace the missing diamond - at the very least, I wanted all three stones to be the same size, which none of them were - but ended up deciding that I wanted to replace the three little diamonds with something more...interesting. I also knew I wanted to deal with the ugly black spots that had popped up on it, and had resigned myself to dipping it in a fresh coat of gold (thereby eradicating the tiny 1950s-era handmade etches all over its surface).

The jeweler shook a few colored gemstones out onto the countertop, but none of them seemed right; all the colored stones felt too...sweet. Like I'd get sick of them. So I started flipping through a book, and landed on a page covered in pictures of brown diamonds. "Those," I said. "I love them."

me, about to live-shop with you

If you happened to be on Instagram yesterday around 11:30AM Pacific Time, you might have seen a live video of me bopping around and checking out July 4th sales items at Sears. (I definitely got some weird looks from other shoppers - who’s the crazy lady talking to her phone about elliptical machines over in the fitness equipment aisle? - but perhaps I made their morning more…interesting? Maybe?)

I was at Sears to talk about their July 4th Sales Event, which has been extended through 7/8. The sale (up to 40% off) covers items in virtually every department, and sale prices are available online, on mobile devices, in stores - wherever you want to shop, whenever you feel like shopping. My personal suggestion: take advantage of these prices to pick up a big-ticket item you’ve had your eye on for awhile - a canopied gazebo, maybe, or a new washer/dryer. (Delivery is free on items over $399, if that helps push you over the edge.) There’s also a new pop-up item featured each day for a special price that day only (today’s is the Craftsman 4-Piece Lithium Combo Kit), so check back on Sears.com daily.

It's 9PM on July 4th. My son is running up and down the street with my husband, watching our neighbors set off illegal fireworks while my daughter sleeps next to me on the couch, passed out fully naked in front of Nick Jr. because 12 straight hours of hot dogs and chocolate chip cookies and swimming exhausted her to the point where not even a brand-new episode of Paw Patrol could keep her eyes open.

I thought a lot about America today. I had a client who wanted me to post about what makes me proud to be an American, and it took me awhile to answer. I didn't even know if I wanted to answer the question, because when I think about my country, "pride" isn't the first word that comes to mind at the moment.

Then I got to thinking about the first time I was embarrassed to say I was American. George W. Bush was president, and I was doing a semester at University College London. I wanted to hide my face in my hands every time someone said the President's name. Sometimes I just told people I was from Canada, so they didn't automatically assume I was a jerk.