Remember that time I went to Las Vegas to run a half marathon because I needed motivation to run regularly so I can still fit into my skinny jeans because I love food way too much to do so unless I’m pounding the pavement? That was the weekend that Thing 2 knocked out her two front teeth.

Because that’s the way life goes.

My mom was taking care of her that day, and they were at bible study. Thing 2’s class was on the playground, and apparently the little dare devil decided to jump onto or off of the monkey bars. The details remain unclear, but Thing 2’s account of it was, “I was on dah playgroun’, an’ I was on dah monkey bars, an’ den I went ‘weeeee!’ Den nobody catched me.”

(I was going to play a video here, but I can’t work the technology, which is totally annoying, and also why I need a technical assistant. Interested in applying? I pay in gummy bears. Meanwhile I’ll just put up a photo.)

Toothless Wonder

One tooth was lost on the playground, the other shortly thereafter at the dentist’s office. And a molar was cracked. A molar not ‘scheduled’ to fall out until she’s twelvish. I was just going to let it be, until I found out that without a bridge, she could develop speech issues, and speech therapy is way too much to wrestle into my schedule, so new teeth it is.

Only insurance doesn’t cover a bridge, because it’s cosmetic. Oh, and they don’t cover porcelain crowns either, only silver. And this is a tooth she will have until middle school. All said and done — close to $800 in dental work. Thank goodness we keep an emergency fund for rainy day expenses like that.

See? That’s what some people do. They forgo fancy restaurants and fun new toys so that when unexpected expenses occur, they can cover the cost. If we were too poor for whatever reason, the group of mamas and grammas at bible study that day all offered to pitch in their own money to help us out, even though it was none of their faults. Communities rally, given the chance.

And I’m sure the dentist would’ve been willing to work out a payment plan, had it come to that.

Anyway, today was the big day that Thing 2 got her new teeth. She was a trooper, the dentist and his assistant were awesome, and my little hooligan is so proud of her new teeth.

When we got home, she climbed onto the kitchen counter and jumped off. Time to start socking away cash into the rainy day fund again…

Smile, Cheese Ball!

I got to spend Friday afternoon hanging out in Hugh Hewitt’s office. His radio office, that is, not his law office, which I have no desire to visit as I hope to never need a trial attorney. But if I did, I’d try to get Hugh Hewitt to represent me, because dang that dude is smart.

But I’d rather not need a trial lawyer.

Anyway. I got to bum around the recording studio for the Hugh Hewitt Show, which was being guest-hosted that day by my friend Larry O’Connor. Friday morning, when I was in the middle of doing Top 7 with Ashley, Larry pinged me to ask if I wanted to do a segment on the show. Um, hello, yes please.

So I said something along the lines of, “YEESSSSS!!!” and then told him that next time he hosted to give me some notice because I wouldn’t mind driving up to LA to go in-studio. Larry told me that it was Irvine, not LA, and I had an invitation. Irvine is way closer to San Diego than LA. It just so happened that Leif was working from home, so I didn’t have to worry about the kids, and I asked him if he minded if I went, and he said, “Go! Be smart. Be funny. Be cute. Be you.”

Side note – I love that man.

Wrapped up Top 7, hopped in the shower, did some quick hair and make-up, then hit the road. When I got there, it was 2:55, and the show started at 3. I called Larry to find out where exactly I was going, and he came out to get me, and then we RAN back to the studio, where he fell into the chair behind the mic just in time to start hosting a nationally syndicated talk radio show.

Sometimes my timing is impeccable.

Hugh wasn’t there, but his crew was, and it was lovely to meet them. I’ve been following his producer Duane Patterson for a while on Twitter, but I didn’t think he’d have any clue who I was, because really, why would he?

“Hi, I’m Jenny! Nice to meet you!”

“Duane,” he said, shaking my hand, and then added with a wink and a smile, “This is Salem. You can’t say dipsh!t on air.”

In case you didn’t know (and I didn’t until last summer), Salem is the Christian broadcasting network that runs The Hugh Hewitt Show. And on Thursday night, Duane had been on Larry’s regular Internet radio show. And Thursday is when I do my weekly Quickie with Jenny on The Larry O’Connor Show. And I had said that particular cuss word on that particular show, which is actually pretty unusual for me. I rarely cuss on air or in print, saving those words for the most impact when the situation calls for it. It totally called for it on Thursday.

So now I’m apparently the girl that says dipsh!t on the radio. But I do know better than to do that on a Salem drive time show. Give me some credit, Duane!

It was all kinds of awesome watching the behind the scenes stuff … Adam with the hand signals from the room with all kinds of technical-looking equipment, Duane with the 30-second warnings in the headphones, Larry forgetting to push the button to bring a caller on, because he’s used to his producer Meredith Dake doing that for him … it was very cool.

During the second hour, a real-live congressman came in for a live interview, and I got to sit right next to him. Representative John Campbell was a peach, and it makes me happy that there are people like him in Congress. When he came in, Larry introduced me as a Mom Blogger, which is basically what I am, which also means that while I was listening to the show in Hugh Hewitt’s office, I was on my laptop tweeting, chatting in the Hughniverse chat room, and taking notes for an article I have due Monday morning on the whole Newt vs. Mitt thing since that’s what they were talking about.

When we cut to break, Congressman Campbell looked over at me and asked, “I don’t mean to be nosey, but what are you doing over there?”

‘This? This is what I do. Talk to people on Twitter and in chat rooms. Write stuff. I’m going to be on the radio in the next hour, I do that too. I. Love. My. Job.”

Then we talked about Twitter a little bit more, and I told him he should use it more to communicate, and also warned him against ever sending DMs, because as Anthony Weiner knows, sometimes you mess up and send pictures of your junk out to the world instead of as a DM. It’s better to just avoid it if you’re a public figure.

Then again, John Campbell doesn’t seem like the type to do that anyway.

So I finally got to go on the radio with Larry, and what did I end up saying?

“I’ve been lobbying my husband for a sister wife.”

“Newt makes my eye twitch.”

“She insists on looking like a dude, and I don’t understand it.” 

Clearly, I am a ridiculous person. But y’all already knew that, right?

Happy listening!

Jenny on Hugh

Yesterday Governor Romney said that he likes being able to fire people. And of course, that sound bite will be saved and played over and over by the entitlement crowd in negative attack ads.

As much as it irritates me to have to defend Romney, I gotta say that he’s right. He did not say that he enjoys firing people; he said that he enjoyed the ability to do so. He enjoys freedom. He doesn’t care for bad service.

What is wrong with that?

Last Saturday I fired a restaurant.

No really, I did. I will never be going back to this particular establishment, because the service was abominable. I will no longer give them money to provide me with delicious melted cheese and singed knuckle hair (that will make sense later, I promise).

You’re fired.

It was my birthday on Saturday, and I had an actual birthday party for the first time since I turned 21, but that one kinda sucked because I had to cut the night short to go home and nurse my 10-week-old infant because she wouldn’t take a bottle (she’s still just as stubborn eight years later, by the way).

This year I wanted a party. That’s it. I wanted to go out to a restaurant with my friends, order four cocktails, and generally be the center of attention for a night before going back to my glamorous life of wiping noses and working from my couch in velour pajama pants and chipped nail polish. A girl’s gotta live a little, after all.

My awesome and amazing hubby Leif done good this year. He planned a party for me, invited my friends to my first 29^th birthday celebration, and even flew Ashley Sewell out from Texas to celebrate with me. It was supposed to be a surprise, but I totally figured it out. But it was fun to tell everyone that Leif got me an Ashley for my birthday.

We met up with everyone downtown and proceeded to make merriment. Our waitress seemed a little strange at first, but I blew it off because it was my birthday and besides, maybe she was having an off day. We’ve all had those.

The first *real* issue came when my friend Michelle ordered a cocktail with a sugared rim. Ok, so there’s this cocktail (at another restaurant) I love called a vanilla lemon lust, and Michelle fell in love with it too when we went there, so every time we’ve gone out together since, she asks me to order for her.

“She’d like a lemon drop made with vanilla vodka, and served in a cocktail glass with a sugared rim and a twist.”

That’s easy, right? Well this waitress asked me three times what a cocktail glass was before I finally gave in and called it a martini glass. Then she got it, and made some strange comment about why didn’t I just call it that. Uh, because a martini is made with gin and vermouth and served in a cocktail glass.

By the time she came back, so much of the drink had spilled over the edge that the sugared rim was virtually nonexistent. Michelle asked if I would send it back, and I said yes, because the sugared rim is the best part. She was kind of shy about it, which I understand because I usually am too, but it was my birthday, and I’m always better at taking care of my friends than taking care of myself (I think most chicks are like this) so I got the waitress’s attention.

“Excuse me, but is it possible to get this drink re-poured into a glass with a sugared rim?”

She stared at me and said, “It is sugared.”

Michelle pointed to the one spot of sugar and said as politely as possible, “Only in this one spot … it’s just that the sugared rim is the best part…”

The waitress came over and examined the glass, and again insisted that it was sugared. She said, “That’s the best I can do, because the sugar dissolves when the alcohol sloshes on it.”

Yes, she just admitted that she doesn’t know how to carry drinks.

“Could you please bring us another glass with a sugar rim, and we can just pour it ourselves?” My friend was going to get her sugar, gosh darn it!

At that point, Miss Sunshine rolled her eyes, grabbed the glass, and announced snidely, “I’ll take care of it. It’s just going to be a shorter pour.”

A shorter pour? Eye-rolling?  Uh… yeah, that just happened.

When it came time to choose our main courses, she insisted that we choose a certain style of cooking. We even asked about the other methods, and she told us that they weren’t important because they weren’t as good as what she was recommending. Ok fine, whatever. Later that evening when we got the bill, we found out that the methods she recommended cost extra. Of course.

Throughout the evening, whenever we could get her to wait on us, she acted like she was doing us a favor. The eye-rolls and generally bitchiness probably did quite a bit to prepare me for when the girls are teenagers, but for my birthday party, it was no bueno. There were multiple empty glasses left on the table, we couldn’t get extra sauces, and she almost lit Leif’s hair on fire.

Yeah, you heard me.

We were just starting on second dessert (more on this in a minute), when our waitress lit a shot of alcohol on fire and poured it over our chocolate fondue. She held it too close to Leif’s hair, and the entire table gasped. Did she apologize? Act horrified at her ineptitude? Nope. She just said out loud, “I haven’t had knuckle hair in years! I can’t even have acrylics anymore, because they kept melting off.”

Appetizing.

Several of us speared some marshmallows and tried to toast them over the fire on the chocolate, and the lady pushed past us to stir the alcohol (along with the fire) into the chocolate. No toasted marshmallows for us, no apology or explanation from Suzie Sunshine.

So let me get back to the second dessert part of the evening. Remember all of those empty glasses on the table? As dessert was being set up, our waitress had to clear some of those away. She lifted one carelessly and abruptly, which resulted in a hard impact with the hanging pendant light.

Glass went everywhere. All over the table. All over our dishes. In my cleavage.

At least she apologized for that one. She started clearing the plates of dippers for the fondue, and wasn’t going to replace all of the dishes. Everyone at the table was frustrated at this point. We’d stopped ordering drinks because we didn’t want to give the restaurant any more of our business. In between picking bit of glass off of laps, out of hair, and from in between boobs, we insisted that everything be replaced.

After that came the fire and knuckle hair comment.

Finally got to the end of our evening and got the (ginormous) bill, where we learned that our specialty cooking styles had cost extra. We also discovered that we had been overcharged for a few drinks. Our waitress had ended her shift at that point, and the new guy taking care of us took the extra drink charges off, but said he couldn’t do anything about the cooking charges.

That’s when I said something I’ve never ever said before.

I’d like to speak with the manager.

He seemed the decent sort of guy, and apologized several times to everyone as we all regaled him with the story I just told you. I told him that normally I’d let it go, everyone has bad days, but the service was atrocious, and it being my birthday and all, I just couldn’t. He took the extra charges off our bill, gave us a 10% discount, and told us that he would have a talk with Miss Grouchy Pants.

Now Mr. Manager couldn’t see because his back was to the door, but our waitress (who we thought had left for the evening) poked her head in the room THREE times to angrily glare at us. We were just the teensiest bit skeered of her. Chick obviously has issues and is definitely in the wrong line of work.

So yeah, I agree with Mitt Romney (ack! Never thought I’d be typing that…) on the issue of firing people. I’m glad that I have the ability to fire people. It’s not fun. I wish everyone could just be awesome and not suck at his or her job. The world would be a better place, and all birthday parties would be splendiferous. But that’s not how the world works.

That restaurant is so totally fired.

Stacy McCain Flanked By Cute Chicks (What a Smile!)

My 27^th Birthday started with a bang, in a hotel room in Redondo Beach, with the guys from Big Government, Stacy McCain, and my good friend Brittany Cohan all singing me Happy Birthday as the clock struck midnight. Then we watched Red Eye, where we all witnessed the hideous gloriousness of the Shake Weight commercial for the first time.

Happy birthday to me.

Now that I’ve set that all up, I know you want to hear the story.

Back before Brittany became a RINO DC-insider working for the man RNC, she lived an hour up the road from me in Irvine. Our birthdays are two weeks apart, so for mine I was driving to her and she was taking me out, and for hers, we switched. I had plans to go up to Irvine on January 6^th, the day before my actual birthday.

That morning, Brittany called me and asked if I wanted to go to LA with her instead of just Irvine. That’s twice as long, Chica, what could possibly be in LA worth driving to?

“The guys from Big Government are going to be there. I got an invite. Andrew Breitbart might show up.”

Done and gone.

I was blogging away about politics at that point, but back then it was still a hobby and not a career. So this was a freaking big deal to me. I knew I had to make connections with people to get them to notice my stuff, and I just hoped that it was good enough to muster up.

You know my philosophy: Do good work and put it where people can see it.

Brittany and I went out to dinner in Irvine before heading up to Redondo, and I don’t remember what I had, except that it was delicious and I’m pretty sure it involved polenta. And wine. (I am who I am)

We headed up the 405, and met up with Stacy and a handful of others at some kitschy chain diner place. We sat and chatted with everyone, did the nice-to-meet-yous and the what-do-you-dos. Then we got kicked out of the restaurant because for some reason the employees wanted to go home after something called ‘closing time.’

So we hightailed it back to the hotel where this crowd was staying, and proceeded to occupy the bar. This is where Stacy made this embarrassingly awesome video of me saying, “Roll Tide!” which I’m fairly certain has something to do with college football. I mean, they were all there for the Rose Bowl. Did the Roll Tide team play in 2010? How many people reading this right now are rubbing their temples? Sorry people, I wear many hats, but sports enthusiast ain’t one of them.

Andrew never showed up, but I was having so much fun with these people that it didn’t matter too much. At one point, I was having this great conversation with some dude; I don’t remember what we were talking about, but he was wicked smart, funny as heck, and he laughed at my dumb jokes like he meant it.

“So how do you fit in with this group?” I asked him.

“Oh, I’m the Editor-in-Chief of Big Government.” He said like it was no big deal.

Ack! Be smart! Be cute! Be clever! Oh eff it, he seems like a nice guy and I’m having a blast.

For some insane reason, the hotel bar closed before midnight, but that doesn’t stop can-do individuals. We just moved the whole party to one of their hotel rooms and broke out the whiskey. And turned Fox News on in the background. That’s how conservatives party.

When Red Eye switched on, someone said, “Hey, is it midnight? It’s Jenny’s birthday! Let’s sing!” At that point everyone was singing, including the freaking editor-in-chief of Big Government (one of my favorite websites), someone was pouring me another drink, Brittany and I were having a ball, and I was generally feeling pretty fantastic about life.

And then.

The Shake Weight commercial came on, and I don’t know if it was the first time it ever ran, or it was just the first time any of us had seen it, but it was the big giant bow on top of my birthday present.

It was an awesome night.

I was on The Mark Davis Show on WBAP this morning, and it was fabulous. Mark and I got connected a few weeks ago on Twitter through his producer Susan and my bff Ashley who are friends. Since we’re both in Iowa right now, Mark graciously invited me on his show, live in (a makeshift) studio.

We talked about how I got started in blogging and the beauty of the free market on the internet, moms in politics, and guns.

And since I’ve been asked a zillion times, yes, Mark Davis is one of Rush’s Marks.

Also I have the same birthday as Rush – January 7.

That should count for something.

I’m not sure what though.

Happy listening!

20120103_Mark Davis with Jenny Erikson

A couple of years ago, Leif went off to hang out with some guy friends to sit around a bon fire and smoke cigars, drink brandy, and talk about manly things like power tools and video games. My husband picked up a friend on the way, who happens to be married to one of my friends, so she and I had a marathon phone chat date once our respective kids were in bed or otherwise out of our hair.

Eventually, the boys texted to say they were on the way home, and my friend and I got off the phone. It took Leif way longer to get home than it should have. I was still trying to decide whether to be mad or worried at him taking so long, and mulling over that decision with (another) glass of wine when he finally walked in the door.

“What took you so long??”

“I got pulled over.”

Horrified, I gasped, “Did you get a DUI?”

“Yes, Honey. Then they let me get back in the car and drive home.”

Oh. Total blonde moment.

Anyway, we were headed home from wine tasting drinking with friends yesterday when traffic came to a standstill two blocks from our house. We had been driving for 45 minutes, I was not the least bit sober, and Thing 2 had been crying most of the way, because apparently that’s what she does now. Leif had had some wine earlier, but he was my designated driver, so he was careful to stay within his limits.

A block away from our house, the police had set up a sobriety checkpoint.

Since I’m me, I immediately notified Twitter of the atrocity, and then told Thing 1 to keep her lips absolutely zipped, and if she said one word out loud, I’d send her new bike back to the North Pole. I could just imagine, “But Daddy, you did drink wine!” and I had no desire to explain to Mr. Just-Doing-His-Unconstitutional-Job-Policeman that that had been hours ago.

She just nodded. Even Thing 2 stopped crying. It must have been a really good mom look.

We finally pulled up for our turn. Leif rolled his window down.

“Evenin’, Sir,” said the officer.

“Evenin’,” responded my sober husband. I kept my mouth shut, because if I opened it, I probably would’ve gone off on the fourth amendment and unreasonable searches and seizures.

“Have you been drinking tonight?”

Two heartbeats later, Leif answered, “Yes.”

Gah.

The officer peered into my husband’s drained face, saw eyes glassy from listening to a three-year-old scream for 45 minutes straight, and I swear he was about to ask him to get out of the car and take a sobriety test, which of course he would’ve passed, but we all just really wanted to get home at that point.

I did the only thing I could do. I snorted. “I’d hardly call one glass of wine four hours ago drinking, Honey. Officer, if I were driving, you’d totally have to arrest me, but my husband is my designated driver tonight.”

The dude looked at me, and then suspiciously back to Leif. Thing 2, bless her heart, chose that minute to start screaming again. The officer looked in the back seat at the children, one of which had obviously been crying for some time, then back to us.

“Get your family home safely and have a good night.”

30 seconds later, we pulled in the driveway, threw the girls into bed, turned on How I Met Your Mother, and banished Leif’s sobriety with some more wine.

Bah humbug to illegal DUI checkpoints.

Circa 1983 with my two big brothers. Jeff is the one holding me. Greg is wearing a Return of the Jedi shirt. My younger brother Steve hasn't been born yet.

My brother Jeff died 26 years ago today. Six days before Christmas. Nineteen days before I turned three. I remember him a little bit, but they’re probably memories of memories at this point, clung to and worn into soft fuzziness over the years.

I sat on his teenage shoulders to pick oranges, and then I stood on a chair in the kitchen while he let me ‘help’ him squeeze them into juice.

He let me pluck the strings on his guitar.

I stood at the baby gate during naptime and cried for him. I didn’t need no stinkin’ nap.

A car hit him. It was a random accident that caused a head injury that took his life. I remember this part; it’s been cauterized into my brain, made even more poignant now that I have my own children. I didn’t witness it, but I heard my mother screaming.

If you’ve never heard a mother screaming as she’s realized tragedy has struck her child, I don’t recommend it. The movies got nothin’ on real life, man.

I don’t know how my parents bore the loss of their eldest child. Growing up, having a dead sibling in the family was ‘normal’ to me, because I barely knew any different. But my parents knew. And they survived.

They put on genuine happy faces the days each of their other three children turned fifteen, the age Jeff never reached. They gave us great Christmases every year full of friends and family, even though this season marks the anniversary of his death. We went on vacations booked for five instead of six.

I never fully appreciated it until I became a mama myself. I know my kids drive me bonkers sometimes, but I don’t know how I could go on living if something were to happen to one of them. My parents didn’t just live. They thrived.

Mom and Dad, thanks for being such rockin’ parents in the face of tragedy. You guys could’ve shut down, you could’ve split, you could’ve become lost, but you never did. You taught me how to be a parent, and how to take a deep breath when life gets rough, because no matter how bad things may seem, my children didn’t die today. How can I not pull myself together over spilt milk, when you did it over death?

I love you guys. I’ll go hug your grandbabies now, and tell them funny stories about their Uncle Jeff.

He will always be missed.

So every few weeks, I get into this strange mood where absolutely everything and anything bugs the crud out of me, and even though I know I should just let the nail polish spilled all over the bathroom by Thing 2 go, I end up softly banging my head on the wall while counting backwards from 100.

Then I remember that I’m a chick and I have hormones. So I pour a glass of wine and lock myself in the bedroom while the children proceed to absolutely destroy the house and I attempt to regain my sanity. As a warning, I might even g-chat Leif at work:

I am nothing if not considerate.

Then Ashley will ping me with some fascinating factoid about the dangers of sex swings (so she’s heard*) and how real friends will help you move bodies. In five-inch heels. In the mud. Everyone should have a friend like Ashley. But you can’t have her. She’s mine. Go find your own Ashley.

See? I’m totally moody. And apparently possessive.

Then Larry will ping me and tell me that my segment on his show is popular, and that will cheer me up, and also remind me that I have actual work I need to be doing, like writing about the crazy train that is Glenn Beck, but then the kids need feeding, cleaning, and tucking into bed, which requires another glass of wine and not a small number of deep breaths and then they’re down and wow two glasses of wine when I forgot to have lunch is a bit much so maybe I’ll make a sandwich first because I’m obsessed with sandwiches and that sounds perfect and tasty and delicious — and oh my gosh just go to bed and stay there!**

Finally finally finally get the kids settled (I think they were a wee bit skeered of Mean Mommy), sandwich made and consumed, and sat down at my computer. And then this post came out of my head instead of the one I was supposed to write.

I was going to write more (maybe) but Leif just came home. With more wine.

I’m outs.

*Don’t worry Ashley’s mom. It was purely contextual, I swear.

**This is what us professional writers call a run-on sentence. I’m using it purely as an example here of what you should never do when writing professionally. Or something.

So. I’m running this half marathon tomorrow. I am not a runner. Except that I guess now I am.

I’m also not a pundit. Except that I guess now I am.

I booked a flight to Iowa yesterday, because I decided that I wanted to go to the caucus. I called eleventy billion people (and you know how I feel about that), asked a ton of dumb questions, and somehow made it happen.

Because I am a total professional, people.

You know that scene in Legally Blonde, when the dad from Alias turns to the cute Owen brother and says of Elle, “Do you think she just woke up one morning and said, ‘I think I’ll go to law school today’?”

That is the story of my life.

I woke up one day and decided to be a runner. Just like I decided to opine about politics a few years ago. I’ve always been opinionated, into politics, and snarky as all get out; I just decided to put it out there.

Then one day I got an email from an editor asking if I would like to have a column on a new site being launched, and oh, by the way, how much did I charge? Charge? Like money? Real money I can use to buy shoes and wine? Yes. Please.

Bam. Just like that, I was a real professional. A really real one. With a paycheck and everything.

Now I’m involved with some really cool people. MomThink. The Stir. MomsMatter. Breitbart. I get to go to cool places and meet cool people.

The moral of the story? Fake ii ‘til you make it. What’s the worst that could happen? Someone will laugh at you? Someone will say no to a request? You might die at mile 9? Oh wait, that’s going to be me tomorrow.

Don’t let people tell you that you can’t do things. Don’t ever think, “I could never do that.” I know this sounds all after school special-ish, but if there’s something you want to do, go do it. You want to go to law school? Apply. You want to learn kung fu? Sign up for classes. Want to fly? There’s pilot training for that.

Don’t occupy Wall Street the sidelines. Go live life. Learn new things. Acquire new skills. Work hard. Play hard. Don’t let life pass you by. Because seriously, if I can be a runner, anything is possible.

This morning after Thing 1 was dropped off at school, and Thing 2 was dropped off at Bible study with Gramma (Thanks Mom!), I decided to hit Panera at the mall. I had errands to run there, and an hour to kill before the stores opened, and I was hungry, and I had my laptop with me, so Panera was the perfect place to park it.

I went inside and ordered a breakfast sandwich and a nonfat chai tea latte (I only like coffee if it’s in ice cream), and then get this: I gave them money that I had earned through working, and then they brought me breakfast. It was great. No one forced them to feed me, and I wasn’t forced to be there. I was there because I like Panera; they served me with a smile because I paid them to do so.

Contemplating the beauty of capitalism, I had to tweet about it:

Because I love Twitter. And I’m addicted to it.

After I ate my lovely breakfast and got some work done (so I can go to Panera again in the future), I embarked upon my errands.

First, I had to get some charms added to my charm bracelet that Leif got me for Christmas last year. It’s totally sentimental and silly and I absolutely love it. Among the charms are a wine bottle, a palm tree, and a heart painted with stars and stripes. Again, I love capitalism. You think Soviet wives under Stalin got charm bracelets for Christmas? No way! They were lucky not to starve to death.

Next up was a return. I bought this shirt and cardigan thingy over the summer from Nordstrom. It was a splurge purchase for me, in celebration of one of my best contracts being renewed. Because the pieces were so nice, I always dry-cleaned them, even though the labels said I could hand wash in cold water. Then a couple of weeks ago, I decided to go last minute to Vegas to see the CNN GOP debate, and I didn’t have time to hit the cleaners. So I hand washed them. And they shrank. Like a lot.

I still had my receipt, so I took the clothes back to Nordstrom and told the sales girl exactly what had happened. “Oh, I hate when that happens!” she shared while she returned the items and credited my Visa, no questions asked.

One of the reasons I love Nordstrom and choose to shop there is because of their exceptional customer service. Again, viva la capitalism! In fact, I was so thrilled with the transaction that I immediately went to the girls’ department and spent the money on Christmas dresses for the girls. They’re teal and velvety and I know they’re going to love them and look adorable in them.

After I left the mall, I knew that I needed to find a place to buy some new running shoes. I loathe Sports Authority something fierce, so I avoid it at all costs. Why do I hate it so? Because the employees act like they’re doing me a favor by even glancing my way. Hello, I’m trying to give you money in exchange for goods; can I get a little help here? Anyone? Bueller?

No thanks.

There’s this store I’ve seen near my house that looks like a boutique running store. I was worried that they wouldn’t have a big selection, or that everything would be overpriced, but in the spirit of trying new things and supporting small businesses, I thought I’d give it a try.

It was wonderful! The sales guy was an avid runner, and asked me all about my routine, he measured my arches, checked for pronation, and brought out several different styles for me to try. After each one, he asked what I liked and what could be better. He and the owner (who was nearby at the counter) made small talk and cracked jokes, and even said I had good running form.

I left with a reasonably priced pair of kicks and the satisfaction of having supported a small business with an awesome work ethic. I’ll be going back there for all of my running needs.

The whole morning of business transactions made me so grateful for capitalism. I get to do a job that I love, and I get to choose where to spend the money I earn. These Occupy kids have no idea how the world works, with their stupid ideas about government regulations fixing everything. That never works.

Capitalism isn’t perfect, but regulation through free-choice spending is the best option we’ve got.