DELILAH DIOR DOMINICA

What is this, you say? That a blog lover and grammar/literary lover has misspelled a simple word? In her title , no less?  Don't fret, I have a point. My husband is the very greatest. I have enormous feet . You have heard them here before, but how do these tie together? For the Bye-Week, my bubs and I went to NYC. What is NYC without a stroll in Central Park? And what is a stroll in NYC in the fall without a great pair of boots? (Is it all coming together yet?) I tend to pack very impractically. Being the stylist I am, I always think I have done an incredible job laying out the weeks clothing, only to find seventeen shirts, sixty pairs of underwear, shoes for opposing seasons and a skirt or something. I never get better. For this particular trip, I got a great pair of boots. They had the bones for something wonderful and I was sure they would accompany my feet in countless adventures. Out of pure excitement, I wore them to my hair appointment the day before our trip. Can I pl

A whole lot has happened since the last post, and joyful praise have been raised up from this spirit of mine for the past few days non-stop. Why? Well, because our God is so good. Also, because I have great news. A warning, this will be long , but is a way to answer everyone at once. First off: No, I am not pregnant. For the past few years I have been plagued with stomach and health problems. I have always had a sensitive stomach (I blame my incredible mother...) but 2008-2011 have presented a brand new set of problems that I knew was not just sensitivity. Intense nausea, powerful migraines and lack of appetite have danced across my days unannounced for three years. People wrote it off as me being stressed, under pressure, and even anorexic. (Please, take one look at me...then re-think the anorexia assumption.) I, however, know my body. I absolutely knew something was wrong. On my first date with my husband, actually, I was just finishing a detox prescribed by a nutritionist to

Out of all the strands of DNA that make me who I am, I do not have a single molecule of ‘cool.’  Not one. I don't mean trendy with good hair and impeccable fashion sense; no, that is not the kind of 'cool' I am talking about. I mean I do not have not a single ounce of the 'chill' cool in me. I was never the cool-chick girlfriend and I am not the cool-chick wife. I'm not the girl doing shots with her husband or whipping out the worm (is that cool?) If things do not go as planned, you won't find me sitting back with the "everything will be fine, life throws some curve balls" mentality. I cry. Although I have always craved to wake up as the easy going-version of myself (she has to be in there somewhere ..) I close my eyes and picture doing things that that entail and I just cringe. I have accepted it, I am a little lame. I am a master of drastic - and incorrect assumptions. I am constantly convinced everyone has a gun strapped to their thigh, and a