Love, Hungarian American Style
Sometimes teens remember the good stuff, too.

One man's fashion failure, another mom's super suit.

As a mom of 3 girls -- oh, and a boy who understands the correlation between the changing phases of the moon and its affect on female behavior as more than just a survival tactic -- I believe in the restorative powers of comfort food, especially in the wintertime.

This same line of reasoning, however, does NOT always translate well with clothes.

For example: my husband hates, Hates, HAtes, HATes, HATEs, HATES it when I try to explain away my wearing distressed jeans, most especially when I am super stressed.

Aaaaaand, if these back-to-back snowstorms don't quit it soon, I may NEVER take them off, because asshats multiply in the snow.

This week, it snowed (A LOT!) and it was STILL SNOWING when my middle girl texted to tell me she needed a ride to her internship gig, because her carpooling friend decided to stick it out at school and just take the bus home, smart girl.

On the other hand, my kid is struggling with calculus (it's okay, she knows it!) and would rather NOT have to stay in school, any longer than necessary, anyways.

Plus, she LOVES her mentorship with our county's council for fine arts...me, too.

I then did the math, because it is NOT calculus: 24.6 miles to her school, 17.1 miles back to the theater, 11.3 miles back home again...rinse...repeat...[sound of brakes, screeching]...I'm just glad Google maps is not interactively live, because it would be looking for a puke bucket, right about now.

"Hon-NEY, where ARE my SUPER stressed pair of jeans?!?"

Long story, short: both my husband and my oldest daughter offered to make the run for me, but I chose to put my big girl pants on...actually, they are capris...and texted my middle girl to let the theater know we may be a little late, because I will be driving very, like in very, verrrrrrrrrrrrrrry, slooooooooooooooowly.

And then I figured on spending the next couple of hours just sitting in my car...yes, I am THAT good at planning out stuff that allows me the opportunity to NOT drive in the snow...maybe even read a book or something.

Then the sun came out, or at least I think it was the sun (later confirmed with my friends on Facebook and Instagram!) but I wasn't ready to go home, because KILLER DUST BUNNIES!!! 

So I decided to drive the 2.6 miles to Trader Joe's, because I have never been and...well...now I know...OMG, COOKIE BUTTER!!!

"Excuse me, but where is your ladies room?"

I get REALLY excited sometimes, then I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror:

Me and my stresssed jeans

Here is Liz, ladies and gentlemen: she's wearing her favorite SUPER stressed jeans, her husband's puffy-insulated-type-sweatshirt thingy, along with her oldest daughter's furry boots...because they were just long enough to cover up the fact that she is actually wearing capris pants...and...YES...the girl can work her dorkside, for sure.

Aaaaaaand, I would like to take this moment to publicly apologize to the woman standing in front of me at Shop Rite, who I judged as being high maintenance (North Face jacket, Ugg boots, Louis Vuitton bag) the night before.

I was wrong and I am very, very sorry. You just go ahead and keep working it...GIRRRRRL!!!

To the asshats who continually insist on riding my bumper...during a snowstorm...in the slow lane...feel free to continue to BITE ME!!!

Stupid polar vortex, dumbass winter.

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