About Me

I am Kenna, married to Steve, mommy to Carter. I work full time at the fragrance company I started. My son comes to work with me most days, and as soon as we get home each night, life turns into laundry, dishes, dinner, and diapers. I rarely have time to get it all done before I crawl in bed to spend my last few waking minutes remembering that I am also an artist, musician, graphic designer, crafter, internet junkie, writer, and movie buff. Maybe tomorrow I'll have time to actually do them.

My favorite thing to do is laugh with my husband and cuddle my son. I blog for many reasons: a creative outlet, to wrap my mind around my thoughts, to remember the little things, to preserve my muses, and of course, to read your comments... so please leave them!

If you think you're my family member or friend, and want access to the "my family" section of this blog, email me at kennalyn1 at gmail dot com and I'll send you an email with the password.

Following are my other online contributions:
Urban Botanic
DesignCandy.net
Homemade-Spa
Domestication In Progress

Elle's Guitar Recital

Friday night I went to my 10 year old sister, Elle's guitar recital. It was so cool to see her on the stage strumming away! It's weird to me that I was just about her age when I started guitar lessons - and that she's now learning some of the songs that I learned during my lessons! Pretty soon we'll writing songs together :)

Here's a cute video of her on stage with her guitar. The loud voice you hear is her teacher, who needed to sing that loud to be a crutch for the students. But check out those mad skillz! Those base runs! That's my little sister!

How to Annoy Me

Stand right in front of me in line at Old Navy. When it's your turn to go up to the only working register, spend 18.5 minutes explaining to the sales person that you were shopping in the store on Saturday, and while reaching for a pair of cargo pants high on the wall, you fell and you'd like to speak to someone straightaway about receiving some sort of settlement from Old Navy.

Or if that's not your style, you could also try being the sales person at Old Navy and not clueing into the fact that the lady talking to you already wants to sue you so it's probably a lost cause to scramble to find the right information to give her. She'll never become a faithful shopper again. Don't even pay attention to the fact that there's a huge line of dedicated shoppers waiting for your service.

How to charm me:

Stand right behind me in line and after 15 minutes call out "Do you mind if I check out real quick while you're figuring out that it's your lawyer you need to talk to, and not the sales clerk?" I almost - ALMOST - asked for her email so we could be friends. Virtual BFFs.

The Davis Brand

Back when bodily functions were a regular topic of discussion on the playground, farts were said to have a specific "brand", that brand being your family's namesake. For instance, everyone in the Thompson family has the same brand of farts. They all smell the same. So I'd like to pose a question. Do family brandings come about because of genetics - same makeup of bodily acids and other digestive fluids... or is it simply because those in a family unit generally eat the same foods? Before getting married I was sure it was because families eat the same food, which is different from their neighbors food. However, now that Steve and I have been eating the same foods (at least for dinner) for the last four years, I'm convinced it's genetics mainly, with perhaps foods as a very small factor. Why? I have never mustered a Gordon fart and still consider myself completely incapable.

The Great Escape

So, lately, we've been walking in the door from work to find that Dino has somehow let himself out of his room. There's no way he can jump the gate, it's 3 feet tall and he's 3 inches tall. We tried everything down to rigging the gate with poster board so he'd have no traction when trying to climb... only to find that he still somehow escaped, poster board untouched and in perfect condition.

Undoubtedly, Dino is acrobatically inclined, but still whines for help getting up and down from our 1.5 foot high couches. Is he really THAT smart? Climbing walls and jumping 3 feet in the air when we're not home and pretending he can't climb the curb in the driveway while we're there?

We finally caught him. So now, his punishment: I shall exploit his agile ways and he will be my trick monkey from now until the day he dies.

Click here to watch the video.

And you can't see it in the video, but when he landed, it was on all four feet, perfectly, and then he immediately bounced back up for the finish: on two legs with his front paws posed straight in the air.

Self-Contained Underwater Breathing Apparatus

Steve and I recently took a Scuba certification class. The rest of the class is certified as of a few weeks ago. But I am not. I went to the crater on the first day of the certification test to have one of the most traumatic experiences of my life thus far and needless to say, didn’t show up for the second day of certification.

Ask any experienced scuba diver and they will tell you the most important thing to master in scuba diving is buoyancy. More specifically neutral buoyancy, which, when achieved, will allow you to neither float nor sink in the water. If you are not neutrally buoyant, you can sink or float rather quickly without knowing it, which is bad because if you don’t know that you are changing depth, then you won’t adjust your mask, ears, etc to compensate, which could result in serious injury.

So back to our class (where we weren’t taught anything about buoyancy, other than reading a paragraph about it in the textbook… no application): Our first several dives were in the swimming pool. Easy. Then comes the final class certification at a crater/hot spring nearby. The first day of certification entails two dives: a 25 foot dive and a 40 foot dive. During the 25 foot dive, because I was told to use 18 lbs of weight while practicing at the pool, I sunk. Fast. Without knowing it, because on top of being a crater with limited visibility, it was also 10pm and I couldn’t tell up from down, or find the rest of the group. I in fact thought I was going toward the surface, when really I was sinking. Finally an instructor on the dive found me – this is after my common sense had switched off – I’m already screaming swearwords and sobbing into my regulator – oh and voluntarily taking my regulator out of my mouth only to continue breathing as if the water were air.

So my first dive was somewhere around 45 feet, while the rest of the group dove to 20 feet. I had so much weight on, the only way to get to the surface was by inflating my BC (buoyancy compensator - vest full of air) so full that it slipped up around my neck once I got to the surface. This is why I didn’t participate in the second dive. And I haven’t shown my face in class ever since. I’m not generally a quitter in situations like this, but I’m so pissed off at the instructors (who were recently fired because others had similar experiences) for not even checking my buoyancy or giving me a chance to adjust it once we were under water. In fact, they were yelling at me to hurry up and get in the water. What if I had, I don’t know, forgot to turn my air on in my rush to comply and get in the water asap?

The owner of the scuba shop has agreed to work one-on-one with me until I’m certified. That’s a nice gesture and all, but do I care about being certified now? Do I EVER see myself enjoying scuba? “Getting” scuba? Taking scuba trips? I am scuba-ruined. Should I give it another try one-on-one? Help me.

Blaze Me, Baby

I was recently reminded of the reason my parents named me McKenna, here. At one point, the top baby name on the list was Erin (which I feel is no match for my personality) until my parents saw the movie Somewhere In Time, where Jane Seymour played a character named Elise McKenna and I’ll let you finish the story in your own head. But that’s not so important as what my destiny would be, had I been given the Y chromosome. If I had been a boy, the plan was to bestow the name Blazer upon me. Every time I remember this interesting fact about me, I’m thrown into a deep quandary about my destiny, which sadly and quite obviously would have been the choice between a Chippendale dancer and an American Gladiator. Which would I choose? This is the quandary. So much is in a name.

So Long, Ace

I've really enjoyed some of my fellow bloggers' reviews on American Idol (you can see them here and here) but I haven't been one for writing a review myself until today. Because FINALLY America has pulled their heads out and realized that ACE is an awful performer and it's time to go home. I couldn't be more exhilirated. So long, farewell, au revoir, auf Wiedersehen!

Mother Very Earnestly Makes Jam Sandwiches Under No Protest

I always love it when Oprah blows the lid off of hidden crises in America, especially when it’s not a political statement in disguise. She did a two-part special this week on the lack of education in our public school systems; a situation I believe is epidemic.

As of right this second, 735,828 kids have dropped out of school since January 1^st and the number goes up every minute. Our nation used to be ranked among the highest in most educational subjects and now we are in the high 20s in many subjects including math and science. It’s about expectations in the schooling system: there are none. We hear so much lip service from political leaders about the educational system so we think something is being done. It must just be kids these days. But it wasn’t too long ago that I was in high school and I’m telling you… the crappiest of kids – the ones who make you say “kids these days,” would rise to the occasion if more was expected of them.

Case in point: I was always among my teachers’ favorite students. But I was an awful student! I refused to do meaningless busy work for the grade, and if I felt the curriculum for the day was lame, I’d skip class and go to Barnes & Noble, my happy place (smell of coffee and books). What happened when I admittedly (to my teachers, even!) skipped class (sometimes 3 days per week)? Well I would confess lightheartedly and because of that, my teachers would laugh. THEY DIDN’T CARE! I held a 3.8 GPA all throughout high school and the only class I didn’t regularly skip was choir.

I learned about a charter school called KIPP. They’ve developed a totally non-conventional way of teaching kids. I watched and cried and wished there was a KIPP school in our area while my brother was going to school. My brother, who everyone said had severe learning disabilities but now I feel has NO learning disability. The real problem was the teaching system in his schools werejust created in 1956 and never since changed. His teachers didn’t truly care and the curriculum didn’t allow for higher methods of teaching. I have to think, no, I know, my brother’s life would be a lot different if he had gone to a school like KIPP.

To my 5^th grade teacher’s credit, although I couldn’t until yesterday recite the state capitols, or point out 15% of the states on the map, or tell you the first five presidents of the United States, I did somehow remember – and the memory came busting through out of no where; I mean I swear the memory didn’t exist, it was like my mind was creating it as it sang so loudly from my lips…that Mother Very Earnestly Makes Jam Sandwiches Under No Protest: Mercury, Venus, Earth, Mars, Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus, Neptune, Pluto.

Although, like the entire US education system, this acronym needs a serious re-vamp with all the planets they’re discovering lately. They named them “Santa”, “Easter Bunny”, and “Sedna”. I bet God is so displeased.

Go visit StandUp

Completely Unaware Of His Size - or Lack Thereof

Sorry, I’ve been gone a while. Life got a little crazy for a bit – Urban Botanic did a bridal expo – The Bridal Extravaganza. Then I took a trip to Grand Junction for Urban Botanic. Add to that a website re-vamp, tons more on my plate, and a new addition to the family:

Dino - The Tiny Warrior

We have been taking Dino around to meet his cousins. At each new house we enter he immediately starts shaking in my arms as if a big, bad, ugly monster were screaming in his face. This lasts about two minutes and when he finally settles I put him nose to nose with the dog he’s meeting. They sniff each others’ faces for about 30 seconds and then I put him on the floor so they can sniff each others’ butts.

Last night we took him to meet Gina & Eric's immaculately trained Dobermans, Zephyr and Liv. After the butt sniffing stage, Dino surprisingly decided he wanted to play with Liv. He would jump up, nip Liv’s nose, and then instantly retreat 20 steps the opposite direction as fast as he could run, certain that Liv would retaliate. Then when he realized he wasn’t being chased, he’d craaawl slowly on his stomach commando-style until he was a few inches from her feet and then hunker down, jump, nip, and retreat in one speedy, hilarious movement.

Now Googled

I try to Google myself all the time and can't seem to make myself show up as a result (at least on the first 99 pages of search results, with results per page set to 100).

...UNTIL TODAY!!! I haven't changed my website in 10 months. I haven't changed one image or one word of copy and there, today, there it is! And not only did Google find me, they like me best!

So everyone go. Go Google the keywords "Urban Botanic" and see for yourselves that I am the very first, number one, top, top, top, search result!

Now you're all thinking I'm excited for nothing because of course my own company will show up as a search result if I google the very name of the company. But really - 10 months of nothing and now this?

So when you google me, if you click on that first (TOP, TOP, TOP) link, you may find yourself disappointed that you're brought to a glorified business card we've been calling a website but come back in 4-6 weeks. We're working on a re-vamp that will Blow. Your. Mind.

SCUBA KENNA

Carnivore

Last night I was at the computer blogging when I heard Steve's voice say "whoa!" from the other room. Then he paused the TV and said:

"In ancient Roman feasts, they would roast a chicken stuffed inside a duck stuffed inside a goose stuffed inside a pig stuffed inside a cow!!!"

I say, "I'm gonna barf"

He says, "That sounds soooo good!"

My First Trip to the Chiropractor and, Gosh, At Least a Hundred Surprises

First of all, a helpful note to the ovary-toting half of the human race (and any men who typically prefer wearing women’s underwear): opt out of the under-wire for chiropractic appointments. Some may already know this tip, but for those who don’t, you’re welcome in advance. I have just prevented the following conversation from taking place in your life:

Dr.: Ok Steve, McKenna, I have your X-Rays here, let us take a look.

Steve: Look he’s putting both up so we can compare.

Kenna: Ten bucks I’m worse off than you. OK how do we tell which one is mine and which is St- – ohhh there are my boobs.

Steve: Nice, they’re totally accentuated with the under-wire from your bra.

Dr.: uhh yes. The uhh breasts do make apparent in the x-ray.

Kenna: Clearly. Look how hot my body looks with all the fat removed!

Steve: I guess boobs aren’t made of fat because they didn’t disappear.

Dr.: So! As you can see here, the arc of life has started to straighten out behind the neck…

Like I said… some may already know this tip. For the rest of you, now you know and you’re welcome.

Although it may not provide any additional tips for my two readers, let’s finish chronicling the appointment, shall we?

The doctor excused himself because he needed to quickly go jump on someone’s back and he wanted us to watch a 15 minute video made in 1974: an introductory to chiropractics, if you will. I don’t remember much at all about the video except I do remember the part where we got to watch a baby being born from the view of the crotch-cam. Apparently being born is the first time your nervous system gets jacked up from the bones in your back being jostled and I’d like to take this opportunity to thank my parents for not sitting me down when I got home from school on the day of the maturation program to show me the crotch-cam from when I was born because I’m telling you, my neurosis would have reared its ugly head that very day and I would have missed out on many years of ignorant bliss.

Because you people had to ask, "Why shreklovesfiona?"

Could it be any more perfect a name?

The Post Where My Dad's Computer Explodes

Everyone comment with name suggestions for our new little mini-chihuahua! He's only 2 weeks old right now... we get him in 4 weeks!

Evil Sometimes Feels Good

There are three simple, unspoken, but widely understood rules to automatic carwash etiquette:

1. Any rules subject to standing in any line, be it grocery or otherwise, duly apply. This includes any decorum regarding butting, and the ever popular “I’m reading a magazine an aisle away but I’m clearly still in line, which I’m making apparent to you by establishing eye contact every 10 seconds, so don’t you dare take one step forward” act. (And yes, I have found these examples to take place while in line for the carwash - astonishing, I know.)
   
   
2. If your carwash of choice kindly provides a soapy bucket and brush for you to scrub off any cemented-on dirt before entering, please promptly cease said scrubbing when it becomes your turn to enter the wash. Put the brush down, get in your car, and enter the wash.
   

3. When it’s your turn to enter the wash, wait for the person before you to finish their drying cycle before pulling forward. This prevents your undercarriage wash from re-soaking the car ahead of you. And please also be respectful if the neurotic in front of you feels it’s necessary to sit there for all 49 seconds allotted for the dryer.
   

Today was agitating and it’s entirely my fault. I slept not only through my alarm, but through 1.5 hours of my alarm, on volume 19 nonetheless (out of 20). So I skipped breakfast for time's sake. Then I skipped lunch because I was playing the “I’ll go in 10 minutes” game all afternoon. By 4pm I had the starvation migraine. By 5pm I had a lethal case of rancor. By 5:30 I was pushing the button to add the Extreme carwash to my gas fill up – and none too thrilled, still.

I pulled out of pump 6, aimed straight for the carwash entrance. Ahead of me at pump 2, is an ornery looking 40 something man with sprayed-on hair just getting back into his car. He starts his car, pedal fully down before the engine even has a chance to turn over, and slips neatly into the carwash line as I break (oh WHY did I break?) to avoid an incident. As if that’s not enough, Mr. Slickspray actually LOOKS for my reaction in his mirror.

U T T E R.....R A G E.....E N S U E S

I wave and smile the cheesiest smile I can muster. I won’t go into detail about how he had to enter his wash code three times before he got it right, (and I gave him a “thumbs up” out my window for it) or how, after getting his front wheel perfectly in that little ridge that starts the carwash, still backed up twice to reposition himself. I sat there and thought that it’s unfortunate we’re in cars and not in the grocery line where I could audibly clear my throat over and over while staring at the back of his crackled-paint bald spot and wishing I had the guts to huck my gum on it. No, we were sound-and-krusty-proof to each other. I’d have to get creative.

So, in lieu of common courtesy, I violated automatic carwash rule number three. And no, I didn’t
wait until the 45^th second. In fact I didn’t wait until the first second. I simply pretended to be as ignorant as he was in the ways of the day-to-day carwash, and gosh, I got mixed up on which “Drive Forward” I was supposed to read. Apparently I read his Drive Forward sign instead of mine and rode his bumper all the way out the door. He did pause for about 3 seconds in the dryer but gave up after he realized my under-carriage wash was spewing mud and winter salt every which way.

and then…

my ultimate retribution…

a big shiny present with a billowing pink bow and it smelled like chocolate and peanut butter…

Mr. Slickspray waved the evil finger at me through his rear-view mirror.

And then I had French Toast for dinner to celebrate.

Oh Baby

Tiny baby or huge hands?

awww

And here it is: The top ten love songs playlist

Trust Me (This is Love) - Amanda Marshall. Love allows people to grow stronger during trials if they choose. This song is your cheerleader.

You’re My Home - Billy Joel. “You’re my castle you’re my cabin and my instant pleasure-dome I need you in my house ‘cause you’re my home.”

That’s All – Rod Stewart. This one perfectly illustrates that golden vision of love you have before you actually get married and realize there’s little time for country walks in springtime. But I still get fuzzy when I hear this song and I’m reminded we can still create at least some gold leaf in between work and dishes and laundry and life. I love Nat King Cole’s and Rod Stewart’s equally.

Come To Me - Celine Dion. This song feels like the way my mom gives love – her heart has always been my beacon home.

The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face - George Michael. Go on and hate me, but I can’t stand the Roberta Flack version of this song. This song should be sung like you eat chocolate: slow enough you can taste every word.

Push - Sarah Mclachlan. Kristen puts it best: “A deeply haunting melody and the truest love song I’ve ever heard.”

Goodbye My Lover - James Blunt. Unbearably sad but core-alteringly romantic. (I’m aware “alteringly” isn’t a word.)

The Very Thought Of You - Nat King Cole. This one could whisk anyone away to a slow dance with their lover. You know that little spot your head rests and you can smell his skin and feel him breathe? Oh no, I sound like Delilah. I just shaved my tongue with a razor blade. There, that should even the tone again. (You’re welcome, Ryan) (You know what Ryan, quit rolling your eyes and just be glad I didn’t include Karen Carpenter, because I was this close to including Karen Carpenter.)

Better Together - Jack Johnson. Jack doesn’t claim he can’t breathe the air without you, he’s not saying there ain’t no sunshine when she’s gone, he’s not saying he was a miserable self-loathing goat before you came around. He’s simply saying we make each other better. Evenly. Not 90% me, 10% you or the other way around.

Everything – Lifehouse. “How can I stand here with you and not be moved by you?”
______________________________________

Just missed the cut:
Home – Michael Bublé
You’re Still You – Josh Groban
Stacy’s Mom – Fountains of Wayne
Come What May – Nicole Kidman & Ewan McGregor

Shallow Single Girl, BBKF, and Love Songs

“Dear Diary,

I was at the gym this morning and there was a sad chubby girl on the treadmill to the left of me. Maybe she was so sad because she has hundreds of miles to jog before she’ll be able to vacuum the living room without panting. Anyway, she started crying while walking on the treadmill. I wouldn’t have noticed if 1) I hadn’t left my headphones in the car and 2) reading lips from re-runs of Friends episodes wasn’t such an impossible feat. Nothing left to do besides watch people. As if crying weren’t strange enough, as soon as she realized I was watching her, some freak, startled movement of her arm sent her iPod flying out of the cup-holder. I looked over just in time to see the earphones being yanked from her ears, and whipped into the air to follow the pink, click-wheeled blur that had already passed over my head, well on its way to its landing place on the back of the treadmill to my right. The treadmill belt carried the iPod to the floor as Sad Chubby Embarrassed Girl looked at me and laughed, “I’m destined to make an ass of myself.” Then she stepped off her treadmill, fetched her iPod, and continued her workout as if nothing had happened.”

Such could be the journal entry of the skinny girl on the treadmill to the right of me this morning. Who, by the way, was wearing a highly offensive amount of perfume and hairspray for the gym, which is how you can tell if someone is extremely single, shallow, and on the hunt for a man with big muscles. It’s a foolproof test, because there's no other reason to look and smell like that at the gym. See, even if you had just come from, say, a black tie banquet at 6 in the morning, and weren’t an extremely single, shallow, and on the hunt for a man with big muscles type of girl, you would wash your face and pull your hair into a pony before frolicking off to sweat your pits out. But I digress.

First of all… skinny, single, shallow girl’s journal entry would have been a lot more interesting had she known the name of my iPod is “Boo Boo Kitty Freak” (hereafter referred to as “BBKF”). Secondly, I was crying on the treadmill for you, dear reader. Why you ask? Let’s start from the beginning:

The Celebrity Playlist section of iTunes is shortly becoming a nuisance to my stash of iTunes gift certificates. (I buy the gift certificates for myself so I can feel better about spending money on music for BBKF. I know it’s stupid, but it makes me feel better nonetheless.) It’s a nuisance because although I am not one for celebrity infatuation, I am addicted to reading what specific celebrities enjoy. The problem comes in when, for example, I had to purchase three songs simply because I have a girl-crush on Nicole Kidman, and her playlist contained three songs I didn’t previously own. ***I could now type any number of excuses along the lines of, “no I’m not a stalker,”and, “yes I know myself well enough to not need others’ opinions in order to form my own,” but bottom line is, there’s no excuse for what I’ve done***

It’s apparent I’m not the only psycho addicted to the playlists: iTunes wouldn’t keep paying celebs to create them if all you crazies out there weren’t eating them up like you do. So for all you said crazies, in case I ever become a celebrity, or just because you love me, or if you don’t love me and just like to read reviews, I am compiling McKenna Gordon’s playlist. The challenge is, my music taste is so vast (opera to metal, jazz to punk, country to classical) that my heart starts palpitating and my head swirls around when I even dream of trying to narrow everything down to a top-ten list. So I’ve decided to make several playlists: best workout songs, best love songs, best skrew the world songs.

This morning on the treadmill I was scouring through all of BBKF’s love songs, in order to come up with my top ten. Somehow I lasted an entire 45 minutes of my jog/walk/thing while listening to sappy songs that averaged approx. 12 beats per minute. Anything for you. Meanwhile, I’m feeling extra romantic, probably due to 1 part Steve doing the dishes every night this week and 1 part him dragging my ghetto bootie out of bed to go to the gym. And who ever knows what’s up with my manic hormones? That combination alone is lethal. Add to it all, I came across a newly discovered love song (thank you, Kristen; I hate you, Kristen) that caught me a bit off guard and I started crying on the treadmill. No big. Happens all the time to completely normal people!

So here’s a sneak preview of my first playlist: Top Ten Love Songs. Go iTune James Blunt’s Goodbye My Lover immediately. Listen to it after you get home from the gym so that single skinny girl doesn’t deface you in her shallow diary. (And if there’s any question in your mind after listening, my take is: she died. It’s not a break-up song.)

Sketchbook I'm Enjoying

No idea who this is but she's got soul.

Much Overdue Year In Review

Steve and I are just finishing up our third year of marriage and have never sent a Christmas or any other sort of "here's what we're up to letter". My dad likes to tell me they're annoying anyway... braggadocios, guilt-infested and whatnot. I personally like to hear what everyone's up to, although I do laugh when you're braggadocios and roll my eyes when you pontificate dogmatically.

So here's a year in review for 2005 for those of you who don't think I'm braggadocios - plus it's nice to view life in hindsight:

Happiest part of 2005
We both left a career situation that was sucking the life out of us. No amount of money is worth 80 hours per week and un-spoken guilt trips for not making it 90.

We bought ourselves a new bed for Christmas. New beds are highly underrated.

Albeit frustrating at the same time, Steve coached the 9^th grade football team again, which always gives him joy. Me too, but only when I get to tease Steve as I say (while imitating a pubescent boy) “Hi, is Coach Steve there?” and then hand him the phone.

Biggest Bummer of 2005
Steve playing semi-pro football for the Utah Wolverines would be on the previous list if it had lasted more than 3 games and a torn ACL. Surgery in May fixed it and he’s now training for season 2006.

Earth lost two amazing people: Lyn Davis and Doyle Griffith. Most readers probably didn’t notice the commotion but our Earth was left with craters. Fortunately love and good memories create a functional “putty” for now.

Biggest “Take Your Breath Away” Moment in 2005
We didn’t climb a mountain or helicopter over Kauai, which is the type of thing I immediately think of when I hear “take your breath away” (well that and running on the treadmill - something I also didn't do in 2005) but I can say if you add up all the times I thought to myself how blessed I am to have Steve in my life, and bundle them all up into one moment, I’d be gasping for air – pounding my chest and flailing my arms at you to PLEASE perform the Heimlich. Which brings me to the biggest “take your breath away” song discovered in 2005: Sarah McLachlan’s Push – a much more eloquent way of putting things.

Most Exciting in 2005
Urban Botanic! My little baby company. I wrote about it in my journal some short time after my aunt Ruth called me a “scent connoisseur”, found the journal entry a couple years ago, tweaked it enough to fit what I think our market is, pitched it to my Dad, he loved it, and Urban Botanic was born! Mostly, it’s a ton of fun and I love to hear our customers say “This is addicting!” You can’t beat a wholesome addiction!