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Scott and I learned an important lesson at our anniversary dinner this weekend: “gorgonzola picante” is actually fancy restaurant talk for toe cheese.

This particular toe cheese was aged for 200 days, and when it arrived at our table each and every hour of that fermentation process hit my olfactory nerve and gave a hardy hello.

My anniversary gift to Scott was pretending not to gag as I forced a piece of it down.


Does your town have a traffic circle? My town does, and for being a circle, it’s one divisive roadway.  It has five different exits connecting three different roads, most of which change directions in the circle. Throw in some crosswalks, streetside cafes and out-of-towners and you have the recipe for some really interesting hand gestures.

I can’t really explain the cluster of cursing and chaos that is the Towson traffic circle, but you might be able to get a feel for it based on the conversation that went down this weekend as my father-in-law John drove me, Scott and my mother-in-law Gayle home from brunch on a busy Saturday.

Gayle:  Oh geez, not the circle.

John: Gayle Robin it’ll be okay! To us: Gayle doesn’t drive through the circle. I love the circle!

Scott: Mom, you don’t drive through the circle? It’s not that bad!

Gayle: Yes it is. This thing is a mess.

John, looking at car in front of him: Ahh, what’s this guy doing? Go!

Scott: What an idiot. Go! Go!

John: He doesn’t have a clue. Gooo!

Gayle, eyes shut: See what I mean?

Me, John, Scott in unison to car in front of us: Go!!  Gooooo!

– Car goes –

John: Alright, here we go. Looks at car exiting to the left: Now you turn there. Here we go…

John, looking at car trying to come into our lane: No you stop. You stop.

John, exiting: Aaaand we’re off. See, that wasn’t so bad!!

– Whole car sighs in relief –

I know it’s December now (which, by the way, is equal parts thrilling and terrifying), but I had to post these photos from Movember, a month in which Scott finds joy and itchiness in covering his beautiful, smooth face with surprisingly red hair. And then he shaves it off in stages to see how much he can resemble a Jerry Springer guest. In the words of my father, “It’s horrendous.”

Ahh, the weekend. The perfect tree (so perfect that it was too tall for our living room); the post-run smoothie (good for sore, marathon-training muscles); the Christmas cookies (to counteract all the calories burned from running).  The lights and the Izzie sniffing the lights. The weekend.

Can I please show you something that’s been disturbing me for about a week now?

This perplexing little craft project was found inside an unassuming gym bathroom stall that had NO SIGNAGE whatsoever on the outside of it, such that when one is hurriedly looking for a stall to powder her nose in before making it to Body Pump Class, one will choose this normal-looking stall, rush in, and almost trip over this quarantined toilet. Um, a little warning would be nice people! Give a gal a sign or a lock or a freaking piece of masking tape on the outside of the stall for God’s sake. Because the last thing I want to run upon after a long day at work is a trash bag full of toilet. In my face.

And what is up with the clear trash bag anyway? Is there something bad inside the toilet that’s trying to get out? Is the toilet contagious with the swine flu and they’re trying to avoid a gym-wide pandemic? Obviously something’s going on in that thing that’s making them feel that it needs to be contained. In which case, a sign on the outside of the door is even more necessary.

I feel compelled to point out that this is not your average Ghetto Gold’s we’re talking about. This is a nice gym. A gym, in fact, that just underwent extensive renovations to elevate it from a normal, run-of-the-mill gym into a Gucci gym with hardwood floors and a fancy theatre room! At this nice gym, can we really not trust people to follow basic directions like “Do not use this toilet?” Or is it that people are just so clamoring to use this specific stall (as opposed to the other SIX stalls) that they feel a need to not only wrap the toilet in plastic but also put a sign directly on the toilet seat?

Can anyone explain this to me? Or is everyone thinking that the most hilarious thing is not this toilet, but the fact that I took a picture of it?

*Update: I just want to add a disclaimer that this post was written with the purpose of humor. I LOVE my gym and this is in no way is a slam against them! I just find these sorts of things funny and thought someone else might too.



Wow, November crept up on me fast this year! It seems like just yesterday I was lying on the beach ruining library books and wearing wrinkle cream. Now I’m making Christmas lists and thinking about what to wear to holiday parties. The holiday sparkle of choice for me is sequins, and these are a few of my favorites. Now here’s hoping that I get invited to something swanky enough to need a reason wear them!

Oh, who am I kidding. I would wear these grocery shopping.

Via  1, 2, 3 – other great sequin dresses here, here and here.

Have you ever seen those television segments where they put a celebrity (or a bully, or a model, or whoever) in a fat costume so that they can experience the horror of unbridled public disdain? Well corny TV show producers, I take your embarrassing fat suit and raise one large prescription bag in a long line at the pharmacy. Because I know firsthand that humiliation, and oh, it is intense. Imagine this: you’re standing at CVS on your lunch break, when every single person and their elderly grandmother decide to go the pharmacy and drive reeeeeally slow to get there, so that by the time Gertrude backs out her Buick and you are actually able to park and get in the pharmacy line you have precisely T minus fifteen minutes to grab your prescription, pick up your Panera to go and get your butt back to the office. Of course the line is long, and when you finally get to the front and say your last name the lady can’t find your prescription. You know it’s there because CVS left three voicemails on your phone reminding you to pick it up. And that’s when it hits you: it’s in the special area. Because your prescription is in the dreaded “big bag”.

There she is: the big prescription bag in all of her humiliating glory.

If you are unfamiliar with the big prescription bag, it’s basically a large brown paper grocery bag. Except it’s not for your milk and sugar, it’s for your prescription. It’s such a laughably large bag for what is normally such a small thing that the first time I got one I laughed at loud. And then hid it under my jacket and ran to my car.

There is always a point in the prescription pick-up process where I remember that I need to tell the pharmacist that it’s a big bag or else it’s going to take forever for her to find it, since they relegate the big bag prescriptions to a very special, under-the-counter location that allows EVERYONE to see that you are picking up an extremely. large. bag. of. drugs. Yet, even when I reach the point where I know I need to say it, I hesitate to tell the pharmacist that “it’s in a big bag” because as soon as I do, I feel a hot rush of judgment washing over me from the rest of the line. The people behind me start to get annoyed at whatever’s taking so long, seeing as they’re probably late for their Panera too. The pharmacist retrieves the bag and I quickly try to block it with my body or hold it down low so it’s not super noticeable. It’s all in vain. As soon as I turn around with the gigantic bag of prescription drugs, I get a rash of stink-eyes from the people in line behind me. Even the oldest of the old people—the ones that you just know have been around the pharmacy block a time or two—look at me like I have Ebola. I want to scream out, “JUST EYE DROPS! JUST PICKING UP MY EYE DROPS HERE!” but I think it would only make things worse. Plus, I can’t waste any time—my bacon turkey bravo is waiting.

A leather jacket would make fall’s cool weather a lot more bearable.

Just sayin’.


Images 1 and 2 found via Pinterest

I went for my annual skin check this week, and when I say annual I mean the second one I’ve ever gone to. The first was after I read a scary skin cancer article in Women’s Health, and this time was the “annual” follow up that I accidentally waited two years to schedule. What can I say? Um, time flies?

Skin checks are such a strange situation in that your entire body is being inspected. Meticulously. Top to bottom. It’s the sort of strange, standing-under-fluorescent-lights-naked-while-someone-assesses-you–top-to-bottom situation that’s only otherwise occurred in my worst sorority hazing nightmares (What, like you don’t have those?). I honestly don’t think anyone has ever—or will ever—look at my body so closely in my entire life, and I’m perfectly happy with that. To make matters even more awkward, as I was in the midst of getting the total body inspection the doctor and I had this conversation:

Doctor: You have a concerning level of sun damage for your age.

Me: Really? Yikes, well yeah, I grew up at the beach…

Doctor: (pouncing) Oh really? Do you go to the beach a lot?

Me: Well, um, my parents still live there so I try to go as much as I can.

Doctor: Mmm-hmmm. Well you know that you should NOT be laying out at all, right? Laying out is very bad under any circumstance.

Me: Silence.

Doctor: Laying out even with sunscreen can cause very serious damage, do you understand?

Me: Blank stare.

Doctor: You should not be laying out, do you understand?

Me: You mean I should sit under an umbrella or something?

Doctor: No, I mean you should not sit out in the sun under any circumstances.


Man, whatever happened to getting your daily dose of vitamin D?

P.S. Thank God I didn’t tell her about this!

I’m smitten with the understated elegance of this J. Crew wedding dress. Doesn’t the model look so breezy and effortless? I can imagine a bride in the 50’s looking as classic and chic in it as someone would today.

What types of wedding dresses are your favorites? No matter if you’re single or already married, it’s always fun to think about 🙂

A photo of me.

About me

Hi, I'm Pam. I'm a runner, reader and recent MBA grad living in Baltimore with my husband. I work in PR, but I spend my off-hours writing here about my life, which mostly revolves around family, friends, fashion and fitness. Sometimes I throw in the occasional food photo just to make sure you're paying attention.


For questions or freelance opportunities, contact me at theinspirationfiles {at} gmail {dot} com. I'd love to hear from you!

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