My name is Libby and I can’t cook. No really, I can’t. I pretend I’m crafty. I screw up Mod Podge projects. My fashion sense isn’t exactly cutting edge. More like monochromatic. And to be completely honest with you, I’m really not that great at cleaning. Much to my mother’s dismay.

But I do love putting pen to paper. Or in this case, fingers to keyboard. Thankfully, I am blessed to have foodie, artistic, fashionable people in my life providing me with an unending supply of inspiration. Otherwise, I’d have to write about my incessant inner monologue and it’s best for all of us if that stays between me and myself and I.

Never once growing up did I envision myself married at age 24, madly in love with my husband (Patrick) and our stinky, spoiled English bulldog (Quinton). But, alas, here I am, thankful every single day that my original life plan isn’t my reality.

Simply put, I am a newlywed figuring out what it means to be a wife without June Cleaver’s skills. So far, we have determined that he cooks and I clean.


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