Health. And some other stuff.

Before I get to my thesis (ha. ha. ha.) today, I’ve got to share something. Two some things.

#1) Seven years ago yesterday, I said “YES!” to a man down on one knee. He gave me a sexy ring, and I sport it around to this day. My grandma has never, ever lost her wedding ring. When a bunch of the women in the family asked her how she’d managed to keep it for so long, she simply said “I never took it off… bread dough and all!” My husband always cringes when I bake and garden with my ring on, but I insist that the ring is mine and that if he’d like it back… he’s outta luck. ANYWAY, like any girl, I woke up on the morning of June 28th, 2004 and ran straight to my best friend’s house. I knocked on her door, and the minute I saw her, I thrust my left hand in her face and gushed my entire engagement story. And then I said, “Enough about me. Let’s talk about you.” And she told me that he boyfriend broke up with her the night before. I wanted to chop my own head off. GAH! Tia, have I ever told you what a great person you are to still be friends with me? Seriously. I’ve been the worst friend in the world, and she still likes me. I even gave her a black eye once.

#2) Guuuuueeeessssssssss WHAT??????
I’m in love, ladies and gents. Love, love, love. This baby is a hearty 11 pounds, and I can’t believe that he came outta his mama only 5 days ago. No wonder she couldn’t move the last 6 weeks of her pregnancy! He’s almost outgrown his newborn clothes. But, MAN, is he adorable. I got my hands on him for a full hour yesterday.
His name is Jens -named after our great-great-great grandfather who was converted to the gospel. Remember when I blogged about him? The good looking military man with all the medals…

And while I was holding and loving on that big baby boy, his sister found a mud puddle outside.
I gave her a bath and then brought her and her sister home with me. And she found a mud puddle at my house. I gave her another bath and a new outfit… and then I kissed her twice-bathed face and played with her blonde curls. Mmmmm.


Since The New Year started, my personal health has taken a back seat to other more pressing matters. In the last few weeks, I’ve been able to get back to my routines. I’ve set some goals -easily attainable goals -and I’m going to share them with you. Aside from knowing that sharing goals makes them easier for me to reach, my horoscope told me to share my health goals online. How can I NOT do it now? Really.
I’ve made it a goal to go 12 hours without eating. As in: if I eat dinner at 8 pm, I won’t breakfast until 8 am. I didn’t expect much from this goal, but I’m amazed with the results! My weight hasn’t dropped or anything like that, but I FEEL so much better! I also try to get my heart rate up for 30 minutes every morning before I eat breakfast. Sometimes this doesn’t work out, but that’s okay. It’s happening more often than not, and right now that’s good for me.
My brother gave me P90X yoga, and it’s an hour and a half long. The first time I put it in, I made it all of 15 minutes. Now I’m up to 30 minutes.
My brother. My brother. If you ever bother to read my comments, you’ve met him.
He wrote a post last night about his health, and I highly suggest you read it.


One of my favorite health routines is my green drinks. This morning I stumbled onto a blog with an amazing green drink recipe. I can’t wait to try it! I’m headed out to go shopping in a few hours, and you can BET I’m getting the stuff to try it out.
ALSO. Before you click on over to her site, I just have to say that her site makes me miles of happy. The design… the music. About half of her playlist matches mine. F’real.

I’d love to hear all about your health goals, if you’ve got ’em. Sound off.


A few days ago, I wrote a post about hair.  I forgot to share one hairstyle with you that I thought you’d appreciate:

I tried that hairstyle out, and while it didn’t look much like the picture, it still looked purty awesome. It’s a keeper.

Now, onto music. Music, music, music. Music has taken up about 5 years of my life, and then I had kids. Now it takes up very little of my time, but I still get my fix now and then.
PANDORA is -hands down -one of the greatest things that ever happened to music. and me.
I was listening to my Norah Jones station on Pandora when this song came up:

It’s so pretty and wonderful. I’ve always loved it. Since I happened to be sitting at my computer when the song started playing (through my phone), I sat down and youtubed the singer.

Katie Melua

She’s so pretty! I wanted to share a few of her songs with you for several reasons which I’ll detail before each song.

Here’s a song titled “Stardust.” It was written in 1927, and it’s beautiful. Peaceful. Wonderful.
Please note: it’s not an actual music video, but you get to hear the song. And that’s plenty enough.

Here’s a tidy love song with a quirky video:
Embedding has been disabled, so click HERE for the real video.
Here’s an acoustic version:

Thank you, reader, for sticking with me through the wonderful, sweet and easy songs.


Onto the real mess.
Check out this song… I secretly believe Edward Cullen wrote this song for Bella. Not that I’ve ever read the books.

And last but not least, a couple of songs that are a little creepy. I wanted to look away -click away, but I couldn’t! I don’t know why, but I couldn’t. Even my kids were lured in, and we stared at the computer screen in silence while Katie Melua hypnotized us with her weirdy ways. It’s like Gaga meets Moulin Rouge, but not AS trashy. Or something.

Truth: whenever I bring this video up, my kids come flocking to my side regardless of where they are in the house.
“Make it bigger mom!”
“Make it louder mom!”
We’re all weirdies around here.

Again, I couldn’t look away. I just couldn’t. I think she must know some Jedi mind tricks. Or maybe she just knows Tim Burton. Her black dress looks Burtonesque. My favorite part is the when all the jazz hands come spurting out from her body. It’s 100% certain that my children will watch this video in 10 years and laugh their brains out.

Here’s a Story of a Lovely Lady

I am so. tired.

I tell you this because it’s pertinent to the story. And the story is this: My husband came home from a 26 hour shift yesterday (and I’M complaining about being tired, ha) and I got up off my rear to serve him an early dinner. Yesterday was one of those rare needed days where plucking my eyebrows while watching movies is at the top of my to do list. I had spent the past couple days doing some much-needed cleaning, and while the house wasn’t (isn’t) perfect, it was clean enough that I could sit down for a few hours without obsessing over what I wasn’t doing. All day while plucking my eyebrows, watching movies, and enjoying the general splendor of my children bounding in and out of doors, I thought of my husband. He was working so hard, such long hours. I wanted to do something nice to show my appreciation, so at 2 pm I got up and made an absolute mess of my kitchen.
Two hours later as my husband came through the door, I served him up a big steak sandwich on a homemade bun and freshly squeezed lemonade on ice. My husband was MORE than happy to come home to Steak on a Bun, and after a quick shower and change of clothes, he took us all out to the movies. I couldn’t believe his stamina.
Once home, the people -both great and small -all around me started dropping off.
First, my husband.
Then my son.
Then my daughter.

Though the time was growing later and later, I kept my eyes pried open for one sole purpose: I wanted to bask in the silence and feel the joy that comes with being completely left to yourself. No one wanted anything. No one needed anything.
And because I hadn’t spent my energy, um, AT ALL yesterday, it wasn’t a big sacrifice to stay up late.

I streamed a television episode.
And as I streamed, I felt myself drifting off. I fought off sleep by getting up from the couch and walking to the closet to fetch a big comfy blanket. The closet isn’t easy to open. It sticks. And creaks. It’s also right next to the kid’s room AND our room (The joys of little houses, where love grows best).

I walked over to the closet,
Just as quiet as could be.
I opened it up really wide,
And a mouse jumped out at me.

Literally. It JUMPED. Right out at me!
I couldn’t scream. I couldn’t yelp.
But what I could do was throw my hands in front of my face, jump up in the air, take two giant leaps away from the closet and one final grand leap onto my very own occupied bed.

Have I ever told you that my bed frame creaks? Like my closet door, it can’t be touched without whining. The slightest movement will set it off. If my husband rolls over in bed, it wakes me up. This isn’t a huge bother since I’m pretty much pro at falling back asleep. My husband doesn’t wake up as easily, so we’ve gotten on very well this way for 6 years.

BUT I’ve never flung myself at full speed onto my bed while my husband was sleeping on it.
Finally sleeping on it.
After 26 hours of not sleeping on it.

He shot up out of bed, “What?! What is it? What’s going on?! Honey. ARE YOU OKAY?!”
Remorse shot up from the bottom of my heart and pretty much ate my head. I apologized to him as best I could through a quivering voice, telling him what had happened and also telling him to go back to sleep.
“So long as you’re okay…” he muttered.
I told him I was, but I wasn’t. I was rooted to my bed, peering out my door at the crime scene. My teensy attacker was out there. Then again… so was my Netflix.
I gulped, pretending that my gulp was actually my swallowing a big Pill of Courage. And I ran full speed back to my couch. I was shaking like mad, and all thoughts of drifting off were far, far away.

I tucked my feet under me and I rocked myself on the couch. I pulled my lap top onto my lap and I started calling it Wilson.
We were alone… stranded… on the Island of the Couch. Rather than being surrounded on all sides by water, we were surrounded by fear. FEAR was holding me hostage. I had no materials around me to wade through it (no bee keeing suit, for instance), and so I opened Wilson and blogged a little.

The clock continued to tick, and I knew my alarm would be going off in five hours.
In four and a half hours…

I felt a slight dip in the temperature -not the kind that made me wonder if dead people with unfinished business might soon appear, but the kind that make me really, REALLY wish I had a warm blanket. Because going to the closet was completely out of the question, I knew I had to go to bed.
I also knew the large soda I had shared with my husband during Kung Fu Panda 2 was starting to get to me.
The only course of action was an immediate return to my bed… by way of the bathroom.

I started talking to myself, “You’re being ridiculous. It’s just a mouse. You’re a grown woman putting off going to bed because you’re afraid of a little rodent. You’re pathetic. Get up and stop acting like an idiot.”
So I did.
Bullied by an unwelcome disease-ridden house guest, I took refuge in my own bathroom.

My assailant was crafty and took full advantage of the fact that in my present condition I could NOT elevate my bare feet, and he assailed the crap out of the situation…. right out from under the laundry hamper.

It didn’t take me all of four second to get OUT OF THERE and into my bed where I shuddered, shook and generally swore that there was a reason FOR ALL IRRATIONAL FEARS.
And then I curled up into a ball and apologized to Heavenly Father for not kneeling down to say my prayers.

Today a trip to the store is in order. Traps, poison (for outside, promise), and traps, traps, traps!

“There will be blood tonight!”


I’ve been messing a lot with my hair lately.  Thanks to pinterest, I’ve stumbled onto a LOT of great hair ideas.
That said, my hair is brown and long. It is neither thick nor thin. It is neither curly nor straight. My hair is about as indecisive at its master. And I use the term “master” loosely on account of my hair wearing the pants in our relationship 7 days out of 10.
I sported this look at church a few weeks ago:

The lady sitting behind me latched onto my shoulder and said, “I just LOVE you hair. It reminds me of your grandmother.”

THAT, reader, is a supreme compliment. Not just because my great-grandmother (who sported a braided look daily) is amazing but because my style has always leaned toward the grandma edge. And I’ve got the closet to prove it.
For a tutorial on the hair style, go HERE.

I have yet to try this one, but I will JUST as soon as I get a trim.

Something great about some of the styles I’m finding is that they’re actually GOOD for your hair! Yesterday, for instance, I took a bath and then styled my almost completely dry (air dried!) hair. I slept on it and then woke up with pretty curls.
Of course I can’t get a better angle. But this girl used the same technique:

Here’s the video:

Once you’ve got all of your hair tucked up in a head band, it looks pretty flapping awesome. And by “flapping” I mean “flapper.” I may or may not have clipped a vintage flower onto my head band. It looked amazing with my face. which didn’t have any make-up on it. And it looked amazing with my clothes. which were frumpy dumpy.
But the flower, while making the rest of my face and ensemble look shamefully inferior, cheered me up.

Another great style I found that is conducive to keeping your hair from looking like it’s 85 is this style:


An adorable bun made with hair that hasn’t been washed in three days. I tried this out about nine times before I finally got it to work with my style. When I make mine like hers, I look like I’d fit better into a corporate office and a dress with (hurl) shoulder pads. Shoulders pads always make me hurl because these farm girl shoulders don’t need no paddin’. They’re already NICE and wide and square and bordering mannish.
Anyway, I figured out how to make my bun work for my head and then ANGELS sang.
Click HERE to watch a tutorial on how to make it. It’s easy. TOO easy. So easy, in fact, that I hooked my sister-in-law on the idea.
Please know that we did this around 11 pm on Saturday night. We were just playing around.
We also happened to do this around 11 pm:
The writer in me did back flips of joy.

The last link to a tutorial I want to share with you is one I can’t wait to try. All I need is the right size curling iron.

CLICK HERE to see it. It’s done by the same girl who gave us the bun above. I feel like maybe I ought to capitalize that. The Bun Above.

NOW forgive me while I just say a quick word about the creator of The Bun Above. She is inspiring. I tell you that for one reason and one reason only: SHE LIKES HERSELF! She is happy with the person that she is, and as a result her true self shines like cuh-razy! When you read her tutorials and her posts, you end up thinking, ‘hey. I could totally DO that’ instead of something mind-mangling like ‘she’s cuter than me. she’s awesome. I hate myself. I hate my body. I hate that I hate my body. I bet my husband would love me if I were her…’

So if you’re needing a little inspiration to pull you to a higher level of awesome, check HER SITE out.
I’m not good at fashion or hair or make-up. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this girl sharing what she knows. I also can’t tell you how much I appreciate the fact that she gets most of her stuff at Wal-Mart. And I’m not ashamed to admit that after browsing her site for nearly an hour, I made a firm decision to buy hair ties (because I don’t have a single one that shouldn’t have been thrown away last… year), bobby pins (because I think those things really are disposable), a few hair products, a self-tanner (my husband won’t know me), and nail polish (because I have two colors).
I stepped away from her site and realized how much I don’t do for me and IF I DID, I would feel SO much better about myself and I know for a fact that my husband would appreciate it.
But you don’t need me to explain all of that. You’ve got Dr. Laura.

Go forth, you. Go forth and love yourself. Go forth and love yourself and be inspiring (which, as I mentioned, is a natural side-effect of loving yourself. I didn’t happen to say whether it be good or bad because you -naturally -are good. Hitler on the other hand??? Though he DID inspire. Too bad it was all eevil).


I’ve always been young.  I’ve never known any different. What’s more, I’ve always been the youngest of my friends.  I got married young, pregnant young, pregnant again young… and everyone would tell me when they saw my ring or my protruding belly, “you’re so young.”  They’d tell me they wished they were young again.

And I vocally admitted that I didn’t mind aging.  I sort of took to it, actually, because it seemed no matter what I was still young.  Birthday after birthday passed, and I didn’t “age” age.  I just had to write a new number on forms and stuff.

But something’s flipped inside of me.  Something’s gone haywire with my logic.  Part of it has declared “MUTINY” on the rest of it and there’s this bloody battle raging in my head.  I know I’m young.  The nice part of my brain tells me that (it’s trying to keep up moral, all that).  But part of me FEELS old.   I mean… physically.  My lower back hurts all the time.  My knees hurt.  I’m gradually going blind(er).  And I move like an older person.  I don’t run.  I don’t sprint.  I’m not agile and I can’t roll around with my kids like young people do.

As I watched a few of the youth from our church scale sand dunes like it was nothing, I felt that my body is older than my age.  So I went walking today.  Is my back screaming?  Well, yeah.  But I’ll get it a massage later and it’ll get over it.  I’ve got to win back my health -my youth…

Most importantly, I need to help the Good Guys in my head win.  Don’t feed me any line like “age has nothing to do with birthdays or years or what-have-yous.”  I know that bit.  Where I’ve got my hang-up is that my body thinks it’s much older than 25.

Which, let’s face it, is still young.

I should enjoying it and literally running with it.  I should be feeling the energy of youth tearing through my body, but all that’s tearing through my body now is the pointed pang of fatigue.  It’s wrong!  It’s wrong!  How did I let this happen?!

Today I’ll eat better than I did yesterday.  How’s that?  And every day I’ll fight a little harder and gain a little more ground.  It’s bound to turn out all right in the end if I work hard enough.

And here’s a taste of youth -directly from the sand dunes to you:

Procrastination Station

I often wonder about something.  Is skilled procrastination a gift?  I can practically hear every teacher and professor I’ve ever had screaming, “NO!” in heated unison, but I’m going with this anyway.  I’m really good at it.  I don’t mean that I’m really good at wasting time until I absolutely HAVE to do something… I mean I’m great at putting stuff together last minute.  In truth: I have taken time to plan and do a thorough job with things (like church lessons) and sometimes (most times) they go so much better when I do the majority of the planning the morning-of or the night before.

It’s a kind of art for me… last minuting.  Again, I can almost hear all of my teachers collectively pulling their hair out.  What an awful sound.  They must be glad to be rid of me and my absolutely hair-pulling ways.

This is what I’m driving at: I’m throwing a party tomorrow for my Beehive girls.  There’s a dance festival for the youth a few towns over, and the Beehives aren’t old enough to go.  They were feeling a little left out, and most of them would have TORE UP those dances, so after talking with them I decided to have a party with them while the youth were gone dancing.

I immediately thought to do a Spa Party (what could be more natural with girls?) but then remembered that one girl absolutely refuses to take her shoes off on account of odor insecurities.  So I threw that out the window.  And then I remembered an article I had seen on Country Living’s Website about having a Prairie Girl Party.  They did a great job.  Before I go on, I must say: I can not plan and carry out parties.  I have a huge (we’re talking Berlin Wall Sized) mental block when it comes to party planning.  I just don’t GET how to do it.  Even though Country Living’s Farm Chicks laid out the plans step-by-step, I was still extremely hesitant.  I have my reasons.
#1) I don’t own a single pair of boots. Not that that’s very important, but it SEEMS like it.

#2) I can’t set a table beautifully if my life depended on it.

#3) Lots of details and planning (and spending $ on said details) stresses me out more than anything I know. Except maybe impending labor when I’m pregnant. Which I’m not.

#4) I’m not, like, all trendy. I type that in all earnest.

My poor Beehives. They’re getting a variation on the The Prairie Girl Party. We’re going to meet at my house (instead of a field -despite the abundance of fields around… it’s June. it’s Arizona. it’s HOT). And I’m calling it A Country Girl Party instead.
We’re going to sit on hay bales (you don’t get more country than having your rear end “massaged” by hay, truuuust me) in my front yard and plant flowers in pots, label the flowers with steel stamped spoons… something like


While we’re doing that, we’re going to take turns shaking cream in a jar to make butter. Then we’re going to eat a lunch (I’m going to put their lunches in their terra-cotta pots) of sandwiches, an apple, chocolate dipped strawberries, and brownies in a tiny mason jar.

And IBC Rootbeer -the kind in bottles. I’m not awesome enough to brew my own tea to put in vintage glass bottles and recork. Because
#1) how do you go about brewing that much tea?
#2) where would I find that many vintage bottles?
#3) who sells corks that fit vintage bottles?

Anyway, after lunch we’re coming inside to learn how to make freezer strawberry jam and homemade bread. When they do this, it passes off one of their Personal Progress goals.
I made them these:
To wear while they make bread. I stayed up until 2 AM last night finishing them (then I slept in until 8:30 and had a disturbingly vivid dream that I was a Ghostbuster). Why do I do this to myself? Why didn’t I have them done last week -or TWO weeks ago when I bought the fabric? Heaven only knows.
Today, I’m cleaning the house, baking the brownies, making some bread ahead of time, dipping strawberries in chocolate, printing out instructions for everything I have planned so I don’t get it wrong with seven 12 year old girls underfoot… It’s going to be a busy day tomorrow. I’m nervous about messing up a party that could have been SO much better if someone else had been in charge. I’m also nervous about making sure everything is prepped and ready.
But since I’m doing it last minute, I should be fine. That’s how it goes down around here. You can send sympathy notes to my husband if you like.

The Fix

When I was growing up, my family had satellite television.  I used to love the rare moments when I was home alone and could watch whatever I wanted, and that was most always Turner Classic Movies.  I would get giddy watching the opening sequences of old movies, and I’d stay riveted to the screen until the movies would end.  I’m rather an addict to stories.  It’s bordering on obsessive and sad.

For example, while shopping at a thrift store with my little sister last week, I pulled a very old jacket from the rack and said, “Don’t you ever wonder how many of these clothes come from the closets of people who have died?”

“NO!” She said and laughed.  And that surprised me.  I thought everyone thought of those kinds of things.  I used to spend a lot of time wondering about the day I would eventually die.  My train of thought was something like, ‘Every year I pass the day I’m going to die and I don’t even know it.  Someday I’m going to have a funeral announcement and the date of my death will be written on the front right under my picture.  I’ve passed that date over and over… written it on checks.  But I have no idea what it is…’

And then I happened to read a poem by W.S. Merwin and felt better.  I’m not the only one who thinks about these kinds of things.  Is that a good thing?  I don’t know, but it makes me feel better anyway.

I force myself to put down celebrity gossip magazines (because!  they’re nonsense!) only to find myself coming home to google things like “Gary Cooper affair with Grace Kelly.”  Have you ever seen a picture of Gary Cooper?

Grace Kelly has all the luck.
Not that I’d care to have an affair with him OR be his cheated-on wife, for that matter.
But I sure do like to look at him.

I couldn’t care less for Angelina Jolie, honestly.  But I care a great deal for Grace Kelly.  What’s the difference between the two?  Um, one has big lips and the other married a Prince who refused to let her act anymore on account of her having affairs with nearly every leading man she acted with.  Smart Prince.

I can read about these things for hours, really.  I can read about people -about their lives and problems and situations… forever!  I love it!  I have to pry myself out of books and away from movies because I just get to wrapped up in the stories.  I’m constantly regaling my husband with stories of all kinds, and he bears it well.  He’s a regular soldier.

He is!  I mean, I’ve told you all this before.  I’ve told you about how I love stories.  I’ve told you about how I love my husband.  This is all old cud that’s been chewed before.  Isn’t it?  Not so today, chum! Not so! …on account of my husband’s confession not five days ago that he’s … “sick of old movies.”

After he told me that, I fell out of his arms and onto the floor (granted, we were only lying side by side on the couch, but still.  The effect sounds dramatic).

“What?!” I cried, and pretended to dig the imaginary dagger deeper into my heart. He laughed at me, but he usually does. Mostly because I’m prone to irrationalities.
He had no defense, and I pretended not to know him for an hour. At least.

Yesterday, I was at my sewing machine between the hours of 2 pm and 8 pm. I set up Lappy and streamed movies while I stitched and ironed. It’s jolly fun for me, you know… combining movie watching with productivity. It’s downright gratifying. Whilst streaming, I came upon a movie that FIXES everything. Absolutely everything.
It was a book first though. We’ve got to give credit there.
It’s called “Piccadilly Jim.” The latest movie version was made in 2006, and that’s the version I watched last night. It’s available on Netflix instant streaming.

Piccadilly Jim (2004) (photo credit

It’s set in the 1930’s but this movie version has modernized it, making it just the right FIX for my marriage. The humor is just right. The characters are strong. The music is fantastic (singing “Tainted Love” like it was written in 1924? Yes please!).
Here’s a peak at possibly the worst scene in the movie, but it gives you a taste of the song:

Tonight, my husband and I can watch something (besides Bones) that we both agree on. We don’t fight over movies, mind you. But it’s always nice to watch something we can both love.
One of our friends posted this quote on facebook this morning:
The work you do while you procrastinate is probably the work you should be doing for the rest of your life. ~ Jessica Hische
Incidentally, her name is also Alicia. Voonderful.
After reading that quote, I made a solemn vow to take a class on writing screenplays. If I can’t find one that suits my budget, then google will have to do. And Google has never failed me.

See? Gary Cooper at my fingertips.

Besties W/out Testies

Years ago, I gave a special birthday card to my best friend.  I couldn’t afford to go out and buy a birthday card, not to mention the fact that I wasn’t near old enough to drive.  I wanted to make it special anyway.  REALLY special.  I knew it would never be as good as store bought, so I tried thinking of ways to make up for it.  In the end, I decided the best thing to do would be to write a poem.  An Alicia Original.

It was a humdinger.  I don’t remember what it said, but I remember her pulling it out years afterward and we both got a huge laugh out of it.  It was scrawled out in 8 year-old handwriting and went so far as to rhyme words like “to” and “you.”


Today marks that time of year again.  Her birthday, I mean.  I don’t have a great card to send her (she never fails to find the funniest cards for me.  I still have them).  And as I mulled over what to give her, I decided to renew my gift of writing.  Now don’t get excited, I’m not going to write a poem.

The thing is: beginning with that first hen-scratch poem, Tia has always been there to read whatever I had to write.  In sixth grade, I wrote my first story about a pioneer girl named Alice who, in a fit of anxiety over the prospect of crossing the plains, knit 7 sweaters in one night.  Tia read it.  I enjoyed writing the story so much that I immediately set to writing another one set in the Civil-War era about a girl named Emma who was madly in love with a soldier named Matt.  I never finished it.  The story went along very well up until the scenes where they had to kiss and stuff.  The story came to an abrupt halt.  Turns out I didn’t know a thing about love, let alone how to write about kissing.  But Tia read it anyway.

Tia reads my blog, you know.  She gets my inside jokes and movie quotes.  She contributed her irresistible bread stick recipe to my cooking blog.  And she even went the extra mile and read my stories blog where I would take time now and then to write stories both short and long.  Mostly long.


When I switched my blog over to wordpress, a story I’d been writing sort of got lost in the mix.  Tia, champion that she is, had been reading it.  I kept meaning to import the story, but I never did.  I resolved this week to FINALLY do it.  And so -this morning -I did.

I feel like an 8 year old handing my best friend a scrawly poem all over again.  It isn’t much.  It isn’t store bought.  But it’s the thought that counts, right?  Starting today, Delia’s Story continues.  Today’s entry isn’t all that great on account of my taking most of the morning to import the rest of the story.

Honestly, I had NO idea I write so much.  Someone whack me before it gets worse.

(Delia’s story is a different kind of story.  I’m writing it in blog form, if that makes any sense.  “Delia” has taken over my stories blog, so to speak.  It’s loads of fun to write a story like this.  The entire imported part of the story is posted in one LONG post that I didn’t bother to separate, but it isn’t hard to figure out.  First you have to read the LONG post, then today’s post if you’re interested in reading.  I’ll be adding to it as the days go by, so if you’re looking for something more to read with all that spare time you have [that was a little joke], click on over to Delia’s Story).

Happy Birthday, Tia.  I’m wearing your polyester brown pants RIGHT NOW.  And next time you come to town, I motion that you, me, Steve, Lindsay, Jay, and who ever else wants come over to watch Dennis the Menace. We can watch it at my house so long as you don’t touch my DVD player “because you don’t know which button to push.”
(“I bet I do… It’s THIS ONE!”)
**Stupid facebook won’t let me steal any of her pictures, but trust me when I say this: she’s rearry pretty and rearry funny and totes smart. Totes.**

Junk Sifting

I love yard sales and used clothing/book/furniture/whatever stores. I used to shop for clothing almost exclusively at thrift stores when I was in High School. I’ve been blessed with a complete inability to coordinate my clothing or look suave. It used to bother me until I embraced it. Now it only bothers me when I need to look fancy for something, like a wedding.

I especially love finding older “junk.” About a month ago, I found this egg beater at Savers:

And I absolutely love it. I love it! Just looking at it makes me happy. Yeah it’s got ugly green handles. Yeah I would love one that was actually 100% metal. But the more I look at the one I’ve got, the more I love it… more.
Yesterday my sister went with me to Savers. Before going on with this post, I just have to say: What the devil is up with Saver’s pricing?!?! I found a big pot -exactly like one my mom has (used to have?). It was the sturdiest post she had and it often graced us with homemade play dough on rainy days. When I saw one at Saver’s, almost the exact same color, I was so happy… until I saw the price. $15! Are you kidding me? I could snag if for $4 tops at a yard sale! Then I noticed it was a set. It had two smaller pots the same color beside it, and they were both individually priced as well. My sister spotted an old old trunk, just beautiful with wear and tear. It wasn’t pretty at all. Only she or I would have liked it. A man’s name had been spray painted to the top using a stencil (army style, maybe?). It was priced at $30. I should have liked to have screamed. I get so excited to go to Savers only to be let down by their ever-increasing prices. Don’t they know we’re in a recession? Don’t they know that if anyone should be catering to the weary, poor and down-trodden it should be THEM?!
All right.
All right now.
I’m done.

I never, ever leave Savers without hitting the book section. I walked out yesterday with a Better Homes and Gardens Cookbook from the 60’s and a book full of short stories written by Dorothy Parker, someone I would never be real friends with but whom I love dearly from a distance. And by “distance” I’m talking about time, not space. It always takes me about a century to look through the books. I didn’t realize that while I was looking, my daughter grabbed one. While my sister was trying on clothes, I noticed my daughter looking through her book. I asked her if I might see it. It was a book filled with tips for husbands on romancing their wives. Forgive me, reader, for I haven’t the slightest what the name of it was.
But get a load of this… load:
If my husband ever did that, I would be so turned off. Also, I’d wonder what happened to his brain and where my real husband went. I’m not your Cinderella, man. I don’t work like she did. I don’t transform into royalty. I don’t have a fairy godmother, and I’d rather DIE than wear glass shoes of any kind. Also, if the mice around here start singing… I’ll blow them to bits out of sheer terror.
This one made me laugh out loud and I drew a few stares. Honey, don’t you know I spend half my life tripping over stuffed animals and throwing them out whenever chances arise? Why would you gift me with one and where, pray tell, am I going to put it?
Am I cynical? I prefer to say “realist,” but every cynic does.
If my husband did that, I wouldn’t be able to help laughing. It would be horribly rude, so I’m going to pray that he never, ever does.
Though I do love a good skeleton key. I’m currently wishing for a bunch of skeleton key drawer pulls:

If he gave me an handful of those and told me I held the key to his heart, I might be able to stifle my giggles. Might maybe.

My son was a trooper through it all, but there’s only so much shopping a male of any age can take.
Today I’m going to try out a few of my new recipes and read a few more Dorothy Parker stories.

Isn’t she the most beautiful woman you ever saw?
I wouldn’t trade lives with her for the world, but she is beautiful.

One last picture:
This picture come to us from my BHG Cookbook. It’s the first picture in the section titled “”Jiffy Cooking.” Inspiring, isn’t it? (There’s sarcasm oozing out of my laptop right now which can only mean one thing: it’s time to log off.)


A few months ago, I was sorting through my makeshift pantry and I came across a little forgotten honey bear.  I was so happy!  We go through honey really fast around here, and I feel like I’m constantly buying it.  I remember thinking ‘What a blessing!’ and ‘Hooray!’  I might have also patted myself on the back for keeping extra honey around because I knew I’d need it.  Good for you, Mother!

Two days ago, something strange happened.  My son has taken to pulling the milk out of the fridge, bringing it to me, and announcing that he is “BIG an’ STRONG!” Of course, I give him a little and then put the milk away.  But two days ago, he had done this SO many times that I was starting to get irritated.  After the fifth time that day, I took the milk away without giving him any (he’d just had a glass), and as I gripped the handle on the milk I felt something… sticky.

I whipped my head around and immediately scanned the kitchen to find…Photobucket
I might also mention that I had family coming over for dinner that night, and I was really put-off over this honey issue. It seemed everywhere I went, the honey would find me. It was on the chairs, the counters, the drawers, MY FLOOR… eventually it migrated to my shoes and my toes! My irritation increased and increased. Something inside of me told me to take a picture of part of the mess. I had already cleaned up some of it (like the measuring cup he had filled with honey). So I did. Then I posted it to facebook with the caption, “I’ll look back someday and laugh. I’ll look back someday and laugh. I’ll look back someday and laugh…”
And then something magic happened.
A friend left a comment that said, ” it looks like your honey bear when potty on your counter…. i would swat him hard….” And I laughed. And laughed and laughed and laughed. I looked at the picture over and over again and I laughed.
What would I do without friends who find humor in “sticky” situations? I can usually find humor in just about anything, but when you go spilling my honey… it just ain’t funny.
Yeah. I’m a poet.

And so today I’ll try to find more humor in things that aren’t immediately funny unto me. I’ll try to laugh instead of groan, laugh instead of complain, laugh instead of yell -and then, since laughing is healthy and burns calories, I’ll be super skinny. Right?