Story Lady Blog

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.

(photo credit availableimages.com)

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.

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.”

Fancy.

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.

Anyway.

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.**

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…
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?

Does anyone else think of Alicia Silverstone when they say, “As if…”?  I do.  That movie is timeless (right, Shakespeare?). Before I get to the point, I’d like you to see what a cow looks like after it’s been slaughtered and drained (of blood, naturally).

I walked over just as they were severing the head. Then Lacy came over and I taught her about beefy realities.
“Hamburger comes from cows that are dead and chopped up. Does that make you sad?” I asked.
“No,” she said, “But if hamburger comed from dead horses that would not be good.”
Ah, Lacy. You make me want to buy you 5 pretty ponies. Who taught this kid to love horses so much? My dad, that’s who! And I love it.

Last night, I turned my computer on to just zone out for a few minutes and a few HOURS later, I got up. That doesn’t usually happen. Usually I spend my time online in the morning, then I only log on and off to check something or snag a recipe… I have a purpose. But last night I didn’t. I finally poured myself into bed at midnight, and by then I couldn’t sleep. My mind was whirring with ideas of things I could do. The reason? Someone got the idea to create online pin boards -a place where we can surf the web and sort of “tear out” the pictures we like and “pin them” on our boards.  My walls need this, and why not?  They’re made from pallets.

image found at hometowngirl.typepad.com)

And look at this amazing kitchen idea:

And what about this light fixture?   It’s just what I need to replace the beige hanging lampshade over my table:

Those are just a few pictures from my Do It Yourself Pinboard. I have a pinboard for recipes, style, home decor… anything I want.
It’s maddening! And I need to stop looking at crap because I know have about eleventy billion ideas and I refuse to REST until I can get started on them! Yesterday I worked on a topiary (never made one before) until I ran out of glue sticks. I can’t believe I let myself run out of glue sticks. What kind of woman am I?!

Want to know a secret? The back side of the topiary is completely bald, muahahaha…
I’ll finish it later. Right now I’m going to post a recipe for homemade hamburger buns in the recipe blog and the How To on my topiary in the Craft blog. I made that topiary from crap around my house, you know. I’m feeling pretty scrappy about the whole thing.

If you or anyone you know would like an invitation to join Pintrest, let me know and I’ll getcha one. Just don’t say I didn’t warn you.

You know that old saying, “It takes a village to raise a child”?  Like most old sayings, it’s positively spot-on.  That’s why I love old things so much. They’re tried and true! Lately, all of the parenting has fallen on my shoulders which I don’t mind all that much on account of my having no other job and on account of my husband earning all the money so I can just stay home. Wednesday afternoon, when I had a house pack full of kiddos my husband came in the door at noon -the only part of the day that got a little crazy because I was fixing 7 little lunches all at once -and told me he was leaving for Texas.
“When?” I asked.
“Now,” he said.
“Where are you going?” I asked, stunned.
“Out of state. I told you that.”
“I can’t hear you over the kids,” I said, “When will you be back?”
“I don’t know. A couple days, I think.”

A hug and a kiss and BLAM-O! He was gone. I spent the next two days not cooking, not shaving, and managing my time very unwisely indeed. It’s hard to stay on track when you don’t have to stay on anyone’s schedule.
For a few days, the kids and I were left alone together. I don’t mind it all that much, really. But after a couple days of being stuck in the house (what was the deal with the week of freezing winds?!), I had to call in The Village.
Up we went to my parent’s house with a rented movie in tow. How would I parent without my village? The truth is: I don’t know. I should be more brave, and part of me yearns to relocate somewhere far, far away. Like… Texas.
Then I wouldn’t have my Village Family and I would HAVE to fine tune my stiff upper lip.

When my husband returned late, late Friday night everything went back to normal. Saturday was completely FILLED with yard sales, picking up bountiful baskets, buying up some of our garden plants and flower bed flowers at the feed store, attending a reception, snagging a sitter, and then attending the Adult Stake Conference Meeting. Sunday morning, we rolled out of bed and got ready for the morning session of Stake Conference. We were about 10 minutes late to church (as so were about 13 other families with kids under the age of 5), and as we were circling the parking lot to find a spot… my husband was called into work.
Because I had no idea he’d be leaving me, I didn’t equip myself properly for two solid hours of church with JUST me and my two kids. Sitting there in the back with the two kids went well for about 5 minutes. Then they started to get restless. I tried to keep them entertained and reverent and just when I started losing control, a good friend -who happened to be sitting in front of us -reached back and handed my kids some quiet games.
Ah, my village!
When they would finish with one, they’d hand it back and she’d give them another. She did all this while fielding three kids of her own, and I wanted to shout HALLELUJAH! from my seat. Too bad that’s frowned on in the middle of conference.

After about an hour, the kids were each on the verge of a melt down, so I decided to take them out and walk the halls. Just as we rounded a corner, they spotted their Aunt “Lily” (Lillian) and they literally RAN away from me and into her waiting arms.
“Come with me,” she said to them, “There’s someone over here you’ll want to see.”
Within minutes, both of my kids were with their grandma and grandpa. Next to them was more of my village: brother, sister, aunts, cousins, uncle, grandma, grandpa…

I wasn’t able to keep my kids next to me at all for the rest of conference, and I always feel bad about that. I want them to stay with me. I don’t want to place the burden of raising my children on anyone else but myself (since it isn’t a burden to me. Well… most days, anyway). But my village is wiser than I am. They’re more patient, more loving, more kind. They listen better. They don’t spank. Their arms are always wide open. They teach and they play. They give and they give. And they give.

Children need a village.
On Mother’s day, after our great rib feast, my aunt took my son home with her. I meant to write her a thank you note, but I haven’t yet. What she didn’t realize is that no one really ever takes JUST Trent. Usually it’s Lacy that gets taken and Trent stays behind. She’s older, so it makes more sense. She’s potty trained and she keeps up a conversation like nobody’s business. Trenton always wants to go, and on Mother’s Day he was just finishing up a week of absolute naughtiness. Seeing him drive away alone with Aunt JuJu was just priceless. When I picked him up, he was stock full of stories -most of which I didn’t understand in the least -and he spent the next week behaving so well that I wanted to wrap my arms around my aunt and KISS her! How Trent needed that! I couldn’t give that to him! Leaving the house with just mom is all right, but leaving the house with someone like JuJu?! Better than Christmas!

On the last night of our being alone while my husband was away, I put a movie in for the kids to watch before bed. They batted their wide little eyes at me and asked me to please sit and watch with them. I sat down and thought I’d sit through the previews and then hop up to do dishes or something. I thought by then they’d be into the movie and would forget they asked me to sit with them.
As the previews ended, I got up and pressed the “play” button on the menu and then started to leave.
“MAMA!” They both cried… I turned around to see their big eyes locked on me.
“Watch with us,” my daughter said. I took a deep breath, smiled, and walked back to their bed. They squealed with delight and the minute I sat on the bed they were all over me.

How would I do it with just me? I couldn’t. Even if I moved so far as Texas, a village would find me. Children have a way of creating them.
Probably because they’re so irresistible. Even when they’re playing in a empty trough at a feed store pretending to be rabbits…

Maybe ESPECIALLY then.