Well, since we're on the subject of shopping -- my Sundance catalog came today and ooooo' what a treasure trove!
I can't decide between the Ellis Peak Boots, 'tread lightly but with a sure step in our stylish, pull-on distressed suede boots . . .' at a mere $298.
or the
Open Road Jacket, 'easy going, swings along city streets and country highways in any season of the year,' for a neat $425.
The Pemberton Flip-Top Table ( -- resolute, steady and stable, like the very best of friendships--) would be dandy in the kitchen. $1795 (plus $350 shipping and handling).
But I'm afraid it might 'crack' from the kind of 'friendship' business a family like mine would put it through.
We're no delicate actress-types like Mr. Redford and Sundance might be used to.
What I'd really like is for hubby to get me the 'Artisan's Organic Cuff', as a stocking stuffer. At $690 it's an 'untamed twist of natural apatite', whose 'organic composition spirals seductively around the wrist' ------
----Now I've never had anything spiral seductively around the wrist . . .
---oh, wait! Yes? . . . No. . . . . oh, no. No. I haven't. --That was secrete.
I've had something secrete from around my wrist, --but it was pretty nasty. (I don't want to get into it.) Nothing seductive about it.
Anyways, the Organic Cuff can be ordered Toll Free! So, you see? It's not all about the money, with Sundance.
I think the last thing I did buy from them was the Westminster Brilliant Cut Whirlwind Paperclip, --'a full sweeping twirl of erupting organically molten sterling silver.' 'indisputably fabulous.' It was only $39.95, but I guess in their eyes, good enough to keep me on the mailing list.
("Maybe she has a rich uncle?" they hope to themselves . .)
I don't mind, really. I'm sure Robert Redford would be a friend of mine if we ever met (--- on a plane to China about to go down over the ocean, and I had the last parachute--).
Truly though- there are affordable items to choose from for the finicky buyer.
Once I ordered a darling prairie dress. I ordered my size, but somehow they mistakenly sent me something fit for an American Girl doll. I tried to squeeze it on but I couldn't get it past my esophagus without spurting for air.
It might have been my fault, really. I measured around 'the natural waistline, keeping the tape comfortably loose', just like they said --- but my 'natural' waistline is a little hard to find anymore. I might have mistakenly sent them the measurements to my natural big-toe, line.
It was no biggy though. They took it right back for just the $69 re-stocking fee.
(They gotta make a living too.)
Well, if anybody cares, I've got my pile of Sundance catalogs here to look at. It's no doubt you'll find something you'd like to get too.
Just don't go crazy -- we're in a recession you know.
Tuesday, December 9, 2008
Saturday, December 6, 2008
The Shop'ster
I went shopping today for a birthday present for my sister-in-law. She's a great gal and really easy to shop for.
I didn't find anything for her - but I did find a nice sweater for me, a darling chihuahua mug, and shoes my husband might like for work.
Once at home and in real light--not that 'trick' light they use in the dressing rooms of department stores--I could see the sweater was way wrong on me. I bought it on clearance for such a ridiculously low price though, I'm too ashamed to return it.
I'll just put it in the DI donations for next month. (Helping the less privileged is just something I do.)
And you know, as I really don't drink coffee, and tea only so rarely -- I think I'll just save the chihuahua mug for a teacher gift? I can like, fill it with erasers - and put a note on it that says, 'You're The Doggone Best Teacher' (they eat that stuff up) --it'll come in handy in five months when school ends . . .
As for the shoes, my husband says he's never worn purple mock-leather loafers in his life and isn't about to start now, -so I return them.
While at the store I notice this fantastic three legged mahogany chair. It's the last of like, some set - and just might go super in my home office. ( . . I bet hubby can fix it for a song . . . )
I buy the three legged chair, --but not before spotting a cute floral notepad for the sis-n'law. Perfect!
Once home, I prop the chair up with a sturdy paint stick (for the time being) - and notice that it actually gives the chair quite a one of a kind look. I decide I may even keep it that way --kind of vintage like, or something.
With the chair a keeper -- I see the floral notepad happens to match my new pen set, like, exactly!
( . . I'll just run out one day this weekend and get something different for sissy-in-law.)
Interestingly, that night in bed channel surfing, I come across an infomercial for (and I'm not usually such a sucker) some sort of contraption-mask thing that if you wear it at night for a week straight -- will make your crows feet disappear.
I pony up the'ol credit card, order it rush delivery, and roll over for some shut-eye.
( . . some days, just exhaust me.)
The next morning, I decide I'm not keeping some dang screwy chair that doesn't even have four legs, and after a quick errand to return it, I stop at the Walmart to grab a diet coke at the indoor McDonalds, ---when the most amazing crockpot catches my eye.
It does everything but eat the meal itself!
I get it, figuring come summer I'm not gonna want to do any oven cooking.
At home I put last years crockpot on Craigslist.
It'be sweet if I could make just enough cash on it, to buy my sister-in-law something for her birthday.
Soon after, Hubby comes home from a bike ride with his buddy and shows me a darling flower pot Joe's wife was about to throw out.
It's actually in pretty good condition.
Don't hate me . . . but I think if I put a little spit-shine to it, and plant some miniature roses inside -- I could re-gift to my sis-in-the-law, flawlessly!
I grab my purse and head out to a nursery to look at plants.
Sometimes I feel like I just move in one big circle. You know?
I've always got something to do.
I didn't find anything for her - but I did find a nice sweater for me, a darling chihuahua mug, and shoes my husband might like for work.
Once at home and in real light--not that 'trick' light they use in the dressing rooms of department stores--I could see the sweater was way wrong on me. I bought it on clearance for such a ridiculously low price though, I'm too ashamed to return it.
I'll just put it in the DI donations for next month. (Helping the less privileged is just something I do.)
And you know, as I really don't drink coffee, and tea only so rarely -- I think I'll just save the chihuahua mug for a teacher gift? I can like, fill it with erasers - and put a note on it that says, 'You're The Doggone Best Teacher' (they eat that stuff up) --it'll come in handy in five months when school ends . . .
As for the shoes, my husband says he's never worn purple mock-leather loafers in his life and isn't about to start now, -so I return them.
While at the store I notice this fantastic three legged mahogany chair. It's the last of like, some set - and just might go super in my home office. ( . . I bet hubby can fix it for a song . . . )
I buy the three legged chair, --but not before spotting a cute floral notepad for the sis-n'law. Perfect!
Once home, I prop the chair up with a sturdy paint stick (for the time being) - and notice that it actually gives the chair quite a one of a kind look. I decide I may even keep it that way --kind of vintage like, or something.
With the chair a keeper -- I see the floral notepad happens to match my new pen set, like, exactly!
( . . I'll just run out one day this weekend and get something different for sissy-in-law.)
Interestingly, that night in bed channel surfing, I come across an infomercial for (and I'm not usually such a sucker) some sort of contraption-mask thing that if you wear it at night for a week straight -- will make your crows feet disappear.
I pony up the'ol credit card, order it rush delivery, and roll over for some shut-eye.
( . . some days, just exhaust me.)
The next morning, I decide I'm not keeping some dang screwy chair that doesn't even have four legs, and after a quick errand to return it, I stop at the Walmart to grab a diet coke at the indoor McDonalds, ---when the most amazing crockpot catches my eye.
It does everything but eat the meal itself!
I get it, figuring come summer I'm not gonna want to do any oven cooking.
At home I put last years crockpot on Craigslist.
It'be sweet if I could make just enough cash on it, to buy my sister-in-law something for her birthday.
Soon after, Hubby comes home from a bike ride with his buddy and shows me a darling flower pot Joe's wife was about to throw out.
It's actually in pretty good condition.
Don't hate me . . . but I think if I put a little spit-shine to it, and plant some miniature roses inside -- I could re-gift to my sis-in-the-law, flawlessly!
I grab my purse and head out to a nursery to look at plants.
Sometimes I feel like I just move in one big circle. You know?
I've always got something to do.
Sunday, November 30, 2008
She's Hot!
It's true. My friend and I made a wedding cake last week. No big'ee.
It was four layers of white heaven, --a Martha Stewart Weddings knock-off. And yeah, sure, --it looked pretty good. What'cha expect? I mean, come-on!
What went wrong, you ask?
Nothing.
Why do you have to go and assume something went wrong?
It was nothing. Nothing at all. . . Alright, yes. ----
---It was a little . . . .
. . . just a little,
---FIRE!
Yeah, yeah, --you heard me. A fire. Oh and not just any fire. Me. It was me on fire.
And before I go on let me just say, --this is exactly the kind of thing that would happen to me. It's no mystery. If I were to have seen a psychic last week - it'a'been a cinch for her to inform me of impending personal disasters to come. I'm a no-brainer for disasters and foul-ups. It'd be like, go ahead lady, take your pick -- which 'day-gone-wrong-in-the-future' would you like to relate to me? Like it's some mystery! Pleeeease!
Will I be tripping off a curb? Wetting my pants? Shooting coke out my nose?
And if she had told me, "I see in your future, --your body on fire at a wedding reception," I'd be like, "duh! . . and you want a twenty for that??!"
However, --since I was not psychic'ly prepared (and really, when am I ever?), --the whole 'body-on-fire' thing was fairly unexpected.
And it's not like I didn't assume something would happen to me -- it's just I was thinking more on the line of "you've got something in your teeth," or "gee, you have on the same dress as the flower girls."
You know, --the classics.
The whole evening started out harmless enough. My friend and I had successfully baked and decorated, and transported the layers without flaw. Heck, we even assembled them with not so much as a quiver. ( . . . well. maybe a quiver.)
But Trusty Husband was there, --supplying dowels, measurements, screwdrivers, matches, saws, flashlights, and you know, --just overall construction superiority.
Best yet, -the corner we were assigned for set-up at this outdoor reception, was dark and mysterious. Just the environment we needed to make our cake look even better. In fact, it was so dark we decided to add little votive candles around the small table for atmosphere and romance.
I had on a real cute billowy blouse that always served to cover my pregnant looking non-pregnant belly.
Plus it was good for the kind of maneuvering I was needing to do. I mean I could have done acrobats over the cake table and nary a bellyblubber or grannyundie would be shown.
Now here's where the story gets interesting, (or amusing - depending on your take) (p.s. it's times like this I find out who my real friends are).
As I leaned over the table to lift off the top tier cake for the bride and groom to keep, --my billowy blouse lit itself ever so flammable'ly, --and in no time I was upright with both precious cake in my hand, --and inferno on my bod.
The thing is, (and I never really knew it would be like this until the experience happened), ---when I catch on fire - I am more embarrassed than I am worried.
Strange, uh?
People complimented me on my 'thinking so clearly', and 'saving the cake', and how 'cool I was underfire' (so to speak).
But really, I was just too embarrassed to draw any more attention to myself yelling and carrying on. I had a look on my face like, "Yeah, I know I'm on fire . . so what? I mean to be on fire while I hold cake." Like, if I looked nonchalant enough -- maybe the others wouldn't notice the flames shooting from my belly.
And well, the truth is, --people tend to notice when you are on fire. There's just no way around it. It's a crowd getter.
Oh and you're sitting there thinking drop-and-roll, right? Well, you're not so smart 'til you've walked a mile in my shoes, (while on fire).
You can't just 'drop' and 'roll' when you're holding cake! And even if the pool was nearby (and it was), if you think I wanted to make a 'Splash' to go with my Fire -- you're crazy!
Luckily, and so luckily indeed, ---Trusty Husband was nearby and with amazing vigor he slapped at my blaze bare-handed until black smoke alone billowed above.
Now, I'm not quite sure if his amazing zeal rose from want of saving my life? or the blouse ( i.e. $$ )?
But no matter --- the deed he did, and a hero he was.
Whoo! Today I sure as heck count my lucky stars. In one evening I made cake, ate cake, and saved cake, ----all before any dastardly photographer or heyday wedding-go'er could snap a shot of me for the record (or the album).
Listen, --I'm memorable enough. Even without a pic.
It was four layers of white heaven, --a Martha Stewart Weddings knock-off. And yeah, sure, --it looked pretty good. What'cha expect? I mean, come-on!
What went wrong, you ask?
Nothing.
Why do you have to go and assume something went wrong?
It was nothing. Nothing at all. . . Alright, yes. ----
---It was a little . . . .
. . . just a little,
---FIRE!
Yeah, yeah, --you heard me. A fire. Oh and not just any fire. Me. It was me on fire.
And before I go on let me just say, --this is exactly the kind of thing that would happen to me. It's no mystery. If I were to have seen a psychic last week - it'a'been a cinch for her to inform me of impending personal disasters to come. I'm a no-brainer for disasters and foul-ups. It'd be like, go ahead lady, take your pick -- which 'day-gone-wrong-in-the-future' would you like to relate to me? Like it's some mystery! Pleeeease!
Will I be tripping off a curb? Wetting my pants? Shooting coke out my nose?
And if she had told me, "I see in your future, --your body on fire at a wedding reception," I'd be like, "duh! . . and you want a twenty for that??!"
However, --since I was not psychic'ly prepared (and really, when am I ever?), --the whole 'body-on-fire' thing was fairly unexpected.
And it's not like I didn't assume something would happen to me -- it's just I was thinking more on the line of "you've got something in your teeth," or "gee, you have on the same dress as the flower girls."
You know, --the classics.
The whole evening started out harmless enough. My friend and I had successfully baked and decorated, and transported the layers without flaw. Heck, we even assembled them with not so much as a quiver. ( . . . well. maybe a quiver.)
But Trusty Husband was there, --supplying dowels, measurements, screwdrivers, matches, saws, flashlights, and you know, --just overall construction superiority.
Best yet, -the corner we were assigned for set-up at this outdoor reception, was dark and mysterious. Just the environment we needed to make our cake look even better. In fact, it was so dark we decided to add little votive candles around the small table for atmosphere and romance.
I had on a real cute billowy blouse that always served to cover my pregnant looking non-pregnant belly.
Plus it was good for the kind of maneuvering I was needing to do. I mean I could have done acrobats over the cake table and nary a bellyblubber or grannyundie would be shown.
Now here's where the story gets interesting, (or amusing - depending on your take) (p.s. it's times like this I find out who my real friends are).
As I leaned over the table to lift off the top tier cake for the bride and groom to keep, --my billowy blouse lit itself ever so flammable'ly, --and in no time I was upright with both precious cake in my hand, --and inferno on my bod.
The thing is, (and I never really knew it would be like this until the experience happened), ---when I catch on fire - I am more embarrassed than I am worried.
Strange, uh?
People complimented me on my 'thinking so clearly', and 'saving the cake', and how 'cool I was underfire' (so to speak).
But really, I was just too embarrassed to draw any more attention to myself yelling and carrying on. I had a look on my face like, "Yeah, I know I'm on fire . . so what? I mean to be on fire while I hold cake." Like, if I looked nonchalant enough -- maybe the others wouldn't notice the flames shooting from my belly.
And well, the truth is, --people tend to notice when you are on fire. There's just no way around it. It's a crowd getter.
Oh and you're sitting there thinking drop-and-roll, right? Well, you're not so smart 'til you've walked a mile in my shoes, (while on fire).
You can't just 'drop' and 'roll' when you're holding cake! And even if the pool was nearby (and it was), if you think I wanted to make a 'Splash' to go with my Fire -- you're crazy!
Luckily, and so luckily indeed, ---Trusty Husband was nearby and with amazing vigor he slapped at my blaze bare-handed until black smoke alone billowed above.
Now, I'm not quite sure if his amazing zeal rose from want of saving my life? or the blouse ( i.e. $$ )?
But no matter --- the deed he did, and a hero he was.
Whoo! Today I sure as heck count my lucky stars. In one evening I made cake, ate cake, and saved cake, ----all before any dastardly photographer or heyday wedding-go'er could snap a shot of me for the record (or the album).
Listen, --I'm memorable enough. Even without a pic.
Thursday, November 13, 2008
Trash Lords
Good News!
We are officially throwing away less trash then we used to.
And here's how I know.
On trash night, I used to have to send my little ones out into the dark with a pail of stinky diapers or Hefty bag of dinner trash, --to find a neighbors half empty bin, because ours was always filled to capacity and beyond.
But no more! And I don't know if it's because the diaper years are long over, or the one boy gone on a mission was a bigger trash maker, than I knew -- but it doesn't matter why. All I know is there's no more of me standing at the door (too ashamed of our gigantor trash deposits, and of the twelve year old robe I am wearing -- to venture out myself) and gently ushering my children through the threshold.
"It's okay honey - they're all asleep, they won't mind," as I shamelessly send a six year old to dump in his neighbor's bin.
Or
"Oooooo, --your muscles look so big when you carry that kitchen trash like that," to husband.
Or
"Of course honey, --it's not 'illegal'. We just do it in the dark because it's good for your Cub Scout Trash Nightowl badge. ---Now run!" to a middle child.
Yes, sometimes the neighborhood dogs would bark, or people would peek out their blinds to see what all the hubbub was around their cans . . . .
"It's just the Moriset boys again Gloria, --one of them is standing in the recycle can trying to make room for a buttload of empty cereal boxes. Go back to sleep . . ."
Bless their hearts -- none of our neighbors ever did complain -- so you'd think I would've gotten brave enough to start doing our surplus dumping in daylight? I don't know. I just always felt like sneaking was better.
What?
I'm the only mom who's ever taught 'sneaky'?????
The root problem--truth be told--was I refused to order extra bins from the city. We have more stuff piled on the side of our house than a homeless camp has recycle'able cans, and I could not accept adding extra trash bins to the maze.
There were times, yes, a little bit of guilt would rise up in my throat ---like when I'd wake a toddler just to have him bring my bath trash out. But you know what? Ultimately it's taught us how to stick together in times of hardship, or mass waste product.
Listen - Every family's different. And besides, --these days any one of my kids could slip a used Taco Bell wrapper into your purse faster than you could say hot tamale. It's just one of those practice-makes-perfect things, I suppose.
Plus (and I don't like to brag about my kids, but), --a talent is a talent.
We are officially throwing away less trash then we used to.
And here's how I know.
On trash night, I used to have to send my little ones out into the dark with a pail of stinky diapers or Hefty bag of dinner trash, --to find a neighbors half empty bin, because ours was always filled to capacity and beyond.
But no more! And I don't know if it's because the diaper years are long over, or the one boy gone on a mission was a bigger trash maker, than I knew -- but it doesn't matter why. All I know is there's no more of me standing at the door (too ashamed of our gigantor trash deposits, and of the twelve year old robe I am wearing -- to venture out myself) and gently ushering my children through the threshold.
"It's okay honey - they're all asleep, they won't mind," as I shamelessly send a six year old to dump in his neighbor's bin.
Or
"Oooooo, --your muscles look so big when you carry that kitchen trash like that," to husband.
Or
"Of course honey, --it's not 'illegal'. We just do it in the dark because it's good for your Cub Scout Trash Nightowl badge. ---Now run!" to a middle child.
Yes, sometimes the neighborhood dogs would bark, or people would peek out their blinds to see what all the hubbub was around their cans . . . .
"It's just the Moriset boys again Gloria, --one of them is standing in the recycle can trying to make room for a buttload of empty cereal boxes. Go back to sleep . . ."
Bless their hearts -- none of our neighbors ever did complain -- so you'd think I would've gotten brave enough to start doing our surplus dumping in daylight? I don't know. I just always felt like sneaking was better.
What?
I'm the only mom who's ever taught 'sneaky'?????
The root problem--truth be told--was I refused to order extra bins from the city. We have more stuff piled on the side of our house than a homeless camp has recycle'able cans, and I could not accept adding extra trash bins to the maze.
There were times, yes, a little bit of guilt would rise up in my throat ---like when I'd wake a toddler just to have him bring my bath trash out. But you know what? Ultimately it's taught us how to stick together in times of hardship, or mass waste product.
Listen - Every family's different. And besides, --these days any one of my kids could slip a used Taco Bell wrapper into your purse faster than you could say hot tamale. It's just one of those practice-makes-perfect things, I suppose.
Plus (and I don't like to brag about my kids, but), --a talent is a talent.
Monday, November 3, 2008
Knit'n'Pick
I'm knitting socks for my cutie son who is away on a LDS mission. Isn't that darling of me?
Yes -- and if only I were a knitter.
Oh sure, -- I've knitted practice squares and long plank scarves, --but I have learned socks are a whole different animal. And every dang time I go to read instructions it just makes me feel all the more lame. Even to "cast on 40" I need to crack open my Easy Knitter for Girls book and look at the pictures -which than makes me crazy 'cause it appears every ponytailed strawberry-shortcake eleven-year old can knit like there's no tomorrow -- meanwhile I'm doubled up in arthritic pain just trying to hold my needles the right way. Really I don't need these kind of comparisons (I have enough issues).
So I put away the picture book and decide to check out YouTube.
I figure there's a video there for just about everything - there must be a few about knitting? I'm looking for the perfectly nice granny-type, who will both show me what to do, and talk me through it in a soothing lullaby voice.
'See? There you go sweetie. I'm so proud of you, you know! Aren't you just the little knitter? Would you like a cookie?'
Come to find out -- it looks like nobody on a YouTube knitting video will even show their face! And I bet I know why -- it's because they know to knit, is not a natural state, --so they hide their pompous faces to keep from laughing while they imagine us mediocres desperately trying to keep up.
I can tie a bow, for pete's-sake, why can't I knit a darn purl stitch??
One Brit had such a delightful accent though, that while she knitted away I was lulled into a definite state of knitting talent - except when I looked down at my work I saw it wasn't knitting I had done -- but yarn origami . . producing something that looked rather more like an exotic twenty-four inch rainbow snake, than a sock.
In gentler times folk would sit around the fireplace at dusk, and gently prod their female youngins' into knitting slavery. They were eventually to knit every item the household needed --skirts, bedspreads, and rifle cozies. And this would start at a very young age because the older women were sick and tired of doing all the household knitting, and wanted to move on to something more liberating -- like soap making and varmint fetching.
Ahh for a simpler day.
You know, there is a hierarchy in the modern knitting world. Last time I went to get yarn, I picked up a lime acrylic skein while a lady next to me gasped. Had she not swallowed her gum in the act, I might not have even noticed -- but between the gagging and coughing, I couldn't help.
"Is there a problem?" I asked her.
"Oh, I . . I just was so surprised to see you pick that up," her eyes still wet from the choking spasm. (Or where they eco-tears?)
"Surprised?" I ask.
"Yes. I mean, you weren't going to knit with it, ---were you?" she replies.
"Oh No, I thought I might do some baking . . ." (What the heck, lady?)
"It's just, well. We only knit with natural fiber, non-toxic dyed." I took her use of the word 'we' to mean the rest of civilization, --bar me.
Yes -- and if only I were a knitter.
Oh sure, -- I've knitted practice squares and long plank scarves, --but I have learned socks are a whole different animal. And every dang time I go to read instructions it just makes me feel all the more lame. Even to "cast on 40" I need to crack open my Easy Knitter for Girls book and look at the pictures -which than makes me crazy 'cause it appears every ponytailed strawberry-shortcake eleven-year old can knit like there's no tomorrow -- meanwhile I'm doubled up in arthritic pain just trying to hold my needles the right way. Really I don't need these kind of comparisons (I have enough issues).
So I put away the picture book and decide to check out YouTube.
I figure there's a video there for just about everything - there must be a few about knitting? I'm looking for the perfectly nice granny-type, who will both show me what to do, and talk me through it in a soothing lullaby voice.
'See? There you go sweetie. I'm so proud of you, you know! Aren't you just the little knitter? Would you like a cookie?'
Come to find out -- it looks like nobody on a YouTube knitting video will even show their face! And I bet I know why -- it's because they know to knit, is not a natural state, --so they hide their pompous faces to keep from laughing while they imagine us mediocres desperately trying to keep up.
I can tie a bow, for pete's-sake, why can't I knit a darn purl stitch??
One Brit had such a delightful accent though, that while she knitted away I was lulled into a definite state of knitting talent - except when I looked down at my work I saw it wasn't knitting I had done -- but yarn origami . . producing something that looked rather more like an exotic twenty-four inch rainbow snake, than a sock.
In gentler times folk would sit around the fireplace at dusk, and gently prod their female youngins' into knitting slavery. They were eventually to knit every item the household needed --skirts, bedspreads, and rifle cozies. And this would start at a very young age because the older women were sick and tired of doing all the household knitting, and wanted to move on to something more liberating -- like soap making and varmint fetching.
Ahh for a simpler day.
You know, there is a hierarchy in the modern knitting world. Last time I went to get yarn, I picked up a lime acrylic skein while a lady next to me gasped. Had she not swallowed her gum in the act, I might not have even noticed -- but between the gagging and coughing, I couldn't help.
"Is there a problem?" I asked her.
"Oh, I . . I just was so surprised to see you pick that up," her eyes still wet from the choking spasm. (Or where they eco-tears?)
"Surprised?" I ask.
"Yes. I mean, you weren't going to knit with it, ---were you?" she replies.
"Oh No, I thought I might do some baking . . ." (What the heck, lady?)
"It's just, well. We only knit with natural fiber, non-toxic dyed." I took her use of the word 'we' to mean the rest of civilization, --bar me.
"Oh no, you see. --Actually, I was just looking for the manufacturers address. I want to send those goons a real nasty letter about their mother-earth-hate'n products," I explained.
Whereupon, she glanced into my shopping basket and easily spied four other skeins of varying loud toxic colors, made of manmade material -- one even bragged 'Knit Him a Vest That Will Last His Lifetime, and Yours!' right on the label.
"I see," was all she could muster, but her beady judging eyes shot me a look of utter disdain -- and I knew right then and there I would never be able to run with her crowd.
Well no loss. So I'll never be a part of the Elite Knitting Superior.
If I hirer a knitter instead, will it still be the thought that counts?
. . . I'm going to mull that over, and get back to you.
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
Boo Hoo Hoo
It's Halloween. So how about a scary story for you? It's from my teen years, -which explains 'scary'.
I was real boy hungry as a teenager. Not a surprise--I know--as the words 'boy hungry' and 'teen' go together like 'church' and 'late' for a girl.
But man, I could develop crushes the size of small third world countries.
In high school Spanish class, ninth grade, my object'd'crush was Mark. He was a senior, on the football team, and hardly made a peep. In fact the only time I heard him speak was when Mr. Garcia had him say something in Spanish. To think of it, I can't even be sure he spoke English! But, when he'd turn his head to smile at his buddy behind me, --his smile had to go through me to get there -- and that was all I needed. I was a goner.
I interpreted Mark's quiet nature to mean a deep maturity and super high IQ. Don't ask me how I made the leap, but I also figured he'd make a great husband. (I obviously had very tight standards then by which to measure a man. The only thing else he needed to be a perfect 10 was a car and prom tickets.) Oh, and did I tell you? Mark had a full grown beard. Now that - that was a man! The facial hair alone, was fonder for hours of daydreams.
There was the pesty problem though, of Mark having a little brother my age. And it seemed to me if I was to love one of them -- I was probably supposed to love the one that was assigned to me.
But I just couldn't!
Little Bro was barely my height and his chin was pasty and hairless. I knew in my heart I was doing the right thing in pining for Mark.
As is usually the case in a school that has other girls, --I was not the only one to notice Mark . . and out of all the luck, --the other woman was his age, blonde, and a cheerleader.
I was none of those things.
I could best be described as a ninth grader.
Now here was the pickle, even further, ---eight weeks into ninth grade, comes Halloween. When you're grown up, like I was, you can't be a little kid and go door to door begging for candy. Buuutt, at the same time, when you need the candy, it can put you in a real predicament.
(Let me just insert here, for the children reading along, --this was all back in a day when the world was not ours on stick. Teenagers didn't expect to do or get whatever they wanted, and at any age. --Like nowadays even with lights off - a band of wild-eyed teens might just as soon climb through a window for candy or whatnot if so inclined. There is no respect for Halloween anymore. Ask your parents.)
Sooooo, after much debate my girlfriend and I knew we had to do what we had to do. . . Dress up as either a baby or a hobo (--our same choices, every year), and get busy. We went with baby, and decided to hit the neighborhood blocks away so nobody would know us. I was the most adult looking baby ever to don a pacifier.
We weren't having a ball however. It probably truly was the year we had needed to quit rather than keep looking for Mr. Goodbar. After a dozen houses, and at least enough booty to make a dent -- we knocked on one last door.
I do not remember her name (an obvious mental block, I'm sure) but Blonde Senior Cheerleader (let's just call her Bertha), threw open the door to a porch spotlight of this baby ninth grade trick or treater - who loved her MarkMan.
"Oh My Goooooo*****!!! You guys are toooo old!!" I heard a hundred peers behind Bertha laugh at me, and winched, as she slammed the door on our faces.
I could have wet my diaper.
My life as I knew it (okay, -it wasn't that great yet. But still!) was over! I imagined Bertha running back to Mark, sitting on his lap and petting his beard, as they both threw their heads back with belly laughs at my childishness.
"I always knew she was just a little girl,--not old enough for true love, or winter formal," Mark would comment to Bertha, and the others. " . . . somebody bring me a mustache comb . . . "
That night, I cried myself to sleep in a bed of sticky Twizzlers wrappers, as the horror of my misadventure sunk in deeper, and I knew Mark was to be no mas. That tender woolly face ---forevermore gone from the grasp of my sticky hands because of this Halloween's bitter trick.
Indeed.
*****
True, as Halloween tales go
this one rather less scary -
rather dull, rather slow
But when you trick or treat
this year, in fun, in glee
be thou ever fearful -
as your own Bertha,
you may see!
I was real boy hungry as a teenager. Not a surprise--I know--as the words 'boy hungry' and 'teen' go together like 'church' and 'late' for a girl.
But man, I could develop crushes the size of small third world countries.
In high school Spanish class, ninth grade, my object'd'crush was Mark. He was a senior, on the football team, and hardly made a peep. In fact the only time I heard him speak was when Mr. Garcia had him say something in Spanish. To think of it, I can't even be sure he spoke English! But, when he'd turn his head to smile at his buddy behind me, --his smile had to go through me to get there -- and that was all I needed. I was a goner.
I interpreted Mark's quiet nature to mean a deep maturity and super high IQ. Don't ask me how I made the leap, but I also figured he'd make a great husband. (I obviously had very tight standards then by which to measure a man. The only thing else he needed to be a perfect 10 was a car and prom tickets.) Oh, and did I tell you? Mark had a full grown beard. Now that - that was a man! The facial hair alone, was fonder for hours of daydreams.
There was the pesty problem though, of Mark having a little brother my age. And it seemed to me if I was to love one of them -- I was probably supposed to love the one that was assigned to me.
But I just couldn't!
Little Bro was barely my height and his chin was pasty and hairless. I knew in my heart I was doing the right thing in pining for Mark.As is usually the case in a school that has other girls, --I was not the only one to notice Mark . . and out of all the luck, --the other woman was his age, blonde, and a cheerleader.
I was none of those things.
I could best be described as a ninth grader.
Now here was the pickle, even further, ---eight weeks into ninth grade, comes Halloween. When you're grown up, like I was, you can't be a little kid and go door to door begging for candy. Buuutt, at the same time, when you need the candy, it can put you in a real predicament.
(Let me just insert here, for the children reading along, --this was all back in a day when the world was not ours on stick. Teenagers didn't expect to do or get whatever they wanted, and at any age. --Like nowadays even with lights off - a band of wild-eyed teens might just as soon climb through a window for candy or whatnot if so inclined. There is no respect for Halloween anymore. Ask your parents.)
Sooooo, after much debate my girlfriend and I knew we had to do what we had to do. . . Dress up as either a baby or a hobo (--our same choices, every year), and get busy. We went with baby, and decided to hit the neighborhood blocks away so nobody would know us. I was the most adult looking baby ever to don a pacifier.
We weren't having a ball however. It probably truly was the year we had needed to quit rather than keep looking for Mr. Goodbar. After a dozen houses, and at least enough booty to make a dent -- we knocked on one last door.
I do not remember her name (an obvious mental block, I'm sure) but Blonde Senior Cheerleader (let's just call her Bertha), threw open the door to a porch spotlight of this baby ninth grade trick or treater - who loved her MarkMan.
"Oh My Goooooo*****!!! You guys are toooo old!!" I heard a hundred peers behind Bertha laugh at me, and winched, as she slammed the door on our faces.
I could have wet my diaper.
My life as I knew it (okay, -it wasn't that great yet. But still!) was over! I imagined Bertha running back to Mark, sitting on his lap and petting his beard, as they both threw their heads back with belly laughs at my childishness.
"I always knew she was just a little girl,--not old enough for true love, or winter formal," Mark would comment to Bertha, and the others. " . . . somebody bring me a mustache comb . . . "
That night, I cried myself to sleep in a bed of sticky Twizzlers wrappers, as the horror of my misadventure sunk in deeper, and I knew Mark was to be no mas. That tender woolly face ---forevermore gone from the grasp of my sticky hands because of this Halloween's bitter trick.
Indeed.
*****
True, as Halloween tales go
this one rather less scary -
rather dull, rather slow
But when you trick or treat
this year, in fun, in glee
be thou ever fearful -
as your own Bertha,
you may see!
Monday, October 27, 2008
Now's The Time to Invest ! ( . . maybe)
The husband and I are shopping for a wee investment.
Well not so wee -- as it is a house we are looking for. (We feel blessed to do so.)
But at the same time we are big chickens, so I'm not exactly sure how we will fare in the World of Trump. We don't reeeelly want to spend very much, yet we still want something solid.
There is lots to understand about the California market, and one of those things is that you can't buy a nicely new, eighty-two thousand dollar, 2-story farmhouse charmer with a basement, like you can in Louisiana and Ohio --or wherever the heck else it is I keep reading about that has such places. (In fact in California, you don't even get basements -- at any price. Even our malls hover 10 feet about ground level.) (Maybe it's so we can look down at the rest of you? But whose laughing now, right? At least you guys have somewhere to go during your hurricanes and tornados. For earthquakes we all bite our nails and congregate at the local SmoothieKing!)
Well we went shopping last week---and the city in which we are looking has a lot of fixer uppers in our price range. In fact I'm just thrilled when the houses we look at have 2 to 3 of their exterior walls intact, and electric versus candle light. (At one house I saw this cute little family of rats runnin' the wheel just as hard and fast as their little bodies could, to keep that power going!)
I mean, we must be looking at the bottom of the real estate barrel, -I'll tell you that much.
One place had two bedrooms (that was if you decided to keep the curtain in room-divider position) and one bath (that was, if you didn't mind bathing in the sink). And it had it's own kitchen! (That was if you were a wiz with the hot plate and toaster oven).
I take umbrage with the fact that I've never had new carpet in my life, and my 10 year old car doesn't believe in brakes or FM radio, (if the steering pulls anymore to the left I'll be in my right mind) ---and yet a new house would get all the 'my' house and car money.
Buuuut, it'll be the price we'll have to pay if we want to become Ma and Pa real estate.
One house actually didn't look too bad cosmetically - which made us wonder what was brewing underneath. If only my husband owned an old work shirt, he could crawl around and check it out a bit. Oh Wait! I Forgot! He Does!! 32, Do-Not-Touch work shirts, 8 pants, and 6 old pairs of hole'y shoes. One pair with Power Ranger heads that light-up, belonged to our son -- though it's irrelevant that they don't fit my husband. They're Good Shoes!
Upon finding out the plumbing in this looker of a house would work just as well if we stuck a straw under the front yard and blew water through our mouths to the showers -- we passed on it.
Listen, it's not easy investment shopping. I suggested we invest in the GoldDigger 5000 motorhome instead - you know, for making more memories in -- but with no response from my hubby. Though he would, I reminded him, be able to fit more work/camping shirts in it then any 'old house we might buy!
Yes, I suppose it's true, --the long term value would be better in a house that's not on wheels.
But what do I really know? I'm a consumer, not a professor.
( . . . For the record.)
Well not so wee -- as it is a house we are looking for. (We feel blessed to do so.)
But at the same time we are big chickens, so I'm not exactly sure how we will fare in the World of Trump. We don't reeeelly want to spend very much, yet we still want something solid.
There is lots to understand about the California market, and one of those things is that you can't buy a nicely new, eighty-two thousand dollar, 2-story farmhouse charmer with a basement, like you can in Louisiana and Ohio --or wherever the heck else it is I keep reading about that has such places. (In fact in California, you don't even get basements -- at any price. Even our malls hover 10 feet about ground level.) (Maybe it's so we can look down at the rest of you? But whose laughing now, right? At least you guys have somewhere to go during your hurricanes and tornados. For earthquakes we all bite our nails and congregate at the local SmoothieKing!)
Well we went shopping last week---and the city in which we are looking has a lot of fixer uppers in our price range. In fact I'm just thrilled when the houses we look at have 2 to 3 of their exterior walls intact, and electric versus candle light. (At one house I saw this cute little family of rats runnin' the wheel just as hard and fast as their little bodies could, to keep that power going!)
I mean, we must be looking at the bottom of the real estate barrel, -I'll tell you that much.
One place had two bedrooms (that was if you decided to keep the curtain in room-divider position) and one bath (that was, if you didn't mind bathing in the sink). And it had it's own kitchen! (That was if you were a wiz with the hot plate and toaster oven).
I take umbrage with the fact that I've never had new carpet in my life, and my 10 year old car doesn't believe in brakes or FM radio, (if the steering pulls anymore to the left I'll be in my right mind) ---and yet a new house would get all the 'my' house and car money.
Buuuut, it'll be the price we'll have to pay if we want to become Ma and Pa real estate.
One house actually didn't look too bad cosmetically - which made us wonder what was brewing underneath. If only my husband owned an old work shirt, he could crawl around and check it out a bit. Oh Wait! I Forgot! He Does!! 32, Do-Not-Touch work shirts, 8 pants, and 6 old pairs of hole'y shoes. One pair with Power Ranger heads that light-up, belonged to our son -- though it's irrelevant that they don't fit my husband. They're Good Shoes!
Upon finding out the plumbing in this looker of a house would work just as well if we stuck a straw under the front yard and blew water through our mouths to the showers -- we passed on it.
Listen, it's not easy investment shopping. I suggested we invest in the GoldDigger 5000 motorhome instead - you know, for making more memories in -- but with no response from my hubby. Though he would, I reminded him, be able to fit more work/camping shirts in it then any 'old house we might buy!
Yes, I suppose it's true, --the long term value would be better in a house that's not on wheels.
But what do I really know? I'm a consumer, not a professor.
( . . . For the record.)
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