New Build Post #1

So this one time, we built a house.

We planned to do it every two years until we had a house paid off.

It was really exciting and fun and stressful and horrible. And we decided we never wanted to do it again.

So we waited 8 years until, on a whim (and a very rough, very low, very inaccurate estimate from The Builder), we decided to build again.

That was almost 4 months ago.

It is really exciting and fun and stressful and horrible. Again.

Today I had to go talk to The Builder. I didn't want to because I was very super frustrated, I had a headache, and I hadn't gotten enough sleep. I knew I would't be able to keep my cool. I took some deep breaths, took a bite of fried chicken (cause the rest of it, like everything else today, fell on the floor) and drove over.

When I got there, The Builder told me that Ty called to warn him I was on my way and that I wasn't feeling particularly charitable, so to keep the conversation clear of certain topics.

I was a little offended at the insinuation that I can't fight my own battles, or that I need someone to rescue me, but as I left The Builder with these parting words,

"I'm going to go take a nap before I kill the whole world,"

I realized that I DO need rescuing. Often. And I should just be grateful there is someone out there who realizes it before I do.

Long live Ty.

Halloween 2014

Did you think because I only post twice/year lately, that I would forego my Halloween post?

Don't kid yourself.

Count Fauxhawk Dracula

Owl
(I know the feathers look like leaves. Get over it.)

Black-fanged Dracula with an owl on his shoulder - don't worry, just dressing up as Dracula was enough to send his over-active imagination into a tail-spin of nightmares and wanting to sleep with BOTH sisters (instead of just the one he shares a room with). Sigh. This is why we usually make him dress up like a pirate.

Fawn
(thank goodness for windstorms that bring all the tumbleweeds to my yard - I've got enough for a whole herd of deer!)

Halloween 2014 was so ideal, that at one point I opened my front door, took one look, and exclaimed, "Ty, come see this: WE LIVE IN A MOVIE!" and teared-up. No joke. The sunset was perfection, the weather was a dream, the hay ride wagon was loading up for another turn around the subdivision (complete with festive music), all the neighbors were strolling around, laughing and talking, with their exceptionally cute little costumed children, and it was just too much exquisiteness to take in. If your child happened to be in the group who came up my walk at that precise moment, and came home with tales of the weird lady who was passing out tear-stained candy, now you know it was me.

And now you know that I am really, truly serious about my love for Halloween.

The next day, our last baby was baptized. 

It was a sublime end to an impeccable weekend.

The End

Because Current Life Situations Aren't Enough to Kill Me, I've Decided to Put Myself Through This Nightmare Again

A house that took me 16 hours to clean should take home-buyers longer than 15 minutes to look through.

I'd be willing to sign a petition stating as much.

Or lock them in and force them to notice every detail until they make my swollen, aching feet feel justified.

I've drafted a letter to be posted on my front door for next time:

Dear House Looker,

Oh, you think you've seen all you need to see? Bull crap. Now get down on your hands and knees and really appreciate those clean floors! Don't even take them for granted. Most days they are sticky. And there are usually stray pieces of popcorn under the stove.

See that garage? It didn't vacuum itself, unless that's what will make you want to buy this house, in which case, it did.

What's that? You just peeked into the storage room without so much as a moment of silence to remember the hours lost in its organization? For shame!

In 15 minutes, there's no WAY you could possibly understand the amount of blood, sweat, tears, and yelling that went into getting all children's rooms clean, straight, and vacuumed ON THE SAME DAY.

Yeah. As in simultaneously clean. Those are not words I string together casually. Or ever. So you'd better recognize.

I really do deserve some sort of medal. Or trophy. Or vacation.

At the very least, you could buy my freaking house.

Jerks.

Sincerely,

Sick of Cleaning This House for Nothin'

Itch, please

(because if I don't add a picture, one is randomly assigned by Facebook, and that bugs me)

Round here, we have a little running joke that's not very funny.

See, sometimes I get really irritated. And irritable (I know it's hard to believe, but try).

And itchy. Usually my legs and arms and back. And neck.

Literally, itchy.

It's bizarre, and I would really love for someone else to tell me they get itchy, too, because it would make me feel normal.

Whatever. I get itchy. I don't know if it's the itchiness that causes my frustrated mood, or the frustration that causes the itchiness, but it is not fun.

I feel overwhelmed and overstimulated and grouchy.

And it comes-on without warning. Today it was toward the end of church. Great morning, great day, and then BAM. Suddenly everyone was extra annoying. Suddenly I couldn't be nice to my kids. Suddenly I just wanted to tell everyone to cook their own dang dinner. Suddenly I wanted to get out. I don't even know what that means, but it's what I wanted: Away. Out. Gone.

Anyway, Ty thinks it's super funny that "itchy" just happens to rhyme/resemble/be almost-the-same-
as a word that we don't use in our household that describes pretty accurately the way I act when I am, literally, itchy.

So he likes to play it up. Over and over. And laugh.

Which is good.

Because it distracts me from being mad.

But not tonight. Tonight I just want to be itchy in peace.

Oxymoronic

I saw this at the store the other day.

Now, I've never run a marathon, so I guess I cannot say with 100% accuracy, but I'm just guessing that no one wants to smell like one.

First it says 'sport fresh scent', and just in case that wasn't all you ever wanted in a deodorant, it then specifies, 'marathon fresh scent'. As if marathon is just one variety of all the sport scents out there.

I wonder, does marathon smell different than, say, tennis? What about bowling? Does bowling have a bold note of stale cigarette smoke? Cause if we're going to get technical, I believe that would only be fitting.

I could really have fun with this. Why am I not in charge of deodorant scents?

I just found my life-long ambition.

Also, this was on the clearance aisle, if you can imagine.

Craffice

I need some help.

I don't know why I even come to you anymore, as you were no help at all with the shower curtain dilemma of 2013. 

You really let me down there.

But here we are.

I have a blank-canvas-of-a-room that I am planning to turn into an office/craft room.

It needs to function in about 4,730 different ways:

Sewing (including ironing), computer/bill-paying/filing/boring stuff I don't want to do or think about, painting (so a large rug is definitely in order), scrap booking (in case I ever decide to do that again), random crafting, and general everything-besides-cooking-ness.

Oh, and I want a cozy place to read, which can double as a place for my kids to sit and chat with me while I work.

Enter: window seat.

I have had a thing for window seats since I was a kid, and I will have one if it kills me.

And the design of my office.

I am having a hard time making the room function the way I need it to with the window seat in place.

But I am hell-bent on that dang window seat! So don't even try to talk me out of it.

But it would be super helpful if you could at the very least decide on a color scheme and style for me, and tell me that it's all going to be ok (and that I'm pretty and smart and amazing).

I think it's the least you could do after your failure with the shower curtain.


p.s. If you applied for the sister-in-law position, please know that I am in the process of getting your information to the proper authorities. If you like well-managed time and promptness, being a Shuman probably isn't your thing. Otherwise, keep being patient. I'll let you know by the end of this week what the word on the street is.

For The Ladies

I don't like to make people uncomfortable. But sometimes I have to. What's that saying? "With mediocre, obscure blogging comes great responsibility," or something. Anyway...

Colored tampons.

Yeah, I said it.

And what, in the name of all that is colorful, is up with them?

Either the genius who thought them up is grossly misinformed as to the nature and use of the tampon, or I am.

Do you suppose there was an entire population of females who were not buying tampons because they were white? Maybe one of them was overheard saying something like,

"Yeah, you know, I'd buy tampons, but they're just so dull. I want something that matches my colorful personality."

Or maybe there's a higher class of woman out there I don't know about who simply must coordinate her tampons with her outfit. Or her purse. Or her garbage can.

Whatever the case, there is one thing of which I am certain:

If you were hoping that colored tampons would turn your period into a party, forget it.

Despite their misleading fun-colored exterior, they make rather disappointing party poppers.

Good From Far

Lately I have a fascination with makeup.

It started a couple weeks ago when someone posted a picture on facebook of some lovely girls who were both wearing a LOT of makeup. I don't mean a LOT in my usual emphatic way. I mean A. LOT. As in, Sir Mix-A-LOT needs to downgrade his name to Sir Mix-A-Dab.

It disgusted me. And intrigued me.

Cause I am a makeup loser. I don't know the first thing about makeup.

Anyway, I had this whole mostly-one-sided conversation with Ty that "we" have about once/year, during which we discuss what we call "The Illusion of Beauty", and after which Ty forbids me from ever wearing lots of makeup.

I thought I got it out of my system.

But the very next day I saw a video tutorial for some device that is AN AIRBRUSH FOR YOUR FACE.

Am I the only one who thought those were just for movie stars? And not regular, every day movie stars, but movie stars who are being heavily made up for a photo shoot for TIME - or, more likely, Cosmopolitan? A photo shoot we all look at and KNOW the movie star doesn't actually look like that, and go about our normal lives without applying tons of makeup to our own faces?

Anyway, I watched the entire, really long tutorial. Because I could not look away.

It freaked me out that women have been, apparently, airbrushing their faces in the comfort of their own homes for whoknowshowlong now, and I wasn't aware that it was a thing.

Why are we doing this?!

Who in the world are we trying to impress?

Why do we think we need to wear stage makeup to run to the grocery store?

Why is my face supposed to be carefully highlighted and contoured while I dust? Wait...does it deflect dust and make cleaning easier?

Is there some secret everyone's been keeping from me?

 Like that we are ranked and sorted and awarded prizes later for our ability to change our appearance via makeup?

Cause, man. If we are, and you guys have been keeping it from me...

Oh. Snap.

I'm going to be so mad.

Villainous - revisited

I just saw this trailer:


Maleficent - Teaser Trailer on Disney Video

Do you recall this post?

Well, then you'll understand that I am looking forward to this movie with equal parts interest and dread.

Interest, because Maleficent is my favorite villain.

What new insight will they bring to her character?

Dread, because Maleficent is my favorite villain.

What if they ruin her good (at being bad) name?

What if I cannot relate to her anymore because she is played by Angelina Jolie?

Oh, I do hope the movie lives up to my imagination.


p.s. 'Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned'* is why women make the best villains. Ty and I have discussed this at length. What do wicked men want? Mostly power. What do wicked women want? Suffering, retribution, everything - if they're angry. And they tend to be more creative, thorough, and unassuming than men, remembering every little past slight, real or imagined. Which makes them highly ignitable, unpredictable, and scary. But it is a trick to find just the right balance of crazy. A lot of movies get it wrong when they over-sell the sexiness of evil. If she is made to seem dangerous based too heavily on her sexuality, a villainess eventually loses her appeal and is relegated to the not-scary category of Desperate. Or worse: Psycho, which is a catch-all phrase that basically means the dumb, exhausting kind of crazy that people (especially men) tire of quickly.

*p.p.s. Thank you, William Congreve, for the eloquent and ridiculously mis-quoted light you shone (shined?) on human weakness.

70/40

I'm saying it again: I think I'm getting old.

And it's weird.

I'm used to having a passion for opinion. Strong opinion. Opinion that makes my hands shake and my face turn red. Opinion that drives me to write blog posts. Blog posts I later revise so that they are somewhat fit for human consumption.

Not this sudden penchant for not caring.

Or for thinking things are pointless beyond the need to even waste my time forming an opinion.

That's all new for me.

And I don't know what to do with it.

It's not all bad. In fact, I've been waiting patiently for my turn to finally grow up.

(which is what I really hope this is all indicative of, and not some strange mental illness that slowly takes my mind, one opinion at a time...)

It's just foreign. It makes me question myself.

For instance, take the hipster movement:

Meh.

That's it.

I can't even get worked up over how ridiculously desperate, tired, and high school-esque the whole thing is. Hard as I try!

I can muster a half-hearted, single eye roll, but that's it.

Mostly I just look at the ironic-so-long-it's-no-longer-ironic and over-sized, non-prescription glasses and feel, at worst, apathetic; at best, second-hand embarrassed.

A slightly annoyed Meh.

While I look forward to a very indifferent future filled with bouts of blood pressure so low doctors won't know whether to categorize me with the living or the dead, I worry about the toll this might take on my writing career.

And then I remember that it's not a career. It's a blog. And a rather small-scale one at that.

And I think,

Meh.

Listless

A picture for your pinning pleasure

I've noticed that people love a good list.


Lists of date ideas;

Lists of things you should tell your child before they're 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16.

17.

18.

Lists of ways to tell your husband you love him;

Lists of things you should do to strengthen your marriage.

I think you get the point. A lot of lists.

So, in a blatant attempt to get myself pinned on Pinterest, I am going to make the List To End All Lists.

(I can't wait to be famous!)

1. If your husband doesn't think you love him, and you need a list of ideas to get him to believe it, there's something wrong. With him, with you, maybe with your parents. Maybe all of you. It's hard to tell without a lot of therapy. Or maybe he does know it, but he's not overly affectionate, and you're just pinning things you wish he'd do for you, and you are of the mistaken mind that if you do it for him, he'll reciprocate. That doesn't work. Stop wasting your time, and use your words. Men are a big fan of the words.

2.No one in the history of the Universe has ever actually done all those date ideas. Cause let's face it: you're tired and broke. And snuggling up with a movie never gets old. Or takes too much energy. And your husband probably doesn't think all those 'creative' ideas are as much fun as you think they are. Or maybe he does. In which case (and only after I say you're delusional or he's a good faker), I say let him plan the dates! Why, after the wedding vows are made, do women suddenly feel compelled to plan elaborate dates? I mean, yeah. Plan some dates. But, man. I am of the mind that anything is fun if you do it with your favorite person. Do we have to turn enjoying time with our spouse into another chore or thing-to-be-organized? I can't wait until we all start making Date Charts, complete with magnets, chalkboard paint, and vinyl sayings. Then we could create a reward system for every time our husbands agree to go on some cockamamie date with us without complaint, complete with a whole separate chart of stickers and points. Oh, the list/chart-making possibilities are endless!

3. Your 5-year old will turn 6 whether or not you tell him certain things in certain ways. Then he'll turn 7. Then 8. Then 9. Are you catching on, here? He'll be okay. Unless you are a horrible human being with no morals, your child will turn out to be pretty decent. If absolutely nothing else, they will learn from your example, which, if you remember, isn't all that bad because we've already determined that you are not a horrible human being. There isn't any vital secret that you are going to miss-out on telling them if you don't pin every list on parenting available on Pinterest. I promise. And besides, here's a little-known secret: the authors of those lists are not any better parent than you. They just know how to write things in such a way as to tug at your heart strings and sound good. And, guaranteed (unless you're only 22), most of them are younger than you, so where's the evidence-based data proving their list correct?! Yeah, they're just making that crap up! It'll take a good 35 years before we know if their little theories are helpful or complete B*$%#@. If you want some real advice, go ask your mom. She won't give you any, because she's smart, and she knows that parenting isn't a basic math equation with a finite answer, but ask anyway. It's good for you.

4. If a pin is titled in ALL CAPS, especially if those caps say "BEST EVER" or "MUST READ" or "THE ABSOLUTE BEST" or "MUST REMEMBER" or anything similar, you are under no obligation to repin it. ALL CAPS is not legally binding. It doesn't make an untruth true. Or a waste of time valuable. Hard as it tries.

5. If your marriage needs strengthening, your marriage is probably what you should focus on. Not someone else's. I mean, if you are super surprised by any of the ideas listed in a marriage-strengthening list, let's face facts: you're kind of stupid, so maybe you shouldn't have gotten married in the first place. And, of course, if your marriage is in trouble, please seek professional help. I am a supporter of professional help! Which is not Pinterest. Even if it's in ALL CAPS. Also, if you happen to notice, a lot of cutesy marriage-strengthening lists are authored by little girls who have been married all of three years. Refer to list item #3 if you don't know where I'm going with this...

6. You may, in fact, pin anything you please. It's the law. And I won't judge. (not that you should care whether or not I judge). It's just that I sometimes worry that lots of young (and old) wives and mothers are getting the odd impression that all the nice little, well-intentioned, smart-sounding lists on Pinterest are a realistic depiction of reality. They are not. In fact, women were all getting along just fine (having great relationships, raising well-behaved, well-loved children, and spending quality time with their spouses) before the Internet! I know it is true, because my own mother did it! Not a list in site other than the ones she wrote in her little spiral notebook every morning before the sun came up; lists that were carefully tailored to keep her focused on her own, personal goals - and not those of some mostly-fictitious mommy blogger who just wants more traffic.

7. And I say this just as much to myself as to everyone else: focusing too much energy on other people's supposed perfection only makes you feel dissatisfied with your own life. So think of the good things you're doing, do them more, and don't worry about it.

The Mark Twain Seal of Approval

We are finishing our basement, which is neither here nor there.
And I title things for my own amusement. Sorry they very rarely make sense.

I had a moment today when I smiled and thought to myself,

"Awww...I'm finally growing up."

If growing up means using a toddler-esque phrase in place of a curse word.

And it does.

I think.

Or it could just be that I am very morbidly sleep deprived.

(what is it about paint colors and tile samples and the smell of lung cancer-inducing dry wall dust that gets my imagination so wound up I can't sleep?)

Anyway, I went to get a very huge load of wash out of the dryer, and the first thing my hand closed around was a tube of chapstick.

I groaned through very gritted teeth.

And said,

"Ooooooh, stink hole."

Very slow and drawn-out.

And then immediately giggled.

Cause, what?!

Where did that come from?

No matter from whence it sprang, I am counting it as progress!

Maybe my subconscious has had it with my conscious. 

It knows I can't set goals and reach them.

So it decided to take my swearing habit into its own very hypothetical hands.

And, I must say, it's doing a damn good job.

So's Your Face

Have you ever gone to a Mary Kay Cult gathering or seen one of those magazine beauty quizzes designed to help you figure out how to apply blush?


You know how the first assignment is to
determine your face shape?

I can never do it.

And it causes me a lot of stress.

Cause you have to get it right, or you could go your entire life applying blush wrong, making yourself at least 10 times uglier than necessary.

Yikes. That's a lot of pressure.

I cannot do it.

The options are usually square, oval, round, heart, or diamond. I hate to brag, but I was pretty much a shape sorting virtuoso in Kindergarten. I mean, that shape sorter toy didn't know up from down when I got done with it. So I should be able to figure it out, but alas. No can do.

I have a square forehead, a dented rectangle jaw/cheekbone line, and a pointed chin.

My face is face-shaped.

Why isn't that an option?

Hindsight is an Awesome Parent

Sometimes our old stand-by of sitting and holding hands
just isn't working, and we have to get creative. Some of
us think I'm clever. Some of us don't.

I haven't been on the computer much lately.

It's been glorious.

And then tonight I finished my book (thanks to the discovery that I can cook, eat, and give myself a pedicure while reading) (not all at the same time), the kids were in bed, the man was at meetings, and I was looking for a way to kill some time.

Pinterest. Oh, sweet Pinterest, how I've missed thee.

...where I happened upon a pin about parenting, which reminded me of a little problem we were having with one of the children a while back.

And I thought,

Huh. I haven't thought about that in a long time.

How weird that something that seems so huge - something I prayed about and fretted over and felt so desperately unable to work through - is so easily forgotten.

Why didn't anyone tell me that all the seemingly endless toddler phases would, in fact, end? That things have a way of working themselves out?

Why didn't anyone tell me to relax; to laugh things off and know that someday soon I wouldn't even remember the problem that right then seemed so all-encompassing and important...and urgent?

I mean, I'm sure someone told me. In fact, I know they did.

But why didn't they also tell me they were serious? And correct?

Man, I was dumb.

Oh, to know then what I know now.

Or to use what I know now right now.

The latter would be best.

But seems just as likely as the former.

And, because I am feeling annoyed with how judgey I can be, I will skip the rant about parenting advice, tips, and articles. For now.

But you gotta know it's coming. Eventually.

Fun With a Capital 'D'

Last night I had HAD it with the rotten weather, my rotten attitude, and my rotten parenting.

I decided to do something fun with my kids to end the day on a happy note.

So I asked Sy (the grumpiest of the bunch thanks to his mean mom who wouldn't allow him to have a 47th dessert) to choose a game.

Life.

That's the one he chose. Of all the long, stupid, long, complicated, long, boring, long, frustrating, LONG games...

But it was fun mom time, so I put on my best fake smile and said, 'alright'.

I was rather impressive:

I juggled two sets of twins, an accounting career, being banker/mover-of-everyone's-cars-who-don't-count-fast-enough/teller-of-people-when-it's-their-turn-to-go, and sitting cross-legged (scrunched between the coffee table and the couch) for far longer than should ever be expected of any human over the age of 30. Or probably 14.

And just when I was congratulating myself on being awesome, and thinking maybe I CAN do this fun mom thing after all, I looked down and noticed that we were only half way around the board.

And Ty finally got home and was snuggled in our spot downstairs on the couch, waiting for me to come put my cold toes under his legs and talk to him while he tries to watch tv.

And it was way past the kids' bedtime.

And it was Sy's turn.

And he needed to switch careers.

And I needed his career card so I could see how much to pay him.

And he had no clue what I was talking about, and kept holding up everything BUT the thing I needed.

And I was so crammed into my spot between the table and couch that I couldn't see his cards to point to the right one.

And my patience was 36 spaces past the finish line.

And I swore.

And then I watched as Sy's innocent little lips mouthed the offending word over and over, as though he were sounding it out, spelling it in his mind, and
taste-testing it to find out if it was to his liking.

And I felt both sorry/failurific/ashamed and unable to contain my laughter.

*I-give-up sigh*

In my experience, regular mean mom, while not very fun, is probably a better role model than fun mom.

At least regular mean mom swears at appropriate times, and not when everyone's supposed to be having fun.

Fun mom is so confusing.

And not any fun.

Please Advise

Last night I wrote a post, but I don't think the world is ready for it.

We'll give it a few days.

In the mean time, I am having trouble deciding on a shower curtain.

What I mean is that I have been trying to decide for over a year.

I bought two, thinking I'd reconstruct them.

Then I bought a bunch of fabric.

Then I searched the internet for ideas.

Then I shoved everything under my bed and gave up.

And that's as far as I've come.

I want it white. That's for sure.

Probably.

If not, what color should I use? My bathroom is varying shades of tan, and I want it to feel calm, so do I go spa-esque, and just use white towels, shower curtain, rug (did I mention I need all new towels, too?)? Or do I add a little bit of color? If you've ever seen my house, you know that I am pro-color, so can I handle a white and tan bathroom? For very long?

Black and white is always classy, so maybe something like this:

and nothing says sophistication like an ugly, random pink rabbit:

Or for a subtle hint of color, minus the class, this:

or perhaps whatever this is:

Help.

If every pin is special, none of them are

I am starting to resent Pinterest.

Don't get me wrong. I love it. It is a wealth of ideas, and I use it exclusively for party planning and recipe-finding.

But I worry that soon we will all have the same decor (to be fair, this has been a fear of mine since the invention of the Internet, Mommy Bloggers, and Relief Society). The same parties. We'll play the same New Year's Eve Party games.

We will all be crafting robots. Our children will be churning out paper-plate panda bears and friendship bracelets like assembly-line workers.

If my Kindergartner comes to school without the specialized training that only elaborate schemes involving lamination, intricate scissor work, and hours of prep time done by me can provide (like memorization of the ABC's for instance), will they ever succeed? Or should I just give up now?

If my First Grader leaves the house with a square sandwich (remember those? I'd do a tutorial, but it might just blow your mind), baby carrots (NOT whittled into a working whistle), a cookie (chocolate chip - they're good and homemade, cause that's how I roll, but they are just the recipe on the back of the chocolate chips package, and they're just called 'chocolate chip cookies') and a water bottle (with the original label from the manufacturer attached - will she know I love her if I don't make a label declaring it for her mid-day break?) for lunch, will her future endeavors be compromised?

I fear the day every child brings a Kleenex box monster Valentine box and homemade valentines to school with clever sayings about goldfish or cake pops (oh, the cake pops!).

And what of simple pallets? The run on that market that Pinterest is creating will, I predict, cause the price of pallets to skyrocket. I wonder if in a few years people will be building things out of actual wood from the lumber store because it will be cheaper than using a pallet?

A few months ago, when I was planning Samera's birthday party, I had the oddest experience: A friend of mine asked what we were doing, and I began to explain. She kept oohing and ahhing over my explanations of very last-year things (Samera refused to be swayed. I tried. A baking party? Yes, very cute. But it's been done. Over and over. Apparently kids aren't as concerned about originality as adults are. I should remember this.).

Her enthusiasm was distressing me. I couldn't get a good read on why she was so excited. Was she mocking me? She finally exclaimed over my creativity and asked how in the world I had thought of it all.

What kind of mind game was this???

And then:

Ah. The last person on earth to be introduced to Pinterest.

It all made sense.

and

It was so confusing for me.

I wanted to bear my testimony of the wonders of computerized pinning and how her life would be enhanced,

but

I also wanted to tell her to cherish her naivete. To bask in glorious ignorance of the 500 uses of hydrogen peroxide for as long as possible.

Because there are some bells that you simply can't un-ring.

Although I'm sure someone will figure out how to eventually, and they'll do a tutorial. It will probably involve coconut oil or protein powder. Or an Altoids tin. And possibly an armoire*.

And we'll all pin it.


*seriously, why do people assume I have hundreds of armoires lying about my house, empty and useless? If I have the money for an armoire (have you ever priced armoires? Those puppies are spendy!), I have the money for whatever piece of furniture you can make an armoire into.

Keep On Survivin'

Yesterday in church I substitute-taught a Sunday School lesson for adults.

It made me reflect on all the times I've asked my husband, "How did your lesson go?" after he teaches.

And how unnecessary that question is.

It's not a matter of how.

It's either you survive it, or you do not. And since, for the most part, there is no option BUT to survive, the question answers itself.

Every time.

So, how did my lesson go?

It went. And now it's gone.

Thank goodness.

Ring Whisperer

I know what you are thinking:

"Boy, Andrea must have finally smartened up a little."

But you are wrong.

Don't beat yourself up over it. It's an easy mistake to make, if all you have to go off of is this blog.

It's been ages since I regaled the masses with tales of awkward predicaments or judgmental musings.

But that doesn't mean there haven't been any.

Oooooooh, no siree.

It just means I haven't written any of them down. Which might mean that they didn't actually happen. Right?

Same principle as trees falling in the forest...? Maybe?

Just to be safe, I thought I'd better hurry and write my latest snafu before it didn't happen, too.

So, there we were. At the mall. My friend and I. I was showing her a ring that I really liked, and lamenting the fact that its package prevented me from trying it on. All my complaining reminded her of a time she tried on a ring at a store, and the management had to cut it out of its package to get it back off her finger. We laughed about it, but she insisted that it was traumatic and that it really hurt. Not to mention the embarrassment of it all. She admonished me not to try on the ring.

So, there we still were. Well, I was. My friend continued shopping while I noticed a way to unhinge the  plastic thingy that kept the elusive ring from my eager finger. I slipped it over my knuckle. Where it became instantly and decisively stuck.

I had to get my laughter under control before I could get my friend's attention. 

I am lucky this friend is the kind who doesn't kick idiots in the shin. 

Instead, she tugged and twisted that ring, all the while telling me not to freak out.

My finger expanded and turned red. The ring suddenly revealed its sharp edges, which until that moment seemed perfectly normal.

I no longer found the ring attractive, but was willing to buy it, just so we could go home and take a table saw to my finger if need-be. 

But my friend wasn't giving up. She poured lotion over and around that silver band like there was no tomorrow. She kept saying, 

"Don't freak out...are you freaking out?"

Which led me to believe that she was. Just a little. Which made me giggle.

In the end, she saved the day.

And my finger.

And now, two weeks later, she is still my friend. Even after finding out how high maintenance I am, what with all the care and keeping I require thanks to my bad decision-making gland.

(and my forgetting to eat gland...but that's another story)

So here's to you, friend.

Thank you.

Twenty Thirteen

It's 2013. We are ten days in, and I have nothing to write about, but feel that the occasion should be marked somehow.

I don't usually make resolutions. Not in the winter, anyway.

But this year (2013!), I am making an exception.

Because I don't want to live 2012 again.

It served it's purpose, but 2012 is one year that I can honestly say I am relieved to be rid of.

There toward the end, it felt like a half-empty bag of chips you forgot about in the back of your pantry because someone set a box of crackers in front of it and a can of tomatoes on top of it.

It was stale.

I still finished it out of a sense of duty, but it was stale.

So bring on the '13! I'm ready!

(as long as 2013 is full of parties and fluffy problems that are solved in sit-com, 30-minute-long, "Oh, it was all just a misunderstanding, hahahahaha!" fashion)