The Scrapinator

Stay Tuned.. . !

2011-11-10T18:46:00.001-05:00

A brand new post is coming. Honest.
Thought I'd warn everyone so you don't faint.
:)

To Every Mom Who Gets Bath Stuff for Mothers Day

2011-05-08T13:00:00.004-04:00

I was trying to decide between a khaki jacket and navy one when I noticed them. Right away, I recognized their look. It's the same one I get everytime I'm sent to the hardware store, or have to pick up a doozywhatsis at the auto parts store: total bewilderment, as if I'd just stumbled upon a secret alien planet right here on earth.
He looked like the typical dad - jeans and golf jacket, early 30's, expression hovering between deer-caught-in-the-headlights and weight room can-do. Each of his hands rested atop the head of boys who looked to be about 8 and 5. The older boy looked bored, the little guy leaned against his dad's leg and snuck his thumb into his mouth.
To their credit, they plunged in with resolute determination.
"OK, boys," he said quietly. "Let's find something nice for mommy." Like a small army, they moved along the racks, sliding hangers here and checking tags there. Dad held up a green blouse. Both boys shook their heads. They looked at a red flowered jacket on a mannequin but couldn't find it anywhere on a rack.
"What size does mom wear?" asked the older boy, fingering frilly top.
"Um, I don't know," Dad admitted. "She's always saying she's fat. . . "
"Mom's not fat," said the older son. "She's just right."
"I know, buddy. I agree. Hey, how about this?" He held up a black and white striped dress with ruching across the front.
"Not that, daddy," said the younger boy. "It looks like a prison dress!"
"No, it doesn't, you dope," said his big brother.
"Yes, it does," said dad, laughing as he slid the dress back onto the rack. Both boys cracked up.
I added a green jacket to my stack, and headed for the fitting room. When I came out, they had wandered over to a display of colorful plaid shorts and were checking sizes by holding them up to their dad. They seemed to settle on a turquoise pair and then located a tshirt to match. The dad held up both pieces in the air.
"Hmmm. . . maybe not," I heard him say.
"Why not?" asked his younger son. "Mommy looks pretty in blue."
"I know she does, " said dad. "But didn't she tell Aunt Jen she hates plaid shorts because they make her behind look big?"
"Mommy doesn't have a big behind!" protested the little guy, plunging his thumb back into his mouth.
"I know," agreed dad, ruffling his son's hair. "But let's try to get mommy something she would like, ok buddy? There's got to be something here. . . " he trailed off as the three of them turned around to scan the endless sea of clothing racks around them.
I picked two dresses off a rack along with a pink jacket and headed back to the fitting room. When I finished, I hung everything on the cart by the door and headed over to suits. On my way, I spied the trio hovering near raincoats. Dad had a gawd-awful shawl under his arm, and the younger son was holding a canvas rain hat.
"Hey," said the older boy. "How about a new purse for mom?"
Off they went across the aisle like hungry lions on the trail of food. There were shelves and tables stacked high with purses in every conceivable shape and color but they plunged right in. After much searching, they found a lime green bag with a cell phone pocket on the outside.
"This one!" cried the younger boy. "Mommy's always losing her cell phone. Let's get this one!" He stuck his arm through the straps and hoisted it onto his shoulder. It cleared the floor by two inches.
"Good idea, buddy" said dad. "But maybe we can find her one that's a little smaller." They went back to their task, inspecting flowered fabric bags, suitcase bags, hobo bags, clutch purses and a large purple bag trimmed in leather ruffles. Finally, the older boy held up a sleek black bag with an array of shiny buckles and clasps.
"How about this? She could keep her cell phone in one of these pockets."
"Hey," said dad, taking the bag from his son and turning it over. "This just might work."
"Yeah, " said the little guy. "It looks just like mommy's now purse."
Dad looked at his son and then squinted at the purse. "You're right," he sighed. "It looks just like mommy's now purse."
I found a sweet tan linen suit in my size and headed for the fitting room. To my amazement, it both fit and was on sale. Whoooeee. Now all I needed was the right accessories. I checked my watch. I'd been here 45 minutes and still needed to get to the grocery. A quick stop in the jewelry department and I'd be good to go.
That's when I saw them again. A little ragged perhaps, but enthused . . .almost renewed. And then I understood why. After navigating the baffling world of women's clothing and accessories, then forging through a universe of purses, they'd latched onto the one department that said "mom" above all the others: ladies toiletries. In this realm, you didn't have to know the difference between petite and misses. You didn't have to worry about size or pattern or the misfortune of giving a gift that made one's behind look bigger.
This was a sure thing.
And there they were, dad crouched down looking at a row of shiny bottles trimmed with flowers and lace. Some were housed in clear plastic bags; some in chrome baskets, others nestled in shreds of colored tissue. Everything oozed clean girliness. The little guy was sitting cross legged on the floor, surrounded by bottles. He'd pluck one carefully from the shelf, unscrew the cap to sniff the contents and then methodically screw each cap back on. The older boy and his dad were contemplating a kit containing bath salts, cremes and lotions.
I glimpsed some chunky wooden earrings and headed past them toward jewelry.
"What do you think?" asked the dad. "Think she'll like this?"
"I don't know," said the older boy, cautiously. "Mom likes all this girly stuff, but she takes showers. She doesn't take baths."
"This one!" cried the little guy, perilously brandishing an open bottle as he struggled to his feet. "Smell this, daddy. THIS is the one we should get!"
The dad but his hand on the bottle to steady it and slowly drew close to give it a sniff. He pulled his head back, then went in for another smell.
"I don't' know," he said slowly. Then he turned to his older son. "What do you think?"
The older boy took the bottle and smelled it.
"Yeah, that's okay, " he said.
"I want this one," cried the little guy. "This one smells like mommy on vacation!"
"What are you talking about?" scowled his older brother. "Besides, that says bath salts and mom only takes showers."
"I don't care. I want mommy to have this. It smells like when we went on vacation to Sea World and mommy got a flower behind her ear."
The dad looked at his boy. Then he looked at the bottle, and screwed the cap back on. "Well, it does smell good but mom takes showers so let's see if we can find something for the shower that smells like this. "
I located a necklace to go with the wood earrings and finally headed for the cash register. My feet hurt and I still had to get groceries.
As I waited my turn in line, the three shoppers got in line behind me. Each of them was holding a different bottle containing something pink. The little guy's bottle had bath salts in it.
"You sure, buddy?" asked the dad.
"Yes," the little guy nodded, looking at his bottle. "Maybe mommy doesn't take baths because she doesn't have the right stuff."
I couldn't help but smile as I remembered all the Mothers Days that I'd been blessed with bath salts and gaudy jewelry and clothes that didn't fit. I'd loved and treasured all of it, but never more so than now.
I drove passed them as they were coming out of the store. Three weary shoppers on their way home to wrap gifts for one very lucky mom.
I hope she appreciates them.

Hijacking the Truth

2011-02-13T17:47:00.011-05:00

I have a love/hate relationship with Facebook.
Some weekends I'm furtively tethered to it much more than I should be, waiting for new posts and adding insipid status updates like the I have nothing better to do.
Other days, it's like having your mother living next door. I'm supremely aware of the coworkers and relatives who've friended me and am more comfortable moving away from the window for awhile.
Always, though, I'm amazed at what a terrific detective Facebook is, reuniting me with college roommates, old acquaintances and people I thought I'd lost.
Take Ken's cousins, Jim and Mark. They live in Florida and - since Ken's not much of a traveler - we've only seen Jim when he and his wife, Joy, have visited Ohio. I remember Mark from our Florida honeymoon some 30 years ago. He was a cute teenager who'd mastered the art of the wisecrack.
Thanks to Facebook, though, I've been following Jim's trevails with back injuries, The Cat from Hell and his updates to the family tree. And today, I found Mark on FB. He's all grown up and - from the looks of these rules - has become wise and insightful. Those are family traits.
I wish I'd written these Adult Truths. But since I didn't, I'm highjacking them for a blog post.
Mark can always head north to register his displeasure in person if he objects. It'll be a nice opportunity to catch up.
I just hope he brings some sunshine. . .

Adult Truths

by Mark Stephenson on Sunday, February 13, 2011 at 4:16pm

1. I think part of a best friend's job should be to immediately clear your computer history if you die.

2. Nothing sucks more than that moment during an argument when you realize you're wrong.

3. I totally take back all those times I didn't want to nap when I was younger.

4. There is great need for a sarcasm font.

5. How the hell are you supposed to fold a fitted sheet?

6. Was learning cursive really necessary?

7. Map Quest really needs to start their directions on # 5. I'm pretty sure I know how to get out of my neighborhood.

8. Obituaries would be a lot more interesting if they told you how the person died.

9. I can't remember the last time I wasn't at least kind of tired.

10. Bad decisions make good stories.

11. You never know when it will strike, but there comes a moment at work when you know that you just aren't going to do anything productive for the rest of the day.

12. Can we all just agree to ignore whatever comes after Blu Ray? I don't want to have to restart my collection...again.

13. I'm always slightly terrified when I exit out of Word and it asks me if I want to save any changes to my ten-page technical report that I swear I did not make any changes to.

14. I keep some people's phone numbers in my phone just so I know not to answer when they call.

15. I think the freezer deserves a light as well.

16. I disagree with Kay Jewelers. I would bet on any given Friday or Saturday night more kisses begin with Miller Lite than Kay.

17. I wish Google Maps had an "Avoid Ghetto" routing option.

18. I have a hard time deciphering the fine line between boredom and hunger.

19. How many times is it appropriate to say "What?" before you just nod and smile because you still didn't hear or understand a word they said?

20. I love the sense of camaraderie when an entire line of cars team up to prevent a jerk from cutting in at the front. Stay strong, brothers and sisters!

21. Shirts get dirty. Underwear gets dirty. Pants? Pants never get dirty, and you can wear them forever.

22. Sometimes I'll look down at my watch 3 consecutive times and still not know what time it is.

23. Even under ideal conditions people have trouble locating their car keys in a pocket, finding their cell phone, and Pinning the Tail on the Donkey - but I'd bet everyone can find and push the snooze button from 3 feet away, in about 1.7 seconds, eyes closed, first time, every time.

24. The first testicular guard, the "Cup," was used in Hockey in 1874 and the first helmet was used in 1974. That means it only took 100 years for men to realize that their brain is also important. Ladies.....quit laughing.

Denial, Anger Issues and One Close Call

2011-01-27T18:46:00.014-05:00

1963.
We are sitting at a traffic light in our new blue Ford Galaxie in downtown Tiffin. It was summer, and I was contemplating my new sandals and thinking how unfair it was to get in trouble just because I told my sister she was stinky.
I'm only telling the truth, I argued. She is stinky.
Am not, cried my sister with her stupid fake tears.
Girls!, shushed my mother.
Enough, said my father.
Then the light changed, and my dad eased into the intersection. Suddenly, there was the loudest bang I'd ever heard. The car behind us had been rear ended and it shot toward us into the intersection, missing our shiny new car by inches.
Whew, said my dad, peering into the rearview mirror. He missed us by that much. He held up his hand with a little space between his forefinger and thumb.
Oh my, said my mom. We are blessed. Girls, say a little prayer.
I prayed that my stinky sister would find stink bugs in her bed.
A lot of time has passed since that day in 1963. And as far as I know, my sister has never found a single stink bug in her bed.
But I think of the kismet of that moment back in 1963 whenever I have a close call of some sort. Like the time I jaywalked in downtown Columbus only to have a car swipe by me so close it left a stripe on my pants. Or the time I tipped a six-foot ladder up onto two legs while sneezing, and didn't fall OR spill paint.
There are times, though, when we skip our way through life, blissfully unaware of close calls we've had. Take my doctor, for instance. Today, he had a close call and tonight he's probably enjoying a typical evening at home, none the wiser.
For the past year or so, I've had sharp pains in my wrist and the thumb of my right hand. Not all the time, but some days the joints throb and it hurts to uncap my Diet Pepsi or pull the lid off a carton of Starbuck's Coffee ice cream.
Arthritis, said Ken.
Ha, I said, trying hard to forget the annoying flyer AARP sent to me in yesterday's mail. I'm too young for arthritis.
OK, said Ken. But I'm telling you, it sounds like arthritis to me.
Finally, when the pain got worse, I called my doctor who set up an appointment for me to see a hand specialist.
So today, my achy hand and I went to meet the nice Dr. Lanford. Tall, 30-ish, easy going, nice smile. We joked about winters in Cleveland as he stared thoughtfully at my xrays. Then slid his chair over and took my hand.
He pressed here. He poked there. Then he took my right thumb, pushed down and turned. Instantly, gritty pain shot through my hand. I nearly kneed him in his boy parts.
But that wasn't the close call.
The close call came a little while later when he patted my hand, looked me sincerely in the eye and said that while I may have beginnings of arthritis, most of what he saw was just "mileage."
WHAT HAPPENED IN MY MIND:
Mileage? my mind said.
MILEAGE?!!? it yelled like I was hard of hearing. I'm doing my best to build a dam against the ravages of time and this pipsqueak talks to me about "mileage"???
Listen, buddy. You try finding trendy clothes in a normal size when everything you see is made for women the size and shape of a swizzle stick. You try sneaking off to the dermatologist's office on your lunch hour for botox so everyone stops asking you why you're angry. You want to talk to me about mileage? Slide that damn chair back over here, frat boy, and I'll show you how strong a hand with mileage on it can be. Care to thumb wrestle, wimpy?? Huh? Huh? I didn't think so.
WHAT HAPPENED IN THE REAL WORLD:
The anger was startlingly instant and white hot. It blasted through my mind in about half a second. I never said a word but it must have shown on my face, because the nice Dr. Lanford immediately scooted his chair back a few inches and offered, "Well, not a lot of mileage for sure, heh heh. Just. . . you know - normal wear and tear. That kind of thing. Certainly nothing serious. "
He carefully placed my hand down on my knee and scooted all the way back to his desk. I gave a little laugh to ease the moment, and then we moved on to the what-to-do's and what-not-to-do's. He made his notes, asked if I had any other concerns, then told me to call him if the pain got worse or anything changed. I stood, and thanked him for his time. He shook my hand as he opened the door to the hall.
"Take care," he said as I walked past him.
No, you take care, my mind shot back with an evil little smile.

Winter Evils

2011-01-22T09:20:00.039-05:00

It's a sprightly -473 degrees up here on Ohio's north coast. I know this because as soon as I stepped out the door to walk DaBoys this morning, two things happened. 1) Every part of my body froze beginning with my eyeballs and 2) in 0.1 seconds flat, DaBoys had done their business (ON the bottom step, no less) and ran back inside before the storm door closed. By the time I untangled the leashes from around my ankles and lurched inside, they were sitting by the kitchen counter looking pointedly in the direction of the treat jar, Sammy still sporting his LLBean winter doggiewear. It took me ten minutes to clad and unclad myself for our little micro-expedition this morning. Tomorrow morning, I may just lean out the door, hold them over the hydrangea and be done with it.
I have to admit that the snow has been really beautiful these last few mornings. Lovely, white glitter. And it hasn't been icy, thank heavens, because I don't care for ice. Especially black ice.
Black ice is sneaky.
And evil.
I backed into the turnaround behind the house one evening, completely unaware that a mischievous layer of black ice had stretched itself across the asphalt and was lurking beneath my car.
Flo Rida was on the radio, so I car danced for a moment before turning off the ignition and gathering my things to go inside. I opened the car door and stuffed my purse, a bag full of drug store purchases and the Tupperware from lunch salad into my left hand and began to step out.
Now even under the best of circumstances - clear weather, sensible shoes, flat terrain, no distractions - I'm not known for my coordination. So when my foot began to slide, I just figured that I needed to reposition my foot.
I grabbed the steering wheel with my right hand and hauled myself up a bit to give my left foot better purchase on the driveway with my fabulous new Rocket Dog heels.
That was my first inkling that something was terribly wrong.
Slowly, uncontrollably, my left foot began sliding beneath the car like a magnet being pulled toward the North Pole. I scrambled furiously to gain traction but for some reason the driveway was too slick.
My foot slid further under the car.
I was gripping the steering wheel so tightly that it began to turn to the left, leaning even more of me out the car door.
My left foot was taking me places I didn't want to go and I couldn't do a thing about it. Helpless as a baby, I began to fall out of my car. Because I refused to let go of the steering wheel, this all happened at a snail's pace.
I was now under the car past my left knee. My right foot was still inside the car as was my right arm at the end of which was my gloved hand with its death grip on the steering wheel. The wheel was turning as far left as it could go. I was clutching the car door with my left hand. My upper body was hanging closer and closer to the driveway.
There was a nasty breeze up my skirt.
My purse was still around my left arm and was resting nicely on the door handle. Slowly, though, I found myself looking up at it as more of me headed for the driveway. My purse started to tip over. First my mirror then my keys then my wallet then a week's worth of straw papers, receipts, tissues and change all marched out of my purse and onto my head like orderly soldiers.
I heard Ken a mere ten feet away in the house, talking to DaBoys.
I tried to holler for help but every muscle in my body was tensed in an attempt to ward off the inevitable.
Next I watched as my CVS bag plunked from door handle to map pocket where I prayed it would stop. But soon it slid open enough to dump its contents on me, too. Not a problem until the extra large bottle of Juergens nosed its way out of the bag and headed south.
That hurt.
Finally, my shaking right arm could hold me no more and I was suddenly plunked unceremoniously onto the driveway.
My left foot was hanging out somewhere by the oil pan.
My right foot was on the drivers seat, minus one snappy Rocket Dog.
My skirt and coat were clumped somewhere around my armpits.
My left hand was holding onto the map pocket, an unscarred box of Jelly Bellys perched like an acrobat on my arm.
I took stock.
I was feeling wind in places no true lady would ever expose to the elements. I had no shoe on my right foot and could only pray that the shoe on my left foot wasn't ruined. Nothing seemed to be broken, though.
That's when I looked up and noticed my Tupperware. It was in the most improbable spot up by the car window, its lid perched casually against the glass. I watched as it slowly tipped forward and fell, clipping the box of Jelly Bellys on its way down.
Sigh.
My sides hurt but I took a deep breath and hollered for Ken.
Nothing. He and DaBoys must be in the living room.
I got my right leg out of the car. My right arm felt like a ten foot long piece of Silly Putty. As I rolled over onto my side, everything that had been piled on top of me fell into a neat little pile. After a minute, my left foot bade farewell to the oil pan and I managed to get my knees under me. Kicking the Tupperware out of the way, I grabbed the car door and pulled myself upright.
I blew the hair out of my face and tried to yank my clothes back into position. Carefully, I bent down and shoved my purse items and drugstore purchases into the plastic bag. Balanced on one high heel and one bare foot, I slowly stood up and retrieved my right Rocket Dog from the car. Taking very small steps, I turned toward the house. A used tissue was stuck to the front of my coat, I'd torn my hose and lost my headband.
Ken pulled open the door just as I reached the steps. He was holding Sammy and smiling his happy little "my wife's home" smile. Charlie's little head was bobbing up and down in the window of the storm door. Ken's smile turned to a look of horror as he took in the sight that was his wife. In no time, he'd ditched the boys and lifted me into the house.
After a quick inventory to make sure nothing was broken or spurting blood, he ran for the phone. Taking in my bare foot, disheveled clothes, tattered hose and wild hair, he'd come up with the only logical conclusion:
His wife had been attacked in her own driveway.
He was quite relieved to find out that I'd merely fallen under my car.
So relieved that he couldn't stop laughing as he plucked paper clips and cough drops off my coat, helped me peel off my torn and twisted clothes and deposited me into a hot shower.
Later - after a long shower and hot meal - I sat blanketed in my comfy chair with two adoring furry dogs and one adoring furry husband, and sipped a steaming cup of tea.
My right arm still hurt and I had a lovely bruise blossoming on my backside. But I had survived my first close encounter with black ice. I was also happy that we'd avoided involving the police.
I felt sure Ken would have ended up in the hoosegow. No way they'd believe my "black ice made me fall under my car" story.

Crown Me the Queen of the Oblivious

2010-12-31T18:33:00.005-05:00

If there was a National Society for the Oblivious, I'd be their poster child.
From the vantage point of my 30+ years on this earth, I can now look back and see those moments when I was totally oblivious to the situation at hand, yet somehow lived to tell about it.
(And yes - I know I'm WAY older than 30. But I'm oblivious to my true age, so saying "50+ years" is not within my capabilities. Got it? Good. We shall never speak of this again.)
I remember visiting my great-grandparents in Hazeldell, Illinois, when I was in grade school. We rode the train - my sister, my mom and my Aunt Lois - and I got to wear my Sunday shoes for the trip. Other than that, I only remember one thing: that the Mayor of Hazeldell let us sit on his horse.
Truth be told, Hazeldell was about the size of Mayberry so the Mayor probably wasn't named Bloomberg. He was probably more like my great-grandparents: loving, hardworking, no nonsense Christian folk who'd rather visit with you on your front porch than gush over your new car.
But heck, I was seven and I was impressed that THE MAYOR let us ride his horse. When I got back, I told that story to anyone in my third grade class who would listen.
Then a few years ago, my mother pointed out that what I got to ride was a MARE that belonged to a neighbor who was the town Constable. Hazeldell, it seems, was too small to have a MAYOR.
Um. . . . duh.
When I was 1o or so, my grandmother had a few apartments that she rented to school teachers. My dad and I were in my her backyard one day when the art teacher who lived above the garage headed to his car with a painting under his arm. He unwrapped it and showed it to my dad and me, telling us that it was the first painting he'd ever sold. I was awestruck. It was the most beautiful painting I'd had ever seen: a creamy, golden sunset filtering through a forest. My dad clapped him on the back and congratulated him. He was less than effusive when I exclaimed "Wow! Is that a paint-by-number??!"
Um. . . duh.
The ensuing years have not bestowed upon me any greater sense of savvy. I'm still as gullible and oblivious as ever.
A few years back, a friend bought one of those new zippy Porsches. A sporty little thing it was, with a push button starter. I wondered how he kept it from being stolen, what with it not needing a key or anything. He explained that the car was SOOOOOO tech savvy that it actually had facial recognition and wouldn't start unless he was behind the wheel.
Wow, I exclaimed. It's a good thing you don't grow a beard in the winter.
Two weeks later, I recounted this story to my dad who gently explained that facial recognition had nothing to do with it - the push button starter only worked if you had the key with you.
Um. . . . duh.
A few years ago, I worked downtown. Every morning, I passed a neatly dressed man panhandling in front of my office building. I appreciated that while his clothes were old and not in the best shape, he always took care to be clean and polite. I could picture him as a tragic icon, an ethical man pushed to unimaginable limits to care for his modest family during his unfortunate unemployment. More than once, I ate peanut butter sandwiches because I'd given him my week's worth of lunch money. But by golly, I was happy to help. In the spring, he'd hand out daffodils as thanks for my modest donation.
Then one day, my boss cautioned me against giving any money to panhandlers - especially that young guy who hung out in front of our building.
Why? I asked. What's wrong with him?
Oh, nothing, she replied. But if you watch him at 9AM, he drives away in a new Lexus and those flowers he hands out are from the city flowerbeds at the back of the building.
Um. . . duh.
My penchant for being oblivious sometimes has immediate and quite public effects. Last week, I was in another building at work and used the ladies room. Now as far as I can tell, I don't think about anything particular while in the ladies room, but I must have had something on my mind this day because I never noticed that the toilets in this ladies room were equipped with automatic flushers.
When the toilet flushed, I about jumped over the stall door. I think I also screamed, because a few coworkers I hadn't yet met came in to see if I was okay.
Didn't you see the flushers mounted on the back of the toilet?, they asked.
Um. . . duh.
Many people make grandiose New Year's resolutions. They want to stop eating so much, or make more money, or learn French.
Not me.
In 2011, I just don't want to take any wooden nickels.

Wakening

2010-12-04T07:08:00.003-05:00

I fingered the blue wool coat with its velcro straps and eyed Sammy. Bare-tummied Sammy, who is built for long walks in summer heat, not leisurely strolls in winter snow.
Sammy hates his coat. He sees me pondering it and hides under my chair in the living room. I check the temperature gauge tacked to the window. 35 degrees. I peer out at the back yard where all the bushes and trees hold their arms to the still-dark sky. No wind.
"OK, Sammy," I finally concede. "No coat." I pluck his harness off the hook by the back door and sit on the desk chair just in time for him to barrel into my lap.
Ultra-furry Charlie, long strapped into his harness, starts running in tight little circles of anticipation by the back door. I zip my coat, pick up my gloves and check the desk clock glowing in the darkness.
5:15AM. We'll be out the first outside today, before anyone in the neighborhood is up. My favorite time to walk.
I open the back door and two noses push open the storm door. I follow the dogs down the three steps but they wheel back and snuffle at something on the top step. As I reach back to quietly close the door, I notice the yard and driveway are a seamless blanket of white snow, perfect and smooth. Except for tiny footprints that tattoo their way from the back of the house, down the driveway and up our back steps.
I look closer. They look like cat prints, and it seems the cat spent some time on our top step while DaBoys were blissfully pawing their way through doggie dreams last night.
Satisfied that the intruder is gone, DaBoys pull me down the driveway and into our morning walk. Our first visit is to the young maple across the street, where grass stubbles its way up past the thin half inch of snow. From there, we turn west down the sidewalk, out of street light range. I'm the first to blemish this snow, but DaBoys find a scent in the grass and pick up the pace as they sniff and snort along its trail like little detectives.
Further along, the Wilson's uncut straw flowers and ornamental kale make a tapestry of their snow blanket. Two perfect tire tracks stripe the snow from garage to the street, evidence of Cathy's early shift in the ER.
Already, the sky's inkiness has burnished to navy against pinpoints of stars. DaBoys stop to water a fire hydrant.
I listen.
Miles off, a train lumbers away. The last echo of it's whistle barely threads the early morning air. I take a deep breath. Not enough snow to scent the air but enough to clean away the musky smell of fall that lingered yesterday.
Both dogs move on past lawns neat as graves beneath the thin snow. We turn down Parkview, a half-moon shaped street tucked away nearby. Big old trees, manicured flower beds and friendly people make this one of DaBoys favorite destinations for daytime walks. But I like Parkview best just like this. I thief my way through this neighborhood unwatched, while it is still quietly put away for the night.
It's peacefulness is what I'll steal to begin my day.
Almost right away, though, we find evidence of visitors before us. A rabbit has looped it's way from Merrick's hydrangea bed to the woods. The prints it left behind - dots for the front feet and dashes for the back feet - look for all the world like Morse code.
Further on, the Harrold's new cat has made it's way home from it's nightly explorations. It's eyes catch a glow from the yard light as it waits by the front door, puffed and patient as a hunter.
We make our way around the first bend. Houses rise up on our left with their generous lawns spread out before them. At their back are yards that slip down long, wooded hills to the quiet expanse of a city park.
A little gust of wind cartwheels a lonely maple leaf and it stitches its way across the snow in front of us.
In the Simon's driveway I spy a string of pawprints, probably from the family of raccoons they feed in the winter. Along the hedge that rings the Henry's yard are the perfect staccato prints from the deer who wonder up from the park to feast on leftover plantings. DaBoys are unimpressed by how perfectly each hoof print was left in the snow.
Craftier animals have explored the lawns overnight, leaving the snow on the sidewalks undisturbed. The dogs follow each scent through the grass, their noses scooping along the snow as we make our way around the second bend and back toward our street like ghosts.
At the corner, I turn to look back. We have been messy interlopers; there is evidence of us everywhere. My footprints waggle down the sidewalks, crossed by smaller prints from the dogs. Deeper drifts along flower beds are left churned up by snuffling noses. There's a patch by the Thompson's old walnut tree where the grass has been brushed clean. Evidence of our stop there lies securely tied in the poo bag I'm carrying.
We turn toward home, Sammy finally giving in to shivers. I think of his warm doggie coat back home on the table and wonder if he'll ever let me put it on him.
The sky has blued a bit, already bruised by the morning. Soon, it will have the daytime look it carries for everyone to see. Then, lights will go on, streets will be filled and lives will be lived.
But perched here on the tipping point between night and day, the world's stillness is fresh and special like a gift.
We turn down our driveway to join the outbound prints we left in the snow a mere 20 minutes ago. We follow them to our backdoor, up the steps and into our warm house. I hang up leashes, wipe off icy feet and hand out treats. The smell of the coffee I left brewing is too much to bear and I make my way through the dark house to the kitchen. Cradling the steaming cup in my hand, I tiptoe to the living room and open the draperies. Upstairs, Ken is still sleeping. I sit in my chair by the window, holding my cup high until DaBoys settle on my lap.
All the world is still.
The furnace hums on, and then back off.
I listen to the creaks in the bones of this hundred year old house.
Already, both dogs have fallen asleep. I listen to their breathing and sip my coffee.
Outside, the street lights wink out one by one by one.
Up above, the stars are bowing out of the waning night sky.
They leave behind the first blush of a fresh morning, unashamed and hopeful.
It is good.

Small Gestures

2010-09-05T07:22:00.006-04:00

My friend, Eileen, lost her best friend and the love of her life this weekend to cancer. Pat was a big guy who loved his Harleys, laughed long and loud and was a total "guy" when it came to powering through whatever ailed him.
Except he couldn't power through this.
I know people who are living relatively normal lives while being treated for cancer, thanks to progress made in the the fight against this awful disease. But Pat had adenocarcinoma, cancer of the sheaths that cover the nerves in the body. It is a cruel and ravenous bastard. In the space of five short weeks, adenocarcinoma brought down this big tough guy, but not before making him suffer horribly.
Thankfully, Pat's suffering is finally over. He's in the arms of the Lord, and things like tumors and morphine and hallucinations are long gone.
But how do you go about easing someone's pain when they've lost their husband?
You say prayers. Thanks to you amazing friends I have online, people who don't even know Pat have been praying for him. We've all been saying them, and I know they work.
Last night, I baked cupcakes and made pasta salad just to keep busy. DaGoils and I will pile into our cars and go visit Eileen this afternoon and I'll take my cupcakes and pasta salad. We'll hug and cry and talk and hug some more. Such small gestures that will be repeated often in the coming months because we know Eileen's suffering won't be over for a long time.
She is no cream puff, either. This is a lady who walked the first twenty miles of the Breast Cancer 3Day Walk with a migraine. If you've ever had a migraine, you can appreciate the resolve and strength of this woman.
Please remember Eileen in your prayers now. The next weeks and months mean adjusting to the worst loss of her life without the one person who could make it all better.
And I know Eileen. She'd sign up for a migraine every day for the rest of her life if she could just have Pat back beside her.

Charlie Video and AllRecipes

2010-08-28T09:37:00.010-04:00

I'm having a totally indulgent Saturday.
Not a mani/pedi/massage kind of induglent Saturday; just a work around the house kind of Saturday. The indulgent part is that I can watch Law & Order reruns until my eyebrows start to look like Sam Watterston's and even stop for a quick nap if I feel like it.
Now THAT's indulgent.
Ever notice that the more you dread a task, the bigger and gnarlier it gets every time you think about it?? That's what cleaning the kitchen looked like to me this morning so I tricked myself into being motivated: I took the overripe bananas off the kitchen counter and whipped up some banana bread. Once I had both loaves in the oven, I told myself I would use that 35 minutes to clean the kitchen. 35 minutes and not one minute more.
I've never moved so fast in my whole life, but I got it done! And I have yummy banana bread as a reward.
Cooking dinner sometimes seems like a big, gnarly task to me, too. Oh, I can cook but I have a tendency to migrate toward the same foods, the same meals, the same recipes over and over again especially when I'm pressed for time. But I get out of my rut by hopping over to AllRecipes, a nifty little website I've been using for years.
Anyone can submit a recipe for this site, so some are better than others. I've found some spectacular recipes here (Shredded Brussel Sprouts for one. . . oooh - and Lavender Tea Bread) along with some just okay ones (Apple Pudding) but I've never, ever found one I thought was awful.
But here's what makes AllRecipes a cook's best friend:
AllRecipes has a recipe for whatever you have on hand.
Think about it. It's Thursday night. You've had a crappy week, your head hurts, everyone is cranky and hungry and looking to YOU to put a Giada-worthy dinner on the table in oh, say five minutes.
AND it's the day before you do grocery shopping so all you have in the house is a can of mushroom soup, some macaroni and a couple wrinkly tomatoes.
No problem.
Go to AllRecipes and click on "Ingredients" at the top of the screen. Type in mushroom soup, macaroni and tomatoes under "Ingredients I Want" and click GO.
VOILA!
Tonight you're going to wow your family with Fanny's Italian Casserole.
It's as easy as that.
But wait - it gets even better.
What if you HATE mushroom soup? (Hand up here.) Or what if you're allergic to peanuts or shellfish?
No worries.
There's also a place to list the ingredients you don't want to use.
AND. . .with the click of a button you can adjust the ingredients for the number of people you're serving, save it to your very own Recipe Box, get nutritional information and even have AllRecipes make out your shopping list.
If you have an iPhone, there's even an AllRecipes app, but then that doesn't surprise anyone, does it?
While I've been typing this and waiting on my banana bread to cool, I ground up some Dunkin Donuts coffee beans and brewed my first cup of the day. Mmmmmm. . . my sparkling kitchen smells heavenly so I'm off to have breakfast.
What's that you say. . . ?!?
Banana bread is great for breakfast! It's bread and bananas. Also, bananas are fruit and everyone knows fruit is good for breakfast.
But first, here's the Charlie video. A little background: Charlie is the snuggliest, squishiest little bundle you'd ever want on your lap. But as much as he loves to be picked up, he's never quite figured out what he should do when you reach for him. Usually he just ends up just rolling over on his back and goes limp, which means picking him up is a little like picking up a furry octopus.
Awhile ago, I discovered that I could make him roll onto his back just by talking him. If you have a low tolerance for baby talking, you might want to turn down your volume.
I know we should both be embarrassed.
But we're not.

Scraplexicon insatialis

2010-08-14T23:46:00.010-04:00

"Bones, you gotta have something by now, c'mon !"
"Booth, I'm a forensic anthropologist, not a fortune teller. I won't just make up whatever you want to hear."
"But c'mon, Bones. Give me something - anything!"
'Well, we know that death was caused by trauma and was probably instantaneous. Booth, will you help Zack lift this shelf unit so I can examine the victim."
"Great. Now I'm a squint assistant. Bones, I'm FBI. We don't lift shelf units."
"Fine. I'll just see if that reporter over there would lend a hand."
"Alright, alright. Just be sure to lift your end, Zack."
"That's good. . . set it down there. Hmmm. . . victim is a white female, I'd say early 50's. . . less than average height. . ."
"Ew, Bones. . . that's just weird."
"What's weird, Booth?"
"She's smiling, Bones! Don't you think it's weird that someone would die with a smile on their face unless they were. . . you know. . . "
"Actually, many ancient cultures posed their dead with facial expressions they believed would be helpful when they entered their next life. The victim obviously was enjoying something when she died, indicating that the shelf unit landed on her unexpectedly. Zach, I don't know what this"Michael's" store is - find out what they sell here and see if the store manager has anything to say about this shelf unit."
"Bones, what's that in her hand?"
"I don't know. Let me see. . . hmm. . . she's clutching it very tightly. . . maybe it's something she tore off the killer. Wait. . . it looks like a piece of paper. Let me just unfold her fingers. . . .got it. It's . . . a receipt from this store. No - it's a coupon . . . '40% off a single item.'
"Doesn't seem worth killing for, Bones."
"Agreed. However, it is common in some parts of our culture to seek out - even revere - bargains. Perhaps our victim practiced bargain hunting and that somehow led to her death."
"Dr. Brennan, the store manager says this is a craft store and the victim was last seen trying to retrieve something from the top shelf."
"Thank you , Zach."
"Well, Bones - that explains it. The victim was too short to reach the top shelf."
"That explains nothing, Booth. Our modern society has many talented, productive and brilliant short people, millions of whom do not end up beneath overturned shelves. No. . . we're overlooking something."
"What about her fingers, Bones. . .what's that colored stuff on them?"
"It appears to be. . . ink of some sort. Apparently the victim worked with inks of many colors - I count four-no, five-colors staining the nail beds of the fingers of her right hand, indicating a repeated usage over a long period of time. Dr. Saroyan, do you find the same evidence on the left hand?"
"Not at all. The fingertips on this hand appear to be calloused. . .with healed cuts on the palm and thumb, almost like old paper cuts. Judging from the way the victim is dressed, I would say she preferred comfortable clothing. . . wait. There appears to be something. . . sparkly. . . stuck to her shirt. Let me get my forceps. . . there it is. . . what do you make of that?"
"Dr. Saroyan, the store manager said this aisle was where they sold something called "bling" which he described as sparkly things."
"Yes, Zach - that would make sense. Our victim enters the store in search of this bling and even brings with her a sample she needs to match."
"Cam, that doesn't tell us why she died. Look, the FBI needs answers on this one."
"Calm down, Booth. Dr. Brennan and I will get you answers. Just give us room to work."
"Zach, will you get an evidence bag for the bling Dr. Saroyan is holding and see if Angela can work with the store manager to recreate the merchandise components located on this shelf unit. Thank you."
"Dr. Brennan, I see something else quite puzzling on our victim."
"What is that, Dr. Saroyan?"
"It appears to be. . . bites. . . of some sort. . . here on her neck. Do you see them below her ear on that side of her neck?"
"Yes, I do. . . there are several in a grouping. . . and more on her shoulder. Booth, please call Dr. Hodgins over here."
"Geez, Bones. First I'm a squint assistant and now I'm an escort. Hey Hodgins! Get over here!"
"Your raised voice indicates that you are intimidated by Dr. Hodgins, Booth. Perhaps you are in need of a session with Dr. Sweets."
"No, Bones, I don't need a shrink. I need to know how this woman was killed in a craft store!"
"Dr. Hodgins, please examine these markings on the victim's neck and shoulder area. They appear to be insect bites of some kind, do you concur?"
"I do. . . and, wait a minute. . . aha! These aren't just any insect bites!"
"They are not? Are they from a rare insect?"
"Well, I wouldn't call it rare exactly. As a matter of fact, it's popularity is growing exponentially. The World Health Organization placed this little baby on it's watch list."
"And does this insect have a name?"
"Oh, it's not an insect. It's a true bug called scraplexicon insatialis. A member of the infectioso family. Once this baby finds you, you're a real goner. It's not uncommon for victims to be bitten over and over for months - even years- on end. Victims can go for days without sleeping, living on very little food although they do crave Mike's Hard Lemonade. "
"Mike's Hard Lemonade?"
"Yesssss. . . and that's not all. They need a constant supply of paper, sometimes stockpiling huge amounts of stash. Once that sets in, it's only a matter of time before embellishments, glitter, ribbon, all manner of craft items join their cravings."
"But Dr. Saroyan found a 'bling' on our victim. What does that tell you?"
"Bling? Really? Can I see it?. . . thanks, Zach. . . ohhhh, this is amazing! Once onset reaches the stage where you're hooked on bling, you may as well pack it in. There's nothing you won't do to get that next fix. See how sparkly it is? That's what draws them in and makes them really crazy. Poor lady. She didn't have a chance."
"So, wait a minute. You're saying that a tiny piece of sparkly stuff killed our victim? What kind of squint speak is that??!"
"No, Booth. This bling didn't kill our victim. That shelf did."
"But I don't get it. Bones, will you translate, please."
"This all makes sense, Booth. Hodgin's description of the bug is consistent with what we know of the kinds of people that frequent these stores. They come here seeking a fix, and there's nothing they wouldn't do to satisfy their cravings. Obviously, our victim was attempting to retrieve some of this bling and in doing so accidentally pulled this shelf unit over on top of herself, unwittingly causing her death."
"Great. The FBI just wasted an entire afternoon and there's not even a murder!"
"I disagree, Agent Booth. This woman was not an accident victim - she was a victim of something relentless and uncontrollable. She couldn't help herself.The scraplexicon insatialis bug which bit her caused. . . Dr. Hodgins, does this disease have a name?"
"Yes, it does, Dr. Brennan. I believe it's called 'scrapbooking'."
"Great! The FBI just wasted an entire afternoon and there's not even a murderer I can arrest!"
"No, Booth, there's not. But there is something this victim has that we don't get to see very often in our line of work."
"What's that, Bones?"
"This victim died with a big smile on her face."

Lori Keener

www.scrapinator.blogspot.com

Happydancehappydancehappydance. . . .

2010-08-09T19:46:00.007-04:00

When I'm old and grey, I'll spend my days remembering all the terrific things in my life and where I was when they happened to me.
For instance, I was sitting on the floor in Ken's apartment polishing my oh-so-cool sandals with the oh-so-high cork platforms when he proposed to me. It's fortunate that I was not actually wearing platforms at the time cuz in my excitement, I most assuredly would have fallen off of them and broken something.
And when I got the phone call that The Nicest Boss in the World asked me to come work for him, I was walking out of Target. (In case the nice lady in the cherry 1965 Mustang reads Scrapinator, I'm sorry I scared you.)
This weekend, I was blessed with yet another terrific bit of news. And while I'll never forget that moment, I don't care if I ever remember where I was when it happened.
Because this weekend I was asked (oh my gosh) to become a member of (I'm jumping up and down now) THE STAFF AT SCRAPBOOK NEWS AND REVIEW!!
EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
What's that?
You want to know where I was when I found out??
Cleaning gooky hairballs out of my bathtub drain. (Ladies, make a note: when you're husband goes bald, you can no longer blame clogged drains on him.)
If you've read Scrapbook News & Review magazine, you know that it's chocked full of the most incredible projects and articles. I have every issue I ever bought, and they're all fringed with post it notes marking fun stuff I've returned to again and again.
If you're not familiar with SNR online, though, you should be. It's a Mayberry-on-steroids kind of website full of the nicest folks, amazing articles, crazy cool creations and some of the most talented scrappers anywhere.
If LeBron James' talent was scrapbooking instead of basketball, he would be SNR.
OK. Speaking as a Clevelander, maybe that wasn't the best analogy but you get my drift. And since SNR won't ever turn it's back on you and leave town like some people we know (cough, cough), you can peruse it's pages - both IRL and on the web - at your leisure.
And you should, because SNR is just that good.
While you're there, if you see a short woman wearing platform shoes wondering around looking lost, that'll be me, the New Girl, trying to find where I'm supposed to be.
Maybe you could just direct me to Lost and Found, pretty please with sugar on top.

When Things go "Fwinnnnnnggg!"

2010-08-08T08:51:00.010-04:00

Spring-y things and I are not getting along these days.

Incident #1:
After carefully using a hand-held claw-like garden tool to break up the soil around my rose bushes, I started toward the garage. As I walked past my car, I noticed a huge-o spider hanging out on the sidewall of my back tire, just grinning at me and flexing its knees like it was getting ready to jump. Without thinking, I tried to whap it with the claw thingy but when the claw thingy hit the hard rubber tire
FWINNNNGGG!
it shot out of my hand and landed about five feet behind me in - what else? - the rose bush. Five band aids later, I decided to just call Ken next time for spider eradication.

Incident #2:
I retreated to the lunch room by myself last week to spend some quality time uploading more MSW Houston trip photos to our page on Photobucket. As if my life isn't complicated enough, I had taken photos using (a) my camera, (b) my Blackberry, none of which turned out, so I also decided to use (c) my trusty LG Envy which takes FABULOUS pictures. Thanks to the miracles of modern technology, I have toenails bigger than the itsy bitsy memory card in my Envy that holds about a gazillion pictures. I popped open the tiny little door on the side of my Envy to take out the memory card and pop it into my laptop when
FWINNGGGG!
the darn thing flew across the table and disappeared between the booth and the wall. I panicked and called Facilities. A very nice guy, Darryl, came over later that afternoon, dismantled the booth and brought me my tiny little memory card at my desk. After thanking him profusely, I went to put it back into my phone but my thumbnail must have slipped because the next thing I know
FWINNNGGGG!
it's gone again. Fortunately, it just landed in my paper clip dish but I won't be taking it out anytime soon.

Incident #3:
I'd walked DaBoys, fed them and set my hair on hot rollers using those four-inch long, U-shaped metal pins that fit over the roller. Then I showered, checked in online, watered the flowers, made my lunch, read a couple emails on my Blackberry, put on my makeup, got dressed and was standing back at the bathroom counter taking out hot rollers before flying out the door to hit Dunkin Donuts for coffee before getting on the freeway when
FWINNNGGG!
one of the pins shot off a hot roller and landed in the toilet. Which Ken had just used and was standing next to, cleaning out my hairbrush.
Ewwwwww.
Fortunately, the toilet had only been "gently used," if you catch my drift but still. . . . .
Ewwwwww.
It is not easy to retrieve a hot roller pin from a toilet bowl using a shishkebob skewer while wearing rubber gloves with a hole in them and holding a wastebasket. Especially when you're laughing so hard your sides hurt.
Fortunately for me, I am of the pinball generation and as such have superior hand/eye coordination.

So, class, what lessons have we learned?
1. Continue to avoid spiders whenever possible.
2. Avoid spring-y things whenever possible.
3. Teach Ken his new mantra: Flush. Close lid. Flush. Close lid. Flush. Close lid. Flush. Close lid. . . .

Lori Keener
The Scrapinator

The Netflix Syndrome

2010-08-07T07:34:00.006-04:00

Netflix is cosmically shaping my life.
If this is actually true, I'd better hie on over to my Netflix queue and pick better movies, like ones about getting in shape or discovering gold buried in the backyard.
Lately those cheery little red envelopes can sit for weeks on top of our DVD player and we give them nary a thought. Unlike unread library books, if you request movies from Netflix and ignore them, there's no penalty.
Mom doesn't yell.
There's no board where your tardiness is posted.
Men in trench coats don't knock on your door.
People don't steal accusing glances at you in the church parking lot.
For the procrastination-prone among us, Netflix is the ultimate enabler.
Lately, I haven't been running for the laptop every time I hear of a new movie going to DVD so we are now officially Scraping the Bottom of the Netflix Queue.
Which is how I ended up watching "The Butterfly Effect" and "Final Destination" last week when I started feeling guilty about those unopened little red envelopes.
As I type this, I am on hold with the Dish Network. Or - as I've been calling them for the last 24 hours - @!#$%^&*)_( Dish Network. I am on hold with the @!#$%^&*)_( Dish Network because ever since I popped those two movies out of the DVD player and tried to watch regular television, the feed has been pixelated and it looks like my TV screen has broken into little pieces. Even more annoying is the burps and chirps and clicks in the sound feed, like some African bushman found his way into my house and is yelling at me.
I think I know why this is happening.
It's the Netflix.
All those weird, fateful happenings in "The Butterfly Effect" and "Final Destination" have taken over my TV. It's that simple. And if the human at Dish Network ever comes back on the line, that's what I'm going to tell her.
But if this is my last post on Scrapinator, you'll know that the last Netflix movies I watched took over not only my TV but also my life.
Frankly, I'm a little worried that the next time someone farts in Thailand, I may just disappear from the face of the earth.

Finding My Tribe

2010-08-01T18:54:00.049-04:00

Never again will I roll my eyes when I see commercials for those online dating services. I have a new found hopefulness for those friends searching for Mr. (or Ms.) Right on sites like match.com and eHarmony.com because last week at this time, I was spending up one of the best weekends of my life with 13 women I'd only ever corresponded with online at My Sketch World.
Truthfully, I had as much trepidation as excitement about meeting everyone. What if they were annoying? Worse yet, what if they found ME annoying? Either one could make for one long and unpleasant weekend.
It's very much like what someone told me about having money - that it doesn't change you as much as it allows you to be more of who you really are deep down. I haven't had the opportunity to test that theory for myself IRL, but I was thrilled, delighted and a tad bit relieved to discover that these 13 women were the same IRL as they are on the boards at MSW, only more so.
What was even more evident was the sweetness, thoughtfulness, talent and hilarity that has always made MSW a great place to hang out.

After our rather loud and joyful meeting in the airport (you've seen the video), Lucy, Nicole and I eventually stopped jumping up and down and took seats to await our flight. A woman across from us asked us where we were going to be in while in Houston, possibly to make sure she went somewhere else. Stating the obvious, we shared that we'd only just met for the first time. Several fellow passengers chimed "We know!" while looking at us as though we were poop-laden infants destined for the airplane seat next to them.

And that pretty much set the tone for the entire weekend, as we proceeded to talk up a storm on the flight, pausing only to laugh until we snorted.
Somewhere on You Tube is another video - a very Blair Witch Project-ish video - taken when the three of us stepped out of the limo at the hotel to greet everyone else. Mostly you see blurry images of feet and shrubbery and mostly you hear ear-splitting screaming.
The ear-splitting screaming continued once we got inside, at which point we realized the hotel lobby was not designed for 14 women creating happy havoc. The hotel staff needed to be able to hear telephone conversations and check in other (unlucky) guests and conduct hotel business.
That's when we fled for our rooms, hoping our floor-mates weren't hoping for a break from their nervous disorders or anything.
Kristin (who is an actual Texas girl) and Kim (who is an actual artist at scrapbooking) and I took off in search of a liquor store so I could freeze up some rooster tails for paryting later. Unfortunately, Kristin's GPS took us to a liquor store that I think was actually somewhere in Arkansas and by the time we got back to the hotel, there was a huge Hummer limo parked out front, surrounded by - what else?- screaming women.
We made our limo driver take pictures with a gazillion cameras then piled inside for a trip to Papacitas, home of what turned out to be the best Mexican food I've ever tasted. You can imagine the stir we made pulling up in a Hummer limo. We also made something of a stir inside while waiting on our table. Kristin tackled the balloon lady for me, though, and I got a balloon hat.
Saturday we descended upon the Archivers Store in Katy, Texas. If you've never been to an Archivers before, I have a bit of advice: leave the credit cards at home and take only cash with you. Oh - and leave your children at home because this store has EVERYTHING that's scrappily delightful and you WILL be tempted to trade your cute kid for bling when your cash runs out.
(I'd never been to an Archivers before and found it to be like a roomier Scrap Happy - my favorite LSS ever located in my hometown of Tiffin, Ohio. If you're ever out that way, you really need to put this store on your itinerary. Scrap Happy's inventory is just as extensive as Archivers, which means my husband thinks it should be put in its own no fly zone.)
The next 12 hours were quite entertaining. Little did I know that I'd be sitting next to Sue the Encroacher. Online, she seemed so. . .so sweet. And she was sweet IRL, but pretty soon her stacks of stuff on my side of the table left me no alternative but to use painters tape to delineate her portion of the table. After that, let 's just say there was a suggestion that I was territorial and then retaping ensued. And somewhere there's video.
Neat-o Kim suggested that Kristin might want to clean up her space. Kristin decided she was fine - she'd just work on smaller and smaller projects as the day wore on proving once again that scrappers are quite adaptable.
Nataliah and Bev brought so much stuff with them I think Archivers was asking them for hard-to-find items before the night was out. But sitting next to Nataliah was great because not only did she bring her entire scraproom with her, she SHARED. (And never once encroached like some people we know.) (I'm just saying. . . )
We also found Sweater Girl. She was an Archiver regular working at the tables in the adjoining crop room. We dubbed her Sweater Girl because even though it was 1500 degrees outside AND raining, she had on a long-sleeved black sweater with a scarf wrapped around her neck. She kept coming over to our room to use the punches, which was fine but she was wearing yoga pants so low they showed her crack. I started throwing peanuts at her backside whenever she showed up. She never figured this out, though, because I am not known for having any LeBron James-like skills whatsoever. However, if you ever scrap with us, please remember that if I see your crack in public, I will try to toss something into it whether you're a plumber or not.
I think I'm the only scrapper out there who's never been to a crop before. You learn so much about people when you sit and scrap with them. We couldn't get over the adorable baby pictures Teresa turned into layouts. Kim was an even more amazing scrapper in person. Suzann - bless her heart - toted boxes of punches and her sewing machine and photo printer into Archivers for us to use. Ginni could make friends with anyone in the world, all while scrapping away. Lisa made pages as lovely as she was - and saved paper like no one I've ever met. Toni is as creative as she is huggable, and that's saying something. Bev is the undisputed Digistamp Queen and Packer of All Things Scrappy. Kristin is cute as a button, and only has to look at me and I start to giggle. She also never met a lawn sprinkler she didn't like. Sherri had the best Texas drawl ya'll'd ever want to hear which is why I kept asking her to tell me about her layouts. Nataliah's boys will have one amazing set of scrapbooks when they're older. Sue's kids are adorable, and her scrapping does them proud. I'm convinced Lucy could turn toilet paper and a gum wrapper into something amazing - the layout she made with her husband's black and white photo was stunning. Nicole knows every song ever turned into muzak, and can boogie down while putting together beautiful, creative pages.
And we got to meet one of MSW's newest members - Carla - who came to join us. She didn't say much at first (probably couldn't find a second where one of us wasn't already yapping) but eventually opened up. Later, she proved she was one of us when she gleefully zinged me good when I suffered a momentary bout of memory card confusion.
As you can imagine, the longer the day went on, the goofier we got. At one point, the entire room was laughing helplessly at Kristin who was helpless with laughter herself. . . . and no one knew why we were all laughing.
It was that kind of day.
Sunday we had another limo pick us up for our tour of Houston and NASA. Our driver this time was a man who never met a curb he didn't like. I don't think we passed a single curb that he didn't run over or park on top of. He also ignored Suzann's instructions about where to take us on our tour deciding for himself to do things like make wrong turns, ignore instructions and oh - run into curbs.
Finally, we asked to stop at a gas station so we could buy some drinks and snacks, during which time he sat waiting for us at a gas pump with the limo running. I think he was pouting because this Valero station had no curbs.
We were only on the road for another half hour after that before guess what? He stopped at another Valero TO BUY GAS.
We seriously thought about staging a mutiny at this point.
But he got us to NASA, which was an amazing place. I was so looking forward to pushing some buttons or flying something, but no dice. Maybe Sweater Girl has connections at NASA. I did get to touch a real moon rock, though. And through the miracle of modern photography, was able to touch the top of a rocket, too.
I call this picture My Moment of Statuesque-ness.
After NASA, we got to visit Suzann's house to see her husband, Bob.
Bob's had some pretty serious health issues this year, so we took him a picture of us so he'd know how much we love him. While there, of course, we got to see Suzann's scrap room which is really an Archivers' Mini Me. We also got to meet Bob's son, Dan, beautiful granddaughter, , and Patsy who is the angel who takes care of Bob (and Suzann).
We spent Sunday night much the same as we spent Saturday night: scrapping and drinking rooster tails. Oh - and laughing. At this point, you'd have thought we'd run out of things to say or stuff to laugh at but no - much to the chagrin of hotel management, we scrappers are a hardy bunch.
The Texas girls among us headed to their homes Sunday night amidst much hugging and lots of tears. That was pretty much the theme for Monday morning, too.
I had decided Sunday night/Monday morning to pack before I hopped into bed. I figured this would save me time because I wanted to be downstairs by 6:30 to say goodbye to Lucy and Nicole, who alas were returning home through Newark and not Cleveland. So I set my Blackberry alarm for 5:45AM. When it went off, I couldn't believe how tired I was. But I dragged myself into the shower, got around and repacked my bag.
That's when I flipped on the TV and discovered it was only 5:15AM.
My stupid Blackberry had not adjusted itself for the one hour time difference and I'd really gotten up at 4:45AM.
Sigh.
By this time, I was afraid to go back to sleep so I brewed six cups of extra strong coffee and set about uploading pictures until time to head downstairs.
Five of us were left to catch the last limo to the airport at 7AM.
Once we got there, Sue and Toni headed to another terminal.
This left just Lisa, Ginni and I. Once we checked our bags and got inside, though, I discovered that my flight was out of a different terminal so I had had to say goodbye to the last of my pals.
I thought about getting one last picture at this point, but there was something in my eye. We hugged like crazy and then I headed out to Timbuktu where my gate was.
Returning from a good vacation is always a let down. But going back home - no matter how much I wanted to see Ken and DaBoys and talk to the kids - was tough. Two years ago, I answered a design team call that led to making friends that feel like family. To get to meet some of them in real life was a privilege, and some of the best fun I've ever had.
After two years online with these ladies, they get me. Which may or may not say something about their character. . .
Back in Cleveland, I grabbed my bag and headed for the shuttle to my car. I decided I'd spend the rest of the afternoon showing DaBoys all my pictures until Ken got home from work.
And then Lisa posted her last picture from the trip. It was taken at the airport, and made me wish all over again that I'd been there when she took it.

Because if we'd all seen this guy together, you just know we'd have laughed until we needed Depends.

So I'm Sitting in the Airport in Cleveland. . .

2010-07-24T12:02:00.002-04:00

. . .waiting to board my flight for Houston to meet my MSW girls for the first time ever. I haven't slept in about a week from excitement, and am figuring I'll just nap on the plane so that I arrive refreshed and rested. Except someone tapped me on the shoulder and my plans went right out the window. I LOVE surprises and this will forever rank as one of the best moment of my life!
Sneaking Up on Lori

T-1. . . . Blastoff!

2010-07-22T20:51:00.004-04:00

There used to be a commercial for toilet bowl cleaner that showed a woman playing tennis, who'd stop mid-serve and exclaim "I'm cleaning my toilet bowl!"
Well, in a small town in northeastern Ohio, I sit blogging and can gleefully exclaim "I'm charging my camera battery!"
Of course, I could also say "I'm charging my laptop!" and "I'm washing my new underwear!" and "I'm letting my hair dry!" because I am actually in the middle of about 4000 things I've got to wrap up tonight in order to get on a plane tomorrow.
Because after months - nay, seemingly EONS - of waiting, tomorrow I finally get to meet 14 women who are as dear to me as my IRL BFF's despite the fact I've never laid eyes on 'em. We all came together online at My Sketch World a couple years back when Lucy Chesna started the site, and we've been scrapping and laughing and kvetching together ever since.
And tomorrow, 15 of us finally get to meet in person.
The only impression I have of what these ladies look like comes from their avatars on MSW. Most everyone uses a cute picture of themselves or their kids or their dogs. I use Calvin up there, mostly because I'm a Calvin and Hobbes freak, but also because I like the sentiment. Not that I expect to play naked in Houston, but who knows? Whatever happens in Houston will stay in Houston.
Frankly, I'll be fortunate to show up with everything I need for our day of scrapbooking at Archivers. Those of you who know me IRL probably have a difficult time picturing me without anything to say so I'm not sure I'm going to get much scrapping done anyway what with 14 new friends to chat with. I'm just packing stuff that I can move around on a page so it will look like I'm scrapping.
We're spending Sunday touring NASA which is going to be FASCINATING. I'm hoping they'll let us push buttons or fly something, but I'm not holding my breath.
However, none of this will happen unless I sign off and start making stuff fall into suitcases. I expect that Ken will be enjoying every bit of silence while I'm gone, knowing that I'll talk his ear off once I get back.
Houston - ready or not, here we come!

Better Angels

2010-07-18T17:14:00.011-04:00

She looked like any one of a thousand cute, skinny girls with glasses, bangs and her hair in a ponytail. You know the type - sweet, maybe a hard luck case, just barely out of that gawky stage. Probably 19 or 20. She's the waitress that always smiles and never forgets how you like your eggs, or the nurse's aid you found reading to your mom or the babysitter you just can't do without. She's that girl, I could tell.
They were standing just outside the dressing room in JCPenney's. She had her back turned to an equally skinny guy a little older than her, and was holding up her hair with one hand while he worked the zipper on the back of the dress she was trying on.
He finally managed to get her zipped and she scooted back into the first dressing room. The guy (who was more of a kid, really) shoved his hands in his pockets and tried his best to look comfortable standing in the doorway to a ladies dressing room.
I smiled as I stepped past him and went into the next open stall to try on a sundress.
"Jessie?" I heard him say. "Can I see how you look?"
There was no reply for a minute and then I heard a small voice say "It's so beautiful." A door opened and Jessie must have stepped out in her dress because there was a lot of quiet conversation back and forth. I heard "princess" and "too expensive" and then the door closed again.
I knew the sundress I had wouldn't fit me but I loved the color. I squinted at my image in the mirror trying to make the dress work, and thought about some memorable people I've met in the past five months.
The kid at KMart trying to buy frozen chicken and cereal and bread with a mostly used gift card.
The homeless woman in the bakery having a cup of free coffee but no breakfast.
The tattooed man in front of me at Target, working a pile of gift cards to buy a Wii Fit for his mom who just came home from rehab.
The dad at the cheap movies trying to stretch a small popcorn and a bottle of Sprite between three little kids.
I took off the sundress and put it back on the hanger. It was a beautiful shade of coral. I got dressed, opened the door and headed out into the store. In a corner off to the left stood Jessie and her boyfriend next to a Levi's display for ladies capris. On the shelf was a pile of wadded up bills and some coins. Jessie was searching through her purse. The boy was going through his pockets.
"I've got $22.53," the boy was saying as he dropped another dime and two pennies on the shelf.
"I don't need this dress," she said. "It's too expensive."
"Yes, you do," the boy replied. "You're beautiful."
"It is," she said, eyeing the dress. You could tell from her voice that wearing it made her feel beautiful.
I opened my wallet and took out a $20 bill.
She had a dusting of freckles across her nose and a tiny scar in her eyebrow, and brown eyes that were huge. "Enjoy your dress, " I said and put the bill in her hand. As I moved away, she swallowed and looked at the money in her hand then at her boyfriend. He just stared at me with his mouth open.
"Ma'am, " Jessie called, holding out the twenty toward me. "I can't take this!"
"Yes, you can," I told her. "You looked gorgeous in that dress - enjoy it."
And then I walked out of the store, trying not to grin. Just as I had walked out of KMart, the bakery, Target and the movie theatre trying not to grin.
Don't write comments of praise. Please don't tell me what a good person I am. I owe a debt.
A few months back, someone I don't know did something incredible for me - something kind and generous and meaningful.
I can't pay this person back, even if mere money could equal what I've been given. I can't write a thank you note, even if new words were invented big enough to hold my gratitude.
But I can help the Jessie's of this world when I find them as a sort of honor to someone who was kind to me. I openly admit that there's a selfish element at work here, too, that can't be overlooked. My offering of help is so small compared to the blessing I received but you know what? It gives me that same can't-stop-grinning feeling I had when I first heard about this wonderful person's generous gift to me.
I wonder if they knew they were giving a gift that keeps on giving.
I was raised by a thoughtful and generous family who always found some way to help those less fortunate, even when they didn't have two nickels to rub together. That is how I learned the difference between having money and being wealthy.
Somewhere tonight, a girl named Jessie twirls before the mirror in a dress that makes her feel as beautiful as she really is.
And somewhere tonight is a kind and generous person who showed me once again that there are better angels in all of us.
Both have given me something priceless, and I am wealthy beyond measure.

I Badge You Not

2010-07-16T22:08:00.018-04:00

My new job has quite a few elements that are new to me. For one thing, I've never worked at a company so large that I don't know everyone. Another new and delightful element is that I am officially working for The World's Nicest Boss. And this isn't just my assessment - every employee I've met tells me that. And they are correct.
The other thing I'm not used to is having to use a security badge.
When I got my badge, the first thing I noticed was that - compared to everyone else's photo where their heads come up to the top of the picture - I sort of look like I'm trying to peek over the top of something since there's quite a bit of background showing above my head. Other than that, my picture didn't look as goofy as I expected so I clipped it right to the collar of my jacket as soon as I got it and then walked around all day grinning like a fool, wearin' my badge.
I've got Geeky New Girl down pat.
And it turns out there are a ton of opportunities to use your badge when you're the New Girl especially if your penchant for getting lost is as keenly developed as mine is. So far, I've gotten lost between buildings, gotten lost in buildings, gotten lost on my floor, lost in my department and one day I lost the ladies room completely. Since one's badge is needed to get into buildings, onto some floors and into some ladies rooms, having one is pretty convenient.
There's nothing really special about the design of my badge - my name and photo are on a card attached to a clippy thing with a piece of fishing line that winds and unwinds so that you can lay the card against the reader thingy and unlock the door. If there was no fishing line, you'd have to smash your chest up against the wall every time you wanted a door to open, which would actually be pretty comical but also pretty embarrassing.
But mostly pretty comical.
Since my second day, I've refrained from clipping my badge onto the front of my actual person. Instead, I keep it on my desk and just grab it whenever I need it like all the other grown ups
who work here. If I go to the ladies room, I grab my badge. Head out to lunch - grab my badge. Go to the mailroom in the next building- grab my badge. Leave work for the day - grab my badge.
Except for last Thursday.
Somehow, I left my badge lay on my desk when I went home. This wouldn't really be a big deal, except I spent 22 minutes Friday morning cleaning out purses, vacuuming the car, sorting through the trash and checking every room in my house in search of my "lost" badge. Finally, I left for work without it, but phoned Ken several times with helpful ideas about new places he could look for my badge.
Once at work, I figured I'd just stop by Human Resources and tell them I needed a new badge and everything would be fine. It wasn't until I pulled into the parking lot that I remembered - helllloooooooo - I wouldn't be able to get into the building where HR is because I didn't have my badge.
Duh.
I turned off the car, picked up my Blackberry and looked around. There! There was a guy getting out of his car to enter a building. Quick like a bunny, I hopped out of the car and ran toward him. I slowed to a walk as I got near and sure enough - he badged his way into the building and then held the door for me. This gentlemanly gesture did not bode well for company security as a whole, but it was wonderful for me.
I nodded my thanks and entered the building ahead of him, walking purposefully down the hallway like I knew where I was going. He took the first left which allowed me to slow down to get my bearings. I'd come to some sort of lobby with a very nice, very tall sculpture in it. I was so early that the receptionist wasn't at her desk yet. I remembered that HR was on the first floor, so I poked around for a doorway that would lead me to the HR department. I found a maintenance closet, a training room and coat closet but not HR.
Hmmm.
No problem. I'll just find my department, go to my desk and call one of the nice HR people. As I headed back down the hall toward the door, I glanced out the window and across the parking lot at. . . MY building.
Drat.
If I left THIS building to walk across the parking lot to THAT building, I'd have no way to get in. I looked around hopefully but no one else was nearby who looked as though they were hankering for a stroll.
It was then that I remembered the skywalk. Of course! I'd take the elevator up one floor and just walk across the skywalk to my building. As I left the elevator, I was momentarily distracted by a handsome man in an expensive blue suit who was coming out of the skywalk. His eyes were the exact same shade of dark blue as his suit. I made a mental note that the next time I got lost, I'd like it to be in his department. He said good morning and held the door for me. As I brushed past him, there was an intoxicating whiff of some exotic cologne. I smiled a thank you and then poof! - the door closed and Handsome Man was gone and I was alone in the skywalk.
Right away I noticed two things. It was warm. And it felt very much like a Habitrail with its glass ceiling and walls shot through with bronze beams. I strolled past huge potted plants toward the door at the far end, watching all the cars entering the parking lot between the buildings beneath me. Employees were parking their cars then gathering in little clumps, greeting each other and chatting before heading inside.
I reached the exit door and pulled, nearly breaking every nail off my right hand. The door wouldn't budge. That's when I noticed one of those badge reader thingies next to the door. I looked back down the skywalk to the door I'd come in, and sure enough there was a reader next to it, too. Apparently, this company saw the building of a skywalk as an opportunity to trap intruders and corporate espionage agents like sweaty hamsters with no hope of escape.
I was starting to get really warm. I looked through the walls down to the parking lot and considered banging on the glass till someone noticed. But a vision of Benjamin banging on the glass wall in the church during Elaine's wedding in "The Graduate" popped into my head so instead I whipped out my cell phone. First, I dialed Bev who sits next to me but she wasn't in yet. Then I tried Facilities but they weren't open either. Finally, I called the switchboard and got Mary Ellen, who'd just started taking calls for the day.
After she stopped laughing, she called someone nearby and before too long, another hunky guy opened the door and let me into the blessedly cool hallway.
"You good?" he asked with a grin.
"Fine, thank you," I replied and started off purposefully, wondering around until I found familiar territory and eventually my desk.
Later that morning, The Nicest Boss in the World asked if I was finding my way around okay. I decided not to share my morning's adventure, and assured him I was doing fine.
He picked up my badge and clipped it on my jacket. "Keep that on until you get settled in. Don't want you to get stuck in the skywalk like someone did this morning."
So exactly how do you say "Got it, boss" in hamster speak??

Easy Peasy Gardening

2010-07-10T13:18:00.012-04:00

While at Cedar Point back in the late '60's, my mom noticed a beautiful flowering plant in an impeccably manicured flowerbed next to that big blue slide they used to have. In about two seconds, she had pinched off a piece of that bush, wrapped the snippet in one of her endless supply of mom tissues and stowed it in her white purse. It stayed there for the next 12 hours while we rode, ate and ran our way through the hot Cedar Point sun.
The next morning, there was a bent and dried greenish brown stick in a juice glass on the kitchen windowsill. It looked lonely so my sister and I gave it other sticks to keep it company. Very funny, said mom, and a few days later took her Cedar Point stick outside to plant it. My sister and I made a little marker for it that said "Mom's Stick" so dad wouldn't think it was the kind of stick you run over with the mower. Today, that stick is a bush behind my folks house. We still don't know what kind of plant it is so we just call it the Cedar Point bush.
I don't trust the science of genetics, and here's why: I have a mother who takes dried brown stick things and turns them into beautiful thriving plants. I, on the other hand, can only take beautiful thriving plants and turn them into brown stick things. This is why God made hydrangeas.
You plug 'em in the ground, drizzle some water on 'em and voila! gorgeous bowers of blooms that won't quit all summer. Of course, my mom had hydrangeas, too. When she wasn't looking, we'd take the arm cover off the sofa to use as a veil, cut a cloud of white hydrangeas, kidnap Bobby Henry and make him play wedding with us.
People used to dye their hydrangeas blue and pink by watering them with diluted food coloring. Thanks to the wonders of horticulture, hydrangeas today come in the most beautiful range of whites, creams, pinks and blues. They last a really long time when you cut them which is why I have vases of them stowed in every room in the house. And they are gorgeous when they're dried.
My hydrangeas make me smile every time I look at them. Mostly because even I can't turn 'em into sticks.

Nursey Nursey Me

2010-07-03T13:58:00.008-04:00

I've been called upon to be a nursemaid twice this week. Let me just share with you that the sick and ailing of this world have no idea how lucky they are I don't have to do this for a living.
First up was my sister who had some pretty extensive dental surgery last Tuesday and I volunteered to help out. Lin is a nurse so I figured all I'd have to do is maybe rinse out a washcloth or puree a sandwich or something. I am also skilled at hand patting. I didn't grasp the full extent of what she'd be recuperating from, and blithely figured we'd soon be swigging beer and cheating each other at canasta.
Drove her to surgery, picked up prescriptions and got her home afterwards just fine. Later, I went to check on her when she was changing the gauze packing only to find her gaping at the bathroom mirror, checking everything out as eagerly as though she was looking through a 99 cent sale bin at Michael's.
Suddenly, I felt unwell.
When she saw me holding the wastebasket, she nonchalantly tossed in the old gauze. It was about this time that I got hot and sweaty and everything in my vision started turning white. I sat down on the toilet, which Lin took to mean I wanted details. She seemed quite pleased with the state of things and talked on at some length. Thank heavens, I couldn't understand a word she was saying through all the gauze packing she was stuffing in. I put my head between my knees and started reciting the Pledge of Allegiance to myself. Eventually, color returned to the world and I stopped sweating. I was finally able to stagger down the hall behind her and collapse into one of her new leather recliners. Lin took this opportunity to stretch out in the other recliner for a little nap which was fine by me.
I won't go into the rest of the gory details, but all I've got to say is it's a good thing one of us was a tough cookie or I'd never have gotten through the next 24 hours.
Then Sammy (who I know isn't human, but I'm still his dog mom) started acting funny. Sammy is the first one at my feet if I head to the kitchen for any reason. He sits under the dinner table staring at Ken while we eat. Anything that moves in the house or on our walks becomes a toy. In short, the whole world is fascinating to Sammy, and he greets each day with amazing doggie enthusiasm.
But this week, Sammy spent most of each day curled up under my chair or on the floor of the little bath or in his crate. We could occasionally entice him into a game of bouncy ball, but there was none of his typical zoom-doggie mentality. He wasn't at my heels from morning till night, didn't react when I opened the treat jar and just wasn't his normal Sammy self.
So yesterday, we went to see Dr. Jessica. She was so sweet and gentle, and I knew something was up when Sammy allowed his temperature to be taken without trying to curl into a ball as he normally does. He had a slight temperature but everything looked normal, so Dr. Jessica wanted to do some blood work and test Sammy's urine. Since Sammy was doing his best to climb into my armpit and looked so pathetic, Dr. Jessica said Sammy might be more comfortable if I had a role in taking blood. My role would be to Hold the Dog. This was fine by me (and Sammy).
But my role in the urine thing was to Be the Urine Collector.
No problem. Give me a rubber apron, goggles, hip waders and rubber gloves and I can collect anything.
Nurse Bitzi handed me a metal bowl about four inches wide and two inches deep that looked for all the world like it could double as a doggie hat if Sammy ever decided to run away and join the circus. I looked at her.
"It's for the urine," she explained, helpfully.
". . . and. . . ?" I asked, densely.
"Well," she smiled. "You just. . .umm. . .hold it under when Sammy goes. Would you like me to do it for you? We do it all the time."
"No no, " I said. "I've got it." On a good day, Sammy is one shy dog when it comes to his bathroom habits. All I needed was for something to freak him out while he was potty-ing and I'd be making daily appointments for doggie catheterizations.
So out the door we headed. Sammy was quite excited about leaving the vet's office to wander around the yard sniffing and marking all the places other dogs had been.
Except he wasn't expecting his mom to suddenly thrust an upside-down doggie hat at him while he was . . . .you-know-whatting. Poor baby - he jumped straight up in the air as far as his leash would go. His back foot caught the edge of the dish/hat and it went flying toward Charlie, who skittered as far in the opposite direction as he could go.
Suddenly, I'm stretched out like a scarecrow and my shoe is wet.
I gathered everyone up, retrieved the dish/hat and after awhile was able to drag two dogs back into the vet's with our prize. I can't say for sure that we had an audience, but I did notice Bitzi wiping her eyes when we came in.
Fortunately, Dr. Jessica called to say Sammy's blood work was normal. This morning, he fairly knocked me down getting to his bouncy ball and is back to eating and playing and hanging out in the kitchen in case someone drops food. Whatever he had seems to have disappeared.
And I talked to Lin yesterday and she sounded wonderful. What a trooper.
So, let's recap.
In accordance with the Hippocratic oath we medical types follow, I have not harmed anyone and both my patients are doing well.
I did, however, have to throw out one very nice pair of sandals.
And I now know that I never, ever want to hear the words "you" and "dental surgery" used in the same sentence. But if I do, I'll need Nurse Linda, Lapdog Sammy and Sidekick Charlie to get me through it.

Food for the Soul. . .a Shabby Chic Victorian Cottage

2010-06-26T07:48:00.014-04:00

The New York Times ran this article by Joyce Wadler about a woman named Sandra Foster, who built a Victorian retreat out of an old hunting shack on her property in the Catskills. That she also lives in a 1971 trailer with a husband who has his own "man cave" (albeit truck-sized and tarp-covered) is another intriguing part of this story.
But oh my - I am enamored with this Victorian retreat. It seems poised to inspire great writing or great painting or . . . maybe just great living.
Every one of us needs some space in our life that's just ours, in whatever unapologetic shape and form suits us best. It's a very Virginia Woolf-ian concept, I admit, but an idea to which I've always aspired. Granted - I'd probably be freaked out worrying that some sneaky snake might be lurking in the corner, and DaBoys would have to come along - muddy feet, doggy hair and all - but still. . . I could retreat across a rock-bridged stream in the Catskills to sit in this cottage on a rainy afternoon.
Couldn't you??

If I Have to Explain It. . . .

2010-06-15T14:47:00.013-04:00

Here's my take on Lucy Chesna's Card Sketch for June 2010. I'll post a copy of her sketch on my Scrappy Projects page up yonder. You have to click over there for sure and see all the amazing cards and layouts the design teams created.

Banners seem to be one of The Big Things right now. I've discovered they're a little like potato chips - after I made my first banner, it looked like I needed to add banners to every LO or card I made.
So, of course, I put a banner on a layout I did of my Baby Boy when he really was a Baby Boy. Yep - that's my Mattie at six months of age.
Once a cutie, always a cutie.
Sigh.
Or maybe I should say once my Baby Boy, always my Baby Boy because that's what he'll be no matter how grown up he gets. Last Saturday, I just about popped my buttons with pride as I watched my Baby Boy cross the stage in Mershon Auditorium to receive his MBA hood from Fisher College of Business at Ohio State University. Suddenly, I thought of his kindergarten graduation. I remember watching him coming down the aisle with his little diploma from St. Mary School and thinking to myself that this would be just the first of many diplomas my Baby Boy would get.
A mother just knows these things.
Explaining how we know these things is impossible. It's like the Olympic sport of curling: you either get it, or you don't.
So is scrapbooking. I don't waste too much time proselytizing anyone whose eyes glaze over at the mere mention of it. I figure someday their great-grandchildren will be clutching poorly composed photos and crying out in frustration "Who in the hell IS that??!!?"
My great-grandchildren, on the other hand, will look serenely through lovingly handcrafted scrapbooks, sip their cocktails and understand for the first time why their therapists tell them they have obsessive tendencies.

Can You Guess. . . ??

2010-06-14T20:48:00.002-04:00

. . . what this is?

Hint: It's not bigger than a breadbox.

It is, however, going to be unveiled tomorrow at My Sketch World so you'll have to pop over there for a looky loo!

And if you're really good, we might stop for ice cream on the way home.

Racing Dreams

2010-05-30T14:14:00.044-04:00

It's a beautiful afternoon and I'm doing two of my favorite things: scrapping and watching a race on TV. Not just any race, though. Today is the Indy 500.
Oh, to be Danica Patrick. . . .
Helio Castraneves in on the pole today. Unfortunately, one of my favorite drivers, Paul Tracy, failed to qualify for this year's Indy. I watch for Paul in every IRL race cuz me and Paul - we go way back.
In 2007, Brenda and I volunteered with the Champs Car folks at the Cleveland Grand Prix. We had a blast working behind the scenes the three days leading up to the June race, but the best part was what happened on Race Day.
Our crew of volunteers was told we'd get to escort the drivers on the parade lap. Escort - as in get behind the wheel and DRIVE THE DRIVERS AROUND THE TRACK.
I've never been so excited in my life.
Before we closed up shop and headed over to to the grandstand, we were given strict instructions about not bothering the drivers, not using the air conditioning because it would drip condensation on the track, etc. etc. etc.
Oh, and one more thing.
Whoever drove Paul Tracy was EXPRESSLY FORBIDDEN from doing or saying anything to upset him. Don't argue. Don't ask for his autograph. Do what he says and get him around the track safely. I knew Paul Tracy's reputation as a helluva driver who was passionate about racing and not afraid to express his opinions. I also knew that in 2002, a bogus call by the Indy Racing League left him in heartbreaking second place at end of the Indianapolis 500, a ruling that would have soured anyone. But Tracy was a true Champs star, and right then and there I knew that's who I wanted to drive.
As we pulled up to a long row of Mazdas, Brenda and I could hardly contain ourselves. Right away, I spotted the car designated for Paul Tracy and outran one old lady co-volunteer to get to it first.

After Brenda and I took pictures, I opened the door to my Mazda and hopped in. Outside at the staging area, the temperature was 95 degrees. Inside, it was at least 150. Mazda had not embraced the genius of Ford's pedals forward technology, so I spent 10 sweaty minutes trying to adjust the seat so my feet could reach the pedals. Another 10 sweaty minutes were spent trying to raise the seat so I could see over the steering wheel. I adjusted the mirrors and then sat back and looked around. Off to my right, Paul Newman was talking with his crew chief. I couldn't stand it anymore and dug out my forbidden cell phone to call my dad and play "Guess where I am?" He was as excited as I was and told me to be careful and have fun. Just then a Champs car representative came by to tell us we'd be moving up to get our drivers in three minutes. As he disappeared down the row of cars ahead of me, a rivulet of sweat slid down my back. I leaned forward to unstick myself from the seat. I accidentally bumped something, and all of a sudden my windshield wipers were flapping back and forth in the glaring sun.
Damn.
I twisted the turn signal post on the left side of the steering wheel.
Nothing.
I tried to push in the turn signal post. Then I tried to pull it out.
Nothing.
I furiously patted the dashboard and armrest for anything that looked like a windshield wiper control.
Nothing.
Opened the glove box for an owners manual.
Nothing.
At this point, the heat of the boiling sun and the lack of moisture under the wipers combined to make the most annoying screeeeeching sound every time they swiped the width of the windshield.
Oh my god.
I was going to pick up Paul Tracy with my windshield wipers on. I could see the headlines now: "Distracted Tracy Loses Major Race, Vows Revenge on Dumb Blonde."
I started to hyperventilate. With shaking fingers, I dialed Brenda's cell phone but she didn't pick up, probably because we were moving along pit row now to pick up the professional race drivers we'd been entrusted with introducing to their waiting fans.
I almost wet my pants as three cars ahead of me stood Paul Tracy, looking hot and impatient in the relentless sun. In a total panic, I began swatting/hitting/twisting/smacking everything on the dashboard in an attempt to undo whatever it was I'd done. Thanks be to the racing gods - the windshield wipers settled under the hood just as I drew up alongside my professional race driver.
Whew.
I almost cried from relief.
Unfortunately, I'd forgotten to unlock the doors.
My professional race car driver was standing in the boiling sun on pit row, locked out of his parade lap car. I began swatting things again and managed to pop the locks. Then Paul Tracy in the flesh eased himself into the car, looking resplendent in his hurt-your-eyes blue and white racing suit.
"Whew. Hot in here," he said and immediately turned on the air conditioning. I told him about the condensation on the track thing, and he laughed. "Girl, we'll melt in here!" was all he said. I don't remember much as I pulled away behind the string of Mazdas and began to pick up speed except that he wasn't scary or nasty or even impatient. We made some small talk, I think, but I can't be sure because I was trying to figure out if the long wait in a 150 degree car had left me stinky. Mostly I concentrated on not saying or doing anything else stupid.
Then we were up to speed and pulling out onto the track. With a grin, Paul eased himself off the passenger seat and up through the sunroof.
Once I'd maneuvered around the first turn at 65 mph just fine, I let out a long breath and relaxed a bit. I knew I couldn't ask Paul Tracy for a picture, but thanks to my cell phone I snapped this picture of him to remember the best parade lap of my life:

And since I probably wouldn't be driving on a Champs or Indy or NASCAR track again anytime soon, I snapped this pic of the track as we came out of turn three. That's Lake Erie off to the left and the infield on the right. I have no idea who the driver is poking out of the sunroof ahead of me, though:

Way too soon, we were braking to a slower pace and pulling back into pit row. I pulled up to Paul Tracy's spot without hitting anyone or anything and gently stopped the car.
"Good luck today. Stay safe," I said. Or at least that's what I said in my head. Lord only knows what came out of my mouth. All I remember is Paul Tracy thanking me for a "great ride" and then watching his blue tushie as he got out of the car.
Wow.
I'd just driven Paul Tracy on his 2007 Cleveland Grand Prix parade lap and delivered him safely back to his crew without maiming him, causing an international incident or inciting a tantrum. Most importantly, I'd done it without publicly humiliating myself and without the use of windshield wipers.
I sat back, a stupid grin on my face. Life was good. Very good, indeed.
That's when a big angry man with a red face smacked the hood of my Mazda and yelled through a bullhorn, "Hey, lady! Get the f*** outta here! We've got a race to run!"
I threw the Mazda into gear and did a little fishtail in my hurry to catch up with the other Mazdas way ahead of me down pit row, praying the TV cameras were engaged somewhere else. We wove our way through the back lot to the staging area and parked. I jumped out and found Brenda. No question - this was the best fun ever.
And guess what? Paul Tracy won the Cleveland Grand Prix that year! I was kind of proud that his parade lap was rather uneventful, although he's had to overcome much worse than a hapless parade lap escort to be successful. The very next year, the Indy Racing League took over the Champs Car series and Cleveland was eventually dropped from the circuit. I'm sad the Grand Prix isn't here anymore but 2007's race couldn't have ended better.
When my dogs sleep, they dream of being Dobermans.
Me - I still daydream of being a Ken Block or Matt Kenseth or Danica Patrick. I can vividly imagine what it would feel like to take the third turn at the Brickyard or Darlington or drive gymkhana. The feel of the car, the smell of the fuel, the rumble in my gut as I work my way through the gears using all my skill and strategy to challenge the laws of physics and push my car to the limit and test good fortune.
It'll never happen, but that's okay.
I'll always have Paul Tracy's legs.

Rastus

2010-05-29T07:24:00.010-04:00

(I apologize for the . . . .ummm. . . earthy nature of parts of this post but I just came back from a frustrating walk with DaBoys have to vent. If you're eating, you might want to come back later.)
Charlie is a precision poo-er of the first order. I once heard about a guy who taught his dog to poo on command. I will Google this mangod as soon as I finish here.
Forget agility courses and those frou frou canines sporting Neuticles, if the Westminster Kennel Club ever instituted a Precision Pooing category, we'd have ourselves a winner. Charlie has poo'd on a single dandelion growing from a crack in the sidewalk, on the side of a tree and once - in his younger days - on a huge maple leaf even when it required a few sidesteps because the wind kicked up. After intense sniffing, Charlie will assume the position and add a test wiggle to see if this right here is indeed The Spot. Sometimes it's the right spot; sometimes it's not. Sometimes, he will do this for most of our walk completely oblivious to Sammy who wants to Go now! and me, the long suffering Dog Mom, who's been walking for the last 20 minutes with a green biodegradable Pooch Pick Up bag over her hand enduring the angry glares from homeowners who think we left them a present. "Sorry!" I'll say apologetically and give them a little wave. "False alarm!"
Sammy, however, uses more of a strafing technique. He starts at Point A but always ends up at Point B. Or even Point C. The words from that childhood song ". . . picking up pawpaws and putting 'em in my pocket . . . " always pop into my head every time I stoop/walk the length of a treelawn to reclaim our evidence.
One of the reasons Sammy moves around is that he thinks walks are really for checking up on what's going on in the neighborhood. If Mr. Watson put up chicken wire around his garden, Sammy takes note. If the family in the yellow house installed a porch swing, Sammy will see it. And if - oh glorious good fortune! - someone comes out of the house, gets in their car and drives away - Sammy is in heaven watching their every move until they drive out of sight.
Which brings us to Rastus the Squirrel up there. I have had a long history with squirrels including one squirrel named Mario that adopted my father and hated his blond daughters. But that's another post.
Actually, that's not Rastus. That's a picture I downloaded from the internet because I tried to take the picture of Rastus with my cellphone but only got pictures of places Rastus had recently sat. And I don't know that Rastus is his real name but it's what I call him. Actually, in my mind I call him "@#$%^&* Rastus!"
This morning after watching flowers grow, bloom, wither and die while waiting on Charlie to find the Just Right Spot, Sammy decided to do the deed, too, at which point Rastus came tiptoeing into view. Sammy didn't see him at first so Rastus turned his back and snapped his little tail a few times. That got both boys' attention and the next thing I know I'm being drug across the Nealy's lawn, trying to keep my shoulders in their sockets. Whenever he got too far ahead of us, Rastus would stop and do the tail thing, letting us get tantalizingly close before sprinting ahead a few more feet. At the ends of their leashes, the boys looked like plow horses, their plowshare being the hapless human they were dragging behind them. Around the curve Rastus went and along the boxwood, then across the street to run up the big elm in front of the Henderson's house where he stayed just long enough for Sammy to feel sure he was having squirrel for breakfast. But no. . . next, the little creep scampered down and headed back across the street to the oak in the Manley's treelawn where he stopped three feet off the ground, leaning back with one of his little front arms out to the side like he was posing for the cover of "Squirrel Monthly" magazine. By now, I was sure my two yipping/snapping/growling dogs had awakened every one on the block.
And that's when things really got sticky: Rastus was joined by his equally evil brother (Festus, I think his name was) and after making sure they had the full and undivided attention of both Sammy and Charlie, they decided to run up different trees.
My life started to flash before my eyes, but thankfully Neighbor Bob and his cat, Tank, stepped outside at that very moment to retrieve the morning paper. DaBoys took notice of Tank just long enough for me to regain some semblance of control. Never in my life have I been so glad to see a shirtless chubby man wearing shorts.
DaBoys and I were pretty winded so I took a minute to dig their collars out of their neck fur and refocus them. Their little tongues were hanging out of the sides of their mouths. Sammy's eyes said, "WOW!THATWASTHEBESTFUNEVER!CANWEDOITAGAIN??!HUH??CANWECANWE?? Charlie . . . well, he was just plain winded. We had to retrace our steps to find one of my flip flops (which had propped itself safely against a curb) and the poo bag (which was stuck to the Benson's hedge).
I shortened up their leashes and two exhausted but compliant dogs accompanied me home, obediently positioned one on either side of me. As we turned into the end of our driveway, though, I glanced down the street and there, six houses away, was Rastus sitting languidly on the corner.
We'll take a walk again this afternoon.
I'm thinking poo bag in right pocket and rocks in the left.

Dressing Room Diaries, Part Deux . . . . . . . . . or How to Lose Your Shirt (Literally) and Survive

2010-05-20T17:21:00.021-04:00

There is nothing like a leisurely stroll through Macy's at 11 o'clock on a weekday - when the rest of the world is hard at work - to make me feel like I'm getting away with something. On this day, my first stop was the shoe department where I tried on five pairs of sandals. I wasn't going to buy sandals, I just tried them on because I still get giddy trying on strappy shoes. Thank you, Dr. Brian Donley, Orthopedic Surgeon Extraordinaire.
Then I allowed myself to be moisturized and pampered by the Clinique ladies, who promised me their potions would make me look 20 years younger. They seemed genuinely saddened by my decision to look my age and make a measly $32 purchase.
Next, I lingered by Fine Jewelry where they were thrilled that I wanted to see what it was like to wear a $6500 diamond bracelet. If you close your eyes, it feels just like wearing a $200 diamond bracelet (but let's not tell that to the menfolk.)
After that, it was on to Petites - and my real reason for shopping. I set about finding a pair of capris and jacket to go with the pink top I was wearing. It's the cutest thing - sleeveless with a little v-neck rimmed in tiny ruffles. I bought it during another foray to Macy's a week or so ago. But today - everything was on sale!! You know my penchant for bargains, so I skipped to the dressing room with an armful of sale goodies.
Since the store was virtually empty, the nicest saleslady hung about to see if I needed anything. I sometimes hate this, but this time it was quite helpful as I am now in between sizes. We will not pause here to contemplate how that came to be, but suffice it to say it involved cookies and was not the result of exercise of any kind.
This nice lady - Delores was her name - took over and brought me anything I needed. She even took the clothes I didn't want right out of the dressing room for me, pausing just long enough to tell my sensitive ego that I needed the next size up in that jacket.
Sigh.
She was right, of course, and before long she retreated to the hall, leaving me in my bra and one last pair of watermelon-colored capris, thus allowing me the dignity of contemplating the size of my rear end in private. After turning this way and that, I decided there's no way I could wear watermelon-colored capris without looking like I was using them to smuggle actual watermelons. I reluctantly shimmied out of the capris and - vowing to start running 15 miles every day - handed them out the door to Delores, who scurried off to the cash register.
I settled back into my favorite old khakis. And that's when I discovered my pink shirt was nowhere to be found.
What the. . . .? How could. . . .? I looked under my purse. I looked in my purse. I looked under the bench and while I was down there, looked beneath the door into the hall.
No pink shirt. Old Eager Beaver Delores must have grabbed it up by accident!
"Hello?" I called. "Delores? Are you out there?" but she'd gone.
I stared at my reflection in the mirror as though I expected to find me/it with an evil little smile on my/its face, dangling my pink shirt from my/its fingertips.
There was no way I was venturing out of this dressing room without every single piece of my clothing firmly on my body.
I sat down on the bench. It was so quiet. No one else petite trying on clothes. No noise from the sales floor. Where was Delores now, when I needed her most??? I tried to remember if there was one of those racks near the door where people hang the clothes they don't want. I'd have to open the door and extend my near-naked, pasty-white torso into the hallway to look. I took a breath, opened the door and took a quick peek into the hall much like the cops do in crime shows when they think someone might start shooting.
Nothing. But then my quick-peek skills are not up to cop standards so I looked out again.
Damn. My modesty being what it is, I had taken the dressing room farthest away from the sales floor and couldn't see around the corner to the doorway. No one would hear me even if I yelled. I hopped back into the dressing room and slammed the door.
Think! I told myself. Then it dawned on me. My cell phone! I dumped the contents of my purse on the floor, grabbed my phone and tried to dial 411 for Macy's phone number. Oh happy day! I'd ask for Petites, then tell Delores to get her helpful little patootie back in here with my pink shirt.
Except my cell phone had no reception. I held it up to the light, danced around on the bench with it over my head, even thrust it into the hallway but zip zero nada. After this was over, I was going to have a talk with Verizon.
I gathered all my junk back into my purse and slumped down on the bench. What in the hell was I going to do now?
Then it occurred to me that maybe Do Gooder Delores had left clothes in other dressing rooms! I listened to see if I could hear anyone - anyone at all - but it was quiet so I took another deep breath, threw open the dressing room door, shot into the hall and began lurching in and out of stalls in search of something . . . anything . . . I could put on to go in search of my pink shirt.
And at last, there it was. . . in the last dressing room across the hall. . .my salvation. It was truly such a ghastly looking piece of clothing I'm not surprised it was left behind. Apparently, it had aspirations of being a formal gown of some kind but to what kind of formal event it hoped to be invited was beyond me. It was very glittery and sort of a dirty yellow. Strapless with silver sequins and silver beading snaking all over it. Two long rows of silver sequins were stuck to the princess seams in the front, ending in a glittery dirty yellow ruffle to which someone had attached dirty pink sparkly flowers.
Sparkly crocheted flowers.
No matter. I snatched the ugly rag off the hanger, shot back into my dressing room and slammed the door. I could only get the zipper down partway, though, because more sparkly crocheted flowers were guarding it. I didn't care. I ripped off the top two, but the next one was stuck in the zipper like gum to a ponytail and there was no budging it.
Without unzipping it, there was no way I could get the offensive rag over my head. I thought for a minute, and decided just to wrap the dress around me horizontally and sally forth that way. Not ideal, but at least no one would see I was wearing my scrapping bra - my most comfortable bra with the misfortune of having an old pop dot stuck to the front of it like a wonky nipple. (Take note: Pop dots do not come out in the wash.) The beading and sequins wreaked havoc on my armpits but I barely noticed as I cautiously opened the dressing room door and sidled into the hallway.
With any luck, I'd meet another Petite taking advantage of sales. I'd explain my situation, we'd have a good laugh and she'd go find Dunderhead Delores to bring back my pink shirt. But the hallway was empty.
I tiptoed past the row of dressing rooms (why I tiptoed, I have no idea but it seemed appropriate at the time) and rounded the corner to the sales floor. There ahead of me were racks of Chaps and Claiborne and Hilfiger . . .but no people.
I was in luck. I could go snatch something decent off a rack, zip back in here to put it on and go in search of that delinquent, Delores. I decided to grab the first thing within reach. . . which turned out to be a bikini.
Damn.
I poked my head out further and saw a fuzzy haired person across the way handing a bag to someone.
Delores!
I tiptoe/hopped across the aisle, around a rack of jackets and another of tank tops and tapped her on the shoulder. After much stage whispering, I was able to make her understand my situation and that no - I did not want her to see if she had that gown in my size.
Unfortunately, Dippy Delores did not recall taking any pink shirt out of the dressing room. Nor did she recognize the shirt I described as being an actual Macy's product. At this point, I just wanted to strangle Delores and run back to the dressing room with anything decent in hand but I took a deep breath and described the shirt to her again.
Me: "You know. . . a sleeveless pink tank. Tshirt material. Tiny ruffles. Vneck!"
Delores: "Are you sure you had it on when you came in?"
I'm kid you not.

Insert sound of crickets here.
In total exasperation (and with one particularly vile sequin biting the hell out of my armpit), I asked her to go gather up all the clothes she could remember me trying on. That's when a light snapped on in Delores' little empty head.
"Wait!," she cried. "Pink shirt? With ruffles on it? No sleeves?"
"Yes, Delores! Yes!! That's it!! Where is it??"
"Well, I don't think we have any more of those. I only ever saw one, and it didn't have tags on it so I had to search for a price. I just sold it to that lady!"
Enter the Google Earth moment. You know the kind - when your mind is so freaked out by the total unreality of the moment that you feel just like you did the first time Google Earth zoomed you from mega outer space right down to your tiny itty bitty rooftop.
All I could see was Delores' beady eyes and her goofy half-smile, and suddenly my mind burst with visions of her wearing a dirty yellow sequiney thing tied tightly around her scrawny neck.

Unfreakingbelievable.
And that's when Delores' manager happened by. In short order, she had escorted me back to my dressing room (where I thankfully found my abandoned purse and Clinique moisturizer bag) and was plying me with an array of pink tops all of which coordinated beautifully with the capris and jacket Dipwad Delores had stashed at the check out. Then she personally rang up my order - crediting me in full for my new pink top - and handed me a $25 gift card before sending me on my way with Macy's sincerest apologies.
Ken was home for lunch when I pulled into the driveway. I told him about my morning and gave him the gift card. He wondered if I didn't want to use it myself the next time I went shopping.
No. thank. you.
From now on, this in-between-sizes girl is going to order two sizes of everything from Macy's online.

Who Needs a TV Show Called "Lost?"

2010-05-16T08:04:00.003-04:00

Just like the dish running away with the spoon, I think my mojo ran away with my memory.

1. Found the jar of Skippy peanut butter in the refrigerator. Now who would do a dumb thing like that?

2. Lost my favorite sunglasses so began searching the entire house.

3. Gave up looking for my glasses so I could leave and meet a friend for lunch.

4. Couldn't find my car key.

5. Found my sunglasses and called my friend to pick me up.

6. Started scrapping a layout of Baby Sophia after dinner, but couldn't find that cute photo of her sleeping like an angel anywhere.

7. Decided to scrap a layout of Matthew instead.

8. Couldn't find the six little red cutwork trucks I'd worked on all week.

9. Didn't find the trucks or Sophia's picture in my scraproom, but did find the cute K&Company brads I'd bought two weeks ago for a layout of my mom.

10. Gathered all the stuff to make mom's layout and lugged it downstairs to the dining room table.

11. Realized the dogs needed their medicine so got out two pills and two teaspoons.

12. Opened the cupboard but couldn't find the peanut butter.

13. Cussed.

14. Opened the refrigerator.

15. No peanut butter but I did find my car key.

May 15th MSW Card Sketch Reveal

2010-05-14T23:05:00.009-04:00

Heading out to visit my folks for the weekend, but wanted to pop in and say hello to my blog first. I've been ignoring it, not because I don't have anything to say but because I've been busy.
Have you ever noticed that the more time you have the harder it is to get things done sometimes? That's my own particular kind of sloth . . . . give me five minutes and I can get 15 things done, but give me an entire day and it disappears like smoke. I stay busy, but accomplish nothing.
Ah well.
It's time for the May 15th reveal at My Sketch World's new forum so I thought I'd paste Lucy's sketch and my card up here. Be sure to hop over and see the amazing cards and layouts the other designers posted. I had a ton of fun making this card - I got use my favorite punches, layer on the Prima, do some cutwork and doodle with my trusty white Signo pen. It was especially enjoyable because my mojo actually hung out long enough for me to feel some of that old inspiration coursing through my scrappy veins.
Since then, I've made a very nice nest for my mojo - bought it new toys, found it some new inspiration (can you say "scraplift"??) and cleared my schedule.
Now let's see if it's still here when I get back on Sunday. Enjoy your weekend but if you find my mojo running amok in your neighborhood, please send it home!

Extra! Extra! Read All About it!!

2010-05-08T12:54:00.007-04:00

Well, it has been quite a week here at Scrapinator Central, let me tell you. I have so MUCH news to share with y'all, I hardly know where to begin!
First off, I have a whole new outlook on Mondays. I used to hate Mondays for all the typical reasons. But I am here to tell you that Mondays CAN bring good news because last Monday I discovered something so wonderfully extraordinary that it plum changed my entire thinking about Mondays.
Wanna hear my news?
I found out I actually can GO TO HOUSTON FOR THE FIRST EVER MY SKETCH WORLD MEET!!!!
(Insert mental image of happiness-crazed teenaged girls meeting for the first time, jumping up and down and screaming. Only they're not happiness-crazed teenaged girls, they're happiness-crazed scrappity women some of whom are middle-aged and should stop all the jumping around and screaming before they injure themselves.)
What's that you say? You hear a noise? Oh, that's just me screaming for joy right here in front of my computer. I have a tendency to do that whenever I remember all over again that I get to GO TO HOUSTON FOR THE FIRST EVER MY SKETCH WORLD MEET!!!!
Sorry.
I'll try to control myself.
But the news isn't all good. Nosirreee. There are some very serious elements to this Houston thang. Like for instance, all my MSW friends will now realize that my definition of "statuesque" applies to anyone over five feet tall.
Cuz I'm not.
Statuesque, that is.
Or over five feet tall.
Or. . . even. . . five feet tall period. I've just gotten really good at making sure I stand on something in group photos.
And then there's one other thang. One other teensy weensy little item. A little bitty detail, really. More of an unimportant detail than anything else.
I've been. . .um. . . been kind of photoshopping my wrinkles out of my avatar pics.
Yeah. I want to come clean so that our first meeting where we're all jumping up and down and screaming doesn't come to an abrupt halt when one of these nice ladies realizes with horror that I've been misleading everyone. Not that I'd make anyone run away in fright but I'm not exactly. . .well, let's just say. . . smooth all over, ok?
But I have been finding it hard to fall asleep cuz I'm soooo excited and will probably pack my bag before the weekend's out even though I'm not flying out until the third week in July.
In the meantime, there's some amazing stuff going on at the Spring Fling Crop where y'all can win a TWENTY FIVE DOLLAR GIFT CERTIFICATE TO SCRAPPY JO'S just by doing some of the amazing challenges at MSW. Since I'm in such a confessional mood, I should say that there's a "Recycle and Reuse" card challenge that's pretty cool and an envelope challenge that ain't too shabby either if you like that sort of thang. I'm just saying.
Yep.
It's been a stellar week for sure.
My mojo came out of hiding long enough for me to start on a layout too, so I'm off to finish that up.
And work on my Texas drawl.
Happy scrappin', y'all!

All My Favorite People at One Event!

2010-04-30T17:01:00.008-04:00

The best party I ever gave was my wedding reception. It was such a great party that that a lot of our friends and my new in laws stayed behind after the wedding was over to hang out with my family for a week.
My new husband and I, however, had planned this little thing called a honeymoon which was fun and all, but had we known the reception would continue for an entire week, we'd have stayed to join in the fun.
As it was, we heard the fun during the many calls we got in Florida and saw the pictures later. And as great as our marriage has been, we've always regretted that we missed out on the party of a lifetime.
Over the past 30 years of marriage, we've hosted quite a few parties. Some have been better than others but the best ones were those where people made new friends, found common interests and had a blast.
And this weekend, National Scrapbooking Day marks the beginning of the best party around. If you're scrappy/want to be scrappy/looking for new place to hang your scrappy hat, you need to read on.
This weekend is the Spring Fling Crop over at My Sketch World. Lucy Chesna's sketches are to die for, and the ladies at MSW are amazing. But here's where the party takes off: Scrappy Jo's is one of the May Crop sponsors!! Now you've all read here about Scrappy Jo's amazing sales, and you probably remember that SJ was the very first place I ever posted anything scrappy. Jo's got a new site and some of the sweetest ladies around hang out there.
So what does this mean?
After 30 years, I've all my favorite scrappy people all in the same room (figuratively speaking, that is)!!
I've seen the line up at MSW and the entire month of May is going to be one bit of scrappy fun from beginning to end with amazing challenges and fun games! Jo is offering a $25 gift certificate from the Scrappy Jo store to one lucky winner so after the Spring Fling Crop, the scrappy goodness will just go on. Reminisce and Crop Stop are also offering nice prizes.
As for me, I've been beside myself waiting for May 1st to roll around.
I'm all set for the fun to start tomorrow morning. I have a generous supply of DP chilling in the fridge with a six pack of Mike's as back up. Lugged nearly my entire scraproom down to the dining room table (or at least that's what it looks like). Sorted out a stack of photos for LOs and new embellies for cards. Even ordered the weatherman to change the forecast from sun to rain. Baby, I am all set.
So stop by the Spring Fling Crop. Wave hi. Look around. Check out Scrappy Jo's store. Stay for a bit, stay for it all, come back often. Because this is definitely one party you DON'T want to miss!

Fabulous, Over 40 and so much MORE

2010-04-28T21:16:00.014-04:00

You wanna know a secret?
I liked looking at the picture of Gilad in my last post so much that I had decided to leave it up for a week. Mmmmmm. . . . .Gilad. . . . .
Yep. I'm that shallow.
So it takes something pretty important to uproot Mr. Hunky Man, let me tell you. Something big like. . . say a post about my friend, Tigger's, pursuit of Super More-dom. That's Sandi Tygar/Tigger up there to the left. She's as cute as Mr. Hunky Man was . . . well, hunky. . . wouldn't you agree?
For those of you who are not yet "of a certain age" (which we all know is just a euphemism for being old enough to rethink 4" heels but still foolish enough to wear 'em), More magazine touts itself as "the leading voice of today’s sophisticated, affluent and accomplished woman, who is enjoying the richest years of her life."
Which we all know is a euphemism for "these chicks are heading toward menopause so we'd better keep 'em happy or they'll give us all wedgies."
I have magazine subscriptions to Wired, Rolling Stone, Discover, The New Yorker and Time. I don't have a subscription to More magazine. I am a fan of More magazine, however. And I get to read it regularly because I am friends with generous women who have subscriptions to More magazine. Generous women who mean the world to me, women who are funny and accomplished and amazing and strong.
If you want to live an inspired life, pick friends who inspire you. That's what I say.
Which leads back to Tigger.
Tigger shares my love of all things scrappy. There are moments (brief tiny little itty bitty moments) when I can scrap something I'm really proud of. Most of the time, though, I happily plod along in the realm of the enthusiastically mediocre, content to just finish anything without gluing my shirt to the table.
But Tigger. . . Tigger can take a picture, throw on some scraps of paper, add some bling and a lot of Tim Holtz-ware and come up with something that's take-your-breath-away beautiful. Truthfully, I have scraplifted Tigger creations so often it's probably illegal. But probably not, on second thought - even my best scraplifts are whisper to her shout.
Tigger is the More magazine woman: lively, beautiful, talented, interesting, strong. Right now, More magazine is teaming up with Oil of Olay and CoverGirl to search for women who are Fabulous after 40. Tigger-like women who are beautiful inside and out, and who have a story.
Tigger's story is that she has spent the better part of the last year totally sober, after what I can only surmise must have been a more-than-casual acquaintance with alcohol. That journey would change a person, I would think. But Tigger is still oh so witty and laugh out loud funny and still has a spirit that is offbeat and fun and unfettered.
So Tigger sent a snappy snapshot and her story to More magazine and is now in the running for the most Fabulous Woman over 40.
Which I happen to think she is whether she wins or not.
But if Tigger gets enough votes on the More magazine website to win, she gets a cool $10,000. That's enough money to buy a whole lotta scrappy goodness, and you know how we scrapofiles like our stash. Come to think of it, it's probably enough money to buy the actual Tim Holtz for awhile which is just what Tigger might do seeing as how she is Tim Holtz's Biggest Fan Evah.
So do me a favor. Hop over here and give Tigger your vote. It'll only take a second. And you might also want to check out Tigger's blog for a good read.
It's nice of you to vote for Tigger. If she were writing this, right about here's where she'd be saying Spank You very much.

Getting Fit with Gilad and Two Dogs

2010-04-27T10:23:00.017-04:00

This morning, I decided that it was time to step up my fitness program. I was hoping to expand my exercise routine from working only mouse-friendly muscles to include something more adventurous like seated neck rolls or bilateral ankle flexes.
Of course the last thing I wanted to do was enter a fitness center with all my jiggly parts so I did a few bicep curls with the TV remote, switched hands then rotated through the cable channels until I found Fit TV.
(Let us just pause here for a moment to appreciate the irony of the words "fit" and "TV" in the same sentence.)
The profusion of workout shows on cable today amazed me. There's a hip hop dance show for those of us who want to bust a move and get our street on from the comfort of our own homes. Or I could follow any one of a whole passel of yoga shows, thereby eliminating the possibility of passing gas next to a perfect stranger in a 500 degree room.
There was even a Bollywood dance show which promised "moves that are bold and sassy." I passed on that, too, figuring it could only lead to me explaining to the world how I got a black eye from my own hip flab.
Then I found an old friend: Gilad.
Gilad is like the General Hospital of fitness shows. Back in the '80's when unitard-clad, tousle-haired ladies made history with their oooh-aaahh come-hither fitness shows, Gilad was already inspiring housewives everywhere to move closer to the TV and watch his muscles make the most of physical fitness. With his dark curls and exotic accent and no-nonsense routines, Gilad was mesmerizing. Not that I ever exercised, but I hated soap operas and only got three channels back in those days, so burping babies and eating fig newtons while watching Gilad was pretty heady stuff.
And here he was again on my TV, fitness god Gilad. Older yes, but still in amazing shape and still with the curls. Seeing Gilad again was familiar and comfortable. Gilad never made me feel stupid when I'd lose my balance and knock the lamp off the table. Gilad never judged me for being uncoordinated or forgetting my left from my right.
So safe, my Gilad.
I put down the remote, moved the coffee table out of the way and prepared to get fit.
First we did some basic breathing stuff - inhale, exhale, hands over my head, hands at my sides, stuff like that. By this time, Charlie and Sammy had figured out that I was not going to be returning to the chair anytime soon, so they decided to stand next to me in case I was forced to drop out with a leg cramp or something. I shooed them away because we were now walking in place with our knees high. So far so good, although I did get a twinge from the toes on my right foot that I broke last week when I kicked a chair (not while participating in exercise). But I made do, just putting my weight on my right heel when I stepped down. Then Gilad introduced the v-step, something I remembered from my 6AM step aerobics classes way back in the day. The memory of those classes seemed oh so remote and other worldly, but I had loved the energy, the adrenaline, the sense of accomplishment as I had kicked, stepped and jumped along with 20 other crazy people dying for a Big Mac for breakfast. But that was then and this is me today, no longer buff or toned.
I had to wait a few beats to get back into sync with Gilad. Left foot out, right foot out, back to center with the left, tap down with the right. Ouch! Dammit - there were those toes again. But no time to stop - out with the right foot, out with the left foot, back center with the right (weight on my heel), tap down with the left. Got it.
Then Gilad added arms. After a few amateurish, karate-chopping motions, I finally got in the swing of things and found myself doing everything Gilad was doing. I'm pretty sure he winked at me when he said to keep walking while he went to a commercial.

Yes, sir.
It was then that I noticed something was wrong with one of the steam pipes in the house. No matter that I have gas heat- there must be a steam pipe somewhere because I kept hearing a rhythmic hissing sound, like the lead-in to a big explosion. Keeping my hands dutifully on my hips, I marched out of the living room and through the dining room trying to determine where the sound was coming from. But no matter how carefully I listened, the sound seemed to follow me.
That's when I realized the hissing sound was coming from me.
I caught sight of my reflection in the mirror - seven minutes into a half-hour TV work out show and I was already cherry-faced and frizzy-haired. Not only that, but Gilad's warm up alone had me making noises like a pin-poked blow up doll. I marched resolutely back to the living room, careful to keep my knees high.
Charlie was standing on the arm of my chair, licking the jelly off half of the bagel I'd been eating for breakfast. But Sammy - he was blithely standing on the coffee table, completely absorbed in gulping down the other half of my bagel. When they saw me, both dogs jumped down and ran over to me with their little hopeful faces, as if to say Enough of this nonsense - come back to your chair. I grabbed the remote and turned the TV up. Gilad was back and now we were going to work on our glutes.
With my feet shoulder width apart I did as Gilad instructed, taking care to squeeze my backside and my abs as I squatted. Sammy began to lick the sweat off my left calf. I ignored him. If you can't see your toes, Gilad said helpfully, you need to lean back further as you squat. I looked down. Charlie was planted in front of me with his hopeful face again but I could see my toes and boy, did I need a pedi. Most of the red polish was chipped off the two sore toes on my right foot, and the big toenail on my left foot was really long. Squeeze, instructed Gilad. I squeezed. Exhale as you come up. I exhaled. Squeeze, instructed Gilad. I squeezed. Exhale. I exhaled.
Things were going pretty well at this point, the moves coming back to me like old friends. I could do this. Gilad moved to a side kick on the exhale. Squeeze and squat. Exhale, stand and raise the leg to the side. Squeeze, stand and raise the other leg. Unfortunately, Sammy was still licking and I beaned him square in the face. I thought I'd poked out his little doggie eye with my toenail. Poor baby, I crooned. Mommy didn't mean to kick him widdle head. I scooped him into my lap, which was a huge mistake because both dogs jumped all over me in a snarfing/licking ball of joy, thinking I'd just be heading back to my chair now.
No, I said firmly, sliding both dogs off my lap. Back to my work out. Official-like and all.
Gilad was doing upper body moves now. Damn. Where are my weights??? The last I remember, they were in a closet somewhere. No worries. I ran to the kitchen followed by Charlie and Sammy who figured I was just teasing about the work out and was really running for their leashes. Much to their consternation, I threw open the cupboard and grabbed two cans of Progresso soup. One was black bean and one was chicken but they seemed to be of equal weight as I hefted them in my hand so I ran back to the living room to catch up with Gilad.
DaBoys followed me, grumbling under their breath about flights of fancy and hating Gilad.
I planted myself in front of the TV again and began doing bicep curls, letting the weight of the Progresso work its magic. The muscles at the top of Gilad's arm bulged and rippled. I pulled up the sleeve of my tshirt and focused on the mole on the top of my right arm.
Squeeze and curl. . .
Nothing.
The mole didn't even wiggle although there was a noticeable wiggle in that saggy part of my arm between elbow and armpit. I tried it with the other arm. Squeeze and curl. Only the saggy part wiggled. Damn.
Gratefully, I discovered Gilad was now lying down on his mat. I stowed the soup cans on the couch and laid down on the floor to work my abs. I placed my hands behind my head like Gilad and focused on keeping my shoulders relaxed. I inhaled and tried to flex whatever puny muscles still existed underneath my tummy flab as I tried to lift my shoulders off the floor. That's when I realized Sammy's entire dog body was laying on my hair and it was at that exact instant that Charlie launched himself full-bore onto my stomach. Before I knew it, I'd curled into a fetal position trying to figure out if I had any hair left to hold back while I threw up.
Lift, Gilad was instructing, completely unaware that I was breathless and pinned to the floor by two dogs who were now jumping all over me and licking my face with joy because I'd decided to sit down.
Off! I instructed firmly as I tried to get back into ab-working position which only momentarily confused the two dogs. Once they realized I was not getting up off the floor they figured I wanted to play with them and just didn't know it yet.
The more I tried to get up the more frenzied they became. Sammy jumped on my shoulders, licking my neck and ears. Charlie got all caught up in the excitement, nipped at my butt and climbed up on my side. I rolled onto all fours to get up but Sammy jumped up on my back king of the mountain-like and started barking. Charlie pointed his little nose to the ceiling and began yipping in between licking my elbows.
Stop, I cried trying not to laugh.
Lift and squeeze, offered Gilad helpfully.
Arf arf, barked Sammy happily as Charlie happily nipped my nose.
And that's when I gave up.
I lurched over to the chair where two truimphant dogs piled onto my lap and licked my face.
You two are rotten, I said.
IloveyouIloveyouIloveyou, licked Charlie and Sammy.
Breathe, instructed Gilad, raising himself into a sitting position and lifting his arms languidly over his head.
Oh, my Gilad. So nice to know you're still out there in TV land providing eye candy for the jiggly masses.
As for me and DaBoys, our fitness routine for the rest of today will consist of putting on leashes and going for a nice, long walk. Then maybe I'll exercise some mouse-sliding muscles and see if I can find a fitness center specializing in the unfit and uncoordinated.
One that doesn't allow dogs.

The DP's

2010-04-24T11:12:00.014-04:00

I am in the clutches of an addiction.
Yup. I'm addicted to . . .
Diet Pepsi.
That refreshing, sparkling cola beverage. That chilly effervescence. The crackly sound when it's poured over ice. The sssssssssss of the frothy, tingly carbonatation taking flight. And then. . . the first sweet taste of the day as that cool, dark liquid slides down my throat. Ahhhhhhhhhh.
How do I know I'm addicted to Diet Pepsi?? Well, here's a few pieces of evidence:
1. I watch the clock, waiting until 11AM. That's the earliest I will let myself drink a carbonated beverage. Any earlier than that and it's like having soda pop for breakfast, but the point is. . . I watch the clock.
2. Last night, I chose to have DP with dinner even though we were having chicken scallopine, a dish that just cries out for a nice, dry white.
3. Last week, I stopped by Arby's for a large DP even though I'd be home in less than an hour and had six two-liter bottles in the trunk fresh from the grocery store. In my defense, it WAS 11:15.
4. The fact that I know Arby's and Taco Bell serve Diet Pepsi and McDonalds and Burger King serve Diet Coke (yuck).
5. This morning, I realized we were out of toilet paper. I went to the store. They were having a sale on DP so I bought DP and forgot toilet paper. Thank heavens we have tissues.
So there you have it. At this very moment, you are entertaining the maniacal, delirious ravings of a full-blown Diet Pepsi addict who's just had her first fix of the day.
You know, I tried to kick my DP addiction a few weeks back. Sure did. And do you remember what happened?
My mojo disappeared.
Yup.
Coincidence? I think not.
I wonder if the fine folks at Diet Pepsi would like to sponsor my scrapbooking addiction. If they did, I could offer them some wicked product placement.

The Flock You Say!

2010-04-20T12:09:00.028-04:00

Here's a tutorial I did for Scrappy Jo's February Technique of the Month. With May on the horizon, I thought it might be a fun technique for those Mother's Day cards we'll all be making!

Here's what you'll need:

Tsukineko’s Essential Glue Pad

Stampendous! Fun Flock

Let's get started cuz I'm here to tell you. . . FLOCKING IS FUN!!

There are only a couple of things you have to remember about gluing flock onto your cards or layouts:

1. Don’t sneeze.

2. Turn off overhead fans.

3. Close your windows.

If you can handle those few things, you can flock especially if you’ve handled embossing powder before. Instead of inking a stamp, sprinkling on embossing powder and heating it, you're now going to use glue on your stamps and then ad the flocking material. Trust me - it's cinchy.

Here’s how you, too, can become a master at flocking-

1. Squeeze glue from the bottle onto the pad and work it in with the tip as you squeeze. Be sure to cover the entire pad. The instructions say to use about a teaspoon and that should give you about 100 impressions. I’m not good at measuring and probably used more than that.

2. Once you’ve glued the pad, you just tamp the pad all over your stamp in the same way you’d ink your stamp. Once your stamp is covered, it’ll be shiny which shows up better for pictures on a rubber stamp as opposed to a clear stamp.

Then just stamp your paper. I tried to take a picture for this step, but guess what? Clear glue on white paper doesn’t photograph well. Don’t panic when you can see anything on your paper – just relax and go onto the next step. Trust me- you’ll be fine. Be sure to cover up the glue pad even in between stampings because the glue does dry out pretty quickly.

After you’ve stamped your paper with glue, tap out the flock over the glue. This is where you need to minimize whatever breezes might be in your house, cuz I’m here to tell you that flock LOVES to fly. The good thing is that it’s not sticky at all, so if it lands on your shirt (or your nosy dog, say) it won’t stick there forever. (Or turn your dog pink).

5. Now go ahead and press the flock into the glue. You don’t have to be
gentle but try not to schooch it around. Just press straight
down with your fingers.

6. Now it's time to return the excess flock back to the jar for you to use again. Just pick up your card or LO, curl it up into sort of a loose cone shape and tap it so the flock slides into the jar. Or if you're like me . . .into the jar, down my lap and onto the dog.

At this point, wash off your stamp with soap and water and pat dry.

Let your beautiful flocked things sit overnight before working with them. I didn't, and if you look closely at my flowery card below, you can see where I smooshed off some of the flocking in the lower left hand corner with my thumb. That's because I have no patience and played with it before it was dry. My mom would not be surprised. . . I was the kid who ate cookie and pie dough because I couldn't wait for the part where you're supposed to bake 'em first.

I’m definitely buying more colors and playing with this some more. While working with this, all kinds of ideas popped into my head. Wouldn't flocked flowers in every color be beautiful on a Mother’s Day card? Or what about flocked frames around pics in your next layout?? Or flocked titles?? What an easy and cool technique – and the fun you can have is endless!

So go get yourself some flocking and start playing around. Just remember – no whistling while you work!

First, Put Down Whatever You're Doing. . .

2010-04-16T13:52:00.025-04:00

. . .then go get your dog

then go get your other dog

and read this book as soon as possible.
For me the true test of any good read is if I have to fight the urge to read the whole book in one big gulp instead of savoring it. I started reading Garth Stein's "The Art of Racing in the Rain" after dinner last night and in the interest of pacing myself, forced myself to go to bed at my usual time.
At 1AM, I gave up my pursuit of sleep and turned on my light again.
4AM - book finished - found me downstairs sitting next to an open dog crate, crying in the dark and nuzzling a pair of very warm but confused dogs.
"The Art of Racing in the Rain" is a witty, touching hug of a story about a family's life as seen through the eyes of it's dog, Enzo - an intuitive canine who believes he will be reincarnated as a human when it comes his time to die. He knows this because he watched a documentary about Mongolian dogs on TV. Until that day, however, Enzo hates crows, resents monkeys, loves television and longs for opposable thumbs.
This wise and dignified observer lets the reader peek through a new keyhole at our human antics and trevails.
The voice Stein gives Enzo is so carefully crafted that the lessons here have a credibility that is engaging and palatable, with none of the manipulation that made me abandon Nicholas Sparks and Mitch Albom. Sometimes, Enzo's thoughts made me chuckle ("The smell would have given me an erection if I still had testicles"), but his meatier observations ("How quickly a year passes, like a mouthful of food snatched from the maw of eternity") are neither forced nor fake.
Dog lovers will relate to Enzo's thoughts as he does those purely doggie things like running through fields and playing fetch. But it's his thoughts when he sits by his troubled master or seeks out someone's hand for a good scratch behind the ears that had me thinking about even the innocuous interactions I have with my dogs. I found myself looking at both of them, wondering about the comparative weight of tiny kindnesses and tiny cruelties.
This book's gift is that Enzo's stories also made me think about how humans treat each other. And his disgust with the indignities and inconveniences of aging evoke a thoughtfulness I would do well to remember.
As in any life story, there is laughter and loss and sorrow even if in somewhat predictable doses. Cars and racing are the backdrop against which Stein's observations on life are hung but like any episode of National Geographic, you'll find yourself engaged by those details even if they hold no interest for you at first glance.
Like Dean Koontz's book "Watchers," "The Art of Racing in the Rain" will make you want a dog in your life and by your side. And if you've already been "dog blessed," you'll find yourself looking into their eyes at quiet moments, wondering if something more might be going on inside their little heads.
Ultimately, it is the unyielding tenacity of the human spirit that makes Enzo want to believe that someday he will be one of us, where he can finally embody ". . . that which manifests itself is before you."

Earworms

2010-04-08T09:39:00.008-04:00

Did you ever get a song stuck in your head and no matter what you do it won't go away?
About halfway through the grocery this morning, I realized I was bobbing my head to Imma Be by the Black Eyed Peas. If you haven't heard it, Imma Be is a right catchy little tune. But when you are a 50-something woman bebopping your way through frozen foods to a tune only you can hear. . . well, people stare.
Not that having people stare at me is a new thing. I once sat through an entire church service with a pink curler imprisoned in the back of my hair, but that's a different blog post.
The problem with earworms - those pesky tunes stuck in your head like frantic birds flapping around a warehouse - is that once they get in there, you can't do a darn thing to get rid of them.
A few weeks back, I drove to Columbus to help Annie paint the rest of her apartment. I was looking forward to some alone time with my daughter figuring we'd get a lot done and have a blast doing it. (By my estimate, it's not a family visit unless you laugh so hard you snort Diet Pepsi through your nose at least once.) Instead, I nearly drove Annie crazy thanks to Lady GaGa and a little tune called "Bad Romance." And the fact that I have a tendancy to sing out loud to my earworms. The visit progressed something like this:

Rah-rah-ah-ah-ah
Roma Roma-ma
GaGa, ooh-la-la
Want your bad romance . . . walking up two flights of stairs with painting supplies, wine, sewing machine and a suitcase.

I want your drama, the touch of your hand
I want your leather studded kiss in the scene
I want your love, love love, love
I want your love . . . spreading out dropcloths and stirring cans of Westminster Gold and Legacy Blue.

Caught in a bad romance
Caught in a bad romance . . . washing paint out of my favorite Harley Davidson tshirt where Annie "accidentally" caught me with a paint roller.

I want your love I want your revenge
You and me could write a bad romance
I want your love and all your lover's revenge
You and me could write a bad romance . . . driving to JoAnn Fabrics for material to make kitchen curtains.

I don't want to be friends
I want your bad romance
I want your bad ro. . . Annie brandishing a big bolt of polka dotted fabric and threatening to staple my lips together if I didn't STOP WITH THE LADY GAGA ALREADY.

But the worst. . . the absolutely most nightmarish worst. . . are earworms of songs you hate. Those are the most potently awful, like a curse that you can't do a thing about. All I have to do is hear the tiniest snatch of them and they're embedded in my brain for days. Songs like "It's a Small World After All" or "The Song That Never Ends" or anything by Burl Ives.
Wait!!
What did I just do!!????
Aaaaaaarrrrrrggggghhhhh!
Now I've got Burl Ives stuck in my head!!
NOOOOOOOOO!!!!
Must. . .turn on . . . radio . . .and. . . wash out. . . mind's ear. . . .lalalalalalalalalalalalalalala. . .

Yoohoo! Mojo! Come Out Come Out Wherever You Are!

2010-04-07T07:57:00.002-04:00

You didn't see my mojo run by here, did you?
Darn thing's been missing for quite awhile now.
I checked my scrap bin. It's not hiding there. It didn't slip between my sheets of Websters Papers or Pink Paislee, either.
Didn't see it in my Stickles drawer or in my ribbon boxes.
It's not in my button jars nor is it in those unclaimed moments between breakfast and lunch.
Hmmmmm.
This is frustrating me, let me tell you.
I even strolled the aisles at Michaels and JoAnn yesterday waving a ten dollar bill and. . . . nothing.
Sigh.
Maybe I'll set out a dish of bling and see if that doesn't make it come home.

Can Loose Morals Be Far Behind?

2010-03-20T22:45:00.004-04:00

I was born with duck feet.
Seriously.
Narrow heel + wide ball of the foot = duck feet and even as a baby, my feet have had narrow heels that widened out into a pair of tootsies that look like Daisy Duck wannabes.
Because I'm rather vertically challenged, I have worn high heels since I was old enough to sneak them out to the school bus under my coat. For most of my adult life, I had high heel everything. Heck, the only pair of shoes I had that weren't high heels were my bedroom slippers and that's just because everyone knows bunnies don't wear high heels.
So my duck feet - which were already not gorgeous - turned into duck feet with bunions.
Eeww and ick.
I've spent lots of years trying not to draw attention to my feet. If there were a witness protection program for people with ugly feet, I'd have been banging on their door.
So you can imagine that the last thing I'd ever do is sit down and paint red nail polish all over my toes. As a matter of fact, I've never painted my toes. With any color of nail polish. Ever.
Until tonight.
I figured after two surgeries and lots of armpit callouses from crutches and lugging around Frankenboot, I deserved to do something fun.
My feet will never be gorgeous, but by golly they can dress for a party!

Who's a Little Cutie Wutie, Hmmmm???

2010-03-18T15:52:00.004-04:00

Baby Sophia Grace is, that's who! My friend, Erin, produced the most yummy of babies in Sophie, don't you agree?
My oh my - look at that little nubbin of sweetness. You just can't imagine how warm and soft and snuggly she is to hold.
Baby Sophia out-snuggles puppies any day, I've decided. (Just don't tell Sammy and Charlie.)
She has the cutest little dimple, the most sparkling dark eyes and raven hair that can be straight or go curly. (I think she gets that from me, personally, but Erin says it's from genetics and cites all manner of scientific hooey to support her theory.)
And coo! Girl, this baby coos and sighs and squeaks and hums like you wouldn't believe. It just makes you giggle out loud. Something tells me this little girl will not be denied. She will grow up to say her piece and be heard, all the while disarming the world with her cutiepieness. More power to you, sweetie.
We've all been waiting on Sophia for so long that when I finally FINALLY got to hold her, it was nothing short of magical. There's something supremely divine about holding newborns - for me, it's something almost primal. A feeling that comes to you through the ages. A connection of the strongest, most timeless thread. No matter when they lived or who they were, every mother who ever walked on earth has felt that same magical wonder those first seconds that a newborn settled into the crook of her arm. Erin's own mom died many years ago of breast cancer, but I'll bet she felt that magic when she first held Erin. I know Erin felt it when she first got to hold Sophie. I truly think Erin's mom is right here with Erin these days, dancing with joy at this little beauty.
I suppose someday I should really post a picture of Erin holding Sophia so that you can see beautiful mommy and beautiful daughter. That would only be right. But whenever Erin's near, Sophia's near and I'd much rather hold Sophia than a camera.
This picture is of Sophia attending her first Saturday Morning Coffee with the Aunties. I just realized this picture makes me look like I have a huge schnozz. I really don't. Or at least I don't think I have a huge nose. But who cares - I'm holding Sophia.
The aunties aren't in this picture because they are on the other side of the table, glaring at me for not forking over The Baby. But who cares - I'm holding Sophia.
Oooops.
Did I just say that out loud?!?
Alright alright. Someday I will post a picture of The Aunties holding Sophia.
And The Mommy holding Sophia.
But only after this Auntie has held Sophia again!
That's right - Baby Sophia wubs her Auntie Lori bestest of all, doesn't she?

Muchier Muchness

2010-03-17T19:22:00.003-04:00

Oh. So . Daunting.
I've not been here for oh so long and all of a sudden I feel like the kid who sits in the back of the class and is suddenly called on by the teacher.
Even though this is my own blog, I feel like. . . . Wow.
Let's just start by saying that being gone from here was not my choice - it was an obligation I accepted.
And let me also say that this post represents a long overdue change in my life. A return home of sorts because I've always loved blogging and more than anything love your feedback.
I'm like a painting someone cut into little pieces that can be put in piles of red, yellow, green, blue, etc. And if you looked at just one pile, you'd say "Oh, this is a painting done in reds" or "This is a painting done in yellows."
But the truth is that this painting is made up of lots of colors, all of which combine to make a unique kind of whole. Lately, I've been monochomatic. Off balance. Single faceted. Like the low carb diet frenzy, I've discovered that you can only tilt your life in solely one direction for just so long before you go crazy and OD on all the things you've missed.
Johnny Depp/The Mad Hatter says to Alice: You used to be muchier.
I realize now that I have lost my muchness.
So ladies and gentlemen, I am out to reclaim my muchness. I'm here to add balance and hue and scent and harmony to my life.
I'm back to pump life into those long-neglected parts of me that crave creativity and inspiration and interaction.
I am enjoying the chance to celebrate the morning frost and sing the unexpected and revel in the mundane because my life has been one-dimensional for so long.
So buckle up.
I'm back. And oh so so so happy to be here!

Baby Socks! Baby Socks! Oh Baby! Baby Socks!

2010-02-06T22:58:00.007-05:00

I'm going to be an auntie!! My friend, Erin, is great with child and March will herald the arrival of baby Sophia Grace. I cannot wait to see Erin as a mom - she's going to be simply amazing. Although I'm not sure she's going to have much time with Baby Sophie since all of us Aunties - BFF''s Brenda, Karen, Eileen and I - are already staking our claims to the little sweetie-to-be. Seriously. Our sense of entitlement is astonishing.
Last weekend, we had a shower for Erin and Baby Sophie at Brenda's house where - oddly enough - the cassata cake developed a baby bump before our very eyes! Talk about a theme party.
And the baby socks? I rolled 'em up into tiny little sock roses. Didn't they turn out cute up there on that package? And talk about cinchy to make. I hope Erin likes 'em.
Frankly, I hope they buy me some brownie points which I can turn in to extra time with Baby Sophie when she gets here.
I know what you're thinking, and you're right.
When it comes to vying for Baby Time, I'm shameless.
Totally. Unabashedly. Shameless.

The Jelly Belly Incident

2010-01-25T23:00:00.003-05:00

A few months ago, I spilled an entire Dunkin Donuts iced coffee down my stick shift. After I finished cussing, I called my dad to see if I broke my car. After all, this is the man who taught me how to change my own oil, and take a car out of a skid (after first listening to me scream when he put it into the skid). He also made me parallel park so often I can probably do it with my eyes closed.

It’s probably more relevant, however, that I mention this is the same man who once brought home a distributor cap which my five year old self promptly used to hold crayons.

When I told him about spilling coffee down my stick shift, there was the briefest bit of silence. Then he told me I should be fine, that the coffee probably just dripped right out of the transmission housing and I shouldn’t worry. I breathed a sigh of relief and thanked dad, just as I’d thanked him a gazillion times before for being there whenever I have goofy automotive questions.

But then I got to thinking – my iced coffee had three packets of Equal in it. Would the sugar make the transmission all goopy?? I envisioned my car running slower and slower, like some mechanical behemoth trying to fight its way through molasses

I dialed dad again. I explained my question again. There was the briefest moment of silence again. Then dad assured me I’d be fine again. But this time, I think he was trying not to laugh.

Dunkin Donuts coffee damage is not evident for thousands of miles. I know this because even though everyone tells me differently, I just know it was my coffee clumsiness that caused my transmission to die with only 188,000 on it.

Fast forward to little ol’ me buying a car so gently used it still smells new. I feel like a queen – all the parts work on this car, it has no wear, it smells good and its shiny. Most importantly, I can go 60 and the tach needle isn’t on 4. I am decidedly protective of my new car. I scout parking spaces in the ouback when I go to the mall. I hand wash it at least once a week even when it’s snowing. I cover the floors with cardboard and carpet pieces. I dust off the dashboard before I get out of the car. Having learned my Dunkin donuts lesson, I’m careful to hold on to my coffee cup now whenever I brake hard.

Which is why I was unprepared for the Jelly Belly incident.

Jelly Bellys are my favorite guilty pleasure. Not only do they look like little jewels, each one is a tasty little surprise. My favorite flavors are pear, mango and grapefruit, but I’ll eat ‘em all. Yesterday, a friend gave me a little packet of Jelly Bellys as I left work. I immediately poured them into one of my two cup holders so I could snack my way through rush hour traffic.

But when I got into my car this morning, something turquoise caught my eye. A Berry Blue Jelly Belly was winking tantalizingly at me, resting just beneath the emergency brake handle along the console. Ooooh – a Jelly Belly for breakfast! Without thinking, I pulled up the handle to grab it. . . and watched the Jelly Belly disappear into the nether regions of my cars inner workings.

Damn.

I rested my head on the steering wheel. Not only had I lost a Jelly Belly, I’d already broken my new car. With a sigh, I pulled out my cell phone and called Dad. This time the period of silence was perceptible.

“Suse?” Dad finally said. He’d called me by the nickname I’ve had since I was little, which was appropriate, because I was feeling very much like a five year old who’d just broken off Burnt Sienna, Marigold, Fuschia and Evergreen crayons in a car part she mistook for a toy.

“Yes, dad?”

“Don’t eat in your car anymore. You'll break it.”

How to Know It's Time toTake Down Your Christmas Tree

2010-01-09T21:01:00.003-05:00

1. Your ornaments need dusting. Heck, so do the branches.
2. You buy new furniture and wonder if the wood tones will clash.
3. Your family has gotten used to stowing their shoes under the tree instead of presents.
4. Your kids hang their wet mittens and scarves on the tree to dry.
5. Birds returning from the south keep crash into your window trying to roost in it.
6. You gave your tree a name.
7. Neighbors are suddenly speechless when they stop over for coffee.
8. You wander the aisles at Target looking for boxes of Valentines Day ornaments.
9. You're already planning a theme for Martin Luther King Jr. Day and Memorial Day and Fourth of July.
10. Your dog just casually got up from your lap to wonder over and have a drink from the tree stand.

Resolution-izing 2010

2010-01-01T15:23:00.003-05:00

Whoooooeeee. Dusty in here. Looks kinda forlorn and abandoned. You go ahead and read on whilst I put on a pot of tea and get rid of all these cobwebs.

Tis the season for resolution-izing our lives.

Standing on the tippy-toe edge of a brand, spanking new year we are already expected to define it by making resolutions. It’s like looking at a picture of a tiny embryo and guessing what species it is – this early in the game, it could be anything. And oh! the pressure to perform! Be better, be skinnier, be thriftier, be smarter, be more patient, be be be be until it's no wonder we crack by Valentines Day.

So I’ve granted myself permission to step out of the rat race. I am not making any 2010 resolutions; I’m not setting myself up for failure and I’m not driving myself crazy. I’ve reached an age where I don’t need a resolution to make me value how blessed I am. Those blessings (like finding out you actually like reading my blog) show up every day of my life and each time they do, they amaze me and fill me with wonder. I could no more take them for granted than I could chop off my right hand. And words scribbled on a page won’t make me eat fewer cookies or stop losing my temper or start drinking more water.

(OK, OK – I hear you. But mere words scribbled on a page will not make me blog more often no matter how hard you wish. Life happens and sometimes we have to spend all of our time doing what needs to be done instead of doing what we want to. Sorry.)

I’ve decided ditch to resolutions and live 2010 by a single, simple question. Call it a challenge or a mantra or whatever you wish, this question will be my gentle guide for every decision and keep me on the path I want to travel in this next year. I’ve already stuck it to my mirror and tucked it into my wallet and slipped it under the sun visor. With this single question nestled reassuringly into the back of my mind, I have a resolute hopefulness about 2010. So my hope for each and every dear and treasured (and patient!) Scrapinator reader is that 2010 brings you all things bright and beautiful. God bless you all!

And if you're still here reading, for whatever it's worth here's the question I’m living by in 2010:

How many things can you change in a year?

A Guru for Christmas

2009-12-05T13:08:00.008-05:00

Like my new look??
I'm not a savvy when it comes to blog bling and style. Most of the time, you'll find me with my nose pressed against the Blogger window, wide-eyed at all the beeeyoooteeeeful blogs out there and sighing in wonderment. Let's face it - this blog o' mine has been looking a tad neglected for quite some time now.
I have always been in awe of my friend Cheryl's blog Capturing a Moment in Time. There's always some new background and banner to ooh and aah over - the perfect backdrop to the amazing creations this lady makes. Heck, even if I didn't worship her talent, I'd check this blog just to see what cute dress she put on it that morning.
So last week, I dropped her a note over at MSW and basically begged shamelessly for some help. In typical Cheryl style, she began typing out instructions for the blog impaired but finally just PM'd me her phone number and we set a time to talk.
I don't know many of those fancy computer acronyms for things. For instance, it wasn't all that long ago that Annie had to tell me what LMBO stood for. But I do know that IRL means friends "in real life." Those are the folks you can put your arm around; the ones who will walk over and dope slap you when you need it. Like my "real life," I've been blessed to have found some really WONDERFUL people at Scrappy Jo's and My Sketch World - people who have become as dear to me as any of my friends I can walk over and hug. Since I've only gotten to know them through writing and posting, though, I will call them IMC. That stands for "in my computer," that happy little world where a whole nuther set of people who are dear to me live. (Please feel free to use IMC - just leave a quarter under your saucer.)
Till this morning, I've only met one IMC pal IRL - Jennie from MSW invited me to her house because she had some goodies to donate to Calling All Cards for Breast Cancer. I cannot tell you how askeered I was to meet her. What if I snorted when I laughed? What if I belched? What if I got nervous and blurted out something stupid?? Well, of course none of those things happened. Jennie and her sweetie pie daughter, Miss Ellie, were such fun and we had one terrific visit.
Still. . . . I was a tad nervous as I dialed Cheryl's number this morning. But sure enough, a sweet voice answered my call - just perfect for the Cheryl I had in my mind. In short order, she walked me through tidying up my blog, made me feel secure enough to try Picasa and told me that her vast storehouse of computer wisdom is completely self taught.
Awed again.
We talked about her grandkids and shoes and the fact that everyone needed a guru. I hope that was an offer because when it comes to this blog stuff, I need all the help I can get.
So armed with that warm pat on the back, I played around with backgrounds and Picasa and gave ol' Scrapinator a holiday makeover after we hung up. I even figured out how to upload the picture I took of some Christmas candles and use them as a banner.
Before a knock at my front door cut short our telephone conversation, though, Cheryl and I agreed that 2010 was going to be the year we'd get in our cars and meet somewhere. And by golly, I'm considering that to be my first resolution for the next year.
So here's a big ((((HUG)))) and a heartfelt thank you to Cheryl for helping me give a snappy, festive look to Scrapinator.
And I've come up with another new acronym you can feel free to borrow: CIAS. That stands for Cheryl is a sweetheart.

December Design Team Creations

2009-12-01T15:58:00.010-05:00

Woke up this morning and eeek! there was the first day of December staring me in the eye. Where in the heck did that come from?!? I'm pretty sure yesterday was July 4th and I was complaining about about the humidity.
I made good use of my post-surgical time off to work on some Christmas goodies as part of the design teams at Scrappy Jo's and My Sketch World. Sigh. I feel fortunate every single day that I get to be a part of these amazing websites and hang out with such cool, creative ladies.
I got to work on Lucy's December sketch over at MSW. Around this time of the year, my cardmaking mojo can always use a shot in the arm. And for me, nothing gives me inspiration like one of Lucy's terrific card sketches. I knew what I wanted to do with this sketch the moment I saw it - see what I mean about inspiration??? There were, however, a couple of technical hurdles to overcome. The first is cutting a nice, clean circle without a diecut machine or anything. The trick to that is lots of cussing. The second issue was what material to use to actually make a snowglobe. AOK solved that problem by cutting me a piece of window film which worked beautifully. Tucked a few punched snowflakes inside and voila! a snowglobe Christmas card. I even made myself use that piece of SEI paper I couldn't bear to part with last season!
Jo's pack o' December Creative Team goodies perked me right up - talk about that Christmas feeling! One of the things she sent me was goodies from Kaiser Craft's Dear Santa line. For some reason, this year I am drawn to holiday papers that break from the traditional red/white/green color scheme. So what fun I had with this "Pony" paper. Jo also sent along some of American Crafts "Merrymint" ribbon - so velvety and yummy. The photo I used is of the town square here in Painesville. I shot this just after dawn one morning when all was peaceful and calm so I played the title off the headline on the paper itself.
Jo also sent me some of BoBunny's gorgeous Snowy Serenade line. The designers at BoBunny never cease to surprise and astound me. I used the "Winter Night" pattern to make a distinctly non-Christmassy card. But who doesn't like to receive a nice thank you note after the holidays?? Actually, I'm in love with the frosty beauty of this entire BoBunny line and had a ton of ideas for each of the papers Jo sent me.

If I were you, I'd hop over to Scrappy Jo's and order some Bo Bunny and Kaiser Craft since both are on sale now. While you're there, check out all the terrific stuff the other Creative Team creations using these papers!
You should also check out what the rest of My Sketch World's Card Design Divas did with Lucy's card sketch, as well as her December layout sketch. Pretty amazing stuff!

As for me, I'm hoping Santa is a right scrappy old elf. That way, everyone can find some scrappy goodness under their tree!

The Kneewalker Reveal!!

2009-11-29T14:07:00.007-05:00

It's here - the solution to my uniped-ness!
My Drive Kneewalker was delivered by a nice man in a big truck last Friday, and let me tell you - this baby rocks. Er, rather it rolls.
I first saw this kneewalker after my last foot surgery, ironically on the day I was told I could toss my crutches and walk free forever. As I was leaving the doctor's office, in zipped a man on this. . . contraption. He wheeled around the corner and slid along the counter with all the ease in the world.
I was awed.
So when the doctor wrote out a prescription for one of these after this surgery, I couldn't wait to start exploring them.
Except so many of them looked ugly and geriatric, with baskets and handle bars and turning radii and big wheels. No thank you.
This model can be turned on a dime and goes as fast as I'd like - perfect for the long hallways at work. I rest my right knee on the little shelf thingy, and then move along using my left leg just like a scooter. I'm practicing using my crutches as oars but so far it's not as efficient.
Freedom found. Me and my kneewalker have been all over the house and back with nary a problem.
Look out, world. Frankenfoot just went mobile!

The Best Kind of Black Friday Sale

2009-11-28T09:05:00.006-05:00

OK. So you've done the 4AM Black Friday shopping. You've saved a gaggle of cash, come home with great bargains and deserve to do a little something for yourself.
Here's what you do - head over to Scrappy Jo's for her Black Friday sale! And Jo's Black Friday sale lasts through Sunday.
What can you save, you ask?? How about a WHOPPING 30% on everything!!
The new Bo Bunny Christmas Serenade line. Major yuminess.
Pink Paisley Glitter Alphas. Tres chic.
Stickles, Cuttlebug plates, Cricut cartridges, BG Bling, Kaiser Pearls, ribbons - everything could possibly need to get your scrap on is ON SALE. Be sure to use code BLK30.
So go on. Treat yourself - you know you deserve it! Head to Scrappy Jo's and put the perfect touch on your Thanksgiving weekend.
A great sale at Scrappy Jo's. Now THAT'S something to be thankful for!!

PENDING ANNOUNCEMENT

2009-11-27T17:38:00.004-05:00

We went to MIL's last night and shortly after dinner suffered Turkey Coma from all the trytophan. However, we discovered that this condition is best reversed by consuming mass quantities of pumpkin pie.
Tomorrow will be Thanksgiving Part Deux at Applegate Farm, for which yesterday's eating frenzy was but a mere rehearsal. Word has it that we will be eating a beef roast of Flintstone proportions, which is a great start to any meal. Since Aunt Lois only knows how to cook for a group the size of an army, the last roast she served us was quite aptly described by my mother as a "haunch." I would not be surprised if she serves the big brother tomorrow.
Please check back here Sunday as I shall be posting photos of a MAJOR DEVELOPMENT affecting my future as a uniped.
In the meantime if you shopped today, put your feet up and rest a bit a. Much to the relief of local shoppers in NE Ohio, that's how Frankenfoot and I spent the day!

Thanksgiving Moments

2009-11-26T09:11:00.005-05:00

When I was little, we’d always spend Thanksgiving at my Grandma Thompson’s house and sit down for our feast in the middle of the day. Afterwards, we’d wobble away from the table to watch football, catch up on family gossip, take naps and play games. All the dishes would have been washed, and the food kept handy for picking throughout the afternoon. Then about 5 or so, everyone would wander back into the kitchen, rubbing their tummies like they hadn’t eaten in weeks. We’d haul everything back onto the dining room table for Round Two. Even then, everyone had leftovers to take home.

One year, my Great Grandpa Graham and some of my great uncles came for Thanksgiving from Hazeldell, Illinois. My grandmother had grown up on a farm, so these boys were used to hunting to put food on the table. And since you never arrived empty handed, they brought squirrel and rabbit and turkey for our dinner. My sister, Linda, and I were excited to see Great Grandpa, and even more excited when one of the great uncles gave us each bracelets made of the softest white little puffballs. We put them on right away and skipped off to Aunt Lois’ old bedroom to pose in front of the mirror like we were models. One of the great uncles happened by and seemed pleased that we liked our presents, telling us each bracelet was made from bunny tails.

Bunny tails? Why would you take the tails off of little bunnies? we wondered. And then, it dawned on us. We snatched off our bracelets, left them carefully on Aunt Lois’ old dresser and ran to wash our hands.

Things only got worse at dinner. Great Grandpa and all of the uncles seemed very proud of the heaping platter of meat on the table, and everyone remarked at how good it looked as it was passed around. Except it wasn’t meat. It was little squirrel corpses and bunny bodies. Linda and I ate of ton of Grandma’s homemade noodles and green beans that year, vowing to become vegetarians.

When I was about 12 or so, mom, Aunt Lois and I got out the Scrabble game while the menfolk watched football and talked sports. We were just starting our second game when Uncle Chuck asked if he could play, too, so mom gave him a tray and he drew his letters. When it was his turn, he put on the board. . . well, let’s just say it was a six letter word for an anatomical body part. Both mom (so pretty and prim ) and Aunt Lois (so ladylike) protested firmly but Uncle Chuck had covered a triple word score with the last letter and wasn’t about to lose points. But there are young children present someone hissed but Uncle Chuck was having fun and beating both his sisters at Scrabble. Just about that time, my cousin Al who was about eight strolled into the room and looked at the board over his dad’s shoulder. “Hey dad,” he offered helpfully. “You forgot the “r” in “Virginia!” The next year, my mom decided canasta would be the official Thanksgiving Day game.

When our kids were little, Ken and I would host Thanksgiving at our house. We’d fuss and decorate and shop for weeks, and loved having everyone over for the day. The two Thanksgivings that I was pregnant were when I learned that only non-pregnant males should be given the task of preparing a raw turkey for roasting. Then there was the year Mattie had a cold. I was holding him on my hip as we made trips from the kitchen to the dining room with all the food, and he sneezed into the green bean casserole. No worries. Ken dug out the top two inches of beans, whisked the casserole into the dinig room and no one was the wiser.

Ken’s mom had Thanksgiving a few years ago, and was in a tizzy when we arrived. She’d burnt the rolls. Her squash was dry. But when Ken checked the turkey, he found a bigger problem: there was a glistening white uncooked turkey in the oven. Mom swore she’d turned the oven on to the right temperature but this baby was barely warm. After much discussion, she cranked it up to 500 degrees and pulled the roaster out every 20 minutes or so to baste the bird. Unfortunately, she slid the roaster back into the oven without sliding the rack, and the roaster – turkey, juices and all - fell into the back of the back of the 500 degree oven. There was much steam and hissing followed by much cussing. The kids and I stood helplessly by trying not to laugh as mom and Ken set about capturing a round, slippery bird using two long wooden spoons. When we finally ate at 7PM, the turkey was presented in microwave oven-sized portions. The potatoes were dry, the green beans were wrinkly and the yams were congealed and the turkey leftovers went straight down the disposal.

Thanksgiving this year promises to be a bit less hectic. Gone are the hours in the kitchen since it’s difficult to cook while on crutches. I will help Ken make pies (he is the Pie King in this family).The kids will be here later on and we’ll be eating Thanksgiving dinner tonight at Mom Keener’s. I have every expectation that dinner will be yummy and delicious. Then on Saturday, we’ll head to Applegate Farm for the big Baker family Thanksgiving. I’ll probably look like a Weeble on crutches by the time Thanksgiving is over, but I have much for which to be thankful. A big family to celebrate with that includes parents and aunts and uncles and kids and neices and a nephew, all of whom still love to be together. One terrific husband who changes from a total “guy” into a thoughtful and tireless nurse when needed. Amazing friends who bring such love and laughter into my life. Charlie and Sammy, the VelcroDogs, who are always ready for a snuggle. Heck, I’m even thankful for Frankenfoot. As inconvenient as surgery and crutches are, one day soon I will go back to walking wherever I want whenever I want. That in itself is a blessing beyond measure.

So wherever you are today, whoever you’re celebrating with, I wish you a bounty of Thanksgiving blessings.

Even if you’re in Virginia.

An Unpredictable Moment

2009-11-18T08:21:00.006-05:00

I hesitate to write this post because it involves a subject that real ladies don’t talk about. So I’m going to do my best to explain what happened in as delicate and ladylike manner as I can muster. I want to apologize in advance if I offend anyone’s sensibilities, and promise my mother and my aunt and anyone else who’s reading this that I am always very ladylike on a regular basis and I hope you won’t disown me.

Firstly, you need to understand that VelcroDog Charlie is a little. . . well, simple about some things. VelcroDog Sammy can look into a mirror and understand that he’s looking at an image of himself. To Charlie, a mirror is no more interesting than a wall. When someone knocks on a door in a TV show, it’s Charlie that hightails it to the front door barking his little head off. And as you already know, it’s Charlie who’s afraid of things like wind, paper and the beam of light from a flashlight. If VelcroDogs are sitting on me (and when aren’t they these days???) and my stomach growls, Sammy is hopeful that I’ll be heading to the kitchen soon where doggie treats will fall magically from the refrigerator. Charlie glares menacingly at my stomach and growls back

One other thing before I go on with this story. It is important to take a moment to consider some of the touted differences between the sexes. There is an age in every man’s young life, for instance, when he thinks he invented the burp and that it is the most comically sidesplitting talent a human could ever develop. Young girls, however, don’t stoop to such base and crass humor, choosing instead to develop proficiency in the loftier trades like perfecting the sulk and sneaking lipstick past Mom. Besides, everyone knows that ladies don’t burp or make any of those other gross bodily noises in which the male species seems to revel.

Except - forgive me, ladies, for outing our gender - but we do. Heaven help me, but I’m here to tell you that left alone and unattended, under the right set of very unusual circumstances we ladies can be just as. . .um. . . noisy as our male counterparts. Especially if we’ve had general anesthesia and surgery followed by drugs, and our tummies are all discombobulated and trying to recuperate and we’re not sleeping and are all out of sorts - at these times, our bodies can be . . .well . . . unpredictable.

See, I was sitting on the couch this morning and had an . . .unpredictable. . . sort of moment. It was just a moment. Not a big moment or anything, just a regular sort of unpredictable moment if one is given over to that sort of thing but it was a moment you could sort of, well . . . hear, if you catch my meaning.

And that’s when Charlie, who had been draped lazily over my lap, shot off the couch like he’d been poked with a sharp stick. He stood growling and barking at the couch like it had some sort of monster in it. For the next twenty minutes, this dopey little dog patrolled the living room like the German shepherd he longs to be because he was convinced that what he heard (which was, I assure you, only the tiniest, most delicate itty bitty little sound) came from somewhere inside the vast innards of my couch.

That Sammy and I were still sitting on the couch unharmed didn’t even register in his tiny little doggie mind. No amount of coaxing could make him calm down. Something had made a noise he’d never heard before and it was living in our couch cushions. He growled. He snarled; he pranced; he barked. He yapped so hard his little feet came up off the floor. Finally, after much goose-like head bobbing and hackled-up fur, he leaped warily onto the arm of the couch and there he settled like some misinformed sentry, glaring and growling under his breath until AOK came home for lunch.

Of course, I had to explain to AOK what was up with Charlie. I tried my darndest to gloss over what caused the situation, hoping instead to focus on Charlie’s resulting overreaction.

Which brings us once again to another big difference between men and women. A woman should be allowed to retain a certain air of ladylike refinement even if she's done something that leaves her husband rolling on the floor laughing.

How to Use a Shower Stool and Survive

2009-11-16T10:24:00.006-05:00

I never thought about shower chairs much except for the time old Mrs. Tilly lobbed one out the back door at Mr. Tilly because he came home drunk. The Tilly's were neighbors when I lived in Columbus, but by that time I'd lived in college apartments and a shower chair lobbed out the door didn't even register on my radar.
I did think of them briefly, however, when two years ago Ken brought home this. . .this. . . thing. . . in a big plastic bag and set it out in the bathroom just before my first foot surgery.
It was a shower stool exactly like this one. And nothing has ever made me feel so completely geriatric in my entire life.
I soon learned, however, that to use one of these babies by yourself you must be anything BUT geriatric.
You must be lithe.
You must be nimble.
And you must have lots and lots of towels handy.
The first thing you have to tackle is waterproofing your injured limb. They make these great sleeves that slip over your leg and keep it from getting wet but I just use a ForceFlex garbage bag and a roll of blue painters tape. Not real purdy, for sure, but all I'm after is dry bandages and the least amount of plastic tossed into a landfill as possible. I'm quite proud of the fact that I'm still using the same garbage bag I started out with. I will admit that I've probably used 4, 197 feet of blue painters tape, but using a big rubber band just seemed to be begging for a whole new set of problems.
Your shower chair is a handy thing to sit on while you do all this, but I should mention that it's a good idea to get naked before putting on the garbage bag or you'll discover only too late that those cute little jammies you have on won't come off now and you'll have to untape yourself and start all over again. Considering that the entire showering process is going to take five or six hours, you want to save minutes wherever you can.
I should also mention that it is never a good idea to sit naked on a dry shower stool without a towel between the two of you. Another lesson from experience: taping yourself into your garbage bag will make you sweat. And separating youself from the shower stool in that condition is exactly like pulling duct tape off your skin. Not pretty and it will involve screaming.
OK. So let's review. You're naked and have a garbage bag taped onto your leg.
Check.
The next maneuver is to set the shower stool into the tub while balancing on your good foot and being careful not to touch the floor with your Bad Foot. By this time, your good leg will be tiring from exertion so your first instinct will be to sit down for a minute. And the easiest place to sit will be the edge of the tub.
DO NOT DO THIS.
Even if you live right smack dab on the Equator, the edge of the tub will be approximately the same temperature as Walt Disney's cryogenically preserved head. This will cause a sharp intake of breath and an expulsion of expletives followed in the next nanosecond by shooting into an upright position whereby you will forget your slippery Bad Foot and do the splits right there in the bathroom.
Avoid this at all possible costs.
Just slide yourself onto the shower stool, doing a little hop sort of thing to avoid contact with the edge of the tub and you'll be fine. Prop Bad Foot up onto the edge of the tub, turn on the shower, and off we go.
If you're lucky, some sweet person (AOK) will have already fetched the soap off the top shelf of the tub surround and left it thoughtfully within reach along with a clean washcloth. If not, don't panic. Just slowly and carefully stand up to retrieve what you need and make a mental note to whap their ankle with your crutch later on.
And so now you begin to lather everything up. You might have to lean this way or that to get out of the stream of water to do this, depending on how well the showerhead is aimed. But that's okay because being nimble and lithe really comes into play next when it comes time to rinse. For instance, you might find that your right elbow needs to go over by your left ear in order to rinse your armpit. As a matter of fact, you will find yourself putting arms and legs into positions they've never been in and do it all while precariously balanced on a plastic shower stool inside a porcelain tub with faucets and ledges sticking out at you everywhere.
All while you're covered in slippery soap.
Give yourself no more than five minutes of this contortionistic torture and whatever soap remains at that point can just be shammied off with your towel.
Turn off the shower and - if you're like me - remove the sock from your Good Foot that you forgot to take off before you got into the shower. Wring out both your sock and your washcloth and grab a towel.
This is very important: lay the towel over the edge of the tub BEFORE scooting off the shower stool. Don't want a repeat of what happened before, do we? Drying off will be a breeze after the rinsing escapade, but just make sure to dry off your garbage bag, too.
All that's left now is to get dressed in clean jammies so you can go back to bed because this olympian event will have left you with barely enough energy to crutch your way to the couch. I personally think this nation has far too little appreciation for the effort our crutchbound citizenry puts forth just to smell good on a daily basis.
I hope I've been able to help you understand that showering while incapacitated can be done safely, but is not for the faint of heart. It's a good thing that most insurance agents never go through this ordeal because I'm quite sure this little activity would be excluded from homeowners policies just like chainsaw juggling and trampoline target shooting.

Shower on, Wayne.

Frankenboot

2009-11-14T08:09:00.005-05:00

So I had my cast off a few days ago and got to see my naked foot, which made me wonder if my surgeon wasn't related to Picasso.

Good news: I'm healing nicely and no longer have to seek an alternative level of consciousness because of an itch in the arch of my foot that I can't scratch.

Bad news: I'm in a giant boot that seems to have come from the Frankenstein line of medical products. Annie about fell off the chair laughing when the doctor drug this thing into the room. Later, she suggested that Hardware Ken should bring home bolts to attach to the sides of it. I think its made of cast iron because the frickin' thing weighs about 20 pounds. I'm only five feet tall and I learned quickly that my aim had better be true cuz I'm going wherever Frankenboot goes instead of the other way around. Lucky me - I get to lug this thing around on crutches for another 8 to 10 weeks.

So I'm looking into this thing called the Drive Kneewalker which is like a scooter for crips. Quite zippy, very handy and will sure make getting to the bathroom easier altho I will still have to go upstairs on my knees and downstairs on my butt since there's no way I'm test driving Frankenboot on carpeted stairs. And if there is any justice in this universe I will come out of this with skinny knees and a smaller butt.

However, with my luck I'll probably end up with a withered left leg and a right leg that looks like Arnold Schwarzenegger's thanks to Frankenboot.

Recent Lessons

2009-11-14T01:39:00.002-05:00

1. It is possible to carry a mostly empty 2 liter bottle of Diet Pepsi from the refrigerator to the living room all by yourself while crutching. I know this because it is now 1:40AM, everyone in the house is asleep but me and I got thirsty.
2. While it is possible to shove snacks into a 2 liter bottle, it is impossible to retrieve snacks from a 2 liter bottle without the use of chopsticks. Unless, of course, you snack on leftover spaghetti.
3. In MY bloodstream, narcotics have the same half life as plutonium.
4. I could never make it as a drug addict.
5. I am a great dog mom so am surprised to learn that I would give my right arm to be dog-free for an hour. Since I'm no longer much of a moving target, my puppies are on top of me 24/7. I shall no longer refer to them as DaBoys. From this point forward, they shall be known as VELCRO DOGS.
6. VelcroDog Charlie has overcome his fear of notebook computers. I know this should make me proud but it doesn't. Bad dog mom. Bad. Bad.
7. It is remarkably inconvenient to post to your blog using a notebook computer balanced precariously on the left arm of your chair because your lap is full of canines.
8. It is okay to be the teensiest bit resentful of people who can go to sleep at all the right times of the day.
9. Warm laptop battery + warm VelcroDogs + warm chenille robe + hot flashes = God must have a very weird sense of humor.
10. It is impossible to do the PTH (Public Toilet Hover) when you only have one foot to stand on. Thank God Target has clean bathrooms.

This is Your Brain on Drugs

2009-11-13T01:13:00.004-05:00

So I had my first post op checkup today. The fact that I am not posting the cellphone pic I snapped of my naked foot all covered in stitches and bruises is thanks only to my Annie, who zipped north to be with her mommy in her hour of need. I was so proud of my foot. Battered, bruised, a little worse for the wear it looked beautiful to me. Sigh. All flat where the bumps used to be. I thought it a thing of beauty in the same way a mom coos over her ugly baby - cuz in my mind, it's six months from now and for the first time in my life I (a) have purdy feet that (b) actually match (since it's been two years since I had my left foot operated on).
However. . .
today comes on the heels of what can only be described as 36 bizarre hours during which I took pain meds. Commit this to memory: Oxycontin + Vicodin + Ambien = Total Freakin' Weirdness. I didn't want to take anything, but knowing how much worse this surgery was than my last one, I decided to heed everyone's warnings about "staying ahead of the pain" when things started to hurt.
Bullpoopie.
First came 12 hours of deep sleep interrupted by urgent lurches to the bathroom which is not a good thing when you're drugged and your only conveyance to the loo is two sticks. Then came bedtime during which I literally could not stop talking. I can hear you laughing, but I'm serious. I know what you're thinking. But I literally COULD NOT STOP TALKING. AOK was beside himself laughing for the first while.
I'm going to stop talking now, I finally said.
OK. Goodnight, sweetie, he said, ears numb from the continual litany I'd been spewing ever since we went to bed 45 minutes before.
Pause.
So do you think if there was ever such a thing as pink elephants they'd be able to fly better than grey elephants? I'd ask.
Goodnight, sweetie, he'd say.
Sorry, I'd say. I know you want to go to sleep.
That's okay, honey, but it is 1:30 in the morning and the alarm goes off at 6:30.
I know, I'd say. I'm going to be quiet now.
Pause.
Do you think radishes know they're radishes as opposed to, say, eggplants? I'd ask.
It was at this point that AOK's responses sounded sort of muffled, like his face was covered by a pillow. It was also at this point that the two tiny little drug-free cells left in my brain finally spoke up and told me to take an Ambien so AOK could get some sleep. I followed instructions.
Which means I went to sleep and had weird conversations with myself in my sleep, some of which took place while I was cozied down inside the softest of moon craters, looking out at navy blue space sparkling with planets. I was waiting on the earth to rotate so I could see if you really can spy the Great Wall of China from space. Oh! and I was eating Smarties and being very careful to eat the wrappers, too, so as not to leave trash behind.
The only other thing I remember was being a goat. I had on the prettiest baby blue corduroy coat and a hat with fresh flowers around the holes where my ears poked out. And I was walking to the music store for violin lessons.
Draw your own conclusions, folks, but I'm thinking 36 hours of pain would have been way better than taking narcotics. When I got up yesterday morning, I flushed every damn pill down the toilet only to discover that starting then stopping narcotics brings on another set of symptoms I feel are only now wearing off.
But maybe I'm not out of the woods yet.
They took my cast off today and sent me home with an Ace bandaged foot with a sort of tube sock over it. The sock is open at the toe - no stitching or anything - so they just tucked the ends down inside. And it's looking for all the world like some other body part I can't quite identify.
Oh wait. I know what it looks like - a foresock!!!!
Aiiiyyeeeeee. Is there an antidrug for this????

Taking Chance

2009-11-11T16:25:00.004-05:00

Today is the one day out of 365 each year we set aside as a country to say what we should be saying daily: THANK YOU, VETERANS.
And thank you especially to the families of those veterans who go through each day with a big hole in their lives where their loved ones should be.
If you've not seen it yet, please take an hour or so and watch the HBO special called "Taking Chance." On the barest surface, it's the tale of a disenfranchised Lt. Col. Michale Strobl, USMC (Kevin Bacon) who volunteers to escort the body of Lance Corporal Chance Phelps to his hometown in Wyoming. What quickly becomes apparent, though, is that this movie takes us places we've never seen: the seamstresses who make one last uniform in which Lance Corporal Phelps will be buried; the airports as his body is transferred from plane to plane; along a lonely road where every semi and car slows down for the military procession and turns on their headlights. Throughout it all, we learn more about Chance Phelps and see changes in Lt. Col. Strobl that give us heart.
It was a sobering movie, for sure, but I took away such an old fashioned feeling of patriotism that I had to think for a moment about what that feeling was. This soldier - one of thousands who've died in the Middle East - was not forgotten. His sacrifice and that of his family was not anonymous. In addition to the irreplaceable loss of this young man, I saw just how many people took care of this soldier on his final journey home. The chaplains to the pilots to the airport baggage handlers - every single person honored this young man with the respect I would hope for if this were my son.
See this movie. Do it for a veteran. I take that back- do it for yourself. No matter your take on this war or the politics involved, this movie will touch you.
To Mark and Rebecca Baker in Painesville, Ohio, parents of Lance Corporal David R. Baker USMC, age 22, who died October 21, 2009 in Afghanistan: there are no words for your sorrow. We keep you in our thoughts and our prayers always.

Dave Matthews, Sage for the Ages

2009-11-11T13:46:00.002-05:00

Dave said it best.
What I want is what I've not got and what I need is all around me.
As in you should see my living room.
Here's what's all around me:
Basket o' drugs
Kleenex box
waste basket
Mentos gum in the new Puremint flavor (yumm-o)
reading glasses
remote for the TV
remote for the DVD player
house phone
cell phone
computer
NYTimes Coffee Break Puzzle book
two pens (G2 Gel Pens in .07 -blue my fav)
Stuart Woods Loitering with Intent
ZantacTums
my sippy cup
journal
three get well cards from Karen and Brenda and Aunt Lois/Uncle Ken
Kashi Trail Mix bar
And what I want:
A CHOCOLATE BAR BIGGER THAN MY HEAD
which I can't go hop in the car and buy because I'm couchbound.
Sorry.
End of whine.

Number Six!

2009-11-10T21:10:00.003-05:00

I'm going to tell you something and I don't want you to laugh, okay? Because if you think about this for a minute, you'll realize how brilliant it is.
6. The Drink Bra. If you're a crutch user, as I am, you'll understand my greatest frustration: not being able to carry a vodka gimlet from the bar to the living room. Er, I mean glass of water from the sink to the couch.
And arrive with something other than an empty glass.
But what's a lurching girl to do?? I thought first of a solution along the lines of Bill Murray's conveyance for his fish, Gill, in the movie "What About Bob?" But a bobbing glass jar strung around my neck seemed a sure way to blacken something ocular or boobular. I thought of some sort of backpack thingy but then there's the inconvenience of using it once you've reached your destination.
Ladies and gentleman, I give you THE DRINK BRA. A generous-sized vessel that can be looped over your shoulders once you've nestled it into it's natural spot in your chestular area. With a straw so that you don't even have to take it off to drink from it. Think of all the people who would love having a Drink Bra - data entry clerks! Bus drivers! Traffic cops! Air traffic controllers! Busy moms everywhere! Not to mention the crutch-bound like me!
Mark my words -someday, you'll be buying these babies on sale in WalMart. Just remember it was my idea first!

My First Five Things

2009-11-10T16:11:00.004-05:00

I'm only four days into my two weeks on the couch, and I'm already making lists of things I'll never complain about again, or things I'll do from now on without complaining. This doesn't bode well for you, the dear Scrapinator reader. All I can do is promise not to let this develop into a full-blown rant.
So here we go - my first list borne from the sort of clarity one gets only when bored to the point of making nose harps out of a straw while trying to hum "All the Single Ladies" backwards.
1. I will never complain again about using a lint roller. I'm lying here - hot, sweaty and covered in dog fur - and would happily use a lint roller except (a) I can't reach the damn thing and (b) why de-fur only to be refurred moments later?
2. I will never ever complain that DaBoys don't sit on me enough. Ever.
3. When I'm mobile again, I'm going to scrub Ken's little bath till it sparkles. Not that it doesn't sparkle now, but it's such a guy bath. When you can only go two places (the bathroom or the couch) you spend as much time at each place as you can before lurching off to the other place. And sitting in Ken's bath I noticed the marked lack of those little touches I know he'd appreciate. Like better toilet paper. And maybe new curtains. Oh! and some air fresheners. But don't tell AOK - I want this to be a surprise, ok?
4. Beer taps in the living room. But not for beer, silly. I'd use mine for a continuous supply of diet Pepsi and cold water. I'm running out of quarters to tip AOK with.
5. I'm going to invent the remotocellphone. It'll be a single, easy-to-find, easy-to-use device that will change the TV channel, or act as your home or cell phone. Cuz I'm here to tell you, three devices clipped to your sweatpants = a full moon.

Frankenfoot, Part Deux

2009-11-07T00:18:00.005-05:00

Meet Frankenfoot the Second. Unlike a lot of second-generation inventions (the calculator, television sets and cell phones, to name a few), my second foot surgery resulted in a surprisingly larger take-home package than the surgery on my right foot.
After much skittering sideways and goose-like head bobs, DaBoys finally surrendered their fear of my new appendage when they realized that it rendered me inescapably supine.
The worst part of the day was getting up at 5 to be at the hospital by 6:30. I wanted plenty of time for one last walk with DaBoys through the cool and serenely quiet neighborhood. There was moonlight, a few clouds, a handful of stars and just us. I even let Sammy pull us through an extra lap or two, since by all accounts it's going to be a good two or three months before they'll find me at the end of their leashes again. Which is not to say I won't be at the end of my rope before then, but that's another blog post.
I've stopped thinking of Ken as Poor Old Ken (POK) and decided to call him Amazing Old Ken cuz he's A-OK in this nursey type role. I know this is his second time through this, but he has had everything I've needed ready and waiting for me before I even knew I needed anything. What a sweetie.
It's now been 18 hours since surgery and I'm still not in pain. How amazing is that? I am getting sleepy, though, so methinks it's time to sign off and rest up for another day of couch potato-ing.
And allowing two puppies some quality time with Frankenfoot, their new best friend.

More Power!

2009-11-01T13:19:00.016-05:00

After years of griping about the annoying whine leaf blowers make, I was finally allowed to use one today. And I believe that whoever invented the leaf blower should be sainted, knighted and given a ticker tape parade. I am a total convert.
Leaf blowers rock.
Why isn't there a Dust Your House version? A Herd Your Cattle model? Heck, put enough power on one of these babies and you could scoot your kids right out to the bus in the morning without all the fuss and whining. (Just be sure the bus door is open first. Don't want Child and Family Services on your case.)
However, I would advise that you spend a little time working on technique first. Our plan today was to shoot our leaves up the driveway and corral them off to the right against the neighbor's house. Then it would be a straight shot to blow them down the house, along the hedge and right out the gate to the field. I would work the blower and Ken would clean up the stragglers with the rake. Here's some tips for those of you who might be new to leaf blowing:
1. Leaf blowers are loud so if you're working with someone, decide on hand signals ahead of time. We did not do this, and I thought I was doing a great job because Ken kept giving me the thumbs up sign.
Insistently.
In fact, he seemed desperate that I SEE him give me the thumbs up sign.
So I smiled and nodded and gave him the thumbs up sign right back. This was fun! Yeah! Only he was telling me to point the nozzle straight up and stop blowing leaves for a minute because I'd inadvertently airlifted a trowel I'd left on the driveway and the leaf blower was making it attack his ankles like a pit bull. I couldn't hear what he was saying but I did discover that I can lip read certain words.
2. Be aware of where the stray leaves go, especially if there's no fence between your yard and the neighbors. Most neighbors are not happy to find their front porch stuffed full of leaves that weren't there an hour ago. And if they happen to make this discovery whilst in the midst of watching the Browns lose yet again, it might even make them mad.
3. When confronted by such a neighbor, it won't help if you question their intelligence and remark that everyone knows the Browns couldn't win this season if they were playing against a peewee football team comprised of five year old midgets.
4. Never point a leaf blower at your neighbor.
5. You cannot run with a leaf blower strapped to your body.
We did finally manage to scoot nearly every leaf through our yard and back to the field. Thanks to the wonder that is a leaf blower, we did it without getting blisters or stepping on the wrong ends of rakes.
So now I'm inside, making brownies to deliver to a neighbor.
It only seems right.

Happy Halloween!

2009-10-31T06:53:00.009-04:00

This is a card I made from Scrappy Jo's October Creative Team pack o' goodies. The tangerine Doodlebug sugared cardstock totally stymied me until I thought of making a card with it. The pumpkins are cut from Felt Fusion and I added Moxxie buttons and a couple rows of black trim I had in my stash. Then I doodled and I was done!
As I type this, it's 6AM and raining like crazy outside. I sure hope it stops raining for trick or treating tonight. Just like Easter, Halloween loses some of its magic when you have to stuff your adorable little kid into a coat.
I hope you have a fang-tastic Halloween.
And that your little trick or treaters don't drive you batty.
And that the weather tonight where you are is boo-tiful.
Well, I'm off to get ready for my day.
Orange you glad I'm out of puns??

POSTSCRIPT: Just checked in at Scrappy Jo's - and discovered she put up this card as LOTD! Fang kew very much, Jo (and fangs for the opportunity to squeeze in one more pun)!!

The Glitter Diaries, Chapter One

2009-10-28T18:29:00.008-04:00

A month ago, I caved and bought a bottle of Fire Opal glitter because it winked at me and cooed enticingly and flashed its glittery wiles my way. I did it in a fit of crazed denial, knowing full well that somewhere on my person are the remnants of my last glitter encounter even though that was in 1983. Glitter must be the only substance on the face of the earth made of tiny, tenacious specks that don't wash off, won't wear off and have a half-life longer than plutonium. Even if I'm 110 when I die, there will STILL be a stoopid piece of glitter stuck to me somewhere, winking away as they close the casket.
But all of this was nothing more than a hazy memory when I gingerly lifted the cap off that bottle of glorious, intoxicating Fire Opal glitter. And "what if. . .?" was the farthest thing from my mind as I gently tipped the bottle sideways bit by bit and watched those first captivating flakes of fiery light cascade toward the waiting cushion of glue on the LO I'd been working on for three full weeks.
Not that thinking ahead of time about "What if. . . ?" would have prevented the weird things that happened next.
Just as the first bits of Fire Opal glitter started to pool on my LO, the glass globe behind me suddenly crashed down into the kitchen sink, sending bits of glass everywhere. And before I could even grasp my reaction - a mere split nanosecond later - the chair I was sitting on suddenly broke, sending me crashing to the floor. My first cogent thought was "Yippee! I still have the glitter bottle!" because there it was, clutched firmly in my little hand attached to my now horizontal body.
Except it was empty.
I looked around and there - like some crazy explorer's map - were stripes of glitter in all directions. I couldn't have glittered my kitchen better if I'd been hiccuping and had the shakes. There was glitter on the stove, glitter across the curtains and glitter on the microwave. The doggie treat jar was glittered, and so was every cookbook I owned. I looked at the glaringly naked bulb above my sink, trying its best to glow with an air of innocence, and it had glitter on it. I looked at the chair lying in pieces underneath me and each part had glitter on it. (I also made a mental note to speak to POK about his furniture gluing talents. Or the lack thereof.)
You have no idea just how far a little, spice jar-sized bottle of glitter can go until you have to empty your sweeper bag three times in 10 minutes. Or until your panting puppy's little spit bubbles are coated in glitter. Or until you go to the dentist weeks later and he finds glitter between your teeth.
What could I say?
I just told him it was overflow from my sparkling personality.

Fallen Leaf Alert!

2009-10-27T07:08:00.006-04:00

Here in northeast Ohio, we are full into the most beautiful part of autumn when the leaves are glorious colors. But apparently some arboreal memo went out from tree to tree overnight that it was time to start dropping leaves. Because I just got back from my morning walk with DaBoys, and the sidewalks were full of curly, dried leaves that weren't there yesterday.
We sounded like we were walking on Rice Krispies.
When Annie and Matt were little, we'd take long walks around the neighborhood snagging the prettiest leaves we could find and come home with a beautiful bouquet of big leaves in every color. Maybe collecting them was part of a school assignment. I don't remember. I just know we thought they were just beautiful to look at.
But let this post serve as a warning to everyone with a child who loves to go for long walks gathering fall leaves.
Do not come to my neighborhood. Because I discovered something that I never even thought of before I had dogs:
Sammy and Charlie had a contest this morning to see who could tinkle on the most leaves.

Books and Movies, Please!

2009-10-25T20:40:00.010-04:00

Exactly 12 days from now, I will be flat on my back, sucking up drugs and staring at my poor bandage-wrapped appendage propped up on bed pillows. Right now, however, I'm up to my eyeteeth in trying to remember all the little details that Other Folks will have to handle. Like turning the aloe plant in the window so that it doesn't grow lopsided. Or flipping the mattress. Or giving DaBoys their heartworm pills.
Dippy stuff like that.
There is one thing I will NOT be doing after this surgery and that is taking Percodan, no matter how much pain I'm in. The Percodan I took after my last surgery made me so hyper it wasn't funny. At one point, I was doing all of these things all at the same time:
watching Ellen on TV
listening to my iPod
watching "Big Fish" on the portable DVD player on my lap
reading "Demolition Angel" by Robert Crais
talking to everyone who would pick up their extension at work
while chewing about 50 pieces of gum.
And I was still bored.
That was the day I think I actually scared DaBoys cuz they sort of camped out on the rug by the back door waiting for POK to save them from the crazy lady laying on the couch. Earlier in the day, I'd learned that no matter how much you may want to, it is impossible to scrapbook while (a) lying flat on your back with (b) two dogs lying on your chest. And don't even think about trying to use Stickles.
So this time, I'm trying to plan for some diversions to take my mind off of being bored and in pain. Since there's not much you can do when confined to the couch for two weeks, I've joined Netflix and have my local library on speed dial. I figure I can at least catch up on my reading and watch every movie I've ever wanted to watch that POK would hate.
And here's where you can help me out.
I need your suggestions for books and movies that will keep me occupied. My tastes are all over the map, so share everything: the ones you loved and the ones you hated.
I was going to ask for phone numbers so I could call when I got bored, but figured this would probably be better. The last thing you want is a drug-crazed loon driving you nuts cuz she's bored. Better you should give me book and movie suggestions.
Since an occupied invalid is a happy invalid, POK and DaBoys will be eternally grateful for your help.
Then again, if you really feel the need to share your phone number that's fine, too.