Racing Dreams

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

(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

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?"

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

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!!

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!

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

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

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

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!

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.

3. 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.
4. 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. . .

. . .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

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!

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?

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???

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

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!