A Hideously Narcissistic Look at my Week

Because I know how much my midnight ramblings stir my dear friends, and how stagnant my thoughtful posts seem to languish, I shall post a terribly navel-gazing look at what’s been up at my house since I waxed poetic on Sunday morning.

Abby’s little yellow birdie dress is done, and she loves it- and opting for the avian skirt was the absolute correct choice. It’s good I made this before I pledged the next six months of my life for only home-made… can I buy fabric on the Homemade challenge? Or do I have to just use what I have on hand…?

This is Abby’s next dress, with a vintage 1950’s pattern I got at an Estate Sale for a quarter. That fabric, in that pattern, ought to be adorable.

This bag, in spite the optic trick of foreshortening on what looks like an enormously out-sized hand, is actually quite large. I made it for a woman in my quilt group who likes red. It’s her birthday gift, only she didn’t show for the meeting on her birthday- so now I have to hold onto it until September. That’s what I get for scrambling and sewing ALL day before the meeting…

This is to contribute to a quilt a friend of mine is making. I kind of like it. But I’m partial to quilts where nothing matches- the scrappier the better. This is my taste.

These? These are NOT. These are barter for some dental work- I’m an indentured servant to my dentist’s wife, and this is what she wanted. She gives me the fabric, and I sew. She gets a quilt, we get nice teeth. Believe me, the math on creating (yes, I did) the measurements for the second block and the NINE set-in seams on the first block are equal payment for a few fillings!

This week, of course, as I’m getting ready to leave for a few days, I got a pattern order from a store in Michigan. So, that means, between packing, doing all the laundry, getting the travel stuff ready and generally freaking out, I get to go to the printers, too. Hooray! Oh, those are my 24 copyrighted, published patterns- not sure I’ve ever posted about them before…

My new nephew, who does in fact now have a name, is getting a pair of hand-made wool baby shoes. Just what every California baby needs, eh? But they are going to be SO cute! My first try at these…

Introducing the M’s book club. Sunday after church, Jeffrey was driving me nuts, so I gave his some pieces of wood, a hammer, a box of nails, and told him to go outside and make something. And he did! He came back inside with this little shelf he cobbled together, and declared it a home for all the chapter books he’s working on. Nice job. The books on top are the selection for Bean and Abby.

I’m taking a short little trip to Salt Lake with just Jeffrey. It’s a special treat for both of us, and David is going play Mr Mom for a couple of days while I sashay away for the weekend. Bean gets Daddy time, Jeff gets Mama time, and Abby is too little to care either way. Hooray!

Sunday Morning

As I write, Abby is dangling her feet in the dust, as she twirls on the swing set, wearing a purple tu-tu, calling out intelligible babble to her brothers. Copper heads glittering like new pennies, those same brothers, still in their jammies, are hanging upside down from the trapeze, enjoying the different view while watching the wind billow through the trees.

Breakfast is done, but the warm aroma of toasty sausage and cheesy eggs still lingers around the kitchen. Soon the breeze will whirl through, edying in corners and fluttering the linens,  carrying away breakfast and bringing the warmth of afternoon.

It’s officially late summer, and the change in light is palpable- yesterday was still just high bright summer, this morning, the light has shifted, is mellow and golden and easy. The only thing making it “official” is that it has been noticed, but there is always a day, for each season, where the light tips over the edge and flows differently.

Laughter floats in the open window, coupled with an occasional shriek by Beanie. Deeper in the house, the voice of the weather channel babbles importantly to itself- David had begun his Sunday morning pre-church nap, the remote cradled loosely in his sleeping, relaxed hand. The bones of that tender, wanting-to-work hand have begun to knit, the swelling is down, and the cast is off.

This morning, life is just good.


OK, my little experiment is over…I was fiddling around and ended up spending far too long trying to make a fun new site creat what I wanted. The best way for me to explain it is to just send you there- Wordle. It’s a logarithm that takes your blog URL, or whatever text to give it, and creates a typographic piece of artwork. Words that appear more frequently are larger, you can tweak the font, colors and layout, and it is addictive! Give it a shot… But don’t say I didn’t warn you! You may be surprised which words show up…

Bright and Shiny New

In the middle of the rattle-y chest cough and horrid summer cold I’ve managed to contract, some good news came my way this morning…

A new nephew has joined our family. All reports indicate mom and baby are doing well, fingers and toes are all present, and baby is darling. Still awaiting a name; but a baby-day is always a happy day. Welcome, sweet little one.

Image via Flickr

Your Opinion: Fancy-ness

Beanie is having a Dress day. And by that I mean, he is wearing a dress. I give up. He has boxers on underneath the little white dress with yellow cherries on it. The cherries have blue ribbons tying them, and those blue ribbons make it a “boy dress”. That’s my boy.

Actually, there is something so innocent about it; it endears him to me. Soon enough, the day will come when he knows about pressure and fitting in, and he’ll begin to self-edit. I’m glad, while he is young, and my other children are open and sweet enough not to tease him, he feels safe enough to just be who he is. He also has a new pair of these shoes, courtesy of a friend…

You think I’m kidding? Nope. He wears them to church. With the fancy pants. Does that freak you out? Would it freak your husband out? Should I care more than I do? How would you feel if your little boy preferred things like this? And I mean, really, strongly preferred things like this? Would you try and force the more typical “boy” outfits? Or would  you take my tact and just roll with it? Are there pitfalls with either method? What think ye, oh mighty mamas? And you, too, Ray…

Midnight in the Garden

Butter is my favorite food group. OK, maybe that’s not true- maybe it’s really cheese, but I’m in the Paula Deen  school of butter philosophy. Everything is better with butter. Lots of butter.

It’s like, midnight thirty, and I can’t sleep. Why? Because I took a NAP today, and my dumb husband let me. What was he thinking? Not only did he let me take a nap, but he FED the kids dinner and put Abby to bed. While I napped. What kind of husband do I have, man. The downside is, I can’t sleep- even a bennedryl isn’t helping, and the monkeys will up bright and early chomping at the bit for me to feed them. See, if I was a good mom, I would use one of the Ree’s recipes and have breakfast casserole all ready. But I’m not. Nor does my husband wear hot chaps to work every day. Sigh…

Serious emotional eating going on here. I have no idea why. Stress? Do I have any stress in my life? Ha! My knee jerk reaction is “no”- seriously, how dumb am I? Pot, meet kettle. So maybe I have some stress. But why oh why do I deal by eating everything carb-y I can lay my glommy little mits on? Oh, look, a vat of sugar! Goody! What can I make? Oh, another pie? Don’t mind if I do, thank you! Oh, look! Some pasta! Mmmmm! Let’s just pick out this ucky green stuff and eat the rest. Mmmmm. It’s the middle of the freakin’ night, and I’m weighing out if I would see anyone I know if I just ran to the grocery store to pick up some frozen TURNOVERS. Crap. What. Is. Wrong. With. Me?

Stupid drive-thrus being open all night. You’re not helping me!!

I chew ice. I’ve heard that’s bad, but I really, really enjoy it- and have since I was a girl. Crushed ice, thank you very much. When I was a kid, we had this old table-top ice crusher, where you filled  a hopper with cubes, turned a crank, and the teeth inside chipped and chopped your ice into shrapnel. I loved it. That was before freezer door ice-dispensers; of which, I consider those second only behind hot running water.

If I ever travel back in time, I want to take a tube of mascara. I have the odd, lash-less look of a rabbit, to quote Scarlett O’Hara, without mascara. A prize for anyone who can name who she was talking about when she said that- and goodness knows, if I’m going to time-travel to the antebellum south, I want Scarlett to like me. Or at least not scoff in derision. Although maybe that’s inevitable, since there is no stay on the planet that could cinch my waist to 16 inches. Mercy.

My daydreams are taken up lately with chopping my hair all off. And getting the new Brazilian keratin hair-straightening treatment Jen wrote about. I’m too lazy tonight to make a link, but trust me, it looks good. Three months of silk hair. I haven’t had my hair short since ninth grade. That was a bad year. It was a bad decision to cut all my hair off. Of course, there were not silicon hair smoothers or other goodies for girls with steel wool instead of hair. My hair grew OUT from my head for a good two years before there was enough weight to pull it down again. There are a great deal of pictures where I resemble nothing so much as the Sphinx in silhouette. Maybe I should re-think the cutting, eh?

Who said “Nothing good happens after midnight.”? Was the GBH? Cause maybe they have a point.

Yard sales have been poopy this month. I don’t think there’s been anything good for a few weeks. Today, out with all three kids (cause THAT is a good idea…), I turned down a deadend street. “Crap!” I hollered at the car. Jeffrey pipes up from the back- “MOM! You’re our role model- you can’t say that!” Me, sweating and wresting the giant gas hog that hauls my family, into a seventeen point turn, considers this quite astute an observation and offer “OK, you’re right Jeff, so you and Bean can scream ‘crap’ one time.” “CRAP!” they both immediately bellow, then break into fits of giggles.  Mom of the Year, right here.

I wonder what it would cost me to get a giant rubber band put around my stomach on the black market? It’s like, I’m too fat for comfort, but not fat enough to be eligible for any medical help. Sometimes, like Cathy Bates in Fried Green Tomatoes, “I wish I could just say ‘what the hell’, and get really fat.” But not really.

For three days, all I have been craving is Eggs Benedict. I don’t have any lemon. Again, wondering who I might run into at the grocery, and if it’s worth the gamble. There is no way I’m changing from my jammies, and it’s too warm to use a cloak. I’m fresh out of cloaks anyway. Much like riding horses and men wearing hats, I wish we still used cloaks. I don’t want to give up my ice or my mascara, though.

Recurring theme tonight? Time travel. Food. One o’clock now… The drive-thrus are calling me… Forth meal. What kind of marketing BS is that? Cause that’s what we Americans need, another meal. Three squares a day isn’t enough, no sireee. Gimme more. On that note, the drive-thru idea is giving some sympathetic indigestion. Whew. Save from a horrible caloric misstep by my own gurgling stomach acid! Woooo-hoo!

I paid Jeffrey a box of Lemonheads for him to let me pluck a wild hair he had growing from his cheek yesterday. I did. Like I said, Mom of the Year. Bringing it to ya.

The Pioneer Woman

Most of today has been wasted deliciously spent reading through the archives of my new favorite blog- The Pioneer Woman. Seriously. This woman can write, is talented in a million ways, and her blog is beautiful. Most of you probably already know about her, but I didn’t- she’s my new BFF. Mine and the ten thousand other people that read her- Yes, there is a post with over TEN THOUSAND comments. Bow down.

Spam Spam Spam!

I made it to 35 years, 9 months and 12 days without ever trying so much as a morsel of Spam. Yesterday, Mo Mommy came over to hang out and while the day away -which we do on a fairly regular basis- and she volunteered to cook dinner for the fam. Spam Sandwiches. Oh, yeah. I kid you not.

You can take the girl out of Alaska, but not the Alaska out of the girl. I hear Spam is quite the popular victuals up in the state that houses ANWR and baby seal galore clubbing… so, to honor my friend (It’s almost as much friend-love as scooping peanut butter into smaller containers- almost…!)….. I tried it. And… Well…while I might not ever try it again- it’s not as horrible as I had feared. Kind of like meat-flavored packing peanuts. If there was nothing left to eat, anywhere, ever again, I would chose Spam over eating my own children.

I might even choose it over marshmallows or jell-o. But that’s a push.

Runnaway Mind

Turns out Stella is not the most exciting pet.  Jeffrey says he goes days now without noticing Stella-turns out things might need to hairy and smelly and/or loud to captivate my children, too. What’s that they say about like attracting like? Yeah. I know. Turns out Stella may be a boy. Meh, we have a trend of accepting a little gender confusion in our house. Stella fits right in.

Watching a sweet, gentle, whisp of a kid for a friend today. He’s an only-child, and I fear by late morning my kids will have him tied to a spit in the backyard, pretending they’re on the Discovery Channel, chanting boom-de-yadda, boom de-yadda

I’ve given up on my hair completely. Yeah, yeah, I know- the hair challenge was great, but having to wait three hours every morning for it to dry, not touching and chanting backwards in the mirror at midnight to make it look good was just too much. Come on, I’m tired. Sleep is better than good hair. You hear me? Sleep wins! So I cut about 10 inches and it lives in a knot again.

Couldn’t sleep last night, but I found a cache of old design blogs and thus spared the world more midnight ramblings. Lucky you. I have to say, while I like clean lines, it’s just not something I can pull off. Best I can do is a clipped sentence. Mid-century design just makes me wish I held onto all the crap at my grandmas house so I could get rich on e-Bay.

You know it’s bad when your 75 year-old uncle comes over and pulls a lawnmower from the trunk of his Cadillac and mows your yard. Derelict. The yard, not the uncle. Broken-handed hubby couldn’t mow (did I mention the broken bone?), I would be a heap of hives not even a bottle of Bennedryl could help and alas, none of the kids are old enough for power tools yet. *sigh*

On my to-do list: Sew something. Make cherry jam with the remaining metric ton of cherries. Go to the post office. With. Four. Kids. HAHAHAHAHA! Ok, really, nevermind. Get the Bumble bee tuna song out of my head. Somehow.

Return the three Netflix movies I’ve had since June I haven’t even gotten around to watching. Now that’s lazy. They come to my mail box, and I can’t even be bothered to tear open the paper sleeve. Uuuuuuugh. Too hard. Send them back. No, really, it’s just because the TV screen is so glommy with fingerprints and mystery smears I can’t see anything anyway.  When I grow up, I want to be organized.

The kids popped my exercies ball. Yeah, ’cause I used it so much I’m devastated.

I like Stell(a)(one). Even if no one else notices he(r)(im) it for days. Her little chirpy noises make me happy. That’s good enough for today. Well, that and maybe a job…