My Trail of Breadcrumbs

If one had the skills, (and the insane desire or care?) one could lately follow a trail of my online meanderings by looking at the shopping carts I keep leaving full of stuff. Since real shopping is just out of the question, I keep finding myself online, loading this and that into my “cart” and then leaving the cart full and taking off. I don’t know why. I know I can’t actually buy those oh-so-cute shoes, or that new slipcover, or all the make-up at Sephora. And yet I keep looking, and popping things in my basket…

Old Navy, Overstock, Zappos, Sephora, Urban Decay, Anthropologie… and that’s just today, while David and Jeffrey are out on a father-son Man Date. Oooh oh oh.

The Tea Party Obsession


1) First, you line up the Princesses and introduce them to your guest. Guest is obligated to greet each Princess by name, otherwise Tea Party Controller will continue to insist, in louder and lounder manner, at the name of each Princess.

2) Next, the Princesses all spin around the face The Controller. Guest must continue to pay rapt attention.


3) Once all Princesses are about-face, the party can begin.


4) By the end of the raucous festivities, “Sweeping Dooty” has gotten her jiggy on, and is swimming in the tea-cup and the other ladies cheer her on. The Controller shows her pride by putting on her Unfortunately Official Camera Smile.

Slice O’Life


Our house, about 2 this afternoon. Mo is dancing with Flat Daddy, Abby is reading a book with the Creeper close at hand, Mira is patting juice on the table, and my darling Mr. M is doing the dishes. ‘Caus that’s how I roll.

It’s Friday, things are mellow, and other than the Lite Brite pegs in the dishwasher ($$ we don’t have; thank you Abby) all is well. Or at least what I’ve come to accept as well. We are not sick, we have our home still, we have no job, but we’re kind of getting used to it, and that’s it’s own kind of scary. Poor is the new Black. Or something.

And yes, I realize our version of “poor” is a far cry from real, bone-numbing poverty. We have food, water, shelter, clothing, faith and love. We also have the priveledge of paying a repair man $100+ to have him fix the Lite Brite peg-filled dishwasher motor, which some would argue is not a need at all, to which I would challenge them to a duel at dawn. That’s a long, long way from the poverty that grips souls the world over. And I am grateful for that grace.

So Friday night finds us at home. David is taking Beanie to the store to splurge on a piece of watermelon, which Bean has been craving,  and we’re have leftover carnitas tacos for dinner. We’ll probably catch a movie on the couch, and be in bed by 9. Happy Friday.

My Creeper


This is Abby’s “Creeper”. Her Princess Creeper, to be accurate. Santa brought her this little gem, and it is far and above her favorite thing in the whole entire universe. As I type, she is parked right next to me, on my desk, and shouting “MY CREEPER! MY PINK PRINCESS CREEEEEEEEEEPER! as she looks the photo I’ve pulled up on my screen. Right now. I’ve tried to say “com. pew. ter” and the best she can manage is “com. creeper”. So now we all call it The Creeper.

She sleeps with it.

It talks like Cinderella, and the most annoying thing is Cinderella constantly saying things like “Lovely letters!” or “Use your magic wand!” or “OH it’s beautiful!”- all in the best Amy Adams voice, straight out of Enchanted.

What IS IT with the Princess thing?? I am powerless in the face of all that pink and sparkles. It’s creepy.

Our New Ward

Our new ward is going to be wonderful. *sigh* Now I can stop worrying. Sister Rice-a-Roni was very nice, and it turns out I know two of her brothers from elsewhere. Mormon-World sure is small sometimes.

Two of my good friends got big callings- RS president and Primary president. Glad it’s not me, glad I’m in with the powers-that-be. In our old ward, the RS president was always an older, grandmotherly type woman- this time, the RS president is like a rock star. She’s younger, she’s hip, and she’s my friend! Coolness abounds.

All the teaching positions aren’t filled yet in primary (or RS or EQ or anywhere), so it was a nuthouse figuring out where to take kids, and who was watching them. Abby is the oldest in a nursery full of little boys- and she was a big bossy girl today! She never gets to be the big kid, and she was relishing it, from what I was told.

We got called into the Bishop’s office after church. No callings yet- he just wanted to meet us and get the scoop on the M’s. He seems like a decent, open guy, and we hear good things about him.

Beanie’s primary teacher from our old ward stopped by tonight. When I told him he was coming, he parked the piano bench in the front window and waited for her, then ran outside in his pink blanket sleeper and jumped into her arms on the front porch. I started crying. Stupid eyes. She brought him treats and a puzzle and lots of love. I adore this woman. Truly.

Off on the Wrong Foot

Man. My new ward is going to hate me. Tonight, while cooking dinner, kissing an owie, refereeing a quibble and washing the chicken off my hands, the phone rings. It’s about 5:20- the Deadly Hour. I wipe my hands, pull Abby off the counter perch where her boo-boo was waiting to be kissed, and picked up the phone, which was hiding under a pile of play-doh tools on the table. Caller-ID is not a number or name I know- and when I answer, there is only static and dead air. Hello? HELLO? Hang up.

Set Abby down, stir the rice-a-roni, pull Bean off the desk, and nip at Jeffrey to finish up his homework. Again. The phone rings again. Same caller ID, same number- HELLO?

“Mrs. M-blah blah?” Damn telemarketer, I think- they always pronounce my name wrong- it’s English, but spelled with double consonants, like the French. I can always tell if someone doesn’t know us. “No thanks!” I snap… “And it’s M-blah blaH.”

“Oh. Dear. I’m so sorry. This is Sister so and so from the new ward, and I was hoping to talk to Mrs. M.”  *sigh* AWWWcrap. Fantastic. It’s the chorister from the new primary, and she wants to know if we’ll be at church Sunday, since Jeffrey is the person of interest, and there is no presidency yet, and she’s trying to run things….

Aw crap.

Profuse apologies, grabbing a pen and paper, I jot down the five questions for Jeffrey, apologise again, make nicey-nice small talk, peel Abby off my leg, and hang up. Just in time to notice billows of smoke from the kitchen…!


Running for the stove, my rice-a-roni is charcoal. I throw the sizzling, blackened pot in the sink and steam hisses and spits all over me as the metal hits the water.

David hears all the commotion and comes to peel a few children away, while I put out the fire. He’s sitting on the couch with Beanie now, and Abby is playing quietly with Jeff. The fire is out, dinner made but cooling, and I’m calming down. Slooooowly.


Now I have to ask- WHO CALLS during the Deadly Hour?? From Primary?  Who calls from CHURCH and asks for MRS Anyone?? WHO CALLS BACK AFTER THEY”VE BEEN HUNG UP ON???


I will always think of my burnt rice-a roni when I look at this woman. I hope I like her. I really, really do- but we got off on the wroooooooong foot. Me and Sister Rice-a-Roni.

Sunny in Seattle


How many days in January (any January) do you suppose you’d get a view like that in Seattle? Well, we lucked out. Jeffrey and I tossed our bags in the car on Saturday morning, and headed off to the Emerald City. Some friends had invited us for the weekend, and I wavered, up until I actually put the pedal to the metal. But, we went, we saw, we had a ball. And, miracle of miracles, it was sunny the entire weekend!

Jeffrey kept asking when we could go up the Eiffel Tower- Even after riding the glass elevator to the top of the Space Needle, he kept talking about how cool the Eiffel Tower was- how tall, how awesome, how fantastic. I mean, what’s better to a boy than a glass elevator and a free Swarovski telescope with a view of Mt.Rainier, Mt. St. Helens, Mt Hood, Lake Union, Puget Sound and the entire Olympic peninsula- it was THAT clear.

I can’t tell you about my Secret Mission. Sworn to secrecy. Sorry.

I did meet with a web-designer that may be helping me with some tricks up my sleeve. We’ll see. Mwa-hahahaha….

AWOL Mama Checking In

Wow- I go away for the weekend, and I come home to crickets chirping and 150+ emails. I know, I know, I didn’t tell anyone I was leaving… Well, David knew- and Mo, but that’s about it. Details to follow. For now, we are lining up on the couch, a la Simpsons, with our flags and banners to watch the peaceful transfer of power of one of the most successful Republics on earth. Woo hoo! Go, us!

Set personal politics aside, and just marvel at what actually happens on January 20th. Really. It’s an amazing thing.

I’ll update Tuesday when I get all the chickens off to school and fill you in on my Secret Mission.

Welcome to my Crack Den

This my drug. I am an addict. It does not matter if I don’t need more (what’s needanyway?) I am powerless over my addiction. I cannot drive by a fabric store- my car just veers wildly and turns into the parking lot,  ripping into a spot, while I get out, zombie-like with stars in my eyes, clutching a fist-full of coupons and make a beeline for the front door.

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When I have quiet time, sometimes I go downstairs to my sewing den, and fold, catagorize and organize it all by color and style. This makes me feel really happy, and gives me the sick illusion that I have control over something in my life.

I do this at night, alone, when everyone is sleeping.

I have a dealer. She own the best quilt shop in town, and when I design new quilts for her to sell, she gives me fabric. I have another dealer, too. He lives in New York, but he runs a fabric company, and he sends me tear-offs from new lines that are coming out (not in stores yet!), for free(!) if I would just make a new something of them. After Abby was born, I tried to go clean, and stopped taking fabric from him, but the draw is calling me again- and my fingers itch touch the new goods.