True Confessions

Hello, good people of the web. Today I feel the need to unburden myself of some pesky items that niggle at my conscience. After all, I am all about being real. Also, if I can in some small way make you feel better about yourself by revealing my dark, moldy, dust-bunny coated inner self, well, that’s a job well done in my book.

By the way, did you know that True Confessions was a seedy, steamy periodical back in the day? Which day, you ask? How far back, you ask? I’m not really sure. I don’t really care very much, but if one of you wants to research it, or already knows but wants to pretend like you had to research it to find out, well then feel free to enlighten me.

tc

Apparently it consisted mainly of torrid stories of unsanctioned romance and tawdry encounters. Also, it cost ten cents, which I’m sure was quite the guilty pleasure back in the day. How much does one have to pay nowadays to set their senses a-quiver? I’m guessing it’s at least a quarter by now.

Getting on with it (no, not like that):

1. I don’t think Ryan Gosling is attractive. Like, at all.

What’s more, I cannot even comprehend the attraction. He has a face like a thumb. A thumb with a poorly drawn face on it. Okay, so he’s got “abs” and “pecs” and some other stuff going on below the neck, but really? Isn’t that kind of a man-reason to like a man? You know what I mean.

For instructive purposes, I hereby submit two photographs. One is a thumb. The other is Ryan Gosling. You be the judge.

thumb

rg

 As you can see, the difference is hardly detectable.    

2. I wish I had a sensory-deprivation chamber.

After a long day of screaming at my children homeschooling my darlings, I can think of nothing…and I mean NOTHING…better than floating in a SDC. Deprived of any sensory input, either bad or good. Devoid of touch, sound, and sight. The danger would be that I might refuse to emerge, or regress genetically like Eddie Jessup in Altered States.

me

3. Sometimes I don’t return my Wal Mart cart to the cart corral.

cart

This one may get me disowned by my very own brother, who views this as a deep flaw within one’s personality. But I’m being real here. Sometimes it’s too far away. Sometimes it’s three million below zero and I want to get into my car before my extremities shatter. Sometimes there’s a creepy guy checking me out. But most of the time, it’s because I just loaded half the contents of Wal Mart into my trunk and I’m just so damn sick of Wal Mart and handing over my husband’s whole damn paycheck to the whole damn cashier every damn time I go that I figure they can damn well pick up my damn cart. Those cart boys are perfectly capable, and they even have motorized cart-collectors to help them now, the pansies.

4. I want to grow my hair out, but I keep fantasizing about short haircuts.

Really, I have to resign myself to the fact that I’d rather look like this:

MyHero2

than this:

pssh

5. Sometimes I run away from my toddler and hope he gets distracted by something else before he finds me again.

Oh my word. Toddlers are so adorable. But oh my word. Toddlers are so CLINGY. Judah is at the stage where he is learning to Not Need Mommy So Much. However, when he is not on board with this current learning experience, he is certain, nay, convinced with firm, unwavering conviction, that he Needs Mommy At All Times, Without Exception. Even when he is not hungry, poopy, wet, or hurt. Just because There’s Mommy! There She Is! I See Her, Therefore I Need Her!

When he sees me under these conditions, he employs a technique known as “quick, grab a body part and do not let go”, at which point I employ evasive maneuvers. In other words, I run away. I run as fast as I can to a remote location and hope that he gets distracted by something interesting and realizes that playing with his siblings, or with a random toy, or with the dog’s orifices, can be every bit as entertaining as hanging onto my legs and wailing.

At least until he spots me again.

6. It took me all day to write this post.

This may be reason number one why I don’t blog so much anymore.

Merry Christmas Eve Eve!

I have the strangest sense of deja-vu….I have presents to wrap, and floors to mop, and children to bathe, and cheeseballs to fabricate, and cookies to decorate…

DIDN’T I DO ALL THIS JUST 365 DAYS AGO??????????

WHAT KIND OF SORCERY IS THIS??????????

Tappity, tappity, tappity, tap…oh, shut up, list and presents and floors and unassembled-cheese-ball-components. CAN’T YOU SEE I’M BLOGGING?

Now I remember what it used to take to do this: hip, hip, hooray for denial and avoidance!

So yesterday I went with My Beloved to the “big city”, where we cheated death at least 4 times (that we know of) as we navigated around white-knuckled drivers with their eyeballs spinning in opposite directions from each other, singing IT’S THE MOST! WONDERFUL TIME! OF THE YEEEEEAR!! and we bought all kinds of Christmas essentials like candy canes and grapefruit and tea and dates and bully sticks and cat food and Larabars and…

What do you mean, bully sticks are not Christmas essentials?

I’ll have you know our dogs find them extremely festive.

If you don’t know what a bully stick is, consider yourself lucky. Do NOT google it! No! Don’t do it!!!!! Save yourself and the purity of your mind!

You did it, didn’t you? And now you’re scarred for life. You never listen to me.

Speaking of things that will scar you for life, check out this link. It’s my darling brother’s blog. No, not that brother, the other brother. This particular brother has the distinction of being able to make me laugh harder than any other human on earth. His blog is full of helpful information that is sure to enrich your life and fill your heart with holiday cheer.*

Speaking of holiday cheer, do you own the Toby Mac Christmas CD? Because if you don’t, there has been a gross miscarriage of justice in your life. Not to put too fine a point on it.

To be completely truthful, I only listen to the first half of it. That’s the Toby Mac part. The second half is the members of his DiverseCity band with their contributions, and they just don’t thrill me. But the first half is well worth the money. If you like music that sounds best when turned up to 11, that is. If you prefer music that causes butterflies to dance ballet upon the petals of orchids held between the buttcheeks of unicorns as they graze upon rainbows, then Toby Mac is probably not for you, and why do you read my blog?

Okay, so there’s this to-do list…it’s not content with hanging on the refrigerator anymore. It has now leapt (lept? leaped? leap’d?) down and scaled the leg of my desk chair, where it is persistently tapping upon my shoulder and tugging at my earlobe. Le sigh.

I saw the new Sherlock Holmes, and I have a few thoughts about it. More on that later.

I have some sweet memories about Christmasses past to share. More on that later.

I have lots of pictures to post. More on those later.

For now, enjoy your Christmas Eve Eve! May all cookies be spicy and your cheeseballs free from MSG.

*disclaimer: This particular post from my darling brother is completely safe for viewers of all ages, if you don’t mind a little emotional scarring. Other posts may not be deemed appropriate for general viewing, depending upon your tolerance for irreverence, parody, satire, and the F word

Merry Christmas Eve Eve Eve Eve!

Hello, everyone!

Or, “one”, as the case probably is.

Hello, one. One who is still reading. One who remembers, vaguely, that I used to have a sort of blog-type thingie that I wrote on with feverish regularity.

Thanks for keeping me around, even if it was simply because it was easier than deleting me. How are you?

So today is Christmas Eve Eve Eve Eve, and here I sit. I need to wrap some presents and scrub my toilet(s) and bake some things and cook some other things and run to the gross grocery store and bathe some children and plan some menus and do some last-minute shopping and mop the floor and go to the bathroom and play the lottery and call my mother and, apparently, kick my own butt off the computer, but somehow I got it into my head to write something, so that’s what I’m doing. Because I am, in fact, the boss of me.

Two years ago, I wrote this. Apparently, I was pretty merry.

Today, I feel subdued. Not sure why. More coffee? Less PMS? Both? Almost certainly. 

What’s been going on with me? Most notably, a second grandson, named Isaiah. He will turn one in February. I always wanted a February baby and never had one personally, so my daughter obliged. She’s so accomodating! Always has been, her whole life. So sweetly obedient and compliant.

You can’t see me, but I’m snorting with barely-contained mirth right now.

Even so, she did manage to fill in that glaring gap in the birthday calendar with this scrumptious piece of humanity, and, all kidding aside, is quite the lovely daughter.

cuties

More about him later.

My own baby looks like this now:

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More about him later.

This past year has held many challenges, victories, joys, and trials.

More about that later.

Maybe. I CAN promise that, as long as I keep breathing and possess digits on my upper extremities, I will occasionally remember where my blog dashboard is, and maybe perhaps, when time allows, type a few words here and there, perhaps 0-7 times per week, leaning more towards the left side of that number line.

Just in case you needed specifics.

Here’s the thing…

Everything is fine. Everyone is well. Baby is growing. All manner of everything is good. I’m sorry to be so silent!

Life has been insanely busy lately. Our summer veered off in a completely different direction than we originally had planned (hey, when God says this, not this, then all manner of things get interesting!), and my mental circuitry appears to have blown more than a few fuses.

I have no idea when posting might resume some semblance of regularity. The diet of fibrous thoughtfulness that encouraged such output seems to have been replaced with a backlog of starchy to-do lists. I’m clogged. But I am also hopeful that someday…somehow…a prescriptive enema of creative juices will oil the rusty gears and there will be an explosion of violent cleansing which will lead to healthy, routine musing once again.

Apparently my metaphor gland is still functioning just fine.

Seeing as how I just sat here staring at the computer screen for a full 10 minutes, wondering what to say next, I’m thinking I’ll just step slowly away from the keyboard before all manner of atrocities occur and say have a lovely summer, my friends….

Fun and Games. Or at Least Games.

Have you ever played “Would You Rather?” It’s a game featuring a series of choices between two equal-yet-different-and-usually-abyssmal scenarios. I thought it might be fun to play my own version of this game right here on the One Thing blog.

What sparked this idea? I’ll give you a hint with the first question.

1. Would you rather: have a three-day migraine, or 50 chigger bites in your bikini area?

I ask, because I have experienced both scenarios in the past week. Actually, I’m still in the midst of the latter one. Every summer I somehow manage to stand in a patch of the most voracious chiggers known to man. Even though I was surrounded by half a dozen other people, no one else was snacked upon with the same intensity. What can I say? I’m tasty.

I would prefer to have the adjective applied to me in a less literal way, but I’ll take what I can get at my age.

So because my mind is increasingly random, I came up with a few more scenarios to entertain myself and, frankly, to keep the agony of itching from driving me completely insane. Here we go…

2. Would you rather: have you left arm torn off by a shark, or your right foot torn off by a bear?

3. Would you rather: clean up a poop explosion, or a vomit volcano?

4. Would you rather: watch a professional boxing match, or a professional wrestling match?

5. Would you rather: Read the Health Care Reform Package, or watch the Twilight series?

haha!!! Okay, so that was mean. But I’m not entirely sure which one would be worse. Sorry.

6. Would you rather: eat a cow’s eyeball, or a sheep’s brain? Raw.

7. Would you rather: be captured by cannibals, or trapped in an elevator with Robert Downey Jr.?

Just seeing if you’re paying attention.

8. ….

sorry. Can’t concentrate now. Meditating on number 7….

8. Ahem! Sorry! Would you rather: Poke your eye with your mascara wand, or jam your toothrush into your gums?

It occurs to me that number 7 might very well be a legitimate question…for Robert Downey Jr, at least…although the two scenarios might be too similar for him to choose between…

Hawhaw! I’m cracking myself up. Almost forgot about the chigger bites.

Almost.

9. Would you rather: Have to listen to someone talk about themselves for 36 straight hours, or have to talk about yourself for 36 straight hours?

10. Would you rather: Answer all these questions, or come up with 10 of your own?

Well? Well? Wouldya? Couldya? If you come up with 10 of your own, be sure to link it up in the comments! I NEED the distraction!!!

All The Random That’s Fit To Print

I planted some red geraniums in a pot on my porch and tucked some of these daisies in around them. It was so cheerful and bright that it just made me smile to look at it. Then I noticed that the daisies were slowly looking more and more pathetic. Sort of like someone had sat upon them. Then I noticed that one clump was just…gone. And then they just continued to deteriorate.

At first I just thought they were fussy little flowers. I mean, I’ve had plenty of those sorts of flowers, the type that woo you with their siren song at the nursery and then die in approximately 0.4 seconds of getting them home because they didn’t like the new soil you put them in, or the amount of sun, or the amount of water, or the way you were looking at them. But then one morning I saw this.

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P1010028 (3)

You can’t actually see the white daisies behind the geranium, but trust me, that’s what she’s chowing down on. Who knew daisies topped the list of favorites on the squirrel buffet? Mystery solved.

I could have been angry that the little buggar had gone and eaten my five or six dollars worth of horticultural sweetness, but seriously. Who could be mad at that face? She’s adorable, and so obviously enjoying herself that I am happy to share.

But I’m planting more geraniums as soon as she’s done.

In other news, a friend pointed out this article to be read in light of the articles sited in my previous post. It’s interesting, and proves that people sure have devoted a lot of time to determining who is happy and who is not. Meanwhile, we all just get on with our lives and do the best we can.

And speaking of happiness, I saw Ironman 2 the other day. I found it highly satisfactory. Actually, I’ve seen it twice now. First I took my best friend to it, and then I took my mother. Anyone else still need to see it? I’ll make the sacrifice and keep you company. No, no…I insist.

Rather than review it myself, here’s a link to a review that pretty much echoes my own sentiments. Isn’t it handy when that happens? Here’s the only part to which I take exception:

“A very small quibble is that there is A LOT of building going on. Tons of hammering, drilling, and sparking. I felt like I was in a FORD truck commercial or the end of an A-Team episode on steroids. So maybe next time, less show and more tell.”

If he’s talking about the Mickey Rourke parts, then okay. But the part where RDJ whips out various sledgehammers, jackhammers, and wrenches and destroys his house in order to create a new element? I have no complaints. And less show and more tell? I don’t even understand what that means.

musclesJust TELL us about the muscles! It would be just as good! Wait. No it wouldn’t.

But speaking of show and tell (all hail the Queen of the Seque), I just want to point out that there are many new things in my Etsy shop these days. And by “new things” I mean “jewelry”. After protesting and whining and kicking and screaming and claiming that I never, ever wanted to learn to make such things, my BFF somehow taught me how anyway. And now I can’t stop. ALL monies go towards helping Kate and Charley go get their girls in the Ukraine this summer. Most of the earrings run a measly $5. Don’t you need a new pair of earrings? Yes, yes, you do!

My Mother Always Said…

“Only boring people get bored.”

That’s what she used to tell me. Whining to her in the middle of summer or during school breaks for the holidays like the spoiled rotten brat that I was, I would slink off to my room after she said it, pouting that my own mother called me boring. Assembling my ten million stuffed animals, I would call the meeting to order and inquire as to what grand adventure we should have together.

They would stare at me, glassy-eyed, silent…unhelpful. I knew they participated in all sorts of hair-raising schemes behind my back, but were they going to confess to their devoted, doting person? Not a chance. Screw them. I retreated to my closet to check if it had transformed into a portal to Narnia instead. Nope. Still just a wall of sheetrock.

My mother would also offer to let me fold laundry, or dust, or put away dishes, if I complained too frequently, or too long. What I really wanted was a flying unicorn. Or a rainbow I could climb to visit the cloud men of Roald Dahl’s imagination. I WANTED AN ADVENTURE, BY GOLLY.

When my own children get bored, I say “Revel in it! Enjoy it! Do you know how many people in the world would LOVE to know how it feels to be bored? It’s a luxury!! You could be working in a sweatshop or a coal mine! You could be digging potatoes until your fingernails fall off, you could be…(etc)”

I’m much more long-winded than my mother.

I am also the world’s biggest hypocrite. Because,

Right now? 

I’M SO BORED.

SO. BORED.

SOOOOOOOO BOOOOOOOOORRRRRREEEEEDDDDDDDDDDDD!!

The most exciting thing that happened to me today was that my baby boy pooped Stonehenge. It is, at this moment, sitting in the bottom of the toilet bowl, slowly eroding since it refuses to flush. I should start a betting pool amongst my children to see who estimates its time-to-flushability to the closest minute. 

The sameness of my days is killing me. Am I alone? Or am I just the only one brave enough to say it? I mean, come on, it’s an unwritten rule that Christians (especially) are not supposed to complain of boredom. We are supposed to savor every moment in an attitude of thankfulness for our every breath. I know this. I’m not stupid. It’s pretty much sinful to pout over the lack of portals to other dimensions where every episode moment is a new thrill.

And so I’ll make my own excitement. I will rise above the boredom that is trying to claim me. I AM NOT A BORING PERSON, BY JINGO! I AM A CLEVER AND CREATIVE SOUL!

I will go and see if I can flush the toilet yet.

And maybe burn something down.

A Nip Here, A Tuck There…

My blog has a brand new face! Whaddaya think? I’m nearabouts in love with it, so don’t go saying anything nasty. If you find any broken links or whatnot, rest assured they will be remedied as soon as My Beloved can get to them; unfortunately he has a “job” that he “has” to “go” to “all week long”, so things like bloggy facelifts take a back seat sometimes.

There are three brand-spankin’ new, rotating header pictures that I think are just spiffy (refresh approximately 406 times to see all three). I took one of them, can you guess which one? Seeing as how I’m IN one of them, you have a 50/50 chance of guessing correctly.

I also have a new tagline. The old “trying to find the mary buried in the martha” just didn’t ring true to me anymore. I want to cut Martha a break. All people seem to remember about her was her harried complaining in one passage. But the truth is that she loved the Lord and understood who He was a far sight before most of His best friends did.

Instead, I’m taking inspiration from The Velveteen Rabbit. I’m trusting that one day I’ll just lose myself in the becoming real and stop being afraid of the pain that sometimes accompanies the transformation. If you’ve never read the book, why are you hanging out here? For heaven’s sake, run straight out and get a copy!

For those of you who are still here, go out and have a spectacular Monday, why don’t you? Give him what-for! Show that sucker who’s boss! Tell him I sent ya!

Frozen Fingers Make it Hard to Push the Shutter Button

Oklahoma is having the snowiest winter I can remember. And as I look out at its sparkling malevolence, I wish I didn’t hate it with the burning fervor of a thousand suns. As I drove home from Wal Mart one day last week, I saw photo ops all around me, taunting me with possibility.

 

“The next time it snows, I’m just going to bundle up and get those pictures.” My daughter heard me vow when I got home.

 

“You’ll have your chance on Sunday.” She countered, eyebrow raised slightly in an expression of barely-concealed disbelief.

 

Dang. I thought to myself. Wish I hadn’t said that out loud.

 

Sure enough, Sunday morning dawned with a fresh blanket of my age-old nemesis covering every freakin’ thing in sight. I had a vow to fulfill, or else lose my credibility forever.

 

Actually, I don’t think Molly cared one way or the other. But I had seen a particular tree about a half-mile from our house just begging to be photographed, and I was determined not to let a little hexagonal precipitation keep me from it. How cold could it be, anyway? I was born in Alaska. I spent high school in Norway. I could thrill to the chill, baby.

 

I bundled up and struck out in search of fabulous wintery photos. I trekked up and down the hills of our neighborhood, nearly wiping out approximately 64 times, suffering a minor heart attack on the steepest incline, dropping my camera into a snowbank, and generally looking like an idiot with my too-small pink knitted hat perched on my head, my sweatpants stuffed into my fur-topped boots, and my scarf tied around my frozen face.

 

Maybe I should have taken a picture of that.

 

At any rate, I know you just can’t wait to look at the fruit of my labor, right? I said, RIGHT??? YEAH, THAT’S RIGHT, PEOPLE!  I RISKED LIFE AND LIMB TO GET THESE PICTURES, SO THE LEAST YOU CAN DO IS LOOK AT THEM!

 

::Commence photo review::

 

I call this one “Summer, On Ice”

 

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I call this one “Dog pee is warm”

 

P1010078

 

This one is called “I’m glad I’m not a bird”

 

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And this one is “Hummingbird Slushee”

 

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This one I call “Narnia”

 

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This one is called “I’m glad I’m not a bunny rabbit”

 

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And this is “My Butt is Cold”

 

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This one is “That’s weird, I’ve never seen wrinkly snow before”

 

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And here is “Snow Shark”

 

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Okay, now that’s just silly. How about something serious?

 

“Frozen Pump, but that’s okay Cuz It’s Fake Anyway”

 

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“I don’t know but I thought it was pretty”

 

winter flower3

 

“Winter Flowers”

 

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winter flower2

 

And, of course, the tree that I set out in pursuit of in the first place:

 

tree edit

 

At first, with my nose running and my eyes streaming and my buttocks seizing up, I wondered if it was even worth the trouble to go out and capture these images. But now that I’ve thawed out, I can safely say that I’m glad I carpe’d the hell out of the diem to do it.

 

Now, if someone would just be so kind as to wake me when it’s April, I’d be extemely obliged.