Tag Archives: happy

Now Accepting Happy Surprises. Had Fun Giving Some!


Now accepting happy surprises. Had fun giving some!
I’m full up on the other kind.
Huge hope and desire for the year ahead- to be effective, to make an indelible impression, to be allowed the tangible. Rainbows and starshine shooting from the bum as well? Sure, why not.


Gone, but not forgotten.
The season may be over, but there was nothing like dismembered elfin heads all strung in a row to celebrate.


Hey, ya hear the one about-
Yeah, me neither. Did hear bunches of holiday music this past month instead. Wasn’t all-together ready to pack it up and in. It brought a sense of nostalgia with it that I’ve hungered for. No hippo, though. Plenty of new Crayolas via Bean in these nifty silver packages- time for a crayon party. You think I’m kidding. ♦

And They Began Happily Ever After …


And they began happily ever after …
Bean looking beyond lovely, complete with hair styled in likeness to a shot of Selena Gomez via her request (Bean’s, not Selena’s) with a dramatic side sweep of curls. Having shopped around for veils and fascinators galore, and remaining less than thrilled with what was available, I fashioned her one myself, along with the accompanying lock to Shane’s key and a secret childhood ode nestled within for those in the “nose” only.
Sporting red felt suspenders that’ve been mine since the age of two, Elliott could hardly have been cuter as ring bearer. I love being regaled with the latest stories often showcasing the wisdom he possesses far beyond his years. However, that all went to pot upon his discovering the power of a microphone. With his father emceeing the reception, Elliott chose to treat easy access to the mic as a confessional. Several “confessions” in, he announces, “Sometimes I put my toys away,“ and a beat later, tugging on his dad’s tie to lower the microphone yet again, he continues, “And sometimes, I don’t.”


Taking a Chance on Love.
The groom representing his country of origin via the bride’s gift of cufflinks handcrafted and distressed by a friend. That evening’s dance partner- though not upstaging the groom- he certainly knew how to make an entrance, adding a palatable amount of punk to the soiree with his top hat, mohawk, studs, and kilt. His skirt was nearly prettier than mine.

Possessing the key to another’s heart.

Possessing the key to another’s heart. Five years into a serious relationship sure to culminate in matrimony, Shane walked into Bean’s life, and quickly confused the matter with his undivided attention and common kindnesses mostly abandoned by the boyfriend (his accent didn’t seem to hurt either). Does she stick around and see it through with so much time invested with someone already, or does she risk it all for something possibly more fulfilling, something sparked to fire by one that only glimmers with the other. That better fit. Though not without its pain or difficulty, Bean chose, and chose well, despite the risk of coupling with a guy four years her junior which at the time, seemed a largish gap, as Shane was a mere twenty. Now at twenty-six, and one of seven brothers all or mostly in or on the way to wedded bliss, he seems cut from a cloth of devotion. They provide hope that a love that’s true will yet find me as well.


But a few details.


Be Our Guest.
Putting my wonkish writing to good use. It was a circus-themed affair peppered heavily with an array of Disney references as Bean loves Disney nearly as much as she loves books, and Shane loves Disney nearly as much as he loves Bean.


It goes without saying.
Portable cake- a large tiered tower of salted caramel cuppiecakes in the most blueish of velvet, as opposed to the all too common red, was enjoyed by most all. NOTE: don’t lick the salt, eat it alongside the caramel and cake. Le and duh. ♦

Peculiarities …

A compilation of several peculiarities as of late …

Started a small campfire in a friend’s indoor kitchen oven the other day. Was toasting coconut under the broiler and learned that apparently their oven cooks a heck of a lot faster than mine does. A horrific smell of charred tropical remains accosted my nostrils and I slid (sock feet on hardwood) over to the oven door only to open it to a small, but raging bonfire of the sort found on beaches for campfire marshmallow toasting. Yikes! Closed the oven. One beat, two. Swallowed panic and – “Debwah, watcha doooin’?” My friend’s four-year-old daughter was standing thisclose to me, hands clasped behind her back as she rocked to and fro up onto her toes and back down. “Uh, bakin’, sweetie, how ’bout you run on over to the couch, I’ll be right over, k?” I said, trying to impart serenity and assuredness as visions of mighty firefighters tromping through mounds of burnt ashes loomed in the back of my mind. Her younger sister quickly bounded over to join her, though, thankfully, my request was quickly taken up and one grabbed the other’s hand and they convened on the couch, so that I could gravely face the fire flaring angrily in the oven window. Deeeep breath. Reopened the door, grasped the baking sheet with a nearby pot holder, and gingerly pulled it out so as not to have the fire slide off onto the floor. Began blowing on the fire. That only made the flames jump higher! Couldn’t remember if one is supposed to throw flour or salt or something altogether different on kitchen fires in order to squelch them. It occurred to me that the fire wasn’t going anywhere, it was content to burn brightly in one perfectly centered spot, so with my back to the couched girls (a vain attempt to deflect attention in hopes of alluding an explain of my little mishap to my friend who’d left me, um, the responsible adult, in charge while she showered), I traveled slowly and steadily to the sink. I was never so happy to see running water in my life as it drowned out the last stubborn bit of flame. Not content to have learned my lesson the first time, and hoping to cover the foul stench of too toasty coconut, I put in a new batch, that time, with great success. Think I may be in the clear as I’ve heard not a peep from the friend …

I reached for the knob to shut off the evil, having rid myself, at least my hair, of suds.

Now, as happy as I was to see running water on that particular day, soon after, it was the very last thing I wanted to see. Funny how that happens, huh? Recently, Bean had the knack of starting a shower within minutes before me just about every day in a long stretch of week. In over two years living in our current digs, this hasn’t been a problem, so I don’t know if probability ganged up on me, saved up all its occasions to hit me all at once, or what, but this resulted in one too many cold showers. I’m talking ICE cold. Where you’ve turned the knob in increments ever closer to the HOT side chasing what’s left to be had of anything remotely warm, only to reach that point where the knob will no longer turn and you’re faced with the realization that evil, only PURE evil is gonna come outta that showerhead anytime soon. ICE, frickin’ cold, water! As the showers were often sandwiched between a crazy, sweaty workout and a hectic work schedule, there was no luxury of waiting for warmer water to accumulate. By, oh, maybe the fourth or fifth shower that week, I’d reached a majorly peeved level, standing there still soapy from head to toe thoroughly cussing my sister out under my breath as though it was all her fault and not that of probability’s. Repeatedly gasping from the continuous chill brought by the death pellets assaulting my tender flesh (a little over the top, you say, try joining me for one such shower, and you, too, will cry “foul pellets of death!”), I reached for the knob to shut off the evil, having rid myself, at least my hair, of suds. Pushed the knob in to shut off the flow. The water continued to pour. Repeatedly pushed, shoving the knob, but to no avail. Flashbacks to the 2006 kitchen sink episode began. Turned it back to the left and then to the right again, all the while breathless, jittery and jumpy from the continuous downpour of cold. Finally, abandoned ship/shower, perplexed. And slightly blue. Ish. A call to the apartment office manager brought a sympathetic maintenance man within minutes who promptly turned off the roar of rushing water and replaced the old cracked knob with a shiny, fully-functioning, new one. God bless that maintenance man! With toasty warm showers for life.

Horton cakes. Yay! Hooray for Horton. Who heard a Who. You know who. With the release of the latest charming Seuss theatrical offering, Horton Hears a Who, came a promotional tie-in at the IHOP restaurants. Including what? No, Who. Horton! Cakes. Kooky! FUN! And kinda grody, truth be told.

IHOP Horton Pancakes

There we were. The movie theatre all to ourselves except for some guy in the very back aisle splayed out laid on his side across four seats, the armrests pushed up and out of the way. A little odd, but to each his own as long as it’s not intruding on me or anyone else, right? Charlie Bartlett began to play out in all its Ferris Bueller meets Pump Up the Volume glory. Fifteen to twenty minutes in, something’s … off. *Snif*, *snif-snif*. Wha … turning my head towards Bean, about to ask “What’s that sme – “It smells like FEET,” states Shane, Bean’s newish and British (ooh, la-la!) boyfriend. A wafting, a filling, consuming, all encompassing, permeating odor. Rank. Aaaaaaaaaaaaah! Seriously. Le pew! It’s like it ambushed us, sure to have reached every corner of the room before – haha!- attack. Total annihilation of nose cavities! El stinko, McStinky. Something had to be done. Bean has inherited my former temper and ruthless tactic of straight up confrontation of any said offender, so I knew not to send her. Poor Shane, the only, and therefore, alpha male, seemed to slouch in his seat as he krinkled and covered his nose all the more. That left ME. I’ve grown greatly in my skills of diplomacy over the years concerning the need to deal with such culprits, but a quick half-stand and twist around to assess his exact whereabouts left me with the irrational fear that he’d maybe removed more than just his shoes. Flopped back down and after a few more minutes with all three of our noses covered off and on, Shane dutifully offered to venture out in search of the manager. Upon his return, a manager followed by a slew of fellow workers peaked their heads around the corner, noses also covered. Shane later shared that they’d all immediately smelled feet once opening the theatre door. The manager climbed the stairs and strode over to the culprit for a pow-wow, and then left. The man left soon after, too, staring at us as he passed by, only to return minutes later, this time shoes firmly in place for the remainder of the movie. God bless that theatre manager! With toasty warm socks for life. Stinky-free …

There are those things one gives up on in life, as they seem just not meant to be.

Yesterday, only a few days into the new spring season, I looked outside to see snow falling! Snow, SNOW! If I could hug snow, I certainly would. It’s magical stuff. This past winter went so fast, I swear I’m just asleep and it’s all a dream and really it’s still December. All season, I awaited an accumulation of snow which never came. Sure, a few false starts here and there, but it’s been a year and a half since it’s snowed right and proper, enough to suit my desire. So, as each half hour rolled by and snow began to build and cover the earth, every nook and cranny to be found, the fence posts, each tiny branch on every tree, I grew increasingly giddy with delight. Soon, the sidewalks and roads were covered as well, a true sign of a GREAT snowfall. For hours, I was filled with immense joy, thrilled at the unexpected happy surprise, so out of tune with the warming weather as of late. Outside, I looked up to the largest flakes I’ve ever seen. They were like feathers floating down, thousands of pillow feathers drifting in the air, landing on my tongue, melting with my breath. I couldn’t shake the sense that it was a little bit of the miraculous, it speaking to possibilities. There are those things one gives up on in life, as they seem just not meant to be. I’d resigned myself to the wait of a good dose of snow later this year, or next even. And yet, to my wonder, the beauty of much snow swirled all around, my little winter wish fulfilled exceedingly. It bolstered my faith, that when there seems no possible way, there, in the end, after it’s all seemingly played out, it can still happen. A parallel to the dreams I hold for my own life. I knew snow was magic! ♦

Yes, I’ve Been Meaning to Write

Sunlight Off the Patio
Would ya look at that?

Glorious! That sunshine. It’s what greeted me upon entering the living room this morning and has inspired me to write, at last. The early part of this week was absolutely hellacious. I spent days in bed sicker than I’ve been since childhood with the flu. Tossed cookies left and right all day Sunday only to wake groggily at midnight to that movie Dead Calm playing (has the most beautiful score by the way) which set the stage for my dreams to follow as I tossed and turned waking midday Monday to the sorest sides ever from all that cookie tossing and a headache capable of splitting the Red Sea. Ai carumba! Energy returned early in the evening and I had just enough time to finish watching the latest episode of 24 on the ipod (watched all the past seasons through Netflix at the great urging of my sister) before the newest episode started. I awoke to “You’re sleeping?!” from Bean who came down to my room to discuss something big that had just happened- guess I’ll be seeing that on the ipod, too. Tuesday was one of those well-am-I-still-sick-or-not-kinda-days and I’m happy to report, that nope, I wasn’t! My sister was.

I’ve been meaning to write.
About the most spectacular Christmas season and how I didn’t want it to end.
Maurice Sendak's Drosselmeier

How that feeling, that Christmas spirit that I wonder each year if it’ll arrive, and it has, save for one, was abundant this time around, arriving on Thanksgiving and ending only after each holiday decoration was packed away.
How there were many activities and outings, almost daily, and how cookie baking lasted until two in the morning and shopping was a cinch this time around, and how our much too tall tree bent right off the ceiling and back down to the floor in a dramatic swoop after a gross overestimate in vertical height, but mostly about the Pacific NW Ballet’s “The Nutcracker.”
How this was my year to finally, finally attend after many years of saying I would one day, and could’ve, too, except the key was that my dad had promised me tickets years ago, ten to be exact (years, not tickets), and that he would attend, a big deal because he’s quite the hermit at times.
How he called up and told Tina and me to reserve us all seats.
How a dilemma arose when we sat staring at the online seating chart, coded with little colored blobs to indicate sections on all spots, but one, the important one.
How the little yellow blob in front of the orange blob had no price listings and that happened to be right where we wanted to sit.
How to purchase tickets in the orange blob behind the yellow blob meant we were to be rows and rows back behind dozens and dozens of heads potentially obstructing the view of a ten year wait.
How I wanted to sit in the yellow blob!
About the huge internal victory dance when we arrived to find we were in the yellow blob!
How the heck that happened I don’t know, but thank you mislabeled online seating chart for your grace because front row smack in the center was divine!
How I don’t think I blinked the entire time.
About how the production’s fabulousness lies in the sets designed by Maurice Sendak, the celebrated children’s book author and illustrator of Where the Wild Things Are.
How no other city’s production would do.
How I was thrilled and touched and blessed to finally attend it with my hermit, I mean, dad.

Yes, I’ve been meaning to write.
About 2006, about the year’s highlights and lowlights, a wrap up of sorts:

About my favorite art exhibit.
Henry Darger

How it was called Highlights from the American Folk Art Museum, but it’s like no folk art I’ve ever seen.
How the artist Henry Darger was a janitor by trade who in his off hours created his own imaginary world.
How he began his work at 19, continuing until his death at age 81, when his landlord discovered the accumulation of his work blanketing the room he’d rented for decades.
How he wrote a 15,000 page illustrated epic entitled, wait for it, The Story of the Vivian Girls, In What Is Known As the Realms of the Unreal, of the Glandeco-Angelinian War Storm, Caused by the Child Slave Rebellion. Whew!
How it’s the tale of seven little girls who attempt to rescue enslaved children from an army of adults, the Glandelininas, whom enslaved them.
How his work consisted of an incredulous amount of material, several diaries, a six-part weather journal, an eight volume autobiography, a sequel to the aforementioned mondo epic novel, several hundred nine foot long, double-sided scroll-like paintings, collages galore, five hundred pen and pencil sketches and studies, and thousands of media clippings, often of girls, most especially the little Coppertone girl, clouds, landscapes, plants, weather, war, and disasters.
How that sheer mass of material, that whole secret world fit in that room he rented.
How that handwritten novel, 15,000 pages, was absolutely amazing to view in person, I mean, imagining the time each page represented as he thought, planned, wrote, drew, painted, each and every one and then the accumulation of his touch on each of those pages, the sweat, the smearing, and tiny tears in the paper, amazing.
How the words “whimsical” and “sinister” begin to describe his work, and “obsessive” continues.
How this isn’t my favorite exhibit of the year because it’s pretty, or executed with immense skill, or contains my weakness, that being an arrangement of color to make my knees go weak.
About how it’s my favorite because it got me thinking.
How this man had such a need inside him to tell a story, that it wasn’t about the recognition of others, purely about that need to release what existed in him based on what he experienced in life.
How it’s a reminder that no one knows what another may live in their mind and in their home.
How it spoke to me about what lies in me as well, about the stories and art and work to be created, how it finds a way to express itself in one form or another, my clothing or my home or my cuisine, whether I consciously choose to give voice to it, or not.

About my favorite films | movies. (You drink coffee at a film and eat popcorn at a movie.)
About how this could so be a post in itself, so rather than even begin, I shall end with a list, the good, the bad, and the to-see list.
The World’s Fastest Indian
Akeelah & the Bee
Running Scared
Last Holiday
Inside Man
Lady In the Water
Final Destination III
Notes On a Scandal
Stranger Than Fiction
The Last King of Scotland

Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Man’s Chest
(love the first one!)

The Science of Sleep
Lucky Number Slevin
Curious George
The Dead Girl
My Super Ex-girlfriend
Talladega Nights: The Ballad of Ricky Bobby
(I wanna go fast!)

About my favorite song.
How about Til Kingdom Come by ColdPlay, Into the Ocean by Blue October, The Adventure by Angels & Airwaves and just about everything on the local jazz station, and I’m talkin’ the real jazz station, not that soft jazz, muzak bull puckey.

About my favorite book.
How I’m sorry to say, this year held not one standout book for me, I did read a few handfuls of ’em, though apparently, they were the wrong ones.

About my greatest struggle.
How I spent a better part of the year, okay, the whole darn thing, and then some, wrestling with myself, with the fear of moving forward on into what I’ve been working toward for so long now, have laid much of the groundwork for, and yet it’s got this precious, “fragile status” stamped on it because it’s taken so dang long in coming and because, the truth of it, it holds my heart, and I think writing it down here is the good swift kick in the bum I may need to push me over and on into it.

About my greatest triumph.
How it’s been such, what are the words, fun, a delight, and such a completely satisfying experience to reconnect with people from all different seasons of my life via, who-da-thunk it- MySpace!
How that makes it a triumph because I really didn’t think I’d make the connections again, but thought I’d like to, and it’s made life richer and fuller.
How there are still more out there I’d like to know again.

About my greatest hope.
How I have great hope for the full recovery of a friend of mine.
How the most nasty of turns were his for the taking about midway through last year and that has left him on dialysis.
How it happened to him, yet I’m the one still reeling to find one of the most energetic, hustling, bustling, moving, shaking kinda guys halted and slowed to a snail’s pace.
How I marvel at his upbeat, nothing-less-than-positive attitude and how I’ve known more than a few “poor me’s” who could take a lesson from him.
How a side effect of it all has been poor vision for him.
How I find I know how to communicate with someone who can see, but can’t hear, but to hear and not see is a challenge for me!

I really was gonna write.
About the year ahead.
Scrabble Q Tile

How resolutions are such nasty buggers and I never make them, but how else am I ever gonna take time out to learn how to cook a rockin’ turkey for the holidays if it’s not by resolution?
About how I could nearly float with the joy I feel for the year ahead and about all the odds and ends I want to learn along the way like words beginning with “Q” for Scrabble, and five killer poems I can recite at the drop of a hat, and police codes, and all about volunteer vacations.
About so much more!

I was gonna write.
About the Oscars.

Oscar Statuettes

About how Helen Mirren was favored to win for her role in The Queen and how I had nothing to say about that other than &#%[email protected]!
How thankfully, Beyonce was not nominated for her Dreamgirls performance as was once rumored saving me the task of pitching a fit.
How Notes On a Scandal was a delicious piece of work due to Judi Dench’s smug, wry narration.
How the film’s a great reminder that any fun found in cheating on one’s spouse often comes all too quickly to the messiest of endings.
About how Penelope Cruz captured my heart with a song in Volver.

About how I suppose it really has much to do with the story being set in Spain and all that glorious, vibrant color, so easily swayed am I, by a little color.
How Jennifer Hudson was utterly fantastic in Dreamgirls, her, too, with a song.
How the song was delivered from the gut, all the pain, angst, need, want, desire, raw, bitter desperation of love and loss all wrought up and spewed forth in that song performance.
How it’d be lovely to see Abigail Breslin win as the bright, gleeful girl, Olive, in Little Miss Sunshine.
How much of her charm in that role was simply her being her in all her little girl glory.
How more than all the nominated movies combined, The Last King of Scotland made its impression on me, so much so, I must tell why another time.
How originally, I wasn’t looking forward to Dreamgirls and I could hardly believe all the hype surrounding it concerning its potential Oscar worthiness (Hudson song aside).
How then I saw Eddie do his thing.

How first I thought he might just be reaching into his bag of former SNL glory and pulling out an over the top impression of a musical performer on stage, but quickly thought differently.
How Norbit reared its ugly head all too soon!
How in Little Children, Jackie Earl Haley brought humanity to the role of a sex offender- a man who liked to expose himself- he was vulnerable and child-like, and it was a sad, sad thing to watch his compulsion and the consequences.
How Mark Wahlerg was even nominated in The Departed is beyond me, for the natural understated performance angle, maybe.
How I enjoy Ryan Gosling immensely and hope and expect to see him win one day, and in the meantime am thrilled he won a Spirit award, like the Oscars for indies, for his performance in Half Nelson.
How Little Miss Sunshine was a delight because it showed hurting, miserable people care enough in spite of themselves to help a family member, little girl Olive, reach her goal of winning a pageant.

How they ended up helping each other, too.
How the final scene may be a bit off-putting, but it’s so not the focus, it’s about the freedom and release and togetherness the family experiences.
How if anything should be of concern, it should be those plastic little girls cast as the other pageant contestants.
How I’d heard it called the little movie that could and I so wished it would!
How The Departed was aptly titled, I’ll give it that.
How I failed to see the greatness in Babel.
How I so looked forward to this film, expecting a film to follow in the steps of Crash in telling interconnected, individual stories with a deeper meaning to take away after having viewed it.
How I sat indifferent, almost put off, by the characters portrayed, not caring one iota for really even one of them as the movie rolled on.
How that’s just the state of mind the director intended for the audience.
How, rather than engage the audience’s hearts in caring for his characters, he wanted the audience in a state of agitation to reflect how the world often treats one another- like an annoying channel to be changed, out of sight, out of mind.
How it’s a brilliant idea, I appreciate the thinking-outside-of-the-box approach.
How personally, I prefer to be moved to action by being engaged to care.
About how Pan’s Labyrinth … oh my!
How what a tasty bit of terror was to be had in a brief but effective scene introducing us to the incredibly creepy, horrific, and oddly cute (?!) creature to be found tucked into one of the three tasks the main character of the film must accomplish.
How you must watch and see!
How everyone could do themselves a favor and learn a bit with The Last King of Scotland, feel a bit with Little Miss Sunshine, and dream a bit with Pan’s Labyrinth.

I was meaning to write.
Dolly In a Tree
About roadside etiquette.

About how we were driving up to Leavenworth for the weekend to celebrate my mom’s birthday only to break down on the side of the road just over the pass, but still tucked behind a momentous hill that kept the warm sun from shining down on us.
How when we were all sitting in my little car, people stopped to ask if we needed assistance on a regular basis.
How once we were without my little car due to a super-fast towing service and just a semi-fast rescue effort from the family, the three of us sat by our lonesomes perched in a row on three large rocks, while not a soul stopped to inquire of our needs, car after car drove by.
How maybe it had something to do with the dolly sitting behind us in the bare little tree.
How really, what else is there to do but break out the camera and take photos in such situations, hence said dolly in bare little tree?
How the fact that there even was a dolly accompanying three adult women on a trip into the mountains is an altogether different story best told by Bean.

Yes, I’ve been meaning to write. ♦

Ever Pull Your Ponytail Too Tight? Youch!

The insomnia is back. This isn’t a bad thing, just an odd thing that leaves me wide awake until daybreak. I’m awake just enough to be wired, fully conscience of the fact that I’m WIDE AWAKE, unable to sleep, but not so awake that I’m of a mind to be productive in any way. Whatsoever. Instead, hours pass by, often quickly, thank goodness, in which I float through existence in a surreal-like state doing nothing much else other than thinking, contemplating, philosophizing. My brain won’t shut off … must count sheep … 13 sheepies …

So happy to have the temperature drop. Several weekends ago, I couldn’t remove enough clothing, drink enough water, sit still enough, take enough cold showers. Hot, sticky. I would have slept in the bathtub, had I not had “one can drown in three inches of water,” running through my head. Bean told me about a dude who lobbed a fan at her in desperation when she politely told him at the register that it was against store policy to sell him the display model, and that, yes, she did know they were out of stock, along with every other store in a fifty mile radius … 12 sheepies …

Alias Season V will be available soon. Utterly ludicruous, totally outlandish series with every character in possession of at least nine lives. And I love it! Watched all the back seasons via Netflix during this past year’s Christmas gift wrapping. The BEST cameos EVER! Christian Slater. Ethan Hawke. Quentin Tarantino. Isabella Rosellini. More! Haven’t been this excited to see the outcome of an on-screen romance since the last time I got caught up in a television series: X-Files. Yep, back-to-back episodes late Sunday nights kept me company while working on assignments for class. My complete lack of interest in the show blossomed into a post-series obsession quickly turning to undying loyalty in the watch for any sign of requited love to be found between Mulder and Scully (almost typed Mully and Sculder). Was rewarded with a long-awaited, most perfect declaration of love stated through one fantasmic kiss near series end. Le sigh. Ok, that’s my abbreviated plug for shows revolving around agents. Don’t get me started on Keifer Sutherland AKA Jack Bauer in 24 … 11 sheepies …

Sporting ruby red slipper nail polish for the third week in a row … 10 sheepies …

Ruby Red Slipper Nail Polish

My chicken popped! Everyone should have a pint-sized rubber chicken in their car. Just be sure that when the sun rises in all it’s warmth and super-hot glory, that the liquid-filled, squishy yolk substance lying within your rubber chicken, doesn’t ooze down the dash as mine did … 9 sheepies …

Popped Rubber Chicken

Cliff is outta the hospital, hallelujah and yahoo! Been out for several weeks and getting better every moment. A friend from school, and a good painting buddy, he apparently got really sick, passed out on the front lawn, and woke up days later in the hospital fresh from a coma. Remains unexplained. Here’s to you … 8 sheepies …

Superman Logo

Went to the Street of Dreams recently. A row of gorgeous, high-priced homes decked out to the nines with the latest in design and amenities and for the price of admission, one can peruse every nook and cranny in the search for their own decorating ideas. This is one of my favorite little bits … 7 sheepies …

Outdoor Chess Board Game

Would like a ballroom dancing partner come autumn with cooler weather and the taking up of new activites, but alas, they apparently only reside in Florida nowadays … 6 sheepies …

I’m crazy about edamame. The little green buggers. Darn McDonald’s Asian salad … 5 sheepies … 


I like the pick-up line in Derailed.

Clive Owen and Jennifer Aniston In Derailed

I wanna go to a monster truck rally! Wanna buy an obnoxious over-sized foam finger and mightily wave it to and fro in the air screaming my lungs out for mondo vehicles … CRUSH THE COMPETITION! Yeahhhhh!! Woooooo-hooooo!!! Jump those doubledecker school busses! YeeeeeeHaaaah. It could be fun … 4 sheepies …

“Thawed For Your Convenience”. These are the words that grace the orange juice container I purchased at Jack In the Box the other day. The words imply a favor. That they’ve gone and actually liquified a former solid so that I may quench my thirst immediately as opposed to waiting until the rock melts. Simply amazing … 3 sheepies …  

Oh, look. It’s Bean.

Tina Holding A Dolly

She’s come for a visit.

She’s left friends.

Dolly and Stuffed Toy

That pointy thing up there scares me. I sometimes imagine it falling, landing sharply on my face somewhere. It is only paper. But hey, it’s folded sharply and positioned precariously. Sure, it’s a pretty paper lamp at the second angle, but lying directly underneath, squarely on my pillow, insta-weapon.

What I won’t endure for decor … 2 sheepies …

Cobalt Blue Star Lamp

Cobalt Blue Star Lamp

Am making one of these for breakfast come morning with the mum…..

German Pancake

… 1 sheepie … ♦

Time Will Tell

It’s nearly 2:30 a.m. I am mad at myself. I treated my mom like doo today. I didn’t mean to. I just don’t know how to communicate with her. At all. Enough said. Or not enough said. I can’t even think how to begin to enjoy her company. I love her. She is my mom. Love is just built in with some people and that includes moms. How come I can’t ever seem to give her the benefit of the doubt, the grace, I try to give other people? Will keep trying. It’s all that can be done.

Need to go sit quietly and just be still for awhile instead of running around like a headless chicken.

In happier news, I finally, finally was paid for a freelance job I completed some time ago. Check in the mail along with copies of the work for my portfolio. So hooray for that! I have to make time to read a short story by James Joyce. The Turn of the Screw. Bean says she wants my take on it because it was a bit confusing. I think it’s supposed to be elusive, though, and left to interpretation, from the summary I read of it so far. In the morning, church. I am glad. I feel empty and full at the same time. Like I need all the bad to be erased and to be refilled with all things good. Can’t think of a better place than church for that. Need to go sit quietly and just be still for awhile instead of running around like a headless chicken.

Our Christmas tree is all red this year. Red lights. Red ornaments. Red star. Red. The living room now glows, all warm in this redness. Green surely wouldn’t have the same feeling. Nor blue.

Ice on the roads tonight. Slipped here and there all the way home just awhile ago. And my nose is cold. Hate that. Time to crawl into bed. Got a new blanket. Need another one even, I think. Still cold. Need to think. Or maybe just sleep instead. Ever feel like you think too much? Are happy and then begin looking and analyzing what could go wrong? Old habit of mine. Long left behind now rearing its ugly head. All because of some dumbness that I read. Not even dumbness really. Just feelings someone is allowed to have concerning another. Still, it is not fun to find that someone else could get in the way of what I hope is mine. Mine. Le sigh. ♦

I Am Happy to Say …

I am happy to say I feel much better, nothing ruined, I hope. I love that a little time can bring better perspective.

Tomorrow night should be fun! Some friends from school want to collaborate on a project, some paintings, in order to keep us focused and productive during the whole career transition thing. I’m so unprepared, though. Thought we were getting together over the weekend, but one of the guys is off to California come Saturday. I haven’t done my part yet. I haven’t brainstormed any ideas! They will come. They always do.

Life is good. I love it. Yet, I’m anxious, and a little tired of this whole making the “proper adult choices” thing. I want spontaneity back, for one. Will this path I’ve begun down lead to freedom? Freedom to be all that I am, and to share it all that I want. I wanna break out, go crazy, leave, follow the wind, make a mistake. Live with it. I want what I want and I want it now. No more patience, no more tempered response, feed me, fill me, leave me whole. I don’t know what I’m saying, just what I’m feeling. Hold tight, stay strong, I’ll press through, and be on the other side soon, a better me. ♦