Friday, November 25, 2011

Craftering is hard.

I'm crafty.
And not in the sneaky way. Wait...yes, in the sneaky way, but also in the Martha Stewart-y way. Except mine usually turns out like Stewart's prison years stuff. Anyway, I saved my Christmas cards from last year and made these this year. Super fun. and EASY. Easy even for a craft-gimp like me.

Christmas Card Houses

I think they look better with the longer roof.

Anyone recognize the card you sent me last year?

Looks kind like Mater is the angel. I'm sure that's just what God wanted this scene to look like.
Closed house

See. You can put goodies inside. Guess what your Christmas cookies are coming in this year, neighbors? THIS HOUSE!

Saturday, November 19, 2011

My brain threw up some words tonight.

(This is fiction. I was reading Uncoupling by Meg Wolitzer, and this just sort fell outta my head onto "paper".)

Jane reached her car, fumbled with the keys, and let her thumb hover over the unlock button. Her heartbeat drowned out the sounds of the street, masking even the faint rush of the ocean as it caressed the shoreline behind her. She knew she should leave. That her next move should be to get into the car, start the ignition, pull out of the parking lot and never look back. When she reached her destination (a ranch-style home, a pug, a wall of neatly framed pictures with the frozen smiles of people from her life, a husband, a job) she'd find a way to slip back into the routine of things. It wouldn't be easy. It would never be easy again, knowing that she'd chosen logic over passion. But what else could she do? She was settled.

She closed her eyes tightly, and inhaled. Their parting hug left remnants of his scent on her clothes; one part diner food two parts sandalwood.

Couldn't she somehow make a logical argument for the need to act on emotions? Emotions never got a fair fighting chance? Not for Jane. She didn't let emotions interfere with her choice of colleges. She didn't let emotions intercede when she allowed herself to courted by and later married to the firm's finest up-and-coming prosecuting attorney. She didn't let emotions butt-in when they decided not to adopt when natural-born children became a non-option. Didn't she owe it to herself to make at least one life choice purely on emotion? True, logic had provided a home and husband and dog and job, but not love.

What waited for her back behind the counter of the diner was a choice based entirely on emotion. After everything, he deserved better, Jane thought with certainty, but he still wanted her. She tried to remember the details of their final embrace, every nuance, how she trembled at the gentleness of his touch, his breath on her ear, the whispered longing, and that lump that rose from her gut into her throat and burned still.

She turned, looked over the tops of the cars lined next to hers and stared at the horizon. The sun dipped its toe into the ocean, and the water welcomed its touch, reflecting back crests of gold. As the two grew nearer, the water ignited streamers of fire, and it seemed as if they belonged together. The ocean was bland, tepid, and lonely until its lover returned to awaken a flame within.

Her eyes wandered to the diner. She could make out his figure, watching her from behind the glass. That stupid orange shirt. A name tag. Chocolaty brown hair spiked with reckless abandon. Two leather wristbands. There was nothing logical about him.

His eyes fixed on her, the pleading clear even from a distance. Jane slipped both hands into her blazer pockets and licked her lips. They felt rough, textured. Lonely.

Monday, November 14, 2011

It's no wonder there's lots of malpractice suits out there

Think of your own caption. I just saw it and thought, "It's the Lego version of the opening scene of The Stand." I'm not sure how that fits with this post, but humor me. 
I just got my records from the doctors. I needed them for research for my weight loss memoir, and I kid you not, that whole cliche about docs having really bad handwriting is a true story.

Here's my interpretation of one of the notes:

Repressive got gain since 1st pregnancy. [Could be "Progressive wt. gain", but it sure felt repressive.]
& aus when act fishy [I do tend to break out my Australian accent when I act suspiciously.]
OCS Nevier pregnancy.
Stings @ rm Ha non. [He's making this part up, right?]
I revived a hve sitreateion (analysis
and adenied against NRC for
a treatment of AUB fincially
on liyner of denic pregnancy.
Instead, I recommended reat
for insulin resistance-->see
actended cursity sheet fr details
of counseling ink. Spent 25 min
of a nun appt counseling
zp: 1. chis compler nener
2. ohevity [obesity?]
3. puhance insulin resistance.
Man: /fasting glucen/lyrics/cr + [I know what this chicken scratch means. He ordered me a nasty flat orange soda glucose test. Yeck.]

I can't wait to talk to the dr. who wrote all this. I can't take heads or tails of most of it. But apparently at one point I had some problems with "liyner of denic pregnancy." I don't know what that is, but it sure sounds bad.

Saturday, November 12, 2011

A peek into my Christmas stash

Layne's been really worried that Santa won't be bringing her anything this year, because of all the times she's been bad. (Seriously, she had a melt-down once because a kindergartener on her bus ambush-kissed her on the lips. She thought that made them somehow married. I don't where she gets this stuff. *cough* Disney.) We've talked to her about accountability and how if she's sorry for stuff that she did wrong (really wrong, none of this bogus 5-yo-kissed-me stuff) and makes amends, then Santa and God will forgive her. But alas, her severe anxiety keeps her up most nights. Usually she's freaked about zombies and vampires being real, but now it's Jolly old St. Nick who keeps her up at night. I say, she has a helluva conscious on her; it's like her Jiminy Cricket is trying to get his "Guilt Trip" merit badge. 

That said, I think she'd be happy to know that "Santa" already got her one thing:

Photographer: "Show me tormented. Yes. Now pout. Perfect."
This super cute hat from Lettilu in hot pink. Also, I ordered it in kids' sizes b/c obviously Layne's bigger than the model in the photo.

They have some of the cutest friggin' hats. I was going to get one for Gavin too, but let's be honest, the boy won't wear hats to save his life. (Let's hope he doesn't have to work on a construction site when he grows up, b/c he prolly won't wear a hard hat either.

This is the Lettilu hat I wish he'd wear:

So cute you could die. I bet the model has a wingman named Goose.

"Who" is the cutest kid ever? Gavin would be in this hat. (Also applaud my "owlsome" owl-humor.)
Check out Lettilu's facebook page, and get some of your Christmas shopping done early. If enough of you like their page, I may be able to arrange a give-away.

I also bought myself some brown suede boots for Christmas at Head Over Heels. I'd show you a pic, but my friend convinced me to wrap them up for Christmas and wait like Santa expects me too. So I'm being a good girl this year, and you'll just have to wait to see 'em in December.

Monday, November 7, 2011

Pity Party! (and the bouncy-house of stress)

This pressure crushes,
Emitting tears.
A dream dissolved
Like grey gelatin
In boiling water.

Nails driven into a coffin
Of baked goods,
Stern looks
And an endless battle
Of prattle.

Nails bitten to the flesh,
and a lump of regret
Lodged in the throat.
The lump grows,
Gaining strength from Bile.


Comfort food
Tastes salty.
Now the pressure
Comes from within.


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