Product review

Because I'm such a prolific blogger, I am often approached by companies to do product reviews.  (That's a lie.)  I always decline their offers of free stuff, exciting vacations, or staring roles in their upcoming ad campaigns.  (That's a lie, too.)  But recently, I came across a product with such surprising and awe inspiring powers that I just couldn't keep it to myself.  This is the most amazing product and I am excited to share it with you now.

Ladies and Gentlemen (or is it Lady and Gentleman?), allow me to introduce you to Neutrogena Clear Pore Cleanser/Mask:

Several months ago, I was in a health and beauty pinch and was forced to purchase this tube of face cleaner instead of my normal brand.  I chose it because of it's duel function as a cleanser you can use in the shower AND because it can also be used twice weekly as a face mask.  Blam-o.  Clear skin, here I come!

After using it for several days as a cleanser, I decided to give the "mask" feature a whirl.  I applied it liberally and walked around the house for several minutes looking like Mrs. Doubtfire.

Jeremy was startled.

As instructed by the product instructions (redundant much?), I left the mask on for several minutes, then used warm water and a soft cloth to remove it.  My skin felt fresh and rejuvenated.  I clicked my heels as I walked down the hall.

And that's when the secret, magical powers of the Neutrogena Clear Pore Cleanser/Mask began to reveal themselves.  Not only did the mask clear my pores and make me look hours younger, there was another long lasting side effect that I'm still rejoicing over.

Let's just say that Jeremy and I received some beautiful towels and washcloths for our wedding.  We'll say that because, well, we did.  We chose these lovely blue linens specifically because they were blue and we liked them.  (When I say we, I mean I.  I chose them.  Jeremy nodded and asked to be excused to go to Lowes.)

Don't you just love that color?!?  Me, too!

And let's just say that I used one of those beautiful blue wash cloths to remove the Neutrogena Clear Pore Cleanser/Mask from my face.  We'll say that because, well, I did.

And guess what happened!

This.  This.  Happened:

Those humble folks at Neutrogena didn't even tout the fact that their face product doubles as a wonderful BLEACH that can take the color out of most any CLOTH, especially WEDDING WASH CLOTHS.

You'd think, somewhere among all these words and statements:

...would be some confession of the magical powers contained in this small, plastic tube.  Just think of the market share that could be gained by such a disclosure!  Tubes of this marvelous cleanser/mask could be stocked in the beauty aisle AND in the laundry aisle.

If you're looking for a last-minute gift idea for that hard-to-buy-for person on your list, might I suggest a tube of Neutrogena Clear Pore Cleanser/Mask?  I feel certain that a little more investigation might reveal even MORE little known features.

Like, I bet it tastes really great on a sandwich!

The height of maturity

If, at some date in the future, I find myself applying for another job working with children or teenagers, I have the perfect response for the interview question, 'How are you uniquely qualified for this job?'

I will lean forward earnestly in my chair and respond thusly:

'I am in tune with the world around me and I recognize the potential in every parcel of creation.  For example, I see an onion slice on my lunch plate and recognize immediately its cry for artistic interpretation.'

'Furthermore, I inspire others to the same sort of greatness.'

Joy to the world

This story starts on what was probably a damp and chilly night in October.  I sat on the couch, in my pj's (I'm guessing), looking at Pinterest.  I'm a fan of the website.  Back in the day of printed magazines and scissors, I used to have an Idea Book.  When I found something in a magazine I liked, I'd cut it out and add it to the book.

Pinterest has revolutionized my idea book.  It's my idea book on steroids.  I find that I mostly "pin" cute outfits, which is a bit odd because I don't dress nearly as cutely as one would assume by viewing my Pinterest wardrobe.

ANYWAY, back to the chilly night in October.  I was pinning away probably trying to tune out my husband as he watched "Gold Rush" on full blast.  (BTW, have you ever watched that show?  Might need a whole separate blog post to analyze my thoughts on that matter.)  I found this pin:

...and thought right away that it would be an awesome thing to give the many, many volunteers who I work with at church.  I try to do a little something each Christmas to celebrate the fact that we've made it through another year together.  That we survived the snot, and face bites, and tricky conversations, and lived to tell the tale.  Last year, each volunteer kindly accepted a thank you note (budgets were tight), but this year I wanted to do something more.  This year has not been easy for me, and there have been months on end when I've struggled to find joy.  But often times, I needed to look only as far as the nearest volunteer at church.  I stole little bits of their joy without them knowing.  To see them interact with sweet kids or sweaty teenagers, to listen to their ideas, or see their faces light up when I asked for help.  They helped me see joy.

So with that sentiment in hand, I set out trying to replicate the pin from Pinterest.

With the help of my sister-in-law (hi, Gwin!), I found cookie cutters.

With the help of my calculator, I counted volunteers.  

With the help of the internets, I found boxes.

I gathered cellophane, recipes, and ingredients.  I. bought. a. rolling. pin.

And then...and then...AND THEN...I set about the task of baking 35 DOZEN COOKIES.  For those of you keeping track at home, that's 140 J's, 140 O's, and 140 Y's.  And a partridge in a pear tree.

Oh, Pinterest.  You slay me.

Thankfully, I had the foresight to reserve the church's kitchen with all its industrial size equipment.  Otherwise, I'd still baking.  For real.

The "troops", all lined up and waiting.  It's at this point that people would walk into the kitchen, pause, and say 'What are you DOING?'  

I'd never used a rolling pin before.  

The almost finished product.

I somehow failed to get a shot of the finished, finished product.  I baked from noon - 5:30pm last Friday.  By the time it was over, my back ached, my shoes had flour all over them, and I wondered what in the world I'd gotten myself into.

But it's kind of hard to feel down when the word of the day is "joy".  It's kind of hard to think about the other, easier gifts I could have given when this one just seemed so perfect.  Fact is, my precious volunteers would've been fine with a hug and a heartfelt "thank you."

But I wanted to do more.  I wanted to somehow give a little joy back to them since I'd borrowed some of theirs this year.  The word of the year for me has been "joy".  Not because I've necessarily had it very much, but maybe because I learned to appreciate it where ever and when ever I saw it.

This somehow turned into sort of a somber post, which was not my intention.  I'd planned to make fun of myself more, to joke about how I made an emotional eater out of the lot of 'em (get it?), and to do a better job of blaming Pinterest for my lofty aspirations.  But I'm not going to change it.

I kind of like it the way it is.

Joy to you this Christmas, friends.  Joy to the world.

Throwing another log on the holiday stress bonfire

With holiday gift giving and gift opening right around the corner, I'm just going to throw this out to see if anyone gives me an "amen!" in return.

If you're like me, you've probably opened a gift in front of the gift-giver before, right?  Or worse than that, you've opened a gift in front of a group of people who are all staring at you (can you say wedding shower awkwardness?).  The gift giver has a hopeful look on their face as they wait with baited breath to see if your reaction to the gift is everything they dreamed it would be.  No pressure, obviously.

Don't you find opening a gift that's been wrapped in a gift bag particularly stressful?  For me, it goes a little something like this:  I reach in the bag and retrieve the first thing my hand hits.  I carefully pluck it from the clutches of ALL THAT TISSUE PAPER, and set about admiring whatever "it" is.  And then (and this part is always the kicker for me), there's that totally uncomfortable moment when I'm not sure if there's anything else in the bag, buried under the mounds of tissue still filling the bag, so I try to nonchalantly put half my arm back in the bag while maintaining eye contact with the gift giver, hoping they won't notice?  Going in for the second swipe is like saying to the giver, "That's it?  There isn't anything else?  Seriously?  No really.  There's got to be something more in here.  The depths of this bag must contain something else.  I mean, the gift giving limit was $30, was it not?"

Totally insulting.

So there I am, tight smile on my face, ohh'ing and ahh'ing over item #1, all the while my arm buried elbow deep in tissue, hand flailing about, trying to surmise if there even is an item #2, trying to play it cool.

Of course, the converse is also true.  Let's say you forgo the second swipe altogether.  Often, just as you begin to set the bag aside after plucking item #1 from obscurity the giver will say, in a mildly patronizing tone, "Now, there's something else in there...".  And that is equally as awkward because in a way you've insulted them by implying that it's just a given that they are stingy.  It's a non-verbal way of saying, "I have received gifts from you before and my expectations are low.  You are notoriously frugal and, to be honest, I'm not expecting much."

Perhaps the solution is to find some way to act really impressed or enthralled with the tissue paper itself?  Like make comments about how it's a lovely shade of red, or that the texture feels as though it must be from recycled material?  If you can manage that little trick (not sure how, exactly), then you could admire the tissue and move it around in the bag while keeping a keen eye focused on yet undiscovered treasure?

Or perhaps, just maybe, I'm over thinking the whole thing?

Nah...

The menu was chicken, beans, and corn

It's a chilly, damp, gray day here in my little corner of South Carolina.  I have a meeting late this evening, so I'm attempting to work straight through the late afternoon so as to avoid commuting more than necessary.  Clearly, my productivity is at an all-time high.  I'm sitting at my desk, listening to the Classical Christmas station on Pandora.  The winter berry scented candle that I bought with wedding gift cards last November is burning on my desk, throwing off the last delicious fumes of light and joy before it's got nothing left to give.  

I began reflecting on my day - a day that was a bit disjointed what with two trips to shuttle my dear husband back and forth to the mechanic, and a mid-day meeting downtown.  Oh, and I also stopped for Dunkin Donuts coffee about an hour ago.  It really is that damp and that dreary here.  

And in the midst of my reflection, it hit me.  How did this not strike me until now?  

Today, I ate lunch in a men's locker room.    

Depending on how you look at it, that's either a highlight or a low light.  Or both?  

The end.  

A summary

Just to reassure you that my lack of blogging lately has nothing to do with the fact that my life is super busy and ultra-interesting, here's a 24-word summary of my night last night:

I got carried away at a silent auction and now we're the proud owners of a sketch of a seafarer framed in drift wood.  

Why can't I use my competitive powers for good, instead of using them to acquire oddly appointed home decor?  

face PAIN-ting

Last Saturday, I had the pleasure of painting faces at my church's Fall Festival.  I had initially envisioned that I'd be the supervisor of a cheerful band of festively-clad teenage face painters.  My role would be to offer assistance along the lines of 'Sure, I'll be happy to fetch more black paint,' or 'Would anyone like another hot dog?'

Not surprisingly, the idea of spending several hours on a Saturday painting faces seemed much more romantic and idyllic to my teenage friends back in September (light years ago in the mind of a 15-year-old) than it did days before the event when it was time to commit.  So I set about the task of mentally preparing that I'd be the only face painter at the 4-hour long event.

I should disclose at this juncture that one of my teenage-turned-college friends was home on fall break and was delighted to help me.  Without her, I'd still be sitting on the front lawn of the church, my tiny paintbrush covered in dew, a line of impatient preschoolers and their toe tapping parents boring holes in the back of my head with their beady little tear-filled eyes.

I digress.

Thankfully, the face painting was free.  No charge.  And let me just say: people totally got their money's worth.  One kid, who requested a blue flower with a green stem, returned an hour after he commissioned his first piece to request a second.  He explained his encore appearance at my table by saying, simply, "I would like a pumpkin this time, please.  I like the flower, but I don't like it very much."

And bless his little heart, he kind of had a point.

My friend Karen took these paparazzi-style photos of me as I toiled away.

I'm looking at whatever I just painted on that little girl's face and I'm thinking 'I like it, but I don't like it very much.' 

"FOR THE LAST TIME, KID, I DO NOT KNOW HOW TO PAINT A RAINBOW PRINCESS!" 

I did hone my negotiation skills quite a bit.  These two walked up, and the one on the right requested a tiger face complete with bloody fangs.  Whimper, whimper.  After some high-level peace treaty talks, I convinced him that "old football player" was totally the way to go.  His younger brother just wanted "detective spectacles and a mustache," a request I felt confident hopeful I could accommodate.  See for yourself:

I'd say I pretty much nailed it.

Celebrate good times

I will now tell you a story.  At the end, I will let you decide whether or not the story is true.  A tip while you're reading it: you should keep in mind that it's a totally true story.

On Monday, Jeremy and I celebrated our 365th day of marriage.  Which means one year ago, we were doing a little of this:

And then we proceeded to go sit on a beach in Mexico and eat nachos.

To celebrate the nacho eating, and the part about how we made it through 365 days of living in the same house (with a dog), we decided to skip the traditional year-one wedding gift of "paper" and opt instead for "beef."

That is to say, we decided to go to downtown Charleston and have a nice meal at a fancy restaurant.  Leave your toothpicks and ketchup packets behind, honey!  We're going out in style!

This is where the story gets good (and everyone breaths a collective sigh of relief).  Unbeknownst to me, our beef-eating plans also included spending-the-night-downtown-in-a-hotel plans.  I assume that's Jeremy's way of apologizing about the whole "I have a dog" thing.  Acceptance of apology pending...

He made plans for us to stay at the Francis Marion Hotel.  Such a sweet heart (Jeremy, not Francis Marion. Though I suppose he could've been a swell guy, too).

This is where the story gets REALLY good (I hear you sighing.  Again.).  Upon check-in, we received a room upgrade.  I was unaware of said upgrade until we got in the elevator with some other hotel-stayers and someone asked Jeremy which floor and Jeremy says, in his calmest, most nonchalant voice ever, "Penthouse, please."

Ex-squeeze me?

So I get this stupid grin on my face, made even more unfortunate because the doors of the elevator were shiny, reflective brass and so everyone could see my stupid grin face and I kept trying not to make eye contact with Jeremy for fear I'd really lose it and show emotion in public, which I guess is frowned upon?  But, as you've probably noticed before, the PENTHOUSE is often very far away from the LOBBY, thus a long elevator ride, thus many floors of trying to maintain composure.

So we FINALLY get off the elevator, on the PENTHOUSE floor, where I immediately begin freaking out, asking Jeremy to tell me every detail of how this happened.  He, being a guy, just said it sort of happened.  Well, thanks.

For those of you who are visual learners, I have prepared the following picture to help illustrate the magnitude of our good fortune:

Never before in my experience has an upgrade been...so...up.

So we proceeded to jump on the bed, and gawk openly about the fact that this hotel room had more bathrooms than our house.  Which is to say, it had two.

Checking out the view

This is what he done seen.

Our pre-dinner party set-up.  Don't act like you don't travel everywhere with your framed wedding portrait.  Liar.  

And then.  AND THEN, we started a new tradition.  On our first anniversary, we posed for a picture while holding our wedding portrait.

Next year, we'll pose with this picture of us on our first anniversary, holding our wedding portrait.  On our third anniversary, we'll pose with the picture of us on our second anniversary, holding the picture of us on our first anniversary, holding our wedding portrait.  On our fourth anniversary, we'll probably forget all about the whole darn thing.  Or Jeremy will finally look at me and scream, "WILL YOU STOP IT WITH THE PICTURES, WOMAN?!?!"  And I'll smile sweetly and say, "dog" and he will acquiesce immediately.

And then, AND THEN, ANDTHEN.  It was time for beef.  Delicious, gorgonzola cheese accompanied steak.  With mashed potatoes and lobster mac-n-cheese.  And a single slice of grilled tomato, which totally counts as a serving of vegetables.

Y.U.M.

And then, AND THEN, ANDTHENANDTHEN, it was time for our second long trip from the lobby to the PENTHOUSE.  This time, I was able to show all my excited emotion, which reflected beautifully in the brass elevator door.  Please pay close attention to the way my upper body is so beautifully contorted.

AND.  THEN.  We walked into our PENTHOUSE SUITE to find a plate of chocolate covered strawberries and a hand written note from the darling man at the front desk who was responsible for our upgrade.  I mean, can you even believe it?  Complete with a doily.  I love a doily.

So, yeah.  How's that for a story?  A totally, totally true story?

Thank you, Sir Francis Marion, for whatever it is you did to deserve having an entire hotel named after you.  And an extra pat on the back for the excellent job you did during staff training.  Those front desk folks are top notch!

Going off the map

On the second Saturday in October last year, Jeremy and I got married.  It was a perfect day.

On the second Saturday in October this year (which would be today, for those of you keeping track at home), Jeremy is at Home Depot (his mother ship) while I sit on the couch in my PJ's with wet hair, writing on my blog.  I'd say we've settled in to life together quite nicely.

The transition into a life of "ours" was helped along tremendously by all the beautiful, generous wedding gifts we received.  Daily, we use matching dishes, fluffy towels, and we snuggle into crisp bedding, all thanks to our friends and family who added to our celebration with GIFTS!  I'm also happy to report that the knives we received have never been used as weapons.  Unless you count my cooking as a weapon.  Or a crime against humanity.  Cut me some slack.  I'm improving...

I've always been a staunch "buy-from-the-registry" kind of girl.  I think it comes from a lack of confidence that I could be creative or insightful enough to go off-registry and hit a bulls-eye.  But several savvy gift givers did just that for us.  I would like to share with you now my most favorite wedding gifts which happened to be not anywhere on any registry.  In no particular order, they are:

#1).  The Peacock Floor Lamp from my Aunt Nancy

When I was a girl, my Aunt Nancy gave me a small stained glass desk lamp with the design of a dragonfly for Christmas.  I loved it.  Loved it, loved it, loved it.  It inspired my love of stained glass.  Because she is amazing, Nancy found this lamp, which features a peacock feather design.  (The peacock feather inspired the colors and decor of our wedding, in case you didn't know.)  In the immortal words of Steve Carell, "I love lamp."

#2). The quilt from Ms. Karen

Ms. Karen is a sweet, sweet woman from church and when she gave us this quilt, I nearly died.  She, of course, MADE IT.  I thought that sort of thing only happened in the movies.  Wait.  Am I in the movies?  Ms. Karen confessed that she had convinced herself that Jeremy and I had a very contemporary, black-and-white-only, sleek living room and that we would have no use for such a quilt.  You can see for yourself how amazingly it fits with our decor.  And the quilt can be thrown in the wash, easy as pie.  Assuming I can rip it from Jeremy's clutches.

#3). Coffee mugs from Sarah

Follow me here: Jeremy's co-workers wife, Sarah, made these coffee mugs for us, and I don't think they've had a day off since last October.  I've become more of a coffee drinker over the past few months, and these mugs are a big reason why.  They are the perfect mug.  To take this picture, in fact, I had to fish them out of the huge pile of dirty dishes in the sink.  We love them.

#4). Grilling rubs from Jordan Ashley and Brian

These grilling rubs from Williams-Sonoma could make even a stale piece of tree bark taste like a gourmet treat.  How do I know?  Trust me.  Just...trust me.  There are 4 rubs for every kind of meat you can imagine, and they taste great on veggies, too.  It's the gift that keeps on giving.

#5).  Brad Walker Pottery bowl from Susan and Matthew

The pictures really don't do this bowl justice.  It is a piece of art, right in our very own kitchen.  When Jeremy and I opened this gift, our jaws hit the floor and we just muttered one syllable words for a few minutes.  "Wow."  "Wow."  "What?"  "I mean..." "Wow."

Susan (and Matthew) went straight for sentiment with this one.  Brad Walker's studio is in Dahlonega, GA, which happens to be the town where Susan and I first met as summer camp counselors.

This bowl makes me happy and I heart it.  You cannot have it.  Get your grubby hands off of it.

#6). Our wedding invitation, framed, from Ashley and Dave

Ashley gave me a head's up that she was going to do this, but I never could have imagined that it would turn out so beautifully.  The mounting and the matting and the frame and the everything about it is lovely.  It's hanging in our living room and I've often wished we had one just like it for every single room in the house.  I know we'll cherish it for years to come.  And I also know it will help one of us always remember our wedding date.  I mean, it's right there on the wall, she says, nagging unnecessarily.

Honorable Mention:
This final gift doesn't quite fit the category since it was on our registry, but I felt the need to include it because it's been the sleeper hit of the year.  I was skeptical when we registered for it, assuming we'd never really use it and it would serve only to make me think unchristian things about our cabinet space, but I couldn't have been more wrong.

I'm sorry, food scale.  I underestimated your worth and usefulness.  I doubted you and I'm sorry.  I love you.  I love measuring portions of turkey on your clear, glass plate.  I love the way you are so precise.  I love your stainless steel, dishwasher safe bowl.  You make me wish I understood fractions better.  Which is more?  1/8th or 3/4ths?  I do not know.  You make me want to be better at math.  And that, perhaps, is the most amazing gift of all.

Rolling with the punches, using cheese to cope

Turns out it's a "take deep, cleansing breaths" kind of Saturday morning.  Not at all what I anticipated, which makes the reality even harsher (more harsh?).  I tend to be very protective of my weekends, and I try in earnest during the week to plan and prepare to ensure that work doesn't unexpectedly creep into Friday and Saturday.  But alas, sometimes I get the slightly panicked work-related phone call on SATURDAY MORNING, followed by a text from a teenager, followed by a Facebook message from a volunteer, and it leaves me wondering if 10:00am is too early for a glass of wine.

Instead of the vino, I decided to make my scrambled eggs with butter and cheese (take THAT, Linda the Trainer) and have a second cup of coffee.  Admittedly probably not the best choice for my frayed nerves.

I'm rethinking my plans to attempt to buy jeans today, because in my book, trying on jeans is only slightly less painful than trying on bathing suits.  My aggravation tank it full to the max.  It's not good "pants trying on" weather over here.    

And now that I've typed it all out and promised myself not to delete this post, it all sounds absurd and trivial. Reminds me of one of my favorite mantras:

"With enough preparation, I can be VERY spontaneous."

Exactly! Sort of.

Now that school's firmly back "in", my weekly 30-minute tutoring/mentoring sessions with Logan the (now) 4th grader have resumed.  Big ups for passing the 3rd grade!  Whoop!

This morning marked our first meeting of the school year, and I commented immediately on how much he'd grown over the summer (old lady much?).  Same kid, taller, better hair, new Angry Birds t-shirt.  Still solemn, maybe even a little anxious.  He attributed his growth to the fact that he swam a lot over the summer.

Well then.

We read a book about cars wherein each page profiled a different sports car, the author taking extra care to describe in detail the car's engine and cylinders, etc.  I found it difficult to ask follow-up/comprehension style questions about such mechanics.  V6, V8, V12...it all sounds like a vegetable juice gimmick to me.

As I grasped for details to highlight to make sure he was absorbing what we were reading, I was relieved at the mention that one particular car had made it into the Guinness Book of World Records.  Twice.  First, because it pulled a mobile home and second because a blind person drove it once.

Waaa-what?

We first explored the idea of a sports car pulling a mobile home.  Logan was not impressed.  So we moved on to examine the tid-bit about the blind person driving.

"What does it mean if a person is blind?" I asked.  Get off my back.  I was grasping for conversation.

Logan, after thinking for a few moments and checking the clock again, hoping time had expired, eventually answered slowly. "Well...it means...it means they can't see and so they'll probably fall in a river."

"Exactly!", I gushed.  "Sort of."

Denim vs. Dresses

When I was in high school, I hardly ever got asked to go to a school dance.  It made me sad to be left out.  I can still remember how it felt to sit at home while my friends and their dates got dressed up and headed to the Ruby Tuesdays at the mall to eat dinner before going to the school cafeteria for the dance.  In retrospect, such an outing sounds like an obscure form of torture, but at the time, it was fodder for lots of loud Wilson Phillips crooning in my dark bedroom about how things would get better if I could just hold on for one more day.

I was convinced, at the time, that there must be something wrong with me to be overlooked so quickly and with such consistency by all the boys.  Surely it must be a personality flaw or some other shortcoming.  Now that I've had several years to get to know myself and others better, I realize it was more likely that the boys just couldn't get past the pants I wore.  I mean...wow.  Check these out:

Pants and hair, circa 1995

Last week, Jeremy took one look at that picture (and more specifically, the pants) and blurted out, "Are those men's?!?!"  I think that pretty much sums it up.

But eventually, I did get asked to a dance.  Junior prom.  One of my brother's childhood friends asked me to accompany him, which was only slightly better than agreeing to go with my actual brother.  But whatever.  I was excited.

Clearly, I'd need to abandon the pants in favor of a dress, so mom and I set out to the big city to find a frock.  We tried on several before one in particular caught our eye.  We liked it.  It was modest, reasonably priced, and not made of acid washed denim.  Score on all counts.

But there was something...not quite right. We couldn't quite put our finger on...what was it?  Clearly an under-practiced duo at trying on special occasion dresses, it took us several minutes of pondering to discover what probably should've been obvious from the start.

I had the dress on backwards.

Hastily, I put it on correctly and we gasped as we decided we LOVED the dress.  Now that it was on frontwards.  I still remember how mom and I laughed and cackled in the dressing room.  I wonder if anyone else was in there as we howled at our mistake.  Rookies.

We can just pretend it was Jeremy all along, ok?  

It was a lovely dance, and Wilson Phillips only felt a little bit betrayed at the speed with which I left them in my frontwards-dress-wearing dust.  I think they knew I'd come crawling back eventually.  Turns out, I needed their services again for Homecoming my senior year, when I got turned down after working up the courage to ask a boy to go to the dance with me.

But that's a story for another day.

Thanks...I think

Prelude:  There is a small private school, grades 3 - 8, which uses classroom space during the week at the church where I work.  Students at the school have been instructed to call me 'Mrs. Connell.'  

What follows is a conversation I had today with one of my 4th grade friends (who does not attend said private school) after she overheard some of the students call me 'Mrs. Connell.'    

4th grader: "What did they just call you?"
Me: "They call me Mrs. Connell."
4th grader: "Why?  That's weird."
Me: "Well, I guess because that's the way the principal introduced me to them back when school started."
4th grader: furrows brow, walks away.
...about 5 minutes later...
4th grader: "But wait.  You don't teach them or anything, do you?"
Me: "No, but I see them every day."
4th grader: "But why do they call you Mrs. Connell?  If you don't teach them?  I mean, it's not like you're old or a lady or something."

Bingo.

You're right 4th grader.  It is weird that they call me Mrs. Connell.  Because I'm not old.  Or a lady.

Wait...

My friend wants to know

Let's say a person is looking all over the internet for a very specific article of clothing.  Scouring, is what the person is doing.  The person is scouring the internet for an item of clothing which displays certain distinct and precise characteristics.

Let's say after all the scouring, the person is unable to locate said item.

Should said scourer take said failure as a sign that said item of clothing is terribly out of style, unfashionable, and maybe even dorky?

Keep in mind that said scourer has an unfortunate tendency to dress like dear, sweet Barbara Bush.

This one:

Not this one:

The end.

Crutches and Maybes

I can't quite remember how I came across The Working Closet, but I was hooked on the blog after reading this post about how to properly clean out your closet.  Sophisticated folks call it "editing your wardrobe", but I'm a girl who would bathe in cheese dip if given half a chance and a couple of chips, so we'll go with the former.

I was intrigued by the author's "take no prisoners" approach.  I've done some cleaning out before, usually as seasons change from one to the next.  But this lady was basically like, 'grit your teeth, growl if you must, and GET RID OF THE JUNK.'  I've noticed lately that a sizable portion of my wardrobe consists of items we'll call "crutches."  These are items that, truth be told, I hate.  I don't feel good when I wear them, they are ill fitting, or stained, or they have a small hole on the right shoulder where a moth ate through it a few years back, but it's totally wearable if you put a jacket over it and pretend all day that you're just a little chilly even when it's 80* in the afternoon.  Hypothetically.  While I might not care for how these clothes look, I've kept them around because they're easy.  They take little-to-no effort to throw on in the morning and hey, at least I'm appropriately covered.

These "crutches" are the clothes that make me go *meh*.  I look *meh* (if not questionably pregnant) when I wear them, and I feel *meh* (if not *blah*) as well.

Enter the blog article.  The author suggests several steps.  In summary, they are:
1). Empty your entire closet.  All of it.  Every single scrap.

Done, except for the shoes, which I tackled after nap time.  

I found that throwing everything on the bed helped delay nap time.

2). Try everything on.  All of it.  Every single scrap. (can I get a "yikes!" from the crowd?)
3). Have a glass of wine.  (Not really, but that probably would've helped.)  Repeat.
4). Step 4 is where the grit comes in.  Check out this excerpt from The Working Closet:

"Anything that’s too small goes; anything that’s too big and can’t be tailored goes. If you know you won’t bother taking things to the tailor, the too-big things go, too. Anything that is worn out — stained, pilled, just plain ratty looking — goes. Pieces that are in good condition but don’t fit can be donated or passed on to friends; pieces that are beyond the pale of what’s ok to wear in public should be tossed."

Can I get a double "yikes" from the crowd?  Step 4 is where I normally falter.  I'm a big sucker for "but it almost fits!  If I keep up this gym routine for another 17 years, it could fit again!"  or "but this is a really nice garment.  It was expensive (relatively speaking, of course) and I might wear it again some day, even though I can't IMAGINE the day that I'll ever go to a black tie affair again."  I ere on the side of "maybe" and so my closet is cluttered with crutches and maybes.

But not anymore.  Behold:

I don't think the pictures justice to the results.  Gone are the black capris (and the khaki capris) that I hate but that are so easy to throw on.  The black t-shirts that are almost green from over-washing?  Gone.  The adorable blouse with the hole in the right arm pit and the unraveling hem?  Gone (that was a tough one).  Tank tops from 6 summers ago?  Gone.  How about this one:  the bikini I wore in 2004, during my summer/fall obsession with Weight Watchers and the gym?  Gone.  Get a grip, right?

I took lots of stuff to Goodwill, I took several items to the consignment store (no, I didn't buy anything while I was there you can't prove anything), and the rest - the really ratty, threadbare stuff - will be introduced to the garbage man on Tuesday.  If he (or she, but in my neighborhood, it's a crew of he's) has an affinity for ratty camisoles, it'll be Jackpot Tuesday for him.

I do plan to replace some of the stuff that I pitched.  A new white dress shirt.  A pair of jeans.  A knee-length, full, black skirt for work - maybe with box pleats?  How cute would that be?

I hope getting rid of the crutches and maybes will force me to wear things I feel good about.  I also hope I can overcome the panic that will ensue on Sunday morning as I open my closet to get dressed for work for the first time since my purge.

If you hear screams from the Charleston area, don't be alarmed.  It's just me, filling my cheese bath.  

Diary of a bookworm

Someone who lives in this house is a techie-head.  Someone loves to have the latest and greatest in all things which have a battery and can be updated with new updates and require a password which is longer than 8 characters, shorter than 17 characters, and must include an uppercase letter, at least one number, and your highest SAT score divided by the number of times per year you clip your toe nails.  

That person isn't me (says the girl who still uses a Rolodex).  And I can guaran-darn-tee you that "person" isn't Elsie-the-dog.  

That person's name starts with a "J" and ends with a "eremy".  

That person recently cast aside his Kindle in favor for an identical looking, but evidently far superior version of the exact same thing made by a different company.  On a whim, I casually said, 'I'd like to try the Kindle.', at which his eyes popped out of his head and he did the hula on the coffee table.  Sort of.  

After a quick and only marginally condescending tutorial, I set about using the far-fangled device.  

I like it pretty well (good? Too lazy to Google it).  

The thing I miss about a real book?  When I'm reading a book, I cheat.  Here's how:  I read the first chapter to get a sense of the plot, characters, setting, fashion sense of the main character, and then I flip to the last page of the last chapter.  

And I cheat.

I read the last sentence of the book.  

Though the sentence never makes any sense, nor does it ruin the story or enhance my enjoyment of reading the book, I do it anyway and I really feel like I'm getting away with something.  It is my favorite part of starting a new book.  

Only, on a Kindle, all that flipping is harder.  Yes, I can go to the table of contents and find the last chapter, then scroll to the last page.  But by then, things hardly seem "impulse" anymore.  It kind of takes the fun out of ALL THAT REBELLION.  

I did, however, feel pretty smug about the ease at which I packed six books and a dictionary in my carry on during a recent plane ride.  

Wheeeeeeeeee!  Somebody needs a hobby!

You'll use some leaves, and you'll like it

Once upon a time, when my brother and I were in high school, my parents agreed to host the church youth group's Super Bowl party at our house.  Later, my parents' names were permanently removed from the chaperone list.  What follows is the story of how that happened.

There was much excitement.  I believe I even made my bed, even though I was expressly forbidden to entertain friends in my bedroom.  Especially male friends.  A good life lesson for sure.

ANYWAY.

At this Super Bowl party, someone had the idea that we should go down the street and toilet paper (or "roll" as we called it back in the day, in the south) the yard of a neighborhood family.  This neighborhood family included a boy and girl that most of us went to school with.  (Never end a sentence in a preposition.)  Though I've always remembered it as the kind of spontaneous idea that crops up whenever teenagers gather en masse, in retrospect, there must have been some pre-planning, because I believe we had all the necessary supplies at the ready to ensure a successful outing.  Specifically, we had an abundance of toilet paper, many plastic forks (for "forking" the yard), and someone had even gone to the trouble to shred a bunch of magazines so we could spread magazine clippings all over the front yard.  Rumor had it that magazine clippings, when dampened with dew, were very difficult to clean up.  (Never end a sentence in a preposition.)

So the party rolls around, and somehow, my mom got wind of our plans to visit the neighborhood family with our wares.  Did we ask her permission to go?  Probably so.  I am a rule follower after all.  At first, my  mom discouraged us.  We (as teenagers are wont to do) persisted.  She discouraged.  We persisted.  She discouraged.  We persisted.  Then finally, she threw up her hands and said, "when a group of teenagers makes up their mind to do something, there's nothing I can do to stop them."

That was good enough for us, so off we scampered to the neighborhood family's house.

Long story short, we did a semi-descent job of temporarily vandalizing said neighborhood family's front yard.  And then the next day, on Monday, the youth director of our church got a call from said neighborhood family's mom.

We were stone cold busted.

Turns out, when you go the "magazine shred" route, it is imperative that, before shredding, you remove any subscription offer cards that may or may not feature the subscriber's name and address.  It's kind of hard to deny that sort of proof.  Life lesson #2.

So on Tuesday, the rag-tag band of vandalizers gathered once again, this time after school and in the presence of our youth director, and we took the walk of shame back to the neighborhood family's house.  This time, we were forced to knock on the door and apologize.

Shame.

My parents were thusly removed from the approved chaperone list.  I always imagined my youth director at his desk with furrowed brow, a Sharpie in one hand and a list entitled "Approved Chaperones" in the other.

Now that I'm a youth director myself, I cringe at this story and have vowed that no Super Bowl party will ever take place in a facility which features toilet paper.  Life lesson #3.

BBQ, bluegrass, and trash burnin'

Imagine the sharp pang of disappointment I felt upon learning that Charleston's annual Labor Day "Bar-b-que and Bluegrass" festival would not be happening this year.  It's a tradition that Jeremy and I have come to enjoy.  For one day each year, I put aside my hatred of crowds, port-o-potties, and parking at public events in the name of meat and banjos.  I really know how to party.

The event is held at one of the area's historic plantations, meaning that all us meat-lovers politely avert our eyes from the old slave quarters (awkward!) as we haul our lawn chairs and sun hats (Jeremy's is fabulous) to strategically get the best view of the stage.

But this year, it was not meant to be.  The website said simply (and with much exclamation) that "The Festival will return in 2013!!!!!"  Sigh.

But us Connells would not be deterred.  No festival to go to this year?  Why, then we'll just bring the festival to us.

Enter the newest member of our family:

No, it is not a rocket ship.  But that would be really fun, wouldn't it?  It's a meat smoker.  Best I can tell, here's how it works.  You get some special wood.  You light the wood on fire.  You get a big hunk of raw meat (or two).  You stick the raw meat in the space ship.  You wake up two times in the middle of the night to rush outside to check the meat, waking up your loving wife in the process.  She is her normal supportive, charmed self when this happens.

It really does take a lot of planning, gathering of spices and various vinegars, timing, temperature taking, and meat checking.

Please notice Elsie-the-dog's head in the foreground of this picture.  No one was more excited by the meat smoking than the canine.  She also liked the space ship because she could see her reflection.  "Look guys!  There's a dog in your space ship!" 

The result, 10-hours after the fire in the space ship was first lit, was nothing short of divine.  Seriously.  It tasted G-OO-D.

Pork AND beef.  Boo-yah.  

This story of my husband's determination that our Labor Day weekend would be filled with BBQ of course comes with a punchline.

After purchasing the space ship, the hickory wood, the meat (pork AND beef), the spices, and after researching methods and techniques, he took the leap and lit the fire.  About an hour later, my parents arrived for a weekend visit.  It was around 10pm, and we went out in the driveway to greet my mom and dad.  The air was filled with the scent of burning hickory, the fire ready to assault the meat.  As we were helping them unload their bags, our neighbor stepped out of her garage, took a deep breath and said,

"Ohhhhh.  Smells like somebody's burning trash."

Maybe I'm just jelly (fish)?

Poor Diana Nyad.  It was reported on CNN this morning that she had to abandon her 4th attempt to swim from Cuba to Florida due to a storm and jellyfish stings.  I was really rooting her her, because this woman's idea of a hobby is vastly different than mine.  She's dedicated years of her life training to swim the 103-miles between the two countries.  My idea of a hobby is eating roasted peanuts at a minor league baseball game.

And while I would've been thrilled for her to finish successfully, I just gotta put this out there.  If your hobby causes you to look like this:

...perhaps it's time to find a new hobby?  Maybe?

Wardrobe malfunction(s)

On Sunday morning, after I got dressed for church/work, I looked at my reflection in the full length mirror in the guest room and groaned.  Then I spent the next several minutes trying to convince myself that the outfit I put together wasn't really all that bad.  I did this by turning to examine said outfit from several different angles, and at each one, the conversation in my head went something like this:

"It's not THAT bad?"  "It's fine?"

The skirt, blouse, short-sleeved cardigan, sandal combo was just not doing it for me, but I was running late and just had to get out of the house.

Then I got to church and someone asked me if I was expecting.  As in, expecting a baby.  As in, that outfit you're wearing makes you look pregnant.  I'm not, for the record.

Today, I wore a skirt and shirt to work, initially feeling much better about my wardrobe.  Until a coworker spied me, exhaled deeply, and said something along the lines of, "I sure am glad I'm not the only one who decided to dress down today."  Uhhhhh...I didn't?  Mean to?  Dress down?

Tomorrow, I'm wrapping my bed sheet around myself like a toga.  Probably nobody will say anything.  I'll let you know.

Big plans

I am so excited for work to be over this afternoon so I can race home, change into my P.J.'s, beat Jeremy to the recliner, and watch hours and hours of Olympic coverage.  I just love the competition, how I get nervous for the athletes even though I'm thousands of miles and a 5-hour time difference away.  My hands get sweaty, my heart races, and...

Wait, what?  Oh, really?  No kidding.  Not for 4 more years?  Where's Rio anyway?  Well.

In that case, I am so excited for work to be over this afternoon so I can race home, change into my P.J.'s, and beat Jeremy to the recliner.

The end.

I give, and give, and give.

Where have I been?  Where have I been?  I don't even know.  I'm pretty sure I was abducted by the government to participate in some super secret project of some sort.  So super secret, in fact, that my memory of said participation has been erased and replaced by memories of my normal, daily, hum-drum life. (Let's keep going with that theory.  Maybe I'll earn a knock on the door from the FBI.  Or a psychologist.  Brilliant plan.)

Here are all the things I can think of that I've done in the last two months:

- I got bit on the face by a 4-year-old at work.  That was in June.  I was traumatized.  In fact, the first thing that went through my mind was the tagline from that old television PSA:  never shake a baby.  The baby was not shaken, but my nerves were.  Punk.

-  I've been busy refining my theory about weight loss.  Here it is in its current form:  My theory is that there is a finite amount of weight in the world.  It's not evenly distributed mind you, which is why Americans some people are grossly overweight while other people are grossly underweight.  My theory further theorizes that when a big fat American looses weight, someone somewhere else in the world suddenly and without explanation gains the same amount of weight that was lost by the American.  Get it?  So if all the fat Americans would lose their extra weight, that pesky problem of starvation would be taken care of.  Want to know my favorite part of this theory?  There is NO WAY it could be conclusively disproved.  What are ya gonna do?  Gather up all the people in all the world into one room and make each of them stand of a scale while some people simultaneously exercise and diet?  I don't think so.  Also, I think The Biggest Loser has caused some starving people to be very, very surprised.  And in need of new pants.

- I spied on these people at the bar behind me as they had an awkward and semi-successful first date.  The initial meeting was uncomfortable for all involved, but they settled into some nice conversation and even went beyond happy hour drinks to have dinner.  And I'm sure someday they will tell their grandchildren about the really, really strange girl at the table behind them who, on their first date, acted like a moron who doesn't get out nearly enough.  (I call the date only semi-successful because he was wearing tall athletic socks with tennis shoes and khaki cargo shorts.  Tough, but not impossible, to overcome.)

- I've enlisted the assistance of a personal trainer for the first time in my life.  Linda is British, which I think is a nice touch.  I find her accent soothing as I huff and puff my way though even the most basic maneuvers.  She's also polite enough to stifle her giggles, which I very much appreciate.  Like today when I threw a 10-pound medicine ball to the floor, thinking it would stay there because, well, it weighs 10-pounds, but instead it bounced up and hit me right in the face.  Hard.  On the bright side, my tingling face did distract from the pain and torture of sit-ups.  So there's that.

- I've watched my husband have some harrowing encounters with nature.  The first encounter involved a spider in the bathroom.  I was in the shower, the spider was on the ceiling just out of reach.  Since dripping on the bathmat was clearly out of the question, I shrieked and bellowed summoned my husband and asked for his assistance.  The short version of this story goes that both of us squealed and one of us got bit by said spider and when I say "one of us" I more specifically mean "it wasn't me."  Briefly, there were visible fang marks.  The second encounter (you forgot there were two, didn't you) involved a small bird trapped in our screen porch.  While I'm not sure how it got stuck, it became quickly evident that there was much confusion and fluttering about, and we both (Jeremy and I, not the bird and I) became concerned that the little birdie would either die from an exploded heart or lose control of it's bowels all over the porch furniture.  In either case, clean-up would've been necessary, and ew.  So after some heated strategy sessions which contained a lot of strenuous objection and eye rolling (from the humans, not the bird), my dashing husband decided that the best and easiest way to free the bird would be to CUT THE SCREEN.  I'll pause to let you read that sentence again.  That's right.  He CUT THE SCREEN, which compromised the integrity of the screen-ness of the porch.  But the bird did escape after only a little coaxing, and we had ample opportunity to both entertain the neighbors and practice our bird call.

In summary, I've been busy the past couple of months providing material for the blogs of others.  Specifically for that 4-year-old's jaw, that skinny kid in Africa who wishes I would lay off the baked goods for the love of all things holy, for those two first daters, for Linda the Trainer, and for that birdie.  Not so much for the spider though, because, well, it's tough to blog when you're dead.

About armpits, written just for you

While checking the Facebook this morning, I noticed several parents posting about how today is field day for their children.  Of course I was instantly flooded with my own personal field day experiences, specifically one that I had in the 7th grade.  (Only slightly related: why was I participating in field day in the 7th grade?  Seems a little old.  Must be my Georgia public education working for me.) 

ANYWAY.  Here is a story about field day that still makes me cringe. 

Picture it: 7th grade.  13 years old, the epitome of  awkward/self-conscious/PleaseLetMeBlendIntoThisWall.  I happen to know a lot of 13-year-olds, since it's sort of my job to hang out with them, and I strenuously object that they do not seem to suffer through these same gangly, ugly duckling stages.  I mean, these days, they even have cute hair in 7th grade.  Clearly, the rules have changed. 

Again, I digress. 

One of the field day events was tug-of-war and as I recall, the girls from my class were divided into two teams to compete against each other.  I assume the boys were also divided into teams so they could have an audience while they farted, stank, and told dirty jokes.   

So the teams were decided, and before I knew it, I had been forced nominated by my teammates to be the anchor of our team.  In other words, of all the sissy girls, I was the least sissy...the strongest of the weak...and so I had to stand inside the big loop at the end of the rope.  As I pulled the rope up to my waist from the ground, I remember an ominous feeling.  The sky might have turned black, in the distance thunder might've rolled, and maybe a flock of vultures began circling.  Or maybe I'm just channeling my 7th grade dramatics. 

In an instant, the whistle blew.  To most, that would signal the start of the pulling.  Apparently, my teammates misunderstood the whistle to mean that they should immediately and as a group LET GO OF THE ROPE. 

The scene which unfolded next was not pretty.  I, being stuck in the loop of the rope, fell, and was subsequently dragged all the way down the tug-of-war field, in the dirt.  The other team showed no mercy.  Above all the cheering (which I would later realize wasn't cheering at all - it was people laughing at me), it was difficult for the teachers to get the other team to stop.  It was a long ride.  On the ground.  In the dirt. 

As I remember, the field day uniform was a white t-shirt which featured a Field Day logo.  After the dragging ended, my shirt was brown from dirt.  Dusty.  My knees were scraped, as were my hands, elbows, face, and pride. 

But it gets worse.

As some of my friends gathered around to help dust me off, it was discovered that the dirt around the armpit of my shirt had, in fact, turned to mud as a result of sweat.  Usher in a second wave of laughter amongst my "friends" as they laughed at my muddy pit. 

I spent the rest of that day with dirty shirt and a muddy right pit.  No shirt to change in to.  No way to conceal defeat. 

Sigh.

Happy Field Day, everyone. 

Hate mail

As long as the hate mail train has left the station (as evidenced by this post, and this one), I have one big, huge piece of hate mail that I'd like to share with you.  And this time, it ain't about math. 

Dear The Month of May 2012,
Seriously?  I know there are still 9 days and a few hours left until you are over, but seriously?  Month of May 2012, I can't imagine what stunt you'd have to pull in the next 9 days and a few hours to redeem yourself, but suffice it to say it would have to be one mammothly huge, difficult to fathom and otherwise unbelievable occurrence in order for you to find yourself in my good graces.

Good luck.  

What did I ever do to you, Month of May 2012?  Nothing.  That's what.  I even usually look forward to you, Month of May.  Two wonderful holidays occupy time within your 31 days - Cinco de Mayo (known to nacho-lovers like me as "springtime Christmas") AND Memorial Day, not to mention my sweet nephew Baxter's birthday.  Month.  Of.  May.

But this year, your cheerful holidays are overshadowed by your bad attitude and all the slime and debris you threw at me.  The things you did to me, Month of May 2012, will have to be sorted out in therapy at a later date.  For now, I'd just like to sit with my arms crossed, my face contorted like I just smelled something bad, and I'd like to take a moment to pout in your general direction. Month.  Of.  May. 

Let me be clear to the months that follow The Month of May 2012.  I am not issuing a challenge to see if you can equal or outmatch the stank of The Month of May 2012.  Please do not be that annoying friend who always has to one-up the others (there's one in every group).  June?  July?  August?  All of 2013?  I'm talking to you.

Don't get me wrong, Month of May 2012.  I know I'm good enough, I'm smart enough, and gosh darnit, people like me. There are an abundant amount of things in my life which inspire me to dance around my kitchen after sunset.  I have a lot of things to be thankful for (never end a sentence in a preposition, MONTH OF MAY).  But I am not thankful for you.  The only time I will dance around my kitchen in your honor is ON JUNE FIRST when you are gone FOREVER.  Month.  Of.  May. 

You are not good enough.  You are not smart enough.  And gosh darnit, I do.  Not.  Like.  You.  And the fact that I can write a blog post about how much you rot, well that makes me happy.  'Cause last time I checked*, you do not have a blog. 

Month.  Of.  May. 

You smell bad,
Bits and Wiz


*I didn't really check.

Looks about right to me

On second thought, maybe I'll just turn this blog into one continuous, thinly veiled hate letter to Math.

(Also, I'm counting the MILLISECONDS until my brother (aka: Mr. Math) comments with the value of x.  Twerp.)

Math + bad grammar = awesome.

Hi.  It's been awhile, huh?  Sorry to say I don't even have anything original to write, but I did find a funny comic about math to post.  Even better, it starts off with a terrible grammatical error, just to make your head swim. 

I think posting someone else's funny creation is better than posting nothing at all, and I hope you agree.