Priester Photography

Blogger's Block

2012-03-10T20:50:00.000-06:00

It's like writer's block only I'm not really a writer so I'm calling it blogger's block.

Either way, I have it.

In my frustration I asked for some suggestions for blog topics.

Here are some of those suggestions:

--Legs.

I have two of them.

They look like a ten year old girl's with banged up knees and bruises.

Except mine also happen to have cellulite.

--Impatient people.

I don't have time for that.

--Rhode Island and the fact that it's neither a road nor an island.

Um.

I'll admit that I was intrigued by this entry but it requires research which requires a lot of thinking which then causes a downward spiral in the writing/blogging department.

--Housebreaking your children, husbands and pets.

Considering that my last post was about toilet paper and previous to that I posted about vomiting on a plane, I think it may be best if I skip this discussion for now.

--Pregnancy, shoes, fishing, cooking, music, wedding rings, eyebrows...

Done it, over it.

Have a lot of them.

Bad experience (for another blog).

When I have to.

Moves my soul.

Have a new one because my finger got to fat for my first one.

Must pluck.

And finally,

--How absolutely adorable my grand baby is! His little turned up nose, his chubby cheeks, his monkey toes, his long, skinny legs...

Okay.

Fine.

You win.

Thanks guys for your help.

But maybe next time you could get a little more creative.

You can see the rest of this session here under "McCord Baby".

Uncooperative Toilet Paper

2012-03-08T22:07:00.001-06:00

I am a very speedy bathroom-goer.

Particularly in public.

In fact, I silently pride myself on being able to use a public restroom as fast (and on a few occasions even faster) than my husband.

This includes washing my hands.

This is probably because I'm by nature a person who does not like to mess around with mundane things like restroom going while there is life to be lived.

You can spend your time staring at profanity etched stall walls and stained floors if you please, but I prefer to be in non-toilet areas free of dampness and disease, thank you very much.

So imagine my chagrin when I encountered not one, but two toilet paper rolls of frustration and angst today while using two separate toiletry facilities.

It went something like this:

(Sorry about the visual you may be getting.)

Sit down.

Relief.

No toilet paper.

Panic.

Wait.

Fresh roll.

Tick tock, tick tock.

Unwrap roll from fancy papery cover.

Find beginning of roll.

Grapple with tiny piece of edge to begin unrolling process.

Tear.

Rip.

Shred.

Edge has apparently been super glued to the rest of the roll due to faulty toilet paper rolling machinery at the factory.

Panic.

Tick tock, tick tock.

Clawing at roll.

Bits of toilet paper begin falling to the floor.

Make a mental note to email the manufacturer about possible faulty gluing machine.

More shredding.

It is now snowing toilet paper in my stall.

I have destroyed half the roll of paper without successfully obtaining the few squares of intact paper I need for my toiletry purposes.

I then count my losses, wad up the bits of paper that I managed to keep in my hand during the massacre and make do because frankly, I should have been eating popcorn at that moment.

And yes, I was subjected to this torture twice in one day.

The horror!

*sigh*

I hate stressful toilet time.

You can see the rest of this session here under "Meister Baby".

Anniversary Night (Safe For Work)

2012-03-04T18:33:00.003-06:00

As you all know, I am not someone who watches television very often.

So it may come as a surprise to you that we actually have one in our bedroom.

I did NOT like the idea and fought it for 10 years, but then I felt bad because Matt wanted one so badly so I saved up the money and surprised him with a smallish, wall-mounted flat screen.

He loves it.

I ignore it.

With all of that in mind, Friday night was our 16th wedding anniversary.

We aren't big celebrators...sometimes we go shopping and each buy something we've been wanting, sometimes we go out to eat...it just depends on the day, but we don't make a big deal out of it.

This particular anniversary we were invited to go to a winery with some friends.

So we did.

We had cheesecake (and chocolate cake, of course), Matt had wine, and I had an Amaretto Sour.

We were home by 8:00.

I know, we're party animals.

Matt went to bed before I did (as usual) and when I eventually climbed into bed he was finishing up a movie.

I took the remote.

This is highly abnormal, as evidenced by the fact that Matt then had to take it back several times to show me which buttons to push to get to HGTV for a show about real estate and then eventually to Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives, but I was feeling adventurous.

He leaned back into his pillow and I snuggled in under his chin and promptly fell asleep while the guy with the white spiked hair, dark tan and backwards glasses talked about spices.

It was about 2:00 in the morning when I awoke with a start to a noise that I wasn't used to hearing.

The TV was still on.

What?

We fell asleep with the TV on.

In bed.

On our anniversary.

This all came to me in the split second that I sat up bolt right in bed while Matt was passed out beside me and the only thought that came to my mind in its half asleep state was...

"Oh. Good. Heavens".

"We are so old".

And then I plopped back into my pillows and went back to sleep.

You can see the rest of this session here under "Berry Baby".

Flax Seed and Fish Sticks

2012-03-01T21:23:00.000-06:00

My sister and I recently had a conversation about shopping carts.

It went something like this:

Sister: I was so proud of myself yesterday when we went shopping because my cart finally looked like I've always wanted it to look.

Me: How do you mean?

Sister: It was full of fruits and vegetables and healthy things.

Me: Oh my gosh! I know exactly what you mean!

It seems that as I'm unloading my cart onto the belt I get more and more self-loathing as it becomes obvious that it's brimming with unhealthy, processed foods...

and then I silently berate myself for not picking up at least one fruit or vegetable in an attempt to mask the presence of the Rhodes Rolls and salted butter.

Sister: Exactly. And then I wonder what the person in line behind me is thinking about what's in my cart.

Me: Me too! I get all self-conscious that they're comparing the contents of my cart to the size of my pants.

I've learned to unload all the junky stuff onto the belt first so if someone walks up behind me it might appear as if I'm truly purchasing quality food items for my family instead of ice cream and bacon.

Sister: (somewhat sheepishly) Do you look in other people's carts?

Me: Absolutely!

Sister: Me too!

After our little bonding moment over shopping cart obsessions, I thought a little more about it and realized that upon seeing what's in someone's cart I come to one of two conclusions...

If they have a cart full of vegetables and fruits and whole grain this and that and organic stuff I conclude that they must be rich and I can't afford to eat healthy and they're just big show-offs with their fresh avocados and organic lettuce.

And if they have a cart full of Little Debbies and frozen pizza and soda and everything unhealthy I decide that they better hope I remember how to do CPR because they just might have a heart attack right there in aisle seven.

I realize that this is all very judgmental of me, but I don't continue to think that way...it's just the first thought that crosses my mind.

And then I conclude that we're all just trying to do the best we can and that for some of us the "best" involves whole grain bread and flax seed and for some of us it's more like Bunny Bread and frozen fish sticks.

It should be noted that while I'm writing this I'm licking Nutella out of a jar.

You can see the rest of this session here under "Wilkerson Senior".

The Nefarious Nightgown

2012-02-28T15:34:00.001-06:00

I was raised in a very peaceful home.

I would call it "normal" but there is no such thing.

Suffice it to say that my parents were rarely angry with each other and even more rarely did they fight.

In fact, I can only remember one such time.

But I remember it vividly...

It was their anniversary.

I'm guessing I was about 11 years old.

And even as a pre-teen I recognized immediately the error of my father's ways upon seeing the gift he presented to my mother who was then younger than I am now.

I'm guessing she was 30 years old.

He gave her a nightgown.

But not just any nightgown.

This one was flannel.

With little flowers all over it.

And ruffles around the collar and hem.

And lace around that.

It may as well have had a turtleneck and a built in chastity belt.

In a word, it was hideous.

When I mentioned this incident to my mom in front of some friends she added to my description by simply stating with disgust in her voice, "It had pockets."

She was highly perturbed.

You could cut the tension in our house with a knife.

Mom felt bad because dad apparently thought she would like something that his great-great-grandmother would wear.

And dad felt bad because he apparently made his wife feel matronly.

When someone asked my mom what she did with the offending gift she quickly replied, "I took it back!"

My sister feels bad for my dad because he was just trying to be nice.

Mom thinks he should have known better.

And I think it's hilarious.

Of course they made up eventually because they're still married some 23 years later and now we joke about it.

At dad's expense.

He only buys her jewelry now.

So really it's a win/win situation.

Dad redeemed himself.

Mom gets jewelry.

My sister and I get to laugh about it.

And as a bonus I get to blog about it.

So it actually ends well for you too.

You can see the rest of this session here under "Ashley P."

What constitutes a good day?

2012-02-24T23:24:00.001-06:00

As I approached the bank window in my van I nervously nudged the power window button.

Miraculously it worked and the window rolled down so I didn't have to do the half sitting in the car half hanging into the road thing to deposit my money.

I instantly sighed and thought to myself, "It's a good day."

I then wondered silently to myself how it is that I allow myself to be so easily placated.

For instance, I think it's a good day when the grocery store has Edy's Rocky Road ice cream in stock.

It's a good day when I get to see puffy clouds or a sunset.

It's a good day when someone makes me laugh so hard I almost pee my pants and my eyes get all watery and my stomach hurts and I look like I'm by all accounts writhing in pain but I'm really just tickled.

It's a good day when I get a great parking spot by total accident.

It's a good day when I find a pair of biker boots on sale for $8.00 in my size.

It's a good day when Matt and I kiss right after we've both just brushed our teeth.

(It makes me feel like a we're in a chewing gum commercial (minus the two overly sexy people).)

It's a good day when I put on my favorite pair of jeans and they fit without that little roll hanging over the top.

(This rarely happens.)

It's a good day when the kids play board games together instead of wanting to watch TV.

What makes your day?

Other than my blog, of course.

You can see the rest of this session here under "Boren Baby".

Woe is me...

2012-02-23T21:34:00.004-06:00

I can't hear.

What?

I can't hear.

What?

I went to an ENT (Ear Nose Throat Specialist) right before we went on our trip.

I wanted to make sure it would be okay to fly since my ear had been feeling clogged for several weeks and I didn't want my ear to explode on my first flight (these things happen...the internet says so).

(In hindsight, I think the exploding ear would have been better than the vomiting but I wasn't given a choice in the matter.)

I assumed the doctor would put a tube in the offending ear and that would be that.

No such luck.

After describing my issues to him, he shoved a camera down my nose and looked in both of my ears.

(Two separate things. He shoved a camera down my nose. He then looked in both of my ears. He didn't look into my ears from a camera in my nose. At least I don't think he did.)

He concluded that I did, in fact, need a tube in my left ear.

After I signed a paper saying he could violate my eardrum by shoving a tube into it, he looked into my ear with a stronger ear lookie thingy and then declared, "Wait. A. Minute."

You never want to hear "Wait. A. Minute" from your doctor in the tone that mine used.

Ever.

The diagnosis?

I already had a hole in my left eardrum.

It was tiny so he couldn't see it with the smaller ear lookie thingy but only upon closer examination.

Guess what?

You don't need a tube in your ear if you already have a hole in your eardrum.

Good news, right?

Wrong.

This means something else is wrong making me unable to hear.

What something?

My incus bone is gone.

Not like I misplaced it or accidentally left it in the Wal-Mart shopping cart like I did my cell phone, but like disintegrated.

I'm told that I need plastic surgery.

And we're not talking the glamorous kind...nor are we talking the kind that Matt would like me to undergo.

We're talking ear plastic surgery.

To have a prosthetic incus bone installed.

(Installed?)

Which the ENT can't even perform. It has to be done by a special specialist.

I'm sure that's cheap for someone with no health insurance (raising eyebrow).

Also, he wants me to have a biopsy on my adenoids because one is larger than the other and I may have a tumor behind my ear.

("It's not a tuma."...Name that movie.)

Oh.

And I have a deviated septum.

The wall between my nostrils is pushed to one side.

This explains why it's hard to breath out of one side of my nose.

It also explains why I could never get a Neti pot to work.

So...in the grand scheme of things what's a little prosthetic ear bone or an adenoid tumor?

Nothing really.

I'll probably even survive.

You can see the rest of this session here under "Huffman Four Year Old."

Worse Than Snakes On A Plane...

2012-02-21T07:55:00.000-06:00

We successfully made it from San Diego to Denver.

We were one short plane ride from home...more specifically a one hour and forty five minute plane ride.

Easy peasy pudding pie, right?

Wrong.

Very wrong.

We buckled up and settled in for our very first return flight home and then things went wrong.

Very wrong.

Like the very opposite of easy peasy pudding pie.

We hadn't yet reached cruising altitude when my stomach led a very impromptu revolt against the rest of my body.

A body that was very against anti-peaceful conditions and was very much in favor of forming an alliance with the stomach and its contents.

The stomach, instead, declared war.

I clutched Matt's arm and whispered, "I'm going to pass out."

I then promptly passed out.

I awoke to the feeling of a cold cloth on my head and thoughts of stomach rebellion on my mind.

I decided I was not going to vomit in front of the whole of flight 5390, so I held everything back until we were allowed to get up.

I raced to the bathroom (if you can really call it a "room") and was somehow able to contort my body into a position that allowed me to vomit into the toilet.

I was originally going to attempt the sink but since it was only the size of my fist I decided to shoot for pretzel-style vomiting instead.

It worked.

I had returned to my seat for only about 10 minutes when it hit me again.

I rushed to the bathroom only to find it occupied.

(This is when the horror film music started playing in my head.)

I asked (demanded) the flight attendant (who was standing in the kitchen area busily making drinks) for a trash bag.

She complied.

Then I complied (with my stomach).

I sat in the floor of the airplane kitchen (?) and puked into a trash bag.

You realize that this is only my second time on a plane, right?

And the first time was only on the trip out to California, so technically this is still my first flight.

And I spent it puking into a trash bag.

While sitting in the floor.

I thought I had composed myself enough by the time the seat belt light went on that I could hold out on more vomiting until we landed.

I was wrong.

I puked into an appropriately named "barf bag" that Matt held open for me.

In front of 137 passengers.

That's 137 passengers who are probably at this very moment thinking of me while staring into their toilet bowls.

I here make a public apology to all 137 of you...I'm sorry.

I truly am.

I stumbled off the plane while instructing London to grab the three remaining barf bags in case I needed them on the way through the airport.

Turns out I did.

I vomited in two different airport bathrooms and once on the way to one such bathroom.

I reached out to London at one point and said, "Hand me a barf bag."

He looked at me with worried eyes, held up two bags and said, "You only have two left!"

I almost laughed but I was too busy puking.

This lasted the entire two hour car ride home and into the early morning hours of the next day.

The bad news?

It was quite possibly the worst ending to a trip, ever...particularly being my first trip on a plane.

The good news?

I lost five pounds.
B

You can see the rest of this session here under "Rehkop Baby".

I flew and I'm not dead.

2012-02-18T22:29:00.001-06:00

If I were, this would be a seriously creepy post.

In order to allay the fears of any first time flyers like myself and also to humor any frequent flyers with my unreasonable thoughts I now present you with some things I learned while flying commercially for the first time...

--Security is NOT a big deal.

I was freaking out that I was going to do something wrong and would be put in the corner with a dunce cap on my head and a dead chicken around my neck as punishment while Matt and the kids were flown away and showered with praise and chocolate ice cream (with almonds) for being good little TSA-compliant flyers.

That didn't happen.

In fact, the TSA peeps (we're like this now (crossing my index and middle finger)) were super nice. The first girl (her name was Porche) was gushing over Mercede's name (for obvious reasons) and the last guy played games with the kids and joked around with them.

They did pat London down (because he was wearing a rather large sweatshirt and who knows what a scrawny 9-year-old could be packin' in a size 10 hoodie), but he thought it was cool.

Just follow the directions, don't try to make security or bomb jokes, and be patient and security is a breeze.

--The plane feels and sounds like a large, rickety bus.

It just does. And while you're in flight it sounds like really loud road noise in a car.

You can actually feel the landing gear pulling up and letting down.

And sometimes there's this really bizarre feeling that the plane quits running or slows down or something. I don't know what it is or what it means but I guess it's normal because I'm still alive.

--The wing bounces.

A lot. I thought it was going to pop off at one point but obviously it stayed since you didn't see me (or my remains) on the 10:00 news.

--There will be turbulence.

If you were in a Cadillac (think a floaty, bouncy, boat-like ride) cruising down a very hilly and somewhat curvy road and the driver jerked the wheel back and forth a little bit?

That's sort of what turbulence feels like.

Minus the screeching tire noise.

--The flight attendants may or may not try to be entertaining.

Just deal with it either way.

Entertaining is better, in my opinion, because I like to joke about my own possible death, but for those of you who take it more seriously just ignore the oxygen mask/flotation device humor if it bothers you.

--Landing is interesting.

It's very bumpy (or a little, depending on the pilot) and then you feel instantly like you're skidding down a gravel freeway with the brakes locked up trying to avoid hitting the car in front of you.

You'll put on your fake brake even though that's most likely not where the brake on a plane is anyway.

I've heard a lot of people say that landing is the scariest part.

I disagree.

If you're close enough to land (or almost land) how bad could a wreck possibly be? I'm pretty resilient. I think I could handle the impact if the wheels were close enough to the ground.

--The Earth is beautiful.

Take pictures.

--Fellow passengers begin to look shady.

Whether you admit it or not you will begin to make anyone in your line of sight look either like a terrorist or the bad guy from a movie who's looking for the spy that's sitting directly beside you.

The guy sitting caddy corner to the kids (who were sitting in front of us) kept looking back at them all weird and creepy-like.

I told Matt and then set back on my haunches like a momma cat prepared to attack at a moment's notice.

--You begin questioning the resilience of your fellow passengers.

For instance...if this thing goes down on a deserted island who's going to make it?

While I realize the odds of this happening on a flight from St. Louis to San Diego are slim to zero it still merits consideration.

The cordial man who offered to move into a different seat so the lovely couple could sit together?

We'll have him roasting on the spit faster than he can say, "No, no, you're welcome!"

(Yes, that's disgusting.)

The man dressed as a pilot sitting in front of me?

(I think his choice of dress was a cruel joke intended to make us passengers sweat.)

He'll probably be the CIA/spy/special ops guy who saves the day and sacrifices his life for us all because he has nothing to live for since his wife left him because of his drinking problem and decided to fly to San Diego with her new boyfriend the exact same day he had to fly out on a secret mission (that was her in the seat that future Mr. Rotisserie forfeited).

NOW you see why I don't watch TV?

All in all flying wasn't that big of a deal.

It's fun and pretty but also a bit boring.

At least the flight out there anyway.

Just wait till you hear about the flight home...

Family Time

2012-02-01T10:39:00.003-06:00

Matt, the kids (minus London), and I were laying in bed watching TV the other night.

An infomercial came on for the most ridiculous vacuum cleaner ever.

It was a six minute commercial.

Seriously.

The girls and I laughed about it and made fun of the claim that it could easily sweep up a pile of screws.

Mercede wanted to know why a person would vacuum up a pile of screws.

Just when we thought it was almost over Summer said, "But wait! There's more!"

And she was correct.

Because if you "call now" you get not one but TWO worthless, cordless vacuums that may or may not be able to vacuum up screws!

Which we all predicted.

Is it over yet?

No.

Because they're also throwing in two miniature cleaners for wiping up loose screws that have ended up on your couch.

Where are all these screws coming from and do people not know how to avoid spilling whole containers of screws onto their furniture?!

We continued to mock the commercial in anticipation of its ending.

Then London walked in.

He stood at the end of the bed and crossed his arms over his chest.

He looked at the infomercial briefly and said in a rather serious tone...

"It's a good deal really."

We all laughed hysterically.

And he defended himself by saying, "Well, it is! You get two for $19.99!"

It was at that point that I decided he would never be ready to have his own credit card.

You can see the rest of this session here under "Amos Family 9 Months".

More Fun Than Clean Clothes

2012-01-28T18:49:00.001-06:00

A few months ago I decided to do something creative with my broken washing machine.

Some people call this "upcycling". I call it "playing".

After about an hour of tearing off the outer shell of the machine my hands looked like this:

But my reward was this cute yellow spring:

(All these pictures were taken with my phone so excuse the quality.)

I have no idea what I'll do with it, but it's not every day that one discovers a giant yellow spring whilst taking apart one's washing machine, so I'll probably keep it as a souvenir.

After some prying, a little unscrewing and lots of banging this is what I ended up with:

This is the view from the top:

Enter more banging, some grumbling and some help from the husband and the father-in-law.

And then I found this!!

I know. Pretty uninteresting, but it's a cute little shape anyway.

Up next came strenuous scrubbing with this:

Along with some of this:

At which point it still looked like this:

Which was not acceptable, so I borrowed my dad's power washer and blasted it.

Then I spray painted it with metallic silver paint.

Put two can lights in it and set it on the ledge above my coat closet.

I think it looks pretty sweet.

Particularly the swirly patterns of light it throws.

This is the view from the top of the stairs.

Oh. I topped off the rough edged metal pipe thingy with a silver doo-hickey from the local handy-man store that I think actually has something to do with a furnace part.

But it totally worked for my purposes.

I bet I'm the only person in my town with a gigantic washing machine drum nightlight.

It's the little things that make me happy.

Whackamole-ical

2012-01-25T16:02:00.004-06:00

How one word can strike fear into my bones....

(Can one strike fear into one's bones? I'm saying yes.)

I was driving home from the grocery store, minding my own business, when this word popped into my head...lackadaisical. In less than three minutes the following mayhem ensued between myself and....well, myself...

"What a weird word. Lackadaisical. Lackadaisy."

"Lack means without...what does daisical mean?"

"Lack. A. Daisy....Whack-a-daisy."

"Ha! Like Whac-a-mole."

"I have a mole. I should ask the doctor about that."

"I can't forget my doctor's appointment tomorrow."

"Ew. I have a doctor's appointment tomorrow."

"Ew. He's going to fix my ear so I can get on a plane."

"What?!"

"I'm getting on a plane?!"

**sigh**

"I wish the sun would come out."

"I wish I would win the lottery."

"Wait."

"I don't play the lottery."

"Rats."

"Oh well. It doesn't matter anyway because I'm going to die."

You can see the rest of this session here under "Mooney/McCord Maternity".

Fear of Ewoks

2012-01-24T17:01:00.000-06:00

People fear things.

It's normal.

They even have special names for fears to make them sound more legitimate, like arachnophobia or lilapsophobia.

But here's what's funny...

(not really funny)

If you happen to have a realistic, legitimate, based-on-fact fear people will mock you.

I mean it.

They will tell you all the reasons you shouldn't be afraid of such things.

For example, if you happened to be afraid of tornado producing storms (raising hand) that have been documented as being people killers and land destroyers and generally frightening events, people will make statements such as, "Oh, it's just a little wind.", or "I love a good storm.", or "You worry too much."

Those same people?

Afraid of spiders.

Seriously.

When is the last time you heard of someone dying from a spider bite in Missouri?

Now.

Do I mock them for being afraid of spiders even though there doesn't seem to be a just cause for such feelings?

No.

Because if spiders make them feel the way tornado weather makes me feel then I'm just impressed that they can function normally at all.

Because I would never go to my basement again.

(It's a spider warehouse.)

Or wear shoes without vacuuming them out first.

Or take a shower.

(Did you not SEE Arachnophobia?)

Enter the reason for this post:

I'm getting on a commercial plane for the first time next week.

I'm nervous.

People are mocking me.

Despite the fact that it is not NORMAL for a giant, 188,000 pound aluminum can with a belly full of humans to fly through the air with wings that don't even FLAP!

A helicopter? That makes sense. The little blades swirl around pushing the contraption through the air. I trust a helicopter.

I do not trust a bird with aluminum wings and wheels on its belly.

It makes no sense, therefore it can not be safe.

But I'm doing it.

Because I'm not a chicken.

Or because I have a death wish.

I haven't decided which.

My only consolation is that on a site I was reading for first time flyers it mentioned that it's normal for the plane to make lots of noises. It said to picture one of those buses from a tropical land laden down with passengers and goats and then imagine the noise it makes...that's what the plane sounds like from time to time.

Well, friends, I'm in luck because Matt and I very often refer to our van as the "log cart" because that's what it sounds like...an old log cart with squeaky wheels.

Creeek....groannnnnnn.....shudddddder.

Sounds like I should be right at home on the plane.

I just hope the plane door handle doesn't come off in my hand like my van handle did.

That might raise a red flag.

In conclusion:

I'm flying. I'm nervous. It's okay if you aren't but don't make fun of my legitimate fears and I won't make fun of yours.

Because if my plane goes down in a fiery crash you'll feel really bad.

PS...If I haven't blogged anything by the end of February you'll know what happened.

You can see the rest of this session here under "Scripter Family".

Too hot to handle...

2012-01-10T23:11:00.001-06:00

You know how sometimes life gets out of control and you're required to summon every shred of your mental capacity just to remember to put on your underwear before your pants and to put the milk in the fridge instead of the cabinet?

When it gets that way I tend to go into hard core priority mode out of desperation eliminating anything non-essential from my list of daily activities.

It quickly became obvious that cleaning the stove top should not be on the list of eliminated activities...

Yes, that's really how dirty it got.

Don't judge me.

I have three kids that cook.

Apparently very haphazardly.

But you will be happy to know that my stove now looks like this:

Shiny.

See my reflection?

Amazing.

And I didn't have to scrub.

Seriously.

Here's how:

--Put your grates and pans in a trash bag

--Dump in one cup of ammonia (yes, just one cup...the stove parts don't need to be sitting in the ammonia but just marinating in the fumes).

(Do not inhale deeply. Trust me on this.)

--Tie the bag up tight and make sure there are no holes in it for the fumes to escape.

--Leave it on the porch/in the garage/in the yard over night (or about 12 hours).

--In the morning (or after about 12 hours) open that baby up (still not inhaling too much), stick them in the sink and wipe them with a rag or sponge.

That's it!

Presto change-o! A clean stove and no scrubbing.

And as an added bonus the fumes that you inhaled from the ammonia probably did a nice little cleaning on your esophagus.

Not really.

That was just some chemical exposure humor for you.

I'll be here all week.

PS--The sunset has nothing to do with this blog but I figured you would rather see a sunset than a picture of my dirty stove right away. You're welcome.

Mine.

2012-01-04T18:50:00.001-06:00

They are 14 and 12.

Respectively.

We took these back in September.

Obviously the landscape is not so green and alive now.

I wish.

I posted way too many pictures for you to look at and I have books to make, so I'm going to leave the rest of this blank for your perusing enjoyment.

I think I did a pretty good job of creating these two beings.

(patting self on back)

Though I did have some help in the matter.

And yes, I also have a younger male version but he is typically uncooperative so we're doing his shoot separately.

I'll keep you posted.

You can see the rest of these (yes there are more) here under "Mine".

Just call me Betty.

2012-01-03T22:39:00.003-06:00

So while I was editing this evening Matt was downstairs at the kitchen table complaining that he wanted something chocolate.

Or ice cream.

We had neither.

So in order to win the good wife award (that I hope to be nominated for), I decided to come up with something chocolate for him to feast on.

I popped on over to Pinterest where I typed something like "fast chocolate" into the search bar.

I happened upon a sweet little recipe that is essentially 2 minute chocolate cake in a ramekin (or coffee cup in my case) cooked in the microwave for 30 seconds.

It should be noted at this time that I do not fall under the category of "good cook."

I think it's because I'm too impatient.

You know, a watched pot never boils, and all that.

Don't get me wrong...I'm not a complete failure in the kitchen.

I make a fantastic roast, the kids beg for my homemade chicken and noodles and Matt recently confessed that my potato soup is better than his (and his is delicious!).

But I fall very short when it comes to the true definition of a "good cook".

Matt often regards what I put in front of him to eat as a science experiment worthy of being approached with caution and trepidation.

This might be because when I run into the kitchen with a piece of paper in my hand and a look of determination on my face and he asks what I'm making I always say, "Can't tell ya" in my best mysterious voice.

I'm setting myself up for failure.

So I made the little 2 minute cakes and set one in front of him in the coffee cup.

He looked at it and then at me with questioning eyes.

Then he looked at it again.

Then he sniffed it.

I shoved the fork towards him and said, "Try it! It's cake!"

He stabbed a forkful, sniffed it again and then quickly shoved it into his mouth.

He chewed it with a look of concern on his face.

I asked, "Do you like it?"

He made a squeaking noise and said, "Itth like thtyrofoam."

I gasped, "What! I worked two whole minutes on that cake!"

"And then watched it bake for 30 whole seconds!"

And he said, "Itth thucking all the moithture out of my mouth."

"Itth tho dry."

He was whining and sort of fake crying while he chewed.

I made a mad face and then a huffing noise.

I crossed my arms in front of my chest and stomped directly up to my computer.

And then I sat down to write this because it's funny.

And because I thought I should warn you not to make the two minute cake in a ramekin because it really does taste like styrofoam.

You can see the rest of this session here under "Darian Senior".

Slightly Confuciused...

2011-12-31T13:26:00.002-06:00

I have determined that my children have minds not unlike the great philosophers of the world.

In fact, I'm almost entirely positive that things would be a lot more uncomplicated, definitely more sincere and positively more fun if we adopted the mindset of a child once in a while.

Here's an example of why:

We were on our way home from visiting relatives last night.

Mercede was looking out the window.

She gasped when she saw the sliver of moon shining through the clouds and exclaimed, "Oh! I want to take a picture of that!"

After I saw that she was referring to the moon I replied, "You won't be able to catch that in camera the way your eye sees it."

She said, "I wish I had something better than this stupid camera phone!"

And I said, "I wouldn't even be able to catch that with my camera, the moon is very hard to shoot."

After sighing she said, "The best things in life can't be caught on camera."

There was a brief moment of silence in which I was contemplating how true that statement really is and how deep it made her sound despite the fact that she was just making a statement of fact.

Then London pipes up from the back seat with, "Unless you've got night vision!"

Now that's determination and thinking outside the box!

See?

They're totally deep thinkers.

Just like their momma.

*giggle*

You can see the rest of this session here under "Stohmeyer Senior".

Get your popcorn!

2011-12-26T18:56:00.000-06:00

I went to the movies Sunday night.

As someone who isn't greatly interested in watching movies, this isn't something I do very often.

In fact, I can't remember the last movie I went to see.

I think it was in 2009.

Seriously.

I'm just not a movie person.

Here's what I discovered upon taking in the movie theater scene after two years of abstinence...

It was enjoyable.

But weird.

As I sat down in the living-room-like atmosphere I wanted to take my shoes off, curl up in my seat and snuggle with someone.

But I didn't want to get yelled at by the usher.

So I sat.

I then had the urge to offer everyone around me something to drink...because they were in my living room.

That's just what a good hostess does.

But I couldn't afford it.

So I shuffled my feet on the sticky floor and waited.

Then the movie began to start and London leaned over and said, "I wish they could fast forward through all these commercials!"

The uncanny thing about that statement is, we can! We, as people living in the 21st century, have the amazing ability to fast forward through movies we happen to be watching.

Unless, of course, you happen to be in a theater.

My conclusion?

While going to the movies will be something I continue to do from time to time with my kids because it's what society has dictated to them is "fun" and I will be entertained by it (as I am by most anything) I will continue to be perplexed by its draw.

I'm also left wondering, when the radio was invented and most households enjoyed the ability to listen to it in the comfort of their own homes, why didn't they then gather in a large building to listen to a giant radio with dozens of people they didn't know?

And listen to commercials they didn't have on their home radios.

And pay $45 for it.

Minus snacks and beverages.

Not a hater...just intrigued.

You can see the rest of this session here under Pinkley/Mills Family.

A problem.

2011-12-25T14:59:00.002-06:00

So.

I walked to my front door because someone was knocking on it.

I thought this was odd because I didn't remember locking the door and most people that come to my house just walk right on in.

As I reached forward to unlock the door I noticed there were three locks instead of just the one that normally presented itself to me.

And the locks weren't even regular door locks...they were the kind that you find on a bathroom stall with the little post that slides into the little doohickey.

What happened to my regular door lock?

Why did someone replace my regular door lock with not one, not two, but three of these stupid bathroom stall door locks?

And when and how did they do this without my knowledge?

This is what I was wondering as I was reaching forward to unlock the three locks.

Then the person doing the knocking stuck a pair of bolt cutters through the door and started hacking away at the locks.

Which now makes no sense because it would not be possible to stick bolt cutters through a perfectly good, solid wood door.

I looked at the person through the crack and calmly asked, "Why are you cutting my door locks?"

They responded with, "I don't know why anyone uses these silly things. They won't keep anybody out."

I refer to the person behind the door as "they" because they didn't have a face.

Rather, their face was just a white circle.

So I don't even know who it was that was attempting, quite successfully, to cut up my door locks.

Apparently it was of no concern to me though, because I was busying myself with putting on pantyhose.

But every pair I put on was ripped.

Like shredded.

And I couldn't find a pair of shoes.

The circle faced person disappeared (along with his/her bolt cutters) and I was standing in my front yard looking at a giraffe eating from my weeping willow tree.

As I was looking at the giraffe I felt a sudden pain in my left rib and realized I'd been shot.

With an arrow.

An arrow that had pretty beads hanging from the end of it.

I thought to myself, "How did I get shot with an arrow?"

And then, "Why does this arrow have pretty beads on it?"

And then, "I could make a necklace out of those!"

And then, "I have got to blog about this."

And then I woke up.

You can now see that I may have a slight problem because it may or may not be normal to dream about blogging what you're dreaming.

You can see the rest of this session here under "Miiller Family".

Don't wait!

2011-12-22T19:52:00.002-06:00

I had an issue. I have now resolved it.

I am now going to alert you to this issue in a public awareness type post that may end up sounding like an infomercial.

I apologize in advance.

Commencing...

Are you tired of finding tiny little holes in your shirts?

(Picture an overly dramatic me gesturing frantically at a tiny hole in an obviously new shirt.)

Are you sick of looking for moths in your closet that aren't there in order to explain the holes away?

(Picture me shining a flashlight aimlessly into a dark closet, finding nothing and then throwing my hands in the air and shrugging dramatically.)

And have you driven yourself bonkers searching your washer and dryer for shirt eating snags all to no avail?

(Picture a stressed out me with my legs hanging out of the washing machine thrashing wildly.)

Then look no more!

You have come to the right place!

Because I am here to tell you about how those little holes are forming!

That's right! Your unconscious shirt demolition days are over!

(Picture me with raised eyebrows and my index finger pointed in the air in a pose of discovery.)

Do you have a sink?

Do you wash dishes?

Or prepare meals at a counter?

Have no fear, your holes are forming when your shirt rubs against the metal button on your jeans!

(Picture me standing at the kitchen sink and then looking down at my belly button area with shock upon discovering that my cute little jeans button is the culprit of numerous shirt maimings and shaking my finger at the offending button in mock disapproval.)

How did I discover the solution to this quandary?

Google, of course!

Just type in "holes in my shirt" and be prepared to read many harrowing accounts of fellow innocent victims of shirt massacres.

(Picture me looking into a computer monitor while shaking my head yes vigorously while smiling and pointing at the screen and feeling validated and now having a sense of community and camaraderie with fellow losers of perfectly good shirts.)

And now all is right with the world.

(For the low, low price of $19.99!)

Minus my poor sentence structure and basically this entire blog post but let's just be happy with the things we do have, shall we?

(Call now!)

You can watch this wedding video here:

The rest of the images will be here under "Myers/Johnson Wedding" later this evening.

A Series of Unfortunate Events

2011-12-16T21:39:00.001-06:00

We came home Wednesday evening, changed into our comfortable (i.e. stretchy) clothes and began our ritual of winding down and settling in.

I had just poured a glass of milk to go with my healthy homemade chocolate cupcake (for real) when London yelled upstairs from his room, "My floor is wet"!

Cupcakes were dropped, milk was abandoned and Matt, the kids and I ran downstairs to what we new awaited us...

a broken sump pump and a basement filling with rain water.

How relaxing.

This has happened before so we knew the drill.

Pants were hiked up, valuable things were moved to higher ground and Matt set to work trying to fix the pump as water continued trickling in.

This occurred at 11:00 PM (of course) which means that we couldn't just tricky-trot out the door to purchase a new sump pump to replace the defective one.

No sir-ree!

So when Matt realized that there was no fixing the broken one he threw on clothes to run to the nearest Super Wal-Mart that was a.) open and b.) sold sump pumps.

This happened to be 20 minutes away.

Meanwhile my basement (and the military-like proficiency of myself and the children) began to resemble the interior of a submarine taking on water from a direct hit to the starboard bow.

Minus the little round windows.

The kids and I were taking turns using the shop vac to suck up the water, haul it up the basement steps and dump it on the ground.

This was probably as futile as it sounds, but it gave us something to do that seemed to have a purpose.

Until the shop vac blew up.

Then I called my mom and dad in the hopes that they happened to have an unused sump pump laying around somewhere.

Turns out they didn't.

But my brother did.

So Dad took it (borrowed it) from his garage, plugged it up and we began cleaning up as we waited for Matt to get back home.

He finally arrived and then he and I took turns filling and emptying dad's (much larger and therefore much more effective) shop vac.

We were up until 3:30 in the morning cleaning and keeping watch on the temporary sump pump and then drove to Lowe's to purchase a new one first thing in the morning.

Matt then decided to cut some wood as we're going through ours quite quickly and we're trying to use only wood heat this winter.

His chainsaw wouldn't start.

He took it to the chainsaw fixing guy and he fixed it for $50 (two hours later).

Matt then headed into the woods, cut some wood and loaded it into his truck with the kids' help.

(I would've helped, of course, but I was in the (warm) house working on these very pictures.)

Then he hit a stump and ruined his tire on the truck.

In fact, the only new tire on the truck.

He's now hiding out in his room...

curled up in the fetal position...

sucking his thumb.

You can see the rest of this session here under "Hill Family".

Don't Feed the Squirrels

2011-12-04T18:40:00.001-06:00

Is it weird that I keep a stash of food in the drawer by my computer?

I didn't realize how much I had in the drawer until a few days ago when my mom was watching me dig through it for some paperwork and remarked on the variety of my fodder.

The following is what currently makes up my rations:

-one bag of Great Value almonds (roasted and salted)

-one bag of Great Value all natural dried cherries

-one bag of Ann's House chocolate nut antioxidant trail mix

(to be mixed with the nuts and dried cherries and eaten so there is a perfect combination of cherry, almonds, cranberries and chocolate)

-one half bag of some weird sesame crackers my mom gave me that aren't labeled

(I actually really like these except the little seeds get stuck in my teeth.)

-one Wafernusse crispy European wafer filled with hazelnut creme and covered in rich milk chocolate from Aldi's

(I'm actually quite surprised that's still in there...and I might add that it most likely won't be by the end of this post.)

and

-one pack of Trident gum

Is this psychotic behavior?

Should I see a shrink?

Feeling Squirrely in Missouri,

You can see the rest of this session here under "Stamp Family".

Rumble Strips

2011-12-02T16:22:00.001-06:00

You know how the sky looks at night when the moon is out but it's cloudy and the moon just barely shines through?

When it looks like upside down hot chocolate with swirling foam?

Or sort of like you're under the ocean looking up through crashing waves into the moon?

I like that.

You know how sometimes when you're driving at night and the sky looks really amazing...

because the moon is shining through the swirly clouds...

and you're looking out your window at the amazingness and sort of forget that you're driving...

and your vehicle sort of drifts to the center lane but you don't realize it because you've been mesmermized by the feeling that you're under the ocean looking at the moon through crashing waves...

until you hear a sound like this: Burrrrrrrrrrrrrr...

and it scares you half to death and you ease your vehicle back into the middle of your lane and pay attention to where you're going?

I don't like that.

Thank you rumble strips. I owe you one.

You can see the rest of this session here under "Hall Maternity".

Adbay Airhay Ayday

2011-11-30T18:58:00.001-06:00

My children just discovered Igpay Atinlay from a friend.

That's "Pig Latin" for those of you not familiar.

They were unreasonably excited to hear me speak back to her also in Pig Latin.

(Are fake languages capitalized?)

They had no idea I was fluent.

I humored their slinging words at me rapid-fire to translate for about ten minutes.

We Pig Latin-ized the names of almost everyone we know and some we don't and nearly every street sign between my house and Wal-mart.

At one point someone yelled from the back seat, "I bet you can't do Pig Latin in Spanish!"

To which I replied, "Uno-ya, Ose-day, Es-tray, Atro-Quay, Inco-say"...

and then one child's head exploded.

For real.

You should see the mess I have to clean up in the van.

Child brains everywhere.

In other news...

I dressed myself this morning in presentable clothing, swiped my bed head hair back into a low ponytail and threw on a cute black winter hat until I had time to ponder on whether or not I was in the mood to wash and fix my hair.

It soon became apparent that I was not.

I decided to opt for a pony and the hat which I would go about fixing right after I put on my "face".

I then entered a bizarre time warp and somehow ended up in the car two hours later with the realization that not only did I not wash and fix my hair but I never even took the hat back off to brush it.

I'm calling it early onset dementia.

You can see the rest of this session here under "Parsley/Kisner Family".

Mahw-age...

2011-11-28T20:47:00.001-06:00

is what bwings us togethew today.

(If you can't name that classic movie I want nothing to do with you. Be off!)

Several days ago I heard an interesting statement that I instantly rejected as factual, crossed my arms across my chest and "harumphed" at.

The statement was this: Intense romantic love only lasts for roughly 18 months.

At the risk of sounding uncouth or childish let me just say, "poppycock!"

I don't agree.

I'm not saying that I get that butterfly feeling in my stomach every time my husband walks into a room like in times past, but "intense romantic love?"

I still have plenty of that.

Imagine my surprise when I found an article online verifying my beliefs.

(Yes, I know I can't believe everything I read online, but I'm not testing a scientific hypothesis so we'll just assume it's fact.)

The article discussed how a team of researchers scanned the brains of 17 people who claimed to be wild about their longtime spouses as they looked at a photograph of their sweetheart. Most were in their 50s and married an average of 21 years.

The results?

The brains of these middle-aged men and women showed much the same activity as those of young lovers, individuals who had been intensely in love an average of only seven months.

The only difference?

In the older lovers (she said lovers, teehee), brain regions associated with anxiety were no longer active; instead, there was activity in the areas associated with calmness.

The article then went on to discuss how happy marriages are based on good communication, shared values, a sturdy support system of friends and relatives, happy, stable childhoods, fair quarrelling, and dogged determination.

I definitely have the dogged determination. Matt would agree.

(Or he will when I'm finished having a "fair quarrell" with him.)

But the researchers found no particular combination of personality traits that leads to sustained romance—with one exception: the ability to sustain your "positive illusions."

Simply put: Having the ability to overlook flaws and still view your mate as you did when you had the butterfly feeling.

I'm not sure if we've been happily married for 15 years because of the "dogged determination" or the ability to overlook each other's many flaws or a combination of both, but I do know this:

We haven't seen our wedding video in 15 years (we lost it in the mother-in-law's house fire) and I've looked everywhere for another copy with no success.

We were at a friend's house this weekend. She casually brought up that she had recently been given our wedding video on tape.

I expressed excitement at her finding it so I could see it someday and explained the loss of my copy in the fire.

It happened to be found that very evening.

We sat down with six of our close friends (and our children) and watched it.

I was jittery the whole time and had butterflies of nerves or excitement or both,

and Matt got "emotional".

And I was happy.

So whatever we're doing seems to be working at the moment and that's all the scientific proof I need that I'm in an "intense romantic relationship" and have been for more than 18 months.

The end.

You can see the rest of this session here under "Hinkle Family".

Three things I've learned from listening to public radio...

2011-11-25T20:41:00.001-06:00

1. I've learned not only what "consigliere" means but how to pronounce it.

I'm not sure I'll ever use it in my speech (ever) except to tell people that I know what it means, but it's a pretty word.

A pretty word for something not necessarily very pretty.

consigliere: \kōn-(ˌ)sil-ˈye-re Counselor, advisor (generally the number three person in a crime family, after the boss and underboss in most cases)

I'm sure the public radio program I was listening to was using it more in the sense of the advisor and less in the sense of a member of the mafia.

But I guess you never can tell.

Public radio is edgy like that.

2. It seems that the new "cool" way to tell a story is in a monotone voice devoid of expression.

I can not be sure of this statement as I've only recently been an avid listener of storytelling on public radio.

That being said, I don't seem to remember any story I've ever been told in the past sounding like it was read from a book by a robot.

People usually get excited when they tell stories, or sad, or serious or giggly.

Not on public radio.

I haven't decided if I'm disturbed by this trend or not.

Maybe the monotone voice lets us create in our own mind what the emotion should be.

But isn't that part of the fun in telling a story...creating the mood?

Dictating the feel to anticipate the reaction?

I don't know. What do you think?

Do you listen to public radio stories? Or public radio at all?

Probably not because the number three thing I've learned from listening to public radio is...

3. No one I know listens to public radio.

But you should.

Particularly if you like amazing stories.

More particularly if you like amazing stories told in monotone.

By possible robots.

You can see the rest of this session here under "Simmons Siblings".

Sour Bagpipes

2011-11-22T07:47:00.001-06:00

I can not tolerate the smell of sour clothes.

You know the smell...that musty, moldy smell that clean clothes sometimes get when they stay in the washer to long before being thrown in the dryer?

That smell. I hate it.

So imagine my dismay when I found myself lying in a bed of soured sheets last night.

Actually just one sheet...the fitted one...but still enough to drive me crazy.

I didn't realize the predicament I'd gotten myself into until I had already pulled the comforter up to my cheek and assumed the fetal position on my right side (my position of choice for sleeping).

The subtle sour smell began to rise up around me and I screamed in my head, "Ack!! I just washed these sheets! Why me? I hate my stupid washing machine!"

There was no way I was going to strip the whole bed and put new sheets on it after I had already acclimated to the warmth of my bed.

Not gonna happen. I was too tired.

So I did the only thing I could think of in my half asleep state. I grabbed a bottle of essential oil and sprinkled it on the offending sheet in hopes of camouflaging the smell.

The problem? It was lavender oil.

I think I'm allergic to it. Not really allergic, but it makes my throat feel weird.

This was a sacrifice I was willing to make to avoid smelling a sour sheet all night long.

I think this is proof and we can now acknowledge that I don't make the best decisions while on the brink of sleeping.

I finally did fall asleep though it took five whole minutes instead of my usual 30 seconds, but I was successful despite the dry throat issue.

The weird part came at about three o'clock this morning when I bolted awake to the smell of my sour sheet and the sound of bagpipes.

Yes. Bagpipes.

It was a very brief sound...maybe 5-10 notes total, but I could certainly identify it as the sound of bagpipes.

While this has raised many questions for me (as well as you, I'm sure), I have come to one conclusion...

Lavender makes me dream about bagpipes.

How's that for an allergic reaction?

You can see the rest of this session here under "Breea M"

Phone Voice, Gigabytes and Eardrums Oh My!

2011-11-20T07:57:00.001-06:00

--My computer has been running slow...very slow.

I just realized today that I haven't ran a disk cleanup in a long time...very long.

It "cleaned up" 214 GB of junk.

Yes.

214 gigabytes.

Don't judge me.

--My mom hates it that I use my "phone voice" for everyone except family.

In case you don't know, a "phone voice" is the pleasant, accomodating voice one uses when one is talking to friends, business establishments or clients.

The non-phone voice is reserved only for family (and perhaps very close friends) and has a slightly more grumpy and menacing ring to it.

The way I look at it is if you hear me sounding grumpy and menacing on the phone then you have the esteemed privelege of being counted as my family (or for the very elite, a friend).

--My left ear has been clogged for some time now.

I can't hear out of it and what little I can hear sounds all tinny and reverberates through my head.

Despite how it sounds, it is very unpleasant.

I finally had a doctor look at it.

The diagnosis?

I need a tube.

Exciting, right?

I know.

Especially since we have no health insurance.

But it's okay because about 6 years ago I was told by a doctor that I needed knee surgery.

I scoffed at his inability to offer me a less radical solution as an alternative (I probably rolled my eyes behind his back though I can't be sure) and then I fixed it myself.

Two glucosamine chondroitin pills a day for two weeks and the pain was gone.

Surgery plergury.

Who needs it.

It is this past success that keeps me hopeful that I will find a home remedy that works for what my doctor described as an eardrum that "looks like a stained glass window".

And if I can't then I will take advantage of my inability to hear by jotting down the Abbott and Costello-like situations that arise in conversations with my friends and family and blog about them to you.

You're welcome.

*Disclaimer--I do not endorse avoiding surgery or medical attention if that's what floats your boat...I only avoid it because I'm insurance free and slightly delusional.

You can see the rest of this session here under "Reed Jensen".

Venetian Humidifier

2011-11-18T12:50:00.001-06:00

My washing machine is broke.

It washes fine and rinses fine.

The problem occurs during the final spin...because it doesn't.

Final spin that is.

Let me now explain what poor people (yes, that is me and I'm not ashamed of it) do when their washing machine breaks...

You first pull out a load of sopping wet clothes and notice a small pool of water resting in the bottom of the machine.

You then shove the clothes back in, unplug the machine, plug it back in and restart the load in hopes that it resets and the problem is resolved.

This is sort of like how you used to blow into a Nintendo game that quit working and for some reason it would work though it really didn't make any sense how breathing on it helped but you didn't care because it was fixed and that was all that mattered.

When you realize unplugging it did, in fact, not reset it and you still have dripping wet clothes and a pool of water in the drum you head to the fixer of all problems....

Google.

You type in the make and model of your washing machine followed by the phrase "dripping wet clothes", and guess what?

You are not the first person to experience this very problem.

You read about other issues and narrow it down to your exact symptoms.

You discover that it is your wax motor and also something called an R11 Resistor and a Q6 triac.

There is a YouTube video demonstrating exactly how to remove and replace the wax motor and also how to replace the parts on the control board (which admittedly looks very scary).

You purchase the wax motor for $8 and decide you can fix this yourself despite the fact that you have no idea how to use a soldering gun and also have not had the time to actually locate the control board in the machine that will need soldering.

Meanwhile your laundry has piled all the way up into the laundry chute and you have no clean underwear because you refuse to dry one load of dripping wet laundry in the dryer for 3 hours and it's so windy/rainy that you can't dry them on the clothesline.

You then come up with an ingenious solution to get you through the next few days until you have time to fix the machine.

This solution involves a metal pole stuck through two ladders in the basement next to the wood stove in which clothes are allowed to dry almost all the way and then finished off in the dryer.

The bonus is that since the clothes are dripping onto the concrete forming a little rivulet that is then evaporating quickly due to the heat from the stove you now have, not only dry clothes and clean underwear but also your very own free humidifier for the dry winter months.

And that, dear friends, is why my family room, though it may just look like a Venetian allyway, is actually serving as a way to reduce the amount of dry sinuses in our family.

And no one wants dry sinuses.

You can see the rest of this session here under "Hovis Family".

A Bunch of Bologna

2011-11-17T15:56:00.001-06:00

I have vivid memories of swimming at the town pool despite the fact that I was neither what one would call an "avid swimmer" nor did I have a season pass like the "cool" kids.

I remember the smell of the suntan lotion.

I remember the feel of the rough concrete as it rubbed the soles of my feet raw.

I remember looking with adoration at the lifeguards (high school kids) waiting for them to blow the whistle after the five-minute break not realizing that I was probably in serious trouble if my life ended up depending on them.

But mostly I remember the music and the bologna.

Yes, the bologna.

We'll get to that.

There are times that I'll hear a song, none of which I can name at the moment, that will take me straight back to that chlorine playground and scorching concrete.

I don't know if it's the particular song that reminds me of the pool or the way it sounds as it comes out of a particular type of speakers, but it has a tinny, far away sound and a little bit of static.

Determining the cause of this memory spark will take years of research involving scientific test subjects and controls and lots of sunscreen.

I'll get back to you.

And then there's the bologna....

There was something about a full day of swimming for a kid that just took it out of you.

The sun...the heat...swallowing all that urine filled water diluted with chlorine...it's exhausting on the pre-teen body.

It also induced hunger.

A mean kind of hunger.

The only kind of hunger that could be squelched with a bologna sandwich.

Even more than fond memories of frolicking in the water, I have memories of walking weakly into our kitchen after an all day swim.

I remember shuffling my sun heated body clumsily to the icebox (refrigerator as some call it) waiting for my pupils to adjust to the darkness after having been in so much brightness for so long.

I remember searching frantically for the ingredients I needed to stop the rumbling pain in my stomach, laying the ingredients out on the counter and assembling it as follows...

Bread (whole wheat as mom was anti-white bread)

Bologna

Fake cheese individually wrapped (if our whining had been successful)

Miracle Whip

A large layer of plain Ruffles or Lays

Bread

And then smoosh it all together with the palm of your hands.

In the event that we were out of bologna I would happily suffice with two pieces of bread slathered in Miracle Whip.

Or a Nutty Bar.

It seems I always come back to chocolate.

You can see the rest of this session here under "Tori's Babies".

Melancholy Sir Clark

2011-11-16T14:12:00.001-06:00

As usual, this blog, because it contains pictures of a sports team, will be a reminiscing about my school days.

Not because my school days are reminiscing worthy, but because it makes me access a part of my brain that needs more accessing.

The following is a poem I wrote.

I'm guessing I was 13 or 14.

Sir Clark

by: Brandi Long

The night is dark and stormy,

Mom and dad in bed.

I'm all alone in my room,

Scary thoughts in my head.

It wouldn't be so bad,

The monsters, storm and dark.

If only I hadn't forgotten

My teddy bear, Sir Clark.

I left him on the couch.

How abandoned he must feel!

He's probably just as scared as me.

Or maybe more scared still.

Oh, he's surely terribly scared.

Then again, who knows?

He might be having fun

Watching all the late night shows.

He might be riding trash can lids

down the basement stairs.

He could really hurt himself!

But I don't really care.

It's all his fault he didn't come

When mom shut off the light.

It's all his fault if he gets hurt

In the middle of the night.

I'm all alone in my bed.

I sure miss Sir Clark.

He's having all the fun

While I'm here in the dark!

(bowing, waving)

I know. I know.

It's a masterpiece.

I'll just sit back and wait for the children's book publishers to start calling.

(crickets)

But wait! There's more!

To show you my diverse talent and broad poetic range, I'm also submitting the following literary masterpiece for your sensory pleasure...

Burial of the Leaves

by: Brandi Long

(typed as written)

The leaves on the trees begin

to quiver in their await of f

It is an inspiring season, when colors are changing; dramatically rich f

The wind dashes among the trees, reaching and straining

to grab the helpless leaves and pull them d

to mingle in a melancholy fading away.

They pass away on the earthen floor from which they came.

Their approaching burial comes in the form of the pure white masses of f

g snow.

Winter has come.

Does anyone else find it interesting that I just used the word "meloncholy" in my last post?

I think it's pretty melancholy that I happened upon a melancholy poem I wrote 21 years ago on the exact day that I was experiencing melancholy.

How melancholy!

This session is also here under "High School Tennis".

Dear Abby,

2011-11-15T10:18:00.001-06:00

I have a question.

I need some advice.

It's for a friend.

This friend, we'll call her Vee, has a blog.

It's a very light and sometimes humorous blog with pictures.

Vee is typically a happy and light person so when she sits down to create a blog post it naturally comes out as happy or light topics with not much substance.

She's not writing a novel, but more like an autobiography with a bit of self-contemplation thrown in for good measure.

The problem is that Vee has a blog post that needs created and she has a bit of writer's block because she's feeling somewhat meloncholy.

What should she do?

Should she struggle to write something light and airy even though she feels dark and intense?

Would her readers feel totally wigged out if she got all deep and serious on them?

I've tried to give her advice but all I could come up with is to encourage her to eat chocolate.

Actually I told her to eat chocolate and stay in her pajamas all day.

And read Edgar Allen Poe.

That should lift anybody's spirits.

You can see the rest of this session here under "Toppins/Cooper Engagement".

Sisterly Love

2011-11-12T18:17:00.001-06:00

You know how sometimes you'll just be performing normal, everyday life functions and a totally non-related song will make itself manifest in your brain?

This happens to me all the time.

Today, for instance, I was thinking about how I ate too much for supper and that I really should start taking better care of my body and maybe I should start walking again and how in the world is my oldest daughter almost 14 and then the following song began to dance around in my cerebral cortex...

"I just called...to say...I loooovvvve you...I just called to say how much I care."

"I just called to say I looooooovvvvvve you. And I mean it from the bottom of my heart."

While I don't even have a guess as to the reason my brain serenaded me with this song without my permission, it did remind me of a story.

My sister and I were little. I was probably about 10 years old which would have made her 6 or 7, depending on the time of year.

We were on our swingset in the backyard.

You know the kind of swingset that the concrete legs pop up a little out of the ground when you swing too high causing you to feel as if the entire swingset is going to do a somersault with you on it?

That kind of swingset.

We were doing the "spider" swing.

You know the type of swinging where one person sits like normal in the swing and the other person (me) sits on their lap facing them creating four legs hanging down from the swing like a spider hanging from his web?

That kind of swinging.

Apparently we then said or did something really funny because I started laughing and couldn't stop.

My younger-than-me sister couldn't handle the weight of her older-than-her and thereby larger-than-her sister sitting with her full weight on her lap while simultaneously operating the complicated swinging apparatus, so we fell off backwards.

Rather, she fell off backwards. I fell off forwards.

On top of her.

Laughing.

At that point things got way out of control because I couldn't stop laughing.

She also couldn't stop laughing except between gasps for air she was yelling, "Get off me!"

I wanted to, I really did, but I couldn't.

I was laughing too hard.

You know the kind of laughing where your face hurts and you're crying and you're practically paralyzed with hilarity?

It was that kind of laughing.

And then in the midst of the chaos I realized that I had to pee.

Immediately.

I think I screamed something along the lines of, "I have to peeeeeeeeee!"

But I couldn't move because of the aforementioned laughing fit.

And then I peed all over my sister.

And that, dear friends, is how you go from mentally singing a romantic 80's R&B song to reminiscing about the time you peed on your sister.

You can see the rest of this session here under "Casey Wright".

Seven sixteenths say what?

2011-11-10T12:22:00.000-06:00

Many areas of my life need improvement.

I am reprehensibe, to say the least, in the following:

1. I am unable to read a ruler.

Sure, I know 1/2, 1/4, and maybe 1/8, but that's the extent of it.

I don't like rulers. I am repulsed by their vertical lines stacked in varying heights of haughtiness daring me to decipher seven sixteenths from eleventy tenths.

(Yes, I realize that eleventy tenths is not an actual number...I used it for effect.)

2. I have been putting my punctuation outside of quotations for my whole life.

It wasn't until yesterday that I realized they go inside the quotes.

It was quite the revolutionary moment for me.

How embarassing.

3. I burp a lot.

These aren't tiny, dainty burps, but loud, raucous ones.

I do, however, say "excuse me" and I guess it's better than the other gassy alternative, but I should probably still address it in hopes of becoming a more rounded individual.

4. I'm out of control with my comma usage.

Since I type as I'm thinking, I pretty much put commas wherever I think there should be a pause.

This is totally unacceptable in the world of grammar, but you guys aren't judging me based on my commas, are you?

Does my comma look big in this?

(What does that even mean?)

5. I don't make my bed. Ever.

Okay, not ever. I make it when I change the sheets. That's it.

And while I feel that an umade bed with its casually tossed pillows and rumpled up sheets is much more welcoming and homey (and way more sexy) than a perfectly starched made up bed with folded down corners and shams, I do realize that this too is unacceptable in dignified homes and I should make my bed like any normal person would.

(Yes, I said "sexy", and that is the worst run-on sentence ever.)

You can see the rest of this session here under "Sebastian Boys".

Quantify the honest-hearted...

2011-11-09T21:09:00.001-06:00

I've been hearing a word a lot lately.

The word "quantify".

As in, "It's really hard to quantify how much love I have for my husband" or, "I have such a desire for chocolate that to quantify the amount I eat would only make me sound gluttonous."

The definition: to express or determine the quantity of.

You could replace it with the words determine or estimate.

It's actually just a fancy word for "measure".

A fancy word for measure that I happen to like the sound of.

Too bad I can't quantify how much I like the sound.

Speaking of words...

A few weeks ago London asked me how to pronounce the word "honest-hearted".

I repeated it to him several times and he repeated it back to me correctly.

We've encouraged him to write out the sounds he hears when he comes upon a word he doesn't know well, so after he understood the sound that "honest-hearted" made he jotted something down on a slip of paper.

He showed me the slip of paper.

This is what he had written:

On-A-Started.

Brilliant!

I will never look at that word the same way again.

You can see the rest of the session here under "Seth Starkey".

Mysterious

2011-11-08T19:54:00.000-06:00

I have had several requests (two, two requests) since my post about homesteading.

Since I desire to make you happy I thought it only reasonable that I address these two questions.

Question #1: How long did you homestead?

It was approximately three years.

This occurred while I was between the ages of 4 and 7.

Question #2: Why did your parents choose to homestead?

This is a bit of a hard question to answer since I'm obviously not my parents and would have no idea why they did what they did when I was only 4 years old, but here's how I see it...

As long as I can remember my mom has been what people today call "green".

She recycled before it was the cool thing to do.

She had canvas bags for her groceries before they became designer.

She's always been all about green and organic.

And vitamins.

And recycling.

And avoiding medication.

So when my sister and I asked her why they moved from their small town to homestead in the middle of nowhere it only made sense that she said, "I was always interested in that kind of thing".

My sister and I then looked at each other and said almost in unison, "And you dragged dad along with you?".

She gave a lot of different reasons about why they may have made the move, but I'll be diplomatic and avoid telling them to the interwebs.

Besides, I'm not sure they even really know why they did it....maybe they just wanted to be adventurous.

Yes, let's say it was because they were adventurous.

That's sounds way more glamorous than any of the reasons she gave me anyway.

B

You can see the rest of this session here under "Emma".

You were right.

2011-11-07T21:57:00.000-06:00

Sometimes it's fun to say "I told you so".

Like when you get into a conversation with someone about the dog's name on the show Empty Nest and they say it was Belvedere and you say no, it was Dreyfuss and you argue for ten minutes and then one of you looks it up on Wikipedia and they realize you were right and then you say:

"I told you so".

Or like when you tell your husband that you can't watch Transformers 2 because you'll have nightmares and he says you'll be fine, not to worry and you watch it with him anyway and then you have nightmares for two weeks about rogue machinery trying to hatchet you into pieces which you then relate to him in great detail and say:

"I told you so."

But there are times that you don't want to say those four little words (though they might slip out on accident because you don't think before you speak and you apologize in advance for any times that has happened in the past or may happen in the future).

Like when you tell your kids not to eat that fifth cupcake because they're going to get sick and they ignore you and eat it anyway and then you wake up in the middle of the night to them vomiting up chocolate and icing mixed with stomach fluids.

You don't really want to say "I told you so" at that juncture, though you rightfully could.

Because you did.

Or when you give someone relationship advice and they don't take it because they think they need a woman/man right this instant even though you know they aren't ready and you tell them so and then the whole relationship thing doesn't work out in the end and they tell you about it and say that they, in fact, weren't ready.

You might want to say I told you so, but even if it was said in the nicest way it will still come out sounding jerk-ish and not nice and totally not encouraging but you may not be able to think of one other thing to say that might be encouraging or helpful so you say it anyway and add a :) to the end.

Instead of sounding jerk-ish and not nice in those instances, just skip the phrase "I told you so".

Just skip it.

Or replace it with words like "sorry" or "bummer" or something as equally neutralizing and wait for them to tell you that you were right.

That's much more gratifying anyway.

You can see the rest of this session here under "Kristen Conklin".

Still grumpy

2011-11-06T21:50:00.001-06:00

I'm still a little irritated about my lost hour of "extra" time last night that I somehow misplaced.

So I'm introducing you to this lovely newlywed couple...

I'm loading their pictures...

and then I'm going to do nothing for exactly one hour.

Don't bother me.

Unless the house is on fire.

*Excuse the tiny video...I gave up on loading the large one.

You can see the rest of the wedding here under "Blake and Chayli Wedding" but it may take a while before all 161 images load. Just sayin'.

Downward Spiral

2011-11-06T08:27:00.000-06:00

Daylight savings time is like a gift.

And a curse.

I knew I had an "extra hour" coming last night.

I knew I should use it wisely.

I contemplated all day how I was going to spend this "extra hour".

Sleeping? Reading? Annoying my children?

So many options. So little time.

I had two sessions scheduled for yesterday, the last one ending at about 4:30.

Upon finishing, I went inside and threw myself into editing the rest of this wedding.

Before I knew it the clock said eleven.

What?!

Where did my "extra hour" go?

I totally blew it.

I was given the gift of an "extra hour" and couldn't think of a way to spend it.

This is just another example of my inability to be decisive and quick.

Now we will be losing approximately one minute of daylight each day until the end of December.

I've not only abused and misused my one "extra hour" for the year, but am now headed into a downward spiral of darkness.

Gloom, despair and agony on me...

Book Covers--An observation

2011-11-04T20:18:00.000-05:00

My taste in literature is very much like my taste in most everything else.

I'm all over the place.

I can't seem to limit myself to one genre of reading.

I'm not even sure I could tell you what I particularly like to read.

Books. I like to read books.

That's it.

I know.

I'm deep.

As an unguided book reader floating around in a sea of possibilities I rely on the description of the book to choose something that fits my mood at the moment.

Enter...the book cover.

When a book catches my attention and I pull it off the shelf to examine its read-worthiness, my first action is to flip to the back in order to read the summary.

I just want a brief idea of what the book is about.

As a woman with little leisure time, I want to choose wisely.

With that being said, what is one supposed to do with books that don't have a summary?

When confronted with such a book I must look like a deranged mental patient escaped from the ward.

I'm at Goodwill. I pick up a book that looks interesting.

I flip to the back to read the summary.

Nothing.

I take a deep breath and open it in hopes of finding printed words on the inside dust cover.

Nothing.

My palms get sweaty.

I start flipping the book back and forth, front to back, looking at the inside front cover and the inside back cover. All I see is blankness and a picture of the author. This is useless information! What is the book about?!

My eyes dart around the store in a panic looking for help.

I hold the book high above my head and yell, "Has anyone read this?"

"Is it worth seventy cents and four hours of my time?"

"Anybody?!"

My body is stiff, in rapt attention, awaiting a reply from the patrons.

They turn to me in alarm. They look disturbed rather than concerned about my predicament.

Then I black out.

Potato Sniffing

2011-11-03T16:33:00.000-05:00

My children are homeschooled.

Part of our scheduled work includes one whole school day of something you could call independent study.

I came home from one such day of their independence, went into the office to start editing and noticed an empty beer can and a potato on London's desk.

London was standing nearby and the following conversation ensued...

Me: Why is there a potato on the desk?

London: Oh (smiling goofily). We were doing a spelling project.

Me: (with a look of confusion) A spelling project that involved a potato? How did that work?

London: (laughing) Not spelling...smelling!

Me: Ah. That makes a lot more sense. Sort of.

London: Summer was studying smells in her science book so we blindfolded each other and tried to guess what we were smelling.

Me: And you chose a potato?

London: Yep. It doesn't smell like anything!

He shoved it under my nose so I could get a whiff of what "nothing" smells like.

He then walked away shrugging his shoulders.

And it is at this precise moment that I have realized I didn't ask about the empty beer can.

Death by Cell Phone

2011-11-02T18:58:00.001-05:00

I pass a cell phone tower nearly every day.

It's tall and has blinking lights like any normal cell phone tower.

It's nestled in a group of trees.

It also has this weird little thing on the side that I alway think is a man when I first see it even though I know from last time that it's, in fact, not a man.

This is how my thought process goes:

"Oh my gosh! There's a man climbing the cell phone tower!"

(One time I almost pointed this out to Matt but caught myself just in time. That would have been so embarrassing...I don't like for him to see my crazy.)

"I wonder why he's climbing it at 8:00 at night (or any other similarly bizarre time for a man to be climbing a tower)."

"Ack! Maybe he's going to jump!"

"Call the paramedics!"

"Why would someone kill themselves by climbing and then jumping from a cell phone tower?"

"That seems like way too much work."

"With absolutely no payoff."

Upon closing the distance between myself and the tower the conversation between myself and myself now goes a little more like this:

"Wait a minute."

(Pause for moment of thought.)

"The proportions are all wrong!"

"That can't possibly be a man climbing the tower to commit suicide!"

"The relationship in size between the lights, the trees and the "man" are off...he would be tiny."

"Unless!"

"There's no other explanation."

"Obviously."

"It's a miniature man climbing the tower to commit suicide."

"Yes."

"That's much more logical."

And that, dear friends, is why I'm not allowed to operate heavy machinery.

You can see the rest of this session here under "Bridget Allgier".