death by torture

So tomorrow I'm heading north as a sponsor for a teen ski retreat. There used to be a reason I thought this was a good idea, but it has since abandoned me.

Yeah, I've never skied before.

Except if you count water skiing, which is totally not the same thing at all, because for one thing, you get to be warm while you do it. And also because the worst thing that could happen is you forget to let go of the rope once you're down, and end up with water shoved up your nose.

But in ski-skiing, the worst thing that could happen is that first, you're freezing, and then you could break your leg in fourteen places and trigger an avalanche and get mauled by a rabid polar bear and collide with a tree. And die.

And did I mention the freezing part?

It's possible I'm overstating the case, but I really think not. Anyhow, I've got a few posts waiting in the hopper (just my usual drivel; don't get excited), to upload the next few days. So if you don't hear from me, that means either I have no internet access or I died. Take your pick.

Off to finish packing. Wish me luck (and no "break a leg" comments...beat you to it, didn't I?).

generally speaking

sometimes i sense that this breakneck speed which is my life affects my little sphere of influence in larger ways than just flattening it into a pancake of stress. because sometimes i think that if i just put the urgencies and emergencies of daily life on pause




like so




and thought about things

(i mean, really thought about things), you know,
as in yanked my habits and spending and schedule in line with my convictions, it could--

quite possibly

--change everything.


(and unchange is always so much easier. mindless, but so bloody convenient.)

What I Did on Christmas Vacation

by Nicole Owens



This past weekend was some serious fun. Any weekend with hubby's family is a bona fide riot, but this time the fun levels flew off the charts.

A few highlights (plus some inside jokes, sorry)

:: apples and caramel dip :: "give me the bird" :: memorable one-liners during scum :: birthday cake for Jesus :: the electric slide :: Seth's over-qualification as a supplier for Evian :: picking the peanuts out of peanut candy clusters :: MC Hammer :: sweating with Debbie Siebers :: "even after death, the language of sisters endures" ::

Mostly we listened/danced/sang to tunes from back in the day (bless you youTube and project playlist), and disturbed Mom Owens with how many lyrics-of-questionable-morality we knew by heart. This reminiscing will likely spawn a mini-series, so Be Prepared.



PS I was saddened to discover that I was the only one for whom this song evoked fond memories. Apparently everyone else in the household was a good little church kid and watched Saved By the Bell. I, on the other hand, was cool. ;)

mele kalikimaka

so i was having a good birthday

...right up till the part when I realized I wasn't 32. Does anyone else do this faulty counting thing? I call it Delayed Counting Syndrome.

It happens whenever I'm trying to keep track of something that takes a while to progress. Like running laps on a track. I complete lap three, I'm starting out on the fourth lap and the whole time I'm rounding the track I'm thinking about how this is the fourth lap, obsessing about the number four and how it means I only have eight or twelve (or twenty four if you're someone who's not me at all) left to go, so by the time I hit the starting point again, I'm way past four and count it as five.

And then I'm obsessing about the number six for a good hundred meters until I realize, nope, that was four laps I just completed back there. This one's number five. It's all very confusing; sometimes I have to run a few extra laps at the end just in case.

Tell me this isn't just me.

So last night when it hit midnight I was conversing with the voices in my head about being thirty two and how fun a number that is and it took me a good five minutes before I realized that, no, this is just thirty one. I've been thinking about thirty one all week and apparently got so used to the idea that I moved right along to the next number once my birthday hit.

Bah, humbug.

Although, come to think of it, it's a double humbug because technically I'm still only thirty until some ungodly hour of tomorrow morning, but that's another odd story in itself.

It's just me, isn't it. Yeah, don't tell me; I'd really rather not know.



HOWEVER



Birthday joys:

:: a roasted Panera sandwich :: Anne Rice's INTERVIEW WITH THE VAMPIRE series :: How I Met Your Mother, season 1 :: a slew of delectably humorous cards from brilliant people :: girlie combat boots + knee socks from Mom and Dad (good choice, guys) :: sweet phone calls and e-mails and e-cards ::


So it turns out I'm having a good day after all. I suppose I can hang out at thirty one for a while.

the excitement that is my life

Right now I'm painting a life-size donkey and lamb on pink styrofoam insulation. Just in case you wondered what I do on Wednesdays, there it is.

general advice

Reasons not to be born close to Christmas, if you can help it:

1. People forget your birthday.
2. Then they try to pretend they remembered by scrawling "and happy birthday!" on your Christmas present. Unintentional two-in-ones really don't count, folks.
3. People remember your birthday, but their veins are pumping copious amounts of caffeine, cortisol, and mulled wassail, meaning you party with a jittery crowd sharing a universal headache.


On the bright side:

1. Sometimes you can get one huge combined gift that would never have been possible if your birthday were in, say, July. I recall (with large doses of fondness) the Barbie McDonald's from my grandparents, third grade. That thing had little trays and fries and Big Mac containers that opened and snapped shut, plus tiny beef patties and buns and a spatula. Good golly do I miss that McDonald's.
2. There really is no two.
3. You get to have a long-standing tradition of making gingerbread houses at your birthday parties.

I'm not sure when it started, really...likely after (and as a safer substitute for) the debacle of the carousel cake that caught on fire (that was a memorable one, Mom)...but sometime in my childhood we started rinsing out those school milk cartons and trucking them home for my birthday. We'd tape them to plates, smear the sides with my mum's homemade icing, slap on graham cracker halves and embellish with candies. We fashioned chimneys and doorknobs, landscaped the paper plate yards, and built on second stories and guest room additions.

Much to my delight (and everyone else's chagrin, I'm sure), I never did outgrow this tradition. To this day, I still force everyone to participate in my birthday faux-gingerbread house construction.

This year the triple F (Forced Family Fun) took place a week early. If you want to celebrate my birthday at your house, here's the brief process:

1. Either go the milk/whipping-cream carton route (make sure you wash and dry them thoroughly), or make a template and trace on stiff magazine paper or lightweight cardboard:





2. Tape houses together and adhere them to paper plates.



3. Bust out the candies and such:




We used dark chocolate M&M's, sour gummy shapes, pretzels, marshmallows (both standard white and tree/star shaped), mint Hershey's kisses, and gummy bears. Spiced gumdrops are very pretty but, in my opinion, taste like fermented licorice. Beware.





4. You could mix your own frosting. My mom's recipe is something like powdered sugar, vanilla, milk or possibly water--not sure, and maybe an egg white for good luck? I will look for the recipe card. In the meantime, perhaps my mum will post the recipe in the comments because she is a Really Nice Person. She honestly is.

OR...you could be like me and just buy a jar of vanilla frosting because one should not have to make frosting on one's own birthday, albeit a week early.



5. Bust out the Christmas music.



6. Give your kiddos dull butter knives, glops of frosting on the sides of their plates, and free rein with the candies.



Results may vary. Here are ours.

















7. Bonus points if you do this on Friday, which is my actual birthday. I will be thirty-one. :)

Almost exactly the same thing except not

Church was canceled this morning, so I made an apple pie. Pie makes me feel close to God.







I'm on my second piece.

bribery and whatnot

So I'm hoping the rest of y'all are deeply embedded in the craziness that is December, not because I wish you neuroticism but because then you won't have had time to notice my lack of posting. And if you are thinking to yourself, eh? lack of posting? and who got tinsel in the eggnog aGAIN? then it's nearly impossible to overestimate my love for you.

And if you are not thinking to yourself those thoughts, not at all, thankyouverymuch, I took some pics for you (to, er, coax a little forgiveness in my direction?)...



Now we're good, right? In my head you're saying right. You're agreeable like that.

So I've been running into all these "Best of 2007" book lists, and I have to say that I've moved entirely out of annoyed and knee-deep into perturbed. I need warning for these kinds of things, folks, so I can be jotting down titles. I can't even remember what I read last week, I kid you not, let alone the whole jolly year.

But as I'm not one to be discouraged by such trivial complications (and also because I'm not one who likes to be left out of anything, be it Irish cribbage meetings or fundraisers for unicycle hockey leagues), I am going to give you my version of the list.


Oh yes.


My list is called "Best of the Second Week of December." Yeah, mock me later.

BEST OF THE SECOND WEEK OF DECEMBER
by Nicole Owens

(Somebody conjure me up a drumroll)

...And the winning novel of this insanely coveted distinction is REBEL ANGELS by Libba Bray. Although, to be honest, the initial book (A GREAT AND TERRIBLE BEAUTY) in the series was a tad better. Ah, see now? I do remember something from last week.

The other contestants (well, the fiction ones) are:
A DOOR NEAR HERE by Heather Quarles (reaction: eh? just okay)
RULES by Cynthia Lord (not bad; garnered a Newbery Honor, so other people liked it)
GOSSIP GIRL (another eh? didn't hate it)
**Update, 12/16**
TWISTED by Laurie Halse Anderson (well-written, but I enjoyed the plot/setting of ANGELS more)
THE HOUSE OF SCORPION by Nancy Farmer (again, strong writing, but the plot seemed to ramble and sag at times, especially near the end. did win a crazy number of awards.)

So I admit: the competition wasn't fierce. And while we're confessing things, I also admit that: 1) as I've discussed with The Ununcle, books are my heroin; and 2) I have a thing for YA (and the occasional middle grade novel). I did, however, tote home four novels from the library this morning, and two of them are bonafide grown-up books. It happens occasionally.

If any of the reads between now and Sunday edge out Bray's ANGELS, I will update my award. And next year I will attempt to keep a running list of books and my reactions because y'all deserve a real list. You know you do.

And now, pardon moi, but I HAVE to get moving on those Christmas cards. Hope to pop in again soon, but if not, have another round of eggnog and sing some falalas and, you know. Be merry.

Speaking of pardon moi, you've got to check out this website. Click on the picture to enlarge the business cards--you need to read the text. Very charming folks there at pardonMOI.

o tannenbaum (again)

There's a lot to be said for lack of selection.

Last year's Quest for the Perfect Tree required a bit of deliberating. And by a bit I mean a ridiculously huge amount. This year's specimen was selected in less than six minutes.

We are good.

So the secret to fast-tree-picking is to go a few days into December, when the trees in your price range have dwindled to half a row and they all look equally good. Or equally bad. Either way.

Also, go on the day where it's about 12 degrees, and bring all four of your children to chatter their poor little teeth beside you. If you don't have four, borrow some to make up the difference.

The result is that everyone shuffles back and forth between fraser firs, mostly to generate a modicum of friction in a vain attempt to stave off frostbite. You sticky your gloves with tree sap, pulling out this tree and that, but it's so cold that even your opinions are numb. You pick one.

Surprisingly, when we got home and our eyesight defrosted, we found that this year's edition is no worse than any of its predecessors who required a solid twenty minutes of comparison shopping.

It's actually quite lovely, and fragrant to boot. Next year I'm aiming for two minutes flat.

happy birthday

Ten today
and your smiles are easy
your jokes plentiful,
you still take hugs
(with secret relish)

and you are all at once
tall
and my little boy,
swaggering
and so easily crushed

and since I cannot
watch you intently enough
to keep you from running off and growing
up
I will give you
instead
a something to carry along:
the surety that
I
love
you

and that
this
you will never outgrow.

sight

Never mind the mess, the seven hundred thousand bits of tissue paper littered across floors and tables and chairs, looking quite a lot like snow. Never mind that.


Because I love crafting with my children; I'm perpetually fascinated to find what their fingers will shape, these people who are from me, so much like me, and yet wholly apart. I remind myself that one of the most pleasurable sounds is their laughter as they stretch on tiptoe and drop their tissue paper snowflakes from the back of the couch, delighting in the tipsy, fluttering fall.





I'm immersed in beauty, if only I'd choose the clarity to see.

St Nick and I have so much in common

For the first time in the history of ever, I've listed a few goodies in my etsy shop. A few mama and little girl jewels, plus some chenille-backed patchwork scarves.






And because I like y'all so much, and also since you let me prattle on for days er, months? all right, years ad nauseam, you deserve a nobel peace prize or, you know, a 20% off discount in my store.*

So, um...Ho ho ho, and On Dasher! On Dancer! Etc! But I draw the line at the gut resembling a bowlful of jelly. I do have my limits.

*If you shop my place anytime this December, just mention that you read my blog and I'll give you that 20% discount. I love you, too.

bring on the snow plows

So the thing about school delays due to snow is that while they're loads of fun for the school-goers, they are a concentrated form of purgatory for the mothers.

And while the rest of the Midwest Momhood might bear these mornings with good humor and grace, thinking, I certainly did enjoy a snow delay as a child myself, and now it's only fair that I take my turn as the mother, those of us who grew up in places where, for instance, the only missing of school to be had was that one time in third grade when a hurricane was coming and we got to go home early--yes, that minority among us should be exempt from this fluffy white delaying stuff.

for the record, we were aiming for just above average

so that's going well.

disconsolation is an unwieldy sort of word

I've been having a hard week.

I'm not sure why, this being my favoritest season and all; you'd think I'd be feeling the opposite of...this. This muck, this despondency that seems to mire my life at the most inexplicable times.

It feels like I'm walking through a tragedy, but without the tragic event, if you can follow that one at all.

But I sense the upswing coming, which is good news, and so we carry on.

cacao, literature, and delusions of grandeur

Earlier this week, the hubby took our trio of boys to an animated movie, allowing Elle and me an impromptu girls night at home.

This consisted of:
the stirring of a brownie mix topped with peanut butter
the licking of batter-coated spatulas (and the admiring of our chocolate goatees)
the reading of books in bed (between flannel sheets) while the brownies baked
the reading of more books on the couch while the brownies cooled
the consuming of said brownies (paired with mugs of milk)
the cuddling close to enjoy a Dora movie together.

It's rare that Elle has me all to herself, what with the five thousand kids we have running about this place. We might have to make this whole girls night thing a formal institution. I must confess my worry, however, over how deep a passion for chocolate and literature I've already imprinted on this unsuspecting child, but then again, I turned out okay, didn't I? (Didn't I?)

I did.

On less delusional matters, please scratch all the aforementioned Christmas gift ideas because I totally KNOW WHAT I WANT. So totally that it's all in caps. But first a little background.

Anyone recall the definition of bardolatry? Close your eyes and imagine yourself back in high school English, the nasal drone of your teacher's voice in the background...does that help? no? Me neither.

So a refresher: Noun 1. bardolatry - the idolisation of William Shakespeare

Which got me pondering: just *how* many people would one need groveling at one's feet before an official word was coined just for the adulation of you? A whole heckuva lot is what I'm thinking. How cool would that be?

So see, all I want is my own word. One little word. Nicolatry, nicolisation, whatever. You all figure it out while I float up here on my golden divinity cloud.

all i want for christmas

The Un-uncle requested that I plant hints in my blog so he'll know what to get me for Christmas. I am {hummer h3} so above {trip to italy} such underhanded tactics {louis vuitton victoria pump, size 34, red}.

Let's give me a little credit here.

I am not, however, above writing out a straight-forward wish list, although I do warn you that this will not prove helpful in the least bit. So here we go.

1. A trash can fairy. Like, you know, the fairy who magically disappears the trash from my cans when they're full. Make that three-fourths full, because trash that burgeons beyond the confines of its can makes me partially insane.

2. In the event that the Piggly Wiggly is fresh out of fairies, I'll settle for a trash can elf, godmother, or David Copperfield.

3, 4, 5, and 6: Dishwasher Fairy, Vacuum Fairy, Weed Fairy, and Toilet Fairy, respectively.

7. Massive lottery win. Which would have to be an Act of God as I do not engage in any sort of lottery playing, unless you count McDonald's Monopoly, in which case I am guilty. Make that Guilty. Capital G.

8. Christmas in Bavaria.

9. A ten-pack of finger rockets. I can't begin to explain the amount of joy these bring to my life.

10. A pony.



{PS Did I mention I've been good this year? Because I have. Really, really good.}

self-portrait challenge: what i wear (week 4)

or what i don't wear: make-up.



most days my face is happiest in just clean skin. :)

our weekend

Featuring: the first snow, on Thanksgiving day




Daddy-snuggles, intermittent snacking and small feasts around the table




a healthy dose of board and card games




and a trio of pies (pumpkin, buttermilk cream, pear crumb).




Dad Owens risked life and limb clambering up to the roof to diagnose our chimney troubles. At one point, he says, he stepped from a folding chair to perch at the top of our fence and thought to himself: this might not end well. He also tidied our eaves troughs while he was up there. Seriously swell guy.


We also did a fair amount of missing Kindra&co (hubby's youngest sister&fam, who spent the holiday at her in-laws'). Mom Owens snapped a shot of the homemade butterhorn rolls and sent it to Kindra's phone, which we deemed cruel and unusual and pretty funny.


I even dutifully walked several miles on the treadmill, successfully burning the caloric equivalent of one cranberry. Ah, well.

And now for my favorite time of year. Bring on the Christmas!

a week of thanksgiving (part 3)

My 37th turkey-hand picture:



One can never have too many turkey-hand pictures. This one is courtesy of the lovely Elle.






I'm grateful for my li'l turkeys. Even the one who refused to be photographed.

Have a good one, my American friends.

self-portrait challenge: what i wear

What I wear: color.

A half dozen years ago I was morally opposed to color. If you slid open the curtain to my closet, you'd be assaulted by a homogeny of black, grey, and brown, with the occasional navy tossed in just for kicks. I liked classic. I liked anonymity. I was also very unsafe in parking lots where I tended to blend in with the asphault. There were a couple of close calls.

Somewhere between then and now I discovered color. When I wear these stripey knee socks, I take myself far less seriously.

Which is a good thing.




{You can join the self-portrait tuesday folk at flickr.com. More self portraits: http://selfportraitchallenge.net/}

a week of thanksgiving (part 2)

According to a bunch of overeducated people at Yale and Duke and similar bastions of the abstruse, the most powerful words in the English language are: you, save, money, easy, guarantee, health, proven, safety, discovery, new, love, and results.

Yeah, I think they're wrong.

The most powerful word in the English language has just two letters and must be followed by a question mark or it becomes as benign as Popeye sans spinach. And can I just say that canned spinach is disgusting on so many levels, especially when consumed at room temperature.

But back to taking over the world. The most powerful word in the English language, according to me, is this:

So?




Truly, folks. Do not underestimate that monosyllabic pearl. I assure you, nothing derails merit like a well-timed So?.

ie "I can bench 400 pounds with my little finger."
"So?"

"Last night at bedtime, my three-year-old recited the US Presidents in chronological order, alphabetical order, and by height."
"So?"

"You look like a water buffalo in that dress."
"So?"

All this to say that today I'm thankful for words. There's rhythm, beauty, and potency embedded in even the smallest among them. May I wield them with care.

a week of thanksgiving*

Some days I wake up as Attila the Hun. I crack an angry eyelid as my temples pound and acid surges through my veins. Even my morning breath is fierce.

Usually this means two things have happened, in succession:

1. I went to bed too late. (After 11 equals too late. I'm almost 31, folks.)
2. Certain members of The Progeny thought it a swell idea to carry on and stampede about like buffalo just outside my bedroom door. Gazelle stampedes I can deal with. Cattle's pushing it. Upgrade to buffalo, and I'm The Scourge of God.

Luckily for the survival statistics of The Progeny, I know that at least half of the above equation is my fault. So I usually limit the Attilaness to a Eurasian glare in their general direction on my way to the shower.

Showers cure everything.

I get clean, yes, and shear off that underarm prickle and scrub the nappiness from my hair. Plus, showers persuade me into consciousness with a hot massage and deep breaths of soap-scented water vapor. But mostly, showers wash off all that attitude.

Goodbye Attila, hello Mother Teresa. Well, that might be exaggerating the case. Oprah, then.

So first on the thankful list: a hot shower. My kids don't realize it, but they're very thankful for this one too.



Stay tuned for more gratitude.



*If your week starts on Sunday, good for you. Mine started today.

farewell, gilded canopy

007

So I'm sitting here snacking on chocolate and dried cherries, which seriously could be worse, it could be chocolate and butter-flavored Crisco, so let's put it in perspective, folks. The chocolates are Dove Promises, meaning they come dressed in foil with super-secret messages printed on the inside. I feel like an undercover agent when I eat them; it's a lovely rush on an otherwise ordinary Saturday.



The two wrappers sitting beside me (see, I've only eaten two! so far) contain these particular gems of wisdom:

Gem #1 Promise yourself some relaxing holiday moments.

To which I'm thinking, I can promise myself all the bleached sand beaches and strawberry bubble baths I want, but the choice is not really up to me. If someone at Dove could please work on a message that says Promise your mother some relaxing holiday moments, like maybe every other Tuesday from 9-6, and hand a bunch of them to my kids (minus the candy; they only get the candy if they make good on the promise), then maybe we'll be leaning a few degrees in the right direction. Please work on it, will you?


Gem #2 Joy is contagious.

This, of course, prompted the compilation of a mental List of Contagious Things. Which was just too precious to keep to myself, really, so here you go:

1. joy, purportedly
2. cynicism, actually
3. influenza
4. yawning
5. bubonic plague
6. commercial jingle for The Clapper
7. athlete's foot
8. your mama jokes
9. lawn mowing (especially in a subdivision of retirees. one guy revs his mower at 5 am, and the whole neighborhood is weed-whacking by 7. fascinating phenomenon.)
10. also: bad fashion, giggling in church, and chicken pox.

And for all of you who are now singing Clap on (clap clap), Clap off (clap clap)...well, I'm trying to be sorry, but it's still a wee bit funny to me right now. I'll work on it.

pieces

And now for another edition of Who My Kids Are Today. (Otherwise known as My Memory is Disintegrating so I've Learned to Write These Things Down.)


Elle is a model target of TV advertising. Whenever a commercial hawking something purplish or glittery appears on the screen, she exclaims, "Ooh, Mommy, dat is the one I yuv!" And we still have thirty-eight more advertising days till Christmas. Oh boy.

She has also not yet outgrown the Dictator Stage. "Mommy," she says, pointing to the space on her bed beside her pillow,"you seep by me for yittle bit." And "Where is Date-Danma? I say I want Date-Danma to tum in my house for two minutes. Where IS she?"* So I'm thinking she just needs a small country to run and we'll be good.

Oh, yes. AND. She also has a retractable belly-button, which I'm sure will come in handy for some future MacGyverish moment. Or perhaps earn her a spot on America's Got Talent. What a weird country we live in.

* * *

Em is a happy li'l guy. To him, an ideal day consists of oodles of saimin and Lego Star Wars people.

After we go through the (extensive) bedtime routine each night, he waits till I walk past his room and calls out for another hug and kiss. Just to be extra sure he's loved.

* * *

Zee and Bee are cracking me up these days. It's rather enjoyable to observe their humor ameliorating into something that quite resembles mine. I'm sure this will one day horrify them.

(Conversation in the van between the two)
Zee: "I don't know if I'll like the pumpkin pie at church. Some pumpkin pies I don't like."
Bee: "What? You are a traitor to the pumpkin pie world! I can't believe it! We let you in!"




*yuv=love
seep=sleep
tum=come
date danma=great grandma

personal syncretism

Is it possible to be a skeptic and a mystic? An optimist and a realist? A pragmatist and a romantic?

Because I think this is me. All of the above, blended together, no beginnings or ends or reasons.

la famille

Most of my mum's side of the family dropped in on Saturday for an early Thanksgiving fete. There was eating, swinging, football spiraling, chasing after dogs and children, analyzing of the officials' calls during the Auburn game, a nap here and there, plus the showing off of some impressive four-square skills.




My cousins and their wives are so good with my children.







Needless to say, the kiddos are now pining after a puppy.




{Apparently my improvised camera-stand wasn't quite level; just tilt your head to the left a few degrees. And try not to notice the lovely poses of those two children up front. Their mother should really do something about them.}







Ah yes, the four-square games. My cousin Kyle would say things like, "My rules are: slams, twists, dirty bombs, 360's, full spikes, inverse tornadoes. And I have no idea what any of that means." An afternoon to remember, indeed.


I am blessed.

bits of friday randomness

So I have this fireplace, right, but I can't use it because the flue is rusted shut or some such bothersome thing. And I would climb up there to do the unsticking, except for the high probability of crawly things in there, slithering about with their freakishly uneven legs. {Seriously, if their legs could just be one designated length, I'd have a much higher tolerance for them and for our forced cohabitation.}

So anyway, I know normal people would pay a chimney-sweep or flue-fixer or whomever they are, but we are operating on a lean budget, and a fire on my hearth falls altogether outside the realm of "needs." So. If you happen to be good at wriggling up chimneys, I can't pay you, but I will write a really nice post about you. Just throwing that out there.

On other housely matters, I've been tidying mine for the relatives tomorrow. {If you are one of those relatives, this is a very general tidying...sweeping, mopping, vacuuming...so you may want to lower your expectations a bit. Okay, a tiny bit more.

Um, lower.

One more time. There, now we're good.} And while I'm in the tidying mood, I thought I'd clean up around here too. I'm weeding out comatose blogs from my linkage to the right...which basically means that if you haven't posted for several months, your link will disappear. But fear not; if you decide to start blogging again, just holler my way and I'll reappear you. Because I'm, you know, magic like that.

{Exception: if you are related to me, you get to be as comatose as you'd like without losing your link. I figure that anyone who buys me Christmas presents is above weeding.)

And the last bit of randomness: I've been walking about the house humming "How 'Bout Them Cowgirls." Kind of catchy.

Happy weekend! Go forth and be spontaneously odd. Or deliberately odd. Either way.

sept choses

Megan, Michelle, and Sarah have thoughtfully tagged me for the seven things meme...you know, the one where I tell you seven riveting facts about me. But before you all scurry off to find a happy place, be assured that I will not subject you to the further trauma of my personal weirdness.

I hope you'll find this list a welcome variation--my seven favorite finds du jour. Perhaps they'll become a few of your favorite things as well, and we can all chorus together in our best Julie Andrews voices. Or not. I'm okay either way.

And with a moderate amount of fanfare (callooh! callay!), I present to you my favorite:

1. musical duo
Shane&Shane

2. designer
Small Something
(Check out this holiday outfit and this incredible silk dress.)

3. newcomer to the blogosphere
Sarah of Adventures of a Stinkier Sort

{Amazing photographer, zany sense of humor, and generous to a fault. She sent a whole bunch of us these darling lounge sets. Merci, Sarah!}



4. holiday gift idea
Jodie's soy candles
The Pumpkin Cheesecake is my favorite. Oh, the deliciousness.

5. humanitarian organization
World Vision
They have a gift catalogue well worth checking out.

6. recently discovered blog
Capable of Flying

7. words of the day
perfidious, corpulent, mellifluous
I just love how the syllables move in my mouth.







{If you missed my original responses to similar tags, here's my seven things and six things.}

Frankly (ooh, I love that word today; add it to number 7), I'm only interesting enough to have worthwhile material for this meme about once a decade. So if you feel so inclined, I'm game for a tag in 2017.

bemoaning and foolish consistency

So I didn't take my camera to St. Louis. We spent Thursday through Monday there, the hubby and I, at a conference for youth workers. The conversation went like this:

me: Think I should bring the camera?
hubby: To St. Louis? What's there to photograph in St. Louis?
me: This is true.

Except that it wasn't quite as true as I'd thought. And as we traversed the streets in search of lunch, I'd frame shots in my head: sunlight glazing stone columns, the spindly defiance of a walnut sapling wending up through concrete. And all the while I bemoaned my camera-less state in pained silence (and, um, sometimes not so silently).

But I shall do what I can. Instead of photos, I offer you a feeble scattering of prose.

Scene A: a street, cobbled and thin, bordered by pubs and cafes and bricked courtyards. Cosied up against a swath of river, bathed in air both brisk and smoky.

Scene B: the park's footpath lined with neatened rows of ash trees, their arching branches weaving a canopy of pressed gold, paper thin and fluttering.

* * *

Added bonus: Things I Learned in St Louis

1. I could have a thing for minty shampoo and thick towels.
2. Giving God unfettered, categorical use of my life means giving him the small minutes of right now.
3. I'm not really into screamo music. It might still grow on me, but the probability is rather lean.
4. The mark of a sure friendship is being able to pick up right where you've left off (that, and not really caring how dumpy I look in a swimsuit).
5. "A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds..." and here's the brilliant context for that quote:

The other terror that scares us from self-trust is our consistency; a reverence for our past act or word, because the eyes of others have no other data for computing our orbit than our past acts, and we are loath to disappoint them....

A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds, adored by little statesmen and philosophers and divines. With consistency a great soul has simply nothing to do. He may as well concern himself with his shadow on the wall. Speak what you think now in hard words, and to-morrow speak what to-morrow thinks in hard words again, though it contradict every thing you said to-day. — 'Ah, so you shall be sure to be misunderstood.' — Is it so bad, then, to be misunderstood? Pythagoras was misunderstood, and Socrates, and Jesus, and Luther, and Copernicus, and Galileo, and Newton, and every pure and wise spirit that ever took flesh. To be great is to be misunderstood. (Ralph Waldo Emerson, Self-Reliance)

6. Beauty has a way of showing up in the least likely places. So bring your camera.

make believe

Wednesday night we attended a costumed fall party at the church, which meant old-fashioned games, cupcakes, steamy cider, s'mores, crafts, and lots of candy.

The original plan was to assemble costumes from items about the house: dress-up scarves and cardboard and belts and pans and sheets and whatnot. The boys were lukewarm on this idea, and kept asking things like, "But how am I going to look like Obi-Wan if you only sew together some sheets?" And I kept replying things like, "Well, see, the idea here is that you will make most of your costume. That's half the fun."

They remained largely unconvinced. Elle's mantra: "I will be a princess with a hat." So there we were.

Luckily for them, a dear friend donated a bunch of outgrown costumes our way, and the fellows had their pick of heroic identities. Em was a Power Ranger, Zee Batman, and Bee started as a Storm Trooper, but later switched out to last year's trusty ninja get-up.

And then there was Elle. See, I stopped in at the local fabric store over the weekend, just to get some elastic, mind you, and I was assaulted by shimmery stuff adorned with gold and pink stars that cried Princess Fabric! and was 50% off. I didn't stand a chance.


So Miss Elle was a Princess with a Hat.





And her brothers were fierce warriors who relished staged swordfights for the camera. (Except for Batman, who was booked up fighting crime and could not spare a picture. He was really cute though.)(Don't tell him I said that. "I'm a super-hero, Mom, I'm not cute!")





















We mustn't be late for the ball.





Do tell those bodyguards to stop all that sword nonsense and get a move on it.




And they lived happily ever after, what with the seven pounds of candy and all.