It's Raining Babies!

Okay...not really. But why do they call it a "baby shower" if no infants are falling from the sky? :)

Some friends and I hosted a baby shower for my sister-in-law Tara and her son Jaxon (due in May) this afternoon. Here are a few photos of our fun:

Tara's mom Denise pins on the corsage - made by Stephanie!

Look at all those gifts! That baby will be well taken care of. :)

One of the elders' wives graciously let us hold the shower in her home AND she made her signature mocha punch - yummy! Thank you, Starlyn!

Linsdey did a great job on this cute little banner for Jaxon.










Wouldn't be complete without a diaper cake.

The "Poopy Diaper" Game always gets the best reactions. :)

The lovely hostesses.



















What fun to shower Tara and Jaxon with blessings. :)

It's Rich-Craft: An Update

I have finally finished the burp cloths - and not a minute too soon! We are having a baby shower for my sister-in-law on Sunday. Nothing like cutting it close. :)

Aren't they snazzy? Let's hope baby Jaxon doesn't want to spit up on them because he thinks they're too cute to mess up. (Who am I kidding?!)

And already, I have a few other projects lined up...

Snappy Onesies - with interchangeable felt creatures like this:

Cute little baby shoes - I ordered the pattern from Sweet Pea Patterns on etsy.com!

Set of three canvases to hang over the kitchen table. My inspiration: a photo my mother-in-law sent to me of a shower her friend Mary Kay hosted. (She is one creative lady - and apparently puts out quite a spread!)

More Rich-Craft to come!

Snap! Crackle! Pop!

When I get bored, I bake. When I get stressed, I bake. When I am missing my husband who is working out of town, I bake.

So when I discovered half a bag of brown rice cereal and two partial bags of marshmallows in the pantry, I knew what I had to do. And in the process, I discovered a recipe for the best Rice Krispies Treats. Ever.

I headed over to a blog I occasionally peruse called Smitten Kitchen. The author has a tiny kitchen (it even makes ours look big – though you do have to consider ours is a kitchen/ dining room/ laundry room combined) from which she whips up some amazing food. After a quick search, I pulled up this recipe:

Salted Brown Butter Crispy Treats

1 stick unsalted butter
1 10-oz bag marshmallows (or two half bags, as the case may be )
Heaping ¼ teaspoon coarse kosher salt
6 cups rice cereal (about ½ a box)

Coat an 8” square cake pan with nonstick spray and set aside.

In a large pot, melt butter over medium-low heat. The butter should melt, foam, then turn clear and golden, and finally turn brown and smell nutty. Stir frequently through this process, scraping up any brown bits from the bottom. Be careful as the period between the time the butter starts browning and the time it burns is very short – less than a minute!

As soon as the butter takes on a nutty smell, turn the heat off and stir in the marshmallows. If needed, you can place the pot back on the eye on low until the marshmallows are smooth.

Remove the pot from the stove and stir in the salt and cereal. Quickly spread into the prepared cake pan. Use a piece of waxed paper sprayed lightly with nonstick spray to press the mixture firmly and evenly into the edges and corners. Allow to cool, then cut into squares and serve.

Now, usually I am not a huge Rice Krispies Treats fan. I mean, if I’m going to consume the calories, I want it to be coated in chocolate and involve some sort of cream and maybe sprinkles. The treats I’ve had in the past have fallen somewhere in the range of a Styrofoam block. But these – these treats will knock your socks off!

Give ‘em a whirl and let me know what you think.

Book Report: The Help

Some books are just so good you have to stay up reading until 2:00am - on a work night! - to find out what happens next. I can't even remember the last time I did that (Nancy Drew in 5th grade?)!

The Help by Kathyrn Stockett just happens to be one of those page-turners, but not in the creepy murder-mystery sort of way.

It tells the stories of three women living in Jackson, Mississipi, during the 1960s and the rise of the civil rights movement. Stockett beautifully weaves together the stories of three women: Aibileen, an African-American servant helping to raise her seventeenth white child; Minny, another servant and Aibileen's best friend who has often been fired because of her sass-mouthing; and Skeeter, the daughter of a wealthy white cotton farmer who is torn between her Junior League friends and her desire to become a journalist. Each tells the story in her own unique voice, each chapter more beautiful than the last. And although Help uncovers some very unsavory parts of American history, it ends with a hopeful outlook for the future - a future which I think has come to pass in many ways, but towards which we still have quite the journey ahead of us.

If you are in search of a great read, I cannot recommend this book highly enough. You will laugh. You will cry. You will swoon. You will swear. You will stare at the page with gaping mouth. Have I convinced you to go out and buy a copy yet?

If you're not on your way to the bookstore by now, GET MOVING! You won't regret it.

Weekly Wow!

Some people have "Favorite Things Friday" or "Thankful Thursdays" or "Tea Party Tuesdays" - okay, maybe not that last one, but they should. :)

I have the "Weekly Wow." A little explanation...

There are SO MANY things that happen during my weeks that make me say, "Wow." The great thing about the word "wow" is its versatility; you can say wow to mean "Wow, I can't believe you just did that," or to mean "Wow! That's fantastic!" So my wows will vary each week - but they will always be there!

This week's "wows":

Spring weather! Yesterday I got to take a day off and opened all the windows to let the incredible spring breeze blow through my house (never mind all that pollen it brought with it). It is one of my absolute favorite things to hear the sweet melodies of songbirds - and an occasional rooster - and feel the warmth of the cheery spring sun brightening the house.

A visit from my parents, which also coincided with my day off. We got to spend the afternoon together, just talking and hanging out. My mom and I got to take a walk and enjoy the sunny day, then we put our heads together on some craft projects I've been working on. My sister came over for dinner and the four of us played ImaginIFF. It was so good to see them and laugh with them! It makes me wish Florida weren't so far away.

Bubbies Frozen Mochi Desserts. I had read about mochi several months ago on a blog and have been looking for it ever since. Tonight at the grocery store, I found these little frozen treats. They are made of this rice flour coating flavored like chocolate that surrounds a little pocket of ice cream. The texture is very chewy - and very good!

I have four followers on my blog! Each week I get a report from Sitemeter that tells me how many people have visited my blog. For the past few months, it has been a page full of zeroes. :( But now there are a few followers - and a few less zeroes on that report!

Today is Thursday, which means tomorrow is Friday. (It's about time!) Tomorrow is a jeans day at work AND my husband comes home from his business trip. What could be better?!!

Now, tell me about your weekly wows!

I Can't Believe It's Not Bacon

Recently Oprah featured several health food gurus on her show, one of which was Alicia Silverstone. (I was surprised too.) Apparently Alicia has a cookbook out called The Kind Diet - and I was intrigued (who doesn't want to be kind?) so I headed to the local library to check it out.

In this cookbook, Alicia talks about the vegan lifestyle and why everyone should make that choice too...and once you make it through two chapters of proselytizing then FINALLY she gets to the recipes. I am up for trying anything once (case in point: kumquats), so I picked a few recipes for a test-run.

The first recipe I tried was the Chocolate Peanut Butter Cups.

I mean, who doesn't like chocolate and peanut butter? An instant success - and no leftovers after the Super Bowl party!

In addition to recipes, the book listed several swaps you can make for your everyday grocery items, such as vegan bacon for regular bacon. I know, I know - vegan bacon is a total oxymoron. Nevertheless, I added it to the grocery list. And I came home with a box.

Surprisingly, my husband actually ate it (although he indicated he would prefer not to do so again)! So, there I was, left with 3/4 a box of vegan bacon. I tried to think of some way to eat it all...and so I proceeded to have BLTs for the next week - and in the process discovered my new favorite sandwich:

Two slices of whole grain toast, a slathering of vegan mayonaise (better than the real stuff - promise), two thick pieces of tomato, a leaf of crisp lettuce, and a few slices of vegan bacon. YUM.

I probably won't be jumping on the vegan bandwagon any time soon. But for now, I will just dabble. And enjoy. :)

Quote of the Day

"I have you bookmarked in my Blackberry - and my heart."

     -- My husband Clay, trying to downplay his affinity for his phone. What a cutie!

Search for the Perfect Hairstylist

I have been searching for the perfect stylist for three years now. Three years. I feel like I should have found someone already. Does this neverending quest mean I'm too picky? Does it mean I am unable to sustain that kind of a relationship?

When my husband and I moved to Fort Worth, I was so focused on adjusting to the newlywed life that I didn't get my hair cut regularly. (Not that I had adhered to a haircutting regimen while on my college student budget.) Then I got a job in the stockroom where no one cared what my hair looked like; I pulled it into a ponytail most days for practicality's sake.

Not long afterwards I began my current job and discovered a lovely little Aveda salon about 8 minutes from where I work. It was new, and right next door to a little bakery/ cafe I frequent. The smell inside was so refreshing (bamboo and eucalyptus!), and they offered you water with cucumber while you waited (never long) for your stylist. I saw the same stylist for three haircuts, and when I called to schedule #4 I discovered that she was no longer an employee. So...I switched to another stylist, whom I came to love. I loved the free bang trims in between appointments. I loved the peppermint scalp massage. I loved the hand massages while in the stylist's chair. I loved the occasional make-up touch-ups. I loved that I could get my hair cut and be back to the office in about 45 minutes. She even cut my hair when I wanted to donate ten inches to Locks of Love.

I saw her for over a year, though our relationship had its less-than-perfect moments. (The receptionist failed to tell me that my stylist had been promoted to the next level - which would cost me an extra 10 bucks. And then there was the time she had pneumonia and they called me 30 minutes before the appointment to let me know I should probably reschedule.) It was a bit more than I wanted to pay - just under $60 with tip for a simple shampoo, cut and style. But it was worth it...right? And then suddenly, last October, I called to schedule a bang trim and discovered that my stylist was no longer working there! No notice, no phone call, no conversation about the break up. And so it ended just like that - without a reason.
 
The stand-in stylist did a decent job on my bang trim, but she was not a very good conversationalist. And she left those pesky little hairs on my nose (my old stylist would never have done that). So I resumed my aimless search...
 
A friend had recommended her stylist to me, saying she was fabulous and so reasonable ($25 for a haircut!) and she had the same name as me. Surely all good omens. The only problem was that her salon was 30 minutes away from me - and that's not considering traffic. But I thought for $25, I'd give it a shot. Our first meeting was great, and my hair looked fantastic. On top of that, when I walked out the door there wasn't a hole in my wallet where my money used to be! But then the second appointment had to be rescheduled and I had to settle for a less-than-ideal time. When I showed up for my appointment, I noticed someone else sitting in her chair. She had a blow-dryer out, so I assumed she was putting the finishing touches on this client's 'do. But then she picked up a piece of foil and began painting on highlights - right in front of me! I was so taken aback by this brazen act of infidelity that I got up and walked right out the door. "I don't have time for this," I thought.

That was the final straw. All hope I ever had in the haircutting profession was now gone, and I vowed never to set foot in a salon again.
Well, the "I'm growing out my hair" excuse only worked for so long. I almost couldn't stand to look at myself in the mirror. So I Googled area hairstylists and came up with a place I thought I might try that was close to work. The first haircut went well - until it came time to pay. It was almost as expensive as the Aveda salon AND I didn't get any of the perks! But they did give me a bunch of coupons...so I went back there to get my haircut yesterday. (Even with the coupon, it was still too much.)

It shouldn't be this hard. You see, I am the world's easiest haircut. I always bring a picture. I have naturally straight chestnut strands that do not tangle easily and generally do what I want them to (except curl, but that's another story). I sit still in the chair, never crossing my legs or chewing gum. I can hold up my end of the conversation, but I'm okay if you need to work in silence. I do not have dandruff or any other unpronouncable scalp conditions. I do not color, highlight, straighten, gloss, or perm my hair - which means that a haircut generally takes about 30 minutes.

In exchange for all that, I just want an experienced and reasonably-priced hairstylist at a clean salon that is no more than 15 minutes' drive from my house. Is that too much to ask?

Vote for #3!

So I am an ee photography groupie. I find a way to enter almost every contest she hosts in order to win a fabulous photo shoot with her. Case in point: The Awkward Family Photo Contest.

Please follow this link and vote for photo #3! Although I think #2 is going to give me a run for my money...

Even if you don't vote, it's worth a good chuckle. :)

The Fruit of the Spirit's Not a Kumquat

Today I tasted my first kumquat. And I'm not so sure I want to rush out and do it again.

You see, kumquats are these cute little miniature oranges - think grape-size. The magnetic pull from their bin on the citrus display at Central Market was just too strong.

See what I mean?

These little guys are adorable orange "grapes," perfect for popping into your mouth. With the peel still on.

(Just so you know, if you are ever at a party where they serve you kumquats, the proper way to eat them is to put the whole thing in your mouth and chew. Then swallow - quickly.)

I am not usually one to turn up my nose at foods. But this? Eating orange peel (for that is what it really is; there is not much pulp to a kumquat) is something I just cannot stomach. That and eating beets.

Perhaps it makes more sense when we consider that kumquats originated in east Asia - the same region of the world which gave us edible seaweed and sushi (the raw fish, not the roll).

Have you ever tried a kumquat? If not, I dare you!

It's Rich-Craft!

Bad joke, I know. But being couped up indoors because of the snow has made me a little crazy! I mean, just look at it all:

So, I decided to do what any average working woman without work would do: I got crafty!

A while back, I picked up this book at Barnes & Noble: Simple Sewing for Baby by Lotta Jansdotter. I have been dying to try it out ever since! I mean, just look how cute the cover is.

There are twenty-four simple sewing projects detailed inside, each one cuter than the last! There were bib-kercheifs and cute little pants, simple bloomers and tag blankies, a super-cute diaper bag and bookend buddies. Will there be enough time to make it all? I wondered.

(Keep in mind that I do not have children, nor am I expecting. Apparently I am experiencing what is commonly known as "baby fever." My excuse is that my sister-in-law and a good friend are both pregnant and I need some baby shower gifts.)

I thought I'd try my hand at the stenciled clothing and the burp rags. Simple enough.

That was before I learned I'd have to make bias tape.

I had the fabric...I just thought it magically made itself into perfectly pressed little strips. (You mean it doesn't?!) After a little Google search, I figured out what I needed to do.

A few hours later...

this

became this!

Bias tape is a booger to make, but these will be the CUTEST BURP CLOTHS EVER! (That is, when they are not covered in spit up.)

I also tried out my stenciling technique, which resulted in the following:

Look at the cute little heart on the bum!













And the adorable alligator. So. Cute.

More of this 'Rich-Craft" to come!

Why Didn't I Think of That?!!

I generally feel like I am a creative person. I come up with great ideas. All. The. Time. (Sort of.) Below are a few great ideas that I was a little slow in presenting to the world...so someone else beat me to it.

1.) The Julie/ Julia Project Blog. It's a ready-made recipe for success! (And book deals...and movie deals...)

2.) The Snuggie. Backwards bathrobe, anyone?

3.) Porcelain coffee mugs that look like the disposable cups you get from Starbucks.

4.) Emoticons. I am constantly amazed what a little tilt of the head will reveal.

5.) i-Clips magnetic bookmarks. These are so much cuter than the envelope for last month's water bill.

6.) Old Navy's Jacket in a Packet. Cute name and even cuter jacket, which I will need with this week's forecast.

7.) Ugly Dolls. Anything but ugly! I am in love.

Don't worry: the wheels are still turning. You never know what silly little idea might make me a millionaire. :)

Quote of the Day

This afternoon I went by the local GameStop to return some used games donated to the holiday program run by the nonprofit where I work. The obviously smitten teenage boy who waited on me couldn't suppress his giggles as he input the information from my driver's license. "I just can't stop laughing," he said, "because I keep thinking how Jessica Rich is helping the poor."

Definitely greeting card-worthy, don't you think?

Apparently...

AND He allows poorly punctuated t-shirts.

And The Dish Ran Away With The Spoon

So my husband and I are living in antiquity: we have no dishwasher.

Clay likes to correct me and say that, no, we actually have four dishwashers (our hands). I am generally not amused with his attempts at levity, especially when the pile of dirty dishes looks like this:





















You may be asking yourself, "How can two people soil so many dishes?" But alas...these have accumulated over the entire week. (Just so you know, it could be much worse. Clay's later work schedule means no formal dinners at home and therefore drastically fewer dishes.)

For those of you well-acquainted with my clean-freakish tendencies, this may be a fact that surprises you. Under normal circumstances, I would happily tie on my apron and strap on the rubber gloves before diving into the food encrusted mess. The soiled mountain would be sparkling clean and back in the cabinet in no time. But when faced with a mountain of dishes at the end of a long day of work - and a very persuasive husband who doesn't want to wash them either (after all, The Office is about to start) - it is a task that can be easily put off.

Maybe there is a little part of me that hopes this mountain of dirties will wash itself. Or even better, a dish (or two or three) might run away with the spoon!

Wanted: Green Thumb

Are paperwhites supposed to look like this? I didn't think so.

Note to self: Add "learn to garden" to new year's resolutions. Boy, this list is getting long!

New Year, New Post

With the beginning of a new year and my new resolutions, I have decided to start blogging more. (This should be easy as I did not blog at all in 2008 or 2009!)

I must be honest, though... I actually forgot my sign-in and password, it had been that long since I blogged! So, you know, that took me a good six months to figure out. And then another six or so to get motivated to post again. Now here we are!

Get ready for some crazy stories; I have a feeling 2010 will be a wild ride! :)

100 Things

In an attempt to please my readers (all three of them who are left by now, I suppose), I have decided to finally post on my blog again. And although it is rather a trite thing to blog about - I mean, who isn't posting "100 Things" about themselves? - I have decided to divulge a few of my deepest darkest secrets. Or at least that's what I want you to think...

1. I am a Halloween baby. (Hint hint: My birthday is coming up soon, so you better start shopping.)
2. My husband and I wear the same size shoe. This, of course, means one of two things: that I am a hefty woman or that he is a petite man. Take your pick.
3. Sunflowers absolutely always make me happy.
4. I LOVE to cook. A lot.
5. Sometimes when I'm nervous, I bite my nails. This is why on the rare occasion that my nail reaches the end of my fingertip it is cause for celebration.
6. My handwriting looks like a font.
7. I have not had a haircut in almost a year (this not including bang trims). Hopefully in a few more months I will have enough to donate to Locks of Love again.
8. I have been a regular member at Curves for Women for almost four years now. There's just something about exercising with old ladies!
9. When I read a book, I'm usually reading three other ones at the same time. Currently on the list are: For One More Day by Mitch Albom, Sacred Marriage by Gary Thomas, and Flaubert's Parrot by Julian Barnes.
10. I'm gonna have to stop writing so much or I'm not going to make it to 100.
11. I got my first bloody nose last year while playing catcher in a CPA softball tournament. This experience has further convinced me that accountants should stick to the numbers, not sports.
12. For twelve years of my life, I was involved in Girl Scouts. I even received the Gold Award (for those of you not familiar with this great organization, the Gold Award is the equivalent of an Eagle Scout).
13. My favorite color is red - no, green. Maybe yellow? Or purple. Okay, so I like a lot of different colors.
14. I'm an Oklaridexan.
15. I absolutely LOATHE cats. In fact, I accidentally punched through a window when trying to knock on it and scare the yeowling cats on the other side.
16. If I could live anywhere in the world, I would probably live in Italy. Granted, there are still lots of places I've never been to, but Italy is bellissimo!
17. My favorite book is The God of Small Things by Arundati Roy.
18. I will almost never turn down a bowl ice cream, especially if it's homemade vanilla bean.
19. I have recently developed an affinity for black licorice, specifically Oatfield licorice toffee. Yum!
20. For some odd reason, I never learned to snap or whistle. Pathetic, isn't it?
21. The TV show I enjoy the most is probably Gilmore Girls. Nothing like a bit of wit, eh?
22. The smell of peonies is absolutely heavenly to me.
23. I want to be like Martha Stewart - uh, I mean, Jesus.
24. My husband and I are involved in a ministry to residents of a low-income apartment complex, and we absolutely love it!
25. I can bowl a better game with the Nintendo Wii than I can in real life.
26. My husband thinks I should write the next Great American Novel so that we can retire early. "Keep dreaming," I tell him.
27. I think NPR is great, especially "Cartalk" or "Wait, Wait; Don't Tell Me."
28. The worst job I ever had was at Braum's when I was in high school. The reason it was so bad was because I always had to work when all my other non-working and extremely spoiled friends would come in for ice cream. Also, the uniforms were atrocious.
29. If you challenge me to a game of Boggle, I will always take you up on it.
30. Under the Tuscan Sun is my favorite movie ever. (White Christmas comes a close second.)
31. You will never EVER hear me listening to country music.
32. I have never been skydiving, but someday I hope to.
33. I am a PADI certified scuba diver.
34. Yo hablo un pequito espanol.
35. I don't care how much you paid me, I would not watch a scary movie.
36. When I was in high school, I went on a mission trip to Africa with my dad and a group of people from Abilene, Texas. It was probably one of the best experiences of my life, and I think about it often.
37. For the longest time, I was convinced that I would be the first woman President of the United States. Looks like Hilary's going to beat me to it.
38. I think DVD players in the backs of cars are ridiculous.
39. I was a nominee for ACU Homecoming Queen. I got to ride in Jack Griggs' Z3 in the homecoming parade and wave at people. It was fun.
40. I think that my dad gives the best hugs.
41. Someday I want to own a Golden Retriever and name him Louie.
42. My first experience with Defensive Driving has convinced me that I should never get another ticket because I do NOT want to suffer through that again.
43. I made the Oklahoma All-State Choir my senior year in high school. During our performance (which my parents have preserved on VHS for all posterity), a girl in the middle of the risers locked her knees and passed out, but we just kept right on singing!
44. I always cry at baptisms.
45. Unless it is an absolute emergency, I refuse to shop at Wal-Mart. If you would like my thesis on why no one should patronize this awful corporate giant, I will be more than happy to share.
46. My grandmother is really good at crossword puzzles, and I hope to reach her skill level one day.
47. Clay, my dear husband, was my first boyfriend and my first kiss.
48. I think it would be really fun to take a belly dancing class.
49. Chai tea lattes are probably my absolute favorite drink on a brisk autumn day.
50. I have never ridden in a limousine.
51. Our backyard neighbors have four or five roosters, and I think it's sort of nice to wake up to their cock-a-doodling in the morning. It's like I live on a farm or something.
52. I do not own a sewing machine.
53. Additionally, I do not own a dishwasher. (My husband is a really great substitute.)
54. I am an organizing fanatic.
55. Basketball is probably my favorite sport to watch -- because I actually understand what's going on.
56. Pottery Barn is my furniture store of choice.
57. There's this little Italian place down the street from our house called Mamma Mia's, and it has the BEST pizza I've ever eaten - except for that in Napoli.
58. I have seen six musicals in my life: Les Miserables, The Lion King, Wicked, Hairspray, Mamma Mia, and The 25th Annual Putnam County Spelling Bee. I really hope to see more!
59. On a trip to the Vatican, I took a picture of the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. Two days later I lost my camera in Florence. Don't you think this to be a strange coincidence?
60. My family's nickname for me is "JB" - which stands for Jessica Brooke. Sometimes when they're silly, they'll call me "JB Baby." Don't ask me why.
61. I have not read the Harry Potter books - but it's not because I don't want to, I just haven't had the time.
62. Extreme Makeover: Home Edition always makes me cry.
63. I think it would be SO fun to ride in a hot air balloon.
64. I still have the scar on my chin from the time I decided to jump off the side of the pool backwards when I was five years old. Let's just say I learned pretty quickly that's not such a great idea.
65. My other grandmother is really spunky. I hope I'm that spunky when I'm 89, too.
66. We do not have a mantle in our cute little house...so where to hang the stockings at Christmas?
67. I want to adopt children.
68. I have never broken a bone in my body.
69. From the time I was in junior high until I graduated high school, my family used to take dove hunting trips over Labor Day weekend. I was a pretty good shot, I must say.
70. I do not own anything glittery or sequined. Too much sparkle - ech.
71. I think it's pretty stupid when grown-ups talk to babies in that goofy little baby talk voice. I plan to speak to my children intelligently.
72. I record the gas mileage for my car on an Excel spreadsheet.
73. If my memory serves me correctly, I lost every single student government election I ran for throughout middle and high school. (The grand total comes to about 14 different offices no one wanted me to hold.)
74. My typical order at Starbucks: iced grande nonfat latte.
75. Real Simple magazine is just the bee's knees.
76. Put on a little Ella Fitzgerald and all is right with the world.
77. I will never EVER, as long as I live, eat at McDonald's. It's just overprocessed and gross.
78. I will, however, eat a half order of Nachos Locos from Mi Cocina. So yummy!
79. Swedish fish are probably one of my favorite candies.
80. I used to send pages of the JCrew catalogs to my friends with little messages written as if from the model on the page. It was sort of funny. I don't know why I ever stopped...
81. My husband and I toasted with Fufu Berry Jones Soda at our wedding.
82. All the nail polish I own is pale pink, with the exception of one fiery red bottle.
83. I want my "mom car" to be a Mazda CX-9.
84. I have climbed two 14'ers in my life: Handies Peak and Mt. Sherman, both in Colorado.
85. My bottom two wisdom teeth do not exist. Lucky me.
86. I have a dental implant on the back bottom left (sorry I don't know the tooth code). Too bad it doesn't pick up radio signals.
87. My husband and I have decided to run in the Cowtown 5K next February. Wish me luck!
88. My Chacos are my favoritest shoes - ever.
89. I really like modern art museums.
90. I wore braces for five years - two years in elementary school and three years in junior high. Seems like my orthodontist would have consolidated my brace face time.
91. I sleep better during rainstorms.
92. Someday I hope to have a vegetable garden. And an herb garden. And maybe some flowers too.
93. It would be my dream to study linguistics. Doesn't that sound like fun?
94. My favorite holiday is Thanksgiving. Because we all need a little more thankfulness in our lives!
95. I have never - and probably will never - go bungee jumping.
96. When I drive, my hands are at ten and two almost always. Unless I'm car dancing.
97. I have a cute little blue Sears & Roebuck bicycle with a wicker basket on the front and a cheery little bell. And two flat tires that need to be fixed soon.
98. I love snuggling with my husband.
99. Insalata caprese is, in my opinion, a food to the gods.
100! I can't believe I finished this!

Lose the Snooze

My husband and I have a recently-developed debate about the snooze button: he is in support of its liberal use while I think the function should be completely obliterated from alarm clocks everywhere. It is strange that this debate has only surfaced within the past few days as I have always fostered such loathing for the snooze button.

But then again, I am "one of those" who suffers in silence, who harbors those feelings of angst and frustration only to let them fly free after considerable buildup. I'm sure that if you asked one of my roommates in college if they knew this fact, they would probably shake their head in confusion. They, of course, were not excessive snoozers so I never had enough frustration to merit a discussion of the matter. My husband, however, is just such a snoozer.

Now don't get me wrong: I'm all for a few minutes of extra sleep. But I'm the kind of person who is realistic when setting her alarm. I consider exactly what I want to accomplish before I leave the house and set my clock accordingly. The fact that I have a pretty consistent schedule also adds to the ease with which I rise, thus eliminating the need for nine plus minutes of half-sleep. This is why it baffles me so that someone would choose to get an extra 18 minutes of sleep which does not really contribute much to their restedness and which actually makes them more tired when they finally do stumble out of bed. Why not go to bed 18 minutes earlier the night before? My huband insists that he can return to a deeper state of sleep immediately after flailing in the direction of the alarm clock, but I, for one, only lay in bed anticipating the sound of the snooze and do not get any more sleep. It's about quality, not quantity of sleep. And if I'm going to make the effort to hit the snooze button, I might as well turn off the alarm and get on with my life.

This problem, I believe, has only come about because my husband has been on vacation the past two weeks in order to work on our bathroom renovation. The first week of his vacation, I would wake up for work, quietly get dressed, then kiss him on the cheek before heading out the door. Two hours later, my husband would roll out of bed and proceed with his daily to-dos. This past week, he has tried to get back to more of a "schedule" before he returns to the working world on Monday. By this I mean setting the alarm for 7:30 when I get up and snoozing until 8 or 8:15. It's one thing when you're trying to sleep in the bed next to a snoozer -- I can usually sleep through that. But when you're trying to be quiet so they can keep sleeping, only to have the silence pierced by "BEEEP-beep-BEEEP-beeep," it is slightly aggravating. I never know if I should be loud after the snooze because he really wants to get up and will do so momentarily, or if I should keep quiet because he wants to sleep for another nine minutes. I just can't live my life like this.

To further complicate things is the fact that we share an alarm clock, and it resides on the (only) bedside table on his side of the bed. If I were to set my own alarm on my own clock on my own table on my own side of the bed, then perhaps we could have averted this crisis.

Or perhaps I'll just wait until he returns to his old routine next week -- without the snooze button.

Who's Your Idol?

I must admit I never really knew what all that American Idol hubub was about. Sure, I heard in roundabout ways who was bound for stardom, but I never followed the show with any dedication. After all, I had better things to do with my time. Every time I heard Carrie Underwood's 'Jesus Take The Wheel' on the radio, I would cringe and reach for the scan button, although no station was safe. So why exactly would I want to watch an entire show of whiney vocalists singing about people with wierd theological issues? I asked myself. In fact, I had never even seen the show until almost a month ago when its sixth season began. And until that chilly Tuesday evening when my husband coerced me onto the sofa, I had no clue what I'd been missing.

I never knew that I'd been missing all of Simon's snide remarks, the really awful singers who (bless their hearts) stood in the hopeful line for hours only to be humiliated on national television, those who thought it wise to dust off that old banana costume or showcase their juggling talents, the kids with potential who you really hoped would make it, and those who actually did but were wiped clean of any personality in order to make a more sellable product to the American public, and the very questionable remarks made by Ryan Seacrest to Simon about his snugly fitting gray v-neck sweaters. And of course, the very strange intro to the show with graphics reminiscent of video games and an absolutely horrendous theme song. It was because of these things that I told myself I would not fall prey to the clutches of this monster, I would not participate in this silly game. That is, until last night.

I'm still not sure if it was boredom setting in, or if my soul has actually been devoured by the American Idol beast, but I actually decided to call in and vote. I was not stirred to tears, nor was I filled with an overwhelming sense of awe at the performances that unfolded before me. There was no passion, no emotion, as I reached for my cell phone and dialed the Idol number. For a moment, I felt as though the Idol gods were controlling my body, temporarily possessing it and using it for their own sinister purposes. What is happening to me? I wondered.

And as if that weren't enough, I called in tonite to cast my vote. Again.

Before I know it, I'll have the Idol number on speed dial and will be rearranging my schedule so I can make it home in time for the show. Then I'll actually go out and purchase the CD (or CDs) of the Idol winner (and runner-up), and learn all the lyrics by heart. And, heaven forbid, I might actually subject myself to the opinions of Simon, Paula, and Randy and audition for this ridiculous show.

Does anyone know if they're holding auditions in the Metroplex next season?

There's a First Time For Everything

As a new year begins and I reflect on the milestones that marked 2006, I have decided to compile a top ten list of firsts in 2006. These are events which I have never experienced before, and many which I hope never to experience again...

10. First urinary tract infection. I'll spare you the painful, disgusting details.
9. First assumption that my nine-year old cousin was my daughter. Never mind that I'm only 23 and would have had to birth her at the age of 14. (Of course, the nice gentleman who asked me if she was my daughter didn't know how old I was, so perhaps I carry myself with maturity of someone seven years my senior. Either that or I need to buy my first jar of wrinkle cream.)
8. First piece of jewelry that I wear on a daily basis. Prior to August 24, 2006, I was a plain and simple kind of gal - the occasional set of studs or simple sports watch might adorn my person, but never any of those trendy Wilma Flinstone necklaces or cocktail rings so many girls can pull off these days. But ever since I received this beautiful piece of craftsmanship from a very special man as he dropped to one knee, I am unable to leave the house without my sparkling Tiffany solitaire and the wedding band which soon followed.
7. First open water scuba dive, where I got to see sharks up close and sea turtles being cleaned by tiny little fish off the coast of Kauai, Hawaii. We swam through tunnels in a reef and crossed a swift current by pulling ourselves along the bottom of the ocean. I was nowhere near as graceful a swimmer as my husband (and my descent needs a little work), but I've been practicing in the bathtub for next Christmas when we'll dive in Maui with the in-laws.
6. First business suit, which was not purchased so that I could work for a business (as in briefcase toting, coffee drinking, conference room chatting, fil-o-faxing business), but rather so I could work at Victoria's Secret. In retrospect, it was a poor wardrobe choice because I only worked there for three months, but at least I've got something to wear should I decide to launch into the corporate world.
5. First addiction to a TV show. It all began when my roommates started watching Sex and The City. Next my then-fiance got me hooked on Desperate Housewives. Then the couples from our small group at church started talking about Grey's Anatomy. And my husband began taping The Office. I would love to say that my social life does not revolve around a TV set (a very snazzy flatscreen with high def, might I add), but alas, how I've regressed.
4. First time to share a bed with a boy (who is my husband - don't worry!). It is certainly an adjustment after four years of sleeping on college-issue excuses for a twin mattress, but I think I've adapted very well to our queen-sized pillow top. Now if only I can get Clay to stop snoring...
3. First fender-bender, which I still maintain was not my fault. A distracted young lady driving a little black coupe did not turn right on a green light but I did...and her bumper sort of got in my way. I am now very wary of the right turn signal at Davis and Keller Parkway - and little black Hondas.
2. First promotion on the job. I went from part-time stockroom help at Williams-Sonoma to coordinator in less than three months, an advance I thought was just so fabulous at the time. But now that I've completed my first holiday season in retail and am making preparations for the upcoming inventory, I'm really questioning my decision. That hefty discount does soften the blow, I suppose.
1. First fixer-upper, which has undergone massive cosmetic reconstruction since we moved in almost six months ago. Several coats of paint (five, to be exact, in our red-walled kitchen), refinished wood floors, and new base boards have taken our little jewel to Martha Stewart Living cover status. Granted, we still have a long way to go on our adorable little two-bed/one-bath, but the new range and new fridge and new rugs and soon new sofa just make it so cozy. (If you can't tell, my nesting instinct is working overtime.)

(And, of course, this, my first blog, was begun in 2006, a blog to which I have neglected to post for several months. Thank you to all who have encouraged me to continue posting - ahem, Clay! It means so much that you think my ramblings are worth your time!)

Here's to 2007 and all the firsts that it will bring...hopefully none of them involving children.

Variety is the Slice of Life

I never thought I would say this, but pizza has become a cornerstone in my life. In fact, I think I've eaten more pizza in these past five and a half months as a newlywed than I ever did in my four years as a college student. Perhaps that is why my most recent pizza discovery (via the portable marquis in front of the strip mall) was so exhilarating:

Little Caesar's Hot-N-Ready pizzas are now available not only in pepperoni, but sausage, too!

Just when I didn't think it possible to improve on an already wonderful thing - a meal and a half for just five dollars and 41 cents, and one which only takes a six minute drive round trip to retrieve - the brains at Little Caesar's go and up the ante. My husband and I were almost beside ourselves with excitement when we brought our first Hot-N-Ready sausage pie to the dinner table. And let me tell you, we were far from disappointed.

But you know what they say: variety is the slice of life (and boy! is it tasty)!

Happy Ghoul-iday To You, Too

For as long as I can remember, I've anxiously awaited the arrival of Hallow's Eve, the 31st of October. It was a magical night, one filled with caramel apples, cavities, clown makeup, and candy corn. It was a night (well, a day, really) to remember a miraculous event that happened in 1983: my birth. My anticipation of this day was two-fold; I looked forward to my birthday and to the holiday festivities. That is why Halloween has always been so important to me.

My costume was selected with great care weeks in advance, giving me plenty of time to perfect all the details - and to make sure no one else was going to steal my idea. I prided myself on creative costumes, not those $15 drugstore excuses made from flimsy fabric and old ideas. No, my Halloween ensembles were works of creative genius. Amelia Bedelia, complete with flower-studded cap and frilly apron; a gypsy, all decked out in bangles and scarves; Dorothy, with red glitter jellies that left sparkly footprints down the street behind me; a bag lady, outfitted in my grandmother's finest old dress and Easter hat.

The candy, too, was purchased with much thought (mostly which bag gave you the most for your money). My sister and I, of course, tried to persuade our mother to purchase something much tastier, and which we could pilfer just moments before the neighborhood ghouls and goblins arrived. She always won out, but we managed to bring home enough chocolaty goodness to make us forget her stubbornness.

Every year we would purchase a bale of hay from the feed store and fashion a scarecrow to sit upon it from crumpled newspaper, my Dad's old overalls, and a floppy straw hat. We'd buy pumpkins from the farmer's market, then spend the afternoon carving elaborate designs. That evening, we'd arrange the jack-o-lanterns and scarecrow on the front porch and step back to admire our Halloween flair.

I was known, too, for the fabulous costume birthday parties I would throw, complete with a dry ice cauldron of green punch, my mother dressed as a witch (it was the only costume she had besides the one she used for VBS, and somehow that didn't seem to fit the occasion), and a fabulously black and orange birthday cake. We'd play games like mummy wrap or bob for apples or paint our own mini pumpkins. Needless to say, a good time was had by all.

So, of course, Halloween has always been a big deal to me. (And apparently it's a big deal to Pottery Barn, too; on their website they advertised rush delivery for Halloween. Isn't that crazy?!) That's why I was expecially excited about having a house of our own this year where we could make our own jack-o-lanterns and give out candy to our own trick-or-treaters. In preparation, my husband and I purchased six pumpkins and one gourd to adorn our front porch, and we quickly proceeded to carve our house numbers into four of them and stack them like a snowman with Christmas lights inside. We also created a traditional jack-o-lantern to accompany this carving masterpiece (but that was mostly because we went to a party that featured pumpkin carving and Clay felt obligated to participate). We also purchased some delctable candy, erring on the conservative side only because we weren't sure how many kids might stop at our door...and because we were trying to switch dental plans and didn't want to get cavities.

The night of Halloween came and I, for one, was extremely excited to see what it held. The pumpkins were lit, and the candy was ready in a basket by the front door. My husband decided to tally the number of trick-or-treaters we had, and was poised with pen and pad in hand. We were ready.

The first trick-or-treater arrived about 6:00, a cute little five year-old in a turtle gear. Next it was a fairy princess and her pirate brother. Then, to my horror, a teenager showed up at our front door WITHOUT A COSTUME! I reluctantly gave this pimply-faced and red hoodie-wearing youngster a Cow Tale, all the while shooting mean thoughts his way. How dare he expect to receive candy without putting forth effort! I was irked. So when a group of middle schoolers showed up moments later, only one of which had painted a little blood dripping from the corners of her mouth, I was not happy. The next group of children who dared show their faces at our door were wearing awful store-bought costumes which were already unraveling at the edges. And at that, they didn't even say "Trick or Treat," but rather mumbled "Halloween" under their breath as they held out half-full plastic sacks. Fortunately for my sanity, there was a break in the flurry at our front door and I had time to consider how children were making such a joke of this blessed holiday. Whatever happened to putting some effort into your costume? Whatever happened to the traditions and the fun? These children were definitely being spoilsports.

So when the red sweatshirt-wearing teenager showed up again, I was too peeved to notice. It wasn't until my husband asked, "Haven't we seen that kid in the red sweatshirt before?" that I realized my mistake. The gall he had to show up once without a costume, but to do it a second time? This was unacceptable, utterly unacceptable.

58 trick-or-treaters and two hours later, I was left with an empty basket and feelings of bitterness towards Halloween in general. This is such a weak holiday, I thought. I mean, the premise is to dress up in a scary costume (in most cases) and knock on strangers' doors to receive free candy, which you don't say thank you for and which will most likely make you sick and/or give you cavities. There's no family togetherness factor, like Christmas, or wholesome food, like at Thanksgiving; it's a selfish and stupid holiday. It's just a ploy for the candy manufacturers to make more money, and that's just sick. I turned off the porch light, feeling like I had failed in my efforts to make this a great Halloween.

There was a knock at the door, and I was in such low spirits that I didn't get up to answer the door, hoping maybe that this kid would realize the light was off for a reason (it's the universal symbol for "We're out of Halloween candy," Duh.). But he didn't! He kept banging on the door until my husband threw it open and curtly informed the surprised youngster that we were out of candy.

What is happening to kids these days? They don't even know how to celebrate Halloween properly.

Found a Peanut

When my husband was out of town on business for a couple of weeks, I decided to seize this opportunity to buy items at the grocery that had piqued my interest - but that marriage (and my husband, the picky eater) had prevented me from trying thus far. Namely, organic peanut butter.

Initially, I was wary of the layer of oil on top and the abnormal speckles amidst all those squished peanuts. The label claimed this separation to be expected, but I was worried. And the fact that you had to stir it before spreading - and refrigerate after opening - was a little too high maintenance for my taste. I mean, isn't the joy of peanut butter the fact that it's virtually indestructible? This new all-natural variety was just so darn good for me (or so the packaging would have me believe), and I was curious. So I decided to give it a try.

I brought home this rather small but overpriced (so long, grocery budget!) jar of old-fashioned organic peanut butter, hardly able to contain my excitement about the inaugural PB and J. With each twist of the lid, my anticipation grew (never mind the hesitation upon coming face-to-face with that less-than-desirable liquid topping). As I spread this ooey-gooeyness, although considerably more clumpy, upon a slice of bread, I could almost taste its nutty sweetness mingled with whole grain oats and orange marmalade. At last, I raised the glorious sandwich to my lips, took an overzealous bite...and gasped in horror. Who forgot to put actual peanut butter in this jar? I almost screamed. What kind of an impostor is this? Whatever was on my sandwich was unacceptable. Completely unacceptable.

Needless to say, I broke off the relationship immediately. And really, I should've known better.

When I was growing up, my mother prepared my peanut butter and jelly sandwiches with nothing but JIF. On crackers? Just JIF. With a freshly-peeled banana or crisp red apples? Only the best: JIF. To add a little kick to chocolate oatmeal cookies? You betcha - nothing but JIF. I even strayed from this tried and true relationship during my college years by switching to Simply JIF (with no added sugars), but that relationship was doomed for failure. Peter Pan couldn't keep me happy and Skippy...well, it lacked that extra zip. Store brands, although keeping my pockets padded, left my stomach feeling empty and abandoned. Each time I ventured out into the wide world of peanut butter, only to return to my beloved JIF.

My experiences have led me to conclude that this all-natural jazz is for the birds. Bring on the preservatives, the added sugars, the unpronouncable additives; I want them all! I love my JIF with all its imperfections, right down to the very last peanut, however smushed - or synthetic - it may be.

Perhaps that's why, when my husband brought home a jar of full-fat, full-sugar, fully-tasty JIF peanut butter the other day, I made no complaints. It pays to be picky on this one.


Author's aside: I have also discovered a new variation on this classic protein-filled treat, thanks to Rachael Ray. Peanut butter and bacon on banana nut bread. Sounds odd, I know, but it's out of this world. Give it a whirl, and let me know what you think.

Sweet Sixteen

This morning as I was on my way to work, the radio announcers for a local Christian station were wishing happy birthdays to their long list of call-ins (or email-ins, as the case may be). For some reason, the birthday wishes to Christina on her sixteenth sent me back in time - seven years back - to the time in my life when I anxiously awaited the sixteenth candle on my cake.

I tell you this story with great confidence that you, my cherished reader, will not trample on my already withered pride.

When I was younger, approximately 15 and a half years of age, I distinctly recall a very memorable trip to the DMV one crisp fall morning. According to Oklahoma law (way back then, anyway), any hormonally-controlled adolescent could operate a motor vehicle under the supervision of a licensed driver -- so long as they passed a teensie weensie little written exam. So on said morning, my father drove me across town to the DMV offices where I was to complete such an exam with flying colors. Or so I thought.

In the weeks leading up to this monumentous event, I had calculated the exact day on which I would turn 15 and a half. (It just so happens that this day coincded with a day during which the DMV offices were open and offering the test.) I had picked up a driver's handbook from the high school driver's ed teacher and studied it more religiously than my Bible. I had even paid attention in driver's ed, a feat which, to a teenager with even a moderate attention span, proves difficult. And, most importantly, I had told all of my friends that I was soon to possess a learner's permit. And that I was going to miss first period. (As one of the oldest in my peer group, it was my duty to flaunt my superiority.)

But on that morning, there was just one thing I forgot. Just one thing.

My father and I opened the smudged glass doors and entered the narrow blue hallway. Light streamed from a tiny office to our left, and as we approached the beam, I could see a pudgy police officer seated behind the desk. My dad opened his wallet, pulling out a crisp $20 bill, and laid it on the desk. The officer returned his change and pushed a sign-in sheet in my direction. Without a word, he handed me the one-page test and pointed to a desk in the corner.

I sat there for what seemed like hours, agonizing over those ten questions. Who has the right-of-way at a four-way stop? What do I do when a motorcycle tries to pass me? How many feet will it take me to come to a complete stop if I'm travelling at 55 mph? Stop lights and yield signs, double yellow and dotted white lines, engine functions and timing belts swirled through my mind and I found it difficult to think clearly.

Finally, I circled the answer to the last question, then proudly handed it to the officer. Piece of cake, I thought, trying to psyche myself up. But my optimism quickly crumbled as the officer pulled out his oversized red pen and answer key. He circled each wrong answer with flair, as if he'd never had so much fun in his entire life. I tried to keep track of how many red marks the officer had made on my test, but my head was preoccupied with the shock of this man's gall.

He handed me the test, freshly covered in red ink. "You just missed one too many, "he said with a smirk. "Better luck next time."

I looked to my father for assurance, but he just looked back at me with those disappointed parent eyes.

"Want to take a handbook with you?" the officer suggested, still basking in his victory over yet another ill-informed teenage driver wannabe.

"No, thanks," I replied, fighting back tears as I rushed for the door.


The tears kept flowing as we neared the car. How could this have happened? I'm a good student, voted Most Studious... All my friends know about this; how will I tell them? I know they will ask... Why didn't I study that chapter on semis and their blind spots better?...How could I have been so stupid?

"JB, " my father said, calmly, "I know you're upset about this, but you'll do better next time, especially if you're paying for the test."

What?! I thought. How could you betray me like this?

I continued shooting mean thoughts at the pudgy officer and my father all the way to school.

Two weeks later, I retook - and passed - the learner's permit test.

Five and a half months after that, I successfully passed my driver's test (despite much trepidation).

And now, here I am, seven years later, about to celebrate another birthday. Fortunately for me, there are no tests that 23-year-olds have to take.

Pick-UPS

As I opened the rear door of Williams-Sonoma this morning to greet the UPS man, I was relieved to know he only had eight boxes to drop off for me (as opposed to 207 dropped off the day before). The UPS man slid open the latch and forced the heavy brown door upwards with a hard shove, making it clang once it reached the end of its tracks. PDT in hand (that's code for little scanner thing), I approached the truck to scan in the first box of the day.

"Better not get too close, " he said, "I had a burrito for breakfast this morning, so I have a little gas."

Uh...awkward! I thought. Who says that kind of thing to a perfect stranger? I laughed politely, then continued to scan the remaining seven boxes as if he had said nothing, hoping, praying that this awkward moment would vanish.

"I'm just kidding," he chuckled. "I don't really have gas."

Let's hope not, you social outcast, I shot back at him telepathically, an act which coincided with the loading of the last box of salt and pepper shakers onto the rickety red dolly. (Thank goodness!) He handed me the keypad and I quickly signed my name, trying to ignore his joke about the Specially Hard and Intense Training truck he was assigned to that day.

"Thank you, Miss Rich," he said.

Misses Rich, I wanted to hiss. MISSES Rich.

Perhaps he should pick up some manners before he returns with the next shipment.

There's Best Western, And Then There's Great Western

Moving into a new neighborhood is like being an explorer in a foreign land; there are countless new places to explore, new experiences to be had, new neighbors to meet. Allow me to impart with you a few quirks we've discovered about our new area of residence...

We live less than one block from a Vietnamese church which, every Wednesday, Friday, Saturday, and Sunday, lines the street with the cars of local church-goers. You would think it odd that there is such a huge population of Vietnamese in the area...until you see Phu Lam Beauty Supply and Ho Chi Mihn (or some such name like that I can't pronounce, much less type) Specialty Food just around the corner.

Every morning when I drive to and from work, I pass an E-Z Stop. The sign reads "Food. Beer. Gas"...but I have yet to locate the gas pump.

I also pass a high school and an elementary school daily, an occurance which always fills me with great nostalgia. To see those little kids scamper out of blue minivans personalized with "Funky Town" or green Mustangs with souped-up mufflers and across the crosswalk with their oversized backpacks flopping in their wake, it just does something for me.

When I return from work each day, usually around the time that school children scamper from their classrooms, I pass a Hispanic man with a limp who peddles ice cream sandwiches from a hand-painted cart. I never see any children buying ice cream from him, but I hope his business is doing well.

Our route to church takes us past several very interesting places of business: The Dude Motel, with its dated neon sign, and a fortune teller whose sign reads "Psychic Readings Solve All Problems." We'll have to see how the problem solving works out. There's also The Wisdom Center, telechurch extraordinaire. The local pawn shop need not be overlooked, with it's advertised "shut gun sale." A former Taco Bueno has been turned into Go Go China, a fine eating establishment which my husband declares we must try. He must try, he.

The nearby Super Wal-Martis also worth mentioning, where almost everything is in Spanish. You almost expect the cashier to wear a button that says "I Speak English."

$5 pizzas at Little Caesar's, conveniently located next to Super Wal-Mart, have become a staple of our newlywed diet.

The other night as we were returning from Target, we noticed a Great Western Inn. I asked my husband if he thought it was a step up from Best Western, or down. Apparently, I have my superlatives confused.

Our neighbors are not short of fascinating: there is a retired contractor who lives across the street (with whom my husband has quickly become a close friend -- and tool-borrowing buddy) with his oversized wiener dog and blind German wife who, amazingly enough, still cooks for him. To the west, there is a never-ending cycle of people flowing from the house, and we're not exactly sure who lives there or whose dogs are defecating on our front lawn. To the east lives a lady in her late sixties who sells canaries in McDonald's parking lots. Down the street there is a house with a giant Christmas-lighted star still perched atop its roof. In the other direction is a Pepto pink house with kelly green shutters.

I wonder, what will our quirky contribution be to the neighborhood?

It's About Time

It's about time I posted something on my blog. At least, that's what my husband thinks.

It's about time we got moved into our new little house. And finished painting it. And put up the baseboards and trim. And found a place to eat dinner besides the coffee table. But that doesn't mean we'll do it.

It's about time I figured out how to get from our new home to work in the most expedient manner. (Amazing how a route with a lovely view of the local Cabela's can cut almost 20 minutes off my morning drive.)

It's about time we got mail other than that for the previous homeowner. But then again, she lived here for over 40 years, and I guess the mailman is kind of in a rut.

It's about time that I unpacked all those wedding gifts that have been making sad puppy dog eyes at me from the wall for three months now. Unfortunately for the both of us, our kitchen cabinets remain unpainted because the refrigerator is in the way and, therefore, unstocked.

It's about time I reclaimed the house from all of my husband's tools. A freshly rinsed paintbrush in the sink or an electric drill in the bathroom or a step ladder next to the bed are never pleasant surprises.

It's about time we got rid of our pet turtle, Donatello, who wasn't actually much of a pet in the first place. Which brings me to another story...

Two years ago, my husband went on a canoeing trip with his twin brother and a few of his college buddies and came back with a Nalgene full of baby turtles. Although I'm not one for little slimy things, he begged to keep it and make it "ours." So I went with him to Super Wal-Mart to pick out a suitable aquarium. Two weeks later, I accompanied him on a trip to Petsmart to purchase a plastic rock for "our" turtle's climbing pleasure. Then some faux reeds to give a natural feel to his glass abode. Next, it was a timer for his aquarium light (supposedly to simulate the rising and setting of the sun. Whatever). Then an automatic feeder once my husband got a job in the real world and often forgot to feed the little critter. Various other accessories were considered but quickly dismissed as we had better things to do with our time (like plan a wedding).

Eight months later we married and came home to our little green friend, who, when I reflect upon it, was never really a source of joy or companionship in our lives. We never took him for walks or gave him baths or made appointments to see the turtle doc. I hate to admit it, but there were times when I forgot he was there.

So when my husband and I were planning our move, I proposed an outrageous idea: to get rid of our beloved Donatello. At first, I was met with some resistance, but eventually my husband realized just how ridiculous it was that we still had the critter. We decided to ask our sister-in-law if she'd like to have the turtle for her new classroom, but, alas, she did not and neither did any of her teacher friends. Thus was birthed a new plan.

As we cleared the final items from our apartment last Saturday night, my husband looked at me with saddened eyes full of the knowledge of what we had to do. We loaded the vacuum cleaner and the remaining boxes into the trunk and returned to the apartment to claim our one last item. My husband placed Donatello into a small box, out of which he immediately began to climb. I hurried to hold the flaps up as we scurried into the car and made our way to execute our plan - on the banks of the Trinity River.

It was dark when we pulled into the gravel lot that was peppered with a few other cars. We looked at each other, then at Donatello as my husband reached into the box and plucked the squirming shell from its belly. The lights from downtown Fort Worth glimmered on the horizon as we made our way through the crisp and dying grass, beneath several forlorn trees, and down the steep bank towards the dark and mysterious waters. My husband bent down and set Donatello in the grass just inches away from the river. As the little guy scuttled into the grass and made his way towards his new home, I wondered for a moment if we had made the right decision. How would I feel if I were abandoned by my owners in an enourmously frightening new place? Would I stay in one place or would I venture out into my newfound freedom? Would I be so terrified that I would die alone within a few days or would I quickly make friends and find a joy I'd never known in captivity? Those thoughts quickly faded as I neared the car.

But the next day as torrential rains flooded the Metroplex with some much-needed water, those ponderings returned. I wondered if leaving a turtle like that was consdiered inhumane. If Clay and I were heartless and cruel because we didn't want to keep the little guy around (never mind that we both agreed he didn't quite go with the decor). If somehow karma was going to come around and bite me in the butt because, frankly, I didn't give a darn what happened to this one small turtle except to care whether or not he was cluttering up my new house. Those worries were quickly crowded out by the dilemma of how many coats of red paint our kitchen wall needed and where exactly to place the TV.

It's about time I started worrying about the important things in life.

Take Me Out To The Ball Game

As the summer draws to a close and all the little tykes reach for their three-packs of Kleenex and new Blue's Clues lunchboxes, so too does the city baseball (or softball, in this case) league play out its final games.

My husband has been playing for the all-male softball team with some of his coworkers, usually about nine other accountants. At first I thought this an odd extra-curricular activity for one who enjoys playing with his tenkey or balancing the checkbook on Quicken, but he wanted to show that he was "involved outside of the office" since it looked good on his CPA evaluation. So every Thursday night for about eight weeks, he'd don his bright blue jersey and we'd head to Arlington for his game.

As if watching ten grown men who specialize in reconciling numbers try to throw around a softball for 55 minutes weren't entertaining enough, here are a few highlights from the season, if you will...
During one of the very first games, the other team's members alternated wearing a sombrero every time they came out onto the field. (They had tried wearing it while at bat, but discovered it wasn't very easy to run while keeping one hand on your head.) This same game coincided with the Mavs in the playoffs, and the catcher had brought his radio so everyone could hear the play-by-plays. Every so often one of the other team's members (usually the catcher) would yell, "What's the score?" And we knew he wasn't talking about the game at hand.
One particular game, the opposite team was especially talented in hitting foul balls, the kind that arc up and over the chain-link fencing (you know, the kind that supposedly protects the fans from those stray little boogers). Inevitably, one of said foul balls flew into the stands where all the wives (myself included) were chatting away. As soon as we realized what was headed straight toward us, everyone scrambled to move out of harm's way, which mostly amounted to curling up into a ball in the lap of the person next to you while screaming bloody murder. The ball bounced safely over our heads, and all the players thought it was pretty funny how frightened we were. But really, it was a close call.
During the second inning of one of the later games, a fly ball was hit towards left field over the foul line. As the scrawny left fielder sprinted to catch the ball, the crowd (and team) was riveted to this figure barrelling towards the fence. We continued to watch, dumbfounded, as he slowed his pace, reaching the fence and sticking his glove across it just as the softball fell right into place, as though he had done it a thousand times.
The second to last game was quite an exciting one, as the third baseman from the opposite team caught a line drive right in the face - in his mouth, to be exact. He held cheap paper towels and a baggie of ice to his bloodied lip as he rushed to his car to drive to the ER for stitches. And who says softball isn't a contact sport?

One win, two forfeits, and five losses later, his season concluded. I don't know about you, but something about those numbers just doesn't seem quite right.

But then again, if you're out on the field, it's hard to audit the scoreboard.

Bargain Hunters

As a slave to the retail industry as of late, I have come to a greater understanding of the ebb and flow of buying and selling. Previously one to simply purchase what was needed at the time it was needed, I never gave a great deal of thought to the concept of seasonal sales. Sure, I knew about those after-Christmas sales with scads of forlorn ornaments that will never grace anyone's tree and ridiculous sweaters that no one in Texas would ever have occasion to wear, and the back-to-school specials where everyone bought No. 2 pencils and Mead notebooks for half price, and, here recently, the phenomenon known as tax-free weekend where teenagers and their parents flocked to local malls just to save two or three dollars on their Hollister jeans. But did I really stop to consider the logic, the reasoning, the...well, scheming that went into seasonal sales? Not until today.

While my coworkers scurried about, frantically asking the other if they'd found any good finds yet, I marked down the remaining set of fondue forks to 99 cents. A giant procelain rooster was marked down to $43.99 (not quite so much of a steal, but still a heavy discount). A set of three bud vases went to $11.99, and a cast-iron chicken-shaped roaster was marked $19.99 (which caused quite a ruckus as three employees neared blows to see who'd get the last two). Straw placemats went to $2.99 and a tin of dinosaur cookie cutters was marked down to $4.99. This is just a bunch of junk, I thought. But, oh, how quickly would I eat my words.

Not long after, whatever spells the head honchos of the retail world have cast over their marked-down merchandise caught me in its inescapable grasp, and I purchased two bottles of dish soap, a Rachel Ray cookbook, an ice cream scoop and an adorable little round cutting board.

What is it, I began to wonder, about those red 99s or bright orange stickers marked "clearance"? Why are we so compelled to purchase something, never mind that we wouldn't know what to do with red peach nectar or beaded fish napkin rings, just because some retailer deems it a bargain?

I have a funny feeling this will become a ritual on markdown days. I just can't resist a bargain. At least, that's what the higher-ups would have me think.

Things I Will Not Miss About Our Apartment...Or Will I?

As we have been ripping up linoleum and old baseboards and scouring our new house on contact paper patrol for the past week, I am getting it in my head that this house will be our home, even if we haven't technically moved in yet. The one-bedroom apartment we've called home for the past two months has its charms, I suppose, but I will certainly be ready to distance myself from this place - charms and all (which I've listed below for your reading pleasure).

1. I will not miss swiping my gate access card before I can enter the complex, although half the time the gate wasn't closing properly anyway. (I do suppose a garage door opener is similar, but at least you don't have to roll down your window to use it.)
2. I will not miss the drably painted walls and really cheap carpet, which, although only installed a mere nine months ago, is showing considerable wear. Oh, and there are no baseboards, which is really, really wierd.
3. I will not miss our upstairs neighbors whose creaky bed (and other unmentionable noises) wakes me up at 4:30 am. On a regular basis. And it's not because they toss and turn while sleeping.
4. I will not miss the "leasing specialists" who, every time we retrieve a wedding present from the office, threaten to raid our apartment and take every single one. And the thing is, I really think they might do it.
5. I will not miss the microscopic kitchen with absolutely no room for all our new kitchen gadgets (hence they remain unopened and stacked along one wall in the dining room, making it all the easier for the ladies from the main office to find when they pillage our place). And the oven's finicky, which doen't faciliate perfectly golden baked goods. And that's never good.
6. I will not miss walking across the street to the laundry room, only to discover I'm one quarter short of a load. And I won't particularly miss carrying my freshly-washed unmentionables back to our apartment where I will hang them to dry (I can't tell you how many times I've dropped something...well, almost).
7. I will not miss Raptor Baby who lives in the apartment behind us, and whose parents can't seem to figure out how to make him/ her stop crying...in the middle of the night.

There is some nostalgia, I must admit, that I feel when I think about our first apartment, the very first space that my husband and I shared, where we learned (and are still learning) to share the bathroom and keep our dirty clothes in the hamper and that it's not really all that important to make the bed everyday and that we really can make a meal out of a can of chili. Those fond remembrances, however, are quickly overshadowed by the excitement and thrill of our first home, a place we'll hopefully live for longer than two and a half months.

Carried Over the Threshold (After Being Rear-Ended In the Driveway)

Yesterday my husband and I signed the official documents to make our little blue-shuttered, two bedroom, one bath home our very own. So after dinner, with the tool chest and two pair of work gloves in the back seat, we drove over to assess more closely the 1100-and-something square feet we now possess.

As we were turning into our driveway off the quiet residential street, we heard brakes squealing and a crunch-thud as a little faded blue 80s-model compact made contact with the rear end of my husband's Camry.
(Minor changes have been made in the language choice of our friend, the negligent driver. This does not alter the main story.)

"What the bleep?! Why don't you use your bleepity-bleep turn signal? Don't you know how to bleeping drive?" A very flustered teenage girl in Daisy Dukes and a worn tshirt spewed profanities at my husband, who, with remarkable calm, asked her to lower her voice.
"I don't have a license or insurance and they're going to send me to jail!" She wailed. So there's a reason why you shouldn't be driving, I thought to myself.
The blonde passenger in the front seat, who I could barely see for the mass of Mardi Gras beads and strawberry-shaped car fresheners hanging from the rearview mirror, was laughing nervously. The driver's Hispanic boyfriend climbed out of the back seat to help review the damage, which amounted to nothing more than a little scratch on the edge of my husband's wheel well and a rather sizable concavity in her fender.
"It's going to be okay. I'll probably have this looked at, just in case, but it doesn't look like it did all that much damage to my car, " my husband attempted to console her. She just flipped her poorly- highlighted hair with a black nail polished hand.
After writing down her information, the rattled teenager and her posse drove off without so much as an apology.

Minutes later, as my husband carried me over the threshold and into our new home, I couldn't help but wonder if this was a bad omen, or a good one.

(The reader may also be interested to know that not even a week ago, I had a little accident of my own when I bumped another car at a stop light. This occurance, perhaps, makes yesterday's events more ominous. ...or does it?)