I can only handle slushies and 80s movies right now.

My brain is shot. More than usual. It’s amazing the repercussions one thunderstorm can apparently have on me. For future reference I now know that if a torrential downpour makes the power go out, and somehow destroys my computer’s modem, hence causing severe unrest in the internet department, hence causing major changes in who provides me with life giving internet (no small feat or sum), and if that same storm causes flooding in my son’s room, which therefore causes major upheaval in said room as well as emergency action to be taken outside which sadly involves uprooting some of the grass seeds I have diligently watered FOUR times a day (the ones that survived the torrential downpour), which have just started to sprout(!), all of which coincides with an bunch of other STUFF and my monthly friend and the fact that there are no potato chips in the house(!), well if that same storm were to strike again I now know that my brain will take a vacation all on its own accord, without even asking for permission. And everyone around me is just going to have to be extremely sensitive and understanding, and slightly able to read minds, particularly minds that are gone.

Bosco is doing the best at this so far. Today I told him, “Hey you. Take your hands off and wash your shoes.” He then proceeded to take off his shoes and wash his hands. Not even realizing my blunder, I was simply amazed that he was doing what I thought I asked  him to do. Then when my sister, who had witnessed the interaction, pointed out my brainlessness, not only was I amazed that Bosco listened to me, but likewise in awe that we obviously have a telepathic connection. Also glad he didn't try to take off his hands. Such a champ I tell ya. I’m very grateful he has been able to be “in tune” during this my time of need and stupidness.

I fear others in my family are not quite up for the challenge . . . yet. This becomes evident when Bubba is still requiring me to change his dirty diapers and the Husband is determined to bring up topics that involve numbers and eye contact.

Friday Confessions: As usual, I'm about ten years behind

Currently there is a copy of Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone sitting on my desk. See. Proof.

Some of you may be amazed by this alone but that’s not really the confession part of this post.

More to the point is that I’ve never read this book or any of the other Harry Potter books. It was first published when I was in the thick of high school and I didn’t do much in high school except fret, and sleep, and do homework, and watch Roswell. I was too into hot aliens to even think about pre-pubescent wizards. Jason Behr. Ahem.

So I didn’t know these books were in existence until I was a college undergrad, now in the thick of living on my own and being an English major. You’d think that as an English major I would be all over that Harry stuff no problem. But people were being so annoying about these books. They said I had to read them. It would change my life. I would start having fantastic magical wizardy dreams as opposed to boring dreams. I would be complete.

Well I didn’t much care for people telling me I had to read something in addition to the required Hemingway, Austen, Whitman, Dickens, James, Keats, Milton, Poe, Shakespeare, Spenser, Thoreau, Twain, Tennyson, Wordsworth, Blake, Bronte, Browne, Browning, Burns, Chaucer, Conrad, Hurston, Plath, Dickinson et cetera.

My eyes were blurry enough as is. So no. I didn’t read Harry Potter. I didn’t even WANT to. But this isn’t my ultimate confession either.

What I really want to admit is that I finally told myself just last week that it’s okay to read these books now. My brain is ready and the heart is willing. But this book (thanks library!) has been circling around various surfaces of my house and I just can’t get myself to read it. Even with all the hype. Even with all the acclaim. Even when critics say this is a series for the ages.

Here’s my problem. Besides the fact that I'd rather be sleeping, I think there’s a very real possibility that I will not like them (because I’m a difficult person and I have shifty eyes), that I will be disappointed. Then when anyone asks if I’ve read Potter I’ll have to say yes but I just won’t be able to keep my mouth shut and I’ll holler, “They weren’t that great!” There will be gasps. And awful heart palpitations. Then I will be shunned by all of society.

Well, I don’t need that kind of trouble friends.

I guess I need to go do some soul searching. Will update on the situation later.

While I was out . . .

Hey! Remember how I just wrote a post about finally getting our Christmas tree up after much travail? Well, this weekend, just for kicks, I redecorated the whole thing. The ornament placement was really bothering me.

Well that is not entirely the truth. I’ve come to learn first-hand that redecorating the Christmas tree is what one has to do out of necessity when one has a jolly little fifteen-month old human who somehow ends up sprawled on the floor with the Christmas tree on top of him.

I’m not gonna lie. I thought this was something that only happened to silly sitcom families, and on America’s Funniest Home Videos. This isn’t something that would ever happen under my watch. That last sentence I can still claim to be truth though, seeing as how I was not home when The Incident occurred. The Husband was on duty and that’s all I’m going to say about that.

Except I will say that the Husband’s efforts to fix/cover-up the incident exceeded his normal standards. Either that or I was uncharacteristically inattentive. I didn’t even notice anything askew until Bosco told me Bubba pulled the tree down.

I thought he was joking until I noticed that some of the ornaments I intentionally placed in certain places on the tree were now in other places, and the kitchen table was littered with various ornaments that had lost their wire hooks to the dark pine abyss . . . and the carpet was damp, and there were drenched towels on the kitchen floor, and the stench of guilt lingered in the air. It was all almost too much to bear.

But being the weirdo I am, I had to try and put everything back where it had been originally or else my obsessive nature would have eaten me alive. Because I had enjoyed seeing that ornament from that couch, and I had enjoyed seeing that other ornament from the other coach. My oh my, the levels to my crazy run deep.

Bubba is fine, I think. A little shy around Christmas trees now. If I had witnessed The Incident in person I might have been compelled to say goodbye to Christmas trees forever. My human baby! With pine needles stuffed in his mouth! Scratching his eyeballs! Sapping up his hair! Destroying his Christmas cheer! With a face that surely looked something like this. Something pitiful.

But perhaps my imagination is even worse than the reality.

You are all witnesses though. I said in Post 128, Line 40-41 that the tree was not as stable as I would have liked. Freaking foreshadowing people.

Please note: A counter weight consisting of roughly ten pounds of coins has now been placed on the opposite side of the tree (a side that cannot be accessed by toddlers, let alone me) so as to hopefully prevent further damage to my children and my holidays.

Another reflective installment of Have you Ever?

The following account may or may not be based on actual events. Most likely not, but probably so perhaps of course.

Have you ever, dear reader, set up a time when two lady neighbors could stop by your house just for some friendly conversation and some contact with the outside world. Your neighbor calls you the night before said appointment just to remind you. You then go to sleep thinking of how you will need to make a little extra effort on the morrow to look presentable.

Upon awakening in the morning, you groggily carry on about your usual routine, of course having forgotten that visitors are coming. It’s not until the doorbell rings at 11:00 A.M. sharp that you remember your brain is mush and that you shouldn’t have trusted that gray matter of yours to remind you of things.. You should have posted signs on the toilet as well as on the milk jug, both places you are sure to look.

As you curse your forgetfulness and scatter-brained-ness, you start to panic. Your cheeks begin to burn as they always do when you are flustered. Should you ignore the bell? Should you feign sickness and ask them to come back at a later date?  Should you answer the door and act like you have no idea who they are, then tell them no solicitors please?

These questions run circles in your mind over the course of just seconds. And after twenty or so Mississippis have passed, the pressure has reached the maximum and you decide to just invite them in, to your real life. Not before putting on a hoodie though for heaven's sake.

So with unsightly hair, pajamas on, no makeup, no bra, and remnants of yesterday’s fort making still scattered across the living room, you answer the door, and prepare yourself for unimaginable embarrassment.

Well, have you ever?

I was up until 1:00 A.M. doing this

Believe it or not I’ve been off fighting a foe, a very brutal, unforgiving enemy who creeps up on you and gives you nightmares. I am of course talking about mold. Yes Mold and I had it out this weekend, and man do I have a kink in my neck. I’m ashamed to say that at one point I thought the battle was lost. But I am persistent. Once I have my mind made up about something, I am not content with the world until my goal has been accomplished. For example, reuniting NKOTB. That was my doing. You’re welcome.

Anyway, normally Mold and I do not have issues, especially not in my bathroom. This may have something to with the fact that I live in a dry climate area, one that sucks the moisture and life out of most living organisms, Mold included. So imagine my surprise when a week ago I starting seeing grayish spots on the grout and caulking in my shower/bathtub. I was stunned speechless. I may have even drooled at little too. I thought I had been granted a Mold-free card in compensation for the Hideous Sinuses I’ve had to endure the past few years. Apparently not so. Mold does not give out such cards.

I gave the mildew or mold or whatever it was a good scrubbing but it remained stalwart, like Mold is known to do. In fact it multiplied and got darker. That’s when I realized I have anger issues because I got really seething mad at that Mold. I was now a lunatic mad woman on a mission. An epic battled followed.

I researched online for an annoying amount of time, then formulated a plan. I went to the store and found these four guys all hanging out together in the cleaning aisle, like guys with mustaches tend to do.  

That bleach guy looked a little scary and I told him he was only a last resort, because generally speaking I hate that guy. I don’t even let him in my house anymore since I’ve lost one too many favorite shirts to the evilness that is he.

Now per the advice of someone online, they said to gather your materials and attack the mold in your birthday suit (so only your skin gets ruined and not your clothes), then take a shower immediately following. I just didn’t have the guts (or stupidity) to do this. I did see the merit though in taking a shower afterwards. Rinse off the shower and me. Win, win. So I just stripped down to my skivvies and started with Softscrub . . . on the shower. I figured I might as well get rid of some soap scum too while I was at it so I went to town my friends. To town! Oh it was probably a sight to behold. Glad I locked the door.

When I was done that shower was looking sparkly, all except for the mold, which remained. And I found more in three different spots upon further investigation. Feeling icky, I decided to shower and think of Plan B. It was not the most enjoyable shower I’ve ever had. Forgot to take off my rubber gloves at first.

I decided magic erasers deserved a try next. But it was a no go on the mold/mildew. It worked wonders though on the traction spots at the bottom of the tub. Five points to whoever knows the official name of those things that keep you from falling on your wet butt.

Next up, vinegar. Now I love vinegar just as much as the next gal. I mean what is there not to love about all that acidity power action? But it stinks. I was really hoping the first two options would have worked. But alas, it was time for the stink. I poured vinegar on some paper towels and stuck them to the problem areas. Let it soak for an hour or so while I sat there and twiddled my thumbs. Okay fine. I went and had some ice cream. Same thing. The potent smell of the vinegar would have been worth it if it had worked. It didn’t.

That meant it was time to bleach it up. And if this option didn’t work I was going to stab myself in the big toe. I poured the bleach on the paper towels and stuck them to the problems areas. This step was even stinkier than the vinegar. The Husband, sensing something was afoot, came in and asked me, “What is this operation?” all annoying and questioning like. I made him leave because he was obviously making fun of me. Maybe I was a little on edge. But wouldn’t you be too, what with bleach in the vicinity?

Well I’m happy to say my big toe is still intact. Bleach did the trick as sad as that is. I guess in this case though I had to fight evil with evil. But now the problem is I feel dirty inside. And there’s a bottle of bleach staring at me . . . just staring at me.

This is no joke. This is serious.

Wow. That last post was a doozy huh. And long. My was it long.

Never fear though. Currently an effort is being made to keep today's post below 5,000 words.

Speaking of effort, I’ve been trying to keep my face up. By this I mean maintaining areas, ON MY FACE, so it doesn’t seem like I don’t care about people who have to look at me. I care. And since I believe plastic surgery should be reserved for people who have birthed three plus babies at one time, and for people who need it or else they will die, I can’t jump on that bandwagon. Therefore, I’ve got to work with what I have.

Today I watched a TV segment on how to have the perfect eyebrows. Once upon a time I had these without even having to pick up a pair of tweezers or an eyebrow pencil. Many a person told me I was blessed and should thank my Heavenly Father for the eyebrows that were perfectly situated above my eyeballs. They were proportionate, full, arched just so, as well as fully functional. Nary a drop of sweat made its way past those luscious brows of mine.

Here we are some ? years later, and my eyebrows have taken a turn, for the worse of course. I don’t know when or where it happened. All that matters is that it happened. They require constant up keep and attention now. And that’s just to get them looking okay, not even fabulous.

They’ve thinned out, lost their arch, and gone astray. The follicles that used to align themselves in proper eyebrow fashion have now moved to other places on my face. Hair repositioning I think is the actual scientific term. It’s true. Hair that once was right exactly where it should have been, decided to pack their bags and move to places like Lower Forehead, Temples, Chin, Sideburn, and Upper Lip, leaving the land of Brow in a sad sad state. 

So here’s my predicament in a nutshell:

It appears as though I’ve got a mutiny on my hands, or my face. Oh crap. What if my hands join in soon? I just don’t think I could handle hairy knuckles . . . or even worse hairy fingernails. That mental picture alone is enough motivation for me to keep these scoundrels at bay. No matter how much tweezing and shameful practices I must partake in, I will not allow this. Not by the hair on my chinny chin chin.

I know I’m not the only one with this affliction. I’ve seen those chops you’ve been trying to tame, and that chin that glistens in direct sunlight. You can take refuge here my friend.

I am NOT genteel

Up until about three hours ago I was really wondering how I was going to spice up my weekend summary. How was I going to make surfing the internet until the wee hours of the morning, making and eating cupcakes, and watching Twilight by myself sound riveting, and even awesome? That would be a near impossible feat for even the most talented creative souls.

I had planned to talk about how late Saturday night the Wandering Husband returned from his adventure in the great wild, smelling wind-whipped and reeking of sunblock, earth, and general manliness. He also had hairy growth all over his face. It was rustic. Very rustic. And sometimes I like rustic. Just not combined with all of the above mentioned aromas.

But who wants to hear about the Scents-o-Husband? It would have been in poor taste to devote an entire blog post to that. Right?

Well lucky for you dear readers a little event called Sunday Dinner Preparation occurred.

Usually this event begins with me adjusting my cute yellow apron and appearing entirely too domestic. Then I would proceed to arrange all the necessary ingredients to make a wonderful feast for my family to enjoy. The word feast is of course up to interpretation. Let’s just say if I make it, they will come. And they will eat it happily dangit.

Usually Sunday Dinner Preparation goes off without a hitch. But not this weekend my friends.

It started out well. I had the jasmine rice simmering away. Vegetables of the utmost deliciousness (frozen) ready to be stir fried. I just had to cut up some raw chicken and then I could start putting it all together. I reached for my trusty kitchen shears and began to cut the chicken breast into pieces. But somehow my index finger got caught up in all the fun and the scissors sank into my flesh, mistaking it for chicken.

I tried not to panic, but I knew it was deep. Who slices their finger open with a pair of scissors? Not a knife, but a pair of utility scissors? That would be me of course. There’s a first time for everything so the Husband says.

Well, my cut was bleeding. More than just a little. I told the Husband, “I just cut myself with the dang scissors." To which he replied, “Are you serious?” Well I figured I best not talk to him at that exact moment, lest I say something I would regret. I ran my finger under cold water and by george it stung! I tried to survey the damage and it was deep enough to see grayish blue. That was surely bone yes? I didn’t know, but the thought of me needing to get stitches was obviously more than my little self could bear because I started feeling woozy.

The Husband was next to me trying to help me. Help me do what I’m not sure. Then I started freaking out that I now had raw chicken bacteria deep in my wound and was clearly going to die from some flesh eating thingy. The Husband must have been worried about this too because he insisted on soap and such.

At this point I was feeling a definite need to toss my cupcakes, and I told the Husband so. He followed me to the bathroom. I told him I was feeling really hot and the room was spinning. I had a case of the vapors I do declare! He told me to lie down. On the bathroom floor. Gross? Yes. I told him I was pretty sure I was going to faint, even though I’ve never fainted before in my life. But I still needed to throw up, and yet the spinning of the room and the ringing in my ears overpowered that desire so I laid down on something. I think it was the Husband’s arm. So gallant, is he not?

Well apparently this is where I drifted off into lala land long enough for the Husband to look at me, pause, and say my name twice . . . then I opened my eyes to see him looking at me weird-like. Then I asked him if I had just passed out, to which he replied no. Even though the answer was actually yes. He didn’t want to freak me out so I was told.

I personally don’t think I passed out. I think I merely couldn’t hear anything over the ringing in my ears, and then I chose to close my eyes. That would explain why I couldn’t hear him call my name, and why I didn’t see anything for two seconds. Makes perfect sense to me.

After that, the Husband yelled out to Bosco, who was in the living room, to bring over a pillow. Well, if you want to watch the most hilarious sitcom in the world, just have the main character be a three year old in desperate search of a pillow, while a sickly woman is lying on a bathroom floor, while her Husband cradles her head and patiently waits for the main character to bring one of the eight staring-you-right-in-the-face pillows.

Cue laugh track.

Note: I haven’t looked at my wound again because it is covered with a bandaid. It doesn’t hurt which can only mean I’ve damaged nerves. I haven’t died of flesh eating bacteria yet, but only time will tell. I don’t usually have this reaction to blood, cuts, etc. Today was just special. I am a wuss. The end.

Scab picker, comin' at ya

I hate to reopen old wounds, but apparently I’m a scab picker, a picker of scabs. Pick. Pick. Pick. And then by the end of the day I’m left with a huge gaping sore of my own making. Hours and hours wasted in self-pickery. This is what always happens though when I convince myself that a new pair of shoes is in order.

That’s right. I went shoe shopping, again. Can I get a Band-aid please? And I felt frustrated and depressed for much of the excursion, again. Actually can you just give me the largest bandage you have?

For those of you just tuning in, I’ve already freely admitted that I have carnie feet. Whatever that means. All I know is that I’ve got them. And there are not a lot of shoes for women who have them. Someday fellow sufferers. Someday the shoe monkeys will hear our plight. Right?

Anyway, I went out this last weekend with renewed hope, in search of the most comfortable leather sandals to ever grace my dainty feet. My sister was in search of her own pair so we went together. That was probably a poor choice on her part. The majority of the time she had to deal with my wailing and gnashing of teeth. But I don’t feel sorry for her. She has “normal” feet.

As I meandered through the multitude of shoes on display, a friendly young woman with regular feet asked if she could help me. The following interaction ensued:

Woman: What exactly are you looking for?
Me: Well, I’d like a comfortable simple brown leather sandal, to walk-in of course. I don’t want it to flip flop. I want it secure and fitted (haha). Do you have anything that is akin to walking on air?
Woman: Well, these Borns are comfortable, she points to a pair that I had being eyeing.
Me: Yes, I like those. They are a bit pricey but if you have a pair that fits like a dream I will cash in my retirement fund right now.
Woman: Great (starting to drool). Let me go check. What size are you? She then looks down at my feet in amazement/disappointment/there goes my commission. Oh my they are tiny! What size are you?
Me: Trying not to roll my eyes Well usually a 5, but let's try to keep the judgements to a minimum.
Woman: Oh we don’t carry the Borns in that size.
Me: Oh well that is unfortunate. Can’t say I’m surprised though. Most shoe companies don’t cater to us nymphs because they don't believe in magic.
Woman: Let me go find some other ones that are similar, and come in smaller sizes.
Me: Fantastic. I will wait with bated breath. Woman comes back with five or six boxes and now I’m almost drooling. A fellow sales associate has now joined the conversation.
Man: Wow. Looks like she’s brought you a few to try on.
Me: Yes! Yes! Am I shouting! I can’t seem to control the volume of my voice around so many shoes!
Woman: Okay these are all size 5. She opens the boxes and to my complete and utter horror they are nothing like what I had suggested. I try to mask my disgust with ridiculous smiling. My sister is giggling. Okay this one looks really strange, but it actually looks pretty cute when you put it on.
Me: Alright. Let’s try it. Actually no. It looks even more heinous. And the rhinestones clash with my skin color. Oh and they’re too big. I was hoping for something with more cushion and less bling.
Woman: Yeah. Here’s these Hush Puppies.
Me: What? Aren’t those shoes for the more “mature in years,” in addition to being a tasty side dish with fish?
Woman: Oh my, you are delightfully funny, and so right. But they are comfortable.
Me: Well, they don’t fit anyway so . . .
Woman: Wow. You’re actually like a size 4.5 or smaller. You know, the kids section actually might have some cute stuff. My friend came in the other day and I told her that her boots were adorable. She just laughed because she confessed they were from the kids section (I highly doubt they were cute judging from the “cute” shoes she brought out).
Man: Yeah. You know what I do? I go to this one store and get their XL sized shirts in the juniors section. And it’s like half the price. I’m all over that.
Me: Yeah well, if the shoe fits . . .
Woman: I’m so sorry none of these fit. We can see if they can special order the Borns in your size.
Me: It’s worth a try. But I’m warning you, the welfare of my sanity is on the line here.
Man: Typing and scanning things into the computer. Nope sorry. He offers me a fake frown of pity.
Me: Well, that’s the final nail in my coffin. Please excuse me while I go over and die in the children’s section (You really were not helpful at all. And now my scab is bleeding profusely).

Oh dear reader. I hate to say that I've had many a conversation just like this one. And I also hate to admit that I did peruse the children's selection at multiple stores. Let's just say that after each store we went to, I got closer and closer to literally throwing up in my mouth and spitting it in their over-sized shoes. But luckily rainbows are real, and so are the pots of gold at the end. Eastland Shoes (since 1955), I'm giving you a shout out because I found a leather sandal that looks and feels like handsome trolls made it specially to adorn my soles. I heart you. The Husband says they look like something Cleopatra would have worn. That's good I guess.

ROAR and Have You Ever?

As I was pacing the floor, trying to help Bubba drift off into lala land for the night, I had an epiphany. And for some reason it just made me giddy, maybe because today I’ve been a walking/talking zombie, or maybe because it’s actually super awesome. I realized that the acronym for my blog is R.O.A.R. How primal is that! Ah, the pleasantries of life.

Anyway, here on ROAR I’ve decided to start a new series entitled Have You Ever? wherein I will relay a situation or occurrence to see if it’s ever happened to you, to see if some other soul out there has been there, and done that. The story may or may not be based upon my own personal experience (who am I kidding, of course it will). So today I pose the question:

Have you ever come home after shopping, dropped your treasure filled bags on the floor, and hightailed it to the freezer for some ice cream? Then the next morning, with a renewed energy, you begin to unbag everything and put the goods in their proper place. In the process you find that something is missing, a certain something that cost enough money to make your stomach turn. Why does this seem to always happen to me, you ask, looking up towards the heavens. Why do I always seem to get the inept baggers of the world?

You postpone telling the Husband because this will surely cause him to pass a kidney stone right on the spot. So you look again, and again, rummaging through each bag, retracing your steps, sniffing for a trail, checking the most insane places like the toilet, the refrigerator, the mailbox. All to no avail.

You are going to have to go back to the store and CONFRONT someone. Such a nasty word. And you are going to have to tell the Husband. His reaction is as expected, only with the added bonus of Why does this always happen to us. Your thoughts exactly.

So you march into the store, head held high, confident that a solution can be reached. You tell the nice customer service lady your tale of woe, and she goes through all the necessary protocol. Everything is coming up empty though. You assure her that you looked through each bag thoroughly. Unfortunately for you, this employee holds no authority whatsoever, so your charms are wasted since the all-powerful voice on the other end of the walkie-talkie isn’t actually there to bask in your effervescence. The final verdict issued via walkie-talkie is that security tapes will have to be viewed, but that can’t be done until Monday. You will have to call this number, and speak with so-and-so, and then they will hunker down in this dark room watching video from the exact spot and time you made your purchase. You realize they may see more than your misplaced item, like your child picking his nose, and you ‘discreetly’ picking your wedge. You wonder if the scrutiny is even worth it.

You drive home dejected and hightail it to the freezer again. Out of pure craziness you look through the bags one more time, just to reassure yourself. Bag one, nothing. Bag two, nothing. Then out of no where something falls from the sky and lands in your lap. Okay. Maybe it just fell out of bag three, but either way, your missing purchase is no longer missing . . . and you feel sheepish. And all you can think is Good thing I didn’t grab that lady by her collar, drag her over the counter, and make her sniff carpet like you envisioned yourself doing.

 
 
Well, dear readers, have you ever?

Friday Confessions: Psycho Killer, Qu'est que c'est

This week’s confession is a doozy. Try not to judge me too harshly, but I must confess that I am a destroyer, a killer of all things lovely, green, and potted. Plants, flowers, cacti, annuals, perennials . . . these things do not last long in my care. And it’s not like I try to snuff them out on purpose because I have a deep seeded hatred of things with roots. No. Actually I try very hard to keep them alive. Water, sun, plant food. Maybe therein lies the problem. I suffocate them until they wither into non-existence.

This is hard for me to admit because it makes me feel like a huge cosmic failure. Somehow I equate this with my ability to raise children. I should be able to help plants flourish in my home, as a mother. Instead my house looks like a greenhouse crime scene. And I must truly be sick because I let the dead things linger in their brown and dried out state . . . then I take pictures of them to post on my blog.

I killed this one in my sleep. When I woke up in the morning the leaves had mysteriously fallen off.

I know I treated this one poorly by placing him in a dark bathroom. He was fine with it for about six months, then this happened. His twin, however, is thriving. It’s the only plant alive in my house right now, and I totally neglect him. Go figure. Statistically he doesn’t have long though. (Why have I given this bamboo plant a masculine identity? I don’t know.)

These beauties died about six years ago and I actually chose to put them in a vase and showcase their lifelessness. I can’t just throw away the flowers the Husband gave me when he officially proposed. I know. I know. All fresh flowers die out. Doesn’t change the fact that they died while in my possession.

See. Sick and twisted. This doesn’t even include half the plants that have died on my watch in the last six years. I guess the Husband isn’t blameless in this either. He lives in this cursed plant zone too. It’s really a sad state of affairs. The Husband has refused to buy any more plants. But I love plants. What to do. What to do. I could go all old lady and buy fake greenery. But that seems like cheating because I’m not an old lady. I need something though. I’ve got an intense desire to water something!

Well, I’m feeling so much better now that I have gotten this off my chest. It still pains me every time I see a plant flourishing in someone else’s house though. Why are they better nurturers than me? Why can’t I kick this unwanted habit of foliage devastation? Why can’t I be one of the lucky ones? One of the lucky ones whose thumb is a lovely vibrant green. I would kill a million plants to have a thumb like that.

Note: For some reason we decided to try and grow our own tomato and pepper plants from seed this year. Take a wild guess at how well that is going. I'd rather just show you a picture of the seed packets if you don't mind.

Shameful or shameless

I had to laugh out loud, or LOL as kids are calling it these days, when I saw ads for keyless car entry on my sidebar. It’s like someone is trying to tell me to stop calling them car alarm button thingies. Someone’s also trying to tell me I should get one of those thingies to avoid having another incident like the one before. Yeah I really should do that.

In another totally unrelated topic, I need your help dear readers. I made a deal with myself (no the Husband does not know about this yet), and I really want to reap my reward. I said to myself, “Redhead, if you can git twenty-five followers on that there blog of yours, you can go git yo’self somethin' purdy to wear.” Yes, I speak to myself in a thick Southern accent that’s similar to some of my kinfolk. But basically I'm like a little child, and I have to reward myself  in exchange to stay motivated. The reward system is fabulous, and I would highly recommend it to anyone and everyone. But back to you reader, I beseech thee, if you like me or if you like my blog, or maybe even both, go on and click that follow button and become a follower. Thanks to those of you who already have. I don’t even know some of you. How fabulous is that?! Sure makes a gal feel special. Currently I'm at twelve which is a nice respectable number . . . but it's not the magic number. I would rather not have to cheat on my deal, and I’ve got my eyes on a fabulous dress that only you can help me get. In return, I will save you one of these.

And let me tell you how special that is. I usually threaten cutting off fingers to anyone who touches my box of these babies. So, yeah, that’s pretty special. Have a great weekend!