ellen has an opinion . . .

that time i remembered how to read

2012-01-26T00:01:00.000-06:00

From the time I submitted my final paper for Foundations of Library and Information Science until the spring semester officially began on Tuesday of last week, I had just over five weeks to live life on my own terms without assignments or quizzes or articles or textbook chapters or discussion boards. A significant amount of that time was eaten up by holiday preparations and the holidays themselves, which were, despite a case of strep throat and just over a day lost to a stomach virus, uniformly lovely. But just as noteworthy in blogging terms as Christmas baking and parties and presents was that during my break from school, I rejoined the ranks of readers, consuming six books. Let me tell you about them, please.

Hunger Games, Catching Fire, and Mockingjay by Suzanne Collins

The circumstances: Since I started my expanded teen gig back in the fall, I've been feeling not so cool about the fact that I don't read much young adult fiction these days. Additionally, every time I think that, I want to punch someone over the name young adult fiction. So when I got tired of being the only person in the world who hadn't read this trilogy and when my long-time stooge (non-internet friends will know her as Sam the page) offered them to me in audiobook format so I could listen to them on the way home for Christmas, I knew my time had come. I actually got a head start on them by listening to the first one as I did some holiday baking and then consuming the second in day I spent languishing in my bed of sickness. And because I couldn't wait any longer, I polished off the third a few days later several day before I began my trip home.

The verdict: A few disks into Hunger Games (because I didn't actually read them with my eyes, I have no concept of the number of pages or chapters), I thought to myself that I could totally understand the mass appeal of this book--but it also seemed a little formulaic to me. And then a disk or so later, I acknowledged that I too had been sucked in, formulaic or not. I really enjoyed the first one, and I was eager to see the story develop in the second . . . but that's when the hopelessness and futility started to make me itch. I would still say that I liked Catching Fire, but things were starting to fall apart for me, and by the time I started Mockingjay, I was worn out by the misery. Much like my final verdict on watching Lost, I can only handle characters I've grown to care about being miserable for so long before self-preservation kicks in, and I have to remove myself emotionally from the story. That happened here. And in case you are wondering whether I was rooting for Peeta or Gale (and yes, I just had to look up how to spell their names on the internet), I was rooting for everyone except Katniss. She was my least favorite. Maybe I was rooting for Haymitch most of all.

The Magicians by Lev Grossman

The circumstances: After the Hunger Games saga, I was in the market for something else to listen to on my drive to Kentucky, so I explored some options. What I really wanted was The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo as it was the January selection of my online Peeps book club, but there was a hold list at the library, so I went with the coworker recommended Magicians instead. I also got the book itself in case I got four hours into the story and wanted to keep going while I was at my moma's house and not in the car. I listened to it all the way home, but never felt the need to crack open the book while I was in Kentucky. I put another four hours into it on the way home, and I was still waiting for something to happen. When I got back to work, Jonathan had started listening to it as well, and though I was further ahead, we shared a similar feeling that something was lacking, but I forged ahead and finally finished it on a lazy Saturday.

The verdict: I hated the person who narrated the audiobook which I'm sure influenced my overall experience, but I just didn't enjoy it. At all. I tried to--I kept expecting for it to click with me as so many people had extolled the greatness of the book, but I never got it. I don't recommend anyone ever reading this book (least of all you, my dear imaginary readers), but if you think you might someday read it, go ahead and skip down to the next paragraph to avoid some spoilers. The book is about this teenager who gets accepted to a magical college (leading someone to mistakenly tell me that the book was like a grown-up Harry Potter, which is the most insulting thing anyone's ever said about Harry). The kid is completely unlikable (even worse than Katniss Everdeen) and profoundly unhappy to boot. But when he discovers this magical world waiting for him, he's sure that he's figured out why he's been unhappy. And then he's unhappy being magical. And then he's unhappy some more. And then later, he's unhappy. Also he's obsessed with this series of books he read as a child where a family of English children are sent to a manor in the country side and discover a portal to another world where animals talk and there's a wicked queen to defeat and they become royalty. The land is governed by wise,moral and very stately rams who might as well be named Aslan, because my goodness, it's such a blatant rip-off of the Chronicles of Narnia that I wanted to scream. And then it ends badly and the most likable character dies and it just gets worse from there. The dumb kid (who's in his mid-twenties by the time the book actually ends) never stops whining and wallowing in his own unhappiness, and there's actually a sequel (and a third book coming soon) and a movie to be made of the mess, but I've washed my hands of it all. Don't ever read this book.

The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo by Steig Larsson

The circumstances: By the time that I got home from my holiday trip, this audiobook had come in for me--plus I bought the paperback as a little present to myself, so I was ready to give it a whirl so I could attend book club for the first time since we started it back up--and so I could go see Daniel Craig as I have a strict policy about not seeing movies if I haven't read the books. I listened to about a third of it, but the names were confusing without being able to see them, so I switched to the print version. I started it on a Saturday evening and finished it before bedtime on Sunday with plenty of time to spare before book club on Monday.

The verdict: It's a slow start, and the Swedish names can be a bit confusing, but once I got into it, I was hooked. The mystery bit was intriguing, and I found the main characters really interesting, and although it ended up being fairly graphic and brutal in places, I thought it was well worth the read. I still haven't seen Daniel Craig, but I'll get to that eventually. My enjoyment of this one made me place holds on the remaining two books in the series, but so far I haven't made a start on them yet. Maybe during spring break . . .

Julie & Julia by Julie Powell

The circumstances: I saw Peep Martha the morning of book club, and she warned me that I might get the chance to choose the next book since I was showing up at chat and hadn't had a turn picking yet, so I did some research that day so I would feel prepared. I was looking for something that would be a light change of pace form the intensity of Dragon Tattoo, and everything I knew of this book fit the bill, so I picked it. So with only one more week between me and the start of the new semester, I decided to go ahead and try to make a dent in it, so that I'd be prepared for our February book chat even if my classes did try to kill me. Luckily, in that week, I had another trip to Kentucky, but this time I would be a passenger--and be traveling twice as far to get to Pinkie's birthday party, so there were plenty of reading opportunities along the way.

The verdict: I laughed out loud at the book enough in the car that my moma wants to read it. I'll have to warn her about Julie Powell's potty-mouth, but even with her propensity of dropping the f-bomb enough to make me blush, I really enjoyed it. It was often insane and sometimes unintentionally sad, but it was still a delight. And now I get to watch the movie--which I always thought looked cute but was unavailable to me because I hadn't read the book.

Since the start of my semester, I've also read a few gems such as the back cover of Bossypants by Tina Fey, which had me in fits of hysterical laughter, and two chapters in The Neal-Schuman Library Technology Companion, which is a real page-turner, let me assure you. Next up is a couple chapters of Information Representation and Retrieval in the Digital Age. I'm pumped about that as you might imagine. It was a joy to be back in the land of the pleasure reader for a while, and I'm determined to not let so much time pass before I sneak back for another visit. In the meantime, for those of my faithful followers who are not hip-deep in library textbooks, what are you reading?

approximate rhyme is disgusting and other disproportionately strong reactions

2012-01-06T17:42:00.000-06:00

I was thinking today about the crushing guilt I feel over my lack of blogging, and then I considered all the things that are wrong in the world that I'm not fixing and even the things that are wrong in my own life that I overlook with very little consequence, and I decided it was stupid to feel guilty over something so trivial as blogging. My blogging doesn't save the world, and it's foolishness and wasted time to expend energy or prolonged thought or worry on my lack of posts in the last quarter of 2011. No one cares, and even if a few imaginary readers have given passing thought to what has become of my work dramas or burger hunts or haikus or even the long-lost open letters, their worlds kept spinning without those crucial updates from me--and will continue to do so even if I never post again.

So I'm no longer allowed to shoulder the burden of entertaining you all. I'll write or I won't, but I refuse to allow what is a small concern to a very limited number of people be blown out of all proportion because of my own sense of self-importance and secret need for martyrdom.

And with that giant imaginary weight lifted from my shoulders, I can give attention to other ridiculous reactions that I have to things.

Approximate rhyme is disgusting.
Combining chocolate and peanut butter is an evil plot to ruin my life.
Someone touching my ears will literally kill me.
Grown people who use chat or text language on facebook are dead to me.

No, really, I feel this strongly about all these things. Why? Because reacting strongly is so fashionable right now. Have you noticed this? No one can just have an ordinary like or dislike or preference or mild annoyance. Everyone reacts in superlatives, and I'm just as bad as anyone, but sometimes at least I catch myself at it and attempt to dial back the manufactured drama of every little thing being the absolute worst or best. Because honestly? One two things in the world can be the absolute worst and best, and assigning disproportionate reactions to marginally important things diminishes the value of everything. Plus it's the most annoying thing in the world--so stop doing it.

arm-twisting and birthday wishing

2011-12-03T08:31:00.001-06:00

A certain cousin, scholar, theologian, and #1 blog fan who turns a year older today has been nagging me to write about his birthday for a year. And besides the fact that I don't love doing the expected, it takes away the specialness of writing about him out of the overflow of love and friendship I have for him if he's asking for it. But I think we can all safely acknowledge that this little blog o'mine will have breathed its last by this time next year--it's been sputtering out its dying gasps for months now--so if I don't write about CST1BF today, it won't happen . . . and imagine the sort of tragedy that would occur if I never acknowledged my five favorite things about my #1 fan . . .

So today, under duress, I present the birthday blog of CST1BF. As I've been preparing it's come to my notice that many of the things I like most about Mac are traits that I also possess, so it may turn out in the process that I talk about myself more often than normal--but you're long since accustomed to me talking about myself too much--and that's something Mac would do too if he were writing this, so it seems too fitting to edit out.

So in some sort of order, here are the five best things about CST1BF:

5. He loves lists and favorites. A conversation with Mac often includes discussions about best books or movies or characters or super heroes or foods, and I love (usually) to evaluate what I like and why and attempt to rank them. It's one of the reason I do five favorites on birthdays, and probably the reason that Mac is so anxious for me to quantify my regard for him through this list. It's something we have in common that can spark lengthy conversations and healthy debate, and it's also a great way to get to know someone or learn more about them. For all that Mac claims that he'd rather talk than listen, these top five list conversations that he orchestrates end up being a brilliant way to get other people to engage in conversation, and I'd say at least part of the time, he's paying attention and learning about other people--and not just waiting for his next turn to talk.

4. The other day Shane lost a set of keys in the watch pocket of his jeans--lost them so completely that he retraced his steps to two previous locations to search for them before I made him empty his pockets completely to find the missing keys. When that happened, I called it a MacMac, who as I've mentioned tends to be a bit scattered, a trait she passed down to her son and to a certain blogging niece. Mac is disorganized, a bit careless, sometimes clumsy, and often seems physically like this barely controlled whirlwind, and most people reading the past few sentences are wondering where the nice favorite thing part is . . . but that's it. I love that he's kind of a mess because I'm a mess too. The fact that he still manages to function in most ways like a normal human despite these tendencies that we share gives me hope and makes me feel more normal when I'm wondering why simple tasks become so complicated in my hands. Misery loves company, so I'm glad I've got Mac to understand and sympathize when I'm at my MacMac-iest, and I hope that I can do the same for him.

3. In the past year, I've many more occasions than normal to hear Mac teach, so I've been reminded often how good he is at what he does. I'm ashamed to say that it's still sometimes surprising that my younger, former punk-kid cousin has serious theological chops, but he's great, often intellectually stimulating, challenging and still accessible. For someone like me who's been churched all her life--including four years of college-level Bible classes, it can sometimes seem like I'm hearing the same sermons and ideas over and over--and even when Mac's presenting something that I've heard before, his style has a way of engaging me anyway. That's a big deal to me, and I love him for it. And it makes me prouder than just about anything else he does.

2. Mac is hilarious (did you really expect me not to mention humor?), and not just because we are a lot alike. We do have similar senses of humor, but he is definitely more into shock value and skating the edge (or barreling over it) of inappropriate humor, and thanks to the previously mentioned clumsiness, he's a boundless source of physical comedy as well. He makes me laugh, and there's nothing wrong with that.

1. When I write these things it eventually always comes around to love . . . and my Mac tribute is no exception. Mac has a big, soft heart, and he shows it in how he treats his family and his friends and his students. He loves and values and cherishes. He spends time and gives great hugs and doesn't forget to say the words to express that love. And for all that and more, I love him right back.

Happy birthday, buddy. I hope I did you justice.

harry potter haiku #8

2011-10-19T09:00:00.000-05:00

Just when you thought your dreams of a haiku-less existence were finally coming true:

Some dragon smuggling

(Hagrid's a bad influence)

leads to detentions

I solemnly swear that this is the last Hagrid-bashing I'll do for a while.

Forbidden forest

something's killing unicorns

centaur saves Harry

Stay tuned because sometime in the next year I'll finish the first book and move on to Chamber.

gcabh round 2: arkansas burger company

2011-10-17T19:35:00.000-05:00

When last we met the intrepid burger explorers, they were replete with their first burger hunt success at Frostop. On the heels of that delicious and entertaining experience, the next locale on our burger adventure was going to have to bring it. On the recommendations of many, many people we know, our adventurers braved the wilds of midtown to face the Arkansas Burger Company. Could it live up to the hype?

The experience: Once again the three natives in the hunt were late, and our bearded scout (CST#1BF) had to face the unknown alone, drinking tea and making what I can only assume was a very intimate connection with our waitress. All I know is that by the latecomers arrived, she was throwing around the terms of endearment like there was no tomorrow--and no wedding ring on his hand. Apparently she loved him so much that she her endearments could not be contained, and the rest of us got the "sweetie, baby, honey, sugar-puddin', love muffin, angel face" treatment too.

We ordered our burgers and criticized Shane while we waited for them to arrive. Actually CST1BF was the only one criticizing him. I was probably criticizing Jess because that's what I do for fun. And then the moment of truth. The burgers arrived. I made the ravenous beasts pose for pictures before they fell upon their food with abandon.

Hey, is that a pickle spear? Score.

Modeling food and sleepy faces.

Jess went with the onion rings.

We'd had our food for less than a minute by this point.

The scattered remains of our carnage.

The results:

From CST#1BF: The more I think about it, the more that I think the hamburger at ABC was better than the Frostop burger. The meat had some kind of spice in it that was fantastic. I didn't really notice it until I got to the end of my burger and was mostly eating bun and meat without toppings to overpower the flavor, but Jess was right when she said, "This meat is good." The fries were also very good, though I was completely underwhelmed by Jess's onion rings. I liked the variety of burgers available, but Frostop still had more options, but ABC had a pickle spear.

The atmosphere and experience at frostop was better, but ABC was great too. I'm glad that they're on different sides of LR so that I can have an excuse to eat both in the future.

9/10 A great burger.

From Jess: (Oh, that's right. We lost Jess at ABC--it was her final stop on Burger Tour 2011. She will have no say. We'll miss you, burger-eating friend. Sorry you weren't up for the challenge.)

From Shane: lots of chewing--but no commitments on burger ranking yet.

Ellen's opinion: I think the fries were on par with Frostop, but the ABC burger was definitely better. I had a bacon cheeseburger in both places, and while both were delightful, the ABC meat was superior, and I had cheddar cheese which is a personal favorite. I'll give it a 9/10.

Clearly, I'm very behind on my burger-blogging. We've been to two more places since ABC. Eventually, you'll hear about them, imaginary readers. In the meantime, approach Arkansas Burger Company with caution. The food is definitely worth it, but the deliciousness is apparently capable of swallowing up your dining companions. I miss Jess.

i am overcome by my harry potter obsession at inexplicable times

2011-10-14T17:34:00.001-05:00

Last night I was minding my own business on Pinterest. Okay, that's a lie. The whole point of Pinterest is that you're minding everyone else's business--but mostly people want their Pinterest business minded, so it's not a bad thing to do. And someone pinned some piece of HP information that drew me to an their entire board of Potter deliciousness. And then I lost an hour of my life.

Then I got to thinking about Wordle and how I've never made a beautiful wordle thing, and how my office would never be complete until I had a Harry Potter themed Wordle gracing its walls. So I worked on it and worked on it and worked some more (and lost hours more of my life), and I think if I can get it to print the way that I want, I'll have something spectacular to show for it eventually. Here's what it's going to look like maybe unless I change it again.

(I hope that doesn't publish as tiny as it looks in this composing screen. Sorry if it is.)

gcabh round 1: frostop

2011-09-21T00:03:00.000-05:00

The experience:
I was running late. I nearly always am these days, but I thought I'd still be able to beat CST1BF to the restaurant. Our destination was quite near home, so my plan was to swing by the house, change clothes, and pick up Jess. Work had other plans. Mac was at the place before I ever left work, so I called and made Jess meet me there.

When I finally arrived, it seemed like CST1BF might have been waiting longer than twenty minutes I thought had elapsed. He was like Norm from Cheers. Everyone in the place was involved in his conversation. It turns out that the owner of Frostop also owns the rug store next door, the very same rug store where Mac will tell you he didn't buy a rug four times. Apparently not buying a rug from this dude is a bonding experience.

We stood at the counter contemplating orders and were loud and chatty and obnoxious. Those people. But CST1BF had obviously talked us up because Jess and I (and later Shane) were greeted with the same warm, effusive manner that had embraced CST1BF. We have not established a lot of elaborate rules for our hunt, but it turns out, one must actually order a burger to participate, so I put off trying the gyro for another day. They serve a giant pounder called the Big Daddy, but I stuck with the single, adding bacon and cheese. Given a choice, I almost always choose bacon. CST1BF also added mushrooms, Jess had a regular cheeseburger, and Shane ordered the double. There was a tot option that I took over the fries because fries are unreliable but tots are always as expected. It turned out once the orders arrived that their fries were really excellent, so I'm sorry I didn't take a chance on them. I'll know for next time.

My three companions also went for the root beer, served in a frosty mug, naturally. As a staunch root beer hater, I abstained. They do have lovely crushed ice at this place, for the ice enthusiasts among my imaginary readers.

It seemed like our burgers arrived speedily and did not disappoint.

If that ridiculous face isn't a ringing endorsement, I don't know what is.

Here are the official comments from our panel of judges:
From CST1BF (who takes this hunt seriously):
"Pros:
1. Size - even the single was a sizable burger
2. Options - mushrooms, fried egg, and other unusual options were available along with more traditional toppings.
3. Wasn't too dry or dense and wasn't too greasy.
4. Sides - fries were good, and I liked the tots option

Cons:
1. I'm a mustard connoisseur, and I wish that I'd had the option of dijon or spicy brown mustard. There was a little too much mustard on my burger which got in the way of some of the other tastes.
2. No pickle spear. I think that a pickle spear is a great side item with a burger, and I was sad not to get one.

Overall score: 8.5/10 A very good burger

On the whole, I was very impressed. I liked the eccentric atmosphere (americana decor and home-made baklava in the same place). I liked the friendliness of the staff. Mr. Joe is a super nice fella even if his trinitarian theology leaves something to be desired."

From Shane:

"This is a tasty burger"--an initial response that sparked a string of Pulp Fiction quotes from the guy at the next table. (A word of caution about the linked clip: there's some shooting and dropping of the f-bomb if you watch the whole thing.)

When I tried to pin Shane down on a rating out of 10 (which is our agreed-upon standard), he couldn't commit. I suspect that three to four weeks after our hunt has ended, Shane will be prepared to rank all burgers in order, but I doubt I get a single number out of him until then.

From Jess:

8/10 with no additional comments. Her plate cleaning shall speak for itself.

The final word from your fearless blogger:

Great fries, great ice, lovely dining experience. I was the first to vocalize the excess mustard, but aside from that, the burger was a triumph. As I once famously said in reference to Chris Hemsworth, "there is nothing wrong with that." I'll give the burger itself an 8/10 also.

Stay tuned for our next riveting adventure in Burgerland, appearing sometime before next Wednesday.

the great central arkansas burger hunt

2011-09-15T12:43:00.000-05:00

CST#1BF doesn't get to hang out with me as much as he'd like, so this fall he's manufactured a handy excuse to drive to the Rock weekly to teach our Wednesday night class at PV just so he can see me. I know it sounds desperate, but my appeal is just that strong.

Since we're going to be hanging out every week, he's created a little adventure for us to undertake: to find the best burger in the greater Little Rock area. We've got at least five eateries on our list so far, and for all you Central Arkies out there, this is your chance to be part of something so much bigger than yourselves: you can post your suggestions for good burger spots in the comments here, and we may try to add your suggestions to our quest.

We actually sampled our first contestant last night, but I'm still tabulating the results, so I don't want to tell you about it yet. I guess you'll have to tune in later. I will post the official verdict no later than Tuesday night and also maybe announce the location of our second stop on the Burgertown Express.

things about which i'm not blogging (a list)

2011-09-13T00:03:00.000-05:00

stress-induced eyebrow twitching--it's like hiccups for your eye
graduate school--doing homework is just as unpleasant as I remembered, but I might be secretly good at this whole library school business
at least three interesting and blog-worthy recent craft projects
my internet-crush on Pinterest which led to the aforementioned recent craftiness
staving off illness through sheer force of will--because I certainly haven't been taking good enough care of myself to have had only the tiniest brush with that cold
Harry Potter haikus--the most recent addition to my "things I wish I hadn't quit" blogging list
work insanity (because if I let myself start, I'll never stop)
6 a.m. womens' bible study at PV--because I love Jesus enough to iron my clothes at night and wake up before dawn
getting to see my moma all the time (or every two weeks) and it still not being enough
manufactured drama that might have made you laugh

and a brief list of things about which I shall blog (or die trying):

a Holy Grail-style quest to find the best burger in Central Arkansas starring many of your favorite blog characters (and CST#1BF)

the rob-bob has a birthday

2011-08-29T17:33:00.001-05:00

I think I mentioned last year around this time, that it's a busy birthday time in my family. My sister-in-law's birthday (which thus far remains unblogged--maybe next year, Susan) was last weekend. Yesterday we shared in the glory of Shane's birthday, today we celebrate my cousin Robyn (although we actually had her parties on Saturday and Sunday, today's her actual birthday), and on Thursday my moma and MacMac turn another year older. Thursday would also have been my Gramps's eighty-sixth birthday. We do a lot of celebrating at this time of year. Shane and Robyn's birthdays especially get smashed up around here, but thanks to my commitment to quality journalism, I will not be smashing up my favorite things about them, giving them each their very own, high coveted post here at the opinions. You're welcome.

Robyn is almost a year and a half older than me, but for as long as I can remember, that age difference has been completely insignificant (at least until I began to get some enjoyment from reminding her of her comparatively advanced age). We're both in the younger half of the grandkids and one of the natural pairs that seem to have materialized among us due to similarities in age and temperament. As kids we were usually not mature enough to play with the big girls, not willing to get beat up on enough to play with the big boys, and older and bossy enough to bend the little boys to our bidding. In my memory, it was a fairly perfect arrangement for us. As we've all aged, the big girls have come to accept us, the big boys stopped hitting, and the little boys are huge--but still bossable from time to time, and Robyn and I are still a natural pair, now more due to thirty years' experience being cousin-friends.

(in her natural habitat)

So to celebrate what is perhaps my longest-standing friendship, here are my five favorite things about Rob-Bob:

5. She keeps getting better with age. Probably most people do, but there aren't all that many people who I've watched do so across the span of their lives. Robyn is one that I have. I loved her and was her friend when she was younger and more selfish and more competitive and more rigid, and if she hadn't changed in those areas for the past twenty years, it wouldn't matter to me, so the fact that she keeps getting better and better is just a bonus. But it's also an often-inspiring lesson as I see her give generously and selflessly of her time and attention, as I see her devote herself to taking care of those she loves, as I see her heart grow. Robyn's always had a lot of strong opinions and ideas and words, and as she's become her grown-up self, she is the person I think of first when I think about people who live up to their talk. It's the thing that makes me want to be Robyn when I grow up.

4. Robyn loves our babies. From the time that the oldest great-grandchild was born thirteen years ago, she's been devoted to cuddling and playing and cherishing the little people in our family. And now that many of them are not-so-little anymore, she's still focused on knowing and loving and caring for them. If you quizzed her on the likes and dislikes and basic facts of their lives, she would ace it because she listens and cares about what they're saying to her. She has such a heart for our kids and the other kiddos she encounters in her life, and it's why they all love Rob-Bob. (And it's why nearly every picture of her I have also has a kid or two in it.)

3. Robyn speaks my language. It has been noted by people who encounter the two of us together that we can a bit difficult to understand. Part of that is the speed with which we communicate, a portion is the fact that we use a fair amount of obscure quotations from movies, books, and our shared history, but there's also a dash of the fact that we don't necessarily have to finish sentences or thoughts. Our family has its own short-hand of stories and oft-repeated phrases, and I have the same with most of my friends. Robyn is in that lucky overlapping category that she has both, which means that anything I might say to her (or she to me) is soaked in deeper meaning and memory and usually a healthy amount of hilarity. It makes for rich communication that is completely effortless, and it's awesome.

2. She makes me laugh. Have I ever mentioned the value I place on humor, imaginary readers? It's kind of a big deal with me. And Robyn and I have been laughing at the same things for the past thirty years. She can remember everything that's ever been funny in our lives together and brings out those references at just the right moment. Her storytelling rhythm is designed to maximize my laughter (and since she has a story for everything, there are lots of laughing opportunities). Last year when I included her (and CST#1F) as my second favorite things about MacMac, she commented that I would have to not be so serious if I ever wrote about her. We do funny. It's our default setting, and though I can't think of any humorous references to make here to actually fulfill her wish, I hope I'm adequately communicating the fact that Robyn and laughter and me are so tied up together. She may not know everything (there was a muffin, after all), but she knows just how to make me fall apart laughing.

(On her wedding day--and no, she didn't get married in flannel.)

1. I'm actually a little nervous that she's going to be unhappy that I didn't end on the funny thing, but I've got one more absolute favorite that's going to take the top spot. The adjective fierce could probably be applied to a few aspects of Robyn's personality. She's intense in several ways, but when I try to think of a defining characteristic, it is her fierce loyalty that comes to mind. She cherishes her friends and family, enveloping them in protectiveness and support and love. She makes time for people and knows the value of intentionally spending time them. She will take your side against outsiders, maybe even when you're wrong. She loves with all her heart and manages to show it in all the nicest ways. She's the best kind of friend and way better than I deserve.

Happy Birthday, Robyn! So glad you're mine.

to my blogging brother

2011-08-28T01:46:00.001-05:00

Shane warned me months ago that I needed to get an early start on this post, as it would be a lengthy hunt to find five likable things about him. To prove him wrong, I'm typing this sentence at twenty minutes past midnight on his actual birthday. I would have started an hour ago, but I read his most recent blog post, giggled until I could stop, and then traveled backwards through his archives reading comments on recent posts that I had missed along the way. I'm sometimes a terrible listener, and there are few conversational pairings that I can tolerate long-term, but the Mac and Shane duo, as long as they're staying away from too much comic book talk, is one of my favorites. Reading their interactions at Today I was Pompous is generally something to be savored, hence the lost hour of my night.

So today is Shane's birthday. Despite what you may have heard or observed about my higher maturity level, he's older than me--by a significant five and a half years. He's also the last of the sibs to get the five favorite birthday treatment. This should in no way reflect on my opinion of or affection for him. Last year his birthday got swallowed up in library renovations. This year, I'm not letting my tiny problems stand in the way of his birthday tribute (the way that I've let them stand in the way of responsible journalism for the past two weeks).

And so I present my five favorite things about one of my favorite brothers:

5. Shane is perhaps the most disciplined person I know. He's got rules about everything, and although many are of the quirky and arbitrary variety, all combined they end up making him a better person: kinder, smarter, more well-rounded, and for me, charmingly (but not boringly) predictable. I love that there are reasons behind all the things he does, and that he follows a plan. His rules make him consistent, which is a balm to my own erratic temperament. And his self-discipline gives me hope that we share enough genes that I might one day get my act together as much as he has.

4. I don't remember this about little-boy Shane, but apparently he was incredibly stingy in that stealthy way at which he excels. I have no reason to doubt this, but I can also emphatically declare that he has outgrown that trait. His generosity is a fountain, a trait (among many others) that he shares with my moma. I think part of Shane's generosity springs from the same place as hers: fierce love, protectiveness, an overwhelming amount of patience. But Shane is also perhaps the most contented soul I know, and it seems to me that he's taught himself contentment. He gives of himself, his means, and his time in countless selfless ways, without any expectation of repayment or acknowledgment. Last year when he won the $100,000, he gave away at least half of it. It boggles the mind, but it shouldn't because he was just as generous before he became a hundred thousandaire.

3. Although I typically like to downplay this trait (lest he think he can compete with me comedically), Shane is funny. Perhaps I've mentioned sometime previously that humor is a highly valued characteristic in my estimation. Lucky for both of us, he makes me laugh. Our senses of humor are immensely compatible, to the degree that we probably annoy those around us with how hilarious we find each other--and ourselves. Lately, Shane's been killing it, humor-wise, in his blogging. Seriously, if you're not reading him, imaginary readers, you should be. The only time he's funnier is when he's dissolved helplessly into giggles. It's a hoot.

2. Lest anyone think I have an unrealistic view of his many positive attributes, let me tell you about my favorite annoying thing about Shane. He's crazy-ridiculously stubborn. I don't want to keep using superlatives, but he's seriously the bull-headed champion in a family of unyielding individuals. I like his stubbornness for a couple of reasons. I think it helps manifest a few of those good traits I've already mentioned, like his discipline and generosity, and I think a certain amount of steadfastness is admirable. But his stubbornness can also be super-annoying and inconvenient and counter-productive, especially when it butts up against my own inflexible tendencies--and I still like it because it helps to remind me just how far from perfect Shane is.

1. Ultimately, Shane is an even-tempered version of me. We're just enough alike that we laugh at the same things, enjoy a lot of the same entertainments, and want to talk about the same topics, but we're not so alike that there's no surprise or debate or disagreement. It's a complimentary sort of relationship, the thing that makes us friends and not just siblings. Part of it is all that shared history and probably some shared genetic tendencies, and part of it is simple geography. We live in the same town, go to the same church, and see each other at least three times a week. Shane is my closest and best connection with family. He's my home when I'm not at home. He is my safety net, and I would have driven myself crazy and fallen apart and run back to Kentucky to live upstairs at my moma's a hundred times over in the past seven years if he wasn't here being my rock.

Shane's good people, and he deserves to have the very best birthday ever. And to help him celebrate, I'm going to force his indecisive soul into making a decision about where to eat supper. It's my favorite form of birthday torture. You're welcome, bro.

39 days

2011-08-08T22:10:00.000-05:00

Forty days is a biblically significant amount of time. Thirty-nine days is nothing special. At the time of this typing, I am somewhere between thirty-nine and forty days away from the opening of the Main Library's Teen Center. Today I feel so overwhelmed by it, it might as well be a flood or a fast or some other horrendous-sounding f word. (No, not that f word, people.)

When I get busy at work, I like to make lists. It wastes time I could be spending getting actual work accomplished, but then when I do get around to the work, I get to mark things off. There is nothing satisfying in this life like marking things off a list. It's triple satisfying in Sharpie. When I make my Teen-Center-opening lists, they are deceptively simple. The word interviews, for instance. Just ten little letters comprising one brief list-item that represents at least fourteen separate meetings with fourteen qualified individuals. When my list says "pack up desk," it can't completely convey the labor-intensive misery of going through all the accumulated junk that is drawn by some unforeseen yet powerful force to my little north-facing cube, but I am determined to rid myself of the unnecessary when I make the move.

I can't even bring myself to put "say goodbye to the Michael Jackson mime" on my list because I'm not sure I've got the strength to face it. As much as I'm looking forward to a certain office upstairs, I know there's nothing out that south-facing window that can compare to the glory of my splash of river-view, the bustle of the River Market, and good ol' Michael Jackson mime. I think I'll miss you most of all, Scarecrow.

There have been some truly awesome moments in my list-making. Like the email I got just after I crossed off "select gaming equipment needed" telling me that my budget was nearly double what I'd spent so far. I must admit we're going to have a ridiculously nice gaming set-up.

And even when the list additions have been tedious and exhausting and downright daunting, I'd be lying if I didn't admit that the fact that they're all so much mine is heady stuff. My decisions, my preferences, my opinions that carry weight, my mistakes to make. I can't take all the credit, and you should all regularly remind my gigantic ego to dial it back, but the being-in-charge-ness is pretty dang exciting. Exciting and overwhelming and filling-up my life enough that I finally had to break down and really blog about work, something I declared long ago would be a sign of the end times.

Oh, well. It's been nice knowing you. Hoping for rainbows at the end of my forty days.

it was the best of times. it was the worst of times.

2011-07-29T17:48:00.000-05:00

First, I have to admit that I have a degree in English, and I've never read A Tale of Two Cities. It's shameful, I know, but it's the truth.

Second, I got on a hot little blogging streak (for me anyway) there for a little bit, and I know all you precious fans of the blog were giddy with anticipation at my opinionated renaissance, and then I went and abandoned you again. Sorry. Life (and death unfortunately) intervened as it is wont to do.

Third, I have to say that I have the best real-life friends and family in the world who have covered me up with love and kind thoughts and prayers in the passing of my sweet Grams last week. Many of those friends are readers here, so thanks again for all that you have done and are doing for me.

Fourth, in the midst of a grief-filled week or so, I got some really good news on other fronts including a bit of a promotion and pay increase at work and acceptance into graduate school. I'm not exactly excited about library school itself, but I'm excited about what it represents, namely getting a piece of paper that will mean that I'm worth more money and qualified to boss more people and do less work. The promotion-y thing has so far been really interesting and time-consuming, and it's sort of just the thing I needed to get me out of my work rut.

Fifth, although the occasion for our gathering was solemn, I had the most spectacular time with my family over the past week or so. We talked and laughed and ate and remembered and cried and hugged and didn't take each other for granted. One of the best moments was when the eight grandkids--four cousins, three siblings, and me--gathered at Grams's house to pick out a memento or two to take home and treasure. It could have been morbid or mean, full of selfishness or jealousy, but it was perfect. We relived little pieces of our childhoods together and cared about each other's feelings more than our own and came away with just the perfect things to remind us.

Sixth, my moma has had a hard time lately, and you know that doesn't sit well with me. She was diagnosed on Wednesday with a hiatal hernia, which is actually kind of good news as she finally has a medical explanation for how badly she's been feeling. Thursday morning she was going work for the first time in over a week, and she fell coming off our back steps. She has distal fibula fractures in both legs. One's quite a bit worse than the other, and she's banged and bruised and beat up besides. Bless her poor old heart. I'm going to have to head back to my old Kentucky home tonight to see about her. For those keeping score, yes--I have been back in Arkansas for less than 48 hours.

I wanted to end on a happier one, but I ran out of thoughts. Shocking, I know. Still, it's nice to be back to a blogging normal, even if I'm not up to my usual standard of excellence. Thanks for coming, imaginary readers. I miss you when we're apart.

words, words, words

2011-07-18T23:45:00.000-05:00

I've been surprised in my life to discover that not everyone thinks about words in the same ways that I do. Whenever I mention liking or not liking the sounds of certain words, I'm often met with blank stares or occasionally surprise that I have opinions about words. But it seems obvious to me that all words are not created equal. There are tons of words I enjoy for their meaning or connotation, words that I admire because they do their jobs as words. That's not what I'm talking about. Usually when I say I love or hate a word, it's based solely on how that word sounds when spoken aloud (or occasionally how it looks written). These are the thoughts I have.

A brief list of words I don't love:

moist (say it out loud . . . you're disgusted too, right?)
yummy (anyone over the age of two who uses this word should be severely punished)
hubby (it's not even a word but try telling my facebook friends that)
pulsate (useful on a blender but no fun to hear or say)
guitar (I'll admit that when I was a kid, I had a very hard time pronouncing guitar, and I guess I'm still holding a grudge against it--and sometimes I have to concentrate very much to say it correctly even now.)

Some words I love to hear:

staunchly
acclimate
rotund
brusque
paranoia

Neither of these lists are meant to be exhaustive. Just a taste. What about you imaginary readers? Do you have opinions about words?

harry potter haiku #7

2011-07-17T14:00:00.002-05:00

Faithful readers will recall that I enthusiastically started a series of haiku honoring Harry Potter which I abandoned with a decided lack of enthusiasm when life got to be so life-ish. I left off when I was still using Sorcerer's Stone as my inspiration, so that's where we are again.

Loose lips sink ships and

Hagrid's always flapping his.

Dude can't keep secrets.

After one tongue-slip,

the gang searches for Flamel

Library fails them.

Let me interrupt the poetry to mention that although Hermione's all a magical genius and stuff, she clearly lacks good research skills. And I don't just mean the Flamel debacle in book 1. As my blogging brother pointed out a while back: How in the world could she not have found out about either gillyweed or the bubblehead charm as underwater breathing options in Goblet? Are we to believe that the book the fake Moody gave Neville was the only book that mentions gillyweed? And in Order the bubblehead charm is so well-known and easy to perform that students use it to avoid dungbombs in the corridors, so are we really to expect that it's not in any of the spell books that she reads trying to help Harry? I love Hermione, but maybe they should have been nicer to Madame Pince. I guarantee she could have steered them in the right direction. Librarians are good people.

Hagrid blabs again

selling out Dumbledore for

an illegal egg.

A baby dragon

that's born in a wooden house

nothing but trouble

Four in a row! You're on the edge of your seat now, aren't you? But I'll save the rest for another time.

*****Plagiarizing blogger's note: I've updated the Hermione as a researcher rant to give proper credit to Shane for his inspiration. I couldn't handle the pressure of you people thinking that I was smart enough to have figured that out.*****

last chance to make me a millionaire

2011-07-16T13:37:00.001-05:00

Last month I got a notice from amazon that they were breaking up with me. Seems the Wal-Mart State has made a new online tax law, and amazon is dumping all of its Arkie associates as a result. I'm disappointed, but the world won't end. I'm not going to starve or anything from the loss of that income. I've made a couple hundred dollars from them (well, really from the imaginary readers who followed links from this site and bought stuff from amazon) in the past year, and I'd be lying if that wasn't nice (especially the $130 I got all at once for the December referrals). Gosh, isn't it tacky to talk about money? Sorry.

I really am thankful to those of you who've indulged my little money-making scheme for the past year or so. You're nice people, and as a result, I know you'll want to do me one last favor:

My last day as an amazon associate is next Saturday the 23rd, so if you're planning a major purchase in the near future, why not get it done this week, so I can rake in one last fat check?

And if you're not planning on a major purchase in the near future, maybe you'll want to buy me something as a consolation gesture for my impending lack of completely unearned and undeserved income. Might I suggest:

or even

Even if you're not generous enough to reward me for doing nothing, you can follow those links to get to amazon and get your own junk, and I'll settle for my measly 4-15%.

confessions of a pioneer woman fan

2011-07-14T22:51:00.001-05:00

If you don't care about the Pioneer Woman Ree Drummond, famous blogger and fortunate recipient of an open letter from me, I can assure you, you're not going to care about this post. Sorry.

One day last week someone at work mentioned with no small amount of horror the existence of Pioneer Woman-bashing websites. I was instantly curious. What particularly did people think sucked about her? Though I count myself as a fan especially of her earlier posts where she did more writing and storytelling and fewer of her trademark bits, I could definitely see that she could be a person who inspired annoyance and criticism. A little googling (wouldn't you think that the spell-checker in Google Chrome would recognize googling as a word?) led me to The Pioneer Woman Sux which led me to some other sites (Rechelle Unplugged, Pie Near Woman, Marlboro Woman), and I became fascinated with the anti-Ree movement that I discovered.

I don't want to over-generalize the views of these folks, but by and large, they are people who have a problem with the false image she's projecting. She's made her following by "keepin' it real," but according to her detractors, she's not. Her ordinary family ranch is one of the largest in Oklahoma, and they were millionaires long before her books became national best-sellers, which doesn't necessarily jibe with the down-home, regular girl persona (although anyone looking at her cooking posts can tell from her cookware and dishes that her disposable income isn't exactly in the "regular" range). Another fact that lends to the perceived lack of authenticity is the cleaning up of her site--posts that have disappeared, wording that has been prettied up from the original posts as she's grown in popularity, negative comments from readers that disappear or never get published at all. There are many who also have quite a bit to say about her writing style, the nutritional value (or lack therof) of her recipes, and all those basset hound photos, but I think these smaller quibbles wouldn't have created the heated backlash that has spawned these sites if not for the more duplicitous feel of the image she's projecting versus the facts of her life.

My research may have started from simple curiosity, but the more I read the more sense all these folks made, and I must admit that I'm much less comfortable now about Ree as my homegirl. In truth, I feel foolish for having bought into her story. And perhaps that foolish feeling is well-deserved. Of course, people don't achieve overwhelming success as she has without seeking out some of that recognition. Of course, there's a marketing/branding agenda. I guess I never noticed because I didn't care . . . and I kind of still don't. I can still like most of the things I've liked about her even if she's fake--probably.

With the intense following that PW has, the sites I've mentioned naturally get at least some criticism from Ree's loyal fans. A few comments I read wondered why if people were so unhappy with her, they continued to read her site or give it attention, and admittedly, I initially wondered this myself. No one's forcing them to read her posts or acknowledge her in any way, so why go there and read the stuff and get worked up enough to create entire sites pointing out her flaws?

But the truth is I completely understand why because I am often that person. I do that. There are times and people and situations in my life where I'm so incensed/offended/horrified by some falseness or deceit or pretension or brazen rule-breaking that I've been unable ignore it or forgive it or move past it. Even when it doesn't directly affect me, these sorts of traits fly in the face of my sense of honesty and justice, and while I've never created websites to right any wrongs or vent my frustrations, it makes sense to me. And it makes me feel a certain kinship with PWSux and Rechelle and the Marlboro Woman, even if their fight isn't my fight--even if I probably won't stop reading PW or making buttery recipes or entering some of her contests.

Because the truth is reading Rechelle's parody website is about to become my new obsession, and it's ever so much funnier if you know enough about PW to understand what's going on.

happy birthday to the popster

2011-07-13T14:31:00.000-05:00

The Popster turns another year older today. I don't think he's very sensitive about his age, so I'll go ahead and tell you that the particular age he's turning is old, old, very old. If I'm doing the math correctly, it's sixty-four, which is not such a bad age to be if you're a Beatles fan, but I'm not sure the Popster is (and yet I still find it in my heart to love him. So generous of me.)

Friends of the blog may have noticed that the birthdays of our young folk are events, causes for gatherings and cakes and pictures and presents and stuff. Sometimes that even happens for the not-so-young folks, but if there's a birthday in our family that gets neglected, it's the Popster's (and also Will's which is in two days, but he's just an in-law, so does it really even matter?). Part of the problem with the Popster is that he inconveniently has all his holidays in the summertime. Father's Day was just a few weeks ago (and I nearly always see him for Father's Day), and his anniversary (and my moma's obviously) was last Thursday, so we all spend the better parts of June and July trying to figure out multiple gifts for him, and it's a task. He's not the easiest man for which to shop (constructing sentences to avoid ending them in prepositions is so obnoxious). Plus it's hot in July which brings on lethargy. Plus we've just never made a habit of gathering for his birthday, and in my heart it's because he really doesn't care about making a big deal, but I'm rapidly becoming riddled with guilt as I type out our neglect of him. Sorry, Popster. I did at least give you your present already. That's love, right?

Before I mire myself in guilt any more (or make myself look any worse in your eyes with my bad daughtering), let me tell you my five favorite things about the Popster, so you can love him just as much as I do.

5. The Popster is a fixer. When he bought our new Kentucky home, it was old and neglected and the second floor was almost all open attic space, but my dad (with my moma's help) did all sorts of updating and building of upstairs rooms, and now it's a lovely home. He did all the work himself--except maybe the plumbing. He really doesn't like plumbing. He can also fix cars and give advice about washing machine hot-wiring over the phone. He's a careful and precise sort of guy in most ways, which makes him that much better at fixing things--or taking such good care of his stuff that it doesn't require fixing. I think he's probably where I got my own handiness. We are just two fixers fixing things, the Popster and I.

4. He doesn't show much emotion, does he? Okay, I have to explain that sentence with a story: a few years ago, the Popster was making some large purchase. I can't remember what it was now because that's not the funny part of the story. Maybe it was a boat or a lawn mower or a four-wheeler or something--the Popster likes vehicles. Anyway it was the sort of purchase that required the assistance of a salesman and some waiting around and talking. So the Popster had put in a significant amount of time with the little salesman but had not formed the sort of attachment that the salesman clearly would have liked. The Popster didn't want to trade secrets or braid hair or become facebook friends. He was keeping things professional. At some point during the sales transaction, the little salesman asked the Popster for his name for some sort of official form. My dad's last name is unusual and difficult to spell phonetically, so instead of saying his name, he showed him his checkbook cover which has his full name printed on it. The Popster's first name is David (though like three of his kids, he doesn't go by his first name), but though the little salesman got his name written down correctly, in further conversation he referred to my dad as Dale. The Popster chose not to correct him because it just didn't matter to him. Anyway, after using every trick in his little salesman arsenal, he still hadn't secured a long-term offer of friendship by the end of the sales transaction, so his parting words to the Popster were "You don't show much emotion, do you, Dale?" My dad answered with a simple "no" and departed forever robbing the little salesman of the joy of winning him over. We love this story in our family. At first glance, the Popster is the strong, silent type. In our family of emotionally overwrought, obnoxiously loud people, he's a man of few words, often solemn, and soft-spoken. Dale doesn't show much emotion, and sometimes that's just the sort of calming presence we need.

3. But the Popster is also witty and entertaining when he wants to be. It's entirely possible that he's funnier than me. He definitely has a higher funny comment to normal comment ratio. I think this is the secret to his comedic genius. My approach, by which I mean the nature of my psychosis, is to spew words nonstop. I throw every remotely amusing thought I have up against the wall to see what sticks. As a result, I speak volumes of unfunny things. But the Popster is more patient and subtle and in control of his tongue than I'll ever be, so he doesn't speak every thought in his head. But when he does speak: hilarity. And since, as faithful readers well know, I live for comedy, it's not wonder I'm the Popster's girl--even when he's making me the butt of his wit.

2. I've told my imaginary readers the story of how the Popster coined the term Handful to refer to his grandchildren after Thumb was born. What may or may not have come across in that story is that my dad is bursting with pride over his five grandkiddos. Before Pointer was born, I knew exactly the sort of Nana that my moma would become--it's very similar to the sort of moma she's always been except with more spoiling. I didn't know then about the Popster. He's cuddlier than he seems, but I didn't really see him as a baby guy or even really a little kid guy. He's spent the past twelve years showing me how wrong I was. He loves his Handful with intensity, a slavish devotion, and complete delight. He is calm and patient with them, and they are so drawn to their Popa as a result. He is a softer, sweeter man because they exist.

1. Last year I named my moma's decision to marry the Popster as my second favorite thing about her. And while the things I said about them as a couple and their choice to make our family bear repeating, the more amazing part of their story is him choosing us. We were not at our charming, most lovable best when the Popster walked into our lives. The four of us ranged in age from nine to sixteen. We were loud and ate a lot and sassed our mother and were all suffering more than we would admit from that whole broken home thing in ways from which we wouldn't recover for years. We were, in every quantifiable way, a bad bet, and even with the way that I idolize my moma, I'm not sure her many fine qualities could overcome all of our scary, needy ones. Except that he did choose us, all of us. And if he didn't love us all from the word go, then he at least faked it until he felt it, and he's spent the past twenty-one years being our dad in every single way that matters. I know some great dads who have fallen in love with their children as tiny newborns, who've raised them and taught them and nurtured them through their entire lives, and it takes a good man to do that. But men like my dad, who walk into the lives of half-grown, messed-up kids and change their world just by loving them and loving their moma . . . well, imaginary reader, I hope you'll understand why I think they're in a whole other class of fine men.

Happy Birthday to the best man I know. I don't say it nearly enough but thank you for for making my moma the happiest she's ever been, for seeing how much we needed you, and for completing our family.

oh bless my heart

2011-07-12T00:02:00.000-05:00

The Southern sayin' backstory:
I know the overriding characteristic of my writing here is sophistication, so this may come as a surprise to friends of the blog, but I come from a rural background. I grew up living eight miles outside of a town of roughly 1700 people. We had one county school, and I graduated in a class of about fifty-two. Not only is my hometown as podunk as they come, I come from an ancestry that is a mixture of Kentucky hill people and Tennessee dirt farmers. Because education has been a fairly high priority in my family for two or three generations now, I can largely pass for a mostly normal, non-hick person. Much of the time I'm even allowed to forget about this ridiculously country accent I have. But every so often, I find myself in a situation that can only be summed up in the dialect of my youth; some quaint, down home saying comes out of my mouth, and I embrace my true self. Today is one of those days:

oh bless my heart

I know this should actually be "bless his/her heart" or "bless your heart," but what will follow is a story of how I am the sad and pathetic entity requiring all the heart-blessing. Perhaps, imaginary reader, you're unfamiliar with this expression, so you don't yet grasp just how deserving of your sympathy I should be. There are two common usages: Primarily bless (appropriate third-person possessive pronoun) heart is Southern-girl code for "that poor, unfortunate soul . . . let me use my seeming concern to gossip about problems faced and dramas encountered in the life of said individual." Southern girls could make an Olympic sport out of gossip, but their momas raised them better than to do it overtly--avoiding tackiness being a required course at SEC schools. So bless whomever's heart is the magic word, the get out of tacky-gossip-jail free card. For the record the malicious spirit is optional. Sometimes Southern girl gossip isn't as bad as I'm making it sound . . . I think. Bless your heart is a slightly different thing . . . when you're blessing someone's heart to his/her face, it's not gossip, but it's still a mild put-down in the vein of "oh you poor, dumb thing." It's that sort of condescending sympathy of which I am in need today.

I normally don't leave work at midday. Even if I don't bring my lunch, I eat at one of the many fine downtown dining establishments. Because I have to park in a parking deck more than half a block away, it's just sort of inconvenient (and for most of the year uncomfortably hot or cold), but sometimes I have to deal with the inconvenience. The problem with leaving at midday is that I typically don't pack up all my stuff if I'm not leaving for the day, so it's not altogether uncommon for me to arrive at my car and realize that I've left my keys in their designated pocket of my bag which is sitting under my desk. I always feel beyond stupid when this happens, and as luck would have it, I am almost always caught walking in circles to retrieve them by someone who's only too happy to give me crap about it. So when that happened to me this afternoon as I was trying to leave, it was scarcely noteworthy. Sure I wasted ten minutes round trip due to my own frustrating stupidity, but it certainly wasn't breaking news.

Lucky for you and blog fodder, my key drama continued. Tonight at closing, we had a couple of underagers who were waiting for a ride, so I ended up waiting with a couple of my security buddies for the parents to arrive, so it was already 8:15ish when we hiked over to the parking deck. Just as the elevator was nearing the third floor, I began to dig fruitlessly through the key pocket and the rest of my bag for my keys. Marquis, the best security guard in the history of security guards, walked me back over to the library to get the forgotten keys. I foraged through the upper strata of my desk with no luck. I retraced all the steps I made in our department after my return. By this point, I was not only moderately frantic but also painfully aware that I was keeping my pal Marquis from going home thanks to my ridiculous inability to keep track of my possessions. So I gave up. I called in the cavalry, and when allegedly helpful roommate Jess screened me in my hour of need, my superhero of a brother came to my rescue to pick me up. Lots of cuss words ensued (mine, not Shane's--he was nothing but pleasant and patient). I got home for the first time at nine, and rather than follow the original plan of getting copies made of Jess's house keys (which was likely impossible at that time of night), I finally confirmed that the extra key that's been hanging out at our house for the past fifteen months does indeed unlock the knob of the kitchen door, so I can enter and leave my house at will. My run of improved luck held when I realized that I hadn't yet lost the spare key (and extra clicker) to my car. So a penitent Jess took me to liberate my car from the parking deck, and after a quick stop back at the house to pick up my wallet (because of course, I'd left that at home), I tracked down some dinner and made it home before ten, but not by much.

So bless my heart . . .

It did sort of end up better than it began, and I've calmed down considerably about how my life will play out if I don't find them, but I was deserving of the most sincerely contemptuous bless your hearts ever just a few hours ago. Lucky for me, Jess isn't a real Southern girl, so I didn't actually have to endure any.

a birthday tribute

2011-06-25T03:16:00.000-05:00

My Grams turned fifty the year I was born. It was a handy piece of information when I put that together as I never have to stop and wonder how old she was. As long as I can remember my own age, I can get to hers. Today she turns eighty-two (which means, incidentally, that I'm thirty-two in case that math was too much for you).

(The birthday cake I made her in 2006)

Friends of blog will recall that I posted pictures from Grams's birthday last year but did not do the full five-favorite birthday treatment, a fact I intend to remedy today. I have found that it is sometimes tough to write the five-favorite posts about the youngsters in my life because I've known them such a relatively short amount of time and don't have years of shared experiences and memories from which to draw. The difficulty I find with writing these posts about the adult-types in my life is that there are too many stories and characteristics, too much specialness to narrow it down to five. So my favorites may be deliberately broad here so I can cram in as much Gramsy goodness as can be managed.

(With the first 8 great-grands in 2007)

5. Most every childhood memory of my Grams is wrapped up in food. Faithful readers may recall that I have occasionally mentioned my moma's cooking as the standard for all great things in the world, and she came by that skill quite honestly. My Grams is the mastermind behind the way I think Thanksgiving dinners ought to be. Her way of cooking a roast is the best way. And though my moma cooks many things just like her, there will always be dishes that are Grams's signature dishes, things that no one can do as well as her, like baked apples (which I foolishly didn't even eat as a kid) and banana pudding and chocolate pie and fudge and Sunday night popcorn. And cornbread--I could cheerfully eat her cornbread for every meal for the remainder of my life. The summer I was learning to cook like a grown-up, I tried to get Grams to give me her recipe for deviled eggs. The only exact measurement in the whole thing was the number of eggs to use--and even that was dependent upon how many people I wanted to feed. It was years before I worked up the nerve to try and make them on my own with a little of this and just enough of that. Of course, they were nothing like as good as hers, but I'm going to keep trying. I'm sure this idea came down the generations long before my Grams entered the picture, but she's the place where I learned it: feeding someone, taking the time to prepare meals and making sure that everyone gets their favorite is one of the purest expressions of love. Food fuels the body, but my Grams's food and the memories of meals at her table (even the card table in the utility room) will feed my heart for the rest of my life.

(With my moma last summer)

4. My Grams is careful and meticulous. In this day and age, folks would look at her organized cabinets and storage solutions and mention OCD, but that's not really it. She has just always been a person who likes order and never had enough money to be wasteful. So she re-purposed things that others would discard and made lists on the insides of cabinet doors so you could find what you needed at a glance. In case you were wondering, while this is a trait that she passed down, I didn't get a drop of it. Michelle took all that organization and attention to detail and love of order and left me with the haphazard sloppiness of some other ancestor, but I can still admire the clever ways that Grams has of keeping things orderly. The one time she helped me move, I put her in charge of lining the kitchen cabinets and drawers. She measured and cut perfectly straight lines and lined everything with such precision that I was shamed into keeping everything orderly just to honor the lining. I can remember when she helped Michelle pack up to move one time, she had to clean the glass on every picture frame before wrapping it flawlessly in newspaper. The woman was born for detail work, and though I often lament that more of this trait didn't rub off on me, if I ever have a moment of ingenuity or an organizational breakthrough, it makes me feel like her girl.

(Christmas 2010)

3. My Grams is a woman of faith, and that is truly something she leaves as her legacy. My childhood memories of Grams and church are completely intertwined from her forceful, strong singing voice to her mispronunciation of Matthew to her unabashed arguments in Bible class. Her devotion to the study of Scripture has always been an example to me--and not one that I come close to living up to. If she'd been doing Project 4:4 last year, she wouldn't have quit in April. I always remember my Gramps as the spiritual leader of our family, but the truth is without Grams, he wouldn't have been. And while I sometimes think Grams and I don't see eye to eye on all things theological, she's such a huge part of why I believe at all, and her steady faith is a constant comfort to me.

(Fall 2010)

2. When my Gramps was alive, I think he overshadowed Grams a little. He was such a charmer, with such a big personality that it was easy to be drawn to him, and in my memories she was always stricter, more serious, the straight man to his comic. But they worked together as a team gloriously. Maybe it's just because I didn't know them until they'd been married for over thirty years, but the two of them fit together in a way that made perfect sense, which is not to say that they always agreed or got along perfectly. But when I think of them, I can remember how when she was exasperated, he just smiled and those blue eyes twinkled, and when he was frustrated, she soothed. Maybe that's selective memory, but that's how I want to remember them. They took care of each other in a million little ways, and so much of my idea of what marriage is supposed to look like comes from them. When I was in the fifth grade, I started riding the bus to their house in the afternoons to hang out with them until my moma got off work. When I think about them together, that's where I picture them--in the living room watching Club Dance or sitting at the kitchen table with their afternoon coffee (and if Gramps and I were lucky Twinkies), with their everyday, ordinary conversations and teasing and occasional bickering. In the fourteen years that I've gotten to know Grams without Gramps, I've come to appreciate her humor and personality a little more, but I also always think she's just a little incomplete, a little less than she was with him. That idea drives my vision of heaven as a place of reunion. I need to believe it will be for the two of them.

(A four generation pic with MacMac, CST1BF, and tiny Elijah)

1. One of my favorite things to do over the past dozen years or so is to watch Grams with our babies, the great-grands. She's got ten at the moment with number eleven due to arrive in November, and she adores those babies. Seeing her dote and laugh and fuss and fill up with pride over these kiddos gives me flashes of my own childhood, and I know that she doted and laughed and fussed and burst with pride over me (and the other seven grands) just as she does for them. It's the same kind of love she has for her three girls, and it's the basis for all the love that we all give back to her. It's continuity, linking us to the past and stretching us into the future, a love that will outlive her and someday me. It's a love that is making this last long good-bye the easiest thing to do and the hardest, both triumphant and heart-breaking.

Happy Birthday, Grams!

five things

2011-06-24T13:28:00.000-05:00

Five things that make me happy:
(About a month ago some fb friend talked of making a list of 50 things to be happy about. I thought I might try it, got as far as what I ate for lunch, and couldn't finish. I'm going to do better this time--but 50 is still too ambitious for me.)

5. Well, to honor the original list: grilled cheese and tomato sandwiches. It was a really great lunch.

4. Rainy days. Everyone I know seems to suffer from season affective disorder, but I am the opposite. I love clouds and rain and cold. I especially like when it rains at work because we're surrounded by windows, and I love the watching the sky drama. And since it's ridiculously hot here now, sweltering, miserable, August-style hot, I'm remembering our storm-riddled, mild-temperatured spring with all sorts of fondness. (Well, not the devastating tornado part of it, obviously.)

3. Singing. Various factors have kept me from my church lots for the past couple of months, but last Wednesday I managed to be there for an entire service for the first time in forever. There was this spectacularly transcendent moment when we were singing "How Great Is Our God" that managed to restore my spirit in ways that I didn't even realize were needed. I'm going to remember not to forget to sing.

2. FitFlops. My moma bought me these. I mentioned to her sometime in passing that I thought I would buy some this summer. The truth is I'm getting too old to wear cheap shoes all the time, and I have long admired Michelle's FitFlops. So she bought them for me out of the blue because she's so precious. They're delightfully comfortable, and I don't even mind that they make me even taller. Typically I don't like shoes that make me taller, but these are great. Thanks, Moma!

1. Family. I couldn't decide if it was even fair to include the soul-filling, constant-comfort kind of happy that is my family in a list where I talk about sandwiches and footwear, but it would be an insult to omit them and the laughter, the belonging, the delight that people I've known my whole life can still surprise me with their strengths and kindnesses. They are mine, and my cup is full and overflowing just from being theirs.

Five things that make me nervous:

5. Grad school. It's happening this fall, I guess, though I haven't been officially accepted yet.

4. Summer Reading Club. It's the most intense seven weeks of my entire working year--plus the even more than most intense six or eight weeks getting ready for it. Somehow it always sorts itself out, but in the meantime it slowly sucks my will to live, or at least my will to blog. (Only five and a half more weeks to go!)

3. Awkward situations in movies. Have you noticed this thing in every comedy made in the past few years wherein all the humor relies on social awkwardness or characters who create ridiculously embarrassing situations for themselves? It seriously makes me squirm. I can't take it. I'm a mess. I know I shouldn't get so invested in stories and fake people, but it's a thing I do, and it's nerve-wracking.

2. Tweeting. Maybe I haven't told you that I'm on the twitters (@sellensam if you want to follow me), but I've been tweeting with some regularity for a few months, and I still find it intimidating. I think I need to stop following funny people and that will ease the tension.

1. The state of my DVR. I started falling behind on tv in April and though I've taken some time here and there to try and catch up, there are still two or three shows that have been over for weeks that I can't seem to finish, and the So You Think You Can Dance episodes are piling up. That's really not the kind of show one should put off, and yet I can't seem to sit down and watch. In the meantime, the free space percentage on the DVR shrinks daily.

Five things that aren't going my way:

5. FHDM has never been a more appropriate name for him, but sadly he's never going to be my future husband. Donald Miller is engaged to someone who's not me. I'm sure she's a lovely person as he recently tweeted that she's going to Africa to help children, so I can't even hate her. So I'm once again taking applications for my future husband. Fairly minimum job requirements: must be funny, literate, a multi-millionaire, and willing to let me have my way always.

4. My Grams is not doing well. I've not known whether/how to communicate this to pretty much everyone, but how to deal with it on the blog has been especially confusing. Ultimately, it's a family matter, and while I'm not hesitant to broadcast family stuff normally, I've just gone back and forth on how much I want to talk about this. But here's the deal. She's in liver failure, and she's at home and in hospice care. And she has good days and bad days, and it's not any fun. On the other hand, I'm going to see her two or three times a week, and that's been mostly nice. I'm seeing a lot of my family which I also enjoy. I have a lot of feelings about it, and for once in my spill-my-guts life, I am doing a terrible job of knowing how to talk about it. So apparently I'm going to do so awkwardly. Thanks for not judging me too harshly for the awkward. And thanks for the prayers that have been sent up and will continue to be sent up on behalf of her and my family.

3. My house refuses to be trained to become self-cleaning. I know it could do this--if only it would apply itself. But alas, I come home nightly, and the same messes I left that morning are there, taunting me.

2. I fell off the healthy-eating wagon in April, and I can't seem to find the discipline, energy, or interest to get back on.

1. I know this five things was my idea, but now I can't think of a fifth go here, and I've ruined the lists. I guess that could count as something that's not going my way.

Five things I've learned lately:

5. You can't force funny. A couple of weeks ago, cousin, scholar, theologian, #1 blog fan suggested a humorous treatment for a topic I was considering writing. If I could have pulled it off, it would have been perfection (so perfect that I'm keeping it in reserve for another time), but as I tried to write it, it just wasn't funny, and nothing I did was helpful. So I stopped throwing good humor after bad.

4. Don't get a haircut without a plan. I've been growing my hair out for two and half years. And then suddenly it was a mess. I never wanted to fix it, it was so long it didn't even make a cute ponytail anymore, and it was smothering me in the oppressive Arkansas heat. So I decided to get a haircut last week, but I didn't pick a style or find a picture or make a plan, and as a result, I have a mess on my head. The official length is pretty much what I wanted, but my usual long layers that I need to thin out the ends and make them lay nicely turned into short layers that pretty much guarantee my hair's going to flip and be insane and never lay nicely.

3. My tastebuds routinely make a fool of me. Though I've always claimed to not be a picky eater, there have always been certain foods that I didn't like and would never eat. Lately, I've had opportunities to re-try some of those foods or go hungry, and what I've found is that I like pretty much everything. Fish is still iffy, and oatmeal is questionable, but lima beans are my new best friend. Go figure.

2. Sleep is important. Okay, I knew this one, but lately I've been forcefully reminded. My sleep pattern is off, and it makes me constantly late and occasionally irrational. Boo.

1. I don't know everything. Yeah, I knew this one too, but you can rarely tell by the way I act. So recently I've been becoming more okay with not knowing everything, and though it's an adjustment, I think it's a welcome change. I dare say it might eventually make me a better person. Keep your eyes peeled for that.

happy birthday, thumb

2011-05-24T18:24:00.001-05:00

(Thumb is the only of the Handful whose entire life is documented in photos of which I have digital copies, so we're going back to the beginning for this one. This was the first time I held him, but I almost didn't include the picture because of that funny thing my hair is doing, but ultimately the Ring and Thumb preciousness helped me get over my hair hang-ups.)

Four years ago today, I was wearing yellow (don't ask me why) with hair that clearly wasn't behaving and hanging out in my favorite Lexington hospital meeting my freshly-hatched second nephew. He wasn't quite as fresh as his sister (Ring) and brother (Pinkie) were when I met them, but that's because this little guy decided to be born in the wee hours of the morning, while I was staying at home with said sister and brother, who at not-quite-four and two weren't up for an all night hospital vigil. Anyway later in the day, we were at the hospital, and the Popster told me to ask him how many grandkids he had. I initially resisted, assuring him that I was well aware of the answer, but he insisted, and eventually I caved and asked with a complete lack of enthusiasm, "How many grandkids do you have?"

Almost before the last word left my mouth, he threw his giant hand up in my face, fingers splayed and proclaimed, "a hand-full." And the collective nickname for my parents' grandchildren, my nieces and nephews, was born, birthed in that Lexington hospital just as much as Thumb was.

That's just one of the many things Thumb has done for us in his little life so far. Four years is not very long in the grand scheme of things, but it mostly feels like we've had him for longer, that he's been around for much of our lives. And that probably speaks to the way that his little personality and great big eyes have completed our family.

Thumb, whose eyes have changed from blue to green somewhere along the line, at his first, second, and third birthday parties.

I won't get to see and celebrate with Thumb until this weekend because he, like his brother, had the good sense to be born near a three day weekend, so we always have his birthday party Memorial Day weekend, but while I wait, let me share with you, imaginary readers, the best of Thumb.

I present my five favorites of a four-year-old:

5. The speech impediment. I know it's not going to last--or at least it's not going to be cute indefinitely if it does last--but right now how Thumb talks and messes up sounds is so deliciously endearing. I don't have any data to back me up on this, but it seems to me that Thumb might have the record for most/longest streak of mispronunciations of any of the Handful, which is only right I suppose considering that a few months ago he surpassed Pointer as having the longest streak as the "baby" of our family. And truthfully, he's already grown out of so many of those sound substitutions, so I know this special little trait is one that I'll have to savor for now and remember with fondness for years to come. Here's a ripped-from-real-life example of how Thumb's precious manner of speaking permeates our lives. Thursday night I was at the hospital seeing Grams, and when I went to leave I asked if she was going to give me a kiss, and she turned me down. In fact she told me that wasn't going to give me any "wugar," which is how Thumb says (or maybe used to say, as I think initial s's are finally within his grasp) sugar. When even your eighty-one year old great-grandmother who's been through so much lately she barely knows her name sometimes can remember and quote how adorably you say words, it's kind of a big deal.

4. Another thing that I'm totally digging about the Thumb is his cuddliness. Even though in so many ways (just wait, we'll talk about them) he's doing his best to grow up way too fast, Thumb is still the sweetest little, loving boy. And he's pretty decent at spreading that love around. I completely melt when he sticks his thumb in his mouth (yes, Thumb sucks his thumb--handy, isn't it?) and lays his sweet head down on my shoulder. He's the best little snuggler, and I'm really crossing my fingers that he doesn't grown out of that one.

3. This face. It's more than the fact that he's possibly the most beautiful boy I've ever seen. It's more than those ridiculous eyelashes or those giant green eyes or even the dimples. It's how that little face conveys every single emotion without saying a word. It's about the nods and blinks and grins, the pouts and the silly faces and the heart-breaking tears. He's got maybe the most expressive face of anyone I've ever known. Too bad for his daddy, but with that face, professional poker-playing is not in this boy's future.

2. Despite the way we baby Thumb and the sweet way that he indulges us in that, he has always been an independent little soul. He will fearlessly try to do anything that the big kids are doing, and "me too" has been an oft-repeated refrain around his house since he was able to talk. If Ring and Pinkie can do it, then Thumb is convinced that he should be able to as well, no matter what. Whether it's playing ball or doing homeschool work, Thumb is determined to run with the big boys, and I love the confidence and determination and single-mindedness that drive all those me-toos. And of course, a big chunk of his desire to to be big is the fact that he adores his big brother and sister and cousins.

1. When Thumb was a little baby, the grown-ups in our family were having a discussion about being funny. Yes, we talk about being funny in our family quite a lot. In this particular discussion we had two opposing theories. Shane thought that based on the anecdotal evidence of the sibling groups we knew that second-born children are the funniest in their families. I put forth the notion that it was actually youngest children, regardless of number. I was using as my examples most of the same sibling groups as it seems most of the siblings groups we know are two-kid families. The major point of disagreement was that Shane, as a second-born, considered himself the funniest of our siblings, and I, as the youngest, insisted that it was me. I did have to agree that my moma, who is technically the second-born of three, is definitely the funniest of her siblings, but since she's a twin, she's only minutes away from being the youngest. Shane then tried to use Pinkie, who was a hilarious two-year-old (and is still a very funny six-year-old), as the example to prove his point, but I maintained that we couldn't make that call until Thumb was older. So I've been watching Thumb's comedic development with avid interest And I'm proud to say (because it proves my theory) that I think he's the funniest of the three of them. He teases and jokes and tricks and has been doing so since he could talk (though he couldn't manage it without that expressive face). One of his specialties is keeping a funny thing going, like the time a very solemn and demure "me not know" was the only answer he would give to his Aunt Michelle, just for the sake of hilarious torture. And I'd like to offer a friendly kick in the pants to the first person to laugh at "in myyyyy notebook," thus making it Thumb's longest-running and most adorable joke. As we all should know by now, humor is my real love language, so this kiddo has me in the palm of his hand.

And as a bonus treat, I've got a video of Thumb doing what he does best: being adorable. Here for your pleasure, you get the voice (though he doesn't mispronounce anything too badly), the expressions, and a peek of that teasing humor. Please pardon how loud I am and the ridiculous amount of background noise. Enjoy:

Happy birthday to my little Thumb. Aunt Ellen is going to love all over you this weekend!

*****A late-breaking update: Once again a Peep has just managed to ensure that I don't get to attend her child's birthday party. Today is already Peep Amy's birthday (Happy Birthday!) and tomorrow is the 4th birthday of her Carter, so I already consistently miss their birthdays. Earlier this afternoon, Peep Monica brought our newest little Weep into the world. I'm not going to give you any more details because I don't know if they've fully announced it to everyone they want to know yet. I'll come back and update it with pertinent info once I've got the all-clear.*****

harry potter haiku #6

2011-05-13T16:22:00.000-05:00

Blogger has not been a friend to me lately, but enough of the excuses.

On Halloween night

a troll brings them together

with Hermione.

harry potter haiku #5

2011-05-08T21:30:00.000-05:00

Malfoy's bigotry

uncovers Harry's talent

Gryffindor seeker

"i am her child and that is better than being the child of anyone else in the world” maya angelou

2011-05-08T09:00:00.011-05:00

Seriously, I'm writing about her again. Are you tired of hearing about my sainted moma, imaginary readers? I'm afraid I can't stop, and in any case, it's at least seasonally appropriate that I write about her today. Indulge me?

I realized long ago that the unintended lesson I was learning in being my moma's child was about the kind of mother I wanted to be. This is probably true of most everyone. Even if the lesson is learned negatively ("I'll never say/do that to my children"), we learn about the ways we do and don't want to parent from our parents. I know you'll be surprised to hear that I think my moma is the last word in good examples of mothering. You know, because I never talk about her amazingness or how crazy I am about her. I'm not a mother, and maybe I never will be, but if I ever am, and if as a mother I ever get anything right, we'll all know it's because of her.

The thing I'm learning lately, the idea that sprang into my head and said "write me" this week, is that besides that showing-me-how-to-be-a-moma example that I've noticed and cherished and taken for granted for the past thirty years, my moma's been teaching me by example all along how to be a daughter. And since there's no someday or maybe attached to that one, it's what I should have been noticing and cultivating and praying would take root in my grown-up daughter self.

I've always known that my moma loved and was close to her parents. Gramps and Grams were a part of our daily lives. We saw them all the time, and it wasn't just because we were adorable and charming grandchildren (though we were) or because my moma sometimes needed free baby-sitting (though she did). We went to their house every Sunday and Wednesday night after church of my life and most of the Sunday afternoons too. We went with them--or at least met up with them there--to visit my great-grandmother every week when I was little (wonder where my moma learned about being a good child?). When my moma started working at Garan, she went to their house every day for lunch and every day after work, to drink coffee and visit. She spent time with them because it was what she wanted and needed and what they wanted and needed too, because family is her happy place. Is it any wonder I adore her and the Popster the way that I do having watched her adore her own olds all my life?

My moma remembers and tells stories about Gramps and Grams all the time. She knows stuff about them as children and recounts details of their lives from before she was born in addition to all the memories from her own life that are wrapped up in G & G. She knows these stories because she's listened and asked and committed to her heart details, the snippets and vignettes that add up to who her parents are. Without ever realizing who I was imitating, I can do the same. When the Handful ask for stories from when I was a little girl, I quickly run out of entertaining or memorable (non-frightening) stories, so I tell stories about Nana (that's what the Handful call my moma). Her stories are my best ones. And in the same way we pass along stories about our beloved Gramps, whom the Handful never knew, I want to believe that someday Pointer, Bird, Ring, Pinkie, and Thumb will be telling their own kiddos (or grandkiddos) about Nana and the escaped panther or all the dog stories or how she and the Popster first met as little neighbor children (to be honest, I make this one more romantic than it actually is, but it makes up in charm and good storytelling what it lacks in truth).

But being a daughter isn't all sweetness and perfection and heart-warming anecdotes, and my moma (and her sisters to share the love and appropriate credit where it's due) shows me that too, the bravery and heartache and sacrifice of being a daughter. Right now we're living through a time of concern and uncertainty and prayerful worry for Grams, my moma's moma. It's not been easy on any of us, but the truth is that she's been slowing and weakening at varying rates of speed for a long time now. Nothing about that changes the love and devotion and joy that my moma has in Grams, but it does, I think, complicate it.

It's that role reversal common to most families, where the person who has always taken care of you starts requiring care. I've watched my moma do this for years, even before Gramps died. She sorted out their medicines and drove them to the doctor and came and drank coffee with them every day so they wouldn't be bored or lonely, and it's only gotten bigger since Gramps died and Grams aged. It was such a natural progression in our lives that I didn't always realize how it might sometimes be inconvenient or how it must hurt her to have to become the strong one, the caregiver. I didn't know it was brave or difficult or a sacrifice because it just looked like love. It didn't look like a choice because to a daughter who has always cherished her moma and daddy it was the only choice.

That's the lesson she's teaching me these days: an example that's declaring war on my selfish nature and a love that is patient and kind, that always protects and always perseveres, that never fails.

Happy Mother's Day to my moma and her moma. May I someday be a daughter worthy of them.

harry potter haiku #4

2011-05-07T11:58:00.002-05:00

I had a a few written ahead of starting this project, but after this one, I'm caught up. Now's your chance to pray that my writer's block kicks in and ends this series.

Sorting is stressful

if you don't want Slytherin

but the hat listens.

harry potter haiku #3

2011-05-06T11:58:00.000-05:00

The saga continues in poetry. I'm pretty sure this is the least noticed/responded to thing I've ever written, but I'm not going to let your indifference stop me. Sorry, friends.

On Hogwart's Express

Harry and Ron are besties.

Ron's nose is dirty.

harry potter haiku #2

2011-05-04T20:38:00.001-05:00

Yesterday, I shared with you the inspiration behind the new series. Hope you don't hate it already because it's completing my life.

Hagrid breaks the news
but not 'til he's eleven,
he's the boy who lived.

And another--because I can't wait to share this one--that's my favorite so far:

In Ollivander's

Phoenix feather chooses him

a curious choice.

This could take a while to work out of my system. Patience, please.

harry potter haiku #1

2011-05-03T17:14:00.000-05:00

A few weeks ago at work someone sent me the following in an email:

Fighting Voldemort
from the comfort of this chair
in my library

It changed my world. How could I never have considered devoting my favorite form of poetry to what is arguably my favorite series of books? No longer, imaginary readers, no longer will the world have to muddle through a sham of an existence without my contribution to bad Harry Potter poetry. Today I present the beginning of a new series. Sometimes I think my long streams of haikus sort of ruin each other. They're meant to be short, after all. So for this project, I'll be presenting the haiku one at a time in roughly chronological order. Today I present a haiku inspired by Sorcerer's Stone.

On Four Privet Drive
the cupboard under the stairs,
lives Harry Potter.

You feel your life changing already, don't ya? Stay tuned for more. I've got a few in the hopper of which I am excessively proud.

be impressed by this

2011-05-01T23:55:00.000-05:00

I know no one wants to hear any more about my dumb phone and how I ruined it (and cost myself a bunch of money in the process) anymore, so instead I'm going to blog about a recent success that should impress the pants off you, imaginary readers. For the sake of others, please don't read this in public. I don't want to be responsible for your pants flying off and freaking anyone out.

I had to put my plarn mat project on hold recently to take care of a more time-sensitive crafty project. My friend Mo is having a baby sometime soon and the Peeps threw her a baby shower last weekend. Here's how cute it was:

There were some good eats too, and pregnant Mo is fairly precious (but her baby bump and the cheesy bacon bites are not the impressive thing). Peep Amy made the perfect, perfect cake.

Peep Amy has a cake-decorating blog that she updates very sporadically. Apparently working full-time and raising two of the sweetest boys in the world and creating the most amazing cakes doesn't leave her much time to write about them. I'll forgive her if she'll continue to make me cakes occasionally. The cake, while magnificent, is not the titular impressive thing.

Here are the peep girls at the shower with Luke hiding his face but no Calla because she was having kind of a hard life right then. This cute but poorly lit picture doesn't really have anything to do with the thing that's going to impress you, but I like us and we're cute, so I wanted to include it.

Technically these next few photos aren't the thing that's going to impress you either, but I do think these two delights are impressively cute. I love them.

I know it looks like she's just about to stand up and take off, but this is actually her method of not crawling. She gets up like this and plants her bottom in whatever new direction she's trying to move. It's awkward but effective.

I took roughly four thousand pictures of the tweeps on this afternoon, but in a surprising number of them, the more mobile Calla is blocking Luke.

This face is hilarious. She has a very skeptical brow sometimes. And has been previously discussed on the blog, the Clintster would make a pretty, pretty girl.

So we're getting to the impressive thing just any second now: My brilliant bit of creativity factors into the shower in the gift-opening. Back in the fall, I made the tweeps wee striped hats since they were going to be cold-weather babies. This baby is due in late-May and won't be requiring much in the way of warm head coverings, so I had sort of written off the idea of a knitted gift, until this book came into my life:

I was charmed by all the cuteness but intimidated by the intricacies of the patterns. But since there were several animal projects that fit right into Mo's decorative scheme, and because I occasionally get confident (over-confident?) in my own ability to accomplish things, I ultimately decided to tackle a project for a lion that reverses to an elephant. (Spoiler alert: I don't think this is the last we'll see of projects from this adorable book.)

Like the irresponsible blogger/crafter I am, I didn't take pictures documenting the project, but here's what the finished project looks like:

the lion side

the elephant side

the back views

I know it's not polite, but if you look up the elephant's skirt, here's what you see: a wadded-up lion.

And if you look up the lion's skirt, the scrunched elephant.

The bottoms of the heads are stitched together for some stability, so it can't be a two-headed beast, so this is the only way you can see both animals at once.

So that's how my most recent knitting turned out. I'm just the tiniest bit proud of it, but since I learned this week not to have so much pride in my own accomplishments, I'm not going to make any promises that the little liophant won't fall apart tomorrow, but I do hope that it'll last for the next four weeks or so until the Raspberry is born.

my first foray into saturday confessions

2011-04-30T17:09:00.002-05:00

My library friend Melissa does a linky party for her Saturday confessions every week, and today I'm bored and brave enough to join in the fun.

1. I'm blogging at work. I shouldn't be. Shame, guilt, etc. (also no pictures because I'm not on my computer) which leads me to . . .

2. It doesn't matter that I get a day off during the week when it happens, working on a Saturday puts me in the foulest of moods every time. I'd like to blame my renegade on-the-clock-blogging to the foul mood, but I'd probably be loafing anyway, which leads me to . . .

3. I need to think of something more positive. No more grumbling . . . except for this. I'm so mad at myself for the giant phone debacle. I ordered a new phone on ebay on Thursday, but I haven't gotten it in yet. I know this is a confession post, but I'm not telling you how much I spent on the replacement phone. It's embarrassing. Let's just say more than I paid for it the first time. I've been moving my sim card back and forth between the semi-functioning new phone and never-should-have-ditched-it-for-a-smart-phone old phone all week, which is a mess. My new phone is on a FedEx truck somewhere in North Little Rock today which leads me to . . .

4. I love tracking packages--or anything--online. When you order from Domino's, they have an order tracker that tells you when you're pizza goes in the oven, who checks the order, when it gets into the car. Since we moved, I've occasionally ordered from Domino's because we've had coupons and such, and they're so speedy.

5. After Thursday, I wanted to take back anything I'd ever said about being good in hospital situations. I went to see Grams at her rehab place, and she was having a really bad day. It was so hard. I fell apart on the way home, and then I didn't go see her last night even though my moma is there. I had all these really logical excuses for why I didn't go, but I'd be lying if I said that how things were on Thursday didn't factor in to that decision. I'm heading in that direction when I get off work tonight though. Time to buck up, little camper.

6. We're remodeling at the library, and there's a huge office upstairs that I'm coveting. I don't know how many planets would have to align for me to get that office, but that motivation and the small butt-kicking I got from my Aunt Donna (who is known for her butt-kicking, but she rarely unleashes it on me, so it was some pretty powerful stuff) on Thursday all add up to applying to grad school for the fall, which leads me to . . .

7. I'm scared of the GRE. I used to be a standardized text rock star (not that it means anything), but the last standardized test I took was in 1996 (because I'm not counting the Praxis II). I hear the Miller Analogies Test is easier and cheaper, so maybe I'm going to take that instead.

8. I've become quite obsessed with twitter this week. It makes me feel lame, and I've started following some folks this week who are so hilarious that they make me feel decidedly unfunny, but I sort of love it anyway.

9. I was hungry a minute ago and had the option here at my desk to eat a 90 calorie chocolate chip cereal bar or a Dove truffle egg. Betcha can't guess which one I chose.

I think that's quite enough keepin' it real for one day. Pray for my Grams, if that's your sort of thing. She could use it.

what i might have known if i hadn't quit reading the bible

2011-04-28T00:17:00.000-05:00

Friends of the blog will recall that my church was involved in a year-long Bible reading project last year, and faithful readers will still be disappointed that I got behind and quit reading in April, somewhere around the life of David.

Apparently if I'd stuck to project 4:4 long enough to get to Proverbs, I could have saved myself a heap of trouble this week. Last night I posted a self-congratulatory description of my handiness and a recounting of the disassembling, repair, and reassembling of my phone. Once I got the phone all back together I received and sent texts, played Angry Birds, and checked my email. Everything was running in tip-top shape, and I was more than a little smug about my triumph over one more mechanical piece of my life . . . until this morning when my pride went-eth before destruction.

I was trying to call in to work to warn them about how massively I had overslept and how that would affect my arrival time, but every time I hit the speed dial, I couldn't hear the phone ringing or anyone picking up. A couple of times when I tried, the screen went black. I was attempting to drive down the road at the time, so I didn't do too careful an examination, but I knew that wasn't a good thing. I supposed that I had put the internal earpiece in backwards, as it had been a tricky thing last night. My earpiece didn't look exactly like the one in the video, so when it came time to reassemble, I could figure out which side was up. The piece fit into the hole in four different ways, so I chose the one that seemed to make the most sense. Clearly that wasn't it.

I did discover that if I could put the phone on speaker that I was still able to talk on it, but I determined that when I got home tonight, I would take the phone apart once more and flip the earpiece. This was mildly inconvenient for today, but I was still quite confident in my ability to get everything back in working order. But my haughty spirit was about to meet its (down)fall.

I don't remember if I mentioned this last night, but a few of those pieces were clearly not intended to be popped in and out of place repeatedly, so I knew doing another invasive procedure on my phone could be dangerous. I opened the phone (which I can do completely without the instructional video by this point) and flipped the piece in question and had to put the whole phone back together before I could power it up to try a call. Jess was my lovely assistant for this portion of the project. Even with the earpiece flipped, I couldn't hear anything, and the screen-going-black thing happened each time I tried to call, making it impossible to turn on the speaker phone.

So I cracked the phone open once more to try the piece another way. Same song, third verse. I took a break (to avoid throwing the phone across the room) and looked up the prices of phones on ebay. Eventually I attempted to make it work one final time. At this point, I've cracked one of the plastic pieces near the power button/earpiece area, and I still can't hear anything through the normal earpiece. Sometimes when I attempt to make a call, it goes to a black screen and only starts to respond again when it feels like it, and other times when I try, the screen acts just as I should, and I can put the phone on speaker.

Clearly I can't function this way indefinitely. The point of a phone is still to be able to call people, despite what may or may not be my addiction to Angry Birds. If everyone in the world would just agree to text-only communication, this would be fine, but I'm related to most of the texting holdouts in the world, so that's just not going to work. If I hadn't lost my charger to the old phone back in January, none of this would have ever happened. In the meantime, I guess I'll charge up the old phone in the car and switch the sim card over to it when I'm out and about anyway. But since my delightful couple of months with new phone has ruined me, I'll probably end up on ebay working on a replacement.

Stupid pride, stupid thinking I can fix things, stupid broken phone. I know there are problems in the world far greater than the tiny potatoes of my phone, so I'll stop whining about this now. But I urge my imaginary readers to learn from this cautionary tale. Don't be dumb enough to think that a couple of tiny screwdrivers and a youtube video can turn you into a phone mechanic. Nothing but trouble down that road. Remember Proverbs and save yourself from heartache.

Three final disjointed bits of information:

1. Someday I'm going to be sorry about wasting this particularly awesome blog title on this whiny, rambling post.

2. I had really interesting stuff planned for the blog this week, but the real-time drama of my broken phone has consumed us. Sorry for that. Someday soon you're going to see a particularly exciting completed craft project, read an insightful and poignant description of my spiritual growth during the Lenten season, and experience the most perfect batch of poetry ever. Now I know you're dying for me to shut up about my phone and bring the awesome.

3. If you need to communicate information to me in the next few days, might I suggest email? I haven't gotten around to dismantling my laptop yet, so it should be safe.

i can officially do anything

2011-04-27T01:32:00.002-05:00

UPDATED: See bottom of post for the continuing saga of the phone repair.

Last April after we moved, I did a bit of blogging about various home improvement projects. Of course, everyone remembers the HGTV brush with fame (and if you don't remember, I remind you often enough), but I also wrote a post highlighting various furniture assembly projects and the frosting of my bathroom window. I know you were blown away by my handiness then. More recently in February in an incident that remains unblogged, I undertook another project. The lid switch of my washing machine broke off, and after some internet research, an exploratory surgery, and a phone call to the Popster, I hotwired the washer, circumventing the lid switch and making it fully functioning once again. It was a shining moment of achievement. I'm fairly certain the Popster has never been prouder of me.

I'm really not sure when I developed this confidence that with a tool or two and some internet direction, I could accomplish tasks that I would have previously deemed outside my skill set. Part of it probably comes from work where over the past seven years, I've learned to fix things that go wrong. When I worked out in the branches, I didn't have the luxury of getting an immediate response from maintenance or the computer nerds, so I learned to try and figure things out for myself. Since I've never really ruined anything that way, I suppose I just started considering myself handy. And in my at-home life the fact remains that I've been a grown-up living on my own for ten years now, and when there's no one else around to fix things, I've trialed-and-errored my way through minor repairs, I guess.

So I say all that to say this: last Tuesday I dropped my phone in the parking garage and cracked the screen.

I just got this phone in February, so it's under warranty, but of course, the warranty doesn't cover idiots who drop their phones, so my options were to spend a ridiculous amount on a new phone, deal with a broken screen for the next sixteen months until I can upgrade again, or according to the internet, I could order a replacement screen (ebay for less than $40) and replace it myself. All that Ms. Fix-It confidence had me ordering a replacement screen post-haste. I chose to spend an extra buck to get the screen that came with the special tiny screwdrivers. That would turn out to be the best decision I've ever made. So here's how it went:

I assembled my cast of characters . . .

. . . and realized that there were no written instructions, and I was hopelessly out of my depth. After a thoroughly informative youtube video, I was ready. I intrepidly began working.

I peeled off the back cover . . .

took out the battery . . .

attempted to take a picture of the tiny screw driver . . .

that fit in this triangle screw . . .

and removed the four screws.

I popped off the camera cover.

This bit was very tricky. The video guy had no trouble popping this piece off, but I struggled and ended up cracking it.

My prying tool was some oddly-shaped device I found on the mending desk at work. It was eventually effective, but peeling these parts from one another might have been easier with the cute little plastic prying device that video dude had.

As I was taking very blurry photos of this step, the enormity of taking my cell phone apart really hit me.

Here's the point of no return. If cracking the screen hadn't voided my warranty, the moment that I broke this sticker I was all in.

I learned a lot of interesting terminology too. That little tab thing sticking up on the yellow part of the phone is a ribbon cable apparently.

Here are my phone's innards. The two pieces are still connected at this point by the ribbon cable of the digitizer. I actually know what some of those words mean.

Enter the itty-bitty Phillips-head screwdriver. The first screw came out with nary a problem, but the other one was stubborn. I eventually worked on it so much that the head of the screw got wallered out, and the screwdriver was useless. I won't recount the hours of frustration this caused, but I eventually put all my pieces in a plastic bag and took a break.

Once I got home and buried my troubles in a couple shows on the DVR, I was ready to deal with that pesky screw again. It wasn't pretty, but eventually I triumphed. But in the meantime, I had forgotten about photo documentation, so there's no proof that I removed the screw, popped out the ear piece, pried up the metal plate there to disconnect the ribbon cable on the digitizer, separated the digitizer and screen from the back of the phone, then separated the screen from the digitizer. I the replaced this sad, cracked digitizer with the new one and spent a distinctly frustration period of time getting the ribbon cable of the new digitizer plugged back in under that metal plate. My helpful video didn't actually cover reassembly, but just told me to do everything in reverse, which is much easier said than done, but overall, I handled it.

The old, sad digitizer.

The delightfully uncracked state of my phone now.

Careful examination will reveal that there's a bit more of a distinct crack between the screen and the back of the phone than there was pre-surgery, but since I'm now going to actually start using the case that would have saved my phone from the original breakage, the gap will likely go unnoticed.

After this largely successful foray into electronics repair, I feel like I'm ready for anything. Maybe I'll try car repair next, though I'd be perfectly happy if my vehicle (pop quiz, hotshots: What is my car's name?) didn't give me an excuse or opportunity to hone that skill anytime in the foreseeable future.

In the meantime, if any of my faithful readers have their own broken cell phone screens and are considering a home repair, you're welcome to my tiny screwdrivers, but be warned: it's a high-stress situation. Better have some silly putty on hand to ease the tension.

UPDATE: I knew last night when I wrote the post that I could receive texts and check email and play Angry Birds, so I assumed that my phone was fully functioning. When I tried to call work this morning to tell them how massively I'd overslept, I had some issues with the screen going black and not being able to hear the phone ringing or the person on the other end picking up. Not cool. I think I put the internal ear piece in backwards, but all my tiny tools are at home, so I'll have to work on that tonight--in the meantime, if you call me, and I can figure out how to answer, I'll have to put you on speaker (which I have verified does still work), so beware. I should probably change this blog title to reflect this failure, but I'm sticking with what I've got until tonight's surgery proves I was every kind of fool for taking my phone apart in the first place.

never sorry i was there

2011-04-25T09:24:00.000-05:00

I didn't mean to fall off the face of the blogging world again. Of course, I never mean to, but I'm exceptionally talented at it obviously.

Since you'll never convince me that anyone besides my immediate family reads this blog, there's kind of no point in telling you, imaginary readers, what has kept me from my little internet kingdom. but never let it be said I missed an opportunity to talk about myself.

Last Sunday my precious Grams (who faithful readers will recall fell and had a compression fracture in her back early last year) fell at church and ended up in the hospital with a broken hip. My moma and the Popster were here for the weekend, so we were all at church together when it happened. I'm glad we were, that my moma was already here and didn't have to make a decision about whether or when to come down. The hard part is that any little thing that goes wrong with Grams these days sort of crashes her physically. So in the process of waiting for her surgery to happen, we had a few bumps in the road, plenty of things to worry us in addition to the regular seriousness that comes with anesthesia and surgery on an eighty-one year old. But she had her surgery, a hip replacement rather than fixing the break, and she's slowly improving, I think. If all goes as planned today, she'll move from the hospital to a rehab facility. She's still very easily fatigued, so my current prayer, in which I ask you to join me, is that she is strong enough to do the prescribed therapy and regain some of her movement.

With all this going on, my normal routine flew out the window. My moma and aunts took turns staying with Grams in the hospital at night, and that first night when my moma stayed, I bullied her into letting me stay too so that I could be help and company. At about four in the morning when we had six or eight people in the room working on Grams's breathing, my moma finally admitted that she was glad I was there. I think if that night had gone differently, or if I hadn't been there to see how bad she got in a short amount of time, I might have done the rest of the week differently. But it was scary, and I saw it happen, and I couldn't go back to normal while that was going on. I stuck around at the hospital on Monday, missing work, and waiting for her to start improving. We finally saw her surgeon that night and knew that the surgery would likely take place on Wednesday. I had a few things going on at work on Tuesday that I really needed to show up for, and I was in Searcy without a car, clean clothes or other life essentials like my laptop, so I came home and went to work (and packed up enough of my life to last me a week and ran about forty-thousand errands while avoiding a tornado) on Tuesday. I was back in White County by Tuesday night and spent almost all my waking hours (and possibly more of my sleeping ones) at the hospital from Wednesday to Friday night. I helped throw a baby shower on Saturday and went to Spring Sing on Saturday and just made curfew to get back into the hospital to spend the night before they locked the front doors. Last night I finally came home and if I can get off the couch in a minute, I'll be going back to work like a normal person.

Through the whole process, I received mountains of love and support from my peeps and facebook friends and church family and coworkers. Things got a little crazily short-handed at work towards the end of the week, and I was going to come back and work, but my boss wouldn't hear of it. It was through an email exchange and a phone conversation with her that the thoughts behind the title of this blog crystallized. She went above and beyond in covering for me last week, and through it all, she encouraged me to stay right where I was providing what little support and comfort and entertainment I could for my moma, aunts and Grams. She understood so perfectly the need within me just to be there and gave me the means to be there without worry or guilt over what was falling apart at work. It was an immeasurable blessing, and I know that in the coming weeks if I need more of that flexibility and understanding, it will be there for me. I love working where I work for that reason alone.

I tweeted one day last week that I was "good at hospitals," a fun fact I wish I didn't know about myself. It feels like I've had more opportunities than I'd strictly like to hone that skill. One of the many things that's occurred to me this past week during my hours of introspection is that my life is perfectly set-up for me to be the good-at-hospitals girl. Almost eight years ago, I stopped doing the job that I had thought was my life's calling and drifted into the library as a temporary stop while I figured myself out. What I found at the library was maybe the job I was supposed to be doing all along, a job that I love in its own right but also a job that I can leave at work most of the time, a place with bosses and coworkers who let me drop everything to go and do what I need to do for my family. And it's not just work that makes my life so easily portable. I'm not married. I don't have babies to take care of--I don't even have a fish to feed. And as long as I have a cell phone and even an occasional internet connection, I can be in touch with anyone I need, no matter where I am. It's a life that bounces instead of shattering when dropped.

When I realized last night that I wanted to write about being there, I got nervous that talking about how I've been able to be physically present for my family this week was somehow going to be an insult to the people who couldn't. That's not what I'm trying to imply in any way. I guess it's just that I don't always think my life is that great. I like my job fine, and I have great friends and great family and belong to a great church, but it's not exactly the stuff of which little girl dreams are made. It's not what I pictured, not where I set out to be--it's just where I am. But when something like this comes along, and I get to be right where I want to be, taking care of my people, with no geographic obstacles or unavoidable commitments or even complicated logistics blocking me, my life is absolute perfection, and this is not the first time I've had cause to notice it. It's maybe the best blessing of this life I didn't want.

And when my complaining soul finds things to regret about my life, I'll never be sorry I was there.

an open letter to the pioneer woman

2011-04-12T21:09:00.000-05:00

Dear P-Dub (I can call you P-Dub, right? I mean, we're friends and all now),

I should warn you that I used to do these open letters all the time (or once a week for about a month), but they became kind of dangerous. See I really just do them for laughs, never expecting that the addressee will ever actually read them, but it turns out this here internet-thingy is a public forum, and sometimes moving truck companies and basic cable television networks will stumble across my amusing little letters, and weird stuff occasionally follows. Once I began to understand the might of the open letter, I sent them into semi-retirement, only using them in safe and controlled conditions. I've always known that the time might once again be right to send an open letter out into the world, but no offense, I didn't anticipate that it would be for you. The open letter is my secret final weapon against the one person who I hope to lure into friendship (and marriage) through the blog. But I'm not going to devote that letter to FHDM until I'm sure I'm ready for us to happen because as I think I mentioned a few sentences back, the open letter is a powerful tool with unexpected and far-reaching effects. But now that you and I are friends I'm not afraid to send this open letter out into the internet-void. I mean I'm assuming you were going to look me up and start following the blog anyway now that we've met, right?

Thanks times a million for coming to the Arkansas Literary Festival on Saturday! It was kind of the best work-related thing that's ever happened to me. I tend to avoid Lit Fest because it's so busy and chaotic, and all the people make me crazy. And honestly, if I'm not working, I don't really dig hanging out at the library. It's a great place, but I feel like I spend enough time there without devoting leisure time to it. But you were totes worth the crowd and chaos and hanging out where I work without getting paid. Even the line waiting with the rabid PW fans was mildly awesome.

To tell the truth, I'm the reason you were invited in the first place. I've been a fan for a couple of years now, and when you were on the cookbook tour (was that 2009?), I may have become a little obsessed with talking about you at work. It helped that I won a $75 amazon gift card in one of your Geography quizzes (Kansas City, if memory serves). The cool thing about the folks I work with is that I'm the young, hip, fun girl, so anything that I like, they buy into--not that it was a hard sell. They fell right in love with you too, and because I had brought you onto the radar of my boss (maybe you met her today? Lisa, but not the Lisa who moderated your session), she suggested you to Mr. Lit Fest, and the rest is history--or the beginning of our awesome friendship. I don't typically use the word awesome so much. Forgive me.

You already know the highlights of the day as you were there hanging out with me and stuff, but let me take you through the good times you missed out on. I worked the Book Fiesta in the morning before you got there (remember I told you about making the salsa and getting it on my shirt?), so everyone else got there at various stages, but by a few minutes after noon we were ready to head for the line. We were in a pretty decent spot too.

I realized that I'd left my camera upstairs not long after we got into line, so while Martha was taking the twins one at a time to change their diapers on the lawn in the little garden area outside where we were waiting, I ran back up to my desk to get my camera. I asked if she would reenact the lawn diaper changes for me once I got back, but she apparently didn't want her babies' private business enshrined here on my blog. Go figure.

In that brief time while I was gone, the line was growing and growing. Some sweet lady behind us offered to take our picture all together since someone was getting left out of all the ones we were taking ourselves. I know it's confusing, but Martha's holding Jackson, who's really Amy's baby. That's Luke you can see in the stroller, but sweet Calla got cut off--but of course, you remember what she looks like anyway.

In addition to the diaper changes, the twins had to eat lunch in line--the sacrifices those babies made to meet you are impressive, huh? Trust me that nothing should ever come between Luke and his eating schedule. The boys likes his food.

The vestibule where we waited was airless and sticky with all those warm bodies, so I was quite ready to get inside the Darragh Center which I hoped would be pleasantly cool. You may recall it was not. We were melting in there too, so I speculated then about how many paper towels or tissues you were using to soak up the sweat from your armpits and wondered if you had enough to share. If I'd gotten to ask my question during the session, that's what it would have been.

Oh look, Calla's in this one--but now Luke is in the stroller. I think he was asleep by this point maybe.

I was trying to take a picture of Calla who was down the row being really cute when my camera batteries died. Can you believe the horror?!? What would I do if we couldn't have a our picture made together later? I had not come prepared for that possibility. Luckily Nichole had. She gave me new batteries and saved my life.

(Thanks, Nichole!)

Jackson waited until he was inside and sitting down to eat, but out of respect for Amy, I'm not going to show you that picture (though thanks to the Hooter Hider/Modest Mommy/nursing bib it's a perfectly respectable photo).

Hey! There you are. Of course, you'll remember this part. You really did a fantastic job, and you appeared completely undaunted during the whole laptop/slideshow debacle, so despite whatever you feel about your lack of strength as a public speaker, I thought you handled yourself like a pro. And I'm sure it didn't hurt that you're so beloved that we all were just giddy with seeing you and hearing you and getting to laugh with you in person, and no one in the audience cared about the a/v issues.

Later while we were standing in line waiting for book-signing, Nichole said, "wasn't she just like you thought she'd be?" I had to agree. Your warmth and genuineness and humor were exactly as I'd pictured them. I guess everyone else thought so too since we waited and waited and waited for the line to wind around for us to see you. Poor pregnant Monica just had to sit down, so we actually had a folding camp chair that she sat in and moved and scooted as the line meandered. The babies held up like champs through all the waiting. Both boys took naps and Calla only got a little fussy.

And then, at long last, we made the last corner and saw you, wearing those boots you've talked about so often, sporting the haircut you got last week (is it creepy that people know so much about your life sometimes?), and charming the socks off everyone whose book you signed. It was interesting to hear the sorts of things people brought up to talk about with you as they had their moment: homeschooling, being from Oklahoma, favorite recipes. I could tell that everyone felt as I did, that she'd known you long before she handed your her book to sign and that like me, she'd considered carefully what to say in her brief time with you to make a connection--to help you know her in some small way as she knows you. Everyone might as well have said, "Hi, Ree. I think you're great, and more importantly we're alike. If I lived down the gravel road from you, we'd be friends, great friends, inseparable. Instead let's be long-distance friends. You won't regret it. After all, all those things you say, those funny things that happen to you, those foods that you love, I do all those things too. We're alike, you see." But saying that would come off just a shade stalkerish and desperate, so instead we honed in one one detail, one thing to tell you that would make us special, make us important to you, if only for a moment, because you're important to us. And you delivered for us, listening to those snippets and details, responding with your sweet smile and appropriate questions, and acting for all the world as though you had all the time in the world to talk to us.

When my moment came, it was no different. I was grateful to Lee Ann (the Lit Fest girl who was opening the books and handing them to you) for telling you that I worked at the library so I could act like I was a little more special, a little more in-the-know than all the other folks who had passed through the line. I got to confess to you that I had salsa on my shirt, a splatter from earlier in the day when I had made your restaurant-style salsa (best salsa ever) for the Book Fiesta in the children's department. We got to bond for a moment on the perfection that is your salsa, and I felt the residual glow of your admiration for the cute babies in our group.

If there was one thing we could have done differently that would have made the moment pure, over-the-top perfection, we would have all crowded around you for a group picture. It would have been a lot like that first picture up at the top (but with Luke and Calla out of the stroller) and with you as our new friend right in the middle. When I think back on the day, that's how I want to remember it, that's the picture I see in my heart.

From all of us who have had those moments with you, thanks. Thanks for being everything we imagined you would be: the ordinary girl who loves butter and hates laundry, who delights in her kids and feels nervous about her weight, who does embarrassing things and owns up to them, who finds beauty in quiet everyday moments of family, food, and friends. Thank you for giving us your attention, for treating us like long-lost friends or new friends you'd been waiting to meet, just as eagerly as we'd been waiting to meet you.

Thanks for it all,

Ellen (your new best friend)

P.S. I didn't tell Amy or Martha or Monica about that second extra conversation we had as I saw you on your way out. They don't know how we talked about our fall Getaway and the Lodge. So once you figure out the details of how that might work, let me know. I can't wait to tell them.

P. P. S. I'm sorry it took me so long to get this posted. I got it mostly finished on Sunday, but then internet vanished from our home until today. It's not because I wasn't giddily excited about reliving our day together. Don't let my technological issues come between us. Please.

P. P. P. S. To anyone reading this who doesn't know about Pioneer Woman and her amazing-ness, get out from under your rock and go here. You won't be sorry. Promise.

stanley strikes again: another guest post

2011-04-07T09:55:00.001-05:00

Faithful readers will remember that Flat Stanley graced us with a guest post here back in February. Since that time he's traveled to other blogs and made some cameos on various facebook profiles, and today he's back again (well, not physically) to make a report on some of his other travels. The blog is yours, Stanley:

So after I spent a fun and relaxing time visiting Nana and the Popster, Aunt Ellen, Uncle Shane, and Hailey, I was ready for some kid interaction again. That’s what led to what may have been the most dangerous adventure of my illustrious career‐‐spending a lot of time around . . . The Sandlins.

Things started off pretty calm. We ate lunch at Mac‐Mac’s house on a Sunday which is what her bunch of Sandlins usually do. They all had big people food, but Elijah was nice enough share with me a plate of smallish morsels which were more suitable to my unique digestive needs. After lunch we retired to the deck for dessert and a visit. I mostly watched Elijah eat. I think that he must have learned about the Last Supper at church that day, because he was practicing reclining at the table. Rob‐Bob wasn’t reclining, but she was wearing clothes that looked suspiciously like pajamas so it was basically the same thing.

[Blogging failure's note: There's a picture of this--Stanley in a chair, Elijah lying down eating, and Robyn wearing Razorback pajama pants--but technical difficulties prevent it from appearing here. Sorry, Stanley--and Mac.]

Next, I went home with Mac and Jenni and their kids. Things were okay there to begin with, but then Jenni made me help cook supper. I even had to cut up the onions!! I was so afraid that I’d start crying and smear my face that I could barely keep the knife straight. Lucky for me, Jenni kept a close eye on me and made sure
that I was safe.

After that, I just sat around being bored for a couple of days. There was a lot of big talk about cool things that I might get to do, but you know how Mac is – long on talk and short on follow‐through. Eventually, we decided that I’d get to play Vikings with Elijah, and boy was I excited about that. It took about three or four days of shopping online for us to find just the right equipment for me. We got the helmet and battle ax right pretty easily, but Elijah was VERY picky about what my shield and armor ought to look like. Eventually, we settled on a round wooden shield with an authentic dragon design on it. Elijah says that the horns on my helmet are cow horns and that the brown part is made of leather with metal bands just like the toy one
that he has.

[Random historical note: Did you know that Vikings didn’t really wear horns on their helmets? A painter invented that particular bit of fashion for them several hundred years later. Thanks Wikipedia!!]

Once I had all of my Viking gear on, Elijah tried to show me how to make a warrior face. Apparently Vikings did a great deal of growling and snarling and more than their fair share of screaming. I sort of wonder if Elijah and the rest of the Sandlins might be descended from the Vikings…

As usual, one friend or playmate was not enough for Elijah. He wasn’t really happy until his dad got in on the action too. Luckily, Mac’s basically a big kid, and he was more than happy to don his Viking helmet and take up his weapons for a rousing Nordic battle.

After all of that violent rough‐housing, I decided that I needed a little break. I thought that playing house with Josie would be a nice change of pace. She let me cook a little in her singing kitchen, and we all sang along, “I like to eat red apples and yellow bananas, orange oranges and purple grapes, I like some colorful fruit, every
day, then I’m off to play!” Jenni told me that I was a welcome guest in her home but that she heard that silly song about six thousand times a day and was sick to death of it. I stopped singing immediately as I was afraid that she might make me chop the onions again.

Luckily though, she had a better idea. She showed me a place where I felt right at
home.

Josie really liked playing house with me. We opened and closed the door and turned the porch light on and off. We looked through the windows and rang the bell. Jenni did a good job of making sure that Josie didn’t tear my arms off too. I was so grateful that I didn’t even sing any of the songs that the musical door liked to play.

Later on, the Sandlin crew was invited to a picnic at the Wisdoms’ house. I decided that I wanted to come along to meet Elijah’s friend Gabe and his parents, Mr. Jeff and Mrs. Nancy. Mr. Jeff is Mac’s best friend and he’s friends with Aunt Ellen and Uncle Shane too. He and Aunt Ellen used to eat lunch together in college and the days when Mr. Jeff and Aunt Ellen were both at the table were always especially hilarious. At least that’s what they tell me. I also wanted to visit their house since it was the house that your mom and dad used to live in before you were born. Mac told me stories about going to Katelyn’s birthday party over there and watching her eat the cake when she was a baby. Elijah even took me back to her old room where Gabe lives now. I said that it was a nice place but that I would have liked it better if you had lived there.

[Technology fails again: imagine you're seeing a really sweet picture of Elijah and Gabe and Stanley holding hands.]

Josie was playing on a toy piano, and Jenni told me that she’d love to hear me sing along with her. It turns out that she really loves my singing so long as I’m not doing cover songs off of the playschool toys greatest hits album. Between the bright colors of Mrs. Nancy’s kitchen and dining room and the way that Josie kept trying
wad me up, it was hard to concentrate on getting all the notes right and remembering all the words, but I managed. I even got a standing ovation!

Well, the picnic was great fun, but I wanted to see some more of what all went on at the Sandlin house from day to day. Since tax season was going on, Jenni spent a lot of her time filing returns. I got to help a little. We’ve made sure to remove any relevant information that might show up on the tax forms. We wouldn’t want Jenni to lose her job.

I was going to go to Harding to see Mac’s work, but things there got kind of crazy. It turns out that they’ve offered him an interview for a permanent teaching position in the Bible department, so he’s having to act extra professional right now. He said that he’d make it up to me, but I didn’t know what he had in mind.

At first, I was a little nervous when he said that I’d need my Viking helmet and ax. I wasn’t sure if I was up for all the yelling and snarling again so soon (though Elijah never seems to get tired of it). Luckily, this time I wasn’t doing anything as dangerous as playing with Elijah. I was only battling a host of vicious dragons.

I figured that I’d better attack the most dangerous dragon first, but the Night Fury was so fast that I couldn’t get to him in time. Instead, I smacked the Monstrous Nightmare across his nose with my ax. He fell to the ground with a howl of pain. I dodged the darts that the Deadly Nader shot from its tail and quickly tied the
Hideous Zippleback’s two heads together in a knot. Just then, the Night Fury flew back down. Being the nimble fellow that I am, and knowing that Night Furies can actually be quite friendly when treated right, I sprang onto his back and began flying through the air.

It was a pretty spectacular end to a long and exciting stay with the Sandlins. As much fun as it was hanging out with the Sandlins, I’ve been sort of anxious to get home. I bet that you are missing me just as much as I’m missing you. So I’m climbing into my big envelope and coming home via the good ole’ USPS. I’ve got lots of souvenirs from my travels and lots of great memories. I can’t wait to see you and tell you all the details about my trip.
Your Pal,
Flat Stanley

a work in progress

2011-04-02T22:56:00.000-05:00

In February I learned that they were starting a group at my church who would take plastic shopping bags and turn them into sleeping mats to be given to homeless people. Apparently this is a real thing that people do. I was intrigued and thought I'd like to help, but I missed the first few meetings of the group for one reason or another. My friend Lacey had been attending, so I checked with her to make sure that latecomers were welcome and went to my first meeting about three weeks ago.

Here's what I learned and what I've been working on (with varying degrees of success) ever since:

First you need a plastic shopping bag (No, those aren't my hands. Shane was my helper for this photo shoot.) Straightening and flattening ensue.

This is a Dollar General Store bag from my favorite Dollar General in Clinton, Kentucky. Once it's flattened, you fold in half.

And in half again (or into fourths). You can do this without the folding, but I think it makes it easier to do the cutting that's coming up.

Trim off the bottom seams.

And trim off the top, making a straight cut under the handles.

Then you fold in half the other way and cut.

And fold in half again and cut.

This gives you four loops from each bag. You tie the loops together the same way you tie rubberbands together.

If you do that with lots and lots and lots of bags, it turns into plarn (plastic yarn--catchy, huh?) and you use the plarn to crochet the mat. Here's the ball of plarn I'm working right now.

For the record, that is my giant hand I'm using for scale.

I left that first meeting with a smallish ball of plarn (not the one pictured here), the most giant crochet hook in the world and the rough idea of how to create a mat. I didn't bother to tell anyone just how long it had been since my moma had taught me to crochet. I was confident in the internet's ability to reteach me anything I needed to know about crochet, and I was not disappointed.

I watched a video or two about the single crochet stitch, and I went for it. Chaining was the only thing I really remembered about crochet from that fourteen year old lesson, so I started with confidence. And honestly, it was simple.

That's the chain and the giant crochet hook.

I had a bit of a hard time feeling confident that I was placing my stitches in the right holes for that first row, but when I got to the end, it looked mostly uniform, so I flipped it and trudged on.

Once you get past the tricky (for me anyway) first row it's soothingly repetitive--unless you're me, and you realize three days (and several rows later) that you've been routinely skipping one stitch each row so you're should-be-rectangular mat is well on its way to becoming a triangle. Anyone familiar with my knitting history will not be shocked that I had to take out all my progress and start over multiple times before I figured out what I was doing wrong. Now it's all smooth, blurrily-photographed sailing.

Here's what it looked like on Monday (when I first started using the giant ball of plarn that my moma and Shane and Michelle helped me make.

And here's what it looks like currently (with my favorite brown flip-flop used as scale). Without measuring, I think it's dangerously close to half-way. See the two yellow stripes in the center? The slightly shorter one on the left is where I was on Monday, so I've gotten a braggable amount done this week, if I do say so myself.

I didn't realize until yesterday that it's grown a bit wider as I've progressed. I'm not adding stitches (because I count periodically now to make sure I've got the right number), but I have a problem maintaining constant tension. That's the reason I quit crocheting all those years ago when my moma taught me. Oh, well. I don't think it's too bad, and maybe I can keep it under control.

And that giant ball of plarn? Here's what it looks like now:

It takes a lot of bags to make a mat, obviously. But so far my lovely family and friends have kept me well-supplied, and I think I'll eventually have so many of them trained to make plarn that I won't have to worry about ever running out. I'll try to remember to take a picture of the finished product for you.

the moment for which we've all been waiting

2011-04-01T12:24:00.001-05:00

I got an email earlier today--one that I have been anticipating for 357 days. I wanted to share the exciting news it brought first with you faithful, imaginary readers as you've been with me all this time, waiting patiently, offering encouragement, and keeping this dream alive. The email was everything that I had imagined it could be. Funny, emotional, full of hope . . . funny. I always knew it would be funny. I'll admit that I opened it with a fair amount of skepticism. It couldn't be what it appeared, but as I read, I couldn't control my giddiness, that hiccup of amazed laughter. It was a perfect moment, but I'm glad no one was around to witness me dorking out live.

I'm explaining this badly, aren't I? Pardon my lack of coherence. I expect I'll be flustered by this for a while yet. The specific contents of the email are too special, too private to share here, even with my loyal blog friends, but here's what I will tell you. The email was from him. FHDM, the soulmate himself. I've given up on being surprised by the hows and whys of people finding my writings here and responding to them after last year's HGTV nod, but I'm still amazed that the drivel infrequently poured out here caught the notice of FHDM. And maybe he was just being nice, but he's kind of a fan--enough of a fan that he'd like to meet. Yes, you read that correctly. This is how our story begins--and you were here to see it happen. I'm nervous and scared and excited and beside myself.

Only today could a post like this be possible.

happy birthday, bird

2011-03-29T19:48:00.000-05:00

Eight years ago today in the wee hours of the morning, I was waiting for a phone call telling me that niece #2 had arrived. I was keeping three-year-old Pointer and had put her to bed hours earlier, but Bird was being contrary and slow in making her appearance. She finally arrived in the pre-dawn hours, and I got to meet this gorgeous girl a few hours later. I've been in love with her ever since.

This year the Virginia-residing Bird celebrated turning eight in Kentucky at Nana's with an Arkansas Razorback-themed party. All the moving in her little life has left her with a geographic-identity crisis, obviously. But other than that little oddity, my girl is just about perfect. Let me tell you my five favorite things about Bird.

5. I'm not sure she'll approve of this or think it's a good option for a five-favorite list, but I love her voice. Mispronunciations and substituting wrong sounds is a part of normal language development for all kids, and I can name any number of children who do so memorably and charmingly, but something about the way that Bird talks has always been sweet and special and endearing to me. She used to pronounce sister as shishter, and it was possibly the most precious thing ever. We made her repeat it endlessly in a manipulative and exploitative way. She's long since mastered all of her sounds, but something about her voice and manner of speaking retains that sweetness. When everything about her is entirely too big and grown-up, her voice connects me to the baby and toddler and little kiddo that she used to be, and I need that. I am dreading the day when her voice grows up as much as the rest of her and loses that quality.

4. Bird is our little melting pot. People have always said that she looks like her moma or sometimes her Aunt Ellen, but her personality can be (and has been) attributed to a host of other people. She has her daddy's sense of humor, and I think he's the source of her adventurous creativity. But she's also got Michelle's sensitivity and tender feelings when she's hurt. The way that she reacts to people is a lot like Michelle too. There are moments when she's exactly like her Nana (especially if she's being roughly affectionate), and I can see definite bits of her uncles in her stubborn determination or her competitive streak. She's such a mixture of so many people that I love that I can't help but love that in her. Some people have accused Bird of being like her Aunt Ellen, and I'd be lying if I said that wasn't another layer in loving who she is.

3. My girl is a creative genius. She can make just about anything. From the time that she was three or four she was supplementing her dolls' wardrobes by creating outfits or accessories out of paper. She's since moved up from paper to other mediums. The last time that they moved she commandeered cardboard boxes for building projects, and one time recently when she was at Nana's, she started making weapons out of sticks. She's got a fully functioning bow and arrow and now a gun that she created out of sticks and a few other odds and ends. She recently decided that she wants to be an engineer when she grows up, but not a boring engineer like Uncle Josh. When she gets it into her head that she needs something that she doesn't have, she just builds it--no matter how unlikely it should be that she can. That determination to make anything she decides upon is a driving force in Bird's life. She's always been the sort of girl who could accomplish anything once she sets her mind to it from learning to whistle to playing every sport available to building a sixty-three inch paper airplane. The kid gets stuff done, and I dig it.

2. It's a close race at the moment, but any day now Bird is going to surpass me as the funniest person in our family. And it's a fairly big deal that I love her humor enough to not become ridiculously competitive or pouty about that prospect. If you know me at all, you've heard me brag before at her mad comedy skills. She had a impressively-developed sense of comedic timing at age two. I knew we had a prodigy on our hands when she changed song lyrics to make fun of her daddy when she was two or three (Will is famous for doing this). Although in the past couple of years Bird might have relied more heavily on potty humor than is strictly necessary, she is completely hilarious. She is a master of little kid goofy, but she also teases like a champ and holds her own in our family of comedians. I know my imaginary readers are probably tired of reading about how funny my family is, but seriously, Bird is one of the best, and it can't be said or appreciated enough.

1. I feel like I'm going to do an inadequate job of describing this last, best, most favorite thing about the Bird because it's kind of a complicated thing, but I'll do my best. Bird doesn't love indiscriminately. She doesn't suffer fools, and she is a bit more reserved in lavishing love and attention than some of us. But when you've made her list and earned that love and attention, it's completely worth it. She loves intensely and sincerely, and being on the receiving end of her heart is a feeling to be treasured. It's a love strong enough to smother and sweet enough to make smothering seem appealing. And the slight rarity of it, that comes with knowing that she's discerning in bestowing her affection, makes it that much more dear.

Happy birthday to my complicated baby girl. Even though I saw you yesterday, I miss you already.

17 reasons why i haven't blogged lately (in random order)

2011-03-24T00:41:00.000-05:00

1. I spent exactly thirty minutes at my desk today. Granted I came to work an hour late and took a longer-than-normal lunch. but I also left somewhere between fifteen and forty-five minutes late. I didn't work the public service desk at all. I'm not saying I usually blog at work, but I do type out quick ideas as I have them sometimes, and I typically take all my "breaks" and lunch at my desk which gives me time to work on my informative and entertaining posts. And if I work the public service desk at a slow time, I do sometimes indulge in more personal internet pursuits (a category into which blogging falls) while I'm waiting around on someone to assist.

2. I ate lunch today with Peeps Monica and Martha and the tweeps. It was a thousand times better than lunch at my desk with the internet. I was having way too good a time to blog--plus I spent a decent fraction of the meal baby juggling with Martha, and I can't feed myself, hold babies and blog all at once. I'm no super woman. P.S. My storytime wooing of the tweeps has not yet won them over to adoration of me, but I shall not be daunted.

3. Often lately I've been eating lunch and taking breaks in our staff lounge (despite what I said to the contrary in the previous two excuses). My library friend Philip gave up going out to lunch for Lent, so he's been bringing his lunch, and I've been bringing my lunch almost daily since the beginning of the year, so we've been eating together upstairs more. Sometimes Bob comes too. We bring our handwork (they're both knitting hats at the moment) and work on our various projects.

4. It's spring break round these parts, and we're doing alliterative programs for school kids every day this week. On Movie Monday, I passed out popcorn and showed How to Train Your Dragon to fifty-one library friends. On Tie-Dye Tuesday, I calmly dealt with fifty-three library friends and the rainbow-hued carnage they left on the tables, floor, and my hands. Today on Wii Wednesday I played and supervised and refereed twenty-two library friends through multiple games for three hours. These unexpected well-attended pursuits have pushed me much closer to exhaustion than I should be, and while that's embarrassing, the fact remains that sitting down and stringing clever words together just wasn't in me (still isn't, but here you go anyway).

5. As I previously mentioned I've been working on balance and moderation in my personal interests and pursuits, so at home I've been reading and cooking and keeping all the dishes washed and watching tv as a family with Jess, and I've been trying to spend less time glued to my laptop. Providing intellectually stimulating blog fodder is the unintended casualty of moderation--though those unfinished home projects as yet remain unfinished.

6. I mentioned in #3 that I'm bringing my handwork to lounge lunches and breaks with Philip and Bob, but I haven't told you about what I'm doing. I'm actually working on a post all about it, so I'm not going to tell you until that's ready, but my steady work on this undisclosed craft project has given me something to do with my hands besides typing out blogs for you, and I am really excited about showing you someday.

7. I had an interesting and busy weekend. Our church is doing some painting and cleaning at an elementary school while they're out on spring break, and I went to help clean and tape for the paint crews on Saturday. One of the areas we painted was the cafeteria where they had to work around a mural depicting Carson-Dellosa kiddos following the posted cafeteria rules. It was a mostly really cute except that it was unfinished. I thought it a shame that our freshening and sprucing would still be overshadowed by the half-finished people (that weren't on our list of approved fixes). I asked if I could come back the next day and finish them, so our man in charge called someone from the school, and I got permission to do it. I went back on Sunday to finish the job and recruited some help, and we almost got it done. My sidekicks completed the mural on Monday while I was at work slinging popcorn for the movie-goers. Jess went and took pictures, and it turned out beautifully.

8. I would have liked to be able to blog about the successful selection of a winning NCAA tournament bracket, but alas, my hopes have been dashed for another year. I'm currently tied for last place in a pool of ten friends and family members. It shouldn't surprise me any longer that I'm terrible at these picks, but it's always disheartening. All of my Final Four teams are still in the running, so although I still have a higher-than-some points potential, I've missed many, many significant picks. I suspect that this week's games will drive the final nail in my bracket's coffin. It doesn't help that cousin, scholar, theologian and #1 blog fan, who admitted to making mostly arbitrary picks is in first place.

9. Laziness.

10. A lack of task commitment.

11. A stronger than normal tendency to ramble senselessly. Seriously, every time I try to post something lately, it turns into a torrent of messy words, and I abandon the effort.

12. A short attention span.

13. An almost unreasonable desire to do nothing but eat Dove truffle eggs. Until Saturday I hadn't found them at a store this Easter candy season, but now I know that Walgreens has them, and the desire to purchase and consume them is a constant presence in my life. In the spirit of balance and moderation (not to mention my healthy-eating choices), I'm trying to keep this from becoming an obsession, but it's a near thing.

14. Time seems to be passing at a fairly high rate these days. I don't mean to let days (or weeks) go by between posts, but somehow even when I have ideas at the ready for my next posts, days pass in a blur with no writing to show for it. I'm sure this is just one more sign of my increasing age. It goes nicely with my flights of nostalgia, the giant gray streak in my hair, and my geriatric tendency to be set in my ways.

15. I've been spending more time talking to Jess. She's nice, but sometimes I get too busy or cranky or in my head to talk to her. That's being a loser-y sort of friend, and I'm working on that. I like talking to her when I'm not being too much of a jerk to do so.

16. A sense of guilt that because of the increasingly significant time elapsing between posts, I need to bring my A-game for the imaginary readers lurking here, desperately hoping for some new communication from me. When all I can produce is pointless drivel (for instance: more than a dozen lame and needy excuses for my lack of posts), I have a difficult time allowing myself to post such substandard fare . . . usually (though obviously not tonight).

17. I have become overwhelmed with my clear and unhealthy dependence on the adverb. What if I use more than my allotment of adverbs while blogging, and I'm forced to go on without them? It boggles the mind and cripples my productivity. Please reassure me that this is not my fate, faithful readers. For my sake, for the sake of the blog, for all of us.

perfection, bliss, or why every good thing begins and ends with my moma

2011-03-17T12:03:00.001-05:00

Have I ever told you, imaginary readers, about my moma? Probably not. So let me fix that now . . . you see, I'm sort of a fan. In fact, folks reading about her here might think I was embellishing or exaggerating her awesomeness, but truly I'm not. She's just as great as she seems here. And the Popster? Well, he's not too shabby himself. So please indulge me as I sing their praises. After all, it's not like I do it all the time.

As the youngest kid in my family, I'm the only one of us who ever lived at home with my moma and the Popster without siblings. My senior year of high school when Joshua was at UK and after Michelle had moved away (Shane had been long gone for years), I was a mostly only child in our old Kentucky home out in the country. That was kind of a lonely year as I adjusted to life without Michelle (don't tell her, but I hated having our room to myself) and because my moma and the Popster were heavily involved in renovating our new Kentucky home in town where we would move just a month after I graduated. I was pretty useless to the remodeling process, and probably too selfish and lazy to help much anyway.

After we moved, Joshua was home for the summer, so that one doesn't count, but for the next four summers, I would come home from school and be an only child for three glorious months. I quickly learned to love it. We were a happy little trio. I never really went through one of those rebellious teenage phases where my parents were lame morons who wouldn't let me have any fun. I don't mean to imply that life was always perfect or that we lived like some sort of idyllic scene from a 50s sitcom. We argued, I'm sure because I like to argue. I'll assume I was stubborn and loud and lazy and messy (as I'm still those things now), but when I remember that time, I mostly just remember us being happy, having fun, and laughing.

There are countless little memories that we still talk about that are just for the three or us--or sometimes the three of us and Grams, who I'm closer to than most of the other grandkids just because I had those summers at home with her after Gramps died. That's when I became her favorite (but don't tell her I said that because she doesn't like to admit it). All that time spent together is why I can still crack her up (or my moma and the Popster) by mentioning the maple syrup in her sandal or the cake that flipped out of the fridge. I could tell you either of those stories, and you'd barely crack a smile, but being there for them . . . I wouldn't trade them for anything. All the stories aren't funny, but we still love them. If I remind my moma of the summer that I officially learned to cook and took on the project of keeping the refrigerator clean and organized, she'll do that squinty smile and say, "didn't we have fun?"

There's one story that was seriously un-funny at the time but sort of illustrates what our life was like (and which has long since become just another funny thing we say). One summer day, after a weekend where the other kids had been home to visit, my moma told me that I was less funny when the other kids were around. In her words, it was like I wasn't even trying. I got my feelings hurt big-time, and it's probably one of the maddest and meanest times I've had with her. She hadn't meant it as the insult I took it as--she really was wondering why I didn't entertain the troops in the same way that I tickled her and the Popster. It was practically a compliment to how hilarious and fun she found me on my own, but it still stung (because I'm a giant baby) that she thought I was less hilarious and fun when the siblings were around. And to be honest with ten years' worth of maturity, I can probably say that I wasn't as funny when the other kids were home because I was jealous and selfish and probably just wanted them to leave me alone with my happy family of three (but of course, I don't feel that way now and everyone adores me and thinks I'm hilarious without even trying).

So now that you know the ridiculously long and unnecessary history of my life as an only child, let me get to the point (or at least nearer the point). Although it happens rarely these days, I love to go home when no one else is going to be there, so that I can get the olds to myself and soak up all the spoiling attention. Since Grams moved to Arkansas last year, my moma and the Popster have made the trip to see us all down here so much more frequently that it's been harder to find a weekend when they're actually at home. Last fall, I was hungry for my old Kentucky home but between their trips here, Pointer's birthday in Virginia and teaching my four-year-olds on Sundays, we just couldn't make it work, but I vowed then that the second I was done teaching after the winter quarter, I was coming home for a weekend for just me. As it approached, I felt too selfish to actually go through with that, so I invited the sibs and their crews to meet me there, but luckily, no one did.

So nearly two weeks ago now, I spent a lazy, agenda-less weekend with my two favorite people in the world. Friday night as I was making my way to them, they were coming home from Frankfort where my moma had a work training all day. I had talked to her during our drives, and because they had to stop by the grocery somewhere along their way, it seemed like I might actually beat them there by a few minutes, but as I've never given back my key to the house, that wasn't going to be a deal. I don't know if the Popster sped up or I slowed down, but as I was pulling up to the house and preparing to make the left turn in the driveway, I saw I would have to wait for a car to go by first. Then as the car slowed down, I realized that it was them, and that we basically arrived at the driveway at the exact same time. We couldn't have planned that or repeated it in a million tries. And I think it was a sign of great things to come.

When I went upstairs to bed on Friday night, I wasn't quite ready for sleep, so I thought I needed to read for just a few minutes to make me tired. I have, over the years, stored tons of books under the bed in my old room. We've gone through and weeded before, and they're mostly things that both my moma and I have read and reread over the years, so I chose something I hadn't read since high school probably and read at least two pages before I fell asleep. Saturday morning I told her that I was finally ready to let go of at least part of the books taking up all that space, so we vaguely said we'd go through them sometime.

But that was too much like work for the Saturday we had planned. Instead we watched movies and forced the Popster to endure as many girly ones as he could stand. We worked on putting together the hardest jigsaw puzzle ever--in the shape of a dolphin, no less. And we talked and talked and talked some more. I love hearing about the goings-on in our little town. I love that it's a small enough place that even though I haven't lived there for ten years, I can still remember who she's talking about. She had been to the funeral home earlier that week, which is always the place to go to see folks you haven't in a while. Thanks to facebook, I keep tabs on more people from high school than I used to, so I sometimes know the gossip before she does these days, but talking to my moma about the latest Clinton news will always be one of the best things about being home.

The movie/puzzle marathon stretched into the evening, when we finally took a break to eat dinner. I hadn't wanted my moma to fuss over cooking the whole time I was home, but she still managed to ensure that we had one of my all-time favorites: pork chops from Nicky's, the oldest and most legendary barbecue establishment in town (and yes, our town of roughly 1600 people supports at least three barbecue restaurants--don't ask me how). Nicky's pork chops are huge and delicious and perfect, and I had been craving one for months. Also she made me a pie--one that wouldn't completely derail all my healthy-eating choices.

On Sunday afternoon, we finally got around to that book-purge. I was overwhelmed to discover that she had started a book annex under Joshua's bed because mine was full. I couldn't let go of everything, but we got rid of over half of them, so we're back to just storing them just under my bed. There were a few that I couldn't remember well enough to know if I wanted to send them away or not, so I came home with five or six books that I devoured in about four days, and that little kick of obsessive behavior helped me to figure out Lent, as faithful readers may recall.

In the book-purging process, I was reminded of what else lives under my bed: the four plastic tubs that contain our baby afghans and baby books and special outfits and mementos of our childhoods. So we went through my box and oohed and aahed over tiny clothes that I remember only from pictures, the afghan that my moma knitted for me (that's prettier than the other kids' afghans), and the baby book that was more filled-in than my moma feared. There were cards that had accompanied gifts from my birth and first couple of birthdays. I especially loved two different letters written by one of my great-aunts, who I generally consider both from stories I've heard and my own memories to be one of the meanest women ever. The letters were both so sweet and full of little snippets about my beloved great-grandmother that for a moment anyway, I could concede that the lady wasn't pure evil. My box also contained report cards and school awards and a few saved art projects and stories, which I found both charming and embarrassing. One of the funniest moments was when I came across a certificate I had gotten for honor roll or perfect attendance or something that entitled me to a free kids' meal at Druther's, which went out of business so long ago I'd all but forgotten it existed. (Special note to Shane: the Druther's certificate was the story I wanted to tell you last night.)

Eventually I had to tear myself away from my moma and the Popster (and the dolphin puzzle that we didn't have time to finish) to come back to the dreary reality of work, but everyday, ordinary perfection of spending relaxing, uninterrupted time with them has been a balm that makes the days a little easier. That's just the nature of our relationship. I'm a better person for how they raised me, but I'm a happier person just because they exist. Just imagine what a rotten grump I would be without them.

late to lent

2011-03-11T18:05:00.003-06:00

Lent crept up under my radar this year. My particular faith heritage doesn't observe the Lenten season as a group, so no one was reminding me. I've been thinking about it on and off, and had decided as recently as last week that I wasn't going to observe this year. I took on a whole lot of giving up and taking up last year (as faithful readers may recall), and I'll admit to not being as successful in that endeavor as I would have liked, and I think that accounts for part of my lack of motivation this year. I don't like to fail.

The other thing (that I haven't really talked about here yet) is that I've been working on healthier eating habits since the new year, and I sort of feel like I've used up all my self-discipline and self-denial in that process. Someday soon I might actually tell you more and report some victories in this area, but that's not for today.

Sometime yesterday I considered devoting this season to moderation. By nature, I have an obsessive personality. Most things that I develop an interest in end up consuming me to the detriment of other areas of my life. Sometimes that's reading. It's often tv, and it's constantly been the internet for the past several years. I am prone to allow my current addiction to come before cleaning my house, meeting work deadlines, sleeping, or helping others. Most of my obsessions aren't bad or harmful in and of themselves, but I use them harmfully. Even my aforementioned healthy-eating kick has become a bit of an obsession. Talking about it, planning for it, and tracking it have eaten up hours of my time in the past couple of months. So spending some time seeking balance and moderation in my life seems like an excellent focus. I have countless neglected, undone, and half-done projects desperately seeking completion, and I hope reorganizing time and priorities in my life will free up space to make progress on these. This will be my measuring stick.

I'll admit that a ridiculously-obsessive flurry of reading that consumed the past four days of my life brought this trait of mine into sharper focus, and it also highlighted what a lot of junk I read. So I'm committing to reading nonfiction (particularly nonfiction that threatens to inspire or improve me in some way) for the next little while--though I'm not convinced that this will last through all of Lent. Last night I started rereading Blue Like Jazz (something I've been meaning to do in preparation for the movie later this year anyway) because I wanted to refresh my memory of it before I read Million Miles (finally). I've got several other books that have been piling up ignored for a while, so I'll work through them for a while--in moderation, of course.

This morning as I was waging my constant war with tardiness, I came up with one other area I'd like to give attention. I'm going to give up being late. More importantly, I'm going to subdue that selfish part of me that excuses and encourages my habitual tardiness. I don't just mean that I'm going to get to work and church and appointments on time--although that would be a big enough order. I'm also going to meet deadlines and respond promptly to communication. I'm going to whittle my huge email backlog down. I'm going to stop wasting other people's time. I think this is probably the place where I'll fail most often and become most discouraged, but it needs doing.

As usual, my purpose in sharing my Lenten plans is to seek out accountability for myself. I invite you, imaginary readers, to check up on me, keep me honest, encourage me, and kick my butt as needed as you see me trying and failing and succeeding in these goals over the next thirty-eight days.

is this our meet cute?

2011-03-06T23:44:00.001-06:00

My first post back after a longer absence than I intended was supposed to be all about the perfect weekend I just spent with my moma and the Popster. I'm sort of pleased to have a new, more immediate blogging need crop up (though I'll get back to my moma, the Popster, and perfection one day soon).

About forty-five minutes from the end of my drive home tonight, I got a text from my blogging brother saying the first thing I had to do upon arriving home was read FHDM's latest blog post. (Yes, I read the text while driving. I'm sorry.) I couldn't imagine anything short of an engagement announcement would create such an immediate need, so I was in a bit of a wondering state for the last leg of my drive, but it very handily kept me more awake and alert than my recent audio-book-love revival could.

I was relieved and excited to discover that the post, rather than dashing my future marital prospects, gave me an opportunity to win a copy of one of FHDM's books. My first thought was that I already owned that book and that I might be too sleepy to post something just to get a free book. My second thought was that receiving gifts is not my love language so it wouldn't really matter if FHDM gave me a book for free, but it's FHDM we're talking about here, imaginary readers. I'm pretty sure any respectable soulmate would never allow fatigue or a mild obsession with love languages to stand in the way of future happiness, so here I am posting a video and providing an amazon link to the freshly released paperback version of the only of FHDM's books that I haven't read. Never mind that I already own a hardback copy. Never mind that I've owned said copy for more than a year and still not read it.

Maybe I'll give my copy away. Maybe I'll keep the paperback for sentimental reasons and let someone have my very unused hardback. I secretly prefer paperbacks anyway. Maybe I'll take so long getting the video embedded and correcting my spelling mistakes that I won't be among the first thirty anyway. But in soulmate affairs (no, not that kind of affair), one must always try. So here goes:

What story are you telling? from Rhetorik Creative on Vimeo.

I'd also like to add that my admiration for FHDM (obviously) goes much deeper than the physical, but I do think he's kind of adorable in this video. He has crinkly eyes, and I love that about him. I'd still want to be his FWES without the eye crinkles, but I'm considering them the icing on the cake.

little known fact #3

2011-02-19T11:14:00.000-06:00

Little Known Fact Background: I'm 98% certain that everyone who regularly reads this blog actually knows me. But sometimes I like to dream of a time when I'm famous for these ramblings and folks will flock here and pore over the archives of my early days. So I'm starting a new series (maybe) that will help those future fans (who truly are the imaginary readers I reference so often) get to know the real ellen--because you know, I've been doing such a first-rate job of not talking about myself up until now. And perhaps, some of you who are actually acquainted with me will still learn something from these "little known facts."

LFK3: I take it as a personal insult when the internet fails to provide me with information.

Lately I have found myself in frequent conversations about how we lived before the internet. Usually these discussions crop up when someone whips out their phone to do a bit of fact-finding when we can't remember some movie or song or person or piece of trivia. The conclusion I often come to is that in my pre-internet life my expectations were different. I didn't expect to be able to lay my hands on any piece of information whenever I wanted, so I was more comfortable with not knowing answers or relying on my imperfect memory for the answers I needed. But that's not how I live now. In my world these days, there's nothing that the internet can't tell me, and I consider any evidence to the contrary highly offensive. Knowing this background, let me share a story of how the internet recently nearly failed me.

I used my day off Friday to catch up on a backlog of DVRed shows that I've been neglecting thanks to the now-completed obsessive Harry Potter reread. As I was watching this week's 30 Rock, I spent a considerable amount of time trying to place the guest star who played Anders, the Martha Stewart-recommended Swiss prostitute. (Man alive, that show is ridiculously hilarious--or maybe ridiculous and hilarious.)

I immediately recognized him as someone I should know from other shows/movies, but I couldn't think of what those shows and movies were. I could distinctly remember a conversation with Peep Becky after watching him in a movie many years ago wherein she dubbed him "the poor man's Paul Rudd," but I couldn't remember what we'd seen him in that sparked that discussion. Eventually my irritation with my own forgetfulness took over my life. At first I had wanted to remember on my own, but I soon conceded that I would have to let the internet help me.

IMDB was my obvious first stop. Unfortunately they were only listing one guest star for the episode, and it wasn't my guy, and no one (at that point anyway) had started a discussion thread about the actor. So I next tried the 30 Rock page on the NBC website, but they didn't mention the name of the elusive guest star either. A viewer had posted a comment on the episode recap asking who the actor was, but at the time I was searching, no one had responded. Various Google searches yielded recaps and other bits of trivia about the episode but not the identity of this guy. I even googled the poor man's Paul Rudd thing hoping that Becky and I weren't the only ones to ever notice that the two actors look alike. That's when I truly began to feel that the internet was letting me down. I felt adrift in a world which no longer made sense, but I refused to give up. I began to try to picture the guy in other roles trying to stir my memory to recognize him.

During this mostly-fruitless exercise, I thought I recalled that he was in Band of Brothers. Don't ask me how I thought of this because I've never seen Band of Brothers, but it was the best lead I had. I looked it up on IMDB, but there were so many cast members listed that I lost momentum before I worked my way down the whole list. The thumbnails didn't immediately yield recognizable results, and I wasn't even really sure that he was in it after all, so I gave up that route of searching as a bad bet.

My next step was to text Becky to see if she could remember "the poor man's Paul Rudd," but a second after I sent the text, I realized it was after midnight in Ohio. Sorry again, Beck, for being such a rude, late-night texter. As I sat around feeling guilty for the inconsiderate lateness of the text, I finally realized that the credits for the 30 Rock ep itself would list his name among the guest stars, but I had already deleted it from the DVR. And that's when the internet starting playing nice again. I brought the episode up on Hulu and skipped ahead until I found the credits. I was fully prepared to have to look up each guest star listed, but 30 Rock handily lists guest stars with their character names, so I found Eion Bailey almost immediately.

Big satisfied sighs of relief here. So all that was left to do was look through his filmography and feel every sort of embarrassment that I hadn't remembered what I recognized him for. Most recently he was on the USA series Covert Affairs, which I watched last summer. He also spent a season or so playing an intern on ER. I felt especially stupid for not realizing that one. And sure enough, he was in Band of Brothers, so if I'd stuck with that search method, I would have found him eventually (though his IMDB profile photo doesn't lend itself to easy recognition in the thumbnail size, in this girl's opinion). And finally I found the movie that had sparked that conversation with Becky long ago: Center Stage. Once I saw that, I was amazed that I hadn't recalled in vivid detail because we love that movie. And finally I was reminded that he did a very memorable turn as part of the hyena pack that eats the principal in Buffy. How could I have forgotten that?

And for the record, there are multiple discussion threads on his IMDB that refer to the fact that he looks like Paul Rudd, so it's not just Becky and me.

In the end, the internet did come through for me, but it was very rocky there for a while, and I will admit that I'm still disappointed in how my life was almost ruined by the unhelpfulness of my most reliable friend.

sometimes i'm surprised by the things i care about

2011-02-17T17:24:00.001-06:00

A couple of weeks ago I was minding my own business when cousin, scholar, theologian, #1 blog fan left me a voicemail wondering if Al Green should really be included on any list of the top five greatest love songs. Apparently everyone on the radio asserted that he should, and CST1BF disagreed, or at least thought he should disagree. At that time, he requested my thoughts on this category of music. My immediate response was to write it off. I'm quite terrible at such lists, and I don't especially favor love songs. But then I started thinking about it, and I couldn't stop until I'd done some research and some list making of my own.

I think greatest lists are difficult for me for a couple of reasons. First I'm not objective enough to separate my personal favorites from any sort of empirical standard of excellence. And even if I give up on that and just go for detailing my favorites, I'm still fairly horrible at picking favorites partly because I'm indecisive, partly because I always have a nagging feeling I'm leaving out something important I haven't even thought of, and partly because I suspect that those items that don't get picked for my list will feel sad and neglected and left out, and I just can't live with that on my conscience. But CST1BF keeps nagging, and I hate to see my research go to waste, so here I am posting about great love songs.

The interwebs provided a jumping off point with several lists from various sources, but it soon became clear that my idea of a good love song didn't necessarily mesh with the lists, and I began to see the need for categories, so that's how this will be organized. There will be some overlap, and several songs that could appear in multiple categories, but I'll stick 'em where I think they belong. Also CST1BF asked me for a list of five, so I'm claiming all these lists have five songs in them whether they actually do or not. I can't cut any more, so you'll get the number you get. I'm going to attempt to link all my selections to youtube versions. I'm quite certain based on my experience in the research process that some of the videos that people have made to accompany the songs will be fairly horrible, but I wanted you to hear the songs in question, so please just listen and don't judge the song by the video. One final warning before I start naming names: any term such as great, greatest, best, etc. that may be used is strictly my opinion which I admit isn't worth much at all.

5 Best Country Love Songs

I may have mentioned previously that I was raised on country music in my rural upbringing, and for many years in my youth it was my preferred genre. These days I don't particularly have a favorite genre, and I don't currently listen to country music, but what I do know about current country tells me that nothing's come along lately that could topple any of these songs:

"Something that We Do" Clint Black: Robyn does an extremely awesome Clint Black impersonation, but I've never seen her try this song. Maybe I don't want to because I really love it in a serious way, and her impression is far from serious, unless you count being seriously hilarious. Under normal circumstances I would, but not when it comes to this song.

"Where've You Been" Kathy Mattea: I sometimes have mixed feelings about story songs, but this song makes me cry. It's so sweet.

"I Believe in You" Don Williams: This song doesn't need me to say anything about it. That's how phenomenal it is. I kinda wanted to include the Don Williams song "You're My Best Friend" too, but I thought that might be overkill.

"I Will Always Love You" Dolly Parton: Say whatever you will about Whitney, you will never convince me that her version can touch this one. Dolly owns this song. She wrote it about Porter Wagoner (HI!), and that's sort of precious enough, but then in Best Little Whorehouse when she sings it to Ed Earl, it's heartbreakingly perfect. As you'll see in these lists, I prefer my love songs to be a bit more happily ever after, but I'll make an exception for this song any time.

"It Was" Chely Wright: I feel like people are going to question this choice, but I love this song. It's so strong, maybe even forceful. And in the music video (which I've been careful to link to here), she cries the most gorgeous tears imaginable.

"One Friend" Dan Seals: To be clear, the word love does not appear anywhere in the lyrics of this song, but it's an achingly beautiful description of love, and I'll dare anyone to say otherwise.

5 Best 80s Love Songs

Though country music ruled where I'm from, pop music of the 80s is an intrinsic part of the soundtrack of my childhood as well, thank in no small part to having teenage siblings during those years. There are probably tons of songs from this decade that can stand on their own on any great love song list without qualification, but I think sometimes the complete 80s-ness of their sound holds certain songs back, but I can't stop loving them anyway. Here are my five favorites that scream 80s.

"Time After Time" Cyndi Lauper: I'll be the first to admit that I don't 100% get the words of this song, but I still love it and think it's beautiful. So there.

"Crazy for You" Madonna: I'm not necessarily a huge Madonna fan, but I'm crazy for this song.

"Eternal Flame" The Bangles: Do you remember that episode of Gilmore Girls from season 1 when they go to a Bangles concert? And they sing this song? If Madeleine and Louise weren't interrupting with all their drama, it would have been perfect.

"Faithfully" Journey: These days Glee has made Journey such a thing that I almost left them off the list, but my affection for Journey (thanks to my moma's slight obsession with Steve Perry) is so long and far-reaching that I knew I couldn't leave them out. And I've always liked "Faithfully"more than "Open Arms," which is probably the more obvious Journey choice.

"Nothing's Gonna Stop Us Now" Starship: We used to tape episodes of Friday Night Videos, and my moma still has some of those VHS tapes at her house, which are enjoyable as much for the vintage commercials as the videos. But I can remember this video from that era, and this song still stirs warm, fuzzy memories from my childhood.

5 Most Overplayed Love Songs that I Love Anyway

I almost called this list guilty pleasures, but I don't think I should feel any guilt or shame for loving these songs. I think that most of these are songs you hear quite a lot because they are so great, but since familiarity breeds contempt, it's easy to discount them simply because they're everywhere. The ubiquitous nature of several of them makes it feel like putting them in the actual "greatest" list is a cop-out. Thus I've created this "overplayed" list. And don't worry--despite my secret love of Peter Cetera's voice "You're the Inspiration" will not be appearing here as a favorite. Even I have my limits.

"Your Song" Elton John: I've always loved this song, but I'll admit that Moulin Rouge intensified my feelings towards it.

"Can't Help Falling in Love with You" Elvis: He is the King, after all, so of course, he needed some representation here, and I think this is his best love song.

"Bridge Over Troubled Water" Simon & Garfunkel: When other people sing this song, it's the worst kind of cheese, but I do have a vast affection for the original version.

"I'll Be There" Jackson Five: Michael Jackson was a brilliantly talented man. Crazy as all get-out, but talented.

"Maybe I'm Amazed" Paul McCartney: Yummy, yummy song.

5 Great Love Song Duets
I originally only had four lists, but they kept growing longer and longer, and I began to notice that they were starting to choke on duets, so I culled a few from those other lists for this special category.

"Endless Love" Lionel Richie & Diana Ross: This song could just as easily fit in the overplayed list, but it's brilliance as a duet even outshines the fact that it's played out. (I first linked to a live version where Lionel had an especially impressive afro, but the sound on it was tinny, so I chose instead a series of Disney clips set to this song. It's precious.)

"I Knew You Were Waiting (For Me)" Aretha Franklin & George Michael: I love this unlikely pairing, and I love this song.

"After All" Peter Cetera & Cher: Peter Cetera is the voice of 80s love songs, so feel proud that I was able to get him down to just one mention ("Glory of Love" was on the 80s list until really close to the end). This duet is the reason I own the movie Chances Are (on VHS).

"Always" Atlantic Starr: Of course, the most famous rendition of this duet was by Peeps Paige and Becky at Fall Getaway 2007, but my love for this song goes back to the original Atlantic Starr version. (Finding a decent video of this one was more difficult than picking the songs themselves.)

"Nobody Loves Me Like You Do" Anne Murray & Dave Loggins: This was my moma and the Popster's wedding song, so even if it was awful it would remind me of the blessing that their love has been to our family for the past couple of decades. But Anne Murray's voice is so delicious, and the song is far from awful.

My Vision of the 5 Greatest Love Songs
Categories aside, these are the best of the best (of the best, SIR!) for me.

"The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face" Roberta Flack: Let the record show that I do possess at least a little objectivity, which is to say I didn't just flip through my own music collection and pick songs I own or listen to constantly. I know this song and like it, but definitely don't own it or count it as a favorite, but I think objectively it's a tremendous combination of powerful lyrics and a hauntingly romantic melody.

"You've Got a Friend" James Taylor: (I specifically chose this video for JT's long flowing hair.) I'm beginning to see how these choice I'm making say a lot about what I think is important in love. This is definitely one of those cases.

"Love Never Fails" Brandon Heath: This is the newest song on the list, and it's possibly a bit chancy to place a song that's only three years old among so many others that have stood the test of time, but its inclusion demonstrates the power that this song has for me. The lyrics are just beautiful and perfect.

"I Love You for Sentimental Reasons" Nat King Cole: This man's voice was made for love songs. "When I Fall in Love" lands on all sorts of greatest love song lists, but I think this one is a better love song.

"I Will" The Beatles: I had a bit of work narrowing down the list to just one Beatles song, but this one is my favorite of their love songs. Feel free to argue the case of your preferred Beatles tune below.

"God Only Knows" The Beach Boys: I am not above admitting that this song came to my attention primarily because it's played during the closing credits of Love Actually. I've been sort of surprised how many movie connections these songs have for me.

Well, the good news for CST1BF is that I didn't include Al Green. The bad news is that it took me over two weeks to still not be able to fully answer the question.

a guest post from flat stanley

2011-02-09T16:06:00.001-06:00

There was a largish envelope in my mailbox when I got home Monday night. Inside I found Stanley, who came from Bird by way of Nana. So far he's been a delightful houseguest, and we've had such fun together, that I asked him if he'd share with my imaginary readers here all of our adventures. He very politely accepted. Take it away, Stanley:

Thanks, Aunt Ellen, it's great to be here with the loyal fans of the opinions. And of course, I can't say enough nice things about the good time you've been showing me.

Monday night I came out of the mailbox so late I thought we'd probably just introduce ourselves and turn in for the night, but apparently Aunt Ellen keeps much later hours than Nana and Popa because she hadn't even had dinner yet. She let me cut up some vegetables for a salad, and we even had an apple dumpling for dessert.

Aunt Ellen has new bedding, and I got to be one of the first people to see it. She even had a small pillow just right for me, but she still wasn't ready for sleep.

We read Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix for a while. We were very close to the end, so it was really exciting even if I didn't know exactly what was going on having missed the first 750 pages or so.

Her roommate Jess came home from work while we were reading, so I got to meet her. She said I could call her Reginald, but I'm not sure why.

The next morning, I got to go to work with Aunt Ellen at the library. Right off the bat, she got me set up with my own library card! (I think she had to bend a few library rules to do that. I hope she doesn't get in trouble.)

I got to play on the computer a bit--this cool computer has lots of games, and a touchscreen, but the headphones were really heavy for me.

I also got to meet the snowman I'd heard so much about. What a nice guy!

She let me pick out a book and showed me several books about my own adventures.

I decided to read about the time I went to space, and Aunt Ellen helped me check the book out.

Back at her desk, she introduced me to some friends who were just my size.

Aunt Ellen does a lot of work at her computer, so I mostly just hung out and read. She did have a class of kids come in to check out books from a nearby school, but she was so busy with them that I just stayed out of the way.

When we finally got home, I was worn out, so Aunt Ellen cooked dinner without me. She let me have free rein of the remote while she was busy. I watched the Disney channel, of course.

All day at work folks were talking about a big snowstorm that was supposed to hit on Wednesday morning, and we found out before bedtime that lots of schools and even the library had already decided to call a snow day, so we were excited to get to stay at home and have fun the next day.

Aunt Ellen says that she woke up and couldn't go back to sleep at 5:40 this morning, but she let me sleep in. She woke me up around nine so we could have breakfast burritos. I ate mine so fast she didn't even get a picture. I promised I'd help her do dishes later if we could go out and play in the snow. She was worried about me being too cold. Nana made me a coat when I was in Kentucky because it was so cold, but I still needed some warmer gear, so Aunt Ellen made me a hat, scarf, boots, and mittens! Isn't she a great aunt?

She was still a little worried about me, so she also wrapped me in plastic wrap. It was a bit hard to breathe, but at least I stayed dry.

We set to work working on a snowman, and I wanted to make him flat like me.

Didn't we do a great job? Aunt Ellen helped a lot, but Reginald just stood around mostly.

I also made a snow angel, which is harder to do you than you might think when you're flat. It was still snowing and getting heavier.

Aunt Ellen and Reginald decided to take a walk up the street just to look around, but since the snow was nearly as tall as me in most places, Aunt Ellen left me to play safely on the porch.

It was really coming down out there! We were soon ready to come inside, take off our wet things and warm up. Aunt Ellen let me have hot chocolate with as many marshmallows as I wanted--and I wanted lots.

We decided to spend the rest of the afternoon inside, so first we played some games of Uno. I was just about to win when Aunt Ellen played the draw 4 wild card, but I was a good sport.

Later I wanted to do something crafty, so Aunt Ellen tried to teach me how to knit. I started out doing all right, but then something went wrong.

Luckily Aunt Ellen managed to get me untangled. She started getting sleepy in the afternoon. I guess her early morning was catching up with her, so she let me play spider solitaire while she took a nap. I think I improved her win percentage by quite a bit. She needed the help for sure.

That's what we've been up to here. I was worried that this post would be too boring compared to the clever, sophisticated posts that Aunt Ellen's readers are used to, but she assured me that people kept reading through those boring vacation diaries back in the fall, so I think we're safe. It's been great to be here. I secretly hope we get another snow day tomorrow, so Aunt Ellen and I can have even more fun together! If the roads clear up, she's threatening to take me to Uncle Shane's. Thanks for reading!

And thank you, Flat Stanley for your guest appearance. Good luck in your travels.

haikus

2011-02-08T18:01:00.001-06:00

Seasonally-appropriate poetry:

Wintry weather nears--

More menacing than last time.

Snowpocalypse Eve.

Snow days fill my soul,

but I won't get my hopes up--

burned by that before.

Phil said spring would come

Guess the weather is balmy

in Punxsutawney.

Run on bread, milk, eggs.

Attention Kroger shoppers:

French toast goes with snow.

One piece of advice

if Snowmaggedon finds us:

turn into the skid.

Fear not, faithful fans,

Snowfallocaust may provide

guest post tomorrow.

if my yahoo account were an archaeological dig . . .

2011-02-01T19:15:00.001-06:00

I got my first email account back in 1996. It was a hotmail account that I let lapse during an era when I didn't have internet at home, and I didn't want to maintain both work and personal email accounts. But right before I left that job in 2003, I realized how dumb it was to have let my personal account go, and I signed up for a yahoo account and forwarded a few emails I didn't want to lose from my work account to the yahoo account.

In real life I have definite packratish tendencies. I still have a collection of letters and cards I exchanged with long distance friends during high school, and in that same file are a few printed emails from my college account that I didn't want to leave behind. Sometimes when I think about that hotmail account I lament that I let some good things slip into the internet void, but I still have a fairly long-reaching anecdotal history of the past nine years in my yahoo account. No, I don't save every email. In fact these days, it has to be pretty dang special to earn a spot in the "keeper" folder, but things do make the cut. Sometimes when I need to be reminded of a particular fact from my history or if I just need to read something special, I can turn to the keeper folder for some heart-warming nostalgia--or occasionally some heart-breaking memories.

I've been rereading Harry Potter lately, and yesterday I started Order of the Phoenix. I can never think about year 5 at Hogwarts without remembering my initial reading experience and the email that it generated. Because I came late to the Harry Potter love-fest, Order was the first book on whose release I actually had to wait, and I unknowingly started a tradition that I would maintain through the book 7. This morning when I was in the shower (where I do my best thinking), I thought it would be a hoot to publish that eight-year-old email (one of the earliest in my keepers folder) and share with my imaginary readers my very first thoughts on the book.

I originally sent this message to family members and Peeps, and it was written so near the release of the book, I assumed people wouldn't have had a chance to finish it yet, so it is virtually spoiler-free. It comes from a time in my emailing history when I was staunchly opposed to capital letters. In the same vein, I used brackets instead of parentheses because they don't require the use of the shift key. In my youthful exuberance, I also made sort of a disorganized mess of this email. I considered correcting that for your viewing pleasure here, but it wouldn't be a true snapshot of twenty-four-year-old me. And what kind of archaeologist would I be if I prettied up the details of the dig?

let me begin by saying that i couldn't exactly remember who all were harry potter addicted, so if you haven't read the books, this might be a little boring for you [actually, might be boring even if you do read the books]. my point is, my feelings won't be hurt if you get bored and stop reading.

so here's the run-down on the last twenty-four-ish hours of my life. i got to books a million at about 11 last night. even with my advance purchase voucher, i knew there'd be a line. i ended up with a pretty good spot and had the good sense to grab a dave barry book off the shelf to read in line so that i could avoid making eye contact with the crazies and have a buffer for the cranky kids--it was approaching midnight after all. so i was out the door of b-a-m by three minutes after midnight, which i thought spoke very highly of the faithful employees who were snatching and scanning vouchers and bagging those books with a speed that was impressive given the hour and the fact that they had been there with tv camera crews and all the crazies and cranky kids for way longer than i was. anyway by the time i drove through at backyard burgers [a person with goals and a thick book and who hadn't had supper needs sustenance after all] and got home and got myself focused, it was at least 12:30 when i removed the book jacket [i hate book jackets, by the way] and hugged [yes, hugged] the 870 page volume to me. then i dove in with both feet [no, i haven't touched the book with my feet]. sometime after three, my master plan broke down, and i convinced myself that the book would not disapparate [ha] if i slept for a while. when i woke again it was almost nine, and i blinked once and picked it up again. so anyway my point is this: i read all day. at one point i tried to eat ice cream [the only food i could find in my home that required no preparation], but it wasn't easy to do one-handed, so i sacrificed it for the good of the cause. i was successful in drinking mt. dew as that is generally a one-handed task. i finished the book at approximately 10:40 p.m. and embraced it again after a solid thirteen and a half hours of continuous reading, and about sixteen and a half of total time.

so here are my reactions that in no way give away any plotlines in case you are worried: i love harry potter, not just the books--harry himself. i actually stopped periodically through the story and thought to myself that i have a crush on a fictional character. anyway before i sat down to write this email, i tried to decide how this book held up against the other four, and i had to agree once again that at least for me, they get better as the years go by in that the more this story develops, the more i get drawn in and the more i love it, but is the order of the phoenix a better book than any of the others? not exactly. i have always known when i read harry potter that it's just one piece of a seven book story, so i know that when i get to the end of the book, it's not the end, so i'm okay with the fact that not all the loose ends get tied up in neat little bows, but that doesn't mean i don't like bows. ultimately the last three books [especially goblet, and now, order] to me suffer from empire strikes back syndrome. i'm wrapped up in the story, i know and love the characters, i know the relevant history, so reading the books and seeing more of that story develop is a joy, but getting to the end of what is available for me to read at this point and not having a happily ever after is always kind of a bummer. luke's just found out darth vader is his father and had his hand cut off, and han solo is frozen in carbonite and on his way to jabba the hut. it's a dark point in the story, and you know it's going to have to get better, but you don't have the benefit of being able to sit down and watch jedi [for those of you who aren't star wars fans, i apologize for the extended analogy]. still i love it, and i'm wondering how long i'll make myself wait before i read it again.

now if you'd like to know in very vague generalities what i thought about specific aspects of the book, i'll get to that. first i'm sure you all know that in this one, somebody important dies. no, i'm not telling who, but let me say that it's a big deal, and i hated it, but if you've talked harry potter with me before, you know that there was no one important that i felt was expendable. still in retrospect, after i stopped crying, i think that if someone had to go, this was the best choice. in other news, there's the usual frustration of harry not telling some big person everything that's wrong so they can help fix it, though there are extenuating circustances that make it a little more bearable this time around, and frankly, the idea of him being able to handle things on his own at fifteen is much more plausible than it was when he was eleven. my urge to keep him safe and protected is not so strong anymore, so i can handle the scooby gang not running to a real wizard this go around. at the end of goblet i sobbed for harry because he was just a little boy, and he didn't have a mom to hug him up and baby him, and admittedly part of my sobs at the end of order were for the same reason, but book five really mans harry up. he's not a baby anymore, and that came through in a big way for me in this book. and i think if i go on anymore, it will ruin aspects for you, so i'll stop.

here's my final plea: if you've read the book, write me back! i'm dying to talk to someone about it. if you haven't read the book, get off your butt and do something about it--i'm dying to talk to someone about it.

love to all, ellen

I can say that almost eight years later, I have the same intensity of feeling for this book and this particular reading experience.

I have a few more gems in my keepers folder (perhaps even some that don't pertain to Harry Potter) that I'll look at sharing in the future.

little known fact #2

2011-01-27T18:30:00.002-06:00

Little Known Fact Background: I'm 98% certain that everyone who regularly reads this blog actually knows me. But sometimes I like to dream of a time when I'm famous for these ramblings and folks will flock here and pore over the archives of my early days. So I'm starting a new series (maybe) that will help those future fans (who truly are the imaginary readers I reference so often) get to know the real ellen--because you know, I've been doing such a first-rate job of not talking about myself up until now. And perhaps, some of you who are actually acquainted with me will still learn something from these "little known facts."

LKF2: I feel morally superior about most aspects of my driving.

Maybe you already know this about me, but I'm considering this a little known fact because I didn't know it about myself until today maybe. I was sitting at a stop sign at River Market Avenue & 2nd Street lamenting, as I've done millions of times in the past fourteen years, that Arkansans don't understand the basic principles of the four-way stop, and I realized just how condescending I am about other drivers.

Four-way stops are not rocket science, but through my years as an Arkansas transplant, I've been shown time and again that no one in Arkansas really wants to follow the rules. Arkansas drivers love to wave people on ahead of them instead of taking their turns. I guess they're trying to be nice, but it's just stupid. I have watched cars try to out-wave each other to the point that the fourth car at the intersection will get fed up and take their turn. This behavior also breeds the sort of driver that assumes you're going to wave him on so he'll pause briefly and then take his turn no matter who got there first. Years of experiencing that has made me extra-careful, so I generally give my stop an extra second or two just to be sure that others are going to stop which leads to my absolute least favorite four-way stop driver: the guy who gets there after me and still feels the need to wave me on--as though he's allowing me the opportunity to take the turn that was mine all along. And because I do go ahead--because it was my turn--it seems as though I'm playing along with his little game. And then I want to hit someone. The rules of the four-way stop are logical and work for a reason. They represent one of those instances in life that I love--when following the rules is simple and expedient and beneficial to all. So when I witness Arkansans behaving badly at four-way stops, I don't just think they're too stupid to figure it out, I think they're breaking the rules because they can't be bothered to see the logic and benefit behind it. Essentially, I judge them all over the place.

My feelings of moral superiority don't stop at there. I judge speeders, folks who cut recklessly across multiple lanes of traffic, people who pass on the right, drivers who brag about their drivings skills as though that gives them permission to disobey the rules of the road. People who behave implicitly as though rules don't apply to them make me crazy in all situations, and since I follow the rules, clearly I'm a better person. Right? Aren't I?

I never claim to be a good driver. But I've always maintained that being aware that I'm not an excellent driver has made me more cautious, more attentive, more willing to submit to traffic laws, etc. In essence, believing I'm not a good driver makes me a better driver. So I get to experience another sense of superiority for acknowledging that I'm not in complete control of what happens out on the road and driving with that more realistic mindset.

Plus since I got the hybrid, I get to relish the fact that the choices I make while driving result in a better fuel economy and probably preserve the earth for the children and grandchildren of all those gas-guzzling reckless drivers out there. You're welcome, ingrates.

*****Jerky blogger's note: I had no idea I was going to use this series as a forum for so much complaining. But I'm discovering that so much of my life is an open book that it's difficult to find little known facts that aren't about the secret ways that I hate everyone and everything. Oh, well. I'm still optimistic that someday I'll find an LFK of which I can actually be proud.*****

i couldn't find my butt with both hands

2011-01-26T15:40:00.002-06:00

The Southern sayin' backstory:
I know the overriding characteristic of my writing here is sophistication, so this may come as a surprise to friends of the blog, but I come from a rural background. I grew up living eight miles outside of a town of roughly 1700 people. We had one county school, and I graduated in a class of about fifty-two. Not only is my hometown as podunk as they come, I come from an ancestry that is a mixture of Kentucky hill people and Tennessee dirt farmers. Because education has been a fairly high priority in my family for two or three generations now, I can largely pass for a mostly normal, non-hick person. Much of the time I'm even allowed to forget about this ridiculously country accent I have. But every so often, I find myself in a situation that can only be summed up in the dialect of my youth; some quaint, down home saying comes out of my mouth, and I embrace my true self. Today is one of those days:

I couldn't find my butt with both hands.

Perhaps, imaginary readers, you'll recall that I have from time to time used this forum to enumerate the many talents and virtues of my dear moma. It's no secret that I'm a fan. But today I've been forcibly reminded of one of her skills that has thus far gone unacknowledged here at the opinions. My moma can find anything, anywhere. She's the best finder I know. It's impressive, but an unintended consequence of her mad locating skills (skillz?) is that I'm one of the worst finders ever, and it just so happens that there's a sayin' we have back home for just such an occasion. I couldn't find my butt with both hands. This means just what you think it means, friends. The sayin' is used to desribe a person who is so poor at observing the world around him or her that he or she is literally incapable of locating his or her own backside even with the aid of both hands.

I lose things like it's my job, and for most of my formative years, I never made much effort to find them because my bloodhound of a moma could sniff out missing toys, shoes, and books in about a quarter of the time it would take me to wander around aimlessly "looking."

The most famous couldn't find my butt with both hands moment occurred when I was in college. I used to carry my student ID and driver's license and cash (when I had it) in a holder that was attached to my keychain. In my day, Harding girls didn't carry purses, so anything I deemed important got shoved into this holder and carried around with me. It made for bulky keys, but it fit easily into the front pocket of my backpack and could also fit into a jacket or pants pocket as needed. Unfortunately, I didn't like it in my pocket, so I usually took it out and set it on a table or my cafeteria tray or the songbook rack in the Benson, and as you might have imagined, I often left this important little bundle--my life on a keyring--in places all over campus. On one such occasion, when I discovered my keys were missing, I retraced my steps all over the place, emptied out my backpack, and turned out the pockets of anything I'd worn for days. Feeling sorry for myself and deeply embarrassed by my own stupidity, I called my moma to whine. True to form, she began to suggest all the things I could do and places I could look. I petulantly answered each of her suggestions. (Of course, I looked in my backpack. No, they weren't under the bed. Yes, I'd retraced my steps.) Then she suggested looking on the closet shelf. That got my most contemptuous response yet. (No, they weren't on the closet shelf. Why would I put them there? My keys are never on the closet shelf.) She very patiently suggested I look anyway. I flounced over to the closet confident that I'd get to be even more scathing in my reply once I'd looked there, and guess what was lying in plain sight on the closet shelf: my stupid missing keys. So it's not exaggeration when I say my moma can find anything. She once found my keys from 300 miles away. "Did you check the closet shelf?" has become an oft-repeated reminder in our family of just how good she is (and just how bad I am) at finding things. [Insider's note: it was "behind the rollers" before we had behind the rollers.] So seeing as how I'm one of those folks who couldn't find their butt with both hands, I find myself on the horns of a dilemma.

I've been in denial about this for a few days, but it's time I face the truth. My phone charger is missing. The facts (with a bit of editorializing because I can't help myself) of the case are these:

I "know" I had it during our snow days two weeks ago. I can "remember" being inconvenienced by the need to be plugged in (or maybe I'm remember that about my laptop but it feels like my phone), but I can't remember using it since.
I definitely didn't take it to Kentucky for Pinkie's birthday because I realized I hadn't packed it and used my car charger instead.
When I got home, I actively looked for it a couple times, but couldn't find it in any of the usual places--my work bag, plugged in to the outlet strip by my bed-side table, or lying in the floor near the couch outlet in the living room (yes, those are the places where my charger lives).
I expanded my search to include unusual places because even though I can "remember" using it since Christmas, I can't shake the nagging feeling that I never unpacked it from my Christmas travels. So I've fruitlessly looked in every bag/luggage/container that made that trip.
On Sunday when my phone was desperately low on battery, I convinced myself that I had taken it to work and left it plugged in there and once again used my car charger.
On Monday thanks to a timely reminder from my favorite blogging brother, I remembered to look around for the charger at work. No joy there.
Last night I double-checked all the places I think it could be at home, and it still hasn't turned up.

I'm at a loss. Truthfully, I am better at finding things than I used to be, but the current disorganization of my house doesn't lend itself to ease in locating missing items. And today I remembered the two sets of headphones that were stolen from my desk at work during the summer, and I'm concerned that the phone charger is just the latest casualty. But there's hope! My moma is coming into town this weekend (though be advised, potential burglars--she and the Popster will be leaving large, hungry, rabid dogs at their house so don't use that announcement as license to steal from them), so I'm sure she's going to be able to find it for me. She knows I'm useless in situations like this, so I'll just stick to looking for my butt and wait on her.

happy birthday, pinkie

2011-01-21T12:19:00.001-06:00

Six years ago today my first nephew was born, joining a trio of nieces. It was a Friday and though he wasn't due for another couple of days (on his Aunt Michelle's birthday), the doctor scheduled an induction because he was kind of a big boy. The nice thing about scheduled inductions is that people like aunts and uncles and nanas and popas have time to make the five or ten hour trip to be there to meet new babies. It's handy.

The other handy thing about Pinkie's birthday is that often falls on or near MLK weekend, so I get a long weekend to make the ten hour trip to party. So far in their little lives the Handful have had thirty-four birthdays, and I've been at every celebration. Taking advantage of long weekends has kept the dream alive for me. I know there will probably come a day when I'll have to miss one, but I do my best, and so far it's working out for me.

Last weekend we celebrated Pinkie's sixth a bit early.

(Let me interrupt myself here to say that those freckles, those dimples and that missing tooth are scrumptious.)

I took way too few photos of the party. Before things got going, Pinkie put on his knight costume to get into the spirit of the festivities. Thumb wanted to get in on the thematic fun as well, but baseball player dress-ups were the closest he could get. Pinkie generously allowed Thumb to act as his squire. Pinkie discarded his get-up before I took any photographic evidence, but you can still see the remnants of the squire costume below. I also didn't get any shots of the super-cute and chocolatey castle cake. Bad aunt. It's a pretty standard tradition to get a shot of the birthday kiddo with all the gifts right before opening, and I would have managed that one if not for Pinkie's awkward attempt at smiling. Usually it's not necessary to request a smile when faced with the prospect of diving into a pile of presents. But Pinkie's expression was so priceless that I skipped the gifts and balloons and zoomed in on that funny face.

Someone reminded him that he should probably be happy, and this was what we got. It looks more realistic, but I'm pretty sure it's fake too.

As a faithful squire should, Thumb carefully assisted with all the gift-opening and examining.

I think it's a testament to Pinkie's six-year-old maturity that he was so generous in sharing the paper-ripping experience.

******Bad photographer's apology: Sorry about my moma's shoulder featuring so prominently in this photo, but I loved the excitement and the grabby hands too much to leave it out. If this weren't Pinkie's post, I'd get side-tracked and tell you about how the sweater covering that shoulder was originially purchased for me as a Christmas gift, but my moma ended up liking it so much she kept it for herself.******

Another testament to six-year-old maturity: immediately after this photo was taken, Pinkie hopped up and ran over to Ring on the couch to show her that because there was a girl character in the set, she could play with it too. (Yes, those kids are big into gender identification.) I sort of loved that one of his very first thoughts about this highly-prized gift concerned sharing.

Despite my lack of appropriate photographic documentation, it was a great party. I'm a big fan of six-year-olds as it turns out.

And to prove it, here are my five favorite things about my favorite six-year-old:

5. Pinkie is a giant ball of energy. He's almost not capable of playing sit-down games if he can't run laps or stand on his head between turns. He is perhaps the most kinesthetic learner I've ever encountered. All of his emotions are expressed in movement, and though this particular trait occasionally manifests in inopportune moments, his energy and acrobatics and constant activity are so entertaining that I have to love him for it.

4. Because Pinkie and Ring are fairly close in age, he's never seemed to be much of a little brother. They play together and occasionally fuss together mostly as equals, and though they have some skirmishes that are reminiscent of their daddy and myself as children, I think they both do a pretty decent job of being friends. Lately I've really taken note of Pinkie as a big brother though, and I think I like it. Now that Thumb is very much un-babyish enough to hang with the big kids, there are these adorable moments when Pinkie advises and instructs and indulges his little brother. From giving him Wii-gaming pointers to dressing him as a squire and letting him assist in gift-opening, he takes care of Thumb--and seems to get the concept more than most of our family that Thumb is not a baby anymore.

Watching the two of them together and seeing Pinkie brother-up like he does is so special. Reminds me of the happier moments with my own big brothers.

3. Pinkie is hilarious. Sometimes it's a result of his high-energy physical comedy, but he's also a big tease. He attempts all sorts of solemn, big-eyed trickery, but all too often his dimples give him away. Those dimples and his wide-open mouthed laugh are all part of his comedic charm. And if his own teasing and jokes don't provide enough of his laughter, he's the most squeally, ticklish little guy. I must admit to taking shameless advantage of this knowledge regularly.

P.S. When that tooth finally grows back in, I'm going to go into mourning.

2. I've made reference before to the fact that the Handful often display characteristics of their parents, but there is something about Pinkie both physically and in personality that reminds me so forcibly of Joshua that it amazes me. The energy, the big-brotherly moments, the hair that gets completely and adorably unruly if it gets even a speck too long, the giant blue eyes with eyelashes completely wasted on a boy, the love of sports, the stubbornness--everything except the dimples--are so obviously like his daddy that it's hard to see him without seeing Joshua as a little boy and a grown-up. Sometimes it makes it feel as though I've been loving Pinkie for longer than his six years--and that's a lot of love to have for a person.

1. And yet Pinkie is staunchly his own person. And though his energy and love of action--and all the very boyish pursuits that go along with that--are at first glance his more prominent traits, he's always had this layer of sweetness and genuine kindness that is just precious to see. He is tender-hearted and doesn't like to see people get hurt. He loves babies and is so gentle with them. He's demonstrative in his affection, and even though his current little-boy contrariness and that teasing nature I mentioned make him a bit more selective in the cuddling department than he used to be, the loving little soul behind it is still there.

So happy birthday, kiddo! I love you despite the bribery it took to get you to pose for this picture. Sending big, slobbery kisses your way.

some craftiness of late

2011-01-21T01:12:00.000-06:00

Last week I had to come up with an after-school craft idea. We'd just had a fairly substantial snow fall that some frigid temperatures kept around for much longer than we normally experience, so snow was on the brain. A quick Google of snowflake paper crafts yielded a spectacularly lovely, deceptively simple project that was extremely well-received.

Nice, huh? I'm not going to show you the process, but if you want to make this stunning project, here's where I learned it.

The snowflakes became wildly popular around the library. That happens here fairly often. We get quite enamored of various crafty things from time to time. A few weeks ago we got a new book in with loads of tubey crafts. We've been making tubular crafts with empty toilet paper rolls for ages, but there were several fresh ideas in the book about which we were quite excited. Then one day, Lisa realized that all of the columns throughout the library were giant tubeys waiting to happen, so we talked about how exciting it would be to do that. Sometimes we hype ourselves up about things like that and then we don't have the time or inclination to make them happen, so I wasn't completely certain it would happen. Pardon my skepticism.

Fast forward to today, imaginary readers, when we arrived at work just ahead of more forecasted snow. Lisa declared it a snow day and decided that we were going to make that first giant tubey dream come true by building a snowman. She put Susan to work making more of the 3D snowflakes, and we started planning our attack. The column (which got painted this particularly violent shade of yellow this summer during our part of the remodel) started out like this:

After some measuring and wrapping we had our base up.

Next we added this:

And then this:

times seven or eight, which made this:

You're feeling it now, aren't ya?

Next came his scarf. Yes, that is real fleece. No flimsy, flappy paper scarf for our snowman.
The hat brim was my first true test. After a fair amount of measuring and equations and fashioning a compass out of a pencil and yarn, I achieved moderate success.

The band and flower cover up some of the less attractive bits of construction and give him a jaunty flair. Right?

Next came his arms . . .

. . . and mittens . . .

. . . and buttons. Because what self-respecting snowman doesn't have buttons?

And then he was complete--and precious I might add.

And then to make his winter wonderland complete, we added the snowflakes:

Couldn't you just die from the cuteness?

And this is what he looks like to the itty-bitties who'll come up and pat him and rip his arms and buttons off in the next few weeks. It'll take a slightly taller kid to take care of the nose, but I feel fairly confident that it'll come off a few times too. The good news is the dedicated craftsmanship that went into the project should insure that anything that is ripped off will not actually tear away the "snow" underneath.

For the record, it did snow for the middle part of the day, going from early mist/rain/sleet to great, fat, gorgeous flakes to dense flurries of tiny flakes. But in the downtown area it just never stuck and my hopes of getting to close early (like the city offices and schools and everywhere else) melted along with all those snowflakes. Such is life, I suppose.

At least I have a long-lasting, all-weather snowman to show for it.

when you're not here

2011-01-13T17:06:00.000-06:00

Imaginary readers, if the infrequency of my posts has you aimlessly wandering the interwebs like a sheep without a shepherd, your lives an empty shell bereft of purpose and meaning and entertainment desperate for even the merest shadow of my wit, humor, or charm, dry your tears on this bit of news. My second best brother is now blogging.

I can't promise that he'll be be as funny as me or that his words will fill the void in your soul created by my neglect. But genetically, he's as close as you're going to get to me in the blogging world, so check him out.

Apparently, today I was pompous.

if my blogger account were a twitter account

2011-01-05T00:07:00.000-06:00

Lately it seems all I'm capable of stringing together are brief snippets more suitable to Twitter's 140 character limits rather than the robust and complex posts to which my faithful readers have become accustomed. I had big plans for a specific Christmas post, but it was fairly time-consuming, and I ran out of Christmas season before I could devote the appropriate amount of time to its completion. Maybe next year.

And my determination to complete that posting project coupled with a rather hectic holiday season derailed any good intention of taking one of those snippets and developing it into adequate blog fodder. So since it's a new year and excuses are for losers, I'm going to roll with what I've got. Today I present a post in tweet-sized chunks: thoughts to close the old year and kick off the new in 140 characters or less.

I have no idea how I managed to do twelve posts between December 9th and 24th in 2009. I could barely spell my name in December 2010.
Because I'm a shallow selfish girl, all I want to talk about are all the Christmas presents I got, but no one would enjoy that but me.
I have a twitter account but no inclination to ever tweet. I blame my stubborn insistence on using my phone only as a phone.
If I tweeted, I'd retweet FHDM's plug for today's Resolution blog. Worth the read.
Speaking of FHDM, I got my Blue Like Jazz associate producer t-shirt in the mail last week. First gift from my soulmate. Score.
For the first time since 2005, I didn't place in the top two in my girls fantasy football league. I came in fourth. Lame.
My moma's preacher says no one cares about the fantasy teams of others. People listen so they can talk about their own teams. He's right.
When I came home tonight, my freezer door was standing wide open. No idea why. I'm not blaming Jess. Throwing away food is depressing.
I just found an unopened bag of chocolate-covered pretzels. I'm considering eating only the recommended serving size. Think I can do it?
I feel the need to brag about accomplishing mundane tasks that any normal person would be embarrassed to admit they'd left undone.
My Christmas tree is still up, but I've only been home a day and spent most of it sleeping and at work. I once took my tree down at Easter.
I did not make anyone (including myself) cry at work today. Some days it's the best outcome for which I can hope.
Michelle got a fancy new camera for Christmas from my brother-in-law. She's a good sharer. I like her.
If Jess reads this post, she will hate it. She's anti-twitter. Hey, she just walked by. Hi, Jess.
I have a story about my landlord that lots of readers already know. I can't tell it without being insensitive with these character limits.
At one point today I had approximately sixteen tabs open in my browser. I have internet ADD. Bad.
I almost wrote about how cold my feet are-then I realized that I was in the tweet trap: talking about what doesn't matter as though it does.

That's when I knew it was time to quit. And if you were waiting to hear about the pretzel outcome--I did indeed eat only one serving (eight measly--but delicious--pretzels). It's good to be back.

happy birthday, joshua

2010-12-12T13:54:00.000-06:00

I hope no one's offended by two birthday posts in a row, but I couldn't ignore (again) acknowledging one of my favorite brothers and the anniversary of his birth.

For the past ten years or more, we've celebrated Joshua's birthday at Thanksgiving, usually on Saturday night with beef stew and apple pie or apple dumplings and early presents. It's a tradition of which I approve heartily. It's always more fun to celebrate a birthday in person instead of mailing a present (or forgetting to mail a present) or just handing it over the next time we see each other. But sometimes the result of celebrating his birthday so early is that the day itself flies under the radar for me. I remembered the date several times yesterday and made mental notes all over the place to call today. Since Joshua is the lone facebook holdout in our immediate family, I knew I couldn't count on the internet to remind me either. The good news is that all those mental notes paid off, and I thought to call early enough in the day that Jess was here to sing with me. My voice is shot right now, so I really needed someone strong on lead vocals. For the first time all year, I didn't get screened when I called their house for a birthday song. I was starting to get a complex. I had a nice little chat with Joshua, and now I continue the birthday love with my five favorite things about my old, old brother:

5. Joshua is the black sheep in our family. Just ask him, he'll tell you. I'm so thankful that he's taken the black sheep role, so that I can be everyone's favorite. (Or maybe I'm just thankful that he's so good at making funny black sheep jokes that crack me up.)

4. Eleven and a half years ago, Joshua added another sister into our family. Susan fits into our noisy, stubborn family as well as anyone ever could. Either she's a phenomenal actress, or she actually loves us too. I've said before that I feel like we won the in-law lottery with Susan. I know enough people who just tolerate or exist alongside their in-laws, so I feel blessed that Joshua brought someone into our family who I can call a friend. And the team that the two of them make is a lovely thing to behold.

3. Ring, Pinkie, & Thumb. Without Joshua, I wouldn't have these precious little brats in my life, and that would be a tragedy of epic proportions.

2. Separate from his making me an aunt to his three adorable kiddos, Joshua as a daddy is one of my favorite things. I never gave much thought to him as a father before he became one (for obvious reasons), but his talent for it was a revelation, if not necessarily a surprise. He is crazy about his kids, and they are just as enamored of him. His protectiveness and love is so fierce and intense that I know those kids will grow up never doubting for a second their specialness and value in this world. Good parenting is a beautiful gift, and my dear brother is blessing his children in this way and receiving heaps of blessings in return.

1. Joshua is my first and best example that people can get better with age. Joshua earned his reputation in our family as a high-energy, aggressive kid. Because of our closeness in age and size and our vastly different temperaments when we were young, he and I were not exactly friends. In most of our childhood stories, he comes across as the bad guy, and because I couldn't hit as hard and could cry on command, I'm the heroic victim. But whether or not he deserves the notoriety for his past, Joshua has long since grown from my occasional tormentor into a protective and loyal friend. I think he was probably always better than I gave him credit for, but I'm so thankful that I finally grew up enough to see all of his good qualities like his tenacity and kindness and humor. Knowing Joshua gives me hope that someday I can grow into a better person too, and I could look around for a long time and not find a more admirable example to follow.

Happy Birthday, Bub! Love.

happy birthday, blog o' mine

2010-12-10T15:28:00.000-06:00

Has it really only been a year since my extreme hubris got the better of me, convincing me that people cared about reading my opinions? Some days it feels like I've been doing this--or not doing this--forever.

And I know it's only been seven or eight posts since I took my imaginary readers down memory lane in my 100th post haikus, but milestones are important. I'm a girl who loves traditions and nostalgia, and I'm not sure if the term nostalgia can really be applied to such recent events, but it's my party and I'll cry if I want to.

Fans of the blog may be aware that I occasionally post birthday blogs in honor of a random sampling of my friends and family. There's very little rhyme or reason to who gets picked and who doesn't, which is a pretty shoddy way to do business. Sorry about that, people who feel left out.

But in true birthday fashion, I'm going to tell you my five favorite things about the blog. I considered doing my five favorite posts or something commemorating favorite comments, but the five general favorite things fits the birthday blog tradition more fully. So here you go.

5. I love the little monetary surprise that comes along with the blog's participation in the amazon associates program. Faithful fans (or anyone who follows that link) will recall that I enrolled in the program in March, just because I'm greedy, and I think it's been fairly painless for us all. Several of you, who I assume were going to shop at amazon anyway, follow links from my blog to the amazon site to place your orders. When you do that, I get anywhere from 4-15% of your purchase price, just for referring you there. Plus it's one more statistical report for me to pore over on a monthly basis. In the seven months or so since I put the ads up on my site, I've probably made between $30 and $40 dollars, which seems ridiculously wonderful to me for the tiny amount of work that went into setting it up. I'm banned from looking at my full Associate report right now because word on the street is that someone bought me a Christmas present from amazon through my site, but I can still go to the general account page to check on my balance for the month. So far in December alone, I've earned $72 in referral fees. Thank you! I'm blown away by that amount, and I promise to do something ever so nice with my windfall in your honor.

4. And since I mentioned statistics, I'll proclaim Google Analytics and its various measures of site traffic as another blogging favorite. I know I've said this before, but it's insane how much satisfaction I get from knowing how many people come to the site and where they're from, what pages bring in the most visitors, the methods that folks use to find me, and the keywords searched that lead people to the opinions. In the past few months, the keyword stats have been compromised because after I mentioned things that people googled to find me in a conversation, a couple of avid readers started testing what they could search to bring up the blog. But Google Analytics fills up a very nerdy place in my heart.

3. I love how the blog has often given me a sense of purpose and direction this year. There have been countless ways in which I've come up short from the big resolutions to missed deadlines to time wasted on frivolities to the general disorganization of my life, but there have also been moments and instances when I've followed through and gotten some crap done just so I could share it here. In a life severely lacking in motivation, I never guessed that this forum would provide a sense of accountability. But it has. I hope that this unexpected blessing continues to push me in the next year as well. Feel free to help in that regard, imaginary readers. Speaking of which . . .

2. You. Of course, I'm thankful, for you, not-so-imaginary readers, from the loyal fans to the casual readers who pass this way. Without you, I'd have no Google Analytics to study. I'd have no comments to read and enjoy and hold to my heart. Without you, I'd just be talking to myself, and as much as I have and will continue to profess all sorts of self-love, if you weren't here reading what I'm writing, I'd be every kind of a loser. I love that you're here reading these words, and I love that several of you will post a comment and encourage me to keep doing this. I can say without hesitation that if my precious family and several close friends hadn't come along and created my little fan-base, I would have hung up my blogging hat months ago. (Hmmm . . . now I want a blogging hat--maybe I'll use my $72 on that.) And though I don't really think that any of my repeat readers are strangers, it's been nice for those who don't know me in real life to stop by and stay for a while too. I feel like most of the time the ellen portrayed here in the blog falls into a neighborhood several miles south of likeable, so the fact that anyone sticks around is amazing and special to me. My cup is full and running over from the blessing that is your presence here, dear readers. Thank you.

1. I love having a collection of my writing from the past year. I know I've been spotty at times in keeping up with things, and in some ways, I thought that I'd have done something more or different. But overall, I'm just thrilled that I've stuck around at all--that there are at least a few posts from each of the past twelve months. I should be embarrassed to admit how often I got back and read older posts, but I feel no shame. I love having a way to go back and review what's been going on in my life. Often when I need to find an old post to link to something new I'm doing, I get caught up in reading old favorites. I know it's painfully and ashamedly obvious that I'm completely self-absorbed already, so I'll go ahead and admit to you, that I think I'm a pretty great writer. I don't love everything I've written here, and occasionally I'm shocked at how mundane the writing can be, but when I'm firing on all cylinders, I'm witty and eloquent and, dare I say, readable. I never gave any thought to reading my own blog, but as it turns out, it's kind of a lot of fun.

Happy Birthday, ellen has an opinion! Your name is still ridiculous, but I love you anyway.

an open letter to flying burrito

2010-12-02T07:51:00.000-06:00

Dear Flying Burrito,

I can still remember our first encounter back in May of 2007. It was a Wednesday, and Lisa bought my lunch as a bribe for doing something I wanted to do anyway. Even on our first meeting, I was wise enough to choose the chicken nachos, and it was the beginning of a beautiful relationship.

Do you remember those early days when Lisa liked to go and flirt with "the burrito boys" none of whom were actually flirt-worthy? Remember the nicknames we had for the boys? I still miss JT and Original Hat, and though I love Normal Guy, he still can't make up for the loss of them. Remember how Mouth-Breather used to be such a dud then turned fun for about a week and then went right back to his old dud ways? Why did he have to be the one who worked there the whole time I've been in love with you?

Flying Burrito, you ruined me for any other pick-your-toppings type Mexican food. Whenever anyone starts singing the praises of Moe's, I gag. I still believe that anyone who truly likes Moe's has never been to the Burrito. There's just no way you could experience the perfection of you and ever be content with Moe and his nasty cheese dip.

I always loved that I could come for a visit anytime of day. On Mondays when I like to eat lunch late, the River Market vendors are always closed, but you're there for me. I'll never forget that about you. Your presence in my life enriched my relationships with coworkers. Imagine my surprise when I discovered that Mattie and Amelia had an entirely different set of nicknames for the boys. Our Burrito-love and friendly debate over the best foods there brought us closer together. Mattie's in London this semester, and I know she's devastated that she'll never get one last burrito when she gets home.

Over the years I've shared our love with countless friends. Jess and I had our first date there back in August of 2008. I took Justin there. Sam the page and I have lunched there together. I think I introduced Shane to your delightfulness. You were the setting for a short-lived run of weekly lunches with a few downtown-working church friends. When Martha moved back and we instated downtown lunches, you were the first place I took her. And that doesn't even take into account all the lunches I've had there with Lisa or Bob and Philip and lately with the babies Beck. So many memories with folks from all over my life. Thank you for those memories.

Sometimes I've tried to stay away, bring my lunch, and save my pennies, but even when I was being sensible, you were my splurge place. If I was going to go eat anywhere, I would come to you, especially on Tuesdays. Your double-punch lunch card special ensured that though I was paying for lunch then, there was a free treat in my future. Thanks for all those double-punches. And thanks to Normal Guy who on a few occasions gave me extra punches after I lost my punch card. I'm going to miss that Normal Guy.

I had heard mutterings that you were closing, but I refused to believe them until that Thursday a few weeks ago when I read your closing signs for myself. I couldn't believe it. I resolved then to make the most of our time together. I even had a punch-card schedule worked out so that I could fill my card one last time before you were gone forever. When I fell a bit off-schedule, Normal Guy came to my rescue again and finished my card for me on Monday, so it was free-lunch ready on Tuesday, our last day together. I actually made plans over the weekend to introduce one more person to you before you were gone for good. Lacey was going to meet me after work on Tuesday night for one last hurrah. I still came to see you for lunch on Tuesday though--and waited in line for over thirty minutes. I'm not sure how you're not managing to stay in business with crowds like that. I'll never regret coming at lunch-time that day because when Lacey and I walked over after work, you were already closed for good. It hurt.

There's still an ache there. Never again will one of the burrito boys know I want nachos to go before I even say it. Never again will I taste the joy of all my favorites piled just the way I want them. I've tasted my last chipotle sour cream. I'll never have to explain the recycling system to Bob again or find myself involved in random line conversations. No matter what other Mexican restaurant reopens there in the spring, it will never be the same. It won't be you, and without you, we won't be us. I'm sorry for all the times that I took you for granted, for all the times I didn't ask for guacamole just because it cost extra. I'm sorry for not savoring each lunch with the knowledge that they would someday end. I've seen some cheery, feel-good quotation somewhere that advises, "Don't cry because it's over. Smile because it happened." I think I'll get there someday, Flying Burrito. Someday I'll look back with nostalgia and fondness for all the good times you provided, but for today, I'm still going to cry.

You'll always be in my heart.

Yours,

Ellen

silent gratitude isn't much use to anyone

2010-11-25T00:19:00.001-06:00

I'd like to take credit for the title of this post, but I stole it from G.B. Stern. Thanks, Gladys, for letting me borrow your words.

But in the spirit of being useful and because I complain way too much, it seems like an appropriate moment to proclaim some thankfulness. Lots of my facebook friends have been doing daily thankfulness statuses for the whole month. I didn't, not because I'm ungrateful but because I'm lazy. I did quite by accident mention something for which I was thankful on Monday morning, so I've followed up with that the past couple of days. Let's start there, shall we? Please pardon the third person pronouns. It's facebook's fault.

Ellen is thankful . . .

" . . .for her Monday mornings which ease her back into work mode as gently as possible." I don't have to go to work until 11 on Mondays because it's my late night. I love that schedule of getting to sleep a bit late or having time to get some other things done in the mornings. Plus it gets my late night out of the way early in the week, so it's not hanging over my head. Of course, I'm usually so grouchy about having to go back to work, I don't fully appreciate these benefits, but this week I did.

" . . . that the zombies in her dream weren't too aggressive." Okay, that one's just silly, but when I woke up from a rather unsettling dream Tuesday morning and hopped right on the internet as is my custom, the lingering creepiness of the dream was soon overshadowed by the relief that it hadn't been grosser or more horrifying.

" . . . that she gets to spend a few nights away from the yippy dog next door." Poor yippy dog next door. How I hate her. Apparently Mr. Next Door rescued her from some terrible treatment, and he had her for months before she could make sound. I felt all sorts of sadness for her when she was an abused dog who couldn't bark. Such a tragic little figure, she was. And then her comfort and confidence grew, and she was healed enough to bark. every. morning.of. my. life. Now I feel all sorts of sadness for myself. But I'll be spending the next four nights at Shane's, so her yippiness will be someone else's Thanksgiving blessing.

And now for some previously unpublished thoughts on gratitude:

I'm thankful . . .

. . . for a ten day free preview of the HBO channels going on now. I've filled our DVR with movies, watched a couple on demand, and have done a bit of work to catch up on all the past year or more of not watching movies. For the holiday weekend, we are actually getting a free preview of the top tier package which includes access to all the premium channels, but the DVR is full, and I'll be a bit too busy basking in the warm bosom of my family to worry about it.

. . . for the interwebs. I will proclaim, with no concern for how lame it makes me, that the internet makes my life better in countless ways. And since my infrequent and often unreadable posts come to you via internet, imaginary readers, I'm sure you join me in my gratitude.

. . . for my four-year-old Bible class. My little children are precious and funny and even the ones who don't listen and make me work up a sweat are so sweet and charming. I could tell you loads of stories that seem hilarious and special to me but would probably just bore you and go nowhere. But trust me that the dozen and a half or so preschoolers who hang out with me on Sundays are the best part of most of my weeks.

. . . for pajama pants. I'm thankful for the rest of my clothes too, most of the time, but I'm always overwhelmed with gratitude when I can put on my pajama pants.

. . . for Peeps and Meeps and Weeps. Friends so precious and dear that miles and years cannot ease the hold they have on my heart.

. . . for cell-phone alarm clock capabilities that allow me to never have to wake up to a blaring alarm again. Nothing ruins a morning like a startlingly loud honking noise. "Linus and Lucy" is ever so much nicer.

. . . for chocolate-covered pretzels. How they complete my life.

. . . for her. And him.

Seriously. Don't they look like the sweetest, best parents anywhere ever? They so are.

. . . and for her (and her again) and her and her and her and her

. . . and for him and him and him (and him again even with that face) and her

. . . and for him and him and him and her and him and him and him

. . . and for him and her and her and her and him and her (and for the her inside that striped sweater that we wouldn't meet for another five months) and him and her and him and her and him.

. . . for traditions that hold on even when they become crowded and noisy and logistically unsound. And for the love and understanding that allow those traditions to be reevaluated and adapted into ever more good times. For last times and first times. For nostalgia and anticipation. For family and every special thing that the word evokes.

. . . for you, dear readers. For being here and reading this and making all my Google Analytics dreams come true.

Love & stuff,
ellen