The other day I noticed that the piles of dust in the bathroom have divided into teams and are holding their own Olympics with competitions in depth, height and surface area coverage. Since I don’t like to discourage that kind of initiative, I pretended I didn’t notice. Instead of dusting their dreams into oblivion, I organized my scrapbooking materials. (Not that I actually scrapbook. I just collect the cute stuff one generally uses to make darling scrapbook pages.) True story.

I’ll be off novel-writing on Tuesday (I hope—I never did get to it last week) but thanks so much to all of you who gave me a shout out about coming to see me when I am in your fair state of Utah as well as those of you who voted for my closet organization entry on Got.org. I can’t wait to see you all face to face in April!

Come back Wednesday for my first installment of Decorating For Dollars. (Yeah, I know, you’re all wetting your pants with excitement.)

You must know that I love my book cover. Love, love, love it! But all those years that Miss Delacourt Speaks Her Mind sat unpublished in a box (14 long ones where-in Miss D was trapped like a genie in a bottle with nothing to do but twiddle her thumbs) I cherished hopes of Ginny having her portrait painted like all the other romance heroines. I fantasized how her gray eyes would have just that hint of green, how her glossy chestnut locks would gleam in the light of the candles and wondered in which gown the artist would choose to depict her. Sadly, it was not to be.

Recently, Alyson of New England Living shared the folk art painting she had done of her family and I was smitten! I went immediately to the Audrey Eclectic site and oohed and aahed. When I saw that Heather, the artist, had been commissioned to paint the heroine of other novels, Miss D started a furious whispering in my ear. “Why shouldn’t I have my portrait done? Why shouldn’t I be immortalized in paint? Why shouldn’t everyone see my cheeks blush madly for all time?” Finally, I just couldn’t take it anymore so I emailed Heather and yesterday this beauty came in the mail.

Ginny in the Roses by Heather Sleightholm

A group of mainstream Mormons circa 1973

Civics was a required class for all seniors in my high school. I wasn’t crazy about the idea as I was wary of the teacher. Clearly, I had good reason as Mr. R had a spindly red mustache and his father was my dad’s boss (and, no, I did not live in a small town so how weird is that?) yet more disturbing still was the fact that he wore burgundy bikini underwear under white Angel Flight pants (if you’ve never clapped eyes on a pair of these, you’ve haven’t seen a John Travolta movie made prior to 1984).

I had the class third period, right after “break”, a fifteen minute time period I generally spent holding hands in the secret safety of The (Not Yet) Spouse’s coat pocket (I really thought nobody noticed the extra arm trailing out of his pocket and attaching to my body but one can excuse the young for their tendency towards utter stupidity and, might I add, thank goodness my actual boyfriend at the time went to a different school). My twin sister and The Spouse’s best friend took the class the period just prior. On this fateful day, they spent break explaining to me that Mr. R’s presentation was on polygamy and to please NOT SAY ANYTHING! Because this guy had it all wrong and they knew it would be frustrating for me but to please NOT SAY ANYTHING. Because my twin sister’s best friend also had Civics third period and it would just be best if I NOT SAY ANYTHING that would embarrass her or my sister or anyone she had ever known or had actually laid eyes on in this lifetime. (I had quite the reputation for saying what no one else would—go figure.)

In other words, I should just let Mr. Smarty Pants (pun intended/downright destined) tell lies about my religion (as people are wont to do--and under the aegis of public education, no less!) AND SAY NOTHING. In light of the fact that I was, by nature, a lighted candle, one that felt compelled to illuminate any and all dark corners of the mind (preferably someone else’s as it was less painful than illuminating mine) theirs was a doomed cause.

I marched into Civics class with the zeal of a religious, er, zealot. I sat down and noted that my sister’s best friend was already slouched in her seat (she was also LDS/Mormon and must have scented something in the air or been fore-warned as had I, whichev) and Mr. R. was keeping himself busy at the chalkboard so he didn’t have to make eye contact with anybody, which is to say, me. I suppose he scented something in the air, as well, only I’m pretty sure The Spouse’s best friend--also LDS--took Mr. R. aside after class and warned him about my projected reaction to the subject matter which says as much about The Spouse’s best friend, a.k.a. my former 9th grade supercrush, as it does my odious predictability.

I honestly don’t remember what Mr. R. said that was so offensive; I just knew it was dead wrong. So, I raised my hand, really super high like a total geek, which gave my twin sister’s best friend an even better cover behind which to hide. By this time Mr. R. was writing frantically on the board so he didn’t have to turn around and make it clear he saw me and then have to call on me, but finally, he capitulated. I don’t remember exactly what I said, either, except for these points (which I made with an eloquence and grace that defied my years--at least that’s how I remember it which makes it so):

1. Polygamy (the practice of a man having more than one wife) was only practiced by mainstream Mormons for a relatively short period of time in the 1800’s. (Mark Twain visited Salt Lake expressly so he could ogle these strange creatures.)
2. Only 3% of the entire population was involved in a polygamous union which meant for every 300 people, there was only one man with two wives (though some assert that, depending on the statistical strategy used, it was somewhat higher).
3. That a man was asked to participate in polygamy by the leadership—he couldn’t just grab the nearest nubile maiden and add her to his clan, willy-nilly—and that most truly hated the idea (one wife at a time is enough nagging for any man, not to mention the bill for clothes and other fripperies—these ladies loved high fashion just like the next gal!) but did it because they were asked and understood the importance of it at that time and place.
4. That polygamy was necessary to help take care of numerous widows and fatherless children since the male portion of the population had been depleted by persecution, sickness, excruciatingly hard work, exposure to the elements and out-right murder. (Until very recent times, a single woman had no usual durable means of support. Those who were able to work a farm by herself or who had money to own a business and keep it running were very few and far between out on the plains. Marriage was a woman’s career and without it, she had very few options.) (Also, I’m ashamed to admit, I didn’t go into some of the other reasons why polygamy was practiced at that time since they were based on religious doctrine, something about which I was much more insecure about sharing with my, by now, mouth-agape peers. So sue me.)

Mr. Smarty-Pants’ response? “I don’t believe you.” Or, it could have been “You’re wrong!” Either way, in short, I was lying or had been lied to by those who populate a religion known for their integrity and honesty.

Thank goodness the bell rang pretty much right after that because I was MAD.

As for Big Love, I have never seen it. I don’t have HBO, I have never liked those night-time soap-opery dramas and I wouldn’t watch it anyway because I don’t want to give attention, credence, ratings or money to an establishment that intentionally or un (it’s pretty much both) confuses people about the beliefs of a world-wide group of people 13 million strong. In this day and age, mainstream Mormons are as much akin to Fundamentalist Mormons as Root Beer is to a can of Coor’s. Their roots might be the same but their raison d’etre is miles apart.

This post shared courtesy the frickin’ candle.

(If you need more light shed on this topic and for some inexplicable reason, want it from me, email me at write2me@heidiashworth.com.

If you prefer to get it from the horse’s mouth, go to lds.org

Epilogue: The Spouse, who was a year behind me in school, took the class the following year and insists he was the star of the class. Not only was he the son of an elected city official but his team, consisting of himself, a stoner (read: user of drugs whilst at school) and the village idiot, won the Civics Competition (the team that passes the biggest number of their laws and objectives wins). When “polygamy day” arrived, Mr. R. rather nervously mentioned that he had had a traumatic (my word not his) experience with a student the year prior so was asking if anyone in the class was a Mormon. When The Spouse rose his hand, Mr. R. about swallowed his tongue he was so surprised (apparently, in his mind, Mormons were ignorant people who didn’t know how to do anything right let alone shine as the star of Civics class). He then turned the rest of the hour over to The Spouse to explain polygamy “right”. Though people often don’t like having the dark corners of their mind lighted up, in this case, the flicker of the candle that was me kept things bright enough for The Spouse to truly help Mr. R. understand and respect the truth. The Spouse and I have been a terrific “one-two” punch ever since. Just him and me. And me and him. Just the TWO of us. (And our kids.) The End

. . . you are expected to be somewhere looking half-way decent but your drawers are empty of clothes so you figure it’s high time to do laundry but when you pick up the hamper, it’s suspiciously light. Then and only then does it hit you that your clean clothes have been sitting in the dryer for three days.

. . . you are glad it is supposed to rain because you haven’t been able to see through your windshield for at least a week.

. . . the local gang o’flies is mounting an assault against the competing gang o’flies over the pile of dog poop in the backyard.

. . . after checking the drawers, closet, dryer and hamper, you still can’t find your bestest, softest chocolate brown Gap t-shirt, the one that always looks good on you no matter what.

. . . you have an entire book to read by Monday morning and you haven’t even started it.

(and that was all just this morning!!)

Do these predicaments sound familiar or have you Got.org?

Stacey of Got.org does! She is sponsoring a very fun contest for those who struggle with organization yet who have taken a stab at it making some small improvements.

Remember this closet?


And how it became this closet?

Go to Stacey’s site to get great tips and ideas on how to better organize your life and while you’re there, vote for the best organizational re-do (you don’t have to vote for me—I won't cry or anything if you don't. It's not like I HAVE to win or anything. In fact, I am getting quite used to losing. It's no big deal. Really. No pressure . . .)

1. Do not read nasty book review on Goodreads right before going to bed. It is counter productive to one's sleep.

(So, yeah, this is my first experience with getting a bad review. Phew! Do these people read what other people are saying about Miss D? Do they not wonder why their opinion is so off from what the professional reviewers are saying or even the unprofessional reviews? Personally, I would feel weird about saying how bad a book is when most everyone else likes it anywhere from a lot to fair-to-middling. I can understand it if they don't like my book but do they have to be so cruel about it? Do they not realize that it is a person who is reading it, a person with feelings? Whine whine whine) (more whining)

Sorry if you don't see me around the blogs Thursday. I will be busy getting a root canal then burying my head under my pillow.

(Please note, I am making fun of myself and myself only, here. I find I get less sharp sticks in the eye that way.)

1. Decide one day that you’re going to start a blog. Why not? Everyone else is doing it!
2. Set up your blog armed only with the knowledge that The Pioneer Woman is remodeling her guesthouse courtesy of proceeds from her blog and Dooce snoozes in every morning with her hubby on account of mass sales of dog calendars (I would link to her but her post today is quite foul. Who knew?)
3. Say to yourself “Holy keyboard, Batman! I can do that!”
4. In your green and giddy excitement, start writing posts about "whatev" because it’s supposed to be your “journal”.
5. Assume everyone cares.
6. Start to wonder why no one visits. Wonder why those who do, don’t comment.
7. Start visiting other blogs for clues to their success.
8. Discover there are a TON of great bloggers out there.
9. Feel blue and eat a lot of chocolate.
10. Tell yourself that you’ll be happy if you could only get *blankety-blank hits a day.
11. Keep reading blogs. Fall in love with lots of fantastic bloggers.
12. Realize you are nothing special. Eat more chocolate.
13. Tell yourself that you are going to find a way to be like the “big bloggers”!
14. While you’re waiting to get big, whine. A lot.
15. Realize that you have to read lotsa blogs and comment on them incessantly before anyone will even notice you are alive.
16. Go into a deep depression.
17. Turn discount stores upside down looking for your favorite brand of chocolate for a song b/c if you can’t make money as a blogger, you sure as shootin’ ain’t going to lose money, either.
18. Gear up (i.e. read blogs, comment til your fingers fall off, hold contests, and, in general, feel sure that the success or failure of planet earth depends on what happens each day in blogdania).
19. Realize your blog needs some focus and decide to make yours a humor blog. Realize that humor involves making fun of others. Feel bad. Do it anyway. Daily.
20. Notice something smells really bad. Wonder how long it has been since the dog was bathed. Pay daughter to bathe dog. Realize something still smells. Do all the laundry that has been piling up. Clean the fridge for the first time in half a year. Smell doesn’t go away. Realize it’s you.
21. Spend much time trying to come up with witty comments so that other bloggers hanging out in comment boxes will get a taste for you and feel hungry for more.
22. Find out that the best part of blogging is the people. Really.
23. Start reading more and more blogs because you are addicted (chocolate no longer needed).
24. Find there just isn’t time to think up witty comments anymore (only boring ones).
25. Know in your heart of hearts if you cut down on your reading and commenting, your blog will suffer. It's a dilemma.
26. Notice that your house is suffering from lack of attention. Decide you need to lower your standards.
27. Come up on nearly a year of blogging and wonder where your fame and fortune went.
28. Read emails from people who imply that you are somehow a “big” blogger.
29. Say “wha?!” in utter amazement and wonder what kind of junk they’ve been smoking.
30. Realize that you have finally reached *blankety-blank hits per day and it doesn’t even faze you.
31. Realize you are so jaded you need a bigger and bigger buzz each day to feel satisfied. Laughingly throw around the word “addicted” to describe your bloggy activities.
32. Endure a painful intervention from friends and family who convince you that you have a “problem”.
33. Start researching long-term-stay facilities for those who suffer from bloggy addictions.
34. Find a “Very Nice Resort” for people like “you”. Pack your bags.
35. After a short stay, start to feel a little better—like you could go a day or two without blogging and the world won’t come to an end.
36. Think “how nice!” and begin to wonder what it would take to start your own Blog Addiction Resort.
37. Find out all you need is a site for your facility, willing “guests” and mucho advertising.
38. Think, “I can do that!”
39. In your green and giddy excitement, you start a blog . . .

(hey, you guys, thanks for all your encouragement! Yesterday, whilst pounding out 3,020 words on Miss D Two, my St. Pat's Day post was featured on the Bloggernacle. How cool is that? Especially when you consider that I didn't even write any of that stuff. The Irish did. So, that means the Irish rate higher than my own unique writings with the people at the Bloggernacle. How ironic is that?)

A day early, I know, but I will be absent from blogdania tomorrow, attempting to get Miss D Two past the 20,000 word mark. Meanwhile, here are some of my favorite Irish blessings for some of my favorite people!

When I was sixteen I dated a young man who suffered from congenital torticollis, also known as “wryneck”. In utero, the muscle on one side of the neck shortens while the other lengthens. If left untreated, the shortened muscle continues to get shorter and tighter, pulling the chin down towards the shoulder. There are now excellent treatments for this condition but at the time his doctors felt the best option was to remove the muscle entirely. Since this muscle attaches to the pectoral muscle in the chest, the removal of it left this young man with a dent all along the side of his neck down through his nipple.

Some of the young men I hung out with used to refer to this boyfriend as “half-neck”. Personally, I barely noticed the dent in his neck and I only saw him without a shirt once or twice when we went swimming. Though his deformed chest was a bit alarming, I was much more fascinated by his piercing blue eyes and his experiences living on his grandfather’s cattle ranch. I also remember him telling me this story: when his mother was expecting him, the spirit whispered the message that her child would be born with special challenges. She was grateful for that experience because of the strength it gave her when it came time to make hard decisions on his behalf.

I broke up with “half-neck” when I was seventeen but I never forgot his story.

All three of my children, non-coincidentally, were born with congenital torticollis.

The Spouse had a restless night. I think it might have something to do with the fact that our school district is laying off 600 teachers today. (And it’s Friday the 13th. How ironic is that?) And since my husband is (was?) (cue hysterical laughter verging on the maniacal) a teacher in the local school district, I have been thinking a lot about how to cut corners. Thank goodness we have been unemployed very often in the past so I have tons of experience with being poor. (Really dodged a bullet there! Phew! Thanking my lucky stars!) (Sarcasm—how I’ve missed you!)

So, here is my classic list of “Things You Can Do For Free”

1. Beautify your home through the miracle of cleaning (because we all know cleanliness is next to beautiness)

2. Lose weight (a great FREE gift to yourself and amazingly cost effective since you can save money on the food budget at the same time. Who’da thunk?)

3. Lay out and get a free tan (yes, you’ll have to save your pennies for that skin cancer surgery in the future but that’s LATER. This is NOW. Priorities an’ all).

4. Use the library—rumored to be almost as much fun as using drugs, or so I’ve been told (plus, there’s a really good book there called Miss Delacourt Speaks Her Mind--if it isn’t at your local library, you can always order it, for freeeeee!) (Or, hey, here's an idea! Write and publish a book and watch your Amazon number go up ,up and up (a bad thing) until you go stark raving mad thereby gaining yourself free lodging in the looney-bin.)

5. Climb the local mountain and yodel. (Bonus: If you have already been committed, no one will think twice about it.)

6. Drive around to locate some radical free-ranging wi fi and download a “watch-it-now movie from Netflix (these last two can only be considered free events if you siphon the gas needed for the trip from your neighbor's car. Have some class and choose a car belonging to a neighbor who hasn’t just been laid of—like one of the school district administrators).

7. Write a pithy post (or do what the really frugal people do and steal one).

8. Bribe a friend to do “Trading Spaces” with you. I hear they ruin your house with all the cameras they screw into the walls and ceilings but you might actually get some nice slipcovers out of the deal.

9. Go to the local discount store, open a box of cheap plastic baggies and slit open the bottom of a few baggies here and there. Imagine the looks on people’s faces when that stack of Oreos just slips right on through to crash onto the floor! (Kinda like what happened to me this morning. No, wait, EXACTLY what happened to me this morning!) The cost to you? Priceless! You just can’t buy entertainment like that!

Well, that’s all I’ve got. It used to be a longer list but in the 3.5 years since we have been gainfully employed, things have really gone up. Sadly, making your own cookies and sewing your own clothes are no longer cost effective. But camping out all night in front of the dollar store to catch the latest shipment as it comes in the door IS. Just be sure to get there early to muscle out the competition, i.e. the homeless who are living in the cardboard boxes. But be nice! They could be your neighbors one day soon.

(Check back later for an update: Will The Spouse get a pink slip today or not? Talk about suspense! Just another great idea for cheap entertainment right here at Dunhaven Place!)

Update: Okay, I would have been back sooner but I was having trouble with my internet. NO PINK SLIP! Woo Hoo! Of course The Spouse feels just terrible about seeing other teachers being called into the principal's office, many of them hired the same day he was. I guess that year when he went to school every other Saturday (for 12 months!) to get his bilingual teaching credential really paid off. Thanks for all your comments and support! It means so much!

Some of you might remember my post, Murder At The Elementary School, which turned out to be a bizarre suicide rather than murder. I was pretty freaked out about the whole thing and posted about it--repeatedly--even though this is supposed to be a humor blog. At least I try to be either entertaining, amusing, uplifting or inspiring. I have spent too many years in the past living through some really dark days to want to make anyone feel any negative emotion. Consequently, I get a lot of joy out of making people feel good. (Except for those who make me feel bad. Those will be punished. Instantly and thoroughly. Did I mention I’ve had my fill of feeling bad?)

For that reason, I hesitate to post about the murder that took place at the post office in my Mayberry-esque little town because there is nothing amusing, uplifting or inspiring about it. The police aren’t releasing many details so there isn’t much to say except that a very nice 73 year old man with a wife, kids and grandkids who all live here in town and who was at the post office retrieving mail from his P.O. box was stabbed multiple times by a man who is rumored to be mentally ill.

Ain’t life grand? At least it gives more credence to the phrase “going postal”. (Why did it have to happen at the post office? The one where everyone knows my name? And my husband’s name? And kid’s names? Why the one where the nice postal worker who ran out of the building yelling to the populace at large to give chase after the perp is the same nice worker who always gives my Little Guy candy prompting LG to bring candy to the worker in return?)

The ironic thing about it is, just that morning as The Spouse and I were out running errands, we were chatting about how stressed people are these days and how hard life is going to be for everyone in this economy and how there was going to be a lot more crime. “We aren’t ever going to want to leave our Mayberry-esque little town,” I said with a feeling of smug satisfaction. On the way home, we tried to stop by the post office to put a Netflix in the mailbox but all roads leading to the post office were blocked off. You know--the one smack-dab in the middle of our Mayberry-esque little town. It seems that sometime between the time we drove out of town that morning and the time we drove back a few hours later, somebody succumbed to the pressures of life and committed an act of random murder. (I'll be back tomorrow with something a bit more laughable. At least I hope so . . .)

Things have been getting a bit out of hand lately. This month, especially, is causing extreme anxiety with all the things I have committed myself to. I didn’t mean to over-commit but sometimes things just happen when you aren’t looking---like when you are busy blogging or working on a sequel to your novel. Yep. I woke up to an avalanche of realization this morning and am currently in the midst of a little panic attack. (I kid you not, it’s actually getting a bit hard to breathe--but look! I’m still blogging!)

This is exactly why I spent the last two Saturdays working on my new organization station. I have been lusting after one of these for years, however, since the five of us (and the dog) live in 1,000 square feet of cozy cottage, I have never had room. Thanks to those magazines that get the covet going in my heart, my brain finally went into overdrive and came up with an idea. How about turning the coat closet into something more useful than a place to hang coats? (And the ironing board? And the broom? And the purses and VHS tapes we don’t watch anymore and the framed photos that have no wallspace etc etc etc?)

This photo was taken after I had removed most of the coats . . .just saying . . .

It’s California for pity sakes! How many coats does one family need? (I got rid of quite a few but the rest are still living on a chair in the living room as are the broom, dustpan and ironing board.) But look what I got instead!

Isn't the white board cool? It's a sheet that self adheres by Post-its. The frame is just because I'm annal.

The Spouse drilled a hole in the wall through which we passed the cord to the Middle Child's bedroom light socket. It looks pretty bad on her side but beauty knows no pain. The white baskets hold gloves, scarfs and my very important cowl and finger-less gloves I wear on marathon writing days, made for me by Shirley Marks, a good friend who also writes for Avalon Books.

The file box is awaiting the fulfillment of its role as a place to put all those darn papers that multiply like bunnies, such as permission slips, shot records, bills, invoices, pages torn from magazines to be later perused in a quest to further stoke the fires of coveteousnous . . .

Our 72 hour emergency kits live behind the pretty floral curtain as well as The Spouse's briefcase when he gets home from work . . .

The pretty box on the top shelf is one of my favorite things. I bought it for a song at a discount store because it looked like this:

I recovered it with the fabric from a dress it would take a deal with the devil to ever fit into again but now I get to look at its loveliness every single day! (I store gift bags and tissue paper in it).

The chair it is reposing on was a Christmas gift. It was a thrift store buy that I couldn't justify buying myself since I first spied it about four days before Christmas. It used to be 70's pressed wood brown with with dark blue corduroy fabric. It’s adorable now if I do say so myself (well, when it isn’t wearing all the extra coats from the closet). (The ironing board and iron, umbrellas, etc still are looking for a place to live, as well. Anyone renting out space?)

On another note . . . .

My progress on Miss D Two has been a bit slower the last two weeks. I only wrote 1700 words last week and 2500 yesterday but that is still pretty respectable. I keep wondering where in the world those freaking 4,000 word days have gone to but I’m keeping the light on for them. (If you are new here and think you might want to see what Miss D is all about, you can find Miss Delacourt Speaks Her Mind in one of 360 libraries around the U.S. If your library doesn’t have one, you can request that they buy it. Or, if you feel that you must have one for yourself, you can order it at Amazon.com or Barnesandnoble.com or even target.com! I’m sure they’ll be happy you stopped by (and maybe the constriction around my lungs will ease a little. But no pressure!)

(the first part of this story can be found here)

On day, in high school, my friends and I were sitting on the front steps during lunch hour. I noticed an old man shuffling across the street towards the school. He looked unsure of himself and too weak to be out and about. I watched him meander around for a few minutes then walked over to him to ask if he needed any help. He seemed totally disoriented so I took him to the office. He was so very thin and lost—not just physically, but mentally, as well.

I stayed with the man until the people in the white coats came to pick him up. The nurse was wearing one of those white hats with the fly-away wings and there were men with nets. I will always remember his fear and how I felt it in my own heart. After they had taken him away, I went to class. Just before I opened the door, I burst into tears and had to wait in the hall for a minute to get myself under control. I was shocked by the wealth of sorrow I felt for this stranger. More than that, I was so touched by what I had done--as if it were the actions of someone else, or a story I had heard in church. For years I chastised myself for that. I didn’t realize then what the eternal part of me knew and rejoiced in; I had passed a test, one I later came to think of as the Lord’s way of proving whether or not I was still willing.

Many are called but few are chosen. I don’t think I was chosen because I am any different than anyone else except, perhaps, in one way only--I was willing. Of course, the Lord always knew I would be. It was I who needed the knowing.

I clean my house for three reasons and three reasons only: Christmas, company and covetousness. As you can imagine, since we know covetousness is just WRONG, it is my most frequent prompt.

I read home and garden magazines for two reasons and two reasons only: to get ideas/learn new things and to stoke the fires of covetousness because even if my home isn’t as full of those perfectly lovely things pictured, I can have it be as clean. (Well. Almost. And only sometimes. I give myself leeway in that regard. I don't torture myself with perfection. Because I’m generous like that.)

I especially love it when antiques and collectibles are featured along with their provenance and other info but especially, how much they are worth. Ka-ching! Or, at least, potential ka-ching, should I have ever been so lucky as to have purchased one of the goodies pictured in the glossy pages of a magazine. However, hope springs eternal.

The other day, in an attempt to get some magazine reading done (we won’t say where) I was leafing through one such for a last glimpse before tossing it into the recycling bin when my eye was caught by this photo.



I had looked at this picture several times already but had never thought anything about it. Now I was thinking that the pretty boy and girl looked so familiar. When I got a chance, I went to my room and compared this lovely object with something I had bought on eBay for $10 about four years ago. (It was listed as a lamp base.) It sits on the dresser and I look at it (or blindly "see" it) a dozen times a day.




What do you think? The same boy and girl? One and the very frickin' same? That I see dozens of times a day? And did not notice was one and the same as the one in the magazine in the section where they tell how much things are worth which I read in hopes I will own one (or more) such object until it was almost too late?

Did I mention how much this base would be worth if it still had the bowl?



It’s times like these that make me wish with a fervent, melting, heat that brain surgery was available for people “like me”. (Anyone have a bowl that looks like it might have once had a base decorated by a frolicking boy and girl? Anyone? No? Anyone?)

This morning, the much used and abused journal of a mysterious bloggist fell into my hands. I wonder if she has any enlightening thoughts? Let’s take a peek, shall we?

Sept. 14th—Problem: I am so busy reading blogs I have no time to read books. You know—books? Remember them? I don’t think I’ve read one since May, back when I was too sick to walk, crawl or slide on my backside to the computer. Solution: choose a good book from the TBR shelf and leave it in the bathroom. Read it when the opportunity arises. Replace with a new book when I’m done.

Sept 28th: Problem: I am too busy to read any of those magazines to which I subscribed b/c they were so cheap. I really like my magazines! What a waste! Solution: place them in the bathroom for those times when concentrating on that book is just too taxing.

October 9th: Problem: I don’t seem to be spending enough time in the bathroom. Things are getting a bit backed up. Solution: put a timer by the computer and set it for every five or six hours to remind me to reacquaint myself with the commode, not to mention, catch up on my reading.

October 14th: Problem: the house is always a mess! Solution: rope The Spouse and kids into doing all those annoying chores for me! Tell them it will be quality time spent together as a family! Get them busy folding towels, doing dinner dishes, cleaning the junk out of the car, then sneak off and read the most recent blog posts in my reader. Score!

October 27th: Problem: the Little Guy is a great helper but ever since it has been his job to unload the dishwasher I can’t find anything! I keep telling him where it all goes but I am usually too busy blogging to supervise him when he actually does it. I have the hardest time finding the right pots and pans! Argh!! Solution: give up cooking entirely. This is really a win-win situation. No more frustration looking for stuff AND I can blog instead of cook. Bonus feature: no more of those pesky trips to the hospital as a result of food poisoning.

November 4th: Problem: Leaving the house 40 minutes before the Little Guy gets out of school so I can get a good parking place (not too far, not too hot but not too shady) just isn’t cutting it, even if I do print up blog posts to read while I wait. Solution: tell him to walk to the corner—he’s 7, he can do it!—then time my arrival at said corner with his. Coast up to the curb just as other mommies are getting into their parked cars, roll down the window and shout “jump in” without ever coming to a complete stop. Register your total disregard for the withering looks of disgust the other moms give you by cutting off as many of them as possible as you peal down the street.

November 8th: Problem: The Big Guy is getting, well, bigger. Some of his clothes are looking a bit put out, put upon and generally stretched beyond their capacity. He hates to go clothes-shopping and I just don’t have time! Solution: Cut a hole in the middle of one or two blankets (we have plenty!) and voila! If he has to leave the house in one, no matter, it has been so long since I cut his hair he already looks like a girl. Bonus feature: no need to cut his hair. Ever. Again. Plus, if I save his double-wide sweats for the Middle Child, I save time clothes-shopping with her in the future. She’ll never be as tall or deep as BG but with skillful cutting and a seam down the middle of each leg, each pair of sweats could become two pair of rockin’ pants for her senior year (seniors don’t go to school anyway so who cares?)

November 19th: Problem: The Middle Child is almost 14. I’m thinking I should sit down and have some mother/daughter talks with her but that would cut into my blogging time. Solution: make a schedule for her featuring plenty of re-runs of shows like Sabrina the Teenage Witch, Buffy, Angel, Charmed and Smallville. She will glean all she needs to know including the fact that no matter how weird she is, she is comparatively normal. Make her watch plenty of episodes of House to provide balance, realism and plenty of hard-hitting no-holds-barred info about the Birds and the Bees.

December 12th: Problem: (illegible chicken scratches). Solution: set timer to wake me up in the middle of the night to remind The Spouse that we need to schedule some time to discuss the possibility of enjoying some marital relations this side of the current decade.

(Sorry so long but I just kept writing b/c I can't think of a good way to end this. I could say . . . well, no . . how about? Hmmmmm . . . Nope. I got nothing.)
(Oh, and hey, check back here tomorrow for my interview and photo--yellow teeth gleaming in the light. Oh joy!)

I pushed the delete button on my last post. Though I didn’t mean it that way (honest I didn’t!) it came across as a little bit whiny and a teensy bit braggy and even a bit cruel. Worst of all, by spilling my paranoia into your virtual laps, I spread it.

Yeah. It’s been a real head-trip.

Speaking of head-trips, over the weekend, The Spouse and I watched The Duchess.

I loved the clothes and the scenery and all the “my-lording” but was especially taken with the parallel between Georgiana (pronounced Geor-jane-a by the Brits) (which is where the name came from) (so I guess we say it wrong) (making them right) (again) Spencer, later Cavendish (a dishy name if I ever heard one) Duchess of Devonshire, and a certain celebrity. And, no, I do not mean Princess Diana, though, of course, it’s what everyone else is saying.

Let’s see . .

Too much drugs and alchohol? Check
A tumultuous marriage? Check
Numerous extramarital affairs? Check
Forced separation from her children? Check
Your life gossiped about by literally everyone? Check
Having to watch your ex enjoy life with another woman? Check
An early death? Remains to be seen . . .

Basically, Georgiana was the Britney Spears of her time. It boggles the mind to realize there could possibly be so much celebrity, adulation and down-right worship of a woman who walked the earth before the invention of cameras and recording devices. They did have artists and newspapers, however, and they were very effective in fanning the flames of super stardom, even in 1785. When Georgiana made a public appearance, she was routinely mobbed. Women wielded fans painted with her face. If that’s not enough to make a grown woman nutty, consider this quote I nabbed on wikipedia:

“Famously, when she was stepping out of her carriage one day, an Irish dustman exclaimed: "Love and bless you, my lady, let me light my pipe in your eyes!", a compliment which she often recalled whenever others complimented her by retorting, "After the dustman's compliment, all others are insipid."

Gadzooks! Talk about jaded! Perhaps I don’t need to be blog famous after all.

In my youth I attended church with a very handsome but very physically disabled young man named Ron who, due to a birth accident to his brain, had trouble controlling his flailing limbs and speaking clearly enough to be understood. By the time we were teenagers, Ron was nearly an adult and most of the crowd I hung out with would rather ignore him than interact with him.

One evening his parents attended a party my parents were hosting at our home and Ron came along. Whilst the adults chatted, he became bored, got up from his seat and started hobbling around the room with his cane. I was watching him so when he stopped to look at a painting on the wall and indicated interest, I started talking to him about it. I told him that it was of a street scene in Paris, that the matting was really a soft velvet ribbon, that the paint was actually “bumpy” because it had been applied in thick strokes. I knew he was listening and understood because he immediately lifted his shaking hand to touch the painting. Afraid the painting would be knocked to the floor from his jerky movements, I put my hand on his and guided it, straight and sure, to the raised paint. He was quiet and concentrating on holding still but once he had touched the painting with his fingertip and moved his hand far enough away, he laughed, loud and long, and his whole body laughed with him. It was the first time I realized there was nothing wrong with his mind, nothing wrong at all whatsoever.

I often look back on that day as my first job interview with God.