Bonjour!

Bonjour mes amies from Metz! It is currently 6:14 am and I am wide awake, thanks to the singing delivery man who made a 4 am stop at the restaurant next door to my hotel. Ah, France. You quirky country.

I arrived in Metz around 5:30pm, but thanks to Steffan (Ulrika's GPS system) and an entirely wacky system of roads that are for whatever reason, closed, rerouted and laid out in amaze like grid of one ways I did not actually arrive at my hotel until 7pm. Oh, I could see the road my hotel was on and once was actually on the road, but I could not get here. It was insane. I finally ended up parking about 6 blocks away and walking to checkin. The very nice woman at reception told me that, silly American, you can't get here from there! You must first go 12 blocks out of the way, make a few very complicated turns down ancient streets not meant to hold European SUV's, pray, swear up and down, wait for pedestrians (who were in no hurry and not willing to move out of the way), back track twice, go the wrong way down a one way street and then you will end up at the parking garage, which is all of one block away from the hotel, but not accessable from the hotel itself. Oh, and you must hurry because the garage closes at half past 7 and you have very little time because even though you are parked very near by, the route you have to drive to actually get into said garage (which you can see from the hotel) will take you about that long. Oh you wacky French. How I love you.

I called Mr. HH once I was firmly entrenched in my room (with a marble fronted no working fireplace) and told him it was probably a good thing he and Indy did not come because there would have been arguing and we might not have made it to our 15th anniversary next month. He's such a crab in the car.

The drive here was quite lovely. Snowy, but lovely and the radio stations were just a little slice of delightful. Some in French, some in German, and some a very weird mixture of both, but all playing American music. Seriously, there is nothing like some old school Bon Jovi for driving. Who doesn't burst out in a sing along when they hear You Give Love a Bad Name? I loves me some Bon Jovi, but have you heard his recent stuff? Not so good. He's a nice guy, and been in the biz for a long time. I think it's time he sat back and rested on his laurels. I'm just sayin.

Once the singing delivery man woke me up, I couldn't go back to sleep, so I've spent some time reading my book, watching Spongebob in French (awesomeness) and the openign ceremony of the Olympics. Very impressive Canada. That whole icey firey reversey leugey thing to light the torch? Very cool. And KD Lange? You knocked that song out of the park! I love that song and I really love that you looked like a guy but sang it like a woman.

Ok, I'm going to try to squeeze in a few minutes of sleep now. I'm feeling tired and sure I'm rambling like mad. BTW, for those of you who track your visitors, if you see a visit from Pagny-sur-mosselle, Lorraine, France, that's probably me. :)

A bientot!

No kitchen for you part zwei: the McDonald's version

TOM had surgery the other day (he is seriously broken, I think this is surgery 4 or 5 in the last 3 years) and the Contessa ran away because OMG are men babies when they're wounded stopped over tonight to pick up some books and have a glass of wine. She said last night they were hungry but she didn't feel like cooking. TOM (still on drugs because he would never have said this if he weren't) told her just to go to McDonald's and grab some cheeseburgers. She went up to the counter and there was an older Turkish woman at the register. Contessa ordered 8 cheeseburgers from the 1 Euro menu and OTW (Old Turkish Woman) told her "Nein!" Contessa said she looked around to make sure OTW was talking to her because um, why not? Contessa said there was no confusion in her order. She ordered in German and even pointed to what she wanted, holding up 8 fingers. Sometimes we do the most ridiculous things to make sure we're communicating correctly. Even if we have the right words, our "accents" often get in the way. Contessa ordered her 8 cheeseburgers again, and OTW shook her finger in Contessa's face and said "Nein! Nur eins!" (No! Only one!). The guy behind Contessa backed up. Apparently he was afraid the little American woman was going to go crazy on OTW (perhaps he was my painter from a few weeks ago and had some experience with crazy Americans?). Contessa said (in English) "Go get your manager" which OTW had no problems understanding and headed off to the back, returning with Manager who spoke perfect English. Contessa explained that she wanted 8 cheeseburgers and he said it was "not a problem" (a very German answer) and started to ring her up. OTW, told him nein and again asserted that she Contessa could only have 1. Manager babbled back at her in German and she was firm that Contessa could NOT have 8 cheeseburgers. Manager sent OTW to the back but before she went, she tossed a towel on the counter, said some unflattering things in German (it's amazing how we may not speak fluent German, but we KNOW the bad stuff) and stalked off. Manager rang up Contessa and completed her order, apologizing for OTW. Contessa still has no idea why OTW didn't want her to have 8 cheeseburgers and everyone else seemed just as perplexed. Isn't that odd? If only she'd said "No kitchen for you!"

Let them eat cake!

Having Mr. HH's birthday party the other night reminded me of something I always find funny when at parties. I'm not saying this happened the other night, but it reminded me. When it comes to desserts like cakes or pies, most people always say something along the lines of "Oh, I'll just have a small piece." Other variations on this could be "Oh, I couldn't eat a whole slice" or "Just cut a slice in half for me." They inevitably eat their small piece and go back for more. Why do people do this? Are we too embarrassed to take a whole slice? I mean, if you look at most Americans, it's obvious they are in fact eating more than a "small piece" so it's not exactly a secret. If you want cake, eat your cake! I love cake. Especially birthday cake, because there are no calories in birthday cakes. What, you didn't know that? It's true. Look it up. Or don't. Just take my word on it. Birthday cake=no calories. When I'm at a party, I don't care what anyone thinks. I want the biggest piece of cake. You know, that corner piece with the big fat icing blob that's supposed to be a rose? Oh yeah, that's the piece for me. If I haven't eaten too much spinach dip before hand, I might even go for a second piece. That's right. Second. And not in the manner of "Oh, my kid didn't eat his/her cake so I'd better finish it." Oh no, I want my own piece, not one that Indy drooled on (not that he would now-the boy likes some cake). Second piece. No apologies. Eat your cake people! You're not fooling anyone. Embrace life. Eat your cake with abandon and if you want to drag your finger across the plate to get the left over icing, I'm right there with you.
In the imortal words that Marie Antoinette likely never said: "Let them eat cake!" A big slice.

A How NOT To

One of the many, many, many things I love about bloggers is that they post so many awesome how to's. I learn so much and get so many amazing ideas. Today I'm going to go in a different direction. Oh, it started off as a how to, but so went the wrong way. I was going to scrap the post but decided I'd give you the benefit of my experience and create a how NOT to. This is long, but I think you'll learn a lesson. I know I sure did.
So, I'm sure by now you've all see those lovely Pottery Barn candles that are basically a tree trunk. No? Well, check it out:


Gorgeous, right? Also, crazy expensive. $69 for a candle? Are you kidding me? I love you PB, but come on.
I'm a member of our Spouses Club (wonderful people who do wonderful works and have a fun luncheon once a month!) and the Ways and Means committee found something similar in Poland for a fraction of the price. Fraction people. You might have caught a glimpse of mine in my Christmas decor.
Cute, huh? Yeah, and after the mark up for the Ways and Means committee it was $14. FOURTEEN! Oh, Pottery Barn. You have beautiful stuff but your prices suck.
Anyway, I brought it home and promptly burned out the very slim candle that was poured into what really is just a tree trunk. Who thought of that? Craziness. It came with a white candle that lasted a few hours, but when it was gone, I was left with a log with a hole in the top. I certainly wasn't going to throw it out (gasp!) but they don't exactly make log sized candles and tea lights (even the big ones) just looked silly. I thunk and I thunk and finally, like the Grinch up in his mountain lair an idea finally came to me! I smiled my sly Grinch-y smile and rubbed my hands together in glee. I would melt some candles I already had and pour them in the base! How hard could that be? Oh, how that thought came back to haunt me!
I jumped up from the sofa, giggling slightly and gathered my supplies, tea lights and the log and carried them off to the kitchen, still congratulating myself on my obviously superior intelligence, thriftiness and skills.


I pulled out a large deep frying pan and placed about a half inch of water in and set it on the stove. I'm a genius! Or not, whatever. Once the water warmed up, I carefully placed my many tea lights in and waited for them to melt. And waited, and waited. Hmmmm...you'd think this would be faster. I thought hey let's crank the heat up a bit, that should help. And it did! Except that the water got a little too hot and started boiling and the candles jumped a bit and wax got into the water. Drat. I was hoping to avoid wax in the frying pan, but no matter, I'd just clean it out. The large tea light was melting around the edges which is what I'd been waiting for as it would serve as the center of the candle. Of course it wouldn't just pop out of it's holder, so I needed it to melt a smidgeon. I picked it up carefully and it was HOT! Holy cow! I managed to get the metal holder out of the water without incident (if you don't care about not having fingerprints that is), picked up the candle by the wick and placed it in the center of the hole. The melted wax I poured around it and went back to waiting for the small tea lights to melt. How to get them out though? I didn't want to lose the rest of my identifying marks so I thought I'd use a pair of tongs to remove the metal casings from the water and pour it into my mold, then just pull out the extra wick I didn't need. Congratulating myself once again on my brilliance, I grabbed a pair of tongs and picked up the first tea light. It tilted a little and wax poured into the water. Darn it! No worries. Just a little wax. I managed to get the remainder into the mold, the extra wick out and grabbed for another. This time, more wax poured out and a little splashed across the stove. Grrrr. I'd have to clean the stove. There actually wasn't much wax left by the time I got it to the mold and I was getting a little frustrated. The 3rd tea light went even worse. It dropped completely out of the tongs and splashed everywhere, including all over my clothes. Nooooooooooooo!


At this point Mr. HH called to ask if I was okay, and I assured him I was and that no he did NOT need to come to the kitchen. All I needed was for him to see the counter, floor and me covered in red wax blobs. I would have NEVER heard the end of it. Ever. I quickly started cleaning up and cursing up a storm and gave up on my brilliant plan. My candle was half done, I was covered in wax and the kitchen was a mess. Great. I drug the iron out and threw some paper towels over the mess, hoping to warm it into the paper towels. It worked. I took off my shirt, and prayed Mr. HH would not decide to stroll into the kitchen. This would be hard to explain and at this point I was pretty sure I couldn't come up with anything that sounded even remotely plausible. Especially not the truth.
So my candle was still not finished, and the water on the stove obviously didn't work. I thunk and I thunk again (I might have fractured something up there, but I can't be sure) and an idea hit me while I stared down at my shirt that was not releasing the wax. I grabbed an old jar out of the glass recycling bin and tossed in some pieces of a red taper. Genius! Why hadn't I thought of this earlier? Mental high five! 3 minutes later though, and my taper had barely melted. Was this wax or kryptonite? Gah! 5 more minutes in the microwave and some of it was melted enough that I could pour it and I oh so stupidly reached in to pull it out. Bare handed. Let me tell you something. Eight minutes in a microwave makes glass HOT. Too hot to hold. I dropped the jar of hot wax and it shattered. In the microwave. Brilliant. This was clearly not my night. I cleaned the microwave and cursed my self and this stupid project to no end still determined to somehow make this work. The tea lights didn't do well in the water and the jar didn't do well in the microwave. Hmmmmm. What if I combined them though???? I grabbed another jar from the glass bin (thank goodness we hadn't taken it out!) and another taper. I used a knife to shave the taper into the jar. The solid candle took too long to melt, but I reasoned that shavings would melt pretty quickly. And you know what? I WAS RIGHT! I placed the jar in the pan of water and the shavings melted almost instantly! Clearly, I was a genius. Those first two attempts were merely experiments on the path to brilliance. When the wax was good and melted, I poured it into the mold, let it cool and voila! I had the perfect candle! Obviously I'd found my calling. Look how pretty it turned out:


So, to reiterate my findings: tea lights should not go in shallow boiling water because they will eventually move and get wax all in your pan (which is a PITA to clean afterward), glass gets really, really hot in the microwave (and it's hard to clean if it gets everywhere) and wax shavings actually melt fairly quickly. Oh, and sometimes you have to let go of your clothing even it was one of your favorites. This is why crafters and painters wear smocks. Take note. There you have it. My how not to.

Late Night Lunacy

Last night, I was really tired and decided I'd had enough TV and interwebs (I know, I was shocked too) and planned to go to bed. I took my glass to the kitchen and headed to the bathroom. Unfortunately for me, Mr. HH beat me to the bathroom while I went to the kitchen and I was stuck. He shaves at night before going to bed to save time in the morning, so I knew he was going to be in there for a while. Drat. I had to pee but in nearly 15 years of marriage have never, ever voluntarily gone to the bathroom in front of him. He has walked in on me a few times when I've forgotten to lock the door, but I usually shriek like a banshee and hurl things at him (usually rolls of toilet paper) until he leaves. IMO, you shouldn't pee in front of other people if you're over the age of 5 or under the age of 80 (though I'm willing to give the older people some leeway there), unless you're sick or in labor. I have a shy bladder. It's just another of my totally insane cute quirks. While I waited for him to become "silky smooth" (bonus points if you know what really bad, but also funny movie that's from), I decided to clean out the junk drawers in the kitchen. I've resolved to become more organized next year and figured I'd get a head start. Sounds good right?
We somehow have 2juk drawers in the kitchen. They're not big drawers, but man where they FULL! I don't know how it all fit. I'd been at it for about 10 minutes when Mr. HH came out and asked what I was doing and where did all of that stuff come from. I explained that it had all come from the junk drawers and he called me a liar, earning him a patented "crazy eyes" stare that made him back slowly out of the kitchen. It's a skill. I managed to toss, rearrange and relocate enough "junk" that it left me with a completely empty drawer! What to do? Move the spices down and lay them in said empty drawer and free up some much needed cabinet space! I. Am. A. Genius. <--True story. As I'm moving the spices down, I begin to ponder why I have certain spices. I'm relatively certain I've never used cardamon or fenugreek in my life. Where did they come from? I also wondered why I had so many of the same spice. Yes, when we PCS (military speak for move) the packers will pack up our spices to go to the next place, and I do have to pick up a few important spices to get us through until our household goods arrive, but I had 5 (five) bottles of lemon and pepper, 3 bottles of basil, 4 bottles of poultry seasoning and 3 HUGE containers of Old Bay seasoning. Why? None of those spices go together and I can't imagine a Lemon and Pepper emergency, so what was going on? Then it hit me. In my disorganization, I sometimes can't find something I need (even thought the spices are all in the same cabinet) and will run out to pick up a new container. With my spices laying flat in a drawer where I can see them all, rather than rummaging through the cabinet, where I can barely see, I'm hoping to avoid the whole multiple bottle of the same spice thing.

An hour later, my kitchen was in a shambles and I was exhausted, but my junk drawers had become drawer (singular) and my spices were purged and organized. Hurrah! I drug myself to bed, tired, but feeling a high from having accomplished something (despite knowing I would be waking to a crazy disaster in the rest of the kitchen) and then realized I'd never gone to the bathroom. Sigh.

Crazy is a good color on me

Get comfy, this is gonna take a while, but it's totally worth it.

For whatever reason me griping and moaning to get the handicapped ramp that ran up the center of our stairs moved to a place that didn't inconvenience those who didn't need it, which would be everyone in the building our building has been the subject of much construction over the last 6-8 months. Seriously, it's been insane. Like me. We had the ramp moved (thank goodness), our maid's quarters redone (they're used for storage now and not maids-dammit), new sidewalks put in (you cannot imagine the noise), new exterior doors, more parking spaces and today new windows in the stairwell. I should mention that installing the new windows involved them smashing the glass because they couldn't pull the casings out without bending them, and they had to remove the glass first. Apparently taking a hammer to all the windows and showering the stairwell with glass was the "most efficient" way. Or maybe the workers just wanted to smash stuff. I know I did. It has been nonstop construction on our building for months, to the point where all the residents are just over it. The very first thing that was done, was actually done in Dec of last year. Our stairwell looked just terrible. It probably hadn't been repainted in at least 10-15 years and really, really needed it. Our building coordinator, TOM-The Other Man, for those who may not know (Mr. HH's "brofriend), called DPW (Dept. of Public Works) and was told there was no money. We asked if we could paint it ourselves if they supplied the paint. No. We bugged them until they "found" the money and repainted. WHITE. Mental Asylum White. It looked fresh, but stark. Since our household goods had not arrived yet, I decided I'd do something to pretty it up. I stenciled fluer de lis (in burgundy) up 4 flights of stairs and under the community notice board painted "Welcome" in a fancy script (the letters were about 7-8 inches hihg). I'm not a big fan of stenciling, but it looked really nice in the stairwell. My neighbors loved it. It looked pretty and helped make it look less like men with white coats would chase you up the stairs and inject you with calming medications. We get compliments all the time on how nice the interior looks. Yay me! This morning when I went to take the dogs out I found a painter rolling white paint over my stenciling. WTF? One of the apt's can't get a new stove, even though hers is a serious fire hazard (because it's 15 years old and the burners are dodgy), because there's "no money," but they can pay a painter to come paint over a stairwell that was painted exactly 1 year ago? I seriously went crazy. I think I frightened the painter. We communicated with our broken knowledge of each others language and made lots of insane hand gestures, while my dogs looked like they were ready to pee on him if they didn't get outside ASAP. I asked him to stop painting until I could call his boss (who knows who I am) and took the dogs out in a freaking monsoon. You know the scenes in Spiderman where MJ has water running down her face and hair, but doesn't care because she's about to kiss Spiderman? Yeah, that was me, only there was no Spiderman for me to kiss. I was literally soaked. I drug the dogs and about 25 gallons of water back into the building to find the painter still painting! He saw me come in and put the roller down and backed away slowly. I can only imagine what I and my 3 waterlogged dogs looked like to him. I told him NOT to paint a thing until I came back down. I ran upstairs and started shrieking the minute I opened the door. Mr. HH was still in bed and practically did a tuck and roll out of the bed, preparing for attack. I think he thought he was back in Iraq. I unleashed the dogs, who looked like I had thrown them in a pond, grabbed my cell, still shouting instructions as Mr. HH and ran back down the stairs. Rose, the amazing woman who cleans our stairwell had arrived and was grilling talking loudly to the painter asking him what he thought he was doing (I was pretty proud that I understood her, being as it was all in German) and then saw me running towards them and asked what was going on. I gave her a brief explanation and she translated between me and the painter. Her English isn't fluent, but she knew enough to get my point across. I made sure she explained that I wasn't angry with him, but the higher ups. He was just doing his job. I called the DPW chief and went 12 kinds of crazy on this poor man (he's the one who sent the painter out). I went on about the constant construction and endless noise, the unnecessary repainting of the stairwell, the fact that things we needed done couldn't be because they never had the money and blah, blah, blah. He talked to the painter for a few minutes and the painter was going on at lightening speed, but I understood when he told the chief (in German) how "the lady came down and said 'No! No! No!" Rose and I looked at each other and started laughing. The painter handed me back the phone and the chief and I went over it again until he said he would tell the painter to stop and they would leave it as is. I thanked him, handed the phone to the painter and rolled my eyes heavily at Rose, who agreed it was all ridiculous. The painter handed me back the phone and told me to have a good day. Then he sprinted from the building as quickly as possible, probably thanking his lucky stars he didn't have to seal with me anymore. At least he'll have a good story to tell at dinner. :)
I came back to our apartment and Mr. HH was still confused and eying me wearily. I went over the whole story with him, in a calmer tone until he understood, but still feared me just a little (I've decided this isn't a bad thing, really-keeps him on his toes). We were getting ready to leave to take Ulrika to the Volvo dealer to get her oil changed when the house phone rang. It was the DPW chief. Weird, since I'd called him on my cell. How did he get my home number? He wanted to know what things our building needed taken care of that we'd been told there was no money for, so I gave him a laundry list (seriously, 3 of the items involved the washers and dryers in the basement that are old and not working properly). He said he'd have it all taken care of within the next week. Including getting my neighbor a new stove! Score! Sometimes it just takes someone getting crazy to get things moving in the right direction, and if that has to be me, well, I'm up for it. Crazy looks good on me. To quote Roy O'Bannon (Owen Wilson) in Shanghai Noon, "I don't know Karate, but I know Ka-razy and I'm not afraid to use it."

You searching for me?

The pervs are at it again! I thought I’d update you guys on some of the recent searches that have brought depraved souls to my innocent little blog. You ready for this?

Ice cream inside heels-Okay, really, why? Ice cream? IN heels? Weird.

Naked moms crouching down in high heels-Just Ewwwww! Why would you search for that? No, don't tell me, I'd rather not know. I imagine this post is not quite what they were looking for though.

Hard love in high heels-Ummmm….

I lost a bet and have to wear high heeled boots for one day-What kind of bet was this?

Dirty heels-What? I would never let my heels get dirty! Wait? What? Oh, that kind of dirty. Never mind.

Naked mom in heels-There are multiple searches for this. I’m thinking crazy Freud was onto something with that whole oedipal thing.

I’m a boy and I like to wear my mom’s high heels-Might I suggest getting your own?

High heels for pervs-At least this person knows he’s a perv

Slutty Jewish girls in skirts and heels-How very… specific.

Super hot moms in high heels-Why thank you! You came to the right place.

Isn’t that insane? It always gives me a good laugh to read through these and to see what country the searchers are from. Surprisingly a lot of them are not from the US. Look at me, I’m reaching out to the international perverts.

NaNoWriMo Update: At the end of Day 3 I should have written 5001 words. My actual count was 5308. Go me! They’re not all great, by any means, but the story is there and I can clean it up in Dec. Or maybe Jan. Okay, off to each the boy and write my 1667 words for the day.

NaNoWriMo

It is official! I am going to be participating in NaNoWriMo! I'm so excited (and scared to death). If you don't know what NaNoWriMo is, click the icon above to check it out. It's National Novel Writing Month, and the goal is to write a 50K word novel in 30 days. Totally doable (I keep telling myself). Did you know I'm a wanna-be writer? It's true. I've written 4 unfinished novels (one of them is more than 70K words!). I have stories running around in my head, characters talking (no, I'm not crazy) who get up to all sorts of shenanigans, but I always let them down. I also have a notebook with outlines for at least 5 more novels. What is wrong with me? Why am I not finishing? Well, I don't know, but this year, I'm challenging myself to finish one. In a month! To be fair 50K words really isn't that many. I know what you're thinking (it's true, I can read your brain waves through the interwebs): WHAT? 5oK words? That's a lot. Sure it is, but it's not as if I have to write something War and Peace long, you know? And the first draft (which is what I will be writing in Nov) doesn't even have to be that good (though mine will rock). This little bit above is already 220 words and that took less than 3 minutes to write out. To reach 50K, I have to write just 1667 words a day. I speak that many before breakfast, surely I can write something, right? I actually do have a story plotted out, so I'm not going into this blind. I'll try to keep you guys updated on my progress (because I know you'll be checking your computer every day just to see how I'm doing, right? RIGHT?) and hopefully in a month, I'll have cranked out my first completed novel. Is anyone else participating? If you are, make me your buddy. I only have 2 buddies, and well, let's be honest, a real writer should have more. You can buddy me here. Cross your fingers and send me anti-writer's block vibes.<--lookie there, 341 words. I am so going to do this!

Crickets and a small case of the crazies

Yesterday M, Indy and I were in the car going to deal with getting our driver's licenses renewed. Here's a conversation we had.

Me: You know what I realized yesterday?
M: There's no telling.
Me: I haven't taken my happy pills in like a month.
M: Ahhhhhhh.
Me: What does that mean?
M: I suspected...but I was...afraid to say anything.
Me: What? Why?
M: What, what?
Me: Why did you suspect I haven't been taking them?
***Crickets***
Me: Tell me!
M: Well,....you've been a little...um..
Me: A little what? A little what?
M: Um...high strung lately?
Me: What? What do you mean "high strung?"
Indy: Crazy, Mom. He thinks you've been acting crazy.
Me: WHAT?
M: You are not helping, buddy. Zip it.
Indy (quietly): Well you thought it, not me.
Me: You've think I've been acting crazy?
M: Noooooooo {turns and gives Indy the evil eye} I don't think you're crazy, I can just tell that you're a bit...more stressed out than usual.
Indy (very quietly): Craaaaazzzzyyyyyy.
M: I do not!
Me: Do you?
M: No! No, I don't. Gah! You two are making ME crazy.


Today I was cleaning the kitchen (stupid house, I'm still mad at you for not cleaning yourself!) and grumbling to myself.

M: Did you take your happy pills today?
Me: WHAT? What does that mean?
M: Nothing, I was just...wondering.
Me: Why? Because I'm griping about having to clean the kitchen.
M: So does that mean you're not in the mood for a big old slice of me?
***Crickets***

A little while later, I'm still cleaning the kitchen and called M to tell him something I'd just remembered, but he didn't answer. I walked through the house carrying a glass jar I was in the middle of cleaning only to discover he wasn't in the house. I walked up stairs to the "man cave", still carrying the jar, and found him watching TV.

Me (very calmly): What are you doing?
M: Watching TV.
Me: So, you just came up here?
M: Well, yeah. You seemed a little irritable.
Me: And what part of leaving me alone to deal with the house did you think was a good idea?
***Crickets***


Happy pills, BTW, are a "mood enhancing" prescription that I take for anxiety. Not because I'm crazy. I tend to get really stressed out and the pills help keep me level. Apparently, I've not been "level" lately. I'm back on them though and will be my normal happy self in no time.

Lightening my load. Or What on earth have I done?

Do you ever feel all crazy inside?  No?  Just me?  Okay then.  Sometimes I just feel….like I need to do something.  I get in a frump and then feel I have to do something nuts to get myself out of it.  It usually works.  Now, don’t get me wrong here, I’m not getting things pierced or tattooed (I’m too much of a chicken for that-I wanted drugs the moment I found out I was pregnant, you know, just in case).  I prefer to go with something less permanent and painful. 

Today I had an appointment to get my eyebrows threaded.  Ever heard of that?  It originated in India and has been used in Europe and the Middle East for decades (probably longer).  My stylist is from Iran and said she learned to do it when she was about 12 (she now in her mid-50’s so she’s got some experience).  I was very apprehensive.   Waxing scares the beejeebers out of me and I really had no idea what I was in for.  She took a spool of cotton thread and first tied it around her neck (for tension) then had about 3 feet hanging off.  She folded it in half, twisted it up and ran it over my eyebrows.  I can’t say it didn’t hurt, because it did, but not nearly as much as I expected.  It took her less than 10 minutes to do both eyebrows and they look fantastic!  They’ve never looked that good with waxing and the best part was there was no redness or swelling!  Huzzah!  But this is not the craziness.

I sat in the chair and here’s our conversation:

Me: You know what?  I’m thinking about chopping off my hair.

Super Awesome Stylist (in her very odd accent that is a mixture of Iranian and German):  NO!  You have bea-utiful hair!  You can’t!

Me:  No, I’m really thinking about it.

SAS:  If I had hair like yours I’d never cut it.  Never, never, never.

Me:  You say that, but if you had to seal with it every day, you’d think differently.

SAS:  No, I would have a wonderful new style every day!

Me:  For about a week, and then you’d get tired of it and pull it into a ponytail and feel like a schlump.

SAS:  You might be right, but you cannot cut your hair!

Me:  Yeah, I can.  Or rather you can.  Do you have time?

SAS:  Right now?

Me:  Yeah, before I lose my nerve.

SAS:  Yes, but are you sure?

Me:  Yes, let’s do it.

SAS:  Sure?

Me:  Yes.

Then we flipped through some style books and decided what would look best on me.  She washed my hair, pulled it up in clips (you know, making me look super fancy), and got out the scissors.  She combed a section in the back and prepared to cut.

SAS:  Are you really sure?  I don’t want to cut and then have you change your mind.

Me:  It will grow back.

SAS:  Okay.  Here goes.

I almost fainted when I felt the cut and let out a squeal when I saw the 8 inch hunk of my hair lying on the ground.  OMG!  What did I just do?  I swear I got dizzy and things spun for a moment.  She kept clipping away and more of my hair fluttered to the floor. I looked at it lying there, sad, lifeless and waiting to be swept away.  My poor hair!  It was too late to turn back and she kept at it.  When she was done she looked down and said she’d never cut so much hair off of one person.  It looked like there was about 2 pounds of hair lying at her feet (I have got enough hair for about 3 people.  It’s insane).  I looked in the mirror and shook my much, much, much lighter head.  It took a few moments for me to realize that I had actually had it cut off.  She looked at me apprehensively, but I told her it was great, and it is.  I left feeling lighter both literally and figuratively.    The craziness I’ve been feeling for a few weeks seemed to evaporate.  Isn’t it amazing what a haircut can do?

I don’t have any photos yet, but as soon as I do, I’ll post them.  For now I can tell you that it’s bobbed shoulder length and heavily layered (because there’s so much of it).  It frames my face and really looks great.  My hair, in addition to being crazy thick, grows abnormally fast, so it’ll grow back, but for now, I like it.   And it didn’t involve needles. 

The great purse clean out

Last month Indy earned his tiger paw thing-y for Cub Scouts. It attaches to the pocket and they put beads on it for....something. I do not get Cub Scouts. It's very complicated. You know a man came up with this stuff because a woman would never make it so complicated. Bobcats, Tigers, Bears, Wolves, Weblos, and on and on. It's mind boggling. Girl Scouts are simple: Daisy, Brownie, Girl Scout (now Studio 2B, which is weird, but whatever). Easy. I know you're wondering what on earth this has to do with the great purse clean out, but stick with me. I'm getting there. So, Indy earns his little tiger paw thing-y and I put it in my purse (see, told you we'd get there). This all happened 3 days before our household goods arrived. I decided that I would put the paw print up so I would know where it was when I got around to attaching it to his uniform. Can you see where this is going? Yeah, I have no clue where that flipping thing is. I have turned this place upside down looking for it. Where on earth could it possibly be? I had already checked the purse I took with me to the meeting and it wasn't there. Today I thought maybe I had pulled it out of that purse and chucked it into another one. Sounds reasonable, right? I thought so too. I pulled all the purses out that I keep in the same closet as the purse I carried that night (about 12). Since I was looking, I thought I'd clean them out. I did not know what I was getting myself into. I had already started organizing it by the time I thought to take a photo, so here's a glimpse of what I pulled out:


This is it catagorized:


Oh, and here are the eleventy-billion receipts I pulled out. I had to get rid of those before dh got home. Yikes!


So, here's a list of what I pulled out (aside from the receipts):

11 pens/pencils
6 lipsticks
2 tissue packets
my bluetooth earpiece (I have been looking everywhere for this thing!)
my iPod box with the cable
2 bottles of hand sanitizer
4 fruit strips (in the packages of course)
2 packages of cough drops
altoids
tictacs
5 packs of gum (4 of them were gross and got thrown out)
2 check books
chapstick
dramamine
compact hairbrush
pony tail holder
2 pins
2 bottles of med (though to be fair I jsut got those the other day-they are refills)
4 bottles of homeopathic meds (for bruising)
4 reusable shopping bags
film (I don't even own a camera that uses film)
an Army Lodging Directory
a kinder egg toy
Tide to go stick
The remote to my digital camera
46 cents
6 Euro 20 cents

Am I obsessed?

We've done a lot of fun stuff since we arrived (I'll post some of that at a later date), but in the evenings we sit in our apartment and wait (and wait, and wait, and wait) for our household goods (that's military speak for our stuff) to arrive (maybe next month), I have little to do but plot and plan . Where am I going to put this? Where am I going to put that? What color to paint the walls? What curtains (or mistreatments) should I put up? Oh, I go round and round. Maybe I want a new sofa (which I do, but M is violently opposed to-whatever). Maybe I want a different set of dishes. Maybe I want to change the colors in our bedroom. Maybe I just want to throw everything out and start over. Nothing to do but think. And stalk Nester. Seriously, I wait and wait and wait for her to update her site and then when she does, rush over with ridiculous excitement beating a heavy tatoo in my chest. What wil it be this time? What nugget of decorating wisdom will she dole out today? Oh, the joy! The rapture! Sad, isn't? Don't worry Nester, I'm a a whole continent away. You're safe.
Well , last night my obessesion spilled over into my nocturnal musings. Oh, that's right! I dreamed about Nester! I think it's Indy's fault. He likes to look at websites with me and every time I cruise over to the Nester (not THAT often, like 20 times once a day) he comments that he would like to play with her boys. I explained that to play with them he would have to make that really long flight again, and he decided that maybe they could come to our house instead. Smart boy, that one.
In my dream, Indy went over to their house to play (how we lived close enough for this to happen I never quite figured out, but it's a dream, so it doesn't have to make sense. Right? RIGHT?) and Nester invited me to come along for coffee (or tea in my case, since I loathe coffee). In my dream I was practically skipping to her house. Believe me, it's humbling to type that. So, into that mecca of home decor all us faithful readers can only dream of (see, I made a funny) I went. It was amazing! There were mistreatments and toile and barn stars and feathers and tassels galore! There may have been some squealing and covert picture taking on my part, but I cannot confirm this. Oh, and guess who else was there? Go on, guess. That's right! Emily, Kimba and Fussy! Can you belive it? They were all sitting around a table crafting! Crafting! It was the Round Table of Awesomeness (I'm totally trademarking that). Actually, Emily was taking pictures, but I consider that crafting too. Nester invited me to join them! This was a really good dream, people. We crafted, we giggled, we talked about shoes and our kids and homeschooling and decorating! Yea! At some point in the crafting hoopla Indy and the boys came running through the house (as boys are want to do) and somehow red wine was spilled onto a cloth covered side table and some mistreatments. I'm still not sure where the wine came from, but that didn't matter in the dream. Whatever. I was slightly horrified and just knew she'd never invite us over again. Not that I think Nester is like that, it was just something that ran through my head (in my dream). Nester, with typical Southern graciousness, said not to worry, whipped off the table cloth unclipped the mistreatements and took me to a room full (FULL) of fabrics. She rifled through some of them, found exactly what she was looking for, grabbed Priscilla (her hot glue gun in case you don't know), some fringe and whipped up a new mistreatement and table topper in about 10 minutes, oh and a new tassel because she was inspired by the color of the fabric, put them all up and went back to the crafting table. Oh, and she did it all in a gorgeous pair of heels. I think I might have been clapping and jumping up and down, but again, I cannot confirm this. And then.........then my alarm went off (stupid alarm-why couldn't you give me another hour? ) and all the fabulosity faded. But it was a good dream and I woke up smiling. If Johnny Depp had shown up with a car loaded with Prada, Ferragamo and Manolo Blahniks all in my size it would have been the ultimate dream, but as it was, it was pretty awesome. I did worry for a few minutes though that I might be ever so slightly obsessed with Nester. Do you think?