Project 52 2K13~ Week 33 {Anticipation}

I have no idea how this happened.
I was in no way prepared for this to happen.
I only went in to Target for yoga pants and toilet cleaner.

Then she asked if we get her backpack while we were there.
I told her we could look at them. 
Then she says, "Do you think we could get my school supplies?"
And I. Said.  Yes.

Before I realized what was happening, we were in the school supply aisle grabbing two boxes of crayons, and six white glue sticks, and 3 pocket folders with pictures of Minnie Mouse on them, and a glitter watercolor set
(because, why not?)
and 24 Ticonderogas....in a neon rainbow assortment. 
They were so pretty.  They were all so pretty.
So new and sharp and unblemished by time in a plastic box crammed into the back of a desk behind 47 crumpled pieces of paper, a stale, half-eaten package of fruit snacks, and the 2" poetry binder the teacher insisted we needed but stopped using after 5 weeks.
 
I was charmed. 
I was beguiled.
I was hypnotized with the beauty of it all.  
A set of fine-tip white board markers that perfectly match all the varying shades on the color wheel?  It doesn't get much more beautimous than that.
That's right.  I said beautimous.

Let me tell you something. 
As I sank deeper and deeper into that school supply abyss, adding 3 boxes of pre-sharpened colored pencils and a tape dispenser shaped like a hot pink high-heeled shoe that I would never in real life wear to our cart, I was not alone.
First she saw it, and then she grabbed it.  The backpack she'd be waiting all summer for, and didn't even know she wanted.  When she put that backpack on, felt that gray and pink padded nylon settle onto her shoulders, pulled out the matching lunchbox from the lunchbox-pocket built into the front, she knew. 
She knew the way you know about a good melon.
And she.  Did not.  Take.  It.  Off.
She wore it through the whole store for the entire rest of the time we were shopping.  The checker had to lean over the counter with her scan gun and paw through all the paper stuffed inside to find the price tag so she could ring it up.
She brought it home, filled it up, and kept right on wearin' it. 
Watched TV wearing it.
Ate dinner wearing it.
Played Monkey In The Middle after football wearing it.
She would have slept in it if I hadn't been able to convince her that she'd break the crayons if she rolled over on it in the middle of the night.

Forgive me, Summer, for I have sinned.
We bought school supplies.
And she is sooooooooooooooooooooooo excited for second grade.
(That's right.  I used 23 'o's.)
(She's THAT excited.)

A Watched Chicken Never Lays

I know what you're thinking.

That.  Is.  Not the Expression.

Which clearly indicates that you have never been to the Congo, because that is a Congolese proverb from way way back.
(Trust me.  I know.)
(Except that I didn't.  I had to look it up.)
(It's a true proverb.  I didn't just invent that.)

You can always tell when a chicken is getting ready to lay an egg.  It finds itself a nice little nesting spot in the coop, and then starts to buawk and squawk in decibels that rival that of a Guns & Roses concert,
(it's like having a baby, that way)
(except chickens do it EVERY DANG DAY)
which makes you run around the house closing all the doors and windows to shut out the racket, burying your head in the sand to the noise that is surely sending your neighbors into a tizzy, because this isn't a farm, you know.  There's an Applebee's right around the corner which would totally not be there if this was a farm.

Afterward, though, you're certain that you've got yourself a nice fresh dozen sitting out there.  So you send the kids out to collect them and they come right back in and say,

"No eggs yet, Mom."

You know why?  Because a watched chicken never lays.

A few mornings ago, Prince Farming walked into the kitchen carrying two white eggs, and said,

"I just watched the chickens lay these eggs."

I was immediately skeptical because he was lying.

"Yeah, I was just standing there watching and they started to lay, and then these eggs just popped out.  Right in front of me.  Right there."

He motioned with his flat hand outstretched in front of him to emphasize the 'right there' part.
Because, you know, he was lying.
Like a rug.

The idea of actually watching a chicken lay an egg is kind of...I don't know....revolting?  Not to be gross, but do you know where those eggs come out?  It's the same place that horses use to drop a steaming load on the sand, endlessly entertaining my children as to the bodily functions of the equine.

I feel like egg laying should be private.  No one really needs to see that.  Let the poor chickens lay their lot in peace. 

But.....There's always that moment when no one is around and curiosity gets the better of you.  One of the birds starts to squawk, and you think to yourself,

"I wonder....."

So, you slowly open the door, and tip toe ever so softly to the side of the coop, and stand as quiet as a little church mouse for a sweet forever, your feet freezing in the wet, morning grass, hoping to see something that will probably make you never want to eat eggs again.

And nothing happens.
That chicken just keeps buawking and squawking with its tail full of egg until its eyes pop out of its head and all its feathers explode like dynamite of its body.
That bird is not going to lay that egg.  Not while you're standing there, it's not.

You know why?

Because a watched chicken never lays.
That's all I'm sayin'.

Project 52 ~ Wk. 28 {With More Time}

 Time.

 

Time is a funny thing.
Especially when it walks into a glass door and falls down.
Although, I may be thinking of last week's theme.

What I mean to say is that time is one of those things I always think I have enough of, but just when I feel like I could really use more, I'm out.
Like toilet paper.
On the other hand, that might really take this conversation in a direction that none of us is prepared to go.

How about this-

Time is like wine.
You can savor it slowly and enjoy the experience that it's bringing.
You can rush through it, not paying much attention because all you're really after is more of it.
(I mean, come on.  Who are we kidding?)
You can just keep pouring glass after glass after glass until the entire bottle is gone and you find yourself doing a Woo-Hoo cheer for the Class of 2014 and calling everyone Babylove.
Or as I like to call it, the 4th of July.
(wait.  what?)
(never mind)

My point is that I don't need more time.
I have plenty of time.  Pah-lenty.
I have a whole 24 hours every single day to accomplish everything that I need.
I read once that you should never complain about not having enough time because we have the same number of hours in the day that were given to Helen Keller, Louie Pasteur, Michelangelo, Mother Teresa, Leonardo da Vinci, Thomas Jefferson, and Albert Einstein.

But what did they all have that I don't?
(besides scientific genius and artistic vision)
(thanks for that, though)
(nice)

They had a desk without a computer.
They had a kitchen without a computer.
They had a phone without a computer.
(if we're being honest, though, I have a flip-phone with no internet service, so that may not really count)
(2003 rules!)

See, I don't need more time.  What I need are fewer distractions.
Fewer dings.
Fewer 'like's.
Fewer clicks and virtual connections.
I don't need to be constantly checking in to see who commented,
or replied,
or sent something,
or posted something,
or thought something,
or broke something,
or checked in,
or checked out,
or had a Diet Coke,
or saw a movie,
or partied,
or slept,
or rode a motorcycle,
or blew a bubble,
or went rollerblading
in a place I've never been to,
with people I don't know.
And I don't need to stop what I'm doing every 15 minutes so I can use the bathroom.
(16 oz. of water before everything you eat about kills me)
(curse that Bob Harper and his skinny rules)

I don't need more time.
I need to stop wasting so much of it.
And maybe a nice bottle of wine.  That never hurts.
(*hiccup*)

As always, I'm lovin' you.

Project 52 2K13 ~ Wk. 27 {Comedy}

Comedy is fun. And funny. It can be something you totally saw coming, or it can be something completely unexpected.

The great thing about comedy is that it can mean so many different things to different people.

For example, my son thinks all great comedy begins with the word naked. And underwear. And wee-wee. All of the bathroom words, really. In fact, if you want to make him laugh, ask him to say naked underwear wee-wee fanny without laughing.

He can't do it.

For my beloved, it's all about a pie in the face or a guy getting hit in the crotch. Although, I don't understand why a man would think that another man getting cracked in the junk is funny. I certainly would never think that a woman getting her boobs smashed in was hilarious. We just call that a mammogram.
(and there's nothing funny about it)
(and there's nothing sexy about the gynecologist either)
(that doesn't have anything to do with comedy, I just want to make that clear, because It always seems to come up)
("The stirrups. Yeeeahh, baby."......No.)

I'm getting away from my point. My point is that comedy is funny.

Here are a few things that I think are funny:

1. People falling down.

2. People walking into glass doors.

3. People falling down after walking into a glass door.

4. Anything on America's Funniest Home Videos that's not about dogs or guys getting kicked in the crotch.

5. The audio book of Ellen Degeneres' Seriously...I'm Kidding.
(I laughed so hard the other day on the way to the grocery store I almost drove off the road)

6. Vince Vaughn.

7. Nora Ephron.

8. Jenna McCarthy.
(Not Jenny. Jenna. Jenna makes me belly-laugh so hard it actually tones my stomach muscles in a way that never doing sit-ups has not. Jenny makes me point and laugh in a mocking, horrified way.)

9. My son asking to be home schooled so he doesn't have to get his 6th grade booster shot.

10. Every line in Annie Hall,
Bull Durham, and
When Harry Met Sally (see #7)

I hope you find something to laugh at today. I hope you laugh so hard you cry, and your sides hurt and you get a headache. But in a good way.

I hope you know how much I love ya'.

Seriously.

 

Project 52 2K13 ~ Wk. 24 {From The Kitchen}

 Every day, for the past two weeks, my son has sauntered in the kitchen after school and said,

"Hey, Mom, guess what?  No homework."

When he says this in October, February, and late April, I dismiss it as nothing more than the lunatic ramblings of an internet-addicted pre-teen, and I immediately ask to to see his homework folder.  At which point he throws his head back, balls his fists over his eyes and wails, "MOOOOOOM-uh!  Why can't you ever just trust me?"  And then I laugh and laugh.

When he says this in June, I shrug my shoulders, say, "Cool," and pour myself a margarita.  Clearly, my work here is done.

I spent a good portion of yesterday at Home Goods, awash in the need to own a lime green mini-colander and a set of bright orange, ceramic measuring cups shaped like baskets
(that are extremely breakable)
(and non-stacking)
and was clearly off my game, because when he came in with his usual no-homework thing, I looked at him, titled my head a bit and said,

"Really?  No homework?"
(Home Goods)
(It makes me feel domestic)
(Like I should maybe I should stop super-gluing his shoe back together and finish the year on a high note)

"Well, we have a states and capitals test on Thursday, but that's it.  And I already know them all anyway.  I'm going to go play on the computer."

As he walked away down the hall to his cave of Battlefield Heroes oblivion, I turned to look for my glass, and was struck by a vague sense of responsibility.  I mean, technically, school isn't over yet.

I called him back out to the kitchen.

"Okaaay....Ummmm....Maybe we should.....Can...I....Um, let me see your homework folder."

He brought it to me from his backpack and flipped open his planner to this week.  In his lopsided handwriting, right there on the Thursday square it said:
Written test
on states and capitals

Evidently, his teacher didn't get the directive we drafted back in September.  The one that says

No tests on material that we haven't ever discussed
and that can be found on Google in a nano-second
shall be administered during the final 4 days of 5th grade.
(The End.)

"It's okay, Mom.  We worked on them at school.  I already know them."

I picked up his study sheet with its neatly typed columns of states and their corresponding capitals and said,

"South Carolina?"

"No, you have to start at the top."

"Vermont?"

"No.  Mom.  I know them if you start at the top and go down."

So I started with Alabama and we got all the way down to the 12th state before he crapped out. 

"I-daho, Idaho, Eye-da-hoe...I know this one."

It was all I could do to keep from responding with, "No, you da' ho."

We skipped that one.  And Illinois.  And Indiana, Iowa, Kansas, Kentucky, Louisiana and Maine.
(I'm the Main-e Mom and my birthday is in August...Augusta)
(little word association trick)

"Maryland?"

"Lansing."

"No.  Massachusetts?"

"Lansing?"

"No.  Michigan?"

"Lansing!  See I told you.  I already know them."

We went through the entire list and I highlighted every one he didn't know.  Then I made him write them out in pairs on a separate sheet of paper.  Then he tried to beat his dad in round of Who Knows More?  He would have won, too, except that just as I said,

"Pennsylvania?..........................Harrisbur-"

Prince Charming blurted out, "Harrisburg!  I was just gonna' say that."

You know how many times you can play that game in one night?
I do.

You know how many times you can ask for South Carolina and get Pierre as an answer?
I do.
("Not to be confused with the capital of Ohio which iiiiizzz.....?")
(word association saves all)

When I went in this morning to wake him up, I nuzzled his ear and whispered,

"South Carolina?"

He turned his sleepy head over to look at me.  Then he smiled and said,

"Columbia."

We might just make it.  4 days and counting.

Just When.....

This is why you should always trust your instincts, but let the power of something greater guide you.

Because, just when you think you've got the shot, 

just when you get in your car and start to drive away,

just when you stop because some red roses on the ground catch your eye,

just when a group of people stop at the same place you do and threaten to encroach on your moment, 

just when you think you're not going to get it the way you want it,

three kids from the high school walk up a row they just planted flags in,

and all of the sudden, the shot you thought you had withers away, 

and in its place is a story you didn't even know you wanted to tell.

Project 52 ~ Wk. 18 {Spring Has Sprung}

Every year I beg Prince Charming to take me up to the tulip fields so I can photograph the gorgeous, glowing, electric, color-filled blossoms.. And every year he says,  

"Why would you want to drive two hours just to pull off the side of the road for five minutes and take pictures of flowers you could buy in the grocery store, then drive two hours back. What a waste."

So, I end up going with my mother.
(because what does he know?)
(nothing about electric colored tulips, that's what.)

I got a ton of pictures, and I've pulled them all up on my computer and I'm dying to get to them, but I have a laundry list of other things to do that includes but is not limited to the following:

1. Wash last night's dishes

2. Make the beds

3. Return the cool sneakers I bought for my son that he instantly hated
(evidently boys don't care for incandescent green shoelaces)
(what is it with guys and color?)
(why does everything have to be dark blue?)
(or black)
(come on...you look like a bruise)

4. Return the DVD to the library that my daughter left out of the case
 (the one time I don't double check)

5. Pressure wash the garden shed so Prince Charming and his buddy can start turning it into our new chicken coop

6. Do internet research on the kinds of dogs that are bred to hunt vermin
 (freakin' chickens)

 7. Gag that we need a dog that's bred to hunt vermin
(suburban farming is a glamorous business, my friends)
(don't let anyone tell you any different)

8. Figure out something to have for dinner that we haven't had recently,
that I have all the ingredients for,
that everyone likes
 and that only takes 5 minutes to make.

9. Force feed my daughter her spelling words because Daddy didn't make her do them yesterday while I was off gallivanting through the tulip fields.
("Hey...she didn't tell me she had spelling words.")
(I'm stunned.)
(No. Really. It's a total shock.)
(Said no one ever)

10. Uninstall the 75GB of airplane games that my son put on my computer while I was off cavorting in the flowers.
("Hey...he didn't tell me he wasn't supposed to do that.")
(Quelle surprise.)

So, as much as I would love to tell you more about how this image came to be

I've got to get to work.

Project 52 ~ Wk. 17 {Something Old}

I went down to Prince Charming's office to pick up the weed eater so I could edge the lawn at our house.  I took my camera along to see if I could get something for this week's theme.  He has a ton of old crap down there.

He followed me out in to the yard.

"Hey...What are you doing?"

"I need to get a picture of something old," I told him, turning over my shoulder.  "Wait!  Stand still!"

"No."

He never lets me have any fun.

So we wandered back to where all the flatbeds are and he grabbed up a rusty chain and laid it across the boards on the truck. 

"How about that?"

Then he took the chain and draped it down over the side of the truck.

"What about that?"

Then he walked over to another truck and came back with a hook, which he dangled in place of the chain.

"That's cool, huh?"

Then he grabbed a longer chain and hung it over the hook so it stretched down and pooled on the ground.

"Yeah, that's good, right?"

I took every picture. 

(Sometimes three times)
(Because I forgot I had it set to seven shots a second)

Then he huffed, all exasperated, and said,

"Look, I gotta' get going.  I don't have time to play around out here with this."

Now, scroll back up to the top of this story and read the part again where I pretty please begged him to forget about all that nasty work shmork and come out and help me with my picture.  I'll wait right here.

.......

.......

Couldn't find it, could ya'?  You know why?  Because I didn't ask him to come out and help me!

"Okay....See ya' later," I said, kind of thinking that I might wander a bit more and see what else I could find.

You know....like...don't mind me.
If you need to get back to work or something.
Don't let the gate hit ya'...
(where the good Lord split ya')
(Sorry.)
(Paula Deen said that.)
(I thought it was hilarious)

"Okay.  C'mon.  Let's go." Then he put his hand on my back and ushered me out of the yard.

So...evidently....this is my shot for the week from Prince Charming's office yard. 

Hope ya' like it because he took a lot of time out of his extremely busy schedule to help me get it just right.

Project 52 2K13 ~ Week 14 {Blessings}

This is my son.  He's 11.

Yesterday he was 10.  Last week he was 6 and the week before that he was just a little smoochie bundle whose entire body fit in my arms between my shoulder and my wrist.

He's grown up now.  Well, as grown up as a boy can be and still be reduced to a puddle of hysterical laughter at the words underwear, naked and wee wee.

When he was little he would tell me that he wanted to drive a garbage truck when he grew up.  I would hold his chubby cheeks and kiss his sweet nose and gaze into his charming hazel eyes and say,

"Aim higher."

Then he wanted to be a firefighter,

(mostly for the siren and the hose)

but I told him, "No.  That 's too dangerous.  You can do something safe.  Like walking."

"Walking!?  That's the most boring thing ever besides yoga!"

Now he wants to be a pilot.  He spends hours flying airplanes on his simulator game and every time we fly somewhere we have to stop at the cockpit on the way off so he can discuss the landing with the pilot.

(Did you know that the landing is where the pilot's skills are really shown off?  So if you want to thank the pilot for a nice flight, tell him it was a good landing)
(little bit of airplane trivia...you're welcome)
(that's what I'm here for)

He's growing up way to fast.  I've asked him over and over to stop, but he won't.  I even threatened to ground him.  To take away his screen time.  To never let him go anywhere or do anything and only eat dirt and twigs and bugs forever and ever amen.

And he said,

"Moooommm.  Even when I'm all grown up I'll still be here with you," and he put his hand on my heart.

"You will?"

"Yes.  I'll always be with you.  You know I love you more than I say I do."

And then I cried and sobbed and held him and kissed him and called him my little smoochie.

And he said,

"Mom, stop.  I can't see my game."

But it was okay because I know that if nothing else....I'll get a great rate on airline tickets.

Project 52 2K13 ~ Week 12 {Focus}

Yesterday morning my beloved asked me what my plans were for the day.  I told him that I was going to a kitchen supply store with my mother. 

She wanted to.  And, to be honest, so did I.  I've had flat whisk dreams for a while now.

And he said,  "So, you'll probably want some money, right?"

You know...like we live in 1955.

And I said, "Money is always appreciated."

Because, why fight it if it's workin' for ya'.

So he asked how much I thought I needed.  Which is just a ridiculous question.    I've never been to this store.  I don't know what they have.  I don't know what they're charging.   What I do know is that it's completely embarrassing to be standing at the register and not have enough money....so just give me everything you have and I'll bring you the change.

This is my thinking and my reasoning for responding with,

"Hundred bucks."

He laughed.  Then he rolled his eyes.  Then he looked at me like I was crazy insane.

But I stood strong.  Ask for the moon and all.

So he says,

"Oh yeah right.  Here's $40."

"Fine.  I'll see what I can get with this," and I put it in my wallet, although I really only wanted to satisfy my flat whisk dreams and maybe a few fantasies about a french rolling pin.

Truly, I would have taken $20, but I didn't want to tell him that because then he would say that he would have given me $60 and then I would have had to put on a strapless, red velvet dress and a sparkly diamond necklace and fly off to San Francisco to see the opera and rescue him right back.

And it was too early in the morning and I couldn't get my hair to curl right.

Besides, I've never been much of an opera fan anyway.

When he got home last night he asked me what I bought and we played Kitchen Toy Store Show and Tell. 

"How much did it come to?"

"$37 and change."

(because the first $20 did, in fact, cover the whisk and the rolling pin, but maybe a few things jumped into my basket that I wasn't counting on)
(3 ladles in graduated sizes are always useful)
(one professional spatula beats the crap out of two plastic ones)
(a red, silicone basting brush that stands heat up to 500 degrees?...come on!)

"Well, it's a good thing I gave you forty."

Right.

Eat Ish!

I was watching TV with my son this weekend.  My wonderful son.  My wonderful son with the sweet, sweet hazel eyes.

And he turns to me and asks,  "How old is Aunt Tracy?"

Being a former teacher, I responded to his question with a math problem.  It's my nature.

"She's 10 years older than me."

(and also to see if he actually knows how old I am)

"So she's 54," said my son with the sweet sweet hazel eyes and the old soul that can see all the way through me to my back collar button.

"Nooooooo," said I.

And then just because I like to mess with him and watch him get all twirly and stuff, I followed with,

"Do I look 54?"

But, he's a pretty smart kid, my son with the old soul, and he knew right away that I joshin'.

"No, but you said she's 10 years older than you.  So she must be 54."

This drew one of four conclusions:

A.  My math lesson worked.  My son can subtract, and conversely, add.
B.  My son has no idea how old I am.
C.  Both A & B
D.  C

"That would mean I'm 44.  I'm not.  I'm 42."

(okay...so, he has a vague idea how old I am...whatever...)

And then, just because I still wasn't done messing with him, and I was still waiting for him to get all twirly like I like, I said,

"Do I look 42?"

The truth is, though, I really don't care.  I don't think of myself in terms of my age unless it's to use it as a point to reinforce my complete and total gagging response to something.

As in,

I am 42 years old and I don't have to eat spinach if I don't want to.

Or,

I am 43 years old and I shouldn't have to sleep on the couch because you snore when you eat late night snacks.

("You're not 43.  You're 42.")
("Whatever...dude...okay...don't eat pizza at 11:00 at night! is what I'm saying....")

I think you get my point.

But, then my son with the sweet sweet hazel eyes and the old soul that can see all the way through me to my back collar button and the loopy smile that slays me every time said,

"Yeah, you look 42...ish."

And then I ran to the bathroom, washed my face and smothered it in Pore Refiner and Advanced Night Repair and Daywear BB Cream and when I got back he said,

"I was just messin' with you, Mom."

Ish sucks.

You Gotta' Read A Lotta' Dr. Seuss (Revisited)

She's been excited all week,

So much fun to be had.

We'd gone to school early,

With $3.00 from dad.

She bought a new hat,

Striped red and white.

She put it right on

And wore it all night.

It flopped and it fluped.

It gave a great fall,

So we stuffed it with paper

To make it stand tall.

She woke up this morning,

Got dressed in her jammies

For Pajama Day in class

With Green Eggs & Hammies.

The first graders love it,

Being silly with a Flubat.

The fifth graders, however,

Are too cool for that.

"No way," said my kid.

"I'm not wearing PJs.

My friends will all think

I've lost my marteejays."

"I don't know that word,"

she told him, looking puzzled.

 "Then you need to read more

About Wockets and Wuzzles." 

So, she popped on the hat

And went on her way.

Happy, once more

That it's Dr. Seuss Day.

Project 52 ~ Week 9 {Trinkets & Treasures}

Growing up my mother always wanted me to help her in the kitchen, which, I felt, was a gross and disgusting under use of my talents as a sullen teenager.  She would ask me to do things.  Grate this.  Stir that around.  I would run in the other direction as soon as she came to take the spoon from my hand. I still loved eating the food.  I just was colossally uninterested in it's preparation.

Early on in our relationship, Prince Charming he told me that he wanted a wife who did what his mom did.  I told him that I did not go to college for 6 years to cook dinner and drive carpool.  

Funny what love does to you.  Or me, at least.

When he asked me to move in with him, I floated up, did a Thomas flair right into a triple axel salchow and stuck a perfect landing on Gloria Steinem, who very politely, told me to pull it together, be a man, and stop acting like such a freakin' girl. 

Love, man.  It messes with your head.

The first night that his kitchen became mine I was desperate to impress him.  Really show him that he hadn't made a mistake in choosing me.  I wanted him to know that I could create a comforting, delicious meal that warmed his insides and melted him into a gooey pile of little, velvet box.

I made Chicken Tortellini Soup.  It came in a plastic pouch from the deli department at Safeway and was exactly like the soup I'd eaten in the dining hall in college.

"Are you sure you don't want to stir it?" he asked, looking warily over my shoulder.

"No.  It doesn't say that on the package.  It just needs to cook."

That was the night learned that If you can read, you can cook is only meant to sell cookbooks.

Our lovely first meal as a cohabitating couple burned.  So so badly.  

When my son was born I decided that I wanted him to have the same kind of wonderful, home cooked, from scratch type of meals that I grew up eating around my mother's kitchen table.  Food that made our house a home that he would grow up loving.  Food that would make him one day look at his beloved wife and torture her with the same phrase that my beloved tortures me with now:

You know, my mom used to make....

So, I turned to the best chef I've ever known for help, and she was still in the kitchen, spoon in hand, right where I left her.

She's become my mentor, my professor, my master, as I slowly, but ever so surely learn how to craft a pile of ingredients into a meal that my family asks for more of.

If nothing else, she taught me three things:

1. The best ingredients make the best dishes.  If it's not good going in, it won't be good coming out.
2. Having the right tool for the job makes all the difference.
3. Cooking can be a little of this and a little of that, but baking is an exact formula.

And one more that isn't necessarily a rule, but has saved my runny cheese fondue, thickened my marsala, and made all of my sauces divine~

Rue...what it is and how to make it.

The more I cook, and read cookbooks, and watch cooking shows, the more I've come to appreciate the phenomenal effort that my mother made in cooking for us when we were kids.  These old handwritten recipe cards are like a pathway back to my childhood.  Back to my mother's kitchen, when she and her grandmother stood making Christmas bread and pancakes and Thanksgiving turkey.

The loopy penmanship and scrawled ingredient lists are an immediate connection to those we've loved our whole lives and who we know loved us because they cooked for us.    

 

Project 52 ~ Week 8 {Adventure}

Okay....here's the problem.

I love taking the pictures.  And I love writing about the pictures.

But, sometimes there is nothing to write about.  It's just the picture.

Sometimes there is no story.

And now, enough people are telling me that they enjoy reading the stories, that I'm feeling kind of pressured to keep it up.  Even when there is no story. 

So, I'm sorry.  No story on this one.

No.  There isn't one. 

Look...Hate to break it to ya', but not everything....

Fine. 

Once upon a time a little girl put on her bathing suit and went to the pool and her mom made her stop on the steps when she was getting in so she could take a picture of the swirly curls on her shoulder.  The end.

Happy now?....

Well, I'm pretty sure I said there wasn't a story.

This is for my photo group.  We're not a bunch of writers, you know....

Learn to accept what's given to you.  Why do you have to be so demanding all the time?

Just step off, George!

I'm sorry.  You didn't deserve that.  You've always been really sweet to me, and I appreciate that.

I'm just feeling a lot of pressure.  To be funny or something.

And I'm not feeling funny.  My coffee pot leaked all over my counter this morning, so I had to wait an extra 7 minutes to have a cup, and it's kind of gone to my head. 

I love you for understanding.  That's why we're such good friends.

I {Heart} You. End Of Story.

I remember when Valentine's Day meant everything.

What he thought.  How he felt.  What flowers he would pick out.  How he would sign his name.

Forever waiting for that little velvet box.

This morning, our 18th Valentine's Day together, we met for a kiss in the dark, morning hallway.

"I still love you."

"I still love you, too."

Then, a flirty glance at him over my shoulder as I walked away. 

"Don't forget it's garbage day."

"Right.  I'm on it."

Valentine's Day used to mean everything.  Now, it's just an excuse for a nice steak and a good bottle of wine.

That's what happens when your life becomes Valentine's Day.

As always,
I'm lovin' you.

It's All About The LOVE

You know when you hear the new theme for the week and you think

"Yes!  I can totally get on board with that!"

because the last few weeks have really just been Mach 2 with your hair on fire and it's all you can do to try and twist your documentary project into the themes, and it's not feeling super great,

but, now things have slowed down and you actually have time to craft a vision and see it through,

and you come up with a Love idea and you enlist the help of your kids,

and they're all,

"But, Mooommmm, we've been at school for 3 hours and it's a half day and my nose is stuffy and I'm starving and I have to go to the bathroom,"

so you promise that they can install their new video game on your computer if they just help you with one shot...

...except that they're totally not into it at all, and someone can't get their fingers to go straight

and you get fantastically frustrated and start barking things like,

"Get that hand up there!  Straight!  It has to be straight!  No....closer.  I can't see that letter.  It's supposed to be a word!....Alright hold it right there.  Now....pretend you love each other,"

and it turns out nothing like you thought it would, but now you're too disheartened to do anything else and all you want to do is heat up leftover coffee since it's too early in the day for leftover wine,

and really, there is none,

because whoever heard of leftover wine,

and you try to come up with some clever way to convince everyone else that this picture works...

You know when that happens?

Yeah.....I can relate.

A Conversation Among Photogs....

So, my dad says to me,

"Why did you bring your big lens?"

And I said,

"Because I need the 2.8.  I need the light."

And he said,

"Why don't you just use the flash?"

And after I stopped retching and gagging and writhing on the floor I said,

"I don't particularly enjoy flash light.  It kind of sicks me out."

And he said,

"Yeah, but your 2.8 is a 70-200mm.  You don't need that in here."

And I said,

"I know, but it's what I have that lets in the light.  My new dream lens is a 50mm, 1.4."

And he said,

"I think I have that."

And I said,

"You have that!"

And he said,

"Yeah....I think I do.  A 50 1.4, right?"

And with my jaw on the floor I said,

"Uuu haa a hihy wun don hur!?!"

which, if my jaw wasn't on the floor, would loosely translate to

"YOU HAVE A 50, 1.4 AND YOU DON'T EVEN KNOW FOR SURE IF YOU ACTUALLY HAVE IT!?!  ARE YOU FREAKIN' KIDDING ME!!!"

Then he went and got it out from under the pile of t-shirts and computer manuals and DVDs on the great literary masters that he keeps on his office bookshelves and he brought it down to me.

"Is this what you're talking about?"

And I fainted.

And he said,

"I never use it.  It's too bright, and it's got no depth of field."

And I swooned.

And he said,

"Here try it if you want."

So I did.

Love Love,

The Crooked Green Glass

Once upon a time a person I don't know, in a glass factory I've never been to, in a city I'm not sure of made a crooked green glass.

It was sent to a home store where it sat on the shelf in it's awkward, lopsided state, just waiting for me to find it.

I picked it up and felt my fingers curve perfectly around its ornate goblet.

I felt the weight of it against my palm.

I held it up to my lips and imagined the wonderful smell of hooch wafting over it's sparkly rim, as I proclaimed,

"This would be such an awesome wine glass!"

My mother crinkled her nose and scoffed,

"Oh no....Water.  Milk, maybe, but not wine,"

which made me sad because clearly my mother did not know the true depths of hoochy-mama-ness.

I brought it home and set it on the counter.

It tilted.

It slanted.

It was, dare I say, catawampus?

I opened a bottle and filled it up, sheer delight shooting out of my fingertips and I set it on display for my beloved.

"What is that?  It looks like something I'd get a garage sale," he said,

which didn't make me bitter as much as it made me amused because I don't know when my beloved has ever been to a garage sale.

I didn't care what anyone thought.

It was the perfect color green.

It looked vintage in my cabinet.

It held a fantastic amount of hooch.

We've become great pals, the crooked green glass and me.

My beloved still laughs when I put it on the counter.  He still leers at it from its base and titters at how ridiculously cockeyed it is.

He cannot see the light the way that I do.

He cannot feel the love of green and vintage and wine.

"Whatever....It's totally crooked......Hahahaha!"

And we lived happily ever after.

Let's Do 52 ~ Week 50 {The Eyes Have It}

I have two go-to girlies when it comes to taking pics.  This is one of them. 

She was rushing out the door and I said,

"Okay, stop.  Right there.  Now, right here."

And she said,

"What am I doing?"

And I said,

"The eyes have it."

And she said

 
and they do....just like always.

Darn That Elf!

I'm very conflicted today.

And not in that funny, Facebook-y,  

It's Christmas time so I want to eat fudge, but fudge makes my jeans split down the side (true story...you weren't in my kitchen last night, but trust me), but it's Christmas so I want to eat fudge kind of way.

I'm more conflicted in the  

47 minutes after I finished wrapping presents and putting them under the tree, a scampy elf seized one, tore open the paper, and then hid it under Daddy's chair kind of way.

Followed closely by the

Are you !@#$ kidding me!? way,

The

How did you even know which one was for you since none of the presents even have tags on them yet? way.

And the

No! You have to listen!  That other elf told me to do it!  They're the one!  It's not my fault!  It's not my fault! way.

So now, I'm left vacillating between three options:

1.  Return the offending, opened gift from whence it came and not let the scamp have it on Christmas.

2.  Offer said elf the opportunity to prove themselves worthy of Santa's trust and put the gift back under the tree Christmas morning.

3.  Eat more fudge and wonder when I last used the words vacillating and whence....because I can't believe it was recently.  Although, I've always felt I lived a past life in Victorian England.

Any help or advice you can offer would be greatly appreciated in that

You've always been my favorite and I'll love you until the end of time and buy you anything you want and always make your favorite foods and have your back and stand by your side and be your best friend for ever and ever kind of way.