It’s a word that causes cliche
to flood through my mind and still
those things I cherish and value
can’t be labeled as cliche and tossed aside
I hold him and him dear; they are my world
Things happen in life to make you realize
that every day with the blessing of love
ticks by so fast, if we let it
It is easy to sing a song of pain
and hold on to heartache
It is easy to ignore love as
the way things should be
Let the cliches fill your mind
let yourself get caught up in the meaning
the word evokes in you
And live it.
I would have written an actual post, but this monster wore me out today.
Seriously, there are some days when I have nothing left after the five million and sixth high pitched scream. I just want to bang my head against the wall and wonder, “Why, oh why, did I ever procreate?”
I have to look at cute pictures that make me remember what a love-munch he can be and then go to sleep, and hope for a better day to follow.
What do you do to stop from popping the little head off your tantrumer/screamer/brat?
Something I may not have shared before is that I’ve always been kind of a crafty dork. It’s just been a really long time since I’ve allowed myself the time to let my Inner Crafting Dork free.
I’ve done a bit of everything. *eyebrow wiggle* Drawing, painting, sculpture, random bead madness, hemp braiding silliness, all kinds of glue gun insanity, etc and etc. But college, grad-school, real-job, spawning a human being… so many things replaced my crafting time.
I found this awesome tutorial online recently. And within a day, I was making paper.
And oddly, this makes me feel… powerful. Bills and junk mail cannot defeat me! I churn them and add flower petals and onion skins! And out comes pretty, crinkly paper.
It’s also been calming. And somehow therapeutic. Something about the process and the outcome makes me feel happy and peaceful.
And usually, I only feel that way after mocking someone or making a crass remark. So this is landmark.
Before long, it occurred to me that I might be able to sell the product of my creative therapy. Then those nagging bitches, Doubt and Insecurity, ganged up with the insufferable hag called Self Deprecation and threw a party in my head. (With Tequila. Those bitches don’t play, yo.) Suddenly, I’m wondering if anyone would actually buy my paper. I’m wondering if my paper is actually ugly to everyone but me.
The banner at the party in my head says, “You think your paper is so great, but PS: YOU SUCK and so does your paper, ya dumb beesh.” (It’s a long banner. I have a big forehead.)
I think the paper I’ve made is pretty… but would anyone really buy it? This is where I turn to you guys, in all your wisdom and awesomeness. I need your vote below!
All Hail The Reader Opinion!
The paper is handmade from recycled (technically, upcycled) product (old papers, bills, envelopes, etc) and natural plant fibers (blossoms, petals, onion & garlic skins, etc). The paper edges are “deckled” or unfinished – I could cut them straight, but I feel they’re so much prettier this way.
Here are some photos of the papers I’ve made so far. (I’m planning on making more colors as I go along.)
Poll time: Will you please vote on whether I should try to sell my handmade paper?
(And don’t worry, you can be totally honest. I have no way to know who you are when you vote – you have to pay for that feature, and I’m one cheap ass bitch. Seriously, who pays for that crap?)
Just vote on the little thingie below. I don’t know if it will show up in your feed reader, or email subscriber posts, so if you use those services, would you mind clicking over to vote?
Then I’ll know if I can give Doubt, Insecurity, and Self Deprecation the finger and send them packing or if I should just bend over and let them shove that banner up my butt and get it over with.
If you are a highly visual person? So, so sorry about that. (But not really.)
EDITED TO ADD:
I had some concern about bleeding of inks on the pages, and some of you guys mentioned it, so I figured there was no time like the present to go ahead and test some sheets. It was just a small test, but I used a Blue Pentel Rolling Ball Pen and a Black Sharpie on each of 3 pages so far, and was astounded (happily!) that neither bled. BOOYAH! There seems to be a good amount of the sizing (added to paper to stop ink bleed when it is manufactured) from the original paper products (bills, flyers, etc) remaining in the end product I’m creating to hinder bleed. So far, anyway. Yay!
This is… well. I may be the only one who thinks it’s funny.
John and I ate on the floor several days ago. The Mexican placed himself right in front of us and… well, if you could totally freak out in a very contained way for fear that non-contained freaking out would get you sent to your bed or outside in the cold?
This is what it would look like.
My favorite is the way he pokes his tongue out all of a sudden.
PS: Yes, I ate on the floor just to torture him.
This morning, John blurted out, “Last night I dreamt that I got high.”
I was a bit amused that while I was lying next to him dreaming that we had gone on a date (because, folks, Dream-Time is the time where you do the stuff you never get to do in Real-Time, right? right.), he was dreaming about The Ganja.
“Well, I was somewhere, and someone was smoking pot right behind me, like, right on the other side of my back. And I was turning around, and I was taking a big breath in right as I was turning around, and I accidentally inhaled a bunch of smoke.”
I just looked at him, still mildly amused, waiting.
“And then I was walking away, and I exhaled, and a lot of smoke came out of my mouth.”
And he even acted it out, with hand gestures, to indicate a large mass of something exiting his main facial orifice.
And he grinned. It was definitely the Shit Eating type.
“So I got really high.”
Add in a little Shit Eating Laugh.
And then he just stood there, smiling this odd little smile.
“So, how do you feel about that? How did you feel about it in the dream?”
“Well, it was like, I was thinking… this is bad! But, I didn’t mean to, so it’s okay… but, um… this is bad!”
I wonder if I can, you know, get away with the same logic as applied to my dreams involving Kiefer Sutherland.
I am always the new girl. Having moved five times in the past nine years, I’ve regrettably had to embrace the title and challenges that go along with being the new girl. Even right now, guest blogging, I’m the new girl, in an unfamiliar place, trying to impress people I don’t know. Am I being witty enough? Are they just sticking around because they know I’m alone and would feel bad leaving? At least here I can’t read your eyes and see that you’d really rather be hanging out with Lotus.
So right now I’m in the market for a lady friend. I know the hows and wheres to finding new friends. Most of it involves doing things I’m kind of sick of doing like putting myself out there or being a joiner or being friendly. I could join a MOMS Club or MOPS, but that would mean lots of fretting about what to wear and what to say. And there’s the whole “I hate leaving the house with my children” aspect. Then once I’ve gotten the nerve up to actually get out of the car and walk into a place without knowing a soul and making polite, but awkward conversation, well, it really all sounds like too much effort.
It would be nice if I could just sit back and have new friends come to me for once. I KNOW that won’t happen, though. Hello! I’ve lived in Tennessee for three months and the Friend Fairy hasn’t delivered even one friend to my doorstep.
It doesn’t seem like making friends should be so hard. I mean, I should be able to see a nice mom at the food court in the mall, go up, say “hello,” make small talk about our kids’ poop, exchange phone numbers, meet for lunch with the kids later in the week at that McDonald’s with the clean(er) play area, laugh and gossip, have our husbands meet each other at a bar-b-que on Saturday. Voila! Friends!
Or why can’t all of my friends who live in my laptop just magically appear when I need a friend to hang out with on the couch and watch trashy reality TV?
It’s just not that easy when it comes to making friends with women.
Wouldn’t it just be less effort to put an ad in the paper?
33 year old married women with two small children seeks female for friendship ONLY. Must enjoy some shopping, chatting on the phone, long walks in the park. Flexibility a must, as shopping will most likely get canceled because of a sick child, chatting on the phone will include many interruptions from said children, and walks in the park will actually be chasing toddlers around the park screaming at them not to eat the discarded goldfish crackers from someone elses picnic. Picky eaters, close-minded jerks, people I can’t mention my blog to, Cubs fans, Twilight fans who insist I must read the remaining 3 books need not apply.
Hee, hee! JUST KIDDING about the last two. See? Just proves my point that making friends with women is brutal.
When Jennifer isn’t trolling for hot chicks to date looking for friendly women to pal around with, she’s entertaining all of us virtual friends over at her website, Playgroups Are No Place For Children. I’ve read her posts ever since I started checking out this blogosphere, and she never fails to entertain and inspire me. I’d feel lucky to have the Friend Fairy deliver her to me, any day.
February 15th – 21st
Canon Powershot G9
To view all my photos, visit my Flickr Photostream
What it has to be for the flames of this sunflower to lick at the summer sky.
It’s what I long for, especially in the dead of winter. I’m not a fan of being cold. In fact, I’d rather live a thousand summers than one winter. I despise the pain of being chilled to the bone.
Any temperature that raises itself above the definition of “cold” is my friend. Warm is nice, but I’m even okay with hot. Dry heat, humid heat, whatever. Take me to daytime Mercury for crying out loud. Oxygen is highly overrated. I just don’t want it to be COLD.
Jack Frost tried to woo me this winter with a love letter.
And it worked; oh, did I swoon. He sent a shiver down my spine, and I was head over heels.
But he is a typical player. It was but a one night stand. His icy kiss faded fast, leaving me with nothing but chattering teeth and chapped cheeks.
Now, as I wait for the spark of Spring to revive, I’m trying to recall the buzzing of the bees. Their song tells a much sweeter love story.
I’ll close my eyes for awhile and listen to that memory in my head and smell the sweet smell of summers gone by, like a dream. Wait for the flutter of a butterfly to tickle my face as it hurries by, on its way to the next yellow beauty.
And when I have to open my eyes and the cold, bleak, gray of Winter is still peering at me with its icy, slate eyes, I’ll just shrug deeper into my sweater and try to concentrate on other warm things until time turns the pages of the calender for me, again.