Here's To Silly!

Maybe it doesn't say much for my mental state that I just don't feel that I have much worth writing about, or I don't have time to write about it for a month, and then I feel that a comic filled with angst fits my mood perfectly. Meh.

Anyways (I always giggle in my head when I add the "s" to "anyway." It feels deliciously wicked and probably funny only to me), Wonderman has been talking about New Year's resolutions. I generally avoid them. Not that I think goals aren't wonderful and important. I guess I just think I'm too good to make goals. No, not really. Sheesh. I just . . . . oh I don't know. There's no good excuse, is there? Maybe I feel too lost in my own inadequacies to focus on just a few areas in which to improve? Maybe I my Adult Onset Attention Deficit Disorder keeps me from focusing on anything at all for very long? Maybe I'm just content to be that lame person that basically wallows in my weaknesses, eating popcorn with parmesan cheese and watching movies while I do it? That's probably it.

My dear Aunt Nina, however, has inspired me. She is going to throw more parties. I could do that. Or something like it. Despite my big smile, I find myself often being dreadfully socially awkward and kind of lonely. I can make social goals, right? I don't have to just lose weight like everyone else?

Conclusion: Goals are very personal and don't have to meet anyone's expectations except my own, thank goodness. Thanks for the reminder, Auntie.

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This post comes with a confession: if there is a book in front of me that looks even remotely interesting, I'll probably read it. It's like Americans in general are with food. If it's there, it's devoured. Sigh.

My weakness brought me to the point of reading yet another ridiculous romance novel. I was at work, things were slow, my co-worker was reading. What's a girl to do? There was a book there that I had passed over in stronger times, but I was approaching boredom, and I pride myself on not indulging in such things.

I read the book. I took it home to finish it. It turned out to be two short novels in one book. The first was wildly passionate, and wildly predictable. The second promised to be the same. However, as I read blithely along, nearing the end (as I could tell as much by the cookie-cutter plot development as by the number of pages left), I read this at the bottom of page 480:

"She held a gurgling Mac over her shoulder."

That made sense. I went to 481, to continue in my self-indulgence, and found this at the top of the page:

"for some safe topic."

It simply didn't make sense. I read it again. And again. I wrinkled my brow. I checked the page numbers. Everything seemed to be aligned, but IT WAS A DIFFERENT STORY FROM A DIFFERENT BOOK. Apparently Nora Roberts' books are printed in such haste that the mix-up went without notice. Her titles are at the top of the page, and 480's title was NOT the same as 481's title.

This is odd, and a little funny. It shouldn't be annoying, because I know exactly what's going to happen in the last twenty pages of this formulaic romance. HOWEVER. . . .

I know that she left in a classic huff, whirling away from him when he told her their worlds were just too different and they couldn't be together, holding herself erect until she had driven out of sight, then disintegrating in the solitude of her car. After her spending two weeks at her cousin's casino, of course someone will make contact, offer an olive branch, and they will live happily and passionately ever after. BUT WHO? WHAT IS THE CONTACT? HOW IS THE CONFLICT IN THEIR LIFESTYLES RESOLVED? HOW DOES HE APOLOGIZE?

It bothers me. I find it hard to believe that no one noticed this before it went to print. It is very bothersome, very bothersome indeed.

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Yesterday I overhead a friend talking about Thanksgiving plans, counting how many people they could invite by how many chairs they had. They have ten chairs. Another friend chipped in to tell me they had nine. Both of these friends are halves of couples sans childs. Just like us. Such excess. Sigh. I will know we have arrived at a place of status and wealth when we have more chairs.

*photo found on flickr

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Life here is kind of like being a hermit crab. I wasn't born to this place (the shell, see?), and I'll probably change it eventually for a new one (in about 12 months), but it's a lovely place to be for now, even if it doesn't always feel like a natural fit.

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Tonight I saw fireflies. I remember the first time I saw fireflies at a gas station in upstate New York (Funny aside: as I typed this I asked Wonderman if "upstate" should be capitalized. He laughed and looked at me, saying "You're asking me about English? That's not a good idea. The good thing is, if you do it, it's probably right." It's nice that he has such confidence in my skills). I was a little scared. In all my twenty years living in a desert, I'd never seen one. Tonight I knew just what they were, and the little flying flecks of light that followed the most beautiful sunset I've seen in Dominica were magical rather than startling. There are so many small delights to make up for the small frustrations of living here. This is merely the most recent.

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Having no kids and living in a country that doesn't celebrate Halloween makes my own festivities minimal. Meh.

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Do you remember sitting in ninth grade biology class, watching the time-lapse video of a flower growing? Where in just a matter of minutes you saw it go from a seed to seedling to bright flower to withering flower to seeds blowing in the wind? Yeah, yeah, I know. You probably fell asleep or passed notes through the whole thing because it was phenomenally boring. However, I would like to see a video like that, but of my hair. I swear, when I got on the plane in Utah (I think it was even fairly normal when I got on the plane in Puerto Rico) it was basically straight, with perhaps a slight wave. By the time I got off the plane in Dominica, it was HUGE and curly. I just want to see the time-lapse video of it curling up so tightly in a matter of hours. That would be kind of cool, wouldn't it? Wouldn't it? Oh come on, just humor me and say it would. Thanks.

At least my hypothesis is being proven right. My hair is not getting longer, but bigger. Sigh.

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This is exactly how I feel. Today I am sitting in my house, feeling sorry for myself. I just feel icky. Don't tell Wonderman how lame I'm being. He's working so hard, it just makes me feel ickier to compare us. Bleh. Tomorrow will be better. I'll just decide not to feel icky. That always works.

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Wonderman and I are trying to learn about budgeting. Some days are better than others. I think our next family meeting may go something like this (I will play Rat in this scenario):

Conclusion: Teamwork is definitely required for budgeting.

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Wonderman: I think I'm genetically pre-disposed to make charts.

(pause)

Me: ??!!??? (that indicates a bit of brow-wrinkling thought) Bwahahahaha. You are the funniest man I know.

Conclusion: The funnest thing ever is being married to the funniest man I know. How lucky am I? LUCKY.

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For a while now, I have been thinking to myself how funny it would be to have something that was funny with the play on words of "ah, the ironing!" in a situation which was also ironic and the exasperated claim would be saying that somehow the ironing was ironic. I have yet to come up with the perfect comedic sketch, but I was lucky enough to experience an ironic ironing moment. And yes, I was exasperated.

As mentioned elsewhere, Wonderman recently had a white coat ceremony. I hadn't thought twice about my role in said ceremony until another spouse mentioned, with exasperation, mind you, that she had spent a good amount of time ironing her partner's white coat. "What?" I thought. "I have to iron that? But we don't even have an iron! Alas, I already am a failure as a homemaker."

Near tears (not really, that just sounds more dramatic, and thus more exciting) a mere hours before the ceremony, I frantically called exactly one person who lives approximately 30 seconds walk from my house to see if she had an iron I could borrow. She did. It wasn't pretty.
I realized I not only had no ironing board, but also no great table close to an outlet (they are few and FAR between in our home) to use as an improvised ironing board. I used the stove, as it has a great, and flat, cover. I put a towel over it. It still wasn't pretty.













The irony comes in with the yuckiness on the iron. I was using a cloth to separate the pristine white coat from the yuckiness (see, I do have some skill). The iron was leaving no marks whaaatsoever on the separator cloth, which was cream. I quickly decided it wasn't worth the bother and, immediately upon removing the separator cloth, left a large black mark directly on the collar of Wonderman's snowy white coat. "Are you kidding me?" thought I. It wasn't kidding me. It stood out just a little. In desperation, I dove toward the sink and began to scrub (lucky I was in the kitchen, eh?). I was able to remove most of the mark, but the coat was quite unlike things that are dry. Alas.

Never fear, I was able to iron-steam out most of the moisture and Wonderman couldn't even tell where the ginormous mark of coal had been. Still, I'm not sure that there will be much ironing (never can tell about the irony, though) in my life down here. Meh, who really cares anyway, right? Not Wonderman, thank goodness.

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Wonderman: Sounds like you two are becoming tight friends.

Me: Yeah, I think we were sent here for each other.

Wonderman: Aw, cue the music.

Conclusion: He's funny. I'm glad I married him, even when he makes fun of me a little.

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So, I knew that the humidity would make my hair curlier, but seriously? Who ordered this? When I got here I had no hair products whaaaat-soever (Irma, can you here to headmaster from the Monty Python sketch saying "He seems to take no interest in school life whaaaat-soever"? cuz, that's exactly how I want that to sound). They all got tossed in the frantic, early-morning weight-reduction scramble the morning we flew out. My head very closely resembled a cotton ball or a little old lady (nothing against little old ladies, mind you [and not that my head looked like the entire lady, because that would be really strange. My head simply looked like it belonged on a little old lady]) for the first few days we were here. The only hair products here are for "African" hair (it's interesting, I don't really consider myself European, but I guess I'm just as European as the locals here are African, still I was a little taken aback when I saw an ad for a stylist who specializes in European hair and was approached specifically with their flyer. Weird.). I needed something, so I bought a bottle of hair gloss/shine/hold stuff for African hair and it's been working great. Hooray! Some days it still looks like this, though:

That bit is the radiation hair, which might begin to explain it, but still. It's insane. Maybe there's something somewhere in my heritage that someone should tell me about. Where does this come from? I'm beginning to get the feeling that in the next sixteen months, my hair will not get longer, it will only get bigger. Sigh.

ps - Irma, if you ever get the hankering to make more of those super-cute headbands as pictured above, I know a hot and sweaty girl down here who would LOVE to have one to match every shirt she owns. Just so you know.

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instead of thinking of how wise it may be, I just sort of wish that I could. Sigh.

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Me: (groaning a little, laughing a little) Doesn't Heavenly Father know that I have absolutely no idea how to deal with small children?

Wonderman: (laughing a lot) Actually, I think it's quite clear that He has a very good idea of that.

Me: (laughing) Sigh. I guess so.

Conclusion: It's going to be quite a ride.

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Me at Raging Waters:

Everyone else at Raging Waters:

Whose idea was that?

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Me: Do you think it's ironic at all that we're sitting here, eating the junk food we just bought at Walgreen's at [an insane hour of night/morning], watching an episode of King of the Hill where Bill learns he has adult-onset diabetes?

Wonderman: God bless the universe and its sense of humor.

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Almost exactly a year ago, when my hair was long and flowing, I saw a delightful girl with short dark hair in a faux hawk. (For those who aren't familiar with the term, it is a fake mohawk, meaning that the hair is formed into the spiky ridge without shaving off all the sides.) Generally I consider this to be one of the silliest and tackiest hairstyles ever. In fact, I distinctly remember laughing at one of the most eligible bachelors of Cache Valley because he had a carefully coiffed faux hawk and we sighed into our tortilla soup, because we knew that meant he was probably gay. However, this girl was cute. Really cute (it was an awesome off-center faux hawk amidst tousled waves, something I was sure I could probably maybe do). Cute enough that I wanted to be just like her. Mostly. Well, it made me want to cut my hair so I could have a cute faux hawk, too. I did tell myself to wait until after the wedding because it seemed appropriate to have long flowing hair in all the wedding pictures. I did, however, make a plan to cut my hair soon (ish) after the wedding, so that I could be cute like her. Little did I know. Sigh.

However, now my hair has finally grown to a long and flowing enough state that I could attempt a faux hawk (ironic, isn't it, the things we have to wait for and how we don't get what we expect?) I did my hair in a faux hawk just two nights ago. In the process, I laughed at myself repeatedly. When I completed the task, I couldn't decide if I looked more like a circus clown (especially with the pink cheeks I'm still getting used to) or an angry teenager trying to fit in by standing out. Either way, I certainly didn't pull it off as well as that cute girl from yesteryear (this is such a fun word to use, don't you think?). Still, if I've learned anything about hair in all my travails, I've learned that no matter what it is, if you walk out of the door with confidence you generally get a better response. That I did. Then I tried on clothes at Target. My poor little faux hawk did suffer, but perhaps it was better for the softening. Shall I try again? Heaven only knows. Here are the results of my first attempt:

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Wonderman and I have an enemy. It is this guy:

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I really want to see this movie. Wonderman watched the trailer with me and just said, "For the love of God, at least put a ninja in there or something." I love him anyway.

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This is my old neighborhood. It makes me feel sad and strangely anxious to be back to see if I could maybe help out or do something. At least just be there for the mourning. Alas, prayers are all I've got. My poor Island. It's so weird, this is exactly where I used to go jogging and bike riding all the time.

ksl.com - Logan mudslide recovery efforts intensify

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This is a quote that I wrote down from the movie "The Last Kiss" when I watched it, approximately seventeen ages ago. It's been on my fridge ever since. I don't think I'll be hauling it across the ocean to hang on my new fridge, so I thought I'd post it here:

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Here's the conundrum: I love to cook. Like, a lot. I really love it. It's in my blood. However, I HATE (no, I don't suppose I HATE it, that is rather too strong of a word, I just feel completely incompetent at it, which leads to a certain disdain) planning regular meals, especially healthy ones (Yes, Ms. Woodward, I know that "ones" is not actually a word, but sometimes it's the only way to describe exactly what I'm saying [yes, I think almost that exact thought every time I use "ones," which is often]). When I was single, I didn't so much succumb to fast food (very often), but there was a lot of yogurt and graham crackers going on. Now I am married, which automatically turned me into a domestic goddess, of course. Right? Wait, wasn't that supposed to come in the mail with the marriage certificate, the domestic goddess certificate? Sigh. Mine must've gotten lost in transit. All I know is, I felt particularly proud of myself for not only cooking a delicious meal, but cooking it FOR ME when I was the only one home. It doesn't happen often folks, but it does happen.

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One of the best parts of being married is having someone else to pick up the slack and do those things I can't do alone. For example, Wonderman just got out of the shower and is looking mighty fine and I bemoaned out loud the fact that I can't whistle (never have been able to; I've tried and tried), because it's times like these I wish I could, so he whistled for me. I then laughed and thanked him for whistling at himself when I couldn't. Isn't marriage great?

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Makeup and I have an interesting relationship. I love trying new things and a new eyeshadow or lipgloss can pretty much always make my day better (me? buy three new lipglosses the day before going on a date with a boy that I really liked, just because somehow it gave me more confidence? maybe.). However, I'd like to imagine that I'm that totally awesomely gorgeous granola who needs no makeup to show the world her gloriousness. I used to go through stages. Once, dating a very pretty boy who always wore cologne and matchy clothes, I warned him that the daily makeup stage was bound to end soon. I'd like to believe that's not why he dumped me, but I may never know. That was seven years ago and I've been wearing daily makeup ever since. Not sure why. But I am sure that I recently made some drastic changes to my routine, which are DELIGHTFUL!
First was reading a friend's blog (to which I would provide a link, but I can't find it becaused it's been a while and she doesn't have a search option on her blog) about red lipstick. I remembered the glory days when a friend of mine described me as the girl who wore dark lipstick to church. Much time had passed since then and I wanted to return. Enter a sale on Maybelline's new lipgloss, which is basically eternal. I had to try it. What a delight! Bright red lips forever. The forever part lost some of its appeal when I had to use a sandblaster to get it off my face at night. Once I was introduced to an effective remover however, I augmented my collection with another shade and moved on to the next connundrum - ze cheeks.


I'd read that blush should be the color I turn naturally when flushed. One day after working out, I looked in the mirror and realized that my peachy-browny blush was doing me no good. I also am now 30 and aging quickly, so I took to heart the advice to find a cream blush, as it makes one look younger. ;) I found it and I love it, I think. It's very pink and when I first put it on I felt like the seventh grade me on picture day when Mamar said to me right before stepping in front of the camera "Oh, I wish you would've told me you were going to wear makeup." Le sigh. For years after, she tried to instruct me on blush application. Sigh, I must've been a poor student. The first few times I put on my new blush, I felt like a ridiculous low-end doll that was painted by a hyperactive child forced into slave labor that had to meet a certain daily quota or certain death. It wasn't pretty. There was bright Peony-color everywhere. Then, something changed. Perhaps it's the sheer nature of my new tint, perhaps with practice my abilities are soaring. I do certainly look younger and fresher and ready for summer. Almost dewy, in fact.

Conclusion: I never meant to be that girl who wears daily makeup. Inside, I sort of make fun of her for not being able to leave the house without war paint. Still, as long as I am playing the part, I might as well look good and have fun doing it.

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I remember once in high school, back when I was truly enigmatic, a friend of mine walked me home on a cool autumn day. He asked me if there was anyone who truly understood me (it was, of course, a deep and meaningful high school conversation that dealt with life's real issues as we struggled to define ourselves amongst our peers and our angst). I answered "Jesus. Maybe my sister. That's it." While I have grown and changed (I especially like the quote "A woman is meant to be loved, not understood" - Oscar Wilde, because it expresses my growing understanding so nicely), and in my maturity I've shed some of my mystery (I think), I don't think I had even begun to comprehend the tiniest part of how great my sister is. She is really, really great. And I know she loves me, even if she doesn't always understand me. Thanks, sister (I'm going to refer to you as Irma from here on out, because it's kind of a silly name [my apologies to anyone who has an Irma that is dear to their heart] and it's also Portuguese for "sister," except that in Portuguese there is that little worm above the "a" that makes it nasal and totally different, but you still get the idea). Thanks.

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Now, I'm not a crafter. In fact, I've almost made it a goal NOT to be a crafter. I know, I know, in the world of blogging, it's nearly requisite to have some craft with which you make adorable things, have periodic give-aways, and appreciate the beauties of life. Meh.

I have, however, recently become enamored with beads. I'll be honest, I thought that my local bead store, i.e. Bead World, was a beader's paradise. On my recent trip to NYC I was informed that the city had not just a bead store, but a bead DISTRICT. Good gravy, Bead World is nothing. It is the equivalent to perhaps one fourth of one store, and there are many, many stores. It took my breath away. Then it nearly took away the breath of Irma as she laughed at me for being crafty after all and I shot her a dark look. Sadly, the only bead I bought was a glass bead that I may or may not have broken and was thrown away immediately after my paying for it. Sigh. I just didn't have time to ponder and plan a project and I couldn't simply throw my money at them. It nearly broke my heart to leave, though. Not quite as much as it broke my heart to leave Irma. Le sigh.

Conclusion (I totally am stealing the conclusion concept from Lisa, but I'm a stealer like that. I love that she ends every post that way. She's very cool. I wish we were, like, totally close friends): Creating something feels good and richly satisfying, but I will never accept the moniker "crafter."

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Now, I know that sometimes deserts are more dangerous in terms of flooding when there is water around, not being equipped to deal with much of it and all, but I must confess, the term "inundation" did seem a little extreme to me as I saw this in a parking lot on a blistering, sunny day.

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Last night I was reading a book from the library. It wasn't high literature, by any means, but it was gripping (it was also so deeply romantic and shmoopey in the most beautiful way it make me ache inside to be so far away from my dear husband). As I read late into the night (you can't easily put books like that down, you know), I came upon what I can only assume was a page marker for some other person who read that book. It made me smile, because it was the wrapper from a mini Hershey bar. In that moment, I felt a strangely intense connection to this woman (is it wrong of me to assume it was a woman, given the facts of it being a romantic-ish novel [not a romance, mind you; that is another genre altogether] combined with chocolate consumption?). It seemed to me that we were the same, she and I. Both curled up on a couch somewhere, reading this fiction and savoring (or perhaps bemoaning) our reality. Either way, I knew that her life was probably hard, but she was a strong woman nevertheless. That's just like me. Of course, I made up the stuff about her, but it certainly felt true. Anyway, I must go. I have some reading to do.

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I mean, wouldn't this guy make a great Falstaff? Yeah, I thought so too.

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I saw this on i can read and loved it. Plus, it made me think of my sister, who I love dearly, so that's nice, too.

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The past two days have brought me a couple of variant experiences. Yesterday I met a strange man in a parking lot to sell him a mirror I had listed on Craigslist (an entirely different subject entirely. It's so strange to give my stuff to strangers. It's definitely a multi-leveled emotional journey. But not the topic of what I'm here to say today). He was very friendly, even invited me to his church, and was explaining to me how the mirror was for his teenage daughter. You know how teenagers are. . . . And then it came. He asked me if I had any teenagers. Wait, WHAT? I mean, I know I turned 30 recently and all, but TEENAGERS? REALLY? Of course I know it is biologically possible, but really? How could someone think I would be the parent of teenagers before I've even had one baby? Ridiculous. I tried to comfort myself with the fact that he had really only seen me from behind as I was struggling to finagle the mirror out of my car (does that mean I look wide as though I've given birth to many a child? Wo is me!) and so he really was just making conversation and not a judgment on my age. Sigh.

On the other end of the spectrum, today as Wonderman and I were getting into the car in the parking lot at Fry's, he mentioned to me that I should look up because "they" were waving at me. When I looked up, there was a minivan full of teenage boys, grinning and waving. And when I say "teenage," I don't mean 17-ish. I mean 13-14-ish. Not that that makes a huge difference. When I smiled at them, they fell into their boyish giggles and had to close the door to the minivan in embarrassment or to hide their swooning. Either they were instantly smitten by my intoxicating beauty or I had toilet paper stuck to me in some distractingly embarrassing way. As I found no toilet paper, I am forced to believe it was the first. So strange. One day being supposed the mother of multiple teenagers, the next being hit on by multiple teenagers.

ps - simply as an update to my previous post. almost immediately following the writing of said post, I went and did Jillian's 20 minutes. however, as I did it, the pain began to feel more like an injury and less like achy muscles, so I decided to take a few days off. I haven't done it since, and I feel great. I went to the gym yesterday with Wonderman and lifted weights and did my own cardio, and I'm just regular sore. You know, the kind of sore that makes it feel like slow-motion when you lift your arm to scratch your nose? That kind of sore. Anyway, Jillian may be the latest craze to sweep the nation, but I think I'll stick with being my own trainer and, as Jillian would say, phoning it in at the gym. So, if anyone wants to buy a discounted copy of Jillian's 30-Day Shred, just let me know.

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Well, I think this is a post about being fat. Yes, I've become that girl. It used to be the girl who found a way to bring up in every conversation the fact that she was single. It could be a convo about broccoli and somehow it turns to singleness, lack of dating, and how men suck. I tried very hard to avoid such discussion. And then I got married, so it's a non-issue. Hooray, never again will I worry myself over becoming that girl. Alas, she has morphed and I am her. Ever convo turns to some aspect of me being fat. It's on my mind a lot. Some of it has to do with being married, right? My friend Katrina told me about her brother-in-law's idea for a new Barbie: wedding Barbie. As soon as you put a ring on her finger, she blows up like a balloon. That's sort of what I did. Although, I'd like to say that I did, of course, have a perfect storm-style convergence of events, all of which have led to my current state of fluffiness. 1 - I had surgery, which put me out of the active lifestyle for quite a while. Lethargy became the norm. 2 - Condition connected to said surgery required me taking yucky steroids, which ballooned me up quite quickly. 3 - I got married, and I'm just fulfilling the stereotype. 4 - I turned 30 and apparently that's when the metabolism goes on vacation. Still, no matter what the reason - I'M STILL FAT. I generally think I look fabulous, until I try to put on my favorite pair of capri pants and I can barely zip them up, then I want to cry. I've been reading about all kinds of people's diets and struggles, and instead of being inspired, I feel annoyed. I don't want to focus on this for the rest of my life. I think I'd rather be fat. However, I did get up the gumption to purchase the currently-wildly popular exercise video "[Effing] Jillian's [Effing] 30-Day [Effing] Shred." I sort of hate doing it. I hate Jillian, I hate all the lame things she says, I hate how sweaty I get, I hate how sore my muscles are when I'm done, I hate that she says that if I do what Natalie does, I'll look like Natalie in no time, which is complete bull because I'd have to be Natalie to begin with and even Jillian doesn't look like Natalie, I hate watching the trinkets on top of my entertainment center wobble as I bounce around the living room, apparently much like an elephant. Still, I've been doing it because I realize that I need to make some serious changes if I want my body to seriously change. I've even been pretty dedicated. Sunday aside, I've only skipped one day. My muscles don't hurt quite as bad as the first time I did it. NOTHING ELSE HAS CHANGED. Not one effing pound. I've even been eating a little (perhaps very little, but still, a little) better. Wonderman, on the other hand, has been eating a little better and TALKING a lot about the workout he's going to do. This morning, the scale told him he had lost four effing pounds. Of course I'm delighted for him, as Wonderman wants to be less fat just as much as I do, but IT'S NOT FAIR. I'm considering just tossing all my skinny clothes and embracing the current level of fatness because at least then I won't be obsessive and unhappy. Would that be so wrong? Would that solve my problem with being that girl? I'm tired of being her. Even I roll my eyes now every time I bring up my being fat. It's so lame and overdone. I think I'll go eat a pint of Ben and Jerry's while I think about it, and if you even dare giggle at my plan or raise your eyebrows at my methods, I will send a pack of ninja pirates to make you stop. So there. Because maybe I'll do Jillian afterwards. Maybe not.

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So content we are.


So, let's be honest. I have two blogs. On the other blog, I'll be posting about our trip to Payson, AZ and what a delight it was. Here, I'll just be telling you about it's purpose - the Monte Cristo sandwich. I had my first taste at Christmas when Wonderman ordered one and I ate something completely unmemorable. Ever since, I've been searching for somewhere to order one of my own so that I could indulge in its sweet, deep-fried goodness. Alas, we found a few weak attempts, but none that could compare with Tiny's, so we headed back up to Payson. It was worth every minute of the drive.

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So, as I read everyone else's blog (and I do mean everyone, sigh), I find myself feeling at times a bit intimidated. I'm not sure if I'm crafty enough, witty enough, stylish enough, or funky enough. I have come to the realization that I probably need to wear my glasses more often and post pictures of me wearing my glasses. I'm pretty sure that will put me closer to the category of cool blogger (the first time I wrote that, it said "blooger," and, let's be honest, that is probably a great way to refer to myself, it seems like a mix between blogger and booger, which is what I am), which is where I of course want to be. Now I really am getting ready to get down to business with the whole blogging thing.

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Blogging is new to me. But I’d like to see how it can improve both my quality of life and general impression of myself, thus improving my quality of life. It should be delightful. I’m glad you’re here to share that with me.

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