Here's To Silly!

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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