My Boring Life

Today finds me waiting with bated breath for the mail carrier. Why? Because the only thing I have to look forward to today is my shipment of felt.

Yes, the stuff we played with in elementary school to make Christmas decorations with Elmer’s Glue™ and popsicle sticks. But the felt I ordered is wool, so it’s more sturdy to use for the flowers I am addicted to making love to make. Hopefully this evening I will be sitting in front of the TV cutting out shapes in preparation to hot glue my fingers together make the pretty new styles I found on the interwebnets.

I did tell y’all my life is boring.

Anyway, I’m off to stalk the mailbox check to see if it’s here yet. Hope y’all have a far more exciting Saturday!! 🙂

Pillow Talk

This morning I was watching the news, when the anchor made mention of a “language gene“.

Oooooh…. SCIENCE!! I knew about the discovery (about ten years old now), but apparently there was a new twist to it. My ears perked up to listen, and I was not disappointed.

According to scientists, women speak “about 20,000 words a day – some 13,000 more than the average man.” Yes, yes… I asked the same question:

IS THAT ALL??

According to science studies, women have more of the Foxp2 protein than men do. That’s the “language protein”. Apparently, the more you have, the more you gab. I don’t have much of it, but according to Hubby, Little One makes up more than my lack. So ladies, take it easy on your guy. He has a tough time keeping up with everything we say, not because he doesn’t care, but because there’s so much of it!!

So far, no studies have found men to have a “listening gene” as yet. And I am willing to bet that even if such a gene existed, the scientific community would never, ever admit it 😉

Shopping Isn’t What It Used to Be

I went not once, but twice to the outlet mall this past weekend. And the sales had nothing to do with it.

I have a gift card to a barn and pottery place and went to search for my wineglass chandelier. Alas, they didn’t have it, but they did have a lot of their lighting on sale for an additional 25% off the redline, so I got myself…. a cord kit. Lamps were pretty, but I want to make a ceiling light fixture that speaks to me. Then I went to get some *ahem* supportive wear (not that I need much, but I still hadn’t replaced the one the trauma team scissored off), and after that, went to see what manner of handbags Vera Bradley™ had on sale. The answer is none, but at least they had a tote bag for Little One to use at school.

Anyway, as I was returning home, I was trying to talk myself out of the chandelier. I really, REALLY want it, but I also want a pair of cowboy boots. And in the greater scheme of things, boots are needed far more than chandeliers. So, I was mentally tallying up how many wineglasses I would need to purchase, along with the cost of the iron base. And my heart sank as I realized it would be a pretty penny.

Until I realized the gift card had most of the money still “in it”.

And that I had enough cheap wineglasses to fill it.

Math may not be my friend, but the total cost of the iron base would be $40, with tax. WINNING!!!

So what did I do?

Damn skippy 😉

Sacrilegious Awesomeness

This post has nothing whatsoever to do with Lent, or religion, so stop freaking out. It has to do with books.

Old books, in fact. Old, cheesy books. Old, moldy, cheesy books that no one wants, found in a dustbin at the the thrift store.

I’m trying to justify my actions here.

I found an old RD Condensed Edition book in a “free” bin, and my mind reeled. Who would just throw away a book?? It’s a BOOK!! You don’t just…. discard a book. You revere it, treasure it, pass it on to someone so that they can gather knowledge.

But this is a “condensed edition” book. Like the Cliff Notes™ of Society.

Anyway, I saw this and decided to try my hand at making one. Never would I have thought of doing it, save for the fact that it’s a condensed book from 1953 that no one wanted. Besides, I read it already. All four condensed books, of which I had never heard. So, I will mess around with it, and post my DIY instructions once I figure out all the bugs.

Hopefully there will be no bookworms 😉

Never Listen to Werewolves While Eating Cake

I will never learn. Probably because that would mean giving up cake and that’s just never going to happen.

Last night after dinner, Hubby and I had some of his birthday cake: white chocolate with raspberry filling. To. Die. For. Apparently, I didn’t have nearly enough to satisfy my sweet tooth, because after he went to bed, I had another slice, while listening to Warren Zevon. And the dream which resulted from that smash-up was epic!

I was in Pittsburgh, no idea why, but for some reason I was at a Trader Vic’s discussing the merits of Rolling Rock™, and how Yuengling™ wasn’t as good as Shiner™. And I was sitting at the table with none other than my friend Soylent Green, (NSFW!!!!) who was dressed as a dentist for some odd reason, and he was yelling at me about how uncouth I was for liking my Southern libation, instead of the Northern ones, to which I told him that he needed to get his Novocaine™ out of his…. derriére and expand his horizons, and as the yelling match grew out of proportions Trader Vic came over to let us know that the werewolves were getting annoyed and Soylent takes his glass and yells at them to order Domino’s Pizza™. Then the werewolves came over and Trader Vic said that the leader would just tear our lungs out, and I said fine, but they had to settle the argument about Shiner versus Yuengling before they even took a bite.

And then I woke up.

*shakes fist at REM sleep*

Just once I wish I could finish a dream that awesome 😀

In Which I Explain Why I Hate the Number Eleven

I’ve never had a good complexion. When I was in my teens I had bad acne. Later on it lessened, but I still enjoy the occasional break-outs. Ok, so more occasional than most, but whatever. I figured if I still have acne I won’t get many wrinkles, right?

WRONG!!!

It was inevitable. I was bound to have it. Apparently it’s genetic and its learned. To what do I refer? Why, to the cursed lines between my eyes that make an “11”. They appear magically, usually when the kids are involved. I try to keep the lines at bay, but I’m afraid the time has come to get some help.

Me: I may need to get some kind of wrinkle cream before too long.

Friend: What for?

Me: THIS!!! *points to “11”*

Friend: Have you considered Botox™?

Me: The only way I will ingest any toxin is if I am forced to attend a One Direction concert.

Friend: Uh, wow…

Me: There’s a limit.

So, since I don’t relish the thought of having a case of botulism, I decided to check out wrinkle creams. WHOLLY SHEETS!!! Some of that stuff is wildly expensive. Lancôme™ sells one for $300. Y’all have any idea how many pairs of PJs you can buy with $300?? I DO!! But vanity being what it is, I take the time to search for viable alternatives to selling my arm and leg expensive stuff. Look, I don’t mind my hair turning grey, I don’t mind the weight shifting, but I DO mind looking angry all the time for no reason.

Yeah, Oil of Olay™. I don’t aspire to have an awesome complexion, but by Jove I will look happy, even if it kills me.

Have a great day, and smile 😉

The Day of the 12th Man

The story of the 12th Man is special at Texas A&M University.

[T]he first recorded instance of the term “12th Man” referring to an individual was to denote E. King Gill and his actions in Dallas on 2 January 1922. At the Dixie Classic, the forerunner of the Cotton Bowl Classic, Texas A&M (then known as The Agricultural and Mechanical College of Texas) played defending national champion Centre College. In this hard fought game, which produced national publicity, an underdog Aggie team was slowly but surely defeating a team which boasted three All-Americans. During the game, A&M coach Dana X. Bible realized that one more injury would leave him without another backfield player to send into the game. Coach Bible remembered that Gill, an individual who had tried out for the squad but who “lacked the experience and ability to play for the varsity” had made the trip as a member of the school’s Corps of Cadets and was sitting with his friends in the stands. Bible sent for Gill and asked for him to suit up and be ready if needed. Gill later said, “I wish I could say that I went in and ran for the winning touchdown, but I did not. I simply stood by in case my team needed me.” Although he did not actually play in the game, his readiness to play was noted. As there were 11 men on the field, E. King Gill was the 12th Man, hence the term. (From Wikipedia)

As Aggies, we are all 12th Man. We stand at the ready at every game, and stand at the ready for any Aggie in need.

Today, at 12:12 PM, on 12/12/12, Aggies around the world will participate in the ultimate Aggie moment: playing the school’s war hymn at their place of work, home, or wherever they may be. Several Aggies at Hubby’s place of work will be participating, and I shall be on the phone with my sister and brother, warbling my head off.

Hullabaloo, Caneck! Caneck! GIG ‘EM, AGGIES!!! AY!!!

WHOOP!!!! 😉

My Preciouses

It’s a simple tale. One of a new hope that I would score the new Darth Vader ornament from Hallmark™. Alas, the stores around here would sell out of the very few they would get in stock, for the demand was high, and the lists were long. But hope refused to die, and so I placed my name on the list just this past Friday, thinking that maybe, perhaps I would get a call from the imperial salesperson.

I perused the interwebs looking for the ornament. Alas again, eBay™ was the least expensive alternatives to be found in the shopping empire.

The cheapest being $40 starting bid.

I love you like a father, Vader, but there’s a limit.

But Life is funny, and strikes back when you least expect it!

BEHOLD MY NEW PRECIOUS!!!!!!!!!!

I received the call that the store had but one in their stock, and I was next in line!! As soon as Hubby was home we went to get it. The imperial saleslady was *ahem* less imperialistic when she explained that she had forgotten to call on Saturday. I was too happy to care. And because I was too happy, I got him a minion, too.

My tree will be EPIC!!!

The Force™ was definitely with me 😉

Because Stained Carpets Means Move Furniture, or Something.

Today I decided to tackle the stains in my carpeting. I have Berber carpet, so it’s maddening to get anything off, but I was willing to try some ammonia to it. Only I couldn’t find the ammonia, so I used Oxy-Clean™. Y’all know Billy Mays is smiling down at this very minute. Anyway, right beside Hubby’s nightstand is a stain from when he spilled water with lemon juice. It has always bugged me, and I decided that I was going to scrub it, as soon as I finished scrubbing the red wine stain that is right by the bathroom door, from when he spilled his glass a few nights ago.

He’s not clumsy. Considering these two spillages occurred five years apart, he has a pretty good track record.

So, I get down to treat it, only there are fifteen books that I have to move. So, I decide to move the books, only to find the rest of his medical papers and lectures, so those get moved, as well. Pretty soon, there are five big stacks of books and stuff out of the way. And then I remembered the books he has under the bed because he has no place to put them. I’m sorry, but  THIS WILL NOT STAND!!!

Up the stairs I have a tall bookcase that is just displaying some of my many, many lighthouses. Hm…. my little braincell decides to twitch its axon and bother the dormant braincell and an idea is born. And this is what transpired:

• Remove all lighthouses, then shelves.
• Bring down behemoth, taller-than-me bookcase to room.
• Find out it doesn’t fit.
• Cry.
• Braincell reminds me of Son’s smaller bookcase.
• Go to Son’s room, remove books, and move smaller bookcase to my room.
• Fits fine!
• Move taller-than-me behemoth bookcase to Son’s room.
• Find that it fits only if I move the chests of drawers and the treadmill, which outweighs me by 300 pounds (137 kilograms for my foreign readers).
• Cry.
• Begin to move treadmill. Curse the earth where it was made.
• Move chests of drawers. Think of an explanation for Son. Braincell not co-operating.
• Keep moving treadmill. Swear to all that is holy to set it on fire at the earliest opportunity.
• Keep moving treadmill.
• Keep moving treadmill.
• Cry.
• Finally finish moving stuff around, set up Son’s room to normality levels.
• Come back to my room, set books on shelf.
• Remember the lighthouses.
• Cry.
• Begin taking boxes down.
• Finish putting almost all of the lighthouses away.
• Begin putting boxes back up.
• Remember stain, the little thing that began the whole journey.
• Scrub a bit, stain still there.
• Scrub harder, stain remains.
• Places old book over stain.

Luckily, the red wine stain came off just fine. Otherwise I would have been forced to dye my carpet a nice maroon 😉

Scent of a Woman

I confess, I love perfume. I do. Aside from the historical viewpoint, I love the romance of it. I love the bottles, and the labels, and the names, and the stories attached to their journey from nature to bottle. I own quite a few bottles, too. Perfume doesn’t have to be expensive to be nice and appreciated. I remember waaaaaaaaaaaaay back in high school, a friend gave me a tiny bottle of Babe™ eau de toilette for Christmas, and I loved it. And who can forget Love’s Baby Soft™?? I still have some of that. Not that it’s appreciated around here:

Hubby: What are you wearing??

Me: Uh, pajamas…

Hubby: No, I mean what perfume??

Me: Oh! “Love’s Baby Soft”, why? Don’t you like it?

Hubby: Any chance you can shower again, and throw away the bottle?

Me: Hater…

Not all perfumes are divine scents, though. My mom gifted me a bottle of some high-priced designer stuff that reeked like a dead skunk that had baked in the sun for days. It was so bad, I threw it out, and I never throw out perfume. That’s just wrong. But that was just awful. And I don’t care what people say about “personal chemistry”. You wear what smells nice to you. My sister prefers floral scents, and I prefer orientals and woodsy scents. Basically, that means she never borrows any of mine, and vice versa. Not that she would. My signature scent is Shalimar™, and that just reminds her of our grandmother.

Remember: the gift of scent is a personal one, so make sure YOU can live with it, as well. It is no secret what Hubby likes, from the myriad Shalimar™ and Samsara™ bottles I own 😉