Collection

I'm not opposed to leggings, at least not as much as I was. I still don't think I'll ever own a pair. But... at what point did they become acceptable office and church attire? They seem the epitome of casual -- which I don't think you're supposed to wear to the office or to church.

Yea! I'm an aunt again. Welcome to the world, little niece. I can't wait to find out what you're named.

Why am I always so tired in the mornings? If I ever get married, I'm going to have to learn to get up with less snooze button hits.

I know that sometimes it's hard to follow Church practices when they don't make a lot of sense -- I mean, does it really make a difference if you drink coffee or tea every once in a while? Does it really matter if you swear sometimes? Does it really matter if... you name it. I imagine when Abraham was commanded to sacrifice Isaac, he couldn't really make that logical in his head either. But he did it. Maybe some things make sense only after doing it and the perspective of time.

Note to self: Don't ever cut your hair short and leave a big eighties poof in the front that's dyed pink with a big white chunk right in the center. (I wish I'd taken a picture.) Especially when you're in your forties.

I never thought that I would be one of those people that starts drinking a Diet Coke at 9:00 in the morning. But, apparently, the daily early morning meeting has made me one of those people -- if it's there, I take it.

Life is happiest when you find joy in the simple things: babies cooing, sunshine, printers printing...

I'm not sure that I have a lot to blog about anymore. (Not that I really did.) I feel like my creative juices are all sapped out. Where did the phrase "sapped out" come from? Making syrup? If so, what's happening to my creative juices? Are they becoming syrup somewhere? How do you get a hold of that syrup and what do you do with it? Is that thought process something I should really admit to? Oh, well. I'll post it. I should post SOMETHING.

Do the Moo Shoo

The last post reminded me -- maybe pathetically -- of a Veggietales song. (In my defense, I WAS a nanny.) It's been stuck in my head for a day or two now (Oh... the things I admit to the world.):

Chicken!
Kung Pow
Chicken!
Mongolian
Chicken!
Sweet and sour
Chicken!
Cashew
Chicken!
Do the moo shoo
moo shoo shoo moo moo shoo muh moo shoo moo moo shoo shoo moo moo shoo shoo
Do the moo shoo
Pork!
Mandarin
Pork!
Barbeque
Pork!
Sweet and sour
Pork!
Spicy shredded
Pork!
Do the tofu
to foo foo to to to foo foo fo fo to n to to n fo fo
STOP!
Break a fourtune cookie...
"Beware of grape with wooden mallet."
Ain't that the truth.

The most random fortune I've ever received.

Ummm... ok.

A thousand words.

Or I guess 8,000. And I guess those all say a little something about me, because this is the art that's hanging in my house.

I think this is the very first thing I hung up. Ah, Paris.


I bought this tapestry in Florence, Italy, but I just found out that it mimics a map created by a Dutchman. So, it memorializes my trip to Italy AND represents my 50% Dutch heritage. How cool is that?


This mirror, from IKEA, hangs horizontally over my couch. I love it. It's dark brown suede.


What is a house without a little Monet, I ask you? I fell in love with Monet when I was 8. Someone gave me a book about Monet for my birthday, and I've wanted a little bit of his art in my house since then.


This is my most recent aquisition. The artist, Walter Rane, came and did a presentation at the request of a good neighbor/friend of the family; I loved hearing about his process and the thought that went into each of his paintings. When he put this up on the projector, I fell in love with it immediately. I asked him about it after, and he said it had been sold to a private seller and there would be no prints. I was sad. So, I was so thrilled and surprised one day to find that prints were being offered; I bought it for myself for Christmas. (Mine is pretty small; I wish I'd bought the bigger one, but I'm happy to have it.)


While I'm showing my churchy art: I literally stopped when I walked past this one day. I couldn't stop looking at it; it took my breath away. I went to the Food Court far more often than normal just to look at it. I think it's gorgeous. So, when I moved out a few years ago, this is what I splurged on.


I just really like this artist: Fabrice de Villeneuve. He's a great vintage artist, and this is among my favorite pieces.


Picasso is a bit like Monet. Everyone needs a little. I love this:


I am missing one more piece of art. It's a painting of the Shakespeare Cafe in London. London is one of my favorite cities, and as an English major, I think I'm obligated to pay hommage to Shakespeare somehow. I love the greens in the painting, but I can't find it anywhere to include in this post. I'll keep looking.

I'm grateful for...

Nearly blown-out speakers in my car. It means I've been drowning myself in good music.

Early work mornings.



The courage to change. And the support of others to make things happen.

Books that make me think. There are few things as valuable as gaining new perspective.

Good examples. Even in the simplest, smallest things.

Old-fashioned manners. I'm always grateful for this; and I don't know why I'm always surprised to find them.

Cinderella Story

Once upon a time, my friends assigned me my most similar Disney princess. Her name? Cinderella. Until this weekend, I wasn't convinced about how fitting that designation was. Then I had my own little Cinderella story. Look at the time on the clock in the following photo:



It's reversed in the mirror, so I'll tell you: it says 9:34 p.m. That's right. I know that the Cinderella story you're used to hearing has an "ending" around midnight, and her happily ever after involves a prince that's charming. My story ends at about 9:34, contains a little less magic, and ends with... you'll just have to see.

You see, Friday night was a Cinderella ball. I'm a pretty girly-girl in many ways, but I don't know that I often feel the need to get all dolled up. I think I'd rather be a girl that looks super cute in a sweatshirt and pajama bottoms than one who cleans up nicely. (Not to say that I am that girl, just that I'd like to be.) Of course there are times I'll get all dressed up, but I just don't get that elated, princess feeling when I do. Call me "odd." Seriously. I might even answer to it.

The "ball" started at about 7, but I couldn't make it to the beginning. I guess I had some Cinderella-like chores to get done before I could go. I told my friend that I would be ready to meet her around 8:30, so I would give her a call to find out the details. She said that would be great and we both went about getting ready. (She thought that she'd probably go earlier, so I'd just meet her there.)

I curled my hair and put it up, put on my fancy dress (Which I'm sick of people calling a prom dress, by the way. It's not a prom dress; I didn't wear it to prom and I wouldn't wear it to prom. I don't know why that bothers me so much, so we'll let it go.) and a velvety shirt -- to make it a little warmer -- and put on my favorite shoes:

I looked at the clock: 8:30 right on the nose. I hopped in the car, and called my friend. I knew the general vicinity of the party, but not the exact address. After a few phone calls, random searching, and a somewhat impatient message that said something like: "I'm all dressed up with nowhere to go. Call me back," I moved to Plan B. I called her house to see if I could get directions to the party from someone there. Fortunately, her kind sister-in-law gave me the address and I was on track again.

I pulled up to the ball in my Hyundai (not exactly as glamorous as a converted pumpkin, but I'm sure it has better tunes) and geared myself up to walk into the party all alone. I wasn't sure if my friend was there and she was the only person I knew. I'm sometimes brave and I like people, but there's something about that idea that is very intimidating to me. Nevertheless, I trekked forward through the snow in my heels. (This is when it's convenient to have a Prince Charming. Kindly offered arms make very good stabilizers. Thank you to all the gentlemen in the world.)

When I got to the door, it was locked. Yes, locked. I saw the crowd through the window, all seated classroom style (peculiar for a ball), and spotted my friend. I tried to call again. No answer. I tried three more doors -- all locked. I laughed a little and thought to myself, "I guess this isn't meant to be."

So, I hopped back in my car, went home, changed clothes and my happy ending looked a little something like this: