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Of the seven dwarfs, the only one who shaved was Dopey.

November 16th, 2017 · 3 Comments · Daily

How long will it take for the Russian hookers to stop spamming my comments? I haven’t said Yes to one Russian hooker, yet they continue to linger. Persistent little buggers. (The hookers have been following me around for two months, and I lack the energy to do anything about it. Also, I think it’s okay for me to call them hookers because they call themselves hookers. Even though *I* am not a hooker, I really do think it’s okay. Right? Right.)

Last week I saw a play at the high school and I told at least five people that it was called Kiss Me Deadly. This morning I found the program on the floor of my car and noticed that it was really called Kill Me Deadly. Uh-huh. It ain’t no big thing.

The difference between anthropomorphism and personification is subtle. When an oven mitt becomes the smartest guy in the room, it’s anthropomorphism. My novel isn’t going as well as I wanted, yet it holds an anthropomorphic oven mitt, so that’s something. I’m also scheming up a way to add some scatterbrained Necco wafers. I am so high right now. (I’m not really high right now.)

This afternoon Meredith and I turned on the radio just in time to hear Wham singing “Last Christmas.”

Me: Oh! What?! Wait!

Meredith: What?!

Me (after doing a tiny bit of research on my phone): George Michael DIED last year on Christmas! And it says he had dilated cardiomyopathy and myocarditis! LAST CHRISTMAS HE GAVE US HIS HEART!!!

We sat in silence until Mariah Carey started singing All I Want for Christmas is You and I started singing horrible things about Love Actually. (I watch it every time it’s on, yet ugh!)

Right at this very moment, as I type these words for you, I’m listening to the Carpenters sing Sleigh Ride. Karen Carpenter. Everyone has a story, don’t they?

I’m still doing the author thing.

I was Gabriel Garcia Marquez.

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I was Isa Chandra Moskowitz.

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I was Tom Robbins.

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(Tom Robbins gave me the oven mitt idea. Read Skinny Legs and All to fall in love with a spoon, a dirty sock, and a can of beans.)

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Stay tuned, because you know Harper Lee will make an appearance.

November 9th, 2017 · 2 Comments · Daily

So, here it is. November 9th.

Have I been full on participating in NaNoWriMo? Of course not, because 4,000 words each day is impossible for someone as sleepy as me. BUT, I have been writing, and I’m now enrolled in a writing class and I haven’t loss focus, so: Success!

The best part of NaNoWriMo for me? I’ve been dressing like an author every day this month.

I was Dorothy Parker.

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I was Salman Rushdie.

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I was Marcel Proust.

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Also, Vladimir Nabokov.

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It’s like Halloween, but less scary. BUT no one gives me candy. BUT I’m also not going door to door asking for candy, or anything else for that matter. “Hello. I am Vladimir Nabokov and I would really like some roasted sweet potatoes.”

Right now I’m listening to (while in the car) and reading (while not in the car) a book that is helping me focus on what really matters.

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I have a limited amount of ones to give before I have to nap on the couch for three days.

(Comments are still being moderated because I am currently being propositioned by Russian prostitutes, and no one wants to see that.)

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Not NaBloPoMo: Day 1

November 1st, 2017 · 4 Comments · Daily

This is about as far as I go for Halloween.

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Have I told you about those socks? The artist dyes them so that if you knit at gauge, ghosts appear. So much magic in this world.

Speaking of magic, I finished this self-confidence hat last week to wear during my seven hour pizza booth shift at our high school’s marching band invitational. Surprisingly, I made it through the day with minimal social anxiety! (Obviously, the hat had some help from my little buddy Celexa.)

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Doesn’t the hat make me look like someone who might say, “Hi there! What can I get for you?” THAT IS EXACTLY WHAT I SAID AT LEAST 4,392 TIMES ON SATURDAY! (Clearly, I was born to work the pizza booth.)

A few weeks ago I fell in love with this woman’s ear, and that sounds weird, but it really isn’t.

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Anyway, Tempe and I hit the highway for a bit last week, and we returned home filled with Lebanese food and new holes.

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Did it hurt? It did! Does it hurt now? Not at all! Is that really a gigantic photo of my ear? IT IS. It’s the holiday season, you know! Were the Lebanese nachos good? Oh, friend. Yes. (Clearly, I was born to eat Lebanese nachos.)

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Not unless I see you first.

October 24th, 2017 · 7 Comments · Daily

I finished this book and I finished this shawl.

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Jeff and I celebrated our 16th anniversary by sharing a pretzel at a high school football game.

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Henry is practicing a new smile—one that puts his bottom teeth on display.

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Meredith will be receiving her first pair of Dr. Martens for Christmas.

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Harper is just happy to pretend that her legs are being eaten by sharks.

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Last week was fall break, so we took the girls to a bar to see John K. Samson and Craig Finn.

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I bought a shirt that displays the flags of the eight countries affected by the travel ban.

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Also: I signed up to take a writing class in November and I won’t be doing NaBloPoMo here (I know!), but I WILL be doing NaNoWriMo. Because I’m going to try and write a book. (You know I won’t REALLY write a book. I know myself enough to know that there is an 83% chance of project abandonment.)

You know what, though? I’ll try to check in here at least once each week, which is a heck of a lot more than I’ve been doing lately. Our couch. It reclines.

Now that Meredith has Dr. Martens, I feel the need to try once again to break these guys in. (I don’t have the grit/pain tolerance that I had in my 20s. Perhaps I should start drinking dark beer again.)

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My comments are still being hacked, so I’m still moderating like a true moderator.

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This is my rock and roll love letter to you.

October 12th, 2017 · 6 Comments · Daily

This is where I would go to beat my head against the floor when I was three years old. (I stopped beating my head against the floor after accidentally ramming my eye into my fancy patent leather shoe. The black eye forced me to find a new way to throw tantrums.)

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This is where my sister accidentally threw Hungarian goulash against the wall during one of our family dinners. (We would sit at the table in this room and eat dinner every single night.) This is also where I (at age eighteen) stuck my tongue into a bowl of M&M’s [sic] so that no one else would eat them. Age eighteen. I had a car and a job and could have gone up the road to buy my own M&M’s [sic]. But I didn’t.

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This is where I would stand above the sink and eat bagels covered in cream cheese and butter. I cut Jim Dallas’s hair in this room. Every day I would set the timer over the oven to 45 minutes before sitting down to practice the piano.

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One day in high school a trumpet player passed a note to me. When I opened it, it simply said, “I am going to kill you in the woods behind your house.” These are the woods he was talking about. When I was in elementary school, my dad took my sister and I into the woods to collect thick sticks for whittling. (We had to purchase pocket knives for Girl Scouts, and he wanted us to know how to use a knife before we went camping.)

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Do you see the naked woman and her butt? This was a crack in our shower wall, and I would often tell myself that a camera was taking still shots of me in the shower and then projecting the outline in the form of wall cracks. (That was back when I was paranoid about being killed in the woods. I was a little jumpy back then.)

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This is where I cut four of my fingers on the lid of a can of Strongheart dog food. After I used the can opener, the lid slipped down into the food so I stuck my fingers into the can and grabbed the lid—twisting my hand as I pulled it up. It probably didn’t make a sound, but in my mind the sharp edge of the lid cutting my fingers created a high pitched scream that resembled Mariah Carey doing an impression of a Mustang’s squealing tires.

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This is where my sister and I watched KISS Meets the Phantom of the Park back in 1978 while wearing the slacks and blouses my mom sewed for us. My slacks (SLACKS!) had tiny dogs sewn around the bottom of the pants because my mom was a wizard with a sewing machine.

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This is where I slept, where I stared at the ceiling while listening to records, where I filled journal after journal with my junior high and high school deep thoughts, where I talked to my friends on the phone, where I watched Hunter on my black and white television, and where I typed out programs from HotCoCo magazine onto my TRS-80. (Beyond those windows? The woods behind my house. Also, the back yard—where Digger and Thumper lived. They loved Strongheart dog food.)

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This is where we buried Toby (our parakeet) when I was in the second grade. He died on October 31, 1977, which just so happens to be the first time I cursed in front of my parents. After my mom threatened to take away all of my Judy Blume books, she sent me to my room where I watched Three’s Company on my black and white television. I would also like to take this opportunity to mention that the yard stick shown in this photo may have been one of the yard sticks used to spank my sister and me after we refused to stop pretending to be the Bay City Rollers late at night when my mom was trying to watch Mary Hartman, Mary Hartman.

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This is where my sister and I would play Bay City Rollers. The tour bus was leaving, you see, and I was the tour manager. I had to wake up those Rollers! When all Rollers (every Roller role played by my sister, obviously) were awake, we would dance on her bed until my mom marched in and asked us if we were having fun. Our answer was always “No.” We were most definitely NOT having fun dancing on the bed while pretending to be the Bay City Rollers.

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This is where I practiced the piano while my mom was holding ceramic classes in our basement. Those poor women were trying to paint sparkling eyes on rabbits while I pounded (POUNDED!) away on Bach Inventions and Beethoven Sonatas. If any of you are still alive, I am so sorry.

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The train came by at least three times each day, and the only time it upset me was when I was trying to record myself singing into a tape recorder on the back porch. (I recorded my part and then put that cassette into another tape recorder to play while I recorded myself singing with my singing. I kept going until I had a tape of me performing four-part harmony to a song titled “What’s More American?” That was back in the Jimmy Carter days when we could sing about Corn Flakes and bingo and ice cream as being representative of America and there were no verses containing terms like mass shootings and systemic racism and travel bans and Puerto Ricans dying in the streets while our leader laughs and tosses paper towels and I don’t think I need to go on, do I? Anyway. The train.

My parents built our house 47 years ago and they left it for the last time four days ago.

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The house was purchased (and will be demolished) by the electric company, and I guess I should be sad, but I’m not. A house is a box, and I still have the memories—along with my old books that my parents found stashed away in the basement. (The basement where my dad kept the clown painting that was attached to the record player he made. It was also where I splotched the gizzies, but that’s a story for another day.) ((I’m still being spammed by the spammers, so I’m still moderating comments.))

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(I’m still being spammed by the spammers, so I’m still moderating comments.)

((Wait. Are those gigantic CROCS in the video? Nice work, 70s!))

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The marching band refused to yield.

September 27th, 2017 · 11 Comments · Daily

All of my friends from college spent time with me on the football field.

Marching Mizzou Mellophone

I know I’ve mentioned my Marching Mizzou career at least once. (I just used the word Career. To me, the word Career is like the word Woman. Have we ever talked about the adult words that I’m not yet ready to embrace even though I’m technically an adult?) I ate sushi for the first time with my band friends. I did laundry in the middle of the night with my band friends. I ate a Thanksgiving turkey on the roof of a house with my band friends. I wrote bad poetry with my band friends. I did a lot of things that I won’t even mention here with my band friends. I tried to bake a turkey in a microwave FOR my band friends. These people were everything to me. They were my family. They are my family.

Why am I singing songs about this when nearly 30 years have passed and I can’t even remember the last time I held a mellophone?

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You guys, it’s because Meredith joined the marching band and she currently plays vibraphone and suddenly I have that marching band feeling again, but this time there is no drill to learn. All I have to do is sit in the stands and cheer (and volunteer to donate cookies and bottles of water and time). I’m loving it.

I shot this video more than a month ago. That’s Meredith playing the vibraphone on the far right. Her hands. They fly.

The next several Saturdays will be filled with competitions and funnel cakes and award ceremonies and hoodies and clogs and band kids and band parents and halftime shows and hot chocolate and nothing but goodness.

I’ve been waiting for this.

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(Also, I’m moderating my comments now because the deluge of spam is already a pain in the ass for me, and I don’t want it to become a pain in the ass for you. I would take a knee for you, you know.)

((I would. I would take a knee.))

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Acting funny, but I don’t know why.

September 14th, 2017 · 6 Comments · Daily

Things are happening on this end. First off, I believe my comments are being hacked by Russians, and that probably isn’t true at all, but I *am* getting entirely too many meaningless comments and links from someone whose name looks Russian and I’m not even going to use the word collusion here because even seeing that word ruffles my feathers, and I would rather stay peacockian. (I recently read that peacock feathers represent a pure soul. You should hang out with me sometime. My pure soul is a gift I like to share.)

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But enough about the Russians! (Somewhere in Russia is a person (or many people) with whom I could hang out and eat food and drink whatevers and talk about music and books. I hate that I will probably never meet that person.)

My parents are moving into a house that is approximately 12 minutes away from my house. Because they currently live 47 minutes away, the 70 minutes I’ll soon be saving on the back and forth can be applied to something else—like the creative writing class I’ll be taking in November! The class description holds the word Unleashed, so God only knows where we’ll be two months from now.

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Finally, if you’re local: Please know that I’m selling local honey. A local farm ships their honey to a friend in Springfield. Said friend infuses the honey with amazing herbs and fruits and whatnots and then I sell it out of my house. Flavors include: Bee Raw (it has pollen floating in it, which is just weird and crazy good), Show Me State (it’s barbecue honey and tastes amazing on roasted vegetables), LaZENder (it holds chai spices and lavender, and I have the honey version AND the maple syrup version), and Purple Haze (lemon peel and lavender and vanilla extract and a single hair from the arm of Jimi Hendrix). ((I’m kidding about the hair.)) Anyway, if you’re interested, I can hook you up. Just shoot a message my way. (I’m a horrible salesperson. Just know that this is good stuff. The best stuff. The stuff I’ve been addicted to for the past two years.) I am Oprah Winfrey, and this honey is my favorite thing. My pure soul would not deceive you.

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Purple Rain, Paper Crane

September 5th, 2017 · 5 Comments · Daily

Ah, Labor Day Weekend. Congratulations to the American worker for your economic achievements. It is because of your diligence that our country is in such great shape today. Wait a second. Did you just say that our country isn’t in such great shape today? North Korea who? DACA what? Harvey and Irma and our president is, well, Donald Trump?! I hope everyone was able to find a bit of peace and comfort over the weekend. All we can do is our best. I ate a raspberry-filled jelly donut and for roughly 37 seconds, nothing else mattered.

Harper went to a party on Saturday, which led Meredith to invite a friend out for dinner and exploring. We ended up at Mangia, where the girls ate bricks of spaghetti at a table for two. (Big glob of spaghetti baked into the shape of a brick. Life is magic.)

After dinner, we walked. As we walked, I started feeling nostalgic for the time Jeff and I lived in the city.

So much to see. So much to inspire thoughts and movements.
Stop profiling Muslims.

Also, you might stumble upon a litter of fresh root beer kegs.
Root Beer

We eventually made our way over to a record store. A record store that had ZERO copies of Loveless.
Vintage Vinyl is out of My Bloody Valentine.

While at the record store, Meredith’s friend bombed a display with a tiny paper crane. She tries to leave one everywhere she goes.
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I can’t remember the last time I felt an Amy Krouse Rosenthal Beckoning of Lovely-esque joy. All because of a paper crane.

(Watch the video. I wish we all lived the way AKR did.)

Paper Cranes. Fold 1,000 and a wish will come true.

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End of August

August 31st, 2017 · 8 Comments · Daily

I eclipsed. Our house was in the path of totality, which was pretty convenient. Thanks for accommodating us, Sun and Moon (and Krispy Kreme)!

Eclipse Doughnuts

Eclipsing

I looked at the sun without the glasses for a bit because I have no impulse control and you can’t tell me what to do. I haven’t had a migraine since I stared into the sun, so HYPOTHESIS: If I stare directly into the sun, I will experience migraine eradication.

On Dorothy Parker’s birthday, I went for a piercing with Tempe.

Like you need a hole in the head...

I realize all we have is NOW, but it doesn’t hurt to dream.

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Finally, I finished my fall cowl and then I put it on and did a side-eye cowl pose.

Into the Woods Cowl

Cowl Side Eye

I’m heavy on the work and heavy on the tea drinking and heavy on the knitting these days. My hair is gone and my patience is gone and the 20 pounds I gained in the past year are gone. I’m trying to be a better human and I’m trying to cook dinner more often and I’m trying to not spend money every time I see a pair of shoes that I love.

I haven’t seen you in awhile.

UPDATE: I got the shoes. I danced around and tossed free money here and there and scored them for $20 at Amazon. Thank you for your support.

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I’ve got a bad case of loving you.

August 11th, 2017 · 5 Comments · Daily

Listening to Sue Klebold’s Columbine book as I dropped Meredith off at the high school for the first time probably wasn’t the best idea. BUT, I’m almost done with the book (Thank GOD!) so I’ll soon be entertaining myself with podcasts for the back and forths. (You don’t want to know how I feel about Sue Klebold after working my way through this book. Walk in another man’s shoes and empathy and la la la laaaaaah… I’m trying and failing. Try again. Fail again. Fail better.)

Tempe and I went to Stitches Midwest last weekend. We left at 5:30 in the morning and I could write perky tunes for you about flat tires and cheesecake and beer shopping and Indian food, but I won’t. Instead, I will show you a few of the things I gathered. (My rosebuds! Old time is still a-flying. And this same flower that smiles today, tomorrow will be dying.)

This…
Rainbow Ridgeline
…will eventually become this.

This…
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…will be this.

This?
Circadian Cowl
This!

Finally, these?
Fire and Fury!
Those will become this.

In fact, here we go!
Fire! Fury!

I was going to call it my Fire and Fury shawl, but I’m not so sure I need a reminder of THESE TIMES. I think a better name might be Spicy Madame. (The colorways (by Three Irish Girls) are Mademoiselle and Spice Market.) Spicy Madame it is!

Every single purchase I made was justified, because I am currently under the care of a physician who has ordered me to knit.

And I’m not kidding.
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Please take note that it is the only order followed by an exclamation point. Knitting? More important than naratriptan! Also, Cambia Schmambia! I’ve got cowls on my needles!

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