Hop on the moving van, folks, cuz it's moving OUT of here and INTO HERE!
There won't be anything else to see here, and soon it will be eaten completely by cyber-termites, so c'mon! Right this way to the new One Thing blog!
If you need a little carrot to get you moving, there are a few carrots over there...
Can't wait to see you at the new place!
What? You say you can't figure out how to get there? You need a link?
Please?
Remember when I mentioned I was going to be moving, bloggy-wise, a while ago? WELL. The time has come! I've been busily packing up shop here, wrapping all my breakables in brown packing paper, labelling boxes so they don't get misplaced, and insuring all my fanciest knick knacks. Let me tell you, it's been exhausting.
Well...okay...Not really.
It's actually been My Beloved whose been working his little heart out to get me moved to my new digs. He's been tweaking and HTML-ing and fiddling and finnagling and generally puzzling til his puzzler is sore, ALL in order to make my new place look just as spiffy as possible. I have helped out by being demanding and throwing a hissy fit (or four).
The big heave-ho will happen on FRIDAY, the 12th, TOMORROW, so pleaseplease please please please please do not forget to pop in that day to check out the excitement. I plan to give away something really lovely, and you don't want to miss it. Also, I just really need you to follow me over there and bookmark the new link or update your reader or alert president-elect Obama or whatever you need to do so that I don't wind up writing to the crickets.
Not that I have anything against crickets, exactly; it's just that they don't tend to give very edifying feedback, and I'm all about the feedback. Not too proud to admit it, either.
Meanwhile, please enjoy these pictures of gingerbread men. Or, more accurately, gingerman guys. And bears. Because my blog is nothing if not random.
First of all, if you want sissy-boy gingerbread men, taste-wise, then go ahead and use this molasses.
But if you want robust, hearty, manly gingerbread men, then use this.
I didn't actually mean to make them so strong. I didn't realize there was a difference. But believe me, full flavor means, well..FULL FLAVOR. Whew! My gingerbread MEN were very dark this year. Amazingly, my kids still devoured them.
Emma is excited.
Toby is too.
Toby's decorating method has not changed much from last year. Let's do a comparison, shall we?
2007
2008
What? You don't subscribe to the more is better philosophy?
My other children are more meticulous, however.
Some, in fact, take meticulousity to new levels.
Observe...the beaded necklace and sparkly sweater...They're all the rage for fashionable gingerbread women this season.
And for the men? The polo-with-Christmas-tree emblem, of course!
and don't forget the star-studded pants.
This brave soul has recently returned from the front lines in the teddy bear war against their fiendish fruitcake foes.
Little does the poor guy know that, danger-wise, he's just gone from the frying pan into the fire....
They're like wee little works of art, are they not?
Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm.....who knew art could be so tasty?
Saturday we all trekked out to find a suitable tree to bedeck in proper holiday style. My Beloved had fake trees in his home when he was growing up, and he grew into a perfectly law-abiding and non-lethal sort of humanoid. I, however, had live trees, poached from government land (boy scout camps, mostly) by my father in the dusky winter evenings as soon as light began to wane. Consequently, I have a nasty tendency to leave my empty Starbucks and Sonic drink cups on random store shelves when I am done with them. Also, I don't return my grocery carts to the corrals. Clearly, there is a connection.
When it comes to Christmas trees, however, My Beloved and I struck upon a compromise. We would have live trees, to be sure, because that's what I had and it's obviously correct and proper, not to mention redolent with pinerosity, but we would procure them using legal avenues.
What's with the terminology, anyway? What's correct? To say "live tree" isn't really true, as they have been brutally harvested and are subsequently doomed to destruction. Which also means saying "fresh tree" is something of a misnomer. We could say "real tree" as some are wont to do, but then what does that make the alternative? Imaginary?
At any rate, we get our trees from the friendly menfolk at The Lion's Club. They are a jolly lot in general, and they remember us. I can't imagine why.
This nice man held up several trees for us to view, and I thought this one was just swell. But I had to ask some of my minions for their opinions before settling the matter.
5 of 12? What do you think, for the good of the collective?
3 of 12? Your thoughts?
11 of 12? Care to comment?
Oh who cares what he thinks? He's only three! How about you, Cowboy X?
(don't ask where his glasses are. We're working on a patent for baby-face-friendly superglue)
Okay! So the decision is made! One last photo, everybody! Say TREEEEE!!
The nice gentleman from the Lion's Club delivered our tree later that day, and we got busy bedecking it. Halfway through, however, it tried to make a break for it. It literally leapt upon my innocent brood a malicious, murderous rage, dumping its water all over the carpet and very nearly causing pandemonium.
It was the first time we'd ever had such an incident occur. 2008 will go down in infamy as The Year The Tree Fell Over.
We righted the sucker and managed to establish that the problem was that I had not been at home to oversee the securing of said tree into its stand. I happened to be at Wal Mart, buying our weekly 6,000 rolls of toilet paper, but no matter. It was obviously the absence of my didactic haranguing careful consideration that caused the near-catastrophe.
We beat it into submission, however, and it now stands in the living room, only slightly menacing in all its twinkling lights and encrusted ornamentation. Sometimes I think I hear a low muttering coming from its general direction, but it's probably my imagination.
(Click here to read all of the Shrubyub's adventures!)
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The Shrubyubs
By Jordan
Egad! What next? Tune in next Sunday to find out!
It's high time I brought back my weekly "Happy" posts...I got derailed somewhat after the birth of Cowboy X simply because he replaced my camera as primary bodily attachment, but I'm determined to document the little things that make me smile once again. And what better time than Christmas time to focus on the myriad warm fuzzies that wash over me at odd moments?
Like this, most marvelous ahhhhh-inducing product I just discovered this morning...
Be still, my heart...
No, seriously. Be still, my heart. I think I drank too much.
Pregnant Mary, being led by gentle Joseph...just love them (thanks, Mom...)
(I think I've seen that look before)
(doesn't she just look like she's pondering things in her heart?)
My favorite antique ornament, bought for me by eldest daughter and the preposterous male intruder (now known as son-in-law) last Christmas.
These two little girls, bought during an incredible post-Christmas sale last season from a store whose items make me swoon but whose prices give me a heart attack
Discovering them this year as I unpacked Christmas decorations was such a sweet surprise, since I had forgotten that I snagged them last January. Don't you love when that happens?
Twelve of these beauties, bought for just eight (8) dollars this morning at the grocery store. Eight (8)! Dollars!
The two absolutely essential musical selections for premium Christmas cheer. I kid you not. Taken together, joy climbs to previously unscaled heights. Without them, Christmas would be noticeably more subdued. But also less mellow, respectively. As if that makes any sense to anyone but me.
Have a happy, happy Saturday, my friends. On today's roster: find Christmas tree. Decorate tree. Watch movies. Drink hot chocolate. Sink into bliss-induced euphoria.
I am breaking my vow to never, ever, ever...infinity...talk about laundry on my blog since it is to me anathema, but this story just begged to be shared. My apologies in advance.
I threw a load of laundry into the wash this morning and hit "goforit" or "wash" or whatever it says on my washing machine. Half an hour later I reached in to transfer the contents to the dryer, operating only half-consciously, since the motions are, to say the least, rote. But when I got to the bottom of the tub, something caught my eye. Something small. And brown. And, more or less, round.
It was a turd.
I had washed a turd.
It was now a very clean turd.
Apparently the contents of my almost-but-not-quite potty trained three-year-old's last underwear accident had not been sufficiently deposited into the toilet, but were instead transferred to the dirty clothes bucket.
What it says about his diet that it did not dissolve one iota, well...I plead the 5th.
Needless to say, the load went through a second wash, after a careful shaking out of each item of clothing.
Gives a whole new meaning to Rocks In My Dryer, don't it? (Sorry Shannon ;o)
Oh friends, I am so tired. Yet I feel the need to be hospitable to you, my dear guests to my bloggy corner of the world, and I want to offer you something. I rummage through my thought-pantry and offer you this, with the humblest of apologies, re-heated and served on the finest chinet...if it tastes familiar, you may have ingested it about a year and a half ago...hopefully it isn't too moldy...
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I've been staring at old pictures of myself lately, trying to figure out where that girl went...that girl who is me and yet if I met her today I would marvel at what different people we are. What parts of her do I miss? What parts am I glad to leave behind?
I see her at her wedding with her beloved's arms wrapped around her and she looks completely blissful, but I know that deep inside her there is a vicious green serpent of possessiveness and insecurity that wreaked no small bit of havoc with their relationship until it was slaughtered a couple of years thereafter. But I envy the near-hysterical excitement and promise of the future that I see in her eyes (and his) as they start out.
I see her with a baby in her arms and she looks like the picture of motherhood, but I know that there are many tears yet to be shed over her inabilities to cope and many days of guilt that will leave an indelible mark upon her soul. But I envy the chance she has to start fresh, and I wish so much that I could help her understand that the things that seem monumentally important to her are so very...very...not.
I see her standing with her growing family, and with friends and parents and siblings, and she looks silly, or serene, or preoccupied, and I know her struggles and her victories and her every dream and wish and hope...so many still unrealized...and I think, after 38 years, I understand that many of them always will be.
Are we more like trees than we think, with layers and layers of our old selves inside of us, each one building upon the last with an ever-thickening bark wrapping its way around us with every passing year? Sometimes I think I feel the knocking of a past incarnation wanting to come out and talk. What would we say to each other?
Me (now): hey, what's up?
Me (then): oh, just wanted to see how things turn out.
Me (now): that's not allowed, you know.
Me (then): can't you just give me a hint?
Me (now): nope. but will you please stop pursing your lips? there's this wrinkle starting that you won't notice until it's too late...
There's even a picture of me from two months ago, on vacation, that gives me pause. I am not that person anymore either; I've been changed in a fundamental way that grew another ring around my core in record time. Can I see the beauty in the growing, no matter how it came about? Can I value the storm for the way it makes me dig in deeper with my roots? Can I lift my hands to God in praise for both the rain and the sun, and trust Him to be the ultimate Arborist?
I can. I can because years ago He etched His name and mine on the surface of this sapling and drew a heart around it. No matter how the wind may blow, it remains.
Do you have anyone difficult to buy for on your holiday shopping list? There are many kinds of people who can be tricky to buy for, no matter how well you know them. This is usually due to any number of factors, such as
1. They have no interests. At all.
2. They buy themselves whatever they want, before anyone else has a chance
3. They have appallingly expensive tastes.
This year, why not skip the totally predictable "mug" or "gift card" or "gift-card-in-mug" and buy them something they will treasure forever? The embodiment of heart-felt affection and spiritual goodwill?
I give you:
the dismember-able plush zombie
He's velcro, y'all. Your kids won't have to share. Everybody gets a piece! But most importantly: you can take out his brain.
If that's not the reason for the season, I don't know what is.
Unless it's this:
The Men's Extended Reach Body Hair Groomer
Seriously. Do people actually wrap these things up in pretty paper?
Don't answer that.
Somehow it seems like this year I'm seeing more than ever of the absurd and disturbing. Ever since this ad, I'm hyper-aware of the ludicrous in the holiday hubbub. More than once I have donned my "What the--?" face in disbelief.
My Beloved likes to quote a phrase from Star Wars at times like these. It's a line from the famous final scene in A New Hope (that's the first one for all you old-timers like me...for you upstarts, it would be recognized as the fourth episode) when Luke (be still my heart!) and his buddies are going to blow up the Death Star. One guy (I think his name was Dac, or maybe Blid, or possibly Grug) is getting shot at, and his ship is starting to break up, but he keeps saying STAY ON TARGET! STAY ON TARGET! even as he eventually gets blown to smithereens.
My Beloved likes to say STAY ON TARGET! When I start to digress, as I have just done quite powerfully in the above paragraph.
But it strikes me as appropriate for all of us who claim the Risen Lord Jesus, Savior of souls and Best of All Gifts, as the reason for the season. Can we put on blinders, determine not to be swayed by the false and the ridiculous this Christmas? Can we remember What It's All About, even when the ads cajole us to shell out more and more for that which passes away?
Can we STAY ON TARGET?!
I'm going to try. I'm gonna keep firing away at those falsehoods and idols, even if it looks hopeless. Because by golly, that old Death Star is gonna blow in the end.
I do love a good metaphor.
Maybe one of these is the perfect addition for my tree this year?
Blech.
My legs are hairy,
My attitude scary,
I've gained a pound or ten.
The wind is howling
and I am growling
at the cubs inside my den.
Too far away
the bright, green day--
it is a fading dream.
I want to sink;
to sleep, not think,
until the dawn of spring
I'm tired, it's bleak,
the winter speaks
and recommends my fate.
the bear in me
is plain to see;
I need to hibernate.
Catch up on The Shrubyub Adventures 1 through 6 here!
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The Shrubyubs
By Jordan
Be sure to tune in next Sunday for the further adventures of the Shrubyubs and their new friend, Zing!
