This Baby Boy.

I am aware that the world would have gotten along perfectly well without me having shared this mini- 

book. After all, it is very similar to the baby girl one I posted a couple of weeks ago.

*BUT*

 This one had to be made and shared. 

When one of your BFFs gives birth to the baby featured by your favorite scrapbook paper, it's your scrap booking duty to put them together.

 Also, in the interest of full disclosure here, I'm seriously obsessed with the adorability of this kid. 

 Take a look at that face and tell me if I really even had a choice.

Instead of 6x6, I made this one 6x8. Just because I could.

Oh, the cheeks.

Up yours, Genetics.

I can think of few things worse than the drop-in visit. 

The complete stranger drop-in visit has got to be the most dreaded of all. I think I would rather drink Drano than be subjected to one. 

 Unfortunately, it was during just such a visit this week by a seemingly very nice ward missionary that I found myself channeling my Mother. Yes, the Mother that I may have once or twice mentioned was nuttier than a cheese log. 

Picture this:

 I'm puttering around the house bra-less, as I am wont to be on the days when convention and fear of arrest haven't forced me into one. I am wearing an exceedingly nasty shirt that I had donned when I was browning the meat for dinner. The thing is full of holes and is covered in grease spots. I had been wearing a hat all day and my hair looked like rats had been nesting in it. When there is a knock on the door and I am in that state, I usually make a run for the bedroom but no, this time the door is for me. 

Yay. 

Also keep in mind that Thomas and his bad arm and leg had been to the physical therapist and consequently all three were laying on the air mattress in the middle of the living room. Sam and his sprained ankle are wallowing the couch. And due to the fact that I have been running from project to project for weeks, it looks like a giant had eaten a whole scrapbook store and promptly thrown up on every available surface in the house. 

Double yay.

This is where I am supposed to pretend to only speak Portuguese and shut the door. 

No, my cold-oatmeal quick brain and I sidle past the air mattress and stand on the doorstep while this poor woman starts her welcome to the ward isn't it lovely to finally meet you do you like Draper we'd love to see you at church one fine morning spiel. I looked down at my hands, (still holding the t-shirt I am wrapping in elastic bands in order to tie-dye it for Suzie) and...turned into my Mother. 

Not the nice lady that hands out birthday money and would tickle your back until her hand falls off. 

The one that always seems to develop a severe case of oral diarrhea when she is within 5 feet of anyone she doesn't know very well(or at all) that has at least 40% of their hearing left. Usually the worst symptom of this involves sharing things with said person that you shouldn't and wouldn't tell your court appointed therapist. 

At this point I touched my hair, realized that I must look like a meth addict coming off of a three day bender and just started into reasons why I didn't invite her in, why I didn't go to church here, about Sam's ankle, the fact that I had 2 divorced sisters, Thomas' whole left side and why I had browned the meat for the stew I was making for dinner. By the time I realized that I had been giving her a perfect crazy Jean impression, I got a little dizzy and may have even blacked out for a minute because the rest of the conversation is kind of a blur. I may or may not have given her my social security number and told her about that week in Jr. High when I ate nothing but french fries and pink sauce at lunch. Regardless, I am certain that Sister-What's-Her-Name backed away from the doorway with a funny look on her face and the certainty in her heart that I should in no way be allowed near normal people or her children.

It's no comfort at all to tell me that this was bound to happen eventually. Or that genetics always win out in the end. Try telling that to my children as they decide whether or not they can contain the damage by putting out the word that I am officially nuttier than squirrel poo or if it's already too late.  

Damn you genetics. 

All door answering will henceforth be done in the form of folded notes slid under the door and smoke signals only.

Happy (late) #12

Sammy McSamerson here

 (dressed in all his finery and about to head off to church)

 turned 12 yesterday. 

Since he slept over at Uncle Dan's in order to be included in the annual HALO fest, we ended up with donuts and chocolate milk for a mid afternoon snack and opening presents when Dad got home. No, not by candlelight, it just looks like it. Everyone got tired of me messing with my camera settings and this is the result. Turner missed the festivities due to the fact that she was preparing to fly home from Long Beach as these pics were taken. Pooh.

And yes, Sam really does love popcorn that much.

The Evolution of a Frame.

A long time ago, in a galaxy far far away, I had a square frame to cover in spring flowers for an easy door decoration. It sat around the living room until winter became spring and spring became summer. By then one frame had also become three. Funny how things like that just happen around here. 

Since spring had long ago sprung and summer was in full glare, I turned away from spring flowers to thoughts a little more summer-ish in nature. 

I wanted something beachy looking and not as bright as my last few summer decor projects had been. After happening upon the perfect background paper, all it took was spending an obscene amount of time on the computer finding the graphics. Most of them came from one of my favorite places to spend time online The Graphics Fairy. Without her this would have been a sad looking project indeed. A few came from another website (or 2?) and a page of matching tags from the Beach House line by Bazzill from which the background paper also originated.

 We won't talk about how long it took me to size, print, cut, re-size, re-print, re-cut and re-organize these before I got them right. Seriously, the pile of stuff that didn't make the cut was alarming in it's size and let's just say we all had to eat standing up in the kitchen for more than a day or two due to the fact that the dining room table was more than a little occupied. 

A few wiped on coats of paint later and here is the result. 

The frames are graduated in size starting at 12" and ending at 10". They also cost 5 bucks all together. Don't you just love thrift stores? 

The 12 incher 

Actually the 10 incher

 

That leaves this one coming in at 11 inches square if you're keeping track. Also the one to go in the middle of the grouping, hence the different background.

Linking to

 Brag Monday

Show it off Monday

Not so Magical Mike

I just got back from seeing the movie Magic Mike. If you don't know what that is, you need to watch more television or spend more time on Pinterest. Possibly I need to do less of both. Potato, potahto. Anyway, it's that "stripper movie" that came out a week ago. 

 I'm kind of surprised that I found it a little boring.

 It may be the fact that I am goose-stepping my way to old age at an alarming rate but after the first few stripping sequences, I found myself wishing somebody would pay as much attention to the trite story line as they did to coming up with one more way we could see some poor woman with a guy's junk in her face (seriously, if I went to a strip club and somebody did to me what they do in the movie, I would punch him in the nuts and take my dollar bills to 7-11) or giving Channing Tatum another chance to prove he really can dance better than all of the other naked men milling around. 

 I know. You're thinking, "Come on Granny pants. You went to see a rated R movie about male strippers. Were you really expecting something else?".

 Truthfully, no.

 But I didn't expect to be bored at a movie that has that much naked man flesh. Some of it even good flesh. I swear Joe Manganiello probably has to turn sideways to fit those shoulders through any doorway. I even told Emily (when I was convincing her it was a good idea to spend 7 bucks on this thing) that it didn't matter how the plot went because it couldn't be anything but a fun time. Huh. Turns out, not so much.

Maybe I really have aged out of this kind of thing but I really don't think that's it.

 I blame Steven Soderbergh for thinking that anyone going to a movie about MALE strippers wants to see ANY girl's boobs, let alone multiple sets. I do not by any means consider myself to be a prude and maybe I shouldn't be such a raging hetero in this age of enlightenment; but as a whole I find topless girls to be generally uninteresting. Too many at once and it moves into the tiresome category.  Especially when nearly every girl in the movie needed to be force fed a double cheeseburger and a large shake. No kidding. 

If Steven Soderbergh thought he could get away with such a shallow plot because we wouldn't notice what was going on in between the shirtless scenes; he forgets that women (unlike men) can use their brains AND be turned on at the same time.  

Now, don't get me wrong. The movie wasn't a total loss. You know I'm the kind of girl that tries to turn every negative into a positive. Every experience is a chance to learn in my book. Even badly done nakey nakey movies. 

Here's what I learned from Magic Mike:

1-The math: for every 5 strippers there will be 1 with a conscience and a heart of gold.

2-Any girl that would date (read sleep with) a stripper is a skanky slut. Conversely, good girls are a little uptight about their bodies and wouldn't dream of dating a male stripper.

3-19 year old boys are soulless little punks incapable of making anything resembling a good decision. Ever.

4-An old stripper is no better than a pimp. And possibly a little more money grubbing than one too.

5-Any woman that goes to a strip show wants nothing more than to be dry humped on stage.

6-To be a stripper you must take drugs or sell them. Or both.

7-97% of women that go to see male strippers are very well dressed and thin. 

8-Channing Tatum really can dance but most of the time it's stupid dancing that looks more like a well choreographed spaz attack.

9-It doesn't matter what kind of shape you're in, wearing a banana hammock looks stupid. Not sexy. Period. Any woman that says different is lying through the teeth she has been gritting to keep from giggling at the spectacle.

10-Matthew McConaughey should never ever be seen in nothing more than a g-string. Never. I know the guy is in good shape for his age and all but I couldn't tell if he did his own dancing or if they had brought in a slab of beef jerky to be his body double. 

11-I should have watched this on DVD so that I could have just fast forwarded to the first few stripper parts and sent it back.