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.

        

It's a baby! (book)

The following are pictures of the mini book that was promised to my sister when my newest niece Samantha (aka chumba wumba) was born.   

SIX MONTHS AGO! 

Okay, in my defense, I couldn't make it without the pictures of the baby because I have a few sisters that can't be trusted to actually put pictures in the book after you've made it so it has to be done for them. Samantha's Mom is one. The other sisters' live around here and can be bullied into it if needs be. Since this  book is being shipped off to California, leaving it blank and hoping for the best was not an option. 

Aaaand then there was the whole problem with the fact that I had other paper destined for this but, well, Graphic45 brought out this line and it was back to the drawing board. Since the chance of needing to make another baby book in the near future is pretty much nil, I had to go for it. Didn't I?

Ahhh, justification. My dear old friend. 

Now, if it had turned out the way I meant it to instead of the way it did, I'd feel better about that whole midstream horse switch I seem to always find so darn irresistible Oh well. If we both keep our mouths shut, Samantha and her mom will be none the wiser...

Reasons

Outside of the obvious first class ticket to Hell that has my name all over it, there are a few more reasons why it's good I don't go to church all that often. One of them is that I might actually feel the need to think anything but horrible thoughts about the girl that hit the boys with her car last December. Or, possibly try to forgive her instead of laying in bed wishing that leprosy was more prevalent in America.

As I sit here, shaking with frustration after shooting off yet another email to her insurance company, it's pretty easy to keep Jiminy Cricket locked in his little cage. Yes, I said last December. Every 4-6 weeks it's another round of bills they haven't properly paid landing at my doorstep. Then it's a round of phone tag with the odious woman that handles the medical claims at Mutual of Enumclaw, the awful insurance company that this particular floozy had when she decided her phone was more important than looking at where she was driving her car. It's the way they have handled this situation that makes me start to look at accident lawyers differently. I REALLY don't want the particular set of complications a lawyer brings but it's almost like insurance companies want to push people into hiring one out of self preservation. Let me tell you, the temptation gets greater by the day.

Emily had the misfortune to come over on a day when I was particularly fed up with this mess. She had the idea to look the cheap hussy up on Facebook. I told her not to bother. We wouldn't be able to look at anything even if we did find her. Boy was I wrong. There she was in all her splendor. Not even smart enough to not have every single thing on her profile completely open to the viewing public. We went all the way back to the week of the accident and...nothing except pictures of her super new haircut!! and she's now engaged!!!. I don't know what I was expecting but it would have helped if she had put up a status update to the effect of, "I am a shallow brainless idiot that just hit 2 boys in a crosswalk because I totally suck and actually feel bad about it". Maybe this and the fact that Thomas is still struggling with the damage he sustained on his right side, means I sit here with fantasies (among others) involving disfiguring skin conditions and major natural disasters popping up on her wedding day and/or having her get hit in a cross walk by an uninsured motorist. I want her to have at least double the misery we have had to endure the last 6 months. In all honesty, at this point in the game she could be the Mother Teresa of northern Utah and I will still want to punch all her teeth out and feed them to her for what she carelessly did to my babies.  

I know I know. Bitterness and hatred corrodes the soul, Karma can be a bitch and all that rot. I soooo don't care anymore. I'm willing to be a bitter, evil old crone in Hell if I get to take this chick and all of the blood suckers at Mutual of Enumclaw with me. 

Blue and Yellow. Sort of.

Unable to shake the feeling of being at the bottom of a giant creative hole, I decided to get on board another challenge. Operation Write Home's Midweek Throw Down again as a matter of fact. This one was to use yellow and blue as your main colors. Proving once again that I follow directions about as well as a particularly rebellious alley cat. 

Had been dying to use this (among the other gazillion)
from one of my favorite blogs
The Graphics Fairy
but the yellow kept tripping me up.
 It still doesn't match the picture in my head.

Try as I might, just couldn't resist the orange.

Just do me this one favor, okay?

I may have mentioned before how much I love P.G. Wodehouse. However, I think it may have always been in the context of  expressing my love for Fry and Laurie's Jeeves and Wooster.

 How foolish of me.

I have been a fan of the Jeeves books forever but it wasn't until last year that I discovered all of Wodehouse's other works. It started with an audio version of The Adventures of Sally and snowballed into what could be almost be called an obsession. 

The man was genius with a capital G and several exclamation points behind.

 I just finished Something Fresh and am bowled over by his absolute mastery of words. Forget about the fact that P.G. Wodehouse is always funny without being mean or crude. No small feat if you consider the sheer number of books he managed to publish. His perfect use of language is mind boggling. In the second clip below Stephen Fry calls him "a Lord of Language" and that about sums up why you should be gobbling up his books. If you love (or just like) words, Wodehouse is your man. Even when they're not laugh out loud funny, they're so well written that any of his books are pure pleasure. The incomparable Stephen Fry puts it better here than I could in a million years.
Stephen Fry on P. G. Wodehouse

Now, I am a big proponent of, "if you CAN read it, you SHOULD" but am not averse to a nice audio book now and then. They really do make long, tedious tasks like housework or canning feel easier and they definitely shorten long drives. In a good way. In the case of P.G. Wodehouse it's a toss-up as to which delivery system is the most pleasing. If you get the right narrator for the audio version, it almost makes the book better. My absolute favorite is Frederick Davidson. His delivery of some of the lines in Something Fresh  had my knees weak with laughter as I cleaned the kitchen last night. I get most of my audio books through my library (free, online and usually in my jammies. Can't beat that I tell you!). You probably could too. 

So, if you have or haven't read P.G Wodehouse before, get to reading. Right now. Take Stephen Fry's suggestion and try Carry On, Jeeves or Something Fresh if you don't know where to start . Then come back and watch this lovely documentary I found on YouTube and have posted here for your viewing pleasure. Or clear your schedule for an hour, watch it right now and then come back and watch it again later. 

You won't be sorry. 

(My sister Janene excluded of course.)

Birthday times are here again.

Missy McPrissy.

15 whole years today. 

A few pics of the wild celebrations and a few of my faves from the last few months.

Had to drag out of bed so that Dad could watch her open presents
before heading off  to the salt mines. Is it obvious?

Had B-Day cake at the park on Saturday because that's when the whole family
 could be there. Don't worry about the candles.
There's another one behind the big 9.
Check the math. 9+6=15.
 When it turns out we're down to
 the bottom of the birthday candle bag in
 the cupboard, that's how we roll

Yes. 2 cakes. This one with mint frosting. Which was obviously too
 much for Aunt Annie's self control.
That, or Turner smelled like Dr. Pepper.

The irresistible dinosaur hat from the dollar store
made for a smashing photo session.

She didn't know I was taking this. That's how Turner looks when
nobody is around.

This is what 15 looks like around here.
She took this one of herself.