Category: Friends and Other Strangers

THERE BE DRAGONS

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This week’s LetsBlogOff asks: What is the edge of your world?

As I considered my response, the thought that kept returning, in a nice, thick, menacing brogue was, “Beyond here, there be dragons.”

That’s what lies beyond the horizon, right? Just out of sight, lurking there…waiting…

When I look into that distance and my stomach does a little flip-flop, it’s about one thing. The next 20 years.

Recently, I started thinking about my current position and wondering how much longer I see myself doing what I do. It’s not that I don’t enjoy it. I do. I REALLY do. 

BULLETIN: (This is where I assure anyone who reads this and works with me, for me, or employs me that I love my job and have no plans of departing before they drag me out the door kicking and screaming. I am merely exploring the topic at hand. Do not send your resumes.)

I spent most of my life pursuing success. I’m ambitious. And competitive. It’s what I do. I always wanted to be considered the brightest person in the room. Still do. “The problem solver.” “The creative genius.” If that didn’t work, I’d accept “the quickest witted,” or in a pinch, “the most sarcastic.”  I once received a thank you email that said, “It is such a joy to know that any level of sarcasm need never be worried about or ruined with explanation in a dialogue with you!!”

So that’s how I pictured myself for the past 25+ years. Ambitious. Bright. On the road to success. But I look around me these days and there are a lot of very eager, very intelligent and talented people around me.  I am by far the oldest person in my “department.”  I just can’t picture myself working here with all the young’uns in another ten years. (Really, I can’t even see it for another five, but that thought makes me freak out and hyperventilate, so I’ll stick to ten.) 

What would I do after that? It’s REALLY another 20 years or so before retirement should even become an issue. (Not to mention the vast number of years required to financially make retirement a possibility.)

How would I spend that time if not here?

Why am I freaking out about working or NOT working for another 5 years, or 20 years?

What happens after?

Do I do what I always WANTED to at that point?

What DID I always want to do?

(Be Sally Rogers – writer on the Alan Brady Show?)

(Be Erma Bombeck – great American humorist?)

(Be the female Indiana Jones? But with looser fitting clothing. And less boobage.)

How DO I want to spend the next 20 years?

THAT’s the edge of my world, and every day I sail a little closer.

Beyond, there be dragons.

Big, scary, dragons.

To read other takes on today’s topic – click the logo – and enjoy.

INTRODUCING 2 FOR THE SHOW

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Well, it took a few more hours than expected, but the first review is complete. Thanks to my partner-in-crime, Sandy. Please take a look if you like. The blog is titled 2 for the Show and will feature movie and TV reviews. We hope.  Thanks to those creative minds out there with such great ideas for blog names! However, I DID have to go with my mother’s. She feeds me sometimes. And buys me nice stuff. There’s also that unconditional love thing, too.

We are just figuring out how to communicate back and forth to make this work.  How do people write in tandem, anyway? Please have a kind thought as we get our bearings.

Thank you!

DON’T JUDGE – GRAMMAR PET PEEVES

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Today’s LetsBlogOff asks us: What is your grammar pet peeve?

My friends anxiously await this answer, I‘m sure. Hey, being the grammar and spelling police may not always be appreciated, but as far as I’m concerned, it should be counted as a super power.

I have quite a few of these pet peeves, as it turns out. In some cases, things I find unacceptable – or even contemptible, are making their way into common usage. This, in my opinion, is evidence of our society heading straight to hell in a handbasket. I know I should probably worry about bigger things, but let’s face it; Good grammar and proper etiquette are what separate us from the apes. (That 15 foot wall helps, too.)

The use of apostrophes when referring to a decade, such as the 1980’s, causes me pain. Not unbearable pain, but I am definitely uncomfortable. 1980s. There. Better.

I am also a big supporter of the word “handsful” versus handfuls, mothers-in-law versus mother-in-laws, and bucketsful versus bucketfuls.

I get pretty tired of seeing “accept” and “except” used interchangeably.

I cringe when I see professional letters that begin with Dear Sir, instead of Dear Sir:

The use of i.e. (that is) rather than e.g. (for example) drives me insane.

I have also noticed the element “lead” substituting for the verb “led.” The good news? That little error eliminates quite a few resumes in my stack for review.

Cockiness like that leads to karmic retribution like this –

The other day, I was writing and realized I had no idea if I should type the word “past” or “passed.”

Seriously. I decided to change the whole sentence to avoid hurting my brain, which was obviously on vacation.

And for that, I feel ashamed. Kryptonite, indeed.

But I’ll get past it.

Ah ha!

Ah ha?

Damn it.

To read other pet peeves about grammar, click the logo below, and enjoy!

AND THE OSCAR GOES TO?

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It’s Oscar time!

Long ago, when Sandy (of the Wales trip) and I were younger and had more energy, we made a pact. Each year we would get together and see each movie nominated for “Best Picture.” We made a sport out of watching the Oscars and felt we could be indignant, but not RIGHTEOUSLY indignant about the results unless we had ACTUALLY SEEN the movies. (We’re sticklers that way.) We prefer righteous indignation any day. So, THE PLAN was born.

This was back when they allowed only five nominees, so it really shouldn’t have been that challenging. Confession: We usually only made it to four. Sometimes only three. 1995 was a pretty good year in which we saw everything except The Postman. (Apollo 13, Braveheart, Babe, and Sense and Sensibility.) Yes. Babe was nominated for Best Picture. Braveheart won. Remember, this was before Mel went publicly nutso. Damn him.

In 1996, The Plan totally fell apart with this line up:

Jerry Maguire, The English Patient, Shine, Fargo, Secrets and Lies.

I believe I saw Jerry Maguire in the theater. That’s it. Sandy saw The English Patient and described it thusly: “Long. Boring. English. Girlfriend. Death.”

I have tried to watch it three times myself, and agree wholeheartedly with Sandy. In fact, The English Patient makes me almost hostile. My husband cannot comprehend my reaction. I actually wish death upon them throughout much of the picture. Sometimes screaming “DIE! DIE! DIE already!!” at the screen.

1997 was the year that will live forever in our hearts as the year WE DID IT!! We actually managed to see all five nominees; Titanic, As Good As it Gets, Good Will Hunting, The Full Monty, and L.A. Confidential. (I believe that was also the year of THE INCIDENT. Sandy became audibly snarky in the theater when they lost power during The Full Monty, accidentally starting a fight with the girls sitting in front of us – which nearly ended in a girl-brawl in the parking lot.)

Funny now. Then, not so much. It was more like, “THEY ARE GOING TO CUT US.”

That year, Titanic won Best Picture. Another confession. I saw that movie not once, but twice in the theater. I LOVED it. I BOUGHT it. This was in spite of the fact I couldn’t be “on board,” so to speak, with Rose, who was annoyed at having to marry a rich dude. At one point my eyes rolled so far back in my head I saw stars. It’s when Rose said, “I saw my whole life as if I’d already lived it. An endless parade of parties and cotillions, yachts and polo matches. Always the same narrow people, the same mindless chatter.”

Talk about mindless chatter. “Really?” I thought, “Parties and cotillions, yachts and polo matches? Sign me up!” Big whiner. A girl can’t lounge around forever being sketched in the buff by penniless artists. I know. I’VE TRIED.

At brunch today, I was asked the nominees for this year and could name only a handful. Keeping to my old standard, I’ve seen four: The Help, The Artist, Midnight in Paris, and Moneyball.

Other nominees this year include:

War Horse – Cannot possibly see it because the horse is no doubt unhappy and mistreated, otherwise, it wouldn’t be a riveting story.)

Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close – Best described by a radio personality: “Sounds like an encounter with a drunk.”

Hugo – I would probably see it if I could borrow someone’s kid.

The Descendants – Not sure why this doesn’t appeal to me, if only for the Hawaiian ambiance, but it doesn’t.

The Tree of Life – Frankly, never heard of it until the nomination. And I cannot support Sean Penn emotionally or financially, so that’s out.

We watched Moneyball Friday night. It’s a good movie, but why it’s up for Best Picture is beyond me. Unless it’s for Brad Pitt’s work out sessions. But there weren’t enough to warrant an Academy Award for that.

(This is NOT a scene from Moneyball, but who cares?)

So, which piece of cinematic glory is going to win?

The Los Angeles Times reported that nearly 94 percent of Academy Award voters are white, 77 percent are male and the median age is 62.

That said, I predict the Best Picture award will go to…(Drum roll, please.)

“The Best Years of Our Lives,” starring Myrna Loy and Frederic March. (Somehow, the doddering, yet spunky Academy Award voters thought they were watching their DVDs, but were actually on TCM, thus the confusion.)

Hey, with a median age of 62? It could happen.

SPA-PALOOZA

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I don’t get the chance to have Spa Day very often, but thanks to the recent Christmas and birthday gifts from my in-laws, I was able to go today for the works – a 50 minute massage and 50 minute facial. Heaven.

Today’s special event was at the Crescent Hotel Spa, which is terribly hoity-toity, and therefore intimidating to me to some degree. Lots of society-types with a gaggle of girlfriends in tow lazing about the ladies “lounge” in terrycloth bathrobes and rubber slippers, sipping lemon infused water or hot chamomile tea. I felt a little more comfortable and somewhat ironic when I sat down on the couch and saw that Paula Deen was on the television, cooking extraordinarily fatty desserts and saying “y’all” a lot. Even better, my favorite thing in the world was added to this display. The closed captioning was on! I simply ADORE closed captioning. And whoever or whatever was doing it was having a field day trying to make heads or tails of Paula’s accent. Half the words typed were so wrong I felt I might have to apologize to closed captioning on behalf of all Southerners. I can’t imagine that Siri can understand a word out of that woman’s mouth. But, back to “Spa-palooza.”

My masseuse was a lovely woman who did an amazing job of finding every little (a.k.a. huge) knot in my neck and right shoulder. Notorious troubled spots. She practically “squeed” with excitement at having a real challenge before her. (I am notorious for my neck knots. Believe me, no socialite has the boulders in her shoulders that I do.)

When I was on my stomach, she worked her way straight down either side of my spine – from the neck to the waist – and I jumped out of my skin. Apparently, when muscles are tight, and you apply just the right amount of pressure, it can create seriously ticklish spots. When I jumped, the masseuse jumped, and I could tell she was wondering if she should try it again or just skip it. I wasn’t going to give her any clues. Hey, she’s a professional, I can’t be the first person to respond like “Surprised Kitten” to her ministrations.

Yes. Surprised Kitten. I assume you’ve seen the cute little ticklish kitten video. If not, please refer to this link and witness what was taking place on the massage table.

Surprised Kitten.

I swear, in my head, that’s totally how I responded every time she touched my back.

Eventually, we got past this awkward little dance and on to actual relaxation, during which I started thinking about my very first massage experience. I was probably 23 or so and went to South Padre Island with a friend. My mother recommended a masseuse and offered to pay, so I, of course, accepted and scheduled an appointment.

Having no previous experience with massages – except from boyfriends who were really just trying to pass off a bad massage as acceptable foreplay, (which, by the way, it’s not), I had no idea what to expect. But that doesn’t mean I didn’t have a clue something was wrong with the whole scenario when she started talking…and talking… and not just “Gee, the weather’s really warm.” This conversation went something like, “I had a dream last night and realize now that it was actually a flashback of some kind.”

“Oh?” I responded, trying to feign interest.

To my horror, the woman continued to describe to me her dream and the resultant conclusion – she had been sexually abused by her father. Yep. Nothing more relaxing than a massage with someone describing child abuse to you. Stranger yet, as she rambled on and I lay there with a sheet covering me, feeling terribly vulnerable in my first massage session and wondering if I had wandered into a Candid Camera episode, the nimble little minx climbed atop the table I was lying on and began WALKING ON MY BACK, without ever breaking the conversational flow. (Or saying, “Hey, I’m gonna’ shimmy up onto the table and walk on your back while talking about this very personal and horrifying topic, so don’t freak out or anything, okay?)

I cannot believe I ever tried massage again. The human spirit is indeed resilient.

Meanwhile, back to the actual GOOD massage. After the ticklishness/jumpiness passed, all went well. In my semi-comatose state, I was directed back to the lounge to await the facial person. Facialista? Facial therapist? Aesthetician?

I have to say that she was as nice as could be when she told me my face needed a little extra exfoliation – for a little extra money. It’s always amusing to me when they ask how long ago your last facial was. I told her probably some time in the past year. “Oh, why? You don’t think about it? You forget?” Yes. I tend to forget about my face as often as I can.

Regular facials are just not in my typical monthly budget. Are regular facials in anyone’s budget – other than those who are featured on “The Real Housewives of…?”

Maybe they are, but I prefer to go in offering people a real challenge. It takes a lot of time and work to get these knots in my shoulders and dry, non-exfoliated skin on my face and neck. These spa days cost a lot of money, and I see no reason to make it easy for them.

They DID remind me that Mother’s Day is coming up – so maybe they’ll get another shot at me before too long. In the meantime, I’m going to go enjoy my jello-like state. And maybe make some biscuits and gravy with a stick of fried butter on the side.

Damn you, Paula Deen. You and Surprised Kitten have annihilated my hoity-toity day.

SIRI-OUSLY

Published on by Diary of Ann Franks7 Comments

I am having a love / hate relationship with Siri (the IPhone 4S built-in personal assistant), who genuinely TRIES to help me, but we seem to be having communication problems. Like I need someone else in my life with whom I can’t seem to make myself understood.

Siri  delighted me with her attempts, at first. I made a calendar entry for an upcoming wedding, although I couldn’t figure out how to title the entry, so at this point I just have a full day booked and in a few weeks will have no idea why the 16th of June is marked, “Note.”

I was feeling a little snoozy later on and asked her to tell me a story – and she became delightfully coy.

When I began defining my relationships for her, she just started ticking me off. I was able to convince her that Robert was my husband, so I could say something like, “Text my husband…” Then, I tried to tell her who my mother was, and she showed her true colors. “Annette is my mother,” I calmly explained. Siri repeated the relationship perfectly, but then went on to show the entry in my contact category as “Annette: Manager.” 

Humph. I tried again.  “Annette is my MOTHER.” Siri repeated the identification, but then showed me her note. “Annette: Assistant.”

While Manager and Assistant are perhaps accurate descriptions of roles my mother (or any mother for that matter) takes on, I didn’t appreciate the sarcasm. I decided to discontinue my little organizational spree, afraid of what title she might assign my friends or family. What if I designated a relationship and the little witch assigned the title, “Arch Enemy?”

Determined to sort out the misunderstanding, I pressed the button to call Siri again and informed her that “Annette is NOT my Manager.” She had the nerve to tell me she cannot delete relationships for me.

“Well, then, don’t mislabel them,” I snapped. At my phone. 

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand,” Siri responded demurely.

So then I felt guilty and gave up creating relationships. (Wow, that sentence is so Freudian, I’m not even going to correct it.) 

Siri was able to tell me how many calories dinner was last night, but shied away from telling me where I could hide a dead body. (I was feeling inquisitive.) She DID graciously show me several businesses in my area that have the word “Hide” in them. Asking where to “dump” a dead body resulted in no nearby dumps.

Oh, well. At least I know if I am ever in need of such a location, (which I have no immediate plans to require), I am on my own. Or maybe my Manager/Assistant will help me out. After all, what are mother’s for?

Moving on to cheerier topics with Siri I asked, “Who will win the Super Bowl?” Instead of showing me betting odds or predictions, she asked if I wanted her to Google, “Who will win the suit?”

“What suit?” I asked, perplexed.

“I don’t know what you mean by “What seat?” the minx responded.

“Are you kidding me?”

“I kid you not.” (Snap-ish.)

So I have no idea who is going to win the Super Bowl, the suit, or the seat. But I think I know who my arch enemy is.

Yes, Siri. Be my guest.

2012, WE NEED TO TALK

Published on by Diary of Ann Franks4 Comments

Every two weeks, another LetsBlogOff topic is introduced and we scamper off to compose our responses. This week the topic is, “What are you looking forward to in 2012?”

First things first.

2011, thank you for the year of recovery. We marked the one year anniversaries of the passing of my father, Bill Rogers, and my friend, Leah Siegel. I appreciate the opportunity to experience the healing process that strengthened other relationships and for the ability to add a little perspective to my life and work. I don’t know that I would have taken the trip to Wales (my first out of the U.S.) if not for the realization that we don’t always have next year or even tomorrow to carry out our plans.

(Thanks, Sandy, for the best trip ever!)

2012 has the potential to deliver big in lots of ways – or to be a complete disaster. We can control our fate to some degree, but some things are outside our power to command. But, hey, a girl can try, right?

So listen up 2012. Here’s what I need you to do for me.

I will be needing a complete and total cure; a clean bill of health – for a child I know. I can’t go into more detail, as the situation is still developing, and it’s not my place to do anything but put the universe on notice. I just know this: It needs to be fixed. Universe – Pick on somebody your own size. Or I will cut you.

Employment. For my husband. It’s been a difficult few years for him in IT/Channel sales, and it’s time to turn things around. Really. He needs to get out of the house. The dog has gotten way too attached to him. And too spoiled. Observe.

Otherwise, 2012, I expect the same thing from you that I do from myself. I am looking forward to new opportunities, a little rejuvenated attitude and more than a small boost of energy.

I plan to continue this blog, which will be a year old in May. It has been fun and therapeutic, and has introduced me to some wonderful people and talented writers. Who knew complete strangers could be so supportive?

There’s also a possible trip to France in 2012 which should rival my Welsh adventures. I look forward to seeing my friends and family more often, and to the complete recovery of my mother’s pelvis. (That sounds as if she lost her pelvis, rather than broke it, doesn’t it?)

I also look forward to never discussing my mother’s pelvis in public again; as I am sure, does she. (It’s healing nicely, by the way.)

Okay, apparently my obsessiveness and paranoia is going to continue in 2012, because now that I am thinking about the trip to France, I look forward to someone loaning me Rosetta Stone – French. Hint-hint.

I think I may be confusing 2012 with Santa Claus.

Au revoir, 2011. Bring it on, 2012.

What is everyone else expecting from 2012? Read on.

Click here:

HOLIDAY SCOOP AND THINGS YOU MAY ALREADY KNOW

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In the spirit of helping my fellow-man (and woman), here is what I have learned this past week. You’re welcome.

1. Never trust a teenager who tells you what time your mother-in-law is expecting you. The result is arriving 30 minutes AFTER she intended to “serve.”

2. An unwrapped gift will remain unwrapped until I wrap it. Seriously. DAYS after Christmas. Right now, in another room, a certain individual is staring at the gift in question and saying to himself, “Geez, when is Ann gonna’ wrap this?”

Actually, we’re in a stand off. He wants me to wrap the gift (which I agreed to do because he used the classic, “I’m a guy and I can’t wrap presents well,” ploy.) However, I am not going to wrap it until he completes the gift by putting the photo in the frame. He’s 18 and should be able to manage that himself. Apparently, that gift is going to live in my kitchen unwrapped and un-given FOREVER.

3. People attempting to attend Christmas Eve service at church on a rainy, cold evening will lie, cheat and steal to reserve a seat – or an entire pew – for their LATE (not dead but clock- challenged) friends and family. Seriously. Derek and I (who were on time and in the first group to enter) had to march almost to the front of the church to find a pew someone wasn’t planking on or that wasn’t strewn with coat, scarf, gloves – all spread out across every last inch.

4. Either I have no friends, or no one is sending out Christmas cards anymore. I think we received 4. One was from our newspaper carrier and I think they make him do it. I thought everyone wanted to show off their cute kids and puppies. What happened? At least the Kardashian family did their part.

5. Bowl Games have stupid names now. We should protest. Let’s occupy the Beef ‘O’Brady’s Bowl.

6. Work you take home to tackle over the holidays does not do itself. Although I still hold out hope.

7. Time passes more quickly when you are at home than when you are at work. I know this for a fact because I only seem capable of one activity per day. I scheduled a phone call this morning and it has thrown me off completely. I am still in my pajamas with very low expectations for exiting them. This is bad news for the people I am meeting for cocktails at 4:00.

8. Do not stack that container of olives on top of the container of berries. The olives leak. (This may not be a universal truth, but it’s something to consider.)

9. My husband can watch more football than yours.

10. Save yourself the trouble of reading “The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo,” because the movie is crazy good. It’s also exhausting. P.S., Sweden in winter does NOT look as charming as it sounds. Join me and the other slackers in skipping ahead to book 2, which according to my sources gets moving faster than book 1.

Oh, and one last thing… did you hear Samoa is tossing today and skipping on to the 31st? No December 30th at all. I didn’t even know you could do that. They are crossing the international date line so they will be available for more trade with Australia. I think they should play a little more hard to get. Australia has that cute accent and all, but really…

Also, does that mean they get more sleep or less? Because I am all about gaining some snooze time.

THINGS I HAVE NO BUSINESS DOING

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In the season of the naughty and nice lists, I’d like to add another: Things I have no business doing.

I don’t know if it’s because it’s the end of the year, or because I’ve simply lost all good sense by the time the 12th month rolls around, but it’s wreaking havoc on me.

As I commented in my previous post, for some reason I have this yearning to be creative at Christmas time. However, as I was unable to locate a single wreath shaped piece of styrofoam at Michael’s, my creative itch remains fundamentally un-scratched.

However, thanks to the office pot luck, I was able to channel some of that creative energy into baking. As hubby is typically the chef in the house, this was one of those things I haven’t done – from scratch – in probably ten years. I decided to make Ginger snap cookies in snowflake shapes. (Ah, how adorable!) Yeah, right. I get this genius idea on a work night and start the process of grating a real ginger root at about 6:00.

Challenge number one: When a recipe tells you to use a standing mixer with paddles, they are NOT jacking around. I do not have such a machine, however, so I mixed it by hand. No big deal, right? Wrong. My wrist began to spasm and twitch so badly I spilled my old-fashioned all over myself while trying to take a sip. Now THAT’s tragic.

Challenge number two: Icing. I don’t have one of those icing decorator squeezy things, (people who know their way around baking tools, please stop yelling at me), and I bought the wrong size decorative tip to go on the tube of icing I purchased, so I had to give up and just spread the icing on the cookies with a knife. This really isn’t a tragedy, but I had a picture in my head of these lovely cookies decorated with lacy white icing, so it was disappointing to someone who is crazy, like I am. Plus, I was up WAY past my bedtime.

By the end of this little process I hated the cookies and the icing, and the pot luck idea. Some people actually liked the cookies though, so in the end, it was all worth it.

Not really. But what I do know now is WHY I haven’t baked in umpteen years.

Strangely, this didn’t dampen my adventurous holiday spirit. I actually decided to do something else I hadn’t done in forever. Ride a bike. Seriously, I have not been on a bike in eons. Even the early news to friends and family (casually) that I was going on a bike ride in the afternoon resulted in gasps and in one case (my mother) begging me not to do it. “Not right before Christmas, Ann! We don’t need another injury!” In response I did what I have done since I was 6. I waved away her concern and told her I’d be fine. Hey, I’m EVENTUALLY fine, after a period of recovery.

So my husband, (whose idea this was), and who obviously has it out for me, decides to put me in shorts and big gloves and a helmet and ear covers and some sort of goggles and points a terrified, unbalanced (in many ways) me toward the street on a bicycle – with him in the lead. I won’t go into detail, but we rode too far, too seriously and on streets that were too bumpy and too up hill on our way to the lake. Then we headed back. Somehow both ways were up hill. I swear. Really.

There was one brief moment when I thought I was going to get hit by a car, but I have been reassured that the guy saw me and was totally NOT going to run me over. Truthfully, I don’t think I really would have minded being run over at that point. In fact, it might have been the bike’s attempt to commit suicide when it stopped in the middle of the three lanes of northbound traffic. Maybe bikes are like horses and can smell fear and inexperience.

I also discovered that extreme exercise when your body is not used to doing more than walking up a flight of stairs at a leisurely pace results in the vocabulary of a sailor. A very salty sailor. Plus, at one point, in an attempt to motivate myself up one of those hills, I pedaled in rhythm to this mantra as I glared at hubby’s back – “I will get you… I will get you…must sleep some time…must sleep some time…”

I think I will go back out on the bike again sometime. Maybe when the sun is out and it’s a little warmer than 58 degrees. Now it’s a challenge and I HAVE to win.

Plus, I’d rather attempt crossing 6 lanes of traffic on the bike than blend that cookie dough by hand again.

Other things I have done in the past week I have no business doing? Speaking to homeless people, mailing anything to an international destination, pretending I can design attractive things on Zazzle and shopping online.

I think there’s something I’m forgetting about handing a three-year old a glass of chocolate milk when she’s sitting on my antique Chippendale sofa, but surely even I wouldn’t be as insane as to do something like that.

‘TIS THE SEASON TO MAKE A HOT MESS

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Someone make it stop. It’s that holly jolly time of year when I inexplicably forget all evidence to the contrary and decide that I’m “crafty.” Not “plot a coup” crafty. “Grab a glue gun and get busy” crafty.

The problem with that is – well, there are multiple problems with this. There’s a difference… a WORLD of difference between creative and crafty. If I were truly a craft-type person, I would own a glue gun. I don’t. In fact, I’m kind of afraid of the damage I might do with hot glue. So far, I have managed to refrain from purchasing one, although I do eye them warily in the store and have reached for one every now and again before regaining control. It’s as if I realize we COULD have a relationship, but it would be an unhealthy one.

How do people do this? Everyone I know is busy making homemade biscotti or sewing quilts, or knitting or making photo books or basket weaving or making a homemade nativity scene out of paper mache and spit. It’s annoying. It’s enough to give a girl a complex. Especially this girl.

The urge to craft must be genetic. Years ago, my mother, who had the good sense to work with florist wire instead of glue, made Christmas wreaths. I still have the one she gave me almost 20 years ago. I’ve refurbished it a bit, re-attaching parts with wire and replacing items as they become too weathered or broken, but I still think of it as hers.

 

Then there’s my fraternal grandmother. She was an amazing seamstress. Gertie made rag dolls, clothes, decorations and quilts that were truly works of art. Many went to the church bazaar each year, but I have a collection of her Christmas ornaments I use every year on my tree. Sometimes I get the urge to leave them in the closet and decorate with beautiful glass or fabric and gemstone / glittery ornaments – color coordinated in jewel tones or shades of blue and purple… but I scrap the idea when I think of a “decorator” tree versus the “handmade” tree.

Here’s a selection of some of my favorites.

    

Seriously. Look at the detail on these. The eyelashes are little tiny stitches.

I adore this little rosy-cheeked Eskimo. The fringe, the little toothpick (spear) in his hand. (Don’t think about the baby seals.)

Then there’s the Snowman and his mittens and scarf. His eyelashes are stitched as well.

So perhaps you can see where I might get the impression I’m supposed to CREATE something for Christmas. Something the boys can share with their kids someday. Something that generations to come will pull out of a dusty box and say, “Oh! I remember this! Crazy old Ann made this!”

Therefore, against my better judgement I am pondering a trip to Michael’s, where I will wander about staring blankly at decorative ribbon, styrofoam, felt, glitter, fake evergreens and holly. In the end, I will spend $45+ dollars to come home and make a mess. I know this because it’s an annual event, and as you may have noticed, you are not viewing any pictures of anything I made. That would be because nothing exists. I might as well go to Michael’s and pay the guy at the floral desk $45 dollars to mock me. The end result would be the same but my fingers wouldn’t be glued together.   

Wish me luck on my creative adventure. If nothing else, maybe someday, when one of the boys is playing with his son or daughter on the rug they “inherited” from us, they will find a tiny sequin superglued to a bit of fringe and say, “Hey! I remember this! This is from that year Ann tried to make homemade ornaments! Man, could she cuss!”