I Love Me My Ho's

If there is one thing I am able to talk about in terms of this Year's Olympics, it would be the sponsorship. I know, it's shameful. I like to participate in sports, I like going to sports, but if you ask me to sit down and watch them on tv, I have next to no interest. Even the Olympics. This might further an argument that I am a little self centered. Might not. I digress.

Mr Incredible finally convinced me to sit down with him and the girls one afternoon to watch The Games. Women's Curling was on. I don't want to take this opportunity to start poking fun at Curling, because I actually am very curious to learn more about it (such as do they have to be in good shape to participate like most other sports? I've never seen a fat curler. Do the brooms help the direction or speed of the stone? (I do know it's a 42 pound rock that they're sliding) Do the players start at a young age? Or is it a drinking game gone bad?) But Curling was on. And they kept doing replays of the moves (plays? strategies?)

My eyes wandered around the screen desperately searching for something that could keep my attention to keep this 'family time' exciting. That is when I laid eyes on Tim Hortons stretched across the ice, the boards, the flags, everywhere. Now we're talking.

Hutch reminded me that not everyone in the grand land of the USofA knows of Tim Hortons. Let's put it this way, Dunkin Donuts is a travesty of fast food coffee shops. I'm sure that those of you who do not like coffee don't like it because you tried DD. I don't care what Rachael Ray is all jacked up on, Dunkin Donuts is sick and it tastes like cigarette ashes fell in your cup of jo. And the workers act like cigarette ashes just fell in your cup of jo. (Actually one time my friend literally had a bite taken out of her sandwich at DD. She got a $5 coupon good for her next visit. That's the best you could offer, DD?)

Their bagels are good (1 point), donuts have mucho room for improvement (but I'll sacrificially eat them), and their Southwestern egg white flatbread sandwiches- yuck. And they give free coffees on Wednesdays sometimes. (2 points). But I'm not here to talk DD. I'm here to talk about my life, my love, my motivation called Tim Freakin Hortons. Otherwise know as Timmy Ho's, Tim's, and when I was little and couldn't read cursive I thought it was Tim Hontons. Not a chinese food place.

Tim's holds my childhood. It's like the little travelocity guy on the Amazing Race. Tim Horton's is with me all the time. Thru thick and thin. We'd go there after mass on Sundays growing up. When my friend and I "borrowed" my parents' car when we were 15 (to meet Joey from Full House) we picked up Tims first. My breakups through high school. Always a good rendezvous destination. My first date with Mr Incredible (I paid for myself and no I do not let him live that down). Where I met "Larry beaver tail" the homeless man with matted hair that is literally down to his ankles. (he wears my dad's coat and boots.) (he always sits in the same spot.) (he smells kinda bad) (he's not homeless because he's poor- he's a Vietnam Vet and his parents are millionaires in Buffalo.) (I learned that 1,000 bought sandwiches and coffees too late.) (Larry I want my sandwiches back.)

Blah blah blah nostalgia. Let's talk food. Angel cream donuts. My all time ALL TIME favorite. I don't know what those of you call them that a) go to DD b) don't live on an American-Canadian border, but they're those donuts that have chocolate on top and the best damned white cream in the middle that is so sweet that my teeth literally ache when I eat them. (The dentist says I have no cavities- it's that sweet.) Then there are the Timbits. I think YOU yes YOU call them nuggets or munchkins or something, but basically they are those little donuts. My favorite is the Sour Cream Glazed. To die.

Most people order their coffees "single single," "double double," or "triple triple." Sugar to cream ratio. Then there are those (my family) that scream into the drive thru monitor, "I'LL HAVE A REGULAR COFFEE WITH LOTS OF TWO PERCENT MILK." Play it cool and stick to the ratio rule.

Their bagels are terrible (-1), donuts O material, sandwiches are delish, chicken stew in a bread bowl (+24). And maybe the workers act like cigarette ashes just fell in your drink. Good news is the coffee doesn't taste like it. Their coffee, omg their coffee. I'm not going to try to describe coffee to you, because that's just lame. But if you're ever passing Tim Horton's really, you should give a try. You can virtually flog me if I'm wrong.

...

Every fiber of my being wants to keep talking about Timmy's. I know I should not. Just try it, for Pete's sake. (They sponsor little kids hockey and they are called the "timbits" and every year they have Roll Up the Rim to Win and you roll up the rim of your cup and you almost always win something whether it's a donut or a car or cash and the workers have terrible uniforms but they're like soo funny I'm like hey, worker! and she's like welcome to Tim Hortons how can I help you? Will that be all? and I'm like, you're sooo nice)

{smoothing my hair and walking away}

Thank you, Kiera of Imperfect Daisies!!! Now, off to see if Phoenix/Scottsdale/Tempe has one of these. There's a DD right across the street from our hotel, but you obviously don't drink their kool-aid...so I'm off to search for the real thing. xoxo

My Pick for Time's Person of the Year

....is totally Y'ALL!! You know how sometimes you feel illogically and unreasonably peaceful? Especially on a day that you should be popping Xanax and washing it down with a gin and tonic? Yeah, that's how I felt Monday. Calm. At peace. I mean, don't get me wrong...I'd see a baby or a pregnant woman and seize up for about .7 seconds. But really, in the grand scheme of things, that is a HUGE step forward. Do I expect it to be all daisy picking and frolicking in the field from here on out? Uh, no. I'm a realist...if not a glass half-empty kinda girl. But I felt your thoughts and your prayers (and actually continue to feel them) and that has been the difference between me laying in the bed watching Olympic coverage all day and actually getting in this zippy little Mustang the rental agency gave me and exploring Phoenix. The power of prayer is awesome and often understated. So...to my readers, my prayer warriors, my kind thought queens: you are the wind beneath my wings. You better click out of here now before I start singing The Rose...which is bound to happen. Next up: Kiera of Imperfect Daisies (speaking of which) with a lovely little public service announcement for a delish little coffee joint (or so I've heard. We Kentuckians don't get this creature comfort). Kiera writes exactly as she speaks (or so I imagine) and really it makes for the most entertaining reading. You can almost turn to her and comment back...she's like right there...in your office (or your living room, or sitting on the toilet...wherever you do your best blogging). She has graciously agreed to give me a little guest post so that I can do some gemstone shopping in the city that is home to a place called Bead World. If I leave now, I can be there about 15 minutes before they open so that I can get the full 8 hours. Enjoy Kiera and leave her some love!

On Being Mommy and Daddy

I am usually so good about sitting down and jotting out a little poem...I have millions of them from high school (all that teenage angst and all. I counted once...my world ended approximately 463 times. And that was just my freshman year.). But I've got brain block. All I can come up with is "You were just two thin blue lines"...and then...crickets. And a bullfrog. I think when I get past today, it will come. Probably while I'm standing in line at KMart and I will have to scribble it furiously on the back of a People. Oh...who am I kidding? I don't shop at KMart. But definitely Trader Joe's. And then it will be all over some biodegradable pulp-less receipt, which will disintegrate before I even get out of the parking lot. But it's not here now and that's what matters. So, I'm going to borrow from a stranger because he seems to kind of get it. And it's a he. The he's never get it. And the record of our son's delivery on September 15th, exactly one week after my 31st birthday. Exactly one week after that is our wedding anniversary. September has suddenly become a very bi-polar month for me.

I can't even tell you how badly I've missed blogging, reading blogs, blog-surfing and commenting on blogs. This week was crazy because of all the jewelry sales...which should not in any way sound like a complaint. But writing is like oxygen for me and it feels like I've stayed under water just a little too long. So, tomorrow night it's back to business as usual. And blogging as usual. I have to tell you, I've been saving up some gems...there is a 911 operator out there who thinks I'm off my Cracker Barrel rocker and I can't write down the Neal-isms fast enough. If he doesn't want to be a featured character in this blog, he sure doesn't act like it. He's got diva written all over him. All he's missing is the tiara. Well, and the hair to hold on the tiara. Also? Guest post coming on Wednesday! Hold on to your days-of-the-week underwear! So, back to our regularly scheduled tales from the fark side and harrassment...er...commenting tomorrow! And now...a message to our son...

"Little One"
by Gary Winters

We had wanted you for so very long,
Or so it must have seemed at times.
Now we know we'll have forever,
To keep you in our minds.

On that joyful day when we learned
That you were on your way,
We opened our home and hearts,
And planned for a permanent stay.

We never saw your smile.
We never held your hand.
You never had your birthday.
How can we understand?

To hear you laugh, to dry your tear
To share your life each day
To see the wonder in your eyes
As you find your rightful way.

We're told we should forget you,
"You'll have another someday,"
Don't they see the pain we feel,
Is bruised by what they say?

We never saw your smile.
We never held your hand.
You never had your birthday.
Someday we'll understand.

Nolan Shepherd
End of May - September 15, 2010

You will always be loved and missed, but we will see you again someday. Until then, Papa and Granny - please take care of him for us.

Love, Ally and Neal

Sometimes

Sometimes things are not funny. And sometimes days are much harder than you thought they were going to be. Sometimes you think you're fine...and then you're not. Sometimes no amount of boxed wine or sweat on the spinning bikes or shopping at Kohl's will make it any better. Sometimes you just have to spin around and face it head-on. Sometimes you have to take it like a man. Sometimes you have to feel it like a woman.

This is one of those times. Monday is my due date. In my quest to block it from my mind entirely, I've been stringing beads and creating rosaries and drowning in Olympic coverage. I haven't been blogging and sad to say, I haven't been reading your blogs, either. I miss them profusely and as soon as these pieces go in the mail tomorrow and we welcome home 5 heroes from Afghanistan, I'm back to stalking you. As a heads-up, I'm posting Shepherd's record of delivery on Monday. I feel like if I let the day pass without any mention, it would be unfair to his memory.

It has his tiny little footprints on it.

Monday is not for the faint-of-heart.

You've been warned.

Until then, please enjoy a rosary I created for Deborah's Place, an organization that provides transitional and permanent housing to homeless women in the Chicago area. It will be auctioned off in a few weeks with all proceeds benefiting Deborah's Place.

Photo Credit: Tinny Anna Photography

And to the 3 women who've deleted their blogs in the past month...I miss you like John Edwards' mistress missed her period. I understand it...but it still sucks.

I'll be back in full blogging form after the 22nd. Sometimes work is all that will save you. And love. But love won't wear my pendant necklaces to Kroger. He said they draw too much attention to his chest hair. So, I'll work and sell and watch Americans in funny pants skatebump their way down a big hill. And I'll be reading you. So, don't talk about me.

Curling: Not Just For Irons Anymore

I am about to be overcome with ring fever. Specifically? Olympic ring fever. Ever since Michael Phelps and his mom (AKA Michael Weston's mom), I've been anxiously anticipating tomorrow. Something about team spirit (not to be confused with Teen Spirit, which smells much worse than Mr. Phelps' mildewed Speedo, rotting in a locker) and medals made of gold and hearing our national anthem over and over again. I'm especially fond of the Winter Olympics because where else can you see grown men with push-brooms furiously polishing ice and belting out "heh", "ha" and "hoh"? It's an American past-time.

OK, actually...it's not...but it should be. It should be one of those sports that kids who grew up in Queens talk about all the time. Like dice. Not like gang-banging. To me, it's frozen bocce ball and it deserves respect and love, just like the luge or the biathlon.

Because I've got the Olympic vapors, I have scored some new-found Winter Olympic wisdom, which I will share with you (and if you don't believe me, check Wikipedia. Very simple...unlike my fact-checking missions for the manure that Neal spreads around here so thickly. I'm sorry, I just have a hard time believing that the rotation of the earth determined our 7-day week. But thanks for trying.)

1. The event we now know as biathlon was originally called the military patrol. Not sure what the winter biathlon is? It's cross-country skiing paired with rifle shooting. Personally, I think you can only appropriately train for this sport in Canada...where you can ski for days and then shoot into the air without any danger of committing homicide. Those NYC boys? SOL.

2. The 5 Olympic rings represent the 5 major regions of the world: the Americas, Africa, Asia, Europe, and Oceana. I'm not sure where Oceana is...I've always thought that was one of the Titanic's sister-ships. Also, Australia? You should be pissed.

3. The Olympic Charter defines winter sports as "sports which are practised (yes, spell check...I realize that's incorrect. Those of us living in the colonies simply insist on giving "c" the soft "s" sound) on snow or ice." On a related note, no country in the southern hemisphere has ever hosted a Winter Olympics. I would assume it has something to do with bullet point 1.

4. The 1900 Paris Games remains the only Olympics where no medals were awarded. Instead, winners were given valuable pieces of art...which further proves my theory that you can't trust the French. How many "gold medalists" own The Last Supper with an extra apostle?

5. Speaking of "where in the hell do you practice that sport??"...it's been 22 years since the Jamaican bobsled team made its debut. If that doesn't make you want to add Cool Runnings to your Netflix queue, you're clearly uninterested in the Winter Games.

Opening Ceremonies start tomorrow night at 7:30 PM. I simply cannot think of a better way to kick off Champagne Friday than with this:

Mad TV Totally Called It

I am currently piecing together an argument for why, contrary to a calendar-maker's opinion, the week actually starts on Monday. My husband is a heathen and apparently skipped the whole chapter where it said "And God rested on the 7th day." Sunday. There are 7 days to a week and God rested on the last one, the Sabbath, which...according to everyone except the Jehovah's Witnesses (and I think the Jewish folk) is SUNDAY. I'm not even sure how the discussion started this morning since he is usually walking out the door just as my feet hit the floor. But somehow, there was extra time this morning to debate lunar years and Biblical facts. Anyway, he has decided to go all Beaker on me and argue the tilt of the sun, the rotation of earth, and why Sunday is the new Monday. So, I need a little more time to build my argument because this is one I'd hate to lose. (After all, every photo calendar I've ever given starts on a Monday. I will give you gifts, but they will abide by my personal lunar laws). I will bring it to the jury (yes, you) to decide when I'm ready.

Until then, please enjoy this uber-short sketch from Mad TV. This came out a couple of years ago...well before Apple's newest attempt to become masters of the universe. That Girl Blogs mentioned the ridiculousness of the iPad name last month, but Neal actually brought this particular skit to my attention over the weekend (ahem...weekEND, encompassing Saturday and Sunday...huh..). Apparently, Steve Jobs' hormonal imbalance has caused him to think so much about hormones that now he's naming products after other products, which are made necessary by hormones. Ahh...how I do love a nice slice of irony pie with my daily cup of joe*.



*I know I said I would be better about calling Neal out on here but I just have to mention...he asked me who Joe Biden was the other day. I mean, CNN plays in the background of his office for 7.5 straight hours, 5 days a week. His wife, the CNN junkie, covers the other 16.5. REALLY?? When I clued him in, he said "Oh, Joe's his first name?" I guess he missed the VP debates when Mrs. Palin leaned over and whispershouted "Can I just call you Joe?"

Rolling Out the Red Carpets

Things have been so busy around Daisy & Elm, that I haven't even had a chance to make myself something beautiful for the occasion. So...I'll just borrow this necklace and earrings set.
And perhaps also...her crease-less neck and smooth, flawless skin. Not the protruding clavicles, though. Somebody please get this girl a beignet...with the powdered sugar.

Alrighty...now that I'm properly attired (yes, just the pearls...because that's how we roll around here, clothed only in pearls and charm)...on with the awards! I think I've received 2 that I haven't posted. If I've inadvertently left yours off, please feel free to publicly flog me in the comments section. I totally deserve it.

Numero uno came from my girl, Salt @ Salt Says. How's that wedding anxiety, Salt? She's getting married. Like really soon. And then...she'll be one of us. I'll let you in on a little post-wedding secret, Salt. It's not all long, meaningful gazes and hand-holding in the grocery store. One day, the two of you will go out to eat, only to realize that you have nothing to discuss over your spaghetti carbonara. And there you'll sit, chewing in the symphony of everyone else's conversations. That's when you'll realize that to-go is always better because at home, there's Netflix, the Wii, and the DVR. But it's all OK because really...home-dining is the new Asia de Cuba. Salt has a G.L.O.B award...Gorgeous Ladies of Blogging. But when you put it like that, I feel sort of bloated and slovenly...not really all that gorgeous. However, I shall not question her methods, merely pass it on in all of its glory.
Rebecca @ The Reluctant Homefront (YAY for blogging Army wives!!)
Blissed Out Grandma (YAY for being blissed out. Although I have a feeling it has something to do with being the grandparent instead of the parent.)
Micah@ The Yellow Front Door (YAY for having a wickedly creative side and for not being afraid to use power tools!)
Lisa @ Pickles and Cheese (YAY for having more energy than a chihuahua on Red Bull with a double espresso chaser AND for introducing me to the Ballard Designs catalog.)

Micah...meet Lisa. Lisa...meet Micah. If you are not bloggy friend already, you totally should be. You would get along fabulously...like Rachel Ray and Bobby Flay.

Next up was this beauty from Kelly @ Dare to be Domestic. She cracks me up. I blame her for the Cheerio residue on my keyboard after reading about her dream Powder Puff team. Plus, she stalks celebrity babies.
Rules:
1. List 6 things you're a master in.
2. Pass it on to 6 other bloggers who are masters in friendship and make blogging so awesome.

HookerwhoreKelly has already listed her skills as a masterdebater...beyotch...so I will have to have draw from my other expertise.
1. Master of the Crock Pot. Go ahead and mock me. When the rest of you all are scurrying around like squirrels after the first snowstorm, trying to pull a meal together, mine is simmering and I'm on my 2nd cocktail.
2. Master of the Target Clearance Rack. Yes, that eggplant fishnet tank is marked down to $2.59, but you put it back because you don't have pants to match. That's fine. I will gladly purchase your sloppy seconds at 90% off, pair it with a leather mini, and then use the other $30 to buy fleece socks and PJs with monkeys on them.
3. Master of the Mustang. When you buy your dad's 1996 Mustang convertible (read: baby), there are some parts and pieces that are bound to break (or disintegrate, as the case may be). You will learn how to repair hoses, gaskets and seals...or you will go poor at the hands of a Ford dealership.
4. Master of the iPod Touch. Mama Virgo owes me about $2594 in technical support fees for all of the hours I've spent trying to figure out what the hell she did to it this time. That's OK, though...I'm sure that sometime later in life, it will be important for me to know that if you just hold your index finger on the home screen, all the apps will jiggle and X's will appear next to them. That will be useful knowledge...right???
5. Master of the Mimosa. Well, if I weren't, this whole blog would be a sham. I do not exactly consider myself the Magnolia Whisperer...but we do have a very lovely one growing in the front yard. Neal says it's thriving due to cross-pollination from the neighbor's across the street. I say that I need hip waders to climb out of all the crap Neal pours on me.
6. Master Mower. Yes, it's a fact that I got so mad last summer, I accidentally mowed in perfectly diagonal lines. This summer, I plan on re-joining and then re-quitting Urban Active just so I can achieve the raw fury needed for a checkerboard pattern.

And now on to my master bloggers. Pay them a visit. Give a little love. But not too much...this isn't that kind of blog...

Eternally Distracted
Kiera @ Imperfect Daisies
Noelle @ Elastic Waistbands and Comfortable Shoes
Jess @ Cape Cod Awesome
Shandal @ My Life in 3D
Kiran @ Masala Chica

Well, there you have it...cue music and sparkling conversation. You don't have to go home but you can't stay here. And I have to be productive. Due to the 4 inches of snow overnight and the raining ice right now, Neal has decided to work from home today. I have to look like I do things, not just read about other people doing things. You can keep a secret right?

Magneauxlias and Mimeauxsas

Just a quickie for now to post pics of last night's fun and the Saint's bling (fortunately, Kelly, I did not have to resort to a logo paper plate dangling from a string of Mardi Gras beads. Dodged a bullet there...) Later today (after the grocery shopping and the gym and a little bit of laundry) is the awards ceremony and pictures of my new and favorite snack food. I know, right...2 in 1 day...can I do it? Well y'all do it to me all the time. So absofreakinlutely. Stay tuned.

The finished product...an antique gold fleur-de-lis pendant, topped with a cluster of golden glass pearls (this was done on the cheap and the fly so...no, not Swarovski pearls) and then alternating glass pearls and jet black fire polished crystal spheres. They are wire-wrapped and attached to an antique gold chain. The second string of glass pearls is strung on tiger-tail. The piece is finished off with an antique gold lobster claw clap and a simple bow of black grosgrain ribbon.

Can you see the ribbon? It's back there. Never send an IT guy to do a jewelry designer's job.

Who dat? Me and the masked Saints crusader. Geaux team!

Neal's been drinking bourbon. I've been taking shots named after foods...the peanut butter and jelly shot, the chocolate cake shot...very difficult to decide which I like better. My special thanks to our host, Chris, and his fully stocked bar. Hey Chris: Liquor Barn called and they want their inventory back.

More to come...just later. Y'know...the glory of Maunday.

Love Tank is Full; Funny Tank is Runnin' on Fumes

In the past 3 days, I have discovered something interesting and especially obnoxious about myself. The more jewelry I create (and describe and post on Etsy), the more brain farts I have in the writing arena. Sort of like...I have X amount of funny, wit, and snark stored in the parietal lobe and when that's all gone...it's all "yo mama" and "talk to the hand" and "well....bite me." Good for business...bad for blog. It probably doesn't help that I'm watching Lock Up: Raw and listening to Kris Delmhorst while typing this. Yes, Alex...I'd Like ADHD Tendencies for $500, please. Oh, look...it's the Daily Double.

Anyway, in true junior-year-of-college fashion, I have 25 minutes to make good on a promise to post a recipe, 2 awards, and a short anecdote on Neal's version of trail mix. So..here we go...because in a lame attempt to chase off a headache, I drank a glass of wine and all that did was make me wish I was more horizontal right now. And not in a slutty way. In a biteguard-in, lights-out kind of way.

The One Thing That Will Make a PMS'ing Girl Spend Her Last $5 on Chips Instead of Tampons:

Chocolate-Dipped Ruffles
with special thanks to the Real Simple Magazine. Aside from comforting me about my OCD habits (so glad I'm not the only all-spices-face-North-freak in your readership) on a monthly basis, your magazine has provided me with this recipe AND the best fake-it-don't-make-it blackberry cobbler recipe EVER.

2 ingredients. If you can't handle that, you should not be allowed to even have access to a kitchen. You should be cooking your snacks over an open flame, sitting on the edge of your toilet (thank you, Lock Up: Raw, this is invaluable knowledge).

1. Family-size bag Ruffles (go ahead and get 2 because we all know the top 2/3 of the bag is full of air and corporate greed).
2. A bag (or 4) of chocolate chips (I spring for the Ghiradelli dark chocolate chips because of the antioxidants. And because life is too short to eat generic, off-color chocolate. I will buy Kroger-brand Nyquil, I will not buy Kroger-brand chocolate.)

Directions:
1. Melt chocolate in a container in the microwave. (I'm sure you should be using a double-boiler or something fancy and fireproof, but I have a glass storage container that works perfectly. Plus, if you run out of chips before you run out of chocolate, you put the airtight lid on and save it for an encore...preferably for breakfast.)
2. Dip the Ruffle chip in the molten chocolate and place it on a piece of wax paper.
3. Store in the freezer for about an hour (the cryogenic process improves the crunch factor and keeps you from burning all of the important taste buds off. But if an hour is too long to way, I shall not judge).
4. Eat with pure abandon as you re-watch Steel Magnolias and cry when Shelby dies. Again.

Enjoy.*
*But in moderation. And by moderation, I mean in the way that Baptists enjoy wine...not in the way Catholics enjoy wine. If you live on these for 2 weeks after 30 grueling days of P90X, I am not to be blamed. You've been warned.

Last Saturday, Snowmageddon arrived in Bluegrass Country (although it seems Mother Nature saved her true bitchy burst for Salt, The Anti-Journalist, and The Scholastic Scribe. Sorry about that, girls. Here's hoping you don't lose anything important...like your car....in the aftermath of Arctic El Nino). It snowed about 6 inches, according to our incredibly scientific method of sticking a ruler in the middle of our yard. I sat at home all day and dreamed, sketched, and planned the perfect snowman. When Neal returned home from playing Army, I announced that I was off to fashion a Frosty. I gathered the necessary accessories and donned every waffle weave and goose-down garment I own. I hadn't built a snowman since 7th grade. Snow sculpture urges had been accumulating in my blood for many years now. Time to let out the beast.

Until Neal picked up a handful and said, as it ran effortlessly through his fingers, you can't build anything with this. Too dry. We could hose it down. And then visions of dragging out all 20 feet of garden hose just to wet half of the yard, prepping it for the perfect snowman, flashed through my mind. Um...no. Let's just go for a walk instead. Neal agreed and disappeared inside for...well...awhile. It was so long that I thought about going in to get him, but then decided that if it was a last-minute bathroom run, I didn't want to walk in on that. So, I waited. And waited a little more. And thought about making snow angels. But then decided that I liked my underwear exactly as it was. Dry. Finally, he emerged and off we went.

We have a 4-mile loop that we walk a lot in the summer. About 2 miles in, Neal turned to me and said, Do you want something to drink?
Oh yes, please. (No water all day makes Ally a thirsty snow hiker).
And then he whipped out the flask. With bourbon. On a walk. A leisurely walk. Through the middle of the neighborhood. The neighborhood that doubles as an advertisement for Honda mini-vans and the importance of competitive swimming in building a child's self-esteem. So, what to do? Yes, drink of course. It burns...oh it burns...all the way down. Ring o' fire.

I need a chaser....I don't do straight bourbon, remember?
To which he pulled out a bag of chocolate-covered coffee beans...a holdover from his stocking, 2 Christmases ago. So, through the family-friendly neighborhood we went, swigging bourbon and noshing on coffee beans. Because really...what's more American than that?

OK...awards...I have 2. I'll post them tomorrow. It's after midnight, Cinderella...and I still need to brush teeth and find a non-intrusive way of getting the words "I got soul, but I'm not soldier" out of my head. And I think this is over 500 words. I will also post my Who Dat necklace. My team allegiance lies in what Michael's had in stock. Fleur-de-lis(es?) abound in that place. Horseshoes? A little harder to find. In the Derby state. Go figure. Secretariat is rolling over in his horsey grave right now.

It Can't All Be Blogging From Bed

Sometimes, you have to go to work. Like this week, for example. I can't claim "snowed in"...I could walk out to the mailbox in my socks and still have dry piggies when I return. The unit newsletter has gone out to all the unit families, another FRG item checked off the list (hooah, hooah). And it is quickly approaching April 15th (OK maybe not quickly but when you have to itemize because that's what business owners do...April 15th is basically tomorrow. Yes, Jess of Cape Cod Awesome fame, we're going to get through this together). So, I have to go to work.

I do realize that my neighbors think that my day consists of checking the mail, walking the cats, and fleeing from the house in spandex, only to return hours later with Kohl's bags...but there is much more to it. Really.

Daisy & Elm, LLC will not run itself. In fact, without me, it's just a business license and an occupancy permit signed by my first ex-fiance (this would have never happened if I lived somewhere with more than 5000 people and 200 goats).

So, hi-ho, hi-ho it's off to work I go (which reminds me of another little ditty about the Chi-O's...but I'll save that for another time). I've got my Facebook fan page up and there are tons of crafted goodies all waiting for their chance on the stage (AKA the EZcube. I'm not sure WHY we paid an exorbitant amount of money for a big white nylon tent in the shape of a box...but the jewels sure seem to love it). There are photos to post, descriptions to write and accessories to price. I am in my element (which I suddenly realized with intense clarity last night as I was itemizing receipts from the last J-O-B). I want to be in my bed, under the electric blanket, watching Murder, She Wrote on streaming Netflix, and reading/writing blog posts. BUT...I also want to be a famous designer who creates pieces for the everyday woman...sort of like Claire's for anyone over the age of 19.

And yes...in my tween years, I spent a lot of money at Claire's. I didn't even make it out of the mall before ripping price tags off and donning the newly acquired baubles and beads. My mother thought this was hilarious. Look who's laughing now. I am. All the way to the bank.

I have an award to pick up at Kelly's @ Dare to be Domestic (and it involves mastery of skills. She's such a whore. She's already listed her master debater skills. Tbbbhhh!!). So, I promise to pick it up and pass it on Saturday. Swearsies.

And I will be catching up on your musings tonight. Last week, I voluntarily banned the laptop from the bedroom because...well...it sort of infringed upon our Biblical relations. I mean, I don't have a headache, but I do have bloggers with rants about triathalon trainings and tales of janitors gone bad and videos of husbands Wii-dancing. It's difficult to put down. I blame you. You're very compelling. But I'm letting you back in tonight so I can get all caught up. And then back to regular posting this weekend. I'm just on the verge of greatness...gotta grab those reins and ride it like Pamela Anderson. Know what I'm sayin'? Wanna see some funsies? Here's my Wordless Wednesday photos. Sorry it wasn't wordless.

Strawberry Bubblegum

Penny Blues

Butterscotch's Calla Lily

Custom rosaries with birthstones

Saturday will bring an awards ceremony, a recipe for my new favorite food (which is a PMS'ing girl's wet dream), and what Neal whipped out on our walk through the neighborhood (sorry, Surferwife...it does not involve screaming parents or curious children).