Will you let me take our picture?
“Will you let me take our picture?”
“Sure? What should I do?”
“Just hold my hand.”
My head is a jumbled mess. I’ve been reading some amazing writing* online. Which is a blessing and a relief. Good writing always is. But it also reminds me that I’ve not been writing on this blog, not really.
To my mind, blogging and writing are different things. They often converge and that’s lovely. But not always. Me putting up a picture with a few words below it is blogging, barely. I wouldn’t call it writing. Â You might not agree with the distinction, but I’m loath to use language like “real” or “good” or heaven forbid, “literary” to describe the difference. Wait, wait, you’ll know (real) writing when you read it? I’m not sure that’s even true with Porn, so um, no on writing. You can see how I’m consoling myself, right?
Traipsing through my archives might make the point better. I’m not observing anymore. Let’s face it, every new blogger has a tank full of observations just waiting to get out. Crawling to the surface, it’s blood lust, to put the words on paper. But eventually, you run out of a steady stream of lovely turns of phrases and witty antidotes about standing in the grocery line at Whole Foods. Your three year old grows up. You sleep again, the words no longer playing bouncy house in your subconscious.
A gray scale start to spring. . .
I feel like I’m sneaking back into the room, walk of shame style. Shimmying into my skirt and patting my hair down. Not that I’d know anything about that except what I’ve seen on television. I haven’t exactly been present on this blog for the past few weeks. I’ve been, um, busy.
And life has been particularly distracting as of late. It’s hard to get motivated (much less photograph anything) in this perma gray. Plus the state of our house is always a constant distraction. There’s lots going on, most of it good in the “this is getting resolved” sort of way—but nothing I want to write about. Honestly, I’m anxiously awaiting the “let’s fix this mess” part of the program. Â Writing about paint colors is so much more interesting than writing about signing legal documents.
But we have to slog through the legal mire first. That takes time and resources and energy. Energy I’d rather put elsewhere; and it leaves me with nothing but whiney posts I refuse to write. Or posts that I can’t write.
Not that it’s all bad. Some of life is ridiculously good. Really good. . . (she says with an *arched * eyebrow). But I’ve been informed by IZ that there are lines I shouldn’t cross. Â And while it’s really fun to watch him turn six shades of red and squirm, “You CAN’T Blog that!” in truth, I probably wouldn’t anyhow. Â So this is me, walking up to the line and smiling.
No, what this blog needs is a little forced sunshine. Some flowers. Some chocolate. Some romance, or at least a few paint chips. It needs Spring to show up already! Â And while I can’t promise any of that will arrive in the next few days, I can promise to work on it. You know, when I’m not so busy.*
Beef and cabbage and probably a beer.
Happy St. Patrick’s Day!
The holiday wouldn’t be complete without a little Beef and Cabbage. . . though, not Corned Beef because I just can’t bring myself to eat it. And interestingly enough, it’s not really an Irish tradition. Â So, I rolled up my sleeves and spent the afternoon making hand pies instead.
This is actually a German recipe called Bierocks. Â However, just about every culture seems to want to claim beef and cabbage! Since it’s St. Patrick’s Day, we won’t tell anyone and just go with it!
I’ve had the recipe since I was a teenager, but it’s been years since I’ve made it. These were a staple in the early years of our marriage: being one of the few foods I walked down the aisle knowing how to make. There’s a bit of nostalgia involved — which is probably why IZ was so willing to pass on tradition this year! Clearly, I’m not that Irish—and trust me, if you read the foot notes this will seem the least of my transgressions.
These tasty pies are a time commitment, but well worth the effort. The recipe makes 24 pies and you can easily freeze the left-overs for later! Make sure you have some yummy mustard for dipping, and yes, they are amazing with a “pint”.
Hello Monday. We meet again.
It’s another Monday and I don’t really have a post. The flowers are pretty, no? IZ bought me roses and I plopped them in a vintage tin for Saturday night’s dinner because I’ve lost my floral foam. That’s confusing? Let me explain. You see, I had a bag of paints and floral foam that magically disappeared in the midst of the construction chaos. Floral foam, meant I could have put the flowers in a vintage ceramic piece, but since I couldn’t find it, I used a tea tin instead. Because glass vases are, glass vases.
You’re wishing you hadn’t asked.
I told you I didn’t have a post.
But for the record, vintage tea tins are not typically water proof. Learned that the hard way. Good thing my table is glass topped. Anyhow, if you use one as a vase, line it in a bit of plastic. I like zip lock bags. I just cut it to size and line the tin before filling with water.
As for dinner, I earned all those carbs (IZ made Linguini with bologneseÂ sauce) cleaning this house. Can I tell Â you how hard it is to actually do that when your house is a construction mess? But I did. Most of the week, in fact. Â Much to my shame, unfinished spaces don’t lend themselves to cleaning. So, I spent all day Saturday fixing what I could fix and generally disinfecting the place. IZ relented and put the door knobs on all the interior doors (work left undone by people with tool belts) I didn’t bother to rehang the art, but then we have to paint soon anyhow. And then I just took a deep breath and let our friends in—despite the fact none of the interior doors to the kitchen are actually finished and my carpets are destroyed.
Fortunately, our guests are good sports and focused on what was done and beautiful and had the good tact to pretend they didn’t see the rest. I think we’ll keep them.
So this is another Monday post. I don’t know if I’ll be here tomorrow considering the day. But I’m guessing Wednesday should be an earful. Until then, go plop some roses in a tea tin and greet the week.
Finally. I’ve been lying about my age since my early 30′s. People would ask and I would reply, “Oh, I’m 42.” Â Lying up works, friends. It typically took a few minutes before people would realize that I was exaggerating. Some actually believed the ruse: “You look amazing for 42.” Yes, yes I did.
But all my fibbing has finally caught up to me. 42. Â This is me today. Basically unvarnished, save for a touch of mascara. I especially love the state of my hair in this photo, because those flyaways are with me always. This is how I really look. I’m rocking the thrift store plaid and yes, that’s cleavage. (the only upside to being 30 odd lbs over weight). Glamourous? No. Sexy? Hells yeah. I feel sexy because I’m discovering that sexy is a state of mind. I’m choosing it. (I think you should choose it too, because you can, you know!)
Here’s the thing, I’m not without faults. I do want to drop some lbs. I did it last year and then was undone by my grief over this house. So, I’d like to reclaim that victory. My skin isn’t what it used to be, but that’s just a really good excuse to splurge on moisturizer and pamper myself more. Â And let’s face it, I creak when I walk and I have a closet full of pretty shoes I’ll never wear again. However, other than the usual complaints (Um, what, food allergies?!?) I’m happy with me. Comfortable in my own skin. Â The stuff I need to work on is just that, not the definition of who I am. And certainly not the only description of me!
So, if you ask me how old I am, I’ll own up to it today. I’m 42. Which seems like a perfect number.