Moving On Up … But Not To The Eastside, Just To www.mysemitruestory.com

After two and a half years on blogger.com, I've decided to pack up my quirkiness and non-award winning photographs. I'm moving on to a new website, www.mysemitruestory.com, and I hope you'll make the move with me.

My entire blog (except for this post) has been moved over. Everything, right down to the photo of the horse sticking his tongue out at me (wouldn't want you to miss my Art).

A majority of the work on the new website is done, but there is still some polishing that I need to do. That is what I'm will spend the next few days doing. Thanks for stopping by, reading and commenting on my blog. I appreciate it more than you will ever know.

Feel free to pop on over to www.mysemitruestory.com and check out my new digs!


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Florida … Um … Art?

As you all have surmised by this point in our relationship, I dig me some Art. Painting, sculpture, photography, music, plays I don't care. I like 'em all. Photography is my current favorite and the one at which I kinda, sorta have the most skill, but I find merit in all types of Art.

While in Florida a couple of weeks ago, I had the opportunity to take some photos that I think are kind of arty.

I love the beach. I really do. It speaks to me.

That's the thing about Art. It's entirely in the eye of the beholder. What makes my skirt fly up might make another person gag and vice versa. Art is up to the individual.

That being said, will someone please explain to me the artistic merit of this painting that hung in the dining room of our condo?

I just don't get it.


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It's a Plane! No, Wait. It's A … Bird?

While on vacation, my family and I saw the Blue Angels practice a total of two times. We watched the first practice from the Navy Base where I may or may not have entertained a Top Gun fantasy. The second practice we watched from across the Pensacola Bay. It was most impressive.

Since I'd already seen the Blue Angels practice once, I felt confident in my knowledge of this elite flight squadron. I knew the history, the maneuvers, and specifics about the planes. I could have taught a class with all of my knowledge.

No. Not really.

But I thought I could, at the very least, tell the difference between an F/A-18 Hornet and pelican. Turns out, I can not tell the difference between a plane and a bird. And to be completely honest, I confused the two on more than one occasion.

The first time I mistook a pelican for a plane was about six minutes before the practice even started. Something quite majestic arose on the horizon and I excitedly pointed and yelled "Look! It's a plane! Practice is starting!" only to be informed by my 20/15 visioned husband that I was, in fact, mistaken. My plane was a pelican.

See if you can tell which are birds and which are planes in this photo:

Here is a hint:

It's uncanny how much a flock of birds looks like a flock of airplanes, am I right?

Sometimes a single bird can look suspiciously like a rogue plane.

It happened more than once.

Once I figured out how to tell the difference between a bird and a plane I sat back, relaxed and enjoyed the rest of practice.

Hard to believe these guys do this stuff at 400 miles per hour.

And then you realize that some of them do this upside down. To quote TV's Joey Lawrence, "Whoa!".

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Pensacola's Giant Wheel Of Excellence

Behold. Pensacola by day:

Ah … she's a lovely little beach, no?

Behold. Pensacola by night:

See the Ferris wheel? Looks like a good time, right? I coerced my family into riding it with me one evening. While on the ride, I discovered that nothing brings out a latent fear of heights like going on a large Ferris wheel.

To be fair, I shouldn't refer to it as a Ferris wheel. The term Ferris wheel invokes images of a carnival or a County Fair. This? Right here? Is no Ferris Wheel.

There were no swinging metal baskets in which to sit. There were no concern causing sputtery noises coming from a questionable motor. There were no carnies taking tickets and swinging shut your "safety" bar, all while making perfect arcs of spittle and chewing tobacco into the faded Folger's coffee can currently being used as a spittoon.

This, people, is a Giant Wheel of Excellence.

No, I'm not kidding. This Ferris wheel belongs to a breed known as "giant wheels" because they are (you guessed it) bigger than a traditional Ferris wheel. This one has fully enclosed, climate controlled gondolas in which to ride. Climate controlled. As in air conditioned or heated.

Holla.

And special "no glare" glass so as not to muss up your photos with weird reflections and such. As a person who likes to rip off a couple of hundred pictures of the view from atop the Giant Wheel of Excellence while her family completely spazzes out over the height, this detail appeals to me.

The Pensacola giant wheel even has … wait for it … a VIP gondola. A VIP gondola? Yep. A VIP gondola. What is included in this very impressive gondola, you ask? For one thing, it comes with four leather bucket seats.

(Which is four more than my Honda has.)

And a champaign bucket.

(My house does not even have a champaign bucket.)

(To be fair, we usually just grab a bottle from the fridge in the garage and pass it around. It's usually gone before it has a chance to warm up enough to require the use of a special chilling bucket.)

That, people, is a giant wheel of excellence.


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Moony Moony

Have you ever found yourself completely oblivious to what is behind you? You are so focused and intent on your task that you have no idea what is occurring in your wake. For example, you will be facing North and have no idea what kind of shenanigans are happening to the South. This phenomenon happens to me quite often.

(Shocking.)

Sometimes I do glance behind me and most of the time there is nothing of interest to see back there. But on occasion, I am absolutely floored by what has been behind me the whole time I've been so single-mindedly heading in one direction.

I had such an occasion last week. Behold.

The Moon. It was behind me the whole time I was busy trying to create a fabulous photo of a rather blah sunset. I had given up on my sunset photo out of sheer frustration that it lacked the ingredients to make a really great picture. When I turned around to leave, the moon was staring at me from amidst a funky blue and purple sky.

This photo might become one of my favorites. In fact, it will probably end up framed and hanging up in my Room O' Funk.


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It's Like Top Gun, Only Live

Last week was Spring Break for my family. Like last year, we packed up the Honda and headed down south to beautiful Pensacola, Florida.

Unlike last year's eighty-five degree weather, this year we froze our buns off. Okay, it wasn't literally freezing, but temperatures in the sixties and absurdly windy days make for a cold trip to Florida.

Since no one in my family wanted to die of exposure on the beach, we headed to the naval base to watch the Blue Angels practice. The Blue Angels are the Navy's flight demonstration squadron.

Translated: a group of six airplanes that do cool maneuvers at top speeds in the sky.

Now that I'm really thinking about it, it's kinda like Top Gun, only live. I like Top Gun. Top Gun makes me happy. I freely admit to thinking "Ooh, perhaps I will see Maverick and Goose … or at least Iceman and Hollywood here today. That would be pretty sweet."

(It should be noted that I did not see Maverick and Goose. Or Iceman and Hollywood.)

(Phooey.)

The Blue Angels are noted for their "diamond" formation in which all six planes are flying together to form a diamond shape.

These planes are zipping along at over four hundred miles per hour. Think about that. 400 mph. That's considerably faster than we drove on I-65 on our way to Florida.

The loops were pretty impressive. I've always wanted to try something like that, but not in a Honda on I-65.

As someone who finds it difficult to draw a straight line with a ruler, I found it mind blowing to see all five planes fly in a fairly straight, even line.

Towards the end of the practice, the Blue Angels did a signature move in which all six planes flew in a diamond formation with each plane peeling off until only one was left flying on the original path. I don't know if I was amidst a Top Gun fantasy or what, but I missed photographing the first plane leaving formation.

Sorry.

I did manage to pull myself together long enough to get the next couple planes leaving the formation.

Once leaving the diamond formation, I kinda lost track of the departing planes. Well, I lost track of the planes until they each did a very low and very loud flyby over the crowd.

I may or may not have simultaneously jumped, screamed and wet myself a little.

Well played Blue Angels. Well played.

Actually, it was a classic magicians trick: diverting attention from one thing on to another. In this case, drawing attention to this plane over here while diverting attention from the other planes. I should have known that those other planes were getting ready to do something naughty. Like make a slightly doughy, forty year old Midwestern mom wet herself.

The Blue Angels are absolutely incredible to see and I highly recommend that you see them sometime. The whole experience was pretty unique and fab.

Right down to the concession stand.

I do so love an establishment in which one has the choice of purchasing coffee, water, earplugs, or a danish. It's not everyday that one has the opportunity to buy earplugs from a food truck.


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My Thoughts On Throw Momma From The Train

I've been burning through my Must See List 2.0 lately. It's the end of March and I've already seen six of the twenty films listed.

(To quote Miss Alicia Keys "This girl is on fire." Thanks Alicia. Glad I could be a song writing inspiration to you.)

There are several probable reasons for my intense movie viewing marathon, but I think it's mostly due to two things: the still incredibly cold weather my area has been experiencing and the distinct lack of potentially disturbing movies on this year's list.

My 2012 List was chock full of disturbing stuff, from Silence of the Lambs (shudder) to Steve Martin's toe hair in The Jerk to West Side Story's gang fight that was a little too heavy on the jazz hands and pirouettes for my liking. By contrast, my 2013 List has been a breeze. A very non-disturbing breeze.

But then again, I've only been watching Harry Potter movies and The Princess Bride. Not a lot of disturbing stuff in movies geared for kids. Except for Goonies.

(Another movie I've never seen.)

(Scratch that. I've, like, totally seen Goonies. Heh heh. Seriously. Who hasn't seen that classic?)

Ahem. Moving on … I took a break from watching Harry Potter movies to tackle another film on my Must See 2.0 list: Throw Momma from the Train.

For those of you who haven't seen Throw Momma, it is the story of two men who want the ladies in their life (Larry's ex-wife and Owen's Momma) killed.

As I watched the opening sequence, I thought about why I'd never seen Throw Momma before now. It's a dark comedy and sometimes it takes me a while to warm up to dark comedies, but I've narrowed my aversion to Throw Momma down to one thing: Anne Ramsey. She played Momma and Momma is one scary looking lady. Check her out:

Egads. Someone hit her square in the face with the ugly stick, but only for this role. She's quite lovely outside of her Momma role.

And her voice? Oh my. There's nothing like it on Earth, especially when she's screeching "OWEN!!!" at top volume.

Oh Momma! You are such a complete and utter whack-a-doo. You are mean, snarky, demanding, demeaning, rude and unintentionally funny. And I love you.

The rest of the movie was kind of eh, but Momma was the best.

To recap: Watched Throw Momma from the Train and kinda liked it. I may have to watch it again to firmly make up my mind. For now, I give it a solid thumbs sideways.


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Windmill

For your Wednesday pleasure:

My first thought was to title this photo "Windmill". My second thought was a very sarcastic "Oooo, 'Windmill'. How original. Best. Title. Ever."

A better title exists (suggest one in the comments section if you wish), but I was in a hurry to share this photo with you, so for right now I'm sticking with "Windmill". Enjoy.


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It's Only March, But I Know What I'm Getting My Grandmother For Mother's Day

My Grandmother will be ninety-eight years old this coming June. She is wonderful, unique, full of sass and I adore spending time with her. She doesn't live close to me, so I don't get to see her as often as I would like. When I can't make it over to her house for a visit, I do the next best thing: call her to chat.

Calling my Grandmother is a dicey game that depends mostly on luck simply because the woman isn't home very often. On the rare occasion that she is home (like during inclement weather), Grandmother is outside doing yard work or stealing the neighbor's produce. She refuses to subscribe to the philosophy that phones don't necessarily have cords anymore and one can, in fact, take a cordless model out into one's backyard to tend to the flowers and thereby be reachable when one's granddaughter is calling.

(It's an old argument between us and one that I will never win.)

(I'm okay with this because, at 97.5 years old, you can do or not do whatever makes your skirt fly up.)

Several times over the years, I have quite literally called my Grandmother repeatedly, for days, before she picks up the phone. She's too busy out living. Over the years I've learned a few tricks to better the odds of actually getting her on the horn, like calling before 6 a.m. (but not on a Friday) or phoning during the aforementioned inclement weather (snow or a tremendous downpour).

I love to chat with my Grandmother on the phone, mainly because I never know in which direction our conversation will go. I was not disappointed with our latest conversation.

" … Gin-nay? Is that you?" asked my Grandmother.

I replied, "Yep, it's me."

Grandmother said, "You seem surprised to hear my voice, but you called me. Why are you surprised? Who else would answer my phone?"

"I'm surprised that I was able to get a hold of you on the first try. Usually it takes me a couple of days to catch you at home," I said.

My Grandmother patiently explained to me about why she was home on a Wednesday morning. "Well, it's cold and I don't want to go outside when it's cold. I don't drive long distances anymore and I don't drive after dark … it's like being in prison. What's there to do in prison but answer the telephone when it rings?"

"You could lift weights," I offered.

My Grandmother agreed. "Yep, I could. Hey. Why don't you come over today and we'll go to the mall and look for some weights. I've been thinking about it and I'd rather have a set of free weights instead of one of those machines."

Dear God. Picture that for a moment.

Grandmother admitted to watching Bowflex infomercials while waiting for Cupcake Wars to come on the TV.

As scary as it sounds, I think I know what I'm getting her for Mother's Day this year: free weights.


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Spring? Really? Pfft.

Today is March 20, the first day of Spring. Ah … Spring. It's the breath of fresh air that I need after a long cold winter. Spring weather makes you want to be outside after being indoors for so long. It is that pleasant time of year when the sun shines a bit more and the temperatures warm up a bit.

Mmm … warm. I like warm. In Spring, the temps go above the freezing point. In fact, they warm up enough to shed the winter coat in favor of a light jacket. I like warmer temps that don't cause a body to go "brr" and shake uncontrollably.

For you Math people: Spring = warmer temperatures. Warmer temps = happy me.

So Spring, what's up with this?

You read that correctly. The high for my area today is twenty-seven degrees.

Twenty. Seven. Degrees.

Seriously.

This does not amuse me. Spring should be warm. It's in the Constitution or something. I should be deciding which flip flops to wear with my sassy capri pants, not which wool coat I'm going to wear with my sassy scarf.

To quote Monty Python: Spring, I fart in your general direction.

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Introducing My Kids To Classic Cinema

I have a teenaged daughter and a tweenaged daughter. For the most part we get along swimmingly, but I do realize that this will (probably) come to an abrupt halt in the coming months or years. Communicating with them is only going to go downhill from this point, which is why I decided to show them the John Hughes masterpiece "Ferris Bueller's Day Off".

Why Ferris Bueller? Because it is one of the movies that I use to communicate with them. It's only fair that my children have some idea of what I am talking about when I say "You're not dying. You just can't think of anything better to do."

I've been known to try something new, fail epically, and look right at whomever happens to be near me and say "Never had one lesson" a la Ferris playing the clarinet. Usually my kids look at me as though I've grown a second nose, but I bust a gut because people, that is some funny stuff.

Occasionally I will be explaining something extremely intricate which requires complete and utter concentration on my childrens' part (like the proper way to remove an avocado pit), only to look up and see their bored faces. Naturally, this makes me say "Bueller? Bueller? Bueller?" or the ever popular "Anyone? Anyone?".

Up until a few days ago, my kids had no idea what I was talking about nor did they understand why it was so funny to me. I made them watch Ferris Bueller with me, which (fortunately for all involved) they loved. Now they get me. We can have entire conversations in which they don't look at me as if to say "Huh?".

(At least not yet.)

And as an added bonus, they think Ferris is a righteous dude.

(Fifty points if you caught the Grace quote.)

My girls dug Ferris so much that I've since introduced them to Uncle Buck, Sixteen Candles and National Lampoon's Vacation. After viewing what is clearly classic cinema, my kids and I now have a common language. And that common language is John Hughes.

Classic cinema. Introduce your kids today. You won't regret it.


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My Thoughts On Harry Potter And The Chamber Of Secrets

Because the weather wasn't nice or because we couldn't agree on anything else to do, a few days ago my kids and I watched the second of the Harry Potter movies, Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets.

(Just to be crazy, I decided to watch all the Harry Potter movies in order.)

(I'm nuts that way.)

The Chamber of Secrets was just as delightful as the first movie - squee!

You may have guessed it, but the Chamber of Secrets follows Harry's second year at the Hogwart's school of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

During the viewing of this movie, I discovered that I have a lot in common with Harry's friend Ron Weasley. Like, a lot in common. Take, for example, our shared loathing of spiders. The severe arachnophobia became apparent when the, ahem, rather large vehicular sized spiders came onscreen. Both of my children have seen this movie numerous times and both know of my loathing of spiders, yet did either one of them give me a head's up on the impeding scene starring the eight legged creatures? No.

I freely admit to pausing the movie and taking a few minutes to collect myself. And by collect myself I mean yell something akin to "Can you warn a body next time? About the bus-sized spiders? Gah!" while brushing spilled popcorn off of my lap.

Other than giant spiders, the second of the Harry Potter movies was just as wonderful as the first one. And, as an added bonus, Hermoine had much better hair in this flick.

(Home girl found some conditioner.)

To recap: Watched Harry Potter and the Chamer of Secrets and loved it. It would rank very high on the Molly Ringwald scale, you know, if I were to finish developing it. Oh, and I figured out who Filch the caretaker reminds me of: Neil Young. You see it now, don't you?

Neil Young

Filch

As strong case could be made for Willie Nelson, too.

I would accept either Mr. Young or Mr. Wilson as a substitute for Filch if something unfortunate were to happen to the man before the end of filming all the Harry Potter movies.

I'm glad we had this conversation.

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Lego Fest 2013

This past weekend was the annual Lego Convention, or as I like to call it Lego Fest 2013. I like going to Lego Fest, even though I'm not that into Legos. I like the fact that you just never know who or what you are going to see.

Right off the bat I saw tubs of … pieces? Parts? I don't know. There was a tub containing only Lego heads, one had only Lego hair, another torsos, and one held only accessories like a snazzy ball cap or a lime green metal detector.

Not sure how I feel about tubs of parts being the first thing I see upon entering a room, but there you have it.

Lego enthusiasts have quite the imaginations. I'd say a solid eighty percent of the time, the enthusiasts' imaginations are wonderfully spectacular, highly creative or somewhat quirky. Sometimes they are disturbing.

Why yes, yes that is a merman being eaten by four sharks. What? Like you don't see that every day.

Would you prefer to see an alien ordering off of the dollar menu at McDonald's? Here you go.

Perhaps you'd like a campfire scene.

Not going to lie. I do love a world in which Superhero Spongebob roasts a weenie with R2D2, Indiana Jones and that quasi-irritating creature from Harry Potter.

My husband found the Lego version of something he sees everyday in his life: an engine. To be fair, all of the engines in his life are official Caterpillar yellow, not red. But still. This is impressive.

Since my husband found himself represented at Lego Fest, I made it my mission to find myself represented. And I was successful.

Yep, that's me. Tooling around town on a pink flowered scoot wearing a tennis outfit circa 1984. Ok. It's closer to the real me than the Wonder Woman mini figurine roping a robber with her Lasso of Truth that I proclaimed (quite loudly) to be me.

Or so I was told.

Oh look! A sombrero sporting, maraca shaking hombre working at a deli.

You just don't see this kind of stuff everyday, people. I mean really, where else but Lego Fest are you going to see an hombre working a deli.

Or Thor mow the lawn?

Or an aging hippie with both flowers and mushrooms?

I see your point. Aging hippies bearing both flowers and mushrooms still exist.

Moving on … I saw a celebrities at Lego Fest.

Behold. Smokey and the Bandit.

I'm not kidding. That is totally Smoky and The Bandit right there. Tell me this isn't the spitting image of a Mr. Burt Reynolds.

The attention to detail was amazing. Right down to the cases of Coors stacked in the back of Snowman's rig.

Gosh, I love Lego Fest. You just never know who or what you are going to see.

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Donuts Will Be The Death Of Me … I Just Know It

Before we had kids, my husband and I would sleep late on Saturday mornings. We're talking super late, like we wouldn't get up until around 8:00 in the morning.

(Yep. We were wild and crazy in our youth.)

Sleeping in until eight changed when we had our first child. Sleeping in became a thing of the past as she would awaken each day at six. I always thought that would change as our daughter got older. I thought she'd sleep until at least eight in the morning, especially as a teenager. Teenagers sleep a lot, right?

Ok, technically that is true. She does like to sleep late. But it's her activities that cause us to get up bright and early. And in Saturday's case, we were up and out the door before the sun came up.

That's right. Six o'clock in the morning. Like before dawn. We hit the road at 6:00 a.m. for her to compete with her team in a volleyball tournament. Know who else is on the road at six in the morning? No one. We didn't pass another car for miles.

Know why? Other people are not up and mobile at that ridiculous hour on a Saturday morning.

Know what businesses are open at six a.m.? Donut shops.

This bit of knowledge does little to excite me because it's a well-documented fact that I don't like donuts before three in the afternoon. Donuts in the morning make me physically ill ('tis grody). I was content to just sail on by the donut place without giving it a second thought.

Unfortunately for me I was traveling with my husband and my daughter, both of whom believe that an open donut shop is an open invitation to stop in for a snack (or a second breakfast as was the case on Saturday). They are donut driven people.

I would have been fine if my husband, who was driving, had simply seen the donut shop and pulled into a parking space like a normal human. That simple act would not have bothered me at all. However, his donut-dar (cousin to a radar) was on the fritz that early in the morning because he didn't realize it was an open donut shop until two blocks later, at which point he slammed on the brakes and whipped the steering wheel around to complete an illegal U-turn.

We may or may not have been on the sidewalk for part of our U-turn.

And I believe the tires actually smoked a bit.

The things that man will do for a fresh donut.

He slid into an empty parking space with ease, yelling "Woo hoo! Fresh donuts!" while I clung to the door handle with both hands, all the while stomping my right foot down on an imaginary brake pedal. He slammed the car into Park and was out the door before I released my grip on the door handle. I turned around to see if my daughter was alright only to discover that she, too, had catapulted out of the car and was joining her dad in racing into the donut shop.

I yelled out the window "Hey! Do you want me to go in with you?"

My husband turned towards me, looked annoyed and replied with a very terse "NO!"

They hurriedly entered the donut shop without me.

Well huh. I sat in the parked car (tires still smoking) quietly contemplating what had just happened. One moment we were merrily bouncing along the highway to a volleyball tourney, the next minute I'm alone in the car with the stench of burned rubber and a death grip on the door handle.

Who knows how much time passed while I sat alone in the car. It could have been days. I slowly became aware of my surroundings. The sun was starting to rise and the sky was becoming lighter. The wind had picked up a bit. The "open" sign on the donut shop flickered between "OPEN" and "OFFEND" instead of "OPEN" and "CLOSED".

Eventually, my husband and daughter returned with massive grins on their faces and a box filled with donuts. An enormous box of donuts. For the two of them to eat by themselves. Because I don't like donuts in the morning.

Oh my husband and daughter claimed that they "bought one for me", which means they felt slightly guilty about almost killing me by driving recklessly, refusing to allow me to accompany them into the donut store, and purchasing twelve donuts to split between the two of them, so they last minute threw a chocolate cake donut in the box "for me".

I indignantly said, "I never should have trusted you two alone in a donut store."

My husband wasn't the least bit apologetic when he said, "Nope, you really shouldn't have. That was a dumb thing to do. Pass me a cream-filled, would you?"

Donuts will be the death of me one day. I just know it.


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It's Going To Be A Good Day

I was outside messing around with my camera this morning when I spotted him:

It's hard not to love a bright red cardinal against a white and green background.

When I turned around from snapping Charlie Cardinal's photo, I saw this:

A cardinal and a beautiful sunrise are signs that it's going to be a good day. A cardinal, a beautiful sunrise and it's Friday? Well, that is just perfection.


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My Thoughts On Harry Potter And The Sorcerer's Stone

Hype. I don't like hype and things that have a lot of hype. I have a fair imagination and when someone says to me, "It's the greatest book series ever written! Run, don't walk, to your nearest bookstore and purchase yourself a copy!", well my expectations soar.

My imagination takes control and I begin to imagine the greatest book ever created, the most wondrous story ever told. I've read some great works of fiction and I get excited about something even better than what I've previously read.

And very often, I get disappointed. I've been let down by hype many, many times. It seems that my expectations get too high and I inevitably get disappointed in a book, or a movie, or a dessert. The hype has let me down.

This fear of being disappointed has given me a natural aversion to all things Harry Potter. The hoopla was just too great. At one point in time, the hype surrounding Harry was so big that I believe it actually eclipsed the sun.

I always knew that someday I'd meet Harry, the little girl, and the red headed kid. One day when the hype wound down and I could enjoy them on my terms. I figured thirty years aught to do it.

For several years I discretely hid my lack of Harry Potter knowledge, but late last year the news that I've never read a Harry Potter book or seen one of the movies got out. It was most shocking to the group of women in which I happened to be dining. I was the recipient of shocked faces complete with mouths agape. It was as if I had burped the entire 20th Century Fox Fanfare during the fanciest of dinners.

To make matters worse, my oldest daughter owns every Harry Potter movie, all eight of them, and I've never watched one with her.

(I know, I know. Insert your astonished phrases and expletives here. I've totally flabbered your gaster and I'm a terrible person.)

(You can't see me, but I'm hanging my head in shame. It's not my cutest look, people.)

But as of yesterday, I no longer must hang my head in shame because I have seen my first Harry Potter movie. And it was wonderful.

For those of you not in the know, Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone is the story of an eleven year old boy who discovers that he is a wizard and attends Hogwart's School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

I loved it, everything about it: the story, the choice of actors, the costumes, the sets and the special effects. (Hello? The invisibility cloak? Amazing!). I loved everything.

And, contrary to some of the movies on last year's list (I'm looking at you Silence of the Lambs), Harry Potter wasn't one bit disturbing.

It's a delightful movie and I highly recommend it.

To recap: Saw Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone and loved it. I get it. I totally get it. I get the Harry Potter hype. Yes I realize that I'm over a decade too late, but who knows? I may even crack open one of the books one day soon, just as soon as I figure out who the caretaker, Filch, reminds me of.

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Stuck Between An Axe And A Snuggie Place

As promised, my area of the country received half a foot of snow yesterday. At least I think it was half a foot of snow. We had very strong winds and that caused some fairly intense snow drifts, so I'm not sure what was regular snow and what was drifted snow.

This morning I ventured outside to have a look around. Most of the time I was walking through snow up to my knees. Well … perhaps walking isn't the best term to use when describing my trek through the snow. It was more of a waddle. A slightly drunken looking, very uncoordinated waddle. I'm sure it was extremely attractive.

(No. Probably not.)

On my trek around the yard, I noticed something askew in the row of pines between my yard and the road. I saw something a bit out of the ordinary. Something just, well … off.

See if you notice.

I quote the great Jim Lovell when I say "Houston, we have a problem."

It seems as though I am the proud new owner of a rare tree called the Leaning Pine, formerly a standard white pine. The tree had been leaning a little bit for a few days, but this heavy snow made it lean over even farther.

Now it looks to be at a forty-five degree angle to the ground.

How this tree is not completely flat on the ground is beyond me. I mean really, this is ridiculous.

Looks like I will be to breaking out my trusty axe later this afternoon. I will chop down the tree and cut it into firewood. Yep. Gonna whip out my axe and get to work. Heh heh. Looking forward to it. Can't think of a better way to spend a wintery afternoon than with my axe.

Oh, who am I kidding? I'm staying inside with some hot cocoa and my Wonder Woman Snuggie. When it comes to being stuck between an axe and a Snuggie place, I'll take the Snuggie every time.


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I Can't HANDLE The Pork Loin

For the past several days, I've been having trouble corralling my thoughts into one cohesive blog post. These thoughts just aren't gelling, so I'm providing you with a list of items that are currently occupying my noggin.

1. As of today, I have no chickens. I'm kind of okay with this fact for a couple of reasons, namely the fact that I saw both a fox and an owl right by my house Saturday morning. According to early 20th century idioms, I do not want a fox in my hen house, guarding my hen house, or near my hen house. It's a hunting thing. And the same goes for owls. I'm pretty sure that an owl will eat a chicken given the opportunity. I'd rather not witness that.

2. Last night I made a pork loin so terrible tasting that my garbage disposal threw it back up on me. Seriously. My garbage disposal let 'er rip all over my sweatshirt. My husband swears that the disposal was slightly clogged and then it righted itself by blasting out whatever was clogging it, but pfft. Whatevs. I know the thing projectile vomited those pieces of meat. Kinda like I wanted to do after tasting a bite.

('Twas a nasty pork loin.)

3. However vile the pork was last night, my mashed potatoes were sheer perfection. Butter and half and half is the way to go, people. Not milk. Not cream. And never, ever, chicken broth. Half and half. Maybe some cream cheese if you're feeling sassy. Trust me. You won't be disappointed.

4. This is the forecast for the Midwest today.

The purple signifies a Winter Weather Advisory and the pink indicates a Winter Storm Warning. I live in a lovely pink area of north central Indiana in which (right now) about six inches of heavy wet snow is predicted.

This news does not amuse me for several reasons, the most important reason being that if I don't make it to the grocery store today the only food in my house will be a wrinkly grape that is not quite a raisin yet and last night's left over vile pork loin.

To paraphrase a Mr. Jack Nicholson in the classic film A Few Good Men, I can't HANDLE the vile pork loin. Incidentally, the rest of my family enjoyed the pork, which makes me question their taste buds.

5. That settles it. I'm off to the grocery store.


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Oh Nicolas Cage, Your Heartache Has No Place In My Room O'Funk

Who does the man in this painting resemble?

Need a closer look?

I will give you a hint: Nicolas Cage in Raising Arizona. The above image is eerily similar to H. I. McDunnough, don't you think?

Seriously. Look again.

              

                  

Uncanny. The resemblance is simply uncanny. Especially if the painting included a mustache and an Hawaiian print shirt.

But seriously. Wow.

I would have purchased this masterpiece for my Room O'Funk except for my rule that items in my Room must bring me joy and happiness. This piece of art makes me sad. The obvious heartache emanating from the overall-wearing Nic is too much for me to bear. I simply couldn't look at that level of despair everyday without wanting to find a quintuplet for him to steal and bring home to his wife, the lovely Miss Holly Hunter.

Still. It's a good painting and a quality piece of art. I highly recommend picking one up for all the Nicolas Cage fans in your life.

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