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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The 80s Had A Flock Of Seagulls. I Have A Flock Of Chickens … Maybe.

My husband has been dreaming of adding something to our backyard for years. Not that I'm in the business of crushing dreams, but I've been vocally opposed to his idea from the very beginning. His idea makes my lip curl up in distaste.

For years my husband has wanted some backyard chickens and I've been opposed. Vehemently opposed.

"Chickens are messy. And they smell bad," I'd say frantically waving my hand in front of my nose for emphasis. "Ew. Grody. Chicken smell. Gah."

He would counter my arguments with logic and reasoning. I hate logic and reasoning. "Think of all the benefits to having our own chickens: more nutritious eggs, fertilizer for the garden, and they eat bugs. You hate bugs."

That is true. I'm not a lover of bugs.

My husband was really on a role now. "Putting chickens in the garden about a week or two before I'm ready to till will really help out the soil. Not to mention all the good chicken poop/fertilizer."

Not to be outdone I shouted, "CHICKEN POOP IS EXACTLY WHY I DON'T WANT CHICKENS!" Taking a deep breath to calm down I continued,"And we have a cat who is a gifted and cunning hunter. He would totally stalk and eat the chickens. Sigh. You haven't even factored in coyotes."

Ha! I had him there. There are coyotes in my area and if Warner Bros. has taught me anything (and I'd like to think they have) coyotes are clever little geniuses at getting into chicken coops.

It was my husband's turn to sigh. "Jen, Wile E. Coyote never got into the hen house. He had a beef with the Roadrunner. It was a chicken hawk that harassed Foghorn Leghorn to get into the coop."

"Phooey. Let down by Warner Bros again," I muttered.

Ever reasonable he said, "Warner Bros didn't let you down. Your memory of Warner Bros let you down."

"Pfft. Whatever. I still don't want chickens."

I don't know if it is my excessive watching of The Muppet Show lately and seeing Gonzo's great love for Camilla or what, but I found myself entertaining the idea of having a flock of backyard chickens. Somewhere along the line, I crossed over to the pro-poultry team.

Hmm … I must have caught Chicken Fever. Chicken Fever is the only explanation that I can find as to why I found myself not only agreeing to getting some chickens, but getting excited about having poultry living in my backyard.

After arriving home from errands on Sunday I announced to my husband, "I think I'm ready to entertain the idea of getting some chickens for the backyard. And a rooster 'cause roosters are pretty rad."

My husband was momentarily stunned. We've been married for eighteen years and I not going to lie. I love having the ability to throw a verbal rooster into the room and render him speechless.

Once he regained his ability to speak he asked, "What changed your mind?"

"Oh, I don't know," I said. "Maybe I'm warming up to the idea of backyard chickens. Maybe I'm mellowing in my old age. Maybe I'm annoyed with buying a couple dozen eggs every week at the store. Who knows? Just embrace it, homie."

"Maybe you found a photo of a whacked out looking rooster and now you want one," my husband said.

He knows me so well.

My husband has spent every spare moment between my announcement Sunday evening and this morning looking at chicken coop designs and gathering information on having a backyard flock. Last night he spent a solid twenty minutes describing to me a company that will sell you a coop, three hens, a fifty pound bag of food, shavings for the roost, water and food bins, delivery and set up all for one low price. And here is the best part: the price includes a chicken consultant.

The ad doesn't specify if it's a certified chicken consultant or a non-certified one, but who cares? It's a chicken consultant!

SWEET BABY RAY WHAT I WOULDN'T GIVE TO HAVE MY VERY OWN CHICKEN CONSULTANT!

This nugget of information has pushed me over the edge. I am so on board with having some chickens in the backyard. And I'm totally considering becoming a chicken consultant because that sounds like the best job ever.

Ignoring the poop factor, of course.

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How Does Mother Nature Like Her Margaritas?

Happy National Margarita Day! Did you know it was National Margarita Day? No? Well, that's me, spreading the knowledge and educating the masses. Or more accurately, amusing and misinforming the masses, but I speak the truth on Margarita Day. Look it up.

Today being Margarita Day is appropriate given last night's small ice storm. I spent quite a bit of time outside this morning trying to decide if Mother Nature prefers her margaritas frozen or on the rocks.

Due to the ice covering everything outside, I'm thinking she likes hers on the rocks. Just about everything in my 'hood was coated in a thin layer of ice. Even the keyless entry to my garage.

Looking at this makes me want to be somewhere warm. I can achieve that by breaking out the blender whirling up a batch of that frozen concoction that helps me hang on:

(100 points if you caught the Buffett reference.)

As I stated earlier, this was a small storm only amounting to about a tenth of an inch of ice. It's enough to make the roads kinda messy and give my kids a perfect start to the day: a two-hour delay from school.

The temperature has already risen above the freezing mark and the ice is starting to melt off of the pine trees.

If you need me, you can find me inside where it is toasty warm and the margaritas are flowing. Cheers!

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Pink Wayfarers? Yes, Please

Raise your hand if this photo speaks to you:

Pink Wayfarers? Yes, please.

(Raising hand.)

Raise your hand if you would, like, totally wear these sunglasses right now, never mind the fact that it is cloudy and you are indoors.

(Raising hand.)

Raise your hand if you already have these glasses in both black and tortoise, but still think you need a pink pair.

(Raising my like like Arnold Horshack.)

I've been sporting the Wayfarer style of sunglasses since about 1984, so it really should come as no surprise that this display stopped me dead in my tracks at Target yesterday. Of all the Wayfarers I've had over the years: black, tortoise, mint green, pastel plaid, bright red, and (my favorites) white with hand painted palm trees, I've never owned a pair of pink ones.

This, along with my Dorothy Hamill/Toni Tenille/Clark Griswold haircut, is one of the biggest tragedies of my life.

(Yes, I've had a good life.)

The pink Wayfarers are calling my name, people. We're talking high quality fashion for $12.99. That's less than thirteen bucks! I'm not sure how much longer I can resist their charm.

And really, what forty year old slightly doughy Midwestern woman wouldn't look amazing in pink Wayfarers?

Wait … don't answer that. I don't want to know.

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The Price Is Right Part Deux

(Yesterday I began my tale of going to The Price Is Right Live and today I will conclude the saga.)

Not going to lie. The flashing lights and those trademarked game show noises of The Price Is Right lured me inside of the building. Well, that and the balmy twenty-one degree temperature outside. And the added appeal of winning valuable cash and prizes.

Oh Price Is Right Live, you are quite the Siren!

Our seats were perfect: close enough to the stage so the folks in Contestant's Row could hear me help them win by yelling out correct dollar amounts, yet far enough away that the host couldn't see me and my nervous flop sweat.

Behold. The stage:

The Live version of The Price Is Right is run differently than the TV show. For instance, four new contestants are chosen for Contestant's Row every time. Three new contestants are chosen to spin the Big Wheel instead of the three winners from previous trips onstage. All of this increased my odds of getting on stage to win a fabulous prize like a kayak, a dinette set or his and hers surfboards.

And really. What person living in Indiana doesn't want his and hers surfboards?

Every time the announcer would call out four new names, my heart would race. I just knew that my name would be called to "Come on down!". Get our your Kleenex because here is where I break your heart. My name was never called.

Not once did I hear "Jen, come on down! You're the next contestant on The Price Is Right Live!"

Phooey.

In fact, no Jen, Jenny, or Jennifer was called and that's highly suspicious to me. It's only the most popular name in American history and yet no version of Jennifer was called. I call foul. I'm seriously considering legal action on the basis of name discrimination.

(Yes, I'm kind of a sore loser.)

(Probably already knew that, didn't you?)

Even though I didn't make Price Is Right history as the biggest winner ever (or win anything), I still walked away with three things.

One: I found the shiny red Ford Fiesta from the Showcase Showdown outside of the building and I demanded that my husband snap my photo while I posed with it. He was not terribly amused, but obliged me just the same. It's the basis of our marriage.

I know what you're thinking: Who's the hot chick with the hot car?
Simmer down people. It's just me and a Ford Fiesta.

Two: Those contestants not appearing on stage and some randomly called audience members (again, no Jens) received a limited edition The Price Is Right Live t-shirt as a consolation gift. I was so insanely jealous of those people and their free t-shirts, that I ponied up fifteen bucks in the lobby of the auditorium to buy my own. Sure it's of questionable quality and authenticity, but ain't she a beaut?

It's kinda wrinkly because I wore it with pride to Target
yesterday. I was the envy of all.

And if anyone asks, I'm totally telling them I won this shirt.

Three: This is the most important item that I received from my game show experience and one that is going to live in a highly revered spot in my home. Yep, I'm going to frame my name tag and hang it up in my Room O'Funk, probably next to Davy Jones' autograph.

I've wanted a giant price tag/name tag for years, people. Years.

See that smudge next to my name? It's the host's autograph. That's right. I stood in line to get the host's autograph. Does that tidbit of information really surprise you at this point in our relationship?


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The Price Is Right Part Uno

Sunday afternoon I entered a world in which I had never been. Oh, I've tried to enter this realm. Back in 1995 I desperately tried to get tickets, but it was a no go. The Price Is Right wasn't taping the week I was in Los Angeles.

That's right. I wanted to be on The Price Is Right. It's a personal goal of mine and I was denied the opportunity.

I didn't have the good fortune to meet Bob Barker or hear Rod Roddy say "Come on down! You're the next contestant on The Price Is Right!". I never got the chance to bid one dollar because the other three people in Contestant's Row had seriously overbid on a pair of snowmobiles or some other exciting prize. My hands never touched a Plinko chip, held a putter after Bob's inspiration putt or rolled the giant dies for the Dice Game. There was never a showcase featuring prizes chosen just for me.

Until Sunday.

A traveling version of The Price Is Right (oddly enough called The Price Is Right Live) came to my area on Sunday and you bet your Big Wheel I had tickets. My plan was simple: get to Contestant's Row, make it on stage, win a fabulous prize (preferably a washer and dryer because Mama needs a new washer and dryer), and onto the Showcase Showdown where I (naturally) win both showcases because I'm within $250 of the actual retail price of my showcase.

In short, I would make Price Is Right history by becoming the show's biggest winner.

The only flaw in the slaw was that this was the plan for every other person in Elliot Hall of Music, all 3,389 of them.

Phooey.

To take my mind off of the horrible odds of me getting on stage, I spent the entire morning deciding on my outfit. What to wear, what to wear. Should I go sedate and mature with a solid colored v-neck shirt accented with a few well chosen pieces of muted jewelry? Should I go with something loud and proud in hopes that my outfit is eye catching enough to be chosen? Perhaps I should wear my lucky outfit which includes capri pants and a short sleeve shirt even thought it is February and twelve degrees outside or go with a lovely, but unproven in the luck department, sweater?

It is times like this when I wish for the simplicity of a lucky pair of underpants. You can wear your lucky underpants no matter what the season or outside temperature is.

I settled on a natty eggplant colored sweater adorned with some sparkly rhinestones around the neck. Thus far, my sweater hasn't proven itself to be lucky, but I'm an optimist and am going to wear it.

The conversation in the car to the show alternated between two topics: wishing we had studied The Price Is Right a little more and what was sure to become my ultimate humiliation on YouTube.

The overall mood in the car was one of regret. We all regretted not studying The Price Is Right a little more. Our tickets were purchased about two months ago and I wish with every fiber of my being that I had spent these last eight weeks intensely studying the art of the show. Oh why didn't I dedicate hours to memorizing the price of hundreds of products, from boxes of Rice-A-Roni to a 2013 Subaru? Curses!

The second topic of conversation in the car involved me and my amazing ability to embarrass myself in public, or as I like to call it: my ingenious plan to become the biggest winner in Price Is Right history. I have to make it to Contestant's Row, then on stage, win the Big Wheel spinoff and end by winning both Showcases.

Easy, peasy, George and Weezy, right? Except I forgot to factor in my penchant for either completely freezing up while the spotlight is on me or the delightful combo of wetting my pants then promptly passing out. Neither one is what I would call a good look.

Nothing like the ol' one-two punch of fear and excitement to make your body betray you.

My husband and my friend agreed that someone in the audience would be recording the show and at some point, that audience member would upload the pants wetting/passing out drama to YouTube where it would become an instant classic. In two months time, the video would set the record of most hits on YouTube.

My response was a very mature "Oh hardy, har har" and (perhaps) some sticking out of my tongue.

I had somewhat calmed down by the time we parked the car and walked to the entrance. Then I saw all of the flashing lights and heard the jaunty theme music. My excitement welled up again. I shall continue my story tomorrow, but I will let you know one tiny detail about my Price Is Right Live experience: I didn't leave empty-handed …


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Snazzy

For your Friday pleasure, this snazzy sunset taken a couple of night ago.

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El Oh Vee Ee ...

 … that spells love and February is the month of much love for most of us, myself included. It might be the shortest month with only twenty-eight (or twenty-nine) days, but for me it is the month containing many family members birthdays and the end of the month marks my eighteenth wedding anniversary.

(To the same person.)

(Even though I showed up wearing this headpiece.)

(Boo ya.)

And let's not forget the biggie: the holiday dedicated to celebrating love that greeting card companies created to sell more cards every February - President's Day. Happy Birthday George and Abe!

In honor of these two Presidents, I decided to learn a bit more about their lives. I've read one and one-twelfth books on Washington. Prior to reading one and one-twelfth books about him, all I knew was that he was a General, our first President, and he had wooden teeth.

Two of those qualities are confirmed, one is not. However, I did not know that Washington was considered quite the hottie in his day. At over six feet tall with a hearty constitution (his personal constitution, not The Constitution), he was considered a perfect male specimen. See this? Right here? Is why I read, people. I always kinda considered him to be homely, what with wooden teeth and all. How wrong I have been all these years.

I want to see the Spielberg movie Lincoln, but I feel the need to brush up on my Abe first. I don't have much time to do that considering the movie is leaving theaters in my area tomorrow. And, I cannot stress this enough, don't tell me how the movie ends. I like to view a film for the first time without knowing the ending.

Don't even get me started on how disappointing Titanic was for me. Some nut job in the movie ticket line behind me blew the ending for all of us standing within earshot. Jeez, fifteen years later and I still can't watch that movie because I know how it ends.

Wow. That was quite a digression from love to February to the first and fourteenth Presidents to the Titanic.

Sorry.

Happy Valentine's Day - I el oh vee ee you all!

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Moral Of The Story: Ignore The Clearance Aisle At CVS

Yesterday started off just like any other day. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. At the start, there was nothing to distinguish yesterday from any other day. Until I walked into CVS.

I don't know if you remember or not, but I don't do my best work at CVS. I tend to get myself into trouble.

The only reason I stopped into CVS was to buy some Advil Congestion Relief (on sale this week for $4.95). For some inexplicable reason, right next to the Sinus/Allergy section of the store was a selection of what CVS calls "hair appliances".

Intrigued as to what constitutes a hair appliance, I leaned in for a closer look. Hair appliances include curling irons, blow dryers, flat irons and crimpers. All interesting and useful items in their own right, but it was the box of hot rollers that sucked me in with all the force of those automatic flushing toilets at the airport.

Sigh. Remember hot rollers? They were instrumental in creating big 80s hair. My sister used to have a set, but I never did. Perhaps that is the reason I found myself at the CVS checkout with two packages of Advil Congestion Relief and a box of clearanced out Conair Xtreme Instant Heat hot rollers.

In my defense, the rollers were marked down to $4.75 and are Conair Xtreme Instant Heat. Everyone knows that these rollers contain curl innovation for shiny and voluminous curls. Well, everyone who carefully read the box would know this.

I, however, did not carefully read the box. I may or may not have been distracted by the model wearing her Conair Xtreme Instant Heat roller hair and envisioning myself with this same sultry look.

Once home, I ripped into the box and removed the set of hot rollers. I may or may not have squealed a bit. Once plugged into the wall, the rollers take a mere seventy-five seconds to heat up. Seventy-five seconds doesn't seem like a long time, but my anticipation was so great that I believe time actually stood still for at least an hour.

To distract myself (and perhaps set the mood for big, beautiful hair), I tuned into Pandora's 80s station and was greeted with REO Speedwagon's "Roll With the Changes". I thought it only appropriate.

(Can I get an Amen! for rocking out to REO Speedwagon while waiting for hot rollers to heat up?) (Oh like you've never done that before.) (And aren't totally thinking about doing it right now.)

Any long dormant hot rollers skills I had quickly came back to me as did the lesson to not bust out into dance moves while trying to roll up my hair. For those of you not in the know, it hurts to have someone pull your hair, but it really sucks to pull your own hair because it hurts and it's embarrassing.

Once the rollers cooled (an essential step, people), I removed the rollers and prepared myself to be amazed.

And amazed I was. But not in a good way, more in a gasp of horror way.

Remember the box model's hair? Um … yeah. Mine turned out that way. Only bigger. Much, much bigger. As in my hair was so voluminous it stuck out past my shoulders. Oh my.

Never in my life (and keep in mind I grew up in the 80s) has my hair been this big. Sure, twenty-five years ago, I would have snapped a Polaroid, written on the white part at the bottom "Best Hair Day Ever", and hung it in my locker at school using my magnet featuring the cast of The Outsiders (with a heart drawn over Rob Lowe 'cause Sodapop was my favorite).

But not now. Now this hair is ridiculous and I desperately needed to figure out how to deflate it. Vigorous head shaking didn't work. I tried finger combing, which not only did not work, but added a lovely element commonly known as static electricity.

Oy vey. I was now fighting a war on two fronts: hot roller volume and static electricity.

I gave the hair war one last effort: gravity. My thinking here is that gravity usually isn't my friend and it would surely make my big hair fall like a soufflé. Wrong. After an hour, my hair was as big and static filled as ever.

My thoughts moved from controlling the hair to containing the hair. Enter a lovely tortoise inspired hair band. My hair must have eaten the lovely tortoise inspired hairband because it instantly disappeared into the colossal waves of hair. This left me only one choice: a ponytail.

To be honest, I wasn't sure I could fit all of my hair into one ponytail, but it had to be one pony. If I attempted rocking the two ponytail look, I feared resembling a Miss Cindy Brady more than is currently socially acceptable.

After ten minutes of grunting, sweating and swearing, I fit my hair into one ponytail. It was a massive pony, but still. One pony. Victory thy name is Jen.

Epilogue: My family has now added CVS to the list of places that I shouldn't be allowed to shop unescorted. Buzzkills.

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And That's Why I Shouldn't Go To The Mall Alone

For the past two days, I have had the song "Gangnam Style" stuck in my head on repeat. Think about it. As irritating as that song is to hear it once, try having it stuck in your head on some type of sick repetitive loop.

Sometimes I get lucky and the song fades to the back recesses of my brain. But it never goes away entirely. Occasionally "Jesse's Girl" or "Whip It" beat the Korean rap song to the top of my musings, but there softly in the background is Gangnam Style.

Naturally, I blame Old Navy.

It was in Old Navy on Wednesday morning that I heard Gangnam Style at what can only be described as an ear bleeding volume. Genereally Old Navy gets it right in terms of good shopping music: a little bit new, a little bit old, a little bit groovy and at enough volume to merrily sing along as you make your way through the clearance racks, but not so loud as to not hear the kid in the toddler department screaming "But I don't WANT Applebees! I WANT Panda Express!".

It is of my opinion that background music should be used to enhance my shopping experience and not cause an ear worm of epic proportions.

For the most part on Wednesday morning, the music at Old Navy was fabulous. Then, while at the checkout, the music most decidedly did not enhance my shopping experience. It contained Psy at top volume and that's not a good thing. Plus, it caused me to break out my nonexistent dance moves.

In public.

Oy vey.

I was fine until I reached the register. Really. Sure there was some out loud singing along with Cyndi Lauper. "Time After Time" was blaring and people, that's my jam. There may or may not have been some holding of a two-pairs-for-five-dollars flip flop like a microphone to complete the look, but I digress.

It was at the checkout when Gangnam Style invaded my life. There I was, swimsuits scanned and poised to complete my transaction with my stack of coupons and Super Cash, when that song busted out of the store's sound system with the force of five teen aged boys raiding a fully stocked refrigerator.

The sales clerk was about my age. She groaned and said, "I hate this song. It's truly terrible."

"I agree! And as a person who grew up in the 70s and 80s, I feel that I can speak with some authority on what constitutes a truly awful pop tune … and this would be it, " I replied.

She grinned and said, "Did you know there is a dance, too?"

Well, that's the only invitation I needed to whip out my imaginary lasso and demonstrate that I, too, knew that there were dance moves to accompany a song that out ranks both Celine Dion's "My Heart Will Go On" and Starships "We Built This City" on the ol' Most Irritating Song scale.

There we were, getting our groove on Gangnam Style at the register. Can't you just picture it? Two clearly ungifted, forty year old women riding our imaginary horses and lassoing our imaginary sexy ladies.

On second thought, don't picture it. Just … don't. Sorry for that image. Try to forget it, will you?

In fact, let's forget we ever had this conversation.

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Ode To Citrus

As some of you know, I prefer to buy my citrus off of the back of a semi that is parked in the local hardware store parking lot. A group of citrus growers in Florida pick oranges and grapefruit when they are ripe and pack the fruit into cases to be driven up North to be sold in states that are vitamin C starved in the wintertime.

The citrus truck arrives once a month from November through March and I go as many times as I can fit into my schedule.

I love the citrus truck for many reasons, but mainly because of all the things I could buy off of the back of a truck, citrus is probably the safest. Also, I get to protect my family from the nightmare that is scurvy by forcing fresh, vitamin C laden produce on them.

And I'm all about preventing scurvy.

I realize with this kind of introduction, I may have taken the mystery out of this next photo, but see if you can guess what it is:

Stumped? I shall give you a hint: It starts with grape, ends with fruit, and rhymes with ape-suit.

That's right! Give yourself fifteen (worthless) points if you guessed grapefruit and take comfort in the fact that you are very smart. Almost as smart as me for buying products off of the back of a semi that is parked in the hardware store parking lot.

I realize that buying food off of the back of a truck might not seem wise, but sometimes you have to roll the dice, particularly when fending off scurvy.


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My Thoughts On The Princess Bride

Oh. My. Goodness. Where has The Princess Bride been all my life? I loved this movie. It contained every movie element that I enjoy - humor, suspense, action, twists, and a handsome hottie.

(No, not Billy Crystal.)

(No offense, Mr. Crystal. I love your work.)

Plus, I got to shock my family with my extensive knowledge of quicksand survival skills. But more on that in a minute.

I got a copy of my Must See 2.0 List in mid-December and as you know, The Princess Bride was on the list. Imagine my surprise when I found the DVD in my Christmas stocking. This only proves one thing: Santa reads my blog.

Seriously. What other explanation can there be?

For those of you who have never seen nor heard of The Princess Bride, it is the story of a grandfather reading a fairy tale to his sick grandson. And it's brilliant, from beginning to end. Even the cover art on my DVD.

The cover of the DVD is a source of absolute amazement for me. It has been since the morning of December 25, 2012, when I saw it for the first time as I was excitedly pawing through all the goodies in my Christmas stocking. The best part of the cover is the title, which reads the same right side up or upside down.

Here. Look, right side up:

And upside down:

Imagine making a word or phrase readable, no matter if you are reading it from the North or the South. It just kills me and I love stuff like that. Actually, I consider it high art.

In short, Princess Bride, you had me at the cover art.

And the story. I loved the story, which is "Inconceivable!" considering this is a movie on my list.

Ha! Get it? I threw in a line from the movie.

Gosh, I'm sneaky.

Know what else is sneaky? Quicksand.

At one point in the movie, a lightening sand pit appeared and it scared the bejeezers out of me. I was scared because it reawakened a long dormant, childhood fear of quicksand.

What? Like most little girls from Indiana aren't afraid of quicksand?

Okay. Maybe not, but I was. It remains a mystery to me how or why I developed a fear of drowning in quicksand, but I was terrified and as a kid, I used to spend hours alone in my room practicing my defensive moves against quicksand.

(Yes, I realize that I was a weird little kid. You'd be a little weird, too, if this and this had happened to you.)

To recap: Watched The Princess Bride and loved it. I loved the cover art, the plot, the dialogue, the story, and it gave me a good reason to regale my family with essential quicksand survival tips. Plus, I love to say "I am Indigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die." in a sassy Spanish accent.


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Me And Dr. Dre

My blog has totally been sucking lately. In fact, if it were an item on McDonald's dollar menu it would be Bloggy McSuck Suck.

I don't know if it's the weather (winter … blah) or what. I could spend some time expanding on the fifty-two reasons why the ol' blog has been awful, but I'd rather just move on from Blahsville to Excitementtown.

Who knew one trip to Best Buy with my beloved could be the catalyst for this transition? Well, it was the one-two punch of Best Buy and Dr. Dre.

Most of you know that I have incredible street cred. It's true. Living on the mean streets of a mid-sized town in Indiana automatically gives one slightly doughy and incredibly pasty forty year old woman a certain amount of cred and I have done much over the years to increase my thug level. This weekend, I upped my cred by purchasing speakers for my Room O' Funk.

My Room O' Funk desperately needed speakers, primarily so I can blare the Girl Groups radio station on Pandora. Or Sinatra radio. Sometimes I totally dig the 80s Alternative station. Really, it depends on my mood … wait. Where was I going with this? Oh yes. Needing speakers.

My husband decided we should start looking for some speakers for my Room. I incorrectly thought that by "we" he meant "him" since I have zero interest in shopping for speakers and I tend to get more and more irritating the longer I am forced to shop for things in which I have zero interest.

(Sadly, this aspect of my personality is not my biggest flaw.)

(No, I'm not telling you what my biggest flaw is.)

My only criteria for speakers was size, meaning I want them to be of the small size. The smaller the better. Having speakers the size of a compact car doesn't interest me. I don't want the size of my speakers to be the first thing one notices when walking into my Room O'Funk.

(The first thing I want one to notice is my Davy Jones autograph and the second thing? My modest Wonder Woman collection.)

(Obviously.)

Basically, I don't want to rattle the windows and honk off the neighbors with enormous sound or big thumping bass. I simply want to enjoy a little Chuck Berry, or perhaps Wham!, on my iPhone every now and then.

With all this in mind, I walked into Best Buy and was immediately drawn to this speaker:

Not entirely true. I was immediately drawn to this Lucy VanPelt iPhone case, followed by the speakers.

And let's be honest. Although she is probably the most bad ass of all the Peanuts characters, Lucy does little to enhance my thuggish reputation.

Good thing I spotted the speaker section. Ah, the speaker. Isn't he beautiful? This speaker is the brain child of my homie, Dr. Dre. Plus, it looks like a pill capsule, which makes total sense because he's a doctor. Fortunately for me, I have a prescription. Ha!

(Okay. Even for me, that was lame but the joke originally belonged to Cody our helpful salesman/teenager at Best Buy.)

After seeing the Pill, all other speakers fail to exist. I only had eyes for the Pill and let's face it. Wham! is going to sound amazing coming out of this baby.

Listening to music on Beats by Dre has to up my cred by at least a bazillion. Listening to Wham! on my Pill might not be the wisest move thug-wise, but still. My street cred is through the roof, yo.


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Guess Who Has Two Thumbs And Chocolate Breath?

Currently I am staring down a plate of chocolate brownies.

The brownies are surrounded by fruit, you know, healthy stuff: Honeycrisp apples, bananas, a pomegranate, two kinds of unpopped popcorn (yellow and red, both from last year's garden), half a bag of Cuties, and two varieties of grapes (red and green), but I only see the brownies.

Mmm … brownies.

My point? Well … I don't have one. I am having trouble coming up with something to blog about this morning and as I am currently sitting in my kitchen (the home of cooked cranberry centerpieces), those brownies are in my line of sight.

And they are distracting me. They are causing me to lose my train of thought. In fact, those brownies have rendered me incapable of having the ability to rub two thoughts together. Or even completing a sentence.

They are totally calling my name and their delicious chocolatey aroma is wafting over to where I sit. That aroma, it appeals to me. But. I'm ignoring the brownies. It's not good to start eating brownies at 9:47 in the morning.

If I start in on brownies now, by noon the entire plate would be gone and I would have some serious 'splaining to do.

I am ignoring the plate of treats. I am ignoring the plate of treats. I am ignoring the plate of treats.

To distract myself from the chocoately goodness on my kitchen counter, I grabbed my macro lens and went in search of things to photograph all up close and personal like.

See if you can guess what this is. (I will give you a hint: it's a camera ring)

You guessed a camera ring? Wow. You are a terrific guesser.

I know what you're thinking about my new finger adornment, "She's a real beaut, Clark." You would be correct. Also, you would think that snapping fifty-two photos of my new camera ring effectively distracted me from thinking about those brownies on the counter.

You would be wrong.

On a completely unrelated note, guess who currently has two thumbs, chocolate brownie breath and a big smile on her face? This girl.


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