Category Archives: Egocentrism

Because after all, this blog is about me. (At least I’m honest.)

Motherhood (Abridged)

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As she pushed from her forehead a curtain of frizzy bangs — coaxed into prominence by tendrils of steam emanating from the pot of homemade tomato sauce and meatballs over which she had labored all afternoon — she heard a small voice: sweet but insistent.

“But, Mama, I want hot dogs for dinner!”

In that moment, her consciousness leapt from the fragrant and disheveled kitchen to the dinner table — not of this hour, but of many years hence. A table no longer littered with toys and crayon drawings, but host instead to a young man of whom this small boy was only the promise. Gone were the dimples, the piping voice, the disheveled curls, replaced by a man of stature, his voice resonant, but with the lingering ebullience of the boy she knew so well. Perhaps he was home from college, tarrying in the launch of his inevitably brilliant destiny for a long-anticipated reunion with his parents.

As they congregated at the table, he beamed at his mother, announcing: “I’ve been looking forward to a homemade meal for a change.” And his mother could not help but notice how he dwarfed the chair which once seemed too big for him. Where had her tiny boy gone? And so quickly?

So it was, with both a tremble and a thrill, that she set before him the evening’s repast. The plate was larger than of yore — for his appetite had grown, too — and heaped with the fruits of her admittedly truncated labors. “Dig in, sweetheart,” she said. And if his face seemed a trifle disappointed, it did not disturb the serene smile of a woman who, having enjoyed rising late, lingered over her lunch, and spent the afternoon savoring a good book, closing it just in time to prepare dinner.

“I thought about making spaghetti, but I remembered how much you always liked these,” she said. If he wanted to protest, he wisely smothered the impulse and reached for another hot dog.

With that, her mind returned to the pungent kitchen. And she smiled and was content.

The End.

Jimmy Kimmel is a Sadist

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There.

I said it.

I’m sure I’ll catch flak for this post. Fine. I can take it. I put on my big girl panties this morning.

For those who missed it, late-night guru… couch jockey… whatever Jimmy Kimmel asked parents to tell their children, post Halloween, that they, the parents, had eaten their child’s entire Halloween candy stash. The resultant video, featuring much weeping and gnashing of teeth on the part of the kids, has been making the rounds on YouTube since it aired.

I watched it. Meh.

Was it funny? Not particularly. Kimmel admits at the beginning of the video he expected rather more outrage and rather less crying (for which he apologized). Since neither crying nor outrage are exactly novel at my house, I didn’t find the video all that entertaining and dismissed it as misfire late-night schtick: a bit mean-spirited but mostly harmless.

I guess that “apology” was all TV posturing because Kimmel decided to up the ante for Yuletide. This time, he challenged parents to wrap up some useless crap and tell their kids it was a Christmas present.

Few people who really know me would accuse me of being overly sensitive or deficient in  — admittedly dark — humor. But.

This crosses the line.

From Balloon Boy to Jon and Kate Plus Eight, we know some parents will do eh-nee-thing to get themselves or their kids a television show. Evidently, now it doesn’t even take a whole show. Even a twenty-second blip on a second-tier late night program will motivate parents to parade their children’s emotional trauma for the “pleasure” of the viewing audience.

Sick, depraved and illuminating.

If there is one thing that should motivate our compassion as a people, shouldn’t it be the tears of children?

In case you’re thinking that’s a rhetorical question, the answer is yes.

In fact, I’m going out a limb here and suggest the treatment of children is society’s barometer. The pathos of a crying child should be universal in this day and age. But all you have to do is skim the headlines or browse a few books of recent history to know it is otherwise. Between abusers, molesters, traffickers, genocide, abortion, famine, and people who blow themselves up in public places, I’d say our world is pretty nonchalant about the sufferings of children. Maybe that’s why I don’t find this stunt amusing.

Kids cry. And sometimes it’s funny. Sometimes I even laugh when mine are crying. Occasionally, I laugh because it’s the only way I can keep from falling on the floor beside them and crying my own eyes out. But I don’t coax my kids into crying so I can have a few yuks. Here we have a manufactured scenario, created for the express purpose of provoking a gut-wrenching emotional response in a child. For the amusement of strangers. On TV. And now YouTube. At the behest of a guy who gets paid for a ratings spike.

Why not just jab the kid with a sharp stick and film him while he bleeds? Hilarious, no?

Let’s say you call up a bride-to-be the week before her wedding and pretend you’re from the bridal salon. Tell her you knocked over a unity candle. Her dress burned to a crisp but, not to worry, you’re sending over a replacement picked out by her mother-in-law. Hang up the phone. And hide. Actually, change your name, dye your hair, ditch your cell phone and then hide. In a tiny motel that only takes cash on the outskirts of Temecula.

I give you about twelve hours before an angry bride is at your door with pliers and a blowtorch.

Adults don’t appreciate having their emotions toyed with. Why is it okay to do it to a child? Oh, right, because they can’t fight back. Where I come from, we call that bullying, which Jimmy Kimmel is apparently against.

And while we’re at it, what about privacy? If you’re in Target and the two-year-old flashes her panties to the entire crowd at Register 9, don’t you yank down the hem and tell her some things are not for public display? Should we be less concerned about our kids’ emotional privacy?

But, alas. Now we have YouTube, enabling us to milk our kids’ peccadilloes for web traffic. Even better, let YouTube put up a few ads and you’ve got a whole new revenue stream. In other words, monetize while you traumatize. As parents, we’re supposed to protect our children from exposing themselves (physically and otherwise) until they are mature enough to self-censor. Instead, we’re getting our licks in early, encouraging our kids to expose their emotions to the scrutiny and perhaps ridicule of the world.

Notice Jimmy Kimmel did not film his own children. No, no — a celebrity’s children are entitled to privacy. Instead, like a phalanx of mindless drones, his viewers manipulate their offspring and made sure to get in on film.

I suppose I’m not really angry at Jimmy Kimmel. I can’t blame the sideshow clown who gets paid for making people, um, cry. I can, however, take serious umbrage with the complicit idiots who treat their kids’ emotions like a banjo to be played for popular amusement.

But forget society, forget bullying, forget privacy. Here is my real problem: this kind of machination compromises the integrity of the parent.

Being a parent is a sacred trust.

Trust doesn’t have to be earned from our children: we receive it, lock-stock-and-barrel, the first time our son or daughter is placed in our arms. Look into the eyes of your newborn baby, feel her little fingers clenched around your own, listen to her sigh as she sleeps against your heart and you will hear her say, without a single word, two things. First, “I am completely dependent on you.” And second, “I know you’ll take care of me.”

Absolute trust.

The tragedy is that in every moment to follow, we have the opportunity to chip away at that trust. Most of us don’t mean to. But it happens.

We promise a trip to the zoo and then the phone rings. We say shots don’t hurt. We exaggerate. We make empty threats. We generalize. We tell polite fibs. We get angry and say things we don’t mean. Sooner or later, kids start to realize their parents don’t always mean exactly what we say. A wise parent manages to teach good manners and flexibility without compromising our dedication to telling the truth. But it’s hard — one of the many highwire acts of parenting.

So why, by all that is holy, would anyone want to hasten their child’s discovery that mom and dad don’t always tell the truth? More importantly, that Mom and Dad will casually lie in order to trick them for a TV stunt? Because if Mom and Dad will lie, who won’t?

You are, in a way, everyone your child will ever meet. Your interactions with him tell him what to expect of other people. Should he expect truth and integrity or manipulation and trickery? Our living, daily example also trains our children what to expect from God. Will they see Him as a loving and sacrificial father or a heartless trickster ready to laugh at their misery?

“If you then, being evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your Father who is in heaven give what is good to those who ask Him!”    — Matthew 7:11

Do you think those children will ever open a Christmas gift again without wondering if they will find another half-eaten sandwich inside? A pinprick in their innocence and sense of wonder may seem small now, but that hole doesn’t close: it only widens as they grow.

I am outraged by I pity the parents who casually undermine their child’s trust. Or innocence. Or sense of wonder. Or even the excitement of Christmas.

Someday my little ones will be mature, experienced adults who sleep soundly on Christmas Eve, don’t mind waiting to open presents if it means they can have a second cup of coffee, and appreciate the boring underwear and gift cards they find under the tree.

I know I will be proud of them. And I know I’ll find myself wishing they had stayed children just a little longer.

That’s the way it should be.

Things to Do in Dallas When You’re Dead

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Dead tired, that is.

Because I’m sure I will be after I make my way through (part of) this building.

This is the World Trade Center (WTC) building at Dallas Market Center. Fifteen floors of, well, everything. All wholesale goods, from all over the world, for all kinds of stores.

I get vertigo just looking at this picture. And there are three more buildings besides this one.

More about me: I grew up in a smallish town. Within a driveable radius, there was one “cool” mall, one decidedly uncool mall and a few standalone stores. There was no Target, no GAP, and no one had heard of the internet. It was entirely possible to view and consider every single option for, let’s say, a pair of ladies’ shoes available in the vicinity. In other words, you could exhaust every possibility before making a decision.

Dallas Market is the antithesis of that concept. It’s just not possible to see it all.

I only wish I’d known that the first time I went. That was two years ago. I’m older, wiser and significantly pregnant-er now. I’m aiming to take manageable bites out of Market this time. It’s no small feat for a pregnant woman to walk waddle through 5,000,000 square feet. So I won’t.

I’m planning my attack by floor. I’ll be visiting some of my current vendors to see what special deals they might be offering and scouting out new vendors or ones I remember from my last market trip.

I’ve penciled in WTC for Floors 2, 3, 5, 6, 8, 9 and 13. There are two floors of the Trade Market building that also made the list. I’m guessing that puts me somewhere in the neighborhood of 2.5 million square feet. I may spare a waddle for some of the other showrooms, but that’s a little doubtful. Because after I make my way through wholesale Xanadu, I have a couple of retail stops to visit.

First of all, Cost Plus World Market. Or is it Market World Plus Cost? Or World Plus Market Cost?

I can never get it right. Maybe because we don’t have one here.

Anyway, ever since Joni Webb highlighted Market Plus Cost World in her several posts on Kooboo wicker chairs, I’ve been in all a-dither to visit and see them for myself, even if I don’t buy a thing. Any store that snakes Pottery Barn by offering something just as nice for less is a must-see destination on my Reality Bus Tour.

And finally, I’m making time to stop into this cute little Swedish boutique — maybe you’ve heard of it — called IKEA.

All in all, if I make it home without needing permanent bedrest — or a second mortgage on my home — it will be rather an accomplishment, don’t you think?

Considering the ambitious nature of our shopping expeditions, I haven’t planned any sightseeing. My only other must-do in Dallas is to eat at Babe’s Chicken Dinner House. For the whole weekend, really.

I crave it. It’s a sickness. Like Homer Simpson and donuts.

But I can’t eat there for six meals in a row. That would be inconsiderate to the needs of my traveling companion. And my arteries.

So where else do we eat? Thoughts? Recommendations? Warnings of imminent diabetic shock? Please share.

It’s The End of the World (As We Know It)

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Yes, it’s been awhile.

If this post had musical accompaniment, it would be REM’s “It’s the End of the World as We Know It.”

Except I don’t feel fine. I’ve had every symptom in the book.

And it’s hard to blog with your head in the toilet. (Bad wi-fi signal in there.)

Meet The Bean.

I’m not sure why, but each of my children developed an in utero nickname.

Griffin was Ruprecht. As in Ruprecht, The Monkey Boy.

That’s no reflection on him, I swear. As first-time parents, we were a little alarmed by the, er, simian profile of our darling offspring during the ultrasound. I’m relieved to say the resemblance ended at 18 weeks’ gestation. Whew.

Tristan was dubbed Twitchy because the little punk never stopped moving. Some personality traits are apparent from conception.

As for The Bean, the first BabyCenter description I read of our latest addition’s developmental stage posited that the baby was about the size of a lima bean so that’s how I came to refer to our little expectation — in my head, at least.

For reasons of common sense in this degenerate age, I won’t be sharing certain pertinent bits of information such as my due date. Even if I don’t have a deranged stalker lurking out there, I get a little annoyed by the incessant badgering of well-meaning people. (When I was almost full-term with my first child, the sweet old lady from down the street asked me: “Are you sure you’re still pregnant?” Um, pretty darn. True story.)

And for the deranged stalkers among you, should you be tempted to make an unannounced visit with wicked intentions, please note:

  1. I am armed.
  2. I’m also protected by a ravening duo of vicious preschoolers who are always looking for a fight. (If only I were joking.)
  3. Finally, not only have I enrolled in Master Ang Roy Da’s Prenatal Ninjitsu, I’ve been fast-tracked into his advanced class. We’ve already learned how to strangle the enemy with a Bella Band. Next month: Weaponized Estrogen or Making Hormones Fight for You.

I will, however, announce with enthusiasm and trepidation that The Bean is, in fact, a She-Bean.

I’m excited. And nervous. I’m not sure I know how to mother a girl. Poor kid.

I imagine all the arguments we’ll have about… oh, everything. Modest clothing. (Will they even make one-piece bathing suits sixteen years from now?) Calling boys. Or not calling, I should say. Acting like a lady. Reading good books and not fluff. Being independent but without carrying a chip on your shoulder. Accepting your physical flaws. Living life with a sense of humor, even when you yourself are the latest joke. Being confident. Embracing a Biblical standard of womanhood. Coping with hormones. On second thought, poor me.

I had a great teacher in my own mother. On the other hand, I’ve slept since then.

Why is it so hard to remember how I was well-parented? It’s easy to recall times I thought I’ll-never-be-the-kind-of-mother-who [insert teenage grievance here] — although I’m willing to bet the farm most of us are exactly those kinds of mothers, and sometimes even on purpose. Why, then, do the good moments seem so effortless when you were on the receiving end? I know they weren’t without blood, sweat and tears on my mother’s part. But I can’t seem to distill them down to “how-to lessons” for myself.

I feel like a pretty well-seasoned mother of boys (at least, boys up to the age of six). But a few days of packing away rompers and jeans and polo shirts and button-downs and hanging tiny, pink, fluffy, flowery, girly little outfits — bona fide outfits, not separates — in their place, I am becoming aware: we are headed for uncharted waters.

I suppose I have to hold fast to the lesson that God uses each of our children to teach and mold and shape us. Each little life, in his or her individuality, strengths and weaknesses,  is another opportunity to be molded more closely into His image. It’s for our sake as much as for theirs.

Which begs the question, what does this little girl have to teach me?

I wonder. And wait.

Topsy Turvy Freaky

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It’s weird the things that can frighten me now that I’m an adult.

I’m not talking about real horrors that could rob me of my sheltered life: terminal illness, family tragedies, natural disasters, Chinese organ thieves. That stuff, I can handle.

I’m not even freaked by “usual” weird stuff.

Clowns, for example. Maybe it’s due to my own brush with “clown culture” — more about that another day, perhaps — but I actually like clowns.

We used to watch Bozo the Clown on WGN every morning. (The Grand Prize Game was like Who Wants to be a Millionaire? for kids. Greed and avarice served with a side of Archway Cookies.)

Topsy Turvy dolls, however? Ugh.

Ignoring the obvious racial connotations of the above doll for a moment, can you understand the creepy?

[Shiver.]

The church I grew up in had a couple of topsy turvy dolls in the nursery. As I recall, they were not racially, er, “mixed,” but brunette on one side and blond on the other. I also remember I liked playing with them. Or at least making sure that shameful blond side was decently hidden.  (Yes, I harbor latent anti-blond resentments. Sue me.)

Somehow, over the last thirty years, I’ve come to detest these innocent dollies. I’m not sure why. Maybe it’s the expanded understanding of human anatomy that comes with adulthood. Or one too many conjoined twins documentaries on TLC.

Whatever. Topsy turvy dolls give me the willies.

Lest you misunderstand, I am not an advocate on anatomically-correct dolls for children. I think Barbie is just swell as she is — hinges, smooth mammaries and all.

But there is something about the-legs-become-the-arms-and-the-arms-become-the-legs-and-suddenly-there’s-another-head-down-there-where-no-head-should-ever-be-on-a-doll that just plain creeps me out.

I’m sure some people find it cute and endearing.

And they’re wrong. Gravely wrong.

Something about it’s just indecent. And a little predatory. Like Aliens or something.

“I have triumphed over you. Now I will absorb you and assimilate your lifeforce…”

The only time this kind of scene is appropriate is childbirth. And I still don’t want to see it. That’s why I pay an obstetrician.

But this is a doll. A doll. For little girls.

Why is there another head? Why????


Andy? What are you doing down there?

I think I’m going to throw up.

The PW Connection

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I think almost any gal who’s started a blog over the last few years has flirted with the fantasy of becoming “The Next Pioneer Woman.”

I am under no such illusions.

There are some similarities between PW and me. When she refers to a trip into the “Big City,” she means the city where I live. Black Heels & Tractor Wheels reads a lot like my own (unwritten) love story — if you subtract cows, Chicago, Mike, linguini with clam sauce and pretty much everything else that makes it endearing and hilarious.

But that’s where the similarities end.

PW is, as we all know, very photogenic. She has a lovely, sweet voice that I’m sure is incapable of bellowing threats at her children or shrieking obscenities when she stubs her toe on a door jamb.

I, on the other hand? Surly. Lazy. Misanthropic. Crass.

Disturbed. Dark.

Sweetness and light? Not so much.

But on this fifth anniversary of my twenty-ninth birthday, I am happy to report that I’ve forged a special, er… relationship with Pioneer Woman.

We have a great give-and-take. She gives me an Amazon Giftcard and I take a ridiculously giddy thrill in becoming a bonafide search term on her website.

(Please don’t tell me I’m pathetic. You already know how morose I was about my ill-fated brush with Joni Webb. And this actually came with money attached, so I think I have a right to be coasting on good-feelings for a couple days.)

In October 2010, I managed to eke out a “W” on PW’s Word Nerd Quiz. And got a massive hit of Amazon crack to feed my book/tech addiction.

Then last night, I happened upon PW’s Big Fat Movie Line Quiz. Although it had been open for more than an hour already (her quizzes are usually speed drills and I only won the Word Nerd because I knew every one of the answers without having to look up anything), I gave it a whirl. Because you know how much I adore movies.

And I’ll be darned. More Amazon crack.

Happy Birthday to me!

If I had a job, I’d probably be quitting to play blog sweeps full-time. But even if I never win another thing, I am now “immortalized” on the PW website.

Does it make me a creepy blog stalker if I think that’s kinda cool? As long as I don’t write her and ask for a lock of hair to weave into mine or a calf-nut to pray over or something else weird? Because I promise: I won’t do that.

PW, I swear my admiration is purely un-creepy and nonthreatening. I promise, I’m a very normal person.

Dark, yes. Disturbed, yes.

Surly, lazy, misanthropic, and crass? Okay, fine.

But mostly normal other than those completely harmless flaws.

Normal. I swear.

P.S. Okay, who am I really kidding here anyway?

Language Warning

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Mother trucker. Spit. Son of a pitcher.

Stupid comment function. Or unfunction, as the case may be.

Thanks to my ongoing and seemingly insoluble troubles with the comment function of this blog — which I have still failed to replicate, despite hundreds of attempts — I missed a comment today that I will never get back.

A comment from one Joni Webb.

That’s right.

Joni.

Webb.

Joni Webb of Cote de Texas.

Cote de Texas: Joni's gorgeous design for her daughter's bedroom

Cote de Texas was probably the first design blog I ever read and — probably the reason I’m still reading design blogs with a dedication tantamount to obsession. Joni “introduced” me to Layla Palmer and Brooke Gianetti. Her Top Ten Design Elements series is responsible for my conversion to curtains. Her posts on Belgian design are the reason my keyboard has drool-stains on it. Oh, and then there’s the Sally Wheat kitchen phenomenon. Don’t even get me started.

Yes, Joni Webb.

You see, yesterday I left a comment to her post about a reader’s renovation on a foreclosed home in Houston.

She tried to leave a comment on my blog. My blog.

Tried.

And the mother trucking blog failed to accept her comment.

I don’t have a lot of brushes with celebrities — I met Amy Grant buying donuts in a Florida grocery store at 7 AM one summer — so this kind of thing cuts me to the quick.

I could have had a bonafide Joni Webb comment on my blog. Alas, ’twas not to be.

Instead, she sent me an email — I’m thinking about framing it — responding to my comment and (gulp!) complimenting me on my destination blinds.

Of course, the magic was tempered by the knowledge that I have no clue how I’m going to resolve my Bermuda Triangle issue with comments on this blog. WordPress is a free blogging platform (God bless ‘em!) but I keep hoping to find someone to whom I can pay actual cash money to find and fix the problem. Hello? Anyone? Please, exploit me. I’m getting desperate.

In the meantime, I’ve removed “email required” from the comment form, just in case it’s the culprit, which will probably mean lots and lots of

but better that than zero comments. It’s awful lonely out here in Blogland. I need the feedback.

On that note, please take this as my personal invitation to comment early and often. Your comment doesn’t even have to be relevant. Favorite song lyrics? Sure. Next week’s grocery list? Why not?

If, in the course of posting your preparation method for Blowfish Sashimi, you should have trouble in leaving your comment, please take a mo’ to email me and let me know. There’s also a hefty bounty on any screenshots that help me identify the problem.

Until then, I will try to tantalize you with frequent and compelling posts that will leave you powerless to avoid commenting. (Or at least emailing me if your comments fail. Which they seem almost sure to do.)

Dang it.

Blinds Leading the Blind

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Reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated.

Not that November didn’t try very hard to kill me. December had a whack at me, too, come to think of it.

Nevertheless, I have emerged on the other side. Tired, disorganized and cranky, the chatelaine of a disheveled palace, and the mother of wild, scruffy, utterly descheduled children who can recite every line of dialogue from Toy Story 3, word-for-word in its proper sequence.

Oh, and lately my husband has been calling me “Amy.”

I suppose I should have a cure for some terminal disease or, at the very least — and probably more true to my character — an exhaustive plan for world domination to show for my long absence.

Well, I don’t.

Let me ‘splain. No, there is too much. Let me sum up.

So, sometime back, I got inspired. Before very long, I made something I wanted on my own wall, my very own Tulsa destination blind.

With encouragement from a few friends, I experimented with selling a few of these creations. The result was encouraging but by no means overwhelming.

I’m not really a gambler by nature. I don’t know what came over me.

But I bought a ton of supplies. The UPS man delivered six enormous boxes and I started hyperventilating. Thirty-six canvases. I was obviously insane.

I hid them in an upstairs closet and spent a few weeks engaged in a mental kickboxing match, chastising myself for following an impulse — a whim, really — with such a price tag.

You. Stupid. Idiot.

To make matters worse, it occurred to me, in my full-blown dementia, that I couldn’t make a booth with just destination blinds. So I bought other stuff.

And then my computer crapped out. Cha-ching. I started to panic.

I did eventually start painting, realizing that maybe I could cover at least some of the supply costs (never mind the new computer, but whose counting?) by selling a painting or two.

Or a kidney. Either way.

By the time Holiday Market rolled around, I had used and abused my friend Neil, who shares my mania for all things cottage, for painting help, pricing advice, merchandising and even a little last-minute babysitting . Thanks to a cadre of Junior League volunteers, I managed to throw together my booth just before the market opened for Preview night.

As I watched shoppers flood through the doors, sick with anxiety, I remember muttering to Neil:

“I just hope I sell a painting.”

And then this mob of people rounded the corner.

Within six minutes of the market opening, I sold seven paintings. Three of them were bought by one lady. I could have spent the next two-hours-and-fifty-four-minutes shrugging my shoulders in disbelief.

But I didn’t have time.

I was too busy. Selling. Twenty paintings. In three hours.

Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday passed. When the smoke cleared, I had sold 48 paintings. Along with lots of other items, both handmade goodies I’d cranked out and the ready-made things I’d bought.

I took these photos on, I think, Sunday morning after every painting except one had already sold. (This was my first attempt with the iPhone camera, and in poor lighting to boot, so be kind.)

Supplies covered. Computer paid off. I even paid for the iPhone I “had to buy” when the venue’s WiFi went on the fritz.

I don’t know how to spell “relief.” But I know what it feels like.

Bar none, my favorite part of the weekend was hearing people speak well of the things I’d worked hard to make or chosen with care.

You see, Tulsa is “French Country” Country. Home of Charles Faudree. Home of toile. Lots and lots of toile. Some time before Holiday Market, I did a little market research to see what was selling, and “cottage” wasn’t it. Not even close. I started questioning my instincts. Do I stock things that seem to be popular even if they’re things I would never buy for myself, or do I stay true to my own style and possibly not sell anything?

In the end, I decided to stick with what I loved, knowing that if I didn’t sell anything, at least I wouldn’t be unhappy with the inventory. Can I say how glad I am that I did?

If half the battle of making a sale is getting people to stop at your booth — and it is — the other half seems to be offering merchandise shoppers haven’t seen anywhere else.

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference.

One lady had seen one of the blinds on a morning show TV spot and told me the only reason she came to Holiday Market was to buy one.

While I was inhaling an infrequent meal in the cafe, my booth was visited by an interior designer who loved the blinds and said she had clients who would be very interested. Neil confided in her that we were a little afraid cottage taste was anathema in French Country Country, whereupon the designer told her we were just “ahead of the curve.”

I got lots of encouragement to open a store of my own — uh, thank you, but no — and the great compliment of having a couple of people try to knock off my designs and method.

I’m not the sort of person who needs constant reassurance to function, but I have to admit: having people say nice things about your work for four days straight was a heady experience.

As for where I’ve been lately, if this were a (very long) story math problem you might have noticed I didn’t have 48 blinds on hand. Which means I’ve spent the last two months finishing the other 12 paintings I sold at Holiday Market — along with another 14 I sold after the market ended. I finished the last batch on the Tuesday before Christmas and have been in a hyperbaric oxygen chamber trying to recover ever since.

Lessons from this little jaunt?

  1. I’m exhausted.
  2. Trust my gut. Even when all evidence suggests that I’m insane.
  3. Taking the occasional risk doesn’t, in actual fact, kill me.
  4. I need more sleep.
  5. No matter how busy I am, dropping everything to play with my kiddos is always a good idea.
  6. Being on your feet all day after only two hours of sleep really stinks.
  7. I have the best husband in the universe.
  8. I don’t hate working retail. But it’s still a stretch for a misanthrope like me.
  9. Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.
  10. Having a friend who shares your enthusiasm for zinc place cards and burlap bags is one of life’s unexpected blessings.

I’ve managed to get all my destination blinds on my website and hope to add the rest of my merchandise soon. But the most pressing issue at the moment is unearthing my house from the debris. It’s ugly. I think I’ve already been reported to Hoarders.

In summary, for those of you who visited my booth to cheer me on — and buy things — thank you from the bottom of my heart! I would be remiss in my gratitude if I did not also acknowledge the help of my amazing friend Neil and the dynamo Junior Leaguers who put on such a fantastic Holiday Market. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

Last but most importantly, my sweet husband did things like staying up four hours past his bedtime to help paint, watching the kids by himself for three days straight, and putting up with a spate of Crabby Abby-ness unparalleled in recent history.

Honey, thank you for your help. And your patience. And your support. And your patience. And your love. And your patience.

I love you. And your patience.

P.S. My name is Abby. Not Amy. Remember?

App Happy

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We interrupt this broadcast to bring you an important message.

Abigail has now joined the 21st Century.

Thank you. We now return to our regularly scheduled programming.

Thank you, Steve.

But seriously. I did get an iPhone. A new one, even.

I’ve had a wireless phone for ten years or so.  In all that time, I never paid for a single phone. I took my pick of whatever freebies came with an contract renewal. My last one looked about like this:

I used it for three-plus years and was content.

Then, last weekend, a series of events (to be detailed at a later date) made it urgent that I get a phone with a data plan. I just couldn’t buck the trend any longer.

Hence…

I must say, not only did I manage to buy an iPhone, I somehow managed to set it up almost completely on my own without it melting down in my hand. True, the guy at the AT&T store transferred contacts from my old phone and Scott helped me a teensy bit it to hook up to our home wi-fi. But I synced the phone, added music, linked up to my email — all by my lonesome. I was pretty impressed with myself.

As a new inductee into the iPhone cult — can I call it that? — I stand as in awe of  technology as Pliny the Elder might be upon walking into the Mall of America. It’s way cool. Cooler than me, without a doubt.

I’ve been dining on iPhone apps. At least the free ones. Other than my Arkansas Razorback Fight Song Ringtone (a must), I have yet to fork over actual money.

But I think the clock is ticking.

I’ve been ogling Hisptamatic, for example. But what else? What other apps are changing the lives of iPhone users near and far? Help me. I’m woefully ignorant.

What’s your favorite must-have app? What must I have to live another day?

P.S.  Why won’t the WordPress for iPhone app work? What’s wrong with it? Why can’t I log in? It’s there, I can feel it, but it just won’t let me in. What’s wrong? Why can’t I log in? Answer me!

P.P.S. Does anyone else find it strange that my buddy Steve up there is holding the elusive white iPhone 4 instead of a black one? Where is it now? Because that’s the one I really wanted. Maybe they shut it up in the Disney vault after the WWDC conference was over…

Cord Labels

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Only is some bizarre universe inhabited by Hoarders alone could I be considered a neatnik.

Still, I have certain areas about which I am incapable of tolerating disorder. Among these rarefied OCD nuggets of my personality is the world of computer cords.

No mishmash of power cords, printer cables, USB extensions or network cables intertwined into a technological magpie nest for me. Cords should be organized, freed of the encumbrance of each other, neatly looped and bound by zipties. If you’ve ever had to plunge into a Gordian knot of cables — unplugging and untwisting as you go — trying to extract one stupid cord for the thing you need to unplug, you have my sympathies.

Now that I have a laptop and a little cord society has come to live on my desk, I’m even more inflexible. I have no less than twelve devices that connect to my computer via a USB cable and I have to be honest: I no longer have the gray matter to remember what plug goes with what gadget.

[Getting older sucks.]

But one good OCD turn deserves another.

Is there something odd about using your label machine to label the box you keep the label machine in? If there is, don’t tell me.

Sigh. I feel much better now.

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