Curlee Whirlee Thursdeee...

How to: Vintage Curls sans Heat!

First of all, this tutorial is blowing my mind. My hands are literally itching with excitement to try this out. If it wasn't super-duper weird, I would go to the office restroom right now, wet down my hair in the sink, and get crack-a-lackin' on my own shexshy vintage curls.

Secondly, this girl is the cutest. Seriously. Her accent is to die for. And if it wasn't super-duper weird, I would ask her to be my best buddy next time I happen to be in Austria. But... yeah, that would be weird.

At any rate, I am off to Vegas tomorrow night for a No-Boys-Allowed Girls' Weekend with my females-in-law! I fully intend on corrupting all of them with my wild ways and having that one Katy Perry song stuck in my head all weekend, so I will report back ASAP on how that goes.

Until then, if you try out this tutorial, please tell me how it goes!

The thing about being an attention-fiend...

This is what happens when you put me in a talent show. There was a little serenade that came at the end, but it got hacked from the video somehow. And also I close my eyes out of nervousness quite a bit. And also there is a moment where I run out of breath and become parched simultaneously. But don't be mad at me, please. I'm clearly a novice.

A special thank you to my husband Clint and good friend Trina for helping get where I am today.

Style File: Camping 101

What exactly does one wear to impress a moose?

 Obviously.

Is my head really that flat in the back?

Dang it.

In which things I love are serious...

You know that dream where you're watching something awful happen, and you want to look away or move in to help or call in the troops or scream or something but all you can do is just watch it and watch it and watch it? 

Yeah, me too. 

And I'm sure you know that feeling that comes with the dream. It starts in the pit of your stomach where it settles some of itself like lead to hold you down. Then it kind of gnaws its way up your rib cage, twisting your heart strings and numbing your limbs, working its way to your throat where the sound should come out. But nothing does. You say nothing. You go nowhere. You are unable to accomplish anything. And doing nothing makes that lead in your stomach feel heavier, your limbs feel number, your words less accessible. And that's the worst part of it. You can't stop the hurt happening in front of you, and you can't stop the void going on inside of you. And you can't look away.

It's like that sometimes in real life, I think. Bad things happen. You can't stop them. You go numb. You watch the hurt and sad go on around you. But you can't get your words to be useful or your arms to provide comfort or your eyes to cry. You get down on your knees to pray, and you can't even conjure the words to send up and over and where they will matter. And you can't look away.

And then one day you wake up. You can pray and comfort and laugh and move. And you can look away, but you don't.

 *******

This past Sunday the family was able to be together for my little brother's 20th birthday. 20 years old. I can't even believe it. When I turned 20 everything was ahead of me. I was engaged to my very best friend, had 3 crazy semesters of college left, and the world was truly my oyster to cradle me and pummel me and smooth me into any shape and color of pearl I desired. And that was just 1 year and 10 months ago. Since then life has changed drastically.  It's filled with more people to love and be loved by. It's teeming with different stressors and different fears and different monotonies, but it's also alive with different dreams and possibilities and inconsistencies. But it is all still ahead. All fresh and smacking of adventure.

And now he's 20, too. Or his body would be, I guess. But who knows how old his Mac Daddy soul is. Probably much older even than the hill he's buried on. But I would like to think that it's still green, full of the freshness of youth, as bright and shiny as his little blonde boy-curls in that picture of him on the spinny chair. 

Round and round and round we go. Where we stop nobody knows... right?

We all lose things and moments and people we love. I don't know why the whole world doesn't stop and wait for us to catch up with it, but it doesn't. But maybe it's because sometimes, when we are finally done with the round and round part, where we stop is important and full of good. Maybe.

Happy birthday, McKay.

Is this love?

Some glimpses from the weekend...

Convey Sushi Bar downtown.

This is where we found that one stripper. Good times.

And yes, this is love.
For each other.
For this city.
For this weekend.

So here's the thing about weekends. I love them. And here's why:

Friday, 5 pm: The world is yours to conquer. And the adventures are only beginning when the sun goes down. The night is young, and it's gonna last until you say it's over.

Saturday, 6:30 am: This is when the alarm would generally go off on any given week day. But not today. Today you own the morning. And it's for snoozing. It's for cuddling. It's for finally dragging your limbs off the mattress only to park them on the couch with a big bowl of cereal watching Spongebob, because you think maybe this time you'll understand why it's so funny. But you still don't. But at least you're still in pajamas with bed-head.

Saturday afternoon to night: There are no real meals made. But the city is buzzing, and it's open to you as long as you can stand the damp air and the withering heat. And you can. And you do, because Saturday is all about fitting everything in that you couldn't do every night after work. And at the end of that day of work and play, you are rewarded with a big bowl of popcorn, your very own Big Drink, and a seat next to the love of your life to enjoy the next flick on your Netflix queue.

Sunday: Prepare whatever lesson or ironing or painting of nails you procrastinated the night before (in order to fit in that extra hour of popcorn eating and pillow talking) and get about the business of the Sabbath. Sometimes it doesn't feel like a day of rest. But when you sit and reflect on the work of the day, you realize it was rest for your soul. Rest needed to conquer the haranguing of the world you'll receive the rest of the week. Rest to be a better person.

Sunday night: A quiet dinner. A TCM classic, maybe. Any excuse to keep Monday morning at a distance. You drink in what's left of the weekend until you know you can't anymore. Till you have to shut your eyes even if you aren't tired, because that 6:30 alarm will come earlier than you think. 

Then you work hard all week so you can have weekends like this all the time.

And by you I mean me. But I know we all have our weekend things.

What do you love about the weekend?

Ode to a Sunset...

You make me fall in love with the world over and over again.

COWabunga, dude!...

(Yeah, that title is totally from Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. Bet you didn't even know I was cool enough to know that, huh? Well, now you know. I'm really cool. Go tell yo mama.)

So Friday was Cow Appreciation Day at Chick-Fil-A--- basically my new favorite fake-holiday. For those of you who don't know what that entails, CAD means if you dress up like a cow, you get a free meal. Which for me is better than a present under the tree, because (A) I get to dress up like a cow, (B) I get a free No. 1 combo with a DC, the waffliest waffle fries evah! doused in Chick sauce, (C) I don't even feel guilty about all those calories because I freakin' worked my behind off to get that meal, and (C) I get to dress up like a cow.

But I already said that, didn't I?

Well, here was the finished product. And guest-starring in this Chick-Fil-A post is my cute-to-boot sister-in-law, Christine. Affectionately known as Steen.

Hope you enjoy!!! (We sure did.)

Steen gettin her Cow on in the car.

Don't hate me cuz I'm beautiful, ya know...?

Got our cows all in a row, it seems.

The tail end of our Cowventure.

I know it's difficult, but please forgive me for my terrible puns. I mean, if my 18-year-old brother-in-law can forgive us for dragging him to Chick-Fil-A at closing time dressed up like cows, you can forgive me for those teensy-weensy bad jokes, right?

Of course, right!

Happy Monday, ya'll!

When you wish upon a blog...

Dreams really do come true. For example, do you remember when I spotted the loveliest cardigan of my pretty-things-made-of-wool dreams??? Well, here's a refresher if ya don't. Bonus: I won't even judge you for not remembering about it. I will judge you just a tidge if you didn't read it. Because it was kind of a cute little post. I liked it very much and laughed loudly at my own jokes.

But before I sound too pathetic---A half-week after posting that lil' number, I came back to work (after several sick days, remember? No? That's okay... kind of...), and what do you think was waiting at my desk for me?! The cardigan!!! I could hear its little echo from inside the packaging (if you are still confused that means you still have not read the previous cardigan post, and now I am definitely judging you).

There was a little note on the packaging with loveliness on it from Vicki (Thank you, Vicki!!!). I couldn't believe my eyes when I held that perfection of knittedness in my pudgy little hands (yes, they really are pudgy) and realized that it was mine! And that it came from my boss. Because SHE ROCKS hardcore. Seriously, she does. I have pictures to prove it.

And so, without further ado, I give you....

And now a question for the fashion fiends out there. This happens quite often with the most loveliest of things. They are purchased and then I have absolutely no idea how best to wear them. I stuck a big cream flower in mah hurs this time, and it went over well at the office. But I would like to spice it up a little bit. Do the lady justice, ya know? (By the lady I mean the cardigan. Personification is essential when dealing with items of this caliber of beautimousness, don't ya think?)

So, what would you do?

(Oh no, now I have that City High song about ladies of the evening stuck in my head...) Help a sister out! ;)