PC BS

I’ve had it up to here with the politically correct bullshit.

A person of undetermined sex, weight, height, race, creed, sexual orientation, and health status forced me to do something that negatively impacted a part of my being while I was doing something.

Does that sound at all interesting? No.

Two morbidly obese women forced me to walk through a cloud of their cigarette smoke on my way into the gym.

Does that sound interesting? Kinda.

But I can’t say that because I might offend people with a higher BMI than me. Or smokers. Or women. Or people that don’t go the gym. Eff this shit.

Oh waaaaiiiit a minute. I shouldn’t have said I “might” offend. I should have said I will offend. There’s no doubt about it, because I said something much less inflammatory and I was flamed for it on Facebook. I was so well bar-b-qued that I’ve reverted to not posting anything of any real interest in my status updates. I’m now sticking with Pinterest and funny things my kid says.

I want to be clear on one point though. I’m not taming my Facebook posts because I don’t have anything to say. I’m not doing it because I don’t want to be controversial. I ‘m not doing it because I feel censored in any way. I’m not even doing it because I don’t like to argue (because oh, I DO!!). I’m going back to the soft pitches because, to me, Facebook is a place for family and friends to keep in touch with each other. It’s not a place to start arguments and offend people. I was under the impression that as long as I avoided the religion and politics I could get by without offending people too badly. But, I was wrong.

Anything I say about someone bigger than me is automatically an insult because I’m small.

Anything I say about someone religious is automatically an insult because I’m simply spiritual.

Anything I say about men is insulting because I’m a woman.

Anything I say about a lesbian is an insult because I’m hetero.

Anything I say about a person of another color is an insult because I’m white.

Anything I say about someone with a disability is an insult because I’m fully possessed of all my mental and physical faculties. (Okay, sometimes I have dumb moments. Shush.)

I can keep going, but I think you’re getting the point.

FUCK THIS SHIT.

I don’t give a damn what you are. I really, really don’t. I couldn’t care less if you’re a different anything from me. You know why? Because my parents and grandparents raised me right. I had three parents and five grandparents that always told me that people were people. It would have been six if my paternal grandpa hadn’t passed before I was old enough to remember anything concrete about him.

Okay, make that seven grandparents. I’m unofficially boosting Robert A. Heinlein into the mighty and exalted position of being my grandparent. May as well, he might have done more to my moral character than the other nine combined. Grandpa Heinlein may be the single most unbigoted author I’ve ever read; he let you get to know and love characters without bringing up the subject of race. You could get clues from hair color and surname, maybe even a reference to skin tone but that’s not the same. 

But I digress; the moral here is that I was raised to note and then disregard the superficial stuff.

What I do care about is how you treat yourself and the people around you. That’s it. If you force me to walk through a cloud of smoke, you’re a loser. I don’t care about the fact that you’re morbidly obese. I don’t care about the fact that you smoke. Those are choices you make for yourself. I will never respect your choices because I think you’re abusing your body, but they’re yours so it’s not my place to judge. What makes me call you a loser is the fact that you forced me to walk through a cloud of smoke. I don’t think I can say that part enough.

When you affect the people around you, you need to expect the judgment that will follow. It’s a part of life. If you fart in public, expect people to wrinkle their noses in disgust. If you quietly take your screaming kid out of the restaurant, expect other patrons to thank you when you come back inside with a happy and tear-free kid. Judgment does go both ways. If you do bad things, you’ll be judged negatively. If you do good things you’ll be judged positively. This is the way our society works. If you’re old enough to read this, then you’re old enough to have figured this out by now.

The reaction I got to my earlier Facebook post took me by surprise. I think part of the reason for that is I underestimated people. I thought people knew me better. I thought people could separate themselves from a statement I made about someone else. But I was wrong. I said something insulting about an anonymous someone that had been rude to me and bunch of people took it personally.

And all because I described the person. And not even in a rude way. I could have said some lazy fat cow was killing herself with a cancer stick and forced me to walk through the carcinogens. But I didn’t. All I did was call her a morbidly obese woman. Which is true; she was at least four hundred pounds. I’m not a medical professional, but I’m pretty sure that “morbidly obese” is a clinical term. I would have thought the person was just as much of a loser if it’d been a short Asian. Or a big muscle head. Because, like I said before, I don’t give a damn about any of that superficial crap. I only mentioned her weight as a descriptor.

Well, that’s not completely true. I also mentioned it to highlight the fact that she was taking the fast lane speeding toward a heart attack. But, I wasn’t judging. She was at the gym. Yay for trying. But she wasn’t trying hard enough to make a difference or she would have already quit smoking. Couldn’t she at least been doing it in her car?

Somehow I’ve managed to ramble on to the tune of a three page document. My apologies for being long winded. And I seem to have wandered and strayed away from my original rant about how much I hate trying to be all PC and perfect.

All I really want to be able to do is speak my mind and not have someone start pointing their finger at me and calling me names because they’ve taken offense. If you’re going to be that easily offended, go away, build up your self-esteem, and then come back. Maybe when you feel better about yourself you won’t be seeing insults behind every word that’s spoken. Get comfortable with your weight, or lose it, whatever. And then maybe you won’t take it personally when I say some random fat lady was being a loser. Because it’s not an insult to overweight people in general. It’s not an insult to you. It’s as insult to the one and only person (in this specific case two) that made me walk through a friggin cloud of cigarette smoke. That’s it. No one else, so get over yourself.

Protein Balls

Last week my friend, Liz, told me she wanted to make her own healthy protein snacks. I took this as a challenge. Because that's how I roll.

I've been a little obsessed with quinoa lately so I originally sought out a recipe featuring that awesomeness. I found a recipe that I thought looked fantastic so I ran off to Walmart to get the few ingredients I was missing. But Walmart does not carry Carob chips so I was thwarted until better stores opened (It was 1am. Again, that's how I roll.) 

I had every intention of getting to a store on Friday...but I woke up puking. Now, I don't know about you, but a tummy bug of the magnitude I was enjoying is not at all conducive to being anywhere within 3 miles of food. So I didn't get my carob chips until Tuesday. But I did lose 3 pounds, so there was an upside. I whipped up this recipe and had it all spread out on my pan to cool in the fridge. I licked the spoon before I washed it, to see how it tasted and I almost started that round of vomiting again. But, I was 90% sure that was because it was warmish and about the same consistency as oatmeal, which I HATE. 

So I waited. And waited. And waited. And went to bed. And woke up. And waited. By the time I dropped The Kid off at preschool I was over the waiting. The goop is at the bottom of my trash can now. But my other friend, Laura, gave me a link to a recipe she had tried and her kids had approved. If kids like, I consider that a guarantee. These looked AMAZING!

But, I had two problems. I hate coconut and I have no honey. So it was time to improvise a little. This is my modified recipe:

Protein Balls 

1/2 cup peanut butter 

1 cup oats (I used the old fashion kind, but I'd guess instant would work too.)

2 scoops of chocolate flavored Pure Protein Whey Protein Shake mix

1/3 cup carob chips

1-2 tsps coconut oil (I just scooped a lump in there. But any oil type thing should work, it's just to help smooth out the carob while melting.)

So, the protein powder replaced the coconut of the original recipe and the carob replaced the honey. 

I melted the carob and oil in the microwave, stirring every 20 or 30 seconds and being very careful not to scorch it. I gave it a good final stir to make it all smooth and then dumped the rest of the ingredients into the bowl and stirred. Then I scooped the mix into 14 balls and stuck them in the fridge for a bit. They are kinda yummy and extremely easy.

Nutritional Info per ball

Calories : 130

Fat : 8

Saturated Fat : 3

Cholesterol : 11

Sodium : 76

Carbohydrates : 9

Fiber : 1

Sugars : 3

Protein : 7

Iron : 4%

Calcium : 4% 

So you’ve gained a couple of pounds…

**WARNING** This post contains a lot of numbering. I was feeling list-y.

This post was originally inspired by a status update that my cousin posted today. I couldn’t let it go and now it’s grown into something I had to rant about. But, since I was in the shower while this rant was growing, I couldn’t get it out onto my computer…and it kept growing and eventually branched off. I may have to write another post today to cover the branch.

Anyway, my cousin posted this earlier today.

 “When did I get fat? U all don't even know. I can't find anything to wear without showing a roll. Time to starve myself and work the beep out.”

Some things you need to know about The Cuz :

1. She has always been incredibly skinny except in one key area. Which tends to make other women insanely jealous. But that’s only because they do not understand the pain of being skinny with epic breasts. Being skinny sucks. (That is the branch I was talking about. More on it later.) Having big boobs sucks. Are there worse things? Yes. But they don’t pertain to my rant so for now they don’t exist.

2. She’s not really the kind of girl to go around whining on her Timeline about crap just to get attention and compliments. She’s not that girl. (And if she is, I owe her an apology.)

Eighty percent of the responses she received basically told her that her feelings were unjustified. Four out of five people told her that what she was feeling was wrong. Can you believe that? What kinds of friends do that? Oh, right, the kind that think they’re being helpful. That fifth person that didn’t invalidate her was me and I’m pretty sure I’m now the bad guy because of it.

I’ve been in this position before. I’ve made the mistake of posting about weight gain and loss on Facebook before. For the most part all of the responses I received were crap about how I didn’t need to lose weight, I was already skinny, blah blah blah. That’s nice I suppose. But it made me feel like no one gave a crap about what I was feeling, what I wanted, or what I was trying to accomplish. I thought friends were supposed to be supportive. Supportive does not mean trying to deter someone from a goal or trying to convince them that the goal isn’t even there. Yes, I know I’m not overweight. But if I’m feeling fat because all of my favorite clothes refuse to button, please don’t tell me that I’m not. Because my mirror is telling me that I look like a stuffed sausage in the jeans that my fingers are sore from trying to force the zipper on. And to me, that means I’m fat.

Now, I kind of understand the people trying to tell her she’s not fat. Because by American standards, she’s not. Even if she’s gained ten pounds from the last time I saw her, I can guarantee that her BMI is still well within the Normal range. (I just cut a piece of that branch out of here. Oh ADD rantings, how do I love thee.) So no, she’s not fat. She probably shouldn’t have used that word in her status update. But semantics is not an excuse to invalidate feelings. In her world view she is fat, and so you need to respect that.

What really burrowed under my skin though was the one chick who told her that being fat was okay, that those rolls were earned with motherhood. EXCUSE ME?? WHAT THE #^($? Giving birth to a kid is not an excuse to get fat! (Branch trimming again!) Aside from the complete falseness of that thought, The Cuz gave birth over four years ago. If weight gain was because of the pregnancy, it would have happened five years ago. GAH!!!

So anyway I’ve created a handy set of lists.

OKAY FOR STATUS UPDATES  - The key here is to not say you’re fat or seem like your complaining too much and /or feeling bad about yourself. All that will get is sympathy and people telling you how perfect you are. Try to come across as health conscious.

   1.   I’ve been slacking at the gym and gained a few pounds. Better get back to my routine.

   2. The Easter Bunny’s leftovers have been hell on my waistband; none of my jeans fit. Better buy less next year.

   3. I can’t afford a whole new bigger wardrobe! Guess I better be more diligent about my health.

NOT OKAY FOR STATUS UPDATES – Anything that sounds like you feel crappy about yourself. That will just get all your uber nice and/or overweight friends riled up and start a flood of responses about how perfect you are.

   1. I’m fat!! No more eating for me!

   2. I hate how I look! Maybe I’ll go get a gym membership.

   3. I gained five pounds. The world is ending.

OKAY RESPONSES TO POSTS -  What you want to aim for is supportiveness.

   1. I’m not an airline; I don’t put weight restrictions on my friends. Wanna go hang out this weekend?

   2. Congratulations on losing x lbs! I’m glad you reached your goal and now feel as beautiful as I’ve always thought you were.

   3. I put on a few pounds too, want to hit the gym together?

   4. I’ve been using this app/diet/supplement/trainer to lose weight. I’d be happy to give you some tips that worked for me.

NOT OKAY RESPONSES TO POSTS - Your opinion is not at the center of this debate, your friend’s is; please keep that in mind.

   1. You’re not fat! Your entire wardrobe is lying to you, let’s go rack up a credit card and replace it!

   2. Being fat is totally okay!! Ignore those health risks like heart disease and diabetes, it’s all lies.

   3. Why were you trying to lose weight? I liked you better when you were a bigger. (I seriously got this exact response once. The weight he was talking about had me firmly in the Overweight BMI category. 170lbs at 5’2” is NOT okay.)

   4. I hate you for losing weight! I’ve been trying for years and failed every time. You suck!

Have we all learned a little something today? Try being a supportive friend, I can guarantee your friends will like you for it. Even if the person posting is the kind that’s just looking for attention, try to respond with something helpful instead of just platitudes. Empty words get you and them nowhere. But if you offer support, a shoulder to lean on, an open ear, or advice, you’ll actually be making a positive change in some one’s life. Would you rather your friend starve themselves skinny or change their eating habits to become healthier? Would you rather watch your friend lose their eyesight to diabetes or go to the movies with them when you both have grandkids? Would you rather watch their ass get progressively wider or firmer? Help your friends to make healthy choices at the same time as making them feel good about yourself. The rewards will last much longer that way.

Pageant Aftermath

There are some things in life that I know I’ll look back on, shake my head, and wonder what the Hell I’d been thinking. Actually, I can think of a handful right now and I’m not even half way through my life expectancy.

I look back now and wonder why I thought it was a good idea to date a man ten years older than me when I was seventeen. That was just not okay.

I look back and wonder why I thought it was a good idea to go to Mexico with three guys I met while waiting tables at Denny’s. Even though I did end up marrying one of them.

I look back and I wonder why I didn’t try harder in school. Or finish college. Now the best job I can hope for is answering someone’s phone.

I look back and I wonder why I didn’t enjoy my graduation trip to Europe. I could have had so much more fun if I hadn’t been so damn angsty.

I look back and I wonder what made me think that hurting myself would ever make me feel better. I have a ton of scars now, and because of some weird genetic code, those scars will stay forever. (I still have a scar from scraping my knee at the ripe old age of five.)

I wouldn’t classify any of these things as regrets; they are all things that have contributed to making me the woman that I am today. I grow and learn from everything that happens to me. The things I’ve experienced have given me wisdom to pass along and share with others, and I’m willing to do that for anyone that asks.

The newest event to make this list in my brain is the 2012 Mrs. Alaska America pageant. Not in a bad way though. Up until now all of the things that make me shake my head in wonder have been negative in some way. I finally have a good one in there. Not to say that nothing good has ever happened in my life. But, most of those things were either planned that way or happened by accident. I know that sounds weird and doesn’t really make a lot of sense, but I can’t think of a better way to put it.

During the pageant preparation process I looked back and I shook my head. What was I thinking entering this? What on earth made me think that I was pretty enough to be in a pageant? I was surrounded by beautiful women. Why did I think that it’d be a good idea to put myself on a stage to be judged? I grew up with some major self-esteem issues. Some were handed to me by a step-father that didn’t know how the words he spoke to me would affect me. Some were caused by being overweight.  And some just appeared out of the hormonal wreckage that is the teenage brain.

I went into this with this as my outlook on life: I’m just a stay-at-home mom. I’m a nerd. I’m average looking. I’m nothing special. I’m shy. I’m not the kind of person that was meant to have a lot of friends. I love my son beyond all reasoning and nothing will ever come before him, even if that means I don’t get a social life. After twelve years, I still think my husband is hotter than any hunk on a romance novel cover. I write trashy novels, miss racing cars, feel most myself when I’m playing a character on stage, and am only a little ashamed of my RPG past.

Now that the pageant is over I look back and shake my head. Why didn’t I do this sooner? Why was I so scared? What in the world made me think I wasn’t good enough? How did I not see that sometimes the best way to not feel judged is to be judged?

I didn’t win a single prize or award during the pageant. And ten years ago this fact would have sent me running for a knife. Or maybe to the piercing studio. Thankfully I’ve grown out of that phase in my life and I just go running for a quiet corner to give my mind time to process the situation. Does it hurt that I didn’t win ANYTHING? Absolutely.  I wanted that crown and sash, or at the very least one of those big bouquets that said I was really, really close to that crown. I wanted one of those medals that said everyone thought I was the nicest person there, or that I had the prettiest wedding photo, or that my head shot was the most amazing piece of photographic brilliance. None of the official judges, the optional judges, the pageant staff, or the other contestants voted me as the best of anything. But, after a week of contemplating this, I’ve decided that I don’t mind that much. And here’s why.

I’ve been told that this year’s pageant was THE year. That our class was an exceptionally good one and that it’s not always as wonderful an experience as it was this year. I’m proud to be able to say that I was a part of this record-breaking class and I’m proud of myself for growing the balls to do it in time to meet these exceptional women.

I didn’t walk out of that auditorium with a crown, or a medal, or anything else that I didn’t walk in with. If you count that apple I brought with me and ate, I actually walked out with less. What I did walk away with wasn’t anything physical; it wasn’t anything you can hold in your hands. What I walked away with is in my heart and in my head.

I have twenty-one new friends; seventeen fellow contestants, two directors, and two former sash wearers. I have a support system that will always have my back. I have the confidence to look in the mirror and like what I see. I know that I’m courageous enough to do anything, whether or not it’s in my comfort zone. I’ve never been in a better place than I am right now, and that’s a direct result of entering the pageant.

I’m still a stay-at-home mom. I’m still a nerd. I still miss racing cars. I still put my son first. I still can’t get enough of my husband. But now I also categorize myself as a beautiful and confident woman; and that’s something I’ve waited for almost thirty-two years to be able to say.

I can’t count how many times in the past week that I’ve been asked how I feel about the results of the pageant. I’ve been told that I should have at least been in the top three. I’ve been told the pageant results were unexpected. All I can do is listen patiently while these people rant; I believe in letting people express themselves. Then I tell them that every contestant this year and I, am proud of this year’s winner’s court and couldn’t be happier with the choice of Vicki Sarber as Mrs. Alaska America 2012.

They never believe me at first. Maybe it’s because they think all women are catty and backstabbing. Maybe it’s because they love me so much that they can’t believe I wasn’t the best choice. Maybe it’s because, in their years of pageant experience, they’ve never seen such a supportive group. Whatever their reasons are, all I can do is smile and tell them that I respectfully disagree. After spending two days with these women, I grew to love every one of them. Every single one of us would have done that crown justice and made our state proud. Whatever made the judges choose Vicki as the winner, it was justified because she’s the perfect woman for the job. She’s a charismatic, beautiful, intelligent, kind, fun, and loving woman. She’s a wife, mother, friend, and true Alaskan. She is Mrs. Alaska America 2012 and she has my full support.

And if anyone has a problem with that, they’ll have twenty-one beautiful Alaskan women to contend with. All these women have been hitting the gym for the last few months to prepare for the pageant, and more than a few of them are gun enthusiasts. 

Santa gave me sanity for Christmas.

Let me preface this by saying that 2008 saw The Kid giving uncertain looks at Santa just long enough for the photographer to snap a picture, then the screaming began. In 2009 the screaming began as we walked up to Santa in the Mall of America. Though in his defense it had been a long two weeks of mommy and daddy dragging him around a cruise ship and sticking him in a tuxedo repeatedly while they posed for endless pictures in fancy clothes he wasn't allowed to touch. (ah, weddings.) And then, instead of going home we had the audacity to drag him to visit weird people in a weird state when all he wanted to do was get on an airplane and GO HOME! And of course we can't forget the joy that was 2010. He was very excited to see Santa that year because he was just starting to get the idea that Santa gave him presents. He insisted on getting all dressed up, wearing slacks, a button up shirt, and a choo-choo sweater. He stood in line patiently and even drew Santa a picture while we were waiting. Then he hit Santa's lap. And the screaming started. As well as the kicking.

On to the promised tale of how my child became obsessed with Santa Claus. So a couple weeks before Christmas, the joy that is Facebook allowed me to see a video that my cousin's daughter received from Santa.

*SPOILER ALERT, Hide the children's eyes.*

A video from Santa that my cousin had created. This thing was completely customizable. You enter the kid's name, add a few pictures, tell them what he wants for Christmas, decide if he's naughty or nice and *POOF* The Portable North Pole sends a video to your kid featuring Santa talking directly to him and ends with the elves checking the machine to see which list the kid is on. If he's nice, Santa congratulates him. If he's naughty, Santa tells him he still has a chance, he just needs to watch his behavior.

So I made one for The Kid and stuck him on the naughty list. He's three and testing limits every chance he can get. I was about to pull out all of my hair and scream myself hoarse. When he saw Santa, and then heard Santa say his name The Kid flipped out. His eyes grew to the size of saucers and he was glued to my laptop. He was so excited to that Santa had a book all about him, complete with pictures and a knowledge of what we'd done this year. When the elves stuck his paper in the big machine, he held his breath until the light lit up to say which list he was on. When Santa told him he was on the naughty list, he deflated. But then Santa said he still had time to get on the nice list...

This video had just handed me a tool that I could whip the kid with repeatedly and never once hurt him physically or emotionally. All kids recover from the belief in Santa eventually and they never even need therapy. Woot! He quickly figured out that mommy and daddy have a direct line to Santa. So all we had to say was "I'm calling Santa." or "Santa's not going to like this behavior." or "You're never going to get to the Nice list acting like this." and he's stop and become a perfect child for a short time.

So Santa became an obsession. And when it came time to sit on Santa's lap for a picture, we got smiles and chatting instead of kicking and screaming. My life was wonderful. And then, on Christmas Eve, The Kid got a new video from Santa telling him made the Nice list. Which set off the desperate need to thank Santa with cookies and milk. And ultimately resulted in the biggest smile you've ever seen when he came out Christmas morning and saw the mountain of presents surrounding the much coveted KITCHEN.

Cookies for Santa.

The Kid was totally into Christmas this year. Like all-out into it. I had to have Christmas music playing in the car. He had to watch that claymation Rudolph movie over and over. He had to help me set up the tree. He Had to check the stockings every morning. Santa became an obsession. (All my fault, more on that tomorrow.)

And so Christmas Eve rolled around and he had to leave out a plate of cookies and a glass of milk. He was very concerned about this. So we made cookies. I whipped out my stash of cookie cutters, and premade (the horror!) frosting. Then, as I was digging through my cupboard for sprinkles, I found INSPIRATION. A package of snowmen Peeps, just staring at me. Yeeeeah.

I whipped out a batch of my Grandma's Christmas cookies, The Kid manning the mixer. While I let the dough chill in the fridge, I searched my kitchen for a plain round shape. It took me at least three searches through my draw of baking/cooking utinsels, irratably shoving my stupid biscuit cutter out of my way as it repeatedly rolled into my way, before I realzed that my stupid biscuit cutter was, in fact, round. Duh.

So I roll out the dough, cut 9 circles and a ton of wreaths, trees, and stars and then bake. After the things cool I invite The Kid back into the kitchen to decorate.

These are The Kid's cookies.

While he went crazy with the frosting and a knife (That's sarcasm, folks. He used small amounts of frosting and very, very carefully spread it evenly with the ((dull!)) knife. His future therapists can thank me for his OCD later.) I was ripping the heads off of my Peep snowmen. Then, while he was getting angry at the sprinkles for not coming out evenly, I was smearing my cookies with white frosting. He finished before me, so he had some time to nibble on a tree while I stuck heads on the cookies.


I'm very glad I decided on green for the scarves instead of red.

I hope Santa liked his melted snowman cookie.


Grandma's Cookies
     1 cup softened butter
     1/2 cup sugar
     1 egg
     3 tsp flavoring (vanilla, almond, lemon, etc)
     3 cups flour (Grandma insisted on Gold Medal)
     1/2 tsp baking powder
Mix together thoroughly the butter, sugar, and egg. Stir in flavoring. Sift together flour and baking powder. Slowly add dry ingredients to wet.
Cover the dough with a damp cloth and let it chill in the fridge for a while. Roll it out really thin (1/16th") and cut into desired shapes.
Optional glaze: brush tops of cookies with mixture of 1 egg yolk and 2 tsp water.
Bake until delicately browned. (425 for 5-7 minutes worked for me)


Did anyone else notice my use of parenthesis within parenthesis? I might have a problem.

Glittery Shoes. For almost free.

Two things converged in my world that changed my life.

1. I started trying to organize my shoes and I realized that I have too many ugly* shoes and they need to go away so that my pretty shoes can have room.
*please note my use of the word ugly here. I would never, ever, ever say that I have too many shoes. It's not possible.

2. Glitter covered shoes became the latest Must Have shoe of the season and I approve 100%. But, all the really great ones are too expensive for me. And all the affordable ones are either ugly, or sold out of my size. (Who knew part of me was normal??)

I'm a rather stubborn girl. When I want something I will move the world to get it. So, I went through the box of ugly shoes that I was going to drop off at Salvation Army and found a pair that I knew were comfortable. Their only real sin was their unfortunate coloring. Matte black body with shiny oak oak colored toes and heels. Not. Okay. I'm almost sorry I didn't grab a 'before' picture so that I could share the ugly. But I didn't know then that I'd be starting this blog. You win again, Hindsight.

So then I was staring at my bottle of Mod Podge, looking all lonely on my counter and I decided it needed a friend. Off to Michael's I went to procure a bottle of glitter. I got a really fine glitter in a kind of coppery, bronzy mix.  (yeah, I make up words) I also picked up a sponge brush. My total purchase was $6, and part of that was the overpriced M&M's The Kid demanded.

I laid out a sheet of aluminum foil. Wax paper would work too, but with foil you can turn up the edges in an attempt to contain the glitter herpes. Or you can be real daring and not protect your table/counter with anything. I'm not that daring. Anyway, I poured some Mod Podge into a small bowl and them dumped in some glitter. I didn't measure, I was in too big of a hurry. I stirred it up and then applied it to the shoes in a thin, even layer. I did this three times, letting the shoes dry in between coats.

The picture isn't the greatest. I took it with my phone at like 3 in the morning and uploaded it to Facebook. And since I'm too lazy to get it off my phone, I just downloaded it from Facebook.

Hi!!!

So I've had this blogger account for a few years but I've never bothered to get around to setting it up or posting anything. Until now. So here I am, setting it up, and I've just realized that I'm essentially talking to myself. I suppose I could look at it as speaking to the future when I'll have millions of readers and fans and money is pouring in because I'm a GENIUS!! But really, I have zero followers right now so I'm talking to myself.

So I've been busy the last few months making a ton of crafts. Which is a nice change since I haven't really had a chance to do anything since The Kid was born. The absolute JOY that is preschool has allowed me to start being creative again. I'm in heaven. But now I feel the need to show off what I've been doing. So I'm going to blog. Yay me!

It all started with my book purses. I named by little project Book Zombies. And it's been moderately successful. But then I started branching out. Jewelry, wreaths, crochet, quilts, shoes...it's always changing. I suppose that's a direct result of being ADD.

I write too. But I'm not published yet. Just you wait though, it'll happen. I'll get hugely famous writing totally awesome books and all of my loyal readers will come here and see that I'm not just a literary genius, but a crafty-housewife genius too.