It's Really, Really Nacho Cheese....Really

Rumor has it that Annie owes y'all a decent story. Sorry, but with all the holiday camaraderie and whatnot, Annie took an accidental break. But, the stories must go on! Today my babies are coming home for THANKSGIVING. I can hardly wait to see the big kids and let's not even talk about my level of pure joy over seeing my Chynna Rose! Of course I'm making tortilla soup, duh. Whilst digging through my recipe grimoire this morning, a fudge recipe popped out and landed in the kitchen floor. It's not just any fudge recipe, though. It's the infamous VELVEETA FUDGE! What??? I've never told you the story of the Velveeta Fudge? Oh, hun! That's practically criminal. Don't believe me? Oh, ye of little faith. Even Annie can't make this up, see?

 Grab a chai latte and some furry socks. I had to dig waaaaaaay back into the old blog vault for this recycled entry. It's a little sad, but not quite mascara risk sad. I think you'll be okay. Cause I'm ok. So listen to what happened this one time (at band camp).............

  Baby Cheeses

Midnight - not a sound from the pavement.
Has the moon lost her memory,
She is smiling alone.
In the lamplight, the withered leaves collect at my feet,
And the wind begins to moan.

Memory - all alone in the moonlight.
I can smile at the old days,
I was beautiful then.
I remember the time I knew what happiness was.
Let the memory live again.

"Memories" - from Cats

We loved chocolate. Sundaes. Hershey bars (her). Toblerone (me). My triple layer chocolate-within-chocolate-on-top-of-chocolate cake. Chocolate pie, courtesy of the pie crust recipe from Grandma Lucille that I shall keep secret for all the days of my life. Suffice it to say that we were chocoholics through and through, my daughter and I. Granted, it was probably more like a genetic disease I passed on to her much like a rare chromosome or some sort of genome. Still, in the grand scheme of things, it was a cross we carried together. Proudly, too. Endorphins, rejoice. Calorie what?? We don't care. Housework makes you ugly. Exercise makes you smell bad. Dieting makes you a tad, well....let's just say irritable. Chocolate, on the other hand, soothes the soul much, much better than chicken soup. Rich. Decadent. Velvety. Chocolate makes the world go round. Just ask Johnny Depp and Juliette Binoche.

2006 - I think it was a Thursday night. Couldn't be a Friday- there would have been a drill team this or a football game that. Wouldn't have been a Saturday night. Nope, this definitely would have been a Thursday night main event. See, Mondays are for fresh starts - eat your veggies and get to bed on time. Tuesdays are still on target- maybe slightly less homework and a few more clothes on the floor of her bedroom, but it's all good. Wednesdays? She was either at or teaching a CCD class. Yessiree, this was definitely a Thursday night. The conversation must have gone something like this.... Me: I've eaten nothing but a piece of lettuce and a single English pea all week. Her: That's your own fault. I don't know why you do this to yourself. Enjoy your life a little, why dontcha? Me: How is it that you're so wise? Her: I'm your daughter. Me: Enough flattery, what do you want? Her: Chocolate!! How bout a DQ run? Me: It's 11 pm. They're not open, punkin' pie. Her: What can we do? Me: Let's make something!!!! Necessity, while it might be the mother of invention, can also be the undoing of us all!

I do lots of things that don't make much, if any, sense. I collect old buttons. I hoard books. I prefer black and white movies over technicolor any day of the week. I still like vinyl records. I clip coupons. And, best of all, I collect recipes. Most are good, but some definitely belong in the "what not to do" file. In 1985, I was 18, married, and pregnant with my firstborn. I was also working and going to school. Apparently, I was also consuming quite a bit of Velveeta cheese. Enough so that I saved the appropriate amount of boxtops to qualify for the official 1985 much-heralded (not) Velveeta cheese cookbook. Odd that I would, over 20 years later, choose that very "cookbook" on that Thursday night. How perplexing that I would be possessed by the cheese muses as I looked at my daughter and stated...."Let's make cheese fudge!"

Don't ask, please. I have no words. An hour later, the two of us gathered over a steaming casserole dish concoction of what I can only describe as a mutant, rancid, chocolate impostor. It was hideous! We both held our noses and took a bite, You don't want to know. Equal parts human feces and oily jello, it was not a pleasant experience. What I remember most, however, was her laughter. Mom was a dork that night. Mom suddenly didn't know nearly as much, and wasn't the the rock-star e'er do well she normally was in such circumstances. Mom was just goofy, gullible, clueless old mom. And, we belly laughed for an hour. So, there you go. One of my colossal goofs became the stuff legends are made of, I guess. Tears were sliding down our cheeks. Tummies were clutched in laughter. I distinctly remember having to sit in the kitchen floor so I wouldn't wet my pants in this hysterical fit. It was blissful.

So, tonight, Chynna, I miss you. I miss your laughter. I miss my best friend. All hail the power of the Velveeta cheese fudge. A bad recipe can do wonders for the soul. I promise to keep being the oddball I've always been. I promise, also, never, ever to make Velveeta fudge for anyone else. It's our pact. We'll always have cheese fudge.

Fakery in the Bakery

Winter nights we sang in tune
Played inside the months of moon
"Never think of never...let this spell last forever"
Well, summer lover passed to fall
Tried to realize it all
Mama says she's worried, growing up in a hurry

"Come on home, girl," mama cried on the phone
Too soon to lose my baby yet, my girl should be at home"
But try to understand, try to understand
Try, try, try to understand, he's a magic man, mama
He's a magic man

"Magic Man" - written & performed by Ann & Nancy Wilson

Finally, a chance to use a Heart song to introduce a blog post! Quick, where's my Bucket List? CHECK! But seriously, I was just sweeping my back porch off when I gasped in disbelief that I hadn't thought of this blog entry muse earlier. I mean, really! It's October. It's practically Halloween, which I ADORE! What better time than now to speak to you about......magic. I mean, this is "Back to the Future Day" after all! Not the David Copperfield prestidigitation stuff. Not the Houdini straight-jacket stuff. No sword swallowing. No Chris Angel levitation. Just some modern day trickery. A little now you see it, now you don't. Slight of hand, if you will. Come, step with me behind my own green curtain (thinly veiled Wizard of Oz reference).

I love social media. All types! Well, maybe not all types. I secretly LOATHE Twitter for no good reason. Still, I force a few tweets now and again just to stay current. I think I feel stifled by the character limit - cause I talk a lot and whatnot. Because of Facebook, though, I have THE BEST relationship with all my girl cousins! I feel like we have this cool, girl's rule club that we never could've envisioned if not for social media. I'm constantly on  Craigslist looking for an antique this or a vintage that. Due to the amazing filters on Instagram, I'm a darn decent photographer, in my head anyway! I Snapchat back and forth with my kids everyday. I'm convinced that, with aid from a YouTube video, I could probably rebuild my transmission. Who knows where I'd be without Pinterest. And, obviously, Blogger rocks my world! So, I promise you I have nothing but love for all social technologies. But they lie. They lie big time. Their lies are SO EVIL & SO WELL CRAFTED...that I even believe them sometimes. In weaker moments, these lies make me feel awful...inferior...unworthy...hopeless.

Let me explain. But first, lemme take a selfie! No, really. Let's take a selfie. Ok...touch up your lipstick. OMG, look at my hair - gimme a sec. Ok...that looks better! No, wait! The sun is behind us and it will give us shadows under our eyes. Let's turn this way. Ewwwwwww! There's a bunch of junk on the ground behind us. Come over here. Ok, smile. What are you doing? Stop smiling like that! Put your tongue behind your front teeth and push while tilting your chin down to the right raising both of your eyebrows holding your phone at least 6 inches above your head, duh. And, push the button! Ok, now let's take about 200 more. NO!!!! Do not post that on Facebook! Let's put it on Instagram. Crop it. Increase the highlights. Use the Lo-Fi filter to make us look tan. Increase the brightess just a touch. Whew! Selfies are a lot of work. #thisisnthowwereallylook

Here's what it's taken me 3 whole paragraphs to say. What you see on social media is not real. None of it. Even the posts that say #nofilter. They aren't real either. Trust me 3000% when I tell you that if the only way you know me is from my profile picture, you would definitely run into me at Walmart and have no idea it was me. Because I don't look like that. I look like a 48 year old woman who wore a baseball cap to the gym because she was too lazy to put on any makeup, or the one who wears a shirt that's extra long to cover up the cellulite, or the one who has on the JFK era horn-rimmed glasses so she can read the labels. The real me. Just remember that the next time I change my profile picture. The peaches & cream complexion, the eyebrow arch, the svelt neckline....it took 200 takes in 10 different rooms and 30 minutes worth of filter work. I promise. It's all magic. That neckline bit the dust about 10 years ago & cellulite is my bff.

Now, am I advocating that we all post ugly pictures of ourselves? That's a joke, and not a very good one. If I am anything to you, I am honest! No, by all means, make yourself look however you want! Personally, if the image I project out into the world looks the way I want it to, I get a boost of confidence. Just don't buy into your own hype! The fitness guru you follow on IG could be a walking financial disaster. The person who posted the makeup tutorial could have the most disorganized house you've ever seen. The DIY phenom you love could live in total and complete hoarder's chaos. It's just Sales 101. I need you to see the me that I want you to see. I need you to buy into the belief that I am this one certain way. But, there's just no such thing as perfection. I throw my own magical top hat into this ring. Recently, I posted this picture on Instagram. I got a whole lotta likes.

Lace, hydrangeas, chalk art, even a picture I painted. Why, isn't my office just the stuff dreams are made of? Can't you see me lounging there in the afternoon, drinking tea and eating scones? Wouldn't life be just perfect if you, too, could have this awesome office? IF YOU ONLY KNEW. Allow me to present to you my REAL office on the sun porch:

Umm, yeah. That's more like it. See, there's really a ton of crap under the desk. There's also a ton of crap stacked up on each side. Oh, and that's where the dog kennel hangs out. And my styrofoam cooler, cause I didn't answer the phone when 1990 called and wanted it back. And an old car seat box full of signs. And there are other things you could see if I panned out a little more, like this lovely red armoir with a chewed off corner. Or this, which was sitting right at my feet as I was sweeping. Gotta love pugs.

Oh, and that's not even the best part!!!!! Look what's right behind me!

I like to call this corner the "where old props go to die" corner. See???? It's far from perfect. I just make it look like the piece of Heaven I wish it to be. And, there's nothing wrong with a little magic. Nothing at all. I say to you TAKE THOSE SELFIES! Tilt that chin! Filter your little hearts out! Just remember, at the end of the day, we're all human. None of us are better that the other. Don't buy into the commercialistic idea that you aren't good enough or pretty enough or special enough just the way you are. Now, go make some magic! And, tag me!!!!!

Pinkish

When your day is long

And the night, the night is yours alone

When you're sure you've had enough

Of this life, well hang on

Don't let yourself go

'Cause everybody cries

And everybody hurts sometimes

"Everybody Hurts" - REM

Ahhhh, October in Texas. Finally, we can all venture outdoors without fear of our lungs liquifying in the heat. High School football is king. The State Fair of Texas is in full swing. Turn off the a/c. Open up all the windows. Time to buy pumpkins. Time to buy Halloween candy. Time to buy something pink. Love it or hate it, October means a sea of Pepto-Bismol pink almost anywhere you look. Welcome to breast cancer awareness month. It seems, more and more these days, like slapping a pink ribbon on everything from yogurt to mechanical pencils to powdered sugar doughnuts has big biz thinking we'll be more apt to buy, buy, buy. Are you as tired of it as I am? Do you often wonder if ANY of the money spent actually winds up funding a single study or helping even one patient? Hot pink. Hot pink with glitter. Camo with hot pink. NFL with hot pink. Save the TaTa's. Save the Boobies. Fight like a girl. Get your pink on. I mean really? So irritating, right? So unfair to all the cancer patients who weren't "lucky" enough to get breast cancer? Who picks the ribbon colors, anyway? Is there a khaki ribbon? Relax. Settle your feathers. I'm not crazy over the commercialization of breast cancer either. But it kinda saved my life. If you read my blog and feel like we're sort of best friends even though we've never met, this one's for you. Now you can tell people that cancer touched your life. Cause your sort of best friend is a survivor. 2008 was decidedly not a good year.

I buried my beautiful, 16 year old daughter, on April 16, 2008. She did not have cancer. She had a congenital heart defect that was never diagnosed until late March of 2008. 3 weeks later, she died after an unsuccessful attempt to repair her aorta. My husband offered me the opportunity to take a few months off of work to get myself together. Translation: I cried everyday until I vomited at least once. I slept in her clothes. I slept in her bed. I crawled into her closet and refused to come out for hours. I went a little cray. It's not so much that you had to know this, but you had to know this. I cannot tell one story without telling the other. They are just so intertwined. You'll see. I am 40 years old in this story.

My house was full of kids. Three more of them, in fact. Ranging in age from 7 to 21. And 3 dogs. And a great husband. And a cat. We were all shaken and broken....and we missed her...and we understood our own mortality for the first time. And I could feel us all free falling. Untethered. Off the rails. One day, I just decided that losing one child was enough. If I wasn't careful, if I let this go on, who knows what could happen to us. So, I made a conscious decision to hide my crazy, as Miranda Lambert would say. I got up the next day and washed a million loads of clothes. I washed my hair. I put on makeup. I told my 18 year old high school senior that he would, in fact, graduate soon, regardless of what had to be done to make that happen. So, we went to many meetings at the school. We worked out a plan. He had friends over. We swam. Life was exhausting and the nights were way too long, but I was trying so hard to go through the motions. Maybe it was the chlorine residue from the pool that day? Maybe it was insanity? All I know is that I could not stop itching. My chest itched. My underarm itched. My chest itched some more. What is that? It feels like a scab. Like a tiny pellet from a bb gun is under my skin. Dear goodness, I've scratched my boob until I've made a scab. Except I can't pick it off. It won't come off. So I look, but I can't see it either. But I can feel it. A little pellet under my skin. It's there. It is there. My husband says it's there. He says it that night. He says it the next morning. Still there. I have just turned 41 in this story.

I needed to see a doctor. I needed my gynecologist. But, I couldn't go see her. She worked in the hospital where I just camped out for a week. Where I didn't get to bring my daughter back home with me. If I have to see those halls, or that lunchroom, or that parking lot, I don't know what I'll do. So, I pick another doctor off of the internet. Randomly. I call. I tell them about the bb pellet. I tell them I don't know what to do. They ask about my last mammogram. I tell them I've never had a mammogram. They asked why I haven't. I tell them I skipped it. Accidentally. I tell them I meant to schedule it. I really, really meant to schedule it. They set my appointment two weeks away. It was a whirlwind 2 weeks full of graduation parties and graduation ceremonies (because HE MADE IT) and lots of nagging thoughts in the back of my head. Finally, I meet my new gynecologist. She's lovely. She's caring and thoughtful and so sure this pellet is absolutely nothing. But I should still have a mammogram. The very next day. So I do. During my mammogram, the phone in the exam room won't stop ringing. I think that was when I knew something was wrong. Having a mammogram is much like playing "Deal or No Deal". There's a banker up high in a booth somewhere who dictates what happens. Except, the banker is really a radiology doctor who's watching your mammogram images. And they need more views. Because that pellet is there. Then the door flies open. Your boob is out and you don't know who this man in the white coat is doing the Risky Business/Tom Cruise floor slide, but you sense that he's the banker. He wants more images. And a sonogram. And a meeting in a secret room. He wants to know who's with me. I explain that I came alone. He says there's something there. He says there are two somethings there. He says I should have a biopsy. The next day. So I did. I went alone. I didn't tell anyone. It was a Wednesday. The banker told me he'd try to rush the test so I wouldn't have to go all weekend without knowing. When the phone rang at 7 pm on Friday night, I knew it was him. I sort of knew what he was going to say. You have cancer. My daughter has only been dead for 6 weeks in this story.

I could go on forever. Literally. But, I won't. Here's the Reader's Digest version....two tumors in one breast. Very slow growing breast cancer. Probably had it 7-10 years before it was diagnosed. Tumors have very high levels of estrogen and progesterone. My surgeon says stage 2. My oncologist says maybe stage 3. My lymph nodes are affected. Mastectomy. Chemo. Radiation.

Depressed yet? Here's the deal. I took my grief and all my untetherdness and all my lostness and I DOVE into cancer speak. I read everything. I talked to everyone. I participated in a clinical trial. I ate differently. I spoke differently. I woke up one morning and saw everything so very clearly. I would take my husband and my children and my 3 dogs and my one cat and my parents and everyone else who so graciously supported me, and we would FIGHT. Win, lose, or draw, we would not go down easily. I had all of these beautiful, precious souls looking at me every single day. I saw that I was the only one who could lead us. Well, actually, God would lead us, but I would have to be the first one to fall in line behind Him. If I chose to fold, they would fold around me. If I chose to fight, they would fight with me. If I chose to live the best life I possibly could, even if it were just because I felt I owed my daughter to see the world for her and live a good life for her......they would all see and feel and live, too. I think I just didn't want the tragedy of a beautiful girl who left too soon to be the defining moment of my other children's lives. Or mine.

Moral of the story: MAKE MINE PINK! I'll be the sell out. I'll wear the pink shirt. I'll drink out of the pink mug. I'll pop the pink breath mints. I'll do it all. Thank you, cancer. Thank you for saving my life. Because you made me, I crawled out from under my bed one day and decided life was worth living. So, I'll take your pink. Hopefully, I won't have to take your yellow or your purple or your khaki or any of your other ribbon colors. But, hey, I'm still standing. I am cancer free, as far as I know. Do I live in fear of a recurrence? Yep. But, I live. I am 48 years old at the end of this story. My story.

Dirty Sally (or I Hoard Bottles and Tons of Other Things)

If I could save time in a bottle
The first thing that I'd like to do
Is to save every day
'Til eternity passes away
Just to spend them with you

But there never seems to be enough time
To do the things you want to do
Once you find them
I've looked around enough to know
That you're the one I want to go
Through time with

Excerpts from "Time in a Bottle" - Jim Croce


FINALLY! It's time for a DIY project! But first.....Dirty Sally? What the what? All I have to say is, blame it on my mother! See, I'm basically a short but exact replica of my mother, fellow bottle hoarder extraordinaire.  Soon, I will tell you the story of her obsession with cobalt blue bottles and how she found this certain brand of wine coolers that were available in said bottles. So she drank them. Then she convinced others to drink them. Lots of them. Then she turned them upside down and stuck them in her flowerbeds. As edging. It was STUNNING! She also had a goldfish that lived in a crystal punch bowl, but now we're off on a wild tangent. Anytime my mother found a new bottle she would say, "I tell you, I'm just like Sally the Bottle Lady." Now it's obvious, huh? No??? You mean, you're not addicted to Gunsmoke reruns? What's wrong with you, then? Here's the Reader's Digest version for all you 60's western TV show slackers.....Sally was a recurring character on Gunsmoke who actually got her own spinoff show (thank you, IMDB. I did not know this.) She was ALWAYS drunk and chewing tobacco as she wandered the streets of Dodge City with all these bottles in her cart. I'm not drunk and neither is my mother, but we LOVE bottles and all other types of shiny things. And, yes, I admit that I hoard bottles. Spaghetti sauce bottles. Pickle bottles (after I drink the juice). Salsa bottles. My absolute favorites are the organic apple cider vinegar bottles! Nothing makes me happier than seeing someone eat the last pickle. I get downright giddy. There's one problem. I looked in my china hutch recently and realized that while I don't have any actual china, I have a cabinet FULL of empty bottles. Never fear, Annie is here! Let's turn those bottles into swoon worthy vases appropriate for both the toniest of parties and the perfect accent for a rustic wedding vignette. Tonight we will focus on the color-blocked gold vase dupes that some top design stores are selling, as well as my own take on personalizing a chalkboard vase. You're wanting to know if there will be pictures. There.Will.Be.Pictures. Here's one of the looks we're emulating. Again, EMULATING.....they are large and in charge, including their price tag!

STEP 1 - DO NOT LOOK ON PINTEREST TO FIND OUT HOW TO REMOVE LABELS FROM BOTTLES. Do not. I've done all the legwork for you. I've tried a gazillion methods and will now share my secret label removing technique with you. It's so simple!!!! Fill up your kitchen sink with the warmest possible water you can coax out of the tap & add a liberal squirt of Dawn. If you're de-labeling more bottles than will fit in your sink at once, do multiple batches or just use your tub. Before you pop the bottles into the water, do these two things: Thing 1 - remove as much as of the label as you can just by picking it off. Don't stress over how much you can actually remove. It's completely fine if there's still a layer left. Thing 2 - fill each bottle up with your super hot water then gently place your bottles longways in the sink/tub. Turn the tap off once all but the very tops are covered. The hot water inside the bottle will couple with the hot water outside the bottle, all at the same time, and a-la-peanut-butter-sandwiches, the magic will happen. BUT FIRST, you'll want to sprinkle a liberal amount of baking soda just on the top exposed side. Now, pour a teency amount of white vinegar on the top of each bottle. Yes, Dexter, you've just created a tiny chemical reaction. Put up the vinegar. Put up the baking soda. Put up the Dawn. We can hoard, but let's be neat about it. Now, WALK AWAY. Relax. Drink a wine cooler, maybe. Come back in 15-20 minutes. Here's the fun part! Take a metal spoon - just a regular eating spoon. Hold the spoon so that the concave side is facing away from you and your thumb is braced on the back. Find the angle that works best for you and scrape the label off. Depending on the manufacturer's specific adhesive, the label will either slide right off or require a little scraping. If you still see residue shadow on the bottle, rub vigorously with a magic eraser sponge. This technique will work with any glass bottle, including wine bottles. Rinse your bottles. Notice how the light bounces off of them. Aren't they gorgeous? Swoon....

STEP 2 - Suns out, spray paint cans out! But, first we prep. Abraham Lincoln said, "Give me six hours to chop down a tree and I will spend the first four sharpening the axe." Words to live by, I tell you, So......first we tape off our bottles. Now, since I do the amount of painting that I tend to do, I have painter's tape on hand at all times. I have used masking tape before with excellent results, however. Those should be your choices, painter's tape or masking tape. No packing tape. No gift wrap tape. The sticky value will not be adequate for the seal you'll need. Now, do not get all OCD over getting the tape around each bottles in the same exact place. I prefer the randomness of having the painted section at random heights around the bottles. One bottle will be taped close to the top, but the next bottle should be taped off closer to the bottom. There will be a pic. Soon. Like now...

After this, you'll need to cover the portion of the bottle that you do not want to receive any paint. In our case, that part will be on the top. I've seen really pretty bottles where the top is painted but the bottom is clear. While I love the look of those, I don't want to see flower stems all helter-skelter at the bottom (in the event that I choose to put flowers in the vases). But, that's just me. Back to covering the tops...use whatever is on hand. I save the coupon circulars that come in the mail. Also, the big city newspaper really, really wants me to subscribe. So much so that they keep leaving some odd Friday paper in my driveway. I have no intent of subscribing to something I can read on The Skimm (shameless plug because I want them to send me Skimm swag), but I do save the papers for such projects. So I wrap the tops in newspaper or a coupon circular and secure that with a scrap piece of tape. Confused yet? Don't be. The end result will look like this:

Next step - GO OUTSIDE. It should not be: below 40 degrees, raining, or extremely windy, unless you want to be wearing (in this case) disco gold paint. "But Annie, what do I do with the newspaper on the top?" Dear ones, just pull it out of the bottles and use it as a shield for your arm. That way, you can have one arm inside the paper, gripping the bottle lip, and the other arm wielding your spray paint can. Use a very light hand when spraying the bottles. Hold the can 12 inches away, like the hairspray can says. I'm a child of the 80's. This is difficult for me. But, trust me, light is better. Repeat after me, "Light is better." Once you've painted all your bottles in your neighbor's driveway, it should look a little something like this:

Guess what? Your hard work is DONE! These babies will dry very quickly. Leave them in your neighbor's driveway for 15-20 minutes, just to be on the safe side, then gingerly peel away both the tape and the newspaper and bring them inside. Once you've lined them all up on your dining room table, get ready for the "aha" moment. They are stunning!!!!! See?

Goodness, I adore these bottles! What will you do with yours? I am fortunate that my adult sons send me roses at least a few times a year. Hippy chick that I am, I string them up and dry them once their best day has past, so I almost always have dried roses on hand. Here's what I do with my gold dipped vases.

But, then again, my sons tell me my house looks haunted. (It's because it's old and I love anything with a patina or with an ample accumulation of rust). My gorgeous daughter-in-law, though, asked me to style her bookcase recently. In the spirit of "only use free stuff that you have on hand", as that is my motto (not YOLO but OUFSTYHOH, I guess), we did this:

Tre' chic, stylish and modern! But wait, there's more!!!! Maybe you're not gold crazed like I am right now. S'ok, you can use silver spray paint, or ANY accent color. But wait, there's even more! I tried out the chalkboard spray paint today. Sure, it clogged and ruined my manicure, but the end result was adorbs! I was prompted to cut my only pretty white rose from my flowerbed and pair it with another pretty blue blooming plant whose name I can't remember and a couple of sprigs of fresh mint. Can't you imagine this as part of a wedding vignette!

So, there you have it! Our first actual DIY. Sally, it's time to get more bottles. Can you please eat that last pickle? I'll drink the juice & we'll hoard it for another vase. You cannot, unfortunately, save time in a bottle, but these bottles are so pretty. I'm betting my memories are all stuffed into each one, & that's something. In the words of the amazing Carol Burnett...

"I'm so glad we had this time together, just to have a laugh, or sing a song. Seems we just get started and before you know it comes the time we have to say, "So long". Until next time! Much love from The Dearest Annie. 

Umm, you had a baby where? OMG...

People smile and tell me I'm the lucky one, and we've just begun,
Think I'm gonna have a son.
He will be like she and me, as free as a dove, conceived in love,
Sun is gonna shine above.

And even though we ain't got money, I'm so in love with ya honey,
And everything will bring a chain of love.
And in the morning when I rise, you bring a tear of joy to my eyes,
And tell me everything is gonna be alright.

"Danny's Song" -Loggins & Messina

Let's pretend I didn't take a month off from my blog. Shhhhh.....I was busy ushering an amazing Summer into, what I hope will be, a stellar Autumn. A million bazillion things happened. My son graduated from the super secret squirrel organization (no, he's not in the Illuminati). My BFF daughter-in-law and my precious angel granddaughter moved way way far away to be with the secret squirrel. My oldest son looks startlingly like a duck-call maker. His sweet little brilliant girlfriend still adores him (winner, winner!)...and I refinished enough commissioned furniture to float a fleet of boats. But enough about me. Ok, actually a little more about me. This just in! My forever BFF's daughter reached out to me to ask me a question or two about home birth. Months upon months ago, another precious little relative asked me for my birth story.Today, I made my first batch of Switchel. I read a news article recently that referred to Switchel as the Gatorade of the 1800s. I LOVE it. So, I laughed at myself and pondered over the other things I'm drawn to that are strangely from another time and place. And, I started thinking. Should I? Tell my story, that is? Major market tease (not). Duh, of course I should. Isn't it GROSS when old women who haven't had a kid in 24 years offer up a Madden worthy play-by-play of how little junior made his appearance into the world? Right? Well, for this day, that gross old woman is moi. So pull up a chair, cause I owe a couple of people a good 'ole birthin' story, Miss Scarlett!

My first child entered this world in the most ordinary way. It was the 80's. I was 19. Take a drink of wine. I was already married & had been for over a year. It was planned. Yes, I know you're wagging a finger, eviling an eye, and tssking me from one end to the other. You go right ahead. There are MANY things in my life I know I effed up. Being someone's mommy is not one of them. It is the one and only thing I know I did AMAZINGLY well. Did I make mistakes? Gosh yes. Daily. Did I scar them for life? I better have. Are we all better citizens of the world as a result? Yes, yes, and hell yes. But back to the matter at hand. At the tender age of 19, in the ruralist of rural hospitals, I had a baby. 1986. Insurance didn't cover sonograms because they were "experimental". I went into labor with what I thought was a 7lb baby of either gender only to welcome a 9lb 7oz small man into this world. He was healthy and gorgeous and I was on top of the world. As the next few days evolved, however, I developed a BITTER taste in my mouth for the uber rural Texas birth experience. Allow me to explain....

Once upon a time, a birthing class was mandatory. At least I was naive enough to believe the person who told me it was mandatory. So, my baby daddy and I went to each one. We paid attention. I took notes. My ears perked up when I heard things like "no enema", "don't let them shave your nether regions", & the ever popular "you should walk until you need to push." So I showed up at the podunk hospital with a WRITTEN BIRTH PLAN (cue laugh track). Nurse Ratched promptly looked me over, rolled her eyes, snarkily sigh-laughed, and said something along the lines of, "Shave her, strap her in the bed, & give her an enema. STAT!" That's how I remember it, at least. I have NEVER been so scared in all my life. My baby was blessedly beautiful and precious. The experience, though, left a scar on my heart.

Fast forward. I was the mommy of an 18 month old. I still lived in uber rural Texas, but I worked in a call center way far away in a ginormous city. I was going to school at night. I was pregnant again. Gulp. Hello, early 20's. Due to an unforeseen annihilation of all home construction in the state of Texas, baby daddy (I only have 1) moved 1500 miles away to tackle a huge construction project. I would join him. Post baby.  In 8 months. I have never been one to do what I'm told. I am most definitely a rules girl, but when my back is against the wall, I can initiate fisticuffs like the best of 'em. So, at the 4 month mark, I took the toddler and one of those awesome potty chair thingies that lock onto the top of a big toilet and hopped on a Greyhound bus bound for Nothern Virginia. Sure, I almost missed the switch in Memphis. Sure, I feared for my life a few times. Sure, I used a pocketknife to cut off some nasty training pants at one point. But, guess what? We pulled into Manassas as one confident mommy and one toilet trained toddler. Fast forward 2 more months. Little Texas girl lives in a DC suburb. I am 6 months pregnant. I am a college dropout. I am unemployed. I have no health insurance. Virginia has no Parkland hospital. We have a home, but we are surviving on carrots, tap water, and fried bologna sandwiches. I have 3 months to get my sh%t together. It's time to birth another baby. It turned out to be one of the best times of my life!

One day, the toddler and I are walking through our neighborhood, picking up sticks and talking about BEAUTIFUL Virginia, the deer tracks, the battles fought there, the mountains, & the snow that stacks up until it's 8 ft tall, turns charcoal gray, and refuses to melt until Summer. At the end of our street, a woman walks out into her yard. She has two kids. She waves. She invites us in. She is the first nice & welcoming person in a sea of not-so-nice people who hate my accent and my Texas hair. She asks me 1 question. When are you due? An hour later we are both drying my tears. She takes my hands. She says, "Listen. It's going to be okay. I had both of my kids here. At home." 

There is no such thing as GPS. There is no such thing as internet. There are no such things as personal computers. Cell phones are available. They weigh 10 lbs & I'm so not kidding. I put the toddler in a car seat (they were just declared mandatory). I drive to the closest gas station & buy a map. I stare at it for what seems like hours. I write down what I think my route should be. I strike out in an unknown land. It is time to meet my midwives.

There were 3 of them, these midwives. I recall thinking of Greek mythology and wondering which one was Enyo & would they pop an eye out to pass to the next. Then, we talked. They were ANGELS. I had never seen women who didn't shave their body hair. Relax, I thought. You like Madonna & she doesn't shave, either. Understand, it's still the 80s. One examined me. One held my hand. One held my child. There were many appointments. I was most definitely back in school. Read this. Commit this to memory. Research this. Meet this pediatrician. Pre-register at this hospital. Sterilize this. You don't know what erythromycin is? You do now. That birthing plan I wanted to use in 1986? It's 2 pages long this time. Boil water. Bake sheets. Walk 2 miles a day. Rinse, lather, repeat.

The baby is two weeks late, this middle child of mine. I'm scheduled for induction at the hospital on Monday. It's Thursday. I see the midwives. The baby daddy and I are making that loooong drive home when it hits me like a ton of bricks. "Pull over," I say. "Find a pay phone," I demand. "Traffic is awful. They'd better head out now. I'm about to have a baby." By the time we pull into our driveway, an hour and a half has passed. I cannot remember climbing the stairs to the second floor. My husband is sweating profusely. I'm pacing back and forth in front of my bed, waiting on the cavalry to arrive. He decides to clean out the closet. A relative that made this pilgrimage with us arrives to take my sweet boy for ice cream. Everyone in my camp from Texas thinks I'm a lunatic. It's 7 pm. I remember that we had an iron bed. Full size. My childhood bed. There was an ornate footboard. I white knuckle it. I am in the process of deciding what to do: scream? squat? cry?  speak Swahili? Everything seems possible. Nothing seems possible. Finally, my midwife arrives. It's Martha, secretly my favorite. Later I will find out that she wasn't even on duty that night but, hearing it was me, decided she wanted to take the call. The RN I hired as a birth assistant is right behind her. Four hours from that fateful moment on a congested DC highway, little bitty me gives birth to a small elephant. He is perfect. He is huge. The scale on hand maxes out at 10 lbs. He is every bit that and then some. 15 stitches later, the realization of what my human body was able to do truly resonates. Challenge me on how I know there is a God & this is the story I will tell you. 18 hours later, at a pediatrician's office in Herdon, VA whose name I cannot recall, he still weighs 10 lbs. "I'd bet anything he weighed about 10.4," he says. In my head I wonder how it is even possible to birth a baby this big. Or this perfect. Or this precious. Was it the birth experience? Was it the fact that  my mortality and that of my child hung in the balance for those precious few moments? Was it all I had learned? All I knew then was what I will tell you now. Birth is a miracle. God is in charge. It can work blessedly well at home. It can all go wrong. It can work blessedly well in a hospital. It can all go wrong.  For me, home was where the heart was. I was young. I was often foolish. I threw caution to the wind. I birthed this baby at home. And the next. I am so, so grateful I had the courage to make that decision. It is not for everyone. It was for me. 

Coming soon....baby # 3 is born at HOME. Texas. Research the term "lay"midwife. Until then....peace, love, & babies!

Unapologetically Me

He turned thirty-five last Sunday
In his hair he found some gray
But he still ain't changed his lifestyle
He likes it better the old way
So he grows a little garden in the back yard by the fence
He's consuming what he's growing nowadays in self defense
He get's out there in the twilight zone
Sometimes when it just don't make no sense

He's an old hippie and he don't know what to do
Should he hang on to the old
Should he grab on to the new
He's an old hippie...his new life is just a bust
He ain't trying to change nobody
He's just trying real hard to adjust

"Old Hippie" - The Bellamy Brothers

I'm baaaaaack! (Use your inner Poltergeist voice. Heather O'Rourke, RIP.) Thank you so much for not chastising me too much for my one week sabbatical. Things that happened in one scant week (including but not limited to)...the first ever Moon family vacay, 3 cumulative days of reading 2 books (Ms. Nell's "Go Set A Watchman" AND the new Sue Monk Kidd book, "The Invention of Wings") Both were amazing - more to come on that later. Lastly, I partook of my 30 YEAR HIGH SCHOOL REUNION! Say it ain't so! This got me to thinkin'....30 years? Ouch. But a good ouch. So, today let's explore something going on in my life that's typically a make or break point for a whole lot of us. Age. It's inevitable, but not for the faint of heart. I'm reaching out my literary hand to you. Take it. Let's walk, shall we? 

The day I turned 45 (over 3 years ago >gag<), I went to work like any typical day. I listened to an audio book on the way (it was a looooong commute). I probably stopped for a Mickey D's coffee. I'm almost certain I drove barefooted. I seem to recall that my "work daughters" decorated my desk with balloons and tiny metallic 4's and 5's. It was a great day! Until I opened my work email. What to my wondering eyes should appear? Why, just an email from AARP. Association of American RETIRED Persons!???? Good ole' AARP wanted me to know that they were there for me should I need information on aging related services in my area...or life insurance. Oh, but wait, there's more. Directly underneath that email was another jewel. THE SCOOTER STORE was just wondering if I were still mobile. Perhaps I needed some assistance in that area? Just as I was recovering from the initial email shock, my mom called me. She sang happy birthday to me, told me she loved me, told me I was fabulous, told me I was her favorite child. I reminded her that I was her only child, but the sentiment still warmed my heart. Then she said some chilling words. "You know, the senior citizen center where I work just lowered the age for their softball team to 45. You could play." I couldn't breathe. My skin was clammy. My heart palpitated. Is this my life now, I wondered? Life insurance? Scooters? A Senior Citizen Softball Team? Cue some old people songs. Maybe Culture Club in elevator musak. Karma Chameleon?

Some days I look in the mirror and think, "Not too shabby." Other days, though, all I see is bouffant pageant hair, two huge age spots next to my right ear, a wad of color resistant grays on my left temple, and enough hail damage on my legs to keep a dent repair company in business for decades. Now, we've seen celebrities who can't come to terms with aging. There are cases to be made for good plastic surgery for one's face (hint: Jane Fonda, according to Perez Hilton). There are cases to be made for bad work, too (hint: Melanie Griffith, according to Perez Hilton). I'm not really sure which side of this fence I fall toward. I've gotten "botoxed" twice and LOVED it. I thought it was so cool to teach myself to raise one eyebrow when I was twelve and channeling Kristian Alfonso from "Day's of Our Lives". I wanted mysterious. What I got, 30+ years later was a question mark of wrinkles above my eyebrow and a butt crack crease in between my eyes. So, Botox gets a big HECK YES from me, except I'm way too much of a cheapskate to pay for it on a regular basis. Plus, momma always told me not to buy the dented canned goods because botulism will kill you. So, there's that. But back to me gazing into the mirror! After I take note of every imperfection, I force myself to say at least 10 nice things about myself. Why? I'll tell you, but first....

Cool things I've done since I turned 40 (this is not an actual paragraph, grammar Nazi's - just a random list): I ran a 5k. It was awful and I'll never do it again. Of the non-walkers, I only beat two people. One man was at least 80 and wore a knee brace. The other gentleman was at least 90 and wore two knee braces. I vaguely remember turning as I crossed the finish line and yelling "eat my dust, Grandpa." Not my finest moment, but I DID IT. Sure, I didn't know you were just supposed to swish and spit the Gatorade at the halfway point. I doubled back for another Gatorade, took them both like a shot at the bar, and threw up in the park on the back leg of the run. But, I finished! And, I never stopped running! Also, I took a promotion that required EXTENSIVE travel, like weekly. Little old me who'd never flown solo now has a mastery of almost every major airport in the continental US! ALONE! I don't even like to fly! You can't pick up furniture off the side of the road when you fly. But, I did it! Here's another one - I realized my dream to live in a really old house. We downsized. We sold. We donated. I quit that travel job. I live the uber simple life I always wanted, hence I have time to type these words to you, today. Sure, we eat lots of beans & rice and other budget friendly stuff. But, I did it! Lastly, I had the creative spurt I'd been threatening to have for my whole life. I'm THE go to girl for lettering on just about anything. I've styled stuff for other people - think weddings and concerts and civic events. Sure, most were done with me as the creative sidekick and not the main honcho, but hey, if you don't create your own hype, who else will? My sweet Em taught me that! <3 <3 <3 The point is, without really thinking about it, I've managed to check some stuff off of my proverbial bucket list. 

Pause for the Gilligan's Island dream sequence where Ginger dreams about that illustrious career she lost when the minnow wrecked (cue harp music). The road to this new me was paved with tears, what ifs, and a whole lot of Lieutenant Dan style hatred for fate's crappy card dealing ability. The year I turned 40 turned out to be one long gut punch. I lost a kid. Poof. Gone. Bad heart. (You will NOT comment that you're sorry, or bless my heart, or anything else of that nature because it's not what this is all about. We've all got stuff.) Approximately six weeks later, I was diagnosed with breast cancer. When the dust settled it was suddenly a year later and I was angry and hollow, with an icy cold heart and a tremendous, overwhelming fear of absolutely everything. I acted like I was the same person. I pretended that I cared about whatever it was the world felt one should care about. I went through the motions. I did the work, sort of. It was a piss poor job of imitating a human being, but at least I was trying. Very slowly and very unsurely, I began to realize that maybe, just maybe, I'd been doing this life thing all wrong this whole time. My own mortality slapped me in the face. I don't have another 41 years to get this right. Heck, I might not have another 5 years. There's just no guarantee. Tomorrows aren't coupons you can redeem. Walmart does not price match on those. You can plan ever so carefully. You can have lofty goals. You can want things. You can love finer things. Ain't nothing wrong with liking nice things. But, in my case, I'd done that for my entire life. Had it gotten me where I wanted to be? Where did I want to be? Could I even answer that question? Enter the protagonist, my husband. He saved the day.

See, when we had the bad year, my husband told me something that I will always, always remember. He said I should really stop postponing my happiness. He told me to stop waiting for happiness to find me once I felt worthy. He said not to think thoughts like "I'll be happy once I lose this 10 lbs. I'll be happy as soon as I get my dream house. I'll be happy once I have that luxury car." He said when we got old and looked back on life, we wouldn't remember any of that stuff. He told me we'd only remember the big messes. The failures. The catastrophes. The chaos. And we'd miss it. And we'd realize that's where we had the most fun. That's where we were the happiest. That's where the laughter was the most hysterical and the hugs were the warmest. Am I me? Just about. I may not run another 5k and softball will NEVER be in my wheelhouse, but there are so many things I can do now that I never thought were possible. Because I am awesome, plus 9 other good things. So, take a look at yourself. Be happy now, right smack dab in the middle of all of the mess of your life. Enjoy your journey, even the Culture Club musak parts. The new, improved, sappy/saccharin me needs you to know that you really can do anything you set your mind to. Just set it for what you really want. But set it. Set it real good. ;-) 

Mamas Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up To Be Pretzels

She said, "The girl I was with the business degree
Probally wouldn't recognize me
I was gonna run the bank, I was gonna run them out
Now all I wanna run is a bubble bath
Back then you know I had this plan
Before all of this reality set in
Here comes life boy ready or not
Hey I wanted it all and thats what I got"

"B'cause I'm gopherin', chaufferin' company chairman
Coffee maker, copy repairman
Anymore there ain't nothin I swear man that I don't do
Been jugglin', strugglin', closing big deals
Dancing backwards in high heels
Just when it feels like I can't make it through"
She said,"It sure is nice to just be the woman with you"

Kenny Chesney - The Woman With You

I want to talk to women. And moms. About moms. And women. And daughters. And gypsies (bleh. eck. phooey). Firstly, I'm wary of you. I really am. You and I, we've become downright partial to each other. I like you and you like me. That could all change in about 3 minutes (1 1/2 minutes if you're a speed reader). What I'm trying to say is that I'm bout to get all controversial on you. Maybe. But, that all comes later. For now, let's talk about another thing ruined by Pinterest.....

I'm going to curse. DAMN you, Pinterest! I love you! Why, I pulled you up three times today at Kroger because I needed the ingredients list to the Honey Bun Coffee Cake. I pulled you up at the gym today for that awesome leg workout that I'm going to regret tomorrow. I pulled you up this morning for some 21 Day Fix recipe ideas. But, you're the bane of my existence! You're evil incarnate! You ruin everything, Pinterest. You ruined the word gypsy. It used to be my favorite word. Other words you've ruined for me: junk, shabby, chippy, glitter, rustic, and the ever so popular cottage. All useless now because you allow people to do dumb things like spell them wrong (junque, kottage, GliTteR). Nothing, however, is worse than what you did to use of the irreverent word gyspy. Flagrant gypsy users, have you been to Bulgaria? Romania? Hungary? Have you had a baby thrown at you in Rome? Do you have dark skin and emerald green eyes? Do you routinely hang out with tramps and thieves (ok, if you got that one, you're really old like me)? It's not your fault. It's just Pinterest. Why the gypsy rant? Because the gypsies had it going on. Sure, they can put hexes on folks, like in Stephen King's "Thinner" or "Drag Me To Hell". Ok, maybe they do make a fortune from snake oil. But those gypsy women were the stuff of dreams. They kept it simple. No housekeeping. Just pack it up and go.

Me for most of my life: get up at 4 am. Take dogs out to pee. Feed dogs. Take dogs back out to poop. Put dogs back in kennels. Unload dishwasher, Reload dishwasher. Make kid's lunches, Put on my suit. Leave by exactly 6 am. Drive 2 hours to work (maybe 1.5 hours). Constantly call kids to make sure everyone leaves home in time to get to school. Work like a banshee. Leave at 5 pm. Drive 2 hours home. Wrangle kids. Go home. Let dogs out. Make dinner. Supervise homework. Make a Walmart run for a random school project I wasn't aware existed. Clean kitchen. Vacuum living room. Mop kitchen floor. Do laundry. Iron. Realize I'm still in my suit & heels. Go to bed by midnight. Rinse, lather, repeat. I was a pretzel. Are you? It's ok. We have to be sometimes. It's not our fault. We are really good at doing a metric ton of things all at once. Once the world found out that we COULD do that, it decided we SHOULD do that. No fair. Why?

I HATED myself for a long time. I HATED that I was always tired. I HATED that I only got 4 hours of sleep every night. I HATED that I was always running late to some kid event. I  I HATED that my house was never clean despite my Herculean efforts. I HATED just about everything. I bent, twisted, contorted, stretched, pretzeled.....all in the name of perfection. And, for what purpose? Hint....there is no such thing as perfection. I didn't understand how to separate my heart from my head. I don't have a daughter anymore. That's a side story. Let's pretend I do. I need to tell her something. Baby girl, don't let them do it to you. Don't let them ruin you. Your house doesn't need to be clean 24/7. Who the expletive cares? You didn't get your make-up on perfectly today? It's ok. You look better without it. Why are you working somewhere that's so far away you're only getting 4 hours of sleep? For the money? Guess what...it's not worth it.Consider downsizing and saving for college instead. What life is: an amazing journey. What it's not: a competition. There are no awards for the best pretzel. See, the gypsies had it right. They never cleaned their houses. They just got up, put on their jingly ankle bracelets, hoop earrings, an awesome shawl, and got that caravan on the road. Gypsies rock. Damn you, Pinterest. Baby girl, be a gypsy.

The Reverse Grinch Effect

I could escape this feelin', with my China girl
I feel a wreck without my, little China girl
I hear her heart beatin', loud as thunder
Saw the stars crashing

I'm a mess without my little China girl
Wake up in the mornin' where's my, little China girl?
I hear our hearts beating, loud as thunder
I saw the stars crashing down

China Girl - David Bowie

So, I wasn't going to do this. I wasn't, under any circumstances, going to blog about my first grandchild. Or my late daughter. I assumed everyone was about sick & tired of that song & dance from the last blog (shameless plug: www.dayinthelifeofdina.blogspot.com if you just have to know the back story OR if you're auditioning for a soap opera and you need to be able to cry on command or make those I might cry but I might not faces where your lips slightly open and close before the commercial break). Besides, this blog was supposed to be different! This blog was supposed to be chock full of recipes (only one thus far), DIY's (none yet, but I'm soooooooo close!), and other cool stuff to help brand me and interest Lifetime in creating a movie of the week about my shenanigans. But, stuff happens. Stuff, in this house, has a name. It's Chynna Rose. If I could figure out how to insert an emoticon of a rose here, trust me I would. It's come to this. 

Why do you need to know this story? Because people tried to explain this to me and I just didn't get it. And, it's important. Are you a mom? A dad? An aunt or an uncle? Do you just know some moms & dads? Regardless, we need to talk about THE ANNOYANCE. If you're a parent, one day, you might just become a grandparent. You will annoy the crap out of everyone you know. You should know this up front. Granted, you will not care AT ALL that you are annoying the crap out of the universe. You may even get a perverse pleasure out of it. Now, if you just know parents, you should understand that one day they conceivably could be grandparents, and as such, will annoy the ever-loving crap out of you! If you're shaking your head in agreement with this ideology - maybe you've experienced THE ANNOYANCE first hand already - you might want to start a not-for-profit organization to end THE ANNOYANCE once and for all. Don't bother. It cannot be done. In our opinion, there's never been a cuter baby, a  smarter baby, a better baby.... We want to tell you. We HAVE to tell you! You must know!!!! We even have pictures to prove it!!! See, what no one told you is that being a grandparent makes your heart explode. It's what I call the "Reverse Grinch Effect". 

Here's what happens. You're a parent. IT'S SO HARD! You love them and all, but those teenage years, geez louise! Still, you push through. You get them "adulting" on their own at some level. They leave the nest. You're sad for approximately 2 days, but then you get cocky. I have no kids at home! I can go to the gym! I can take that promotion! I can drink wine on Tuesday nights! I can take all their closet space!!!!!! Life gets mucho wonderful as you remember what if feels like to just be you in all your college day glory. You even get a little selfish! Heck no, I don't want to volunteer on your committee. I'm FREEEEEE! Umm, you want me to go to what kind of meeting tonight? Sorry, it's hot yoga night, duh. See, life after kids is amazing. It really is. Then comes THE VISIT.

My visit went like this: I opened a gift from my son and his beautiful wife of 6 months. It was a collegiate coffee mug. It said Grandma. Simultaneously, my husband was opening an identical grandpa mug. I was very wrapped up in the moment, since I LOVE getting gifts! I remember seeing his mug and literally saying, "Guys, y'all are so mean! He's not that old." Then, I read my mug. Then I think I said something about making fun of people's ages was really mean spirited. Then my daughter-in-laws face fell. Only then did I "get" it. Okay, so I jumped up and down and hugged everyone and cried and said "really?" a thousand times and I was so so so so happy. Pinterest has ruined so many things for us as a society. I'm sure the video you watch when you look this up on Pinterest shows the future grandma screaming in joy, hugging everyone while yelling "I love you for letting me be a grandmother in approximately 7 months" and running figure 8's around the kitchen island. I still apologize to my daughter-in-law on a weekly basis. THE VISIT is Step 1 of the Reverse Grinch Effect.

Step 2.....here comes your kid with a baby carriage. I was far more fortunate than most grandmothers will ever be. I was in the delivery room. See, 2nd born son has blown our socks off with his initiative in life and career choices. He's a Navy veteran who recently landed a GREAT position. I could tell you, but then I would have to kill you. Since you could be reading this anywhere in the world, airfare to come and kill you would cost too much, so I can't really tell you. Suffice it to say it's a wonderful position that he just could not say no to, though he realized it would mean he'd be sequestered in training as his first child was being born. So, the grandmas stepped in. Yep, enter Grama & Didi (I'm the latter), birthing coaches extraordinaire! In an odd reversal of fortunes, you get to see birth from the flip side of the coin. I'm not going into detail. Thankfully, this was a great birth: only 6 hours of labor, blessedly normal, yet with the hallmark birth scares so many people experience, what with little ones not realizing we really need them to breathe immediately & whatnot. It was amazing. But, then I saw her face. Now, I'm a believer.

Step 3 of the Reverse Grinch...those eyes. They are baby eyes, her eyes. They are also her mommy's eyes. Her daddy's eyes. But, they are my eyes, too. And, yes, even though I'm deliberately trying not to make comparisons, they are her Aunt Chynna's eyes. What will she see through those eyes one day? Something as complicated and earth shattering as a cure for a disease? Something as simple and perfect as the love for her own child? I hope I am still here in this world when this all comes to fruition. I am annoying. I am overbearing. I am grandma, hear me roar. But, speaking of Aunt Chynna, were you wondering? Several people asked me prior to her birth, how do you feel about your son and his wife naming a baby girl Chynna? Does that bother you? Is it weird? Well.....it is, simply, a blessing. See, when you lose a child, you spend an eternity in the most excruciating pain. It never goes away. Don't listen to anyone who tells you it gets better. It doesn't. You will get better at pretending that it doesn't hurt as much, and that's something. You can even trick yourself sometimes. But, now I get to do something pretty special. I get to say her name. Chynna. It doesn't stick thickly to my tongue anymore. I can roll it right off. Chynna. It's melodic. I remember picking it for my baby and thinking how cool a 90 year old Chynna would be. It's so good to say that name again and not be drug down to the depths of despair. It's amazing to say it with connotations of gossamer angel wings and beautiful clouds on a sunny day and butterflies landing on your nose. I get to do that. And, just like the Grinch when the people of Whoville still loved the spirit of Christmas and him, even after he stole the roast beast, my heart fills with love. And explodes. Full on Reverse Grinch Effect. Forgive THE ANNOYANCE, please. We're just grandparents. We can't help it. 

Strawberry Fields Forever...& Waffles

He was working through college
On my grandpa's farm
I was thirsting for knowledge
And he had a car
Yeah, I was caught somewhere between a woman and a child
One restless summer we found love growing wild
On the banks of the river on a well-beaten path
It's funny how those memories they last

Like strawberry wine and seventeen
The hot July moon saw everything
My first taste of love, oh bittersweet
The green on the vine
Like strawberry wine

Strawberry Wine - Deanna Carter

You're never going to believe this, but I'm blogging about strawberries! Seriously, though, I'm actually blogging about waffles, the homemade kind...with strawberries on the side. And syrup. And whipped cream. That's not out of a spray can. Hater's gonna hate. I do not like spray whipped cream. Didn't Demi Moore overdoes on that stuff? Is that even a real thing? I'm overly naive about some things. Wink, wink.

But before we start, listen to my disclaimer. In anticipation of Harper Lee's Go Set A Watchman, I just re-read my favorite book of all time (Ms. Lee's other one, you know), TWICE. In To Kill A Mockingbird, one of the pivotal lines says something like, "You never really understand a person until you consider things from his point of view...until you climb into his skin and walk around in it." I live in a teeny tiny house. It chose me. It was the first bungalow built in my little town in 1910. I have a kitchen that's a cross between Gray Gardens and going camping. If you understand that, we are best friends.Things my kitchen has: the world's tiniest oven, dubbed "The McOven", a gorgeous 1910 freestanding porcelain sink in desperate need of a good refinishing, and a decent amount of room. Things my kitchen does not have: cabinets. Also, pretty countertops & most other kitchen stuff. So, walk around in my skin for a minute and don't think nasty thoughts about my little kitchen. Or do. I love my kitchen and it loves me. Enough said. Let's be like the donkey in Shrek and start MAKING WAFFLES!

Do you see the gorgeous whipped cream and the beautiful strawberries with my farmhouse sink photobombing the picture? Please read the entire recipe before you attempt to make these waffles. I cook like I talk: scary, scary thoughts, but the results are delish.

Best Waffles Ever

Step 1 - Batter

1 3/4 C all-purpose flour

1 Tbsp baking powder

1/2 C Brown Sugar

4 Tbsp cinnamon

1/4 tsp salt

2 egg yolks

1 3/4 C milk (I don't drink cow's milk, but there's generally some skim in my fridge. I tried almond but did not like the results.)

1/2 C cooking oil

2 egg whites

So, I never really measure anything. Just eyeball it, especially the brown sugar and cinnamon. I've been known to add nutmeg, too. Mix all the dry stuff in one LARGE mixing bowl and all the wet (sans egg whites) in another one. Add the wet to the dry and mix by hand until most but not all of the lumps are gone. Now it get's fun. Use a mixer (hand or stand) to whip just the 2 egg whites until you can pick up the beaters and the egg whites stand at attention. I believe this is referred to as stiff peaks. Dump the egg whites into the other batter and fold, fold, fold, fold. Not too much. Just until they are incorporated into your batter. It will look something like this...

While you will need a waffle iron, it doesn't need to be a fancy waffle iron. Mine is not pictured because I would be mortified if you saw it. One hinge is broken and it used to be white. It cooks delicious waffles, though.Usually I net about 10 nice waffles. You are now finished with the most difficult portion of your meal. Have a mimosa on me!

Step 2 - Strawberry Topping

People literally do back flips for my strawberry topping. Ok, maybe I exaggerate for effect. I use this BOTH for waffles and for strawberry shortcake. It's so simple and so very good.

You will need an entire produce aisle container of strawberries, a large plastic container with a lid that seals like a Kylie Jenner lip challenge, and some sugar. Cut off the tops of the strawberries and slice them...thinly...as thinly as you can without incorporating your own thumb skin. It will take a while. This should be step 1, perhaps. But, Dina, this takes toooooo long! Just turn on Pandora and set it to the Linda Ronstadt station and see yourself in cutoff jeans and hoop earrings. Linda is my spirit animal. Sometimes Rita Coolidge is....just slice the strawberries very thinly. 

Add approximately 2/3 C of sugar and plop them all in the airtight container that nothing can escape from. Put the lid on tightly. Shake them until the sugar dissolves. Shake them until they start to fall apart. Shake them until (you get the picture). Then set them aside and do step 2 which was really step 1 above. As they sit for about 15 minutes, they will continue liquefying and you'll end up with amazing strawberries in their own syrup, thanks to the sugar. I never said this would be healthy. Did I mention my kitchen island was really an old restaurant cart with a plywood top? My affectionate term is hillbilly butcher-block. 

Step 3 - Turkey Bacon (Should probably be Step 2 but I was so excited to talk about the waffles)

If you so desire, I have a GREAT tip for you regarding turkey bacon. Cover a cookie sheet with foil and spray with non-stick spray. Preheat your oven to about 375 (the McOven cooks WAY TOO FAST - you may need 400). No need to flip midway, just pop the turkey bacon in the oven and give it a good 10 min or so. You'll never microwave it again.

Step 4 - Use either the hand or stand mixer and approximately 1/2 of a small carton of heavy whipping cream. Add about 2 TBSP of sugar. Beat it until you can scoop up a spoonful that won't fall from the spoon when held upside down, like a Dairy Queen Blizzard. Try not to eat the whole bowl full of whipped cream, but do check it for poison, duh.

That's it!!!!! Melt some real butter (please do not use fake butter), and call in the troops. The options are endless. I always have syrup on hand (heated), along with the strawberries and whipped cream. Our favorite combo is what we call a mess: one waffle with melted butter, a light coating of syrup, a spoonful of strawberry Heaven, and some whipped cream. So, re-read this, put the steps in the correct order, and give it a try. Y'all come on & eat!

Can I just say that this was THE MOST DIFFICULT thing I've ever written?

Thank you for making it to the end! I thought I'd never get the pictures in the correct places. It's 11 pm and 2 glasses of wine Dina wishes you an amazing waffle breakfast with all those you love dearly.