Fairy Garden

We came across a Fairy Garden inside our local nursery while buying flowers for Mother's Day, and my girls were completely enchanted - especially my 4 year old. She could have stayed there all day checking it out and marveling over the fairy's little bed, her little shovel, her pool, and all the other itty bitty things.


I decided the littlest lady and I needed to make one. It was adorable...and fun...and encourages imaginative play...all good stuff!

You'll need -
- a base for your garden (I used a large clay saucer with smaller pots epoxied on as legs)
- dirt
- rocks
- hot glue
- plants (succulents or other small plants - the type you get will determine the amount of care they need. If you want really low maintenance, go with chicks & hens and moss.)
- a soap dish (pool)
- any other items you'll want to complete you garden - we used a fence, a bench, veggies, and gardening tools

You'll want to use a waterproof adhesive when attaching your little pots to your saucer, and allow plenty of time for it to dry and cure. I used 2-ton epoxy and left it for a few days.

Start by planning out your design, then lay rocks/marbles down where you'll have the plants and dirt to provide drainage. If you're using a fence, use this time to glue it in place - before you get all the dirt in. 

Next fill with dirt and plant your plants. 

Once you're done with dirt, fill in with your rocks and add all the little extras! 

Next week (hopefully!!) we'll have fairies for our garden - although my 4 year old has spent lots of playing in it just with the gardening tools and her toes! 

Hopping on the Bandwagon

I am not one to give in to peer pressure.  In fact, I generally stray as far away from the norm as possible.  When all the cool kids in middle school and high school were shopping at The Gap, I refused to even walk in the store.  If we were at the mall together, I would respectfully inform my peers that I did not shop in The Gap and triumphantly stand outside the store as they gave in to the trendy jeans and hoodie sweatshirts.  Yeah, that’s about as non-conformist of a statement as I could make back then and I was pretty proud of myself.

As I aged, I kept that same stubbornness for the most part but lately, especially in this one particular aspect of my life, I feel like I’m caving and it’s time to come clean. 

I have allowed myself to be pressured into reading "what everyone else is reading".

I did really well resisting Harry Potter when that first came out.  In fact, the only reason why I read the first Harry Potter is because I found myself on Martha’s Vineyard for a week with nothing to read.  I had already breezed through whatever intellectually stimulating literature I had brought with me so I scoured the house that I was staying in for my next beach read.  The only, and I literally mean the only book in the house was the first Harry Potter book.  I read it in one day and then proceeded to buy the second one at the local bookstore.  Before I knew it, I owned the series and cried when Dobby the Elf died.  Who didn’t?!

Next came Twilight.  Being a high school English teacher means that I have to be interested in what the kids are reading.  Doesn't it?  Well, this is what I told myself when I was “forced” to read Twilight.  A ninth grade girl handed me her copy of the first book and insisted that I read it.  I dragged my feet a little bit.  I mean, teenage vampires?  Seriously?  But she checked in with me daily, “Did you read it yet?”, “How far are you?”, “Team Edward or Team Jacob?”.  Finally I just started reading so I could give her her book back guilt-free.  Needless to say, before I knew it I found myself at the midnight premier of “Eclipse” wearing the homemade Twilight t-shirt my friends and I had gathered together to make that day.

When The Hunger Games series appeared on the desk of a troubled ninth grade boy, I admit that I was automatically intrigued.  I could feel my cool non-conformist ways weakening.  This kid was failing freshman English and wouldn’t read one line of anything that I handed him, but The Hunger Games came with him to class.  Then Catching Fire appeared a week later and then there was Mockingjay.  This kid, whose mother had kicked him out of the house, whose main goal in life was to skateboard and whose GPA was a 1.5 was so enamored with this series that once Mockingjay was done, he went back to re-read The Hunger Games all over again.  I knew the second The Hunger Games reappeared on his desk that my guard was down.  I succumbed to the pressure and read the series.  Yep, I also saw the movie.

So what’s the big deal?  There are worse things that you can be pressured to do than to read, right?  Well, that is what I thought until I gave in to the most recent reading fad.  I’m sure you’ve heard about them.  Someone you know is probably reading them right now.  You may have even read them.  Maybe you even enjoyed them and plan to see the movie (God, I hope there isn’t a movie!!!). 

                                      I’m talking about the Fifty Shades of Grey series. 

I am smack in the middle of the second book, Fifty Shades Darker, and rather than thanking the bandwagon for taking me along for this ride, I am loathing every minute of it.  Gone are the tingles of titillation that occurred during book one’s graphic sex scenes, gone is the anticipation of the character’s next trip to the “Playroom of pain” and LONG gone is the interest in the lame-ass flimsy excuse for a main female character.  Instead, I now find myself skimming the erotica sections and just thinking “please let me get to the end of the storyline so I just know what happens!”  Why oh why did I let myself conform to this when, as a youngin, I could put my foot down and not even step foot in a store while shopping with my friends?

 I feel so ashamed.  As I near the end of book two my distain for myself grows.  It festers.  I read on and on, nearing the end of this second book and all I can think is …

Does anyone have a copy of book three I can borrow?

A Blessing in Disguise

     I suppose you'd call me an agnostic, though, should you say those words to my mother, she'd likely hear, "Your daughter worships Satan, has a tramp stamp that reads '666,' and throws darts at pictures of baby Jesus."  What I'd like her to hear is that I believe in something.  I sometimes call him God, and I've been known to tell people I'll pray for them.  And I do.

     I guess there are only two sides to this story:  why I believe in something, and why I don't know what it is.  

     The easiest place to start is with why I don't confess to be Methodist or Baptist or Presbyterian or any other number of religions.  You see, growing up we moved fairly frequently, and, although we always landed in a Christian church, it was always one that seemed to be picked on the sole merit of who had the most popular congregation.  Add to that the fact that my high school boyfriend-turned-husband comes from a family of Buddhists.  I now live in a community of Catholics who brought their religion with them from Mexico; I teach their children, and they are amazing people.  A friend who works down the hall from me is Mormon, and you'll never meet a more loving family.  Mennonites are currently building on the land behind us, and I've only had kind conversations with the members of the that family.  I can't -- won't -- believe that I know more than they do -- that I know something that will get me to Heaven and not them.  I hope that Heaven exists.  I hope to hug my Grandma there.  And I hope to, someday, see the kids I taught, the lady down the hall, and my in-laws there, too.  

     I simply can't get over the fact that God placed me on one place in the planet and others somewhere they'll never hear his name. 

     I'm accepting of any lifestyle, so long as it's played out with love and respect.  Marry inter-racially (I did).  Marry in the same sex.  Have five wives.  I don't care, so long as everyone is being treated with kindness.  That said, what church do I belong in?  There's not one in town that would have me should I be honest with my views.  I won't not be honest.  

     So why do I believe in something?  I'm always taken care of.  I've yet to be given more than I can handle, though I've sure been tested on occasion.  And I whole-heartedly believe that things happen for reason.  The reasons aren't always obvious to us, but, on rare and beautiful moments, they are.

     On the morning of May 8, I placed my kids in the car.  My almost-11-year-old is 150 pounds and still sits in the backseat.  My daughter, who will be four in July, is still in a carseat with a five-point harness.  Once they were in, I buckled myself in our minivan and took off down the road.  When we got to the highway, we soon stopped at a school crossing to let a group of elementary students walk across the street.  We had been stopped several seconds when a car rear-ended us.  We were at a dead stop, and the driver has reportedly told his friends he was driving "at least 55."  My kids were terrified, but okay.  It's been three weeks, and I'm still in physical therapy for injuries to my back, neck, and shoulder.  As I write this, I'm on pain killers, muscle relaxers, and an anti-inflammatory medication, plus I have a TENS unit hooked up to my shoulder.  My back pops and gets stuck -- things it has never done before -- and my neck has a decreased range of motion.  The back third row seat in my van is currently sitting in the second row, and I seemingly spend all my spare time talking to insurance companies and billing departments.  And I wouldn't change a thing.

      You see, had that motorist not hit me, he would've killed four kids on a crosswalk.  Something used me as a barrier that day.  It was against my will and at my expense, but my kids were spared all but minor injuries, and four others were spared their lives.  Their lives.  

     Obviously I get pissed at what happened that morning, but I'm quick to remind myself that I witnessed a miracle.  I got to see one of the reasons I am here.  Every decision I've made in my life led me to that crosswalk on the morning of May 8.  

     And, to whomever orchestrated that morning, I'm thankful.  

It's time!!

It's almost June, so you know what that means - time to start your homemade vanilla extract for Christmas baking and gifts!

Stop by the liquor store/state store/party store/WalMart (depending on your area of the country) and pick up a bottle of vodka, then head to eBay for some vanilla beans.

You can use a glass jar or the original vodka bottle. If using the original bottle, remove some...make a White Russian or 3...to make room for the beans. Using a sharp knife, split the beans along the length and toss in the jar or bottle. You'll need 3 beans/cup of vodka. Keep it in a cool dark place - mine's in the bottom of my pantry - and give it a shake every so often.

In December, bottle it up, slap some labels on, and Merry Christmas! Makes a great neighbor gift or pair it with kitchen stuff for something more substantial.

Living with a Stranger

My husband’s job usually takes him away for 2-5 nights a week at least three weeks out of every month.  The most common and predicable schedule around my house includes him being gone Tuesday-Thursday. The weeks that he is gone Tuesday-Thursday are considered "normal" around here.  I know what you’re thinking, “I could never do that!” “I’d miss my husband too much!” “I would die without my husband’s help with the kids/house/cleaning, etc…”  However, I must admit that the "normal" around my house is kind of nice.  My daughter and I fill our Tuesdays with after school playdates, Wednesdays we go to dance class and, by Thursday evening, he is usually home.  I don't even have time to notice he is gone, let alone miss him.  We don't cry in parting, we don't Skype, (heck, sometimes we don't even talk besides through text or email), and I certainly don't miss intimacy because I'm too tired to even think about doing any kind of extra-curricular activity anyway.

Of course the weeks that he is gone Sunday-Thursday or Monday-Friday are a little rough.  However, if you're thinking that on those weeks we definitely have tearful goodbyes, Skype sessions and long talks bemoaning being apart, you're simply fooling yourself.  No, those are the weeks when I operate in survival mode.  Instead of fawning over my missing spouse, I have resorted to Chick-Fil-A for dinner at least one night, found some sort of children’s programming to ensure at least one hour of silence and, more often than not, (especially if The Bachelor is not on), have gone to bed at the same time as my four year old.  Survival mode doesn't necessarily make me sad, but it certainly makes for a long week.

After his longer trips away, I've found that the hardest, saddest part isn't when my husband is gone.  Nope.  It's when he returns.  Imagine five days on a somewhat regular basis without seeing someone who is supposed to be your closest partner in crime.  Instead of feeling rejuvenated in the relationship when he returns, I find we experience what I call "Stranger Syndrome".  Suddenly, this person who I think I know inside and out seems almost foreign to me.  I feel shy about seeing him and I feel nervous about how I look to him.  Have I changed?  Does he still think I look pretty?  Does he mind that he only sees me in sweatpants????  Besides these self-conscience thoughts, I also wonder if the house is clean enough, if our daughter will willingly go to him after WAY too much Mommy-time and then I think, *gasp* "WTH do you mean I have to share my bed with him?!?!"  I can only imagine he goes through a culture shock as well.  After all, he has just had four undisturbed restful nights of sleep, room service and/or meals out at restaurants and been living in a place where someone cleans your room and makes your bed every day and then he comes home to a stressed out, frantic wife, a daughter who may or may not like him at that moment and an empty refrigerator. 

"Stranger Syndrome" goes past the initial return too.  I find that we have to acclimate to one another all over again.  Depending on the week, he might fall asleep at 8pm or stay up until 10 or later.  While I have to decide if a particular night is "ice cream worthy" or not.  The idea of going to bed at the same time doesn’t even occur to us unless we find that we’ve met in the bathroom for simultaneous tooth-brushing.  Some nights when he is home, I still find us spending our evenings on different floors of the house, unable to bring together our two separate worlds.  Family dinners can be a challenge because I find myself not knowing what to make for him anymore.  I wonder, “Did he eat this while he was gone?”, “Does he prefer TGIFridy’s BBQ chicken to mine?”, and "How can I possibly compete with the dining experience he gets at The Tilted Kilt Restaurant?", otherwise known as the Scottish Hooters where the women serve in bikini tops and kilts? 

Truth is, I can’t give him the things he gets while he is away.  I can’t give him room service and command over the remote in bed.  I can’t give him undisturbed sleep or silence because the constant sound of little feet runs rampant in our house.  Heck, I can’t even give him dinner in a bikini and a kilt because…well, I guess I could, but…maybe we will leave that one alone for now.  I know can’t give him a lot of things, so I try to focus on what I can give him: Family, a home, companionship, a friendly ear, and most of all, my love.  Yes, I can give him a return into my open, loving arms, even if they are the arms of a stranger. 

Things You Envy: My Brain

     I'm a damn genius.  Really.  Especially if you take the numbers in my IQ and transpose a couple.  Hello, MENSA.  (Could you send me another invitation?  I think my postal lady may have lost the other one.  That is one unreliable chick right there.  I mean, she's always driving from the passenger seat.  Loco!)

     Last Saturday, while burning my fingers and permanently staining my shirt with bacon grease, I had a genius thought:  pan-sized bacon.  Why should bacon come in long strips, when my pan is a circle?  Even my square pan (which I'm sure has another name, but I don't know what it is, as my genius doesn't crossover into kitchen matters) is too short for bacon.  I generally use the circle pan and cut the bacon strips in half.  It doesn't work.  No one should ever play Tetris with a hot stovetop and bacon bubbles.  So listen up pig-killers:  Bacon should be sold in nine-inch circles.  If Ruffles can put ridges in a potato, surely you can handle this.  See?  Genius.

     And just this morning, a bit of medical advice popped into my head that I shall be soon contacting medical journals about publishing.  Patients who are sent home with poop collection jars (especially multiple jars), should simply eat a Sonic breakfast to get things rolling.  Doctors could just write it on a script pad:  three stool samples, Dulcolax, cheesy tater tots.  Again:  genius.  I can't help it, really.

     Sometimes my genius comes in the form of advice (to people who didn't ask my opinion).  One such example presented itself this afternoon when a friend, KH, was presented a dilemma:  My friend's awesome sister sent her a check and in the "for" line it read "nude photography."  Because KH sold her porn collection to her sister.  KH thought the conservative place where she banks may not look kindly upon this transaction when she presents the check for deposit.  Not to worry.  I've got your back, KH.  There's quite a lot that can be done to add to "nude photography."  Here are a few suggestions to get the brainstorming started:

simplyrecipes.com

     1.  SPEGETTY nudeL photography (They'll just think your sis is dumb instead of thinking you're a perv.)

     2.  LARGE COLLECTION OF VINTAGE nude photography (Collectors are classy.)

     3.  DISPOSAL OF nude photography IN THE NAME OF THE CHURCH (You're a life-saver, KH!)

     4.  SEMI-nude photography (Okay, this may not be any better.)

     Now, while most of these suggestions are fine, I think you'll find I've saved the best for last.  Simply turn in the check as is, and slip a business card under it that says, "KH:  Nude Model.  Available for parties and special events."  

Cows, Chicks & Mennonites, Oh My!

                I live where they filmed Deliverance.  Actually, that’s a lie.  But I am surrounded by water and trees and dirt and men with suspect mustaches.  (Including my husband, but for totally different reasons.  I mean, how many Asians have mustaches?  Shave that shit, husband.)

                When we bought the house, the previous owner kept acres and acres of land behind us on which he housed cows.  Grilling hamburgers on the deck while looking at cows was slightly uncomfortable (and still delicious), but other than that the cows were never a problem.  In fact, they were often a source of summertime entertainment, as we’d jump in the pool armed with water guns and see how many we could hit before they started mooing and jogging further back pasture. 

oneyearintexas.com

                In the fall of  2011, the man who owned the cows and land and told us he’d “never in this lifetime sell either” sold them both.  But, presumably, not to the same people.   The cows left, and we mourned the loss of their voices as we slathered BBQ sauce on their brethren and slapped them on the grill. 

                Over the winter months, tractors and trucks carrying building materials made their way back to the land.  The entrance to the property was widened, and dirt was either smoothed down or piled up, according to the new owner’s plan.  I had hoped he’d started some sort of development down my dirt road. I had hoped to have concrete and neighbors and kids on bikes in my neck of the (literal) woods. I crossed my fingers that he wasn’t preparing for what the entire town said he was, and I hoped vehemently I wouldn’t have chicken houses behind me.  Hope can bite my ass.

            As the chicken houses went up in the distant field, the search for the perfect people to run them ensued.  Apparently people who own chicken houses are not the same people who tend to them, and the rule of thumb is that the owner will provide a home for the working family. 

            Yesterday I met the chosen chicken keepers -- the people who will soon by my neighbors.  They are a perfectly nice family who agreed to not run over my septic tank with their tractor.  They are also Mennonites.  If you think about it, my family is really not so different from their family.  We both drive black vans, and the kids of both parties always look like they took a bath in jelly and dried off with dirt. 

Abe, the Mennonite patriarch, said they’d likely plant some trees on the land boundary closest to our pool, so as to give our family some privacy.  I said, “I don’t blame you.  I don’t even want to see myself in a bathing suit!”  And then I laughed and touched his arm, which is probably kind of like having sex with him.    After that uncomfortable exchange, I readily jumped back into my black van, which is clearly different than his black van, as mine had a three-year-old in the backseat singing, “You’re looking so damn hot” while gyrating in her carseat.  Her brother was seated next to her and playing on his phone.  But it’s a black phone, so I’m not sure if that’s okay or not.

My entire family jumped in the pool late last night, and I was quick to relay my conversation/sexual encounter to my husband. 

Cy said, “So we’ll have nice neighbors and some privacy.”

To which I countered, “You’re missing the point.”

“Which is?”

“We’ll have something to shoot with water guns this summer.”

“Hurray for little chickens.”

“Oh, I didn’t think about the chickens.  I was thinking Mennonites.”