Won’t Stop Me

First, let me clear the air of any misinterpretations or possible confusion.

I spend about 0.01 percent of my time in the kitchen cooking meals. That culinary gene – I didn’t get it. Before tying the knot with Michael, I sat him down for extensive questioning (I think some people call this “a date”) and immediately after asking if he intended to pursue a college degree, which he would use to provide for his family — don’t worry, I had already received the results of his criminal background check — the next question was “Can you cook?” When he said yes, pretty much the deal was done. Kind, Intelligent, Handsome, and he cooks? Well, I tell you: it took all my restraint not to throw him over my shoulder and carry him back to my lair where no woman other than me could ever lay eyes on him.

Unfortunately, in order to get that college degree, he had to go to college, which took place on a campus, where there was a dangerous surplus of intelligent, ambitious, beautiful young women. Again, please don’t worry for me. Indeed the ladies looked, and for that I could not begrudge them; however, whenever I felt one of their ganders at Michael was nearing that acutely speculative glance every woman, married or single, recognizes as “Hm, marriage material?” I literally rained on her parade using my squirt-gun. Then, as sweetly and as graciously as I could manage, I said, “Cool your jets, lassie. He be mine.”

But ya’ll, can you blame me?

(P.S. as of late, Michael is sprouting more and more gray hairs, which means – YES! – sooner than later I’m going to have myself a silver fox. Yum.)

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Back to other important things:

But when I laid eyes on Jenn’s – from Jars & Buttons – mustard and flower-flocked apron, right then and there I vowed and determined to find a place in my life to accommodate this adorable garment; even if it meant I would wear it only while walking my dog each afternoon, which I did, that very afternoon following its arrival. You know how some clothes affect you? This apron makes me feel woozy with ardor, intoxicated with purpose. I slip it over my neck, secure it around my waist, and I’m confident I can conquer the world while dusting off mountain peaks, look cute doing it, and still be home in time for the supper I won’t be cooking.

apron

There’s little else that delights me more than receiving a gift, surprise or expected, in the mail. The presentation made me want to order something else from Jenn, just so she would send me another pretty package scented with rosemary. Don’t believe me? Look!

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Jenn, you’re a gem, thank you.

Shop Jenn’s Store

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Happy Sunday!

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The Rulez 2 Speaking Goode

First, let me preface this short blogpost by saying that, up until sixish years ago, I used to struggle to be sure which your/you’re warranted an apostrophe. Even now, I have to break up the contraction if I’m to feel completely at ease. Occasionally, someone will comment on a picture on Facebook, and because I also commented – six years ago – I receive a notification. Of course I’m curious, so I click the link, and there, for all THE WORLD to see, is my comment punctuated (pun intended) with errors. For half a second I consider leaving it be. Then I click the edit button, and finally, phew, I can breathe again.

Second, if I were to rate myself on a scale from one to ten, one being you are completely illiterate, ten being Grammar Girl and Dictionary.com follow you on Twitter, I would put myself at around . . . seven point four. (The point four because, thanks to a nifty-rifty trick, I recently learned how to use whom correctly, like, eighty percent of the time – WUT!?)

And third: due to the nature of this subject, I have second guessed and overthought every sentence I’ve written, paying painstakingly close attention to every single letter, wanting to be super-extra-positive sure that it contains ZERO errors. Which means, there’s probably a bunch.

So sue me, whydon’tcha.

All of this to say, if you happen to have a rap sheet chockfull of wordcrimes, it’s OK. At one time or another, we have all felt the dripping cold chill of realizing, yes, absolutely: you should have remembered of never follows could, should, or would. But hey, you see this right here (                           ) ?It’s a safe space, and you and I are in it.

So sit back, relax, and let Weird Al take you’re your Wednesday up a notch!

Just One Little Lette

So sorry about that wonky last post. I’m trying out this new media system called Hootsuite. Have you heard of it? Basically it’s the universal remote to your browser. You pin it at the top, and if ever there’s something you want to share with the public, Hoosuite is connected to your blog(s), your Facebook, and your Twitter. Also, you can schedule when you want the post, tweet, alert to go live. Pretty sweet, huh?

Oh . . . Hootsuite. I GET IT!

No, probably no connection there. And in case you were thinking to yourself “Wow, Cara’s really in the know,” let me walk over needle in hand and burst that little thought bubble. Like everything else that’s super cool and newfangled, my husband found Hootsuite in his little bag of tricks. If you’re interested, there’s a very brief video that explains how to use Hootsuite here.

Okay, onto what I meant to be posting about.

Have you seen these? Book covers with one letter missing? (Hence the missing letter in my post title; didn’t want you to think I was getting careles. <— see what I did there?)

I’m fairly easy to amuse and quick to laugh at silliness, but seriously, these really are terrifically clever!

 

a

 

b

 

d

 

c

 

e

 

g

 

h

 

j

 

k

 

m

So you know I had to try and come up with one. I don’t have the time – nor the ability – to create a graphic to go along with it but how about . . . . . . .

THE GIRL WITH THE EARL EARRING

Hah! Can you see it? Instead of a “pearl,” a tiny earl swings from her lobe, Indiana Jones-style.

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Okay, your turn. Go!

 

 

 

Original Source here

 

I don’t know.

Well, hello.

I hope whatever timezone from where you’re reading this, life is serving you up equal parts beauty and beast.

This post is going to be about writing; it’s also about life. It’s about writing and life. If either of these interest you, please, do read on.

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The One That Will Never Get Away

10 Years. Ten of them – IN A ROW. It’s not a little mind boggling when I really stop to think about it. Other than exist, I’ve never done anything for 10 years straight. Well, all right; I’ve brushed my teeth and shaved my legs, but only to avoid the unfortunate consequences caused by not doing those things. Which are, of course, wookie legs and gingivitis.

On May 22nd of this year my husband and I celebrated 10 years of marriage. He came home with a bouquet roses, a juicy fillet and asparagus, and a bottle of champagne I sucked on until the very last drop slithered down my gullet. He also got me a little something, which turned out to be a lottle something, because I am easily delighted and slightly manic and tend to get excited and make a VERY BIG deal about little things. Done well, they’re better than big things, I think.

He bought a dozen bags of Skittles, in a variety of flavors, then separated them – one by one – into mason jars, creating his own “special blends.”

I’m not going to lie. He knocked this one outta the friggin’ park. Not only are they pretty to look at, a confection of color, jars of art, but — SKITTLES. Yum.

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We celebrated the day by staying home, drinking the whole bottle of champagne, and watching Jimmy Fallon clips on YouTube. It was fabulous. We will do BIG celebrating this summer when we road-trip-it to San Francisco for TEN days! One for every year. That wasn’t intentional, but I rather like it; it’s fitting and feels right.

But to be honest, a decade ago, as I waited for the pastor come collect me and my entourage, Canon in D Minor wafting up the staircase, I wasn’t sure I would ever see ten years. Most brides are blushing and glowing and flicking scepters are their poor indentured bridesmaids doing everything from blotting spackled lips to waving thuribles to ward off evil spirits. I was calm, serene even. Frigid as my feet were, I knew I would say “I do.” It’s true I love a good spectacle every now and again, but my wedding, a 15k affair, wasn’t the time for one. I would marry my husband because I told him I would, and because he was a good man that would love me and take care of me. And I would do the same. For how long – that was the question. My heart was a mess and there were tears in my eyes; tears my guests mistook for tears of joy, as I glided down the staircase, smiling on cue, aware of the camera capturing what was supposed to be the happiest day of my life. I dutifully took my place beside my fiancé. A broken girl in a stunning white dress, I took his hands.

“We are gathered here today . . .”

The next thing I knew, ten years had passed. I decided to write my husband, Michael, a letter.

 

10th

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