a picture of pretty and a heat wave

lookie! new pretty tape! *

It was 88 degrees today. Hot. It's also supposed to be winter. It was 88 degrees and what do I do? I bake a pie. Granted I baked said pie around 6:30 this evening when the temps were around 60. It has been noted that today in SLO our crazy summer temps are record breaking. We're hot and our fruit trees are sporting blooms and are not going dormant. The freesias are blooming a bit ahead of schedule and yesterday I ate a handful of homegrown strawberries that were delicious. We are also seriously lacking water. There is barely any snow in the mountains and our lakes are drying up like crazy. Ain't that grand? I won;t even go into how parts of our town are selling off agricultural land to build homes. Lots of homes. More homes than we have water for. Crappy homes that aren;t for struggling adults like me and the mister. Nope, homes for college students whose parents purchase the overpriced uglies then turn around and sell them for even more moolah.

It's enough to make me want to move. I troll zillow and trulia looking at homes in New Mexico (I'm not allergic there) or Oregon (a whole lot of people I enjoy live there) and wondering what we could do for income. I also hate that  because I love this area (I say area and not town because all of the people who own properties, all three of them, are raising leases and our downtown has all of these small businesses closing left and right)  and my job and our family.

Oy! Enough with the (poodles) whine already!

I also had a date with the dentist this morning and lucky me, I have a chipped twenty-year-old filling and a cracked twenty-year-old filling...they need to be replaced...and they will be needing crowns. I don't have dental insurance and now my idea of getting that lens finally for my birthday has gone out the window. I need to figure out how to make um...2500 by then....yikes! Anyone need a vintage dress or dilly pack or two or three or hundred? I can do custom garlands and/or packs...Wheeee!

The great capsule wardrobe adventure continues even through the heat! Man, I wish I picked out a few more short sleeves. Photos tomorrow.

*the tape has nothing to do with anything other than it being pretty and you can't really have a ranty blog post without a pretty picture. Right?

so far...

So far, 2013 is not what I was trying to so positively visualize. I was trying to embody positive thinking...magical thinking and well...then the allergy attack to end all allergy attacks hit. I was under seige by a polyp the size of a small planet and after two weeks of misery, not sleeping, not eating, not functioning really, I managed to get into the doctor who diagnosed...allergies. The good news was there was no infection taking over so I did not need to get all cozy with another round of antibiotics. The bads news was I had to...have to wait it out. I pleaded and sobbed for some steroids if only to shrink the planet camping out in my left nostril and to unmuffle my sadly muffled hearing and with much hemming and haw-ing, the doctor gave in and gave me a very short stint to have an affair with. It was fleeting. At least it managed to bully the polyp away but I am stil more snurfly than not and while my left ear unmuffled, my right ear decided to get in on the game. I am seriously, a mess. I am however, grateful the attack has remind upper respiratory and not lower. I do quite like being able to breathe even though I am not breathing my best, at least I am not wheeze wheeze wheezing away. I do feel like one big sad raccoon.

What else is new?

The thing with chronic allergies as an adult is that it is difficult to appear presentable and professional. People give you a wide berth thinking you are either contagious or sloppy or crazy. I am mostly embarrassed and that ain't  good for one's selfer. If this keeps up for another week it is back to the doc for another looksie. I wish I oculd figure out what brought on this attack. All I can think of is a short hike we did end of December.  I can't get outdoor exercise if I am allergic to the outdoors but I really need to get outdoors and exercise. Exercise keeps your body healthy unless you're me...then you just get sick. All the while this is going on, I am still trying to visualize health and an alergy free life. I slept on the sofa for twoo weeks so I could sit up and as I snurfled and sobbed myself to exhasution I would mantra..."Tomorrow when I wake up, I will breathe deep through my nose and into my chest. I will feel good. I will feel healthy."

I'm still reciting it...

Earlier this week I managed to haul my tukis to the lab for bloodwork and what ensued was a comedy of errors. It was one of those things that so lacked organization, professionalism and the like that had I been someone less me than me it could have gotten ugly. For starters, the lab changed their hours so that I only had one day where I could get in. I had to cancel a doctor's appointment due to that snafu. I finally get in and they can't find my order. It's a standing order, mind you and I have been there three times before but nothing.She cals the doctor's office..no answer. She clls back three times and finally gets someone and they fax the order through. I am not certain why it isn't in their computer system but it could be they don't use a computer system. Hello? This is 2013! Get with it! The office is actualyl moving in two days and while they are still open for blood work, they do not have a chair or table set aide to procur your blood so I am sitting in a rolling office chair, holding my arm on my lap and she preps me and jabs me and gets two vials out of me. As the second vial is filling, she unties the blue rubber evil thing around my arms and pops in tube number three and....nothing. It would appear I ran out of blood. We both look at it and say "Huh" and I really want to start laughing and so I do. She tries another vial but nothing. She looks at me and I toss her my left arm and we go through it again but my veins seem to have made a run for it. I usually give blood and have no problem. Large veins, good flow. I'm all about cooperation. She finally gets the last vial filled and I am off for a morning grocery run all swadled up in white tape and cotton. The brusies come later.

Now, I could have pitched a fit. I could have. But really, it was 8am and I really wanted to have a good day and so I rolled with it. I snarked out in my head but chanted to myself the one rule I know above all else. You can't really control what happens to you, you can only control your reaction. And so I did.

Yesterday I got a phone call with my lab results and while I orignally was off the charts hypothyroid it seems I am now hyperthyroid. Which sucks but explains my recent bout of crazy low body temp, hair falling out, and hot flash city. The poor guy on the phone was only calling to relay my results but I broke down and told him I don't feel well. I have not felt well since beginning any thyroid meds. I am tired of feeling poorly and frankly I feel like crap ALL THE TIME. He felt bad and told me he would relay it to the doctor , which he did but for now she has said all they can do is lower my dose to the previous dose which still had me feeling like crap!

I need to bone up on thyroid know-how. I also need to remember my password so I can get into my lab results. I am thinking I am adrenal wonky (janeray, sound familiar?) and need to arm myself with knowledge so I can nip this and fast! I might also need to find a new doctor. Oy!

Sooooo...how had your year been? Tust me when I say I laugh about this all the time. Sometimes it is whimpering but mostly I am as cheerful as I can be because what's the point of purposeful misery?

p.s.
We have had some stunning sunsets this month and that's something to swoon over.

on boys and love and the power of ourselves

Back in my other life I worked as a children's bookseller. I was good. Very good. I knew my books and loved being around them. In the young adult section we had quite a few books for girls that dealt with feelings and emotions. Actually, we carried a lot of titles published to ideally 'help' girls and young women muddle through the muck that is junior high, high school, body image, and bullying. We had one title for boys. One.

I remember thinking that if only we raised our boys to be comfortable with their emotions, to be comfortable enough to be sad or to cry or to simply be sensitive or even themselves we might not need all the books we had for girls. I was in my mid-twenties and boy, was I naive.

Yet.

I  do believe that if we could redefine what true masculinity is to allow our boys and young men to be firmly safe in their skin, to know without a doubt that they are boy enough, man enough no matter how "sensitive" they may be they would be stronger. We would all be stronger. Humans tend to be afraid of what they do not know or what they perceive goes against what is socially acceptable as defined by their peers and family; as influenced by television and films, and now our vast network of social media sites. All those influences tell us that a masculine man is strong, physically strong...ripped is the word we use today, handsome in a Hollywood way, a vocal and loyal sports fan...he sets cars on fire, chest bumps other fans, destroys property and picks fights with whomever is in their way all in the name of sports. Speaking of fights, a true man is an ass kicker, has a hot wife and drives an expensive car. A true man does not garden or use a crockpot, does not enjoy grocery shopping or brewing the perfect cup of tea. No, a true man only cooks exotic foods in his sparse and steel kitchen and drinks alcohol. A lot of alcohol.

Television, film and more importantly video games portray masculinity as aggressive. Aggressive, masculine men are powerful. Powerful men have the world at their fingertips. Powerful men are revered. Powerful men are not bullied. Powerful men do the bullying. And hey, it's okay because that is how it works...according to our media.

But this is wrong. So very wrong.

The most wonderful and astounding thing about people is that we are so very different in our abilities. We learn from each other, we lean on each other, we help, we buoy, and we make the world stronger. We also refuse to learn, we stand alone, we scoff, we bully,  and we make the world a sadder place. The power we have within ourselves to hurt frightens me.  The power within ourselves to help and heal is astounding. So astounding. A person who feels alone might carry a smile from a stranger for days and feel less so.  We are all on this planet together. We all have hearts that beat. We are humankind. It shouldn't be difficult to care. It shouldn't be difficult to love. Yet for some reason it is.

To cast judgment, to scoff, to ridicule a person because of who they are is a manifestation of  self-loathing or fear. I'm not speaking of dislike. Dislike happens and if all you do is think you would rather not associate with that person than you are not doing anything wrong. But, if you choose to entangle yourself in a hate-mongering campaign simply because said person drives a car you don't like, is not as tall as you or maybe taller, grows their own food, reads the bible, doesn't read the bible, makes minimum wage, has a stock portfolio or some other thing that you deem unacceptable then you need some reflection, you need to figure out how to like yourself, you need to be called out, you need to be stopped, you need to be loved.

Life is hard. Really hard. Life is especially difficult for our young men working on their ideal self on who they are. How can anyone be their true selves when their talents or desires are ridiculed? Life is also hard for our young women trying to make their way as well. I know I am leaning to the love, love, love mantra and I know that all of our children are important (girls as well as boys) but I want to really focus and put out there that our boys need our love and support no matter where their interests lie. Boys need to learn that to be manly, to be truly masculine is to be yourself. To have confidence in your abilities, to be proud of your quirks or your intellect. Stand up for yourself, stand up for others.

True men love.

things i'm afraid to tell you...

 Have you happened upon this meme of sorts yet? I'm a bit conflicted about it all. I think it is great that there is now a big conversation going on about authenticity but also irked that the big time bloggers have picked it up as I like to think that this whole blogging authentically is for us not so big time bloggers. Does that make sense?

You've heard it all before how I get ranty and whiney about not being a pretty blogger (pretty meaning popular, not looky looky though that is often times questionable as well). About how I really wanna be up there in the big leagues and have folk wanna sponsor me and all that jazz but I fear it's not in the cards for me as I'm a non-knitting, non-home owning, infertile broke blogger who is also a bit on the chubby side (ok fine...fat). Eegads, I hope you read this with my voice in place...a smidge sarcastic with a chuckle and an eyeroll thrown in both at myself and the hullabaloo.

I do appreciate the big-wigs dialoguing about this as it is important and well, I am a fan of the big wigs as well, even if they probably wouldn't pick me to be on their volleyball team (softball, soccer...it's all the same which by-the-way, I probably wouldn't pick me as I'm not exactly the most sporty but I do make up for it with team spirit and penmanship*.) I really do applaud the big steps these wonderful bloggers are taking in their approach to authenticity. It is important and it adds community to the mix. I'm all about community.

Buuuuuut I also feel like Hey, that's my thing, my niche, I've been doing it from the get-go...

 Sigh. I can't seem to find my footing, even after a decade of blogging I'm still behind even when I'm ahead and I've been working really hard on being okay with that. See, I never sat back to think about what I wanted to be when I grew up. I don't know why I never did that, I have an idea (it involves growing up with a depressed parent compounded with a crippling self-esteem that is also peppered with bouts of an inflated ego) but I do know that now my adulthood is in full bloom, which has me  scrambling to still figure out. So many ships have sailed and I feel like my options are smaller than small. One of those options seemed like it could work and that was writing/blogging but it isn't and I only kinda sorta have an idea as to why. I'm afraid that I kinda suck at being an adult and that everyone else knows it but me. I'm afraid that my ranty rants and questions only make me look desperate and bitter thus chasing away opportunities be they work or friend related. Even writing that last sentence out has me worried I'm bumbling things up.

It's like a catch 22. The big time bloggers have nothing to lose by admitting their fears (that said, click on the link up there and have a read, it is all very interesting and does make you feel closer. It was nice to get a more realistic idea of how other bloggers feel and it was nice to know that they really are not that different than I am). It will only bring them closer to their readers; but us small time bloggers have much to lose as any readership we're trying to build may click away to another blog once we expose too much of ourselves. I've always put myself out there and lately I've realized that this is indeed my niche. I don't have a monopoly on it, not at all but it is where I think I am authentic. Sure I craft, I cook, I bake and I write all about it, I take decent photos and know a few bigger bloggers but ultimately, I'm the girl who bares it all. The wallflower who wants to dance, the pen-pal who wants pen-pals and the grow-up who still feels like an awkward seventh grader. I'm the girl who has lived a very full life even without home owning and children. I'm the girl who gets thank you emails and hate you emails from her readers every once in awhile and that's okay, good even. I'm just me, jek in the box who is ever so slowly inching her way out of said box...ranty rants, eegads, yikes and all. I sincerely hope you don't click away and that someday you'll give me a shout out, you never know, we could be the best of friends (how are yer jumping skills?).

*did I ever tell you about the junior high flag football dealio and the penmanship quote? I'll have to get to that someday...soon.

pinterest in action: scones and pie and an observation.

 

a few weeks ago, i actually rescued the ingredients that had been sitting in the freezer FOREVER to make this bomb pie by Something Swanky. sugar overkill, maybe , but SO good with a milky iced coffee sans sweetener.

time for baking

and last week, i made these blueberry buttermilk scones by Mango and Tomato. they baked up quite nicely and were packed with flavor even though i left out the coconut. the mister, sister a-go-go and mama a-go-go loved them!

 ***i know that there are oodles of folk out there who are not exactly fans of Pinterest. i kinda understand but at the same time, i don't think Pinterest made it any easier to "steal" ideas. they just created a platform to share your favorite ideas. before Pinterest, i had a folder on the desktop full of links and people's projects. in a nutshell, my folder was full of "stolen" property. i had and still have no intention of monetary gain from all the goodness, i am just so wholly inspired by all the creativity out there just as i hope you are inspired by what i share.

that said, i see a new trend in how people respond to blogs and with Pinterest people are forgetting to leave comments and offer up thanks and encouragement to the author. instead, photos and diys are pinned as a salute but if you don't see it, you don't know how much you inspire. case in point...i average maybe 1 comment a post. yeesh. not so good for my ego . yet i know people are clicking and reading as evidenced by my stats. a LOT of people. and if i hop on over to Pinterest, i will see my projects pinned and repinned to high heaven and yet not a single person has shown up here to say "Hey, this is cool, thank you for sharing"!  (oh, i don't mean you or you or you, you know who you are) and to me...that is just bad manners. it's not Pinterest's fault, it is the poor behavour of the masses. now, i pin like a mad woman myself and if i pin something from a blog i have never visited, i leave a comment and i thank that person for sharing (if it is a blog i subscribe to i have already and continue to say thanks). sometimes i find a new blog to read in the process and sometimes i make a new friend. i'm a bit behind on my repins however, i need to finish up and go through to the original source to say thanks and yes, i totally mean it. absolutely!

enough of my mini rant but i encourage you to think about it and if yer new to my blog and actually reading not just pinning put yourself into my shoes or think about yer own blog. wouldn't a little howdy and thank you make your heart sing and connect?

luckily there is laughter

  To me, laughter is worth so much more than gold. Little snorts, quiet giggles, loud guffaws and nose snorting laughs are so, so, SO valuable.

After I wrote this post I was a solemn, quiet lobster-girl. I tried to hide the tears from the rest of the family as I was at the homestead hanging out with the gang after a failed attempt at a rainy day wander. Mr. a-go-go however saw, knew and would simply walk by and squeeze. He knew that if he asked anything or acted any kinder I would be hiccuping snotty tears like a toddler who scraped her knees on the cold cement. After I had packed up all the gear and we were on the car, he gave my hand a squeeze and we talked. He's so good, that guy. I know it kills him just as much as it kills me but he doesn't give in to the wallow. That actually worries me a bit, he bottles up so much and he rarely explodes though he does get moody and golly, those days are quit unpleasant but we move through them gracing each other space with the occasional arm pat, gentle hug or lovely look.

We do talk about adoption. But because we are the kind of thinkers we are, we think it is a little too late for us. Not in an "oh poor us" kind of way more like we have settled into out small shared life doing our small shared things. Children are an enormous responsibility and we would be up to the task with all of its enormity in the ways you need to be there and with the love you have to share but the practical matter is that we are on the lower end of the moolah spectrum, fancy college degrees and all. There is a trade of to the life you wish to live and we are lucky, quite lucky to live our "almost" life. We have chosen to live in a town with less opportunity than the great big Los Angeles. Chosen to be closer to family and in the middle of this great big beautiful space. We have chosen our work based on locality and hours. I make very little but get to work with children and a handful of wonderful teachers in a lovely school biking/walking distance (which I still need to walk) from the casa. The mister gets to cram his forty hours into four days giving him an extra day off and he gets to bike to work as well, which he does, every day unless it is raining. Neither job offers health insurance and it took us more than a year to find something for me that was semi-affordable (I was rejected from four different insurance companies due to infertility, menopause and asthma, two of those things can be attributed to the DES) so now any chance of socking away a wee bit o cash is now sucked up by insurance but now the mister can breathe easier since I can breathe easier and it's all a matter of personal priorities.

We live small. We eat out maybe one a week and even then it is to share a plate. We don't go out to movies or shows mostly because movies are too expensive and we are awkward and anti-social and well...old fuddies. I haven't purchased any new fabric or crafting supplies other than glue and such and any new clothing other than jeans (and one trip to Penneys and maybe a Target or Old Navy run...or two...) comes from the thrifts. I desperately need new shoes, the kind that are cute, fit and will last. I know these will cost a pretty penny but that is okay since it is important. We spend our days puttering about, working on projects, talking, laughing, arguing, playing the ukes and watching bad B-movies on Netflix. We aren't quite settled into this space as what we had in L.A. is not here as far as home goes but what we have here is family, the ocean, the mountains, the quiet and each other. We'll figure out a garden space and a home someday, I hope sooner than later. I really miss our garden. I really miss our friends and yet I still feel a bit more heart settled here than down there.

I want to thank you for your comments on the post that had me spiraling. I will be responding individually now that blogger has a reply button. I do like a reply button. Soon, I will make my sad sack and angry fits of pepper lemonade public. Soon. I think I need to share the hurt, share the anger. I am in need of an upswing, I can't spend my time being sadder than sad. I can only allow the wallow to hit, to wrap myself up in it until it becomes too warm so that I can shrug it off and head to happier places. Thank goodness for happier places, for laughter and for friends both in person and online. We need to share more often...it keeps us connected. At least it keeps me connected so that I don't feel so alone.

sometimes

Sometimes I tell myself everything is okay even though the tears tell me otherwise.
Sometimes I succumb to the envy I feel when I happen upon others who live the life I wish I had.  Sometimes I wallow, wallow, wallow and then feel foolish, foolish, foolish for not feeling grateful and joyful for all the good that I do have and sometimes I say fuck it and give in to that wide wallow and throw myself a pity party, balloons and all.

If you don't happen upon this space frequently you might conclude that I (pity) party a lot. I don't, not really, I'm just honest about the wallow and feel right now that I'm a smidge entitled to it. And if you are wondering, the wallow is almost always kicked off when I see a bump in the road...the baby kind. See, the mister and I did not choose to be baby-free a-go-gos. Nope, though we were more inclined to adoption than birthing our own because the whole population growth dealio scares the ducks out of us but the weird thing is adoption costs more than good old fashioned procreation. No, the choice was taken from us even before I knew where babies came from.

Back when I was a tiny growing thing nestled in my own private womb, my family went through an awful experience (that still carries a ripple effect) that left the doctors sincerely thinking my mother might miscarry the wee that was me. They professionally prescribed her a miracle drug (or so they thought) to keep me safely tucked inside. What they did not encounter and what was only discovered months after I was born was that miracle drug was really a dangerous dose of synthetic estrogen that gifted all of us "miracle" babies with all sorts of ilk. The kicker being infertility. A good many of us DES children managed to live average cancer-free lives with kiddos upon kiddos while others, like me, became text book cases. Even my old nurse-practitioner couldn't believe how text-book I was. She was ecstatic to see it all live and in person. Go me.

Along with the infertility, I spent my twenties getting cancer screenings and paps every other month. I hit menopause at the ripe old age of 38 and now I get to look forward to new cancer screenings.

I should have a sash or tiara or something.

I also hate to admit this but I almost wish I got pregnant when I was in my twenties, bad relationships be damned. And I hate, hate, hate that I get so darned jealous of the people who have unplanned pregnancies that turn into happy babies. I want to stamp and stomp and wail "It's not fair" but I don't, at least not out loud. Instead I purge my feelings into another blog, a very whiny and sad and angry blog and hope for the day, the minute, the hour where I don't feel like crying or that my self worth is zero because I do not and will not have children. I know that isn't true but it feels true to me. I feel like I lack something profound that will give me common ground with other adults that could be friends. But who wants to be friends with us childless a-go-gos? I snark but I feel it is true and that we are frequently misunderstood. I think parents assume that childless people do not want to be friends with child-full people and though having kids is not a requirement in the friends department, the mister and I seem to never fit in. We're not out-on-the-towners or bar goers. We don't watch the hip shows or listen to the now music. We dress down, not up, we live slow and make our own mostly off-key music. I worry that when we are old, we will truly be alone. Who will take care of us when we can no longer take care of each other?

I'm sure you're thinking I'm some sort of drama queen and believe me, I think I could agree with you. Thank goodness I bottle it up for the most part but it seeps out and pops out and explodes as if you dumped mentos down my throat whenever I read of another happy blogger expecting baby number two or three or four and I see their published lives, their owned homes and thin vintage cloaked couple-ness in their magazine worthy living room cooking up garden fresh goodness, crafting up viral prettiness as feathery, feathery chickens dance around in the background. I wonder, do they all really have such magical lives? Lives where 9-5 jobs are nowhere to be seen, where their blogs generate their mortgage payments, where bodies are so healthy there are no worries about hospital bills. Can it really be that magical? I sit on our battered and borrowed sofa in our overpriced rental with the mis-matched white paint speckling the walls and the boxes of craft crap tilting this way and that and wonder if it would be okay if I splurged and bought the organic eggs instead. And then I think it's probably better that I can't have kids, that I would suck at the mom thing anyway that there is no way we could do it, could afford it when we can barely find our happy medium as it is. And I wallow and wonder who I am...who am I?

And my heart hurts, it aches so and I wanna smack the crap out the adults I see yelling at their children for being children. I want to flee and run away and unplug myself from everything. I want to be different, someone else, someone worthy, someone likeable, someone who is settled and happy with who they are and what they have and I think this life of mine is wasted on the me that is me and just as I reach the highest heights of my heartache and sadness I spy something, it could be anything really, that makes me catch my breath. It could be the pink of the sun set or a lizard sunning itself on our porch. It could be the rolling hills that surround this new home of ours, the opening notes of a favorite song or a picture book that makes me laugh. Whatever it is, it pulls me down and stills my sadness, tucking it into bed underneath the faintest faded quilt of goodwill where it slumbers as ling as it can so that I find myself in my moment. A good moment, a moment filled with sweetness and song, with a whistling mister beside me on a battered and borrowed sofa that is piled sky high with quilts and happy colors. A moment filled with rainy day wanders and family filled Mondays. A moment that helps me realize that the magic is with us as well. It's just a little less showy.

wishy-washy aka I took over fifty pictures of this face and only one came out halfway decent...

I should have just bought a t-shirt instead.

Sometimes, I imagine that if you were to look up the word contradiction in the dictionary (they still have those, right?) you might see a picture of me. I always feel like I am at odds with myself. I do not do well in social situations and prefer to hide out at home where I am safe from awkward moments and yet when I am at home and safe from awkward moments I feel a smidge bored and a whole lotta forgettable. But when I am out and talking to people I have a constant dialogue in my head mostly made up of the words "stop talking, stop talking, STOP TALKING!" And I say that in relation to the blather my mouth is spewing forth. Yeesh!

I want to be liked but am too afraid of being stupid so I hide out and yet I speak up and out against things I think are unfair or unjust. I have little patience for what I imagine is stupidity but I am not exempt form doing and thinking stupid things.

I tend to lean towards the idea that my way is right or better or easier and yet I am always fearful of doing everything wrong. I already know that if we were to arrange four boxes of people doing the same thing whilst playing this song, I would be the thing that was not like the others.

I am not a fan of my face and don't say but I like your face, this is me, blathering on about um..me and I'm not a fan of my face...especially right now since I seem to have found that weight I recently lost. It has camped itself out on my face (among other areas). Though, on the oft chance of taking a stellar picture of said face (one where the chins are nicely cropped out) I will post it here to tomorrow. But if there is one thing that will bum me out more than the non-working sniffer it is looking at and searching for one single good picture of THE face.

The other day, I decided I need a new icon picture for FB and Pinterest and blogger, et al. I bathed and moisturized and brushed everything that needed brushing. The good mirror (the only mirror actually, thank MAUDE it is a good one) showed me on the way to looking decent. I applied mascara and lavender eye powder, a smidge o' pink to tint up the cheeks and my too-young-for-me red lipstick. I stood in the good light in the living room, picked up the Rebel, aimed it at where my face should be and took a few pictures before reviewing them.

And then I cringed a cringedy-cringe as I looked at that trio of dopplegangers that could not possibly be me as I had good hair just moments before. I ran into the bathroom (the very same one I left an egg in but I will share that story later) to view the disaster only to be greeted with a decent me. I sighed, took a breath and decided to try again, this time using the powershot as it has a flip screen which is really good for making faces at the camera.

More than fifty-shots later (and two changes in eye-wear) I plugged both cameras in for some editing and felt my mood plummet down, down, down. I am well aware that my face isn't awful and that looks are not the MOST important thing. And I am well aware that it is what is inside that counts and on a good day, I think my insides hold up nicely but man oh man what a way to feel down when not one single shot looks presentable. And I took them myself! With lipstick on and cute hair as evidenced by the good and only mirror in the tiny casa. Yeesh! I must be balding or losing my photo mojo or maybe I really do need a hair-cut, I don't know. So after too-many-to-count photos that got dumped in the virtual trash I am stuck with one. One single not-so-awful photo of this mug that is mine (though I see evidence of allergies, oh droopy, droopy eyes). Am I vain or what?

In retrospect, I probably should not have attempted this whilst watching America's Next Top Model. Yeeash. I need a new hobby...or another job...or a new lipstick (one that is a leetle less red?).